It started with the whispers.

Not Orkinder. Not yet.

But from the people of Sharil.

Or maybe they weren’t whispering at all. Maybe it was just in his head.

Either way, Remoran felt their eyes.

In the market. On the training grounds. Walking past the tavern.

People didn’t look at him the same way anymore.

When Keth fell unconscious in the arena, the world had shifted. Before, the town had seen him as a boy trying to prove himself.

Now, they saw something else.

Something dangerous.

Their stares lingered too long. Conversations died when he walked past. Guards, ones he had trained beside for over a year, stood stiffer when he approached.

Did they think he meant to kill Keth?

Did he?

The question churned in his gut.

He had been in control. Hadn’t he?

Orkinder had reached for him in the fight—that much he was sure of. But in those last moments, when his blade had come crashing down, was it truly his choice to pull back?

Or had he just hesitated?

Remoran didn’t know.

And the town didn’t trust him anymore.

Demoris was watching him too.

For days after the tournament, he hadn’t said a word about the fight. But Remoran knew him too well.

He could see it in the way the captain's brow furrowed whenever they trained—in the way he hesitated before giving orders.

Demoris had always been direct, but now?

Now, he was careful.

He spoke to Remoran like someone handling a fire that could spread at any moment.

"You’re still training every day," Demoris noted one morning, his tone neutral.

Remoran didn’t look up from sharpening his practice blade. "Shouldn’t I be?"

"You should." A pause. "But it’s different now, isn’t it?"

Remoran stopped sharpening.

There it was.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He exhaled slowly. "Different how?"

Demoris didn’t answer immediately. He just studied him, the way a wolf might study a rival it wasn’t sure it could take down.

"The way you move," Demoris finally said. "The way you fight. Something’s changed."

"You think I don’t know that?" The words came out sharper than he meant.

Demoris watched him carefully. "Then tell me—how does it feel?"

Remoran hesitated.

He could still feel the moment in the arena. The way time had slowed, the way he had known exactly how to end the fight—the way Orkinder had whispered in his mind.

How could he explain something he didn’t understand himself?

He settled for, "I don’t know."

Demoris didn’t react. He just nodded. "I need you to trust me, Remoran."

Something inside him flared at those words.

"Trust you?" He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Like you trust me?"

Demoris sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I do trust you, but—"

"But what?" Remoran snapped. "You don’t think I can handle myself?"

"I don’t think it’s you I don’t trust."

The words landed like a strike to the ribs.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then, without another word, Remoran stood and walked away.

He didn’t need to hear any more.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The town felt too small, too loud—even in silence.

It was like the walls were closing in.

And then, the voice came.

"You were never meant to stay here."

Remoran didn’t flinch this time.

He sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the locked chest in the corner of the room.

Orkinder.

"I know," he muttered.

"They will never trust you again. You can feel it, can’t you?"

Remoran clenched his jaw.

"They think I’m dangerous."

"They fear you."

He let out a slow breath. "Maybe they should."

The whisper coiled in his mind like smoke. "They don’t deserve you, Remoran. Leave them behind. Become what you were meant to be."

Leave.

The thought had been growing in him for weeks.

Demoris didn’t trust him anymore.

The town didn’t want him anymore.

He had been trying so desperately to find a place in Sharil. To belong.

But Sharil was not his home.

His home had burned.

His family had died.

And no matter how much he trained, no matter how much he fought, nothing would ever change that.

But he could change.

He could leave.

He could become something else.

Something stronger.

Before dawn, Remoran packed what little he had.

A simple cloak. A dagger. A letter.

He set the folded parchment on Demoris’s desk before heading to the chest.

The lock clicked open.

The moment he gripped the hilt of Orkinder, the tension in his chest melted away.

The whispers stilled.

The sword felt right in his hands.

For the first time in months, Remoran felt calm.

No more whispers. No more tension.

Just clarity.

He exhaled and slung the sword over his back.

Without looking back, he left Sharil behind.

And he didn’t feel a single ounce of regret.