His hand rested on the hollow of Pond's throat, feeling the pulse there—strong, steady, alive. The lamp carved shadows into the Emperor's face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, making him look younger than the weight of his crown. Phuwin watched the rise and fall of his chest, the slow blink of those dark eyes half-closed in the aftermath of pleasure, and felt something in his own chest loosen, just a fraction.

This was what he had missed. Not the throne, not the empire, not the endless councils and treaties. This. The quiet after. The warmth of another body beside him, the knowledge that Pond was here, breathing, alive.

His other hand rested on the curve of his belly, and beneath his palm, the child turned—a faint, fluttering kick, like a fish brushing against the inside of a stream. Phuwin smiled, a small, private thing, and pressed his palm closer.

"I'm pre—"

The word was barely a breath when Pond's cough tore through the silence. A dry, rattling hack that bent him forward, his shoulders shaking, his hand flying to his mouth. The sound was wrong—too deep, too wet, scraping out of his chest like something that had claws.

Phuwin's hand dropped from his throat. "Pond?"

Pond waved him off, still coughing, the sound muffled behind his fist. "Fine," he managed, his voice rough and shredded. "Just—the mountain air. It lingers."

"You're not fine." Phuwin was already moving, swinging his legs off the bed, his bare feet finding the cold stone floor. The chill climbed his ankles, his calves, but he didn't stop. There was a pitcher of water on the washstand, and he poured it into a cup with hands that were not quite steady.

Pond took the cup, drank, and coughed again—a wet, rattling sound that made Phuwin's stomach clench. He watched the way Pond's throat moved as he swallowed, the way his bandaged hands trembled around the cup.

Those hands. Linen wrapped tight, stained with old blood and the dark residue of salve. The mountain had marked him in ways Phuwin was only beginning to understand.

"Let me see your hands," Phuwin said softly.

Pond shook his head, setting the cup down on the washstand. "They're fine."

"You've been saying that since you walked through the gate."

"Because it's true."

But his voice was thinner now, frayed at the edges. He gripped the porcelain edge of the washstand, his knuckles pale beneath the bandages, and Phuwin saw the way his shoulders hunched, the way his chest heaved like he was fighting for breath.

Phuwin moved closer, his bare feet silent on the stone. He reached out and pressed his palm to Pond's forehead, and the heat that met his skin made him pull back as if burned.

"You're burning," he said. "Pond, you're burning up. You need—"

He turned, already thinking of the medicine cabinet, the healer's chambers, the herbs Clove kept in the nursery. But before he could take a step, a sound stopped him cold.

A thud. Heavy. Final.

He spun back around.

Pond was on the floor.

He had collapsed against the washstand, his body crumpled at its base, his head lolling against the wood. And at his mouth, bright and terrible in the lamplight, was blood.

Dark. Red. Spilling down his chin, staining the collar of his tunic, pooling on the stone floor.

"Pond."

Phuwin's voice was a stranger's, high and thin. He was on his knees before he knew he had moved, his hands on Pond's chest, pressing, feeling for the heartbeat that had been so steady beneath his fingers moments ago.

"Pond. Pond, look at me. Look at me."

Pond's eyes were open, but they were glassy, unfocused, staring at something Phuwin couldn't see. His lips moved, but no sound came out—only more blood, welling up dark and slow.

Phuwin pressed harder. "No. No, no, no. You can't. You can't do this to me. Not now. Not after everything."

His voice broke. His hands were shaking, his whole body shaking, and he could feel the cold stone biting into his knees, the chill climbing his legs, but all he could see was the blood. So much blood.

"Help!" The word tore out of him, raw and desperate. "Someone help! Please—"

His sobs fragmented the words, made them jagged and broken. He pressed his hand to Pond's chest, feeling the faint, faltering rhythm beneath his palm, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but kneel there in the spreading dark and scream.

The door burst open.

Clove's boots crossed the threshold, and she was moving before the door had finished slamming against the wall. Her eyes went wide, took in the scene in a single glance—the blood, the crumpled body, Phuwin on his knees—and then she was there, her hands on Pond's shoulders, her voice sharp and steady.

