Chapter 1

Rage. Endless, burning rage was all that his heart held at the moment. It seethed through Varian Wrynn's veins, hotter and more unyielding than any fire. The king of Stormwind, shackled like an animal in a dark, waterlogged dungeon, held hostage by some of the most vile creatures he'd ever encountered: the Naga. It was almost laughable, how these serpentine abominations, a degenerated breed of former night elf nobility who, alongside their accursed queen, had betrayed Azeroth to the demons ages ago, dared to try breaking him with their torture. He felt a bitter sense of irony. Once royalty, they were now traitors and monsters, and here he was, royalty and defiant.

Chains dug cruelly into his wrists, holding him tight against a damp stone wall, his skin covered in dark bruises and oozing cuts from repeated escape attempts and torture. The salty seawater seeping through the cellar walls stung each wound like acid, making the pain that much more excruciating over time. They had tried every torture method they knew in an attempt to break him, their methods crude but effective, pressing him close to the brink of death, only to wrench him back by healing him, and then they would start anew. But they had underestimated him greatly. Varian had never been perfect - no, far from it. But his will? Unbending. They could break his bones, scar his flesh, and crush his ribs, but his spirit would never yield. Starved, beaten, violated, all he could think was about his hands around the necks of his tormentors, and that was all he ever thought.

His hair, once regal and decorated, now hung long and tangled around his face, wet with a rancid mix of sweat and saltwater. Despite weeks of deprivation, his frame was still large and powerful. The blue of his eyes - icy, piercing - held a defiant flame that had yet to be extinguished.

His vision was blurry as he scanned the small stone cellar, half-blind from days of darkness, sleeplessness, and blood loss. The lamp they kept burning low was his only measure of time, flickering weakly and casting faint shadows across the stone walls as if the days and nights had blended into one endless nightmare. Occasionally, he could almost swear the shadows moved, slithering around the edges of the room.

With his muscles raw and torn, he pulled against the chains, his rage giving him the strength of a man twice his size. They wouldn't budge, of course; forged by magic and reinforced by the Naga's dark arts, the chains only bit deeper into his wrists, cutting into flesh. Still, he strained against them. His teeth ground so hard to the point of cracking and the faint taste of blood tinged his mouth, thick with iron. He spat, the mixture of salt and blood hitting the stone floor like many other fluids in the past. The visions in his mind grew darker, turning his rage into a twisted comfort for his barely sane mind. Visions of snapping bones, of hands wrapped around serpentine throats, of fangs torn from gaping mouths. If he could see the Naga Queen's face, he'd relish watching the horror dawn in her eyes as she realized she'd failed to break him.

He'd hallucinated often over the past few days, and his mind had brought him some cruelly painful companions. He'd seen his wife, her kind face looking down at him, so real he'd almost forgotten he was chained entirely. He'd seen his son, his own flesh and blood, who needed him now more than ever. The poor boy had already lost his mother; Varian would be damned if he let himself die here and abandon him to the cruel politics of the world.

He'd even seen his father, who had been murdered so many years ago in cold blood, standing silent and strong, a reminder of the legacy he needed to live up to. Sometimes, it wasn't his family he saw at all, but himself - almost unrecognizable, wild and primal, more beast than man and chained as such. In those moments, he could almost feel claws in place of hands, sharpened canines in place of his blunt human fangs. A hunter's instinct surged in his veins, demanding freedom, demanding a fight for his freedom and revenge.

Then, something moved in his peripheral vision. His instincts flared, primal and unbridled, and he snarled, the sound tearing from his throat—a deep, feral growl that echoed in the confined space. There was someone, something in the cellar with him, watching, a new presence.

"Show yourself!" He called out, his voice raw and grating, coarse from days of silence and improperly healed wounds.

The silence only deepened, there was no answer. Frustration and anger swelled in his chest, and he rattled his chains, letting loose a feral scream more akin to the howl of a powerful wolf through his jail. The presence responded in kind. A howl that shook him to his very core sent shivers down his spine, pausing his rage. His vision swam, and suddenly, the dank cellar gave way to dense, shadowy woods.

It was night, and his chains were gone. His wrists, sore and raw, were free. His body was unshackled, unimpeded by the bonds that had once held him. Around him, thick trees stood, towering into the sky like silent sentinels. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, sharpening, taking in every detail as if they had become something more animal than human. His bare feet pressed into the cold earth, damp with moss and littered with sharp stones and twigs that dug into his skin. Every scratch, every cut he gained fed his anger, each sting reminding him of his freedom.

