The first breath of dawn crept through the crimson curtains, spilling soft gold over the bed. The light touched Dorian's cheek first — warm, featherlight — pulling him out of sleep.
Something heavy and steady pressed against his side. A heartbeat. Slow, even, and close.
Still drowsy, Dorian turned his head — and froze.
Martin's face was right there. So near that Dorian could see every soft line of his mouth, the brown fan of his lashes, the faint curve of a smile forming even in sleep. Heat rushed to Dorian's ears.
He tried to move, gently, but Martin's arm was locked around his waist — firm, possessive.
Dorian swallowed, whispering, "Your Highness…"
Then stopped — remembering. They were married now. Husband and wife.
The thought struck him like a storm. I… I fell asleep. On our first night…! His cheeks went crimson. He hid his face behind trembling palms, mortified.
He peeked at Martin again. The prince didn't stir.
"Martin?" Dorian whispered, testing.
No answer.
"Martin," he tried again, a little louder.
Nothing.
Dorian sighed, cautiously slipping his hand under Martin's arm to free himself — when suddenly the hold around him tightened.
He gasped. His head bumped against Martin's chest.
A quiet chuckle rumbled above him. "And where," Martin murmured, voice still thick with sleep, "was my wife trying to escape?"
Dorian froze, his entire body aflame. He buried his face against Martin's chest, muffling his own voice. "I–I wasn't—"
Martin shifted slightly, one arm still firm around Dorian's back, the other threading lazily through his hair. Golden strands slipped between his fingers like sunlight.
"Why hide your face from me, dear?" His tone was teasing, gentle but edged with amusement. "You're red as dawn itself."
Dorian dared a glance upward — just as Martin's hand lifted his chin. The prince's eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.
"I…" Dorian tried to speak, but the words tangled and died on his tongue.
Martin leaned closer, thumb brushing against Dorian's parted lips. "You hide such a taste," he said softly, almost a whisper meant for no one else, "and didn't let me share it."
Dorian's eyes widened. "W-What—"
Before he could finish, Martin closed the distance.
The kiss was swift, shocking — a stolen spark that burned right through Dorian's breath. His eyes widened, his fingers clutching Martin coller as if the world had tilted.
When Martin finally drew back, he smiled — slow, wickedly tender.
"You have," he murmured, voice low against Dorian's trembling lips, "a taste far too good to forget."
The morning light broke fully then, flooding the chamber — gilding them both in a soft, breathless silence.
Martin had just begun to rise, his hair tousled, Dorian's soft breath still lingering against his skin.
Then—three sharp knocks shattered the morning calm.
Both froze.
Martin blinked, startled, halfway reaching for his robe.
But Dorian whispered, "I'll go."
He slipped off the bed, feet brushing the carpet, hair tousled and golden in the early light. As he reached the door, Martin stretched, still half-drowsy, murmuring something under his breath.
Dorian pulled the latch open.
A maid stood there, pale and trembling. Her voice quivered with urgency.
"Master Dorian—his Grace… his Grace is no longer with us."
The words struck like a bell through Dorian's bones. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
The maid bowed hastily. "His Highness is summoned at once." And before Dorian could speak, she was gone—footsteps fading down the corridor.
Silence returned. A terrible kind of silence.
Dorian stood there, motionless, hand still on the door. It was as if the air had turned to ice around him.
Behind him, Martin's voice came softly. "Who was it?"
Dorian turned.
Martin was smiling faintly, unaware—his innocence slicing at Dorian's chest like glass. Dorian's throat tightened. His lashes trembled. The tears he fought back burned behind his eyes.
"Dorian?" Martin's voice lowered. He crossed the room, concern flickering across his face. "What happened, dear?"
Dorian tried to speak, but the words tangled in his breath. He looked up—his voice fragile as crystal. "Martin…"
"Yes, my love?"
Dorian's lips trembled. "Martin… his Grace… he—"
He couldn't finish.
Martin's expression broke. The light in his eyes faltered. He didn't need to hear the rest. His father's labored breathing from the night before, the coughs, the trembling hands—it all came rushing back like a flood.
He went still. Then the sorrow hit him, sharp and quiet.
Dorian moved before he could fall apart—his arms circling Martin, holding him tight.
"Martin," Dorian whispered against his chest, "I'm so sorry."
Martin's hand came up slowly, resting against Dorian's back. His breath quivered once, but when he spoke, his voice was steady.
"It's alright," he said softly. "Father was suffering too much. Now… he's at peace."
He drew a slow breath, forcing a smile—a bittersweet curve of the lips that didn't reach his eyes.
