Firestorm

Every soul at the scene knew the monumental weight of that severed head in Lothar's hand. It wasn't just a gruesome trophy; it was a game-changer.

If King Llane's capital had been overrun, and he'd had to skedaddle to Southshore with his tail between his legs, he'd have been branded a king of a fallen kingdom, a royal washout, no matter how many troops he saved or citizens he protected. That scarlet letter of shame would have clung to Llane like a burr to a kodo's hide for the rest of his days, potentially even casting a long, dark shadow over the young Prince Varian.

In the annals of 'history,' Llane might have met his end by an assassin's blade, but even then, he was remembered as the valiant king who stood his ground, a hero in the hearts of his people. Even if Lothar and Varian had faced snide remarks, no one would have dared to bring up Llane's tragic demise.

But this time, thanks to Duke's meddling, Llane had cheated death itself. Duke had snatched Llane from the jaws of Garona's dagger, and he wasn't about to let Llane make a noble, suicidal stand for honor. If Llane fell, Stormwind would lose its very backbone, crumbling like a poorly built goblin shack.

Now, though, the whole ballgame had changed.

That Warchief's head, coupled with the Horde Warchief's battle standard that Lothar had swiftly ordered the guards to snatch, was enough to prove that Llane, despite the city's fall, still held his head high. That battle flag, bristling with oversized beast teeth and grotesque bone ornaments, screamed 'Horde' from a mile away.

Even if Stormwind burned, even if the royal city was lost, every last citizen could still puff out their chest and declare, "Our glorious hero, Lothar, chopped off the head of the Horde Warchief! Take that, you green-skinned bullies!"

Of course, the puppet master pulling all the strings was none other than Duke. Without his uncanny knack for understanding the orcish mind, no one would have dreamed of luring the Warchief into such a cunning trap. Even the most cynical old war dogs had to tip their hats to Duke.

Lothar, indeed, was a hero, a titan of a warrior who had managed to put Blackhand six feet under despite the Warchief's overwhelming advantage in brawn and speed. But everyone with a brain in their head knew that Duke was the true mastermind, the one who truly brought home the bacon.

"Toss me the noggin," Duke called out, a casual wave of his hand.

As Lothar sprinted, he flung Blackhand's severed head towards Duke with the practiced ease of a seasoned quarterback.

"QUENCH!" Duke barked, and a blast of arctic air, colder than a banshee's kiss, instantly enveloped the Warchief's head as it spun through the air. The next moment, the magician's hand had snatched the Blackhand's head, now perfectly preserved within a shimmering block of transparent ice. Such a grim, yet vital, piece of cargo would naturally be entrusted to the sturdy hands of the guards below.

"You lot forge ahead with the trophies; I'll lead the first squad and bring up the rear," Lothar commanded, his vigilance unyielding. He slapped his shield back into place and began a cautious, tactical retreat with the rearguard. In truth, Lothar was probably worrying about a storm in a teacup; the orcs were too busy tearing each other limb from limb to notice a few humans making an orderly exit.

Down at the docks, General Tom Seamos was pacing like a caged gronn, his anxiety palpable. When he finally spotted Llane's royal banner and the Royal Guard appearing at the gates of Stormwind Harbor, he practically fell over himself leading his troops to meet them.

"Your Majesty, your safety is worth more than all the gold in the Vault of the Light!" General Seamos choked out, tears welling in his eyes.

"Thank you for your tireless efforts, my dear General. Now, only two steps remain," Llane replied, his golden helmet gleaming, his golden armor reflecting the distant fires. His eyes, fixed on the guard team sprinting towards him with the Warchief's head and the Horde's tribal flag, sparkled with a clear, almost boyish excitement.

Kill the general, seize the flag! A classic move, executed to perfection.

If it hadn't been for Duke, Llane thought, he'd probably be a martyr right now, a name whispered in somber tones, instead of a king with a fighting chance. His heart swelled with an ocean of gratitude for Duke. Recalling those spineless nobles who had bolted with their loot at the first sign of trouble, Duke's name had ascended to a sacred, almost divine, status in Llane's mind.

Meanwhile, as Lothar's rearguard was just about clearing the Cathedral Square, Duke finally pulled the trigger on his grand finale.

"Ambroliza Magalovs..." Duke began, a low, resonant chant. As his voice echoed, Lothar distinctly felt a shift in the very fabric of the air, a subtle hum of immense power gathering.

Countless arcane runes, shimmering with mysterious energy, erupted from beneath Duke's feet, radiating outwards like ripples in a pond, spreading in every direction.

Seeing Duke cease his incantation and the magical fluctuations around him settle, Lothar couldn't help but blurt out, "What in the name of the Holy Light did you just do? If you wanted to torch Stormwind, you didn't need a magic circle that could swallow a gronn!"

