Page 75 of Savage Devotion
He's right. The chamber doesn't feel closed or stagnant despite being deep underground. Air moves through hidden passages, carrying scents of pine and snow that speak of surface connection.
"An exit," I breathe.
"Multiple exits, if the air currents are any indication." He pauses near a formation that resembles a natural archway. "But something else too."
I follow his gaze to alcoves carved into the chamber walls. Not natural formations, but deliberate constructions, sized and shaped for human occupation. Storage spaces, or...
"Ritual chambers." The knowledge surfaces from childhood lessons I'd tried to forget. "This isn't just a forge site. It's a temple."
"To what?"
"The flame that burns without consuming. The forge that creates without destroying." I touch the wall, and the ember-stone responds with gentle warmth. "The power that binds metal to metal, heart to heart."
Heart to heart.
The words hang in the air between us, weighted with meaning I'm not ready to examine. But the ember-stone doesn't care about my emotional defenses. It responds to truth, and somewhere between the battlefield cooperation and the desperate escape, something fundamental shifted between us.
Kaelgor's breathing changes, becoming labored in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion. I turn toward him and see what I should have noticed immediately, the head wound from the tunnel collapse isn't just bleeding. It's bleeding wrong, too much and too fast, and his pupils are dilated in the ember-stone's glow.
"Kaelgor." I'm moving before conscious thought catches up, hands reaching for him as he sways. "Hey, stay with me."
"I'm fine." He says, echoing someone trying to convince himself as much as me.
"No, you're not." I guide him toward one of the ritual alcoves, flat stone that can serve as a makeshift examination surface. "Head injury, possible concussion, and who knows what other damage from the blast."
"We need to keep moving. Find the exit."
"We need to stop the bleeding first." I press him back against the stone, fingers already probing the wound site. "The exit won't matter if you collapse before we reach it."
The ember-stone provides steady light for examination, revealing damage that's worse than I initially thought. Not just surface bleeding but signs of deeper trauma, swelling that shows serious complications. In a proper medical facility, with proper equipment, it would be manageable. Here, with nothing but field supplies and desperation...
Focus on what you can control.
I strip away the makeshift bandage I'd applied earlier, assessing blood flow and wound characteristics with clinical detachment that doesn't quite mask growing concern. The bleeding is steady but not arterial, which is good. It's better that the swelling is localized. But head injuries are unpredictable, and symptoms can deteriorate rapidly.
"How's your vision?" I ask, cleaning the wound with water from my field kit.
"Blurry around the edges."
"Nausea?"
"Some."
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
Which means significant, but he's trying not to worry me. Typical. I apply pressure to slow the bleeding, using techniques learned in field hospitals and mercenary camps where proper medical care was a luxury few could afford.
"Ressa." His hand covers mine, warm and steady despite everything. "If I don't make it out of here?—"
"Stop."
"If I don't make it, you need to know?—"
"I said stop." I press harder against the wound, using physical pressure to interrupt words I'm not ready to hear. "You're going to make it out. We both are."
"The explosion. The fire. You came back for me."