"What happened?"

"I—I don't—" Phuwin's voice was a shattered thing. "We were talking. I was talking to him, and then he was coughing up blood, and he—he just—"

"Help me get him on the bed."

Clove's voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. She hooked her arms under Pond's shoulders, and Phuwin scrambled to his feet, taking his legs, and together they dragged him across the floor. His body was heavy, limp, a dead weight that made Phuwin's arms burn and his heart stutter.

They laid him on the crimson silk, and the sheets that had felt so warm moments ago now seemed obscene, the color of the blood still seeping from Pond's mouth.

Clove's hands were already moving, pressing to Pond's throat, his chest, his wrists. She leaned close, listening, her face a mask of concentration.

Phuwin stood at the foot of the bed, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. His fingers were red. Pond's blood, warm and sticky, drying on his skin. He stared at them, at the evidence of what had just happened, and felt the world tilt beneath his feet.

"Is he breathing?"

The question came out of him, his own voice a stranger's. He didn't want to ask it. He was terrified of the answer.

Clove didn't answer. She was pressing her ear to Pond's chest, her lips moving silently, counting. The pause stretched, impossibly long, a moment that felt like an hour, like a lifetime.

Phuwin's hand went to his belly. The child was still, quiet, as if it too was holding its breath.

Clove's lips stopped moving. Her hand flattened against Pond's chest, palm down, fingers spread, as if she could will the heartbeat back into existence through sheer pressure. The silence stretched, fat and terrible, and Phuwin heard his own breath coming in short, shallow gasps, too fast, too loud in the room that had gone so quiet.

"He's breathing," Clove said. "Weak. Shallow. But breathing."

The words hit Phuwin like a physical blow, knocking the air out of him. He swayed, his hand catching the bedpost, the wood smooth and cool beneath his blood-stained fingers. Breathing. Pond was breathing. The words repeated in his skull, a prayer, a litany, a rope thrown across the chasm that had just opened beneath his feet.

"But—" Clove's voice cut off, and the rope frayed.

"But what?"

Clove didn't answer. Her hands moved to Pond's jaw, tilting his head back, opening his airway. The blood at his mouth had slowed to a trickle, dark and sluggish, but it was still there, still coming. She pressed two fingers to the hollow of his throat, counting under her breath, her brow furrowed.

"His pulse is thready," she said finally. "Irregular. He's lost a lot of blood."

Phuwin's hand went to his belly again, a gesture so instinctive now he barely noticed it. The child was still, motionless, as if it too was listening, waiting for Clove to deliver a verdict that would decide everything.

"What do we do?" His voice came out steady, which surprised him. Inside, he was screaming. "Tell me what to do."

Clove's eyes met his, and for a moment, something flickered there—fear, maybe, or something worse. Then it was gone, replaced by the mask of the healer, the woman who had caught his daughter in her hands and pulled her into the world.

"I need warm water. Clean cloths. And something to prop his head up—a pillow, a rolled blanket, anything." She was already moving, her hands pressing along Pond's ribs, checking for breaks, for damage. "And I need you to stay calm. Can you do that?"

Phuwin nodded, though the motion felt foreign, like his head belonged to someone else. He turned, his bare feet finding the cold stone, and crossed to the washstand. The pitcher was still there, the cup Pond had drunk from, a thin smear of red on the rim. He grabbed the pitcher and a stack of clean cloths from the shelf, his hands moving on their own, his mind a thousand miles away.

Behind him, Clove's voice was low, almost too low to hear. "Stay with me, Pond. You didn't climb that mountain to die in your own bed."

Phuwin's fingers tightened on the pitcher. The words were meant for Pond, but they felt like they were for him too. A command. A promise. A threat.

He brought the water and cloths to the bedside, setting them down on the low table. Clove took a cloth without looking at him, dipping it in the water and pressing it to Pond's forehead. The Emperor's skin was slick with sweat, his face pale beneath his tan, his lips tinged with blue.

