Ten Minutes Later — Inside Stormwind Palace
King Llane had been enjoying a dream so sweet it should've been illegal, he was feasting on roast wyvern and winning the Grand Joust on a pegasus made of gold, when a violent pounding on the door yanked him back to cold, cruel reality.
"Your Majesty! Emergency!" came a voice sharper than a frost troll's toenail.
Even in his half-comatose state, Llane recognized the tone. Anduin Lothar, his childhood friend, drinking buddy, and the only man who could ruin a dream so gloriously dumb. "By the Light, Anduin, it's the middle of the night! If this 'emergency' isn't as serious as a dragon sneezing fireballs into my treasury, I swear I'll have your mustache taxed."
A few moments later, the queen, less concerned about dreams and more about decorum, was already dressing him with the speed and accuracy of a military quartermaster.
A few frigid minutes later, the bedroom door creaked open, revealing Anduin in full armor, face set like stone baked in winter.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice low and tense, "we've got what may be the ugliest invasion in the history of ugly invasions crawling out of the southeastern swamps. But before I start throwing words like 'apocalypse' around, you need to see the hourglass Medivh gave you."
The words hit Llane harder than a bad batch of dwarven whiskey. He barely had time to gag on the chilly spring air before they were thundering down the stone halls, surrounded by royal guards, boots clapping like war drums.
At last, they arrived at a chamber so secret only four guards knew which broom closet it actually was. Llane barked the order. "Open it!"
The door swung wide, revealing the single item within—an hourglass as black as midnight sorrow, resting on a pedestal of rune-carved obsidian.
And then they saw it.
All the sand... gone.
Not a grain left in the top bulb. Time wasn't just up. Time had packed its bags, filed for retirement, and moved to Stranglethorn.
"When did it fall?!" Llane shouted, voice rising like a crack of thunder. "Wasn't this thing supposed to be checked daily?!"
The chief guard looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. "It was! I swear, Your Majesty! I checked it personally this morning—there was a finger's width of sand left!"
"Convene the cabinet! Now!" Llane snapped. His voice carried the weight of dread—and the knowledge that dreams of golden pegasi were now a luxury of the past.
Thirty Minutes Later — War Room of Stormwind
The fortress was ablaze with light. Around the war table, high-ranking officials clustered like nervous birds before a storm. Anduin Lothar stabbed a gloved finger at a red-marked region on the kingdom's map.
"First reports came from the Redridge outpost—raised three red flares before vanishing. My hidden griffin scouts from Lakeshire flew out immediately. They saw green-skinned giants crawling out of the Swamp of Sorrows like a plague of muscle-bound cucumbers."
"Giants?" Llane leaned forward. "How big?"
"Seven feet at least. Built like trolls but smarter. Heavily armored, wielding axes that could split a siege tower in half."
Duke Bolvar raised an eyebrow. "Trolls, maybe?"
Anduin scoffed. "If these are trolls, I'm a gnome in disguise. We lost a griffin. Shot down mid-flight. One of our best riders, gone."
Llane's eye twitched.
A griffin. Gone. Not just a loss—it was like watching a pile of gold coins take wing and explode.
Then a messenger burst in like a winded mule. "New report! The Red Ridge Triangle garrison... is gone."
All 500 soldiers. Trained, armed, and waiting—slaughtered like lambs at a butcher's contest.
Llane's jaw tightened. Anduin's expression darkened. The betrayal was now clear: their old friend Medivh had either lost his mind or thrown them to the wolves. And worse... the wolves were green, massive, and carrying hammers.
"Did you notify the Council of Tirisfal?" Llane asked, already knowing the answer.
"Sent word," the old court wizard croaked. "No reply."
Llane rubbed his temples. "Wonderful. The world's ending, and our magical watchdogs are on vacation."
But there was no time to sulk.
"Our standing army is 30,000. That's it. We lose 500 here, 500 there, and we'll be defending Stormwind with pitchforks and harsh language."
"We need intelligence," Llane growled. "Numbers. Armament. Purpose. Are they raiders or conquerors?"
Anduin nodded. "There's one man who might already have answers. Edmund Duke."
The temperature in the room dropped.
"Lothar! This is war, not some tavern brawl! We won't let a teenager play general just because he reads too many dusty scrolls!" shouted Marquis Camron, nearly choking on his own powdered wig.
Llane sighed, glanced apologetically at Anduin, and pivoted. "Alright. Organize a hunting party. Capture a few of these brutes—or failing that, bring me corpses."
"Understood. But Your Majesty... declare a state of war. Now."
Marquis Camron nearly fainted. "Declare war? On what? Border goblins?! That gives you wartime powers, taxation rights—" he sputtered like an overcooked kettle.
Lothar barely kept from slamming his gauntlet down. But without undeniable proof, all they could do was grit their teeth and treat this apocalypse like a rowdy skirmish.
But someone—one lone figure—was already ahead of the curve.
And the storm he'd long prepared for had just blown the door off its hinges.