The corridor outside Layla's chamber was drowned in moonlight.
It poured through the tall glass windows in pale, liquid sheets — cold and holy, like the touch of a forgotten god.
Martin stood there, silent.
Before him, the great oak door gleamed faintly, its carvings of roses and seeming to move beneath the light. For a long while, he didn't move. His reflection wavered in the polished brass of the doorknob — a young king, his eyes shadowed, his jaw set, his heart cracking open with every breath.
"This is madness," he murmured to himself. Then he smiled — small, bitter, unconvincing. "But so is love."
He pushed the door open.
The room smelled faintly of jasmine and dust — the scent of someone beloved but long gone. Layla's chamber had not changed since the queen's death; even the curtains hung the same way, half drawn, guarding her secrets.
Martin stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The air stirred as if recognizing him.
He crossed the marble floor and stopped before a massive bookshelf that reached nearly to the ceiling. Its spines shimmered faintly — red, green, gold — each a silent witness to the kingdom's history.
He pulled out one of the simpler volumes.
A soft click followed. Then, with a sigh like old breath escaping, the shelf moved.
Stone slid against stone — slow, ancient. Behind it, a narrow passage revealed itself, glimmering faintly with golden dust motes that hung in the air like suspended stars.
Martin stepped through.
Inside, the space was smaller than he remembered — a hidden alcove lined with relics and candle stubs melted into the stone. At its center rested a single chest upon a table draped in velvet the color of gold.
He approached it slowly. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.
The key around his neck — the silver half-moon — caught the light when he drew it forth. His fingers trembled as he fitted it into the lock.
With a low, resonant click, the chest opened.
Inside, bathed in its own golden glow, lay the elixir.
It shimmered like molten sunlight, thick and luminous, alive in its stillness. Even breathing near it felt like inhaling light.
Martin stared. For a long while, he simply stared.
Then he noticed the old book beside it — thick, bound in leather blackened by time, its clasp wrought in gold filigree.
He reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, the air shifted. The candles flickered, bending toward him like watchers. He unclasped the book.
A burst of golden light filled the room.
Martin flinched, shielding his eyes.
"What in the—"
The light burned bright as dawn, spilling through the chamber like liquid fire, flooding the walls with ancient symbols that shimmered and pulsed. He stumbled back, blinking, as the radiance slowly dimmed — and when his vision cleared, the words on the open pages were glowing.
They glimmered like veins of sunlight, written in a language that felt both holy and forbidden.
He leaned closer, reading aloud the first few lines — and stopped.
A sound echoed behind him.
Soft. Like a breath.
Martin turned sharply, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only silence.
Then — movement.
He froze.
Something — someone — stood in the golden haze.
At first, it looked human. Then not. Its outline shimmered, shifting between flesh and light, as if reality itself could not decide what it was.
Long hair cascaded over its shoulders — gold upon gold, shining like dawn through mist. Its eyes were unlike any Martin had seen: a deep, translucent magenta, with no white, no pupils — only endless, luminous color.
It was beautiful. And terrifying.
Martin took an involuntary step back. His breath hitched. "Who are you?"
The figure blinked once, slow and almost innocent. When it spoke, the voice was music — soft, lilting, impossibly gentle.
"I… am Lirael."
Martin's pulse thundered. "How the hell did you get here?"
Lirael tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "This book," he said, his gaze dropping to the open pages. "I am its true owner."
Martin frowned, pointing toward the glowing volume. "What the hell do you mean"
"I was trapped inside this book"
Lirael's voice trembled like light over water. "I was imprisoned by a man who claimed to love knowledge… and instead stole it. He bound me in my own spell, and centuries passed like dreams."
He looked up. His magenta eyes softened, almost pitying. "And now you hold the same curse in your hands."
Martin steadied himself. "Curse or not, I need it."
Lirael's brows knit faintly. "Why?"
Martin's voice broke a little when he spoke. "Because my beloved longs for a child."
For a moment, the chamber seemed to still. Even the light flickered quieter, as if listening.
Lirael's eyes widened — not with shock, but with something deeper, sadder.
"You don't know what this elixir do," he said softly. "Nor what it takes."
"I don't care."
Martin's voice hardened. His jaw tightened. "If this can let Dorian bear my child, I'll pay the price."
Lirael took a step forward — but faltered. His golden light dimmed; his body wavered, fading around the edges like mist in wind.
