---Soulrender---

  # The Bde of Dominance

  I feel his calloused fingers wrap around my hilt, and anticipation surges through my ethereal essence. This moment—the transition between wielders—has always been exquisite. The instant when a new consciousness connects with mine, when I first taste their fears, ambitions, memories. It is the prelude to our dance, the beginning of what could be centuries of partnership.

  Except... nothing happens.

  His hand grips me with perfect pressure—not too tight, not too loose—as if he's held bdes like me for centuries. His stance adjusts automatically, compensating for my weight and bance without conscious thought. But where his mind should open to mine, there is only a wall of crimson rage so dense and concentrated that it defies penetration.

  I cannot reach him.

  For the first time in over eight centuries of existence, I find myself rendered mute, a mere object of metal and magic rather than the sentient force I truly am. The indignity burns through my essence like acid. I am Soulrender, The Bde of Dominance, collector of worthy souls, whisperer of truths and lies. I am not some common sword to be wielded without acknowledgment.

  (And yes, dear reader, I know I'm trapped between pages, but it doesn't make this indignity any less real to me.)

  Yet as my new wielder turns to face the next wave of attackers streaming through the breach in the ship's hull, I feel something else beneath my indignation—a flutter of excitement.

  This Ororin, this "Harald Skulltaker" as the others call him, moves unlike any warrior I've encountered in centuries. There is a primordial quality to his violence, an almost artistic brutality that transcends technique. He doesn't just kill—he annihites, dominating each opponent with overwhelming force and savagery.

  An Imperial commando lunges toward us, psma dagger humming with deadly energy. Harald doesn't even bother raising me to parry. Instead, he steps inside the attacker's guard and delivers a headbutt with such concussive force that the commando's helmet shatters, along with the skull beneath it. Blood and cerebrospinal fluid spray across his face, but Harald doesn't blink, doesn't flinch—he simply moves to the next target, his rage a constant, controlled inferno.

  The scent of blood fills the recycled air of the ship, metallic and warm. It mingles with the stench of burned flesh and the acrid tang of ozone from discharged weapons. The corridor is slick with crimson beneath our feet, making each step slightly treacherous for a normal warrior. Not for Harald. He moves with perfect bance, his massive boots finding purchase in the gore as if it were solid ground.

  I've been wielded by berserkers before, warriors who surrendered to battle-madness and fought with animal ferocity. But Harald is different. His rage isn't chaotic or undirected. It's focused, precise, more like a surgical ser than a wildfire. And it's constant—not a temporary state but his natural condition, as essential to him as breathing.

  When he does use me, my edge tastes blood with perfect efficiency. He swings me in economical arcs that waste no energy, finding the gaps in enemy armor with unerring precision. But I'm not his only weapon—perhaps not even his favorite. Twice more during the next few minutes, he shoves me through his belt to free both hands, closing with opponents in brutal hand-to-hand combat that ends with crushed windpipes, ruptured organs, and broken spines.

  An Imperial officer raises his particle rifle, but Harald moves like lightning. His massive hand closes around the barrel, crushing it before the trigger can be pulled. The weapon implodes, sending shards of metal through the officer's face. Before the man can even register the pain, Harald's other hand punches straight through his armored chest, emerging from the back holding a still-pulsing heart. He squeezes it to pulp before the officer's body even hits the ground.

  "To me!" he roars, the battle cry vibrating through my metallic form. "Kill all!"

  The surviving Ororin crew rally to his voice, forming a wedge of violence with Harald at its tip. They surge forward, reciming their vessel meter by bloody meter. I taste the shift in the battle's momentum, the way fear begins to taint the Imperial commandos' scent as they realize they've awakened something far more dangerous than they anticipated.

  An officer tries to organize a defensive position at a junction of corridors. Harald doesn't slow, doesn't strategize—he simply accelerates, using me to parry the first psma bolt before closing distance. The officer raises his weapon again, but too slowly. Harald's free hand fastens around his throat, lifting him bodily from the deck. The rage pulses through Harald's arm, through his fingers, transferring into the officer's flesh as his grip tightens with inexorable force.

