Page 16 of The Immortal’s Mark

“You’re not.”

It comes out before I can stop it. Direct. Honest. The kind of observation that slips past my armor when I’m tired.

He meets my eyes. Holds them. That stillness again—the mountain stillness, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the one moving even when you’re standing perfectly still.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

Something shifts in the air between us. Something I don’t want to name.

I look away first. Pretend I’m studying the scrolls on his desk.

“So,” I say. “First assignment. Find out who paid for your death.”

“And try not to cause an international incident before lunch.”

His voice is flat, but I catch it—the almost-humor. The ghost of a joke buried under all that imperial composure.

There you are, I think.

Then I catch myself thinking it.

“No promises,” I say. And mean it as armor.

He almost smiles. Not quite—never quite—but closer than yesterday. His armor has a crack.

Matching cracks. That’s not romantic. That’s structural damage.

I can’t afford this.

The shadow work begins.