Far off, a wolf howled, its call resonant, filling the air with an ominous, primal energy. A predatory grin twisted his lips, he wasn't the prey here, he was the hunter. Whatever this presence was, he would find it. He would tear it apart, with tooth and nail if he had to.

Moving through the trees, he crouched low, muscles coiled, instincts sharper than any animal. He moved more like a beast than a man, stalking forward with no regard for the brambles tearing at his legs, the leaves that left red welts across his face, or the stones that chipped away at his nails. His senses were supremely sharp, every scent and sound heightened to the extreme, and the presence grew stronger with each step. It led him deeper into the forest, drawing him closer, and daring him to keep up. It was a relentless pursuit, a silent, shadowy dance under the cover of the dark woods. The closer he got, the more alive he felt, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

Finally, he emerged into a clearing bathed in moonlight, and there, in the center, stood a wolf. Unlike an ordinary wolf, this one was massive. Its sheer size, enough to dwarf Varian, and there it was. Its fur was white as freshly fallen snow, each hair glinting with an ethereal glow under the pale light. Its eyes were pools of molten silver, radiating both ferocity and timeless wisdom. Those eyes bore into Varian, stripping away every pretense, every shield, leaving only raw will and stubborn defiance against all those who had stood against him. The beast's massive paws sank slightly into the soft earth as if the ground itself struggled to bear its weight, slowly approaching him.

Somehow he knew the name of this entity. He was standing before Goldrinn. The wolf was judging him for reasons unknown. If this was how he died, then Varian was ready to take on this impossibly powerful beast and fight till his last breath. His chest heaved, the sweat trickling down his battered body shimmering faintly in the moonlight, preparing for the fight of his life.

'Your ferocity rivals mine, mortal.' Goldrinn's voice reverberated in Varian's mind.

Varian didn't respond. The statement hung in the air, its ambiguity grating on Varian's already fraying patience. He squared his shoulders, glaring back into the wolf's shimmering gaze, teeth bared.

'Embrace my gift and become unrivaled among your kind.' the wolf continued.

Varian's lips curled into a snarl, his mind still clouded. He could only vaguely remember who he was. To take this creature's gift was to lose himself to his primal instincts. He couldn't do that. He needed to retain his humanity for Anduin, his son, for his people, and for his kingdom.

The clearing seemed to shimmer, the air thickening with tension. The power of Goldrinn pressed down on Varian, heavy and suffocating, like the weight of a mountain on his chest. His thoughts wavered for a moment, the primal instincts Goldrinn awakened tugging at the edges of his consciousness. A growl bubbled in his throat, unbidden, as his fingers curled into fists itching for a fight.

Varian twisted his neck until it cracked audibly as if shrugging off the oppressive weight of the moment. His thoughts flashed with painful clarity: every mortal who had tried to embrace the wolf god's power had lost themselves in it. No, he wouldn't, couldn't, fall into that same trap. This was another battle, another fight for his life, and he wasn't about to lose. He twisted his knuckles with a resonating crack, he would take the wolf's power for his own, but he would never let it consume him. With this intention his mind cleared, he now knew what the beast was. The night elves spoke of wild gods. The beasts of immense power that had aided them in the past. Goldrinn was one of these wild Gods, a primal essence of ferocity and violence.

The wolf's presence grew even larger, filling the clearing with an overwhelming aura. Goldrinn's lips curled back, revealing gleaming fangs that could shear steel with their might. Yet, there was no immediate violence, only a deep, guttural growl. Varian could feel the wolf testing him, pushing the boundaries of his resolve.

This wasn't a battle of physical strength. It was something deeper, more primal; a contest of wills. And only the one with the most determination would come out on top.

With deliberate slowness, Varian spread his arms wide, the movement both a challenge and an invitation. "Come at me!" he shouted. It was a dare, born from the same stubborn, iron will that had carried him through countless battles. Except this time his battle wouldn't be one of muscle but one of mind and soul.

The wolf faded from his vision and he found himself back in the cellar, chained to the wall. The rage that now swirled in his soul dwarfed everything he had felt before. The power of the wild wolf cursed through his veins, straining against his mortal frame.

The chill of the chains clamped around his wrists suddenly felt insulting, the greatest he had ever known. With a feral scream, he twisted his arms, his muscles coiling with inhuman power. The chains groaned, resisting for only a heartbeat before snapping in his grip like brittle twigs, shards clattering uselessly to the floor. No longer confined, he strode towards the thick wooden doors that stood between him and freedom, the doors that had taunted him with every hour spent in this wretched cell. He lowered his shoulder, summoning the force within him, and slammed his frame against the barrier with all his newfound might. Wood splintered and burst, fragments flying as the door gave way under his new, terrifying strength, as resistant as a wet napkin.

