Chapter 80: The Stonetalon Divide

　　The damp, clinging air of Dustwallow Marsh fell away as Kaelen climbed. The ground grew steep and rocky, the vegetation shifting from reeds and cypress to hardy, wind-twisted pines and fragrant sagebrush. The sky, which had been a low, oppressive ceiling over the swamp, opened up into a vast, brilliant blue. He was ascending into the Stonetalon Mountains, a rugged spine of rock that divided the lush forests of Ashenvale from the arid plains of the Barrens.

　　The air was thin and sharp, carrying the scent of dry stone and sun-baked earth. The silence here was different from the marsh's oppressive stillness; it was a high, clean silence, broken only by the cry of an eagle circling on a thermal far above. He had entered a land of stark contrasts and deep wounds.

　　The path, a narrow ledge carved into the mountainside, offered breathtaking vistas. To the west, the green canopy of Ashenvale stretched to the horizon, a sea of life. To the east, the golden, sun-scorched expanse of the Barrens baked under the sun. He was walking the razor's edge between two worlds.

　　But this borderland was not a place of peace. The evidence of conflict was everywhere. He passed the charred remains of a night elf outpost, its delicate structures blackened and collapsed. Further on, he found a Horde supply caravan, ambushed and destroyed—shattered wagons, the bodies of orc grunts and tauren braves left to the scavengers under the pitiless sun. The mountain winds whistled through the splintered wood and rusted armor, a mournful dirge for the dead.

　　This was not the grand, set-piece battle of the valley he had witnessed from the heights. This was a war of raids and skirmishes, a brutal, intimate struggle for control of a pass, a ridge, a water source. It was a war of attrition, fought with knife and arrow in the dust and rocks, far from the banners and glory.

　　He moved with extreme caution, his senses attuned to every rustle of stone, every shadow that moved against the sun. He was a neutral observer in a place that recognized no neutrality.

　　One afternoon, as he sheltered from the blistering sun in the shade of a large boulder, he saw them. A small patrol of night elf Sentinels, moving with the fluid grace of their kind, their silver armor blending with the granite. They were scanning the terrain, their faces grim, their bows held ready. They were hunters in their own stolen territory.

　　Minutes later, from the opposite direction, came the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps. A squad of orc grunts, led by a massive warrior with a scarred face and a bloodied axe. They were moving with a grim determination, their eyes scanning the same ridges.

　　The two groups were on a collision course.

　　Kaelen held his breath, pressed against the rock. There was no time for warning, no room for intervention. He was about to witness the moment of contact, the explosive violence that was the truth of this place.

　　The Sentinels saw the orcs first. A sharp, bird-like call echoed, and arrows flew. The orcs roared, a sound of pure, battle-fury, and charged. The silence of the mountains was shattered by the clash of steel, the thrum of bowstrings, the guttural shouts and the sharp cries of pain.

　　It was over in minutes. It was not a glorious battle. It was a brutal, desperate fight for survival. When it ended, two orcs and three night elves lay dead on the rocky ground. The survivors, wounded and exhausted, disengaged, melting back into the rocks from whence they came, leaving their fallen comrades behind. There were no victors, only loss.

　　The silence returned, heavier now, filled with the scent of blood and the buzzing of flies. Kaelen remained hidden, his heart pounding. He had seen the face of the war not as a strategy, but as a raw, personal tragedy. It was not about flags or ideals in that moment; it was about killing the enemy in front of you before they killed you.

　　He waited until long after the sounds of the survivors had faded before moving on. He gave the bodies a wide berth, a silent respect for the dead. The encounter had carved a new understanding into him. The chronicle of Azeroth was not just about the grand causes and the ancient magic. It was also about this: a patch of stony ground, a moment of fear and rage, and the simple, terrible cost of a divided world. The Stonetalon Mountains were not just a border; they were a bleeding scar. And he, the chronicler, carried the memory of its pain as he continued his solitary climb, the high, clean air now tasting of ash and sorrow.