Air Attack

No soldier worth his salt would ever grumble about a commander who always held the winning hand, a tactical wizard who could call the enemy's next move like a prophet reading tea leaves. This wasn't just about bragging rights; it meant bigger victories and fewer good men biting the dust.

Those terrifying shadows, black as a raven's heart, screamed across the sky, plunging from the bruised clouds. Their colossal forms, radiating an aura that could curdle milk, blotted out the sun. Before anyone could even make out the attackers' true, monstrous faces, a torrent of fiery breath, thick with the stench of death, rained down from the heavens. When it slammed into the decoy crossbows – those poor, unsuspecting wooden dummies – the massive siege weapons didn't just splinter; they exploded into kindling, and vast swathes of the surrounding area erupted into an inferno.

It was as if a primal, ancient howl, echoing from thousands of years ago, clawed its way up from the very depths of everyone's souls. This was the raw, untamed voice of Azeroth's distant past, from that chaotic, pre-human world. It was the terrifying declaration of an existence that had perched atop the world's food chain since time immemorial. The sheer, crushing pressure from these higher beings could easily send a mortal mind spiraling into the abyss, snuffing out every last flicker of sanity.

Breathing hitched, caught in throats tight with terror. Hearts, squeezed into tight, forgotten knots by extreme tension, forgot the simple rhythm of relaxation. Blood, scared out of its wits, surged wildly, temporarily blinding eyes, deafening ears, and stripping away the very senses of taste and smell. Everyone stood there, dazed, almost forgetting their own names, lost in a swirling, white-hot fog of confusion.

In a secret base, carved out of a damp, echoing cave, a beautiful blonde woman was also a bundle of nerves. Her hands, almost unconsciously, flew to her ample bosom, a nervous habit. But soon, her delicate face, which had been ashen moments before, flushed with a sudden, almost manic excitement. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, tracked the colossal figures tearing across the sky. Like a hunter locking onto its prey, she fixated on the aerial ballet of destruction, as if afraid to miss a single, tiny detail.

Hundreds of scarlet dragons, a living, breathing plague, were rampaging over the Stromgarde camp. Their immense wings beat the air into a frenzy, their long, serpentine necks stretched, spewing gouts of destructive flame across the land. Their colossal golden eyes, like giant amber orbs, held black, vertical pupils that radiated a pressure unique to creatures of such ancient power. She swore she could see it in their eyes: a flicker of reluctance, a spark of defiance, a burning rage. Yet, for some twisted, magical reason, they were forced to obey the guttural commands of the despicable, crude orc knights clinging to their backs.

Dragons, by their very nature, were arrogant as all get-out. It was harder than pulling teeth to imagine them allowing any creature to ride on their backs and play bully, let alone the orcs, who already made them look like they'd just sniffed something truly foul. The situation was so far out of left field, it wasn't even playing the same game. Despite their obvious disgust, despite looking like they wanted nothing more than to twist their long, snake-like necks and bite the dirty green skins on their backs clean off, every single dragon obeyed the orcs' orders. Not one of them so much as twitched to shake free from the humiliating, saddle-like restraints.

What in the blazes had happened to the red dragons, those magnificent beasts who'd once teamed up to kick the Burning Legion's backside ten thousand years ago? What dark magic had forced these fiercely proud creatures to submit to tiny, insignificant orcs? Was it some mysterious power, a dark spell that bent even the will of dragons? Her curiosity was about to blow a fuse.

In another, equally secure shelter, a woman with a strikingly similar face to the first, but with a wilder, more untamed beauty, wrestled with the exact same question. But she looked at the problem through a different lens, her focus honed on the enemy itself. These red dragons were terrifying, no doubt, but the biggest stroke of luck was that there wasn't a single true giant dragon among them. Oh no, not the real deal! Not the terrifying, ancient beings with lifespans stretching over a thousand years, wingspans wider than a small town when fully grown, wielding powerful magical abilities, and bodies tougher than any young dragon. Even though these red dragons in the sky seemed powerful enough to level a city, they were still a far cry from the genuine article. Whether it was their magical prowess, their melee skills, or their cunning… they simply didn't measure up.

That beautiful woman was, of course, Alleria Windrunner. The moment she got the news that the Horde transport fleet had split up, Duke, that sneaky little devil, had forcibly zapped her over using the magic teleportation she hated with every fiber of her being. Alleria was more than a little ticked off about it. That stomach-churning, space-bending journey had left her feeling like she'd ridden a drunken hippogryph through a tornado. But now, she knew why. And she finally understood why Duke had repeatedly drilled into her head to just focus on killing the enemy cavalry.

Damn it, that Duke kid definitely knows something!

"You little brat, can't you just spill the beans for once?" Alleria muttered fiercely, a hint of genuine exasperation and a touch of disgust for the secretive mage. "Always playing your cards close to your chest!" Windrunners, as a rule, were a lively bunch, full of fire and passion. As the most mature and stable of the sisters, Alleria still kept the big picture in mind. She turned her head, her gaze falling on Illucia Barov, who had been urgently transferred to this very spot today.

"Lady Barov," Alleria said, a rare note of seriousness in her voice, "I'm counting on you. Don't let me down."

Illucia, ever calm, simply nodded.

Alleria let out a sharp, piercing whistle, and the sound of the wind seemed to flow out with it. "Are you ready, little sister?"

Sylvanas's voice, sharp and defiant, echoed on the wind, like the proud snort of a warhorse champing at the bit, ready to charge. "Who do you think I am?"

"Then… go ahead!"

The flames spewed by the red dragon army were beyond count, beyond fierce. The rolling inferno that consumed the entire area looked like a literal sea of fire, its waves rising and falling with terrifying intensity. Even more turbulent currents of blazing golden light descended from the sky, making the fiery waves climb even higher, licking at the very clouds.

At that precise moment, over a hundred elemental fluctuations, like a sudden burst of static on a clear channel, snagged the attention of the red dragon army.

A human magician? In the sky, Zuluhed, the chieftain of the Dragonmaw clan, perched precariously on the largest red dragon, narrowed his eyes. He let the colossal beast beneath him hover, its massive wings beating the air, as he scanned the ground from his lofty perch, trying to pinpoint those damn human mages. Human mages were rarer than a polite goblin, and even a handful could pose a threat to dragon-mounted troops, let alone an organized group. After Orgrim had purged the Shadow Council, the Horde had become a more unified force, speaking with one voice, but they were sorely lacking in magic professionals. Orgrim had given almost every chief the same standing order: kill the enemy mages first.

Zuluhed's scaly face twisted in disappointment. Not only were there no mages in sight, there wasn't even a single moving human being. The humans who used to strut around like they owned the place had apparently all turned into lily-livered cowards. "Hmph!" Zuluhed grunted, a dismissive sound. One of his men immediately dismounted his red dragon, diving into the strait below, simultaneously raising a huge, specially marked battle flag. That was the signal.

The orc transport ships, which had been sitting dead in the water just outside the catapults' range, suddenly lurched to life. The laborers, spurred by some unseen terror or newfound courage, paddled like madmen, desperate to get their ships moving again, to cross the strait faster than a greased pig. On the other side, at the southern end of the Thandol Bridge, a group of orc troops also began to charge. They clearly intended to use the Red Dragonflight's overwhelming aerial cover to rush across as quickly as possible, tearing open the most convenient and fastest invasion channel.

The Horde's attack unfolded like clockwork, smooth as a well-oiled machine. The sudden, terrifying appearance of the red dragons seemed to crush all human resistance… until an emerald green arrow, shimmering with arcane energy, appeared out of nowhere.