The days after Remoran's ascension to Warlord passed like shifting shadows, filled with responsibilities he had never imagined. Leadership was not just about victory in battle; it was about maintaining the fragile balance between strength and wisdom, tradition and change.

  The Black Maw Clan looked to him with expectation, their voices filled with reverence, but beneath the surface, whispers of doubt lingered. Not all orcs were pleased to kneel before a human, even one wielding Orkinder.

  Mornings began with disputes over territory, hunting rights, and the ever-present tensions between rival factions within the clan. Remoran listened, judged, and passed decisions with a confidence he didn’t always feel. Every choice was a test, every ruling a measure of his worth.

  One day, two rival chieftains, Brakar and Ulgosh, brought their grievances before him. Their territories overlapped a critical hunting ground, and both claimed ancestral rights to it.

  Brakar, broad and scarred, slammed his fist on the stone table. "Our blood was spilled on that land long before Ulgosh's clan slithered out of the shadows!"

  Ulgosh bared his tusks, snarling, "And yet your hunters grow fat on meat you did not earn!"

  The hall grew tense, warriors shifting uneasily. All eyes turned to Remoran.

  He leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "Then you will settle this with action, not words. You will each send your best hunters. Whoever brings back the greater kill claims the land for a season. After that, we reassess."

  Silence. Then grudging nods. The decision was fair, balanced—but Remoran felt the weight of it long after they left.

  Grima stood beside him, offering counsel when needed, her sharp mind balancing his instincts. Their bond deepened with each passing day, though neither spoke openly of the feelings simmering beneath the surface.

  But at night, when the fires burned low and the weight of leadership pressed hardest, Orkinder’s whispers grew louder.

  Orkinder’s influence was subtle but persistent, like a shadow creeping across his mind. It spoke of power, of legacy, of greatness. It fed on his doubts, twisting his thoughts when he felt weakest.

  "You were not meant to rule as they do. You are more than they deserve."

  Remoran tried to resist, grounding himself in the lessons Demoris had taught him. But with each difficult decision, with each moment of doubt, the sword’s voice grew stronger.

  One evening, after a heated dispute nearly turned bloody, Remoran found himself alone in his tent, staring at Orkinder. Its dark metal seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not his own.

  "End their bickering. Show them fear, and they will never question you again."

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  His hand twitched, fingers brushing the hilt before pulling away.

  Not yet.

  But the temptation grew stronger with each passing day.

  Grima noticed the change in him. She saw the tension in his jaw, the distant look in his eyes. One night, as they sat by the fire, she spoke softly, her voice cutting through the silence.

  “You are not alone in this, Remoran.”

  He looked at her, the firelight casting shadows across her strong features.

  “I feel like I am,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

  Grima reached out, placing a hand on his.

  “Then let me carry it with you.”

  Her words were simple, but they grounded him. She didn’t see him as a human pretending to be a leader. She saw him as he was—flawed, strong, and trying.

  Their connection deepened in that moment, unspoken but undeniable.

  They spent more time together—training, strategizing, even laughing over shared meals. Grima’s sharp wit cut through his brooding thoughts, reminding him of who he was beneath the title.

  That night, sleep came fitfully. Dreams pulled him back to Sharil, to a campfire under familiar stars. Again, the seemingly same dream with slight differences.

  Demoris sat across from him, sharpening a blade, his face lined with the wisdom and weariness of years past.

  “You always carried too much,” Demoris said, not looking up.

  Remoran smiled softly. “And you always told me to put some of it down.”

  Demoris looked up, his eyes warm but sad.

  “You can’t carry it all, son. Not without losing yourself.”

  The words struck deep, resonating with the part of Remoran that still clung to his humanity.

  They talked of simpler times—fishing trips by the river, lessons in swordplay, late nights listening to the crickets. Memories that felt like echoes from another life.

  But the dream darkened, shadows creeping in until the fire burned unnaturally bright. Demoris’ face blurred, replaced by a darker presence.

  Orkinder.

  "He belongs to the past. You belong to the future."

  The warmth faded, replaced by cold certainty. Orkinder showed him visions—Grima by his side, a child in her arms, clans kneeling before him, empires forged in his name.

  "This is your destiny. You are not a lost boy anymore. You are a king among beasts."

  Remoran awoke with a start, the echoes of Orkinder’s words still lingering in his mind.

  As dawn broke, Remoran stood atop the cliffs overlooking the valley, the wind biting against his skin. Grima joined him, silent for a while before speaking.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

  “A storm coming,” he finally whispered.

  And far below, hidden in the shadows of the forest, Grimgor met with a figure cloaked in darkness, plotting the seeds of betrayal that would soon test everything Remoran had fought for.

  Grimgor's voice was low, filled with venom. "He thinks he's one of us. But he will fall. And when he does, I will rise again."

  The figure nodded, slipping away into the darkness, leaving only the promise of treachery in his wake.

  The burden of leadership was heavy. But the weight of betrayal would be heavier still.