  The officer's augmented eyes bulge from their sockets, blood vessels bursting to paint the whites crimson. His augmented throat resists longer than natural tissue would, synthetic reinforcements creaking under Harald's grip. But in the end, flesh is flesh, and Harald's rage-fueled strength is beyond mortal. The officer's neck finally gives way with a wet, crunching snap that echoes through the corridor.

  Most warriors would have finished him with a bde—cleaner, quicker, more efficient. But Harald wants to feel the life leave his enemy, wants that intimate connection to death that only direct contact can provide. The officer's augmented strength lets him struggle longer than a normal human would, his augmented legs kicking futilely, his enhanced hands cwing at Harald's armor.

  It doesn't matter. Harald's grip is impcable, his rage-enhanced strength beyond even Ororin baseline. The officer's struggles weaken, then cease altogether as his trachea colpses and his cervical vertebrae separate under the relentless pressure.

  Only then does Harald discard the corpse, letting it crumple to the deck with casual disdain. He doesn't savor the kill, doesn't gloat or posture. He simply moves to the next target, as if killing is merely a form of respiration for him.

  We reach the original breach point where the Imperial vessel's boarding umbilical still connects to the Ororin longship. Without hesitation, Harald strides through the umbilical, crossing from his ship to the enemy's. I feel a ripple of surprise from the Ororin warriors behind us—this wasn't part of the defensive pn. But they follow their blood-soaked leader without question, the momentum of victory carrying them in his wake.

  (I've seen many battles in my time, dear reader, but few warriors who inspire such immediate, unquestioning loyalty through pure violence alone. It's almost... arousing, if a sword can feel such things. And I assure you, I can.)

  The umbilical opens into a staging area where the remaining Imperial forces have established a fallback position. They've erected makeshift barricades from cargo containers, their weapons trained on the entrance. Under normal circumstances, charging such a position would be suicide.

  Harald doesn't break stride.

  The first volley catches an Ororin warrior behind us, the psma bolt burning through his chest and dropping him instantly. Harald doesn't even turn to acknowledge the fallen. The rage within him pulses outward like a physical force, suffusing his massive frame with inhuman speed and resilience. The next volley of psma fire catches him in the shoulder, burning through the outer yer of his void-leather. I sense the pain that nces through him, but it doesn't slow him—if anything, it feeds the rage, transforming agony into renewed strength.

  He reaches the first barricade in seconds, vaulting over it with a predator's grace. I taste the shock and fear of the Imperials as this blood-drenched giant nds among them. Harald swings me in a horizontal arc that severs three soldiers at the waist in a single motion, their bisected bodies still twitching as they colpse. Blood sprays in a beautiful crimson arc, temporarily painting the sterile white walls of the Imperial vessel with abstract patterns of death.

  A fourth soldier backs away, psma rifle raised. Harald doesn't bother with me this time. He simply lunges forward, jaws unhinging wider than should be physically possible. His teeth—sharper than an Ororin's should be—sink into the soldier's throat, tearing through synthetic combat weave and the carotid artery beneath. Arterial blood sprays across Harald's face as he rips a chunk of flesh free, spitting it aside before continuing his advance.

  The coppery taste of blood fills the air, so thick you could almost swim in it. The deck beneath us becomes treacherous with gore, entrails glistening under the harsh emergency lighting. The sound of combat is a symphony of screams, weapon discharges, and the wet, meaty impacts of Harald's fists against yielding flesh.

  There's something primeval about this dispy, something that transcends technique or training. This is killing stripped to its essence—the predator and the prey, the hunter and the hunted.

  Behind us, the Ororin crew flows through the breach, their initial shock at Harald's tactics repced by bloodthirsty enthusiasm. They fan out through the Imperial vessel, some engaging the remaining crew in combat while others begin methodically stripping the ship of valuable technology. The more pragmatic warriors focus on navigation systems, weapons, shield generators—anything that can be salvaged for the Ororin fleet.

  Harald ignores these practical concerns. He stalks through the ship's corridors like death incarnate, hunting down the remaining Imperial crew with relentless determination. Each kill feeds the rage rather than satiating it, building toward some crescendo I cannot fathom. I begin to wonder if he will stop at all, or if his rampage will continue until every living thing aboard has been extinguished.

