章節 23: Chapter 5

"My child, it is time to wake up."

Thorwin stirred from his slumber, gradually navigating through the haze of sleep. The soft, familiar voice of Lord Alonsus drifted into his consciousness, gently urging him to wake. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, Thorwin's gaze settled on the figure of the elderly man standing by the window.

"Good morning, Thorwin." Lord Alonsus greeted in his calming tone, a gentle smile gracing his weathered face. Thorwin's vision adjusted slowly, the room coming into focus with each passing second.

Thorwin, still groggy from his deep rest, recognized the distinct features of Lord Alonsus, the lines etched by age conveying both wisdom and kindness. He acknowledged him with a murmur, "Father Alonsus."

"You've rested well," Alonsus observed, his voice carrying a sense of reassurance. "But it's time to greet the day."

Thorwin nodded in acknowledgment, slowly pushing himself upright against the pillows, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from a prolonged period of inactivity. "Have I overslept?" he asked, his voice still laced with the remnants of sleep.

"I have come earlier than usual, alas your itinerary today deems so," Alonsus replied, a faint smile gracing the corners of his aging features. The warmth in his voice was accompanied by a touch of understanding. "The training grounds started early as well because of our imminent departure." His hands landed on the top rail of the chair. "Uther currently awaits right outside your room upon my arrival, you would have been awoken by him instead if it weren't for my insistence," a playful smile emerged from the aging archbishop.

Thorwin smiled thankfully in return. Months of confinement had woven a routine that made every day seem unchanging and monotonous. The mention of Uther, the silver hand's finest champion, quite made him shiver. Every morning had been quite tedious due to the training with the stoic paladin.

Thorwin's countenance softened, his gaze briefly drifting to the window where sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting gentle rays into the chamber. "You have my thanks, father alonsus. Uther's method of awakening me… Let us say it isn't what I look forward to, since my body still aches from yesterday's training," he murmured.

Alonsus placed a comforting hand on Thorwin's shoulder. "Recovery takes its time, my child. There is nothing wrong with such sentiments," he reassured, his voice a soothing balm to Thorwin's troubled thoughts. His hand parted with Thorwin's shoulder, leaving a few words right before departing.

As his mentor departed, Thorwin rose from his bed, stretching his body in an attempt to alleviate the stiffness that lingered from his rest. Stepping through the hallways adorned with gleaming armors and holy relics, he couldn't help but marvel at the tangible sense of power they seemed to emanate. The barracks, aptly named the Bastion of the Silver Hand, served as the central hub for the Silver Hand in the city of Stratholme.

Upon reaching the training grounds, a bustling scene unfolded before him. Trainees of all ages engaged in rigorous physical exercises, guided by seasoned instructors donned in battle-worn armor. Among the figures, Thorwin's attention was drawn to a bearded man whose stoic demeanor barely masked the hint of boredom lingering in his eyes as he sat upon a stone chair.

"Sir Uther, I have arrived," Thorwin announced promptly, standing upright in a disciplined military posture before Uther.

"Very well, lad, do some push-ups. A hundred fifty," Uther commanded in a stern, no-nonsense tone.

Thorwin acknowledged the directive with a nod and swiftly positioned himself on the ground, assuming the push-up stance. Each repetition tested his physical limits. With unwavering determination, he pushed himself to complete the grueling count. The strain on his muscles was palpable, an ever-present reminder of his need for greater strength. Yet, even as fatigue threatened to overwhelm him, Thorwin pressed on, resolute in his pursuit of improvement.

With the exercise concluded, pain radiated through his body, but there was no respite; Uther approached, offering a sword. It was a familiar gesture, a challenge that Thorwin willingly accepted. His hand reached for the sword, grabbing it tightly as he walked cautiously away from Uther in order to maintain a distance, lest the paladin strikes unannounced. "I'm ready when you are, Sir Uther," he announced. It was met with mere silence, not until a breathe of exhalation came out of Uther himself. The paladin posed on a combative stance, an offensive one; whereas, Thorwin readied himself to defend as Uther began running towards him.

Their clash began, and Thorwin immediately sensed once again the stark difference between his and Uther's combat prowess. The man wielded both formidable strength and flawless technique. Each strike from Uther carried incredible force, driving Thorwin back with every parry. Despite his best efforts, Thorwin found himself forced into a defensive position, struggling to match Uther's skill and power. Before he knew it, defeat was imminent but not without a sense of satisfaction when he was able to make Uther step back a few with a desperate blow he did.

