The night lay heavy around them, velvet and hushed, the moon casting its pale blessing upon the chamber. Dorian remained within Martin's arms, his slender frame trembling as though the very weight of his confession had drained all strength from him. His glassy green eyes lifted, luminous with sorrow, to meet the prince's gaze.
"Martin…" His voice quivered, a whisper caught between love and despair. "By tomorrow…" He faltered, unable to speak the next words. His breath shuddered. "…By tomorrow, you must tell His Highness. He is ill. And I do not think he will ever allow a mere servant to be deemed worthy of your love."
"Stop it," Martin interrupted at once, his voice sharp with anguish. His amber eyes burned, fierce with devotion. "Stop speaking of worth as though love were measured in rank. You are worthy—worthy of my heart, Dorian. My heart belongs to you alone. Tomorrow, I will tell my father. I swear it."
But Dorian shook his head, clutching at Martin's hand with desperate strength. "You cannot go against your father," he murmured, his voice strained with grief. "I… I would not mind if you married someone else. I already spoke my feelings to you tonight—though they may never mean more than this moment."
Those words struck Martin like a blade. His chest tightened, his breath faltered. He crushed Dorian into his embrace, pressing the servant close against his chest as if to shield him from the cruelty of his own words.
"Stop talking!" Martin's voice cracked, trembling with pain. "I do not care what tomorrow brings. I do not care what chains or crowns they try to bind me with. I want only you—for the rest of my life, Dorian. Only you."
Again Dorian broke from the embrace, though his body shook with the effort. His emerald eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and in them lived a story too deep for words: a lifetime of silence, of servitude, of loving in secret. Yet his lips, bound by fear and humility, spoke otherwise.
"Your Highness," he whispered, bowing his head though tears slipped freely down his pale cheeks. "I will be there… for the rest of my life. But only at your service. That is my place."
At those words, Martin's composure shattered. Tears welled hot in his amber eyes, falling despite his attempts to remain strong. He gripped Dorian's shoulders, desperate, aching, unable to bear the humility in the man he loved.
"Why are you speaking like this?" Martin's voice broke, trembling with desperation. "Why can you not understand? I love you—no one else. If I cannot have you, then—then I will take my life!"
Dorian's eyes flew wide, his heart seizing with terror. A sob ripped from his throat as he clutched Martin's arms, shaking his head violently. "Please—Don't! Please, do not be so reckless, Your Highness. Do not speak of death. I…" His voice fractured. His sobs grew louder, trembling as though the earth itself were breaking beneath him. "I wished—I wished I was yours."
Martin's heart clenched as though pierced by iron. With a strangled cry he embraced Dorian again, wrapping him in arms that would never let go. His head pressed into the crook of Dorian's neck, his tears soaking golden hair that glimmered in the moonlight.
"I will not marry another," Martin vowed fiercely, his voice muffled but resolute. "Never. Not as long as I draw breath. I would rather burn this crown to ash than surrender you."
Dorian clutched him back, fingers digging into the prince's clothes, holding him as though the moment might vanish if he loosened his grip. Their bodies trembled together, their sobs mingling in the silence of the chamber.
Neither knew what dawn would bring. The world outside might tear them apart. The weight of crown, of illness, of the King's command pressed upon them like an iron shroud.
But here, in the fragile refuge of night, one truth burned brighter than any fear: Martin would not wed another. His heart, his vow, his very soul belonged to Dorian.
And as they wept in each other's arms, the future lay veiled in uncertainty. Yet even if tomorrow came with chains, with fury, with final judgment—nothing could erase the love that had been spoken, raw and irrevocable, beneath the silver gaze of the moon.
The first light of dawn spilled across the vast chamber like liquid gold, pouring through the tall arched windows draped in crimson velvet. The air was hushed, almost reverent, as though the palace itself held its breath.
Dorian stirred awake, his cheek still pressed faintly against the silken fabric of the prince's tunic. He blinked once, then twice, and realized with a rush of heat that he had fallen asleep in Martin's arms. The First Prince lay beside him, brow faintly furrowed even in slumber, his expression sorrowful as if dreams themselves pressed cruel burdens upon him.
For a moment, Dorian simply looked at him. His heart ached at the sight of such quiet suffering etched into a face that carried both majesty and boyhood still. With trembling fingers, he brushed a stray lock of Martin's brown hair from his forehead. Then, lowering his lips, he pressed the softest kiss against the crown of his head—a fleeting act of devotion that no eyes would ever witness.
Silently, he disentangled himself and rose.
The duties of morning awaited.
He prepared Martin's garments with meticulous care, laying them across the carved oak stand: a deep blue doublet threaded with silver, breeches pressed to perfection, and a cloak heavy with the prince's crest. Then he filled the great marble tub with steaming water, scattering rose petals across the surface until it looked like a bath fit for the gods themselves. Only when the chamber was in perfect order did he slip away, vanishing into the maze of corridors that would lead him to the kitchens.
By the time the palace began to stir with voices and footsteps, Dorian had already set his hands to work again. He arranged the vast dining table beneath a canopy of gilded chandeliers, laying silverware with precision, pouring wine into crystal goblets, and ensuring not a fold of linen dared defy symmetry. His face betrayed nothing of the storm within him. Only his eyes—green and glassy—betrayed the faintest shadow of unrest.
The court began to assemble, trickling into the dining hall with the rustle of silk gowns and polished boots. Nobles murmured in curious tones, each waiting for the day's revelation.
At last, Prince Martin entered.