"The root," Phuwin said suddenly. "The one he brought back. Could it—is it poisoning him?"

Clove's hands paused. "I don't know. I've never seen a root like that before. I gave it to the healer, but—" She shook her head. "It's possible. The mountain is full of things that kill. Maybe he brought back more than he could carry."

Phuwin's stomach turned. He pressed his hand to his belly, feeling the faint warmth of his own skin, the life curled inside him. The child that Pond didn't know about. The child that might never know its father.

No. He couldn't think like that. He wouldn't.

"What else could it be?" he asked, his voice harder now, a blade wrapped in silk. "What else causes this? The coughing, the blood, the fever?"

Clove's jaw tightened. "Many things. The cold. The climb. The wounds on his hands—if they got infected, the poison could spread through his blood. Or the root itself. Or—" She stopped.

"Or what?"

"Or nothing." Clove's voice was flat, controlled. "Sometimes the body just fails. It's been through too much, carried too much, and it gives out. No reason. No warning. It just stops."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Phuwin stared at Pond's face, at the lines around his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks. He had been so strong at the gate, so alive, holding the root like a trophy, like a promise. And now he lay here, pale and bleeding, his body betraying him in the worst possible way.

"He can't stop," Phuwin said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "He can't. I haven't told him—" He stopped himself, his hand flying to his mouth.

Clove looked up, her eyes sharp. "Haven't told him what?"

Phuwin shook his head, pulling his hand away from his belly as if burned. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Not now."

Clove held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. She knew. Of course she knew. She had been there when he'd discovered the pregnancy, had held him while he wept, had promised to keep his secret. But now the secret felt like a weight, a stone tied to his chest, dragging him down.

"Help me prop his head up," Clove said, and the moment passed. "I need him elevated. It'll help him breathe."

Phuwin moved, grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed and sliding it under Pond's shoulders, then another, tilting his head back. Clove adjusted the angle, her hands gentle but firm, and Phuwin watched her work, watched the way her fingers found the places where life lived—the pulse points, the ribs, the hollow of the throat.

She pressed her ear to Pond's chest again, listening. The silence stretched, and Phuwin's hand found his belly again, his thumb tracing small circles over the curve. The child was still, too still, and he felt a spike of fear that had nothing to do with Pond.

"Is he—"

"His breathing is steadying," Clove said, cutting him off. "The blood is slowing. But I can't tell if there's internal bleeding. If his lungs are filling, we need to drain them, and I don't have the tools for that here."

"The healer. I'll fetch the healer."

Clove shook her head. "The healer is with Ovoale and Star. The root is being prepared for them as we speak. If I pull her away now, they might lose their chance."

Phuwin's hands clenched at his sides. "And if I don't pull her away, I might lose him."

Clove's face softened, just for a moment. "You won't lose him. I won't let that happen."

The words were steady, certain, the same voice she'd used when she'd caught Lunara in her hands, when she'd told him the baby was alive, when she'd promised he wasn't broken. Phuwin wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, his hand finding Pond's. The bandages were rough beneath his fingers, stained with old blood and the dark residue of salve. He pressed his palm to the back of Pond's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin through the linen, the faint tremor of his pulse.

"You stupid, stubborn man," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "You climbed a mountain that killed everyone who tried. You brought back a root that could save our daughters. And now you're going to lie here and bleed out because you wouldn't rest?"

Pond didn't answer. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady, and Phuwin watched the rhythm like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Clove moved around the bed, checking Pond's pulse again, pressing her hand to his forehead. The fever was still there, burning hot beneath his skin, but it seemed lower now, less furious. She dipped another cloth in the water and pressed it to his neck, his collarbone, the hollow of his chest.

"I need you to talk to him," she said, not looking up. "Keep him here. If he slips too far, he might not come back."

Phuwin's throat tightened. "What do I say?"

"Anything. Everything. Whatever you've been holding back." Clove's eyes met his, and there was something in them—a knowing, a weight. "Now's the time for it."

Phuwin swallowed. His hand tightened on Pond's, and he felt the child move in his belly—a faint flutter, a kick, a reminder that life was still happening, still fighting, even as the man beside him fought for breath.

