Page 53 of Severe Husband Warning

Cora begins naming the families she knows, speaking slowly enough that I can keep pace with my writing. The Jensens. Theron. Mira’s husband. Two brothers who worked the grain lifts before disappearing within days of each other.

None of them stand out because of who they were. They stand out because this quarter notices when one of its own fails to come home.

If someone remembers the day they vanished, what they were carrying, whether anyone approached them beforehand—anything that felt ordinary at the time—we write it down.

We spend the next hours filling the parchment together, separating idle gossip from memories worth preserving. With every name we add, it becomes easier to imagine how Cora’s quiet conversations might strengthen the case Rothgar is trying to build.

The King’s court may demand evidence, but evidence begins with people whose stories are remembered clearly enough that no one can pretend they never existed.

“I’ll start today,” she continues. “Quietly. No one needs to know why I’m asking.”

Emotion catches unexpectedly in my throat.

One person’s memory might be doubted, and a single account may be challenged, but it is far harder to dismiss an entire community remembering the same disappearances, the same dates, and the same empty places left behind.

A quiet sense of purpose fills me as I fold the finished parchment.

The distance between Rothgar and me still aches like an unhealed bruise. I miss him with a force that surprises me, and I hate that our first real fracture came only after we finally learned how to stand beside one another.

But grief and love are poor reasons to stop moving.

I cradle the mug between my hands, listening to the market continue around us with its familiar rhythm. It is strange how ordinary the world can seem while so much suffering remains hidden beneath it.

The names waiting on the parchment between Cora and me are a quiet reminder of everyone still missing.

This is the work I can do. So this is where I begin.

26

ROTHGAR

Iforce myself through the morning's work, reviewing reports, tracing supply routes, and studying maps that blur together before my eyes. By the time I set the last parchment aside, I realize I cannot recall a single detail of what I have just read.

The reports from Commander Vhoros lie open before me beside the map of Malakor's decommissioned western spire, every known entrance already under discreet surveillance.

The investigation continues. Every precaution has been taken, yet my thoughts refuse to remain on the work before me. They return instead to Calla—to the hurt she never tried to hide.

She had met my decision with quiet acceptance, and somehow, that had cut deeper than anger ever could have. She believed I would stand beside her. I answered that faith by asking her to stand behind me.

I had mistaken it for discipline. Now, I recognize it for what it was.

Fear.

I leave the study and make for her chambers.

My knock goes unanswered.

Unease follows me across the threshold as I step inside. The bed has been made, her cloak is gone, and the room carries only the fading trace of lavender she always leaves behind. The emptiness hits me with startling force.

I had convinced myself I was protecting her from Malakor, from court politics, from the danger gathering beneath the western spire. Yet none of those fears had truly driven me.

I had been afraid of losing her.

And in trying to keep her safe, I nearly caged the very woman whose courage had changed me.

We were never meant to fight this separately.

Closing my eyes, I reach for the bond between us.