The orc messenger with the scarred face hiked toward Highmaul’s gates, struggling her way up stone steps half her height.

Highmaul’s ogres stopped to watch her. Rank brutes leered at her from the darkness looming over the path to the summit. Wealthier Gorians looked out from mound-homes ornamented with trophies from their dead enemies.

Another observer watched the messenger’s approach from a tower, disgust filling both of his minds. This orc trod atop the mountain the ogres’ blood families had shaped over lifetimes, pressing and tearing the very rock until it became city and palace and fortress and home.

Still, she had been permitted on the lift to Highmaul’s second rise with a wordless lowering of spears. It was custom to treat lone visitors with curiosity. They could always be killed later.

When the lift shivered to a stop, the messenger saw a dozen haggard orc slaves manning the pulleys. They slunk off one by one, casting glances at her over their shoulders.

The messenger peered farther up the mountain. Just visible, jutting forth from Highmaul’s peak, was the outline of a vast balcony—the Throne of the Imperator, where dwelled the ogres’ sorcerer king—but it was a long climb from where she stood, breathing hard in the dusty open between filthy-smelling slave hovels. Her nose crinkled.

A cadre of enormous, elegantly robed ogres tromped toward her, moving with surprising quickness. The tallest and largest among them (clearly hurrying to be first on the scene) was near in seconds, reeling to a stop like a downhill pushcart regaining control. He reeked of grease and animal fat mixed with perfume, though his straw-colored, sleeveless robes were immaculate. (They had been cleaned more recently than his body.) The ogre’s huge belly hung out of his clothing, and he hefted it with one hand to scrub beneath, not breaking eye contact with the messenger.

His voice was silken. “I am High Councilor Vareg. I speak for the king. You may share your message until I am through with my meal, and then you may depart Highmaul with your soft bones intact.”

So saying, he produced a pungent-scented hunk of elekk shoulder and took one crunching bite, spraying webs of white fat. It was half-gone, meat and bone alike, and he immediately pursed his lips for another bite, a proven means to elicit haste.

The messenger looked at each of the ogres in turn. “I bring a message from Grommash Hellscream, warchief of the Iron Horde, to  all ogres of Nagrand.” She paused. “If you wish to draw breath upon Draenor one day longer, you will earn your lives.”

The ogres—all of the ogres—laughed. By the time they were finished, grit was trickling off of the lift in response.

“Oh?” Vareg demurred, worrying gristle out of his yellow teeth with a fingernail, not looking at her. “Speak further. How?”

The messenger stretched out her words, annoyed. “Crawl before the Iron Horde with your eyes down. Empty your coffers into our hands. Roll on your bellies and beg. I do not care. Prove your worth, or be made extinct.” The last word came out in a snarl.

Vareg leaned forward, body curling as though he would fall upon her like a cave-in. “Little one, we hold a hundred orc families in chains.” He gestured with the chunk of meat at a slave plodding behind a feed cart. “Hellscream may not value your life, but will he behave so flippantly with theirs?”

The messenger looked straight up at the ogre. “They are dead already.”

She turned to leave.

Her phrasing was particular. ( Prove your worth, not submit or surrender.) The orcs of the Iron Horde were confident enough to be impudent, but they made no precise demands for tribute or territory restored. The ultimatum was open ended. Agency was the listener’s. 

The sorcerer king had phrased similar demands so himself.

Imperator Mar’gok, two-headed sorcerer king of the Highmaul, he whose ancestors had tamed avalanche and wind to build the first keeps and colonnades and reservoirs upon wild Nagrand, did not move from his balcony.

The imperator had been watching the day unfold at a distance, his vision stretched down to Highmaul’s streets through a lens of carved quartz. Four natural eyes normally provided him with plenty to take in, but the hours he’d spent staring had begun to make one of his heads swim. (Was there more to see? Should he stop?) It was strange feeling conflict within his minds, when he had always felt his brains working together as two legs should.

Mar’gok squinted, trying to imagine how one of his subjects—a two-eyed, one-headed, one-brained ogre—would peer down at the splendor of the city. Would he focus his entire gaze, all his thoughts, on a single point at a time? It would be impossible to rule that way. Everything would seem blurry.

Mar’gok saw the baggy blobs of his councilors walk back from their meeting, stopping among the gardens (likely to argue). Then he watched the russet-brown dot of the messenger as she left.

***

The attack was not long off. (Such a message was always delivered as an afterthought, not a prelude.)

Howls echoed through Mar’gok’s streets from every direction, as though Draenor itself had been surrounded by wolves. Beyond the western parapets, spheres of smoke and flame tumbled through the air toward glorious Highmaul. If they impacted the outer walls, drum towers would topple, clogging pathways down the mountain. The forces of Highmaul’s upper rises would be cut off from supporting the lower; the lifts were too slow. Relief forces rushing through the breach were likely to lose their footing among the rubble and get slaughtered in droves, their bodies transforming from instruments of war to hurdles for their fellows.

