The warmth of the sun was a fading memory, a comfort long gone by the time night settled over Stormsong Manor. Outside, the stars glimmered faintly above the valley, but within those grand walls another kind of storm brewed—one of raised voices and unspoken fears. Even the most ignorant servant could not fail to notice the growing tension between Lord Caspian and Lady Adriana. Whispers clung to the corridors like mist, tales of arguments spilling from the confines of their bedchamber.
To Thorwin, the rumors were more than idle gossip. He had heard the shouting himself—sharp, cutting words muffled by oak doors. Though he could not always make out the meaning, he felt their weight as keenly as a sword drawn too close to the skin. It unsettled him deeply, chilling him in ways that reminded him of the ghostly stories whispered at Hallow's End—the tale of the Headless Horseman who haunted the roads by moonlight.
Sleep had abandoned him. He tossed, he turned, yet every time he closed his eyes the echoes of his parents' discord filled his thoughts. Questions too heavy for his young heart pressed in from every side, and though he tried to push them away, they settled into him like a fog. At last, with a weary sigh, he slipped from his bed.
Barefoot and silent, Thorwin wandered the halls of the manor. Shadows loomed along the stone walls, torches flickering high upon their columns, casting long, wavering shapes that seemed to move with him. The silence was so complete that the sound of his own breathing felt loud, even daring, as though he were trespassing in a forbidden world meant only for adults.
He did not know exactly where he was going—only that he needed escape, some way to still the unease twisting in his chest. His feet carried him almost of their own accord, down a corridor he knew well, until at last he found himself standing before the carved oak doors of the Stormsong library.
The great crest of his house glimmered faintly on the handles, the runes etched there catching the torchlight. Thorwin lingered for a moment, small hand hovering before the latch, heart drumming in his ears. He had always loved the library, though he was often told its mysteries were too vast, too heavy for a boy of his years. Yet tonight, more than ever, he yearned for the solace of its shelves—for the smell of old parchment, the quiet weight of knowledge, and perhaps, the promise of answers.
Taking a steadying breath, Thorwin pressed his hand against the carved oak door and pushed it open. The hinges gave a soft groan, and the familiar scent of parchment and ink washed over him like a tide. He had expected the quiet company of shelves and tomes, the silent comfort of words to still the unrest in his heart. Yet what greeted him was not parchment or silence—but her.
Seated at one of the long oaken tables, half-draped in candlelight, was the girl with golden hair. Jaina Proudmoore. The same child who had stumbled upon him in the courtyard days ago during one of his outbursts, when his frustration had driven him to strike endlessly at the training dummy. Since then, their paths had crossed often—at the feast, in the halls, during those tiresome formal introductions demanded by their station. Yet, to Thorwin's surprise, he had found her company less a burden and more… a curiosity. She spoke to him not as heirs were meant to—measured, careful, laden with expectation—but simply as a child to another.
Jaina, he had quickly learned, was not merely the rumored daughter of the Grand Admiral. She was sharp-eyed, inquisitive, and brimming with an energy that could not be confined by silk dresses and formal dinners. She asked questions no one else did: about Stormsong Valley's streams, about the kelp beds that swayed along its shores, about the fish that darted beneath their waves and the names of herbs that grew wild in the meadows. More than once, she had cornered him with her ceaseless curiosity, forcing him to admit he did not know every answer. To her, however, his ignorance seemed no failing at all—only another mystery to solve.
And now, here she was, utterly absorbed in a tome far too large for her small frame, its gilded pages glowing faintly in the candle's light. Her head bent low, golden strands of hair tumbling over her shoulders, she seemed lost to the world around her. Thorwin paused in the doorway, momentarily struck by the sight. It was rare—strange, even—for him to find another soul so thoroughly entranced by this room.
He let his gaze drift, noting the absence of her usual escorts. No attendants, no watchful matrons, no shadows hovering near to usher her away when propriety demanded it. Just Jaina, and the vast hush of the library.
Something within him—something restless and frayed by the night's unease—urged him forward. If he spoke to her, perhaps he could forget the echoes of his parents' quarrel. Perhaps her questions, her brightness, might pull him from the darkness gnawing at his thoughts.
