The palace had long gone quiet.
Moonlight bled through the carved windows of the royal chamber, pooling like silver tears upon the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of medicine—dried herbs, burning resin, and something faintly metallic.
Prince Martin sat beside the great bed, his posture straight but his heart trembling beneath his ribs. His father, King Joseph, lay half-reclined among embroidered pillows, his hand clutching the silken sheet as another fit of coughing tore through him.
"Father, please," Martin said softly. "You should rest."
The king shook his head, each breath sounding brittle. "No, my son. Tonight is not a night for rest. It is a night for truth."
Martin's brows furrowed, worry shading his handsome face. "Truth?"
Joseph turned his head, his pale eyes gleaming with something ancient—remorse, perhaps, or memory. "I am grateful, Martin," he murmured. "Grateful that you have married. You chose love over convenience. That is rare in this house."
Martin's throat tightened. "I only followed your example, Father. You always said—"
"I said many foolish things." A dry smile curved the king's lips, quickly broken by another cough. "Love is a curse that we disguise as a blessing."
Martin leaned closer, his expression wounded. "Don't say that. If I ever caused your heart pain—"
"It is not your fault, my son." Joseph raised a trembling hand, brushing the air as if erasing guilt itself. "But there are things you do not know. Things you must know before I am gone."
Martin's pulse thudded. "Gone? Father—"
"My rest in this world is over," Joseph interrupted gently. "Come. Follow me."
Without waiting for permission, the old king rose, steadying himself against the bedpost. His frame looked smaller than ever beneath the heavy robes. Martin hurried to his side, offering his arm, but Joseph waved him off.
"Let me walk once more as a king," he said.
They passed through the long corridor, their footsteps echoing softly. Tapestries whispered against the stone walls. Servants dared not approach. The moon followed them through every arched window, a silent witness to their descent into memory.
When they reached the west wing, Martin slowed. Dust and shadow clung to the hall like a shroud. "Father," he murmured, "this part of the palace hasn't been used in years."
Joseph's gaze lingered on a pair of gilded doors, their carvings worn by time. "Yes," he said quietly. "Not since the day I was betrayed."
He pushed the doors open.
The scent hit first—lavender and old sorrow. The chamber beyond was vast, untouched since she left. Golden drapes hung motionless, the light dim but tender. Portraits lined the walls, each frame still glimmering faintly beneath its layer of dust.
Martin's voice faltered. "Isn't this…?"
"Yes," the king replied. "Layla's chamber."
Joseph stepped forward, his fingers grazing the edge of the vanity. A single comb lay there, still tangled with strands of Layla's hair. "How foolish of me," he whispered. "How foolish of love."
Martin frowned, heart twisting. "Father, what do you mean?"
Joseph's gaze stayed on the portrait—a woman smiling softly, her eyes holding the same light ever since she got healed. "I wished I had never fallen in love," he said.
"Don't speak like that," Martin protested. "Love is not foolish. Didn't I—" He flushed, remembering Dorian's face beneath the veil. "Didn't I find happiness because of it?"
The king's cough cut through the air—sharp, deliberate. Martin fell silent.
"I will not blame her," Joseph continued quietly. "It was my heart that clung to her, my blindness that sealed my fate. Layla was fragile, her health fading by the day. I searched every corner of the realm for remedies—herbs, potions, prayers—but nothing could bring her back to strength."
His eyes grew distant, as if watching another life unfold before him.
"Then one night, a man appeared at court," Joseph said. "He called himself a priest, though I doubt Heaven ever knew his name. He told me of an elixir—something divine, something that could cure any illness. He said it would grant life… but at a cost."
Martin stiffened. "A cost?"
Joseph nodded slowly. "He warned me: 'If you save one life, another will begin to fade.' I laughed at him. I told him I would pay whatever price he asked. Gold, land, jewels. He took them all—and vanished."
Martin's breath caught. "And you still used it?"
"I was desperate," Joseph admitted. "I took the vial he gave me—a glass bottle with a symbol of a half moon etched upon it. I placed a single drop in her water. Just one. Then I waited."
He paused, the memory trembling on his lips.
"The next morning, I descended the stairs," he whispered, "and I saw her again—alive. Laughing. The light caught her hair just so, like the dawn itself had chosen her. I thought my heart might break with joy."
"But then," Joseph's voice cracked, "I saw she wasn't alone."
Martin's eyes widened. "She was with someone else."
Joseph's silence was answer enough.
"I didn't blame her," he said at last. "I couldn't. But the moment I saw her smile for another, the elixir began its curse. I started coughing that same day. My strength waned year by year, and still, she thrived. The priest's words haunted me."
Martin stood frozen, the truth sinking deep. His father's illness—the slow decay that no physician could explain—wasn't a disease at all. It was a debt.
"Father…"
Joseph turned toward him, eyes wet but proud. "Now you understand, my son. The crown you will inherit carries more than power. It carries sin."
The old king moved to the far wall, where a tall bookshelf stood. His hands trembled as he reached for a volume bound in gold leaf. He pressed it inward.
A deep groan echoed through the chamber as the shelf shifted aside, revealing a narrow doorway.
Martin stared, speechless.
"Come," Joseph said.
Beyond the door lay a smaller chamber lit by the flicker of torches. At its center rested a golden chest adorned with faded runes. Joseph approached it reverently, unclasping the chain around his neck. A key dangled from it, shaped like a crescent moon.