"You've improved, lad," said Uther, a faint delight could be heard from his voice. There were no signs of tiredness visible on his face, just a drop of a few sweats. He stepped back, and watched at the scene that was about to unfold.

Unbeknownst to the two, a gathering of trainees and instructors had formed a ring around them in that short time span, the spectators' eyes glued to the spar that had just ended. Whispers and hushed murmurs buzzed through the crowd, a blend of awe, anticipation, and eagerness even when the battle had ended. Thorwin's labored breaths echoed in the air, his fatigue evident as he scanned the faces around him. Meanwhile, Uther walked out of the limelight, standing outside the man-made ring.The instructors shared knowing glances while the trainees under them displayed anticipation, eager for their own turn after such a spar.

Among the watching crowd, a young man, barely twenty, stepped forward, holding the sword sheathed on his waist. "Lord Thorwin, may I spar with you today?" he asked, a touch of respect intoned in his voice.

Thorwin acknowledged the greeting with a nod, focusing his strength on the upcoming fight. He meticulously positioned himself in a battle-ready stance, this time he was determined to take the upper-hand; an aggressive style in turn knowing he holds the advantage in strength. The very air around him seemed charged with anticipation as he signaled his preparedness to partake in yet another rigorous bout, the setting sun casting a golden glow upon the scene. The young man proved a worthy trainee of the silver hand, barely lasting a minute against a barrage of strikes Thorwin rained upon him. He knew, the moment his opponent lost his momentum was the time the winner had already been set in stone.

Like legendary warriors foretold, and in the swift ballet of blades and calculated maneuvers, Thorwin, like a tempest unleashed, swiftly brought about the downfall of ten adversaries—youthful fighters left in awe of the prowess displayed by a mere teenage boy. His every movement seemed choreographed by a masterful hand, each strike and parry executed with a precision that left the onlookers spellbound.

Victory, an intoxicating elixir, permeated every fiber of Thorwin's being. As the dust settled and the echoes of clashing steel subsided, his piercing gaze canvassed the training ground strewn with the defeated. Those fortunate enough to stand wore expressions of admiration, while the less fortunate lay sprawled on the earth, gasping for breath, their faces etched with a mixture of exhaustion. Although he holds defeat in each bout with Uther, Thorwin excelled against this company of trainees, he had become better but it was far from enough. Knowing this, his thoughts meandered to a period of reminisce. Following the tumultuous events in Dalaran, he sought solace and purpose in the disciplined guidance of Uther, a mentor tasked by Alonsus Faol to not only sharpen his martial skills but also his understanding of the light. For five arduous months, he had immersed himself in relentless training alongside a cohort of dedicated trainees—a group of young men destined to become the paladins of the illustrious Knights of the Silver Hand.

Realigning the threads of his contemplations, Thorwin deftly began the process of shedding his battle-worn leather armor. Each buckle and strap released with a muted yet resonant echo, marking the conclusion of a rigorous training session. As the last piece of armor relinquished its hold, a page, attuned to the rhythm of the practice grounds, approached with the sheath of Thorwin's sword cradled in his hands. With a gesture of utmost respect, the page extended the sheath towards Thorwin.

Thorwin, receiving the sheath, seamlessly incorporated it into his ensemble, fastening it like a belt and securing his sword within its protective confines. The act, a ritualistic conclusion to the martial ballet that had unfolded moments ago, spoke of discipline and reverence for the weapons that were both extensions of the self and instruments of combat prowess.

"Your training concludes for now, lad, your growth have been exemplary during your stay here. Father Alonsus intends me to remind you that he awaits you in his study," intoned Uther, his voice carrying the weight of experience and authority. The paladin, now fully encased in his resplendent armor, seemed to have returned after leaving earlier during the sparring. In his right hand, a colossal hammer, a symbol of strength and unwavering conviction, rested with an ease that belied its considerable weight.

Thorwin turned to face Uther, a mixture of fatigue and satisfaction etched upon his features. "Your guidance has been invaluable, Sir Uther. I am grateful for the opportunity to hone my skills under your watchful eye," he expressed, his words a genuine acknowledgment of the mentorship bestowed upon him.

Uther's gaze, a steady and knowing presence, met Thorwin's. "It has been an honor, lad, may light guide your return from the journey south," Uther imparted, his words resonating with a softness hidden in such a callous voice.

After bidding farewell to Uther, Thorwin made his way towards Alonsus' study within the bastion. The path leading to the study was lined with towering stone pillars, each adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of valor and divine grace. As he approached the study's entrance, Thorwin couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of the study's entrance, a double wooden door.

