The dark before first light pressed against the windows of Clove's house, and Phuwin stood in the doorframe with his arms wrapped around himself, the wood rough against his bare arms. The porch light buzzed a weak yellow, catching the sheen of sweat on his neck despite the cool air, and he watched Pond pace the packed dirt road in his riding leathers, a silhouette cutting through the damp.

He was checking the horses. He was checking the straps, the packs, the men. He was doing everything a man did before he rode off to a mountain that had killed every soul sent to it, and Phuwin stood in the doorway and watched him do it, feeling the ache between his legs from the birth that was still so fresh, still so real.

Behind him, the house was quiet. Lunara slept in a basket by the hearth, swaddled in cloth that Clove had washed and washed until it was soft as water. Clove herself had retreated to the back room, giving them this last hour, this last stretch of dark before the world began.

Phuwin's feet were bare on the threshold, the damp of the night air curling around his ankles, and he could smell the pine and the wet earth and the horse-sweat and the leather. He could smell Pond, too—that particular smell of him, the one that had haunted Phuwin through every night of their separation, the one he had tried to forget in Clove's little house and failed.

Pond turned. He was checking the girth strap on the nearest horse, a great dark bay with a white star on its forehead, and he looked up and caught Phuwin standing in the doorway, and the look on his face was not the face of an emperor.

It was the face of a man who was about to leave the thing he loved most in the world, and who did not know if he would come back.

"You should be inside," Pond said. His voice was rough, low, carrying across the distance between them. "The air is cold."

"I wanted to see you," Phuwin said. His own voice came out smaller than he meant it to, thinner, and he hated it. He hated how fragile he sounded, how much like someone who was about to be left. "I wanted to see you before you went."

Pond's jaw tightened. He took a step toward the house, then another, and the guards behind him—a small company of men, silent and watchful in the dark—did not move. They knew better than to move. They knew better than to exist, when the emperor was looking at his empress like that.

"You've seen me," Pond said, but it was not a dismissal. It was a plea. It was a man asking for something he did not know how to name. "You've seen me all night."

"All night isn't enough." Phuwin stepped over the threshold, onto the damp packed dirt, and the cold of it shocked his bare feet, made him gasp a little. He did not step back. "All night isn't a lifetime. All night isn't—"

He stopped. He could not say it. He could not say *all night isn't enough if you die on that mountain*. He could not say *all night isn't enough if I never see you again*.

Pond crossed the distance between them in three strides and took his waist, and the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of Phuwin's nightgown was almost too much. Phuwin grabbed his hand—grabbed it like a drowning man, like a man who had already been underwater for a year and had only just broken the surface.

"Don't leave me for too long, Pond." The words came out broken, wet, and Phuwin realized he was crying. He had not even felt the tears start. They were just there, hot on his cheeks, falling onto Pond's hands. "Don't leave me for too long. I can't—I can't do it again. I can't wait and not know. I can't—"

"Shh." Pond's voice cracked on the sound, and he pulled Phuwin against his chest, wrapping both arms around him, burying his face in Phuwin's hair. "Shh. I'm here. I'm here."

"You're leaving," Phuwin sobbed. The words were muffled against Pond's leathers, against the smell of him, against the solid warmth of his chest. "You're leaving and you're going to climb a mountain that has killed every man who ever tried, and I'm going to be here, in this house, with our daughter, and I'm going to wait and wait and wait—"

"I know." Pond's hand came up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there. "I know. I know."

"And what if you don't come back?" Phuwin pulled back just enough to look at him, his face wet, his eyes red, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What if the mountain takes you? What if I have to raise Lunara alone? What if I have to bury you the way I buried—"

He stopped. He could not say the name. He could not say *Ovoale*. He could not say *Star*. He could not say the names of the people he had already lost, the people who were not dead but not alive, the people who lay in the palace with silent brains and breathing lungs, waiting for a root that only existed on a mountain that killed everyone who climbed it.

"You won't have to bury me," Pond said. The words were fierce, almost angry, and he took Phuwin's face in both hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You won't have to bury me. I am going to climb that mountain, and I am going to find that root, and I am going to come back down. I am going to come back to you. I am going to come back to Lunara. I am going to come back to Imaria and Xiana. And we are going to wake Ovoale. We are going to wake Star. And we are going to be a family."

"You can't promise that," Phuwin whispered. "You can't promise that. You don't know—"

"I can," Pond said. "I am. I'm promising you, Phuwin. I'm promising you that I will come back. I have survived wars. I have survived betrayals. I have survived watching the man I love walk away from me in the middle of the night. I will survive a mountain."

