The tray was warm against his palms, the bread still steaming faintly, the broth sloshing gentle against the clay bowl as he nudged the door open with his hip. Morning light filtered through the heavy velvet drapes in pale gold streaks, but the air that hit him was wrong—thick, humid, carrying a sweetness that turned his stomach. The smell of sickness. The smell of a body fighting something it could not name.

He stopped in the doorway.

Clove was there, her back to him, one hand pressed to Pond's forehead, the other gripping the edge of the bed. Her shoulders were drawn tight beneath her simple dress, and she did not turn when the door opened. She did not move at all.

"Clove."

She turned then, and Phuwin saw her face before she could hide it. Drawn. Pale. The lines around her mouth deeper than they had been at dawn. She looked at him, then at the tray in his hands, and something in her eyes made him want to set it down before he dropped it.

"The fever is climbing," she said. Her voice was flat, the way it got when she was holding something back. "The root is working on the girls—the healer says their pulses are stronger. But his body is fighting the mountain's poison."

Phuwin crossed the room without feeling his feet move. The tray hit the table with a clatter he barely heard, the broth sloshing over the rim of the bowl, bread sliding from its plate onto the wood. He did not look at it. He could not look away from the bed.

Pond lay on his back, the crimson silk tangled around his hips, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes were open but glassy, unfocused, staring at the canopy above him like he was trying to remember where he was. His skin had gone the color of old parchment, slick with sweat, and his black hair lay wild and loose against the pillow, tangled from a night of restless turning. The scar at his neck stood out dark against the pallor, a thin line that Phuwin had traced a hundred times with his fingers, had kissed in the dark when he thought Pond was sleeping.

And his hand—his bandaged hand—lay palm-up on the empty side of the bed. Where Phuwin had knelt. Where Phuwin had told him the truth.

It was trembling.

"Pond."

Phuwin's voice came out smaller than he meant it to. He lowered himself to his knees beside the bed, the stone floor cold through his silk dress, and took Pond's shaking hand in both of his. The bandages were warm, damp, and beneath them the fingers twitched, curling toward him like a man reaching for a lifeline.

"Pond. Can you hear me?"

Pond's eyes moved, slow and heavy, finding his face. For a moment there was nothing there—just the glassy distance of fever—and then something sharpened behind them. Recognition. Relief. His mouth moved, but the sound that came out was barely a breath.

"You came back."

"I told you I would." Phuwin pressed the back of Pond's hand to his cheek, feeling the heat of it, the burn. "I told you I'd be right here."

Pond's eyes fluttered closed. His breathing stayed fast, shallow, his chest rising and falling like a bellows with a leak in it. Phuwin watched the pulse jump in his throat, too quick, too weak, and felt something cold settle in his chest.

"Are you hurting?" he asked. "Pond. Tell me the truth."

Pond shook his head. It was a weak thing, barely a movement, but the lie was written all over his face—the way his jaw was clenched, the way his fingers had gone rigid in Phuwin's grip.

"Don't lie to me," Phuwin said, and his voice broke on the last word. "Not now. Not after everything. I want to get you helped as fast as I can, and I can't do that if you won't tell me what's wrong."

Pond's eyes opened again. They were wet. He looked at Phuwin, really looked at him, and after a long moment he nodded. Just once. A small, broken thing.

Phuwin's tears came then, hot and sudden, spilling over his cheeks before he could stop them. He did not try to stop them. He turned to Clove, still standing at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her like she was holding herself together.

"Get the healer," he said. "She told me she already injected the root into Ovoale and Star. She has to help him. Clove—" His voice cracked. "Your brother is dying here."

Clove's face went white, but she nodded. She was already moving, her skirts rustling against the stone floor, and then the door opened and closed behind her and they were alone.

The room felt smaller without her. Quieter. The only sounds were Pond's breathing—too fast, too labored—and the soft creak of the bed as Phuwin shifted closer, pressing his forehead to Pond's bandaged hand.

"Pond," he whispered. "Pond, I'm going to be right here. Do you hear me? I'm not going anywhere. I love you, okay? I love you."

Pond's fingers curled around his, weak but present. His lips moved, and Phuwin leaned closer to hear it.

"The girls."

"They're getting the root. They're getting better. You did it, Pond. You brought it back. You saved them."

Pond's eyes closed. A single tear slid from the corner, tracking down his temple into his hair. "Good," he breathed. "Good."

Phuwin stayed there, his forehead pressed to Pond's hand, his own tears falling onto the bandages, until he heard footsteps in the corridor. He straightened as the door opened, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and the healer came in.

She was a small woman, gray-haired, with the kind of face that had seen too much and learned to hide it. She carried a leather bag, worn and stained, and she set it on the table beside the forgotten tray of bread and broth without a word. Clove followed her in, closing the door behind them, and stood against it like she was bracing it shut.

The healer looked at Pond. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes moving over his face, his chest, the bandages on his hands. Then she walked to the bedside and rested her fingers against his forehead, her face unreadable.

"Your Majesty," she said. "I'm going to remove the bandages. It may hurt."

Pond nodded. A small, jerky movement. His eyes had found Phuwin again, and they did not leave him as the healer reached for the wrappings on his left hand.

The first pull made Pond's fingers twitch. The second made him gasp, a sharp, bitten-off sound that Phuwin felt in his own chest. And then the bandage came away, and Phuwin saw it.

