Jaina possessed razor-sharp intelligence.
If she’d been blessed with the brains of a turnip, she might have cackled with glee watching her romantic rival stumble into disaster.
But Jaina was far from stupid. She wasn’t delusional enough to challenge Alleria, who’d been warming Duke’s bed for fifteen years, or Vereesa, who’d claid her stake thirteen years ago. Those elf sisters fought as a devastating tag team, their combined romantic attributes creating an unstoppable force.
Besides, kings of this era collected lovers with the enthusiasm of children hoarding candy. Hell, her own father, King Daelin, kept Gina Goldensword close enough to polish more than just his sword, if gossip spoke truth.
All Jaina craved was the official title of Duke’s wife—nothing more, nothing less.
In public, she couldn’t pressure Duke into committing strategic suicide by sacrificing the entire Alliance for personal desires.
In private, she also lacked any power to convince Duke to abandon Sylvanas.
Her counsel had been devastatingly sound.
Duke ntally applauded Jaina’s political wisdom with genuine admiration.
Suddenly, Duke’s voice exploded through the tent: "Are you satisfied with this outco?"
Jaina nearly jumped out of her skin. Duke clearly wasn’t addressing her. Sure enough, a shadowy female silhouette materialized from the tent’s darkest corner with supernatural stealth. Jaina’s heart sank as she recognized Lirath, the fourth daughter of the legendary Windrunner family.
For once, Lirath’s perpetually emotionless mask cracked to reveal genuine joy: "Thank you, brother-in-law."
She remained blissfully unaware that her words had just driven a taphorical dagger straight through a certain female mage’s heart.
Jaina had been brutally executed while minding her own business.
If Jaina lost openly, she lost.
If she had to admit defeat, she still lost.
If she remained diplomatically silent, she sohow lost even harder.
She could only manage an expression of pure awkward agony while shooting Duke a look that scread—I’m completely screwed! I’m supposedly your fiancée! Why don’t you just put out of my misery already?
Duke’s head pounded with the force of a troll’s war drum. He felt lower than worm shit. Logic demanded he reject Jaina with crystal clarity. But Ilucia’s private correspondence had urged extre caution—the Alliance was already weak enough to make newborn kittens look threatening, and creating enemies with Kul Tiras, even superficial hostility, would cripple their naval superiority.
anwhile, Lirath’s deadpan expression continued sucking the joy from the room.
Drawing a breath deep enough to fuel dragon fire, Duke summoned Lirath closer and explained: "I cannot march to Quel’Thalas personally. This represents a high-stakes political chess match between the Alliance and the Elven Kingdom. Whoever begs first gets politically castrated. Inviting Quel’Thalas—whose military power dwarfs our other mber states—into the Alliance would eventually trigger our complete collapse. I bear responsibility for the entire Alliance’s survival. Therefore, ensuring your second sister’s safety falls to you. Do this for ..."
Duke employed the sacred wind-speech he’d learned from Alleria to convey his intricate instructions, then Lirath accepted his mysterious gifts and departed with obvious satisfaction.
Just as Duke finished this delicate explanation, Mograine, Abendis, Kael’thas, and a pack of Lordaeron generals stord in demanding audience.
Witnessing Lirath’s departure and discovering Jaina comfortably seated in Duke’s private tent, several Alliance leaders exchanged glances loaded with unspoken questions.
The Lordaeron delegation naturally bristled with jealousy, while Kael’thas offered mortified apologies: "Forgive , Duke, but my father has apparently reinstated Lady Sylvanas as Ranger General to defend Eversong Forest’s vulnerable southern frontier."
No walls could contain such explosive gossip, especially when that ancient fox Sun King was deliberately forcing Duke’s hand with shaless manipulation.
Duke released a sigh that could have powered a windmill: "The Scourge represents the most apocalyptic threat humans, elves, dwarves, and gnos have ever confronted. I find His Majesty Anasterian’s refusal to join the Alliance at this critical mont—while simultaneously pulling such pathetically transparent tricks—absolutely revolting."
