They were not like the drow. The dark elves were consumed by endless blood feuds, each House gnawing at the throat of the other in blind service to a spider goddess whose laughter echoed with malice. Their sacrifices and betrayals did not strengthen them; they hollowed them. Though the drow possessed the fertility of elves, capable of birthing millions across their millennia, they squandered that gift in ceaseless infighting. Instead of expanding, they rotted in their own webs, too obsessed with daggers in the dark to grasp the greater Underdark beyond their walls.
The Gray Dwarves — This Kingdom — were different. Cold, relentless, authoritarian, they built kingdoms of steel and stone that did not fracture with every whim of a goddess. Where the drow bled themselves dry in civil war, the Duergar turned cruelty into unity. They thrived not on chaos, but on control.
And yet, their dominion had not come easily. The curse laid upon their kind was crueler than chains: a curse of low fertility. Unlike their surface kin, or even the drow, the Gray Dwarves struggled to bring forth new life. Their lifespans stretched five centuries and more, but generation by generation their numbers grew too slowly. Entire cities might starve for children. Entire armies withered before they could be replenished. All this traced back to the cruel hand of Laduguer, their grim god, and the long centuries of torment under the mind flayers — "mind suckers" whose experiments scarred their very bloodline.
In most worlds, this curse would have doomed them. Their halls would have been hollow, their furnaces cold. A people who could not multiply could never rule. But this kingdom… this one had broken the pattern.
The secret was slaves.
Dwarves, drow, goblinoids, orcs, deep gnomes, even humans — any race with stronger fertility was seized, chained, and worked. Yet their labor was not only for the mines and forges. The Gray Dwarves turned them into wombs, into vessels for their continuation. Slave women bore children, and those children — if they carried the iron traits of the Gray Dwarves — were claimed as Gray Dwarves. It was a system, cold and merciless, and over centuries it became not the shameful secret of their society, but its very foundation.
Each Gray Dwarves woman of the true bloodline was compelled to bear four children who survived to adulthood, for reproduction was not choice, but civic duty. Families were not private; they were assets of the state. Reproduction was watched, measured, and controlled as tightly as their forges. It was not love but discipline, not passion but obligation.
And when the truebloods faltered, the breeding foundries filled the gap. There, slaves of fertile races were forced to carry the next generation. Their children, stolen at birth, were shaped into Duergar by indoctrination, discipline, and magic. Generations blurred; bloodlines twisted. And yet, the iron seed of the Gray Dwarves proved stronger than any other.
And whenever Duergar, or any of the dwarf-kin, take mates beyond their own kind, the outcome is almost always the same: the child is born a dwarf. Their bloodline, shaped and tempered by gods and stone, runs with an iron permanence that refuses to be diluted. It is whispered in the Underdark that this immutable trait is not simply biological, but divine. Moradin's first forging of the dwarves was done upon the anvil of eternity, hammering their essence into something that could not be eroded by the mingling of other mortal lines. To many, it seems their very blood remembers the first sparks struck from the Creator's forge.
This strength of lineage is shared by the other dwarven races as well—gold dwarves, shield dwarves, and even the deep-dwelling Gray Dwarves. Across the ages and through countless unions, the result remains consistent: dwarves beget dwarves. It is why dwarves remain such a distinct people, their forms and features preserved as though time itself bends to protect their shape. They are the same today as they were thousands of years ago when they marched in the days of myth.
Orcs, too, share a similar defiance of dilution. Gruumsh's curse and blessing branded their blood so completely that even when orcs take humans or elves as 'mates,' the offspring emerges wholly orcish. Their features, their savagery, their raw strength—these dominate, smothering all other bloodlines like a wildfire overtaking weaker flames. This is why a "half-orc" is so difficult for the common folk to recognize as anything different. To the eyes of most, there is no "half" at all, only another orc: tusked, brutish, and forged of blood that brooks no compromise.
Thus it has become a matter of doctrine among many sages and priests of Star that certain races carry what they call the "Immutable Seed"—a gift, or curse, laid upon them by their gods. Dwarves are among these, standing eternal and unchanging as the mountains themselves. Orcs as well, unyielding and violent, bearing Gruumsh's fury generation after generation.
It is this divine weight in their bloodlines that has preserved both dwarves and orcs across millennia. Where humans are mutable and elves subtle, their children taking on blended traits and often carrying whispers of both heritages, dwarves and orcs stand as the absolute. They are what they are—unyielding, indomitable, and eternal echoes of the gods who forged them.
From dwarf to goblin, from human to orc, the offspring bent toward Gray Dwarven form. Whether by god's design or by the harsh weight of blood and stone, the result was the same: another gray-skinned child taken into the fold.
It was systematic. It was industrialized. It was cruel. But it worked.
Thus their empire grew. At its heart, only hundreds of thousands of trueblood Gray Dwarves remained — high nobles, priests, overseers, their bloodlines traced and guarded with fanatical devotion. Yet around them surged millions more: half-bloods, hybrids, and indoctrinated offspring of slaves who no longer remembered they were ever anything else. A caste of iron, all raised as loyal Gray Dwarves.
