The corridor outside the royal chamber buzzed with hushed excitement — servants drifting out one by one, their faces bright with relief. Lirael stood among them, quiet as a shadow, hands folded before him. His golden hair slipped over one shoulder, catching the shy dawn light.
When the last midwife stepped out, he moved forward.
"How is His Highness?" Lirael asked softly, voice steady despite the tension knotting in his chest.
The midwife smiled, breathless with joy.
"His Highness is well — only exhausted. The child too. Healthy and… unusual, but healthy."
Lirael inhaled sharply, a shimmer of something unreadable passing through his eyes. He bowed his head once.
"Good."
The servants dispersed down the corridor, leaving the hall to its silence. Lirael lingered — hesitating, then mustering the courage to raise his hand and knock lightly on the chamber door.
A moment passed.
Then Martin's voice, hoarse yet firm:
"Leave us alone… for a moment."
Lirael didn't answer. He simply lowered his gaze and stepped back, retreating with the slightest dip of his head.
He exhaled.
Turning away, he walked down the hallway — slow, measured steps, each one a reminder of everything he had given up. His stomach grumbled unexpectedly, a small and absurd reminder of mortality.
"…What is this?" he muttered, pressing a hand over his abdomen as another quiet rumble answered him.
Then he smelled it — warm, fresh, drifting up from deep within the palace.
Bread. Spices. Cooling broth.
The grand kitchen had begun its morning ritual.
Hunger tightened in his chest, foreign and undignified.
Rude, he told himself.
I should wait. Morning hasn't fully settled.
The sky outside was only beginning to pale, a faint gold brushing against the towers.
He returned to his guest chamber.
Inside, the room was still dim, the candles burned low. Lirael stepped toward the bed — then paused at the edge of a tall mirror. His reflection stared back at him, softer than yesterday, thinner somehow. Mortal.
Slowly, he lifted the curtain of hair from his forehead.
The skin was bare.
The half-moon sigil — the mark that had crowned him for centuries — was gone.
Lirael's breath left him in a quiet shudder. He lowered his hand and sank onto the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely together.
"It is all gone," he whispered.
His voice trembled with a sadness too deep to show on his face.
Martin will not remember me — for who I truly was.
And the mark on Dorian's abdomen.… Will be gone as well.
The story of the elixir ends tonight.
His fingers stilled.
His gaze dropped.
"Will I ever find my true love?" he murmured — the question so soft, it might have been meant only for the silence.
The dawn light slipped across his face, gentle, careless, and indifferent.
And Lirael sat alone in the quiet chamber, a fallen immortal with empty hands and a heart that still dared to hope.
Meanwhile in the royal chamber, the chamber was warm — dim candlelight, velvet curtains drawn halfway, and the scent of lavender lingering in the air. Dorian lay against the pillows, breath soft and uneven, exhaustion pulling him deeper and deeper into sleep.
Martin stood beside the bed, and in his arms rested the child.
His child.
For a long moment, he simply stared — wide-eyed, stunned, awestruck. The tiny prince blinked once, then yawned, the motion so small it made Martin's heart twist.
"Well now…" Martin murmured.
"My dear little prince. What shall your name be, hmm?"
The child only blinked up, unaware, unbothered, a piece of fresh dawn wrapped in linen.
Martin chuckled under his breath — a low, tender sound.
"Let's wait a little," he whispered. "We'll decide when your mama wakes and scolds me for being impatient."
He lifted his gaze.
Dorian lay utterly still — cheeks flushed, hair clinging to his temples, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The exhaustion was carved into every line of him.
Martin's expression softened.
He walked toward the bedside, cradling the baby gently, guarding each step as if the world itself might shatter.
"Sleep, my cute little miracle," he breathed, brushing a thumb over the infant's cheek. "Sleep well. This world has already asked too much of you."
The child exhaled a tiny sigh, unaware of kingdoms, of prophecy, of the man holding him as if he were the only treasure left in existence.
Unaware of love.