He stepped softly across the carpet, the flickering torches painting long shadows across the walls. A chair scraped faintly as he pulled it out and lowered himself into the seat across from her. For a few moments, she remained entirely unaware, eyes devouring whatever knowledge lay within her book. Then, sensing a presence, she lifted her head.
Jaina blinked once, then twice, as if to be sure the boy across from her was real.
"You scared me," she whispered, her voice hushed out of respect for the countless books looming above them. "I thought you were a ghost."
Thorwin grinned, leaning back in his chair with mock offense. "Do I look like a ghost to you?"
She tilted her head, studying him with those bright, curious eyes. "Maybe. You were very quiet. Ghosts are quiet, aren't they? That's what the sailors say."
"Ghosts don't laugh," he retorted, a chuckle escaping his lips. "And I just did."
Jaina tried to suppress a giggle but failed, clapping a hand over her mouth. For a moment the library, usually so solemn, felt alive with their shared amusement.
"What are you reading?" Thorwin asked after the laughter died down, nodding toward the tome in front of her.
Her fingers brushed the page reverently. "It's about tides. Did you know the sea moves because of the moon?" Her eyes sparkled, like she had just revealed the greatest secret in the world.
Thorwin frowned thoughtfully. "I always thought it moved because of the wind. The valley winds can push even a grown man sideways if he isn't careful."
"Maybe it's both," she said, her voice lowering, as if the world's mysteries were theirs alone to untangle. "Maybe the moon and the wind work together."
Thorwin liked that thought. He liked it even more because it had come from her.
"What about you?" Jaina leaned forward on her elbows, chin resting on her palms. "What do you like best about Stormsong Valley?"
He hesitated, unused to being asked such things. At feasts and lessons, questions were never about what he liked, but what he knew. His gaze drifted, as though he could see the rolling hills and misty shores through the library's walls. "The river," he said at last. "It sings. If you sit near it long enough, you can almost hear it talk."
Her eyes grew wide with wonder. "What does it say?"
Thorwin shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I don't know. Maybe I just imagined it. But it feels… safe."
Jaina's expression softened, unusually serious for a child of her age. "That's not silly. I think the sea talks to me sometimes. When the waves crash, I hear words. Not clear ones, but… like it wants me to listen."
For a moment, silence fell between them—not heavy, but gentle, like a blanket. Thorwin realized with a strange flutter in his chest that she understood him in a way most didn't.
"Do you think," Jaina whispered suddenly, her voice barely louder than the flicker of the candle, "that when we're older, the world will still make sense like this? With rivers that sing and seas that talk?"
Thorwin looked at her, really looked, and felt an odd tug deep inside. "I don't know," he admitted, honest as only a child could be. "But… if it doesn't, maybe we'll remember it together."
Her small smile in answer seemed brighter than the candlelight, brighter even than the stars outside.
The dawn broke gently over Stormsong Valley, its pale light brushing against the spires and rooftops of the manor as though reluctant to disturb the lingering quiet of night. In the courtyard below, the clatter of hooves and the creak of carriage wheels stirred the still air. A gleaming coach, its doors emblazoned with the proud crest of the Proudmoores—the golden anchor wreathed in laurels—stood ready to depart.
Servants had gathered in a neat line, their bows and curtsies a final token of respect for the admiral's daughter. Thorwin stood among them, shoulders stiff, his young chest tightening with an emotion he could not quite name. His eyes found Jaina through the carriage window. She leaned forward eagerly, her small face radiant, blonde hair catching the first rays of the sun. She pressed her hand to the glass, then lifted both arms in an enthusiastic wave, her smile as bright as if she were setting out for an adventure rather than bidding farewell.
Thorwin's throat tightened, but he forced himself to smile back, raising both arms and waving until they ached. It felt important—more important than he could explain—that she see him standing tall, not small and sorrowful. The carriage lurched, the horses snorted, and then slowly, the Proudmoore crest disappeared down the cobbled road.
