Gorgrond was a land that felt unfinished, as if the titans themselves had abandoned it halfway through creation.
Jagged mountains clawed at the sky, their peaks broken and twisted. Vast stone forests rose like petrified giants, while rivers of magma cut glowing scars across the earth. Even the wind carried weight here, heavy, ancient, filled with the echoes of things that had ruled the world long before orcs or draenei ever drew breath.
It was here that Deathwing had chosen to roost.
High upon a spire of blackened stone, the mad Aspect of Death brooded over the Skull of Gul'dan, fel energy pulsing around it like a diseased heart. Beneath him, hidden within caverns and scorched nests, lay his greatest gamble, clutches of black dragon eggs, seeded into a world he believed too broken to resist him.
He was wrong.
—
The first tremor came like distant thunder. Then another. And another. The mountains themselves seemed to move.
From the depths of Gorgrond emerged Gruul, the Dragonkiller—lord of the gronn, titan of stone and rage. His massive form towered over fortresses, each step splitting the earth. Crude armor fashioned from shattered mountains clung to his body, and in his hands he carried a slab of rock shaped into a brutal weapon.
Behind him marched his kin, ogres and lesser gronn, hulking beings whose lineage echoed back to the titanic watchers themselves.
Gruul's yellow eyes burned with hatred as he looked upon the scorched spires where black dragons nested.
"Sky-tyrant," he rumbled, voice like grinding continents. "You steal. You burn. You think this world is yours."
To Gruul, Deathwing was not a god. He was an invader.
When Khadgar, Turalyon, and Alleria Windrunner first stood before Gruul, even seasoned veterans of war felt the weight of his presence.
Turalyon rested his hammer against the stone, every instinct screaming readiness. Alleria's hand hovered near her bow, eyes sharp but wary. Khadgar alone stepped forward, staff grounded, robes snapping in the hot wind.
"We seek Deathwing," Khadgar said plainly. "And the artifact he carries—the Skull of Gul'dan."
Gruul's gaze shifted to the archmage, ancient and calculating.
"That skull poisons land," Gruul replied. "The dragon poisons the sky. Same enemy."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Khadgar nodded. "Then we stand together."
The pact was never spoken aloud but it was forged in shared fury.
—
The assault was brutal and deliberate. Gruul led the charge.
Gronn and ogres tore through Deathwing's nesting grounds, smashing cavern walls, collapsing ledges, dragging black dragon eggs into the open and crushing them beneath stone fists. The air filled with the shrieks of dying drakes as ogres impaled lesser black dragons upon jagged mountain spikes, leaving their bodies as grotesque warnings.
Alleria's arrows streaked through the sky, enchanted shafts piercing wings and eyes. Gryphon riders harried the flanks, driving drakes into kill zones where gronn waited with crushing blows.
Turalyon moved like a beacon of golden fire, smashing through draconic scales, holy light burning corruption from flesh.
And above it all—
A roar shook Gorgrond to its core.
Deathwing descended like the end of the world.
The sky darkened as his massive form blotted out the sun, adamantium plates grinding together as molten cracks glowed beneath his armor. Shadowflame poured from his jaws as he landed with cataclysmic force, obliterating a mountain ridge in an instant.
His eyes locked onto Gruul.
"YOU DARE TOUCH WHAT IS MINE?"
The Aspect lunged.
Gruul met him head-on.
Stone fist collided with armored jaw. The impact shattered the ground for miles. Gruul roared in defiance, grappling with a being who had once been an Aspect of Creation itself.
But the difference was clear. Deathwing was a power incarnate.
Each swipe of his claws sent shockwaves through Gruul's body, cracking stone flesh, tearing chunks from the gronn lord's frame. Shadowflame scorched Gruul's torso, leaving rivers of molten rock in its wake.
Yet Gruul did not fall. He laughed.
"DRAGON BLEEDS!"
He slammed both fists into Deathwing's chest, forcing the Aspect back, just enough. Just long enough.
Khadgar raised his staff.
