Dorian slept, unknowing.
Until something inside him twisted.
A low sound escaped his throat — half gasp, half plea. His fingers clutched the sheets, knuckles pale beneath the moonlight. Then the chamber flared — a burst of gold, sharp and unearthly, flooding every corner in molten light.
The glow was coming from him.
Still half-asleep, Dorian's breath came ragged, his body arching as though the light itself was trying to climb out of him. His legs kicked weakly against the mattress. The silk twisted around his limbs. Another pulse of pain struck — deeper this time — and he clutched his abdomen, a strangled cry breaking the quiet.
Outside the door, footsteps thundered.
Martin.
He burst into the chamber, cloak billowing like a storm. Behind him, Lirael followed — cloaked in priestly robes, his expression unreadable in the sudden glare.
"Dorian!" Martin crossed the room in two strides. His heart plummeted when he saw his beloved writhing in the sheets, his body haloed in gold. "What's happening to him?"
Lirael hesitated near the doorway, the radiance washing over his skin. "It's—" he began softly, "it's the progress. The beginning."
Martin ignored him. He sat beside Dorian, gripping his trembling hands. "Dorian, look at me."
The blond stirred faintly, his lashes fluttering. "Martin…" His voice was hoarse, broken. "Something's—hurting me."
The words tore through him.
Martin lifted the hem of Dorian's nightshirt — and froze.
There, on the smooth curve of his abdomen, the light burned brightest. It shimmered in a perfect shape — a half-moon, upward and carved deep as though branded into his flesh. The symbol pulsed faintly, alive.
Martin's breath caught. "Gods…"
He looked over his shoulder sharply, eyes burning. "Explain this!" he barked.
Lirael flinched under the weight of that voice. "It's just the transition," he said quickly, his tone too calm, too measured. "He will be fine. His body is… adjusting."
"Adjusting?" Martin's glare darkened. "He's in agony!"
Lirael looked down, fingers curling in his sleeves. For him, it was nothing new — the pain of creation, the trembling between life and loss. Yet the sight of Martin's desperation — raw and bright as fire — unsettled him.
"Humans," Lirael whispered, almost to himself, "you burn for what you love, even when it destroys you."
But his words were lost in the sound of Dorian's labored breathing. The glow finally began to fade, its brightness softening into a gentle shimmer. Dorian's body relaxed, the tension ebbing out of him like receding tide.
Martin brushed a shaking hand through his hair. "Dorian…? Can you hear me?"
A faint nod. Dorian's lips moved — "It hurts less now…" — before his eyes drifted shut again, his body slipping back into exhausted sleep.
Martin pressed a trembling kiss to his lover's lips. "You'll be fine, my dear," he murmured. "You'll be fine."
When he finally turned toward Lirael, his tenderness had vanished.
He stood. The air between them shifted. In two steps, he was across the room. His hand shot out, catching Lirael by the wrist.
The immortal startled. "Ah—?"
Martin yanked him into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind them. Lirael stumbled, nearly losing his footing. "listen—!"
"Enough," Martin snapped. He shoved the immortal back, hard. Lirael's shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud. The golden-haired being blinked, disoriented — he had not known human hands could grip like that, or that anger could burn so beautifully.
Martin's eyes gleamed like molten glass. "Why was he in so pain?"
Lirael tried to find his voice. "It was necessary," he said carefully. "The elixir awakens the dormant vessels — reshapes the flesh, the soul. By morning, he will be carrying."
Martin froze. "Carrying of course I know"
Lirael nodded once, his tone almost reverent. "You wished for it. By dawn, the seed of your miracle will take root. But his body… it will no longer be the same."
For a long heartbeat, silence.
Then Martin inhaled slowly, composure sliding back over his rage like armor. "Then I'll wait for tomorrow," he said, voice steady, almost cold. He turned toward the chamber, pausing only to glance back — his gaze sharp as a blade drawn across silk. "But if anything worse happens to my beloved—"
He didn't finish the threat. He didn't have to.
The look in his eyes said everything: I will raze heaven itself to undo what you've done.
Lirael lowered his gaze. "He'll be fine," he whispered. "Trust me."
Martin nodded once, curtly, and slipped back into the chamber, closing the door behind him with quiet care.
Silence returned to the corridor.
Lirael stood there, staring at the carved wood — the faint sounds within, the echo of Martin's footsteps retreating toward the bedside. The immortal felt something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Not fear. Not envy. Something smaller, quieter.
Loneliness.
He looked around the vast hall. The moonlight stretched endlessly across the marble, cold and silver, touching everything but him. He let out a soft breath and lowered himself to the floor, robes pooling like spilled light.
The wall behind him was cool stone. He leaned against it, eyes closing for a moment.
He could still feel the echo of Martin's grip on his wrist — human warmth, human fury. It lingered longer than magic ever did.
Slowly, he tilted his head against the wall, staring at the door that hid them — the king and his fragile beloved, caught in a fate that now belonged to gods.
For the first time in centuries, a smile ghosted across his lips — faint, human, aching.
He smiled at no one. At nothing. Only at the thought of a man who had vanished into that golden-lit chamber.
And as the candles burned lower and the palace drifted toward dawn, Lirael's eyes closed.
Sleep came slowly, softly — the first true sleep of his immortal life.
But even in rest, his thoughts whispered one name.
Martin.
The morning came gently — a spill of pale light slipping through the curtains, touching the gold of Dorian's hair and the linen sheets tangled at his waist. The world outside was still hushed, the air carrying that fleeting calm before dawn truly woke.
