Page 66 of Severe Husband Warning

The storm has already stripped every secret from our hearts. Nothing Malakor says can persuade this court to doubt what they experienced for themselves.

King Asmodeus’s gaze shifts downward for a moment, settling upon our joined hands before returning to my face.

I brace myself for the familiar disdain reserved for humans, but it never arrives. Whatever judgment fills the King’s silence, it is not rooted in contempt.

Something shifts behind the King’s unreadable expression as his gaze moves from Rothgar to our joined hands. I can’t pretend to know the thoughts of a ruler who has worn the Crown for centuries, but I recognize the careful consideration in his eyes. Malakor’s betrayal is only one piece of what stands before him now. The storm has revealed a truth no courtly argument can undo, and I suspect the King is already weighing what it means for his kingdom that his most trusted lord has bound his future to a human.

32

ROTHGAR

Malakor kneels before his King with desperation written plainly across his face. I take no satisfaction in the sight. Justice is diminished the moment it becomes vengeance.

King Asmodeus stands before him, the black data-slate resting in one hand. He reads the final page with the same measured attention he has given every line before lowering it. The silence stretching through the ruined temple feels almost sacred, and the storm itself waits for its sovereign to speak.

When he finally speaks, his deep voice rolls through the sanctuary like distant thunder gathering over the mountains. There is nothing hurried in it.

“Lord Vael Malakor,” King Asmodeus says. Towering above every soul present, crowned by dark horns that disappear into the shifting stormlight overhead, he possesses the terrible stillness of something ancient enough to mistake kingdoms for passing seasons.

Malakor remains upon one knee, but composure deserts him with every passing breath. His hands tremble against the temple floor.

“My King⁠—”

“You will remain silent.” The quiet command echoes through the sanctuary with crushing weight, ending Malakor’s protest.

The demon lord in question flinches as though struck. His trembling hands curl against the fractured stone while his gaze sweeps desperately across the assembled court, searching for someone willing to meet his eyes. Every lord who once sought his favor now studies the floor instead.

King Asmodeus advances with unhurried purpose, his immense frame casting a long shadow across the ruined temple. Black lightning flickers through the iron crown resting between his horns, and the air itself seems to tighten around him.

“You were entrusted with power so you might protect this kingdom,” the King says. “Instead, you turned that trust into a weapon against those placed beneath your care.”

His gaze never leaves Malakor.

“For these crimes, you are stripped of your title, your lands, and every office granted to you in my name. House Malakor is dissolved as of this day. The western works will be dismantled under royal command, and every soul held there against their will shall be restored to the protection of the Crown.”

“My King... mercy,” the demon lord begs.

“There can be no mercy for one who built his prosperity upon stolen lives.”

Asmodeus regards him with the same impenetrable calm he has worn since entering the temple. Malakor’s desperation cannot alter a judgment already carved into stone.

“Your name will be removed from every record of honorable service. Let history remember only the lesson your downfall provides.”

The decree hangs over the temple with the weight of inevitability.

At my signal, Commander Vhoros steps forward to answer the King’s decree. Two royal guards step forward beside him, their armor ringing softly through the silence as they surround the fallen lord.

“You know me,” he pleads. “You have stood beside me in council. You cannot allow this. Tell him⁠—”

His voice wanders through the gathered court unanswered. Faces that once greeted him with eager smiles now turn away, and the silence left behind condemns him more thoroughly than any accusation.

Malakor stiffens beneath Commander Vhoros’s hand, the last remnants of pride seemingly compelling him to resist. His resistance is short-lived. His shoulders sag, and he allows the guards to lead him away.

Their footsteps fade into the outer corridor before the great temple doors close behind them with slow, resonant finality. The sound echoes even after Malakor has vanished from sight.

I look back to the King as his gaze settles upon Calla.

I have served King Asmodeus for centuries. Few know better than I do how carefully he weighs every person who stands before him. What I see now is not the guarded skepticism with which many demons regard humanity. He studies her as one might study the answer to a question no one thought to ask.