11. Calla
CALLA
Several days pass before I’m permitted to leave the spire.
By then, I’ve begun to recognize the rhythm of House Stromgarde. Servants appear before I think to ask for anything, meals arrive with impossible punctuality, and every hour has already been decided before I even wake. This place runs with a precision that leaves no room for surprise.
Today’s schedule grants me an afternoon in the human district.
Rothgar’s permission arrives through Commander Vhoros rather than the man himself.
“So I’m not allowed to go anywhere without guards?” I ask, eyeing the two soldiers waiting several paces behind him.
Commander Vhoros nods.
“You are not, milady. Lord Rothgar’s instructions were explicit. You are not to leave the spire without protection.”
I release a sigh. “I suspected as much. Thank you, Commander.”
He escorts us to the lower gates before turning back toward the spire. The two guards fall into step behind me without a word as we descend into the human district, their silence almost as noticeable as their armor.
House Stromgarde’s crest catches every eye first.
The crowd parts without being asked. Human merchants pause in the middle of their bargaining, while passing demons spare curious glances toward the soldiers at my back. Their eyes inevitably find me a moment later.
They aren’t looking at Calla Alder.
They're looking at the woman walking beneath House Stromgarde’s protection.
Relief loosens something inside me when I catch sight of Cora Bell arranging bundles of dried herbs beneath her awning.
“Calla!” Cora’s face brightens when she spots me, then her gaze flicks towards my guards. Her smile turns tentative. I return it with one of my own.
“Well,” she says as I approach, folding her arms across her apron. “You certainly know how to make an entrance now.”
I glance over my shoulder with an apologetic wince.
“I didn't have much say in the matter.”
Cora’s grimace softens into reluctant amusement.
“I thought as much.”
A quiet laugh passes between us before the guards remind us we aren't alone.
“I have the payment,” I tell her, retrieving the leather pouch from beneath my cloak. “Enough to cover Father’s medicine and supplies for several weeks.”
Cora accepts the dalers, weighing the pouch in her palm, sighing. “I’d forgotten what these feel like in such generous numbers.”
“So had I.”
Cora returns my smile without hesitation before turning around.
“I’ll prepare everything.”
While Cora disappears into the apothecary, I wait beneath the awning. The guards remain a respectful distance away, yet shoppers quietly choose other stalls rather than pass between us. When Cora presses the parcel into my hands, her fingers linger for the briefest moment.
“They frighten everyone,” she murmurs, her eyes slipping once more toward the guards.
“They’re only here to escort me.”
“I know,” she replies, her voice gentle. “Everyone else knows that too. It doesn’t make them any less afraid.”
My eyes drift across the market without thinking.
Those who had been observing us have already found reasons to busy themselves elsewhere. Watching them now, I realize how easily fear disguises itself. It borrows familiar routines until they become impossible to tell apart.
I thank her, tucking the parcel safely beneath my arm before continuing deeper into the market.
I haven’t gone much farther when an elderly man slips between two produce stalls and falls into step beside me.
Old Man Theron has never possessed the sort of face anyone remembers after a single meeting, which has probably served him well over the years.
His patched brown coat hangs loosely from narrow shoulders, and the white beard spilling across his chest looks as though it’s always been trimmed with whatever blade happened to be closest at hand.
Beneath heavy brows, his pale eyes remain as alert as ever.
He glances toward the parcel tucked beneath my arm.
“Was just on my way to fetch Adair’s medicine.”
I lift it slightly, smiling at his familiar face. “Already taken care of.”
A hint of relief softens the lines around his eyes. He continues walking beside me without another word at first, his attention lingering on the guards trailing several steps behind us.
When he finally speaks, his voice barely rises above the hum of the market.
“The Jensens disappeared.”
I stop so abruptly that one of the guards looks toward us.
“Disappeared?”
Theron nods once, before continuing, “Their stall was empty this morning.”
On any other day, I might have accepted that explanation without another thought. Families disappear during tithe-season often enough that the market eventually learns to stop asking where they went.
Yet something about Theron's face keeps the question alive.
He’s always carried himself with the restless caution of a man who has lived too long beneath another person’s rule.
That caution has sharpened into something I haven’t seen before.
He won’t quite meet my eyes, and every few breaths his gaze slips toward the crowd as though expecting someone to overhear us.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he states, eyes darting left and right as if afraid someone was listening. “But they left all their tools behind. What weaver would do that?”
I follow his gaze.
The weaving stall stands empty beneath its patched canvas. Half-finished cloth still stretches. Around us, the market carries on as though nothing has happened. Bargaining continues from one stall to the next, yet every conversation seems to end the moment another stranger draws near.
I’ve always believed this district endured because its people were resilient.
Standing here now, I wonder how much of that resilience has simply been fear carried so long that it learned to resemble endurance.
It settles quietly over a place, changing so little each day that no one notices until an entire family disappears and leaves their lives waiting behind them.
I loosen my grip on the parcel and hold it out to him.
“Would you take these to Father for me?”
Theron accepts the bundle with both hands, careful not to jostle the glass bottles inside.
“I’ll make certain he takes every dose.”
Relief brushes through me so quickly that it almost hurts.
“Thank you.”
He offers a small nod, the sort shared between neighbors who have relied on one another for longer than either can remember. Then he disappears into the crowd, the parcel tucked safely beneath his arm.
I watch until the crowd swallows him completely.
Home is only a few streets away. I could still go.
Father would complain about the bitterness of Cora’s medicine, and I’d pretend not to notice when he tried to hide another coughing fit. For a little while, we could both imagine our lives hadn't changed as completely as they have.
The thought tempts me more than I care to admit.
But if Theron is right, every hour matters.
I turn toward the black towers that rise above the rooftops. The spire no longer resembles the gilded cage I resented only days ago. Instead, it stands like a fortress overlooking the city below, its walls so high that the fear gathering in the market cannot be seen from its windows.
If families are truly vanishing, someone with the authority to act must know.
I don’t know whether Lord Rothgar will believe the fears of an old man who has spent his life watching over his neighbors. I don’t know whether he’ll consider one missing family worth his attention.
Even so, I quicken my pace toward the gates.
He has to hear it from someone.
And if no one else is willing to carry the truth into that fortress, then it will have to be me.