Phuwin's eyes opened to grey dawn light and the slow, steady rhythm of Pond's breathing.
The ceiling above him was familiar—cracked plaster near the corner where the roof had leaked two winters ago, a stain shaped like a bird in flight. He traced it with his gaze while the rest of his body catalogued itself: the ache in his hips, the hollow pull where his belly had been rounder, the strange lightness of a body that had emptied.
He wanted to stand.
The thought arrived like hunger—simple, undeniable. Just to stand. Just to walk to the window and see the morning. Just to feel his legs remember what they were for.
He shifted, found the edge of the mattress with his hand, and pushed.
The pain hit low in his back—a sharp, tearing spike that shot up his spine and coiled in his ribs. It ripped a cry from his throat before he could stop it, high and broken, and his arms gave out, dropping him back onto the pillows.
Beside him, Pond jolted awake.
"What—Phuwin—" The emperor's hands were already on him, finding his shoulders, his face, scanning for blood, for wound, for the source of the sound. "What happened? What's wrong?"
Phuwin gasped, one hand pressed to his lower back where the pain was already fading to a deep, thudding ache. "Nothing. I only—I wanted to walk."
"Walk." Pond's voice flattened. Not angry. Disbelieving. "You lost enough blood to fill a basin. The healer ordered rest. Full rest. In this bed."
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." Pond's hand found his, squeezed. The emperor's jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft. Afraid. "You scared me. You scared everyone. You cannot walk yet."
Phuwin looked at him—at the dark circles under his husband's eyes, the stubble along his jaw, the lines of worry carved deeper than they had been a week ago. He should let it go. He should be grateful to be alive, to have his twins breathing in their cradle, to have Pond's hand in his.
But he wanted to walk.
So he pushed out his lower lip.
Just slightly. Just enough. The pout he had perfected over ten years of marriage, the one that had convinced Pond to let him keep a stray cat, to buy the silk dress with too many buttons, to cancel a council meeting and spend the afternoon in the garden instead.
Pond's eyes caught on his mouth. Darkened.
Phuwin saw it—the hunger that flickered there, the way the emperor's breath changed, the way his thumb pressed harder into Phuwin's palm. For one long, suspended moment, the air between them thickened, and Phuwin felt the familiar flutter in his chest, the warmth that spread through his belly even when his body ached.
Then Pond blinked, and the look was gone.
"You are impossible," the emperor said, but his voice had gone rough. "You know that."
"I only want to walk to the bathing chamber." Phuwin kept his voice soft, kept the pout in place. "I will not leave the room. I just—I feel dirty. I want to wash."
Pond held his gaze for a long moment, then exhaled. "I will send two guards to help you. You will not stand without them. You will not walk without them. If you fall—"
"I will not fall."
"If you fall," Pond repeated, "I will personally carry you to the healer's quarters and have her tie you to this bed."
Phuwin smiled. "That sounds like a threat."
"It is a promise." Pond leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his lips—soft, brief, barely a brush. "I love you. Do not make me regret leaving you alone."
"I love you too."
Pond rose, straightened his tunic, and was gone before Phuwin could ask him to stay.
The door closed with a soft click, and Phuwin lay still, listening to the fading footsteps, the distant murmur of the palace waking. The twins slept in their cradle, Kael's tiny fist pressed against Lirien's cheek. Somewhere in the hall, a maid was humming.
He waited.
Two guards arrived within minutes—young men in the imperial blue, their boots polished, their hands clasped behind their backs. One had dark hair and a scar through his eyebrow; the other was fair, with the kind of face that looked like it smiled easily.
"Empress," the dark-haired one said, bowing. "The Emperor sent us to assist you."
Phuwin nodded and reached out a hand. "Help me stand."
They moved forward together, one on each side, their hands finding his arms, his shoulders. The fair-haired one's fingers brushed his waist, and Phuwin felt him pause—just a fraction of a second too long.
He looked up and caught the guard staring at his face.
No. At his eyes. At his lips.
Phuwin's stomach tightened.
"Careful," he said quietly. "I am still sore."
