Morning light flooded the garden lounge in a way Izana despised.
Sunlight poured through the glass walls, bright and merciless, catching dust in the air and turning it into drifting sparks. The garden beyond blurred into shades of green and gold, painfully alive. Izana sat slumped in a vintage leather armchair at the center of it all, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
A small table stood beside him. Breakfast lay untouched.
His white silk blindfold shielded his eyes, but not enough. Light still pressed against his senses, seeping through fabric and skin alike. His head lolled slightly to one side as if even holding it upright cost too much effort.
"Too bright…" he muttered under his breath.
The words barely made it past his lips.
This room—this forgotten corner of the mansion—was supposed to be his sanctuary. No servants. No voices. No expectations. He ate here because no one ever came.
Or so he had believed.
Leah stood hesitantly at the entrance, frozen just inside the threshold. The sunlight framed her from behind, catching in her hair and turning the steam rising from the porcelain cup in her hands into silver mist. She looked small standing there, uncertain, as though she already regretted coming.
Her fingers trembled slightly around the cup.
"Izana?" she said softly.
He felt her presence immediately. The shift in the air. The sound of her breath. Even blindfolded, he knew exactly where she stood.
Leah took a cautious step forward. "I… I brought you some coffee."
She lifted the cup a little, as if offering peace.
"I thought maybe—."
His jaw tightened.
"Get it out of my face."
The words were flat. Cold. Sharpened by pain and exhaustion.
Leah flinched. Her shoulders sank as she lowered the cup, the steam curling uselessly into the air between them.
"I just wanted to help," she said quietly.
Izana turned his head away, angling his body so she was no longer in front of him.
Defensive. Closed.
"I don't want it."
"Especially not from you."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.
Leah stood there for a moment longer, staring at the floor, her grip on the cup tightening. Then a voice cut through the tension.
"That is enough."
Elias stood in the doorway, tall and rigid, his presence commanding even without effort. Sunlight from the garden flared behind him, outlining his figure like a warning.
"Apologize to her," Elias said sharply. "Now."
Izana turned his head toward the sound of his guardian's voice. The blindfold gave him a hollow, unreadable stare, allowing nothing through—yet the hostility was unmistakable.
"For what?" Izana scoffed. "Her pity? I don't need it."
Elias's jaw clenched, but he did not argue further. Instead, he exhaled slowly and turned his attention to Leah.
"Come," he said gently. "Let's leave him."
He stepped toward her and placed a guiding hand at her back.
Leah flinched.
It was subtle—barely more than a hitch in her breath—but Izana saw it. Felt it. His body tensed instinctively, his attention snapping to the reaction even as Elias's hand paused mid-motion.
"You did nothing wrong," Elias added softly to her.
They left together, footsteps fading into the hall.
Izana remained alone, the untouched breakfast beside him, his face turned toward the glass walls. Toward the garden.
Toward the bunker in the distance.
The hallway was long and opulent, lined with ancestral portraits whose eyes seemed to follow Leah as she walked. She hugged her arms close to herself, staring down at the velvet runner beneath her feet.
"Don't take it personally," Elias said as they walked side by side. "He doesn't always know where to put the pain."
Leah shook her head. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have disturbed him."
Elias stopped and turned to face her fully. "You need to understand the reality of his curse."
Her expression sobered immediately.
"Do you remember what I said yesterday?" he asked. "About the symptoms?"
She nodded. "You said it was more than heart pain."
"Yes," Elias said. "That's only the beginning."
He began to list them quietly, methodically, as though reciting something he had learned by heart.
"Severe nosebleeds. Lightheadedness. Sudden weakness."
Leah's eyes widened.
"That's what he calls good days," Elias continued. "The severe episodes bring migraines, fevers, tremors. Exhaustion so deep he can barely move."
He paused, then added more grimly, "Sometimes paralysis. Hallucinations. His blood pressure spikes so violently that even breathing hurts."
Leah stopped walking.
"That's… that's horrifying," she whispered.
Elias did not disagree.
They reached a stone balcony overlooking the gardens. Leah leaned against the iron railing, trying to steady herself.
"But you didn't mention the heart pain," she said suddenly. "Where does that fit?"
Elias gripped the railing, staring out over the grounds.
"That is the warning bell," he said. "It begins two days before the four-month cycle ends."
She frowned. "Cycle?"
He nodded once.
From above, Leah could see into the garden lounge below. Izana sat exactly where they had left him—still, pale, facing the distant concrete structure half-hidden among the trees.
The bunker.
"Is he… staring at it?" she asked.
"Yes," Elias replied. "He always knows before we do."
He turned to her, his expression unflinching.
"Every four months, the full curse triggers. He becomes violent. Lethal."
Leah's breath caught.
"We lock him in there," Elias continued. "For two days. Sometimes longer."
"Locked in?" she gasped.
"If we didn't," Elias said quietly, "anyone near him would be dead. Including you."
He hesitated, then added, "Or comatose. It has happened before."
Leah's hands tightened around the railing.
"And when he comes out," Elias finished, "he coughs blood for a week."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves below.
Leah stared out at the garden, at the lonely figure seated beneath the sun.
"He endures all of that," she whispered. "Alone."
Then, softer still "And he still pushes everyone away."
Elias said nothing.
But his silence was answer enough.