The battle between the man and the dragon raged with the ferocity of a thousand angry badgers, spanning from the tranquil (now thoroughly churned) Bay of Baradin to the utterly decimated Tol Barad Peninsula, then from the ground to the very heavens themselves. The northern regions of the Penance Isle and the Tol Barad Peninsula, once picturesque coastlines not far from the Hillsbrad Foothills' perpetually bewildered inhabitants, were utterly obliterated in the wake of their cataclysmic clash. It was less a battle and more a highly localized, extremely violent, and very loud natural disaster.
At this precise moment, Galen, now a glowing, indignant giant of pure light, clung precariously to a particularly sharp, protruding ridge of Deathwing's adamantium plate armor. The dragon, clearly annoyed by this persistent barnacle, was carrying him through the skies at speeds that defied common sense. Watching the land shrink into an increasingly distant, blurry smudge, Galen wondered, with a growing sense of dread: "Is this bastard trying to drag me into Deepholm? Because if he is, I'm going to be very cross."
He had absolutely no desire to go there. Deepholm, the domain of Therazane the Stonemother, was a barren, rocky wasteland of earth and stone, essentially a giant, dusty torture chamber. With Deathwing's utterly obnoxious mastery over the earth, Galen knew he'd be crushed into a fine, glowing dust in mere minutes if they entered that miserable realm.
Realizing this grim reality, Galen, with the grace of a cosmic surgeon, manipulated the arms of his light construct. His left hand gripped the armor with the tenacity of a particularly stubborn limpet, while his right plunged directly into his own glowing ribcage! Like the legendary Gordian Warrior or the divine Susano'o, Galen's true, mortal body was hidden safely (and rather snugly) within the chest of his Holy Light avatar. From his back, the construct's fingers, with surprising delicacy, plucked out the legendary Ashbringer!
As Holy energy, pure and incandescent, surged into the blade, Ashbringer's edge erupted into a five-to-six-meter-long torrent of blazing, purifying light! It was less a sword and more a divine, glowing chainsaw. Without a moment's hesitation, Galen, with the righteous fury of a thousand suns, rammed the sword straight into Deathwing's underbelly!
The dragon's supposedly impenetrable armored plating melted like a forgotten ice cream cone under a branding iron. The blade, with a sickening schwing, pierced clean through his abdomen, bursting out from his spine in a shower of sparks and corrupted blood!
"ROOOAR—!"
Deathwing's agonized bellow, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain and indignity, shook the very skies, probably causing a few lesser demons to spontaneously combust from sheer auditory trauma. He thrashed violently, a colossal, wounded beast, trying to dislodge Galen, who was now essentially a glowing, sword-wielding parasite.
"Heh. Think again, you overgrown lizard!" Galen sneered, a triumphant, slightly manic grin on his face. He yanked Ashbringer free with a squelch—then, with the enthusiasm of a deranged chef, stabbed again! And again! And again!
Black, corrupted blood, thick and vile, gushed from Deathwing's now sieve-like belly, raining down onto the pristine ocean below. From the corner of his eye, Galen saw entire schools of fish, probably wondering what cosmic horror they had just witnessed, float belly-up, poisoned instantly by the toxic spill.
"Damn, that's vile—"
Distracted by the sheer ecological disaster he was inadvertently causing, Galen failed to react as Deathwing, in a desperate, last-ditch effort, executed a sudden, violent midair flip, hurling the light giant off his back!
SPLOOSH!
The 50-meter-tall avatar crashed into the sea with the force of a small asteroid, sending a tidal wave of epic proportions towards the bewildered coastline. When Galen finally resurfaced, sputtering and slightly disoriented, he had reverted to his normal, human (well, Vrykul-human) form.
By then, Deathwing, looking like a particularly angry, wounded mosquito, was a mere speck in the night sky, fleeing toward the relative safety of Deepholm to lick his grievous wounds—and no doubt forge even stronger, more ridiculous armor to contain his crumbling, perpetually exploding body.
"Did I just… accidentally fix the timeline?" Galen mused, a thoughtful, slightly bewildered expression on his face. He wasn't entirely sure, but he certainly hoped so.
With that profound thought, Galen activated a Scroll of Recall, teleporting straight back to Stromgarde with a faint pop. There, he continued his vital work of evacuating civilians (who were probably still recovering from the giant dragon attack) while simultaneously reinforcing the front lines (because a good war never hurt anyone, except the people fighting in it).