A soft but firm weight settled on his shoulders. Thorwin turned and found his mother standing behind him, her sea-blue eyes shimmering with an emotion she kept carefully hidden. She smiled for him, but it was the kind of smile that trembled, the kind that held back words she could not say. Melancholy clung to her like perfume, faint but inescapable. He leaned into her touch, saying nothing, because words seemed too fragile for the moment.
The manor fell into a strange silence after Jaina's departure, as though the air itself had grown heavy with absence. Later that afternoon, wandering the dim corridors in search of comfort, Thorwin found himself outside his mother's bedchamber. The door stood ajar, and from within came the muted rustle of cloth and the muffled sound of a woman's sorrow.
Peering in, he saw Adriana bent over her trunk, carefully folding silken dresses and placing them inside. The golden chain about her neck gleamed faintly in the waning light, but it could not hide the tremor in her hands. Her shoulders shook; faint, broken whimpers escaped her lips. A few stray tears had already left shining trails down her cheeks.
Thorwin froze, his heart clenching with a helpless fear. He had never seen his mother cry—not like this, not as though the world itself were pressing her to her knees. He lingered at the threshold, uncertain, unwilling to intrude but unable to turn away. His small fists curled at his sides as questions crowded his mind: Why was she weeping? What burden pressed so heavily upon her?
At last, when her sobs subsided into silence and only the soft shuffling of cloth remained, Thorwin gathered his courage. Slowly, he stepped inside, his voice no louder than a breath.
"Mother…" he whispered.
Adriana startled at her son's voice. She quickly raised a hand to her face, dabbing away the tears, but Thorwin had already seen them. She straightened, forcing composure into her shoulders, and turned to face him with a fragile smile.
"My sweet boy," she said softly, her voice warm but laced with weariness. "I did not wish for you to see me like this."
Thorwin hesitated, then stepped closer, his small hand brushing against hers. "Why are you crying, Mother? Are you leaving?" His voice trembled, the thought pressing on him like a shadow.
Adriana knelt before him, taking both of his hands into her own. The light from the tall windows haloed her golden hair, but her eyes carried a solemn glimmer. "No, Thorwin. I am not leaving you. Never that." She gave his hands a tender squeeze. "But changes are coming. It is time you learned of a part of your family you have not yet met."
Thorwin blinked, puzzled. "Family? You mean Father's kin?"
She shook her head gently. "Not your father's. Mine. My father." Her lips trembled around the words, but she spoke them with reverence. "Your grandfather, Thorwin. His name is Anduin Lothar."
The name struck the boy like a bell in a vast chamber—familiar, yet distant, like a story carried in whispers. He frowned, as though tasting the weight of it. "Anduin… Lothar?"
Adriana's gaze softened. "Yes. You have heard the name before, I think. The Lion of Azeroth, some call him. A knight, a commander, a man whose deeds are sung even beyond Stormwind's walls." She reached to brush a stray lock of hair from Thorwin's forehead. "But to me, he is Father. And to you, he is blood—your blood."
Thorwin's breath caught. Tales of valor and steel filled his mind, half-remembered from hushed conversations among the servants, or passing words from his tutors. To think such a figure was his kin made his heart race. "I am… his grandson?" he whispered, almost in disbelief.
A smile, gentler now, curved Adriana's lips. "You are. And soon, you shall meet him. We are to travel to Stormwind, Thorwin. Only for a time—some months, perhaps—but long enough for you to know the land I once called home, and the man who raised me."
His eyes widened. "Stormwind? Truly? The city of stone towers and shining walls?" He had only glimpsed its likeness in illustrated maps and heard travelers speak of its markets, its bustling harbor.
Adriana nodded, her expression tinged with bittersweet pride. "Yes, the very same. I believe it will do you good to see it, to walk its streets, to learn from its heart. And… I believe it will ease mine to have you close to the family I left behind when I chose this valley."
Thorwin studied her, his young mind turning over a thousand thoughts, half-formed but urgent. Excitement warred with worry, curiosity with fear of leaving behind the only home he had known. Yet when he saw the hope shimmering in his mother's eyes, he straightened his shoulders and whispered, "If you are with me, Mother, I will go anywhere."
