The Alliance

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

The alarm bells, once a death knell, had fallen silent. Yet, their maddening echo still hammered in the ears of every Lordaeron commoner, every high-nosed noble, and every sweating representative. It was a phantom chime, a ringing in the bones, screaming that the gravy train of peace had derailed, and a bloody, brutal war was now breathing down their necks.

No time for a dog and pony show. Representatives from every corner of the kingdoms scrambled, tossing gold like confetti to their resident wizards, who then cranked up the magic mirrors. Expensive? You bet your sweet arse. But this wasn't the time to be a penny-pincher. Every gruesome detail from Lordaeron's royal city was beamed back, raw and unfiltered, to their respective homelands. The mana gems burned through like a wildfire in a drought, but nobody was counting coppers this time.

In the reconvened meeting, the delegates were on the edge of their seats, watching Duke's full-scale video feed. Duke, bless his twisted genius, used a massive cubic-cone display, easily ten meters to a side, to punch King Terenas and every last representative square in the gut with the unvarnished savagery of the orcs.

It was pure, unadulterated madness, a rabid dog unleashed.

A bloodthirsty, gruesome slaughter that turned stomachs.

A relentless, kill-'em-all momentum that made you want to soil your britches.

Each scene was a hammer blow to their gilded sensibilities, driving the shock deeper into their very souls.

When Duke's grand finale hit – a chilling montage of the conquered lands, littered with the broken bodies of adults and children, commoners and nobles alike – even the most jaded among them had to swallow the bitter pill: this wasn't just a squabble over land; this was a fight for the very existence of their races!

Five minutes. That's all it took. When the projection flickered out, the only sound in the war room was a symphony of choked gasps, like a herd of asthmatic hogs.

"Begging your pardon, Lord Edmund, but could I get a copy of that video? My king needs to see this with his own eyes." The speaker was the Kul Tiras representative, his voice a strained whisper.

He wasn't alone. Every damn representative was practically drooling for their own slice of the horror show.

"My apologies, gentlemen, but this particular bit of magic is my own special sauce, a little something I cooked up from Medivh's old cookbook. Can't exactly split or transfer the mojo. However, I'd be delighted to give your majesties an encore performance via magic transmission." Duke's words dripped with a smirk.

Seeing that the cat was out of the bag and the chickens were coming home to roost, King Terenas of Lordaeron swelled with pride, rising to his full height. He first fixed his gaze on King Llane, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. "Well, it seems we've all landed on the same page. Then, in response to King Llane Wrynn's heartfelt plea, I shall formally issue the call: to the other five human kingdoms, as well as Quel'Thalas and Ironforge, to forge an alliance! Together, we shall meet the Orcish Horde head-on. I expect to gather with your majesties, or envoys empowered to speak for your wills, in the Lordaeron throne room within two weeks."

In an age where travel was about as fast as a snail on molasses, getting a king from point A to point B was a real pain in the backside.

By land or by sea, the dwarves, being the furthest flung, would be looking at half a month, maybe more, just to hit Lordaeron's capital way up north.

Everyone knew the orcs were coming at them like a bat out of hell, so unless a king had a death wish and wanted to gamble on a portal, riding a griffin was pretty much the only game in town.

Space teleportation back then? About as reliable as a chocolate teapot. Mastering that kind of magic was like asking a blindfolded man to pick the one correct sesame seed out of a hundred kilograms of black sesame seeds from ten meters away. Not only did you need to lock onto pinpoint coordinates, but every spatial twitch from start to finish had to be stable as a rock.

Generally speaking, only places swimming in magical reinforcement were safe landing zones – think Dalaran, the magic capital, or the high elves' shimmering Quel'Thalas.

Right now, the only folks crazy enough to jaunt around the world via teleportation and not end up as a greasy smear were Antonidas and his two Sun Wizards.

The big enchilada was settled.

Llane, Anduin, and Duke finally let out a collective sigh of relief, like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders.

Back at the royal guesthouse, Anduin had his Morning Star Mage sweep the place, double-checking for any lurking eavesdroppers. Once the all-clear was given, he turned to Duke, his tone dropping a few serious notches. "Look, I get the gist of it. Maybe it's not my place to say this, but I'm gonna say it anyway. As an old-timer, and as a battle-buddy who's seen the elephant with you, I gotta warn you: lay off those MI7 types. The king's private intelligence agency is a no-go zone, a real hornet's nest for any monarch. Llane? He's a good egg, a generous sort. I know he won't hold it against you. But I can't guarantee... well... Varian should be a good king too."

At this point, Lothar looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

Duke, however, wore a grin wider than a Cheshire cat, a fox who'd just raided the henhouse. He raised his right hand, a solemn vow. "I swear on my mother's grave, I'll never pull my punches or my tricks against my own people."

"That's good... Wait a minute. You don't consider King Terenas 'your own'?" Lothar's eyebrow shot up.

"Wasn't before, but he is now."

Lothar, to his credit, really did lose his temper at Duke's infuriatingly calm answer.

Just then, Llane walked in, a cloud of unspoken sorrow hanging over him.

"Llane, what's eating at you?" With no fourth wheel in the room, Lothar's tone softened.

"Nothing, just mulling over one thing. An alliance feels like a done deal. But… who's gonna lead the charge?"

