Page 189 of The Immortal’s Mark

The admission hangs between us. Two people who have spent their lives alone—she by necessity, I by duty—finding themselves suddenly, unexpectedly, part of something larger.

“Your poetry is still terrible,” Lián says.

The non sequitur startles me. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your poetry. The journal entries. They are objectively terrible.”

“You have not read today’s entry.”

“Does it rhyme?”

“It does not rhyme.”

“Progress.” She yawns. Settles more heavily against me. “Read it to me tomorrow. The terrible poetry. I want to hear how bad it is.”

“That seems counterproductive.”

“That seems necessary. For my entertainment. And my critical assessment.”

“Your critical assessment is—”

“Invaluable. Yes. I know.”

I find that I am smiling. Not the almost-smile. Not the careful curve of lip that suggests amusement without committing to it. An actual smile, in the darkness, where no one can see.

She cannot see it either. But I think she knows.

“Rest,” I say. “You are exhausted.”

“I am resting. Against you. In a garden. This is very restful.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Also true.” Her breathing slows. “Ren?”

“Yes?”

“I am glad I came back.”

The words are simple. She says them without drama, without weight, without the layers of deflection she usually wraps around anything true.

My arm tightens around her. My chin rests against her hair. The jasmine blooms around us, and the night stretches on, and somewhere in the palace the empire continues its endless motion, demanding attention I do not intend to give.

“I am glad too,” I say.

She does not respond. Her breathing has evened out—the slow rhythm of sleep, here, against me, in the garden where everything began.

I do not move. I do not need to.

She is here. She is safe. She is home.