After nearly a year in the South, having endured countless battles and hardships, Galen and his companions were both physically and mentally worn down.
Fortunately, the Paladins had suffered no losses. These elite warriors were the pinnacle of talent—exceptionally rare and incredibly difficult to cultivate. The only casualties were among the High Knights—120 had fallen in battle. But Gandalf had secretly transported their bodies, and Aragorn had restored their lives through the power of the Holy Light.
While Lothar commanded over 50,000 troops, locked in a tense stalemate with the Orc forces, Galen and his group arrived at his camp to bid farewell. This was not their homeland. They had come to aid, had fought valiantly, and forged lasting bonds—but it was time to return.
"Lord Lothar, it's time for us to return to the North," Galen said as he entered the command tent with five of the original Paladins.
"Oh? You're leaving?" Lothar replied. "Then let me thank you properly. The Kingdom of Stormwind will never forget your help."
"As servants of the Holy Light, it is our duty to aid our brothers and sisters," Galen replied. "Besides, we are friends with Varian and Llane. We would gladly fight for them again."
Gavinrad and young Varian, standing nearby, were visibly moved. There was nothing more to say. They had all shared the blood and burden of war. The bond between them was sealed.
"When this war is over," Lothar said with quiet conviction, "Stormwind will always welcome you."
The Lion of Stormwind had risen from defeat with new resolve. The danger of the Orcs was now clear, and he would face it with unrelenting vigilance.
Before leaving, Galen collected several Orc corpses. Half he kept for himself—frozen in magic—and the other half he sent with Uther and the others to deliver to King Terenas and the Archbishop. His purpose was clear: to warn the Northern kingdoms of the Orc threat and to lay the groundwork for a unified Human Alliance in the inevitable years to come—when Stormwind would fall and its people would seek refuge in the North.
With a surge of white light, Galen teleported his group back to Cathedral Square in Minas Tirith. Of the six hundred who had gone south, more than a hundred had not returned. The youngest among them, Turalyon, stood in silence, his heart heavy.
He had faced war four years earlier than fate had intended. In the original timeline, he would have become a Paladin at twenty and served as Lothar's adjutant. But Galen's arrival changed that—he had donned the mantle of a Paladin early and survived two grueling battles against the Orcs. The once-youthful Turalyon now stood with sharpened resolve.
Yes, Galen's plan for Turalyon had succeeded.
Uther and Tirion had also grown. Both had experience hunting trolls in Lordaeron, and war was not new to them. But now they had faced something darker. Galen's aim had been to expose these future leaders to the brutality of the Orcs—to forge warriors worthy of leading the Alliance to come.
The time had come to say goodbye.
With two frozen Orc corpses in tow, they left Minas Tirith. After a night's rest, Galen traveled to the hidden training base in the back mountains.
There, he found all 3,400 resurrected Stormwind soldiers waiting. They had all sworn loyalty to him—a fact that astonished Galen and prompted a visit in person.
What he hadn't expected was to encounter an old acquaintance—Duke Marcus.
Galen had not revived the Duke intentionally. His only concern had been to save the fallen High Knights, whose last charge had been nothing short of legendary. They had cleaved through Orc warriors as if slicing through straw.
"Lord Duke… it's you?" Galen said in surprise.
Marcus had been a ninth level master—possibly the strongest warrior to fall at the Battle of Sorrow Hill. The Orcs had lost no champions that day; only foot soldiers. Marcus' death had likely been missed during the chaos, and the Origin Heart had not prompted Galen to claim his heroic soul in time.
Galen respected the Duke. In the heat of battle, Marcus had executed noble officers who fled or faltered, preserving the army's morale at great personal cost. According to Lothar's reports, Ftagan had slain the heirs of two Marquises, one Earl, and three Viscounts nobles whose private armies had broken ranks. Most would have hesitated. Not Marcus. He chose the Kingdom over politics.
"I never expected to live again," the old Duke said, clearly humbled. "Before the earth rose up by Medivh's will, I had already passed on... But then I was pulled back by a sacred force."
Galen eyed him. "This loyalty of the resurrected soldiers was that your doing?"
The Duke smiled faintly. His family name still carried weight in Stormwind, and Bolvar's eventual rise to regent after King Varian's disappearance was no coincidence. The Ftagan family's roots ran deep in noble and common circles alike.
"You needn't call me 'Duke,' Prince," he said. "Bolvar holds that title now."
Galen nodded. "You're right. He's been named Duke. The nobles didn't challenge it—King Llane made sure of that."
"Then call me Marcus," the old man replied. "I've already sworn loyalty to you."
It was a wise choice. Galen had done the impossible resurrected the dead. Such power had not been seen in thousands of years. Marcus had already served his kingdom with honor. With no future in Stormwind, and the secret of resurrection needing protection, joining Galen was the logical step.
Retiring would be pointless. Here, he could still serve—and witness something world-changing.
"I just hope," Marcus said with a hint of wry humor, "you know how to make use of a dead man."
Galen smiled. "One day, you'll see that joining us was the best decision you ever made."
The resurrected soldiers raised their voices in unison:
"We swear eternal loyalty to His Highness Galen—until death, and beyond!"