Page 9 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

I don't flinch. Instead, I turn my back on him and shoulder my pack.

"Not yet."

The contradiction slides out soft as silk, sharp as winter. Kaelgor's silence behind me shows consideration. He's thinking, not just reacting. Good. Thoughtless allies are worse than honest enemies.

Thorne groans as I haul him upright. His broken leg dangles uselessly, but he can still talk, and that's what matters. Information has value. Everything else is secondary.

"Can you walk?" I ask Kaelgor without looking back.

"I can walk."

"Then follow me. We have business to finish."

The path out of Ember Hollow winds through collapsed archways and shattered courtyards, where morning light filters through dust clouds still settling from our recent escape. Each step takes us further from the ruins and closer to complications I'm not ready to face.

Heldrik won't approve.

He never approves.

My uncle sees everything through the lens of military advantage and territorial control. Personal motivations are weakness. Emotional attachments are liabilities. That I'm bringing an Ironspine warrior to our forward camp will trigger exactly the confrontation I've spent months avoiding.

But Kaelgor has information about Bloodfang movements. And he knows these territories better than any human scout.

Practical considerations outweigh political ones.

Usually.

Behind me, Kaelgor moves with the steady rhythm of someone accustomed to covering ground efficiently despite injury. His breathing stays even, his footfalls quiet. Professional competence wrapped in orc muscle and iron discipline.

He could have killed Thorne during the collapse. Would have been easy to let debris finish what interrogation started.

But he didn't.

Interesting choice.

The approach to our forward camp takes us through a series of defensive checkpoints hidden among natural rock formations. My men recognize me from a distance and wave us through without challenge, but I view the way their hands drift toward weapons when they see Kaelgor.

Smart. But unnecessary.

For now.

"Your defenses are adequate," he says quietly.

"High praise from an Ironspine scout."

"Professional observation."

"I'll take it."

The camp itself sprawls across a sheltered valley between two ridgelines, positioned to control the main approach routes while maintaining escape options through the eastern passes.

Thirty-seven tents arranged in precise military formation around a central command area.

Supply wagons protected by earthwork berms. Picket lines for horses and pack animals.

Heldrik's influence. Everything organized according to cavalry doctrine.

Effective. But inflexible.

Smoke rises from the forge at the camp's heart with a portable smithy where our weaponsmith maintains equipment and forges specialized ammunition. The sound of a hammer on steel rings across the valley in a steady rhythm, punctuated by the hiss of heated metal meeting water.

Home. Such as it is.

"Ressa!"

The shout comes from the command tent as we approach. Commander Heldrik Vaelmark emerges with the bearing of a man accustomed to instant obedience and absolute authority. He wears his steel-gray hair cropped short in military fashion, and his uniform is immaculate despite three weeks in the field.

Uncle. Still playing soldier.

His pale eyes fix on Kaelgor with the cold assessment of a predator evaluating potential threats. No warmth. No curiosity. Just calculation.

"Who's this?"

"Kaelgor Ironspine. Scout and second-in-command to Chieftain Drokhan."

"I didn't ask for his credentials. I asked why he's here."

Typical Heldrik. Straight to the point of conflict.

"He has information about Bloodfang movements. And he knows the mountain passes between here and their territory."

"Intelligence from an enemy scout." Heldrik says with the flat tone he uses when discussing tactical options with unacceptable risk factors. "Unreliable at best. Deliberately misleading at worst."

Kaelgor steps forward, his posture shifting into something more formal. Not quite a bow—orcs don't bow to humans—but a slight inclination of his head that acknowledges rank without surrendering dignity.

"Commander Vaelmark."

Heldrik doesn't return the gesture. Instead, he lets silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable, then speaks without looking away from Kaelgor's face.

"Your clan raids our settlements. Your warriors kill our people. Your chieftain harbors the Bloodfang raiders who took my niece." Each accusation lands like a hammer blow. "Give me one reason not to have you executed as an enemy combatant."

There it is. The ultimatum.

Heldrik doesn't negotiate. He issues terms and expects compliance.

But Kaelgor doesn't flinch. If anything, his stance becomes more solid, more centered. Like he's settling into a fighting position without moving his hands toward weapons.

"Because I want the Bloodfang stopped as much as you do."

"Convenient claim."