"Pond," he said, his voice low and rough. "Can you hear me?"

No response. The rise and fall of his chest continued, steady, relentless.

"I need you to come back. Do you understand? I need you to open your eyes and look at me, because there's something I have to tell you." He paused, his hand moving to his belly, pressing flat against the curve. "Something I should have told you the moment you walked through the gate."

The child kicked again, stronger this time, and Phuwin felt tears prick at his eyes. He blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.

"I'm pregnant," he said, and the words felt like a door opening, a weight lifting. "I've been carrying your child since the morning you left. I didn't tell you because I was afraid—afraid of what you'd say, afraid of what it would mean, afraid that you'd think I was trying to trap you or burden you with another child you didn't ask for."

He laughed, a broken, wet sound. "But you did ask for it. You asked for it that morning, and I gave it to you, and now—" He pressed his hand harder against his belly, feeling the child move beneath his palm. "Now I'm here, and you're here, and I can't do this without you. I can't raise this child alone. I can't watch our daughters wake up and have to tell them their father is gone."

His voice broke, and he let it. Let the tears fall, hot and fast, tracking down his cheeks and dripping onto the back of Pond's hand.

"So you have to come back. Do you hear me? You have to open your eyes and look at me and tell me you're going to be okay. Because I can't—I can't lose you. Not now. Not after everything."

The words fell into the room and disappeared. Pond's chest kept its shallow rhythm, the only answer he could give. Phuwin pressed his forehead to the back of Pond's hand, the bandages rough against his skin, and let the tears soak into the linen.

Clove's hands moved in the corner of his vision, dipping cloth into water, wringing it out, pressing it to the hollow of Pond's throat again. She worked in silence, her movements precise and unhurried, and Phuwin hated her for it. Hated the calm, the control, the way she could keep her hands steady while his own shook against the bedclothes.

"His pulse is getting weaker."

The words were quiet, almost matter-of-fact, and they hit Phuwin in the chest like a stone. He lifted his head, staring at Clove, waiting for her to take them back, to say she'd made a mistake, that she'd been wrong.

She didn't.

"I need to try something," she said, straightening. "I've seen it done once, when I was young. A healer in the western provinces used it on a man who'd taken a spear to the chest. It's risky, but—" She looked at Phuwin, and the mask slipped, just for a moment. "He doesn't have time for me to be gentle."

Phuwin's hand tightened on Pond's. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to drain the blood from his chest." Clove was already moving, crossing to the washstand, pulling open the drawer where she kept her blades. "If his lungs are filling, the pressure is crushing them. If I can relieve that, he might be able to breathe on his own."

The blade she pulled out was thin, curved, wicked in the lamplight. She held it up, checking the edge, her face unreadable.

"It will hurt him," she said. "If he wakes, he'll feel it. But if I don't do this, he might not wake at all."

Phuwin stared at the blade, at the way the light caught its edge, and felt the child move in his belly. A kick, sharp and insistent, as if the baby too was urging him to decide.

"Do it," he said.

Clove nodded, once, and moved to the bedside. She pressed her fingers to Pond's ribs, counting them, finding the space between the fourth and fifth. She placed the tip of the blade against his skin, and Phuwin saw her hand tremble—the first sign of fear he'd seen from her since the night Lunara was born.

"You'll need to hold him," she said. "If he moves, I could slip."

Phuwin moved without thinking, climbing onto the bed, pressing his weight against Pond's shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. He could feel the fever through the silk of Pond's shirt, the heat of his skin, the faint tremor of his muscles. He leaned down, his lips close to Pond's ear.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here. Don't move. Don't you dare move."

Clove pressed the blade in.

Pond's body arched against Phuwin's, a sound tearing from his throat—not a scream, something worse, a gurgling, choking noise that made Phuwin's stomach turn. The child kicked, hard, and Phuwin gritted his teeth, pressing down harder, holding Pond still while Clove worked.

