Unite

"Why in the blazes?" Lothar's brow furrowed so deep it could hold a small pond. As the Grand Marshal of the Alliance, his place was surely amidst the mud and sweat of his troops, not polishing a throne.

"The seven kingdoms," Duke declared, his voice cutting through the tension like a freshly sharpened axe, "need a reason, a bloody good reason, to stop squabbling over who gets the last ale and actually work together." The penny dropped for everyone in the room, a collective clunk audible only to themselves. Ah, yes, the ghost of the Arathor Empire. Same blood, same dirt under their nails, same ancestors who probably argued just as much. When a horde of green-skinned brutes is knocking down your front door, shared heritage suddenly looks mighty appealing. Besides, there wasn't any real bad blood between the kingdoms, just a few centuries of passive-aggressive land disputes. Sure, giving the boot to Emperor Thoradin's heirs back in the day was a bit of a low blow, but nobody actually came to blows over it. Thus, Lothar's gleaming lineage as Thoradin's last living heir wasn't just important; it was the golden ticket.

"Your Majesty, I... I'm not sure my diplomatic pouches are quite large enough to carry that particular hot potato," Anduin stammered, looking as if he'd just been asked to explain the mating habits of Murlocs.

"Pish posh, it's water under the bridge," Llane waved a dismissive hand, a kingly gesture that swept away centuries of royal squabbles. "Your ancestor practically handed the crown to mine, though I suppose to the uninitiated, it does look a bit like a hostile takeover. But when the very fate of humanity, nay, all of Azeroth, hangs by a thread, such historical footnotes are a mere whisper in the wind. Bolvar can handle the troops; he's got a knack for turning raw recruits into proper fighting men."

Anduin pondered this for a heartbeat, then gave a firm nod. When you stripped away the pomp, the politics, and the endless, mind-numbing debates about who owned which sheep pasture, Llane, Anduin, and Bolvar were, at their core, straight shooters. And when they weren't shackled by the endless, self-serving machinations of the kingdom's more 'distinguished' noble families, they could actually get things done. It was truly a marvel.

"Bolvar," Llane continued, a heavy sigh escaping him, "the training of the troops, the safeguarding of my Queen, and the tutelage of young Varian... all of it falls to your broad shoulders." Llane's eyes swept over his meager retinue. Capable hands were as rare as dragon's teeth these days. Most of the high-and-mighty nobles who once strutted through the court had either ended up as demon chow in the Maelstrom or were simply... demon chow, but on land. This wasn't just a promotion; it was the keys to the kingdom, the top dog position short of wearing the crown himself.

"I shall obey, my Lord," Bolvar rumbled, bowing so deeply his helmet nearly scraped the floor, a picture of grim determination.

Llane then turned his gaze to Duke, taking a breath so deep it seemed to inflate his royal robes. With a regal flick of his wrist, a nervous attendant scurried forward, presenting a small spoon dripping with molten, crimson wax. Another offered a crisp, official document, which Llane unfurled with a flourish. The king then poured the glistening wax onto the parchment, a viscous, scarlet pool. From within his tunic, Llane produced the heavy, ornate royal seal, its lion's head gleaming, and brought it down with a resounding thwack onto the still-soft wax. This is... Duke's eyes narrowed. He caught a glimpse of the parchment, and there, staring back at him in bold script, was his own name.

King Llane's face split into a wide, almost mischievous grin as he met Duke's gaze. "Edmund Duke," he boomed, "please, kneel." "Yes, Your Majesty," Duke replied, dropping to one knee with a sigh that was barely audible. Well, the boss just handed me a blank check, he thought, and when the king offers you the moon, you don't argue about needing to bend a knee.

"Edmund Duke!" Llane's voice resonated through the chamber, "In gratitude for your truly monumental achievements, and to commend your unwavering loyalty, your lionhearted bravery, and your cunning wisdom, I hereby appoint you Duke of Karazhan, within the glorious Kingdom of Stormwind! Furthermore, you shall be granted the unprecedented right to maintain twice the private soldiers of a normal duke – that's a staggering ten thousand sworn blades at your personal command!" Llane paused for dramatic effect, then continued, "Your sprawling fiefdom shall encompass lands stretching from the bustling Eastvale Lumberyard in the north, all the way down to the shadowy depths of Karazhan itself in Deadwind Pass to the south! From the verdant fields of Mistmantle Manor in the west, to the perilous crossroads of Triangle Junction in the east!" He cleared his throat, a hint of sheepishness in his tone. "Now, I'm aware that a fair few of these prime properties are currently, shall we say, under new management by the Orcish Horde, but I have every faith that one glorious day, our Stormwind Kingdom will reclaim every last inch of this beautiful, bountiful land!"

Duke, who had just begun to think he could finally stand up and perhaps grab a tankard of ale, felt his jaw slacken. Hold on, there's more? Llane wasn't done. "And as if that weren't enough," the King declared, a twinkle in his eye, "you are hereby appointed the Commander-in-Chief of the Stormwind Navy! You shall command every vessel, from the smallest fishing skiff to the grandest warship, and you are permitted to recruit up to one-fifth of our total naval strength into your personal command!"

