(Grimgor’s POV)

  Grimgor sat in silence, gripping the edge of his bone-carved throne, his fingers digging into the grooves worn deep by past warlords.

  The fire before him crackled, throwing jagged shadows across the stone walls of the chieftain’s chamber. His chamber.

  For now.

  His yellowed tusks ground together.

  The clan was changing.

  And it was because of him.

  The human.

  Grimgor had never feared anyone in his life.

  But what he felt toward Remoran?

  It was not fear.

  It was rage.

  Rage at how the clan whispered about him when they thought Grimgor wasn’t listening.

  Rage at how they looked at him—like a leader, like a champion.

  Rage at how Orkinder had chosen him.

  Grimgor’s eyes flicked toward the sword resting at the human’s hip. Even when the blade wasn’t drawn, it carried a presence, a silent command of power.

  It was the first blade of the orc kings, a relic that had dictated who was worthy to rule since the ancient days.

  And it had claimed the human.

  Unacceptable.

  Grimgor saw it in the eyes of his warriors.

  They did not say it, not yet.

  But he could feel their admiration shifting.

  It started with nods of respect, then longer glances, whispers by the fires.

  They spoke of the fights.

  They spoke of his skill.

  They spoke of his right to challenge.

  Grimgor bared his teeth, snarling into the empty chamber.

  The human was growing too bold.

  And Grima…

  Grima was watching him too.

  She was always around him now.

  Training him. Speaking with him.

  And the way she looked at him—

  Grimgor’s fists clenched.

  She had never looked at Grimgor like that.

  Grima was one of the strongest warriors in the clan. A leader in her own right.

  She was supposed to stand beside him.

  And yet, she stood beside the human instead.

  Grimgor’s stomach burned.

  He could not allow this.

  He would not allow this.

  Grimgor rose from his throne, stepping toward the edge of the cavern where his closest warriors stood waiting.

  Their eyes flicked up expectantly.

  “They whisper his name,” Grimgor growled, pacing. “They think he is one of us. They think Orkinder has chosen him.”

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  His second-in-command, a scarred orc named Vrokk, grunted. “You know what that means, Warlord.”

  Grimgor’s teeth flashed in the firelight. “I do.”

  Among their kind, tradition was law.

  A weapon of the gods could not be ignored.

  The wielder of Orkinder had the right to rule.

  Unless someone stronger took it from him.

  Grimgor rolled his massive shoulders, feeling the weight of his axe across his back.

  “I will challenge him,” he said, his voice low.

  Vrokk and the others nodded in approval.

  “The clan will demand it,” Vrokk muttered.

  “Then let them,” Grimgor growled.

  His lips curled into a cruel grin.

  “I will take his head and remind them who their chieftain is.”

  That night, as the camp quieted and the fires burned low, Grimgor stood at the edge of the village, watching the human from a distance.

  Remoran sat by the fire, speaking with Grima, their voices low, their expressions easy.

  Too easy.

  Grimgor’s hands curled into fists.

  This had gone on long enough.

  He had let the human exist among them, let him take too much.

  But soon…

  Soon, Remoran would stand before him in the arena.

  And then?

  Then, he would break him.

  And Orkinder would belong to him.

  (Grima’s POV)

  Grima had always known what strength was.

  She had seen it in battle. Felt it in her own blood. Strength was not just muscle or skill—it was a force, a fire inside those who refused to break.

  And for the first time in her life, she saw that same fire in a human.

  Remoran.

  And now, the clan would demand he prove it.

  The air in the camp was thick with expectation.

  The fires burned higher. The warriors gathered in a circle, standing shoulder to shoulder. The scent of sweat, smoke, and the metal of sharpened blades filled the night.

  At the center, Grimgor stood waiting.

  Grima watched as the warlord held the thick, ancient bone in his hands, his massive fingers gripping it tight.

  The ritual was older than the clan itself.

  A leader’s right to rule was not just in their strength, but in the will of the gods.

  And Orkinder had chosen Remoran.

  Which meant Grimgor had to break him.

  Grima stood close to Remoran, her arms crossed, her voice low.

  "You must accept this," she murmured.

  Remoran's brow furrowed. "I never asked to lead."

  Grima’s golden eyes burned into him. "It does not matter. The clan sees it. The sword has spoken. You must fight."

  A hush fell over the gathered orcs.

  Grimgor lifted the massive bone above his head.

  His muscles bulged, his breath coming in slow, measured huffs.

  Then—

  CRACK.

  The sound split the air like thunder.

  The bone snapped in half, the break clean, brutal.

  Grimgor let the pieces fall into his massive hands, rolling his shoulders as he stepped forward.

  And with deliberate slowness, he threw them at Remoran’s feet.

  The challenge had been made.

  The crowd let out a low, guttural murmur.

  Grima turned to Remoran. “Take it.”

  He didn’t move.

  She stepped closer, her voice fierce. “Take the bone, Remoran. Take the challenge.”

  Remoran’s jaw tightened. His hand hovered over the split bone, fingers twitching.

  Grima could see the war within him.

  The human part of him, the one that had once lived in peace, farmed the land, dreamed of simpler things, did not want this.

  But the part that had bled with the orcs, fought among them, trained among them…

  That part already knew the answer.

  "You are not just some warrior among us," she whispered.

  "You have been chosen."

  Remoran closed his eyes for just a moment.

  Then, he bent down.

  And took the bone.

  The camp erupted into cheers and pounding feet.

  A great warhorn was blown, its deep echo carrying through the valley.

  The fight would be at dawn.

  Grima stood beside him, feeling the heat of his presence, the tension in his shoulders.

  "This is your right," she said softly.

  He exhaled. "And if I lose?"

  She turned to him fully, stepping closer than she ever had before.

  "Then you were never meant to be."

  For a long time, he did not speak.

  And then, he nodded.

  The fight would happen.

  And deep in her heart, Grima already knew the outcome.

  That night, as the clan prepared for war, Grima stood on the outskirts of camp, watching Remoran sharpen his blade.

  She had never wanted this.

  She had never thought of love, of choosing a mate.

  But now…

  Now, she could not imagine standing beside anyone else.

  She clenched her fists, exhaling sharply.

  She had already chosen.

  And soon, the clan would see why.