The bitter winds of Dun Morogh carried the acrid stench of orcish smoke and the metallic tang of blood as the siege of Ironforge entered its darkest hour. Snow-capped peaks loomed like ancient sentinels around the embattled dwarven stronghold, their pristine white surfaces marred by the black smudges of war camps and burning siege engines.
High above the chaos, a crimson shadow cut through the grey mountain sky with predatory grace.
"What are you doing? Brann, quickly move your gun away!" Kurdran Wildhammer's weathered face creased with alarm as he watched his Wildhammer kinsman's distant relative raise his ornate musket skyward, the polished brass gleaming despite the overcast conditions.
The Gryphon Rider's mount, a magnificent beast with golden-brown plumage and intelligent amber eyes, sensed its master's tension and released a sharp cry that echoed across the mountainous terrain. Around them, the Alliance air force maintained formation—dozens of gryphon riders from Aerie Peak flanked by the exotic silhouettes of dragonhawk riders from distant Quel'Thalas, their mounts' crystalline wings catching what little sunlight pierced the cloud cover.
"Also, shut your loose mouth!" Kurdran's voice carried the authority of years spent commanding aerial cavalry. "What's this about 'funny or not funny'? Don't talk nonsense; he's clearly flying very—elegantly!"
"That's right, very elegantly!" The agreement came hastily from several nearby riders, their voices betraying nervous tension.
Kurdran broke out in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the frigid mountain air, his knuckles white as he gripped his gryphon's reins. The mere thought of this distant relative potentially angering the figure soaring above them sent chills down his spine that rivaled the Dun Morogh winter. He had heard whispers of what happened to those who crossed certain members of the Kirin Tor, and the being above them was no ordinary mage.
"You mean the musket?" Brann Bronzebeard's voice carried that peculiar mix of reckless enthusiasm and genuine curiosity that had gotten him into trouble across three continents. His explorer's gear—a practical ensemble of reinforced leather, climbing ropes, and various tools of discovery—marked him as distinctly different from the traditional dwarven warriors around him. "My apologies, one of my dreams is to shoot down a dragon, so it was an unconscious action, don't mind it! You know I'm the most adventurous, right?"
With theatrical flair that would have been comical under different circumstances, Brann pivoted his expertly crafted firearm toward a cluster of green-skinned warriors below. The musket spoke with a sharp crack that echoed off the mountainsides, and an unfortunate orc sprawled backward into the blood-stained snow, steam rising from the wound in the frigid air.
"But honestly," Brann continued conversationally, as if he hadn't just ended a life, "that Red Dragon isn't a very good flyer. My pet bird flies better than him!"
The collective intake of breath from the surrounding riders was audible even over the wind. Several gryphons shifted nervously, their riders' tension transmitting through reins and saddle.
Kurdran wiped perspiration from his brow despite the freezing temperature, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Shut your mouth! And that's not an adventurous spirit, that's courting death! Aren't you afraid of being burned alive by him!"
The mental image seemed to strike him with fresh horror. "Luckily you didn't fire, or you'd be well-done by now, smelling like roasted meat!" His imagination conjured the acrid scent of charred dwarf, and he shuddered. "Don't you understand? He's scarier than all the monsters you've encountered on your adventures combined!"
Above them, the massive form continued its aerial dance of death, and for a terrifying moment, it seemed as though their conversation had been overheard.
"Brann, is it? Seeing is believing, and you're indeed a clown."
The voice that drifted down from above carried the refined accent of Quel'Thalas nobility, each word precisely enunciated despite the speaker's current draconic form. In the sky, the Red Dragon—easily fifty feet from snout to tail-tip, scales gleaming like freshly spilled blood in the dim light—couldn't be bothered with the clown on the ground for more than a moment's acknowledgment. His massive dragon eyes, each the size of a warrior's shield and burning with inner fire, searched the battlefield below with predatory intent.
Those ancient, terrible eyes soon spotted their quarry: an old, battle-scarred orc whose weathered green skin bore the ritualistic scars of countless conflicts. Most distinctive was the crude iron patch covering his left eye socket—a badge of honor among his savage kind.
"Kilrogg Deadeye, I've found you!"
