Kaelthas' POV :
After a long journey and a major battle, everyone was tired, so they found a habitable house to rest in.
Another victory, another step closer to home, I thought, settling into the modest stone chair that would serve as my command post. The irony wasn't lost on me, here I was, Kael'thas Sunstrider, Prince of Quel'Thalas, sitting in what was likely once a human merchant's dining room, planning the liberation of lands that weren't even mine. Yet somehow, this felt more real, more purposeful than any throne room discussion I'd ever endured back in Silvermoon.
High Elves and Wildhammer Dwarves are different, I mused as I watched our forces reorganize. The former, my people, were nourished by the Sunwell's energy, making them full of vigor even after our grueling campaign. The Wildhammer, on the other hand, were a warrior race with astonishing endurance that came from generations of mountain warfare and forge-hardened discipline.
I found myself genuinely impressed by both groups, though for different reasons. My rangers moved with an ethereal grace that spoke of millennia of magical enhancement, while Kurdran's warriors possessed a raw, earthy determination that reminded me why the dwarves had survived every calamity thrown at them.
When did I start thinking like a tactician instead of just a prince? The question surfaced unbidden as Vereesa and Kurdran immediately led the Dragonhawk Riders and Gryphon Riders to scout the area.
I'd given the order almost without thinking, not as royal protocol demanded, but because it was the right tactical decision. The weight of actual command, I was discovering, felt nothing like the theoretical exercises of my youth.
They returned the next day, their faces grim with the scope of what we faced.
"Elwynn Forest, Westfall, Duskwood, everywhere is overrun with Orcs and Ogres!" Vereesa reported, her usually composed demeanor cracked with exhaustion and barely contained anger.
"The main Horde forces are about to enter Redridge Mountains!" Kurdran added, his gruff voice carrying the weight of a warrior who'd seen too much carnage.
"There are quite a few Horde gathered in Burning Steppes, tens of thousands at a glance!"
"Most of the Orcs in various regions are moving towards Blackrock Mountain!"
"We found many humans; they are hiding in valleys, forests, and even at sea, also fighting against the Horde!"
They reported one after another, and I found myself processing not just the tactical implications, but the human cost. Each report represented thousands of displaced families, destroyed communities, and desperate people clinging to survival.
This is what leadership really means. Not ceremony or bloodline, but the weight of every decision rippling out to affect real lives.
The Stormwind Kingdom was too vast! Reality is not a game, and wasn't that the truth I'd been learning the hard way. The Horde had only occupied these areas for two years, and their forces numbered only a few hundred thousand, with most of them engaged in the northern campaign. Only a few thousand remained in each area, making complete control impossible.
But that worked in our favor. I'd spent enough time studying logistics to understand that occupying territory was exponentially more difficult than conquering it. The orcs were spread thin, vulnerable to concentrated strikes.
The humans of the Stormwind Kingdom were the most unyielding and valiant among the Seven Kingdoms, another lesson that humbled me. They were not completely massacred by the Horde but lived in their own way, continuing their struggle.
My people faced the Scourge and bent, I thought with a mixture of admiration and shame. These humans face the Horde and refuse to break. What does that say about the strength of will versus the strength of magic?
"Marshal Lothar should have already reached Loch Modan and is about to enter Searing Gorge," I announced, the tactical situation crystallizing in my mind like a spell finally taking proper form.
King Varian made an immediate decision: "We must also seize the time. The settlement and reconstruction work will be left to the common folk. I will leave five thousand men to guard the city. The Horde in Westfall and other areas can be ignored for now; pursuing the main forces is paramount!"
I found myself genuinely impressed by the young king's decisiveness. Here was someone even younger than me, thrust into leadership by tragedy rather than birthright, and yet he possessed an instinctive understanding of warfare that I was still learning to develop.
"Though His Majesty is young, he possesses the demeanor of a king, acts decisively, and has excellent strategic vision!" I said, giving him a thumbs-up. The praise was entirely genuine, and I realized with some surprise that I meant every word.
A son should be like Varian! The thought came unbidden, accompanied by memories of my own father's expectations. Anasterian Sunstrider had always spoken of duty and tradition, but had he ever spoken of the courage to make hard choices under fire?
Among the second generation of the Alliance, Varian was the most outstanding, and I was beginning to understand why. Drake Proudmoore was a competent heir, but only competent, far inferior to his father, a capable administrator without the spark of true leadership.
