The curse was not static, nor was Mephistopheles absent. Though his molten form rarely manifested, his wrath filled the grove in waves, each torment more cruel than the last. Faust and Faouzia, trapped in their wooden prison, were never allowed to forget their crimes—or the devil’s fury.

The locusts came first, a swarm so dense they darkened the sky. Their mandibles gnawed relentlessly at the bark of the tree, burrowing into Faouzia’s acacia side during the day. The sensation was maddening, the relentless scratching and tearing reverberating through her consciousness like a dirge. At night, when Faust’s oakwood half awoke, the locusts clung to his pale bark. Their sheer weight dragged at his branches, while their incessant drone filled his mind with chaos.

When the locusts finally dispersed, the grove transformed into an inferno. The air shimmered with an oppressive heat, the sun bearing down as though it had been dragged closer to the earth. The bark dried and splintered, sap oozing from deep fissures. Faouzia’s acacia thorns cracked under the heat, glowing faintly as her etched constellations burned with unnatural fire. On the oakwood side, Faust’s alchemical runes smoldered like embers, scorching him from within.

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Then came the salt rain. The skies darkened, and a deluge of sharp, stinging crystals fell. The salt burned as it seeped into every crack and crevice, mingling with the sap to create a searing agony. The rain whispered with Mephistopheles’ voice, mocking them in tones that were both intimate and terrible.

When the rain ceased, the illusions began. Light refracted unnaturally in the grove, forming visions that toyed with their sanity. Faust saw Margaretta standing in the distance, her arms outstretched, her lips moving in silent pleas. He strained toward her, but she dissolved into light before he could reach her. Faouzia’s visions were no less cruel. She saw herself as she had once been—vibrant, unbroken, and free. Her past self stared at her with disdain, condemning her jealousy and bitterness.

As time unraveled in the grove, their torments blurred together. The illusions, the heat, the locusts, the salt—they became a relentless, cyclical nightmare. Days, months, even years may have passed. Time itself lost meaning, the rhythm of their curse measured only by the agonizing shifts between day and night.

Then, on a day when the air felt unnaturally still, the final torment began. The ground trembled, a faint, rhythmic vibration that grew steadily louder. A shadow fell over the grove, vast and oppressive. The branches of the surrounding trees twisted in fear, their leaves curling inward as though recoiling from what was coming.