The dawn after the challenge was different. The fires in the Black Maw camp burned the same, the chants of warriors echoed as they always had, but everything had shifted. Remoran was now Warlord.

  The weight of the title pressed down on him like an unseen hand, heavier than any blade he’d ever carried. The clan knelt for him, their voices chanting his name, but beneath the triumph, a quiet unease coiled in his chest.

  Days passed with rituals, feasts, and proclamations. The orcs celebrated his victory, their cheers echoing through the mountains. But at night, when the fires dimmed and silence crept into the corners of the camp, Remoran felt hollow.

  Grima stood by his side, her presence steady, her gaze filled with something he couldn’t name yet. Pride? Respect? Something more? He didn’t know.

  But he felt alone.

  One evening, after dismissing the council of elders, Remoran sat by the dying embers of a fire, Orkinder resting against his knee. The blade seemed to hum softly, a presence more than an object, its whispers quieter now, but never gone.

  He closed his eyes.

  And the dream took him.

  Remoran found himself back in Sharil, the flickering light of a campfire casting warm shadows against familiar trees. The scent of pine and smoke drifted in the air, mingling with the distant sounds of a peaceful town settling for the night.

  Across the fire sat Demoris, his adoptive father, sharpening a blade, his expression calm and focused—just as Remoran remembered. The lines on his face were softer here, free from the burdens of command.

  “You always held your breath when you swung,” Demoris said without looking up, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Told you it would tire you out faster.”

  Remoran chuckled softly, the sound strange in his own ears. “And you always made me do drills until my arms felt like falling off.”

  Demoris looked up then, his eyes crinkling with warmth. “Because I wanted you strong. I wanted you to survive.”

  The words settled into Remoran’s chest like stones. For a moment, he felt like the boy he had been, sitting by the fire, safe and whole.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Demoris leaned back, gazing at the stars. "Remember that summer we tried to build a treehouse? Spent more time falling out of it than building it."

  Remoran laughed softly, the memory vivid. "I blamed the hammer, but you said it was because I couldn't hold still for five seconds."

  Demoris chuckled, his voice warm and full of life. "You had fire in you even then. Not the kind that burns, but the kind that shapes. I saw it, even if you didn't."

  But then, the edges of the dream darkened.

  The fire flickered unnaturally, shadows stretching long and thin, creeping toward him. Demoris' face blurred, shifting, his features twisting subtly until it was no longer him.

  A voice slid into the space between heartbeats.

  "You left him to die in the past."

  Orkinder.

  Remoran’s chest tightened. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I had to…”

  "You chose strength. You chose purpose."

  The campfire burned brighter, unnaturally vivid, as if fed by something more than wood and flame.

  "Look at what you’ve become. A leader. A warlord. Not some broken boy chasing ghosts."

  Remoran’s hands clenched. His gaze drifted beyond the fire, where shadows moved, shifting into forms he recognized: Grima, strong and fierce, standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. A child with her sharp eyes and his dark hair, laughing without fear.

  "This is your future. This is what you were meant for.”

  The warmth of the dream faded, replaced by the cold certainty of Orkinder’s words. Demoris was gone. Sharil was gone.

  But here, in the heart of the Black Maw Clan, he was everything.

  Remoran woke with a start, his breath ragged, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool night air. Orkinder lay beside him, silent now, but its echo still alive in his mind.

  Grima approached, her steps quiet in the darkness. She didn’t ask if he was okay. She didn’t need to.

  “The clan looks to you,” she said softly, kneeling beside him. “They see a leader. But do you?”

  Remoran stared into the darkness, his jaw tight. After a long silence, he whispered, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  Grima’s hand found his, strong and steady. “Then let me show you.”

  She leaned in, her forehead resting gently against his. A simple gesture, but one that spoke louder than words. She saw him. All of him.

  And in that moment, he didn’t feel alone.

  As the night deepened, they sat in silence, the embers of the fire casting soft, flickering light on their faces. Grima's presence was an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss where Orkinder’s whispers tried to drag him.

  For the first time since becoming Warlord, he felt something close to peace.