Liam Greymane was indeed brave, with the bearing of the old Wolf King, but the problem was that the old Wolf King was actually just average in a world that demanded excellence.
Genn Greymane's political ability was inferior to Terenas, his personal strength couldn't compare to my own father, and his charisma was far less than Marshal Lothar. Garin Trollbane had ambition but no ability, a complete waste who would ultimately ruin himself through shortsightedness and pride.
And Arthas Menethil... Arthas. Even thinking his name brought a complex mix of emotions. He was very famous, but he was essentially born with a silver spoon in his mouth, having everything arranged for him from childhood. He wasn't a good-for-nothing, but neither was he outstanding; Varian completely outclassed him in all aspects that mattered for actual leadership.
The comparison stung because it forced me to examine my own privileged upbringing. How much of my early confidence had been earned versus inherited? This campaign was teaching me the difference between theoretical knowledge and practical wisdom.
Among the second generation of the Alliance, only Varian could be called a hero, capable of upholding his family's legacy and even the entire human race. And perhaps... perhaps I was finally learning what it meant to earn that designation myself.
Admiral Daelin interjected with his characteristic pragmatism: "All the men I brought are naval forces, not proficient in land combat, so I won't go. I'll stay here to help you defend the city and, incidentally, eliminate the coastal Horde."
A sound tactical decision. The Horde also had a navy, something many of our planners had initially overlooked. After occupying Stormwind City, the Horde had plundered a portion of the warships that originally belonged to the Stormwind Fleet.
Some had gone north and been burned during the Battle of Silvermoon City, a victory I'd played a part in, though at tremendous cost. Another portion remained in Stormwind Harbor; most were destroyed by our two major fleets in the recent battle, and a few fled south, either to Westfall or Booty Bay.
Every victory comes with a price, I reflected, remembering the smoke rising from Silvermoon's harbor. The question is whether you're willing to pay it, and whether you can live with the consequences.
One thousand airmen and fifteen thousand ground troops marched out of the city under my joint command with Varian. We liberated Northshire Abbey and Goldshire that very day, small victories, but each one represented hope restored to desperate people.
I found myself genuinely moved by the gratitude in the survivors' eyes. These weren't the polite acknowledgments of noble courtiers, but the raw appreciation of people who had given up hope of rescue. This is why we fight, I understood with crystalline clarity. Not for glory or territory, but for moments like these.
We pursued the enemy for a long distance, eliminating many Horde along the way, and advanced into Redridge Mountains, where we engaged in several fierce battles. The Orcs relied on the terrain to resist stubbornly, but they were no match for our air force and were quickly annihilated.
Coordination, I noted with satisfaction. That's the key difference between us and them. They fight as individuals seeking glory; we fight as a unified force multiplying our strength.
Ten days later, the army entered Burning Steppes and built outposts at the entrance. The moment we crossed into that hellish landscape, I felt the oppressive heat hit us like a physical blow. Due to the Molten Core, Burning Steppes was full of lava, with extremely high temperatures and a harsh living environment.
By the Sunwell, I thought, immediately calling upon my magical training to shield our forces from the worst of it. How do anything live in this furnace?
This was the territory of the Dark Iron Dwarves, though after being occupied by the Orcs, all the Dark Iron Dwarves had hidden in Blackrock Depths and other places, not a single one to be seen.
But they were only out of sight, not gone, I could feel their presence like a constant itch between my shoulder blades. They were hiding in unseen places, ready to emerge at any moment.
Because of the Bronzebeard Dwarves, the Dark Iron Dwarves had a very poor relationship with the Stormwind Kingdom, being mutually hostile. Humans entering here could be ambushed by Dark Iron Dwarves at any time, and the same applied to the High Elves and Wildhammer Dwarves.
Politics never takes a holiday, I thought grimly. Even in the middle of a war against a common enemy, old grudges simmer and complicate everything.
Aside from the Dark Iron Dwarves, who were long accustomed to it, no one could adapt to the intense heat here. In this regard, the Blackrock Orcs and Ogres, who had lived here for several years, were clearly much stronger than humans. I found myself constantly maintaining cooling enchantments for our troops, a drain on my magical reserves that I could ill afford, but necessary to keep our forces combat-effective.
