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Chapter Text

The marketplace of the Kingdom of Spades was a bustling hub of commerce, displaying a vibrant tapestry of colors and aromas. Traders from near and far gathered to sell their wares: fruits and vegetables from the Kingdom of Hearts, fabrics from the Kingdom of Diamonds, and all manner of necessities. The air is alive with the banter of bartering, as eager buyers and sellers struck deals, while the local blacksmith, hammer in hand, forges metal into useful tools and weaponry.

Life was communal, with people often congregating at communal gathering places such as taverns or public squares. Here, news and gossip spread like wildfire, and celebrations fill the air on special occasions, marking festivals and holidays with music, dancing, and revelry.

The town’s walls, an integral part of its identity, not only provided protection but also offered a picturesque view of the surrounding countryside. Beyond these walls, meandering paths led to lush meadows, where farmers toiled under the sun, tending to their crops and livestock. Streams and rivers snaked through the landscape, providing water and transportation for both trade and leisure.

But life is far from perfect, often plagued by disease, periodic hardships, and the ever-looming threat of conflict. Yet, despite these challenges, these towns are vibrant, thriving centers of culture, trade, and community. They are the living embodiment of a bygone era, forever etched in the Kingdom of Spades’ in tapestry.

But beauty didn’t mean everything was safe and carefree, lower-class citizens suffered immensely and faced many injustices. Every citizen, regardless of the kingdom they were born in, had a number between 2 and 10 forever marked on their body that signified their rank in the world. Face cards, or the monarchs, whether that be a King, Queen, Jack, or Ace, received their unique marking later in life, though oftentimes they would still be very young. When a person received a royal marking on them they would be taken to the castle to be trained by the current rulers until they passed on and the marking on the new monarch was solidified. This system hadn’t failed them yet and it gave each country time to warm up to their new rulers.

This wasn’t the case for everyone, the stench of rotting fish and human waste hung heavy in the narrow alleyways of the Lower District, a miasma so thick it seemed to coat the lungs with every labored breath. Alfred F. Jones pressed himself deeper into the shadows between two crumbling tenements, his seven-year-old frame shaking not from the bitter cold that seeped through his threadbare clothes, but from the gnawing hunger that had become his constant companion.

Three days. Three days since their last real meal, and Matthew’s coughing had gotten worse. The sound echoed in Alfred’s mind, it was wet, rattling, desperate. His younger brother needed medicine, needed food, needed warmth. All things that required coin, and coin was something their ramshackle family had precious little of.

The mark on Alfred’s forearm burned beneath his torn sleeve, a simple “3” etched in black ink, as permanent and damning as original sin. In the Kingdom of Spades, that number meant everything and nothing all at once. It meant he was barely above a slave, barely worth the air he breathed. It meant doors would forever be closed to him, opportunities would pass him by like ships in the night, and he would die as he had been born, in squalor and obscurity.

But hunger had a way of making philosophers of even the youngest minds, and as Alfred watched the baker across the narrow street pulling fresh loaves from his ovens, golden and steaming in the pre-dawn light, he found himself questioning the very foundations of their world. Why should a number carved into flesh determine a person’s worth? Why should children starve while nobles feasted on delicacies they couldn’t even pronounce?

The baker turned his back, reaching for another tray, and Alfred’s muscles coiled like a spring. He had done this before with his quick hands, quicker feet, and the ability to disappear into the maze of alleys like smoke. Just one loaf. Just enough to quiet Matthew's whimpers and give them both the strength to face another day.

But before he could move, iron fingers closed around his shoulder with bruising force.

“Don’t even think about it, boy.”

Graham Williams materialized from the shadows like a specter, his weathered face set in harsh lines that spoke of too many hard decisions and not enough good choices. Alfred’s uncle was all sharp angles and barely contained violence, a man shaped by years of scraping survival from the unforgiving streets of the Lower District.

“We gotta make an honest living,” Graham continued, his voice pitched low but carrying the weight of absolute authority. “I’ve told ya this before.”

Alfred’s shoulders sagged, frustration and desperation warring in his chest. “But Mattie-

“Matthew will be fine.” The words carried more hope than conviction. “C’mon, let’s see if old Gil has any work for us.”

They moved through the twisting streets like ghosts, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the King's Guard might patrol, sticking to the shadows where people like them belonged. The Lower District was a world unto itself, a place where the kingdom’s forgotten scraped together existence from the scraps that fell from the tables of their betters.

Here, children learned to pick pockets before they learned their letters. Here, families sold everything they owned just to keep a roof over their heads for another month. Here, the number on your arm wasn’t just a mark of status, it was a death sentence, slow and grinding and utterly without mercy.

The Rusty Anchor Inn squatted at the corner of two intersecting alleys like a cancerous growth, its windows so thick with grime that no light could penetrate from within. It was the sort of establishment that catered to those who preferred their business conducted in whispers and their faces hidden in shadow. Gil, a man whose last name remained as mysterious as his periodic appearances, held court from a corner table, dispensing odd jobs and copper coins to those desperate enough to take whatever work he offered.

But when Graham pushed through the inn’s sagging door, Alfred trailing reluctantly behind, they found the familiar corner table occupied by strangers.

Soldiers flanked the table, at least, they had the bearing of soldiers, though their uniforms bore no kingdom’s colors. Their faces were hard, professional, the kind of men who killed for coin and slept soundly afterward. But it was the man seated between them who commanded attention.

He was immaculate in a way that seemed almost obscene in their surroundings, his suit perfectly tailored, his boots polished to a mirror shine, his dark hair slicked back with expensive pomade. Everything about him screamed wealth, power, and the kind of casual cruelty that came with both. When his pale eyes fixed on Alfred, the boy felt like a mouse being studied by a particularly well-fed cat.

Gil sat nearby, but not at his usual table, his ever-present grin wider than usual, mischief dancing in his silver eyes like he was privy to some cosmic joke that no one else understood. He caught Alfred's confused stare and offered an almost imperceptible wink.

The stranger dismissed his men with a casual wave, then beckoned Graham forward. “Williams.” His voice was cultured, educated, carrying the sort of authority that came from never having to raise it to be obeyed. “Punctual as always.”

Graham’s entire demeanor had shifted, shoulders rigid with a tension that Alfred had never seen before. “Mr. Hendriks.” The name was spoken with the careful respect reserved for dangerous predators.

Hendriks, and wasn’t that a name that belonged in the Upper Districts, among the nobility and their perfectly manicured gardens, tossed a heavy leather purse onto the scarred wooden table. Coins clinked together with the sound of wind chimes, and Alfred's mouth went dry at the implications of such casual wealth.

“I have a business proposal,” Hendriks continued, his cold gaze never leaving Graham's face. “One that requires your particular skills. And perhaps opportunities for your young ward to develop his obvious potential.”

The way he said ‘potential’ made Alfred’s skin crawl, though he couldn’t have explained why. There was something predatory in the man's tone, something that spoke of dark purposes and darker means.

Graham’s hand found Alfred’s shoulder, fingers tightening protectively. “We’ll discuss this upstairs." He guided Alfred toward the door with gentle pressure. “Wait just there, lad. We’ll be down quickly.”

As the adults disappeared up the inn’s creaking staircase, Gil materialized beside Alfred’s elbow as if he had stepped out of the shadows themselves. Without a word, he set down a plate laden with bread, cheese, and sausage, more food than Alfred had seen in weeks. The man’s grin never wavered as he settled into a nearby chair, eyes twinkling with secrets.

“Eat up, kiddo,” Gil said, his voice carrying an accent that Alfred couldn't place, too refined for the Lower Districts, too rough for nobility. “Gonna be a long night.”

Alfred fell on the food like a starving wolf, manners forgotten in the face of such abundance. The bread was still warm, the cheese sharp and rich, the sausage seasoned with herbs he couldn't identify but that made his mouth water. Between bites, he studied Gil, really studied him for the first time.

The man was ageless in the way that some people were, could have been thirty or fifty with equal likelihood. His clothes were well-made but worn, expensive once but showing the patina of hard use. There were scars on his hands, old and faded, and when he moved, it was with the fluid grace of someone who had spent a lifetime avoiding trouble, or causing it.

“Who is he?” Alfred asked around a mouthful of bread, jerking his head toward the ceiling where muffled voices could be heard through the thin walls.

Gil's grin turned sharp, predatory. “Someone who’s about to change your life, one way or another.” He leaned back in his chair, studying Alfred with those unsettling silver eyes. “Question is, kiddo… you ready for it?”

Upstairs, Graham faced Hendriks across a table that had seen better decades, the weight of desperate choices pressing down on his shoulders like a physical burden. The room was small, cramped, lit by a single oil lamp that cast dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper. It smelled of mold and old beer and the particular desperation that seemed to seep into the very walls of places like this.

Hendriks had spread papers across the table's surface, documents that chronicled every debt, every missed payment, every small tragedy that had befallen Graham’s makeshift family. The precision of it was terrifying, the casual invasion of privacy that spoke of resources and reach far beyond anything Graham had imagined.

“Your situation is quite precarious,” Hendriks observed, his tone conversational. “Rent three months overdue, medical bills mounting, and winter coming on fast. The boy… Matthew, isn’t it? His condition is worsening. Consumption, the physician said. Such a shame when children suffer for their guardians’ failures.”

Graham’s hands clenched into fists. “Get to the point.”

“The point, my dear Williams, is opportunity.”Hendriks leaned back. “I represent certain interests, let’s call them investors in human potential. Your boys, they have something special. Alfred especially. Seven years old and already showing the kind of quick thinking and moral flexibility that my organization values.”

“They’re children.”

“Exactly.” Hendriks’ smile was sharp as a blade. “Children learn faster, adapt quicker, and form stronger loyalties than adults. The younger we start with them, the better they perform in later years. It's simply good business.”

Graham felt ice forming in his veins. “What kind of business?” He didn’t know why he bothered asking.

“The profitable kind.” Hendriks gestured to one of his men, who produced a leather portfolio. “Security consulting. Information gathering. Occasional problem-solving of a more permanent nature. The kingdom is full of individuals who create complications for those with the resources to solve them. We provide solutions.”

The euphemisms were transparent, and Graham felt his soul shrivel at the implications. “You want to turn them into killers.”

“I want to give them skills that will ensure their survival and prosperity in a world that clearly has no other use for them.” Hendriks’ voice never changed, remained as calm and reasonable as if he were discussing the weather. “Tell me, Williams, what future do they have otherwise? Alfred will be dead in an alley before he sees fifteen, if the consumption doesn’t take Matthew first. Is that the legacy you want to leave them?”

“There has to be another way.

“There isn’t.” Hendriks stood, straightening his immaculate jacket. “But I’m not entirely unreasonable. Take the night to consider my offer. Think about what you want more… your moral high ground, or your boys’ lives.”

One of his men stepped forward, gun appearing in his hand with practiced ease. The weapon wasn’t pointed at Graham, not directly, but the threat was unmistakable.

“Of course,” Hendriks continued, “if you’re not interested in my generous offer, I could always make the decision easier for you. The boys would be orphans then, wards of the kingdom. I’m sure suitable arrangements could be made for their care.”

Graham’s world narrowed to the cold barrel of the gun, to the casual cruelty in Hendriks’ pale eyes, to the terrible weight of choices that weren’t really choices at all. “You bastard.”

“Business, Williams. Nothing personal.” Hendriks moved toward the door, his men flanking him like well-trained hounds. “I’llexpect your answer by noon tomorrow. The address is on the card my associate will provide. Don’t disappoint me.”

They filed out like smoke, leaving Graham alone with the stench of his own fear and the crushing weight of impossible decisions. He stared at the card they had left behind, expensive paper, elegant script, an address in a part of the city he had never seen but knew existed beyond his reach.

When he finally descended the stairs, Alfred was waiting by the door, Gil having vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. The boy’s face was cleaner than it had been in weeks, evidence of the meal he had devoured, but his blue eyes held a wariness that spoke of too much knowledge for such a young age.

“Uncle Graham?” Alfred’s voice was small, uncertain. “What did that man want?”

Graham’s hand found Alfred's shoulder, gripping perhaps tighter than necessary. The weight of the card in his pocket felt like a millstone, dragging him down toward depths he had never wanted to explore.

“I’m so sorry Alfred,” he said, his voice hoarse with unshed emotion. “Let’s go get Matthew. We need to have a talk.”

They walked home through streets that seemed different somehow, as if the very air had changed while they were inside the inn. The Lower District’s familiar squalor felt more oppressive, the shadows deeper, the future more uncertain than it had ever been.

Above them, in the castle that dominated the kingdom's skyline, other dramas were playing out, political machinations and royal intrigues that would eventually collide with the desperate choices being made in the dark alleys below. But for now, Alfred was simply a seven-year-old boy walking beside the only father figure he had ever known.

The future stretched ahead like an uncharted sea, full of storms and shipwrecks and the occasional glimpse of distant shores that might offer salvation or damnation. In the Kingdom of Spades, the two were often indistinguishable.

And in the shadows, forces beyond their understanding were already setting wheels in motion that would reshape not just their lives, but the very foundations of the kingdom itself. Power, after all, was never content to remain static. It flowed like water, always seeking new channels, new vessels to fill.

The only question was whether those vessels would prove strong enough to contain it or whether they would shatter under the pressure, leaving nothing but wreckage in their wake.

As they disappeared into the maze of the Lower District, neither Graham nor Alfred could have known that their lives had just taken a turn from which there would be no return. The die had been cast, the pieces set in motion.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

The basement of Hendriks' operation smelled like fear and old blood, a metallic tang that had seeped into the very stones over years of use. Alfred pressed himself against the cold wall, his small fingers tracing the rough mortar between bricks as he tried to make himself invisible. Beside him, Matthew wheezed quietly, each breath a struggle that reminded Alfred why they were here in the first place.

It had been three weeks since Graham had made his devil's bargain, three weeks since they'd been dragged from their ramshackle home into this warren of tunnels beneath the city. Three weeks since Alfred had last seen sunlight that wasn't filtered through grimy basement windows set high in the walls like unblinking eyes.

"Well, well," came a voice from the shadows, cultured and amused. "Our newest acquisitions."

Hendriks emerged from the gloom like a well-dressed specter, his immaculate appearance somehow more obscene in the squalid surroundings. Behind him walked a woman Alfred had never seen before, tall, severe, with iron-gray hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her features into a permanent expression of disapproval. She carried herself like a weapon wrapped in wool, all sharp edges hidden beneath a veneer of respectability.

"Madame Volkov will be handling your education," Hendriks continued, gesturing to the woman with casual authority. "She has extensive experience in developing young talent."

Volkov's pale eyes fixed on Alfred with the intensity of a hawk studying a mouse. When she spoke, her accent was thick, Eastern European, each word precisely enunciated as if language itself was a weapon to be wielded with care.

"This one," she said, pointing at Alfred, "he has promise. Anger, yes, but controlled. Protective instincts, good for loyalty, bad for objectivity. We will fix this." Her gaze shifted to Matthew, who shrank further into himself under the scrutiny. "And this one... he is weak. Sick. Perhaps we find other uses for him."

Alfred stepped protectively in front of his younger brother, blue eyes blazing with a defiance that made Volkov's thin lips curve into something that might have been approval.

"Already the hero," she murmured. "This we can use."

The first lesson came that very afternoon. They were herded into a larger room carved from the living rock beneath the city, along with a dozen other children ranging in age from perhaps five to fifteen. Some Alfred recognized from the streets, pickpockets and beggars who had vanished from their usual haunts. Others were strangers, their eyes already holding the hollow look that came from too much knowledge gained too young.

Volkov stood before them like a general addressing troops, her presence filling the space despite her relatively small stature. "You are here because you have potential," she began, her voice carrying easily in the stone chamber. "Potential to be useful. To be valuable. To survive in a world that has already decided you are disposable."

She began to pace, her boots clicking against the stone floor with metronomic precision. "Some of you will not survive the training. This is acceptable. Those who do will emerge as instruments of precision and purpose. You will learn to be whatever the situation requires, child, beggar, noble, servant, predator. You will learn that identity is a tool, that morality is a luxury you cannot afford, and that the only loyalty that matters is the one that keeps you alive."

Alfred's hand found Matthew's, squeezing gently as his brother's breathing hitched with barely suppressed terror. But even as fear coursed through his veins, Alfred felt something else kindling in his chest, a fierce, burning determination. If this was what it took to keep Matthew safe, to give them both a chance at something better than slow starvation in the Lower District, then he would master it. He would become whatever they needed him to be.

The physical training began immediately. Each morning, they were roused before dawn by the harsh clang of a bell, herded into a large chamber where weapons lined the walls like instruments of some unholy orchestra. Swords, knives, crossbows, garrottes, in other words, tools of death in a dozen different configurations.

"Speed and stealth," Volkov announced on that first morning, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "These are your greatest assets. A small body moves where a large one cannot. A child's face disarms suspicion where an adult's invites scrutiny. You will learn to be ghosts, seen when you choose to be, invisible when you do not."

Alfred threw himself into the training with the desperate intensity of someone who had nothing left to lose. His small hands learned to grip a knife properly, how to balance it for throwing, how to slide it between ribs with surgical precision. He practiced until his fingers bled, until muscle memory replaced conscious thought, until the weapons became extensions of his will rather than foreign objects in his grasp.

But it was the mental training that proved most challenging. Volkov had a talent for finding the tender spots in a child's psyche and pressing until something fundamental broke. She would pit them against each other in exercises designed to foster distrust, create scenarios where mercy meant failure, teach them that hesitation was a luxury that got people killed.

"Emotion is weakness," she would intone during their lessons, her pale eyes fixed on whoever had shown the slightest crack in their composure. "Sentiment is suicide. You think because you care about something, it makes you strong? No. It makes you controllable. It gives your enemies a weapon to use against you."

Alfred learned to school his features into an mask of pleasant emptiness, to smile with his mouth while his eyes remained cold and calculating. He learned to lie with the fluency of a native speaker, to adopt accents and mannerisms like changing clothes, to become whoever the situation required him to be.

But it was the psychological conditioning that left the deepest scars. Volkov had a particular talent for breaking down a child's natural moral barriers, for teaching them that the rules they had been raised to follow were arbitrary constructs designed to keep them weak and compliant.

"The nobility sleep soundly in their beds," she would say during their evening indoctrination sessions, her voice hypnotic in the flickering candlelight. "They feast while you starve, live in luxury while you freeze, condemn you to lives of misery because of a number carved into your flesh. They call this justice. They call this natural order. What do you call it?"

"Bullshit," Alfred would reply along with the others, the word feeling like rebellion on his tongue.

"And what do we do with bullshit?"

"We flush it away."

The targets for their first real assignments were carefully chosen, corrupt merchants who cheated their customers, brutal overseers who worked their charges to death, petty nobles who abused their power without consequence. People whose deaths might actually make the world a slightly better place, or at least no worse than it already was.

Alfred's first kill was a fat merchant named Cornelius Dankworth, a man who sold watered-down medicine to the poor while hoarding the real treatments for those who could afford to pay premium prices. How many had died because of his greed? How many children like Matthew had wasted away while this pig grew rich off their suffering?

The assignment came on a cold October night, nearly eight months after Alfred had first descended into Hendriks' underground kingdom. He was to infiltrate Dankworth's home during the merchant's weekly dinner party, pose as a serving boy, and slip poison into the man's wine. Simple, elegant, untraceable.

Alfred dressed carefully for the role, clean clothes, scrubbed face, the kind of wide-eyed innocence that made adults drop their guard. He practiced his story until it was perfect: a new hire, sent by the regular staff agency, eager to please and too young to be a threat.

The Dankworth mansion squatted on a hill overlooking the Middle District like a toad made of brick and mortar, its windows blazing with warm light while the streets below remained cold and dark. Alfred slipped through the servants' entrance with practiced ease, his forged papers passing inspection from a head butler too harried by the evening's preparations to look too closely.

The kitchen was chaos, servants rushing about with platters of food, steam rising from countless pots, the head cook shouting instructions over the din. Alfred inserted himself into the organized madness, picking up tasks with the eager helpfulness of a child trying to make a good impression.

"You, boy," called a harried footman, thrust a silver tray into Alfred's hands. "Take this to Master Dankworth. The wine with the gold rim, he's very particular about it."

Alfred's heart hammered against his ribs as he made his way through corridors lined with expensive art and furnishings that cost more than most people in the Lower District would see in a lifetime. The dining room doors loomed ahead, carved mahogany that probably represented someone's entire yearly wages.

Inside, Dankworth held court at the head of a table laden with enough food to feed a dozen families. He was exactly as Alfred had imagined- corpulent, red-faced, his multiple chins wobbling as he laughed at his own jokes. Around him sat a collection of equally prosperous merchants and minor nobles, all of them gorging themselves while people starved in the streets below.

Alfred approached with the deferential shuffle of a well-trained servant, eyes downcast, movements carefully choreographed to project harmless subservience. The vial of poison felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in his pocket, a tiny glass tube containing enough concentrated nightshade to stop a man's heart in minutes.

"Ah, the good stuff," Dankworth boomed as Alfred set the wine before him. "You're new, aren't you, boy? What's your name?"

"Alfred, sir," he replied, pitching his voice higher, younger. "Just started today, sir. Very grateful for the opportunity, sir."

"Good lad. Here." Dankworth pressed a copper coin into Alfred's palm, a generous tip by servant standards, laughably small by any other measure. "Keep up the good work."

As Dankworth turned back to his guests, Alfred palmed the vial with movements so fluid they seemed like natural gestures. A twist of the cork, a subtle pour, a gentle swirl to mix the contents. The poison was colorless, tasteless, undetectable until it was far too late.

Alfred retreated to the servants' corridors and waited. Twenty minutes later, the screaming began.

He was three blocks away when he heard the church bells tolling for the dead, their bronze voices carrying news of another wealthy man's untimely demise across the sleeping city. Alfred felt... nothing. No guilt, no satisfaction, no sense of justice served. Just the cold emptiness that Volkov had taught him to cultivate, the protective numbness that let him function despite the growing weight of what he was becoming.

Matthew was waiting when he returned to their shared cell in the underground complex, his pale face anxious in the lamplight. "How did it go?"

"Fine," Alfred replied, settling onto his narrow cot. "Just fine."

But even as he spoke the words, Alfred felt something precious dying inside him, some essential part of childhood innocence that, once lost, could never be recovered. He was nine years old, and he had just committed his first murder. By the time he turned ten, there would be six more bodies in his wake.

The training intensified as Alfred proved his capabilities. Volkov introduced more complex scenarios, assignments that required weeks of preparation, multiple identities, the kind of long-term planning that separated true professionals from mere killers. Alfred learned to forge documents, pick locks, climb walls like a spider, and disappear into crowds like smoke.

More importantly, he learned to read people, to identify their weaknesses, their desires, their fears, and use those insights to manipulate them into positions of vulnerability. A lonely widow might invite a charming young man into her home. A corrupt official might be tempted by offers of easy money. A proud noble might be goaded into a duel he couldn't win.

"The mind is your greatest weapon," Volkov would tell him during their private sessions. "Anyone can swing a sword or pull a trigger. But to truly excel, you must become a student of human nature. You must understand what drives people, what they fear, what they love more than life itself. Only then can you truly control them."

Alfred proved to be a remarkably apt pupil. His natural charisma, enhanced by training and honed by necessity, made him devastatingly effective at getting close to his targets. Adults saw a bright, enthusiastic child and dropped their guards. Servants welcomed him as one of their own. Guards dismissed him as harmless.

By his tenth birthday, Alfred had developed what would become his signature approach,the cheerful, slightly bumbling persona that made people want to help him, to take care of him, to trust him with their secrets and their lives. It was a mask so perfect that sometimes he forgot where it ended and his true self began.

The organization's clients paid well for discretion and results. Corrupt officials found themselves suffering tragic accidents. Abusive nobles contracted mysterious illnesses. Merchants who cheated the poor discovered that their warehouses had an alarming tendency to catch fire.

But it was the psychological toll that proved most devastating. Matthew, whose weak constitution made him unsuitable for fieldwork, was assigned to support roles, maintaining alibis, gathering intelligence, providing emotional anchor for Alfred when the weight of their reality threatened to crush him. The younger boy watched his brother transform from a protective sibling into something harder, colder, more dangerous.

"You're different," Matthew observed one night as they lay in their narrow beds, listening to the distant sounds of the city above.

"Different how?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

"You smile more now. But your eyes... they're like ice. Even when you're laughing, even when you're being nice to people, there's nothing behind them. Nothing real."

Alfred turned toward the wall, unable to meet his brother's gaze. "I'm still me, Mattie."

"Are you?" Matthew's voice was barely a whisper. "Sometimes I look at you, and I don't recognize who you've become."

The words hit harder than any physical blow Volkov had ever delivered. Because Matthew was right, Alfred was disappearing, piece by piece, replaced by something that wore his face but felt nothing, cared about nothing except the mission at hand and the brother who anchored him to whatever remained of his humanity.

But there was no going back. Not now, not after everything they had seen and done. The Lower District held nothing for them except slow death and grinding poverty. At least here, in this underground kingdom of shadows and secrets, they had purpose. They had value. They had each other.

As Alfred drifted off to sleep that night, he made himself a promise, no matter what he had to become, no matter how much of himself he had to sacrifice, he would keep Matthew safe. It was the one absolute truth in a world built on lies and manipulation.

He would become the perfect weapon, the ideal killer, the ghost that struck without warning and vanished without trace. He would smile and charm and lie his way into people's hearts, then stop those hearts with surgical precision when the job required it.

But he would never, ever let them touch his brother.

In the darkness of their cell, Alfred F. Jones, ten years old and already a killer seven times over, closed his eyes and dreamed of a world where numbers carved into flesh didn't determine a person's worth, where children didn't have to choose between morality and survival, where love was stronger than the forces that sought to corrupt it.

It would be many years before he learned that sometimes, the most dangerous dreams were the ones that might actually come true.

The training continued, relentless and thorough, shaping Alfred into something that was neither fully child nor adult, neither entirely human nor completely monster. He learned to compartmentalize his emotions, to function despite the growing weight of his actions, to smile with genuine warmth while planning someone's death.

And through it all, Matthew watched, witness to his brother's transformation, anchor to whatever remained of Alfred's soul, living reminder of why he had chosen this path in the first place.

By the time Alfred's first year in the organization drew to a close, he had become exactly what Hendriks and Volkov had envisioned, a perfect weapon wrapped in the innocent face of childhood, capable of slipping past any defense and striking without mercy when the moment required it.

The boy who had once stolen bread to feed his hungry brother was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous and infinitely more valuable.

The future stretched ahead like an uncharted ocean, full of storms and shadows and the occasional glimpse of distant shores that might offer salvation. But for now, Alfred was content to drift in the darkness, perfecting his deadly craft and protecting the one person who still saw him as human.

After all, even monsters needed something to love.

Even if that love was slowly killing everything they had once been.

Chapter Text

The Kirkland estate stretched across the Highland hills like a patchwork quilt sewn with ancient pride, its stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Arthur Kirkland, twelve years old and restless as a caged bird, pressed his nose against the library window, watching the morning mist rise from the loch that had made his family's fortune in the wool trade.

"Arthur! What did I tell you about climbing on the furniture?"

Allistor's voice carried the particular edge it had developed since their parents' death two years prior. At twenty, Arthur's eldest brother had inherited not just the estate but the weight of raising three younger siblings, a burden that showed in the premature lines around his steel-gray eyes.

Arthur slid down from the window seat with deliberate slowness, his small chin tilted at an angle that promised trouble. "I was reading the geography charts. Did you know the Kingdom of Hearts has rivers that flow uphill? The texts say it's magic, but I suspect it's more likely advanced engineering-

"I don't care if they have rivers that flow to the bloody moon," Allistor interrupted, his Highland accent thickening with irritation. "You were supposed to help Connor with the horse inventory, not woolgather about impossible waterways."

"Actually," came Dylan's calmer voice from the doorway, "the rivers in Hearts don't flow uphill. They have an intricate system of locks and aqueducts that create the illusion of upward flow. Quite ingenious, really."

Dylan entered with his characteristic unhurried grace, ink stains on his fingers and a leather-bound ledger tucked under one arm. At eighteen, he served as the family's unofficial peacekeeper, smoothing over Allistor's rough edges and channeling Connor's chaotic energy into productive pursuits.

"See?" Arthur said triumphantly. "Dylan understands the importance of accurate geographical knowledge."

"Dylan understands the importance of keeping his youngest brother from falling out of third-story windows," Dylan replied mildly, settling into one of the library's worn armchairs. "Which takes precedence over canal systems, however ingenious."

The sound of boots on stone announced Connor's arrival before his voice carried through the halls. "and then the bloody fool tried to tell me that a horse afraid of its own shadow was worth fifteen gold pieces! I've seen donkeys with more courage!"

Alroy O'Connor Kirkland, who insisted everyone call him Connor, claiming his full name was "too pretentious for a man who spent his days elbow-deep in horse manure" burst into the library like a small, controlled explosion. His red hair stood at odd angles, his clothes bore evidence of his morning in the stables, and his green eyes blazed with the righteous indignation that only came from dealing with incompetent horse traders.

"Arthur!" he exclaimed, spotting his youngest brother. "Perfect timing. I need you to settle an argument. Can a horse be too stupid to remember which end to eat with?"

"Connor," Allistor warned with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation countless times. "Arthur is twelve. He doesn't need to hear about Morrison's defective livestock."

"Of course he does! The boy needs to learn about the world, and Morrison's horses are prime examples of what happens when breeding decisions are made by people with more money than sense."

Arthur perked up at this, his attention shifting from geography to the far more interesting topic of equine intelligence. "What kind of stupid? Like, doesn't know which end to drink with, or doesn't know to come in from the rain?"

"Both!" Connor exclaimed, throwing himself into the chair opposite Dylan with characteristic drama. "The beast tried to drink from an empty trough for ten minutes, then stood in a downpour looking confused about why it was wet."

"Language," Dylan murmured, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

"The horse or Connor?" Arthur asked innocently, earning a bark of laughter from Connor and a warning look from Allistor.

As his brothers settled into their familiar pattern of estate business, Connor's passionate complaints, Dylan's diplomatic mediation, Allistor's practical decisions, Arthur felt the familiar weight of exclusion settle over him. They spoke of contracts and breeding lines and market prices while he remained on the periphery, too young to contribute meaningfully but old enough to understand he was being left out.

The emptiness of their reduced family hung over everything like a shadow. Once, there had been five Kirkland boys filling these halls with laughter and arguments. Now there were only four, and the absence of their youngest brother felt like a missing tooth—small, perhaps, but impossible to ignore.

"Have there been any new reports?" Arthur asked suddenly, the question tumbling out before he could stop himself. "About Peter?"

The silence that followed was immediate and crushing. His brothers exchanged glances—not the shared looks of conspiracy Arthur had grown used to, but something rawer, more painful. Grief mixed with guilt in expressions that had grown too familiar over the past two months.

"Arthur," Allistor said quietly, "we've discussed this."

"But it's been two months," Arthur pressed, that familiar coil of energy tightening in his chest. "Two months without a trace. No tracks, no witnesses, no ransom demands. People don't just vanish into thin air."

"The search parties covered every inch of ground for twenty miles," Dylan added, his practical mind seeking order in chaos. "The constabulary questioned every household, every traveler. If Peter had been taken by bandits or kidnappers, someone would have seen something."

Arthur could hear the unspoken fear beneath their carefully measured words. Bandits would have demanded ransom. Kidnappers would have left traces. Wild animals would have left remains. A five-year-old boy didn't simply disappear without evidence.

"Maybe it wasn't bandits," Arthur said carefully, testing the words. "Maybe it was something else."

"Something else like what?" Allistor asked, though his tone suggested he already knew where Arthur's thoughts were leading.

"Magic," Arthur whispered, the word falling into the room like a stone into still water. "Everyone knows there are old things in the deep woods, things that don't follow ordinary rules. Maybe Peter wandered too far and encountered something we don't understand."

"There's no such thing as that kind of magic," Allistor said firmly, but Arthur caught the slight tremor in his voice. "The stories about forest spirits and ancient curses are just tales to keep children from wandering off alone."

"Then where is he?" Arthur demanded, his small hands clenching into fists. "Where is our brother?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation, and Arthur saw something crack in his eldest brother's carefully maintained composure. Allistor had been trying to be both father and mother since their parents' death, shouldering responsibilities that would have broken lesser men. But Peter's disappearance had revealed the limits of even his formidable strength.

"I don't know," Allistor admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "God help me, Arthur, I don't know."

The admission hit Arthur like a physical blow. Throughout his young life, his brothers had been constants, sources of strength and knowledge and protection against a world that seemed designed to hurt small children. The idea that they were as helpless as he was, as lost and frightened and desperate for answers, was almost too much to bear.

But as the shock faded, something else took its place, a hard kernel of determination that would define Arthur Kirkland for the rest of his life. If his brothers couldn't find Peter, if the constabulary couldn't find him, if no one else would search the places where ordinary people feared to go, then Arthur would.

"We'll find him," Arthur said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince his brothers or himself. "Whatever happened, wherever he is, we'll bring him home."

"Aye," Connor said softly, his usual bluster replaced by something gentler. "We will at that."

But even as they nodded agreement, Arthur could see the doubt in their eyes. How long could they keep searching before hope became delusion? How many months of fruitless investigation before they had to accept the unthinkable?

That night, as Arthur lay in his bed listening to the familiar sounds of the great house settling around him, he made himself a promise. He would never stop looking for Peter, never stop believing his youngest brother was alive somewhere, waiting to be found. The world was vast and full of wonders and terrors beyond imagining, but it wasn't big enough to hide a Kirkland boy forever.

Meanwhile, Alfred stood perfectly still in the center of the stone chamber, watching with detached interest as the other children filed in for their evaluation. Some trembled. Some tried to appear brave. The newest boy, couldn't be more than six, was openly weeping, snot running down his face in thick streams that caught the torchlight.

Pathetic.

Alfred catalogued the boy's weaknesses with the same clinical precision Volkov had beaten into him over the past eight months. Favors left leg—old injury, poorly healed. Breathing too fast—prone to panic. Keeps touching his pocket—has something precious there, something that could be used against him.

"Today," Volkov announced, her accent carving each word into distinct pieces, "we learn about pressure points. Not physical, those come later. Psychological."

She moved among them like a blade through water, all sharp edges and purposeful motion. When she reached the crying boy, she crouched down, bringing herself to his eye level. Alfred watched, knowing what was coming, feeling nothing.

"What is your name?" she asked, voice unexpectedly gentle.

"T-Tommy," the boy stammered.

"And what do you have in your pocket, Tommy?"

The boy's hand flew to his pocket protectively. "N-nothing."

Volkov smiled, the expression as warm as winter steel. "May I see?"

When Tommy shook his head, she simply waited. The silence stretched, became unbearable. Other children shifted uncomfortably. Still, Volkov waited.

Finally, with shaking hands, Tommy withdrew a small wooden horse, crudely carved but clearly precious. His fingers clenched around it as if it were made of gold.

"Your father made this?" Volkov guessed.

Tommy nodded, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

"He is dead now, yes? That is why you are here?"

Another nod.

Volkov held out her hand. "Give it to me."

"No!" The word exploded from Tommy, fierce and desperate.

"Give it to me," she repeated, no change in tone, "or I will have Alfred take it from you."

Every eye in the room turned to Alfred. He met their stares with bland indifference, already calculating the most efficient way to separate the boy from his treasure. Three seconds, maybe four if Tommy struggled. The toy would probably break in the process. Tommy would cry harder. None of it mattered.

"Alfred is very good at taking things," Volkov continued conversationally. "He does not care about your tears or your memories. He cares only about completing his task. This is what you all must become."

Tommy looked at Alfred then, really looked, and whatever he saw there made him hand over the wooden horse with a soft whimper of defeat.

Volkov took it, examined it briefly, then threw it into the fire.

Tommy's scream was raw, primal. He lunged toward the flames but Volkov caught him easily, holding him back as he thrashed and sobbed. The other children watched in horrified silence as the little horse blackened and crumbled to ash.

"This," Volkov said, raising her voice over Tommy's wails, "is your most important lesson. Attachment is weakness. Love is leverage. The things you care about will be used to destroy you." She released Tommy, who collapsed to the floor, still reaching uselessly toward the fire. "Unless you destroy them first."

She turned to Alfred. "Demonstrate what we practiced yesterday. Use Mark."

Mark, a boy of perhaps twelve with the kind of nervous energy that marked him as a future failure, went rigid as Alfred approached. They'd sparred before, Mark always lost, but he kept trying with the stubborn stupidity of someone who hadn't yet learned when to quit.

"We're going to have a conversation," Alfred said pleasantly, adopting the bright, cheerful tone he'd been perfecting. It was amazing how a smile could disarm people, make them drop their guard just enough. "About your sister."

Mark's jaw clenched. "Don't."

"Pretty thing, isn't she? Works at that bakery on Crescent Street. Always gives you an extra roll when you visit." Alfred's smile never wavered as he circled Marcus slowly. "Thursdays, right? That's when you see her?"

"How do you—"

"Because I followed you," Alfred interrupted, still maintaining that friendly tone. "Three weeks ago. You were so focused on getting there, you never noticed me. Sloppy, Mark. Very sloppy."

Mark swung at him—a wild, emotional haymaker that Alfred dodged easily. He could have countered, could have put Mark on the ground in seconds. Instead, he danced back, letting Mark chase him.

"She has a birthmark," Alfred continued conversationally, ducking another swing. "Right here." He touched his own neck, just below his left ear. "Shaped like a butterfly. You probably thought no one else knew about it. But I've been watching her too."

Mark roared and charged. This time Alfred didn't dodge. He stepped inside Mark's guard, got both hands on the bigger boy's shirt, and used his momentum to drive him face-first into the stone wall. The crack was audible throughout the chamber.

Mark slumped, blood streaming from his broken nose. Alfred stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes, smile still firmly in place.

"Never attack in anger," he told the room at large, though his eyes found Tommy, still huddled by the fire. "It makes you stupid. And stupid gets you killed."

"Excellent," Volkov said. "Though next time, break something that takes longer to heal. Fear of permanent damage is more instructive than temporary pain."

Alfred nodded, filing the advice away. He'd already been considering the knee, Mark favored his right leg when he walked, probably an old injury that would re-break easily. But Volkov hadn't specified permanent damage, so he'd opted for the nose instead. It was important to follow instructions exactly. Important to be precise.

"The rest of you, pair off," Volkov commanded. "Practice identifying weaknesses. Not physical, anyone can see a limp or a missing finger. Find what they love. Find what they fear. Find the words that will hurt more than any blade."

As the other children reluctantly began the exercise, Alfred helped Mark to his feet. The older boy flinched away from his touch, eyes wide with something that wasn't quite fear but wasn't far from it.

"Your nose isn't that bad," Alfred observed, tilting his head to examine the damage with professional interest. "Reset it now before the swelling gets worse."

"Stay away from my sister," Mark growled through the blood.

an edge. "Why would I need to go near her? You're here. That's all the leverage I need." He paused, then added almost kindly, "Besides, she's safe as long as you're useful. Remember that."

It was a lie, of course. Alfred had no intention of hurting Mark's sister, too messy, too many potential witnesses. But Mark didn't need to know that. The threat was enough. The fear was the point.

That night, Alfred lay in his narrow bunk listening to the sounds of other children crying themselves to sleep. Matthew wheezed softly in the bed beside his, the medicine helping but never quite enough. In the darkness, Alfred reviewed the day's lessons with the same methodical attention he applied to everything now.

Pressure points. Psychological warfare. The careful application of fear.

He thought about Tommy's wooden horse, now nothing but ash. Had his own father ever carved him anything? He couldn't remember. The life before Hendriks felt increasingly distant, like q weee something he'd dreamed rather than lived.

Better that way. Attachments were weakness.

But Matthew...

Alfred turned his head, studying his brother's sleeping form in the thin moonlight that filtered through the barred window. Matthew was an attachment. A weakness. Volkov knew it—she made sure Alfred knew she knew it, brought it up in subtle ways during their private sessions.

"Your brother holds you back," she'd told him just last week. "You protect him when you should be focused on your own survival. One day, you will have to choose between his life and your mission. What will you do then?"

Alfred had smiled, given her the answer she wanted to hear. But alone in the dark, watching Matthew struggle for each breath, he knew the truth.

He would burn the world to keep Matthew safe.

The thought should have disturbed him. Volkov would certainly see it as a failure, a crack in the weapon she was forging. But Alfred felt nothing about it one way or another. It simply was, like the color of his eyes or the number on his arm. Matthew mattered. Everything else was negotiable.

A soft sound from across the room drew his attention. Tommy, curled in the corner he'd claimed, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Still crying over his little wooden horse.

Weak.

Alfred closed his eyes, already dismissing the boy from his thoughts. Tommy wouldn't last long. The weak ones never did. They broke under the pressure, shattered like glass when Volkov found the right frequency of cruelty.

But Alfred wouldn't break. He would bend, adapt, become whatever was necessary to survive and keep Matthew alive. He would smile while he killed, laugh while he lied, and feel nothing but cold satisfaction when his targets stopped breathing.

Because that's what weapons did.

And Alfred F. Jones was becoming a very good weapon indeed.

Chapter Text

The morning Arthur's mark changed, he woke to find his left arm on fire.

Not literally, though the burning sensation was so intense that for several panicked moments, he was convinced his flesh was actually charring. The pain radiated outward from his forearm in waves, each pulse more excruciating than the last, until he was doubled over in his bed, gasping for breath and trying not to scream.

Through the haze of agony, he managed to push up his nightshirt sleeve, expecting to see blistered skin or worse. What he found instead made him forget the pain entirely.

His simple "7" was dissolving.

Arthur watched in fascination and terror as the familiar black lines began to blur and shift, the edges turning golden and bright like molten metal. The number that had marked him as respectable but unremarkable seemed to melt away, replaced by something far more complex and beautiful.

When the transformation was complete, Arthur's forearm bore the intricate crest of the Spades monarchy, a crowned shield surrounded by elaborate spade symbols, all rendered in shimmering silver that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. The mark was unmistakably royal, unmistakably powerful, and unmistakably permanent.

Arthur Kirkland, fourth son of a Highland estate, was the future Queen of Spades.

The implications hit him like a physical blow. Everything he had known, everything he had planned, everything he had dreamed of… it was all gone now, swept away by the appearance of marks that meant he belonged to the kingdom rather than to himself. He would have to leave home, leave his brothers, leave behind everything familiar to serve a crown he had never asked for.

Arthur scrambled out of bed, his mind racing with possibilities. If Peter was alive, if he was somewhere in the kingdom, then Arthur might be able to find him. As Queen of Spades, he would have access to information and resources that were denied to ordinary citizens. He could search for Peter, could maybe even bring him home.

"Arthur?" Allistor's voice came through the door, sharp with concern. "What's wrong? I heard-

The door burst open before Arthur could respond, and his three brothers crowded into the room, their faces tight with worry. They had learned to recognize the sounds of distress over the past few months, had developed the hypervigilance that came from losing one family member and living in constant fear of losing another.

"I'm fine," Arthur said quickly, but his voice cracked on the words. "I'm... I'm not fine, actually. Look."

He held out his arm, the royal crest gleaming in the morning sunlight that streamed through his bedroom windows. His brothers stared at the mark with expressions ranging from shock to dismay to something that might have been pride.

"Jesus," Connor whispered, unconsciously reaching out to touch the shimmering lines before pulling his hand back. "Arthur, that's... that's the Queen's mark."

"I know what it is," Arthur replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "But why? And what happens now?"

The answer came mere days later, after all, rumors tended to spread fast in that particular part of the kingdom. Once a royal was chosen, the law stated that the current rulers of the kingdom be informed immediately. Then the newly chosen face card would be mentored and learn of their duties. 

When he was whisked away from his childhood home, Arthur pressed his face against the carriage window, watching his family's estate disappear into morning mist. His brothers stood at the gates—Allistor rigid with suppressed emotion, Connor's red hair catching the weak sunlight, Dylan's hand raised in a final wave. They looked smaller already, diminished by distance and the weight of impending separation.

The royal mark on his forearm throbbed with each turn of the wheels, a constant reminder that he no longer belonged to them. He belonged to Spades now, to a kingdom that sprawled beyond these Highland hills, to responsibilities he couldn't yet fathom.

"Try not to press your face against the glass, Your Majesty," the courier advised from his seat across from Arthur. "It leaves marks, and appearances matter a great deal at court."

Arthur pulled back, irritated. "I'm twelve, not an idiot."

The courier, a thin man with the kind of carefully neutral expression that suggested years of dealing with difficult nobles, merely inclined his head. "Of course, Your Majesty. I merely meant-

"I know what you meant." Arthur slumped back against the cushions, already missing the freedom to be sharp-tongued without consequence. "How long until we arrive?"

"Three days, Your Majesty, assuming fair weather."

Three days of countryside rolling past, of stops at coaching inns where people would bow and scrape and call him by a title that felt like wearing someone else's clothes. Three days to transform from Arthur Kirkland, third son of a Highland estate, into the future Queen of Spades.

The thought made his stomach churn.

He thought of Peter, as he often did when faced with upheaval. His youngest brother would have loved this adventure—the grand carriage, the guards in their crisp uniforms, the promise of a castle at journey's end. Peter had always been the dreamer among them, finding magic in mundane things, building elaborate stories from shadows on the wall.

Now Peter was gone, and Arthur was leaving too, and soon there would be only three Kirkland brothers where once there had been five.

The mark pulsed again, stronger this time, and Arthur gasped at the sensation. It wasn't quite pain, more like lightning beneath his skin, power trying to ground itself through his bones.

"The transition can be uncomfortable," the courier observed. "Your magic is awakening. It will settle once you begin formal training."

"Magic," Arthur repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. Despite everything—the mark, the summons, the bowing servants—part of him still struggled to accept it as real. "What kind of magic?"

"That depends entirely on you, Your Majesty. Each monarch's power manifests differently, shaped by personality and need. Queen Marianne commands ice and storm. The King's magic involves the manipulation of light and shadow. Yours will reveal itself in time."

Arthur studied his mark, tracing the silver lines with one finger. They seemed to shift beneath his touch, the pattern alive in a way that mundane tattoos could never be. "And if I don't want it?"

The courier's neutral expression cracked slightly, revealing something that might have been sympathy. "Want and duty rarely align, Your Majesty. The mark has chosen. The only path is forward."

They stopped that first night at an inn that had clearly been warned of their arrival. The common room emptied the moment Arthur entered, patrons fleeing as if royalty were contagious. He ate alone at a table set with the inn's finest dishes, every bite turning to ash in his mouth as he felt the weight of invisible eyes—servants peering around corners, locals pressing faces to windows for a glimpse of their future Queen.

His room was the inn's best, of course. Soft bed, fresh linens, a fire crackling in the hearth. Arthur lay awake staring at unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling, wondering if he'd ever sleep soundly again.

The second day brought rain, sheets of it that turned the roads to mud and slowed their progress to a crawl. Arthur welcomed the delay, each extra hour a reprieve from whatever waited at journey's end. He dozed fitfully, dreams full of crystal towers and faces he didn't recognize, voices calling him by titles he hadn't earned.

"Your Majesty." The courier's voice pierced through his latest nightmare. "We're approaching the capital."

Arthur straightened, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and looked out at a city that defied comprehension.

The capital of Spades sprawled before them like a living thing, districts flowing into each other with organic irregularity. Closest to their approach were the outlying villages, little clusters of homes and shops that clung to the city proper like barnacles on a ship's hull. As they drew nearer, the buildings grew taller, grander, reaching toward the sky with ambitious fingers.

And at the center, rising above it all like a mountain of carved stone and impossible architecture, stood the castle.

Arthur's breath caught. He'd thought his family's estate was grand, had visited other noble houses and been impressed by their scale. But this—this was something else entirely. Towers that scraped the clouds, bridges suspended between them like spider's silk, walls that seemed to glow with their own inner light. It was beautiful and terrible and absolutely terrifying.

"Welcome to your new home," the courier said softly.

The crowds grew thicker as they entered the city proper. Word had spread of their arrival, and people lined the streets to catch a glimpse of their future Queen. Arthur tried not to look at them directly, overwhelmed by the sea of faces, the weight of expectations he couldn't possibly meet.

Some threw flowers. Others called out blessings. A few watched in silence, their expressions unreadable, and those were the ones that unsettled Arthur most. What did they see when they looked at him? A twelve-year-old boy playing at power? A Highland upstart stealing a position meant for someone better born?

The castle gates loomed before them, massive structures of iron and oak that opened with surprising silence. The carriage rolled through into a courtyard larger than his family's entire manor, guards snapping to attention in perfect synchronization.

Arthur's door opened, and a dozen servants appeared as if from nowhere, ready to assist, to guide, to serve. He climbed out on shaking legs, the mark on his arm burning so fiercely he had to bite back a cry.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was cool, controlled, cutting through the bustle like a blade through silk. Arthur looked up to find a woman descending the castle steps with measured grace. Silver streaked her dark hair, pulled back in an elaborate arrangement that looked architectural in its complexity. Her gown was midnight blue, simple in cut but clearly worth more than most people's homes. Everything about her radiated power, from her perfect posture to the way servants instinctively moved out of her path.

"Queen Marianne," the courier murmured, bowing low.

Arthur attempted to copy the bow, feeling clumsy and childish in comparison to everyone else's practiced movements. "Your Majesty."

"None of that," Queen Marianne said, though not unkindly. "We are colleagues now, or will be once your training is complete. In private, you may call me Marianne."

"I- yes, Your- Marianne." The name felt strange on his tongue, too familiar for someone so imposing.

She studied him with eyes like winter storms, taking in everything from his travel-worn clothes to the way he held himself, trying to stand straight but betraying uncertainty in every line. "You're younger than I expected. But then, the marks choose as they will, not as we might prefer."

Arthur bristled at that, some of his natural fire returning. "I didn't ask for this."

"No," she agreed, surprising him. "Neither did I, when my mark appeared thirty years ago. I was sixteen, engaged to a duke's son, planning a life of leisurely nobility. The mark cared nothing for my plans." She gestured to the castle rising around them. "This is what it gave me instead—duty, responsibility, and the knowledge that every decision I make affects millions of lives. It's a burden I wouldn't wish on anyone, and yet here we are."

She turned, expecting him to follow. Arthur did, legs moving automatically while his mind reeled. The interior of the castle was even more overwhelming than the exterior—corridors that seemed to stretch forever, rooms glimpsed through open doors that could have swallowed his family's entire estate, artwork and tapestries that belonged in museums rather than hanging casually on walls.

"Your chambers," Marianne announced, pushing open a set of double doors.

The suite beyond was larger than reasonable for one person—a sitting room with multiple sofas and chairs, a study lined with empty bookshelves waiting to be filled, a bedroom with a bed that could have slept his entire family, and a bathroom with running water and a tub large enough to swim in.

"It's too much," Arthur said without thinking.

Marianne's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Yes, it is. But appearance matters in court. A Queen who lives modestly is seen as weak. A Queen who embraces the trappings of power is respected, even if he finds those trappings ridiculous." She moved to the windows that dominated one wall, looking out over the city below. "Your first lesson, learn to wear the mask without becoming it."

Arthur joined her at the window, vertigo hitting as he realized how high they were. The people below looked like ants, the city a vast organism he was somehow supposed to help govern.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly.

"No one does, at first." Marianne's voice softened slightly. "But you'll learn. You'll have to. The kingdom depends on it."

"What if I'm not good enough? What if I fail?"

She turned to look at him directly then, and Arthur saw something unexpected in her eyes—understanding, perhaps even compassion. "Then you fail. And you learn from that failure. And you try again. That's all any of us can do."

A knock at the door interrupted whatever response Arthur might have made. A servant entered, bowing low. "Your Majesties, dinner is served."

"We'll be along shortly," Marianne dismissed the servant with a gesture, then turned back to Arthur. "One more thing before we join the others. Your training will be demanding. I will push you harder than you've ever been pushed, expect more than you think you can give. There will be days you hate me for it."

"I understand," Arthur said, though he wasn't sure he did.

"No," she said simply. "You don't. But you will."

As they made their way to the dining hall, Arthur felt the weight of his new life settling around him like a cloak made of lead. Every servant they passed bowed. Every corridor held portraits of monarchs who had come before, their painted eyes seeming to judge him, finding him wanting.

The mark on his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, magic stirring beneath his skin like a caged thing desperate for release. He thought of his brothers, probably sitting down to dinner themselves, Connor telling inappropriate jokes while Allistor tried to maintain order and Dylan quietly kept the peace. He thought of Peter, wherever he was, if he was anywhere at all.

And for the first time since the mark appeared, Arthur truly understood what he had lost. Not just his family and his home, but his future itself, every choice he might have made, every path he might have taken, all sacrificed to duty he hadn't chosen.

The dining hall doors opened before them, revealing a table that could seat fifty, though only a handful of places were set. Noble faces turned toward them, assessing, calculating, already trying to determine how to use the new Queen to their advantage.

Arthur straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and prepared to learn his first lesson in wearing a mask.

After all, he was to be the Queen of Spades now.

Whether he wanted to be or not.

Chapter Text

10 Years Later

Alfred checked his pocket watch, 11:47 PM. Marcus Lerwick would be leaving his mistress's townhouse in exactly thirteen minutes, just as he had every Tuesday for the past three months. Routine was death in Alfred's profession, but his targets never seemed to learn that lesson.

From the backside of the townhouse, hidden from sight, Alfred assembled his weapons with practiced efficiency. The twin pistols were works of art—custom-made, perfectly balanced, their grips worn smooth from use. He'd named them Hope and Charity, Volkov's little joke about the virtues he'd never possess.

"Position confirmed," he murmured into the communication device. "Target will exit via the rear entrance in twelve minutes."

"Witnesses?" Volkov's voice crackled back.

"Mistress will remain inside. One bodyguard, stationed at the carriage. Driver's been paid to take a convenient smoke break." Alfred loaded the special ammunition, rounds designed to fragment on impact, leaving no recoverable bullets for investigation. "Clean shot available from current position."

"Proceed."

Alfred settled into stillness, the kind that separated professionals from amateurs. His breathing slowed, heartbeat dropping to match. The world narrowed to the scope of his attention—the door, the alley, the precise spot where Lerwick would pause to light his customary post-coital cigar.

Ten minutes.

Alfred felt nothing about the impending death. No satisfaction at removing a monster, no guilt at taking a life. Emotion was distant as the stars, locked away where it couldn't interfere with the work. He was a weapon, nothing more. Weapons didn't feel.

Five minutes.

Movement ahead. The bodyguard shifting, checking his pocket watch. The driver wandering off toward the corner tobacconist, right on schedule. Alfred's finger found the trigger, resting there with lover's familiarity.

Two minutes.

The ’3’ mark on his arm throbbed, a new development over the past week. Random spikes of heat that had nothing to do with infection or injury. Alfred ignored it with the same professional detachment he ignored everything else. Pain was just another sensation to be noted and dismissed.

One minute.

The door opened.

Marcus Lerwick emerged into the gaslit alley, expansive belly preceding him like a herald. He moved with the confident waddle of a man who'd never faced consequences, already reaching for his cigar case.

Alfred exhaled slowly, letting his body find that perfect stillness between heartbeats. The world crystallized into perfect clarity—distance, wind speed, target movement. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Lerwick paused exactly where predicted, hands cupping around the match flame.

Hope spoke first, its voice a whisper in the night. The round took Lerwick in the temple, dropping him before the cigar could catch light. But Alfred was already firing Charity, the second shot insurance against any possibility of survival.

The bodyguard was moving, hand going for his weapon, head turning to scan the rooftops. Professional enough, but far too slow. Alfred's third shot caught him in the throat before he could shout a warning.

Clean. Efficient. Exactly as planned.

Alfred was already disassembling his weapons, movements automatic after years of practice. The pistols went into their custom case, which fit perfectly beneath his coat. By the time anyone thought to check the alleyway, he'd be long gone. 

He paused, taking one last look at his handiwork. Lerwick lay crumpled in front of him, blood pooling beneath expensive clothes. Dead between one heartbeat and the next, never knowing what hit him.

"Target eliminated," Alfred reported, already moving toward his exit route. "No complications."

"Excellent work," Volkov replied. "Though I'm reading elevated vital signs. Are you injured?"

Alfred glanced at his arm, where the mark burned beneath his sleeve. "Negative. Just the usual post-job adrenaline."

A lie, but delivered with the same easy confidence as truth. Alfred made his way to Lerwick’s office, a rather stuffy room a couple blocks down the road, leaving death in his wake and feeling nothing at all.

At least, that's what he told himself.

While he was carefully examining the office, a sound from the corridor made Alfred's hand move instinctively toward his coat before he recognized the deliberate footsteps. Three beats, pause, two beats—Hendriks' signature knock pattern.

The door opened, and Alfred's employer entered with his usual air of understated menace. Hendriks never looked like what he was, a crime lord who controlled half the Lower District's illegal enterprises. He looked like a banker, perhaps, or a well-to-do merchant. The kind of man you'd pass on the street without a second glance.

It was, Alfred had learned, a very effective disguise.

"Jones." Hendriks' pale eyes swept the room,. "Clean work, as always."

"I aim to please," Alfred replied, maintaining his cheerful facade. It had become second nature now, this mask of affable charm. Sometimes he forgot what his real face looked like underneath it. "Though I should mention, Lerwick has some interesting documents in his safe. Seems he was planning to expand into territories that might have conflicted with your interests."

Hendriks' expression didn't change, but Alfred caught the slight tension in his shoulders. "Indeed? How fortunate we acted when we did."

"Very fortunate," Alfred agreed, grabbing a leather portfolio that lay beside him.  "I took the liberty of retrieving the relevant papers. Thought you might find them... instructive."

Hendriks accepted the portfolio, flipping through it briefly. His thin lips curved in what might generously be called a smile. "Your initiative continues to impress, Jones. There's a bonus in this for you."

"You're too kind." Alfred's tone suggested he thought nothing of the sort, but in a way that could be taken as humility rather than sarcasm. It was a delicate balance, one he'd perfected through years of practice.

They left together, Alfred following Hendriks through the warehouse district's maze of alleys and shortcuts. The night was cold, their breath fogging in the air, but Alfred barely felt it. Temperature was just another piece of sensory data to be noted and dismissed, like the distant barking of dogs or the way shadows fell across cobblestones.

"Tell me, Jones," Hendriks said as they walked, "what do you think of our operation's recent expansion?"

It was a test, Alfred knew. Hendriks never asked idle questions. "I think," he said carefully, "that growth requires careful management. Too fast, and you attract unwanted attention. Too slow, and competitors see weakness."

"And which are we guilty of?"

Alfred considered. The truthful answer was 'both,' but truth and wisdom rarely aligned in these conversations. "Neither yet," he said finally. "But we're approaching a tipping point. The recent eliminations have cleared significant territory, but they've also created a pattern. Smart investigators might start connecting dots."

"Your concern is noted," Hendriks said, which could mean anything from 'I'll consider it' to 'shut up and do your job.' "Speaking of patterns, there's been some interest in your work from unexpected quarters."

Alfred's instincts sharpened, though his external demeanor remained unchanged. "Oh?"

"A representative from Clubs made inquiries. Very discrete, very careful, but inquiries nonetheless." Hendriks glanced at him sideways. "It seems your reputation is spreading beyond our borders."

"I'm flattered," Alfred said, mind already racing through implications. Clubs meant politics, meant the game was bigger than simple territorial disputes between crime lords. "Though I'm perfectly content with my current arrangement."

"Loyalty. I appreciate that in an employee." Hendriks' tone suggested he believed in Alfred's loyalty about as much as he believed in fairy tales. "Still, it's good to know one's worth in the broader market. Tell me, what would you do if Clubs made you an offer?"

Another test, this one with teeth. "I'd bring it to you immediately," Alfred answered without hesitation. "After all, information about Clubs' interests and resources would be quite valuable. Much more valuable than whatever they might offer an individual assassin."

Hendriks actually chuckled at that, a dry sound like autumn leaves scraping concrete. "Sometimes I forget how young you are, Jones. That kind of pragmatic thinking usually takes decades to develop."

"I had excellent teachers," Alfred said, which was true enough. Volkov had beaten sentiment out of him with methodical efficiency, replacing it with cold calculation that served him far better than emotions ever had.

They reached the organization's headquarters, a nondescript building that could have been anything from a warehouse to a counting house. Guards nodded them through, recognizing Hendriks and the favored killer who walked at his side.

"Your brother," Hendriks said as they entered. "How is his condition?"

The question made Alfred's jaw tighten fractionally before he caught himself. Hendriks noticed everything—it was another test, probing for weakness. "Stable," he replied evenly. "The new medications help."

"Good, good. Family is important." The words dripped with false sincerity. "It would be tragic if his condition were to suddenly worsen. Medical care is so expensive these days, and doctors can be so... unreliable."

The threat was clear as crystal. Alfred smiled, the expression sharp as the knives hidden in his coat. "How fortunate that I have such a generous employer who ensures we can afford the best care."

"Indeed." Hendriks paused at his office door. "I have another assignment for you. Something a bit more challenging than merchant princes who've outlived their usefulness."

Alfred inclined his head, waiting.

"There's a diplomat arriving from Hearts next month, Lord Reginald Ashworth. He's been negotiating trade agreements that would significantly impact our operations." Hendriks' pale eyes glittered. "I need him to have an accident before those negotiations conclude."

"A diplomat," Alfred repeated, keeping his tone neutral while his mind calculated risks. "That will draw significant attention."

"Which is why I'm giving you a month to prepare. I trust you'll find a way to make it seem... natural."

Alfred nodded. He'd killed nobles before. they died as easily as anyone else, for all their pretensions. But a foreign diplomat meant international implications, investigations that wouldn't be satisfied with easy answers. It would require something special.

The thought should have worried him. Instead, he felt only a mild professional interest, like a chef presented with exotic ingredients to incorporate into a familiar dish.

"Consider it done," he said.

Later, in the small room he shared with Matthew, Alfred sat in the darkness listening to his brother's labored breathing. The new medicine helped, but not enough. Never enough. Matthew was dying by degrees, and all Alfred's skills couldn't kill the disease that was slowly stealing him away.

He thought about Hendriks' threat, casual as breathing. The man knew exactly where to apply pressure, exactly how to keep his weapons sharp and obedient. It was admirable, in its way. Alfred might have done the same in his position.

"Can't sleep?" Matthew's voice was barely a whisper.

"Just thinking," Alfred replied, moving to sit on the edge of his brother's bed. In the moonlight, Matthew looked translucent, as if he were already halfway to ghost.

"About what?"

"Work." Alfred adjusted Matthew's blankets, the gesture automatic. "Nothing important."

Matthew was quiet for a long moment. "I worry about you, Al. About what you're becoming."

They’ve had this conversation so many times already. 

"Don't," Alfred said simply. "Worry about getting better. Let me handle everything else."

But Matthew's grip tightened, surprising strength in those thin fingers. "Promise me something. Promise that no matter how far away you go in your head, you'll remember how to come back."

Alfred looked at his brother—really looked, letting himself see past the illness to the person underneath. Matthew had kind eyes. The sort that still believed in things like hope and redemption and the possibility of better tomorrows.

"I promise," Alfred lied smoothly, the words meaning nothing because Matthew needed to hear them.

But as his brother drifted back to sleep, Alfred stared at the ceiling and wondered if he'd already traveled too far to find his way back. If the distance that made him such an effective killer had become a chasm too wide to cross.

It didn't matter, he decided. Distance was safety. Distance was survival. Distance was what kept him sharp enough to protect the only person left who mattered.

And if that meant becoming something hollow, something that wore a human face but felt nothing behind it.

