Page 90 of Savage Devotion
Kaelgor's grip tightens on my hand as we both turn toward the sound. In the growing dusk, torchlight catches on burnished armor and ceremonial banners that make my breath catch. Orc riders, but not raiders or scouts. These carry the formal regalia of diplomatic envoys, their weapons peace-bonded with white cord and their mounts stepping in the ritualized pattern that announces intent to parley.
"That's a Stoneborn delegation," Kaelgor says quietly. "Full ceremonial dress."
The lead rider dismounts with fluid grace despite his massive frame, removing his helm to reveal the distinctive bone-white tattoos that mark high rank among the mountain clans. He's older than Kaelgor, perhaps fifty winters, with iron-grey hair braided with silver wire and eyes the color of storm clouds. Authority radiates from him like heat from forge-fire.
"War-Binder Thrakul," Kaelgor breathes. "What's he doing here?"
War-Binder.The title carries weight as I'm still learning to understand it . Not just military commander, but a spiritual leader, keeper of clan law, the voice that speaks for an entire people when words must carry the force of blood-oath.
Thrakul's gaze sweeps the camp, taking in the obvious tension between factions, the way groups cluster around different leaders, the careful distance maintained between human guards and the few Orc allies already present. His expression reveals nothing, but his posture suggests he found exactly what he expected.
"Commander Vaelmark," he calls, voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "I request formal audience under the ancient protocols."
Ancient protocols.The words send a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with evening air. Our peoples had not invoked those protocols for over a century, not since the last failed attempt at lasting peace. They carry binding force, magical weight, consequences that extend far beyond individual choice.
I feel Kaelgor's tension through our joined hands, uncertainty radiating from him like heat. This is his superior, his clan leader, someone whose authority he's sworn to uphold. Yet here we stand, hands intertwined, displaying unity that challenges every tradition both our peoples hold sacred.
"What do I do?" I whisper.
"Answer formally. Acknowledge the protocols. And whatever he offers..." Kaelgor's voice drops even lower. "Consider it carefully. War-Binders don't travel with full ceremony for minor matters."
I step forward, releasing Kaelgor's hand but remaining at his side so our unity stays visible. "War-Binder Thrakul, I acknowledge your request and the ancient protocols that bind such audience. You have safe passage and formal hearing, as honor demands."
Honor demands.The phrase tastes strange on my tongue, weighted with implications I'm only beginning to understand. But something in Thrakul's eyes approves of the formal response, a slight nod proving I've chosen correctly.
He reaches into his saddlebags, withdrawing a scroll case that gleams with more than mere metalwork. Runes chase themselves along its surface, glowing faintly in the torchlight—magical seals that mark whatever lies within as carrying official weight, binding force, the accumulated authority of clan and tradition.
"I bring words from the Gathered Clans," he announces, voice pitched to carry across the entire camp. "Words of ending and beginning, of choices that echo across generations yet unborn."
The camp has gone completely silent now, even Heldrik's faction emerging from their pavilion to witness whatever unfolds. This is history in motion, I realize, the moment that storytellers will recount for centuries hence.
Thrakul breaks the seals with a ceremony that speaks of ritual significance, unfurling parchment that catches torchlight like captured flame. The text itself seems to glow, not with magic but with intent, purpose, and the possibility made manifest.
"A treaty draft," he says simply. "The first formal proposal for lasting peace between our peoples in one hundred and thirty-seven years."
One hundred and thirty-seven years.Longer than any living memory, longer than most family histories, longer than the accumulated grudges that fuel this endless cycle of raid and retaliation. I try to grasp the magnitude of what he's offering, but it slips away like water through cupped hands.
"Why now?" I ask. "What's changed?"
Thrakul's storm-grey eyes find mine, then shift deliberately to Kaelgor, then back. "You ask what's changed? Look around you, Commander. See what you've built in mere days."
I follow his gaze, seeing the camp through his eyes. Humans and Orcs working side by side around cook-fires. Mixed patrols returning from perimeter duty. The careful respect with which my people treat Kaelgor's presence, not as a conquered enemy or reluctant ally, but as a valued partner.
Unity born from necessity but growing into something more.
"The clans have watched," Thrakul continues. "Watched as ancient enemies find common ground. Watched as honor transcends hatred. Watched as two warriors from warring peoples choose trust over tradition."
Heat rises in my cheeks at the implications. Our partnership hasn't gone unnoticed, hasn't remained isolated within this single camp. Word has traveled, carrying meaning and possibility across clan boundaries and territorial lines.
"This draft proposes formal alliance," Thrakul says, extending the scroll toward me. "Not mere ceasefire or temporary truce, but genuine partnership. Shared defense. Mutual support. The end of cycles that have bled both our peoples pale."
I reach for the parchment with hands that barely tremble, feeling both possibility and consequence. The text is dense, formal, and written in the archaic style that marks binding agreements. But the core concepts emerge clearly: recognition of territorial rights, establishment of trade protocols, mutual defense against external threats, and most significantly, formal acknowledgment that peace serves both peoples better than war.
"There will be opposition," I say, scanning the detailed provisions. "From both sides. Those who profit from conflict,who define themselves through ancient hatreds, who see peace as betrayal rather than wisdom."
"Undoubtedly." Thrakul's expression remains neutral, but something in his voice suggests he speaks from experience. "Change always faces resistance from those comfortable with familiar suffering."
I glance toward Heldrik's pavilion, where shadowed figures still cluster around their leader. Even from this distance, their disapproval reaches me, their certainty that what unfolds here represents weakness rather than strength.