"Uh, isn't that His Majesty Menethil?" Lothar looked genuinely flummoxed.

Duke let out a silent sigh, thinking Lothar was as green as gooseberries.

October. The air hummed with the crisp breath of autumn. Rice ears, heavy with grain, bowed in the fields, and fruit-laden branches sagged, all singing the same song: a bountiful harvest. In a year scarred by war, the northern continent somehow pulled off a good harvest – a silver lining, to be sure.

Even the freshly plowed fields near the refugee camp in Hillsbrad Foothills looked promising for a good yield. Llane and Anduin swung by, slapping Duke on the back, their eyes wide with disbelief.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

If Duke hadn't gone rogue and then begged forgiveness from the Barov family. If Duke hadn't badgered the army to use every single warhorse to break ground. If Duke hadn't coughed up top dollar for oxen from every farm and hamlet imaginable.

Simply put, it wouldn't have happened.

If the dice rolled right, a summer grain harvest would hit by month's end, easing the gnawing food crisis near Southshore. Five thousand tons of grain, bought at an eye-watering price, plus all the fish they could net, sounded like a feast, but it was just enough to keep nearly 500,000 souls fed for a mere two months.

Whispers, though, were already circulating among the Hillsbrad folk: Stormwind was planning to make these lands their own.

Ever seen refugees carve out fields and blanket an entire region with them?

From the fringes of Southshore, the plowed earth stretched like a carpet all the way to the foot of Alterac Mountain. Every inch of the plain was broken, every wild wolf in the mountains had found its way onto a spit, and the caves – once snowmen dens – were now stuffed to the gills with winter provisions.

But then, word came down from the brass: an alliance was forming. And that, more than anything, squashed all the grumbling.

October 8th. Politicians, thick as thieves, swarmed Lordaeron's capital.

This meeting, later hailed as the bedrock of the Alliance, was finally called to order.

Alliance.

The very word made Duke's heart do a little happy dance.

Before he'd tumbled through time, Duke never in a million years imagined he'd witness this slice of history.

The colossal golden bell boomed, its slender iron chains pulling the gears, letting loose a melodious, almost sweet clang that reverberated through all of Lordaeron.

From east to northeast, and every point in between, the opulent Lordaeron had rolled out the red carpet – literally. From the city gates all the way to the capital, a scarlet path awaited the kings and envoys of the eight nations. And flanking that crimson highway, Lordaeron soldiers, their helmets gleaming like fresh-minted coins, stood at attention, a shining wall of steel leading to the capital.

As they strode down Wangcheng Avenue's red carpet, girls on the second and third stories of the towering houses lining the thoroughfare showered them with bright petals, a gorgeous, fragrant rain of welcome.

The people of Lordaeron cheered, their voices a roaring wave, greeting the kings and representatives from every land as if they were conquering heroes.

Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind.

King Aiden Perenolde of Alterac.

Genn Greymane, King of Gilneas.

King Daelin Proudmoore, the sea-dog monarch of Kul Tiras.

King Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde.

Antonidas, Speaker of the Kirin Tor Council of Dalaran, the Magocracy.

The high elves' rep, Silvermoon Council member Dar'Khan.

And the dwarf rep, Magni Bronzebeard, the dwarf prince of Ironforge.

Of the lot, Ironforge was currently weathering an orc siege, so King Madoran Bronzebeard couldn't budge. Instead, he dispatched Magni, the self-proclaimed Blacksmith King. Along with Muradin Bronzebeard, Ironforge's original ambassador to Lordaeron, there were now two dwarf princes gracing Lordaeron's halls.

To a man, save for the high elves, every nation had sent their top dog.

This kind of pow-wow hadn't happened in a thousand years. In a way, it was a testament to Lordaeron's growing muscle.

The heads of all eight nations rolled up together, and King Terenas, not playing favorites, simply waited for them in the throne hall.

The eight colossal gates of Lordaeron Palace swung open in unison, and the heads of state, almost as one, swept into the magnificent edifice, stepping into the throne hall.

Inside the soaring, spacious Gothic throne hall, the arches and columns, adorned with pure white reliefs, were works of art in themselves. Master artists had chiseled into the stone the epic tale of Emperor Thoradin, forging new territories for mankind and raising the city of Lordaeron.

Massive, colorful stained-glass windows crowned the ceiling and pierced the walls in nine directions. Sunlight poured in, bathing the entire arch in a dazzling, beautiful kaleidoscope of colors. Orange rainbow light danced with purple quartz, ruby light intertwined with amber – the entire dome was a riot of glorious hues.

Below, the light was diffused by a stroke of scientific genius. Sunlight, filtering through transparent, solid-color glass, struck a massive stone orb suspended by iron chains in the center of the hall, then reflected onto each throne.

This warm, mystical glow imbued every seated dignitary with a bizarre sense of spiritual elevation.

No one was given the cold shoulder, no one was talked down to. The 360-degree circular throne room was carved into nine equal slices. Terenas Menethil II stood proudly before the throne due north.

Gazing at the assembled kings, now settled in their seats, Terenas began.

