A month passed.
Time moved forward whether either of them wanted it to or not.
For Leah, the days blurred together into something dull and heavy, each one marked not by hours but by endurance. The house she had been sent back to never felt like home—only a place where she existed because she had no other choice. From the moment she arrived, disappointment clung to her like a shadow.
Her family did not ask how she was.
They did not ask what the mansion had been like, or whether she was hurt, or afraid.
They only cared about one thing.
The failure.
The arranged marriage that never happened.
The alliance that fell apart.
They spoke of it openly, without shame, as if she were not standing in the room. As if she were not the reason they had lost status, opportunity, and pride. Every meal—when she was allowed to sit at the table—was accompanied by sharp comments, passive remarks, and cold stares that burned far worse than shouting ever could.
"You embarrassed us," one of them said flatly one evening, not even looking at her.
"You were given everything, and you still failed," another added.
Soon, words turned into expectations.
Leah was no longer treated like family.
She was treated like staff.
She cleaned rooms she didn't sleep in. Was sent on errands without rest. Corrected sharply if she moved too slowly or dared to pause. She ate last, if she ate at all. When she was exhausted, she was told she was lazy. When she made a mistake, she was reminded that she was replaceable.
Punishment became routine.
Silence became survival.
At night, when the house finally quieted, Leah curled up in her small room and cried into her pillow so no one would hear. She thought about the mansion—its wide halls, the quiet, the strange sense of safety she hadn't realized she'd felt until it was gone.
And she thought about Izana.
Not the version others spoke about. Not the dangerous, cursed figure whispered about behind closed doors.
But the one who had stood between her and the world—even when it hurt him to do so.
Every night, she wondered if he was okay.
And every night, there was no answer.
At the mansion, time decayed differently.
Izana no longer measured days.
He measured pain.
He never opened the curtains. Never turned on the lights. His room remained sealed in darkness, the outside world reduced to muffled sounds that barely reached him. He stayed in bed most of the time—not sleeping, not resting—just lying there, blindfold still in place, facing the same wall he'd stared at for weeks.
He stopped taking his medication.
At first, it was forgetfulness.
Then it became a choice.
The curse punished him more fiercely without it—sharp waves of pain, nausea, tremors that left his limbs weak and shaking—but he welcomed it. The pain felt earned. Deserved.
He stopped eating shortly after.
Food lost its meaning when there was no one to eat for.
His body weakened quickly. What little strength he had left drained from him day by day until even lifting his head felt like too much effort. When he tried to sit up, the room spun violently. When he tried to stand, his legs buckled beneath him.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
He hadn't changed his clothes in days.
Maybe longer.
The fabric hung loose on his thinning frame, wrinkled and stale, sleeves stretched from being slept in, fingers unconsciously twisted into the same places over and over. He no longer remembered the last time he'd washed, the last time he'd bothered to stand beneath running water or look at himself long enough to care. His hair had grown uneven, falling messily around his face and neck, untouched by comb or scissors.
Even the simplest things felt pointless now.
Eating. Washing. Dressing.
They required effort—and effort required a future he no longer believed he had.
Elias tried.
The staff tried.
They knocked. They spoke gently. They left food outside his door that went untouched until it was cold and removed again. Elias ordered medics to check on him, but Izana refused them entry every time.
"Leave it," he said flatly through the door. "I'm fine."
It was a lie.
And everyone knew it.
But no one forced him.
The curse had grown unstable—reactive. Any attempt to push him too hard only made things worse. So they waited. Watched. Counted the days with unease settling deeper into the mansion's walls.
And then there were the hallucinations.
They came daily now.
At first, they appeared at the edge of his awareness—a voice he thought he imagined, a presence he refused to acknowledge. But the curse was cruel in its evolution. It learned what hurt him most.
Leah.
She appeared sitting at the foot of his bed, speaking softly as if nothing had changed. Standing near the window, light outlining her shape even though the curtains were closed. Sometimes she laughed quietly, shaking her head at him the way she used to when he was being difficult.
They weren't violent.
They weren't terrifying.
They were kind.
And that was what destroyed him.
Izana spoke to her as if she were real. Responded to comments she never made. Laughed weakly at things only he could hear. There were moments—brief, fragile moments—where he forgot she was gone.
Then the silence returned.
And it shattered him all over again.
The staff heard him talking sometimes.
Laughing.
Then hours later—nothing.
Just stillness.
Elias stood outside Izana's door one night, hand hovering inches from the wood, listening to the faint sound of Izana murmuring to someone who wasn't there. His chest tightened painfully.
This wasn't grief.
This was collapse.
A month had been enough to strip Izana down to something hollow, fragile, and barely holding together. The curse fed on isolation, on guilt, on loss—and it was winning.
And somewhere far away, Leah lay awake in another house, staring at a ceiling she hated, wondering if he was still alive.
Neither of them knew how close the other was to breaking.
And neither of them knew how much longer the world would allow things to stay this way.