2. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
Lightning forks across the sky beyond my balcony, illuminating the red plains beneath Ti’lith before darkness claims them again.
The storms have circled Galmoleth for longer than memory serves, weaving their paths into the heavens with the same relentless patience that shaped the spires rising from the stone below.
I have watched them from this balcony for centuries, and they have never once surprised me.
The parchment resting on the balustrade shifts beneath the wind. It bears the King’s seal, though the message itself is brief.
A united court endures where divided houses invite weakness.
King Asmodeus has never wasted ink stating what he can imply. Others mistake that habit for subtlety. But it is nothing of the sort. He expects those serving beneath him to recognize instruction without requiring it to be spelled across a page.
I have served him long enough to understand the distinction.
The parchment crinkles in my grip. This is the third such reminder in as many months.
My gaze settles on the city below.
Ti’lith spreads across the crimson earth in concentric rings, each district climbing toward the oldest spires at its heart.
Smoke rises from the forges where storm-metal is worked beneath carefully harnessed lightning, while farther below, narrow streets disappear beneath drifting veils of red dust carried by the evening wind.
Every tower, every bridge, every conduit feeding lightning into the city exists because generations before mine understood that survival demanded order before ambition.
It is a lesson many noble houses have forgotten.
Malakor among them.
He cloaks every conversation in concern for the realm, every suggestion in courtesy, every invitation in friendship. Yet each arrives carrying the same destination, however winding the road chosen to reach it.
An alliance.
The word has become tiresome.
Alliances have preserved kingdoms long before my House first raised its spire. Malakor simply believes persistence can accomplish what persuasion has failed to secure.
Malakor has spent the better part of a season presenting himself as the court’s most agreeable voice. Judging by the King’s latest reminder, he has found opportunities to make himself heard where it matters most, this time in the pretense of a marriage proposal.
I fold the King’s letter and set it aside. Whatever answer he expects from me will remain the same tomorrow as it is today. Meanwhile, reports from the eastern lightning conduits, merchant disputes, and petitions awaiting my seal concern matters that refuse to wait.
Work has always possessed the virtue of clarity. Problems present themselves, and solutions follow. Duty rarely leaves room for uncertainty.
I turn my thoughts toward the work awaiting me inside, only for an altogether different memory to intervene with quiet persistence.
The musician from Malakor’s gathering.
Most performers chase approval. They linger after the final note searching the faces before them, hoping admiration will weigh as heavily as the purse waiting at the evening’s end.
She had done neither.
What returns to me instead is the straightness of her spine as she sat before the assembled court, untouched by the shifting conversations around her.
Her hands moved across the lute with deliberate certainty, giving the instrument the sort of attention one reserves for the only thing in a room deserving it.
Her attention remained fixed upon the instrument resting across her lap until the last vibration faded beneath her fingertips, as though completing the piece correctly mattered more than whether anyone had bothered to listen.
When the steward delivered an insult disguised as payment, disappointment crossed her face so briefly that most would have overlooked it entirely.
She concealed the disappointment almost before it appeared. Many would mistake that for submission.
I did not.
I had watched her wrap the lute before counting the coins. The order of those actions stays with me more than the music itself.
Most people protect what earns them a living. She protected what allowed her to remain herself.
None of it alters the conclusion I should have reached the moment I left Malakor’s hall. A human musician has no place occupying my thoughts while the King’s court grows more restless by the month.
I set the memory aside with the same discipline expected of everyone serving beneath my command. There are more pressing matters deserving my attention.
The doors behind me open with quiet restraint. The measured footsteps crossing the stone leave little doubt as to who approaches. Vhoros has never seen value in announcing himself when discipline alone serves the purpose.
“My lord.”
I turn.
Vhoros nods his head, one gauntleted fist resting briefly against his breastplate before dropping once more to his side.
His armor bears the faint scoring of recent patrols along the eastern ridges, though he carries himself with the same rigid discipline he has maintained since entering my service over a century ago.
Competence reveals itself before a single word is spoken.
“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.
Neither word means anything to me, yet I find myself repeating it once in silence, committing it to memory with the same care I would give the name of a minor lord or a distant province. The realization is irritating enough that I fold the report more sharply than intended.
Vhoros waits, no doubt expecting further instruction, but none comes.
“You are dismissed.”
He bows once before withdrawing, leaving me alone with the storm once more. Beyond the balcony, lightning walks across the heavens in branching veins of white.
I tell myself that the matter is finished.
Yet the name remains, precise and uninvited, lingering with a persistence that no political maneuver or report has managed to command.
Calla Alder.