Duke merely offered a cryptic smile. "You'll find out soon enough, old friend."

At the same instant, every Blackrock Clan orc, locked in their bloody internecine squabble, felt a cold dread claw at their guts. It was a primal fear, a gut feeling that screamed "RUN!" like a mouse sensing a cat in the pantry.

In every block of Stormwind City, every orc, no matter if they were looting, brawling, or just scratching themselves, suddenly froze. The very ground beneath their feet began to thrum with a terrifying, earth-shattering vibration that made their blood run cold.

Once upon a time, in Stormwind's grandest church, the evening bells would chime, and the uniform prayers of priests would echo through the hallowed halls, night after night.

But ever since Stormwind City had been besieged, those evening prayer bells had fallen silent. Every priest was busy, not with prayers, but with holy healing, mending broken bodies and soothing terrified souls with their gentle voices.

Yet, at this very moment, the long-silent church bells began to toll.

Three short! Three long! Three short again!

It was the signal! The long-awaited, desperate signal.

The members of the suicide squad, who had long since given up hope of escape and knew their fate was sealed, sprang into action. They crawled from abandoned attics, inconspicuous closets, or secret basements, dragging their battered, broken bodies into the light.

With a flick of flint, they lit their torches, then hurled them onto the carefully prepared fire starters. Piles of wood already doused in kerosene, mountains of whale fat heaped in corners, storage rooms stuffed to the rafters with dry straw. More importantly, in the scorching summer heat, the city's brick and wood structures, coupled with the massive amounts of flammable materials, were primed to go up like a tinderbox.

Over a thousand fires erupted simultaneously: in savings banks, stock exchanges, residential homes, bustling shops, opulent noble mansions, government agencies, cozy inns, and every other facility, important or otherwise.

At first, the scattered orcs barely noticed the flames. Burning, killing, and looting were par for the course when taking a big city. They'd done the same to Shattrath years ago; it was just how they rolled. Besides, human houses held no appeal for them; they preferred their own rough-and-tumble tents.

They didn't even think to put out the fires, let alone bother to step outside and take a look.

But soon, they realized they'd made a grave mistake.

The fire was out of control. A chilling sense of déjà vu washed over them. They suddenly remembered the terrifying scene when Duke, all by his lonesome, had torched half of the Horde camp.

The blazing inferno, a veritable hellfire, had claimed the lives of over ten thousand orcs back then. Now, they scrambled out, desperately trying to beat back the flames, but it was too late. The fire had spread like wildfire, a hungry beast devouring everything in its path.

Block after block was swallowed by the raging conflagration. In the narrow streets, there was nowhere to hide from the inferno. They stampeded, panicked, towards the wide-open squares, or plunged headfirst into the city's sprawling moat, watching in horrified awe as pillars of fire shot skyward, one after another. The burning area grew wider and wider, until, looking down from the smoke-choked sky, the entire city seemed to be drowning in a fiery flood.

It was a torrent of flames, a river of pure, unadulterated destruction!

Low residential buildings, towering mansions, gargantuan warehouses, countless homes, already burning through, crumbled one after another with continuous, thunderous roars. Countless orcs, caught flat-footed in the narrow streets, were crushed beneath the collapsing brick and timber.

"ARGH! FIRE! RUN, YOU FOOLS!"

Streets and roads became impassable walls of flame. At almost every major intersection, two massive houses had just collapsed, their burning husks forming fiery, impassable towers, blocking every single escape route.

The orcs who had managed to scramble to what they thought was safety trembled with fear, sweat pouring down their green hides. They could only watch, helpless, as their compatriots were swallowed by the flames. Even covering their ears couldn't drown out the screams of their brothers, their cries swallowed by the city-wide roar of the inferno.

And then, chillingly, came the unbridled laughter of the human suicide squad, their final, triumphant guffaws before their lives flickered out.

"HAHAHAHA!" There was no regret, no remorse, only the chilling, victorious cackle of those who had taken their enemies with them.

The orcs found themselves trapped in a shared, waking nightmare.

And that nightmare's name was Edmund Duke!

Once again, he had consigned countless orcs to a fiery grave.

Orgrim, too, had plunged into the city's canal. Though the water felt strangely warm on a hot summer's night, it couldn't thaw the ice that had formed around his heart. This was a trap that had cost him dearly, claiming more than half of his loyal warriors. If not for the inferno, he might have been cut down by the frenzied counterattack of Blackhand's guards.

He couldn't even recall how many Blackhand guards he'd slain with his Doomhammer. Once, it had been a weapon of immense pride, felling countless ogres and triple-digit beasts in his old world. But now, under the pallid moonlight, the blood staining the Hammer of Destruction bled into the canal water.

It was the blood of the Blackrock clan, the blood of his own kind.

