Page 4 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

My hand moves toward the knife at my belt before I remember I threw them all. The carter notices the gesture and takes a step back.

"Easy." He raises his hands. "We can work something out. I'm a reasonable man."

Reasonable men don't desecrate graveyards.

But before I can respond, the world tilts sideways. My wounded leg gives out completely, and I hit the ground hard enough to see stars. The gash on my thigh has opened wider than I realized, and I'm bleeding out faster than my body can compensate.

"Sir!" Thane drops beside me, already pulling field dressings from his pack. "Mira! Get over here!"

I try to sit up, but the movement sends fresh waves of pain through my leg and shoulder. The carter is backing away, probably hoping to disappear while we're distracted.

"Secure the trader," I manage through gritted teeth. "Don't let him... leave."

Jorik moves to block the carter's retreat while Thane works on my thigh. The pressure bandage helps slow the bleeding, but I can feel the weakness spreading through my limbs. Too much blood loss, too fast.

Stupid. Should have been more careful with that last wolf.

But even as consciousness frays around the edges, I'm mapping the encounter in my mind. Pack behavior. Territory markers. The magical artifacts drew them to this specific location. All useful intelligence for future operations.

Kaven would have been proud of the tactical analysis.

Maybe that's enough.

The thought follows me down into darkness, where the ghosts of Ember Hollow wait with their endless questions about duty and failure and the price of surviving when better warriors don't.

The arrows whistle past my ear with mathematical precision, three shafts finding their marks in their heartbeats. The ember wolf that was circling for another pass at the carter drops mid-stride, its fire-eyes dimming to ordinary amber before going dark entirely.

Professional archery. The kind that costs real coin.

Through the haze of blood loss, I spot the pennons first, crimson and gold, snapping in the wind above the ruined marketplace. Vaelmark colors. My vision sharpens despite the weakness spreading through my limbs, survival instincts cutting through the fog of pain.

What the hell are Vaelmark mercenaries doing in Ironspine territory?

"Formation delta! Secure the perimeter!" The voice cuts across the square with military authority, crisp consonants that speak of officer training and battlefield command. Female. Confident. Used to being obeyed without question.

I force myself up on one elbow, ignoring Thane's protests and the fresh wave of dizziness that threatens to drag me back down.

Six mounted archers in Vaelmark livery have taken positions around the market square, their recurved bows still strung and ready.

Professional soldiers, not the usual border raiders or treasure hunters we encounter in the ruins.

The woman giving orders sits on her horse as if she were born to it, tall and imposing in a burnished plate that's seen real combat.

She pushed her helmet back, revealing sharp features and pale hair bound in a severe braid.

Everything about her posture screams command authority, from the way she holds her reins to the casual confidence with which she surveys the scattered wolf corpses.

"Clean shots, all of you." She dismounts with fluid grace, boots hitting the ash-covered stone without a sound. "Varrick, check the perimeter for additional hostiles. Donnel, secure that cart. The rest of you maintain overwatch."

Her soldiers move to comply without hesitation. Whatever rank she holds, it's high enough to command immediate respect from seasoned mercenaries. That makes her dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the sword at her hip.

She approaches our position with measured steps, taking in the tactical situation with a professional eye. The dead wolves. My bleeding form. The terrified carter was still struggling with his damaged cargo. Thane and my warriors arranged in defensive positions around their wounded commander.

She's evaluating threats and opportunities. Just like I would.

"Ironspine patrol," she observes, noting our clan markings. "Operating in force within your traditional territory. Standard salvage sweep or something more specific?"

The question is casual, but I see the underlying intelligence gathering. She wants to know what we're doing here, whether our presence represents a larger Ironspine operation, and how much we might have observed of whatever brought Vaelmark mercenaries into these ruins.

I should respond with equal caution. Professional courtesy between opposing military units, nothing more. Share minimal information, extract what intelligence I can, and withdraw before the situation becomes complicated.

