Success

Grom Hellscream's eyes, usually narrowed slits of pure menace, popped open like saucers, bloodshot and bulging with an incredulity that could curdle milk.

Unlike his average, knuckle-dragging brethren, Grom hailed from the Burning Blade Clan – a bunch of finesse-loving, willpower-wielding, intention-driven maniacs. This clan, a veritable factory for sword masters, had a combat philosophy as alien to most orcs as a vegan potluck.

Grom knew, with a certainty that usually only accompanied the sunrise, that his absolutely devastating, guaranteed-to-be-a-home-run attack had gone off the rails. A tiny screw-up, a microscopic hiccup, could snowball into a full-blown catastrophe. And the feedback from that "miraculous combo" – the one that was supposed to be a guaranteed ticket to victory – came screaming back through Gorehowl, his axe that was usually more in tune with his mind than his own thoughts.

Originally, Grom was so sure of himself, he figured he could cleave through a ten-foot-thick concrete wall, then keep going to chop the enemy's spine in half with Gorehowl for good measure. He'd bet the farm, and he'd lost. Big time.

This mysterious human wizard, a complete stranger who had seemingly materialized out of thin air, possessed a bag of tricks so astounding it made Grom's jaw drop. Even from a distance, squinting through the chaos, Grom could grasp the sheer audacity of what Duke had just pulled off.

His axe, the one that could supposedly split mountains and crack the very earth, felt like it was hacking through a thousand layers of tissue paper. Each flimsy sheet, impossibly, siphoned off a fraction of its power. It was death by a thousand cuts, or rather, a thousand paper-thin magical deflections. The kicker? Duke's method was not just extreme; it was surgical, precise, and about a million times more infuriating. A dizzying, three-digit combo of intermediate spells had taken a blow destined to be a one-way ticket to the afterlife and casually nudged it off course.

"Well, fiddle-faddle!" A long, drawn-out sigh, so soft it was almost a ghost of a sound, escaped from the corner of Grom Hellscream's mouth. Grom, a creature who usually had confidence oozing from his pores, was suddenly hit with a tidal wave of powerlessness. He'd poured the collective willpower of his entire clan into Gorehowl, practically bending the fabric of reality to ensure victory.

But this wizard, this infuriatingly casual human, had simply snapped fate back into place with the ease of flipping a pancake. It was like trying to stop the tide with a teacup, or arguing with a brick wall. This axe, the one that was supposed to hit its mark like a laser beam, had been told, in no uncertain terms, "Not today, buddy!"

As countless orcs craned their necks, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and horror, the legendary Gorehowl finally veered off course, missing Duke by a hair's breadth – less than half a meter. The griffin beneath Duke shrieked, shedding feathers like a startled chicken, while Daniel was so scared he nearly needed a change of trousers. Yet, not a single scratch was inflicted upon the infuriatingly smug saboteur, Edmund Duke.

"Hahahaha! Hahahaha!" The griffin soared higher and higher, a speck against the vast blue, until it was nothing but a tiny black dot, barely visible to the naked eye. All that remained for the utterly miserable orcs below was a string of Duke's obnoxious, utterly unrepentant laughter echoing across the battlefield.

Almost every orc's face was as black as thunder. Maybe it was the lingering smoke, or maybe, just maybe, their faces were simply dark with pure, unadulterated rage. An explosion that could wake the dead had just gone off thousands of meters away, complete with towering flames, smoke so thick you could cut it with a knife, and screams that would curdle your blood. It would have been weirder than a three-dollar bill if the human defenders on Stormwind City's walls hadn't heard or seen it.

As the griffin descended from the heavens once more, Duke's iconic wizard robe flapping like a victory banner, the defenders on the walls erupted in a cheer so deafening it could probably be heard back in Azeroth's capital.

"You knocked it out of the park, Count Edmund!"

"Send those greenskins packing!"

"Burn, baby, burn! Fry 'em all to a crisp!"

"Sir Edmund – you're our knight in shining armor!"

