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

KAELGOR

D awn bleeds through the ash-choked ruins of Ember Hollow like infection through a wound. I lead my scouting party deeper into what used to be the heart of our territory, before the Blazing took everything worth keeping. The air tastes of copper and regret.

"Kaelgor." Thane says through the morning haze. "Movement northeast. Could be smugglers."

I raise my fist. The party stops. Five Ironspine warriors, handpicked for their silence and their stomachs—not everyone can handle the smell of burned stone and old death.

I learned that lesson three months ago when Jorik puked his guts out near the memorial plaza and drew half a pack of ash wolves.

Focus. The ruins demand attention. One distracted moment here gets you buried under rubble or torn apart by whatever's learned to call this wasteland home.

I pull out my charcoal stick and mark another collapsed watchtower on the hide map. The structure leans at an impossible angle, held up by nothing but stubborn mortar and better engineering. Used to be part of the eastern defense grid. Now it's a monument to how quickly everything can crumble.

The silence here isn't peaceful. It's the quiet that screams at you when you know what used to fill it. Market voices. Children playing between the monument stones. Hammers ringing against anvils in the weapon smiths' quarter.

Kaven would've loved mapping this.

The thought hits before I can block it. My brother had a gift for seeing patterns in chaos, for finding the safe paths through dangerous terrain.

He'd have spotted the weak foundation stones I'm marking now, would've known which buildings to avoid and which ones might still hold supplies worth salvaging.

Instead, he's part of the ash beneath my boots.

"Sir?" Thane again. Patient but pressing. "Orders?"

I force my attention back to the task. "Spread formation. Check for recent foot traffic. Smugglers use these ruins to move contraband toward the border settlements. Look for wheel ruts, dropped cargo, anything that suggests regular passage."

The warriors disperse with practiced efficiency. Mira takes point, her tracking skills unmatched in the clan. Jorik and Brost sweep the flanks while Thane and Garok cover our rear. I stay central, updating the map and listening for the subtle sounds that mean trouble.

Everything echoes wrong in Ember Hollow. Footsteps bounce off broken walls in patterns that make it impossible to judge distance or direction. The wind carries voices that might be real or might be the ghosts of conversations held here before the Blazing turned it all to char and memory.

I mark another structure as a shrine to Korrath the Enduring, now missing its roof and half its walls. The heat, capable of melting bronze, split the altar stone clean through. Offerings left by the devout still litter the space: bone charms, metal talismans, carved tokens of protection.

Lot of good they did.

My charcoal stick pauses over the map. This shrine marks the halfway point to the eastern plaza, where the Ironspine memorial stones once stood.

My brother and forty-three other warriors made their last stand there against the fire elementals.

The fire elementals tore through our defenses like parchment.

I was supposed to be there. Should've been there. Would've been there if not for a twisted ankle that kept me back with the reserve forces, watching helplessly as the flames consumed everything I'd sworn to protect.

Including him.

"Movement confirmed." Mira says, low and controlled. "Fresh cart tracks. Two wheels, heavy load. Trail leads toward the old market square."

That gets my attention. The market square sits at the center of Ember Hollow's ruins, surrounded by collapsed buildings that form natural choke points. Perfect ambush territory, but also the most direct route through the settlement. Smugglers who use it are very confident or very desperate.

"Converge on my position," I call softly. "Silent approach. If they're still in the area, I want to know what they're moving before we engage."

The warriors flow back toward me like smoke, barely disturbing the ash layers that coat everything here. We've trained for this kind of operation since childhood—moving through hostile territory, gathering intelligence, striking fast when the moment presents itself.

But training in familiar forests differs from operating in the graveyard of your own people.

I lead us toward the market square, following Mira's trail markers. The cart tracks are clear enough once you know what to look for: parallel ruts carved into the ash-covered stone, deep enough to suggest significant weight. Whatever they're hauling, it's not grain or textiles.

The surrounding buildings grow taller and more intact as we approach the square's perimeter.

The fire elementals had been more focused on the defensive structures and clan halls when they struck, civilian areas like shops and storehouses suffered less direct damage.

