Page 6 of Savage Devotion
She's evaluating threats and opportunities. Just like I would.
"Ironspine patrol," she observes, noting our clan markings. "Operating in force within your traditional territory. Standard salvage sweep or something more specific?"
The question is casual, but I see the underlying intelligence gathering. She wants to know what we're doing here, whether our presence represents a larger Ironspine operation, and how much we might have observed of whatever brought Vaelmark mercenaries into these ruins.
I should respond with equal caution. Professional courtesy between opposing military units, nothing more. Share minimal information, extract what intelligence I can, and withdraw before the situation becomes complicated.
Instead, I watch the way she moves. Efficient. Purposeful. Every gesture calculated for maximum effect with minimum wasted motion. It's a fighting style I recognize, one that comes from years of battlefield experience against opponents who don't give second chances.
She's good. Probably very good.
"Routine patrol," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "These wolves have been problematic for our border settlements."
"And yet you engaged five mature specimens with a six-warrior squad." Her pale eyes miss nothing as they catalog our weapons, our formation, the blood seeping through Thane's field dressing. "Either exceptionally confident or tactically unsound."
The criticism stings because it's accurate. I took unnecessary risks in engaging the pack when patience would have served better. But I can't explain the guilt that drives me toward these confrontations, the need to prove myself worthy of survival when better warriors didn't make it out of Ember Hollow.
"The trader was in immediate danger," I say instead.
"Was he?" She glances toward the carter, who's frantically trying to salvage his cargo while staying out of sword range. "Interesting cargo for a simple merchant. Those inscriptions suggest pre-Blazing ceremonial pieces. Valuable enough to risk ember wolf territory."
She knows magical artifacts when she sees them. Military intelligence training, probably.
"Independent salvagers operate throughout the ruins," I reply carefully. "We discourage looting, but enforcement is complicated."
"I imagine it would be." Something that might be amusement flickers across her features. "Particularly when the salvagers are moving items that technically belong to displaced clans."
The observation hits closer to home than I'd like. Most of the artifacts in that cart probably came from Ironspine burial sites or abandoned clan halls. They should have destroyed or properly interred those items instead of selling them to foreign collectors for profit.
But pursuing that line of thought requires energy I don't have. The bandage on my thigh is already soaking through, and my left shoulder has stiffened to where lifting my arm sends lightning straight into my heart.
"Thane," I call quietly. "Prepare for withdrawal."
"Sir, you need proper medical attention."
"We have field supplies?—"
"You have combat dressings and prayer." The Vaelmark officer interrupts, her tone matter-of-fact. "That gash needsstitching and proper cleaning, or you'll lose the leg to infection. My field surgeon can have you stabilized in twenty minutes."
The offer catches me off guard. Professional courtesy between opposing forces is one thing, but providing medical aid to potential enemies goes beyond normal military protocol. Unless she has reasons for wanting me functional and grateful.
"Generous," I say carefully. "What's the price?"
"Information exchange. Your patrol reports concerning this area. Our intelligence regarding smuggling routes and hostile creature activity. Standard bilateral arrangement."
Too easy. What's she really after?
But even as suspicion wars with pragmatism, I can feel the weakness spreading through my system. Blood loss combined with the physical stress of the fight is taking its toll faster than I can compensate. If I refuse aid and collapse during the withdrawal, my entire patrol becomes vulnerable.
"Sir?" Thane's voice has quiet urgency. "She's right about the wound."
I look at my second-in-command, seeing the concern he's trying to hide behind professional composure. Thane has followed me through a dozen dangerous operations since the Blazing, trusting my judgment even when it led us into situations like this one. I owe him better than stubborn pride.
But accepting help from Vaelmark mercenaries feels like admitting weakness. Like proving that the Ironspine can't handle their own territory without outside intervention.
Kaven would have taken the aid. He always said survival trumps politics.
The thought decides me.
