On the fourth night, as he sat near a roaring fire, picking at the tough, overcooked meat the orcs had given him, a voice cut through his thoughts.

  “You eat like a pup.”

  Remoran looked up sharply.

  A female orc stood over him, arms crossed.

  Her skin was a lighter green than the others, her features sharper, her hair tied back into long, thick braids.

  But it was her eyes that caught him.

  They were not like the others.

  Not filled with rage or mockery—but something else.

  Something curious.

  She crouched beside him, studying him like a puzzle she was trying to solve.

  “I’m called Grima,” she said. “And you are the human who does not fight like a human.”

  Remoran hesitated before answering. “I fight how I was taught.”

  Grima snorted. “Taught by who? Humans do not fight like you.”

  Remoran’s jaw tightened.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  He had fought differently. He had moved differently.

  And he had called upon something else—something not his own.

  Grima smirked. “You think too much.”

  He frowned. “Excuse me?”

  She tore a chunk of meat from a skewer with her teeth and grinned. “You’re brooding. Thinking. Trying to understand things that cannot be understood.”

  Remoran looked away, gripping his own food too tightly.

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  “I can understand you,” he said suddenly.

  Grima blinked. “Yes?”

  “No, I mean… I should not be able to.”

  Now she frowned. “What are you saying?”

  Remoran exhaled, shaking his head. “I never learned your language.”

  Silence.

  Grima studied him again, this time more carefully.

  And then—her eyes flicked to his back.

  To where Orkinder rested.

  A shiver ran down Remoran’s spine.

  She knows.

  Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she just suspected.

  But it was enough.

  Orkinder had done this.

  It was seeping into him, changing him in ways he couldn’t see.

  Grima tapped a finger against the side of her head. “Magic lingers on that blade,” she said simply. “Magic lingers on you.”

  Remoran swallowed hard.

  She was right.

  That night, as he lay staring at the cavern ceiling, the whispers returned.

  "Now you see."

  Remoran’s fingers twitched.

  "You made me understand them," he muttered.

  "You made yourself understand them."

  His breath hitched.

  "You’re… changing me."

  A pause.

  And then, a whisper like silk sliding over steel.

  "Yes."

  A shudder ran through him.

  This was not just a sword.

  It was not just magic.

  It was something more.

  And now, he wasn’t sure if it would ever let him go.

  When he woke the next morning, Grima was waiting for him.

  “You train today,” she said simply.

  Remoran blinked. “Train?”

  “You’re strong,” she admitted. “But you fight like a human. You move too… cleanly.”

  Remoran raised an eyebrow. “Too cleanly?”

  Grima grinned. “Orcish fighting is not about form. It is about chaos.”

  She tossed him a short wooden club, the weight solid in his hands.

  Remoran hesitated.

  She cocked her head. “You wish to understand us, don’t you?”

  Remoran met her gaze.

  He didn’t just wish to understand them.

  He needed to.

  Because whatever he was becoming…

  He had a feeling it wasn’t human anymore.

  And he needed to know what came next.