There was no illness, his thoughts murmured. He sacrificed himself for love. Too kind… too foolishly kind.
He looked down at Dorian, brushing a hand against his cheek.
"I chose love too," he whispered. "I only pray mine lasts longer than my heart."
Dorian blinked, tears glinting like glass.
"They've summoned you," he said quietly.
Martin nodded. "Yes… I know."
Dorian cupped his cheek, his thumb tracing the faint line of sorrow beneath his eyes. "You'll be fine," he whispered.
Martin managed a small, soft smile. "As long as you're here," he said, "I will."
The corridors were dressed in black silk and candlelight.
Not a whisper dared disturb the mourning hush.
Inside the chamber, Dorian fastened the last clasp of Martin's mourning coat. The prince stood before the mirror, unmoving, his reflection caught between shadow and flame. His eyes were rimmed red—raw with the effort of restraint.
Dorian lifted his hands, clasping Martin's firmly between his palms.
"Martin," he said softly, his voice a trembling warmth amid the cold air, "I know you're stronger than this sorrow. You can do this."
Martin's throat worked, but no sound came. His jaw tightened; his chest rose with a shudder he barely contained. He blinked hard, lashes wet but defiant.
"I—" his voice cracked, then steadied, "I can do this."
Dorian smiled faintly, though his own heart trembled. "That's it," he murmured. "You are your father's son. Stand tall for him."
The words struck like gentle fire. Martin drew in a slow breath, the weight on his shoulders shifting—not gone, but carried differently now. Together, they walked toward the great hall, their hands brushing once before falling apart.
Every corridor they crossed seemed longer than the last. The air thickened with grief. The nobles stood in solemn ranks by the casket, heads bowed, faces carved with ritual sorrow.
And there—bathed in the pale glow of morning—lay King Joseph.
His face was calm, almost smiling. That small curve of peace twisted something deep in Martin's chest. His father looked as though he had simply drifted into a gentle dream, one too far away to reach.
Martin's breath hitched. His gaze dropped, his body trembling once before he found stillness again. Dorian stood close beside him, his presence a quiet anchor.
The music of mourning filled the chamber—soft strings, faint hymns. Dorian's eyes glistened. He bowed his head, whispering a prayer under his breath, his shoulders quivering with every held-back sob.
He tried to stay composed—for Martin's sake. Yet when he looked up, he caught the cold glances of the nobles. Their eyes held judgment, whispering what decorum forbade them to speak. Dorian's heart faltered. He lowered his gaze, folding his trembling hands before him.
Martin was unaware he was too busy in his grief—but he said nothing. He simply stepped closer, his sleeve brushing Dorian's hand.
When the time came to lower the king into the earth, the bells tolled once more—low, echoing, final. The priests murmured their blessings; the petals fell like snow upon the coffin.
Martin didn't move. He just stood there, his head bowed, his hand clenched around the cold air where his father's hand had once been.
Beside him, Dorian remained still—his eyes red, his lips pale, his tears quiet as rain.
Neither spoke. The silence between them said everything.
When the last shovel of earth was laid, Martin whispered,
"Rest well, Father."
Dorian's fingers brushed his sleeve again, trembling.
And together, they stayed—long after the others had gone.
The sun had lowered to a burnished ember, spilling its last gold over the courtyard. The crowd had thinned to whispers, the nobles gone, the priests bowed away.
Only two figures remained by the grave.
Martin stood motionless, his black coat stirring faintly in the wind. The scent of turned earth hung heavy, mingling with the fading sweetness of roses. Beside him, Dorian kept silent, his hand entwined with Martin's — their fingers trembling faintly, yet unbroken.
The newly laid grave gleamed under the dim sky, sealed and still.
King Joseph was at rest at last.
Martin's voice came low, roughened with restraint.
"Father," he began, eyes fixed on the carved stone, "thank you. For everything."
The words carried softly through the cold evening air.
Dorian lifted his gaze to him, listening — every syllable a quiet devotion.
"Thank you," Martin went on, "for letting me marry the one I love."
His grip on Dorian's hand tightened, not in demand but in reverence. Dorian responded with a small, wordless squeeze — his eyes glimmering, lips trembling between grief.
Martin exhaled slowly. "I am grateful," he said. "You never forced me to become what I didn't. You cared… even when it hurt you."
He bowed his head slightly toward the grave, his voice gentler now.
"May God open heaven's gates for your serene heart. You deserve peace, Father. You truly do."
For a moment, nothing moved but the wind sighing through the red roses laid at the stone's edge.
