The day was not just another quiet morning where the sea lay still and unmoving beneath a pale sky. No—there was something different in the air, something heavy and expectant, as though even the tides knew that change was coming. It was the day of Thorwin and Jaina's departure to Lordaeron. At the earliest hours before dawn had fully broken, Thorwin, his father, and two accompanying companions had already set out by carriage, escorted closely by the disciplined ranks of Stormsong household guards. Their banner trailed behind them along the road connecting Stormsong Valley to Boralus, the fabric snapping sharply against the wind like a final, lingering farewell to home.
The journey itself passed in a quiet, almost subdued rhythm. Hooves struck against stone, wheels creaked softly over worn paths, and conversation came in brief, measured exchanges that never quite filled the silence. There was no urgency in their travel—only inevitability. By the time the first light of sunrise crept over the horizon, casting golden reflections across the waters, they had already arrived at Boralus. The city rose before them in its early glow, vast and dignified, as if it too were awakening to witness something significant.
Through the courtesy of old ties and long-standing friendship, their arrival did not go unnoticed. The Proudmoores welcomed them without hesitation, extending an invitation to breakfast within their halls. It was accepted without delay, though the atmosphere that followed was anything but light. The table was set, the food was served, and yet beneath every polite exchange lingered something unspoken. Thorwin noticed it most in Jaina, her excitement flickering just beneath the surface, bright yet fragile, as though held together by effort alone. And in the Proudmoore parents, he saw the same contradiction mirrored back: pride, yes, but softened by something unmistakably sorrowful, like hands reluctant to let go even as they must.
By the ninth hour of the morning, all formalities had given way to departure. The group gathered at the harbor, where the sea stretched endlessly outward, restless and waiting. A large retinue of guards stood positioned around them, their presence forming a quiet barrier between farewell and the world beyond. Ships rocked gently against the docks, ropes creaking, banners shifting in the wind, everything suspended in that strange space between staying and leaving, where even time seemed to hesitate.
"Your flagship is as remarkable as always, Caspian." Daelin spoke, his gaze fixed on the towering vessel anchored proudly along the harbor. The ship loomed like a sovereign in its own right—vast sails shifting against the wind, hull polished and reinforced, every inch speaking of craftsmanship and command. Even the sea seemed to yield around it as waves lapped gently against the docks. "An honor for our children to be sent by it," he added, tone carrying both admiration and something quieter beneath it.
"All the best for my son," Caspian replied, though his voice did not fully match the steadiness of his words. His eyes lingered elsewhere—on Thorwin. The boy stood a short distance away, laughing softly with Jaina and his companions, unaware of the weight being spoken over him. For a fleeting moment, Caspian's expression faltered. Guilt flickered there, sharp and unrelenting. "It's the only thing I can do as a father who has failed both his wife and child."
Daelin exhaled slowly at that, his gaze softening as he followed Caspian's line of sight.
"Do not fret over it too much, old friend," he said, voice gentler now. "That situation was out of our control."
A pause.
Then, more quietly, almost as if speaking to himself as much as to Caspian, he continued, "I tell myself the same… with the passing of my eldest."
The weight between them shifted; shared, understood, and unspoken things settling into place without needing further explanation.
"We know it deep inside, Daelin," Caspian replied at last, his shoulders lowering slightly as though the words carried exhaustion rather than relief. "And yet we also know… we could have done more." His gaze drifted once again toward Thorwin. "But this… this is also a way to ensure their future. Thorwin cannot stay here. It reminds him too much of her."
Daelin nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"Indeed," he said softly. "And it warms my heart knowing our children will have each other there."
A faint chuckle escaped him then, lighter than the conversation that preceded it.
"Perhaps… in a few years there will even be talk of a wedding."
Caspian let out a small, strained smile at that—fragile, almost reluctant. It had been so long since he allowed himself something resembling levity. So long since the loss of his wife, since the silence that followed, since the slow fracture between duty and regret. Even Thorwin's strained connection to the tides and the disappointment he felt that came with it… even that had become another wound he could not mend. Sending him away had been the only answer he could live with, even if it tore at him in ways he never spoke aloud.
"Maybe, Daelin," he said at last, quieter. "Maybe."
