Phuwin woke to gray light seeping through the curtains, the space beside him empty and cold. He blinked, disoriented, before he heard the sound of water running in the adjoining chamber. Pond was already awake.
He sat up slowly, his body heavy and sore in ways that had become familiar. The ache in his lower back, the tenderness of his breasts, the hollow feeling in his womb that he could not name. Aric slept in his crib, his small chest rising and falling, one tiny fist pressed against his cheek. Phuwin watched him for a long moment, counting each breath, before he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold against his bare feet. He pulled on a loose robe, the silk slipping over his shoulders, and padded to the window. Outside, the gardens were drenched in early morning light. The flowers were wet with dew, their colors soft and blurred at this hour. Beyond them, he could see the path that led to the waterfall.
He needed to go there. Before the healer came. Before the examination. Before the day swallowed him whole.
He moved quietly, not wanting to wake Pond, not wanting to explain. But when he reached the door, Pond's voice stopped him.
"Where are you going?"
Phuwin turned. Pond stood in the doorway of the adjoining chamber, a towel around his neck, his hair still damp. His expression was unreadable.
"Just to the waterfall," Phuwin said. "I need—I need a moment. Before everything."
Pond studied him, and for a moment Phuwin thought he would argue, would insist on coming with him. But then Pond nodded, something soft passing through his eyes. "Don't be long. Star will be here soon."
Phuwin nodded and slipped out the door.
The palace was quiet at this hour. The servants were already moving through the corridors, lighting candles and opening shutters, but they bowed their heads as he passed and did not speak. He liked that. The silence. The space between words.
He walked through the gardens, his bare feet leaving prints in the wet grass. The air smelled of earth and jasmine, of something green and growing. He let himself breathe. Let himself feel the sun on his face, the weight of his body, the strange, hollow space inside him where something should be.
The waterfall was loud when he reached it, a constant roar that filled his ears and emptied his mind. He stood at the edge of the pool, watching the water churn and foam, and he thought about all the times he had come here. To think. To cry. To pray to gods he was not sure he believed in.
He knelt and touched the water. It was cold. It numbed his fingers.
"I don't know what's inside me," he whispered to the water. "I don't know if I'm carrying life or death. I don't know if I can survive what comes next."
The water did not answer. It never did.
He stayed there until the sun rose higher, until the shadows shortened, until he knew he could not delay any longer. Then he stood, wiped his hands on his robe, and walked back to the palace.
---
Star was waiting in the bedchamber when he returned, and beside her stood an old woman he had never seen before. She was small and stooped, with hands that looked like they had touched a thousand bodies, and eyes that held the quiet certainty of someone who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing.
Phuwin stopped in the doorway. His heart was suddenly too loud in his chest.
"Your Highness," Star said, her voice gentle. "This is Mistress Elara. She has agreed to help."
Phuwin looked at the old woman. She smiled, and it was not a warm smile, but it was not cruel either. It was the smile of someone who knew that kindness was not always the same as comfort.
"I can examine you now, Your Highness," the healer said. Her voice was low and rough, like stones grinding together. "If you are ready."
Phuwin's hands went to his stomach. He could feel it under his palms, the slight swell that had not yet gone down after the birth. Was there something still inside him? A child? A ghost?
"Will it hurt?" he asked. His voice was smaller than he wanted it to be.
The healer did not answer. That silence was worse than any lie.
Phuwin felt the room tilt. He reached for the doorframe, but before he could fall, a hand caught his arm. Pond. He had come up behind him without Phuwin noticing.
"I've got you," Pond said quietly. He turned to the healer, and his voice changed, became the voice he used for court and council. "What do you need from us?"
"A private room. A bed. Light. Water. Cloths." The healer listed them like she was reading a shopping list. "And the empress's cooperation."
Phuwin's throat tightened. "I'm scared," he said, and the words felt like admitting a defeat. "I'm not prepared for this."
Pond's hand moved to his waist, a warm, grounding pressure. "You don't have to be prepared," he said. "You just have to be strong. And you are. You are the strongest person I know."
Phuwin wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Pond that he was not strong, that he was held together by tissue paper and hope, that he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. But Pond was already guiding him forward, his hand firm on Phuwin's hip, steering him out of the bedchamber and down the corridor.
"There's a room at the end of the hall," Pond said. "It's empty. We can use it."
They walked. The healer followed, her steps slow and measured. Star walked beside her, carrying a bag of supplies. Phuwin did not look back. He was afraid that if he did, he would see his daughters watching, and he would not be able to keep walking.
