Prince Saves Prince

The sky over the Wetlands was always gloomy, heavy clouds hanging so low they seemed ready to plunge into the fetid marsh at any moment. The Dragonmaw Clan's camp lay in the Eastern Mountains, easy to defend and hard to assault. Moss crawled over its stone walls, while rusted spears stood planted beyond the wooden palisade, their tips hung with dried lizard heads.

Whoosh—

A black shadow swept over the marsh, startling several carrion birds into flight. Nefarian landed outside the camp in human form, his dark crimson armor glinting with a cold metallic sheen beneath the dim light. His boots sank into the mud with a soft squelch, yet the sludge eerily avoided the hem of his cloak, as though it dared not soil it.

Behind him, Rend Blackhand—the chieftain of the Blackrock Clan—landed heavily, his battle axe slamming into the mud with a clang.

"Where is Zuluhed?" Nefarian's voice was quiet, yet it scraped across every orc's eardrums like a blade.

The guards froze in place, their hands trembling slightly around their spears. At last, an elderly Shaman stepped forward and said in a low voice, "The Great Chieftain is at the Dragon Tower... training new Dragon Riders."

Nefarian gave a cold laugh and strode straight toward the depths of the camp. Rend Blackhand followed close behind, his scarlet cloak dragging a trail through the mud and occasionally revealing the rusted chainmail beneath.

"Take me to the Prison." Nefarian casually seized the Shaman and ordered him to lead the way.

"Move it, old fool. The master told you to lead us." Seeing that the old orc did not react, Blackhand barked at him. Only then did the old orc remember that Blackhand's master was such a terrifying monster. He immediately nodded, bowed, and hurried ahead to lead the way.

The Dragonmaw Clan's Prison was built underground, damp and frigid, with droplets of water seeping down the walls. The POWs were crammed into narrow cells, most of them so emaciated that little remained but bone, their eyes hollow. The air reeked of mold, blood, and excrement.

Nefarian walked slowly past each cell, dark purple Arcane Light glowing at his fingertips. Each time he examined a POW, he frowned slightly, seemingly dissatisfied. On the rare occasions he sensed a response, he had Blackhand drag the person out.

"Your Highness," Rend could not help asking, "what is so special about these humans? Why did you come all this way in person?"

Nefarian did not answer. He simply continued onward.

Until they reached the deepest part of the Prison—

A man whose face was covered in burn scars was shackled alone in a corner. His Kul Tiran uniform had long since been torn to rags, but the Anchor Emblem on his chest was still faintly visible. Iron chains had rubbed wounds deep enough to expose bone into his wrists, yet he still sat upright with a soldier's bearing.

After the Black Dragon Prince cast his spell, he nodded and lightly flicked a finger. The chains snapped apart at once.

"Take this one too."

Rend frowned. "Him? That bastard's stubborn as iron. What do you want him for—"

Nefarian's gaze made Rend shut his mouth instantly.

"I said, take him."

In Theramore Council Chamber, the light of the Gilded Candelabra cast wavering shadows across every face gathered around the oak long table.

The Goblin Prince Rivendare was tapping a Financial Statement with diamond-studded fingernails. The densely packed numbers on the parchment kept jumping and rearranging with every tap—this was a goblin-made Magic Ledger, capable of adjusting profit projections in real time according to the progress of negotiations.

"Seventy percent GG Fee! Forty percent of the shares! One copper coin less, and I'm done—I'll go back home!"

His shriek made the Crystal Chandelier tremble slightly, while the chain of his Gold-rimmed Monocle snapped through the air. Across from him, ripples spread through Thrall's teacup as it shook against the tabletop. The orc chieftain gently pressed a thick finger against its lid.

"The Horde's laborers have shed three layers of skin under the sun in the Swamp of Sorrows." Thrall's voice was as rough as grinding stone. "Twenty percent is fair."

