18. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
The lower spires of Ti’lith stretch across the great planning table in the strategy hall, their lightning conduits etched in silver ink across layered blueprints that cover nearly every available surface.
Around me, Stromgarde engineers debate conductor placements while several master lightning-workers compare storm-current projections against last season’s records.
“The western grid will tolerate another year,” one engineer insists.
“It will tolerate it,” I reply, studying the fracture marked along the foundation conduit, “But I have no interest in discovering precisely when it ceases to.”
The room falls thoughtfully quiet.
I shift another schematic into place, tracing the route storm current will take once the southern expansion is completed. The calculations are familiar enough that I should lose myself in them.
Instead, my thoughts drift elsewhere.
I remember waking before dawn to find Calla asleep beside me, her wheat-blond hair scattered across the ark silk pillows.
She hadn't stirred when I rose, only shifted a little closer to the warmth I had left behind.
I had considered waking her, if only to steal another few moments together before duty reclaimed the day, but the temptation passed almost as quickly as it came.
Leaving the silver-leafed plant behind had seemed the kinder choice.
“My lord?”
Vhoros’s voice pulls me back to the present.
The commander stands near the doorway, waiting until the discussion around the table begins again before approaching.
“The revisions are complete,” he says quietly. “The engineers are ready for your approval.”
I look once more across the assembled plans before addressing the room.
“Proceed with the southern reinforcement as drafted. Increase conductor spacing beneath the western residential quarter while you are already excavating the foundations. I would rather solve tomorrow’s failures today.”
Several engineers nod before gathering their drawings and filing quietly from the strategy hall, their discussion continuing in low voices until the doors close behind them.
Vhoros makes no move to follow.
He waits until the room has emptied before stepping closer to the planning table, his gaze remaining on the schematics rather than me. It is a habit he has developed over centuries of service whenever the matter he carries deserves privacy.
“There is another matter, my lord,” he says at last. “Lady Calla left the spire several hours ago.”
I turn my full attention to him.
“Was she accompanied?”
He shakes his head, his voice as even as ever. “She declined the escort offered by the gate captain.”
I say nothing.
The decision had always been hers to make. I refused to cage her beneath the excuse of protection simply because our marriage changed where she slept.
That conviction remains unchanged.
It also fails entirely to quiet the unease following Vhoros's report.
Malakor has lost face before the court because of our marriage.
Whoever is responsible for the disappearances within the human quarter has managed to avoid notice long enough to grow bold.
Neither possibility lends itself to carelessness, even if Calla herself would resent having every step shadowed by soldiers.
“I assume she offered some indication of where she intended to go.”
“Only that she wished to visit the human districts,” Vhoros replies. “I believe she intended to see her father.”
That, at least, eases some of my worries.
“If she returns before the council convenes, have supper prepared in the west garden.”
A faint smile touches Vhoros’s mouth.
“I will inform the kitchens, my lord.”
Once he departs, I linger for several moments, my gaze resting upon the abandoned blueprints without truly seeing them.
I know little about the ordinary routines Calla left behind when she came to the spire, yet I find myself wondering whether she'd gone to see her father, whether she had spent the afternoon wandering the market streets she knows better than I ever could…
and whether she had remembered to stop long enough to eat.
When I finally concede that no further work will be accomplished this afternoon, the strategy hall has long since emptied.
The steward waiting outside my study straightens as I approach.
“My lord,” he says with a respectful bow, “Lady Stromgarde asked if she might wait for you.”
“She is inside?” The question leaves me hastily.
A quiet anticipation stirs before I can suppress it, carrying with it the simple expectation of seeing her again after only a few hours apart.
The steward nods. “I believed she would prefer the privacy.”
“So would I.”
I open the door to Calla standing near the windows overlooking the city. She turns at the sound of my footsteps. She offers me a small smile in greeting, but it falters around the edges, unable to disguise the worry clouding her expression.
The sight is enough to extinguish my own.
Whatever brought her here has little to do with the pleasant supper I had imagined only moments ago.
I close the door behind me and cross the room without speaking.
She reaches into the folds of her shawl and carefully unwraps a small wooden weaving shuttle before placing it on my desk.
“I found this beneath Old Man Theron’s loom,” she says softly. “He's the one who first told me about the families disappearing.”
Her gaze drops briefly to the shuttle.
“He’s gone now, too.”
As I reach for it, an iridescent strand caught near the needle catches the light. Recognition arrives the moment I lift it closer.
“Storm-moth silk,” I whisper.
Calla studies my face carefully. “What is it?”
I turn the shuttle in my hands, taking care not to disturb the thread.
“Storm-moth silk is one of the finest natural insulators ever discovered. House Stromgarde uses it within our most advanced lightning-works because it can withstand currents that would destroy almost any other material.” I look up at her. “It is extraordinarily valuable.”
Alarm slowly replaces the cautious hope she’d been holding onto.
“Old Man Theron could never have afforded something like that.”
“No.” The answer weighs heavier than a single word should.
She draws a slow, even breath.
“When I first came here, I told you families had been disappearing.” Her fingers tighten around the edge of her shawl. “There have been more since then. I found his house emptied as though he’d never lived there. Everything was gone except this.”
My gaze settles once more upon the shimmering thread.
When Calla first spoke of the disappearances, I had assumed the explanations were the same ones that have followed every difficult season throughout history.
People abandoned homes when debts became impossible to repay or sought better fortunes elsewhere, and fear had a way of transforming ordinary absence into whispered conspiracy.
A strand of this material has no business finding its way into the shuttle of a human weaver. Whether it was used, transported, or merely passed through his hands, it points toward someone with influence, resources, and access to materials carefully controlled by the Crown.
A quiet shame works its way through me.
Calla had come before me carrying the names of neighbors she had known her entire life, trusting that I would understand why their disappearances frightened her.
I had listened carefully enough, yet I had filtered every word through the responsibilities of governance until the people themselves had blurred into another report requiring evaluation.
I lower the shuttle onto the desk with deliberate care.
“You were right to bring this to me,” I tell her and her eyes lift to meet mine. “I should have listened more closely.”
She studies me, surprise slowly yielding to quiet relief before she gives a small nod.
This time, I think she knows I truly heard her.