He waited until the palace went quiet.

The candles burned low in their sconces. Somewhere down the corridor, a guard's boots scuffed against stone, the sound fading as he made his rounds. Phuwin lay still beside Pond, feeling the slow rhythm of his husband's breathing, the warmth of his bandaged hand loose against his hip.

He listened to the night the way he'd learned to listen to storms—waiting for the gap, the moment between one crack of thunder and the next.

Pond shifted in his sleep. His fingers curled, barely, against Phuwin's belly. The child kicked in response, a small flutter that made Phuwin's breath catch.

He pressed his palm flat over the movement, over Pond's hand, and held them both there for one long moment. Then he lifted Pond's fingers away, slow as a prayer, and set them on the empty sheet.

The cold rushed in where the warmth had been.

Phuwin sat up. His body protested—the ache in his hips, the weight of the child, the exhaustion that had settled into his bones like river silt. He ignored it. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.

His dress was where he'd left it, draped over the chair by the window. A soft gray thing, simple, the kind that didn't draw attention in the dark. He pulled it over his head and let the fabric settle around his belly, then reached into the folds and withdrew the letter.

It was crushed, creased from Imaria's fist. He smoothed it against his thigh, reading the words again in the dim light. *The root that can cure him. Come alone. Tell no one.*

He folded it once, twice, and pressed it against his skin beneath the dress.

He did not look back at Pond.

If he looked back, he would stay.

He crossed the room on bare feet, his steps silent as breath. At the door he paused, hand on the wood, and listened. Nothing. The corridor was empty, the torches burning low in their brackets. He slipped through and pulled the door shut behind him, the latch clicking softly into place.

The stairs were worse than he remembered.

Four floors of them, winding down through the heart of the palace, each step a small betrayal of the body he was trying to carry in secret. He took them slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, the other pressed to the underside of his belly like a cradle. The child shifted, restless, and he whispered to her without sound.

*Almost there. Almost.*

He passed the corridor where the nursery door stood ajar. Inside, Lunara's breathing was a soft, even whistle. Aric had kicked his blanket loose, and the moonlight caught his small face, peaceful in sleep. Phuwin stood in the doorway for a moment that hurt to hold, and then he moved on.

The guards were where Imaria had posted them—two at the eastern gate's inner arch, their spears crossed in idle attention. Phuwin watched them from the shadow of the colonnade, counting their patrol pattern the way he'd watched his own heart for signs of failure.

They turned together, walking the length of the arch, their backs to the gate for the space of ten heartbeats.

He moved.

Not fast—fast would draw the eye. Smooth. Quiet. The way he'd learned to move through a palace that had never fully been his, a ghost in his own home.

The guards turned back. He was already gone.

The eastern gate loomed ahead of him, iron and oak banded with steel, the great bolts drawn. Beyond it, the night opened like a question.

He pushed. The gate swung inward, silent on well-oiled hinges, and the cold air hit him full in the face.

There was a horse.

A black mare, tacked and waiting, her breath steaming in the torchlight. She stood alone in the courtyard, head turned toward him as if she'd been expecting him for some time.

Phuwin exhaled. The sound came out shaky, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing all night.

He walked to her. She was calm, patient, her dark eye soft in the flickering light. He laid a hand on her neck, felt the warmth of her, the living pulse beneath the skin.

"You know where we're going," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

She blew out a breath and tossed her head, and he took that as a yes.

He gathered the skirts of his dress and mounted. The saddle was built for a man in a hurry, not a pregnant empress in a nightdress, and he felt every shift of the leather as he settled. The child protested with a sharp kick to his ribs. He pressed a hand flat against the spot and whispered, "I know. I know."

The mare carried him through the gate, and the palace fell away behind him.

The road was dark, lined with trees that leaned in like listeners. He kept his eyes forward, on the shape of the way ahead, on the place where the torches of the outer watch would mark the boundary of the city. His hands were cold on the reins. His dress was thin against the night wind.

He thought of Pond's hand on his belly. Of the way his husband had said *I love you* like it was a promise he intended to keep. Of the root, glowing in the dark of the healer's chamber, and the poison that was eating him from the inside out.

He thought of midnight, and he rode toward it.

The eastern gate of the outer wall was smaller than the palace gate, a low arch of old stone that had stood for longer than the empire had been his husband's. It was unguarded. That should have been the first sign.

He reined in the mare at the threshold, looking into the open ground beyond. Torches burned there, planted in the earth in a loose circle, and in the center of the light stood a carriage—black, enclosed, its driver already mounted on the bench with his face hidden in a hood.

Around it, shapes moved in the shadows. Men. Seven of them, maybe more, their faces half-turned from the light.

Phuwin's hand tightened on the reins.

The mare sidestepped, uneasy, and he let her. He scanned the circle, looking for one familiar face, one sign that this was what he'd agreed to.

Then the carriage door opened.

Sven stepped out, silver-robed and smiling, his snake sigil glinting at his collar. He spread his arms as if greeting an old friend.

"Your Grace. I see you gave in."

Phuwin dismounted. His legs were unsteady, but he made them hold. He walked toward the carriage, the letter pressed against his skin like a second heartbeat.