The dragon's voice resonated with the authority of ages, each word carrying the weight of arcane power. He folded his wings and dove with the precision of a hunting hawk, talons extended. The wind screamed past his scales as he descended, and orcs scattered like leaves before a hurricane, their panicked shrieks adding to the cacophony of battle.
Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow clan, stood his ground with the stubborn courage of his people. His remaining eye blazed with defiance even as the shadow of death fell across him. The ancient orc had survived decades of warfare, ritual combat, and the corruption of fel magic—he would not cower now.
The impact sent tremors through the frozen ground. Massive talons, each longer than a dwarven war axe, closed around the orc chieftain with inexorable strength. Kilrogg found himself lifted skyward, the battlefield shrinking below him as he was carried aloft like a field mouse in an eagle's grip.
"Tell me," the dragon's voice rumbled with barely contained power, hot breath washing over the captured orc, "what's the situation with the Horde right now? Who is the Warchief, and where are all the clans?"
Even suspended hundreds of feet above certain death, with talons that could crush stone pressing against his ribs, Kilrogg Deadeye maintained the fierce pride of his people. His weathered face, marked by ritual scars and the wisdom of countless battles, contorted in a snarl of absolute defiance.
"Bah! Never!" The old chieftain's voice carried across the battlefield, a final act of defiance that would be remembered in orcish songs for generations to come.
The sound that followed was sickeningly final—a wet crunch that spoke of bones being ground to powder and flesh compressed beyond recognition. The dragon's talons closed completely, and what remained of the legendary chieftain fell like crimson rain upon the snow below, staining the pristine white in spreading patterns of red.
Without pause, the massive predator wheeled in the air, his terrible gaze now fixed upon a much smaller target. Brann Bronzebeard suddenly found himself the focus of attention that had, moments before, reduced one of the most feared orc chieftains to mere fragments.
"He—he wouldn't really burn me, would he?" Brann's voice cracked slightly, though he maintained his grip on his musket with admirable steadiness. The weapon, a masterwork of dwarven engineering inlaid with intricate runic patterns, trembled only slightly in his weathered hands. "Kurdran, quickly tell your Red Dragon friend to stop, or I'll really shoot!"
The threat rang hollow in the mountain air, but Brann raised the musket anyway, its polished barrel catching the light as he sighted along its length. His explorer's instincts warred with common sense—here was a creature beyond his experience, and every fiber of his being wanted to study it, understand it, even as survival demanded he flee.
Rather than answer with flame and fury, the great dragon underwent a transformation that left the assembled warriors speechless. The massive form began to shimmer and contract, scales melting away like morning mist to reveal pale skin beneath. Wings folded inward and disappeared, the serpentine neck shortened, and in mere seconds, where once a fifty-foot terror had hovered, now stood a figure of entirely different but no less commanding presence.
Kael'thas Sunstrider, Prince of Quel'Thalas and member of the Kirin Tor's Council of Six, alighted upon the bloodstained snow with ethereal grace. His long, golden hair flowed like spun sunlight despite the mountain winds, and his elegant robes—silk and arcane-woven fabric that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light—appeared untouched by the violence surrounding them. Most striking were his eyes: ancient beyond his apparent years, glowing with the inner fire of arcane power, and fixed upon Brann with an expression that might have been amusement.
The half-smile that played across his aristocratic features was neither cruel nor kind—it was the expression of a being so far beyond mortal concerns that the difference between life and death was merely academic. Yet something in that smile made Brann's heart pound with excitement rather than terror.
"You—are you a Red Dragon or a High Elf?" Brann's natural curiosity overcame his survival instincts, as it had so many times before across countless expeditions and adventures.
"Your Highness, please don't mind him; he's just like that, very annoying." Kurdran had dismounted and approached with the careful steps of one addressing dangerous nobility. His gryphon remained behind, intelligent enough to sense the power emanating from the transformed dragon. "Don't just say you, even I want to beat him up."
The Wildhammer's weather-beaten face showed the strain of maintaining diplomatic courtesy while dealing with a relative whose mouth regularly wrote checks his body couldn't cash. Years of managing aerial cavalry had given Kurdran patience, but family members who insulted beings capable of leveling cities tested even his considerable reserves.
