If this had been any other day, Bolvar would have been flayed alive by the nobles for turning the meeting room into a gore-splattered abattoir. But today? Today, nobody said a word. Because today, Stormwind wasn't merely a kingdom. It was a bleeding beast backed into a corner.
And now, even the most pompous, silk-wrapped aristocrats in the room finally got it.
No more scoffing at the savages from across the sea. No more rolling eyes at exaggerated reports of strength. The nobles stared at the blood still soaking into the council carpet and reached one unanimous conclusion:
Orcs were monsters.
Not just brutish or savage. Monsters. Born to kill, bred for slaughter, and armored in muscle thick enough to shrug off blades like mosquito bites. Suddenly, it made sense why half the kingdom fell faster than a bar tab in a dwarven tavern.
While servants scraped orc blood off the parquet flooring with expressions that said "we don't get paid enough for this," the room buzzed with quiet panic.
"You mean to tell me it takes three elite knights to take down just one orc?!" King Llane barked, his disbelief halfway between outrage and horror. "I thought that was just some overdramatic fluff in the reports!"
A duke practically shrieked, "Then how in the Light's name are we supposed to fight them?!"
"You don't," Lothar said grimly. "Not without magic. Not without planning. Not without the miraculous insanity of someone like 'The Thousand-Handed Death God'."
That name dropped like a boulder in the middle of a lake.
King Llane blinked. "That... isn't a nickname, right?"
"It's what the soldiers are calling him," Lothar replied with a sigh. "The man repelled thousands of orcs with fire, floods, and tactical madness so divine it made priests question their career paths."
"He's also apparently Duke Edmund's teacher," Bolvar added, because this conversation wasn't surreal enough.
Llane looked at the court wizard like he was hoping for confirmation that this was all some elaborate prank. The wizard, meanwhile, was unwrapping something wrapped in talismans like it might explode.
It was the staff of an orc warlock, crusted in symbols so foul the arcane wards were sizzling.
"This belonged to the orc spellcaster our mystery man killed," Lothar said.
The old wizard examined the staff, went quiet, and then gave a low whistle. "If I met the owner of this staff in a duel... I would've died. Painfully. Probably with my limbs inside out. And he took this down during a battlefield chaos buffet? Yes. Very strong. Possibly stronger than anyone in this room."
Everyone felt their collective blood pressure spike.
A man who could kill someone with the power of a peak master wizard? That put him nearly at archmage level. Which was like being told your backyard gardener is secretly the Sun King of Quel'Thalas.
Suddenly Duke Edmund wasn't just a brash noble with an inflated title. He was a disciple of a walking catastrophe wrapped in a cloak.
Llane tried to mask the spark of desperate hope flaring in his eyes. "You're sure he wore the Royal Wizard Corps emblem?"
The court wizard scoffed. "Majesty, those badges are easier to copy than a noble's signature on a tax exemption. Doesn't mean a damn thing."
Hope: extinguished.
While servants continued to mop up the battlefield formerly known as the council floor, debate resumed. Except now the yelling had a flavor of existential dread.
Everyone knew. Stormwind alone couldn't win.
A rough headcount of the orc army put them above 100,000. With a kill ratio of three humans to every orc, the math worked out to: "We're all dead."
Retreat? Impossible. Elwynn Forest wasn't just land, it was the heart of the kingdom. 70% of the population lived there. Evacuating them all to Stormwind City would collapse the food supply faster than a souffle under a troll's butt.
Bolvar tried to lighten the mood. "At least we have the sea route to Westfall now. Food supplies can keep the city fed. For now."
Llane, ever the optimist, muttered, "Bless Duke Edmund for that..."
There was no choice now. Llane stood, voice ringing with newfound steel:
"We send word to the other kingdoms. This isn't just our war. It's a world war."
Unfortunately, by the time other kingdoms started to care, the orcs had already helped themselves to half of Elwynn.
Stormwind wasn't their final destination. It was their appetizer.
To the north, the Bleeding Hollow Clan was rampaging toward Dun Morogh, taking in the crisp mountain air and leaving flaming villages in their wake.
Even the Kingdoms of Alterac and Stromgarde were getting surprise party visits from "orcish diplomats" with axes.
Since April, Llane's pleas for help had gone ignored. It wasn't until July when green-skinned brutes crashed every border like drunk ogres at a wedding buffet that the other kingdoms realized they were next.
And then came the cherry on the flaming, blood-splattered cake.
Medivh. The Guardian. The guy who was supposed to be their magical firewall against apocalypses.
He. Betrayed. Them.
Not just a betrayal. Full-blown supervillain reveal. Killed the entire Council of Tirisfal. Sent his mother packing. Aegwynn herself, the legendary mage who could body-slam dragons, got bodied by him.
All of Azeroth stopped breathing.
The Guardian had fallen. The orcs were rising. And somewhere out there, a mysterious lunatic named the Thousand-Handed Death God was holding the line with spells, saltwater, and sheer spite.
Stormwind was on the brink.
And this... was only the beginning.