27. Calla
CALLA
Rain taps against the tall windows of Rothgar’s study, soft enough that it barely disturbs the silence wrapped around us. The storm has settled into a steady rhythm, no longer the furious tempest that had battered the spire day after day.
I stand before his desk with both palms resting against its polished edge.
Each passing day has added another report to Rothgar's desk and another name to our growing list. Commander Vhoros's observations of the abandoned western spire sit beside the list of names Cora and I gathered over the past few days.
Military precision shares space with careful handwriting and the stories of families whose lives have quietly intersected with this investigation.
The contrast feels strangely fitting. Rothgar searched for answers through patrol routes and forgotten buildings.
I found mine by listening to people willing to trust a familiar face.
Now those paths meet here, where every name belongs to someone who had a life, long before Lord Malakor reduced them to an asset.
Warmth spreads across my back as Rothgar slips an arm around my waist. His chin brushes lightly against my temple while he studies the papers with me, as though standing beside one another has become the most natural thing in the world.
I lean into him without thinking. Once, I searched every glance and every touch for hidden meaning. Somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering. Being close has become enough.
His gaze falls on the list beneath my hand.
“Cora Bell has done remarkable work,” he says.
“Commander Vhoros’ scouts have as well.”
He nods. “They’ve given us far more than either could have alone.”
I wish I found the thought reassuring.
My eyes drift back to the names before I ask the question that’s been weighing on me .
“Will it be enough?”
Rothgar’s arm tightens around me before he says, “No.”
I let out a slow breath.
“It gives us considerably more than we had, but Malakor will still have room to fight.”
The honesty stings, even as I find myself grateful for it. Turning within the shelter of his arm, I meet his eyes.
“Then tell me what he’ll do.”
He unfolds one of the larger maps across the desk.
“Malakor won’t waste his time disputing the evidence,” he says, tracing a slow path across the parchment. “He’ll attack the people presenting it.”
My stomach tightens before he continues.
“When I accuse Lord Malakor of treason, he’ll make you the true subject of the trial.”
“Me?”
“He’ll tell the court you manipulated me from the beginning.
” His voice remains even, though a harder edge slips beneath it.
“Our marriage becomes part of the scheme. Your first audience with me becomes premeditated. Every decision I made afterward becomes proof that you gained influence inside my household for his benefit.”
His finger moves toward the western district.
“The witnesses will be dismissed as coached. Commander Vhoros investigation will become another consequence of your influence rather than an independent inquiry.”
I stare at the map without really seeing it. “So I become the story.”
His eyes meet mine with a slow nod of his head.
“And it’s a story many people will be prepared to believe.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Malakor doesn’t have to create suspicion. He only has to give old prejudice a convincing shape, and our marriage provides one all too easily.
“I hate that they’ll believe him.”
Rothgar’s hand finds mine, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles.
“Perhaps they will,” he says quietly. “Truth has survived worse.”
I lace my fingers through his.
“Then what do we do?”
Instead of answering, Rothgar crosses to one of the shelves lining the far wall. He returns carrying a narrow cedar box bound in black iron, holding it with a care that tells me it is older than either of us.
He sets it between us.
“I’ve never shown this to anyone,” he says. “My parents completed this rite. My grandparents before them.” His gaze lingers on the worn cedar. “For many years, I believed it would end with them.”
Something inside me stills as he opens the box.
A strip of silver cloth rests upon dark velvet, embroidered with the same silver thread that catches the light like distant lightning.
“We demons have an old tradition,” he says quietly. “A covenant called the Storm-Binding. It predates the Kingdom itself.”
My hand lifts before stopping just above the fabric.
“A ceremony?”
“A covenant,” he corrects gently. “Our marriage exists because the King declared it lawful. This exists beyond any king’s authority.”
I look from the silver cloth back to him.
“What makes it different?”
“The storm itself decides whether the bond is true.” His voice grows quieter. “The rite draws upon the magic shared between two people. If either heart enters it unwillingly, the bond never forms.”
Understanding washes over me. “So no one could claim I deceived you.”
“They could claim it,” he replies. “The Storm-Binding would answer them.”
No argument or evidence before the King’s court could ever carry the weight of this.
This is something infinitely more personal—a piece of his family’s history, placed in my hands without hesitation.
He isn’t asking whether I’ll help him win.
He’s asking whether I’ll choose the life we’ve begun building together.
My hand rises to his cheek, and he leans into my touch with a quiet ease that makes my chest ache.
“A shield for a season,” I say.
“I was trying very hard to sound practical,” he admits, an almost sheepish smile touching his mouth.
“I believed you needed a wife.” My thumb brushes lightly across his cheek. “But perhaps you were looking for something you hadn’t yet found the courage to ask for.”
For so long our marriage had felt borrowed, stitched together out of necessity. Somewhere between shared meals, quiet conversations, and every choice to trust instead of retreat, it became something neither of us had expected.
“So much has changed,” I whisper. “I thought I came to your gardens looking for protection. I don't think that’s what I’ve wanted all this time…”
“I know,” he says softly. “And I was not looking for a wife.”
Looking into his eyes, I realize my heart already knows the answer. All that’s left is for him to ask the question.
“If this is truly what you want,” I say, my fingers tightening around his, “then don't ask me as the woman who offered you a bargain in your gardens. Ask me as the woman you love.”
Wonder softens the careful restraint he wears so easily, giving way to a hope so open that it steals the breath from my lungs.
He turns my hand over and presses a lingering kiss against my knuckles.
“Calla Alder,” he says softly, “will you bind your life to mine? Will you stand beside me because this is the future we both choose? Because every road worth walking is one I want to walk with you?”
My answer comes without hesitation.
“Yes.”
The word has barely left my lips before he closes the last trace of distance between us.
His kiss is gentle, carrying all the unspoken truth certainty that has brought us here. My fingers slide into his hair, and when we finally part, his forehead rests against mine as we share the same breath, smiling into the silence.