But Ovoale was watching. She stood in the doorway of her bedchamber, her long black hair tangled from sleep, her hazel eyes wide and unblinking. No one noticed her. No one saw her slip out of her room and follow at a distance, her small feet silent on the stone floor.
---
The room was bare, furnished only with a bed and a small table. Sunlight streamed through a narrow window, casting a rectangle of gold on the floor. Phuwin looked at the bed and felt his stomach turn.
"Lie down," the healer said. "Rest against the headboard. It will be easier."
Phuwin did not move. His feet were rooted to the floor, his hands clenched at his sides. He could not make himself take that step.
Pond's hand found his. Squeezed. "I'll be right here," he said. "The whole time. I'm not leaving."
Phuwin looked at him. At his dark eyes, his strong jaw, the worry he was trying so hard to hide. He remembered Pond's father—the cold hands, the examinations that were not examinations, the pain that had no purpose except to remind him of his place. He remembered being touched without consent, being opened without care, being treated like a vessel instead of a person.
"Don't let them hurt me," he whispered. "Promise me."
Pond's grip tightened. "I promise. No one will hurt you. I will not allow it."
Phuwin took a breath. Then another. Then he walked to the bed and lay down, his back against the headboard, his hands folded in his lap. He kept his eyes on Pond, who sat beside him and took his hand again.
The healer set her bag on the table and began to pull out instruments—things made of metal and glass, things that gleamed in the morning light. Phuwin looked away. He focused on the feel of Pond's palm against his, the calluses on his fingers, the steady warmth of his skin.
Star closed the door and stood against it. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. She was ready to intervene if she needed to. Phuwin was grateful for that.
The healer washed her hands in a basin, scrubbing each finger with a concentration that was almost ritualistic. Then she dried them on a clean cloth, walked to the bed, and lifted the hem of Phuwin's robe.
Phuwin's breath caught. The air was cold against his exposed skin. He felt vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with what was about to be uncovered.
The healer rested her hand on his stomach. Her palm was cool and dry, and when she pressed down, Phuwin gasped. The pressure was sharp, probing, a reminder that there was something inside him that should not be there.
"Breathe," Pond said quietly. "Just breathe."
Phuwin tried. He inhaled, exhaled, counted to four on each breath. But the healer's hand was moving now, pressing into different places, her expression growing more focused, more concerned.
"What is it?" Pond asked. His voice had dropped, the dark edge creeping in. "Is something wrong?"
The healer did not answer immediately. She pressed again, her fingers finding a spot that made Phuwin's whole body seize. He cried out, his grip on Pond's hand turning desperate.
"I need to examine further," the healer said. She withdrew her hand and looked at Phuwin, her expression unreadable. "I need you to open your legs."
Phuwin's blood went cold. "What?"
"I need to examine internally," the healer said, as if she were explaining something simple. "I cannot tell what is happening without looking. I need you to open your legs."
Phuwin shook his head. "No. I don't—I don't want to feel pain."
The healer sighed. "I cannot guarantee that there will be no pain."
"What do you mean by that?" Pond's voice was sharp now, the voice of an emperor who was used to being answered immediately. "What exactly are you expecting to find?"
The healer met his gaze. "I will know more when I examine him. Please. Help him open his legs."
Pond's jaw tightened. He looked at Phuwin, and for a moment, Phuwin saw the war in his eyes—the emperor who wanted answers, and the husband who wanted to protect.
Star stepped forward. She had moved silently from the door, and now she stood at the foot of the bed. "I'll help," she said softly. "Your Highness, I will be gentle. I promise."
Phuwin looked at her. At her kind eyes, her steady hands, the way she had never once lied to him. He nodded, a small, jerky movement that cost him everything.
Star reached for his knees. Her touch was light, careful, and she guided his legs apart with a slowness that felt like mercy. Phuwin kept his eyes on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, trying to separate his mind from his body.
The healer sat between his legs. She wiped her hands with a cloth, the motion slow and deliberate, and then she began.
At first, there was nothing. Just pressure, strange and foreign, but not painful. Phuwin held his breath, waiting for the pain to come, waiting for the violation he remembered from years ago. But it did not come. The healer's hands were firm but not cruel, her movements practiced and sure.
Then she stopped.
She sat back, her hands in her lap, and stared at nothing. Her face had gone pale, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"What is it?" Pond asked. His voice was barely a whisper. "What did you find?"
The healer looked at him. Then at Phuwin. Then at the wall, as if she were gathering herself.