Martin startled. "What's happening to you?"
Lirael sank slowly to his knees, clutching his chest. "I've been without my source for too long," he whispered. "The silver half-moon — I need its essence, or I will fade."
Martin's gaze dropped to the pendant around his neck — then to the elixir still glowing in the chest. He hesitated.
Finally, Martin crouched beside the fading being. "I can help you," he said quietly. "But I have a demand."
Lirael looked up, his face serene despite the tremor in his form. "What do you want?"
"With your power," Martin said, "I can make Dorian bear my children."
Lirael studied him for a moment — that strange, weightless gaze seeing through every layer of mortal desperation. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"It is possible," he whispered. "But—"
"But what?"
Lirael closed his eyes. "To create life where it cannot exist, something must be given in return. The balance demands it."
Martin's throat tightened. "A sacrifice I know ."
Lirael's lips curved faintly, sorrowfully. "Yes. A sacrifice."
The light around him flickered again — weaker now, trembling like a dying flame.
Martin lowered his gaze, his hand tightening around the key.
"Then tell me," he said at last, his voice raw but resolute.
"What must I lose… to give him what he dreams of?"
The silence of the chamber was a cathedral of sorrow — lit only by the wan glow of the moon spilling through the sheer drapes.
Lirael's voice cut through it, trembling but sharp as glass.
"It will be you," he said, his tone laced with accusation and disbelief. "Since you're the one who wishes him to bear your children — then it must be you who bears the consequence."
Martin froze. The words fell heavy between them, echoing off stone and regret.
He turned his gaze from Lirael.
"If it's like this…" Martin's voice was low, calm in the way still waters hide deep storms. "…then I must do this on my own."
He reached for the elixir, pulling free a crystal glass filled with liquid that shimmered faintly — golden, the color of both miracles and ruin.
Lirael's eyes widened. "You can't," he breathed, stepping forward. "It's forbidden for every human — no mortal shall cross that line!"
Martin did not answer.
He turned from him, the faintest tremor running through his hand as he brushed his thumb over the elixir cool glass.
Lirael lunged, desperate. "no don't do it—!"
But the king had already pulled the hidden volume aside; the mechanism beneath the shelf clicked, and the secret passage began to close between them.
Stone grinding against stone.
The last glimpse Lirael saw was Martin's profile — solemn, resolute, heartbreak carved into the curve of his lips.
"Do not use it please!" Lirael's voice echoed as the wall sealed shut, leaving him kneeling in the half-light, his palms pressed against unyielding marble.
But Martin was already gone.
He strode through the narrow corridor, the torchlight flickering across his face — half shadow, half sorrow. His fingers tightened around the elixir hidden in his sleeve, and each step seemed to pull him further from salvation.
When he emerged into his own chamber, the world fell silent again.
Dorian lay beneath the sheets, his pale face turned slightly toward the window.
His lashes were wet — traces of tears that had fallen long after sleep had claimed him.
Martin's throat ached.
He approached slowly, the elixir glowing faintly between his fingers.
He uncorked it. A soft scent rose — sweet, sharp, ancient. He brought it to his lips and took a sip, not swallowing.
Then he leaned down, his breath trembling against Dorian's mouth.
With a single exhale, he passed the forbidden elixir between them, the wish forming in his mind like prayer and curse alike:
By tomorrow… may my beloved feel the weight of what he needs.
When it was done, Dorian only stirred faintly, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips.
Martin brushed a strand of blonde hair from his face and pressed his forehead against Dorian's.
"I'm sorry, dear," he whispered, voice breaking on the last word. "Do not hate me for what I've done."
For a heartbeat, he lingered — feeling the soft rhythm of Dorian's breath against his own, the warmth of a body he might never hold the same way again.
Then, with a trembling inhale, he lifted his head. His eyes, though wet, carried the weight of a decision too far gone to be undone.
He rose quietly, the floorboards sighing beneath his boots. The faint glow of the candles cast shifting shadows over the walls — light bending, breaking, and falling away, just like his courage.
When he turned toward the door, he did not look back.
The corridors of the west wing were drenched in silence. Martin made his way toward Layla's chamber again. His steps were unhurried — as though the very air weighed against his chest.