The guard dropped his gaze. "Apologies, Empress."
They helped him stand, and the pain flared again—dull and deep, wrapping around his hips like a vice. Phuwin gasped, his hand flying to his lower back, and the dark-haired guard braced him, arm sliding around his waist to steady him.
"Easy," the guard murmured. "We have you."
Phuwin leaned into the support, hating how much he needed it. His legs trembled. His body felt foreign, hollowed out, weaker than it had ever been. He took a breath, then another, and nodded.
"The bathing chamber," he said. "I need the tub filled."
"Whatever the Empress commands," they said in unison.
The words were formal, practiced—but the fair-haired guard's eyes flicked down Phuwin's body as he said them, tracing the line of his neck, the curve of his hip where the silk robe had slipped.
Phuwin pretended not to notice.
They walked slowly, one guard on each side, supporting his weight. Each step sent a pulse of ache through his lower back, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. The bathing chamber was tiled in pale blue, the morning light slanting through a high window and catching the steam that already rose from the tub—someone had prepared it, knowing he would ask.
The guards helped him to the edge of the tub, and then the fair-haired one reached for the tie of his robe.
Phuwin caught his wrist.
"I can undress myself."
The guard's jaw tightened. "The Emperor ordered us to assist with everything."
"He ordered you to help me walk. Not to undress me." Phuwin kept his voice level, kept his eyes on the guard's face. "Turn around."
For a moment, the guard did not move. His gaze held Phuwin's—challenging, searching, as if weighing whether to push further. Then he dropped his hand and turned.
The dark-haired guard turned with him.
Phuwin untied his robe with trembling fingers, let it slide from his shoulders, and stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost too hot, and he sank into it with a shudder, the heat seeping into his aching muscles, loosening the knot in his lower back.
He heard them turn back.
He felt their eyes on him—on his shoulders, his chest, the swell of his belly that had not yet fully gone down, the curve of his hips where the water lapped. The fair-haired guard's gaze caught on his waist, lingered on his ass where it pressed against the porcelain, and Phuwin felt the weight of it like a touch.
He picked up the soap and began to wash.
The water sluiced over his skin, pink-tinged where the remnants of the birth still clung to him. He scrubbed his arms, his chest, the soft skin of his belly, avoiding the tender spot where Mistress Elara had cut. He washed his hair, working the soap through the tangled strands, and when he rinsed, the guards were still watching.
The fair-haired one swallowed.
Phuwin pretended not to see.
He finished, rose from the tub with water streaming down his body, and reached for the robe the dark-haired guard held out. The fabric was silk, pale blue, soft against his skin. He tied it at the waist and let them help him step out, their hands on his arms, his back, guiding him with careful pressure.
"The Emperor said we are not to leave your side," the dark-haired guard said as they walked back toward the bed. "You are not to be out of our sight."
Phuwin stopped.
"I want to see my daughter."
"The Emperor ordered—"
"I know what he ordered." Phuwin turned to face them, and this time he let the pout come again—fuller, softer, his lower lip pushed out just enough to make him look small and helpless. "I am not asking you to leave. I am asking you to call my daughter. Please."
The fair-haired guard's eyes dropped to his mouth. The dark-haired one shifted his weight, uncomfortable.
Phuwin held the pout.
"Please," he repeated. "I have not seen her since yesterday. She must be worried."
The dark-haired guard looked at his companion, then back at Phuwin. "The Emperor's orders—"
"I will call him myself." Phuwin walked to the bedside table, picked up the phone, and dialed Pond's office number before either guard could stop him.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Who calls my number?"
Pond's voice was sharp, imperial, the voice he used for council and court. Phuwin closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him.
"It is me."
A pause. Then, softer: "Phuwin. Is something wrong?"
"No. I want food. And I want to see the babies."
Another pause. He could hear Pond moving, the rustle of papers, the creak of a chair. "I will send them with the maid. Give me a quarter of an hour."
"And Aric?"
"Do you want him too?"
Phuwin smiled at the ceiling. "Yes."