For a moment, he stood there, holding onto that fragile thought as if it were enough to steady him.
But it was not.
Not when he remembered the night he made the decision. The night Thorwin looked at him with confusion turning slowly into something far worse—hurt. The night the boy asked if he was being discarded.
Caspian had not answered then.
And even now, the words still refused to come easily.
"Father!"
The voice cut through the harbor like a sudden break in storm clouds.
Caspian turned sharply.
Thorwin stood before him now.
Close.
Too close.
And for a heartbeat, neither of them moved, until the boy stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him in a sudden, unguarded embrace.
"I'll miss you, father," Thorwin said, voice muffled slightly against him. "And I'll write to you. I hope you will too."
Something inside Caspian cracked.
Not loudly. Not visibly.
But irreversibly.
He held the boy tighter than he intended, as if letting go would confirm everything he feared.
"I'm sorry, Thorwin," he whispered at last, voice breaking just slightly at the edges.
And though the harbor around them remained bright with morning light, neither of them felt its warmth.
…
Lordaeron was not merely a kingdom spoken of in passing, but one that carried the weight of history in every stone and banner. It was here that Anduin Lothar had led the broken survivors of Stormwind after its fall, offering not just refuge, but a place to stand again. Within these lands, Varian Wrynn had lived among his people in exile, a prince without a throne, yet never without purpose. And it was in Lordaeron's halls that Lothar gathered the rulers of the human kingdoms, his words firm, his resolve unyielding, until they answered his call. From this kingdom, the Alliance had taken shape, not as a single force, but as many bound together, marching to meet the Horde in the fires of the Second War.
That same kingdom now stretched before them as their ship moved steadily along the river that led toward its capital. The waters were calm, carrying them inland through lands that showed little sign of the devastation that had once threatened them. Fields lay wide and tended, their greens and golds shifting softly under the breeze, while scattered villages stood intact, smoke rising in thin lines from chimneys that spoke of ordinary lives continuing despite the memory of war. It was not untouched land, but it was not broken either. Lordaeron endured in a way that felt deliberate, as though it refused to yield even in quiet.
The city revealed itself gradually, not all at once, but in measured glimpses that built upon each other. First came the outer walls, pale and unyielding, rising with a presence that was more practical than ornamental. Then the towers followed; tall, firm, their golden rooftops catching the light without excessive brilliance, enough to be seen, enough to remind any who approached that this was a seat of power. Banners of blue and gold moved steadily along the ramparts, not wildly, but with a quiet consistency that mirrored the order of the kingdom itself.
As they drew closer, the harbor came into view, and with it the rhythm of the city's daily life. Ships were docked in careful rows, their crews moving with purpose as cargo was transferred from deck to shore. The sounds carried across the water; measured calls, the shifting of wood and rope, the steady work of a place that did not pause simply because history had passed through it. Guards stood watch, not in tension, but in readiness, their presence firm and expected.
Thorwin took it all in, though not in the way others might have. Where some would see strength, or order, or even quiet beauty, his thoughts settled elsewhere. This was the last city his grandfather had stood in, the final place where Anduin Lothar had walked, had spoken, had carried the weight of kingdoms upon his shoulders. That alone gave the city meaning beyond its walls and towers. It was not its grandeur that held Thorwin's gaze, but what remained of a man whose presence still seemed to linger within it.
"We have sent word of our arrival, Lord Thorwin."
The voice came from behind him; faint, measured, and familiar enough to draw him from his thoughts without startle. Thorwin turned slightly, the river breeze brushing against his cloak as his eyes fell upon Cedric. The man stood as he always did; composed, disciplined, his presence steady like a blade kept sheathed yet ever ready.
Cedric.
Once, he had been a knight of Stormwind, proud and unyielding beneath Lothar's banner. War had carved its marks upon him as it had upon many—though in his case, it had taken more than most. Family. Purpose. A life that had once been whole. When the war ended, there had been nothing left for him to return to. And so, he did not return at all. Instead, he remained—standing now not as a knight of a fallen kingdom, but as one of Thorwin's personal guards.
Not merely out of duty.
But because in the boy, he had found something worth holding onto.
A direction.
A reason.
