The night was quiet — too quiet, as if the heavens themselves had drawn a single, trembling breath.
Lirael stepped into the royal garden, his feet brushing over dew-laced grass. The scent of jasmine curled through the air, sweet and haunting, clinging to him like a last memory of serenity. Above, the moon hung heavy and swollen — the half-moon of his realm, watching, waiting.
He knew.
He knew what was coming.
Still, he smiled.
The soft curve of his lips glimmered in the faint light, a smile born not of courage, but of surrender. He lifted his gaze skyward, eyes reflecting that same cold silver that had once crowned him as prince among the immortals.
"I suppose this is where it ends," he whispered, voice too calm for the weight of what approached.
The air trembled.
Golden light spread through the garden, spilling like molten dawn over every petal, every stone. The night grew still — eerily, utterly still. The guards who had been patrolling near the eastern gates slumped one by one, their swords falling with dull thuds. Even the fountains froze mid-arc, as though time itself had bowed in reverence to what was descending.
Lirael stood unmoving, head bowed, hands folded before him. The glow brightened, expanding until the entire garden was washed in light. The golden circle appeared on the ground — vast, intricate, alive. It pulsed once, twice, and then—
They came.
The first immortal descended like a comet.
The earth shuddered beneath the weight of divinity as the circle blazed open and the guardians of the Half-Moon Realm stepped through. Flowers bent under the pressure of their arrival, their petals trembling in the unnatural wind. The jasmine bushes flared in brilliant luminescence — every blossom turning silver-white.
At their center stood the First Guardian — immaculate, terrible, beautiful.
His robes, woven from moonlight itself, trailed like vapor behind him. His eyes, pure white with a faint crystalline sheen, burned with restrained fury. The great sigil of the Full Moon gleamed upon his forehead, casting a pale light over his face, sharp as carved marble. Behind him stood two other high immortals, their expressions grave and mournful.
They had not expected this.
They had not expected him — Lirael, gentle and beloved — to break their law.
The First Guardian's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Lirael."
The name hung heavy, trembling with divine command.
Lirael's eyes lifted, meeting the cold, unflinching light of his master's. Slowly, he knelt, the gesture both humble and defiant. His fingers brushed against a single jasmine flower blooming by his knee.
He plucked it.
Its white petals trembled in his palm as he whispered, "Yes, Master."
The First Guardian's gaze dropped to the delicate bloom in Lirael's hand. Slowly—almost tenderly—he reached down, his long fingers brushing against Lirael's.
He took the jasmine.
For a heartbeat, he only looked at it — a small, fragile thing, glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. Then, without a word, he closed his fist.
The flower crumpled, its petals collapsing with a soft, mournful sound. White dust scattered between his fingers.
Lirael's lips parted, but no sound emerged. His gaze followed the falling fragments, each petal like a dying star dissolving into the grass. The faintest flicker of sorrow crossed his features — there and gone, like the ghost of a heartbeat.
"Do you understand what this means?" the Guardian asked, his voice low and cold, echoing like thunder smothered by snow.
Lirael's throat moved. He exhaled slowly. "Yes," he murmured, though his tone carried no regret — only a quiet acceptance that seemed to unnerve even the immortals behind the Guardian.
"You know what you did."
Lirael's eyes flickered away. "Whatever I did…" His voice was low, soft as a prayer. "…I don't care."
The immortal's jaw tightened. "You commit a crime, Lirael," the Guardian said, voice deep, calm, and trembling with restrained wrath. "And yet you say you do not care?"
Lirael's lips curved faintly, an echo of that same fragile smile. "Do whatever you wish," he said quietly. "I have already chosen my path."
The Guardian's composure cracked. His voice dropped into something colder, harsher. "You impudent—"
He stopped.
Lirael had lifted his gaze fully now, and in those eyes was something that even the immortals had forgotten how to bear — sorrow, and love, and defiance woven into one.
"You know nothing," Lirael said, his voice trembling, rising like the soft crackle before a storm. "You know nothing about the true feelings of these humans. You only see their sins — but not their hearts."
The Guardian straightened, white eyes narrowing. His tone turned regal, unbending.
"You know nothing of them, child. They are cruel. They lie. They betray. They destroy everything they touch. You have seen only their smiles, not their fangs."
"And yet," Lirael said gently, "they love."
That single word struck through the air like a chime.
"They love," he repeated, his gaze lifting toward the moon. "When they love, they do so with a fire no eternity could ever replicate. Their hearts are fragile, their lives fleeting, and still, they love. Isn't that what we could never have?"
A hush fell. Even the other immortals behind the Guardian bowed their heads, sorrow shadowing their features.
The First Guardian's fury flared, a cold and blinding rage. "So you wish to defend them?" His voice boomed, shaking the air. "You would still choose them — after breaking every vow we gave you?"
Lirael smiled.
"I don't mind helping them."
That was all.
The Guardian's patience broke. His hand rose, and with it, the sky itself seemed to tremble.
"So be it." His tone was low, dangerous — the kind that promised mercy to none. "If you crave their world so much, then you shall have it."
He took one step closer. The garden blazed white.
"You will walk this mortal world, Lirael," the Guardian said, each word deliberate, heavy with judgment. "Yes — with immortality, but without a single drop of power. You will bleed as they do. You will starve, you will ache, you will love and be betrayed. You will learn what it means to be human."
Lirael's lashes lowered. He did not speak.
