Prologue: Divine Hunt
3 MONTHS BEFORE THE DIVINE HUNT
“Sire! Sire!” Charles burst into the grand throne room, clutching his tarot cards as if they were lifelines. His voice echoed against the high, vaulted ceilings, where banners of the kingdom’s crest hung proudly. The scent of burning tallow from the great chandeliers filled the air, mixing with the faint hint of ink and parchment from the scribe's desk. He knew the king was deep in discourse with Jotham, the kingdom’s scribe, regarding delicate negotiations for southern expansion. But this, Charles was certain, held greater urgency.
His heart thundered as he approached the raised dais. The marble steps gleamed underfoot—his palms slick with sweat as he gripped the cards tighter. He ignored the disapproving murmurs of the courtiers standing along the edges of the hall.
Arthur, seated on his throne of gilded oak and crimson velvet, raised a single hand to still the scribe mid-sentence. His brow furrowed as he looked down upon Charles, his stern countenance etched with years of rule. “What is the meaning of this interruption, Charles? I have delayed dispatching the letter to Ionia for far too long.”
“Sire, I beg your patience.” Charles stepped forward, breathless, and set the cards down upon the polished armrest of the throne. “You must see this—these cards! For eight days now, I have drawn the same ones. The Wheel of Fortune. The World. The Fool.”
Arthur’s frown deepened as his gaze shifted to the cards, their intricate designs gleaming faintly in the torchlight. “You know well I cannot decipher these symbols, Charles. Speak plainly.”
The young diviner coughed, a faint flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. “Of course, Your Grace. The cards... They are an omen, a message from forces beyond our understanding. Today, when I drew them yet again, the message came clearer.” He fumbled in his pocket, producing a weathered parchment. His hands trembled as he unfolded it. “This verse came to me unbidden:
The wheel shall soon spin,
The world shall soon call,
The hunt will begin,
Will you let thy world fall?
Arthur’s expression remained inscrutable, but Jotham chuckled, the sound echoing like brittle glass breaking. “Forgive me, Charles, but you sound like a drunken bard weaving tales by the hearth. Surely you don’t expect the king to heed such fantastical nonsense.”
Charles’s lips pressed into a thin line, his temper flaring. “How many times have my readings steered this kingdom to prosperity? Have I not foreseen the floods and droughts? Predicted the enemy’s movements in the west?”
“Enough.” Arthur’s voice cut through the rising tension like a blade. He leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Charles. “You have indeed served this kingdom faithfully, but even the wisest seers can misread the stars. What would you have me do, Charles? Allocate resources to chase shadows and whispers?”
Before Charles could respond, the great doors to the throne room burst open with a resounding crash. Alice, the kingdom’s messenger, hurried inside, her face pale and her hands clutching several rolled parchments.
“Sire!” she cried, her voice trembling. “Ionia, Loncast, and Rexzlia are mobilizing!”
Arthur’s expression darkened like a gathering storm. “Are we to prepare for war?”
Alice shook her head, ascending the steps with urgency. “No, Sire. These are... strange. Each letter carries warnings—of a wheel, a world... it’s all the same.”
His breath caught. Snatching the scrolls from her, Charles unfurled them with trembling fingers. He scanned the parchments, each penned by the diviners of neighboring kingdoms, their words eerily familiar. “Your Grace, see for yourself!” He thrust the letters before the king.
Arthur read in silence, the tension in the room mounting with every passing second. Finally, the parchments crinkled in his tightening grip. He rose from his throne, his voice heavy with resolve.
“Prepare the troops.”
25 YEARS INTO THE DIVINE HUNT
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“It’s close.” Charles’s voice carried over the snow-draped expanse, his breath misting in the frigid air. He adjusted the fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, scratching at his thick beard—surveying the site. Around him, men toiled in the frozen ground, their pickaxes ringing out as they struck the frost-bitten earth.
The journey had been merciless. For decades, his men waded through barren lands, dense forests, and inhospitable deserts, chasing fleeting omens. The cards were maddeningly vague, their cryptic guidance often leading to dead ends. Charles felt the weight of the kingdom’s hopes on his shoulders, but the strain had begun to fray even the most loyal of followers.
A sharp, echoing thud pulled him from his thoughts. One of the diggers cried out, “We’ve struck something!”
Charles rushed forward, his boots crunching through the snow. The men stepped aside as he approached the pit, revealing an ornate black box half-buried in the frost. His breath quickened. Dropping to his knees, he clawed at the icy dirt with bare hands, ignoring the biting cold as he unearthed the relic.
