Me

Watching the magnificent meeting hall devolve into a raucous marketplace, a squawking chicken coop filled with bickering kings, Lothar couldn't help but roll his eyes so hard he nearly sprained them. In the face of something as monumental as kingdoms teetering on the brink and noble houses facing extinction, it seemed no one could maintain a shred of gentlemanly decorum.

Lothar, ever the weary diplomat, tried to soothe Genn's frayed nerves. "Easy there, old friend," he sighed, patting the Gilnean king's shoulder. "The Horde can't fly. And even if those green-skinned maniacs sprouted wings, it's not like hundreds of thousands of them are going to suddenly airlift themselves into your capital city. If that ever happened, we'd all just fall on our swords and call it a day, because the Light help us all."

As Lothar uttered those words, Duke's brow furrowed, and a cold dread settled in his gut. He'd just hit a serious snag, a gaping hole in the Alliance's strategy he'd somehow overlooked for far too long: the Alliance had no decent air force. None. Zip. Zero.

This wasn't just a minor oversight; it was a gaping maw ready to swallow them whole. Duke knew exactly where the griffins were — perched high in Aerie Peak, deep in the Hinterlands. But here was the rub: that territory belonged to the Wildhammer dwarves, a clan so fiercely independent they made a lone wolf look like a social butterfly. In the good old days, before the Horde came knocking, those dwarves, with heads harder than granite, wouldn't even give their Bronzebeard cousins the time of day, let alone lift a finger for a bunch of humans. This, Duke knew, was the bitter fruit of the "War of Three Hammers," the epic family feud that had fractured the dwarven races of Bronzebeard, Wildhammer, and Dark Iron. Thinking of it, Duke's temple throbbed with a headache that felt like a goblin's hammer pounding against his skull.

The military meeting, for all its pomp and circumstance, ended with about as much substantial progress as a snail racing a griffin. The biggest decision they managed to hammer out was to reinforce Shadowfang Keep, that creepy old fortress east of the South Coast, which belonged to the Gilnean Archmage Arugal. It was a decent defensive linchpin, sure, but hardly a game-changer. As for the grand plan to fortify the entire North and South coasts? That got shelved faster than a rogue's conscience, all thanks to a severe case of cement-and-coin-shortage. King Genn, for his part, nearly choked on his own spleen, muttering darkly that Duke had hogged all the cement for his Hillsbrad Foothills defense line, leaving Gilneas high and dry.

Lothar, seeing Duke's strained smile, gave him a sympathetic pat. "Don't mind him, kid. He's just blowing smoke." Duke could only manage a bitter chuckle. Perhaps, this was the bitter pill of the underdog. It wasn't about Duke himself, but about the Alliance's current predicament. Even though Duke had twice sent over two hundred thousand Horde troops to meet their maker, the Horde still held the upper hand in sheer military might, both in numbers and in the quality of their bloodthirsty warriors. Maybe the quality gap was shrinking, but the sheer numerical disadvantage would take at least two more bloody wars to close. Until then, the Alliance was stuck playing defense, like a squirrel trying to outrun a hungry bear.

This created a paradox so twisted it would make a gnome engineer scratch his head. If they wanted more forces to join the Alliance, they'd have to let the Horde march into the northern continent and practically commit mass suicide on their doorstep. But if they did that, their current defense lines would be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And if they kept the battle lines static, letting the Horde lick its wounds and rebuild in the southern continent, Ironforge would eventually fall, leaving the North and South locked in a hundred-year war of attrition. Duke's head throbbed. He needed a stiff drink, or perhaps a lobotomy.

After the military meeting fizzled out like a damp firework, Duke, with a sigh of relief, hightailed it back to Southshore. And that's when he noticed them: four long, slender, white legs dangling from the roof of his house. It wasn't the first time Duke had seen a pair of shapely gams hanging from that particular spot, but four of them? Had he accidentally planted a pair of long legs in winter and now, in spring, they'd sprouted into two? Bah! What in the blazes kind of fantasy setting was this!?

"Whoa! Storm warning, storm warning! In ten seconds, we're expecting a massive updraft right here, folks! Prepare for possible clothing displacement!" Duke announced, pinching his nose and mimicking the crudest, most grating mechanical voice he could muster.

