Page 25 of Severe Husband Warning

I loosen my grip on the parcel and hold it out to him.

“Would you take these to Father for me?”

Theron accepts the bundle with both hands, careful not to jostle the glass bottles inside.

“I’ll make certain he takes every dose.”

Relief brushes through me so quickly that it almost hurts.

“Thank you.”

He offers a small nod, the sort shared between neighbors who have relied on one another for longer than either can remember. Then he disappears into the crowd, the parcel tucked safely beneath his arm.

I watch until the crowd swallows him completely.

Home is only a few streets away. I could still go.

Father would complain about the bitterness of Cora’s medicine, and I’d pretend not to notice when he tried to hide another coughing fit. For a little while, we could both imagine our lives hadn't changed as completely as they have.

The thought tempts me more than I care to admit.

But if Theron is right, every hour matters.

I turn toward the black towers that rise above the rooftops. The spire no longer resembles the gilded cage I resented only days ago. Instead, it stands like a fortress overlooking the city below, its walls so high that the fear gathering in the market cannot be seen from its windows.

If families are truly vanishing, someone with the authority to act must know.

I don’t know whether Lord Rothgar will believe the fears of an old man who has spent his life watching over his neighbors. I don’t know whether he’ll consider one missing family worth his attention.

Even so, I quicken my pace toward the gates.

He has to hear it from someone.

And if no one else is willing to carry the truth into that fortress, then it will have to be me.

12

ROTHGAR

The scent of ozone hangs heavily through the conduit chamber beneath my study. Silver channels branch across the obsidian floor in precise geometric patterns, carrying storm energy upward into the spire.

Every few moments, a pulse of pale light races beneath the crystal inlays before disappearing into the walls above us, feeding the enchantments that keep House Stromgarde functioning long after the skies beyond have gone dark.

The annual audit has occupied most of the morning. King Asmodeus insists every great house submit to inspection without exception. It is one of the few traditions no lord openly questions.

Storm energy governs nearly every aspect of life in Ti’lith, and any imbalance—whether born of negligence or ambition—has the potential to spread well beyond a single estate.

Kaelus Ignis crouches beside the primary conduit, broad shoulders filling the narrow space between two storm channels. Thick obsidian horns curl back from his temples, worn smooth in places from centuries spent ducking beneath machinery built long before anyone considered comfort.

The cuffs of his dark leather work-apron are permanently singed, the scars left by lightning he has handled too closely for too many years. Faint stormlight lingers in the deep-set eyes he lowers toward the conduit, as though some measure of the current has settled there and refused to leave.

Court has never managed to polish the smith out of him. He earned his place through knowledge rather than bloodline, and it shows in every habit.

Ignis studies the figures for another moment, his calloused thumb gliding across the conduit housing as though the metal itself might reveal something the numbers have concealed.

“Western line’s carrying more than last year,” he mutters. His voice has the rough edge of a forge rather than a council chamber. “Something’s feeding off it.”

“The relay network beyond the outer wards expanded during winter,” I answer. “The additional draw was anticipated.”