Damn it all to Hell! It turns out they had been spinning their wheels for most of the night, busting their chops, only to find they'd been barking up the wrong tree with a blind man! All that effort down the drain?!
Anduin Lothar and King Llane Wrynn, the two most powerful men in Stormwind, stood there, mouths agape, wide enough to comfortably fit a large, ripe apple. When they had initially snuck over to Duke's quarters, clutching their battle plans, they'd expected to find him dozing off, perhaps a bit mopey. In truth, they'd even considered offering a few words of comfort. After all, when it came to the cutthroat game of politics, even old warhorses who'd been in the saddle for decades could take a tumble before retirement.
Duke's influence, you see, was already growing like a weed in a fertile field. While no one would outright admit the Alliance was suppressing him, the kings had indeed begun to subtly, almost imperceptibly, downplay his colossal contributions. After all, in the cynical eyes of the crowned heads, it was still up in the air whether this grand 'Alliance' would even stick together once the Orcish Horde was finally sent packing. By then, if all their own loyal soldiers were busy worshipping some other kingdom's hero, well, they'd have no one to blame but themselves, and nowhere to cry but into their empty coffers.
So, when faced with a relatively safe, almost guaranteed victory operation, every single one of them had intentionally, or perhaps subconsciously, given Duke the cold shoulder, freezing him out of the action.
Well, if you don't invite Duke to play, Duke will still look down on you for it, bless his arrogant heart.
Everyone knew, deep down in their bones, that the Red Dragonflight was a force of nature, a cosmic cheat code. It was universally accepted that if the dragon army, a power beyond the mortal realm, truly decided to throw its full weight behind one side, the other might as well just pack up their tents and go home. The fight would be over before it even began. King Terenas himself had tried to get in touch with the Red Dragonflight, but he couldn't find a way to even send a raven to them. Archmage Antonidas, who knew Krasus's true, scaly identity, had tried to reach out privately, only to be met with a stern, unyielding refusal from the dragon himself.
"For thousands of years," Krasus had intoned, his voice resonating with ancient power, "the Red Dragonflight has upheld the sacred principle of not casually intervening in the squabbles of other races. Unless there is a major, world-ending crisis, a threat to the very fabric of existence, the Red Dragonflight will not lift a claw."
Since no one else dared to bring it up, everyone had tacitly, almost religiously, excluded the Red Dragonflight from any strategic or tactical considerations. It was simply off the table.
Well, everyone else thought the red dragons wouldn't participate. But Duke, the man who walked to the beat of his own drum, had just casually dropped the bombshell that the Red Dragonflight could be used as backup?!
At this revelation, Anduin and Llane's faces were a masterpiece of confusion, a mixture of bewilderment and dawning, terrifying realization.
Duke, still stifling yawns and looking like he'd just rolled out of a particularly wild party, leaned in conspiratorially. "Just because the Red Dragonflight doesn't officially participate in the wars of the mortal world," he whispered, a wicked glint in his panda eyes, "does that mean they won't allow their younger, more hot-headed dragons to seek a little personal revenge on their archenemy, the Horde? Think of it as a family squabble, not a war."
The expressions on the two Stormwind bosses' faces were truly priceless.
Damn it, wasn't this just like the old saying: "Rules for thee, but not for me?" The officials were allowed to set fires, but the common folk couldn't even light a candle?
Was there any violation of principles?
No! The Red Dragonflight, as a collective, did not directly participate in the war.
But their queen, Alexstrasza, had been tortured by the Horde for what felt like an eternity! Surely, seeking a little personal vengeance was perfectly acceptable, right? When the big boss, Alexstrasza, secretly put out the word, wouldn't her legions of adoring admirers, the younger dragons, rush over to Duke's side, practically falling over themselves to obey his every command?
The list Duke then discreetly flashed before Llane and Anduin's eyes almost made them go blind from sheer disbelief and awe. There were no less than ten ancient dragons, grizzled veterans of countless ages, ready to serve. And hundreds more young dragons, barely a millennium old, eager to stretch their wings in battle.
And the kicker? They all listened only to Duke, and by extension, to the orders of Stormwind!
Well, with such a force of utterly inhumane, fire-breathing terror at their disposal, if the Alliance still couldn't defeat a mere few hundred thousand demoralized, green-skinned barbarians, then every single person in the Alliance leadership might as well just jump into the Endless Sea and drown themselves. It would be a mercy.
Anduin clapped Duke on the shoulder, a wide, relieved grin spreading across his face. "Then you, my friend, should take these next few days to get some serious beauty sleep. We'll see you at the celebration party."
"Mmm-hmm," Duke mumbled, already half-asleep on his feet.
This battle, it turned out, was fought without a single shred of suspense.
It has to be said, if Duke had never popped into this timeline, Anduin Lothar would undoubtedly go down in history as the most brilliant military strategist of this era.
Within three days, the five-thousand-man commando unit, personally led by Anduin, weathered a staggering one hundred and eighty-two joint attacks from the one hundred thousand orcs entrenched in the north and the five thousand orcs in the south. They held the Thandol Bridge like a bulldog on a bone, firmly pinning the Horde in place, leaving Duke's personal Red Dragonflight no chance whatsoever to even stretch their wings in anger.