The last living remnant of Lothar.
"Thank you," Thorwin said, his voice quiet but firm, acknowledging the report with a slight nod. His gaze lingered on Cedric for a moment longer before shifting, as if searching for something else. "And Jaina?"
"Resting," Cedric replied simply. "The maids spoke of your late-night endeavors together. Lady Proudmoore still may be tired from—"
"Her drained mana. I'm sure she is," Thorwin cut in before the sentence could finish, his tone calm, yet deliberate. He did not look at Cedric as he spoke, though the meaning was clear enough. There were lines he would not allow crossed, not even in idle conversation. "And I would prefer the maids refrain from speaking words that might stain the innocence of Jaina and I."
That earned a reaction.
A faint pull at Cedric's lips, the beginnings of a smile that threatened to grow into something far less restrained. It lingered there, barely held in check by years of discipline and respect for the boy before him.
"Your words will be conveyed," Cedric answered, his tone steady, though the hint of amusement had not entirely faded.
He stepped forward then, closing the distance between them until he stood at Thorwin's side. Not behind him. Not in formation.
Beside him.
For a moment, there was no rank between them, only shared silence, and the quiet understanding of two men who had seen far too much too early in their lives.
"We'll pass by the internment camps once we leave for Dalaran," Thorwin said after a while, his voice lowering slightly, as though the words themselves carried weight. His eyes drifted ahead, though what he saw was not the river nor the city before them. "I want to see them… suffering."
There was no hesitation in his tone.
No doubt.
Only something colder.
Cedric did not flinch.
"Not just you, my lord," he replied, his voice equally steady, though something sharper had crept into it. "The three of us will."
Thorwin's gaze shifted slightly.
"Will you feel pity for them, Cedric?"
The question hung between them for a moment, not casual, not idle, but deliberate.
Cedric's jaw tightened.
"Too many have been lost," he said at last, his voice firm, grounded in something far deeper than simple anger. "Comrades. Family. Everything that once mattered." There was a faint edge in his tone now; controlled, but unmistakable. "There is no room left for pity."
Thorwin held his gaze for a brief moment longer.
Then gave a small nod.
"You're right."
The door to the deck below creaked open, its hinges cutting through the quiet hum of the river. A soft glow spilled from within, and from it emerged a familiar figure—Jaina. Her silhouette formed first against the light, then slowly took shape as she stepped out into the morning air. The breeze caught lightly at her hair, though her posture gave away what her voice soon confirmed.
"Thorwin," she called, her tone still thick with sleep, the remnants of exhaustion clinging to every syllable. Her eyes shifted, catching the figure standing beside him. "Sir Cedric," she added, offering a small, polite acknowledgment despite her weariness.
"Lady Jaina, good day," Cedric replied with a respectful incline of his head. His voice remained as composed as ever, though his eyes lingered on her just briefly, taking note of her condition. Then, turning back to Thorwin, he straightened slightly. "I shall take my leave now, Lord Thorwin."
"Carry on," Thorwin answered without hesitation.
Cedric gave a final nod before stepping past Jaina, disappearing through the doorway he had come from. The sound of the door closing behind him returned the deck to its quieter state, leaving only the distant sounds of water and the soft creak of wood beneath their feet.
Thorwin turned his attention fully to her.
She was already walking toward him, her steps slow but steady, as though she had forced herself up despite her body's protests. Even from a short distance, he could see it clearly, the faint heaviness in her eyes, the slight drag in her movement.
"You need more rest," he said, his tone softer now, though still carrying that familiar firmness beneath it. "Lest you find yourself yawning in front of the royal family."
A small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
"Silly," she replied, brushing off his concern with quiet confidence. "I'm sure I won't."
Thorwin raised a brow ever so slightly.
"If you do," he said, a hint of challenge creeping into his voice, "you'll have to heed my orders for a whole day."
Jaina paused just long enough for the thought to settle.
"And if I don't," she countered, her eyes sharpening just a touch, "you'll heed mine for two days."
There was a brief silence between them, one filled not with tension, but with something far lighter.
Thorwin let out a quiet breath.
"I concede."
And just like that—
They both laughed.
Not loudly. Not wildly.
But enough.