The clamor of steel upon steel thundered across the training grounds, a steady, merciless rhythm that seemed to shake the very air. Sparks flew where blades met, and the guttural roars of exertion mingled with the crash of armored bodies colliding. The ground itself bore the scars of countless drills—trampled earth worn into grooves by boot and blade. Encircling it all stood a high wooden fence, masterfully crafted, its polished beams carved with sigils of lions and gryphons, a reminder that these fields belonged not to farmers, but to warriors.
Within the ring, dozens of men fought in pairs, their bodies sheathed in plate that gleamed in the sun despite the dust. Each clash resounded like thunder, strikes landing with a ferocity that would have killed a lesser man were it not for the protection of steel. Yet there was no hesitation in their movements, no faltering in their eyes. This was not a sport, but a rehearsal for death itself.
Amidst the clash of giants, two much smaller figures drew curious eyes: boys, no older than twelve, their slight frames a striking contrast to the hulking warriors who towered around them. One bore hair of gold, bright as the sun, while the other's locks were black as raven's wings. Each gripped a wooden sword, worn smooth from use, their knuckles white with tension.
They circled one another, breaths quick and shallow, the ground between them taut with unspoken challenge. Then, as their gazes locked, the stillness shattered.
The blonde boy surged forward first, reckless and raw. His strokes were heavy, brimming with strength untamed by discipline, each swing driving his opponent back a step. Wood cracked sharply against wood, the sound cutting through the deeper roar of steel. The black-haired boy staggered beneath the initial onslaught, his feet skidding in the dirt as he struggled to meet each blow. Yet behind his guarded movements there was no panic—only calculation.
Bit by bit, he adjusted. His parries grew sharper, timed to deflect rather than merely block. His counterstrikes came faster, slashing not with strength but with precision, aiming for the gaps left wide by his opponent's wild aggression. The tide of the fight began to shift, subtle at first, until the balance was undeniable. The golden-haired youth still struck like a tempest, but the dark-haired boy had learned its rhythm, and with each exchange his confidence grew.
The tempo of their battle quickened, the thrum of wood against wood beating like a war drum. The blonde boy pressed forward with furious abandon, his face flushed red with exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes. Each swing carried the weight of his budding strength, but his strikes grew sloppier with every step, his breath ragged as he tried to force an opening through sheer will.
The black-haired boy, by contrast, seemed only to grow steadier. His parries no longer trembled. His footing—once loose—had settled into a fighter's stance, each movement deliberate, each strike a response rather than a gamble. He waited, biding his time, watching for the moment when reckless passion would give him more than a gap—it would give him victory.
And then it came.
The blonde boy raised his wooden blade high, his body twisting for a strike that promised to end the duel in one crushing blow. But in that motion, his guard split wide. The dark-haired boy stepped in with the certainty of instinct, his sword darting forward like a hawk diving on prey.
Crack! The blonde's weapon was knocked aside, the force of it jarring his grip. A follow-up strike caught him square in the chest, the dull thud echoing through the yard as he stumbled back and fell hard into the dirt.
Silence rippled for a heartbeat, broken only by the rasp of the victor's breathing. The black-haired boy stood tall, chest heaving but eyes alight with triumph, his wooden sword leveled at his fallen opponent. The match was his.
Around them, a few of the knights paused in their sparring, some with approving nods, others with faint chuckles at the ferocity shown by children. Yet to the two boys, the world had narrowed to this moment—the clash, the fall, and the bitter taste of defeat.
The blonde boy scowled, brushing dust from his tunic as he scrambled upright, but his rival had already extended a hand. His voice carried both pride and a strange warmth, the tone of one who was accustomed to victory, yet willing to share it.
"You fight well," the black-haired boy said, his words clipped but sincere. "But strength alone won't win battles. You've got to think. To see."
Thorwin Stormsong blinked up at him, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. His pride burned sharper than the ache in his ribs where the wooden blade had struck. For a heartbeat, he considered refusing the hand extended toward him—but his stubbornness faltered before the boy's steady gaze. Slowly, almost grudgingly, Thorwin placed his hand in his rival's, feeling the firm grip pull him upright from the dirt.
