Page 12 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

KAELGOR

T he forge fire has died to glowing embers by the time we step apart, but the heat between us burns hotter than any volcanic ore. Ressa's breathing matches mine as quick, shallow, charged with a possibility that neither of us expected when this day began.

Control. Focus. Remember why you're here.

But she's standing so close, and her eyes reflect firelight like molten amber.

"Your footwork needs adjustment," I say, stepping back to create distance that feels like physical effort. Professional distance. Safe territory.

Coward.

Practical.

Same thing, sometimes.

She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in a challenge. "Is that your professional opinion?"

"Shield-wall formations require precise positioning. Individual skill means nothing if the line breaks."

Truth. Also deflection.

Better to focus on combat technique than the way she looks in firelight.

She nods, accepting the subject change without protest, but something in her expression suggests she recognizes the tactical retreat for what it is. "Show me."

Dangerous request. Teaching requires touch, correction, proximity.

Professional necessity.

Keep telling yourself that.

I retrieve practice shields from the forge's equipment storage, wooden rounds with iron bosses, weighted to simulate combat conditions. The leather grips show wear from countless training sessions, softened by sweat and repetition.

"Shield-wall isn't about individual prowess," I explain, handing her the lighter of the two shields. "It's about unity. Trust. Protecting the warrior beside you even when instinct screams to protect yourself."

Lessons learned in blood. Principles carved into bone through repetition and loss.

Lessons my brother never lived long enough to master.

The memory hits without warning. Jorak stood beside me in our first real battle, nineteen years old and convinced that courage could overcome inexperience. His shield angled wrong, stance too aggressive, attention focused on glory instead of survival.

"Watch my back, Kael. Don't let me do anything stupid."

Last words. Last promise.

Broken thirty seconds later when the Bloodfang axe split his skull.

"Kaelgor?"

Ressa's voice pulls me back to the present, her expression concerned rather than impatient. She recognizes the haunted look that crosses my face sometimes, and the memories that refuse to stay buried.

Focus. She needs to learn this properly.

Lives depend on proper technique.

"Position your feet shoulder-width apart," I instruct, moving to stand beside her. "Weight evenly distributed, knees slightly bent."

She adjusts her stance, but her right foot angles too far forward, creating instability that would prove fatal in actual combat. Without thinking, I kneel beside her, hands on her ankle and calf to guide proper positioning.

Touch. Heat. Skin warm beneath my palms.

Professional correction. Nothing more.

Liar.

Her muscles tense under my guidance, not resistance but awareness. The hypervigilance that comes from recognizing threat or attraction that demands careful handling.

"Better," I say, releasing her leg before the contact becomes something other than instruction. "Shield position next."

She raises the wooden round, grip firm but angle slightly off. The shield covers her torso but leaves her left side exposed, a gap that experienced warriors would exploit without hesitation.

Adjustment required. Physical correction.

Professional necessity.

Stop rationalizing.

I move behind her, as my chest nearly touches her shoulders, and reach around to adjust her grip and positioning. My hands cover hers on the shield rim, guiding it to the proper defensive angle.

"Feel that?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "The shield edge should align with your shoulder. Creates overlapping protection when you're standing in formation."

She's trembling. Barely perceptible, but there.

Nerves or attraction?

Both?

"Like this?" She shifts the shield slightly, the movement bringing her back against my chest for just a moment before she steps forward.

Accidental contact. Probably.

Maybe.

"Exactly." I step back, creating a space that feels necessary for both our sakes. "Now the advance."

Shield-wall movement requires coordination and individual technique. Each warrior must maintain position relative to their neighbors while advancing or retreating in unison, shields overlapping to create an impenetrable barrier.

Theory. Practice. Survival and death.

Or bringing warriors home and burying them.

"Short steps," I show, shield raised, feet moving in controlled increments. "Maintain the line. Your shield protects the warrior to your right, theirs protects you. Break the rhythm, create gaps, and everyone dies."

Jorak's gap. Jorak's death.

My failure.

The guilt rises like bile, memories of that day threatening to overwhelm present focus.

Jorak broke formation to pursue a fleeing enemy, his left side exposed for the split second that proved fatal.

