Page 8 of Severe Husband Warning

Until this morning, our debt had been measured in dalers. Now, every step toward home carries the knowledge that Father has been added to the ledger.

4

ROTHGAR

The royal audience chamber stands at the heart of the King’s spire, where every wall has been carved from black stone polished to a mirror’s sheen. Beyond the towering windows, lightning races endlessly through the skies of Galmoleth, feeding the colossal conduits anchored into the mountainside. Their restrained power hums beneath the chamber’s floor, a constant reminder that kingdoms endure because someone possesses the strength to command chaos rather than fear it.

I have always appreciated the sentiment.

King Asmodeus occupies the obsidian throne overlooking the chamber, a colossal presence seated with the effortless authority of one who has ruled longer than memory serves.

His dark, spiraling horns rise toward the vaulted ceiling like extensions of the black spires themselves, framing storm-grey eyes that possess the same ancient, unblinking fury as the lightning raging beyond the windows. A crown wrought from black lightning-forged iron rests upon his brow, each jagged point echoing the skyline of Ti’lith, while every deliberate movement carries the impossible weight of a mountain deciding to shift.

The King’s eyes find little amusement in ceremony.

Nor do mine.

Lord Malakor stands several paces to my left.

“...House Stromgarde has served the Crown with unquestioned loyalty for generations,” Malakor says smoothly. “No lord in this court doubts Lord Rothgar’s devotion to Galmoleth.”

His compliment arrives exactly where I expected it. Praise offered before the request.

“My concern,” he continues, inclining his head toward the throne, “is that loyalty deserves stability. Strong houses preserve kingdoms most effectively when they are united.”

Silence spreads across the chamber as his words find their mark. He has rehearsed this moment carefully, dressing naked ambition in the language of duty until even self-interest sounds like service to the Crown.

“My niece,” Malakor announces, “has reached an age where she may strengthen such unity. She possesses both education and temperament befitting House Stromgarde.”

At last.

The proposal has shed its disguises.

For weeks he has circled the matter with carefully chosen conversations and chance encounters in the noble forum, each one laying another stone toward this moment. The woman herself is almost incidental. Had he offered a daughter, a cousin, or a sister, the purpose would remain unchanged. Marriage is merely the mechanism by which he intends to place a hand upon my House.

King Asmodeus offers no immediate response.

His gaze lands upon me with the same patient stillness that has broken greater lords than either of us. I have watched entire delegations unravel beneath that silence, convincing themselves they could improve upon whatever answer they first intended to give. The King rarely interrupts. He simply waits until ambition does the speaking for them.

Centuries beneath his rule have taught me the value of restraint.

Malakor remains outwardly composed, though expectation has found its way into the rigid line of his posture. He has arranged the board carefully enough that every obvious response appears to favor him. A refusal risks insulting both him and, by extension, the King’s desire for unity. Acceptance grants him influence over House Stromgarde for generations.

He believes there are only two moves left to me.

“My king,” I finally say, inclining my head toward the throne before acknowledging Malakor in turn, “Lord Malakor honors my House with generous consideration. My responsibilities have grown considerably since the eastern lightning conduits required reconstruction. Storm-tithes have doubled across three districts, while the border fortifications continue demanding men and resources.”

I let the words settle between us instead of rushing to my conclusion. The King’s court rewards restraint more often than eloquence, and there is little value in sounding eager to refuse a proposal that has not yet been formally accepted.

“A household deserves a lord capable of giving it his full attention. Until those obligations have eased, I cannot divide mine without failing both my House and the Crown.”

The silence that follows is familiar, but it no longer belongs solely to the King. It spreads through the chamber as every noble present weighs my answer against the proposal that prompted it. I have neither accepted nor rejected the alliance. I have merely placed duty where politics expected sentiment, leaving Malakor with nothing substantial enough to challenge before the throne.

Across the chamber, his courteous smile survives another heartbeat before the strain beneath it becomes almost visible. He understands the answer well enough. I have declined without denying him the respect required by protocol, leaving him no avenue for open objection while the King watches.

For today, that is enough.

King Asmodeus studies me with the same ancient patience.