Page 9 of Severe Husband Warning

“You believe House Stromgarde serves the realm best without distraction.”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“And if the realm one day requires otherwise?”

His voice remains low, almost conversational, yet the question carries the weight of law long before any decree is spoken.

“If that day comes,” I answer, “House Stromgarde will answer its duty as it always has.”

Lightning flashes beyond the windows, silver light spilling across polished stone before retreating once more beneath the storm.

The King inclines his head.

“A commendable answer.”

Whether it is approval, warning, or merely an acknowledgment that I have survived today’s test, he leaves it unsaid.

The audience disperses without a word. Malakor bows before the throne, every movement as flawless as when he arrived. Only the briefest pause before he lowers his eyes betrays him. His plans have not succeeded today, but neither have they ended.

I offer the King my final bow before taking my leave.

The great doors open without a sound.

The corridors beyond are quiet, their vaulted ceilings carrying only the low resonance of storm-energy flowing through the conduits buried deep within the royal spire. Servants flatten themselves against the polished walls as I pass, careful not to meet my gaze until my footsteps have carried me beyond them.

The wind meets me on the outer terrace.

Ti’lith stretches across the crimson plains beneath an endless canopy of lightning, its forest of black spires rising through drifting sheets of red dust. From this height, the city appears immutable. Storm energy courses through its arteries without interruption, lifting platforms between towers, feeding workshops, illuminating halls where another hundred negotiations are undoubtedly already underway.

Order.

A kingdom sustained by obligations faithfully observed.

It is the system I have served without hesitation for centuries. Yet service has a way of becoming expectation, and expectation, given enough time, hardens into obligation.

Obligation, if left unanswered often enough, becomes permission for others to decide your future on your behalf.

Malakor has merely spoken first, but there will be others.

The King’s question made that abundantly clear.

And if the realm one day requires otherwise?

Not whether.

When.

The realization follows me down the long descent from the royal spire with the persistence of distant thunder.

Time is no longer my ally.

If I remain still, someone else will choose the woman who enters my House, the alliances I inherit, and the loyalties I am expected to cultivate. Every courteous refusal only delays the inevitable while narrowing the number of exits left available.

After many decades, I find myself searching for a move that is not already anticipated.

Because if I do not seize the next move for myself, I will spend the rest of my life answering one chosen by someone else.

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