Page 2 of Severe Husband Warning

His ash-pale hair is swept back from iron-dark horns that curve sharply toward his temples. Storm-light catches against the severe lines of his profile before disappearing into the black fabric of his coat. Around him, conversations continue, alliances are forged and abandoned in hushed exchanges, yet he remains perfectly still, untouched by the current carrying everyone else through the room.

I’ve heard enough stories to recognize him before anyone speaks his name.

Lord Rothgar Stromgarde.

A spire lord whose name is spoken with careful respect, even among the highest houses.

The King’s enforcer.

Across the hall, his storm-grey eyes rest on me.

The realization catches me off guard.

The nobles around him continue their conversations, but his attention never leaves me. His expression reveals nothing. If he has a reason for watching, he gives no hint of it.

Our eyes meet for only a fraction of a second. Then, with unhurried precision, he inclines his head.

The gesture is so slight I almost miss it.

My pulse stumbles anyway.

In a hall where every glance has either dismissed me or looked through me, that quiet acknowledgment feels far more dangerous than the steward’s open contempt.

A broad-shouldered demon in dark military leathers strides across the hall toward Lord Stromgarde, his scarred jaw set beneath a neatly trimmed beard. He leans in to speak, and Rothgar turns his attention to him without another glance in my direction. Whatever passed between us is swallowed by the quiet exchange as completely as my music had been moments before.

I shift the lute higher against my shoulder and draw a grounding breath.

Perhaps I’d imagined more in the gesture than was ever there.

It hardly matters. Lord Rothgar Stromgarde will return to matters fit for a spire lord, and I have far more pressing concerns than puzzling over the manners of a demon noble.

Keeping to the edges of the hall, I make my way toward the towering obsidian doors. Servants pass me carrying fresh bottles of crimson wine while others clear away untouched platters from tables groaning beneath roasted meats, glazed fruits, and pastries dusted with silver sugar. The feast rolls on around me without pause. By tomorrow, no one in this hall will remember who played tonight.

Cool air washes over me as I exit the heavy double doors, carrying the dry scent of red earth and distant rain.

I step onto the terrace overlooking Ti’lith.

The city stretches across the rocky plateau in layers of black stone and towering spires, their needle-like peaks reaching toward a sky alive with restless lightning. Crimson dust skims across the streets below whenever the wind rises, gathering in corners before scattering again. Even after a lifetime here, the storms never seem to exhaust themselves.

I descend the broad staircase leading from Lord Malakor’s estate, the sounds of the banquet fading with every step until they’re replaced by the steady whistle of wind between the stone buildings.

I slip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around the coins before letting my hand fall to my side. They’re light enough to carry without effort, yet they weigh on me all the same—a quiet reminder of what my music is worth in a city that has long since decided humans like me are useful only until the last note fades.

Tomorrow I’ll find another steward. Another hall. Another audience willing to spare a few copper dalers.

I have to, because Father’s medicine won’t wait.

2

ROTHGAR

Lightning forks across the sky beyond my balcony, illuminating the red plains beneath Ti’lith before darkness claims them again. The storms have circled Galmoleth for longer than memory serves, weaving their paths into the heavens with the same relentless patience that shaped the spires rising from the stone below. I have watched them from this balcony for centuries, and they have never once surprised me.

The parchment resting on the balustrade shifts beneath the wind. It bears the King’s seal, though the message itself is brief.

A united court endures where divided houses invite weakness.

King Asmodeus has never wasted ink stating what he can imply. Others mistake that habit for subtlety. But it is nothing of the sort. He expects those serving beneath him to recognize instruction without requiring it to be spelled across a page.