Martin sank into the chair beside the bed, never taking his eyes off the two beings who meant more to him than the entire realm ever could.
The baby shifted once, curling against Martin's chest.
Dorian slept on.
And in the quiet chamber — hushed, sacred, trembling with new life — Martin held his son as if he were holding the beginning of a new world.
Days slipped by like silk threads pulled through morning light.
The newborn prince grew swiftly in those small, tender ways infants do — a little more awareness each dawn, a little more strength in his hands, a little more wonder in his gaze. And then, one quiet afternoon, the miracle revealed itself fully.
Dorian sat on the chaise, back cushioned in velvet, blanket draped over his legs. The child rested in his arms, wrapped in white lace that shimmered faintly in the sun. Martin sat beside him, leaning forward, watching.
Then the child blinked.
And the world seemed to still.
Dorian inhaled sharply.
"Martin… his eyes."
Smoke-grey. Soft as mist. Deep as prophecy.
Martin stared, struck speechless. The color was impossible, ethereal — a shade that did not belong to mortals alone.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Unbelievably beautiful."
Dorian smiled, trembling with emotion.
"Wouldn't he be? He's ours."
The child gave a tiny coo, a sound so fragile it seemed woven from feathers. His fingers curled in the lace, exploring his own existence. Dorian held him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Martin watched them, warmth blooming in his chest.
"A miracle," he murmured, voice thick.
Before Dorian could respond, a soft knock echoed from the door.
Martin frowned. "Who is it?"
A hesitant voice, almost too shy to speak, drifted through the crack.
"…It is Lirael."
Martin sighed, not annoyed — only knowing the man tended to crumble around delicate moments.
"Come in."
The door opened with a whisper.
Lirael stepped inside with his head bowed, golden hair falling over one shoulder. He barely lifted his eyes.
"H-how is the child, Your Highness?"
Martin rose, placing a steadying hand around Dorian's waist as if to present their family.
"The prince is well."
Dorian looked up, cheeks flushing with shy pride.
"Lirael… his eyes are open. Come see."
Lirael hesitated — a visible tremor through his shoulders.
"I… I should not or should i," he whispered.
Dorian frowned. "Lirael. Come here. I believe you wouldn't drop him."
Lirael's cheeks heated with embarrassment. Slowly, he approached. Dorian gently guided the child into his arms. The weight was feather-light, the warmth startling. Lirael held him as though holding a star.
Smoke-grey eyes gazed back at him.
Lirael froze.
The prince blinked innocently, a tiny breath escaping him — unaware that those eyes were nearly identical to Lirael's former master.
Lirael swallowed hard. "He… he is beautiful," he whispered, trying not to let his hands tremble.
But the child was faster. Tiny fingers curled around a lock of Lirael's golden hair and tugged.
The baby laughed — a soft, bubbly sound that filled the room.
Dorian gasped nervously. "No, no, darling — you shouldn't pull Lirael's hair!"
Lirael winced, but a helpless smile broke through.
"It's fine. He is strong."
Martin watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, expression soft but inquisitive.
"Lirael… why are you here? Has something happened?"
Lirael blinked, startled.
"No. Nothing."
He shook his head quickly, handing the child back to Dorian with careful hands.
"I only came to ask… have you chosen a name for the child already?"
Dorian flushed a deeper pink.
"I have," he whispered. "A perfect name. Our son will be called. "August."
Martin's eyes warmed instantly. "A noble name."
Lirael smiled faintly. "It suits him well."
He stepped back, bowing slightly.
"I should return now."
"Return?" Dorian echoed, confusion tightening his features.
"Where are you going?"
Lirael lowered his gaze. His voice thinned.
"I… am not from here. I should go back."
Dorian frowned, one hand clutching the child, the other reaching for Lirael's shoulder.
"But you told us you would be staying with us."
I did," Lirael murmured, eyes softening with pain. "But now… I—"
He faltered. Anything he said would be too honest, too sharp. He had no right to take space that was not his.
Dorian's voice wavered.
