The clang of steel against steel rang out in the training yard, sharp and relentless, cutting through the morning air like a war drum. Remoran moved on instinct, dodging, blocking, striking.

His heart pounded, his muscles burned, but he barely noticed. The weight of the sword in his grip was becoming more familiar, more natural. It wasn't Orkinder—not yet. Demoris had refused to let him wield it. Instead, he had been given an ordinary iron longsword, dulled for training.

It wasn’t the same.

Orkinder called to him, whispering from where it was locked away in a chest beneath Demoris’s watchful eye. But the captain wouldn’t budge.

"Not until you learn to control yourself," he had said. "That blade isn't like any other sword. If you don't master your own strength first, you'll never master it."

Control.

That was what Demoris had been drilling into him for the past year.

The first time Remoran had picked up a blade, he had swung wildly, fueled by grief and anger, by the gnawing, unrelenting rage that had rooted itself deep inside his chest. But wild rage wasn’t enough. The other trainees had knocked him to the ground within seconds.

He had never felt more pathetic.

But Remoran didn’t stay down. He never stayed down.

He trained. Every day. Every hour he could. If Demoris pushed him to swing a hundred times, he swung two hundred. When the others went to the tavern, he stayed in the yard, practicing his footwork, his grip, his balance.

He became faster. Stronger. More precise.

And more dangerous.

"Come on, farm boy," Keth sneered, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the sparring circle. "Show us how much you've learned."

Remoran forced his expression to remain neutral, though his fingers itched to reach for a real blade. He and Keth had never liked each other. From the moment Remoran had arrived in Sharil, Keth had made sure he knew his place—an orphan with nothing, a charity case taken in by the guard captain.

That had changed in the past year.

Now, when Keth taunted, it was because he saw Remoran as a threat.

The other guards gathered around, eager to watch.

Demoris leaned against the fence, arms crossed. "First to land three solid blows wins," he announced. "No killing strikes. No cheap tricks."

Keth smirked, rolling his wrists. "Let’s make it interesting. Winner keeps the loser’s boots."

A chuckle rippled through the watching crowd. Remoran didn’t react.

He simply raised his sword.

Keth moved first, lunging forward with a powerful, overhead strike meant to break through his guard. But Remoran was faster. He sidestepped at the last second, Keth’s sword slamming into the dirt with a dull thud.

Remoran pivoted sharply, bringing his blade down against Keth’s shoulder. First hit.

The crowd murmured in approval.

Keth’s sneer faltered. "Lucky," he spat.

He attacked again, faster this time, swinging in a wide arc. Remoran ducked under it, pivoting inside Keth’s reach. He slammed his pommel into Keth’s ribs.

Second hit.

Keth stumbled back, teeth bared in frustration.

The onlookers were grinning now, whispering amongst themselves.

Remoran rolled his shoulders. “Do you yield?”

Keth lunged forward without warning, anger twisting his face.

Too slow.

Remoran anticipated the move before it happened, his body moving with almost unnatural ease. He twisted just out of reach, angling his sword up—

The blade pressed against Keth’s throat.

The match was over.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the silence shattered as laughter and cheers erupted from the watching trainees.

Demoris pushed off the fence, shaking his head. “That’s three. Keth, you’ll be walking home barefoot.”

A low growl rumbled in Keth’s throat. “This isn’t over, farm boy.”

Remoran lowered his sword, breathing steady, controlled. “No,” he said quietly. “It isn’t.”

That night, when the barracks had gone silent, Remoran couldn’t sleep.

His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing. The feeling from the fight—the power, the clarity, the way everything slowed in that final moment—it was still coursing through his veins.

And the whispers were back.

Come to me.

Remoran sat up. He glanced at the chest in the corner of the room—the one where Demoris had locked Orkinder away.

Come.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew Demoris would know.

But his feet were already moving.

Slowly, carefully, he knelt before the chest, his fingers grazing the wood. His heart pounded.

He unlatched the lock.

The moment the lid creaked open, a pulse of warmth crawled up his arms. The air in the room shifted, like a storm about to break.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Yes.

Remoran reached inside, fingers brushing against the leather-wrapped hilt. He hesitated—just for a second.

Then he gripped it.

A shock raced up his arm, curling through his spine like lightning. His breath hitched.

Visions.

A battlefield. Smoke and blood and steel. A crown, forged in war. His hands, drenched in red.

And the voice. "You could be great."

Remoran jerked back, gasping.

The whispers stopped.

The sword was silent once more.

He shoved it back into the chest and slammed the lid. His heart hammered against his ribs.

What was that?

The next morning, Demoris’s voice was dangerously calm.

"You opened the chest."

Remoran stiffened. His grip tightened around his breakfast spoon.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Demoris didn’t blink. "The sword is powerful, Remoran. But power without control is a storm that destroys everything in its path."

"I have control," Remoran bit out.

"Do you?" Demoris leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You’re letting it get inside your head. I see it in the way you fight. In the way you move."

Remoran gritted his teeth.

Demoris sighed. "I didn’t take you in to watch you turn into a man consumed by rage. That sword will take everything from you if you let it."

