CHAPTER 37: Shadows of Betrayal and Siege
In the shadowed foothills of the Redridge Mountains, where jagged peaks pierced the overcast sky like ancient sentinels, Deathwing alighted with the stealth of a predator. The mighty black dragon, once known as Neltharion the Earth-Warder, had assumed a more unassuming form—a tall, elegant middle-aged human clad in dark robes that whispered against the wind-swept grass. His eyes, however, betrayed his true nature: twin abysses of molten fury, glowing faintly with the madness that had consumed him.
Before him knelt a goblin, small and wiry, his green skin etched with the grime of labor and the invisible chains of enslavement. This was Kryll, a once-free entrepreneur from the underbelly of goblin society, now bound by the dragon's indomitable will. Kryll's eyes, sharp and calculating, burned with a resentment he dared not voice. Goblins were infamous for their treachery, a race that thrived on betrayal as much as on gold. They would sell out allies, family, even their own kin if the profit margin glittered brightly enough. Morality was a luxury they couldn't afford; survival and wealth were their only gods. But enslavement? That was an affront to their very essence. Goblins had clawed their way from troll servitude centuries ago, building empires on ingenuity and explosives. To be forced into bondage by this winged tyrant was a humiliation that festered like an open wound.
"Master," Kryll rasped, his voice a careful blend of subservience and hidden venom, "Nekros continues his efforts to break the Red Dragon Queen. Alexstrasza resists fiercely; she yields nothing. For now, he can only control the lesser red dragons—drones and whelps, nothing more."
Deathwing's human guise tilted its head, his voice a low rumble that echoed the earth's tremors. "And the dragon eggs? Where are they hidden?"
"Guarded by the Queen herself, deep within Grim Batol's caverns," Kryll replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. He couldn't risk Deathwing glimpsing the hatred boiling in his eyes. This wasn't a paid gig; it was coercion, raw and unyielding. The black dragon's psychic grip had shattered Kryll's will, turning a potential tycoon into a puppet. But goblins were resilient. Kryll's mind raced with schemes of revenge—alliances with dwarves, perhaps, or a clever explosive trap. No one enslaved a goblin and lived to boast about it. His ancestors had toppled trolls; this dragon would be no different.
Deathwing dismissed the thought of the goblin's inner turmoil with a flick of his wrist. As a former Aspect, one of the five great dragon guardians empowered by the Titans, he viewed lesser races as insects—useful, perhaps, but unworthy of true consideration. "Devise a way to extract those eggs. Succeed, and I may grant you a reward befitting your... station."
Kryll bowed lower, his fists clenched behind his back. "As you command, Master." As he scurried away into the underbrush, his heart thundered with silent fury. Revenge was coming; he could taste it like the tang of gunpowder.
No sooner had the goblin vanished than a shadow eclipsed the sun. A massive black dragon descended, wings folding as it transformed into a humanoid figure—tall, with obsidian scales lingering on his skin like armor. This was Nefarian, Deathwing's son, his features a twisted mirror of his father's arrogance.
"Father," Nefarian greeted, his voice laced with deference and a hint of unease.
Deathwing nodded curtly. "Report on the preparations for the eggs."
"All is in order," Nefarian assured him. "The incubation chambers are secure, hidden from prying eyes. But must I truly remain idle? Allow me to oversee the operation at Grim Batol. The Black Dragonflight teeters on the edge; we are hunted like vermin across Azeroth. Let me strike a blow."
Nefarian's plea stemmed from desperation. The black dragons, corrupted by the Old Gods' whispers, were pariahs among their kin. Hiding in mortal guises or remote lairs was their lot, a far cry from the dominion they craved. He yearned for action, for the thrill of conquest that might restore their feared legacy.
Deathwing's eyes narrowed, unleashing a wave of oppressive aura that pressed Nefarian to his knees. "You will obey without question. Our bond is one of command, not sentiment." The father-son dynamic was a farce; it was master and minion, forged in fire and betrayal.
Sweat beaded on Nefarian's brow. "Forgive me, Father. On another matter—I have brought the newborn whelp as instructed, for the human prince."
Deathwing's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Deliver it. Arthas serves our purposes for now. He weakens our enemies from within. But mark my words: once our legions rise, we will reclaim what is ours—with interest. He will regurgitate every morsel we've fed him, bones and all."
The ferocity in Deathwing's gaze was unmistakable. Cooperation was a tool, not a vow. When alliances crumbled, so did allies. It was the way of the strong, the logic of survival in a world of endless war.
