When the Dark Portal shattered and the way back to Draenor was lost in a storm of arcane ruin, the orcs remaining in Azeroth felt something greater than defeat. They felt abandoned.
Grommash Hellscream and the Warsong clan had been among the last to retreat from the failing invasion. With the human kingdoms united and the Alliance armies relentless, the Warsong strike forces were broken and scattered. Cut off from their homeland and hunted without mercy, Grom had only one choice. He led his clan into hiding.
The forests of Lordaeron became their refuge. And their prison. They did not settle in one place for long. Human patrols roamed constantly, searching for rogue orcs to drag back into internment camps. Rangers of Quel'Thalas stalked the borders. Dwarven riflemen hunted in the hills.
The Warsong survived by moving like ghosts. They hunted deer and boar in the deep woods. They scavenged abandoned farmsteads under cover of night. Sometimes they ambushed supply caravans not out of cruelty, but necessity. Winter was their true enemy.
Many of the younger orcs, born after the First War, had never known Draenor. They had never run across the red plains of Nagrand or heard the songs of the elements whisper through the canyons. They knew only damp forests and cold rain. Food grew scarce. Children grew thin. And something worse gnawed at them.
The demon blood of Mannoroth had changed them forever. Even long after the frenzy of battle faded, its corruption lingered like poison in their veins. For many orcs, once the wars ended and the bloodlust had no outlet, their spirits collapsed inward. Without conquest, without rage, they felt hollow.
Some became listless. Others simply sat for hours staring at nothing. The humans called it weakness. But Grom knew the truth. It was a withdrawal.
They had been forged into weapons and when the war ended, the weapon no longer knew its purpose. Grom himself felt it every day. There were mornings when he rose from furs feeling as though his bones were filled with sand. His muscles, once capable of sundering plate armor, ached with unnatural fatigue.
A dull pressure throbbed behind his eyes, whispering. Drink again. Take the power. End the weakness.
But there was no blood to drink. And even if there had been, Grom would not have taken it. He remembered Draenor before the corruption.
He remembered the old shamans calling down rain. He remembered the pride of the clans when strength came not from demons but from honor.
Now he saw clearly what had been stolen. Warlock magic had replaced shamanism. Fel fire had replaced the elements. And it had cost them everything.
"I was blind," he once told his warriors around a dying campfire. "We traded our souls for victory. And lost both."
But if the curse gnawed at his spirit, it did not conquer him. Where other orcs slumped into despair, Grom sharpened his axe. Where others surrendered to apathy, Grom hunted alone through snowstorms to feed his clan. His will was iron. And that iron held the Warsong together.
Years passed. Old warriors died from wounds that never healed properly. Young ones failed to thrive in the harsh wilderness. The Warsong grew smaller. Each burial weighed heavily. Each winter felt like the last.
Grom watched the horizon often. He did not fear death. He feared extinction. The day would come, he knew, when the last Warsong would fall and the name Hellscream would fade into forgotten ash.
It was during one such bleak season that fate shifted. A young orc found him.
Thrall had tracked the Warsong for weeks. He followed faint signs most would have missed, broken branches cut by an axe blade rather than weather, fire pits disguised but not entirely concealed, footprints too heavy to belong to humans.
When at last he stepped into the Warsong camp, warriors surrounded him instantly. Axes raised. Blades gleaming. Grom emerged from the largest tent, Gorehowl resting on his shoulder.
He studied the newcomer carefully. The young orc stood tall. Broader than most. His green skin unmarked by fel madness. His posture is disciplined but not submissive.
"You are not from the Warsong Clan," Grom growled.
"No," Thrall replied calmly.
Grom, scanned the young orc, based from the markings the young orc brought back from his infancy, he identified the young orc was likely from the Frostwolf Clan. A murmur rippled through the camp. The Frostwolves had been exiled long before the wars ended. Many believed them extinct.
"I seek the old ways," Thrall continued. "I seek our people."
Grom circled him like a predator.
"You were raised by humans."
"Yes."
"You speak like them."
"Yes."
"And yet you come here."
Thrall did not flinch.
"I am an orc."
