To the average noble or wizard of Stormwind, this was hardly headline news. A few furrowed brows, a shrug or two, but no one started weeping or throwing wine goblets in panic. The mighty Guardian of Azeroth pulling a vanishing act, only to stroll back in unannounced? Business as usual.
After all, Medivh was the kind of man who could disappear for a year and come back smelling faintly of brimstone and stardust, and people would just nod and say, "That rascal, off chasing cosmic butterflies again."
So when word came that the Guardian had returned, the reaction from the noble circles was a collective, "Ah, yes. That guy."
No, all eyes were on someone else entirely.
To the commoners, to the struggling aristocracy, even to the guilds and merchant lords—Duke wasn't just a name. He was a walking fairy tale. A Cinderella story with muscles, brains, and a suspicious number of Naga.
The youngest ever Apprentice Wizard. A rising star in the Royal Wizard Corps. Lord of the western seas. Pearl Road's overlord. Inventor of Chanel perfume (don't ask, it involves whales). The man wore more titles than most wore clothes.
And rumors were swirling faster than a rogue in a hurricane. Whispers claimed King Llane himself would knight Duke. A commoner-turned-knight? Scandalous! Exciting! Terrifying!
Thanks to Duke's cunning in opening the Pearl Road trade route, the kingdom was positively swimming in taxes. Nearly a hundred thousand gold coins had poured into the royal coffers. The tax collectors were ecstatic. The accountants were weeping with joy and/or exhaustion.
Stormwind's walls were finally getting their long-overdue facelift, and even the royal fortress was undergoing repairs. The stonemasons from the Guild were so grateful they practically held up lighters every time Duke walked by.
Originally, Duke wasn't even on the guest list for the New Year's banquet. But King Llane and Sir Anduin had sent him a personal invitation. Written in gold ink. Delivered by a talking hawk.
The main road outside Stormwind Fortress bustled with grandeur. Carriages rolled in, each more ostentatious than the last, pulled by horses so muscular they looked like they bench-pressed trolls in their spare time. Their coats glistened with health, some sporting braids so intricate they could've been entered into arcane weaving competitions.
Paint fumes still clung to a few freshly-touched-up carriages. Family crests blazed proudly from their sides—lions, gryphons, suns, dragons. Everyone wanted their history to shine tonight.
Noblemen and ladies, glittering with jewelry and perfumed to high heaven, emerged in waves. The Stormwind guards, resplendent in brand-new armor, stood tall as the nobility drifted toward the long red carpet.
Each social circle buzzed like a hive of gossiping bees.
"Your Grace, Duke Fortagen, here so early?" a portly nobleman inquired of a striking young man with rust-brown hair and a velvet tuxedo darker than sin.
"Naturally, Lord Carton," Bolvar Fettagen replied with a smirk. As the youthful head of one of Stormwind's most influential houses, Bolvar drew deference like a magnet pulls nails. "I heard we'd catch a glimpse of the Sea King himself. I couldn't miss it."
Lord Carton laughed nervously. The Brando family was his vassal. He quickly changed the subject. Anything to avoid acknowledging that Duke had more fame than any five nobles combined.
"I heard he's arriving in his own personal carriage," someone whispered, eyes sparkling. "The King approved it. And it's... unique."
Heads turned as a strange form crested the canal.
"By the Light... what is that?"
It wasn't a boat. It wasn't a carriage. It was something in between. Picture a floating palanquin, big enough for a dinner party, borne on the broad shoulders of four towering male Nagas.
The kind of creatures who usually made appearances in sea-based horror stories. Not tonight.
And at the front sat a Stormwind apprentice knight in full regalia, somehow managing to look perfectly calm despite riding shotgun on a floating amphibious abomination.
And yet, no one panicked. No guards drew weapons. Why?
Because the side of the "carriage" bore the unmistakable arcane seal of Master Norton—the Royal Academy's Grand Wizard. Encircled in glowing violet sigils, with a spiral of lightning at the center, it blazed with magical legitimacy. No one dared question it.
Next to it, however, was an unfamiliar crest. A cyclone, stylized and blue.
With regal precision, the Nagas slithered through the canal, arrived at the small dock near the fortress, and gracefully hauled the carriage up to the red carpet. The guards didn't blink. Clearly, they'd been warned.
Sir Reginald Windsor dismounted and opened the door with a flourish.
First out was a young man with black hair, clad in a flowing robe of deep blue trimmed in gold. Every step radiated control, charisma, and an annoying amount of confidence.
Behind him stepped down a tall, dignified woman in beige evening dress—Elizabeth Jones, beloved by Stormwind's noble ladies for her impeccable taste and her refusal to put up with any nobleman's nonsense.
And last, old man Norton himself, leaning on a staff that probably once vaporized a demon.
The Nagas? They respectfully joined the driver lineup next to Windsor. A few nobles began debating whether they counted as horses or chauffeurs.
Duke Bolvar smirked, clearly entertained. "Now that's a proper entrance."
Suddenly, a crackling surge of magic electrified the air. A blinding flash burst from the far end of the red carpet, accompanied by a thunderous hum.
A glowing summoning circle bloomed into existence.
And from it, emerged a man.
Tall. Hooded. Radiating power like a thunderhead ready to explode.
The crowd fell silent.
The Guardian of Azeroth had arrived.
And just like that, the evening went from extravagant to legendary.