Chapter 15: Selamo's Doubt

The morning mist over Theramore Harbor had yet to dissipate when Chromie—or rather, "Lady Mirro Wrench"—stood at the edge of the dock, her golden eyes behind round glasses fixed intently on the horizon. She held a hefty ledger in her arms, occasionally scribbling with a quill while murmuring, "Time is money, efficiency is life..."

In the distance, three goblin cargo ships slowly entered the harbor, their sails emblazoned with the Hot Sands Consortium’s golden coin emblem, gleaming in the morning light.

"Finally arrived," Chromie said, pushing up her glasses with a sharp smile.

As the ships docked, a goblin dressed in a finely tailored silk vest leapt ashore. He wore a single gold-rimmed monocle and clutched a jewel-encrusted calculator, followed by several muscular goblin slave porters.

"Ah! Lady Mirro!" the goblin accountant hurried over, warmly shaking Chromie’s small hand. "Right on time, down to the second! The Hot Sands Consortium values contract spirit above all!"

Chromie returned a professional smile. "Of course, of course. Is all the cargo accounted for?"

The goblin patted his chest. "Sulfur, saltpeter, special containers—all as ordered, not a single copper short!" He leaned in, lowering his voice. "But... the shipping fee has increased by five percent."

Chromie's eyebrows rose slightly. "Oh? I recall the contract stated ‘free shipping.’"

The goblin chuckled nervously. "Oh, the sea’s been rough, you understand..."

Chromie sighed, pulling out a sheet from her ledger. "Fine, five percent—but next time you try this trick, I’ll take my business to the Rustwater Consortium."

The goblin’s face instantly paled, waving his hands frantically. "Misunderstanding! Pure misunderstanding! Shipping costs at the original rate, the original rate!"

Satisfied, Chromie nodded and then directed the goblin transport team to move the cargo to a warehouse she had rented long ago. The warehouse was situated at the edge of Theramore docks, away from Jaina Proudmoore’s mage tower but conveniently accessible—perfect for transferring “special goods.”

While the goblins unloaded, Chromie casually inquired, "By the way, how’s the trade between the Hot Sands Consortium and Theramore lately?"

The goblin accountant’s eyes brightened. "Business is excellent! Especially in grains and..." He suddenly lowered his voice. "‘Special commodities.’"

Chromie smiled. "Is that so? Looks like we might have a long-term partnership."

"Of course! Of course!" The goblin rubbed his hands together, gold teeth shining. "As long as the profits are good, the Hot Sands Consortium will do business with even demons!"

Chromie watched the goblin transport team leave, then locked the warehouse door. Looking at the full stock, a pang of guilt struck her—after all, it was all purchased with her personal funds.

She tiptoed to count the sulfur barrels, wary of being cheated by the goblins. She couldn’t use magic openly in Theramore, so she had to count each barrel by hand. A bit of dust clung to the tip of her nose; her round glasses slid down to the bridge. With a quill clenched in her mouth and the ledger spread on a wooden crate, her fingers flew as she calculated: "Twenty barrels of saltpeter... thirty of sulfur... hmm? One bag of aluminum powder is missing—"

Suddenly, the temperature inside the warehouse plummeted.

Chromie’s dragon scales shimmered beneath her skin—an instinctive reaction of a bronze dragon sensing danger. She whirled around sharply, the quill dropping to the floor with a soft click.

Jaina Proudmoore stood in the center of the warehouse, arcane energy swirling at her fingertips, frost creeping from her boots across the ground. Her gaze swept over the towering cargo piles before settling on Chromie.

"Lady Mirro," Jaina’s voice was colder than the northern wind, "explain yourself."

Chromie quickly pushed up her glasses, masking the faint glow in her eyes. "Respected Lady Proudmoore! These are all legal agricultural raw materials—"

Jaina’s mage hand suddenly flipped open a wooden barrel, releasing a cloud of sulfur dust. She levitated a sack of aluminum powder with arcane force, brows furrowed. "Sulfur, saltpeter, aluminum powder... and these animal hairs and horns." With a flick of her finger, a barrel of viscous fuel floated upward. "You’re certain this is a ‘fertilizer’ formula?"

A bead of sweat formed at Chromie’s temple, but she maintained the eager smile typical of a gnomish merchant. "Of course! Our ‘super growth agent’ requires special catalysts! Look here—" She suddenly pulled a small packet of white powder from her pocket. "Potassium sulfate compound fertilizer! Certified by the Dalaran Agricultural Institute!"

Jaina took the bag, arcane energy flickering at her fingertips. Detection spells confirmed it was indeed fertilizer—but her gaze remained skeptical.

"And these?" She pointed to several sealed iron barrels labeled “Premium White Sugar.”

Chromie’s heart nearly stopped. Thinking quickly, she said, "Sugar promotes fermentation! It can produce organic acids! It improves soil pH!"

Jaina tapped her staff lightly, each sound striking Chromie’s taut nerves. "I’ve studied Advanced Alchemy, Lady Mirro. The proportions of these ingredients... are quite unusual."

Chromie suddenly pulled out a crumpled parchment with an exaggerated flowchart. "See! This is our latest ‘Barren Land Soil Improvement Project!’" She pointed to a complex chemical formula. "The sugar here is merely a catalyst carrier!"

Jaina’s eyes flicked between the parchment and the cargo. Finally, she lowered her staff, the frost in the air gradually dissipating.

"Remember, Theramore will not tolerate any threats." Her figure began to fade as arcane energy pulsed around her. "I will be watching your ‘agricultural development.’"

With a flash of blue light, Jaina vanished, leaving behind a few drifting ice crystals.

Chromie’s legs gave out, and she sank onto a saltpeter barrel. Removing her glasses to rub them, she exhaled deeply. "By the Light... this is more exhausting than dealing with Nozdormu..."

