The night was thick with mist. The world had grown silent—too silent.

  Remoran moved swiftly through the dark, his cloak pulled tight against the chill, Orkinder strapped to his back. He had left Sharil two days ago, heading north, into lands few ventured willingly.

  The forests here were old, untouched by human hands. Towering black pines loomed overhead, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The only sounds were the distant howls of unseen creatures.

  And still—he kept moving.

  He had no destination.

  Only the road ahead.

  And yet, somewhere deep in his mind, he knew this wasn’t his path.

  Not yet.

  The attack came without warning.

  One moment, he was alone. The next, the forest exploded with movement.

  A blur of green skin and heavy footfalls.

  Remoran barely had time to react before something slammed into him from behind, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  He hit the ground hard, the impact sending pain lancing up his ribs.

  Then—hands were on him.

  Thick, rough fingers. The smell of sweat and leather. A deep, guttural snarl.

  Orcs.

  Remoran fought.

  His body moved on instinct, twisting, kicking, reaching for Orkinder—

  A boot slammed into his chest.

  Everything went black.

  The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the smell.

  Smoke. Sweat. Blood. And something fouler—something raw.

  Remoran’s vision swam as he tried to sit up, but his hands were bound behind his back, thick rope biting into his wrists.

  A dull orange light flickered from nearby torches, illuminating the massive cavern around him. The air was heavy, thick with the damp scent of earth and stone.

  He was underground.

  A camp.

  Orcs moved through the cavern, their massive frames casting long shadows against the rough stone walls. Weapons clanked, fires crackled, voices muttered in a deep, guttural tongue.

  And then—he saw them staring at him.

  Dozens of yellow eyes locked onto him, filled with something he had never seen before.

  Not just hatred.

  Not just contempt.

  Fear.

  Remoran went still.

  Orcs did not fear humans.

  So why were they looking at him like he was something unnatural?

  His breath hitched. Orkinder.

  His sword was gone—but he knew.

  They had seen it.

  They had felt it.

  And they knew what it was.

  A voice boomed across the cavern, making the very stone vibrate.

  "Bring him forward!"

  Rough hands hauled him to his feet, dragging him through the camp toward a massive, makeshift throne of bones and iron.

  Sitting upon it was the largest orc Remoran had ever seen.

  Grimgor the Red.

  His skin was deep green, almost black, his tusks gleaming under the torchlight. A massive scar ran from his brow to his jaw, and his eyes—those burning, bloodshot eyes—locked onto Remoran with something unreadable.

  Remoran was thrown onto the ground before him, his knees slamming against the rough stone.

  "Look at him," Grimgor rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "A whelp of a boy… but he carries that sword."

  Murmurs rippled through the gathered orcs.

  Remoran clenched his jaw. They knew.

  They knew Orkinder.

  And they feared it.

  Grimgor leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over him. "Where did you find it, human?"

  Remoran refused to answer.

  Grimgor’s lip curled. "You think you are strong?" He laughed, a harsh, growling sound. "Boy, do you even know what you carry?"

  Remoran's fingers twitched.

  "That blade," Grimgor said, voice lowering, "was forged by our ancestors."

  Remoran froze.

  He had suspected—but to hear it confirmed?

  Grimgor’s eyes narrowed. "And yet, it rests in your hands."

  Silence.

  Then, the warlord stood.

  A towering wall of muscle and rage, he drew his own blade, the steel catching the firelight.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "You want to live?" His voice was almost amused. "Prove that you are worthy of the blade you wield."

  The orcs around them stamped their feet, snarling in approval.

  A trial.

  A fight.

  Remoran’s heart pounded. His body ached, but his hands clenched into fists.

  He knew how this worked.

  If he won, he would earn their respect.

  If he lost—he wouldn’t survive.

  Orkinder stirred in his mind, whispering.

  "This is what you were meant for."

  The orcs formed a wide circle, the cavern buzzing with anticipation.

  Remoran’s bonds were cut, and he flexed his wrists, shaking off the stiffness.

  Grimgor stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, his blade glinting in the firelight.

  "Try not to die too quickly, human."

  Remoran took a slow breath.

  Then the fight began.

  Grimgor charged.

  A wall of fury, a beast of war.

  Remoran barely rolled aside in time, the orc’s sword carving a deep scar into the stone where he had stood.

  The cavern erupted in cheers.

  Remoran’s mind went silent.

  His breathing slowed.

  Grimgor lunged again.

  Remoran moved first.

  His body flowed like water, dodging, weaving—he was faster, lighter.

  Grimgor was stronger.

  And Remoran had no weapon.

  A mistake.

  A heavy fist crashed into his ribs, sending him staggering back, pain exploding through his chest.

  Grimgor laughed. "Not so fast, are you?"

  Remoran gritted his teeth.

  Then—

  A whisper in his mind.

  "Call me."

  His eyes darted to the orc guards.

  Orkinder was there.

  And he could call it to him.

  The thought was seductive.

  He could end this fight now.

  But if he did…

  If he reached for Orkinder, it wouldn’t be a trial anymore.

  It would be a slaughter.

