The silence after they left was heavier than any storm.
Lirael remained where he stood — the air still carrying the fading trace of Dorian's warmth, the faint echo of Martin's laugh. His hands, pale and trembling, dropped to his sides. His gaze followed the empty doorway for a heartbeat longer, then drifted away — down to the marble floor where the light lay shattered in slanted gold.
He could not look at anyone. Not even at himself.
He turned from the mirror once, then back again, his reflection a stranger — celestial, foreign, misplaced in this fragile world. A faint silver shimmer pulsed at his temple where the half-moon sigil throbbed, dim but insistent.
He pressed his palm over it, whispering to no one,
"I shouldn't be here."
The words fell, heavy and trembling.
He moved to the chaise and sat with the stiffness of a statue, the pain in his shoulder forgotten. His robe had dried patches of crimson near the seam — reminders of the wound he ignored, the humanity he was not meant to possess.
For a long while, he only breathed.
He did not know how to live here — in this world of flesh, scent, and sound. If he stayed too long, the mortals would begin to notice. The glow that sometimes veiled his skin. The way his eyes, under sunlight, burned like glass. The way his heartbeat never faltered.
And yet—
If he left, Martin would die. Slowly, quietly, with the same laugh that had once melted the frost around his celestial heart.
Lirael's hands clenched over his knees. He could see how the elixir will begin it's work— the way Martin's strength will flickered behind those smiles, how his breaths will grew shallow, how the elixir will drained the light out of him even as he created another.
He whispered again, this time with a tremor that barely reached the air.
"If I go… he'll crumble before his beloved. And if I stay—"
He stopped, shutting his eyes.
He saw Dorian's face then — sweet, open, unguarded. The boy who looked at Martin as though he was the whole of heaven. The boy who would shatter if the truth was ever spoken aloud.
"What will become of him?" Lirael murmured. "And of the child he carries?"
He rose so suddenly the chaise creaked behind him. Pain flared across his shoulder; he ignored it. He began to pace, his steps restless, his thoughts louder than the ticking of the old clock by the wall.
"I cannot leave," he muttered, almost feverishly. "Not yet. Anything could happen. But how do I tell him I can help? He would never listen."
A knock broke through his storm of thought.
Lirael froze. His reflection stared back from the mirror — the mark at his temple glowing faintly beneath the strands of gold hair. Quickly, he swept his hand up, pushing the curls forward to cover it.
"Come in," he said, voice calm and smooth as porcelain.
A maid entered quietly, carrying folded garments of gold and ivory. Priest's robes. The kind meant for blessings, not battle. She placed them neatly on the chaise and bowed low.
"His Majesty requests us to fetch these garments," she said softly.
Lirael inclined his head. "Thank you."
The maid lingered a moment — perhaps unsettled by something in his eyes — before retreating in silence.
When the door closed, Lirael exhaled. His gaze fell to the robes, the sacred threads shimmering faintly under sunlight. They seemed to mock him — a reminder of the divinity he once embodied, the distance he'd tried to escape.
He reached out, brushing his fingers over the fabric. The texture felt alive, almost humming against his skin. He sighed, low and bitter, before lifting the robe into his arms.
"Gold and ivory," he whispered. "Heaven's colors. How ironic."
Meanwhile, down the corridor, the doors of the royal chamber closed softly behind Martin.
He carried Dorian in his arms — careful, tender, as though he held the last petal of a dying bloom. Dorian smiled faintly, his cheek pressed against Martin's shoulder.
When Martin laid him upon the bed, Dorian blinked sleepily, his lips curving in that innocent, unguarded way that always undid him.
"Martin," Dorian murmured, his voice fragile with curiosity, "why didn't you let me speak to him longer?"
Martin froze. Then, with a weary laugh, he sat on the edge of the bed and took Dorian's small hands in his own.
"It's not what you think, dear," he said, kissing the soft curve of Dorian's palms. "There was still the smell of blood in the air. I didn't want anything to harm my wife."
Dorian's cheeks flamed, and he turned his face away — but Martin's gaze had already shifted downward. His palm came to rest gently on Dorian's abdomen.
"And our miracle," he whispered, almost reverently.
Dorian's breath caught. The warmth of Martin's touch spread through him, fragile and electric. He placed both hands behind Martin's neck, fingers lacing together as he drew him closer — hesitant but sure.
For the first time, Dorian pulled him into a kiss.
Martin's breath faltered. He could feel Dorian's heart fluttering against him like a trapped bird. When he drew back, he whispered, his thumb brushing Dorian's glistening lip,
"Don't tire yourself, my love."
