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 dimension. A dream team for the apocalypse. Strangely enough, their wildly different brains somehow spat out the same 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 time to kick down the walls and fight like a cornered lion in a burning circus tent.
Llane's mind spun with clarity as if someone finally opened the castle windows and let the fresh reality in. "I was cowardly," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Sargeras scared me witless—but by the Holy Throne, this is the last time fear gets the better of me!"
With the fury of a man who just saw someone double-dip into royal hummus, he clenched the terrace railing so hard it cracked. Five crisp fingerprints were now embedded in priceless white jade. Somewhere, a royal stonemason screamed 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 memory at any second.
"Son," he said, his voice steady, "let me 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. Some carry swords, others carry crowns. Some 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. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes... sometimes 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 becomes one. And if he does—if he wins—then let his name shine brighter than mine. I'll gladly step back into the shadows of his glory... for all of us."
Meanwhile, deep in the Twilight Forest...
The trees loomed like grumpy old men, 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 dime, 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 performed with a jackhammer.
"Oh my little savior," Lothar said with a chuckle. "Hard to believe this moaning pile of regret is the same 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 blame him? Before time-traveling to a medieval 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 kilometers of barely-there trails, more bush than road, and more horse injuries than he'd care to count. Five horses lost, two men nearly decapitated by low-hanging death branches.
Duke glared at Lothar.
"Go on. Laugh. But remember this moment. 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, someone 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 merciless honesty.
"You're weak," she said, as casually as someone 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 , 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.
"Twenty percent," he said grimly. "And that's only if Medivh's soul is still hanging on by a thread."
Lothar didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because sometimes, the only answer is a silent nod and a hand on the sword.
And the storm was coming.