The air grew heavier the closer Rhonin came to Grim Batol.
Ash clung to the wind, carried from distant forges and dragonfire alike, and the land itself seemed scarred, burned fields, shattered stones, and the faint echo of suffering lingering like a curse. Rhonin adjusted the strap of his staff across his back, his senses stretched outward, probing the arcane currents around him.
They were disturbed.
"Orcs." he muttered under his breath.
He felt them before he saw them, a patrol moving through the broken hills ahead. Orcish voices rumbled through the air, rough and cruel, accompanied by the clank of crude armor and the scrape of axes against stone.
Rhonin slowed his pace, slipping behind a jagged outcrop of rock. Peering out, he counted them quickly.
Six orcs.
Two grunts in heavy armor, a pair of axe-wielders, a shaman whose hands crack faintly with sickly green energy and a mounted outrider, scanning the terrain with predatory patience.
Dragonmaw scouts.
Rhonin's jaw tightened. If they reported him, his mission would end before it truly began.
"So be it," he whispered.
The arcane responded eagerly. The first spell left his hand in silence.
A Frostbolt streaked across the air like a shard of winter itself, slamming into the lead grunt's chest. Ice exploded outward, encasing the orc mid-step. He didn't even have time to roar before his frozen body shattered against the ground.
"What—?!" one of the axe-wielders shouted.
Rhonin stepped out from cover, staff raised.
A Cone of Cold erupted from him in a wide arc, freezing the ground and locking two more orcs in place as frost crawled up their legs and armor. One slipped, crashing hard, while the other howled in fury and pain.
The shaman reacted instantly, snarling an incantation as green lightning leapt from his hands.
Rhonin flicked his wrist.
A Mana Shield flared into existence just as the lightning struck, dispersing harmlessly across shimmering arcane energy. Rhonin grimaced at the drain but held his ground.
"Is that all?" he growled.
He answered with fire.
A Fireball, roaring and incandescent, slammed into the shaman and detonated in a violent burst. The explosion hurled the orc backward, his spell dying with him as flames consumed his body.
The mounted outrider bellowed and charged, wolf snarling as it closed the distance.
Rhonin slammed the butt of his staff into the ground.
Frost Nova.
Ice burst outward in a blinding flash, freezing the wolf mid-leap and locking the rider in place. The remaining axe-wielder hacked at the ice desperately, roaring in rage.
Rhonin lifted his hand, fingers glowing with raw arcane power.
Arcane Missiles.
Five bolts of violet energy screamed through the air, striking unerringly. The axe-wielder fell first, followed by the frozen rider as the magic shattered both ice and bone alike.
Silence returned to the hills.
Rhonin exhaled slowly, sweat beading on his brow. The fight had been quick but loud.
Too loud.
A shadow passed overhead.
Rhonin's head snapped up just as a thunderous cry echoed through the sky.
"For Khaz Modan!"
A gryphon dove from the clouds, wings beating like a storm. Its rider leveled a hammer crackling with lightning and hurled it downward. The last frozen orc shattered completely as the hammer struck, lightning dancing across the ice before the dwarf yanked the weapon back with a practiced motion.
The gryphon circled once before landing nearby.
"Well now," the dwarf said, dismounting with a grin. "Looks like I wasn't the only one huntin' orcs today."
Rhonin blinked. "You… heard the loud sounds?"
"Aye," the dwarf replied proudly. "Name's Falstad Wildhammer. And from the looks of it, you're either very brave or very foolish wanderin' this close to Grim Batol alone."
Rhonin chuckled weakly. "I've been called both."
Falstad eyed the fallen orcs, then Rhonin's staff. "Mage, eh? Dalaran?"
"Yes," Rhonin said. "I'm on a mission, one that leads straight into Grim Batol."
Falstad's grin faded, replaced by something harder. "Then you're headin' into dangerous grounds. And orc filth besides."
Rhonin hesitated for only a moment. "I could use help."
The dwarf laughed, mounting his gryphon again. "Funny thing, that's exactly where I was headin' too. Seems the skies have been whisperin' lately."
He extended a hand. "What d'you say, mage?"
Rhonin clasped it firmly. "I say we finish what we started."
Together, gryphon and mage turned toward the looming silhouette of Grim Batol, its broken towers clawing at the sky like the ribs of a dead god.
—
Far away, beneath quieter skies, Leylin and his companions advanced at a far steadier pace.
They avoided main roads, slipping through forests and valleys, Leylin carefully masking their presence with layered illusion and arcane dampening. Every step toward Grim Batol was measured, deliberate.
"This place doesn't want visitors," Tyr'ganal muttered, eyeing the darkening horizon.
"No," Leylin replied softly. "It wants sacrifices."
