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.”

His son lay still. He had died weeks ago, but only now was he at rest.

I am afraid for him.

Do not be, Saurfang had said, so long ago.

He knelt on the cold, unyielding stone floor of Icecrown Citadel and gathered his boy in his arms.

They are changing our children. They have changed you.

The warlocks gave me a gift. I was once powerful. Now, I am the whirlwind, he had said. I am war

itself. I shall bring glory to my people until my dying day.

How strange those words seemed now. How tainted.

He lifted his son’s body and carried him from the citadel. The eyes of dozens of champions lay upon

him. Both Horde and Alliance soldiers stood aside. Some offered silent salutes, honoring him in his grief.

Our son must not follow your path.

Keep him on our world, my love. He will be safe. Untouched.

Icecrown Citadel vanished. The dry chill of Northrend was replaced with the warm sun and humid air of Nagrand. He laid his son upon an unlit pyre near the final  resting places of his family. His son was now dressed in simple garments from Garadar, the place he had known as a boy.

Before you go, what will you name him?

He is my heart. He is the heart of my whole world, he had said.

He touched a burning torch to the pyre. Orange flames began to spread, first in the kindling, then in the chopped wooden logs. Shimmers of blue and white danced among the flames as the fire grew hotter. He made himself watch the flames consume his son. It was his boy’s final honor—he would not turn away. He watched skin give way to muscle, to bone, and finally, to ash.