Now I know better. We have limited resources. We must prioritize tactical objectives. Personal feelings are luxuries that get people killed.
But I can't walk away from either of them.
The admission cuts deeper than I expected. Somewhere between stitching wounds in ash-covered ruins and watching rust-red eyes that saw too much, Kaelgor became more than a chance encounter. Something worth protecting.
Just like Lyanna has always been worth protecting, despite my attempts to convince myself otherwise.
Two rescue missions. Limited resources. Hostile territory.
Any reasonable mercenary would choose the one with better payment and political advantages. Family connections versus stranger obligations.
But as I view the blood-stained crossroads where Kaelgor's trail disappears into Bloodfang territory, the choice becomes clear.
Both. I save both of them.
Even if it kills me.
I mount up and turn my horse toward the mountain passes where smoke rises against storm clouds. Behind me, my patrol falls into formation without question. They're professionals who trust my tactical judgment, even when it leads toward impossible odds.
Especially when it leads toward impossible odds.
"Where are we headed, Commander?" Sergeant Hayes asks as we pick up the pace.
I point toward the peaks where Bloodfang banners snap in mountain wind. Where my sister waits in captivity and an orc warrior might walk into a trap.
"To collect some debts."
3
KAELGOR
The smuggler's blood has dried to rust-brown stains across the courtyard stones by the time I drag him to the interrogation post. His whimpering echoes off crumbling walls like screams that once filled this place back when Ember Hollow was more than ruins and ghosts.
Focus. Information first. Justice after.
I secure the restraints with efficient brutality, checking each knot twice. The man's wrists are already swelling where the rope bites into flesh, but I feel no sympathy. Smugglers who run weapons through clan territory deserve whatever pain they collect.
"Name."
"I don't?—"
My fist connects with his ribs before he finishes the lie. Not hard enough to break bones, but sufficient to steal breath and show intent.
"We start again. Name."
"Darian. Darian Thorne." The words tumble out between gasps. "I'm just a trader, I swear. Small cargo runs, nothing illegal."
I gesture toward the hidden cache we discovered beneath his cart, crossbow bolts tipped with poison, throwing knives balanced for assassination work, vials of liquid fire that burn through armor.
"Trader stock?"
His face goes pale. Sweat beads along his forehead despite the morning chill.
"Look, those aren't mine. I was hired to transport them, that's all. No questions asked, standard fee arrangement."
"Hired by whom?"
Silence stretches between us. I let it build, watching fear work its way through his nervous system. Most humans break under quiet pressure better than pain. They need words to fill empty spaces, even when those words condemn them.