"Twenty-eight hundred years ago, to face a common foe – the trolls – the human empire of Arathor and the high elf kingdom of Quel'Thalas forged an alliance, an eternal covenant. Twelve hundred years ago, though the empire of Arathor shattered for a brighter future, the human kingdoms remained united, good brothers, never raising a sword against each other. Now, we face a common enemy – the orcs. My hope is that this time, we can forge an unbreakable, mighty covenant, uniting humans, elves, and dwarves!"

Menethil II's official declaration wasn't exactly a barn burner, but it was airtight. After a round of enthusiastic applause, the kings and representatives settled into their seats.

"Let me kick things off with the battle report from Stromgarde." Magni Bronzebeard's booming voice was first out of the gate. Dwarves, famous for their patience – as in, none.

Take a dwarven fishing rod, for instance. Sounds harmless, right? The catch is, this "fishing rod" is actually a rifle. Fish with a net in a stream? Nah, dwarves just blast the poor suckers in shallow water. Instant fish fry.

Never net a fish when you can fry it.

Never just catch a fish when you can kill it with a gun.

The dwarf temperament, in a nutshell.

As soon as Magni raised his hand, the specially invited Dalaran mage conjured a magic mirror, projecting the brutal reality of the fight raging outside Ironforge's gates.

In this world of swords and sorcery, dwarven black tech was second only to goblins and gnomes, which, frankly, was saying something. The core of the dwarven army boasted mortar-like dwarven artillery, dwarven steam tanks, and the like. Sounds like a fully mechanized force, doesn't it?

Problem was, the orcs were basically a wrecking crew on steroids!

Thicker than a human leg and a good four meters long, a massive iron pipe was spun like a windmill by an orc warrior. A five or six-ton dwarven steam tank, relying on terrain, roared down a hillside, charging back up the narrow mountain pass, only to be smacked clean off the road by a rampaging orc, tumbling down the cliffside in a fiery explosion.

When dwarves clashed with orcs, they weren't much weaker in raw strength, but their size was a massive Achilles' heel. Orcs, swinging their heavy weapons like madmen, brought them crashing down on dwarven heads. On a crowded battlefield, dwarves had nowhere to duck, nowhere to hide, forced to simply grit their teeth and take it.

The result: a brutal tug-of-war on the mountain pass leading to Ironforge's main gate.

The dwarves had powerful muskets, but they were slow, firing once a minute. The orcs, meanwhile, hurled rocks with reckless abandon. And it wasn't just orcs; ogres, even bigger, with terrifying strength and stamina, showed up in the Horde's battle lines.

The dwarves were taking a beating.

After the live feed cut out, Magni slammed his hand down on the armrest of his custom-made, if slightly less luxurious, dwarven chair, startling the old King Terenas.

"Ironforge needs help, and fast! We need priests and medicine like a dry land needs rain. And those damn greenskins have torched our farms! Our whole autumn harvest is gone. We need a mountain of food, too!"

The dwarves, subtle as a brick to the face! They wanted food! They wanted medicine!

Terenas had to gently remind Magni: "We are currently discussing the Horde's threat. First, we must establish the absolute necessity of forming an alliance, then form said alliance, and only then can we discuss mutual support and coordinated efforts."

"Alright, then! Let's forge an alliance! Where do I stamp this thing?" Magni, true to form, pulled out his royal seal – the damn hammer in his hand.

Every human king at the table looked utterly bewildered.

King Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde chimed in: "Thandol Bridge has also been hit hard. Thanks to His Majesty Llane of Stormwind's invaluable experience, we didn't suffer too badly."

He said this while a live video broadcast flickered to life.

The situation here was far better. The orcs, unable to cross the vast, windswept strait by sea, were forced to funnel their attack onto the narrow Thandol Bridge.

Unlike the dwarf's mountainous terrain, where the Horde could climb and flank, here there were only two bridges. Bridges that looked wide enough in peacetime, but in war, felt like a chokepoint.

Thirty meters wide, sounds like a lot, right? The northern continent's terrain is slightly higher (otherwise, why call it the Arathi Highlands?), but it had to withstand the blistering fire of over a hundred ballistas and scattershot catapults raining gravel from the northern side of the bridge, plus more than thirty arrow towers and a rotating javelin team of a thousand men, hiding in their bunkers day and night…

Thirty meters? That's a bullseye, pal!

No matter how brave the orcs were, they were just cannon fodder.

If this bridge hadn't been built by dwarves and was built like a tank, an ordinary bridge would have crumbled ages ago.

So, Stromgarde was paying in manpower, not in lives. In response, King Soras didn't forget to shoot King Llane a grateful look during the video. Without the complete javelin manufacturing blueprints from Stormwind, perhaps Stromgarde's warriors would still be trying to poke orcs with useless bows and arrows.

Not just blueprints. A whole caravan of craftsmen showed up, helping Stromgarde's people churn out javelins while teaching their own artisans the ropes, step by bloody step.

The alliance wasn't even official, but Stormwind was already pulling its weight, acting like a true ally. Duke had already whispered sweet nothings into King Thoras's ear before the meeting: if Stromgarde needed him, his 7,000 personal soldiers were ready to march into the Arathi Highlands and help defend it, no questions asked.

Of course, Thoras Trollbane didn't know that, according to the way things were going to unfold, he'd never need such a reinforcement army. And Duke, knowing this all too well, was just playing a high-stakes game of nice. Thoras, already spooked by the orcs, now had a loyal ally promising free aid. He was so moved, he was practically weeping tears of joy.