His hand was dark. Not the tan of his skin, but a deep, angry red-black, mottled with green and blue, the flesh swollen and tight around the wounds from the mountain. Dried blood crusted the edges, and the smell of it—sweet and wrong—hit Phuwin in the back of the throat.

He heard himself gasp. He did not care.

The healer looked at the hand, then at the other one, still wrapped. She did not touch it. She did not have to.

"They're infected," she said. "Both of them. I'll have to pour alcohol over the wounds and clean them, but the infection has already spread deep. The chance of it worsening is high." She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was quieter. "You have a bad fever, Your Majesty. That, combined with the infection, tells me the mountain carried something into your blood. It cannot spread to others. But it will weaken you. You must not move around too much."

She looked at Phuwin then, and her eyes were kind, which made it worse. "This could be fatal."

Phuwin was on his feet before he knew he had moved. He crossed to the other side of the bed, sank down beside Pond, and brushed his fingers through the wild, tangled hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The heat of him was terrible. It burned against Phuwin's palm.

"Are you sure?" His voice was high, thin, not his own. "It's not just fevers? This is my husband, you know. This is my husband of fifteen years, and I'm very scared. My husband could die? No—" He shook his head, hard, like he could shake the words out of the air. "I don't want that. Not now. Not after everything. I have eight children. Eight. Healer, God, please help him."

The healer's face softened. She set down the roll of clean bandages she had been reaching for. "There is only so much I can do, Empress. The body must fight this on its own. For now, we watch and wait. We see how his condition changes."

Tears fell from Phuwin's eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand, a rough, impatient gesture, and drew a breath that shuddered through his whole body. "I'll ask for you tomorrow," he said. "I need time to think right now. Please."

The healer nodded. She began to gather her tools, and Phuwin watched her hands move, watched her place the scissors and the salve and the clean cloths back into her bag, and a thought surfaced through the fog of his fear.

"Wait."

She stopped.

"His hands," Phuwin said. "You said you'd clean them. I'll do it. Just—" His voice broke. "Just leave. Please. As Empress, I'm begging you."

The healer looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, picked up her bag, and walked to the door. Clove held it open for her, and they exchanged a look that Phuwin could not read, and then they were gone.

The door closed.

Phuwin stood there, his hand still buried in Pond's hair, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The room was silent again, but it was a different silence now. Heavier. It pressed down on him from all sides.

Pond's eyes were open again. They were wet, glassy, but they found him, and there was something in them that Phuwin had never seen before. Fear. Pure, naked fear.

"I'm going to die," Pond whispered. "I'm going to. I can tell."

"No." Phuwin shook his head, hard. "No, don't say that. Don't you dare say that."

"Phuwin—"

"No." He leaned down, brushed the damp bangs back from Pond's forehead, and kissed him. Deep. Desperate. He poured everything into it—fifteen years, eight children, a mountain climbed and a root carried home, all the words they had never said and the ones they had finally found—and when he pulled back, they were both shaking.

"I love you," Phuwin said. "We're just going to have to pray together. Okay, baby? Okay?"

Pond's mouth curved. It was barely a smile, a ghost of one, but it was there. He nodded, a small, exhausted movement, and his eyes drifted closed.

Phuwin stood. His hands went to the ties of his dress, the green silk sliding from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. He did not fold it. He did not look at it. He climbed onto the bed beside Pond, the mattress dipping under his weight, and laid his hand on Pond's chest.

The heartbeat under his palm was too fast. Too weak. But it was there.

He pressed closer, curling against Pond's side, his belly pressed to Pond's hip, the child inside him turning in a slow, sleepy roll. He felt it, a small kick against his ribs, and he took Pond's hand and pressed it to the swell.

"Feel that?" he whispered. "That's our baby. Our child. They're waiting for you. I'm waiting for you. So you have to fight, Pond. You have to come back to me."

Pond's fingers moved against his belly. Weak. Barely there. But they moved.

Phuwin closed his eyes. He listened to Pond's breathing, the wet rattle of it, and began to pray. He prayed to the gods of the waterfall, to the spirits of the mountain, to anything that would listen. He prayed the way he had prayed at the birth of every child, the way he had prayed when the guards dragged him to his knees, the way he had prayed alone in the dark when he thought Pond had died on that mountain.

He prayed until his voice went hoarse, and then he prayed in silence, his lips moving against Pond's shoulder, his hand pressed to the place where their child grew.

And slowly, so slowly, the breathing beneath him began to steady.

Phuwin lifted his head. Pond's face had relaxed, the lines of pain smoothing out, his mouth soft and slack. The fever still burned against Phuwin's palm, but the trembling had stopped.

He was sleeping. Real sleep, not the restless half-conscious drifting from before.

Phuwin let out a breath he had not known he was holding. He pressed a kiss to Pond's jaw, then settled back down, his ear against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that refused to stop.

"I'll be right here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Outside, the morning stretched longer, the light reaching farther down the stone walls. Somewhere in the palace, his daughters were waking, their pulses growing stronger with the root the man beside him had bled for. Somewhere, the healer was preparing, waiting for tomorrow, when they would know more.

And in the bed, Phuwin held his husband, and prayed, and waited.

The child kicked again, a small, insistent movement against his ribs.

He smiled. It was a tired thing, fragile, but it was there.

"I know," he whispered. "I know. He's coming back to us."