The heavy oak doors of the breakfast hall swung shut behind him, but the sound of his daughters' laughter still followed—Ovoale's bright and quick, Xiana's quieter, measured. Phuwin let the weight of it settle against his chest for a moment before he exhaled, long and slow, the breath leaving him like something he'd been holding since before dawn.

The hallway was cool. The morning light slanted through the tall windows in long golden sheets, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air, and the marble beneath his feet was cold even through his slippers. He pressed his palm flat against the wall, feeling the stone's chill seep into his skin, grounding him in the way the breakfast table never could.

His back ached. The low, persistent pull of the pregnancy had settled into his spine hours ago, and standing had only made it worse. He closed his eyes and let his head tip forward, his bangs falling across his brow, and tried to remember how to breathe without the weight of everything pressing down on him.

Pond was still in the healer's chamber. Still fighting. Still dying, maybe, in slow inches while the poison ate through his hands and filled his lungs, and Phuwin had left his daughters at the table with a smile that had cost him more than the walk here.

The coffee sat heavy in his stomach. The bread had tasted like ash. He'd watched Ovoale laugh and Xiana watch him with those too-old eyes, and he'd smiled until his cheeks ached, and then he'd excused himself, and now he stood in the hallway with his hand against the cold stone and his heart beating too fast in his chest.

The child turned inside him. A slow, rolling movement, like a swimmer shifting in deep water, and he pressed his free hand to the swell of his belly, feeling the small flutter of life beneath his fingers. He'd felt the baby kick a hundred times. A thousand. But every time, it still caught him—the impossible fact of it, the small life growing inside him while his husband lay rotting in a healer's chamber.

He opened his eyes.

The hallway stretched before him, empty and quiet. The breakfast hall doors were ajar behind him, spilling warm light and the murmur of voices. Somewhere beyond them, Star was probably laughing at something Ovoale had said, and Clove was probably pretending to be stern while she hid a smile, and Lunara was probably reaching for something she shouldn't have.

He should go back. He should sit at the table and drink the coffee and smile and be the empress they needed him to be. He should—

The hand came out of nowhere.

It closed around his wrist—tight, bruising, the grip of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and before he could gasp, he was spun and shoved against the wall. The stone hit his back hard enough to knock the breath from him, and his hand flew to his belly on instinct, protecting the child, and then he looked up.

The man. The silver-robed man with the snake sigil, his dark eyes glittering in the morning light, his lips curved in a smirk that made Phuwin's stomach drop.

"What—" Phuwin started, but the man cut him off with a soft, almost amused sound.

"Shh," he said, leaning in close, his breath warm against Phuwin's cheek. "You didn't think I'd let you walk away that easily, did you?"

Phuwin's heart slammed against his ribs. He tried to pull his wrist free, but the man's grip only tightened, the bones grinding together, and a small, sharp pain shot up his arm.

"Let me go," Phuwin said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "The guards—"

"The guards are at the end of the hall," the man said, nodding toward the distant figures standing at attention near the main doors. "Too far to hear you. Too loyal to question me if they do."

His eyes dropped. Down Phuwin's face, down his throat, down to the swell of his breasts above the neckline of his dress. The look lingered there, slow and deliberate, and Phuwin felt a wave of revulsion roll through him—cold and sharp, like swallowing ice.

"What are you doing?" Phuwin demanded, and he heard the crack in his own voice, the tremor he couldn't quite hide.

The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Like I said," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were almost touching Phuwin's ear. "I came to admire you and speak business with the emperor. But he's not well, is he?"

His free hand came up, and Phuwin flinched, but the man only brushed his bangs back from his forehead, the touch almost gentle, almost tender, and that was somehow worse.

"Have I told you my name?" the man asked, his voice low and intimate, like they were lovers sharing a secret. "Sven Percival."

The name meant nothing to Phuwin. He didn't care. He cared about the hand on his wrist and the body crowding him against the wall and the way the man's eyes kept dropping to his chest.

"Is your husband still able to touch you?" Sven asked, and the words landed like a blow. "To make you feel good? Or do you need a man who can?"

Phuwin's breath caught. He stared at Sven, at the smirk curving those thin lips, at the cold amusement in those dark eyes, and he felt something inside him go very, very still.

"My husband—" he started, but the man's hand moved, faster than Phuwin could track, and suddenly his fingers were in Phuwin's hair, tilting his head back, exposing his throat.

And then Sven's lips were on his neck.

Wet. Hot. A slow, deliberate kiss against the pulse point, and Phuwin's body betrayed him—a shiver running down his spine, his breath hitching in his throat—before his mind caught up and screamed at him to move.

"Stop," he gasped, trying to twist away, but the wall was at his back and the man's body was at his front and there was nowhere to go.

Sven's other hand moved. Down his side, over the curve of his hip, and then lower, lifting the skirts of Phuwin's dress. The fabric whispered against his thighs, cool air against his skin, and Phuwin's whole body went rigid.

"Don't—"

But the hand kept moving. Brushing up his thigh, slow and deliberate, the calloused fingers trailing fire against his skin, until they reached the edge of his undergarments. Phuwin's breath came in short, sharp gasps, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears, and he pulled at his wrist with everything he had, but the man's grip didn't budge.

"I could make you feel good," Sven murmured against his throat, his lips moving against the skin, his fingers pressing against the thin fabric of Phuwin's underwear. "Better than he ever did. All you have to do is—"

"Is there a problem?"

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Sharp. Cold. Furious.

Sven's hand froze on Phuwin's thigh.

Phuwin's head snapped toward the doorway, and there she was—Imaria, standing in the frame of the breakfast hall doors, her amber eyes blazing, her hand already on the small dagger at her hip. Her braid was coming loose, strands of black hair escaping around her face, and she looked like a storm about to break.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing to my mother?" she demanded, and her voice cracked through the hallway like thunder.

