Phuwin's hands moved before his mind caught up—tugging the hem of his dress down, smoothing the ruined silk over his thighs, pressing the fabric flat against the swell of his belly. His fingers found the torn lace of his sleeve and worried at it, smoothing the same frayed edge over and over, as if he could press the violence out of the weave. The marble was cold under his bare feet, a chill seeping up through his thin soles, and he curled his toes against it, grounding himself in the discomfort.

The beeswax smell was cloying. It clung to the back of his throat, mixing with the rich aroma of coffee and roasting meat drifting from the arched doorway of the breakfast hall, and his empty stomach turned. He hadn't eaten. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Sven's hands were still on him—not literally, but the ghost of them, the weight of them, the way the man had pulled his dress up, the way his underwear had been dragged down. Phuwin's breath came in short, shallow gasps, and he pressed his palm flat against his belly, feeling the child turn inside him, a slow roll against his hand.

He heard Imaria's voice in his memory, sharp and furious. Mother, come away.

She had punched him. His thirteen-year-old daughter had punched a grown man in the face for touching her mother. Phuwin's eyes stung, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. He was the Empress. He was the mother of eight children. He could not stand in a hallway and cry like a broken thing.

But his hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, then against his belly, then smoothed his dress again—the same mechanical motion, the same useless gesture. The fabric was wrinkled where Sven had gripped it. He could feel the ghost of the man's fingers in the creases.

He heard a footstep.

Not the heavy tread of a guard, not the quick patter of a maid. Something slower. Measured. The sound of someone who was in pain and trying not to show it.

Phuwin looked up.

Pond stood at the end of the hallway.

He was still pale, his skin sallow against the dark of his robes, and his hands were wrapped in bandages that showed the green stain of the rot beneath. He leaned against the wall with one shoulder, his breathing audible even from across the hall—shallow, labored, each inhale a small battle. His eyes found Phuwin's and held them.

Phuwin's hand dropped to his side. The words came out before he could stop them, cracked and thin. "You shouldn't be here."

Pond took a step toward him. Just one. The movement cost him—Phuwin could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his free hand braced against the wall.

"I told you I'd bring you food," Phuwin said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I told you to rest. Who helped you down? How did you even—" He took a step forward, then stopped, his hands hovering in the air between them. "You probably have a fever. You need to rest, Pond. Let's get you upstairs—"

"I told him he could come down."

Star's voice came from behind Pond, calm and firm. She stepped into view, her hand resting lightly on Pond's shoulder, her dark eyes fixed on Phuwin with an intensity that made him want to look away. "He's fine, Phuwin. He wanted to see you."

Phuwin stared at her. "Star. You know he's sick. Why would you do that? I told him I'd bring him food. He's supposed to be resting." The words tumbled out of him, sharp and accusatory, and he hated the sound of them—hated how small and frightened they made him feel.

Star's expression didn't change. She stepped around Pond, moving closer to Phuwin, and her voice was soft in a way that made his chest ache. "Phuwin. You just got sexually assaulted by a man you allowed into this place. If Imaria hadn't come, you would've been crying in tears and screaming for help."

The words landed like a blow. Phuwin's breath caught, and he felt the child kick inside him—a sharp, insistent movement against his ribs. He pressed his hand to the spot, steadying himself.

Star continued, her voice trembling now. "Pond's fine. He's fine. But you—you need to go be seen by the healer. All these times, all these things you've been hurt from or by—" She stopped, pressing her lips together, and Phuwin saw tears gathering in her eyes. "It hurts me. You're my little brother. You're the person that needs to rest. And right now, instead of rushing Pond upstairs to sleep, you should be telling him that someone almost hurt you just now. Letting him hold you."

Phuwin opened his mouth to argue, but Star kept going, her voice rising.

"So stop it. I know Pond's weak right now, but so are you. I watched you from the healer's window when you were screaming at the waterfall. Cursing and praying. You're pregnant. For the tenth time." Her voice cracked, and she wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. "I've been there for almost every single one of them. I helped you give birth to Lirien and Kael. You've been so hurt. So hurt. I see it. It's written all over you."

Star's tears were streaming down her face now, and she made no move to stop them. "So please, Phuwin. Just please."

The hallway went quiet. Phuwin could hear his own ragged breathing, too loud in the silence, and the distant clatter of dishes from the breakfast hall, where his daughters were probably still waiting. He looked at Pond, still leaning against the wall, his bandaged hands hanging at his sides. He looked at Ovoale and Xiana, who had appeared in the doorway of the breakfast hall, their faces pale and watchful. He looked at Imaria, standing just behind them, her bruised knuckles hidden in the folds of her dress.

