Page 28 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

KAELGOR

T he moment we enter the camp perimeter, I sense the wrongness threading through the air like smoke from a poorly banked fire. Conversations halt mid-sentence when we pass, eyes tracking our joined hands with the sort of calculated attention that precedes either celebration or execution.

Too quiet. Warriors don't go silent unless they're preparing for violence or witnessing something that demands absolute focus. Given the tension radiating from the Vaelmark tents, I suspect it's both.

"Something's happened," Ressa murmurs, her fingers tightening against mine before she releases them. Losing contact feels like stepping from sunlight into shadow.

"More than something. Your people are positioned for containment, not protection."

She follows my gaze, taking in the subtle repositioning of her forces. Guards flanked the command tent rather than patrolling the perimeter. Archers with clear sightlines to the central area where we're walking. Weapons loose in their sheaths but hands resting on hilts.

"Heldrik." The name escapes her lips like a curse.

"Your uncle?"

"My commander." Her jaw tightens. "And someone who views cooperation with non-humans as treason."

Treason. The word carries weight in any language, but among humans it seems to encompass everything from tactical disagreement to breathing in a manner deemed insufficiently patriotic.

I've watched human commanders execute subordinates for crimes as minor as questioning orders or fraternizing with the enemy.

Fraternizing. What Ressa and I have done in the ember-stone chamber extends far beyond mere fraternization.

"How bad?"

"Depends on what he's heard and how he's chosen to interpret it." She straightens, shoulders squaring to prepare for confrontation. "Heldrik sees the world in absolutes. Human versus non-human. Loyalty versus betrayal. Order versus chaos."

"And which category do I fall into?"

"All the wrong ones."

A horn sounds from the command tent—three short blasts that make every human in the camp snap to attention. Ressa's expression goes carefully neutral, the mask of military discipline sliding into place with practiced ease.

"Formation call," she explains unnecessarily. "He wants an audience for whatever he's planning."

Theatre. Every commander understands the value of public displays, whether they're executions or promotions. The performance matters as much as the actual decision, sometimes more. Make an example visible enough, and you don't need to repeat the lesson.

We walk toward the command tent together, our footsteps loud in the unnatural quiet.

Soldiers form rough ranks on either side of our path, creating a corridor that feels more like a gauntlet.

I catch fragments of whispered conversation, speculation about our disappearance, theories about the tunnel collapse, rumors about orc involvement in recent raids.

Nothing good. Nothing suggests this confrontation will end with handshakes and shared ale.

The command tent dominates the center of camp, its Vaelmark banners hanging limp in the still air. Guards flank the entrance, hands resting on sword hilts with the casual readiness of men expecting trouble. They nod respectfully to Ressa but watch me with attention reserved for dangerous animals.

"Commander Vaelmark." The voice that emerges from the tent carries the crisp authority to immediate obedience. "Report."

Ressa enters first, and I follow close enough to catch the slight hitch in her breathing when she sees whatever's waiting inside.

The tent's interior is larger than expected, furnished with campaign furniture that suggests both military efficiency and aristocratic comfort.

Maps cover a central table, marked with colored pins that probably represent troop positions and strategic objectives.

Commander Heldrik Vaelmark stands behind the table, studying the maps with the intensity of a predator planning an attack.

He's tall for a human, built like a siege engine, all hard angles and efficient brutality.

Gray streaks his dark hair, and scars mark his hands and forearms with the accumulated damage of decades spent in combat.

When he looks up, his eyes fix on me with the sort of cold assessment usually reserved for tactical problems requiring permanent solutions.

"Uncle." Ressa's voice resounds with respect but not warmth. "We've returned from reconnaissance as ordered."

"Have you?" He doesn't look at her, attention remaining fixed on me like a crossbow bolt seeking its target. "And what did this reconnaissance reveal?"

"Tunnel networks more extensive than mapped. Evidence of organized smuggling operations. Signs that recent raids may be coordinated rather than opportunistic."

