"HISSSSS!" Llane and Anduin sucked in air through their teeth like two startled cats.
But Duke wasn't done.
"After I got back, I broke into my master's secret library like a bored teenager breaking into the royal wine cellar. I dug through tomes so dusty they could choke a dragon and found things that made my eyebrows try to jump off my face. That day, when Medivh revealed the black hourglass, I wasn't just guessing. I was 60% sure—and that's conservative—that Medivh's body is being worn like a party costume by none other than the fallen Titan himself: Sargeras, head honcho of the Burning Legion."
Anduin nearly swallowed his tongue. Llane's jaw unhinged like he was trying to gulp down the moon.
"Medivh... is possessed... by Sargeras?"
It was one of those moments where time itself seemed to trip over its own feet.
They didn't know whether to weep, laugh hysterically, or start running in panicked circles. Medivh might not be a traitorous lunatic! Hooray! But wait—he's possessed by SARGERAS? Boo! Hiss! Panic!
As noblemen with actual education and libraries that didn't serve as drink coasters, they knew who Sargeras was. The big, bad, world-burning cosmic doom machine. The guy you don't want near your planet, much less squatting inside your local wizard.
Anduin asked, half-hopeful, half-terrified, "How do you know it's Sargeras?"
"It's an open secret if you dig deep enough. According to magical archives, over 320 years ago, Medivh's mother, the legendary Guardian Aegwynn, decided to go dragon-wrangling in another realm. She saved some dragons, had a punch-up with Sargeras himself—and won! Or so she thought. She sealed his body, yes, but didn't notice that ol' Sargie slipped his soul into her like bad soup through a crack in a bowl."
"So... he was sealed inside her?" Lothar blinked.
"Like an evil genie in a really unfortunate bottle. Details are sketchy—Tirisfal Council stuff—but somehow, when she gave birth to Medivh... surprise! Now your baby is a demon incubator!"
Even though Duke was couching it all in vague, scholarly terms, Llane and Anduin were already halfway down the road to horrified acceptance. His words were clicking into place like puzzle pieces they'd been missing for years.
Llane buried his face in his hands and groaned, dragging his fingers through his hair until he looked like a startled porcupine. "This is a catastrophe. If Sargeras is loose, if the Council failed, if Aegwynn failed... who in Azeroth can stop him now? Gods, my kingdom is in flames. How am I supposed to face my ancestors when I hand over a smoldering ruin?"
Even unflappable Anduin looked like someone had asked him to arm-wrestle a mountain.
The reception room was so quiet, you could hear a mouse contemplate its life choices.
Then Duke stood up, radiating the kind of calm that only came from either great wisdom or tremendous, glorious madness.
"No more despair, Your Majesty. Not today. Doom is knocking, yes, but it's not inside the door yet. Have some faith. Confidence doesn't guarantee victory, but the lack of it guarantees failure. If you crumble, the people crumble. If you stand, they will rally. This kingdom isn't ashes yet."
He paused, eyes burning.
"I, Edmund Duke, am here. And so is Anduin Lothar. And behind you are thousands of your people who still believe in you. Until we fall, this kingdom lives. If fate says otherwise, then I say: let me kick fate in the teeth."
The king jolted upright like someone had jammed lightning into his spine. He met Duke's gaze and slowly nodded, his royal gloom cracking.
"You're right. Damn right. I lost my composure. That won't happen again. If you have a plan, Duke, let's hear it—all of it."
Anduin, ever the straight man in this comedy-tragedy, smiled at Duke as if seeing sunlight for the first time in a week.
Duke snapped his fingers. "Map, please."
Anduin, always prepared, pulled out a map like a magician doing a card trick. It fluttered onto the coffee table.
Duke pointed. "We can't hold back the orcish tide alone. If Lordaeron and Stromgarde don't help soon, prepare for the worst. Send the civilians—women, children—north, past Dun Morogh, through dwarven lands to Hillsbrad Foothills. They'll be safe there and bring back support."
Both men nodded grimly. Sensible. Tactical. Smart.
"Second," Duke continued, jabbing the map again, "we establish a fortified line near Goldshire."
Anduin scoffed. "Another fortress? Please. Redridge was a disaster."
Duke pulled out a rolled-up schematic like a conjurer revealing a secret weapon. "Yeah? Build this instead. Bleed the orcs dry."
Anduin unrolled the blueprint, his eyes going wide. He looked like someone had just handed him a sword that also made coffee. He nodded.
"Third, and most dangerous—we raid Karazhan."
Llane nearly dropped his teacup. "Karazhan!? As in Medivh's doom-tower of death? That Karazhan!?"
"Yes, that one. Medivh isn't just complicit. I suspect he invited the orcs here. We need answers."
Just as Llane began to object, a knock came at the door.
A guard entered, clearly trying to stay calm. He bowed and whispered, "Your Majesty, a... strange female orc requests an audience. She speaks flawless Common and brought with her the body of Khadgar, apprentice to Medivh."
Llane's voice came out like a croak: "Khadgar... is dead?"
Duke didn't move, but his eyes turned sharp and cold as steel.
"Then, gentlemen," he said darkly, "we are already late."