The wind howled across the jagged peaks of the Black Maw mountains, carrying the scent of ash and iron. Remoran stood atop a rocky outcrop, his cloak snapping in the gusts, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of Sharil nestled in the valley below. The town’s lights flickered like stars against the encroaching dusk, a deceptive promise of peace. To Remoran, they were embers of a past he had buried—memories of a boy who once believed in honor, in home.

  Orkinder hung at his side, its dark blade pulsing softly, a heartbeat of malevolent intent. The sword’s whispers had grown louder in recent weeks, weaving through his thoughts like threads of black silk. Your enemies hide there, it hissed, its voice a seductive purr. They mock your strength, plotting your ruin. Will you let them defy you?

  Remoran’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the hilt. Sharil was no mere target—it was a wound, raw and unhealed. The town held echoes of his youth, of Demoris’s stern guidance, of a life before fire and blood. He had sworn never to return, yet here he stood, drawn by Orkinder’s relentless call.

  “I have no quarrel with them,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Sharil did not betray me.”

  They harbor those who did, Orkinder countered, its tone sharp as a blade’s edge. Grimgor’s allies linger there, whispering of your weakness. Spare them, and you invite their scorn. Burn Sharil, and none will dare challenge you.

  Remoran closed his eyes, the sword’s words stoking the embers of his rage. Grimgor’s betrayal had cost him everything—Grima, Raemok, the fragile hope of a family. The pain was a furnace within him, and Orkinder was its fuel. Yet a flicker of doubt lingered, a remnant of the boy who once trusted Demoris’s wisdom. Could he destroy the town that had shaped him?

  Weakness, Orkinder snarled, sensing his hesitation. You vowed vengeance. Will you falter now, like a child clinging to dreams? Sharil is a chain. Break it, and rise as their master.

  The sword’s voice burrowed deeper, twisting his grief into resolve. Remoran’s eyes snapped open, dark with purpose. “So be it,” he growled, his voice low and final. “Sharil will kneel—or it will burn.”

  He descended the outcrop, his warriors waiting below, their eyes gleaming with loyalty and fear. The Black Maw Clan had grown under his iron rule, forged in blood and conquest. They would follow him into the abyss if he commanded it. As he outlined his plan—a siege to shatter Sharil’s defenses—the orcs nodded, their war chants rising into the night. Remoran felt Orkinder’s approval, a warm pulse that drowned out the last whispers of doubt. The sword had won, as it always did.

  In Sharil, the evening hummed with life. The marketplace buzzed with vendors hawking bread and ale, children darted through the streets, and the clatter of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed from the forge. Raemok moved through the crowd, his broad shoulders and subtle tusks drawing curious glances. At eighteen, he was a striking figure, his orcish heritage tempered by the gentle strength of his human upbringing. The townsfolk had grown accustomed to him, their wariness softening into acceptance, won by his quiet kindness and unwavering courage.

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  At the guard barracks, Raemok trained with a focus that bordered on obsession. His sword flashed in the torchlight, meeting Alric’s blade with a ringing clash. The veteran guard grinned, sweat beading on his brow. “You’re getting faster, lad,” Alric panted, parrying a swift strike. “But you’re still predictable.”

  Raemok’s lips twitched in a rare smile. He feinted left, then spun, his blade grazing Alric’s arm. The crowd of trainees cheered, and even Captain Demoris Valhaven, watching from the sidelines, nodded approvingly. Raemok had joined the guard months ago, and his raw talent—blending orcish strength with human agility—had earned him respect.

  After training, Raemok lingered, helping younger recruits adjust their grips or mend their armor. His patience drew smiles, and the guards began to seek his advice, treating him not as an outsider but as one of their own. Yet beneath his calm exterior, questions simmered. The amulet around his neck, a carved relic from his unknown mother, was a constant reminder of his fragmented past.

  That evening, Raemok found Demoris in his office, poring over maps. The captain’s face was lined with years of battles, his eyes sharp yet burdened. Raemok hesitated, then spoke. “Captain, may I ask you something?”

  Demoris looked up, his expression guarded. “Speak, Raemok.”

  Raemok touched the amulet, its weight familiar yet mysterious. “You knew my adoptive parents, Elaric and Mirabel. Did you… ever know anyone like me? Someone with orc blood, who came from these lands?”

  Demoris’s jaw tightened, a shadow crossing his face. He set down his quill, choosing his words carefully. “Sharil has seen many souls, human and otherwise. Your kind…not fully Orc, but also not all Human, I have never seen or met anyone like you.” His voice was measured, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain.

  Raemok pressed gently, sensing the captain’s reluctance. “I only know my mother gave me this amulet. I want to understand where I come from. Did you ever meet someone who might’ve been… connected to me?”

  Demoris leaned back, his gaze distant. “There was a boy, long ago. A lad I raised like a son. He had a fire in him, a heart torn between worlds. He… left Sharil, chasing a path I couldn’t follow.” His voice grew heavy, and he shook his head. “That’s all I’ll say. The past is a wound best left closed.”

  Raemok nodded, respecting the captain’s silence but feeling the weight of unspoken truths. Demoris’s words stirred a quiet longing—to know the man who might have been his father, to understand the pain that haunted his mentor. As he left the office, the amulet seemed heavier, its secrets pressing against his heart.

  In the days that followed, Raemok threw himself into Sharil’s life. He helped rebuild a collapsed barn, shared stories with the tavern’s patrons, and patrolled the town’s borders with the guard. Each act wove him deeper into the community, yet the mystery of his heritage lingered, a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

  Far above, in the mountains, Remoran sharpened his blade, Orkinder’s whispers guiding his hand. Sharil would fall, and with it, the last remnants of his old self. The sword’s dominion was absolute, and Remoran, consumed by its darkness, would see it through.