Following Bolvar's arrival in Southshore with 400,000 Stormwind refugees, a cascade of migrations swiftly followed. Within a month, the nobility of Stormwind, the last remnants of the regular army under King Llane, Anduin Lothar's elite Lion Guard, and the Iron Horse Brotherhood all relocated to Southshore, the northernmost human port of great size and strength.
Thus ended the First Orc War—Stormwind had fallen.
Yet the cost exacted upon the Horde was no small matter. The fiery destruction of Stormwind's Trade District had claimed at least 30,000 Orcish lives—a death toll that dwarfed the cumulative casualties of Stormwind's previous conflicts.
Orgrim Doomhammer seethed with wrath.
But fate's thread had been altered. In this timeline, the hand of Galen had tilted the balance. His intervention ensured that the tragedy was not absolute. His logistical mastery in evacuating the city's populace had spared no fewer than 300,000 lives. Without him, Stormwind's meager fleet could never have borne so many to safety, and noble vessels would scarcely have lifted a finger for the common folk.
Thanks to his foresight, nearly 40,000 soldiers of the Stormwind army reached the Hillsbrad region alive, their morale intact. In the true timeline, they would have been reduced to whispers—only the Iron Horse Brotherhood and scattered remnants enduring the annihilation.
More vital still, the light of the realm—King Llane—had not perished. Galen's intervention preserved the monarch, keeping the spirit of Stormwind unbroken. Though families grieved, and the people wandered displaced, hope yet endured.
The nightmare had ended. The people still believed: in Llane's wisdom, in Lothar's unbreakable will. They would rise again.
After a short rest in Southshore, Llane and Lothar formed a diplomatic envoy and set out for Lordaeron—the greatest of the human kingdoms. Their goal was nothing less than the rebirth of Stormwind and the forging of a grand alliance: a pact among all human nations, alongside dwarves,gnomes and high elves, to stand united against the Orcish tide. Lothar, blood of King Thoradin, bore the heritage to rally them.
Their hopes were well-founded. Stromgarde and Kul Tiras had already pledged support. Ironforge, soon to be within reach of the Horde, would be hard-pressed to remain neutral. King Terenas of Lordaeron, a man of vision and subtle ambition, had reportedly favored such an alliance—perhaps even seeking to lead it.
Gilneas would require persuasion, but if the great powers aligned, Alterac and Dalaran would surely follow.
Only Quel'Thalas proved uncertain. Though Prince Kael'thas voiced approval, the elven council lingered in endless debate. Llane, experienced in noble delay, understood this all too well.
Bolvar remained behind in Southshore to conscript, train, and oversee the protection of the 500,000 civilians.
Queen Taria and young Prince Varian did not journey to Lordaeron. Instead, escorted by Lothar's son, they traveled eastward to Minas Tirith of Stromgarde at Varian's own request. He wished to see the realm of his beloved 'brother' Galen and undergo martial tutelage beneath the famed Aragorn.
Aragorn, though reserved, offered no resistance. The paladin academy of Minas Tirith remained staffed by veterans, including the instructors who once pummeled Hogger into unconsciousness. Most apprentices were former priests, newly learning the ways of steel and flame. One more student would not disrupt the order. Varian would receive no favor—he would train, sweat, and bleed like the rest.
As Varian dreamed of becoming worthy of Galen, Galen himself had already vanished to the distant coast near the Swamp of Sorrows.
He had not outgrown old habits. Base infiltration and crystal theft were his bread and butter in games—and now in reality. He waited only for Orgrim's gaze to turn fully northward before striking at Stonard, the heart of the Horde's southern base.
On the remote southern coast of the Redridge Mountains, a warship docked in silence. Galen and Gandalf landed with their men upon the reed-laced shore.
The Swamp of Sorrows stretched before them, a treacherous mesh of waterways, stinking mud, and rotting timber. Crocodiles lurked in the gloom. The land was wild and cruel, untouched by civilization.
Garona and her Dark Division scouts fanned into the forest. Once they signaled safety, Galen and Gandalf followed.
The rot of centuries clung to the air. Mud devoured their boots. The land was inhospitable, the water tainted. Wildlife abounded, unchecked by human presence. A base here would be hard-won.
Even the Heart of Origin's deployment tools signaled red: unbuildable terrain. The earth would need taming.
Galen ordered Garona to spread the Dark Division wide in patrol. Soldiers were tasked with clearing the nearby beasts.
Then, alone and unobserved, Galen drew upon Medivh's burning gifts: Ring of Fire!
Flames spiraled forth in dozens, searing the damp earth and choking the swamp with smoke. The scent was foul beyond reckoning. Galen vowed to wash himself thrice that night.
After half an hour, the land was dry enough.
He summoned his outpost:
One town hall
Four barracks
Two Arcane Sanctums
A perimeter of wooden walls
Secrecy was key. The camp was modest, well-hidden, far from Stonard and near-impossible to stumble upon.
As long as the Dark Division scouted far and true, they would remain secure.
And Galen's true aim stretched beyond mere fortification.
His eyes turned north—to the forgotten, exiled Draenei.