Suddenly recalling something, she jumped up and hurried to check the seals on the iron barrels—thankfully, Jaina hadn’t noticed the tiny bronze dragon mark at the bottom of one. It was a hidden time magic seal visible only to dragons.

"Duren was right," she muttered, pulling out a time hourglass. "Next time, I need to place a ‘Jaina detector’ at the warehouse door..."

Jaina returned to her office, bathed in the cold blue glow of a magic crystal lamp. Her heavy oak desk was piled high with parchment scrolls and magical correspondence. Outside the window, the lighthouse beams of Theramore swept rhythmically across the sea, casting her shadow long then short, mirroring the turmoil in her mind.

Her fingers paused over a letter sealed with wax—the plea for aid from Kael’thas. The parchment still bore the unique magical ink scent of Violet Hold, the hurried handwriting betraying the urgency:

“Jaina, the Scourge have broken through the Quel’Thalas defenses; High Elf refugees are...”

Her quill tip lightly scraped the edge of the ink bottle as she instinctively reached to write a reply, but another document caught her eye—a scroll delivered by a Thal’darah messenger, its edges dusted with the dry winds of Durotar.

“Old friend, prey in the Barrens grow scarce, forcing our hunters to venture...”

Jaina’s temple throbbed. She pressed a hand to her forehead, the other unconsciously stroking a crystal orb on her desk. Inside, the orb displayed the outskirts of Theramore—goblin caravans hauling suspicious cargo, and further beyond, in the Dustwallow Marsh’s mist, faint traces of black dragon activity.

“Lady Proudmoore?” A cautious knock sounded at the door. Her lieutenant peeked in. “The Stormwind envoy has arrived regarding... countering the undead and forming an alliance.”

Jaina swiped the crystal orb’s surface; the image switched instantly to the harbor warehouse. The recorded magical footage showed “Lady Mirro” animatedly gesturing by the sulfur barrels.

“Make him wait,” Jaina said sharply, rising as her robes billowed and scattered a few documents. “Prepare a ship. I will go to the marsh myself.”

Her lieutenant’s eyes widened. “Now? But there are rumors that—”

“Precisely because of those rumors,” Jaina retrieved a dagger etched with protective runes from a secret compartment in her bookshelf. “If a black dragon has truly become active in Dustwallow Marsh, I need to confirm if it’s the one we fear.”

Jaina’s brow furrowed tighter. She recalled the vision from her divination three days prior—an uncertain chaos creeping into a blurred future.

“Tell the envoy,” she finally said, slipping the dagger into a hidden pocket of her robe, “Theramore will stand with the Alliance.”

As the portal’s blue light flared, a document slid from beneath a paperweight—a recent report from the Theramore Tax Office:

“Barrens Agricultural Development Company” recent procurement list:

Rope × 30 coils

Iron nails × 15 barrels

Dried meat × 50 pounds

Black hard bread × 50 pounds

...

Note: Suspicious but legal

Jaina’s figure vanished within the arcane glow.

Before dawn, a thin mist cloaked the northern trade routes of Theramore. Six reinforced goblin wagons groaned under their heavy loads. Each was drawn by two sturdy pack horses, wheels carving deep ruts into the muddy road.

“Tighten those bindings!” Goblin leader Gristock climbed atop the cargo heap, tapping the exposed steel beams with his wrench. “If we lose this shipment, the Hot Sands Consortium will turn us into mechanical snowmen!”

The wagons were packed with a bewildering variety of supplies:

Steel plates labeled “Premium Fertilizer Containers” (actually reinforced for dragon nests)

Linen ropes soaked in fire retardant solution (no tool cheaper or more useful than rope)

Buckets marked “For Agricultural Use” (with heat-resistant ceramic liners hidden at the bottom)

Even several boxes of hard bread and dried meat (Duren’s daily staples)

As the caravan reached the edge of Dustwallow Marsh, the lead horse snorted nervously. The goblins exchanged knowing looks and began loosening the reins—their “accident insurance” contracts heating faintly at their waists.

“Here it comes!” a lookout goblin shouted, pointing skyward.

A black shadow tore through the morning fog—Onyxia in her dragon form circled low, the fierce wind from her wings rattling the wagon tarps violently. She deliberately exhaled a plume of black flame, instantly carbonizing a dead tree by the roadside.

“Run!” the goblins shouted in unison, scattering like startled birds. Some even activated rocket boots, leaving a trail of charred footprints behind.

Onyxia watched the fleeing goblins with a cruel smile. Her claw flexed, and six wagons lifted from the ground—one suddenly broke apart, showering down a rain of iron nails.

"Damn human shoddy craftsmanship..." she muttered, melting the broken axle with dragon breath, unaware a nail had lodged between the scales of her right claw.

As the black dragon flew deeper into the marsh with the wagons, the last goblin to flee suddenly stopped. Gathering the scattered pack horses, he strode briskly back toward Theramore.

In front of the newly built “factory” at Dustwallow Marsh, Duren was checking supplies against the list.

“Half a barrel of steel nails missing,” he frowned at Chromie, who was munching on bread. “And three coils of fireproof rope.”

Onyxia, transformed back into her elf form, approached, rust still clinging to her knuckles. “Losses on the road.” She flicked her hand, and a twisted iron nail clattered to the ground.

Duren raised an eyebrow. “So that’s why you didn’t want me checking your claw earlier?”

The black dragon princess’s ear fins flushed red instantly. She roughly hefted a stack of steel plates toward the warehouse.

“Dinner’s on me tonight!” Duren cheerfully pulled out dried meat and bread. Maybe some stew with bread afterward? He thought happily.

In the distance, the joyful roars of young dragons echoed—they were playing on the empty wagons as if they were slides.