"Coordinated by whom?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke from a signal fire. Ressa's hesitation lasts only seconds, but in those seconds I see her weighing options, calculating consequences, choosing between truth and survival.

"Unknown. Investigation was interrupted by structural collapse."

"Convenient." Heldrik's tone suggests he finds nothing convenient about any of this. "And during this interrupted investigation, you found it necessary to ally yourself with enemy forces?"

"I found it necessary to survive."

"By collaborating with orcs."

The word collaborating carries poison in his mouth. I've heard humans use it before, usually right before they sharpen blades or building pyres. It's the sort of accusation that transforms allies into traitors and tactical necessity into moral failure.

"By accepting assistance from Ironspine Clan representatives operating in the same area under similar circumstances."

"Representatives." Heldrik finally looks at Ressa, and his expression suggests he's seeing something that disgusts him. "Is that what we're calling them now?"

Them. Not him . Not Kaelgor or even the orc . Just them , as if I'm a category rather than an individual, a problem rather than a person.

I've been in enough human camps to recognize the signs. The careful dehumanization that makes violence easier to justify. The linguistic preparation for whatever comes next.

"I'm calling them what they are." Ressa's voice stays level, but I can see tension building in the set of her shoulders. "Allied forces with shared interests in regional stability."

"Allied forces." Heldrik moves around the table. "Tell me, Commander, at what point did House Vaelmark authorize alliances with non-human savages?"

Savages. The slur is designed to provoke exactly the sort of reaction that would justify whatever Heldrik has planned. I keep my expression neutral, hands loose at my sides, breathing steady despite the rage building in me.

"At what point did strategic necessity require authorization from anyone other than the field commander making tactical decisions under combat conditions?"

Good. Ressa's not backing down, not allowing him to reframe survival as betrayal. But I can see the cost of that defiance in the way her uncle's expression hardens.

"Field commanders make decisions within established parameters," he says, voice dropping to the dangerous quiet that precedes explosions. "They don't make policy. They don't negotiate treaties. And they certainly don't compromise House honor by consorting with enemies of humanity."

"Enemies determined by whom?"

"By centuries of warfare. By the blood of our people spilled on orc blades. By the simple reality that humans and orcs cannot coexist without one dominating the other."

The tent feels smaller suddenly, air thick with old hatred and newer tension. I see the rhythm building here with accusation, defense, escalation, violence. It's a pattern I've seen play out in a dozen different contexts, always ending the same way.

With blood.

"Domination." Ressa speaks the word like she's testing its weight. "Is that what you think this is about?"

"I think this is about a commander who's forgotten her duty to her people in favor of romantic fantasies about noble savages and peaceful coexistence."

Romantic fantasies. He's not wrong about the romantic part, but the dismissal stings anyway.

What developed between Ressa and me in the ember-stone chamber wasn't fantasy, it was recognition.

Two people finding common ground despite everything their respective cultures had taught them about each other.

"My duty is to protect human lives and advance human interests through whatever means prove most effective."

"Even if those means include betraying everything your House represents?"

"Everything my House represents includes tactical flexibility and strategic thinking."

"Your House represents human superiority maintained through strength." Heldrik's hand drops to his sword hilt. "Not compromise with lesser species."

Lesser species. Each word pelts like hammer blows, each one driving home the fundamental impossibility of what Ressa and I have been attempting. Her uncle doesn't see orcs as potential allies or individual beings capable of honor and loyalty. He sees us as animals to control or eliminate.

And animals don't get the courtesy of formal challenges or honorable duels.

"Uncle—"

"Enough." He draws his blade in one smooth motion, the steel singing as it clears the scabbard.

Not his ceremonial sword, but a working weapon—serrated edge designed to cause maximum damage, balance optimized for close-quarters combat.

"You've forgotten who you are, Commander. Allow me to remind you."

The blade moves faster than expected, angling toward Ressa's throat with the precise efficiency of someone who's killed before and expects to kill again. She dodges, but the tent's confines limit her options, and Heldrik's reach advantage closes off the most obvious escape routes.

No.