"Burning Steppes is the Horde's home turf. We don't have a numerical advantage, so don't get bogged down in prolonged battles," I advised, my tactical instincts overriding any princely tendency toward glorious charges.
Looking at Varian, I could see the same realization dawning in his eyes. "Your Majesty Varian, you lead five thousand men to garrison Lakeshire and the outpost here, blocking the roads and cutting off the Horde's escape routes. I will lead the main forces to Searing Gorge and Blackrock Mountain as reinforcements!"
It was the right tactical decision, but I could see the frustration building in the young king's face even before he spoke.
The Alliance army split into two routes, north and south. The southern route was commanded by me, Vice Marshal, the title still felt strange on my tongue, with only sixteen thousand ground troops, roughly equal in number to the Horde entrenched in Burning Steppes. The northern route was commanded by Marshal Lothar, totaling nearly one hundred thousand, and they were the main force.
Varian's response was immediate and predictable: "My father was killed by the Horde. I want to witness the annihilation of the Horde with my own eyes!"
Ah, the fire of youth and the hunger for vengeance, I thought, recognizing something of my own younger self in his determination. But also the wisdom to know when emotion must be tempered by strategy.
Duke Bolvar Fordragon, who was beside him, quickly advised with the voice of experience: "Your Majesty, Burning Steppes is not like Redridge Mountains. There are too many Horde here, as well as Dark Iron Dwarves, and even fire elementals. You should remain in Redridge Mountains to garrison, and I will accompany the Marshal to Blackrock Mountain."
But Varian's response brooked no argument: "No, I will go to Blackrock Mountain. You stay here to garrison. This is an order!"
I found myself smiling without speaking, my eyes full of approval. Who wouldn't like such a child? Here was someone who understood that leadership meant sharing the greatest risks, not delegating them to others. It was a lesson many princes never learned.
Bolvar Fordragon had no choice but to obey the order, but he pulled me aside, his voice heavy with concern: "Please, Marshal, take good care of His Majesty. The Wrynn family has only this one heir. If His Majesty sacrifices himself, the Stormwind Kingdom will have no successor."
Actually, there was still one, wasn't there, Anduin Lothar? I thought but didn't voice. Instead, I simply smiled and assented. The young king's safety would be my personal responsibility, though I suspected he'd make that task as challenging as possible.
I personally commanded and led the large army to march quickly, even when we encountered enemies, engaging only long enough to rout them without costly pursuit. Time was our most precious resource, and I'd learned enough about logistics to understand that speed could multiply force more effectively than numbers.
Three days, I noted with satisfaction as we arrived at Blackrock Mountain. We'd covered the distance in just three days and found that the Alliance Northern Army had actually cut through Blackrock Mountain and reached Burning Steppes from the other side.
The sight that greeted us was magnificent and terrifying in equal measure. Marshal Lothar led the charge, wielding Strom'kar, the Warbreaker, felling enemies with a single swing. Whether it was a three-meter-tall Ogre warrior or a Wolf Rider of similar height, no one could withstand a single blow from him.
Now that's what a legendary warrior looks like, I thought with genuine admiration. Here was a man who had participated in killing the Archmage Medivh, whose combat skills were already on par with Orgrim Doomhammer, and who had been personally trained by Emperor Thoradin himself. Plus with a divine weapon in hand, his combat power was formidable beyond mortal measure.
Following closely behind was the Brotherhood of the Horse! This military organization, composed of warriors, hunters, rogues, and paladins, was the true elite force of the Stormwind Kingdom. A full complement of one thousand members, each a battle-hardened veteran who had earned their place through blood and skill rather than birth or politics.
Now there's something Silvermoon could learn from, I mused. Merit over bloodline, proven ability over inherited privilege.
This unit was personally commanded by Marshal Lothar, charging and killing enemies with him, cutting through Blackrock Mountain with him. Thousands of Horde soldiers died by their swords, and watching them work was like observing a master class in coordinated warfare.
And after the Brotherhood of the Horse came the Knights of the Silver Hand, composed of elites from various human kingdoms and nominally subordinate to Lordaeron. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had not personally come to the battlefield, so Uther was Lordaeron's military representative.
Among the fifty thousand Lordaeron soldiers, he held the highest position and possessed the greatest strength. I'd heard tales of Uther's prowess, but seeing him in action exceeded every story. He led the charge, a Silver Hand warhammer in one hand, a Silver Hand holy book in the other, his entire being enveloped in Holy Light, as if he had been Lightforged by divine will itself.
