Page 22 of Severe Husband Warning

I appreciate the restraint. Neither of us requires a detailed account of how enthusiastically Malakor’s audience received the remark.

“Who remained silent?”

He lists the houses one after another, and each name lands exactly where I expect it to. The cautious rarely gamble on another lord’s quarrel until they know which outcome will profit them most.

Malakor has always favored insults that accomplish more than a simple slight. By reducing Calla to an ornament, he casts doubt on my judgment as well. Those listening are invited to laugh at us both while believing they have witnessed wit rather than strategy.

Vhoros eyes me carefully. “I've already instructed our attendants to disregard the rumor.”

“There is no rumor, only perception,” I counter. “By tomorrow, enough people will have repeated his words that the insult will be remembered more clearly than the conversation itself. You handled the matter appropriately.”

His shoulders relax slightly.

“If there is nothing further?”

“There is not, my lord.”

Vhoros bows before withdrawing from the study, the latch settling softly behind him.

I turn to the silver-leafed plant beside the window.

A pet.

Every leaf catches the stormlight with immaculate precision. Looking at it now, I understand why Calla resented the comparison before I ever recognized I had made one. The comparison unsettles me more than Malakor’s insult ever could.

When I selected those chambers, practicality guided my decision. Their proximity to my own apartments simplified security, and their furnishings reflected the status expected of Lady Stromgarde. But none of those considerations involved the woman who would actually occupy them.

Calla Alder accepted our arrangement because it secured her father’s future. She negotiated without hesitation and challenged every assumption I presented whenever she believed it deserved questioning. Standing in those chambers, she recognized the meaning behind the silver-leafed plant before I did.

Somewhere in my assessment, I mistook composure for agreement.

I gather the defense schematics into a neat stack, though I accomplish little else before dusk falls across the spire.

When I step out of my study, the corridors have emptied.

Most servants retire to the lower levels after the evening meal. Guards continue their rotations in disciplined silence. Stormlight washes pale reflections across the polished obsidian floor as I head for my chambers.

A quiet lute drifts through the partially opened lattice outside the chambers prepared for Lady Stromgarde.

Calla.

She believes herself alone.

She plays as though she has forgotten the possibility of an audience, and the music lingers wherever memory chooses to keep it. Certain passages slow almost to a pause before finding their course again, carrying an emotion I understand instinctively but cannot put into words.

I remain where I am.

The sensible course would be to continue walking, but my feet remain planted. The notes disappear into the silence that has long defined this spire, changing it in ways I struggle to describe. My spire has always fulfilled its purpose. Every corridor was built for order, every chamber assigned a function.

I have never questioned whether that was enough, but listening outside her door, I question it now.

An unfamiliar tightness simmers in my chest. The feeling arrives alongside the memory of Calla standing her ground inside those chambers, refusing to become whatever role I had already written for her.

I pride myself on reading people accurately. Court has little mercy for those who mistake appearances for truth. Somehow, I convinced myself I understood my own wife after scarcely two conversations.

The irony does not escape me.

The melody continues, winding through the quiet halls until I lose all sense of how much time has passed.