"Then Aric too." Pond's voice dropped lower, warmer. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Phuwin hung up, set the phone back on the table, and reached for the drawer beside the bed. His glasses were there—silver-rimmed, delicate—and he slid them on, the world sharpening into focus. Inside the drawer was a book, the one he had been reading before the birth, a romance about a merchant's daughter who fell in love with a pirate queen.
He settled back against the pillows, opened the book, and began to read.
The guards stood by the door, watching.
The words blurred. He read the same paragraph three times, the guards' gazes prickling at the edge of his awareness. The dark-haired one kept his eyes fixed on the wall. The fair-haired one did not.
Phuwin turned a page and did not look up.
A knock came, and the door opened to reveal a maid carrying a tray—waffles, golden and crisp, fried eggs with runny yolks, bacon curled and glistening, a small pitcher of syrup. Behind her, a nursemaid carried the twins, each swaddled in white, and a third maid held Aric, who was squirming and reaching for the ceiling.
Phuwin set the book aside.
"Bring them here," he said. "All of them."
The maids brought the food first, setting the tray on the bedside table, and then the babies. The nursemaid placed Kael and Lirien on the bed beside Phuwin, and the other maid set Aric down beside them.
Aric immediately rolled onto his side and reached for the twins.
"Careful," Phuwin said, laughing. "They are smaller than you."
But Aric's hand found Lirien's face, his tiny fingers patting her cheek, and Lirien made a soft sound, her emerald eyes blinking open. Aric kicked his feet and smiled—a gummy, toothless grin that made Phuwin's chest ache.
"That is your sister," Phuwin said softly. "Her name is Lirien. And this is your brother, Kael." He touched Kael's cheek, and the baby turned toward his finger, mouth opening. "They are very small, so you must be gentle."
Aric patted Lirien's face again, then turned to look at Phuwin, his brown eyes wide and wondering.
"Yes," Phuwin said. "They are real."
He picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it, the salt and fat grounding him. The waffles were still warm, and he dipped them in syrup, eating slowly while he watched his children. Kael slept, his tiny chest rising and falling. Lirien's eyes drifted closed again. Aric was staring at them like they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.
Phuwin finished his breakfast, set the tray aside, and gathered the twins into the crook of each arm. They were so light, so small—Kael barely bigger than his hand, Lirien even smaller. He held them against his chest and felt their warmth seep into him, felt the steady beat of their hearts against his ribs.
Aric crawled into his lap and settled there, one hand on Kael's blanket, the other in his mouth.
Phuwin looked out the window.
The sun had risen fully now, bright and golden, painting the sky in shades of blue and white. The palace gardens stretched below, green and manicured, and beyond them, the city was waking—smoke rising from chimneys, carts rattling over cobblestones, the distant hum of a kingdom going about its day.
He turned back to his children.
Lirien's eyes were open again—emerald, vivid, her father's color. Kael's were brown, deep and steady. Aric was gnawing on his own fist, drool running down his chin.
Phuwin laughed.
"You are all so beautiful," he said. "Do you know that? Your father and I made you, and you are the most beautiful things in the world."
Aric gurgled.
Lirien yawned.
Kael slept on.
And in the hall, pressed against the door, Imaria listened.
She had come to check on her mother, to see if he needed anything, to tell him that she had thought about Lord Tarven all night and had an idea. But the sound of her mother's laughter—light, real, the first she had heard since the birth—stopped her hand before it could knock.
She stood there, her palm flat against the wood, and listened to the soft murmur of her mother's voice, the occasional gurgle of the babies, the rustle of blankets and silk.
Inside, her mother was laughing.
Inside, her siblings were alive and warm.
Inside, there was peace.
Imaria pulled her hand back and looked at it. She thought of Lord Tarven's sketch, of the way his eyes had followed her mother at the last feast, of the guards who had touched him, looked at him, planned to take what did not belong to them.
She thought of her father, who was making a plan.
She thought of her mother, who was laughing.
Imaria turned from the door and walked down the hall, her footsteps silent on the stone. She knew what she had to do. She knew who to talk to, what to say, how to make sure the threat died before it ever reached her mother's door.
Her father was making a plan.
She would make her own.