The golden curtains swayed softly in the chamber, catching the faint breath of the evening wind. The faint perfume of lilies lingered in the air — a deceptive calm over what was about to shatter.
Lirael stood near the far side of the room, his robes faintly glimmering with the residue of celestial dust. His voice trembled when he spoke.
"Your Highness, I can still help you if you—"
"Do not talk about that thing."
Martin's tone sliced through the still air. His eyes, once serene, now burned with something far deeper — resignation wrapped in quiet defiance. "I don't care about anything now," he said, forcing a faint smile that never reached his eyes. "As long as I can see my child… I am happy being dying."
Lirael froze.
He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe for a moment. How could he make him understand — that dying wouldn't fix anything, that the world he was trying to leave behind would crumble without him? But Martin had already turned away, his steps slow but steady, like a man walking toward the edge of his own legend.
He reached the chamber door and paused, glancing back once more.
"Lirael," he said quietly, "I trust you for shutting your mouth."
The words fell heavy.
Lirael's magenta eyes widened, but he lowered his gaze quickly, his golden lashes trembling. Silence filled the air between them — a silence too wide, too full of things unsaid. Then, after a heartbeat, he nodded.
Martin gave a faint, weary smile and stepped out.
The door closed with a muted thud.
For a long time, Lirael didn't move. The faint golden sigil on his forehead pulsed once, like a warning heartbeat. He whispered into the emptiness,
"What should I do… Should I use the golden elixir too?"
His voice trembled with forbidden thought.
He knew what it meant. The golden elixir — the Half Moon Elixir, the forbidden draught that shimmered like molten dawn. One drop could ruin a mortal; one gulp could shatter the divine. And if he used it, the guardians of the Half Moon Realm would hear. The sigil bound to his soul would betray him. They would find him — and they would not forgive.
He pressed a hand over his forehead, feeling the warmth fading from his mark. The divine light was dimming. Slowly, he turned toward the window.
Outside, the mortal world stretched wide — radiant, alive, cruelly beautiful. The grand gardens below glowed with rose and jasmine, and the laughter of children rang across the marble courtyards.
The mortal world had no idea what divine laws cost. No idea what it meant to love a dying king.
Lirael exhaled slowly. The wind ruffled his golden hair, catching in its shimmer.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again — they were no longer uncertain.
"I will break the law," he whispered, his voice carrying both dread and devotion. "For you, Martin. Even if the heavens burn."
The sigil flickered faintly in protest, its light thinning into pale gold. But Lirael no longer cared. He had made his choice.
Morning light draped in velvet.
The palace thrummed with an energy that seemed almost holy.
Dorian stood before the tall mirror in his chamber, dressed in garments of deep green and crimson, the colors of the royal sigil. His reflection trembled slightly as he placed a hand on his abdomen. His cheeks warmed.
"Can you feel my hand?" he whispered, voice tender with disbelief.
Then, smiling softly to himself, he added, "I can't believe… there's a life inside me."
He laughed — breathless, boyish, radiant. Every word Martin ever said had a way of becoming truth, and this — this was the sweetest of them all.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Your Highness," came the maid's voice, gentle and formal. "I am here to fetch you to the royal court."
Dorian turned, still pink with quiet joy. "Ah—of course," he murmured, and let her lead him out.
They walked through the long corridors lined with marble pillars and lanterns lit like stars. For the first time in years, Dorian's heart felt light, almost dancing within him. Every step brought him closer to the man who had given him this impossible happiness.
At the grand doors of the throne hall, the guards bowed and swung them open.
Inside, the court stood assembled — nobles, ministers, knights — all draped in silk and awe. At the far end, upon the dais, King Martin waited. His smile, though faint, was warm enough to light the entire room.
When Dorian approached, Martin rose from the throne. His movement was graceful, though a shadow of pain traced his shoulders. He extended his hand.
Dorian took it.
A quiet murmur rippled through the hall as the king's beloved was led to the throne.
Dorian leaned his head against Martin's chest, his face burning with quiet blush, but no fear. Martin's arm came around his waist — steady, protective — as if the pain within him had no power in that moment.
"Today," Martin began, his voice carrying across the chamber, "I have an announcement."
Every noble fell silent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
He turned to his right, and his commander stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"By the word of His Majesty," the man declared, "it is announced that the royal consort — His Highness, Queen Dorian — carries within him the child of His Majesty King Martin Winston Rupert."
