Morgan's mind crashed on the spot.
I'm going to carry King Wrynn?
I'm going to carry King Wrynn!
His face flushed bright red, his chest heaving as he stammered, "Y-Your… Your Majesty, I… I-I-I… of course I can! It's my… my honor!"
...
A pale glow spread along the horizon as dawn prepared to tear through the night.
Stormwind Keep's treasury lay at the base of the castle, adjacent to the armory. In the open square before it, Marshal Windsor stood leaning on his sword. His marshal's uniform was soaked through with blood—some of it his own, most of it the enemy's.
He had not returned home. Because of his suspicions, he had remained stationed here all along.
And sure enough, Malathrom had bared his fangs. Tonight, he led his privately raised troops and knights in a surprise assault on the treasury of Stormwind Keep.
Windsor had confirmed his suspicions—yet felt no joy.
Because their truth meant that King Varian Wrynn was likely already in grave danger.
He would have rather been wrong about everything.
"Hold the line!" Windsor roared hoarsely, cleaving apart a corpse that lunged at him. "Reinforcements will be here soon!"
In truth, he had no idea whether reinforcements would come.
He simply had to make the soldiers believe.
"Marshal!" the adjutant shouted, face smeared with blood, voice raw. "The men can't hold much longer!"
"Windsor!" Malathrom stood behind his battle line, his pale face brimming with smugness. "You colluded with a dark wizard and plotted against the king—tonight is your end!"
Windsor couldn't be bothered to answer such shameless slander. He clenched his teeth and kept fighting.
With such a massive disturbance, where were the troops stationed in Stormwind Keep?
Had the keep already fallen?
At last, the sound of dense marching footsteps echoed in.
Fully armed Stormwind guards poured into the square in wave after wave.
Reinforcements had finally arrived.
Malathrom's expression changed sharply, but he reacted fast, pulling out a parchment from his robes and raising it high.
"Take a good look!" he shouted, voice sharp and triumphant. "This is a personal decree written by His Majesty himself! Windsor colluded with the dark wizard Allen Prestor, betraying Stormwind and plotting rebellion! His Majesty has already been harmed by that vile dark magic—gravely ill, forced into seclusion!"
He paused, sweeping his gaze over the hesitant soldiers, a cold smile curling at his lips.
"That day, it was Windsor who let the dark wizard Allen's accomplice escape! Many of you were there—now that the traitor has revealed himself, will you still fight for him? Windsor is Allen's accomplice!"
The soldiers looked at one another, their grips on their weapons wavering.
Someone muttered, "His Majesty… is really ill?"
"I saw it with my own eyes!" Malathrom's voice rose higher and higher. "That Allen Prestor lingered around His Majesty all day—did none of you notice? After His Majesty went out with him, he shut himself away and refused to appear. Isn't that the sign of being corrupted by dark magic?!"
Weapons trembled in the soldiers' hands as their eyes shifted between Windsor and Malathrom.
Some were confused. Some hesitated. Some had already begun to waver.
Watching this, Windsor felt a chill spread through his heart.
He remembered the vision in Karazhan.
That day, he had followed Sir Lothar in a raid on the tower, and inside, he saw a prophecy of his own death.
In that vision, Stormwind burned in a sea of flames, the shadow of a black dragon blotting out the sky, and he himself lay beneath its claws.
That was his fate—an end he could not escape.
Was that vision coming true today?
He raised his head, sweeping his gaze across the uncertain soldiers, across the smug Malathrom.
Perhaps today was the day he would give everything.
Perhaps today was the day he would meet his destined death.
"Soldiers," Windsor said, his voice low. "I enlisted at fifteen. I followed Sir Lothar in war for half my life. I have witnessed the fall of Stormwind with my own eyes, and buried countless brothers-in-arms with my own hands. In all my life, I have never betrayed my oath. I have never betrayed this city."
He paused, raising his battered sword, its chipped edge pointing straight at Malathrom as his voice suddenly rose: "Today, I will prove it with my life! Evil black dragon—I will use my life to expose your true face!!!"
Windsor raised his sword high, roaring as he prepared to charge forward.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH—!"
At that very moment, a thunderous shout split the sky.
"The king is here—!!!"
The voice struck like a bolt of lightning from above.
Everyone froze. Soldiers, Malathrom, Windsor—every single one of them looked up toward the source of the sound.
Dawn had just broken. The first rays of light poured down.
And within that light, several figures descended from the sky—they had jumped straight from the top of the castle.
Behind them, the rising sun cast golden radiance around their silhouettes, as though gods themselves had descended.
Allen stood at the forefront, arms spread wide. A pale blue glow surged from his body, enveloping everyone behind him.
Feather Fall.
Their falling speed slowed abruptly, as if supported by an invisible wind. They drifted down gently, swaying as they descended.
Varian leapt down from Morgan's back.
He staggered slightly, then steadied himself.
His pale face still bore the marks of illness—but his eyes, those lion-like eyes, burned with fierce light.
The soldiers were stunned.
That was the king.
That truly was their king!
Varian strode forward, his voice hoarse from weakness, yet still carrying unquestionable authority: "Soldiers of Stormwind—hear my command!"
He raised his hand, pointing straight at Malathrom: "Malathrom has plotted treason and colluded with outside enemies—take him down!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
The soldiers' roar shook the air. They turned as one, blades snapping toward Malathrom's forces.
The smugness on Malathrom's face froze. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
"Enough!"
A furious roar, like something out of the depths of hell.
A black-clad figure beside Malathrom began to twist and swell.
The human skin tore apart, revealing the monstrous form beneath—a decaying body wreathed in ghostly green flames, black armor etched with twisted runes, and empty eye sockets burning with the fire of death.
A death knight.
Teron Gorefiend.
The knights who had worn human disguises tore them away one after another, death knights emerging from their shells like creatures breaking free of cocoons. The air instantly filled with the stench of rot and death.
Standing in the morning light, that rotting face twisted into a grotesque smile.
"Varian Wrynn," his voice echoed like a whisper from the depths of a grave, "you've come. Good. Then you will die here as well."
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