Page 167 of The Immortal’s Mark

Then I turn.

The Hungering King steps into the torchlight.

He looks like a man.

That’s the problem with real monsters. They never look the part. I’ve killed things with scales and claws and too many teeth—those are easy. You see them coming. You know what they are.

This one has a scholar’s build and a handsome face and eyes that have seen more years than I have. If I’d passed him in a teahouse, I might have thought: sad. Might have thought: lonely. Might have bought him a drink and listened to his story.

I’m glad I didn’t.

The shadows bend toward him like flowers toward sun. Not magic he’s casting—magic he is. Eleven centuries of grief given form, and it wears a gentle expression like a man wearing his dead wife’s favorite robe.

“I knew you would,” he says. “Come, I mean. The bloodline always comes.”

My throat is dry. My hands want to reach for knives I know won’t do anything.

“Let him go.”

The Hungering King’s smile is almost kind. Almost.

“You know the price.”

I do.

He knows I do.

He explains anyway.

Something almost like compassion in his voice, the way you might explain to a child why the medicine tastes bad. This will hurt, but it’s necessary. You’ll understand someday.

I want to hate him for it. The condescension. The patience. But there’s something worse underneath—he means it. He genuinely believes he’s being kind.

Eleven centuries of patience. He can afford gentleness. What’s a few more minutes when you’ve waited this long?

“Willing sacrifice, fueled by love.” He spreads his hands—a gesture that should be peaceful and instead looks like a trap closing. “That’s all I need. That’s all I’ve ever needed. Not death taken. Death given. Your life, freely offered, for his.”

The shadows around Ren pulse. He’s fighting them—I can see his muscles bunch and strain, see the bindings creak and tighten in response. The gag muffles whatever sound he’s making, but I can imagine it. I can imagine him screaming my name, screaming at me to run, screaming all the things he’s too stoic to say when he has the choice.

Tears on his face.

I’ve never seen him cry before.

Not when he told me about his brothers. Not when he talked about the throne built on his family’s graves. Not even in the quiet moments, the vulnerable ones, when his composure cracked enough to let me see the exhaustion underneath.

But he’s crying now. For me. Because of me.

Something cracks behind my ribs. Something that’s been holding together for eight hundred years, held in place by humor and distance and the careful practice of never letting anyone close enough to matter.

“And if I refuse?”

My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Good. At least I can pretend.

The Hungering King tilts his head. Studies me with those ancient eyes, like he’s reading a book he’s seen before, already knowing how it ends.

“He dies. Slowly. While you watch.” A pause, perfectly measured. “And then I find another way. There’s always another way. Another descendant, hiding somewhere. Another piece of Mei-Ling’s bloodline waiting to be found. I’ve been searching for eleven centuries. I can search for eleven more.”

The shadow near Ren’s throat tightens. Not choking—not yet. Just demonstrating. Just making a point.