From Galen's perspective, the state of the Dragonflights was a source of considerable frustration. The Black Dragonflight's treachery was a well-known stain, the Blue Dragonflight teetered on the brink of oblivion, the Green Dragonflight had retreated into their own secluded world, and the Bronze Dragonflight was conspicuously absent from the affairs of Azeroth. Only the Red Dragonflight actively fulfilled their role as guardians.
Yet, even their guardianship was perceived as detached and self-serving. Their refusal to interfere in mortal affairs, prioritizing the planet's survival above the concerns of races like humans, elves, orcs, and quillboars, bred resentment. The Alliance, in particular, harbored lingering bitterness over the Red Dragons' past alliance with the orcs. It was only Galen's influence, incorporating the Red Dragon Knight Order into the Alliance, that prevented widespread calls for dragon slaying.
Galen's secrecy regarding the Dragon Soul and his persistent attempts to infiltrate and control the Dragonflights stemmed from a clear objective: to bring them down from their lofty perch and make them true guardians of the Alliance. With the Red and Blue Dragonflights seemingly aligned, the power of the Emerald Dream presented an opportunity to extend his reach into the Green Dragonflight. However, these ambitions would have to wait until the situation in Northrend was resolved.
At that moment, Galen led the Bronzebeard brothers into the formidable Storm Peaks. A landscape of endless, ice-clad mountains dominated by colossal Titan structures greeted them. Galen's purpose here was twofold: to locate the missing Muradin and to establish contact with Thorim within the Temple of Storms.
Thorim, the Storm King among the nine Titan Keepers, was legendary for his martial prowess, said to rival even Tyr, the King of Order. His tragic downfall began with his brother Loken's betrayal. Loken had an affair with Thorim's wife, Sif, and upon her attempt to end the illicit relationship, Loken murdered her. To conceal his crime, Loken cast Sif's body onto the icy plains and framed the Ice King Hodir.
Consumed by grief and rage, Thorim engaged Hodir in a devastating war that embroiled their storm giant and frost giant followers in endless conflict. Loken then stepped in as a false peacemaker, condemning both Thorim and Hodir for the chaos they had unleashed and the rifts they had created among the Titan creations.
These successive blows plunged Thorim into deep despair and isolation. Overwhelmed by regret, he abandoned Ulduar, choosing to endure his torment alone. Ironically, his self-imposed exile shielded him from Loken's further machinations.
Galen held a grudging admiration for Loken. Aside from Lylia's self-destruction, Loken had single-handedly incapacitated the other seven Keepers – a truly remarkable feat of manipulation. However, Galen knew that Thorim would eventually discover Loken's treachery. Driven by vengeance, Thorim would return to the Temple of Wisdom to confront his brother, a decision that would lead him into a trap, his mind corrupted by Yogg-Saron until Loken's defeat restored his senses.
Galen intended to intervene, to prevent Thorim and Hodir from facing Loken alone. Yet, in accordance with his "all mine" philosophy, his motives were far from altruistic.
Riding Onyxia far ahead, Galen soared over the undulating, snow-draped peaks. Brann and Magni followed on two armed griffons, struggling against the fierce winds and snow to keep pace. They held no resentment towards Galen for not waiting. After all, their Alliance High Commander rode a magnificent golden dragon – an adult, rumored to possess dragon king blood, a demigod in its own right! Such was its majestic presence that even if Galen had waited, their griffons would likely have succumbed to its aura, resulting in a rather undignified and messy situation.
"Magni, I'm a little nervous!" Brann shouted to his brother, wrestling with the griffin's reins to maintain course. Despite the dwarves' renowned vocal power, his words were almost lost in the howling wind.
"Control yourself, Brann," Magni bellowed back. "You are Prince Bronzebeard, the hero who unearthed the origins of our people!" Magni conveniently overlooked his own shaky hands when receiving Galen's invitation – hands that usually remained steady even when meticulously forging intricate metalwork.
"We owe Galen a significant debt this time," Magni continued. "Remember that the Thorvalds are close allies of our clan. As long as their policies align with dwarven interests, you, as an ambassador, must offer your full cooperation!"
"But isn't the Council of Three Hammers now responsible for the dwarves within the Alliance?" Brann asked, his political acumen clearly lagging behind his brother's.
"You…" Magni glared, frustrated by Brann's lack of political sensitivity, which he considered even worse than Muradin's. The Wildhammer dwarves, he mused, practically declared themselves citizens of Stromgarde. And his own damned son-in-law, Durin of the Dark Irons, would likely trade Shadowforge City itself for the Crusade! Magni felt a wave of weariness wash over him.
Unaware of his brother's internal struggles, Brann stared at the golden dragon, now a distant speck, and called out, "Big brother, I never imagined Muradin would become the king of the Frost Dwarves! Truly a testament to the Bronzebeard bloodline. I wonder if they've found him a queen? Would those distant relatives even consider the difference in skin color?"
"Stop your jesting about your own brother, Brann. After we bring Muradin back, neither of you will be gallivanting around anymore!" Magni declared firmly.
"Don't say that, big brother!" Brann protested. He had already glimpsed numerous Titan ruins from the air, and the thought of being denied exploration felt like a death sentence.
"Hmph!" Magni grunted, displeasure etched on his face. "The Council of Three Hammers has been established for over a decade. In that time, how many Dark Iron and Wildhammer lads have wed Bronzebeard daughters? And you ask if Frosthold has found Muradin a queen? Well, let me tell you, not only does Muradin need a consort, but so do you! Be she from our own clan, a Dark Iron, a Wildhammer, or even a Frostborn dwarf!"
"Would an earthen work?" Brann quipped.
"Get lost!" Magni roared, his voice echoing through the clouds.
