Page 130 of Immortal

Some at court undoubtedly hated me for it, but as my grandfather had said: Rulers aren’t just meant to be liked . . . what’s most important is doing what is right. Why please those who wanted to believe the worst of me, who only cared to further their own ends? My harsh treatment of Minister Guo quelled the lingering murmurs of disquiet—his previous allies adjusting to his absence with remarkable ease, his rivals clamoring to fill the gap in power.

My efforts were centered on the people’s well-being, not pandering for the favor of the disgruntled few, those accustomed to privilege. No calamity had descended from the heavens, whether storms or floods, which added to the tranquility in Tianxia, to the illusion that my reign was favored by the gods. I let them believe it; it was easier that way. But I worked hard to build a foundation for the kingdom that would last beyond the current peace, that would thrive even in adversity—even beyond my rule.

After all, I wouldn’t live forever. I would not always be the Lady of Tianxia. The kingdom needed a steady hand while we adjusted to the changes, while I secured my people’s freedom from the immortals. Only then would I hand the reins of power to another, one chosen by the people. A dream that had taken root from Aunt Shou’s wisdom.

And then . . . I would live for myself, with the one I loved.

If he returned.

I scowled at the reminder of Zhangwei’s absence. Immortals had a poor sense of time—weeks felt like days to them, while I had learned impatience in the Mortal Realm. And there was the irksome matter of my betrothal. Now the need for my false engagement with Chengyin had passed, some ministers had redoubled their efforts to marry me off. Maybe they didn’t like seeing a woman alone on the throne. I would need to resurrect the threat of the betrothal competition soon, if only to silence those more daring. I shouldn’t have cared, yet each time one of them brought it up, my mind inevitably flitted to Zhangwei, my annoyance rising at his absence.

A thought struck as I picked up a brush and swirled it into the ink. A smile played on my lips as I wrote a message to Zhangwei, then folded the paper and pressed my jade seal upon it. If he was playing a game with me, I’d just rewritten the rules. This would bring him here before another week was over.

I was wrong.

The next morning, while the court was in session, chaos erupted outside the hall. I looked up, glad for the distraction. Minister Dao had grown more insufferable of late, emboldened by his rival’s absence, insisting on the election of his eldest son to the court despite his having failed the entrance exams twice. While I’d never ordered an execution before, he was sorely tempting me.

The doors swung open as an attendant rushed in. “Lord Zhangwei, the God of War, the High General of the Golden Desert, requests an audience with the Lady of Tianxia.” The use of Zhangwei’s formal titles was unexpected, several courtiers exchanging guarded looks.

I glanced down at my red robe embroidered with white camellias, suppressing the ridiculous urge to change it to one more flattering. “He has no invitation,” I said. Zhangwei had kept me waiting this long, a few minutes more was no hardship for him.

“Do I require one to speak to the Lady of Tianxia?”

He stood in the entrance, sunlight gliding across his armor. His deep voice sent a shaft of pleasure through me, though I schooled my face into indifference, repressing the urge to run to him. The problem with having too much pride is that you end up making yourself suffer.

“My time is precious,” I replied in an aloof manner. “Unless you’re here upon matters of state.”

“Today, I would speak on both.”

My heart quickened as he strode forward—though he looked ready for battle not courtship, with his sword, the daggers sheathed by his waist, a large wooden bow slung across his back.

My eyes narrowed. “What brings you here, Lord Zhangwei? Why are you attired for war?”

He halted before the dais, indifferent to the stir he’d roused in my court. A sheet of paper was crumpled in his hand, the letter I’d written to him just the night before. “Did you not summon me?”

“I did not,” I replied smoothly. “I merely informed you of my plans out of courtesy.”

“Cancel the tournament.” His voice pulsed with barely restrained anger. Had I provoked him too far?

“Afraid you’ll lose?” My tone dropped, edged with challenge. I was enjoying this immensely—my pleasure honed by the nights I’d spent waiting for him.

“No,” he replied arrogantly, unslinging his sword. “As you can see, I’ve come prepared. If another happens to win, I’ll just make you a widow.”

He was calling my bluff, drawing this farce out. I cursed him in my mind, my hands clenched in my lap. “You’re a bad loser, Lord Zhangwei.”

“The worst.” His mouth curved in a way that made me lean instinctively toward him, but I drew back, fighting a rush of heat.

Zhangwei turned to address my court. “There will be no tournament for the Lady of Tianxia’s hand in marriage, nor will any suitors be entertained.”

I glared at him, both fascinated and infuriated at his high-handedness. “That is not for you to decide.”

“It is, when you’ve promised yourself to me, as I have promised myself to you. Or have you already forgotten?”

As whispers rustled around the court, I was torn between reaching for him and throwing something at his head. Chengyin stepped forward, ever vigilant when guarding my interests, braver than most to confront the God of War. “The Lady of Tianxia’s betrothal is a matter for the entire kingdom.”

Zhangwei’s jaw tightened, his gaze pinning mine. “It is between us alone. I have a proposal that requires your immediate consideration. Would you prefer I speak now . . . or later?”

The way his voice had lowered—I bristled at his presumption. After weeks of unexplained absence, how dare he storm into my court and make demands? I would not surrender so easily, running to him the moment he beckoned.