Deren curled into the depths of his chair, trying his best to look like an ornamental potted plant. His gaze drifted back and forth between Jaina and Onyxia—Jaina was lightly stroking a Crystal Ball with her fingertips, and a Holographic Projection of Theramore Harbor floated within it; Onyxia, meanwhile, idly toyed with a Lucky Gold Coin, her golden vertical pupil occasionally sweeping over the Goblin Prince's throat.

"Allow me to remind everyone—" Jaina suddenly said, her voice like shattered ice falling into champagne. "Theramore's Mage Tower provides Mana Transport for the Fertilizer. Combined with the port's tax-exemption policy, transportation costs have been reduced by ten percent, and then there's..."

Her fingertip tapped the Crystal Ball, and the projection changed into a burning Contract. "The premium for Political Asylum."

Rivendare's ears suddenly perked up. "Wait, how exactly do you put a price on that asylum—"

Onyxia's coin suddenly rose upright and began spinning, emitting a high-pitched hum. Everyone turned to look at her in unison.

"Nefarian has arrived." She rose to her feet, the hem of her black robe brushing over Deren's knee. "With the 'goods.'"

The meeting room fell silent at once.

Thrall's thick brows rose. "Goods?"

Deren's chair legs screeched across the floor. "Uh, it's just... I asked him for some POWs..."

"Jaina, I didn't tell you about this beforehand..." Deren had no choice but to step forward. "You'd better come with us to welcome the Black Dragon Prince—and our future shareholder."

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

"Nefarian will be here soon. He... uh, brought some POWs." Deren's Adam's apple bobbed as he explained in detail, "Kul Tiran POWs, as agreed."

Jaina's fingers suddenly clenched around the edge of the document, and the parchment let out a faint tearing sound.

"When did you make a deal with him?"

"When he came to inspect the Fertilizer incident last time," Deren said. "I thought he could bring some gifts to mark the occasion. Kul Tiran POWs, for example. It could help build trust in our cooperation."

Jaina's breathing stopped for an instant. The next moment, she stepped forward and gently wrapped her arms around Deren's shoulders.

"Thank you." Her voice was as soft as sea mist, and the scent of tides in her hair brushed across Deren's nose.

"Hmph."

Onyxia's cold snort came from nearby, her golden vertical pupil gleaming in the shadows. Deren immediately took half a step back as though he had been burned, awkwardly raising both hands to show his innocence.

The corner of Jaina's lips lifted slightly. She turned and snapped her fingers.

"The meeting is suspended." She announced to the others in the room, "Mr. Deren and I have urgent business to attend to."

On a secluded beach outside Theramore, waves crashed against the reefs as the salty, damp sea wind swept fine sand into the air.

Bang!

A gaunt man was thrown onto the beach by a Black Dragon Servant, kicking up a cloud of sand. He curled up coughing, grains of sand clinging to his festering wounds, yet he instinctively raised a hand to shield himself from the blinding sunlight—those eyes had not seen daylight in far too long.

Jaina's Portal opened over the beach. She stepped through, the hem of her mage robe lifted by the sea breeze.

The first thing she saw was a hunched back.

"Are you... all from Kul Tiras?" Her voice trembled slightly.

The prisoners sprawled across the beach struggled to lift their heads. In the sunlight, Jaina shone as brilliantly as a Sea God Statue.

"Yes," someone asked in a quavering voice.

"I'm Jaina Proudmoore." She hurried toward the nearest person, a faint glow of Healing Spell gathering at her fingertips. "You're safe now."

Nefarian stood atop a reef, watching the scene with great interest. He snapped his fingers, and the last prisoner was tossed down from high above by a black dragon, crashing heavily onto the beach.

"Mortal." The Black Dragon Prince leapt gracefully down from the reef, crushing a hermit crab beneath his boot. "Every Kul Tiran POW we could find is here."

He leaned close to Jaina, his molten-gold vertical pupils narrowing. "You owe me a big favor."

Jaina met his gaze directly, her sea-blue eyes refusing to yield. "I'll remember that."

