Sunk

Magic, my friends, is a wild beast. It's got an utterly unscientific side that'll make your head spin, but then it turns around and slaps you with fixed rules that scream 'supernatural' louder than a banshee on a bad hair day. So, when Duke, that walking arcane anomaly, started casually combining the raw power of fire, frost, and arcane into a single, shimmering ball of energy, Grand Commander Lothar looked at him like he was a ticking time bomb wrapped in a wizard's robe.

After being repeatedly subjected to King Llane's 'royal side-eye' – a look that could curdle milk and freeze a demon in its tracks – Duke had pretty much thrown in the towel on trying to impress anyone. March, the month of blooming flowers and melting snow, was also the three-month anniversary of Duke losing his maid. See, Duke had gallivanted off to Karazhan, leaving poor Vanessa back in Southshore. Vanessa, feeling about as useful as a chocolate fireguard, had then gotten a bee in her bonnet and stormed off to train in a thieves' holy land. That's right, Ravenholdt Manor, nestled in the shadowy northeast of Hillsbrad Foothills. Even though her note vaguely mentioned 'training somewhere in the area,' Duke knew, deep in his bones, exactly where she'd gone. He figured a crack team of spies would be handy down the line, but honestly, for the immediate future, they were about as useful as a third eye on a cyclops. And Duke was swamped, so for now, Vanessa was off his radar.

March meant big moves for the Horde. VanCleef and Stoutman, who'd spent all fall and winter digging in like ticks in the Western Plaguelands, sent word, asking when they could finally unleash hell. Duke's reply was simple: hold your horses until the main Horde forces clear out of the southern continent. The Horde, bless their aggressive little hearts, weren't built for sitting still. A human king might be content to kick back and rule a vast, conquered land, but not the orcs. Their bloodlust wouldn't let them stay put for long. So, with midwinter behind them, the troops who'd fought tooth and nail in the Battle of Southshore last year were once again gathering, ready for round two.

Lothar, however, was fit to be tied. He stormed into Lordaeron, ready to chew out King Terenas for breakfast. The reason was simple, infuriatingly simple: Lordaeron, Dalaran, and Alterac – the three kingdoms that mattered – were flat-out refusing to go into full-blown war mode. "What in the blazes do you mean!?" Lothar roared, slamming his fist on the polished table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. "Do you honestly think we can wipe out a million orcs with the paltry few soldiers we have now? Even if we discount the cannon fodder and the Horde's elite troops are dwindling, their total strength is still nearly five hundred thousand! Five hundred thousand, I say!"

King Terenas Menethil II, faced with Lothar's volcanic rage, looked about as helpless as a fish out of water. "My heralds have been dispatched, Lord Commander," he sighed, wringing his hands. "But most of my lords… they've chosen to fulfill their obligations with coin, not steel. So, you can ask for money, and I'll give you money. But more soldiers? I simply can't. My apologies, Lord Commander Lothar." This, Duke knew, was the infuriating reality of the feudal knight system. A lord's subjects were his private property, and while the lord answered to the king, the king couldn't just march in and requisition a lord's men without a damn good reason. It was an old tradition, baked into the very foundations of the Arathor Empire: unless it was a full-blown foreign invasion aimed at seizing land, or their own territory was under attack, every lord had the right to send gold and supplies instead of warm bodies. If Terenas tried to pull too many soldiers from his directly governed lands, it would set off a chain reaction, leaving him with weak lords and ministers who thought they ran the show.

Lothar, practically frothing at the mouth, spun on his heel and turned to Antonidas, his eyes pleading. The Speaker of Dalaran, however, was just as bad. "Something's rotten in the state of Dalaran, Lord Commander," Antonidas grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A gaggle of neutral mages, blind as bats and utterly clueless about the world's grim reality, have been protesting our involvement in the war. They think as long as Dalaran's ivory towers are safe, they can just sit pretty. Then, taking advantage of a certain… incident with one of our councilors, they staged a full-blown protest, demanding parliamentary re-elections and a whole slew of 'reforms' that would basically gut our war efforts."