He gestured toward the still-gaping Brann with the resigned air of a man who had made this particular apology countless times. "Brann, don't be rude. This is the High Elf Prince, His Highness Kael'thas."
"Kael'thas?" Recognition dawned in Brann's eyes, followed immediately by the dangerous light of scholarly curiosity. "A member of the Kirin Tor's Council of Six? I know mages have Dragon's Breath, but I didn't expect Dragon Transformation. Can you transform again for me to see?"
Before anyone could stop him, Brann had scurried over to Kael'thas with the enthusiasm of a scholar who had just discovered a new species. His explorer's pack bounced against his back as he moved, various instruments and tools clanking together in metallic harmony.
"I won't let you transform for free; I'll trade you my hunting rifle!" He held up the weapon as if offering a sacred artifact. "It's genuine dwarven craftsmanship, inlaid with silverite and inscribed with accuracy runes by the finest weaponsmiths in Ironforge!"
"Sorry, Brann has a rather mischievous personality. Just pretend he's not here." The voice belonged to another dwarf approaching across the battlefield, this one noticeably larger and more imposing than his younger brother.
Muradin Bronzebeard moved with the measured stride of a seasoned warrior, his massive frame easily distinguishing him from the other dwarves present. Where most of his kinsmen stood roughly chest-high to a human, Muradin possessed the stature of his royal bloodline—broad shoulders that could bear the weight of mountains, arms thick with muscle earned through countless hours at forge and battlefield, and the commanding presence that marked true leadership.
His armor was practical rather than ornate: masterwork plate that showed the wear of real combat, a massive warhammer slung across his back that hummed with barely contained enchantments, and the confident bearing of one who had never met a foe he couldn't face. This was the Mountain King in truth, heir to powers that few mortals could comprehend.
"Muradin Bronzebeard, greetings, Your Highness!" He offered a bow that managed to convey respect without subservience—the greeting of one royal to another.
Kael'thas returned the gesture with the fluid grace of elven nobility, his movements carrying centuries of refined court protocol. "So it's Lord Mountain King. Your renown has long spread throughout Quel'Thalas."
The Prince's acknowledgment carried genuine respect. This was Muradin Bronzebeard, future mentor to Prince Arthas of Lordaeron, the second of the three legendary Bronzebeard brothers. While his fame couldn't match that of his elder brother the King, or the notorious reputation of his meddlesome younger brother, in terms of raw power and skill at arms, he might well have been the strongest among them—a true Mountain King in every sense of the ancient title.
Brann rolled his eyes with the practiced disdain of a younger brother who had endured countless comparisons. "They're all Mountain Kings, so why aren't they like that with me? Just now, he even threatened me with his eyes—"
The glare that Muradin directed at his sibling could have melted steel, and his voice carried the authority of one accustomed to command. "What's the fuss? Go kill the enemy!"
"Alright." Despite his earlier bravado, Brann was clearly somewhat intimidated by his middle brother's presence. He hefted his musket and trotted back toward the ongoing battle, muttering under his breath about family favoritism and the unfair distribution of royal treatment.
Kurdran, who had maintained close relationships with all three Bronzebeard brothers throughout their various adventures and political entanglements, couldn't help but voice a complaint that had been building for years. "He's a Mountain King? Without a warhammer, unable to use Avatar, always carrying a gun—what kind of Mountain King is he? King of Muskets is more like it!"
The traditional powers of the Mountain Kings were legendary among the dwarven people—the ability to grow to enormous size through the Avatar transformation, mastery of hammer and axe that bordered on the supernatural, and an inner strength that could literally move mountains. Brann possessed none of these traditional markers, instead favoring the technological innovations that marked the new age of dwarven civilization.
Muradin's sigh carried the weight of years spent managing family expectations and political necessities. "We spoiled him."
The admission revealed the complex family dynamics that had shaped the youngest Bronzebeard prince. Brann was significantly younger than his two elder brothers, growing up in their considerable shadows while they managed the affairs of the kingdom. After their father passed away, the eldest brother had inherited the throne and handled the intricate web of internal politics that kept Khaz Modan functioning, while Muradin took responsibility for military operations and the equally complex realm of foreign affairs.