Duke, ever the showman, let Daniel pilot the griffin in a slow, triumphant pass over the outer city wall. Every casual wave of Duke's hand ignited a fresh explosion of cheers, each one louder than the last. Just then, Lothar swooped in with his own small posse of griffin riders. This Azerothian heartthrob, who seemed to get more ruggedly handsome with every passing year, had a mane of wavy black hair that whipped in the wind. His booming, lion-like laughter always announced his arrival long before he was even within spitting distance.

"Hahahaha! Way to go, Duke!"

"Tell me about it! I almost bit the dust out there. I'm pretty sure I'm on several Horde chiefs' hit lists now."

"Relax! Even if you'd gotten yourself into a real pickle out there, I'd have moved heaven and earth to get you out."

Duke rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw his own brain, staring at the hemp rope with a slipknot dangling from the griffin's rear, courtesy of Lothar. Seriously, Lothar? Are you planning to lasso me like a runaway steer and haul me up by my neck? What is this, the Wild West?

"Tsk! If it weren't for your grandstanding, Llane wouldn't have let me unleash the entire squadron of Griffin Knights."

A tiny, unexpected spark of warmth flickered in Duke's cynical heart.

A majestic line of griffins glided towards Stormwind City's inner wall, aiming for the eastern flight point. Their enormous wings spread wide, acting as air brakes, and after a few powerful flaps, their razor-sharp talons scraped against the thick hay with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. Before the griffin had even fully settled, Lothar, a man who moved like a cat on a hot tin roof, had already executed a nimble dismount.

But someone else beat Lothar to the punch – none other than Storm King Llane himself, practically vibrating with impatience.

"Spill the beans! What's the damage report?" Llane demanded, his voice a drumroll of impatience.

"Oh, it's fine. The orcs will be packing up their bags for a while."

"Are you pulling my leg?" Llane's face was a picture of unadulterated shock.

"You bet your bottom dollar!" Duke's voice shot up an octave, practically chirping with glee. "Not only did I turn most of their tents into charcoal briquettes, I also spiced up their only water source with a little something extra."

"Spiced up?"

At almost the exact same moment, the Horde's Warchief Blackhand was ready to chew nails and spit fire, his face a thundercloud of fury.

"Report! The water source is toast?"

"Poisoned? How in the blazes can running water be poisoned?" Kilrogg, who looked like he was about to blow a gasket, snarled at the captain of Blackhand's personal guards.

"Beats me! But the water flowing down from the mountain is greener than a goblin's armpit. My scouts confirmed it: livestock dropped dead after a single sip. Someone even saw a Naga in the water. It must have been those sneaky human-allied Naga who pulled this stunt."

"Didn't we put a stopper in that water supply?" Orgrim grumbled.

"That human mage blew it sky-high! It was such a madhouse out there, none of us even caught it."

A heavy, awkward silence descended upon the tribal leaders, thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife.

At first, Elwynn Forest was crawling with murlocs and Naga, who followed the river like a bad smell, ambushing orcs desperate for a drink. But Orgrim, proving he wasn't just a pretty face, cooked up a plan: build a crude dam to keep those slimy fish-people out. After a few failed attempts by the Naga to sneak around the dam, only to be ambushed by waiting orcs, those aquatic nuisances had practically vanished from Elwynn Forest, like ghosts in the night. But, what do you know? Duke pulled a fast one this time, opening the floodgates and letting the Naga waltz right in.

Now, every tree big enough to offer shade had been turned into a charred stump by Duke's fiery antics, and their only water source was now a toxic green mess. This wasn't just a handful of guys; with a small group, maybe you could dig a few deeper wells. The problem, my friends, was that they had three hundred thousand hungry, thirsty, and very grumpy troops on their hands! Orcs were tough as nails, sure, but they weren't zombies. They still needed to eat, drink, and, well, do their business. Without water, they were up a creek without a paddle.

Blackhand was a hothead, no doubt, but even he wasn't completely off his rocker. He gnashed the word in his throat, wrestling with it like a wild boar, before it finally burst out between his teeth, a painful, guttural rasp: "Fall back!"

