Saving Azeroth (By Stealing the Black Dragon Princess) - 29

Chapter 29: Prince Saves Prince

(TL NOTE: AU: In this timeline, Derek Proudmoore was captured rather than killed during the Second War.)

The Wetlands sky was perpetually overcast, thick clouds pressing low as if ready to crash into the putrid swamp below. The Dragonmaw clan's camp was located in the eastern mountains—easily defended, difficult to attack. Stone walls crawled with moss, rusted spears planted outside wooden palisades, their tips adorned with wind-dried lizard skulls that rattled in the breeze.

Whoosh—

A black shadow swept over the swamp, startling several carrion birds into panicked flight. Nefarian descended in human form outside the camp, dark red armor gleaming with metallic cold light in the dim illumination. His boots stepped into mud with soft squelching sounds, yet the mire eerily avoided his cape hem, as if not daring to stain it.

Behind him, Rend Blackhand—Warchief of the Dark Horde—landed heavily, war axe clanging into mud with a wet thud.

"Where is Zuluhed?" Nefarian's voice was not loud, yet it scraped like a blade across every orc's eardrums.

Guards froze in place, hands gripping spears with visible trembling. Finally, an elderly shaman stepped forward, whispering hoarsely, "The warchief is at the Dragon Tower... training new dragon riders."

Nefarian sneered coldly, striding directly toward the camp's depths without waiting for an escort. Rend Blackhand followed closely, crimson cape dragging a muddy trail, occasionally revealing rust-stained chainmail beneath.

"Take me to the prison." Nefarian casually grabbed the shaman by the collar, ordering him to lead the way.

"Quickly, old thing. The master commands you lead." Seeing the old orc frozen in fear, Blackhand snarled impatiently. Only then did the elderly shaman remember this Blackhand's master was such a terrifying being. He immediately nodded with frantic bowing, shuffling ahead to guide them.

The underground prison was built deep beneath the camp—damp and cold, with walls constantly seeping water droplets that echoed in the darkness. Prisoners of war were confined in cramped cells, most emaciated to mere skeletons, eyes vacant and hollow. The air reeked of mildew, blood, and human waste, which made breathing difficult.

Nefarian slowly walked past each cell, fingertips glowing with dark purple arcane light. Each prisoner he examined made him frown slightly, seemingly unsatisfied with what he found. Occasionally reacting to something, he would have Blackhand drag someone out for closer inspection.

"Prince, what's special about these humans?" Rend could not help asking with confusion. "Worth your personal trip?"

Nefarian did not answer, only continuing forward with measured steps.

Until they reached the prison's deepest section—

A burn-scarred man was locked alone in a corner cell, his Kul Tiras military uniform long tattered to rags, yet the sea anchor emblem on his chest remained faintly visible beneath layers of grime. His wrists bore bone-deep wounds from iron shackles, yet he maintained a soldier's ramrod posture even in captivity.

After casting detection spells, the Black Dragon Prince nodded with satisfaction, fingertips lightly tracing the air—shackles breaking with a sharp metallic sound.

"Take this one too."

Rend frowned with obvious confusion. "Him? This one's stubborn as hell, refuses to break—"

Nefarian's molten-gold gaze made Rend instantly silent.

"I said, take him."

On Theramore council hall's oak table, gilded candelabra cast flickering shadows across every tense face gathered for negotiations.

Goblin Baron Revilgaz was tapping a financial report with his diamond-studded nails, the parchment's densely packed numbers constantly jumping and reorganizing with each tap—this was goblin-made magical ledger technology, adjusting profit forecasts in real-time based on negotiation progress.

"Seventy percent advertising costs! Forty percent shares! One copper less and I'm walking away from this table!"

His shrill shriek made crystal chandeliers tremble slightly, the gold monocle chain slapping loudly against his chest. Across from him, Thrall's teacup rippled on the table surface. The orc chieftain's thick fingers lightly pressed the lid with deliberate patience.

"Horde laborers shed three layers of skin in the Dustwallow Marsh sun." Thrall's voice was as rough as grinding stone. "Twenty percent share is very fair compensation."

Deren shrank deep in his chair, desperately trying to resemble decorative potted plants. His gaze shifted nervously between Jaina and Onyxia—the former lightly caressing a crystal orb displaying holographic projection of Theramore harbor; the latter casually toying with the lucky coin, golden vertical pupils occasionally sweeping the goblin baron's exposed throat.