Etched into the wood were symbols of the holy light, their delicate lines shimmering in the soft glow filtering through stained glass windows nearby. Trimmed with gold of the finest quality, the doors exuded an aura of reverence and solemnity. Thorwin paused for a moment, taking in the sight before him. Despite the opulence of the embellishments, he knew that Alonsus cared little for material wealth. To him, it was the message conveyed through his teachings that held true value.

With a sense of intrigue, Thorwin pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into Alonsus' study. The room greeted him with a warm embrace, illuminated by the flickering glow of candles that cast dancing shadows upon the shelves adorned with ancient tomes and scrolls. The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and incense, creating an atmosphere of tranquility and wisdom that enveloped Thorwin as he approached Alonsus' desk.

"My child, you have done admirably in battle," Alonsus' gentle voice, weathered with age yet filled with warmth, reached Thorwin's ears. "But remember, true strength must stem not only from the body, but from within as well."

"Father Alonsus—" Thorwin began, only to be interrupted by the archbishop's gentle correction.

"Haven't I told you to drop such formalities, Thorwin?" Alonsus interjected, a playful twinkle in his eye.

"Gramps," Thorwin said with a hint of a smile, testing out the new yet familiar title. He couldn't help but notice the approving glint in Alonsus' eyes.

"You need not worry, I understand there's much room for improvement," Thorwin continued, a touch of humility in his voice.

"You are already surpassing expectations," Alonsus replied, his tone filled with pride. "But remember, my child, do not rush yourself. Let time mold you, do not forget to cherish the simple joys of youth."

Thorwin's voice quivered with emotion as he confided in Alonsus, his tone bearing the weight of his pain. "How can I... enjoy carelessly like before, when my loved ones have died tragically at the hands of our enemies?" His gaze, though troubled, seems to seek solace in Alonsus' wisdom. "I must be strong," he declared, his resolve firm despite his inner turmoil. "To protect what remains of our kin, and to honor their memory."

Alonsus nodded gently, his eyes reflecting understanding. "Indeed, strength lies in resilience, in rising despite the darkness that surrounds us."

Thorwin's fists clenched, a silent testament to his determination. "But what good am I, if I cannot even protect myself?"

Alonsus placed a comforting hand on Thorwin's shoulder, his touch a reassurance amidst the storm. "You are not alone in this, my child," he assured, his voice unwavering. "We are here to protect you, just as you strive to protect others. For now, I shall let you do as you wish, but let your worries be freed for it is the burden of the adults to bear."

Thorwin's tense expression softened at Alonsus' words. "Thank you," he murmured.

Awaiting for Thorwin to regain his bearing, Alonsus began speaking soon after, his tone measured and composed as always. "As for our departure to Stormwind, your family's flagship is expected to arrive by the day after tomorrow, due before sunfall. Dignitaries and nobles from Lordaeron have also requested to board the ship onwards to Stormwind." He reached for his reading glasses on the table, donning it as he read a series of letters stacked neatly. "House Swiftwood, a noble house from Tyr's Hand, Lord Swiftwood himself is to come, along with his eldest daughter," he continued, scanning through the correspondence. "All with their eldest daughters, either to marry the crown jewel of Stormwind or the scion of the richest family in the continent."

"Richest? Not quite," remarked Thorwin, his voice tinged with a hint of skepticism.

"The golden crown meant to be placed on Varian's head is said to be gifted by the Stormsongs," Alonsus replied matter-of-factly.

"Did father really?" Thorwin inquired, genuine surprise coloring his words.

"Indeed," confirmed Alonsus.

"I do hope Varian didn't take it as an insult," Thorwin mused aloud, concern evident in his tone.

"You think too much, Thorwin. Sometimes, a gift may just be a gift," Alonsus chuckled lightly. "The world does not always need to be intricate and mysterious."

Thorwin couldn't help but ponder the deeper implications of such a gesture. The weight of history and politics hung heavy in his mind, reminding him of the complexities of their world. Varian may not be the same from what I had remembered, similar to Arthas, he reflected silently. That gift may as well be taken as the Stormsongs broadcasting that they own the soon-to-be king, Varian. I really hope he doesn't, he thought.

"I hope you are right, gramps." the nobles of Lordaeron seems to have some aspirations." Thorwin quipped. "As for the noble houses— to dream of being in-laws with a king, they might as well elevate themselves to dukedom."

