31. Calla
CALLA
My trembling fingers remain locked with Rothgar’s even in the silence of the ruined temple.
The warmth of his hand anchors me, and even now, I can still feel echoes of him beneath my skin. He carried the quiet ache of centuries spent alone, the steadfast devotion he carried without speaking, the fear that has shadowed him since the day he found me in the garden.
I had always seen the certainty of his love in the quiet things he did. Feeling the full measure of it within the storm leaves me struggling to draw a steady breath.
My heart has barely recovered from everything the storm revealed when I am reminded that we are not alone. Hundreds of eyes remain fixed upon the scorched circle where Rothgar and I stand, waiting to see what their king will do next.
King Asmodeus descends the steps of the dais with measured purpose, his eyes fixed upon the blackened circle surrounding us.
No one dares disturb the silence as he approaches.
Lords and ladies who moments ago stood frozen by the storm now seem to hold even their breathing, waiting for the judgment only their king can give.
Each deliberate footstep echoes through the shattered sanctuary until the sound becomes almost unbearable. My pulse keeps time with it. Rothgar’s hand remains steady around mine, but I cannot stop wondering what sentence those measured strides are carrying toward us.
“Lies!”
A cry rips through the silence before the King reaches us.
Lord Malakor surges from the gathered court, his robes sweeping wildly behind him. Gone is the polished composure he carried through every banquet and council meeting. Fury has stripped it away, exposing desperation that grows more visible with every hurried breath.
He points a shaky finger directly at me.
“This is the work of this human woman’s sorcery!
” he bellows, his voice echoing against the temple walls.
“She has bewitched him. She has poisoned the sacred ritual and ensnared Lord Stromgarde’s mind.
This... this union is a mockery of our traditions, a corruption of the storm itself, and treason against our—”
Rothgar’s voice cuts cleanly through the outburst. “He speaks of treason because he has perfected the art.”
His voice remains even, yet it carries through the temple with the same irresistible force the storm had only moments ago.
His hand never leaves mine as he steps in front of me. The movement is instinctive, born of the same unwavering resolve that has guided every choice he has made since I entered his life, and I find comfort in the broad line of his shoulders standing between me and Malakor’s fury.
Malakor’s face drains of what little color remains. “You dare accuse me?” he demands.
“I do,” comes Rothgar’s even reply.
There isn’t a trace of hesitation in his voice.
After standing within his heart, I recognize the certainty beneath those two words.
He is no longer carrying this accusation out of duty alone.
Every choice that brought us here was made because he could not allow innocent lives to remain beneath Malakor’s hand.
The storm revealed how deeply compassion has always lived beneath his restraint, and now I hear it in every calm syllable he speaks.
Rothgar raises his free hand, and silver lightning coils around his fingers before gathering into a solid shape. The glow fades as quickly as it came, leaving the familiar black data-slate resting in his palm as if he’d carried it there all along.
Recognition sweeps across Malakor’s face, and the confidence he wore begins to fracture beneath unmistakable fear.
Rothgar guides us toward King Asmodeus before coming to a respectful halt a few paces away.
“My King.” He bows his head before extending the slate. “I submit evidence gathered over several weeks regarding Lord Malakor’s activities beneath the western district.”
King Asmodeus accepts the slate without a word and begins reading. The temple grows so still that the faint crackle of stormlight seems unnaturally loud, while Malakor watches with the strained stillness of a man waiting for judgment.
I search the King’s face for some sign that the evidence has moved him, but his expression reveals nothing. He reads with the same impenetrable composure he has carried since entering the temple, giving no indication of what conclusions he is drawing.
His gaze travels methodically across every page Cora Bell and I painstakingly assembled, to the evidence Commander Vhoros and his men have gathered.
I know every page by heart. The names of the missing, transport ledgers, diagrams showing lightning redirected into weapons the Crown never sanctioned, records of crystals diverted from the royal stores—every piece of evidence Rothgar insisted we gather before making our accusation now rests in the King’s hands.
Malakor’s mouth opens, then closes again, searching for words that refuse to come. His gaze darts across the gathered court, lingering on familiar faces that suddenly offer no refuge. At last, he lurches a step forward.
“My King,” he blurts, his voice cracking as he takes an unsteady step forward.
His gaze darts toward the gathered nobles as though searching for someone willing to support him, but every face remains fixed upon the King.
“Those documents have been fabricated. The human forged them. She manipulated Lord Stromgarde from the beginning. She sought influence the moment she entered his household.”
King Asmodeus allows Malakor’s frantic protest to dissolve unanswered into the silence before turning the final page.
Only then does he lower the slate and look directly at him.
Whatever Malakor sees in the King’s face drains the last of his composure.
His shoulders sag, and he sinks to one knee with none of the practiced dignity he usually carries.
“My King...” His voice has become painfully thin. “I have served the Crown faithfully for centuries.”
The King’s attention shifts from Malakor to me. I expect the weight of that gaze to make me shrink beneath it, yet Rothgar’s hand remains wrapped around mine, and I discover I have no desire to lower my eyes.
The storm has already stripped every secret from our hearts. Nothing Malakor says can persuade this court to doubt what they experienced for themselves.
King Asmodeus’s gaze shifts downward for a moment, settling upon our joined hands before returning to my face.
I brace myself for the familiar disdain reserved for humans, but it never arrives. Whatever judgment fills the King’s silence, it is not rooted in contempt.
Something shifts behind the King’s unreadable expression as his gaze moves from Rothgar to our joined hands.
I can’t pretend to know the thoughts of a ruler who has worn the Crown for centuries, but I recognize the careful consideration in his eyes.
Malakor’s betrayal is only one piece of what stands before him now.
The storm has revealed a truth no courtly argument can undo, and I suspect the King is already weighing what it means for his kingdom that his most trusted lord has bound his future to a human.