Duke, bless his cotton socks, had attempted a disguise. He'd slapped on what he hoped was a masterful application of medieval makeup, a desperate attempt to conceal the tell-tale signs of his nocturnal escapades. Alas, the camouflage technology of that era was about as effective as a wet paper bag in a hurricane, and he ended up swaggering into the Alliance Throne meeting sporting a pair of raccoon eyes so profound, they looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a gronn.
A chorus of snickers and outright guffaws rippled through the assembled kings and their representatives. They weren't exactly subtle about it.
Now, the Dalaran of today wasn't the floating city of arcane wonders, where every inch of land was worth its weight in pure mana, that it would become in the future. The city, nestled cozily on the southern shore of Lake Lordamere, still boasted plenty of elbow room. However, even with each state guesthouse being a sprawling, single-family villa, for security reasons, they were all clustered together in the same district. And last night, Duke had stirred up a commotion worthy of a full-blown goblin riot, complete with a Windrunner's thunder arrows. It was about as subtle as a rampaging kodo in a library; there was no way the whole neighborhood hadn't heard.
Of course, since nobody was particularly keen on prying into Duke's private affairs, and frankly, not many cared beyond a good chuckle, everyone just assumed Duke had, shall we say, struck out in the game of love. With Duke's current rockstar status, a little romantic misstep was no biggie. Nobody, and I mean nobody, was banking on Duke's cross-species romance going the distance. Case in point: almost everyone knew about Daelin Proudmoore's rather public dalliance with that fiery elf sorceress, Jaina Golden Sword. So what?
In the eyes of the old-money nobles, a lover was merely a matter of personal taste, like choosing between a fine vintage wine and a particularly potent dwarven ale. Any wife, however, who wasn't a proper match for his station, simply wouldn't pass muster at the royal court. And speaking of which, at Duke's tender age, there weren't exactly a stampede of women who could truly measure up to his burgeoning legend. The kings, a collection of grizzled old war dogs and shrewd politicians, regarded Duke with a mischievous glint in their eyes, practically placing bets on which princess or grand duke's daughter Duke would eventually be roped into marrying.
Naturally, official business took precedence at the Alliance Throne Meeting, no matter how entertaining Duke's romantic woes were.
The moment everyone had settled into their gilded chairs, the room erupted into a whirlwind of intense, often heated, discussion. Turalyon, ever the diligent one, kicked things off by laying out the grim battle situation: "The Horde's communication network is clearly moving at a snail's pace compared to ours, gentlemen. After losing the crucial assistance of the Red Dragonflight, the Horde is effectively deaf and dumb, stripped of all rapid communication. As of this very moment, the hundred thousand Horde forces dug in on the east side of the Thoradin Wall show no signs of pulling up stakes. Our best estimates suggest that the wolf cavalry messengers, dispatched from Grim Batol Fortress, won't even reach the Thoradin Wall front line until late tonight, or more likely, the crack of dawn tomorrow."
King Thoras Trollbane, a man whose nerves were clearly frayed thinner than a goblin's patience, immediately slammed his fist on the map table with a resounding THWACK! "What in the blazes are we waiting for?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "We must launch a full-scale assault before those greenskins can slip away! We'll wipe them out, root and branch, right here in the Arathi Highlands!" As the newly crowned king of a kingdom that had been thoroughly trampled, Thoras was understandably on pins and needles. King Llane, whose own country had been lost for a full year, seemed, by contrast, as calm as a summer lake. Of course, both kings were equally chomping at the bit to reclaim their lost lands.
However, Thoras's fiery proposal landed with a thud, failing to ignite much enthusiasm from the other kings or their representatives. Everyone could see the writing on the wall: the Horde was on its last legs. Reclaiming the Arathi Highlands was a foregone conclusion, a done deal. The real question was how and at what cost. Within the Alliance, every nation had its own political axes to grind and economic demands to meet. Everyone knew, deep down, that they had to crush the Horde, or else nobody would be sleeping soundly. But after fighting for so long, even a powerhouse like Lordaeron was feeling the pinch, let alone the smaller, weaker nations.
Just as Thoras was about to turn a shade of green matching an orc's skin, Anduin Lothar, ever the voice of reason, spoke up with a tone of impeccable fairness: "Fighting them head-on like this will cost us an arm and a leg, gentlemen. Can we not consider waiting for the Horde on the front line to get the memo about their rear collapsing? Then, when their morale hits rock bottom and they start to retreat, we launch our full-scale attack? We could chase those greenskins like a pack of hungry wolves after a rabbit, cutting them down as they run. It would be a much easier, and far less costly, affair."
The moment Anduin finished speaking, a wave of nods and murmurs of approval swept through several of the Alliance kings.