The sudden freedom was intoxicating, but there was no time to savor it. A naga guard slithered into view, its serpentine body undulating with unnatural grace as it approached. Its scaled torso glistened in the dim torchlight, greenish-blue hues shifting like oil on water, unnatural in every way. The creature's humanoid upper body was a grotesque mimicry of man, its muscular arms clutching a long spear with a viciously barbed blade that had torn into him many times before. Eyes like gleaming coins locked onto him, radiating malice and hunger.

His captor moved towards him with a defined purpose, and that purpose was to recapture him. "Back in your cage, warmblood," it hissed, voice guttural and wet, like water bubbling through a cracked pipe.

Varian didn't answer; words were wasted on monsters. Instead, he lunged forward, easily avoiding the weapon's pointy tip. With a single fluid motion, he drove his knee upward, slamming it into the creature's ribcage with a sickening crack as the beast doubled over with a strangled gasp. His prey was defenseless now, ripe for the slaughter. Without hesitation, Varian seized the broken chain still dangling from his wrist, his torment now his weapon. With a quick, brutal motion, he looped it around the creature's thick neck, its cold iron biting into scaled flesh.

The naga thrashed, its tail lashing wildly, but Varian's strength was unrelenting. He pulled harder, the chain tightening like death's noose. A final, violent jerk snapped the creature's neck with a crack, its body collapsing limply on the cold damp floor.

Varian picked up the spear, testing its weight and balance. The weapon was crude but effective, designed to inflict maximum damage for minimal effort. He hefted it in his hand before striding forward into the twisting labyrinth of corridors, knowing he had to move forward. The air was thick with the scent of salt and decay, and the walls seemed to pulse with the damp, living quality of an underwater cavern. Shadows danced along the walls as torches ever-present flickered, casting grotesque shapes that writhed like the very naga who infested these halls. And infested they were, by the dozens every moment.

More of the damnable monsters came to stop him and deprive him of his freedom. More fell by his hand by the minute. He stabbed, slashed, kicked and punched, and even bit. He was ferocity itself and they could only fall before his might. The dark corridors twisted and winded like snakes filled with foul creatures to the brim, yet none could stop him.

Not the bulky berserkers wielding weapons larger than him nor the grotesque naga sorceresses with their twisted magics barely resembling the eleven women they once were could stop him. Varian was relentless. He fought with a ferocity that left the creatures stunned, his every movement an extension of Goldrinn's primal might as he ripped and tore through their numbers. He stabbed and slashed, his muscles straining with every strike. When weapons failed him against his enemies, his fists took over until the enemy was dead, and when even that wasn't enough, his teeth found purchase in scaly flesh, bone, and organ. He became a blur of violence, a whirlwind of rage that the naga could neither comprehend nor withstand.

He fought for his freedom tooth and nail and no matter how many came he did not stop, did not slow down. The spirit of Goldrinn guided him forward, empowering him. Finally, his tired damaged eyes were met by the sun's rays shining on the thick canopy of a marshy forest. He didn't recognize the place. The crude wooden buildings surrounding the entrance of the dungeon were of human design but that didn't say much.

'I will guide you. Trust your instincts.' came Goldrinn's voice, a growling whisper in his mind. The words carried an authority that needed no explanation.

Varian tightened his grip on the spear, his knuckles whitening as he set off westward. The path was fraught with more naga, but they fell quickly under his assault. He moved with a singular purpose, every swing of his weapon driven by his burning need for freedom. The shore of a sea came into view only a few minutes later with water as far as the eye could see. Without wasting time he dropped the weapon that had served him well and waded into the water, muscles taunt in anticipation of what was to come next. The icy waves crashed against him, but he pushed forward, each powerful stroke propelling him farther from the shore.

Luckily the nagas had stopped the pursuit, likely thinking him a fool who would soon drown. And in any other circumstance, they would be right, but his imprisoners didn't know the fury he held within his heart. He would reach the next shore no matter how far away.

The sea was relentless, the waves rising and falling, exhaustion was slowly catching up, and yet the shore was nowhere to be seen. His muscles burned with exertion, threatening to give out at any moment, and the salt stung his eyes, blurring his vision, but he refused to stop. He could feel Goldrinn's presence within him, the wild god's power surging through his veins. He had to swim, he had to survive.

The sun slowly moved across the sky as the only companion in the desperate king's quest for survival and freedom. The calm sea proved easy to move through, but its size was daunting.

At last, a faint shape broke the horizon. A shore. Varian squinted, his vision blurred by exhaustion and salt. The distant strip of land was hazy and indistinct, but it was undeniably there. A jolt of hope surged through his limbs, dulling the ache that had been gnawing at him for hours.

