Page 73 of The Immortal’s Mark

She falls into step beside me.

We walk.

The tower stairs spiral upward through the heart of the eastern wing, worn smooth by centuries of feet that are not mine. I discovered this place during the war, when sleep was a luxury and solitude was survival. The guards know not to follow me here. No one else knows it exists.

Until now.

We emerge onto a terrace that faces east, toward the mountains that ring the valley like sleeping giants. The city spreads below us, still dark, still dreaming. The sky is turning—grey bleeding into rose, rose deepening toward gold.

Lián moves to the edge, hands finding the stone railing. The wind catches her hair, pulls it across her face, and for a moment she looks like something out of a painting. Something I am not allowed to want.

I note this observation. I do not examine it.

“Your secret brooding spot,” she says.

“It is not—” I stop. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “The emperor has a secret brooding spot. This is valuable intelligence. I could sell this to your enemies.”

“You could.”

“I won’t.” She looks at me, and the humor fades. “You heard me talking about you.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re showing me this place.”

“Yes.”

She waits. She is good at waiting. But so am I. The years of courts and councils have taught me that silence is a weapon, that the one who speaks first often loses.

I speak first anyway.

“You told Dumpling that I carry everything like it is my fault.”

She goes still.

“You are not wrong.” I move to stand beside her at the railing, leaving space between us. Enough space to be proper. Not enough to be safe.

The sun crests the mountains. Light spills across the terrace like liquid gold.

It catches her face. She closes her eyes—just for a moment—and something in her expression eases. Unguarded. I have never seen her unguarded before.

I should not be watching.

I watch anyway.

Then I look away, toward the mountains, and make myself speak.

“I have carried the empire since I was twelve years old. I have told myself it is duty. Honor. The burden I was chosen to bear.”

I do not look at her while I speak. I cannot. The words are hard enough without seeing her reaction.

“It is also penance.”

“I was a child when the dragon fire chose me. The third son. The quiet one.” I pause. Breathe. “I wrote poetry about the moon and had no interest in thrones. Dragon fire does not consider such things. It does not ask permission. It burns through you, and you either survive the immolation or you do not.”

“You survived.”