Page 19 of Severe Husband Warning

The gardens grow quiet again.

I look toward Calla.

Only this morning she walked through my gates carrying nothing except an impossible proposal and the determination to speak it aloud. Now, she stands beneath the protection of my House.

I have made the correct political decision. Of that, I have very little doubt.

Yet as lightning washes silver across the mercury between us, I find myself returning to a question politics cannot answer.

Why did she believe I would say yes?

9

CALLA

My assigned chambers are lavish, so much so that I struggle to decide where to look first.

The suite stretches farther than our entire home in the human quarter, each room opening seamlessly into the next as though space itself is a luxury demons never think twice about claiming. Storm-lit windows rise almost from floor to ceiling, framing the endless lightning outside. The walls are carved from burnished obsidian that catches every flash and folds it into soft ribbons of silver.

A bed draped in charcoal silks dominates the adjoining bedchamber, broad enough that my father and I could have slept across it without disturbing one another. Beyond it waits a dressing room lined with dark wardrobes whose silver-veined wood has never known a loose hinge or warped drawer.

Our home has always announced itself before I even crossed the threshold. The floor complains beneath certain steps. One cupboard refuses to close unless I shoulder it just so. My father's chair still carries the burn where I knocked over an oil lamp while practicing too enthusiastically.

Here, every surface feels untouched, as though these rooms have been waiting for someone rather than lived in by anyone.

Even the air carries a different scent. Beneath the polish of stone lingers ozone, clean and sharp enough that I immediately think of Lord Rothgar.

It occurs to me that these chambers cannot simply be guest quarters tucked away somewhere inside the spire. They are too grand, too carefully appointed. They sit close enough to his own rooms that the traces of his magic drift here as naturally as the breeze through the open lattice.

They were prepared for the lady of House Stromgarde. I suppose that lady is me.

My boots leave faint traces of red dust across the dark floor. The sight makes me hesitate. Every instinct urges me to wipe them clean before someone notices.

The impulse annoys me enough that I straighten my shoulders.

I did not arrive here by accident. I offered Lord Rothgar Stromgarde a solution to his political problem, and in return, he saved my father from becoming another entry in Lord Malakor's ledger. Every polished stone surrounding me is part of that bargain. If these chambers make me uncomfortable, then I must learn to be uncomfortable.

A black obsidian table stands near the windows, its surface empty except for a single silver-leafed plant resting in a shallow metal vessel. Every leaf catches the stormlight with a soft metallic sheen. I recognize it immediately from the gardens where Rothgar accepted my proposal only yesterday.

Its careful placement makes it impossible to mistake for decoration alone. It occupies the center of the table with deliberate precision, perfect from every angle, untouched by blemish or age.

Beautiful and controlled.

I can’t help but think it has been placed here for the same reason one hangs a banner over newly claimed land.

A quiet declaration.

This belongs to House Stromgarde now, including the human inside it. The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

Before I can dwell on it, a measured knock sounds behind me, and the door opens without waiting for an invitation. Lord Rothgar steps inside. His arrival changes the room more effectively than any piece of furniture ever could.

He’s still dressed as he was yesterday, all dark fabrics and severe lines, his pale hair drawn neatly back from the black horns curving beside his temples. Stormlight catches in his eyes before disappearing again, leaving them as unreadable as polished stone.

He brings the same measured quiet with him, the sort that encourages everyone else to fill it first.

He closes the door behind him and approaches without haste, carrying a thin rectangular slate carved from dark crystal veined with silver. Fine runes shimmer faintly across its surface.

“I trust the accommodations are satisfactory.”