Stormwind Fortress, a majestic citadel of human pride and power, echoed with a tense silence as Duke and the venerable wizard Norton marched through its golden halls. Their footsteps clacked on the polished marble, but neither spared a glance for the stunning murals nor the lavish ornamentation that adorned the passage. Art, beauty, and luxury were lost on them now—their eyes were fixed on the unsettling sight: every single Royal Guard they passed wore not ceremonial armor, but battle-ready gear.
Gone were the polished breastplates engraved with eagles and lions, the bright blue tassels that danced in celebratory flair, and the flowing capes meant to dazzle in court. Instead, what they wore was grim and pragmatic. These were suits made for war: plain steel, no embellishments, no frills—just raw, functional armor. Some even bore hand-painted sigils, crude but urgent. The kind of markings warriors throw on before charging into chaos, not sipping wine at a gala.
Even the ever-composed Duke swallowed hard.
And that wasn't all. Beside every posted guard sat a spare lantern. A sign. A message. Be ready for darkness.
Stormwind Keep was no longer just a palace. It had reverted to its other nature: a fortress preparing for siege.
They reached the inner sanctum—the place where decisions that shaped kingdoms were made. But today, the heavy doors were flanked by more than steel and muscle. Two figures shimmered with arcane intensity. Sky Wizards. Guardians of the realm's most secret magic.
When even the mighty Sky Wizards had been pulled from their towers to guard a meeting hall door, it said one thing:
Something had gone horribly wrong.
As Bolvar led them closer, one of the guards raised a scroll. The wizard touched it, and Duke's face flickered into the air in shimmering light. Identity verified. Eight guards stared at Duke and Norton like they were potential bombs. Then, reluctantly, they were let through.
The door groaned open.
And into a battlefield of words they stepped.
"Anduin! For Thoradin's sake, are you allergic to calm!? We've known Medivh for over thirty years!"
King Llane's voice thundered across the chamber, shaking the stained glass windows.
"Exactly, thirty years!" Anduin barked, jabbing a finger toward the throne. "And in all those years, have you EVER seen him act like that? Either we're all hallucinating, or Medivh has cracked harder than a goblin's flask under a troll's boot!"
The tension was so thick you could spread it on toast.
"Then we should find him!" Llane snapped. "Not treat him like some evil trickster behind his back!" He slammed his fist on the war-table. A loud BANG! rang out. A ceremonial goblet wobbled and fell.
Anduin roared back, eyes blazing. "And have you forgotten the king's token you sent!? You used the highest royal summoning charm and he still didn't answer! Medivh has never ignored it before! Not once!"
The room quaked with emotion. Even Llane's defiant shoulders sagged when the old court mage at his side cleared his throat and muttered:
"Transmission confirmed. The Guardian received it. He... refused to respond."
The kind of silence that kills parties, ends marriages, and kicks the wind out of centuries-long friendships.
Llane sat back heavily, rubbing his temples as if he could massage reality back into shape. Then his tired eyes spotted Duke and Norton entering the chamber.
"Alright," Llane muttered. "We'll set aside the Medivh matter until we have proof. I trust in Norton's wisdom. But Anduin..." He turned. "Why bring Sir Edmund into this?"
Anduin was no longer snarling. Now, he was eerily calm.
"Because," he said, nodding toward Duke, "when that hourglass appeared, his reaction was... unique. In a room of stunned nobles, he was the only one who looked like he understood."
Llane blinked. "Fine. Let me ask: does anyone here, anyone besides this young man, know what that hourglass is, or what it signifies?"
Ten old men shifted in their seats. Wizards, scholars, historians—the type who usually had smug answers to everything. This time, heads turned, and every one of them shook their head.
All eyes fell on Duke.
He cursed internally. Not even the most graceful noble could dance his way out of this spotlight.
Duke knew exactly what that hourglass was.
The Hourglass of Cataclysm. The cursed timer that began counting down to the First Opening of the Dark Portal. The event that would unleash the orcs, the Burning Legion, and everything that would shatter Azeroth's peace.
But could he say that?
Could he accuse Medivh—the king's childhood friend, the nation's magical protector, and probably the most powerful wizard in the world—of being possessed by Sargeras, the interdimensional demon lord?
Say that, and they'd call him a lunatic. Maybe worse. Burn him at the stake and ask questions later.
He took a breath. He had to say something.
"The moment I saw that hourglass," he began, voice somber and soft, "I had a vision."
Norton flinched. Someone gasped. Another man muttered, "Prophet?"
"A vision?" Llane raised a brow.
"Yes." Duke straightened, channeling his inner actor. In spirit, the Oscar statuette perched proudly on his shoulder. "I saw—death. Destruction. War unlike anything we've known. A brave Stormwind soldier, crushed beneath the hammer of a monstrous creature twice his size. It was quick. Brutal."
One skeptical old man scoffed. "What, your wet dream turned sour? Was it a Naga with lipstick?"
Duke smiled sweetly, venom laced behind it. "No. This creature had two arms, two legs, and a hammer big enough to flatten you like a pancake. And you, sir, could barely reach its waist."
Then he bowed deeply.
Llane didn't answer. He turned to Anduin, who just raised his hands: "I told you. I'm not the only one with a bad feeling about this."
And finally, Bolvar Fordragon, up until now a quiet observer, stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," he said firmly, "forgive me for speaking freely."
"When Medivh presented that hourglass, I too... felt something. Not just arrogance. Not just detachment. I felt contempt. Contempt toward you. Toward the realm. And worse—a growing hostility."
The words dropped like boulders into a still lake.
Medivh. Contemptuous? Hostile?
The room felt colder.
And above them all, unseen but ever present, the grains of black sand continued to rise in the cursed hourglass—counting up toward a destiny no one yet fully understood.