"Enough. Stop arguing." The young king swept out a hand, silencing the argument between Stormwind's nobles and the Seventh Army Corps' officers.
The elderly nobles pinned their hopes on Archbishop Benedictus, whom they had long sought to win over.
The Monastery's expansion throughout the Kingdom of Stormwind owed much to the nobles' investment.
Yet the middle-aged man in a tall hat and white prayer robes kept his gaze fixed on the young king upon the Lion Throne, utterly ignoring the Noble Group's whispered messages.
Seeing that Benedictus raised no objections, Highlord Bolvar nodded slightly to his young assistant, signaling him to begin preparations for the campaign.
"Your Majesty, we have yet to gather all the provisions. We need more time. Please reconsider, Your Majesty." The gray-haired old noble in red robes, his face covered in wrinkles, pleaded, unwilling to give up.
With half the Seventh Legion's warriors marching north, the noble estates in Elwynn Forest, Darkshire, and the Redridge Mountains would lose much of their defensive strength.
The Legion Demons watched hungrily, yet as long as even one noble in the Noble Group refused to surrender his interests, none of the others would yield.
Once war began, the people would have to leave their lands. Without troops to defend them, the Noble Group would have to fund their relocation.
Their lands already produced no profits during wartime, and now they were expected to spend money on the commoners as well? What kind of absurdity was that?
Their commercial trade had been swallowed whole, and now their land revenues would shrink too. What was the point of being nobles anymore?
Varian looked steadily at the ministers below him in the Royal Court. He had wrestled with today's decision for a long time.
Barely twenty years had passed since Stormwind City's rebuilding.