"This," he said softly, unlocking the chest, "is the source of both life and ruin."
The lid creaked open. Inside, the elixir glowed faintly, its liquid swirling with gold and shadow, as if holding a living pulse. Beside it lay an old, leather-bound book.
Martin couldn't take his eyes off it. "Is that—"
"Yes." Joseph nodded. "The same elixir. The same curse. It grants every wish, but in return it devours years—slowly, quietly—until all that's left is a husk."
The king lifted the vial, and the light danced across his trembling fingers. "It is still beautiful, even after all these years. That is how it tempts you."
He turned, placing the vial back into its cradle. "Son, from this night forth, this chest belongs to you. You will guard it, but you must never use it."
Martin swallowed hard. "Father."
Joseph smiled faintly. "Good."
He closed the chest, locking it once more. The key rested in his palm for a long moment before he pressed it into Martin's hand.
"It is heavy," Joseph whispered. "Not because of gold, but because of what it carries."
Martin closed his fingers around it. "I'll protect it."
The king nodded, his breath uneven. "That is all I needed to hear."
For a moment, silence filled the room—the quiet kind that hums with ghosts.
Martin lingered at the threshold, his hand pressed against the carved oak door.
Beyond it, the faint rasp of his father's breathing still echoed — fragile, thinning, almost lost between one heartbeat and the next.
He didn't want to move.
Didn't want to let the world turn without that sound in it.
But he did.
Because that was what a son — and a prince — must do.
With one last glance into the chamber, Martin closed the door.
He stood there for a long moment, fingers still resting against the doorframe. His throat burned, and his chest ached with something sharp and wordless.
Then, quietly, he turned and began to walk.
Martin walked slowly, the small key gleaming in his hand — its metal still warm from his father's touch. Each step echoed faintly, a rhythm between memory and silence.
"Father has suffered… so much," he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on the key. "And for a love… that only returned pain."
His shoulders drooped, weighed by the story still haunting his mind — the forbidden elixir, the price of love, and the sorrow that lived in his father's voice. He clenched the key tighter, feeling the faint grooves of its golden teeth press against his palm.
At last, he reached his chamber. The great oak doors stood before him, carved with roses and crowns — the marks of both rule and devotion.
He took a deep breath, slid the key into his vest pocket, and pushed the doors open.
The sight that met him made his heart still.
The room was aglow — candles flickered in every corner, and soft light shimmered over the silk-draped canopy bed. Petals of red and ivory were scattered across the sheets like a snowfall of roses.
The fragrance of lilies and wine filled the air — the fragrance of a wedding night.
Martin froze for a moment, realization sinking in.
"Ah—tonight…" he whispered, almost laughing at himself. "Our first night."
He lifted a hand and lightly slapped his own cheek — not from embarrassment, but to clear the fog of disbelief that had stolen his breath.
"I nearly forgot," he muttered. "How could I?"
He closed the door quietly, his pulse beginning to quicken. The chamber felt warmer now, softer — a place not of duty but of devotion.
Then his eyes found him.
Dorian.
He lay upon the edge of the bed, still in his delicate white night robe, the sheer veil from the ceremony folded on the bedside. Sleep had claimed him gently — his head tilted slightly, his lips parted, his lashes fanned over flushed cheeks. He looked fragile, almost ethereal, as though the moon too had lent him his light.
Martin's chest tightened. He approached slowly, unwilling to break the stillness that wrapped around them both.
He knelt by the bed, his gaze tender, and whispered, "My dear one… even in sleep, you conquer me."
He reached out and brushed his fingers against Dorian's cheek — warm, smooth, so human and alive. The faint rise and fall of his breathing soothed something deep in Martin's heart that had been trembling all day.
"You must be exhausted," he said softly. "It was your day as much as mine."
He leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to Dorian's forehead.
The faintest smile touched his lips.
"Sleep well, my beloved," he murmured. "I won't disturb your peace."
Yet he lingered there, unable to move away. His eyes traced every curve of Dorian's face — the sweep of his golden lashes, the faint pink at the corner of his mouth. He reached out again, this time brushing his thumb over Dorian's lips, a reverent touch — half-curious, half-terrified of desire.
"Even asleep… you tempt me," he whispered, voice low.
He climbed carefully onto the bed, lying beside him. The sheets rustled softly. Martin slid one arm beneath Dorian, the other across him — gently, protectively — until he could feel the warmth of Dorian's body against his own. Their noses nearly touched.
The young prince could hardly breathe. His cheeks flamed, but his heart beat slower now, steadier, as if the nearness of Dorian had soothed every ache left by his father's confession.
He looked at those lips one last time — soft, parted, inviting danger.
Something in him shifted; the restraint he'd worn all night cracked like glass.
He leaned in, closer… closer still — until his breath mingled with Dorian's.
And then he brushed his lips against his beloved's, a fleeting touch that still stole the air from his lungs.
Sweet.
Faintly warm.
Like tasting the echo of a dream he had no right to remember.
Martin drew back slowly, eyes wide, pulse wild beneath his skin.
Now he knew — the taste of Dorian's lips was nothing like he'd imagined.
It was gentler.
And far more dangerous.
He let out a trembling breath and whispered, almost to himself,
"Sleep well… my Dorian,"
Outside, the moon drifted behind clouds, its light dimming over the royal walls. Inside, among roses and quiet breaths, the prince and his beloved slept — two hearts newly bound, unaware of the shadows still gathering beyond their door.