Pond reined in at the head of the column, his horse's flanks steaming in the cold night air, the palace gates dark and open ahead like a wound the city had forgotten to close. Moonlight spilled across the ironwork, catching the edges of the imperial crest—the twin dragons—and throwing long shadows across the flagstones beyond. He'd been riding for hours, his thighs aching, his throat raw from shouting orders, and still the gates stood open as if the palace had been waiting for him to arrive and find whatever waited inside.

"Your Majesty—" one of his captains started, but Pond was already raising a hand to silence him, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the gates. Too quiet. The palace was never this quiet at night. There should be torches, guards, the distant sound of servants moving through the corridors. Instead, silence pressed against his ears like water.

He was about to give the order to ride through when Imaria's voice cut the night—sharp, breaking, a sound he had never heard from her before, a sound that turned his blood to ice.

"Father—FATHER—"

She was already off her horse before the sound finished forming, her boots hitting the ground with a thud that echoed off the stone walls, her body moving before her mind could catch up. Her braid whipped behind her as she ran—not toward the gates, not toward the palace, but toward the tree line to the left of the road, where the moonlight pooled in silver patches between the oaks and the shadows lay thick and waiting.

Pond's hand went to his hair, his fingers gripping the dark strands at the root, pulling hard enough that pain flared across his scalp. "No," he muttered, the word barely escaping his throat. "No, no, no—"

He was dismounting before he finished the thought, his boots striking the flagstones hard enough to send a jolt through his knees, his cloak catching on the saddle horn and tearing free with a sound like a wound opening. He didn't care. The column behind him erupted into motion—horses shifting, men shouting, weapons being drawn—but it all sounded distant, underwater, as he followed Imaria's running form toward the tree line.

"Xiana," Imaria was saying, the name falling out of her in fragments as she dropped to her knees in the grass. "Xiana, Xiana, wake up—"

Pond reached them, and the world stopped.

His youngest daughter lay crumpled at the base of an oak tree, her small body twisted in a way that made something in his chest seize and crack. Her ankle was bent at an unnatural angle, her foot pointed inward as if the bone had simply given up. Her face was slack and pale in the moonlight, her lips parted, her eyes closed, her long black hair—still braided by Phuwin's hands, still holding the small silver ribbon Phuwin had tied that morning—spread across the leaf litter like a dark halo.

"She's breathing," Imaria said, her voice cracking as she pressed two fingers to Xiana's throat. "She's breathing, she's breathing—"

Pond dropped to his knees beside them, his hands reaching for Xiana's face, his fingers brushing the cold skin of her cheek. She was so small. She had always been small, but here, in the moonlight, with her ankle bent and her face slack, she looked like a doll someone had dropped and forgotten to pick up.

"Xiana," he said, his voice low and rough, the name scraping out of his throat like gravel. "Baby, I'm here. I'm here."

Behind him, the column had stopped at the gates. He could hear his captains barking orders—form a perimeter, search the grounds, look for signs of a fight—but the words didn't register. All he could see was Xiana's face, her slack mouth, the slow rise and fall of her chest that was too shallow, too slow, too much like the rhythm of someone slipping away.

"Her ankle's broken," Imaria said, her hands moving over Xiana's body with a carefulness that made Pond's throat tighten. She was thirteen. She should not know how to check for broken bones in the dark. "I don't think anything else is—she's not bleeding, I don't see—"

"Get a healer," Pond said, his voice flat, commanding, the emperor's voice that expected obedience. "Now."

A soldier was already running, his boots pounding back toward the column, shouting for a medic, for blankets, for something to carry the child. Pond heard it all and heard none of it. His hand found Xiana's, her small fingers cold and still in his, and he pressed them to his lips, breathing against her skin.

"I'm here," he whispered again, the words a prayer, a plea, a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. "Daddy's here."

Imaria's hand found his shoulder, her grip tight, her knuckles pressing into his collarbone. She was shaking—he could feel the tremors running through her arm—but her voice was steady when she spoke.