Remoran stood abruptly. "Then I won’t let it."

Demoris watched him for a long moment. Then, with a tired shake of his head, he simply said, “We’ll see.”

And Remoran hated that he wasn’t sure if he was right.

The sword sat silent and still inside the heavy iron-bound chest, its presence no less imposing for being hidden away. Demoris knew it was there.

He could feel it.

Even when the house was empty, even when the city was alive with the sounds of merchants and blacksmiths, the weight of the sword lingered like an unspoken threat.

He didn’t trust it.

And he sure as hell didn’t trust what it was doing to Remoran.

Demoris had seen men lose themselves to power before. He had fought beside kings, warlords, and mercenaries. He had seen battle-hardened warriors corrupted by greed, by magic, by things they didn’t understand.

He had watched his own friends die clutching weapons they should have never wielded.

This sword, Orkinder—it was worse than any of them.

He started with the town’s scholars.

Sharil wasn’t a city of great libraries or vast archives, but old men always had old stories, and Demoris was willing to listen to any of them.

Master Luthen, an aging historian who ran the local archive, squinted as Demoris described the weapon.

"A dark metal blade… etched in unnatural runes… pulses with something that feels alive…"

Luthen frowned, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table. "You say it’s whispering to the boy?"

"Not in words," Demoris admitted. "But it’s doing something to him. I see it in his eyes."

Luthen sighed. "Captain, there are hundreds of cursed weapons, enchanted blades, relics lost to time. What you’re describing could be anything."

Demoris ground his teeth. He had expected that answer.

Still, he pressed. "Have you ever heard of one called Orkinder?"

Luthen paused. He scratched at his white beard, his gaze distant. "The name sounds… old. Not human."

Demoris leaned forward. "Not human?"

Luthen nodded. "Names have power. Orkinder… it sounds orcish."

That wasn’t comforting.

"Any records of an orc-forged blade like this?"

Luthen shook his head. "Orcs don’t forge legendary weapons, Captain. They take them. Steal them. Whatever you have—it’s something… different."

Demoris left the archive with more questions than answers.

Two days later, Demoris found himself at the doorstep of Norlan Swith, the town’s only real practitioner of magic.

Norlan was an odd man, thin and wiry with too many rings on his fingers and a habit of talking to himself. His home was more of a workshop, cluttered with vials, scrolls, and books that smelled of dust and candlewax.

Demoris had never trusted magic—but he trusted the sword even less.

"You’re nervous," Norlan noted, waving Demoris inside. His pale blue robes swished as he moved, his sharp eyes flickering with curiosity. "And that’s not like you."

Demoris scowled. "I have a weapon that shouldn't exist. And I need to know what it is."

Norlan’s grin widened. "Now that is interesting."

The mage listened as Demoris described the blade, nodding slowly as he sketched symbols onto parchment.

"A sword that pulses with something alive. That… speaks, in a way. Dark metal. Possibly of orcish origin."

Norlan rubbed his chin. "And you locked it away?"

"Of course I locked it away," Demoris growled. "That thing wants to be held."

Norlan exhaled sharply. "Then it's dangerous."

"You don't say," Demoris muttered.

The mage ignored him, already flipping through a tattered grimoire on his desk.

"Let me be clear," Norlan said. "There are very few weapons with a will of their own. Even powerful enchanted blades require a wielder to shape their purpose. What you’re describing is different."

He turned to Demoris, eyes sharp. "That sword… doesn’t just want a wielder. It wants a master."

Demoris didn’t like the sound of that.

Norlan ran his fingers over the pages, frowning. "I’ve read of something similar—a relic said to be wielded by the first orc kings, something that chose the strongest leader among them."

Demoris stilled.

"That’s the second time I’ve heard it’s connected to orcs."

Norlan nodded. "If it’s what I think it is, then it’s not just a weapon, Demoris." His voice lowered. "It’s a test."

Demoris stared at him. "A test?"

"A weapon that decides who is worthy to wield it. But, as with all things tied to power, the question is: worthy in whose eyes?"

The words sat uneasily in Demoris’s chest.

Worthy.

He thought of Remoran—of the way the boy had gripped the blade the night he first found it. The way his hands had trembled, but not with fear.

With something else.

Something dangerous.

Norlan closed the book and sighed. "I’ll do more research. But Captain, if I were you…"

Demoris met his gaze.

"I wouldn’t let the boy touch that sword again. Not if you want him to stay the same person he is now."

That night, Demoris stood in his home, staring at the locked chest.

Norlan’s words wouldn’t leave his mind.

He felt the sword’s presence even through the wood and iron. It wasn’t magic in the way of spells or charms. It was something deeper—something that crawled beneath the skin, that itched at the edges of thought.

He thought of Remoran—the boy who had lost everything, the boy who hungered for vengeance, the boy who had held the sword and looked so terribly right with it in his hands.

He had been a soldier long enough to recognize a truth when he saw it.

The sword had already chosen him.

Demoris exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. He should destroy the damned thing. Throw it into the deepest trench, shatter it on the hardest stone.

But some weapons cannot be destroyed.

Some weapons wait.

And he feared this one would outlive them all.