A few days passed without incident.
Which meant something was wrong.
The mansion remained quiet, its iron gates sealed, its halls patrolled with mechanical precision. Reports came in. Alerts were answered. Routes were rotated. Security doubled, then subtly tripled.
Nothing catastrophic happened.
And that was the problem.
Izana stood in his office long after midnight, the city lights bleeding faintly through the thick curtains. He hadn't bothered to sit. The chair behind him remained untouched, perfectly aligned with the desk.
His blindfold was tied tighter than usual.
Two false alarms in two nights.
A delayed shipment rerouted through the east district.
A rumor circulating among lower ranks about internal dissent.
All small.
All harmless on the surface.
All deliberate.
His men were tired. He could hear it in the cadence of their voices. Half a second slower in response. A slight edge when they spoke.
He dismissed them early.
He remained.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
He didn't trust the stillness.
The curse lay dormant behind his eyes — quiet, coiled — but his body felt the strain of constant vigilance. His ribs had healed. The pain was gone. But fatigue had settled deep into his bones, heavier than any injury.
The door opened softly.
Leah stepped inside.
She paused when she saw him still standing.
"You haven't slept."
It wasn't a question.
Izana didn't turn. "I don't need to."
Her gaze drifted to the untouched tea beside him, gone cold. "You haven't changed since yesterday."
Silence.
She moved closer. Carefully. As if approaching something fragile rather than dangerous.
"You're exhausted."
"I'm functional."
"That's not the same."
He didn't answer.
Leah stopped a few steps away. In the dim light, she could see the subtle signs others missed — the faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against the desk every few seconds as if ready to react to something only he could sense.
"You can't watch forever," she said quietly.
"Yes, I can."
"No," she whispered. "You can't."
A pause stretched between them.
"If I close my eyes," he said at last, voice low and steady, "I can't see threats."
Leah's chest tightened.
"You can't see them now either," she replied gently. "You're too tired."
The truth settled heavy in the air.
Izana did not argue.
Because she was right.
His awareness had dulled. Just slightly. Enough to matter.
But that wasn't what frightened him.
It was the idea of not being there.
Not seeing.
Not reacting.
Not protecting.
He finally turned toward her.
"I don't mind the pain," he murmured.
And she understood.
He didn't care what happened to him.
Leah stepped closer.
"I do."
Something flickered in his expression. Brief. Almost invisible.
She reached for his hand.
"Come with me."
He resisted at first, a subtle tension in his posture.
"I'll stay awake."
"You're not protecting me by destroying yourself."
The words were soft.
But they struck.
He went still.
After a long moment, he let her guide him out of the office.
—
His bedroom was sealed in darkness, except for the dim lamp in the corner.
Curtains drawn tight. No stray light. No cracks.
Safe.
He stood beside the bed but did not lie down.
Leah stepped in front of him and reached up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his blindfold.
He didn't stop her.
The fabric loosened.
Slid free.
His eyes blinked against the darkness with a hint of light, adjusting carefully. They were rimmed red, strained, shadows resting beneath them.
He looked at her.
Not as a leader.
Not as a weapon.
Just as a man too tired to pretend otherwise.
"I don't need sleep," he said quietly, as if convincing himself.
"You do."
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he lay down.
Not because he wanted to.
But because she asked.
Leah lay beside him.
There was nothing dramatic in the gesture. No urgency. No desperation.
She simply placed her hand lightly over his chest.
Steady pressure.
Slow rhythm.
"Breathe," she whispered.
His body remained tense.
His fingers curled slightly against the sheets. His jaw tightened each time his breathing slowed, as if sleep itself were an enemy approaching.
"If something happens—." he began.
"I'll wake you."
He didn't believe that was enough.
But exhaustion had already claimed its territory.
His grip on the sheets loosened.
His breathing deepened.
The rigid line of his shoulders softened.
For the first time in days—
Izana slept.
Not lightly.
Not guarded.
Deeply.
Leah watched him.
Without the blindfold. Without tension. Without the constant readiness to rise.
He looked younger.
Not physically.
But unguarded.
And suddenly she understood something with painful clarity.
He had never learned how to rest.
Because when he was a child—
Rest had not been safe.
Her fingers drifted lightly through his hair in slow, repetitive strokes.
"I'm here," she whispered.
Eventually, the quiet of the room wrapped around her too.
And she fell asleep beside him.
—
The air was colder.
Too still.
Leah opened her eyes.
She wasn't in the bedroom.
The space around her was dim and endless, like a horizon swallowed by fog.
And he was there.
The little boy.
Dark hair.
Small frame.
Standing unnaturally still.
But this time—
A blindfold was wrapped tightly around his eyes.
The same one Izana wore.
Leah didn't hesitate.
"Izana."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"You know," he said.
Not surprised.
Not afraid.
"Yes," she whispered.
Her heart ached as she looked at him.
At the smallness of him.
At the weight in his posture that no child should carry.
"You made him sleep," the boy said calmly.
"He needed to."
"He was watching."
The words landed heavier now.
Not about strategy.
About survival.
Leah stepped closer.
"You don't have to watch all the time."
The boy's hands curled faintly at his sides.
"If he stops watching," he said softly, "everything breaks."
There it was.
The root.
Responsibility carved into a child who never asked for it.
"You were just a child," she said.
He did not react to the word.
As if it meant nothing.
"I couldn't sleep," he said simply.
"Why?"
A pause.
"It hurt less when I stayed awake."
Her breath caught.
The curse.
The blindness from the blindfold.
The pain.
He had chosen suffering because it felt safer than vulnerability.
"You don't have to hurt anymore," she whispered.
The boy tilted his head again.
"You're wrong."
The air trembled faintly.
"He will choose you."
Her pulse quickened.
"What does that mean?"
The boy lifted his hand slowly.
Touched the blindfold.
But didn't remove it.
"When he does," he said softly, "he won't survive it."
A crack splintered through the ground beneath them.
Light seeped upward through the fracture — harsh and blinding.
Leah stepped back instinctively.
"You can't wake him next time," the boy whispered.
The light surged.
The world shattered.
—
Leah jolted upright.
Her heart pounded violently in her chest.
She was back in the bedroom.
Dark.
Quiet.
Real.
Izana lay beside her.
Still asleep.
But something was wrong.
His breathing wasn't steady anymore.
A faint crease marked his brow.
His fingers twitched once.
Twice.
As if something inside him stirred beneath the surface of sleep.
Leah swallowed and placed her hand gently over his.
"I'm here," she whispered.
The tremor lessened.
But didn't disappear entirely.
Outside the mansion walls, the city remained silent.
And somewhere, far above it, a clock shifted forward by one quiet minute.
Time moving.
Plans unfolding.
Unseen.
Leah lay back down carefully beside him, her hand still resting over his.
Her mind replayed the boy's words.
He will choose you.
And when he does—
He won't survive it.
She tightened her hold on Izana's hand slightly.
"You're wrong," she murmured into the darkness.
Whether she meant the boy—
Or fate itself—
Even she wasn't sure.
But for now—
The king was asleep.
And for the first time in a long while—
He was not watching.
And that, more than anything,
Terrified her.