Jaina cast Mass Teleportation, sending the prisoners into the Mage Tower's main hall. She then summoned every apprentice and priest to begin treating them. The fresh scent of Healing Potions masked the prisoners' rotten stench. Apprentices hurried back and forth, using Clean Spells and bandages to tend to festering wounds. Deren helped nearby, while Onyxia stood off to the side in displeasure. Nefarian stood beside his sister with a smile, seemingly trying to say something affectionate to mend their relationship.

"Thank you, my lady..."

"May the tides bless you..."

Amid the overlapping voices of gratitude, Jaina bent over to replace an old man's dressing. Suddenly, her skirt was violently tugged—

A man whose face was covered in burn scars lay prostrate on the floor, his bony fingers gripping the edge of her robe with all his strength.

"It's all right. You're safe now." She gently pried open his fingers. "Once your injuries are healed, I'll send you back to Kul Tiras—"

"Jaina..." The hoarse voice sounded as if it had been forced out from the depths of hell. "I'm Derek... your brother..."

The healing vial fell from her hand, rolling across the wool carpet and leaving a glistening trail.

Derek Proudmoore.

The Admiral's son who had supposedly died during the Second War—her own elder brother. Official records stated that he had been consumed by a Red Dragon's flames and sunk into the endless sea.

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

At this moment, fate abruptly changed course.

Jaina's fingertips hovered above the burn scars on Derek's face. The blue glow of Healing Spell flickered faintly, yet it could not fully erase those grotesque marks.

"By the Arcane..."

Her voice was so soft it was nearly inaudible, and her pupils trembled slightly. That face—though twisted by fire beyond recognition—had the same sea-blue eyes as hers. The eyes of Kul Tiras. The eyes of the Proudmoore family.

"Greater Healing! Hurry!" She suddenly turned and shouted at the priests behind her, her voice carrying an unquestionable command.

The white-robed priests immediately gathered around him. Holy Light poured down like a tide, enveloping Derek in a golden cocoon. His festering wounds began to heal, and his broken bones rejoined, but the deepest burns—especially the twisted scar along his left cheek—remained stubbornly in place.

"It's useless..." Derek said hoarsely, his voice sounding as though it had been scorched by fire. "Those were Red Dragon flames... a 'souvenir' from the Dragonmaw Clan..."

Jaina's chest rose and fell violently. She gripped her brother's wrist tightly, as though he would disappear again the moment she let go.

"The battlefield report said you were struck by Red Dragon fire and fell into the sea..." Her nails nearly dug into his skin. "We searched for three months... Father... he never gave up..."

A twisted smile pulled at Derek's lips. "I was hit... but I didn't quite die. The Dragonmaw Orcs fished me out... and imprisoned me as 'spoils of war'..." He coughed several times, his throat filled with the dust of accumulated years. "Ten years... or twelve? In the dungeon... there was no way to tell day from night..."

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

Jaina's eyes reddened, but she did not cry. Proudmoores did not shed tears before outsiders.

"You're home." She spoke softly, her fingers finally loosening a little, though she still refused to let go completely.

Nefarian leaned against a stone pillar, his molten-gold vertical pupils watching the scene. For a rare moment, his expression softened before returning to its usual arrogance.

"Deeply moving." He gave a soft snort, then turned toward his sister Onyxia with a flattering smile at the corner of his lips. "Look at that. Family affection is so... warm."

Onyxia crossed her arms over her chest, her golden vertical pupils sweeping coldly over him as she snorted. Yet, unusually, she did not move away, allowing Nefarian to step a little closer.

"What? You want to experience some 'sibling affection' too?" she mocked.

Nefarian chuckled. "I just think... perhaps we black dragons should occasionally... cooperate?"

Onyxia did not answer, but the tip of her tail swayed lightly once—Nefarian knew that was her signal of assent.

Jaina finally released Derek's hand and turned to Nefarian. Her gaze was complicated, containing both gratitude and wariness.

"Theramore will remember this favor."

Nefarian gave an elegant half-bow, his smile amused. "Just give me a few more shares."

His gaze swept over Deren, then flicked toward Onyxia, before finally resting on Derek for a moment.

"After all..." he said softly, "who would have thought that fishing out a few people at random would bring such an unexpected delight?"