Rest

When the annual Winter Veil Festival rolled around like a drunken dwarf on a sled, Galen tossed aside his royal to-do list, flung his battle plans into a pile, and yelled, "I'm out!" For him, celebrating the Chinese New Year wasn't just a tradition—it was a full-blown, soul-consuming, firecracker-blasting obsession. If there was a spirit beast of celebration, Galen had already tamed it, saddled it, and was riding it into Stromgarde with streamers in his hair.

He returned to his homeland and threw himself into a riotously merry holiday with Alleria, Sylvanas, Legolas (who kept insisting he wasn't that Legolas), and little Arathor, who was already showing the glimmer of ten kinds of trouble in his eyes.

It was the spring of the twenty-fourth year since the Dark Portal cracked open like an egg full of fel. And, lo and behold, miracles do happen: with a year's worth of headache, heartburn, and elemental complaints, the Earthen Ring—finally!—repaired the Pillar of the World, all thanks to Therazane, Queen of Rocks and Silent Judgments. Turns out, for all her villainous flair, the Twilight Dragon just didn't have the sheer destructive power of Deathwing, so the pillar wasn't reduced to gravel.

Meanwhile, the last dregs of Twilight's Hammer cult had been booted from the Elemental Plane of Earth, kicked out like drunks from a tavern—though, unsurprisingly, they didn't just disappear. Oh no. These fanatics crawled back into their moldy little Twilight Fortress, giggling madly as they hatched another terrible plan. Cho'gall—crazy eyes, two mouths, no chill—went dumpster-diving in Blackwing Lair and dragged out the crusty carcass of Chromaggus, Nefarian's early two-headed science project.

Did Cho'gall stop there? Of course not. Based on that terrifying template, the cult started cranking out multi-headed monstrosities. Two-headed dragons. Three-headed dragons. Four-headed dragons! What's next? A dragon with more heads than a hydra with a mirror addiction?

Now, Galen had been hot on Cho'gal's tail for years, using that handy little "tracker toy" the villain kindly left in his guts like an unwanted party favor. Thanks to his relentless pestering, Twilight's Hammer hadn't been able to snowball into the apocalyptic horror it was supposed to be. Still, somehow, Cho'gal had gotten his hands on a technicolor dragon expert—or maybe Sinestra had stomped onto the battlefield herself, tail swinging like a wrecking ball. Or worse... maybe N'Zoth blessed the dragon eggs personally, twisting them into multi-mouthed chaos hatchlings. Whatever the case, the results were a complete disaster. And not the funny kind.

The situation was dire enough that the dragon kings finally sat their shiny behinds down at Wyrmrest Temple and agreed: enough is enough. They were given a sacred charge by the Titans to protect Azeroth, and letting it turn into a Twilight barbecue was not on the to-do list.

The Cataclysm Dragon had already turned the world into her personal demolition derby, smacking down mortal kingdoms left and right. It was a betrayal of duty so severe even the stoic Nozdormu probably blinked twice. So, the big decision was made: reform the Dragon Wyrmrest Alliance. Cue dramatic music.

Galen, of course, foresaw where all this was going. He could already picture the dragonbone-littered battlefield months from now—Wyrmrest Alliance and Twilight Dragons locked in a flaming, screeching, tail-whipping deathmatch in the Dragonbone Wastes. The age of dragons was teetering, and only a brutal slap of reality would teach them that the time of mortals had arrived.

Sitting in his Stromgarde palace, Galen rubbed his temples while reading the freshly penned intelligence report—signed by dragon bros Palthiastrasz, Ancagalon, and Eranikus. The content? Bleak. The tone? Bleaker. His mood? Absolute despair.

Just then, he felt the soothing pressure of soft hands on his weary shoulders, kneading away his tension like dough.

"Alleria? What are you doing here?" he asked, voice muffled by stress.

"It's almost noon, and you still haven't come back. Legolas and Arator are bouncing off the walls and demanding a game. So here I am, your rescue party," Alleria said with a cheeky grin.

Galen practically melted, slumping backward until his head rested in her arms like a defeated noble in a romance drama. "I completely forgot. By the Light, my brain is soup."

Alleria giggled, a sound as musical as it was mocking.

Now, the boys, Arathor and his half-elf bestie were both four going on tornado. They had inherited the sharp wits of the Windrunner sisters and Galen's... questionable sense of chaos. Even Galen, no stranger to danger, had begun to fear the words "Let's play!" from their mouths.

Even the mighty cloud dragons Yu'long and Nalak were living a tragic, toy-chewed existence, reduced to glorified babysitters. To ease their suffering, Galen imported reinforcements offspring of the four Sacred Beasts from Pandaria. Holy, majestic, legendary companions... now tugged around by tiny hands and forced to play make-believe in the garden.

It was a joyful, chaotic childhood, full of laughter and low-flying objects, but Galen? He lived in a perpetual state of joy-induced suffering. Fatherhood was a battlefield.

Still, right now, Galen wasn't going anywhere. Alleria's massage was heavenly. Her fingers sparked with actual wind, muscles rippling with every pass. It was like a tornado gently whispering, "Relax."

"Damn," he muttered. "If I hadn't spent years studying defense techniques, I'd be a puddle on the floor."

"Thank you, Galen," she said earnestly. "Sylvanas and I never imagined we'd become demigods one day. And now, with the Throne of Heroes... if our loved ones are ever taken, they don't have to be gone forever. They can fight beside us, as heroic spirits. For a family like ours... it's a dream come true."

Galen turned to her, eyes blazing with that classic hero glint. "No need to thank me, Aure. Crafting the perfect world for our family to live, laugh, and kick evil's butt in—that's exactly the kind of dream I'm fighting for."