The carriage lurched over a cobblestone, and Phuwin's body seized — a sound tearing from his throat that made Pond's blood stop.
"Shh, shh, I have you." Pond's arms tightened, pulling Phuwin closer across the bench seat. The capital streets blurred past the window — dark shapes, closed shutters, the occasional flicker of a dying lantern. "We're almost there."
Phuwin's fingers dug into Pond's forearm, nails biting through the silk of his sleeve. His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, each one a fight. "Pond — something's — something's wrong —"
"I know. I know. Breathe."
But Phuwin shook his head, his face twisted, his brown eyes wide and wet. "It hurts — it hurts worse —"
And then Pond felt it.
Something wet. Warm. Spreading across his thigh where Phuwin was pressed against him.
He looked down. The silk of Phuwin's dress was darkening — a bloom of red creeping through the pale fabric, slow and inexorable as rising water.
"Phuwin —"
But Phuwin was already moving, frantic, his hands trembling as he gathered the hem of his dress, pulling it up past his knees, past his thighs. His underwear was soaked through, the fabric clinging to his skin, dark and heavy. He reached down — pressed his palm against himself — and when he pulled his hand away, it was slick with blood.
They both stared at it.
The red glistened in the dim carriage light, running down his wrist, dripping onto the silk pooled in his lap.
"Babe —" Phuwin's voice cracked. He turned to Pond, and his face was the color of ash. "I can't wait. It's too much. Pond —"
More blood. Pond watched it slide down Phuwin's thighs, pooling on the velvet seat beneath him, soaking into the embroidered fabric. A stream now, not just drops. His dress was ruined. The seat was ruined. Phuwin was —
"Oh god." Phuwin's breath hitched. "Babe! I can't do this. God." His chest heaved. His eyes darted around the carriage like he was looking for an exit that didn't exist. "Oh fuck —"
Pond's hand shot up, banging against the carriage ceiling. "Faster!" He didn't recognize his own voice — raw, desperate, a king begging. "My empress is bleeding out — go faster!"
The carriage lurched as the horses picked up speed, wheels rattling against stone. Pond pulled Phuwin tighter, one hand pressed against the small of his back, the other cradling the back of his head, fingers tangled in his damp hair.
"Stay with me. Look at me. Phuwin, look at me."
But Phuwin's eyes were glassy, unfocused. His breath was coming faster now — too fast — each inhale a thin, reedy sound that didn't seem to reach his lungs. His skin was losing color by the second, the warm bronze fading to something gray and wrong.
"I'm here," Pond said. "I'm right here. You're not doing this alone. You hear me?"
Phuwin's lips moved, but no sound came out.
Pond looked out the window. Shops. Closed. Dark. A blacksmith's sign swinging in the wind. A bakery with its shutters bolted. The moon cast silver light across the rooftops, indifferent, beautiful, useless.
Where was the healer's house? Where was his sister's estate? He'd been here a hundred times. The streets should be familiar. But tonight everything looked the same — dark facades, empty roads, no lanterns, no signs of life —
Phuwin arched, his back bowing off the seat, a scream ripping from his throat that didn't sound human. "POND —"
"I'm here. I'm here."
"Chep — man chep —" Phuwin's words dissolved into Thai, a river of frantic syllables, his hands reaching blindly, grabbing at Pond's shoulders, his collar, his face — searching for something solid to hold onto. " Pond, mai dai, mai dai, rao tong pai — "
" Okay! Okay! " Pond pressed his forehead to Phuwin's, breathing with him, matching his rhythm. His own voice was shaking. " Rao kamlang pai. Rao pai duay gan. Yoo gap chan. " We're going. We're going together. Stay with me.
Phuwin sobbed, a wet, broken sound, and clung to him.
The carriage turned sharply, and through the window Pond saw it — a passageway opening between two buildings, lined with lanterns that glowed warm amber. At the end of it, a building with gold and red decorations, red beads streaming down from the roofline like a curtain of garnets, catching the moonlight and shimmering.
A bell rang as the carriage passed through the entrance. Loud. Piercing.
Lights flickered on inside the house. Shadows moved behind the windows.
"We're here," Pond said, his voice cracking. "Phuwin, we're here."
But Phuwin didn't answer. His eyes were half-closed, his head lolling against Pond's shoulder.
The carriage stopped. Pond threw the door open before the wheels had fully stilled.
Women were already running out of the house — five, six of them — their robes thrown on hastily, lanterns swinging in their hands, casting wild shadows across the courtyard. They saw Pond and they stopped, just for a second, taking in the sight of their emperor standing in the doorway of a carriage with his empress limp in his arms, blood streaking down his clothes, pooling at his boots.
Phuwin's underwear was still tangled around his ankles. Blood dripped steadily onto the stone, a dark trail leading from the carriage step to where Pond stood.
