Page 172 of The Immortal’s Mark

“That’s the point, isn’t it? You’ve been waiting for someone to love like she did. To choose like she did. The bloodline breeds true—women who love so fiercely they’ll sacrifice everything. Women who can’t help but burn.”

His ancient eyes search my face. Looking for her, maybe. Looking for the woman who died eleven centuries ago, whose absence has driven him to become this hollow, hungry thing.

I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

I hope it hurts.

“Here I am.” I spread my arms wider. Open myself to him, to the sacrifice, to whatever comes next. “Choosing.”

I don’t wait for permission.

Permission is for people who have something left to lose. People who are still negotiating, still hoping for a better outcome, still believing that maybe if they say the right words, everything will be fine.

I’ve already made my peace. Already said everything I needed to say. Already let the walls down, let the truth out, let myself feel something other than armor for the first time in centuries.

Now I just have to follow through.

The shadow blade hovering near Ren—insurance, in case I refused—pulses with dark intent. It’s been there the whole time. Patient. Hungry. The stick to complement whatever carrot the Hungering King thought he was offering.

But I’m not refusing.

I’m choosing.

The Hungering King’s attention is on me now. On my words. On the echo of his lost love in my voice, my willingness to burn for someone the way Mei-Ling burned for her people.

He’s waiting for me to kneel. To offer my throat. To let him orchestrate this death the way he’s been planning for eleven centuries.

He doesn’t know me very well.

I move.

Faster than I’ve ever moved. Eight hundred years of fighting have made my body into something that acts before thought catches up. I don’t go for the Hungering King. I go for the blade.

My hand closes around shadow. It burns—Loss made solid, grief given edge. But I’ve held worse.

I turn it on myself.

The blade slides between my ribs like coming home.

I’ve been stabbed before. Dozens of times. The body knows this pain, recognizes it like an old enemy.

But this isn’t steel. This is shadow made solid, darkness given edge, grief made into a weapon. And it doesn’t feel like any blade I’ve known.

Cold first. So cold it burns, spreading from my chest outward like frost on glass. I can feel it moving through me, finding the channels where my blood flows, freezing everything it touches.

Then heat—the warm rush of blood, the body’s futile attempt to close a wound that can’t be closed. It soaks through my shirt. Drips onto the ancient stone.

Then something else. Something that feels like letting go.

Willing.

I chose this. No tricks. No backup plans. No clever schemes or hidden weapons or last-minute rescues. Just me, making a choice, and following through.

Chosen.

I walked into it with my eyes open. Knew what it would cost. Paid it anyway.

For love.