Page 50 of Severe Husband Warning

“Effective immediately, double the watch surrounding Malakor’s territory. Rotate patrols at irregular intervals. I want additional observers stationed along every decommissioned conduit route leading toward the western district.”

Dresk studies the map only briefly, committing it to memory.

“You believe he’ll move.”

“I believe he suspects we are closing in.”

Dresk says nothing, but I recognize the question he leaves unspoken.

“I want to know of anyone who enters or exits those works,” I continue. “Do not interfere unless lives are in immediate danger. We cannot afford to reveal our surveillance just yet.”

“I’ll see to it personally,” he replies.

I give a single nod. “Good.”

He turns toward the door before I stop him.

“Dresk.”

He looks back immediately.

“There can be no mistakes.”

His gaze steadies. “There won’t be, my lord.”

The doors close behind him, leaving me alone with the maps and the weight of decisions no one else can make for me. I stay where I am until the walls themselves begin to feel confining, then make my way upward through the spire.

I step onto the battlements beneath the cover of night.

The wind catches at my cloak, carrying the familiar scent of approaching storms across the city’s countless towers. Lightning flickers somewhere beyond the mountains, illuminating the crimson clouds gathering along the horizon before darkness claims them once more.

The battlements have always given me room enough to think, yet the wind sweeping across the spires carries away none of the thoughts that follow me from the study. I pace the length of the western wall, my mind circling the same conversation.

Could I have spoken differently?

Perhaps.

Would different words have altered the decision before me?

No.

Every instinct tells me the hidden lightning-works were never intended to remain concealed indefinitely. They exist because Malakor believes himself close enough to success that discovery no longer concerns him. If I strike too early and fail to expose the full extent of his conspiracy, the court will reduce the matter to politics before the evidence can speak for itself.

I return to find my study darker, the hearth reduced to glowing embers.

I cross to my desk, draw a fresh sheet of cipher parchment from the drawer, and compose an encrypted request for the earliest audience the Crown will grant. The matter can no longer wait for our next scheduled council.

After reading the message once more, I seal it within storm wards only the King will be able to break and send a courier on his way. The request is necessary, though it does little to ease the certainty that time is slipping steadily into Malakor’s hands.

I watch the courier disappear into the corridor with the sealed dispatch in hand. The request is necessary, but necessity has become a poor substitute for certainty, and I find myself wondering how many more hours Malakor will use before the King and I are finally standing on the same battlefield.

Before returning to my chambers, I make one final detour through the infirmary.

The healers scarcely acknowledge my arrival. They have long since learned that I come here to observe rather than interrupt.

Several beds remain occupied by laborers injured maintaining the city’s conduits after last week’s storm surge. Among them lies a human mason whose forearms bear fresh lightning burns despite every precaution my engineers require.

I remain beside the bed while the physician works, studying the burns left by an honest accident and finding myself unable to separate them from the injuries Calla described beneath the forgotten spire. The resemblance hardens my resolve. When this is over, Malakor’s work must be dismantled so completely that no one will ever rebuild it beneath another forgotten district.