Page 48 of Savage Devotion
Will I?
The questions chase each other through my mind like smoke through darkness, impossible to catch or contain. I focus onthe fire instead, feeding it carefully measured fuel, maintaining steady heat that will last until dawn without consuming more wood than we can spare.
Control what you can control.
Survive what you can't.
Hope for what you can't predict.
Hours pass in contemplative silence. The moon travels its ancient arc across star-scattered sky while I tend flame and faith with equal attention. Around me, the camp breathes with the rhythm of sleeping soldiers, occasional murmurs or restless movement the only sounds besides wind through pine branches and distant wolf songs echoing from mountain peaks.
The cord pulses warm against my skin as if responding to my thoughts, a physical reminder of promises made and faith given. I wonder if Kaelgor carries something similar as some token of clan loyalty or personal connection that reminds him of reasons to survive when death beckons from every shadow.
Movement in the darkness beyond the firelight stops my wandering thoughts dead. Not a sentry making rounds, wrong direction, wrong rhythm. Someone approaching from the north, moving with careful stealth but obvious purpose. My hand finds my sword hilt automatically, body shifting into combat readiness while my mind catalogs possibilities.
Messenger.
Scout.
Enemy infiltrator.
Kaelgor.
The last thought hits with a force that steals breath from my lungs. Hope and fear warring in my chest as the figure resolves from shadow into recognizable form. Tall, lean, moving with controlled grace despite obvious exhaustion. Familiar silhouette that makes the cord around my throat sing with vindicated faith.
But as he steps into the fire's circle of light, relief transforms into sharp concern. His cloak hangs in tatters, dark stains marking tears in the fabric. His left arm dangles awkwardly, and frost clings to his hair and beard like crystallized breath. When he sways, catching himself against a supply crate, I see the grey pallor of someone pushed beyond normal endurance.
I rise smoothly, professional assessment warring with personal relief. Whatever happened at Skullcrack Pass, he survived it. Made it back across hostile territory despite injuries that would stop most warriors cold. He's standing at all speaks to orc constitution and stubborn determination in equal measure.
"Ressa." My name exudes exhaustion and gratitude. "Mission... complete."
"Sit down before you fall down." I move toward him, hands already reaching for the clasps of his ruined cloak. "Report can wait until you're not bleeding on my fire."
He tries to wave me off, automatic response of someone unused to accepting help, but the gesture lacks his usual strength. When I push gently at his shoulders, he settles onto the ground beside the fire with obvious relief.
I strip away his cloak with careful efficiency, revealing the extent of damage beneath. Frost-fang claws have raked across his ribs, leaving parallel gouges that seep blood despite crude field dressing. His left shoulder shows signs of dislocation, poorly reset and swollen with accumulated stress. Smaller wounds dot his arms and chest—bite marks, blade cuts, the accumulated damage of sustained combat.
"Frost-fangs?" I ask, reaching for my medical kit.
"Pack of twelve. Caught us in narrow defile. Lost two mounts. Garok took claw to the leg, but he'll live."
I work in practiced silence, cleaning wounds and applying fresh bandages while he sits still under my ministrations. The fire paints his skin in shifting patterns of gold and shadow,highlighting the stark beauty of orcish features shaped by war and hardship.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Mine.
The last thought ambushes me with its certainty, stopping my hands mid-motion. When did professional respect become personal investment? When did tactical alliance become something deeper, more complicated, more dangerous than simple military cooperation?
When he gave me his protection cord.
When he trusted me with clan honor.
He kept his promise to return.
He notices my stillness, rust-red eyes meeting mine with question and something that might be hope. "Ressa?"
