Oath

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and bruised purple.

A gleaming sword, impossibly bright, stood impaled on the very peak of the mountain.

In the vast expanse of the horizon, where sky met sea, the sword's tip plunged into the slightly yellowed meadow, a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of the sunset. Its sharp blade, shining like a tranquil pool of autumn water, mirrored the vast, churning ocean, while the hilt and pommel seemed to melt into the endless, darkening sky.

It was a sword that seemed to pierce the very fabric of heaven and earth, a beacon of defiance.

The blue lace, adorned with a proud lion head emblem, wrapped around the hilt, fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Its swaying, flowing dance stirred up distant, bittersweet memories, like dust motes in a forgotten sunbeam.

Wise, deep blue eyes, slightly narrowed, greedily drank in the panoramic scenery between heaven and earth, absorbing every detail with an almost childlike fascination.

The middle-aged man wore a magnificent blue lion-head cloak, edged with shimmering gold, that billowed around him like a storm cloud. Beneath the cloak, a shining golden helmet, dented and scarred, spoke of battles fought and survived. This armor symbolized the glory of an era, a golden age, but also carried the bitter shame of a crushing defeat.

A pair of large hands, which had only recently become rough and calloused from the burdens of leadership, touched the top of the h hilt, gripping the sharp sword with a possessive tenderness. He stood proudly in the wind, unmoving, like a statue carved from granite.

"Your Majesty, it's getting late. The chill is setting in."

"Anduin, guess what I'm looking at?" King Llane, a wry smile playing on his lips, turned and calmly asked his childhood friend, the former leader of the Stormwind Knights and now the revered Commander-in-Chief of the Alliance.

"Across this sea, straight ahead, then southwest, turn southeast, and you'll hit Stormwind City."

As Llane's best friend, his confidant, Lothar easily guessed Llane's thoughts. He knew the king like the back of his hand.

"Stormwind," Llane murmured, his voice laced with a profound sadness. "That was the land we risked life and limb to protect, the very heart of our glory. When I knew that Stormwind could not be defended, when the walls crumbled around us, I truly thought my sword and I would perish there, swallowed by the flames. However, for Varian, for my son, I still stand here, looking at my sword in a strange, foreign land." Llane pulled the sword from the ground with a grunt. Even after such rough treatment, the sharp and tough blade showed no sign of wear, no dullness, still gleaming like a fresh wound.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, he raised the tip of the sword high into the sky, holding it aloft like a sacred banner. Llane stared at his sword quietly, lost in thought.

A timid voice, small and uncertain, came from behind Llane and Lothar: "Father, are you saying that I have tarnished your glory?"

"No, that's not the case, Varian. Not at all." Llane retracted his gaze, his eyes softening as he turned to his son. The Stormwind Golden Sword, which symbolized royal power and the enduring glory of their lineage, looked impossibly slender and solid in the fading sunset, as if it was this very sword that held the world together, preventing it from crumbling.

Llane sheathed his sword with a soft snick and walked over to his beloved queen and child.

The queen, with a gentle, encouraging push, urged the young Varian forward, into the circle of his father's love.

Llane stroked Varian's little head lovingly, his calloused hand a stark contrast to the boy's soft hair. His loving eyes seemed to travel through time, seeing not just the boy before him, but generations past and future.

"A thousand years ago," Llane began, his voice a low rumble, "when the last heir of Emperor Thoradin was abandoned in the ruins of Stromgarde by the arrogant nobles, those greedy fools who were eager to chase riches in the fertile lands of Lordaeron, the first king of Stormwind Kingdom took that heir. He led the abandoned, the poor, the desperate, across half of the continent to the valley where Stormwind City now stands. And there, the first king made an oath, an unbreakable vow: 'I swear to protect my people – keep them away from hunger and cold, keep them away from killing and disputes, and keep them away from the arrogance and greed of the nobles.'"

Llane's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it had a strange, ethereal quality, making everyone feel as if they were following his voice, traveling back through the mists of time to that bleak, desperate era.

