"In the presence of the Crown, we bound not our power, but our purpose."
MARCUS'S POV
ONE WEEK LATER
Seven days had passed since the Great Saffron Crisis of the King's Feast, and in that time, I'd managed to revise three-quarters of the Citadel's perimeter defense protocols, log zero internal security breaches, and somehow find myself trussed up in enough ceremonial velvet to outfit a small opera. I stood rigidly in the King's Grand Hall, attempting to look like a man who was accustomed to being publicly celebrated, rather than one whose preferred method of celebrating was the quiet, tactical efficiency of a completed mission. My formal tunic was white, embroidered with the newly minted golden threads of the Chief of Security office symbol of command I respected, but which offered zero operational functionality.