Unfortunately, the stout Bronzebeard dwarves of Khaz Modan were not amused. After confirming that the Horde had been thoroughly thumped in the Wetlands, Muradin Bronzebeard, who had swooped in on a griffin, started bellowing like a banshee. "Hold your horses, lads! Are you absolutely sure you can annihilate these hundreds of thousands of orcs in the Arathi Highlands? Don't you dare chase those green-skinned monsters back into Khaz Modan and make us Bronzebeard dwarves miserable! We've got enough on our plate!"
Kurdran Wildhammer, never one to be left out, naturally chimed in, "Aye! The Arathi Highlands and Wetlands are one thing, but once we enter the mountains of Khaz Modan, the power of our Wildhammer griffins will be about as useful as a chocolate teapot!"
Anduin, ever the sly fox, secretly glanced at Duke. When he saw Duke give an almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of confidence ignited in his eyes. "Then we can make a slight adjustment, gentlemen. Using the Dalaran mages' teleportation spells and the griffin riders' aerial transport, we can send approximately two thousand elite troops to Stromgarde. This crack team will then swiftly march eastward and regain control of the strategic position on the north bank of the Thandol Bridge. Then, we can…"
Anduin finished with a decisive fist-to-palm strike, a sharp "snap" echoing in the room.
Everyone in the room knew exactly what that meant: it was a classic case of shooting fish in a barrel, a trap sprung, a complete encirclement.
King Thoras, his eyes suddenly gleaming with renewed hope, immediately perked up. Though he knew this would be a bloody operation, the benefits were undeniable. The Horde would completely lose its last organized front. "Stromgarde can dispatch four hundred knights!" he declared, his voice ringing with newfound resolve.
"Stormwind can provide three hundred knights," King Llane chimed in, adding his chips to the pot.
"Two hundred Knights of Alterac," General Hass stated, his voice firm. Even though the Kingdom of Alterac existed in name only, this grizzled old soldier had been relentlessly fighting to wash away the shame clinging to his badge through sheer, unadulterated combat.
"Two hundred elite Kul Tiras marines, experts with crossbows," Daelin Proudmoore added calmly. While it could be argued that he was simply offering the remaining human crossbowmen from the northern positions, his positive response still raised a few eyebrows among the other leaders. After all, since the war began, unless it involved a naval operation, Kul Tiras had been notoriously hands-off with ground engagements, acting as if they only cared about the high seas.
The two dwarf bosses exchanged a quick glance, then, in unison, declared, "The dwarves can provide three hundred Secret Chamber Guards!"
"Three hundred Rangers from Quel'Thalas!" Alleria's representative added, a hint of elven pride in his voice.
King Terenas, the venerable leader of Lordaeron, finally couldn't sit still any longer. He gritted his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw, and conceded: "Five hundred knights of Lordaeron."
This time, it was truly an Alliance-wide effort. All ten nations, without exception, pledged their troops.
After hours of intense, back-and-forth debate, the plan was finally hammered out. The legendary Lothar himself would lead the charge, personally taking command. The operation evolved from a simple airborne assault to a full-blown air force coordinated with ground commandos, aiming for a direct, surgical strike on the Thandol Bridge. The reasoning was sound: from Southshore, along the eastern coast's beach, one could still march directly to Stromgarde. King Thoras, with a solemn oath, swore there was a secret passage within Stromgarde that led straight to the Thandol Bridge. Thus, the final strategy became a five-thousand-strong commando team blocking the Horde's only escape route, with Mograine then leading a two-hundred-thousand strong human army in a head-on assault, effectively squeezing the Horde between a rock and a hard place.
The Alliance army west of the Thoradin Wall had already been on high alert, their rations packed and ready since the crack of dawn. So, preparing the main force was a breeze. It was the meticulous planning of the assault force that truly wrung every last drop of brainpower from the staff of the various nations.
The leaders of the various countries, whether intentionally or not, had largely overlooked Duke. His contributions had been so monumental, so dazzling, that they were practically blinding. Little did they know, Duke had been secretly, and quite fiercely, flexing his muscles behind the scenes, making sure his presence was felt.
When Anduin and Llane privately cornered Duke to ask for his two cents on the grand plan, Duke, ever the picture of nonchalant coolness, simply shrugged. "You guys go ahead and knock 'em dead. If you can't seal the deal, I'll be your ace in the hole."
"And what's your guarantee?" Anduin asked, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
Duke leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'll call the Red Dragonflight," he whispered, "and have them wash the ground with dragon breath until it sparkles!"
"Pffft!" Anduin and Llane both erupted in a fit of laughter, nearly spitting out their morning tea.