If he'd known Duke was muttering to himself, "Man, it's sweet as pie racking up favorability points with promises I never have to keep," he might have wanted to throttle Duke on the spot.

But these were just hypotheticals.

With the orcs as a monstrous enemy and the backing of craftsmen from Duke Edmund of Stormwind, Stromgarde was a shoe-in, a country that would eagerly embrace the alliance.

In stark contrast, the kings from the northern lands, aside from Lordaeron – which had just gotten a brutal slap in the face from rebellious orc slaves – were playing it cool. Especially the high elf representative, Silvermoon Council member Darkan, who was busy admiring his freshly manicured nails.

Llane and Anduin couldn't help but scowl. It's this late in the game, and these bozos are still just watching the show!?

Anduin, being the more direct sort, secretly kicked Duke's shin and whispered, "Don't you have anything to submit?"

Duke rolled his eyes at Lothar, but finally raised his hand. "I am Duke Edmund, Duke of Karazhan in Stormwind. I have vital intelligence to share."

Everyone present, even the flunkies standing behind the kings, were big shots. King Terenas nodded. "I agree to your submission."

One of the biggest face-plants the Alliance had ever taken in history was the idiotic notion that orcs couldn't build ships.

What Duke presented now was a series of images, personally brought back by Daniel and his three-ship scout team.

On the massive mirror, a scene unfolded: a hive of orc laborers, toiling away with furious abandon.

Though their craftsmanship was about as refined as a troll's backside, the unmistakable shape of ship keels was clearly visible.

This time, the most violent reaction came from Kul Tiras's King Daelin Proudmoore. He shot up from his throne, eyes bugging out, staring at the screen. If the orcs somehow managed to churn out a grand fleet, his beloved Kul Tiras would be a sitting duck, with nowhere to run. Aside from Duke's own fleet, Kul Tiras had no one to bail them out!

But Duke wasn't done. He pressed on.

"This, gentlemen, is a snapshot of Baradin Bay in the northwest of the southern continent. It's a stone's throw from Southshore. As you all know, our Stormwind Kingdom boasts a fleet of over a hundred warships, plus ten thousand murlocs and hundreds of nagas. Even without Kul Tiras's formidable fleet, we dare say we can hold Southshore. But other places? We're out of luck."

In front of the colossal map of the Eastern Kingdom continent, nestled between the seven thrones and two representative seats, Duke let a wizard's hand hover gently over the map.

Head west from Palatine Bay, skirt Southshore, then turn north when you hit land…

Now it was King Genn of Gilneas, in the northern continent's southwest corner, whose face clouded over.

Of course, Lordaeron's King Terenas also looked like he'd eaten a lemon. Because Duke's magic finger was hovering ominously near the North Stream Coast, a prime landing spot. And what was that coast? Lordaeron's own Silverpine Forest.

At this point, Duke's voice took on a grave tone. "Of course, this is just a guess. Maybe…"

The Mage's Hand shifted course. This time, it veered east from Palatine Bay, slipped under Thandol Bridge, reached the northern continent's southeast, and then crept north along the cape. This time, the finger swept across the steep, elemental-ridden Arathi Highlands and pointed to the eastern coast of the Hinterlands, even further north.

When King Aiden of Alterac saw this, his face looked a bit grim, but his reaction wasn't overly dramatic.

"There? Even better. Let those damn trolls battle the green monsters," Aiden grumbled.

"What if those trolls throw in with the Horde?" Duke countered with a sneer.

Aiden bristled at Duke's questioning. "At least we still have those dwarves from Eagle's Nest Mountain to back us up."

No sooner had Aiden spoken than the dwarf prince Magni erupted. "Hey! King of Alterac, watch your tongue! Those are our dwarf brothers!"

"Yeah, brothers who hack at each other with axes and hammers!" Aiden shot Magni a look of pure contempt.

"Bastard! Even though we've seen the War of Three Hammers, we've long since buried the hatchet with the Wildhammer dwarves! I warn you, don't insult our Wildhammer brothers again, or I'll string you up by your entrails!" Magni swung his hammer menacingly.

"Hmph!" Aiden snorted coldly, falling silent instead of answering. He clearly didn't want to dig himself deeper into that hole.

Beside Magni, Muradin Bronzebeard, who'd served as ambassador for years, was more tactful. He gently pulled his brother back.

Duke cast a fleeting glance at King Aiden. Though he quickly averted his eyes, Lothar still caught the flicker – a look of pure disdain, as if he were looking at a dead man walking.

Duke's exposé on orc shipbuilding ended there.

If the atmosphere hadn't been so charged, Llane would have given Duke a standing ovation for his brilliant performance. Regardless, Duke had successfully laid the common groundwork for the entire alliance.

As a time traveler with a cheat sheet for "history," Duke's colossal advantage shone brightest right then.

He didn't want to screw over a long-eared, self-proclaimed superior race, but he knew damn well some alliance members couldn't just be invited; they had to be dragged in kicking and screaming. Whether it was their arrogance or because their country was a cheap date, they needed a push.

Anyway, he'd never even breathe a word of that possibility.