Mega-engineering made it possible. Over millennia they carved titanic caverns, raised cities of black stone and iron spires, dug highways where caravans of slaves and war machines moved without end. They turned barren tunnels into habitable strongholds, every chamber a fortress, every city a forge. The Underdark bent to their will, reshaped by endless toil.
And unlike the drow, who squandered their millions in civil wars and ritual sacrifices, the Gray Dwarves's discipline created permanence. The drow could have rivaled them. With their natural fertility, with their mastery of sorcery and steel, they could have spread across the Underdark in endless numbers. They could have ruled the depths as queens eternal. But they were blind. Their spider goddess demanded chaos, demanded that sisters slit each other's throats for scraps of power. They wasted their fertility in bloodshed, while the Gray Dwarves weaponized sterility into unity.
This was the secret that made a kingdom of millions possible. A secret kept hidden for a thousand years, like the Deep Sea's Three Grand Empires, who created empires of billions.
That was why he would not underestimate them. That was why he stood upon Shadow Island and did not leap into battle recklessly. His dragons were immortal so long as their Father drew breath, but he was not. The Gray Dwarves had endured for millennia, and even without any Legendary Power currently any kingdom that survived that long would carry hidden cards waiting to be played.
And in this magical world, in these endless wars of gods and monsters, anything could happen.
"By…"
When Emilia was about to refute, her words froze the instant she met Barbatos's calm, scarlet eyes. The unshakable calm within them swallowed her protest before it could escape her lips. Beside her, Hannah had already let go of her so-called true dragon pride. Deep down, she recognized what Emilia was only beginning to grasp—this death knight was no mere servant of darkness. His strength was undeniable, and his presence was no insult to her status as a true dragon. Moreover, with so many dragons accompanying them, fear was a thing of impossibility.
"I understand!" Emilia finally yielded.
Arthas mounted the nightmare without hesitation. The fiery beast let out a guttural roar, its four hooves blazing as it ascended into the air. Below, countless undead stirred and marched, following Arthas's command into the distance like a tide of death answering its sovereign.
The dragons exchanged glances before taking to the skies as well. Many had not been formally tasked with any mission, yet their hearts were restless and curious. The former dragon-beasts, stripped of pride but not of yearning, were eager to see what lay ahead. The true Chromatic Dragons, however, moved with a singular purpose—treasure. Since the moment they inherited their draconic heritage, since the moment they were named by the World's Will at birth, they had lived for two things: power and treasure. The latter was as sacred to them as their very breath.
Barbatos's gaze lingered on the distant figures as they vanished into the horizon. Among all his dragons, only Arthas demanded such attention.
They were dragons. Not mortals, not beasts—dragons. Even if some among them lacked the full weight of draconic heritage, their pride ran deeper than bone. It was something born in the marrow of existence itself. Even Skye, as close as he was to him, would never grant the right to command dragons.
This was the principle etched into the world itself: the weak are never qualified to dominate the strong. Especially Dragons.
With a beat of his wings, Barbatos turned and soared toward Shadow Island, looming not far away. The island still reeked of Arthas's presence, a thick haze of dark purple-black fog clinging to the air like a curse. White bones littered the ground, a macabre landscape that would have chilled the heart of any lesser being. Yet Barbatos paid them no mind.
He entered his palace, the vast shadowed hall carved into the heart of the isle, and reclined upon his throne of stone. Closing his eyes, he stretched forth his will, weaving the soul chain to peer into Arthas's actions from afar.
---
All the movements on Arthas's side were carried out in full, relentless swing. Wherever the undead army advanced, it resembled a swarm of locusts sweeping through a field of ripe corn—devouring everything in their path until nothing remained but husks and silence. Every living thing that fell before them was either torn apart or twisted into a grotesque parody of itself, rising again as one more soldier in Arthas's endless host.
The Underdark itself seemed to shudder beneath their march. The air was saturated with a suffocating haze of dark purple-black fog, crawling across stone like a living shadow. The fog carried with it whispers—snatches of voices that did not belong to the living, promises of oblivion and eternal servitude. Strange, pallid fungi wilted as the undead passed, and the many-eyed creatures of the caves fled deeper into cracks in the stone, unwilling to test their fate.
Along the way, entire clusters of lesser tribes were annihilated without resistance. The howls of blind cave wolves, the screeches of hook horrors, even the clattering of chitines—all were snuffed out, absorbed into the tide of death.
Now, before them, stood a medium-sized Madwug tribe. Nearly three thousand strong, the frog-like monstrosities had once thrived here, nesting in stagnant pools and feasting on anything they could drag into the mire. They were savage and superstitious, their shamans croaking prayers to half-forgotten gods of hunger and decay. But when the undead tide descended upon them, their croaks became screams.
Before the Madwugs could even gather their crude weapons or rally their shamans, their tribe was shattered like thin parchment in the rain. Bones cracked, flesh split, and ichor splattered against the stone floor. Corpses were trampled underfoot, only to twitch and rise again with burning blue soul-flames in their eyes, enslaved to Arthas's will.
"These underground gray dwarves are not weak," Hannah, the Black Dragoness, remarked as she observed the slaughter. Her brown eyes narrowed as she watched the Madwugs' last spasms of resistance. Even in death, they clawed and bit with maddened ferocity, refusing to give in quietly.