Gasps.
A wave of disbelief swept the hall like wind over glass. Several nobles blinked rapidly, as if their minds refused the image. A few exchanged glances, whispering in shock.
A male queen? Bearing life?
Yet the proof stood before them — Dorian's radiant blush, Martin's arm around him, and that unmistakable serenity of love that made mockery of logic.
Martin only laughed. A rich, soft laugh that cracked the tension clean in two. "Yes," he said, "it's true. My beloved carries our heir. And today, the kingdom will celebrate this miracle."
The hall erupted — cheers, applause, joyous disbelief. The courtiers bowed deeply, some out of love, others out of awe.
Servants hurried to prepare for the celebration — garlands, music, gold-dusted wine. The air filled with fragrance and color.
Martin turned back to his throne and gently seated Dorian first, then sat beside him. The gold of his crown caught the light like flame.
"So, my queen," he murmured with a faint smirk, "how are you feeling now?"
Dorian's cheeks flushed crimson. "I—I feel… happy," he whispered, lowering his gaze shyly.
"My queen looks too divine in green," Martin said softly, tracing a finger beneath his chin. Dorian's blush deepened, his lips parting in breathless surprise.
"Those eyes of yours," Martin continued, voice dropping lower, "they match your garments perfectly."
Laughter trembled in Dorian's throat — half bashful, half in love. Around them, the court rejoiced, the world spun, the light awaited its music.
But behind Martin's smile, the pain in his chest coiled tighter. Every heartbeat struck like a blade beneath his ribs, every breath a silent struggle.
And still, he refused to falter — refused to let the world see his dying glow.
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Dorian's forehead.
"For you," he whispered quietly enough that only Dorian could hear, "I would defy every god."
Dorian smiled faintly, unaware of the shadow that gathered in the corners of the throne hall — the beginning of what Lirael had already decided.
Music spilled through the marble halls like liquid gold.
Every clink of glass, every soft trill of harp and violin shimmered beneath the high-vaulted ceiling. The chandeliers glowed brighter than constellations, casting ribbons of light across jeweled gowns and polished armor.
From the throne, Dorian watched — breath caught in quiet wonder. His smile was small but luminous. For the first time, he felt truly alive.
The courtiers toasted in laughter, the nobles bowed low in reverence, and for once, he did not feel like a stranger in his own kingdom. His gaze drifted toward the man beside him — King Martin, radiant even through the veil of exhaustion.
Martin's eyes softened as he looked at his beloved. As long as he's happy, he thought, then let the pain devour me as it will. It has nothing to do with the joy I hold tonight.
Dorian turned his head at that exact moment, meeting his gaze — and immediately flushed, caught in the act.
Martin's mouth curved into a teasing smirk. "So did My love actually start watching me secretly, hm?"
"I—I was just—" Dorian began, but his voice faltered into a shy laugh.
Before Martin could tease him further, a maid approached the dais, head bowed low, a tray of ruby wine shimmering in her trembling hands.
Martin's expression shifted in an instant — the playful king vanishing behind the protective one.
"Take that away," he said firmly. "My beloved is pregnant. He will not drink this."
The maid froze, startled, then bowed deeply. "Apologies, Your Majesty."
"Bring something light instead," Martin added, gentler now. "Fruit juice, or something sweet."
"Yes, Your Majesty," she murmured, retreating swiftly.
Dorian blinked up at him, warmth blooming in his chest. "Won't you drink the wine, then?"
Martin turned to him and smiled, brushing his thumb across Dorian's cheek. The gesture was tender — too tender.
"Tonight," he said, "I'll eat whatever my beloved wishes."
Dorian's blush deepened until his skin looked painted in rose. He lowered his gaze, but the smile lingered — soft, full of something wordless.
Martin felt himself melt. The ache in his chest pulsed like a cruel reminder, but he ignored it. Whatever happens, my dear, he thought, don't stop smiling. I couldn't breathe if you ever stopped.
The music swelled. Laughter rippled across the hall. A storm of colors — emeralds, crimson, gold — danced in every reflection.
Then, amid it all, Dorian's voice came quiet. "Where is Lirael?"
Martin froze. For one suspended second, the world dimmed.
Dorian tilted his head, curious. "I haven't seen him anywhere."
