The hearth of the Hearthblade Kingdom had burned for centuries, its palaces wreathed in banners of crimson and gold, yet even in its resplendent halls shadows found their way. Among the quiet corridors of marble and gilt, servants moved like clockwork, their footsteps measured, their hands disciplined.
One among them was Dorian.
His hands were never idle—he changed sheets until they lay smooth as glass, polished dishes until they gleamed like mirrors, and prepared the vast dining table with precision so exact that even the steward had ceased to correct him. Yet for all his skill, he was a mockery of the station fate had given him. His beauty was his betrayal: green eyes luminous as spring meadows, hair of pale gold falling soft against his brow, and a bearing far too gentle, too noble, for servitude. Many whispered that he was wasted as a servant, though none dared say it within earshot of the throne.
Prince Martin, first heir of the Hearthblade line, knew this waste all too well.
Each day, when Dorian, carried prince Martin tea into the prince's study, Dorian followed, balancing the silver tray with quiet elegance. Martin's gaze would lift from parchment to porcelain cup, then linger, always, on the servant who placed it before him. The sight of Dorian's lashes lowered in modesty, of his fingers trembling as though the prince's eyes alone set them aflame, softened Martin's heart until it was no longer his own.
Dorian, for his part, tried to master himself. Yet whenever Martin's amber-golden eyes fell upon him, his composure fractured. A blush stole over his ivory cheeks, and he would avert his gaze, as though the very act of looking upon Martin too long would undo him. He dared not dream further—for what prince had ever lowered his hand for a servant?
Yet Martin dreamed still.
The illusion of quiet continued until one fateful evening, when the great dining hall brimmed with candlelight. The table stretched like a river of gold, lined with platters that steamed and smoked, yet none tasted sweeter than the words about to be spoken.
King Joseph sat enthroned at the table's head, his once-mighty frame thinner, weakened by the cough that had haunted him for months. His eyes—once bright as fire on steel—were dimmer now, though their authority had not waned. His voice carried across the feasting board with the weight of a hammer:
"Son."
Prince Martin set down his fork and knife, his heart tightening. "Yes, Father?"
The king's chest rattled with breath. "You are no longer a boy. The realm waits for its future Bride, and I…" His cough broke through, sharp, ragged. "I will not wait much longer. You must be wed."
Silence swept the table. The clatter of utensils stilled. Only the whisper of Dorian's breath could be heard, for he stood at the corner of the hall, back straight, tray clasped in his hands. His face remained composed, but his eyes glistened in the candlelight, betraying the storm within.
Martin's brow furrowed, his hand trembling where it rested on the tablecloth. He forced himself to breathe evenly, though his voice wavered when he spoke:
"Father… grant me more time."
King Joseph's gaze was piercing. "Time? For what? Each day I weaken. I do not ask for riches, nor conquest. The only gift I desire before my death is to see you wed. Give me that, Martin, and I will pass in peace."
Martin's lips pressed thin. His amber eyes flickered—toward the corner, toward Dorian, whose expression, though carefully schooled, was etched with sorrow too profound to mask. Martin's chest constricted. He wanted to cry out, to stand, to confess everything before the court: I love him. I love the servant with the green eyes and golden hair. I love him, and no Bride will do.
But the weight of the hall, the gaze of the courtiers, and the trembling frame of his father chained his tongue.
"Father," Martin whispered, "do not speak of death. You will live to see many days yet."
The king gave a wan smile. "Do not flatter an old man with falsehoods. Promise me this: tomorrow, you will give your answer. Tomorrow, you will declare your bride."
Martin hesitated, his throat dry. At last, with a smile so strained it seemed carved from stone, he bowed his head. "Yes, Father. Tomorrow I will declare."
A cough wracked the king, but he nodded, satisfied.
The meal resumed, though its flavor was ash in Martin's mouth. He could not touch the venison nor the wine, for his thoughts gnawed at him with relentless hunger. When at last the feast concluded, he rose, murmuring excuses, and slipped from the hall.
But not before stealing a glance—one glance—at Dorian.
The servant's green eyes were glassy with unspilled tears. His lips parted as though words might escape, but none came. His tray trembled slightly in his hands, though he remained silent, dutiful, unseen.
Martin's heart burned.
He strode down the gilded corridors of the palace, his boots striking marble with a rhythm that matched the storm in his mind. Torches flickered along the walls, casting shadows that seemed to whisper his torment back to him.
How can I tell him? How can I speak to my father of love when that love belongs to a servant?
At last he reached his chamber, vast and gilded, yet barren of comfort. He sank onto his chaise, his fingers dragging through his brown hair, his thoughts a tempest.
By tomorrow it will be too late. He will bind me to a queen I do not love. He will shackle me to a life I cannot endure. And yet—how can I defy him?
Martin's amber eyes lifted, gazing toward the moonlight that streamed through the tall windows. His lips moved, scarcely above a whisper:
"It will be fine. It must be fine. If I tell him tomorrow—if I tell him the truth—he will understand. He must."
Yet even as he spoke, dread gnawed his bones.
For kings seldom bowed to love, and kingdoms seldom bent for servants.
But Martin's heart, bound as it was to Dorian, could not be silenced. Tomorrow, he swore to himself, tomorrow he would speak.