Over on the human side, a wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria erupted from the city gate, a roar so deafening it vibrated through every stone of Stormwind City. Every soldier and civilian in the city paused, their heads swiveling like confused owls, staring towards the outer city wall. Soon, a messenger, riding like the wind, came tearing through the streets, bellowing at the top of his lungs:

"Hear ye, hear ye! Good news, hot off the presses! Archmage Edmund Duke just paid the orc base camp a little visit, turning over ten thousand greenskins into crispy critters! They're pulling out from the south gate as we speak!"

The crowd, already buzzing, spontaneously erupted into a full-blown frenzy. In the distance, a column of black smoke, tinged with angry orange flames, clawed its way into the sky, a beacon of destruction visible even over the towering city walls. Originally, nobody had a clue who was behind the fiery spectacle, but the moment the messenger dropped Duke's name, the crowd went from a low hum to a full-on, ear-splitting rock concert of excitement!

"Long live Stormwind!"

"Long live His Majesty Llane!"

"Three cheers for Sir Edmund!"

The people were simple folk, bless their hearts. Whoever could bring them a shred of peace and happiness was practically a god in their eyes. And ever since the Dark Gate War kicked off, the kingdom had been losing ground faster than a snowball rolling downhill. Redridge Mountains had gone belly up. Half of Duskwood had bitten the dust. Not long ago, the entire Elwynn Forest – the very heart and soul of the kingdom, its pride and joy – had fallen into the grubby hands of those cruel, terrifying orcs. The absolute last straw? Those green-skinned devils had actually breached the city walls just yesterday.

Panic was setting in, and without even realizing it, people were losing faith in their king and the entire kingdom, faster than a leaky bucket. It was at this moment, when all hope seemed lost, that news of Duke's stunning victory burst forth like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, washing away the gloom in people's hearts. This timely triumph was a shot in the arm, a much-needed morale boost that instantly restored the confidence of both military and civilians. The Horde's retreat, even if it was just a temporary reprieve, felt like the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads had finally shifted a few inches. People are funny that way; even if they vaguely know they're still playing near the gates of hell, as long as it's out of sight, it's out of mind.

Duke the Legend.

Hero Duke!

Duke, the kingdom's brand-new guardian angel!

Edmund Duke's reputation was spreading like wildfire, burning through the kingdom's rumor mill. In the next few days, Duke continued his aerial assault, riding his griffin like a mischievous dragon and setting Elwynn Forest ablaze. A dignified archmage, moonlighting as an arsonist? Who would've thought! This was, to put it mildly, a jaw-dropping turn of events for any self-respecting, noble mage. Sure, there were a few grumbles and whispers of opposition, but when faced with the undeniable, blazing success, those voices vanished faster than a free beer at a dwarven tavern.

First off, Duke had the king's unconditional, ride-or-die support. Secondly, the Royal Mage Corps was currently as barren as a desert, talent-wise. Their sole Morningstar Mage was basically the king's glorified bodyguard. So, when Duke, the guy who supposedly took down Sargeras, showed up, who in their right mind was going to give him grief?

Duke's fiery antics were, to put it mildly, a roaring success. Summer was in full swing, and the phrase "hot as blazes" wasn't just a figure of speech. The dry forest was a tinderbox, ready to ignite at the slightest spark. A few well-placed fireballs upwind, and you had yourself an inferno that would make a dragon blush. If it weren't for Orgrim's last-minute, desperate plea for the orc clans to batten down the hatches, their losses would have been even more catastrophic.

Duke was playing hardball, setting the entire forest ablaze – a move so ruthless it caught Orgrim completely off guard. The continuous fires belched out smoke so thick it blotted out the sun, turning the entire forest into a literal hellscape. Aside from a few clear-cut areas and the odd lake or river, Duke had turned every single tree in Elwynn Forest into kindling. The problems that followed were enough to make the tribal leaders want to pull their hair out, then eat it.

