Temple of the Moon, Darnassus – Main Hall
The scent of night-blooming flowers filled the temple, but there was no peace in the air. The footsteps of the sentinels echoed harshly, leather boots pounding like warnings of war in a place meant for prayer.
Tyrande lifted her eyes from the letter she held with both hands. Thick parchment, sealed with the emblem of the Horde—and strangely, with a tone of formality she never would've expected from Garrosh Hellscream.
"Is it a trap?" asked Shandris, standing to her right, hand near her bow. "Or a rhetorical trick to lull us into complacency?"
Tyrande didn't answer right away. Her eyes scanned the letter once more. The words were harsh, as one would expect from an orc—but something felt... different.
Priestess Tyrande,
I understand there is no peace between our peoples, nor do I expect promises that cannot be kept.
However, survival demands choices. I am willing to talk before axes speak for us.
This is not mercy—it is pragmatism.
I propose a border meeting to define limits and avoid pointless loss.
Let our blades remain sheathed... for now.
—Garrosh Hellscream, Warchief of the Horde
Tyrande turned toward Elune's altar, as if seeking wisdom greater than her own. The letter didn't use flowery language—but what unsettled her was its balance. A blend of restrained brutality and a genuine attempt at negotiation.
"He didn't write this alone," she finally said, voice soft but tense. "This tone... this careful wording... it's not his style."
Shandris crossed her arms.
"A scribe, maybe? Or a counselor trying to give Garrosh's brutality a more palatable shape?"
"Maybe," Tyrande murmured, clearly uncertain. "But even that would be something new. Garrosh loathed advisors. This tone... it's almost as if he's trying to sound civilized. Almost human."
Shandris raised an eyebrow.
"And are we accepting the meeting?"
Tyrande walked slowly toward the temple's balcony. The sea breeze whispered through the trees of Teldrassil. The night was beautiful—yet thick with omens.
"We'll reply. Cautiously," she said at last. "We'll send emissaries with our terms. We won't bring swords... but our eyes will stay open, and our bows ready."
"Do you see change in him?"
"I see... curiosity," Tyrande replied. "And in times of war, that's rarer than peace."
She folded the letter carefully, tying it with a silver ribbon. It wasn't acceptance. But it was the beginning of something different.
Or perhaps... merely the prelude to something far, far worse.
[Garrosh]
My axe slammed into the shield of a young orc warrior, his knees buckling under the force of my blow. A guttural snarl escaped his throat as he countered with a war axe so massive a human would struggle to lift it.
He was young—by orc standards, just past fourteen—but already his physique was impressive. With the right training, he'd be a fine soldier of the Horde.
"Keep that up and at the very least you'll die with some honor," I said, putting him down with a simple kick that sent him sprawling into the sand of the training ring.
I snorted lightly at how easily I defeated him. Was it because I was that strong—or because he was weak? If weakness, then all the young ones watching—equally beaten—were below par for orc standards, and that would be... concerning.
I hoped it was the former. At least then I'd feel less guilt if I sent him into a real fight. Not that I planned to—yet.
"Drink some water and rest. That goes for all of you. The path of a true Horde soldier is full of trials, so prepare yourselves—the next training will be even harder."
I was about to leave when the boy I had just defeated spoke up.
"Thank you, Warchief! I will give my best to fight and die for the Horde!" He saluted in the traditional orc fashion, fist to chest.
I sighed. First order of business: rid these kids of their suicidal ideals. Maybe that's why Garrosh remained Warchief so long, despite being a warmongering madman.
Orcs—like it or not—were militaristic and a bit fanatical. Especially for the Horde.
"Kid, what's your name?"
"K-Krulg, sir!" he stammered, eyes wide under my gaze. I scanned the group—boys and girls, orcs all, without the scars of Third War veterans.
"Listen up, all of you. And don't make me repeat this."
They snapped to attention as my voice boomed across the training yard.
"The Horde doesn't want you to die. It wants you to live—live with honor in all you do. Only if you must die, do so with glory, knowing you did what was right. Then your ancestors will truly be proud. But more than that—be orcs whose names are remembered long after you fall."
I saluted, delivering the phrase that was quickly becoming my new mantra:
"For the Horde!"
Unlike the cynical leaders I was forced to work with, these wide-eyed youths echoed the call with conviction only the young and full of dreams could have:
"For the Horde! And for the Warchief!"
I couldn't help but smile.
As I left the training grounds, I spotted Vol'jin watching me. He clearly wanted to talk—but not here. Too open. I was sure I had spies lurking about.
"Let's find somewhere more private."
I was ready to head back to my small war office, surrounded by maps and logistics.
"A message from the elves," Vol'jin said flatly, not exactly moving to follow.
"And?" I looked at him.
"They agreed. At the border between the Barrens and Ashenvale."
"Hm... That was faster than I expected. Call Baine. He'll accompany me to this meeting."
Vol'jin gave me a long look.
"Oh really? You're actually going to this thing."
I nodded.
"I said I'm not Thrall. But I'll at least try to avoid rivers of blood—if that's even possible. And before you ask, Baine seems like the peaceful type. And by the way—congratulations, Troll. You're in charge with Eitrigg until I return. Try not to burn the city."
Vol'jin blinked a few times as I casually walked off. I heard him mumble something behind me, but to be honest, dealing with the troll was sometimes a pain.
Still, I trusted him enough to know he wouldn't try to usurp me.
At least not like humans do.