"She was trying to get out," Imaria said, her eyes fixed on Xiana's face. "She must have—the gate was open, and she—" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "She got this far. She almost made it."

Pond looked up at the palace gates, dark and yawning, and felt the weight of what lay beyond them pressing against his chest like a physical thing. Phuwin was in there. Ovoale. The twins. Aric. And he was here, kneeling in the dirt beside his unconscious daughter, his hand wrapped around hers, the night air cold against his face.

"She's cold," Imaria said, and Pond shrugged off his cloak without thinking, draping it over Xiana's small body, tucking the edges around her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body heat, still carried the smell of horse and dust and the long ride, and he watched her chest rise and fall beneath it, watched the slow rhythm of her breath, and tried to believe it was enough.

"Your Majesty." A captain appeared at his side, a young man with a scar across his jaw and blood on his sleeve—not his own, Pond noted, the sharp instinct of a soldier cataloguing details. "We've secured the gate. No movement inside. The courtyard is—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "Your Majesty, there's a body. A woman. In the grass near the fountain."

Pond's eyes stayed on Xiana's face. "Who?"

"We don't know, Your Majesty. She's—she's been dead for hours, by the look of her. Stomach wound. She's lying in the grass like she was trying to reach the gate."

Pond closed his eyes. Star. It would be Star. Phuwin's handmaiden and Sister, the one who had been with him since before the marriage, the one who had held his hand through every birth, who had dried his tears after every loss, who had loved his children like they were her own. If Star was dead in the courtyard, then everything else—everything worse—was also true.

"Your Majesty, we need to move. If there are still hostiles in the palace—"

"I know," Pond said, and opened his eyes. He looked at Xiana, at her pale face, at the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath his cloak. Then he looked at Imaria, at the set of her jaw, at the fire burning in her amber eyes despite the tears tracking down her cheeks.

"Stay with her," he said, his voice low and steady. "When the healer comes, you go with her. You don't leave her side. Do you understand me?"

Imaria nodded, her hand tightening on his shoulder. "I understand."

Pond rose, his knees aching from the cold ground, his hands empty now that he had let go of Xiana's fingers. He stood at the edge of the tree line, the palace gates dark and open before him, the moonlight catching the iron crest and throwing the twin dragons into sharp relief. Behind him, Imaria was already shifting closer to Xiana, her body curving around her sister's like a shield, her hand resting on Xiana's chest where the cloak rose and fell with each shallow breath.

"I'll be back," Pond said, and the words felt thin, useless, a promise he had no right to make. But Imaria nodded, her eyes fixed on Xiana's face, and Pond turned toward the gates.

The column had spread out across the courtyard, torches flaring in the darkness, casting long shadows that danced across the flagstones. Soldiers moved in pairs, checking doorways, peering through windows, their boots echoing off the stone walls. The palace loomed above them, its windows dark, its corridors silent, and Pond felt the weight of that silence pressing against his chest as he crossed the threshold.

The courtyard was empty. The fountain sat dark and still, its water black in the moonlight, and the grass around it was trampled, churned into mud by boots and bodies. He saw the shape of Star's body before he reached it—a dark mound in the grass, her arm outstretched toward the gate, her fingers curled as if she had been reaching for something she could not quite touch.

He stopped beside her, looking down at her face. Her eyes were open, fixed on the sky, and her mouth was slightly parted, as if she had been about to speak. The wound in her stomach had bled out hours ago, the blood dark and tacky against her dress, and her skin was cold and pale in the torchlight. He had known her for ten years. She had been Phuwin's shadow, his anchor, his closest friend. And now she lay in the grass, her hand stretched toward the gate, trying to reach the children she had loved as her own.

"Cover her," Pond said, his voice flat, and a soldier moved to obey, draping a cloak over Star's body, hiding her face from the moonlight. Pond did not watch. He was already moving toward the palace doors, his boots striking the flagstones in a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart.

