Page 187 of The Immortal’s Mark

“You have an empire to run.”

“The empire can wait.”

“That is very irresponsible.”

“Yes.”

She smiles. It is a small smile, tired, but genuine. She shifts on the bed, and somehow—I am not certain how—I end up beside her, her head on my shoulder, the cat draped across both our laps like a furry orange bridge.

“You are staring again,” she murmurs.

“I am not staring.”

“Your eyes are open. They are pointed at me. That is staring.”

“It is observation. With sustained attention.”

“That is a very dignified way of saying staring.”

She laughs. The sound is soft, exhausted, wonderful. I feel it vibrate through her body into mine.

This is disgustingly domestic, Tianlong notes from somewhere in the room—he has uncurled from her wrist and settled on the windowsill like a judgmental statue. I have waited a long time to see you happy, and this is what it looks like. A cat. A bed. A woman who cannot stay awake.

I do not respond.

It is perfect, he adds, and his voice has lost its edge. You understand that, yes? That this is perfect?

I understand.

She is breathing against my shoulder. Slow. Steady. Alive.

I do not move. I do not need to.

I wake in darkness, and she is gone.

The panic is immediate—a spike through my chest, cold and sharp and entirely irrational. I am on my feet before I am fully conscious, scanning the room, reaching for a sword that is not at my side—

She is in the garden, Tianlong’s voice cuts through the spiral. I stop. Breathe. Force my heart to slow.

“How do you—”

I can sense her. As I always could. She is well. She is merely awake.

I should stay. She is entitled to privacy. She has been watched and guarded and hovered over since her return; if she has sought the garden for solitude, I should respect that.

I am already moving toward the door.

The Moon Garden is silver and shadow at this hour. Jasmine hangs heavy in the air—the scent that will never mean anything except her, never carry any association except these nights, this bench, this slow accumulation of trust.

She is sitting in our usual place. Her knees are drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. She is staring at nothing—the wall, the climbing vines, the darkness beyond. She does not turn when I approach, but she shifts slightly. Making room.

I sit beside her. The familiar distance between us—close enough to reach out, far enough to retreat. Neither of us retreats.

“I should be dead,” she says.

I wait. She will continue when she is ready.

“I made a choice. In that moment. When the Hungering King had you, when the ritual was activating, when everything was falling apart—I chose to die. I meant it. I chose to give myself to his ritual because it was the only way to save you.”