Duke's sense of unease clung to him like a wet cloak. No matter how many plans he laid, no matter how much gold he threw at the kingdom's infrastructure, there was one thing that haunted his thoughts like a shadow at noon: Medivh.
The man was a walking paradox. On his good days, when his mind wasn't being puppeteered by an infernal demon lord, Medivh was the shining paragon of virtue. A brilliant mage, a just Guardian, a protector of mankind who made you feel like your petty mortal problems actually mattered in the grand tapestry of Azeroth. He radiated wisdom, listened with kindness, and treated orcs, elves, dwarves, and gnomes with equal curiosity and respect.
But when Sargeras took the wheel? Sweet Titans, it was like watching a cathedral turn into a slaughterhouse.
The cheerful sage vanished. In his place came a grim, brooding recluse who treated old friends like vermin and strangers like targets. He disappeared for weeks at a time, no warning, no destination. Anyone foolish enough to visit him uninvited might find themselves either chased off by unholy hexes or vaporized outright.
Yet the madman still wore the mask of the Guardian in public. Sargeras was crafty. He knew his cover was gold-plated and bulletproof. So Medivh grinned, bowed, and played the benevolent mage while secretly digging deeper into the darkest magics known to mortals—even building a secret underground tower beneath Karazhan like some twisted magical batcave.
Duke? Duke knew none of this.
All he had was a gut feeling and the ghost of a timeline he didn't belong to. So he did what any chronologically-displaced technocrat with trust issues would do—he built.
Makaro had become Duke's economic right hand, flinging coin like a man possessed. He orchestrated the donation to the Stormwind Navy with all the theatrical flair of a royal wedding planner. Windsor, meanwhile, drilled the sailors like mad. Throwing javelins at straw-filled targets and loosing crossbow bolts until their arms felt like soggy noodles? That was Tuesday.
"Eighty percent hit rate at thirty meters, or you're not touching a damn harpoon!" Windsor would bark. "And if you miss again, you're fish bait, you hear me?!"
Crossbowmen were expected to snipe a target from a hundred meters. A hundred! For the poor fisherkids whose idea of aiming was "pray and spray," this was next-level torment. But the pay? Oh, the pay was so good it made seasoned soldiers weep.
Duke earned the title of "Sea King" not just for the fleet but for revolutionizing dinner in the slums. He took the disgusting whale parts no one wanted, pickled them with enough ginger and spices to burn a kobold's tongue, and sold them dirt cheap. Suddenly, families who lived on black bread and disappointment were dining on whale steak.
As nutrition improved, so did enlistment. Desperation and high wages? Duke's fleet had both. The harpooners trained harder, the workers poured into the docks, and all of Stormwind hummed with a strange hope.
And then came the megaprojects.
First, a civilian dock system shaped like a "HTH" to symbolize royal strength. Each of the five massive stone docks could berth over a dozen ships. Dumping rocks, driving stakes, anchoring foundations—all miserable jobs. But somehow, every morning, the workers found half their work already done.
"Saw somethin' big in the water last night... glowing eyes."
"Nah, I saw it too. Looked like a naga, but friendlier."
"No one's dying, though. Weird."
One drunk idiot tumbled off a pier one night and was literally launched back to shore by an unseen force. He hit the sand face-first with a mouthful of mud and a new respect for sobriety.
Two terrified sailors started to report it to the guard until Windsor showed up and gave them the ol' eyebrow of doom. No one filed a report.
Eventually, Lothar summoned Duke.
"Stormwind's always welcomed helpful outsiders, Mr. Edmund Duke... but are you certain you don't have some naga interns we should be aware of?"
"Not necessary at the moment, Sir," Duke replied smoothly.
Lothar squinted. "You know, I get the feeling you want more than money and fame."
Duke didn't blink. "What I want won't harm Stormwind. In fact, if we do it right, it'll save it."
Lothar sighed. "Fine. Your harbor plans have made the captains weep tears of joy. We'll give you full design authority on the civilian docks. For the naval base, though, you'll work with us."
That suited Duke just fine. He had grand designs. Clockwise-only traffic through the port to avoid chaos. Moats and high walls for the military side. Warehouse clusters and fish markets neatly placed, with a hidden corridor big enough to funnel an army between the gates and the harbor.
Three months. That's all it took. The port became the lifeblood of the kingdom.
And then, just when everything seemed stable...
A courier rushed in, pale as a banshee.
"Medivh... Medivh is back. And he's attending the New Year's banquet."
Duke stared into the distance.
Here comes the endgame.