Chapter 16: Sal Steps In

The morning mist hung like gray-white silk, weaving among the twisted dead trees in the mud-soaked marsh. Jaina’s boot tips lightly touched the water’s surface as arcane energy crystallized beneath her feet into a delicate platform of ice, supporting her slow advance. The putrid sludge churned beneath the ice but could not sully her in the slightest.

“Invisibility spell holding steady…” she murmured, silently testing her magic. The runes flowing along the hem of her robe dissolved her presence entirely into the surroundings. A crystal orb floated above her left palm, recording every scene along the way—vital intelligence to bring back to Theramore.

Suddenly, her fingertips trembled.

Ten yards ahead, a straight canal cut through the swamp, its banks inlaid with polished obsidian tiles. The water ran unnaturally clear, revealing a filtering net laid along the bottom—this was no work of black dragons, creatures known only for destruction.

Following the canal for three hundred paces, the fetid fog thinned. Jaina’s pupils contracted sharply—

Six draconic humanoids clad in tanned beast pelts were hauling logs. Their movements were terrifyingly precise; the lead figure at the front barked a stiff command in Common: “One, two, lift!” Even more astonishing, these once-feral beings wore toolkits at their hips, with files, measuring tapes, and brass clasps peeking out.

“Dragonborn… collaborating on labor?” Jaina’s quill automatically recorded, sketches appearing on the parchment. As her gaze drifted deeper into the swamp, the quill suddenly plunged into the mire—

Three wooden cabins with glass windows stood on hardened, filled land. Their roofs were tiled with fireproof clay, and sulfurous smoke billowed from chimneys. At the door of the easternmost building, a human craftsman instructed a black dragon hatchling, who clumsily yet earnestly hammered nails with its tail, resembling an apprentice in a Stormwind workshop.

“By the arcane…” Jaina’s breath hitched, the invisibility spell flickering slightly. She hastened to reinforce the enchantment but then heard the brittle snap of dry branches behind her.

Turning swiftly, the crystal orb revealed a chilling sight—twenty yards away, Onyxia in her humanoid form stood atop the canopy, black flames at her fingertips coalescing into arrow shapes.

“Jaina Proudmoore,” the black dragon princess sneered, her voice layered with an electronic echo, “here to tour my model community?”

Dozens of dragonborn leapt down from newly built watchtowers, but Onyxia held them back. “Stand down. This is between me and the Pearl of Theramore.”

With that, a massive draconic form appeared before Jaina…

The sea breeze carried the briny scent, tossing Jaina’s golden hair. Her robe’s edges were singed by dragonfire, and under relentless assault, her arcane shield was fracturing. Theramore’s coastline lay just beyond reach, yet the shadow of the black dragon loomed constantly, those molten-gold slitted eyes glinting with predatory delight.

“Not bad for a little mage, running so fast,” Onyxia’s wings whipped up a furious gale, sand and gravel pelting Jaina’s frost shield like bullets. “Why stop teleporting now?”

Jaina’s fingers trembled from magical overexertion, but she raised her staff, unleashing a torrential hail of frost bolts. The icy shards struck the black dragon’s scales, shattering into a storm of fragments—without so much as a scratch.

“What a pity,” the black dragon’s cruel voice mocked, “your little tricks are nothing before true power—”

Boom!

A blast of black flame swept the shore, forcing Jaina to roll desperately aside. She planned to open a portal, but Onyxia’s claws rent the ground, magma-like fissures severing her escape.

“What exactly do you want?” Jaina panted, the crystal atop her staff cracked. “If it’s to provoke Theramore—”

“Provoke? No, no…” Onyxia folded her wings, her massive frame shifting effortlessly into elven form. She stepped lightly on scorched rocks, fingers toying with a wisp of black flame. “I’m merely curious—why would the ruler of noble Theramore sneak furtively into my territory?”

Jaina’s eyes scanned the sea. The tide was ebbing, revealing jagged reefs on the shallows. No reinforcements, no retreat, and the black dragon princess was clearly enjoying the cat-and-mouse game.

“The ‘construction’ in the mudflats is surprising,” Jaina cautiously adjusted her breathing, secretly gathering her dwindling magic. “Especially for someone like you… a destroyer.”

A dangerous curve formed at Onyxia’s lips. She suddenly raised a hand, conjuring a shadow barrier that enclosed them both. Outside sounds vanished instantly, even the crashing waves cut off.

“Now, speak the truth,” the black dragon princess’s pupils narrowed to slits. “What did you see?”

Jaina gripped her staff. Knowing any lie would be pierced by draconic perception, she spoke plainly: “Those dragonborn are building a town. Damn it—what exactly are you planning? Another dragon city like Theramore?”

***

“Making fertilizer, farming, and then earning gold,” the black dragon finally sneered. “Believe it or not.”

She withdrew the shadow barrier, and the sea wind rushed in. A figure sprinted along the shoreline—Dreln’s boots splashed through the shallows, droplets hitting his rolled-up sleeves.

“Wait!” he gasped, stopping between them. “Lady Jaina, perhaps we can discuss cooperation.”

Onyxia’s tail raised threateningly, but Dreln turned to face Jaina, his disheveled hair comically sunlit.

The sea breeze tossed fine waves against the reefs as Dreln stood between the two princesses, his linen shirt dusted with suspicious white powder. He brushed off his sleeves and stepped forward, wearing the earnest smile of a merchant.

“Lady Jaina, allow me to properly introduce myself.” He bowed slightly, neither humble nor arrogant. “Dreln Lothson, a refugee from Stormwind, now the black dragon princess’s agricultural advisor.”

Jaina’s fingers still rested on her staff, her brow easing slightly. “Agricultural advisor?”