Between the two of them, they managed all the crucial state affairs of the Khaz Modan Kingdom, leaving Brann without the responsibilities and obligations that had shaped his brothers' characters. Instead, he had been free to pursue his own interests and passions, spending his days wandering far beyond the mountain halls of his birth.
His fascination with the origins of the dwarven people and everything connected to the mysterious Titans had led him to become something unprecedented—a dwarven explorer and scholar who valued knowledge above gold and discovery above comfort. He traveled extensively, exploring distant continents and ancient ruins, rarely returning home more than once a year.
If it weren't for the current crisis—the devastating Orc invasion that threatened all the kingdoms of the Eastern Kingdoms—Brann would still be exploring some distant continent or delving into forgotten ruins, driven by an insatiable curiosity that had already gotten him into more trouble than most adventurers faced in entire lifetimes.
Kael'thas observed the family dynamics with the keen insight of one trained in court intrigue and political maneuvering. His smile carried genuine warmth as he offered a different perspective. "Actually, this is good. Embracing technology, Brann might become a great explorer and scientist in the future."
The comment seemed to lift some of the burden from Muradin's shoulders, though his expression remained troubled. "He is indeed very fond of technology and is very close to the Gnomes of Gnomeregan. He even specifically attended Gearshaft University."
This revelation surprised Kael'thas, who raised an elegant eyebrow in genuine curiosity. The relationship between dwarves and gnomes was well-known, but for a member of dwarven royalty to actually attend the gnomes' premier institution of learning was unprecedented. "How did he do?"
Muradin's expression became completely deadpan, the look of a man who had received far too many bills for damages caused by well-meaning relatives. "In just one month, he broke five instruments, ten wrenches, a hundred gears, and even dismantled the prototype of the mechanical strider invented by High Tinker Mekkatorque himself!"
The mental image of Brann loose in a gnomish engineering facility brought chuckles from several nearby soldiers, but Muradin's tone suggested this was no laughing matter. "He presses every button he sees and touches every new gadget he encounters, which forced me to travel to Gnomeregan specifically to apologize and pay a hundred thousand gold coins in damages!"
Beside them, Kurdran had been listening with growing amusement, and now he added his own experiences with barely concealed mirth. "When he visited Aerie Peak, he broke the main gate on the first day, dismantled the High Shaman's totem on the second, and was surrounded by a flock of angry Gryphons on the third day for attempting to steal Gryphon eggs for 'scientific study'! If I hadn't rescued him in time, he would have been pecked to death by protective mothers!"
From behind Kael'thas came another voice, melodious with the refined accent of Silvermoon nobility. Lanathel, one of the Farstrider rangers who had accompanied the Prince on this mission, stepped forward with the fluid grace of her people. Her armor was the traditional leaf-green and brown of the ranger corps, designed for stealth and mobility rather than protection, and her bow—a masterwork of elven craftsmanship—was strung and ready despite the current cease in hostilities.
"Your Highness, didn't you know? Prince Brann visited Silvermoon City ten years ago and was arrested by the Spellbreaker unit for dismantling arcane constructs for research purposes. It was His Majesty who personally released him and escorted him to the border."
Kael'thas blinked in surprise, his usual composure momentarily shaken. As a member of the royal family and the Kirin Tor, he should have been informed of such incidents, but his frequent absences from the capital meant that many minor diplomatic incidents escaped his notice.
"Uh, I'm rarely in Silvermoon City, so I really didn't know about that. But now that you mention it, something comes to mind." His expression grew peculiar as memory stirred. "Eleven years ago, Brann visited Dalaran, and I heard he and that kid Khadgar were going around picking locks throughout the city. Archmage Antonidas seemed to have mentioned that Khadgar learned bad habits from Brann?"
The image of the future Archmage of Dalaran as a young apprentice, learning lockpicking techniques from a dwarven prince, was both amusing and slightly disturbing. Khadgar's later reputation for unconventional problem-solving suddenly made more sense.
Lanathel nodded with the precise recall of elven memory. "Prince Brann was expelled from Dalaran by Archmage Antonidas, then he came directly to Silvermoon City. His Majesty personally opened the gates to escort him back to Ironforge and placed him on the 'unwelcome' list, forbidding his future entry without explicit royal permission."
