Elves, with their haughty elegance, often drowned in self-admiration,
Forgetting the needs of those who did not share their long lives.
Orcs, in their insatiable thirst for battle,
Sometimes saw no difference between honor and cruelty.
Humans, in their pursuit of order and control,
Could become mired in pettiness and tyranny...
But if one speaks of true danger,
Of a flame that consumes everything in its path...
Of a wrath akin to a volcanic eruption—
Sudden, all-consuming, and knowing no mercy...
Of a rage that covers entire continents in ash...
Then no race could compare to dragons.
The North Sea, along the coast of Lordaeron.
Sarandiel—the youngest of the daughters of Landinal Stormweaver—carefully stepped from foot to foot, trying to avoid the creak of the deck, thanking all the gods, ancestors, parents, and teachers for the science taught once upon a long time ago.
Afraid to make any extra noise, the proud Elf, Pathfinder, and Dragon Slayer was now more like a misbehaving student than any of the above... But she had a serious and formidable reason to behave this way!
Her older sister, whose character and current state more than ever matched their ancient surname, received in the times when the lands of Quel'Thalas belonged to Trolls and their pathetic excuse for a civilization.
Their ancestor, unlike them, was not a mage or a Pathfinder, but a sailor—unafraid of the sea's elements. One of the few who met the northern winds and currents face-to-face in a fit of rage.
Narandiel sat silently opposite the brazier, humming a simple melody to herself. Smooth and soft movements, light flows of magic, and a generally pleasant atmosphere could deceive a fool who would be taken in by the outwardly sweet picture...
Except the youngest of the sisters knew perfectly well that behind this magnificent facade of a blessed princess from the sunlit palaces of the greatest city in the world, there lurked...
A northern storm.
Cruel. Merciless. Making no distinction for anyone who stood in her way. Smashing against the rocks any fool who foolishly went out to sea that day, thinking he would make it across before his little vessel was shattered against the cliffs.
In the depths of the older sister's eyes, rage flickered, fueled by magical power that she carefully controlled and held in her fist, lest the power of the Arcana break free, guided by emotional desires.
Coupled with the sweet face and the childhood lullaby that Narandiel had sung to her along with their mother in the distant past...
The picture became especially terrifying, so much so that even the most loyal of their comrades, followers, and students did not dare to disturb the eldest of the Stormweavers—scattering to different corners of the ship, casting worried glances at the ancient sorceress...
And yet, she had never once stooped to anything wild, like cursing or—may the Sunwell forbid—physical violence.
Only the piercing, frightening gaze of blue eyes, shimmering with magical power.
And there was a reason for it. Simple and explainable, like a light songbird's trill in the reaches of the Eversong Woods.
The Elven nobility, with King Anasterian Sunstrider at the head.
Just one conversation behind the closed doors of the royal palace had brought her beloved sister to this state. No one knew exactly what the King and the elder Stormweaver had talked about, but everyone guessed...
Tearing her eyes away from the perfectly straight back with slightly slumped shoulders, the younger of the sisters looked out at the boundless North Sea, where ten identical copies followed their ship.
Clean, sleek, small frigates brought to perfection, swift and deadly in both their beauty and their work...
Everything the King of the High Elves had allocated for the war against the Horde...
A mockery, a pittance, almost a spit in the face.
One didn't need to be a prophet or a great genius to understand the logic behind such an act. The King, like all the Elven aristocracy, did not consider the Orcs—and certainly not their allies in the form of Trolls and Goblins—to be worthy enemies or a serious threat.
For millennia, they had relied on the Sunwell—the most powerful source of magic and life for all Elves on the continent. Its primordial power nourished every representative of the pointed-eared people, allowing them to draw magical power without end or harm to themselves.
Sheltered behind a true work of magical art—the magical barrier Ban'dinoriel, which had saved their people more than once in the past...
The old men laughed at the "young" sorceress in their eyes. For why exert oneself and get involved in the humans' war? Even if the dull-eared ones lost, they would breed again later; it had happened more than once and would happen again.
"You're taking a long time." Lost in thought, Sarandiel lost her vigilance for a moment, and that was enough for her sister to detect her. A gentle, familiar voice, yet one that sent shivers down her spine, addressed the younger Elf with light irony. "Was it really so difficult to collect the reports and the mail?"
"Um, no... Just," searching for help, the younger Stormweaver's eyes began to dart around the area, hoping someone would rescue her from the unpleasant situation, "I didn't want to distract you..."
She had to act quickly before her sister realized that the news coming from Stromgarde was far from good. The pack of letters and notes in her hands crumpled under her thin fingers, but the young Pathfinder didn't have time to do anything before a familiar figure loomed over her, overbearing and pressing... in every sense.
