Page 111 of The Immortal’s Mark

“Why would you—”

“I wanted to see your face.”

He swallows with visible effort. The kind of effort that speaks to years of diplomatic training, of eating whatever was put in front of him without complaint, of never showing weakness even when weakness was warranted.

He glares at me with imperial dignity. The kind that probably terrifies court ministers. The kind that sends generals retreating. On me, it has the opposite effect.

“That was cruel,” he says.

“That was hilarious.”

“I’m going to remember this.”

“I’m counting on it.”

He’s still glaring. But the corner of his mouth is twitching. And my ribs are doing something warm and stupid that I refuse to examine.

“Any foods you actually dislike?” I ask, innocent. “For future reference. So I can avoid them. Or use them for future pranks. Either way, useful information.”

He pauses. The glare softens into something more thoughtful.

“Peaches,” he says.

I wait for the joke. It doesn’t come. “What?”

“I don’t like peaches. The texture.”

“You’re telling me the Emperor of the Jade Throne has opinions about fruit texture.”

“I’m telling you Ren has opinions.” His voice has gone quiet. Careful. Like he’s confessing something dangerous. “The Emperor eats what’s served and looks grateful. The Emperor does not have preferences. The Emperor does not complain about the softness of peaches or the cloying sweetness of their flesh.”

The festival swirls around us. Lanterns. Laughter. Couples holding hands. And here’s the most powerful man in the empire, telling me he doesn’t like peaches.

“What else?” I hear myself ask.

He glances at me. Something shifts in his expression—the careful mask cracking, just a little.

“Chrysanthemum tea. Overrated.”

“Agreed.”

“Third Dynasty poetry. Technically proficient, emotionally hollow. Every scholar praises it. I find it tedious.”

“I didn’t know you had opinions about Third Dynasty poetry.”

“I wanted to be a poet, remember. Before dragon fire. Before—” He stops. Continues. “I have opinions about most things. I simply don’t share them. It is not the emperor’s place to have opinions. It is the emperor’s place to serve.”

I’m staring at him. I can’t help it. Twenty-two years on the throne and he’s never told anyone he doesn’t like peaches or that he wanted to be a poet.

“What else?” I ask again. Quieter now.

“Yellow. It makes me look sallow. The court insists it’s an imperial color, auspicious, the color of heaven’s favor. They dress me in it for every major ceremony. I have never argued. It seemed petty to argue about clothing when people were dying in border wars.”

“It’s not petty.”

“It is the smallest thing.”

“Small things matter.”