At the top of Nethergarde stood a circular war chamber.
The five leaders of the Sons of Lothar had gathered there.
Turalyon stood at the head of the long table with both hands braced against its surface. His brows were tightly furrowed as his gaze rested on the military map of the Blasted Lands spread out before him.
Alleria Windrunner sat to his left, her back perfectly straight. She wore light leather armor, and her golden hair had been braided into a long plait draped over one shoulder.
Khadgar stood by the window with his back to the others. His white hair fluttered slightly in the wind, while his youthful face carried a weariness far beyond his years.
Danath Trollbane leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. One of his pauldrons bore a dent left by an orcish battle axe, a mark he still had not found time to repair. His short brown hair stuck up in a messy tangle, and fresh stubble had begun to emerge along his jaw.
Kurdran Wildhammer sat on a stone stool far too tall for him, his stout legs stretched out awkwardly.
His large nose was bright red, whether from the sandstorms of the Blasted Lands or from secretly drinking too much strong liquor the night before. The collar of his battle robe hung open, exposing a patch of thick chest hair.
Turalyon lifted his head and looked toward Kurdran. "The orcs' harassment attacks are becoming more and more frequent, High Thane. When will the gryphon riders of the Wildhammer clan arrive at Nethergarde?"
Kurdran awkwardly scratched his large nose and muttered, "Soon, probably soon. I've already sent ten letters urging them to hurry." He paused before adding, "Is it really that urgent?"
Turalyon did not answer. He simply looked at Kurdran with eyes devoid of blame, yet that alone made Kurdran unconsciously shrink his neck.
Turalyon turned toward Khadgar. "Archmage, what do you think?"
Khadgar let out a sigh and turned away from the window. The winds of the Blasted Lands blew his white hair into even greater disarray.
"Lately, I've had an ominous feeling." His voice rang especially clearly through the chamber. "I suspect the Horde may be planning something major soon."
Danath straightened away from the wall, his tone carrying a trace of helplessness.
"I say, Archmage, since when did you become a prophet?" He paused. "Other than your intuition, don't you have any more concrete reasons?"
Khadgar glared at him indignantly. "Why can't I be a prophet? Don't forget, my teacher was one!"
But the moment the words left his mouth, his expression dimmed again. Medivh's name was never an easy topic within this room.
Alleria raised her eyes from the battle reports and spoke coolly, "Khadgar, my ranger corps is already on the way. If this ends up being a wasted trip..." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'll personally pluck out your beard."
Khadgar instinctively touched the sparse beard on his chin and immediately changed his tune. "Well, you know, omens aren't always reliable."
He coughed lightly. "Not long ago, I even saw an absolutely ridiculous prophecy. There's no way something like that could ever happen."
Kurdran's interest was piqued, and he stroked his beard as he asked, "What prophecy?"
Khadgar laughed bitterly and waved his hands repeatedly. "Nothing, nothing."
How could he possibly admit that he had secretly snuck into the forbidden sections of Karazhan and seen a future where a dark wizard would save the Sons of Lothar?
Turalyon was a paladin, after all. Khadgar still feared this overly rigid man a little.
"Sis! Sis!"
A bright voice suddenly came from outside the door, breaking the brief silence inside the chamber.
The door was pushed open violently as Vereesa Windrunner rushed in, silver hair streaming behind her.
Alleria's expression instantly softened. She set down the battle report in her hands and reached out toward her younger sister. "What is it, Little Moon?"
The others present had long since grown accustomed to this scene.
Turalyon shifted slightly to make room for the youngest Windrunner sister. Danath leaned farther against the wall, while Kurdran stroked his beard with a grin.
Vereesa held up a battle report, her eyes shining brightly. "The black dragon Sabellian and the orcs attacked Menethil Harbor! They were trying to seize ships and sail into the Great Sea in search of the Scepter of Sargeras!"
Turalyon instantly rose to his feet.
"What happened afterward? How did the battle end? Did they succeed?"
Vereesa waved the report in her hand as her voice echoed through the chamber. "They failed! An archmage named Allen Prestor stopped them!"
Danath let out a long breath as the tension in his shoulders eased. "That's good."
He rubbed the fresh stubble on his chin. "Looks like the orcs really are after those artifacts. Shouldn't we warn Dalaran?"
Khadgar did not respond immediately. His brows furrowed slightly as his gaze settled on the battle report in Vereesa's hands.
"Allen Prestor."
He repeated the name softly. "The same man who killed Teron Gorefiend alongside you?"
