The pieces fall together with sickening clarity. Ressa Vaelmark isn't just a mercenary who happened across my hunting party. She's running weapons to our enemies. The woman who bandaged my wounds may have been preparing to arm the orcs who'll use those weapons against my clan.
Trust. Such a costly mistake.
"When?"
"Three days. Maybe two. The Bloodfang payment comes through when she delivers the last shipment."
I lean closer, letting him smell the metal and leather scent of someone who's killed recently.
"Final shipment location."
"Thornback Ridge. The old watchtower ruins. But look, I was just transport. I don't know what she's planning to?—"
Boot steps echo across the courtyard. Multiple sets moving with military precision.
I turn to see Ressa Vaelmark striding through the broken gates, flanked by two soldiers in mismatched armor. Her auburn hair catches morning light like polished copper, and those pale violet eyes scan the scene with professional assessment.
Beautiful. Deadly. Treacherous.
"Impressive interrogation technique," she says, voice carrying the crisp authority of command. "But I'm afraid you're questioning my prisoner."
I keep the knife visible while rising to my feet. "Your prisoner ran weapons through Ironspine territory. That makes him ours by right of capture."
"He was captured in neutral ground. The southern approach to Ember Hollow technically belongs to no clan."
Technically.
I study her face for signs of deception, but find only calm competence. The same expression she wore while treating my wounds—focused, efficient, giving away nothing.
"Neutral ground patrolled by Ironspine forces."
"Patrolled, not claimed. There's a difference."
Her soldiers spread out slightly, hands resting near weapon hilts. Not threatening yet, but ready to become so. I count distances, angles of attack, tactical advantages.
Two swords. One crossbow. Professional spacing but not perfect.
"What's your interest in this smuggler?" I ask.
"He stole something from me. I want it back."
"The weapons cache?"
"Among other things."
We face each other across ten feet of bloodstained courtyard stones. The tension builds like pressure before a storm, that electric moment when violence hangs balanced on a knife's edge.
She armed our enemies. Gave them weapons to kill my clan.
But I remember the careful way she cleaned my wounds. The precise stitches that will heal clean. The way she refused payment and asked nothing in return.
Unless helping me was part of some larger strategy.
"Tell me about Bloodfang territory," I say.
"What about it?"
"Your weapons shipments. Your final delivery to Thornback Ridge."
