Page 85 of Savage Devotion
"Cooperation requires risk," she says, but her voice lacks its earlier certainty.
"Cooperation requires trust. And trust requires proof that the other party shares your fundamental values and objectives."
"Which they do."
"Do they?" He looks directly at me, challenge clear in his gaze. "Tell her, orc. When your clan interests conflict with human welfare, which takes precedence?"
The question I've been dreading.Because the honest answer is that clan loyalty runs deeper than personal affection, that bonds forged in blood and battle can't be broken by newer connections no matter how powerful they feel.
But honesty isn't always the same thing as truth.
"When Ressa's welfare conflicts with anything else," I say slowly, "she takes precedence."
"Pretty words. But what about when her welfare conflicts with her people's survival?"
"Then we find solutions that protect both."
"And if no such solutions exist?"
"Then we create them."
"Naive."
"Determined."
"Doomed."
The single word carries absolute finality. Heldrik straightens, and his blade rises again, but this time he doesn't direct the threat at me or Ressa specifically.
"This ends here," he says quietly. "One way or another."
But before anyone can respond, Ressa steps forward again. Not between us this time, but beside me as our shoulders touch.
"You're right," she says, voice carrying absolute conviction. "This does end here."
Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with the certainty of someone who's made a choice that can't be unmade.
"I stand with Kaelgor Ironspine. I stand with the possibility of peace between our peoples. I stand with hope over hatred, growth over tradition, love over fear."
Love.She said it again, this time without prompting or challenge, making it part of her formal declaration.
Heldrik's face goes white with rage so profound it looks like illness. "You doom us all."
"I save us all."
"You betray everything our family represents."
"I transform what our family represents."
"You choose an animal over your own blood."
"I choose my heart over your hatred."
The blade in his hand trembles with barely controlled fury. Around us, guards watch with the fascination of people witnessing something unprecedented and possibly catastrophic.
"Then you die as you lived," he says quietly. "A fool."
The sword moves in a silver arc aimed at Ressa's exposed arm—not a killing blow, but a marking one. The sort of cut that would leave permanent scars to remind her of the cost of betrayal.
