Page 186 of The Immortal’s Mark

“Ow—what—”

Another bite. Harder this time. Then he releases her, stalks in a tight circle around her feet, and begins climbing her legs with clear determination.

“He is angry,” I observe.

“He is always angry.”

“This seems… more.”

The cat reaches her arms. She lifts him, and he immediately begins kneading at her chest, purring with the aggressive intensity of a small engine. His nose presses against her stomach. Stays there. Sniffs with unusual focus.

“What is wrong with everyone today?” She adjusts her grip on him, frowning. “You. Lady Mei. All of you keep acting like—”

She stops. The cat is still sniffing at her stomach. His purr has changed—softer now, almost protective. He settles against her abdomen and refuses to move.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I do not know.” She shakes her head, carries the cat to the bed, lowers herself onto the mattress. “I am tired. I am always tired after resurrection, but this is different. Deeper. Like something has been taken from me that was not supposed to be taken.”

I sit beside her. The bed dips under my weight. The cat watches me with one golden eye, assessing, and then deliberately stretches to place one paw on my leg. Claiming us both.

“You should rest,” I say.

“I have been resting. For three hours. On a horse. Against your very uncomfortable shoulder.”

“My shoulder is not uncomfortable.”

“Your shoulder is bony. I have opinions about your shoulder.”

“Your opinions are noted.”

“And ignored?”

“Never ignored.” I reach out—a careful motion, deliberate—and brush a strand of hair from her face. “Considered. Cataloged. Filed away for future reference.”

She looks at me. Her eyes are tired, but something in them is warm. Something in them is open in a way I have not seen before.

“You are different too,” she says. “Since I came back. You are not…”

“Controlled?”

“Present.” She seems to search for words. “You are usually somewhere else. Behind your eyes. Managing seventeen hundred things at once. But right now you are just… here.”

I consider this observation. It is accurate. I am not reviewing intelligence reports in the back of my mind. I am not calculating political implications. I am not measuring the threat assessment of the current situation.

I am watching her breathe.

“You died,” I say. “I watched you die. I held you while you—”

The words stop. I observe this: the failure of language, the inadequacy of speech to convey what I am attempting to convey. I try again.

“I have ruled the empire since I was a child. I have commanded dragon fire. I have watched my brothers die and not wept.” The silence stretches. “I wept for you.”

She does not speak. The cat purrs between us. Somewhere in the palace, I can hear the distant sounds of servants—the rhythm of normal life resuming, the empire continuing its endless motion.

None of it matters.

“Rest,” I say. “I will be here when you wake.”