Phuwin's breath hitched. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to let the words settle into his chest and take root there, to hold them against the fear that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He wanted to believe that the mountain would not take Pond, that the cliffs would not claim him, that the root would be found and the world would be made right.

But he had believed in promises before. He had believed in the safety of walls and the strength of guards and the loyalty of men who wore the emperor's sigil. And he had watched those walls fall, had felt the blood of his daughter on his hands, had held Star's body as she died and then didn't die, trapped somewhere between breathing and gone.

"Pond," he said, and his voice broke on the name. "Pond, I'm scared."

"I know," Pond said. "I'm scared too."

It was not what an emperor should say. It was not what a ruler of kingdoms should admit, standing in the dark outside a common woman's house with guards watching and horses stamping. But it was what Phuwin needed to hear, and Pond said it without hesitation, without shame.

"I'm scared I won't find it," Pond continued, his voice low, rough, barely more than a whisper. "I'm scared I'll climb that mountain and search for weeks and come back with nothing. I'm scared I'll come back and Ovoale will still be lying there, and Star will still be lying there, and you'll look at me like I failed you."

"I won't," Phuwin said quickly. "I won't. I could never—"

"I'm scared you'll look at me like I chose the empire over you again," Pond said, and the words were so quiet, so raw, that Phuwin felt them like a blow. "I'm scared you'll remember every argument, every fight, every time I said the wrong thing about the heir, and you'll decide that I haven't changed. That I can't change."

"I won't," Phuwin said again, and he reached up to touch Pond's face, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I won't. I see you, Pond. I see you trying. I see you—" He stopped, swallowed. "I see you loving me. I see you loving our daughters. I see you."

Pond's eyes were wet. Phuwin could see it in the dim light of the porch, the sheen of tears that Pond was trying very hard not to let fall. He was an emperor. He was a ruler of kingdoms. He was not supposed to cry in front of his guards.

But he was crying. He was crying, and Phuwin was crying, and they stood there in the damp dark before first light, holding each other like the world was ending.

"I love you," Phuwin said. The words came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep inside him. "I love you, Pond. I've loved you since the day I first saw you, and I've been so angry at you, and so hurt, and so afraid, but I've never stopped loving you. Not once. Not for a single moment."

Pond made a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and pulled him closer, crushing him against his chest. "I love you too," he said into Phuwin's hair. "I love you too. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it. I love you so much it terrifies me."

They stood like that for a long moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, to the warmth of their bodies, to the sound of their breathing. The guards shifted behind them, horses stamped, a bird called somewhere in the dark, and none of it touched them.

Then Pond pulled back, just enough to look at Phuwin's face, and his thumb came up to brush the tears from Phuwin's cheek. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and Phuwin leaned into it, letting himself be held by it.

"I'm going to come back," Pond said, and his voice was steady, sure. "I'm going to find that root, and I'm going to come back to you. To Lunara. To all of our children. And we are going to wake Ovoale. We are going to wake Star. And we are going to be a family."

Phuwin wanted to believe him. He wanted to let the words settle into his chest and take root there, to hold them against the fear that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He wanted to believe that the mountain would not take Pond, that the cliffs would not claim him, that the root would be found and the world would be made right.

But he had believed in promises before. He had believed in the safety of walls and the strength of guards and the loyalty of men who wore the emperor's sigil. And he had watched those walls fall, had felt the blood of his daughter on his hands, had held Star's body as she died and then didn't die, trapped somewhere between breathing and gone.

"Pond," he whispered, and his voice broke on the name. "Pond, come back to me."

"I will," Pond said. "I swear it. I will come back to you."

And then he kissed him.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not the soft, reverent touch of a man saying goodbye. It was desperate, hungry, a man pouring everything he could not say into the press of his lips against Phuwin's. It was a kiss that tasted of salt and tears and the sharp tang of pine, and Phuwin clung to him, his hands fisting in Pond's riding leathers, pulling him closer, trying to memorize the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his body, the way the world narrowed to this one moment.

When Pond broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. The porch light buzzed yellow above them, and the horses stamped, and a guard cleared his throat somewhere in the dark.

"I'll come back," Pond whispered against his lips. "I'll come back to you."

Phuwin's hand found his, the wedding ring pressing into his palm, and he held on like he could keep him there by will alone. The guards' horses stamped again, restless, ready. The sky was beginning to lighten at the edges, the first gray fingers of dawn reaching over the treeline.

Pond released his waist. His hand slipped from Phuwin's grip, and he turned toward the mount.