28. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
The Storm Temple has stood at the highest point in Ti’lith longer than any living demon remembers.
Even the oldest spires seem to bow toward it. Every stone carries the weight of power older than kingdoms, and entering its halls has always felt less like crossing a threshold than stepping into the presence of something awake.
I climb the final flight of black stone steps while dawn struggles through the storm above. Lightning washes the towering facade in brief flashes of silver. The city has scarcely begun to wake, yet the temple never truly sleeps. Charged air hums with centuries of devotion.
By this time tomorrow, Calla and I will stand before the storm itself.
The sanctuary lies deep within the mountain-spire, dark walls threaded with living currents that drift beneath the stone like trapped lightning. At its center hangs the ceremonial focus.
A flawless crystal nearly twice my height floats between four storm-metal pillars. Pale lightning wanders through its depths before disappearing into impossible distance. The power gathered within it is immense, held in perfect restraint.
The measured sound of footsteps draws my attention.
High Priestess Nyrra crosses the polished floor with the calm assurance of someone who has walked this path for centuries. Deep crimson robes fall around her slender frame, embroidered silver lightning catching the crystal's shifting light. Her spiraling horns frame an ageless face.
She bows her head, “Lord Stromgarde.”
“High Priestess,” I greet, returning the gesture.
Her gaze lingers on the crystal before settling on me.
“You have chosen to proceed,” she says, quiet approval slipping beneath her measured tone.
I have not yet spoken my intention, yet the priestess already knows.
She studies me in thoughtful silence. Few understand the Storm-Binding more completely than Nyrra. If uncertainty exists, she has learned to recognize it before words give it shape.
“The woman understands what the rite demands?” she asks before stepping away to circle me.
I remain still. “She does.”
“And she accepted freely?”
“Without hesitation.”
She nods once then turns back toward the crystal.
“The storm has witnessed every covenant sworn beneath this ceiling,” the High Priestess says, resting one weathered hand against the nearest pillar.
Lightning stirs beneath the crystal. “Kings have come and gone beneath its gaze. Ambition and deception have never swayed it. It will take what is truly in your heart, Lord Stromgarde, and show it to the world.”
The warning settles quietly between us.
For centuries, I mistook distance for strength. Calla unraveled that certainty one impossible conversation at a time. If the storm strips away whatever remains, I will stand before it willingly.
“There is nothing left that I wish to hide from her,” I say.
Something softens in the High Priestess’s expression. “Then you are ready.”
She folds her hands within her sleeves.
“The temple will complete its preparations before sunset.”
I dip my head. “You have my gratitude, High Priestess.”
“And you have the storm’s blessing.”
Whether she intends those words as reassurance or warning, I cannot tell.
I leave the sanctuary carrying both with me.
Outside, rain drifts steadily through the temple courtyard, softening the sharp edges of black stone. Commander Vhoros waits beneath the western colonnade, his cloak darkened by the weather as though he has been expecting me for some time.
He falls into step beside me as we descend the temple stairs.
“The preparations are underway?” Vhoros asks.
“They will be complete before sunset,” I reply.
He nods once, unsurprised.
“I’ve already begun moving men into position.”
“Good. Keep it quiet,” I remind him. “We don’t want Malakor getting wind of this.”
“Done.”
“Tomorrow gives Malakor one final opportunity,” I say. “He’ll be looking for any weakness we leave exposed.”
Vhoros’s expression hardens in understanding.
“And if something feels wrong...”
“I stop the ceremony,” Vhoros finishes without hesitation. “The priesthood may object afterward, but I’d rather answer to them than explain to Lady Calla why I failed to act.”
“I expect nothing less.”
Vhoros dips his head.
“I’ll see to it personally, my lord.”
We part at the foot of the mountain, Vhoros already issuing orders to the messengers waiting below. Satisfied the temple will remain under quiet watch, I return to Stromgarde.
The metallic gardens glisten beneath the morning rain.
Silver reeds sway beside narrow streams carrying liquid light through carved stone channels. Gold-leafed fronds catch the muted daylight until the entire garden seems woven from living metal.
I cross to the oldest bed of reeds and kneel.
My mother planted these. As a child, I watched her weave silver and gold together while telling me every Storm-Binding began here, long before vows were spoken in the temple.
The circlet is a promise, she had said. The vows are merely the declaration.
Storm magic gathers beneath my hands. The reeds bend without breaking, weaving themselves into a circlet unlike any that has existed before. That is the tradition. Every one reflects the heart of the person who shaped it.
When the final strand finds its place, I lift the circlet carefully from the garden.
Tomorrow we will stand before the storm. Today, I want Calla to know she already carries a place within my world.
The circlet remains warm in my hands as I leave the gardens. Servants move quietly through the corridors preparing for tomorrow's ceremony, unaware of what it truly means. I find Calla waiting by the window.
She stands watching the rain drift across the gardens below, one hand resting lightly against the stone frame. The sound of the door closing draws her attention, and she turns with the easy smile that has become as familiar to me as the storm itself.
Her eyes drop to my hands and curiosity replaces her smile.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as I cross the room. “What’s that in your hands?”
I have spoken on behalf of my House for centuries, never questioning whether the right words would come. Standing before Calla with a simple circlet in my hands demands far more courage than addressing a royal court ever has.
I hold it out to her.
“I made this for you.”
She accepts it with both hands, her fingertips brushing carefully across the woven reeds.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A circlet is traditionally given before the rite,” I explain. “It isn’t required, but I wanted you to have it.”
She looks up at me, her brows furrowed with curiosity and astonishment.
“You made this yourself.”
A quiet smile finds me.
“My mother taught me when I was young.” My eyes return to hers. “It felt wrong to give you one fashioned by someone else's hands.”
Without thinking, my hands circle around hers.
“May I?”
She nods. Carefully, I lift it from her hands and place it upon her brow. The woven reeds of silver and gold resting among her blond waves as though they have always belonged there.
“It suits you,” I say softly, surprised by how inadequate the words sound.
Calla reaches up to touch it, smiling with a warmth that leaves my carefully prepared composure in ruins.
“It means more because you made it.”
She steps closer. “Thank you,” she whispers before rising to her toes to kiss me.
There is nothing hurried about it.
She lingers, and I feel her gratitude, her affection, and every unspoken promise between us in the gentle way her lips move against mine. When we part, her forehead rests lightly against mine, the circlet glimmering softly at the edge of my vision.
“I’ll wear it tomorrow,” she says softly.
“I had hoped you would.”
Outside, rain continues to fall over Ti’lith, washing rooftops, gardens, and temple spires beneath the same quiet storm.
Tomorrow, the kingdom will witness the Storm-Binding. For now, I stand beside the woman who has already become my home.