Muradin's mouth twitched with what might have been suppressed laughter or incipient nervous breakdown. "When he returned home, my elder brother put him in solitary confinement in the deepest cells of Ironforge, ordering him not to leave for ten years as punishment for the international incidents he had caused."
He paused, and his expression grew even more pained. "Three days later, he escaped using a master key given to him by High Tinker Mekkatorque, who apparently thought the whole situation was 'fascinating' and wanted to help with the 'experiment.'"
Everyone present exchanged glances that mixed amusement with sympathy for the long-suffering Muradin. The youngest Bronzebeard prince was clearly a force of nature that couldn't be contained by conventional means.
Muradin's voice dropped to a tone of deep suffering. "You don't know how much trouble he's caused my elder brother and me over the years. The gold we've paid in damages, bribes, and diplomatic settlements is enough to arm a thousand-man musket regiment with the finest weapons and armor!"
Kael'thas, with the diplomatic skills honed through centuries of elven court life, attempted to offer comfort. "Look on the bright side—maybe he'll cause even greater trouble in the future, and this current chaos will seem like small-time mischief by comparison?"
The silence that followed this observation was profound. Muradin stared at the Prince with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering the wisdom of their alliance.
"Never mind, let's not talk about him anymore." Muradin's tone carried the finality of a man who had reached his limit for family discussions. "Come with me, my elder brother is waiting for you in the city!"
Around them, the battle was winding down with the efficiency that marked professional military operations. About half of the five thousand Bleeding Hollow Orcs who had participated in the siege had already been eliminated, their crude weapons and desperate courage no match for the combined might of the Alliance forces.
The remaining survivors had scattered like leaves before a storm, fleeing in all directions across the snow-covered landscape of Dun Morogh. They were being systematically hunted down by coordinated wings of Dragonhawk Riders from Quel'Thalas, their crystalline-winged mounts moving with predatory grace as they spotted fleeing enemies from above. Gryphon Riders from Aerie Peak worked in conjunction with their elven allies, the golden-brown feathers of their mounts standing out against the grey sky as they dove upon isolated groups of orcs.
On the ground, Bronzebeard warriors moved with the methodical precision of professional soldiers, their plate armor gleaming despite the battle's carnage, while musketeers provided ranged support with weapons that cracked like thunder across the mountainsides. The battle had become entirely one-sided, a cleanup operation rather than a true military engagement, making the continued presence of the various leaders unnecessary.
The group followed Muradin through the massive gates of Ironforge, and Kael'thas found himself genuinely impressed despite his high standards. The great doors—each easily fifty feet tall and carved from single blocks of mountain stone—stood open to reveal the glory that lay within. The architecture spoke of centuries of careful planning and masterful execution, with every surface displaying the finest examples of dwarven stonework and engineering.
The Great Forge dominated the central chamber, a miracle of engineering that had burned continuously for over a thousand years. The flames that danced within reached temperatures that could melt the hardest metals, fed by carefully engineered systems that drew air from the mountain's depths and channeled it with perfect precision. Around the forge, anvils rang with the constant rhythm of hammers striking metal, creating a symphony of industry that had become the heartbeat of dwarven civilization.
They made their way deeper into the mountain fortress, passing through halls lined with tapestries depicting the great moments of dwarven history, past workshops where craftsmen labored over weapons and armor that would be legendary among other races, and finally to the throne room where the ruler of Khaz Modan held court.
King Magni Bronzebeard was everything the legends claimed and more. He stood easily a head taller than even his brother Muradin, his massive frame filling the throne that had been carved from a single block of granite thousands of years before. His arms, particularly impressive even among a race known for physical strength, were as thick as Brann's thighs, clearly indicating a lifetime devoted to the forge and the battlefield in equal measure.
Like many of the classic rulers found throughout history, King Magni was completely uninterested in the political aspects of his position. His first love was the craft of smithing, his second the honest combat of the warrior's path. The intricate machinery of statecraft, the careful balance of competing interests that kept a kingdom functioning—these were necessary burdens rather than sources of satisfaction.
But fate and bloodline had conspired against his personal preferences. He was the Old King's eldest son, heir by ancient law and sacred tradition, and neither of his two younger brothers wanted the responsibility of the throne. Muradin preferred the straightforward challenges of military command, while Brann had made it abundantly clear that sitting still long enough to rule anything was beyond his capabilities.