  Remoran breathed deep.

  Not yet.

  The cavern echoed with the roars of the gathered orcs, their chants of blood and battle shaking the stone walls. The torches flickered wildly, shadows dancing like ghosts across the massive chamber.

  Grimgor stood tall, rolling his broad shoulders, cracking his neck as he sneered down at Remoran.

  “I see this won’t be an enjoyable fight with you unarmed,” Grimgor rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. His red eyes flicked toward where Orkinder was being held by the guards, untouched, waiting. Mocking.

  “Maybe that sword isn’t really yours,” Grimgor mused, his tusks gleaming as he grinned. “I assumed it would have called to you already.”

  Without another word, he threw his sword aside, the steel clattering against the stone floor.

  “Hold this for me while I break this human’s bones with my fists!”

  The orcs erupted into howls of approval.

  Grimgor charged.

  A blur of muscle and fury, he moved like an avalanche, his fists raised high, ready to bring them down in a skull-shattering blow.

  But this time—Remoran was ready.

  He let the rage guide him.

  And for the first time in his life, he fought without a sword.

  Grimgor leaped, bringing his massive fists down in a hammer-like strike meant to break Remoran in half.

  But Remoran was already moving.

  He sidestepped at the last second, twisting with the precision of a trained fighter—and struck.

  A vicious kick to the back of Grimgor’s knees.

  The orc stumbled, caught off guard by the speed of the counterattack.

  Remoran pressed the advantage, driving a punch toward Grimgor’s head—but the warlord snarled and rolled away in an ugly, clumsy tumble, barely dodging in time.

  The cavern shook with laughter and cheers as the orcs watched their leader struggle against a mere human.

  Grimgor was strong, but Remoran was faster.

  And he used that.

  He struck fast—blows landing against Grimgor’s ribs, his stomach, his jaw—before retreating out of reach.

  For the first time, Remoran wasn’t fighting to survive.

  He was fighting to win.

  But then—Grimgor’s fist crashed into his arm.

  Pain exploded through his left arm.

  The force of the punch sent him stumbling back, and as he tried to move, his arm barely responded. Numb. Weak.

  Grimgor grinned, breathing hard, his massive chest rising and falling.

  “You fight well,” he admitted, rolling his neck. “But you’re breaking, human.”

  Remoran’s fingers twitched. His chest burned with exhaustion.

  He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up this pace.

  Grimgor was breathing heavily too, but he was still a mountain—still a monster.

  How do I end this?

  Remoran’s mind raced. His attacks weren’t strong enough. He was running out of stamina.

  And then—

  A voice curled into his thoughts.

  "Ask to share my power."

  Remoran froze.

  The whisper was softer than before, but deeper, more inviting.

  And Grimgor saw his hesitation.

  With a roar, the warlord lunged, his massive arms locking around Remoran’s torso—pinning him, crushing him.

  The breath rushed from his lungs.

  His ribs screamed in pain.

  He couldn’t move.

  Grimgor was going to break him in half.

  "Share with me your power!"

  The words burst from Remoran’s lips before he even realized he had spoken them.

  And then—the cavern changed.

  The air, once still and heavy, shifted.

  A wind kicked up from nowhere, sending loose dust swirling in the torchlight.

  Orkinder answered.

  A presence flooded through him, coiling through his veins, burning in his chest.

  Strength poured into his limbs.

  Grimgor felt it too. His grip weakened. His confidence wavered.

  "What is thi—"

  Remoran broke free.

  Remoran exploded from Grimgor’s grasp, his right arm surging with power.

  He moved before thinking, before breathing—

  And drove his elbow into Grimgor’s face.

  Bone crunched.

  The orc staggered back, roaring in pain.

  Remoran stared at his own fists, feeling the strength coursing through him.

  He had never felt like this before.

  So alive.

  So powerful.

  Grimgor’s eyes burned with fury. His face twisted in rage.

  He didn’t understand what had just happened.

  And that infuriated him.

  With a beastly roar, he charged again—wild, reckless, desperate.

  A berserker’s rage.

  Remoran turned, his movements flawless, precise.

  Grimgor’s massive right hook came crashing down—but Remoran ducked.

  The momentum carried the orc forward, off balance.

  The opening.

  Remoran’s muscles tensed.

  He twisted his hips, coiling power through his body.

  And then—he struck.

  His right fist snapped up in a vicious uppercut, connecting with Grimgor’s exposed chin.

  The impact shook the cavern.

  A dull crack. A sharp exhale.

  Grimgor’s massive form lifted off his feet—

  And then he crashed onto his back, unconscious.

  The orcs froze.

  A breathless, stunned silence filled the cavern.

  Remoran stared down at his fallen opponent, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  The power in his veins still thrummed, still whispered.

  He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers, feeling the strength that wasn’t entirely his.

  Orkinder’s strength.

  He had called upon it.

  And it had answered.

  A slow grin spread across his lips.

  Grimgor had said the sword would call to him.

  Maybe it already had.

  2/28!

  Sharing these again, since its all I got at the moment ;)

  The Adventures of Blaze & Gatu