Her eyes brimmed again, but this time with joy rather than sorrow. She drew him close, holding him against her heart, as though in that embrace she could shield him from the tides of fate already stirring.
…
A week's journey carried them through the rolling highlands of Stormsong, past villages of humble stone and timber, until the valley opened into a sight that stole Thorwin's breath. Before them lay Sagehold, a settlement unlike any he had ever seen. Its manors rose like stern sentinels upon the hillsides, their banners catching the salt wind, while great halls and cloisters crowned the ridges in solemn dignity. This was the heart of Stormsong's faith and learning, where the valley's priests and acolytes were trained in the mysteries of tide and storm, in the hymns that bound man to sea.
But Sagehold was more than a place of worship. Beyond the sacred spires stretched the largest shipyard in the valley, a forest of masts swaying against the horizon. The air was alive with the rhythmic clang of hammers, the sharp tang of pitch, and the calls of shipwrights directing men over half-finished hulls. Warships of the Stormsong fleet lined the docks, their sleek forms looming like sleeping leviathans, each one carrying the weight of their family's dominion at sea.
The carriage rolled slowly into the port, flanked by a retinue of armored riders whose horses' hooves struck the cobblestones with measured cadence. Their steel glimmered faintly beneath the gray morning sun, helms set low, shields polished to a mirror's shine. The crowd parted to let them pass, murmurs following in their wake—Stormsong blood did not often show itself so openly in the harbor.
At last the coach came to a halt upon the central quay. "Mi'lady, we have arrived," came the muffled call of the driver. A sharp rap sounded at the carriage door. Adriana shifted, her silken gown brushing against Thorwin's arm as she leaned forward to unlatch it. The door creaked, opening just enough to reveal a knight clad head to toe in steel plate, the proud crest of the Stormsongs etched across his breastplate. Only his eyes, sharp and dark behind the slits of his visor, betrayed the man within.
"The men are preparing to transfer your belongings—and the young sire's—to the ship," the knight intoned, his voice echoing dully within the helm. "If you wish to take in the scenery, mi'lady, we would be honored to attend your steps."
Adriana's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she shook her head with gentle finality. "No, ser. I shall remain here for now." Then she turned to Thorwin, her hand brushing his cheek in encouragement. "Why don't you take a stroll, my dear? The harbor is full of sights worth remembering. Jenkin will go with you."
Thorwin's eyes lit with curiosity. He nodded, eager to escape the confines of the carriage. The sound of gulls, the smell of tar and salt, the vast spread of ships—it tugged at something restless in him, something unfulfilled by books and feasts.
Yet beneath his growing excitement lingered a faint disquiet. His father had not come to greet them. Not when they left the manor, not on the long ride through the valley, and not now when their vessel lay waiting at the dock. Caspian Stormsong's absence was a hollow weight in Thorwin's chest, heavier even than the steel guards at his side.
The boy stepped down from the carriage with Jenkin at his side, the world of Sagehold's harbor unfurling around him in all its brimming, cacophonous glory. Everywhere Thorwin looked there was movement: riggers climbing the masts like ants on tall grass, shipwrights hammering planks into place, and priests in flowing robes blessing the keels of finished vessels with murmured prayers to the Tidemother. The air was alive with scents—tar, brine, wet rope, and roasted fish sold from smoking stalls that drew long lines of sailors.
Thorwin's eyes went wide. He had seen the Stormsong fleet pass in formation before, sails white as clouds upon the horizon, but here he saw the beasts at rest—row upon row of warships, their carved prows bearing lions, serpents, and storm-battered maidens. The harbor was a forest of masts and rigging, the cries of gulls blending with the shouts of men. For the first time in days, the boy forgot himself, his worries about his father, even the weight of the journey ahead.
Jenkin, tall and broad-shouldered, kept a steady hand on the boy's shoulder as they walked along the quay. Guards flanked them at a distance, their armor glinting, their swords at their hips. But Thorwin's gaze strayed from the gleam of steel to the corners where shadows gathered.
