Two guards had him before he could run. The first seized his left arm and wrenched it behind his back, and the second caught his right wrist a heartbeat later, twisting until the ache shot up his shoulder and into his jaw. Phuwin gasped, his knees buckling as they forced him down onto the cold marble, the impact jarring through his thighs and up his spine.

The stone was freezing through his robe. He could feel every vein of it through the silk, could feel the grit of dust and the faint stickiness of something he didn't want to identify pressing against his palms as the guards shoved him forward, bending him until his forehead nearly touched the floor.

"The Empress," said a voice above him, low and mocking, "finally where she belongs."

Phuwin's hands curled into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms. The ache in his shoulder was a dull fire now, spreading down his arm, but he didn't let it show. He lifted his head, slowly, and met Lord Tarven's eyes.

Tarven stood a few paces away, dressed in northern furs and leather, his wolf's-head sigil gleaming at his throat. He was older than Pond by a decade, his face lined and weathered, his hair streaked with grey. But his eyes were young and hungry, and they moved over Phuwin's body with a slowness that made Phuwin's stomach turn.

"I've waited a long time for this," Tarven said, stepping closer. His boots echoed on the marble. "Years, Phuwin. Years of watching you from across courtyards, from the edges of feasts, from the shadows of corridors just like this one. And now here you are." He spread his arms. "In my hands."

The guards tightened their grip, and Phuwin felt the cold marble press harder against his knees. He could feel the rough calluses of the guard's palm through his sleeve, the strength in the fingers wrapped around his arm. He could feel the other guard's breath on the back of his neck, hot and uneven.

"Let me go," Phuwin said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "Pond will kill you for this."

"Pond is on the eastern front," Tarven said, waving a hand dismissively. "Riding toward a battle that doesn't exist. By the time he realizes the attack was a diversion, we'll be long gone." He stepped closer still, close enough that Phuwin could smell the wine on his breath, the leather of his tunic. "And you'll be mine."

Phuwin's jaw tightened. He could feel his heart beating in his ears, a dull thudding rhythm that seemed to fill the corridor. The crimson silk wall panels rustled faintly in a draft he couldn't feel, the only sound besides his own breathing and the guards' labored breath.

"You won't get away with this," Phuwin said. "My daughters—"

"Your daughters," Tarven interrupted, and something in his voice made Phuwin's blood run cold. "Yes, I've seen them. The little one with the braids, the one who watches everything. And the middle one, the chatterbox. They were playing in the garden when we came through the gate." He smiled, slow and deliberate. "They ran. But not fast enough."

Phuwin's heart stopped. Then it started again, faster, harder, pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.

"Where are they?" he demanded. His voice cracked on the last word. "Where are my daughters?"

Tarven tilted his head, studying him. "Somewhere safe," he said. "For now." He reached out, and Phuwin flinched as Tarven's hand touched his face, the calloused fingers tracing along his jawline with a gentleness that was somehow worse than violence. "You're more beautiful than they said. Even now, with your hair tangled and your robe torn and your eyes full of hate." His thumb brushed across Phuwin's lower lip, a gesture of ownership that made Phuwin's stomach lurch. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Phuwin's mouth went dry. He could taste the copper of fear, the salt of his own sweat. His hands were shaking, he realized, trembling against the marble floor where the guards had pinned him. He could feel the weight of his belly pressing against his thighs, the faint flutter of movement inside him—the child, kicking, as if it too could sense the danger.

"You're a monster," Phuwin whispered.

Tarven laughed. It was a low, ugly sound, like stones grinding together. "No, my dear empress. I'm a man who knows what he wants. And I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, standing beside your husband at that garden party, looking like a flower that had somehow learned to walk." His thumb traced Phuwin's lower lip again, pressing slightly, and Phuwin felt his stomach turn. "I watched you, you know. For years. I watched the way you moved, the way you smiled, the way you carried yourself like you were untouchable." He leaned closer, his breath hot on Phuwin's face. "But no one is untouchable."

Phuwin's jaw clenched so hard he felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. His hands were fists against the marble, his nails digging into his palms so hard he felt the skin break. The ache in his shoulder had spread to his neck, a dull throbbing that pulsed in time with his heart. The child inside him stirred again, a small, insistent flutter, and Phuwin pressed his free hand against his belly without thinking.

Tarven's eyes followed the movement. His smile widened.

"Ah," he said softly. "The child. I'd almost forgotten." He crouched down, bringing his face level with Phuwin's. "A boy, they say. Or another girl?" He reached out, and Phuwin jerked back, but the guards held him fast. Tarven's hand settled on Phuwin's belly, palm flat, pressing through the silk of his robe. "It doesn't matter. By the time it's born, you'll be mine. And it will be mine too."

Phuwin's breath caught in his throat. He stared at Tarven, at the hunger in his eyes, at the certainty in his smile, and something inside him snapped.

He gathered the spit in his mouth—thick, bitter, full of everything he couldn't say—and he spat.

The glob landed on Tarven's cheek, just below his eye, and slid slowly down his skin.

