The forge burned with an unnatural fire. Deep in the heart of the orc kingdom, where the mountains split open like jagged teeth and rivers of molten rock churned beneath the surface, the great shamans of the orc race gathered.

It was a night of omens. The sky above roiled with clouds the color of old bruises, lit from within by flashes of violet lightning. The air crackled with unseen energy, and even the mightiest of orcs spoke in hushed voices, wary of the forces at work.

Inside the Black Maw Forge, the air was thick with the pungent stench of burning coal and the metallic tang of hot iron. Massive, soot-stained anvils lined the circular chamber, the walls carved from volcanic stone, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that pulsed like dying embers.

At the center stood Zogar the Unyielding, the greatest of the orc shamans, his towering frame draped in furs and bone charms. His long, white hair was matted with the dust of centuries, his deep-set eyes glowing with an eerie yellow light. Across his scarred chest, intricate war tattoos spiraled like curling smoke, marking him as the Voice of the Ancestors.

Before him, the forge blazed white-hot—not with ordinary fire, but with a ritual flame, one summoned through sacrifice and ancient sorcery. It was no mere heat that danced within the pit but something deeper, something alive.

"The time has come," Zogar intoned, his voice resonating through the chamber like distant thunder.

The gathered orcs—the greatest warriors, smiths, and shamans of their era—stood motionless, watching as the final blade of their people’s destiny took form.

A massive slab of metal, black as the abyss, lay upon the anvil. It was no ordinary ore, but a gift from the earth itself—Skyfury Steel, a fallen fragment from the heavens, discovered buried deep beneath the mountain. Metal not of this world. Metal that hungered for a master.

The orc smiths, their arms as thick as tree trunks, struck the ore with hammers inscribed with the names of their ancestors, each blow ringing out like war drums echoing through the ages. Sparks flew like dying stars, the force of their strikes enough to send shockwaves through the very rock beneath them.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Each impact drove not just metal into shape, but essence into existence.

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The shamans raised their arms, chanting in the old tongue, their voices weaving a spell older than kings, older than war. The blood of the orcs flowed freely, carried in ceremonial bowls, dark and thick, steaming in the forge’s unnatural heat.

"This blade shall know no master but the strong," Zogar declared, dipping his gnarled fingers into the sacrificial blood before smearing it across the unfinished weapon. "It shall be bound to the will of the orc people, its fate entwined with our own. Let it judge who is worthy to rule!"

The blood hissed as it touched the scorching metal, curling into tendrils of black smoke that writhed and twisted unnaturally. The chanting grew louder, the words pounding in rhythm with the hammer strikes.

"Orkai tor’gath, gruumsh tak nar—" (Let strength guide the blade, let the gods see its bearer!)

The flames surged higher, licking at the cavern ceiling. The forge trembled.

And then—the sword screamed.

Not in sound, but in thought. A raw, wordless hunger surged from within the blade, seeping into the bones of every orc in the chamber. Some staggered back, their tusks bared in instinctive fear. Others merely grinned, for they knew what they had created.

A weapon with a will.

Zogar turned to the gathering, his voice booming like a storm upon the mountains.

"This is Orkinder!" he proclaimed. "It shall be wielded by the greatest of our kin! But only the blade shall decide its master!"

The orcs roared, their voices shaking the walls. The king of that age, Gorath Skullcrusher, stepped forward, his hulking form casting a monstrous shadow across the chamber. His crimson war paint gleamed under the flickering flames as he reached for the sword.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a shudder passed through the chamber. The flames darkened. The air grew heavier. Orkinder pulsed in his grasp, as though testing him.

Then, with a sound like cracking bone, the runes along the blade flared to life, golden veins of power racing through the dark metal. Gorath’s grip tightened, his muscles flexing against an unseen force.

For a heartbeat, he struggled.

Then the light dimmed, and he let out a guttural laugh.

"The blade has chosen," Zogar whispered, satisfaction gleaming in his ancient eyes.

And thus, Orkinder became the blade of the orc kings. A relic of power. A tool of judgment.

For generations, it would pass through the hands of rulers and warlords, guiding their strength, binding their will. But Orkinder was not a weapon of servitude. It did not belong to any one orc—it belonged to their people, to their destiny.

And it would decide who was fit to lead.

For those who faltered, those whose grip weakened, those who let doubt seep into their hearts…

Orkinder would find another.