Page 110 of The Immortal’s Mark

He doesn’t let go.

I buy the lantern before he can. Some petty impulse toward reciprocity—he bought me food, I buy him a wish. Fair trade. The vendor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

“Make a wish,” I tell him.

“That’s not how—”

“Make a wish anyway.”

He takes the lantern from me. Writes something on the paper with a brush the vendor provides—quick, sure strokes, his handwriting as beautiful as everything else about him. Of course it is. The man even writes calligraphy like he was born to it.

We carry the lantern to the water together. Light the candle. Release it.

The lantern rises. Red against the dark sky, joining dozens of others—a constellation of wishes floating upward, each one carrying someone’s hope into the night.

“You’re supposed to close your eyes,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been to a few festivals.”

He closes his eyes.

I watch his face in the lantern light. The way his features soften. The way the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. The way he looks young suddenly—not thirty-four years of empire and duty and brothers who died because dragon fire chose him. Just a man. Making a wish. Believing, maybe, that wishes can come true.

His hand tightens on mine. His eyes open.

“Your turn,” he says.

“I don’t make wishes.”

“Why not?”

“Eight hundred years of experience suggests they don’t work.”

“Make one anyway.”

His voice is quiet. The festival noise feels very far away—the music, the laughter, the children shrieking. Just him. Just this. Just the warmth of his hand and the red glow of lanterns rising and the ridiculous, impossible hope building in my chest.

I close my eyes. Think about what I would wish for, if wishing meant anything. What I would want, if wanting wasn’t the most dangerous thing I could do.

Let this last, something whispers in my chest. Let me keep this.

I open my eyes. Don’t tell him.

“Done,” I say.

The smoke hits me first—sweet and savory and sharp, a dozen grills competing for attention. We’re supposed to be waiting for the contact, but the street food stalls are making that difficult.

Dumplings. Noodles. Roasted chestnuts. Things wrapped in leaves that might be delicious or might be terrible.

I hand him something wrapped in leaves anyway.

He takes a bite. His face contorts.

“What—”

“Fermented tofu.”