The months slipped by like molten gold through the fingers of time. Dorian's belly had swelled with life, the curve of it unmistakable beneath the silks of his gowns, a testament to the child that would soon come. And yet, beneath the golden lashes and radiant cheeks, shadows clung to his eyes. Happiness lived there, yes, but so did fear.
Each cough that echoed through the palace made his chest tighten. Martin's coughs had grown more frequent, sharper — not the faint rasp of before, but deep, wracking, tearing his body from the inside. Each time Martin brushed it off, whispering, "I am alright, Dorian, nothing to worry about," Dorian's heart sank. He wanted to call the physician, to demand medicine, to insist on action, but each time the royal physician had merely shrugged, voice calm yet unnerving: "There is nothing wrong with his body."
Dorian could not believe it. He could not accept the words. Silently, he wept, his tears glimmering against the satin of his gown, soaking into the pillow of the canopy bed. His king was fading, right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.
In the guest chamber, Lirael clenched his hands so tight that the golden light of the half-moon emblem on his forehead flickered with warning. He could not bear it. To watch the king, radiant yet breaking, to see Dorian's hope trapped behind golden lashes shadowed with sorrow — he could not endure. Locked away as Martin wished, forced to stand idle as the palace whispered of nothing yet threatened all… he could not.
That night, Martin sat in his study, quill in hand. The shadows of candlelight stretched long across the floor. The coughs wracked his chest with relentless insistence, each one leaving him winded and trembling. He believed, in these quiet hours, that his final days had come.
He began to write.
My dear Dorian, the quill scratched softly. I am sorry. I should not have done what I did… but I could not bear the sadness upon your serene, beautiful face.
He paused, chest tight, listening to the faint echo of Dorian's slow breathing from the royal chamber. The king's heart ached at the thought of leaving — at the thought of never seeing their child.
Forgive me, my love.
Tears came unbidden, falling onto the parchment, blurring the ink. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, muffling another cough, before he forced himself to write the final line:
I am sorry for not being able to see our child.
On the other side of the palace, in the guest chamber, Lirael's resolve hardened. The half-moon symbol burned fiercely against his skin, pain threading through his immortal veins. No longer would he wait. Not while the king suffered, not while Dorian trembled behind closed doors.
Lirael's chest rose and fell, the faint pulse of the half-moon on his forehead flaring with warning. His voice, low and steady, cut through the shadows of the guest chamber:
"By the blood of my realm, by the light of the half-moon, I call forth what has been forbidden. Let the power awaken, let the path be revealed."
A tremor shook the air. Shadows coiled and twisted like smoke, and then, as if pulled from the very veins of the palace, the elixir appeared before him — a crystalline vial glowing like molten sunlight. Beside it, the book of prohibitions hovered, its leather cover etched with delicate, warning runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight.
Lirael's fingers shook as he reached out, eyes narrowing. The elixir seemed to hum, alive, a promise of power and peril all at once. The book floated closer, its pages fluttering in a wind that belonged to no earthly source. Instructions in careful script, warnings that had bound generations of immortals, whispered from the parchment: drink and die, drink and be undone, drink and be lost.
Yet Lirael's jaw tightened. His hand clenched around the book until the leather groaned, its golden letters flickering in protest. With a deliberate motion, he brought a single finger to the cover, and the book ignited — flames wreathed it instantly, burning to ash with a sharp crackle that scorched the air. The half-moon symbol on his forehead flared violently, screaming in pain and warning, yet he ignored it.
Then, with deliberate, trembling hands, he uncorked the elixir. The liquid caught the torchlight, spilling molten gold across his fingers, yet he did not hesitate. A breath, a pause, and then the golden liquid touched his lips.
The elixir burned golden in his throat, each drop filling him with a power so intense it nearly shattered him. His immortal body trembled, veins glowing with liquid light, skin shimmering like dawn itself. The power coiled through him, alive and unrelenting, until every trace of magenta left his eyes — replaced entirely by gold, luminous and overwhelming. His half-moon symbol pulsed in agony, yet the burn was nothing compared to the fire in his heart.
Hands clutching his chest, Lirael bowed his head. He thought of Martin. The king, fragile yet resolute, sitting in his study, coughing quietly as if alone in the world.