Dorian nodded, shy and flushed, his lashes fluttering like soft feathers.
Martin leaned in again — this time to kiss his forehead. "Rest," he murmured. "I will announce the news. The kingdom must know my beloved wife is carrying our little miracle."
Dorian laughed quietly, his face pressed to Martin's chest, the sound soft and bright as spring rain.
And Martin — oh, he died for that laugh.
It pierced him cleanly, sweetly, deeper than any wound the gods could grant. He kissed him then — his cheeks, his nose, his brow — until Dorian was laughing harder, eyes glimmering, voice warm and alive.
For a moment, Martin forgot everything else. The pain. The slow decay. The fact that his blood burned like silver fire beneath his skin.
When he finally stopped, it wasn't because he wanted to — but because he couldn't breathe past the ache in his chest. He lay beside Dorian, their fingers intertwined, watching him laugh through tears that Dorian would never see.
"When you laugh," he whispered hoarsely, "it burns my heart deeper."
Dorian smiled, not understanding.
Martin smiled back, memorizing him — the curve of his lips, the warmth of his skin, the childlike joy that made even the dying worth enduring.
The morning light spilled across the room, gilding them both in gold.
Two souls — one blissfully unaware, one quietly counting the days.
Meanwhile in the bath chamber Steam drifted across the chamber like mist over dawn fields.
Lirael stood before the vast marble bath — its surface glimmering with rose petals that floated like fragments of sunset. The air was fragrant, hushed. Candles flickered in gold sconces, throwing soft halos on the pale stone walls.
The maids bowed once they had prepared everything. "Your bath is ready."
He inclined his head. "You may leave."
Their footsteps faded, leaving silence behind — a silence that seemed to breathe.
Lirael turned, one last look toward the closed doors, then let his robe fall. It fluttered down in a whisper of silk and moonlight, pooling at his feet. His skin, pale as early frost, caught the faint shimmer of the candlelight.
He stepped forward. The first touch of water was warm — deceptively mortal. It lapped at his toes, then his ankles, then rose around him as he sank slowly into it. His hair — long strands of gold and light — spilled over the surface like liquid sun.
Only his shoulder remained dry, bound in the careful bandage Martin had wrapped. The scent of herbs lingered faintly — a reminder of that man's impossible gentleness.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, the water rippling softly against him.
"I shouldn't have let him use that elixir," he murmured.
His voice was barely sound — just breath and regret. His lashes, pale-gold and trembling, lowered as the weight of guilt settled again.
The half-moon sigil at his temple began to burn — not with light, but with warning. A pulse of celestial energy coiled through him, sharp and electric.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing. "Ah... No..."
He could feel it — the link breaking. Martin's mortal essence had changed the moment he used that forbidden elixir. His lifeforce wouldn't be same.
Lirael's breathing quickened, his other hand gripping the edge of the bath until the marble groaned under his touch.
From now on, Martin would not feel pain the same way. — not as humans do. The elixir would numb everything slowly, stealing what made him alive.
Lirael's chest tightened. The ache was unbearable.
He rose from the water suddenly, droplets sliding down his skin like silver rain. He reached for the towel, dried himself with haste, and dressed. The golden and ivory robes clung like second light, hiding his celestial glow. When he caught his reflection, he pulled his hair forward to cover the sigil again — a secret burning beneath human disguise.
He lingered at the door, one hand resting against the carved wood.
He did not know anyone here — not the maids, not the nobles, not the guards who wounded him without his will. Only Martin and Dorian were familiar to him.
He drew a slow breath, steadied his heart, and stepped outside.
The corridor was vast and blinding, gilded with sunlight. His feet made no sound on the marble floor. He walked, unsure of direction, but guided by the pull in his chest — the one that led toward Martin.
Servants turned to look.
Their whispers followed him like ripples in still water.
"Who is he?"
"Have you ever seen eyes like that?"
"Not human…"
Lirael lowered his gaze, his long lashes shadowing the unnatural glow of his magenta eyes. The more they stared, the deeper he bowed his head.
He passed before tapestries and tall windows, each filled with the kind of beauty that once belonged to his own realm — but none of it brought peace. Only dissonance.
At the grand staircase, voices rose — laughter, chatter, footsteps echoing from below. Nobles moved through the great hall, their jewels flashing like shards of glass.
Lirael searched the crowd.
No Martin.
No Dorian.
Only faces — curious, mortal, transient.
He walked farther, down one corridor and then another. Every turn seemed to lead him deeper into unfamiliarity. The scent of perfume and candle smoke thickened the air.
Then, at last, his steps faltered.