Dorian leaned forward, resting his head against Martin's shoulder — the weight soft, the gesture full of unspoken comfort. His golden hair caught the last light of dusk. Martin turned slightly, his cheek brushing against it.
The silence between them was not empty; it was full — of loss, of love, of the strange peace that follows the storm.
As the first star rose above the horizon, Martin spoke again, barely a whisper.
"You must be tired, Dorian."
Dorian shook his head. "No. I'm fine."
Martin looked down at him — a faint, weary smile ghosting over his lips.
"You didn't eat anything today, did you?"
Dorian hesitated. Then softly, "It doesn't matter. I am not that hungry."
Martin's eyes softened. He brushed a hand over Dorian's forehead and pressed a gentle kiss there.
"I can't let my beloved starve to death," he murmured. "Come with me."
Dorian's lips curved faintly — the first trace of warmth since morning.
Together, they turned from the grave. The candles flickered in the wind behind them, their light bowing in farewell.
Step by step, the two figures walked through the dim corridors back toward the palace — their shadows long, side by side.
By the time they reached the dinning hall, night had fully fallen, and the stars above the kingdom burned like solemn witnesses to both their grief and their love.
The great dining hall glowed with the light of a hundred candles, their reflections trembling across the silverware. The air was hushed — too polished, too still — as though even the walls knew mourning had entered the palace.
Martin sat at the head of the long table, his posture straight though his shoulders sagged beneath invisible weight. Beside him, Dorian sat in silence, his fingers laced together, knuckles white against the polished wood.
Servants moved quietly through the space, setting down steaming platters — roasted pheasant, bread still warm, bowls of fragrant broth. The scents filled the air, but neither man moved.
When the last maid curtsied and withdrew, Martin exhaled and reached for the ladle. His voice came soft, steady — a fragile attempt at normalcy.
"You must be hungry."
He filled Dorian's plate with gentle precision, then set it before him. "Dear Dorian," he murmured, "eat."
Dorian didn't move. His head was bowed, his gaze fixed on his hands. The golden curls that framed his face trembled faintly with each uneven breath.
Finally, in a voice small and trembling, he whispered,
"I… I can't eat without you."
The words fell between them like a dropped glass — quiet, but shattering.
Martin stilled, His eyes widened, then softened, the tension in his chest loosening at the sound of that frail confession. He set the spoon down, turning slightly toward his beloved.
"Look at me," he said gently.
Dorian didn't. He kept his gaze low, fingers twisting nervously in his lap.
Martin tried again, his tone laced with a tired warmth.
"Won't my wife look at me?"
Again The title — wife — made Dorian's ears flush instantly. He hesitated, then lifted his gaze. Martin was smiling faintly, exhaustion shadowing his face, yet that small curve of his lips carried something steady — affection, light, and aching tenderness all at once.
"Won't you eat?" Dorian asked, voice barely audible.
Martin shook his head, a ghost of humor flickering behind his grief. "I have no appetite."
Dorian's brows furrowed. Then, without another word, he pushed his own plate away. The quiet scrape of porcelain against wood echoed through the hall.
"Then I'm not eating either," he said softly.
Martin blinked — first in surprise, then amusement. He leaned on his elbow, resting his chin against his palm.
"Alright," he said, half a sigh, half a smile. "Alright, fine."
His eyes lingered on Dorian — those forest-green eyes rimmed with red, his cheeks still flushed from tears and shyness alike. For a moment, the ache in Martin's chest quieted.
He tilted his head slightly, voice lowering with a teasing calm.
"Then perhaps," he said, "I won't eat… unless my wife feeds me himself."
Dorian looked up, startled. "Is… is that true?"
Martin's lips curved faintly. "Perhaps," he murmured, "you should test it."
Dorian hesitated, but his hands moved on their own. He reached for the spoon, dipping it into the broth with careful grace. Martin waited, still as stone, his eyes never leaving Dorian's face.
When Dorian finally lifted the spoon toward him, Martin leaned forward, opening his lips around the offered meal. He swallowed slowly — savoring not the taste of food, but the closeness that came with it.
He smiled — faint, but real.
"You see?" he murmured, voice low enough that only Dorian could hear. "Everything tastes better when you choose it."
Dorian flushed again, his heart pounding as he lowered the spoon, trying — and failing — to hide his small, shy smile.
For the first time that day, the heaviness between them lightened — not gone, but gentled, wrapped in something warmer than sorrow.
The two sat in quiet companionship, the candles flickering around them like small, forgiving stars.