Page 47 of Savage Devotion
Faith made tangible.
Three days since Kaelgor rode into darkness toward Skullcrack Pass. Three days of maintaining camp discipline, managing supply lines, keeping morale steady while half my attention stays fixed on the northern horizon. Waiting for riders that might never come. Listening for hoofbeats that could bring news of victory or disaster with equal likelihood.
The cord shifts against my throat as I lean forward to adjust the fire, leather and metal catching firelight like captured lightning. When he placed it in my hands, I felt the clan tradition, personal honor, sacred vows wrapped in simple braided material. Now I understand it carries something more dangerous than tradition.
Hope.
Investment in someone else's survival.
Permission to care beyond professional necessity.
I've spent years perfecting emotional distance, treating every alliance as a temporary convenience, every partnership as a tactical advantage rather than a personal connection. Safer that way. Cleaner. No messy complications when missions end and people move on to different wars, different causes, different loyalties.
But this cord around my neck makes distance impossible. Every hour that passes without word from the north has nothing to do with tactical concerns or strategic implications. Pure, selfish fear he might not come back. That I might never see those rust-red eyes again, never feel the controlled intensity of his presence, never have the chance to explore what sparked between us in the forge's glow.
Dangerous thinking.
Personal investment in a professional partnership.
Exactly what I swore to avoid.
The wind shifts, carrying scents of pine and stone from the northern peaks where frost-fang raiders make their lairs. Somewhere in that wilderness, Kaelgor fights for clan survival and personal honor, carrying my trust along with his weapons. The thought sends a phantom pain in me, sharp and unwelcome.
Focus on what you can control.
Maintain the position.
Hold the camp.
Wait.
Movement at the edge of my vision snaps attention back to my immediate surroundings. One sentry approaches, boots crunching on frost-hardened ground, expression alert but not alarmed. Routine patrol check, not emergency response.
"All quiet on the perimeter," she reports. "No movement in the passes."
"Good. Maintain watch rotation. Wake me if anything changes."
She nods and melts back into darkness, professional competence that reminds me why I chose these particular mercenaries for this operation. Skilled, reliable, discreet. No unnecessary questions about why their commander sits by dying fires instead of sleeping in her tent.
Sleep brings dreams.
Dreams bring memories.
Memories bring pain.
Better to stay awake, stay focused, keep mind and hands busy with immediate tasks rather than dwell on possibilities that accomplish nothing except increased anxiety. The fire needs tending. Weapons need checking. Plans need reviewing.
Productive activity.
Professional responsibility.
Distraction from personal concerns.
I pull my cloak tighter and settle in for another sleepless night, fingers automatically returning to the cord on my throat. Tomorrow might bring word from the north. Tomorrow might bring answers to questions I'm afraid to ask directly.
Will he return?
Will he survive?