There, pressed against a stack of crates, he saw them—two children, barefoot and thin as reeds, their clothes patched with more dirt than fabric. A girl no older than himself held a crust of bread tight in her hands, while a smaller boy gnawed on it greedily. But it wasn't theirs—Thorwin realized this as a burly fishmonger stormed from his stall, bellowing curses. The children scattered like startled gulls, darting through the legs of dockworkers, vanishing into the crowd with startling swiftness.
Thorwin's heart lurched. He had never seen hunger so raw. At feasts, the tables overflowed with food until it spoiled, yet here were children who risked beatings for a scrap of bread.
Behind him, the knights muttered in disdain, their words sharp as the clink of their mail.
"Rats," one sneered, his voice muffled through his visor. "Stormsong breeds them like weeds."
"Better the tide take them than our steel," another said. "Beggar-brats grow into cutpurses. Nothing good comes of their kind."
The words made Thorwin's stomach twist. He glanced up at Jenkin, hoping for a softer expression, but could see none for the man's expression was hidden beneath his steel exterior. The boy's steps slowed, his gaze turning back to where the children had vanished. A question burned in his throat, but he swallowed it, sensing it would not be welcomed here.
Still, he carried the sight with him as they continued their stroll: the hollowness in the children's eyes, the desperation in their hands, and the contempt in the voices of armored men sworn to protect the valley. He was young, but even at his age he felt the sharp sting of it—that the world was not as simple, or as just, as his tutors' stories had always made it seem.
…
"You've arrived."
The words rumbled like distant thunder, steady and commanding, carrying with them a weight that made even the harbor seem to pause. Thorwin looked up, his breath catching in his throat, for before him stood the man of song and story—Anduin Lothar, his grandfather.
The boy had imagined this meeting countless times during the journey, but no imagining could have captured the sheer presence of the man. Lothar stood tall as a mountain, his shoulders broad beneath the steel and cloth of his knightly garb, his frame carved by decades of war. Sunlight gleamed upon the silver thread in his dark hair, upon the scars that traced faint lines across his weathered face. To Thorwin, he seemed less a man and more a living monument—an embodiment of the very legends whispered by sailors and knights alike. A body as robust as the Titans themselves, the boy thought, awe welling in his chest.
Yet for all his imposing stature, there was warmth in his gaze, a kindling of pride and affection that softened the stern lines of his face. As he stepped forward, the dock's wooden planks creaking beneath his heavy boots, Lothar spread his arms wide. Adriana moved first, her composure breaking as she fell into her father's embrace, the years of distance and silence melting away in an instant. Thorwin lingered at her side, uncertain, his small hands clenched into fists at his tunic.
But then Lothar's gaze fell upon him—piercing, searching, yet strangely gentle. Without a word, the great knight stooped, closing the distance in a few purposeful strides. Strong arms wrapped around Thorwin and his mother both, pulling them into a single, unshakable hold. The boy stiffened at first, startled by the sheer strength behind the embrace, but then he felt it—the warmth, the steadiness, the unyielding certainty that seemed to radiate from the man like fire from a forge.
Lothar drew back at last, though his great hands remained firm upon Thorwin's shoulders, anchoring the boy in place. His eyes, steel-gray and sharp as a sword's edge, studied him with a soldier's precision—measuring, weighing—but beneath that scrutiny was something gentler, a flicker of pride that softened his features.
"So," he said, his voice deep and steady, "this is the boy I have long waited to meet. My daughter's son."
Thorwin swallowed, his heart pounding as he struggled to meet that commanding gaze. "I… I am Thorwin," he said, his voice trembling but earnest.
Lothar's stern mouth broke into the faintest of smiles. "A strong name. Stormsong by your father's line, yet Lothar's blood beats in your heart as well. Do you know what that means, lad?"
Thorwin hesitated, his young brow furrowed. "That… I am yours?"
The knight's smile deepened, and he gave a single, approving nod. "Aye. You are mine, as much as you are your mother's. And that is no small thing. Blood ties us, but it is what you do with that blood that marks the measure of a man."