Lothar was so furious he looked like he was about to rip out his own magnificent beard. He finally turned his blazing gaze to King Aiden of Alterac, who visibly shrunk under the scrutiny. "Alterac is a small country, Lord Commander," Aiden whined, his voice thin and reedy. "Recruiting one more infantry regiment is already pushing us to the brink. Any more, and half our people would starve to death this winter, even without the orcs knocking. Besides," he added, a sly glint in his eye, "a certain Deputy Commander bought up all the Barov family's food supplies, leaving us with precious little." At that moment, Lothar wanted to throttle Aiden. The sniveling coward was using the excuse of his country's weakness and a fabricated food shortage to Stormwind refugees to directly shirk his responsibilities.

At the end of the day, it was plain as day: those three kingdoms saw Stromgarde holding the Thandol Span in the east, Stormwind refugees holding Southshore in the middle, and the Kul Tiras navy patrolling the west. These short-sighted nobles and mages, with their heads stuck firmly in the sand, figured if anyone was going to die, it would be the 'foreigners,' and it had nothing to do with them. The ugly, self-serving nature of humanity was on full display.

Lothar was absolutely livid! His roar echoed through the entire Lordaeron Palace, shaking the very tapestries on the walls. "Listen to me! Tell those damn nobles and idiotic mages who think they're safe in their little castles! The Horde's military strength is three times that of the Alliance! The orcs' individual combat capability is also three times that of humans! Once our coastal defenses are breached, every single human will pay the price in blood for your three kingdoms' refusal to enter a state of all-out war! Money! Money! Money! What good is money when you've lost your head and your home!?"

Aiden, ever the spineless worm, muttered under his breath, "If the defense line is breached, it must be because someone didn't try hard enough."

King Daelin Proudmoore, a man who didn't mince words, spat fiercely on the ground. "Bah! Ever since the siege of Stormwind last year, the entire Kul Tiras shipyard has been working three shifts, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week! I've poured every last copper in the treasury into building more shipyards and trained every Kul Tiran fisherman to become a sailor! Now, I almost wish the orcs would take a hundred goblin airships straight to your Alterac Palace and throw a human meat barbecue party in your royal courtyard!" With that, Daelin kicked open the heavy conference room door and stormed out without a backward glance, leaving Aiden, his face ashen, sputtering and roaring in frustrated impotence.

On this day, the kings of the four kingdoms – including Stormwind, which had already gone all-in on total war – parted ways unhappily with the heads of the three kingdoms who were only willing to dip a toe in the water. If it weren't for a major event that unfolded on March 15th, this might have been the day the Alliance cracked wide open.

That fateful day, the Kul Tiras Third Fleet was cruising the waters off the Palatine Gulf, a routine patrol. The lookout, a grizzled old sailor with eyes like a hawk, suddenly spotted something that made his blood run cold. Countless blood-red sails, like a plague of locusts, appeared on the horizon.

"Alarm! Alarm! Sound the alarm!" he shrieked, his voice raw with terror.

"DANG! DANG! DANG!" The shrill, piercing alarm bells screamed across the waves, sending a jolt of fear through the entire fleet.

"What in the blazes!?" Major General Akent, commander of the Third Fleet, cursed, slamming his spyglass down. "Why are the Bloodsail Pirates here!? And looking like they're bringing the whole damn family reunion!" But then, other things he saw through the telescope made his blood run colder than a Lich's heart.

Ships! Dozens of them! More than a dozen colossal warships! These were definitely battleship-class vessels, but they bore no resemblance to anything human. Aside from a few tattered sails, the entire ship had no aesthetic appeal whatsoever. It simply looked like a monstrous pile of garbage, cobbled together from countless pieces of salvaged wood, barely floating on the waves. However, the monstrous cannons bristling from their hulls told the major general all he needed to know: these were warships, alright! And they were orc warships!

"Commander! Orders, sir!" the first mate yelled, his voice cracking with anxiety. Other ships in the fleet were already sending up inquiring flags, their crews desperate for direction.

Major General Akent, a true son of Kul Tiras, drew himself up, a grim determination hardening his features. "Who does the Kul Tiran navy fear on the high seas!? Raise the battle flag! Engage! Fight them back to the depths!"

A day later, the entire Alliance learned the devastating news: the Kul Tiran Third Fleet had been utterly annihilated.

All nations were shocked! Stunned! Their jaws on the floor!