Duke’s brutal honesty transford Kael’thas’s face into a masterpiece of crimson embarrassnt, making him desperately wish the earth would swallow him whole.
Duke pressed forward relentlessly: "The Alliance will never compromise because of Sylvanas. We haven’t bent before, and we sure as hell won’t start now. This discussion dies here. What demands our imdiate attention is evacuating Lordaeron’s refugees and crushing the Scourge into dust."
Duke’s iron resolution flooded Mograine and the other Lordaeron generals with visible relief.
After frantic strategic consultations, Duke crafted a decision that appeared diplomatically fair but could instantly transform into blatant favoritism whenever circumstances demanded.
With Kul Tiras’s 30,000 sailors providing backbone support, and considering that reinforcents would arrive in steady waves while undead hordes multiplied near Silverpine Forest and Tirisfal Glades borders—making westward refugee evacuation increasingly suicidal—Duke led the Scarlet Crusade and Dalaran’s rebuilt Mage Corps to establish fresh landing zones along Whispering Coast and the northern shores northwest and north of Tirisfal Glades for massive refugee extraction operations.
Anyone possessing functional eyeballs could see that Duke had strategically repositioned the Scarlet Crusade’s main force to the northern coastline, placing them rely one day’s sailing from elven territory.
Furthermore, Duke kept the Scarlet Crusade perpetually aboard their vessels, preventing them from even forming proper battle formations on land.
However, politically speaking, Duke’s maneuvering was absolutely bulletproof—he was saving innocent lives! Moreover, naval superiority represented the Alliance’s crushing advantage. No matter how nightmarishly powerful the Scourge had beco, they lacked anything resembling a functional navy.
Duke was maximizing his strategic strengths with ruthless efficiency.
anwhile, defending the Dark Portal fell to Danath Trollbane’s capable hands. Turalyon received promotion to Alliance General, commanding a devastating force of 100,000 troops, including Edmund’s 40,000 elite private army under Windsor’s leadership, setting sail from Reed Coast.
Following favorable ocean currents, the fleet would require approximately one week to reach the easternmost regions of old Lordaeron territory—the eastern coastline now grimly renad the "Eastern Plaguelands." There, a secret passage Duke had arranged before his mysterious disappearance awaited discovery, a three-year excavation project of staggering ambition.
This passage erged south of the Hand of Tyr. Exiting the tunnel revealed newly constructed Tyr Harbor. Just south of Tyr Harbor lay the Seawatch Cliff region where orcish forces had landed during the second Dark Portal war. Over 100,000 murlocs inhabited those waters, every single one sworn to Duke’s service.
"Convey the royal decree of Her Majesty Queen Calia nethil, promoting Saidan Dathrohan to Major General of Lordaeron. Additionally, promote him to Alliance Major General under my supre authority. Command Saidan to recruit militia forces and establish the Strathol Defense Line, creating an impenetrable barrier against the Scourge’s potential eastward expansion. However, all civilian populations must be evacuated to the Hand of Tyr and gradually withdrawn to the southern continent’s safety."
"Order Saidan to maintain his position until Turalyon and Windsor’s forces arrive. I want them to beco immovable spikes driven deep into the Scourge’s advance."
"Also, the mont they spot Arthas, Saidan, Turalyon, and Windsor must retreat imdiately at any cost. Arthas has plunged even deeper into darkness. He’s achieved demigod status now. I refuse to sacrifice the Alliance’s finest generals in pointless heroic gestures."
Duke’s rapid-fire commands made his strategic intentions crystal clear to everyone present.
They remained locked in strategic withdrawal, but nobody could predict when this defensive phase would finally end.
The word "demigod" describing Arthas struck everyone’s hearts with ice-cold terror.
Suddenly, Duke addressed Mograine directly: "Mograine, His Majesty Magni Bronzebeard has sent urgent correspondence. He desperately needs you and our most powerful paladins to journey to Ironforge imdiately."
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