Pond's hands were steady as he laced the back of Phuwin's dress, his fingers moving with the practiced care of a man who had done this a thousand times—or wished he had. The silk was cool against Phuwin's skin, lavender leaves pressed into the fabric catching the candlelight, and he held himself still on the edge of the bed, his breath shallow.
"Lean on me."
Phuwin nodded, but his hands braced on Pond's shoulders instead of his arms. He didn't want to lean. He wanted to stand on his own—wanted to walk down the stairs like the Empress he was, not the broken thing his body had become.
Pond pulled him upright, and Phuwin's knees nearly buckled. The stitches pulled. A hot ache spread from his lower belly down into his thighs, and he pressed his lips together to keep the sound from escaping.
"We can wait."
"The girls have been waiting for three days." Phuwin's voice was softer than he meant it to be, almost a whisper. "I won't make them wait another hour."
Pond's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He kept his hand on Phuwin's lower back as they moved toward the door, a steady pressure that said *I am here, I am here, I am here*.
The corridor was lit with the soft gold of dying daylight, the windows throwing long rectangles of orange across the marble floor. Phuwin counted each step. One. Two. Three. The distance to the stairs had never seemed so vast—a hundred miles of polished stone, and every step cost him something he wasn't sure he had left.
By the time they reached the top of the staircase, his hand was gripping the banister so hard his knuckles had gone white. The descent stretched before him, a slow descent into a hall he could hear already—the murmur of voices, the clink of cutlery, the sound of his daughters living their lives in the shadow of what he had failed to give them.
Pond stepped closer. "Put your arm around my neck."
Phuwin did. The silk sleeve pooled against Pond's shoulder, and Pond's arm slid around his waist, taking more of his weight. They moved down the steps together, one at a time—slow, deliberate, a dance they had never learned but somehow knew.
The dining hall doors were open wide. The table was long, draped in white linen, the candles lit. The stewards had set out the good plates—the ones with the silver rims, the ones they only used for feast days. Someone had thought to make tonight feel important.
Phuwin saw them before they saw him.
Imaria stood by the window, her profile sharp against the dark glass. Her plate sat untouched at her seat, the bread going cold, the meat congealing in its own juice. She held herself with a stillness that didn't belong to a girl of thirteen—a stillness that said she was listening, watching, ready for a battle no one else had told her was coming.
Ovoale sat at her place, her fork moving in slow circles through the food on her plate. She wasn't eating. She was pushing, separating, destroying the arrangement of vegetables and sauce as if she could unmake the meal the way she wished she could unmake the memory of glass shattering against a wall.
Xiana had a book propped open beside her plate, her eyes scanning the pages as she lifted a piece of bread to her mouth. But she wasn't reading. Her eyes weren't tracking the words. She was hiding—the book a shield, the words an excuse not to look up, not to meet anyone's gaze, not to have to pretend she was fine.
They looked sad. Not angry. Sad. The kind of sadness that had settled into their bones, that had become part of the air they breathed. And Phuwin felt something crack inside his chest—a fissure that had nothing to do with his stitches or his aching body and everything to do with the three girls he had brought into this world.
He let go of the doorframe and walked into the room.
Pond was still beside him, his hand hovering, ready to catch. But Phuwin moved forward on his own, his hand dragging along the wall for balance until he reached his seat at the table. He lowered himself into the chair with a slowness that was not grace—it was necessity, the careful negotiation of a body that had been cut open and sewn back together and was not yet ready to be trusted.
The girls looked up.
Imaria's eyes met his. She didn't smile, but she didn't flinch either. There was something in her gaze—a question, maybe, or a plea—but her lips stayed closed.
Ovoale pushed her plate away, the fork clattering against the rim.
Xiana closed her book, her finger holding her place, and watched him with an intensity that made him feel seen in a way he wasn't sure he was ready for.
