Duke had asked himself at least a hundred times—why, in the name of the Light, did Stormwind City, boasting the finest knights trained under the living legend Anduin Lothar, still fall like a sack of potatoes off a broken cart?
Was it because Lothar had to charge off into Karazhan at the worst possible moment, like some kind of tragic-action hero?
Or was the rot deeper than that?
After spending enough time in Azeroth to earn several citizenships and a stomach ulcer, Duke finally grasped one ugly truth: the seven human kingdoms all ran on a spectacularly idiotic, chronically dysfunctional, medieval-grade feudal system. And in such a system, some disasters were practically baked into the crust.
Unlike centralized empires with functional bureaucracy, here in feudal Azeroth, you couldn't just say, "Mobilize the troops!" and expect a roaring army by sunset. No, in this mud-slicked mess of a kingdom, even moving food to the front lines was like herding drunk cats uphill in the rain—literally. The soil sucked, the roads were either imaginary or designed by someone who hated wagons, and the rain was so clingy it might as well be a stage-five clinger.
To prevent half the food from turning into swamp sludge, each noble was expected to feed their own troops. The king, bless his sleepless soul, could only issue general orders like: "Lord So-and-So, send 200 armored buffoons to that place on the map with too many syllables. Bring pointy things."
But the king couldn't tell those buffoons what to do once they arrived. Because of course, "The king's vassal's vassal is not the king's vassal." Translation: You're screwed.
And then came the orcs.
They didn't invade. They erupted. Like a tidal wave of muscle, tusks, and bad tempers, sweeping over the continent like green death in a hurry. But when word got back to Stormwind, what did the noble gasbags do?
"This is probably an exaggeration. We need more accurate information," they said. As if the flaming letters HELP written in blood weren't convincing enough.
Three days later, Stormwind's best minds had one piece of intelligence: a huge orc corpse, delivered by griffin mail. It came with no note, just the silent accusation of its own dead weight.
How many orcs? No clue. How strong were they? Strong enough to turn knights into jam. Where were they going? Forward. Always forward.
Still, the nobles dug in their bejeweled heels. No full mobilization. No war declaration. No extra troops. Not without "proof." The kind of proof that usually arrives too late to matter.
King Llane and Anduin Lothar aged five years for every minute they argued with these perfumed parasites.
Then the hammer dropped: all forts near the Redridge Triangle fell. With them went Stormwind's link to the east—the entire Redridge region. Suddenly, the nobles realized something terrifying: their money was in danger.
Because after Redridge, next came Elwynn Forest—a pancake-flat paradise that orcs could blitz through like kids in a candy store.
The nobles panicked.
"We must stop those beasts!"
"Yes! For the kingdom! For Azeroth! For our land, and also, you know... our gold!"
And just like that, these armchair generals achieved a rare feat: total unity, all within one hour. They demanded an immediate military stand at the pass into Redridge Mountains, where the terrain was tight enough to maybe slow the horde.
When the last noble left, Llane collapsed on the throne like a punctured wineskin. The candlelight flickered around him and Anduin, the only two people left in the throne room.
"What do you think of this so-called blocking battle?" Llane asked, sounding like he hoped the floor would swallow him.
Anduin's face was grim. "Not great. Our scouts say these green monsters are built for mountains. We're not blocking anything except our own retreat."
"So what? Let them stroll into Elwynn and turn the kingdom's heartland into a barbecue pit? Gods damn it all! If Medivh were here—No! Why do I keep forgetting? He might be the reason we're in this mess!"
Llane rubbed his face like he could wipe off the guilt.
Anduin spoke gently, "Your Majesty... perhaps we should consult Duke. Word from the front says the troops trained under him—the Naga cohort—performed noticeably better than the rest."
"He may be bright, but he's too young. Too low in rank. The nobles would scream their powdered wigs off if we let a teenager start giving military orders."
Anduin sighed. War was coming, but so were supply nightmares.
Before soldiers can march, the food has to march first. Grain, fodder, weapons—all had to be hauled to the Redridge Pass. Llane ordered supplies moved from the city toward the front. But nature, like nobles, was not cooperating.
Spring rain turned roads to sludge. The road from Stormwind to Goldshire? Miraculously pristine. The rest? A muddy hellhole.
"Why in the holy Light is the road to Goldshire perfect, but the rest is garbage?!" Lothar roared from his temporary HQ inside the Lion's Pride Inn, maps and patience flying in every direction.
A nearby sergeant coughed awkwardly. "Well... Sir Edmund once offered to pay for cobblestone roads all the way to Redridge. Only Duke Bolvar supported him. So, uh... we got half a road."
Llane and Anduin stared at each other in silent realization.
Did Duke... foresee this?
No. Couldn't be. Could it?
April 1st. Later known as Year One of the Doom Portal.
Despite the boggy terrain and political trench warfare, Stormwind cobbled together a force: 10,000 royal soldiers, 6,000 noble levies. They marched to hold the Redridge Pass.
From atop the Red Ridge Mountains, the landscape stretched out in dramatic contrast. Red, barren cliffs gave way to the lush green sprawl of Elwynn Forest. It was beautiful. And terrifying.
Those lonely twin peaks at the west edge of Redridge stood like the kingdom's final sentries, watching the forest with dread. Because out there, beyond the trees and mist, the storm was coming.
And this time, it wasn't going to knock.
It was going to kick the door in and set the curtains on fire.