The one with the thinnest skin, Alleria, executed a flawless pigeon flip, landing gracefully on the ground. Sylvanas, however, still perched on the rooftop, merely giggled, swinging her two bare white legs with nary a care in the world. "Heh heh, sis, don't you believe him. If he really dares to try that, we'll just shoot down all his fancy magical energy balls like they're ripe apples!"

Duke rubbed his temples. The competitive streak in Sylvanas was as wide as the Grand Canyon; she might actually do it. "Well," Duke drawled, looking pointedly away, "I think I'm starting to get a whiff of why the bored Windrunner ladies have decided to grace us with their presence."

"Tsk," Alleria huffed, hands on her hips, striking a pose of righteous indignation. "We've been rotting away here all winter, doing the Alliance's dirty work!"

Duke waved his hands left and right, and as if on cue, a wizard appeared, carrying a stack of complaint letters thick enough to choke a kodo. "Oh, yes, yes. Just before the Feast of Winter Veil, George's family sheep, intended for the holiday feast, mysteriously vanished. They were later found… in the Windrunner camp."

A sudden, awkward silence descended. The two big white legs on the roof froze mid-swing.

"My Naga scouts reported a nimble thief made off with a dozen golden pearls from my murloc pearl farm…"

A gust of wind rustled through the air. Hmm, why does this spring breeze feel a little… chilly?

"And two barrels of dwarven gin, sent by King Bronzebeard of Ironforge to King Llane to celebrate the New Year, have… mysteriously disappeared."

Alleria's gaze, sharp as an arrow, snapped to the back of a certain future queen, who was attempting to make a very casual, very slow escape. As Duke finished his damning indictment, a sudden, powerful gust of wind ripped through the air, tearing off Duke's roof and, with it, the two Windrunner sisters.

"SYLVANAS—!" an angry, big-sisterly shriek echoed on the wind.

Duke scratched his head, a wry grin playing on his lips. "As expected of a Windrunner. They can go wherever they please." He certainly wasn't really trying to settle accounts with Sylvanas; he just wanted to give her a little playful jab. Of course, Alleria, who had always embodied the refined nobility of the high elves, especially after leaving Quel'Thalas, clearly couldn't tolerate her younger sister's unruly antics.

A few minutes later, Alleria reappeared, dragging the poor Queen of the Forsaken by the ear. Sylvanas, with tears welling in the corners of her eyes and her head bowed in genuine contrition, presented a surprisingly adorable picture. Duke almost wanted to give her a comforting kiss.

"Uh, Duke," Alleria said, her voice strained, "I'll compensate you for my sister's… exuberance."

For a fleeting moment, Duke seriously considered asking Queen Sylvanas to sell herself into servitude. This was Sylvanas! The future Banshee Queen, a force of nature even before her transformation into a Dark Ranger! But then reality set in. First, Duke himself couldn't stomach the idea. Second, the Windrunner family was, let's be honest, richer than a goblin banker.

"No, no, it's just a few hundred thousand gold coins," Duke waved his hand dismissively. "It all vanishes in one experiment anyway."

"Hahaha! That's my good Duke!" Alleria roared, clapping him on the shoulder with the hearty, patronizing tone of an elder. "You're worthy of my affection!" Duke knew Alleria was just trying to save face. Stealing tributes, while a minor offense in the grand scheme of things, was still a black mark. Of course, Duke knew perfectly well that with a powerful enemy like the Horde knocking on their door, no human kingdom would seriously pick a fight over a few trinkets with Quel'Thalas, a land where Archmagi roamed like common squirrels.

Sylvanas, meanwhile, stuck her tongue out where Alleria couldn't see, but a Windrunner's perception wasn't limited to mere sight. The 'Great Demon King' couldn't help but tighten her grip on Sylvanas's ear just a little more. "It hurts, it hurts! Sister, I know I was wrong!" This time, Sylvanas's yelp was genuinely fearful.

"Alright, alright!" Duke interjected, stepping in. "I know you two have been cooped up too long and need some excitement."

"We are always ready to fight for the just cause of the Alliance!" Alleria declared, puffing out her chest and sucking in her stomach, a picture of military discipline.

"I have a mission," Duke began, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "It might be safe, or it might be… extremely dangerous."

"Me! Me!" The two sisters shouted in unison, hands shooting into the air like eager apprentices.