“Indeed.” Dreln produced a neatly folded parchment, revealing a finely detailed map of Kalimdor marked with red circles. “Her Highness intends to reclaim barren lands for farming and develop a fertilizer industry—you know the state of the Eastern Kingdoms now.”

His finger tapped the location of Lordaeron, gently knocking. “The Scourge ravages the fields, farmland lies fallow, refugees flee south. Food prices have skyrocketed and will only climb higher.”

Jaina’s gaze lingered on the map before shifting to Onyxia. “Black dragons farming?”

Onyxia snorted coldly, a wisp of black flame flickering at her fingertip but extinguished under Dreln’s warning look.

“This is no joke, ma’am,” Dreln’s voice deepened. “Her Highness sees opportunity, and I…” He gestured to himself. “I happen to have farmed in the Western wastes before. By Her Highness’s favor, I now serve as her agricultural advisor.”

Jaina’s mouth twitched.

Seizing the moment, Dreln pressed on: “Now there’s a win-win chance before you.” He turned to Jaina, eyes sincere. “I need large amounts of beast hair and horns as raw materials for fertilizer, and the Horde’s hunting parties have no shortage of such waste. The goblins’ prices hurt my heart.”

He unbuckled a bulging leather pouch, pouring a dozen gold coins into his palm. “I’m willing to pay real gold, fairer than goblin prices. Orcs with money will naturally buy grain and goods from Theramore—”

“—easing tensions on both sides,” Jaina added thoughtfully.

“Exactly!” Dreln snapped his fingers. “And if you broker this deal, Thrall will surely remember your kindness.”

Onyxia suddenly interjected: “Finished?” Her tail slapped the rocks impatiently. “Humans love to make simple things sound like dragon magic.”

Dreln pretended not to hear, continuing to Jaina: “Think about it, orcs exchanging what they’d normally discard for coin, Theramore’s caravans gaining new customers, and we—” he patted the fertilizer sample bag at his waist, “guarantee golden wheat on Kalimdor’s wastelands. No more starving people in the Eastern Kingdoms. What a beautiful future!”

The tide lapped over their boots. Jaina’s staff tip drooped slightly—that signal of lowered guard.

“Your proposal…” she weighed her words carefully, “has merit. But Thrall won’t trust a human, especially one allied with a black dragon.”

Dreln smiled knowingly, prepared for this. “That’s why you, my ‘old friend,’ must make the introduction.” With a flourish, he produced a letter from his sleeve. “I even drafted the wording—of course, it’s up to you in the end.”

Jaina took the letter, glancing over it. On the parchment was neatly written:

“Thrall:

A reliable merchant wishes to purchase beast hair and horns long-term. Price negotiable. If interested, send an envoy to Theramore for detailed talks.

—Jaina”

Simple, direct, with no words to trigger the Horde’s sensitivities.

Onyxia suddenly leaned close to Dreln’s ear, her breath scorching his earlobe. “When did you prepare this?”

“Last night, while you were drinking,” Dreln whispered, then louder, “Lady Jaina, this is just a draft. You can—”

“No need.” Jaina tucked the letter into her robe. “I will send it to Orgrimmar. But if I find any plot behind this…”

“You can toss me into the sea for the murlocs.” Dreln replied cheerfully. “By the way, murloc scales might make good fertilizer too…”

Onyxia’s tail suddenly wrapped around Dreln’s ankle, tripping him. “Let’s go, advisor. Time to get back to supervising.”

As the black dragon princess dragged the human away into the mist, Jaina stroked the letter’s edge, noticing a tiny wheat emblem in the lower right corner—identical to Dreln’s company seal.

The tide’s roar faded. She turned to face the sea, beginning to compose a second letter to Thrall. Perhaps this time, the deadlock between the Alliance and the Horde in Kalimdor could truly be broken.

***

The scorching sun blazed over the orcish leather tents in Orgrimmar. Thrall set down his battle axe, wiping sweat from his brow. Several battle reports lay on the table—the hunting parties in Ashenvale had clashed with night elves again, prey became scarce in the Barrens, and young orc warriors fought violently over a half-wind serpent carcass.

As he frowned, pondering countermeasures, hurried footsteps sounded outside the tent.

“Warchief!” The messenger threw open the flap, handing over a letter sealed with Theramore’s wax. “An urgent letter from Jaina Proudmoore.”

Thrall took the letter, his coarse fingers tracing the anchor-shaped seal. Breaking the wax, he unfolded the paper and recognized the familiar handwriting—indeed Jaina’s own.

But the contents stunned him. It mentioned someone wanting to buy the Horde’s leftover beast hair and horns.

Thrall stared at the brief lines, thick brows knitting together. He scrutinized the paper, even holding it to the light for hidden writing—none.

“Beast hair? Beast horns?” he muttered incredulously. “Since when is Jaina involved in this kind of trade?”

The messenger cautiously asked, “Warchief, should we have the warlocks check the letter for enchantments?”

Thrall shook his head. He recognized Jaina’s handwriting and remembered her habit of dotting a small ink spot after his name—this was truly her script.

But the message was absurd.

Orc hunting leftovers—beast hair and horns—were always discarded or burned. Who would pay for that? And prices negotiable?

“Could it be some new human magical material?” Thrall mused, stroking his chin. “Or are the goblins up to some strange invention again?”

He stood, pacing the tent. His leather boots thudded heavily on the hard earth.

If this was true…

Thrall suddenly halted. The Horde’s greatest need now was trade routes. Theramore, as a neutral port, could supply iron, grain, and medicine—precisely what the Horde needed most. Previously, expansionist orcish actions soured relations with Theramore. But if the mountains of hunting waste could be traded for jingling gold coins… could Theramore refuse?

“Ready my wolf riders,” Thrall commanded decisively. “I will go to Theramore myself.”