The Goblin Transport Ship, with its inherent unpredictable quality, was constantly being repaired and patched up, barely managing to stay afloat on the sea. Marshal Windsor stood on the rusty deck, the salty sea breeze lashing against his scarred face. His fingers unconsciously caressed the hilt of his sword, a habit he had developed long ago during his military career.
"We've arrived at Theramore Harbor! Express service, extra 20% charge!" a green-skinned goblin crewman shouted at the top of his lungs, his shrill voice almost drowning out the noise of the sea. Express? Express descent? These goblins really know how to use money for everything. The old marshal grumbled to himself, but he had no choice but to take out the money—they hadn't even reached land yet, and even Paladin are afraid of water.
Windsore turned to look at the Paladin standing in neat rows behind him. They were all dressed in Stormwind City's standard armor, the Lion emblem on their chests gleaming in the sunlight. In the eyes of these young men burned a familiar flame—the fury of justice, an unwavering belief in never compromising against evil.
"Check the equipment," Windsore's voice was low and hoarse, a lingering effect of long hours of shouting in noisy environments. "We're not here for sightseeing."
The Paladin nodded silently, the metal gloves clanging against their weapons. Windsore gazed at the approaching port, his grey-blue eyes narrowing slightly.
According to intelligence, a Black Dragon had just been shot down in Theramore. Varian feared it was Nefarian, who had escaped from Blackrock Mountain. A while ago, Stormwind City's army, led by Varian, captured Blackrock Mountain, Nefarian Black Dragon, completely eliminating his threat to Stormwind City.
Varian originally intended to send others to Theramore to pursue Nefarian, but the old marshal volunteered for the mission. He had never forgotten the fate he had foreseen in Medivh's Tower—to die from the Black Dragon Dragonfire. So for all these years, he had been searching for clues about the Black Dragon.
As the transport ship docked, the planks creaked and groaned as they were lowered. Windsore was the first to set foot on Theramore soil, his boots echoing dully on the damp wooden pier. The harbor's clamor immediately enveloped them—the cries of merchants, the shouts of sailors, and the cacophony of conversations in various languages.
"Marshal, look over there," the adjutant whispered, his finger subtly pointing to the right.
Windsore's muscles tensed instantly. Three green-skinned orcs were carrying heavy wooden crates off a Horde ship; their thick arms were bulging with muscles, and their fangs gleamed yellow in the sunlight. One of the orcs seemed to sense the gaze and looked up to Windsore's eyes.
Time seemed to freeze for a second.
" Alliance hogs," the orc muttered in rough Common Tongue, just loud enough for Windsore to hear, "Go back to your Eastern Kingdoms."
Windsore's hand was already on the hilt of his sword. Memories of the two wars flooded back—the dark days when the orcish army attacked Stormwind City, how many comrades died at the hands of these beasts, how many villages and civilians were destroyed under the green tide.
"Watch your words, you greenskins," Windsore's voice was as cold as ice. "This is neutral territory, but not a place where you can act recklessly."
The orcs put down the wooden crate, and the leader grinned, revealing a menacing smile, "Want to fight, old man?"
The Paladin quickly formed a battle formation behind Windsore, and the energy of Holy Light began to gather in their hands. The orcs also assumed a fighting stance, one of them even drawing a crude tool axe from his waist.
Just as conflict was about to erupt, a graceful figure landed lightly between the two sides.
"Enough!" Windrunner Windrunner snapped. Her rangers had somehow surrounded the entire dock area, longbows drawn taut, arrows gleaming coldly in the sunlight. "Private duels are forbidden in Theramore. Violators will be expelled."
Windsore recognized the high Elf Ranger and barely suppressed his anger. "These orcs provoked us first, madam."
"And your Alliance is always the first to draw its sword," Windrunner replied coldly. "Lady Jaina will not tolerate any disruption to the peace of Theramore." She turned to the orcs, "And you too, if you cause any more trouble, get back to Orgrimmar."
The orcs muttered and retreated, but the hostility in their eyes remained undiminished. Windsore noticed that the goblin merchant not far away was nervously calculating the possible losses, but when their eyes met, the goblin immediately pretended not to see them and turned to greet other customers.
"Thank you for your intervention, Lady Windrunner," Windsore said curtly, though he was not grateful. "We are an envoy from Stormwind City, here to see Lady Proudmoore." He then handed over the documents signed by King Varian.
Windrunner glanced at the documents, her sharp gaze scrutinizing him. "Lady Jaina knows you're coming. Come with my men and don't cause trouble. I'll have to keep an eye on things here. There's always trouble to deal with." As she turned, her long hair fluttered in the sea breeze. " Theramore isn't Stormwind City. Here, racial hatred must be set aside." She then assigned an Elf Ranger to lead them into the city.
Windsore didn't answer, but simply gestured for the Paladin to follow. As they walked through the bustling streets, the marshal's brow furrowed deeper. Dwarves and Orc Peon were arm in arm in the taverns—no, they were arm in arm; human merchants were hawking their wares to Night Elf, and even a few Troll were sitting quietly on benches in the plaza—a sight almost unthinkable in the Eastern Kingdoms.
"It's utter chaos," Windsore whispered to his adjutant. "I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a Dragon wandering the streets."
As soon as he finished speaking, he caught a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye.
Windsore's blood froze instantly. In the market ahead, a tall, dark-haired woman was bending over to examine the goods on a fruit stand. She wore a simple yet well-tailored black dress, and her black hair cascaded down to her waist. When she turned around, her beautiful yet haughty face almost took Windsore's breath away.
Katrana Prestor.
No, she should be called Onyxia, the Daughter of Deathwing, the Black Dragon Princess who once infiltrated the upper echelons of Stormwind City. Although Stormwind City's official statement is that Katrana died in an unknown fire, Windsore never believed that the cunning Black Dragon would die so easily.
He had been tracking the Black Dragon, especially after seizing documents from Blackrock Mountain, which pointed to Katrana possibly being Onyxia, the Black Dragon Princess. Some of the Stormwind City soldiers were also identified as Dragonkin in disguise. It was a difficult task to wipe them all out.
"Marshal? What's wrong?" The adjutant noticed his sudden stiffness.
Windsore quickly pulled his adjutant behind a stone pillar, his heart pounding in his chest. He peered through the edge of the pillar and confirmed that it was indeed Katrana —the same elegant demeanor, the same slightly upturned corners of her mouth, even the ruby earring on her right ear was exactly the same.
"That's a Black Dragon," Windsore said through gritted teeth. " Onyxia, she faked her death and escaped to Kalimdor."
The Paladin immediately tensed, their hands gripping their weapons. "Shall we make our move here, Marshal?" a young Paladin asked, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism.
Windsore forced himself to calm down. "No, there are too many civilians here, and we don't know how many accomplices she has." He glanced again and saw that Katrana had finished buying fruit and was leisurely walking towards the city center. "Our priority is to see Jaina, if the ruler of Theramore knows that a Black Dragon is roaming her city."
He didn't finish his sentence, but the Paladin understood his implication. If Jaina had already colluded with the Black Dragon, then they might be walking into a trap; if she was unaware, then they needed her power to fight Onyxia.
"Stay vigilant," Windsore commanded in a low voice. "If the situation changes, prioritize ensuring someone can return to Stormwind City to report."
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