Page 60 of Severe Husband Warning

Whether she intends those words as reassurance or warning, I cannot tell.

I leave the sanctuary carrying both with me.

Outside, rain drifts steadily through the temple courtyard, softening the sharp edges of black stone. Commander Vhoros waits beneath the western colonnade, his cloak darkened by the weather as though he has been expecting me for some time.

He falls into step beside me as we descend the temple stairs.

“The preparations are underway?” Vhoros asks.

“They will be complete before sunset,” I reply.

He nods once, unsurprised.

“I’ve already begun moving men into position.”

“Good. Keep it quiet,” I remind him. “We don’t want Malakor getting wind of this.”

“Done.”

“Tomorrow gives Malakor one final opportunity,” I say. “He’ll be looking for any weakness we leave exposed.”

Vhoros’s expression hardens in understanding.

“And if something feels wrong...”

“I stop the ceremony,” Vhoros finishes without hesitation. “The priesthood may object afterward, but I’d rather answer to them than explain to Lady Calla why I failed to act.”

“I expect nothing less.”

Vhoros dips his head.

“I’ll see to it personally, my lord.”

We part at the foot of the mountain, Vhoros already issuing orders to the messengers waiting below. Satisfied the temple will remain under quiet watch, I return to Stromgarde.

The metallic gardens glisten beneath the morning rain.

Silver reeds sway beside narrow streams carrying liquid light through carved stone channels. Gold-leafed fronds catch the muted daylight until the entire garden seems woven from living metal.

I cross to the oldest bed of reeds and kneel.

My mother planted these. As a child, I watched her weave silver and gold together while telling me every Storm-Binding began here, long before vows were spoken in the temple.

The circlet is a promise, she had said. The vows are merely the declaration.

Storm magic gathers beneath my hands. The reeds bend without breaking, weaving themselves into a circlet unlike any that has existed before. That is the tradition. Every one reflects the heart of the person who shaped it.

When the final strand finds its place, I lift the circlet carefully from the garden.

Tomorrow we will stand before the storm. Today, I want Calla to know she already carries a place within my world.

The circlet remains warm in my hands as I leave the gardens. Servants move quietly through the corridors preparing for tomorrow's ceremony, unaware of what it truly means. I find Calla waiting by the window.

She stands watching the rain drift across the gardens below, one hand resting lightly against the stone frame. The sound of the door closing draws her attention, and she turns with the easy smile that has become as familiar to me as the storm itself.

Her eyes drop to my hands and curiosity replaces her smile.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as I cross the room. “What’s that in your hands?”