Soon after, the capital of Alterac, a city that probably smelled faintly of stale cheese and desperation, fell to the combined might of Warlord Varok and Marshal Ostere—a shocking, utterly humiliating defeat that echoed throughout the entire Eastern Kingdoms!
Stormwind Keep – Stormwind City. Varian Wrynn and Arthas Menethil, looking remarkably grim for two men who usually spent their time slaying monsters and looking heroic, stared at the intelligence report from SI:7, their expressions a mixture of bewilderment and growing concern.
"I never expected the northern situation to escalate this quickly," Varian muttered, setting the parchment down with a sigh that conveyed the weight of a thousand political headaches.
Arthas nodded, his jaw clenched. "This is our chance, Varian. I must return to Lordaeron. Before Blackmoore decides to dye his hair purple and declare himself the new Prophet."
With Alterac's sudden, spectacular collapse, Aedelas Blackmoore, the usurper king, had lost a critical ally—a major boon for House Menethil's long, arduous, and frankly, rather embarrassing road to restoration.
"Indeed. The time to reclaim Lordaeron is now!" Varian declared, slamming the table with a fist that probably left a dent. "Blackmoore, that despicable, power-hungry buffoon, has usurped the Menethil throne for far too long!"
Yet Arthas hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "But what of Prince Galen? How will Stromgarde view our cause? Will he invite us for tea, or try to stab us in the back?"
Varian frowned, racking his brain. "From what I recall, Galen Trollbane was an ambitious yet utterly mediocre ruler, perpetually stuck at Tier 8 for years. Like a particularly stubborn video game character." In the past, reaching Tier 8 by thirty would've been impressive—even genius, a feat worthy of a bard's song. But compared to Arthas, who had hit Tier 8 at the tender age of eighteen and later single-handedly unmasked the Black Dragonflight's conspiracy (and probably saved a few kittens along the way), Galen seemed… well, lacking. Now, Arthas stood on the very cusp of Legendary status, practically radiating heroic glow.
"And yet…" Varian mused, a puzzled expression on his face. "How did Stromgarde, a kingdom that was practically crumbling into dust, suddenly field such a powerful army? SI:7, those supposedly all-knowing spies, have absolutely no intel on this sudden, inexplicable resurgence. It's like they just manifested out of thin air!"
Neither wished to dwell on how Terenas Menethil, in his infinite political wisdom, had politically weakened Stromgarde in the past. They only saw a crumbling nation that had lost control of even the Arathi Basin—so how had it recovered in mere months, transforming into a formidable military power? It defied all logic, and frankly, it was a little annoying.
After a tense, pregnant pause, Arthas stood, his resolve hardening. "Regardless of Galen's stance, whether he's a friend or a foe, I must go to Stromgarde. My destiny awaits, and it probably involves a lot of yelling."
Varian clasped his shoulder, a gesture of unwavering support. "Stormwind will back you, my friend—just as House Menethil once aided the Wrynn line. We'll send so many troops, Blackmoore will think it's a parade!"
Arthas was about to speak, probably to express his gratitude, when familiar footsteps, light and purposeful, approached.
"My love," came Jaina Proudmoore's resolute voice, a voice that could calm a raging storm (or a particularly grumpy prince), "I will accompany you north. Someone needs to make sure you don't accidentally burn down a village."
As the couple embraced in a rather public display of affection (much to Varian's secondhand embarrassment, who probably wished he had a bucket of popcorn), a SI:7 agent, looking surprisingly un-flustered for a man who had just delivered potentially world-changing news, hurried in, handing the king a sealed missive.
Relieved to escape the awkward display of affection, Varian quickly opened it—then his eyes widened, practically bugging out of his head.
"Galen has called for a new Alliance!" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and sheer delight. A wide, almost manic grin spread across his face. Stormwind and Stromgarde shared history, after all—one of the five heroes enshrined at the Dark Portal, a statue that probably needed a good cleaning, was Danath Trollbane, a distant relative of the current, surprisingly competent, Galen.
"Arthas, Jaina—it seems I'll be joining you after all!" Varian announced, practically bouncing with excitement. "The tides of fate are turning! And they're turning in our favor, with a vengeance!"
Arthas scanned the letter, his expression shifting from grim determination to a slow, dawning realization.
"A reforged Alliance… and a war to crush Blackmoore?" He exhaled sharply, a breath that carried the weight of years of waiting and longing.
"The Menethil restoration… begins now. And it's going to be glorious."