Page 168 of The Immortal’s Mark

His eyes never leave mine. Even in pain, even in terror, he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like he’d rather watch me than watch the darkness closing around his neck.

Don’t, his eyes say. Please. I’m not worth this. Nothing is worth this.

I should have a plan.

Six hundred and forty-four deaths and I’ve never walked into a situation without at least three exit strategies. Escape routes. Backup weapons. Allies waiting in the wings. Something clever, something brutal, something that gives me options.

But I didn’t come here for options.

I didn’t come here to escape.

I came here to choose.

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. The words stick in my throat, tangled up with eight hundred years of armor and deflection and the very reasonable practice of never saying anything that matters.

“You know, I had a really good joke planned for this moment.”

The words come out strange. Thin. Like someone else is speaking them.

“Something about death being an old friend. About how we’ve been doing this dance for centuries, death and me, and maybe it’s time to let her lead. Something clever. Something that would make this feel less like—”

I stop.

The Hungering King waits. Patient. So patient.

“Something about death being an old friend,” I try again.“But I can’t remember it now.”

I laugh.

It sounds like breaking. Like glass shattering in slow motion, each piece catching the light before it falls.

“That’s probably a sign.”

My lungs drag in air that tastes like dust and power and eleven centuries of grief. My hands are shaking. When did my hands start shaking? I’ve been stabbed, burned, drowned, poisoned, crushed, and—one memorable occasion—kicked to death by a very angry mule. My hands don’t shake.

They’re shaking now.

The Hungering King watches me with something that might be recognition. Might be memory. Might be the echo of a woman who died eleven centuries ago, making choices just like this one.

Ren is still shaking his head. Still fighting. Still begging me with every line of his body not to do what we both know I’m going to do.

I take a step forward.

“I’m not afraid of death.”

My voice echoes in the tomb. Comes back strange, like the stone is tasting the words.

“You know that already. You’ve been watching me long enough.”

The Hungering King tilts his head. Waiting.

One step closer. My boots are steady on the ancient stone. Good. At least my legs remember how to work, even if the rest of me is falling apart.

“Death is easy. Death is familiar. Death is the thing that keeps happening to me whether I want it to or not.”

I can feel Ren’s eyes on me. Feel the weight of his desperation, his terror, his love. It’s a physical thing, pressing against my back, trying to pull me away from what I’m walking toward.

I don’t turn around. If I turn around, I’ll break. If I see his face, I’ll shatter into pieces and none of them will have the courage to do what needs doing.