"The empress is pregnant with twins," she said.
Phuwin's heart stopped. The words did not make sense. He had just given birth. He was nursing Aric. He could not be pregnant again.
"That's impossible," he said. "I only gave birth days ago."
"The twins were conceived after the birth," the healer said. "It is rare, but it happens. A second ovulation close to the first. The twins were developing alongside Aric and His twin, unnoticed." She paused, and her face twisted with something that looked like grief. "But one the twin of Aric has died."
The room went silent. Phuwin could hear his own heartbeat, loud and frantic in his ears.
"The dead child is still inside you," the healer continued. "It suffocated. Lack of oxygen. Too much stress during your pregnancy. The body could not sustain both. The dead child is blocking the flow of nutrients and oxygen to the surviving twins. If it is not removed, the twins will also die."
Phuwin's hands went to his stomach. He could feel it now—the wrongness, the heaviness, the presence of something that was no longer alive. A child. His child. Dead inside him.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
"I need to remove it," the healer said. "Both of them. The dead child and the surviving twin. The surviving twin cannot survive inside you with the dead child blocking its passage. I need to perform a removal. It will be—" She stopped. "It will be difficult."
Phuwin looked at Pond. He was staring at the healer, his face a mask of shock and horror, his hand still gripping Phuwin's so hard it was almost painful.
"Pond," Phuwin said. His voice cracked. "They're going to hurt me. They're going to—"
He thought of Pond's father. The cold metal instruments. The hands that did not stop when he begged. The pain that went on and on until he passed out, and then continued when he woke.
He could not go through that again. He could not.
Pond turned to him. His eyes were wet, but his voice was steady. "Listen to me," he said. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything in this world. And I will not let anyone hurt you. Not the healer. Not my father. Not anyone."
Phuwin's eyes filled with tears. "But I have to do this. I have to—"
"You have to be strong," Pond said. "And you are. You are the strongest person I know. You have given me daughters. You have given me a son. You have given me a life I did not deserve. And now you have to be strong for one more thing. Just one more thing. And then it will be over."
Phuwin sobbed. The tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, and he clung to Pond's hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"I'm scared," he said. "I'm so scared, Pond."
"I know," Pond said. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Phuwin's. "I'm scared too. But we will do this together. I will be right here. Every second. I am not leaving."
Phuwin closed his eyes. He could hear the healer moving, washing her hands again, preparing her instruments. He could hear Star's breathing, shallow and uneven. And somewhere, distantly, he could hear a baby crying.
Aric.
He opened his eyes. "Aric is crying," he said. "He's hungry."
Pond looked at him, torn. "I—"
"Go," Phuwin said. "Get him. Bring him to me. I need to hold him before—before."
Pond hesitated. Then he kissed Phuwin, hard and desperate, and stood. "I'll be right back," he said. "I promise."
He left. The door swung shut behind him, and the room felt suddenly empty, cold, full of waiting.
Phuwin lay back against the headboard, his legs still open, his body still exposed. He stared at the ceiling and tried to find a place inside himself that was not afraid.
The door creaked. He turned his head, expecting to see Pond with Aric in his arms. But it was not Pond.
Ovoale stood in the doorway, her hazel eyes wide and wet, her small hands gripping the doorframe. She had been watching. She had heard everything.
"Mommy?" she said, her voice trembling. "I'm scared."
Phuwin's heart broke. He sat up, straightening his robe, pulling it down to cover himself. He opened his arms. "Come here, my love."
Ovoale ran. She crossed the room in seconds, her small body colliding with his, her arms wrapping around his neck. She was shaking.
"I heard," she said. "I heard everything. The lady said there's a baby inside you that died. Is that true?"
Phuwin held her close. He felt her tears soaking into his robe, felt her small hands gripping his shoulders, and he did not know what to say. He could not lie to her. But he could not tell her the truth either. Not in words.
He stroked her hair, the same wild curls he had brushed a hundred times, and he let his own tears fall.
Ovoale pulled back and looked at him. She reached up and brushed his bangs away from his forehead, a gesture so tender, so motherly, that it made Phuwin's breath catch.
"Is everything going to be okay?" she asked. "Is going to be okay, Mommy?"
Phuwin opened his mouth to answer. But before he could, the door opened again, and Pond walked in with Aric in his arms, the baby crying, hungry and alive and real.
Phuwin looked at his son. At his husband. At his daughter in his arms.
And he did not know how to tell them that he might not survive what came next.