I could not make my warning shout heard in the chaos of battle, and my reaching hand was too slow to pull him back.

"I've got this, brother. Watch me earn our father's approval."

Pride. Stupidity. Same thing.

Same result.

"Kaelgor." Ressa's voice again, closer this time. "You're not here."

I blink, focusing on her face instead of ghosts. "The technique?—"

"Can wait." She sets her shield aside, stepping closer so I can see the concern in her eyes. "Where did you go?"

Direct question. Unexpected kindness.

Dangerous territory.

"My brother. He died because he broke formation." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, stripped of emotion that would serve no useful purpose.

Truth. Partial truth.

Enough truth to explain without revealing the full weight of failure.

Something shifts in her expression, recognition rather than pity. "How old?"

"Nineteen. First real battle."

Numbers. Facts. Easier than feelings.

"You were there?"

Yes. Watching. Failing.

Unable to save him.

I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I elaborate.

"I'm sorry." Simple words, but her tone carries genuine sympathy rather than empty platitudes. "Loss like that changes everything."

She understands. Personal experience rather than theoretical sympathy.

Who did she lose?

Not my business. Yet.

"He made an oath," I continue, surprising myself with the admission. "We both did. Sworn on our father's grave. Protect the clan. Protect each other. Live with honor or die trying."

Sacred words. Sacred failure.

He died. I lived. Honor became questionable.

"You kept your part of the oath."

"Did I?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with self-recrimination that I usually keep buried. "He died because I failed to teach him properly. Failed to anticipate his mistakes. Failed to protect him when it mattered."

Truth. Raw truth that I've never spoken aloud.

Why now? Why her?

Ressa steps closer, her hand finding my arm in a gesture that's both comfort and anchor. "He died because war is chaos and nineteen-year-olds think they're immortal. Not because you failed."

Logic. Reasonable assessment.

Doesn't change the guilt.

Doesn't bring him back.

"Technique matters," I say, returning to safer ground. "Proper training prevents unnecessary death."

Change the subject. Focus on the lesson.

Protect her by teaching her correctly.

Don't let history repeat itself.

She recognizes the deflection but doesn't push, instead retrieving her shield and resuming the stance I'd corrected earlier. "Show me again. The advance."

Grateful for her understanding.

Professional distance restored.

Mostly.

We drill the movement patterns for the next hour, working through the basic techniques that form the foundation of effective shield-wall combat. Her natural athleticism shows in the way she picks up the rhythms, but her instincts lean toward individual combat rather than group coordination.

Human preference. Personal glory over collective survival.

Understandable but dangerous.

"Stop." I raise my hand as she breaks formation to pursue an imaginary target. "What happens to the warrior beside you when you advance alone?"

She pauses, considering the question with the tactical thinking that separates good fighters from dead ones. "Their flank becomes exposed."

"And?"

"They die because I prioritized personal advantage over group protection."

Understanding. Progress.

Maybe she'll survive what's coming.

"Exactly." I reset my position, shield raised in proper formation stance. "Individual skill serves the group. Group survival depends on individual discipline."

Lessons written in blood. Principles are worth preserving.

Worth teaching to someone who might actually listen.

We resume the drill, but this time she maintains position and timing, her movements synchronized with mine in the coordination that makes shield-walls effective. Her breathing settles into a rhythm of controlled advance, muscles remembering the patterns that could save her life in actual combat.

Natural talent. Proper instruction.

She might actually survive her first real battle.

Unlike Jorak.

"Human tactics," she says during a brief rest, lowering her shield to catch her breath. "We favor mobility over formation discipline. Hit-and-run rather than sustained engagement."

Accurate assessment. Strategic thinking.

Impressive.

"Explain." I keep my voice neutral, but her insight suggests an understanding with basic technique.

"Cavalry charges. Archer volleys. Quick strikes designed to disrupt enemy formations rather than meet them head-on." She traces patterns in the dirt with her boot toe, sketching basic tactical diagrams. "Break their unity, then exploit the chaos."

Sound strategy. Effective against traditional orc tactics.

No wonder the Bloodfang raids have been so successful.

"And against shield-walls?"