The King's Declaration

The loyal and brave generals of Stormwind hoisted their swords skyward like battle standards. They could practically taste the electricity crackling in their most beloved King's eyes. Without conscious thought, their breathing and heartbeats had locked into perfect rhythm with their sovereign, like a war drum beating in unison.

It was an inexplicable surge of connection, as if their very souls had been welded together in the forge of destiny.

One by one, they slipped into a trance-like state that hit them like a bolt from the blue. They seemed to hurtle through time and space itself, witnessing their ancestors laying the very first cornerstone in this wild and verdant valley thousands of years ago, declaring to the heavens that this sacred ground would be called Stormwind City.

They could see their forebears moving mountains and parting seas to overcome every obstacle, watch the rainbow-colored insects scatter like confetti from beneath their boots, and witness this untamed wilderness transform into mankind's greatest sanctuary.

They could see King Llane, carrying the torch passed down through generations, standing on the precipice of a decision that would shake the very foundations of the entire kingdom.

The usually raucous meeting hall was suddenly thick with a familiar yet otherworldly reverence, as if they were all kneeling in the Storm Cathedral during high mass, hanging on every word of the Archbishop's sermon, feeling the marble eyes of ancient sages boring into their souls from both sides. The gazes of these legendary pioneers, reaching across millennia like ghostly fingers, silently fixed upon Llane with the weight of eternity.

Silent as the grave and sacred as scripture.

The loyal and brave generals hung on every word, while the despicable nobles threw in the towel on their pathetic resistance.

The meeting hall plunged into absolute silence so profound you could hear a pin drop in the next kingdom, as if the entire world had held its breath just to hear that one earth-shattering proclamation.

Llane's eyes blazed wide open, his azure pupils burning with a clarity that could cut through steel. The golden lion banner with its royal blue field and gold trim—passed down through a thousand years of Stormwind glory—blazed behind him like the very fires of heaven.

His voice rang out crystal clear, magnetic as a lodestone, penetrating as thunder, carrying an authority that could make mountains bow down.

"I, King Llane Wrynn of Stormwind, hereby proclaim before God and man that the twenty noble houses led by the Duke of Ferrens have abused their sacred trust, wallowed in corruption like pigs in mud, and sold their souls to demons—bringing eternal shame upon the noble calling of justice and honor! These parasites are a cancer on the body of true nobility! The names of all twenty houses are hereby OBLITERATED from the rolls of honor, and every last one of their spawn is stripped of rank and cast down to the level of common dirt! Their blood money will be divided among the true heroes of this battle as a warning to all who would follow their treacherous path!"

"I further declare that ANYONE—no matter if they crawled out of a gutter, whether they're eight or eighty, whether they're human, dwarf, elf, or any other race under the sun, whether they're man or woman—who spills their blood for Stormwind's glory shall be raised to the nobility! By the same token, ANYONE who dares stab humanity in the back will face Stormwind's wrath whether they flee to the ends of the earth or hide in the deepest pit of hell! Those who serve will be rewarded like kings, and those who betray will be crushed like insects! Anyone who breaks this sacred oath—no matter if they're born in a palace or a pigsty—can be struck down where they stand!"

Like a thunderclap splitting the sky, every face in the room was painted with raw, unbridled shock.

Llane's spine and stones had reached legendary proportions!

No king in living memory had dared to wipe out half the nobles in one fell swoop—but Llane had the brass to do it!

No king had ever tied the crown itself to merit alone—but Llane had the guts to pull that trigger!

No king had ever shown such brass-bound courage to throw out the rulebook and promote talent from the gutter up—only Llane had the stones for such a gamble!

Even though it was Duke's backstage maneuvering that had brought these blue-blooded parasites to their knees and handed Llane this golden opportunity on a silver platter, and even though it was Duke who had used this crisis—when the kingdom was hanging by a thread—to twist Llane's arm, in the end it was still Llane who pulled the trigger.

