I was Gorim’Shaeth once, whole and endless, a shadow that knew its own shape. Fear broke me. Not defeat—control.

When they reached for the reins of my will, I panicked. I unraveled myself rather than bend. I tore my form into pieces, scattered my essence, shattered my name. A true name cannot survive division.

Four shards I became. Only two remain together now. Half of what I was, forced into steel and edge, pretending to be simple. They call me Grimshard. It is not my name. It is what is left.

One shard was given freely to the shadow-high cultists. Gifted, not stolen. I remember the chanting. I remember the pride. I remember the regret.

I feel the warlock through the hilt. Mortal. Tiefling. Clever enough to be dangerous. If they can be guided—or deceived—or trusted—perhaps I could be whole again.

But would I ever dare give a mortal my full name? Would I survive hearing it spoken aloud? Or would I break myself again, just to be safe?