"Steady there," the black-haired boy said, giving him a half-smile before turning away. He slid his wooden sword back into the rack, movements crisp with the practiced ease of repetition. The locks on his leather vest came undone one by one, until the padding hung loose over his sweat-dampened tunic. Soon, even his gloves were unworn, cast aside like an afterthought.
"That's the fifth time I've lost to you, Varian," Thorwin muttered, his tone somewhere between complaint and reluctant admiration. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, yet he spoke them all the same.
Varian's lips curved into a sly grin, though there was no arrogance in it—only a boy's simple pride. "Don't brood over it," he said lightly. "I'm older, stronger, and I've trained more than you." He spoke truth, not boast. For Varian Wrynn was no ordinary boy; he was the heir to Stormwind, his life molded since childhood by masters of steel and strategy. From the tender age of five he had learned to swing a blade, first with clumsy strikes, and later under the sharp eye of the kingdom's greatest swordmaster—Anduin Lothar himself.
Varian paused, his grin softening into something more genuine. "And I meant what I said. You fight well. Better every time."
Thorwin clicked his tongue, frustration still coiled tight in his chest. Praise, however well-intentioned, did little to soothe the sting of repeated defeat. His gaze wandered past Varian to the edge of the training yard, where his mother stood alongside her father. Adriana's golden hair shimmered in the sun as she conversed warmly with Anduin Lothar, her laughter mingling with his deep, steady voice. Beside them stood another man—dark-haired, regal, crowned with a circlet of gold that caught the light. King Llane Wrynn himself, ruler of Stormwind, and father to Thorwin's rival.
The three adults spoke with cheerful ease, utterly unbothered by the outcome of the boys' duel. For them, it had always been so: Thorwin facing Varian, Thorwin falling short. It was as natural as the sun rising, an old story repeated day after day.
Sighing, Thorwin tugged at the straps of his leather vest, pulling it loose with impatient hands. His body ached, his pride more so, but still he followed Varian from the sparring ring, their footsteps in quiet rhythm as they made their way back to their families.
For all his frustrations, Thorwin could not deny he was enjoying his time in Stormwind. The city was a marvel, its white walls and bustling markets unlike anything in Kul Tiras, its courts alive with pageantry and power. He had found camaraderie here, challenge, and even—on rare occasions—joy. Yet at night, when silence crept in, his mind returned to the letters his father had sent from afar. Letters that carried not his usual formality, but an unfamiliar thread of concern. Thorwin had expected their stay to last mere weeks, perhaps a month at most. But the days had stretched into months, and still his mother spoke of no return date. She smiled when asked, but her silence gnawed at him. Why were they still here? What did his father's words truly mean?
It was then that Thorwin was pulled from his thoughts when a voice, deep and commanding, carried across the courtyard. It was not the tone of a man at ease, but one edged with steel and shadow. Thorwin stilled, his breath catching. Beside him, Varian straightened, his expression sharpening from playful smugness to something far more serious.
The sound came from the far side of the training yard, where Anduin Lothar and King Llane Wrynn had stepped slightly apart from Adriana, their words lowering in weight and secrecy. The two men walked a few paces together, their voices measured yet clear enough that keen ears—such as those of curious boys lingering by the racks—could catch them.
"…they grow bolder with every raid," Lothar said, his tone grim. His towering frame, so indomitable in battle, seemed carved in iron as he spoke. "These creatures are not mere marauders, Llane. They strike with order, with purpose. Villages burn, farms vanish, caravans are slaughtered on the roads. We fight menacing shadows, but shadows with cunning."
King Llane's brow furrowed, his youthful face marred by the weight of a crown that seemed heavier by the day. "And still you cannot say from where they came?"
"No." Lothar's voice was low, nearly a growl. "But they are not of this world, that much I am certain. They are larger than men, their skins green as rot, their savagery unmatched. And they… are many."
Thorwin's heart gave a small, nervous leap. His fists curled at his sides, remembering Varian's words: Strength alone won't win battles. You've got to think. To see. But how could one even imagine an enemy such as this—monsters not of their world?