Inside lay a deck of cards, their edges gilded in gold, each shimmering faintly with a mysterious light. Charles reached out, trembling as his fingers brushed the top card. He flipped it, revealing an image so mesmerizing it stole the breath from his lungs—a regal figure, her arms outstretched, the forces of the world swirling between her palms. His eyes lowered to the label at the card's base.
The World.
He barely had time to react before light erupted from the card. It sank into his arm: a searing heat rushing through his veins. Charles screamed, clawing at his skin where the card had merged, but his pain was swiftly overtaken by a surge of power. The frostbitten air crackled with golden energy as his body lifted from the ground, glowing bright in competition with the sun itself.
Cries erupted from the field below. He blinked down to see his troops embroiled in chaos—a neighboring kingdom’s soldiers had attacked. The allure of the cards was too great. Soldiers clawed at the deck, prying cards loose and shoving them into their skin. Some glowed as power rushed into their bodies, while others collapsed, lifeless. Even his own men turned on one another, the promise of power overwhelming loyalty.
Charles floated above the blood-soaked battlefield, his perspective growing vast. His glowing eyes surveyed the frost-covered plains where greed had dissolved the unity they’d fought so hard to maintain. He could feel the cards calling to him, whispering their secrets, their limitless potential.
Power radiated from him as his voice boomed, carrying not just across the tundra, but across mountains, oceans, the deserts.
“ENOUGH!”
The sound rippled across the world like a divine decree, silencing the clamor of war. The soldiers froze mid-strike, their eyes drawn to the radiant figure above them. Charles hovered in the frigid air, his glowing presence dwarfing the battlefield.
“This bloodshed,” he began, his voice a solemn rumble, “this madness, this insatiable hunger for power—ends now.” His tone grew heavier, each word steeped in unyielding authority. “You have proven yourselves unworthy of the gift the Divine has bestowed. The cards have whispered their judgment to me, and I shall deliver it.”
He stretched out his hand, and the battlefield erupted into golden light. One by one, the Major Arcana cards ripped free from the bodies of their holders. The air hummed as the 22 cards—each representing a force of unimaginable power—hovered around him in a glowing circle.
“These,” Charles intoned, his voice carrying an edge of somber, “are the Major Arcana. They bear no number, for their very names command respect: The Magician, The Empress, The Lovers, The World...” His gaze swept across the trembling soldiers below. “Each of these cards holds power too great to be spread lightly. Henceforth, each Major Arcana will choose but one bearer. Only one shall wield its strength, and only when the time is right. It could be days; it could be centuries. The Divine will decide.”
He raised his other hand, and the air grew heavier as another wave of cards emerged from the fray. These were less vibrant, yet still radiated undeniable power. Fifty-six cards now aligned themselves with their counterparts, a halo of gold and silver spinning around Charles.
“These,” he continued, his voice resonating with finality, “are the Minor Arcana. Unlike the Major, these cards are numbered and ranked. They represent the more focused aspects of existence, each suit reflecting a different element of the mortal condition: Wands for creativity and energy, ruling the flame; Swords for intellect and strategy, commanding the air; Cups for emotion and healing, its waters everflowing; and Pentacles for material resources and stability, its ground unmoveable.”
He breathed out an unwavering breath, “Their powers, though lesser than the Major, are no less vital… Together, they are the foundation on which a new balance is built. These cards will choose many bearers, spreading their gifts to ensure no single kingdom rises too far above the rest. Yet even they will wait before choosing.”
He lowered his arms, his golden gaze sweeping across the stunned soldiers. “You mortals will no longer wield this power freely. The cards themselves will decide who is worthy. And should they choose you, remember this: you may not strike the weak with your strength unless struck first. Those without cards shall remain protected by this law, until the end of time.”
Silence hung in the air as the soldiers began to weep, their weapons falling from slack hands, scribes across the world writing every word down. Charles’s voice dropped, his final decree as unrelenting as the dawn.
“And The World card,” he said, holding up his arm where the card had inserted itself, “shall remain with me. Its power is too great, its potential for destruction immeasurable. I will guard it until I am dust and bone, until I am nothing but memory. To those who seek it…” He allowed himself a faint, bitter smile. “Good luck.”
The cards glimmered one final time before vanishing into the heavens. With a brilliant flash, Charles disappeared as well, leaving the battlefield blanketed in silence and frost.