Phuwin opened his mouth to speak—to say something that would stitch the wound he'd watched Pond tear open—but the words wouldn't come. They sat in his throat, a knot of apology and love and grief, and he looked down at his hands instead. Knuckles still pale. Nails still short. The hands of a man who had held his daughters and braided their hair and wiped their tears and brought them into the world, one by one, at the cost of his own body.
Behind him, he heard Pond's voice—low, clipped, answering a question from a steward. Something about grain shipments, about the northern territories, about the thousand small demands of an empire that did not stop for heartbreak.
Phuwin looked at his daughters.
Imaria was still by the window, her food untouched.
He couldn't wait for Pond to finish his conversation. He couldn't sit here, pretending to eat, pretending to be fine, while his daughters sat in the wreckage of a night that should never have happened.
He pushed himself up from the chair.
The pain hit him the moment he stood—a sharp, hot spike that drove straight through his lower belly and into his spine. His hand shot out, gripping the back of the chair so hard the wood creaked. His other arm wrapped around himself, pressing against his lower stomach, as if he could hold the pain inside with sheer will.
He took a step. Then another.
His vision blurred at the edges, the candles in the room bleeding into streaks of gold and white. He heard someone say his name—Imaria, maybe, or Ovoale—but it came from very far away, as if he were underwater.
He reached Ovoale's chair. She was looking up at him, her face a question mark, her fork frozen mid-air.
Phuwin opened his mouth. "I—"
The pain twisted inside him. A hot, tearing sensation, deep and wrong. His hand let go of the chair and grabbed the edge of the table instead. The dishes rattled. A glass tipped over, spilling water across the linen.
"Babe."
The word came out soft at first, a breath, a prayer. He tried again, louder, his voice cracking with the effort of staying upright.
"Babe!"
He stumbled back. His foot caught on the leg of the chair—or maybe it was his own ankle, his own failing body betraying him—and he felt himself falling, the ceiling tilting, the candles spinning, the world going slow and distant and strange.
His knees hit the marble floor. The impact sent a shockwave through his hips, up his spine, into the raw place where Mistress Elara had cut him open. He gasped—a ragged, broken sound—and his arms came down to catch himself, but they wouldn't hold. His elbows buckled. His chest hit the stone.
"Babe!" Someone was screaming. It was him. He could hear his own voice, high and thin and frantic, coming from a body he didn't recognize. "Babe—something's wrong—"
The room erupted.
Chairs scraped against the floor. Footsteps pounded. He heard Imaria's voice—sharp, commanding, cutting through the chaos. "Ma! Don't move. Someone get my father."
And then Pond was there.
His hands were on Phuwin's face, turning his head gently, forcing eye contact. His thumbs wiped at Phuwin's cheeks—he was crying, he realized, he was crying without knowing it. Sweat trickled down his temples, and the room was too bright and too hot and he couldn't breathe, couldn't catch his breath, couldn't stop the sounds coming out of his mouth.
"Phuwin. Phuwin, look at me. Look at me, love."
"It hurts." The words were small. A child's voice, coming out of an Empress's mouth. "Pond, it hurts so much—"
"I know." Pond's hands were shaking. The Emperor's hands—steady on treaty documents, steady on the hilt of a sword—were shaking as they cupped Phuwin's face. "I know, I know, I know."
"Move him."
Imaria's voice cut through the fog. She was standing over them, her face pale but set, her jaw tight. She was holding herself together with both hands, and Phuwin could see it—the cracks, the fear hiding behind her eyes.
"Move him," she repeated. "Father, carry the Empress. Take him to the healer. Now."
Pond didn't hesitate. He slid one arm under Phuwin's knees and the other behind his back and lifted. Phuwin cried out as the movement jostled the wound, the stitches pulling tight, the pain flaring white-hot behind his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Pond's neck without thinking, his fingers tangling in the fabric of his collar, his face pressing into the curve of his shoulder.
The silk of his dress was cool against his burning skin. The lavender leaves crushed between their bodies, releasing their scent into the heated air. Moonlight fell through the windows as Pond carried him across the room, cutting silver paths across the marble floor.