Salvation at last.

As he drew closer, the shore revealed itself in more detail. Its brown, brackish vegetation was a far cry from the inviting beaches he had once known and loved. The muck of mud clung to the roots of gnarled trees, and the shoreline itself seemed almost alive, a writhing mass of reeds and mangroves and wildlife. Not the kind of paradise he would have wished for, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Dustwallow Marsh. It had to be.

No matter where he was, he would find allies. He had heard of this place. If he was right, then the city-state of Theramore was his best bet. Jaina Proudmoore, the Lady of Theramore, was a steadfast ally. Neutral she might be, but her honor for her promises was as ironclad as her sorcery was formidable against her enemies. He believed could trust her enough to know she would not to stab him in the back, something he could no longer say about most of his former peers.

As he stumbled ashore, his body finally began to betray him as his strength was rapidly running out. His muscles trembled, his breaths came in ragged gasps, and his limbs felt like dead weights dragging him down. The fire of Goldrinn's spirit alone wasn't enough to keep him going forward. He needed food and rest for his body, even if his mind screamed at him to keep moving.

He began to travel north, keeping the shoreline within sight as he trudged through the thick undergrowth. Each step sent squelching sounds into the humid air, the mud threatening to suck him into the ground. A peculiar shape caught his eye, a massive turtle roaming the shore. Its shell was streaked with algae, and its head bobbed lazily as it contentedly chewed on the marsh grass.

The slow creature looked harmless on the surface but it was better not to underestimate it, it had survived here for many years and could survive many more if he wasn't careful. Varian turned towards the forest, his sharp gaze scanning for something more manageable. With his hands still raw from his escape, he grasped a sturdy stick, snapping it off a tree. It would serve as a makeshift weapon, preparing for whatever fate threw his way. With careful precision, he used the jagged edges of his shackles to scrape and sharpen the stick into a crude spear.

Emerging from the forest, he charged toward the turtle at frightening speeds, his movements a blur. The sharpened stick plunged into the creature's thick neck with a sickening crunch. The turtle let out a screech that echoed across the marsh, sending leaves flying and wildlife fleeing. It thrashed wildly, but its slow bulk couldn't outmaneuver Varian's supreme agility. The mighty beast collapsed in a heap, its cries fading into gurgles as it breathed its last breath.

Varian crouched beside his fallen prey, his chest heaving. There was no time to waste. The marsh's humidity made fire almost impossible to produce, so raw meat would have to suffice. His instincts of humanity recoiled at the thought, but his desperate hunger roared louder. With the stick, he pulled out the chunks of meat from the shell and consumed them, blood smearing his face and dripping down his chin as he ate, each bite pulling him closer to becoming a full animal. Yet he had no other option, Varian knew that with an empty belly, he would never have the strength to reach Theramore.

After eating his fill, Varian scavenged the area for supplies. A bag crafted from rotting vines lying on the ground was sturdy enough to hold enough food for a few days. He filled it with chunks of turtle flesh, slinging it over his shoulder like a grim trophy. Rejuvenated, he resumed his journey northward after burying the rest. He moved north with determination to survive and reach his ally, taking only short naps during the middle of the night to preserve his mind. His bare form was ill-prepared for the cold rain that often fell in the region, adding another layer of hardship. His mind grew more delirious by the day, the white wolf walking beside him on the empty beach as a silent companion, pushing him ever further.

Varian found comfort in the companionship of the spiritual creature who had found a home in his heart. They now were inseparable and he would be forever bound to Goldrinn, having gone through thick and thin with the god.

After what felt like an eternity, the sight of Theramore's walls broke through the haze of the marsh. Relief flooded Varian's battered frame, though his legs were too far gone to quicken their pace. They were so shredded he left bloodied footprints with every step, his body so exhausted he shook constantly. His bruises and cuts ached with agonizing pain but at least he was alive and free.

The guard stationed on the stone bridge separating Theramore from the wilderness noticed his approach.

"Halt stranger," one of them barked, his tone cautious.

Varian raised a trembling hand, his voice hoarse and barely audible. "I am… King Varian Wrynn… I escaped captivity… " The effort of speaking felt monumental, and he wavered on his feet, swaying. " Tell Jaina-"

His words trailed off as his knees finally buckled. Darkness swept over him like a tidal wave. Exhaustion had finally caught up to him and he collapsed on the spot.

Editing by NabeisWaifu and aidan_lo.

Proofreading by IAMTHEPLOKOKIOPO, fvvck, and aidan_lo.

Link my discord server(https://discord.gg/WmGKVU3XG2)