Some transformations couldn't be undone.

Some distances couldn't be crossed.

And Alfred F. Jones was perfectly fine with that.

Chapter Text

Within the Warehouse District, Alfred pressed himself deeper into the shadows between two crumbling buildings, watching his target through the scope of his rifle. Thomas Henley, merchant of exotic goods and trafficker of human misery, was enjoying his last evening of expensive wine and cheaper company.

Three days. Three days since Alfred's arm had started its rebellion.

He shifted position slightly, grimacing as another wave of heat pulsed through his hidden mark. The burning had started as a minor irritation after the Lerwick job, just a dull ache he'd attributed to strain. But with each passing hour, it had grown worse. Now it felt like someone was holding a brand to his skin, the pain constant and inexplicable.

"Focus," he muttered, forcing his breathing to steady. The shot was clear, the wind minimal. A simple squeeze of the trigger would paint Henley's expensive carpet with brain matter and complete another contract.

His finger found the trigger guard, then hesitated. The mark flared, sending shooting pain up his entire left side. His vision blurred, the crosshairs dancing wildly. Alfred bit down hard on his tongue, using the sharp copper taste of blood to center himself.

Henley stood, moving toward the window. Perfect positioning, silhouetted against the lamplight like he wanted to die. Alfred exhaled slowly, finding that still place between heartbeats where perfect shots lived-

The window exploded inward. Not from his bullet, from something else. A figure in dark clothing burst through in a shower of glass, moving with inhuman speed. Henley had time for one shocked gasp before a blade opened his throat in a spray of arterial blood.

Alfred watched through his scope as the assassin, because what else could they be, efficiently searched Henley's cooling corpse. Professional work, though showy. Too showy. Real killers didn't need dramatic entrances.

The figure turned toward the window, and Alfred got his first clear look. Silver hair that caught the lamplight like metal, a face that belonged on a statue rather than a killer, and eyes-

Red eyes that looked directly at him through the scope.

Alfred was moving before conscious thought, abandoning his rifle as he fled across rooftops. Those eyes had seen him, through darkness and distance that should have made detection impossible. His feet found purchase on rain-slick tiles through pure instinct, every lesson Volkov had beaten into him screaming danger.

He made it three buildings before the stranger appeared in front of him like a summoned demon.

"Impressive reflexes," the man said conversationally, as if they were discussing weather rather than standing on a rooftop after a murder. "Though abandoning your rifle was wasteful. That's a custom Diamondian piece, isn't it? Expensive."

Alfred's knife was in his hand without conscious thought. "Who are you?"

"Someone who just saved you considerable effort." The stranger tilted his head, studying Alfred with those impossible red eyes. "Henley was your target, yes? Consider the contract completed, though I doubt Hendriks will pay for work he didn't sanction."

The casual mention of his employer's name sent ice through Alfred's veins. "You're well-informed."

"I make it my business to be." The stranger moved closer, and Alfred noticed he didn't walk so much as flow, each movement too perfect to be entirely human. "My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt. And you, Alfred F. Jones, are far more interesting than you know."

"Flattery will get you stabbed," Alfred warned, though he found himself backing away. Something about this Gilbert set off every survival instinct he had.

"Will it? Then let me try honesty instead." Gilbert's smile showed teeth slightly too sharp for comfort. "Your arm has been burning for exactly seventy-three hours. The pain comes in waves, worse at night, accompanied by dreams of places you've never been. You've tried ice, alcohol, even shallow cuts to release the pressure, but nothing helps."

Alfred's blood turned to ice. No one knew about the mark, about the pain. He'd hidden it even from Matthew, especially from Matthew. "Lucky guesses."

"Luck has nothing to do with it." Gilbert stopped just outside knife range, showing either excellent judgment or supreme confidence. "Tell me, have you noticed anything unusual about your recent targets? Patterns beyond the obvious?"

"They die when I shoot them. That's all the pattern I need."

Gilbert laughed, a sound like wind through empty buildings. "Such refreshing pragmatism. But surely someone of your intelligence has noticed the connections. Every target in the last six months has had dealings with Clubs. Every death has disrupted smuggling operations bringing very specific contraband into Spades."

Alfred kept his expression neutral, though internally he cursed. He had noticed, of course. It was hard to miss when every mark turned up with Clubs diplomatic seals in their safes or correspondence with the same handful of merchants across the border.

"Coincidence," he said aloud.

"In our line of work?" Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Come now. We both know better than that."

"Our line of work? You're not a killer." Alfred had met enough killers to recognize the breed. Gilbert was something else, something other.

"No," Gilbert agreed. "I'm something far more dangerous. I'm someone who sees the bigger picture." He pulled out a card, holding it between two fingers. "Your brother is dying."

The words hit like a physical blow. Alfred's knife hand twitched. "Choose your next words very carefully."

"Matthew's illness defies medical explanation. The best healers in the Lower District can't identify the cause, though they're happy to take your money for trying." Gilbert's expression softened fractionally. "But what if I told you the cure isn't medical? What if it's magical?"

"Yeah right," Alfred said automatically, though the words felt hollow with his arm burning beneath his sleeve.

"Then explain the marks that determine our entire social structure. Explain the Queen's ability to freeze blood in men's veins. Explain why your arm feels like it's burning from the inside out with power you don't understand."

Alfred said nothing, but his silence was damning.

"Something significant is going to happen to your brother soon," Gilbert continued. "When it does, you'll face choices that will reshape both your lives. I'd like to ensure you make the right ones."

"And you're what, some kind of magical guidance counselor? Showing up with cryptic warnings and mysterious cards?"

"Think of me as an interested party who prefers certain outcomes over others." Gilbert flicked the card toward Alfred, who caught it reflexively. "That address will still be valid when you're ready to listen. And Alfred? You might want to invest in long sleeves. The mark will become visible soon, and certain people would find that... problematic."

He stepped backward off the roof.

Alfred lunged forward, expecting to see a body plummeting toward the alley below. Instead, there was nothing. Empty air and the lingering scent of ozone, as if lightning had struck without thunder.

"Shit," Alfred breathed, staring at the card in his hand. Just an address in the Middle District, nothing more. But somehow he knew this encounter had just changed everything.

His arm pulsed again, harder this time, and for a moment Alfred could have sworn he saw blue-silver light bleeding through the fabric of his sleeve. He pulled the material tighter, as if he could contain whatever was happening through will alone.

The journey back to his safe house took twice as long as usual. Alfred doubled back, checked for tails, used every trick in his extensive repertoire. But the only thing following him was the growing certainty that his carefully constructed life was about to come crashing down.

Matthew was asleep when Alfred checked on him, but his breathing was labored, wet. The medicine wasn't helping anymore. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse despite the fortune Alfred poured into treatments.

"Hey, Mattie," Alfred whispered, adjusting his brother's blankets. "I'm going to fix this. I promise."

Matthew stirred but didn't wake. In the lamplight, his skin looked translucent, blue veins visible beneath paper-thin flesh. How much weight had he lost? How long before—

No. Alfred wouldn't think about that. Couldn't.

He retreated to a different room, not wanting to bother Mattie, locking the door before finally, finally letting himself examine the mark. Rolling up his sleeve revealed what he'd been trying to deny for days. The simple "3" that had defined his entire life was... changing. The lines blurred and shifted, glowing with that same blue-silver light he'd been catching glimpses of. As he watched, horrified and fascinated in equal measure, new lines began to form. More complex patterns emerging from the simple number like flowers blooming in fast motion.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But beneath the pain was something else, power. Raw, untamed, demanding release.

Alfred grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his desk, taking a long pull that did nothing for the pain but gave him something else to focus on. Gilbert's words echoed in his mind. Magic. Marks. Choices that would reshape everything.

"Bullshit," he said aloud, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

He spent the rest of the night cleaning weapons and planning contingencies. If Gilbert was right, if something was going to happen to Matthew, then Alfred needed to be ready. More security for their room. Alternative safe houses. Escape routes if things went bad.

Alfred retreated back to his and Matthew’s shared room, but  as dawn light crept through his window, he found himself staring at the card Gilbert had left. An address that promised answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

His arm burned, the mark continuing its slow transformation hidden beneath fresh bandages. Whatever he was becoming, whatever this pain meant, he'd face it the same way he faced everything else.

Alone.

At least until he couldn't anymore.

Chapter Text

Arthur's fingers trembled as he traced the intricate ice patterns spreading across the training room floor. Months of intensive magical education had taught him many things, but control remained frustratingly elusive. The frost responded to his emotions rather than his will, creating beautiful but chaotic displays that would be useless in actual combat.

"Again," Queen Marianne commanded from her observation position, her own magic maintaining a perfect circle of warmth around her despite the arctic conditions Arthur had inadvertently created and despite the fact that her powers were slowly fading due to Arthur’s ever solidifying Queen’s mark. "This time, focus on intention rather than emotion. Magic responds to what you want, not what you feel."

Arthur gritted his teeth, dismissing the ice with a gesture that had taken weeks to master. The training room returned to its normal temperature, though his breath still misted in the air. "With respect, that's like saying 'just fly' to someone afraid of heights."

"An apt comparison," Marianne agreed, descending from her platform with practiced grace. "Fear controls you just as surely as your emotions control your magic. Until you master both, you'll remain a liability rather than an asset."

The words stung because they were true. Since arriving at the castle, Arthur had progressed from accidental magical outbursts to deliberate if clumsy displays of power. He could freeze water, create barriers of ice, even form crude weapons from frozen moisture in the air. But compared to Marianne's effortless mastery, he felt like a child playing with forces beyond his comprehension.

"The King wishes to see you," Marianne continued, producing a sealed letter from her robes. "A diplomatic matter."

Arthur accepted the summons with mixed feelings. King Aldric was everything a monarch should be—wise, powerful, commanding respect through presence alone. He was also dying, though the court pretended not to notice the way he grew thinner each week, how his legendary light magic flickered like a candle in wind.

The throne room never failed to steal Arthur's breath. Massive columns of white marble shot upward to a vaulted ceiling painted with the history of Spades. Light streamed through stained glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across polished floors. It was beauty designed to intimidate, and it worked perfectly.

King Aldric sat upon his throne like a bird of prey, all sharp angles and predatory stillness despite his illness. His mark, visible on his exposed forearm, seemed to pulse with its own inner light—though dimmer than when Arthur had first arrived. He assumed somewhere out there, someone would be gaining the King of Spades mark. After all, he saw firsthand how as Queen Marianne’s mark faded, his own mark grew stronger. 

"Your Majesty," Arthur said, offering the precise bow Marianne had drilled into him.

"Arthur." The King's voice remained strong despite his physical decline. "Come closer. We have matters to discuss away from eager ears."

Arthur approached, noting how courtiers found urgent business elsewhere. Even dying, Aldric commanded the kind of respect that cleared rooms with a glance.

"There have been... disturbances in the Lower District," Aldric began once they were effectively alone. "My informants report increased activity among the criminal syndicates. Assassinations, territorial disputes, the usual squalor of those who mistake violence for power." He paused, studying Arthur with eyes that seemed to see too much. "I want you to investigate."

Arthur blinked. "Me? But I’m still learning-

"Which makes you perfect for this task. Our Ace is away on official business and one expects the upcoming Queen to dirty his hands with street-level intelligence gathering. You can move through places where known agents would be immediately recognized." Aldric leaned forward slightly. "Consider it part of your education. A ruler must understand all levels of their kingdom, not just the perfumed halls of court."

"How exactly am I supposed to investigate criminal syndicates?" Arthur asked, though his mind was already racing with possibilities. "Walk up and ask politely about their illegal activities?"

Aldric's laugh was dry as autumn leaves. "Hardly. You'll go undercover, visit the establishments where information flows as freely as alcohol. Listen, observe, learn. report back what you discover."

"And if I'm recognized?"

"Then you'll learn another valuable lesson about the importance of disguise." The King gestured dismissively. "Marianne will provide appropriate clothing and documentation. Try not to start any wars while you're playing commoner."

Dismissed, Arthur found himself both terrified and exhilarated by the assignment. Real field work, actual responsibility beyond freezing water in increasingly elaborate patterns. It was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? A chance to prove himself useful?

Back in his chambers, Arthur studied the common clothes Marianne had provided. Rough wool, worn leather, the kind of garments that would let him blend into Lower District crowds. They felt strange against his skin after months of silk and velvet.

"You look like you're planning something inadvisable," came a voice from his doorway.

Jack Wang leaned against the frame with casual elegance, his ever-present smirk suggesting he knew far more than he should. As the Jack of Spades, Yao served as the kingdom's advisor, making him invaluable and deeply suspicious of everyone.

"The King's orders," Arthur replied, not bothering to hide the clothes. Yao would find out anyway; the man had an uncanny ability to know everything that happened in the castle.

"Ah, the traditional 'throw the upcoming Queen into danger' approach to education." Yao invited himself in, settling into a chair with feline grace. "Aldric did the same to Marianne when she was younger. She came back with three knife wounds and intelligence that prevented a civil war."

"Encouraging," Arthur said dryly.

"I thought so." Yao produced a thin blade from seemingly nowhere, offering it handle-first to Arthur. "A gift for your expedition. Small enough to hide, sharp enough to matter if things go badly."

Arthur accepted the weapon, noting its perfect balance. "Why help me?"

"Because a dead future Queen is inconvenient for everyone, and despite appearances, I prefer stability to chaos." Yao stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his robes. "A word of advice? The Lower District doesn't respect authority or noble bearing. It respects strength and suspects everything. Try to look less like you're expecting someone to bow."

Left alone with his disguise and new blade, Arthur practiced moving differently. Shoulders hunched instead of thrown back, eyes downcast rather than direct, the shuffle of someone trying to avoid notice rather than command it. It felt wrong, like wearing someone else's skin.

But as night fell over the capital, Arthur slipped out of the castle through servants' passages Marianne had shown him. The transformation was necessary, he told himself. Understanding his kingdom meant understanding all of it, even the parts polite society pretended didn't exist.

The Lower District assaulted his senses immediately. Sounds, smells, sights that the castle's refined atmosphere had protected him from. Narrow streets thick with refuse, buildings that leaned against each other like drunken friends, people who looked through him rather than at him because he was just another poor soul trying to survive.

Arthur had studied maps, memorized street names and landmark locations. But experiencing the reality was different than academic preparation. He felt lost within minutes, the twisted streets defying logical navigation.

"Watch it!" A woman shoved past him, carrying what smelled like rotting vegetables. Arthur stumbled, catching himself against a soot-stained wall. No one offered help or even looked twice. Just another body in the crowd.

He wandered for an hour, gathering impressions and trying to orient himself. Taverns seemed to anchor every other corner, their windows glowing with promise of warmth and alcohol-dulled sorrows. Arthur chose one at random. .

The interior was exactly what he'd expected: crowded, loud, thick with smoke and the yeasty smell of cheap beer. Arthur found a corner table, ordered ale he had no intention of drinking, and tried to become invisible while observing everything.

Fragments of conversation drifted past: “—said the Merchant's Guild is raising prices again—" “—found him in the alley, professional work—" “—Hendriks is recruiting, if you're desperate enough—"

That last name made Arthur's attention sharpen. Hendriks. He'd seen it in intelligence reports, a suspected crime lord who operated from the shadows. If the King wanted information about criminal activities, anything connected to Hendriks would be valuable.

A commotion near the bar interrupted his eavesdropping. Two men squared off, drunk enough to think violence would solve whatever dispute had arose. Others backed away, creating an impromptu arena as the first punch was thrown.

Arthur tensed, instincts screaming at him to intervene. But that would blow his cover immediately. He forced himself to remain seated, watching as the fight escalated. One man produced a knife, waving it with more enthusiasm than skill.

Then someone else moved.

A young man—perhaps Arthur's age, maybe younger—flowed through the crowd like water. Bright blond hair, brilliant smile, movements so casual they seemed accidental. He appeared between the fighters at exactly the right moment, somehow redirecting the knife-wielder's momentum so the man stabbed his own table instead of his opponent.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" The newcomer's voice was bright with false cheer. "Surely whatever this is about isn't worth bleeding on Marcus's floor? He just had it cleaned. Well, cleaned-ish. The stains are arranged artistically now."

The fighters paused, confused by the intervention. The blond continued talking, voice light and engaging, somehow maneuvering both men back to their respective friends without seeming to push. Within minutes, the tension had dissipated, replaced by confused laughter as the stranger bought a round for both groups.

It was, Arthur realized, a masterful display of crowd control. No violence, no authority, just careful manipulation of drunk psychology. He found himself studying the young man, noting the way he moved through the tavern like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

Their eyes met across the room.

Blue eyes, startlingly bright in the tavern's dim lighting. They held Arthur's gaze for a moment that stretched like taffy, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Then the stranger smiled, sharp and knowing, and raised his mug in mock salute before turning away.

Arthur felt exposed, as if those eyes had seen straight through his disguise to the Queen underneath. He stayed another few minutes, pride keeping him from fleeing immediately, but learned nothing more of value. The blond man had vanished into the crowd, leaving Arthur with questions and an odd feeling in his chest he couldn't name.

The journey back to the castle passed in a blur. Arthur's mind kept replaying that brief moment of eye contact, the stranger's too-knowing smile. There had been something familiar about him, though Arthur was certain they'd never met. Something that made his magic stir restlessly beneath his skin.

"Learn anything interesting?" Marianne asked when he reported the next morning.

Arthur described what he'd observed, mentioning Hendriks and the various criminal activities he'd overheard discussed. He hesitated before adding, "There was someone there. A young man who broke up a fight. Blond, about my age, seemed to know everyone."

"Probably a local fixture," Marianne said dismissively. "Every tavern has them—people who've made themselves useful enough to be welcomed everywhere. Good sources of information if you can get them talking."

Arthur nodded, but privately doubted the stranger would be so easily categorized. There had been something about him, a sense of barely leashed violence beneath the cheerful exterior. Like looking at a sleeping dragon and knowing it was only pretending to doze.

"I want to go back," Arthur said suddenly. "If the King wants intelligence on the Lower District, one visit isn't enough. Patterns only emerge over time."

Marianne studied him carefully. "This isn't about proving yourself, is it? The streets aren't a game, Arthur. People die there every day, and your magic won't save you if someone decides you're worth robbing."

"I know that." Arthur met her gaze steadily. "But hiding in the castle won't teach me what I need to know. You said it yourself, a Queen must understand their entire kingdom."

"I also said not to let the mask become who you are," Marianne reminded him. "The Lower District has a way of staining those who spend too much time there. Be careful you don't lose yourself trying to find answers."

But Arthur was already planning his next visit, mind spinning with possibilities. The stranger's face haunted him—those knowing eyes, that sharp smile. He told himself it was just curiosity, the desire to understand someone who'd mastered the social dynamics Arthur was still struggling to navigate.

He didn't examine too closely why his magic had responded to a nameless tavern fighter, or why he'd dreamed of blue eyes and dangerous smiles.

Some questions were better left unasked.

Even if their answers were inevitable.

Chapter Text

Arthur found himself standing in the morning training chamber again, ice spreading from his fingertips in delicate fractals across the stone floor. 

His should have been focusing, but his mind kept wandering. He had visited the Lower District a few times since his last visit, gathered some insight, but he had yet to run into the mysterious blonde from his first visit. If he was indeed a local fixture, he didn’t seem to show up that often. 

"Better," Marianne observed from her chair by the window. The morning light illuminated her face with cruel clarity, showing what Arthur had been trying not to see. The silver in her hair had spread like frost, and her once-sharp features had softened with a weariness that went deeper than physical exhaustion. "Your emotional regulation has improved considerably."

Arthur dismissed the ice with a gesture that had become second nature. As it melted, he noticed Marianne pull her shawl tighter despite the room's warmth. Another sign of the fading, soon she would feel cold even in summer, her magic retreating inward as his grew stronger.

"How long?" he asked quietly, the question escaping before he could stop it.

Marianne's smile was gentle and terrible. "Longer than Aldric, shorter than I'd like. Perhaps six months before the transfer completes." She stood with careful grace, movements that once flowed now deliberately measured. "Long enough to ensure you're ready."

"I'll never be ready." Arthur moved to offer his arm, pretending not to notice how heavily she leaned on it. "You've been Queen for decades. How am I supposed to-

"By learning from my mistakes rather than repeating them." They walked slowly toward the door, Marianne's breathing slightly labored. "Speaking of which, I've had concerning reports from the castle guard about false claimants again."

Arthur felt his stomach tighten. In the three months since his arrival, there had been four separate incidents of young men claiming to bear the King's mark. The desperation made sense—everyone knew the old King was dying, and somewhere in the kingdom, his successor had already been chosen. The magic would have marked someone by now, selecting Aldric's replacement just as it had selected Arthur to succeed Marianne.

"Another execution?" Arthur asked, unable to hide his distaste.

"The law is clear," Marianne replied as they emerged into the castle's main corridor. "Falsely claiming a royal mark is treason of the highest order. It undermines the very foundation of our government."

Arthur knew the reasoning, but watching young men die for desperate lies still turned his stomach. The last one had been barely sixteen, a baker's son who'd painted an elaborate forgery on his arm with expensive inks. He'd been so convinced of his own deception that he'd marched up to the castle gates demanding entry. The guards had known immediately, true marks couldn't be washed away, and they carried a distinct magical signature that forgeries couldn't replicate.

"Where is the real King?" Arthur asked as they walked past courtiers who bowed low. "Surely he must know by now. Why hasn't he presented himself?"

"Fear, perhaps. Or circumstances preventing travel." Marianne's expression grew thoughtful. "Remember, the mark appears regardless of readiness"

They entered the castle's administrative wing, where the real work of governance happened away from the throne room's pageantry. Through an open door, Arthur glimpsed Yao in animated discussion with several scribes. One of them, a nervous young man named Raivis Galante, was frantically taking notes while Yao dictated what sounded like new tax calculations.

"—and if the spring revenues continue declining at this rate," Yao was saying, "we'll need to consider reducing the castle staff or raising the merchant fees—"

He noticed them passing and smoothly excused himself, joining their procession with his usual fluid grace. "Your Majesties. I trust the morning training went well?"

"Arthur managed not to freeze any servants today," Marianne replied dryly. "We're counting it as progress."

"That was one time," Arthur protested. "And Eduard was fine after the healers-

"After the healers spent two hours thawing him," Yao interrupted, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Poor man still double-checks the temperature before entering any room you're in."

Eduard von Bock, one of the castle's senior administrators, had indeed been the victim of Arthur's worst magical accident. The man had been delivering financial reports when Arthur's temper flared during a particularly frustrating lesson, resulting in an ice sculpture where an administrator should have been. Arthur still burned with embarrassment remembering Eduard's stuttered "N-no permanent damage, Your Majesty!" after being restored.

They turned toward the castle's medical wing, where Marianne had taken to spending her mornings. The healers couldn't slow the fading, but they could ease its symptoms, making the transition less painful if not less inevitable.

"Any word from our agents about the missing King?" Arthur asked as they walked.

Yao's expression darkened. "Nothing concrete. We've investigated every male of appropriate age in the capital—discrete inquiries, of course. Either he's exceptionally good at hiding, or he's not in the city at all."

"Or he's dead," Marianne added bluntly. "It wouldn't be the first time a marked one died before claiming their position. The magic would simply choose another."

"But wouldn't we know?" Arthur pressed. "Wouldn't there be some sign?"

"The magic keeps its own counsel," Marianne said. They reached the medical wing, where the head healer waited with professional patience. "All we can do is wait and hope he reveals himself before more desperate fools die trying to claim his place."

She disappeared into the healing chambers, leaving Arthur standing in the corridor with Yao. The Jack studied him with knowing eyes.

"The executions trouble you," Yao observed.

"Shouldn't they?" Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "They're dying for hope, however misguided. Every one of them thinks they could be special, could escape their circumstances through magic that chose them."

"And their lies could destabilize the entire kingdom," Yao countered gently. "Imagine if we allowed false claimants to proliferate. Multiple people claiming to be the true King, gathering followers, creating factions. Civil war would follow within months."

Arthur knew he was right, but the knowledge sat uneasily. "There must be a better way. Imprisonment, exile-

"Would only delay the problem. A false claimant in exile can still gather supporters, still return with an army claiming divine right." Yao's expression softened marginally. "I know it seems cruel. But clarity in succession has kept Spades stable for centuries. That stability saves more lives than leniency would."

They parted ways, Yao returning to his economic calculations while Arthur made his way to the castle's other medical wing. If Marianne's decline was a slow fade, King Aldric's was a guttering candle, bright one moment and nearly extinguished the next.

The King's chambers were kept warm despite the spring weather, fires roaring in every hearth. Arthur found him on the balcony anyway, wrapped in furs but still seeking sunlight like a plant trying to photosynthesize one last time.

"Arthur." Aldric's voice remained strong even as his body failed. "Come, sit. Tell me about this morning's magical mishaps."

"No mishaps today," Arthur said, taking the indicated chair. This close, he could see how thin Aldric had become, skin stretched over bones like parchment. "Though apparently Eduard still flinches when he sees me."

"Wise man. A Queen who can freeze blood in veins should be approached with caution." Aldric's smile took any sting from the words. "How is your control progressing?"

"Slowly. I can create ice easily enough, but shaping it with precision..." Arthur gestured frustratedly. "Marianne makes it look effortless."

"Marianne has had decades of practice." Aldric shifted slightly, suppressing a wince. "Tell me, what troubles you more—your lack of magical finesse or the kingdom's lack of a King?"

Arthur startled at the direct question. "I... both, I suppose. We're vulnerable without a full royal quartet. And every day he doesn't appear-

"More fools die trying to claim his place," Aldric finished. "Yes, I heard about this morning's attempt. A cobbler's apprentice who thought bootblack could pass for a royal mark." His expression grew distant. "Years ago, when Queen Vivienne was fading, we had twelve false Queens executed before Marianne finally presented herself. She'd been terrified, you see. A merchant's daughter suddenly marked for power she'd never wanted."

"What changed her mind?"

"Hunger," Aldric said simply. "Her family's shop had failed, creditors circling like vultures. She revealed herself to save them from debtor's prison." He studied Arthur with eyes that hadn't dimmed despite everything else fading. "Sometimes desperation drives us to face our destinies. Perhaps our missing King simply hasn't gotten desperate enough yet."

A knock interrupted their conversation. A guard entered, bowing low. "Your Majesties, The lieutenant wishes to report on the Lower District investigations."

The lieutenant of the Lower District patrol entered with the weight of bad news in his expression. He was a competent man who'd risen through the ranks on merit rather than connections, which made his evident unease more concerning.

"Your Majesties," he began after the formal greetings. "The situation has escalated. Three more bodies discovered last night, all bearing the same precise method of execution."

"The same as the previous seven?" Aldric asked, suddenly sharp despite his physical frailty.

"Identical, Sire. Professional work, no witnesses, no evidence beyond the bodies themselves." Toris hesitated, then added, "There's a pattern emerging. Every victim had connections to cross-border smuggling operations. Someone is systematically dismantling a network."

Arthur leaned forward. "Hendriks?"

"That's just it, Your Majesty. Our informants suggest Hendriks is as concerned as we are. These deaths are disrupting his operations as much as anyone's." He pulled out a small notebook. "The word in the Lower District is that there's a new player. Someone even the established criminals fear."

"Fear?" Aldric's interest sharpened further. "What kind of person frightens hardened criminals?"

"The kind who kills ten smugglers without leaving a single witness," The lieutenant replied grimly. "The kind who seems to know exactly where to strike for maximum impact. The kind who operates like a ghost—there one moment, gone the next, leaving only bodies in their wake."

Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with his magic. "Do we have any leads?"

"Rumors only. Some say it's an enforcer who's gone rogue. Others whisper about foreign agents preparing for invasion. The most consistent detail is that the killer is young—barely out of boyhood, according to one traumatized survivor who glimpsed him from a distance."

"Young," Aldric mused. "Interesting. And no one has successfully identified him?"

"No, Sire. He's... exceptionally careful. The few who might have seen him clearly are all dead." Toris closed his notebook. "I've increased patrols, but honestly, we're out of our depth. This isn't common crime, it's something else entirely."

After the lieutenant departed, Arthur and Aldric sat in contemplative silence. The afternoon sun painted long shadows across the balcony, and somewhere in the city below, a killer moved through those shadows with purpose they couldn't fathom.

That evening, Arthur spread the reports across his desk, mapping connections between the deaths. The pattern was clear once you looked, every victim had been moving specific goods between Clubs and Spades. Weapons, certainly, but also stranger cargo. Magical artifacts, rare texts, items whose purpose wasn't immediately apparent.

As midnight approached, Arthur stood on his balcony, looking out over the city. Somewhere below, families mourned their murdered dead. Somewhere, a killer moved with purpose that seemed to go beyond simple criminality. And somewhere, the true King of Spades lived with a mark that would either elevate or destroy him, hiding from a destiny that wouldn't be denied forever.

Arthur pressed his hand against his own mark, feeling it pulse with growing power. Six months, Marianne had said. Six months to become worthy of magic that killed its vessels as surely as any poison. Six months while the kingdom waited for its missing King, while false claimants died for their deceptions, while killers stalked the shadows with agendas unknown.

Chapter Text

Alfred woke to screaming.

Not the usual sounds of the Lower District, drunken brawls and domestic disputes and the occasional murder. This was different. This was Matthew.

He was out of bed and moving before conscious thought, knife in hand, expecting assassins or rival gangs or any of the dozen threats that populated his nightmares. What he found was his brother convulsing on his narrow bed, back arched impossibly, mouth open in a continuous wail of agony.

"Mattie!" Alfred dropped the knife, grabbing his brother's shoulders. Matthew's skin burned fever-hot, sweat soaking through his nightshirt. "Matthew, what's wrong? Talk to me!"

But Matthew couldn't talk, couldn't do anything but scream as his body betrayed him. Alfred had seen men die in countless ways, had caused most of them himself, but nothing had prepared him for the helplessness of watching his brother suffer without understanding why.

"Don't you dare," he snarled at the universe, at whatever cosmic joke this was. "Don't you fucking dare take him from me."

Light exploded from Matthew's arm.

Alfred jerked back, temporarily blinded. When his vision cleared, he saw his brother's mark, that simple "3" that had condemned them both to this life, dissolving in ribbons of silver fire. The skin beneath rippled and reformed, patterns emerging like invisible hands were drawing directly onto flesh.

"No," Alfred breathed, recognizing what he was seeing. He'd watched his own mark transform, though much more subtly than this, and had hidden the royal crest that would mark him as something more than a killer for hire. But Matthew—sick, fragile Matthew who could barely walk across a room without wheezing...

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Matthew collapsed back onto the bed, unconscious but breathing. On his arm, where the "3" had been, an elaborate design now shimmered with residual magic. The Ace of Spades, rendered in silver and shadow, marking Matthew as one of the four most important people in the kingdom.

Alfred stared at the mark with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for planning murders. His mind raced through implications, strategies, the dozen ways this could go catastrophically wrong. The previous Ace had recently died in Clubs, everyone knew that. Died badly, if rumors were true, tortured for information before finally being allowed the mercy of death.

And now Matthew bore the same mark. Matthew, who couldn't fight, couldn't lie convincingly, couldn't survive the kind of political games that got Aces killed.

"Well," he said to the unconscious form of his brother. "Shit."

The door burst open, admitting Volkov and two of Hendriks' enforcers. They must have been monitoring somehow, waiting for exactly this kind of development. Volkov's pale eyes fixed on Matthew's arm with the satisfaction of a spider finding a particularly juicy fly in her web.

"Excellent," she murmured. "I had hoped one of you would manifest."

"He's sick," Alfred said flatly, moving to block their view of Matthew. "He can't do whatever you're planning."

"He'll do exactly what we require," Volkov replied, producing a syringe from her coat. "This will help with the transition. The magic needs to settle, and it's better if he's sedated for the journey."

Alfred's hand found his knife again. "What journey?"

"To the castle, of course." Volkov's smile was thin as winter ice. "The new Ace must be presented to court. Trained in his duties. Integrated into the royal household where he can be of most use to our interests."

"No."

The word hung in the air like a challenge. The enforcers shifted, hands moving to weapons. Volkov merely raised an eyebrow.

"No?" she repeated, as if the concept was foreign. "I don't recall asking your opinion, Jones."

"Matthew's not going anywhere without me," Alfred said, letting steel creep into his voice. "You want to use him as a spy? Fine. But I go too, or he doesn't go at all."

"You have assignments here. Responsibilities to the organization-

"Fuck the organization." Alfred met her gaze steadily, letting her see the killer behind his smile. "Matthew is my responsibility. You send him alone, he'll be dead within a week. Send me with him, and you get years of intelligence from the heart of Spades' power."

Volkov studied him with those corpse-pale eyes, calculating odds and advantages. Alfred waited, knife loose in his grip, already mapping the room and how quickly he could kill everyone in it if necessary. He wouldn't win, too many of Hendriks' people between here and freedom, but he could make it costly.

"An interesting proposal," she said finally. "What role would you play in this infiltration? The castle doesn't admit random civilians."

Alfred's smile turned sharp. "Matthew's sick. Has been for years. He'll need a personal servant, someone to help with daily tasks while he learns his duties. Someone trustworthy. Someone family."

"Servants undergo background checks-

"Then you'd better get started on creating my false identity," Alfred interrupted. "Because Matthew doesn't go anywhere without me. That's non-negotiable."

They stared at each other, predator to predator, each measuring the other's resolve. Finally, Volkov inclined her head fractionally.

"I'll speak to Hendriks. If he approves, we'll proceed with your suggestion." She gestured to the enforcers. "Guard them. No one enters or leaves until decisions are made."

She swept out, leaving Alfred alone with the unconscious Matthew and two men who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. Smart of them. Alfred was already considering which one to kill first if things went sideways.

But for now, he sat on the edge of Matthew's bed, studying the Ace mark with growing unease. His own hidden mark throbbed in sympathy, King calling to Ace across the divide of concealment. Family, two royal marks, two weapons in Hendriks' arsenal.

"You always were an overachiever," Alfred murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from Matthew's forehead. "Couldn't just stay sick like a normal person. Had to go and become magically significant."

Matthew stirred slightly but didn't wake. Whatever transformation the mark had triggered, it had exhausted him completely. Alfred hoped it had also helped with his illness, though he doubted the universe was that kind.

Hours passed. Alfred cleaned and loaded his weapons, packed their few possessions, and pretended not to notice the enforcers growing increasingly nervous. Smart men recognized danger, and Alfred had long since passed from dangerous into something altogether more lethal.

When Volkov returned, Hendriks himself accompanied her. The crime lord moved with the careful precision of someone who'd survived by never underestimating threats, and his pale eyes studied Alfred with fresh interest.

"Jones," he said, settling into the room's single chair with elegant economy. "Volkov tells me you have conditions."

"Matthew needs protection," Alfred replied simply. "I can provide that better than anyone."

"You're also one of my best assets. Losing you to palace intrigue seems wasteful." Hendriks steepled his fingers, the picture of reasonable consideration. "What assurance do I have that you won't simply disappear into castle life and forget your obligations?"

Alfred's smile was all teeth. "Because you'll still have Graham. Because I'll still need medicine for Matthew. Because I'm smart enough to know that burning bridges with you means burning everything I care about." He paused, then added, "And because the intelligence I can gather from inside the castle will be worth more than a dozen assassination contracts."

"Assuming you can maintain your cover," Hendriks noted. "The castle has its own security, its own investigations. One slip and you're both dead."

"Then I won't slip."

"Such confidence." Hendriks looked to Matthew's unconscious form. "And if your brother proves... unsuitable for our purposes? If his illness prevents him from gathering useful intelligence?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, though no magic was at play. Just Alfred's killing intent bleeding into the atmosphere like poison.

"Then I'll handle it," he said quietly. "But Matthew's off-limits to everyone else. Anyone touches him, anyone even thinks about using him as leverage, and I'll paint the Lower District red with their blood. Starting with whoever gave the order."

Silence stretched taut as a garotte. The enforcers' hands hovered near weapons, Volkov watched with the interest of a scientist observing volatile chemicals, and Hendriks...

Hendriks laughed. Quiet, controlled, but genuine amusement nonetheless.

"You know, Jones, I almost believe you'd try." He stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his coat. "Very well. You'll accompany your brother as his servant. Volkov will arrange the necessary documentation. You'll report weekly through established channels, and any intelligence you gather comes to me first." His eyes hardened. "Betray me, and I'll ensure you live just long enough to watch everything you love burn. Are we understood?"

"Perfectly," Alfred agreed.

Within two days, false papers were prepared, backstories memorized, and a carriage arranged to transport the kingdom's newest Ace to his destiny. Matthew woke during preparations, still weak but coherent enough to understand what had happened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as Alfred helped him dress in clothes appropriate for his new station. "I know you didn't want this. The castle, the nobles, the politics..."

"Hey." Alfred gripped his brother's shoulders gently. "Where you go, I go. That's how it's always been. Just now we get fancier accommodations and better food."

Matthew's laugh turned into a cough. "And more people trying to kill us."

"Yeah, but higher quality assassins. None of this back-alley knife work. We're moving up in the world, Mattie."

They looked at each other, both understanding the weight of what was happening. The Lower District had been hell, but it was their hell. They knew its rules, its dangers, its dark corners where they could disappear. The castle would be different, a glittering cage where every smile hid calculation and every friend might be an enemy.

"Together?" Matthew asked, holding out his hand.

Alfred clasped it without hesitation. "Always."

The carriage came at dawn, black and gold with the royal seal gleaming on its doors. Alfred loaded their meager possessions while Matthew was helped inside by footmen who'd clearly been briefed on his condition. As they pulled away from the only world they'd known, Alfred caught sight of Graham watching from a distant rooftop.

His uncle didn’t bother to see them much, likely out of guilt, but he had enough nerve to raise one hand in farewell. Or warning. With Graham, it was hard to tell the difference. They had been so close once, after all they were family, but so much had changed over the years. 

The journey to the castle took most of the day, winding through districts that grew progressively cleaner and more prosperous. Matthew dozed fitfully while Alfred memorized every street, every landmark, every potential escape route. Old habits died hard, and he'd learned long ago that survival meant always knowing the way out.

When the castle finally came into view, even Alfred's practiced cynicism couldn't entirely suppress his reaction. It rose from the city's heart like something from a fairy tale, all soaring towers and impossible architecture. The kind of place where magic was mundane and miracles were daily occurrences.

The kind of place where a killer and his sick brother had no business being.

"State your business," a guard demanded as they approached the gates.

Alfred produced their papers with practiced ease. "Matthew Williams, the new Ace of Spades, and his personal attendant. Expected, I believe?"

The guard's entire demeanor shifted upon seeing the royal seal. "Of course. Welcome to Castle Spades. Her Majesty Queen Marianne is waiting to receive you in the Blue Parlor."

Matthew straightened despite his exhaustion, trying to look worthy of the title he'd never wanted.

They were escorted through corridors that made Hendriks' headquarters look like a slum, past artwork worth more than entire Lower District blocks, beneath ceilings painted with history Alfred had only half-learned in scattered lessons. Servants bowed as they passed, and Alfred memorized faces, gaits, anything that might prove useful later.

The Blue Parlor lived up to its name, walls the color of deep water, furniture that looked too expensive to actually sit on, windows offering views of the city below. Two figures waited within: an elegant woman who could only be Queen Marianne, and...

Alfred's step faltered for just a moment.

The second figure was familiar. Alfred’s eyes narrowed for a quick moment. The man was perhaps his own age, with ash-blond hair and green eyes that sparked with barely controlled magic. Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful, all dangerous edges and lethal purpose. This had to be the future Queen, the one whose training was already the subject of Lower District gossip.

Arthur. The name came unbidden, though Alfred had no reason to know it.

Their eyes met across the room, and Alfred saw the exact moment of recognition—not of him, specifically, but of something. Those green eyes widened fractionally, magic temperature dropping noticeably, before the young man's face smoothed into political neutrality.

Interesting.

"Your Majesties," Matthew managed, attempting a bow that Alfred had to subtly support. "I'm honored by your welcome."

"The honor is ours," Queen Marianne replied smoothly, though her gaze lingered on Matthew's obvious frailty. "To have a new Ace is cause for celebration, though I understand you've been unwell?"

"A chronic condition, Your Majesty," Matthew admitted. "But I'm eager to serve despite limitations."

"Admirable." Marianne's attention shifted to Alfred. "And this is?"

"Alfred Johnson, Your Majesty," Alfred said, offering a bow that was perfectly calculated, respectful enough for royalty, not so perfect as to suggest training. "Matthew's my... I've cared for him since we were children. When his mark manifested, I couldn't let him face this alone."

"Family?" the younger royal asked, and oh, that voice was exactly as Alfred had imagined, cultured and sharp with an undertone of steel.

"In every way that matters," Alfred confirmed, meeting those green eyes steadily. "Your Majesty."

Something passed between them, electric and unnameable. The temperature dropped another degree before Queen Marianne cleared her throat delicately.

"Well then, Mr. Johnson, your loyalty is commendable. We'll arrange quarters for you near the Ace's suite. I trust you understand the protocols required of castle servants?"

"I'm a quick study, Your Majesty," Alfred assured her, adding just enough aw-shucks humility to sell the performance. "Won't cause any trouble, I promise."

The younger royal made a sound that might have been suppressed laughter. When Alfred glanced his way, those green eyes held a knowing glint that sent warning bells through his mind.

"I'm sure you won't," the future Queen said dryly. "Welcome to Castle Spades, Mr. Johnson. I have a feeling things are about to get much more interesting."

And as servants appeared to escort them to their new quarters, Alfred couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just walked into a trap of an entirely different sort than he'd expected. Matthew was safely in the castle, which was what mattered. But those green eyes followed him from the room, and Alfred found himself anticipating future encounters with equal parts professional interest and something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Alfred had infiltrated noble houses, merchant guilds, and criminal organizations throughout his career. He'd worn a dozen different faces, played a hundred different roles, killed in more ways than most people could imagine. But nothing in his extensive training had prepared him for the particular challenge of being a servant in Castle Spades.

The uniform, for one thing, was an affront to both fashion and functionality. Starched white shirt that showed every speck of dust, formal black coat with more buttons than any reasonable garment required, and shoes polished to a mirror shine that clicked against marble floors with every step. Alfred adjusted his collar for the tenth time that morning, already missing the practical clothes that let him blend into Lower District shadows.

"Stop fidgeting," Matthew murmured from his position at the window. His new quarters were luxurious by any standard—sitting room, private bath, bedroom large enough to host a small party. The morning light streaming through tall windows made his pale skin seem almost translucent, but there was color in his cheeks that hadn't been there in months. Whatever else the mark was doing to him, it seemed to be helping with his illness.

"I'm not fidgeting," Alfred lied, forcing his hands still. "Just getting used to the costume."

Matthew's lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. "You've worn worse disguises. Remember the time you had to dress as a fishmonger's wife?"

"That was different." Alfred moved to pour his brother's morning medicine, measuring the dose with practiced precision. "Fishmongers' wives don't have to remember seventeen different forms of address and which fork to use for the fish course."

"You memorized the castle's entire layout in two days," Matthew pointed out, accepting the medicine without complaint. "I think you can handle table settings."

Alfred could handle table settings. He could handle anything the castle demanded, from the elaborate servant hierarchy to the endless protocols that governed every interaction. What he couldn't handle was the way Arthur Kirkland looked at him.

The future Queen had eyes like winter seas, sharp and dangerous and far too knowing. During their initial meeting, Alfred had felt those eyes cataloguing every detail, filing away inconsistencies for later examination. 

It was professionally inconvenient and personally... Alfred didn't examine what it was personally. That way lay complications he couldn't afford.

A knock interrupted his brooding. Alfred answered to find a senior servant, Edwards or Edmund or something equally forgettable, waiting with the expression of someone tasked with training the unteachable.

"Mr. Johnson," the servant said, his tone suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else. "Your presence is required for instruction regarding tonight's formal dinner. The Ace will be presented to the court, and as his personal attendant, you'll need to know proper service protocols."

Alfred sketched a bow that was just slightly wrong, too deep for his station but not quite right for anything else. He'd found that seeming eager but incompetent made people underestimate him, which was always useful. "Of course, sir. I'm keen to learn everything."

Eduard's eye twitched. "Indeed. Follow me, please."

The training took place in a smaller dining room, set with enough silverware to arm a small militia. Eduard walked Alfred through each course with the patience of someone being paid extremely well to suffer fools. Alfred played his part, mixing up the oyster fork with the dessert spoon, reaching across the table instead of around, committing every breach of etiquette that would mark him as hopelessly common.

All while memorizing the actual protocols perfectly, of course.

"The key," Eduard explained with barely concealed frustration, "is to be invisible. You serve from the left, clear from the right, and never, ever speak unless directly addressed by someone of noble rank."

"What if they're choking?" Alfred asked innocently. "Do I wait for them to formally request the Heimlich maneuver?"

Eduard's face went through several interesting color changes. "That would be... that is to say... use your judgment in life-threatening situations."

"But not death-threatening ones?"

"Mr. Johnson," Eduard said tightly, "perhaps we should focus on the basics."

Three hours later, Alfred escaped the training session with his cover firmly established as a well-meaning but hopeless servant. Eduard would report to his superiors that the new Ace's attendant was loyal but limited, devoted to his charge but unlikely to cause problems beyond minor embarrassments.

Perfect.

The formal dinner began at sunset, the great hall transformed into something from a fairy tale. Chandeliers blazed with magical light, casting rainbow patterns through crystal drops. The table stretched long enough to seat fifty, though only about thirty places were set. Each setting contained enough precious metal to feed a Lower District family for a year.

Alfred took his position behind Matthew's chair, hands clasped behind his back in proper servant posture. His brother looked magnificent and miserable in equal measure, dressed in formal robes that emphasized his new status while making his fragility more apparent. The Ace mark on his arm seemed to pulse with its own light, drawing every eye in the room. Because the past Ace was dead, Matthew’s mark had made a complete transformation almost instantly. 

"You're doing fine," Alfred murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. "Just breathe."

Matthew's shoulders relaxed fractionally. It was a tiny gesture, the kind of silent communication they'd perfected over years of survival. But Alfred caught Arthur watching them from his position near the King, those green eyes narrowing with interest.

The meal began with the usual ceremonial nonsense. King Aldric, looking more corpse than monarch, welcomed the new Ace with words that might have been inspiring if they hadn't been interrupted by coughing fits. Queen Marianne maintained flawless composure despite her own obvious decline. Various nobles offered congratulations that ranged from genuinely warm to barely concealed calculation and judgement.

And through it all, Arthur watched Alfred with the focus of a hawk studying prey.

The first course arrived, some kind of soup that looked more like art than food. Alfred served Matthew with deliberate clumsiness, nearly dropping the ladle, apologizing profusely in a voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. Several nobles tittered behind their hands at the common servant's incompetence.

Arthur wasn't laughing. If anything, his scrutiny intensified.

The second course brought new opportunities for manufactured mistakes. Alfred served from the wrong side, forcing a minor traffic jam with other servants. He forgot to remove the previous course's plate first, creating a stack of dishes that threatened to topple. Each error was calculated to reinforce his image as devoted but incompetent.

"Your man seems somewhat... overwhelmed," Yao observed to Matthew, his tone neutral but eyes sharp. The Jack of Spades missed nothing, and Alfred had marked him as the biggest threat to his cover.

"Alfred's not used to grand settings," Matthew replied, managing to sound both apologetic and defensive. "But I trust him completely. He's family."

"How touching," Arthur said, speaking for the first time since dinner began. His voice carried perfectly despite the distance between their seats. "Though one wonders if familiarity might be supplemented with actual training."

Alfred fumbled the wine bottle he was holding, sending a few drops spattering onto the pristine tablecloth. "Terribly sorry, Your Majesty," he said, affecting a nervous stammer. "Still getting the hang of things."

Arthur's eyes narrowed further. "Indeed. Though you seemed quite coordinated when breaking up that tavern fight not too long ago."

The words hit like a crossbow bolt between the ribs. Alfred's hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their nervous motion with the wine bottle. This was going to be fun. 

"Tavern fight, Your Majesty?" Alfred pitched his voice higher. "I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. I've never been much use in fights. Ask anyone who knows me."

"My mistake, then," Arthur said smoothly, but his eyes promised this conversation was far from over. "You simply have one of those familiar faces."

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of careful service and calculated errors. Alfred felt Arthur's attention like a physical weight, pressing against his defenses, searching for cracks in his facade. It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, he hadn't faced this kind of intelligent scrutiny since Volkov's early tests.

As the final course was cleared, Alfred allowed himself a moment to study Arthur in return. He would find out what the future Queen was doing in a rundown tavern soon enough. The future Queen was beautiful in the way weapons were beautiful, all lethal grace and barely controlled power. Ice crystals formed unconsciously around his water glass when he was thinking, and his magic responded to emotion in ways that would be exploitable if Alfred were planning an assassination. 

Which he wasn't. Definitely wasn't cataloguing weaknesses and calculating angles of attack. That was just professional habit.

King Aldric rose unsteadily to dismiss the gathering, and servants moved in choreographed chaos to clear the hall. Alfred stayed close to Matthew, helping him navigate the social niceties of departure while avoiding any direct interaction with Arthur.

He almost made it.

"Mr. Johnson," Arthur's voice stopped him at the door. "A word, if you please."

Matthew looked between them, concern flickering across his features. Alfred gave him a reassuring smile. "Go ahead, Mattie. I'll catch up."

Alone with Arthur in the rapidly emptying hall, Alfred felt the temperature drop several degrees. Actual ice began forming on the abandoned wine glasses, spreading in fractal patterns that would have been beautiful if they weren't a sign of magical agitation.

"Your Majesty," Alfred said, maintaining his servant's posture. "How may I be of service?"

Arthur moved closer, and Alfred had to resist the instinct to shift into a combat stance. The future Queen radiated danger like heat, magic crackling beneath his skin in barely controlled waves.

"You're not what you seem," Arthur said quietly. "Oh, you play the part well enough. But I've seen you move when you think no one's watching. You assess threats like a soldier, track movement like a predator. And your hands-

 He gestured to where Alfred's fingers rested against his thighs. "You hold them like someone accustomed to weapons."

Alfred forced a confused laugh. "I'm flattered by Your Majesty's attention, but I assure you, I'm exactly what I seem. A common servant devoted to his master's wellbeing."

"Common servants don't move through blind spots with perfect precision," Arthur countered. "They don't position themselves to control sightlines or maintain clear paths to exits. And they certainly don't break up tavern brawls with the kind of efficiency I witnessed that night."

Time to adjust the game. He let his mask slip just slightly, allowing a hint of steel to show through the servile facade.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "common servants from the Lower District learn different lessons than palace-bred attendants. Maybe keeping someone like Matthew alive down there requires skills that don't fit neatly into your categories."

Arthur's eyes lit with triumph at the admission. "So you admit you're more than you appear."

"I admit that I'll do whatever necessary to protect my family," Alfred replied, meeting those green eyes steadily. "If that troubles Your Majesty, perhaps you should assign someone else to serve the Ace."

They stared at each other across a gulf of suspicion and something else, something electric that made Alfred's hidden mark burn beneath his sleeve. Arthur's magic responded to the tension, frost spreading across the floor between them like reaching fingers.

"I should report my suspicions to the King," Arthur said finally.

"You should," Alfred agreed. "But you won't."

"And why wouldn't I?"

Alfred smiled then, the expression sharp enough to cut. "Because you're curious. Because you're bored with pretty courtiers and predictable nobles. Because somewhere deep down, you recognize a kindred spirit who knows what it means to wear masks."

Arthur's breath caught, just slightly, but Alfred heard it. Saw the way those green eyes dilated, the way magic flared brighter for just a moment before being ruthlessly controlled. Interesting. Very interesting.

"You presume much for a servant," Arthur said, but the words lacked heat.

"And you see much for a sheltered prince," Alfred countered. "Your Majesty."

The title came just late enough to border on insult. Arthur's jaw tightened, but there was something almost like approval in his expression. As if he'd been waiting for someone to push back, to treat him as more than just his title.

"This conversation isn't over," Arthur warned, turning to leave.

"I certainly hope not," Alfred murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

Arthur paused at the door, looking back with an expression that promised future confrontations. Then he was gone, leaving Alfred alone with the spreading ice and the certainty that his carefully constructed cover had just become much more complicated.

Back in Matthew's quarters, Alfred found his brother waiting anxiously.

"What did he want?" Matthew asked immediately.

"To let me know he's watching," Alfred replied, beginning the nightly ritual of preparing Matthew's medicines. "Arthur Kirkland doesn't trust easily."

"Can you blame him? You're not exactly subtle when you forget to be."

Alfred paused in measuring powder into a glass. "What do you mean?"

"The way you move," Matthew said softly. "Like you're always ready for violence. The way you watch people, cataloguing threats even when you're pretending to be harmless. Anyone with eyes can see you're dangerous, Al."

"That's the point of the act-

"No," Matthew interrupted. "The act is what hides it. But someone like Arthur, someone trained to see past surfaces... he was always going to notice."

Alfred finished preparing the medicine in silence, processing this observation. Matthew had always seen him clearer than anyone, even Volkov. If his brother thought the mask was slipping...

"Should I be worried?" Matthew asked, accepting the glass.

"No," Alfred said firmly. "Arthur Kirkland might be suspicious, but he's also intrigued. That gives us leverage."

"Us? Or you?"

Alfred didn't answer, but Matthew's knowing look said he didn't need to. Something had sparked between Alfred and Arthur in that empty hall, something that went beyond suspicion or professional interest. Something that could be useful if properly managed.

Or disastrous if it wasn't.

As Matthew settled for the night, Alfred took up his position by the window, ostensibly standing guard but really analyzing the evening's events. He'd gathered valuable intelligence—the King's declining health was worse than public reports suggested, several nobles were already positioning themselves for the power vacuum, and security protocols had exploitable gaps.

But more importantly, he'd gained Arthur's attention. The future Queen would be watching him now, looking for proof of what those sharp green eyes had already suspected. It would make his mission more difficult but also more interesting.

Alfred touched his hidden mark through the fabric of his shirt, feeling it pulse with warmth that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with green eyes and dangerous smiles.

Chapter Text

The castle's training chambers occupied an entire wing of the eastern tower, far enough from the main court to muffle the sounds of magical experimentation gone wrong. Alfred had discovered this the hard way when Matthew's first attempt at accessing his Ace abilities had shattered every window in a thirty-foot radius.

Now, three days into formal training, his brother sat in the center of a carefully warded circle, sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to manifest the most basic aspect of Ace magic, the ability to sense truth from lies.

"Focus on my voice," instructed Master Lin, the castle's senior magical theorist. :"The Ace sees what others hide. Let your magic show you the shape of deception."

Matthew's hands trembled as he extended his senses. The silver mark on his arm flickered weakly, like a candle struggling against wind. Alfred watched from his designated corner, playing the part of concerned but ignorant servant while cataloguing every detail of the castle's magical defenses.

"I'll make a statement," Master Lin continued. "You tell me if it's truth or lie. Ready?"

Matthew nodded, jaw clenched with determination that made Alfred's chest tight. His brother had always been the gentler one, the one who saw good where Alfred saw only opportunity. Watching him struggle to master abilities meant for someone stronger was like watching a sparrow try to become a hawk.

"The King will live to see another winter," Master Lin said calmly.

Matthew's mark flared brighter for a moment before he gasped, doubling over. "Lie," he wheezed. "That's... that's a lie."

"Good. Again. The Queen's magic is fading at the expected rate."

This time Matthew didn't even need to extend his senses. "Truth."

"The castle has never been breached by enemies."

A longer pause. Matthew's breathing grew labored, and Alfred had to force himself not to intervene. "Lie. But... old? It feels like an old lie."

Master Lin's expression showed the first crack of approval Alfred had seen. "Excellent. You're beginning to differentiate not just truth from falsehood, but the age and weight of deceptions. The castle was indeed breached, but over a century ago."

She continued the exercise, each statement requiring more nuanced interpretation. Alfred divided his attention between monitoring Matthew's declining stamina and memorizing the ward structures. The magical defenses were impressive but not impenetrable, they relied on overlapping elements that could theoretically be disrupted if someone knew the right pressure points.

Not that he was planning anything. Just professional curiosity.

"That's enough for today," Master Lin declared after Matthew nearly fainted trying to parse a particularly complex half-truth. "Your magical capacity is growing, but your physical limitations create constraints. We'll need to adjust the training schedule."

Alfred was at Matthew's side immediately, supporting him with practiced ease. "He needs rest," he said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. "This pace will kill him before he masters anything."

Master Lin studied Alfred with eyes that seemed to see too much. "You speak above your station, servant."

"I speak as someone who's kept him alive this long," Alfred countered, then remembered to add a belated, "Master Lin."

She made a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything. "See that he rests. Tomorrow we'll work on defensive applications, an Ace must be able to protect themselves from magical influence."

As Alfred helped Matthew back to his quarters, his mind was already spinning through the implications. Defensive magic meant understanding offensive techniques. It meant learning how magical attacks functioned, how they could be blocked or redirected. Information that would be invaluable to someone in his actual profession.

"Stop plotting," Matthew murmured once they were alone in his rooms.

"I'm not plotting." Alfred eased his brother onto the bed, checking his pulse automatically. Rapid but steady. "I'm thinking."

"Your plotting face and thinking face are identical." Matthew caught his wrist before he could pull away. "Al, I know why we’re really here. The reports you send back to Hendriks-

"Are necessary to keep us both alive," Alfred interrupted. 

Matthew's grip tightened. "I haven't forgotten anything. But this place... these people... they're not all enemies. Master Lin genuinely wants to help. The King spoke to me yesterday about duty and service like he actually cared about my wellbeing."

"Everyone cares until caring becomes inconvenient." Alfred extracted his wrist gently. "Rest. I need to be seen performing my duties or people will start asking questions."

Matthew's expression said this conversation wasn't over, but exhaustion won out over argument. Alfred waited until his brother's breathing deepened into sleep before slipping out into the castle's maze of corridors.

His official duties were straightforward enough, maintaining Matthew's quarters, fetching his meals, ensuring his comfort. But those tasks provided perfect cover for exploring areas where a servant had no legitimate business. After all, who questioned a servant who claimed to be lost in the castle's confusing layout?

Today's target was the Royal Archive, located three floors below the main library. Alfred had overheard two scribes discussing sensitive documents stored there—trade agreements, succession protocols, magical treaties. The kind of information Hendriks would pay handsomely to possess.

The route he'd planned took him through the servants' quarters first, where he'd established himself as friendly but hapless. He chatted with laundry maids about the best soap for removing magical residue, helped a kitchen boy carry supplies while pumping him for gossip, and generally reinforced his image as Alfred Johnson, devoted but dim.

"Oh, Alfred!" A cheerful voice made him turn. Feliks, one of the castle's more... colorful servants, waved enthusiastically. "Like, perfect timing! I totally need someone strong to help move these boxes."

Alfred suppressed a sigh. Feliks was useful, his tendency to gossip made him an excellent source of information, but his timing was consistently terrible. "I'd love to help, but I need to fetch something for Matthew..."

"It'll only take a minute!" Feliks grabbed his arm with surprising strength. "And I'll, like, totally owe you one. Did you hear about the drama with the Hearts delegation? Apparently, Lord Ashworth is being super weird about the trade negotiations..."

Alfred filed that information away while allowing himself to be dragged into helping Felix’s move several heavy boxes.  

As Alfred hefted the first box, he noticed something interesting. The lock was magical, its mechanism far too complex for something unimportant. Whatever was in them was definitely worth looking into.

"Lord Ashworth should be here relatively soon, shouldn’t he?" Alfred asked casually, grunting with effort as he positioned the trunk.

"Oh, I’m sure," Feliks replied, but his usual chattiness seemed forced. "He’s, like, a couple days away  or whatever."

Interesting. Feliks, who normally couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it, was being deliberately vague. Alfred made a mental note to investigate further.

After escaping Feliks' clutches, Alfred finally made his way toward the Royal Archive. The corridors grew quieter as he descended, magical torches providing steady light in the absence of windows. He'd memorized the guard rotations, knew there was a twelve-minute window when this section would be unpatrolled.

Alfred counted to one hundred before approaching a lone scribe. Time to play helpful servant.

"Excuse me," he said, affecting confusion. "I'm terribly lost. Master Matthew sent me to fetch a book on magical theory, but these corridors all look the same..."

The scribe latched onto the mundane request. "Oh! Yes, of course. Magical theory would be in the upper library, not down here. This is restricted—I mean, this is the archive section. Let me show you the way."

As they walked, Alfred chattered mindlessly about his difficulties adjusting to castle life, all while noting the archive's layout, the location of various record categories, and the fact that the scribe kept touching his pocket—likely where he kept his master keys.

"Thank you so much," Alfred gushed when they reached the upper library. "I'd have wandered for hours without your help."

The scribe mumbled something about it being no trouble and hurried away. Alfred waited until he was gone before selecting a random book on magical theory, maintaining his cover story, and taking a circuitous route back to Matthew's quarters.

He found his brother awake and entertaining an unexpected visitor. Arthur Kirkland sat in one of the comfortable chairs, looking simultaneously regal and oddly uncertain. Both men turned when Alfred entered.

"Your Majesty," Alfred said, bowing precisely while his mind raced through possibilities. "I wasn't aware you were visiting."

"A social call," Arthur replied, but his green eyes were watchful. "I wanted to see how our new Ace was settling in."

"His Majesty has been very kind," Matthew said, shooting Alfred a look that clearly meant 'behave.' "We were just discussing the challenges of magical training."

Alfred moved to his usual position—close enough to assist Matthew if needed, far enough to be properly servile. The book on magical theory provided a convenient prop as he pretended to straighten already-immaculate shelves.

"Your man seems devoted," Arthur observed to Matthew, though his attention never left Alfred. "It must be comforting to have family during this transition."

"Alfred's always looked after me," Matthew replied simply. "I couldn't do this without him."

Something flickered across Arthur's face, an emotion too quick to categorize. "Family bonds can be... complicated in court. They can get in the way if you’re not careful."

"I’m sure you know all about that given your family… history" Alfred stated before he could stop himself.

The temperature plummeted. Ice spread across the windows in sharp fractals, and Arthur's magic filled the room like a physical presence. Matthew made a small sound of distress, but Alfred didn't move, meeting those furious green eyes steadily.

"You forget yourself, servant," Arthur said, each word precisely carved from ice.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," Alfred replied, not sounding apologetic at all. "I spoke out of turn."

They stared at each other across a battlefield disguised as a sitting room. Matthew looked between them with growing alarm, probably sensing undercurrents he couldn't quite interpret.

He rose with careful dignity. "Thank you for the tea, Matthew. I hope your training improves."

After he left, Matthew rounded on Alfred immediately. "What was that about?"

"Intelligence gathering," Alfred replied, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the raw pain that had flashed across Arthur's face. "His past still haunts him."

"That wasn't intelligence gathering," Matthew accused. "That was... I don't know what that was, but it felt personal."

Alfred didn't respond, busying himself with removing the tea service. It had felt personal because it was personal, though he couldn't explain why. Something about Arthur Kirkland got under his skin in ways that had nothing to do with his mission.

Tomorrow he'd need to send a report to Hendriks. Something substantial enough to maintain his value but not so revealing as to compromise his growing understanding of the castle's deeper secrets. It was a delicate balance. 

Alfred touched his hidden mark absently, feeling it pulse with warmth that seemed to respond to his thoughts of Arthur. Another complication in an already complex situation. But he'd navigated worse, survived more dangerous games.

After all, he was Alfred F. Jones—killer, spy, survivor.

And he was just getting started.