The two shared a gentle laugh, followed by a gentle reprimand from Alonsus. Alas, he had forgotten that the old man is the archbishop of a religion; he had even mocked the nobles from his own kingdom, in his own office. Intending to continue their conversation, Thorwin asked. "Do we have any plans to dock in any harbors during our voyage?" his questioning gaze laid upon Alonsus. "The coronation wouldn't start until a month from now, we have much time to spare." An answer didn't come in return, but Alonsus placed back the letters he was reading, and took a rolled parchment in turn.

"I had intended to ask you a similar question," Alonsus replied, his tone thoughtful as he considered their options. "Indeed, we are in no hurry to arrive in Stormwind. A rest would be welcomed, alleviating the fatigue that accompanies such journey. But before we select a harbor to dock at, there is a matter I must bring to your attention." With a deliberate motion, Alonsus extended a letter towards Thorwin, his expression revealing a mix of curiosity and intrigue. "This missive arrived from Southshore. It bears the name of a dwarven acquaintance of yours—Falstad."

Thorwin accepted the letter from Alonsus' hands, his fingers tracing the rough edges of the parchment, noting the distinctive seal that marked it as coming from Falstad, the Wildhammer dwarf. The seal, emblazoned with a hammer flanked by two gryphon heads, spoke volumes of the rugged strength and pride of the Wildhammer clan. "He had really succeeded," Thorwin remarked with a hint of awe in his voice. "A high thane of a dwarven clan..."

Carefully breaking the seal, Thorwin unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the rugged letters penned by his friend with eager anticipation. Each paragraph revealed new tales of Falstad's life in Aerie Peak, of the boundless skies he and his gryphon soared through, and of the challenges that came with the remaining orc stragglers. But it was the news of Falstad's inauguration as the Wildhammer clan's High Thane that truly cemented Thorwin's assumption of his new post, sparking his amazement.

As Thorwin reached the final sentence of Falstad's letter, his smile widened, his eyes sparkling with excitement. The prospect of his friend joining them on their journey to Stormwind filled him with anticipation and joy. "My friend, Falstad wishes to travel with us and represent his clan," Thorwin announced, his voice tinged with enthusiasm. "He mentioned arranging for his retinues to welcome us in Southshore."

Alonsus nodded, his own smile reflecting Thorwin's excitement. "Excellent," he replied.

Thorwin couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude toward his mentor. Alonsus always seemed to understand his thoughts and intentions even before they were spoken aloud. "There's a place along the route where we can meet Falstad," Thorwin suggested. "I've heard Durnholde keep has quite a charming entertainment we could watch..."

"Calling it charming… is quite a stretch, Thorwin." Alonsus' smiled. "Very well, I trust that you inform your steward of our arrangements then."

....

Twelve days later.

The salty tang of the sea filled the air, a familiar scent for seasoned sailors and a comforting reminder of their proximity to the ocean. For Thorwin, a native of Kul Tiras, it was a scent deeply ingrained in his memories, evoking images of home and the countless voyages he had embarked upon. As the waves crashed against the hull of the ship, its sturdy timbers creaked and groaned in protest, yet they held firm against the relentless assault of the sea.

Amidst the vast expanse of the ocean, the flagship of the Stormsong family stood as a towering behemoth, its imposing silhouette cutting through the waves with ease. Surrounded by a flotilla of smaller vessels tasked with its protection, the flagship was a symbol of the Stormsongs' power and prestige. Once a formidable warship used to vanquish the orcish fleet, it had now been repurposed as a transport vessel, ferrying Thorwin and his companions on their detour to Southshore. Standing atop the deck, the cool ocean breeze tousled Thorwin's hair, carrying with it a hint of the distant echoes of the past. Memories flooded his mind, transporting him back to the days of their arrival in Southshore, when the town was little more than a humble refuge for war-weary travelers. In the velvety darkness of the night, Thorwin's eyes adjusted effortlessly, allowing him to peer into the distance with clarity. Against the backdrop of the starlit sky, he discerned the faint outlines of a bustling town, its lights twinkling like distant stars on the horizon. Though the details were obscured by the cover of night, Thorwin could sense the vibrant energy emanating from the settlement afar. The shimmering silhouettes of buildings, docks, and bustling streets came into view, painted by the soft glow of lanterns and torches. Despite the distance, he could almost feel the pulse of life emanating from the town.