"I will take this silence," the Guardian continued, "as your acceptance."
Lirael lifted his head then — and smiled. "I don't mind."
That was enough.
The Guardian's eyes burned white-hot. He raised his hand, fingers tracing sigils into the air. Lirael felt it immediately — the pull, sharp and merciless. His knees buckled as the divine energy tore through him, stripping away the celestial essence that had been his birthright.
He gasped, clutching his chest. Threads of gold lifted from his skin, evaporating into the night like fragments of dawn. The symbol of the half-moon blazed once upon his forehead — then began to dissolve.
"Master…" he whispered, voice breaking even as a smile lingered on his lips. "You will see. They are not what you think."
The Guardian's expression did not waver. His tone was final. "You will see what you have refused to understand."
He flicked his fingers.
The circle of light surged. Lirael was dragged forward, body trembling as the last of his power was wrenched free. His golden aura shattered like glass, scattering into the garden in a rain of light.
Pain erupted through him — cold and endless, not of body but of soul. He felt the vastness of eternity collapse within him, leaving behind something painfully small, painfully human.
And yet… he smiled.
"For love," he murmured faintly, "it is nothing."
The Guardian turned, robes whispering as he spoke to the others. "This is your punishment."
His voice echoed through the air, final and unyielding. "Let him learn."
Then the immortals were gone.
The golden light folded into itself, collapsing in silence. The air cooled. The night returned, trembling but still.
And when Lirael opened his eyes.
The garden was empty.
His breath came in shallow, fragile bursts. He could feel — truly feel — the chill seeping into his bones for the first time in centuries. He lifted his hands, staring at them. No glow. No hum. No warmth of divinity.
Just flesh.
Just a heartbeat.
A mortal's heart.
He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as the night wind whispered through the jasmine vines. Above, the moon glowed pale and indifferent, casting silver shadows over his form.
His knees gave out, and he sank into the grass, laughing softly, breathlessly. It was not joy. It was disbelief. Pain. Awe. Relief.
"For love," he whispered again, voice trembling. "It was nothing."
The half-moon symbol was gone. Only faint warmth lingered on his brow. His eyes, once pools of radiant full magenta, were now only human — still magenta, but dimmed, their pupils dark and trembling.
He looked up.
A shooting star cut through the velvet sky — a brief, brilliant scar across eternity.
Lirael smiled faintly. His lips moved, shaping words that no one would ever hear.
Then, rising with what little strength remained, he turned toward the palace.
Each step was heavier now — his immortal grace gone, replaced by the aching pull of humanity. Yet he did not falter. The grass brushed against his ankles; the night air chilled his skin.
The jasmine behind him swayed gently, petals falling in his wake like silent blessings.
When he reached the marble steps, he paused and looked up at the moon one last time.
Its light fell on his face — cold, indifferent, eternal.
He smiled.
And so, stripped of eternity, heart broken yet alight with something divine in its fragility, Lirael stepped back into the palace — a prince no longer of the heavens, but of the fleeting, trembling world below.
The corridors were quiet — too quiet.
Moonlight streamed through the high windows, silvering the marble floors where Lirael's feet whispered. Each step echoed faintly, hollow, as though the palace itself grieved. The once-golden radiance that used to follow him had dimmed; now, only the cold light of mortal night clung to his silhouette.
His hand brushed along the wall as he walked — a reflex, perhaps, to steady himself. The stone was cold. So this is what cold feels like, he thought, with a small, distant wonder.
He reached the end of the corridor and paused, the air heavy with the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens. His heart, still adjusting to its own weight, beat unevenly in his chest.
"By tomorrow," he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, "he wouldn't know me."
The words lingered in the stillness.
Martin's face rose before him — the faint smile, the stubborn light in his eyes. Lirael closed his own, pressing his palm to his chest there was only skin. No glow. No power.
"He will not know me," Lirael said softly, his voice breaking just enough to sound human. "But I will still know him."
He continued walking, each step slower than the last, until he reached the end of the west wing — the guest quarters rarely used, silent and undisturbed. The chamber door loomed before him.
For a moment, he hesitated. His reflection in the polished brass handle looked… smaller. Mortal. Tired.
He exhaled, long and quiet, and pushed the door open.
The room greeted him with dim candlelight and silence. The curtains stirred in the soft wind, casting slow shadows over the bed. Lirael stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. The faint click echoed like finality.
He leaned against the door for a moment, shutting his eyes. The exhaustion was no longer the kind that could be mended with a single breath of celestial energy — it was deep, aching, human.
Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers trailed across the coverlet, tracing patterns he didn't recognize. The air smelled faintly of lavender.
He looked down at his hands. Once, they could command the elements. Now, they trembled slightly — from fatigue, from cold, from something deeper he couldn't name.
A wry smile touched his lips. "So this is what it means to fall," he whispered.
The candles flickered in response, as if the world itself was listening.
He reached for the window latch, pushing it open. A breeze swept in — cool and soft — carrying the scent of the night gardens and the faint hum of sleeping guards far below.
Above, the moon hung low, full and quiet, watching him.
He turned towards the bed, exhaustion pressing at his bones. The silence around him deepened, wrapping him in its fragile stillness.
Outside, the palace slept — unaware that a god had fallen among them, and that he now sat in solitude, stripped of power but not of devotion.
As he let his eyes drift closed, he whispered into the dark, "Goodnight, my king."
And for the first time in eternity, Lirael slept — not as an immortal, but as a man.