Cardan stood alone beneath the towering arches of the Elfhame palace, fingers twitching with restless magic, eyes sharp as ever, but even he could feel the growing tension twisting through the court like a dark thread unraveling.

Whispers skittered like rats in the shadows, courtiers once loyal now trading barbs sharper than swords. A curse, old as the stones themselves, had taken root, turning friend against friend, brother against sister. And the cruel irony? It seemed to be born from the very throne Cardan was destined to rule.

With the weight of the kingdom pressing down and his own secrets clawing at his resolve, Cardan knew one truth above all: if the curse wasn’t broken soon, Elfhame wouldn’t just lose a ruler, it would lose itself.

Cardan’s boots echoed down the hall as he paced toward the council chamber. His jaw tightened, he couldn’t afford hesitation now. The court’s fragile alliances were crumbling, and every whispered suspicion could ignite a war.

He pushed open the heavy oak doors to find his most trusted advisors already gathered, faces pale, eyes flickering with unease.

“Another tragedy last night,” whispered one, a noble with frost in his voice. “Lady Mirren was found unconscious, her skin turning to gilded ash. They say it’s the curse.”

“They say a great many things,” he said at last, his voice velvet, edged with steel.

A second noble, older, less cautious, stepped forward, his skin covered in bark. “Your Majesty, it is no longer rumor. This is the third incident in a fortnight. Each of them bearing the mark, golden veins, dreams turned feverish. And now, Mirren.”

“She still lives?” Cardan asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Barely.”

He exhaled slowly, turning toward the arched window. Beyond the glass, Elfhame gleamed beneath a sickly moon. This curse, whatever it was, had waited until the court began to believe in peace.

“Seal the wing where she was found,” Cardan said. “And summon the magisters. If the curse is real, I want to know what woke it.”

“And if it was never sleeping?” the frost-voiced noble asked.

Cardan turned back, eyes dark as a storm churned sea. “Then we’ve been dancing in its palm this whole time, and whoever woke it has been waiting to watch is crumble." He left the room and went to find a member of The Court of Teeth the palace spies, they'd know more about this than anyone else in the palace and if they could help he'd empty the coffers in thanks.

While waiting for one of them to get back to him Cardan slips into the library seeking lore on curses old as the crown itself.

Cardan’s attention is caught some hours later by muffled cursing as a ladder topples, the sound booms through the library and he follows the noise to find a mortal half buried beneath a pile of books. He goes to walk away, dismissing the human and their carelessness as mortal clumsiness when they call out to him “fae gold never tarnishes unless it’s cursed to rot from within,” he stops in his tracks.

"What did you say?" He turns and regretfully extends a hand to the human who has a scroll clutched in their other hand, it would seem that he wasn't the only one researching the curse that had befallen Elfhame.