"Alright, Duke," Kael'thas leaned forward, a glint in his eye, "spill the beans. How long do you really think this bloody war will last?"
Duke, ever the showman, allowed a faint, knowing smirk to play on his lips. "Now, Your Highness, are you asking your buddy, Duke, for some casual tavern talk? Or are you grilling the Alliance's esteemed Deputy Commander in an official capacity, complete with quill and parchment?"
Kael'thas chuckled, a sound like wind chimes made of mithril. "Just a friend, Duke. No official business here, I promise."
"Ah, in that case," Duke leaned back, crossing his arms with an air of supreme confidence, "it's a piece of cake. It all boils down to how many neutral forces those thick-headed orcs manage to royally tick off. The more they poke the bear, the faster they'll be sent packing, tail between their legs."
"Oh, really?" Kael'thas raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, intrigued.
"Absolutely," Duke declared, warming to his favorite topic. "While the Alliance has managed to wrangle eight kingdoms into this grand melee against the Horde, let me tell you, there's still a whole kettle of fish out there – powerful neutral factions on this continent who haven't even bothered to show up to the party yet."
"Like who, pray tell?" Kael'thas prodded, clearly eager for the juicy details.
"Well, for starters," Duke ticked them off on his fingers, "you've got the conniving goblins down in the sweltering depths of Stranglethorn Vale, the boisterous Wildhammer dwarves tucked away in the craggy Hinterlands, or even the high-and-mighty elves of Quel'Thalas, way up north…"
At the mention of his homeland, Kael'thas couldn't help but let out a long, weary sigh. He immediately snapped his gaze back to Duke, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. "And what if we just... maintain the status quo? A stalemate, perhaps?"
"That, my friend," Duke said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "depends entirely on how long the stout-hearted Bronzebeard dwarves of Ironforge can hold the line. If those stubborn mountain-dwellers are wiped out before the Alliance can launch a proper counter-offensive, then you're looking at a long-haul, toe-to-toe slugfest across the entire Eastern Kingdoms. And if we're not careful, it wouldn't be out of the question to see a hundred-year war break out. Think endless sieges, rationing, and everyone looking like they've been dragged through a hedge backward."
Kael'thas's handsome face fell, a cloud passing over his features. "And what if, by some miracle, all those forces you mentioned do decide to throw their lot in against the Horde?"
Duke held up a single, triumphant finger. "Within a year, my princely friend. The Horde will be toast. Done. Finished. Kaput."
"Now that's the kind of news I've been dying to hear!" A voice, as gentle and crisp as freshly fallen snow, chimed from the doorway of the private room. Two stunning female figures materialized, and the speaker was, of course, Jaina Proudmoore, who had recently developed a rather… favorable impression of Duke.
Jaina, still basking in the glow of Duke's carefully orchestrated magical praise – the kind that made every other female mage apprentice in Dalaran green with envy – was utterly oblivious to the particularly cunning gambit Duke had pulled. Her current admiration for Duke was definitely off the charts, though, admittedly, still a few leagues behind her starry-eyed devotion to a certain prince of Lordaeron.
Jaina, resplendent in her signature light blue magic robe, executed a graceful, almost regal curtsy to Duke.
"Sir Edmund, we meet again," Jaina chirped, her face radiating pure sunshine, as if her very smile could banish the darkest war clouds.
The other woman was the reason Duke was even here – the fifteen-year-old eldest daughter of the illustrious Barov family, Ilucia Barov.
It was immediately obvious that Ilucia had inherited her mother's legendary beauty. No, scratch that. She was, dare one say, even more breathtaking than Duchess Janice herself.
Fascinatingly, Ilucia's features seemed to align with a more... delicate aesthetic, a rare blend of grace and ethereal beauty.
Her skin was impossibly fair and smooth, flawless as polished moonstone.
Her raven hair, parted precisely down the middle, cascaded obediently from behind her ears to settle upon her chest. A exquisite silver hair ornament, set with a shimmering sapphire, adorned her forehead. Her delicate, unadorned face was as soft and pure as fresh cream. Beneath two delicately arched brows, framed by fan-like lashes, sparkled a pair of utterly captivating ice-blue eyes.
