Half a month dissolved into memory, and like pilgrims drawn to a sacred site, envoys from the far-flung nations of the Alliance converged upon the newly reborn royal capital of Lordaeron.
The city, though bearing the fresh scars of reconstruction – its perimeter still a hive of activity – pulsed with renewed life. Shrunken in scale, yet capable of sheltering a hundred thousand souls, the inner districts of New Lordaeron gleamed, adorned and prepared for a momentous occasion.
Today, the weight of a shattered kingdom would find a new anchor. In a world where lineage held the sacred key to legitimacy, the unbroken thread of the Menethil bloodline promised continuity, a beacon of hope that Lordaeron would rise again.
The city throbbed with anticipation. Throngs of citizens, many having journeyed from the ravaged Tirisfal Glades, Eastweald, and Westweald, donned their finest attire, pressing into the square before the palace, their hearts swelling with hope and a desire to witness the dawn of a new era.
Nearly two years had passed since the Scourge's vile tendrils had first gripped the land. The people of Lordaeron had been forced to abandon their prosperous homes, seeking refuge in the distant corners of the provinces, their lives upended by the relentless tide of the undead. But now, thanks to their own valiant resistance, the unwavering spirit of Princess Calia, and the steadfast aid of the Alliance, the shadow of the Scourge had been pushed back, the defiling presence suppressed. Though whispers persisted of stubborn pockets of undead lurking in the city's underbelly, they no longer posed a significant threat.
Knights in gleaming armor stood sentinel along the processional route, their polished surfaces reflecting the hopeful faces of the crowd. A rich, crimson carpet unrolled from the North Gate, a vibrant pathway leading to the grand entrance of the Royal Palace.
In stark contrast to the exuberant populace, the viewing platform overlooking the Royal Square held the assembled representatives of the Alliance member states. Kings and leaders, bearing the weight of their own nations, had personally arrived to witness this pivotal moment. The elder statesmen – Thoras Trollbane, Genn Greymane, Daelin Proudmoore, the spectral presence of Llane Wrynn, Anduin Lothar, and even the enigmatic Gandalf – stood alongside the younger generation of rulers: Kael'thas Sunstrider, Magni Bronzebeard, Kurdran Wildhammer, Durin, and Daval Prestor. Adding to the distinguished assembly were a multitude of nobles, their opulent attire a testament to the significance of Lordaeron's rebirth and the myriad opportunities it presented. Despite the sheer number of attendees, a respectful hush fell over the platform, punctuated only by hushed whispers and private exchanges.
Clang!
Clang!
The ancient clock tower of the capital chimed, its resonant bells echoing across the expectant city. The cheering crowd below fell silent, their collective gaze drawn, as if by an invisible thread, towards the majestic gates of the palace.
The knights guarding the palace entrance knelt as one, their fists clenched tightly against their hearts, a silent testament to their unwavering faith and loyalty.
As a sacred melody filled the air, an elderly elder, his face etched with wisdom and solemnity, guided the protagonist of this momentous coronation ceremony from the palace towards the center of the square, bathed in the soft light of the afternoon sun.
"Long live Queen Calia!"
The sight of their future ruler unleashed a torrent of joyous shouts from the assembled populace, their hands waving frantically, their voices a symphony of hope and relief.
Archbishop Alonsus Faol, his years of service lending an air of profound gravitas, once again stepped forward to officiate the coronation. As he held aloft a Holy Light Bible, its pages gleaming, and stood in the heart of the square, the jubilant crowd fell into an immediate and respectful silence.
"Today!" his voice resonated, carrying the weight of history, "is a sacred day. The last scion of the Menethil family, Princess Calia, will inherit not only the former glory of Lordaeron, but also the profound pain she has endured, and the promise of a future reborn in this very moment!"
"Today!" he continued, his gaze sweeping over the hopeful faces, "we will witness the dawn of a new era!"
"Calia Menethil," the Archbishop intoned, his voice filled with solemn inquiry, "can you shoulder such a heavy responsibility, lead the people of Lordaeron to break through the darkness, and guide them back into the light?"
