Monster Husband Warning

1. Calla

CALLA

The final chord fades beneath my fingertips, its quiet note swallowed by the cavernous hall before it can linger. Conversation rises almost immediately to fill the space I’d borrowed, the nobles returning to their own voices without so much as a glance in my direction.

I lower my hands from the strings and draw a slow breath.

Lord Malakor’s hall is carved from black obsidian that catches the storm-light beyond the towering windows, every polished surface reflecting silver flashes from the sky outside.

Lightning coils endlessly through the clouds surrounding Galmoleth, bright enough to cast pale veins across the stone before darkness settles over it once more.

The demons scarcely notice it.

They don’t notice me, either.

Most are already speaking over one another, trading favors behind courteous smiles and measured laughter. Their robes shimmer with woven storm-silk, rings flashing as goblets are lifted in lazy toasts. I have played here often enough to know exactly what I am to them.

Another furnishing in the hall that happens to produce music.

Careful not to jostle the instrument, I rise from my stool. Father taught me long ago that an instrument repays the care it’s given, and after everything this one has carried us through, it deserves better than to be handled in haste.

As I bend to open the case, a pair of polished black boots comes to a stop before me.

I lift my head.

Lord Malakor’s steward stares down at me with the same expression he always wears whenever I perform here—one of thinly veiled distaste, as though my presence is an inconvenience he’s forced to tolerate.

I don’t know his name. We’ve never exchanged more than a handful of words over the years, but I know the sharp angle of his horns, the silver clasp fastening his dark cloak, and the look that says a human has no place standing in the same hall as him.

“My lord was...” He hesitates, the pause barely perceptible. “...pleased.”

He drops a handful of copper dalers into my waiting palm. They strike one another with a soft clink that tells me everything I need to know before I even curl my fingers around them.

It isn’t enough to cover even a week’s worth of Father’s medicine.

I close my hand before disappointment has the chance to show on my face. It’s never enough. I don’t know why I expected otherwise.

The steward lingers, watching me with open expectation. Perhaps he thinks I’ll argue or beg for more.

When I say nothing, his mouth twists into a sneer.

“A generous payment for a human musician.”

Heat prickles beneath my skin, but anger has never put food on our table.

Keeping my expression carefully neutral, I bow. “Please thank Lord Malakor for his generosity.”

His attention has already shifted elsewhere before I’ve straightened. With a curt nod, he turns toward another servant waiting at the foot of the dais, dismissing me completely as if I’d never spoken.

I kneel beside my lute case instead of watching him leave.

The familiar routine steadies me. I wrap the polished wood in its linen cloth before settling it carefully into the case, checking the strings with a light brush of my fingertips before fastening each leather strap.

Every movement is deliberate, an act of care no one here would think the instrument—or its musician—deserves.

The copper dalers disappear into the hidden pocket sewn inside my skirt.

There has to be another way to earn the rest of Father’s medicine.

My hand drifts to the iron ring resting against my collarbone before I lift the lute onto my shoulder. Since the final note faded, I’d carried the odd certainty that someone’s attention had followed me across the hall, but I brush it off.

Around me, nobles drift between one another in shifting circles, whispered bargains changing hands as easily as the crystal goblets balanced between elegant fingers.

Servants weave through the crowd with silver trays laden with untouched delicacies, never interrupting the quiet negotiations unfolding around them.

One figure stands apart from it all.

His ash-pale hair is swept back from iron-dark horns that curve sharply toward his temples.

Storm-light catches against the severe lines of his profile before disappearing into the black fabric of his coat.

Around him, conversations continue, alliances are forged and abandoned in hushed exchanges, yet he remains perfectly still, untouched by the current carrying everyone else through the room.

I’ve heard enough stories to recognize him before anyone speaks his name.

Lord Rothgar Stromgarde.

A spire lord whose name is spoken with careful respect, even among the highest houses.

The King’s enforcer.

Across the hall, his storm-grey eyes rest on me.

The realization catches me off guard.

The nobles around him continue their conversations, but his attention never leaves me. His expression reveals nothing. If he has a reason for watching, he gives no hint of it.

Our eyes meet for only a fraction of a second. Then, with unhurried precision, he inclines his head.

The gesture is so slight I almost miss it.

My pulse stumbles anyway.

In a hall where every glance has either dismissed me or looked through me, that quiet acknowledgment feels far more dangerous than the steward’s open contempt.

A broad-shouldered demon in dark military leathers strides across the hall toward Lord Stromgarde, his scarred jaw set beneath a neatly trimmed beard.

He leans in to speak, and Rothgar turns his attention to him without another glance in my direction.

Whatever passed between us is swallowed by the quiet exchange as completely as my music had been moments before.

I shift the lute higher against my shoulder and draw a grounding breath.

Perhaps I’d imagined more in the gesture than was ever there.

It hardly matters. Lord Rothgar Stromgarde will return to matters fit for a spire lord, and I have far more pressing concerns than puzzling over the manners of a demon noble.

Keeping to the edges of the hall, I make my way toward the towering obsidian doors.

Servants pass me carrying fresh bottles of crimson wine while others clear away untouched platters from tables groaning beneath roasted meats, glazed fruits, and pastries dusted with silver sugar.

The feast rolls on around me without pause.

By tomorrow, no one in this hall will remember who played tonight.

Cool air washes over me as I exit the heavy double doors, carrying the dry scent of red earth and distant rain.

I step onto the terrace overlooking Ti’lith.

The city stretches across the rocky plateau in layers of black stone and towering spires, their needle-like peaks reaching toward a sky alive with restless lightning.

Crimson dust skims across the streets below whenever the wind rises, gathering in corners before scattering again.

Even after a lifetime here, the storms never seem to exhaust themselves.

I descend the broad staircase leading from Lord Malakor’s estate, the sounds of the banquet fading with every step until they’re replaced by the steady whistle of wind between the stone buildings.

I slip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around the coins before letting my hand fall to my side.

They’re light enough to carry without effort, yet they weigh on me all the same—a quiet reminder of what my music is worth in a city that has long since decided humans like me are useful only until the last note fades.

Tomorrow I’ll find another steward. Another hall. Another audience willing to spare a few copper dalers.

I have to, because Father’s medicine won’t wait.