As Galen crested the highest peak, the sight of Frosthold nestled within the mountains finally came into view. Soon after, the Frostborn dwarves detected the presence of a golden dragon in their skies. An intrusion! The alarm was raised, and hundreds of white eagles ascended, circling Galen.
Galen observed the Frost Dwarves below – beings with distinctive blue, icy skin, frost-blue beards, and gems resembling earth spirits embedded in their foreheads. They were a prime example of the Second Generation Titan constructs, created with materials like steel and ice to better withstand the Curse of Flesh, unlike the rock-based Vrykul and Earth Spirits of the First Generation.
"This is the territory of Frost Citadel, the homeland of the Frost Dwarves! State your purpose, unfamiliar intruders! Or face our attack!" The leading Frostvein Dwarf gripped his weapon tightly, issuing a stern warning.
"Go tell your king that an old friend has come," Galen replied calmly, ignoring their threat. He instructed Onyxia to descend slowly and transform into her humanoid form.
"You know Yogg!" The Frostvein Dwarf's tone softened upon seeing Galen's non-hostile demeanor.
"That's right. Tell him if he wishes to learn of his past, he should come out and greet us!"
At that moment, Brann and Magni arrived. The appearance of strangers quickly drew the attention of many Frostvein Dwarves. The two figures beside Galen bore a striking resemblance – nine-tenths, at least – to their king. The same skin color, the same reddish-brown beard, the same characteristic drinker's nose.
Following a signal from the eagle leader, guards hurried to summon their king. Galen and the Bronzebeard brothers waited quietly at the gate of Frost Citadel for the anticipated arrival.
Soon, a commotion stirred within the citadel, and the assembled dwarves parted to make way. As the distinguished figure emerged, the Bronzebeard brothers trembled.
It was him! It was him! It was him! Their brother, Muradin!
And King Yogg Stormheart's gaze was equally fixed on Magni and Brann.
"You…" A sharp pain pierced Yogg's mind, and he blurted out, "You… Magni! Brann! You've come!"
At his words, Brann could no longer contain himself. He rushed forward and embraced his brother tightly. The surrounding Frostvein Dwarves moved to intervene, but the king, clutching his head in pain, stopped them.
"Don't move… I remember something! They are my closest kin!"
Magni joined his brothers, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at them.
Seeing Muradin's distress, Galen stepped forward. "Lead us into Frost Citadel, Muradin. I can help you heal your injuries!" As a demigod of the Holy Light, Galen sensed a significant dark presence within Muradin's body. He surmised that Muradin had been directly exposed to the dark power of Frostmourne at its creation, a psychic and spiritual assault that had resulted in the Bronzebeard Prince's amnesia.
Enduring the throbbing pain in his head, Muradin led them into his kingdom, where they settled in a hall furnished with intricate ice sculptures. Galen prepared to heal him.
While Galen's own Holy Light, attuned to Judgment and Sentencing, offered only moderate healing capabilities, he had no intention of relying on it. The Holy Light of Aragorn or the Naaru, Keure and De Olli, would be far more effective. After a brief consideration, Galen expended some energy to summon the healing aspect of the Naaru's Holy Light. This would not only mend Muradin's lingering physical wounds but also soothe his fractured spirit and aid in the restoration of his memories.
Everyone watched intently as Muradin's expression shifted from agony to serenity, and then from calm to a look of intense concentration. Their hearts pounded with anticipation.
As Galen's healing magic smoothed the chaotic currents of Muradin's soul, his memories began to resurface. The recent years came first: his ascension as king of the Frostvein Dwarves, his leadership in reclaiming Frost Citadel from the Iron Dwarves, and his efforts to build a Frostvein army, including the taming of snow eagles as aerial mounts. These memories were vivid and clear. Aside from occasional recurrences of old injuries sustained in battles against the Iron Dwarves and Ice Giants, Muradin's life as king had been fulfilling.
However, his yearning for his lost past persisted. Driven by this desire, his memories began to delve further back. He recalled a group of displaced blue-skinned dwarves fleeing through the ice and snow. They had discovered a yellow-skinned dwarf, near death, buried in the snow. Despite their own precarious situation, their elders had decided to rescue the injured dwarf who resembled them in stature.
Muradin felt a surge of gratitude. Without the kindness of the Frostvein Dwarves, he would have perished in the frozen wastes. At this point, his memory retrieval encountered an obstacle, making further progress difficult. Yet, the appearance of the two dwarves who looked so much like him – whose names he instinctively knew but whose connection eluded him – fueled his determination to uncover his lost history.
"Uh… Ah!" Muradin roared in frustration, a dark aura briefly flaring around him.
With the aid of this surge of emotion and Galen's continued healing, Muradin broke through the barrier. A scene began to play in his mind.
Inside an icy cave, he and a tall, young human were focused on a magical sword encased in a pillar of ice.
"Look, Muradin," the human youth's voice trembled, "We have a chance to be saved. This is Frostmourne."
"Hold on, kid." Muradin remembered a sense of unease washing over him. His voice, though stiff, held a note of authority. "Something's not right here."
"What is it?" The human youth's impatience was evident.
"Kid, I've seen more than you've had hot dinners!" Muradin's face was grim. "There's an inscription on this platform. Let me see if I can decipher it. It might tell us something important."
"Hmm, the language of the elements!"
"Whoever takes up this sword shall wield power eternal. As the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit."
Watching the memory unfold, Muradin felt a chill run down his spine.
"Hey, I should have known. This sword is cursed! We need to get out of here, now!"
"A curse?" The human youth dismissed his warning. "To save my people, I am willing to accept any curse." With a desperate cry, he pulled the magical sword from its icy prison.
Boom!
Muradin saw a wave of dark energy surge towards his face.
"No! Arthas!"