Or the Iron Horde would bound up the eastern sculpture path on the backs of their deft wolves, whose jaws would drip red as they bit open ogres’ stomachs. Highmaul’s eastern line of defense was nearly all brutes, and they had a habit of responding to charges by tossing their spears aside in the hope of cracking puny jawbones in their hands before dying. (Had they been lashed recently?)

What if the orcs sped past their lines and gained access to the slave pens? Could they arm the slaves, raise a revolt?

The risks were many. Imperator Mar’gok contemplated them as the patter of arrows grew audible on his balcony. He decided—commanded.

The martial music of swordplay rang out as the two blades clashed. The combatants sprang apart, circling. The older man, hair and beard as white as moonlight, feinted, then brought his weapon arcing up and around. But the younger man was quick and deftly blocked the blow. Sparks flew, and the colliding blades glinted in the sunlight.

“Nicely done,” Genn Greymane grunted even as he lunged.

Again, the youth parried. “But one of these days, you’ll have to go on the—”

Greymane barely got his sword up in time to prevent King Anduin Wrynn’s blow.

“Offensive?” Anduin grinned. He bore down with the weapon, feeling the older man’s blade straining against it. His suncolored hair had come loose and was falling into his eyes, and he grimaced as he realized Greymane had noticed.

The Gilnean king abruptly pulled back. Caught off balance, Anduin stumbled forward. Greymane whipped his blade around with a speed almost equal to that of the young king’s, turning his hand at the last minute to ensure that only the flat of the weapon would strike Anduin’s body. Growling with effort, Anduin

managed to block the blow. His father’s sword, Shalamayne, caught it, but the impact jarred his hand. Shalamayne fell to the grass of Stormwind Keep’s garden area.

“Before you say anything,” Anduin said, panting as he bent to pick up the sword, “I’ll be wearing a helm in battle.”

“Under ideal circumstances, yes,” Greymane said. He smirked. His cheeks warm with embarrassment as much as exertion, Anduin didn’t begrudge him a little gloating. “In the meantime,” Genn continued, “I suggest you get a trim. There are enough things to worry about in battle without being blinded by your own golden locks.”

Anduin laughed. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll secure it better the next time we spar.”

“You Wrynn men and your predilection for long hair,” Greymane said, shaking his head. “Never understood it.”

One of the Stormwind guards approached, saluting smartly.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “Spymaster Shaw has returned with news.”

Anduin tensed and glanced at Greymane. Little sobered both men like hearing that Mathias Shaw awaited an audience.

“Urgent?” Anduin asked.

“At Your Majesty’s pleasure,” the guard replied.

The young king relaxed slightly. “That’s a relief,” he said. “Give him refreshment and tell him King Greymane and I will meet him in the map room shortly.”

Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan requests yer presence. Immediately.

Fenella Darkvire lingered before the massive oak door to the royal chambers, repeating the words in her head. She licked dry lips, wiped sweaty, soot-stained hands across her metalworking tunic. She’d been hammering at an anvil in the heart of Ironforge when a royal advisor delivered the message. She wished she could’ve had time to change into something more presentable.

But one did not make Moira wait.

Fenella knocked.

“Enter,” a muffled voice replied from within.

“Stay here, Koveth.” Fenella turned her head slightly, enough to see the enormous golem looming behind her. A mountain of metal, sorcery, and Dark Iron ingenuity.

“Affirmative,” the construct rumbled.

The door creaked as Fenella pushed it open. She’d never set foot in the royal chambers. Very few had. Fine dwarven tapestries depicting historic events covered the walls. Moira sat, back straight, behind a wooden table that looked big enough to pass for a merchant ship. Broken quills and scrolls lay scattered across its surface, the casualties of battles waged with promises, threats, and half-truths. The war of politics.

Fenella swallowed, wondering whether she should be the first to speak. She had met Moira on a few occasions. Once was after Fenella had finished construction of the now-famed Ruby Crystalarium in Shadowforge City. Still, being in the queen’s presence made her nervous.

“Fenella,” Moira finally said, donning a relaxed smile. She cradled a small object in her hands: a statuette of deep jade, carved into the shape of a spiraling serpent.

“Yer Highness.”

“Thank you for coming. I presume you know these lads.” Moira gestured to one side of the chamber.

Fenella had been so focused on the queen that she hadn’t noticed the other dwarves in the room. One was a Bronzebeard—a freakishly large Bronzebeard, two heads taller than the rest of his kind. The second was a burly Wildhammer with tawny skin marred by dozens of blue tattoos. A giant hammer hung from a strap on his back. He grimaced when he saw Fenella.

