13. Calla
CALLA
Several days slip quietly into one another before my name appears upon another carefully arranged schedule.
Lady Stromgarde is expected to attend the King’s Midstorm Gala.
The words stare back at me from the enchanted slate while two attendants fuss around my chambers, pinning fabric, adjusting hems, and fastening jeweled clasps.
I stand where they place me, lifting an arm whenever requested, feeling less like a woman than someone being carefully arranged for display.
The gown belongs to another world.
Liquid silver spills to the floor in soft folds that shimmer with every movement.
The fitted bodice gives way to layers of sheer fabric so delicate they seem spun from moonlight, while tiny crystals scattered among metallic embroidery catch the light until the entire dress appears dusted with stars.
One attendant gathers sections of my hair away from my face while another threads slender silver chains through the braids. When they finally step aside, the woman staring back from the mirror scarcely resembles me.
She looks every inch a demon lord’s wife.
A knock sounds at the chamber door pulls me from my thoughts, and the attendants retreat just as Rothgar steps inside.
He has exchanged his usual black court coat for one worked with silver embroidery that follows the broad line of his shoulders before disappearing beneath a dark mantle fastened across one side of his chest. Storm-metal catches the light at his cuffs and collar, though nothing about him suggests vanity.
His gaze settles on me without a word, and I can’t help but wonder whether the silence means approval or disappointment.
“You are ready,” he says at last.
It’s such an ordinary observation that my unexpected disappointment makes me want to laugh.
“I believe so,” I reply, smoothing an imaginary crease from my sleeve.
“My lady.” He steps forward to offer me his arm.
The title still feels borrowed.
I slip my hand through his arm, and we descend through the spire in companionable silence.
Outside, a black carriage waits beneath an arch of carved obsidian, faint ribbons of lightning winding soundlessly around its wheels.
The journey to the palace is mercifully brief, though my hands remain clasped tightly in my lap, careful not to wrinkle the shimmering folds of my gown.
Rothgar offers no conversation, and I’m quietly grateful for it.
By the time the carriage slows beneath the palace steps, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m ready.
The towering doors open before we reach them, and attendants lead us into a hall awash in warm light and music unlike anything I’ve ever heard.
The ballroom stretches farther than any room I’ve ever entered.
Dark crystal columns disappear into drifting storm clouds suspended impossibly overhead, while enormous chandeliers cradle living lightning that casts silver-blue light across polished marble.
For one foolish moment, I wonder whether I’ve stepped into one of the stories my father used to tell me as a child.
Musicians perform upon elegant instruments fashioned from obsidian, silver, and enchanted crystal.
Some resemble slender harps whose luminous strings sing beneath practiced hands, while shallow crystal bowls glow with every note coaxed from them by delicate metal mallets.
The music seeps beneath my ribs until I feel it as much as I hear it.
It is beautiful enough to make me forget, however briefly, that I do not belong here.
But the reminder is immediate.
Everywhere I look, demon nobility fills the hall.
Metallic threads ripple through their gowns like liquid mercury. Jewels rest effortlessly between polished horns, and richly dressed lords drift through the gathering with the ease of those who have never questioned whether they belong.
Whatever wonder I felt vanishes under the weight of hundreds of unfamiliar eyes.
Conversation never truly stops, but it changes as we enter.
Faces turn briefly in our direction before returning to their companions, and I feel the weight of those lingering glances all the same.
A noblewoman with elegant antelope horns lets her gaze travel from my borrowed jewels to the hem of my gown before voicing something that earns a knowing smile from the woman beside her.
Farther into the ballroom, two young lords study me openly before sharing a quiet remark that draws an amused smile.
Whatever tale has spread through court about Rothgar’s human bride, I suspect I’ve already disappointed it.
Rothgar’s hand comes to rest against the small of my back as he guides me deeper into the crowd. The gesture is no more intimate than etiquette requires, yet it anchors me all the same.
Nobles greet Rothgar as we pass, though I cannot always tell whether their smiles are born of admiration or caution.
“Rothgar.”
Lord Malakor approaches with the effortless confidence of a man who expects every room to accommodate him. Indigo silk catches the shifting stormlight, silver embroidery glinting at his cuffs. His smile is flawlessly courteous.
“Lord Malakor,” Rothgar replies, his tone bored.
“What a delight. May I offer my congratulations? Your marriage has become the court’s favorite conversation.”
Rothgar doesn’t rise to the bait, he simply redirects, “I imagine court conversations change quickly.”
“They do,” Malakor agrees pleasantly. “Which makes memorable ones so valuable.”
His attention shifts to me, and I force myself to meet his gaze despite the familiar unease tightening in my chest.
“Lady Stromgarde.”
“My lord,” I greet, bowing low as is expected of a human toward a demon lord.
“I confess, when word first reached me, I struggled to believe it. House Stromgarde has always valued strength above ornament. It seems Lord Rothgar has discovered there is room for both.”
Soft laughter ripples through those gathered nearby.
Malakor raises his goblet.
“To House Stromgarde. May its newest novelty continue to entertain the court.”
I feel the room waiting for Rothgar’s response, the anticipation thick in the air. He merely lifts his own goblet.
“To House Stromgarde.”
Crystals chime softly before Malakor offers one final courteous smile and disappears into the crowd, leaving behind the unmistakable feeling that the exchange had been staged for everyone watching.
I draw a careful breath, willing my pulse to ease.
They’re only words, I remind myself, scarcely realizing I’ve whispered the thought until Rothgar speaks.
“Words are rarely only words in a room like this.”
I look up at him, surprised he’d heard, but grateful for his words.
“Then I’m glad mine stayed where they belonged.”
Something flickers across his expression before it slips away.
A servant weaves carefully through the gathering with a silver platter crowded with shimmering portions of sky-eel suspended in translucent aspic. At that same moment, one of Lord Malakor’s companions steps backward without looking, still laughing at something said over his shoulder.
The collision is barely more than a careless bump, yet it is enough.
The servant lunges to save the platter, but the weight has already shifted beyond recovery.
Cold jelly strikes before I fully understand what happened.
Something slick splashes across the front of my gown, clinging to the silver fabric in shimmering streaks. I freeze as the chill seeps through the embroidered bodice, painfully aware of every eye lifting toward me while the servant stammers apology after apology.
Heat rushes to my face as I stare in stunned disbelief at the glittering stain spreading before my eyes.
Only moments ago, this gown had made me believe I might survive the evening unnoticed.
Now it feels like another costume, ruined before an audience eager for spectacle.
The ballroom blurs into another banquet hall, another room where powerful nobles laughed while the hired musician stood frozen beneath their amusement.
Before I can retreat or attempt some impossible apology, Rothgar is suddenly in front of me.
His hand finds mine, his fingers closing around mine in a gesture so calm and unhesitating that the meaning behind it cannot be mistaken.
He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.
The message carries farther than words ever could, and the laughter falters as the court begins to understand exactly where he has chosen to stand.