Page 10 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

After that, I figure out what comes next.

"One crisis at a time."

Kaelgor nods as if that's exactly the answer he expected. Practical. Focused. The thinking that keeps people alive in dangerous circumstances.

He understands. Professional to professional.

That's something.

"The prisoner needs medical attention," I say, changing the subject.

"Thorne will survive."

"Injured prisoners don't provide reliable information."

"Pain motivates honesty."

Heldrik's philosophy. Simple. Brutal. Often effective.

But not always optimal.

"So does trust."

Kaelgor looks at me with those rust-red eyes that seem to see through surface intentions to underlying motivations. Whatever he finds there doesn't alarm him, but it clearly interests him.

"You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Another Heldrik."

Fair assumption. Most people assume family resemblance extends beyond physical characteristics.

Usually they're right.

"Disappointment?"

"The opposite."

Too much history. Too many conflicting loyalties. Too many reasons why trust would be dangerous for both of us.

But not impossible.

Maybe.

The day bleeds into evening while Kaelgor and I work through intelligence reports and territorial maps.

His knowledge of mountain passes proves invaluable.

He marks routes I didn't know existed, identifies chokepoints where small forces could halt larger ones, explains seasonal variations that turn reliable paths into death traps.

Professional collaboration. Nothing more.

Yet.

Heldrik retires early, as is his custom.

The camp settles into night watch rotations, with guards posted at strategic intervals and signal fires burning low on the surrounding ridges.

Most of the men gather around the central fire pit, sharing stories and rations while maintaining the easy camaraderie that develops between soldiers who trust each other's competence.

They don't include Kaelgor in their circle.

His choice or theirs, I wonder.

I find him sitting apart, methodically cleaning his weapons. His movements are economical, practiced. Each stroke of the whetstone follows the blade's edge with mathematical precision.

Mountain-steel. I can see it in the way the metal catches firelight.

Different from our forged iron. Harder. More flexible.

How?

"Come with me."

He looks up from his blade, considering. The request carries implications we both recognize as trust offered, boundaries crossed, secrets shared.

Dangerous territory.

For both of us.

But he sets aside his weapons and follows me away from the main camp, through a series of switchbacks that lead toward the valley's eastern wall. The path is narrow, barely visible in starlight, marked only by occasional cairns that could be natural rock formations to untrained eyes.

Family secrets. Vaelmark techniques passed down through generations.

Mother would disapprove.

Mother's dead.

The entrance lies hidden behind a screen of loose boulders that seems randomly placed but actually forms a sophisticated camouflage system. I move them aside with practiced efficiency, revealing a natural cave mouth reinforced with stonework and sealed with a heavy iron door.

My refuge. My workplace. My rebellion.

Inside, the forge burns with volcanic heat drawn from deep earth channels that tap into the mountain's molten heart. The air shimmers with supernatural warmth, and the walls glow with embedded ore veins that pulse like arteries carrying liquid fire.

Vaelmark inheritance. Built by ancestors who understood that true power comes from mastering elemental forces.

Not commanding armies.

Kaelgor steps inside and stops, his breath catching as he takes in the sophisticated metalworking setup spread before us.

Anvils positioned to catch maximum heat distribution.

Hammers and tongs forged from materials that can withstand temperatures hot enough to melt lesser metals.

Quenching pools fed by underground springs that run cold even in summer.

This is what we were. Before politics. Before military ambition.

Crafters. Creators. Masters of flame and metal.

"Volcanic ore," he says, recognition coloring his voice.

"You know it?"

"Mountain clans trade for it. Sometimes. When relations permit."

Which isn't often.

I move to the forge's heart, where ingots of raw volcanic ore wait for transformation. The metal gleams with an inner light that has nothing to do with reflected flame. It holds fire in its molecular structure, captured during formation in the earth's deepest furnaces.

Dangerous to work with. Unforgiving of mistakes.

Perfect for weapons that need to cut through anything.

"This is what makes Vaelmark steel superior," I explain, lifting an ingot with specialized tongs designed to handle superheater materials. "The ore bonds with iron during forging, creating an alloy that's both harder and more flexible than either component alone."