"Allow me to remind everyone—" Jaina suddenly spoke, her voice like crushed ice dropped in champagne. "Theramore's mage tower provides magical transport for fertilizer shipments, plus harbor tax-free policies reducing transport costs by ten percent, and..."

Her fingertips lightly tapped the crystal orb. The projection switched to a burning contract with dramatic flair. "Political asylum's considerable premium value."

Revilgaz's ears suddenly perked with obvious interest. "Wait, how's that asylum calculated—"

Onyxia's coin suddenly spun upright, emitting high-frequency humming that filled the room. Everyone looked at her simultaneously.

"Nefarian has arrived." She stood gracefully, black robe hem sweeping Deren's knee. "With cargo."

The meeting room instantly quieted with palpable tension.

Thrall's thick eyebrows rose. "Cargo?"

Deren's chair legs scraped ear-piercing sounds on the floor. "Uh, that thing... I requested some prisoners from him as part of our arrangement..."

"Jaina, I did not mention this beforehand..." Deren had to stand awkwardly. "You should come greet the Black Dragon Prince with us—he is also a future shareholder."

"What?" Jaina was organizing documents on the meeting table. Hearing this, she looked up sharply, blue eyes deep as the ocean.

"Nefarian is arriving now. He... uh, brought some prisoners as agreed." Deren's Adam's apple bobbed nervously as he explained in detail. "Per our agreement, they are from Kul Tiras."

Jaina's fingers suddenly clenched the document edge, parchment emitting slight tearing sounds.

"When did you make this deal with him?"

"When he came last time to inspect the fertilizer accident." Deren said quickly. "I thought having him bring greeting gifts—like Kul Tiras prisoners—could improve cooperation and trust between parties."

Jaina's breathing stopped momentarily. The next second, she suddenly stepped forward, hands gently embracing Deren's shoulders with unexpected warmth.

"Thank you." Her voice was light as sea mist, the tidal scent in her hair brushing Deren's nose.

"Hmph."

Onyxia's cold snort came from behind, golden vertical pupils flickering dangerously in shadows. Deren immediately retreated half a step as if scalded, awkwardly raising both hands to show innocence.

Jaina's lips curved slightly with amusement, turning to snap her fingers with authority.

"Meeting suspended." She announced to others in the room. "Mr. Deren and I have urgent business that requires immediate attention."

On a remote beach outside Theramore, waves crashed against reefs with rhythmic violence, salty sea wind carrying flying sand that stung exposed skin.

Bang!

An emaciated man was thrown onto the beach by black dragon servants, splashing up clouds of dust. He curled up coughing violently, festering wounds covered in sand grains, yet instinctively using his palms to shield from blinding sunlight—those eyes had not seen daylight in far too long.

Jaina's portal opened above the beach with swirling blue light. She stepped through gracefully, robe hem lifted by sea wind.

The first sight was that hunched, broken back.

"You are... all from Kul Tiras?" Her voice trembled slightly despite her attempts at control.

Prisoners scattered across the beach struggled to lift their heads with painful effort. Jaina standing in sunlight shone like a goddess descended from the heavens.

"Yes, my lady." Someone asked tremulously, voice cracking.

"I am Jaina Proudmoore." She quickly walked toward the nearest person, fingertips already glowing with healing light. "You are safe now. I promise."

Nefarian stood elegantly on the reef, watching this scene with detached interest. He snapped his fingers—the last prisoner was dropped from high altitude by the black dragon, heavily crashing onto the beach with a sickening thud.

"Mortal." The Black Dragon Prince elegantly leaped from the reef, boot sole crushing a hermit crab with a crunch. "All Kul Tiras prisoners we could find are here as requested."

He leaned close to Jaina, molten-gold vertical pupils narrowing with predatory focus. "You owe me a considerable favor."

Jaina met his eyes directly, sea-blue pupils unflinching. "I will remember."

Jaina cast mass teleportation, sending prisoners to the mage tower's great hall in waves of blue light, then summoned all available apprentices and priests to begin emergency treatment. The healing potion fragrance masked the prisoners' putrid stench temporarily.

Apprentices busily shuttled about, using cleansing spells and bandages to treat festering wounds with practiced efficiency. Deren also helped nearby, offering water and comfort. Onyxia stood aside with obvious dissatisfaction at being ignored. Nefarian smiled while standing beside his sister, seemingly trying to say affectionate words, attempting to improve their strained relationship.

