Page 69 of The Immortal’s Mark

She’s describing basic human decency, Tianlong observes, as if it were a miracle. That’s either a commentary on her past or a confession. Possibly both.

“Stop looking at me like that, Dumpling. I’m not—this isn’t—” She makes another sound, half-laugh, half-something else. “He’s going to get himself killed, being that earnest. Sincerity is a security flaw. I should be concerned. For professional reasons.”

She’s rationalizing. The dragon sounds delighted. Badly. This is fun.

I am not eavesdropping. The walls are thin. I cannot help what carries through them.

You could cover your ears. You could hum. You could do literally anything except lie there listening to every word she says.

I do not respond. Through the wall, Lián is still talking. Her voice has gone quieter now, the sharp edges worn down to something almost soft.

“He carries it all like it’s his fault. The throne, the empire, every death that’s ever happened within a hundred miles of this palace.” A pause. “The fire didn’t ask him, did it? It just… chose. And he’s been apologizing for surviving ever since.”

Something in my chest cracks.

When she speaks again, the deflection is back, brittle as glass. “I’m talking to a cat. About the emperor. At three in the morning.” A bitter laugh. “This is a new low, Dumpling. Even for me.”

I stare at the ceiling. The stone is cold above me, carved with dragons that have watched a dozen emperors sleep and fail to sleep in this bed. Through the wall, I can hear her moving—pacing again, footsteps soft on the floor.

She is ten feet away. A single wall between us. I could knock. I could—

I am not going to knock.

You could. You could knock. You could stop being a coward and—

Then—a sound.

Not from her room. From the corridor outside. A footstep where there should not be a footstep. The guards do not patrol this section; they station at the wing’s entrance only. No one should be in this corridor at this hour.

No one except—

I am on my feet before the thought completes. The knife is in my hand, strapped to the bedpost where it has lived since the war. I move to the door, press my ear to the wood.

Another footstep. Soft. Deliberate. Moving not toward my door.

Toward hers.

I have two choices. Slip back into bed, pretend I heard nothing, report the intruder through proper channels in the morning and let the guards handle it.

Or.

I open my door.

“Show yourself.”

I do not raise my voice. I have never needed to. The shadow freezes—then bolts.

Toward her door.

I am moving before the thought completes. The knife is in my hand, balanced for throwing, but the angle is wrong and the shadow is fast and if I miss—

The door bursts open from the inside.

Lián. Blade already drawn, sleep-clothes and violence, eyes sharp and calculating even before they find me in the corridor with an intruder between us. Not wide. Not frightened. Annoyed.

“Oh, for the love of—”

The assassin lunges. Not for me. For her.