"We're running on fumes, food-wise," Orgrim declared, breaking the tense silence at the tribal chiefs' meeting. A single tribal warrior could take on three humans on the battlefield and still have energy to spare. Their appetites, however, were even more formidable. These manic orcs weren't the soft, bread-eating humans they so disdained. To maintain their hulking physiques, they needed meat, and lots of it – enough to feed a small army.

The Horde's hunters had been scouring the forest daily, but unlike their homeland of Draenor, Elwynn Forest wasn't exactly teeming with giant beasts. Wild boars, gnolls, even captured murlocs – every living, edible thing had long since been devoured by the ravenous orcs. Anything bigger than a squirrel in that forest had been hunted to extinction.

They hadn't noticed it when they were expanding territory like gangbusters, but now, with their offensive grinding to a halt and the forest suddenly a raging inferno, even these guys – whose brains were 99% muscle and 1% grunting – were starting to get the picture.

"Didn't we have some grunts learning how to raise pigs?" Blackhand grumbled, his voice muffled.

"Pigs don't exactly grow on trees, Warchief," Orgrim deadpanned. He'd never thought Blackhand was a rocket scientist, but now he felt like leading the Horde under this Warchief was like riding a runaway train straight to perdition. All eyes, heavy with expectation, turned to Warchief Blackhand, silently begging him to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

As the Horde's inaugural Warchief, Blackhand wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. It was widely suspected that Gul'dan had picked him specifically because he was so easy to manipulate – a puppet on a string. In a clan, the bravest and brawniest usually got the top spot, while the brains of the operation typically belonged to the shaman.

But now, the shaman profession was about as popular as a root canal, replaced by mysterious, sneaky warlocks. And to make matters worse, all the warlocks from the Shadow Council had recently pulled a disappearing act. Suddenly being put on the spot to come up with a game plan, Blackhand was completely stumped. With no other cards left to play, Warchief Blackhand reluctantly cast his gaze towards the grim face of his most trusted lieutenant, Orgrim Doomhammer.

At that very moment, a volcano of rage erupted in Orgrim's heart, multiplying its intensity a hundred, no, a thousand-fold. He'd had it up to here! He'd had it with this Shadow Council puppet of a Warchief, who had not only harbored but also orchestrated the demise of his good friends, Durotan and his wife. He'd had it with this reckless chieftain who played fast and loose with the lives of tribal warriors. He'd had it with this brain-dead, irresponsible, stone-cold ruthless leader!

Orgrim made a decision, etched in stone: once the Horde clawed its way out of this mess, he would challenge Warchief Blackhand to a "Mak'gora" – a duel for leadership, as per clan traditions. He would personally send this Shadow Council puppet to meet his maker and then purge the Council itself.

But Duke's fierce, shockingly effective magical attacks had left a mark on Orgrim, a deep, unsettling impression. It was clear as day: only a mysterious force could stand a chance against another mysterious force! The thought of wiping out Gul'dan and his warlocks... for the first time, Orgrim paused, a flicker of doubt in his usually ironclad resolve.

First things first, though: they needed to put out the current dumpster fire. Orgrim jabbed a finger at the north on the human military map he'd "acquired." "It wouldn't take a whole army of the Horde to roll over this pint-sized Stormwind City. Warchief, I propose we split our forces. There's another bunch of weak, vertically challenged humanoids called dwarves in a place called Ironforge. If the Horde wants to be top dog around here, we can't leave any stone unturned."

Blackhand's and the other chiefs' eyes suddenly lit up like Christmas trees. When they first landed in Azeroth, the entire Horde was flying blind. They had no earthly idea where they were, how many enemies they were up against, or even which way was up. Even though Gul'dan kept hammering home how feeble the enemies were – and to be fair, these weaklings were no match for them in a stand-up fight – the entire Horde was still groping in the dark when it came to strategy, like a bull in a china shop. After sending plenty of humans to the great beyond, the chiefs had managed to piece together more information from the maps they'd confiscated. Now, Orgrim's proposal was undoubtedly a beacon of hope, pointing them towards greener pastures.