Thorwin said nothing, though his chest swelled at the words. He felt both small and immense at once—like the sea itself had chosen to notice him.
With a gentleness that contrasted his towering frame, Lothar lowered himself onto one knee, so his eyes were level with the boy's. "I am Anduin Lothar," he said, his voice quieter now, carrying none of the thunder of command, only the warmth of kinship. "To most of this realm, I am the king's sword and shield. But to you, Thorwin… I am Grandfather. That is the name I would have you call me."
The boy's lips parted, his heart racing with both awe and disbelief. "Grandfather," he whispered, tasting the word like something sacred.
Lothar's great hand ruffled his hair with surprising tenderness. "Good lad. We shall have time, you and I. Time enough for you to learn of Stormwind, of duty, of what it means to bear a name such as ours. But for now"—his gaze flicked briefly to Adriana, then back to Thorwin—"it is enough that you are here."
And with that, he drew the boy close again, holding him as if Thorwin were the only treasure in all of Stormwind Harbor.
"Come," Lothar said at last, rising to his full towering height, his hand never straying far from Thorwin's shoulder. "The harbor is no place to linger. Stormwind awaits you both."
With a motion of his arm, a retinue of armored knights fell into step, their polished mail glinting beneath the afternoon sun. Their presence was imposing, yet Thorwin felt no fear; not while his grandfather strode at his side, each step steady as if the earth itself acknowledged him.
They passed beneath the vast stone archways of the harbor gate, and suddenly the world opened wide before Thorwin. The streets of Stormwind stretched out in all directions, cobblestone paths lined with banners that fluttered in the breeze. White-stone towers rose above tiled rooftops, their pennants snapping with the lion's crest of the kingdom. Merchants cried their wares from busy stalls, the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread mixing with the sharp tang of iron and leather from the smithies. Children darted past, laughing as they chased wooden hoops, while guards in gleaming tabards kept watch from every corner.
Thorwin's eyes widened as he took it all in. Sagehold, with its quiet scholars and shipwrights, seemed a world apart from this living, breathing city. Here, life surged with unrelenting vigor, and Thorwin's heart pounded with the sense that he was standing at the very heart of the world.
Adriana walked close beside her father, her eyes flickering with memories long buried. Thorwin glanced at her, noticing how her hand brushed the stone walls as they passed, as though each familiar touch was a reassurance.
Lothar slowed his stride, turning slightly to regard his grandson. "Tell me, Thorwin," he said, his voice carrying both curiosity and command. "What do you see?"
Thorwin hesitated, overwhelmed by the flood of sights and sounds. "I… I see a city that never rests," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "It feels… alive. Like it's breathing."
Lothar chuckled, a deep, approving rumble. "Aye. That is Stormwind. Strong as its walls, yet alive with the spirit of its people. Remember this feeling, lad. For one day, you will need to understand not only the stone and steel of a kingdom, but the hearts that beat within it."
Thorwin nodded, though he wasn't certain he understood it fully. Still, the words etched themselves into his mind, heavy with meaning he felt would follow him all his days.
As they neared the great cathedral square, the bells tolled in greeting, their peals echoing across the city. Crowds paused in their errands to look toward the small procession, many bowing their heads respectfully at the sight of Lothar. Thorwin caught the whispers—the Lion, the Lion walks among us—and a flush of pride warmed his chest.
…
"Thorwin sleeps soundly at last," Adriana murmured as she stepped from Thorwin's chamber, closing the door with careful hands. Her steps were measured as she crossed the hall, her gown whispering softly against the stone floor. In the flickering glow of the hearth, her father sat waiting, his broad frame draped across a chair built to withstand warriors like him. The firelight carved shadows into the hard lines of his face, and Adriana noted at once that the carefree warmth he had shown in public hours earlier had given way to something graver.
Lothar's eyes, so sharp and unyielding on the battlefield, seemed burdened now with a weight that not even he could shrug aside.
