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(A/N: Guys my area was hit by a storm and aside from a power outage I got in an accident due to it and have gotten a cast on my right arm due to it, it's the reason for the late update which I'm sorry for. Since my right hand is my dominant hand.)
(I'll try my best to get Chapter 68 on Patreon up by tomorrow since it's hard to type with one hand and I'm literally also using a voice typing to try and write.)
– Two days before Krasus' arrival at Fort Clover –
Llane cleanly sliced through a Bestigor before swiftly dispatching the rest of its group alongside his accompanying Royal Guards.
"DO NOT LET THESE FOUL MUTANTS TAINT OUR LAND ANY FURTHER! THE ONLY THING THEY WILL SPILL HERE IS THEIR BLOOD!"
Llane shouted as he and his Royal Guard charged the nearest enemies.
The siege had been going on for three days straight. The Beastkin and Daemons had attacked the city walls in relentless waves.
At first, the defenders were able to repel them. But the Daemons and followers of Chaos charged the walls without fear, heedless of the massive casualties they were taking.
After days of continuous assault by Beastkin, Daemons, and their corrupted siege engines, the enemy army had finally overwhelmed the outer wall's shield engines. Four breaches had been torn open.
Llane had ordered Varian, Gavinrad, and Bolvar to take their men and defend the other three breaches, fortifying them into chokepoints. Llane himself held the first breach, doing the same.
He had also ordered the Science Guild's personnel to stand ready to seal the breaches the moment the defenders successfully repelled the attackers and created an opening.
Court Mage Frederick commanded the mage corps, providing magical support and offensive spells, while Mathias' agents relayed updates from across the battlefield—identifying and, if possible, eliminating enemy commanders.
Llane panted after cutting down a Plaguebearer, his face twisting in disgust at the horrid smell as his armour's enchantments protected him from the fouls diseases.
"Disgusting abominations…"
With another order through his commlink, an artillery barrage rained down upon the approaching wave, utterly decimating it and finally giving the Guild personnel the opportunity to begin sealing the breach on his side.
Llane exhaled in relief when suddenly—
"Father!"
He turned sharply, but relaxed when he saw Varian running toward him. Though there was a cut on Varian's forehead leaking blood and one of his shoulder plates was damaged, his eldest son otherwise appeared unharmed.
"Varian! How goes the situation on your side? And where are your guards?"
"Our breach is being patched up as well. I came personally to report it and left my men to support the effort."
Varian stood beside Llane as the soldiers and Guild personnel worked tirelessly around them.
"Father, what's the situation outside our kingdom? Is there any way we can call for immediate aid from one of our holdings? Or perhaps from our allies?"
Llane sighed.
"Sadly, most have their hands tied. Our closest ally is Ironforge, but they are focused on defending themselves from sudden attacks as well."
He paused.
"Calling for reinforcements from our holdings would also be risky. We do not know if the enemy has additional forces hidden within our lands."
"If they do then and we call upon too many soldiers than those same places would be vulnerable to attacks."
Llane did not notice the brief flash in Varian's eyes.
"What about Alastor?"
Llane looked at his eldest incredulously.
"What? Varian, why would you even ask that? Alastor already has his hands full at Fort Clover. Not to mention, the forces stationed there are our greatest bulwark in the east."
He frowned.
"Son, I already explained the circumstances during our briefing before the battle started you're asking if you didn't—"
Llane suddenly stopped mid-sentence.
From the corner of the street emerged an armed group of Stormwind Knights led by a handsome young man—
Varian.
The real Varian's eyes widened as he saw his father speaking with someone who looked exactly like him.
Alarm bells rang in his mind.
He moved instantly, pushing his superhuman speed to its limit as he dashed toward them.
Exhausted from days of battle and with his guard lowered—believing the man before him to be his son—Llane reacted a split second too late.
It was enough.
The false "Varian" conjured a black, ornate dagger and drove it into Llane's abdomen. The blade cut through the King's power armor as if it were parchment.
Agony exploded through Llane's body. He felt not only pain—but his stamina and strength being siphoned away.
Still, he forced himself to lift his head.
The impostor dropped his glamour, revealing the smirking face of Malak.
Recognition widened Llane's eyes.
But the name he uttered was—
"M–Marcus!"
"Our debt is finally settled, old friend," Malak—Marcus—said, his voice filled with both malice and vindication.
All of this happened within seconds.
The real Varian appeared behind Malak in a blur, his face contorted with fury as he swung his blade at the Black Mage.
Malak only smiled.
The sword cleaved through him—
—and his body shattered like glass, dissolving into fragments of shimmering magic.
Varian's eyes widened in shock and rage as he realized it had been a clone formed through the [Mirror Image] spell.
The caster had to be nearby.
