Page 4 of Severe Husband Warning

“The conduit inspection?” I ask, turning fully to face him.

“Completed,” Vhoros replies before reaching into his cloak for the report and handing it to me. “The western conduit required minor reinforcement after yesterday’s surge. Repairs were concluded before midday. The southern relay remains stable, though I recommend replacing two aging conductors before the next storm cycle.”

I unfold the report, my eyes moving across the figures while Vhoros waits in practiced silence. Material costs remain within projected estimates. Labor allocations require no adjustment, and the storm reserves have recovered more quickly than anticipated.

“Any interruption to the city’s distribution?” I ask without looking up.

“None, my lord.”

I continue reading.

“Civilian casualties?”

“None.”

Only then do I fold the parchment. Everything falls within acceptable margins.

“Proceed with replacing the aging conductors.”

Vhoros gives a sharp nod. “The orders were issued this morning.”

Quiet satisfaction settles over the exchange. The repairs were completed correctly the first time, leaving neither excuses nor loose ends to revisit. Vhoros understands that efficiency is measured not by speed alone, but by anticipating what will be required before permission becomes necessary.

It is a rare quality, and one I reward accordingly.

“Very good,” I remark, folding the report. “Continue the inspections through the eastern quarter. If the storms intensify before month’s end, I want every conduit capable of carrying the additional load.”

“It will be done.”

He nods his head once more before turning toward the doors.

I should let him leave.

The day’s business is concluded.

Instead—

“Commander.”

He stops immediately, awaiting orders without turning around.

The question leaves my mouth before I can decide whether it deserves asking.

“What was the name of Lord Malakor’s musician?”

Vhoros turns then, and for the first time since entering the balcony, uncertainty touches his expression. It vanishes as swiftly as it appears, replaced by the same composure he brings to every report.

“The human, my lord?”

There is no purpose in pretending I mean anyone else.

“Yes.”

He considers the question only long enough to search his memory.

“Calla Alder.”

The name takes root with unexpected clarity.