The dock was a disgrace to even the concept of maritime infrastructure.
Duke stood at the edge of Stormwind's excuse for a waterfront, face scrunched in dismay as the stench of fish guts, sun-baked seaweed, and hopeless dreams assaulted his nostrils. Windsor stood beside him, eyebrows twitching like they were trying to flee his face. It smelled like someone had pickled disappointment in a barrel of dead sardines.
"Stormwind has a dock?" Windsor muttered, half in disbelief, half in mourning.
If it weren't for the occasional fish gracing the barracks menu, Windsor wouldn't have believed this rickety toothpick pier even existed. Stretching all of 40 shaky steps into the murky harbor, it looked more like a deathtrap built by drunk goblins than anything resembling civil engineering.
Creak. Crack. Snap. Every step they took was a gamble against gravity, and Duke was reasonably sure the pier had eaten a man or two in its lifetime.
In the distance, the slightly more dignified military port sat like a smug older sibling—barely more impressive, but dressed in fresh paint and denial. Three medium-sized naval vessels bobbed proudly under the Stormwind banner, pretending not to hear their rotting cousins behind them whispering about tetanus.
Duke's nose wrinkled. It was bad. And not "oh no, my socks are wet" bad. No. This was apocalyptic bad. He could already see it in his head—a vision so vivid it made his blood run cold.
A tidal wave of green: orcs pouring through the gates of Stormwind, roaring like an avalanche of muscle and fury. Streets shattered beneath their boots, walls crumbled like overbaked breadsticks. The trade district, mage quarter, even the royal fortress—all reduced to smoldering ruins. Humans cut down or dragged away like livestock.
No land escape. No hope. Just this pathetic dock.
All of it... because of a dock so narrow you couldn't fit a fat murloc sideways.
In a future that hadn't yet happened, Stormwind would learn this lesson and build the magnificent Stormwind Harbor. But today?
Today it was a dock so minor it didn't even get a dot on the city map.
Duke sighed deeply, the sigh of a man watching his grand plans being eaten alive by saltwater termites.
No ships available. And even if he had one, he couldn't dock it. Get too many, and people would start asking questions.
"Why is this wizard building a navy more impressive than the king's? Is he mad? A pirate? An eccentric fish lord?"
He needed a cover story. Fast.
"To the shipyard!" he declared with a flourish.
Windsor followed like a man being dragged to his doom by a lunatic. The shipyard was... modest. A shack with dreams of being a shed.
A shirtless old man named Jackson emerged from the sawdust fog, his body looking like it was carved from old rope and bad decisions. Seeing Duke and Windsor, he blinked like a cat seeing a cucumber.
"Master Wizard," he rasped, bowing low. "What brings your kind to my pile of splinters?"
Duke didn't waste time. He pointed at the Royal Fleet like a noble picking a wine: "Can you build ships that size?"
Jackson laughed. Bitterly. The kind of laugh that had fought a thousand budget cuts and lost every time.
"Lord no! Even those ships are imported from Kul Tiras. We can build fishing boats. Cargo vessels. Maybe something that floats. On a good day."
Duke grinned. "Great. I want ten."
The entire shipyard stopped moving. Jackson looked like he was about to collapse. Windsor, on the other hand, did the sensible thing.
He dragged Duke out by the collar.
"ARE YOU INSANE!?" Windsor hissed, dragging him into a corner like a man about to stage an intervention.
"That money could be used to fund magical research, establish a mage tower, or buy actual pants that don't smell like fish! But noooo—you want to buy a fleet of glorified canoes?"
Duke merely smiled, annoyingly calm.
"Elaborate," he said.
"Nobody eats fish unless they're poor! Nobles only eat food that requires servants and drama! There's nowhere to trade to! Nagas and murlocs dominate the waters beyond Elwynn! This is economic suicide with extra barnacles!"
Windsor was flailing now. Full-body gesticulations. His hair probably aged two years during that rant.
"Kul Tiras only sends their fleet once a year to dump their worst garbage on our nobles. There's no market! No return!"
Duke, still maddeningly chill, let Windsor burn out.
Then he chuckled. "Windsor... how about we make a little wager?"
Windsor groaned. "No. No more gambling. You're already gambling your dignity."
"If I can't earn 500 gold within three months, I'll release you from your knightly obligations. You'll be free to go serve Lothar."
Windsor narrowed his eyes. "And if you win?"
"First, I'm calling you Reggie."
"Too many syllables. Too much effort."
"Second, you follow me. All the way. Because I'm going to show you who the real hope of Stormwind is. And spoiler alert: it's not Lothar."
Reggie, formerly Reginald Windsor, let out a long groan, the kind of sound a man makes when his life is spiraling into chaos, led by a wizard with too much ambition and not enough adult supervision.
This was going to be a long three months.