Cardan arches a brow. “A bold claim to make in the heart of my Court. What do you propose?”

Wren lifts her hands. Leather blackens, shrivels, and falls away with a sound like a thunderclap. The buckles hit the dirt. Around them, the gathered onlookers shift, drawn by the noise.

“You unmade it,” Jude says, staring at the remnants.

“Since I have cheated you of one gift, I will give you another.” Wren’s smile is all sharp edges. “There’s a geas on the High Queen. I could remove it easily.”

Cardan notes the flicker of panic in Jude’s face. Whatever this geas is, she does not want it gone.

“So many secrets, wife,” he muses.

Her answering look is venomous.

“Not only the geas,” Wren continues, “but half a curse. It winds around you, gnawing, never quite tightening its grip.”

Jude stiffens. “But he never finished speaking—”

Cardan lifts a hand, all humor gone. “What curse?”

Wren does not answer, but Oak does. “It happened at the palace school.”

Cardan’s stomach turns. Curses are no small thing. He should know. “Who cursed you?”

“Valerian,” Jude bites out.

“Right before he died,” Cardan corrects. “Right before you killed him.” His voice is even, but his hands curl into fists. Fury licks at his spine—not just for her, but for the realization that something of Valerian still lingers.

Jude, as ever, meets his gaze without fear. “I’d already killed him. He just didn’t know it yet.”

“I can remove the curse and leave the geas,” Wren offers. “See? I can be helpful.”

Cardan watches her warily. “A useful alliance.”

Wren lifts a hand, as if gripping something unseen. She clenches her fist.

Jude gasps. She presses a hand to her chest, her head bowing.

Fand unsheathes her blade. Around them, guards tense.

“Jude?” Oak steps toward her.

Cardan’s own breath is caught somewhere in his throat. “If you’ve hurt her—”

“I removed the curse,” Wren interrupts, voice level.