Twilight

The west wind howled, a mournful dirge across the desolate landscape, and the biting autumn chill made everything on the Burning Steppes seem even more parched, more brittle, more utterly devoid of hope. The dry, cracked earth pulsed with an almost endless, suffocating heat, a constant reminder of the infernal forces at play. The source of this hellish warmth was, of course, the monstrous, high-reaching active volcanoes scarring the plain, including the ominous Blackrock Mountain looming in the northwest. These fiery behemoths relentlessly, sluggishly, belched forth rivers of molten rock, the blazing magma reshaping the very topography of the entire plain with every agonizing moment.

Perched precariously on the eastern platform of Blackrock Spire, nestled deep within Blackrock Mountain, Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer stared out at the distant, hazy landscape, a faraway look in his eyes. He looked, for all the world, like a particularly grumpy gargoyle.

Though it bore the grand title of "Blackrock Tower," this formidable structure wasn't exactly a towering spire from the outside. That's because the entire 'tower' was practically swallowed whole by the colossal Blackrock Mountain itself. Dozens of scorching lava streams cascaded down from the mountain's fiery vents, visually carving the grim, grey-black stone into a chaotic tapestry of vertical lines. The so-called Blackrock Tower, in truth, would be far more accurately described as the Blackrock Fortress, a grim, unyielding bastion.

Orgrim, oblivious to the fact that his current perch would one day become the ignominious burial ground of the black dragon prince Nefarian, simply gazed out from the platform, his expression as blank as a fresh parchment.

To the north lay the Scorching Canyon, a place that lived up to its name, perpetually radiating oppressive heat and fumes. Within its craggy depths, the Dark Iron Dwarves, those surly, subterranean blacksmiths who had recently struck a devil's bargain with the Horde, toiled day and night in crude, smoke-belching furnaces, churning out weapons for the Horde's war machine.

To the south stretched the vast, infernal expanse of the Burning Steppes, where over one hundred and fifty thousand orc warriors were camped on a slightly less-hellish patch of ground at the foot of Blackrock Mountain. These orcs, fresh from their journey through the Dark Portal, were blissfully ignorant of the Alliance's true might and the terrifying wrath of the Red Dragonflight. They were practically champing at the bit, eagerly awaiting what they believed would be a glorious, decisive battle. The hundred thousand orc laborers, too, were buzzing with excitement, having been handed sophisticated weapons – they saw this as their golden ticket, a chance to finally climb out of the bottom of the pecking order.

At that moment, Zuluhed the Whilrwind, chieftain of the Dragonmaw clan, arrived, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone. He eyed Orgrim, who remained seated on the edge of the platform, and spoke with characteristic bluntness. "Warchief, the new blood among the warriors wants a word. They're itching for a fight."

"A word? I'll give them a word. But not now," Orgrim grunted, not even bothering to turn his head.

"Why not? You know our people have about as much patience as a caged griffin, right? After all, they've all had a taste of that stuff." Zuluhed gestured vaguely, referring to the demon blood.

"Yes! Perhaps we should all light a candle to the demon blood," Orgrim sneered, a raw, undisguised sarcasm twisting his rugged features. "Indeed, it is precisely because of that accursed demon blood that we orcs still possess an absolute, unshakeable confidence in victory, and can tolerate a rotten, good-for-nothing like me clinging to the Warchief's position, instead of having some hot-headed warrior challenge me to a Mak'gora and put me out of my misery!"

Zuluhed fell silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Looking down from the lofty heights of Blackrock Spire, most of the orcs below were fresh meat, new to Azeroth, with minds as simple and unburdened as a fresh-fallen snowflake. They had never experienced the soul-crushing frustration of holding all the cards, of having the upper hand, only to watch victory slip through their fingers like sand. They had never tasted the bitter pain and despair of occupying half a continent, only to be systematically, relentlessly, driven back, step by bloody step, by those infuriating humans.

Where, Orgrim wondered, were the clans that had once been the undisputed heavyweights of the Horde?

The Blackrock Clan, once a force of nearly three hundred thousand souls, with almost two hundred thousand warriors, could now practically be declared extinct. After enduring the inferno of Elwynn Forest, the sacking of Stormwind City, the brutal sea crossing, the grinding siege of Lordaeron City, and the splintering off of the Blackhand brothers' Blackfang Clan, the once-mighty Blackrock Clan now numbered less than five thousand souls. They were barely even a third-rate outfit, a shadow of their former glory.