After all, the biggest wild card in the Horde had just shown up – 'Lord Roar' Grom Hellscream! Since Lord Roar was here, the Warsong Clan, historically stuck on Draenor, was probably already here. No, scratch that, they were most likely already across Thandol Bridge.

They just couldn't be sure, because the ones attacking the bridge right now were just unknown, small clans.

Since Gul'dan had ripped open the Dark Portal again, any clan that had stayed behind could show up – like the Shadowmoon Clan of the future Lich King Ner'zhul, or Kargath Bladefist's Shattered Hand Clan… there were over a dozen famous clans.

Now that the Blackrock Clan had taken a beating, any reinforcement was fair game.

To snag that final victory, Duke had already decided to drag more allies, who were originally part of the alliance, into the fold early.

Duke left once he'd made his point. Terenas, King of Lordaeron, tilted his head slightly. "Well, everyone here, do you have any more intel on those vile orcs to share with the kings present?"

Silence. Crickets.

"If not, I propose we vote now: to form a powerful alliance to combat the evil orc tribe, hell-bent on conquering all of Azeroth. Please note, we are discussing a military alliance. Every nation that joins has an ironclad obligation to help each other – with coin, with men and materials, or by sending troops directly. Nations that refuse to join will receive no aid from the alliance when facing a Horde attack. Alright, I've said my piece. Those who agree to join this alliance, raise your hands!"

Originally, the mood had been good, like a warm beer on a hot day. In Llane's mind, with this kind of momentum, the alliance was a done deal, a natural progression, and all nine countries would join. Llane felt a little giddy thinking about it. Once the alliance formed, with nine countries united, dealing with the Horde would be a walk in the park! Retaking Stormwind City and rebuilding their ancestral home would be a piece of cake.

Who knew, at that very moment, Magni's booming voice, loud enough to wake the dead, started up again.

"Hey! Hold your horses! Not a damn one of you has agreed to send aid to Ironforge! Without any help, you're just gonna leave the orcs tied up by the dwarves in the southern continent? Is that what you call mutual assistance?"

King Terenas looked like he'd swallowed a wasp. The dwarf, always a pain in the arse, always so damn blunt. He had to cut Prince Magni Bronzebeard off. "Since we are forming an alliance, mutual assistance is a given. What we need to do now is establish the framework first, and then decide how to help, and how to coordinate…"

The dwarf prince, with a reddish-brown beard that practically scraped the floor, showed his true colors. "No, no, no! I hate your fancy official terms! We dwarves are simple folks. Is there help? When and where? How much? Who? If you can actually give us enough help and support, Ironforge is in. If not, then I won't waste my breath here. I'd rather go back and smash a few more orcs."

Magni's blatant strong-arming made the human kings scowl. More than one king, at that very moment, started calculating. As a nation already under siege, the orcs wouldn't quit until they won. The dwarves wouldn't give up their capital. In this scenario, even if the humans didn't help, the dwarves would fight the orcs to the death, tying up a considerable chunk of the orc army.

In a heartbeat, more than one king was ready to cut the dwarf loose.

They'd done the same thing in history. In fact, it was a dirty trick, and it caused bad blood between several Alliance nations. In the original timeline, the dwarves didn't officially join the Alliance until the humans counter-attacked the wetlands, broke into Dun Morogh, and rescued the beleaguered dwarves.

But Duke was here!

"Enough!" Duke suddenly bellowed, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. "Since you dwarves see this alliance as a tit-for-tat exchange, so be it! We have a common enemy. In three days, the Stormwind fleet will reach the deep waters southeast of the Blackwater Swamp in the Wetlands. We'll deliver 10,000 tranquilizing flowers and silverleaf flowers, 20,000 heather, and 5,000 boneset grass to you. In exchange, we'll need 15,000 dwarven-made fine steel swords. If not, dwarven standard battle axes will do."

Anyone with a lick of common sense would know these were low-level alchemical ingredients, used to brew basic healing potions. In a war of this scale, high-level materials were less practical; they demanded high-level alchemists, and their output would be a trickle.

Low-level materials, on the other hand, were gold. Alchemy apprentices could churn out tons of them.

Finished product was hard to come by, but getting the raw materials for healing potions? That was a pleasant surprise.

Duke was so well-prepared, Magni was left speechless. Ironforge did need help, but Magni was mostly focused on leaning on the nascent alliance. He hadn't expected the humans to have their ducks in a row. In his mind, it would take at least half a month to get everything ready. He just wanted a firmer promise from the human kings, to gauge whether they intended to use the dwarves as cannon fodder.

But Duke had called his bluff. This was a meeting of kings; Duke couldn't just be blowing smoke. Either Duke was a con artist of the highest order, duping him into joining the alliance on behalf of the dwarves, or Stormwind had truly made preparations for this war beyond anything they could have imagined.

Clearly, Stormwind was ready for prime time. The Kingdom, chomping at the bit to annihilate the orcs and reclaim their homeland, would never lie to the dwarves about something like this.

Magni was stunned for a moment, then his face, which had been a storm cloud, broke into a blinding sunbeam of joy, pure ecstasy!

The dwarf prince was a straight shooter, or perhaps, he had no shame. He apologized on the spot. "Sorry! Sorry! My heart was with my brothers and sisters, wounded and untreated in Ironforge. I got carried away. I shouldn't have doubted you humans!"