"You've come to Stormwind in a time of peril," he said, his voice carrying none of the comfort of a father but the iron edge of a commander. He leaned forward, his forearms braced against his knees. "The kingdom stands on the brink of a storm. Beyond the seas, enemies unlike any we have faced gather in number. They are not men, nor even kin to any beast we know. They are vast, brutish things, driven by bloodlust, and they would see our fields burned, our homes shattered, and our people butchered without hesitation."
He paused, leaning forward, his calloused hands tightening against his knees as though holding the weight of his own words. "I am glad beyond words to have you here. To see my grandson… to know my blood carries on. It is a light in these darkened days, and I cherish it more than I can say."
For a moment, warmth softened his features, the fire reflecting in his weary eyes. But it was brief, fleeting, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds only to vanish again. His tone grew heavier, burdened with the mantle of command.
"And yet," he continued, "your very presence here sharpens my worry. The orcs spread faster than we can answer them, villages razed before their names are even marked upon a map. Already, they test our borders. If they march this far, even Stormwind's walls may not hold. My enemies on the battlefield are countless, but my greatest fear—" his voice faltered just slightly, just enough for Adriana to catch it—"is for you, and for the boy. War is no place for children… nor for daughters who should never need to lift a sword."
Lothar's eyes lingered on the flames, their restless dance reflected in the steel-blue of his gaze. For a long while, he said nothing, as though weighing the words against the weight of the mantle he bore. At last, he drew a steady breath, his voice softer now, but no less firm.
"When the hour comes—and it will—you must be ready to leave this place," he said. His gaze lifted to Adriana, unflinching, unyielding, yet heavy with sorrow. "You and the boy must not be here when the tide breaks against our walls. I would never forgive myself if Stormwind became your tomb. If war reaches its heart, I will see you safely away, even if I must carry you myself through fire and steel."
Adriana swallowed, her hands tightening in the folds of her gown. She had never heard her father's voice tremble—not even once—but tonight, there was a faint shadow of it beneath his words, buried beneath iron resolve.
"However…" He leaned back in his chair, the lines of strain easing from his face for a fleeting moment, "I will not let this shadow steal the days we are given. You are here now, with me, after so many years apart. And Thorwin—" a rare smile broke upon his lips, though tempered by gravity, "—the boy has the spark of greatness in him, I can feel it. He should not grow with only whispers of war in his ears."
He rose then, towering, his armor catching the firelight as he set a hand upon Adriana's shoulder. The gesture was both fatherly and commanding, as though he were sealing a vow.
"Tomorrow, I will take you both into the heart of Stormwind. The markets bustle with life, the citadel stands proud as any in the Kingdoms, and the castle itself—" he allowed himself a low chuckle, "—well, it deserves to be seen through the eyes of a boy, not just a soldier. Until duty calls me to the field again, let me walk beside you as father and grandsire, not just as the kingdom's shield."
Adriana's lips curved into a soft smile, though her eyes shimmered faintly with the weight of recollection. Her father's words had stirred old memories, half-buried beneath years of distance and the quiet melancholy of life in Stormsong Valley. She remembered a younger self—her hand clasped tightly in her mother's, her father walking proudly beside them—as they strolled through the bustling avenues of Stormwind. She could still hear the chatter of merchants hawking wares from every corner of Azeroth, the smell of roasted chestnuts mingling with the briny sea air, and the way the city's towering spires caught the sun like blades of gold.
She recalled, too, the times her father had led her into the royal court, where the air was rich with incense and ceremony. She, a young girl clad in silks, had watched wide-eyed as nobles in jewel-encrusted finery traded words sharper than any sword. At her side, Anduin Lothar had been a figure of both pride and protection, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as though to anchor her amidst the swirl of grandeur. It had been a world of color, of life, of promise—and in her heart, Adriana realized how deeply she had missed it.
Now, standing once more in her father's presence, with her own son asleep nearby, she felt the circle of time folding upon itself. The thought of showing Thorwin the same sights, of letting him walk the same streets and taste the same marvels she once did, filled her chest with a warmth she had not felt in years.
She turned her gaze back to her father, her smile steadier now. "I would like that," she whispered, her voice carrying both gratitude and longing. "To walk again through Stormwind… and for Thorwin to see what I once saw."