The cavern was silent.

  Not even the cheering orcs could cut through the roaring in Remoran’s ears.

  His chest heaved, his skin slick with sweat and blood. His vision swam, but Grimgor lay at his feet, groaning, his massive form struggling to rise.

  Remoran had won.

  But barely.

  His ribs ached. His muscles burned. His breath was ragged.

  Yet, he was alive.

  And in that moment, the orcs—the very creatures he had sworn to hate—looked at him with something he had never expected.

  Respect.

  Grimgor let out a low, snarling laugh, wiping blood from his mouth.

  "You fight well, human."

  Remoran froze.

  Now that he had time to think and his head was clear Remoran realized, the words made sense.

  He understood them.

  He shouldn’t.

  He had never spoken orcish.

  Never studied their tongue.

  And yet—he had heard every single word.

  Before he could dwell on it, Grimgor shoved himself to his feet, looking at Remoran with something between amusement and caution.

  "You are not weak," the orc warlord admitted. His voice was thick with approval, but also suspicion. "Few humans fight like you. Even fewer survive."

  Around them, the gathered orcs stomped their feet, their war cries filling the cavern.

  A challenge had been issued. A challenge had been won.

  And Remoran was still standing.

  He had proven himself.

  Grimgor lifted his blade, then slammed it tip-down into the dirt.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Let it be known—this human is not prey. He is not a prisoner."

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  "Then what is he?" One orc called.

  Grimgor looked at Remoran as if deciding himself.

  And then, with a grin that showed far too many teeth, he answered:

  "We shall see."

  The orcs roared their approval.

  Remoran felt his chest tighten.

  He had won his life…

  But what did that mean?

  Remoran didn’t move right away.

  This was dangerous.

  They were orcs. His enemy.

  And yet, they let him live.

  More than that—they saw him differently now.

  Some still glared, their expressions unreadable, but others... others nodded to him.

  He wasn't one of them.

  But he wasn't just an outsider anymore.

  He was something else.

  One of the smaller orcs shoved a wooden bowl into his hands, filled with something thick and steaming.

  "Eat," the orc grunted.

  Remoran stared at him.

  He had understood him.

  Again.

  His stomach turned.

  He took the bowl, nodding in thanks. The words slipped from his tongue easily.

  "Thank you."

  The orc snorted, walking away.

  But Remoran wasn’t thinking about food anymore.

  He sat beside the low-burning fire, his mind racing.

  The longer he sat there, the more wrong it felt.

  He should not understand their language.

  He had never spoken it before.

  So why—

  Another Orc approached Remoran and handed him, seemingly with reverence, Orkinder back to him.

  His hand drifted over the sword and its scabbard.

  A whisper.

  "I told you, Remoran. I will guide you."

  His breath caught in his throat.

  This wasn’t him.

  This wasn’t his mind understanding their words.

  It was Orkinder.

  It had given him the ability.

  How? He didn’t know.

  But it had.

  And that meant—

  It had always been inside him. Deeper than he thought. More than just a whisper.

  A cold shudder ran through him.

  Orkinder was not just a weapon.

  It was changing him.

  And it had been all along.

  For the first time since leaving Sharil, Remoran was afraid.

  Not of the orcs.

  Not of Grimgor.

  Not of what might happen next.

  But of himself.

  And of the thing that was whispering in his mind, waiting, shaping him into something else.

  What was he becoming?

  And did he still have a choice?

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