Duke was genuinely floored. Stormwind's nobility was notoriously stingy when it came to private armies, keeping a tight leash on their dukes, who were usually capped at a paltry five thousand men. Ten thousand? That was practically a small army unto itself, and perfectly legal to boot! As for the fiefdom... Oh, Llane, you sweet, naive king, Duke thought with a wry internal chuckle. No one knew better than he how Stormwind was destined to become the gold standard for human civilization. In the annals of history, when the other human kingdoms had crumbled or faded into obscurity, Stormwind City would rise from the ashes, absorbing refugees from the north like a hungry sponge, its growth more explosive than even the later, infamous Scourge. Deadwind Pass might have been Medivh's personal fireworks display, but the fertile, verdant lands of Elwynn Forest, especially the Eastvale Lumberyard, were prime real estate, the kind of fiefdoms bards sang about. And Commander-in-Chief of the Navy? That wasn't just a fancy title; it was the keys to the kingdom's entire maritime might, every coin, every trade route, every fish that swam in Stormwind's waters, all laid at Duke's feet.

Everyone present knew Stormwind was on its last legs, a kingdom brought to its knees, even the Westfall turned to dust. If Stormwind was to claw its way back from the brink, it would be on Duke's back. Yet, Llane, bless his courageous heart, was a rare bird indeed, willing to bet the farm on one man. Without a flicker of hesitation, Duke bowed his head, a genuine warmth in his voice. "Thank you, Your Majesty, for this... most generous gift."

Llane's smile faded into a weary sigh. "Gift? What kind of gift is this, really?" he mused, a touch of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "If it weren't for you, Duke, even if Stormwind hadn't been utterly flattened, I reckon we'd have been lucky to escape with a few tens of thousands of souls. And I, likely, would have been just another casualty among the rubble. I'm making promises on thin air, and frankly, I'm the one who feels like a cheapskate."

"Your Majesty, you've done a bang-up job, truly," Anduin offered, while several other ministers nodded vigorously, looking like bobbleheads trying to reassure a distraught king.

"Blast it all," Llane grumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Six hundred thousand soldiers and civilians to resettle? That's a headache the size of a mountain! And we've got nothing, not a single copper piece to rub together. If all else fails, I suppose we'll have to go begging to the other kingdoms to absorb our citizens." No money! No food! The unspoken cries echoed in the chamber. How in the blazes do we even begin to tackle this? Anduin and the others looked at each other, scratching their heads, utterly at a loss. In the heat of the moment, the only thought had been to save lives, to get the people out. Now that they were out, the sheer logistics of feeding, watering, and generally keeping 600,000 living, breathing, eating beings alive had them all dumbfounded. A few tens of thousands? Maybe they could have gone hat in hand to the other kingdoms. But six hundred thousand? The very thought was enough to make a seasoned quartermaster faint.

They'd fled with little more than the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands. And as for Duke Ferrens, the poor soul who used to be in charge of internal affairs? He was dead, of course. Even if he hadn't been, the sheer scale of this logistical nightmare would have scared him stiff on the spot.

"Duke," Llane began, his voice dropping, "would you perhaps... consider a little diplomatic jaunt to Alterac, Stromgarde, and Dalaran? To, ah, negotiate with their leaders?" He cleared his throat, his face turning red as a beet. "And, well, our treasury is currently... experiencing a rather severe case of 'empty.' I was wondering if, perhaps, you might be willing to lend the kingdom some coin, in your personal name, of course?" The words felt like a bitter pill to swallow for the proud king. On one hand, he truly had no one else. Bolvar and his knights were straight shooters, brave as lions, but about as subtle as an Ogre in a china shop when it came to diplomacy. If Llane himself went begging on bended knee, he'd be lucky if they didn't laugh him out of the throne room. But then again, the richest man in the room was currently kneeling before him.

"Your Majesty, please don't fret about the treasury," Duke said smoothly, a glint in his eye. He snapped his fingers, a sharp, decisive sound that echoed in the cavern. From the churning waters of the nearby harbor, two hulking male Nagas, their scales glistening, emerged, each straining under the weight of an enormous, barnacle-encrusted chest. The Wrynn family guard, looking utterly bewildered, took the box and pried it open. A blinding, almost painful burst of golden light erupted, making Llane and his perpetually impoverished ministers shield their eyes. Gold bars! Piles upon piles of them! Each ingot, stamped with the proud lion emblem of Stormwind, gleamed like a thousand tiny suns.

"These are..." Llane stammered, his jaw hanging open wide enough to catch flies. "Your Majesty, have you forgotten?" Duke asked innocently, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "A while back, when those less-than-loyal nobles were fleeing the city, they had a rather unfortunate run-in with the Bloodsail Pirates. In their haste to escape, their ships made a sharp turn and, well, 'accidentally' jettisoned a rather considerable amount of their 'valuables.' My murloc associates, ever so diligent, simply 'recovered' them from the briny deep." Llane's eyes widened as the memory clicked into place. Those very nobles, now stripped of their titles for consorting with demons, had, by the kingdom's ancient laws, forfeited all their lands and properties. The irony was thicker than a Dragon's hide.

At this sight, Anduin, Bolvar, and even the stoic royal guards snapped to attention, saluting Duke with newfound reverence. "Edmund Duke," Anduin declared, his voice filled with awe, "you possess a heart of pure gold, a true saint in these dark times!"