“Can’t say I do, Yer Highness,” Fenella lied, more to spite the other dwarves than to deceive her queen. Of course she knew them. Ever since the Wildhammer, Dark Iron, and Bronzebeard clans had reunited, Ironforge had become oversaturated with masons and smiths, most of them megalomaniacs who believed they were destined for fame and glory. Every day, she saw these two roaming the Great Forge as if they owned the place, belittling everyone else’s work.

“Then introductions are in order,” Moira said.

Unease flitted through Fenella. Why had she been called here? Why were they here?

“This is Carrick Irongrin.” Moira gestured to the Wildhammer. “A blacksmith and miner of legendary strength. I’ve also heard that he can speak to the stones. That is true, Carrick?”

“Course it is.”

“And here we have Fendrig Redbeard, the ‘Hand of Khaz.'” Moira turned to the Bronzebeard. “A member of the Explorers’ League. He has mined the depths of Uldaman, the Borean Tundra, Bael Modan, and many other dangerous locations. By all accounts, his bravery is without equal.”

Fendrig let out a long sigh, as if his presence here were an utter waste of his time.

“Lastly, Fenella Darkvire of my own Dark Iron clan…” Moira paused. “A mason, a smith, an engineer, and an accomplished architect.”

And the daughter of a traitor. She had skipped that part. Not that it mattered. Everyone knew Fenella was the offspring of Fineous Darkvire, the late chief architect of the Dark Iron clan. A dwarf reviled for how he had cheated his way into the coveted position. That, at least, was the story.

Carrick muttered something under his breath. Fenella ignored him. Being both a Dark Iron and the daughter of Fineous, she was accustomed to scorn. It did not bother her. She had learned long ago that she worked better alone. It made things easier for her and for everyone else.

“You’re wondering why I have called you here.” Moira twisted the statuette in her hands. “I have handpicked all of you for a special team—a job that requires the best masons in Ironforge.”

“A team?” Carrick exploded. “With these two?”

“Ye expect me tae lead them?” Fendrig guffawed.

“No.” Moira nodded to Fenella. “I expect her to.”

Fenella’s stomach tightened. She nearly shouted in protest before biting her tongue to hold the words back. Nothing good would come from openly disobeying her queen.

“A Dark Iron? Out o’ the question!” the Wildhammer bellowed.

“On that I agree.” Fendrig shook his head in disgust and made his way for the door. “I’ve got better things tae do than waste me time as part o’ this fool’s errand.”

“I’m sure Muradin will be interested to know what you think of this idea—an idea he wholeheartedly supports,” Moira said.

Invoking the name of the Bronzebeard clan’s leader brought Fendrig to a halt. He turned slowly.

“The Council of Three Hammers has unanimously agreed to this venture,” Moira continued. “I have been tasked with overseeing the details.” The queen carefully set the serpentine statue aside and then unfurled a long roll of parchment. She beckoned the masons forward.

Fenella and the others crowded around the desk, jostling for position. The seals of Muradin, Moira, and the Wildhammer clan’s leader, Falstad, were clearly marked at the bottom of the paper. So were the three masons’ names, written in thick, black, permanent lines.

“Me name… I didn’t agree tae anythin’.” Carrick scowled. “What’s this nonsense?”

“This is a chance to prove our greatness to the Alliance, to show that we are no longer a nation of bickering rivals but a people united. And if you refuse…” Moira leaned forward. “This decree will be a record that you opposed the council’s struggle to forge a new future for all dwarves.”

The sky above Aerie Peak beckoned Kurdran Wildhammer like the distant glow of a campfire on a frigid winter night. After twenty long years trapped on the hellish world now known as Outland, he was home. Never once had he regretted joining the Alliance expedition to battle the orcish Horde on its homeworld, but over the harsh years there the longing to see this sky had burned in his heart.

His gryphon, Sky’ree, glided above him with three of her kin, as vibrant as she had ever been over the last two decades. He craved to be up there with her and feel the mountain air rushing against his face. Fate had ordained that he would walk the earth on two legs, but the sky was where he felt free. That was Sky’ree’s greatest gift to him. More than her ferocity during war or her friendship during peace, it was flight. For now, though, he would let her soar in the sky on her own.

Kurdran took a deep breath and surveyed his home: verdant forests stretched out in all directions; Wildhammer dwarves milled about in shops and homes along the mountain’s slopes; and the colossal aviary, a stone enclosure sculpted in the image of one of the noble gryphons, towered atop Aerie Peak. Everything was just as he had left it.

He drew a small iron scepter from his side, wrapped in strands of grass and adorned with gryphon feathers. It wasn’t a weapon—his battle-worn stormhammer was hanging on his back—it was a reminder. On Outland, the scepter had become almost mystical in nature, a symbol of who he was and the home he was fighting to protect. Many times he had held it close and felt hope surge through him, driving him forward. Yet now that he was home, the scepter’s potency seemed—

A shrill cry pierced the air. Kurdran looked up, and a pang of fear stabbed him. Sky’ree was spiraling toward the ground, her wings twisted in unnatural ways.