The simplicity of the statement hung in the air. Grom saw something in him then. Not arrogance. Not desperation. Conviction.
Grom allowed Thrall to remain. The decision was not unanimous but it was final. Under Grom's watchful eye, Thrall trained not as a gladiator but as an orc.
He learned their language. He learned their customs. He learned of clan bonds and ancestral spirits. Grom spoke openly of his regrets. Of drinking Mannoroth's blood. Of watching his warriors descend into madness.
"Power without honor is poison," Grom said one night, staring into the flames. "Remember that."
Thrall listened. He did not judge. He understood the weight Grom carried. More importantly, Grom saw mercy in him. Thrall hunted without waste.
He spared wounded animals when possible. He treated the weak with patience rather than contempt. He was strong but not cruel. And that gave Grom hope. Perhaps the next generation would not repeat their sins.
Hope, however, attracts danger. Human scouts eventually caught wind of unusual activity in the forests. Reports of organized raids. Signs of a growing orc presence. And word of a particular escaped gladiator.
Blackmoore's men drew closer. Thrall knew the risk he posed to the Warsong Clan. One evening, after sensing patrols nearby, he approached Grom.
"They search for me."
Grom grunted.
"Let them search."
"They will bring armies."
Silence stretched between them. Finally, Grom reached beneath his armor and removed a necklace, a simple but ancient token bearing the Warsong insignia. He placed it in Thrall's hand.
"You carry our trust now," Grom said. "You carry our future."
Thrall bowed deeply.
"I will return."
Grom nodded once.
"See that you do."
Thrall slipped away before dawn. The mountain winds of Alterac cut like knives.
When Thrall parted from Grom Hellscream and the Warsong clan, the land itself seemed determined to test him. Snow fell in hard, slanting sheets, and the rocky passes twisted through jagged cliffs like the ribs of some ancient, frozen beast. He traveled alone, carrying little more than provisions, a heavy cloak, and the necklace Grom had given him, a symbol of trust and belonging.
For the first time in his life, Thrall walked not as a slave, nor as a fugitive, nor as a gladiator bound to another's will. He walked as an orc seeking his people.
The journey north into the Alterac Mountains was brutal. Hunger gnawed at him. The cold seeped into his bones. Yet something within him burned brighter with each step. The tattered swaddling cloth he carried, the last remnant of his infancy remained close to his chest. Grom had studied it carefully before handing it back.
"Frostwolf," the Warsong chieftain had said, his voice low. "You are from the Frostwolf Clan."
Those words echoed in Thrall's mind as exhaustion finally overtook him.
He collapsed in the snow as the sky darkened to iron-gray. When he awoke, the world smelled of smoke and fur. The crackle of a fire reached his ears. He opened his eyes to see shapes moving in the dim light, massive figures wrapped in furs, their armor simple but sturdy. Orcs.
True orcs.
Not broken creatures languishing behind human walls. Not gladiators or chained prisoners. These orcs stood tall, their eyes clear, their movements deliberate. There was strength in them, not the reckless fury Thrall had seen in the arena, but something steadier. Something ancient.
A tall orc stepped forward, his hair gray, his sightless eyes glowing faintly with inner fire. He leaned upon a carved staff adorned with feathers and bone charms.
"Go'el," the elder said quietly.
Thrall stiffened. No one had ever spoken that name to him.
"I am Drek'Thar," the orc continued. "Shaman of the Frostwolf clan. Son of Durotan… you have come home."
The words struck Thrall harder than any blow Blackmoore had ever delivered. Home.
Life within the Frostwolf camp was unlike anything Thrall had known. They dwelled in harmony with the mountain wilderness. Their tents were woven from hides, reinforced against the wind. Their warriors hunted elk and mountain goats, and they shared every meal as one person. There were no chains. No masters. No spectators demanding blood.
Thrall learned quickly that the Frostwolves had never drunk the demon blood that had corrupted the Horde. Though exiled long ago by Gul'dan for refusing to bow to his Shadow Council, they had preserved the ancient traditions of their ancestors.
