Clove's arm locked around Pond's chest just before his weight went heavy, a deadfall against her shoulder. His tunic was damp through, sweat-soaked and clinging, and the heat coming off him was furnace-wrong—the kind of heat that burned from the inside out. She felt his pulse jump under her fingers, thin and rabbit-fast, then thinner, like a thread about to snap.

"Pond." Her voice came out steady. That was the trick of it—voice steady, hands steady, while her heart hammered against her ribs. "Pond, stay with me."

His eyes rolled, searching the room, and found Phuwin across the chamber. Phuwin's hand was frozen mid-motion, fingers still tangled in Ovoale's hair, strands slipping through them like water. The brush had stopped an inch from her scalp.

Pond's cracked lips tried to smile. A ghost of tenderness, meant for his omega, meant to say *I'm fine, don't worry, look at our daughter waking up*—and then his eyelids fluttered, and the smile died unfinished.

Clove gripped his jaw, fingers digging into the bone. "Pond. Hey. Hey!" Her voice sharpened, cut through the steam like a blade. "Stay awake. For me. Please."

His head lolled, but his eyes cracked open. He nodded—barely, a fraction of movement, but a nod. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, felt the burn of his skin against her lips, and shouted, "Healer! Healer, now!"

The brazier crackled. That was the only sound for a beat—just the coals shifting, orange light flickering across the wet stone walls. Then the healer's boots slapped the stone floor, and maids flooded in behind her, their skirts hissing against the damp.

Phuwin crossed the room. Hand on his belly, bracing, moving like the floor might give way under him. He knelt beside Clove and took Pond's face in his palms, tilting it up, forcing eye contact that wasn't there anymore.

"Baby," he whispered. "Baby, can you hear me?"

Pond's weight sagged against Clove. His head lolled forward, chin dropping to his chest, and the only answer was the wet rasp of his breathing.

The healer dropped to her knees, already reaching for Pond's wrist, her fingers finding the pulse that Clove had been tracking. Her face went tight, the kind of tight that said more than words could. "We need to move him. Now. Into the inner room."

Clove shifted, taking more of Pond's weight, her arm still locked around his chest. "I've got him. I've got him, just—"

Imaria was there suddenly, her scarred face pale in the steam, her hands already reaching for her father's other side. She was fourteen and she moved like a soldier, no hesitation, no fear, just action. "I'll take his arm. Clove, on three."

"One," Clove said. "Two."

They lifted together, Pond's body limp between them, his feet dragging on the wet stone. The healer cleared the way, barking orders at the maids, and they carried him through the inner door.

The door swung shut behind them.

The sound of it was final—wood meeting wood, a latch clicking into place. And then the healer's shouted orders were muffled, reduced to a distant rumble through the timber, and Phuwin was alone in the steam with the brazier and the two beds and the weight of what he'd just told his daughter.

*Daddy's gonna be okay.*

He'd said it with tears in his eyes, and Ovoale had believed him, because she was ten and she'd just woken from a three-month dream and she didn't know that her father's hands were rotting green from a mountain that killed every man who climbed it.

Phuwin stood in the middle of the healer's chamber, hand pressed flat to his belly, and tried to remember how to breathe.

The baby kicked. A small, insistent push against his palm, like a question. *Is he okay? Is he coming back?*

Phuwin didn't have an answer.

"Phuwin."

The voice was thin, hoarse, scraped raw by months of disuse. He turned. Star was sitting up on her cot, legs swinging over the edge, her bare feet finding the stone floor like she was relearning what ground felt like. She was pale, so pale, her handmaiden's dress hanging loose on a frame that had forgotten how to hold flesh.

"Phuwin." She said his name again, like she was testing it, like she needed to make sure it was real. "What's wrong? You should go to him. Your husband's probably dying right now."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He shook his head, and the tears that had been gathering finally fell, hot and silent down his cheeks. "I can't. I can't—"

Star was on her feet. Her legs wobbled, her knees buckled, and she caught herself on the edge of the cot, then pushed off again, crossing the space between them like a foal learning to walk. She reached him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him into her chest.

He went. He went because he had no strength left to resist, because her arms were the first safe thing he'd felt since the door closed, because she smelled like the healer's herbs and sweat and something underneath that was just *Star*. His sister. The woman who had bled for him, who had almost died for him, who had slept for three months while he'd sat at her bedside and begged her to wake.

"I've got you," she whispered, her voice rough and broken. "I've got you. Just breathe."

His breath shuddered out of him in a broken wave. He tried to take another one and it caught in his throat, stuck on the fear, on the image of Pond's eyes rolling back, on the sound of the door closing.

"He's going to be okay," Star said, and her voice was fierce, the old Star, the one who had never let him fall. "He climbed a mountain for you. He's not going to die in a healer's room. That's not how this ends."

Phuwin shook his head against her shoulder. "You don't know that."

"I know him." Star's hand came up, cradling the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "I know him, and I know you, and I know that the universe doesn't put two people through everything you two have been through just to take him now. That's not how stories work."

*That's not how stories work.*

Phuwin wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe her so badly that it hurt, a physical ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the baby. But he'd seen the green poison in Pond's hands. He'd pressed it out with alcohol while Pond screamed. He'd watched the fever break and thought *we're safe now, we're safe*—and now this.

Ovoale's voice came from the bed, thin and trembling. "Dad? Mommy?"

