The days blurred into weeks.

  The orcs of the Black Maw Clan were brutal in their training. Unlike the structured sword forms Demoris had drilled into Remoran, the orcs fought like beasts—wild, relentless, unpredictable.

  There were no rehearsed movements. No measured strikes.

  Only chaos.

  And Remoran was struggling to keep up.

  Grima was relentless.

  “You still think too much,” she scolded, circling him like a predator watching prey.

  Remoran wiped sweat from his brow, shifting the weight of the wooden club in his hands. His muscles burned from hours of sparring, but Grima wasn’t done.

  She lunged.

  Her club came down hard, aiming for his ribs.

  Remoran dodged, stepping back with practiced precision—only to realize too late that it was a feint.

  Her foot hooked behind his ankle, sweeping his legs out from under him.

  He hit the dirt hard, air rushing from his lungs.

  Grima grinned down at him. “You react like a human.”

  Remoran gritted his teeth. “Because I am human.”

  She snorted, offering him a hand. “Are you?”

  He hesitated before taking it.

  Grima pulled him up easily, her strength effortless. “You fight well,” she admitted. “But you fight like you expect a pattern. Orcs do not have patterns.”

  Remoran exhaled sharply. “Then what do orcs have?”

  Grima’s grin widened. “Instinct.”

  She tapped a finger against his temple. “You fight with your mind. We fight with our blood.”

  Remoran’s fingers tightened around the club.

  Grima saw the shift in his stance and smirked.

  “Again.”

  By the second week, Remoran’s movements had changed.

  He no longer hesitated when he saw an opening.

  He no longer anticipated a structured counterattack.

  Instead, he let his body take over.

  When an orc attacked, he didn’t step back—he stepped into it.

  He used the weight of his opponent against them.

  He struck fast, without hesitation, without remorse.

  And for the first time…

  It felt right.

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  The others noticed.

  Even Grimgor, who had spent weeks refusing to even look at him, now watched his training from a distance, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

  The more he fought, the more he changed.

  But with every step deeper into their world…

  Orkinder’s whispers grew softer.

  Not gone.

  Just… waiting.

  One evening, Grima approached him with something different in her gaze.

  “You fight well enough now,” she said, tossing him a stone-bladed knife.

  Remoran caught it, frowning. “And?”

  She motioned toward the thick woods beyond the camp. “Now you hunt.”

  Remoran stilled.

  “Hunt?”

  Grima nodded. “Your trial was for survival. But among us, you prove yourself in the hunt.”

  She turned, walking toward the fire where several other orcs were sharpening their own weapons.

  “Come, human.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Tonight, we hunt as one.”

  The forest was alive with the sounds of night.

  The hunting party moved like shadows, their footsteps silent over the damp earth.

  Remoran’s heart pounded, his grip on the knife tightening.

  He had hunted before—back on his father’s farm, he had tracked deer, rabbits, even the occasional wolf.

  But this was different.

  This was not a hunt for food.

  This was a hunt for strength.

  Grima halted suddenly, raising a clenched fist. The others stilled immediately.

  Remoran followed her gaze.

  Ahead, through the twisted branches, a massive direwolf prowled the clearing.

  Its fur was black as night, its muscles rippling beneath its hide.

  Its eyes glowed like embers.

  A beast of the old world.

  A predator.

  Grima leaned in close, whispering, “You take the first strike.”

  Remoran’s breath hitched.

  He had expected to watch, to learn.

  But they were testing him.

  They wanted to see if he could kill like them.

  His fingers flexed over the blade.

  The wolf moved, sniffing the air.

  Remoran’s instincts screamed at him to think, to plan, to anticipate.

  But then he remembered Grima’s words.

  “Orcs fight with their blood.”

  So this time…

  He didn’t think.

  He moved.

  Remoran lunged from the shadows, blade flashing in the firelight.

  The direwolf snarled, but he was faster.

  The knife sank into its side, muscle tearing beneath the blades edge.

  The wolf howled, snapping at him, but Remoran twisted the blade, driving it deeper, harder.

  Warm blood splashed across his arms.

  The beast collapsed.

  The hunt was over.

  And Remoran had made the first kill.

  Silence.

  Then—

  A thunderous cheer erupted from the orcs.

  They pounded their fists against their chests, stamped their feet against the earth.

  Grima grinned, slapping him hard on the back. “Not bad, human.”

  Another orc, one who had refused to even acknowledge him before, offered him a drink.

  Grimgor, still watching from a distance, gave a single nod.

  And in that moment, Remoran understood.

  He had proven himself in the trial.

  But now—

  Now, they saw him as one of them.

  And he wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

  Later that night, as the celebration faded, Remoran sat alone, watching the embers of the fire crackle in the dark.

  His hands still smelled of blood.

  And as he stared at them, Orkinder’s voice returned.

  "You feel it, don’t you?"

  Remoran closed his eyes.

  Yes.

  He felt it.

  The fight. The blood. The hunt.

  It had felt right.

  Too right.

  And that terrified him.

  Because with every passing day…

  He was forgetting what it felt like to be human.