Page 114 of The Immortal’s Mark

“You’re looking for the temple,” she says. Not a question.

“We’ve heard it’s abandoned.”

“For a month now. The monks scattered when the records started disappearing. Someone was looking for something specific—something the temple was keeping. Something old.” She takes a sip of wine. Her eyes, over the rim of the cup, are assessing. “But there’s more. Hidden. The important things, the dangerous things, the things that the monks protected for centuries. And a guardian who might talk to the right people.”

“The right people being?”

Her eyes meet mine. Hold.

“People the old magic recognizes. People who’ve died and come back.”

Something cold moves through me. I take a very long drink of wine. It doesn’t help.

“The guardian won’t speak to just anyone,” she continues. “People have tried. She says she’s waiting for someone specific. Someone the temple was built to protect.”

Ren’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my waist. The contact doesn’t notice—she’s watching me.

“Two days’ travel northwest,” the contact says, dragging her gaze from me back to business. “The guardian’s name is Mei-Ling. Tell her the merchant’s wife sent you. She’ll know what it means.” A pause. Her voice drops. “And be careful. The Hungering King’s cult have been asking about that temple too. They arrived a week ago. They haven’t found what they’re looking for yet, but they’re not the patient type.”

The name lands like a stone in water. Ripples moving outward. The festival suddenly feels very far away—the music, the lanterns, the dancing couples. All of it thin and fragile, a beautiful surface over darker depths.

“Thank you,” Ren says.

The contact brushes off her robe. “Good luck at the temple. And be careful—the cult doesn’t like competition.”

She’s gone before the wine settles.

The festival fades behind us—lanterns dimming, music quieting, families drifting home with sleeping children in their arms. The streets grow emptier. Quieter. The sounds of celebration give way to the ordinary noises of a city settling into night: a dog barking, a shutter closing, the soft splash of the canal against stone.

His hand finds mine.

Neither of us mentions it. Neither of us needs to.

The silk whispers against my legs with every step. The same silk I put on a few hours ago, terrified of what it meant to be seen like this. The same silk that now feels like something else entirely—not armor, not disguise. Just… what I’m wearing. Just fabric that happens to be beautiful. Just part of a night that has become something I wasn’t prepared for.

We walk in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. Not the kind that needs filling. The kind that happens when two people don’t need words anymore. When the space between them has become something else.

I think about the osmanthus. About twenty-two years of silent grief. About the way his face cracked when I promised him no osmanthus, ever.

I think about the dance. His hand at my waist. His breath on my skin. The way I forgot to count exits for the first time in eight hundred years.

I think about the contact’s words.

Ahead, the inn glows with candlelight. Home for tonight. Tomorrow, the temple. Tomorrow, whatever waits for us there.

But right now—right now there’s just this. Just his hand in mine. Just the silk against my skin. Just the quiet streets and the fading festival and the impossible, undeniable truth of what’s happening between us.

“We’re not pretending anymore,” I say quietly. “Are we.”

It’s not a question. I say it like a statement, because it is one. Because I already know the answer. Because pretending stopped somewhere between peaches and osmanthus and silk and moonlight.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand tightens on mine. His pace doesn’t change. The inn grows closer.

“No,” he says. “We’re not.”

The words settle into the night air. Simple. True. Terrifying.

I don’t let go of his hand.