Anduin, Bolvar, and Duke—what a power trio. In Llane's eyes, they were like the holy trinity of politics: the loyal hound, the rock-solid anchor, and the wildcard sorcerous millennial from another dinsion. A dream team for the apocalypse. Strangely enough, their wildly different brains sohow spat out the sa advice, word for word. That alone was enough to scare a council.
And Llane... Llane nodded. Not politely. Not thoughtfully. He nodded like a man who just realized he's been playing chess with a demon using a checkerboard.
Yes! By the Light and all the gods still taking prayers—Yes! If there was no way out, then it was ti to kick down the walls and fight like a cornered lion in a burning circus tent.
Llane's mind spun with clarity as if soone finally opened the castle windows and let the fresh reality in. "I was cowardly," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Sargeras scared witless—but by the Holy Throne, this is the last ti fear gets the better of !"
With the fury of a man who just saw soone double-dip into royal hummus, he clenched the terrace railing so hard it cracked. Five crisp fingerprints were now embedded in priceless white jade. Sowhere, a royal stonemason scread in spiritual agony.
Behind him, the queen—graceful as always—smiled like a sunbeam that had just learned sarcasm. She gestured lightly behind Llane. He turned.
And there he was: little Varian, barely more than a cub, awkwardly hiding behind a pillar with the stealth of a hiccuping panda.
"Llane," she said softly, "this is how you pass on the fire. A king doesn't just leave gold and a title—he leaves courage."
Llane blinked and let out a long breath. Together, he and the queen waved over their tiny successor, their shared hope: the future king, Prince Varian Wrynn.
Llane lifted the boy into his arms, holding him tight like he might slip into mory at any second.
"Son," he said, his voice steady, "let tell you a story about courage..."
Little Varian looked up, his big eyes full of awe and confusion, the way all kids look when their dads start getting philosophical after dinner.
He listened carefully—too carefully. When Llane finished, Varian cocked his head and asked the deadliest question of all:
"Father... why did Uncle Lothar and that brother Duke go to risk their lives instead of you?"
There was a silence so sharp you could butter toast with it.
Llane paused. Then smiled, the kind of smile that hides both a sigh and a lump in the throat.
"Child, in this world, everyone has their part to play. So carry swords, others carry crowns. So protect lives; others protect hope. Those people... we call them nobles. And the highest of nobles... is the king."
Little Varian blinked. "But you're the king!"
Llane nodded. "And then... there are those who step forward when the whole world burns, knowing they'll probably lose. But they fight anyway. Sotis they fail. Sotis... sotis they win. We call them heroes."
"Is Uncle Lothar a hero?" the boy asked in a whisper.
Llane hugged him tighter, his voice trembling like a bowstring at full draw.
"I don't know... but every beat of my heart is praying that he becos one. And if he does—if he wins—then let his na shine brighter than mine. I'll gladly step back into the shadows of his glory... for all of us."
anwhile, deep in the Twilight Forest...
The trees lood like grumpy old n, their gnarled limbs choking the sky. Fog clung to everything like a damp curse. No birds. No sun. Just the endless press of night and rot.
Lothar's strike team advanced—not galloping, not marching, but slogging. Trying to ride hard in this forest was like trying to juggle flaming swords in a tar pit.
"Rest break!" Lothar barked.
He dismounted with the grace of a man who'd done this since diapers. His soldiers stopped on a di, barely a whinny among them. Horses were handed off, weapons checked, eyes sharpened.
Lothar made his way to the back—and there he found Duke.
Poor, miserable Duke. He looked like a man who'd just had a root canal perford with a jackhamr.
"Oh my little savior," Lothar said with a chuckle. "Hard to believe this moaning pile of regret is the sa bold hero who stared down the royal council with all the swagger of a bard with a death wish."
Duke groaned like a haunted accordion.
Can you bla him? Before ti-traveling to a dieval war zone, he was a regular college kid. His "horses" had four wheels and Bluetooth. Now he was basically riding a furry earthquake.
Day one, he nearly barfed out last night's stew. Day two, he was seriously questioning if his kidneys had migrated.
And yet... here he was. Elwynn Forest to Duskwood in two days—three hundred kiloters of barely-there trails, more bush than road, and more horse injuries than he'd care to count. Five horses lost, two n nearly decapitated by low-hanging death branches.
Duke glared at Lothar.
"Go on. Laugh. But rember this mont. Because one day, I will laugh at you—probably while turning you into a chicken."
Lothar grinned and nearly lifted Duke off his saddle like a sack of potatoes.
Around them, the troops bustled: setting watch, feeding mounts, sharing grim sips from battered flasks. But every now and then, soone gave them a look.
A knight. A mage. And... a female orc.
Even in a world of demons and dragons, this was weird.
Garona stood like she'd been carved out of violence. Her gaze raked over Duke with rciless honesty.
"You're weak," she said, as casually as soone pointing out spinach in your teeth. "In the Horde, you wouldn't even qualify as a shovel-wielder."
Duke narrowed his eyes.
"Most of our mages look like this, thank you very much."
But Garona tilted her head, genuinely puzzled.
"That's strange. Our warlocks and shamans are way tougher than you."
Oof. Critical hit. Right in the ego.
Duke sighed. Different species, different rules. No point arguing with a half-orc raised on pain and protein.
Still, he muttered to himself, After this is over, I'm getting ripped. You can't even flirt in this world unless you can arm wrestle a golem.
Suddenly, Lothar leaned in, whispering like he was sharing the last cheat code to reality.
"What do you think... are our odds against him?"
Duke didn't even flinch.
He raised two fingers.
Not a V for victory.
"Twenty percent," he said grimly. "And that's only if divh's soul is still hanging on by a thread."
Lothar didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because sotis, the only answer is a silent nod and a hand on the sword.
The die was cast.
And the storm was coming.
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