The Light responds to genuine faith, I observed with fascination. Not the political maneuvering that passes for religion in too many courts, but actual, unshakeable belief.
The Knights of the Silver Hand had been established for only one year, and their recruitment standards were extremely high: either battle-hardened warriors or devout priests. Although Archbishop Faol's rallying power was immense, and soldiers from various nations eagerly signed up, there were still only five hundred members to date.
These five hundred men were well-trained, forming a wedge formation with Uther as the lead. He was a banner, a bugle call, an inspiration made manifest. No one could stop his advance. He was like the embodiment of Tyr, the King of Order himself.
His steps were not fast, but they were steady, implacable as the turning of the world itself. Under his leadership, the Knights of the Silver Hand maintained their formation, eliminating every powerful enemy they encountered with methodical precision.
Tirion Fordring, Turalyon, Saidan Dathrohan, and Gavinrad the Dire lined up, following closely behind. Their performance was also remarkable, each a legend in the making. Especially Tirion Fordring.
The first five Paladins had all received a Holy Relic bestowed by Archbishop Faol based on their personality traits, and Tirion had been granted Retribution. Among the five Paladins, he had the strongest killing intent and the highest attack power, eliminating enemies significantly faster than the other three.
Interesting, I mused, how the Light adapts itself to the bearer's nature rather than demanding conformity to a single mold.
But he was not the fastest warrior on the field. Behind the first-generation Paladins were dozens of second-generation Paladins, and further back were numerous Paladin recruits. All Paladins strictly followed Uther's orders, not showing reckless bravery, cooperating with each other, integrating themselves into the team, and striving to protect themselves while killing enemies.
There was only one exception!
A Paladin in his thirties, wielding a greatsword not much smaller than Strom'kar itself, had broken away from the main force like a lone hero. He charged ahead of the Knights of the Silver Hand, and even the Brotherhood of the Horse, a one-man avalanche of righteous fury.
He charged alone into the enemy ranks, surrounded by hundreds of Orcs and Ogres, yet he showed no fear, growing stronger with each battle. The intensity of the Holy Light on him was no less than that of the five first-generation Paladins, indicating a will as unbreakable as adamantine.
By the Sunwell, I thought with something approaching awe, the combat skills he's displaying are even stronger than Tirion Fordring, who possesses the Retribution Holy Relic and comes from a knightly background. He's almost matching Marshal Lothar himself!
One enemy after another fell before him, then were trampled under his feet. He was outnumbered by impossible odds, of course, and suffered injuries, becoming covered in wounds. But the Holy Light continuously healed his body, allowing him to fight fiercely amidst the bloodshed.
And through it all, he maintained an excited spirit, as if this hopeless battle was exactly where he belonged. He didn't use a shield, using offense as defense, completely disregarding whether he would die here, focused solely on the purity of combat itself.
"By Khaz'goroth, who is that, so brave?" Kurdran cried out from beside me.
Heroes cherish heroes, and the Wildhammer chieftain hurled his hammer, helping the lone warrior eliminate a dozen enemies, and shouted, "Hey! I am Kurdran Wildhammer, Chieftain of the Wildhammer Clan, King of Grim Batol, Highlord of the Hinterlands, what is your name?"
Since the reclamation of Grim Batol, the former Wildhammer Kingdom had been restored, and Kurdran had automatically assumed the crown, though he wore it more like a battle trophy than a symbol of rank.
With the pressure lessened, the man gasped for air, found a moment to look up, and loudly declared, "Second-generation Paladin, Captain of the Knights of the Silver Hand, Alexandros Mograine!"
"It is him after all!" I said, showing a look of realization. So this is the man who will become legend, the future Ashbringer himself.
In this era, a Paladin braver than Tirion Fordring could only be the later "Ashbringer," Old Mograine. "So brave even without a divine artifact," I murmured, almost to myself. "What would he be like with one?"
The Silver Hand produces talents! I thought with genuine admiration, then raised my voice to carry across the battlefield: "All forces, advance! Show them what the Alliance can do!"
The Horde army was already being routed by the Alliance's Northern Army, and now intercepted by our Southern Army, their morale shattered completely. They lost the will to resist and were quickly annihilated, though not without cost to ourselves.