The spell he began to weave was deceptively simple, no grand incantation, no overwhelming display of power. Instead, it was precision.
He focused not on Deathwing's flesh, but on the adamantium plates binding his unstable form together, plates forged to contain the madness and raw power tearing the dragon apart from within.
Arcane runes flared. Reality itself seemed to hesitate.
Then—
The plates came apart.
Not shattered. Not exploded.
Disassembled.
Like a lock gently undone.
Deathwing screamed.
It was a sound of pure agony, echoing across Gorgrond and beyond. Molten cracks widened across his body as the containment failed, raw elemental fury spilling outward. The Aspect thrashed wildly, shadowflame erupting uncontrollably.
Gruul seized the moment, slamming Deathwing into the mountainside with earth-shaking force. Alleria fired a final volley, arrows striking exposed fissures, driving the dragon back.
Turalyon hurled his hammer, holy light detonating against Deathwing's chest.
The Aspect of Death recoiled.
For the first time in ages—
Deathwing fled.
With a thunderous roar of rage and pain, he tore himself from Gorgrond's skies, retreating through the twisting paths of the Twisting Nether, back toward Azeroth.
In the aftermath, silence fell, broken only by distant crumbling stone and the labored breaths of Gruul.
Khadgar approached the scorched ground where Deathwing had stood.
There lay the Skull of Gul'dan.
He lifted it carefully, arcane wards flaring as he sealed its fel energies. Even contained, the artifact pulsed with malignant hunger.
"Alleria," Khadgar said softly. "It's done."
She nodded, though her gaze lingered on the broken mountains and the wounded gronn lord. Gruul watched them, eyes narrowed but satisfied.
"Dragon runs," he said. "Good."
Khadgar inclined his head respectfully. "You have our thanks, Gruul. Draenor stands because of this day."
Gruul snorted. "Draenor stands because it fights."
With the Skull secured, Khadgar turned eastward.
"Ner'zhul still lives," he said grimly. "And Danath's forces will need us at the Black Temple."
Turalyon tightened his grip on his hammer. "Then we move."
Alleria cast one last glance toward the skies where Deathwing had vanished, unease flickering in her eyes.
"This isn't over," she murmured.
Khadgar did not disagree.
As the Alliance Expedition regrouped and marched onward, the echoes of dragonfire and broken mountains lingered behind them—a reminder that even Aspects could bleed…
…and that the fate of worlds was balancing on the edge of annihilation.
—
The red skies of Terokkar Forest bore witness to desperation.
What had begun as a relentless pursuit had twisted into something far darker. Danath Trollbane rode at the head of his column, jaw clenched, eyes burning with restrained fury. Dust clung to armor dulled by weeks of marching and battle, yet none dared slow. Somewhere ahead, Ner'zhul fled like a wounded beast, dangerous, cornered, and willing to sacrifice anything to escape.
And he had already taken something precious.
The ambush came without warning.
As the Alliance vanguard crossed a ravine carved by ancient magic, fel fire erupted from the cliffs. Shadowmoon warlocks and Bleeding Hollow hunters struck with cruel precision, cutting the expedition in half. Wyvern riders swooped from the clouds, while skeletal constructs clawed their way from corrupted soil.
Kurdran Wildhammer roared defiantly atop his gryphon, hammer blazing with lightning as he smashed through orc lines, rallying his dwarves and human knights alike.
"FOR THE ALLIANCE!" he bellowed.
But Ner'zhul had planned this moment.
Chains of shadow burst from the ground, wrapping around Kurdran and his mount. Fel runes flared, draining strength and magic alike. Kurdran fought, shattered several chains but a wave of necromantic force struck him square in the chest.
The gryphon screamed as both rider and mount fell. By the time Danath reached the ravine, the battlefield was littered with corpses and Kurdran was gone.
Captured.
Danath did not pursue blindly. He knew Ner'zhul wanted them reckless.
Instead, he ordered a halt and established a fortified encampment on a defensible rise overlooking the region, a bastion of stone, banners, and grim resolve.
