The wind atop Stormwind Keep carried with it the scent of ash and iron. Thorwin leaned over the parapet, his small hands gripping the cold stone as his eyes fixed upon the distant city wall. Beyond it, plumes of smoke coiled into the heavens—thick, black, and unrelenting—twisting against the serene blue of the afternoon sky like ink poured into clear water. Days had bled into one another since the siege began, each marked by the dull thrum of fear that refused to fade. Messengers came and went like shadows, bearing tidings that grew grimmer with each passing dawn. And yet, of all the whispered reports echoing through the keep's stone halls, it was the silence regarding his grandfather that haunted Thorwin most. Though, his mother proved resilient in such silence— her strength to not show her fears… yet the stress grows apparent through her appearance.
Then he looked down, and amidst his gaze stood dozens of armored men surrounding the keep. Some patrolled the battlements, others tightened their grips on spears and shields, faces set toward the walls as though sheer will might keep the enemy at bay. The air thrummed with a tense stillness—the calm before something unseen, something vast. Soon after, a deep, resonant horn shattered the air, echoing across the city like a roar of deliverance. The bells followed soon after, clanging in a frantic rhythm from the high towers. Thorwin jolted upright, heart pounding, his gaze snapping toward the distant road that wound through the burning haze. There—a lone rider, armor scorched and cloak torn, galloped hard toward the keep. As the man grew nearer, his words along with his voice brought conviction to all—
"—Lord Anduin has returned! The Lion has broken the orcish lines! The siege is lifted!"
For a heartbeat, all stood still. Then came the eruption—cries of triumph, blades raised to the sun, helmets thrown skyward in joyous defiance. "For the King! For Lord Anduin!" The soldiers' voices rose like a storm breaking over the cliffs, the echo of their jubilation rolling through the keep's walls and deep into the city beyond.
Thorwin's breath hitched. The suffocating air of despair that had hung over them for days seemed to shatter at once, replaced by something radiant and alive. Hope—real, tangible hope—surged through him. He didn't wait to think. His heart leapt, and he turned from the battlement, dashing down the winding staircase with all the speed his legs could muster. His footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls as he ran—ran to find his mother, to tell her what she longed to hear. To see her eyes, at last, filled not with fear, but with light.
Alas, the news had reached his mother's ears faster than his eager legs could carry him. When Thorwin burst through the gilded doors of the courtroom, he found her already standing amidst a flurry of elated nobles, her expression caught between disbelief and joy. The fatigue that had long dulled her features—the sleepless eyes, the trembling hands—seemed to melt away beneath the brilliance of her smile. The days of strain that had streaked faint silver through her golden hair no longer mattered; in that instant, she was radiant again, as if the Light itself had rekindled within her heart.
Thorwin slowed, his feet muffled by the marble floor and the thunderous cheers that filled the chamber. He could barely hear his own breath over the din of celebration—nobles raising goblets, courtiers embracing, guards pounding fists upon their breastplates in triumphant rhythm. Yet, somehow, she heard him. Her head turned, eyes glistening with tears not of sorrow but of release. For a heartbeat, mother and son merely looked at one another, both too overcome to speak. Then Adriana crossed the room in a blur of motion, her silken skirts sweeping past startled courtiers. She fell to her knees before him and gathered him into her arms with such fierce tenderness that it stole the air from his lungs. Her body trembled against his, and he felt the warmth of tears seeping through the thin silk of his tunic.
"We're safe…" she whispered, her voice cracking like a prayer long held in silence.
Thorwin said nothing. Words were too small for what he felt. Instead, he clung to her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder, and for that fleeting moment, the world outside the keep—the fires, the fear, the war—seemed impossibly distant. All that remained was the heartbeat between them.
