Pond's hand hovered an inch from the wood of Imaria's door. The hallway was silent except for the distant crackle of the fire in his study and the sound of his own breathing. He could hear nothing from inside — no crying, no movement, no sound at all — and that silence was worse than anything she could say. His fingers curled into a fist, then flattened again.
He thought of Phuwin's hand on his cheek, of Aric's small cry, of the way Imaria had looked at him when he walked into her room earlier. Her eyes wet and her mouth open and her body still half-dressed, the nightgown barely pulled down over her shoulders. The image burned. He had yelled at her. He had called her things he regretted the instant the words left his mouth. A child. His child. And he had made her feel like a stranger in her own home.
He knocked. Three soft taps.
"Imaria." His voice cracked on her name. "Can I come in?"
A long pause. Then her voice, thin and careful: "Father. Come in."
He pushed the door open. Her room was dark except for the single candle on her nightstand, the flame throwing long shadows across the walls. She sat on the edge of her bed, still in the same nightgown, her long black hair loose around her shoulders. She had been crying — her eyes were red, her cheeks still damp — but she had stopped. Now she just watched him, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight as if she were bracing for another blow.
Pond closed the door behind him. He did not approach immediately. He stood there, letting her see his face, letting her see that he was not angry anymore. Just tired. Just sorry.
"May I sit?" he asked.
She nodded.
He crossed the room and lowered himself onto the bed beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling her slightly toward him. She did not lean away. She also did not lean in. She sat perfectly still, waiting.
"Imaria." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "I am sorry."
She blinked. Her jaw tightened. She said nothing.
"I should not have yelled at you like that," he continued. "I should not have said the things I said. I was angry, and I let my rage take over. That was wrong. None of it was your fault."
"It wasn't?" Her voice was small, but there was an edge to it. A challenge.
"No." He turned to face her fully. "What you did — it was not appropriate. That ball was an event hosted by a queen. She invited us as guests, as allies, and you went upstairs with her son. That was a mistake." He paused. "But I am your father. My job is to teach you, not to destroy you. And I destroyed you tonight."
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, angrily. "You scared me."
"I know." He reached for her hand. She let him take it. "I will never do that again."
She looked at their hands — his large and calloused, hers still small, still soft, still learning what it meant to hold a blade. "We have more power than them," she said quietly. "We rule those kingdoms. We take care of them. Why does it matter what I did?"
"Because power is not an excuse to act poorly in front of people," Pond said. "We are their example. If we behave without honor, they will learn to do the same. And then what kind of empire are we building?"
She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, so softly he almost missed it, "I did not know what I was doing."
"What?"
She looked at him, her eyes wet again but her voice steady. "I did not know. He — the prince — he seduced me. He was so handsome, Father. And he was so nice to me. He kept telling me I was beautiful, that I was different from the other girls. He persuaded me. He said it was okay, that there was nothing to worry about." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "And I thought about Mother. How she is always getting pregnant. And I thought — the stakes are high. For pregnancy. And you never use condoms with her."
Pond's face flushed. The heat crawled up his neck and settled in his ears. "Imaria —"
"And I thought," she continued, a strange, nervous energy entering her voice, almost like she was talking to herself now, "if condoms are locally running out, then maybe Mother is already pregnant again. Maybe with two children. That would be something, would it not?"
"Imaria." His voice was firmer now. A warning.
She blinked, seemed to come back to herself. "I am sorry. I was just — we were getting along so well. He made me feel special. And I did not think about the consequences. I did not think about you and Mother finding out. I just —" Her voice broke. "I am sorry."
Pond sighed. He squeezed her hand. "I know."
They sat in silence. The candle flickered. Somewhere in the palace, a door closed.
"Can I see your dagger?" Pond asked.
Imaria looked at him, surprised. Then she slid off the bed, walked to her bathroom, and returned with the small blade he had given her years ago. She handed it to him, hilt first.
He turned it over in his hands. The leather was worn from her grip. The blade was still sharp — she had been taking care of it. "You still want to be a soldier?"
"I would absolutely love it," she said, and for the first time that night, her voice had life in it.
He looked at her. At the fire in her eyes, at the set of her jaw. She was only thirteen, but she carried the weight of a crown. She always had. "You do not have to," he said softly. "You are my daughter. You do not have to prove anything. And I do not want to see you hurt."
"It is my job to be strong," she said. "To protect. I have siblings after siblings to take care of."
He chuckled. A sad, warm sound. "You sound like your mother."
He handed the dagger back. She took it and placed it on her nightstand, next to the candle. Then she sat back down beside him.
Pond took her hands. They were cold. He lifted them to his lips and kissed her knuckles, lightly, the way he used to when she was small and scared of the dark. "Goodnight, my daughter."
She smiled. It was a tired smile, but it was real. "ฝันดี" she said.
He stood. At the door, he turned. "I love you so much. I will wait for you tomorrow. We will train together."
Her smile widened. "I will be there."
He turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
In the hallway, he stood for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. The fire in his study had burned low. The palace was quiet. He exhaled, long and slow, and then he walked back toward the bedchamber he shared with Phuwin.