"Lying was always your weakest trait," Narandiel said, affectionately ruffling her sister's hair, her hand slowly sliding down to the cheek. She caught the younger one's tender skin, pulling it slightly to the side—leaving a red mark. "Next time, I shall remember the switches our father did not shy away from."
"Sorry..." Holding her sore cheek, Sarandiel winced and, under the attentive gaze of shimmering blue eyes, handed her sister the reports and letters from scouts and loyal people who had promised to keep an eye on one restless Dwarf. "It's just that the news isn't very good..."
Shrinking at the last words, the younger of the sisters studiously looked away, trying not to look at the gentle smile spreading across her companion's face, which made her want to leap overboard.
***
The Horde siege camp outside Stromgarde.
Fresh meat lay in abundance on the table. The local beasts turned out to be marvelously soft, tender, and weak—a true dream for young hunters.
Their tender meat practically melted in the mouth, hot juice flowing over the tongue—bringing unforgettable pleasure.
During the long years of wandering through their shattered world, tasting far more sand, death, and the blood of kin and Ogres than normal food, Grommash Hellscream had already forgotten what normal food tasted like.
Reaching out, the chieftain of the Warsong Clan, with one easy movement, tore a freshly cooked pork leg from the carcass sizzling over the fire. His new, rich tent, assembled from various skins and soft, durable fabrics, allowed for such extravagance.
A meter away from the chieftain stood baskets of fruit and berries that the women and children had gathered in the local forests. Near the entrance, fish from the deep, clean rivers were finishing drying...
Seeing clear water again for the first time, Hellscream was ready to swear that some of his warriors were crying with happiness, and he could not blame them for it.
Their old world, Draenor, had long ago ceased to be that beautiful, wild, and martial place that had nurtured such strong warriors as the Orcs.
And so the new world... Azeroth, became a true blessing for them! Forests full of game, endless green fields, mountains, rivers... Places for any tribe or clan to live, in abundance in any direction!
"Heh-heh, all that's left is to kill the former masters, and all this will be ours..."
He crunched a pig bone with relish, which was not difficult for orcish teeth... After all, on Draenor, even the herbivorous beasts had bones so strong and heavy that some clans made Arms out of them!
Here, though... This world was literally created to be subjugated by Orcs. Soft, ripe, like a matured fruit. All that remained was to take it in hand.
"Chieftain," one of the loyal warriors burst into the tent. Dressed in crude Armor of black iron, the warrior struck his fist against his chest—sending a ring throughout the central part of the camp—"the clans are ready, the troops are at their positions..."
"Good," a sturdy steel mug was taken from the table. Another trophy from yet another weak race of this world. Grommash didn't even remember their name, for their kingdom had fallen even faster than the pink-skins from the south. "As soon as the Goblins launch the zeppelins and begin the bombardment—commence."
"Yes, chieftain..." For a moment, the loyal Borg slowed near the exit of the tent, which did not go unnoticed. Hellscream's piercing gaze pinned the subordinate to the spot, demanding answers, and the latter easily caught the silent message. "The warriors are anxious... Our allies are asking questions. We have lost so many kinsmen from the smaller clans..."
"Hmm," grunting gloomily, Hellscream rose to his full height. Though he was not tall compared to many other Orcs, his personal strength, charisma, and confidence in his own invincibility easily forced many to bow their heads before him...
And only one Orc surpassed him in this, but that was why Orgrim Doomhammer was the Warchief of The Horde.
"It's simple, Borg," Grommash said, stepping out of the tent first and inhaling the scent of the approaching slaughter. He smirked crookedly, forcing out the softest smile he could manage. "Doomhammer ordered us to get rid of the useless, arrogant, and loud mouths... If they all perish, it is no great loss... If they survive, they will be accepted into the great clans with joy and honor. As for our little allies..."
Glancing toward the zeppelins rising into the sky, Grommash spat on the ground, expressing all his contempt with that simple and clear movement.
He did not like the greedy shorties. They were avaricious. Weak. Bold. Unlike the bearded midgets, who at least brewed good alcohol, these crooked and grotesque parodies of Trolls were useless in the eyes of the Warsong Clan chieftain.
"They are becoming bolder; it's time to take them down a notch," returning to the tent for a second, Hellscream emerged with his favorite axe in hand. "Let them prove their worth, otherwise all they can do is talk."
Nodding understandingly, Borg, simple and straight as a stick, stopped asking questions. Since this useless siege had a purpose, he was satisfied. Only his chieftain's silence and his own lack of understanding of the task had put the loyal warrior at a standstill.
And now...
