Phuwin's knees pressed into the damp stone, the chill seeping through the silk of his dress, but he barely felt it. His hands hovered over Star's cot, trembling, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin without touching. He counted her breaths the way he had counted them every night for three months—one, two, three, the pause, the shallow exhale—and each one was a small miracle he had stopped believing in.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words falling from his lips like water from the waterfall's edge. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I should have been there. I should have—" His voice cracked, splintered, and he pressed his palm flat against his mouth to hold the sob inside.

Behind him, the brazier crackled. The coals shifted, sending a ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling where it vanished into the steam. The healer's scarred worktable stood against the far wall, its tools laid out in neat, silent rows—blades and forceps and vials of dark liquid, all of them witness to the long months of waiting.

Imaria took a half-step into the room, her leather boots scuffing against the stone. Then she stopped, her hand finding Xiana's, their fingers threading together. She said nothing. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said in the thousand silent hours of watching.

Pond shifted his weight by the door, his boots creaking against the stone. He leaned heavily on Clove, his bandaged hands hanging at his sides, the white linen stained with old blood and the green poison that had seeped from the mountain's root. His breath came in shallow, careful draws, but his eyes never left Phuwin's back.

Phuwin reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Star's forehead. Her skin was warm. Alive. The heat of it burned through his fingertips, and he let his hand rest there, palm against her brow, feeling the faint pulse beneath.

"I told you you weren't allowed to leave me," he said, his voice barely a breath. "Do you remember? I told you that. And you left anyway."

He laughed, a broken, wet sound. "You always did whatever you wanted. Even when I was the Empress. Even when I begged."

The steam hung thick in the air, slicking his skin, beading on his lashes. He blinked, and the tears fell, landing on Star's cheek. He wiped them away with his thumb, smearing them across her skin like an offering.

"I kept your room," he said. "I kept your dresses. I kept everything. I couldn't—" He stopped, swallowed, started again. "I couldn't let you go. I know you would have wanted me to. I know you would have said it was time. But I couldn't."

Xiana's grip tightened around Imaria's fingers. The youngest princess stood in the doorway, her small body still bearing the marks of her own healing, her dark eyes fixed on the woman on the cot. She had asked, once, in the quiet of the nursery, whether Star would wake. Phuwin had said yes. He had said it with a certainty he had not felt, and now, watching her chest rise and fall, he prayed the lie had become true.

Phuwin's hand slid down, finding Star's wrist. Her pulse beat against his fingertips, faint but steady, a drumbeat he had memorized in the dark hours when he had pressed his ear to her chest and listened for it. He counted the beats. One. Two. Three. Four.

"Gemini is waiting for you," he said. "Our brother. He's been asking about you. I told him you were getting better. I told him—" His voice broke again, and he pressed his forehead to the cot's edge, the damp linen rough against his skin. "I told him you would come home."

The brazier hissed. A drop of water fell from the ceiling, landing on the stone with a sound like a held breath released.

Phuwin lifted his head. He looked at Star's face—the same face he had seen a thousand times, the face that had held him when he bled, that had washed his hair when he couldn't stand, that had told him he was not broken. The face that had gone still and silent while he screamed.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here. And I'm not leaving. I'm never leaving again. Just—" He swallowed. "Just come back to me. Please."

Behind him, Pond made a sound—a small, broken thing, not quite a word. Phuwin heard the shuffle of Clove's feet as she adjusted her hold on him, heard the creak of his boots as he shifted his weight. But he didn't turn. He couldn't turn. If he turned, he would have to look away from Star, and if he looked away, she might slip back into that silent, still place where he had been reaching for her for months.

The healer moved at the edge of the room, a shadow in the steam. She picked up a cloth, wrung it out, and laid it across the back of a chair. The water dripped. The brazier crackled. The world went on, indifferent and patient, the way it always did.

Phuwin brushed another strand of hair from Star's face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the shell of her ear, tracing the curve of it, memorizing the shape of her all over again.

"You're going to wake up," he said, and this time his voice didn't break. It held. It was a command, an order, the voice of an Empress who had learned that softness was not weakness. "You're going to wake up, and you're going to tell me I'm being dramatic, and you're going to laugh at me, and I'm going to let you. Because you're my sister. Because I love you. Because I can't—"

He stopped. The tears were falling again, hot and fast, and he didn't bother to wipe them this time. He let them fall, let them soak into the damp linen of her cot, let them carry the weight of three months of grief.

"I can't do this without you," he finished, his voice barely a whisper. "I've tried. I've tried so hard. But I can't."

Star's hand moved.