Blood welled up around the blade, dark and thick, and Clove angled it, letting it run. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the room, drowning out the rush of Phuwin's own heartbeat.

"More cloth," Clove said, her voice tight. "Now."

Phuwin reached for the stack on the table, his hand shaking, and pressed them into her waiting palm. She worked quickly, wiping the blood away, pressing her ear to Pond's chest, listening.

The gurgling stopped.

Slowly, like a tide going out, the tension drained from Pond's body. His chest fell, then rose—deeper this time, cleaner, the air moving through him without the wet, rattling sound that had been there before.

Clove sat back, her hands slick with blood, her face pale. She pressed two fingers to Pond's throat, holding them there, counting.

The silence stretched.

"His pulse is steadying," she said, and her voice cracked on the last word. "It's still weak, but it's there. It's holding."

Phuwin let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The tears came again, hot and fast, but this time they were relief, pouring out of him like water from a broken vessel. He pressed his forehead to Pond's, feeling the fever through the skin, the faint stir of breath against his lips.

"You're going to be okay," he whispered, the words half a prayer, half a command. "You're going to open your eyes, and I'm going to be here, and we're going to figure this out. All of it."

Pond's fingers twitched against his, a barely there movement, a ghost of a response.

Phuwin's breath caught. He looked down at their hands, at the way Pond's fingers had curled, just slightly, around his own.

"Clove," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "He moved. Did you see—he moved."

Clove was there in an instant, her hand on Pond's face, tilting it toward the light. "Pond. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

They waited. The lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The child kicked again, a small, insistent reminder of the life waiting in the balance.

Pond's fingers tightened around Phuwin's hand.

It wasn't much—a twitch, a spasm, a ghost of movement. But it was there. It was real. It was him.

"He's still with us," Clove said, and her voice was thick with something that might have been tears. "He's fighting."

Phuwin laughed, a broken, wet sound that was half sob, half joy. He pressed his lips to Pond's forehead, feeling the fever through the skin, the faint stir of breath against his lips.

"Of course you're fighting," he murmured. "You climbed a mountain that killed everyone who tried. You're not going to let a little blood stop you."

Pond's fingers tightened again, as if in answer.

Clove moved around the bed, pressing clean cloths to the wound in his chest, binding it tightly. Her hands were steady now, the mask back in place, but Phuwin saw the way her shoulders sagged, the way she let out a long, slow breath when she was done.

"The bleeding has stopped," she said. "The wound is clean. If the fever doesn't spike again, and if there's no infection, he has a chance."

"A chance," Phuwin repeated, tasting the word. It wasn't certainty. It wasn't a promise. But it was something. It was more than he'd had a moment ago.

He pressed his hand to his belly, feeling the child move beneath his palm. A kick, soft but certain, a small life making its presence known.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered to Pond. "That's your child. The one you don't know about yet. The one who's going to meet you when you wake up."

Pond's chest rose and fell, steady now, the rhythm of a man who was still fighting, still holding on.

Phuwin leaned down, pressing his lips to Pond's ear.

"So you have to wake up," he said. "You have to open your eyes and meet this child. You have to watch our daughters wake up and see their father alive. You have to stay."

His hand found Pond's again, their fingers lacing together, the bandages rough against his skin.

"Stay," he said, the word a command, a prayer, a promise. "Stay with me."

Clove's hands stilled over Pond's chest, her fingers resting between his ribs where the blade had been. She looked up at Phuwin, and the lamplight caught the blood on her hands, the same blood that was drying on his own skin, and her expression was one he couldn't read.

"The bleeding has stopped," she said, and her voice was flat, careful, as if she was choosing each word with precision. "But the fever is still there. And his lungs—I won't know if they're clear until he wakes."

She opened her mouth to say something else, and then closed it. The silence stretched, the lamp flickering, the shadows shifting across the stone floor.

Phuwin's hand tightened on Pond's, his knuckles white, the child kicking again in his belly, a small, insistent heartbeat against the threat of stillness.

Clove's lips parted, and the words landed in the quiet, heavy and unreadable.

"He's not out of danger. Not yet."