Page 88 of Savage Devotion
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Have connections. Supporters. People who follow you instead of him."
I consider the question seriously. "Some. The younger mercenaries respect competence over bloodline. A few of the veterans remember campaigns where my tactics saved lives. But not enough to split the force evenly."
"Then we don't try to split it."
"What do you mean?"
He picks up the mountain-steel knife, testing its balance with the unconscious expertise of someone born to weapons. "We make them choose. Not between you and Heldrik, but between the old ways and new possibilities."
"By doing what?"
"By succeeding where traditional approaches fail."
The simple statement carries layers of implication. Success in what? Defending the camp? Negotiating peace? Building bridges between species that have warred for generations? All of the above?
"That's a significant gamble."
"All worthwhile choices are."
Steam continues rising from the knife blade, carrying the metallic scent of purified steel and something else—the earth-deep smell of forge-fire and determination. I watch the patternsdance in the heated metal, mesmerized by the way golden veins pulse like a heartbeat.
"May I?" I extend my hand toward the knife.
He hesitates, then places the hilt in my palm. The weapon carries warmth that seeps through skin and muscle, settling somewhere deeper. Mountain-steel doesn't just hold heat—it holds intent, purpose, the accumulated will of everyone who's wielded it.
"It's beautiful," I breathe.
"It's functional."
"Same thing, in the right hands."
I observe the blade's surface, noting how the golden veins follow stress-patterns in the steel. Not decoration, but integral structure, the very thing that makes mountain-steel superior to regular iron. Beauty emerges from necessity rather than being imposed upon it.
"This represents something," I say slowly.
"All weapons represent something."
"No. This specific blade, given to me in this specific moment, for this specific purpose."
Understanding flickers in his eyes. "What does it represent?"
"Shared mercy."
The blade cauterized my wound not through violence but through healing. His people's knowledge applied to my injury. Ancient techniques serving present needs.
Transformation through unity.
"Take it." I extend the knife back toward him, hilt-first. "Not as a loan or temporary use, but as an offering."
"Ressa—"
"You shared your clan's healing with me. Let me share my trust with you."
He stares at the weapon, conflict clear in his expression. Accepting would mean acknowledging the symbolic weight ofthe gesture. Refusing would deny the connection we've both fought to ignore and embrace simultaneously.
