The palace had grown quieter since the king's death.
Months had passed, but the silence remained — a strange, heavy quiet that clung to the marble halls and the gold-framed portraits like mourning cloth.
And in that silence, Dorian had begun to fade.
He no longer met the courtiers' eyes. No longer joined Martin in council or banquets. When questioned, he would simply whisper, "I am unwell," before retreating behind locked doors.
At first, Martin excused it as grief. But grief did not last this long — not in this way.
Now, Dorian's meals sat untouched. His gowns hung loosely on his frame. His voice, once bright as a silver bell, had grown thin, almost translucent.
Martin noticed it all — the way Dorian's hands trembled when pouring tea, the way he flinched at laughter echoing down the corridors.
And yet, whenever Martin tried to ask, Dorian would smile — that polite, breakable smile that tore at his heart.
"It's nothing, my love," he'd murmur. "Just a passing sickness."
But Martin was no fool. He saw how the shadows beneath Dorian's eyes deepened. How he woke from dreams with a hand pressed over his heart.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, Dorian dreamt of a child — small, radiant, laughing in his arms. He could almost feel the warmth, the weight, the impossible tenderness of it.
But when he awoke… there was nothing.
No child. No laughter. Only the sound of rain tapping gently on the windowpane and Martin breathing beside him.
He would turn quietly then — pressing his face against Martin's chest, stifling the sobs that trembled out like whispers.
He never told Martin about the dream. He never told him how much it hurt — that ache of longing that no crown could heal.
He could not bear to say aloud what the whole court already whispered behind his back.
That he was beautiful — but barren.
That the king's beloved could never give him an heir.
Those words haunted him more than ghosts. Each cruel whisper carved another wound in his chest until even his reflection in the mirror seemed to pity him.
And still, every morning, he rose — fixed his hair, dressed himself, smiled, and said nothing.
But the emptiness was growing louder.
________________________________________
That night, the moon lay low against the city, pale and wide as an unblinking eye.
Martin returned late from council — the air cold, the corridors dim.
He passed by servants bowing in silence, by torches that sputtered weakly, and finally reached the door of their chamber.
He lifted a hand to push it open — then stopped.
From within came a sound.
Soft. Trembling.
A lullaby.
At first, Martin thought he imagined it — some dream made of exhaustion. But no… the voice was unmistakable.
Dorian's.
He leaned closer, his heart slowing to that fragile rhythm.
The melody was faint, broken in places, as though he were singing to someone not there.
"Hush now…"
The words bled through the wood, ghostlike, echoing against the stone. Martin felt the breath catch in his throat.
He stood there — listening.
Each note carried something raw, unbearable — the ache of a wish never granted.
"little one…"
Dorian's voice wavered, then steadied again, the sound so fragile it could have shattered under a sigh.
Martin pressed his palm against the door, not daring to enter.
He could almost see it — Dorian sitting on the edge of their bed, the sheets gathered in his lap as if cradling something precious and invisible. His head bowed, his golden curls dimmed by candlelight.
"don't cry…"
The last words slipped out as a whisper, softer than breath.
Then silence.
Martin didn't move.
He couldn't.
Only when he heard the faint rustle of fabric — the sound of Dorian lying down — did he finally open the door.
He stood there for what felt like an hour, frozen in the doorway, his chest tightening until it ached to breathe.
Candlelight flickered across the room.
Dorian was asleep, one hand resting where a child's head might have been. His lashes glistened — small, silvery tears clinging to them like dew.
Martin approached quietly. Sat beside him.
He didn't wake him.
He only brushed a trembling hand through Dorian's hair, his own eyes dark with sorrow.
Then he whispered, almost too softly for even the walls to hear:
"You already give me everything."
But Dorian was lost in dreams — chasing the laughter of a child who would never come.
Dorian had drifted into sleep, his lashes fluttering, his breath faint and uneven. The candlelight beside him had long melted away, leaving only the moon's soft gleam through the curtains.
Then — a sound.
Laughter.
Gentle, bright, and impossibly small.
Dorian blinked. His vision shimmered — and there, in his arms, lay a child.
A boy.
His eyes gleamed like grey crystals beneath sunlight, and his hair — soft silver curls that shimmered like threads of starlight — brushed against Dorian's wrists.
For a heartbeat, Dorian could not move.
He only stared, wide-eyed, at the child who giggled and reached for his face. A laugh escaped Dorian's lips, light and trembling.
He pulled the boy close, pressing the tiny form against his heart.
"You're mine," he whispered, smiling through tears. "You're my little one."
But when he lifted his gaze — Martin wasn't there.
The vast chamber around him was empty.
"Martin?"
His voice echoed, faint and hollow.
He stood, still clutching the child, and stepped through the corridors of the dream. The palace was a maze of golden light and echoing footsteps — only they weren't his.
"Martin?" he called again, more desperate now.
No answer.
The child in his arms began to whimper. A soft sound at first — then louder, shriller.
Dorian tried to soothe him, rocking gently, whispering lullabies — the same lullabies he had once hummed into the quiet of their chamber. But the crying only grew.
"Shh, please—" His voice cracked. "Don't cry, little one, I'm here—"
The child twisted in his grasp, kicking, thrashing, until his tiny hands pushed against Dorian's chest. Then, like mist slipping through fingers, he broke free and stumbled away.
"Wait—!"
Dorian reached out — but the boy was already running, his small silver curls vanishing down the corridor.
"Don't leave me—!"
He chased after him, breathless, heart pounding — but the hall kept stretching, farther and farther, until the walls turned to shadow.
And then the child was gone.