If they needed to get rid of the extras, they would. Today another assault was planned on this massive pink-skin fortress. Today, for the umpteenth time over the course of a month, Orc blood would be spilled. Today their enemies—the pink-skins and their bearded midget allies—would fight again to the last drop of blood, fervently believing in the very possibility of victory...
Fools. As soon as Hellscream personally led his guard into battle, and the Biotics users and Warlocks left their tents, this city would fall.
"Let the Bloodstabs go into battle first; it's time to get rid of those blockheads."
The assault began. Another long and bloody one, full of its own heroes, villains, and traitors. Cannons burst from an endless succession of shots. Corpses piled into small mounds under the walls on both sides. Not a single intact building remained in Stromgarde, and the fortress-city itself was permeated with the scent of blood and death, forever soaking into these lands.
Grommash watched with satisfaction as the small clans competed with each other, trying to break deeper into the city, losing warriors and hunters. Their attempts brought a smirk to the chieftain's face, though there was much more anticipation there.
After all, if the defenders had managed to hold out so long against this trash, perhaps they could give him a worthy fight as well?
Grommash did not have time to finish this thought. A premonition, developed over long years of battles and Survival in various conditions, screamed, forcing him to act.
Tossing up his axe and preparing to parry a blow, Hellscream startled the fighters resting nearby. Every Orc of the Warsong Clan grabbed their weapon and stood in a circle, shielding their chieftain...
But they were unable to do anything.
Cloaked by the rays of the sun, their enemy struck from the sky, bringing destruction and death.
"Dragons..." Whispering to himself, Hellscream quickly oriented himself and drove his clan away from the camp, herding the Orcs into two large lakes nearby.
Handing out cuffs and curses in all directions, Grommash was the last to enter the water up to his waist, watching with a strange mix of delight and horror as the winged lizards destroyed their camp.
The zeppelins were the first to fall. The crooked Goblin contraptions could not withstand the encounter with the flames, catching fire like matches or exploding like coal dust in a furnace.
The bats, those wild and cruel beasts, scattered in different directions like hares before a pack of wolves. Carrying their riders away, ignoring commands, beatings, and pleas, the bats carried the Gurubashi Trolls toward the southern mountains, just to be away from their opponent.
And then flame from the heavens struck the camp. In a wave—even and merciless in its calculated cruelty—the fire consumed a third of The Horde camp, causing fires that quickly spread from one tent to another.
The red bastards knew exactly where to strike, for now the fire devoured those clans and encampments where there were the most Biotics users and Warlocks... And they burned just as well as everyone else.
Taken in the campaigns against Stormwind and Ironforge—wooden crafts, carpets, furniture, and other trophies—ignited one after another, creating a conflagration of such proportions that the Orcs had not seen in centuries.
In the old days, in their poor and damp tents, there was simply nothing to burn, but now...
Another pass, and the flame flared up on the northern side of the horde camp. Driven by mountain winds, the fire quickly moved south, forcing Orcs, Trolls, Goblins, and Ogres to flee, saving their lives and abandoning their belongings.
The siege park was burning. Ladders, catapults, towers...
An explosion thundered over the part of the camp where the Goblins were located. One after another, fiery mushrooms grew in the midday sky, urging the hordelings to run faster.
But The Horde did not give up without a fight. A massive arrow of green flame struck the sky—hitting a red lizard at the base of its wings. Screaming in pain, the dragon tumbled down under the wails of its kin.
A few more spells struck the sky, knocking down the most arrogant and daring lizards and driving away the rest. Mostly young and small creatures perished, appearing as mere hatchlings against the backdrop of their large kin, but that was enough for the dragons.
Having met serious resistance, they soared into the heavens, avoiding a prolonged battle.
The defenders of Stromgarde cheered joyfully from the walls. Shouting curses at the disoriented army, they had already begun to celebrate victory, embracing and pouring out in tears the fears and pain they had "eaten" their fill of over several terrible weeks. Hope appeared that now the city could be held...
But then the Lords of the Skies went for another pass. Without mercy or pity, they swept over the ruined Stromgarde, drenching the city in fire. Easily maneuvering and evading soldiers unready for battle with such an enemy.
To everyone's surprise, the red lizards hunted the gun crews, marksmen teams, and the few Avengers. Dropping everything as soon as they spotted even one of the Dwarves, the Lords of the Skies rushed in pursuit with a roar, sometimes disregarding wounds received or meeting ballista bolts or cannonballs head-on.
For almost an hour, death from the skies rained down on the heads of Stromgarde's defenders before the battered flight of Red Dragons disappeared into the northwestern mountains. Having lost more than half of their kin, they retreated, but neither the Systems Alliance nor The Horde celebrated victory that day.
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Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan