Chapter 29: The Prince Rescues the Prince

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The sky over the wetlands was forever overcast. Heavy clouds hung so low they seemed liable to plunge at any moment into the reeking swamp below. The Dragonmaw clan’s encampment lay in the eastern mountains, easy to defend and difficult to assault. Moss crawled over its stone walls, while rusted spears stood beyond the wooden palisade, each tip adorned with the desiccated skull of a lizard.

Whoosh—

A dark shape swept across the sky above the marsh, startling several carrion birds into flight. Nefarian descended outside the camp in humanoid form, his dark-red armor gleaming coldly in the dim light. His boots sank into the mud with a faint squelch, yet the muck strangely avoided the hem of his cloak, as though it dared not touch him.

Behind him, Rend Blackhand—the chieftain of the Blackrock clan—landed heavily, his battle-axe striking the mud with a resounding clang.

“Where is Zuluhed?”

Nefarian’s voice was not loud, yet it scraped across every orc’s eardrum like a blade.

The guards froze, their hands trembling faintly around their spears. At last, an elderly shaman stepped forward and said in a low voice, “The Warchief is in the Dragon Tower… training new dragon riders.”

Nefarian gave a cold laugh and strode straight toward the heart of the camp. Rend Blackhand followed close behind, his crimson cloak dragging a line through the mud and occasionally revealing the rust-speckled chainmail beneath.

“Take me to the prison.”

Nefarian seized the shaman by the collar and ordered him to lead the way.

“Move, old fool. Our master told you to lead us.”

When the old orc failed to react, Blackhand barked at him. Only then did the shaman remember that Blackhand’s master was such a terrifying monster. He immediately nodded, bowed, and hurried ahead to guide them.

The Dragonmaw prison had been built underground. It was damp and cold, with beads of water seeping through the walls. War captives were confined in cramped cells, most of them emaciated to little more than skin and bone, their eyes vacant. The air reeked of mildew, blood, and excrement.

Nefarian walked slowly past each cell, dark-violet arcane light glowing at his fingertips. Every time he examined a captive, he would frown slightly, as though dissatisfied. On rare occasions, he showed some reaction and ordered Blackhand to bring the prisoner out.

“Your Highness,” Rend finally asked, unable to contain himself, “what is so special about these humans that you would come all this way in person?”

Nefarian did not answer. He simply continued forward.

Until they reached the deepest part of the prison—

A man with a face covered in burn scars was chained alone in a corner. The Kul Tiran military uniform hanging from his body was tattered beyond recognition, but the sea-anchor emblem on his chest could still be made out. Deep wounds, nearly exposing bone, had been carved into his wrists by the shackles, yet he still sat with the rigid posture of a soldier.

After casting a spell, the black dragon prince nodded. With a casual sweep of his finger, the chains snapped apart.

“Take this one as well.”

Rend frowned. “Him? That fellow is hard as iron. What use could he possibly be—”

Nefarian’s gaze silenced him at once.

“I said, take him.”

In the council chamber of Theramore, the light from the gilt candlesticks cast wavering shadows across every face seated around the long oak table.

The goblin prince Rivigaz was tapping a jeweled fingernail against a financial report. Dense columns of figures shifted and rearranged themselves with every tap—the goblins’ specially crafted magical ledger, capable of recalculating projected profits in real time according to the progress of negotiations.

“Seventy percent of the advertising fees! Forty percent of the shares! Give me one copper less and I’m walking away and going home!”

His shriek made the crystal chandelier tremble, while the chain of his gold-rimmed monocle snapped sharply against his cheek. Across from him, the tea in Thrall’s cup rippled across the tabletop. The orc chieftain rested one thick finger lightly against the lid.

“The Horde’s laborers have shed three layers of skin beneath the sun of Dustwallow Marsh.” Thrall’s voice was rough as grinding stone. “Twenty percent is only fair.”

Deren hunched deep in his chair, doing his best to resemble nothing more than a decorative potted plant. His gaze moved nervously between Jaina and Onyxia. The former was gently stroking a crystal ball, within which a holographic projection of Theramore Harbor shimmered. The latter idly toyed with a lucky coin, her golden slit-pupiled eyes occasionally flicking toward the goblin prince’s throat.

“Allow me to remind everyone—” Jaina began suddenly, her voice like crushed ice falling into champagne. “The mage tower of Theramore supplies the magical transport required for the fertilizer. Combined with the harbor’s tax exemptions, that reduces transportation costs by ten percent. And then there is…”

She tapped the crystal ball with one finger. The projection changed to a burning contract.

“The premium on political protection.”

Rivigaz’s ears suddenly sprang upright. “Wait. How much are you charging for that protection—”

Onyxia’s coin abruptly stood upright and began spinning, emitting a high-pitched hum. Everyone turned toward her as one.

“Nefarian has arrived.”

She rose from her seat, the hem of her black robe brushing against Deren’s knees.

“He brought the ‘cargo.’”

The chamber fell silent.

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Thrall’s thick brows rose. “Cargo?”

Deren’s chair legs scraped harshly across the floor. “Er… that would be the prisoners of war I asked him to bring…”

“Jaina, I didn’t have time to discuss this with you beforehand…” Deren had no choice but to step forward. “You’d better come with us to receive the black dragon prince, your future shareholder as well.”

“What?”

Jaina had been arranging the papers on the conference table. At his words, she looked up, her blue eyes deep as a shattered sea.

“Nefarian will be here any moment. He… brought some prisoners of war.” Deren swallowed and hastily explained, “As agreed, they’re from Kul Tiras.”

Jaina’s fingers suddenly tightened around the edge of the documents. The parchment gave a faint tearing sound.

“When did you make this deal with him?”

“When he came to investigate the fertilizer accident last time,” Deren said. “I thought having him bring a few gifts, such as Kul Tiran prisoners, might strengthen the trust between us.”

Jaina’s breath caught for an instant. The next moment, she stepped forward and gently wrapped both arms around Deren’s shoulders.

“Thank you.”

Her voice was soft as sea mist, and the scent of the tide drifting from her hair brushed against Deren’s nose.

“Hmph.”

Onyxia’s cold snort rang out. Her golden slit-pupiled eyes gleamed in the shadows. Deren immediately recoiled as though burned, raising both hands awkwardly to show that he was innocent.

The corner of Jaina’s mouth lifted faintly. She turned and snapped her fingers.

“The meeting is suspended,” she announced to everyone in the room. “Mr. Deren and I have some urgent matters to attend to.”

On a remote beach outside Theramore, waves battered the rocks while the salty sea wind drove fine sand through the air.

Bang!

A gaunt man was thrown onto the beach by one of the black dragon’s servants, sending up a cloud of sand. He curled in on himself and coughed. Grit clung to his festering wounds, yet he instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight—for those eyes had not seen daylight in far too long.

Jaina’s portal unfolded above the beach, and she stepped through, the hem of her robe billowing in the sea wind.

The first thing she saw was the hunched figure.

“You… you’re all from Kul Tiras?”

Her voice trembled.

The prisoners sprawled across the beach struggled to raise their heads. Beneath the sunlight, Jaina shone like a statue of the sea goddess.

“Yes,” one of them answered shakily.

“I am Jaina Proudmoore.”

She hurried to the nearest man, healing magic glowing faintly at her fingertips.

“You’re safe now.”

Nefarian stood upon the rocks, watching the scene with great interest. He snapped his fingers, and the final prisoner was hurled from the sky by a black dragon, crashing heavily onto the sand.

“Mortals.”

The black dragon prince leaped gracefully from the rocks, his boot crushing a hermit crab beneath its sole.

“All the Kul Tiran prisoners we could find are here.”

He leaned close to Jaina, his molten-gold eyes narrowing.

“You owe me a great favor.”

Jaina met his gaze without flinching, her sea-blue eyes refusing to yield.

“I’ll remember that.”

Jaina cast a mass teleportation spell and sent the prisoners to the hall of the mage tower. She then summoned every apprentice and priest to begin treating them. The clean fragrance of healing potions masked the stench clinging to the prisoners. Apprentices hurried back and forth, using cleansing spells and bandages to tend their suppurating wounds.

Deren helped nearby, while Onyxia stood off to one side in visible displeasure. Nefarian smiled beside his sister, apparently making a determined effort to say something affectionate and mend their relationship.

“Thank you, my lady…”

“May the tides bless you…”

Amid the overlapping voices of gratitude, Jaina bent over to change an old man’s dressing. Suddenly, her skirt was seized and yanked hard—

A man covered in burn scars was crawling on the floor, his withered fingers clutching the edge of her robe with desperate strength.

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“It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

She gently pried open his fingers.

“Once your wounds are healed, I’ll send you all back to Kul Tiras—”

“Jaina…”

The hoarse voice seemed forced up from the depths of hell.

“It’s me, Derek… your brother…”

The healing vial slipped from her hand and rolled across the wool carpet, leaving a glimmering trail.

Derek Proudmoore.

The son of the admiral who had fallen in the Second War—her own elder brother. Official records stated that he had been consumed by the flames of a red dragon and sunk into the endless depths of the sea.

And now, this scarred man was looking at her with the exact same blue eyes.

At that moment, fate changed course with a thunderous roar.

Jaina’s fingertips hovered above the burns marring Derek’s face. Blue healing light flickered faintly, yet it could not completely smooth away those grotesque scars.

“By the Arcane…”

Her voice was barely audible, and her pupils trembled.

That face—though twisted almost beyond recognition by fire—possessed the same sea-blue eyes as hers. The eyes of Kul Tiras. The eyes of House Proudmoore.

“Use the highest-level healing spell! Quickly!”

She suddenly turned and shouted at the priests behind her, her voice carrying unquestionable authority.

The white-robed priests immediately gathered around. Holy Light poured down like a tide, enveloping Derek in a cocoon of gold. His festering wounds began to close, and his broken bones knit themselves back together. Yet the deepest burns—especially the twisted scar covering the left side of his face—remained stubbornly in place.

“It’s useless…” Derek rasped, his voice sounding as though it had been seared by flame. “That was the fire of a red dragon… a ‘souvenir’ from the Dragonmaw…”

Jaina’s chest heaved violently. She gripped her brother’s wrist, as though he might vanish again the moment she let go.

“The battlefield report said you were struck by the red dragon’s fire and fell into the sea…” Her fingernails nearly pierced his skin. “We searched for three months… Father… he never gave up…”

The corners of Derek’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

“I was struck… but I didn’t die completely. The Dragonmaw orcs pulled me from the sea… and kept me as ‘war loot’…” He coughed several times, the dust of years gathered in his throat. “Ten years… or twelve? In the dungeon… it was impossible to tell day from night…”

The Holy Light gradually faded. Derek’s condition had stabilized, but the scars—the marks bearing witness to more than a decade of captivity and torment—remained etched into his skin.

Jaina’s eyes reddened, but she did not cry. Members of House Proudmoore did not shed tears before outsiders.

“You’re home.”

She spoke softly. Her fingers finally loosened, though she still refused to let go completely.

Nefarian leaned against a stone pillar, his molten-gold eyes fixed on the scene. His expression softened for a rare moment before settling once more into its habitual arrogance.

“Deeply moving.”

He gave a faint snort, then turned toward his sister, Onyxia, and curved his lips into an ingratiating smile.

“Look at that. Familial affection is so… warm.”

Onyxia folded her arms and cast him a cold glance with her golden slit-pupiled eyes. She snorted, but unusually, she did not move away, allowing Nefarian to step closer.

“What? You want to experience a little ‘sibling devotion’ yourself?”

Her tone was mocking.

Nefarian chuckled softly. “I merely think… perhaps we black dragons ought to… cooperate from time to time?”

Onyxia did not answer, but the tip of her tail swayed lightly once.

Nefarian knew it was a sign of consent.

At last, Jaina released Derek’s hand and turned toward Nefarian. Her expression was complicated, containing both gratitude and wariness.

“Theramore will remember this favor.”

Nefarian gave an elegant half-bow, his smile laced with amusement.

“Just give me a few more shares.”

His gaze swept over Deren, then glanced at Onyxia, finally resting for a moment on Derek.

“After all…” he murmured, “who could have imagined that dredging up a few people would bring such an unexpected delight?”