"How long do I have to decide?"
"You don't." His voice hardens. "Intelligence suggests they're moving captives tomorrow. If we're going to act, it has to be now."
Of course it does.
I look north toward the ridgeline where Bloodfang smoke rises against pale sky. Somewhere beyond those peaks, Lyanna waits in a cell or cage, probably wondering why no one's come for her yet.
And somewhere between here and there, Kaelgor is traveling injured through territory that might suddenly become a war zone.
The thought surprises me with its intensity. I barely know the orc warrior and have no obligation to his safety. But his controlled pain while I stitched his wounds, the careful way he'd handled that blue ribbon...
Not my responsibility.
"I need an hour to prepare my people."
"Then you'll do it?"
"I'll get my sister back." The words taste like ash and old promises. "But I do this my way. No family council oversight. No political considerations. Just tactical objectives."
"Agreed."
We shake hands formally, sealing an arrangement that will probably destroy what's left of my carefully constructed independence. But as I mount up and signal my patrol to follow, I'm not thinking about political consequences.
I'm thinking about Lyanna's laugh, bright and unspoiled by the cynicism that marks the rest of our family. About the letters she writes, full of news about healing work and charitable projects. About the way she still signs them 'your loving sister' despite three years of silence from me.
I won't let the Bloodfang animals hurt her.
The ride north toward clan territory passes in tense preparation. My soldiers check weapons and adjust armor without needing orders. They've been with me long enough to read my moods, and they know what this tight-lipped determination means.
Combat. Soon.
But as we approach the crossroads where four territorial boundaries meet, I spot something that makes me raise my hand for a halt.
Blood on the stones. Fresh enough to still glisten.
I dismount and study the scene with professional interest. Signs of recent combat scatter across the ancient intersection—broken weapons, torn cloth, hoofprints from multiple horses.
And mixed among them, orc clan markers. Ironspine sigils carved into standing stones. Bloodfang war-paint smeared on granite surfaces.
Clan skirmish. Recent.
But it's the piece of dark fabric caught on a thorn bush that stops my breath.
Kaelgor's cloak. I'd recognize that weave anywhere, the way it moved in the wind while we talked, the bone clasp he'd worn at his throat.
Gods damn it.
I follow the trail signs of growing tension. Hoofprints lead north toward Bloodfang territory, but whether they belong to pursuers or prisoners is unclear. What's certain is that someone fought here, and someone lost.
Please let him be smart enough to avoid capture.
But even as I think it, I know Kaelgor isn't the type to run from a fight. Especially if he thought civilians or clan members were in danger.
Lyanna needs rescuing. Kaelgor might need rescuing. And I'm standing at a crossroads trying to decide the direction honor lies.
Three years ago, the answer would have been simple. Save everyone. Noble sacrifice for noble ends.
Three years ago, I still believed noble intentions were enough.