So Magni had been forced to ascend to the throne, compelled by duty and family loyalty to become the ruler of hundreds of thousands of square kilometers of territory and the millions of subjects who called Khaz Modan home. True to his nature, however, he had never abandoned his personal passions during his reign.
He remained, at heart, a better warrior than a king, a superior blacksmith than a warrior, and—though this was a story for future years—destined to become a better spokesperson for the world itself than any of his other roles. But those were considerations for another time.
"Your Highness, thank you for helping us defeat the Orcs!" King Magni's voice boomed through the throne room with genuine warmth and gratitude. "From now on, the High Elves will be our closest friends and most trusted allies!"
His declaration carried the weight of royal decree and personal conviction. "The gates of Ironforge will always be open for you and your people!"
Before Kael'thas could respond to this generous offer, the Dwarven King had moved with surprising speed for such a large figure, crossing the chamber to envelop Kurdran in a bear hug that would have crushed lesser beings. The reunion between the two friends was clearly heartfelt, years of mutual respect and shared dangers creating bonds stronger than mere political alliance.
"After the Orc siege began, I was constantly worried they would move north to attack Aerie Peak. Thank the great Khaz'goroth that you're unharmed and were able to come to our aid!" Magni's relief was evident as he held his friend at arm's length, checking for injuries with the careful eye of a veteran warrior.
Khaz'goroth, one of the mighty Pantheon of Titans who had shaped the world in its earliest days, held special significance for the dwarven people. As the Titan who had empowered the great Guardian Azadas and granted strength to Neltharion the Earth-Warder before his corruption, Khaz'goroth was the ultimate creator of all things connected to stone and metal.
The dwarves themselves were descended from the Earthen, stone-beings created by Azadas under Khaz'goroth's direction in the world's youth. When the curse of flesh transformed these living stone creatures into beings of mortal flesh and blood, they retained their creator's gifts—an intuitive understanding of stone and metal that made them the greatest craftsmen in the world.
In the hearts and minds of the dwarven people, Khaz'goroth represented not just divine power, but the source of their greatest strengths and most cherished traditions. The Kingdom of Khaz Modan bore his name as both honor and responsibility, a reminder that they were his children in all the ways that truly mattered.
"I've been worried about you too, Magni," Kurdran replied, his own relief evident as he returned the embrace. "The mountains seemed empty without the sound of your forges, and we feared the worst when the smoke stopped rising from the Great Forge."
The two men held their embrace for what seemed a considerable time, a display of genuine affection that spoke to bonds forged through shared danger and mutual respect. Kael'thas observed this interaction with the detached interest of elven nobility, though something about the display of masculine intimacy triggered an uncomfortable association with certain memories from a past life—specifically a mental list of 'must-eat' establishments from a city he'd rather not remember.
When the reunion finally concluded, King Magni's attention turned to practical matters with the efficiency of a ruler accustomed to managing crises. "My good brother, what's the situation like outside our walls? Have the Orcs attacked your mountain stronghold? Were your losses significant? How many casualties did your people suffer?"
The isolation imposed by the siege had been complete. The Bronzebeard Dwarves possessed no mages capable of long-range communication, no means of maintaining contact with the outside world beyond the occasional scout who might slip through orcish lines. For months, they had been trapped within their mountain fortress, knowing nothing about the wider war or the fate of their allies.
Kurdran's weathered face broke into a grin that spoke of victories hard-won and enemies thoroughly defeated. "In a single word, the Horde is finished!"
What followed was a comprehensive briefing on the current state of the war, delivered with the precision of a military commander and the enthusiasm of someone who had participated in a truly historic victory. Kurdran explained the dissolution of the orcish clans, the death of key chieftains, the collapse of their command structure, and the systematic destruction of their ability to wage coordinated warfare.
He concluded his report with a gesture toward Kael'thas that carried unmistakable respect and admiration. "And all of this was orchestrated by His Royal Highness."
King Magni turned to study Kael'thas with fresh interest, clearly surprised by this revelation. The elven prince had long been known as a scholarly figure, a member of the Kirin Tor who preferred the quiet pursuit of magical knowledge to the chaos of active politics or military campaigning. To learn that this legendary mage had become such a dynamic force during the crisis, accomplishing so much in just one year of active involvement, was genuinely unexpected.