"I… I, the prince of the Half-Moon Realm," he whispered, voice trembling yet firm, "demand my power to take me to Martin."
The room trembled. Light bent and twisted around him, a vertical tear in the air, a shift that felt like the palace itself exhaling. He vanished, leaving only a faint golden haze in his wake.
In the study, Martin's quill hovered over the page. Candlelight trembled across his face as another cough shook him. He had no idea. No warning. And then — a ripple in the air, a shimmer like dawn breaking in a storm.
Lirael appeared.
The golden aura enveloped him, spilling across the study floor, illuminating the shelves of leather-bound tomes and scattered letters. Martin blinked, startled, his quill falling with a soft clatter.
"Lirael…" His voice trembled, brittle with awe and relief. "How—"
"No words," Lirael said, voice deep, luminous, unwavering. His hands were still glowing, light flowing like rivers through his form. "I couldn't— I wouldn't— not anymore. You— you are not to fade before my eyes."
Martin's chest tightened as his eyes widened at the impossible sight. Lirael's body blazed in molten gold, every pulse of light searing into the shadows of the chamber. Heat and power radiated off him like a living moon, and Martin's breath caught, half in awe, half in fury.
"You—what have you done?!" Martin barked, voice sharp, trembling with anger. "You're fully aware of that elixir! You—do you even understand what—"
He lunged forward instinctively, hands outstretched, fury blazing like wildfire. But before he could even reach him, a soft, chilling whisper slithered through the room.
"Silence."
Golden light shot from Lirael's hands, coiling around Martin like molten chains. In an instant, his wrists were bound, thick lashes of pure light wrapping over his chest, over his arms, pressing him into place. His strength surged against it, heart hammering, but the bindings were absolute — elegant, terrifying, unyielding.
Martin's molten eyes blazed. "Lirael! You have no right—release me this instant! Do you know what you've done?!"
The words faltered as the glow from the half-moon on Lirael's forehead flared brighter, and a low, commanding hum filled the chamber. The golden lashes tightened gently but insistently, anchoring Martin to the spot. Every muscle that strained against them only drew the warmth of power closer, radiating through his chest.
"I know what must be done," Lirael said, voice steady, echoing with an authority Martin had never heard from him before. "No one else can save you. No one else can save him."
Martin's jaw clenched, fury and panic warring inside him. "I am the king! I make the decisions here! You cannot—"
Lirael stepped closer, golden aura flaring around him like the first rays of dawn. Martin coughed violently, clutching his chest is tightening, eyes wild.
"Stay still," Lirael pleaded, voice taut with desperation. His brows knitted, sharp with worry; he had never seen Martin so broken, so vulnerable.
Martin gasped, but the bindings held him, unyielding. Lirael's body shimmered with golden light, radiant and unearthly, as he reached out, pressing a hand to Martin's forehead. The warmth was searing, intimate, terrifying.
His lips trembled, a thin streak of blood forming at the corner of his mouth, but he spoke the forbidden spell regardless. Each word dripped with power, unrelenting.
Martin's molten eyes widened in alarm. "Lirael—stop!" he barked, but a surge of luminous lashes rose, climbing over his face, sealing his mouth, silencing his fury.
He could only watch, chest heaving, as the creature of life and death moved around him, relentless. He was powerless.
Golden light coursed through Lirael, spilling into Martin like liquid fire, filling every vein, every sinew. Fear, raw and biting, finally clenched Martin's heart. For the first time, he could not command, could not resist.
The half-moon symbol on Lirael's forehead flared, a searing beacon of power. Slowly, Martin's eyes grew heavy, lids weighted with golden energy, his body sagging under the force he could not withstand.
Lirael crouched down, catching Martin as he fell. His arms were a cage of warmth, strength, and devotion, holding the king's limp form against his own. Painless now, Martin felt nothing but the inevitability of surrender.
Lirael pressed his ear to Martin's chest, listening, holding the fragile pulse beneath his own heart. The beat was uneven, ragged—but it existed. Steady enough. He inhaled deeply, feeling the life within him, the fragile tether of existence.
