Turalyon stood among his fellow commanders and brothers-in-arms, his posture straight, hands clasped behind his back as the war council unfolded before him. The air inside the pavilion was heavy with the scent of oil, steel, and damp parchment, maps spread across the central table like wounds cut into the land itself. Voices rose and fell in measured cadence, but it was the man at the center of it all who held Turalyon's full attention.
Anduin Lothar.
To Turalyon, he was not merely their supreme commander, nor simply a knight whose name carried the weight of legend. He was a leader in the truest sense—one who commanded without posturing, whose presence alone steadied those around him. Lothar spoke with calm authority, his gauntleted finger tracing routes and lines of advance across the map, outlining troop movements and supply chains with meticulous care. Every order was precise, every contingency considered. The strategy was sound, sharpened to a fine edge by years of battle and loss.
Yet Turalyon noticed what others did not.
There was a tension beneath Lothar's composure, a subtle tightening of his jaw when certain regions were mentioned, a fraction too much force when his hand struck the table to emphasize a point. His voice, steady as ever, carried a faint undercurrent—an agitation so well-contained it might have passed unnoticed by less attentive eyes. But Turalyon had fought beside him long enough to recognize it. This was not uncertainty. This was restraint.
Everyone knew, though few dared speak of it openly. Anduin Lothar had lost more than soldiers in this war. His daughter and his grandson were gone—swallowed by the chaos of Stormwind's fall, their fates unknown. The Kul Tirans had answered that loss with fire and iron, assembling a fleet vast enough to blot out the horizon, committing ships and men beyond reason to the war effort. In return, King Terenas had dispatched his finest agents south, hunters of shadows and secrets, all seeking answers. Though, none returned.
As Lothar spoke of advancing closer to the heartlands of the Horde, Turalyon felt the shift in the room. The strategies grew bolder, the maneuvers more aggressive. Not reckless—never that—but driven, as though the war itself had become a race against time. There was a hunger in Lothar now, a quiet urgency that sharpened every command. He pushed them forward not out of desperation, but from a need to end this—to force the truth into the light, whatever it might be.
And yet, his brilliance remained undiminished. The plans were flawless. The army responded with unshaken confidence. No one questioned his leadership, nor could they. Even in grief, Anduin Lothar was a force of will and clarity, a commander who carried the weight of his losses without letting them break his grip on the war.
…
They called it the last march—or so the men whispered to one another as the column advanced, voices low but charged with conviction. The Alliance army pressed onward toward what the Horde, in their guttural Common, named Blackrock Spire—their stronghold, their seat of power, and, if the Light willed it, their final bastion. The name itself carried weight, looming over the soldiers like a shadow cast by the mountain long before it came into view. This was where the war would be decided, where the long road of blood and fire would either end… or claim them all.
Tens of thousands marched beneath the Alliance banners, a tide of steel and resolve drawn from every kingdom that still stood. Men from Stormwind, Lordaeron, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras—shoulder to shoulder despite old rivalries—advanced as one. Victory had followed victory in the southern lands, and with each liberated town and shattered war camp, morale had risen like a rekindled flame. Dwarves once held in chains now marched freely in armor reclaimed or reforged, their war cries ringing louder for the years stolen from them. Human slaves, freed from countless camps, took up arms as well—some trained, some not, all driven by the same hunger for retribution and survival. The army swelled with each mile, fed by those who had lost everything and now marched with nothing left to fear.
Yet Turalyon felt it all the same—the tightening in his chest, the quiet dread coiled beneath the hope.
He rode near the front of the great column, helm tucked beneath one arm as the wind tugged at his cloak. He could sense the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on him, heavier with every step the army took closer to Blackrock's shadow. This was no skirmish, no border clash. This was the heart of the Horde, and hearts did not fall without cost. Fear lingered there, unspoken but shared, woven through the ranks as tightly as faith.
And still, there was hope.
Hope for an end. Hope for silence where screams had been. Hope for a world rebuilt from the ashes they had marched through. That hope was what kept the army moving—and what gnawed most fiercely at Turalyon, for leadership demanded he carry it without letting it break him. In the few quiet moments the march allowed, he bowed his head in prayer, lips moving silently as he called upon the Light for strength, for clarity, for guidance. Not for victory alone—but for the wisdom to lead men through whatever awaited them beyond the mountain.
An hour later, the vast momentum of the Alliance host slowed to a deliberate halt as they reached the mouth of a narrow mountain pass. The towering stone walls rose sharply on either side, casting long shadows across the road ahead, and the air grew noticeably still. At the very front of the column, Anduin Lothar raised a gauntleted hand, his gesture sharp and unmistakable. The order rippled backward through the ranks, banners dipping and armor settling as tens of thousands of men came to a disciplined stop. For a brief moment, Lothar remained motionless in his saddle, eyes fixed on the darkened passage ahead, his expression unreadable.
Then he turned and called for the generals.