He was about to begin the hunt—
—but then he remembered.
His father.
With the King gravely wounded, Varian needed to keep his composure. By all rights, command now fell to him.
He caught Llane before he collapsed and sprinted toward the healing sector.
"Father, stay conscious! We'll get you help!"
Llane could only grunt as searing pain coursed through him.
He knew enough about the arcane—and he knew who had struck him.
He understood his condition.
…...He had been struck with a cursed blade.
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Dragonflight—especially on a dragon as ancient and powerful as Krasus—was truly something extraordinary.
Not only were dragons faster than the vast majority of aircraft, they were far more maneuverable as well. And that wasn't even mentioning the other advantages dragons possessed as a species—advantages that only grew as they aged and grew in skill.
It had been several hours since Alastor, Alleria, and Anduin had departed Fort Clover on Krasus' back in his dragon form. They were already nearing Stormwind City.
At first, Anduin had been visibly nervous, clinging on for dear life. But eventually he steadied himself, forcing his fear to the back of his mind.
"We're close!"
Alastor nodded at Krasus' words as Stormwind appeared on the horizon, rapidly growing larger.
He immediately saw the Beastkin and Daemon army assaulting the city.
Relief flickered within him when he noticed most of the fighting remained concentrated along the outer walls. There were several breaches—but fierce resistance from Stormwind's defenders held firm at each one.
Then he frowned.
Activating the telescopic function of his helmet, he narrowed his eyes.
'Strange… Where's Father? and not only him but Varian as well?'
With Stormwind under siege, he was certain both his father and elder brother would be at the front lines, commanding the defense.
Yet he saw no trace of them.
He forced the thought aside as Krasus dove toward the outer walls and unleashed a colossal torrent of flame on the enemy outside of the walls while soaring above them.
The draconic inferno incinerated clustered Beastkin and banished Daemons in droves. A blazing wall of fire remained in its wake, forming an additional barrier against the advancing enemy.
Alastor decided to contribute in his own way.
Summoning his purified Warp energy, he conjured a massive bolt of lightning in his palm and hurled such bolts repeatedly into dense enemy formations. When not striking infantry, he targeted Beastkin giants and corrupted siege engines.
One crackling lance pierced straight through a Brass Scorpion of Khorne before the daemon engine detonated in a violent explosion.
'Damn you and your gods, you miserable bastards.'
Alastor allowed himself a grim smirk as Krasus finally descended within the walls, hovering just long enough for Alastor, Alleria, and Anduin to leap off. Krasus then shifted back into his High Elven form—there wasn't enough room in the outer districts for him to land as a dragon.
The Stormwind soldiers stared in shock.
First at the massive red dragon that had descended to aid them.
Then at the figures who dismounted from its back.
And finally—at the dragon himself transforming into an elf before their eyes.
Their legendary Second Prince Alastor.
His betrothed, the renowned Ranger-Captain Alleria Windrunner.
And the kingdom's Knight-Champion, Anduin Lothar.
"At ease, my friends. You have all fought bravely," Alastor said, offering the soldiers a reassuring smile as he scanned the area.
"Where are my father and brother? There are urgent matters I must discuss with them."
No one answered.
Instead, many of the soldiers stiffened, unable to meet his gaze.
A cold sensation crept into Alastor's chest.
Before he could press further, Mathias pushed through the crowd toward them.
"Mathias! Thank the Light you're here. Can you tell—"
"Alastor," Mathias interrupted, his expression grim. "You need to come with me. There are… things you need to hear."
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Alastor moved swiftly through the halls of Stormwind Castle.
He soon found his elder brother standing outside the throne room alongside Duke Bolvar, Gavinrad, and several Royal Guards.
Varian looked exhausted—haggard despite his enhanced physique. He leaned against the wall as though carrying a great weight.
Alastor felt only relief at seeing him alive thinking the worst.
"Varian!"
Varian looked up. For the first time, a flicker of light returned to his eyes.
He stepped forward and pulled Alastor—currently in his mortal size—into a one-armed embrace.
Behind him stood Bolvar and Gavinrad, silent and grim-faced. They managed only small nods of acknowledgment.
"I–It's good… to see you, little brother."
"You too," Alastor replied, returning the hug before they separated.
Moments later, Anduin, Alleria, and Mathias arrived, having caught up after Alastor broke into a run once Mathias finished explaining the events of the past few days.
"Varian!" Anduin demanded urgently. "Where's Llane? Is he alright?"
"He's right, brother," Alastor added, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Mathias said there was an assassination attempt. Where is Father?"
Varian's silence was answer enough.
Pain flickered openly across his face.
"Father… is in the throne room," Varian said quietly. "Alastor. Anduin. You two should go in."
Alastor subconsciously ignored the tone in his brother's voice.
