Page 26 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

But there's something else. A detail that doesn't fit the immediate tactical picture.

The voices mentioned charges along the northern support columns and at the main tunnel junction. But this tunnel branch extends southward from the junction, which means there should be additional passages or chambers that weren't mentioned in their preparations.

Additional passages mean potential escape routes.

I move back toward Kaelgor's position, but before I can reach him, a new sound stops me cold. Metal scraping against metal, followed by a sharp click that every soldier learns to recognize.

A flare trap. Pressure activated, designed to illuminate extensive areas and temporarily blind anyone caught in the activation zone. But if there are chemical compounds in the air...

Oh shit.

The flare ignites with a brilliant white flash that turns the tunnel into a blazing corridor of death. Chemical vapors explode into flame, racing along the tunnel walls faster than thought. I have maybe a second before the fire reaches the main chamber, where Kaelgor is waiting.

I don't think.

I run.

Stone barrels line the tunnel walls as water storage for the smuggling operation, heavy enough to disrupt the fire's path if I can overturn them fast enough.

I slam into the first barrel with my shoulder, using momentum and desperation to tip it across the tunnel mouth.

Water floods across the stone floor, but the chemical fire is already racing overhead.

The second barrel is heavier, or I'm already moving wrong, because it barely shifts when I hit it.

The fire is closing distance, brilliant and hungry and absolutely deadly.

I brace my feet against the tunnel wall and push with everything I have, feeling something tear in my shoulder as the barrel finally tips.

The third barrel catches me as it falls, hundreds of pounds of clay and water and metal binding crashing down across my ribs. Pain explodes, but the water spreads across the tunnel floor in a wide pool that might slow the chemical fire enough to matter.

The blast wave hits me like a giant's fist, lifting me off my feet and slamming me backward through the tunnel. Rock fragments rain down from the ceiling. The world becomes light and heat and the overwhelming pressure of air trying to escape through passages too small to contain it.

When the immediate roar fades, I'm lying on stone that's too warm and breathing air that tastes like copper and smoke.

My vision swims, ears ringing from the blast pressure.

Everything hurts, but I'm alive, which means the water barrels disrupted enough of the chemical reaction to prevent complete tunnel incineration.

But the structural damage from the explosion is already cascading through the ceiling supports. Cracks spider across the stone overhead, and dust rains down in increasing amounts. The tunnel is coming down, with or without additional charges.

I force myself to my feet, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my abused body. Fallen stone partially blocked the passage back to, but still navigable if I'm fast and careful.

Fast and careful. Two concepts that rarely go together.

I stumble through the debris field, following the sound of falling rock and distant shouting. Someone survived the blast in the main chamber, which means Kaelgor is alive and mobile, or...

No, not going there. He survived. He has to have survived.

I find him pressed against the far wall of the chamber, blood streaming from a head wound but still conscious and moving. Relief floods through me with enough force to weaken my knees. He's alive. Hurt, but alive.

"Ressa!" He pushes away from the wall, reaching for me as I stumble into the chamber. "What the hell happened?"

"Chemical fire. Explosion. Tunnel's coming down." The words come out in gasps as I try to process immediate tactical needs through pain and exhaustion. "We need to move. Now."

"The other tunnels?—"

"Probably compromised. But maybe not all of them."

Another section of ceiling collapses behind us, sealing off the passage I just navigated. Whatever escape route we find, it won't be the way we came.

Kaelgor's arm comes around my waist, supporting weight I didn't realize I couldn't carry alone. His strength is steady and warm and completely focused on getting us both out alive.

"Where to?" he asks.

"North. The soldiers mentioned northern support columns, which means there's a northern passage they needed to block."

"And if they already blocked it?"

"Then we dig."

We move together through the crumbling tunnel system, his strength covering my tactical knowledge, my reconnaissance supporting his physical capability. Partnership born of necessity and sustained by something deeper than tactical convenience.

Trust, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

Behind us, the rest of the tunnel network collapses with a roar that shakes the mountain. Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, lies the possibility of survival.

The northern passage opens into something impossible.