Turalyon swung down from his horse alongside the others, boots crunching against gravel as they gathered at the edge of the pass. Elite guards formed a tight perimeter around them, shields interlocked, scanning the cliffs and ridgelines above with practiced vigilance. The world beyond their circle faded into distant noise—the stamping of hooves, the clink of armor—leaving only the quiet tension of command. Maps were unfurled across a hastily cleared stone, fingers tracing the narrow route ahead while the pass loomed like a waiting throat.
"There might be an ambush ahead," Uther said at last, his voice steady but grim. He studied the rock formations with a seasoned eye, noting the countless places where archers or warbands could lie in wait. "The terrain favors them. Too many blind corners. Too many high points."
"I agree," Gavinrad added, nodding once. "If they're going to strike, this is where they'll do it." He tapped the map with a calloused finger. "We should send a vanguard unit first. Light infantry. Test the path before committing the full host."
Turalyon's jaw tightened. He stepped forward before the suggestion could settle too comfortably among them. "And risk losing them?" he objected, his voice firm, edged with restrained frustration. He glanced from face to face, meeting the eyes of men he respected deeply. "We're not dealing with scattered warbands anymore. This is the Horde's heartland. Every soldier we send ahead alone may never return."
"It's either that," Gavinrad pressed, his tone hardening as he gestured toward the darkened throat of the pass, "or we risk losing everyone." His eyes flicked briefly to the cliffs above, then back to the gathered commanders. "If the Horde is waiting for us in there—and I'd wager they are—then charging blind is exactly what they want."
Turalyon's response came swiftly, heat bleeding through the restraint he so carefully maintained. "We agreed to leave no man behind," he said, voice firm, almost pleading beneath the steel. "What you're suggesting now will be worse. Sending men forward knowing they may not return—knowing we may be sacrificing them—how is that any different from what the Horde does?" His gaze swept the circle, searching for agreement, for hesitation, for anything that might slow the momentum toward that choice.
Gavinrad drew breath to answer, jaw set, ready to counter—
"Enough."
Anduin Lothar's voice cut through the tension like a blade through taut rope. It was not loud. In fact, it was so low that the elite guards standing only a few paces away could not have heard it. Yet within the circle, it carried absolute authority—steady, immovable, and final. All eyes turned to him at once.
Turalyon watched as the grand commander lifted a hand to his beard, fingers threading slowly through white and elder-streaked hair. For a long moment, Lothar said nothing. His face was drawn tight, the lines etched by years of war and command deepening as his thoughts churned behind his eyes. This was the look of a man weighing lives against lives, victory against conscience.
At last, he spoke.
"We will send a force for reconnaissance," Anduin said, each word measured, deliberate. "All cavalry. Fast. Light. They will push through the pass, reach the far end, and return with what they find." His gaze lifted, fixing each general in turn, daring any of them to object. "If they report back before sunset, we act on their word. If no one returns…"
He paused, just long enough for the implication to settle.
"…then we march onward with the full host."
The decision hung in the air, heavy and irreversible. Turalyon felt it settle in his chest like a stone. There would be no clean choice today—only the least terrible one.
…
The sound of hooves came first, distant but growing clearer with every breath. A light cavalry rider burst from the mouth of the pass soon after, cloak torn by wind and stone, his horse lathered with sweat yet unbloodied. He reined in hard before the commanders, chest heaving as he delivered his report. No orcs sighted. No traps sprung. The pass lay quiet, empty, untouched. His patrol had ridden its full length and returned without incident.
Anduin wasted no time. Orders rang out in sharp succession—banners lifted, horns sounded, ranks tightened. The army surged forward once more, a vast tide of steel and resolve flowing into the narrow throat of the pass. To many, the report brought relief, even confidence. Boots struck stone in disciplined rhythm as the column advanced, armor chiming in steady cadence beneath the rising cliffs.
But Turalyon felt it then—that subtle, gnawing unease that had saved his life more than once.
He rode near the front, eyes lifting instinctively to the jagged ridgelines above. The stone walls loomed too close, hemming them in, swallowing sound and narrowing sight. The silence was wrong. Too complete. Too patient. His grip tightened on the reins as the ranks stretched thin within the confined space, men packed shoulder to shoulder with little room to maneuver.
The unease became dread in a heartbeat.
Shadows shifted overhead—dozens, then hundreds—moving with purpose along the cliffs. The sun vanished behind them, and the air seemed to hold its breath.
"Orcs," Turalyon murmured.
Then his voice broke loose, sharp and commanding, cutting through the march like a blade. "Orcs ahead!"
Before the warning could fully carry, the sky darkened.
Arrows rained down from above, a screaming storm of death loosed from hidden ledges and crags. Shafts slammed into shields and armor, thudded into flesh, and shattered against stone. Men cried out as horses reared and bucked, formations breaking under the sudden onslaught. The confined pass turned the barrage into slaughter, leaving nowhere to run, nowhere to scatter.
And from the far end of the pass came the thunder.
A cavalry of orcs burst into view, riding massive wolves whose snarling maws dripped with saliva, yellow eyes blazing with feral hunger. They charged straight into the chaos, weapons raised, war cries echoing violently off the stone walls as arrows continued to fall from above.
The trap had sprung—perfectly timed, brutally executed—steel, claw, and shadow closing in from every side.