Chapter Text

Arthur pulled the rough wool cloak tighter around his shoulders as he navigated the familiar maze of the Lower District's back alleys. Weeks had passed since his last visit, weeks of careful planning and stolen moments when he could slip away from his royal duties. Occasionally his mind would stray to Alfred, but he would quickly refocus himself on the task at hand. 

The mysterious killer that the lieutenant had described haunted Arthur's thoughts. Professional work, no witnesses, no evidence. Just death delivered with surgical precision. 

Tonight, Arthur had arranged to meet one of his more reliable informants at yeg another rundown tavern. The Lower District really was crawling with them. The establishment was rougher than his usual haunts, frequented by the kind of people who valued privacy over comfort. Perfect for gathering information about the Lower District's more dangerous elements.

His informant, a fence named Ramiro who'd survived in the underworld by knowing when to talk and when to stay silent, was already waiting in a corner booth. Arthur slid in across from him, keeping his hood up.

"You're asking about old business," Ramiro said without preamble, nervously turning his mug of ale. "The Henley killing was months ago. Why dig it up now?"

"Because the pattern continues," Arthur replied quietly. "Someone's been cleaning house in the Lower District for years. I want to understand why."

Ramiro laughed, a bitter sound. "Why? Does there need to be a why when it comes to death down here? People die. That's the way of it."

"Not like this." Arthur leaned forward. "Professional kills. Specific targets. All connected. This isn't random violence, it's strategy."

"Maybe so." Ramiro took a long pull of ale. "But asking questions about that particular ghost is a good way to join his victims. They say he's beautiful as an angel, deadly as winter plague. Been operating since he was just a boy."

"You've seen him?"

"God no. And I plan to keep it that way. Those who see him working don't live to describe it." Ramiro glanced around nervously. "Look, I'll tell you what everyone knows. He works for the big players—Hendriks, mainly. But lately, word is he's been... distracted. Less active. Some say he's found other employment."

Arthur filed that information away. "When did this change happen?"

"Few months back. Right around the time that new Ace showed up at the castle." Ramiro’s expression turned knowing. "Funny how things change, isn't it? One door closes, another opens."

The implication hung in the air, but Arthur didn't pursue it. After leaving Ramiro with payment for his information, Arthur wandered the district for another hour, gathering impressions and listening to fragments of conversation. The Lower District's fear of their resident killer was palpable, but there was something else too—a grudging respect. He was precise, not wasteful. In a world where violence was currency, he was considered almost honorable.

As dawn approached, Arthur made his way back toward the castle, mind churning through possibilities. The killer had been less active recently, around the time Matthew arrived. It could be coincidence. Or it could mean-

"Your Majesty?"

Arthur spun to find Alfred emerging from a side street, still in his servant's uniform but moving with that fluid grace that marked him as more than he seemed. There was something unsettled about his expression, a tightness around his eyes that Arthur hadn't seen before.

"Alfred." Arthur kept his voice neutral. "Early morning errand?"

"Something like that." Alfred's usual smirk seemed forced. "Matthew needed specific herbs from an apothecary who only opens at dawn. Very particular about timing, apparently." He studied Arthur's common clothes with sharp eyes. "And you? Another cultural expedition?"

The mockery in his tone was familiar now, almost comforting. "Understanding my kingdom requires understanding all its parts," Arthur replied stiffly.

"Of course it does." Alfred stepped closer, and Arthur caught an odd scent clinging to him—ozone and something else, like lightning before rain. "Find anything interesting in your wanderings?"

"The usual. Poverty, desperation, and surprisingly good ale at terrible taverns."

"Best hurry back," he called over his shoulder. "Wouldn't want Queen Marianne wondering where her star pupil spent the night."

Arthur watched him disappear into the pre-dawn shadows, unease prickling at his spine. Alfred knew too much, moved too confidently through dangerous territories. But without proof of anything beyond suspicious competence, what could Arthur do?

Alfred waited until he was well out of Arthur's sight before allowing his mask to drop. His hand went to his pocket, fingers finding the card Gilbert had given him weeks ago. The address had burned in his memory since that night on the rooftop, but he'd resisted the temptation to investigate.

Until now.

Matthew's mark had stabilized, but questions plagued Alfred. Why had his brother been chosen? What did Gilbert know about the magic that governed their world? And more pressingly, what did a being who could vanish from rooftops want with them?

The address led to a narrow townhouse squeezed between a bakery and a cobbler's shop. Nothing about it suggested supernatural connections. Alfred knocked, half-expecting no answer.

The door opened immediately.

"Punctual as always," Gilbert said, red eyes gleaming with amusement. "Though you took longer to visit than I expected. Come in, we have much to discuss."

The interior defied the modest exterior. The space opened into a room that shouldn't have fit within the building's dimensions, filled with artifacts and books that made Alfred's hidden mark tingle with recognition. Gilbert moved through the impossible space like he belonged there, which he probably did.

"Tea?" Gilbert offered, already pouring two cups. "It's a blend from Hearts. Excellent for clarity of thought."

Alfred accepted the cup but didn't drink. "You said Matthew's illness wasn't medical. You were right. His mark-

"Made him Ace of Spades, yes. I've been keeping tabs." Gilbert settled into a chair that looked older than the kingdom. "The magic chose well, even if the vessel seems fragile."

"You've been watching us." It wasn't a question.

Gilbert's grin widened. "Longer than you know. Tell me, do you remember a man named Gil? Used to frequent the Rusty Anchor when you were young? Always had treats for hungry children?"

Alfred's blood chilled as memories clicked into place. Gil, with his silver hair and too-knowing smile. Gil, who'd appeared at convenient moments throughout their childhood. Gil, who'd been there the night Hendriks recruited them.

"You," Alfred breathed. "You've been there all along."

"Guilty as charged." Gilbert lounged in his chair like a satisfied cat. "Did you think your and Matthew's potential would go unnoticed by those who monitor such things? Two boys with royal marks waiting to manifest, surviving in the worst parts of the Lower District? I had to keep an eye on you."

"Royal marks..." Alfred's hand went unconsciously to his hidden King mark. "You knew. Even then, you knew what we'd become."

"I suspected. The magic leaves traces for those who know how to look." Gilbert's expression turned serious. "Which brings us to why you're really here. Matthew's position as Ace puts him in danger, especially with what's happening in Clubs."

"What do you know about Clubs?"

Gilbert set down his teacup with deliberate care. "The King of Clubs has something that doesn't belong to him. Someone, to be precise. A young Joker who should be maintaining balance between order and chaos, not serving as a magical battery for a paranoid monarch. The Red Joker, to be specific. A boy who went missing years ago and ended up in Clubs' custody. His name is Peter Kirkland."

Alfred processed this information with professional calm, even as his mind raced. Kirkland. Arthur's missing brother was a Joker? "Why tell me this?"

"Because the game is larger than you know, and the pieces are finally moving into position." Gilbert stood, moving to a window that showed a view impossible for their location, the castle rising in the distance. "Your Arthur has been searching for his brother. Soon, he'll have to travel to Clubs. And when he does..."

"I'm not letting Matthew anywhere near Clubs," Alfred said flatly.

"No, but you'll go yourself." Gilbert turned back, red eyes knowing. "After all, you can't very well let your future Queen walk into danger alone, can you? Not when you're actually the King of Spades."

Alfred's hand was on his knife before conscious thought. "Careful."

"Oh, I'm always careful. It's kept me alive for longer than you'd believe." Gilbert moved faster than human reflexes should allow, suddenly standing directly in front of Alfred. "Your mark is hidden well, but not from eyes like mine. The question is: when will you tell him?"

"Never," Alfred said immediately. "The moment anyone knows, Matthew becomes leverage. I become a target."

"You're already a target. And as for Matthew..." Gilbert's grin turned wicked. "Your sweet brother isn't quite as helpless as you think. The Ace magic is changing him, making him stronger. He might surprise you."

"Matthew's sick-

"Matthew was sick. Now he's transforming. The magic doesn't choose weak vessels, Alfred. It transforms them into what they need to be." Gilbert moved back to his chair. "But that's a lesson for another day. For now, know this: when the time comes to move against Clubs, you'll have allies you don't expect. The game is rigged, but not in the way the players think."

Alfred stood to leave, but Gilbert's voice stopped him at the door.

"Oh, and Alfred? Your Arthur was asking questions about you tonight. Ramiro is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. You might want to be more careful about leaving trails of bodies that lead back to your doorstep."

"I've been careful-

"You've been efficient. There's a difference." Gilbert's eyes glowed in the dim light. "The beautiful killer of the Lower District is becoming something of a legend. Legends have a way of reaching the wrong ears."

Alfred left the townhouse with more questions than answers, dawn fully breaking over the city. Peter Kirkland was alive, held by Clubs as some kind of magical prisoner. Gilbert—Gil—had been watching them their entire lives. And Arthur was getting too close to truths that could destroy everything.

As he made his way back to the castle, Alfred touched his hidden mark. The burn was constant now, growing stronger whenever he was near Arthur. Soon, concealment might not be an option. But not yet. Not until he figured out how to protect Matthew from the forces circling them.

The Lower District faded behind him as the castle grew closer, but Alfred carried its shadows with him. After all, he'd been shaped by those streets, forged into a weapon by necessity and cruel circumstance. Gilbert was right about one thing, he'd left too many bodies behind to ever truly escape.

But maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what the coming storm required. A beautiful killer wearing a servant's mask, playing games with magic and destiny while keeping blades sharp for the violence to come.

Alfred smiled, bright and cold as winter dawn.

The game, as Gilbert said, was rigged.

But Alfred had always been excellent at getting his way. 

Chapter Text

The castle buzzed with anticipation as the Hearts delegation arrived. Alfred stood at attention with the other servants, watching from the great hall's periphery as nobles fluttered about like overdressed peacocks. His position gave him an excellent view of both the arriving diplomats and Arthur, who stood beside Queen Marianne in formal robes that made him look like a peacock himself—pretty, useless, and desperate for attention.

Alfred found himself cataloguing every detail of Arthur's appearance with disturbing intensity. The way morning light caught in his ash-blond hair, probably spent an hour arranging it just so. The precise angle of his jaw when he lifted his chin in that imperious way—practicing in mirrors, no doubt. The subtle flex of his fingers that betrayed nervousness—ah, the ice prince wasn't as composed as he pretended.

He knew Arthur's schedule better than his own, could predict his moods by the temperature drop in any given room, had memorized the sound of his footsteps in every corridor of the castle.

Professional interest. Know your enemy.

Because that's what Arthur was, another noble playing at understanding the real world while living in cushioned comfort.

"The delegation from the Kingdom of Hearts," the herald announced, pulling Alfred from his thoughts. "Led by Lord Reginald Ashworth, Special Envoy to His Majesty King Ludwig."

Lord Reginald Ashworth walked into the great hall with the pompous stride of a man who'd never faced consequences. The same man Hendriks had marked for death over a month ago. The same man Alfred should have already killed.

But the assassination had been postponed when Matthew's mark appeared. And now Ashworth was here, in the castle, surrounded by guards and diplomatic immunity.

Alfred forced his expression to remain neutral even as his mind raced through possibilities. Hendriks would expect the job completed regardless of complications. But killing a diplomat in the castle itself...

"Lord Ashworth," Queen Marianne greeted with perfect diplomatic grace. "Welcome to Spades. I trust your journey was comfortable?"

"Quite pleasant, Your Majesty," Ashworth replied, his voice cultured and smooth. "Though I confess, the roads between our kingdoms could use attention. We encountered several... unsavory elements along the way."

Arthur stepped forward. "We apologize for any inconvenience. Our patrols have reported increased bandit activity. Rest assured, your safety within our borders is paramount."

Alfred nearly snorted. Paramount. As if Arthur had any idea what real safety meant, cocooned as he was in his magical palace.

"How reassuring." Ashworth's gaze swept over Arthur with obvious appreciation. "And you must be the future Queen. Your reputation precedes you, they say your magical talent is quite extraordinary."

Arthur accepted the compliment with cool politeness, but Alfred saw the slight tension in his shoulders. The temperature dropped two degrees, frost forming on nearby wine glasses. How predictable, the ice prince couldn't even control his emotions properly.

"Wine for our guests!" Yao called out, gesturing to the servants.

Alfred moved with the others, using the task to get closer to the Hearts delegation. Three diplomats, six guards, two scribes. He memorized faces, noted weapons, calculated angles of attack. All while maintaining the perfect facade of a bumbling servant.

"Clumsy fool!"

Lord Garrett was berating a young serving girl who'd spilled wine on his sleeve. The girl cowered, apologizing profusely while Garrett continued his tirade.

"This is what comes of employing common trash," Garrett sneered. "Speaking of which, has anyone else noticed the deplorable state of our new Ace? Sickly thing can barely stand, much less serve any useful function. Not too mention his… background, what was the magic thinking, choosing such weak blood?"

Alfred's grip on the wine pitcher tightened. Several nobles murmured agreement, their disdain for Matthew's common origins barely concealed.

"The magic chooses as it wills," Yao said diplomatically.

"Service?" Lady Pemberton laughed. "The boy can barely climb stairs without his servant's assistance. He'll be dead within the year, mark my words. Perhaps then the magic will choose more appropriately."

Alfred smiled his bright servant's smile while mentally adding names to his list. The Hearts delegation was priority, but Alfred had always been excellent at multitasking.

As he served wine to various nobles, he found himself near Arthur again. The future Queen was struggling to deflect Ashworth's increasingly personal questions, clearly out of his depth in dealing with diplomatic flirtation.

"Your Majesty seems uncomfortable," Alfred murmured as he refilled Arthur's glass. "Having trouble keeping up with actual conversation? I suppose they don't teach that in 'Wave Your Hands and Make Ice' lessons."

Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously. "Mind your tongue, servant."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Alfred's smile turned sharper. "Though perhaps if you spent less time playing dress-up and more time learning actual diplomacy, you wouldn't look like a fish gasping for air every time Lord Ashworth compliments your eyes."

The temperature plummeted. Arthur's glass cracked in his hand. Several nearby nobles glanced over in alarm.

"Is everything alright, Your Majesty?" Ashworth asked, concern evident.

"Perfectly," Arthur gritted out. "The servant was just leaving."

Alfred bowed low, the picture of servility. "My apologies for disturbing Your Majesty's very important conversation about absolutely nothing."

He retreated before Arthur could respond, satisfied at the fury in those green eyes. It was almost too easy, needling the prince. All that magical power and he still couldn't handle a few well-placed words from a lowly servant.

The formal reception continued with the usual political theater. Alfred served wine and remained invisible while memorizing every detail relevant to his actual job. Lord Ashworth's habits, his guards' patterns, the location of guest quarters, all filed away for later use.

He noticed Lord Ashworth attempting to corner him near the wine station, but Alfred deftly avoided the diplomat. He had no time for dodging grabby nobles when there was murder to plan.

"Your servant seems devoted," he heard Ashworth comment to someone.

Alfred glanced over to see the diplomat speaking with Arthur, who was watching Alfred with narrowed eyes.

"He's adequate," Arthur replied coolly. "Though his manners leave much to be desired."

"Perhaps he needs a firmer hand," Ashworth suggested with a meaningful look.

Alfred turned away to hide his smirk. As if either of them could handle him. These soft nobles with their soft lives, thinking they understood power because they wore pretty clothes and had magic or titles. They knew nothing of real power, the kind that came from holding someone's life in your hands and choosing when to end it.

After the reception, Alfred made his way to Matthew's chambers. His brother was sitting up in bed, looking better than he had in months despite the morning's exertions.

"How was the reception?" Matthew asked.

"Educational." Alfred busied himself with unnecessary tasks. "Lord Ashworth is exactly as intelligence suggested. And our future Queen continues to prove that magical power doesn't equal competence."

Matthew frowned. "Arthur seemed kind when he visited yesterday."

"Kind?" Alfred laughed. "He's a spoiled brat who thinks wearing servant's clothes to taverns means he understands hardship. He wouldn't last a day in the real world."

"Al..." Matthew's voice held gentle reproach. "

Matthew studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "You watch him constantly."

"He's a potential threat."

"To our mission? Or to you personally?"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred said finally. "After tonight, we'll have bigger concerns."

Matthew straightened. "What are you planning?"

"My job. Hendriks expects results. Lord Ashworth can't leave this castle alive."

"Alfred, no. It's too dangerous/

"I've done this dozens of times." Alfred met his brother's worried gaze. "These things happen during diplomatic visits. Food poisoning, accidents, sudden illness. No one will connect it to us."

"And the others? Lord Garrett and Lady Pemberton?"

Alfred's smile turned predatory. "They've been spreading poison about you. Perhaps it's time they choked on their own venom."

"Al, this isn't the Lower District-

"No, it's easier." Alfred's voice hardened. "These nobles are soft, complacent. They don't expect death to touch them in their gilded halls. They won't see it coming."

That evening, as the castle prepared for the formal banquet, Alfred finalized his plans. Three deaths, staged to look unconnected. It would be his masterpiece of misdirection.

He dressed in his finest servant's uniform, the  one that made him look young and harmless. As he passed a mirror, he practiced his expressions. Shock when Ashworth collapsed. Horror at discovering a body. Innocent confusion when questioned.

Perfect masks for a perfect killer.

The game was about to begin, and Alfred couldn't wait to see Arthur's face when his ordered world shattered. The ice prince thought he understood danger because he'd walked through bad neighborhoods wearing commoner's clothes.

Tonight, he'd learn what real danger looked like.

Chapter Text

The banquet hall glittered with a thousand candles, crystal and silver catching light like scattered stars. Alfred moved through the crowd of nobles with practiced invisibility, wine pitcher in hand, death in his pockets. Three small vials, each containing enough concentrated poison to kill within minutes and becomes untraceable just as quickly. 

He paused near Arthur's seat, noting how the future Queen sat rigid with discomfort as Lord Ashworth leaned too close, speaking in low tones. Perfect little prince, unable to handle even basic social pressure without his magic leaking everywhere. The temperature around their section had dropped several degrees.

"Wine, Your Majesty?" Alfred offered, enjoying how Arthur's jaw tightened at his presence.

"Go away," Arthur muttered.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Wouldn't want to interrupt your riveting conversation about..." Alfred tilted his head, pretending to listen. "Ah, trade tariffs. How exciting. I'm sure your ice magic will be very useful in negotiating grain prices."

Arthur's hand clenched around his glass. "I said-

"Alfred, wasn't it?" Lord Ashworth interrupted, eyeing Alfred with interest. "Such a devoted servant. Tell me, are all the castle staff so... attentive?"

"Only to those who deserve it, my lord," Alfred replied with his brightest smile, then added in a stage whisper to Arthur, "Don't worry, Your Majesty. I'm sure Lord Ashworth will stop flirting with you if you ask nicely. Or you could just freeze him. That's your solution to everything, isn't it?"

Arthur's magic flared, frost racing across the tablecloth. Several nobles looked over in alarm.

"Is there a problem?" Queen Marianne asked coolly.

"No problem, Your Majesty," Alfred said cheerfully. "His Majesty was just demonstrating his impressive control. Very educational for us common folk."

He bowed and retreated, leaving Arthur seething and Ashworth looking speculatively between them. The distraction had been perfect, everyone so focused on the servant's impertinence that no one noticed his brief pause at Ashworth's wine glass.

Five minutes until the first symptoms.

Alfred continued his rounds, serving other nobles while keeping Ashworth in peripheral vision. He paused at Lord Garrett and Lady Pemberton's table, listening to their continued vitriol about Matthew.

"—barely functional as an Ace. It's embarrassing," Garrett was saying.

Alfred's smile never wavered as he noted their wine preferences, their habits, the way Garrett always retired early to take his medications. Lady Pemberton's favorite vintage, which she'd specifically requested for tomorrow's luncheon. All useful information.

Four minutes.

"More wine, my lord?" Alfred offered Garrett.

"Finally, some proper service." Garrett held out his glass. "Not like that disaster earlier. Did you see how the future Queen nearly froze Lord Ashworth's wine? Such poor control."

"Tragic," Alfred agreed solemnly. "Though between us, my lord, His Majesty does seem rather... overwhelmed by his position. All that power and no idea how to use it properly. Rather like giving a child a loaded weapon."

Garrett laughed. "Well said! You're cleverer than most servants."

"You're too kind, my lord. Though not as kind as fate, giving us such an entertaining spectacle of a Queen."

Three minutes.

Alfred moved away, noting Arthur watching him from across the hall. Those green eyes held suspicion and anger in equal measure. Good. Let him wonder what the servant was playing at. Let him stew in his helplessness while real power moved through his hall unseen.

Two minutes.

Ashworth touched his throat, a slight frown creasing his features. Alfred busied himself at the wine station, preparing for what came next.

One minute.

The diplomat's face had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He reached for his wine, often people tried to clear their throats with liquid when they felt the first constriction.

Zero.

Ashworth's laughter cut off abruptly. His hands clawed at his collar as his throat closed, eyes bulging with panic. The hall erupted in chaos as he toppled from his chair, body convulsing.

"Lord Ashworth!" Queen Marianne leapt to her feet.

"Healer!" someone screamed. "Get a healer!"

Alfred let shock bloom across his features, the pitcher dropping from his hands to shatter on the floor. He stumbled back with the other servants, eyes wide with perfectly feigned horror.

"What's happening?" a noble woman shrieked.

"Poison?" someone suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous," Yao said sharply. "Look at the symptoms, clearly an allergic reaction. Lord Ashworth, can you hear me? What did you eat?"

But Ashworth was beyond answering, body seizing one final time before going still. Dead in less than five minutes, exactly as planned.

In the chaos that followed, Alfred slipped away through the servant's passages. He had two more appointments to keep, and the castle's focus on Ashworth's dramatic death would provide perfect cover.

Lord Garrett's rooms were exactly where intelligence had placed them. Alfred picked the lock with practiced ease, slipping inside to find the lord already returned from dinner, taking his evening medications just as predicted.

"Who—" Garrett began, turning from his medicine cabinet.

Alfred let his servant's mask drop completely, revealing the killer beneath. He wanted Garrett to see, to understand in his final moments that the 'weak blood' he'd mocked had teeth.

"Hello, my lord," Alfred said pleasantly, drawing Hope from his hidden holster. "Leaving the feast early? How fortunate. I do so hate working with an audience."

"You're the Ace's servant," Garrett said, backing away. "What are you-

"Correcting an error," Alfred replied. "You see, you insulted my brother. Repeatedly. Publicly. That was unwise."

"Guards!" Garrett screamed. "GUARDS!"

"They're all at the feast, dealing with poor Lord Ashworth's tragic allergic reaction." Alfred aimed carefully. "No one's coming to save you, my lord. Just like no one came to save all those 'weak bloods' you and your kind ground into dust."

Hope spoke once, its voice a whisper in the night. The round took Garrett in the forehead, painting the wall behind him in abstract patterns. Alfred studied his handiwork for a moment—clean, efficient, professional—then slipped back out into the corridor.

The wine cellar was his final stop. Lady Pemberton's precious vintage waited on its special rack, practically begging to be poisoned. Alfred emptied the second vial into the bottle with practiced ease, ensuring tomorrow's luncheon would be her last.

He was resealing the bottle when footsteps echoed in the cellar. Alfred turned, hand going to Charity, only to relax at the sight of another servant, one of the kitchen staff fetching wine for the chaos upstairs.

"Terrible business," the servant said, clearly shaken. "Lord Ashworth dying like that."

"Tragic," Alfred agreed solemnly. "These allergic reactions can happen so suddenly. Makes you think about mortality, doesn't it?"

The servant nodded and hurried away with his bottles. Alfred finished his work and made his way back toward Matthew's chambers, taking a circuitous route to avoid the searching guards. The castle was in full lockdown now, but Alfred knew every passage, every blind spot.

He was nearly there when Arthur appeared from a side corridor, frost already gathering around his fingers.

"You," Arthur snarled, advancing on Alfred. "What did you do?"

"Your Majesty?" Alfred blinked innocently. "I don't understand. I've been helping search for intruders-

Arthur slammed him against the wall, ice spreading from the point of contact. "Don't lie to me. You were serving Ashworth. You were right there when he died."

"Along with a dozen other servants!" Alfred let panic enter his voice. "Your Majesty, please, you're hurting me-

The ice pressed closer, sharp enough to cut. "I saw your face. When he collapsed. You weren't surprised."

"I was in shock!" Alfred gasped, playing up the frightened servant. "Please, Your Majesty, I don't understand why you're angry with me. Is it because of what I said earlier? I'm sorry-

"This isn't about your pathetic jokes," Arthur growled, but uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Because what proof did he have? A feeling? A glimpse of expression in a chaotic moment?

"Your Majesty." Yao's voice cut through the tension. "Release the servant."

Arthur turned, not loosening his grip. "Yao, this man-

"Is a servant who was doing his job when tragedy struck," Yao said firmly. "Lord Garrett has been found dead in his chambers. Shot. I doubt Mr. Johnson managed that while pinned to a wall by your ice."

The shock that crossed Arthur's face was genuine. He released Alfred, who slumped against the wall gasping.

"Garrett is dead?"

"Very. We need you with the Queen, not terrorizing the staff." Yao's eyes fixed on Alfred. "You. Return to your master immediately."

"Yes, sir." Alfred bobbed a terrified bow and fled, but not before catching the look of frustrated suspicion on Arthur's face.

Matthew was awake when Alfred arrived, pale with worry.

"Al! Where were you? They're saying Lord Ashworth is dead, and now Lord Garrett-

"I'm here." Alfred moved to his side, carefully checking him over. "Everything's fine."

"Fine? Alfred, what did you do?"

No point lying to Matthew. "What needed to be done. They insulted you. They died. Simple equation."

"Oh, Al." Matthew's expression crumbled. "This is dangerous. Arthur already suspects-

“It doesn’t matter what Arthur suspects. I know what I’m doing.” Alfred’s gaze softened as he glanced at Matthew. 

Of course he knew what he was doing, he couldn’t afford not too after all. 

Chapter Text

The summons came during Matthew's morning training session. Alfred was in his usual corner, ostensibly organizing medical supplies while actually memorizing the new ward configurations Master Lin had implemented. Security had tightened considerably since the deaths of Lords Ashworth and Garrett—not enough to stop him, of course, but enough to make things interesting.

"His Majesty requests the Ace's presence," the messenger announced, bowing low. "Along with his personal attendant."

Alfred's hands stilled on the medicine bottles. The King had shown minimal interest in Matthew beyond the formal dinner presentation. This sudden attention, coming so soon after the diplomatic deaths, set every instinct screaming.

"Matthew's not well enough for a long audience," Alfred said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. "The morning training-

"His Majesty was quite specific," the messenger interrupted, though he paled slightly at Alfred's tone. "Both of you. Immediately."

Matthew rose unsteadily from his meditation position, the silver mark on his arm flickering. "It's alright, Alfred. We shouldn't keep the King waiting."

Alfred moved to support him, noting how Matthew's hands trembled with magical exhaustion. The castle remained on edge. Whispers followed them through the corridors—about the mysterious assassin, about the servant who'd been present at Ashworth's death, about the future Queen's increasingly erratic behavior.

The King's private chambers were in the oldest part of the castle, where thick stone walls held centuries of secrets. Guards lined the approach, their scrutiny sharper than usual. Alfred catalogued faces, weapons, positions—habit more than necessity, but habits kept him alive.

They found King Aldric on his balcony despite the morning chill, wrapped in furs that couldn't disguise how skeletal he'd become. The legendary light magic that had once made him shine like a small sun barely flickered now, guttering like a candle in wind.

"Your Majesty," Matthew managed a passable bow. Alfred supported him through it, maintaining his servant's posture while assessing threats.

"Leave us," Aldric commanded the guards. When they hesitated, he added with surprising strength, "Now."

Alone with the dying King, Alfred felt his hidden mark begin to burn. Not the usual warmth, but searing heat that made him grit his teeth. The King's fading magic seemed to be calling to his own, recognition between powers.

"Sit," Aldric gestured to chairs that had been arranged for this meeting. "Both of you."

"I should stand, Your Majesty," Alfred said quickly. "My place-

"Your place is where I say it is." Aldric's eyes, still sharp despite his body's decay, fixed on Alfred with uncomfortable intensity. "Sit."

Alfred sat, every muscle tense. The burning in his arm increased, and he could swear he saw silver-blue light bleeding through his sleeve. If the King noticed...

"Matthew Williams," Aldric began, his attention shifting to the Ace. "How are you finding your training?"

"Challenging but rewarding, Your Majesty," Matthew replied carefully. "Master Lin is an excellent teacher."

"She tells me you have unusual insight for one so new to magic. The ability to parse not just truth from lies, but the age and weight of deceptions." Aldric's skeleton fingers drummed against his chair. "A valuable skill in these troubled times."

"I do my best to serve, Your Majesty."

"Indeed." Aldric's gaze returned to Alfred. "And you, Mr. Johnson. Tell me about yourself."

"There's little to tell, Your Majesty," Alfred affected his servant's manner, adding just enough nervousness to seem authentic. "I've looked after Matthew since we were children. When his mark appeared-

"I didn't ask about your history with the Ace," Aldric interrupted. "I asked about you."

The burning in Alfred's arm spiked, sending shoots of pain up to his shoulder. He fought to keep his expression neutral. .

"I'm just a servant, Your Majesty. Nothing more."

"Hmm." Aldric leaned back, studying Alfred like a particularly interesting specimen. "Do you know what my magic does, Mr. Johnson?"

"Light manipulation, Your Majesty. Everyone knows-

"Surface understanding," Aldric cut him off again. "Light reveals. It shows what darkness would hide. It illuminates truth in ways that make the Ace's abilities seem like parlor tricks."

Alfred's heart hammered against his ribs. The King couldn't know—there was no way—

"Would you indulge a dying man's curiosity?" Aldric asked mildly. "Remove your jacket."

"Your Majesty?" Alfred injected confusion into his voice even as his mind raced through escape routes.

"Your jacket. I'd like to see your arms."

Matthew shot him a puzzled look. 

"I... of course, Your Majesty." Alfred had no choice. Refusal would confirm suspicions. He stood, movements deliberately clumsy, and began unbuttoning his servant's jacket. "Though I don't understand-

"You were present when Lord Ashworth died," Aldric observed conversationally. "Serving wine, I'm told. Such a tragic allergic reaction."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Terrible." Alfred shrugged out of his jacket, keeping his left arm angled away. The burning was almost unbearable now.

Alfred rolled up his right sleeve first, displaying unmarked skin.

"Your left arm, Mr. Johnson."

No choice. No escape. Alfred met the King's eyes and saw knowledge there, patient and terrible. Slowly, he rolled up his left sleeve.

The fabric had barely cleared his wrist when the door burst open. Arthur stormed in, fury radiating from every line of his body.

"Your Majesty," Arthur's voice was tight with barely controlled emotion. "I apologize for the interruption, but there's been another death. Lady Pemberton collapsed during lunch."

Aldric's attention shifted to his future Queen, and Alfred quickly rolled his sleeve back down, hiding the mark that had been seconds from exposure. The relief was so intense he almost swayed.

Aldric spoke almost instantly, "How unfortunate. And you felt this required interrupting a private audience?"

Arthur's green eyes flicked to Alfred, narrowing with suspicion. "I thought you should know immediately, Your Majesty. Given recent events."

"How considerate." Aldric's tone suggested he knew exactly why Arthur had really come. "Well then, I suppose our conversation must end here. Mr. Johnson, you may go. Do see that the Ace gets proper rest."

Alfred bowed low, grabbed his jacket, and escaped with Matthew before the King could change his mind. They made it halfway back to Matthew's chambers before Alfred's legs gave out, the delayed reaction hitting hard.

"Al!" Matthew caught him, surprising strength in his thin arms. 

Arthur paced his chambers like a caged beast. The temperature had dropped so dramatically that frost formed on the windows despite the spring weather outside.

He'd felt it the moment Aldric summoned Alfred—a pull in his chest, an instinct screaming danger. The King's magic might be fading, but it was still formidable. 

And Alfred...

Arthur slammed his fist against the wall, ice spidering out from the impact. That insufferable, secretive, servant who was definitely not what he seemed. Arthur had arrived just in time to see him rolling up his sleeve, to see the flash of absolute terror in those blue eyes before his mask slammed back into place.

What was he hiding?

The obvious answer was that Alfred was the assassin. Present at Ashworth's death, unaccounted for during Garrett's murder, and now Lady Pemberton dead from poison. The same Lady Pemberton who'd insulted Matthew publicly.

But that was too simple, too neat. The hitman working the Lower District had been active for years before Matthew's mark appeared. Alfred might be dangerous, was definitely dangerous, but he wasn't Hitman Jones which was who Yao was determined the real culprit was. 

Arthur picked up a crystal paperweight, watching ice spread across its surface. Alfred made him feel... unbalanced. Off-kilter. Every interaction left him burning with frustration and something else, something that made his magic respond in ways that had nothing to do with anger.

"You seem troubled."

Arthur spun to find Yao in his doorway, observing the frozen wasteland of his chambers with raised eyebrows.

"The King summoned Alfred," Arthur said without preamble. "Alone with Matthew. His magic, he was trying to reveal something."

"And you interrupted because?"

Arthur glared at him. "Three nobles are dead. The last thing we need is the King playing games with suspected murderers."

"Suspected by whom?" Yao entered uninvited, somehow avoiding the patches of ice with practiced ease. "Has anyone formally accused Mr. Johnson?"

"He was there when Ashworth died."

"Along with a dozen other servants. He also has an alibi for Garrett's murder, you yourself had him pinned to a wall with ice, if I recall correctly."

Arthur's jaw clenched at the reminder. "He's hiding something."

"Everyone hides something." Yao settled into the one chair not covered in frost. "The question is whether what he's hiding threatens the crown."

"Everything about him threatens…" Arthur cut himself off, but Yao's knowing look said he'd heard what went unsaid.

"Threatens you personally? Yes, I've noticed." Yao studied his nails with feigned casualness. "The temperature drops five degrees whenever he enters a room. Your magic responds to him in ways that suggest-

"Don't." Arthur's voice could have frozen flame. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."

"As you wish." Yao stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "But Arthur? Be careful. The King's interest in Alfred won't end with one interrupted meeting. And if Mr. Johnson is hiding something significant..."

He didn't need to finish. They both knew what happened to those who deceived the crown. Arthur had signed the execution orders for false claimants. He'd watched them die for lesser deceptions than whatever Alfred carried like armor.

After Yao left, Arthur stood on his balcony, looking out over the city. Somewhere in the Lower District, the real Hitman Jones moved through shadows. Here in the castle, Alfred played servant while assessing every room like a battlefield.

Arthur thought of his brothers, safe in their Highland estate. Of Peter, lost to mysteries that might never be solved. Family could be a strength or a weakness, depending on how it was wielded.

Alfred would do anything for Matthew. That much was crystal clear in every protective gesture, every subtle positioning that kept his brother safe. It was admirable. Dangerous. Intoxicating in its intensity.

Arthur touched the frost on his window, watching it melt beneath his fingers. Tomorrow brought new challenges—investigating Lady Pemberton's death, managing court reactions, preparing for the Winter Ball despite the shadow of assassination.

Chapter Text

The castle transformed for the Winter Ball like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly—if butterflies were made of crystal and barely concealed paranoia. Alfred adjusted his formal servant's uniform for the dozenth time, the restrictive fabric making it harder to conceal his usual arsenal. He'd had to get creative, hiding smaller blades in places that would make Volkov proud.

Some time had passed since Lady Pemberton's death. Weeks of heightened security, suspicious glares, and Arthur watching him with those damned green eyes that seemed to see straight through every mask he wore. The investigation had gone nowhere—the poison untraceable, no witnesses, no evidence beyond a very dead noble who'd insulted the wrong person's brother.

"Security is tighter than a miser's purse." Matthew turned, and Alfred felt a familiar punch of pride at how well his brother wore power. "Every servant is vetted, every dish tested, guards at every entrance and exit. They're taking no chances."

No, they weren't. Which made Alfred's job significantly more complicated. He had two objectives tonight: maintain his cover while gathering intelligence Hendriks demanded, and deal with a certain diplomatic incident that required the castle's legendary assassin to make an appearance.

Not Alfred, of course. Hitman Jones. Completely different person.

"You'll be careful tonight?" Matthew asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"I'm always careful."

"Al."

"I'll be careful," Alfred amended, straightening Matthew's formal cloak. "You focus on not collapsing during the endless ceremonies. I'll handle everything else."

The ballroom was a wonder of magical architecture and paranoid security. Sculptures that moved on their own lined the walls, courtesy of Queen Marianne's fading but still impressive power. Guards in formal uniforms stood at every pillar, hands never far from weapons. Alfred counted forty visible security personnel and suspected twice that many hidden.

Good. He liked a challenge.

Nobles arrived in waves of silk and jewels, each more elaborate than the last. Alfred took his position with the other servants, pitcher in hand, smile firmly in place. Just another invisible part of the scenery, beneath notice or suspicion.

Then Arthur entered, and Alfred's carefully maintained composure cracked.

The future Queen wore formal robes of deep blue that brought out the winter in his eyes. His ash-blond hair was styled perfectly, crown gleaming in the magical light. He looked regal, untouchable, and absolutely fucking magnificent.

Alfred hated him for it.

"Wine, Your Majesty?" Alfred appeared at Arthur's elbow with practiced suddenness, enjoying how the future Queen startled slightly.

"Go away," Arthur muttered, but his eyes were scanning the crowd, alert for threats.

"Can't. Strict orders to ensure all nobles are properly served." Alfred's smile sharpened. "Besides, you look tense. Big night for you, isn't it? All these important people to impress. Try not to freeze anyone's drinks this time."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I don't need your commentary."

"No? But you're so bad at reading rooms on your own." Alfred leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "For instance, you haven't noticed Lord Ashcroft from Diamonds has been staring at you for ten minutes. He's working up courage to ask you to dance."

Arthur's head whipped around, finding the Diamond noble in question. The man was indeed watching Arthur with obvious interest, champagne glass held like liquid courage. Diplomatic relations with Hearts were slightly strained at the moment and the monarchs of Spades needed to do everything in their power to make amends with the surrounding kingdoms. 

"So?" Arthur tried for indifference, but Alfred caught the slight flush on his cheeks.

"So he's known for wandering hands and thinking 'no' means 'convince me.'" Alfred's tone remained light, but something possessive curled in his chest. "Might want to have an escape plan."

Before Arthur could respond, Lord Ashcroft made his move, crossing the ballroom with purpose. Alfred melted back into the crowd of servants, but kept watching. Always watching.

"Your Majesty," Ashcroft bowed with practiced grace. "You look radiant tonight. Would you honor me with a dance?"

Arthur accepted with royal politeness, and Alfred told himself the burning in his chest was professional interest. Know your enemy's weaknesses. Catalog every interaction.

But when Ashcroft's hand settled too low on Arthur's waist during the dance, when his thumb traced small circles that made Arthur stiffen with discomfort, Alfred stepped away. .

Alfred moved through the crowd with purpose, collecting items as he went. A splash of wine here, a carelessly placed foot there. By the time he reached the refreshment table, he'd set three separate accidents in motion.

The first came when a startled servant, nudged at just the right moment, stumbled into Lord Ashcroft's path as the dance ended. Wine splashed across the Diamond noble's expensive robes, deep red staining white silk.

"Oh! My lord, I'm so sorry!" The servant babbled apologies while Ashcroft sputtered in outrage.”

“You subservient 5!” Ashcroft's comment caused Alfred to snarl slightly. 

Arthur stepped back, green eyes scanning the crowd and finding Alfred immediately. Those eyes narrowed with suspicion, but Alfred was already moving, orchestrating the second phase.

Lady Morrison, known for her clumsiness when drinking, found her wine glass mysteriously fuller than expected. When she gestured dramatically, as she always did after three drinks, the contents went flying. Right onto Lord Ashcroft, who'd just finished berating the first servant.

"Again?" Ashcroft's voice rose to an undignified squeak.

But Alfred wasn't done. The third accident came courtesy of the sculptures, one of which chose that moment to shed a decorative piece. The sculpture shattered spectacularly at Ashcroft's feet, sending him stumbling backward into a dessert table.

The Diamond lord ended up on the floor, covered in wine, cake, and wounded dignity. The entire ballroom turned to stare, conversations stopping mid-sentence.

"How unfortunate," Alfred murmured, appearing at Arthur's side with a fresh glass of wine. "Some people just can't handle formal events. All that grabbing and groping must affect their balance."

Arthur's magic flared, dropping the temperature around them by several degrees. "You did that."

"Did what?" Alfred's eyes were wide with false innocence. "I've been serving wine, Your Majesty. Ask anyone."

"You orchestrated-

"Careful," Alfred interrupted, still smiling. "Wouldn't want people thinking the future Queen cares about what happens to wandering-hands Ashcroft. Might give the wrong impression."

Arthur's hand clenched around his wine glass. "You had no right-

"To what? Serve wine? React to nobles who can't keep their hands to themselves?" Alfred leaned closer, voice dropping to something dangerous. "You didn't seem to be enjoying his attention. Should I have let it continue?"

"I can handle myself!"

"Clearly." Alfred's gaze flicked to where Arthur's magic had frosted over nearby glasses. "You were definitely handling it. Not freezing up at all while he pawed at you."

"I wasn't—he wasn't—"

Arthur's face flushed red, though from anger or embarrassment, Alfred couldn't tell. 

A figure in servant's clothing who didn't move like a servant, heading toward the kitchens with purpose that screamed threat.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty," Alfred said, already moving. "Duty calls."

He followed the false servant through winding corridors, away from the ball's noise and light. The man moved like a professional—checking corners, varying pace, all the tricks that marked someone trained in infiltration.

But Alfred was better.

He struck when the man entered the wine cellar, quick and silent. The blade slipped between ribs with practiced ease, finding the heart before the infiltrator could scream. Alfred caught the body, lowering it gently to the stone floor.

Blood pooled dark in the candlelight. Alfred searched the corpse with efficient movements, finding what he expected—tools for poisoning, a vial that would have gone into the wine meant for visiting dignitaries. Someone had hired an assassin to strike during the ball.

Someone who wasn't Alfred.

"Sloppy," he murmured, studying the dead man's face. Local talent, not one of Hendriks' people. "Should have stayed home."

Now came the delicate part. Alfred couldn't leave the body here—it would be found too soon, raise alarms that would lock down the castle. But he also couldn't be caught moving it, not with security this tight.

Unless...

Alfred smiled, an idea forming. Why hide the body when he could use it?

Minutes later, the corpse was arranged artistically in an unused parlor, positioned to be discovered at just the right moment. Alfred had left careful clues—a pendant known to be used by Hitman Jones (he'd had copies made for exactly this purpose), positioning that suggested a professional kill, even a calling card written in the victim's blood: "Amateurs aren't welcome in my territory - H.J."

Let them think Hitman Jones had killed an rival assassin. Let them focus their hunt on a ghost while Alfred returned to the ball, uniform pristine, smile innocent.

He arrived back in the ballroom just as panic erupted. Guards rushed past, shouting about a body, about Hitman Jones being in the castle. Nobles screamed and clustered together, terrified of the legendary assassin in their midst.

Arthur stood in the center of the chaos. His eyes found Alfred across the room, narrowing with fresh suspicion.

Alfred raised his wine pitcher in a mock toast, then went back to serving terrified nobles. Just a servant doing his job while the castle lost its mind over a killer who was already back at work.

The ball ended in disarray, nobles fleeing for the safety of their chambers. Alfred helped Matthew back to his quarters, listening to his brother's exhausted recounting of the night's drama.

"They think Hitman Jones was here," Matthew said, sinking onto his bed. "In the castle itself. Arthur was furious, he kept looking for you during the panic."

"I was helping evacuate the kitchens," Alfred lied smoothly. "Making sure no other assassins were hiding among the staff."

Matthew studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "Al..."

"Rest," Alfred interrupted. "Tomorrow will bring new chaos, I'm sure."

But as he prepared to leave, a knock came at the door. Alfred opened it to find Arthur, still in his formal robes but disheveled from the night's events.

"Your Majesty?" Alfred affected surprise. "Is everything alright?"

"You," Arthur pushed past him into the room. "Where were you when the body was discovered?"

"Arthur?" Matthew sat up, confused. "What's this about?"

"Your servant disappeared during the ball," Arthur said, never taking his eyes off Alfred. "Right before an assassin was found dead in the castle."

"I was checking the wine stores," Alfred said calmly. "After those accidents with Lord Ashcroft, I wanted to ensure nothing had been tampered with."

"Convenient."

"Practical," Alfred countered. "Unless you'd prefer I ignore security concerns?"

They stared at each other, tension crackling between them like lightning. Matthew looked back and forth, clearly sensing undercurrents he couldn't interpret.

"You orchestrated those accidents," Arthur said finally. "Don't deny it."

"Which accidents?" Alfred asked innocently. "The wine, the ice, or the dessert table?"

"All of them."

"That would require remarkable coordination."

"Yes, it would." Arthur stepped closer, close enough that Alfred could see the flecks of darker green in his eyes. "The kind of coordination someone might have if they were, say, professionally trained in misdirection."

"Or just lucky," Alfred suggested.

"You're never just anything." Arthur's voice dropped lower. "You're deliberate, calculating, and far too skilled for a common servant."

"Flattery, Your Majesty?"

"Accusation." But there was heat in Arthur's gaze that had nothing to do with anger. "What are you hiding?"

Everything. Nothing. More than you can imagine.

They stood frozen, a breath apart, balanced on the edge of something that would change everything. Matthew cleared his throat loudly.

"Perhaps," he suggested mildly, "this conversation could continue when we're all less exhausted? And when there isn't a castle-wide search for an assassin happening?"

Arthur stepped back as if burned. "Yes. Of course." He straightened his robes with sharp movements. "We'll discuss this later."

He left without another word, but the promise—or threat—lingered.

Alfred turned to find Matthew watching him with sympathy and exasperation in equal measure.

"You're playing with fire," his brother warned.

"I know," Alfred admitted, sinking into a chair. "But I can't seem to stop."

Outside, guards searched for a killer who was already home. Tomorrow would bring new investigations, new suspicions, new opportunities for the game between Alfred and Arthur to escalate.

But tonight, Alfred touched his hidden mark and wondered what it would feel like to tell the truth. To drop every mask and show Arthur exactly what kind of monster shared his castle.

The thought should have terrified him.

Instead, it burned like possibility.

Chapter Text

Alfred had turned surveillance into an art form.

Not the crude observation of amateurs who lurked in shadows and took notes. No, Alfred's network was a living thing, spreading through Castle Spades like veins through a body. Every servant who gossiped over laundry, every guard who mentioned shift changes, every scribe who complained about their workload, they all fed information to Alfred without realizing it.

He knew that Lady Pemberton's replacement had arrived with two food tasters and a personal guards. He knew which nobles were meeting in secret to discuss the "Hitman Jones situation." He knew that kitchen maid Rosa was sleeping with guard captain Hendricks (different from crime lord Hendriks, unfortunately), and that their pillow talk included fascinating details about new security protocols.

But most of all, he knew about Arthur.

He knew that Arthur woke every morning at precisely 6:17, neither earlier nor later, as if his internal clock was calibrated to the second. He knew that Arthur practiced his magic for exactly one hour before breakfast, favoring his left hand for delicate work despite being right-handed in everything else. He knew that Arthur had a weakness for honey cakes but refused them in public, considering them too childish for a future Queen.

Alfred knew that Arthur bit his lower lip when concentrating, just the left side, leaving it slightly swollen and distractingly red. He knew that Arthur's magic smelled like winter pine and ozone before a storm. He knew that when Arthur was truly angry, not the performative fury he showed in public but genuine rage, his eyes went from green to grey, like the sea before a hurricane.

He knew the exact pattern of freckles across Arthur's nose (thirteen, more visible in sunlight). He knew that Arthur read poetry late at night when he couldn't sleep, favoring the romantic works he'd mock in public. He knew that Arthur still kept a portrait of his family hidden in his desk drawer, and that he looked at it every evening before bed.

Professional interest. Know your enemy.

That's what Alfred told himself as he memorized the way Arthur's fingers moved when casting, the particular tilt of his head when someone said something that genuinely interested him, the rare but brilliant smile that transformed his entire face when he thought no one was watching.

"You're staring again."

Matthew's voice cut through Alfred's thoughts. They were in the castle library, Matthew researching magical theory while Alfred supposedly organized books.

"I'm observing," Alfred corrected, not looking away from where Arthur sat across the library, surrounded by trade documents and looking beautifully frustrated.

"You've been 'observing' the same page for twenty minutes," Matthew pointed out. "The book's upside down."

Alfred glanced down, realized his brother was right, and smoothly flipped the book. "Testing your awareness. Well done."

Matthew's expression was far too knowing for Alfred's comfort. "Al, this thing with Arthur—"

"There's no thing."

"You catalogue his breathing patterns."

"Useful for determining emotional state."

"You know his favorite tea blend."

"Basic intelligence gathering."

Before Matthew could respond, a page approached their table. The boy was nervous, sweating despite the library's cool temperature. One of theirs, then.

"Begging your pardon," the page stammered, "but there's a delivery for Mr. Johnson. Kitchen stores, they said. Something about special herbs?"

Alfred rose smoothly. Code phrase acknowledged. Hendriks wanted a meeting.

"Watch him," Alfred murmured to Matthew, not needing to specify who 'him' was. "I'll be back soon."

The castle was in subtle chaos as Alfred made his way to the servants' exit. More guards than usual, all of them tense and watchful. The Hitman Jones incident had shaken everyone's confidence in the castle's security. If the legendary assassin could walk their halls undetected, kill a rival in their very walls, what else might slip through?

Alfred suppressed a smirk. If only they knew.

He changed into common clothes hidden in various spots throughout the castle, transforming from servant to Lower District resident in moments. The journey to Hendriks' current base required extra caution—soldiers were everywhere, checking papers, searching buildings, hunting for a ghost.

Three times Alfred had to divert his route. Once, he spent twenty minutes pressed into an alcove while guards tore apart the building across the street. The noose was tightening around the Lower District's throat, all because Alfred had gotten creative with corpse placement.

Worth it for the story though.

Hendriks' new location was a step down from his usual standards—a cramped room above a tannery, the stench of processing leather providing cover from casual investigation. Alfred slipped in through a hidden entrance, senses sharpening as he catalogued threats.

Six guards, all armed. New faces, which meant Hendriks had lost people in the raids. The crime lord himself sat behind a scarred desk, pale eyes cold as winter frost.

"Jones." No pleasantries. Bad sign. "Sit."

Alfred sat, maintaining his servant's persona out of habit. "Mr. Hendriks. You wanted to see-

The slap came without warning, snapping Alfred's head to the side. He tasted blood, bit tongue keeping himself from reacting on instinct. Killing Hendriks would be easy. The consequences would not.

"Your little performance at the castle," Hendriks said, voice deadly quiet, "has cost me three safe houses and seven good men."

"I don't understand-

Another slap. Alfred let it happen, playing confused and frightened.

"The body. The calling card. Making Hitman Jones a celebrity instead of a rumor." Hendriks leaned back, studying Alfred like a specimen. "Did you think you were clever? Did you think there wouldn't be consequences?"

"Sir, I'm just a servant. I don't know anything about-

"Stop." Hendriks raised a hand. "We both know what you are, Jones. What you've always been. The innocent act might fool the nobles, but not me."

Alfred let some of his mask drop, meeting Hendriks' gaze steadily. "The castle needed to believe their security had been breached by someone other than me. Creating an external threat-

"Created a manhunt that's destroying my operations." Hendriks stood, beginning to pace. "Do you know what happens when soldiers search every building in the Lower District? When they question every contact, threaten every informant?"

"I can see how that would be... inconvenient."

The temperature in the room dropped, though no magic was involved. Pure killing intent from a man who'd climbed to power over countless corpses.

"Graham sends his regards," Hendriks said casually.

Alfred went very still.

"He's been helping with some special projects. Dangerous work. The kind where accidents happen so easily." Hendriks examined his nails. "And your brother's position in the castle exists at my sufferance. One word from me and certain documents surface. Documents that would prove the new Ace has been feeding information to criminals."

"Those documents are forged-

"Are they?" Hendriks smiled thin as a blade. "Would young Matthew survive the interrogation required to prove his innocence?"

Alfred's hands ached from how tightly he was clenching them. But his voice remained steady. "What do you want?"

"Better. Much better." Hendriks returned to his desk. "I need information about Spades' special item."

Alfred blinked. Of all the things... "The what?"

"Don't play dumb. Every kingdom has one. Hearts has the Ruby Staff. Diamonds has the Diamond Blade. Clubs has the Emerald Trump Card." Hendriks leaned forward. "Spades has something too. Something that maintains the kingdom's power."

This was news to Alfred. In all his intelligence gathering, he'd never heard of these special items. "I don't-

"Find out." It wasn't a request. "The castle must have records, legends, something. I want to know what it is, where it's kept, and how it's protected."

"That could take time-

"Then you'd better start immediately." Hendriks stood, clearly dismissing him. "Oh, and Jones? No more theatrical corpse displays. Hitman Jones goes back to being a ghost story, not a celebrity. Understood?"

"Understood."

Alfred made it three blocks before allowing himself to process the encounter. Graham was leverage now, more directly than before. Matthew's position could be destroyed with forged evidence. And Hendriks wanted information about some mythical item that might not even exist.

The game was getting more complex.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the tail. Almost. Two figures, maintaining perfect distance, professional spacing. Not city guards—too skilled. These were specialists.

Alfred smiled grimly. After the day he'd had, he could use some stress relief.

He led them on a merry chase through the Lower District's maze, testing their skills. They were good, keeping up through shortcuts and blind turns. But Alfred had grown up in these streets, had killed in these alleys. This was his territory.

He lost them eventually, of course. But not before getting a good look at their faces, their equipment. Castle guards, but not regular ones. These were Arthur's people—he recognized the magical resonance, the particular way they moved.

So the future Queen was having him followed. How flattering.

Alfred made it back to the castle as sunset painted the sky in shades of blood. He changed back into his servant's attire, erasing all traces of his excursion. Just in time, too—Matthew was waiting in their quarters, worry etched across his features.

"Al, thank god. There’s going to be a meeting. The current King and Queen as well as myself, Arthur, and Yao. Something about the Clubs situation."

Of course he had. Because Alfred's day wasn't complicated enough.

"Did he say what specifically?"

"Just that it's time to stop being reactive. Master Lin mentioned I might be ready for field assignments." Matthew's expression was a mix of excitement and terror. "Al, what if they want to send me to Clubs?"

"That's not happening," Alfred said flatly. "I don't care what they want. You're not going anywhere near Clubs."

"I might not have a choice. The Ace serves the crown-

"The Ace is my brother first." Alfred gripped Matthew's shoulders. "Let me worry about Clubs. You focus on not revealing anything compromising in this meeting."

As they made their way to the council chamber, Alfred's mind was already spinning through possibilities. Hendriks wanted information about special items. Arthur was planning something regarding Clubs. The previous Ace had died there, close to discovering something.

Pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite see yet.

But as they entered the chamber and Alfred saw Arthur, regal and determined and absolutely magnificent in his formal robes, he knew one thing for certain.

This game was about to get much more dangerous.

Chapter Text

Arthur couldn't stop staring at Matthew Williams.

The transformation was remarkable. Where once the Ace had been a pale shadow who could barely stand unassisted, now he moved with fluid grace across the council chamber. His breathing was clear, his eyes bright with magical awareness, his entire presence radiating the quiet power of his position.

"Your recovery has been extraordinary," Queen Marianne observed, echoing Arthur's thoughts. She looked frailer than ever beside Matthew's newfound vitality, her own magic dimming as his grew stronger.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Matthew replied, settling into his chair without any sign of his previous weakness. "The mark's magic seems to have... stabilized things."

That was an understatement. Master Lin had been effusive in her reports. Matthew's Ace abilities were developing at an unprecedented rate. He could sense lies from across a room now, detect magical signatures with startling accuracy, even glimpse the intentions behind people's words. Yesterday, he'd known about a servant's theft before the man had acted on the impulse.

King Aldric leaned forward, what little remained of his strength focused on this meeting. "We've gathered to discuss the Clubs situation. The intelligence blackout has lasted too long."

Yao spread documents across the table—maps, reports, fragments of information that painted an incomplete picture. "Our last Ace, Martin, was in Clubs for three months before his death. His final communication suggested he'd discovered something significant about their operations."

"Significant how?" Arthur asked, though his attention kept drifting to where Alfred stood behind Matthew's chair. The servant was in his usual position, hands clasped, expression bland. But there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there this morning. Arthur didn’t think he should be here but the King and Queen insisted he was fine. 

"Unknown," Yao admitted. "The message was intercepted before full transmission. All we have is: 'The King uses—' and then nothing."

"Uses what?" Matthew leaned forward, and Arthur noticed how Alfred shifted subtly, ready to support his brother if needed. Old habits, even though Matthew clearly no longer required such assistance.

"That's what we need to discover," King Aldric said. "The Kingdom of Clubs has been increasingly aggressive. Border disputes, trade interruptions, and now we have reports of magical experiments that violate several treaties."

"What kind of experiments?" Matthew asked.

Queen Marianne and King Aldric exchanged glances. "We're not certain," Marianne said carefully. "But there have been... anomalies. Magical disturbances felt even here. Whatever King Mikhail is doing, it's affecting the balance between kingdoms."

"Which is why," King Aldric continued, "we need someone inside Clubs. Someone who can discover what Martin died trying to tell us."

Arthur was the first to respond. "You want to send Matthew."

It wasn't a question. The logic was obvious, an Ace's abilities would be invaluable for intelligence gathering. But the thought of sending Matthew into the same danger that had killed his predecessor...

"I'm willing," Matthew said quietly. "If the kingdom needs-

"No." Alfred's voice cut through the room like a blade. Everyone turned to stare at the servant who'd dared interrupt a royal council.

"Alfred," Matthew warned softly.

But Alfred wasn't looking at his brother. His blue eyes were fixed on King Aldric with an intensity that made Arthur's magic stir restlessly. "You're not sending him to die like Martin."

"You forget yourself, servant," Yao said coldly.

"Do I?" Alfred's mask was slipping, revealing something sharp and dangerous underneath. "Martin was healthy, experienced, and he still ended up dead. You want to send Matthew into the same trap?"

"That's enough," Matthew said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Arthur watched the interplay with fascination. He'd seen Alfred protective before, but this was different. This was barely controlled violence, the kind that preceded bloodshed.

"Your concern is noted," King Aldric said mildly. "But perhaps premature. We're not suggesting the Ace go alone."

"No," Queen Marianne continued. "We're proposing a diplomatic mission. A full delegation, ostensibly to negotiate new trade agreements. The Ace would be part of the retinue, able to use his abilities while protected by diplomatic immunity."

"And who would lead this delegation?" Arthur asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"You would."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Arthur felt his heart race, partly from the responsibility, partly from the possibility of finding Peter, and partly from the way Alfred had gone absolutely still behind Matthew's chair.

"The future Queen of Spades, arriving to negotiate personally," Yao elaborated. "It would be seen as a gesture of respect."

"When?" Arthur managed.

"Two weeks," King Aldric said. "Enough time to prepare, not enough for Clubs to arrange any surprises."

"I'll need to select my retinue carefully," Arthur said, mind already racing through possibilities.

"Of course. Though I suggest including-

"I'm going."

Once again, Alfred's voice cut through royal planning. This time, the temperature drop wasn't from Arthur's magic.

"Alfred, you can't just—" Matthew started.

"I go where you go," Alfred said simply. "That was our deal. If you're walking into Clubs, I'm walking beside you."

"A servant in a diplomatic delegation?" Yao's skepticism was obvious.

"A medical attendant," Alfred corrected smoothly, his mask sliding partially back into place. "Matthew's condition is stable but still requires monitoring. Who better than someone who's cared for him all his life?"

Arthur found himself holding his breath. 

"It's irregular," Queen Marianne mused. "But not unreasonable. The Ace's health is paramount."

"Then it's settled," King Aldric decreed. "Arthur will lead the delegation, with Matthew as royal observer and his attendant for medical support. Yao, select appropriate guards and diplomatic staff."

The meeting continued with logistical details, but Arthur barely heard them. His attention was fixed on Alfred, who'd resumed his servant's posture but whose eyes burned with something that looked like triumph.

Or determination.

Or threat.

After the meeting dispersed, Arthur lingered, watching Matthew and Alfred prepare to leave. Matthew was speaking quietly to his brother, apparently trying to calm whatever storm was brewing behind those blue eyes.

"A word, Matthew?" Arthur called out. "Privately?"

Matthew glanced at Alfred, who nodded fractionally. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Arthur waited until they were alone before speaking. "Your recovery is remarkable. Master Lin speaks highly of your progress."

"The magic helps," Matthew said simply. "Though I sometimes wonder if it's changing more than just my health."

"What do you mean?"

Matthew hesitated, then: "I can sense things now. Not just lies or truth, but... deeper currents. Intentions, desires, things people hide even from themselves."

"That must be overwhelming."

"Sometimes." Matthew's gaze was too knowing. "You asked about my recovery. The truth is, I've never felt stronger. The magic didn't just heal my illness, it transformed it into something else. But Alfred..."

"What about him?"

"He's been erratic lately. Protective to the point of paranoia. He reorganized my medicines twelve times this week. Guards my door when the castle has hundreds of actual guards." Matthew's expression was troubled. 

"He's worried about losing you."

"No," Matthew corrected. "He's worried about failing to protect me. There's a difference. Alfred doesn't process fear the way normal people do. He turns it into action."

Arthur absorbed this information, filing it away with everything else he'd observed about the enigmatic servant. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because in two weeks, we'll all be in Clubs together. And I have a feeling that's when everything changes." Matthew stood to leave, then paused. "Did you know that when someone bears a royal mark long enough, those close to them sometimes develop... sympathetic responses?"

"What kind of responses?"

"Magical resonance. Shared dreams. The ability to sense each other across distances." Matthew's smile was knowing. "Just something to think about."

He left Arthur alone with that troubling information. Magical resonance? 

Arthur moved to the window, looking out over the castle grounds. In two weeks, they'd leave for Clubs. A kingdom of secrets, where the previous Ace had died discovering something vital. 

Arthur pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Matthew was right. Everything was about to change.

The question was whether any of them would survive what came next.

Chapter Text

Matthew sat at his desk, practicing the delicate art of truth-sensing on various documents Master Lin had provided. The exercise was deceptively simple—determine which reports contained falsified information without reading their contents, using only his Ace abilities to detect the deception woven into the words. His mark pulsed with steady silver light as he worked, no longer the painful burning of early days but a comfortable warmth that had become as natural as breathing.

There was a sudden gust of wind, though no windows were open.

"Your concentration is admirable," a voice said from directly behind him. "Though you might want to work on your situational awareness."

Matthew spun in his chair, heart hammering, to find a man lounging against his bookshelf as if he'd been there for hours. The silver-haired man wore an enigmatic smile Matthew remembered from half-remembered childhood moments that suddenly made terrible sense.

"How did you—the wards—there are guards—" Matthew's hand went instinctively to his mark, the Ace abilities flaring to life.

"Guards see what they expect to see," the man said, examining one of Matthew's books with casual interest. "And wards are only as strong as the will that maintains them. Yours are actually quite good, by the way. It took me nearly three whole seconds to slip through."

Matthew stood slowly, acutely aware that Alfred had stepped out to terrorize some poor servant. He was alone with someone who could appear and disappear at will, whose very presence made his magical senses scream danger and fascination in equal measure.

"You're the Black Joker," Matthew said, not a question but a statement his abilities confirmed as truth even as he spoke it.

The man’s grin widened, revealing teeth slightly too sharp to be entirely human. "Guilty as charged. Though I prefer just Gilbert. The title makes me sound so formal, don't you think?"