Duke had done so much, yet Llane was completely in the dark. Llane knew Duke would never lie to him about something this serious. He stood up on the spot. "Prince Magni Bronzebeard, once we join the Alliance, we will be brothers, living and dying together. I can promise you that Archbishop Benedista of Stormwind will gladly lead our priests to our allied brother nations to aid in the healing of our comrades."

The Archbishop of Stormwind… that was a heavy stake, indeed.

Llane had always been known as a wise ruler. As a dwarven kingdom not far north of Stormwind, Magni clearly trusted Llane more. As for King Terenas, with all his official bluster and no real substance, well, let's just say he earned a chuckle.

Magni raised his hammer. "I, on behalf of the Bronzebeard dwarves of Ironforge, join this Alliance!"

Terenas was annoyed at Magni stealing his thunder, but he wouldn't make a fuss over it. After all, it wasn't Lordaeron making the donation.

"Then let us vote!"

"Stormwind agrees!" Llane practically shouted, eager to be first. Everyone knew Stormwind, having lost its capital, was the most devastated. Pretending to be calm was pointless. Better to be a leader and a motivator.

King Daelin and King Thoras were practically in lockstep:

"Kul Tiras agrees."

"Stromgarde agrees."

At this point, four nations had agreed. As long as the overlord, King Lordaeron, gave the nod, the formation of the alliance was a done deal.

At this moment, the calm King Terenas of Lordaeron gently raised his hand and said, "Lordaeron agrees."

As the strongest of the seven human kingdoms, Lordaeron's agreement was expected. Whether it was out of its leadership status among all countries or as a response to the orc slave rebellion a few days ago, Lordaeron had to join.

Lordaeron's addition also spurred the remaining, slightly wavering Dalaran, Gilneas, and Alterac to join.

By now, all seven human kingdoms and the dwarves had joined. All the kings and princes turned their attention to the lowest-ranking representative in the throne hall – Darkan, a member of the Silvermoon Council of Quel'Thalas.

Facing dozens of burning gazes, the handsome high elf wizard raised his long eyebrows, took a leisurely sip of the finest black tea Lordaeron could produce, and then spoke in a tone so nonchalant it was almost offensive.

"After discussions between our Silvermoon Council and our King Anasterian Sunstrider, Quel'Thalas will not join this alliance. However, as a symbol of our generations-long friendship with humans, we will provide you with the necessary assistance."

Not joining the alliance?

Provide necessary assistance?

"Those arrogant words basically screamed, 'We're tossing you humans scraps from our table, like you're some mangy curs!'"

At this, several kings shot to their feet, their faces redder than a goblin's backside, glaring daggers at Senator Darkan.

No one saw it coming, but it was Magni who uncorked the bottle: "Oi! Long-ears! You ain't worried those greenskins are gonna take the scenic route and come knocking on your gilded gates first?"

Duke, meanwhile, was doing a silent face-palm, his teeth grinding. Holy smokes, he actually called it!?

Indeed! History, as Duke knew it, had the orcs making a grand tour, bypassing most of the northern continent just to kick down Quel'Thalas's front door and give the high elves a headache.

But Darkan? He just shrugged it off, cool as a cucumber. It was as if he'd caught a nasty case of Duke's "Seven Deadly Sins" of arrogance. He flicked a dismissive hand. "The magic of the high elves, my dear short-statured friend, is a tad beyond the comprehension of you dwarves who spend your days playing in the dirt. Quel'Thalas boasts a magical defense system so perfect, it practically hums. So, please, don't trouble your little heads about our safety."

And with that mic drop, Darkan actually stood up, spun on his heel, and walked out!

Gone!? Just like that!?

He actually left the building!

This wasn't just a slap in the face to Lordaeron, the poor host. This was a full-blown, open-handed smack across the jaw of the entire eight-nation Alliance!

For a hot minute, several kings were seriously contemplating calling out Quel'Thalas for a good old-fashioned brawl.

Kings, after all, aren't just tribal chiefs who can rule by flexing their muscles. Their cooler heads prevailed, telling them to hold their horses. But you could practically hear the collective thought bubble above their crowns: If those long-eared snobs get themselves into a pickle, well, they made their bed, now they can lie in it!

Duke, perched beside Llane, was scratching his head. As a time-traveling, hardcore gamer, he had the historical cheat codes memorized. So why, for the love of all that was holy, were the high elves suddenly acting like they wanted to win the 'Most Hated' award?

Still, the alliance was built. And it was exactly as Duke had envisioned, like a perfectly executed raid plan.

Duke's work here was done. His mic drop moment had passed.

As the puppet master pulling the strings, Duke had temporarily clocked out. The rest of the nitty-gritty – divvying up war gear, coordinating battle plans, and sharing intel – that was strictly above his pay grade.

It was, naturally, a royal rumble, king against king. Llane, bless his heart, really wanted Duke to stick around and whisper sweet nothings of wisdom in his ear. But Duke shut him down faster than a goblin's bad investment, with just one killer line.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but I'm currently drowning in a sea of 1,300 reports and documents. If I linger here, that number will surely pull a rabbit out of a hat and double by tomorrow. And I wouldn't put it past the universe for your citizens and soldiers to start dropping like flies this winter, all because some paperwork didn't get pushed in time. Southshore, after all, is practically cuddling with the Alterac Mountains, and winter here bites harder than a starving worg, especially compared to sunny Stormwind City."

