24. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
Iwatch her leave without calling her back.
The door closes softly behind her, yet the sound lingers through my study long after her footsteps have faded beyond the corridor. The silence she leaves behind, fills the room more completely than any raised voice could have managed.
My plans remain spread across the strategy table exactly where we left them, their edges held flat beneath brass weights and sealed reports, but I find myself staring at them without seeing a single line.
Calla came here asking me to save her people. She leaves convinced I have chosen caution over them, and although I know why I made the decision I did, that knowledge offers little comfort.
The thought follows me as relentlessly as the storm pressing against the windows.
Every argument I offered her remains sound.
Acting now would hand Malakor exactly what he requires—a reckless assault upon a noble house without evidence capable of surviving the scrutiny of the King’s court.
One misstep would fracture the alliances holding the spires together and give every ambitious lord reason to question the Crown’s authority.
Knowing that does little to quiet the memory of her voice.
What good is your power if you will not use it to save them?
The question lingers because I have asked it of myself more than once over the course of my life.
Power has never been measured by how quickly it can be wielded.
A ruler who answers every injustice with force soon becomes another tyrant, yet caution carried beyond its proper place leaves innocent people to suffer while justice waits upon procedure.
Every lord eventually discovers the narrow ground between those failures. It is now my turn to walk it.
I have delayed long enough.
I reach outward with my thoughts on a current of stormlight until I find the familiar presence of Captain Dresk, one of my most trusted guards.
Captain Dresk.
His response brushes against my mind without delay, disciplined as ever.
My lord.
Report to my study.
At once.
Barely a minute passes before the doors open once more.
The captain enters without hesitation, his dark armor still carrying the faint scent of rain from the outer walls. He bows once before lifting his head.
“Effective immediately, double the watch surrounding Malakor’s territory. Rotate patrols at irregular intervals. I want additional observers stationed along every decommissioned conduit route leading toward the western district.”
Dresk studies the map only briefly, committing it to memory.
“You believe he’ll move.”
“I believe he suspects we are closing in.”
Dresk says nothing, but I recognize the question he leaves unspoken.
“I want to know of anyone who enters or exits those works,” I continue. “Do not interfere unless lives are in immediate danger. We cannot afford to reveal our surveillance just yet.”
“I’ll see to it personally,” he replies.
I give a single nod. “Good.”
He turns toward the door before I stop him.
“Dresk.”
He looks back immediately.
“There can be no mistakes.”
His gaze steadies. “There won’t be, my lord.”
The doors close behind him, leaving me alone with the maps and the weight of decisions no one else can make for me. I stay where I am until the walls themselves begin to feel confining, then make my way upward through the spire.
I step onto the battlements beneath the cover of night.
The wind catches at my cloak, carrying the familiar scent of approaching storms across the city’s countless towers. Lightning flickers somewhere beyond the mountains, illuminating the crimson clouds gathering along the horizon before darkness claims them once more.
The battlements have always given me room enough to think, yet the wind sweeping across the spires carries away none of the thoughts that follow me from the study. I pace the length of the western wall, my mind circling the same conversation.
Could I have spoken differently?
Perhaps.
Would different words have altered the decision before me?
No.
Every instinct tells me the hidden lightning-works were never intended to remain concealed indefinitely.
They exist because Malakor believes himself close enough to success that discovery no longer concerns him.
If I strike too early and fail to expose the full extent of his conspiracy, the court will reduce the matter to politics before the evidence can speak for itself.
I return to find my study darker, the hearth reduced to glowing embers.
I cross to my desk, draw a fresh sheet of cipher parchment from the drawer, and compose an encrypted request for the earliest audience the Crown will grant. The matter can no longer wait for our next scheduled council.
After reading the message once more, I seal it within storm wards only the King will be able to break and send a courier on his way. The request is necessary, though it does little to ease the certainty that time is slipping steadily into Malakor’s hands.
I watch the courier disappear into the corridor with the sealed dispatch in hand. The request is necessary, but necessity has become a poor substitute for certainty, and I find myself wondering how many more hours Malakor will use before the King and I are finally standing on the same battlefield.
Before returning to my chambers, I make one final detour through the infirmary.
The healers scarcely acknowledge my arrival. They have long since learned that I come here to observe rather than interrupt.
Several beds remain occupied by laborers injured maintaining the city’s conduits after last week’s storm surge. Among them lies a human mason whose forearms bear fresh lightning burns despite every precaution my engineers require.
I remain beside the bed while the physician works, studying the burns left by an honest accident and finding myself unable to separate them from the injuries Calla described beneath the forgotten spire.
The resemblance hardens my resolve. When this is over, Malakor’s work must be dismantled so completely that no one will ever rebuild it beneath another forgotten district.
When I finally return to my chambers, moonlight has taken the place of the hearth fire, spilling across the floor until it catches upon Calla's lute resting beside the window.
Its case still rests beside the window where she left it before everything between us became tangled beneath duty and fear. Dust has yet to gather upon the polished leather. One silver clasp catches the moonlight spilling through the glass.
I kneel beside it before I fully realize what I am doing.
My fingertips brush the worn handle she has carried across markets, noble halls, and city streets long before our paths crossed.
The instrument has always represented the part of her that refuses to surrender to the world around her.
Wherever Calla goes, she leaves behind the quiet conviction that something broken can still be mended.
I did not recognize how deeply that belief had woven itself into these chambers until tonight, when her absence leaves them feeling colder than the stone from which they were built.
Somewhere along the way, I began believing I could shield that part of her from the world beyond these walls. Looking at the lute now, I find myself confronting the arrogance of that belief.
My hand lingers against the worn leather of its case while the chambers settle into silence around me.
I cannot shake the feeling that whatever fragile harmony Calla and I had begun to build has been stretched taut beneath the weight of duty, each passing day testing whether it will endure or finally give way.