Phuwin bit his lip.

And then his knees buckled.

He fell to the marble floor, the cold shocking against his bare legs, and the tears he had been holding back came all at once—hot and furious and unstoppable. He clutched his belly, feeling the child move against his palms, and he sobbed—great, heaving sobs that tore out of his chest and echoed down the hallway.

Pond moved. He crossed the distance between them faster than Phuwin would have thought possible, and he knelt on the cold marble beside him, his bandaged hands reaching for him. Phuwin heard him hiss in pain as the movement jarred his wounds, but he didn't stop. He wrapped his arms around Phuwin and pulled him close, and Phuwin buried his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sweat and medicine and something underneath that was just Pond.

"Baby," Pond murmured against his hair. "Come on. I'll get you to the room. Let's not cry, okay?" His voice was rough, strained, but his arms were steady around Phuwin's shaking body. "But Star is right. You need to rest, Phuwin. You do."

Phuwin shook his head against Pond's shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. "Pond! No. I can't—you're still hurt. It hurts." He clutched his belly bump, feeling the child kick again, a sharp reminder of the life growing inside him. "Everything we've built is just falling apart. I'm scared, Pond. I'm so scared. I don't want you to die on me." His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead harder into Pond's shoulder. "I don't want to be weak like this."

Pond's arms tightened around him, and Phuwin felt the shudder that ran through his husband's body—whether from pain or emotion, he couldn't tell. "You're not weak," Pond said, his voice thick. "You're the strongest person I've ever known. You've carried our children, you've carried our grief, you've carried this empire on your shoulders while I've been lying in that bed, rotting." His voice cracked on the last word, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Phuwin's head. "You are not weak, Phuwin. You are the opposite of weak."

Phuwin sobbed against his shoulder, his whole body shaking. He could feel the eyes of his daughters on him, could feel Star's gaze burning into the back of his head, and he hated it—hated being seen like this, broken and weeping on the cold marble floor of his own palace.

"I love you so much, Phuwin." Pond's voice was barely a whisper now, rough with tears. "I love you so much."

Phuwin's hands found Pond's bandaged ones, and he held them carefully, gently, as if they were made of glass. He could feel the heat of the infection through the wrappings, the wrongness of it, and his stomach turned. "We're going to get you to a room," Pond said, his voice steadying. "You're going to let the healer check on the baby, and you're going to rest. Do you hear me?"

Phuwin nodded against his shoulder, too tired to argue. The fight had gone out of him, leaving behind a hollow ache that settled deep in his bones. He let Pond help him to his feet, let his husband guide him down the hallway, past the breakfast hall where his daughters stood in silence, past Star with her tear-streaked face and her steadying hand on his back.

He didn't look back at the spot on the marble floor where he had fallen. He didn't want to see the evidence of his own breaking.

Pond's arm was around his waist, and Phuwin could feel the tremor in it—the effort it was taking for his husband to hold him up when he could barely stand himself. The green stain on the bandages was darker now, spreading, and Phuwin's chest tightened with a fear he couldn't name.

They reached the stairs, and Pond paused, his breathing ragged. Phuwin looked up at him, and for a moment, he saw the man he had married fifteen years ago—strong, unshakeable, certain. The man who had conquered kingdoms and held their children and looked at Phuwin like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Then the moment passed, and Pond was just a man again, pale and sick and fighting for every breath.

"I've got you," Pond said, though it was Phuwin who was holding him steady. "Let's get you to the room."

Phuwin nodded, and they started up the stairs together, one slow step at a time.

The stairs rose ahead of them like a mountain. Phuwin counted each step in his head—one, two, three—the way he had counted marble tiles in the hallway while Sven's hand pressed against his waist. Four, five, six. The numbers gave him something to hold onto, something that wasn't the heat of Pond's arm around his waist or the labored sound of his breathing or the green stain spreading through the bandages.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Pond's weight shifted against him, and Phuwin felt the tremor run through his husband's whole body. He stopped on the tenth step, his hand finding Pond's chest. "Rest," he said. "Just for a moment."

Pond shook his head, his jaw set. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Phuwin's voice came out softer than he meant it to. "You're burning up. I can feel it through your robes. Your hands are—" He stopped, unable to say the word. Rotting. The word hung in the air between them anyway, unspoken but present, like the smell of medicine that clung to Pond's skin.

"I've had worse." Pond's hand found Phuwin's chin, tilting his face up. The bandages were rough against Phuwin's skin, and he could feel the heat of the infection through the wrappings, but he didn't pull away. "Look at me."