That makes them attractive to scavengers and smugglers, but it also means more places for threats to hide.

A sound stops me cold. Low. Guttural. Coming from somewhere ahead and to the left.

I raise my fist again. The party freezes.

That's not human.

The sound comes again, a rumbling growl that seems to vibrate through the broken stone itself.

I've heard it before, in nightmares and in the field reports that come back from deep salvage operations.

Ember wolves. Beasts twisted by the residual magic that still saturates these ruins, transformed from ordinary pack hunters into something hungrier and infinitely more dangerous.

I gesture to Mira. She nods and melts away toward the sound, her movements silent as falling ash. The rest of us wait, weapons ready but not drawn. Ember wolves have excellent hearing, and they react aggressively to the ring of steel on leather.

Three minutes pass. Four. Then Mira's hand appears around a corner, fingers spread. Five targets. She closes her fist, then opens it. No immediate threat, but they're moving this way.

Shit.

Five ember wolves means a full pack. They hunt smartly, using the ruins' acoustic properties to confuse prey and coordinate attacks.

But they're also territorial, which means they've claimed this area as their hunting ground.

That could explain why smuggler activity has increased.

With the wolves keeping other scavengers away, the market square becomes a safer waystation for moving contraband.

Mira appears beside me, her approach soundless. "They're feeding," she whispers. "Fresh kill. Human, from the smell."

"Smugglers?"

"Can't tell. Bodies are... well. You know how they eat."

I know. Ember wolves don't just kill for food. They tear their prey apart in feeding frenzies, leaving behind scattered remains that make identification nearly impossible. If smugglers were using this route regularly, eventually they were going to encounter the pack.

"Position?"

"Forty yards ahead. In what used to be a grain warehouse. Stone walls are mostly intact, but the roof's gone. They'll hear us coming unless we're perfect."

I readthe map, marking our current position against the known layout of the market district.

The grain warehouse sits at the junction of three major routes, exactly where you'd expect smugglers to stop and redistribute cargo.

But with a pack of ember wolves feeding nearby, approaching requires careful timing.

"We wait," I decide. "Let them finish and move on. Then we check for survivors and evidence."

It's a tactically sound choice. Engaging five ember wolves in close quarters with limited visibility serves no purpose except to risk casualties among my warriors. Better to be patient, gather information, and report back to Drokhan with actionable intelligence.

But patience has never been my strength, especially here.

The sounds of feeding continue as wet tearing noises punctuated by satisfied growls. Each one reminds me of other sounds, other feeding. The fire elementals hadn't eaten their victims, but they'd made similar noises as they consumed the defensive barriers my brother died trying to hold.

Stop. This isn't about Kaven. This is about completing the mission and keeping my warriors alive. Everything else is just noise.

A new sound hits as wheels on stone. The distinctive creaking of an overloaded cart moving carefully across uneven ground. Someone else is approaching the warehouse, unaware of what's waiting inside.

"Sir?" Thane's hand rests on his sword hilt. "New contact."

I peer around the corner. A lone figure guides a two-wheeled cart toward the warehouse entrance, moving with the careful urgency of someone trying to stay quiet while handling heavy cargo.

The cart's covered with canvas, but the way it sits low on its axles suggests metalwork or other dense materials.

The feeding sounds stop.

They smell him.

Ember wolves have enhanced senses of their natural cousins, amplified by whatever magic transformed them. They'll detect the newcomer long before he realizes his danger. And unlike normal wolves, they don't retreat from lone humans. They hunt them.

The carter reaches the warehouse entrance. Pauses. Even from this distance, I can see him tense as he notices the silence.

Too late.

The first ember wolf emerges from the warehouse like liquid shadow. It's massive, easily twice as big as a natural wolf, with fur that shifts between grey and red like cooling embers. Its eyes burn with actual fire, and when it snarls, sparks scatter from its jaws.

The carter sees it. Drops his cart's handles. Runs.

The wolf doesn't chase immediately. Instead, it tilts its head back and releases a howl that seems to crack the air itself. Calling the pack.

Now we move.