"You should stay with us."
He turned to Martin for support, eyes pleading.
Martin stepped closer, folding both him and Dorian into his presence.
"Why leave so suddenly?" he asked.
"Everything you need is here. If you go outside… where will you even go?"
Lirael looked between them — the king, the queen, the child they created from pure devotion. His heart squeezed, a quiet, aching contraction.
"I have never seen the outside world," he said softly. "I want to try."
Dorian's heart jumped with hope.
"So… when you finish visiting outside world… will you return again?"
Lirael's breath hitched.
"I… I don't know."
The words struck Dorian like a blow. Tears gathered instantly, glimmering like pearls. His hold on August tightened.
Lirael felt his chest crack.
He bowed deeply — first to Martin, then to Dorian.
"Farewell, Your Majesty. And Your Highness."
His voice nearly broke on the last syllable.
He turned.
He reached for the door.
He opened it.
He closed it behind him.
Inside, Dorian gasped and crumpled into tears, clutching August with trembling arms.
"I don't want him to go," he cried.
Martin immediately wrapped an arm around him, holding both Dorian and their child.
"Dear," he whispered, kissing Dorian's forehead, "everyone walks their own path. Let him choose his."
Dorian sobbed softly, burying his face in Martin's chest, August nestled safely between them.
Outside the door, Lirael paused.
He heard every word.
Every sob.
Every plea.
He closed his eyes.
A sorrowful smile spread across his lips — bittersweet, fragile, and devoted in a way he could never voice.
"Be happy," he whispered to the closed door.
Then he walked away from the royal chamber, each step taking him farther down the corridor, past columns of white stone, past the tapestries, past the warm light of the hearth.
He kept walking until the palace was behind him.
Until the kingdom of Hearthblade faded into morning mist.
And Lirael — stripped of immortality, stripped of power, stripped of possession — stepped into the world as nothing more than a man searching for what had always been denied to him.
A place.
A purpose.
A love of his own.
Lirael did not look back.
The palace—its marble spires, its golden finials, its warm candlelit corridors—slowly vanished behind him like a fading dream. Step by step, he crossed beyond its gates, beyond safety, beyond the illusion of belonging. Ahead stretched a world woven with cruelty, betrayal, and a thousand little lies that mortals called survival.
He had no cloak.
No companions.
No destiny carved for him.
Only a fragile heart beating in a chest that was learning what loneliness truly meant.
The sky was slipping into night, ink pouring across the heavens in slow strokes. Lirael walked until his legs trembled, until the soles of his feet ached and his breath thinned. Every mile carried him farther from the only person he had ever dared to love…
He stopped beneath an ancient tree, its colossal trunk gnarled and wise. He rested one pale hand upon the bark. It felt warm—sturdier than he had ever been allowed to be.
"Live long, my king," he whispered.
His voice trembled, but he forced a small smile. A farewell like a blessing. A promise he could give even if he could not stay.
He lowered himself to the ground, back against the tree. The cold night seeped into his bones; the world felt much bigger without Martin's steady presence or Dorian's soft laughter echoing through hallways.
Above him, the stars were waking—one by one, shy at first, then daring to shine brighter. Their silver glow brushed over his hair, kissed the sorrow on his lashes.
Lirael tilted his face upward.
How strange, he thought, that after everything he had endured—love unreturned, memories erased, devotion unnoticed—his heart did not resent a single thing. Instead, it pulsed with something warm and foolish.
He was proud.
Proud that he had loved with the fierceness of mortals, without calculating gain or safety or sense. Proud that he had protected what was never his. Proud that he had given everything—soft smiles, sleepless nights, silent loyalty—without ever expecting a crown or a place at anyone's side.
The wind murmured through the branches.
Lirael closed his eyes, exhaling softly.
"Even if I am forgotten," he whispered to the stars, "I loved… and that is enough."
And beneath the vast, indifferent sky, he fell quiet—alone, but undefeated, stepping into the world that would soon test him more brutally than he could ever imagine.