5. Calla
CALLA
The knock comes just after dawn.
I look up from the kettle before it has the chance to boil over. At this hour, our little house is usually quiet, filled only by the wind slipping through loose shutters and Father’s uneven breathing from the cot beside the hearth.
Three measured knocks break the silence.
Behind me, the blankets rustle.
“Calla?” Father asks, his voice still thick with sleep.
“I’ll see who it is.”
Little morning light reaches our home. Even now, the room glows only with the orange flicker of the hearth and the pale blue flashes of distant lightning squeezing through the cracks in the shutters.
Outside, a demon wearing House Malakor’s colors stands with two retainers. His coat is immaculate despite the red dust drifting through the narrow streets. The steward tilts his head the barest fraction.
“Calla Alder?”
My stomach tightens. He waits for no response. Reaching into the leather satchel at his side, he withdraws a folded parchment sealed in black wax.
“For Adair Alder.”
My gaze lands on Lord Malakor’s crest pressed deeply into the seal.
For weeks, I’ve convinced myself that my request for another extension was still waiting on someone’s desk. The black wax tells me otherwise.
“I requested another extension.”
“You did,” he replied, courteous but detached. “It was denied.”
The parchment feels heavier than it should when I finally accept it. The wax breaks beneath my thumb with a dry crack that seems unnaturally loud inside the quiet house.
The words blur together before resolving into dreadful clarity.
FINAL WRIT OF SEIZURE
Collection authorized under the statutes governing unpaid noble debt.
Execution to occur three days from the date of issue.
Debtor: Adair Alder.
Classification: Recoverable Asset.
Estimated labor value adjusted to reflect current physical condition.
Heat rushes through me so suddenly the parchment creases in my hand.
Somewhere inside the ledgers of House Malakor, my father no longer exists as the man who built half the lower conduits of Ti’lith. He has become a valuation instead of a man.
I have never hated ink before.
The steward waits while I absorb the contents of the writ, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
“I trust everything is clear,” he says at last.
I lower the parchment carefully, afraid that if I grip it any tighter I’ll tear it in half.
“You intend to take him?”
“The debt will be collected in accordance with the laws of Galmoleth,” he replies without hesitation.
“He won’t survive labor service.”
“His condition has already been considered in the assessment.”
There isn’t a trace of malice in his voice, and somehow, that makes the words even harder to hear.
Behind me, wood creaks as Father forces himself out of bed. One hand grips the edge of the table while the other presses against his chest as he struggles to remain upright.
“You...” He points weakly toward the steward. “You leave my daughter out of—”
The words collapse beneath a violent coughing fit, his body doubling over. Every cough seems to wrench something loose inside his chest. I catch him before he can fall and lower him carefully to the floor.
“It’s all right,” I whisper.
He tries to answer, but the coughing returns. I rub slow circles across his back the way Mother once did, waiting until he can breathe again. His eyes drift away from mine before the words leave his mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
I squeeze his hand and whisper past the ache gathering in my throat, “You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness.”
The steward waits until Father has settled back onto the cot.
“I will return in three days,” he says quietly, then places the writ upon our table with ceremonial precision before inclining his head once more.
I remain where I am until the sound of retreating footsteps disappears into the morning. Beyond our little house, Ti’lith wakes as it always does. Merchants raise their shutters, wagons rumble toward the markets, and another ordinary day begins beneath the storm.
We have three days before Lord Malakor returns.
I write the note with hands that refuse to stay steady.
Theron.
Please stay with Father while I’m gone. I don’t know how long this will take, but I can’t leave him alone today.
—Calla
The neighborhood boy who often carries messages waits outside when I step into the street.
“Can you take this to Old Man Theron for me?”
He nods eagerly.
“I’ll run.”
I press a copper coin into his hand and thank him. He’s already halfway down the street before I finish speaking.
I return inside for my cloak. As I fasten it, I remember Lord Rothgar’s quiet nod across Lord Malakor’s banquet hall. The memory is all I possess, and I can’t afford to ignore even the smallest possibility if it offers Father another chance.
It’s a small thing to build hope upon, but it’s the only reason I know where to walk.
The streets broaden as I leave the human quarter behind. Brick cottages give way to polished avenues where obsidian towers vanish into the storm clouds above. Lightning races through silver conduits wrapped around the spires while demons move past without more than a passing glance.
My worn boots leave faint prints of red dust across stone scrubbed clean each morning.
Demons pass in finely tailored robes, some casting curious glances in my direction before continuing on their way. Most just walk around me with practiced indifference.
The Stromgarde spire dominates the district long before I reach it.
Its black walls climb impossibly high, disappearing into restless clouds where great conductors harvest the endless lightning above Galmoleth. Every pulse of storm-light races down the silver channels carved into its surface before vanishing somewhere deep within the mountain beneath the city.
Two guards stand before the enormous gates, one looking at me expectantly.
“State your business,” the older guard calls, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard.
I stop several paces away and fold my hands to hide their trembling.
I steady my voice before answering, “I request an audience with Lord Stromgarde.”
The older guard gives me a brief look before answering, “His lordship does not receive visitors without appointment.”
“I understand,” I answer as evenly as I can. “My name is Calla Alder, and I serve Lord Malakor’s household as a court musician. The matter I bring concerns Lord Malakor himself, and I believe it should be placed before Lord Stromgarde personally.”
The mention of Lord Malakor earns the first genuine reaction I’ve seen from either of them.
The older guard studies me for another moment before asking, “And you won’t explain this matter to me?”
“I’m sorry. I can only discuss it with Lord Stromgarde,” I insisted.
His gaze stays on me long enough that I wonder if I’ve overplayed my hand.
Finally, he nods toward his companion.
“Fetch Commander Vhoros.”
The younger guard disappears through the gates while the older remains where he is, though the dismissive certainty with which he first greeted me has softened into cautious curiosity.
Minutes pass. The storm rolls overhead, another ribbon of lightning illuminating the black stone before fading again into crimson skies.
I clasp my hands together to stop myself from twisting the edge of my cloak and lift a silent prayer to whatever mercy still lingers above Galmoleth’s endless storms.
Please, let him remember me.
The words feel foolish the moment I think them, yet I cling to them anyway.
If Commander Vhoros turns me away, I will have nothing left to offer my father except an apology I can’t bear to speak.