The golden glow that had engulfed Lirael faded, leaving only the half-moon blazing on his forehead, flickering like a living flame.
He looked down at Martin, eyes softening. Time seemed to halt. The chaos of power, fear, and defiance vanished, leaving only a quiet, impossible peace.
A small, almost fragile smile curved Lirael's lips. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Martin's forehead. His hand cupped the king's cheek, warm and steady.
"By tomorrow, my king," he whispered, throat tight, voice trembling. He forced a smile, one for courage, one for hope. "You won't remember anything of me… nothing of the power, nothing of the sacrifice."
Lirael's fingers threaded through Martin's, guiding his hand to rest against his own shoulder. Strength and gentleness intertwined as he lifted the king's form with ease, walking toward the chamber.
Each step echoed softly along the corridors, golden strands of light fading behind them. Lirael's own heartbeat slowed, matching the steady rhythm of Martin's chest beneath his ear.
The palace, vast and silent, seemed to bow to their passage. Shadows stretched long along the marble, whispering the gravity of the night's events.
The knock echoed softly through the royal chamber.
Dorian jolted upright, heart leaping. For a moment, hope surged—Martin. Maybe he had come.
But his body betrayed him, heavy and swollen from nine months of carrying life. Every movement was deliberate, careful, a dance against fatigue. He rose slowly, hands resting lightly on his abdomen, and opened the door.
Lirael stood there, golden aura was all vanished. Behind him, Martin slept, serene and untouched by the torment he had endured. No trace of pain marred his features, yet Dorian's chest tightened. His king's health was fragile, fading, and seeing him so calm only sharpened the ache in his heart.
"Your Highness," Lirael said softly. "He was in the study. I brought him here. He wasn't in good condition."
Dorian's lips parted, a small, frightened sound escaping as he stepped aside. "Thank you…" he murmured.
Lirael moved with care, laying Martin onto the bed with hands steady and precise. Dorian watched, fragile and anxious, overwhelmed by the helplessness he felt.
"Will he… be alright?" Dorian whispered, eyes never leaving the sleeping figure.
Lirael's own chest tightened. Pain, both physical and unseen, coursed through him as he knelt beside Dorian. "He will be, Your Highness. He promised… before sleep. By tomorrow, he will be better."
Dorian groaned softly, pressing a hand against his belly as if to shield his own life from the tension. Lirael reached out, placing a hand on Dorian's shoulder, guiding him gently to sit.
"You don't need to stress yourself," Lirael murmured, voice low but firm. "It is not good for the baby."
Dorian's eyes, golden lashes wet and shadowed, remained fixed on Martin. Tears escaped despite himself, sliding down cheeks flushed with worry. Lirael hesitated, then drew him into a careful, steadying embrace.
"Do not cry," Lirael whispered, the warmth of his chest against Dorian's helping to anchor him. "His Majesty promised. He will get better by tomorrow. You must trust him."
Dorian looked up, eyes wide, green flecked with anxiety. "Is it true?"
Lirael's heart constricted. He nodded firmly. "It is true."
Carefully, he helped Dorian lie back, ensuring every movement was measured, gentle. Dorian exhaled, letting a small sense of relief wash over him.
"Goodnight, Lirael," Dorian murmured, a faint curve of a smile brushing his lips.
Lirael blinked, caught by the subtle warmth. For a heartbeat, he mirrored it, a quiet smile breaking through the storm of exhaustion and pain. Then he rose, fading toward the door.
Once he was gone, Dorian shifted closer to the bed, moving carefully so as not to strain himself. He rested his head against Martin's chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his cheek.
"Martin," he whispered, voice soft and tremulous. "If you truly said those words… then I shouldn't worry. Your words… they're always true."
The silence that followed was gentle, tender, the kind that makes walls feel like home. Together, they drifted into sleep, wrapped in warmth and fragile peace.
But for Lirael, the night offered no respite. His half-moon symbol flickered violently, a warning too persistent to ignore. Somewhere, the guardians of the half-moon realm had detected him.
He did not flinch. He did not move. Standing by the arched window, eyes lifted toward the stars, he whispered, voice resolute, carrying over the city below:
"I don't care."