Week had passed of nights where Phuwin would sing and read to Lunara. Her tiny fist against his shoulder as they slept. He finally had came back to the palace. He took a step inside.

The threshold swallowed her.

Phuwin paused just inside the great hall, one hand finding the carved doorframe as if the palace might reject him, might push him back out into the night he'd crossed to get here. The air was warm and still against his bare arms, heavy with the smell of polished marble and candle smoke, a hundred flames flickering low in their sconces. Gold leaf gleamed on the vaulted ceiling above, catching the light and scattering it like scattered coins, and at the far end of the hall, the Emperor's throne sat cold and dark and empty.

He had left this place wearing a mud-caked nightgown, barefoot, in early labor, convinced he would never see it again.

Now his blue dress swept the marble as he stepped forward, the silk whispering against the stone, and the sound was so loud in the silence that he almost stopped again. His hand brushed the back of a chair as he passed—some ornate thing carved with vines and birds, meant for visiting dignitaries—and the wood was cool beneath his fingers, solid, real. He traced the curve of a carved wing with his thumb and kept walking.

The throne watched him approach. It did not judge. It did not welcome. It simply sat there, dark and patient, waiting for the man who had ridden north at dawn to climb a mountain that had killed every soul sent to it.

Phuwin's hand drifted to his belly—a habit he could not break, though the weight was gone now, replaced by the hollow ache of a body that had recently held life and let it go. Lunara. His fourth daughter. The baby he had almost ended with a pill in a stranger's bathroom, kneeling on cold tile while Clove forced his mouth open and made him spit it out.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, letting the silence settle around him like dust. Somewhere in this palace, his daughters slept—or didn't sleep. Imaria, silent and withdrawn. Xiana, healing from a stab wound, asking for him. Ovoale, lying mindless in a bed, trapped between waking and sleep, waiting for a root that might never come.

And Aric. His son. The baby he had left behind when he walked out into the dark.

The sound came from the corridor to his left.

Small. Unsteady. A child's gummy cry, the kind that meant frustration or joy or simply the need to be heard. And beneath it, the shuffle of uncertain feet—too light for an adult, too clumsy for a servant, the particular scuff of someone who had only recently learned that walking was a thing feet could do.

Phuwin turned.

Aric stood at the mouth of the corridor, one chubby hand braced against the wall, the other reaching toward him. He was wearing a small linen tunic that had once fit him and now hung loose at the shoulders, and his dark hair—Pond's hair, that same cropped black—was sticking up in three directions. His face was round and serious for a moment, studying Phuwin with the intense focus of a child who was still deciding whether the person before him was real.

Then his face crumpled into a smile, and he let go of the wall.

"Mommy!"

The word was gummy and wet, half-swallowed, but unmistakable. He stumbled forward, arms out, his balance wavering like a sapling in wind, and Phuwin's breath caught in his throat so sharply that for a moment he could not move at all.

Aric took three steps. Four. His foot caught on the edge of a rug and he pitched forward, but Phuwin was already moving, crossing the distance in a rush of blue silk, and he caught his son against his chest just before the marble could meet him.

"Oh," Phuwin heard himself say, and the sound was small and broken. "Oh, my love."

Aric's arms locked around his neck, surprisingly strong, his small body warm and solid and real in a way that made Phuwin's knees want to give out. He smelled like milk and soap and the particular sweetness of a child who had been bathed and powdered and put to bed, and he was babbling now, a stream of nonsense syllables that needed no translation.

Phuwin slid down the wall, his back finding the cool stone, and he held his son and wept.

The tears came without permission, hot and silent, running down his cheeks and into Aric's hair. He had missed this. He had missed this so much it had become a physical weight in his chest, a stone he carried through every hour of every day, and now it was gone, dissolved in the warmth of a child who did not know he had been left behind.

"I'm sorry," Phuwin whispered into his son's hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Aric pulled back, his small hands patting Phuwin's face with the clumsy tenderness of a child who did not understand tears but knew they needed fixing. His dark eyes—Pond's eyes, that same deep brown—searched Phuwin's face with a seriousness that made him look older than his months.

