King Llane, riding high on the tide of good cheer, slapped his thigh with a hearty laugh that echoed through the marble halls of the royal banquet. "Well now! Medivh, my old friend, the mighty Guardian of Azeroth himself! Between the two of us, false courtesy should be more out of place than a murloc in a ballgown. But since you insist on presenting a gift, come on then! I'm curious to see what mysterious trinket you've dug up."
Medivh's lips curled into a smile—no, a smirk—no, worse. A cruel, almost theatrical grin that immediately made Llane's good mood wobble like a jelly in an earthquake. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Even Anduin Lothar, a man not easily spooked, instinctively took a half-step forward, his body subconsciously moving to intercept whatever malice might follow.
It made no sense. These were childhood friends, bonded by decades of trust and battle. But the air around Medivh was suddenly colder, heavier—tainted by an oppressive presence that sent shivers racing down every spine in the room.
Medivh didn't raise a staff or chant a spell. He merely opened his hands.
A massive hourglass materialized from thin air. Nearly the length of his forearm, its birch-wood frame was polished to a sickly shine. Inside, two clear glass bulbs encased something that sent a collective shudder through the crowd: black sand. Not dark, not charcoal—black, like despair ground into dust.
It wasn't sand, it was malevolence given form.
"Rustle... rustle..."
The sand flowed. Slowly. Painfully. It wasn't just measuring time—it was counting down to something terrible.
Duke felt it like a punch to the gut. His heart tried to leap out of his chest in protest. His pupils shrank, locking on the hourglass like it was a ticking bomb—and maybe, in some horrific way, it was.
Anduin Lothar stepped fully in front of Llane now, ceremonial armor creaking as it shifted. He wasn't here to talk anymore. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. One wrong move, and Azeroth's greatest knight would make history by attacking the Guardian of Tirisfal at a royal banquet.
"Old friend," Llane tried to salvage the moment, forcing a weak chuckle. "If this is a joke, it's... well, a bit grim for New Year's Eve, don't you think?"
Medivh didn't even blink. The sarcasm oozed off him like slime. "You'll understand soon enough," he whispered ominously.
Then, with a single slender finger, he nudged the hourglass.
The ceremonial officer nearly fumbled the plate as the hourglass fell.
The black sand... flowed upward.
Against gravity. Against sense. Against everything the natural world ever agreed upon. Grain by grain, the sand defied the universe.
The room went deathly silent. Hearts skipped. Minds screamed. Reality twisted.
Llane reached toward Anduin's shoulder, trying to nudge him aside for a better look, but he froze. The corded muscle under Anduin's armor was already tight as steel. The Knight-Captain was a coiled spring, ready to explode.
It wasn't a chuckle or a giggle. It was a cackle—the kind you hear echoing in nightmares or over cursed graveyards. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the Guardian of Azeroth vanished.
He erupted into a thousand black crows. The banquet hall exploded into chaos as the birds swirled up toward the vaulted ceilings, screeching like banshees.
Okay, maybe more like angry ducks, but the horror remained. Black feathers floated gently down like evil snowflakes.
And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
The music resumed—awkwardly. Desperately. But the cheerful notes of the band couldn't compete with the eerie hourglass still ticking upward and the crows' feathers littering the ground like confetti from a funeral.
King Llane lasted a solid fifteen seconds before giving up the ghost. His strained smile collapsed. He nodded to the crowd, muttered something about indigestion, and left with his wife and son in tow.
Anduin Lothar and a veritable wall of fully armored knights marched behind them like a mobile fortress. It was no longer a party—it was an evacuation.
The rest of the nobles?
Gone faster than free booze at a dwarven wedding.
Duke let out a breath and turned to leave, motioning to Ms. Jones and Old Wizard Norton.
But of course, drama never comes in singles.
Three figures blocked his way.
The man in front looked familiar, but Duke couldn't quite place him. He had sharp eyes, a commanding posture, and brown hair parted neatly down the middle. The noble gave a slight nod and said:
"Greetings. I am Duke Bolvar Fordragon."
Duke's brain did backflips. That name! That legend!
This was no random aristocrat. Bolvar Fordragon—the future regent of Stormwind, scourge-fighter, Lich King suppressor, paladin of paladins! A man who would, one day, literally sit on a frozen throne of suffering to keep the world safe.
Duke stood a bit straighter. "An honor, Lord Fordragon. I am—"
"No need," Bolvar interrupted gently. "Sir Lothar asked me to bring you to the inner palace. The King wishes to discuss what just happened."
Duke gulped. Summoned by the king? Already? That hourglass must've hit more nerves than he thought.
He turned to Norton for backup, but the old wizard just patted him on the shoulder. "I'll take Ms. Jones back. Don't worry."
Bolvar raised a hand. "I'm afraid not. His Majesty has summoned you as well, Master Norton."
Ms. Jones, always the picture of class, curtsied with grace. "Then I shall request a guard escort home. Do be safe."
And with that, the chaos of the evening hadn't ended—it had merely changed venues.
One thing was certain: this night was far from over.