Sven straightened, his hand sliding away from Phuwin's thigh, but his smirk didn't fade. He looked at Imaria the way a man looked at a child playing at war—amused, dismissive, utterly unafraid.

"Princess," he said, inclining his head in a mockery of a bow. "I was just—"

Imaria moved.

She crossed the distance in three strides, her hand closing into a fist, and she swung with every ounce of training her father had given her. The punch connected with Sven's jaw with a sound that made Phuwin flinch—a sharp, wet crack—and the man stumbled back, his head snapping to the side, his smirk finally wiped clean from his face.

"You piece of shit," Imaria snarled, and she was on him again, her fist swinging, her voice shaking with fury. "You think you can touch my mother? You think you can—"

Sven caught her second punch. His hand closed around her fist, and for a moment they stood there, locked, the man's eyes dark with something ugly, Imaria's face twisted with rage.

"Your mother wanted it," Sven said, his voice low and vicious. "Didn't even resist. Always seducing every man who—"

Imaria's other fist cut him off, slamming into his nose with a crunch that sent blood spraying across his silver robes. He staggered back, releasing her, and she followed, kicking him in the stomach, driving him against the opposite wall.

"Don't you ever," she hissed, her voice breaking, "talk about my mother like that."

Sven doubled over, clutching his stomach, blood streaming from his nose. He looked up at her with hate in his eyes, but he didn't move.

Phuwin slid down the wall.

His legs gave out beneath him, and he went down slowly, his back scraping against the cold stone, his hand still pressed to his belly. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that didn't seem to be getting him any air.

His hand flew to his chest, clutching at the fabric over his heart, and he stared at the scene in front of him—Imaria standing over the man, her chest heaving, her fists still clenched, blood on her knuckles—and he couldn't seem to make his body move.

"Mommy!"

Ovoale's voice, high and frightened. Phuwin's head turned, and he saw his daughters spilling out of the breakfast hall—Ovoale running, Xiana walking with that too-calm expression, Lunara clutched in someone's arms. They saw Imaria, blood on her hands, the man crumpled against the wall. They saw Phuwin, sitting on the floor with his hand on his chest.

And then they were running to him.

"Mommy, are you okay?" Ovoale's small hands were on his face, turning it toward her, her hazel eyes wide and wet. "Mommy, you're shaking."

"I'm fine," Phuwin heard himself say, but the words came out wrong, thin and breathless, and Ovoale's face crumpled.

Xiana knelt beside him, her small hand finding his, her dark eyes scanning his face with that unnerving intensity. She didn't say anything. She just held his hand and watched, and somehow that was worse than if she'd cried.

"Phuwin."

Star's voice. Phuwin looked up, and there she was—Star, her face pale, her eyes dark with worry, Clove behind her with Lunara in her arms. Star knelt in front of him, her hands hovering over his shoulders, not quite touching.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice low and steady. "Phuwin, look at me. Are you hurt?"

Phuwin opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He looked at Star, at the fear in her eyes, at the way her hands trembled even as she tried to steady him, and he felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm fine," he managed, and this time the words came out stronger. "I'm fine. I'm—"

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying, and Star's hands caught his elbows, steadying him. He stood there for a moment, breathing, feeling the cold stone against his back and the warmth of Star's hands on his arms and the weight of his daughters' eyes on him.

The man was still against the wall. Imaria stood over him, her chest heaving, her fist still clenched. Blood dripped from her knuckles onto the marble floor, bright and red in the morning light.

"Imaria," Phuwin said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "That's enough."

Imaria looked at him. Her eyes were still blazing, but something in her face softened when she saw him standing, when she saw him whole.

"He touched you," she said, and her voice cracked. "He—"

"I know." Phuwin crossed the distance between them, his hand finding his daughter's shoulder. "I know. But that's enough."

Imaria's fist unclenched. She looked down at the blood on her knuckles, then at the man crumpled at her feet, and something in her face shifted—the rage draining away, leaving something raw and young beneath.

"He said you wanted it," she whispered. "He said—"

"He lied." Phuwin's hand tightened on her shoulder. "He lied, Imaria. You did the right thing."

Imaria looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, and stepped back.

The man stirred against the wall. Sven, blood still streaming from his nose, his silver robes stained red. He looked up at them with hate in his eyes, and Phuwin felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"You'll regret this," Sven spat, his voice thick with blood. "Your husband is dying. Your empire is crumbling. And you think your brats can protect you?"

Phuwin stared at him. The words landed like stones in his chest, heavy and cold, but he didn't let them show. He lifted his chin, met the man's hateful gaze, and said, "My daughters protect me better than your kind ever could."

Sven's lip curled. He opened his mouth to speak, but Imaria stepped forward, and he shut it.

"Guards," Imaria called, her voice ringing down the hallway. "Remove this man from the palace. If he resists, you have my permission to make him regret it."

The guards at the end of the hall moved. They crossed the marble in unison, their boots striking in rhythm, and Phuwin watched them haul Sven to his feet, watched them drag him away, his silver robes trailing blood across the floor.

And then he was gone, and the hallway was quiet, and Phuwin stood there with his hand on his daughter's shoulder and his heart pounding in his chest.

Star's hand found his back. Gentle, warm, steadying.

"Phuwin," she said softly. "Are you okay?"

Phuwin closed his eyes. He felt the child turn inside him, a slow roll against his palm, and he pressed his hand to the warmth of it, feeling the small flutter of life beneath his fingers.

"I'm fine," he said. And this time, he almost believed it.

But the man's words echoed in his head, cold and vicious, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something had just begun.