The doors were open, hanging loose on their hinges, and the entrance hall beyond was dark. He stepped inside, his hand going to the sword at his hip, his eyes adjusting to the dim light that filtered through the windows. The hall was empty. The great chandelier hung motionless above him, its candles burned down to stubs, and the tapestries on the walls swayed slightly in the draft from the open doors. A chair lay on its side near the far wall, and a vase had been knocked from its pedestal, its shards scattered across the marble floor.

He moved through the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence, past the empty guard stations, past the overturned table where a half-eaten meal still sat, the bread gone hard and the wine spilled in a dark stain across the wood. The palace felt hollow, gutted, as if something vital had been torn out of it while he was riding through the dark, trying to reach them, trying to close a distance that had only grown wider.

He found the maid in the corridor leading to the east wing. She was slumped against the wall, her head lolled to the side, a bruise flowering across her temple in shades of purple and black. He knelt beside her, pressing two fingers to her throat, and felt the faint pulse beneath his touch—alive, but barely. Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy, and he called for a medic before rising and continuing down the corridor.

The nursery was empty. The door hung open, and the room beyond was in chaos—the twins' cradle overturned, its blankets spilling across the floor, Aric's small cot pushed against the wall, his blanket crumpled in a heap beside it. Pond stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of his children. The crib was empty. The bassinet was empty. The room was cold and silent, and the only sound was the slow drip of water from a basin that had been knocked over, its contents pooling on the floor.

He turned away, his jaw tight, and continued down the corridor. The stairs to the upper floors loomed ahead, and he took them two at a time, his boots pounding against the stone, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that had nothing to do with exertion. He passed the study where he had spent countless hours reading reports and signing decrees, its door open, its interior dark. He passed the sitting room where Phuwin had braided their daughters' hair every morning, the brushes still scattered across the table, a half-finished braid lying coiled on the cushion where Xiana had been sitting.

And then he reached the East corridor.

The torches were still burning here, their flames casting flickering light across the marble floor, and the air was thick with the smell of incense and something else—something metallic and sharp that he recognized before his mind caught up. Blood. Old blood, and sweat, and the heavy, cloying scent of sex that made his stomach turn.

Phuwin was on his knees in the center of the corridor.

His robe was torn, the silk hanging off his shoulder in shreds, and his thighs were wet with something that caught the torchlight and glistened. His hands were bound behind his back with a strip of fabric, and his head was bowed, his hair falling forward to hide his face. He was still, so still that for a terrible moment Pond thought he was dead—that he had arrived too late, that Phuwin had already slipped away while he was kneeling in the dirt beside Xiana, while he was covering Star's body, while he was walking through the empty halls of his palace.

But then Phuwin's shoulders moved—a small, shuddering breath—and Pond's legs carried him forward before his mind could catch up, his boots sliding on the marble as he dropped to his knees in front of his husband, his hands reaching for Phuwin's face, his fingers brushing the tears that streaked his cheeks.

"Phuwin," he said, his voice breaking on the name. "Phuwin, I'm here. I'm here."

Phuwin's eyes were open, but they didn't seem to see him. They were fixed on some middle distance, unfocused and hollow, and his lips were moving soundlessly, forming words that didn't reach his voice. Pond's hands moved to the bonds at his wrists, working the knot loose, and when the fabric fell away, Phuwin's hands dropped to his lap, limp and useless, the deep gash across his palm still oozing blood.

"I'm sorry," Phuwin whispered, the words barely audible, scraping out of his throat like broken glass. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Don't," Pond said, his voice rough, his hands cupping Phuwin's face, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Don't you dare apologize. None of this is your fault."

Phuwin's breath hitched, and for a moment his eyes focused, finding Pond's face, finding the tears that were streaming down his own cheeks. His hand moved, trembling, to press against his belly, and his face crumpled as he spoke the words that had been trapped in his chest.

"It hurts," he said, his voice cracking. "The baby—I don't know—it's still moving, I felt it kick, but I don't know if—" He stopped, his throat closing, and his fingers dug into the torn silk of his robe. "I need to know about Ovoale. And Xiana. I need to know they're safe. Please. Please tell me they're safe."