When he reached the door, he hesitated only for a heartbeat before pushing it open. The faint scent of dust and lavender drifted out, and the moonlight cut a pale streak across the marble floor.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The shelf stood where he'd left it — tall, ancient, and lined with forgotten knowledge. He reached out and pressed the same worn volume back into its hollow. The wood shuddered softly, the gears groaning as the hidden mechanism yielded once more.
The secret passage unfolded.
And there, half-slumped against the wall, was Lirael. His golden hair was dimmed, tangled like molten threads dulled by time. The book lay open in his lap, pages fluttering with a faint breath of magic that was barely alive.
Martin's boots clicked quietly as he approached. He crouched beside the fading immortal and reached into his robe, retrieving the elixir. A trace of gold shimmered against his lip before he wiped it away.
"this belongs to you now," he murmured, setting the vial gently beside Lirael.
Lirael's fingers trembled as he lifted it. His eyes — those magenta mirrors of eternity — widened in disbelief. "Don't tell me…" His voice cracked, soft as breaking glass. "You already—"
Martin rose before he could finish, his expression calm, almost serene. "By tomorrow," he said, a faint smile curling his mouth, "my beloved will no longer grieve for a child."
Lirael's breath hitched. "No," he whispered, shaking his head violently, his hair scattering like threads of light. "No, that couldn't be. It's impossible—humans—" His voice trembled with fury and sorrow. "Humans are creatures of greed and power. They destroy what they love to possess it. In all my eternity, I've never known one honest—"
"Enough."
The single word silenced the room.
There was something in Martin's eyes — something fierce and human and infinite — that made Lirael stop. The air around them rippled, and for a moment, the passage seemed to fade into a vast, weightless nothing.
Martin smiled faintly. "You're right, Lirael. Humans are greedy. But love," he said softly, "love makes fools of even gods."
The immortal blinked.
"You think you understand us," Martin went on, his voice a low hum. "You think greed and hunger define us. But when a man loves — truly loves — he'll burn the heavens themselves just to keep a single tear from his beloved's eyes."
The words hung between them, tender and merciless.
Something stirred in Lirael — something he hadn't felt for centuries. His throat tightened, his gaze faltering. "You… you could have married a woman," he said quietly, looking away. "You could have had heirs, power, peace. Why him?"
Martin's laughter was soft, almost boyish. "Because no woman could ever own my heart." He stepped closer, voice low and steady. "No crown, no noble rank — only my Dorian. If that makes me greedy, then so be it."
His cheeks flushed faintly as he looked toward the faint glimmer of the elixir. "You can take it now," he said, turning away. "Take the book too. You're free."
For a long moment, Lirael didn't move. His throat ached with something he couldn't name. "You… you freed me," he whispered. "From the spell, from the book, from—"
He stopped. He couldn't look into Martin's molten gaze. His voice fell to a tremor. "If you wish… I can stay. Here. With you."
Martin blinked, taken aback by the sudden tenderness in the immortal's voice. Then he smiled, faintly amused. "Why not? The palace is large, and I suppose even gods get lonely."
He turned, as if to leave, but paused when Lirael stepped forward — then immediately back, wary. "With your looks," Martin added with a faint grin, "you might cause more trouble than comfort."
Lirael hesitated, then lifted the elixir. "I can change," he said simply.
Before Martin could speak, he uncorked the vial and took a single sip. The air quivered.
A burst of gold filled the chamber. Lirael's body lifted from the ground, weightless and radiant. The half-moon sigil blazed on his forehead before his golden curls fell to hide it. His hair streamed like sunlight in water.
Martin could only stare, breath stolen by the sight.
When the light dimmed, the immortal slowly descended, feet touching the cold stone again. His form was changed — softer, mortal in appearance. His eyes now held pupils, deep and human, yet threaded with faint gold.
He drew a slow, shuddering breath. "You gave me my life back," he said, voice trembling between gratitude and awe.
Martin's brows knit, uncertain what to say. Lirael looked at him again, eyes shining with a fragile warmth. "If you wish," he began softly, "I can—"
But Martin was already turning away. "I should see my beloved," he murmured. "Perhaps by morning… he will be carrying."
Lirael managed a smile — gentle, bitter, almost breaking. "Yes," he said quietly. "Whatever you desire will come true."
Martin didn't hear the sadness in his tone.
As the king disappeared through the door, the immortal remained behind, staring at the fading shimmer of light. Something flickered in his chest — faint and dangerous — a spark that refused to die.
For the first time in his eternal life, Lirael felt the ache of a human heart.
And it terrified him.