Surely Varian was only shaken. As long as their father was alive, he could be healed.
He had to be.
Alleria, however, recognized the signs immediately.
She had seen that look too many times among her fellow rangers—warriors standing outside tents where comrades lay dying.
She inhaled slowly and steadied herself.
This was not something she could interfere with.
But she would remain here.
And when Alastor emerged—
She would be here for him.
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Anduin and Alastor entered the familiar throne room. The massive doors closed behind them with a heavy finality.
They had barely crossed half the distance to the throne when they froze.
Llane Wrynn still lived—
—but barely.
His skin was sickly pale. His once-bright blue eyes were dim. His golden hair had lost its luster, fading into an unhealthy, washed-out shade.
But worst of all were the black veins.
They spread from the left side of his abdomen down his arm, crawling along his hand and up the side of his neck like living rot beneath his skin.
Beside him stood several priests of the Light, continuously pouring Holy Light into his body. Sweat drenched their brows—clear evidence they had been sustaining this effort for a very long time.
When Llane had first been brought in, Gavinrad had unleashed the full might of his Holy Light in an attempt to purge the daemonic curse.
Despite the purity and power of his Holy Light as one of the strongest Paladin, It had failed.
The blade Malak used had been blessed by Nurgle himself. Anything short of a Saint of the Light could not undo such corruption.
And there were only three Saints alive in Arda.
Alonsus and Uther were half a continent away.
Alastor—the newest Saint—had been at Fort Clover.
The priests' efforts could only preserve Llane's soul through constant infusions of Holy Light while his body was ravaged by the curse.
The fact that Llane still lived after more than two days at the tender mercies of Nurgle's corruption was a testament to his indomitable will.
Whispers clawed at his mind constantly—tempting him to let go and accept the "gift" of the Grandfather.
"…F–Father…" Alastor choked, his strength nearly failing him at the sight of the man before him—so different from the father he remembered.
Old friend… what did those bastards do to you? Anduin thought, agony tightening his chest.
He had already endured the loss of Medivh years ago. At least then, they had been spared the sight of how he died.
Now he was forced to watch his last brother-in-arms hover at death's threshold.
And in front of his son.
At the sound of Alastor's voice, a faint spark of light flickered within Llane's dim eyes.
He recognized them.
He managed a brittle smile.
Alastor rushed forward, kneeling before the throne. His hands erupted in brilliant yet gentle Holy Light as he poured immense power into Llane's body.
"Father, don't worry! I can fix this! I'm here. I'll purge it completely—you won't have to suffer anymore. Everything will be fine."
His voice trembled.
He did not know whether he was reassuring his father—
—or himself.
The black veins began to recede rapidly under the force of Alastor's Saint-tier Light. The corruption was destroyed at the roots, as pure radiance cleansed it.
Alastor's smile widened in desperate relief as Llane's expression eased.
But something was wrong.
Though the corruption faded, Llane's complexion did not improve.
His vitality did not return.
While this was going on Llane exchanged silent words with Anduin, both of them knowing the other so well that they didn't necessarily need words to communicate most of the times especially when the message was simple.
'Brother… watch over them.'
Anduin gritted his teeth as his eyes stung with tears but he gave Llane as silent nod.
Llane then turned his gaze to Alastor who was still pouring large amount of Holy light within him.
'This is the first time I ever saw him so distraught...' Llane thought sadly, never wished to be the cause of such distress to anyone in his family.
Much less Alastor.
His adoptive and youngest son.
Though Llane loved Varian and Alastor equally and was immeasurably proud of both, Alastor was always his favourite.
The boy he had taken in over a decade ago.
The child he and Taria had loved as their own flesh and blood.
The boy who found joy in the simplest things—and greater joy in knowing his actions improved the lives of others.
He remembered the lessons. The games. The "adventures." he, his wife and Varian had with the youngest member of their family.
The way Alastor's curiosity had burned brighter than ambition. How, despite his immense gifts, he had remained humble. Kind.
He'd always known Alastor was destined for greatness.
But more than that, he was immensely proud of the man his son chose to become.
Strong yet Kind.
The two qualities most needed in the coming age.
Now there was only one last thing to do.
With the last of his strength, Llane raised his trembling hand.
"I purged the corruption, Father. I just need a moment to—"
But Alastor didn't finish as he fell silent.
He felt Llane's hand rest gently atop his head.
Confused, he looked up.
Llane was smiling at him.
Not as a king.
But as a proud father.
"Alastor…"
Alastor's voice broke as the words came out of his mouth.
"…Yes, Dad…?"
Llane's smile widened faintly.
"…Love… you…"
Llane's hand then slipped from Alastor's head.
and fell limp at his side.
And the throne room fell silent as a grave.
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