The next three days passed in a strange routine.
Rhys would spend daylight hours in the library, reading Valerian's journals, old court records, anything that might contain a clue to breaking the curse.
He found accounts of the kingdom's fall, descriptions of the supernatural plague that destroyed Ashbourne, testimony from survivors who claimed to have seen the prince's ghost.
But nothing concrete about breaking curses.
At night, Pryce would appear for their mandatory dinner. They'd sit in tense silence while Rhys ate and Pryce watched.
Sometimes Pryce would try to make conversation—tell stories of his childhood, his mother who died when he was young, his complicated relationship with his father.
Rhys tried not to listen. Tried not to care.
But it was becoming harder.
Because the more Pryce talked, the more Rhys saw glimpses of the young man who'd loved Elara. The artist who painted because it was the only way he knew to express emotion. The romantic who wrote terrible poetry and bribed musicians to play beneath Elara's window.
The human being who'd made catastrophic mistakes but had genuinely loved.
"You're softening toward me," Pryce observed on the fourth night. "I can tell."
"I'm not," Rhys lied.
"You are. You stopped flinching when I enter the room. You actually listened to my story about the horse race last night—I saw you almost smile."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?" Pryce leaned forward across the table. "Maybe you're starting to remember. Not just Elara's memories, but the feelings. What it was like to be loved by me when I wasn't a monster."
"You ARE a monster. You killed Kai—"
"And I'll regret it for eternity." Pryce's voice was heavy. "But that doesn't change the fact that somewhere, buried under centuries of trauma and curses, you and I were once just two people who loved each other."
"That was Elara and Valerian. Not us."
"Are you sure?" Pryce stood, walked around the table. "Because every night, you dream of her. Of us. And every morning, you wake up with tears on your face."
Rhys looked away. It was true. The dreams came every night now—memories of stolen kisses, secret meetings, Valerian's hands gentle in her hair.
"Stay away from me."
"No." Pryce was beside him now. "Twenty-six days left, Rhys. And I'm done pretending I don't want to touch you."
Before Rhys could move, Pryce's hand cupped his face—cold but somehow not unpleasant. Like marble that had been sitting in shade.
"Don't—"
"You're beautiful," Pryce whispered. "Every life, every face, you're beautiful. But this one... this version of you..." His thumb brushed Rhys's lower lip. "You have her eyes. Did you know that? Storm gray. The same eyes I fell in love with three hundred years ago."
Rhys's heart was racing. He should pull away. Should run.
But he didn't.
"This is wrong," he managed.
"Why? Because I'm dead? Because of what I did to Elara?" Pryce leaned closer. "Or because part of you wants this and you hate yourself for it?"
"I don't—"
"Liar." Pryce's other hand slid into Rhys's hair. "I can feel your pulse racing. See your pupils dilating. You're afraid, yes. But you're also curious."
"This is just the curse—"
"Is it?" Pryce's lips hovered near Rhys's ear. "Or is it your soul recognizing mine? Remembering what it was like when we were happy?"
Rhys shuddered. "You hurt her. Hurt me."
"I know." Pryce's voice broke slightly. "And I'll spend eternity regretting it. But Rhys—before all that, before the lies and paranoia, we were happy. We laughed together. Made love under the stars. Planned a future. That was real too."
"It doesn't matter—"
"It's the only thing that matters." Pryce pulled back, met his eyes. "I want to try again. Start over. Court you properly this time. Show you I'm more than the monster I became."
"You can't erase what you've done."
"I'm not trying to. I'm trying to..." Pryce hesitated, seeming to search for words. "I'm trying to be the man she loved before I destroyed everything."
Rhys wanted to push him away. Wanted to feel nothing but hatred.
Instead, he felt something far more dangerous: pity.
"You're asking the impossible," Rhys said quietly.
"I know." Pryce's hand slipped from Rhys's face. "But I have to try. Because if I don't—if I just remain the jealous ghost who kills and possesses—then Valerian died for nothing. Elara died for nothing. And we're trapped in this hell forever."
He stepped back, gave Rhys space.
"I won't force you tonight. Won't touch you again unless you ask." His expression was almost vulnerable. "But I need you to consider something: what if the only way to break the curse is to choose me willingly? To forgive what I did and let us start again?"
"That's insane—"
"Is it? The curse is about possession. About me refusing to let you go. But if you chose to stay..." Pryce's voice dropped. "Maybe then, the curse would recognize its purpose fulfilled and release us both."
"You want me to choose my abuser."
"I want us both to be free." Pryce moved to the door. "Think about it. Twenty-six days left to find another solution. But if you can't..." He looked back. "Consider that maybe love—real, chosen, willing love—is the only magic strong enough to break a curse born from its opposite."
He vanished.