Of course, Kael'thas's personal power was also not to be underestimated. Anyone who dared to engage Deathwing the Worldbreaker in direct combat, regardless of the outcome, possessed courage that bordered on insanity and strength that commanded respect. That took a special kind of bravery—or perhaps a special kind of madness.
"Your Majesty," Kael'thas said, extending his left hand in the formal gesture of diplomatic alliance, "on behalf of the leaders of various nations, I formally invite the Kingdom of Khaz Modan to join the Alliance!"
King Magni immediately grasped the offered hand with his own massive paw, the difference in size emphasizing the physical power that lay behind his royal position. "The Bronzebeard Dwarves have always been friends with both the High Elves and the Humans. Let us work together to completely eliminate the Horde threat!"
The handshake that sealed this agreement carried significance far beyond the immediate military crisis. Kael'thas had placed great importance on securing dwarven participation in the Alliance, recognizing the unique capabilities they brought to any coalition.
Among the three major Dwarven clans scattered across the Eastern Kingdoms, the Wildhammer Dwarves were skilled but limited in numbers, while the Dark Iron Dwarves remained hostile and untrustworthy. The Bronzebeard Dwarves represented the greatest concentration of dwarven power and capability.
Their mining techniques could locate and extract resources that other races couldn't even detect. Their smelting processes could purify metals to degrees of quality that bordered on the magical. Their forging techniques were legendary, capable of creating weapons and armor that enhanced their wielders' capabilities far beyond what mere craftsmanship should allow.
King Magni himself was the foremost example of their capabilities—a legendary forge master whose skills would be essential for future endeavors that required the combination of magical power and masterful craftsmanship. There would be many occasions in the coming years when his unique abilities would mean the difference between success and failure.
Additionally, through their close relationship with the Gnomes of Gnomeregan, the Bronzebeard Dwarves had achieved remarkable progress in technological development. They had mastered the creation of various firearms and artillery pieces, developed siege engines that could breach the strongest fortifications, and were even experimenting with mechanized vehicles that represented a level of technology roughly equivalent to Earth's early 20th century.
While their achievements couldn't match the miraculous inventions of the gnomes themselves, they were still far superior to the High Elves and Humans, who hadn't yet experienced anything resembling an Industrial Revolution. In terms of technological capability, they existed in completely different worlds.
Azeroth was not a world limited to magical development. Many races had achieved remarkable technological sophistication, following the example set by the Titans themselves. The cosmic beings had left behind countless facilities and ruins throughout the world that combined magic and technology in ways that exceeded the understanding of any single mortal race.
Future expeditions to places like Ulduar, Uldaman, and Uldum would require the technical expertise that only the dwarves possessed. Their understanding of ancient mechanisms, their ability to interface with Titan-created systems, and their intuitive grasp of the principles underlying such constructions made them indispensable allies.
Beyond these practical considerations, Kael'thas harbored more ambitious plans. Deep beneath Blackrock Mountain lay the Molten Core, domain of Ragnaros the Fire Lord's avatar, a realm of elemental power that represented both tremendous danger and incredible opportunity. Any expedition to such a place would require passage through territory controlled by the Dark Iron Dwarves, and success would depend upon the support and expertise of their Bronzebeard cousins.
"With such esteemed guests visiting our halls," King Magni declared with the generous hospitality that marked dwarven culture, "I will immediately have our finest chefs prepare a lavish banquet. Kael'thas, you've never experienced true dwarven hospitality—tonight, you must try our legendary barley beer and taste the delicacies that have made our feasts famous throughout the kingdoms!"
Kael'thas quickly declined the generous offer with diplomatic grace. "Tomorrow evening, perhaps. We still need to travel to Gnomeregan tonight to coordinate with our gnomish allies. I'll be piloting—ah, no, riding a Dragonhawk, so I cannot drink and fly safely."
The excuse was practical and reasonable, though it also avoided potential complications that might arise from extended social interaction with the notoriously hospitable dwarves. Their celebrations could last for days, and time was still a crucial factor in the ongoing military operations