Page 25 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

T he silence stretches between usl. Kaelgor studies the deeper tunnel entrance, calculating distances and dangers with the methodical care of surving too many ambushes.

The set of his shoulders tells me he's already decided.

We go deeper, together, and hope the smugglers' network provides an exit that doesn't involve digging through tons of collapsed stone.

But something's wrong. The air currents are all backward, flowing into the tunnel instead of out. And there's a smell underneath the dust and decay, something chemical and sharp that makes my nose burn.

Alchemical compounds.

"Kaelgor, wait."

He turns back, eyebrow raised. The gesture would be almost casual if not for the way his hand rests near his weapon, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.

"The air flow. It's wrong."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning someone's been modifying these tunnels recently. Adding ventilation, maybe storage." I move closer to the tunnel mouth, trying to identify the acrid scent. "Or traps."

"Smugglers don't usually?—"

"These aren't just smugglers." The pieces click together with sickening clarity. "The spy network isn't just gathering information. They're preparing for something larger. Something that requires infrastructure."

"Such as?"

"Weapons storage. Poison gas deployment. Maybe both." I press myself against the tunnel wall, trying to get a better read on the air currents. "The chemical smell—it's not storage residue. It's active compounds."

"Active how?"

"The kind that explode when exposed to flame or spark."

Kaelgor's expression darkens. "Your House wouldn't?—"

"My House would absolutely use chemical weapons if it meant gaining strategic advantage." The admission tastes like ash. "Heldrik's particularly fond of tactics that minimize direct engagement."

"Coward's weapons."

"Effective weapons. Which is what makes them dangerous."

A sound echoes from deeper in the tunnel, metal scraping against stone, followed by a muffled thud. Someone or something moving around in the darkness ahead. Kaelgor tenses, hand closing around his weapon grip.

"Could be smugglers trying to find another way out," he suggests.

"Could be. Or it could be someone setting charges to bring down the rest of the tunnel system."

"With us inside."

"With us inside."

The tactical situation crystallizes with brutal clarity.

If there are explosives deeper in the tunnel, moving forward puts us at risk of triggering them.

But staying here means eventual suffocation as our air supply dwindles.

And if someone is actively working to collapse the entire network, time is a luxury we don't have.

Another sound, definitely human voices this time, though too distant and muffled to make out words. Kaelgor meets my gaze, and I see the same calculation reflected in his eyes. We're trapped between limited options, none of them good.

"How stable are these tunnels?" he asks.

"Depends on how much of the original structure the smugglers modified. Natural caves are usually solid, but if they've been carving new passages or installing support beams..."

"Then bringing down one section could cascade through the entire network."

"Exactly."

The voices grow louder, more urgent. Definitely moving in our direction, though whether they know we're here is unclear.

Kaelgor draws his weapon, not the massive war axe he carries for open battle, but a shorter, broader blade designed for close quarters work.

The metal gleams dully in the faint light filtering through the collapsed entrance behind us.

"I'm going to scout ahead," he says. "Get a better read on numbers and positioning."

"No."

"Ressa—"

"No. If there are chemical compounds in there, you're walking into a death trap. One spark from metal on stone and the whole tunnel becomes a crematorium."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"I go alone. I know the compound signatures, know what to look for. I can navigate without triggering an explosion."

"Absolutely not."

"This isn't a negotiation, Kaelgor. This is tactical reality. I have the knowledge and experience to?—"

"To walk into an unknown hostile situation without backup." He is someone who's already lost too many people to reckless heroics. "I won't let you?—"

"Let me?" The words come out sharper than intended. "I don't need your permission to risk my life."

"Maybe not. But I'm not staying here while you charge into danger alone."

"Even if staying here is the smart tactical choice?"

"Especially then."

He's not trying to control me or diminish my capabilities. He's trying to protect someone he cares about, even if that protection comes at the cost of tactical efficiency.

Someone he cares about.

The realization settles like molten metal, heavy and burning.

Somewhere between the battlefield cooperation and the quiet moments by the fire, between the strategic discussions and the shared meals, something real has developed between us.