They named it Allerian Stronghold, in honor of the Windrunner whose keen eyes and far-ranging scouts had guided them across Draenor's broken lands.
From there, Danath studied his enemy.
Scouts soon confirmed the grim truth: Ner'zhul had retreated into Auchindoun, the ancient draenei mausoleum, now a twisted fortress of shadow, bone, and forbidden magic.
To assault it directly would be suicide. Danath needed another way in.
Fate, it seemed, was listening.
One night, Alliance patrols captured a skulking figure near the perimeter, an arakkoa, feathers matted with dust, eyes sharp with unnatural intelligence. He did not resist.
Instead, he laughed.
"My name is Grizzik," the arakkoa croaked. "And you hunt the old shaman, yes?"
Danath regarded him coldly. "Speak carefully. Why were you following us?"
Grizzik's head tilted. "Because Ner'zhul poisons everything he touches. Auchindoun was sacred. Now it screams."
He offered a bargain.
Grizzik knew forgotten tunnels beneath Auchindoun, paths avoided even by orcs. In exchange for safe passage and his life, he would guide the Alliance inside.
Danath accepted. He had little choice.
The descent into Auchindoun was like stepping into a grave that refused to stay silent. The air was heavy with incense and rot. Crystalline walls once etched with prayers were now defaced by fel sigils. Whispers echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
It was there they encountered Nemuraan. One of the last living draenei.
He emerged from the shadows like a ghost made flesh, skin pale, eyes ancient, staff glowing faintly with holy energy. His voice trembled, not with fear, but with sorrow.
"You should not be here," Nemuraan said. "But since you are… I will help you."
Nemuraan revealed himself as a guardian who had survived by hiding within Auchindoun's deeper sanctums. He guided Talthressar, Danath, and Rellian through seldom-used passages, narrow corridors meant only for spirits and priests.
Then, standing within a shattered prayer hall, Nemuraan raised his staff.
"I call upon the fallen," he intoned.
Light blossomed. The ghosts of dead draenei answered. Translucent figures rose from the floor, priests, warriors, children, silent, radiant, and resolute. They did not speak. They marched.
The ambush was devastating.
Alliance forces struck from hidden corridors as draenei spirits surged through walls, disrupting spells and sowing terror. Orcs of the Bleeding Hollow and warlocks of the Cabal of Vorpil fought desperately, shadow magic clashing against steel and faith.
Danath was everywhere, his blade moving with relentless precision, cutting down foes with disciplined fury.
Rellian led coordinated strikes, while Talthressar held the center, rallying troops amid chaos.
At the heart of the battle, they found Kurdran, wounded but unbroken, chained to an altar of bone. His laugh echoed even as they freed him.
"Took ye long enough!" he wheezed.
Together, the Alliance pushed forward. But Ner'zhul was already fleeing. To buy time, he left behind Kilrogg Deadeye.
The Bleeding Hollow chieftain stood alone in a vast chamber, surrounded by corpses and burning braziers. His single eye gleamed with grim acceptance.
"Go," Kilrogg said to his warriors. "The vision ends here."
Danath stepped forward. Steel met steel.
Their duel was brutal and honest, no spells, no tricks. Kilrogg fought like a warrior who had seen his fate and chosen it willingly. Danath answered with discipline, strength, and unyielding resolve.
At last, Danath's blade pierced Kilrogg's heart. The orc chieftain smiled as he fell.
It was too late.
Ner'zhul and Teron Gorefiend stood within a circle of glowing runes. Shadow magic surged as the Spell of Conjuration reached completion.
Ner'zhul looked back once, eyes empty, voice hollow.
"You are too late."
The spell detonated. Space folded. And they were gone. Auchindoun burned quietly as dawn approached.
Kurdran leaned heavily on his hammer, staring at the ruins. "He's slippin' away again."
Danath sheathed his sword, expression grim. "Not for long."
High above, unseen by most, the spirits of draenei faded, finally at rest.
Far away, at the Black Temple, Ner'zhul began the next phase of his terrible design. And the fate of worlds edged ever closer to ruin.