23. Calla
CALLA
Two days have passed since Rothgar pulled me away from the abandoned lightning-works, yet the memory refuses to loosen its grip. I still see burned hands reaching for another crystal and Old Man Theron straining beneath a burden no one his age should have been forced to carry.
Maps still cover the strategy table where they have remained for the better part of two days, joined now by ledgers, supply manifests, and reports bearing the royal seal.
Every morning brings another stack. Every evening ends the same way, with Rothgar bent over them long after darkness settles beyond the windows.
I told myself to be patient. I watched Rothgar and Commander Vhoros gather reports, trace shipments, and disappear into meetings that stretched long into the night. Each morning, I hoped they had finally reached the moment when planning would give way to action.
It never came.
“They’re still down there.” The words leave me quieter than I had aimed for.
Rothgar doesn’t look up immediately. His attention remains fixed on the report spread before him as he finishes reading the final lines. Only then does he set it aside with deliberate care.
“I know.”
“No.” My hand curls around the back of the chair. “You know they’re there. That isn’t the same thing.”
His eyes meet mine.
“Don’t we have enough guards to seize the lower district before sunset? We know where they’re being held.” The urgency creeps into my voice despite my efforts to restrain it. “Every hour we wait gives Malakor another chance to hurt them. We should be bringing them home.”
He studies me in silence, as if weighing whether there is any version of this conversation that ends without hurting either of us.
“I have already increased surveillance around every known entrance.”
“Then let them go in,” I insist, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. “What are we waiting for? March through those gates. Tear the place apart if you have to.”
Something shifts behind Rothgar’s eyes. It isn't anger exactly, but the patience that has carried him through every one of my questions finally reaches its limit.
“And start a civil war based on the word of a human?”
His voice is stripped of every trace of the gentleness I have grown accustomed to these past weeks, leaving only the measured authority of the Spire Lord addressing a problem no amount of compassion can solve.
The warmth that has come so naturally between us gives way to the distance his title creates. I know the man who shared my bed still stands before me, yet at this moment, he is beyond my reach.
The realization hurts more than I expect. I understand why he must answer as a ruler whose decisions carry the lives of an entire kingdom, yet I hear them as a woman standing before the man she loves.
“My word,” I repeat softly. “My testimony is not enough.”
“It is not about you.”
“It feels very much like it.”
He exhales through his nose before walking toward the strategy table. One hand grips its edge as though grounding his thoughts.
“If I move against one of the King’s most powerful lords without evidence capable of surviving public scrutiny, every noble house will call it political ambition disguised as justice.”
“They’ll be alive,” I counter. “They can’t deny the people working beneath the spire.”
“Malakor’s men will manipulate everything. They will say the workers were hired willingly. They will destroy records, produce witnesses prepared to swear whatever Malakor pays them to swear.”
He says it with such steely composure that the words chill me more than the possibilities themselves.
I stare at him in disbelief.
“How can you say that so easily?”
He doesn't answer immediately. For an instant, he looks older than I’ve ever seen him, memory carrying him somewhere I can't follow.
“Because I have watched it happen before.” His answer comes just as quietly. “I know exactly how the court will respond because I have spent centuries watching powerful men escape consequences through procedure.”
He steps closer, his expression softening just enough that I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the office he carries.
“I need evidence they cannot dismiss,” he says quietly.
“We already have evidence,” I reply, struggling to understand how he cannot see it.
He gives a slow shake of his head. “I need proof the King can act upon without dividing the realm. If I move too soon and fail...” His voice trails away before he finishes the thought. “Malakor walks free.”
“And if you wait,” I whisper, struggling to keep my voice steady, “my people die.”
Saying the words aloud makes them feel even heavier. Somewhere beneath the city, time continues to pass whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.
The study grows unbearably still around us, broken only by the distant crackle of stormlight beyond the windows.
“I have men tracking every crystal shipment entering Malakor’s territory,” Rothgar says at last. “Vhoros has identified officers willing to testify. We’re following the supply routes back through the conduit network. Every piece strengthens the case.”
Every word is measured with the same care he brings to every battle plan. I understand he’s trying to build something Malakor cannot escape—a case strong enough that no one will be able to bury it beneath politics or procedure.
Even knowing that, my thoughts refuse to leave the people hidden beneath the abandoned spire.
Those memories drown out every strategy Rothgar places before me.
“They are dying.” My voice cracks before I finish the sentence. “That should be the only proof that matters.”
Rothgar closes his eyes for the space of a single breath.
When he looks at me again, grief lingers there alongside the impossible weight of responsibility, and for one fragile moment I think he might finally tell me to gather my cloak because we’re leaving together.
“What good is your power,” I ask, “if you will not use it to save them?”
He doesn’t answer.
I search his face for some sign that he might change his mind, but the quiet resolve in his expression never wavers. The silence he leaves between us carries more certainty than any words could have.
I understand then that nothing I say will persuade him to move before he believes the time is right.
Disappointment washes over me, filling spaces I hadn’t realized hope had claimed. I never expected mercy from Malakor. Somehow, I’d believed I would find it here.
I lower my gaze before he can see the tears beginning to gather and turn toward the door. The corridor beyond has never seemed so quiet.
I leave his study feeling more alone than I ever have.