A week passed, and the roar of victory quieted into the low hum of uneasy peace. Stormwind had resumed its rhythm, but there was something hollow in its rhythm, a tension beneath the surface that even the laughter of the streets could not drown. For Thorwin and Varian, life returned to its familiar course of training and study, but the adults around them carried an unspoken heaviness. The gleam of triumph had dulled into wary silence. His grandfather, for one, was not the man he had used to be. His visits to Adriana and Thorwin grew brief, his words fewer, his gaze distant—haunted, perhaps, by things he had seen beyond the city walls. Adriana, too, seemed changed. She spent long hours alone in her chambers, surrounded by inkpots and rolls of parchment. Thorwin would sometimes linger at her door, hearing the faint scratch of her quill, the soft sigh that followed each page.
There was a time when he asked what she was writing, she only smiled, the kind of smile that hid as much as it revealed. "Letters, my dear," she would say. "Just letters."
But he knew better. There was something secret in her eyes, something that spoke not of peace, but of preparation. And though he did not yet understand it, a quiet unease had begun to stir within his young heart once more.
And so in the late of the night, he found himself outside of his mother's study.
His small feet padded quietly over the stone floor. The torchlight flickered in rhythmic breaths along the corridor, casting golden halos against the walls. Then he heard voices—a woman's, soft and familiar, and a man's, steady and deep. His steps slowed. The sound came not from the study, but from his mother's chamber, its door slightly ajar.
A slight hesitation borne out of guilt paused his steps, but one of hunger pushed him forward to lean onto the door. In the door's steep slit, his mother stood near the hearth, her arms wrapped around herself as though holding in her composure. The firelight painted her hair in shades of amber and gold, and though her posture was proud, her voice carried the brittle edge of exhaustion. Opposite her stood Anduin Lothar, no longer armored for battle but dressed in a simple tunic, his expression firm yet filled with the quiet concern only a father could bear.
"I received word from Kul Tiras again," Adriana said at last, her voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. "Marcus has written. He says the sea has grown cruel, and the men restless. He… he blames me for leaving, for bringing Thorwin somewhere… Foreign."
Lothar sighed, heavy and weary, his large hands clasped behind his back as he gazed into the flickering hearth. The light caught upon the faint silver strands in his beard, the mark of battles and years that had weighed upon him. "He forgets that it was he who pushed you to stay," Lothar said. "You needed peace, Adriana—away from those silent halls he calls home. You had given all of yourself to him, and to that sea-bound house of his. Though, it may be harsh to say, Thorwin needed time for himself as well…" He paused, the lines around his eyes deepening. "It was just… no one had expected the brutes' arrival."
Adriana's gaze fell to the fire, where the flames danced like fragile memories. "No," she whispered. "None of us did." Her fingers trembled as she drew them together. "But Marcus's words… they cut deep, Father. He writes of betrayal and duty, of shame before his peers. As though I had abandoned him, rather than sought to protect our son."
Lothar turned toward her, his expression softening. "He is a man of the sea. The ocean teaches pride before patience. Salt runs thick in their veins—it hardens them, makes them think silence is strength."
Adriana gave a faint, bitter smile. "And yet silence is all he gives me. Each letter feels colder than the last. I can almost see the frost upon his words."
Lothar stepped closer, his presence a calm weight in the dim chamber. "Then perhaps it is not you who has changed as well, but him also."
She turned her eyes up to him then—blue like the deep sea, clouded with longing and exhaustion. "But I am his wife. I vowed to keep our family whole. And yet I can feel the threads fraying between us, no matter how tightly I hold." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "What will become then? What of Thorwin, when he grows and begins to ask why? When he becomes Lord Stormsong with naught but cold in his heart."
Lothar's stern demeanor faltered, replaced by quiet sorrow. He reached out and rested a hand upon her shoulder, his grip warm and steady. "Then you tell him the truth," he said softly. "That his father is a good man who has lost his way, but that his mother's love never wavered. That, my dear, will be enough."
Adriana shook her head, her eyes glistening and her smile formed of self-mockery. "You make it sound so simple."
"It isn't," he said, with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But it's the only way forward. You cannot mend the sea by staring into it—you endure, and wait for the tide to turn."
Her lips parted, as if to speak again, but the words failed her. For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of the wind pressing against the windowpanes.
