King of Wands · Wands · Fire

The King of Wands sits in profile, facing left, both feet in green shoes on a grey dais. His gold crown is cut into flame-shaped points; beneath it a red cap spotted with black. A green cape over a red robe, a gold chain at the throat. The cloak from his shoulder is gold, worked with black salamanders coiled tail into mouth, the creature the old books swore could live in fire. The orange throne back repeats it larger, between two lions. His right hand grips a staff planted on the ground, taller than he is, still putting out green leaves; his left rests open and empty on his thigh. Behind him one small black salamander walks the bare ground, tail straight out. Flat blue sky, no landscape, no court.

The fire he wears is stitched shut. The one on the floor keeps its own hours.

Classically he closes the suit. The Page held the spark, the Knight rode off with it, the Queen learned to live beside it, and the King is what the flame becomes once it has been kept alive long enough to be worth standing near.

Upright, that is the gift. He sees the shape of a thing before the room does, says so plainly, and stays to see it through. Warmth is his authority; the heat is steady, so people come toward it.

Reversed, the same fire turns imperious. Vision hardens into a demand, impatience gets mistaken for judgment, and the man nobody contradicts scorches the ground he meant to warm. Or the flame goes decorative, a crown worn over nothing burning. The card only asks whether the fire is tended or merely displayed.