Zenith had learned war before she learned peace.
Her mother died when Zenith was young, and her father raised her with strictness and pride. He had been a soldier once, then a laborer when his knee gave out. He spoke little, but his rules were clear. Work. Train. Do not beg. Do not waste what you earn. When Zenith was old enough to carry water without spilling it, he began teaching her how to stand and how to strike. He said no one would protect a girl forever, and he would not let his daughter grow up expecting rescue.
When she joined the army, she thought strength would make everything simple. It did not. Strength only changed what people tried. Some tried to break her. Some tried to own her. Others tried to use her as proof that the world was fair, while keeping the world the same.
She learned to fight well and speak less. She learned that praise could be bait. She learned that male pride did not always announce itself with anger. Sometimes it arrived in softness that demanded payment later. She refused those debts. Over time, she became known as reliable, blunt, and difficult to charm. Commanders valued her. Some officers feared her. A few hated her with patience.
She did not mind being hated. She minded being underestimated.
Joram's childhood had been the opposite. He was raised within palace walls and trained in everything expected of a future ruler, even when he was not meant to inherit. The old king had a firstborn son who died young, then another son who did not survive the fever season. By the time the line narrowed to Joram, he had already been shaped by years of observation.
He learned how to listen without reacting. He learned how to keep secrets from friends. He learned the cost of a careless sentence. His tutors taught him law, trade, and ritual. His uncles taught him caution. His mother taught him restraint. His father taught him that love could be used against a king, and that a queen could be both a partner and a threat depending on who chose her.
When Joram finally wore the crown, he did not feel triumph. He felt responsibility settle into his chest. He carried it with a steady face and paid for it in private.
Zenith saw the cost most nights.
The king's lights stayed on long after the palace quieted. His messengers ran late. His guards shifted with nervous discipline because they could sense danger even when they could not name it. Zenith tightened patrols again, then again. She slept in short stretches on a mat in a small room near the inner corridor, close enough to reach him quickly, far enough to avoid gossip that could turn into accusation.
Still, gossip found its way.
A court attendant told a steward that Zenith stood too close. A steward told a councilman that the king looked calmer when she was present. The councilman told another that a woman with a sword was shaping the throne. By the end of the week, people spoke Zenith's name with careful intent.
Joram did not mention it in public. He waited until an evening when the palace grew quiet and the guard posts had been confirmed. Then he requested Zenith's presence in his study.
Zenith entered with her usual control. She checked corners before she allowed herself to look at him. Joram stood by the table, reading a short report. He set it down when she approached.
"You stopped a courier today," he said.
"He was not cleared," Zenith answered.
"He claims you humiliated him," Joram said.
"He should have been cleared," Zenith replied.
Joram's mouth tightened, then eased. "Good."
Zenith waited. She knew there was more. Kings did not call their guard commander into a private room just to approve a decision.
Joram gestured to a chair. Zenith did not sit until he sat. She kept her hands still and her attention on his face.
"There is a gathering tomorrow," Joram said. "A formal reception."
Zenith's posture tightened. "The council will use it to measure you."
"They will use it to measure you as well," Joram replied. "They want you to fail in public."
Zenith did not look away. "Then I will not fail."
Joram paused. "Your work is not the issue. Your presence is."
Zenith understood what he meant. They did not care if she kept him alive. They cared that she did it while being a woman who did not lower her eyes.
Joram's voice stayed calm. "They will push you to break protocol. If you break it, they will call you unfit. If you follow it too strictly, they will call you afraid. I need you steady."
Zenith nodded once. "Tell me what they will try."
Joram told her where she would stand, when she would move, and what signals would be read as disrespect. He described which council families would attend and which ones were likely tied to the earlier incidents. He named a temple attendant who had been present during the rite and a trade officer with influence over caravan permits.
Zenith listened carefully. This was not the training yard. Here, knowledge carried the weight of survival.
When Joram finished, Zenith asked one question. "Why are you helping me with this."
Joram did not answer immediately. He looked at the documents on the table, then at the hourglass near the window. The sand inside was still, as if it had never been turned.
"Because I chose you," he said. "And because I am tired of watching capable people get pushed out by men who want comfort."
Zenith felt the words settle in her chest. She did not let her expression change.
"The reception will not make me a court lady," she said.
"I am not asking you to be one," Joram replied. "I am asking you to survive them."
Zenith nodded again, then stood. "Then I will."
She turned to leave, but Joram spoke once more, quieter. "Zenith."
She paused.
"Do not let them pull you away from your work," he said.
Zenith met his eyes. "They will not."