For a frozen heartbeat, no one moved. The guards' grip on Phuwin's arms tightened, but they didn't speak. The corridor was silent except for the rustle of the silk panels and the ragged sound of Phuwin's own breathing. Tarven's grin faltered. His eyes went cold, flat, murderous, and his hand dropped from Phuwin's belly.

He wiped the spit from his cheek with the back of his hand, slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Then he straightened, and his hand came around in a wide arc, and the slap caught Phuwin across the face with a crack that echoed down the corridor.

Phuwin's head snapped sideways. Pain exploded across his cheek, sharp and white, radiating up into his temple and down into his jaw. His ears rang. For a moment, the world blurred, the corridor swimming in his vision, the crimson silk panels bleeding into each other.

He tasted blood on his lip where the impact had split it.

He lifted his head, slowly, his jaw throbbing, his cheek burning, and he turned to face Tarven again. His eyes were wet, but he didn't let the tears fall. He stared at Tarven, at the cold satisfaction in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak—

And then he saw them.

At the far end of the corridor, two small figures stood frozen in the shadows of the doorway. Their dresses were torn, their arms scratched, their faces streaked with tears. Ovoale was holding Xiana's hand so tightly their knuckles were white, her wild curls escaping their braids, her hazel eyes wide and wet. Xiana stood behind her, pressed against her sister's back, her dark eyes fixed on Phuwin with a look he had never seen on her face before.

They had seen everything.

The slap. The spit. The guards holding their mother's arms. The man with the wolf's-head sigil crouching over him, his hand on Phuwin's belly.

Phuwin's heart shattered.

He opened his mouth to call out, to tell them to run, to say anything, but no sound came out. His throat was closed, his chest tight, his eyes burning with tears he couldn't hold back anymore. The first one fell, sliding down his cheek, and he saw Ovoale's face crumple, saw Xiana press her free hand to her mouth, saw them both take a step back, away from him, away from what they had seen.

Tarven followed his gaze. He turned slowly, his eyes finding the two small figures at the end of the corridor, and a grin spread across his face—wider, uglier, more triumphant than before.

"Ah," he said softly. "The princesses." He looked back at Phuwin, and his eyes were gleaming. "Let them watch, Empress. Let them see who you belong to now."

The words landed like stones in still water. Phuwin's throat worked, trying to find sound, trying to find anything that would make his daughters turn and run, but his voice had abandoned him entirely. He watched Ovoale's grip tighten on Xiana's hand, watched the youngest princess press herself harder against her sister's back, and he felt something inside him crack open, wide and raw and bleeding.

"Don't," Phuwin finally managed, his voice a broken thing, barely a whisper. "Don't look. Run. Please—"

Tarven laughed, low and pleased, and gestured lazily at the guards still holding Phuwin's arms. "Hold her steady," he said. "I want her to see this clearly."

One of the guards yanked Phuwin's head up by a fistful of his hair, forcing his gaze toward the end of the corridor where his daughters stood frozen. The sting of it pulled a gasp from Phuwin's throat, but he didn't close his eyes. He couldn't. If this was the last thing his daughters saw of him, he would not let it be his fear.

Ovoale took a step forward, then stopped, her small hands shaking at her sides. "Mama," she said, her voice cracking on the word. "Mama, we—we can get help. We can—"

"No," Phuwin said, sharper than he meant, and he saw her flinch. He softened his voice, forced it steady. "Ovoale. Listen to me. You take your sister, and you run. You find somewhere to hide, somewhere dark, somewhere they won't think to look. You don't come out until you hear your father's voice."

"But Mama—"

"Promise me."

Xiana tugged at Ovoale's sleeve, her face pale beneath its smudges of dirt, her dark eyes enormous in the lamplight. "Ovoale," she whispered. "Ovoale, I'm scared."

Ovoale's chin trembled, but she didn't move. Her gaze stayed locked on Phuwin, on the blood at his lip, on the bruise already blooming across his cheek. "I won't leave you," she said. "I won't—"

Tarven made a soft, amused sound. "How touching. The little princesses, so brave." He took a step toward them, and both girls flinched back, pressing themselves against the doorframe. "But your mother is right, little ones. You should run." His smile widened. "It won't help. We'll find you. But you should run."

Phuwin's blood turned to ice. "No," he said, the word ripped from his throat. "No, leave them alone. They're children—"

"They're witnesses," Tarven said, not even looking at him. "But I'm not a monster, Empress. I won't hurt them. Not unless I have to." He tilted his head, studying the two girls with a clinical interest that made Phuwin's stomach lurch. "Though I wonder. Would you fight me if I did? Would you find that courage you're so famous for, the courage that made the whole court fall in love with you?" He laughed. "I think I'd like to see that."

Phuwin's hands were fists against the marble, his nails cutting crescents into his palms. The child inside him kicked, hard, a sharp insistence that stole his breath. He pressed his free hand against his belly without thinking, and Tarven's eyes tracked the movement, gleaming with something that made Phuwin's skin crawl.