In the secluded mountains behind Minas Tirith, Gandalf and the Tidefury Legion solemnly gathered the bodies of fallen Stormwind soldiers. Once the task was complete, Gandalf cast a mass teleportation spell, transporting them directly to a hidden training base established under Galen's instructions for the Dark Department.
A surge of white light lit up the teleportation platform. Gandalf and the legion appeared, neatly laying out the corpses in rows before stepping back to the edge of the platform.
"Time to work your magic, you old rascal," Gandalf quipped, glancing at Aragorn.
Despite their differing roles, Gandalf and Aragorn—two souls from another world—had become close. With Durin sent on a mission right after his training, the bond between the remaining hero units under Galen had only deepened.
"Oh, jealous, are you?" Aragorn smirked. "Tired of being a governor and hoping to try your hand as a bishop in the church?"
To be fair, Gandalf had been entrusted with overseeing both Galenport and Hammerfall—two critical positions.
"Enough talk," Gandalf said sharply. "If we wait any longer, it'll be too late to save them!"
Aragorn nodded and stepped forward. Channeling the Holy Light, he raised his hands. A warm golden glow spread across the platform, washing over the fallen. Slowly, the corpses stirred, some sitting up in confusion.
Only the elite knights of the base seemed to grasp what had happened. The others were stunned, their minds clouded by death and sudden rebirth.
Gandalf lifted his staff, projecting an image onto the sheer rock wall. The vision revealed the recent battle at the canyon—the desperate fight led by Lothar, Galen's timely intervention, the orcs' brutal cleanup of the battlefield, and finally, Gandalf recovering the bodies. Now, they had been brought back by a miracle.
The soldiers could hardly believe it. They were alive again.
Yet not all were so fortunate. Too much time had passed for the first wave of over 4,000 dead; their souls had already passed beyond the reach of the Holy Light. Only around 3,000 could be revived—mostly members of the Lionheart Legion, a handful of noble private soldiers, and over 500 knights of the Iron Steed Brotherhood who had fallen protecting Lothar or charging alongside Gavinrad.
These resurrected soldiers could never return to Stormwind. Doing so would risk exposing the secret of Aragorn's resurrection power. Instead, they would sign contracts under Gandalf's watch, and either join Stromgarde's Eastern Realm army or enter the shadows as members of the Dark Department.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, in Stormwind Keep—a towering blend of palace and fortress where the Wrynn dynasty had ruled for generations—a heavy silence blanketed the great hall.
Ten orc corpses lay at the entrance, a grim warning. Nobles trickled in, their eyes wide with disbelief. Some walked stiffly, pale with fear, their legs trembling beneath the tables.
Once most were seated, the doors swung open. Lothar entered, clad in battered armor, walking beside King Llane. Blood and battle scars marked his figure, the unmistakable signs of survival against overwhelming odds.
"Everyone," Lothar began, his voice resolute, "we barely escaped annihilation. The Lionheart Legion was nearly wiped out. The enemy we faced—are the beasts you saw at the gate!"
"And Duke Marcus… fell in battle."
Gasps erupted across the hall.
The Lionheart Legion—the pride of the kingdom, its oldest and most elite force—defeated? It was unthinkable. Even when Stormwind had faced tens of thousands of gnolls years ago, the late king had led the legion to a miraculous victory.
Now, they had lost?
Fear crept in. The nobles, true to form, began calculating their losses, their survival, and their wealth.
"Silence!" King Llane's voice rang through the hall.
"We have lost a battle, not the war. Lothar faced more than 20,000 orcs with just over 10,000 men—and still slew 7,000. That is no shame. The Lionheart Legion is not our only sword. We still have the Gryphon Legion, tens of thousands of trained soldiers, and two million steadfast citizens!"
"His Majesty is right! Stormwind does not kneel!"
"The kingdom endures!"
"Drive the monsters from our lands!"
While some nobles had grown soft and corrupt, others still carried the fire of their ancestors. They rose, swords metaphorically drawn, ready to stand for the realm.
"I hereby order two legions drawn from Elwynn Forest, one from Westfall, and one each from Sunnyglade and Redridge Mountains," declared King Llane. "Each of you will contribute 10,000 men. These will form a coalition army under Lothar's command, deployed to the southeast border!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the nobles responded—some eager, others less so—but the order was clear. King Llane had made his stance known: Stormwind would not be caught off guard again.
Duke Marcus execution of fleeing cowards was officially buried, and his title passed to his son, Bolvar, who led what remained of the noble troops to the southern front.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Back in Gran's Village, Medivh had awoken—but something had changed in him.
Taking his apprentice Khadgar, he quietly departed for Karazhan Tower. Lothar and the others suspected the horrors of war had weighed on him. But Galen knew the truth: the darkness in Medivh's soul was growing stronger.
Shortly afterward, the five legions were assembled. With support from the nobility, over 50,000 troops were deployed to the southeastern front near Sunnyglade and Redridge Mountains.
Thus began a bloody stalemate. Human and orc clashed repeatedly, neither side gaining the upper hand. Gul'dan, not wanting to provoke a full-scale war before his preparations were complete, restrained Blackhand's aggression. Instead, he unleashed black magic over the northern Swamp of Sorrows, blanketing the region in thick, unnatural mist—cutting off the battlefield.
So concluded the first year of the Dark Portal. A year of blood, loss, and ominous beginnings.