17. Calla
CALLA
The unfamiliar quiet wakes me before the light does.
I lie still beneath the dark silk sheets, listening for the familiar growl of the storm that has become the backdrop of life inside Stromgarde Spire. Instead, only a distant murmur reaches the windows, as though the clouds have chosen, if only for a little while, to loosen their grip on the sky.
It feels strangely intimate.
The sheets still hold his warmth. Ozone lingers in the fabric, mingling with the clean scent that always seems to follow him, and before I can stop myself, I breathe it in a little deeper.
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
Memories of last night return gradually, unfolding with the softness of waking rather than the sharpness of a dream.
I remember the patient way Rothgar loosened every fastening of my gown himself, never taking the easier path magic would have offered him.
His touch stayed only long enough to free each clasp, but there had been an unmistakable tenderness in the care he took, as though every moment mattered.
The memory settles warmly inside my chest, and I catch myself smiling.
Our marriage began as a bargain, every smile and fleeting touch offered for the benefit of suspicious eyes. Somewhere along the way, the pretending became harder than the truth.
A soft laugh escapes before I can swallow it.
When I finally sit up, I find the room empty, though the disappointment barely has time to bloom before reason answers it.
Rothgar has never struck me as someone capable of lingering in bed while duty waits elsewhere.
Whatever peace we found together last night, dawn would never have changed the obligations resting on his shoulders.
My gaze wanders toward the bedside table, where a small silver-leafed plant catches the pale morning light. It wasn’t there when we fell asleep, and its delicate metallic leaves shimmer whenever distant lightning flashes beyond the windows.
The first silver-leafed plant he placed in my chambers had felt like another reminder that nothing inside the spire truly belonged to me.
It had been beautiful enough to admire, yet rooted exactly where someone else had decided it should remain, no different from the carefully ordered life waiting for me beyond those doors.
This one carries an altogether different meaning.
Rothgar knew he would leave before I woke. Instead of allowing me to wake to an empty room, he had left behind a small piece of his gardens to keep me company until he returned.
The thought is so unexpectedly sweet that my chest aches.
My fingers brush lightly across one cool silver leaf.
“Thank you,” I whisper before quietly crossing back into my own room.
I bathe away the traces of sleep, then change into my old clothes. The familiar space greets me exactly as I left it yesterday, though it no longer feels quite so solitary with his chambers waiting just beyond the open door.
The linen blouse has been washed so many times the fabric feels almost weightless beneath my fingers, and my boots still bear faint traces of red dust despite the servants' persistent attempts to polish them clean after every visit to the market.
The guards posted at the gate bow as I approach before stepping aside to allow me through the towering doors.
The gesture still feels strange.
Only a few weeks ago I would have needed permission simply to stand before these gates. Now they open because I belong inside the spire they protect.
Warm stone and red earth greet me as I step outside. Dust quickly coats my boots while merchants begin arranging their stalls, familiar voices weaving together beneath the ever-present sky.
I slow my pace, content to let the streets carry me wherever they please until Cora Bell’s stall comes into view.
“There you are,” she says, relief softening the worry around her eyes. “I was wondering when we’d see you again.”
“You make it sound like I moved to another continent,” I reply, smiling despite myself.
“You may as well have.” Her smile fades as she glances toward the neighboring stalls. “Another family’s gone.”
My heart sinks. How many have disappeared since I moved into House Stromgarde?
Before I can ask anything further, she reaches beneath the counter and produces a neatly wrapped bundle.
“I finished mending these.” She places it carefully into my arms. Father’s old coat rests on top, with two shirts folded neatly beneath it. “I’m happy to do this for him. He’s always been kind."
Gratitude tightens my throat.
“Thank you.”
She pats my hand before another customer claims her attention, and I continue toward the little house where Father still lives beneath Rothgar’s protection.
I find him asleep in his chair beside the window, the morning light softening the lines illness has carved into his face. I leave the mended clothes nearby, replenish his medicine, set enough food aside for several days, then pull the blanket a little higher over his shoulders.
He stirs just enough to murmur my name.
“I’m here,” I whisper, giving his hand a gentle squeeze until sleep claims him once more.
Stepping back outside, I glance toward Old Man Theron’s cottage. He’s checked on Father nearly every morning since I left for the spire, yet his little herb garden has gone untended, and the front door hangs slightly open.
A quiet unease follows me as I make my way to his home.
The silence inside the cottage unsettles me the moment I step across the threshold.
“Theron?” I call softly.
My voice disappears into rooms stripped almost bare.
The bed has been cleared of its blankets, the cupboards emptied, and the shelves that once held jars of herbs and folded cloth now stand vacant, leaving only pale outlines against the walls where his belongings used to rest. Someone has removed every trace of the old weaver's life with meticulous care.
My gaze eventually lands on the loom beside the window. It remains exactly where it has always stood.
The sight stops me. No weaver abandons a loom willingly.
I kneel beside it, and as I steady myself against the frame, I notice one floorboard sitting slightly higher than the rest. It lifts with surprising ease beneath my fingers, revealing a narrow hiding place carved into the floor.
Inside lies a single weaving shuttle.
I turn it over carefully, and my attention catches on a fine strand snagged near its needle. I recognize it immediately.
Storm-moth silk.
I’ve watched nobles admire gowns embroidered with the rare fabric often enough to recognize its unmistakable shimmer. Every strand is worth a fortune, prized by the great houses for its beauty and the remarkable properties that make it so difficult to produce.
Old Man Theron could never have owned something like this.
My grip tightens around the shuttle as everything I’ve heard these past weeks begins to crowd together in my thoughts.
Families vanish without warning. Homes are left behind with tools still waiting where their owners last used them.
Now, an old weaver who should never have laid hands on storm-moth silk disappears, leaving behind the smallest trace of it hidden beneath his loom.
A chill works its way through me despite the afternoon warmth filtering in through the open door.
I wrap the shuttle carefully inside my shawl before leaving the cottage behind.
Whatever has been happening in the human quarter has become far too deliberate to dismiss as rumor, and I can only hope there is some explanation waiting beyond these scattered clues that is less terrible than the one beginning to take shape in my mind.