Phuwin looked. Pond's eyes were dark and tired, ringed with shadows that seemed to have deepened in the last hour, but they were steady. They held Phuwin's gaze with the same certainty they had held for fifteen years.

"I'm not going to die on those stairs," Pond said. "I'm not going to die tonight, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. I promised you I would live, and I meant it."

Phuwin's throat tightened. "You can't promise that."

"I just did."

The tears threatened again, and Phuwin blinked them back. He wouldn't cry on the stairs. He wouldn't cry again, not in front of his daughters, not in front of Star, not in front of the guards who were probably watching from the shadows. He had already broken once today, in the hallway, on the cold marble, and the shame of it still burned in his chest.

"You need to eat something," he said instead, because it was easier than saying what he actually felt. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. The healer said you need to keep your strength up."

Pond's mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "And you? When did you last eat?"

Phuwin opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He couldn't remember. Breakfast, maybe? No—he hadn't made it to breakfast. He had been intercepted in the hallway, his dress pulled up, his underwear dragged down, Sven's hand on his waist and his breath on his neck. The memory made his stomach lurch, and he pressed his hand against his belly, feeling the child move in response.

"That's what I thought," Pond said gently. "We'll eat together. Upstairs. Both of us."

Phuwin nodded, not trusting his voice. He took a breath, steadying himself, and they started up the stairs again. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. The numbers were a lifeline, a rope thrown across the distance between his body and his mind. Fourteen. Fifteen.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor stretched out before them, lined with doors. The healer's chamber was at the far end, where Pond was supposed to be resting. But Pond's steps didn't falter toward it. He guided Phuwin past it, past the closed doors of their daughters' rooms, past the window that looked out over the gardens where Phuwin had walked barefoot through the grass the morning Ovoale had woken from her coma.

"Where are we going?" Phuwin asked.

"Our room," Pond said. "The healer can come to us."

Phuwin's chest tightened. Their room. The bed they had shared for fifteen years, the bed where Terrence had been conceived, where Ovoale had been conceived, where all their children had been conceived. The bed where Pond had lain for weeks, burning with fever, his hands rotting, his lungs filling with poison.

He hadn't been able to sleep there. The sheets smelled like sickness, like medicine, like death hovering close. He had been sleeping in the nursery instead, curled around Lunara, pretending that the empty space beside him didn't feel like a wound.

Pond pushed open the door, and Phuwin stepped inside.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled in the shape of a body that had lain there too long. Phuwin's chest ached at the sight of it—the evidence of Pond's suffering, written in the rumpled fabric.

"Sit," Pond said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed. "I'll get you some water."

"You'll do no such thing." Phuwin's voice came out sharper than he intended. "You can barely stand. Sit down before you fall down."

Pond opened his mouth to argue, and Phuwin fixed him with a look—the same look he had used on their daughters when they were being stubborn, the same look that had made generals and courtiers and kings fall silent. Pond's mouth closed.

"Fine," he said, and lowered himself onto the bed beside Phuwin, his body listing slightly with the effort.

Phuwin reached for the pitcher of water on the nightstand, his hands still trembling. He poured a glass, careful not to spill, and pressed it into Pond's bandaged hands. "Drink."

Pond drank. The water dribbled down his chin, and Phuwin caught it with the edge of his sleeve, wiping it away. The gesture was so familiar, so intimate, that it made his eyes sting again. He had done this a hundred times—a thousand—for Pond, for his children, for anyone who needed him. But no one ever did it for him.

"You're doing it again," Pond said softly.

"Doing what?"

"Taking care of me. When you're the one who needs taking care of."

Phuwin's hands stilled on the glass. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Pond's voice was gentle but firm. "You just got assaulted in our hallway. You fell to your knees and cried in front of our daughters. You're pregnant, exhausted, and you haven't eaten. You are the furthest thing from fine."

Phuwin's breath caught. He looked down at his hands, at the faint tremor in his fingers, at the torn lace of his sleeve that he had been worrying at all day. "I don't want to be weak," he whispered. "I've been weak for so long. I just want—" He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

"What do you want?"

Phuwin shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

Phuwin looked up at him. Pond's face was pale, his eyes shadowed, his hands wrapped in bandages stained green. He looked like a man who had been dragged back from the edge of death and wasn't sure he was going to stay. But he was looking at Phuwin with the same intensity he had looked at him with fifteen years ago, on the night they had first met, when Phuwin had been nothing but a beautiful omega from a neighboring kingdom and Pond had been a young emperor with something to prove.

