No one quite knew what transpired behind old man Norton's closed doors, but not long after Duke emerged, half the academy was buzzing with a delicious rumor: Norton, the infamously picky hermit of a wizard, had somehow gotten his wrinkled hands on a "High Elf Wizard Apprentice's Notebook" straight from the royal vaults of Quel'Thalas—and not just any notebook, but one once scribbled in by Kael'thas freaking Sunstrider himself!
Naturally, speculation exploded like a fireball in an alchemy lab. Suddenly, everyone was whispering about Duke's background—some said he was the bastard child of a noble; others claimed he was the reincarnation of an ancient archmage. Duke, of course, couldn't care less. He spent the night in the School of Magic's guesthouse, snoring like a rock.
And then came the skylark.
Yes, a skylark. Not a hawk. Not a raven. A freakin' chirpy little skylark, fluttering up to his window in the dead of night like some avian assassin on a mission from Cupid. Tied to its dainty leg was a neatly folded note. Duke, half-asleep and fully confused, opened it.
"Congratulations! Edmund Duke."
Duke blinked.
"What the... How the hell did a skylark deliver this? Carrier pigeons must be unionizing."
He stared at the little bird, who stared back with the wisdom of a thousand years. "Are you... a spirit bird or something?"
The skylark chirped, as if offended by the notion it was anything but fabulous.
Somewhere in the vast, endless forests of Quel'Thalas, the first sunlight filtered through the trees. High atop a branch, Alleria Windrunner awoke. As her sharp ranger senses returned, she noticed the skylark flapping its wings urgently in front of her.
"Chirp, chirp, chirp!"
Alleria raised an eyebrow. "What? He called you a spirit? Ha! He's got taste."
"Chirp! Chirp!"
"What!? That little pervert said he wants to hug my thighs?!" Her voice cracked as her jaw dropped. Then the skylark, possibly on purpose, fluttered to her leg and pecked it once for emphasis.
Alleria looked down at her flawlessly sculpted legs—slender, toned, and deadly—and flushed crimson. Her mind flashed back to Duke's not-so-subtle glances in... less respectful directions.
"That little brat never hides his thoughts! When I see him again, I'm gonna drill into his skull the meaning of respect for your elders!"
Back in the guesthouse, Duke sneezed so hard he nearly fell out of bed.
"Eh? Am I catching a cold?"
He had no idea he'd just gotten ratted out by a magical, feathered snitch.
After freshening up, Duke donned the finest thing he owned: a blue-and-white robe with golden trims, a gift from old man Norton himself. Norton had practically begged him not to go parading around in peasant rags while bearing the title of wizard—it was, apparently, a fashion crisis of magical proportions.
Duke looked in the mirror and paused.
"Damn... is that really me?"
Gone was the university student look. In the reflection stood a young wizard with poise, a touch of mystery, and the aura of a man with a plan.
And just as he prepared to put said plan into motion, he opened his door and nearly walked into a brick wall made of steel and posture.
Three soldiers of Stormwind stood before him. The two in the back were armored head to toe, looking like they bench-pressed boulders for fun. The one in the front, however, wore a white and blue ceremonial uniform with gold-embroidered shoulder tassels, a blade at his side, and hair so perfect even a louse would need a reservation.
The knight struck his chest with a fist in a crisp salute.
"Greetings, Lord Edmund Duke, Apprentice Wizard of Stormwind. I am Garcia Roddy, commander of the Third Regiment of Stormwind's Garrison. I bring formal greetings from Commander Anduin Lothar himself."
Duke's eyebrows shot up. Lothar? The Lion of Azeroth? Him?
"Uh... hello, I'm Duke. What can I do for Commander Lothar?"
Garcia's face lit up. "On behalf of His Majesty King Llane and Commander Lothar, we are delighted by your official ascension as the second-youngest wizard in Stormwind's history. We are honored that you've agreed to serve in the Kingdom's Wizard Corps."
Duke blinked again. Wait, I agreed to that? When?
Before he could protest, Garcia raised a hand. A line of servants marched in like a parade.
"This is your official appointment letter, signed by His Majesty. Every autumn, the kingdom holds a grand welcome ceremony for new members of the Corps."
"This is a token of appreciation—100 Arathor gold coins."
Duke's jaw dropped.
"And this," Garcia continued, "is your reward from the King: a house in Stormwind and two personal servants. If you are dissatisfied, we will accommodate new selections."
If Duke had been a cartoon, gold coins would've spun in his eyes. The pile of gold was like mana from heaven—a perfect war chest for whatever mischief he was planning next.
He bowed deeply. "Please thank His Majesty for his generosity."
Garcia wasn't done. He handed over a list of names.
"These are knight candidates—hand-picked by Commander Lothar to serve as your personal guards. All are loyal to the crown and have combat experience. You may select up to two."
Duke snorted. In his past life, he'd been the kind of player who soloed bosses and cackled as he watched meat-shield tanks crumble. Now he had meat shields of his own.
As he flipped through the list, his gaze froze on one name.
"Reginald Windsor?"
His fingers twitched. Now that was a name with weight. That man wasn't just a knight—he was a future legend.
Duke grinned. The chess pieces were moving. The board was set. And for once in this twisted, magical world...
...he might actually be the one playing the game.