"I sometimes wonder," she said finally, "if I made a mistake marrying into Kul Tiras. The distance, the cold—everything feels like a lifetime away from the warmth of these walls."
Lothar's gaze softened further. "You followed your heart, as any would. But hearts are often foolish things. Still," he said, with a faint chuckle, "they are the bravest part of us. And yours has always been strong, Adriana. You are your mother's daughter—she, too, bore her share of storms."
That broke something in her composure. Her shoulders trembled as she turned her face away, a quiet sob escaping despite her effort to restrain it. Lothar said nothing more; instead, he stepped forward and drew her into his arms. For a man known to command armies, his embrace was unexpectedly gentle.
"I will speak to Marcus when this war is over," he murmured. "Perhaps he only needs reminding of what he still stands to lose."
Adriana nodded weakly against his chest, her tears soaking the front of his tunic. "And if he's already forgotten?"
Lothar sighed, resting a calloused hand upon the back of her head. "Then you let him go. Not for your sake, but for Thorwin's. The boy deserves a home built on peace, not bitterness."
It was then Adriana grabbed the locket strapped on her neck, and when she pried it open; Thorwin saw a smile— Not of joy, but one of sacrifice. "My son deserves the best things in the world. He will grow the Lord of his household, marry a fine young lady, and grow a house born not out of just duty and opportunity but truelove. And if that means that I have to endure. Then endure, I must."
For a long while, neither spoke again. Only the steady rhythm of her breathing and the soft pop of the fire filled the chamber.
Beyond the doorway, unseen, Thorwin stood in the dim corridor—eyes wide, heart heavy. The sudden revelation had broken an illusion of peace, love and joy. Once, he had thought his father busy with honor, duty, and guidance of his flock, but now there seemed more than what's in the eyes.
In that silence, a seed took root in him—a promise he would one day try to keep.
Mayhaps, one would break once their world turned upside down—when all they held as truth crumbled into lies, when all certainties dissolved into mist. But not him.
Or so Thorwin believed.
He had endured, and trained, and fought—if not against the enemy beyond the walls, then against the weakness that festered within himself. His wooden sword rose and fell in furious rhythm, each strike heavier than the last, each breath sharper, harsher. Once, he had bested Varian Wrynn, though only once. A fluke, the knights had murmured—a lucky swing from the boy of the sea. Yet for Thorwin, that fleeting victory was a spark in the darkness, proof that he was not merely a shadow beside the crown prince. But still, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
With a final shout, he drove his blade into the training dummy, the wood splintering under the force of the blow. The weapon bit deep, stuck fast. He gritted his teeth and yanked at it, his muscles straining. "Light!" he cried in frustration. "Come—out—already!"
The sword held fast, unmoving.
"Surely it would be deemed blasphemy for the next leader of the Tidesages to call upon the Light so casually?"
The mocking voice came from behind, smooth and familiar. Thorwin turned, sweat clinging to his brow. There, leaning lazily against a post with his arms crossed and that insufferably smug grin, stood Varian Wrynn.
"And surely," Thorwin shot back between breaths, "a prince should learn to smile without sounding like a pompous rooster."
Varian's grin widened. "Ah, but roosters are noble creatures. They wake the kingdom each dawn."
Thorwin gave an exaggerated sigh. "Then may the kingdom sleep in peace."
A few of the nearby guards chuckled under their breath as they passed by, pretending not to have overheard the exchange. Varian, however, stepped forward, brushing past them, and planted his boot beside Thorwin's stuck sword. With a casual tug, he wrenched it free, the wood creaking in protest.
"You pull too hard," Varian said, tossing the weapon back. "Power isn't always about strength. Sometimes it's about patience."
Thorwin caught the sword, his grip firm. "Easy for you to say. You've had tutors since you could walk."
"And you've had the sea," Varian countered, his tone softening just slightly. "You've learned to move with the tide, not against it. Perhaps you've just forgotten how."
Thorwin looked at him, unsure whether it was comfort or mockery. His frustration still simmered beneath the surface. "Maybe," he said quietly. "Or maybe I just don't have the luxury of forgetting."