He had learned that hundreds of refugees had made a conscious choice to forge a new life in Southshore rather than return to Stormwind. Their presence had been a catalyst for the town's remarkable growth and transformation into a thriving hub of commerce and community. "I wish I could share the sentiment with the two of you," he murmured weakly. His eyes wandered out over the vast expanse of the sea, memories of Varian and Derek, both lost to him now, surfaced like ghosts haunting the waves below. The ache of loneliness gnawed at him, a feeling he had become all too familiar with during his time in Stratholme. "Perhaps I was too lonely there," he admitted, the realization settling heavily upon him. With a determined shake of his head, he sought to banish the somber thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. "I suppose it's hard to be without friends my own age," he mused, the longing for companionship evident in his voice. His thoughts turned to Jaina, her absence keenly felt in moments like these. "It would be nice if Jaina were here," he confessed, a wistful smile touching his lips. But he knew she has her own responsibilities in Dalaran, her recent admission to the conclave of mages tied her to the large pile of books that comes with studying magic. "Good for her," he muttered, though a pang of envy lingered beneath the surface of his words. And as for Arthas... their relationship remained strained, especially after the incident outside Dalaran.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the blast of a horn. At that moment, Raelor arrived at his side, wearing a troubled expression that didn't escape Thorwin's notice. "My Lord, we are to arrive shortly," Raelor announced, his voice tinged with concern.

Thorwin turned to Raelor, his brow furrowing with curiosity. "What's the matter?" he inquired, sensing the unease radiating from the half-elf.

Raelor hesitated for a moment before responding. "There seems to be a large crowd gathered at the dock, awaiting our arrival," he explained, his tone cautious. "I've dispatched frigates and guards to go ahead, ensuring our safety due to concerns about potential appearances of rebels."

"Although we are in an allied kingdom, it is nonetheless not ours, Raelor," Thorwin began, his voice measured but firm. "Having the Stormsong flagship as our vessel is grand enough; sending troops unaccompanied by us may be perceived as intimidation by their civilians. This could evoke animosity amongst the king's counsel," he explained, his tone tinged with concern. "Matters like trade agreements are fragile when tainted by emotions and opinions, especially of public sentiment."

"I beg your pardon, My Lord, but the matter concerning your safety must take precedence," Raelor offered with a deep bow, his demeanor reflective of his earnest concern. "Disturbing reports have surfaced regarding the remnants of Alterac consolidating into a syndicate. Rumors suggest their influence may have even reached into the surrounding areas of Southshore. In light of these developments, prudence dictates a heightened state of vigilance. Your well-being, Lord Thorwin, stands as a cornerstone of our family's stability and prosperity."

Thorwin's frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior as he addressed Raelor. "I have heard about their appearance," he sighed heavily, his tone laced with disappointment. "Why can't the army prevent such a thing from occurring? Our family has provided them with a substantial sum of gold to do their jobs." His anger flared, and he slammed his fist against the railing, the sharp noise drawing the attention of all those nearby. "I have much to discuss with Durnholde's commander upon our arrival. His tasks are not only to maintain the orcish camps but also to keep those Alteraci in check."

"Lieutenant General Aedalas Blackmoore has already been informed of your arrival," Raelor assured, his expression betraying a hint of apprehension. "And, according to your instructions, your displeasure with his slip-ups has been conveyed on more than one occasion."

"You did well, Raelor," Thorwin acknowledged, offering a reassuring clap on Raelor's shoulder. "My associates in the Silver Hand have informed me of Aedalas' cruelty, not only among the orcs but also to fellow humans. I believe it is time for someone to remind him where his duty lies."

"Indeed, my Lord," Raelor responded, a confident smirk tugging at his lips. "The dog must be reminded of who it serves, and a disobedient dog ought to be... replaced."

Thorwin responded with a solemn nod, comprehending the weight behind his steward's words. It was a sentiment he had grown accustomed to in his time among kings and leaders. Sometimes, he knew, you must eradicate the weeds to allow the garden to flourish. It was a harsh reality of governance, one he was prepared to face head-on for the betterment of those who depended on him. "Inform me once we have docked; I shall rest in my quarters for now," he instructed Raelor. Yet even as he gave his approval, a nagging sense of unease lingered within him. The ease with which one could take a life troubled him deeply, despite his understanding of its necessity. The thought of wielding such power weighed heavily on his conscience, casting a shadow over his resolve. He knew he needed rest to ease these worries, and so he retreated to his quarters, seeking solace in the quiet of his thoughts until the ship finally anchored at the docks.

A wave of cheers welcomed Thowin's ears as soon as the docking of ship was announced from the deck. In time, he found himself striding outside his quarters and was met… with a grand welcome. Hundreds of people had gathered below, their faces alive with joy as they eagerly awaited his arrival. Petals of vibrant flowers filled the air, cascading down like confetti from the heavens.

