"High praise from an Ironspine scout."
"Professional observation."
"I'll take it."
The camp itself sprawls across a sheltered valley between two ridgelines, positioned to control the main approach routes while maintaining escape options through the eastern passes. Thirty-seven tents arranged in precise military formation around acentral command area. Supply wagons protected by earthwork berms. Picket lines for horses and pack animals.
Heldrik's influence. Everything organized according to cavalry doctrine.
Effective. But inflexible.
Smoke rises from the forge at the camp's heart with a portable smithy where our weaponsmith maintains equipment and forges specialized ammunition. The sound of a hammer on steel rings across the valley in a steady rhythm, punctuated by the hiss of heated metal meeting water.
Home. Such as it is.
"Ressa!"
The shout comes from the command tent as we approach. Commander Heldrik Vaelmark emerges with the bearing of a man accustomed to instant obedience and absolute authority. He wears his steel-gray hair cropped short in military fashion, and his uniform is immaculate despite three weeks in the field.
Uncle. Still playing soldier.
His pale eyes fix on Kaelgor with the cold assessment of a predator evaluating potential threats. No warmth. No curiosity. Just calculation.
"Who's this?"
"Kaelgor Ironspine. Scout and second-in-command to Chieftain Drokhan."
"I didn't ask for his credentials. I asked why he's here."
Typical Heldrik. Straight to the point of conflict.
"He has information about Bloodfang movements. And he knows the mountain passes between here and their territory."
"Intelligence from an enemy scout." Heldrik says with the flat tone he uses when discussing tactical options with unacceptable risk factors. "Unreliable at best. Deliberately misleading at worst."
Kaelgor steps forward, his posture shifting into something more formal. Not quite a bow—orcs don't bow to humans—but a slight inclination of his head that acknowledges rank without surrendering dignity.
"Commander Vaelmark."
Heldrik doesn't return the gesture. Instead, he lets silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable, then speaks without looking away from Kaelgor's face.
"Your clan raids our settlements. Your warriors kill our people. Your chieftain harbors the Bloodfang raiders who took my niece." Each accusation lands like a hammer blow. "Give me one reason not to have you executed as an enemy combatant."
There it is. The ultimatum.
Heldrik doesn't negotiate. He issues terms and expects compliance.
But Kaelgor doesn't flinch. If anything, his stance becomes more solid, more centered. Like he's settling into a fighting position without moving his hands toward weapons.
"Because I want the Bloodfang stopped as much as you do."
"Convenient claim."
"They killed my brother."
The words carry weight that silence can't diminish. Personal loss. Blood debt. The motivation that transcends clan politics and territorial disputes.
Truth. I can hear it in his voice.