Pond's hand found Phuwin's, pressing it against his belly, feeling the faint flutter of movement beneath his palm. The baby was still alive. The baby was still fighting. But the words he needed to say—the words about Xiana, about Ovoale, about the body in the courtyard—stuck in his throat, refusing to form.

"Xiana is outside," he said, the words coming slowly, carefully, as if he were walking through a minefield. "She's alive. She's hurt, but she's alive. Imaria is with her."

Phuwin's eyes closed, and a sob escaped his throat—a raw, broken sound that tore through the silence of the corridor. "Thank the gods. Thank the gods."

"And Ovoale—" Pond started, but the words died in his throat as a soldier's voice echoed from the hall below, sharp and urgent, carrying up the stairs.

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty, we found them!"

Pond's head snapped up, his hand still gripping Phuwin's, his heart pounding against his ribs. He heard the boots on the stairs, the heavy tread of soldiers carrying something—someone—and the sound of a voice he didn't recognize, low and grim, saying words he couldn't quite make out.

"Stay here," he said to Phuwin, but Phuwin was already shaking his head, his hand clutching Pond's sleeve, his eyes wide and desperate.

"No. No, I need to see. I need to—"

"Phuwin—"

But Phuwin was already rising, his legs shaking, his torn robe falling open as he staggered to his feet. Pond caught him, his arm around his waist, holding him upright as they moved toward the top of the stairs, toward the sound of boots and voices and the terrible weight of what was being carried toward them.

The soldiers reached the landing, and Pond saw what they were carrying.

Two bodies. Laid out on stretchers, their faces pale in the torchlight, their clothes soaked in blood that had long since dried to a dark, rusted brown. The first was Ovoale, her wild curls matted with blood, her round face slack and still, a wound in her chest that had been bandaged hastily, the cloth already soaked through. The second was Star, her body stiff and cold, her eyes closed at last, her hand still curled as if she had been reaching for something even in death.

Phuwin's breath left him in a sound that was not quite a scream—a sharp, ragged gasp that seemed to tear itself out of his chest. He scrambled backward, his feet slipping on the marble, his hands flying to his mouth as he stared at the bodies, at Ovoale's face, at the blood that had soaked through her dress, at the stillness of her chest.

"No," he whispered, the word barely audible, a denial so small and fragile it seemed to hang in the air for a moment before shattering. "No. No. No."

"Phuwin—" Pond reached for him, but Phuwin's hand shot out, shoving him away, his eyes wild and desperate as he stared at his daughter's body.

"This can't be," Phuwin said, his voice rising, cracking, splintering into pieces. "This can't be happening. She was just—she was just laughing this morning. She was chasing Xiana through the garden, she was—she was—"

He fell to his knees beside the stretcher, his hands reaching for Ovoale's face, his fingers brushing the cold skin of her cheek. The blood had dried in a dark streak across her temple, and he wiped at it gently, carefully, as if he could erase the evidence of what had been done to her.

"Wake up," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, baby, wake up. Mama's here. Mama's here now."

He lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder, her hair spilling across his arm. He rocked her, the way he had rocked her when she was a baby, when she had cried in the night and only his voice could soothe her, when she had curled against his chest and fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his tears falling onto her face, mixing with the blood that still stained her cheek. "I'm so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have—"

His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to hers, his shoulders shaking with sobs that tore through him like waves. The soldiers stood in silence, their heads bowed, their hands gripping the stretchers as if they could anchor themselves in the face of his grief.

Pond watched, his own tears streaming down his face, his hands hanging useless at his sides. He wanted to reach for Phuwin, to hold him, to tell him that everything would be all right—but the words felt hollow, empty, a lie that would shatter the moment they left his mouth. Nothing was all right. Nothing would ever be all right again.

Phuwin's hand moved to Ovoale's hair, brushing a strand back from her face, tucking it behind her ear the way he had done a thousand times. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw, the line of her nose, the shape of her mouth that was her mother's mouth, soft and full and still.