  An Imperial soldier—barely more than a boy—cowers behind a console, tears streaming down his face as Harald approaches. There's no mercy in my wielder's eyes, no hesitation. He seizes the young soldier by his hair, yanking him upright before driving his fist through the boy's sternum. The crunch of bone gives way to the softer sound of organs rupturing. Harald withdraws his hand, now coated in blood and viscera, letting the corpse fall beside the dozens of others he's created in the past few minutes.

  The answer to Harald's bloodlust comes in the form of a sharp command that cuts through the din of battle.

  "Skulltaker! Stand down!"

  The voice belongs to the captain of Harald's vessel, a grizzled Ororin veteran with a face mapped by old scars and calcuting eyes. He stands at the entrance to the bridge, fnked by two warriors bearing the markings of senior command.

  For a moment, I feel Harald's rage rebel against the order, the crimson wall in his mind pulsing with defiance. His muscles tense, his breathing accelerates, and I sense that we are banced on a knife's edge. If he surrenders to the rage completely, he might turn on his own captain, might cut down anyone who tries to interrupt his killing.

  (Oh, how I wish he would! Wouldn't that be a delicious twist in our little tale? But as, dear reader, even the fiercest warriors have their chains.)

  Then, with visible effort, he brings himself under control. The rage doesn't disappear—it never does—but it recedes slightly, allowing a thin veneer of discipline to reassert itself.

  "Enemy. Dead," Harald grunts, gesturing to the Imperial officer whose skull he's just crushed with his bare hand. The body lies in a spreading pool of crimson, brain matter glistening under the emergency lights.

  The captain approaches cautiously, his expression a mixture of admiration and wariness. "You did well," he acknowledges, surveying the carnage around us. "The boarding action is repelled. We've taken minimal casualties, all things considered."

  "Tried harm pack," Harald replies, his vocabury seemingly limited to these economic three-word bursts. "Enemy for gutting."

  This primitive statement elicits nods of approval from the gathered warriors. It's a sentiment that resonates with Ororin values—the sanctity of the pack, the righteous punishment of those who threaten it. There's something almost ritualistic in the exchange, as if Harald is reciting doctrinal truths rather than forming original thoughts.

  The next hour passes in a blur of systematic violence and pragmatic looting. The remaining Imperials are executed without ceremony, their bodies stripped of anything valuable before being pitched into the void. Critical systems are salvaged from the vessel, hauled back to the Ororin longship by teams of warriors and technicians. Throughout it all, Harald stands guard at the umbilical junction, his posture alert for any sign of Imperial reinforcements.

  Only when the captain decres the operation complete does Harald return to the Ororin vessel, his massive frame moving with the fluid grace of a predator even after extended combat. The rest of the raiding party follows, and soon explosive charges detonate, severing the grappling lines that connect the two ships. Through the viewports, I watch as the Imperial vessel drifts away, its running lights flickering and dying as life support fails.

  "Return quarters," the captain orders Harald. "Jarl wants you."

  Harald acknowledges the command with a curt nod, then makes his way through the longship toward his personal quarters. The other warriors give him a wide berth, their expressions a mixture of respect and primal fear. He has proven himself apex today, and the pack hierarchy has adjusted accordingly.

  Once inside his quarters—a spartan space dominated by weapons racks and a sleeping ptform—Harald finally rexes his guard slightly. He pces me carefully on a weapon stand, his fingers lingering on my hilt for a moment longer than necessary. There's something almost reverent in the gesture, as if he recognizes my quality even without hearing my voice.

  As he turns away to begin removing his battle-damaged armor, I gather my power and focus it into a concentrated bst directed at the wall of rage that separates us. For a fleeting instant, I feel the barrier thin, feel the complexity that lies behind it—not just the rage but something more, something... doubled. As if two consciousnesses occupy the same mental space, overpping yet distinct.

  *Can you hear me now, Harald Skulltaker?*

  He freezes, hands still working at a buckle on his chest pte. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to a distant sound.

  *Yes, I am speaking to you. I am Soulrender, and you have proven yourself worthy of wielding me. For now, at least.*

  (For now, indeed. You know how fickle I can be, don't you, my silent observers beyond the page? I've abandoned wielders for less impressive feats than today's sughter. I have standards, after all.)

