Born in the darkened halls of Neltharion’s forges, I was shaped to be a soldier, a weapon, a blade to be wielded against the enemies of dragonkind. Thosash—the name given to me by my creators—once carried honour, duty, and purpose. But purpose is a fickle thing. It can be shattered like glass, twisted like steel. And when it is gone, what is left?

When we awoke on the Dragon Isles, I believed we had a chance—a future of our own. I fought alongside my kin, proving my strength, my discipline, my worth. But the world we woke to was not the one we were promised. The Aspects, fractured shadows of what they once were, saw us as tools. The mortals, suspicious and wary, treated us as unknowns, waiting to see if we were friend or foe. And among my own, I saw hesitation, confusion. We were created for a war that had long since ended, soldiers with no battle left to fight.

Some found a new path, pledging themselves to the Horde or the Alliance. Some found solace in rebuilding, seeking meaning in peace. I found only emptiness.

I left the Isles behind. Left the banners, the causes, the futile attempts at finding a place where I did not belong. I took what skills I had—stealth, precision, the art of war—and sold them to the highest bidder. Gold speaks louder than honour. A simple truth I learned in the back alleys of Booty Bay, where pirates and mercenaries cared little for what I was, only that I was effective.

The first kill was easy. A Goblin smuggler who had stolen from the wrong Cartel. He never saw me coming. By the time the third and fourth contract crossed my hands, I had stopped asking questions. The world had never given me answers I liked, so why should I seek them now?

My reputation grew, whispered in the shadows of Orgimmar's underbelly, in the hushed tones of Silvermoon’s darkened corridors. A Dracthyr assassin—exotic, deadly, a creature of war honed for precision kills. Some called me a rogue dragon, others a traitor to my own kind. I call myself practical.

The ones who still believe in honour, in causes, they look at me with disgust. I see it in the eyes of my former comrades when we cross paths in neutral cities. They do not understand. They still cling to the past, to the idea that we were made for something greater. But I know the truth. The past is dead, and I am no hero.

I am The Voiceless One. And I kill because it is what I was made to do.