"Thank you, my lady..."

"May the tides bless you..."

Amid rising and falling expressions of gratitude, Jaina was bending to change an elderly prisoner's dressing with gentle care. Suddenly, her skirt hem was violently grabbed—

A burn-scarred man prostrated on the ground, skeletal fingers clutching her robe corner with desperate strength.

"It is fine now. You are very safe." She gently pried open his fingers. "After healing your wounds, I will send you back to Kul Tiras—"

"Jaina..." The hoarse voice seemed squeezed from hell's depths. "I'm Derek... your brother..."

The healing vial dropped from her nerveless hand, rolling a crystalline trail across the wool carpet.

Derek Proudmoore.

The son of the naval admiral who fell in the Second War, her own brother—official records stated he was consumed by red dragon flames, sinking into the endless sea with no survivors.

And now, this scar-faced man was looking at her with blue eyes identical to hers.

Fate, in this moment, thunderously turned.

Jaina's fingertips hovered above Derek's burn scars, healing spell's blue light flickering with unstable intensity, yet unable to completely smooth those hideous marks etched by dragon fire.

"By the Arcane..."

Her voice was so light it was barely audible, her pupils trembling with shock. That face—though twisted by flames almost beyond recognition—had sea-blue eyes identical to hers. Kul Tiras eyes. Proudmoore family eyes.

"Maximum healing! Now!" She suddenly turned and shouted to the priests behind her, her voice carrying absolute authority.

White-robed priests immediately gathered with practiced urgency. Holy Light poured down like a golden tide, wrapping Derek in a healing cocoon. Festering wounds began closing, broken bones reconnecting with audible cracks, yet the deepest burns—especially that twisted scar dominating his left face—stubbornly remained as permanent reminders.

"Useless..." Derek said hoarsely, his voice like it was being perpetually scorched by flames. "This is red dragon flame scarring... Dragonmaw clan's 'souvenir' for their favorite prisoners..."

Jaina's chest heaved violently. She gripped her brother's wrist tightly, as if releasing it would make him disappear again into death's embrace.

"Battle reports said you were hit by red dragon flames, fell into the sea..." Her nails nearly embedded in his skin. "We searched three months... Father... he never gave up searching..."

Derek's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "I was hit... but did not die completely. Dragonmaw orcs fished me out... kept me as a living trophy..." He coughed several times, his throat carrying years of accumulated dust and damage. "Ten years... or twelve? In the dungeon... could not distinguish day from night..."

Holy Light gradually dispersed with shimmering motes. Derek's condition stabilized considerably, but those scars—those permanent marks witnessing over a decade of imprisonment and systematic torture—remained forever etched on his skin.

Jaina's eyes reddened dangerously, but she did not cry. Proudmoore family members did not shed tears before outsiders.

"You are home." She said softly, fingers finally slightly relaxing yet still unwilling to completely release.

Nefarian leaned against a stone pillar with affected casualness, molten-gold vertical pupils observing this emotional scene. His expression rarely softened momentarily, then resumed his habitual arrogance.

"Deeply touching." He hummed lightly, turning to look at his sister Onyxia with deliberate warmth, lips curving in a placating smile. "Look, family affection is so... warm and powerful."

Onyxia crossed her arms defensively, golden vertical pupils coldly sweeping him once, a dismissive snort from her nostrils. But she unusually did not move away, allowing Nefarian to approach one step closer.

"What? You also want to experience sibling depth?" She mocked with sharp sarcasm.

Nefarian chuckled lowly. "I just think... perhaps we Black Dragons should occasionally... cooperate more genuinely?"

Onyxia did not answer verbally, but her tail tip lightly swayed once—Nefarian knew this was her tacit consent signal.

Jaina finally released Derek's hand, turning toward Nefarian with deliberate composure. Her gaze was complex—both genuinely grateful and instinctively vigilant.

"Theramore will remember this favor."

Nefarian elegantly performed a half-bow, smiling playfully and calculatingly. "Just give me more shares in the fertilizer enterprise."

His gaze swept across Deren, glanced at Onyxia, and finally paused momentarily on Derek's scarred face.

"After all..." He said softly with dark amusement. "Who would have thought casually fishing out some prisoners would bring such unexpected political surprises?"