"I want to feel safe," Phuwin said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I want to feel like the world isn't falling apart. I want to lie down and sleep without dreaming of blood and waterfalls and dying. I want—" He pressed his hand to his belly, feeling the child turn. "I want our daughter to be born into a world where her father isn't dying."

Pond was silent for a long moment. Then he reached out, his bandaged hand finding Phuwin's, and he held it carefully, gently, as if it were something precious. "I'm not dying," he said. "I'm going to be there when she's born. I'm going to hold her. I'm going to watch her grow. I'm going to walk her down the aisle and dance at her wedding and hold her children in my arms. I'm going to be there, Phuwin. I promise you."

Phuwin wanted to believe him. He wanted to let the words wash over him and carry him away. But he had heard promises before—from his father, from his brothers, from the healers who had told him his babies would be fine, that he would be fine, that everything would be fine. And the promises had all turned to ash in his mouth.

"Don't promise me things you can't keep," he said quietly.

Pond's grip tightened on his hand. "I'm not going to die."

"You don't know that."

"I know it."

Phuwin shook his head, pulling his hand free. "You can't know it. The poison is in your lungs. The healer said—" He stopped, unable to say the words. The healer had said it could be fatal. The healer had said there was no guarantee. The healer had looked at Phuwin with pity in her eyes, and Phuwin had wanted to scream.

"The healer said I might not survive," Pond finished for him. "I know. I was there."

"Then how can you promise me—"

"Because I'm choosing to live." Pond's voice was quiet but steady. "I'm choosing to fight. I'm choosing to be here for you and our children. And I need you to choose to be here too. I need you to rest, Phuwin. I need you to let the healer check on the baby. I need you to stop carrying everything alone."

Phuwin's eyes burned. "I don't know how to stop."

"I know." Pond reached for him again, his bandaged hand finding Phuwin's cheek. "But you're going to learn. We're going to learn together."

Phuwin leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. He could feel the heat of Pond's palm through the bandages, and he let himself rest there for a moment, letting the warmth seep into him. The child stirred in his belly, a slow roll against his spine, and he pressed his hand to the spot, feeling the small movement under his palm.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"I know." Pond's thumb traced a slow circle on his cheek. "But you don't have to be scared alone."

Phuwin opened his eyes. Pond was looking at him with such tenderness, such devotion, that it made his chest ache. He had loved this man for fifteen years, through wars and births and deaths and grief, through every joy and every sorrow. He had loved him when he was strong and when he was weak, when he was kind and when he was cruel. He would love him until the end of his days.

"I love you," Phuwin said, and the words came out cracked and raw. "I love you so much, Pond. I don't know what I would do if I lost you."

"You won't lose me." Pond leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Phuwin's. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Phuwin closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sweat and medicine and something underneath that was just Pond, the man he had married, the man he had built a family with, the man he would follow into any darkness.

"Rest," Pond murmured. "Just for a little while. I'll be here when you wake up."

Phuwin shook his head. "I can't. I need to—"

"You need to rest."

"But the children—"

"Are being taken care of. Star and Clove are with them. Imaria is watching over them like a hawk." A faint smile crossed Pond's lips. "She gets that from you."

Phuwin's eyes stung. "She punched a man for me."

"I know. I'm very proud of her."

A sob escaped Phuwin's throat, half-laugh, half-cry. "She's fourteen She should be dancing and reading books, not punching men who—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. "Not punching men."

Pond's hand found his again. "She punched a man because he hurt you. And she was right to do it. You are her mother, and she loves you, and she will always protect you. That's not a tragedy, Phuwin. That's a gift."

Phuwin's tears spilled over, hot and fast, and he pressed his face into Pond's shoulder, letting the sobs shake through him. Pond held him, his arms steady, his voice a low murmur against Phuwin's hair—words of comfort, words of love, words of promise that Phuwin wanted to believe with all his heart.

And slowly, gradually, the shaking stopped. The tears dried on his cheeks. The fear loosened its grip on his chest, just a little, just enough to let him breathe.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

Pond pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Okay."

Phuwin let himself be guided down onto the bed, his head finding the pillow, his body sinking into the mattress. The sheets smelled like Pond—like the man he loved, like the life they had built together. He curled on his side, his hand resting on his belly, feeling the child move inside him, and he let his eyes close.

He heard Pond settle beside him, felt the weight of his hand on Phuwin's hip, felt the warmth of his body along the length of Phuwin's back. And for the first time in weeks, Phuwin felt something that might have been safety.

"I'm here," Pond whispered. "I'm right here."

And Phuwin believed him.