When Mograine finally arrived with his colossal army, the writing was already on the wall. The game was over.
On September 18th, in the 2nd year of the Dark Portal, the once-occupied Arathi Highlands was completely recaptured. The proud flag of the Kingdom of Stromgarde, battered but unbowed, was once again raised over the ruins of Stromgarde Keep.
On September 25th, the northernmost wetland area of the southern continent was liberated, cleansed of the Horde's foul presence.
On October 10th, after being besieged for over a year, Ironforge, though it had never truly run out of ammunition or food, was a sight to behold, a testament to dwarven stubbornness. It was finally relieved, its stout walls still standing, though scarred by the long siege.
At one point, the orcs, in a desperate, last-ditch effort, had gathered a motley crew of one hundred thousand orcs and laborers. They attempted to use tightly packed fortifications, a tactic they'd picked up from observing humans, to block the Alliance's relentless advance. This bunker-busting, group-fighting method, once a human specialty, caused the Alliance no end of grief. Over twenty thousand Alliance soldiers were tragically cut down by a hail of troll javelins right in front of those dug-in bunkers.
However, with the seemingly nonsensical, yet utterly devastating, entry of Duke's Red Dragonflight, all the tribal bunkers and arrow towers became nothing more than toy-like rubbish, splinters and ash.
Oh, that arrow tower was a real piece of work, wasn't it? Well, a single dragon swooped down, and poof, it was gone with one fiery breath. It's so much fun to shoot arrows from behind a cozy bunker, right? Come on over, the Red Dragon flamethrower will teach you a lesson in humility, turning your little hidey-hole into a pile of smoking cinders.
Under the crushing weight of completely asymmetric force, the Horde's lines buckled and shattered like glass. They collapsed faster than a goblin's business venture.
On October 16th, under the joint, thundering cover of the Kul Tiras and Stormwind fleets, one hundred and fifty thousand allied forces from the two nations landed in two separate waves: one directly into Stormwind City, and the other on the northern coast of Westfall.
When the Alliance opened up this second, massive battlefield, it officially signaled the beginning of Stormwind's glorious war to reclaim its lost sovereignty.
Originally, King Daelin had expected a brutal, bloody landing operation. He'd even personally stormed the beaches of Stormwind Harbor alongside Llane himself. He'd mobilized ten thousand Kul Tiras sailors, the best in the world at amphibious assaults, but to his utter astonishment, they encountered surprisingly little fierce resistance. The Orcish clan stationed in Stormwind City was a second-rate outfit, numbering only thirty thousand souls, with less than twenty thousand combat soldiers. After nearly ten thousand casualties in the brutal street-to-street fighting, Stormwind City was finally recovered.
The next issue, a looming headache, became logistics. Gazing at Stormwind City, which had been reduced to little more than a pile of rubble after the Second War, Daelin's brow furrowed into a deep frown. When he cautiously inquired about food supplies, Llane merely smiled, a knowing, almost smug grin.
"My dear friend," Llane began, a twinkle in his eye, "I apologize for keeping this little secret from you until now. In truth, over the past year, even a good chunk of Hillsbrad's food supply was provided by the resourceful folks of Westfall. We've actually had a guerrilla force of nearly ten thousand people operating behind enemy lines this entire time. While they've been giving the orcs a proper thrashing, they've also been ensuring our food supply for this very operation. It's safe to say that even if not a single grain of food is transported to us later, we can comfortably survive this winter."
Daelin Proudmoore was utterly dumbfounded. His jaw hit the floor.
With such a robust, almost miraculous logistical supply chain, Stormwind's restoration army advanced with the speed of a charging griffin. By October 30th, with the sole exception of the treacherous Redridge Mountains, Stormwind had already reclaimed its entire territory. It was a minor bummer that several second-rate Orcish clans, hastily transferred from the Dark Portal, were engaged in a desperate, tooth-and-nail tug-of-war with Stormwind's forces in the mountains.
Meanwhile, the Alliance's northern front, now bolstered by the newly joined dwarf kingdom of Gnomeregan, a grand total of nine kingdoms, with a combined force of three hundred thousand troops, had relentlessly pushed the battle line all the way to what would one day become the desolate Burning Steppes. In the grim shadow of Blackrock Spire, Orgrim Doomhammer, the Warchief, had gathered the last, desperate remnants of the Horde's forces.
One hundred and fifty thousand battle-hardened warriors, and one hundred thousand Orcish laborers, pressed into service.
Both sides knew, with a chilling certainty, that Blackrock Spire would be the final, bloody arena where they would clash, deciding the fate of an entire world.
On November 1st, the Horde, with a surprising display of bravado, sent an envoy. Their message was simple, yet chilling: a request for a decisive, winner-take-all battle.
"Five days from now," the envoy declared, his voice echoing under the imposing silhouette of Blackrock Spire, "under the very shadow of this mountain, let us decide the fate of the Horde and the Alliance."