3. Calla
CALLA
Our quarter lies beyond the grand obsidian spires, where the stone has long surrendered its polish.
Centuries of wind have worn their corners smooth, carrying red dust into every crack the city leaves unattended. Houses crowd close together here, leaning shoulder to shoulder against the storms that circle Galmoleth without end.
Ours sits near the end of a narrow lane, tucked between a cooper’s workshop and an abandoned storehouse whose roof has sagged beneath years of neglect.
I ease open the door and step inside.
“Father?” I call, already shrugging the strap of my lute from my shoulder.
A familiar cough answers before he can, muffled by the faded curtain separating the kitchen from our sleeping room. It begins as a quiet rasp before deepening into the fit I’ve come to dread, each breath sounding harder won than the last.
“I’m here,” he calls once it finally loosens its grip on him. “No need to shout.”
Despite myself, I smile as I unfasten the strap from my shoulder. “I’ll try.”
The kitchen is scarcely larger than a pantry, though Father spent years making every corner useful.
Shelves crowd the walls above chipped crockery and Mother’s old kettle, holding the few possessions we haven’t yet traded away.
I set my lute onto the wooden bracket Father built high on the wall, away from the damp, then pull back the curtain.
Morning never fully reaches our room. The storms steal most of the daylight before it reaches the window, leaving everything washed in muted grey.
Father sits propped against the headboard beneath a patched blanket. His shirt hangs looser across his shoulders than I remember, and the strength that once seemed as permanent as the stone he quarried has retreated another step.
He catches me studying him and sighs with exaggerated patience.
“You’ve that expression again.”
I smooth the worry from my face, though I’m certain I do a poor job of it. “What expression?”
“The one where you’ve decided I’m dying before I’ve had the chance.”
“I’ve decided no such thing.”
“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’d rather hear about it first.”
I laugh despite myself, but another cough steals the moment.
I retrieve the medicine bottle from the cabinet beneath the window and measure the amber liquid into a wooden spoon with careful precision.
“Here.”
Father swallows the medicine without complaint, washes away its bitterness with a sip of water, and sets the cup aside after taking a steadying breath.
I return the stopper to the bottle with more care than the task requires.
Judging by the level of the liquid, perhaps four proper doses remain. Five, if I begin stretching each spoonful a little thinner than the apothecary intended.
Father notices where my attention has settled.
“How was Lord Malakor?” he asks after a moment.
“The performance went well.”
“And the payment?”
I lower the bottle into the cabinet before answering.
“Not as well.”
His eyes rest briefly on the medicine before meeting mine again.
“I thought as much.”
“I’ll find another engagement,” I mutter as I close the cabinet door.
Father shifts carefully against the pillows before speaking again, “During tithe season? Most houses are searching for reasons to tighten their purses.”
“They’ll still want their neighbors believing they’ve done the opposite.”
A tired laugh escapes him.
“Your mother always said you could find the loose thread in any tapestry.”
“She also said I inherited your stubbornness.”
The market is already alive when I arrive the following morning.
Canvas awnings ripple in the wind while merchants call over one another and buyers weave between the stalls. Fresh bread, smoked meat, herbs, and red dust mingle into a scent every corner of Ti’lith seems to share.
“Looking for miracles again?”
I smile toward the vegetable stall where Cora Bell is rearranging baskets of onions.
“I was hoping you’d started selling them.”
“If miracles could be weighed by the pound,” she says with a laugh, “I’d be wealthier than every spire lord in Ti’lith.”
Cora has traded in the lower market for as long as I can remember.
She’s only a few years older than I am, but a hard life had carved a confidence into her that makes the gap seem far wider.
Whenever Father couldn’t leave the quarry, she kept an eye on me between customers, slipping me bruised apples or stale bread she insisted she couldn’t sell anyway.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
I open my purse. The copper dalers stare back at me with all the generosity Lord Malakor thought appropriate.
“Half a loaf,” I tell her. “And whatever root vegetables that leaves.”
Without comment, Cora fills my basket with turnips before adding an onion so naturally anyone watching would think I’d paid for it. I meet her eyes, but she only nudges the basket back toward me and reaches for the next customer.
Around us, the market begins to quiet.
Cora’s expression changes first. Whatever she sees beyond my shoulder empties the warmth from her face.
I turn.
Lord Malakor advances through the market beneath a deep indigo cloak embroidered with silver thread.
His skin catches the shifting stormlight, lending sharp definition to the elegant sweep of his horns and the calculating calm settled across his features.
Two guards follow half a pace behind, their polished armor reflecting enough light to announce their station long before anyone notices the weapons at their sides.
I bow before his attention is fully upon me.
“My lord.”
“Miss Alder.” His gaze drops briefly to the basket before returning to me. “I understand my steward has already discussed your family’s account.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you understand the position in which you’ve placed yourself.”
“I only ask for a little more time.”
The smallest turn of his hand dismisses the request before it has the chance to become a plea.
“Debts are not settled by sentiment, human,” he says, his tone remaining almost conversational. “Nor are they paid in song.”
Heat creeps beneath my collar, but I keep my gaze fixed on the floor.
“I understand.”
“Tithe season is rarely patient,” he says. “Collectors become increasingly practical as the deadlines approach.”
The words take root in me, cold and absolute.
“I intend to repay every daler,” I say carefully.
“I have no doubt you intend to,” he replies, tone slightly sharper. He steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of expensive incense clinging to his robes. “The difficulty is that intention carries very little value once accounts are due.”
My fingers tighten around the basket handle.
His eyes drift toward the road leading back to our quarter, telling me the destination itself has already been entered into one of his ledgers.
“I understand your father was once a remarkably strong laborer.”
The world seems to narrow around those words. Father’s cough echoes through my thoughts with painful clarity.
Lord Malakor already knows exactly where my family’s value lies.
He tilts his head with effortless courtesy before continuing on his way, his guards falling into step behind him.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until the knot in my chest loosens enough for air to return.
“Calla.”
Cora reaches across the stall and squeezes my wrist.
I look down at the basket. The loaf, the turnips, and the onion she’d slipped inside feel impossibly light.
“I’ll find a way,” I say quietly.
Whether the promise is meant for her or for myself, I honestly couldn’t say.
She gives my wrist one last reassuring squeeze before turning back to the waiting customers, understanding there is nothing else she can offer me.
I thank her, gather the basket against my hip, and begin the walk home.
The market carries on around me as if nothing happened. Lord Malakor’s words follow me through every street.
Until this morning, our debt had been measured in dalers. Now, every step toward home carries the knowledge that Father has been added to the ledger.