"What do you want?" Matthew kept the desk between them, though he suspected it would offer little protection if Gilbert meant him harm.

"Direct. I like that." Gilbert moved with fluid grace, circling the room like a predator marking territory. "What I want, Matthew Williams, is to have a conversation with the most interesting Ace Spades has seen in centuries."

"I'm not-

"You are," Gilbert interrupted, suddenly much closer than he'd been a moment before. "Your brother might be the more obvious weapon, but you? You're the key to something much larger."

Matthew's abilities flared, trying to read Gilbert's intentions, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. The Joker existed partially outside normal reality, slipping between truth and lie, order and chaos, in ways that made Matthew's head spin.

"I don't understand," Matthew admitted.

"Of course you don't. That's what makes you so delightful." Gilbert settled into Alfred's usual chair with boneless ease. "Tell me, what do you know about the Balance?"

"The balance between kingdoms? Trade agreements and magical treaties-

Gilbert's laugh was like silver bells, beautiful and somehow unsettling. "Oh, sweet Matthew. Not between kingdoms. The Balance. The fundamental forces that keep our world from tearing itself apart. Order and Chaos, Truth and Deception, Power and Sacrifice. The very things Jokers were created to maintain."

Matthew found himself sitting back down, drawn into the conversation despite his better judgment. "Created?"

"You think the marks are natural? That magic just happens to organize itself into neat hierarchies?" Gilbert leaned forward, red eyes gleaming. "Every system has architects, Matthew. The question is whether those architects' vision still serves its purpose."

"You're talking about revolution," Matthew breathed, his abilities confirming the weight of truth in Gilbert's words.

"I'm talking about evolution." Gilbert's expression grew serious, the playful mask slipping to reveal something ancient and weary underneath. "Your brother carries a heavy burden. Heavier than even you know."

Matthew's chest tightened. 

"The storm is coming to Spades," Gilbert continued, now close enough that Matthew could see flecks of gold in those impossible red eyes. "The old order is dying, quite literally. What rises from those ashes depends entirely on the choices made in the next few days. Your role, Matthew Williams, will be more crucial than you can imagine."

Matthew's breath caught as Gilbert reached out, taking his hand with surprising gentleness. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because someone needs to." Gilbert's thumb traced the edge of Matthew's Ace mark, sending sparks through his entire arm. "Because your brother is too focused on protecting you to see the bigger picture. Because Arthur Kirkland is about to walk into a trap that will destroy everything if someone doesn't intervene. And because..."

He lifted Matthew's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles in a gesture that belonged to a different age. The touch burned like winter starlight, leaving Matthew's skin tingling with sensations that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way Gilbert was looking at him.

"Because I find myself unusually invested in your survival," Gilbert finished, releasing Matthew's hand with obvious reluctance. "Both personally and professionally."

Matthew knew he was blushing furiously but couldn't seem to stop. "That's... you can't just..."

"Can't I?" Gilbert was already moving toward the window, preparing to leave the same impossible way he'd arrived. "Until next time, Matthew. And there will be a next time. Try not to let your brother stab me when we meet again, it would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved."

"Wait," Matthew called out, standing on unsteady legs. "Clubs. The delegation. Should we-

"Go," Gilbert said simply. "It's already too late to prevent that particular disaster. But perhaps..." He paused at the window, looking back with an expression that might have been fondness. "Perhaps something beautiful can still grow from the ashes. It usually does, when the right people are involved."

Then he was gone, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and winter pines. Matthew sank back into his chair, hand still tingling from Gilbert's kiss, mind reeling from the implications of everything he'd learned.

When Alfred returned twenty minutes later, slightly disheveled and suspiciously pleased with himself, he took one look at Matthew's face and went rigid.

"What happened? Who was here?" His hand was already on his knife.

"No one," Matthew lied, the first deliberate deception he'd ever offered his brother. "Just... processing everything that's happening."

Alfred studied him with those too-sharp eyes but eventually accepted the explanation. As he launched into a detailed account of how he'd arranged for three different servants to be transferred to different wings ("They were asking too many questions, Mattie, about my schedule and yours"), Matthew touched his hand where Gilbert had kissed it.

The storm was coming to Spades. And Matthew had the sinking feeling they were all about to be swept away by it.

Alfred had turned the castle into his personal chessboard, and today he was removing pieces that had outlived their usefulness.

The first was a footman who'd made the mistake of wondering aloud why Alfred was never around during certain castle incidents. He discovered that the "urgent family matter" requiring his immediate return home was his elderly mother's sudden illness, an illness that existed only in the forged letter Alfred had arranged to be delivered.

The second was a sharp-eyed laundry maid who'd noticed the occasional bloodstain on Alfred's clothes. She found herself accused of theft when several pieces of valuable linen appeared in her quarters. The fact that Alfred had planted them there was irrelevant—she was dismissed within hours, too frightened by the threat of prosecution to mention her suspicions about the Ace's servant.

But it was the third removal that required Alfred's particular talents.

One of the castle's junior administrators had been compiling reports on servant movements with disturbing efficiency. He'd noticed patterns—Alfred's absence during the diplomat deaths, his presence near restricted areas, the way certain servants who asked questions tended to vanish.

He needed to disappear more permanently.

Alfred waited until the man was working late in the archives, surrounded by his careful documentation. When the junior administrator looked up to find Alfred standing over his desk, his face went pale.

"Mr. Johnson. I didn't hear you come in."

"You've been busy," Alfred observed, glancing at the papers spread across the desk. His own name appeared frequently, movements tracked, patterns noted. "Very thorough work."

"Just doing my duty to the castle," He stammered, trying to casually cover the most damning documents.

"Of course." Alfred smiled his brightest servant's smile while calculating angles. "Though I can't help but notice some inconsistencies in your reports."

"Inconsistencies?"

"Mmm." Alfred moved closer, noting how the young man  tensed. "For instance, you have me in the east wing during Lord Garrett's death. But I was actually with Her Majesty, pinned to a wall by ice. Quite memorable, really. Hard to mistake."

"I... perhaps I was confused..."

"Or perhaps," Alfred's voice dropped to something darker, "you're not tracking servants at all. Perhaps you're documenting castle security for someone else. Someone in Clubs, maybe?"

His eyes widened. "That's absurd! I would never-

"Wouldn't you?" Alfred pulled out a sealed letter, one he'd intercepted weeks ago and saved for just such an occasion. "This correspondence suggests otherwise. Your handwriting, your seal, addressed to a known Clubs intelligence operator."

"That's not... I didn't..." He stood abruptly, papers scattering. "You're framing me!"

"Am I?" Alfred tilted his head with mock innocence. "Who's more likely to be believed? The devoted servant who's cared for the Ace since childhood? Or the administrator with documented correspondence with enemy agents?"

He made a break for the door. Alfred let him get three steps before moving, efficient and lethal. The blade slipped between ribs with practiced ease, angled to pierce the lung and prevent screaming. He dropped, gasping wetly, blood bubbling from his lips.

"Shh," Alfred soothed, lowering the dying man gently to the floor. "You did good work, really. Just pointed it in the wrong direction."

He arranged the scene carefully. The junior administrator slumped over his desk, the damning letter clutched in one hand, a suicide note in the other confessing to espionage and expressing remorse for betraying the crown. The wound would be discovered to be self-inflicted—people saw what they expected to see, and a guilt-ridden spy taking his own life was far more palatable than murder in the archives.

Alfred slipped out through servant passages, already planning his next moves. Three threats eliminated, attention redirected toward Clubs infiltration rather than internal investigation. Perfect.

He intercepted correspondence over the following days with growing concern. Both King Aldric and Queen Marianne were deteriorating rapidly. The healers' reports, meant only for highest-level eyes, painted a grim picture. Days, perhaps a week at most.

The castle was quietly panicking. Extra guards appeared at every post, all watching for the mysterious King of Spades who had yet to appear. Noble families positioned themselves for the power vacuum. And through it all, Arthur pushed himself harder, taking on responsibilities he wasn't ready for.

Alfred engineered small crises just to watch him work.

A water supply issue that required Arthur's magical intervention, Alfred observed how his ice magic could purify contaminated sources, noted the exhaustion that followed.

A dispute between noble houses that demanded royal mediation, Alfred studied how Arthur's shoulders tensed under pressure, how his magic leaked when his emotional control slipped.

A suspected breach in the outer walls—completely fabricated, but watching Arthur coordinate the response, seeing him take charge with natural authority despite his exhaustion, was worth the deception.

He's mine, Alfred thought with fierce possessiveness. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

The thought should have disturbed him. It was consuming.

Chapter Text

The castle had taken on the hushed quality of a household preparing for death. Servants moved through corridors with muffled steps, conversations dropped to whispers when members of the royal family passed, and an oppressive atmosphere of waiting settled over everything like a shroud. Even the magical lights seemed dimmer, as if responding to the fading power of their monarchs.

Alfred stood in a hidden alcove, watching the increased guard rotations with professional interest. The castle's security had tripled since the assassination attempts, but there were still patterns to exploit, still gaps that someone with his training could slip through. He'd need them tonight.

Hendriks' demand echoed in his mind: Find out about Spades' special item. Every kingdom had one, apparently. Objects of power that anchored the very magic of their realms. And somewhere in this castle of secrets and dying monarchs, Spades' item waited to be discovered.

But first, he had duties to maintain his cover.

Arthur stood in the doorway of King Aldric's chambers, watching the man who had seemed immortal when he'd first arrived at the castle. Now the King looked like parchment stretched over bird bones, his breathing so shallow that Arthur had to watch carefully to see his chest rise and fall. The mark on his arm barely glowed at all, just the faintest flicker of silver where once light had blazed.

"Your Majesty," the healer spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the dying. "He's been asking for you."

Arthur approached the bed, noting how the room smelled of medicine and ending. Aldric's eyes opened, still sharp despite everything else failing.

"Arthur." The name came out as barely more than breath. "Come closer."

Arthur sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to jostle the fragile form. "I'm here, Your Majesty."

"No." Aldric's skeletal hand found his with surprising strength. "No more titles between us. We are... were... equals now."

The past tense sent a chill through Arthur. "Don't say that. The healers-

"The healers know what I know." Aldric's grip tightened fractionally. "Hours, perhaps less. Marianne has even less time. We fade together, as we ruled together."

Arthur felt his magic spike with emotion, frost creeping across the bedsheets. He forced it back with effort that left him trembling. "I'm not ready. There's so much I haven't learned, so much I don't understand about ruling, about magic, about-

"About the missing King?" Aldric's eyes held a knowing gleam. "He's closer than you think, that one. Hidden in plain sight, wearing masks that would impress even me."

"You know who he is?" Arthur leaned forward urgently.

"I suspect. But suspicion and proof..." Aldric's words trailed off as a coughing fit took him. When it passed, there were flecks of blood on his lips. "Watch for the moment when masks must fall. It comes sooner than anyone expects."

The King's eyes drifted to his bedside table, where something glinted in the lamplight. "Tell me, Arthur, do you know the story of the First King of Spades?"

"He united the warring clans, established the magical hierarchy-

"Pretty lies for history books." Aldric's laugh was more wheeze than sound. "The truth is darker. He made a bargain, our first King. Power for a price. The marks that define us all... they came from that bargain."

Arthur leaned closer, sensing the weight of secrets being passed. "What kind of bargain?"

"The kind that binds a kingdom forever." Aldric's fingers traced toward the glinting object. "The Jokers know the full truth—it's why they exist, to maintain what was wrought. But we monarchs, we bear the... practical burden."

Before Arthur could ask more, another healer appeared in the doorway. "Your Majesty, the Queen is asking for you as well."

Arthur looked between the door and Aldric, torn.

"Go," Aldric whispered. "She needs to see you. We have... said what needed saying. But remember, power always has a price. Always."

Meanwhile, Alfred had his own appointment to keep. The Royal Archive called to him like a siren song, holding answers Hendriks demanded and secrets that might keep Matthew safe. He'd memorized the new guard rotations, calculated the precise window when that section would be unpatrolled.

He moved through servant passages with practiced ease, avoiding the main corridors where nobles clustered like carrion birds, already positioning themselves for the power vacuum to come. Their petty ambitions meant nothing to Alfred. Only the mission mattered.

The archive was darker than he remembered, magical torches burning low as if in sympathy with their dying creators. Alfred slipped between towering shelves, following the cataloging system he'd memorized during his previous reconnaissance.

Histories, Ancient - Row 47, Magical Compacts and Treaties - Row 48, Royal Artifacts and Regalia - Row 49

There.

Alfred pulled out volume after volume, scanning for any mention of special items, of bargains made and prices paid. Most were useless—dry recitations of ceremonies, lists of crown jewels, inventories of magical artifacts that were impressive but clearly not what Hendriks sought.

Then, in a volume so old the leather binding crumbled at his touch, he found it. His mark hummed. 

Alfred bit back worry, soon his mark would be solidified. He decided to file that problem away for a later date and focus on the task at hand. 

"The Compact of Four requires all elements present: King's Will, Queen's Wisdom, Jack's Balance, and Ace's Truth. Only when united may they access the Spade's Token, that which binds the kingdom's essence..."

Alfred read faster, pieces clicking into place. Each kingdom had received an item during the original Compact, the moment when the magical hierarchy was established. These items weren't just symbols; they were anchors, channeling and stabilizing the massive magical forces that the marks commanded.

"The Token of Spades, wrought in the form of a pocket-watch of unusual size, containing at its heart a zircon of deepest blue. Let none but the true monarchs touch it, for its power answers only to rightful blood..."

A pocket-watch. Alfred almost laughed at the mundanity of it. Hearts had their Ruby Staff, Diamonds their legendary Blade, and Spades... had a timepiece.

But where was it kept?

Arthur made his way to Queen Marianne's chambers in a daze. The corridors between the royal suites had never seemed longer, each step weighted with the knowledge that he was walking between two endings.

Marianne's room was warmer than Aldric's. She lay propped against pillows, and for a moment Arthur saw the Queen she had been—regal, powerful, untouchable. Then she turned her head, and the illusion shattered.

"Arthur." Her voice was stronger than Aldric's but held the same finality. "My stubborn successor."

"Marianne." He took the chair beside her bed, noting how her mark had faded to barely visible lines.

"No tears," she commanded, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. "We have work to do and little time to do it."

"Work?"

"The succession rituals. Things you need to know that aren't written in any book." She gestured weakly to a table where several items lay arranged. "The kingdom's stability depends on more than just the mark passing cleanly."

For the next hour, Marianne walked him through rituals and secrets passed from Queen to Queen. The location of hidden vaults, the true names of certain magical artifacts, the blood prices that kept ancient wards stable. Arthur memorized every word, knowing there would be no second chances to learn these things.

"There's one more thing," Marianne said as her strength visibly waned. "The most important secret of all. The Spade’s Token."

"The what?"

"Some call it Spades' special item, though that name diminishes what it truly is." Her eyes bored into his with desperate intensity. "Each kingdom has one—an anchor for our magic, a physical manifestation of the original Compact that created the marks."

Arthur leaned forward. "What is it?"

"A pocket-watch. Larger than normal, made of silver so pure it seems to glow, with a zircon at its heart that holds the midnight sky." Marianne's breathing grew labored. "It looks ordinary, Arthur. That's its camouflage. But it's the source, the wellspring from which all Spades magic flows."

"Where-

"Aldric keeps it." She gripped his hand with surprising strength. "When he passes, you must secure it immediately. Only the monarchs of Spades can touch it safely—anyone else..." She shuddered. "I've seen what happens to those who try. The magic doesn't just reject them; it unmakes them."

"But we don't have a full quartet," Arthur protested. "Without a King-

"The watch will recognize you as Queen. That's enough to claim it, though not enough to unlock its full power." Marianne's eyes fluttered closed. "The King will reveal himself when the time is right. He has no choice—the mark will demand it, especially with the Token active again."

"Again?"

"We haven't used its true power in generations. Haven't needed to. But the storm that's coming..." She trailed off, exhaustion winning over urgency.

Chapter Text

The castle held its breath in the pre-dawn darkness, waiting for the inevitable. In the King's chambers, Aldric lay still as carved stone, each breath a monumental effort that seemed to pull the very air from the room. Healers moved like ghosts around his bed, their magic exhausted from trying to hold back the tide of fate.

Arthur sat vigil beside his King, he hadn’t asked about the pocket-watch yet or even looked for it beyond subtle glances here and there. The future Queen—though perhaps not so future anymore—looked haggard, frost patterns spreading unconsciously across the arms of his chair as his magic responded to his emotional state.

"Any change?" Yao asked softly from the doorway.

Arthur shook his head without looking away from Aldric's face. "He's holding on, but barely. The healers say it could be any moment."

"And Queen Marianne?"

"The same." Arthur's voice was hollow with exhaustion and grief. "They say she's waiting for him. That she won't let go until he does."

Yao entered fully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "The castle is prepared. The ceremony arrangements are in place for... after."

Such delicate words for such a brutal reality. Arthur appreciated Yao's attempt at gentleness, even as it chafed against his raw nerves. "And the search for the new King?"

"Continuing, though with limited success. We've checked every male of appropriate age in the capital. Either he's exceptionally skilled at hiding, or-

"Or he's not in the capital," Arthur finished. "I know. Keep searching. We need him now more than ever."

In another wing of the castle, Alfred paced his small room like a caged predator. Unlike Arthur, Alfred had been looking for the pocket-watch obsessively. Something was wrong. The mark on his arm, hidden beneath layers of cloth and binding, burned with increasing intensity. He'd dealt with its uncomfortable warmth for years, the occasional spike of heat when he was near Arthur or during moments of strong emotion. But this was different.

This was agony.

He pressed his back against the cool stone wall, trying to draw some relief from its chill. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the early morning cold. His hands shook.

Matthew stirred in his bed across the room. Even in the dim light, Alfred could see his brother's face crease with concern. "Al? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Alfred gritted out through clenched teeth. "Go back to sleep."

But Matthew was already sitting up, his Ace abilities no doubt picking up on Alfred's distress. "You're in pain. Serious pain. Should I get a healer?"

"No!" The word came out sharper than intended. Alfred forced his voice to calm. "No healers. It's just... a cramp. From training yesterday."

Matthew's expression said he didn't believe a word of it, but before he could press further, Alfred's knees buckled. The burning sensation spiked from uncomfortable to unbearable, racing up his arm and across his chest like liquid fire. He bit down on his own hand to muffle the scream that wanted to escape.

"Al!" Matthew was out of bed in an instant, catching Alfred before he hit the floor. "What's happening? This isn't a cramp-

"The King," Alfred gasped out, his vision blurring. "Something's wrong with the King."

Matthew's eyes widened with understanding. As an Ace, he could sense the truth in Alfred's words, even if he didn't fully comprehend their meaning yet. "I'll get help-

"No." Alfred's hand shot out, gripping Matthew's wrist with desperate strength. "Can't... can't let them see..."

The mark was burning through his bindings. Alfred could smell cloth singeing, feel the magical energy trying to burst free from years of suppression. He'd kept it hidden for so long, forced it down, compressed it into something manageable. But now it was fighting back with interest.

"The bathroom," he managed. "Help me to the bathroom."

Matthew half-carried, half-dragged him to their small private bathroom, kicking the door shut behind them. Alfred collapsed against the copper tub, shaking violently as waves of magical energy coursed through him.

"Al, you need to tell me what's happening," Matthew said urgently. "This is magical, isn't it? This is about your-

Alfred's scream cut him off. He couldn't hold it back anymore as the mark seemed to catch fire beneath his skin. With trembling fingers, he tore at his shirt, ripping the fabric away to reveal the bindings underneath. They were already blackened, edges crumbling to ash from the magical heat.

"Get them off," he gasped. "The bindings. Now."

Matthew didn't hesitate. He produced a small knife from somewhere—and when had his little brother started carrying weapons?—and carefully cut through the layers of cloth. As the last binding fell away, silver-blue light exploded from Alfred's arm.

The King of Spades mark blazed like a captive star, its intricate design now fully formed and impossible to hide. The crown and crossed swords seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat, magic pouring off them in waves that made the air itself sing.

"Oh, Al," Matthew breathed, but Alfred couldn't respond.

The pain was beyond anything he'd experienced. Worse than any wound, any torture, any training Volkov had put him through. This was his magic, suppressed for over a decade, finally breaking free. It wanted out, demanded release, and Alfred's body was paying the price for keeping it caged so long.

In the King's chambers, Aldric's eyes suddenly snapped open. Arthur jerked back in surprise as the dying King's hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.

"Your Majesty?" Arthur leaned closer. "What is it? What do you need?"

Aldric's mouth moved, no sound emerging at first. Then, with effort that seemed to pull from his very soul: "The King... rises..."

His grip loosened. The light in his eyes dimmed, flickered, and finally extinguished. King Aldric of Spades drew one last, rattling breath, and was still.

The moment Aldric's heart stopped, Alfred's world exploded.

He convulsed, back arching impossibly as magical energy erupted from every pore. The bathroom windows shattered outward, unable to contain the force. Unknown magic warred across the walls, creating impossible patterns that hurt to look at.

Matthew threw himself over his brother, trying to hold him still, trying to offer some anchor in the storm. "Al! Alfred, you need to fight this! You need to control it!"

But Alfred was beyond hearing. His mark blazed brighter than the sun, magic that had been compressed and denied for too long finally claiming its due. Every suppressed spell, every moment of forced restraint, every ounce of power he'd pushed down rather than acknowledge—it all demanded payment now.

In Queen Marianne's chambers, the dying Queen suddenly smiled. "Ah," she whispered to the healer attending her. "There he is. Aldric found him."

"Your Majesty?" The healer leaned closer. "Did you say something?"

"The King," Marianne's voice was barely a breath. "The King has risen. Now... now I can let go."

Arthur burst through the door just as Marianne's breathing began to slow. He'd run from Aldric's chambers, knowing instinctively that the Queen would follow her partner into whatever came next.

"Your Majesty," he said, dropping to his knees beside her bed. "Marianne, please-

"Sweet boy," she murmured, eyes finding his with effort. "No tears. This is... as it should be. The magic knows... what it's doing."

"I'm not ready," Arthur confessed, gripping her frail hand. "I don't know how to do this without you. Either of you."

"You won't be alone," Marianne said with surprising certainty. "The King... he's been here all along. Hidden, but here. Find him, Arthur. Find him and..." Her breath hitched. "Balance. There must always be... balance."

Her hand went limp in his grasp. The Queen's mark, already faded to near invisibility, dissolved completely in a shower of silver sparks. As it did, Arthur gasped as his own mark suddenly flared to life.

The sensation was not like a violent awakening. This was completion, like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place. His Queen mark solidified fully, the intricate patterns gaining depth and dimension that marked him as no longer future but present. The magic that had always been strong in him suddenly crystallized, becoming something greater, something that could command and protect an entire kingdom.

"Your Majesty," the healer said softly, and Arthur realized she was kneeling. "Long live the Queen."

The words hit like a physical blow. He was Queen now. Not future, not in training, but Queen of Spades in truth. The weight of it settled on his shoulders like a cloak made of stone.

Back in the bathroom, Alfred's transformation finally began to calm. The violent eruption of magic slowly settled into something more controlled, though no less powerful. He lay gasping on the floor, Matthew still holding him, both soaked with sweat from the ordeal.

Alfred hadn’t been held in so long. 

"Al?" Matthew's voice was rough with worry. "Can you hear me?"

Alfred's eyes fluttered open, and Matthew gasped. They were still blue, but now shot through with veins of silver, "Mattie?"

"I'm here." Matthew helped him sit up carefully. "Your mark... Al, it's fully formed now. You can't hide this anymore."

Though Matthew looked disturbed, he didn’t seem shocked. Maybe vaguely upset, as the slight frown on his face seemed to express. The world they grew up in was full of secrets and lies, this was the biggest one they had ever faced though. 

Alfred looked down at his arm, where the King's mark blazed proudly for the first time in his life. No more bindings could contain this. No more suppressions could hide what he was.

"The King is dead," he said softly, knowing it with certainty that went beyond logic. "Aldric is gone."

"Then you're-

"The King of Spades." The words felt foreign on his tongue. After so many years of denial, of hiding, of pretending to be less than he was, admitting the truth felt like stepping off a cliff. "Fuck."

Despite everything, Matthew let out a shaky laugh. "That's one way to put it."

A knock at their door made both brothers freeze. "Matthew? Alfred?" It was a page, voice high with stress. "You're needed immediately. The King and Queen... they've both passed. The castle is in-

The boy's words cut off as the door opened. Not the bathroom door, the main door to their quarters. Matthew had left his position to answer it, leaving Alfred alone for the moment.

Alfred forced himself to stand, legs shaky but holding. He caught sight of himself in the cracked mirror and almost didn't recognize the reflection. His mark was visible, of course, but more than that—there was a presence to him now, an aura of barely contained power that marked him as clearly as any crown.

He could hear Matthew making excuses to the page, buying time. Smart boy. They needed to think, to plan. The kingdom needed its King, yes, but revealing himself now, like this, covered in sweat and magical burns...

"Al?" Matthew reappeared in the doorway. "He's gone, but it won't be long before they come looking again. The whole castle is in chaos. They're saying Arthur's mark solidified when Marianne died. He's Queen now, truly."

Arthur. The thought of him facing this alone, grieving and overwhelmed, made something fierce rise in Alfred's chest. But he couldn't just walk out there and announce himself. Could he?

"We need to clean up," Alfred said, voice steadier than he felt. "And then... then we need to decide how to do this."

"The Celebration of Life," Matthew suggested. "Three days to mourn, then reveal yourself when the kingdom gathers. It would be-

"Dramatic?" Alfred's laugh was hollow. "Everything about this is dramatic. I just spent over a decade hiding what I am, and now..." He gestured at himself, at the mark that seemed to pulse with its own light.

Matthew stepped closer, expression serious. "Now you step up. Because I need you. The kingdom needs you. And maybe you need this too—to stop hiding, to stop pretending to be less than you are."

Alfred met his brother's eyes, seeing strength there that matched his own. When had Matthew grown up? When had his sickly little brother become this pillar of quiet determination?

They stood there for a moment, united by shared secrets and newfound purpose. Outside their window, the sun was rising on a kingdom in mourning. Soon, bells would toll for the fallen monarchs. The castle would drape itself in black. Diplomats would arrive with condolences and calculating eyes.

But in this small bathroom, amid shattered glass and scorch marks, something new had been born. Or perhaps reborn—the King that Spades desperately needed, finally ready to claim his throne.

Alfred just hoped he could learn to be a King before the weight of the crown crushed him entirely.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of transformation left Alfred feeling hollowed out and overfull simultaneously. He sat on his bed, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes that did nothing to hide the way his mark still pulsed with residual energy. Every few minutes, silver-blue light would flicker beneath his skin, and he'd have to consciously suppress the magic that wanted to manifest.

Matthew bustled around their quarters, laying out mourning clothes and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But Alfred caught him stealing glances, eyes drawn repeatedly to the mark that could no longer be hidden.

"Stop staring," Alfred muttered, pulling his sleeve down reflexively.

"I'm not staring." Matthew paused in folding a shirt. "Okay, I'm staring a little. But Al, do you understand what just happened? Your magic-

"Nearly tore me apart from the inside?" Alfred flexed his fingersl. "Yeah, I noticed."

"That's not what I meant." Matthew abandoned the clothing to sit beside him. "The power that came off you... I've never felt anything like it. And I can sense magic now, remember? What you were putting out was beyond even what Arthur manages when he's emotional."

Alfred grimaced. Of course it was. He'd spent years compressing his power, forcing it down, building dam after dam to hold back the flood. When those dams finally broke...

A knock at their door interrupted his brooding. Matthew answered it, and Alfred heard Yao's clipped tones requesting their presence at the emergency council meeting. Because of course there was a meeting. The kingdom had just lost both its rulers, the bureaucracy of death waited for no one.

"We'll be there shortly," Matthew promised, closing the door on Yao's suspicious expression. The Jack had been eyeing them strangely all morning, his political instincts no doubt screaming that something significant had happened.

"I can't go to a council meeting like this," Alfred said, gesturing to himself. "I can barely keep the magic contained. What if-

"Then we figure it out." Matthew's tone brooked no argument. "You're going to have to face them eventually. Better to start practicing now."

They compromised with Alfred binding his arm—not to hide the mark this time, but to help contain the magical overflow. The silk wrappings were spelled for healing, meant to ease magical strain. They helped, marginally, though Alfred could feel his power testing the boundaries with every heartbeat.

The council chamber was a study in controlled chaos. Nobles filled every seat, voices rising in argument about succession protocols, defensive preparations, and the still-missing King. Arthur sat at the head of the table, and Alfred's breath caught at the sight of him.

The new Queen was radiant with power, his mark glowing steadily with silver light that seemed to make the very air around him crystallize. But beneath the magical display, Alfred could see the exhaustion, the grief, the overwhelming weight of sudden responsibility. Arthur's hands were clenched so tightly on the table's edge that ice spread from his fingers in spider web patterns.

“—must consider the possibility that the new King is dead," Lord Pembroke was saying. "If the mark passed to someone already dying, or to someone who couldn't handle the transformation-

"The mark would pass again," Yao interrupted smoothly. "The magic always finds a suitable vessel."

"Then where is he?" Lady Morrison demanded. "We've searching for hours. Every guard, every mage, scouring the city for any sign of newly manifested royal magic. Nothing."

Alfred felt Matthew's hand on his elbow, either support or restraint. His brother could no doubt sense the way Alfred's magic spiked at the discussion of the "missing" King.

"Perhaps," Matthew said, his quiet voice somehow cutting through the noise, "we're approaching this wrong. If the new King has been hiding successfully until now, he clearly has reasons. Maybe instead of hunting him, we should create conditions that would make him feel safe to reveal himself."

Several nobles scoffed, but Arthur's attention fixed on Matthew with laser focus. "What do you suggest?"

"Amnesty," Matthew said simply. "Full pardons for any past actions taken before receiving the mark. Protection for any family or associates. A public declaration that the King will be welcomed without prejudice or investigation into his background."

"Preposterous," Lord Pembroke spluttered. "What if he's a criminal? What if he's-

"What if he's exactly what the kingdom needs?" Matthew countered. "The magic chose him. Are we so arrogant as to question that choice?"

Alfred watched Arthur process this, saw the moment understanding flickered in those green eyes. The Queen's gaze swept the room, lingering for just a moment on Alfred before moving on.

"The Ace makes a valid point," Arthur said slowly. "We'll issue a proclamation of amnesty immediately. Full pardons, full protection. The kingdom needs its King more than it needs to satisfy curiosity about his past."

The council erupted in arguments again, but Alfred barely heard them. Arthur knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he knew the King was close, was listening, was waiting for the right moment.

The meeting dragged on for another hour, covering funeral arrangements, diplomatic responses, and defensive preparations. Alfred stood in his designated servant's position, fighting to keep his magic contained while watching Arthur manage the chaos with growing competence.

When they finally escaped back to their quarters, Alfred collapsed on his bed, exhausted from the effort of suppression. "That was torture."

"That was necessary," Matthew corrected. "And you did well. No one noticed—"

The air in their room suddenly shifted, becoming charged with ozone and possibility. Alfred was on his feet instantly, gun in hand, as Gilbert materialized from seemingly nowhere.

"Now, now," Gilbert said, red eyes dancing with amusement. "Is that any way to greet a friend?"

"We don't have friends who appear from thin air," Alfred growled, not lowering the weapon.

"More's the pity." Gilbert sprawled in their single chair with catlike grace. "Congratulations on your awakening, Your Majesty. Though I must say, you made rather a mess of it."

Alfred's grip on the gun  tightened. "How do you-

"Know everything? It's a gift." Gilbert's expression turned serious. "Also a curse, but that's a story for another day. I came to offer assistance. And explanations. You're going to need both."

Gilbert produced a bottle from thin air—or maybe his coat, it was hard to tell. "Brandy? No? Your loss. Now then, let's discuss why our newly awakened King nearly blew himself apart during transformation."

"The suppressions," Alfred said tightly. "I kept the mark hidden too long-

"Partially correct." Gilbert poured himself a drink with theatrical precision. "But it goes deeper than that. Tell me, Your Majesty, what do you know about magical theory?"

"I know it hurts when compressed," Alfred replied flatly.

Gilbert laughed, bright and sharp. "Succinct. But magic isn't just energy, it's connection. Every person with a mark connects to the greater magical field that surrounds our world. Royal marks create the strongest connections, channels for vast amounts of power. But you?" He gestured with his glass. "You didn't just hide your mark. You severed your connection entirely."

Matthew made a small sound of understanding. "That's why it hurt so much when it finally broke through."

"Precisely." Gilbert's approving look made Matthew flush slightly. "Instead of a gradual flow over years, you got a decade's worth of magical backup flooding through all at once. It's a miracle you survived, honestly. Most people would have been reduced to very pretty ash."

"But I didn't," Alfred said. "Why?"

"Because you're stubborn beyond reason?" Gilbert suggested. "Or perhaps because your connection to certain other magical signatures helped ground you. Tell me, did you notice anything when the lovely future—excuse me, current—Queen was near?"

Alfred kept his expression carefully neutral. "Should I have?"

"Oh, you're good." Gilbert's grin widened. "But not that good. Your magic recognizes his. Has for years, I'd wager. King and Queen magic is complementary— light and dark, order and chaos. You've been unconsciously drawing on that connection to stabilize yourself."

"That's impossible," Alfred protested. "I've been suppressing-

"Your conscious magic, yes. But the deep connections? The ones written into the very nature of royal marks? Those can't be suppressed." Gilbert's expression turned sly. "Why do you think you've been so... attentive to our dear Queen? Professional interest, you tell yourself. But your magic has been trying to complete a circuit that your stubborn mind refused to acknowledge."

Alfred sank onto his bed, mind reeling. All those times he'd felt drawn to Arthur, had catalogued every detail of his existence, had reacted so strongly to his presence...

"So what do I do now?" he asked quietly.

"Learn." Gilbert stood, moving with that inhuman grace. "Your magic is raw, untrained, dangerous. You need to understand how to channel it properly before you reveal yourself. Lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent teacher."

"Are you?" Matthew asked, and there was something in his voice that made Alfred look up sharply. His brother was watching Gilbert with an expression Alfred had never seen before—interested, intrigued, attracted?

As far as he was concerned, Matthew shouldn’t know Gilbert or be familiar with him in any way. Alfred’s eyes narrowed as he watched them interact, he would have to ask Matthew about this later. 

"Among other things." Gilbert's attention fixed on Matthew with an intensity that made Alfred's protective instincts flare. "Your brother will need support during this transition. Perhaps we could discuss that later? Privately?"

"I don't think—" Alfred started.

"Sure," Matthew interrupted, meeting Gilbert's gaze steadily. "After all, if you're going to be teaching Alfred, we should get to know each other better."

Gilbert's smile was purely predatory, but somehow Matthew didn't seem intimidated. 

"Excellent. Later then. I know a lovely little place that exists between moments. Very private." Gilbert moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Alfred? When you do reveal yourself, and it should be soon, remember that being King isn't about power. It's about connection. You've spent so long cutting yourself off from others. Time to learn how to let them in."

He vanished between one blink and the next, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and brandy.

"What was that?" Alfred demanded, rounding on Matthew.

"What was what?" Matthew's innocence was ruined by the slight flush on his cheeks.

"That! Whatever that was!  With the mysterious magical being who pops in and out of existence!"

"I wasn't—" Matthew paused, then shrugged. 

"How do you even know who he is? He’s dangerous!"

"So are you." Matthew's calm logic was infuriating. "So is everyone in our lives now. At least Gilbert seems to want to help." He continued, “He appeared earlier, I know he’s the Black Joker. But face cards  have been known to interact with Jokers in the past so I don’t find it so unusual.”

Alfred wanted to argue further, but a wave of exhaustion hit him. The magical expenditure of the morning, combined with the emotional toll of the council meeting, left him feeling drained.

"Rest," Matthew said, switching into caretaker mode. "I'll handle the afternoon duties. You need to recover before..."

"Before I have to become King," Alfred finished. The words still felt foreign, impossible. He'd been Alfred the servant, Alfred the killer, Alfred the shadow for so long. How did one become Alfred the King?

As Matthew bustled about, preparing to leave, Alfred lay back and stared at the ceiling. In three days, the kingdom would gather to mourn their fallen rulers. In three days, he'd have to step forward and claim a throne he'd never wanted.

His mark pulsed with warmth, and for a moment, Alfred could swear he felt an answering pulse from somewhere else in the castle. Arthur's magic, reaching out unconsciously, seeking its match.

Alfred closed his eyes, letting exhaustion pull him under.

Chapter Text

The first day of mourning dawned grey and oppressive, as if the sky itself grieved for Spades' fallen monarchs. Alfred stood at his window, watching servants drape black banners from every tower and battlement. His left arm throbbed with barely contained power, the King's mark pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat despite the silk bindings meant to contain it.

"You're going to burn through those wrappings if you keep tensing like that," Matthew observed from his position at the desk, sorting through the mountain of correspondence that had arrived overnight. "That's the third set today."

Alfred forced his muscles to relax, though it did little to ease the magical pressure building beneath his skin. "It wants out," he said quietly. "The mark, the magic, everything I've kept locked away. It's like trying to hold back a flood with my bare hands."

"So stop holding it back," Matthew suggested, not looking up from his papers. "Gilbert said he'd help you learn control. Maybe it's time to take him up on that offer."

The mention of the Joker made Alfred's jaw tighten. He'd appeared twice more since their initial meeting, each time when Alfred was conveniently absent. The way Matthew's eyes lit up when discussing their mysterious visitor set off every protective instinct Alfred possessed.

"I don't trust him," Alfred said flatly.

"You don't trust anyone," Matthew countered. "But you're running out of time, Al. The memorial ceremony is in two days. You can't reveal yourself as King if you're accidentally freezing everyone in the room or whatever it is King magic does when it's out of control."

Before Alfred could respond, the air in their room shifted. The temperature dropped several degrees, and the scent of ozone filled the space. Gilbert materialized from nothing, lounging against the wall as if he'd been there all along.

"Speak of the devil," the Joker said cheerfully, "and he shall appear. Though technically, I'm more of a force of nature than a biblical entity."

Alfred's hand went automatically to his concealed weapon. "We've talked about you doing that."

"We've talked about many things," Gilbert replied, unperturbed by the threat. "Yet here we are, with you still leaking magic like a broken dam and the memorial approaching at an alarming rate. Tell me, Your Majesty, what exactly is your plan? Hope really hard that your power decides to behave itself?"

"I have it under control," Alfred lied.

Gilbert laughed, the sound like crystal chimes in a hurricane. "Oh, that's delightful. Matthew, dear, does he actually believe that?"

Matthew looked between them with poorly concealed amusement. "He likes to think he does."

"Betrayed by my own brother," Alfred muttered, but the complaint lacked heat. The truth was, he did need help. The burning in his arm had progressed from uncomfortable to agonizing, and he'd woken three times last night to find frost spreading across his sheets— except it wasn't frost, it was something else, something that made reality bend slightly around the edges.

"Fine," he said finally. "What do you suggest?"

Gilbert's grin widened. "Finally, some sense. We'll need somewhere private, away from prying eyes and fragile architecture. I know just the place."

He gestured, and a door appeared in the wall where none had existed before. Through it, Alfred could see what looked like a training ground, but one that defied conventional geometry. The space seemed to fold in on itself, distances shifting with each glance.

"After you, Your Majesty," Gilbert said with a mock bow.

Alfred glanced at Matthew, who made a shooing motion. "Go. I'll cover for you if anyone asks. Just... try not to destroy anything important."

Stepping through the impossible door felt like walking through cobwebs made of lightning. Alfred emerged in the training ground, immediately noticing how the oppressive weight of his suppressed magic seemed lighter here. The space itself was alien— floors and walls that couldn't decide if they were stone or starlight, a ceiling that might have been sky or void.

"Welcome to a pocket between moments," Gilbert said, appearing beside him. "Time moves differently here. We could spend hours training, and only minutes will pass in the real world. Useful for crash courses in 'How Not to Explode Your Kingdom with Uncontrolled Magic.'"

"What is this place?" Alfred asked, turning in a slow circle. He could feel his mark responding to the environment, pulsing with eager energy.

"A gift from the universe to those who walk between order and chaos," Gilbert replied cryptically. "But we're not here for philosophy. Take off the bindings."

Alfred hesitated. "The last time I did that-

"You were in a small bathroom with no outlet for the power. Here, you could level a mountain and reality would simply yawn and rebuild it." Gilbert's red eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Let it go, Alfred. Show me what a decade of suppression looks like when it's finally free."

With careful movements, Alfred unwound the silk wrappings. The moment the last binding fell away, power erupted from his mark like a geyser. But instead of the destructive chaos of before, here it simply... was. Silver-blue energy poured off him in waves, each pulse making the strange space ring like a bell.

"Magnificent," Gilbert breathed. "Do you see it? The way your magic wants to reshape reality around you? That's not King magic – that's YOUR magic, filtered through a King's mark. Every royal manifests differently."

"Arthur creates ice," Alfred said, watching his own power swirl through the air like liquid starlight.

"Arthur controls and freezes," Gilbert corrected. "His magic takes the chaos of the world and forces it into rigid patterns. Yours..." He studied the energy patterns with interest. "Yours wants to transform. To take what is and make it into what could be. Destruction and creation in equal measure."

Gilbert moved through Alfred's magical field with ease, unaffected by power that would have sent normal people to their knees. "The first lesson is simple: stop fighting it. You've spent so long viewing your magic as an enemy to be conquered. But it's part of you, as integral as breathing. Try working with it instead of against it."

"How?" Alfred asked through gritted teeth. The power was overwhelming, wanting to pour out in all directions at once.

"Intention," Gilbert said simply. "Magic responds to will. Right now, your will is scattered—you want to hide, to reveal, to protect, to destroy, all at once. Choose one thing. Focus on it. Let the magic follow that focus."

Alfred closed his eyes, trying to center himself. One thing. One focus. 

The wild energy suddenly snapped into alignment. Instead of chaotic waves, it flowed with purpose. Alfred opened his eyes to find he'd unconsciously shaped his magic into protective barriers, shields that could defend against almost any attack.

"Interesting," Gilbert murmured. "Your first instinct is protection. Not what I expected from the infamous Hitman Jones."

"I've always protected what's mine," Alfred said quietly.

"Yes, but the scale has changed, hasn't it?" Gilbert began walking in a slow circle around him. "It's not just Matthew anymore. It's an entire kingdom. It's a grieving Queen who doesn't know his King has been beside him all along. Tell me, how do you plan to handle that revelation?"

Alfred let the shields dissolve, pulling the magic back into himself. It came easier this time, though still not without effort. "Carefully."

Gilbert laughed. "Carefully? You're going to walk into that memorial ceremony and announce 'Surprise, I'm your King' carefully?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Several, actually." Gilbert produced his ever-present bottle of brandy from thin air. "But first, let's work on your control. You can't protect anyone if you're struggling just to contain your own power."

They trained for what felt like hours but was probably minutes in real time. Gilbert pushed Alfred through exercise after exercise—shaping magic into specific forms, containing it within defined spaces, releasing it in controlled bursts rather than explosive waves. It was exhausting work, but gradually, Alfred felt the wild energy settling into something more manageable.

"Better," Gilbert said finally. "Not good, but better. You'll need to practice constantly over the next two days. Every moment you're not maintaining your cover, you should be working on control."

"My cover," Alfred said bitterly. "Still playing servant while the kingdom mourns."

"Would you prefer to reveal yourself now? Walk into the throne room and claim your crown while you can barely keep your magic from manifesting?" Gilbert's tone was gentle despite the harsh words. "The game you've been playing doesn't end just because your mark is fully formed. If anything, it becomes more complex."

They returned to the real world through that impossible door, emerging to find Matthew exactly where they'd left him. Only a few minutes had passed, just as Gilbert promised.

"How did it go?" Matthew asked, looking up from his papers.

"I didn't destroy anything," Alfred said, sinking into a chair. He felt drained but also somehow lighter, as if releasing the magic had eased a pressure he'd carried so long he'd forgotten it was there.

"High praise indeed," Gilbert said dryly. "Same time tomorrow? We'll work on finer control and perhaps begin discussing how you plan to handle court politics when you can no longer solve problems with a knife in the dark."

He vanished before Alfred could respond, leaving only that lingering scent of ozone.

"I hate when he does that," Alfred muttered.

Matthew's lips twitched. "No, you don't. You hate that you're starting to trust him."

Alfred didn't bother denying it. They sat in companionable silence for a while, the weight of approaching change hanging between them. Tomorrow would bring more training, more preparation. But tonight, Alfred had other concerns.

"I need to check on something," he said, standing. "Cover for me?"

Matthew's knowing look said he knew exactly where Alfred was going, but he nodded. "Be careful, Al."

Alfred made his way through the castle's servant passages, moving by instinct and long practice. He'd walked these hidden ways countless times, but tonight they felt different. His newly awakened senses picked up residual magic in the walls, centuries of power soaked into stone, creating patterns visible only to royal eyes.

He found Arthur in the King's former study, surrounded by books and scrolls. The new Queen looked haggard, his hair disheveled and his formal robes replaced by simple clothes that made him look younger, more vulnerable. He was so absorbed in reading that he didn't notice Alfred's approach until he was nearly beside him.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked without looking up. His voice was hoarse, probably from crying, though Alfred would never mention it.

"You missed dinner," Alfred said, setting down a tray he'd prepared. Simple foods that Arthur preferred when stressed—tea with honey, bread still warm from the ovens, cheese and fruit that would provide energy without sitting heavy.

Arthur finally looked at him, green eyes dull with exhaustion. "I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway." Alfred's tone brooked no argument. "Starving yourself won't bring them back or make your responsibilities lighter."

They remained in silence. Alfred wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't come. Not yet. 

"The memorial is in two days," Arthur said finally. "The entire kingdom will gather to honor Aldric and Marianne. And somewhere out there, our missing King is hiding, letting me bear this weight alone." His voice turned bitter. "I hope he's enjoying his freedom while it lasts."

Alfred's mark burned beneath his shirt, responding to Arthur's pain. Soon, he promised silently. Soon you'll know everything.

But for now, all he could do was stand guard while Arthur returned to his search  for answers about the Spade's Token. Alfred found Arthur’s sudden interest in the Token interesting, after all, he himself needed to get his hands on it. He wasn’t sure what Hendrik’s wanted with it either. He would have figured Arthur would have already known everything there was to know about it living in the castle as long as he had. Alas he appeared to be wrong, maybe this was a tighter kept secret than he expected. But why?

 Alfred memorized every line of exhaustion on his face, every gesture of frustration, storing them away with all the other details that made up his impossible, inadvertent obsession.

Two more days. Two more days of secrets and training and careful control. Then everything would change.

The second day of mourning brought complications. News of the monarchs' deaths had spread beyond Spades' borders, and diplomatic envoys began arriving despite the traditional isolation of mourning periods. Alfred watched from servant positions as Arthur handled each with growing competence, though the strain showed in the ice that unconsciously formed wherever he lingered too long.

"The Hearts delegation wishes to pay their respects," Yao reported during an emergency council session. "King Ludwig is sending his personal representatives."

"Of course he is," Arthur said wearily. "Show them every courtesy. We can't afford to alienate allies now."

Alfred served wine and observed, noting which nobles seemed genuinely supportive and which were already calculating how to use the kingdom's vulnerability. His mental list of future problems grew with each meeting.

The final day of preparation passed in a blur. Alfred trained with Gilbert, pushing his control to its limits. He practiced shaping his magic into shields and weapons, learned to contain the overwhelming surges of power that still caught him off-guard. Gilbert was a harsh but effective teacher, demanding perfection with each exercise.

"Remember," Gilbert said during their final session. "The moment you reveal yourself, every noble in that room will be evaluating you. Show weakness, and they'll tear you apart politically. Show too much strength, and they'll unite against you out of fear. You need to find the balance."

"No pressure," Alfred muttered, pulling his magic back into himself after another exhausting drill.

"Pressure creates diamonds," Gilbert replied. "Or it crushes things into dust. Let's hope you're the former."

That evening, Alfred stood before his mirror, studying his reflection. Tomorrow, everything would change. No more hiding, no more pretending to be less than he was. The thought should have been liberating. Instead, it terrified him in ways that facing armed enemies never had.

Matthew appeared in the mirror behind him. "You'll do fine," his brother said quietly. "You've been preparing for this your whole life, even if you didn't know it."

"Have I?" Alfred turned to face him. "I know how to kill, how to lie, how to survive. But being King? Leading people instead of eliminating them?"

"You've been leading me since we were children," Matthew pointed out. "You protected the other kids in Hendriks' organization, even when it cost you. You've been taking care of people your whole life, Al. This is just a larger scale."

They embraced, drawing comfort from familiar closeness. Tomorrow would bring chaos and change. But tonight, they were still family, facing an uncertain future together.

The memorial ceremony dawned clear and cold. The castle's great hall had been transformed into a space of mourning, black banners hanging from every surface, magical lights dimmed to respectful levels. Nobles filled every available space, kingdoms from across the realm sending representatives to pay their respects.

Alfred stood in his designated servant position, watching Arthur take his place at the front of the hall. The Queen wore formal robes of deepest black, the crown of Spades gleaming on his brow. He looked regal and remote, every inch the monarch he'd been trained to be.

The ceremony began with traditional words, hymns to the fallen, recounting of their deeds and service. Alfred barely heard them. His focus was on his mark, on the magic he held leashed by will alone. Soon. Soon he would have to release it all.

"And now," the herald announced, "we call upon any who would speak for the dead to come forward."

Various nobles approached, offering prepared speeches about Aldric and Marianne. Alfred watched Arthur endure each with stone-faced composure, though his magic leaked with every mention of the former monarchs.

Then Alfred stepped forward.

"I did not know your fallen rulers well," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "But I know they died with one great regret—that their successor was incomplete. A Queen without her King, struggling under a burden meant to be shared."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. This was highly irregular, speaking of the missing King during a memorial for the dead.

"But," Alfred continued, "that regret will be addressed today."

"What are you implying?" Arthur asked, voice sharp with suspicion.

Alfred smirked. "I'm not implying anything, Your Majesty."

The hall fell silent, everyone looking around as if the missing King might suddenly materialize. 

"My name," he continued, louder than before, "is Alfred F. Jones. I have served this castle as Matthew Williams' attendant."

Jones wasn’t a terribly uncommon last name, but someone with a sharp mind could find the truth about him if they looked hard enough.

He began unbuttoning his shirt, ignoring the shocked gasps and Arthur's sharp intake of breath. The bindings beneath were already starting to smoke, his magic too powerful to be contained any longer.

"And before all of that," Alfred continued, pulling away the final layers, "I was chosen."

The King's mark blazed to life, silver-blue light erupting from his arm with enough force to make nearby nobles stumble backward. Power rolled off him in waves, transforming the very air around him. The servant was gone. In his place stood the King of Spades, terrible and magnificent in his long-delayed revelation.

Hendriks would surely have something to say about this, after all, this  made his performance earlier with that rogue assassin look like child’s play. He still had a task to do, but Hendriks was about to learn that a pawn couldn’t control a king. 

"Impossible," Someone whispered.

"A servant? The King is a servant?"

Alfred ignored them all, his gaze fixed on Arthur. The Queen had gone perfectly still, ice spreading from where his hands gripped the podium. Those green eyes held shock, betrayal, and something else—something that might have been recognition.

"Your Majesty," Alfred said, offering a perfect bow that somehow made a mockery of every bow he'd given before. "I apologize for my delay. I'm here now."

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, chaos erupted. Nobles shouting, guards moving uncertainly, magical energy crackling. But Alfred heard none of it.

All his attention was on Arthur, who had stepped down from the podium and was approaching with deadly intent. 

They stood face to face in the center of the storm, King and Queen finally revealed to each other. Arthur's hand rose, whether to strike or cast Alfred couldn't tell. He didn't move to defend himself. After all the deception, he owed Arthur this moment of reckoning.

"You," Arthur breathed, and that single word held volumes. Accusation, understanding, and a grief that cut deeper than any blade.

"Me," Alfred confirmed simply.

"We need to talk," Arthur said, voice deadly calm. "Now."

Chapter Text

The private study felt too small to contain the storm brewing between them. Arthur had chosen the location deliberately—King Aldric's former sanctuary, where memories of the dead monarch lingered like ghosts in every corner. Alfred stood near the door, not quite blocking the exit but positioning himself with the instinctive calculation of someone who always planned for violence. Old habits died hard, even when wearing a crown.

"Sit," Arthur commanded, his voice carrying the kind of ice that preceded avalanches.

Alfred remained standing. "I prefer to be on my feet for this conversation."

"I said sit." Magic flared around Arthur, frost racing across the windows in sharp, geometric patterns that spoke of barely controlled fury. "You've played servant for months. One more act of obedience won't kill you."

The words cut deeper than Arthur probably intended. Alfred moved to one of the leather chairs, settling into it with deliberate care. His own magic pulsed beneath his skin, wanting to rise to meet Arthur's display of power, but he forced it down. This wasn't the time for magical dominance games.

Arthur didn't sit. Instead, he paced the room like a caged predator, each step leaving traces of frost on the ancient carpet. "How long?"

"How long what?" Alfred asked, though he knew perfectly well what Arthur meant.

"Don't." Arthur whirled to face him, and the temperature dropped another five degrees. "Don't you dare play word games with me now. How long have you known you were the King?"

Alfred considered his options. More lies would be easy—he'd built his entire life on deception. But looking at Arthur's face, seeing the betrayal written in every line, he found himself choosing something far more dangerous: truth.

"Since I was s boy," he said quietly.

The admission hung in the air between them. Arthur's pacing stopped, his entire body going still in that way that preceded either explosion or collapse. 

"Hurt like hell," Alfred added, remembering the burning transformation. "I was already working... A King's mark would have made me a target. So I hid it."

"For over a decade." Arthur's voice was deadly quiet now, which was somehow worse than shouting. "You hid it while I searched the entire kingdom. While people died claiming false marks. While I—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"While you walked the Lower District in disguise, looking for answers?" Alfred suggested. His mind was racing even as he spoke, calculating angles that had nothing to do with Arthur and everything to do with the crisis waiting for him outside this room. Hendriks would know by now. News of the King's revelation would have reached the Lower District within minutes. What would the crime lord do with his escaped weapon? And more pressingly, what did he truly want with the Spade's Token?

"You knew." Arthur's laugh was bitter as winter wind.

"I had survival," Alfred added. "That's all people like me ever have. You grew up in a Highland estate with brothers who loved you and enough food to eat. I grew up in alleys where children disappeared every day and the strong fed on the weak. Don't lecture me about choices when you've never had to make the kinds I did."

They stared at each other across a chasm of experience and understanding. Alfred's mind churned through possibilities even as he maintained eye contact. The Token was somewhere in this castle—probably in this very room, given it was Aldric's private space. He needed to find it before Hendriks made his move. But why did a crime lord want an artifact that only royals could touch? What possible use could he have for something that would unmake him if he tried to handle it directly?

Unless he didn't plan to handle it directly. Unless he had someone else in mind...

The thought sent cold that had nothing to do with Arthur's magic down Alfred's spine. He'd assumed Hendriks wanted the Token for its power, but what if it was simpler than that? 

"You could have trusted me," Arthur said finally, and there was something broken in his voice that made Alfred's chest tight.

"Could I?" Alfred stood, unable to remain seated with the energy crackling between them. "The first time we truly interacted, you slammed me against a wall with ice. You suspected me of murder—correctly, I might add. What part of that screamed 'trustworthy confidant' to you?"

"Don't." Arthur's voice turned sharp again. "Don't you dare make this about my reactions when you were the one lying with every breath. Every word you spoke to me was calculated manipulation."

"Not every word," Alfred admitted, then immediately wished he hadn't. Arthur's eyes widened slightly, catching the implication.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Alfred turned away, ostensibly to examine the bookshelves but really to buy himself time to think. His fingers traced along leather spines, muscle memory from his servant days making him straighten volumes that didn't need straightening. Somewhere among these books or in the desk drawers or hidden in some secret compartment was the Token. He could feel it now that he was looking—a subtle pull on his magic, like calling to like.

"It means," he said carefully, "that sometimes the mask slipped. Sometimes I forgot I was playing a role."

"When?" Arthur moved closer, and Alfred could feel the heat of him despite the cold magic. "When did you forget?"

"Does it matter?" Alfred turned back to face him, schooling his expression into neutrality. "We are where we are. King and Queen of Spades, bound by duty if nothing else. The past is-

"The past is everything!" Arthur exploded, ice erupting from his hands to coat the entire wall behind Alfred. "The past is you watching me struggle alone while you hid in plain sight! The past is you serving me wine while knowing you should have been beside me! The past is-

He cut himself off again, breathing hard. Alfred watched him fight for control, cataloguing every tell. Even now, even furious and betrayed, Arthur was magnificent. The way his magic responded to emotion, the way his hands clenched and unclenched as if reaching for weapons that weren't there, the way his green eyes had gone grey with fury—Alfred memorized it all, adding to his vast mental collection of Arthur Kirkland details.

"The past is me being a fool," Arthur finished quietly. "Thinking there was something between us. Some connection that transcended rank and station."

"There was," Alfred said before he could stop himself. When Arthur's gaze snapped to his, he forced himself to continue. "Is. Whatever you want to call it. Your magic recognized mine even when I kept it hidden. That's not calculation—that's nature."

"Nature." Arthur laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what we're calling it?”

Alfred stepped closer to Arthur, letting his own magic flare for the first time. Silver-blue light filled the room, clashing with Arthur's ice in patterns that made reality bend at the edges. "You want to judge me for my choices? Fine. But don't pretend you understand the position I was in. Don't pretend you would have done differently if it was your brothers' lives at stake."

Arthur flinched at the mention of his brothers. "Don't bring them into this."

"Why not? Family is why we're both here." Alfred pressed on, even as part of his mind continued searching for the Token's location. There—a subtle resonance from the desk. Hidden drawer, probably. Warded, certainly. But accessible to a King's touch. "You came to the castle to find your youngest brother, Peter if I remember correctly. I came to save Matthew. Everything else is just... complications."

"Complications," Arthur repeated. Though his face was grim from the mention of Peter. "Is that what you call lying to my face for months?"

"Would you prefer I call it survival?" Alfred asked. "Or necessity? Or any of the other pretty words we use to justify the ugly things we do?"

They stood barely a foot apart now, magic swirling around them in competing patterns. Alfred could see every detail of Arthur's face—the way his jaw clenched when angry, the slight scar above his left eyebrow from some childhood accident, the way his eyes couldn't seem to decide if they wanted to freeze Alfred solid or something else entirely.

"I hate you," Arthur said quietly, but his magic said otherwise. Instead of the sharp, aggressive cold of true anger, it had shifted to something softer. Snowflakes rather than ice shards, drifting between them like nature's question marks.

"No, you don't," Alfred replied with equal quiet. "You hate that I lied. You hate that I made you doubt yourself. But you don't hate me."

"Arrogant bastard." But Arthur didn't step back. If anything, he moved closer, close enough that Alfred could feel his breath. "You think you know everything. Think you can manipulate everyone around you and face no consequences."

"I know I'll face consequences," Alfred said. His mind was racing now, not with schemes but with the simple overwhelming fact of Arthur's proximity. "I already am. Do you think this was how I wanted to reveal myself? In the middle of a memorial, with the entire court watching? I would have chosen differently if I could."

"Then why didn't you?" Arthur's voice broke slightly on the question. "Last night, when you brought me food. Or any of the dozen times we were alone. Why not tell me then?"

The honest answer was complicated. Part of it was fear—of Hendriks, of exposure, of losing the careful balance that kept Matthew safe. Part of it was habit, the ingrained instinct to keep secrets that had kept him alive this long. But part of it...

"Because I'm a coward," Alfred admitted.

Arthur's breath caught. For a moment, the room was perfectly still, magic and men alike frozen in potential. Then Arthur's hand came up, not to strike but to rest against Alfred's chest, right over his heart.

"Your name." Arthur laughed,like he just remembered something important,  but it was shaky. "You even lied about your name. Johnson. Alfred Johnson." His hand pressed harder against Alfred's chest, as if he could feel the deception beneath skin and bone. "What else? What else about you is fabricated?"

Alfred caught Arthur's wrist but didn't pull his hand away. The touch burned through his shirt, a point of warmth in the cold room. "My first name is real."

"Jones." Arthur tested the name Aflred had announced earlier. "Not Johnson. Why the deception? What could a surname possibly matter when you were already hiding so much more?"

Alfred's mind raced through possible explanations. The truth—that Jones was a name known in certain criminal circles, that Hendriks had wanted the extra layer of protection—was impossible to share. Not without revealing everything, and that would destroy whatever fragile thing existed between them.

"In the Lower District," Alfred said carefully, "names carry weight. Some names open doors. Others..." He let the implication hang. "Johnson was safer. More forgettable."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Safer from what? What aren't you telling me?"

Everything, Alfred thought but didn't say. Instead, he gently removed Arthur's hand from his chest, though he couldn't quite bring himself to let go of his wrist. "Does it matter? I'm here now, revealing everything that counts. My mark, my identity as King-

"Everything that counts?" Arthur jerked his hand free, stepping back. The loss of contact felt like deprivation. "You don't get to decide what counts, Alfred. Every lie matters.”

"You want to know why I really kept the Johnson name?" Alfred moved closer, noting how Arthur didn't retreat. "Johnson felt cleaner. Like maybe I could be someone else in the castle. Someone better."

Alfred thought of Hendriks, of the obligations that hadn't disappeared just because he'd revealed his mark. Of the Token hidden somewhere in this very room that he still needed to find. Of all the blood on his hands that Arthur couldn't know about—not yet, maybe not ever.

"Some secrets are better buried," he said finally.

"And some secrets have a way of clawing their way to the surface." Arthur moved closer, close enough that their magic mingled in the space between them. "But I suppose we have time to unearth them. After all, we have a kingdom to run together."

Together. The word sat strangely between them, full of promise and threat in equal measure.

"Can you do that?" Alfred asked, genuinely curious. "Work with me, knowing I've lied? Knowing there are still things I'm not telling you?"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, frost patterns shifting on the windows like living things. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "But I know I have to try. The kingdom needs both of us."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't trust. But it was a beginning. 

Chapter Text

Alfred decided to return to the study later that evening, when he was sure Arthur was elsewhere, he moved through the palace with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years navigating dangerous waters, though now he did it wearing the metaphorical crown he'd hidden for so long.

He waited until well past midnight before making his move. The castle slept uneasily, magical wards humming with the kind of nervous energy that came from uncertainty. Alfred had memorized the patrol patterns during his months as a servant, old habits that now served a new purpose. He moved through shadows that seemed to part for him now, his revealed magic making him one with the darkness in ways he was still learning to understand.

The door to Aldric's private study stood before him, warded and locked as it had been during his confrontation with Arthur. But things were different now. Alfred pressed his palm against the ancient wood, feeling his mark pulse with recognition. The King's magic knew this place, knew every stone and spell that comprised the castle's bones. The wards shimmered, tested him for a heartbeat, then melted away like morning mist.

Inside, the study remained as they'd left it—ice patterns still decorating the walls from Arthur's emotional display, books scattered where nervous energy had driven the Queen to pace. Alfred closed the door behind him, sealing it with a thought. His magic responded eagerly, weaving protections that would give him warning if anyone approached.

Now, to find what Hendriks wanted so badly.

Alfred moved to the desk first, running his fingers along its edges. The Token's presence was stronger here, a subtle pull that made his mark tingle with anticipation. He'd felt it during his argument with Arthur but hadn't dared investigate with the Queen watching his every move. Now, alone in the quiet darkness, he could follow that pull to its source.

