The river stretched across the Barrens, its murky waters slowly winding through the golden plains. Orange clouds hung low, casting long shadows over the cracked barren earth. An orc crouched at edge of the steep riverbank, muscles taut beneath his weathered, green skin. His name was Grom Ironfang, hunter by trade and wanderer by choice. A worn fishing pole rested in his large, lightly scarred hands, the line drifting lazily in the water. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, but Grom didn’t stir. The art of patience was something he had mastered long ago.

  Beside him, a sleek grey wolf named Ashra shifted on her haunches, ears pricked. Her golden eyes swept the horizon. She was ever watchful, even in moments of peace. The line jerked suddenly, snapping Grom from his thoughts. He reeled the catch in quickly—a fat, silvery fish wriggled violently in the air. It thrashed once, twice, before finally stilling in his firm grasp. Grom studied it with a calm satisfaction.

  "Strong one," he muttered to Ashra, who barked in response. He slipped the fish into a leather satchel at his hip.

  A low growl rumbled from the tall grass nearby. Grom’s eyes narrowed. He set the fishing pole down and rose slowly, reaching for his bow. His fingers brushed against the taut string as his gaze scanned the dense undergrowth around him. The sound of rustling leaves grew louder. A sudden flash of amber eyes. Then, from the shadows, stepped a lynx with russet fur streaked with grey and white. Its lean, sinewy form was tense with caution, but it didn’t strike. The lynx stared at him, unblinking. Grom’s muscles coiled instinctively. He had encountered plenty of wild predators before—he knew the language of beasts, the difference between fear and aggression. This one wasn’t hostile.

  "Easy," Grom said, his voice a deep low rumble. Slowly, he knelt and slowly extended a hand. "No need for blood today."

  The lynx didn’t move. Its ribs showed beneath its fur, and the hunger in its eyes mirrored something Grom had once known in himself. From his satchel, he pulled a small strip of dried meat and laid it on the ground between them. It hesitated, then softly padded towards him. One cautious step at a time, until it stood over the offering. It sniffed the meat, then tore into it ravenously.

  "You’ll need more, won’t you?" Grom murmured. His hand brushed over the lynx’s scarred ears, and though it tensed, it didn’t pull away.

  Ashra stepped forward, her tail high. The wolf sniffed at the lynx, who returned the gesture without a sound. The two beasts circled each other for a few moments before settling into a wary truce.

  "Onyx," Grom decided aloud. "That’s what I’ll call you." The lynx’s eyes gleamed, as if it recognized its new name.

  Night fell quickly in the Barrens. Stars dotted the dark sky, their light reflected in the still waters of the river. Grom sat between Ashra and Onyx, his bow resting across his lap. The wildlands would be dangerous tomorrow, but for tonight, there was a gentle peace.

  In the quiet, Grom Ironfang allowed himself a rare smile. Alone, but never lonely—not with his beasts by his side. The night deepened, and the stars above seemed to pulse with an ancient light. Grom shifted slightly against a nearby boulder, adjusting his weight. The chill of the Barrens at night was a sharp contrast to its brutal daytime heat. Ashra’s steady breathing at his side provided a small comfort, and Onyx curled up a short distance away, his amber eyes glinting even as they began to close.

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  Grom kept his senses sharp despite the peace. The wilds of Azeroth were unpredictable. He had learned that lesson long ago during his youth, when a peaceful campfire had been interrupted by a pack of angry quillboars. That memory had never left him. His scars never let him forget. The moon reached its peak before his mind began to drift. Not to the wars of the past, nor to Orgrimmar’s bustling streets. Instead, his thoughts wandered to his old tribe—small, nomadic, and long since scattered across Azeroth. His people had valued strength and honor above all else, and when Grom chose the path of solitude and beasts, rather than glory and conquest, they had considered him a strange one. Weak, even.

  They were wrong. The hunter took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill his lungs. He glanced at Ashra, his ever-loyal wolf, and Onyx, the newly tamed lynx, and felt the quiet pride of a life lived on his terms. But peace never lasted for long. The distant cry of a bird of prey split the night—a piercing screech that shattered the stillness. Grom shot to his feet, bow in hand, scanning the darkness. Ashra growled low in her throat, her hackles rising and her mouth curled into a furious snarl. Onyx, though still new to Grom’s pack, mirrored the wolf’s tension. The cry came again, closer now. This time, Grom caught sight of a dark shadow against the moon—a great bird circling overhead.

  “Windroc,” he muttered softly under his breath. The massive bird-beasts were native to the arid regions of Nagrand, but a few had made their way to the Barrens. They were powerful hunters, fierce and relentless—and it had spotted them.

  Without warning, the windroc dove, its sharp talons extended towards them. The air screamed with fury as the beast plummeted toward them. Grom moved on instinct. His fingers flew over his taut bowstring, nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. He fired, the arrow streaking toward the windroc’s chest. It struck true, but the beast didn’t fall. It screeched in heightened fury, banking hard to avoid a second arrow. Ashra darted forward, her powerful hind legs propelling her toward the bird’s shadow. Onyx followed close behind, the lynx’s lean form cutting through the grass like a swift blade.

  “Stay sharp!” Grom barked loudly.

  It swooped low, raking its talons through the air as it passed. Ashra dodged narrowly, but Onyx wasn’t so lucky. The lynx yowled in pain as a talon grazed his side, leaving a shallow gash. Grom scowled, his blood boiling at the sight. He nocked another arrow, aiming for the windroc’s wings. He needed to ground it before it could strike again. The arrow flew—swift and true. It tore through the bird’s left wing, sending it spiraling down towards the earth. It crashed into the riverbank with a thunderous splash, its cries now ragged with pain and fury. Ashra and Onyx circled the downed beast, growling low and ready to strike. Grom approached slowly, his bow still trained on the windroc.

  “Enough,” he said, his voice calm but firm. The beasts obeyed, stepping back but remaining on high alert.

  The windroc thrashed weakly in the murky shallow water. Its wing hung at an awkward angle, broken beyond use. Grom studied it for a long moment. He could end it here—one more arrow would be all it took. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the same instinct that had led him to tame Ashra and Onyx. The windroc was no monster—it was a fellow hunter, like him. A creature of the wilds, fierce and free.

  Slowly, Grom lowered his bow. He knelt beside the bird, watching its labored breathing. “I’ll give you a choice,” he said quietly. “Fight and die, or follow me.”