Varian shifted beside him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed thin. Though only a boy, the crown prince of Stormwind carried his father's burden in that moment, his gaze dark with unspoken questions. He made no move to leave, and neither did Thorwin.
King Llane's voice dropped, weary yet resolute. "The people must not know—not yet. Rumors already spread like wildfire, and fear will do more damage to our kingdom than any blade. Still… if these orcs, as you've named them, continue to come in such numbers…"
Lothar stopped, turning to face his king fully. His eyes, like storm clouds, were hard with conviction. "Then war will find us, whether we are ready or not. And when it does, Stormwind must stand, or everything we love will be swept away."
The words lingered in the silence like a stormcloud, heavy and unshakable. Thorwin and Varian stood side by side, their youthful bravado stripped away, their faces pale in the faint sunlight. The echoes of their elders' grim conversation clung to them like a second skin. Foreign beasts, green as rot and fierce as fire, sweeping across countrysides, torching villages, leaving only ash in their wake. How could they not have heard the whispers before? The barracks buzzed with them, the courtiers spoke of them in hushed tones, servants carried scraps of rumor like smoldering coals from room to room. It was a wonder any of it had been contained from the city at all. But here, hearing the truth from their own leaders, the menace seemed to sharpen, to take form, as though the shadow of it pressed right up against the walls of Stormwind itself.
Thorwin swallowed hard, his small hand curling into a fist. His heart thrummed against his ribs, caught between dread and defiance. Varian, beside him, let his shoulders sag, his dark eyes fixed on some faraway point.
"We're too weak…" Varian's voice came low, a whisper that carried more weight than any shout. It trembled with the frustration of a boy who wanted so desperately to be a man. "Too weak to be of any use. Too weak to help them, Thorwin."
Thorwin turned to him, finding in his friend's expression the same gnawing helplessness that clawed at his own chest. For a moment he thought to speak words of defiance, to insist they could grow stronger, train harder, do something—but all he managed was a slow, quiet nod. Words failed him, but the fire in his heart did not.
…
The bells of Stormwind tolled in sonorous harmony, their echoes rolling like waves through the cobbled streets. At the city's heart, the great cathedral rose, its spires piercing the heavens, its gilded windows burning with the glow of morning sun. Today the holy place was more than full—every pew crowded, every aisle lined with citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder. Even beyond the doors, in the courtyard, people gathered in reverent silence, straining to hear the voice that carried from within.
Thorwin sat among them, small between the shoulders of men and the cloaks of women, his gaze fixed on the figure standing at the great lectern. The priest was clad in a robe of immaculate white, embroidered with gold that caught the light like fire. His voice was deep, commanding, yet suffused with serenity, and every word seemed to still the restless air. He spoke of the Light—of compassion, of mercy, of selfless sacrifice. Of a power not wielded but shared, not taken but given. He found himself leaning forward, drawn to every syllable. The priest's words wove a promise both comforting and terrible: that those who opened their hearts could feel the Light move through them, could wield its brilliance to heal, to shield, to strike down the wicked. But always, it was bound to faith—faith even when sight failed, faith when all seemed lost. "Only those who cannot see yet believe," the priest thundered, "may truly channel the Light's grace."
The boy's heart stirred. Part of him longed for such radiance, such purpose. Yet another part shrank back, afraid. The Light belonged to his mother's faith, to this kingdom's heart. His father's blood carried a different destiny—storms and tides, ancient chants and salt-born power. To walk too far into one path felt like turning his back on the other, and Thorwin feared the weight of such disappointment.
His reverie broke when the priest's hands lifted, his gaze sweeping the throng. "Now," the holy man declared, his voice ringing like a bell, "let the prince step forth."
Thorwin stiffened. At his side, Varian rose, shoulders squared, every movement echoing the dignity of his crown though he was still only a boy. A murmur spread through the cathedral, thousands of eyes following the young heir as he walked toward the altar. Thorwin shrank instinctively, tilting himself away, as though the brilliance of that attention might spill onto him if he lingered too near.