Llane, outmaneuvered, had no choice but to send Duke packing back to the State Guesthouse.

Back at the State Guesthouse, Makaro swung open the door for Duke, and the first thing Duke saw was his maid, Vanessa, looking as if she'd just swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

Duke, bless his perverted heart, had envisioned Vanessa in some scandalous, modern black and white lace maid outfit. But Vanessa, a woman who clearly marched to the beat of her own drum, completely ignored the grand decrees of Duke, Duke of Karazhan and Archmage Extraordinaire. She'd stripped off all the 'fancy' lace, ditched the plunging neckline, and turned it into a tight black skirt that practically swept the floor. No cat ears, no frills, no nonsense.

Well, that was the maid costume of this era, apparently. A real buzzkill.

Duke opened his mouth to protest, but Vanessa just let out a dismissive snort, turning her back on him without so much as a sidelong glance. Clearly, his fashion sense was beneath her.

Duke, for the record, was not planning to murder a thirteen-year-old girl. He just wanted to see her in a cute outfit! It shouldn't be a crime, should it? Waaah! Let's just say, any more talk about it will only bring tears to his eyes.

The poor Duke, having dug his own grave, was now buried alive under a mountain of reports and documents.

Duke, at least, had a perverse sense of satisfaction. Llane and Anduin, however, looked like they'd been dragged through a knot-hole backwards. The inter-nation meetings were an endless, mind-numbing wrestling match.

For the benefit of their own country, the kings fought tooth and nail.

It took five agonizing, soul-crushing days – a full five days! – just to hammer out a halfway decent charter.

And this fledgling alliance was officially christened the "Alliance of Lordaeron," just as the history books would one day record. It wasn't until Lordaeron itself went belly-up in later generations, and more races piled into the lifeboat, that folks finally dropped the 'Lordaeron' bit and just called it 'the Alliance.' Talk about a long-term plan.

It dragged on for a full day longer than Duke's historical memory bank suggested, mainly because Llane, bless his stubborn heart, was still kicking.

What's more, not a single king was willing to hand the reins over to Terenas. They all had a sneaking suspicion that Terenas Menethil was trying to use this tribal invasion as a golden opportunity to gobble up the human kingdoms in one fell swoop and crown himself the second Emperor Thoradin. Like a fox in the henhouse.

The kings of the six countries, with their antennae twitching at the slightest hint of power grabs, banded together like a pack of wolves to resist Terenas's attempt to become the undisputed big cheese.

In a sense, compromise itself is part of politics.

Sensing the kings were digging in their heels, and with a monstrous enemy breathing down their necks, Terenas wisely didn't push his luck too hard. Finally, on the fifth day, he pulled a rabbit out of his hat – a suggestion he thought was pure genius, and utterly ruthless: let Lothar, the honest-to-goodness descendant of Emperor Thoradin, serve as the Alliance's Supreme Commander. Terenas, meanwhile, would just be the fancy figurehead. Every country would pony up troops based on their strength and hand them over to Lothar for unified command. A real power play.

You had to hand it to Terenas Menethil II: his military prowess was about as impressive as a wet noodle, but his political savvy? A solid 100. The man was a stone-cold political shark.

When another king is still alive and kicking, promoting his top general to be the commander-in-chief, lording over seven kings? That's not just playing hardball; that's a recipe for bad blood and a guaranteed way to ruffle some royal feathers!

Of course, Terenas spun it with all the pomp and circumstance he could muster: "Since our ancestors once rallied under the glorious banner of Emperor Thoradin more than two millennia ago, let our new alliance gaze upon that very same banner, and find unity!"

No matter what, the seven kingdoms share the same origin, and Lothar is indeed the best banner.

Llane, a king with courage as vast as the Grand Canyon and magnanimity to spare, didn't bat an eye. When Lothar hesitated, Llane jumped in with both feet.

"Don't you dare hesitate, Anduin! You are our last, best hope for restoration! From the moment we packed up and left Stormwind City, didn't we swear on a stack of Holy Bibles that come hell or high water, we'd bring the Kingdom of Stormwind back from the brink? Have you forgotten that sacred oath?"

"But I..."

"To hell with false reputations! You are still the loyal warrior I know, and I am still the king who believes in you, come what may. Even if you can't trust yourself, you can at least trust the guy who always has your back. As long as our wills and beliefs hold true, who gives a rat's ass what the world whispers? Besides, if it's you, what difference does it make if I hand you the crown? I believe that with the Kingdom of Stormwind in your capable hands, it will stand tall, head and shoulders above all other nations."

These words were serious business, so serious that any attempts to drive a wedge between them were dead on arrival. And they were spoken right in front of the assembled kings of the Alliance. If Anduin Lothar had even a drop of villainy in his blood, he could have made a play for the Stormwind throne right then and there, with the kings as his witnesses.

Llane's words hit the kings like a ton of bricks.

However, these words, which twisted and turned like a goblin's maze, laid bare Llane's most sincere and absolute trust – a trust so profound, it blew past mere life and the succession of heirs. It was the kind of trust that made you want to stand up and cheer, or maybe just shed a single, manly tear.

