The town square of Sharil had transformed overnight.

Where there had been bustling merchants and idle chatter the day before, now stood a makeshift arena, its center lined with packed dirt and its perimeter enclosed by wooden barriers. Spectators lined the edges, eager for the day’s entertainment.

Flags bearing Sharil’s crest fluttered in the wind. Merchants shouted over one another, selling roasted meat, fresh ale, and betting odds on the day’s matches. This was the largest event of the season—the annual tournament, where warriors tested their strength, speed, and skill for the chance to join the town guard.

For Remoran, this was more than a tournament.

It was a proving ground.

A chance to show that he belonged here. A chance to show he wasn’t just some orphan, some farm boy.

A chance to prove—to himself and everyone else—that he was strong.

And yet, as he stood among the other competitors, his fingers twitched toward his hip, where Orkinder should have been.

But the sword wasn’t there.

Demoris had refused to let him wield it. "A blade like that has no place in a tournament," he had said. "Use a standard training weapon."

Remoran had argued, but he had known better than to push.

Instead, he stood with an ordinary blunted longsword strapped to his belt. It felt wrong—light, dull, lifeless.

He hated it.

A man in ceremonial guard armor stood at the center of the arena, his voice booming over the crowd.

"Welcome to the Sharil Tournament! As always, our competitors shall fight without killing strikes—this is a test of skill, not war! First to land three clean blows wins the match!"

The crowd roared in response.

Names were called. Matches were fought. The clash of steel against steel echoed across the square.

And then—

"Remoran!"

He stepped forward.

His opponent was already waiting—a towering brute named Keth.

Of course.

Remoran kept his face neutral, but he could feel his pulse quicken. Keth had been waiting for this rematch since the last time they sparred.

And by the smirk on his face, he meant to make an example of Remoran today.

The signal was given.

Keth moved first, bringing his blade down in a crushing arc.

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Too slow.

Remoran sidestepped, turning his body just enough for the strike to miss. He pivoted, swinging his sword across Keth’s ribs.

First hit.

The crowd cheered, but Keth’s face darkened. He came in harder this time, swinging wildly, trying to overwhelm Remoran with brute strength.

Remoran let him.

He stepped back, dodging one swing, then another, letting Keth exhaust himself.

And then—he struck.

A quick, precise slash across Keth’s shoulder.

Second hit.

The crowd roared louder.

Keth was furious now. "You little—" He lunged forward, trying to catch Remoran off guard.

Remoran felt it before it happened.

The moment Keth moved, the world slowed.

He saw every shift in Keth’s stance, every misplaced step. The whisper returned—soft, curling at the edges of his mind.

"Finish it."

Remoran stepped inside Keth’s guard, raising his sword—

And something surged through him.

The ordinary steel in his hands felt heavier. For the briefest moment, he swore he could feel Orkinder’s grip in his fingers.

His vision darkened at the edges.

"End him."

His arm moved on its own.

A killing blow. Straight for Keth’s throat.

A voice—"REMORAN!"

Demoris.

The spell broke.

At the last second, Remoran turned his wrist, redirecting the strike away—but the momentum still carried it through.

The flat of his blade slammed into Keth’s head with sickening force.

Keth crumpled like a ragdoll.

The crowd fell silent.

Even the guards looked stunned.

Remoran stood over Keth’s unconscious form, his chest heaving. His hands were still trembling. His pulse was too fast, the whisper still coiling in his mind, hungry, disappointed.

He had almost killed him.

What had he just done?

"Enough!"

Demoris was already on the field, pushing through the stunned onlookers. He grabbed Remoran’s arm—hard.

"What was that?" Demoris demanded, voice low, furious.

"I—" Remoran’s throat felt dry. "I don’t know."

Demoris’s grip tightened. "Yes, you do."

Remoran pulled his arm free, breathing hard, shaking. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Didn’t mean to what?" Demoris hissed. "Didn’t mean to nearly cave in his skull?"

The town magistrate, Malic Havenstone, stepped forward, his gaze locked on Remoran. "The boy wins the duel, but… he should be watched."

Whispers spread through the crowd.

Remoran clenched his fists.

They were afraid of him.

Even Demoris.

And that… that hurt more than anything.

The house was quiet.

Demoris was still awake, but he hadn’t spoken to Remoran since they left the square.

Remoran sat on the edge of his cot, his breath slow, controlled. He stared at the locked chest in the corner of the room.

Orkinder.

He had felt it in the fight, even though the blade had been nowhere near him. It had reached for him. And for a moment—he had let it.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch it.

He wanted to know what would happen if he did.

But then—

"Not tonight," the whisper cooed. "Soon."

Remoran exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Demoris was right.

Something was happening to him.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it.