"Hah!" laughed Freya, the Silver Dragoness, swooping low with radiant wings gleaming in the eerie gloom. "We aren't fighting alone anymore. With Father and this Death Knight leading the charge, we need only play. Why not enjoy yourself, sister?" Her silver scales glittered like moonlight as she dove, claws rending through a cluster of Madwugs. Blood sprayed, painting her gleaming hide crimson, and she let out a triumphant roar.
Freya tore into the tribe with savage glee, venting her frustrations upon the hapless creatures. Every claw, every tail strike, was an outlet for the gnawing shame she carried. For months, she had fallen in the grand compositions of the Fifteenth Order Dragons, slipping to tenth place. Her Sorcerer profession had stagnated as well, her advancement toward the exalted Tenth Level eluding her reach to high level. The frogs became her whetstone, and each kill was an attempt to claw back her confidence. In the muck of battle, she rediscovered a fleeting taste of her power, even if it was painted with the blood of lesser beings.
Emilia, the Black Dragoness, regarded her antics with cool disdain. She curled her lip into a mocking sneer. "Play by yourself, little Silver. If slaughtering vermin makes you feel mighty, then bask in your triumph." Her words dripped with venom, but also pity. Emilia knew Freya was trapped at her current level, unable to pierce through to true advancement, even though she wasn't as powerful as her.
Freya only laughed, ignoring the barb. She plucked a few gemstones from the corpses of slain Madwugs—tokens of crude worship—and admired them briefly before tucking them away. "Every treasure has its place," she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
All around them, the army of death advanced, an endless wave of bone, rot, and iron. Dragons soared overhead, each with their own intentions and whispers. Some watched with cold fascination, studying the tide of necromancy as if searching for weaknesses. Others, especially the True Chromatic Dragons, muttered hungrily to one another about the vaults of treasure surely hidden deeper within the Gray Dwarf Kingdom. Greed was etched into their very marrow, second only to their thirst for power.
"They crumble too easily," growled Dravos, a massive Red Dragon, his wings sending storms of dust swirling below. "I expected more from the spawn of the Underdark. If this is the strength of the tribes, the kingdom itself will be no challenge." His voice thundered like fire cracking through stone.
"Do not mistake chaff for the harvest," countered Selene, a lithe Blue Dragoness, her voice laced with mocking elegance. "The Gray Dwarves are not these witless frogs. They are craftsmen of war, obsessed with discipline and grudges. They will not fall like Madwugs."
A chorus of growls, laughs, and snorts rippled among the draconic host. Pride and rivalry colored every word, yet none dared question Father or Arthas directly. Even among dragons, there were truths written into their blood: strength commands and they obey.
And the strength of Arthas's necromancy was undeniable.
The Madwug tribe lay in ruins. Their pools turned crimson, their shrines desecrated. From their corpses rose new horrors—frog-shaped abominations, their bloated bodies twisted by soul-flames, croaking in unholy chorus. The ritual of undeath that reshaped them was no simple feat. In this world, raising undead was not mere spellcraft. To twist the soul and bind it required vast reserves of power, intricate knowledge of death's laws, and mastery of forbidden rites. Ordinary necromancers strained to raise a single ghoul. Arthas bent thousands in moments, turning entire tribes into his legion.
It was a spectacle both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
And as the last Madwug was dragged screaming into the fog and remade into a servant of death, the scouts of the Gray Dwarven Kingdom finally caught sight of the advancing host. Silent, pale-eyed dwarves crouched in the shadows of jagged stone, clutching their black-forged crossbows and whispering grimly to one another.
The kingdom had been warned.
---
In the magnificent Capital of the Gray Dwarven Kingdom, deep in the oppressive black caverns of the Underdark, the palace of King Rex stood like a fortress carved out of obsidian itself. The vast chamber gleamed with molten forges, glowing runes etched into every pillar, and chains of enslaved people polishing the stone until it shone with cruel perfection. Richness and brutality coexisted here—the pride of a kingdom that had survived and thrived for thousands of years beneath the crushing weight of endless stone.
In one of the grandest and most luxurious halls, beneath chandeliers wrought from crystallized stalactites, the king and his council of elders sat around a vast basalt table. Before them lay tablets of rune-etched steel and bloodstained parchments—the latest intelligence reports brought up from the frontlines.
King Rex, his silver beard braided with chains of mithril, slammed his gauntleted fist against the table. His eyes, like burning coals, swept over the gathered nobles.
"The undead creatures have risen from the Black Lake," Rex declared in a grim voice, the words echoing in the vaulted chamber. "They march without concealment, trampling through the surrounding tribes. Their route is clear. They are coming for us."
The council stirred uneasily. The air grew heavier, as if the Underdark itself was listening.
One of the gray dwarf elders—a thin, sharp-eyed schemer with runes burned into his skull—snorted with disdain.
"Skeletons? Those brittle husks?" he sneered. "A splash of consecrated water should turn them to dust. And yet they dare to invade our kingdom—the greatest fortress the Underdark has ever known?"