14. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
The servant’s shoulder catches the silver platter, and I watch as the polished tray begins to tilt.
For the briefest instant, no one notices.
Then the glimmering sky-eel aspic slides across the silver surface before spilling in a shimmering cascade straight toward Calla.
The translucent delicacies strike the front of her pale gown with a wet splatter. Silver jelly clings to the embroidered fabric, streaking downward in iridescent ribbons before dripping onto the gleaming onyx stone beneath her feet.
Laughter erupts around the ballroom before the tray even clatters to the floor.
A few demon nobles have the decency to hide their amusement behind jeweled goblets. Most do not. Their laughter rolls through the hall with the easy confidence of people who have never expected consequences for entertaining themselves at someone else’s expense.
Across the room, Lord Malakor watches.
The corner of his mouth lifts in quiet satisfaction, as though this petty cruelty is merely another pleasant diversion to punctuate the evening.
The servant’s clumsiness was never the point. Malakor wanted every demon in this ballroom to remember exactly what Calla was beneath the fine silks and borrowed jewels—a human who could be mocked without consequence.
Cold anger washes over me with startling clarity.
I should have anticipated this. Malakor has never mistaken pettiness for weakness. If he cannot challenge me openly, he will strike where he believes I am least likely to retaliate.
Then I look at Calla.
The ruined gown ceases to matter, only her.
She stands perfectly still under the scrutiny of hundreds of watching eyes, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.
Her shoulders draw inward by the smallest degree, an instinctive attempt to make herself smaller beneath the scrutiny.
One hand rises toward the stain before hesitation arrests the movement halfway.
After a moment she lowers it again, her fingers curling tightly into the folds of her skirt.
I have watched humans bow their heads before demon nobles more times than I could ever count.
Until this moment, it has never stirred anything within me. Watching Calla retreat into herself does.
The growl tears free before I recognize it as my own.
It rolls through the ballroom like distant thunder, deep enough that the musicians falter mid-performance.
Their final notes dissolve beneath the low vibration reverberating through the hall, and conversation dies away as the storm coursing beneath my skin answers a fury I make no effort to restrain.
Lightning humming through the walls flickers in uneven rhythm with my temper.
I reach her in a handful of strides.
Calla looks up as I reach her, uncertainty flickering across her face. I close my hand around hers without a word, struck immediately by how cold her fingers have become.
I lace them firmly through my own before stepping in front of her, shielding her from the sea of staring faces. Another whisper spreads through the ballroom, softer than the laughter that came before but infinitely more uncertain.
Good.
Let them wonder why I chose her. Let them question every assumption they have made since she entered this court.
Behind me, Calla is hidden from their view. If anyone wishes to laugh again, they will have to do so while looking directly at me.
Power unfurls beneath my skin without conscious restraint.
The crystal lamps suspended overhead dim before surging brighter again, unable to settle beneath the pressure filling the room.
The scent of ozone steadily overwhelms the sweetness of the feast, and several nobles instinctively retreat a cautious step.
A wise decision.
Only then do I turn my full attention to Malakor.
He still wears that smug smile, though I can see the effort it now takes to maintain it. He believes he has accomplished something tonight beyond bullying my human wife. He could not be more mistaken.
I begin walking toward him at an unhurried pace, my grip on Calla’s hand never loosening. There is no advantage in haste. A measured approach gives everyone in the ballroom ample time to understand exactly where my attention is fixed.
When I stop before him, the confidence in his expression has begun to fray.
“Lord Malakor.” I wait until the hall has gone completely still. “The drunken male responsible for this display belongs to your household.”
His smile tightens.
“So he does.”
I hold his gaze for a long moment, allowing the silence to settle over the gathered court before I continue.
“You will have your man clean my lady’s gown.” His brows draw together as though he believes he has misheard me. I do not give him the opportunity to speak. “With his tongue.”
My voice never rises. The unshakable authority of the command accomplishes far more than anger ever could.
Color drains from Malakor’s face as the implication dawns on him. Around us, every noble understands precisely what I have done.
Every eye in the ballroom shifts toward him. The spectacle he arranged has become his own, and the weight of an entire court’s attention now rests squarely upon his shoulders.
The laughter has vanished completely.
An expectant silence fills the ballroom as every gaze shifts toward Malakor, waiting to see how he intends to recover what little dignity remains to him.
A gentle tug at my hand breaks my attention. I look down to find Calla's fingers tightening around mine.
When our eyes meet, embarrassment still lingers in her expression, but alongside it is quiet worry, as though she fears where my anger might carry me if left unchecked.
She gives the slightest shake of her head, her thumb brushing once across the back of my hand.
“My lord,” she whisperss, so softly that only I can hear, “Please. Let’s leave.”
The storm still rages beneath my skin. But her voice reaches a place where my anger cannot.
I look at her once more and realize that every second we remain here keeps her beneath the memory of this spectacle. That alone is reason enough to end it.
I tighten my grip around Calla’s hand, holding it with quiet, unmistakable possession before turning my back on Lord Malakor.
He will learn soon enough that this evening is not forgotten.
Without another glance in his direction, I lead my wife from the ballroom, leaving an assembly too stunned to utter a single word behind us.