Dorian sat still as the maids wove ribbons through his golden hair. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and rosewater; the scent of ceremony, of something that felt too perfect to be real.
He stared at his reflection — the white royal garments fitting him with almost sacred precision. His hands pressed against his chest as if to quiet the thunder beneath his ribs. The sound of his heartbeat was so fierce he feared even the maids could hear it.
"Master Dorian, don't be nervous," one of them said kindly, smiling at his reflection. "Everything will go smoothly."
Dorian blinked, his throat tightening. "Have you… ever know how to walked down the aisle before?"
The maid giggled softly, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. "It's easy, Master Dorian. The only thing you need is to hold your his highness hand. His Highness will walk beside you. You won't need to take a single step alone."
Her words made his heart tremble all over again. He lowered his gaze, cheeks flushed pink. The thought of standing beside his prince — of belonging beside him — was almost too much to bear.
When they finished, one maid lifted a bouquet of jasmine blossoms and offered it to him. "Your favorite," she said.
Dorian took it gently, the petals cool against his fingertips. The others gathered around him, holding the fine edges of the thin white veil.
"Stand, Master Dorian," said the first maid.
He obeyed, rising carefully as they placed the veil over his head. Light filtered through it like threads of morning dew, softening the glow of his hair and the gleam of his eyes. His reflection now looked like a dream — half angel, half flame.
"Come, we must hurry," said another maid. "His Highness will soon be ready."
They moved as one — a quiet procession of silk and soft laughter. The maids lifted the veil's edges as they walked, the fabric rippling behind him like mist.
Dorian's pulse thrummed faster with every step. He clutched the jasmine bouquet closer to his chest, breath shallow. He was going to marry him — the man who had stolen his breath, his peace, his every waking thought.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and smiled faintly beneath the veil.
This was no longer a dream.
It was the beginning of forever.
Martin stood before the mirror, the morning light catching on the gold embroidery of his royal attire. Every detail — from the polished buttons to the gleam of his boots — spoke of ceremony and destiny. Yet beneath that grandeur, his heart thudded with an excitement that no crown could tame.
He exhaled softly, a smile curving his lips. "Today is the day," he whispered to his reflection. "Finally… I and my—"
He stopped himself, the words faltering as heat rushed to his cheeks.
Dorian.
Even the thought of his name was enough to make the prince blush. He imagined him — shy, radiant, perhaps trembling with the same nervous joy that filled his own chest. Would he wear white? Would his hair catch the sunlight the way it always did when they walked through the gardens?
Martin's reflection smiled wider. He brushed a final strand of brown hair into place, smoothing it with quiet precision. For a heartbeat, the young prince almost looked like a boy again — hopeful, wild with feeling, in love beyond reason.
A knock came at the door.
"Your Highness," said a servant softly, "everything is prepared."
"Good," Martin replied, turning toward the door. His voice was calm, though his heart betrayed him with its pace.
He stepped out of his chamber, the servants falling into line behind him. The corridor stretched long and gleaming before him, filled with golden light and the faint scent of jasmine — Dorian's favorite.
Martin's steps grew steadier, more certain. Every stride carried the echo of a promise — one whispered under moonlight, one sealed in the quiet beating of two hearts.
Soon, he thought, his pulse quickening, I will see him.
And as he descended the marble stairs, a smile — soft, unguarded, utterly in love — crossed his face.
My Dorian.
Dorian's heart thudded so loudly it nearly drowned the music. Each step down the marble floor felt weightless and heavy all at once. The air shimmered beneath the chandeliers; a thousand eyes followed him as though he were made of light and fear in equal measure.
Across the hall, Prince Martin had already entered through the grand doors. The moment Dorian looked through the thin veil, he saw it—that unmistakable smile curving Martin's lips, warm and certain, and it sent a faint flush racing up Dorian's neck.
Behind him, the maids giggled softly behind their hands before retreating, leaving him standing alone beneath the vaulted ceiling.
He took a breath. Then another. And moved forward.
From the rows of nobles, whispers stirred like restless silk.
"If His Highness wishes to wed another man, who dares object?" murmured one.