"Mommy," he said again, and this time it was not a cry but a statement, a fact, the most important thing he knew.

Phuwin laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Yes. Mommy's here."

Aric grinned, and Phuwin saw the two small teeth that had pushed through his bottom gums, white and sharp against the pink of his mouth. The rest was still gum, smooth and bare, and the smile was so wide and so proud that Phuwin's heart cracked open all over again.

He had learned to walk. He had learned to talk. He had grown teeth. And Phuwin had missed all of it, every single stumble and syllable and pearly white emergence, because he had been too broken to stay.

The sound of footsteps made him look up.

Clove stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the gray light of the corridor beyond, and in her arms, wrapped in a soft white blanket, was Lunara. The baby's eyes were open, that same impossible emerald green that had made Phuwin's breath catch the first time he saw her, and she was looking around the great hall with the calm, curious gaze of a child who had never known fear.

Clove crossed the marble floor toward him, her boots clicking softly, and when she reached him she knelt, lowering Lunara into Phuwin's free arm with the practiced ease of a woman who had held a hundred babies.

"She slept the whole ride," Clove said quietly. "Didn't even wake when we crossed the gate."

Phuwin looked down at his daughter—his fourth daughter, the one he had almost ended before she began—and felt the tears start again. She was so small. So impossibly small, her face a perfect miniature of everything he loved, her wavy hair soft and dark against the blanket. She blinked up at him, her tiny hand curling and uncurling, and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Lunara," he breathed. "My Lunara."

Aric, still perched on his lap, reached out to poke his sister's cheek with one damp finger. "Baby," he announced, with the authority of a child who had decided something and would not be argued with.

"Yes," Phuwin said, laughing through his tears. "Your baby sister."

Aric poked her again, harder this time, and Lunara's face scrunched up in protest. Phuwin caught his son's hand before he could do it a third time, pressing a kiss to the small, sticky fingers.

"Gentle," he said. "She's very small. She needs gentle."

Aric considered this, his brow furrowed in concentration, and then he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to Lunara's forehead—a wet, gummy kiss that left a trail of drool on her skin.

Phuwin's chest ached with the sweetness of it.

Clove had risen, brushing off her skirts, and she stood looking down at the three of them with an expression Phuwin could not quite read. Something soft. Something sad. Something that looked almost like hope.

"The children are in the eastern courtyard," she said. "Imaria is training with the bow. Xiana is on the swing."

Phuwin's head snapped up. "Xiana? Her leg—"

"Healing. She's on crutches now, but the healer says she can bear weight on it soon." Clove paused. "She's been asking for you. Every day. Every hour, it feels like."

Phuwin closed his eyes. He had known, of course. He had known his absence would hurt them, had known it and walked away anyway, because staying had felt like drowning. But knowing was different from hearing it spoken aloud, different from the weight of Clove's quiet words settling into his chest.

"And Imaria?"

"She doesn't ask." Clove's voice was careful. "She trains. She talks to the men. She does everything her father taught her to do." A pause. "She doesn't cry."

Phuwin's grip tightened on Lunara, and the baby made a small sound of protest. He loosened his hold, pressing another kiss to her forehead, and then he looked up at Clove.

"Help me up."

Clove took Lunara from him, settling the baby against her shoulder, and then she offered him her hand. Phuwin took it, letting her pull him to his feet, and Aric clung to his leg like a limpet, his small fists gripping the blue silk of his dress.

"We're going to see your sisters," Phuwin told him, smoothing down his son's wild hair. "Do you want to see Xiana?"

Aric's face lit up. "Xia!" he announced, and then he was off, toddling toward the corridor with the reckless confidence of a child who had only recently discovered that the world was his to move through.

Phuwin followed, his heart in his throat.

The eastern courtyard was bathed in the last gold of afternoon, the light slanting low through the trees and spilling across the grass. Phuwin stopped at the edge of the stone path, one hand braced against the archway, and let the sight of it settle into him.

Imaria stood at the far end, her long black braid swinging as she drew back the string of a bow. She was taller than he remembered—taller, and leaner, her training tunic hanging loose on shoulders that had sharpened with muscle. She sighted down the arrow, her amber eyes narrowed, and released. The arrow flew true, thunking into the center of the target, and the boys standing around her murmured their approval.