"Our ancestor did it. He forged the glory of Stormwind Kingdom in his own way, with his own hands and blood. He also told the descendants what true glory is, not through words, but through deeds. Before his death, he issued an imperial decree, a sacred command, asking every noble in the new kingdom to follow the spirit of chivalry: to be humble and pious in heart and full of glory, to be brave and courageous without fear of sacrifice, to be compassionate to the world and to be honest and fair. This is how Stormwind Kingdom established itself with military force and inherited its title with military merit. Unfortunately, most of the Stormwind nobles forgot all this, lost their way, so I prefer to regard the fall of Stormwind City as the punishment of our ancestors for our loss of glory. A kick in the pants, if you will."

Young Varian nodded, his brow furrowed, not quite understanding the full weight of his father's words. The history was heavy, but the love in his father's eyes was clear.

"Fortunately," Llane continued, a faint smile touching his lips, "when the people of Stormwind were in their most desperate moment, when we were down and out, I still had the help of your uncle Anduin and the genius Duke, who suddenly emerged like a phoenix from the ashes. This gave me the opportunity to make up for my mistakes and regain the lost glory of the kingdom. My personal glory is no longer important. My only hope is that the descendants of Wrynn can still remember their original intentions and pass on the glory of their ancestors. As long as they can do this, I will not have any regrets even if I die. I'll die a happy man."

"Father! Yes! You will see the day when Stormwind is liberated!" Varian declared with fierce certainty, his small fist clenching.

"I hope so too, my son. I truly do. However, your uncle Anduin and I will eventually grow old, our hair will turn gray, our bones will ache. When that time comes, it will all depend on the efforts of you and brother Duke."

"Yes," the little prince nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with determination.

Looking out to sea, Llane's sight seemed to have crossed the horizon, piercing the veil of distance, and reached the huge transport fleet traveling at high speed on the churning sea: "It all depends on tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day."

"Don't worry, Llane," Lothar said, clapping his friend on the shoulder, a reassuring grin on his face. "With you, me, and Duke, we are both invincible! We're a force to be reckoned with!"

No one expected that just one day ago, in the muddy, desolate wetlands, at a gathering attended by hundreds of thousands of orcs, someone uttered almost the exact same oath.

Orgrim Doomhammer stood on a high hill, a solitary, imposing figure against the darkening sky. In his sight, hundreds of thousands of orcs, a green tide of muscle and fury, were trampling on the muddy land, their collective roar a primal symphony.

There were so many orcs that it looked like a bright green ocean, stretching to the horizon.

This ocean breathed together, roared together, enjoyed victory together, and shared a common, bloody destiny.

Every orc, from the smallest grunt to the mightiest warrior, was looking forward to Orgrim's speech, their fangs gleaming in anticipation.

In the eyes of the orcs, even though the last bastion of Ironforge had not yet been captured, everyone believed that it was only a matter of time before Kilrogg's dead-eyed Bleeding Hollow clan would pull those damn dwarves out of their caves and kill them, like pulling teeth.

They had completely conquered this continent. Although there was better prey and more fertile land here than in their desolate homeland, it was still far from enough to accommodate all the clans. In the eyes of the orcs, this was only enough for three large clans to thrive. But there were more than three large clans, many more, all hungry and restless.

Orgrim cracked a grim smile, then he raised his famous Doomhammer high up, a weapon of legend, and roared to the sky, his voice echoing across the vast multitude:

"My people! Listen to me! Hear my words!"

Even the slightest commotion below disappeared, swallowed by the sheer force of his voice. Every orc fell silent, their ugly faces with protruding fangs turned towards Orgrim, hanging on his every word.

"This world is very suitable for survival! We can rebuild our home here! We have already seized this land. This is a victory for the Horde! This is a victory for the orcs!"

There was an earth-shaking cheer from the crowd, a guttural roar that shook the very ground. Orgrim could only wait until the cheers died down, patiently, before continuing.

"But this is not enough! This is just the beginning! Humans are not as weak as we think. They are very good at learning and are very skillful. After every failure, they will respond to our axes and hammers with a stronger attitude, like a wounded beast. Even if we have driven them out of this continent, they are still trying very hard to take back what once belonged to them. So, what we have to do is to destroy them! Wipe them out of this world! Leave nothing but dust!"

Orgrim raised his hammer, a symbol of his unwavering will, and pointed it north, towards the unknown, towards destiny!

"Orcs! Lok'tar Ogar! To the north! For the Horde!"