Page 44 of Severe Husband Warning

A quiet chuckle escapes me.

“And have you ever considered that perhaps I simply enjoy having you in my arms?”

Her smile lingers as she traces idle patterns along the embroidery of my collar while I carry her through the sleeping halls. The few servants we pass lower their eyes with practiced discretion.

She is nearly asleep by the time we reach our chambers. I lay her beneath the blankets before slipping in beside her. She curls instinctively against my side, and I press a kiss to her hair, quietly marveling that after centuries of belonging only to this spire, I finally belong to someone in return.

21

CALLA

Iwake to the quiet rasp of Rothgar’s breathing.

Pale morning light spills through the tall windows, and my gaze settles on Rothgar. He lies on his side, still deeply asleep, while the bed around him has disappeared beneath scattered schematics and rolled maps.

An uncapped ink vial rests near his hand, the pages marked with fresh notes in his precise script. He must have worked long after I’d fallen asleep, until exhaustion finally pulled him down beside his work instead of sending him back to his study.

A quiet warmth blooms in my chest, and for one selfish moment, I want nothing more than to watch him sleep. I draw a slow breath, pushing the thought gently out of reach.

There are more urgent things demanding my attention.

Carefully, I gather the nearest map into my lap. The silver ink catches the weak morning light spilling through the tall windows, tracing streets and conduit lines across Ti’lith’s lower levels. My eyes follow them until I find the forgotten spire Rothgar identified the previous evening.

His notes are sparse, appearing only where they matter most. One margin marks an abandoned entrance that remains accessible, while elsewhere he has calculated the patrol intervals with the quiet precision that governs everything he does.

I commit each mark to memory before setting the parchment aside and reaching for the next.

If Malakor truly hides his operation there, these routes are the difference between being seen and passing unnoticed.

I remember the steady certainty in Rothgar’s expression as clearly as if he still sat beside me, one hand resting over the map while the other covered mine. We will do this properly, he’d said. Vhoros will assemble a team. Once we know exactly what we are walking into, we’ll move.

He spoke with the weight of every life under his protection resting on his shoulders, and I know that burden shapes every decision he makes. I understand why he asked me to trust him.

I understand him. I truly do. But I can’t wait.

I dress quickly in the same plain clothes I arrived in, tuck my hair beneath a kerchief, and pull a weathered cloak over my shoulders.

The service corridor Rothgar showed me lies beyond a narrow door concealed behind carved wall panels. He’d pointed it out almost absentmindedly during one of our first walks through the spire, explaining that servants once used it to move unseen through the spire during court gatherings.

The passage twists downward through cold stone, empty except for the distant vibration of storm conduits running deep within the walls. When I emerge into the city, morning has barely begun to brighten the red sky.

Demons pass without sparing me more than a passing glance as I keep my head lowered and make my way toward the neglected districts beneath the older spires where Malakor’s territory begins.

The buildings grow older here, their foundations stained black by centuries of storm runoff. Windows disappear behind warped shutters, and the streets feel abandoned beneath the constant hum of power flowing somewhere underfoot.

Rothgar’s directions remain fixed in my mind, guiding me through abandoned passages and forgotten streets until the familiar parts of the city fall away behind me.

The air grows warmer the deeper I descend, thick with metallic humidity and the sting of ozone.

At the end of a narrow corridor, I finally find it.

From the outside, the structure appears abandoned, its iron doors hanging crooked on rusted hinges. I begin to wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place until a low vibration travels through the stone and into my bones.

I feel it before I hear it, and suddenly, the silence feels manufactured. Whatever hides inside this building is still alive. I ease through the half-open door before doubt can persuade me to turn back.

Darkness conceals the entrance hall, broken only by veins of blue-white light pulsing through massive conduits embedded in the walls. Every few seconds, the entire chamber shudders as raw storm energy surges through them, filling the air with a deep mechanical hum that reverberates through my ribs.

I keep close to the shadows as the machinery’s relentless hum gradually overwhelms every other sound, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.