Varian tilted his head. "Still thinking about… Kul Tiras?"
Thorwin froze for a heartbeat, then forced a dry laugh. "You hear everything, don't you?"
"When people whisper in the halls of my home, yes," Varian said, though his eyes held something gentler than amusement now. "I didn't mean to pry. But if your father truly—"
"Don't," Thorwin cut him off, sheathing his sword with a hard snap. "I don't want to talk about it."
The air between them shifted—tense, then quiet. The clang of metal and the distant shouting of squires filled the training yard once more. Varian watched his friend in silence for a moment, then sighed.
"You're too much like my father, you know," he said finally. "Both of you trying to carry the world before you're ready."
Thorwin glanced up, startled by the comparison. "And what about you, Prince of Stormwind?"
Varian smirked faintly. "I suppose I'll carry it whether I'm ready or not."
For a moment, neither spoke. The sun dipped lower over the walls, casting long shadows across the training field. The sounds of steel and shouting began to fade as squires were dismissed one by one, leaving only the two of them beneath the reddening light.
Thorwin lowered his sword, his earlier anger dulling to thoughtfulness. "When this war ends," he said quietly, "I'll return home. To Kul Tiras. But part of me wishes I could stay here. With all of this. With you."
Varian nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then perhaps when peace comes, you'll visit again. And maybe next time, I'll let you win."
Thorwin smiled faintly, a weary yet genuine curve of his lips. "You won't need to let me."
Varian laughed, the sound echoing lightly through the empty yard. "We'll see, Tidesage."
Tidesage.
Once, Thorwin could have shouted that word to the heavens with pride. It was his birthright, the sacred duty passed down through his forefathers—guardians of the sea, interpreters of the tides' will. But now, the word cut deeper than a blade. Each syllable carried the weight of everything that chained him to a fate he no longer knew if he wanted.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched. The wood creaked under his hold as thoughts swirled violently within him. He wanted to speak—to tell Varian he would never be a Tidesage, that he would carve his own destiny, one unbound by the whispers of waves or the expectations of old men clinging to faith. But what would he be, if not that?
House Stormsong had ruled their valley for centuries—not merely as nobles, but as shepherds of the sea, those said to hear its voice when the rest of the world only heard waves. To reject that was to reject the very blood in his veins.
His lips parted, but no words came.
When Thorwin finally looked up, Varian's grin had faded. The prince's green eyes had darkened with realization, and for the first time, there was guilt in his gaze.
"I—" Varian stammered, his voice halting, uncertain. "I didn't mean to hurt you with that word, Thorwin."
For a moment, Thorwin could only stare. A prince, heir to a kingdom, apologizing—to him. Kings and princes were not meant to offer words like that so lightly. Yet here he was, sincerity woven through every syllable.
Thorwin forced a small, weary smile. "You didn't," he lied softly. "It's just… the sea feels far away from here. I suppose I miss it."
Varian studied him for a moment longer, as though weighing whether to press further. Then he nodded slowly, stepping closer until they stood side by side.
"I think I'd miss it too," he said at last. "If it were part of me."
The simplicity of it struck Thorwin more deeply than any comfort could have. There was no pity in Varian's tone—only understanding, quiet and genuine.
But all good things, as the bards often sang, come to an end.
The understanding between the boys had barely faded when the sharp clatter of boots rang out across the yard. It was not the steady march of training soldiers but a frantic, jarring rhythm—armor clanging, steel plates scraping against one another. The sound carried the weight of fear. Thorwin and Varian turned toward it, expecting perhaps a knight on errand duty. Instead, a full retinue of royal guards came charging into view, cloaked in Stormwind's azure and silver, their polished armor now marred with soot and blood. Their faces were grim, their pace relentless.
"My prince!" the lead guard called, his voice strained from both breath and dread. "We must hurry—to the docks! There is no time to lose!"