The desk was a masterwork of craftsmanship, carved from wood so old it predated the kingdom itself. Alfred found the first hidden compartment easily—too easily. It contained documents, certainly, but nothing that sang with the kind of power he sought. The second compartment held magical artifacts, but they were tools, not the foundational item he needed.

It was the third compartment that made him pause. Not because it was better hidden—in fact, it was almost insultingly obvious once he knew to look. A simple panel that responded to royal touch, sliding away to reveal a space just large enough for...

Alfred's breath caught.

The pocket watch was larger than normal, just as the texts had described. Made of silver so pure it seemed to glow with its own inner light, decorated with delicate engravings that hurt to look at directly. At its center, visible through crystal that might have been diamond or something far more precious, lay a zircon of such deep blue it contained entire nights within its facets. The Token of Spades, the anchor of their kingdom's magic, sitting innocuously in a desk drawer like a forgotten heirloom.

But he was the King now, revealed and acknowledged. His mark blazed with silver-blue light as he slowly extended his hand toward the Token. The moment his fingers made contact, the world exploded into sensation.

Power rushed through him like a river breaking through a dam. Not the wild, uncontrolled surge of his suppressed magic finally breaking free, but something older, deeper, more fundamental. This was the magic of Spades itself, the concentrated essence of every mark that had ever been or would ever be. Alfred saw flashes—the first King making his devil's bargain, generations of monarchs drawing on the Token's power, the delicate balance that kept their kingdom from tearing itself apart.

And underneath it all, a pulse like a heartbeat. The Token was alive in ways that defied understanding, not sentient exactly but aware. It recognized him, accepted him, welcomed him home like a piece of himself he hadn't known was missing.

Alfred lifted the Token carefully, marveling at its weight. Heavier than its size suggested, as if it carried the responsibility of every decision every monarch had ever made. The chain attached to it was made of the same impossible silver, links that looked delicate but felt unbreakable.

He should put it back. Should leave it hidden and safe until he and Arthur could claim it together, properly, with ceremony and witnesses. That would be the wise thing, the proper thing.

Instead, Alfred found himself opening the watch.

The interior was impossible. Where there should have been clockwork, there was depth—layers upon layers of magical construction that made his eyes water to follow. The hands didn't tell time in any conventional sense. They traced patterns across the face that spoke of power flows, of connections between every marked person in Spades, of the delicate balance between order and chaos that the Jokers maintained.

And there, in the center of it all, that midnight zircon pulled at him with irresistible force. Alfred touched it with one finger, just the briefest contact—

The world shifted.

He stood in a vast space that wasn't quite real, surrounded by threads of light that connected to every corner of Spades. Each thread was a person, a life, a story interconnected with thousands of others. The marked ones blazed brighter—he could see Matthew's silver Ace light, steady and growing stronger. He could see Arthur's brilliant ice-blue radiance, beautiful and terrible in its intensity. He could see the nobles, the servants, even the Jokers existing partially outside the pattern, maintaining its stability.

And he could see the threats. Dark spots where the pattern frayed, places where foreign magic pressed against their borders. Clubs blazed with sickly green light to the east, something wrong in its pattern, something that made the Token pulse with warning.

"Impressive," a voice said from everywhere and nowhere. "Most Kings take years to achieve even basic attunement. But then, you've always been exceptional, haven't you?"

Alfred spun, searching for the source, but he was alone in this space between spaces.

"The Token remembers all who bear it," the voice continued, and Alfred realized it wasn't external—it was the Token itself, or rather the accumulated will of every monarch who'd touched it. "We remember the first King's bargain. We remember the price that was paid. We remember why the balance must be maintained."

"What's in Clubs?" Alfred asked the vastness. "What's wrong with their pattern?"

Images flooded his mind in response. A King driven mad by power, draining his kingdom's magic for personal gain. The Emerald Trump Card corrupted, twisted into something it was never meant to be. And at the center of it all, a young boy, kept in chains of magic and gold.

Peter Kirkland. The Red Joker. Arthur's missing brother.

"The balance breaks," the voice whispered urgently. "Clubs' madness spreads like poison. Soon, intervention will not be enough. The Compact itself will shatter unless..."

"Unless what?" Alfred demanded, but the vision was already fading. He found himself back in Aldric's study, the Token heavy in his hands, its surface warm as if it had been held against skin for hours.

He closed the watch with shaking fingers, mind reeling from what he'd seen. Hendriks wanted this—but why? What could a crime lord do with an artifact that would destroy him if he touched it? Unless...

Unless he knew about the visions. Unless he wanted information about the kingdom's weak points, about the patterns that could be exploited. Or unless he had someone else in mind to wield it, someone with royal blood who could be controlled.

The thought sent ice through Alfred's veins that had nothing to do with Arthur's magic. He needed to protect the Token, but more than that, he needed to understand Hendriks' true goals. The game was more complex than simple theft or power grabbing. This was about the fundamental structure of their world.

Alfred slipped the Token inside his shirt, feeling it settle against his chest like it belonged there. The weight was comforting and terrifying in equal measure. He now carried the heart of Spades' magic, the key to powers he barely understood.

The study door's ward shimmered—someone approaching. Alfred moved instinctively, melting into shadows that welcomed him like old friends. But the presence that entered wasn't a guard or a curious noble.

Gilbert materialized in the center of the room, red eyes immediately fixing on where Alfred hid. "You can come out," the Joker said cheerfully. "Shadows don't hide much from someone who walks between reality's edges."

Alfred stepped forward, hand going automatically to where the Token rested. "Making a habit of appearing uninvited?"

"It's something of a specialty." Gilbert's gaze dropped to Alfred's chest, and his casual demeanor sharpened into something far more serious. "Ah. You found it. Or perhaps it found you, the Token can be peculiar about such things."

"You knew it was here."

"I know many things." Gilbert moved closer, and Alfred could feel the Joker's magic probing at the edges of his awareness. Not threatening, exactly, but evaluating. "The question is what you plan to do with it."

"Return it to safety," Alfred said carefully. "It belongs protected, not-

"Not in the hands of someone like Hendriks?" Gilbert's smile was sharp as winter moonlight. "Yes, I know about your former employer's interests. The Lower District whispers of many things to those who know how to listen."

Alfred's jaw clenched. "If you're here to threaten-

"Threat? My dear King, I'm here to help." Gilbert produced his ever-present bottle, pouring two glasses this time. "The Token you carry is more than just Spades' anchor. It's one quarter of the original Compact, the binding that created the marked system itself. In the right hands, it's a tool of incredible power. In the wrong hands..."

"It unmakes them," Alfred finished.

"If they're lucky." Gilbert handed him a glass, which Alfred didn't touch. "If they're unlucky, it does something far worse—it corrupts them, body and soul, until they become walking violations of natural law. Rather like what's happening in Clubs, actually."

Alfred's fingers tightened around the Token through his shirt. "You know what's happening there."

"I know the King of Clubs has done something unforgivable to the Emerald Trump." Gilbert's red eyes blazed with an anger that made the room's temperature drop. "I know he holds my counterpart prisoner, using Peter Kirkland as a battery for magics that should never be combined, and you know that as well. I know the corruption spreads daily, and soon it will be too late to stop without shattering the Compact entirely."

"Then why haven't you acted?"

"Because, Your Majesty, Jokers are bound by rules older than kingdoms." Gilbert's expression turned bitter. "We maintain balance, but we cannot directly interfere with mortal sovereignty. We can guide, suggest, occasionally manifest at dramatic moments—but we cannot simply stride into Clubs and liberate our stolen brother."

"But I can," Alfred said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn.

"Yes. Monarchs have authorities Jokers lack. And with the Token..." Gilbert gestured to Alfred's chest. "You have a weapon that could counter whatever abomination Mikhail has created. If you're clever enough to use it properly."

Alfred finally accepted the glass, though he still didn't drink. "And if I'm not clever enough?"

"Then we all fall together." Gilbert's tone was light, but his eyes remained deadly serious. "The four kingdoms exist in delicate balance. Shatter one pillar, and the rest topple. Mikhail thinks he can control the collapse, direct it to his advantage. He's wrong, but by the time he realizes it, we'll all be drowning in the consequences."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of approaching catastrophe settling around them like a shroud. Finally, Alfred asked the question that had been nagging at him since the Token's visions.

"Why does Hendriks want it? He can't use it himself."

Gilbert's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "Can't he? You assume he wants to touch it directly. But what if he simply wants a pawn to use it—to depend on its visions, its power, its seductive whispers of absolute control?"

The implications hit Alfred like a physical blow. Of course. Hendriks didn't need to wield the Token himself. He just needed someone, someone like Matthew, to wield it while still tangled in obligations and threats. And Hendriks knew how easy it would be to manipulate them, after all Alfred could be controlled through Matthew, through his past, through the blood on his hands.

"He still has Graham," Alfred said quietly. "Still has leverage."

"He has what you allow him to have." Gilbert drained his glass in one smooth motion. "You're King now, Alfred Jones. Your former master is about to learn what that means, if you're brave enough to teach him."

Gilbert moved toward the door, then paused. "A word of advice? Don't let Arthur know you have the Token yet. He'll want to lock it away, safe and proper and utterly useless for what's coming. Keep it close, learn its moods and messages. You'll need every advantage in Clubs."

"And Matthew?" Alfred couldn't help asking. "Your interest in him-

"Is genuine, if that's what concerns you." For the first time, something soft entered Gilbert's expression. "Your brother is remarkable. The Ace magic has awakened things in him that... well. That's a conversation for another time. Just know that I would see him safe, regardless of my feelings."

Gilbert vanished between one breath and the next, leaving Alfred alone with a divine artifact and too many questions. The Token pulsed against his chest, warm and alive and terrifyingly powerful. He'd sought it for Hendriks, but now he understood it was far more than either of them had imagined.

Alfred made his way back to his quarters, mind already spinning through possibilities. He had training to complete, a kingdom to learn to rule, a relationship with Arthur to somehow navigate. And beneath it all, the growing certainty that their journey to Clubs would be far more dangerous than anyone anticipated.

The Token hummed against his skin, its magic intertwining with his own in ways that felt both foreign and inevitable. Whatever power it contained, whatever secrets it held, Alfred would need to master them quickly.

Time was running out, and the balance of their entire world hung by threads thinner than spider's silk.

But first, he needed sleep. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—Arthur's attempts to train him in proper royal protocol, Yao's suspicious attention, the court's continued adjustment to their servant-turned-King. Alfred touched the Token one last time, feeling its pulse match his heartbeat, then forced himself to set aside its mysteries for a few hours' rest.

In his dreams, he saw threads of light connecting every soul in Spades, and at the eastern border, a creeping darkness that threatened to devour them all.

Chapter Text

Dawn came too early, bringing with it a polite but insistent knock at Alfred's door. He'd barely slept, the Token's presence against his chest filling his dreams with visions of interconnected threads and creeping corruption. Matthew was already awake, sitting at his desk with the kind of focused concentration that meant he was parsing particularly complex intelligence.

"Come in," Alfred called, quickly ensuring the Token was hidden beneath his shirt. Its weight had already become familiar, a constant reminder of responsibilities he was only beginning to understand.

A nervous page entered, bowing so low he nearly lost his balance. "Your Majesty, His Majesty Queen Arthur requests your presence in the Blue Solar for..." the boy swallowed hard, "for your initial instruction in royal protocols."

Matthew disguised his snort of laughter as a cough. Alfred shot him a glare that promised retribution later, then turned his attention back to the trembling page. It was strange, being addressed as 'Your Majesty' by people who'd ignored him for months as a mere servant. The reversal of power should have been satisfying. Instead, it just made him tired.

"Tell His Majesty I'll be there shortly," Alfred said, gentling his tone when the page flinched. No need to terrify the staff more than his revelation already had.

After the boy fled, Matthew looked up from his papers with undisguised amusement. "Royal protocols? This should be entertaining."

"Don't you have Ace duties to attend to?" Alfred grumbled, searching for appropriate clothing. Everything in his wardrobe was either servant's attire or the simple clothes he'd worn in the Lower District. Nothing suitable for a King, apparently.

"My duties this morning involve watching my brother fumble through etiquette lessons," Matthew replied cheerfully. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Alfred found what looked like the most formal outfit he owned, black trousers and a deep blue shirt that at least didn't have visible patches. It would have to do until someone figured out the King needed a new wardrobe. The Token rested against his chest as he dressed, its pulse a constant reminder of secrets he couldn't share.

The Blue Solar lived up to its name, walls painted in shades that reminded Alfred of deep water and winter skies. Arthur stood by the windows, morning light creating a halo effect around his ash-blond hair. He'd chosen his position deliberately, Alfred realized—backlit and regal, every inch the Queen despite his youth.

"You're late," Arthur said without turning around.

Alfred checked the ornate clock on the mantel. "By two minutes."

"Kings don't arrive two minutes late. They arrive precisely when expected, or they send word of delay." Arthur finally turned, and Alfred caught his breath at the controlled fury in those green eyes. "Your first lesson: punctuality is power. Every moment you make someone wait diminishes their respect for your authority."

"Noted," Alfred said, fighting the urge to bristle at the lecturing tone. He'd agreed to this training, knowing he needed skills beyond knife-work and deception to rule effectively. But taking instruction from Arthur, after everything between them, felt like swallowing glass.

Arthur gestured to a table laden with more silverware than any meal could possibly require. "We'll start with formal dining. Stop making that face—yes, it's tedious, but wars have started over perceived insults at state dinners. Using the wrong fork isn't just embarrassing, it's potentially catastrophic for diplomacy."

For the next hour, Arthur walked him through the intricate dance of royal dining. Which glass for which wine, the silent signals to servants, the proper way to eat foods Alfred had never encountered. It was mind-numbing and seemingly pointless, but Arthur's intensity suggested deeper importance.

"The fish fork," Arthur said, patience clearly wearing thin, "is not interchangeable with the salad fork."

"They look identical," Alfred protested, holding up the offending utensils.

"They're completely different. Look—the tines, the weight, the..." Arthur reached over to demonstrate, their fingers brushing as he adjusted Alfred's grip. Both men froze at the contact, magic sparking between them like static electricity.

Arthur jerked back as if burned. "Pay attention," he said sharply, though his voice had gone rough. "We don't have time for your willful incompetence."

"My willful—" Alfred set down the forks with deliberate care. "I'm trying to learn your arbitrary rules. Sorry if I don't immediately grasp why it matters which tiny piece of metal I use to put food in my mouth."

"Because it's not about the fork!" Arthur's composure cracked, ice forming on the table's surface. "It's about showing you belong. Every noble in that dining hall will be watching for signs of weakness, for proof that the servant-king doesn't deserve his throne. One mistake, one sign that you don't understand our world, and they'll tear you apart."

The raw honesty in Arthur's voice made Alfred's defensive anger falter. "I survived the Lower District politics. I think I can handle some judgmental nobles."

"Can you?" Arthur moved closer, close enough that Alfred could see the exhaustion he'd hidden beneath royal bearing. "The Lower District kills with knives in the dark. The court kills with whispers and policies and unanimous votes of no confidence. Your skills there won't save you here."

Alfred felt the Token pulse against his chest, responding to his emotional turmoil. He wanted to tell Arthur about it, about the visions and warnings, about the growing certainty that Clubs' corruption threatened everything. But Gilbert's warning held him back. Arthur would want to lock it away, safe and useless.

"Then teach me," Alfred said quietly. "Really teach me, not just... whatever this performance is."

Arthur studied him for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "Fine. But if we're doing this properly, you need to understand that every rule has a reason. Even the ones that seem foolish."

The morning progressed differently after that. Arthur still corrected his mistakes, but now he explained the why behind each protocol. How using the correct honorific could secure an alliance or prevent a war. How the angle of a bow conveyed everything from respect to barely veiled insult. How knowing which topics to avoid at dinner could be the difference between successful negotiations and diplomatic disaster.

"Power in court isn't about strength," Arthur explained as they moved through the proper forms of address for various ranked nobles. "It's about perception. If they perceive you as legitimate, you are. If they don't, all the royal blood in the world won't save you."

"Seems fragile," Alfred observed, practicing the slight incline of head that acknowledged a Duke without implying equality.

"All power is fragile. That's why we guard it so carefully with rules and rituals." Arthur demonstrated the same gesture, making it look effortless. "Your power comes from fear and capability. Mine comes from tradition and training. Neither is inherently stronger, but the nobles understand mine. Yours terrifies them."

"Good," Alfred said before he could stop himself.

Arthur's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Sometimes. Fear can be useful, but it's a blade that cuts both ways. Push them too far into terror, and they'll unite against the threat you represent."

They were interrupted by Matthew's arrival, the Ace looking unusually formal in his official robes. "Sorry to interrupt the etiquette boot camp, but Yao's called an emergency council session. Something about intelligence from the Clubs border."

Alfred and Arthur exchanged glances, their personal tensions momentarily set aside. They made their way to the council chamber, Alfred hyperaware of every protocol Arthur had just taught him. The way he entered the room (confidently but not aggressively), where he sat (to Arthur's left, maintaining the traditional King-Queen positioning), how he acknowledged the assembled nobles (eye contact with equals, brief nods to lesser ranks).

Yao waited until they were settled before beginning. "We've received troubling reports from our border stations. Clubs has begun massing troops along the eastern frontier. Not enough for immediate invasion, but sufficient to concern our military advisors."

"How many?" Arthur asked, ice already forming on his water glass.

"Three battalions so far, with supply lines suggesting more to follow." Yao spread a map across the table, marking positions with precise efficiency. "More concerning is the magical anomalies our scouts report. The very air at the border has become... unstable."

Alfred felt the Token grow warm against his chest. The corruption he'd seen in his vision was spreading faster than expected. "What kind of anomalies?"

"Reality distortions. Places where the ground shifts without warning, where time moves strangely. One scout reported seeing his own death, then narrowly avoiding the exact circumstances minutes later." Yao's expression was grim. "Whatever King Mikhail is doing, it's affecting the fundamental structures of magic itself."

"He has the Red Joker," Alfred admitted quietly. When everyone turned to stare, he continued, "Peter Kirkland. He's been held in Clubs for years, used for... something."

Arthur had gone very still. "You're certain? Peter is alive?"

"Alive, but changed. The bonds holding him are..." Alfred paused, searching for words. "Imagine trying to chain smoke. It's possible, but the effort required warps everything around it."

"Then our diplomatic mission becomes a rescue," Arthur said firmly. "We get Peter out."

"It won't be that simple," Yao warned. "King Mikhail won't just hand over a prisoner, especially one he's apparently using for magical experiments. We need to be prepared for-

The council chamber doors burst open, admitting a travel-stained messenger who looked like he'd ridden through hell. "Your Majesties," he gasped, falling to one knee. "Urgent news from Clubs."

"Speak," Arthur commanded.

"King Mikhail has issued a formal invitation. He requests the presence of Spades' new monarchs for..." the messenger swallowed hard, "for a celebration of your ascension. He's offering to negotiate new trade agreements and discuss border tensions."

Silence fell over the chamber. Alfred could feel the trap closing around them, neat as any he'd ever set himself. Mikhail knew they were coming, had probably known since the moment Alfred revealed himself. This invitation was bait, pure and simple.

"When?" Alfred asked.

"Two weeks hence, Your Majesty. He's promised safe passage and full diplomatic immunity."

"The promises of madmen are worth less than air," someone muttered.

Arthur looked at Alfred, a wealth of communication in that glance. They both knew this was a trap. They also knew they had no choice but to walk into it.

"Send our acceptance," Arthur said finally. "We'll attend King Mikhail’s celebration."

After the council dispersed, Alfred found himself walking with Arthur and Yao toward the Jack's private offices. The advisor had insisted on additional preparation, muttering about monarchs with death wishes and the impossibility of keeping them alive.

"You realize this is exactly what Mikhail wants," Yao said once they were secure in his study. "He's drawing you onto his territory, where his corrupted magic is strongest."

"We know," Arthur replied. "But if Peter is truly there..."

"You'd walk into hell itself," Yao finished with a sigh. "Your dedication to family is admirable, Your Majesty, but it could get you killed."

"My dedication to family is why I'm here at all," Arthur shot back. "I won't abandon Peter again."

Alfred watched the exchange, mind calculating angles. The Token pulsed with each mention of Clubs, growing warmer as if in warning. He needed to learn more about its capabilities before they walked into Milhail's web.

"We need advantages," Alfred said, drawing their attention. "Information about Clubs' court, Mikhail's weaknesses, the layout of his castle. I can reach out to..." he paused, carefully choosing his words, "former contacts in the Lower District. People who might have intelligence."

Yao's eyes narrowed. "Former contacts? You mean criminals."

"I mean survivors," Alfred corrected calmly. "People who've learned to gather information because their lives depend on it. Unless you'd prefer to walk in blind?"

"Do it," Arthur said before Yao could object. "We need every advantage. Yao, coordinate with our spies already in Clubs. I want to know every servant, every guard rotation, every possible exit."

They spent the rest of the day planning, mapping out contingencies and fallback positions. Alfred contributed where he could, his knowledge of infiltration and assassination providing grimly practical counterpoints to their diplomatic approaches.

As evening fell, Alfred excused himself, claiming exhaustion. Instead of returning to his quarters, he slipped into an unused tower room he'd discovered during his servant days. It was time to understand exactly what he carried.

The Token seemed to anticipate his intentions, growing warm the moment he drew it out. In the dying light, it looked almost alive, silver surface rippling with patterns that defied observation.

"Show me," Alfred whispered, opening the watch.

The world exploded into light and sensation. He was back in that space between spaces, but this time he could feel Arthur's presence like a distant star, cold and beautiful and achingly far away. The threads connecting Spades' citizens seemed clearer now, and he could see the damage spreading from the east, dark veins of corruption reaching toward healthy tissue.

But more than that, he could feel the Token's potential. It wasn't just a viewing device or a magical anchor. In the right hands, with the right will behind it, it was a weapon capable of rewriting reality itself. The first Kings had used it to create the marked system. What could current Kings do with that same power?

"Dangerous thoughts," that collective voice whispered. "Power corrupts as surely as Clubs' madness. Would you follow Mikhail’s path?"

"Not for personal gain," Alfred replied to the vastness. "But to save the kingdom? To stop the corruption? What wouldn't I do?"

The vision shifted, showing him possibilities. The Token amplifying his magic until he could freeze the corruption in place. Arthur beside him, their combined power channeled through the artifact to burn away Mikhail's madness. But also darker paths—the Token's whispers becoming commands, its power becoming addiction, until he was no different from the mad King they sought to stop.

"Every monarch faces this choice," the voice said sadly. "Power enough to save everything, at the cost of everything worth saving. Choose wisely, young King. The Token serves, but it also tests."

Alfred closed the watch, returning to the mundane world with effort. His hands shook slightly as he tucked it back beneath his shirt. Such power, such temptation. No wonder Arthur would want it locked away. No wonder Hendriks wanted it in hands he could control.

A sound at the door made him turn, hand going to a weapon that wasn't there. But it was only Matthew, looking concerned in the moonlight.

"Al? I felt... something. Your magic spiked hard enough to register through the castle's wards." His brother moved closer, Ace abilities no doubt parsing Alfred's emotional state. "What were you doing?"

"Preparing," Alfred said carefully. "Clubs won't be like anything we've faced before. I need every advantage."

Matthew studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "Including advantages Arthur doesn't know about?"

"Especially those." Alfred met his brother's gaze steadily. "You know what I am, Mattie. What I've always been. That doesn't change just because I wear a crown now."

"Doesn't it?" Matthew asked softly. "The Alfred I grew up with protected me at any cost. The King of Spades has to protect an entire kingdom. Those aren't always compatible goals."

The words hit harder than any physical blow. Alfred pulled his brother into a fierce embrace, feeling the truth of it in his bones. "You'll always come first," he said roughly. "King or not, you're my priority."

"I know," Matthew replied, returning the embrace. "That's what worries me."

They stood there in the moonlight, brothers bound by love and secrets and the growing certainty that Clubs would test every bond they had. The Token pulsed between them, unnoticed by Matthew but impossible for Alfred to ignore.

Two weeks to prepare. Two weeks to learn enough royal protocol to survive court, enough magic control to face corruption, enough strategy to navigate Mikhail's madness. It seemed simultaneously too long and nowhere near enough.

But Alfred had survived worse odds. He'd just never had so much to lose before.

Chapter Text

The castle had transformed into a hive of controlled chaos in the days following the acceptance of Mikhail's invitation. Alfred stood in what had been hastily designated as his office. Scrolls and ledgers covered every surface, each one demanding decisions he felt woefully unprepared to make.

"The trade convoy from Hearts requires your seal," Eduard said, presenting yet another document. "They're requesting preferred status for grain shipments."

Alfred scanned the document, the Token pulsing warm against his chest as if offering its own opinion. In the three days since he'd first truly connected with it, the artifact had become something between a companion and a curse. Its awareness pressed against his consciousness during every decision, showing him the threads of consequence that spiraled out from each choice.

"What are the implications?" Alfred asked, buying time while the Token whispered of trade routes and winter famines, of the delicate balance between kingdoms that such preferences could disturb.

"Hearts would expect reciprocal treatment for their goods," Eduard explained with the patience of someone used to educating nobles. "It could strain our relationship with Diamonds, who currently holds preferred status for luxury items."

Alfred saw it then, through the Token's perception, the web of obligations and jealousies that held the four kingdoms in precarious balance. One thread pulled too tight, and the entire structure could collapse. "Approve it conditionally," he decided. "Six-month trial period, with reviews based on actual grain quality and delivery reliability." Alfred had been in the palace long enough, heard enough, to know how to handle these situations. It was one of the plus sides to keeping such a diligent eye on Arthur. 

Eduard made notes with quick efficiency. "Very practical, Your Majesty. Shall I prepare similar frameworks for the other pending trade agreements?"

"Do that." Alfred was already turning to the next crisis, a dispute between two minor noble houses that somehow required royal intervention. The Token showed him their true motivations: not the water rights they claimed to fight over, but a generations-old feud about to explode into violence.

The morning continued in similar fashion, an endless parade of decisions that seemed minor individually but collectively shaped the kingdom's future. Alfred found himself relying on the Token's insights more with each passing hour, its visions showing him ramifications he never would have considered.

By noon, his head throbbed from the constant magical input. When a knock came at his door, he almost snarled at the interruption.

"Enter," he managed instead, not looking up from a particularly complex tax proposal.

"You missed breakfast," Arthur's voice made him glance up sharply. The Queen stood in the doorway holding a tray, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the servant-like task. "And lunch, apparently."

Alfred blinked, realizing the sunlight had shifted significantly since he'd started working. "I've been-

"Drowning in bureaucracy, yes. I can see that." Arthur entered uninvited, setting the tray on the only clear corner of desk. "Eat. A king who collapses from hunger helps no one."

The simple fare—bread, cheese, cold meat, and surprisingly, honey cakes—made Alfred's stomach growl embarrassingly. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until food appeared.

"Thank you," he said carefully, aware of the strange reversal. Arthur serving him food, when weeks ago their positions had been opposite.

Arthur didn't leave as expected. Instead, he prowled the office, examining the chaos with a critical eye. "You're trying to do everything at once."

"There's a lot that needs doing." Alfred took a bite of bread, nearly moaning at the simple pleasure of it. "Aldric left things in good order, but weeks of uncertainty have created backlogs."

"Delegate," Arthur said simply. "You have administrators for a reason. Your role is to make the crucial decisions, not approve every grain shipment personally."

"How do I know which decisions are crucial?" The question came out more honestly than Alfred intended. "Everything seems to connect to everything else. One wrong choice could-

"Could what? Destroy the kingdom?" Arthur's laugh was surprisingly gentle. "Alfred, kingdoms are more resilient than that. They survive bad harvests, stupid wars, even terrible kings. One imperfect decision won't doom us all."

Alfred felt the Token pulse, showing him visions of kingdoms that had fallen to accumulated small failures. But also kingdoms that had survived despite repeated disasters, held together by will and tradition and stubborn refusal to break.

Arthur continued "There is a different matter I’d like to discuss with you. Your wardrobe." 

Alfred glanced down at his simple clothes, the best he'd owned as a servant but clearly inadequate for a king. "I suppose I need formal attire."

"You need a complete wardrobe. Formal, casual, traveling clothes, armor—" Arthur cut himself off, color rising in his cheeks. "I've asked the royal tailors to attend you this afternoon."

"Armor?" Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Clubs respects intelligence. We will show them our intelligence by highlighting our strengths and not appearing weak. Arriving in ceremonial armor sends a message." Arthur moved toward the door, clearly eager to escape. "The tailors will explain the options."

"Arthur." The name stopped the Queen at the threshold. "Thank you. For the food, the advice. All of it."

Something complex crossed Arthur's face—frustration, longing, and that ever-present anger at being deceived. "We're bound together now, whether we like it or not. I'd prefer you alive and functional for this partnership."

He left before Alfred could respond, but the Token showed him what eyes couldn't see—the way Arthur's magic reached out unconsciously, seeking its match. Their power wanted to connect, to complete the circuit that would make them stronger together than apart.

Alfred forced himself to focus on the remaining work, but his mind kept drifting to Arthur's presence, the way he'd moved through the office like he belonged there. Which he did, Alfred realized. This should have been their shared space, King and Queen working in harmony.

Instead, they were barely civil strangers, preparing to walk into a trap together.

The afternoon brought fresh torments in the form of three royal tailors armed with measuring tapes and opinions. They descended on Alfred like well-dressed vultures, tsking over his proportions and muttering about rushed timelines.

"The formal robes must be perfect," the head tailor, a severe woman named Madame Corset, declared. "You represent Spades before foreign powers. Every thread must speak of authority and strength."

Alfred endured being measured, draped, pinned, and generally treated like a mannequin. The Token's presence made it worse—its magic interfered with some of the enchanted fabrics, causing them to spark or change color unexpectedly.

"What is that?" Madame Corset demanded when a length of silk suddenly turned from deep blue to silver where it touched his chest.

"Magical resonance," Alfred said blandly. "New king, unstable power. You know how it is."

She clearly didn't but was too professional to press. The fitting continued with more mundane fabrics, though Alfred noticed her making notes about magical resistance requirements.

Matthew arrived as they were finishing, slipping into the office with characteristic quiet. He watched the proceedings with barely hidden amusement, waiting until the tailors departed before speaking.

"You look like you've been tortured."

"I have been." Alfred collapsed into his chair, exhausted by standing still. "How do nobles endure that regularly?"

"Practice and resignation." Matthew's expression grew serious. "I've been working with our intelligence network. The reports from Clubs are... concerning."

Alfred straightened, the Token immediately responsive to potential threats. "What have you learned?"

"The corruption is worse than our scouts reported. Entire villages near the capital have been evacuated due to magical instability. Reality breaks down apparently at random—buildings aging decades in minutes, people forgetting their own names, that sort of thing."

"And Peter?" The question hurt to ask, knowing how much Arthur needed his brother safe.

"Still alive, as far as we can determine. But the conditions of his imprisonment..." Matthew shook his head. "If the reports are accurate, Mikhail isn't just holding him. He's using him as some kind of magical focus, channeling power through a Joker in ways that should be impossible."

The Token pulsed urgently, sharing visions of what happened when divine magic was perverted. Alfred saw realms unraveling, natural laws becoming suggestions, the very concept of truth dissolving into chaos.

"We need to be prepared for anything," he said finally. "Conventional strategies won't work against that level of corruption."

"Gilbert might have insights," Matthew suggested, too casually.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Gilbert's been visiting you again."

"He has knowledge we need." Matthew met his gaze steadily. "And before you protest, he's been nothing but helpful. His information about Clubs matches our intelligence perfectly."

"He's a Joker. They don't do 'helpful' without ulterior motives."

"Neither do kings," Matthew countered. "Yet here you are, planning to save a kingdom that barely knows your name."

It was a fair point, though Alfred didn't appreciate it. Before he could respond, another knock interrupted. This time it was a familiar page.

"Delivery…," the page announced, clearly uncomfortable with the association. "of special herbs for His Majesty."

Alfred's blood chilled. Hendriks, making his move already. The Token showed him threads of possibility—violence, blackmail, political maneuvering. All of them ended badly.

"I’m no longer in need of said herbs," Alfred said evenly. 

The page bowed and departed. Matthew watched Alfred with knowing eyes.

"You can't avoid him forever."

"I can avoid him for two weeks." Alfred stood, suddenly needing movement. "After Clubs, I'll deal with Hendriks properly."

"And if he doesn't wait?" Matthew asked. "He still has Graham. Still has leverage."

Alfred felt the Token's weight against his chest, its power whispering seductive solutions. He could unmake Hendriks, dissolve the threads that gave the crime lord power, reshape reality until the threat simply... wasn't.

The thought terrified him more than any physical danger.

"Then we handle it," he said firmly. "But not today. Today I have to figure out which fork to use at state dinners."

Matthew's laugh broke the tension. "Arthur's etiquette lessons that traumatic?"

"You have no idea." But Alfred found himself almost smiling.

The Token pulsed again, showing him threads of gold connecting him to Arthur, growing stronger despite the anger between them. Soul bonds, the collective voice whispered. Some connections transcend choice.

Alfred pushed the knowledge aside. He had enough complications without adding mystical destiny to the mix.

As evening fell, Alfred made his way to the castle's training grounds. He needed physical activity after a day of mental exhaustion, needed to move and fight and remember who he was beneath the crown's weight.

The grounds were nearly empty, most guards at dinner. But a familiar figure moved through sword forms in the fading light, ice crystals hanging in the air to mark each perfect strike.

Arthur trained like he did everything else, with focused intensity and technical precision. His form was flawless, each movement flowing into the next with deadly grace. But Alfred could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his magic leaked when his control slipped.

"Your left side drops when you're tired," Alfred called out, unable to help himself.

Arthur spun, sword coming up automatically before he registered who spoke. "How long have you been watching?"

"Long enough." Alfred entered the training ring, noting how Arthur didn't lower his weapon. "Want a sparring partner?"

"You know swordwork?" Skepticism colored Arthur's tone.

Alfred picked up a practice blade, testing its weight. "I know enough."

They circled each other warily. Arthur struck first, a testing blow that Alfred parried easily. The surprise on Arthur's face was worth revealing this particular skill.

"Where did a servant learn swordplay?" Arthur pressed his attack, each strike probing for weaknesses.

"Same place I learned everything else." Alfred shifted to offense, driving Arthur back with a series of quick strikes. "Survival requires diverse skills."

They fell into a rhythm, strike and counterstrike, advancing and retreating across the worn stones. Arthur's technique was superior, but Alfred had learned to fight dirty. When Arthur executed a perfect classical sequence, Alfred disrupted it with tactics no noble would consider.

"That's cheating," Arthur gasped when Alfred used the pommel to create an opening.

"That's winning." But Alfred grinned as he said it, enjoying the outrage on Arthur's face.

Their magic began to respond to the combat, ice meeting shadow in patterns that made reality shimmer. The Token sang against Alfred's chest, recognizing the complementary nature of their power. Together, it whispered. Stronger together.

Arthur must have felt it too because he suddenly disengaged, breathing hard. "We should stop. Before someone notices the magical discharge."

Alfred lowered his sword reluctantly. The fight had felt good, clean in a way politics never would be. "Same time tomorrow?"

"I—" Arthur visibly struggled with the offer. "Yes. You need the practice if you're going to avoid embarrassing us in Clubs."

It wasn't quite acceptance, but it was progress. They returned their weapons in companionable silence, the tension between them shifted into something less sharp, though no less present.

"Alfred," Arthur said as they prepared to part ways. "The Token. Aldric kept it somewhere in the castle. Have you... sensed anything?"

The lie came automatically. "Nothing concrete. Should I be looking?"

"No." Arthur's response was too quick. "That is, it's better kept hidden for now. Too many people would kill for that kind of power."

Including you? Alfred wondered but didn't ask. Instead, he said, "Understood. Though eventually we'll need it, won't we? To combat whatever Mikhail's doing in Clubs?"

Arthur's expression grew troubled. "Perhaps. But the Token is dangerous, Alfred. It shows you possibilities, whispers of what could be. Kings have gone mad listening to its promises."

"Good thing we have each other then," Alfred said lightly. "To keep each other sane."

The look Arthur gave him was unreadable. "Yes. Good thing."

They parted ways, but Alfred felt Arthur's presence like a phantom limb, their magic wanting to maintain the connection forged in combat. The Token pulsed agreement, showing him visions of what they could accomplish together—corruption burned away, balance restored, Clubs saved from its mad king.

All he had to do was trust Arthur with the truth. And that, Alfred admitted to himself, might be the hardest challenge he'd faced yet.

The next days blurred together in a haze of preparation. Alfred trained with Arthur each evening, their sparring sessions becoming the highlight of increasingly stressful days. He endured more fittings, memorized more protocols, made more decisions that shaped thousands of lives.

Through it all, the Token remained constant against his chest, its whispers growing clearer with each passing hour. It showed him Hendriks' growing desperation, the crime lord's plans adjusting to the reality of a king who wouldn't be controlled. It revealed the threads of corruption spreading from Clubs, reality growing thinner at the borders. Most troublingly, it hinted at deeper patterns—ancient bargains coming due, prices that would be paid in blood and magic and sacrifice.

But Alfred kept these visions to himself, adding them to his growing collection of secrets. He'd built his life on hidden truths. What was one more, even if this one might determine the fate of four kingdoms?

Chapter Text

The letter arrived at dawn on the fourth day, delivered by a crow that shouldn't have been able to penetrate the castle's wards. Alfred recognized the handwriting immediately, Hendriks had always had unnecessarily elaborate penmanship for a crime lord.

Your Majesty,

How quickly we rise. From gutter to throne in one dramatic gesture, I confess myself impressed. Though I wonder if you've considered the full implications of your elevation.

Graham sends his regards. He's been assisting with special projects that require his particular expertise. Such delicate work, especially at his age. Accidents happen so easily in our line of business.

I find myself curious about certain items of historical significance. Surely a King would have access to artifacts a mere servant could never touch. We should discuss mutually beneficial arrangements.

Your devoted subject (how strange to write that),
Hendriks

Alfred burned the letter with a thought, his magic responding to his fury with eager flames. The Token pulsed against his chest, showing him visions of Graham in chains, forced to work on devices that blurred the line between mechanism and torture. His uncle looked older, grayer, fear etched into every line of his face.

"Threatening mail?" Matthew asked from the doorway. He'd developed an uncanny ability to appear whenever Alfred's emotional state spiked.

"Hendriks grows impatient." Alfred forced his magic back under control, though frost still edged the window where his power had leaked. 

"Will you go to him?"

"No." The answer came immediately, driven by instinct rather than strategy. "Let him stew. A desperate enemy makes mistakes."

Matthew moved into the room, studying Alfred with those too-knowing eyes. "And Graham?"

"Survives or doesn't based on his own choices." The words tasted like ash, but Alfred forced them out. "I can't save everyone, Mattie. You told me that yourself, a king protects the kingdom, not every individual within it."

"I didn't mean for you to abandon family."

"Graham abandoned us first." Alfred turned away, unable to bear the disappointment in his brother's eyes. "He made his choices. We live with the consequences."

They stood in uncomfortable silence until another knock interrupted. This time it was Eduard, bearing the morning's catastrophes and Alfred's carefully scheduled day.

"Your Majesty, the Hearts delegation has requested an adjustment to their trade agreements based on your provisional approval. Also, the border reports indicate increased activity from Clubs—nothing overtly hostile, but concerning nonetheless."

Alfred accepted the documents, grateful for the distraction from personal failures. "Schedule a meeting with the Hearts representatives for this afternoon. What kind of activity from Clubs?"

"Scouting parties that turn back just before crossing into our territory. Magical emanations that our mages describe as 'probing.' They're testing our defenses without quite committing to provocation."

The Token shared its own intelligence, showing Alfred the truth beneath surface movements. Mikhail wasn't testing defenses—he was spreading corruption like seeds, hoping some would take root in Spades' soil before the delegation arrived. A weakened kingdom would be easier to manipulate.

"Double the border patrols," Alfred ordered. "And have our mages create purification wards at regular intervals. Whatever Mikhail's planning, we won't give him contaminated ground to work with."

Eduard made notes efficiently. "Shall I inform His Majesty Queen Arthur of these developments?"

"I'll tell him myself." Alfred was already moving, needing action to combat the frustration building in his chest. "We train together most mornings anyway."

If Eduard found that statement interesting, he was too professional to comment. Alfred left him to manage the morning's lesser crises while he sought out Arthur.

He found the Queen in the castle's library, surrounded by ancient texts and looking haggard. The magical lights flickered occasionally, responding to Arthur's unstable emotional state.

"When's the last time you slept?" Alfred asked without preamble.

Arthur glanced up, green eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Queens don't require sleep when their brothers are held captive by madmen."

"Queens who collapse from exhaustion can't rescue anyone." Alfred moved closer, noting the books Arthur had gathered—all about Jokers, magical corruption, and the original Compact that created their system. "Find anything useful?"

"Theories and legends." Arthur pushed a text toward him. "The Jokers were created as balance to the monarchs, but the exact mechanism remains unclear. What Mikhail's doing, using a Joker as a power source, should be impossible."

Alfred sat beside him, careful to maintain proper distance despite the way their magic reached for each other. The Token warmed against his chest, eager to share its knowledge, but he forced it to silence.

"Perhaps impossible is just another word for unprecedented," he suggested. "Magic evolves. What was impossible yesterday becomes tomorrow's innovation."

"Innovation." Arthur's laugh was bitter. "Is that what we're calling the torture of children now?"

"Peter's not a child anymore." The words came out wrong, too harsh. Alfred tried again. "What I mean is, he's survived this long. That takes strength. Your brother might be more resilient than you fear."

Arthur's magic flared, dropping the temperature significantly. "You don't know him. Don't presume-

"I know survival," Alfred interrupted. "I know what people can endure when they have no choice. Peter's alive, Arthur. Focus on that."

They glared at each other across centuries of accumulated knowledge. Then Arthur's shoulders slumped, fight draining out of him.

"You're right. I just... I need him to be okay.”

"We'll get him back," Alfred said quietly. "Whatever it takes."

Arthur studied him with those penetrating eyes. "Even if it costs us everything?"

"Especially then." Alfred stood, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy of shared purpose. "The border situation requires attention. Mikhail's testing our defenses."

He explained Eduard's report, watching Arthur shift from grieving brother to tactical Queen. It was a fascinating transformation—spine straightening, expression sharpening, magic settling into readiness rather than distress.

"We need a formal response," Arthur decided. "Something that acknowledges his provocations without escalating. Yao will know the proper diplomatic language."

They found the Jack in his office, somehow unsurprised by their joint arrival. Yao had an uncanny ability to appear wherever the kingdom needed him most.

"Your Majesties. I assume this is about the border situation?" At their nods, he continued, "I've already drafted three potential responses, ranging from polite concern to barely veiled threat. Given our upcoming visit, I recommend the middle path."

Arthur reviewed the drafts while Alfred watched, learning through observation. The language was deliberately layered—surface courtesy hiding steel warnings, each word chosen for multiple meanings.

"Send the second version," Arthur decided. "But have our fastest riders ready. If Mikhail escalates, I want to know immediately."

The morning continued with more preparations. Alfred found himself in strategy meetings with military advisors, diplomatic sessions with the Hearts representatives (who wanted much more than he was willing to give), and architectural consultations about reinforcing magical defenses.

Through it all, the Token whispered insights. Which advisor secretly sympathized with Clubs' expansionist policies. Which Hearts representative could be swayed with personal favors rather than national ones. Which defensive positions would crumble first if Mikhail attacked.

By afternoon, Alfred's head pounded from magical overload. He escaped to the training grounds, hoping physical exertion would quiet the artifact's constant input.

Arthur was already there, moving through sword forms with vicious precision. Ice trailed each strike, leaving frozen afterimages that shattered moments later.

"You're angry," Alfred observed, selecting his practice blade.

"Brilliant deduction." Arthur didn't pause his routine. "Did the Token tell you that?"

Alfred froze. "What?"

Arthur finally stopped, turning to face him with expression carved from winter stone. "Did you think me stupid? The magical resonance, the way you touch your chest when making decisions, the sudden insights into things you couldn't possibly know?" He laughed bitterly. "I know you have it, Alfred.."

The Token pulsed urgently, showing Alfred branching possibilities. Denial, confession, partial truth—each path led to different futures, some bright, some catastrophic.

"When?" was all he asked.

"The first night we sparred. Your magic carries its signature now, like perfume clinging to clothes." Arthur's sword point dropped to rest against the stones. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I—" Alfred stopped, forced himself to honesty. "Eventually. When I understood it better."

"Understood it? It's not a puzzle to solve, Alfred. It's the heart of our kingdom's power, and you've been carrying it around like a pocket watch!"

"Aldric carried it like a pocket watch," Alfred countered. "Hidden in a desk drawer, gathering dust. At least I'm learning its capabilities."

"Learning." Arthur moved closer, magic crackling around him like barely contained lightning. "Is that what you call it? Playing with forces that drove kings mad?"

"Someone has to!" Alfred's own power rose to meet Arthur's challenge. "Mikhail has corrupted Clubs' Trump Card, twisted it into something monstrous. You think we can face that with conventional magic? With pretty diplomatic words?"

They stood barely a foot apart, power clashing between them in patterns that made reality buckle. The Token sang, recognizing its Queen, wanting them united rather than opposed.

"Show me," Arthur demanded suddenly.

"What?"

"The Token. Show me what you've learned." His voice dropped, almost pleading. "Maybe you're right. Maybe conventional approaches won't work. So show me what will."

Alfred hesitated. Sharing the Token's visions meant vulnerability, meant letting Arthur see not just the artifact's power but how Alfred had been using it. But looking into those green eyes, seeing desperate hope beneath the anger, he couldn't refuse.

He pulled the Token out slowly, noting how Arthur's breath caught at the sight. In daylight, it looked almost ordinary, just an oversized pocket watch with unusual decorations. But they both felt its power, the way it made the air itself sing with possibility.

Arthur's hand hovered near the Token, close enough to feel its warmth but not making contact. "Open it."

Alfred thumbed the catch, letting the Token fall open between them. Immediately, the world shifted. They stood in that space between spaces, surrounded by threads of light and connection. But this time, Arthur stood with him, their combined presence making the visions clearer, more detailed.

"By the old gods," Arthur breathed, turning in a slow circle. "Is this...?"

"Every life in Spades," Alfred confirmed. "Every connection, every thread of fate or chance that binds us together. Look closer."

He guided Arthur's attention to the eastern border, where corruption spread like ink in water. Together, they saw the truth of Mikhail's madness—not just powerhungry ambition, but something deeper. The King of Clubs was being consumed by his own twisted creation, the corrupted Trump Card feeding on his sanity while he fed it Peter's Joker essence.

"He's dying," Arthur realized. "The corruption is killing him even as he spreads it."

"A mad dog biting everything in reach before it succumbs to rabies," Alfred agreed. "Which makes him more dangerous, not less."

The vision shifted, showing them possibilities. What would happen if Mikhail succeeded in fully corrupting Peter—reality would unravel, starting at Clubs and spreading outward until all four kingdoms drowned in chaos. What would happen if they failed to stop him—war, devastation, the marked system itself collapsing.

But also hope. Threads of gold showing paths to victory, each one requiring sacrifice and courage in equal measure.

"We can win," Arthur said softly. "But the cost..."

"Is worth paying." Alfred closed the Token, drawing them back to reality. "Whatever it takes, remember?"

They stood in the training ground, late afternoon sun casting long shadows. The shared vision had changed something between them—not healing the wounds of deception, but perhaps scabbing them over enough to function.

"Keep it," Arthur said finally. "You're right. You understand it better than I would. But Alfred?" He gripped Alfred's wrist, magic making the touch electric. "No more secrets. Not about this. We face Mikhail together or not at all."

"Together," Alfred agreed, the word tasting like a promise.

They trained until full dark, but it felt different now. Less like adversaries testing for weakness, more like partners learning each other's strengths. When they finally parted, exhausted and sweat-soaked, something had shifted between them.

That night, Alfred lay awake feeling the Token's weight against his chest. Arthur knew now, which changed everything. No more hiding his insights, no more pretending at ignorance. Tomorrow they'd begin planning how to use the Token against Mikhail, how to turn Spades' heart into a weapon.

The thought should have excited him. Instead, he remembered the Token's warnings about corruption, about power's seductive whispers. Arthur trusted him with this artifact that could reshape reality. What if that trust was misplaced? What if the very act of using the Token transformed him into another Mikhail?

Choose wisely, the collective voice whispered. The line between salvation and damnation is thinner than thread, sharper than any blade.

Alfred touched the Token one last time before sleep claimed him. Whatever the cost, he'd pay it. For Matthew, for Arthur, for the kingdom that had claimed him despite his every attempt to remain unclaimed.

The King of Spades would face the mad King of Clubs, armed with ancient power and fragile new trust.

He just prayed it would be enough.

Chapter Text

The castle hummed with barely controlled chaos as the final preparations for departure reached fever pitch. Alfred stood in the war room, surrounded by maps and supply lists and enough contingency plans to paper the walls. In twelve hours, they would begin the journey to Clubs—a week's travel through increasingly hostile territory, culminating in walking directly into Mikhail's web.

The crown might as well have been a collar, Alfred thought bitterly, watching the assembled advisors argue over minute details that wouldn't matter once reality started bending. Here he was, playing at being king, when every instinct screamed at him to handle this the way he knew best—alone, in shadows, with a blade between ribs rather than words across a negotiating table.

"The supply wagons are loaded," the lieutenant reported, his scarred face showing the strain of organizing a royal expedition on short notice. "Food for two weeks, medical supplies, and enough weapons to arm twice our number if needed."

Weapons, Alfred thought with dark amusement. As if conventional steel could cut through madness.

"Diplomatic gifts for King Mikhail," Yao added, consulting his own lists with the kind of meticulous attention that made Alfred want to scatter the papers just to see the Jack's composure crack. "Particularly the ones that can serve dual purposes."

Alfred caught the implication—gifts that could become weapons if negotiations failed. Smart, if ultimately futile. The Token pulsed against his chest, showing him visions of those same gifts scattered across a throne room floor, stained with blood. He'd seen enough death to recognize the particular pattern of arterial spray across marble.

"How many in the final delegation?" Arthur asked from his position by the window. He'd been quieter than usual all morning, magic occasionally frosting the glass when his control slipped.

"Forty-three in the public delegation," Yao replied carefully, his eyes flicking to the locked door. "Twenty guards, ten servants, six diplomatic staff, our court mage, the healers, and Their Majesties."

The unspoken hung heavy in the air. Forty-three souls the kingdom would know about, whose departure would be witnessed and recorded. But not the true number.

"The secondary arrangements?" Alfred asked, voice deliberately neutral.

Yao moved to the window, checking the courtyard below before responding. "Confirmed. Lord Reginald will assume responsibilities as interim Jack, publicly managing trade negotiations and court functions. His theatrical background should help sell the performance."

Alfred snorted. "An actor playing at being Jack while the real one sneaks out like a thief. How appropriate."

"It's necessary," Yao said stiffly. "The kingdom needs to appear stable. If our enemies knew both Jack and Ace were leaving-

"They'd see weakness and opportunity," Alfred finished. "Yes, I've grasped the basic concept of vulnerability, thanks." The words came out sharper than intended, but Alfred was tired of being managed, tired of protocols and performances when he could feel doom approaching like storm clouds.

Arthur turned from the window, something unreadable in his expression. "The alternate route for their departure?"

"Tomorrow night, after the main delegation leaves," Yao confirmed. "Disguised as merchants heading to the eastern trade posts. They'll intercept us at the third camp, after we've passed the border watchers."

The complexity of it all made Alfred's head throb. In his previous life, missions had been simple—identify target, eliminate target, disappear. Now every action required committees and contingencies and careful choreography to maintain illusions of strength.

"Matthew's prepared for the deception?" Arthur asked.

"He's... adjusting to the necessity," Yao said diplomatically.

Alfred knew what that meant. His brother, with his Ace abilities that made lies physically painful to speak, forced to participate in an elaborate deception. All because kings and queens couldn't be seen making practical decisions if those decisions showed fear.

"The route?" Alfred studied the map, though he'd already memorized every village, river, and potential ambush point. Old habits demanding new applications.

"North through the Thornwood Pass, then east along the old trade road." The lieutenant traced the path with one scarred finger. "We'll stop at Rivertown the first night, Millhaven the second. After that, we're camping until we reach the border."

The Token shared its own intelligence—which paths held old magic that might react to their passage, where reality grew thin enough for Mikhail's corruption to seep through. Alfred kept these insights to himself for now, planning to guide them around the worst dangers without seeming to. Another performance, another mask to wear.

"What aren't you telling us?" Arthur's voice cut through Alfred's brooding. The Queen had moved closer, those green eyes seeing too much as always.

"Nothing that changes our plans," Alfred said, which was technically true. The Token's warnings were constants now—danger, corruption, the potential for catastrophic failure. No point in adding to the ambient despair.

"Your Majesties," a nervous page appeared at the door. "Lord Reginald has arrived for his... briefing."

The actor swept in with theatrical flair that made Alfred's teeth ache. Tall, distinguished, with silver hair and a voice that projected to the back rows—he looked more like a Jack than Yao ever had, which was probably the point.

"Your Majesties," Reginald bowed with practiced precision. "I am honored to serve in this crucial deception."

"Can you do it?" Alfred asked bluntly. "Convince the court you're the Jack for at least two weeks?"

Reginald's smile was all performance. "Your Majesty, I once convinced an entire theater that I was the ghost of a murdered prince for six months. Playing a living administrator should be considerably easier."

"The court isn't a theater," Arthur warned. "These are people who know Yao, who work with him daily."

"All the world's a stage," Reginald quoted, then sobered at their expressions. "But yes, I understand the gravity. Yao has briefed me extensively on his mannerisms, his routines, his relationships with key nobles. I won't just play the Jack—I'll become him."

They spent the next hour reviewing details, Yao coaching Reginald through the subtle gestures and speech patterns that would sell the illusion. Alfred watched with the critical eye of someone who'd worn a thousand masks, noting the places where the performance still showed through.

"Your walk is too smooth," he interrupted during one demonstration. "Yao moves like someone who's always thinking three steps ahead—slight hesitation between decisions, as if he's calculating variables."

Reginald adjusted, adding the suggested uncertainty. Better, though still not perfect. But it would have to do.

"The public story?" Alfred asked once they'd exhausted the physical coaching.

"The Jack is suffering from a mild magical malady," Yao recited. "Nothing serious, but it limits his public appearances and requires rest. I'll be seen occasionally, maintaining the illusion, while conducting most business through written correspondence."

"Convenient that your handwriting can be forged," Alfred observed.

"One of many convenient factors," Yao agreed dryly. "As is Lord Reginald's minor talent for illusion magic. Enough to blur features at a distance, though it won't stand close scrutiny."

The meeting continued with mind-numbing details about which servants knew the truth (very few), which nobles needed to be specifically deceived (most), and what contingencies existed if the deception failed (sparse and largely involving blame being shifted to convenient scapegoats).

Alfred found his attention wandering, the Token showing him threads of possibility. In most futures, the deception held long enough. In some, it failed spectacularly, leading to panic and opportunistic attacks from rival kingdoms. The dice were cast either way.

"What of the Ace?" Reginald asked eventually. "The public story there?"

"Matthew remains in seclusion, developing his abilities," Arthur said. "It's common for new Aces to require months of intensive training. No one will question his absence from public view."

Another lie, another performance. Alfred wondered if any of them remembered what truth looked like anymore. Even his relationship with Arthur was built on deception—hidden meetings, careful distances, the constant dance of almost but not quite.

"If we're done with the theater planning," Alfred said, not bothering to hide his irritation, "perhaps we could discuss actual strategy?"

The room shifted, advisors straightening as they remembered they were planning for potential war, not just managing appearances.

"The corruption," Their court mage, spread her own documents. "Our research suggests it operates on principles that violate fundamental magical law. Reality becomes... negotiable in its presence."

"Negotiable how?" Arthur leaned forward, frost creeping across the table from his hands.

"Time flows differently. Space folds incorrectly. What you know to be true becomes subject to revision." The mage’s  aged face showed deep concern. "Our standard protections may be worse than useless, they might actually provide frameworks for the corruption to subvert."

"Then what do you suggest?" Alfred asked, though the Token whispered its own solutions.

"Flexibility. Something to anchor  absolute truths rather than constructed realities."

"Dismissed," Arthur said suddenly. "All of you. Final preparations can continue without us."

The room emptied with varying degrees of reluctance. Yao lingered, clearly wanting to say something more, but eventually followed the others. Only Matthew remained, having slipped in during the discussion with his characteristic quiet.

"You're angry," Matthew observed once they were alone.

"I'm tired," Alfred corrected, though anger simmered beneath the exhaustion. "Tired of pretending this is anything other than walking into a trap with our eyes open."

"Then why go?" Matthew asked with genuine curiosity.

"Because the alternative is worse," Arthur answered before Alfred could. "Mikhail's corruption spreads daily. Wait much longer, and we'll be fighting it at our own borders rather than his."

"Plus Peter," Alfred added, watching Arthur's expression tighten. "Can't forget the personal stakes dressed up as diplomatic necessity."

"You think I'm being selfish?" Ice edged Arthur's voice.

"I think you're being human." Alfred moved to the window, looking down at the courtyard where servants loaded final supplies. "Which is inconvenient for royalty but probably necessary for survival."

They stood in uncomfortable silence, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like physical force. Matthew eventually excused himself to handle his own preparations, leaving Alfred and Arthur alone with their careful distances.

"You hate this," Arthur said eventually. It wasn't a question.

"Which part? The pomp? The deception? The near certainty of catastrophic failure?" Alfred laughed, sharp and bitter. "Yes to all of the above."

"You didn't have to reveal yourself," Arthur pointed out. "Could have stayed hidden, let someone else bear this weight."

"Could I?" Alfred turned to face him, the Token pulsing between them. "With this thing burning against my chest, showing me exactly what happens if we fail? With my brother's life hanging in the balance? With you—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"With me what?" Arthur stepped closer, and Alfred could smell winter on him, ice and pine and something uniquely Arthur.

Arthur's eyes searched his face, looking for something Alfred wasn't ready to give. The space between them felt charged, possibility and denial warring in equal measure.

"We should review tomorrow's departure ceremony," Alfred said, breaking the moment. "Make sure our performances convince the right people."

The rest of the day passed in final confirmations. Alfred endured another fitting for his travel clothes, practical enough for hard riding but royal enough to remind everyone of his status. He reviewed supply lists until his eyes crossed, approved security positions he'd already memorized, and pretended to care about the proper protocol for entering Clubs' capital.

Through it all, his mind kept circling back to the deception they were orchestrating. Not just Yao and Matthew's secret participation, but the whole elaborate performance of strength while walking into near-certain doom. In his previous life, he'd have handled this differently. A knife in the dark for Mikhail, problem solved before it could escalate.

But kings didn't get to take the simple path. Kings had to consider ramifications, alliances, the delicate balance between showing strength and provoking war. Kings had to smile while their instincts screamed danger, had to trust in plans that felt like tissue paper against a hurricane.

Evening brought a final feast, modest by royal standards but still more elaborate than necessary. Alfred forced himself to eat, to make conversation with nervous nobles, to project confidence he didn't feel. Across the hall, Matthew played his own part, discussing magical theory with high ranking officials as if he'd actually be staying to study.

The feast concluded with toasts to their success, prayers for safe travel, and enough false optimism to choke on. Alfred escaped as soon as protocol allowed, needing space from the suffocating performance.

He found himself on the castle's highest tower, watching the sun set over his kingdom. His kingdom. The thought still felt foreign, like clothes that didn't quite fit. Below, people went about their lives trusting that their king would protect them, never knowing that their king was a killer playing dress-up, making decisions based on whispers from an artifact he barely understood.

"Brooding suits you," Gilbert's voice came from directly behind him.

Alfred didn't flinch, he'd felt the Joker's presence in the magical disturbance. "Come to offer more cryptic warnings?"

"Actually, I came to deliver something." Gilbert produced a sealed letter from nowhere. "Your friend Hendriks grows creative in his desperation."

Alfred took the letter, recognizing the elaborate handwriting even through the envelope. "How thoughtful of you to play messenger."

"I was curious what he'd say." Gilbert lounged against the parapet with boneless ease. "Also, I wanted to gauge your reaction. Very telling, how former kings handle former masters."

"I'm handling nothing," Alfred said, pocketing the letter unopened. "Hendriks is a problem for after Clubs."

"Is he?" Gilbert's smile was sharp as winter moonlight. "You think a man who's built his empire on controlling human weapons will simply wait while his greatest creation slips the leash?"

"I think he's smart enough to know that threatening a king is different from threatening a servant."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he's desperate enough to test exactly how much the crown has changed you." Gilbert studied him with those impossible eyes. "You're angrier than I expected. The crown chafes?"

"The crown is a tool," Alfred said flatly. "Like any other weapon. You use it until it's no longer useful."

"Such cynicism. And here I thought power would corrupt you toward grandiosity, not bitter pragmatism."

Alfred laughed, harsh and brief. "Power is just a different kind of chain. Instead of one master, I serve thousands. Instead of simple orders, I navigate political theater. At least when I was Hendriks' weapon, the objectives were clear."

"Were they?" Gilbert moved closer, and Alfred could smell ozone and something else, like time itself burning. "Kill who he pointed you at, certainly. But did you ever ask why? Did you understand the patterns you were carving in blood?"

"I understood survival," Alfred said. "That was enough."

"Was it? Is it?" Gilbert gestured to the kingdom spread below. "Now you have the context. The corruption in Clubs exists partly because of power vacuums your assignments created. The trade routes Hendriks wanted disrupted were carrying more than simple goods. Every death rippled outward, changing things in ways even the Token can't fully show you."

The words hit like physical blows. Alfred had always known his targets weren't random, but hearing it confirmed, understanding that he'd been shaping kingdom politics with every kill...

"Does it matter?" he asked finally. "What's done is done. I can't resurrect the dead or undo the consequences."

"No, but you can choose differently going forward." Gilbert's expression softened fractionally. "The crown doesn't have to be a chain. It could be a key, if you let it."

Before Alfred could respond, Gilbert vanished, leaving only the scent of ozone and questions Alfred didn't want to examine.

As full darkness fell, Alfred made his way back to his chambers. Tomorrow's performance loomed, but tonight he had his own preparations to make. The Token pulsed against his chest, sharing visions of possibility—some bright, most dark, all demanding choices he wasn't sure he was qualified to make.

But qualification had never stopped him before. He'd learned to kill before he learned to read, learned to lie before he learned to love. Now he'd learn to be king, even if the crown fit like a noose.

The night brought little sleep, the Token's whispers keeping him suspended between waking and dreams. When dawn finally came, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, Alfred rose to play his part in the elaborate deception.

The delegation would leave with pageantry and fanfare. Yao and Matthew would slip away in darkness. And somewhere in Clubs, a mad king waited with corruption for a crown and chains for a child.

Alfred had worn many masks in his life. Today, he'd wear the heaviest one yet, that of a king who believed in tomorrow.

Even if he wasn't sure any of them would survive to see it.

Chapter Text

The delegation departed Castle Spades as the morning sun crested the eastern mountains, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold that seemed almost mocking given their destination. Alfred sat his horse with carefully practiced ease—another skill learned in shadows, though he'd let the stablehands believe he'd needed instruction. Beside him, Arthur managed his mount with the natural grace of Highland upbringing.

