Bridge

Duke, bless his heart, was as pure as the driven snow – aside from that theoretical 10TB of… educational material he'd absorbed. In practice, he was practically a saint. In theory. That being said, if you wanted to get some tender loving care from a Windrunner, you'd have to be as thick-headed as a goblin trying to read a spellbook.

The Windrunner women were a potent cocktail of wildness and nobility, their family crest practically a giant neon sign screaming "What you see is what you get!" If they liked you, they liked you. If they hated you, they hated you. No need for smoke and mirrors, no playing coy. The women of the Windrunner family were as straightforward as a punch to the face, and just as pure.

However, after her initial burst of righteous indignation, Sylvanas suddenly realized she had no earthly reason to be mad. Sure, her elder sister and Duke seemed to have something brewing, a vague, unspoken connection, but when you got right down to it, she and Duke weren't even playing in the same ballpark as lovers. Besides, it was plain as day that Duke hadn't meant any harm. And let's be honest, Duke had been running on fumes these past few days, looking like he'd been dragged through a knot-hole backwards.

The most pampered, in-demand commodity in all of Silvermoon City? Mages, hands down. They were treated like delicate flowers, prone to throwing a fit at the slightest inconvenience.

Oh, the weather's a bit gloomy today, everything's going sideways. I'm not serving you peasants anymore. I'm going on strike. Or, The cat next door was howling for love all night, so I didn't get my beauty sleep. Nothing's getting done today. Or even, Looks like it'll be cloudy tomorrow. I'm in a foul mood, so I'm taking the day off. Endless centuries of pampered existence had birthed the unique, sky-high arrogance of the Silvermoon Council. If a young, promising wizard like Duke were dropped into that den of high elves, wouldn't he be insufferably arrogant? But for the Alliance, for the sake of getting more people out of harm's way, Duke had done it, without a moment's hesitation, without a single shred of backup.

In Sylvanas's eyes, Duke was juggling ten jobs at once, using his sheer grit and hard work to fill the gaping holes left by Alleria and her rangers. Duke had pulled it off flawlessly. Their relationship was clearly more than friends, but less than lovers, so why could her elder sister and Duke trust and tolerate each other so much?

Her elder sister had willingly spent three months in the slammer for Duke, without a single regret. And to keep his elder sister from looking like a fool, Duke had taken on the entire defense line by himself. Sylvanas bit her lower lip lightly, a sudden pang of envy twisting in her gut for the vague, yet undeniably sincere, bond between her elder sister and Duke.

Looking at Duke's pained, bitter face, Sylvanas found that her anger had completely evaporated. "Does it hurt?" she asked, a rare note of concern in her voice.

"It's fine. At least it wasn't chopped down by a Horde axe," Duke replied, a wry, pained smile.

Sylvanas raised her long, golden eyebrows, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "I will not apologize. But… I will protect you at all costs until you evacuate safely." Duke just curled his lips. Sylvanas, he thought, had a temper as weird as a three-headed ogre.

Tonight, as always, Duke was the one playing the time-difference game, holding the line. Of course, tonight was a little different. The Horde, after so many nights of getting nowhere fast, figured something was up. So, this night, the Horde sent out a few squadrons of orcs to test the waters, a probing attack. These orc warriors from the smaller clans were essentially cannon fodder, so Rend Blackhand didn't lose any sleep over them.

Then, a report came in, jolting Rend awake. "What!? Some soldiers are reporting that there's no one on the opposite position, but a bunch of mage hands are operating the crossbows?"

Rend's eyes widened. He immediately saw the light, realizing his mistake. The humans had been on their last legs for ages, but to buy time for more people to evacuate, they'd pulled a fast one, using their elite troops to cover their retreat.

"Immediately send the clans to attack overnight!" Rend bellowed, rattling off the names of several small clans he could barely remember.

A probing attack, a mere 5,000 strong, was launched. An hour later, reports trickled back: the attacking force had taken heavy casualties, but a more reliable piece of intel had surfaced – there were no actual soldiers at any of the human sniper positions. It was likely one or more mages, using Mage Hands, teleporting back and forth at warp speed to operate the crossbows and various other siege weapons. Rend Blackhand, though far from the future warlord he'd become, was at least a competent commander. He immediately grasped the humans' intentions.

Since this natural barrier couldn't be held, they were pulling back more troops to Stromgarde, setting up layer after layer of defense. The more human soldiers they pulled back now, the harder it would be to attack the human capital of Stromgarde in the Arathi Highlands later. "All troops mobilized! As soon as day breaks, we launch a general assault!"

With the urgent blare of trumpets, the Horde began to gather, an unstoppable green tide flowing from the military camps in the rear wetlands to the south bank of the Thandol Bridge, like a hundred rivers merging into a raging sea.

Nearly 100,000 orc laborers were whipped into a frenzy, piling up colossal stones for land reclamation, preparing to fill the last section of the long-dried strait at dawn, allowing the main army to pass. A cold flash glinted in the darkness, the orcs' long tusks glowing with a bloodthirsty light under the pale moonlight.

After an anxious wait, the day finally dawned. Rend waved his hand, and the trumpeter blew a heavy, mournful blast, urging the orcs to catch the last remaining human stragglers. Just as Rend expected, almost all the positions were empty. No trained craftsmen were left; the last batch had evacuated at nightfall. "They've been walking for at least ten hours. They left behind everything that slowed them down," the scout's report confirmed, making Rend Blackhand's face turn as black as thunder. A group of strong craftsmen, well-prepared and unburdened, had evacuated in the dark. Even moving slowly, ten hours was enough for them to cover fifty kilometers. Who knew, they could reach Stromgarde, a hundred kilometers away, in just three hours if they pushed it.

"Let the wolf cavalry troops cross the Thandol Bridge at full speed and chase them down! We'll catch as many as we can!" The wolf riders, perched atop their colossal war wolves, brandished huge machetes, galloping across the bridge amidst the war wolves' guttural roars. Even though most of the war wolves' massive, sharp claws were retracted into their paw pads, the exposed claw tips still scraped against the hard bridge surface, making a harsh, grating sound. Thousands of wolf cavalry were about to thunder through the position at the northern bridgehead.

At that moment, on the battlefield that had been thoroughly scouted and declared deserted, all the crossbows and pre-loaded crossbow arrows suddenly sprang to life. They were controlled by the ethereal, softly glowing Mage Hands. "Ambush!!" The leading wolf cavalry captain let out a horrified roar, a sound that died in his throat. It was too late! The next second, the entire sky was filled with the chilling whistle of arrows tearing through the wind. Who would have thought there was an ambush waiting at a position that had been thoroughly scouted and declared clear?

Wolf Cavalry was a purely offensive unit, boasting powerful attack, speed, and endurance. But their armor was still only at the light cavalry level, about as protective as a wet paper bag. Encountering this deliberately planned ambush, a total of 3,000 wolf cavalrymen immediately suffered a devastating blow. Countless arrows pierced the thin leather armor of the wolf riders, burying themselves in the bodies of both riders and war wolves. In the narrow passage and on the bridge, there was nowhere to hide. Those arrows seemed to have eyes, finding their marks with chilling accuracy, striking vital points.