Fight

Those weren't just gloves; they were shimmering gauntlets of pure, unadulterated ice, thin as a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut. They were sculpted from frost, yes, but undeniably in the elegant, pristine shape of white gloves.

So… what in the blazes was Duke trying to pull?

"Alright, listen up, you pampered pigeons!" Duke's voice, amplified by arcane magic, boomed through the hall like a thunderclap. "Whoever has a problem with this, step right up! Come on, don't be shy! Who? Who else wants a piece of this!?"

The assembled nobles, usually as loud as a flock of squawking gulls, were now as quiet as mice, not daring to utter a single peep. Their faces, usually puffed with self-importance, were now pale as ghosts.

Duke, his eyes blazing, roared again, "That's right! I insulted you! I look down on you! If being 'noble' means being cold-blooded and selfish, scared stiff of your own shadow, trampling the law underfoot, rotten to the core with corruption, and still calling yourselves 'noble'… then this 'noble' title? You can stick it where the sun don't shine! I don't want to be an earl anymore!"

The moment those words left his lips, the entire room went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop, if anyone dared to drop one.

He didn't want to be an earl anymore? In peacetime, the nobles would have collectively lost their minds, roaring like angry bears. "What in the name of the Light do you think you're doing to Stormwind's good name, you upstart?!"

But now? Duke was as indispensable as a blacksmith's hammer. He was the glue holding this whole damn kingdom together.

Almost every sailor and fisherman worth his salt was now Duke's man, lock, stock, and barrel. Duke, the guy who'd single-handedly snatched back those warships from the jaws of the pirates, had suddenly become the navy's golden boy, their undisputed rock star. And let's not forget those mysterious Naga and Murloc legions, whose true strength was anyone's guess, but probably involved a lot of slimy, toothy mayhem.

Countless common folk now only remembered Duke, the legendary Sea King who'd pulled their bacon out of the fire. They remembered the Duke who'd risked life and limb to torch a hundred thousand Orcs in their own camp. They remembered the Duke who'd stared down a Demon King and fought like a madman for the very survival of humanity. In their minds, King Llane, whose kingdom was crumbling around his ears, was fading into the background, a forgotten footnote.

It was no exaggeration to say that, whether they admitted it or not, Duke had become a blazing beacon of hope in the hearts of the people, a rallying cry for the downtrodden.

And now this same Duke was saying that the title of earl was beneath him?

With Duke's raw power, his skyrocketing fame, and his overflowing coffers, what human kingdom wouldn't roll out the red carpet for him? He'd be the guest of honor, the belle of the ball, anywhere he went.

Without Duke, Stormwind's entire defense line would likely collapse faster than a house of cards in a hurricane, and hundreds of thousands of soldiers and civilians would be swallowed whole by the Orcish horde.

To some extent, it wasn't that Duke was too big for his britches; it was that the impoverished, desperate Stormwind couldn't possibly contain a force of nature like Duke. He was a whale in a goldfish bowl.

Yes! This wasn't just a suggestion; Duke was staging a full-blown palace coup!

Llane, his face a mask of disbelief, slowly rose to his feet. He never in a million years thought things would come to this – Duke, his trusted advisor, standing squarely against the very aristocracy Llane had sworn to protect.

But he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He couldn't even force out a "no."

Duke suddenly spun around, his piercing gaze locking onto King Llane's. "Yes! I am not forcing the king to abdicate! I am not asking for more power! I am simply forcing Your Majesty to wake up and smell the coffee!"

Duke took a step forward, chest puffed out, stomach sucked in, looking every inch the defiant hero. "No one is born noble, Your Majesty! People are only noble because of their noble deeds! That's true for Emperor Thoradin, who built the mighty Arathor Empire from the ground up! And it was true for the previous king, who led our abandoned people to this very valley and founded Stormwind thousands of years ago! Why are they noble? Why did the previous king lay down the iron rule that no one could be granted a title without earning it through military merit?"

The entire meeting room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the mournful whistle of the wind through the windows. Not just the King, Duke, and the other high-ranking officials present, but even the royal guards, standing stoically beside them, seemed lost in thought. They absently stroked the lion carvings on the hilts of their swords, a thoughtful, almost wistful look in their eyes.