He stopped outside a chamber — not his own. He didn't even know whose. It didn't matter. His limbs trembled faintly, his breath unsteady. He hadn't walked this much in… centuries.
Once, he had floated through airless halls of light. Here, gravity itself was punishment.
He leaned against a marble column and slid down until he sat on the floor. His hair spilled around him like fallen sunlight, catching the faint dust motes drifting in the golden air.
He rested his head against the cool stone.
For a while, he only listened — to distant footsteps, to laughter from rooms beyond, to the heartbeat of a world that wasn't his.
He closed his eyes.
Perhaps it was exhaustion.
Perhaps it was sorrow.
Perhaps it was the weight of centuries pressing down on him again.
Whatever it was, it lulled him — not into sleep, but into stillness.
And in that stillness, he whispered to no one,
"Wait a little bit Martin…. I am on my way…."
The prayer slipped between his lips like a final thread of light, vanishing into the echoing halls of the mortal palace.
Lirael had only just let his eyes fall shut.
Then—
A cough.
Low at first. Then harsher.
It broke through the quiet like a knife tearing silk.
Lirael's eyes flew open. His breath caught as his head jerked toward the sound.
He rose to his feet at once, the hem of his ivory robe brushing the polished floor. His heart stuttered as the cough echoed again — closer, weaker.
And then he saw him.
Martin.
The king was at the far end of the corridor, surrounded by two of his subordinates.
"Your Highness, you should rest—" one of them murmured, but Martin ignored him, his shoulders tightening as another cough slipped past his lips.
Martin brushed him off with a gesture — impatient, stubborn, still wearing that same faint, unbreakable smile.
Then his eyes lifted.
They found Lirael.
For a heartbeat, both of them stood still. Lirael's breath hitched, a chill flooding his veins. It was as if he were looking at death wearing a crown — and smiling as though it meant nothing.
Martin straightened with effort. "Leave us," he said quietly.
The subordinates hesitated. "But,—"
"I said leave."
They obeyed at once, bowing before vanishing down the hall. Their footsteps faded into silence.
Lirael stood frozen where he was, his hands trembling faintly at his sides. The ache in his chest returned — that same unbearable echo that had begun when Martin used the elixir.
"Your Highness—"
Before he could finish, Martin closed the distance between them in a few quick, uneven strides. He caught Lirael's uninjured arm and pulled him forward — his grip firm, almost desperate.
"Not here," he said, his voice roughened by the cough.
He dragged him into a nearby guest chamber and shut the door hard behind them. The sound echoed like thunder in the still air.
Lirael turned to him at once, his voice trembling. "Your Highness, your health—"
"Listen to me," Martin cut in, his tone sharp — almost pleading beneath its authority. "Carefully, Lirael."
The immortal froze.
Martin stepped closer. "Dorian knows nothing about what happened. About the elixir. About what it's doing."
Lirael opened his mouth, but Martin's gaze silenced him.
"You will say nothing," Martin continued, low and firm. "Not to him. Not to anyone. Do you understand?"
"Your Highness—"
"Lirael."
The words cracked through the air like a whip.
Lirael's hands clenched at his sides. His voice was quiet, but there was a tremor beneath it — one born of something more dangerous than defiance. "Do you plan," he asked softly, "to leave the one you love behind?"
Martin's breath caught. He looked away, as though the question itself had drawn blood.
Lirael stepped forward, his voice rising despite himself. "If something happens to you—"
He faltered. The ache in his chest throbbed again, merciless. He forced his tone steady. "If something happens to you, what will become of him? What will be left of your beloved?"
Martin said nothing. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hiss of his own breath.
Then, finally—
"Then tell me, Lirael," he murmured, eyes downcast. "What should I do?"
His voice cracked — not from weakness, but from the unbearable weight of love. "Should I have let him live with sorrow? Watching him ache for what he could never have?"
Lirael's lips parted, his gaze trembling. "You could have asked me," he said. "I could have done that for you."
Martin blinked, startled. "You?"
A faint smile tugged at Martin's mouth, unbearably human. "That doesn't make sense," he said softly. "If you had done it… then it would be you who made him happy. And I… I wanted it to be me."
Lirael turned away, unable to meet his eyes. The light from the window fell over both of them — gold and pale.
Martin's next smile was quieter, gentler — the kind that broke things. "I'm grateful, you know. For what I did. Because I saw him laugh."
His voice softened, his gaze far away now. "For the first time since I've known him… Dorian laughed."
Lirael's throat closed. He couldn't speak.
Martin looked down at his own hands. " it'll makes the pain easier," he said. "Knowing that. It will make dying feel almost… merciful."
"Your Highness—"