"Your House secret?"

"One of them."

The others died with Mother.

I place the ingot in the forge's heart, where volcanic heat begins its transformative work. The metal glows white-hot within moments, reaching temperatures that would destroy normal iron before it becomes workable.

This is meditation. This is prayer. This is the closest thing to magic that doesn't require incantations.

Pure creation through controlled destruction.

"Why show me this?" Kaelgor asks.

The question deserves honesty, even if the truth reveals more than I'm comfortable sharing.

"Because I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not."

Military commander. Dutiful niece. Heir to traditions I never chose.

I am a smith. A creator. Someone who makes things rather than breaks them.

"Heldrik expects me to lead like he does. Command through fear and discipline. Treat weapons as tools and people as resources." I work the bellows, increasing the forge's heat until the volcanic ore reaches malleability. "But that's not who I am."

"Who are you?"

Good question.

Still figuring it out.

"Someone who left her House because she couldn't become what they wanted her to be."

The admission costs more than I expected. Family loyalty runs deep in Vaelmark blood, and acknowledging that I chose exile over compliance feels like betrayal even now.

But it's true.

I walked away rather than let them shape me into another Heldrik.

"What did they want?"

"A weapon. A marriage alliance with House Threnwick to secure territorial claims and military support." The volcanic ore reaches perfect working temperature, and I lift it from the flame with practiced precision. "Political expedience disguised as family obligation."

Arranged betrothal to Cousin Garrett. Military strategist. Capable commander. Absolute bore.

The man who sees marriage as a tactical advantage rather than a personal connection.

Like Heldrik sees everything.

I carry the glowing metal to the anvil, where the real work begins. The first strikes must be precise. Volcanic ore forgives no mistakes. Too much force and it shatters. Too little and it hardens beyond salvage.

Balance. Always balance.

The hammer falls in steady rhythm, each blow calculated to disperse heat while gradually shaping the metal toward its intended form. Sparks fly with each impact, creating brief constellations that die before they reach the ground.

Beautiful and dangerous.

Like most worthwhile things.

"Mountain-steel forging is different," Kaelgor says, watching my technique with professional interest.

"How?"

"We work with the metal's natural inclinations rather than forcing it into predetermined shapes. The final form emerges through cooperation between smith and material."

Interesting philosophy.

Also potentially useful.

"Show me."

He moves to the forge where a second ingot awaits transformation. His approach is immediately different from mine. He examines the metal's structure before heating, running his fingers along grain lines that are invisible to my eyes.

Reading the material. Understanding its inherent properties.

Clever.

When he places the ingot in the flame, he adjusts position based on how the metal responds to heat. Some sections glow faster than others, revealing internal stress patterns that will affect the final product's strength and flexibility.

I never noticed that before.

But then I learned Vaelmark techniques. Not Ironspine ones.

His hammer work is completely different from mine.

Where I use controlled force to impose specific shapes, he applies pressure in ways that encourage the metal to flow toward optimal configurations.

The result is still guided by his intention, but achieved through collaboration rather than domination.

Heldrik never understood that distinction either.

"Try it," he suggests, offering me his hammer.

The tool feels different from my own, heavier in the head, with a longer handle that requires different grip positioning. The weight distribution changes impact dynamics, requiring adjustment to force application and strike timing.

Adaptation. Learning. Growth.

Things Heldrik considers weakness.

I select a fresh ingot and examine it the way Kaelgor did, looking for structural patterns that will guide the forging process.

The metal reveals secrets I'd never noticed the microscopic flaws that need accommodation, density variations that affect heat distribution, grain structures that suggest natural fracture lines.

How did I miss this before?

Because I was taught to overcome the material rather than work with it.

The heating process becomes a dialogue between smith and metal. I adjust position based on how different sections respond to flame, allowing natural stress patterns to dictate optimal temperatures rather than applying uniform heat regardless of local conditions.

This feels... collaborative.

Like partnership rather than conquest.