Vereesa adjusted her bow, eyes sharp. Aminel walked silently beside Leylin, her gaze steady, while Sylvanas' absence lingered like an unspoken worry.
Unbeknownst to either group, two paths, born of duty, magic, and fate were drawing closer with every passing hour.
—
The land around Grim Batol groaned like a wounded beast.
Rhonin felt it in his bones, the pressure of immense power pressing down on the world itself. Even the arcane currents trembled, warped and bent, as if afraid to flow too freely here.
Falstad reined his gryphon atop a jagged ridge overlooking a blasted valley.
"By the Stonefather…" the dwarf whispered.
Below them, the earth was scarred by fire and blood. Broken siege engines smoldered in heaps of twisted iron. Orcish corpses littered the ground, Dragonmaw warriors crushed, burned, or torn apart like toys.
And in the center of it all—
A black dragon.
Its massive form dwarfed the battlefield, obsidian scales drinking in the light, wings spread wide like living shadows. Each movement radiated overwhelming dominance. Its eyes burned with molten hatred, twin furnaces of ancient malice.
Deathwing.
Even in partial form, restrained, diminished, or merely playing, he was terror incarnate.
Around him, Dragonmaw orcs surged like ants, chains clutched in their hands, runes glowing faintly with enslaving magic. Whelps, young red dragons cowered or thrashed nearby, their cries piercing the air.
"They're trying to bind him," Rhonin said, voice tight.
Falstad snorted grimly. "Aye. And by the looks of it, they've forgotten what they're dealin' with."
A roar split the heavens.
Deathwing lunged forward, jaws snapping shut around a siege tower. Metal screamed as he crushed it effortlessly, then hurled the wreckage aside. The impact obliterated an entire rank of orcs, bodies flung like ragdolls.
"Hold the chains!" a Dragonmaw warlord bellowed, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
Shamans raised their staves, chanting desperately. Sickly green and crimson magic pulsed along the chains, anchoring them to the ground, to pylons, to spells etched deep into the rock.
Deathwing snarled as the chains dug into his scales, sparks of corrupted magic clashing violently with draconic power.
For a moment, just a moment it seemed to hold him.
Then he laughed.
The sound was deep, resonant, and filled with ancient contempt.
"Insects."
He slammed one claw into the earth.
The ground shattered outward in a violent shockwave. Orcs were hurled into the air, bones snapping, armor crushed inward. One chain anchor tore free, snapping back and impaling a shaman clean through the chest.
Deathwing surged upward, wings beating once and fire descended.
Not an ordinary flame.
Shadowflame.
A torrent of blackened fire poured from his maw, consuming everything in its path. Orcs screamed as the flames ate through flesh and soul alike, leaving behind only ash and twisted shadows scorched into the earth.
The smell was unbearable.
Falstad swallowed hard. "I've fought dragons before," he muttered. "But that…"
Rhonin couldn't look away.
Another group of Dragonmaw surged forward, their leader wielding a massive runeblade crackling with stolen draconic energy. He leapt, driving the blade into Deathwing's foreleg.
The dragon roared not in pain, but in fury. His tail lashed out.
The warlord vanished in a spray of blood and shattered armor as the impact flattened him against a cliff face.
Around them, the whelps cried out, some breaking free of their cages, others struck down by desperate orcs trying to maintain control.
Deathwing turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto the whelps.
For the briefest instant, something unreadable flickered in his gaze. Then the Dragonmaw made their fatal mistake.
A massive ballista, reinforced with chains and runes, fired. The harpoon struck Deathwing square in the shoulder.
The valley went silent.
Deathwing froze.
The chains tightened. For a heartbeat, the orcs dared to hope. Deathwing straightened to his full height.
The sky darkened.
"Enough!"
His body erupted with power. Cracks of molten lava split his scales as raw elemental fury poured forth. The chains didn't merely snap—they vaporized, disintegrating into glowing fragments.
Deathwing took to the air.
The downdraft alone flattened dozens of orcs. He wheeled once, massive wings blotting out the sun—
—and descended like judgment.
He slammed into the densest cluster of Dragonmaw, claws and teeth a blur of destruction. Every strike was precise, merciless. Orcs died screaming, crushed beneath his bulk or torn apart mid-swing.
Shamans tried to flee.
Deathwing inhaled.
Another wave of shadowflame swept across the valley, reducing them to nothing.
Within minutes, the battlefield belonged to him alone.
The surviving Dragonmaw scattered, their courage broken, fleeing into caves and ruins like vermin.
Deathwing landed heavily, smoke curling from his nostrils. He surveyed the carnage, then turned his gaze skyward.
Straight toward the ridge.
Straight toward Rhonin and Falstad.
Falstad swore. "He saw us."
Rhonin's heart was hammered. Every instinct screamed at him to run—but he forced himself to stand his ground.