The door was ajar. A sliver of candlelight bled into the dark corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Phuwin was in bed, propped against the pillows, his silk dress gown dropped to his elbows and pooled around his waist. Aric was nestled against his chest, his small mouth latched onto Phuwin's breast, drinking milk. Phuwin's hand cradled the baby's head, and there was a soft, contented smile on his face — the kind of smile that belonged only to these quiet moments, away from court and council and the weight of succession.
Pond stood in the doorway and watched. The candlelight caught the curve of Phuwin's shoulder, the swell of his belly, the tender way he looked down at their son. Something in his chest loosened. Something he had been carrying since the ball, since the fight, since Imaria's door.
Aric finished. Phuwin gently lifted him, adjusted his gown, and carried the baby to the crib by the window. He laid him down, tucked the blanket around him, and stood there for a moment, watching him sleep. Then he turned.
"Babe?" he said softly. "I can see you there."
Pond chuckled. He closed the door and locked it.
Phuwin walked back to the bed and sat against the pillows. Without a word, he dropped his gown again. The silk slid down his arms and pooled around his waist. He leaned back, spreading his legs, his pale golden skin warm in the candlelight, his body open and waiting.
Pond's mouth went dry. He crossed the room, shedding his robe as he walked, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He climbed onto the bed, settling between Phuwin's thighs, and kissed him.
It was deep and slow, a kiss that said everything they had not said tonight. Phuwin's hands came up to cup his face. His fingers traced the line of his jaw, the tension in his cheek. Pond's hand slid down Phuwin's side, over his hip, and found the inside of his thigh. He stroked the warm skin, felt the slight tremble there.
"I need you," Pond murmured against his lips.
"I know."
He positioned himself at Phuwin's entrance. Phuwin's breath hitched. Pond pushed in, slow, feeling every inch of the tight heat that welcomed him. Phuwin gasped, his head falling back, his hands gripping Pond's shoulders.
"You are so tight," Pond said, the words falling from his lips in Thai, rough and low.
"You like it that way," Phuwin answered, also in Thai, his voice breathless.
Pond thrust deeper. Phuwin's moan was swallowed by another kiss. He gripped Phuwin's breast, squeezing softly as he moved, feeling Phuwin's body respond — the arch of his back, the way his legs wrapped tighter around Pond's waist.
There was no rush. The night stretched long around them. The candle flickered. Aric slept. The palace held its breath.
Pond held Phuwin's chin, tilted his face up, and bit his lower lip before kissing him again. Phuwin moaned into his mouth, his fingers digging into Pond's back, his body moving with him, meeting every thrust.
The heat built. Phuwin's gasps grew sharper, his legs trembling. Pond buried himself deep, his forehead pressed against Phuwin's, and let the wave take him. Phuwin followed, his body clenching around him, a gasp of air that sounded like release.
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing together, slick with sweat. Then Pond pulled out and collapsed beside him. Phuwin turned, still laughing — a soft, breathless laugh that made Pond's chest ache.
"We are going to be okay," Phuwin said, echoing his earlier words.
Pond pulled him closer, buried his face in Phuwin's hair, and let himself believe it.
The candle guttered. Pond's arm tightened around Phuwin's waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the soft skin of his hip. The warmth of their bodies mingled, the sweat cooling slowly, and the only sound was Aric's soft breathing from the crib and the distant wind against the palace walls.
"She forgave me," Pond said after a long silence. His voice was rough, still catching. "Imaria. She forgave me."
Phuwin shifted to look at him. His dark eyes searched Pond's face, reading the lines of exhaustion and relief. "Of course she did. You are her father."
"I did not deserve it." Pond stared at the ceiling. "I yelled at her like she was a stranger. Like she was an enemy. And she just — she sat there and let me apologize."
"That is what children do," Phuwin said softly. "They forgive us even when we do not deserve it. Because they have no choice. Because we are all they have."
Pond turned his head. Phuwin's face was half in shadow, the candlelight catching only the curve of his cheek, the gleam of his eye. "I am sorry I left you during the birth."
Phuwin's hand stilled on Pond's chest. "We already talked about that."
"I know. But I need to say it again. I need you to hear it again." Pond took his hand, laced their fingers together. "I was so afraid of losing the empire that I almost lost you. I almost lost her. I almost lost everything."
"But you did not." Phuwin squeezed his hand. "You came back. You are here. That is what matters."
Pond was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "She asked about condoms."
Phuwin let out a startled laugh. "She what?"
"She said —" Pond paused, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "She said I never use them with you. And that they are locally running out."
Phuwin covered his face with his free hand. "I am going to die. She is thirteen. She should not be thinking about —"
"She is smart," Pond said. "Too smart. She connected it herself. She said if condoms are running out, then you might already be pregnant again. Maybe with two children."
The laughter faded from Phuwin's face. His hand lowered. He looked at Pond, and there was something careful in his eyes now. Something he was holding back.
"What?" Pond asked.
Phuwin was silent for a long moment. The candle flickered. Aric made a small sound in his sleep, then settled.
"There is something I need to tell you," Phuwin said. His voice was quiet, steady, but his hand had gone still in Pond's. "Something I should have told you days ago."