Page 25 of The Immortal’s Mark

Just don’t, Lián.

“The imperial physicians,” Ren says. “Today. Tell them I sent you.”

No hesitation.

I wait for the rest—the caveat, the condition, the hidden cost. But first you’ll owe me. But first you’ll inform on your fellow servants. But first—

Nothing.

He just… offers. Like it’s simple. Like a child’s life is reason enough.

“Your Majesty—” The woman’s voice cracks entirely. “I cannot—I have nothing to—”

His hand touches her shoulder. Brief. Automatic. The gesture of someone who doesn’t think about whether touch is appropriate because comfort isn’t a calculation for him.

“Your son’s name?”

“W-Wei-Lin, Your Majesty.”

“Go. Tell the physicians Wei-Lin needs their attention. They’ll understand.”

She scrambles up, bowing, stumbling, weeping gratitude that sounds like it’s being torn out of her. The corridor swallows her footsteps, and then it’s quiet again.

I stand very still.

My hands have curled into fists. The nails are biting into my palms. I don’t remember deciding to do that.

Political move. Has to be.

The thought feels desperate now. Grasping.

Loyalty purchase. One servant’s gratitude buys whispered praise in the kitchens, spreads through the lower staff, reinforces the image of—

He didn’t look around first.

The realisation lands like a knife between ribs.

He didn’t check who was watching. Didn’t glance at me to see if I was suitably impressed. Didn’t pitch his voice to carry, didn’t perform the benevolent emperor for an audience.

He just… did it. Like it was reflex. Like kindness is his resting state.

That’s either stupid or—

I don’t finish the thought.

Can’t.

Something cracks behind my ribs—a fault line I didn’t know existed, shifting in ways I’m not prepared to map. I stand in the quiet corridor and pretend I don’t feel the draft where my armour used to be.

The archives smell like dust and centuries.

Old paper. Lamp oil. The particular mustiness of records no one has read since before I was born the first time. Towering shelves disappear into shadows above, and somewhere in this maze is the evidence I need.

Ren is handling afternoon petitions. I have three hours alone with dead men’s ledgers.

Should be a relief. Instead the silence presses close, and I keep catching myself listening for footsteps that are not coming.

Focus.