Thorwin stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to process the scene unfolding before him. The shimmering lights of the town danced in his eyes, casting a mesmerizing glow over the crowd. As the realization sunk in that they were here for him, he couldn't help but feel a surge of surprise and disbelief.

"This is... unexpected," Thorwin murmured, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. Despite his years of training and preparation for moments such as this, he couldn't shake the feeling of being caught off guard by the grand reception. The voices of the people calling out his name and that of Lord Anduin Lothar echoed through the air, stirring a mixture of emotions within him. Beside him, a veteran guard spoke, his voice tinged with reverence and nostalgia. "Do you hear that, Mi'lord? The people here seem to call for your name and Lord Anduin Lothar."

Turning to the guard, Thorwin found himself drawn to the man's weathered features, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of service and sacrifice. "Lord Anduin, may he rest in peace— would have been overjoyed to see his people thrive even in a foreign land. This... seeing this made all of the sacrifices made during the war worth it," the guard remarked, his voice heavy with emotion. Thorwin observed the tears welling in the man's eyes, contrasting with the satisfied smile on his face.

A flicker of recognition sparked in Thorwin's mind as he studied the guard's familiar features. Suddenly, it clicked. "Ah!" he thought. This was one of the officers who had accompanied his grandfather during their tumultuous journey to Lordaeron. "You were one of my grandfather's officers, sir..." Thorwin began, addressing the guard.

"Rickard, Mi'lord," the guard replied with a nod.

Thorwin's curiosity piqued, prompting him to inquire further. "You held a fairly high rank in the army, sir. Why did you choose to be a guard instead?" he asked, genuinely interested in the guard's story.

"What use is my presence in the army when half of my brothers fell during the war? When I couldn't even protect my commander— your grandfather..." Rickard sighed. The rustling sound of plate armor rang as he lifted his arm onto his face, a low sobbing sound entered Thorwin's ears. "Now, being a guard of your family, mi'lord, is more of an honor than being an officer." No reply came right after from Thorwin, he merely stared at Rickard. Two minutes passed… then it became five, he waited until the hushed sobs died down. He couldn't quite process everything from the sudden appearance of the old guard to the ambivalence of the atmosphere here and on the docks below, he was merely stunned.

"I…" Thorwin paused. "Thank you, sir." He flashed a smile, placing his hand on the shoulder of the guard. "My grandfather's death is not yours to atone, he chose to fight knowing that it comes dancing with death." He held a prideful tone as he spoke.

By the time they finally docked, the night had fully draped itself across the harbor, but the golden lights of Southshore's docks cut sharply through the darkness, casting a warm, welcoming glow upon the scene. Hundreds of townsfolk crowded along the wooden piers, pressing forward for even the smallest glimpse of the noble heir. The murmur of voices filled the air like the hum of distant waves, with people craning their necks and whispering among themselves in eager anticipation. Here and there, children balanced on crates to catch a better view, their eyes wide with wonder.

As Thorwin stepped onto the gangplank, a lean, well-dressed man surged forward, sweeping his arms out in a grandiose gesture as he approached. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection, gleaming under the dock lights, and he sported a wide, polished smile that seemed almost rehearsed in its charm. "Lord Thorwin!" he called, his voice carrying across the crowd with a practiced enthusiasm. "Grandson of the revered Anduin Lothar, heir to the illustrious Stormsong family! Southshore welcomes you with open arms. It is a privilege and an honor for us all to stand in your grace once more." The man's voice rang out, and a hush fell over the crowd as the weight of his words sank in.

Thorwin held himself tall, his gaze sweeping over the faces of those gathered, nodding to a few with quiet acknowledgment. "You humble me, good sir," he replied, his tone bearing the formal courtesy expected of his lineage, but his words conveyed a warmth that softened his noble stature. "The honor, truly, is mine to be welcomed so warmly by the good people of Southshore. I am grateful to stand once more on these shores, as my grandfather and I did before."

The scrawny man's smile broadened, seeming pleased with Thorwin's gracious response. "Indeed, my lord," he replied, his head inclined in respectful deference. "The memory of the great Anduin Lothar still shines brightly here, and your return rekindles it anew in the hearts of our people." His gaze flicked over Thorwin's retinue, perhaps noting the subtle yet unmistakable grandeur of their attire, the sigils embroidered upon their cloaks, each mark a silent testament to the symbol they carried.