"Help him." Pond's voice was barely a whisper. Then, louder: "Help him!"
The women rushed forward. Hands reached for Phuwin, gentle but urgent, lifting him from Pond's arms. Phuwin cried out — a sharp, animal sound — his body convulsing as the movement pulled at whatever was tearing inside him.
"Careful — be careful —"
They carried him inside, a river of silk and lantern light, and Pond followed, his boots slipping on the blood-slicked stone.
The house opened into a large room with low ceilings and warm colors — deep reds, burnished gold, tapestries hanging from every wall. Cushions piled in corners. Incense burning somewhere, sandalwood and honey. The women laid Phuwin on a mattress in the center of the room, his body sinking into the soft bedding, his dress soaked through, his skin ghost-white.
Then a new voice cut through the chaos.
"Move."
A young woman pushed through the crowd. She wore a silk dress the color of pomegranates, and her arms were covered in bracelets — gold and silver and brass, clicking together as she moved. Her hair was loose, wild, falling past her shoulders, and her eyes were sharp and clear and utterly unafraid.
She looked at Phuwin. Then at Pond.
She nodded once.
"I need hot water. Towels. Clean cloth. Now."
The women scattered.
The young woman knelt beside Phuwin, her hands already moving — untying his dress, pulling the wet silk away from his body, exposing the blood-soaked fabric beneath. Her bracelets clinked as she worked, a steady rhythm, almost musical.
"Close the curtains," she said, and someone did — heavy velvet falling across the windows, sealing them in.
Pond stood in the corner, his hands pressed flat against his thighs, his chest rising and falling too fast. He watched them work — the young woman's hands moving over Phuwin's body, examining, pressing, her brow furrowed in concentration. The other women brought steaming bowls of water, stacks of white cloth, and retreated to the edges of the room, waiting.
Phuwin cried out again, his back arching, his hands grasping at empty air. " Pond — yoo nai? Pond — "
"I'm here." Pond's voice broke. He stepped forward, but the young woman held up a hand without looking at him.
"Stay where you are. I need room to work."
Her hands pressed deeper, and Phuwin screamed — a sound that tore through the room, through Pond's chest, through every wall he had built around himself. The young woman didn't flinch. She kept working, her fingers moving with practiced precision, her bracelets clicking, clicking, clicking.
Pond ran his hand through his hair. Pulled at it. Let his arm fall.
Phuwin's screams faded into sobs, then into whimpers, then into silence. His body went limp on the mattress. His eyes fluttered closed.
The young woman worked for another minute — two — her face unreadable. Then she sat back, pulled off her gloves, and dropped them into a bowl of pink-tinged water.
She washed her hands slowly, deliberately, in a separate basin. Dried them on a clean cloth. Drew a blanket up over Phuwin's body, tucking it around his shoulders, his chest, his still form.
Only then did she stand and walk to Pond.
"He's fine." Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "It was a bleed from the surgery site — the stitches tore under the strain. I've stopped it. He'll need bed rest for at least a week, and someone should sit with him through the night to watch for fever. But he'll live."
Pond stared at her. His hands were still pressed flat against his thighs. His nails left crescents in his palms.
"Clove," he said. His voice came out hoarse. "You can't do this right now. You can't —" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "As my sister, you are supposed to understand. You are supposed to know when something is serious. My wife just bled out next to me."
Clove looked at him. Her bracelets settled with a soft chime as she crossed her arms.
"And I just saved him."
"That's not —"
"Pond." Her voice softened, just slightly. "I know what I said. And I know what he means to you. But I also know that you need to breathe before you fall apart, and I am the only person in this room who will tell you to do it."
He shook his head. "You don't get to joke about this."
"I wasn't joking." She tilted her head, and something flickered in her eyes — something older, something that remembered. "But if I hadn't said what I said, you would still be staring at his blood on your hands instead of hearing me tell you he's fine."
Pond looked down. His hands were stained red.
Clove stepped closer. "After all, you only met him because of me."
He lifted his head.
"I was his best friend before you were his husband," she said quietly. "I introduced you at that garden party because I thought you would be good for him. And I was right. So when I say he will live, you believe me. Because I know him. And I know what I'm doing."
Pond stared at her for a long moment. Then his shoulders sagged, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, and he let out a breath that carried the weight of the entire night.
"That's what siblings are for," Clove said softly.
He didn't laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, just enough.
Clove touched his arm — a brief, warm pressure — and turned back toward the mattress where Phuwin lay sleeping, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
"Go sit with him," she said. "I'll have tea brought in."
Pond crossed the room on unsteady legs. He lowered himself to the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Phuwin's — still warm, still alive — and he held it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
Outside, the first pale fingers of dawn began to creep across the sky.