"We should get this over with, Mister Sven."

He held out the letter.

Sven took it, his fingers brushing Phuwin's as he did, and unfolded it with the care of a man savoring a meal. He read it slowly, then folded it again and tucked it into his robe.

"You came alone."

"As you asked."

"And the root?"

"In the carriage." Sven gestured, a lazy wave. "Safe. Waiting for you to earn it."

Phuwin's jaw tightened. "Then give it to me. I held up my end."

Sven laughed—a low sound, almost kind. "Your end, Empress, was to come alone. My end was to receive you. The root is the prize for completing the transaction." He stepped closer, and the torchlight caught the cold amusement in his eyes. "We haven't completed anything yet."

Phuwin's hand moved to his belly without thought. "I'm pregnant. Did you forget?"

"I can't forget such a big thing, Empress." Sven's hand reached out, and before Phuwin could step back, he touched the curve of the bump through the dress. "But when we're done, you'd be pregnant all over again."

Phuwin slapped his hand away.

The sound cracked through the night. The men in the shadows shifted, a ripple of movement, but Sven only smiled wider.

"Oh, she has fire. I like that." He turned to the men. "Boys. Get Her Majesty."

Phuwin stepped back. "What is the meaning of these men? Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that, Your Grace." Sven sighed, the picture of patience. "It's just payback for what your daughter did to me. Everyone gets a chance." His voice dropped, almost gentle. "They won't hurt you, Empress. You're so dearly precious to the world. I won't hurt you unless I have to."

He snapped his fingers.

"Get her."

The men moved.

They came at him from all sides, closing in before he could run. Hands grabbed his arms, his shoulders, the fabric of his dress. He pulled back, twisted, tried to shake them off.

"Get the fuck off of me!" His voice cracked, raw, the empress's composure breaking apart. "This is not fair, Sven. I came here for the root, to pay you what you needed. You're not going to use me—I could have every single one of you killed."

Sven walked toward him, unhurried, and the men held him still. He reached out and brushed the bangs from Phuwin's forehead with one finger, a gesture almost tender.

"Empress. You'll get the root." His voice was low, intimate, meant for the two of them alone. "These men want their turn. The root is special. So let me ask you something." He tilted his head. "Do you want to have your husband die slowly, or have the root save him after you give me what I need?"

Phuwin's chest heaved. The child kicked, hard, a protest that echoed his own pounding heart.

"He will not die," he said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. "I will not let you lay a finger on me."

Sven's smile didn't waver. His hand moved down, palm flat against the swell of Phuwin's belly, pressing just enough to feel the movement beneath.

"I can't forget such a big thing, Empress. But when we're done, you'd be pregnant all over again. You agreed to offer yourself as some prostitute." He let the word hang in the air. "Like I always say—that body of yours has men drooling and women left jealous, wanting a body like yours. Always seducing some man."

Phuwin's face went cold.

"Not to forget," Sven continued, his hand still on Phuwin's belly, "you're just an *omega*. I've never heard of such other than the Duke's wife, Dunk, and your brother's queen, Fourth. You're just a man born with a vagina and a reproductive system." His smile widened. "Not to forget, such a sexy, entertaining body."

He dropped his hand and stepped back.

"But we're wasting time. Boys, get her loaded on. She'd make too much noise here—no need to wake anyone at this hour."

The men moved.

Phuwin fought. He twisted, pulled, drove an elbow into a chest, felt the jar of bone against bone. A hand caught his wrist, another wrapped around his arm, and they lifted him, carried him, his feet leaving the ground for a breathless moment before they set him down at the carriage door.

"No—" He got one hand on the frame, held on. "Let go of me—"

A hand closed over his, pried it loose.

He was pushed inside.

The carriage interior was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a lantern swinging from the ceiling. The bench was cushioned, soft, and he landed on it hard enough to feel the impact through his spine. He scrambled, tried to push himself up, and the door swung shut.

Sven climbed in after him.

The carriage lurched into motion.

Phuwin pressed himself against the far wall, one hand flat on the seat, the other wrapped around his belly. The child was moving, a frantic fluttering, and he tried to breathe through it, tried to find the calm he'd worn like armor through fifteen years of palace life.

Sven settled across from him, watching him with the patience of a man who had all night.

The lantern swung. The wheels turned. The sound of the horses' hooves filled the space between them.

"You're shaking," Sven observed.

Phuwin said nothing.

Sven leaned forward. His hand reached out, and before Phuwin could turn away, he caught his chin, held him still.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he said, and kissed him.

Phuwin gasped against his mouth—shock, disgust, the violation of it—and his hands came up to push at Sven's chest. But Sven was stronger, and he didn't move. His mouth pressed harder, his free hand moving, finding the curve of Phuwin's breast through the thin fabric of the dress, gripping it with a possessive weight.

The child kicked. Phuwin bit down.

Sven pulled back with a laugh, his thumb dragging across his own lower lip where Phuwin's teeth had drawn blood.

"You'll pay for that," he said, and his eyes were bright with pleasure at the thought.

The carriage rolled on into the dark, and Phuwin pressed his hand to his belly and felt his daughter move, and thought of midnight, and of the man he'd left sleeping in a bed that smelled like him.