Page 58 of The Immortal’s Mark

Below, Lián is sparring with a training dummy.

She fights like instinct wearing a body. No formal style—time has stripped away anything that resembles school or tradition. What remains is pure efficiency: the shortest distance between intention and impact. She moves the way water moves, finding cracks, exploiting weakness, flowing around resistance rather than meeting it.

I should not be watching.

I am reviewing guard rotations. The duty roster requires attention. Minister Chen’s report on the eastern border sits unread in my hand, and the characters blur because I am watching an assassin destroy a wooden dummy with her bare hands.

General Wei approaches her.

I note this. Wei speaks to many people. Wei commands the imperial guard. It is entirely appropriate for him to assess anyone who holds a position near the emperor’s person. This is procedure. This is protocol.

They speak.

Wei gestures—demonstrating a sword technique. She tilts her head, watching his form. Then she reaches out, adjusts his grip, shifts his elbow three inches to the left. Casual. She looks young enough to be his daughter, yet Wei adjusts his stance without protest. He recognizes competence. So, apparently, do I.

She corrects his posture once more and the rigid formality of general-addressing-assassin becomes something else. Something easier.

She laughs.

A real laugh. Sharp and sudden, carrying across the training ground like a blade finding its mark. I cannot hear what Wei has said. I do not need to hear it. I am watching her face transform—the armor cracking, the edges softening, her head thrown back in genuine amusement at something a man who is not me has said.

I count.

I do not mean to count.

Six minutes. Seven. She demonstrates something—a throw, perhaps, a way of using an opponent’s weight against them. Wei attempts it. Fails. She laughs again, shorter this time, and shows him the footwork.

Eleven minutes.

I should return to Minister Chen’s report.

Fourteen minutes. Fifteen.

My hands are gripping the balcony rail. I note this. I release them.

Seventeen minutes.

My jaw tightens. I note this. Attempt to release it. The muscle does not cooperate.

She fights well.

Tianlong’s voice is mild. Conversational. The voice of someone commenting on weather while watching a city burn.

I do not respond.

The General seems impressed.

She is demonstrating something else now. A defensive posture. Wei is nodding, the respect on his face visible even from this distance. He has served the throne for thirty-five years. He has seen thousands of soldiers train. He is looking at her like she is something new.

My hands have found the balcony rail again. The wood is smooth beneath my palms—worn by years of hands gripping it. Emperors have watched from here before. Emperors have felt what I am feeling before. This is not new. This is not special.

It feels new. It feels devastating.

You have been watching for twenty-one minutes. A pause, delicate as a knife sliding between ribs. In case you lost count.

Jealousy.

I recognize it for what it is. The cold knot in my chest. The tension in my jaw that I note and attempt to release and cannot quite manage. This is jealousy—irrational, unworthy, beneath the dignity of the throne.