Martin's hand rested over Dorian's abdomen, his thumb tracing slow, reverent circles there. "I still can't believe it's real," he murmured.
Dorian's cheeks turned crimson. He clutched Martin's shirt, his voice soft, uncertain. "Martin… will it be a boy or a girl?"
Martin bent down and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering. "If it's a girl," he whispered, "she'll be our goddess. And if it's a boy… he'll be our prince."
"Didn't I say by morning My beautiful wife will be no longer in pain?" Martin said with a grin.
Dorian smiled faintly, eyes shining like early dawn. "My husband's words are always true."
He pulled Dorian closer, pressing his lips to the crown of golden hair that spilled over his chest. Dorian rested there, content, the faint rhythm of his breathing matching Martin's heartbeat.
And then—
The sound shattered the stillness. Voices from outside. Harsh. Commanding. The sharp edge of steel against stone.
"Lower your head!" a soldier barked. "On your knees!"
Martin's frown deepened. He sat up, his hand still on Dorian's waist. "What's going on out there?"
Dorian blinked drowsily, concern clouding his gentle face. "I think… something's happened."
"Stay here," Martin said, already reaching for his robe.
But Dorian's hand caught his fingers. "No. I want to go too."
Martin paused. For a heartbeat, his irritation melted away into fondness. "All right," he said quietly. He slipped an arm around Dorian's waist, protective as ever. "Careful, hmm?"
Dorian smiled — that soft, radiant smile that always made Martin's chest ache with too much love.
Together, they approached the chamber door.
Martin pushed it open—
—and the sight that met him struck like lightning.
The captain of the royal guard stood in the corridor, gripping a slender figure by the wrist. The blade of a hearthblade glinted, catching sunlight as it bit shallowly into the stranger's shoulder. Blood — bright, red, wrong — stained the marble beneath him.
It was Lirael.
The priest's head hung low, hair tangled against his cheek, breath coming in small, pained gasps. He tried to shield his wound with his free hand, but the soldier yanked his arm higher.
"Let go," Lirael hissed, his voice trembling more from disbelief than fear.
But the man holding him was too strong.
Martin's heart jolted. His voice thundered across the hall. "What are you doing, you fools?"
Every soldier froze. Then, as one, they dropped to their knees. The captain stammered, "Y–Your Majesty—this insolent creature was sleeping outside your chamber. We thought—"
Martin's breath caught. His eyes darkened.
Sleeping outside the door.
The realization hit him like a blade. Shame. Guilt. He had left Lirael there. Forgotten him — the man who'd helped him night before. He forgotten him because his mind was only on Dorian.
"Enough," Martin said sharply. "He is my guest. Stay away from him."
The soldiers hesitated only a moment before obeying, stepping back. The captain dropped his weapon with a clatter and bowed so low his forehead touched the floor.
"I—I apologize, Your Majesty," he stammered, head bowed so low his voice almost muffled against the floor. "Please forgive me."
The tension broke like glass. Lirael staggered backward, the pressure gone from his arm at last. His balance faltered; his knees struck the cold marble with a hollow sound. He winced, one hand clutching his shoulder where crimson still bloomed against his robe.
Dorian gasped first. His hand flew to his mouth, eyes wide with alarm. "He's bleeding—!"
"Be careful!" he added, stepping forward instinctively.
Martin caught him at once, an arm circling his waist to keep him steady. "Wait Dear—" he began softly, voice taut with concern.
For the first time, the immortal saw the man his heart's wish had created — not in divine light, but in human warmth. Dorian's golden hair caught the morning glow; his eyes, bright with fear and compassion, seemed to reach places Lirael hadn't known existed.
Lirael bowed his head again, both to hide his wound and the strange, aching flutter that rose unbidden in his immortal chest.
But Dorian was stepping forward again. "We must help him."
Lirael flinched, his voice hurried. "Don't come closer."
Dorian blinked, startled. "But you're hurt."
Lirael's tone softened, almost pleading. "My blood… its scent might make you ill. You shouldn't breathe near it. You're carrying life."
Martin froze. His throat constricted. Guilt gnawed at his ribs.
"I… I'm sorry," Martin said quietly. "For last night."
Dorian looked up at him, puzzled. "You know him?"
Martin nodded faintly, his gaze shifting to Lirael. "He's the priest I summoned."
Dorian's eyes moved back to the wounded man. And then—just as simple as a sunbeam slipping through clouds—he smiled. "You have very beautiful eyes," he said softly.
Lirael blinked, stunned. For a moment, he forgot the pain, the blood, the centuries. His lips parted, but no sound came.
Beautiful eyes.
No one had ever said such a thing to him. Not in all the unending ages of his existence.
Dorian turned to Martin again, worry knitting his brow. "Martin, call the physician. He's bleeding."
Martin was still caught somewhere between shame and bewilderment, but he nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course."
Lirael slowly lifted his gaze, enough to meet Martin's eyes once more. The way the king looked at Dorian — so full of fierce, wordless devotion — it pierced him deeper than any blade could.
"Is there a spare room," Lirael managed, "where I might tend my wound?"
"Yes," Martin said. "I'll send the maids at once."
"Thank you."
Lirael's voice barely rose above a whisper. He pressed a hand against the gash on his shoulder, steadying his breath.
But as Martin turned away — his arm still protectively circling Dorian, their closeness radiating like warmth from a hearth — Lirael's eyes lingered. Something unfamiliar stirred within him, something fragile and human.
He lowered his gaze, his lips shaping silent words he didn't yet understand.
What is this feeling?
