Page 108 of The Immortal’s Mark

Tianlong’s voice emerges from his pot, small and dripping with amusement. I note that he was not near Ren’s collar. “Smooth. I didn’t know you had it in you, little flame.”

“Be quiet,” Ren says.

“Make me.”

“When we return to the palace, I am going to have your dragon’s hoard audited.”

“You’ve been threatening that for twelve years. I remain unaudited.” Tianlong’s voice carries the particular smugness of someone who has been watching this situation develop and finds it endlessly entertaining. “Though I must say, she does clean up remarkably well. For someone who spends most of her time covered in other people’s blood.”

“Tianlong.”

“What? It’s a compliment. I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being insufferable.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

I check my reflection one more time. Fix a pin that doesn’t need fixing. The silk whispers against my legs, shifting with every breath, reminding me that I am wearing something beautiful and I hate how much I don’t hate it.

“Can we go?” I ask. “Before the dragon provides more commentary?”

“I have many observations yet to share,” Tianlong says. “The night is young.”

“The night is about to get significantly shorter if you don’t shut up.”

“Threats. How delightful. Truly, you two deserve each other.”

Ren and I exchange a look. The kind that says we’re going to be dealing with this all night, aren’t we? And yes, we are and is it too late to find a different dragon?

He offers his arm.

I take it.

Fine. Let’s go pretend to be normal people at a festival.

How hard can it be?

The Lantern Festival is chaos in the best possible way.

I clock the exits first. Always. Three streets branching off the main square, two alleyways, one bridge over the canal where they’re releasing floating candles. The crowd density is high but not crushing—bodies packed tight enough that pickpockets would thrive, loose enough that I could cut through if I needed to. Weapons potential: low. These are families, couples, merchants showing off their wares. The only danger here is emotional.

Which, honestly, might be worse.

Paper dragons bob overhead on sticks, carried by performers in silk costumes. Their scales catch the lantern light—gold and red and green—and for a moment they look almost real. Almost like Tianlong in his true form, if Tianlong were made of paper and optimism instead of scales and sarcasm.

Someone is playing a pipa badly but with tremendous enthusiasm. The notes float through the warm night air, mixing with the smell of smoke and sugar and something frying. Children dart between legs, clutching candied fruit and shrieking with the particular joy of being up past bedtime.

“I have not attended a festival since I was eleven,” Ren says quietly.

“Busy ruling an empire?”

“Something like that.”

His hand finds the small of my back—light, guiding, exactly the right amount of pressure—and I tell myself it’s for the cover. We’re merchants. Married. His hand belongs there.

The shiver running up my back disagrees. It thinks his hand belongs everywhere.

“The contact is near the wine stall,” he says. “We have time.”