Morning came slowly, filtered through heavy curtains that muted the world into soft gray shadows. The mansion was quiet in that peculiar way it always was at dawn—not asleep, not awake, simply waiting.
Leah woke before Izana did.
She sat upright in the chair beside his bed, neck stiff, fingers numb from where they had curled around the edge of the mattress sometime during the night. For a moment, she didn't move. She just watched him breathe.
It was shallow, still too shallow, but steady.
That alone felt like a victory.
Izana lay on his back, blindfold in place, hair splayed messily across the pillow. Even asleep, there was tension in him—his brow faintly furrowed, his fingers twitching now and then as if bracing for something that never quite arrived. Leah recognized it instantly. He was resting, but not truly at peace.
She leaned forward slightly. "Good morning," she whispered, unsure if he could hear her.
He stirred.
Not abruptly, not violently—but enough to make her hold her breath.
His fingers curled against the sheets, knuckles whitening. A faint sound left his throat, somewhere between a breath and a groan. Leah stood immediately, careful not to rush him, and reached out—not to touch him yet, just close enough for her presence to be felt.
"Izana," she said softly. "It's morning."
His breathing hitched.
"Don't—" His voice was hoarse, raw from disuse. "Don't move."
"I'm not," she said quickly. "I'm right here."
His head turned slightly toward her voice. "You're… early."
She swallowed. "I didn't leave."
There was a pause.
Then, quietly, "You stayed."
"Yes."
Another pause—longer this time. His shoulders loosened just a fraction.
The first task of the day came sooner than Leah expected.
Water.
Elias had explained it carefully the night before—small steps, nothing rushed. Izana's body had forgotten how to function normally. Even the simplest actions could overwhelm him.
Leah filled a glass with water and returned to the bedside. "I brought you something to drink," she said gently.
Izana tensed immediately.
His fingers clenched. "I'm not—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "I don't feel right."
"I know," Leah said. "You don't have to drink much. Just a little."
The word little seemed to anchor him.
She helped him sit up slowly, supporting his back with pillows. The movement cost him more than he wanted to admit—his breath grew uneven, and a faint tremor ran through his arms as he tried to steady himself.
The curse reacted instantly.
Leah saw it before he said anything.
His shoulders stiffened, his head jerking slightly as if reacting to a sound only he could hear. His breathing became erratic, too fast, too shallow.
"No," he muttered. "Not now."
"Izana," Leah said, calm but firm. "Look at me."
"I can't," he snapped, frustration bleeding through. "It's loud."
She placed the glass down and moved closer, lowering herself to his level. "Then listen to me," she said. "Just my voice."
His jaw worked as he fought something unseen. "It doesn't want me to," he said under his breath.
"I know," she replied. "But you're stronger than it thinks."
That earned a bitter, breathless laugh. "That's a lie."
"No," she said quietly. "It's a fact. You're just too tired to see it yet."
For a moment, she thought he might push her away. Instead, his hand lifted—hesitant, shaking—and hovered uncertainly between them.
"Can I…?" he asked, voice barely audible.
She took his hand without hesitation.
The reaction was immediate.
His grip tightened, not painfully, but desperately, like a drowning man finding something solid. The tremors eased. His breathing slowed.
The curse recoiled—not gone, but unsettled.
"There," Leah said softly. "You're doing it. You're controlling it."
He swallowed hard. "It's quieter."
"That's good."
She brought the glass back to him and guided it carefully. He managed two small sips before his hands began to shake again.
"That's enough," she said immediately, taking it away. "You did great."
He looked unconvinced. "I barely did anything."
"You sat up," she said. "You drank water. Yesterday, you couldn't do either."
That seemed to register.
Later, when he had settled back against the pillows, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, he spoke again.
"How long… was I like that?" he asked quietly.
Leah hesitated. "A while."
"How long is a while?"
She chose her words carefully. "Long enough that it scared people who care about you."
He turned his face slightly toward her. "You weren't here."
It wasn't an accusation.
It was an observation.
Her chest tightened. "No."
His fingers flexed against the sheets. "I kept seeing you."
She nodded. "Elias told me."
"They felt real," he said. "But they never… touched me." His voice dropped. "You did."
Leah's throat burned. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner."
He shook his head faintly. "You didn't leave because you wanted to."
She froze.
"What do you mean?" she asked carefully.
"I sent you away," Izana said quietly. "I remember that much. I told Elias to send you back. I thought… I thought it would be safer for you there."
Her breath caught.
"I didn't want to go," Leah said softly. "I never did. You ordered it because you were trying to protect me."
Silence settled between them.
"I thought if you stayed," he murmured, voice rough, "the curse would hurt you."
"You were wrong," she replied gently. "But you weren't cruel. You were scared."
His jaw tightened, guilt threading through his expression. "I still failed."
"No," Leah said firmly. "You tried to save me. That matters."
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then, almost inaudibly, "I shouldn't have sent you away."
She reached for his hand again, steady and warm. "I'm here now."
And this time—
he didn't argue.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it made her heart ache.
Throughout the day, the pattern repeated.
Small victories. Small setbacks.
Leah helped him eat a few spoonfuls of soup. Halfway through, the curse surged—sharp, sudden, making him drop the spoon and recoil as if burned.
"Prey," he whispered once, eyes unfocused beneath the blindfold.
Leah didn't panic.
She placed her hand over his wrist. "Izana," she said calmly. "You're safe. No one is hunting you."
His breathing stuttered. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"I know," she said. "You haven't."
It took time, but the moment passed.
Later, when she helped him stand for a few seconds beside the bed, his legs nearly gave out. He clung to her sleeve, knuckles white.
She felt him freeze.
"You're wearing long sleeves," he said.
Her heart skipped. "It's just habit."
"It's summer," he replied quietly.
She forced a shrug. "I get cold easily."
He didn't respond—but his grip tightened just slightly, like he didn't believe her.
He didn't push.
That night, exhaustion claimed him quickly.
Leah remained in the chair beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of the mansion settling around them.
Sometime past midnight, Izana stirred.
His fingers reached out blindly, brushing the edge of the mattress—then the air—until they found her sleeve.
"You're still here," he murmured, half-asleep.
"Yes," she whispered.
There was a pause.
"Good," he said softly.
His grip loosened as sleep reclaimed him.
Leah didn't move.
She stayed exactly where she was, letting the stillness settle around them.
Tomorrow would be harder.
Recovery would fight back. The curse would not give ground easily. Truths would surface that neither of them was ready for yet.
But tonight—just for this moment—he was sleeping.
And she was here.
That was enough.