Meanwhile, across the seas in the grand halls of Lordaeron's capital, King Terenas Menethil II sat upon his throne, a parchment clutched in his aging hands. The letter bore the seal of Anduin Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth, exiled leader of Stormwind. Its contents praised Prince Arthas's initiative in addressing the red dragon crisis at Grim Batol. Lothar proposed amplifying the prince's successes to bolster Lordaeron's influence within the Alliance—a shrewd move to solidify Terenas's role as its de facto head.
Terenas closed his eyes, a mix of pride and paranoia swirling in his chest. Arthas was evolving from a wayward youth into a capable leader, borrowing ships from the cunning Lady Ashvane and rallying allies with ease. It was commendable, yet troubling. As a king who had navigated court intrigues and wars, Terenas trusted no one fully—not even his blood. Suspicion was the shield of the wise; blind faith, the folly of the fallen. What if Arthas's brilliance overshadowed his own? Still, a weak heir would doom the kingdom. It was a delicate balance, one Terenas wielded like a double-edged sword.
Lothar knew him well, dangling the bait of expanded power. Stormwind, ravaged and bankrupt, posed no threat. Lordaeron could afford the investment, reaping loyalty in return.
The following dawn found Arthas and his companions at the threshold of Grim Batol, guided by the hill dwarves who had melted into the wilderness to muster their own forces against the orc invaders. The fortress loomed like a monolithic beast carved into the mountain's flank, its entrance a yawning archway guarded by burly orc sentinels. Chimera patrols wheeled overhead, their dual heads scanning for intruders, while supply caravans rumbled in—laden with crates and chained prisoners.
Arthas surveyed the scene from a rocky outcrop, his silver armor glinting faintly in the morning light. Beside him stood Alleria Windrunner, the elven ranger whose keen eyes pierced the distance like arrows; Muradin Bronzebeard, the stout dwarf warrior gripping his hammer with unyielding resolve; and Onyxia, the black dragon in human disguise, her motives as opaque as midnight.
"What purpose do those prisoners serve?" Arthas murmured, squinting at the procession.
Alleria's gaze sharpened. "Civilians, mostly—humans and dwarves, dragged in as slaves. And goblins among them, not bound like the others. They're collaborators, wheeling and dealing with the orcs."
Muradin spat on the ground. "Filthy green-skins! I'd crush their skulls meself. Jealous little bastards, always tinkering with our tech."
Onyxia interjected smoothly, her voice a silken thread. "The badge you carry, Prince—it can veil you in illusion, masking your presence from orc senses. Sneak in alone; we'll handle the rest."
Arthas considered it, but Alleria cut in sharply. "No. You're our leader; risking yourself undermines us all. What are we, mere decorations?"
A warmth bloomed in Arthas's chest at her concern. Their recent intimacies had forged a bond, subtle yet profound—perhaps love, or something akin. He smiled faintly. "Your worry honors me, Alleria. But trust in my plan. Activate the badge to slip past the guards. You and Muradin draw their attention—harry the patrols with arrows and ambushes, force them to chase shadows. Keep them occupied, whittling their numbers without full engagement. It'll thin the defenses inside, easing my path to the Dragon Queen."
Muradin grunted approval. "Aye, lad. We'll give 'em a proper dwarf welcome—rocks and runes!"
Onyxia's eyes gleamed with hidden intent. Black dragons thrived on subterfuge, their power amplified by deception. Open confrontation invited annihilation from the other flights, so shadows were their domain. She nodded, masking her surveillance of Arthas as alliance.
As the group dispersed to their roles, Arthas activated the badge. A shimmer enveloped him, rendering him a ghost in the orcs' midst. He advanced toward the archway, heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. Logic dictated caution, but ambition fueled his steps. The red dragons' freedom—and his glory—awaited within Grim Batol's depths.
The fortress's interior was a labyrinth of torch-lit tunnels, echoing with the roars of captive dragons and the clang of orc hammers. Arthas navigated stealthily, evading patrols as he delved deeper. Outside, Alleria's arrows sang through the air, felling a chimera mid-flight and igniting chaos. Orcs bellowed alarms, surging out to pursue the elusive attackers. Muradin's earth-shaking charges toppled supply wagons, scattering guards.
Deeper still, Arthas overheard goblin whispers—Kryll among them, plotting against his master. The pieces aligned: dragons, orcs, betrayals. Logic wove through the madness; alliances frayed like old rope.
In the heart of the mountain, Alexstrasza's chamber loomed. Chained yet defiant, the Life-Binder sensed his approach. "Who dares enter?" she rumbled.
"Prince Arthas of Lordaeron," he declared, dropping his veil. "I've come to free you."
Her eyes, ancient and weary, assessed him. "Freedom comes at a price, mortal. But perhaps you are the key."
As negotiations began, the siege outside intensified. The chapter of liberation unfolded, threads of betrayal tightening around all.