Page 11 of Severe Husband Warning

“You intend to take him?”

“The debt will be collected in accordance with the laws of Galmoleth,” he replies without hesitation.

“He won’t survive labor service.”

“His condition has already been considered in the assessment.”

There isn’t a trace of malice in his voice, and somehow, that makes the words even harder to hear.

Behind me, wood creaks as Father forces himself out of bed. One hand grips the edge of the table while the other presses against his chest as he struggles to remain upright.

“You...” He points weakly toward the steward. “You leave my daughter out of⁠—”

The words collapse beneath a violent coughing fit, his body doubling over. Every cough seems to wrench something loose inside his chest. I catch him before he can fall and lower him carefully to the floor.

“It’s all right,” I whisper.

He tries to answer, but the coughing returns. I rub slow circles across his back the way Mother once did, waiting until he can breathe again. His eyes drift away from mine before the words leave his mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

I squeeze his hand and whisper past the ache gathering in my throat, “You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness.”

The steward waits until Father has settled back onto the cot.

“I will return in three days,” he says quietly, then places the writ upon our table with ceremonial precision before inclining his head once more.

I remain where I am until the sound of retreating footsteps disappears into the morning. Beyond our little house, Ti’lith wakes as it always does. Merchants raise their shutters, wagons rumble toward the markets, and another ordinary day begins beneath the storm.

We have three days before Lord Malakor returns.

I write the note with hands that refuse to stay steady.

Theron.

Please stay with Father while I’m gone. I don’t know how long this will take, but I can’t leave him alone today.

—Calla

The neighborhood boy who often carries messages waits outside when I step into the street.

“Can you take this to Old Man Theron for me?”

He nods eagerly.

“I’ll run.”

I press a copper coin into his hand and thank him. He’s already halfway down the street before I finish speaking.

I return inside for my cloak. As I fasten it, I remember Lord Rothgar’s quiet nod across Lord Malakor’s banquet hall. The memory is all I possess, and I can’t afford to ignore even the smallest possibility if it offers Father another chance.

It’s a small thing to build hope upon, but it’s the only reason I know where to walk.

The streets broaden as I leave the human quarter behind. Brick cottages give way to polished avenues where obsidian towers vanish into the storm clouds above. Lightning races through silver conduits wrapped around the spires while demons move past without more than a passing glance.

My worn boots leave faint prints of red dust across stone scrubbed clean each morning.

Demons pass in finely tailored robes, some casting curious glances in my direction before continuing on their way. Most just walk around me with practiced indifference.