He was immortal. He had lived through ages of pain, solitude, betrayal. He had seen empires rise and fall, lovers sworn and broken. Yet now, for the first time, he envied the warmth of mortals.
He envied the man who could look at his beloved with such unshakable love.
And deep inside him, beneath centuries of ice and silence, something small began to thaw.
He didn't yet know the name for it.
But the world did.
It is Love.
Lirael lowered his gaze as the kind immortal and Dorian turned down the corridor together. Their silhouettes — one of quiet strength, the other of radiant gentleness — dissolved into the light at the end of the hall.
"Follow me," a soldier muttered beside him.
Lirael startled, the sharp voice pulling him from the trance he hadn't realized he'd fallen into. He followed silently, the faint click of boots echoing against the marble. When the soldier reached a door, he swung it open with a stiff motion.
From somewhere beyond the corridor came a burst of laughter — bright, unguarded. Dorian's laughter.
It struck Lirael like a chord plucked from a forgotten song. He turned his head toward the sound, a soft curve touching his lips before the soldier's bark shattered it.
"What are you waiting for?"
Lirael blinked, his composure folding back over him like a veil. "i am sorry," he murmured, and stepped inside.
The door slammed behind him with an echo that seemed far too final. For a moment, he simply stood — wordless, suspended between breath and thought.
The chamber smelled faintly of incense and candle wax. A chaise stood near the tall window where sunlight spilled like liquid gold across the carpet.
Lirael moved toward it, each step a careful blend of grace and restraint — the wounded shoulder stiff beneath the fall of his robe. When he sank down, it was with quiet control, as though even pain obeyed his command.
For a moment, he sat still, the light tracing his profile — the long lashes, the pale curve of his throat, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. His good hand rose slowly, trembling, and found its way to his chest — that hollow space where no heartbeat had echoed for centuries.
His fingers lingered there, uncertain, as if searching for a sound that no longer existed.
The ache in his shoulder pulsed, but it was nothing compared to the strange weight blooming beneath his ribs — something he did not understand, something new and almost frightening.
He exhaled softly, the breath leaving him like a confession.
"Son," his mother's voice whispered in memory, "whatever you do, do not believe in humans."
Lirael's gaze softened. "Mother," he said to the still air, "that's not true."
His voice trembled, a fragile sound swallowed by the vastness of the chamber. "Humans are… beautiful. When they love, they burn like the sun — fierce, wild, unrelenting. Their devotion terrifies the heavens themselves."
He paused, his lashes lowering. The hand at his chest began to tremble. There was a weight there — new and unbearable — a pain that wasn't the sharpness of betrayal or the cold ache of time. It was softer. Real.
For so long, he had known only the pain of loss — of endless watching, endless remembering. But now…
Now he had met someone who had taught him what it meant to feel again.
A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "I am grateful for him," he whispered. "He is kind. Serene."
The words faltered.
For the first time in his endless life, color touched his face — a tender blush blooming across his pale cheeks like dawn on frost.
Why?
He didn't know why it began the moment he saw Martin. The moment he saw that fierce, unyielding love — the way the man's eyes softened only for the one he cherished. Lirael didn't understand it. He only knew that something inside him shifted, something ancient and still was breaking open.
"This… is what humans feel," he whispered to no one. "Their hearts tremble when they love."
His fingers curled tighter over his chest. "But why mine? Why does my heart do this? I am not human."
A pause, fragile as candlelight.
"Is this… love?"
The words trembled from his lips, uncertain and reverent, as if naming something forbidden.
Then — a knock at the door.
Lirael's eyes opened. The sound startled him; the mortal rhythm of it still foreign to his senses. Rising, he crossed the chamber with steps as silent as mist. When he opened the door, a group of maids stood waiting, heads bowed.
Their arms were full of bandages, ointments, a silver basin glinting faintly.
He blinked once — then understood. Martin had sent them.
"Come in," he murmured, stepping aside.
They entered swiftly, moving with practiced grace, setting down their trays and folded linens. The scent of herbs filled the air.
"You may go," Lirael said gently. "I can tend to my wound myself."
They hesitated, eyes still lowered, then curtsied and slipped away as quietly as they had come.
The chamber fell silent once more.
Lirael glanced toward the bandages and salves, then to his reflection in the mirror — an immortal in mortal garments, learning what it meant to ache.
He drew a slow breath, unfastening the blood-stained robe at his shoulder, the fabric sliding down like a sigh.
For the first time, even in pain, he smiled.
Because for the first time, his heart — though once dead — had begun to stir.
Lirael sat before the mirror, the basin of water trembling faintly as he dipped the cloth. The candlelight caught on the ripples, painting his reflection in molten gold.
He moved with deliberate grace — each gesture slow, ritualistic, like a prayer performed for no god but his own quiet heart.
As he cleaned the wound upon his shoulder, the robe slipped lower, revealing skin pale as moonlight — unmarred except for the crimson trace that glistened beneath his touch.
For a moment, the mirror itself seemed to hesitate. The glass caught his image — too beautiful, too sorrowful — and turned almost shy beneath his gaze, as though unworthy to reflect him.
The immortal's long hair, spun like sunlight itself, spilled over his bare shoulder in soft, golden strands. His throat, slender and white, arched with the grace of a swan. Beneath the faint shimmer of pain, there was something impossibly serene about him — a quiet divinity clothed in human fragility.
He dipped the cloth again, wincing as cool water met the raw edge of the wound. A sigh escaped his lips, more breath than sound.
And then — as his hair fell aside — the mirror caught a glimmer between his forehead.
A mark, delicate as a whisper, emerged from beneath the curtain of gold: a half-moon, faint yet luminous, carved upon his skin like the memory of a star.