Incident

A millennium of blissful, brain-numbing peace. That's what it had been. Oh, sure, it brought prosperity, gleaming cities, and bellies full of ale, but it also brought a profound, soul-deep numbness. The pampered denizens of these bustling metropolises had become as soft as butter left out in the summer sun, never having seen a day's hard labor, let alone a proper fight. They were like hothouse orchids, delicate and utterly incapable of weathering a stiff breeze, let alone a Category 5 hurricane named 'Orcish Horde' smashing through their gilded windows. One whiff of true peril, and they'd shrivel faster than a goblin's promise, wilting into pathetic puddles of fear and despair.

History, bless its dusty heart, recorded Lothar's 'shocking concession.' The man practically sold his grandmother's silverware, eating humble pie the size of a war-wagon wheel, just to get these squabbling kingdoms to play nice. He personally declared the glorious era of Emperor Thoradin officially dead and buried, acknowledging the petty kingships of every puffed-up monarch. And what did it get him? Over three agonizing months just to cobble together a semblance of an Alliance! It wasn't until the green tide bypassed Stromgarde's 'impenetrable' Thandor Bridge defenses, sailing straight into the very guts of the northern continent's kingdoms, that these royal ninnies finally pulled their heads out of the sand. Talk about a rude awakening.

Oh, but let's be clear: the 'many' who woke up did not include Lordaeron. Not by a long shot. Lordaeron, with its bulging coffers and armies that could march to the ends of Azeroth and back, was attacked almost last, thanks to its cozy northern perch. For ages, they'd been engaged in what they charmingly called a 'local skirmish.' They'd toss a few gold coins and a handful of conscripts into the fray, then promptly forget about it. Their 'noble' elite, meanwhile, were too busy singing bawdy songs, dancing until dawn, and placing bets on beast fights. When the war truly hit the fan, when the screams of the dying echoed across the continent, this gaggle of gilded gits would descend upon King Terenas like a swarm of angry hornets, whining that Lothar was a blood-sucking vampire draining their precious taxes, their 'vital' manpower, and their oh-so-scarce material resources. The nerve!

Duke's mission? To kick this slumbering lion in the rear. Even if it was an old, grizzled beast, Lordaeron was still a lion, not some housecat. Llane and Anduin exchanged nervous glances, their eyes wide as saucers. They hadn't a clue what Duke was cooking up, but they knew, deep in their gut, that he was up to something. The man had promised to 'stimulate the nerves of a certain king in a completely, utterly, undeniably new way.' 'What in the blazes is this 'new way'?' they'd thought, a cold shiver running down their spines. Every instinct screamed 'danger,' but with negotiations going nowhere faster than a dwarf in a swimming contest, they'd reluctantly given Duke the green light. Desperate times, desperate measures, right?

The representatives, meanwhile, were still tearing into Stormwind like a pack of starving wolves on a fresh kill. The Gilneas envoy, a pompous windbag with a face like a perpetually sour lemon, jabbed a bony finger at the grisly, frozen head of Chieftain Blackhand. 'You claim this is the head of their chieftain?' he sneered at King Llane, a smirk plastered across his face. 'Sure, the brute's got a head the size of a small boulder, but who's to say it's their leader? Didn't you lot claim these greenskins were 'intelligent monsters'? Why in the name of the Light would their top dog just waltz up and offer his head on a platter? Don't be ridiculous! A king doesn't put himself on the front lines unless he's got a death wish. Why would these orcs, who you insist have the upper hand, send you their chieftain to dispatch? Sounds like a load of dragon dung to me!'

'You!!' Lothar's face turned a shade of puce usually reserved for bruised plums, his hair and beard practically vibrating with pure, unadulterated fury. He'd stared death in the face, wrestled that monstrous, twisted fiend Blackhand to the ground, and now his heroic feat was being reduced to a pile of goblin droppings?! Duke, ever the cool head, clamped a hand on Lothar's arm, preventing the inevitable diplomatic incident. He turned to the smirking Gilnean, a charming, almost predatory smile playing on his lips. 'Tell you what, my good sir,' Duke purred, 'how about this for a brilliant idea? Our Stormwind army will march onto the battlefield right alongside yours. You, my friend, can take that rather large, rather frozen head, and wave it like a flag right in front of the Horde. We'll just stand back and see who those greenskins decide to chase down first. Then, and only then, will we truly know, won't we?'