And there, on the swing beneath the old oak, was Xiana.

Her leg was propped on a small stool, the bandages white against her golden skin, and her crutches lay in the grass beside her. She was laughing—actually laughing, her head thrown back, her dark braids swinging—at something one of the younger children had said. Her small silver thumb ring caught the light as she pushed herself gently back and forth, and the sound of her joy carried across the courtyard like birdsong.

Phuwin's hand flew to his mouth.

She was all right. She was more than all right—she was laughing, she was playing, she was a child again, and the sight of it undid something in him that he hadn't known was still knotted.

Aric had already spotted her. He let go of Phuwin's leg and took off across the grass, his small legs pumping, his arms outstretched for balance, and he almost fell twice before he reached her.

"Xia! Xia!" He grabbed the edge of the swing, breathless, and pointed back toward the archway. "Look! Look, Mommy here!"

Xiana's laugh faded. She turned, following his pointing finger, and for a moment she did not see him—the archway was shadowed, and Phuwin was standing very still.

"You've been telling me that for the past week," Xiana said, and her voice was gentle, patient, the voice of a child who had learned to soothe a younger sibling's grief. "You learned to speak so well too. But Mommy's not here, okay?"

Aric pouted, his lower lip jutting out. He shook his head, insistent. "Mommy!"

Phuwin stepped out of the shadow.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

Xiana's eyes found him. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. The swing stilled beneath her, her toes digging into the grass, and for one long, terrible moment, she did not move at all.

Then she was off the swing, her crutches forgotten, her leg buckling beneath her as she tried to run on a broken bone. She stumbled, caught herself, and then she was limping toward him as fast as she could, her arms outstretched, her face crumpling into something raw and young and desperate.

"Mother!"

Phuwin was already running. He crossed the grass in a rush of blue silk, and he caught her against his chest just as her leg gave out, lifting her off her feet and holding her so tight he could feel her heartbeat against his own.

"I've missed you so much," Xiana sobbed into his shoulder. "Mom, I've missed you so much. Are you really here? Can you please stay with me? I haven't been able to sleep. I keep thinking you're going to leave again."

Phuwin held her, his hand cradling the back of her head, her braids soft and familiar beneath his fingers. He had braided those braids. He had combed the tangles out of that hair a hundred times, a thousand times, and the feel of it now was like coming home.

"I'm here," he said, and his voice broke. "I'm here, my love. I'm staying. Mommy's never leaving you, okay? Never. I'll stay with you forever."

Xiana nodded against his chest, her small body shaking with sobs, and Phuwin held her and let her cry, his own tears falling into her hair.

He did not see Imaria's bow drop. He did not see her cross the courtyard at a run, her braid flying behind her. He did not see the training boys scatter, uncertain, or the target stand forgotten with its arrow still quivering in the center.

He only heard her voice, cracked and raw, a sound he had never heard from his composed, precise firstborn.

"Mother?"

Phuwin looked up.

Imaria stood a few feet away, frozen, her hands hanging at her sides. Her training tunic was sweat-stained at the collar, her hair escaping its braid in dark wisps, and there was a scar across her face—a thin, pale line that ran from the corner of her left eye down to her cheekbone, still pink with newness, still puckered at the edges where it had not finished healing.

Phuwin's breath left him.

"Imaria," he said. "Baby."

Imaria's face crumpled. She dropped the bow—it hit the grass with a soft thud—and then she was running, closing the distance in three long strides, and she crashed into him with a force that almost knocked him over.

"I thought you weren't coming back," she gasped against his shoulder, her voice thick and wet. "I thought—Mother, I thought—"

"I'm here," Phuwin said, and he held her, his arm around her back, Xiana still clutched against his other side. "I'm here. I'm not leaving again. I promise."

Imaria pulled back, her hands framing his face, her amber eyes red-rimmed and streaming. She looked at him like she was memorizing him, like she was afraid he would dissolve if she looked away.

"You're really here," she whispered.

"I'm really here."

