She had dressed this carefully on her wedding day, when she had formally entered her husband’s life and world. She had done so then with joy, willing to share that joy with her people, as royalty should. Now, as royalty, she would be saying farewell to her husband’s presence in her life, and would do so publically. Such, also, was royalty’s duty.
The news had crushed her—particularly when the anguishing details of how her husband had died had been revealed to her. Lothar had not wished to disclose them, but he knew, as she did, that as queen, and the regent of the future king, she needed to know the wrenching truth.
Tears leaked out from under her lids, but she blinked them away. Yes, they were all grieving, she foremost among them. But the people of Stormwind needed her strength today, and that, Taria would give them.
Thousands were assembled, a great sea of upturned faces, stretching back to reach all the way down to the harbor itself. They did not cheer when she strode out to greet them. She had not expected them to.
Llane lay in the center, on a raised funeral pyre. Men were buried. Kings were burned. In front of him was his sword and his battered shield.
Taria stood straight as a ramrod the dwarves used for their rifles. She strode without hesitating toward her husband’s body. The priests of the Light had bathed his body with care, dressed him in fine clothing, and strapped on armor that had been carefully polished. They had washed and mended the magnificent cloak which had been sullied and torn in the battle; rent by swords, and also stained where it had been fastened by a brooch about his…
She swallowed hard, leaned forward, and kissed his pale cheek. Looking out at the subdued crowd, she could see so many different types of faces. Store owners, and refugees. Humans who had come from Lordaeron and Kul Tiras. The purple robes of the Kirin Tor. And those who were not human, yet who had come to pay their respects—the elves, the dwarves, even small gnomish faces peered up at her with sadness in their eyes.
Taria had prepared no speech. She would speak from her heart, as Llane always had. Looking at the sea of faces, she abruptly decided what she wanted to say. What Llane would have wanted.
“There is no greater blessing a city can have than a king who would sacrifice himself for his people,” she began. There were a few sobs from the crowd, and her own throat was tight. She continued. “But such a sacrifice must be earned. We must deserve it! You are all here today, united in a single purpose. To honor a great man’s memory. But if we only show our unity to mourn a good man’s death, what does that say about us?”
This was not expected, and some of the mourners looked decidedly uncomfortable. Good, Taria thought. War should make us uncomfortable. Refugees, violence, fear—all this should make us uncomfortable.
She pressed on. “Was King Llane wrong to believe in you?”
The answer was swift—one lone voice shouting, “No!” That single word was echoed by others. More and more joined in, passion and tears on the faces she beheld. No, these people reassured her. Your Llane was not wrong.
Tears sprang to her own eyes, but they were tears of pride and happiness.
The cheers were coming now. They were ready. Khadgar, who had well earned the honor of a place here beside royalty and commanders, went to Llane’s pyre. Respectfully, he picked up the great blade, carrying it laid out across the palm of his hands. He strode to where Anduin Lothar stood, one arm around each of her fatherless children—his neice and nephew—and held the blade out to the Lion of Azeroth. Her brother, and her husband’s best friend. She knew he had taken it when it had fallen from Llane’s hands, and used it to slay the Horde’s warchief. It was fitting that the weapon now belong to him. Of all assembled here today, only his grief had come close to equaling her own. He was the only one left out of a brotherhood of three. One had sacrificed himself, the other had fallen to darkness, but had recovered. Only… not quite in time.
“We will avenge him, my lady!” came a shout.
“Lead us against the orcs, Lothar!” Others echoed this cry, their voices strong. The shouts became uniform, a chant of one single word:
“Lothar! Lothar! Lothar!”
Lothar stared at the sword for a long moment, so long that Taria thought he might refuse and turn away from the duty of serving his old friend’s kingdom. She needn’t have worried. Lothar gripped the hilt and strode toward her, ready to stand by her side now and during whatever might come. There, he looked out at the crowd and raised the sword, as if he would cleave the very sky in twain to protect Stormwind.
No. Not just Stormwind. Not anymore.
“For Azeroth!” shouted Anduin Lothar. “For Azeroth—and the Alliance!”
The crowd took up the cheer, and as all the soldiers present lifted their swords in salute to their commander, the stones themselves seemed to echo the words: For Azeroth, and the Alliance!
Had it only been a few days ago, Varian Wrynn thought as he stared at his scattered toy soldiers, since he had sneaked into the throne room to play with them? It felt like forever. How had toy battles seemed important, ever, now that his life had been so irrevocably altered by real ones? His dark-eyed gaze fell to one in particular, knocked over on its side: A tiny, carved king atop his steed, with a lion’s head for a helm, brandishing a beautiful, hand-painted metal sword.
Hands slipped beneath his arms and lifted him up, onto the throne of Stormwind, onto the soft, white fur that blocked the chill of cold marble. Even so, Varian shivered. The grief was new, and he had never felt anything so suffocating, so overwhelming, so powerful, in his whole brief life. His small chest shuddered with each inhalation. Earlier, he had wept, a great deal. No one had told him he should not.
He looked at Khadgar with vision that swam. The young mage smiled, sadly but sincerely. “One day, you will be king,” he said. “This will be your seat, when you come of age. But never think you are alone. You have your uncle Lothar, your mother, me, and the entire Alliance at your side.” The mage paused, then added, “Your father did that for you.”
Varian swallowed hard. The grief was still there, but the mage’s words had somehow eased it. His legs dangled. He thought of how often his father had sat here, dispensing justice, arguing strategy. Tears threatened again.
Khadgar saw it, and stepped back, extending his hand. “Come,” he said. “It’s late, and your mother must be wondering where you are.”
Varian took Khadgar’s hand, slipping off the too-big seat and stepping past the crouching gold lions. He was partway to the door when he paused and looked back. Abruptly, he ran back to the pile of toy soldiers and searched through them, finding the one he wanted.
Gently, respectfully, Prince Varian Wrynn, future king of Stormwind, picked up the carved King Llane, and set it back down carefully—this time, not fallen, but upright and noble.
As his father ever was.
War.
Not a battle, or series of skirmishes; not a single mission or campaign. War, gritty, long, brutal, and cruel.
But this time, the humans of Stormwind did not stand alone. They were not a handful of legions, but an army, anointed with the blood of a hero’s sacrifice, bound by the tales those who survived told of the horrors they had witnessed. The human kingdoms—the beleaguered Stormwind, Kul Tiras, and Lordaeron—might wear different uniforms, but they marched beneath the same banner. There were nobles and raw recruits, elders and some barely of age to fight. Men marched beside women. Alongside the humans were the dwarves, grim-faced and determined, bringing their weapons and their stubbornness to the fray. Other faces were small and childlike; still others, eerily fair and sculpted.