19. Calla
CALLA
I’d spent the walk back from the human quarter searching for the right words.
Now I watch Rothgar study the weaving shuttle resting between us, his fingers lightly curled around the polished wood as understanding slowly dawns on him. A faint crease forms between his brows, and the apprehension I’ve carried since leaving Theron's cottage finally begins to ease.
“You were right to bring this to me,” he says quietly, meeting my eyes. “I should have listened more closely.”
The apology is offered with the same steady honesty as everything else he says, and I believe him.
I give the smallest nod, afraid that if I try to speak, emotion will find its way into my voice. My eyes fall to the iridescent strand of storm-moth silk caught against the shuttle.
He follows my gaze.
“Only three places in Galmoleth are permitted to process storm-moth silk,” he says as I drift closer to the desk. “The royal foundries, House Stromgarde…” His fingers brush lightly over the shimmering strand. “...and House Malakor.”
A heaviness sinks into my chest as Old Man Theron’s empty cottage rises once more in my thoughts along with abandoned looms left waiting for hands that would never return.
“You believe Lord Malakor is involved?” My voice wavers slightly around his name, and I hate that the cold, slick touch of the sky-eels is the first thing that comes to mind.
“I believe coincidence has become increasingly difficult to defend.” He sets the shuttle aside before crossing toward a cabinet built into the far wall. “I want to show you something.”
When he returns, he carries a long leather tube secured with silver clasps. He unfastens them and carefully rolls its contents across the obsidian desk until an intricate schematic stretches between us, far more detailed than any map I’ve ever seen.
Silver lines crisscross black parchment, connecting every district through narrow conduits woven beneath streets and bridges. Tiny symbols fill the margins in a language of engineering I barely understand.
The city lies open before me, its hidden currents finally revealed.
“So this is how you see Ti’lith,” I whisper, unable to hide my wonder.
A faint smile touches Rothgar’s mouth. He steps back to make room for me, and I instinctively move into the space he leaves behind.
When he joins me again a moment later, he comes to stand just behind my shoulder, close enough that I can feel the quiet warmth of him at my back while both of us look down at the parchment.
“This is how I am required to see it.”
His hand glides across the schematic as he explains how storm energy enters the city before dividing into countless conduits that feed every district according to its needs.
I follow the path of his fingertips across the silver lines until familiar streets begin dissolving into something entirely different.
Markets I once wandered every week reveal themselves as junctions feeding power throughout the district, while the bridges I’d crossed since childhood anchor a network hidden beneath the city.
I find myself wondering how many times I’ve walked above these unseen currents without ever suspecting they were there.
Having lived here all my life, I suddenly realize how little of Ti’lith I've truly known.
“House Malakor controls this sector.”
I follow his finger as it traces one of the primary conduits until it disappears beneath a smaller spire tucked behind Malakor’s manufactories.
Something about it captures his attention.
He leans closer, studying the faded silver outline that nearly disappears into the parchment before tracing the notation written beside it.
“This should not still exist,” he mutters almost to himself.
The structure has been labeled DECOMMISSIONED.
Rothgar studies it for another moment before speaking.
“This facility was abandoned decades ago after a structural collapse compromised the lightning conduits beneath it.”
My gaze follows the silver lines branching away from the building.
“They’re still connected.”
He nods and says nothing more. I stare at the forgotten spire, imagining supplies moving quietly through tunnels everyone else believes abandoned.
“If someone wanted to hide something,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, “they would choose the one place inspectors no longer think to examine.”
The possibility sits heavily as we continue studying the district, each new detail drawing another thread into place.
As Rothgar compares another set of infrastructure records against the schematic, my attention catches on a cluster of unfamiliar markings beneath the eastern quarter.
“What do these symbols mean?”
Rothgar shifts beside me until his arm brushes mine, leaning over the schematic to indicate the narrow passages winding beneath the streets.
“Maintenance tunnels.”
His sleeve grazes my shoulder as his hand traces one route after another, explaining how engineers once reached damaged conduits without disrupting the city above. I try to keep my attention on the map, but the quiet warmth of him lingers far more insistently than it should.
“If storm-moth silk was being moved through these,” he explains. “It could bypass every customs checkpoint.”
“And the families?”
“I don’t know yet,” he replies, voice softening and expression turning thoughtful. “But I intend to find them.”
The hours slip quietly past as one scroll gives way to another. Candles are replaced without either of us looking up, and somewhere along the evening a servant leaves supper waiting near the hearth, untouched while we continue comparing names, routes, and engineering records.
Whenever I recognize a neighborhood connected to the disappearances, Rothgar marks it upon the schematic. In turn, he uncovers forgotten conduits and abandoned structures I never would have known existed, each discovery helping us fit another small piece into the puzzle spreading across the desk.
Slowly, I begin to understand how naturally our strengths fit together.
I know the people who have disappeared because they were my neighbors.
Rothgar understands the city that surrounds them in ways I never imagined possible, seeing patterns hidden beneath its streets that would have remained invisible to me.
The path forward is still uncertain, but it no longer feels invisible.
By the time night descends upon Galmoleth, the study has grown wonderfully quiet.
Rothgar bends over another engineering record, reading it for the third time before lifting a hand to rub wearily at the bridge of his nose. The movement is subtle enough that I doubt most people would notice it, yet my eyes keep returning to him.
I used to believe his composure came easily.
After spending the evening watching him sift through maps, reports, and engineering records without allowing himself a moment’s rest, I finally understand what it costs him to bear responsibility for an entire district.
Every decision before him reaches farther than I had ever imagined, touching lives he will never know by name.
My hand finds his forearm before I’ve fully considered the gesture.
His gaze lifts from the parchment to meet mine, and the quiet intensity in them steals every word I’d meant to say.
“I believe you,” he says softly.
The simple certainty in his voice warms something deep inside me.
“I know.”
My hand remains where it is, neither of us seeming inclined to break the fragile stillness that has settled over the room.
Maps cover the obsidian desk, filled with forgotten tunnels and hidden spires, every line leading toward answers we have yet to uncover.
As I look between the city drawn in silver ink and the man standing beside me, it strikes me that somewhere over the course of the evening we stopped carrying this burden separately.
Somehow, without either of us noticing when it happened, it has become ours.