Something that makes tactical decisions personal and personal decisions life-or-death.

But caring about someone doesn't change the mathematics of survival.

"The chemical compounds react to friction and heat," I explain, keeping my voice level. "Your weapons, your armor, even your body temperature could trigger a reaction. I can move lighter, quieter, with better awareness of the danger signs."

"And if you're wrong about the compounds? If it's just regular explosives or conventional weapons?"

"Then I'm still better equipped to handle infiltration and reconnaissance."

"And if there are hostiles waiting in ambush?"

"Then I'm fucked either way, but at least you won't be fucked with me."

Crude honesty seems to penetrate his objections better than tactical arguments. He recognizes the truth when he hears it. Sometimes the mission requires one person to take risks so others can survive to complete the objective.

But recognition doesn't mean acceptance.

"There has to be another way," he insists.

"If there is, we don't have time to find it." The voices are getting closer, and now I can hear other sounds of tools scraping, heavy objects being moved. "Every minute we wait gives them more time to set charges or seal exits."

"Ressa..."

"Trust me." I reach out, touching his arm lightly. "Not because I'm asking you to forgive the lies or forget the betrayal. Trust me because you know I'm right about this."

His jaw works silently, internal conflict playing out across his features.

Trust and fear warring with tactical necessity and emotional attachment.

The hand not holding his weapon clenches and unclenches, a tell I've learned to recognize when he's fighting the urge to act against his better judgment.

Finally, he nods.

"Five minutes," he says. "If you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming after you."

"Give me ten. If it's a complex setup, five won't be enough time to assess and withdraw safely."

"Seven."

"Deal."

I check my weapons, smaller blades designed for precision rather than power, less likely to create sparks against stone. My leather armor is quiet, flexible, broken in enough that it won't creak or bind at crucial moments. Everything I need for a stealth reconnaissance.

Everything except backup.

"Ressa." Kaelgor's voice stops me at the tunnel entrance. "Be careful."

"Always am."

"No, you're not. You're brave and skilled and tactically sound, but you're not careful. Careful would be staying here and waiting for rescue."

"Good thing I'm not careful then."

I slip into the darkness before he can argue further.

The tunnel extends deeper than expected, carved from natural stone but reinforced with timber supports and metal brackets. Definitely professional work, not the hasty excavation of desperate smugglers. Someone invested significant time and resources in making this passage permanent and functional.

The chemical smell grows stronger as I move deeper, accompanied by other scents, lamp oil, metal polish, human sweat. Active occupation, not abandoned storage. I pause at regular intervals, listening for movement patterns and trying to map the acoustic signature of the space ahead.

Voices become clearer as I approach what sounds like a larger chamber. Two speakers, maybe three, discussing timing and placement in the clipped, efficient tones of military professionals. Not smugglers. Soldiers.

Vaelmark soldiers.

House Vaelmark personnel, operating in territory that should be neutral ground, with chemical weapons and explosive devices. Not just spying or gathering intelligence, but actively preparing for military action.

What the hell is Heldrik planning?

I edge closer to the chamber entrance, staying pressed against the tunnel wall where shadows provide better concealment.

The voices are clear now, discussing placement of charges and timing of detonation.

They're not trying to escape the tunnel collapse.

They're the ones who caused it, trapping me and Kaelgor while they complete their preparations.

"Primary charges are set along the northern support columns," one voice reports. "Secondary charges positioned at the main tunnel junction."

"Timing?"

"Fifteen minutes once we activate the primer sequence. Should be enough time to reach minimum safe distance."

"And the targets?"

"Contained in the eastern section. No escape routes once the primary charges detonate."

Targets. Plural. They know both Kaelgor and I are here, know we're trapped, and they're planning to bring down the entire tunnel system with us inside.

This isn't a reconnaissance mission or intelligence gathering. This is an assassination attempt.

I retreat carefully, mind racing through tactical options. Two or three armed soldiers, unknown weapons complement, chemical compounds that could explode if mishandled, and a timer counting down to tunnel collapse. Even if I could neutralize the hostiles, the charges could detonate automatically.