Phuwin pulled back from Star, wiping his face with the back of his hand, trying to find the smile he'd worn a moment ago. Ovoale was sitting up now, her small body swaying, her eyes wide and scared in a face that had forgotten how to hold fear.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked. "Why did they take him away? Is he—"

"He's going to be okay." Phuwin crossed to her, kneeling beside the cot, taking her small hands in his. Her fingers were cold, so cold, and he rubbed them between his palms, trying to warm them, trying to warm himself. "Daddy's going to be okay. He just needs the healer to look at him. He's tired, that's all. He climbed a really big mountain, and he's very tired."

Ovoale's lip trembled. "He looked sick."

"He's a little sick." Phuwin's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing it steady. "But the healer is very good, and she's going to make him better. And then he's going to come back in here and hold you, and you're going to tell him all about your dream."

"I dreamed you were gone," Ovoale whispered. "I dreamed you left and never came back."

Phuwin pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest, feeling her small body tremble. "I'm not gone," he said into her hair. "I'm right here. I'm never leaving you again. I promised you that, and I meant it."

"But Daddy—"

"Daddy's going to be okay."

He said it again, because he didn't know what else to say, because the words were the only thing he had to give her. He held her, and the brazier crackled, and the steam hung thick and heavy, and somewhere beyond the door, he could hear the healer's voice rising and falling, urgent and sharp.

Star moved to the edge of the cot, her hand finding Ovoale's shoulder. "Your mother's right," she said, her voice softer now, gentler. "Your father's the strongest man I've ever known. He's not going to let a little fever keep him down."

Ovoale looked up at her, eyes wide. "Star? You're awake."

Star smiled, and it was a broken thing, but it was real. "I'm awake. And I'm going to stay awake. We both are."

Ovoale reached for her, and Star let herself be pulled down onto the cot, wrapping her arms around the girl, and Phuwin watched them—his daughter and his sister, both of them back from the edge of death, both of them holding each other like they were afraid the other might disappear.

He should be with Pond. He knew that. He should be on the other side of that door, holding his husband's hand, whispering promises into his ear. But his legs wouldn't move, and his heart was pounding too hard, and every time he thought about walking through that door, he saw the green poison again, saw Pond's eyes rolling back, saw the healer's face going tight.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't stand there and watch. He couldn't be strong for anyone else right now.

"Phuwin." Star's voice was gentle. "Phuwin, look at me."

He looked. Her face was pale, her eyes still shadowed with the exhaustion of three months asleep, but there was something in them that hadn't been there before. Something fierce and steady.

"You need to go to him," she said. "Not for him. For you. If something happens—if anything happens—you need to be there. You need to be holding his hand."

"I can't," Phuwin whispered. "I can't watch him—"

"You can." Star's hand found his, squeezed. "You're the strongest person I know. Stronger than him, even. You've carried this family through everything, and you're not going to break now."

Ovoale nodded, her small face serious. "Mommy, you should go. I'll stay here with Star. We'll be okay."

Phuwin looked at them—his daughter, who had just woken from a coma, and his sister, who had just woken from a coma—and they were both telling him to go. To be with his husband. To not be alone.

He took a breath. Then another.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

He stood, his hand going to his belly, feeling the baby move again, a small flutter of life. He crossed the room, his bare feet silent on the wet stone, and stopped at the inner door.

The wood was rough under his palm. He could hear the healer's voice on the other side, sharp and urgent, and Clove's voice answering, and Imaria's voice, steady and calm, asking questions, trying to help.

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was smaller, more cramped, the steam even thicker here. Pond lay on a narrow cot, his shirt cut open, his chest bare, the wound from Clove's blade still angry and red. The healer leaned over him, pressing her ear to his chest, listening to his lungs. Clove stood at the foot of the bed, her hand wrapped around Pond's ankle, her face streaked with tears she wasn't bothering to wipe away.

Imaria stood by the window, Xiana beside her, the youngest's face wet with tears she kept wiping with the back of her hand, trying to be brave.

The healer straightened. Her face was grim.

"The emperor's condition is worsening," she said. "The infection has spread. It's not easy to determine the cause, but it seems the root has reacted with the poison already in his bloodstream. The fever is climbing again, and his lungs are filling."

She paused, and the weight of her next words hung in the air like the steam.

"You all know that this could be fatal."

Phuwin's knees buckled. He caught himself on the doorframe, his hand flying to his belly, feeling the baby kick hard against his palm, as if it too understood the danger.

"No," he whispered. "No. He climbed the mountain. He brought back the root. He—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. The words stuck in his throat, and the tears came, hot and blinding, and he turned away from the door, away from the room, away from the sight of his husband lying pale and still on the cot.

And then Star was there. Star, who had walked on legs that barely held her, who had followed him without a word, who caught him as he stumbled and pulled him into her arms, holding him up, holding him together.

"Shh," she whispered. "Shh, I've got you. I've got you."

Phuwin cried against her shoulder, his body shaking, his hands clutching at her dress, mumbling words that didn't make sense, fragments of prayers and pleas and broken promises.

*Don't take him. Please don't take him. He's all I have. He's everything. The girls need him. I need him. Please. Please.*

Star held him, and the brazier crackled, and the steam hung thick and heavy, and somewhere behind him, in the room he couldn't bear to look at, the healer's voice rose again, urgent and sharp, calling for more bandages, more water, more anything.

And Phuwin stood in the doorway, held by his sister, and prayed to gods he wasn't sure were listening.