The first rays of dawn cast long shadows across the sacred fighting pit, the heart of the Black Maw Clan’s trials. The air was thick with anticipation, warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, tusks bared, eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  The challenge had been accepted.

  And now, only one would remain standing.

  The pit was carved from old stone, its edges lined with the bones of past challengers—a reminder that failure here could mean more than just defeat.

  Remoran stood bare-chested, his muscles taut, the cold morning air doing little to settle the fire in his blood. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of battle wounds, his fingers tightening into fists.

  Across from him, Grimgor stood like a mountain.

  He was bigger, stronger—everything an orc warlord should be.

  The gathered warriors stomped their feet, pounding their fists to their chests in a rhythmic beat. The ritual had begun.

  An elder orc, his tusks chipped with age, stepped forward, raising the broken bone Grimgor had cast at Remoran’s feet the night before.

  “The challenge has been made,” the elder bellowed.

  “The gods watch. The clan watches. Only the strong may rule.”

  Grimgor cracked his neck, sneering. “Come, whelp. Face me.”

  The elder dropped the bone.

  The fight had begun.

  Grimgor moved first, his massive form charging forward with terrifying speed.

  Remoran dodged left, just barely avoiding the hammer-like fist that cracked the stone where he had stood. Dust exploded upward, the ground shaking from the force of impact.

  Too slow.

  Remoran ducked, stepping inside Grimgor’s guard—a dangerous place to be, but his only advantage was speed.

  He struck.

  A fist to the ribs. A knee to the gut.

  Grimgor barely flinched.

  With a snarl, the warlord lashed out, grabbing Remoran by the throat and hoisting him off the ground.

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  Remoran’s vision swam, his lungs burning for air.

  Grimgor grinned. “You are not one of us, human.”

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  With a savage growl, he threw Remoran across the arena.

  Remoran hit the ground hard, skidding across the dirt, his breath ragged. His ribs screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, spitting blood into the dust.

  Grimgor laughed. Mocking. Confident.

  The fight was not over.

  Remoran exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, letting his body move.

  The orcs had taught him not to fight with the mind—but with blood, with instinct, with fire.

  Grimgor came at him again, swifter this time, his fists like battering rams.

  But Remoran was ready.

  He twisted, dodging just enough to avoid the brunt of the strike.

  Then—he struck back.

  A flurry of attacks.

  Elbow to the jaw.

  Knee to the side.

  A hard punch to the throat.

  Grimgor staggered.

  For the first time, the warlord looked uncertain.

  The air shifted.

  Remoran felt it before he heard it.

  A whisper.

  "Take me."

  His gaze flicked to the edge of the pit. Orkinder rested there, untouched.

  It would be so easy.

  One strike. One clean, final moment.

  And Grimgor would be nothing.

  The power of Orkinder pulsed in his mind.

  "You were chosen for this."

  Remoran’s breath shook.

  His fingers twitched.

  But then—

  He thought of Grima.

  Of what she had told him.

  "If you lose, you were never meant to be."

  He didn’t need Orkinder.

  Not for this.

  Grimgor roared, coming at him in a last, desperate charge.

  Remoran sidestepped at the last second, letting Grimgor’s momentum carry him off balance.

  His opening.

  Remoran turned, his body flowing with the movement, and delivered a crushing blow to Grimgor’s skull.

  The warlord stumbled.

  The crowd gasped.

  Then—Remoran drove his fist hard into Grimgor’s jaw.

  A sickening crack rang through the air.

  Grimgor’s body lifted slightly off the ground before he collapsed.

  Unmoving. Defeated.

  The arena fell silent.

  The silence stretched, thick as the morning mist.

  Then, one by one, the orcs kneeled.

  Grima stood watching, her gaze fierce, burning with something Remoran couldn’t quite name.

  The elder orc stepped forward, raising his arms.

  “The gods have witnessed! The sword has spoken!”

  He turned to Remoran, his voice a booming declaration.

  “We kneel before our new warlord.”

  The weight of the moment pressed against Remoran’s chest.

  This was real.

  This was his clan now.

  He had won.

  And yet, as he looked down at his trembling fists, as he heard the whispers of Orkinder curling around his mind…

  He wondered if he had lost something, too.

  Grimgor was dragged from the pit, his breathing shallow but his pride broken.

  He did not look at Remoran.

  But Remoran could feel the hatred.

  This was not the end of Grimgor.