Confusion struck the two boys first, but it was swiftly followed by unease. Thorwin saw the fear in the guard's eyes—raw, unguarded, unbefitting a man of his station. Even Varian, who only moments ago had smiled so freely, stood frozen, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his practice sword. The men reached them, forming a circle as if to shield the boys from an unseen storm. The leader stepped forward, his steel gauntlets trembling slightly as he spoke again. "Lord Thorwin," he said, his voice quieter now, "your grandfather instructs to bring you at the docks. You are to go there at once."
Thorwin blinked, a chill creeping through his veins. "And my mother?" he asked, the words escaping him before he could stop them.
"That is, Mi'lord—"
"—Where is she!?" he demanded, the shout cracking with both fear and fury.
The man flinched. "In the Keep, Mi'lord," he stammered. "We—we weren't able to reach her. The halls are in panic. The servants fled, the knights are rallying—"
"What happened?" Varian cut in sharply, his voice firm but trembling at the edges. "Why are you speaking in riddles?"
The guard's lips parted, but before he could answer, a distant cry tore through the air.
"The King is dead!"
The words echoed like thunder across the courtyard.
"The King is dead!" another voice screamed, closer this time—then chaos followed.
Shouts erupted through the keep, the bells of Stormwind tolling in wild, uneven strokes. From beyond the high walls came a deep, bone-shaking roar—the sound of war drums and horns from the plains below.
"The orcs are outside!" someone bellowed. "They've breached the gates!"
Varian's breath hitched, his eyes wide in disbelief. "No… my father—"
Thorwin seized Varian's arm before the prince could bolt, his fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. "Varian, wait—!" he tried to say, but the words were drowned beneath the rising chaos. The prince struggled, his face pale yet burning with the desperate resolve of one who would defy the world to save what he loved.
Before Thorwin could speak again, the guards lunged forward. Two of them caught Varian by the shoulders, restraining him as gently as they could, though their movements carried the desperation of men who knew the price of hesitation. The prince shouted, fought, pleaded, but the soldiers held fast—duty warring against loyalty in their eyes.
Thorwin watched the struggle, and in their faces he saw the truth: they would drag him away if they had to. Stormwind was falling. The docks were their only chance.
Yet even as fear clutched his heart, another thought burned brighter—his mother. Somewhere beyond the rising smoke and the trembling walls, she was still in the keep. Alone. Vulnerable.
He turned his head toward the citadel, where flames licked at the high towers and the faint tolling of the bells echoed like cries for mercy. "Mother," he whispered beneath his breath, the word nearly lost in the din. "Wait for me."
For a heartbeat, his gaze flicked back to Varian—his friend, his brother in all but blood—struggling against his own guards, shouting commands no one would obey. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, Thorwin's heart clenched with guilt. There was apology there, unspoken but understood.
Then, as the guards' focus stayed fixed upon the prince, Thorwin acted.
He turned on his heel and ran.
With every person he passed, Thorwin saw the shape of fear—raw, unmasked, and unrelenting. Men and women stumbled through the smoke-choked streets, their faces pale with terror, their eyes hollow from shock. A few lay slumped by the wayside, wrapped in blood-soaked bandages that could barely stem the flow of crimson. One soldier, missing an arm, sat against a wall whispering prayers to the Light with trembling lips. Others ran past him in chaotic order—armored knights in steel and mail, charging toward the city wall with the grim resolve of those who already knew their fate. Some moved in formation, shields raised, while others marched in desperate twos or threes, clutching their blades like lifelines.
But to Thorwin, they were phantoms—mere silhouettes lost in the haze of war. There was only one thought that burned within him, one name that drowned out the screams and the clash of steel.
Mother.
He pushed through the crowd, through the choking ash that hung like a veil in the air. The heat from nearby fires burned against his cheeks as he finally turned a corner—and there he saw them.
Down the long, cobblestoned street that led to the keep, a tide of monstrous figures surged forward. Hulking, green-skinned creatures, their forms wreathed in flame and shadow, roared as they advanced. They were countless, blotting out the road ahead, their war-cries thundering beneath the burning sky. Each step they took left ruin in their wake; homes split apart, flames devoured the banners of Stormwind, and the once-proud city became a vision of hell itself.
