Page 59 of The Immortal’s Mark

She is not mine.

She has never been mine. I have no claim on her laughter. I have no right to track which men receive it and calculate how long it takes and measure the warmth in her voice when she speaks to people who are not me.

She is an assassin who tried to kill me. She is a tool of the investigation. She is useful, valuable, necessary—and I am standing on a balcony watching her speak to my general like I am a boy of fourteen watching a girl at festival, counting her smiles the way other boys count coins.

I watch for another four minutes before I force myself to turn away.

The duty roster requires attention.

It does not receive it.

Maps cover every wall of the war chamber, campaigns won and borders redrawn. Wei stands at attention, his report concluded. Professional. Efficient. The same man who made her laugh.

I note the thought. I release it.

“Border security adjustments are proceeding as discussed,” Wei says. “The northern garrisons have received reinforcements. Supply lines are secured through spring.”

“Good.”

He should leave. The briefing is complete. But Wei lingers—weight shifting slightly, jaw tightening in a way I have learned to recognize over decades of service.

“Your Majesty. About the assassin.”

I wait. Wei is not a man who speaks without purpose.

“The men are uncertain.” His voice is carefully neutral. “An emperor’s shadow should be a trusted guard. Not a woman who tried to kill him seven days ago.”

“And you, General?”

Wei meets my eyes. Most cannot hold my gaze. Wei has been holding it since before I was old enough to understand why that matters.

“I trust your judgment.” The words are measured. Honest. “But I wanted you to know what is being said. Loyalty requires honesty.”

Loyalty requires honesty. Wei has served two emperors. He has survived three purges, two coups, and a civil war that killed his only son. He is not loyal because he is paid or because he fears. He is loyal because he believes—in the throne, in the empire, in the idea that duty means something.

“Your honesty is noted, General.”

He bows. Prepares to leave.

“Your son,” I say. The words come without decision. “He would have been thirty-nine this year.”

Wei’s stillness changes. Becomes something else. Something that twenty-two years of grief has not quite managed to erode.

“Thirty-eight, Your Majesty. He was sixteen at Crimson Pass.” Wei’s voice does not waver. “A boy who thought he was a man. They all do, at that age.”

“I know.” The words come before I can consider them. “I have read the reports from that day. Every report, from every battle. Your son was not simply a boy who died, General. He held a corridor for nine minutes while Commander Yuen evacuated the wounded. Sixteen years old, alone, against a unit of twelve.” I pause. “You have never mentioned this.”

Wei’s jaw works. “It was not relevant, Your Majesty.”

“It is relevant to me.”

Silence. Wei is not a man who weeps. But something in his face shifts—cracks, just slightly.

“The Imperial Martyrs’ Memorial,” I say. “Your son belongs there. Not in a field grave at Crimson Pass.”

“Your Majesty—”

“This is not a request, General. And it is twenty-two years overdue.”