The first day's travel took them through the heart of Spades, where crowds gathered to see their new monarchs. Alfred had expected suspicion or resentment—the servant-king who'd hidden among them, who'd lived a lie for over a decade. Instead, he found curiosity and something that might have been hope.

"Long live the King!" someone shouted from the crowd. Others took up the cry, and soon the streets rang with it. "Long live the Queen! Blessings on the royal journey!"

It seemed that while those of higher ranks often scorned him, civilians saw him as a sign of hope. 

"They seem enthusiastic," Arthur observed, nodding regally to acknowledge the crowd.

"They're scared," Alfred corrected, the Token showing him the threads of worry that ran beneath celebration. "Clubs threatens war. They need to believe we can prevent it."

The procession moved slowly through the capital, forty-three souls bound by duty and desperation. Guards in formal armor that would be useless against magical corruption. Diplomats carrying treaties that madmen wouldn't honor. Servants tending to needs that might soon be irrelevant.

And at the center, Alfred and Arthur, carrying the hopes of a kingdom and secrets that could damn them all. Yao and Matthew would join them later, under a veil of secrecy.

By midday, they'd left the capital behind. The road stretched before them, winding through farmland and forest toward the distant mountains that marked Clubs' border. Alfred felt the Token's weight with each mile, its awareness expanding as they moved away from Spades' heart.

"The magical field is different here," Arthur stated matter-of-factly, pulling his horse alongside Alfred's. "Less structured. More... wild."

"We're approaching the Thornwood," the lieutenant explained from his position at the column's head. "Old magic runs deep there. Pre-Compact, some say."

The Token pulsed confirmation. Before the marked system, before the kingdoms as they knew them, other powers had held sway. The Thornwood remembered, even if humans had forgotten.

They entered the forest as afternoon shadows lengthened. Ancient trees created a canopy so thick that twilight seemed to fall hours early. The delegation's cheerful chatter died away, replaced by nervous silence and the clop of hooves on packed earth.

"Stay alert," Arthur commanded, his magic spreading out in invisible tendrils. "These woods have a reputation."

As if in response to his words, shapes moved in the deeper shadows. Not attacking, not even truly threatening. Just... watching. Alfred caught glimpses—eyes that reflected light like a cat's, antlers that seemed to be made of living wood, forms that shifted between human and not with each blink.

"The Forest Folk," someone said softly. "They were here before the kingdoms. Some say they'll be here after we're dust."

"Are they dangerous?" another asked nervously.

"Only if we give them reason to be," Alfred replied, the Token whispering old truths. "We're passing through their territory. Show respect, take nothing that isn't freely given, and they'll let us pass."

The delegation followed his advice, though Alfred caught several guards fingering weapons nervously. But the Forest Folk merely watched, ancient eyes tracking their progress with interest but no hostility.

They were nearly through the woods when it happened. A figure stepped onto the path ahead—tall, draped in robes that seemed woven from shadow and starlight. Its face was almost human, but too angular, too perfect, like a statue given life.

The column halted immediately, guards moving to defensive positions. But the figure raised one elegant hand in a gesture of peace.

"Kings of Spades," it said, voice like wind through leaves. "The forest recognizes you."

Alfred nudged his horse forward, ignoring the protests from his guards. Arthur followed, because of course he did. Together, they faced the being that predated their entire civilization.

"We mean no harm to the forest or its folk," Alfred said formally. "We seek only passage."

"Passage you have," the being replied. "But the Thornwood offers warning. The eastern corruption spreads like plague. What the mad king has broken cannot easily be mended."

"We go to try," Arthur said. "To save my brother and stop the spreading madness."

The being studied them with eyes that held centuries. "Love and duty drive you forward. Noble purposes. But beware—the corruption feeds on noble purposes, twists them into chains. Many who've entered Clubs seeking to save have become that which they fought."

"We'll be careful," Alfred promised.

"Careful." The being laughed, a sound like crystal breaking. "Mortals always think careful is enough. But since you go regardless, accept this gift."

It produced two items from within its robes. For Arthur, a pendant of ice that never melted, strung on silver chain. For Alfred, a blade no longer than his palm, forged from metal that seemed to drink light.

"Anchors," the being explained. "When reality becomes negotiable, these will remember truth. They cannot save you from all harm, but they may guide you home when all paths seem lost."

"Thank you," Arthur said, fastening the pendant around his neck. Alfred tucked the blade carefully away, feeling its weight settle next to the Token.

"Thanks are not required. The forest pays its debts." The being stepped aside, melting back into shadows. "Pass in peace, young rulers. May you prove stronger than those who came before."

The delegation moved forward quickly, eager to leave the Thornwood's strangeness behind. But Alfred felt watching eyes until they emerged into fading daylight, the normal world seeming flat and colorless after the forest's intensity.

Rivertown appeared just as full darkness fell, its lights a welcome beacon after the day's strangeness. The inn had been cleared for their arrival, staff nervous but eager to serve royalty. Alfred endured the formal dinner, the careful tasting of every dish, the endless protocols that marked him as King rather than person.

Finally, blessed finally, he could retire. His room was the inn's best, which meant it had a door that locked and a bed that probably wouldn't collapse. Arthur's room adjoined his, a fact that sent an uncomfortable thrill through Alfred despite his best efforts to ignore it.

He'd barely settled when soft knocking came from the connecting door. Alfred opened it to find Arthur still in formal robes but looking worn.

"Can't sleep?" Alfred asked, stepping aside to let him in.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see that forest being's warning." Arthur moved to the window, staring out at Rivertown's quiet streets. "Many who entered seeking to save became what they fought. What if that's our fate?"

"Then we face it together." Alfred joined him at the window, careful to maintain proper distance despite the way their magic reached for each other. The Token pulsed, showing him golden threads that connected them whether he wanted it or not.

Arthur turned to face him then, and Alfred caught his breath at the naked vulnerability in those green eyes. They stood frozen, the space between them charged with possibility. Arthur swayed closer, and for a moment Alfred thought-

"You should get some rest," Alfred said, stepping back and breaking the moment. "Long day tomorrow."

Something flashed across Arthur's face—hurt? disappointment?—before his expression smoothed into royal neutrality. "Of course. You're right."

"I usually am," Alfred added with forced lightness. "One of my many annoying qualities."

Arthur moved toward the door, then paused. "Alfred..."

"Goodnight, Arthur." The dismissal was gentle but clear.

After Arthur left, Alfred stood at the window for a long time, cursing himself for a fool. The Token showed him what could have been—comfort shared, connection acknowledged, the golden threads between them strengthening into something unbreakable.

But Alfred had spent too long building walls to tear them down now, even for green eyes and winter magic that called to his own. Especially with tomorrow bringing unknown dangers and the certainty of Mikhail's trap closing around them.

The second day brought rain. Not the gentle showers of spring, but driving sheets that turned the road to mud and made every mile a struggle. The delegation pressed on, grimly determined despite conditions that had guards cursing and horses protesting.

"We could stop," The lieutenant suggested during a brief respite under tree cover. "Wait for better weather."

"Mikhail expects us in seven days," Arthur replied, water dripping from his sodden hair. "Delay might be seen as weakness or insult."

So they continued, Alfred using the Token's awareness to guide them around the worst washouts and potential slides. By evening, they reached Millhaven exhausted and drenched but on schedule.

The town was larger than Rivertown, boasting actual walls and a mayor who greeted them with nervous pomp. But Alfred noticed things—too many guards for a peaceful merchant town, too many shuttered windows, too much fear in civilian eyes.

"Troubles, Lord Mayor?" he asked during the formal welcome.

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing to concern Your Majesties. Just... rumors from the east. Strange happenings. People going missing near the border."

The Token showed Alfred the truth—refugees fleeing Clubs' corruption, bringing tales of reality gone wrong. Millhaven stood last bastion before the badlands, catching the overflow of Mikhail's madness.

"Double our guards tonight," Alfred told Marcus quietly. "And have the mages check the delegation for any signs of corruption. It may be trying to infiltrate already."

The night passed uneasily. Alfred woke twice to magical alarms—minor probes, easily deflected, but proof that Mikhail knew exactly where they were. He lay in the dark, hyperaware of Arthur's presence in the next room, the connecting door a temptation and a barrier in equal measure.

Day three took them beyond civilization's edge. No more towns now, just wilderness and the old trade road that connected Spades to Clubs. They made camp that night in a cleared circle, magical wards crackling to life as darkness fell.

"I don't like this," Marcus said during the evening meal. "Too exposed. Too many angles of attack."

"Attack from what?" a young guard asked nervously. "Clubs wouldn't dare assault a diplomatic delegation."

"Clubs might not," Alfred said carefully. "But the corruption doesn't follow diplomatic niceties."

As if summoned by his words, the temperature dropped. Not Arthur's ice magic—this was different. A cold that seemed to leach meaning from the world, making everything grey and purposeless.

"Defensive positions!" The lieutenant barked, but his voice sounded muffled, distant.

The corruption crept in like fog, formless but undeniable. Where it touched, things... changed. A guard's sword became a serpent in his hand. A tree sprouted eyes that wept blood. The very ground beneath them started to whisper secrets better left unheard.

"The anchors!" Alfred shouted, pulling out the forest being's blade. It blazed with sudden light, cutting through the creeping wrongness. Beside him, Arthur's pendant flared ice-blue, creating a sphere of reality that pushed back the chaos.

Together, they stood in the center of the camp, pouring power through their gifts. The Token added its strength, showing Alfred how to weave their magic into barriers that remembered truth. Slowly, painfully, they forced the corruption back.

"Is everyone alright?" Arthur demanded once clear air returned.

The delegation took stock. Minor injuries, the guard whose sword had transformed sported nasty bites, but no deaths. No one lost to madness. This time.

"It's testing us," Matthew said quietly, appearing from wherever he and Yao had been concealed during travel. His Ace senses had shown him more than most. "Learning our defenses."

"Let it learn," Alfred growled. "We'll be ready next time."

But privately, he wondered. They were still three days from Clubs proper. If the corruption could reach this far, this strongly, what would they face at its source?

That night, Alfred found himself unable to sleep. He stood watch with the guards, the Token showing him threads of corruption that probed their defenses, looking for weakness. Arthur joined him after midnight, unable to rest either.

"Cheerful thoughts?" Arthur asked, settling beside him on a fallen log.

"The cheeriest. Contemplating all the ways this could go horribly wrong."

"Only all of them? You're getting optimistic in your old age."

Despite everything, Alfred found himself almost smiling. "What can I say? Your sunny disposition is rubbing off on me."

They sat in comfortable silence, shoulders not quite touching, magic mingling in the space between them. The night pressed close, full of dangers and possibilities in equal measure.

"I'm glad you're here," Arthur said suddenly. "I know you hate this—the ceremony, the delegation, all of it. But I'm glad you're here."

Alfred turned to look at him, finding Arthur already watching with those impossible green eyes. The moment stretched, charged with everything unsaid between them. Arthur leaned closer, and Alfred could smell winter on him, could feel the pull of their connected magic-

"We should patrol the perimeter," Alfred said, standing abruptly. "Make sure the corruption hasn't found another angle of attack."

Arthur's expression shuttered. "Of course. Security first."

They walked the camp's edge in silence, Alfred cursing himself with every step. But what else could he do? Every time Arthur got close, every time those green eyes went soft with something that might be affection, Alfred felt his walls threatening to crumble. And he couldn't afford that. Not now, not with doom waiting in Clubs and too many lives hanging in the balance.

"You're infuriating," Arthur said conversationally as they completed their circuit.

"Part of my charm," Alfred replied, aiming for levity.

"Is it?" Arthur stopped walking, forcing Alfred to face him. "This game you play, keeping me at arm's length while our magic tries to pull us together. What are you so afraid of?"

Everything. Nothing. The way you make me want things I can't have.

"I'm not afraid," Alfred lied smoothly. "I'm practical. We have a job to do. Getting... distracted won't help anyone."

"Distracted." Arthur's laugh was bitter. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you prefer I call it?" Alfred shot back. "A complication? A liability? A weakness Mikhail could exploit?"

Arthur walked away while  Alfred remained where he was, watching the night and telling himself it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. Less likely to end in the kind of pain that came from losing something precious.

The fourth day dawned clear but wrong. The sun shone, but its light seemed tired. Birds sang, but their songs held discordant notes. Even the road beneath their feet felt uncertain, as if it might decide to be something else at any moment.

"Stay close," Alfred commanded. "No one wanders off alone. If reality starts shifting, call out immediately."

They made good time despite the wrongness, reaching the border mountains by late afternoon. Here, ancient markers showed where Spades ended and Clubs began, standing stones carved with symbols that predated current kingdoms.

They made camp on the Spades side, one last night in their own kingdom. Alfred found himself on the highest ground, using the Token to study what lay ahead. The corruption was visible here, a creeping stain that turned healthy magic gangrenous.

"Show me Peter," he whispered to the artifact. "Show me what we're riding into."

The visions came reluctantly, filtered through layers of wrongness. Peter Kirkland, no longer the child Arthur remembered. Chained with bonds that existed partially outside reality. His red joker powers turned inward, forced to maintain Mikhail's twisted working. Alive, yes, but at a cost that made Alfred's stomach turn.

"Is he there?" Arthur had approached silently, hope naked in his voice.

"Yes," Alfred said carefully. "But Arthur... he's changed. What's been done to him..."

"I don't care." Arthur's jaw set stubbornly. "He's alive. That's what matters."

Alfred didn't argue, but the Token whispered warnings. Peter lived, but would he want to? Could someone used as a magical battery for years recover? Would Arthur accept the broken stranger wearing his brother's face?

Questions for another day. Tonight, they had one last respite before the final push.

The delegation gathered around campfires, sharing stories and fears and desperate jokes. Guards who'd served together for years made promises to watch each other's backs. Diplomats reviewed protocols one last time, as if words on paper could protect them from madness.

Alfred found himself sitting with Matthew and Yao, now that they had reconnected with the delegation, watching Arthur move among their people. The Queen offered reassurance here, encouragement there, holding the delegation together through sheer will.

"He's stronger than he knows," Yao observed.

"They both are," Matthew added, looking at Alfred. "Though I wonder if strength will be enough."

"It has to be," Alfred said simply. Because what else was there? They'd come too far to turn back, invested too much to fail. Tomorrow they'd enter Clubs. Tomorrow the real test would begin.

That night, Alfred stood outside Arthur's tent, hand raised to knock. Inside, he could hear Arthur preparing for bed, the soft sounds of movement achingly domestic. The Token showed him possibilities—comfort offered and accepted, walls finally lowered, two souls finding solace before the storm.

But Alfred lowered his hand and walked away. He'd been a coward earlier, pushing Arthur away when he'd wanted nothing more than to pull him close. But approaching now, after that rejection, felt like presumption. Arthur deserved better than Alfred's mixed signals and emotional cowardice.

He spent the night staring at the stars, the Token showing him visions of what waited across the border. By dawn, he'd catalogued every horror, every possibility for failure, every slim chance for success.

The fifth day. The crossing. The beginning of the end, one way or another.

The border was marked by more than standing stones. The very air changed, thickness and texture shifting between one step and the next. Alfred felt it immediately—the Token screaming warnings, reality becoming negotiable, the careful rules that governed existence suddenly optional.

"Welcome to Clubs," he said grimly.

They rode in tight formation, guards alert, mages maintaining constant shields. The road continued, but now it sometimes forgot what it was. One moment packed earth, the next cobblestones that hadn't been there before, then grass that whispered names of the dead.

"Ignore the whispers," Alfred commanded when a diplomat started to respond to unheard voices. "Whatever you hear, whatever you see, stay focused on the person next to you. They're your anchor."

The corruption tried different approaches as they traveled deeper. False visions of loved ones calling from the roadside. Promises of power whispered directly into minds. Fears made manifest in shapes that shouldn't exist.

But the delegation held. The anchors blazed with power, the Token guided true, and slowly they made progress through lands gone mad.

By evening of the sixth day, they could see it, Clubs' capital rising from corrupted earth like a cancer given architectural form. The castle at its heart pulsed with sickly light, reality bending around it in ways that hurt to perceive.

"God in heaven," someone whispered.

"No gods here," Alfred said quietly. "Just a mad king and the power he's perverted. But we've come this far. One more day."

They made final camp in sight of their destination. No one slept well, corruption pressing against their wards with increasing strength. But morning came eventually, bringing with it the last leg of their journey.

Seven days after leaving Spades, the delegation stood before Clubs' gates. The city beyond was wrong in every possible way—buildings that existed in too many dimensions, streets that led to yesterday, people who flickered between human and not with each heartbeat.

"Names and purpose?" The gate guard's voice came from a mouth that kept changing position on his face.

"Arthur and Alfred of Spades," Arthur announced, voice steady despite everything. "Here at King Mikhail's invitation, with full diplomatic delegation."

"Expected," the guard agreed. Multiple eyes blinked in sequence. "King awaits. Follow the golden road. Don't stray. Straying is... unwise."

The gates opened, revealing a path that gleamed like molten gold. The delegation entered slowly, Alfred and Arthur leading, the weight of everything that had passed between them a third presence neither acknowledged.

Alfred caught Arthur looking at him as they passed beneath the twisted archway, something unreadable in those green eyes. For a moment, he almost reached out, almost bridged the gap he'd created with his cowardice.

But the moment passed, and they rode on in professional silence, the golden road stretching before them toward whatever fate awaited in Mikhail's court.

Somewhere in this mad city, Peter Kirkland waited in chains. Somewhere, King Mikhail plotted with power that should never have been touched. And somewhere in the careful distance between two kings, unspoken words hung heavier than any crown.

They'd traveled seven days to reach this moment. Now, only will and hope and desperate determination stood between them and catastrophe.

Chapter Text

The throne room of Clubs defied comprehension. Alfred had seen many things in his life—death in all its forms, magic that bent reality, the Token's visions of interconnected souls—but nothing had prepared him for the casual wrongness of King Mikhail's court.

The ceiling couldn't decide what it wanted to be. One moment it arched overhead in Gothic splendor, the next it opened to reveal stars that burned in colors that shouldn't exist. The floor beneath their feet shifted between marble, grass, and something that might have been living flesh if Alfred let himself look too closely. Even the air tasted wrong, flavored with copper and the particular sweetness of decay.

"Steady," Alfred murmured to the delegation, though the word was as much for himself as them. The Token burned against his chest, its warnings so constant now they'd become white noise. Beside him, Arthur stood rigid as stone. 

At the far end of the impossible room, King Mikhail waited on a throne that hurt to perceive directly. It existed in too many dimensions at once, causing the eye to slide away rather than process its true form. The man himself looked almost normal in comparison—tall, sharp-featured, with the kind of austere handsomeness that belonged on coins.

Almost normal, except for the way reality rippled around him like heat waves, and how his shadow sometimes moved independently of his body.

"The delegation from Spades!" A herald announced, though his voice came from three different directions and two different moments in time. "Their Majesties King Alfred and Queen Arthur, come to accept His Majesty's gracious hospitality!"

Alfred forced himself to walk forward with measured steps, hyperaware of every detail. The courtiers lining their path were wrong in subtle ways—a woman whose reflection showed her as a skeleton, a man who aged and grew young again with each blink, children who cast shadows of the adults they'd never become. The corruption had seeped into everything here, making mockery of natural law.

But it was what Alfred saw behind the throne that made his blood freeze.

Peter Kirkland hung suspended in chains that existed partially outside reality, phasing in and out of visibility like a stuttering image. He looked nothing like the child. The chains weren't just restraining him; they were feeding on him, drawing power that Mikhail then twisted into the corruption poisoning everything.

Alfred felt Arthur's magic spike dangerously and moved closer, letting their shoulders brush in warning. Not yet, the touch said. Don't react. Don't let him know.

"Your Majesties!" Mikhail rose from his impossible throne, arms spread in welcome. His voice was cultured, pleasant, completely at odds with the madness radiating from him. "How wonderful that you've accepted my invitation. I do so enjoy making new friends."

He descended the steps with perfect grace, and for a moment looked entirely sane. A king greeting fellow monarchs, nothing more. Then his shadow peeled away from his body, wandering off to examine the delegation while Mikhail himself continued forward.

"King Mikhail," Arthur managed, his voice admirably steady. "We thank you for your... invitation."

"Invitation?" Mikhail tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Did I invite you? How presumptuous of me. Or perhaps prescient. Time does flow strangely here. Perhaps I'll invite you tomorrow and you arrived yesterday. Wouldn't that be amusing?"

He laughed, the sound echoing from different points in the room's history. One moment they heard the bright laughter of a young prince, the next the cackling of something no longer quite human.

"Your Majesty seems... well," Alfred lied smoothly, falling back on the easy charm of his youth. "We bring greetings from Spades and hopes for continued peace between our kingdoms."

"Peace." Mikhail tasted the word like wine. "Such a limited concept. Why have peace when you could have possibility? When you could have every moment happening at once, every choice made and unmade, every path walked simultaneously?"

His shadow returned, whispering something in his ear that made him frown. "Ah, but I'm being a poor host. You must be exhausted from your journey through the changing lands. Come, we've prepared accommodations that I think you'll find... interesting."

They followed Mikhail deeper into the castle. Behind them, the delegation followed in terrified silence, the reality-bending architecture making several diplomats physically ill.

"Tell me," Mikhail said conversationally as they walked through a corridor that occasionally forgot it was indoors, "how fares old Aldric? Still playing with his little lights?"

"King Aldric passed recently," Arthur replied carefully. "As did Queen Marianne."

"Passed? Passed where?" Mikhail seemed genuinely confused. "Death is such an arbitrary boundary. Look at my courtiers—half of them died years ago, but they still attend court. Very dedicated. Though they do tend to smell when it rains."

Alfred felt Matthew's presence behind him, could sense his brother's Ace abilities going haywire in this place where truth itself was negotiable. Yao walked beside him, face carefully neutral but eyes taking in every detail. The two of them had their heads covered and stayed near the middle of the delegation. They'd infiltrated as planned, but Alfred wondered if any plan could survive contact with this level of madness.

"Your castle is unique," Alfred offered, watching a staircase reorganize itself as they approached.

"Unique!" Mikhail clapped his hands delightedly. "Yes, exactly. Why have one castle when you can have all possible castles existing simultaneously? Though it does make finding the bathroom challenging. Last week I opened a door to relieve myself and found next Tuesday's breakfast being served. Very awkward."

They climbed stairs that went down, walked through doors that led to rooms they'd just left, navigated by a logic that had nothing to do with physical space. Through it all, Alfred kept catching glimpses of Peter in reflections, in shadows, in the corner of his eye. The Red Joker was everywhere and nowhere, his essence spread throughout the castle like blood through veins.

"Now then," Mikhail said as they finally reached what might generously be called a guest wing, "I've arranged for Their Majesties to have adjoining suites. I do so believe in keeping friends close. The rest of your delegation can settle in the rooms along this hall. Do try not to open any doors marked with crying faces—those lead to last year, and it's terribly crowded."

The suite Mikhail showed them to was luxurious in the way fever dreams could be—silk hangings that whispered secrets, furniture carved from wood that still thought it was trees, windows that showed different seasons depending on the viewer's mood.

"I trust you'll be comfortable," Mikhail said, his shadow nodding agreement from across the room. "Dinner will be served at sunset. Or sunrise. Or that delightful moment between heartbeats when time forgets to move forward. You'll hear the bells."

He swept out, leaving Alfred and Arthur standing in the sitting room that connected their suites. The moment the door closed, Arthur's composure shattered.

"Peter," he breathed, magic spreading across the floor in fractals of distress. "Did you see- he was right there-

"I saw." Alfred caught Arthur's shoulders, grounding him. "But we can't act yet. We need to understand the situation, find allies, make a plan that doesn't end with all of us trapped in yesterday or dissolved into possibility."

"He's torturing him." Arthur's voice broke. "Using him like a battery, draining his essence to fuel this madness."

They stood there, breathing each other's air, magic mingling in the space between them. The Token pulsed, showing Alfred visions of what happened to those who acted rashly in Clubs—absorbed into walls, lost in temporal loops, transformed into cautionary tales.

"Tonight," Arthur said finally, "I might need... that is, being alone in this place..."

"My door won't be locked," Alfred said softly, then stepped back before the moment could become more. "Get cleaned up. We need to present strength at dinner, not vulnerability."

There were advantages to having the Queen’s trust. He couldn’t forget that. 

Arthur nodded, moving toward his suite with the careful dignity of someone holding themselves together by will alone. Alfred watched him go, the Token whispering warnings about the thin walls between their rooms, the way sound carried strangely here. 

Alfred entered his own suite, unsurprised to find the layout different from what he'd glimpsed through the doorway. The corruption couldn't resist small changes, little reminders that nothing here was stable. He found the bathroom after three tries—the first door led to a garden that shouldn't exist, the second to a room where his reflection argued with itself about the nature of existence.

The bath was at least functional, though the water couldn't decide on a temperature and the mirror showed not his reflection but possibilities—Alfred as he was, as he could be, as he might have been if different choices had been made. He bathed quickly, not trusting the water to remain water for long.

As he dressed for dinner, formal clothes that felt like armor against the madness, his thoughts kept returning to Peter. The casual cruelty of his imprisonment, displayed like a trophy for any who knew to look. How long had he hung there, feeding Mikhail's corruption with his Joker essence? How much of the boy Arthur remembered survived inside that broken shell?

A knock at the connecting door interrupted his brooding. "Come in," he called, knowing who it would be.

Arthur entered, dressed in formal robes that made him look untouchable and beautiful. But his eyes gave him away—too bright, too desperate, seeking something Alfred wasn't sure he could give.

"I can't stop thinking about him," Arthur said without preamble. "Every time I close my eyes, I see those chains. Hear them feeding on him."

"The corruption makes everything worse," Alfred said carefully. "Amplifies fear and pain until they're all you can perceive. You have to resist it."

"How?" Arthur laughed bitterly. "How do I resist when my baby brother is strung up like a magical experiment gone wrong?"

Alfred crossed to him, hands settling on Arthur's shoulders. "By remembering why we're here. Not just to save Peter, but to stop this from spreading. If Mikhail's madness escapes Clubs, if the corruption reaches the other kingdoms..."

"I know." Arthur leaned into the touch, Alfred could feel the tremors running through him. "I know the stakes. But knowing doesn't make it easier."

They stood close enough to share breath, the moment stretching taut between them. Alfred could see the plea in Arthur's eyes—for comfort, for distraction, for something to anchor him in this place where reality shifted like sand. Nothing Alfred could give. 

Instead, Alfred stepped back. "We should check on the others. Make sure the delegation is settling in without too many reality incidents."

They made their rounds, finding the delegation in various states of distress. One diplomat had opened his wardrobe to find it led to his childhood bedroom. A guard reported that her sword occasionally became other things—a flower, a snake, a memory of her first kiss. Matthew looked grey with exhaustion, the competing truths of this place overwhelming his Ace senses.

"I can feel Peter," Matthew whispered when they had a moment alone. "His essence is everywhere, woven into the castle's foundations. But it's... wrong. Twisted. Like a song played in the wrong key."

"Can you sense anything useful?" Alfred asked. "Guards routines, weak points, allies?"

"There's someone," Matthew said slowly. "High-ranking, close to Mikhail but not corrupted. Not completely. They're... conflicted. Disgusted by what's happening but trapped by duty."

"Find out who," Alfred ordered. "Carefully. We need every advantage we can get."

The bells for dinner rang from somewhere that wasn't quite here or there, a sound that seemed to come from inside their own bones. The delegation gathered, all trying to project calm despite the circumstances. Alfred noticed several had already developed nervous tics—constantly checking that their reflections matched, touching solid objects for reassurance, muttering mathematical proofs to anchor themselves in logic.

The dining hall defied physics even more dramatically than the throne room. The table existed in several dimensions simultaneously, each place setting slightly out of phase with the others. Courtiers who might or might not be alive filled the seats, carrying on conversations across temporal boundaries.

Mikhail presided over it all from a chair that couldn't decide if it was a throne or a torture device. "Welcome, welcome! Please, sit wherever yesterday's echo isn't too loud. We're having a feast to celebrate your arrival. Or perhaps we're mourning your departure. Time will tell. Or has told. Grammar becomes so complicated when causality breaks down."

Alfred guided Arthur to seats that seemed relatively stable, noting how Peter's presence was even stronger here. The chains holding him must pass through this room somehow, feeding Mikhail's power directly. The thought made his stomach turn, but he forced himself to smile and play the diplomatic game.

The food appeared without servers—one moment empty plates, the next a feast that looked too perfect to be real. Alfred didn't trust any of it, but refusing would be an insult. He took small portions, relying on the Token's ability to detect actual poison among the metaphysical threats.

"Tell me," Mikhail said, his attention fixing on Arthur with uncomfortable intensity, "do you dream of lost brothers, Your Majesty? I find family such a fascinating concept. All those connections, those bonds. So easy to tangle. So amusing to pull."

Arthur's glass cracked in his grip. "I dream of many things, Your Majesty. The mind wanders strangely in sleep."

"Oh, but not just in sleep!" Mikhail laughed, the sound echoing from tomorrow. "Here, dreams and waking blend together like watercolors in rain. You might find what you seek in the spaces between heartbeats, in the moments where reality hiccups."

He was toying with them, Alfred realized. Mikhail knew exactly why they'd come, was enjoying the game of cat and mouse. The corruption might have driven him mad, but it was a cunning madness, cruel in its playfulness.

"Your kingdom seems... transformed since our last diplomatic contact," Alfred said, trying to redirect the conversation. "Such dramatic changes must have been challenging to implement."

"Implement?" Mikhail looked genuinely puzzled. "Oh, you think I did this deliberately. How charmingly linear of you. No, my dear King, change implemented itself. I merely... allowed it. Encouraged it. Fed it the appropriate sacrifices."

His gaze drifted to where Peter would be visible if the angle was right, and his smile turned fond. "The Jokers make such excellent fuel, you know. All that divine essence, that connection to forces beyond our petty kingdoms. Burn one properly, and you can rewrite the rules of existence itself."

Arthur made a sound like a wounded animal. Alfred grabbed his hand under the table, squeezing hard enough to hurt, anchoring him to the present moment. Around them, the corrupted courtiers continued their impossible conversations, oblivious to the tension.

"Of course," Mikhail continued dreamily, "burning is perhaps the wrong word. It implies destruction, ending. What I've done is more... creative. Transformation. Evolution. The Red Joker still exists, just spread thin across possibilities. He experiences every moment simultaneously—past, present, future, and all the might-have-beens. Isn't that generous of me? Such a gift of perspective."

Alfred felt Arthur's magic spike dangerously and acted on instinct. "Your Majesty," he said to Mikhail, "we're honored by your hospitality, but the journey has been long. Perhaps we might retire early tonight? To better appreciate your kingdom's wonders with rested eyes?"

"Retire?" Mikhail blinked, seeming to remember they existed in linear time. "Oh yes, you still do that. How quaint. By all means, rest your temporally limited forms. Tomorrow—or was it yesterday?—we'll discuss the treaties you've brought. Such amusing fiction, those papers. As if words could bind possibility itself."

They escaped as quickly as dignity allowed, Alfred practically dragging Arthur through corridors that had rearranged themselves since their arrival. By the time they reached their suites, Arthur was shaking with suppressed rage and magic, ice coating every surface he touched.

"I'm going to kill him," Arthur snarled the moment they were alone. "Slowly. Painfully. Make him watch as I unmake everything he's built on Peter's suffering."

"You're going to get us all killed if you don't control yourself," Alfred countered sharply. "He's baiting you. He wants you emotional, wants you to act without thinking."

Alfred didn’t need rage to kill, and he knew better than anyone how emotions just got in the way. 

"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur rounded on him, green eyes blazing. "Sit here playing diplomatic games while my brother suffers? Pretend I don't see him hanging there like a broken doll?"

"I suggest," Alfred said with forced calm, "that we remember we're not alone. The delegation depends on us. Matthew and Yao are here, at risk. We have one chance at this. If we fail, Peter stays trapped and the corruption spreads."

Arthur's rage crested and broke, leaving him hollow-eyed and exhausted. "I know. God help me, I know. But seeing him..."

They stood in Arthur's sitting room, the connecting door to Alfred's suite open like an invitation or an escape route. The Token pulsed against Alfred's chest. 

"You should rest," Alfred said finally. "Real rest, not whatever passes for it here. I'll set wards, keep watch."

"And if I can't?" Arthur asked quietly. "If every time I close my eyes I see Peter hanging in those chains?"

Alfred hesitated, then made a decision that went against every instinct for self-preservation. "Then you come find me."

He retreated to his own suite before Arthur could respond, before the moment could become something neither of them was ready for. But as he set his wards and prepared for a sleepless night of vigilance, Alfred couldn't shake the feeling that in this place where reality bent to will and whim, the careful distances he maintained might be just another form of corruption.

The Token whispered its warnings—about the price of isolation, about bonds denied and connections refused. In Clubs, where madness reigned and truth was negotiable, perhaps the most dangerous lie was the one Alfred told himself: that keeping Arthur at arm's length would keep them safe.

Outside his window, the stars burned in impossible colors, and somewhere in the castle's twisted heart, Peter Kirkland experienced eternity one agonizing moment at a time.

Chapter Text

Morning in Clubs was a negotiable concept. Alfred woke, if sleep in this place could truly be called that, to find sunlight streaming through his window despite his internal clock insisting it was still deepest night. The view outside showed three different landscapes simultaneously: a garden in full summer bloom, the same garden withered by winter, and something that might have been the garden's dream of itself, all existing in the same space.

He'd spent the night fighting off reality incursions—his reflection had tried to swap places with him twice, and at one point his bed had decided it was actually a boat floating on memories. The Token had helped, its presence a constant reminder of what was real versus what the corruption wanted him to believe.

A knock at his door interrupted his morning preparations. Not the connecting door to Arthur's suite, which had remained tellingly closed all night, but the main entrance. Alfred answered it to find a man who looked like he was desperately trying to hold himself together—literally. Parts of him seemed to exist at slightly different temporal rates, giving him a blurred quality.

"Your Majesty," the man said with a bow that rippled through several moments. "I am Lord Ivan Braginsky, appointed as your liaison during your stay. I hope the night was... stable?"

Alfred studied him, the Token whispering insights. This was the conflicted presence Matthew had sensed, someone high in Mikhail's court but not lost to madness. Yet.

"As stable as anything here," Alfred replied carefully. "Lord Ivan, was it? I don't recall seeing you at dinner."

Something flickered across Ivan's features. "I find the temporal inconsistencies disagree with my digestion." A smile. "Shall I show you to the breakfast room? It's one of the more reliable spaces. Usually."

Alfred grabbed his formal jacket, then made a quick decision. "Allow me to collect Queen Arthur first."

He knocked on the connecting door, not waiting for a response before entering. Arthur stood by his window, still in yesterday's clothes, looking haggard. He clearly hadn't slept, hadn't even tried from the look of things.

"Arthur," Alfred said softly. "Lord Ivan is here to escort us to breakfast."

Arthur turned, and Alfred caught his breath at the raw pain in those green eyes. But when Arthur spoke, his voice was steady. "Of course. Let me just..." He gestured vaguely at his rumpled state.

"Two minutes," Alfred told Ivan, then closed the main door. Once they were alone, he moved to Arthur. "You look like hell."

"Charming as always." Arthur's attempt at their usual banter fell flat. "I couldn't... every time I closed my eyes, I heard him screaming."

"Heard who?" Alfred asked, though he suspected he knew.

"Peter. The corruption carries sound strangely. I think... I think I was hearing echoes from when they first chained him. Years ago, but still happening, still..." Arthur's control cracked. "He was so young, Alfred. He called for me, for our brothers. Called until his voice broke."

Alfred pulled Arthur into his arms without thinking, holding him as tremors ran through the Queen's frame. "We'll get him out," he promised. "But you need to hold it together. Can't save him if you shatter first."

Arthur clung to him for a moment, face buried in Alfred's shoulder. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and straightened. "You're right. I know you're right. Just... stay close today?"

"Always," Alfred said, meaning it more than he should.

Arthur changed quickly into fresh clothes while Alfred waited, trying not to think about how domestic this felt. The corruption whispered seductive possibilities. 

He shook off the thoughts. That way lay madness.

Ivan was waiting patiently when they emerged, his temporal displacement slightly worse than before. "Your Majesties. This way, please. And might I suggest avoiding the third staircase? It's been leading to last Tuesday all week."

They followed him through corridors that couldn't quite decide on their architectural style. Gothic arches became classical columns became something organic and alive, all in the space of a few steps. Other members of their delegation were emerging from their rooms, looking various degrees of disturbed.

"How long have you served King Mikhail?" Arthur asked Ivan as they walked.

"Time is... difficult to measure here," Ivan replied carefully. "But I was appointed to court before the changes began. When His Majesty was still..." He paused, searching for words. "Still himself."

"It must be difficult," Alfred said, probing gently, "watching your kingdom transform so dramatically."

Ivan's laughed. "Difficult. Yes. That's one word for it." He stopped at a door marked with symbols that hurt to read. "The breakfast room. A word of advice? Don't trust the eggs. They remember being birds and sometimes try to fly away."

The breakfast room was almost aggressively normal, as if someone had tried to create a pocket of sanity in the madness. A long table set with fine china, windows showing a consistent view of morning gardens, even servants who moved in linear time.

Most of their delegation was already present. Matthew looked grey with exhaustion but alert, his Ace senses obviously overwhelmed but functional. Yao sat beside him, maintaining his merchant disguise with practiced ease. The others clustered in small groups, seeking safety in numbers.

"Ah, our royal guests!" A woman rose from the table's head—Lady Elizabeta, if Alfred remembered the introductions correctly. She looked mostly human, though her shadow had too many arms. "I trust Lord Ivan has been taking good care of you?"

"Exemplary care," Arthur replied with diplomatic smoothness. "We're grateful for the... guidance in navigating your unique architecture."

Elizabeta laughed, the sound like breaking bells. "Unique! How tactful. Most visitors use stronger words. Usually screamed while running."

They took their seats, Alfred carefully selecting items that looked least likely to violate natural law. The bread seemed safe enough, though it whispered secrets when bitten. The fruit existed in only three dimensions, which was reassuring.

"Tell me," Elizabeta said as they ate, "what do you think of our kingdom's evolution? His Majesty is quite proud of the improvements."

"It's certainly unlike anything we've experienced," Alfred said neutrally.

"Oh, but you will experience it," she said with a smile that had too many teeth. "The change seeps into visitors so subtly. First you stop noticing when corridors rearrange. Then temporal hiccups seem normal. Before long, you're attending dinner in three different decades simultaneously and thinking nothing of it."

"How delightful," Arthur managed, though Alfred could see his knuckles white where he gripped his cup.

"Isn't it?" Elizabeta turned to Ivan. "Lord Ivan, why don't you show Their Majesties the gardens after breakfast? They're particularly impossible this time of year."

Ivan bowed, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course, my lady."

The rest of breakfast passed in surreal normalcy. Courtiers discussed matters of state across temporal boundaries, a servant poured tea that flowed upward, and somewhere in the walls, Alfred could hear what sounded like Peter's heartbeat, steady and wrong.

After the meal, Ivan led them through the castle toward the gardens. But once they were away from other courtiers, his demeanor changed. He glanced around nervously, then gestured them into a small alcove.

"We have perhaps five minutes before reality notices we're missing," he said quickly. "I know why you're really here."

Alfred's hand went to his concealed weapon, but Arthur stopped him with a touch. "Do you?" Arthur asked carefully.

"The Red Joker. Peter Kirkland." Ivan's face became twisted. "What's being done to him is abomination. But I cannot stop it alone."

"Why should we trust you?" Alfred demanded.

"Because," Ivan said simply, "I am still sane. Still myself. And I would see my kingdom freed from this madness before it consumes everything I once loved."

The Token pulsed, confirming the truth in his words. Here was their potential ally, the inside help they desperately needed.

"What can you tell us?" Arthur asked urgently.

"Mikhail grows worse daily. The corruption feeds on itself, and he feeds on the Joker. It's a cycle that will end in complete collapse, reality itself unraveling from this point outward." Ivan's temporal displacement worsened with his agitation. "But he's not entirely gone. There are moments of lucidity, usually just after he's fed deeply on the Joker's essence. In those moments, he remembers who he was. And he weeps."

"Where exactly is Peter being held?" Alfred pressed.

"The deep chambers, below even the dungeons. Reality is... thin there. Dangerously so. But I can guide you, when the time is right." Ivan glanced around again. "For now, we must maintain appearances. Play along with the madness. Let Mikhail think you're being seduced by the corruption."

"And your price for this help?" Alfred asked, because there was always a price.

Ivan's smile was sad. "Free my king from his madness. Whether that means saving him or..." He didn't finish, but the implication was clear.

They emerged from the alcove to find the corridor had rearranged itself, now opening directly onto the gardens. The space beyond defied botany and physics equally—roses that bloomed backwards into seeds, trees that grew downward into the sky, flowers that sang wordless songs of tomorrow's regrets.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Ivan said loudly, back to playing his role. "His Majesty spent years perfecting the impossibility."

They wandered the paths, such as they were. Sometimes they walked on gravel, sometimes on clouds, once on what appeared to be crystallized music. Other courtiers drifted past, lost in their own realities.

"Your Majesty!"

Matthew appeared around a corner that hadn't existed moments before, looking urgent. Behind him, several members of their delegation followed, all appearing various degrees of distressed.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded.

"It's Lord Garrett," one of the diplomats gasped. "He opened a door this morning and... and..."

"And?" Alfred prompted.

"He aged sixty years in an instant," Matthew finished quietly. "The healers are trying to reverse it, but the corruption has taken hold. He may not survive."

Arthur closed his eyes briefly. "How many others?"

"Three servants have vanished entirely—their rooms just... aren't there anymore. And Lady Alice swears her reflection is plotting against her." Matthew's expression was grim. "The corruption is affecting our people faster than anticipated."

"Double the buddy system," Alfred ordered. "No one goes anywhere alone. No one opens doors without checking with someone else first. And for God's sake, no one makes deals with their reflection, no matter how reasonable it sounds."

They needed to act fast. 

The day continued in that vein—small disasters, creeping madness, reality becoming increasingly negotiable. They attended a concert where the music played backwards, causing several diplomats to experience their entire lives in reverse. They toured an art gallery where the paintings were windows to other possibilities, and lost two guards who stepped through frames they shouldn't have touched.

Through it all, Ivan guided them with subtle skill, steering them away from the worst dangers while maintaining his facade of loyal service. Alfred found himself grudgingly respecting the man's courage—it couldn't be easy, staying sane in this madness, playing along while planning treason.

As afternoon bled into evening (or perhaps morning—time had given up maintaining linear progression), they found themselves in Mikhail's presence again. The king was holding court in a room that existed in seven dimensions, causing most of the delegation to immediately become nauseous.

"Ah, my new friends!" Mikhail exclaimed, his shadow waving from across the room while his body remained seated. "I trust Ivan has been showing you our improvements? He's so reliable. Mostly exists in the present, which is refreshing."

"Your kingdom is... transformative," Arthur managed, fighting to keep his composure as Peter's presence pressed against his magical senses.

"Transformative!" Mikhail clapped his hands, and somewhere else, years ago, the sound echoed. "Yes! You understand! Not destruction but transformation. Evolution. The next step in magical development."

He rose, moving toward them with intent that made Alfred's instincts scream danger. "Tell me, Your Majesties, have you ever wondered about the limitations placed on us? These marks that define our roles, our very existence? What if I told you those limitations were choice, not law?"

"An interesting philosophical question," Alfred said carefully.

"Philosophy?" Mikhail laughed, the sound fracturing across timelines. "Oh, my dear King, this is far beyond philosophy. This is revolution. Let me show you."

He gestured, and reality rippled. Suddenly, they could see, really see, what he'd done. Peter hung in chains that existed in every moment simultaneously, experiencing his imprisonment not as linear time but as an eternal now. The corruption flowed from him in visible streams, feeding into Mikhail, into the castle, into the very fabric of Clubs itself.

Arthur made a sound like a wounded animal. Alfred grabbed his arm, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood, anything to keep him grounded.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mikhail said dreamily. "The Jokers were meant to balance us, to limit us. But what if we could harness that balance? Tip it in our favor? Create reality as we see fit rather than as ancient compacts demand?"

"At what cost?" Arthur gritted out.

"Cost?" Mikhail tilted his head. "What cost can be too high for godhood? The boy suffers, yes, but suffering is temporary. The power is eternal. Would you like to taste it?"

He held out his hand, and Alfred could see the corruption writhing beneath his skin like living things. The Token screamed warnings, visions of what would happen if they accepted—madness, yes, but also power beyond imagining. The ability to reshape the world according to will alone.

"We're honored by the offer," Alfred said smoothly, "but perhaps we should understand it better first. Observe longer. Learn properly."

"Cautious," Mikhail noted. "How boringly linear. But I suppose you're still trapped in sequential thinking. Very well. Observe. Learn. But know that my patience exists in finite quantities, even if time doesn't."

He dismissed them with a wave that rippled through several moments, leaving them reeling in his wake.

They escaped back to their suites, Alfred practically dragging Arthur. The moment they were alone, Arthur's control shattered completely. 

"I can't do this," Arthur gasped out between magic surges. "Can't sit there and pretend while he- while Peter-

"You can and you will," Alfred said sharply. "Because the alternative is all of us trapped like Peter. Is that what you want? The entire delegation strung up as batteries for Mikhail's madness?"

"No, but-

"No buts." Alfred cut in, "Ivan will help us. We'll get Peter out. But not tonight, not tomorrow. Soon. When we have a real plan and a real chance."

Arthur shuddered, his magic slowly settling. They stood there. 

"I can't sleep," Arthur whispered. "Every time I close my eyes..."

"Then don't," Alfred said simply. 

Chapter Text

The morning of negotiations dawned with all the reliability of a fever dream. Alfred stood before the mirror in his suite, adjusting formal robes that felt more like a costume than clothing befitting a king. The Token pulsed against his chest, its warnings about the day ahead manifesting as visions that made his head spin—treaties written in blood that changed meaning between readings, promises that existed in multiple states simultaneously, and through it all, Mikhail's mad laughter echoing across timelines.

Arthur appeared at the doorway. He'd entered through their connecting room without knocking, a liberty that sent an uncomfortable thrill through Alfred despite himself. "You look like a child forced into Sunday clothes."

"Feel like one too," Alfred admitted, abandoning his attempts to make the ceremonial sash lie properly. "This whole performance is pointless. Mikhail's not interested in actual negotiations."

Arthur moved closer, reaching out to adjust the sash with practiced efficiency. Alfred caught his breath at the proximity, at the way Arthur's fingers moved with careful precision across the fabric. The Queen's magic left traces of frost on the golden threads, and Alfred had to force himself not to lean into the touch.

"Of course it's pointless," Arthur murmured, focused on his task. "But we play the game because the alternative is admitting we're here to steal his power source and kidnap his prisoner."

"When you put it like that, we sound like the villains," Alfred said, voice rougher than intended. Arthur was too close, close enough that Alfred could count the faint freckles across his nose, could see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. 

"Perhaps we are." Arthur stepped back, task complete, but Alfred moved with him, maintaining the minimal distance. "But sometimes villainy is just another word for necessity."

They stood there, Alfred deliberately invading Arthur's space, watching the way the Queen's breath hitched slightly. The corruption whispered suggestions—how easy it would be to close that final distance, to claim what his mind insisted was already his.

"Alfred," Arthur warned, but his voice lacked conviction.

"We should go," Alfred said. But he didn't move back, forcing Arthur to slide past him to reach the door, their bodies brushing in a way that sent heat through Alfred's entire system.

The negotiation chamber was a masterwork of architectural impossibility. The table existed in a perfect circle that somehow had corners, the chairs faced all directions simultaneously, and the very air tasted of broken promises. Their delegation filed in with the careful movements of people who'd learned not to trust their senses, while Clubs' courtiers drifted to their places like ghosts at a feast.

Mikhail presided over it all from a throne that couldn't decide if it was furniture or a living thing. Today his madness wore the mask of perfect sanity, which somehow made it worse.

"My dear friends from Spades!" he exclaimed, spreading arms that cast too many shadows. "Today we make history. Or perhaps we unmake it. Time will tell, assuming time maintains its linear pretensions."

Alfred took his seat beside Arthur, deliberately choosing a chair that placed them closer than protocol demanded. He could feel Arthur's awareness of him, the way the Queen's magic sparked and stuttered at the contact. Good. Let him be distracted. Let him feel even a fraction of the consuming need that Alfred fought every waking moment.

"Your Majesty," Yao began, maintaining his merchant disguise with admirable composure, "we've prepared several trade proposals that we believe will benefit both kingdoms-

"Trade!" Mikhail laughed, the sound echoing from next week. "Such a quaint concept. Exchange of goods for currency, as if value was fixed rather than infinitely mutable. Tell me, what would you trade for divinity?"

"Divinity, Your Majesty?" one of their diplomats asked nervously.

"The power to reshape reality according to will alone," Mikhail's eyes fixed on Alfred with uncomfortable intensity. "Surely Their Majesties understand the appeal? After all, they carry Spades' heart between them, that delicious Token that whispers of possibilities."

Alfred kept his expression neutral even as the Token burned hot against his chest. Beside him, Arthur's hand clenched on the table, ice spreading from the point of contact.

"All kingdoms have their sources of power," Alfred said carefully. "But power without wisdom is merely destruction by another name."

Mikhail clapped his hands, and somewhere in the past, a child laughed. "How boringly traditional. Let me show you what power without limits can achieve."

Reality rippled, and suddenly they could see through the castle's walls, through stone and time to where Peter hung in his chains. The Red Joker's eyes were open but unseeing, experiencing every moment of his captivity simultaneously. His mouth moved in silent screams that had long since transcended sound.

Arthur made a sound like breaking glass. Alfred grabbed his hand under the table, interlacing their fingers and squeezing hard enough to ground them both. The touch sent electricity through his system, his mind cataloguing every point of contact, the exact temperature of Arthur's skin, the way their magic mingled at the boundary between them.

"Your brother serves a glorious purpose," Mikhail continued dreamily. "Through his sacrifice, we transcend the limitations placed upon us by ancient compacts. No more arbitrary divisions between kingdoms. No more power parceled out according to birth marks. Only pure possibility, infinite and terrible."

"At what cost?" Arthur managed, his voice admirably steady for someone whose brother was displayed like a trophy. "Your kingdom dissolves into chaos. Your people suffer."

"Suffering is temporary. Godhood is eternal." Mikhail waved dismissively, and the vision of Peter fractured into a thousand moments of agony before disappearing. "But perhaps you need more convincing. Let us discuss these trade agreements of yours. I'm particularly interested in cultural exchanges."

What followed was a farce of diplomacy that would have been comedic if not for the underlying horror. Treaties that changed language between paragraphs. Terms that existed in quantum superposition until observed. Promises that meant different things to each person who heard them.

"Your Majesty seems tense," a new voice observed. A servant had appeared at Alfred's elbow—unusual, as the corrupted staff rarely interacted directly with guests. But this servant moved differently, with a grace that suggested more than mundane origins. When he leaned in to refill Alfred's cup, he whispered in a voice Alfred recognized: "The basement archives. Midnight. Come alone."

Gilbert. Of course the Joker would infiltrate the castle in the most dramatic way possible.

The negotiations dragged on for hours, each moment stretching like taffy in the corrupted time-space. By the time Mikhail declared a recess for lunch, half the delegation looked ready to scream. The other half had passed beyond that into numb acceptance.

"I need air," Arthur announced the moment they were free, pulling his hand from Alfred's grip with visible effort.

Alfred followed, because of course he did. His body moved without conscious thought, maintaining that too-close distance that made Arthur's shoulders tense. They found a balcony that probably hadn't existed an hour ago, overlooking gardens that bloomed and withered in accelerated cycles.

"Stop it," Arthur said without turning around.

"Stop what?" Alfred moved to stand beside him, close enough that their arms brushed.

"This. Whatever this is." Arthur gestured between them sharply. "The touching, the proximity, the constant-“  He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"I'm providing support during a difficult situation," Alfred said, the lie smooth as silk. 

"Support," Arthur laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I stand, it feels like-

"Like what?" Alfred turned to face him fully, backing Arthur against the balcony railing. "Tell me what it feels like, Arthur."

They stood frozen, Alfred's hands braced on either side of Arthur on the railing, caging him without quite touching. The space between them crackled with magic and something else, something that had nothing to do with their royal bonds and everything to do with the way Arthur's pupils dilated when Alfred leaned closer.

"Your Majesties?"

Ivan's voice shattered the moment. Alfred stepped back smoothly. 

"Lord Ivan," Arthur managed, voice only slightly unsteady. "We were just... discussing the negotiations."

Ivan's expression suggested he wasn't fooled, but he was too polite to comment. "His Majesty requests your presence for the afternoon session. He wishes to show you the Hall of Mirrors, where reality reflects upon itself."

"Of course," Alfred said, already moving to follow. But he made sure to brush against Arthur as he passed, a casual touch that sent sparks through both of them. "We wouldn't want to keep His Majesty waiting."

The Hall of Mirrors was exactly as horrifying as it sounded. Each reflection showed a different possibility—Alfred as he was, as he could be, as he might have been. In some mirrors he wore servant's clothes, in others he dripped with blood. One showed him on Spades' throne with Arthur beside him, crowned and glorious. Another showed him alone, surrounded by corpses, the Token corrupted beyond recognition.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Mikhail appeared in every reflection simultaneously, each version slightly different. "The mirrors show truth, but truth is such a flexible concept. Which Alfred is real? The servant, the killer, the king? Or perhaps they're all equally true, existing in quantum superposition until choice collapses them into one."

"Philosophy gives me a headache," Alfred said with calculated casualness. So Mikhail knew a little more than he let on.  "I prefer simpler truths."

"Do you?" Mikhail studied him with eyes that existed in too many colors. "Then let me offer you a simple truth: your Token calls to my Trump Card. They want to reunite, to restore the balance that our kingdoms have disrupted. Can you feel it?"

Alfred could. The Token burned against his chest, reaching toward something elsewhere in the castle. The Trump Card, corrupted but still powerful, still part of the greater whole that maintained their world's magic.

"Power recognizes power," Alfred acknowledged carefully.

"More than that. They're pieces of the same original artifact, the tool used to create our entire system." Mikhail moved closer, and reality bent around him like light through water. "Imagine what we could accomplish with both. Not just reshaping our kingdoms, but rewriting the very nature of existence."

"Tempting," Alfred lied. "But I've found that absolute power tends to have absolute prices."

"All power has a price," Mikhail agreed. "The question is whether you're willing to pay it. Your Queen certainly seems willing. Look how he watches the mirrors, searching for versions where his brother was never taken."

Alfred followed Mikhail's gaze to where Arthur stood transfixed before a mirror showing a family dinner that never was—all the Kirkland brothers together, laughing, whole. The longing on Arthur's face was painful to witness.

Without thinking, Alfred moved to him, hand settling on the small of Arthur's back. "Don't," he murmured. "Those paths are closed."

Arthur leaned into the touch despite himself. "I know. But knowing doesn't stop the wanting."

"No," Alfred agreed, thumb stroking small circles against Arthur's spine. "It doesn't."

Mikhail watched them with interest. "Such fascinating dynamics. The obsessive king and his object of fixation. Tell me, Your Majesty, do you ever wonder if your feelings are your own? Or merely another symptom of magical resonance?"

The question hit too close to truths Alfred didn't want to examine. Was his need for Arthur genuine or just another chain, like the crown itself? Did it matter, when the need consumed him regardless?

"I find examining my feelings tedious," Alfred said, but his hand remained on Arthur's back, possessive and obvious. "I prefer to simply act on them."

"How refreshingly direct." Mikhail's smile had too many teeth. "Perhaps you'll find tonight's entertainment illuminating then. A ball, in the old style. Dancing, music, and reality relaxing its rigid boundaries. Who knows what truths might emerge when inhibitions dissolve?"

The afternoon session continued with more meaningless negotiations, but Alfred barely paid attention. His mind was on Gilbert's message, on the midnight meeting that might provide real intelligence. 

As evening approached and they prepared for Mikhail's ball, Alfred found himself in Arthur's suite again, ostensibly to coordinate their approach but really because he couldn't bear the separation. He watched Arthur dress with the intensity of a predator studying prey, cataloguing every movement, every revealed inch of skin.

"You're staring," Arthur said without turning from the mirror.

"Yes," Alfred admitted without shame. "Problem?"

Arthur's hands stilled on his cufflinks. "You're getting worse."

"Or better, depending on perspective." Alfred moved closer, drawn by that inexorable pull. "The corruption affects everyone differently. Maybe it's just stripping away my pretenses."

"Is that what you call it?" Arthur turned to face him, and Alfred's breath caught at how beautiful he looked—formal robes bringing out the winter in his coloring, ice magic making his eyes practically glow.

They stood frozen, the moment stretched taut between them. Alfred could feel Arthur's magic responding to his proximity, ice forming on nearby surfaces as control slipped. His own magic rose to meet it, the Token singing between them, and for a moment Alfred thought-

A knock at the door shattered the spell. "Your Majesties," Ivan's voice called. "The ball begins soon."

Alfred stepped back, movements carefully controlled despite every instinct screaming at him to close the distance instead. "We should go," he said, voice admirably steady. "Wouldn't want to miss Mikhail's reality-bending entertainment."

Arthur nodded, not trusting his voice. But as they made their way to the ballroom, Alfred made sure to walk too close, to brush against him at every opportunity, to remind Arthur with every gesture that he was there. 

The ballroom doors loomed before them, promising new impossibilities and fresh horrors. 

The Token pulsed against his chest, whispering of connections that transcended choice or reason. And Alfred, for once, didn't argue with its assessment.

Chapter Text

The ball was in full swing when Alfred noticed the first familiar face that shouldn't have been there. The man moved through the crowd with purpose, his path deliberately intersecting with key Clubs nobles before circling back to observe the Spades delegation.

One of Hendriks' people. Of course the crime lord would have agents here. The corruption might make Clubs seem chaotic, but chaos provided excellent cover for infiltration.

Alfred tracked the man’s  movements while maintaining his position at the edge of the dance floor, where Arthur was suffering through a waltz with Lady Elizabeta. The Queen moved with technical perfection but obvious discomfort, especially when his partner's shadow-arms reached for him independently of her physical form.

"Fascinating party," a voice said beside him. Lord Dmitri, one of Clubs' trade ministers, had approached while Alfred was distracted. Another familiar face, Alfred had killed the man's brother years ago in Spades. "Though I confess, I preferred the old days when dance floors remained in only three dimensions."

"Nostalgia is dangerous here," Alfred replied, not taking his eyes off Arthur. "I've heard it can literally transport you to the past."

"Only if you're careless," Dmitri agreed. His next words were pitched lower, meant only for Alfred's ears. "Lord Hendriks sends his regards. He's quite interested in your diplomatic progress."

Alfred's blood chilled, but he kept his expression neutral. "I'm afraid I don't know any Lord Hendriks. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else."

"Perhaps," Dmitri said agreeably. "Though confusion seems unlikely, given how thorough his letters of introduction were. Fascinating reading about your past employment. Tell me, does Their Majesty Queen Arthur know about your... extensive resume?"

The threat was clear, if elegantly delivered. Alfred turned to face Dmitri fully, letting just enough danger show in his eyes to make the man step back. "I find threats tedious," he said conversationally. "Also counterproductive. Whatever message you're meant to deliver, do it quickly. I have a Queen to attend to."

Dmitri rallied admirably. "Lord Hendriks merely wishes to remind you of certain outstanding obligations. The item you carry, for instance. It was meant to be delivered, not worn as a personal accessory."

The Token pulsed hot against Alfred's chest, as if objecting to being called an accessory. Around them, the corrupted ball continued—courtiers dancing with their own shadows, music that played backwards through time, reality bending and swaying with the rhythm.

"Circumstances change," Alfred said simply. "What was possible as a servant isn't feasible as a king. Surely a man of Hendriks' intelligence understands adaptation."

"He understands many things," Dmitri replied. "Including the location of certain individuals whose wellbeing you value. Your uncle sends his regards, by the way. Though I understand his health has been... declining."

Graham. Alfred forced his expression to remain neutral even as rage built in his chest. "How unfortunate. Perhaps he should seek better medical care."

"Perhaps. Though medical care can be expensive. Almost as expensive as disappointing one's employer." Dmitri smiled, the expression all teeth and no warmth. "Lord Hendriks is patient, Your Majesty, but not infinitely so. He expects results."

"Then he'll be disappointed," Alfred said flatly. "I serve only myself now, not crime lords with delusions of grandeur."

"Do you?" Dmitri glanced meaningfully at where Arthur was escaping Lady Elizabeta's clutches. 

Before Alfred could respond, Dmitri melted back into the crowd. But now that Alfred was looking for them, he spotted at least three more faces that didn't belong—criminals and smugglers who'd cleaned up well enough to pass for minor nobility. Hendriks had infiltrated Clubs' court thoroughly, probably years ago.

The dance ended, and Arthur made his way back to Alfred's side. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked, slightly breathless from the exertion of dancing while reality shifted.

"Immensely," Alfred lied, automatically moving too close, hand settling possessively on Arthur's lower back. "Though I notice you've been monopolized by partners all evening."

"Diplomatic necessity," Arthur replied, but he didn't pull away from the touch. If anything, he leaned into it slightly. "Mikhail seems determined to have me dance with every corrupted noble in his court."

"Then perhaps it's time I claimed a dance myself." The words emerged without conscious thought. 

They moved into position as the next waltz began, and Alfred discovered that holding Arthur while music played was entirely different from their sparring sessions. This was public, visible, a declaration to everyone watching that the Queen of Spades was not available for whatever games they might be playing.

Arthur danced like he did everything else, with technical perfection barely containing emotional intensity. Alfred could feel the tension in his frame, the way his magic sparked where their hands touched. The corruption made the music visible, notes floating past like butterflies made of sound, but Alfred only had eyes for his partner.

"You're holding me too close," Arthur murmured, though he made no move to create distance.

"Am I?" Alfred pulled him closer still, elimination of any pretense of proper spacing. "I hadn't noticed."

They moved together through steps that occasionally forgot which direction was forward, past other dancers who existed in multiple moments simultaneously. But Alfred's focus narrowed to Arthur—the way he bit his lip in concentration, the slight flush on his cheeks, the quickening pulse visible at his throat.

"People are staring," Arthur observed.

"Let them." Alfred spun him through a complex turn, using the movement to press their bodies together momentarily. "They should know you're mine."

Arthur's steps faltered slightly and he looked highly offended. "I'm not-

"Aren't you?" Alfred's hand slid lower on Arthur's back. "Your magic says otherwise. The way you respond to me says otherwise. Even your protests say otherwise, all breath and no conviction."

Before Arthur could respond, the music shifted into something older, more primal. The corruption seized on it, transforming the formal waltz into something that belonged in ancient rites rather than civilized ballrooms. Around them, other dancers began moving in patterns that hurt to watch, reality bending to accommodate steps that shouldn't exist.

But Alfred adapted smoothly, guiding Arthur through the impossible choreography as if he'd always known it. Their magic rose to meet the challenge, ice and shadow weaving together in patterns that made the corruption recoil slightly. For a moment, they moved in perfect sync, two halves of a whole the universe had always intended.

Then the music ended, reality snapped back like a rubber band, and they were standing in the center of the floor with every eye upon them. Arthur's chest heaved with exertion, his eyes wide and wild. Alfred probably looked worse, predatory satisfaction written across every line of his body.

"Magnificent!" Mikhail's voice rang out, approaching through the crowd that parted before him. "Such perfect synchronization! You dance as if your very souls were entwined."