Yet, a dark suspicion, a gnawing foreboding, still clawed at Orgrim's gut. He had a sneaking suspicion that if it was Edmund Duke, a human more devious than a succubus, then he had more tricks up his sleeve than a goblin tinkerer.

The moon, as if on cue, vanished behind a shroud of dark clouds. And in the shimmering canal water, they saw it: a series of golden runes, extending towards the riverbank like tendrils of liquid fire.

"This is impossible!" Orgrim finally shrieked, his voice raw with terror. "Everyone! Get to the shore! NOW! Before it's too late!"

Orgrim frantically bellowed at his men, his compatriots, his voice hoarse with desperation. His warriors, though clearly reluctant, scrambled out of the water. Not far from the bluestone avenue running alongside the canal stood the city wall, its bricks now glowing an angry red from the heat of the burning blocks. These three-meter-high low walls, along with the canal that could double as a moat, divided Stormwind City into six distinct districts.

Even perched on the bluestone of the shore, they could feel the oppressive heat. If not for Orgrim's frantic roars, they'd probably have plunged back into the comparatively cooler river water.

Indeed, many orcs not directly under Orgrim's command did just that, foolishly seeking refuge in the very river that would soon become their tomb. They stepped back into the water, crossing the invisible line between hell and the mortal world that the grim reaper had drawn with his scythe…

It was as if a second sun, burning with an unholy fire, was rising from the very depths beneath Stormwind City, pushing up the earth, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

Countless golden runes blazed from the black soil beneath the canal. The orcs still in the water could now see their own toes through the shimmering surface, a terrifying clarity in the face of impending doom.

"RUMBLE! CRUMBLE! ROAR!" The entire city of Stormwind shuddered.

From the Valley of the Kings in the south to Stormwind Keep in the north, from the Mage Quarter in the west to the Old Town in the east, every single block was shaking. The statue of Medivh, standing stoically in the Valley of the Kings, began to tremble violently, then, piece by agonizing piece, the symbol of an old protector crumbled to dust.

Every brick on the ground, along with the very grains of sand beneath them, rose and fell like angry waves, growing more turbulent by the second. Orcs who had been trying to hug the ground to avoid the flames were tossed into the air like rag dolls, only to crash back down and be flung aloft again.

Wooden beams and pillars, already charred and groaning under the inferno, shrieked further, then exploded, accelerating the collapse of every house that had somehow managed to remain standing.

Then, golden light erupted from the ground, from the very bottom of the river.

Streets and roads that had been spared the flames now became fiery chasms.

The canal, once a sanctuary, had every last drop of its water evaporated by the incandescent heat.

The orcs still submerged in the river were scalded to death in the blink of an eye, their flesh boiled from their bones.

And the water, now scorching vapor, became a weapon more terrifying than the flames themselves. The orcs, unable to hold their breath, inhaled great gulps of the superheated steam. It tore through the alveoli in their lungs, making them feel as if they were breathing not air, but pure, unadulterated fire.

Even the orcs who had scrambled onto the riverbank couldn't escape their grim fate. They simply lingered a few agonizing moments longer than their compatriots in the river, before following them into the great beyond.

Throughout Stormwind City, a chorus of fierce, guttural screams erupted from the orcs, then, as quickly as it began, everything fell silent.

In the city, only the furious crackle of raging flames remained, punctuated by the crashing symphony of collapsing pillars, crumbling bricks, and shattering glass.

Aside from that, the entire city descended into a deathly, eerie silence.

How many orcs could have possibly survived that hellish crucible?

Not one in a hundred!

The orcs who had just fled the streets or plunged into the river were almost all wiped out. Only a handful, those trapped in the burning blocks, somehow managed to slip past the Grim Reaper's scythe.

Orgrim, against all odds, was not among the dead! His formidable fire resistance allowed him to withstand the inferno, though a good chunk of his hair had gone up in smoke.

Clambering out of the fire, which had finally begun to cool, Orgrim surveyed the landscape of charred corpses that littered the streets and riverbeds.

"Aaaah..."

Even when he'd received the crushing news of his closest friend Durotan's death, Orgrim had kept his emotions locked down.

But this time.

Only this time!

Orgrim felt an absolute, consuming hatred for a single human being: Duke, the new, infernal patron saint of Stormwind Kingdom!

"AAAAHHHHHHHHH—I will kill you! I swear on the bones of my ancestors, I will hunt you to the very ends of the Shadowlands! I will peel every scrap of flesh from your bones and feast upon it raw! I will tear off every one of your wretched bones and grind them into dust! I WILL—ROOOOAR!"

On the scorched earth, still smoking from the flames, Orgrim sank to his knees, utterly defeated.

It was over. The elite of the Blackrock Clan, the very backbone of his power, had been reduced to ashes.

Even though a good number of Blackrock Clan members still remained in the main camp, the Blackrock Clan would never again be the largest, most dominant force in the Horde.