Page 52 of Savage Devotion
"You'll be the first to hear it," I promise. That much at least is true.
We dress efficiently, falling back into the professional rhythm that served us well before last night complicated everything. But even as we prepare for the day ahead, I catch her stealing glances at me, her brow furrowed with concern.
The war council convenes in the largest tent at the center of camp. A canvas pavilion accommodates two dozen officers around a rough-hewn table. Maps cover the surface, weighed down with stones and daggers, marking enemy positions and supply routes and the ever-shifting boundaries of clan territories.
Heldrik stands at the head of the table like a judge pronouncing sentence. His pale eyes sweep the assembled officers with cold calculation, lingering on Ressa with something that might be disappointment or might be disgust. When his gaze finds me, standing slightly behind and to the left of Ressa's position, his mouth tightens.
"Gentlemen. Lady Ressa." The way he says her name makes it sound like an accusation. "We have developments."
I scan the faces around the table, cataloging expressions, body language, the subtle tells that separate ally from enemy. Most of the officers show the expected mix of attention and wariness. This is a war council, after all, and bad news is the usual fare.
But there, standing in the shadow near the tent's southern wall, just as Vorth described, is the dark-haired envoy. He watches Ressa with the focused intensity of a hunter marking hisprey. When their eyes meet briefly, he offers a respectful nod, but I notice the calculation beneath it.
Roderick Tarn.The name surfaces from memory, one of Heldrik's intelligence officers, promoted rapidly through the ranks despite his relatively modest background. The man who builds his career on other people's secrets.
"The Bloodfang Clan has been more active than we anticipated," Heldrik continues, his finger tracing routes on the map. "Their raids are coordinated, systematic. Someone is feeding them information about our patrol schedules, our supply routes."
Murmurs ripple around the table. I watch Tarn carefully, but his expression remains professionally neutral. If he feels any guilt about his role in the intelligence leaks, he hides it well.
"Furthermore," Heldrik whispers, "there are reports of unauthorized negotiations with orc clans. Promises made without command approval. Alliances that could compromise our strategic position."
This time, his eyes lock directly on Ressa. The accusation hangs unspoken but clear:unauthorized negotiationsmeans her arrangement with me, her willingness to work with Ironspine forces despite years of human-orc hostility.
Ressa straightens, her chin lifting with the stubborn pride. "Commander, if you have specific concerns about my tactical decisions?—"
"I have concerns about divided loyalties," Heldrik interrupts. "About officers who put personal sentiment above military necessity."
The insult hits its mark. I see Ressa flinch slightly, see her hands tighten on the table's edge. Around us, the other officers shift uncomfortably. This kind of public dressing-down humiliates, to undermine her authority in front of her subordinates.
I take a half-step forward, my hand moving instinctively toward my blade. The gesture is subtle but unmistakable, a warrior's promise that insults to hisallywon't go unanswered.
Heldrik notices. His pale eyes flick to me with cold amusement. "Ah yes. The orc. I wondered when we'd address the elephant in the room."
"Kaelgor Ironspine has proven himself in battle," Ressa says, her voice carefully controlled. "His intelligence has been valuable. His combat skills?—"
"His combat skills are not in question." Heldrik's tone suggests otherwise. "What concerns me is the nature of his access to sensitive information. The timing of certain developments. The possibility that orc honor is more flexible than we've been led to believe."
Now it's my turn to feel the sting of accusation. He's suggesting I'm a spy, that my presence here is part of some Ironspine plot against Vaelmark interests. The irony would be amusing if it weren't so dangerous.
But before I can respond, Tarn steps forward from his shadowed corner. "Commander, if I may?—"
"Speak."
"There have been irregularities in some recent intelligence reports. Patterns that suggest our security may have been compromised." Tarn's voice is smooth, deferential, but his eyes remain fixed on Ressa. "Perhaps a review of all recent tactical decisions would be appropriate. To ensure nothing has been overlooked."
The suggestion sounds reasonable on the surface, but I hear the threat of it.A reviewmeans questioning every choice Ressa has made, every alliance she's forged, every moment of trust she's extended. It means using her cooperation with me as evidence of poor judgment or worse.
And Tarn is the one pushing for it, the same man who's been passing coded messages to Heldrik about Ressa's activities.
The pieces click together with ugly clarity. This isn't just about intelligence leaks or security concerns. They are coordinating an effort to undermine Ressa's command, strip her of authority and replace her with someone more amenable to Heldrik's vision of how they should fight this war.
Someone like Tarn himself.
The council continues for another hour, but I barely hear the tactical discussions, the supply reports, the casualty assessments. I focus entirely on Tarn, watching how he positions himself near Heldrik, how he nods at precisely the right moments, how his gaze keeps returning to Ressa with predatory calculation.
When the meeting finally ends, officers file out in clusters, their voices low as they discuss the implications of what they've heard. Ressa lingers, studying the maps with forced concentration, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightens with suppressed anger.
"I need air," she says finally, not looking at me. "This tent feels like a tomb."