"She was so beautiful," Phuwin said, his voice distant, dreamlike, as if he were speaking to himself. "My little girl. My wild, beautiful little girl."

He looked up, his eyes finding Star's body on the second stretcher, and something in his face shifted—a crack, a fracture, a breaking that went deeper than bone. He laid Ovoale down gently, his hand still resting on her chest, and crawled toward Star, his knees scraping against the marble, his torn robe trailing behind him.

"Star," he said, his voice breaking on the name. "Star, wake up."

He gathered her into his arms, her body stiff and cold, her head falling back, her mouth open. Blood still seeped from the wound in her stomach, dark and thick, soaking through the torn silk of his robe, spreading across his chest in a warm stain that felt like the only heat left in the world.

"You can't leave me," he said, his voice rising, cracking, splintering into a thousand pieces. "You can't leave your little brother here alone. I'm scared. I'm so scared, Star. Why did you let them get to you? Why didn't you run? Why didn't you—"

He hit her cheek. Once. Twice. His palm striking her cold skin with a sound that made the soldiers flinch, that made Pond's breath catch in his throat. Phuwin was shouting now, his voice raw and ragged, his fists pounding against her chest as if he could force the life back into her, as if he could beat the breath back into her lungs.

"Wake up! Wake up, damn you! You promised me! You promised you'd always be here!"

His voice broke, and he collapsed against her, his face pressed to her shoulder, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest—somewhere in the hollow place where hope had lived, where love had lived, where the belief that they would all survive this night had taken root and grown.

Pond moved then, his legs carrying him forward, his hands reaching for Phuwin, pulling him away from Star's body, wrapping his arms around him and holding him against his chest. Phuwin fought him, his fists beating against his shoulders, his nails scratching at his neck, but Pond didn't let go. He held him tighter, his face pressed to Phuwin's hair, his own tears falling into the tangled strands.

"It's okay," Pond said, the words hollow and useless, falling out of him because there was nothing else to say. "It's okay. I've got you."

Phuwin shoved him away, his eyes wild, his face streaked with tears and blood. "Don't you dare tell me it's okay!" he screamed, his voice raw and breaking. "Don't you dare! My children are dying! My family is dying! Our daughter is lying there, cold and still, and you're telling me everything will be okay?!"

He pointed at Ovoale's body, his hand shaking, his voice cracking on every word. "That is my child. I carried her for nine months. I held her in my arms the moment she was born. I promised her the world. I promised her she could chase her dreams, that she could be anything she wanted to be, that I would always be there to catch her when she fell."

His breath hitched, and he pressed his hand to his chest, as if he could hold his heart together, as if he could keep it from shattering into pieces. "And now she's gone. She's gone, Pond. She's never coming back. And you're standing there, telling me it's okay?"

"I'm not saying it's okay," Pond said, his voice low and rough, his hands reaching for Phuwin again. "I'm saying I'm here. I'm saying we're going to get through this together."

"Together?" Phuwin laughed, a broken, hollow sound that echoed off the walls. "We're not together. We haven't been together in years. You've been chasing a son, chasing an heir, while I've been here, raising your daughters, trying to hold this family together with my bare hands."

His voice cracked, and he sank to his knees, his hands covering his face, his shoulders shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beyond exhaustion. "I'm scared, Pond. I'm so scared. And nothing is okay. Nothing."

Pond knelt beside him, his hand finding Phuwin's, their fingers interlacing, the blood from Phuwin's cut palm staining his skin. He didn't let go. He held on, the way he had held on through every birth, every loss, every night when the weight of the empire had pressed down on both of them and threatened to crush them into dust.

"I know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I know nothing is okay. But I'm here. I'm not leaving. And we're going to find whoever did this, and we're going to make them pay."

Phuwin's breath hitched, and he looked up at Pond, his eyes red and swollen, his face streaked with tears and blood. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand tightened around Pond's, and he nodded, a small, broken movement that carried the weight of everything he couldn't say.

Tarven.