Every eye turned toward him. He carried himself with regal composure, yet there was something in his face that stilled the air—a strange marriage of sorrow and unshakable resolve. His amber-golden eyes flicked once toward Dorian, and though the servant quickly averted his gaze, the silent exchange burned between them like fire hidden beneath snow.
The courtiers sat. Plates were filled. The scrape of cutlery echoed against porcelain. But before long, the cough of King Joseph broke through the seat of dinning hall like a warning bell.
The king's frame had grown frailer with each passing day, his once commanding presence now thinned by illness, though the fire of authority had not left his eyes. He set down his spoon and fixed his gaze upon his son.
"Martin," he said, voice gravelly but unyielding.
The prince straightened. "Yes, Father?"
The king's cough rattled before he spoke again. "have you made up your mind?"
Silence fell like a heavy shroud over the hall. Even the flames in the chandeliers seemed to lean closer, eager to hear.
Martin's chest rose and fell once. His eyes flickered—not toward the courtiers, not toward the platters of food untouched before him—but toward the quiet figure standing at the table's edge. Dorian, with downcast eyes, clutching the tray in his hands as if it were his only shield.
The prince drew in a breath. "Yes, Father. I have made up my mind."
Satisfaction lit the king's weary features. He coughed again, pressing a kerchief to his lips. "Good. Then tell me, is it Lauren?"
A ripple moved across the table. Lauren—the prince's cousin, sweet and fair, her beauty long praised by every noble tongue. A match that would please the court.
But Martin shook his head. "No, Father. Not Lauren. She is as a sister to me. Nothing more."
The king's brows knit. "Then Liliana?"
Another stir among the courtiers. Liliana was famed for her independence, her wit sharp as steel. She would make a formidable queen.
But again, Martin's voice was steady. "Not Liliana. She is worthy in her own way, but not mine."
A hush fell. The king leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "If not one of them, then who? Speak plainly, son."
Martin rose from his chair. His every step across the hall echoed like a drumbeat, each one charged with the weight of defiance. Nobles whispered behind their jeweled hands, some leaning forward with anticipation, others with dread.
He did not stop until he stood before his father, the King of Hearthblade himself. Then, with a sudden turn, he reached for Dorian.
The servant froze, his breath catching, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might burst through his chest.
Martin caught Dorian's trembling hand, lifted it, and pressed it firmly against his own heart. His voice, when it rang through the hall, carried no tremor.
"Father," Martin declared, "I, Martin Winston Rupert, heir of Hearthblade, have devoted my heart. And if I am ever to wed, then know this: my bride shall be none other than the one who stands beside me now."
Gasps scattered through the chamber.
Dorian's cheeks flushed scarlet, his eyes wide with disbelief. Whispers spread like wildfire through the courtiers: a servant? a man? the prince defies tradition!
King Joseph's face hardened, his frail body trembling not only with illness but with shock. "Son," he said slowly, "are you mocking me? How can you speak of marriage with one of your own gender? Do you wish to throw your life—and this kingdom's legacy—into ruin?"
But Martin did not flinch. His grip on Dorian's hand only tightened. His amber eyes blazed with unshakable fire.
"I do not mock you, Father. I do not mock the crown," Martin declared, his voice resonating through the hall with unshaken resolve. "For your sake, I will marry. But let it be known—I can no longer draw breath in a world without him. I will marry none other than Dorian, for I cannot—will not—live without him."
The whispers swelled, crashing like a tide against the marble walls. Some scoffed, others gasped, and a few even smiled behind their hands.
The king coughed violently, his kerchief stained with crimson. His body shook, yet he raised a trembling hand, commanding silence in the hall. The sound of his ragged breath echoed louder than the murmurs of the nobles.
"Father—" Martin's voice broke as he instinctively leaned forward, his hand half-lifted, desperate to steady him. For a fleeting moment, the mask of the bold prince faltered, revealing only the son terrified of losing the man before him.
But he caught himself. His lips pressed into a thin, determined line, his hand lowering back to his side. He swallowed his grief, his worry, his fear, and chose instead to wait. Whatever storm was brewing in his father's frail body, Martin would not steal his moment of command.
He bowed his head just slightly, his gaze locked upon the king, silently vowing that his words—and his love—would stand stronger than the sickness devouring his father.
At last, he sighed. "So be it."
Shock rippled again through the hall.
The king's voice, though weakened, carried across the dinning table: "Begin the preparations. The wedding shall be arranged."
For a moment, silence. Then disbelief, murmurs, and outrage intermingled, spilling from every noble mouth.
But Martin heard none of it. With a fierce, unguarded smile, he did not simply release Dorian's trembling hand. Instead, he lifted it with deliberate grace, pressing his lips reverently against the servant's knuckles, sealing before all eyes the vow of his heart.
Gasps rippled through the vast dinning hall, but Martin did not falter. After the kiss, he released Dorian's hand only to rush forward. He knelt before his father, clasping his frail hands tightly, as though the entire weight of his resolve now rested in that gesture.
"Thank you, Father," Martin whispered, eyes glistening. "Thank you for hearing me."
The king shook his head, exhaustion carving lines deeper into his face. "Go, then. Select your wedding garments. But, Martin… come to my chamber. We must speak privately."
Martin bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
The courtiers still buzzed with disbelief. Many could not fathom how the ruthless King Joseph Winston Rupert—so feared, so unyielding—had allowed such a union. But there it was, spoken and sealed.
At the edge of the hall, Dorian pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. His eyes shimmered with tears he could no longer contain. He had believed it hopeless, unthinkable—but Martin, bold and unrelenting, had claimed him before the world.
His.
Forever.