Thorwin froze for the briefest moment, terror clawing at his chest. His legs trembled—then steadied. A strength not of courage but of conviction gripped him.
She's in there.
He ran.
Faster than he ever thought he could. Past the barricades, through the narrow bridge that led to the gates of the keep. His heart pounded in his ears louder than the clamor of steel, his breath sharp and ragged. The great oaken doors of Stormwind Keep loomed before him, one hanging half-broken from its hinges, smoke curling from within.
He pushed through, stumbling into the grand foyer. The air inside was thick with dust and the stench of burning oil. He ran past toppled chandeliers and shattered vases, down corridors that only days ago echoed with laughter and music. The walls that once spoke of peace now screamed of ruin.
"Mother!" he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. He darted through the corridors, his boots echoing sharply against the marble floor.
He reached her chambers—her bed perfectly made, the curtains drawn, her scent faint but fading. Empty.
"Mother!" he cried again, turning on his heel, searching desperately through the keep's labyrinthine halls. Nobles and servants fled in all directions—some sobbing, some praying, some dragging what little they could carry. None stopped to help him. None even seemed to see him.
He pushed through them all, shouting her name into the smoke. "Mother! Where are you!"
Time had become a cruel illusion—stretching, bending, mocking him with each empty corridor he passed. Thorwin had searched every hall, every chamber, every corner of the keep that memory could conjure. The grand stairs, the throne room, the servants' quarters—each one bore the mark of panic and flight, but never her presence. He was beginning to fear that she had vanished into the ruin itself.
Then, amidst the chaos—the faintest sound reached him. A voice, soft yet clear enough to shatter the silence that strangled him.
"Thorwin."
He froze.
He turned sharply toward the sound, and there she was—sitting against the wall at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in the light of the burning sconces. Her gown was torn, her once-golden hair disheveled and streaked with soot. Pain etched deep lines into her face, but her eyes still glowed with that familiar, gentle warmth that had guided him through every storm.
"Mother!" he gasped, and hurried toward her. His boots echoed across the marble as he fell to his knees before her. Panic gripped him as his eyes darted over her body, searching for the wound. Then he saw it—her hand clutching at her ankle, the fabric around it darkened with blood.
"My dear son," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You must leave."
Her trembling hand rose, brushing against his cheek. The touch was warm but unsteady, as though she were fighting her own weakness to give him comfort. Her thumb lingered against his skin, and he could feel the faint tremor in her fingers. "Go, Thorwin," she murmured again. "You must leave this place."
He shook his head. "No."
The single word struck like steel between them—unyielding, final. Adriana's eyes widened slightly, startled by the tone she had never heard from him before.
"I will not leave you here," he said, his voice firmer now, though fear quivered beneath it.
Her lips parted as if to protest, but then she faltered. Her eyes softened, and tears welled within them—tears she had refused to shed even in the worst of days. One slipped down her soot-streaked cheek, glimmering faintly in the dim light.
"You must, my dear," she whispered. "If not for me, then for our house… for your father. You must live, Thorwin. You are to be Lord Stormsong."
He grasped her hand, shaking his head again. "Damn the titles and lands, mother." They are nothing without you.
She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. The hall trembled suddenly as a distant explosion tore through the outer wall, followed by the ringing of steel and the monstrous roars of the invaders.
"They're coming," she said, her voice breaking at last. "Please—leave me to my fate, but yours must not end here!"
But Thorwin's heart burned too fiercely to hear reason. "Fate or not," he cried, rising to his feet, "you will live!"
It was the first time he had ever shouted at her—and yet there was no anger in his voice, only love made desperate by fear. Before she could stop him, he bent down, his small arms wrapping around her with a strength he did not know he possessed. Adriana gasped softly as he lifted her from the ground, his muscles trembling beneath her weight but refusing to falter.
He pressed his cheek against her shoulder, whispering, "We will live, Mother."
And with that vow, he took his first step down the corridor, her arms clinging weakly around his neck as the world around them collapsed into fire and thunder.