Page 55 of The Immortal’s Mark

I make it anyway.

Not the reaching. Not yet. But the staying. The letting this moment stretch until the air feels thick with everything we’re not saying.

“I should go.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Rest. Recovery. The investigation.”

All true. None of it the reason I need to leave.

He lets me turn. Lets me take a step toward the path.

Then: “Lián.”

I stop.

My name in his voice. Not the first time—I woke to it yesterday—but the first time like this. Deliberate. Like he wanted to feel the shape of it.

“The evening debrief.” He’s watching me. I can feel it without turning around. “Has been... useful. If you’re recovered enough tomorrow—”

“Same time?”

“If you’re willing.”

I nod. Don’t trust my voice.

I leave before I can do something catastrophic.

Like stay.

My quarters.

Dumpling has migrated from the pillow to the exact center of the bed. Maximum inconvenience. He’s achieved perfect loaf formation—paws tucked, eyes half-closed, expression smug.

I don’t fight him.

I pull out my journal instead. The one I’ve kept for six centuries, filled with deaths and contracts and the names of people I’ve outlived. The pages are worn soft with handling. Some entries are in languages that no longer exist.

I write:

Problem: I died for him. I would do it again.

Hypothesis: I am no longer professionally detached.

Recommendation: Immediate extraction.

Prognosis: I’m not going anywhere.

I stare at the words.

They stare back.

The ink dries. The truth doesn’t change.

I close the journal. Lie down around seventeen pounds of orange cat. He doesn’t move to accommodate me, because why would he. I adjust. He purrs.

Outside, the palace settles into its nighttime rhythms. Guard rotations. Servant footsteps. The distant sound of water in the ornamental fountains.

Inside, my mind won’t stop.

Let them.