They honored the spirits. They listened to the wind. They remembered Draenor not as conquerors but as guardians. Drek'Thar summoned Thrall daily, teaching him of the Horde as it had once been of clans bound by honor rather than domination, of shamans who spoke with the elements rather than enslaving demons.
"You were raised among humans," Drek'Thar said one evening, as snow fell softly outside his tent. "You were taught their tongue, their tactics, their cruelty. But the blood in your veins remembers more."
Thrall felt it. In dreams, he saw rolling red plains beneath alien skies. He heard drums in the distance. He smelled the dry heat of a world he had never consciously known.
Drek'Thar began instructing him in meditation. Thrall knelt for hours in the cold, breathing deeply, listening not with his ears, but with something deeper. At first there was only silence.
Then, one night, the wind answered.
It whispered across the mountain peaks, curling around him like a living thing. The snow shifted in delicate spirals. The fire in the shaman's brazier flared higher. Thrall's eyes widened.
"I feel them," he breathed. "The elements have not forgotten our people," Drek'Thar replied. "And they have not forgotten you."
Among the Frostwolves, bonds were sacred not only between orcs, but between warrior and wolf. The great white wolves of the clan were not mere beasts. They were companions, equals in spirit. They chose their riders as much as the orcs chose them.
One morning, as Thrall helped prepare for a hunting expedition, a hush fell across the camp.
A massive frost wolf approached from the treeline. Her fur shimmered silver-white, her eyes pale blue like glacial ice. She moved with quiet confidence, ignoring the others.
She walked directly to Thrall. The young orc froze as she circled him, sniffing, studying. He did not reach for her. He did not command. He simply stood, breathing steadily. At last, the wolf pressed her forehead against his chest. A murmur rippled through the clan.
"Snowsong," one of the hunters whispered.
Drek'Thar smiled faintly. "She has chosen."
Thrall slowly placed a hand upon her thick fur. In that moment, he felt a bond forged between them, silent, instinctive, unbreakable. Not dominance. Not ownership. Partnership. He was no longer alone.
Weeks passed. Thrall grew stronger not merely in body, but in spirit. He spoke Orcish fluently now. He sparred with Frostwolf warriors and listened to their stories. He learned of his father Durotan, of his courage, his honor, and his tragic death. At last, Drek'Thar summoned him one evening.
"Come," the elder said. "There is a place you must see."
They traveled beyond the main encampment to a secluded valley ringed by towering stone pillars carved with ancient runes. The air here felt different, charged, humming softly.
"I have walked this land many years," Drek'Thar said quietly, leaning upon his staff. "But this place is older than the Frostwolves. Older than the exile. It is where the spirits speak most clearly."
Thrall knelt upon the frozen earth.
"You have learned our history," Drek'Thar continued. "You have proven your strength. But to lead our people—if that is your path—you must understand that true power does not come from rage. It does not come from domination."
He raised his staff.
"It comes from balance."
The wind began to stir. Snow lifted in spirals around them. The ground trembled faintly beneath Thrall's knees.
"Call to them," Drek'Thar commanded.
Thrall closed his eyes. He thought of the arena, the roar of the crowd, the sting of chains. He thought of Blackmoore's cruelty. He thought of the orc who had died trying to save him. He thought of Grom's haunted eyes. Of the broken internment camps. And he let the anger go.
"I am Go'el," he said softly. "Son of Durotan. Of the Frostwolf clan."
The wind howled. The earth beneath him pulsed with warmth despite the snow. Flames erupted in a ring around him, not burning, but illuminating. The elements surged, surrounding him in a roaring chorus.
For a heartbeat, he felt as though the entire world was listening. Then the storm quieted. Drek'Thar lowered his staff.
"The spirits have answered," the old shaman said. "You are no slave, Thrall. You are no human's weapon."
He stepped forward and placed a hand upon the young orc's shoulder.
"You are now a shaman."
Thrall opened his eyes. The path before him stretched far beyond the mountains, beyond the internment camps, beyond Lordaeron. The Horde lay fractured, its spirit broken.
But here, in the whisper of wind and the rumble of earth, he had found something the humans had never understood. Hope. And with it, the first stirrings of destiny.