"No, no…" Lothar started to protest, but Llane's eyes, blazing with passion and sincerity, melted his resolve like butter in a dragon's breath. After a moment of internal wrestling, Lothar finally caved. "Alright, Llane, I… I'd like to be a duke. At least, the Duke of Stormwind…"

Lothar was interrupted before he could finish.

"No, no, no," King Terenas purred, sidling closer. Though the other kings were practically breathing down their necks, his voice dropped to a whisper so low, Lothar and Llane were sure only they could hear it. Terenas explained, "Trust me, as a king, a duke and a knight from another kingdom traipsing through my lands are two entirely different kettles of fish."

He had a point. In the eyes of kings, a knight was a dime a dozen, but a duke? That was a pillar of the realm, a big shot.

When Lothar heard this, his eyelids twitched.

"Perhaps you'll think I'm trying to drive a wedge between you and your loyal subjects, but alas, this is the only game in town," the ruler of Lordaeron continued, his voice barely a murmur. "Every king, you see, fancies himself a lone wolf, ready to tackle the Horde on his own turf. And they're all about as eager to see another king waltz into their territory as a goblin is to pay taxes. Sir Lothar, you're no king, and your status isn't exactly top-tier, so they won't think you're trying to pull a fast one. On the flip side, your noble bloodline is enough to keep them from feeling like they're being looked down on by other kings. It's a delicate dance."

After a moment of chewing on it, Lothar finally gave a firm nod. "Alright, I'll take the job. I accept the position of leader of the Alliance."

Lothar's voice, always booming like a war drum, echoed through the hall. His acceptance was like a collective exhale for many of the kings, who looked like they'd just dodged a bullet.

Terenas looked up, a triumphant gleam in his eye, and threw his arms wide. "Then I declare all squabbles within the Alliance of Lordaeron to be officially over! We shall fight shoulder to shoulder, just as our ancestors did in the glorious Empire of Arathor!"

After confirming every king had given their nod of approval – some more enthusiastically than others – Terenas continued, his voice ringing with authority. "Now, the one man fit to lead our armies and carry the torch of our great ancestor, Emperor Thoradin – Sir Anduin Lothar – has agreed! So, we, the assembled kings of the Alliance, hereby declare Sir Anduin Lothar, the General of Stormwind, our Supreme Commander! The troops sent by each of our kingdoms shall obey his every command. Those who dare to defy his orders shall face the wrath of all other alliances, in the hallowed name of Arathor's descendants! Let that be a lesson!"

The last hurdle to forming this grand alliance had finally been cleared, like a goblin clearing his throat.

As King Terenas finished his pronouncements, a thunderous, ear-splitting applause finally erupted in the throne room, which had been a cacophony of royal bickering for days.

Perhaps it was the thunderous applause that came from a common enemy.

Perhaps this is applause that resonates from the same blood.

Whatever the reason, it didn't matter a hill of beans. What mattered was that this marked the grand reunion of mankind after millennia of squabbling. Not just humans, but their stout dwarven allies too – this pan-human alliance had finally unsheathed its claws, ready to give the invaders a taste of their own medicine.

October 13th, Year 1 of Dark Gate.

It was the crack of dawn, and the morning mist clung to the land like a stubborn ghost. The sleepy citizens of Lordaeron, having stretched the kinks out of their backs, were just starting to roll out of bed for another day in the salt mines of life.

Maybe they are preparing to go to the fields to harvest crops, or preparing to open a shop for business.

Even though dawn was still playing coy, the city folk knew a new day had dawned. A ghostly mist hugged their charming brick and timber homes, draping the royal city's wide avenues in a shimmering veil.

Even so, this was still the beautiful city of Lordaeron that they were familiar with. Everything in sight, the sounds in ears, the calm urban atmosphere, everything was the same as before.

But the very next moment, as messenger cavalry thundered down the streets, their voices booming like cannon fire, everything changed. The calm was shattered.

They galloped like hellions, screaming at the top of their lungs. This method of news delivery, usually reserved for tidings of great joy, hadn't been seen in Lordaeron for ages. It was like seeing a unicorn.

The last time was when Prince Arthas, the heir to King Terenas, was born.

On this day, every citizen of Lordaeron heard the news.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" the heralds bellowed, their voices raw. "To combat the rampaging, bloodthirsty orc invasions, the seven human kingdoms, including our glorious Lordaeron, and the stout dwarf kingdom of Khaz Modan, have forged a mighty, pan-human alliance – the Alliance of Lordaeron! The esteemed leader of this grand Alliance is none other than King Terenas Menethil II of Lordaeron himself! And the Supreme Commander of our combined forces is the noble Sir Anduin Lothar, a direct, honest-to-goodness descendant of Emperor Thoradin! All allied nations shall contribute troops, coin, and manpower, to be deployed at Commander Lothar's sole discretion!"

"Furthermore!" the heralds continued, "The most revered Archbishop of the Holy Light, Alonsus Faol, has declared the Lordaeron Alliance to be the very fist of justice! The Church of the Holy Light will join the Alliance as a steadfast pillar, bestowing upon every soldier the sacred blessing of the Holy Light and courage that knows no bounds!"

Within three short days, the news spread like wildfire, faster than a goblin with a stolen gold sack, and the entire human and dwarf world was turned upside down, buzzing like a disturbed beehive!