Her nose, straight and finely sculpted, seemed to subtly flare with every breath, and below it, a mouth like ripe berries. Even without the aid of a single drop of lipstick, her lips, with their clear, rosy contours, seemed brighter and more inviting than any painted pout. They were like perfectly ripe cherries, just begging to be plucked.
Even through the voluminous folds of her wizard robe, it was clear she possessed a figure of almost mythical proportions, a slender waist that flowed into graceful curves, as perfect as a master sculptor's dream.
A truly stunning beauty, without a doubt.
In fact, purely on looks, Ilucia could easily go toe-to-toe with any of the dazzling beauties Duke had encountered – Princess Calia, the fiery Alleria, even a still-blossoming Jaina. If she fell short anywhere, it was in her demeanor.
Princess Calia radiated nobility and kindness, Alleria embodied the wild spirit of a ranger blended with the refined elegance of a high elf, and Jaina was a force of nature – brilliant and brimming with self-assurance. But Ilucia…
While the Barov family was undoubtedly a titan among noble houses, and Ilucia had clearly received an impeccable upbringing, she seemed… well, docile.
The moment her gaze landed on Duke, she practically scanned him with the speed of a seasoned archivist before her eyes darted away. She lowered her eyelids, her head bowing ever so slightly in a perfectly executed lady's curtsy.
"Hello, Duke Edmund. I am Ilucia Barov," she whispered, her voice so timid it made you want to either tease her mercilessly or wrap her in a protective bubble.
Duke let out a silent sigh in his heart. This kind of exquisite, delicate beauty meant Ilucia would likely make a fine wife, a perfect partner for a man seeking domestic tranquility. But a heroine? A woman who could stand on her own two feet, like Alleria? Not a snowball's chance in the Burning Hells.
"Ilucia," Duke began, forcing a pleasant smile, "I trust your mother has already sent word regarding the… details?"
"Oh, yes," Ilucia confirmed, her voice barely above a murmur. "Actually, she told me herself, using magic."
Duke considered this for a moment, then, with the casual air of someone ordering a pint at the tavern, declared, "Alright then. After I blast through this winter and ascend to the glorious rank of fully-fledged Archmage, we can officially confirm our… arrangement."
"Okay," Ilucia replied, her voice still soft, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Duke, blissfully unaware, had no idea that his seemingly innocuous statement had just dropped a bombshell, sending shockwaves through Kael'thas and Jaina. "Upgrade to Archmage just by saying so?" their internal monologues screamed.
Reaching the level of Master Mage was already enough to earn you the respect of kings.
But Grand Magus? That was like finding a unicorn in your backyard – a truly rare beast. Mages of that caliber were often local legends, powerhouses in their own right. Kael'thas, Krasus, Kel'Thuzad… regardless of their lineage, reaching that stage was like pulling teeth.
And Antonidas? There were only two of them in the entire world, for crying out loud!
Yet, Duke had just talked about "upgrading" as if it were as simple as brewing a particularly strong cup of tea. If anyone else had uttered such a boast, they'd have been laughed out of Dalaran and branded a charlatan. But this was Duke. The man who had twice pulled the wool over the eyes of over two hundred thousand orcs and scorched half of Elwynn Forest to a crisp.
At the Kirin Tor Council meeting where Duke had been summoned to discuss his… unorthodox tactics, Kael'thas had been utterly floored. Duke seemed to have every single move calculated, as if the very fabric of reality bent to his will. A man like that rarely boasted, and certainly wouldn't resort to cheap parlor tricks to lie about something as monumental as becoming an Archmage.
Duke's sheer audacity in making such a declaration could only mean one thing: he was one hundred percent, absolutely, positively sure of it.
And get this: Duke would only be sixteen next year!
A sixteen-year-old Archmage?!
If it weren't for Duke's undeniable status as the Alliance's Deputy Commander and his jaw-dropping list of achievements, this revelation alone would have been enough to make him the most dazzling, blindingly bright star in the entire world of mages. The kind of star that made all the other mages feel like dull, dusty pebbles.