Ember-stone. Walls of it, ceiling of it, flowing in veins through the natural rock like frozen fire. The stone pulses with inner light, warm amber that shifts to deep crimson with each breath I take. The air here doesn't taste of dust and collapse. It hums with energy, ancient and alive.

"What is this place?" Kaelgor asks with wonder beneath the wariness.

"Vaelmark legend." I step deeper into the chamber, drawn by a recognition that sits in my bones rather than my memory. "The Heart of the Mountain. Where the first forges were lit."

The ember-stone responds to my presence, brightening as I move closer to the central formation. Heat radiates from the walls, not the scorching burn of the chemical fire but something deeper, more fundamental. Like standing near a hearth that's been burning for centuries.

"Legend?"

"The stories say House Vaelmark was founded here. That our ancestors discovered these chambers and learned to forge with living flame." I reach toward the nearest wall, stopping just short of contact. "I thought they were just stories."

"Stories have power in the mountains."

The ember-stone flares brighter at his words, casting our shadows long and strange across the chamber floor. Power, yes. I can feel it singing in the stone, in the air, in their heartbeats. But power without purpose is just destruction waiting to happen.

Kaelgor moves closer, studying the formations with tactical eyes. "There's air flow from somewhere. Fresh air."

He's right. The chamber doesn't feel closed or stagnant despite being deep underground. Air moves through hidden passages, carrying scents of pine and snow that speak of surface connection.

"An exit," I breathe.

"Multiple exits, if the air currents are any indication." He pauses near a formation that resembles a natural archway. "But something else too."

I follow his gaze to alcoves carved into the chamber walls. Not natural formations, but deliberate constructions, sized and shaped for human occupation. Storage spaces, or...

"Ritual chambers." The knowledge surfaces from childhood lessons I'd tried to forget. "This isn't just a forge site. It's a temple."

"To what?"

"The flame that burns without consuming. The forge that creates without destroying." I touch the wall, and the ember- stone responds with gentle warmth. "The power that binds metal to metal, heart to heart."

Heart to heart.

The words hang in the air between us, weighted with meaning I'm not ready to examine. But the ember-stone doesn't care about my emotional defenses. It responds to truth, and somewhere between the battlefield cooperation and the desperate escape, something fundamental shifted between us.

Kaelgor's breathing changes, becoming labored in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

I turn toward him and see what I should have noticed immediately, the head wound from the tunnel collapse isn't just bleeding.

It's bleeding wrong, too much and too fast, and his pupils are dilated in the ember-stone's glow.

"Kaelgor." I'm moving before conscious thought catches up, hands reaching for him as he sways. "Hey, stay with me."

"I'm fine." He says, echoing someone trying to convince himself as much as me.

"No, you're not." I guide him toward one of the ritual alcoves, flat stone that can serve as a makeshift examination surface. "Head injury, possible concussion, and who knows what other damage from the blast."

"We need to keep moving. Find the exit."

"We need to stop the bleeding first." I press him back against the stone, fingers already probing the wound site. "The exit won't matter if you collapse before we reach it."

The ember-stone provides steady light for examination, revealing damage that's worse than I initially thought.

Not just surface bleeding but signs of deeper trauma, swelling that shows serious complications.

In a proper medical facility, with proper equipment, it would be manageable.

Here, with nothing but field supplies and desperation. ..

Focus on what you can control.

I strip away the makeshift bandage I'd applied earlier, assessing blood flow and wound characteristics with clinical detachment that doesn't quite mask growing concern.

The bleeding is steady but not arterial, which is good.

It's better that the swelling is localized.

But head injuries are unpredictable, and symptoms can deteriorate rapidly.

"How's your vision?" I ask, cleaning the wound with water from my field kit.

"Blurry around the edges."

"Nausea?"

"Some."

"Pain level?"

"Manageable."

Which means significant, but he's trying not to worry me. Typical. I apply pressure to slow the bleeding, using techniques learned in field hospitals and mercenary camps where proper medical care was a luxury few could afford.

"Ressa." His hand covers mine, warm and steady despite everything. "If I don't make it out of here?—"

"Stop."