Page 6 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

T he silence Kaelgor leaves behind has teeth.

I pack my medical supplies with mechanical precision, each bandage rolled tight, each vial secured in its leather slot. The routine keeps my hands busy while my mind circles like a vulture over questions I don't want to answer.

Why did helping him feel so natural?

Three years of maintaining a careful distance from anyone who might complicate my life, and I'd knelt in ash-covered ruins to stitch wounds for an orc whose name I didn't even know. No hesitation. No calculation of profit or political advantage. Just instinct.

He observes my face while I work, sending an unwelcome flutter in my heart. He'd watched me with the intensity of someone cataloguing weaknesses, but also with something else. Recognition, maybe. Like he'd seen through the mercenary facade to whatever remains of the woman I used to be.

Dangerous thinking.

I snap the medical kit closed and secure it to my saddle. The Vaelmark crest etched into the leather catches morning light, a silver phoenix rising from thorns. Once, that symbol meant something. Protection. Justice. Noble purpose.

Now it's just convenient branding for a sellsword who has good breeding.

"Mount up," I call to my patrol. "We're moving."

Six professional soldiers swing into their saddles without question. They're good people, former Vaelmark house guards who followed me into exile rather than serve under my family's new political arrangements. Loyal to a fault, which makes what I'm about to ask of them even more complicated.

Because despite every reasonable argument for walking away, I can't stop thinking about that torn piece of cloth I'd seen in Kaelgor's belt pouch. Blue silk, ceremonial weave. Ironspine funeral ribbon, unless I miss my guess.

Who did he lose?

The question shouldn't matter. Clan politics, old grievances, cycles of violence that stretch back generations—none of it concerns me anymore. I learned that lesson when my family's noble ideals dissolved under pressure from more pragmatic relatives.

But something about the way he'd touched that pouch, the careful reverence in the gesture, reminds me of another time. When loss meant more than tactical disadvantage. When protecting people was about more than contract obligations.

Before I learned noble intentions get you exiled and everyone you care about gets hurt, anyway.

My horse picks his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Ember Hollow's outskirts, hooves ringing against stone. Behind me, my patrol maintains professional spacing and alertness. They know better than to ask questions when I'm wearing my thinking face.

The mist lifts as we clear the ruins, revealing rolling hills scarred by old battles. Ironspine territory stretches to the north, marked by standing stones and clan banners. Bloodfang lands lie beyond that, across the ridge where smoke still rises from their forges.

Two orc clans had territorial disputes. Human settlements caught in the middle. Same pattern repeats across the frontier.

I should ride south toward more profitable contracts. Away from clan politics and family obligations. Away from rust-red eyes that see too much.

Instead, I observe the northern trails, calculating travel time to Ironspine holdings.

Not my problem. Not my responsibility.

But the mental repetition lacks conviction, and I'm still arguing with myself when riders appear on the eastern horizon.

Three figures in familiar colors. Blue and silver, with the Threnwick griffin emblazoned on their pennons. My stomach clenches as I notice the lead rider's posture before I can make out his face.

Barrick. Of course.

"Hold position," I order my patrol, then ride forward to meet my cousin at the midpoint between our forces.

Sir Barrick Threnwick looks every inch the noble knight he's always believed himself to be.

Immaculate armor, perfectly groomed destrier, ceremonial sword that's never seen actual combat.

He's three years older than me and has spent every one of them trying to prove he deserves the political advancement that came with my exile.

"Cousin." His greeting holds exactly the right mix of family warmth and formal distance. "You're looking well."

"Barrick." I keep my tone neutral. "Bit far from home, aren't you?"

"Family business." He glances pointedly at my patrol, professional soldiers in functional gear. "Perhaps we could speak privately?"

Nothing good ever starts with 'family business.'

But I signal my people to wait and follow Barrick to a cluster of standing stones that offers some privacy. His companions, both young knights I don't recognize—remain mounted but watchful.

"What do you want?" No point in pleasantries. We both know this isn't a social call.

"Direct as always." Barrick dismounts and removes his helm, revealing the same sharp features that mark all Vaelmark bloodline. "I bring word from the family council."

"I renounced my seat on that council."

"Some obligations transcend politics, Ressa."

The way he says my name, like he's granting me a favor by using it, sets my teeth on edge. But I wait. Whatever brought him this far from court comfort must be significant.

"Lyanna has been taken."

The words hit like a crossbow bolt to the chest. My younger sister, barely eighteen and sheltered by family wealth all her life. Sweet, trusting Lyanna, who writes letters I never answer and sends gifts I return unopened.

"Taken by whom?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Bloodfang Clan. Three days ago, during their raid on Millhaven. She was visiting the Temple of Healing, distributing charity funds." Barrick's expression suggests he finds such activities frivolous but politically useful. "The orcs hit fast, took captives, burned half the town."

Lyanna. Gods damn it.

"Ransom demands?"

"None yet. Intelligence suggests they're holding her at their mountain stronghold, along with other high-value captives. The family council believes this is preparation for a larger political gambit."

"What kind of gambit?"

"Unknown. But Lord Threnwick has authorized whatever resources are necessary for her recovery." Barrick's tone shifts, becoming more formal. "Including reconciliation with certain estranged family members."

There it is. The hook.

"You want me to lead a rescue mission."

"The council wants House Vaelmark's expertise in frontier warfare. Your reputation with difficult terrain and hostile clans makes you the logical choice."