And tomorrow, everything would change.
The corridors of the palace were quiet, hushed beneath the cloak of night. Moonlight slipped like silver threads through tall windows, pooling faintly across the marble floors. Dorian moved softly along those corridors, a tray balanced with steady hands though his chest was anything but steady. The steam of warm milk curled upward, delicate as breath, blurring the reflection of his own anxious face. His green eyes shimmered with something mournful, a hidden ache he had no power to silence.
At last he reached the chamber of the First Prince. The doors loomed tall, gilded in carved sigils, yet they seemed to weigh upon him as though each knock would summon judgment itself. He swallowed, knuckles trembling, and rapped softly.
"Come in," came the voice from within—deep, steady, and yet touched by weariness.
The door creaked open. Dorian entered, bowing slightly, his golden hair falling against his cheeks in the soft light. His chest felt tight, as though every step into the prince's room trespassed into forbidden lands. He set the tray upon a polished table near the window, the porcelain cup clinking faintly against its saucer.
Prince Martin rose from his chaise, tall and composed, amber eyes immediately drawn to Dorian as if his presence alone anchored the room. "Dorian…" His voice was quiet, almost tender.
Dorian turned swiftly, his instinct to retreat, to escape before words he could not control would spill forth. But before he could reach the door, Martin's voice cut through the silence.
"Wait."
The command was soft, but resolute. Dorian halted, his breath catching, his back trembling faintly beneath the weight of the word. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned.
Martin stepped closer, each movement unhurried yet firm, as though he knew distance between them could no longer be endured. His lips parted, prepared to speak. But before he could, Dorian's voice broke the air—unsteady, fragile, carrying the tremor of suppressed emotion.
"Your Highness…" His voice faltered. He pressed his lips together, gathering the fragments of courage. "Before you discuss your marriage… this servant… begs to speak a few words."
Martin froze. The word—marriage—struck his heart like a blade. Why had Dorian spoken of it so? Why, when it was already the torment burning within him? His chest constricted as he took another step, his brows furrowing with pain. "Why do you—"
But Dorian pressed on, though his voice quivered like glass. "Your Highness, if you despise me… then do so. If you wish to dismiss me from your service, then let it be. But… if I cannot bury it anymore… let me at least confess—" His green eyes brimmed with tears, his face pale with shame and longing. "Your Highness, I… I love you."
The words trembled through the air like lightning through still sky.
Martin's breath caught. His cheeks flushed, burning crimson. His chest thundered with disbelief and relief entwined, a soundless storm beneath his ribs. He shook his head slowly, his golden eyes blazing with urgency.
"Hate you? Dismiss you? Dorian, never."
But Dorian turned away, tears spilling despite his attempts to hide them. He moved to retreat, to protect himself from the humiliation of his confession. Yet before he could take two steps, Martin's hand caught his wrist, strong and unyielding. With a swift tug, he pulled Dorian back, closer, refusing to let the distance return.
"Won't you hear my words?" Martin's voice, once restrained, surged with intensity.
Dorian struggled faintly, but his strength was nothing before the prince's resolve. "Your Highness, please—"
"No," Martin cut him off, his gaze fierce. "No titles tonight. Listen to me." He raised a hand, gently cupping Dorian's trembling cheek, his thumb brushing against the warmth of tears. "I have known it for so long, Dorian. Known it, and feared it. But love cannot be wrong—not when it has burned this fiercely." His voice softened, breaking at the edges. "Dorian… I love you."
Dorian's eyes widened, green irises gleaming with disbelief. "Y-your Highness…"
"Martin," the prince corrected, firm yet tender. His lips curved faintly, a bittersweet smile. "Call me Martin. Or better yet… call me darling, if you dare."
The word unraveled the last of Dorian's composure. His tears flowed freely, his chest aching with joy and disbelief all at once.
"Your…
Martin…"
His voice cracked, his heart fluttering wildly.
"Shh," Martin whispered, drawing him nearer, until their foreheads touched. His voice lowered to a vow. "If marriage must come… let it be only to you. To no princess, no crown, no stranger's hand. Only you."
He grasped both of Dorian's trembling hands, pressing them firmly to his chest where his heartbeat thundered. Then, without hesitation, he lifted them to his lips, reverent as though they were relics.
Dorian's breath hitched, his heart hammering as he felt the warmth of that kiss burn against his skin. He could not speak, his voice strangled by the tide of emotion overwhelming him.
And then Martin's arms encircled him, pulling him into the broad strength of his chest. He held him tightly, protectively, as though the world itself would not pry him free. His lips brushed against Dorian's golden hair, pressing a kiss of promise upon his crown.
"Do not cry," Martin murmured, voice shaking with tenderness. "Do not ever believe yourself unworthy of love. You are mine, Dorian. My heart is yours."
Dorian wept still, but his tears were no longer born of sorrow—they shimmered with hope, with disbelief turning slowly into truth.
And in that chamber, with moonlight bathing them in silver glow, the prince and the servant clung to one another—two hearts that had defied station, silence, and fear.
No court, no crown, no law of blood or birth could diminish the truth whispered between them that night.
For when love had finally spoken, nothing else mattered.