Duke's voice, now a resonant, unwavering force, continued to fill the void.

"Why, I ask you? Wasn't it all for this very day!? For today, when humanity teeters on the brink of extinction, that there would rise a hero, a leader truly worthy of his status, to drag our people out of this quagmire, out of the depths of despair!?"

In the grand hall, the eyes of the remaining nobles dimmed with naked fear, but the eyes of Llane, Prince Anduin, Bolvar, and the guards flared with a newfound, burning light.

"Stormwind is doomed to fall, Your Majesty," Duke declared, his voice softening slightly, but no less intense. "But one day in the future, when we march to reclaim Stormwind, when we strive to resurrect this great kingdom… please, answer me, great and wise Majesty Wrynn." At this point, Duke suddenly tilted his head back, his sharp eyes boring directly into Llane's:

"Are you going to put your faith in these so-called nobles, who abandoned their people and bolted with their ill-gotten gains when disaster struck? Or are you going to pin your hopes on those warriors, those true heroes, who are willing to fight tooth and nail, to shed every drop of their blood, for the future of all mankind!?"

"Tell me, Your Majesty Llane Wrynn! And every single one of you here, with eyes wide open! Tell me, who do you choose?!" The words, sharp as a freshly honed blade, resonated with a heart-shaking clang. Every stone brick, every intricate wall decoration, every inch of the ceiling in the entire hall seemed to echo Duke's thunderous questions.

In a single, unified moment, every truly courageous soul present drew their swords, raising them high into the air, their blades glinting in the dim light.

"I choose Edmund Duke!" Reginald Windsor, the man who had once saved the king's life, stepped forward first, his voice ringing with conviction. This was the choice of the kingdom's most loyal ministers.

"Edmund Duke!" The unyielding Duke of Fortagan strode out, his sword held aloft. This was the choice of the kingdom's most important ministers. Beside him, nearly ten other high-ranking nobles, renowned for their unwavering integrity, also raised their blades in solidarity.

"Duke!" Sir Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth, the king's childhood friend, the epitome of loyalty and courage, also raised his sword, making the most pivotal choice of his life.

"Father! I choose Duke!" Prince Varian Wrynn, the kingdom's sole heir, the future king, the legend in the making, stepped forward, making a choice that gambled on the very future of the entire kingdom!

Reginald Windsor, Bolvar Fordragon, Lothar… all the heroes who would become household names in later generations, expressed their unwavering resolve through their actions. Even Prince Varian Wrynn, who was supposed to be evacuating in the third batch of ships and was still listening in the council hall, raised his dagger, shouting in unison with them:

"Duke! Duke! Duke! Duke—"

The sound was like the howling of a violent gale, or like a soul-shattering peal of thunder, landing heavily upon Llane's heart.

Llane felt as if he had been plunged into a world of profound silence, a void where nothing existed but the echo of his own voice, screaming in his mind.

The voice, growing clearer and more certain with each passing moment, came from deep within himself, from his ancestors, and from the spectral chorus of heroes who had sacrificed their lives for the survival and propagation of mankind.

Countless voices converged into a singular, irresistible force, pushing him, compelling him, to make a choice at this fateful crossroads.

A surge of hot blood, like molten gold, erupted from his heart, coursing through his limbs, his internal organs, every last corner of his body, exhilarating and surging with untamed power!

Standing at the fork in the road, his eyes seemed to pierce through the veil of time, glimpsing the future for a fleeting moment.

To his left, he saw Stormwind, trusting its corrupt, self-serving nobles, utterly consumed by the flames of destruction.

To his right, he saw a ravaged Stormwind City, rising from the ashes, reborn from the flames, aided by loyal and brave ministers like Duke and Prince Anduin.

Yes, he might not live to see the grand finale of this heroic epic. The new era, without a doubt, would belong to the next generation. However, he could, with this one choice, pen the most brilliant, most glorious beginning for this monumental human saga.

For a moment, Llane was genuinely, profoundly shocked.

He drew out the King's Sword, the legendary blade gleaming in his hand, and raised it high above his head. His eyes, now sharp and resolute, seemed to pierce through the very mist of fate itself.

Llane, make up your mind!