Zenith did not celebrate her new assignment. She treated it as another post that demanded discipline. Before dawn she was already in motion, checking the inner gates and questioning the night watch. She wanted patterns, not excuses. She wanted names, not gestures. She wanted to know who had keys, who had access, and who could move through the palace without being stopped.
The palace guards were trained, but training was not the same as hunger. Most of them had never stood at the edge of a raid with only seconds to choose between death and survival. Zenith had. It made her impatient with careless routines. It also made her careful with people who smiled too easily.
By midmorning, she had changed the watch rotations twice. She increased the number of guards near the king's private corridors. She placed two of her own soldiers at the door of the study and the staircase that led to the upper chambers. She gave short instructions and expected them to be followed.
The complaints started before noon.
A senior steward arrived with folded cloth and a stiff bow. The robe was pale, narrow at the waist, and long in the sleeves. It was meant to make her look suitable for court, and it would also make her slow.
Zenith did not touch it. "I will not wear this."
The steward kept his smile in place. "It is customary for those who serve close to the king."
"I serve with my hands free," Zenith said. "Tell the wardrobe master to send cloth that does not interfere with my work."
The steward left with the robe and a sour silence.
Not long after, Zenith was summoned to a short meeting with palace officials. They offered advice that sounded polite and felt sharp. They told her where to stand during council sessions. They told her which doors were reserved for nobles. They told her how to lower her gaze when elders spoke.
Zenith listened until she had heard enough. She gave a single nod, then returned to her route without promising compliance.
She did not need their approval. She needed the king alive.
Joram met with her in a plain room off the inner court, chosen for its single entrance. He arrived without a crowd. He did not bring councillors, and he did not bring ceremony. That alone told her he understood risk.
Zenith delivered her report with the same tone she would use on a battlefield. She spoke of the broken object from the rite, the smell that had risen from it, and the hourglass mark found near the fragments. She spoke of the servant who had tried to vanish into the crowd, and the moment when several guards hesitated before moving. She spoke of the gaps in the inner watch.
Joram listened without interruption. When she finished, he asked what she needed.
Zenith listed changes and reassigned posts. He approved them. He did not argue about tradition or pride. He did not question her authority in front of others. He signed the orders himself and sent them to the guard captain with his seal.
Zenith expected a king to demand loyalty. Joram did not. He expected competence.
That afternoon, the council convened, and Zenith stood behind him against the wall. She kept her eyes moving, watching hands, watching posture, watching who looked relieved and who looked angry.
They spoke of the attack and then of marriage. They did not pretend it was unrelated. They framed it as protection. They framed it as unity. They framed it as the will of the ancestors, but Zenith could see ambition in their faces.
Joram listened with his chin lifted and his hands steady. He did not lash out. He did not beg for time. He simply refused to be rushed.
When the meeting ended, Joram walked the inner corridor with his guards behind him. Zenith followed at the distance she chose. Servants bowed and kept moving. Courtiers watched from doorways and pretended not to.
At a quiet turn, Joram slowed. He did not look back, but he spoke low. "They will not stop."
Zenith answered without softness. "Then you hold your ground."
He paused. "They will turn you into a problem because you are close to me."
Zenith did not flinch. "Let them try."
Joram finally glanced back. There was fatigue in his eyes, and control around it. "Talk becomes power in this place."
Zenith nodded once. "Then I will give them less to use."
He continued down the corridor, and Zenith followed. She did not miss the way his shoulders eased a fraction when she stayed near.
In the days that followed, Zenith learned the palace's habits. It fed on rumor, but it also ran on routine. She watched who entered Joram's study and how long they stayed. She watched which councillor sent messages late at night. She watched the temple attendants who had been present at the rite and noticed which ones avoided her gaze.
She questioned servants carefully, not with threats, but with attention. She listened for contradictions. She learned which stories were practiced and which ones were spontaneous.
Late on the third day, Zenith found something small and wrong. A servant delivering water to the king's corridor had no seal of authorization. His name was not on the shift list. He insisted he had been sent by a steward, but he could not name which one. Zenith took the tray, dismissed him, and sent a soldier to follow at a distance.
The servant did not return to the kitchens. He took a side corridor toward the storage rooms, then changed direction as if he sensed eyes on him. When he realized he was being watched, he ran. He was caught near the outer steps, trembling and furious. In his pocket Zenith found a folded slip marked with an hourglass.
Zenith took it to Joram that night.
He was still at his desk. Papers were stacked neatly, but his eyes were strained. A tray of food sat untouched in the corner. Zenith did not comment on it. She placed the slip on the table.
Joram read it once, then again. His jaw tightened. "They are inside."
Zenith kept her voice controlled. "They have been inside for some time."
Joram looked up. "Why did the council not tell me about earlier incidents."
"Because it made them look weak," Zenith said. "Because it gave you fewer reasons to replace their people."
Joram sat back, silent for a moment. He did not rage. He absorbed it.
Zenith watched him closely. She had expected a king raised in comfort to fold when the palace revealed its teeth. Joram did not fold. He went still, the way a commander went still before issuing orders.
"What do you need," he asked.
Zenith told him she wanted permission to inspect council offices, to review messenger routes, and to question temple attendants. Each request would anger someone. Each request would also close a door that conspirators used.
Joram agreed. He wrote the orders himself. When he finished, he set the pen down and rubbed his eyes once, fast, as if the gesture embarrassed him.
Zenith spoke before she could reconsider. "You should sleep."
Joram looked at her as if he had forgotten that sleep was a choice. "If I sleep, I lose hours."
"You lose more when your mind breaks," Zenith said.
He held her gaze, and the room went quiet. There was no court here, no council, no crowd to perform for. There was only the king and the woman who had pulled him away from death.
Joram's voice was lower when he spoke. "They want me married before the next full council session."
Zenith's chest tightened, and she hated the feeling. It was not jealousy yet. It was the awareness of a path being forced into place. "Then they want control."
He nodded once. "Yes."
Zenith kept her posture straight. "You will choose someone for the kingdom."
"I will choose someone the council can accept," he said, and the honesty in it landed hard.
Zenith did not answer right away. She told herself that none of it mattered to her, that she was a soldier and this was politics. But she could not ignore what she had started to see. Joram's burden was real. His restraint was real. His attention toward her was also real, and it carried danger.
Joram stood and moved toward the window. He did not come close to Zenith. He did not touch her. He respected distance, as if he knew how quickly distance could become a wound.
"I will not ask you to change for them," he said. "But I am not blind. They will try."
Zenith's voice came out quieter than she intended. "I know."
Joram turned back. "If you stay near me, you will be watched."
Zenith met his eyes. "I am already watched."
He held her gaze for a long beat. "Then be careful."
Zenith nodded once, then stepped toward the door. She stopped with her hand on the latch, feeling the pull of what she was leaving in that room. She did not speak again. She left before a moment could turn into something that would own her.
In the corridor, the night guards straightened at her presence. Zenith resumed her patrol, but her thoughts did not settle. She had been trained to endure pain, hunger, and fear. No one had trained her for the slow, private risk of wanting a man whose life belonged to a kingdom.
Before the lamps burned out, Zenith stood outside the king's chamber and listened. The palace was quiet, but it was not safe. It never was.
And somewhere behind the stone walls, the hourglass mark moved through the court, patient and close.