"The King himself allows it—then who are we to judge?" answered another.
The murmurs faded as Dorian halted halfway.
Martin, unable to wait longer, stepped toward him. His eyes shone with quiet pride and something deeper—something fierce. Seeing Dorian in that pure white garment made his chest tighten with wonder.
He stopped before him and offered his arm, voice low and steady.
"May I?"
Dorian hesitated for only a breath before placing his gloved hand upon Martin's arm, the bouquet trembling faintly between them.
Together they walked toward the dais, side by side. The world seemed to hush around them—the nobles' gazes, the echo of the choir, even the pulse of the candles—until there was only the sound of their steps, matching in rhythm.
At the altar, the priest waited with his open book, its gilded edges catching the morning light. And upon the throne, King Joseph watched them, his crown glinting dully under the chandelier's glow.
The King coughed, a violent sound muffled by a kerchief stained faintly with crimson. His body trembled once, though his face betrayed nothing.
Martin's eyes flickered toward him—worried, searching—but his father gave only a small, tired smile. There was no rebuke there, no hesitation. Only a silent wish fulfilled.
For the King knew—time was slipping fast through his grasp.
And all he desired before his final dusk was to see his son happy, at least once, before the kingdom claimed him for good.
Dorian's palms were slick with nerves. The bouquet trembled in his grasp. He tried to breathe, but the air felt too rich—perfumed with jasmine, candle wax, and anticipation.
Across from him, Martin stood steady, his expression calm yet glowing with a quiet joy. When Dorian's eyes flickered toward him through the thin veil, Martin gave a small smile, the kind that said everything is all right.
Dorian's heart did not believe him. It raced on, unruly and wild.
The priest opened his ceremonial book, his voice carrying through the vaulted hall like solemn music.
"Do you, Prince Martin Winston Rupert, take this one before you as your lawfully wedded spouse?"
Martin's gaze never left Dorian. "Yes," he said softly, his tone firm as stone, "I do."
The crowd stirred with restrained admiration.
Then the priest turned. "And do you, Dorian Elreth, take His Highness as your lawfully wedded husband?"
Dorian froze. His throat tightened. For a moment, he forgot the world, forgot the nobles, forgot even the sound of his own breath.
Martin reached out and placed his hand gently atop Dorian's trembling ones.
His touch was steady—warm, reassuring, patient.
Dorian looked up through the veil. His eyes glimmered like morning dew caught in sunlight. His lips parted, and though his voice shook, it carried truth.
"I… I do."
Applause broke through the silence—soft at first, then rising into a swell of joy.
The priest's lips curved faintly. "Then, by the grace of the heavens, the groom may now kiss his bride."
For an instant, Dorian went pale. His knees nearly buckled, and the bouquet slipped slightly from his fingers. The maids gasped from afar, covering their mouths, while Martin caught Dorian's back in one swift, protective motion.
"Easy," Martin murmured under his breath.
Dorian's cheeks burned hotter than sunlight. He dared not look up, his lashes trembling.
The hall fell utterly silent.
Martin reached forward, fingers brushing the edge of the veil, and lifted it with careful grace. The fabric slid away, revealing Dorian's face—rosy, luminous, shy. His green eyes glimmered with unshed emotion.
For a moment, Martin could only stare. Then he leaned in, slow enough that Dorian had time to close his eyes, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and devotion.
The kiss was soft—no more than a whisper upon the forehead, feather-light yet full of reverence.
Gasps rippled through the nobles. Even the coldest hearts melted at the sight—the fierce prince showing tenderness like this was almost mythic.
A few young women glanced at their husbands with pointed glares. Others smiled through tears, whispering blessings under their breath.
On the throne, King Joseph exhaled a long, weary breath, relief softening the weight on his face.
"Finally," he whispered.
The priest lifted his hands. "Then, before the court and the crown, I pronounce you husband and wife."
The hall erupted in applause. Dorian could feel the vibration of it through the floor, through his chest. His cheeks burned anew as Martin held his hand tightly, smiling down at him as though nothing else in the world existed.
And for that brief, golden moment—perhaps nothing else did.