"Practice," Alfred said smoothly, finally releasing Arthur but keeping one hand on his arm. "We spar regularly."

"Spar, yes." Mikhail's knowing smile suggested he wasn't fooled. 

"Your Majesty," Ivan appeared at Mikhail's elbow, his temporal displacement worse than ever. "You asked to be reminded about the midnight ceremonies."

"Ah yes!" Mikhail clapped his hands. "How could I forget? Or remember, as the case may be. Time does play such tricks. Your Majesties must excuse me, I have reality to reshape and gods to disappoint."

He swept away, his court following like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Within minutes, the ballroom had largely emptied, leaving only the Spades delegation and a few lingering courtiers who seemed unsure which timeline they belonged to.

"I need air," Arthur announced, pulling free of Alfred's grip with visible effort.

Alfred followed, because the alternative was physically impossible. They ended up on a terrace that overlooked gardens where flowers grew backwards into seeds. The night air should have been cooling, but here it carried the fever-heat of corruption, making everything feel too close, too intense.

"We can't keep doing this," Arthur said without turning around.

"Doing what?" Alfred moved to stand beside him, deliberately pressing close. "Dancing? Breathing? Existing in the same space?"

"You know what I mean." Arthur's knuckles were white where he gripped the railing.

"Your Majesty?"

They jerked apart at Matthew's voice. Alfred's brother stood in the doorway, expression carefully neutral but eyes knowing. Beside him stood a figure in servant's clothes that Alfred recognized as Gilbert despite the disguise.

"What is it?" Alfred asked, not bothering to hide his frustration at the interruption.

"Lord Ivan wishes to speak with you privately," Matthew said. "He says it's urgent. Regarding certain shared interests."

Ivan. Who'd promised information about Peter. Alfred forced himself to focus on the mission rather than the interrupted moment.

"Where?" he asked.

"The old observatory," Gilbert answered, his red eyes dancing with amusement at their compromising position. "Third tower, past the hallway that sometimes leads to next week. Ivan will meet you there in an hour."

"Why not now?" Arthur demanded, having recovered his composure.

"Because now he's attending Mikhail's midnight ceremony," Gilbert explained. "Absence would be noticed. But afterward, during the chaos of reality readjustment, he can slip away."

An hour. Alfred could wait an hour.

"We'll be there," he decided. "Both of us."

"Actually," Matthew interjected, "Lord Ivan specifically requested just you, Alfred. He has... concerns about being too exposed."

Alfred felt Arthur tense beside him. "Absolutely not," the Queen said flatly. "We're not splitting up in this madhouse."

"It might be our only chance to get real intelligence," Alfred argued. "Ivan's risking everything by talking to us."

"Then I'll come with you," Arthur insisted.

"Your Majesty," Gilbert said gently, "perhaps you and I could discuss your brother while Alfred meets with Ivan? I have... insights that might help when the time comes for retrieval."

It was a reasonable plan. Logical, even. But Alfred's every instinct screamed against separation, against letting Arthur out of his sight even for an hour. The obsessive need to keep him close warred with the practical necessity of gathering intelligence.

"Fine," Arthur said before Alfred could protest further. "But we reconvene immediately after. No delays, no side missions."

The Token pulsed against his chest, sharing visions of all the things that could go wrong in an hour—corruption taking hold, Hendriks' agents making their move, Arthur deciding the distance between them was for the best.

Alfred made his way through the castle's twisted architecture, following Gilbert's directions to the observatory. The corruption was stronger here, in the older parts of the castle where Mikhail's influence had had longer to seep in. Portraits watched him pass with eyes that belonged to different faces than their frames suggested. Suits of armor turned to track his movement, whispering suggestions in languages that predated human speech.

The observatory itself was a monument to madness. Star charts covered every surface, but the constellations they showed bore no resemblance to any sky that had ever existed. Telescopes pointed in directions that weren't quite up, focused on celestial bodies that existed only in potential.

Ivan waited by the largest telescope, his temporal displacement so severe that he seemed to flicker between moments like a poorly tuned projection.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing in three different time streams simultaneously. "Thank you for coming alone."

"You have information about Peter," Alfred said without preamble.

"I have more than that." Ivan gestured to the star charts. "I have the truth about what Mikhail's really trying to accomplish."

Alfred's hand went instinctively to where the Token rested. "Explain."

"The four kingdom artifacts—Token, Trump Card, Ruby Staff, Diamond Blade—they're not separate items," Ivan began, his image stabilizing somewhat as he focused. "They're pieces of something larger. Something that was broken apart specifically to prevent what Mikhail's attempting."

"Which is?"

"Complete rewriting of reality itself." Ivan moved to a specific chart, one that showed not stars but magical flow patterns. "The marked system, the kingdoms, the very nature of our world—it's all artificial. Created by the first compact, maintained by the artifacts. But if someone reunited all four pieces..."

"They could remake everything," Alfred finished, the Token burning with confirmation against his chest. "Start over with themselves as architect."

"Exactly. Mikhail thinks he's pioneering something new with his corruption, but he's actually following a plan laid out generations ago." Ivan's expression was grim. "There is an organization that's been working toward this for centuries. They've finally positioned their pieces correctly."

Alfred considered Hendrik's mission that he had given him, understanding flooding through him. 

Ivan continued. "This organization has  already got agents attempting to acquire the Ruby Staff from Hearts. The Diamond Blade has been missing for years, I suspect they already have it."

"Then stopping Mikhail-

"Won't stop anything," Ivan said flatly. "He's a distraction, a dying madman they're using to accelerate their timeline. The real threat is the organization behind him, and they've been playing a game measured in generations while we've been focused on immediate crises."

Alfred's mind raced through implications. Every assassination he'd performed for Hendriks, every political figure removed, had it all been to position pieces for this moment? How many of his kills had cleared the path for this massive conspiracy?

"Why tell me this?" Alfred asked finally. "What do you gain?"

Ivan's form solidified fully for a moment, showing exhaustion and desperate determination. "I want my kingdom saved. My king freed from madness, even if that freedom comes through death. My people liberated from this corruption. If that means helping you stop a conspiracy that would remake our entire world, so be it."

"And you think we can stop it?"

"I think," Ivan said carefully, "that a King who carries one artifact and seeks to free a Joker who was used to corrupt another might have a chance. Especially if that King understands the real game being played."

They talked for another twenty minutes, Ivan sharing everything he'd learned. By the time Alfred left the observatory, his worldview had shifted fundamentally.

He'd thought himself a player in this game. Turned out he'd been a piece, moved by hands he hadn't even known existed.

But pieces could become players, if they understood the board.

Alfred made his way back to their suites, mind churning through strategies and counter-strategies. He found Arthur already there, pacing the sitting room with manic energy. The moment Alfred entered, Arthur crossed to him in three quick strides.

"You're late," Arthur said, hands running over Alfred's arms and chest as if checking for injury. "Gilbert said an hour. It's been ninety minutes. I was about to-

"I'm fine," Alfred caught Arthur's hands, stilling their anxious movement. "Ivan had more to share than expected. Where's Matthew?"

"Resting. The corruption's wearing on him badly." Arthur didn't pull his hands free, and Alfred couldn't help but notice how natural the contact felt. "What did Ivan tell you?"

Alfred shared everything, watching Arthur's expression shift from curiosity to alarm to determination. By the time he finished, they were sitting close on the sofa.

"So everything—Peter's imprisonment, Mikhail's madness, even us being here—it's all part of some massive conspiracy?" Arthur asked.

"Seems like it." Alfred's thumb traced absent patterns on Arthur's shoulder. "The question is what we do about it."

"We stop them," Arthur said simply. "Free Peter, save Ivan's kingdom, and prevent reality itself from being rewritten by power-hungry madmen."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." Arthur turned to look at him fully, and Alfred's breath caught at the fierce determination in those green eyes. "We're Monarchs of Spades, aren't we? If not us, then who?"

The moment stretched between them, charged with more than magical resonance. Alfred found himself leaning closer, drawn by that inexorable pull. 

A crash from Matthew's room shattered the moment. They were both on their feet instantly, Alfred's weapons already in hand as they burst through the door.

Matthew sat on the floor beside his overturned chair, Gilbert crouched beside him with obvious concern. But it was Matthew's expression that made Alfred's blood run cold—eyes rolled back, showing only whites, while his mouth moved in voiceless prophecy.

"He touched something he shouldn't have," Gilbert explained tersely. "The corruption recognized his Ace abilities and tried to use him as a conduit. He's seeing... everything. Every lie in the castle, every deception stretching back years."

"Can you stop it?" Alfred demanded, dropping to his brother's other side.

"I'm trying." Gilbert's power flared, red light attempting to shield Matthew from the overwhelming input. "But the corruption's strong here, and getting stronger. We may need to leave sooner than planned."

Matthew's seizure intensified, his back arching as invisible forces pulled at him. Through their bond, Alfred could feel fragments of what his brother was experiencing—lies upon lies, deceptions stretching back generations, and underneath it all, the slow rot of a conspiracy that touched every kingdom.

"Hold on, Mattie," Alfred murmured, pouring his own power into strengthening Gilbert's shields. "Just hold on."

Beside him, Arthur added his magic to their protections, and for a moment the combined power of King, Queen, and Joker held the corruption at bay. Matthew's seizure eased, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

But when his eyes opened, they held knowledge too heavy for any one person to bear.

"Alfred," he whispered, voice hoarse. "It's worse than we thought…

Chapter Text

Matthew's eyes remained closed, but behind those lids, Alfred could see rapid movement, as if his brother was watching a thousand films simultaneously. When Matthew finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of truths too heavy for any one mind to bear.

"Generations," Matthew whispered hoarsely. "This conspiracy stretches back generations, Al. Every thread, every lie, all leading to this moment." His hand found Alfred's with desperate strength. "The marked system itself, it was never meant to be permanent. The first Kings knew it would eventually need to be... reset."

Arthur leaned forward, ice crackling across the floor from where he knelt. "Reset how?"

Matthew's eyes opened, but they weren't seeing the present. His Ace abilities had torn through time itself, showing him conversations that happened in hidden rooms decades ago. "The artifacts. Token, Trump Card, Ruby Staff, Diamond Blade. They're not just symbols of power, they're keys. Four keys to unlock the original Compact and rewrite everything."

Gilbert's red eyes blazed brighter as he reinforced the shields around Matthew. "He's seeing too much. The corruption is using his ability against him, showing him every deception simultaneously."

"The organization," Matthew continued, his voice gaining a dreamy quality that sent chills down Alfred's spine. "They call themselves the Architects. They've been positioning pieces for over a century. Every war, every diplomatic marriage, every mysterious death, all to ensure the artifacts would be accessible when the time came."

Alfred felt the Token pulse against his chest, responding to the mention of its siblings. "And Hendriks?"

"A middle manager," Matthew laughed, the sound bitter and wrong coming from his gentle brother. "He thinks he's important, but he's just another tool. The real power..." His body convulsed as another wave of visions crashed through him. "They're already in every court. Hearts' Ruby Staff has been compromised, the keeper doesn't even know they're being influenced. The Diamond Blade disappeared twenty years ago because they already have it."

"Then we're too late," Arthur said, frost spreading faster with his agitation.

"No." Matthew's grip on Alfred's hand tightened painfully. "That's why they need the Token so badly. It's the only artifact that can't be corrupted from the outside. It has to be willingly given or-" He screamed, back arching as the corruption fought back against his revelations.

Gilbert poured more power into the shields, sweat beading on his forehead. "He needs rest. Real rest, not whatever passes for it in this madhouse."

They managed to get Matthew into bed, Gilbert weaving protections around him that shimmered like heat mirages. As Matthew's breathing finally evened into sleep, Arthur turned to Gilbert with barely controlled fury.

"You knew about the Architects?"

Gilbert's smile was sharp as winter moonlight. "I know many things, Your Majesty. The question is always which knowledge serves the moment." He settled into the chair beside Matthew's bed with boneless grace. "The Jokers have been aware of the conspiracy for decades. We're... limited in how we can act directly."

"Limited," Alfred repeated flatly. "While Peter suffers and kingdoms burn?"

"The restrictions placed on Jokers are absolute," Gilbert's playful mask slipped, revealing ancient weariness beneath. "We can guide, suggest, occasionally intervene in dramatic fashion. But we cannot simply stride into throne rooms and unmake conspiracies. That's what Kings and Queens are for."

Arthur began pacing, ice trailing his footsteps. "Peter reached out to me. In dreams. You warned this might happen."

"The connection between family members is already strong," Gilbert confirmed. "Add Peter's Joker nature and the corruption's tendency to blur boundaries, and dream communication becomes almost inevitable. What did he show you?"

Arthur's face went pale. "Everything. Years of being drained, feeling his essence pulled out thread by thread to fuel Mikhail's madness. He's... he's not the brother I remember, Gilbert. What they've done to him..."

"Has changed him," Gilbert finished gently. "But change doesn't mean lost. Peter endures because somewhere deep inside, he believes you'll come for him. That faith has kept him sane when he had every reason to shatter."

Alfred moved closer to Arthur, not quite touching but near enough that their magic mingled. The Token showed him flashes of what Arthur had seen—Peter suspended in those terrible chains, experiencing every moment of his captivity simultaneously. The corruption didn't just imprison him; it made him experience his imprisonment infinitely, each second stretching into forever.

"We need those underground passages Ivan mentioned," Alfred said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "A direct assault through the main castle is suicide with the corruption this strong."

"Agreed." Gilbert's attention remained fixed on Matthew's sleeping form, something soft in his expression. "Ivan takes tremendous risk offering them. If Mikhail discovers his betrayal..."

"He won't," Arthur said with grim determination. "Because we're going to succeed. We have to."

They spent the next hour planning, voices low to avoid waking Matthew. Gilbert shared intelligence about the castle's lower levels—spaces where reality grew so thin that thoughts could become physical, where the corruption had eaten holes in existence itself.

"The chains holding Peter aren't entirely physical," Gilbert explained, sketching diagrams that hurt to look at directly. "They exist partially in conceptual space. Breaking them will require more than strength or magic. It will require understanding their nature."

"And that nature is?" Alfred prompted.

"Betrayal given form." Gilbert's expression darkened. "Mikhail didn't just chain Peter. He chained him with his own nature inverted. A Joker maintains balance, the chains force imbalance. A Joker connects order and chaos, the chains create separation. To break them..."

"We need to restore balance," Arthur finished. "But how?"

"That's where harmony comes in." Gilbert gestured to each of them in turn. "King, Queen, Jack, Ace. Four aspects of sovereignty, just as there are four artifacts. When all four work in true harmony, they create something greater than their individual parts."

"We've never achieved that," Alfred pointed out. "Yao and Matthew are still learning to work with us, and Arthur and I..." He trailed off, unwilling to address their complicated dynamic.

"You're closer than you think." Gilbert's knowing smile returned. "Your magic already seeks unity. Your bonds strengthen with each passing hour, whether you acknowledge them or not."

As if to prove his point, Alfred realized he'd unconsciously moved closer to Arthur during the conversation. They stood near enough that he could feel the Queen's warmth despite the ice magic, could count the faint stress lines around those green eyes.

"We should speak with Ivan," Arthur said, clearly trying to redirect the conversation. "If we're going to use his passages, we need to know exactly what we're walking into."

"Tomorrow," Alfred decided. "Tonight, we need rest. Real rest, not the corruption's mockery of it."

Gilbert rose gracefully. "I'll maintain the shields around Matthew. He should sleep peacefully now that the visions have passed." He paused at the door, looking back with an expression that was almost fond. "Your brother is remarkable, Alfred. His strength goes deeper than you know."

After Gilbert departed, Alfred and Arthur were left alone in the sitting room. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and barely restrained need.

"You should sleep," Alfred said finally. "Tomorrow will be difficult."

"Will it be worse than today?" Arthur laughed bitterly. "Seeing Peter like that, knowing he's been suffering for years while I played at being Queen..."

"You didn't know." Alfred moved closer still, drawn by that inexorable pull. "No one knew what had become of him."

They stood so close that Alfred could feel every breath, could see the way Arthur's pupils dilated in the low light. The moment stretched taut between them, balanced on the edge of something irreversible.

Then Arthur stepped away, the loss of contact almost physical pain. "I should... rest. Like you said."

Alfred watched him retreat to his own room, the Token pulsing with frustrated energy against his chest. Soon, it whispered. Soon the barriers would fall, the careful distances would collapse. Whether through corruption or choice, the bonds between them would manifest fully.

Chapter Text

Alfred woke to the sensation of wrongness, every instinct screaming danger before his conscious mind processed the threat. The room was dark, but not empty. Someone had slipped past his wards, past the corruption's chaotic defenses, and now stood mere feet from his bed.

The Token burned against his chest in warning.

Alfred remained still, breathing unchanged, as he assessed the situation through slitted eyes. The intruder was good—professional stillness, controlled breathing, the kind of patience that came from years of training. They moved closer, and Alfred caught a glimpse of a blade that seemed to drink in what little light existed.

Definitely one of Hendriks' specialists.

The assassin reached for where the Token lay beneath Alfred's shirt, movements precise and careful. Too careful, actually. They clearly knew what happened to those who touched the artifact without right, but thought they could somehow extract it without direct contact.

Fools.

The moment fingers brushed fabric above the Token, everything went wrong. The artifact's power surged, recognizing the threat, and reality itself recoiled from the violation. Alfred rolled away as the assassin began to scream—not a normal sound, but something that existed in too many octaves simultaneously.

The unmaking had begun.

Alfred watched with clinical detachment as one of Hendriks' best agents discovered why some artifacts were better left alone. The man's hand went first—not burned or dissolved, but simply ceasing. Where flesh had been, now there was nothing. Not even absence, just a void in the shape of fingers that hurt to perceive.

The effect spread up his arm like inverse creation. Skin didn't peel away—it stopped having ever existed. Muscle fibers unwound from reality, bones became mathematical improbabilities, blood forgot its purpose and dispersed into concepts rather than fluid. The assassin tried to scream, but his throat was already partially unmade, producing sounds that belonged to no human vocabulary.

"Please," he managed to gasp out from a mouth that flickered between states. "Wasn't... supposed to... like this..."

Alfred could have ended it quickly. A blade through what remained of the heart, mercy for someone who'd only been following orders. Instead, he watched, memorizing every detail of what the Token could do when truly threatened. This was the power he carried against his chest daily, the force that whispered seductive promises of reshaping reality.

The unmaking reached the assassin's torso. His chest cavity opened not through violence but through cessation—ribs spreading like flower petals as the concept of containment failed. Internal organs became visible for a moment before they too began to dissolve, each one forgetting its function before forgetting its existence entirely.

By the time the effect reached his head, the assassin had stopped looking human. He was a collection of parts that couldn't agree on which dimension to exist in, features sliding between possibilities before settling on none. His eyes met Alfred's for one last moment—still aware, still terrified—before they too unmade.

The final dissolution was almost gentle. What had been a person became outline, then suggestion, then nothing at all. Not even dust remained. The Token had unmade him so thoroughly that reality had already begun forgetting he'd existed. Within hours, only Alfred would remember this death. Within days, even records of the man would begin to fade.

Alfred rose from his bed, checking the room for additional threats. The corrupted castle made it difficult to trust his senses, but the Token had calmed, suggesting immediate danger had passed.

A soft knock came at the connecting door. "Alfred?" Arthur's voice, tight with concern. "I felt... something. Your magic spiked."

Alfred opened the door to find Arthur in sleeping clothes, hair disheveled and magic crackling around him in defensive patterns. The sight hit Alfred like a physical blow—Arthur sleep-rumpled and worried, having come to check on him despite their complicated dynamic.

Alfred explained simply. "People are getting desperate."

Arthur's eyes widened as he took in the room, noting the absence of a body. "Where...?"

"The Token defended itself. There's nothing left to find." Alfred moved closer, noting how Arthur didn't retreat despite the danger radiating from him. "He tried to steal it while I slept. The artifact took exception."

"Unmade?" Arthur had heard the concept but never seen the result. "Completely?"

"Reality forgets they existed. No body, no evidence, eventually no memory." Alfred watched Arthur process this, saw the moment he truly understood what kind of power Alfred carried daily. "Still think I should hand it over to proper authorities for safekeeping?"

"I think," Arthur said carefully, "that the Token chose its bearer well. Someone else might have been tempted to use that power deliberately."

"The night is young," Alfred replied with dark humor.

They stood in Alfred's bedroom, the intimacy of the space making everything feel more charged. Arthur seemed to realize this, color rising in his cheeks, but he didn't retreat. If anything, he moved deeper into the room, examining where the assassin had stood.

"There's not even a trace," Arthur marveled. "The corruption leaves echoes of everything, but this... it's like he never existed at all."

"That's what unmaking means." Alfred followed Arthur's movement, maintaining that too-close distance that had become his default. "Complete cessation of existence. The Token doesn't just kill, it erases."

Arthur turned to face him, and they stood barely a foot apart. "You're remarkably calm for someone who just watched a man dissolve from reality."

"I've seen worse deaths." Alfred let his fingers ghost over Arthur's arm, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. "This was at least efficient."

"Efficient," Arthur repeated, but his voice had gone breathy. "Is that how you categorize deaths now?"

"Would you prefer I be traumatized?" Alfred moved closer still, backing Arthur against the wall. "Crying over someone who came to kill me? That's not who I am."

"No," Arthur agreed, but he wasn't pulling away. "You're something else entirely. Something dangerous."

"Does that frighten you?" Alfred braced his hands on either side of Arthur, caging him without quite touching.

Arthur's magic flared, frost spreading across the wall behind him. "Everything about you frightens me.” His jaw was clenching.

Matthew's voice called from the sitting room. "Al? Arthur? We need to talk."

The moment shattered. Arthur slipped away, using the interruption to escape Alfred's proximity. They found Matthew in the sitting room with Yao, both looking grim.

"The delegation is showing more signs of corruption," Yao reported without preamble. "Three more servants have developed temporal displacement."

"We need to accelerate our timeline," Matthew added. "Gilbert's been scouting the lower passages. He thinks we could attempt a rescue tomorrow night, during the new moon when the corruption is weakest."

"That's too soon," Arthur protested. "We haven't properly prepared-

"We'll never be properly prepared," Alfred interrupted. "Every day we wait, we lose more people. Either to corruption or to Hendriks' agents." He looked at Matthew. "What else did Gilbert find?"

Matthew's expression grew darker. "The Architects have someone close to Mikhail. Very close. Gilbert couldn't identify them, but their influence is everywhere. They're feeding Mikhail's madness, guiding it toward their goals."

"Which are?" Yao asked.

"Complete reconstruction of the marked system," Matthew explained. "They believe the current structure has grown stagnant. Too much power concentrated in too few hands. They want to shatter it all and rebuild according to their design."

Alfred felt the Token pulse with agitation. "And they need all four artifacts to do it."

"Exactly. The Trump Card is already corrupted, the Diamond Blade is in their possession. They have agents working to acquire the Ruby Staff." Matthew met Alfred's eyes. "Our Token is the last piece they need."

"Then we deny them," Alfred said simply. "We rescue Peter, purify or destroy the Trump Card, and stop their plan before it advances further."

"Just like that?" Yao's tone was skeptical. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but that seems optimistic."

Alfred's smile was all teeth. "You'd be surprised what I'm capable of when properly motivated."

They spent the next hour refining plans, discussing contingencies. Arthur and Yao focused on the diplomatic angles—how to maintain cover, how to explain sudden absence, how to handle the aftermath. More practical concerns fell to Alfred and Matthew—routes, weapons, magical defenses.

As dawn light began creeping through windows that showed three different skies, Yao excused himself to check on the delegation. 

Finally, Arthur too departed, leaving the brothers alone.

"The organization has to be stopped," Matthew said once they were truly private. "Not just their plan for the artifacts, but the entire structure. They've been manipulating events for generations, Al. Every war, every succession crisis, every mysterious death—all to position pieces for this moment."

"I know." Alfred moved to the window, watching the sun rise in impossible colors. "Hendriks thinks he's using me, but he's just another pawn. The Architects probably recruited him specifically because he had access to promising youth."

"To us," Matthew corrected. "Especially you. They've been grooming you to be their weapon."

Alfred's hand went to the Token. "Instead, I became something they didn't expect. A player instead of a piece."

"Did you?" Matthew's voice held gentle challenge. "Or is that what they want you to think? Every choice you've made, every kill, every deception—what if it all served their purposes?"

The thought had haunted Alfred since Ivan's revelations. How many of his assignments had cleared paths for the Architects? How many legitimate leaders had he removed, leaving power vacuums for their agents to fill?

"Then I'll have to be better," Alfred said finally. "Smarter. More ruthless. Whatever it takes to protect what matters."

Matthew sighed but didn't press. "We'll need allies. Real ones, not just convenient arrangements. Ivan's a start, but-

The connecting door burst open. Arthur stood there, fury radiating from every line of his body, ice already forming on his hands.

"You've been discussing the organization," he accused. "The Architects, Hendriks, all of it. And you didn't think to include me?"

Alfred tensed. Arthur had overheard more than intended. Matthew, sensing the brewing storm, quickly excused himself through the main door, leaving them alone.

"Arthur-

"No." Arthur stalked forward, magic crackling dangerously. "I heard enough. Hendriks, the crime lord from Spades? You know him. You've been working with him. For him?" His voice rose with each word. "Is that why you hid? Not just the mark, but your whole life? You're connected to-

Understanding dawned in those green eyes, terrible and complete. "Jones. Your real name is Jones. As in Hitman Jones? The killer who's been-

Alfred moved. He needed to shut him up, to distract him, anything. 

He crossed the space between them in two strides and slammed Arthur back against the wall, one hand gripping his jaw while the other pinned his wrist. Before Arthur could finish his accusation, Alfred crushed their mouths together with bruising force.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a claiming, a silencing, a brutal distraction wrapped in the pretense of desire. Alfred used his body to cage Arthur against the wall, used his mouth to swallow the angry words, used every dirty trick he'd learned about breaking someone's concentration.

Arthur made a muffled sound of fury, free hand coming up to shove at Alfred's chest. His magic spiked wildly, ice spreading from every point of contact, but Alfred didn't relent. He angled Arthur's head where he wanted it, deepened the kiss with aggressive precision, tongue invading with the same calculated force he'd use to disable an enemy.

The Token burned between them, responding to their proximity, their conflict, their unwilling connection. Power crackled in the air—ice meeting shadow in violent spirals that made the corruption around them recoil.

When Alfred finally pulled back, Arthur was panting, eyes wild, lips red and swollen. But the fury hadn't dimmed—if anything, it burned hotter.

"You bastard," Arthur snarled, shoving hard enough to create space between them. "You think you can just-

"I think," Alfred interrupted, prowling forward to maintain his advantage, "that you're asking questions you don't want answered." He backed Arthur up again, using his physical presence like a weapon.

Arthur's control finally snapped. Ice exploded outward, forcing Alfred back several steps. "Get out," he snarled. "Get out of my sight before I freeze you solid."

Alfred straightened his clothes with deliberate nonchalance, though his body thrummed with unsatisfied hunger. "As Your Majesty commands." He moved toward the door. 

The game between them had shifted, truths finally spoken even if neither was ready to address them. Alfred touched his lips, still feeling the violent press of contact, still tasting Arthur's rage and reluctant response.

The Token pulsed against his chest, whispering of connections that went deeper than choice. Alfred ignored it. He had more immediate concerns—tomorrow's rescue attempt, Hendriks' escalating interference, the conspiracy closing around them like a noose.

Chapter Text

The morning after Alfred's brutal kiss brought a tension so thick it could be cut with a blade. Arthur moved through their shared spaces like a winter storm contained in human form, frost trailing every surface he touched and the temperature dropping whenever Alfred entered his vicinity. The other members of their delegation had quickly learned to find urgent business elsewhere when the King and Queen occupied the same room.

Matthew watched it all with growing concern, his Ace abilities making it impossible to ignore the roiling emotions and barely contained violence that sparked between them. The corruption of Clubs fed on strong feelings, and the toxic mixture of rage, betrayal, and desperate want radiating from Arthur was like blood in water to sharks.

"You need to fix this," Matthew said bluntly, cornering Alfred in a storage room that currently believed it was a garden. Roses bloomed from stone walls while their breath misted in the cold. "Whatever happened between you two is compromising the mission."

Alfred busied himself checking weapons he'd already inspected three times. "There's nothing to fix. Arthur's processing new information. He'll adapt."

"New information." Matthew's voice carried the particular tone that meant his Ace abilities were parsing every word for truth and lie. "Is that what we're calling it when you physically assault the Queen to keep him from asking questions?"

Alfred's hands stilled on the blade he'd been sharpening. "You weren't there. You don't understand-

"I understand perfectly." Matthew moved closer, and Alfred was struck by how much his little brother had changed. The sickly boy who'd needed protection was gone, replaced by someone whose power ran deep and true. "You panicked. Arthur was putting pieces together about your past, about Hendriks, about all the blood on your hands, and you reacted like you always do when cornered. With violence."

"It wasn't violence," Alfred protested, though the words tasted false even to him.

"No?" Matthew was visibly reigning in his temper. "You've been spiraling since we arrived. And now this."

Alfred finally met his brother's eyes, seeing disappointment that cut deeper than any blade. "Arthur knowing the full truth puts everyone at risk-

"Stop." Matthew's power flared, the roses on the walls withering as truth magic demanded honesty. "Don't insult my intelligence with tactical justifications. You kissed him because you're losing control. Because the corruption here is stripping away all those careful walls you built, and what's underneath terrifies you."

The Token pulsed against Alfred's chest, sharing visions he didn't want to see. Himself through Matthew's perception—a man drowning in obsession, using aggression to mask desperate need, destroying the very thing he claimed to protect.

"I'm handling it," Alfred said finally.

Matthew laughed, bitter and disappointed. "Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're about to destroy the most important relationship in your life because you can't admit you want him as more than a possession."

Before Alfred could respond, Yao appeared in the doorway that hadn't existed moments before. His usually composed expression showed strain. "Your Majesties' friction is causing problems. Three servants have fled their posts rather than serve breakfast. Lord Ivan is asking questions about the... atmosphere."

"Tell them the King and Queen are coordinating strategy," Alfred said curtly.

"I could," Yao agreed, "but lies are particularly unconvincing here where Matthew's truth sense affects everything. Perhaps we could try something novel and address the actual problem?"

They made their way to a sitting room that was relatively stable, only occasionally forgetting which century it belonged to. Arthur was already there, studying maps with the kind of focused intensity that meant he was actively ignoring something else. He didn't look up when they entered, though ice immediately began forming on his water glass.

"We need to discuss the rescue timeline," Yao began diplomatically.

"Then discuss it," Arthur said, still not looking up. "I'm sure His Majesty has all sorts of strategies that don't involve sharing crucial information with his Queen."

The temperature dropped another five degrees.

"This is precisely the problem," Matthew said, positioning himself between them like a referee. "We cannot function as a team if you two can't be in the same room without-

"Without what?" Arthur finally looked up, and his eyes were like frozen seas. "Without me questioning why we're trusting our lives to someone who's been lying since the moment we met? Who has connections to crime lords and assassinations spanning years? Who responds to inconvenient questions with-" He touched his lips unconsciously, then jerked his hand away as if burned.

"With effective distraction techniques," Alfred finished, unable to help himself.

Arthur's magic spiked so violently that every piece of glass in the room cracked. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you prefer I call it?" Alfred moved closer despite everyone's warning looks. "A moment of honesty? Because that's what it was, Arthur. The first completely honest thing between us."

"Honest?" Arthur stood, magic crackling around him like a storm. "You wouldn't know honesty if it-

"Enough." Matthew's power slammed down like a weight, Ace authority demanding truth and attention in equal measure. Both monarchs turned to him in surprise. "Sit. Both of you. Now."

They sat, Alfred with reluctant amusement and Arthur with barely contained fury.

"You," Matthew pointed at Alfred, "will explain your connections to Hendriks and this organization. No deflections, no half-truths. Arthur deserves to know what he's dealing with."

"Matthew-

"And you," Matthew turned to Arthur, "will listen without interrupting. Without attacking. Because like it or not, we need Alfred functional for this rescue, and that means you need to understand why he is the way he is."

Yao conjured tea from somewhere, the mundane ritual providing a strange anchor in the corrupted room. Alfred stared into his cup, seeing his fractured reflection in the liquid that couldn't decide if it was hot or cold.

"I was seven when Hendriks recruited us," he began finally. "Matthew was sick, I was desperate, and Graham made a deal that saved our lives but damned our souls. I've been killing since I was nine years old. Not for ideology or patriotism or any noble purpose. Just for survival and coin."

He looked up to find Arthur watching him with an unreadable expression. "Every skill I have, every instinct that's kept us alive here, I learned in blood. Hendriks owned me in every way that mattered. The mark manifesting didn't change that. If anything, it made me more valuable to him."

"The Token," Arthur said quietly. "He wants it for this organization?"

"The Architects, yes. They've been playing a game measured in centuries, positioning pieces for this moment. Hendriks thinks he's important to their plans, but he's just middle management. Another tool to be used and discarded."

Alfred set down his cup, the Token burning with the need to share its visions. "I've been their weapon without knowing it. Every assassination cleared paths for their agents. Every political murder created vacuums they could fill. The blood on my hands helped build their road to power."

"And you discovered this when?" Yao asked carefully.

"Fully? When Ivan shared his intelligence. But I've suspected for weeks." Alfred met Arthur's eyes directly. "The Token shows me connections, patterns. Every time I've used its visions to guide us, I've seen more of their web."

"Yet you didn't share this," Arthur said, frost spreading from where his hands rested on the table. "Didn't think your Queen deserved to know we were walking into a conspiracy that spans kingdoms?"

"Because knowledge without power to act on it is just another chain," Alfred shot back. "What would you have done differently? Refused to come to Clubs? Let Peter rot while we played politics in Spades?"

"I would have trusted my partner!" Arthur's control finally snapped, ice erupting across every surface. "But you're incapable of that, aren't you? Everything is calculation with you. Every touch, every word, every-" He cut himself off, breathing hard.

"Not everything," Alfred said quietly.

Matthew cleared his throat. "There's more. Tell him about Hendriks' current leverage."

Alfred's jaw clenched, but Matthew's truth compulsion was absolute within its scope. "He has Graham. Has had him for months. Uses him to ensure my cooperation, though that leverage is wearing thin now that I have power of my own."

"Your uncle." Understanding dawned in Arthur's eyes. "That's why you haven't moved against him directly."

"Among other reasons." Alfred laughed bitterly. "Though honestly? Graham made his choices. He delivered us to Hendriks. If his bill comes due, that's justice, not tragedy."

"You don't mean that," Matthew said softly.

"Don't I?" Alfred's smile was sharp as winter moonlight. "I am what they made me, Mattie. A weapon that learned to think. The fact that I can feel anything at all is miracle enough."

"That's the corruption talking," Yao observed clinically. "It amplifies our darkest truths until they drown out everything else."

As if to prove his point, the room shuddered. Reality hiccupped, showing them glimpses of other moments—past conversations in this space, future possibilities, alternate presents where different choices had led to different outcomes. In one, Alfred and Arthur were locked in passionate embrace. In another, Arthur's blade found Alfred's heart. In a third, they stood side by side against impossible odds, magic harmonizing in patterns that remade the world.

"The corruption is getting stronger," Matthew said unnecessarily. "My abilities are showing me... gods above, over half the court has already succumbed. They're maintaining facades, but inside they're as mad as Mikhail."

"Show me," Arthur demanded.

Matthew hesitated, then extended his power. Truth magic washed over them like ice water, stripping away illusions to reveal reality beneath. Through the walls, through the very air, they could perceive the court's true state.

A lady  who'd seemed merely eccentric, was revealed as a hollow shell. The woman they'd been speaking to was memory given form, her actual consciousness dispersed across seventeen different timelines. A lord existed in a state of constant death and rebirth, killed by the corruption each morning only to reform by evening, each resurrection leaving him less human.

Worse were the servants, the guards, the ordinary people who'd had no magical defenses. Some had been transformed into living extensions of the castle's will. Others had simply ceased, their bodies continuing mechanical routines while their minds dissolved into the collective madness.

"Dear gods," Yao breathed. "We've been surrounded by the dead and mad for days."

"And we're running out of time before we join them," Matthew added grimly. "The corruption isn't content to wait. It's actively hunting for cracks in our defenses."

"Then we move tonight," Alfred decided. "Ready or not, we can't-

His words cut off as the room lurched. Not physically, the corruption rarely bothered with anything so mundane. Instead, time stuttered. They experienced the next words he would have said, then the ones he might have said, then ones he'd said in entirely different conversations. Reality hiccupped like a broken record, showing them fractures spreading through the castle's foundation.

When time reasserted itself, they were no longer alone. Ivan stood in the doorway, his temporal displacement so severe he seemed to exist in multiple moments simultaneously.

"Your Majesties," he said, his voice coming from three different points in time. "You need to see this. Now."

They followed him through corridors that had given up any pretense of architectural consistency. One moment they walked on solid stone, the next on crystallized screams, then on something that might have been compressed starlight. Other courtiers drifted past like ghosts, some noticing them, others lost in private realities that had no room for outside observation.

Ivan led them to a section of castle Alfred hadn't seen before. The walls here were older, predating Mikhail's corruption. They thrummed with a different kind of wrongness—not madness but intentional violation, cruelty given architectural form.

"What is this place?" Arthur asked, frost already forming defensively around him.

"The old king's laboratory," Ivan replied, his form solidifying slightly. "Mikhail's father was... interested in the limits of magical theory. When Mikhail began his experiments with the Joker, he built upon existing foundations."

He pushed open a door that groaned with the weight of decades. Beyond lay a chamber that made Alfred's stomach turn despite all he'd seen. The room was filled with failed experiments, bodies that had been partially transformed, merged with concepts that shouldn't have physical form. Some still moved, locked in endless loops of attempted escape.

But it was the pit at the chamber's center that drew horrified attention. Mass graves, layer upon layer of corpses in various states of dissolution. Not just failed experiments but anyone who'd opposed the corruption's spread. Courtiers who'd questioned too loudly, servants who'd tried to flee, children whose only crime had been resistance to madness.

"How many?" Yao asked, voice carefully controlled.

"Thousands," Ivan replied. "Across three generations. The corruption didn't begin with Mikhail, he simply perfected what his bloodline had been attempting for decades."

Arthur made a sound low in his throat, magic building around him in response to the atrocity. The temperature plummeted as his control slipped, ice racing across walls and floor in patterns that spoke of barely contained violence.

"This ends," Arthur said, each word precise as a blade. "Tonight, tomorrow, I don't care when. But this ends."

"Your Majesty-" Ivan began.

"No." Arthur turned, and Alfred saw death in those green eyes. Not the cold calculation of an assassin but the righteous fury of someone pushed past all limits. "I've played diplomat while people died. Danced at balls while children were thrown into pits. No more."

He started toward the door with deadly purpose. Alfred moved without thinking, catching Arthur's arm.

"You can't just-

"Can't I?" Arthur whirled on him, magic spiking dangerously. "Why not? Because it's not tactical? Because it doesn't serve your carefully laid plans?"

"Because Mikhail will kill you," Alfred said bluntly. "And then Peter dies in those chains. The delegation dies. The corruption spreads unchecked."

"At least I'd die doing something!" Arthur's voice cracked. "Instead of standing here cataloguing horrors like they're academic curiosities!"

"You think I don't want to burn this place to ash?" Alfred pulled Arthur closer, letting him feel the rage that burned beneath control. "You think seeing this doesn't make me want to paint these walls with Mikhail's blood?"

"Then why-

"Because that's what I am!" Alfred snarled. "The weapon who thinks before striking. The killer who calculates odds. The monster who'll sacrifice a thousand strangers to save the ones who matter."

They stood locked together, magic clashing between them in patterns that made reality warp. Arthur's ice met Alfred's shadow in violent spirals that left frost-burns on the walls. For a moment, Alfred thought Arthur might actually attack, might give in to the righteous fury that demanded action.

Then Matthew's voice cut through the tension. "We have company."

They turned to find Mikhail himself standing in the doorway, watching them with interest that sparkled in too many eyes. Reality bent around him like light through water, and when he smiled, Alfred glimpsed the madness that had created this charnel house.

"Such passionate disagreement!" Mikhail said delightedly. "Nothing feeds the corruption quite like emotional discord. Please, don't stop on my account."

"Your Majesty," Ivan said carefully. "We were just showing our guests the... historical sections."

"History!" Mikhail laughed, the sound echoing from next week. "Yes, let's call it that. Though really, is anything truly past when time itself becomes negotiable?"

He drifted closer, and Alfred saw Arthur tense. But Mikhail's attention had shifted to the pit, expression growing almost melancholic.

"Father never understood that death was just another boundary to cross," he mused. "He kept killing them, thinking eventually he'd find the secret. But the answer wasn't in death, it was in transformation. In becoming something beyond the limitations of flesh and temporal sequence."

"Like what you've done to Peter," Arthur said, voice deadly quiet.

Mikhail's smile widened. "Exactly! Though really, I've freed him. He experiences every moment of existence simultaneously. Past, present, future, all the might-have-beens. Isn't that generous? Such perspective I've gifted him."

Alfred felt Arthur gathering magic again and tightened his grip in warning. But before violence could erupt, an alarm rang through the castle. Not a normal sound but something that existed in too many octaves, making reality shiver.

"Oh dear," Mikhail said mildly. "It seems we have uninvited guests. How tedious. I suppose I should see what they want before the corruption unmakes them."

He drifted out, humming something that might have been a lullaby if the notes hadn't existed in the wrong order. 

Another alarm went off, this one more urgent. The castle itself groaned, reality straining under some new pressure. Through the walls, they could hear sounds of combat, or what passed for combat in a place where physics was optional.

"We need to move," Ivan said urgently. "If the castle's under attack, security will be in chaos. It might be our only chance to reach the lower levels."

They shared a look of grim understanding. Ready or not, their timeline had just accelerated. The rescue attempt would happen now, in the midst of whatever new chaos had come to Clubs.

As they rushed from the chamber of horrors, Alfred caught Arthur's arm one more time. "After," he said quietly. "After we save Peter, after we escape this madness, we'll have our reckoning. But not now."

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, then nodded sharply. "After," he agreed.

But as they raced through corridors that couldn't decide which direction was forward, Alfred wondered if any of them would survive to see that promised confrontation. The corruption pressed against their defenses with renewed hunger, and somewhere in the castle's depths, Peter Kirkland hung in chains that existed outside time.

Chapter Text

The castle shuddered under impacts that seemed to come from dimensions that shouldn't exist. Whatever was attacking Clubs had brought weapons that made reality itself scream in protest. Alfred led their group through corridors that kept trying to become other things—one moment stone, the next living tissue, then mathematical concepts given architectural form.

"This way!" Ivan shouted over the cacophony, his temporal displacement actually helping him navigate the chaos. He existed in multiple moments, able to see which paths would remain stable long enough to traverse.

They rounded a corner to find Gilbert lounging against a wall that was currently made of crystallized music, looking remarkably unperturbed by the battle raging around them. His red eyes gleamed with amusement as reality warped and twisted, as if the destruction was a particularly entertaining theater performance.

"Ah, there you are!" he said cheerfully, pushing off from the wall with boneless grace. "I was beginning to worry you'd gotten lost in the metaphysical substrata. So easy to do when architecture abandons causality."

"Gilbert!" Matthew's relief was palpable. "What's happening? Who's attacking?"

"The Architects have decided to accelerate their timeline," Gilbert replied, his casual tone at odds with the severity of the situation. "Apparently, they've grown impatient with Mikhail's theatrical approach to corruption. They want the Trump Card now, before it becomes too unstable to use."

Another impact shook the castle, this one close enough that cracks appeared in reality itself—not the walls, but the space between them, showing glimpses of void that hurt to perceive.

"Inside, quickly," Gilbert commanded, his playful demeanor vanishing as he herded them into what appeared to be a small chapel. The moment they crossed the threshold, the sounds of battle muted, as if they'd stepped outside the normal flow of events.

"What is this place?" Yao asked, looking around at religious iconography that belonged to no faith that had ever existed.

"A pocket of stability I've been cultivating," Gilbert explained, sealing the entrance with gestures that left afterimages in too many colors. "The corruption can't enter here, it violates the fundamental principles I've woven into the space."

"You can do that?" Arthur asked, ice still crackling around him from the tension of their flight.

"I am a Joker," Gilbert said simply. "We exist partially outside the normal rules. Which brings me to why I've been waiting for you." His expression grew serious. "Peter's imprisonment doesn't just break magical law, it breaks reality itself at the conceptual level. Every moment he remains chained, the damage spreads."

He waved his hand, and the air in the center of the chapel shimmered. Images formed, not illusions but actual glimpses of truth pulled from the castle's corrupted memory. They saw Peter as he'd been taken, a child whose Joker nature had barely begun to manifest. They saw the chains being forged, each link created from inverted reality, existence twisted back on itself until it became its own antithesis.

"Dear gods," Arthur breathed, ice spreading unconsciously across the floor as his control slipped. "He was so young."

Gilbert nodded. "His Joker abilities had just started. Seeing connections others missed. Being in two places at once without realizing it was impossible."

The images shifted, showing Peter's early days of captivity. The boy fighting against chains that existed partially outside reality, screaming for his brothers, for anyone to save him. Alfred felt Arthur trembling beside him and moved closer without thinking, their shoulders touching in silent support.

"Jokers maintain balance," Gilbert continued, his usual playfulness entirely absent. "We're the fulcrum between order and chaos, the point where opposites meet and become something greater. But Mikhail discovered how to invert that nature—to turn balance into imbalance, connection into separation."

The images grew worse. Peter changing as the chains fed on his essence, spreading him thin across multiple moments. The boy learning that linear time was a luxury he no longer possessed, that he would experience every second of his imprisonment simultaneously, past and present and future collapsing into an eternal now of suffering.

"Stop," Arthur said hoarsely. "Please. I can't-

Gilbert waved his hand, and the images vanished. "I'm sorry. But you need to understand what we're dealing with. The chains aren't just physical restraints. They're conceptual violations, existence twisted back on itself. Breaking them will require more than force."

"What will it require?" Alfred asked, his hand finding Arthur's without conscious thought. The Queen's fingers were cold as ice, trembling with suppressed rage and grief.

"Perfect harmony between the four aspects of sovereignty," Gilbert explained. "King, Queen, Jack, and Ace working in absolute synchronization. The kind of unity that requires complete trust and no barriers between participants."

Alfred felt the weight of that statement. After their confrontations, the kiss, the revelations about his past—could they achieve that level of unity?

"There's more you need to know," Ivan said quietly. "The corruption hasn't just affected Peter. It's been using him as a conduit, spreading backwards through time itself. Soon we might find that events we remember happening never occurred at all."

"What do you mean?" Yao demanded.

"The past is becoming negotiable," Ivan explained, his own temporal displacement making him uniquely qualified to understand the phenomenon. "I've been noticing small changes. A servant I spoke with yesterday never existed. A treaty signed last year now says something different. The corruption is rewriting history to suit its needs."

Matthew's face had gone pale, his Ace abilities no doubt showing him the implications. "If it continues, everything we know could be erased. Our entire lives could become fiction."

"Which is why the Architects are attacking now," Gilbert added. "They want the Trump Card before the corruption makes it too unstable to use. They don't care if reality collapses as long as they get their prize first."

Another explosion rocked even their protected space. Through the chapel's windows, which showed views of different times and places, they could see the battle raging. Figures that might once have been human wielded weapons that unmade their targets, while Mikhail's corrupted courtiers responded with madness given form.

"We need a plan," Alfred said, forcing himself to focus on practicalities rather than the way Arthur had unconsciously moved closer to him. "Ivan, these passages you mentioned, can you get us to Peter?"

"I can," Ivan confirmed. "But the journey won't be pleasant. The lower levels are where the corruption is strongest. Reality is... thin there. We might encounter things that shouldn't exist, fragments of erased timelines, the nightmares of the castle itself given form."

"We've come this far," Arthur said with grim determination. "I won't leave Peter in that hell for another moment."

"It's not that simple," Gilbert warned. "Even if we reach him, breaking the chains requires that perfect harmony I mentioned. And right now..." He looked pointedly at where Alfred and Arthur sat, close but carefully not touching despite their joined hands. "Right now you two can barely be in the same room without conflict."

"We'll manage," Arthur said stiffly, pulling his hand from Alfred's grip.

"Will you?" Gilbert's red eyes saw too much. "The corruption feeds on discord, uses it to worm deeper into defenses. Your mutual... tension is like a beacon to it."

Alfred felt his jaw clench. "Then what do you suggest?"

Gilbert's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "I suggest you stop dancing around what's between you and address it directly. But since we don't have time for therapy..." He produced a vial from thin air, filled with liquid that seemed to exist in several states simultaneously. "This will help."

"What is it?" Yao asked suspiciously.

"Clarity," Gilbert replied. "It won't solve your interpersonal disasters, but it will let you set them aside temporarily. Think of it as emotional armor, the feelings remain but can't overwhelm you."

"Absolutely not," Arthur said immediately. "I won't have my mind tampered with."

"Your mind remains your own," Gilbert assured him. "This just... mutes the volume on emotions that might interfere. You'll need clear heads for what's coming."

They argued for several minutes, but eventually, practicality won. One by one, they drank from Gilbert's vial. Alfred felt the effect immediately, his emotions became something he could acknowledge without being ruled by it.

"Better?" Gilbert asked.

"Different," Alfred admitted. He could look at Arthur now. 

"Good enough," Gilbert decided. "Now, while that's working, we need to discuss what happens after we free Peter."

"We get him out," Arthur said simply. "Take him home to Spades where he can heal."

"It won't be that simple," Gilbert said gently. "Peter has been spread across time for years. When we break the chains, all those scattered moments will collapse back into one. The psychological trauma alone could shatter him."

"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur's voice had gone cold, the emotional dampening allowing him to function despite the horrific implications.

"I'll need to be there," Gilbert explained. "One Joker to another, I can help him reintegrate, teach him how to exist in linear time again. But it will be dangerous. His power, freed after years of inversion, might lash out at anything nearby."

"We'll risk it," Alfred decided. "Whatever happens, we can't leave him there."

Ivan cleared his throat. "There's something else. If we're doing this, if I'm betraying my king to help you, I need something in return."

"Name it," Arthur said immediately.

"Save my kingdom," Ivan said simply. "Not just from Mikhail's madness but from what comes after. When he falls, there will be chaos. The corruption won't simply vanish—it will need to be purged, controlled, redirected. I need your word that Spades will help with the reconstruction."

"You have it," Alfred and Arthur said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise.

"How touching," Gilbert observed. "See? You can agree on things when the world's ending."

Another explosion, closer this time. The chapel's protections flickered, showing glimpses of the battle outside. Alfred caught sight of familiar faces among the attackers—Hendriks' agents, but changed. The corruption had touched them, transforming them into something between human and concept.

"We're running out of time," Matthew said urgently. "My abilities are showing me... gods, the Architects aren't just here for the Trump Card. They're here for us. For the Token."

Alfred's hand went instinctively to his chest where the artifact rested. "Let them try."

"They'll do more than try," Gilbert warned. "They've brought specialists—people trained specifically to handle divine artifacts. If we're going to move, it needs to be now."

They prepared quickly, checking weapons and reinforcing magical defenses. The emotional dampener made it easier to focus on practicalities rather than interpersonal dynamics. Alfred found himself able to work alongside Arthur without the constant need to touch, to claim, to possess.

But the feelings remained, muted but present. Every time Arthur moved, Alfred tracked him. Every spell the Queen cast drew Alfred's attention. 

"The passages," Ivan said, moving to what looked like a solid wall. "Brace yourselves. The transition can be... disorienting."

He pressed his hand against the stone, and reality rippled. A doorway opened, not carved but simply existing where it hadn't before. Beyond lay darkness that had weight and texture, that whispered of things better left unknown.

"Stay close," Gilbert instructed. "The corruption is strongest in the spaces between. Lost thoughts become physical threats. Erased memories hunt for new hosts. And whatever you do, don't listen to the walls."

"The walls?" Yao asked.

"They remember every scream," Ivan said quietly. "Every moment of suffering that's occurred within them. The corruption gives those memories voice."

They entered the passage, and immediately Alfred understood the warnings. The walls weren't stone but something organic, pulsing with a heartbeat that might have been the castle's or something far worse. And yes, they whispered—fragments of pain given voice, begging for release or revenge or simple acknowledgment.

"Don't listen," Gilbert repeated, wrapping them in Joker magic that muted the worst of it. "They're not real. Just echoes the corruption hasn't finished digesting."

They descended through passages that defied geometry. Stairs that went up while moving down, corridors that were longer inside than out, spaces where direction was more suggestion than law. The Token provided light, but its illumination revealed things better left unseen—previous explorers partially absorbed into walls, still conscious but no longer entirely human.

"How deep do these passages go?" Arthur asked, ice forming defensively around his hands.

"Deeper than the castle's foundations," Ivan replied. "Some say they predate Clubs itself, that Mikhail built his castle atop something far older. The corruption found fertile ground here."

They reached a branching of paths, each leading into different darknesses. Ivan paused, his temporal displacement allowing him to see multiple futures.

"This way," he decided, choosing the leftmost passage. "The others lead to dead ends. Or worse, living ends that don't want to let go."

As they traveled deeper, the corruption's presence grew stronger. Reality became increasingly negotiable. Alfred's foot went through what should have been solid floor, only to find it was memory pretending to be stone. Arthur's ice sometimes froze things that didn't exist yet, preparing for threats that might never materialize.

"Stop," Matthew said suddenly, his Ace abilities flaring. "Something's wrong. We're being-

The attack came from all directions at once. Not physical assault but conceptual—the corruption itself moving against them, trying to unmake their purpose before they could threaten its source. Alfred felt his memories becoming uncertain. Why were they here? Who was Peter? Why did saving him matter?

"Hold to truth!" Gilbert commanded, Joker power flaring. "Remember why you came!"

Alfred gripped the Token, using its burn to anchor himself. Peter. Arthur's brother. Chained by madness, suffering across all time. They were here to save him, to break chains that should never have been forged.

The attack receded, but damage was done. Yao looked shaken, touching his face as if confirming it was still his. Matthew leaned against a wall that might or might not have been real. And Arthur...

Arthur stood rigid, ice spreading from him in defensive patterns. But his eyes held a distance that hadn't been there before, as if some essential memory had been stolen or altered.

"Arthur?" Alfred moved closer, careful not to touch without permission. "Are you alright?"

"I..." Arthur blinked, focusing with visible effort. "Yes. I think so. Just... for a moment, I forgot why saving Peter mattered. The corruption made it seem like he'd always been chained, like that was his natural state."

"That's how it works," Ivan said grimly. "It doesn't just corrupt the present, it rewrites the past to justify itself. By the time we reach the deep chambers, we might find ourselves believing Peter wants to be imprisoned."

"Never," Arthur said fiercely, ice crackling with renewed determination.

They pressed on, deeper into passages that had abandoned any pretense of architecture. The walls breathed. The floor occasionally forgot to be solid. The air itself became unreliable, sometimes breathable, sometimes thick as water, sometimes simply absent.

"We're close," Gilbert announced. "I can feel Peter's essence. It's..." He paused, expression troubled. "It's everywhere and nowhere. The chains have spread him so thin he's become part of the castle's foundation."

"What does that mean for freeing him?" Alfred asked.

"It means breaking the chains might damage the castle's stability," Ivan admitted. "Possibly catastrophically."

"Good," Arthur said coldly. "Let it all burn."

They reached a final door—or what the corruption thought a door should be. It existed in several states simultaneously: closed, open, absent, and something that might have been the dream of a door. Ivan reached for it, then hesitated.

"Beyond this is the deep chamber," he said. "Once we enter, Mikhail will know. He'll come to defend his prize. Are you prepared for that?"

"We're prepared," Alfred said, speaking for the group. But even with the emotional dampener, he felt dread building. They were about to face not just a mad king but the conceptual violation he'd spent years creating.

"One more thing," Gilbert said quietly. "The chamber exists partially outside normal space. Time flows strangely there. We might experience moments out of order, see possibilities that haven't happened yet, remember things that never were. Stay anchored to each other. Physical contact helps—reality recognizes the connection even when perception fails."

With some hesitation, Alfred took Arthur’s hand. He was glad for the vial Gilbert had given them. Matthew took his other hand, and Yao completed the chain, with Ivan and Gilbert flanking them for protection.

Ivan opened the door that wasn't quite a door, and they stepped through into madness given architectural form. The chamber beyond defied every natural law, existing in dimensions that shouldn't touch, filled with chains that hurt to look at directly.

And at the center, suspended in a web of conceptual violations, hung Peter Kirkland.

The boy Arthur remembered was gone. In his place hung something between human and concept, existence spread thin across too many moments. Peter's eyes were open but saw everything—past, present, future, and all the possibilities between. His mouth moved in constant whispers, speaking truths that existed in no single timeline.

"Peter," Arthur breathed, starting forward.

"Wait!" Gilbert caught him. "You can't just- the chains are part of him now. Touching them unprepared would drag you into the same temporal prison."

"Then how?" Arthur's voice cracked with desperation despite the emotional dampener.

"Like I said," Gilbert replied. "Perfect harmony.”

They arranged themselves around Peter's suspended form. Alfred faced Arthur across the violated space, their eyes meeting with shared purpose. To his right stood Matthew, Ace power already reaching out to parse the lies holding Peter. To his left, Yao grounded them in practical reality, his very presence insisting on order.

"Join hands," Gilbert commanded, moving to stand directly beneath Peter. "Let your power flow clockwise. Don't force it, let it find its natural rhythm."

The moment their circle completed, Alfred felt it—the potential for true harmony. His power, Arthur's, Matthew's, and Yao's didn't just coexist but began to resonate, creating something greater than their individual strengths. The Token burned against his chest, recognizing the configuration.

"Good," Gilbert said, his own power rising to meet theirs. "Now, we begin. Each chain must be addressed individually. We'll start with the temporal distortion. Arthur, this one's yours—ice can freeze even time when properly applied."

Arthur's magic surged, winter given purpose. Ice spread from him not physically but conceptually, touching the chain that denied linear time. Where frozen certainty met paradox, reality shuddered.

"I see him," Arthur gasped. "All of him, spread across years. He's been calling for help every moment since they took him."

"Hold to the present," Gilbert instructed. "Insist that now exists, that past and future have boundaries. Make the chain remember what it's violating."

Arthur's face contorted with effort, frost spreading across the floor as he poured power into the working. The temporal chain began to crack, hairline fractures spreading through its impossible structure.

"Matthew, your turn," Gilbert continued. "The chain of inverted truth. Make it confront its own lies."

Matthew's Ace abilities flared, truth magic washing over the paradox that claimed suffering and joy were one. The chain writhed, trying to maintain its fundamental wrongness against the assault of absolute honesty.

"It's fighting back," Matthew ground out through clenched teeth. "Trying to convince me that Peter wants this, that the chains are freedom-

"Lies built on lies," Alfred said firmly, adding his power to his brother's. "Peter wants freedom. Peter wants his family. The truth is simple when you strip away the corruption's philosophy."

The second chain cracked, truth eating through deception like acid.

"Yao," Gilbert commanded. "The chain of scattered consciousness. Your diplomatic training—use it. Negotiate between the fragments of Peter's self."

This was harder to grasp, but Yao rose to the challenge. His power was subtler than the others', but Alfred felt it working—finding the pieces of Peter spread across possibilities and gently insisting they belonged together. Not forcing, but suggesting. Not commanding, but inviting.

"He's so broken," Yao said quietly. "Like a mirror shattered across time. But... yes. The pieces remember being whole. They want to reunite."

The third chain began to fracture.

"Alfred," Gilbert's voice carried weight beyond sound. "The final chain. The one that denies existence itself, that claims Peter is everywhere and nowhere. You carry the Token—the artifact that insists on what is real. Use it."

Alfred pulled out the Token without breaking the circle, its light blazing in the impossible space. Through it, he could see what Peter should be—not this spread-thin violation but a young man who deserved freedom. The Token remembered reality before corruption, and it insisted on that memory.

"You exist," Alfred spoke directly to Peter, pouring the Token's certainty into his words. "You are real. You are here. You are now. The chains lie—existence isn't negotiable."

The final chain cracked.

But before they could shatter completely, reality tore open. Mikhail stepped through the wound, and he was terrible to behold. The corruption had eaten him hollow—his form existed in too many states, held together only by will and madness. The Trump Card blazed in his grip, its wrongness making the air scream.

"No!" he roared, the sound coming from every moment of his existence. "You don't understand what you're doing! Without the chains, without the corruption, we're all just slaves to ancient rules!"

"Better slaves to order than puppets of chaos," Ivan said, stepping forward. His King mark blazed to life fully, no longer hidden. "My King. My friend. Let me grant you the mercy you've been denied."

Mikhail's fracturing face showed a moment of recognition, of the man he'd been before madness took him. "Ivan? You... you've manifested. Then I'm truly dying."

"You've been dying for years," Ivan said gently. "I'm just here to help you finish."

The confrontation that followed existed on multiple levels. Physically, Ivan and Mikhail circled each other in the space around the breaking chains. Magically, their powers clashed—corrupted Trump Card against emerging King authority. But emotionally, it was two friends saying goodbye across an gulf that couldn't be bridged.

"The Architects promised godhood," Mikhail said, his form solidifying slightly as he focused on Ivan. "Freedom from the marks, from predetermined roles. Was that so wrong to want?"

"The wanting wasn't wrong," Ivan replied, frost spreading from his steps—cleaner than Arthur's ice, carrying the authority of Clubs itself. "But the method was abomination. You tortured a child, corrupted reality itself, all for a lie."

"Maybe." Mikhail looked at the chains, which continued to crack under the sustained harmony of the circle. "Or maybe I was just too weak to finish what I started. The next one might succeed where I failed."

He raised the Trump Card, power gathering for a final strike. But Ivan was ready. The new King of Clubs moved with purpose, his blade, manifest from his emerging authority, finding the gap between Mikhail's fractured moments.

"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered as his blade slid home. "For not being strong enough to save you sooner."

Mikhail's form began to dissolve, the corruption losing its anchor. But instead of rage, his fracturing face showed relief. "Finally," he breathed across timelines. "Finally, it ends."

As the mad king dissolved, the Trump Card fell. Ivan caught it before it hit the ground, and the moment his fingers closed around it, everything changed.

Chapter Text

The moment Ivan touched the Trump Card, reality convulsed. The corrupted artifact recognized a legitimate heir, a King of Clubs who could wield it properly, but years of perversion had left it twisted beyond easy repair. Ivan screamed as corrupt power flooded through him, trying to hollow him out as it had Mikhail.

"Hold the circle!" Gilbert commanded sharply. "If we break formation now, Peter's chains will reset!"

They maintained their positions despite the chaos erupting around them. Ivan fell to his knees, the Trump Card blazing with sickly green light in his grip. The corruption tried to claim him, to make him into another puppet, but Ivan's will proved stronger than Mikhail's had been.

"No," he gritted out, frost spreading from where he knelt—not the ice of Spades but something uniquely Clubs, carrying the scent of deep forests and ancient earth. "I am not my predecessor. I will not be worn like a glove by powers that have forgotten their purpose."

The chamber shuddered as two titanic forces met, the Trump Card's corruption against Ivan's determination to purify it. Alfred felt the Token respond, recognizing its sibling's distress. Without thinking, he extended its power toward Ivan, offering stability to combat chaos.

"Yes!" Gilbert seized on the connection. "The Token remembers what the Trump Card should be. Ivan, don't fight the corruption, remind it of its true nature!"