"They killed my brother."

The words carry weight that silence can't diminish. Personal loss. Blood debt. The motivation that transcends clan politics and territorial disputes.

Truth. I can hear it in his voice.

Heldrik hears it too, but that doesn't soften his expression. In his worldview, personal motivations make people unpredictable, and unpredictable allies are dangerous.

"Your brother's death doesn't make you trustworthy."

"No. But it makes me useful."

Smart answer. Practical rather than emotional.

"We'll see."

Heldrik turns away without dismissal or invitation, returning to his maps and reports as if we'd never interrupted his work. The message is clear: Kaelgor exists on sufferance, nothing more.

Welcome to the family dynamic.

I guide Kaelgor toward the supply area, where cooking fires burn low and steady. Most of the camp is on patrol or handling equipment maintenance, leaving the central area relatively quiet.

"Your uncle seems pleasant," Kaelgor observes.

"He's practical. Sentiment doesn't win wars."

"Does it lose them?"

Complicated question.

"Sometimes."

I pull ingredients from my personal supplies: dried meat, root vegetables, spices traded from southern merchants who don't ask too many questions about their customers' affiliations. The provisions that turn basic sustenance into something approaching civilization.

Cooking calms me. Always has.

Control over fire, ingredients, outcome. Simple cause and effect.

The portable stove ignites with a soft whoosh of combusting oil. I arrange the ingredients with practiced efficiency, letting muscle memory handle the familiar routine while my mind processes the morning's complications.

Kaelgor watched me kill those wolves without hesitation. Accepted medical treatment without suspicion. Worked beside me to save lives during the collapse.

But he's still Ironspine. Still allied with clans that consider humans acceptable targets.

Still dangerous.

Water bubbles in the pot as I add meat and vegetables in a carefully timed sequence. The spices go in last, cardamom and black pepper from the southern kingdoms, dried herbs gathered from mountain slopes where the air tastes of snow and possibility.

Mother's recipe. With modifications.

She never had to feed orcs.

Kaelgor stands near enough to help if needed, far enough away to avoid crowding. His stomach growls audibly, a sound that carries more honesty than most conversations.

When did he last eat? Real food, not field rations?

The stew thickens as it cooks, filling the air with rich aromas that draw interested glances from passing soldiers. I ignore them and focus on the simple pleasure of creating something nourishing from basic components.

This separates us from animals. The ability to transform raw materials into something better.

Though some would argue that's what makes us dangerous.

I ladle stew into two wooden bowls, offering one to Kaelgor without ceremony. He accepts it.

"You didn't have to feed me."

"You didn't have to help save those men from the rubble."

"Professional obligation."

"So is this."

Lie. But a useful one.

He tastes the stew cautiously, then more enthusiastically as heat and flavor register. His expression shifts from guarded suspicion to genuine surprise.

"This is good."

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I expected military rations."

"I'm not military."

Anymore.

The distinction matters more than I want to admit. Military thinking reduces everything to tactical advantage and strategic position. Civilian thinking allows for complexity, ambiguity, and the possibility that enemies might become something else given different circumstances.

Heldrik never learned that lesson.

Maybe I haven't either.

We eat in companionable silence while the camp continues its daily routine around us. Horses being groomed. Weapons being sharpened. Sentries change shifts with quiet efficiency.

Normal sounds. Peaceful sounds.

Deceptive.

"Your nephew seems to disagree with your methods," Kaelgor says eventually.

"Uncle. And he disagrees with most things that don't involve direct application of force."

"Effective leadership style?"

"For certain objectives."

But not for this one.

Lyanna needs subtlety. Negotiation. The careful maneuvering that Heldrik considers weakness.

Which is why I'm handling this personally.

"What about your objectives?" Kaelgor asks.

The question carries implications I'm not ready to explore. Personal goals versus family obligations. Individual choice versus inherited responsibility. The decisions affects more than just the person making them.

What do I want?

My sister back safely. The Bloodfang threat neutralized. Some kind of peace that doesn't require constant vigilance.

Simple desires. Complicated execution.

"I want my sister home."

"And after that?"

After that.

The future feels abstract when the present contains so many variables. Clan politics shift like weather patterns. Alliance structures built on foundations of mutual distrust. Personal connections form despite strategic logic.