Just yesterday, a mere blink before Duke and his entourage rolled into Lordaeron, a peculiar slave trader, seemingly conjured from the nether regions, showed up with a wagon-load of 'special gifts' for King Menethil II, brazenly requesting an audience. Now, everyone with half a brain knew the King of Lordaeron wouldn't soil his royal slippers meeting just any old peddler who crawled out of the woodwork. If it weren't for the truly eye-popping nature of the 'gifts,' not even a low-level lackey would have bothered. Eventually, the merchant was granted a brief audience with some bored Lordaeron Viscount. The trader, bless his persistent soul, warned the Viscount repeatedly: this particular batch of 'merchandise' required a potent tranquilizer, brewed from the rare Tranquility Flower, every twelve hours on the dot. Miss a dose, and the existing restraints and cages wouldn't hold them for a second. The merchant even went so far as to send a formal, notarized document through proper diplomatic channels. You know, just to cover his bases.

Naturally, this shrewd businessman was merely a puppet on a string, working for someone with a very specific agenda. And, as that 'someone' fully expected, the merchant's perfectly reasonable, life-saving warnings were not just ignored, they were gleefully ignored. They thumbed their noses at every single instruction, a grand display of Lordaeron's legendary arrogance – a trait as common as dirt among its 'noble' class, and a defining characteristic of the most powerful of the Seven Kingdoms. A millennium ago, it was the ancestors of these very same pompous fools who packed up their gold and fled to the more 'prosperous' lands of Lordaeron, leaving the proud bloodline of Emperor Thoradin to rot in the dust of a ruined Stromgarde. Little did anyone suspect that a thousand years later, their descendants would pay a truly hellish price for their inherited hubris. Lordaeron, as history would soon write, was destined to fall thanks to King Terenas's pig-headed stubbornness. Duke had no intention of hitting the brakes on that particular train wreck, but at this very moment, Lordaeron was still a titan. And Duke, well, Duke didn't mind leveraging their colossal arrogance to give them a little taste of their own medicine. Or perhaps, a very hard lesson.

'DONG! DONG! DONG--!' The alarm bell. The one that shrieked of foreign invasion. The one that hadn't been rung in a full, blissful millennium within the pure white walls of this city, a place countless humans held up as a shining beacon of peace. When that ear-splitting, soul-rattling clang finally tore through the air, not a single soul in Lordaeron City moved. They were all frozen stiff, like deer in a wizard's trance, for a good three seconds. Only the most battle-hardened, caffeine-addicted guards finally snapped out of it, their eyes widening in dawning horror: 'By the Light! That's a f*ing alarm bell!'

In an instant, Lordaeron City erupted into a chaotic beehive of panicked shouts and scrambling feet. The Gilneas representative, mid-curse and about to deliver another scathing insult, froze solid, his jaw hanging open like a forgotten trap door. King Menethil II, the self-proclaimed grand poobah of the Seven Kingdoms, the man who believed his very breath was made of pure nobility, turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for fresh blood. His magnificent grey beard practically bristled with indignation, and his ancient eyes, usually placid, blazed like twin coals as he fixed his trembling attendant with a death glare. 'GET OUT THERE, YOU IDIOT!' he roared, his voice cracking with fury. 'FIND OUT WHAT IN BLAZES IS GOING ON! WHY IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY LIGHT DID SOMEONE RING THAT DAMN BELL!?'

The source of the chaos? The arena. Of course. In an age starved for proper thrills, nothing quite hit the spot like a good old-fashioned, blood-soaked gladiatorial contest. They were the undisputed kings of entertainment, dotting the northern continent like plague sores. Why, even the future Horde Chieftain Thrall, son of the revered Frostwolf Chieftain Durotan, ended up as a slave gladiator after his father was cruelly butchered by the Shadow Council's shadowy assassins. He was raised by humans, forced to fight for their amusement. It was the ultimate irony: while the Kingdom of Lordaeron publicly yawned at the 'distant' orc invasion, privately, orc gladiators were the hottest, most sought-after 'commodities' in the entire kingdom. A single, healthy orc warrior, fresh from the battlefield, could fetch a king's ransom – upwards of ten thousand gold coins! Someone had done their homework; they knew that neither the pampered Lordaeron nobles nor the soulless profiteers running the arenas could resist that kind of temptation. It was like dangling a juicy steak in front of a starving wolf.

One hundred orcs. Not just any orcs, mind you. These were the lean, mean, fighting machines of the Blackrock Clan, including several of Blackhand's own personal, battle-scarred guards. Collecting this particular lot had cost someone a small fortune and a whole lot of blood, sweat, and tears. And then, precisely as the last vestiges of the tranquilizing potion finally wore off, a voice, guttural and resonant, slithered into their minds. It was the Orcish tongue, raw and potent, whispering a horrifying truth: the severed head of their mighty chieftain was right here, in the highest castle, being paraded and desecrated by human hands. 'REVENGE!' 'BLOOD FOR BLOOD!' 'FOR THE HORDE--!' Driven by a primal, unholy rage that burned hotter than dragonfire, these orcs snapped their iron shackles, thick as a human baby's arm, like they were twigs. They burst through the iron bars of their cages, a torrent of green fury, and began to carve their bloody path out into the unsuspecting city...