Varok Saurfang woke up. The silence of his quarters was undisturbed but for his breathing. His cheeks were wet again, he noticed.

Dreams. Such useless things.

He did not have the sleep of the blessed, with visions that spoke of the future and offered truths about the past. Just as well. Such visions would have been wasted on him. Imagine trying to fight a war you knew you were destined to lose—or worse, destined to win. Nothing was more lethal to a warrior than complacency, and if the past year had taught this world anything, it was that fate was not easily understood.

No, his dreams were simply a stew of memories.

Sometimes, he dreamed of battles from decades past. He would be running through the streets of Shattrath again, his ears ringing with the screams of draenei and the choking rattles of mighty warriors poisoned by the warlocks’ red mist. He would chase down humans in the streets of Stormwind, feeling his skin warm as the entire city burned. He had delighted in those slaughters. The corruption pulsing through his veins had made them a joy. There had been no thought of dishonor, no hesitation at spilling the blood of innocents.

The regrets came after waking. He would feel daggers of shame buried in his middle, as painful as the day he had been freed of that corrupted blood. He did not hate the pain. He welcomed it. He had earned it. It weighed upon him heavier with each passing year, but he would bear it silently, honorably, and without complaint as penance for his wrongs. It was a small price to pay for survival. As a young orc, he had expected a quick, honorable death in battle. These days? He wondered if he was cursed to outlive everyone. He rose from his simple bedding and stood at the window that overlooked Orgrimmar. Dawn was still many hours away, and the night’s chill surrounded him. A sudden stir of shouts came from the south. He craned his neck out the window to catch a glimpse of the main gates leading to the deserts of Durotar. His quarters were in one of Orgrimmar’s highest towers, giving him a wide view of the city. He had awoken countless times over the past year to screams and alarms. The Burning Legion’s invasion of Azeroth had touched the entire world. Demons had tried to crack open the rear gates in Azshara more than once, and Orgrimmar had borne a heavy burden in victory.

Today would not be so dramatic. He could faintly see movement near the gates. The only sounds were the angry shouts of an officer of the night’s guard yelling at his subordinates.

Impassioned voices rose and fell in the confined space. Hamuul, though normally reserved and quiet, was beginning to raise his voice in response to the obstinate and brash young orc before him. Garrosh’s management of the Horde left much to be desired in the eyes of the tauren, and Hamuul still could not believe that Cairne Bloodhoof, greatest of the tauren leaders, had fallen to this whelp. As Baine’s advisor, Hamuul had opened the negotiations for water supplies to be transported to Orgrimmar. So far, the talks had not gone well.

Baine watched this stoically, hand gripping his mace, before politely raising his other hand to interject. After a moment, the two others quieted down and looked to Baine.

“Garrosh, you say you need water, but what of the Southfury River, and the resulting watershed? Can that not provide all the water you could need?”

A scoff escaped Garrosh’s lips. “Normally, yes, but it has become tainted. It can still water the crops, but we cannot drink it, and that is causing strain on our city and anywhere else the orcs may make a home in these lands.”

Looking Garrosh straight in the eye, Hamuul said simply, “And just what is tainting it?”

Garrosh gritted his teeth. “The goblin projects in Azshara seem to produce… side effects. This taint created by their digging has run into the ground and is carried south by the river, where we suffer the consequences.”

Baine met eyes with Hamuul for a moment. “Why not just order the goblins to stop? Give the land time to heal and then resume later on? With some planning and foresight, the goblins can have their projects on a limited basis while the earth is not harmed unduly.”

Garrosh rapped his knuckles on the table. “Nonsense! Their actions are vital to the war effort and I will not undermine the security of the Horde. Mulgore still has water aplenty, and it is that water which will supply Orgrimmar and the outlying settlements.”

Hamuul said quietly, “I happen to agree with Baine, and you know he’s right. The goblins need to back off or translate their building elsewhere for the land to heal and the river to recover.”

Archbishop Benedictus stood adorned in his finest robes and trinkets, representing the pride of Stormwind’s culture for the great day at hand. Next to him stood a small and grimy man carrying a large bundle of wrinkled scrolls.

Benedictus looked up eagerly as Varian emerged from his private quarters. “Light bless you, King Varian.” He smiled as Varian descended the stairs.

“And you, Father,” Varian said. “You look dressed to meet your maker.”

Benedictus waved his staff in a well-rehearsed and solemn gesture. “In such times as these, we must all stand ready to join the Light at any moment.”

At the archbishop’s side, the rumpled and nervous-looking fellow fidgeted with his overloaded bundle of papers and city diagrams. Varian suddenly realized it was Baros Alexston, the city architect. He was barely recognizable with all the mud covering his face and clothes.

Varian motioned for them to continue following him down the stairs. “How go the city repairs, Baros?”

“As well as can be expected, Highness.” Baros nodded, trying to keep from dropping his scrolls. Benedictus reached over and patted the architect on the back. “He is being entirely too modest, Your Majesty. Baros here has pulled off miracles getting much of Stormwind back in order, even making some notable improvements to the city.”

Varian felt a sense of relief. It was good to see some optimism returning to his advisors. “So what is most pressing?”

The architect nodded and went to nervously unroll one of his many scrolls as he walked, causing at least three others to slip from his grasp and tumble to the ground.

“My apologies, sire… yes, here it is.” Baros pointed to a place on the map, his dirty fingers leaving earthy smudge marks behind. “We’ve investigated the damage to the two main towers at the entrance to the city.” He shook his head and blew out with a whistle. “That black dragon must be even heavier than his massive size would suggest—likely the beast’s dark elementium armor. We’ve tunneled down, and the damage to the tower foundations is quite severe.”