The first thing Ira lost was laughter.
It happened without ceremony.
One moment she was listening to Devansh describe the city—its gates, its cycles, the rules even immortals obeyed—and the next, she realized she was smiling out of habit rather than impulse.
The sound never came.
She stopped mid-breath.
"Devansh," she said slowly, "tell me something unimportant."
He frowned. "Unimportant?"
"Yes. Anything."
He considered, then said, "The eastern tower leans because the foundation was built by someone who didn't believe the city would last."
She waited.
Nothing stirred.
No amusement. No reaction.
Just stillness.
Her throat tightened. "It's happening faster."
Devansh stepped closer without realizing it.
"What is?"
"I'm… losing access," she said. "To myself."
He looked at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap.
"Stop," he said.
She shook her head. "I can't. As long as I'm near you—"
"Then go."
The word came out sharper than he intended.
She flinched—not emotionally, but physically.
"I would," she said quietly, "if I could still feel fear."
That sentence struck something deep inside him.
Not emotion.
But alarm.
For the first time in centuries, Devansh experienced something dangerously close to urgency.
"You are not meant to bear this," he said.
"Neither are you," she replied.
Their eyes met.
And in that moment—brief, imperceptible, forbidden—the curse shifted.
Devansh felt a crack.
Not in his heart.
But in the silence around it.