12. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
The scent of ozone hangs heavily through the conduit chamber beneath my study. Silver channels branch across the obsidian floor in precise geometric patterns, carrying storm energy upward into the spire.
Every few moments, a pulse of pale light races beneath the crystal inlays before disappearing into the walls above us, feeding the enchantments that keep House Stromgarde functioning long after the skies beyond have gone dark.
The annual audit has occupied most of the morning. King Asmodeus insists every great house submit to inspection without exception. It is one of the few traditions no lord openly questions.
Storm energy governs nearly every aspect of life in Ti’lith, and any imbalance—whether born of negligence or ambition—has the potential to spread well beyond a single estate.
Kaelus Ignis crouches beside the primary conduit, broad shoulders filling the narrow space between two storm channels. Thick obsidian horns curl back from his temples, worn smooth in places from centuries spent ducking beneath machinery built long before anyone considered comfort.
The cuffs of his dark leather work-apron are permanently singed, the scars left by lightning he has handled too closely for too many years. Faint stormlight lingers in the deep-set eyes he lowers toward the conduit, as though some measure of the current has settled there and refused to leave.
Court has never managed to polish the smith out of him. He earned his place through knowledge rather than bloodline, and it shows in every habit.
Ignis studies the figures for another moment, his calloused thumb gliding across the conduit housing as though the metal itself might reveal something the numbers have concealed.
“Western line’s carrying more than last year,” he mutters. His voice has the rough edge of a forge rather than a council chamber. “Something’s feeding off it.”
“The relay network beyond the outer wards expanded during winter,” I answer. “The additional draw was anticipated.”
A noncommittal grunt is all the acknowledgement he offers before turning another page of the slate. His eyes narrow. Without ceremony, he presses the crystal into my hands and taps a thick finger against the lower margin.
“You remembered the figures,” he points out. “Forgot the mark.”
My gaze drops to the authorization rune left blank. Irritation flickers through me. The missing signature changes nothing about the conduit's performance, but Court rarely distinguishes between oversight and incompetence.
“A clerical oversight,” I reply, handing the slate back.
Ignis snorts softly as he accepts it.
“Stormlight doesn't care whose hand slips. It either holds—” his thumb drifts once more across the metal beside him before he looks back at me— “or it doesn't.”
“The authorization will reach the palace before sunset.”
That answer appears to satisfy him. He resumes his inspection without another word, raising a small brass tuning fork above the conduit. Its low hum changes faintly as he follows the current beneath the floor, listening with the concentration of a musician searching for a single note out of place.
When the final notation is entered onto the slate, Ignis closes it with a quiet snap. He stays where he is, palm resting lightly against the nearest conduit, then his thumb circles once over the metal before he gives a single, satisfied nod.
“She’ll hold.”
He gathers his instruments into a worn leather satchel before turning toward the stair leading back to the upper floors.
“I’ll send the report to the palace tonight,” he says as we climb together. “See that missing authorization arrives before I do.”
“It will.”
Together, we leave the conduit chamber behind, climbing the narrow spiral stair carved through the center of the spire. The sharp tang of ozone fades with every level until polished stone and lamp oil replace it.
An attendant reaches the study ahead of us and pulls open the heavy door just as we step into the corridor. Before I cross the threshold, movement farther down the corridor catches my eye.
Calla is walking toward us.
Her pace slows when she notices Ignis beside me. Her fingers briefly find the simple iron ring hanging from the cord around her neck, then slip away again and continues toward us. Whatever business has brought her here, she must have already decided it cannot wait.
Ignis follows my gaze. Without asking a question, he steps aside and holds the study door open with one broad hand.
Calla offers him a polite bow as she steps into the study.
He returns the courtesy with a brief inclination of his head before continuing down the corridor, already reading through his inspection notes as though the entire palace has ceased to exist.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Calla says once we are alone.
“You’ve already waited,” I reply curtly and gesture toward the chair opposite my desk. “What is it?”
Her eyes flick toward the seat before returning to me.
“I’d rather stand.”
There is no challenge in the refusal. The urgency beneath her composure suggests whatever brought her here matters more than the discourtesy of remaining on her feet, and that alone is enough to stir my curiosity.
“Commander Vhoros informed me you were visiting the human district today.”
She nods once, absently rubbing her thumb across the iron ring resting against her collarbone.
“I spoke with an old neighbor of mine. Theron,” she starts, and I wait for recognition to strike, but nothing comes. She seems to recognize that immediately.
“He looks after many of the older families where I grew up,” she explains. “He stopped me in the market because another household disappeared.”
The concern beneath her steady voice is difficult to miss.
“The Jensens,” she continues when my silence tells her nothing. “They’ve kept a weaving stall for years. This morning it was abandoned.”
I move behind my desk, gathering the audit documents into a neat stack before they drift across the polished surface.
“Families leave during tithe-season,” I tell her dismissively.
“They do,” she agrees, catching me slightly off-guard. “But this wasn’t the same.”
She takes another step into the room, the urgency finally slipping into her voice.
“Their looms were still set up. The cloth hadn't been cut free. Even their tools were left behind. No weaver walks away from work like that.”
Her eyes search mine, waiting for me to see why those details matter.
“Humans are a transient population,” I reply. “Work shifts. Opportunities disappear. Families relocate between spires more often than you seem willing to acknowledge.”
A muscle in her jaw ticks. She catches herself before taking another step, fingers curling briefly against the iron ring at her throat. “I’m not talking about families who chose to leave.”
“You’re drawing that conclusion from one man’s suspicion.”
“From an entire market that’s frightened enough to whisper instead of speak.”
I study her for a moment. Fear has always spread faster than truth, particularly where uncertainty already exists.
“The human districts endure shortages every season,” I say, trying to reason with her. “Rumors thrive in conditions like that.”
“This isn’t a rumor,” she insists, holding my gaze.
I hear the conviction in her voice. Conviction, however sincere, is not evidence.
“I understand you feel strongly about this, but it is not presently a matter requiring my intervention.”
Whatever she hoped to find in my answer quietly slips away. I see it in the way her shoulders lose a measure of their resolve, showing her disappointment.
Her fingers close once around the iron ring at her throat before falling still.
“I understand,” she says softly, the words carrying perfect courtesy, not agreement. “Forgive the interruption, my lord.”
I watch her leave until the study falls quiet once more.
The latch settles into place behind her, and my attention returns to the reports waiting upon the desk.
Ignis’s inspection remains unfinished. My responsibilities have not changed.
Yet as my fingers brush the waiting documents, my thoughts return to Calla’s departure instead.
The absence of another argument lingers longer than the conversation itself.