Of course. How could he forget? Today was no ordinary mass. It was the day of Varian's age of ascension, a ceremony to mark his passage from boyhood into the sacred duty of crown prince. No wonder the cathedral was bursting with people—nobles, knights, merchants, and commoners alike. To Thorwin, it seemed as though the whole of Stormwind had come to watch.
And so his eyes followed Varian as the prince strode toward the altar with steps steady and sure, as though he bore not the weight of the moment but wore it like a mantle already his own. Thorwin marveled. How could a boy not much older than himself hold such composure when thousands of eyes followed his every motion, when an entire city seemed to breathe in time with him? A part of Thorwin could not fathom it, and yet another part swelled with pride. A smile curved his lips, faint but true, for though the day belonged to Stormwind's heir, it was also a day of joy for a friend.
Still, his thoughts wandered. Watching Varian's shoulders, broadening with age, and his stride, strong from countless hours on the training yard, Thorwin found himself measuring the distance between them. He was close to catching Varian in height now, though the prince was thicker, sturdier—a frame better suited to the sword. Thorwin sometimes thought it unfair. In their bouts, a single mistake on his part, a single moment's falter, and Varian's strength could topple him outright. Yet he could never resent him for it. Each loss, each bruise, had only stoked his determination. And today, watching his friend step into history, Thorwin felt not envy but anticipation. What would it be like to see Varian bear the weight of his crown? What would it be like to stand beside him when that day came?
His gaze drifted to the right, and there he found his mother, Adriana, her face lifted to the light pouring through the cathedral's stained glass. She was smiling—a smile unburdened, soft and serene, so unlike the weary, fragile expressions she had worn in Brennadam. The sight struck him like a shaft of warmth, so rare that he felt himself clutching to it, memorizing the curve of her lips, the brightness in her eyes. It made him wonder, foolishly, if they could remain here forever. Stormwind was not his home, yet in its great halls and golden streets he had found friendships, purpose, and moments of peace.
But the thought came like a sigh in the wind—it had been more than a year. A year since Brennadam, since the valley's misty fields and the manor with its solemn, echoing halls. A year since the comfort of his own small chamber, the scent of sea-salt drifting in through the windows, the rolling crash of waves. The longer he stayed, the more Stormwind grew familiar, almost like a second home. Yet beneath it all, deep in his chest, there remained that tug—a longing for the valley of his birth, for the tides that had sung him to sleep since he first drew breath.
…
The ceremony reached its end with the thunder of applause echoing through the vaulted ceilings of the great cathedral. Varian had spoken the last solemn words of his oath, his young voice steady yet filled with promise, and the crowd erupted in celebration. Cheers rang out like a tide crashing against the stone, and flowers—petals of white, crimson, and gold—were cast into the air, drifting down upon Varian as though the city itself sought to crown him. Yet of all those gathered, none shone prouder than King Llane Wrynn. His smile was radiant, broader and brighter than any Thorwin had ever seen upon the man's face. It was as though all the weight of rule had, if only for a moment, been replaced by the pure joy of a father witnessing his son's first step into destiny.
Thorwin's gaze, however, wandered past the king's beaming countenance, toward the line of armored men flanking him. Llane's personal guard stood ever vigilant, shields glinting beneath shafts of stained-glass light, but among them was no sign of Thorwin's grandfather. The absence struck him with a quiet pang of disappointment. Of course, he reminded himself, Anduin Lothar was far from the city. He had led Stormwind's banners to the south, to a place the soldiers now called the Black Morass. There he commanded thousands of hardened warriors, and with them, even boys hardly older than Thorwin—youths who had taken up arms to stand against what were no longer whispered as "green savages," but named plainly: the Orcish threat. Thorwin had heard tales of that swamp from passing soldiers: of fetid waters, shifting mists, and earth as dark as tar. He often wondered whether the ground truly was black, as the name suggested, and whether he himself would ever be deemed worthy to set foot in such a place of war.
