Page 123 of The Immortal’s Mark

He crosses to my side. I hand him the documents.

He goes still.

“These are from Wei’s division.” His voice is flat. Controlled. “The formatting. The seal.” His finger traces a signature at the bottom. “Not Wei. Huang. His supply minister.”

I check the counter-signature.

Prince Liu.

“Your cousin,” I say.

“My cousin.” Something shifts behind his eyes. The look of a man watching a wound reopen. “He used to follow me everywhere when we were children. I taught him to ride. Gave him his first poetry book.”

A pause. The fire crackles.

“He cried at my coronation.”

I don’t make a joke. Don’t deflect.

I just shift closer until our shoulders touch.

He doesn’t move away.

Neither do I.

The monk’s words echo in my mind. A willing sacrifice. A death freely given, fueled by love. That’s what the Hungering King needs.

And now we know who’s been helping him from inside the palace.

Then, becuase now seems like the perfect time to spiral, I start to think about eight hundred years of exhaustion. Eight hundred years of watching everyone I love turn to dust. The weight of it presses down on my chest like a stone.

The terrible thing is—part of me understands the appeal.

Part of me has been so tired for so long. Part of me has wondered, in the dark hours, what it would be like to just… stop. To finally rest. To not wake up in a new body with the same old grief.

If I loved someone enough to die for them—really loved them, the kind of love that makes you stupid and brave and willing to do anything—

Would that be so bad? To go out that way? Choosing it. Meaning it.

Finally being done.

I look at Ren across the fire. Firelight painting shadows across his face. The sharp cheekbones. The dark eyes that see too much.

And I realize I’m in trouble.

Because I’m starting to think I might love him.

And if I do—if this feeling keeps growing—then the Hungering King wins. He gets exactly what he wants. A willing sacrifice, wrapped up with a bow.

“Lián.” Ren’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re thinking about it.” His jaw tightens. “About whether it would be easier to just—”

“I’ve died six hundred and forty-four times.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “I’ve earned the right to think about it.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with those steady eyes.