The great forge-hall of Ironforge echoed with the rhythmic hammering of a thousand smiths, but King Magni Bronzebeard's attention was fixed entirely on the gleaming weapons before him. His weathered hands, scarred by centuries of working molten metal, trembled slightly as he traced the intricate runic patterns etched into the titanstrike's barrel.
"It's not impossible, is it?" King Magni's voice carried the weight of desperate hope, his deep baritone reverberating off the ancient stone walls. The flickering forge-light cast dancing shadows across his weathered features, highlighting the hunger in his eyes, not for gold or gems, but for salvation itself.
Forget thirty to forty percent; even a modest ten percent improvement would be nothing short of miraculous. Such weapons would eclipse the crude gunpowder contraptions his engineers currently produced, elevating them to the realm of legend, epic-tier armaments that could turn the tide of war itself.
The very thought sent shivers down his spine. Thousands of such weapons in dwarven hands... what terror could the Orcish Horde possibly hold then? One shot, one kill, even the thickest plate armor forged in the depths of Blackrock Mountain, even the iron helms blessed by orcish shamans, would crumble like parchment before such might.
Thousands of epic-tier weapons... The concept was almost too magnificent to comprehend!
"After this accursed war ends," Magni mused aloud, his voice dropping to a conspirative whisper, "should I dispatch my second and third brothers to the frozen wastes of Northrend with a full expedition? The secrets buried in that cursed continent could revolutionize warfare itself..."
But even as the words left his lips, caution tempered his ambition. "No, no, Northrend harbors too many ancient evils, too many sleeping terrors. Better we cut our teeth on something closer to home. Uldaman lies but a stone's throw from our borders, and its titan-forged secrets are no less valuable!"
King Magni's decision crystallized like cooling metal in a mold, his resolve hardening with each passing moment.
Yet titanstrike was merely the crown jewel of his desires. His covetous gaze lingered on the magnificent sword and shield sets belonging to Lanathel and Liadrin, masterworks of craftsmanship that made even his finest smiths weep with envy. The artistry was beyond mortal comprehension, each curve and edge speaking of divine inspiration.
Most precious of all were Truthguard and Oathbinder, forged by none other than Azadas himself, the very Titan Keeper who had shaped the earthen ancestors of the dwarven race from primordial stone and starfire.
'These weapons are our birthright,' Magni thought with growing fervor. 'Forged by our creator's own hands, they are as much family as steel and gold. Surely they would surrender their secrets willingly to their earthen kin?'
---
The morning sun painted Ironforge's great gates in shades of copper and bronze when an unexpected visitor arrived, his travel-stained robes billowing in the mountain wind.
"Your Royal Highness, Highlord," the newcomer announced with a respectful bow, though exhaustion lined his features like ancient scars. "Marshal Lothar has dispatched me to assess the situation here."
Kael'thas Sunstrider arched one elegant eyebrow, his emerald eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement. "You traveled personally for such a mundane task, Khadgar? Could not a Dragonhawk Rider or Gryphon courier have sufficed? Though I suppose even you required a gryphon for the journey?"
The question carried gentle mockery, to use an Archmage of Khadgar's caliber as a mere scout and messenger seemed extravagant even by Marshal Lothar's standards.
Khadgar's weathered face, far too aged for his actual years, creased into a rueful smile. "I confess, I have never set foot in Ironforge before this day, and thus know none of its magical beacons. Teleportation was impossible without proper arcane anchors."
He gestured toward the mountainous landscape beyond the gates, where wisps of smoke marked distant orcish encampments. "Besides, this continent crawls with Horde scouts and their accursed two-headed dragon mounts. A simple courier would face certain death, while Dragonhawk and Gryphon Riders risk being overwhelmed by superior numbers. My magical abilities offer... greater flexibility should we encounter hostile forces."
The understatement drew a knowing chuckle from the blood elf prince. Khadgar had become the Alliance's most valuable reconnaissance asset, teleporting across battlefields like a living ghost, always one spell away from safety.
"'Greater flexibility?'" Kael'thas shook his head in mock disbelief. "Your modesty borders on the absurd, my friend. If the mage who single-handedly ended the threat of Medivh the Corrupted possesses merely 'greater' power, then the Alliance must be desperately short of magical talent indeed."
It was true enough. The most powerful archmages, Antonidas, Kel'Thuzad, and other members of the Kirin Tor's inner council, remained safely in Dalaran, their status too elevated for mere military campaigns. Among the Alliance's active forces, Khadgar's magical prowess stood unrivaled.