She left his study and returned to her rounds, but she could not ignore the shift in herself. Joram spoke to her as if her presence mattered beyond utility. That was rare. It also felt dangerous.
The next day, the reception began before sunset. The inner court filled with guests dressed in woven cloth and jewelry, their guards waiting at a polite distance. Drums sounded from the outer yard, controlled and formal. Servants moved with trays of food and cups of spiced drink. The air smelled clean, as if the palace had washed itself to hide its fear.
Zenith took her position. She wore her uniform, clean and fitted for movement, not the robe the wardrobe master wanted. She kept her blade at her side. It was allowed for guards, but they expected her to make herself smaller. She did not.
Joram entered with the council. He greeted the nobles with practiced control, listening more than speaking. Zenith watched hands. She watched the way certain men leaned in close when they spoke to him. She watched how some women looked at Zenith with sharp interest, then looked away as if they had never done it.
A councilman approached Joram with a high born woman at his side. The woman was composed, dressed for attention, and introduced as a suitable match. She greeted the king with warmth that did not cross into boldness. Zenith noted that the warmth was trained.
Joram responded with politeness. He did not promise anything. He did not reject her. He gave the council no opening.
Zenith stayed still, but her body reacted anyway. A tension rose in her chest and sat there, tight and unwanted. She told herself it was strategy. She told herself it was only a reminder that the council was closing in.
The reception continued. A merchant from the river district offered a toast, praising the king's strength and the kingdom's stability. The words were too smooth. Zenith watched him as he spoke, then watched the men who nodded a fraction too quickly.
Near the end of the evening, a servant passed too close to Joram's right side. The tray dipped slightly. Zenith moved one step forward, just enough to block. The servant froze, then bowed and retreated.
Joram did not flinch. He only shifted his stance in a way that told Zenith he had felt the danger and trusted her to handle it.
When the guests finally left, the palace relaxed in stages. Guards escorted nobles to their routes. Servants cleared the court. The council withdrew to its chambers, likely to talk through the evening and decide what it meant.
Zenith returned to patrol, but Joram called for her again, this time in a smaller room off the corridor, one that had no attendants nearby.
She entered and found him alone. His formal outer cloth had been removed. He looked tired, but present.
"You noticed the servant," he said.
"Yes," Zenith replied.
"You stepped forward without making a scene," Joram said. "That matters."
Zenith nodded. "I will investigate who sent him."
Joram's gaze held hers. "You did well tonight."
Zenith did not take praise easily. Still, something in his voice lowered her guard by a small amount.
"There is another matter," Joram said.
Zenith waited.
Joram spoke carefully. "The council is going to push harder now. They saw that I did not choose a bride in front of them. They will take it as defiance."
Zenith's throat tightened again. "You can choose one and still keep your throne."
Joram's eyes did not move. "And what would that do to you."
Zenith felt heat rise in her face, unexpected and unwelcome. She kept her posture straight. "I am not part of your marriage decisions."
Joram's voice stayed calm. "You are part of my life right now. Whether the court accepts it or not."
Zenith did not answer. She knew what he was offering without offering. She knew what it could cost them both.
Joram continued, quieter. "If we are seen as close, they will call it scandal. If we keep distance, they will isolate me and remove you. I want you near. I also want you safe."
Zenith's hands curled once, then relaxed. "Safety is not promised to me."
"I know," Joram said. "But I still want it."
The room was quiet. Zenith could hear footsteps far down the corridor, faint and passing. She could also hear her own breathing, controlled but not calm.
Zenith spoke with care. "If you want me near, we do it with rules."
Joram nodded. "Name them."
"No touch in public," Zenith said. "No private meetings that can be witnessed. No gifts. No favors. If we speak alone, it is in rooms I clear first."
Joram accepted each rule without protest.
Zenith added the last one, the one that mattered most. "And you do not try to turn me into someone I am not."
Joram's voice was steady. "I will not."
Zenith held his gaze for a long moment. She felt something soften in her, small and frightening, then harden again into caution. She could not afford to fall quickly. She could not afford to be careless.
Still, she did not step away.
Joram did not step closer. He respected the boundary even as he stood inside it with her.
Zenith finally spoke the truth she had been avoiding. "If this becomes more than duty, it will be secret."
Joram answered simply. "Yes."
Zenith nodded once, then turned to the door. As she opened it, she looked back just enough to make sure he understood what she was giving him.
A choice.
Then she left, returning to the corridor where the palace waited with its eyes and its rules, while the king remained inside with the weight of his crown and the beginning of something he was not allowed to want.