"Hold on," Pond said. His voice was low, rough, barely a whisper against Phuwin's hair. "Hold on to me, Phuwin."
Phuwin held on.
The hallway blurred past—marble columns, golden sconces, the worried faces of servants pressing themselves against the walls to let the Emperor pass. Pond ran. He was running through his own palace, carrying his husband, his Empress, the father of his children, and he was running faster than Phuwin had ever seen him move.
A maid appeared at the end of the corridor, her hands flying to her mouth. "Your Majesty—the healer, she's not here—she went to the lower city, they said she won't be back for another—"
"Then get the carriage!" Pond's voice was a whip, cracking through the air. "Now! Tell the stables I want a carriage out front in three minutes or I'll have their heads."
The maid ran.
Phuwin's hands tightened around Pond's neck. Each step sent a shock through his body—the wound pulling, the pain blooming hot and sharp and deep. He pressed his forehead against Pond's jaw and breathed. Breathed through the fire, through the fear, through the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
They reached the main doors. The night air hit him—cool and clean, carrying the smell of earth and stone and distant rain. A carriage was pulling up the drive, the horses stamping, the driver's face pale in the moonlight.
Pond lifted him into the carriage. His hands were gentle—softer than Phuwin had ever felt them, as if he were handling something impossibly fragile. He settled Phuwin on the velvet seat, then climbed in after him, pulling the door shut with a bang that echoed across the courtyard.
The carriage lurched forward.
Phuwin slid against Pond's side, his arms still wrapped around his neck, his body curled into the warmth of his husband's chest. Buttons pressed into his cheek. The silk of his dress pooled around them, deep green with lavender leaves, flowers crushed and dying between their bodies.
The moon was bright through the carriage window. It lit Phuwin's face, caught the silver sheen of sweat on his brow, made his dark eyes look almost translucent in the pale light.
"Pond." His voice was raw, scraped thin by the pain. "Am I going to be okay?"
Pond's hand came up to cradle the back of his head. His fingers carded through Phuwin's hair, and when he spoke, his voice was not the Emperor's—measured, formal, commanding. It was a man's voice. A husband's voice. A voice that was learning, slowly, what it meant to be afraid.
"Yes." He pressed his lips to Phuwin's forehead. "I have you. I will always have you. Stay with me."
Phuwin nodded against his chest. His fingers curled into the fabric of Pond's tunic, holding on, holding tight, as the carriage raced through the dark streets of the capital and the moon traced silver lines across the sky.
Inside the palace, the dining hall had gone quiet.
Imaria stood in the doorway, watching the carriage lights disappear through the main gate. Her hands hung at her sides, clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. She didn't feel it. She didn't feel anything except the cold stone under her feet and the weight of her sisters pressed against her sides.
Ovoale was crying. Her shoulders shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she made no sound. She had learned to cry silently in the days since her father had thrown a glass against the wall and told them all how much they had failed.
Xiana stood on Imaria's other side, the book still in her hand, her thumb holding her place. She wasn't crying. She was watching the empty gate with an intensity that made her look older than her nine years, older than her mother, older than the moon.
Imaria put her arms around them. She pulled them close, her chin resting on Ovoale's head, her hand finding Xiana's and squeezing tight.
The carriage was gone.
The night was dark.
And in the silence of the empty hall, Imaria let herself feel the weight of what she had seen—her mother on the floor, her father's shaking hands, the sound of her mother's voice crying out in pain—and she pressed it into a small, hard place inside her chest.
"It will be okay," she said out loud. The words felt hollow, false, a prayer she didn't quite believe.
But she said them anyway.
For her sisters. For herself. For the mother who had walked into the dining hall with a back that wouldn't straighten and a body that wouldn't hold and a love so fierce it had nearly killed him to cross that floor.
The moon slid behind a cloud. The carriage lights did not reappear.
And Imaria held her sisters in the dark, waiting for the dawn.