The atmosphere inside the war chamber subtly shifted.
Alleria and Turalyon exchanged a glance, amusement hidden in their eyes—they both knew exactly what Little Moon was thinking.
Danath's gaze swept back and forth between Vereesa and the battle report twice, looking as though he had suddenly realized something.
Khadgar offered no comment.
He had met this young man before in Darkshire.
At the time, he had intended to step in and help, only to witness that dark wizard erupt with such terrifying shadow power.
He was not the mage Khadgar had once believed to be chosen by destiny. He was something darker. Something far more dangerous.
Khadgar looked toward Turalyon and Alleria and shook his head slightly.
The Allen they had heard about—the gentle Alteraci noble Vereesa constantly brought up before her sister, Stormwind's model young gentleman, that honest and upright young man—was definitely not the same person Khadgar knew.
But he was not foolish enough to expose any of it.
With Turalyon's personality, once he met the young man himself, he would naturally understand.
"No matter what," Turalyon's voice broke the brief silence, "this is good news."
He turned toward the others. "Although the Book of Medivh was stolen from Stormwind, we successfully stopped another Horde strike team from obtaining the Scepter of Sargeras."
He paused briefly. "After Menethil Harbor, there aren't many soft targets left for them to squeeze. And even a soft target might not have ships capable of exploring the Great Sea."
Over the next few days, more good news arrived one after another.
Alleria's ranger corps was the first to reach Nethergarde.
Those high elves wore silver chainmail beneath emerald-green cloaks, riding dragonhawks and towering warhorses.
Their long ears twitched slightly in the wind as the soldiers atop Nethergarde's walls crowded together to stare at this elite force of high elves in amazement.
Not long afterward, the mages of the Kirin Tor arrived as well, led by Archmage Vargas.
The very first thing they did upon arriving was construct a portal connecting Nethergarde directly to Dalaran.
That evening, the clouds along the horizon were burned into a vivid orange-red by the setting sun.
Kurdran stood atop the battlements with his neck craned northward for a very long time.
Then he saw them—
A cluster of black dots emerging from beneath the clouds, growing larger and closer with every passing moment.
The shrill cries of gryphons tore through the oppressive air of the Blasted Lands. Those massive beasts spread their broad wings and circled above Nethergarde again and again, casting enormous shadows below.
The Wildhammer dwarves' gryphon riders had finally arrived.
Rare indeed.
Since the end of the Second War, so many races had not gathered together like this again to resist a Horde invasion.
Humans and dwarves stood side by side upon the walls. Elves and mages filled the encampments. The stables housed warhorses, gryphons, and dragonhawks alike.
The newly built Nethergarde had never been so crowded.
Nor had it ever been so lively.
That very night, the dwarves brought out the liquor they had hauled across countless miles.
Kurdran was the first to raise a mug, singing an off-key mountain folk song in Dwarvish.
Turalyon moved through the crowd with a cold expression. With one hand, he snatched away a keg a Wildhammer dwarf was in the middle of pouring straight into a soldier's mouth. The dwarf glared furiously at first, but the moment he saw Turalyon's expressionless face, he grumbled and withdrew his hands.
"Kurdran, are your gryphon riders planning to drink all my soldiers unconscious on their very first day in Nethergarde?"
The entire fortress was overflowing with noise and celebration.
Vereesa sat atop the battlements with her legs dangling over the edge, gazing down at the brightly lit camp below.
The glow of the bonfires flickered across her face, bright one moment and dim the next.
In that atmosphere, Vereesa wrote a letter to Allen and sent it off toward Dalaran.
There were actually many more things she wanted to include in the letter, but after all this time, Allen had not sent her a single reply. Out of spite, she refused to write any of them down.
Late into the night, she returned to her room and fell asleep amidst the lively uproar echoing throughout Nethergarde.
She slept deeply.
Sweetly.
Who knew how much time had passed.
Then, suddenly, a distant sound intruded upon her dreams.
First came the trembling of the earth. Very faint, like someone far away hammering against the ground. Tiny grains of sand trickled from the cracks in the stone walls.
Vereesa turned over in her sleep.
Then came a vague wave of noise, blurred together by the wind beyond the walls and swallowed by the night, impossible to distinguish clearly.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
And in the next instant, every sound crashed in all at once—
The chaotic pounding of iron boots across stone ground. Someone shouting commands in the Common Tongue.
And beyond the walls, an overwhelming roar surged forward like a tidal wave.
Vereesa's eyes snapped open.
Those were not human voices.
The war had begun.
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