"I solemnly promise!" Calia's voice rang out, clear and strong despite the tremor of emotion within it. "I will become the sword and shield of the people of Lordaeron, and build a protective wall around them with every fiber of my being!"
At this moment, the Grand Commander of the Knights of the Silver Hand presented a magnificent box, its velvet lining cradling a crown of exquisite craftsmanship, radiating a soft, ethereal light. The old bishop approached Uther, his hands reverently taking the crown.
"In the name of the Holy Light," Archbishop Alonsus declared, his voice firm and unwavering as he slowly and deliberately placed the crown upon Calia's brow, a symbol of her newfound authority. A gentle smile then graced his lips. "May the Holy Light protect you, child!"
Galen, witnessing the crowning, exchanged a subtle glance with the paladins positioned on and around the stage. These steadfast brethren, understanding his unspoken signal, offered barely perceptible nods of acknowledgment.
One day I will grow old, and you will be crowned king! The poignant words of King Terenas echoed in Galen's mind. He doubted the late king could have ever envisioned his daughter, not his son, inheriting the shattered throne.
Galen shook his head, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. He took the lead, channeling the radiant power of the Holy Light that coursed through him. In response, Uther, Turalyon, Gavinrad, and a host of other paladins unfurled their magnificent wings of pure Holy Light, bathing the entire new royal capital in a breathtaking golden glow!
A fresh wave of thunderous cheers erupted from the crowd, their joy unconfined. They leaped and danced, celebrating this historic moment, this tangible symbol of hope and renewal.
The coronation ceremony concluded, yet the people did not disperse. A spontaneous celebration erupted throughout the city, a collective sigh of relief and the joyous anticipation of a new beginning.
On the viewing platform, Thoras Trollbane raised his wine glass, a silent toast to King Llane Wrynn beside him. The two old acquaintances clinked glasses, a shared understanding passing between them.
"Llane," Thoras rumbled, draining his wine in a single gulp, "I hear you are preparing to pass the throne to Varian?"
Llane nodded, a hint of weariness in his eyes. "That is so, Thoras. My years weigh heavily upon me, and the old injuries flare with increasing frequency. Even the priests of Stormwind Cathedral offer little solace. I fear my time draws short."
Thoras fell silent, a rare moment of contemplation for the boisterous king. Llane was a wise and just ruler, but his martial prowess was not of the highest caliber. He had reached the peak of the ninth rank, but the relentless march of time was taking its toll, a subtle decline evident in his aging frame.
Thoras, however, stood at the pinnacle of legend, his vitality seemingly untouched by the passage of years! Since Galen's departure a decade ago, those chronic ailments that baffled Stormwind's priests held no sway over Thoras, who practically bathed in the rejuvenating waters of the Spring of Life. This was also a significant, albeit unspoken, reason for Galen's continued reluctance to inherit the throne. His formidable father remained a picture of robust health, capable, it seemed, of even fathering more children!
"Alas!" Thoras sighed dramatically, "I too yearn to relinquish the burdens of leadership to the younger generation." Varian's children were but two years old, and the whereabouts of Thoras' own grandchildren remained a frustrating mystery.
"Genn," Thoras boomed, turning to the King of Gilneas, "what say you, old friend? We are all relics of a bygone era, while the new rulers of Lordaeron are mere youths. Shall we abdicate together, making way for the virtuous? I believe Liam is a fine lad, far less stubborn than you!"
"Hmph! Can he wield power with the same strength as Galen?" King Genn retorted, turning his head away in feigned indignation, pointedly ignoring Thoras' suggestion.
While these aging monarchs engaged in their familiar banter, they failed to notice the somber figure of Sir Anduin Lothar, his head bowed in quiet contemplation. This venerable marshal, a descendant of the great Emperor Thoradin, had experienced a profound and unsettling encounter with his ancestral spirits on his very first night in Tirisfal Glades… a meeting that had left him deeply chastened and introspective.