Chapter 5: The Zamorin's Gaze
The summons came without ceremony.
No drums announced it. No courtiers gathered to observe. A single attendant appeared at Abhinav's chamber just after midday, bowed once, and said, "The Zamorin requests your presence."
Requests, Abhinav was learning, were orders spoken softly.
He followed the attendant through corridors that narrowed as they deepened into the palace. The air grew cooler. The light dimmer. This was not the court of display, but of decision—a place built for listening rather than applause.
They stopped before a carved wooden door guarded by two men whose stillness suggested long habit.
"Enter," one of them said.
The chamber beyond was spare.
No silks. No gold. Only stone walls, a low table, and open windows that faced the sea. The sound of waves filled the room, steady and unhurried, as if time itself had chosen this place to rest.
Zamorin Manavikraman stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn at once.
"Do you know why I asked you here, Abhinav?" he said.
Abhinav considered the question carefully. "Because I survived," he replied.
The Zamorin smiled faintly. "Many survive illness. Few return changed."
He turned then, and Abhinav felt the full weight of his gaze—not sharp, not hostile, but deeply attentive. This was a man who ruled not by shouting, but by remembering.
"They tell me you spoke of fragility before the court," the Zamorin continued. "Of wasted life."
Abhinav inclined his head. "It seemed… honest."
"Honesty is dangerous in palaces." The Zamorin gestured toward the table. "Sit."
They sat across from one another. Between them lay no scrolls, no seals. Only a small brass bowl filled with water, its surface rippling gently from the sea breeze.
"I have ruled Calicut for many years," the Zamorin said. "Long enough to know that tradition keeps order—and trade keeps peace. When either is disturbed, blood follows."
His eyes never left Abhinav's face.
"You disturb both."
The words were not accusation. They were observation.
Abhinav felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the instinct to explain, to persuade, to justify. He suppressed it.
"I ask questions," he said instead. "Questions do not spill blood."
The Zamorin's brow creased slightly. "They do, when they loosen certainties."
Silence stretched between them, filled by the sea.
"Tell me," the Zamorin said at last, "what did you see while you were ill?"
This was the moment.
Truth would be fatal. Lies would be permanent.
Abhinav chose a third path.
"I saw patterns," he said slowly. "Of how things endure. And how they fall. I saw that Calicut's strength is not in swords or temples alone—but in balance. In trade that flows freely. In knowledge that adapts."
The Zamorin watched him as one might watch a ship on the horizon—calculating distance, speed, intent.
"And who taught you this?"
"No one," Abhinav said. "That is what frightened me."
A quiet laugh escaped the older man. "Good. A prince who fears his own thoughts is safer than one who worships them."
He stood and returned to the window.
"Foreign ships come," the Zamorin said. "Not as guests. Not as conquerors. Something between. They will test us."
Abhinav joined him, careful not to stand too close.
"What would you have me do?" Abhinav asked.
The Zamorin turned, studying him anew.
"Learn," he said. "Listen more than you speak. Watch who moves when nothing is demanded of them. If you see danger, tell me—but bring proof, not prophecy."
Abhinav bowed deeply. "I will."
As he turned to leave, the Zamorin spoke once more.
"Abhinav."
He stopped.
"You are not your illness," the ruler said. "And you are not your lineage. If you become either, you will be easy to defeat."
The words settled like a weight and a warning.
Outside, the light felt harsher.
Abhinav exhaled slowly, realizing only then how tightly he had been holding himself together.
The Zamorin had not challenged him.
He had measured him.
And for the first time since waking beneath incense and carved beams, Abhinav understood something with absolute clarity.
He was not alone in guarding Calicut.
But he would be watched—always.