"My reputation as a sellsword who can't be trusted with family politics?"

"Your reputation as someone who gets results." His admission clearly cost him something. "Whatever our personal differences, Ressa, you're the best tactical mind our generation produced. Lyanna needs that expertise."

Lyanna, who wanted nothing but to help people. Who believed in the noble ideals I abandoned.

The smart play is obvious. Demand an enormous fee, negotiate terms that benefit my mercenary company, treat this like any other contract. Keep emotions out of professional decisions.

But the image of my sister in Bloodfang hands, terrified, probably hurt, definitely confused about why anyone would want to harm her.

The same rage that got me exiled.

"Payment?"

"Full restoration of your family status and holdings. Plus fifty thousand in gold for expenses."

"I don't want family status restored."

"Then just the gold."

"What's the real reason you need me, Barrick? There are plenty of mercenary companies for hire. Ones without complicated family histories."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying the horizon where Bloodfang territory begins. When he speaks again, the political polish has worn thin.

"Because the Bloodfang raids aren't random. They're coordinated. Strategic. Someone's organizing them, and whoever it is knows our standard military responses." He meets my eyes. "We've lost two rescue attempts already. Good people. Professional soldiers."

Two failed attempts. Which means this isn't a simple smash-and-grab mission.

"How long do I have to decide?"

"You don't." His voice hardens. "Intelligence suggests they're moving captives tomorrow. If we're going to act, it has to be now."

Of course it does.

I look north toward the ridgeline where Bloodfang smoke rises against pale sky. Somewhere beyond those peaks, Lyanna waits in a cell or cage, probably wondering why no one's come for her yet.

And somewhere between here and there, Kaelgor is traveling injured through territory that might suddenly become a war zone.

The thought surprises me with its intensity. I barely know the orc warrior and have no obligation to his safety. But his controlled pain while I stitched his wounds, the careful way he'd handled that blue ribbon...

Not my responsibility.

"I need an hour to prepare my people."

"Then you'll do it?"

"I'll get my sister back." The words taste like ash and old promises. "But I do this my way. No family council oversight. No political considerations. Just tactical objectives."

"Agreed."

We shake hands formally, sealing an arrangement that will probably destroy what's left of my carefully constructed independence. But as I mount up and signal my patrol to follow, I'm not thinking about political consequences.

I'm thinking about Lyanna's laugh, bright and unspoiled by the cynicism that marks the rest of our family. About the letters she writes, full of news about healing work and charitable projects. About the way she still signs them 'your loving sister' despite three years of silence from me.

I won't let the Bloodfang animals hurt her.

The ride north toward clan territory passes in tense preparation. My soldiers check weapons and adjust armor without needing orders. They've been with me long enough to read my moods, and they know what this tight-lipped determination means.

Combat. Soon.

But as we approach the crossroads where four territorial boundaries meet, I spot something that makes me raise my hand for a halt.

Blood on the stones. Fresh enough to still glisten.

I dismount and study the scene with professional interest. Signs of recent combat scatter across the ancient intersection—broken weapons, torn cloth, hoofprints from multiple horses.

And mixed among them, orc clan markers. Ironspine sigils carved into standing stones. Bloodfang war-paint smeared on granite surfaces.

Clan skirmish. Recent.

But it's the piece of dark fabric caught on a thorn bush that stops my breath.

Kaelgor's cloak. I'd recognize that weave anywhere, the way it moved in the wind while we talked, the bone clasp he'd worn at his throat.

Gods damn it.

I follow the trail signs of growing tension. Hoofprints lead north toward Bloodfang territory, but whether they belong to pursuers or prisoners is unclear. What's certain is that someone fought here, and someone lost.

Please let him be smart enough to avoid capture.

But even as I think it, I know Kaelgor isn't the type to run from a fight. Especially if he thought civilians or clan members were in danger.

Lyanna needs rescuing. Kaelgor might need rescuing. And I'm standing at a crossroads trying to decide the direction honor lies.

Three years ago, the answer would have been simple. Save everyone. Noble sacrifice for noble ends.

Three years ago, I still believed noble intentions were enough.

Now I know better. We have limited resources. We must prioritize tactical objectives. Personal feelings are luxuries that get people killed.

But I can't walk away from either of them.

The admission cuts deeper than I expected. Somewhere between stitching wounds in ash-covered ruins and watching rust-red eyes that saw too much, Kaelgor became more than a chance encounter. Something worth protecting.

Just like Lyanna has always been worth protecting, despite my attempts to convince myself otherwise.

Two rescue missions. Limited resources. Hostile territory.

Any reasonable mercenary would choose the one with better payment and political advantages. Family connections versus stranger obligations.

But as I view the blood-stained crossroads where Kaelgor's trail disappears into Bloodfang territory, the choice becomes clear.

Both. I save both of them.

Even if it kills me.

I mount up and turn my horse toward the mountain passes where smoke rises against storm clouds. Behind me, my patrol falls into formation without question. They're professionals who trust my tactical judgment, even when it leads toward impossible odds.

Especially when it leads toward impossible odds.

"Where are we headed, Commander?" Sergeant Hayes asks as we pick up the pace.

I point toward the peaks where Bloodfang banners snap in mountain wind. Where my sister waits in captivity and an orc warrior might walk into a trap.

"To collect some debts."