Page 81 of Savage Devotion
"My mistake was allowing her to live this long."
Rage surges through me like molten metal, white-hot and demanding release. This human wants to reduce everything to simple categories—civilization versus barbarism, order versus chaos, us versus them. He can't comprehend that his niece mighthave found something worth preserving in an enemy, or that an orc might be capable of loyalty to someone outside his own clan.
But I can show him whatsavagereally means.
I twist my blade, leveraging his weapon aside and following through with an elbow strike aimed at his throat. He's fast for a human, getting his off-hand up to deflect the blow, but the impact still staggers him backward.
"Stand down! All of you, stand down!"
Nobody listens. Guards close in from three directions, crossbows appearing in hands that were empty seconds before. Heldrik recovers his balance and comes at me again, this time with the calculated fury of someone who's decided that making an example requires spectacular violence.
His blade work is good, better than good. Decades of combat experience show in every strike, every defensive position, every tactical decision. He fights like someone who's survived a hundred battles by being faster, stronger, and more ruthless than his opponents.
But he's fighting me.
And I've survived just as many battles by being smarter.
I give ground, letting him think he's driving me back through superior skill and aggression. The tent's support poles limit his movement options while providing me with cover and leverage points. When he commits to a overhead strike meant to split my skull, I step inside his reach and drive my shoulder into his chest.
The impact sends us both crashing into the map table, scattering pins and papers across the tent floor. Heldrik grunts as his back strikes the table's edge, but he doesn't drop his weapon. Instead, he tries to bring his knee up into my ribs—a dirty fighter's move that would have worked if I hadn't been expecting it.
I catch his leg, twist, and send him sprawling across the scattered maps. He rolls, comes up with his blade ready, and stares down the length of my sword.
"Yield," I say quietly.
"Never."
"Then die."
But before either of us can follow through on our respective threats, Ressa steps between us. No weapon in her hands, no armor protecting her body—just courage and desperation and the absolute certainty that this ends here.
"Stop. Both of you. This ends now."
Heldrik's blade wavers, uncertainty flickering across his features. "Ressa?—"
"Commander Vaelmark," she corrects sharply. "And you will address me by rank or not at all."
The correction stings him more than any physical blow could have. I see it in the way his shoulders sag, the way his grip loosens on his weapon. She's not just defying him. She's rejecting the familial authority he's used to control her decisions.
"You're choosing them over your own people."
"I'm choosing peace over war. Progress over tradition. Hope over hatred."
"Those are luxuries we can't afford."
"Those are necessities we can't survive without."
The tent falls silent except for the sound of our breathing and the distant commotion of the camp beyond. Guards still surround us, weapons still drawn, but nobody moves. They're waiting for someone to make the decision that will determine what happens next.
Heldrik straightens, his blade rising again. "Stand aside, Commander. This ends with the orc's death."
"Then it ends with mine as well."
Ressa hasn't moved, hasn't drawn a weapon, hasn't even raised her voice. But the simple statement carries absolute conviction—if he wants to kill me, he'll have to go through her.
And killing his own niece in front of her command would be a step too far even for someone as ruthlessly pragmatic as Heldrik Vaelmark.
She's protecting me.The realization hits with unexpected force. Not just standing up to her uncle or defending her decisions, actively putting her life between mine and his blade. Choosing my survival over her own family relationships.
