9. Calla
CALLA
My assigned chambers are lavish, so much so that I struggle to decide where to look first.
The suite stretches farther than our entire home in the human quarter, each room opening seamlessly into the next as though space itself is a luxury demons never think twice about claiming.
Storm-lit windows rise almost from floor to ceiling, framing the endless lightning outside.
The walls are carved from burnished obsidian that catches every flash and folds it into soft ribbons of silver.
A bed draped in charcoal silks dominates the adjoining bedchamber, broad enough that my father and I could have slept across it without disturbing one another. Beyond it waits a dressing room lined with dark wardrobes whose silver-veined wood has never known a loose hinge or warped drawer.
Our home has always announced itself before I even crossed the threshold. The floor complains beneath certain steps. One cupboard refuses to close unless I shoulder it just so. My father's chair still carries the burn where I knocked over an oil lamp while practicing too enthusiastically.
Here, every surface feels untouched, as though these rooms have been waiting for someone rather than lived in by anyone.
Even the air carries a different scent. Beneath the polish of stone lingers ozone, clean and sharp enough that I immediately think of Lord Rothgar.
It occurs to me that these chambers cannot simply be guest quarters tucked away somewhere inside the spire. They are too grand, too carefully appointed. They sit close enough to his own rooms that the traces of his magic drift here as naturally as the breeze through the open lattice.
They were prepared for the lady of House Stromgarde. I suppose that lady is me.
My boots leave faint traces of red dust across the dark floor. The sight makes me hesitate. Every instinct urges me to wipe them clean before someone notices.
The impulse annoys me enough that I straighten my shoulders.
I did not arrive here by accident. I offered Lord Rothgar Stromgarde a solution to his political problem, and in return, he saved my father from becoming another entry in Lord Malakor's ledger.
Every polished stone surrounding me is part of that bargain.
If these chambers make me uncomfortable, then I must learn to be uncomfortable.
A black obsidian table stands near the windows, its surface empty except for a single silver-leafed plant resting in a shallow metal vessel. Every leaf catches the stormlight with a soft metallic sheen. I recognize it immediately from the gardens where Rothgar accepted my proposal only yesterday.
Its careful placement makes it impossible to mistake for decoration alone. It occupies the center of the table with deliberate precision, perfect from every angle, untouched by blemish or age.
Beautiful and controlled.
I can’t help but think it has been placed here for the same reason one hangs a banner over newly claimed land.
A quiet declaration.
This belongs to House Stromgarde now, including the human inside it. The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth.
Before I can dwell on it, a measured knock sounds behind me, and the door opens without waiting for an invitation. Lord Rothgar steps inside. His arrival changes the room more effectively than any piece of furniture ever could.
He’s still dressed as he was yesterday, all dark fabrics and severe lines, his pale hair drawn neatly back from the black horns curving beside his temples. Stormlight catches in his eyes before disappearing again, leaving them as unreadable as polished stone.
He brings the same measured quiet with him, the sort that encourages everyone else to fill it first.
He closes the door behind him and approaches without haste, carrying a thin rectangular slate carved from dark crystal veined with silver. Fine runes shimmer faintly across its surface.
“I trust the accommodations are satisfactory.”
The question sounds less like curiosity than the completion of a necessary courtesy.
“They’re...” I glance around once more, searching for a word that doesn't sound foolish. “More than I’m accustomed to.”
“I expected as much,” he replies, offering me the slate casually.
When I take it, faint lines of silver light ripple beneath my fingertips before resolving into neat columns of writing. An itinerary fills the slate.
Fascinating.
“I’ve never used one of these before,” I mutter, hesitantly brushing my fingers over the glowing script.
“The enchantment responds to touch.”
He says it with the detached patience of someone explaining that water is wet.
I push aside the irritation his tone stirs in me and study the slate instead.
Every day for the next several weeks has been carefully arranged.
Audiences with minor houses are followed by temple observances, formal suppers at court, estate processions, and harvest tithe ceremonies, each commitment assigned a precise hour and location.
There isn’t a blank space anywhere on the schedule.
The list stretches on with relentless efficiency, each appearance assigned a precise hour and location.
“I’ll be busy.”
He shakes his head.
“You will be visible,” he corrects. “Our marriage will be observed carefully. Every appearance serves a purpose.”
I lift my eyes from the slate to meet his.
“And what purpose do I serve?”
His expression remains composed, every line of his face controlled with practiced precision.
“You will be seen, but not familiar.”
The words are delivered with the same measured calm he used while negotiating my father’s future.
“Your opinions are not required,” he continues, pausing to ensure I heard him. “Your compliance is.”
I simply stare at him.
I’d stood in his garden and negotiated with one of the most powerful demons in Ti'lith as though we were merchants bargaining over the price of grain. Somewhere between that conversation and this room, he seems to have forgotten that I entered this arrangement by choice.
I grip the slate tighter, and I school my expression into something I hope resembles composure.
“So I’m to smile when required and stand where I’m placed.” My words leave me sounding far less like a question than I meant them to.
“If circumstances require it,” he replies, completely missing my point.
“And remain silent.”
“When appropriate,” he agrees.
A humorless scoff escapes me as my gaze drifts toward the silver-leafed plant waiting on its table.
I understand it a little too well.
“So I’m to become another one of your pretty, silent plants,” I say quietly, gesturing toward it. “I don’t believe that was part of our arrangement, my lord.”
Something unreadable passes through his expression, so brief that I almost convince myself I imagined it. The careful composure remains, but it no longer feels quite as effortless as it had a moment ago.
He says nothing.
The silence stretches only long enough for me to realize he isn't searching for a reply. He’s choosing not to give one.
Without another word, he turns toward the door.
His steps are measured, unhurried, the polished floor swallowing every sound before it can linger. The latch clicks softly behind him as he leaves, and the chambers fall quiet once more.
I stay rooted in place, the glowing slate cool beneath my fingertips.
If Lord Rothgar believes I agreed to become little more than another beautiful thing that decorates his household without speaking, then he understands our arrangement far less than I thought.
Tomorrow will leave him disappointed.