Dorian stirred. A strange ache lingered low in his body, quiet but persistent, like an echo of something impossible. He glanced sideways. Martin lay beside him, asleep still, his arm draped protectively across Dorian's abdomen — the very place where that ache thrummed.
A smile ghosted across Dorian's lips. For a moment, he just sat there, watching the soft rise and fall of Martin's chest. But then the warmth turned sharp. His stomach lurched. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, eyes wide, and in the next breath, he was on his feet, sheets falling away as he hurried to the bath chamber.
The sound of retching broke the morning's peace.
When Dorian emerged again, his skin was pale, and his golden hair clung to his damp temples. He felt hollowed out, drained of every drop of strength. Slowly, he crossed back to the bed and sat, breathing shallowly.
Martin stirred. His lashes fluttered before his eyes opened — molten and soft in the dim light. For a heartbeat, confusion flickered there. Then fear. "No…" he whispered under his breath. "It can't be…"
Dorian blinked, startled. "Martin?"
Martin pushed upright, his expression shifting fast — disbelief, then something fierce and protective. "Dorian," he breathed, reaching for him. He caught his beloved by the shoulders, searching his face. "Tell me—did you feel any pain? Any strange ache?"
Dorian lowered his gaze, trying to smile it off. "No, it's nothing."
"Don't lie to me, dear." Martin's tone was soft but firm, his thumb brushing against Dorian's cheek.
Dorian's composure trembled. His eyes glistened faintly as he leaned into Martin's hand. "I don't know what's happening to me," he murmured. "I just… feel strange."
Something shattered quietly inside Martin. His heart clenched — not in fear, but in awe. He felt it then, a truth so profound it silenced him. His hands, once trembling, grew steady. He drew Dorian into his arms, his lips pressing against his hair.
"Oh, my love…" Martin's voice broke into a whisper. "Congratulations."
Dorian froze, his breath catching. "Wh-what?"
Martin pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The molten light in his gaze had softened into something radiant. "You're carrying," he said, the words trembling out of him. "Our miracle."
Dorian's eyes went wide — stunned, disbelieving. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. "How can you be sure?" he whispered, as though afraid to hope.
Martin smiled through the tears glimmering in his eyes. "Because I feel it, right here," he said, pressing a hand gently to Dorian's abdomen. "It's life, Dorian. Our life."
Dorian blinked, his lashes wet. He shook his head faintly, as if the world had turned too fast to grasp. "Martin, this can't—"
But before he could finish, Martin leaned forward, closing the distance with a kiss meant to anchor him. Dorian pulled back in shy protest. "I'll smell of vomit," he whispered, cheeks flushing.
Martin laughed softly, the sound trembling with joy. "Then I'll love you as you are," he said, kissing the corner of Dorian's mouth anyway. "Even if you smell of the sea or sin or sickness."
Dorian exhaled shakily, the faintest laugh escaping him. His hand found Martin's, and their fingers intertwined — fragile, human, divine.
He still couldn't quite believe it. But as Martin pressed his forehead to his, whispering words too soft for the dawn to steal, something inside him began to bloom — slow and bright, like the first light after a long, endless night.
Outside the royal chamber, silence lingered like mist — the kind that made the torches flicker uncertainly, as though the air itself was holding its breath.
Lirael sat by the marble column, asleep. His posture was unguarded, almost ethereal — head bowed, golden hair spilling over his shoulder like threads of light. He seemed less a man than something carved from moonlight itself.
Then came the echo of boots.
The soldiers turned the corner, eyes narrowing when they saw a stranger outside His Majesty's door. One of them barked an order. Steel rasped as blades drew in perfect unison.
"Who goes there?"
Lirael did not stir. His breathing remained soft, unaware of the danger gathering around him. The captain of the guard stepped forward, sword raised. "He's asleep?" he muttered, frowning. "How did this stranger get here so easily— outside the King's chamber."
And before reason could catch up, the captain thrust.
The blade struck flesh.
Lirael's eyes flew open, a sharp breath tearing from his throat as pain bloomed across his shoulder. His hand flew instinctively to the wound, blood seeping warm between his fingers.
But it wasn't the sight of blood that made the soldiers falter — it was his eyes.
Magenta. Deep, strange, luminous — a color that did not belong to mortals.
The soldiers froze. Even the torches seemed to dim. One of them took a shaky step back. "By the gods…" he whispered. "What manner of being—"
"Speak!" another barked, forcing bravado into his voice. "Who are you, stranger? Speak your name, or face execution by His Majesty's decree!"
Lirael winced, steadying himself. His voice, when it came, was soft — a note of starlight breaking the silence.
"I know Martin," he said simply.
The words struck the soldiers like lightning.
"You dare utter His Majesty's name?" the captain thundered. He seized Lirael by the wrist — the same hand that pressed against the bleeding wound. Lirael gasped, the pain sharp enough to make his vision blur.
"Let go," he whispered, voice trembling with something that wasn't fear — it was restraint.
But the soldier only tightened his grip. "You'll address the King properly once you get beheaded, imposter!"
Lirael blinked, confusion flickering behind those otherworldly eyes. His voice grew smaller, fragile but sincere. "But… he knows me."
The words made no sense to them — how could they? None here remembered what existed beyond mortality. None remembered the night Martin had has released Lirael from his curse.
Lirael backed away until the cold of the wall touched his spine. His wounded arm trembled at his side. He did not fight them — not because he could not, but because he dared not.
And the human world — this fragile, fearful world Martin had chosen — would turn on him instantly.
So Lirael bowed his head, lashes trembling against his cheeks as the soldiers closed in, blades gleaming.
He whispered only one word under his breath —
"Martin…"