Understanding flickered in Ivan's eyes. Instead of battling the Trump Card's wrongness, he began speaking to it—not in words but in concepts, in the fundamental language of royal artifacts. He reminded it of balance, of its role in maintaining reality rather than violating it. He showed it memories of Clubs before the corruption, when the kingdom had been stable and whole.

The sickly green light began to shift, corruption burning away like dross from gold. But the process was violent—reality itself groaned under the strain of so fundamental a transformation.

"The chains!" Matthew warned. "They're destabilizing!"

He was right. Peter's bindings, already cracked from their assault, began to pulse with malevolent life. They'd been created from corruption, and the Trump Card's purification threatened their existence. They fought back the only way they knew—by tightening, by spreading Peter even thinner across time.

"No!" Arthur's control shattered. Ice exploded from him in a wave that flash-froze half the chamber. But emotion-driven magic wasn't enough. The chains fed on discord, on the very desperation driving Arthur's power.

"Arthur, stop!" Alfred commanded. "You're making it worse!"

"I can't—he's dying!" Arthur's voice cracked. Through their bond, Alfred felt his anguish as Peter's essence began to dissipate, spread so thin he might never recohesve.

That's when Gilbert acted. The Black Joker abandoned his anchor position, moving with inhuman speed to place himself between Peter and the destabilizing chains. "If you won't maintain harmony," he said sharply, "then I'll create it myself."

Power erupted from him—not the playful magic he'd shown before but the fundamental force of a Joker unleashed. Order and chaos in perfect balance, demonstrating what Peter should be rather than what the chains had made him. For a moment, Alfred saw Gilbert's true nature—ancient, terrible, beautiful, existing partially outside reality's normal constraints.

"Now!" Gilbert commanded. "While I hold them—shatter the chains completely!"

The circle reformed, tighter than before. Alfred poured the Token's certainty into the working. Arthur added winter's inexorable truth. Matthew contributed the Ace's inability to accept lies. Yao provided the diplomatic solution that let all forces work together rather than at cross purposes.

The chains shrieked, a sound that existed in too many dimensions, and shattered.

Peter fell.

Arthur broke from the circle, catching his brother before he hit the ground. The moment of contact sent shockwaves through the chamber. Peter existed in one moment, one place, for the first time in years. His body convulsed as time reasserted its hold, as consciousness that had been spread across eternity compressed back into a single point.

"Peter!" Arthur cradled him desperately. "Can you hear me?"

Peter's eyes focused with difficulty. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from screaming across years. "Ar...thur?"

"I'm here," Arthur sobbed, ice tears freezing on his cheeks. "I'm here, you're safe, we're getting you out."

But Peter's attention had shifted to Gilbert, who swayed on his feet from the effort of containing the chains' backlash. "You," Peter whispered. "Black... Joker. Balance-keeper. I... I know things. The chains showed me..." His voice trailed off as exhaustion claimed him.

"He needs rest," Gilbert said, though Alfred noticed how the Joker's form flickered slightly, as if maintaining physical existence required effort. "Real rest, not the mockery this place provides. We should-

The castle screamed.

Not metaphorically. The very stones cried out as fundamental support was ripped away. Without Mikhail's will directing it, without the chains spreading corruption, the impossible architecture began to collapse. Walls forgot how to be solid. Floors debated whether they should exist. The ceiling opened onto vistas that hurt to perceive. It was likely whoever had attacked to castle earlier was dealt with by Mikhail, perhaps they had even retreated. If not, the remaining chaos should hopefully take care of them. 

"Move!" Ivan commanded, the newly purified Trump Card blazing in his grip. "I can hold it back, but not for long!"

They fled through passages that deteriorated around them. Ivan used the Trump Card's restored power to maintain pockets of stability, buying them precious seconds. But the corruption, freed from any controlling will, lashed out randomly. Servants who'd seemed stable revealed themselves as hollow shells animated by madness. Guards dissolved into constituent possibilities. The castle itself tried to digest them, to make them part of its dying structure.

Alfred kept Arthur close, supporting him as he carried Peter's unconscious form. The Token and Trump Card sang to each other across the chaos, two of four artifacts recognizing their kinship. Through their resonance, paths appeared—not safe, never that, but survivable.

They emerged into the main hall to find pandemonium. The corruption's death throes had driven the last vestiges of sanity from Clubs' court. Nobles tore at each other with hands that phased through dimensions. Servants stood frozen in temporal loops, experiencing single moments of terror infinitely. And through it all, the Architects' agents moved with purpose, trying to claim what prizes they could from the dissolution.

"The delegation!" Yao spotted their people near the main doors, holding a defensive position against the madness. "They waited!"

Of course they had. Even ordered to evacuate, loyalty had kept them in the disintegrating castle. Alfred felt a moment of pride in these people who'd chosen duty over safety.

"To them!" Arthur commanded. "We leave together or not at all!"

The fight to reach their delegation was brutal. Reality had become negotiable, making every step a battle against concepts themselves. Alfred found himself fighting his own reflection, which had decided independent existence was preferable. Arthur froze possibilities before they could manifest. Matthew's truth-sensing saved them from attacks that came from erased timelines.

But it was Ivan who cleared the final path. The King of Clubs raised the Trump Card high, and for a moment, sanity reasserted itself. The corruption recoiled from his authority, creating a corridor of stability.

"GO!" he roared. "Take your people and go! I'll hold the castle as long as I can!"

"You'll die!" Arthur protested.

Ivan smiled, and in that expression Alfred saw peace. "I'm the King of Clubs. This is my responsibility. My penance for not acting sooner. Go, save your brother. Let me save my kingdom."

There was no time to argue. The corruption pressed against Ivan's barrier with increasing fury. They ran for the doors, Alfred supporting Arthur who still carried Peter. Their delegation fell in around them, protection and protected united in desperation.

They burst from the castle into a night that couldn't decide what color it should be. But beyond the immediate grounds, reality held firmer. The corruption was strongest at its source, distance would provide some protection.

"The carriages!" Someone shouted. "They're still intact!"

It was true. Their transportation waited where they'd left it, horses stamping nervously but present. The evacuation had been more organized than the chaos suggested. People piled into carriages with no thought for rank or precedence. Survival superseded protocol.

As their carriage pulled away, Alfred looked back to see the castle writhing like a living thing. Light poured from every window, not healthy light but the sickly glow of reality cancer eating itself. At the highest tower, a figure stood silhouetted against the chaos.

Ivan raised the Trump Card one final time. Green light, clean and pure, erupted from it in a wave that swept over the castle. Where it touched, corruption burned away. The impossible architecture groaned as physics reasserted themselves. Stones remembered they were stones. Air recalled how to be breathed.

The castle of Clubs collapsed. 

They rode in silence through the night, leaving the ruins of Clubs behind. Peter remained unconscious in Arthur's arms, breathing but unresponsive. The corruption's influence faded with distance, though Alfred could still feel it plucking at reality's edges.

Dawn found them at the border between Clubs and Spades. The contrast was stark—on one side, reality still wavered like heat mirages. On the other, blessed normalcy. The guards at the border post nearly wept with relief at seeing their monarchs return.

"Send word to the castle," Arthur commanded, still cradling Peter. "We need healers prepared, rooms secured. And..." his voice hardened. "Alert the guard. We were attacked by agents of a conspiracy. Security is to be tripled."

As arrangements were made, Alfred found a moment to check the Token. The artifact was quiet now, exhausted from the night's efforts. But through it, he sensed something new—the Trump Card's presence, distant but stable. Somehow, Ivan had survived the castle's collapse. Changed, certainly, but alive.

"He made it," Alfred told Arthur quietly. "Ivan. I can feel the Trump Card's resonance. He's alive."

Relief flickered across Arthur's face before exhaustion reclaimed its territory. "Good. That's... good."

They commandeered a border inn, needing rest before the final push to Castle Spades. Peter was settled in the best room with healers attending. The delegation found what beds they could. And Alfred...

Alfred stood guard at Arthur's door, unable to shake the feeling that danger still pressed close. The Architects had lost this round, but they were far from defeated. Hendriks would be waiting in Spades, no doubt with new leverage and threats. The conspiracy stretched back generations—one night's victory wouldn't end it.

"You should rest," Arthur said from the doorway. "You've been standing there for an hour."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"Then watch from inside." Arthur stepped back, implicit invitation in the gesture. "I... I don't want to be alone. Not after..."

Alfred understood. After seeing Peter broken across time, after watching Ivan sacrifice everything for his kingdom, after narrowly escaping dissolution themselves, solitude felt too much like another form of imprisonment.

He entered Arthur's room, closing the door behind him. The space was small, modest, nothing like their royal quarters. But it was real, solid, blessedly normal.

"How is he?" Alfred asked.

"Sleeping. The healers say his body is whole, but his mind..." Arthur sank onto the bed, exhaustion written in every line. "Gilbert warned us. Years of experiencing every moment simultaneously—how does someone come back from that?"

"With time," Alfred said, sitting beside him. "With patience. With family who refuse to give up."

Arthur laughed bitterly. "Family. I failed him for so long. If I'd searched harder, if I'd realized sooner-

"Stop." Alfred turned to face him fully. "You came for him the moment you knew where he was. You walked into madness itself to save him. That's not failure—that's love."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Arthur asked quietly, "The emotional dampener's worn off, hasn't it?"

Alfred nodded. He could feel it—all the obsessive need, the desperate wanting, the connection that went beyond magical resonance. But tempered now by shared experience, by understanding forged in crisis.

"What happens now?" Arthur asked. "Between us, I mean. Without corruption pushing us together, without crisis demanding unity..."

"We find out what's real," Alfred said simply. "What's choice versus compulsion. What's genuine versus magical influence."

Arthur studied him for a long moment. Then, with careful deliberation, he leaned in and kissed Alfred. Not the violent claiming of their previous encounters but something softer, questioning. A request rather than a demand.

Alfred responded carefully, letting Arthur set the pace. The kiss deepened slowly, heat building between them that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with two people choosing each other despite, or perhaps because of, everything they'd endured.

When they parted, both were breathing unsteadily.

"That felt like choice," Arthur said softly.

"Yes," Alfred agreed. "It did."

When they came together again, hands exploring with newfound permission, Alfred could feel the tremor in Arthur's touch—exhaustion and emotion barely held in check.

"I need..." Arthur started, then stopped, ice-blue eyes dark with something beyond desire. "I can't stop seeing him there, spread across time like that. I need to feel something real, something now."

Alfred understood. He cupped Arthur's face with both hands, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of cheekbones. "I'm here. You're here. This moment is real."

Their mouths met again, deeper this time, Alfred swallowing the soft sound Arthur made. Clothes were removed with careful attention, each revealed scar or mark a story shared through touch. Arthur's body was a map of his years alone.

Alfred kissed each mark, grounding Arthur in sensation, in the present. Arthur's hands tangled in his hair, grip tightening when Alfred's mouth found particularly sensitive spots. The air grew thick with more than desire—with trust, with choice, with the terrifying vulnerability of being truly seen.

"Beautiful," Alfred murmured against Arthur's throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his lips. "Do you know how beautiful you are when you're not wearing your crown? When you're just Arthur?"

Arthur's laugh was breathless, edged with something that might have been tears. "Flatterer."

Alfred rose to claim his mouth again.

They moved together with increasing urgency, hands learning the geography of each other's pleasure. When Alfred's fingers wrapped around Arthur's length, the other king arched beneath him, a broken sound escaping his throat. Ice crystals formed on the headboard where Arthur gripped it, his control fracturing.

"Let go," Alfred urged, stroking with deliberate slowness. "You don't have to be in control here. Let me take care of you."

Arthur's eyes flew open, meeting Alfred's with naked vulnerability. For someone who'd spent years maintaining rigid control over himself and his kingdom, the invitation was both terrifying and irresistible.

"I don't... I haven't..." Arthur's words dissolved into a gasp as Alfred did something particularly clever with his wrist.

The confession hung between them, weighted with significance. Then Arthur was pulling him down, kissing him with desperate hunger, and words became unnecessary.

Alfred took his time preparing Arthur. Arthur was tight, unused to such intimacy, and Alfred refused to rush despite the need burning through his veins. Each gentle stretch drew sounds from Arthur that went straight to Alfred's core—gasps and whimpers and, eventually, demands for more.

"Please," Arthur breathed, frost spreading across the sheets. "I need... Alfred, please."

When Alfred finally pressed inside, both of them stopped breathing. The sensation was overwhelming, heat and pressure and connection beyond the merely physical. Alfred could feel the Token pulsing in time with their heartbeats, recognizing the harmony they created together.

"Move," Arthur commanded, voice wrecked. "Gods above, move before I-

Alfred obeyed, starting with slow, careful thrusts that drew increasingly desperate sounds from Arthur. The ice queen was coming apart beneath him, all that careful control abandoned in favor of pure sensation. His legs wrapped around Alfred's waist, pulling him deeper, demanding more.

They found their rhythm together, bodies moving in perfect synchronization. Arthur's magic spiraled out of control, frost painting abstract patterns on every surface while the temperature plummeted. But Alfred was too lost in sensation to care about the cold, focused only on the heat between them, the sight of Arthur's face twisted in pleasure.

"Close," Arthur gasped, one hand fisting in the sheets while the other clutched at Alfred's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "I'm-

Alfred shifted angle slightly, hitting that spot that made Arthur see stars, and simultaneously wrapped his hand around Arthur's neglected length. Three strokes was all it took before Arthur was coming with a cry that might have been Alfred's name, body bowing off the bed as release crashed through him.

The sight and feel of Arthur's climax pulled Alfred over the edge. He buried himself deep, Arthur's name a prayer on his lips as his own release claimed him. For a moment, they existed outside time, suspended in perfect unity.

They collapsed together, sweat cooling on flushed skin, breathing gradually returning to normal. The room looked like winter had gone to war with passion, frost covering every surface except where their body heat had created islands of warmth.

"Sorry about the ice," Arthur murmured, not sounding sorry at all.

Alfred laughed, pressing a kiss to Arthur's temple. "Worth it."

They cleaned up with the lukewarm water from the washbasin, movements lazy and satisfied. When they finally settled back into bed, Arthur curled into Alfred's side.

"Thank you," Arthur said quietly. "For making me forget, even for a little while."

In the aftermath, they lay entangled, sweat cooling on flushed skin. The Token pulsed contentedly against Alfred's chest where it lay discarded with his clothes, recognizing the harmony they'd achieved.

"We still have enemies," Arthur said eventually. "Hendriks. The Architects. Everyone who wants the artifacts for their own purposes."

"Tomorrow's problem," Alfred replied. "Tonight, we're alive. We saved Peter. We survived the impossible. Let that be enough for now."

The journey back to Castle Spades would bring new challenges. But for now, in this stolen moment between crisis and consequence, they had each other.

It was enough. It was everything.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Castle Spades stretched before them like a lifeline to normalcy. Daysof travel through lands that remained blessedly stable, where reality followed predictable rules and time moved in only one direction. After the madness of Clubs, even the mundane discomforts of travel felt like blessings.

Peter woke properly on the second morning, though "properly" was perhaps too generous a term. His eyes focused, tracking movement and responding to voices, but he spoke in fragments that spanned years.

"The roses bloom backwards," he told Arthur over breakfast, voice still hoarse. "In Tuesday's garden. You were there. Will be there. The chains showed me."

Arthur gripped his brother's hand tightly, ice magic kept carefully controlled. "You're safe now. The chains are broken. You're free."

"Free." Peter tested the word like unfamiliar food. "Such a linear concept. I existed in all states—prisoner and free, child and adult, broken and whole. Now I'm just..." He trailed off, looking at his hands as if surprised to find only two of them, existing in only one moment.

Gilbert, who'd been monitoring Peter's recovery, leaned forward. "The disorientation will fade. Your consciousness is reintegrating, learning to exist in sequential time again. It's jarring, but you're remarkably stable for someone who experienced what you did."

"The Joker knows," Peter said, fixing Gilbert with eyes that held too much knowledge. "You walk between order and chaos. You understand existing in multiple states. Tell me—how do you choose which moment to inhabit?"

"I don't," Gilbert admitted. "I inhabit them all, but I've learned to... prioritize. To weight my consciousness toward the present while maintaining awareness of other possibilities."

Peter nodded slowly. "I'll try. For Arthur. He waited so long, searched so hard. The chains showed me that too. Every night he couldn't sleep, every tear for his lost brother. I owe him linearity."

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion outside. Alfred, who'd been discussing security with the guards, appeared at the carriage window. "Riders approaching from the north. They're flying Spades colors, but..."

"But?" Arthur prompted.

"They're moving with purpose. Like they're hunting something." Alfred's hand went to his weapon. "Everyone stay alert."

The riders swept into view moments later—a full squadron of Spades' elite guard, led by someone Alfred recognized with a sinking heart. Morris, one of Hendriks' plants in the castle structure. Of course the crime lord would move quickly to reestablish control.

"Your Majesties!" Morris called out, reining up beside their carriage. "Thank the gods you're safe. When word came of Clubs' collapse, we feared the worst."

"As you can see, we're fine," Arthur replied coolly. "Though I don't recall requesting an escort."

"Lord Hendriks insisted," Morris said, and there it was—the crime lord's name dropped like a challenge. "He's most anxious to ensure your safe return. So many dangerous elements on the roads these days."

Alfred met Morris's eyes steadily. "How thoughtful of Lord Hendriks. Though I wonder at his sudden elevation to the peerage. Last I checked, he was simply Mr. Hendriks, merchant and entrepreneur."

Morris's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Times change, Your Majesty. Especially when valuable services are rendered to the crown. But we can discuss that later. For now, we're your escort whether you want us or not. Lord Hendriks was quite... insistent."

The threat was clear. They could accept the escort gracefully or have it forced upon them. Either way, Hendriks was making his move.

"Very well," Arthur said after a moment. "We accept your protection. Though perhaps your men could ride at a more respectful distance? My brother is recovering from trauma and finds crowds distressing."

It was a clever compromise—accepting the escort while limiting their proximity. Morris clearly wanted to refuse but couldn't without abandoning all pretense of courtesy.

"Of course, Your Majesty. We'll maintain a perimeter." He wheeled his horse around, barking orders to his men.

Once the riders had pulled back to a barely acceptable distance, Yao leaned forward. "This complicates things. Hendriks is moving more boldly than expected."

"He knows we can't act against him openly," Matthew observed. "Not without revealing Alfred's past connections, which would create a political crisis."

"Then we need to be smarter," Alfred said. "Hendriks thinks he understands the game—crime lord manipulating compromised royalty. But he doesn't know everything that's changed."

"The Token," Arthur said quietly.

"More than that." Alfred's smile was sharp. "He doesn't know about the conspiracy's full scope. Doesn't know the Architects have been using him as much as he's been using others. Information is power, and we have more than he realizes."

They spent the rest of the day planning quietly, careful not to let their escort overhear anything substantial. Peter dozed fitfully, occasionally startling awake with observations about events that hadn't happened yet or memories of conversations from years ago playing out in present tense.

That night, they stopped at a coaching inn that had clearly been prepared for their arrival. Too prepared—Alfred noted fresh paint covering what looked like guild marks, and several of the "travelers" in the common room had the particular stillness of people waiting for something.

"Trap?" Arthur murmured as they were shown to their rooms.

"Test," Alfred corrected. "Hendriks wants to see how we'll react to pressure. Whether we'll run, fight, or fold."

Their rooms were luxurious by inn standards, but Alfred found the hidden listening devices within minutes. Crude ones, the kind meant to be found. The real surveillance would be more subtle—servants reporting conversations, guards noting who came and went.

"Leave them," Alfred told Arthur when he moved to destroy one of the devices. "Let Hendriks hear what we want him to hear."

That night, they performed for their audience. Careful conversations about trade negotiations, diplomatic futures, the challenges of rebuilding after Clubs' collapse. Nothing about artifacts, conspiracies, or the real threats they faced. Just the mundane concerns of monarchs dealing with mundane problems.

But later, when the inn settled into sleep and their watchers grew complacent, Alfred slipped into Arthur's room through methods that didn't involve doors.

"Romantic," Arthur observed dryly as Alfred emerged from what should have been a solid wall.

"Practical," Alfred corrected, moving to check the windows. "We need to talk freely, and this room has the fewest observers."

They sat close on the bed, voices pitched low enough that even magical eavesdropping would struggle to catch their words.

"Hendriks will make his real move once we reach the castle," Alfred said. "He'll want to corner me privately, reestablish control through threats and leverage."

"Let him try," Arthur said fiercely. "You're the King of Spades now. He can't just—"

"He can and will." Alfred took Arthur's hand, thumb tracing soothing patterns. "He has Graham. Has documents that could destabilize our rule. Has a network that infiltrates every level of society. We can't just crush him—not without causing more damage than we prevent."

"Then what do we do?"

Alfred's smile was all predator. "We give him exactly what he wants. And then we take everything."

He explained his plan quietly, watching Arthur's eyes widen with each revelation. It was dangerous, requiring precise timing and absolute trust between them. But if it worked...

"You're insane," Arthur said when he finished.

"Probably," Alfred agreed. "But it'll work. Hendriks' weakness has always been his certainty that everyone is as corrupt as he is. He can't conceive of someone choosing sacrifice over survival."

They refined the plan until exhaustion claimed them. This time when they came together, it was with desperate urgency—the knowledge that tomorrow would bring them back to the castle and all its political complexities. Here, on the road between disasters, they could just be Alfred and Arthur, choosing each other in defiance of every force trying to tear them apart.

Alfred pressed Arthur against the wall beside the bed.

"Missed this," Arthur breathed against Alfred's ear, barely audible. "Missed you. Is that ridiculous-

Alfred silenced him with a kiss, deep and claiming. When they parted, he whispered back, "Not ridiculous. I've been half-hard every time you looked at me today. Watching you plan, seeing that brilliant mind at work..."

Arthur's hands were already working at Alfred's clothes, impatient with buttons and ties. "Less talking."

They stripped each other with practiced efficiency, three days of intimacy having taught them the quickest paths to skin. But once naked, they slowed, hands relearning familiar territory with renewed appreciation.

Alfred dropped to his knees without preamble, looking up at Arthur with dark eyes full of promise. Arthur's hand flew to his mouth, stifling a gasp as Alfred took him in with one smooth motion. The wall was cold against Arthur's back, a stark contrast to the wet heat of Alfred's mouth.

Alfred had learned Arthur's responses well in their brief time together. He knew exactly how to use tongue and lips to drive Arthur toward the edge, then ease back before he could fall over. It was exquisite torture, made more intense by Arthur's struggle to remain silent.

Ice began forming on the wall behind Arthur, spreading in fractal patterns as his control slipped. His free hand tangled in Alfred's hair, not guiding but anchoring, as if Alfred was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with pleasure.

When Arthur was trembling on the edge, Alfred pulled back, rising to claim his mouth in a filthy kiss that let Arthur taste himself. "Bed," Alfred commanded quietly, and Arthur obeyed without hesitation.

This time, Arthur took control, pushing Alfred onto his back and straddling his hips. The moonlight through the window painted his pale skin silver, making him look otherworldly, some winter fae come to steal Alfred's sanity.

"My turn," Arthur murmured, and proceeded to torture Alfred with the same deliberate patience that had been shown to him. His mouth was sin itself, cold and hot by turns as his ice magic flickered with his concentration.

Alfred bit his knuckles to muffle the sounds trying to escape. Every nerve was alive, every touch electric. When Arthur finally deemed him ready and sank down onto him in one smooth motion, Alfred nearly came from that alone.

They moved together with quiet desperation, Arthur riding him with fluid grace while Alfred's hands guided his hips. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside Arthur with every movement. They kissed messily, breathing each other's air, swallowing each other's sounds.

The Token pulsed between them where it lay on Alfred's chest, seeming to amplify every sensation. Through it, Alfred could almost feel what Arthur felt—the fullness, the stretch, the sparks of pleasure with every movement. It created a feedback loop that had them both spiraling higher faster than expected.

Arthur's movements grew erratic as he approached his peak. Alfred wrapped a hand around him, stroking in time with their rhythm. "Come for me," he breathed against Arthur's ear. "Let me feel you."

Arthur's climax hit like a winter storm—sudden, overwhelming, and absolutely silent despite its intensity. His body clenched around Alfred, pulling him into his own release. They rode it out together, faces pressed close, sharing breath and heartbeat and that perfect moment of unity.

In the aftermath, they lay tangled together despite the bed's ample space. Neither spoke of tomorrow, of Hendriks' threats or the dangers waiting at the castle. For now, this stolen moment was enough—two kings who'd found something worth fighting for in each other.

"Whatever happens," Arthur said eventually, voice soft with exhaustion and satisfaction, "I want you to know—these days with you have been worth everything. The fear, the pain, the impossibility of it all. Worth it for this."

Alfred pulled him closer, breathing in the scent of ice and pine that always clung to Arthur's skin. "We're going to win," he promised. "Hendriks, the Architects, anyone who threatens what we've built. They don't understand what they're truly facing."

Morning came too soon, bringing with it the final day of travel. Peter seemed more coherent, though he still occasionally spoke to people who weren't there or referenced events from different timelines. Gilbert assured them this was normal—as normal as anything could be for a former temporal prisoner.

As Castle Spades came into view, Alfred felt the Token's warning pulse. Danger waited within those walls, plans within plans set in motion by desperate men who didn't understand the game had already changed.

Their escort closed ranks as they approached the gates, and Alfred smiled grimly. Hendriks thought he was welcoming back compromised pawns. He was about to learn the difference between pieces and players.

Chapter Text

Castle Spades welcomed them back with all the pageantry their station demanded. Crowds lined the streets, cheering their monarchs' safe return. Banners flew from every tower. The great bells rang out in celebration. To any observer, it was a triumphant homecoming.

Alfred saw the truth beneath the celebration. How many faces in the crowd belonged to Hendriks' network? How many guards had divided loyalties? How many servants would report every word spoken in the castle's halls?

"Smile," Arthur murmured beside him. "We're heroes returning from harrowing adventure, remember?"

Alfred pasted on his public face—the charming king who'd risen from nothing, who'd saved the Queen's brother through courage and determination. The crowd loved it, loved him, loved the fairy tale they thought they were witnessing.

If only they knew their hero had more blood on his hands than all the villains in their stories combined.

Peter traveled in a closed carriage with Gilbert and the healers. The public wasn't ready to see what years of temporal imprisonment had done to him—how he sometimes forgot which body was his, how his eyes occasionally showed visions of futures that might never come to pass. That would come later, when he'd recovered enough to play the part of rescued prince.

They made it through the formal reception, the speeches, the ceremonial requirements. Alfred noted which nobles seemed genuinely pleased by their return versus those whose smiles didn't reach their eyes. The Architects had people here too, beyond just Hendriks' network. Layers upon layers of conspiracy, all focused on the Token burning against his chest.

Finally, blessed finally, they were able to retire to their quarters. Alfred had barely closed the door when a servant appeared—one he didn't recognize, which was telling in itself.

"Your Majesty," the man bowed low. "Lord Hendriks requests the pleasure of your company for a private discussion. He's waiting in the Blue Solar."

Of course he was. The Blue Solar, where Arthur had first tried to teach Alfred proper etiquette. Where their complicated dance had truly begun. Hendriks would know that, would choose it deliberately for its emotional significance.

"Tell Lord Hendriks I'll join him shortly," Alfred said coolly. "After I've had time to refresh myself from the journey."

The servant's smile was thin. "Lord Hendriks stressed the urgency of the matter, Your Majesty. He suggested you wouldn't want to keep him waiting."

There it was—the steel beneath the courtesy. Alfred let his own mask slip slightly, showing the predator beneath the king.

"And I suggest Lord Hendriks remember who he's addressing," Alfred said softly. "I'll come when I'm ready. Not before."

The servant paled but bowed again. "Of course, Your Majesty. I'll relay your message."

After he left, Alfred found Arthur in the adjoining room, already surrounded by documents and demands that had accumulated in their absence. The Queen looked up as he entered, reading Alfred's expression immediately.

"Hendriks?"

"As expected." Alfred moved to the window, studying the courtyard below. "He's not even trying to be subtle anymore. 'Lord' Hendriks, demanding private audiences, sending veiled threats through servants."

"You don't have to go," Arthur said, though they both knew that wasn't true.

"Yes, I do." Alfred turned back to him. "But not on his terms. Send a message to Matthew and Yao. Tell them it's time to implement what we discussed."

Arthur nodded, moving to his desk. But before he could write, Alfred caught his hand.

"Whatever happens," Alfred said quietly, "remember the plan. Trust me, even when it seems like I'm betraying everything we've built."

"I trust you," Arthur said simply. "Just... be careful. Hendriks has survived this long by being smarter than his enemies. Don't underestimate him."

Alfred kissed him, quick but thorough. "Never."

He made Hendriks wait another hour, using the time to prepare. The Token went into a specially crafted chest—warded and locked, but not so thoroughly that a determined thief couldn't eventually breach it. Bait for a trap that required precise timing.

When he finally entered the Blue Solar, Hendriks was standing by the windows, looking every inch the nobleman he pretended to be. Expensive clothes, perfect grooming, the kind of casual arrogance that came from believing yourself untouchable.

"Your Majesty," Hendriks said, bowing with mocking precision. "How good of you to finally join me."

"Hendriks." Alfred didn't bother with titles or courtesy. "I see you've elevated yourself in my absence."

"Society rewards those who provide valuable services," Hendriks replied smoothly. "And I've provided so many services over the years, haven't I? To you, to the crown, to the stability of the realm."

"Is that what you call it?" Alfred moved to pour himself wine, noting Hendriks' eyes tracking his every movement. "I'd have chosen different words. Extortion. Manipulation. Murder for hire."

"Such harsh terms." Hendriks settled into a chair uninvited. "I prefer to think of it as maintaining balance. After all, every kingdom needs its shadows to appreciate the light."

They studied each other across the familiar room. Predator and predator, each calculating advantages. Finally, Hendriks spoke again.

"Clubs was quite the adventure, I hear. Madness, corruption, impossible architecture. And yet you emerged not just alive but victorious. Even managed to save the Queen's brother."

"We were fortunate," Alfred said neutrally.

"Fortune." Hendriks smiled. "Is that what you call carrying one of the four fundamental artifacts of creation? The Token of Spades, hidden against your chest all these months while you played servant?"

Alfred kept his expression steady despite his heart rate spiking. "I don't know what you mean."

"Please." Hendriks waved dismissively. "Let's dispense with games. I know you have it. The Architects know you have it. The only question is what happens next."

"What do you want, Hendriks?"

"What I've always wanted." Hendriks leaned forward. "Power. Security. The ability to shape the world according to my vision rather than ancient rules imposed by dead kings." He paused. "The Token can provide that. In the right hands, with the right will behind it."

"The Token doesn't work that way," Alfred said. "It preserves. It maintains. It doesn't reshape reality according to personal whim."

"Doesn't it?" Hendriks stood, beginning to pace. "The Trump Card corrupted reality itself because that's what Mikhail asked of it. The Ruby Staff shapes hearts and minds because that's Hearts' nature. The Diamond Blade cuts through any defense because Diamonds value precision. The artifacts are tools—their function depends on their wielder."

Alfred remained silent, letting Hendriks reveal more of his knowledge.

"The Architects have studied this for generations," Hendriks continued. "They know the true history—how the first kings weren't chosen by divine providence but by magical accident. Four individuals who happened to be in the right place when reality cracked, who grabbed power from the chaos and used it to impose order."

"Ancient history," Alfred said dismissively.

"Is it?" Hendriks smiled. "Or is it a blueprint for what could happen again? The artifacts united, reality made malleable, new kings rising from the chaos to shape a better world?"

"Better for who?"

"For those strong enough to seize opportunity." Hendriks stopped pacing, fixing Alfred with intense eyes. "You could be one of them. You have the Token, the power, the will. Join the Architects properly—not as a pawn but as a player. Help reshape the world, and rule whatever portion of it you desire."

Alfred laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "And in exchange?"

"The Token, of course. Oh, you'd still wield it—the artifacts bond to their bearers. But you'd wield it for the cause, for the grand design rather than petty kingdom politics."

"No."

The refusal hung in the air between them. Hendriks' expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"I expected that answer," Hendriks said calmly. "Which is why I took precautions. Graham sends his regards, by the way. He's quite comfortable in his new accommodations. Amazing how talkative people become when you apply the right pressure to old joints."

Alfred's control slipped for just a moment, murderous intent flooding the room before he reined it back. "If you've hurt him-

"Hurt him?" Hendriks looked offended. "I'm not a monster. He's simply... insurance. A guarantee of good behavior while we negotiate."

"There's nothing to negotiate."

"Isn't there?" Hendriks pulled out a sealed envelope. "Do you know what this contains? Detailed documentation of every assassination you performed in my service. Names, dates, methods. Enough evidence to see you executed for murder a dozen times over."

"Go ahead," Alfred said coldly. "Release it. Watch how quickly the nobility closes ranks to protect the crown's stability. You think they care more about justice than maintaining power?"

"Perhaps not." Hendriks produced another envelope. "But this one contains something more interesting. Proof that the King of Spades is bound to a criminal organization. That every decision you make might be influenced by divided loyalties. That kind of scandal... well, it wouldn't see you executed. Just neutered politically, your every action questioned, your every ally wondering if you're truly free."

It was a good threat. Solid leverage that would work on most people. But Hendriks had made a crucial error—he still thought Alfred was the same desperate boy he'd molded into a weapon.

"You're right," Alfred said slowly. "That would be damaging. Possibly catastrophic for my reign."

Hope flickered in Hendriks' eyes. "Then you'll see reason-

"Which is why I've already released that information myself."

The words hit Hendriks like physical blows. "What?"

"Letters to key nobles, sent before we left for Clubs. Sealed orders to be opened if we didn't return—or if we returned to find threats waiting." Alfred smiled. "They know everything, Hendriks. My past, your organization, the whole sordid history. They also know I'm bringing evidence of the larger conspiracy, proof that threatens every throne in the four kingdoms."

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Alfred moved closer. "Even now, Yao is meeting with the noble council, laying out the Architects' plans. Matthew is sharing intelligence with the guard captains, identifying your agents and theirs. And Arthur..." His smile sharpened. "Arthur is coordinating with Ivan to ensure the other kingdoms understand the threat."

Hendriks had gone pale. "You've destroyed yourself. When this becomes public-

"I'll be the King who chose truth over comfort. Who exposed corruption despite personal cost. Who saved the four kingdoms from a conspiracy that would have enslaved us all." Alfred spread his hands. "Not the narrative you expected, is it?"

"You can't- the Architects have people everywhere-

"Had people everywhere," Alfred corrected. "Amazing how quickly rats flee when you shine light into their holes. Your network is collapsing as we speak. Some are running. Some are turning witness to save themselves. And some..." He shrugged. "Some are discovering that betraying the crown has consequences."

Hendriks' hand went to the knife at his belt, but Alfred was faster. Centuries of trained reflex had him across the room with blade to Hendriks' throat before the crime lord could fully draw.

"Did you really think," Alfred whispered, "that you could walk into my castle, threaten my family, and walk out alive?"

"If I die, Graham dies," Hendriks gasped. "Automatic orders. Fail-safes."

"Do what you must, I'm not your weapon anymore." Alfred stepped back, lowering the blade. 

Guards entered at Alfred's signal, binding Hendriks with efficient precision. The former crime lord looked smaller somehow, power stripped away to reveal the desperate man beneath.

"The Architects will come," Hendriks said as they dragged him toward the door. "You've won this battle, but the war-

"Is just beginning," Alfred agreed. "But now we know our enemy. And they've lost their element of surprise."

After Hendriks was gone, Alfred stood alone in the Blue Solar, feeling the ghosts of all his former selves. The desperate boy. The trained killer. The lying servant. All of them had led to this moment—the King who'd chosen truth over safety.

Arthur found him there an hour later, slipping into the room with quiet grace.

"It's done?" Alfred asked.

"The council was... receptive. Shocked, obviously, but they understand the threat now. Several nobles admitted to being approached by Architect agents. They're eager to prove their loyalty by sharing what they know."

"And the public?"

"Will learn a carefully edited version. The King who rose from nothing to save us all. It's a good story—redemption, sacrifice, triumph over corruption. They'll love it."

Alfred laughed, exhaustion hitting him all at once. "If only they knew the whole truth."

"They know enough." Arthur moved closer, wrapping his arms around Alfred from behind. "You did it. Hendriks is finished. His network is crumbling. The Architects are exposed."

"It's not over," Alfred said, leaning back into the embrace. "The Architects have been playing this game for generations. They won't stop because we've had one victory."

"No," Arthur agreed. "But now we're playing too. And we have something they don't."

"What's that?"

"Each other," Arthur said simply. "The Token and a purified Trump Card. Allies who know the truth. And most importantly..." He pressed a kiss to Alfred's neck. "We have hope. Real hope, not the false promises of conspirators."

They stood together in the room where their complicated story had begun, two kings who'd found each other against all odds. Outside, the castle bustled with activity as the conspiracy's unraveling accelerated. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new threats, new battles.

But tonight, they'd won. Hendriks was broken. The Architects were exposed. And for the first time since he'd hidden his mark as a child, Alfred was truly free.

The Token pulsed against his chest, singing contentment. Not complete victory—that would take time, effort, careful diplomacy to prevent the four kingdoms from tearing themselves apart as the conspiracy's roots were excavated. But a beginning.

"Come to bed," Arthur said softly. "Tomorrow we deal with the aftermath. Tonight, we've earned our rest."

Alfred let himself be led away, leaving the Blue Solar and all its memories behind. The boy who'd learned etiquette here was gone. In his place stood a King—scarred but not broken, bloodied but not bowed.

And not alone. Never alone again.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of Hendriks' arrest sent shockwaves through every level of society. For three days, the castle had been in controlled chaos as the conspiracy's roots were dragged into the light. Alfred stood in the council chamber, watching as another group of nobles was led away in chains—these ones had been deep in the Architects' pockets, selling influence and information for promises of power in the new order that would never come.

"That's the last of them from court," Yao reported, looking exhausted but satisfied. "Seventeen nobles, thirty-two guards, and nearly fifty servants with varying levels of involvement. Some were blackmailed, others bought, but all compromised."

"And beyond the castle?" Arthur asked from his seat at the council table. He'd barely slept in days, coordinating with the other kingdoms as they conducted their own purges.

"Still counting," Matthew admitted. "Hendriks' network was extensive, but the Architects' reach is generational. We're finding sleeper agents who don't even know who they truly serve—families raised for generations to be loyal to the cause, waiting for activation that will never come."

Alfred studied the map spread before them, marked with pins showing confirmed Architect holdings. The pattern was chilling in its scope—they'd been everywhere, in every kingdom, patient as spiders spinning a web across centuries.

"Any word from Hearts?" he asked.

"King Ludwig is conducting his own investigation," Arthur replied. "The Ruby Staff's keeper was indeed compromised—not willingly, but through manipulation spanning decades. They're working to purify the artifact now, using Ivan's success as a template."

"And the Diamond Blade?"

"Still missing," Yao admitted. "But we have leads. The Architects hid it well, but not perfectly. Gilbert thinks he can track its resonance now that we know what to look for."

A knock interrupted their planning. A guard entered, bowing low. "Your Majesties, the prisoner Hendriks requests an audience. He claims to have information about the Architects' leadership."

Alfred and Arthur exchanged glances. They'd interrogated Hendriks multiple times, but he'd revealed little beyond what they'd already discovered. This could be desperation or genuine intelligence.

"Bring him," Alfred decided. "In chains, under heavy guard."

Hendriks looked smaller than Alfred remembered. Prison didn't suit the former crime lord—his expensive clothes replaced by rough cloth, his perfect grooming abandoned. But his eyes still held cunning, watching for any advantage.

"Your Majesties," he said, voice hoarse. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Speak quickly," Arthur commanded coldly. "We have little patience for more of your games."

"No games," Hendriks assured them. "Just truth, offered in exchange for consideration."

"What truth?" Alfred asked.

"The Architects' inner circle. I only ever dealt with intermediaries, but I know how to reach them. Dead drops, code phrases, emergency protocols. Information that could lead you to the real power behind the conspiracy."

"In exchange for?" Yao prompted.

"Life," Hendriks said simply. "Not freedom—I know that's beyond reach. But life, imprisoned rather than executed. A chance to see another sunrise, even through bars."

"You orchestrated murders," Arthur said flatly. "Corrupted children into weapons. Built an empire on blood and suffering."

"Yes," Hendriks agreed without flinching. "All of that and more. But I was also a tool, just like Alfred was my tool. The Architects found me young, shaped me, gave me purpose and power. Everything I built, I built for them."

"That doesn't absolve you," Matthew said quietly.

"No," Hendriks admitted. "But maybe it explains me. And maybe explanation plus information equals a cell rather than a noose."

Alfred studied his former master, seeing past the degradation to the core of the man. Still calculating, still searching for angles, but also genuinely afraid. Death had a way of clarifying priorities.

"Tell us something useful," Alfred said finally. "Prove your information has value."

Hendriks leaned forward eagerly. "The Architects meet during eclipses. Solar or lunar, doesn't matter—it's the symbolism that counts. Light obscured, hidden powers revealed. The next gathering is in two months, during the lunar eclipse. They'll meet to discuss their response to recent setbacks."

"Where?" Arthur demanded.

"That's where it gets interesting," Hendriks said. "They don't meet in any kingdom. There's a place between—an island that doesn't appear on maps, that exists partially outside normal reality. The Diamond Blade is there, along with their archives, their true leadership."

"How do we find this island?" Yao asked.

"You need all four artifacts," Hendriks explained. "United, they can pierce the veil between reality and the spaces the Architects carved out for themselves. It's why they wanted them so badly, not just to remake the world, but to ensure no one could follow them to their sanctuary."

The council exchanged glances. They had the Token and Trump Card. Hearts was securing the Ruby Staff. Only the Diamond Blade remained hidden, on the very island they needed to reach.

"There's more," Hendriks continued. "The Architects aren't human. Not anymore. They've lived too long, shaped by the power they have  stolen. They're something between mortal and divine now—killable, but not easily."

"You've seen them?" Matthew asked.

"Once. When I was young and they were deciding if I was worth investing in." Hendriks shuddered at the memory. "They wore human faces, but underneath... underneath was something that had forgotten mortality centuries ago."

They questioned him for another hour, extracting every detail about the Architects' operations. When guards finally led him away, Alfred felt the weight of new knowledge settling on his shoulders.

"Do we trust any of that?" Yao asked once they were alone.

"We verify what we can," Arthur said pragmatically. "The eclipse timing can be confirmed. Gilbert might know about this hidden island."

"And if it's real?" Matthew asked.

"Then we have two months to prepare for war," Alfred said simply. 

"Can we win?" Yao asked quietly.

Alfred touched the Token through his shirt, feeling its steady pulse. "We have to. The alternative is letting them continue their game, manipulating kingdoms and lives for their own inscrutable purposes."

"I'll coordinate with Ludwig, Francis, and Ivan," Arthur decided. "If we're doing this, we need all four kingdoms united. No divisions they can exploit."

"And Peter?" Matthew asked gently. "Is he stable enough to help? His Joker nature might be crucial against beings that exist partially outside reality."

Arthur's expression softened. "He's... improving. Slowly. Gilbert's been working with him, teaching him to anchor his consciousness in the present. Yesterday he spoke for an hour without referencing other timelines."

"Progress," Alfred agreed. "We'll need every advantage against the Architects."

They dispersed to handle individual tasks, but Arthur caught Alfred's arm before he could leave.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked quietly. "I know Hendriks was... important to you, in his way."

"He was my master," Alfred said simply. "The man who shaped me into a weapon, who gave me purpose when I had none. But he was also the chain around my neck, the shadow that followed every step." He met Arthur's eyes. "Seeing him broken doesn't bring satisfaction, just... emptiness. Like a book ending mid-sentence."

"Perhaps that's healthy," Arthur suggested. "Moving past him without needing vengeance or vindication. Just accepting what was and choosing what will be."

Alfred pulled Arthur close. "When did you become so wise?"

"Someone has to be, with you charging headfirst into cosmic conspiracies," Arthur replied, but his tone was fond.

They held each other in the empty council chamber, drawing strength for the battles ahead. 

"Whatever happens," Alfred said softly, "I want you to know-

"No," Arthur interrupted. "No final declarations. We're going to win, come home, and build the kingdom we've dreamed of. Save the dramatic speeches for after we've dealt with the Architects."

Alfred smiled despite everything. "Optimist."

"Realist," Arthur corrected. "We've already achieved the impossible—saved Peter, purified the Trump Card, exposed a centuries-old conspiracy. What's one more miracle?"

"When you put it like that," Alfred agreed, "how can we lose?"

But even as they drew comfort from each other, both knew the truth. The Architects we’re dangerous. Challenging them meant challenging the foundations of everything they knew.

Still, what choice did they have? The conspiracy was exposed, its agents scattered or captured. The Architects would respond—if not at the eclipse gathering, then later, from shadows and patience. Better to face them now, while momentum was on their side.

"I need to write to Ivan," Arthur said eventually, pulling away reluctantly. "He's the only one who's successfully purified a corrupted artifact. His insights could be crucial."

"And I need to check on our preparations," Alfred agreed. "If we're really doing this—assaulting a hidden island full of immortal conspirators—we need every advantage."

They parted with a kiss, quick but promising more later. There was work to be done, alliances to forge, power to master. Two months might seem like a long time, but Alfred knew it would pass in a blink.

The Architects had played a long game, patient and subtle. But they'd made a crucial error—they'd let their pawns become players. And players, unlike pawns, could change the rules of the game itself.

Alfred touched the Token one more time, feeling its steady pulse of possibility. Change was coming to the four kingdoms. Not the controlled transformation the Architects planned, but something new, something chosen by those who'd survived their machinations.

It wouldn't be easy. It might not even be survivable. But it was necessary.

The old order was ending. What rose from its ashes would be shaped by their choices in the coming months.

Time to choose wisely. Time to prepare for war against gods of their own making.

Chapter Text

Months passed in a blur of preparation and revelation. The four kingdoms had never cooperated on this scale before—sharing intelligence, coordinating defenses, preparing for a battle that most of their citizens would never know happened. Alfred stood on the castle's highest tower, watching the sun set on what might be their last normal day.

Tomorrow, the lunar eclipse would begin at sunset. By midnight, the moon would be fully obscured, and the veil between reality and the Architects' sanctuary would be at its thinnest. They would have perhaps an hour to strike before the window closed.

"Brooding again?" Arthur's voice came from behind him.

"Planning," Alfred corrected, though he smiled as Arthur joined him at the parapet. "Running through contingencies."

"We've done everything possible," Arthur reminded him. "The strike team is ready. The artifacts are attuned. Peter and Gilbert know their roles. Even the backup plans have backup plans."

It was true. The last two months had been a masterclass in coordination. King Ludwig had arrived from Hearts with the Ruby Staff, its keeper—now freed from Architect influence—accompanying him. Ivan had come from the slowly recovering Clubs, the Trump Card's box tucked under his arm. For the first time in centuries, three of the four fundamental artifacts were in the same place. Even King Francis had arrived, eager to have his own kingdom’s token back where it belonged. "Any word from the scouts?" Alfred asked.

"The island remains hidden," Arthur admitted. "But Gilbert's calculations haven't changed. When we bring the three artifacts together during the eclipse, they should resonate with the Diamond Blade strongly enough to pierce the veil."

"Should," Alfred repeated. "I love how much of our plan relies on theoretical magical interactions."

"Would you prefer charging in blindly?"

"At least that's a strategy I understand," Alfred said wryly.

They stood in comfortable silence, watching the castle prepare for what everyone thought was a celebration of inter-kingdom cooperation. Only the inner circle knew the truth—that their monarchs would slip away during the festivities, leaving decoys behind while they attempted the impossible.

"Peter asked to speak with you," Arthur said eventually. "He's in the garden, working with Gilbert on his temporal anchoring."

Alfred found them in the moonlight garden, an innovation Peter had suggested during his recovery. Plants that bloomed only at night, arranged in patterns that helped ground those who struggled with linear time. Peter sat in the center, looking more solid than he had in months.

"Your Majesty," Peter said, standing as Alfred approached. The formal address still felt strange between them. "Thank you for coming."

"How are you feeling?" Alfred asked, noting the clarity in Peter's brown eyes. The fracturing that had marked his early recovery was almost gone.

"Present," Peter replied with a small smile. "Mostly. Gilbert's techniques help, and the garden..." He gestured at the night-blooming flowers. "It reminds me that time can be beautiful when it moves properly."

"You wanted to discuss tomorrow?"

Peter's expression grew serious. "I've been... seeing things. Not visions exactly, but echoes of possibility. The island where the Architects hide—it exists in folded space, partially outside normal reality. That's why I can perceive it when others can't."

"What have you seen?"

"Pain," Peter said simply. "The island is built on suffering. Every stone mortared with blood, every ward powered by sacrifice."

Alfred felt the Token pulse uneasily against his chest. "Can we overcome that?"

"You'll have to," Gilbert interjected, materializing from shadow as was his way. "The Architects draw power from that accumulated suffering.."

"But suffering can be cleansed," Peter added. "The same way Ivan purified the Trump Card. It won't be easy—the Architects will fight to maintain their power source. But it's possible."

"You're sure you're ready for this?" Alfred asked. "We can find another way-

"No," Peter interrupted gently. "I need to do this. They twisted Joker nature into chains, used my essence to torture reality itself. I need to face them, to reclaim what they stole." His eyes hardened. "And I need to ensure they never do it to another child."

Alfred nodded, recognizing the determination. They'd all been shaped by the Architects' machinations—him into a weapon, Arthur into isolated royalty, Peter into a temporal prisoner. Tomorrow they'd have their reckoning.

"Get what rest you can," he advised. "We leave at sunset."

The night passed too quickly. Alfred found himself in Arthur's bed, holding the Queen close as if proximity could ward off tomorrow's dangers. 

Morning brought final preparations. The strike team assembled in the secure chamber they'd prepared—Alfred and Arthur, Peter and Gilbert, Ivan with the Trump Card, Francis and a small group from Diamond, Ludwig and his keeper with the Ruby Staff, and a handful of their most trusted guards. Yao would remain behind, coordinating the deception that would hide their absence.

"Everyone understands their roles?" Arthur asked, receiving nods all around. "Once we pierce the veil, we'll have limited time. Get in, find the Diamond Blade, confront the Architects, and get out before reality reasserts itself."

"And if the Architects prove more powerful than expected?" Ludwig asked. The King of Hearts was a pragmatist, always considering worst-case scenarios.

"Then we improvise," Alfred said. "We've all faced impossible odds before. This is just a different flavor of impossible."

As sunset approached, they performed the ritual Gilbert and Peter had designed. The three artifacts were placed in a triangle formation, their bearers standing at the points. Peter stood in the center, his Joker nature serving as a conduit between order and chaos.

"Begin," Gilbert commanded.

Power flowed between the artifacts—the Token's preserving force, the Trump Card's transformative energy, the Ruby Staff's emotional resonance. Where they met in the center, Peter shaped them into something new, something that could pierce veils between worlds.

The air itself began to sing, reality bending under the strain of so much concentrated power. Alfred felt the Token burning against his chest, its energy pulled into the working. Beside him, Arthur's ice magic rose to complement it, adding structure to raw force.

"There," Peter gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. "I can feel it—the Diamond Blade, calling to its siblings. It's... northwest. In a space that isn't space, on an island that shouldn't exist."

"Can you open a path?" Ivan asked, the Trump Card glowing green in his hands.

"Not open," Peter corrected. "But I can... stretch. Make the distance negotiable. Everyone link hands—we need to move as one or risk being scattered across possibilities."

They formed a chain, Alfred anchoring one end with Arthur, Ludwig anchoring the other. Peter and Gilbert stood in the middle, Joker powers harmonizing to create impossibility.

"Now," Peter said.

The world twisted. Not the violent transition of corrupted Clubs, but a sideways step through dimensions. One moment they stood in Castle Spades, the next on a beach that had never known honest sunlight.

The island stretched before them, wrong in every possible way. The sky above showed no stars, just a void that watched with patient hunger. And at the center, a tower that pierced heaven itself—black stone that seemed to drink light, impossibly tall, impossibly ancient.

"The Architects' stronghold," Gilbert said quietly. 

"Guards?" Arthur asked, ice already forming defensively around his hands.

"They don't need guards," Peter replied, his voice distant. "The island itself is their protection. Every step we take, it will test us. Every breath draws in air thick with old magic. Be careful—this place wants to remake visitors in the Architects' image."

They advanced cautiously, the guards forming a protective perimeter while the artifact bearers focused on their goals. The Token pulsed irregularly, responding to the wrongness around them. Through it, Alfred sensed the Diamond Blade—somewhere in that impossible tower, waiting.

The first test came quickly. The path split into seven directions, each looking identical but feeling different. Peter studied them with eyes that saw beyond the present.

"That one," he pointed to the third path. "The others lead to... unpleasant ends. Deaths that happened, will happen, might happen. The island collects possibilities like trophies."

They followed his guidance, trusting Joker instincts over normal perception. The path wound through gardens of black glass, past fountains that flowed upward, under arches that existed in too many dimensions. With each step, the tower grew closer and further away simultaneously.

"Stop," Gilbert commanded suddenly. "We're being watched."

They were. Figures emerged from the un-light, moving with grace that had abandoned humanity centuries ago. The Architects, or what remained of them. Seven beings that wore the shapes of men and women but were something else entirely. Their faces were beautiful in the way mathematics could be beautiful—perfect, cold, utterly inhuman.

"Visitors," one said, its voice coming from everywhere and nowhere. "How novel. It's been so long since anyone pierced our veil."

"We've come for the Diamond Blade," Arthur announced, stepping forward with royal authority. ”and to make sure you receive the justice you deserve for having murdered thousands to power your workings."

"Murdered?" The first Architect tilted its head. "Such a limited perspective. We transformed them, incorporated their essence into something greater. Every person who died to create the marked system lives on in it. Immortal, purposeful. Isn't that better than the brief, meaningless lives they would have lived?"

"Those weren't your lives to take," Ivan said firmly.

"Weren't they?" A third Architect moved closer, reality bending around it. 

"And now you manipulate our kingdoms like game pieces," Francis added. "Fostering wars, corrupting rulers, all for what? Entertainment?"

"Evolution," the Architects said in unison. "The marked system is a chrysalis, containing magic. We simply sought to guide it."

"By corrupting the Trump Card?" Arthur's voice dripped contempt. "By torturing my brother for years?"

"Regrettable extremes," one Architect admitted without remorse. "But Mikhail's madness accelerated certain processes. The barriers between dimensions weakened. New possibilities emerged. Your brother's suffering, while unfortunate, provided valuable data."

Peter made a sound of pure rage, his Joker nature flaring. Reality rippled around him, showing glimpses of his torment—years compressed into moments, moments stretched into eternities. "Data? You made me experience hell across all time!"

"And you survived," the Architect observed. "Adapted. Evolved. You're no longer merely human, Peter Kirkland. You're something new, something that couldn't have existed without that crucible. In a way, you should thank us."

"Enough," Alfred said, cutting off Peter's response. "We didn't come here to debate philosophy with monsters. Where is the Diamond Blade?"

The Architects moved as one, surrounding the group in a loose circle. "In the tower, of course. But reaching it... that's another matter. You see, we've been expecting you. Preparing for this exact moment. Did you think we didn't notice three artifacts coming together? Didn't feel our ancient working trembling?"

The island itself responded to their words. The ground beneath their feet became less solid, more suggestion. The tower both loomed closer and receded into impossible distance. The very air grew thick, pressing against them with the weight of centuries.

"You cannot fight us here," the lead Architect said simply. "This island is us. We are it. Every stone knows our will, every breath of wind carries our power. You've walked into the heart of our strength."

"Have we?" Gilbert stepped forward, power crackling around him like a storm. 

The Architects' perfect faces showed the first hint of uncertainty. "The Black Joker. We wondered if you would come."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this," Gilbert's grin was sharp as winter moonlight. "You see, you made one crucial error in your grand design. You created Jokers to be balance-keepers, to ensure your system's stability. But balance can tip both ways. And right now?" His power flared, red and black and impossible. "Right now, I think it's time for some creative destruction."

The battle that followed existed on multiple levels. Physically, they fought with magic and blade against beings that had transcended flesh. Conceptually, they battled for the right to define reality itself. The Architects wielded the accumulated power of centuries, but the united artifacts sang their own song of possibility.

Alfred found himself facing an Architect that wore the face of a kind grandfather. It spoke as they fought, its words designed to erode will.

"You carry so much death," it observed, deflecting his strikes with casual ease. "Every life you took left a mark on your soul. You're more like us than you know—a being shaped by necessary cruelty."

"The difference is," Alfred snarled, the Token blazing with power, "I chose to change. You just kept justifying the horror."

His blade, manifest from the Token's light, found an opening. The Architect screamed as it pierced not flesh but the conceptual framework holding it together. For a moment, Alfred saw what it had been—a frightened king trying to save his people from magical catastrophe, making darker and darker choices until humanity was a distant memory.

Then it dissolved, unraveling into component possibilities that the island eagerly reabsorbed.

Around him, the others fought their own battles. Arthur faced an Architect with ice that froze concepts themselves. Ivan wielded the Trump Card's transformative power against a being that insisted transformation was its domain. Ludwig and his keeper worked in harmony, the Ruby Staff singing emotions back into creatures that had abandoned feeling.

But it was Peter who turned the tide. The Architect he faced had been the one to design his chains, to conceive the torture that had spread him across time. Peter's rage was incandescent, but beneath it lay something more powerful—understanding.

"You're afraid," Peter said, dodging attacks that came from yesterday and tomorrow simultaneously. "All of you. You're terrified that if the system falls, you'll die with it. That's why you've been trying to control its evolution—not for our sake, but for yours."

"Silence," the Architect commanded, but its voice shook.

"You're parasites," Peter continued, his Joker nature letting him see the truth beneath lies. "You don't sustain the marked system—it sustains you. All that suffering, all that stolen life, it's what keeps you from dissolving into nothing."

"I said SILENCE!"

But Peter wouldn't be silenced. Not again. He reached out with power that existed between order and chaos, touching the foundations of the island itself. "Every stone mortared with blood," he whispered. "Every ward powered by sacrifice. What happens when those sacrifices are given peace?"

Understanding dawned in Gilbert's eyes. "Peter, yes! Free them!"

Peter spread his arms wide, Joker power flowing out in waves. He spoke to the suffering that permeated the island, to the countless souls bound into its structure. Not commanding but offering—peace, release, freedom from purposes they'd never chosen.

Cracks appeared in reality itself as the Architects' power source began to fail. The stolen lives that had sustained them for centuries were choosing liberation, dissolving back into the natural cycle rather than remaining trapped in artificial eternity.

"No!" The remaining Architects converged on Peter, desperate to stop him.

But they'd forgotten the rest of the strike team. Alfred's blade found another Architect's core. Arthur's ice froze one in a moment of transition, shattering it like glass. Ivan transformed another back into the human it had been, watching it age to dust in seconds as centuries caught up.

The tower began to collapse, its impossible architecture no longer sustainable without the suffering that had built it. But as it fell, something rose from its ruins—a blade of pure diamond, singing with harmonious power.

"The Diamond Blade," Francis breathed.

It floated before them, waiting. 

"Take it," the last Architect said, its form already beginning to dissolve as the island died around them. "You've won. The old order ends. But remember—we were once like you. Heroes trying to save our world. Power corrupts, especially power over reality itself. Will you be any different?"

"Yes," Arthur said simply. "Because we won't try to control it alone. Four kingdoms, united. Checks and balances. No more secret architects pulling strings from shadows."

The Architect laughed, the sound surprisingly human as it faded. "We said the same thing once. But... perhaps you'll prove us wrong. Perhaps humanity is finally ready for what comes next."

It dissolved completely, the last of the ancient conspirators returning to the cycle they'd tried to escape. The island shuddered, reality reasserting itself violently.

"We need to leave," Gilbert warned. "Without the Architects' will maintaining it, this space will collapse completely."

They ran for the beach where they'd arrived, the island disintegrating behind them. Peter led the way, his temporal perception finding the stable paths. The Diamond Blade floated alongside them, its song harmonizing with the other three artifacts.

Just as the last of the island dissolved into void, Peter stretched reality again. The same sideways step through dimensions, but smoother now, more controlled. They emerged in Castle Spades' courtyard just as the lunar eclipse reached totality.

For a moment, they stood in exhausted silence, hardly believing they'd survived. Then Arthur laughed—bright, relieved, edged with hysteria.

"We did it," he said. "We actually did it."

"The Architects are gone," Ivan confirmed, the Trump Card quiet in his hands. "I can feel it—the system they built remains, but it's free now. No more hidden hands guiding it."

"So what happens next?" Ludwig asked.

Alfred looked at the Diamond Blade floating between them. Francis then moved to reclaim what was rightfully his. 

"Now we decide," he said. "Together. No more secrets, no more conspiracies. Just four kingdoms figuring out how to move forward without puppeteers."

"It won't be easy," Yao warned, appearing from the castle with relief written across his features. "Power vacuums invite chaos. There will be those who try to seize what the Architects left behind."

"Then we'll stop them," Peter said firmly. His ordeal had changed him—no longer the lost child or the broken prisoner, but someone who'd faced the worst the world could offer and chosen hope anyway. "Together."

"The four artifacts, united but not combined," Arthur said, understanding dawning. "Each kingdom keeps its own, but we meet regularly. Share power rather than hoarding it."

"A new compact," Ivan agreed. "Based on trust rather than control."

They spent the rest of the night planning, exhaustion pushed aside by the magnitude of what they'd accomplished. By dawn, messages were flying to all corners of the four kingdoms. The Architects were gone. The conspiracy was ended. A new age had begun.

But for Alfred, the sweetest moment came later, when he and Arthur finally found themselves alone in their chambers. No more secrets between them, no more threats hanging over their heads. 

They kissed, slow and deep and full of promise. When they finally made their way to bed, it was with a new kind of urgency, not desperation but celebration, joy at having a future to share.

They lay entwined, watching the sun rise through their window. The Token pulsed contentedly against Alfred's chest, no longer a burden but a reminder of how far they'd come.

"What do you think happens now?" Arthur asked softly. "With the Architects gone?”

"I think," Alfred said slowly, "we get to find out who we really are. No more destinies shaped by ancient conspiracies. No more hidden hands. Just us, making choices and living with them."

"That sounds terrifying," Arthur observed.

"It does," Alfred agreed. "Also wonderful."

They dozed as the castle came alive around them, their kingdom awakening to a new day. There would be challenges—there always were. People who'd try to exploit the power vacuum, kingdoms learning to cooperate without external threat, the simple complexity of governing in interesting times.

But they'd face it together. King and Queen, supported by loyal friends and family, guided by artifacts that sang of possibility rather than control. The Architects' legacy remained—the marked system still structured their society—but it was theirs now, to nurture or change as wisdom dictated.

The boy who'd hidden his mark in the Lower District was gone. The servant who'd lied with every breath had vanished. In their place stood Alfred F. Jones, King of Spades, who'd chosen truth over safety and love over isolation.

Beside him slept Arthur Kirkland, Queen of Spades, who'd walked into madness to save his brother and emerged stronger for it. Together, they'd reshaped the world, not through conspiracy but through courage.

It was, Alfred thought as sleep finally claimed him, a far better ending than the Architects had planned. And more importantly, it was just the beginning.

The four kingdoms had weathered conspiracy and madness. Now came the harder task, building something better from the ashes of the old. But with Arthur beside him, with friends who'd become family, with artifacts that promised rather than threatened, Alfred knew they'd succeed.

After all, they'd already achieved the impossible. What was reshaping society compared to that?

The new age had dawned. Time to see what wonders it would bring.