The compliment earned a tired but genuine smile from the archmage. Kael'thas gestured for them to move to more private quarters, briefly summarizing the successful rescue of both dwarven and gnomish forces before redirecting the conversation.
"Enough of our victories, how fare Marshal Lothar's campaigns?"
Khadgar's expression grew serious, the weight of command settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. "The Alliance army has successfully penetrated the Wetlands and currently lays siege to Dun Algaz. The fortress remains a significant Dragonmaw stronghold second only to the impregnable Grim Batol, but our intelligence suggests it will fall within a day's concentrated assault."
He paused to accept a goblet of dwarven ale, the strong brew helping to wash away the dust of hard travel. "Marshal Lothar plans to rest his forces one night within Dun Algaz's captured walls, then advance according to our original stratagem, moving through Loch Modan into the Searing Gorge. The entire operation should conclude within ten days."
"Ten days?" Kael'thas's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Such haste seems... aggressive. Does Marshal Lothar not intend to systematically eliminate Horde forces encountered along the route?"
Khadgar nodded grimly, his expression reflecting the brutal calculations of war. "The Marshal believes Blackrock Mountain represents our most critical objective. Intelligence reports indicate the Blackhand brothers have proclaimed themselves joint Warchiefs and issued calls for all surviving Horde forces to converge on that fortress-mountain. The terrain there heavily favors defenders, ancient dwarven engineering combined with orcish fortifications could withstand siege for months, perhaps years."
The archmage leaned forward, his voice dropping to emphasize the urgency. "If tens of thousands of orcs successfully gather within Blackrock Mountain's depths, dislodging them would require sacrifices beyond counting. Marshal Lothar hopes to either breach their defenses before full consolidation occurs, or at minimum establish a blockade preventing scattered clans from joining the main force."
"His strategy focuses on controlling vital transportation corridors between regions," Khadgar continued, spreading an imaginary map with his hands. "By severing communication and movement between orcish enclaves, we can isolate them for systematic elimination. Divide and conquer, the oldest military doctrine."
It was sound reasoning. The northern continent's orcish forces had been largely eliminated, but substantial populations remained entrenched throughout Khaz Modan, the Stormwind territories, and a dozen other strategic regions, Searing Gorge, Burning Steppes, Swamp of Sorrows, Redridge Mountains. United, they represented an existential threat; divided, they became manageable prey.
Kael'thas turned toward his dwarven and gnomish allies, decision crystallizing in his mind. "Your Majesty, High Tinker, we must depart immediately for Stormwind. The remaining Horde forces in Dun Morogh and Loch Modan fall under your capable leadership."
King Magni's response was immediate and decisive, his voice carrying the authority of uncounted generations. "Lothar's strategic assessment is flawless. These local orcs can wait, they're scattered, leaderless, more nuisance than threat. I'll dispatch Muradin and Brann with full expeditionary forces to rendezvous with the main army. We know the Searing Gorge and Blackrock Mountain's secrets better than any living souls, that knowledge could prove decisive."
Those territories had belonged to the Dark Iron dwarves for millennia before the Horde's arrival. Centuries of bitter warfare between Bronzebeard and Dark Iron clans had etched every tunnel, every defensive position, every hidden passage into collective dwarven memory. No enemy knew terrain like a former ally turned bitter rival.
High Tinker Mekkatorque stepped forward, his mechanical limbs whirring softly. "Gnomeregan's forces stand ready as well. Our engineering expertise could prove invaluable in breaching whatever fortifications the orcs have constructed."
Kael'thas nodded approvingly. "Time grows short with each passing moment. We move immediately!"
---
That afternoon, the skies above Ironforge darkened with wings as five hundred Dragonhawk Riders and five hundred Gryphon Riders took flight in perfect formation. The sight was magnificent, a aerial armada that would have inspired poets in peacetime, but now served only one purpose: war.
Their destination lay in the waters less than twenty nautical miles from Stormwind's coast, where the proud banners of both the Stormwind Fleet and Kul Tiras First Fleet cut through ocean swells like knives through silk.
"The Bronzebeard Dwarves and Gnomes have been liberated?" King Varian Wrynn's voice carried unbridled joy, his youthful features lighting up with genuine relief. The bonds between Stormwind and these mountain folk ran deeper than mere alliance, they were forged in friendship, tempered in shared hardship.
Memories flooded back: journeys to Ironforge in his youth, riding on his father's shoulders through the great forge-halls, King Magni himself lifting the young prince high above crowds of cheering dwarves. Those were simpler times, before war painted the world in shades of blood and ash.