It was small—a twitch, a flutter, the kind of movement that might have been a muscle spasm, a nerve firing without purpose. But Phuwin saw it. He felt it, the way he felt the baby moving in his belly, the way he felt the pulse in his own wrists. He stopped breathing.

"Star?"

Her eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice. The lashes caught the light from the brazier, casting tiny shadows across her cheeks.

Phuwin's hands flew to her face, cupping her jaw, tilting her head toward him. He leaned in, close enough to see the faint tremor in her lips, the way her brow furrowed as if she were fighting her way up through deep water.

"Star," he said again, and this time her name was a prayer, a plea, a promise. "Open your eyes. Please. Open your eyes."

Her lashes lifted.

Her eyes found his face.

For a moment, nothing moved. The brazier crackled. The steam hung thick and heavy. The world held its breath, balanced on the edge of a blade.

And then Star blinked, slow and dazed, and her lips parted, and she whispered, "How long?"

The sob tore out of Phuwin's chest before he could stop it. It was not a clean sound—it was ragged, broken, the sound of something that had been held together by will alone finally, mercifully, coming apart. He crushed her against him, his arms wrapping around her shoulders, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his tears soaking into the fabric of her dress.

"Three months," he choked out. "More than three months. You've been—" He couldn't finish. He held her tighter, feeling the fragile warmth of her body against his, the beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her breath.

Star's arms came up, slow and trembling, and wrapped around his back. Her hands were weak, her grip barely there, but she held him. "Three months," she murmured, her voice rough with disuse. "That's a long time."

"Don't." Phuwin pulled back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching her face. "Don't you dare make a joke. Don't you dare."

Star smiled, a faint, crooked thing. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Phuwin laughed, a wet, broken sound. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in—the scent of the healer's herbs, the faint musk of her skin, the ghost of the garden she had loved. "You're not leaving me again," he said. "Do you hear me? You're not leaving me ever again."

Star's hand found his, her fingers curling around his. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I told you I'd stay."

"You didn't stay."

"I'm here now."

Phuwin closed his eyes. The tears were still falling, but they were different now—lighter, warmer, the tears of something that had been dead and was now, impossibly, alive. He held her hand, and he let himself believe it.

Behind him, Pond's voice came, rough and thick with his own tears. "Star."

Star's gaze shifted, finding him leaning against Clove by the door. Her brow furrowed. "You look terrible," she said.

Pond laughed, a broken, gasping sound. "I climbed a mountain for you."

"And you brought me back." She said it like a statement, like a fact, like she had never doubted it for a moment.

Pond nodded, his bandaged hands rising to cover his face. Clove held him steady, her own eyes bright with unshed tears.

Phuwin turned back to Star. He brushed the hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light. "I need to check on Ovoale," he said. "But I'll be right here. I'm not leaving."

Star's hand tightened around his. "Go," she said. "She's been waiting for you too."

Phuwin pressed a kiss to her forehead, quick and fierce, and then he stood. His knees protested, stiff from hours of kneeling, but he didn't feel it. He moved to the other cot, the one where Ovoale lay, her small body still and silent beneath the blankets.

He knelt. The damp stone pressed against his knees, the chill seeping through the silk. He reached out and took her hand, so small in his, so fragile. Her skin was warm. Alive. The pulse beat beneath his fingertips, faint but there.

"Ovoale," he whispered, leaning in, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Baby, wake up. Mommy's right here."

Her eyelids fluttered.

Phuwin's breath caught. He held her hand tighter, his other hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath her eye. "Ovoale," he said again, his voice cracking. "Wake up. Please. I need you to wake up."

Her lashes lifted.

Her gaze found his face—tear-streaked, raw, desperate—and for a moment, she just looked at him. Then her lips parted, and she whispered, "Mommy?"

The sob that tore out of Phuwin's chest was not a sound of grief. It was a sound of breaking and mending at once, a sound of something that had been shattered and was, impossibly, being put back together. He gathered her into his arms, careful, so careful, as if she were made of glass, and he held her, rocking her, his tears falling into her hair.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here. I've got you. I've got you."

Ovoale's arms came up, slow and uncertain, wrapping around his neck. She held him, her small body trembling, and she said, "I dreamed you were gone."

"I'm not gone," Phuwin said. "I'm right here. I'm never leaving you again."

He held her, and behind him, he heard the sound of Imaria's boots crossing the stone floor, heard the rustle of Xiana's dress as she followed, heard the broken, joyful sounds of a family that had been waiting for this moment for months. The steam hung thick and heavy, the brazier crackled, and the world, for one impossible moment, felt like it might be large enough to hold them all.