Page 53 of The Immortal’s Mark

I catch Dumpling watching from the pillow.

His expression is one of supreme feline judgment. The cat equivalent of I’m not saying anything. I’m just watching you change clothes three times to discuss ‘the investigation.’

“Don’t.”

He blinks slowly.

“I hate you.”

He purrs.

I go with the second robe. Dark blue silk, practical cut. Nothing that says I’m trying too hard. Nothing that says I changed clothes three times.

The cat knows.

The cat doesn’t get to have an opinion.

The Moon Garden at night is different.

Jasmine hanging heavy in the air—the three-petaled night kind that only blooms after sunset. And underneath it all, something else.

Something hums.

In the stones. In the water. Old magic, the same flavor as the jade comb, but deeper. Layered over centuries. The kind of wards that keep things out.

What kind of things need keeping out of an emperor’s garden?

I don’t ask. Some questions are better left for daylight.

He’s already there.

He turns when he hears me approach, moonlight catching his jaw, and my brain just... stops.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

We talk about the cult first.

The inside advisor. The supply manifests. Who has access to Wei’s logistics. I share my suspicions about military channels—someone with enough clearance to move resources without questions, someone who’s been doing it for years.

He listens like I’m saying something that matters. Not performing attention—actually listening, head slightly tilted, processing.

“You’ve narrowed it to three possibilities,” he says.

“Two and a half. The third is unlikely but I can’t rule him out.”

“Which is the half?”

“Minister Huang. He has access but not motive. Unless I’m missing something.”

“You’re not.” His voice is certain. “Huang is ambitious but loyal. I’ve known him since the war.”

“People change.”

“People reveal themselves. Huang has had opportunities to betray me. He chose not to.”

I file this away. He knows his court better than I do. But I’ve been reading people for eight centuries, and certainty is its own kind of blindness.

And then the conversation... drifts.