"Kael'thas, well done!" Marshal Lothar approached with his characteristic laugh, Strom'kar still humming with residual power. "First you helped relieve Ironforge and Gnomeregan, then helped reclaim Stormwind City, and had to travel such a long distance. I thought we wouldn't meet you until we reached Redridge Mountains, you made excellent time!"
I felt a warm flush of genuine pride at his praise. Coming from a legend like Lothar, such words carried real weight. "It's mainly thanks to Highlord Kurdran's Gryphon Riders, and the soldiers of Stormwind Kingdom and Kul Tiras Kingdom being so effective."
Humility, I reminded myself. A lesson my father tried to teach but I'm only now learning to apply. "How is Blackrock Spire? Have you managed to breach their defenses?"
Blackrock Mountain soared into the clouds, containing Blackrock Spire built by the Dark Iron Dwarves, and the even larger Blackrock Depths beneath. After the Orc invasion, they had seized Blackrock Spire from the Dark Iron Dwarves, turning it into their primary stronghold.
Blackrock Spire was divided into upper and lower levels, with a massive molten core passage between them, and the Alliance's Northern Army had come through that passage, a route that spoke of both desperation and tactical brilliance.
"No." Marshal Lothar's smile vanished as he looked towards the mountain fortress. "We haven't had a chance to attack yet. The approach is too well-defended."
I pressed for more information: "How many Orcs are inside? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?"
"I don't know," Lothar admitted with the honesty of an experienced commander. "We captured a few Orcs, but they didn't know either. Orcs have been continuously entering Blackrock Spire during this time. Even the Blackhand Brothers might not know the exact number."
He had met the Blackhand Brothers earlier, and a major battle had ensued. He had intended to personally slay those two self-proclaimed "new Warchiefs," but the son of Blackhand the Destroyer had turned out to be a coward, fleeing when he realized he was outmatched, hiding in Blackrock Spire and refusing to come out.
Cowardice wrapped in the appearance of strategic retreat, I thought grimly. They're not fools, whatever else they might be.
"We'll know once we break in!" Varian declared, striding over with that familiar aura of barely controlled violence. He was covered in blood, both enemy and his own, testament to his insistence on leading from the front.
Though still very young, he was already a qualified warrior, having killed more enemies than many seasoned veterans. The fire of youth, tempered by genuine steel, I observed. He'll be formidable once he learns patience.
"Your Majesty, we don't know the internal situation of Blackrock Spire, nor how many enemies there are. We cannot attack rashly." Lothar frowned, the voice of experience counseling caution.
Varian was good in every way, except for one thing: he was prone to impulsiveness. This young king was not cast from the same mold as previous members of the Wrynn family; unlike Llane, he wasn't gentle, but instead possessed a barbaric quality reminiscent of ancient times.
This was very similar to the Lothar family, actually, I realized. Could he take after his mother, Lothar's sister who passed away? The bloodline of heroes calling to itself?
"We'll know if we ask someone who understands," Varian said, looking expectantly at the brothers Muradin and Brann.
The Bronzebeard Clan and the Dark Iron Dwarves had been mortal enemies for centuries; surely they wouldn't be unaware of their enemy's stronghold?
"The internal space of Blackrock Spire is enormous, even larger than Ironforge, but I don't know exactly how large." Muradin's old face flushed with embarrassment at the admission.
He truly didn't know, and his honesty about it spoke well of him. Although the Bronzebeard Clan was an enemy of the Dark Iron Dwarves, the two sides hadn't fought a major war in over two hundred years. Blackrock Mountain was only created by Ragnaros, the Firelord, in the later stages of the War of the Three Hammers, and Blackrock Spire was built after that. How would he know the situation inside?
Marshal Lothar pondered for a moment, his tactical mind working through the possibilities. "Blackrock Spire's walls are sturdy and it's easy to defend but hard to attack. Even if we could breach it, it would take a very long time and cost us dearly. Let's discuss our options."
He paused, looking toward the mountain fortress with the eyes of a man who had seen too many battles. "We have more important things to consider first."
And there's the wisdom of experience, I thought, studying the faces around me. Knowing when to press forward and when to step back and plan. This is what separates great commanders from dead heroes.
As I looked up at the imposing silhouette of Blackrock Mountain against the smoke-filled sky, I felt the weight of command settling more firmly on my shoulders. Whatever came next, the decisions we made here would echo through history.
I just hope I'm wise enough to make the right ones.