Page 19 of The Immortal’s Mark

The emperor does not have private moments. Only pauses between performances.

The young archivist nearly kills me with her scrolls.

Not literally, of course. But she rounds the corner at speed, arms overloaded, and collides with my chest before either of us can react. Papers scatter. Scrolls roll. A bound volume of tax records from the Chen dynasty hits the floor with a sound like a small death.

Her face, when she looks up and realizes who she has struck, goes the color of old bone.

“Your—Your Majesty—” She drops to her knees so fast I hear the impact. “I am so sorry, please forgive me, I was not watching, I should have—the records were due and Master Chen—”

“Jing.”

She stops. Her mouth works without sound. She is young—perhaps twenty, twenty-two—with ink-stained fingers and the perpetually startled expression of someone who spends too much time with documents and not enough with people.

I bend. Pick up a scroll. Hand it to her.

“The Archive of Agricultural Records,” I say. “You are taking these to Master Chen?”

She stares at the scroll in her hands as if it has transformed into something dangerous.

“I—yes, Your Majesty. He requested them this morning. For the irrigation assessment.”

“Your qualifying exams were last month.”

She freezes. The scroll in her hands trembles.

“You passed with distinction,” I continue. “Master Chen mentioned it in his weekly report. He does not give praise easily.”

Her eyes are very wide. She did not know I read the weekly reports. She did not know I would remember.

“Master Chen’s health has been troubling him,” I say. “The cough that lingers. Send him my regards. Tell him the imperial physicians are at his disposal, should he wish it.”

“I—” She swallows. “Yes, Your Majesty. I will.”

She is still kneeling. I gesture for her to rise. She does, clutching the scrolls like a shield, her eyes never quite leaving my face. She is waiting for the trap. The cruelty. The demonstration that emperors do not bend to pick up scrolls for junior archivists. I hate that is how she sees me.

“The archives are fortunate to have you, Jing.”

She bows. Retreats. I hear her footsteps quicken as she rounds the corner—rushing to tell someone, anyone, what just happened. The emperor remembered my name. The emperor asked about my exams. The emperor—

I watch her go.

That was kind.

“That was efficient. Loyalty is built in the small moments.”

If you say so, little flame.

I do not respond. He is right. It was not entirely strategy. I remember her face when the exam results were posted—the relief, the tears she tried to hide. I remember because I remember everything. Because these are my people. Because the boy who wanted to write poetry still lives somewhere beneath the emperor’s mask, and that boy would have helped her pick up her scrolls too.

I am not certain what to do with this.

I cannot sleep.

This is not unusual. I have not slept well since I was twelve years old and dragon fire remade me into something that survives. The night stretches. I pace—a habit I cannot break, though I know the guards outside mark each circuit, each restless hour. The jade comb sits on my desk. The journal waits. I do not open it.

Instead, I walk.

The palace is different at night. Quieter. The guards nod as I pass—they are accustomed to their emperor’s restlessness by now. The corridors are lit by low oil lamps, casting shadows that move like living things. I tell myself I am walking without purpose. I am lying.