Phuwin reached up and brushed his thumb over the scar on her eye. The skin was smooth beneath his touch, the newness of it a wound he had not been there to see close. "Where did you get this?"

Imaria's jaw tightened. "It's nothing."

"Imaria."

"It's nothing," she repeated, and her voice was firmer now, the crown princess returning to her armor. "I'm just happy you're back. I love you so much. Don't leave again."

Phuwin's heart cracked. "No," he said softly. "I wouldn't. Never."

He kissed her forehead, a light press of lips against her skin, and Imaria closed her eyes and let him.

Behind them, the training boys had gathered, watching with wide eyes. One of them—a sandy-haired boy with a scar on his chin—stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," he said. "We were not told you had returned."

Phuwin straightened, one arm still around Imaria, the other still holding Xiana. He looked at the boy—at all of them, these young men who trained with his daughter, who learned the bow and the blade in the shadow of his absence—and he felt the weight of the throne settle back onto his shoulders.

"I have," he said simply. "I am glad to be home."

The boy's eyes flickered down his body, tracing the curve of the blue silk, the swell of his chest, the line of his throat. Phuwin felt the gaze like a touch, and he did not flinch. He was the Empress. He had been looked at before.

But Imaria had seen it too. Her jaw tightened, and she stepped forward, positioning herself between Phuwin and the boys with a protectiveness that made Phuwin's chest ache.

"The Empress is tired from his journey," she said, and her voice was ice. "You may return to your training."

The boys bowed and scattered, and Phuwin watched them go, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly.

"Yes I did." Imaria's voice was flat. "I know what they think. I know what they say when they think I can't hear them."

"Imaria—"

"It doesn't matter." She shook her head, her braid swinging. "You're here. That's all that matters."

Clove had crossed the courtyard while they spoke, Lunara still cradled in her arms. She reached them and held the baby out, and Imaria's eyes went wide.

"Is this—"

"Your sister," Phuwin said. "Lunara."

Imaria reached out, her hands trembling, and Clove placed the baby in her arms with the same practiced gentleness she had used with Phuwin. Imaria stared down at the tiny face, at the emerald eyes, at the soft wavy hair, at the rosebud mouth that curved into a sleepy smile.

"She's beautiful," Imaria breathed. "She looks like you."

"She looks like all of you," Phuwin said, and his voice was thick. "She looks like her sisters."

Imaria smiled—a real smile, the first Phuwin had seen on her face since he arrived—and she pressed a kiss to Lunara's forehead, her lips lingering there like she was making a vow.

Xiana, still pressed against Phuwin's side, reached up to touch her sister's hand. Lunara's tiny fingers closed around Xiana's thumb, and Xiana let out a wet little laugh.

"She's so small," Xiana whispered. "She's so small, Mother."

"She'll grow," Phuwin said. "They all grow."

He looked at his children—his firstborn, scarred and strong, holding his newest with a tenderness that made his chest ache; his youngest, bandaged and brave, leaning against him like she was afraid to let go; his son, sitting in the grass at their feet, chewing on his fist and smiling up at them with his two new teeth.

There was still one missing. One daughter lying in a bed in the north wing, her mind trapped between waking and sleep, waiting for a root that might never come. One handmaiden beside her, equally still, equally silent.

But Phuwin did not think of them now. He could not. If he thought of them now, he would shatter, and his children needed him whole.

So he held his daughters, and he let his son tug at his dress, and he breathed in the smell of grass and sunlight and home.

His gaze lifted past Clove, past the courtyard, toward the corridor where the rest of his children waited—unseen, unknown to him yet. The twins. Lirien and Kael. The children he had left behind without a word.

He would find them next. He would hold them, and he would tell them he was sorry, and he would never leave again.

But for now, he let himself have this moment. This single, perfect, impossible moment, with his children in his arms and the sun warm on his face and the sound of Xiana's laughter—real, bright, alive—ringing in his ears.

"I'm home," he whispered, and the words felt like a prayer.

Aric, still sitting in the grass, looked up at him with Pond's dark eyes and smiled his gummy, two-toothed smile.

"Mommy home," he said, and it was not a question.