Instead, I watch the way she moves. Efficient. Purposeful. Every gesture calculated for maximum effect with minimum wasted motion. It's a fighting style I recognize, one that comes from years of battlefield experience against opponents who don't give second chances.

She's good. Probably very good.

"Routine patrol," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "These wolves have been problematic for our border settlements."

"And yet you engaged five mature specimens with a six-warrior squad." Her pale eyes miss nothing as they catalog our weapons, our formation, the blood seeping through Thane's field dressing. "Either exceptionally confident or tactically unsound."

The criticism stings because it's accurate.

I took unnecessary risks in engaging the pack when patience would have served better.

But I can't explain the guilt that drives me toward these confrontations, the need to prove myself worthy of survival when better warriors didn't make it out of Ember Hollow.

"The trader was in immediate danger," I say instead.

"Was he?" She glances toward the carter, who's frantically trying to salvage his cargo while staying out of sword range. "Interesting cargo for a simple merchant. Those inscriptions suggest pre-Blazing ceremonial pieces. Valuable enough to risk ember wolf territory."

She knows magical artifacts when she sees them. Military intelligence training, probably.

"Independent salvagers operate throughout the ruins," I reply carefully. "We discourage looting, but enforcement is complicated."

"I imagine it would be." Something that might be amusement flickers across her features. "Particularly when the salvagers are moving items that technically belong to displaced clans."

The observation hits closer to home than I'd like. Most of the artifacts in that cart probably came from Ironspine burial sites or abandoned clan halls. They should have destroyed or properly interred those items instead of selling them to foreign collectors for profit.

But pursuing that line of thought requires energy I don't have. The bandage on my thigh is already soaking through, and my left shoulder has stiffened to where lifting my arm sends lightning straight into my heart.

"Thane," I call quietly. "Prepare for withdrawal."

"Sir, you need proper medical attention."

"We have field supplies?—"

"You have combat dressings and prayer." The Vaelmark officer interrupts, her tone matter-of-fact. "That gash needs stitching and proper cleaning, or you'll lose the leg to infection. My field surgeon can have you stabilized in twenty minutes."

The offer catches me off guard. Professional courtesy between opposing forces is one thing, but providing medical aid to potential enemies goes beyond normal military protocol. Unless she has reasons for wanting me functional and grateful.

"Generous," I say carefully. "What's the price?"

"Information exchange. Your patrol reports concerning this area. Our intelligence regarding smuggling routes and hostile creature activity. Standard bilateral arrangement."

Too easy. What's she really after?

But even as suspicion wars with pragmatism, I can feel the weakness spreading through my system. Blood loss combined with the physical stress of the fight is taking its toll faster than I can compensate. If I refuse aid and collapse during the withdrawal, my entire patrol becomes vulnerable.

"Sir?" Thane's voice has quiet urgency. "She's right about the wound."

I look at my second-in-command, seeing the concern he's trying to hide behind professional composure. Thane has followed me through a dozen dangerous operations since the Blazing, trusting my judgment even when it led us into situations like this one. I owe him better than stubborn pride.

But accepting help from Vaelmark mercenaries feels like admitting weakness. Like proving that the Ironspine can't handle their own territory without outside intervention.

Kaven would have taken the aid. He always said survival trumps politics.

The thought decides me.

"Medical assistance only," I say finally. "Information exchange can wait until I'm not bleeding."

She nods, already signaling one of her soldiers. "Corpsman Anders, bring your kit. Standard field treatment for arterial damage."

A wiry man with scarred hands dismounts and approaches with a leather medical satchel. His movements have the quick confidence of someone who's patched wounds under fire, and when he kneels beside me, his examination is thorough but gentle.

"Deep, but clean," he reports to his commander. "Missed the major vessels, but it's close. He'll need stitches and a pressure wrap, then rest for at least three days."

"Do what you can here. We're not staying long enough for extended treatment."

The corpsman nods and begins unpacking his supplies. Needle. Thread. Bottles of clear liquid that smell like distilled fire. Professional medical equipment, far superior to our field dressings and herbal remedies.

When did Vaelmark mercenaries carry field surgeons?