Martin forced a smile. "Ah—well. He must be here somewhere. I didn't see him on my way either." His voice was light, but his pulse throbbed heavy behind the words.
Dorian studied him for a moment, then smiled again — believing it. "He probably doesn't like crowds," he said softly.
Martin exhaled, the tension easing slightly. "Yes… yes, he never liked too many people."
Their eyes met again, and Dorian's blush returned — helpless, beautiful. Martin looked away first this time, laughing quietly to himself.
Moments later, the maid returned with a silver tray — a crystal goblet filled with rose-tinted juice, a plate of sugared fruits, and delicate confections glistening like jewels.
"Perfect," Martin said. "Eat as much as my beloved craves."
Dorian's eyes sparkled. "You'll spoil me," he murmured.
"Then let me," Martin replied with a smile that almost hid his pain.
The golden and smooth music, faltered.
Because she had arrived.
The duchess — once of Hearthblade, now stripped of her title — stepped through the archway in a gown far too fine for her fallen grace. Whispers rippled through the crowd, soft as snakes. Her gaze wavered, shame blooming across her painted face as she approached the throne where King Martin and his consort sat.
Dorian's emerald eyes lowered instantly. He remembered her voice — cruel, sharp, echoing in his heart like glass breaking.
You cannot give the king an heir.
Now, as she bent low before them, his breath trembled.
Martin's teasing smile vanished. His expression hardened like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"You here again," he said, voice low, dangerous.
The duchess fell to her knees. "Your Majesty, forgive me… I was blind in my arrogance. I beg your mercy."
The hall went silent. Every noble leaned forward.
Dorian blinked up at Martin, startled by the sudden fury coiling in his king's voice.
"You have no place in my palace," Martin said, his tone echoing through the vaulted hall. "Get out of my sight."
The duchess flinched. Her painted lips trembled.
Dorian's heart clenched — she was pitiful, small now, stripped of every ounce of pride.
He reached forward, gently placing his hand over Martin's.
"Martin," he whispered softly. "It's all right. She didn't harm me."
The duchess stared up, wide-eyed, as Dorian stood. His silken robe trailed behind him as he stepped closer, lowering his hands to her shoulders.
"We all learn from our mistakes," he said quietly. "What matters is that you don't repeat them."
Tears welled in the woman's eyes. "Forgive me, Your Highness."
"It's all right," Dorian murmured, helping her rise. His kindness glimmered like morning light on water — soft, disarming, divine.
Martin watched them — his fury melted into something gentler, almost reverent. Then, standing, he wrapped his arm around Dorian's waist, pulling him close.
"It was my queen who forgave you," Martin said with a faint smile. His voice carried authority, but his gaze was tender. "You will have your place again — not because you deserve it, but because he chose to show mercy."
The duchess's eyes widened in gratitude. She bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you, my Queen." Then she hurried away, tears glistening down her cheeks.
Dorian exhaled softly, looking up at Martin. "You knew everything, didn't you?"
Martin leaned closer, eyes dark with quiet devotion. "If anyone dares to speak ill of my beloved," he said, his voice almost a growl, "do you think I would act the same?"
Dorian blushed, the pink blooming across his pale cheeks. He hid his face against Martin's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Martin tilted his chin up gently, smiling faintly. "For what, my dear?"
A shimmer of tears gathered in Dorian's eyes. "For not telling you sooner… that I wanted a child."
Martin's heart twisted — then softened entirely. He lifted Dorian's hand, pressing it against his chest where his heartbeat thudded, slow and sure.
"It's all right," he whispered. "You deserve everything — the palace, the heavens… and my heart too."
Dorian's eyes shone. Then, before he could lose courage, he leaned forward and kissed him.
Martin froze — startled, breathless — before his eyes fluttered shut. His hand tightened on Dorian's waist as the hall erupted into hushed astonishment.
When Dorian finally pulled back, his cheeks were aflame. "I love you, Martin," he breathed.
Martin cupped his face, his own eyes misted with emotion. "I love you more than anything in this world."
Around them, nobles exchanged glances — some in awe, some in envy.
"Like a fairytale," someone whispered. "Their love… it's like a fairytale."
Outside, the sky blazed with fireworks — ribbons of crimson and gold that painted the night.
The music swelled again.
And beneath the light of a thousand stars, the king and his beloved sat together — the picture of love unbroken, even as fate began to quietly turn its wheel.