If circumstances permitted, Varian would have flown immediately to Ironforge for a proper reunion. But duty held him anchored to this moment, to this crucial battle.
Admiral Daelin Proudmoore studied Stormwind's distant silhouette through his spyglass, noting the movement of orcish forces with professional interest. "Reconnaissance reports indicate the Horde garrison is retreating toward Redridge Mountains in significant numbers. Current estimates suggest fewer than three thousand remain within the city's walls."
Kael'thas's smile was sharp as a blade, his eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation. "Then why do we delay? Admiral, coordinate the naval assault, I shall command our aerial forces. We strike by sea and sky simultaneously, and Stormwind will fly Alliance banners again before nightfall!"
The numbers were overwhelmingly favorable. One thousand aerial cavalry supported by Kul Tiras's five thousand naval infantry, plus Stormwind's own ten thousand sailors, twenty thousand marines, and tens of thousands of armed civilians, refugees who had fled their homeland but now returned as liberators. Against such might, three thousand orcs were merely an inconvenience.
"Kul Tiras, FIRE!"
Admiral Daelin's thunderous command echoed across the waters like divine judgment. The First Fleet's cannons erupted in perfect synchronization, their voices a symphony of destruction that sent iron death screaming toward the occupied port. Explosions bloomed like deadly flowers among the orcish positions while the Stormwind Fleet added its own devastating chorus to the bombardment.
The first wave alone eliminated dozens of enemies, their crude fortifications crumbling before the combined firepower of two naval fleets.
"Wildhammer, attack!"
Five hundred Dragonhawks and five hundred gryphons descended like the wrath of the skies themselves, their riders' war cries mixing with the otherworldly shrieks of their mounts. Arrows and spears fell like rain, magical fire bloomed among enemy ranks, and what few Horde forces survived the naval bombardment found themselves facing death from above.
The port fell within minutes.
Two massive fleets made landfall almost simultaneously, their combined forces flooding onto Stormwind's docks like a tide of liberation. Tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians surged forward in a dense mass of righteous fury, beginning what could barely be called a battle, it was more accurately described as an inevitable rout.
As Kael'thas had predicted, Stormwind flew Alliance banners again before the sun touched the western horizon.
But victory came with a bitter price, not in blood, but in the revelation of what they had truly reclaimed.
---
What had once been the jewel of human civilization now lay before them as little more than broken stone and bitter memories. Stormwind had suffered grievous wounds during the initial Horde invasion a year prior, but those seemed minor compared to the systematic destruction that followed.
The orcs had not been content with mere conquest, they had indulged in wanton vandalism, destroying anything that reminded them of human achievement or beauty. Civilian homes lay in ruins, merchant districts had been razed to their foundations, and the great libraries that once held thousands of years of accumulated knowledge had been reduced to ash and memory.
Food stores were empty, supply warehouses stripped bare. Even the magnificent Cathedral of Light had not been spared, its soaring spires lay broken, its stained glass windows shattered into countless rainbow fragments that crunched underfoot like tears made manifest.
"Stormwind must be rebuilt from its very foundations," Admiral Daelin observed, his voice heavy with the weight of necessity. The practical sailor in him was already calculating costs, resources, manpower, the crushing logistics of resurrection.
King Varian stood motionless before the ruins of Stormwind Keep, his royal residence reduced to a skeletal framework of scorched stone and twisted metal. From this elevated position, he could survey his entire kingdom, or what remained of it. His fists clenched until his knuckles showed white, jaw muscles working as he struggled to contain the volcanic rage building within his chest.
"The Orcs will pay for every stone, every life, every drop of innocent blood," he whispered, but his words carried the weight of absolute certainty. "They will pay in suffering beyond their capacity to comprehend."
Admiral Daelin nodded grimly, his own losses feeding the flame of shared hatred. "Every last one of them deserves nothing but death."
Among all the human leaders in the Alliance, these two men harbored the deepest, most personal hatred for the Orcish Horde. Varian had nearly lost his son to orcish blades, while Daelin's father had perished defending Kul Tiras from their initial invasion. Their hatred was not political or strategic, it was primal, personal, and utterly unforgivable.
Any fool who dared suggest forgiveness or mercy would find themselves facing two of the most dangerous men in the Alliance, both united in their absolute conviction that only through the complete destruction of the Horde could justice truly be served.
The war was far from over, but this day marked a turning point. Stormwind had fallen, and Stormwind had risen again. The Alliance's response would be swift, decisive, and utterly without mercy.
The orcs had sown the wind. Now they would reap the whirlwind.