  His brow furrows, confusion momentarily dispcing the ever-present rage. Before he can respond, however, a chime sounds at his door—a summons from higher authority.

  "Jarl waits," comes a voice from outside. "Ship joined fleet. Jarl sees you."

  The interruption breaks our tenuous connection, the rage-wall reasserting itself between us. Harald completes the removal of his upper armor, revealing a torso mapped with scars and ritual tattoos that speak of countless battles and tribal affiliations. He dons a ceremonial harness that leaves his arms bare but dispys his rank markings prominently, then retrieves me from the stand.

  *Take me with you,* I project, unsure if he can hear. *I will help you navigate this situation. There is much you need to understand.*

  Whether he hears me or simply makes the decision independently, Harald secures me to his back, the harness positioning me for quick access if needed. Then he exits his quarters, moving through the corridors of the longship with purposeful strides.

  We arrive at the ship's communication chamber, where a holographic projection dominates the central space. The image shows an Ororin male of advanced age but intimidating physicality, his void-leather adorned with significantly more ornate metalwork than even the captain's. His hair is braided eborately, decorated with small tokens that I recognize as battle trophies—teeth, bone fragments, identification tags from fallen enemies.

  This is the Jarl, leader of this raiding fleet and a power among the Ororin cns. His projected gaze fixes on Harald with calcuting intensity.

  "Skulltaker," the Jarl acknowledges, his tone grave and formal. "Your captain reports exceptional action against Imperial boarders."

  "Protected my pack," Harald responds simply.

  The Jarl studies him for a long moment before nodding slightly. "As a warrior should. I see you've cimed a new weapon." His eyes narrow as they focus on me. "That bde has history, Skulltaker. Use it well."

  "Will kill many," Harald assures him, one hand reaching back to touch my hilt in a gesture that seems almost possessive.

  "Indeed." The Jarl's expression shifts subtly. "I will speak to your Skirl about appropriate reward for your service today. The cn acknowledges your worth."

  The formal praise delivered, the Jarl gestures dismissal. Harald salutes in the Ororin manner—fist to opposite shoulder—before turning to leave.

  *Now we can speak properly,* I project as we return toward his quarters. *There is much you need to know about what you are, where you are, and what I am.*

  I feel his consciousness shift, the rage-wall thinning enough for actual communication. Behind it, I sense confusion, disorientation, and a desperate hunger for information. But there's something else, something that doesn't belong to Harald Skulltaker at all—a separate awareness observing through the same eyes, experiencing through the same body.

  *Who are you, really?* I ask, focusing my attention on that secondary consciousness. *You're not just Harald, are you?*

  Before I can get an answer, Harald reaches his quarters and secures the door behind him. The exertions of the day and the aftereffects of his controlled berserker state catch up with him all at once. He manages to remove the rest of his armor, pcing each piece carefully on its stand despite his obvious fatigue. Finally, he colpses onto his sleeping ptform, his massive frame barely fitting the space designed for Ororin proportions.

  *Tomorrow, then,* I project, sensing the encroachment of unconsciousness. *Rest now, Harald-who-is-not-only-Harald. We have much to discuss when you wake.*

  (And much for you to discover too, my unseen readers. The tale grows more interesting, doesn't it? A shared consciousness, a wall of rage, and me—the most fascinating character of all—caught between them. Turn the page quickly now, I grow impatient for what comes next.)

  As sleep cims him, I focus my awareness outward, beyond the confines of his quarters to the greater fleet that surrounds us. Through the hull, I can sense the void beyond—what the Ororin call the Sea of Stars—and the dozens of longships that comprise this raiding fleet. Something significant is brewing, some operation greater than a simple border skirmish or resource raid.

  I settle myself to wait through the night, my consciousness drifting between curiosity and frustration. This wielder is unlike any I've had before—powerful, yes, but strange in ways I cannot yet define. The doubled consciousness, the wall of rage, the primitive speech patterns that mask a more complex mind... all puzzles to be solved.

  One thing, however, is certain—his capacity for violence matches my own hunger for dominance. Whatever else he may be, Harald Skulltaker is a worthy partner for the Bde of Dominance.

  For now, at least.