Page 147 of The Immortal’s Mark

Just one.

The thought settles in my chest, and I recognize it for the indulgence it is. Twenty-two years on this throne have taught me that wanting is weakness. That the empire demands everything and leaves nothing for personal desires. That the man who sits on the dragon throne must be the throne itself—immovable, impersonal, eternal.

But she makes me want things.

She makes me want to be a man instead of a symbol. To write poetry that is not adequate and have someone laugh at it with genuine fondness rather than terrified flattery. To wake beside someone who sees me—not the crown, not the title, not the power I never asked for—and stays anyway.

Consort. The word again, unbidden. I allow it to rest.

The council awaits, Tianlong says, and his voice has returned to its usual sardonic warmth, though I catch the undercurrent of unease beneath it. Try not to humiliate yourself by staring at her across the chamber. It was barely subtle last week, and the ministers are beginning to whisper.

They whisper regardless of what I do.

True. But there is a difference between whispers of fear and whispers of—how did Minister Chen phrase it?—‘unprecedented imperial distraction.’ He thinks you are going soft.

I am not going soft.

You smiled at a servant yesterday. Publicly. Without strategic purpose.

She dropped a tray. I was attempting to put her at ease.

You were humming while you did it.

I cross to the door, and the guards stationed outside snap to attention as I emerge. The walk to the throne room is familiar—marble floors worn smooth by centuries of imperial feet, walls hung with tapestries depicting victories I know by heart, air thick with incense and old power. I have made this walk ten thousand times.

Today it feels different. Today I am counting the hours until I can walk back.

The realization settles into me with a weight I do not expect. I have spent twenty-two years training myself not to count hours. Not to anticipate. Not to want anything beyond the next duty, the next decision, the next moment of service to an empire that has consumed everything I might have been. The throne does not permit anticipation. The throne demands presence, attention, the absolute surrender of self to symbol.

And yet.

I pass a window overlooking the eastern courtyard, and I catch myself looking for her. She takes her morning tea there sometimes, when the weather permits. Sits on the stone bench beneath the plum trees and reads reports that Jing has compiled for her, ancient documents about bloodlines and curses, and sometimes she laughs at something she finds there. I do not know what could be funny in records of death and sacrifice. I have never asked. I find that I want to ask.

I find that I want to know everything she finds funny. Every joke that makes her laugh, every observation that cracks through her armor of wit and deflection. I want to know what she looks like when she is not performing, not protecting herself, not waiting for the next disaster. I want to know what she looks like when she is simply—

You have stopped walking.

I resume walking.

You were staring at an empty courtyard for forty-three seconds. I counted.

The courtyard is not empty. There are gardeners.

You were not looking at the gardeners.

I have nothing to say to this that would not confirm his suspicions, so I say nothing at all. The silence stretches between us, and I can feel his amusement pressing against the bond like warmth from a banked fire.

Twenty-two years, he muses. Twenty-two years of watching you refuse every comfort, every joy, every possibility of happiness. Twenty-two years of ‘the throne demands’ and ‘duty requires’ and ‘I do not deserve.’ And then she walks into your palace with a knife and a bad joke, and suddenly you are humming love ballads and staring at empty courtyards.

She did not have a knife when she arrived.

Correct, she had poison. However, I have seen seventeen knives since she arrived. I count those too.

That surprises a breath from me that might be laughter. I catch it before it becomes sound.

There, Tianlong says, and his voice is softer now, the mockery gentled into something that might be affection. That. Right there. That is why I approve of her, little flame. Twenty-two years and you have forgotten how to laugh. She is teaching you to remember.

I do not know how to respond to this. The words sit in my chest, heavy with truth I am not prepared to examine. So I continue walking, and I do not look at any more courtyards, and I pretend I am not still counting the hours.