The Blackfang clan, led by the infamous Blackhand brothers, had first been led on a wild goose chase by Duke in the Arathi Highlands, then, after a rather convenient "hunt" for Gul'dan, they had slaughtered a few thousand members of the Storm Reaver clan and promptly vanished into thin air. Everyone with half a brain knew the Blackhand brothers had pulled a fast one, playing their own game.

Most of the once-feared Warsong Clan had simply disintegrated, their ranks decimated. The few remaining members, led by the indomitable Grom Hellscream, were now hiding like scared rabbits in the deep mountains and forests of Tirisfal Glades.

The Bleeding Hollow clan had also been utterly shattered, most of their numbers butchered in the brutal fighting around Ironforge in Dun Morogh. Many had perished in the early stages of the siege, and more recently, they'd been all but wiped out by the Red Dragonflight, thanks to the Warchief's brilliant (read: disastrous) fortress group tactics. Kilrogg Deadeye, the one-eyed chieftain, was left with less than ten thousand souls.

In the early, chaotic stages of the First War, the noble Frostwolf Clan had been exiled to the desolate Alterac Mountains in the northern continent by Gul'dan. After their chieftain, Durotan, was tragically murdered, the Frostwolf Clan had completely severed all ties with the Horde, going their own way.

The Dragonmaw Clan had suffered the most brutal bloodbath of all in the rebellion of the Red Dragonflight, leaving Zuluhed with less than a thousand loyal followers. It was a miracle they still existed.

The Fire Blade Clan, always a smaller outfit, had been decimated. After Dal Triple Blood Blade and Samuro fell in battle, their elite Swordmaster team was hit hard, leaving fewer than ten Swordmasters left in the entire Horde.

And let's not even get started on the former Storm Reaver Clan and the ogre-dominated Twilight Hammer Clan, two rebellious factions that had simply vanished without a trace. God only knew where the remaining few had scurried off to.

The Blackscar Clan… after Kashdrak was killed in Grim Batol Fortress and most of his clan members were wiped out by the enraged red dragons, rumor had it that Kashdrak's loyal confidants had spirited away the next chieftain, the young Nazgrel, through the Arathi Highlands and defected to the Frostwolf Clan before the Alliance could even launch its counter-offensive.

The Shattered Hand was, surprisingly, doing alright. The battle-crazed Kargath Bladefist had even had the audacity to demand a fight from the Warchief just yesterday…

However, any orc with a shred of common sense knew, deep down in their gut, that the Horde was about to lose. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Orgrim had no intention of making things any harder for his loyal, if somewhat dim-witted, deputy.

He sighed, a deep, rattling sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand lost battles. "I am thinking about the meaning of this war," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "this war that is about to be lost."

"Meaning?" Zuluhed echoed, utterly baffled.

"Yes!" Orgrim lifted his gaze to the bleak northern sky.

The first year of the Dark Portal, as the humans so quaintly called it, had been the most magnificent, the most glorious year for the entire Horde. The Horde's territory had expanded wildly, like an unstoppable plague, swallowing up the entire north. The lands they had conquered were almost equal to the entire known world of "our world." This was also the year when the entire Horde was most eager for battle, when the chieftains' ambitions soared higher than a griffin's flight. Thanks to the grizzled veterans who had cut their teeth fighting the Draenei, it was these elite troops who had effortlessly crushed the puny resistance of the Kingdom of Stormwind.

However, just as all dreams, no matter how grand, have a beginning and an end, the Horde's arrogant dream of boundless expansion, of conquering the entire world of Azeroth within three short years, had reached its zenith in that very year. Then, in the second year, it hit the cold, hard wall of reality. Seemingly by chance, but in fact, like a house of cards, it inevitably came crashing down.

Orgrim sighed again, a sound of profound regret. "Looking back," he murmured, "even without that meddling Edmund Duke, we would have failed."

"Why?" Zuluhed pressed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Orgrim's rugged face was etched with a sorrow that went bone-deep.

"We were too arrogant. From the very beginning, we slaughtered almost every intelligent race we encountered in this world. We pushed almost every sentient being onto the opposite side of the Horde. If time could be turned back, if I could have controlled the Horde earlier, I would have taken a gentler approach. I would have first occupied all the wilderness, the lands where no intelligent races lived. Then, we would systematically eliminate those weaker races, carving out more living space for the Horde. Finally, when we had gained an absolute, undeniable advantage, then we would have crushed any alliances that dared to rear their heads."