Chapter Text
The sun beat down on the dusty training grounds of the Grimfang Warband, the air thick with heat and the clash of steel, grunts of exertion cutting through the noise. First Sergeant Gorgok stood before them like a carved monument of muscle and scarred green flesh, his heavy gaze sweeping the assembled line with deliberate scrutiny.
His eyes narrowed slightly when they reached the lone elf among the recruits, lingering there just long enough before he finally spoke.
“I am First Sergeant Gorgok,” he said, his voice a low rumble that carried easily across the training ground. “This is your first day in Grimfang. Some of you won’t see another.”
He paused, letting the warning settle over the group like a shadow.
“You’ll learn to fight. To kill—maybe to die,” he said. “No weakness. No hesitation. You follow orders. Understood?”
A rough chorus answered him.
“Yes, First Sergeant!”
Gorgok’s expression remained unchanged. His boots thudded against the packed earth as he began walking down the line of recruits, studying each of them with the same hard scrutiny. Orcs stood with defiant pride, trolls with lanky patience, and tauren with steady calm.
Then he stopped, his shadow falling across Koshei.
Gorgok was enormous, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, while Koshei was lean and pale, his posture straight, almost refined. His hands looked more suited to careful spellcraft than to gripping a weapon.
Gorgok studied him for a long moment before speaking.
“You,” the orc said at last, his voice dropping into a low growl. “Are a long way from home, little elf.”
The words were true. This was not Silvermoon, nor was it Dalaran. Those cities had been places of polished marble, arcane towers, and carefully measured words—comfortable, orderly, and suffocating in their quiet superiority.
This place was dust and iron, smoke and bone.
Yet Koshei had left those places willingly. He stood at attention, gaze fixed straight ahead, his voice steady despite the heat creeping down his spine.
“This is home now, First Sergeant.”
Gorgok exhaled sharply, a sound that might have been laughter if there had been any humor in it. He stepped closer, looming over the elf as the scent of leather, sweat, and iron filled the space between them.
“This is no home,” he said, the word almost contemptuous. “This is a forge. You will burn, you will melt, and you will either emerge a weapon—or scrap.”
The orc held his position another moment, studying the elf as though waiting for the smallest crack in his composure. Koshei did not move. Sweat collected on his temples, but his posture stayed rigid, gaze fixed on the horizon.
Finally Gorgok grunted and stepped away, turning back to face the recruits.
“Rule one,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “These are your brothers and sisters. Protect each other—or die beside them.”
He paced slowly across the front of the line.
“Two. You fight when I say. Not for pride, not for sport.”
Then he stopped once more, his gaze sliding deliberately back to Koshei.
“Three. No weapons for five days. No axes. No swords.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “No magic.”
The words struck Koshei like a blow.
No magic.
For years, it had defined him—the only thing that gave him confidence in a world that constantly reminded him of his shortcomings.
Images surfaced. The polished halls of Dalaran, subtle smirks from fellow students, quiet disappointment from instructors who expected more.
Orcs respect only strength. They will eat you alive.
Another memory followed—the endless failures, the Kirin Tor’s polite condescension, whispers trailing him through marble corridors.
He had already lived as a disappointment.
Koshei straightened, resolve settling in his chest. Let them underestimate him.
The first week was agony. The sun hammered the training grounds from dawn until dusk, turning dust into choking clouds that clung to sweat-soaked skin. Muscles he had never truly used screamed in protest as he forced himself through drill after drill.
Orcs vaulted over wooden walls with practiced ease while Koshei clawed his way up behind them, arms trembling with strain. In the sparring ring he was thrown down again and again, the packed earth knocking the breath from his lungs as bruises bloomed across his pale skin, short black hair matted to his forehead.
Yet every time he fell, he forced himself back to his feet. He finished last—always last—but he finished.
“Look at the pretty flower wilt,” muttered a broad-shouldered orc named Brash as Koshei staggered past one afternoon, his knuckles scraped raw and a splinter lodged in his palm.
“Maybe someone should water him,” another recruit added, earning a round of harsh laughter.
Koshei ignored them. His focus remained on the ground ahead of him, one step following another until the day’s drills finally ended.
That night the barracks fell quiet as recruits collapsed into uneasy sleep. Koshei waited until the steady rhythm of snores filled the room before slipping from his bunk and stepping quietly outside.
The night air was cool against his battered body as he moved into the sparse scrub beyond the training grounds. A short distance from the compound he found a small clearing where a weathered boulder rested beneath the pale light of the moon.
He stood there for a long moment.
The magic sat caged beneath his skin. The power was still there—he could feel it humming faintly within, restless and impatient. His eyes settled on the boulder.
How easy it would be. One spell. One moment of release.
The temptation pulsed through him, and Gorgok’s words echoed immediately in his mind. No magic.
Koshei clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The air around him seemed to grow colder with every breath, the night wind carrying a faint bite of frost.
He was weak.
The thought struck him with brutal clarity—weak in Dalaran, weak here—weak everywhere he tried to prove himself. The humiliation of the day surged back all at once, and something inside him finally snapped.
Ice surged from his hand.
The first ice lance shot forth, slamming into the boulder with a deafening crack, sending chips of rock flying.
It wasn’t enough. He twisted his body, channeling another torrent of frigid energy. A second lance, then a third, each impact echoing the blows he’d taken during the day. He wasn’t aiming anymore. Just releasing.
Frost burst across the boulder’s surface, spreading into a rapidly growing shell of jagged ice. His breath came in great, white plumes, his movements wild and unrestrained. His boots skidded in the dirt as he pivoted, pouring more and more into the assault.
It became a storm. With every spell, the day’s humiliation burned away. The jeers. The scorn. The fear of inadequacy—poured out in ice and rime.
With a final hoarse cry, he thrust an open hand forward. A blinding flash of frost engulfed the boulder, the air snapping with sudden cold as it surged outward.
For a heartbeat the clearing went utterly still.
Then cracks spread across the frozen surface like lightning through glass.
The boulder shattered in a violent burst, sending glittering fragments of ice and stone exploding outward as frost rippled across the ground. Shards scattered through the clearing while a cloud of pale mist rolled slowly through the cold night air.
Koshei collapsed to his knees amid the frozen debris, gasping for breath as the last echoes of magic faded into the silence. Slowly the trembling in his body subsided, and the crushing weight in his chest seemed to vanish along with the shattered stone. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.
Then he froze.
A massive shape waited beneath the trees at the edge of the clearing. First Sergeant Gorgok leaned against an ancient oak, his arms folded across his chest as he watched the elf in silence.
He had seen everything.
The orc pushed himself away from the tree and stepped forward, the crunch of ice beneath his boot echoing through the quiet clearing. His eyes moved from the shattered remains of the boulder to Koshei’s face. For a long moment he said nothing.
Then he spoke.
“Get back to the barracks before I drag you there myself.”
Koshei blinked in stunned disbelief. He had expected shouting, punishment, perhaps even dismissal from the warband. Instead there was only this quiet, chilling command.
“Yes, First Sergeant,” he managed.
He turned quickly and made his way back through the scrub, his heart pounding as though it might burst from his chest. Even without looking back he could feel Gorgok’s gaze following him through the darkness.
When he reached the barracks he collapsed onto his bunk, his body finally giving out. Slowly he lifted his hands into the thin beam of moonlight filtering through the window.
They were simply hands now—long-fingered, pale, and marked with scrapes and fresh calluses. A faint shimmer of frost traced across his skin for a moment before fading away entirely.
Koshei lowered them and closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, but when it finally arrived it was deep and dreamless.