The echo of his cries lingered — faint, fading — until there was nothing.
Only silence.
Dorian fell to his knees.
"Martin…" he whispered into the emptiness, his voice trembling. "Don't leave me alone. Martin, please…"
---
In the waking world, Martin sat beside the bed.
He had returned late, the scent of parchment and ink still clinging to his garments. The candle burned low on the table.
Then he heard it — Dorian's voice, frail, broken in sleep.
"Don't leave me alone, Martin… please…"
Martin's heart stopped. He leaned closer, brushing a hand against Dorian's cheek. His skin was damp — tears streaming even as his eyes remained shut.
"Dorian?" he whispered, voice unsteady. "What happened, my dear?"
No answer. Only the shaking — soft, uncontrollable, his whole body trembling beneath the sheets.
"Dorian, wake up," Martin said, his tone rising, urgent. "None of this is real. Open your eyes."
Dorian gasped — a sharp, broken sound — and his eyes flew open.
For a moment he looked lost, unseeing. Then his gaze found Martin — the king still in his heavy robes, the golden clasp undone at his throat.
"Martin…"
The name left him like a sob.
He flung himself forward, burying his face into Martin's chest. His shoulders shook as quiet sobs escaped him — raw, trembling, real.
Martin gathered him in his arms at once, one gloved hand cradling the back of Dorian's head.
"Don't cry, my love," he whispered. "Your Martin is here. You're safe."
But Dorian only clutched him tighter, his words dissolving into hiccups.
"I–I am not enough," he whispered into Martin's chest, barely audible.
Martin froze. His grip around Dorian tightened, protective, almost desperate.
"What are you saying, dear?"
"I couldn't give you children," Dorian sobbed. "You deserve more than me."
Martin's heart ached so sharply it almost stole his breath. He tilted Dorian's chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Don't speak like that," he said softly. "You are everything I have."
But Dorian shook his head, tears glinting on his lashes.
"No, I'm not. I see the way you look at the nobles' children. I know you want one. I can't give you that. I can't make you happy."
"Stop it," Martin said — a little too loud this time.
Dorian flinched.
Immediately, Martin's expression broke — regret flooding his face. He cupped Dorian's face again and pulled him close, holding him tightly.
"Forgive me, dear," he whispered. "Forgive me."
Dorian's sobs softened, though his voice trembled still.
"Don't blame yourself, Martin. It's my fault. I'm… I'm empty inside."
"Enough," Martin said firmly. He drew back just enough to look into those tearful green eyes. "Do you truly want a child of mine that much?"
Dorian sniffled, his breath catching, but he nodded.
Martin's hand brushed his cheek, then his thumb traced the curve of Dorian's lips — soft, trembling beneath his touch.
"Then I will pray," Martin said quietly, "that my wife bears my children."
Dorian blinked, stunned.
He looked at Martin for a long time, searching for a hint of mockery — but found only warmth.
"Will it… will it come true?" he whispered.
Martin nodded. "It will."
A fragile smile appeared on Dorian's lips. He leaned forward, resting his head against Martin's chest again.
"Then I believe my husband's words," he murmured.
Martin's lips brushed against his golden curls as he whispered, "Close your eyes, my dear. Everything will come true."
And as Dorian's breathing softened, as the world faded to quiet, he drifted once more into sleep — this time in the safety of Martin's arms.
When Dorian finally drifted into sleep, the tears still glistened faintly on his lashes.
Martin held him close for a long while — watching the rise and fall of his fragile breaths, the faint tremor that lingered even in dreams. Then, slowly, he bent and pressed a kiss to Dorian's forehead.
"If you truly wish for my child…" he whispered, his voice trembling with a weight unspoken, "then I must break my father's promise."
His words hung in the dim air, soft and heavy.
Carefully, he eased Dorian back against the pillows. Dorian stirred faintly, lips parting, lashes fluttering. But sleep held him still.
Martin brushed his thumb beneath one damp eye, then leaned closer — his voice barely a breath.
"I can't bear to see you like this, my love."
His gaze lingered on Dorian's face — pale, serene, still marked by sorrow. Then, reaching to his neck, Martin drew forth a slender chain hidden beneath his garments.
A half-moon pendant glimmered in the candlelight, small and ancient, with a tiny key hanging beside it.
He held it tightly in his palm, the edges biting into his skin — a relic of oath and bloodline, a seal his father had sworn never to use it.
Martin smiled faintly — a smile bitter, tender, full of ache.
One last time, he bent to press a kiss to Dorian's hair.
"Sleep well, my beloved."
He straightened the sheets around him, careful and deliberate, as though sealing him in safety. Then he turned and left the chamber.
The corridor was dim — moonlight spilling in silver threads through tall windows. His steps echoed softly along the marble.
Then — voices.
He paused.
From the adjoining gallery came the silken laughter of women. He recognized one instantly — the Duchess.
"…I made him believe he's worthless," she was saying, her tone honeyed and cruel. "That fragile fool thinks he's trash. Perhaps he even cast a spell on His Majesty, the pitiful creature."
Martin's jaw tightened. The rage rose swift and burning.
He stepped into view before she could finish.
The maid gasped, bowing low. "Your Majesty—"
The Duchess turned, her smile freezing, color draining from her face.
"Your Highness," she stammered, bending low.
But Martin's voice cut through the air, cold and final.
"From this moment," he said, "you are no longer to be addressed as Duchess."
He turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him.
And over his shoulder, his voice echoed through the hall:
"Whoever dares insult my consort will have no place in my palace."
The corridor fell silent.
And Martin did not look back.