War Crimes

Epilogue

Garrosh stepped out of the timeways portal, Kairoz at his side. “What do you think?” asked the bronze dragon. He looked extremely pleased with himself, as well he might be.

Garrosh didn’t answer at once. He stood, feeling the soft wind caress his skin, and gazed at the rolling green hills of Nagrand. He planted his feet in the waving grass, and felt a healthy, strong earth beneath them.

“This is not my home,” he murmured, squinting up at the sun. “This is not my sky.”

“Yes, and no,” said Kairoz. “You are home, Garrosh Hellscream. But no . . . This is not the sky you grew up with.”

A herd of clefthoof thundered past, not too far in the distance, strong, glossy-coated beasts. This was where his people were born. He saw the same earth, the same sky, that his father had. This was the gift of the bronze dragon—a world that was no more, but that could become . . . anything.

“Hellscream!” shouted a rough, orcish voice.

Garrosh started at the sound of his name, thinking that somehow his allies must have followed him and Kairoz.

“Who—” he began, but Kairoz, his smirk more mischievous than ever, simply pointed. Utterly confused, Garrosh turned his head.

The call was for another Hellscream.

Standing atop a hill, wind blowing through his black hair and sun gleaming on his muscular brown body, a fierce, tattooed orc whose blood ran in Garrosh’s veins replied to the greeting with an ear-splitting cry, and raised—

—Gorehowl.