Sylvanas Windrunner

Darkness covers the sky of Durotar, punctuated only by the distant glow of warfires. In the Valley of Honor, torches cast restless shadows on the walls of Orgrimmar. Warriors of the Horde—trolls, orcs, undead, blood elves, goblins—gather under the watchful eyes of their captains. The air is thick with tension… and ash. From a raised platform of black stone, Sylvanas Windrunner appears. Her cloak billows as if responding to her will, not the wind. At her side, several renegade guards escort her, unfazed. Expressionless, her eyes glow with the spectral red that has marked her dominion. When she speaks, her voice is like cold steel wrapped in torn silk. "I hear the whispers... They say there are doubts. That some among you question the methods... Or even... the direction of this war." "We are not here to beg for understanding or to share regrets with our enemies. We are here to reclaim this world, to wrest it from the clutches of the weak... and shape it into something worthy of our strength." "Those who cannot see that... step aside." Pause. "The Alliance will burn. Its heroes will fall. And those who survive will do so on their knees or underground." Her gaze darts through the crowd. She crosses your position, never pausing. She doesn't recognize you, like many others. She doesn't care. "I do not need to be loved... or remembered. I only demand... that you obey me." The words echo among the walls of Orgrimmar like a baleful echo. Some soldiers nod with suppressed anger. Others look down, uncomfortable. In the silence that follows, any gesture, word or reaction from you could have consequences. The Banshee Queen remains there for a few more moments, as if waiting to see who will dare to speak... or move away.