Good news

On this sweltering August day, a palpable sense of dread and unease hung over the entire retreating fleet, thick enough to cut with a butter knife. The news, delivered by panting Griffin Knights, had spread like wildfire: the lead warship, packed to the gills with the kingdom's most esteemed nobles, had been jumped by the Bloodsail Pirates.

Cook, the seasoned naval commander of Kul Tiras, had initially been ready to turn the whole damn fleet around and bolt for home. But the messenger, dispatched by Lothar himself, had stuck to his guns like a barnacle to a hull, insisting that Anduin and Duke had the enemy fleet by the short hairs, and that Duke's Naga-led murloc troops were already on the scene, probably making a mess of things.

After a moment of chewing on his lip, Cook, bless his cautious heart, decided to keep three-quarters of the sails unfurled and split the fleet right down the middle. The Kul Tiras fleet, with its respectable combat chops, would lead the charge, giving the transport ships bringing up the rear a fighting chance to skedaddle if things went south.

Three agonizing hours later, a monstrous, blood-red sail ripped into view on the horizon, looking like a giant, angry bruise against the sky.

The sight of that bizarre scarlet almost made the lookouts instinctively holler the alarm. In fact, one greenhorn did just that, his voice cracking like a dry twig. But Cook, who had more foresight than a goblin tinkerer with a crystal ball, had doubled the watch. An older, grizzled lookout slapped the kid's hand over his mouth.

"Hold your horses, son! Take a good, long gander at that flag!"

After a moment of squinting and rubbing their eyes, every lookout on deck was struck dumb.

"Captain," one finally managed, his voice a strained whisper, "you might want to get your rear end up here and see this."

Yep, it was a Bloodsail Pirate warship, alright. No doubt about it.

The Kul Tiran Navy, cut from the same cloth as these scoundrels, could recognize those ships even if they were reduced to driftwood.

The distinctive design, with one horizontal sail and three triangular sails, allowing them to dance through any wind condition; the specially raised sides, perfect for boarding parties; and those detachable wooden outer decks, just begging for a cannonade – every single detail screamed "old rival" to the Kul Tiras navy.

But then there was the kicker: the Golden Lion Flag of Stormwind, flapping proudly from the main mast, practically screaming to the world that this ship was now Stormwind property.

The Kul Tiras navy's eyes practically bugged out of their heads, burning with a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated envy.

Before he went rogue and formed the Bloodsail Pirates, their leader, the then Duke of Farrell, had spared no expense building the finest warships in all of Kul Tiras.

In terms of sheer quality, they were even better than Admiral Daelin Proudmoore's main fleet. The only catch was that Duke Farrell had only made off with a relatively small number of them: 12 large merchant ships and 24 warships. But after their transformation and upgrade, those 36 ships were undoubtedly the Bloodsail Pirates' heavy hitters.

Now, with Stormwind having somehow snagged 12 of those prized capital ships, it would have been a miracle if the Kul Tirans weren't turning green with jealousy. If they hadn't known that Stormwind was teetering on the brink of collapse, they would have suspected Stormwind was trying to steal their thunder as the undisputed masters of the waves.

And that wasn't all. The newly built smaller warships were also nothing to sneeze at.

Combined with the ships originally taken by the nobles, what now sailed before the Kul Tirans was a gargantuan fleet, a floating armada of 70 warships, big and small.

If the Kul Tirans hadn't peered through their telescopes and seen the Nagas and Murlocs, those slimy, fish-faced escorts, parading around on the Bloodsail Pirate decks, they might have gone stark raving mad with envy.

Brigadier General Cook slowly lowered his telescope, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Damn it all to the Twisting Nether! If we didn't have those overgrown greenskins to deal with, I'd be lobbying the admiral to put Stormwind in its place the moment we got back!"

On the Poseidon, Edwin VanCleef leaned over the porthole, his eyes glued to the strange fleet sailing in the opposite direction, south of their own. The distance was so close he could practically smell the desperation and utter defeat radiating from the faces of those noble private soldiers.

That was definitely not the look of folks who had just dodged a bullet.

If he had to pick one word to describe them, it would be: whipped dogs.

