Page 27 of Severe Husband Warning

“The Jensens,” she continues when my silence tells her nothing. “They’ve kept a weaving stall for years. This morning it was abandoned.”

I move behind my desk, gathering the audit documents into a neat stack before they drift across the polished surface.

“Families leave during tithe-season,” I tell her dismissively.

“They do,” she agrees, catching me slightly off-guard. “But this wasn’t the same.”

She takes another step into the room, the urgency finally slipping into her voice.

“Their looms were still set up. The cloth hadn't been cut free. Even their tools were left behind. No weaver walks away from work like that.”

Her eyes search mine, waiting for me to see why those details matter.

“Humans are a transient population,” I reply. “Work shifts. Opportunities disappear. Families relocate between spires more often than you seem willing to acknowledge.”

A muscle in her jaw ticks. She catches herself before taking another step, fingers curling briefly against the iron ring at her throat. “I’m not talking about families who chose to leave.”

“You’re drawing that conclusion from one man’s suspicion.”

“From an entire market that’s frightened enough to whisper instead of speak.”

I study her for a moment. Fear has always spread faster than truth, particularly where uncertainty already exists.

“The human districts endure shortages every season,” I say, trying to reason with her. “Rumors thrive in conditions like that.”

“This isn’t a rumor,” she insists, holding my gaze.

I hear the conviction in her voice. Conviction, however sincere, is not evidence.

“I understand you feel strongly about this, but it is not presently a matter requiring my intervention.”

Whatever she hoped to find in my answer quietly slips away. I see it in the way her shoulders lose a measure of their resolve, showing her disappointment.

Her fingers close once around the iron ring at her throat before falling still.

“I understand,” she says softly, the words carrying perfect courtesy, not agreement. “Forgive the interruption, my lord.”

I watch her leave until the study falls quiet once more.

The latch settles into place behind her, and my attention returns to the reports waiting upon the desk.

Ignis’s inspection remains unfinished. My responsibilities have not changed.

Yet as my fingers brush the waiting documents, my thoughts return to Calla’s departure instead.

The absence of another argument lingers longer than the conversation itself.

13

CALLA

Several days slip quietly into one another before my name appears upon another carefully arranged schedule.

Lady Stromgarde is expected to attend the King’s Midstorm Gala.

The words stare back at me from the enchanted slate while two attendants fuss around my chambers, pinning fabric, adjusting hems, and fastening jeweled clasps. I stand where they place me, lifting an arm whenever requested, feeling less like a woman than someone being carefully arranged for display.

The gown belongs to another world.