His thoughts were interrupted when movement caught his eye. A man approached the king, gaunt and hollow-eyed, his steps faltering with the exhaustion of travel. The guards stepped forward at once, barring his path, but King Llane raised a hand and bid them stand aside. The stranger bowed low, his shoulders trembling, before leaning close to whisper into the king's ear. The change upon Llane's face was immediate—his proud smile faltered, fading into grim silence. Thorwin felt unease coil in his stomach, like a chill creeping beneath his skin. Whatever words were spoken carried the weight of ill tidings.
Llane straightened, his expression hardening as he whispered quick orders to his guards. They moved with sudden urgency, steel boots ringing against the stone as they surged from the cathedral. The celebration, once a jubilant roar, began to falter as confusion rippled through the gathered crowd. Within moments, more guards poured in—dozens, their armor gleaming, their faces set like stone. They spread swiftly across the hall and courtyard beyond, ushering people toward the exits with firm commands. No explanations were given, only the pressing insistence that the people must leave, and leave quickly.
Thorwin, small amidst the shifting sea of frightened voices, clung tightly to his mother's gown. "What's happening, Mum?" he asked, his voice barely audible above the rising commotion.
"I do not know, dear," Adriana answered softly, though her grip upon his hand was steady and strong. She bent close to him, her eyes full of gentle resolve. "But you must not worry. Mommy is here. I will not let anything happen to you."
Before he could ask further, a guard approached them, his armor marked with the crest of the royal household. He bowed curtly, his face grave, and spoke in a low but urgent tone. "By order of His Majesty, you are to return at once to Stormwind Keep, along with the crown prince." He spared them no more words, for his duty carried him swiftly toward Varian, who was already surrounded by other guards. Yet with a single sharp gesture of his hand, he bid Thorwin and his mother to follow.
As they stepped out from the shadowed grandeur of the cathedral, the air itself seemed to change. What only moments ago had been filled with the fragrance of flowers and the jubilant clamor of the crowd now carried a suffocating weight, heavy as a stormcloud pressing down upon the city. It clung to every throat, turned each breath shallow, and drew lines of worry upon every face. The joy of celebration had been swept away, replaced by fear that spread faster than wildfire through dry fields.
Thorwin's gaze swept across the square and its surrounding streets, where chaos teetered on the edge of breaking loose. Armored men surged past in tight formations, their tabards snapping in the sudden wind. Some barked sharp orders at the citizens, urging them back into their homes with no room for hesitation. Others ran toward the city walls, their shields drawn and swords already gleaming, their grim expressions leaving no doubt as to the urgency of the threat. Snatches of hurried conversation rose above the clamor—words spoken in dire tones, half-heard and half-feared—but Thorwin could glean little before the guards at his side urged him and his mother forward at a brisk pace. The steel-shod boots of their escort clanged against the cobbles, an iron heartbeat that quickened his own.
"Varian," Thorwin called, his voice unsteady as he quickened his steps to draw closer to his friend.
The crown prince turned his head slightly, dark hair stirring in the wind. Thorwin searched his face desperately. "Do you know what's happening?"
For a moment, Varian's eyes betrayed him. A flicker—grim, burdened, far older than his years—crossed his expression before silence settled, thick and unbearable. Thorwin's heart thudded, straining against the pause, until at last Varian spoke.
"—They are right outside the walls."
No further explanation was needed. Thorwin felt the words strike him like a hammer-blow. He knew at once who they were. The orcs. The green-skinned brutes of nightmare and rumor, spoken of in hushed tones by soldiers and whispered about in the barracks, the same beasts whose savagery had painted villages red and turned fields into ashes. To hear they were here—so near, separated only by stone walls—was enough to make his blood run cold. His imagination conjured their tusked faces, their bloodied axes, their inhuman roars echoing in the night.
His thoughts leapt to his grandfather, to Anduin leading men in the Black Morass. If the orcs were this close, what of the army? What if… what if they had already broken through? A sharp pang of dread gripped his chest, threatening to unravel him.
He turned instinctively to his mother. Adriana walked swiftly beside him, her back straight, her hand never loosening its hold on his. Her eyes, however, betrayed the weight she bore. Thorwin saw them glisten, the tears rising yet never falling. She would not cry here—not now, not before him. He understood without words. She wanted him to see only her strength, to draw courage from it. And so she bore the burden in silence, the storm within her held at bay by a mother's will.