A surge of excited blood pumped through VanCleef's veins, setting his entire being ablaze. He felt his body and soul burning with a fervent, almost religious zeal.

The nobility, those pompous windbags, were toast!

Those arrogant, barbaric, stuck-up nobles were finally finished!

The voice in his head was so clear, so real, so utterly intoxicating, that VanCleef almost lost control of himself.

No matter how Duke had pulled it off, what came next – the cutting away of all that rotten flesh – meant that even if Stormwind City fell, the Stormwind Kingdom would surely rise from the ashes, stronger and purer than ever!

Unbeknownst to himself, Edwin VanCleef's heart was now utterly consumed by the radiant glow of Duke. It was a passion so intense it made him willing to lay everything on the line: his loyalty, his very life, his immortal soul, and even his most beloved daughter, Vanessa.

It was late into the night, and VanCleef found himself unable to calm down, his mind racing like a runaway kodo.

Of course, he wasn't the only one suffering from a severe case of the jitters.

King Llane had read the report not once, not twice, but three times. Yet, after the final word, he remained frozen, stunned into silence for a full minute, unable to utter a single sound.

The report was a bombshell. A real jaw-dropper.

He wasn't alone. Every high-ranking noble still holed up in Stormwind City was equally speechless, their faces a mixture of shock and sheer terror.

Among the nobles who had evacuated, a staggering one-tenth of them were actually demons! When the Bloodsail Pirates had launched their attack, these fiends had dropped their human disguises, revealing their true, monstrous forms, causing the greatest loss of noble life since the very founding of Stormwind.

Out of 387 titled nobles, a pathetic 32 had survived, and every single one of them was wounded, some grievously. Seven noble families had been wiped off the face of Azeroth forever, and the remaining 13 were now sparsely populated, their bloodlines hanging by a thread. Half of the surviving nobles were still wet behind the ears, mere minors.

Most of them, it was safe to say, were scared out of their wits.

And this wasn't some tall tale spun by a disgruntled peasant or a rival faction. The testimonies of over 800 survivors were almost identical, consistent down to the last terrifying detail. These survivors even included several devout pastors, men of the cloth whose word was as good as gold.

Not only that, the confessions wrung from the Bloodsail Pirate captives painted the same grim picture.

Llane closed his eyes, a pained groan escaping his lips. "Do you want me to tell the people that the lords they trust, the leaders they look up to, the nobles of Stormwind who supposedly carry on the legacy of Emperor Thoradin… that one-tenth of them are actually demons?"

Llane's voice wasn't loud, but in the deathly silence of the meeting room, every word resonated, clear as a bell.

Everyone exchanged nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

If this news got out, it would be a morale killer, a blow to the kingdom's spirit that would make the Orcish invasion look like a picnic.

At this opportune moment, Earl Carton, a former crony of the now-extinct Brando family, subtly raised a hand, asking for the floor. "Why, gentlemen," he began, his voice surprisingly upbeat, "can't we look at this glass as half full? At least we now have twice as many ships! We have enough fishermen to press into service as sailors! We can evacuate our citizens at double the speed!"

Llane flinched, then a strange, almost warm sensation spread through his chest. Yes, the people's losses will be reduced.

But…

Earl Carton pressed on, his voice dripping with false concern. "Furthermore, those who perished in this… unfortunate incident… were, after all, local lords. I believe that when we announce the results to the public, we should first and foremost respect their opinions. After all, they were the very cornerstone of this kingdom."

The Earl's words, to the remaining nobles, were nothing short of a divine choir.

While the majority of nobles had evacuated this time, not every noble could simply pack up and leave, especially those holding critical military positions within the kingdom.

Their own offspring turning into a demon and butchering their own family… how in the name of the Light could they possibly announce such a humiliating, soul-crushing truth? In fact, they had already cooked up a perfectly plausible excuse, but they hadn't dared to utter it aloud.

Now that Earl Carton had handed them this golden ticket, this perfect out, they were so relieved they practically wanted to run up to him and plant a big, slobbery kiss on his cheek. Huzzah! It turns out we really can count on our own kind when the chips are down!

This, apparently, was yesterday's guarantee.