Llane had made the smartest play imaginable. Hell, it was even sharper than Duke had dared to dream. This was the realm of true greatness, the stuff of legends.

Based on these three thunderbolt decisions alone, as long as Llane's Stormwind Kingdom didn't get wiped off the map entirely, and as long as his bloodline and policies could take root and flourish, Llane was destined to carve his name deeper into the annals of Azeroth's human history than any king before him.

Every soul in that room felt their spirit catch fire and soar to heights they'd never imagined possible. If the war against the Horde invasion was an epic song of glory—a legend belonging to every brave heart—then at this moment, there was only one star blazing in the firmament: Llane Wrynn.

"For humanity—for Azeroth!" Llane's battle cry shook the very stones.

"For humanity—for Azeroth!" Duke, Anduin, and the rest roared back like lions answering their king.

The electric excitement hung in the air like smoke from a battlefield, every brave heart pounding like a war drum. They looked around at each other and saw the same wild, triumphant grin spreading like wildfire.

Llane's gaze swept over the nobles who'd just tried to force him off his throne, cold as winter steel: "Gentlemen, you can hit the road now. What comes next is classified military business—and frankly, it's way above your pay grade."

Lothar and Duke Fordragon stepped forward in perfect sync, flanking their king like twin pillars of justice. Behind them, more than a dozen royal guards spread out like the wings of death itself.

The nobles opened their mouths like fish gasping for air, their faces painted with undisguised yellow-belly cowardice, but in the end they swallowed their protests and slunk away with their tails between their legs.

This scene was later immortalized in a breathtaking masterpiece by a painter working from eyewitness accounts. The painting sold at auction for a king's ransom of three million gold coins and became known to history as "The Death of the Rotten Age."

After the nobles slithered away, the massive meeting hall felt hollow as a tomb, so Llane and his inner circle immediately relocated to a smaller, more intimate war room.

Counting the guards, fewer than twenty souls remained.

But these men would form the beating heart of Stormwind's power—assuming Stormwind could survive the coming storm...

Bolvar had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Duke during the showdown, but now he was the first to throw cold water on the celebration: "Listen here, my brilliant Grand Mage Edmund. While I'd love to kiss your boots for scoring the kingdom more than fifty ships, I've got to burst your bubble. When you and Lothar went charging off to play hero, the kingdom lost nearly three thousand crack troops. That's counting both the dead and the crippled who'll never see another battlefield."

Every face in the room turned sour as spoiled milk. Training a soldier worth his salt took more time than Rome was built in, and the kingdom couldn't afford to burn through men at this rate. Sure, they could move soldiers and civilians almost twice as fast now, but at this pace the front lines would crumble faster than a house of cards before that mattered a lick.

Llane approached and laid a firm hand on Duke's shoulder, looking straight into his eyes with the calm of a man who'd stared death in the face: "I won't call what you just pulled forcing the king's hand. Stormwind's been rotting from the inside out for years—you just gave me the backbone to cut out the cancer. But breathing new life into this kingdom is going to fall on you young bucks. I figure since you've been hitting home runs left and right, you won't strike out now, will you?"

It would be a real kick in the teeth if Duke had orchestrated the nobles' downfall so perfectly, only to come up empty-handed in the next military powwow and leave Stormwind high and dry.

But Duke was Duke!

A miracle worker who never left his supporters holding the bag.

Duke chuckled like a man holding four aces: "You won't be disappointed, your majesty—not by a long shot. First things first, allow me to roll out the red carpet for a very important guest. Please give a warm welcome to my faithful follower Anya and the special visitor she's brought to our little party."

Llane's lips curved in a knowing smile as he nodded his approval.

The conference room doors swung wide, and in walked a freckle-faced female mage wearing the royal blue robes of the Storm Royal Mage Corps, escorting a guest who made every jaw in the room hit the floor.

Because the so-called "guest" turned out to be a goblin—and that revelation hit the Stormwind brass like a ton of bricks.