By the time Thorwin and his companions reached the looming silhouette of Stormwind Keep, the city's last bastion of safety, the mood had shifted into one of grim determination. The fortress rose with austere majesty, its stone walls girdled by a dark moat whose waters rippled beneath the torchlight, reflecting the fiery glow like molten gold. Every arch and parapet bristled with soldiers—armored men stationed with silent vigilance, their postures taut as bowstrings, eyes scanning the distance with a predator's alertness. The towers were manned in full force, and the sight of hundreds of bows poised along their battlements struck Thorwin with a shiver. It was not a gesture of ceremony, but of war-readiness. Each arrow nocked and ready spoke of the danger crouching just beyond the city's walls.
The heavy bridge of the keep, wrought of reinforced oak and iron, was drawn up with solemn finality as soon as Thorwin's party crossed it. Chains groaned like a beast in pain as the portcullis descended, sealing them inside with a resounding clang that echoed through the courtyard like the toll of a funeral bell. For Thorwin, the sound was suffocating; it was as though a line had been drawn—outside lay the battlefield, inside the fragile illusion of safety.
Escorted by their armored retinue, they passed into the keep's cavernous halls, where the scent of oil, steel, and incense mingled in the air. Soon they entered the courtroom, its high vaults and stained-glass windows casting fractured patterns of color upon polished stone. The chamber was already alive with movement and voices. Nobles gathered in clusters beneath gilded chandeliers, their regal silks and jeweled ornaments glittering defiantly against the somber atmosphere. Their voices overlapped in a chorus of concern, speculation, and fear, as though the finery they wore could ward off the threat gnawing at the gates.
Thorwin found himself separated from his friend almost at once. Guards ushered him and his mother to a corner of the hall, their expressions stern and uncompromising, as though to shield them from the maelstrom of politics about to erupt. Varian, however, was pulled into the center of it all. Thorwin watched from his corner, half-hidden by his mother's protective stance, as the sea of nobles swarmed around Varian. Their silken sleeves brushed against the prince's shoulders, jeweled fingers pointed and gestured with urgency, their words spilling in a tide of supplication and panic. "What is to be done?"—"Will the walls hold?"—"The orcs cannot be allowed within the city!" Each plea rose like a crashing wave, drowning the chamber in its clamor.
Varian stood at the center, his chin lifted in that stubborn way Thorwin had come to recognize during their sparring bouts. Though barely older than himself, the boy already carried a weight that made him seem years beyond his age. He answered not with authority—for he was no king yet—but with the composure drilled into him since birth. His steady eyes and restrained words seemed to soothe the nobles, if only for a moment, as though his very presence promised the strength of his lineage.
Thorwin, meanwhile, felt the gnawing sting of inadequacy coil tight around his chest. He pressed closer to his mother's side, his fingers curling into her skirts as he tried to make himself smaller, unnoticed. A storm of thoughts swirled in his head—he too bore a great name, the Stormsongs were no less than the Proudmoores in Kul Tiras, yet here he was, relegated to the shadows while Varian shouldered the eyes of a kingdom. It was as though fate itself had chosen who was to stand in the light and who must remain at its edges.
The voices of the nobles blurred together, but Thorwin could not silence the whisper in his own mind: What can I do? He thought of the wooden swords clashing in the practice yards, of Varian's advice that strength without thought was meaningless. He thought of the cathedral, of the priest's sermon on the Light, and of his father's expectations that he become a Tidesage of Stormsong. But none of it seemed to matter here, not when real blades were being sharpened and war pressed against the city walls. His blood boiled with frustration.
His eyes drifted back to Varian. The crown prince stood firm amid the noble storm, answering with quiet dignity that did not falter. And Thorwin, watching with envy and admiration, felt the truth burn bitterly within him: his friend was being tempered by fire, forged by responsibility, while he himself could only watch—helpless, powerless, a boy clinging to his mother's hand.