Duke Barov

Honest, brave, wise, and loyal – Duke had, in the blink of an eye, become the poster child for sainthood in the eyes of the weary masses. In reality, aside from his uncanny knack for knowing things no mortal should (a convenient side effect of being a time-traveler), Duke knew full well that his other three 'virtues' were about as genuine as a goblin's promise.

Duke had never, not for a single moment, considered himself to have sworn undying fealty to King Llane. Deep down, in his very bones, he was a modern man, a pragmatic mix of shrewd CEO and resourceful employee. The archaic notion of laying down his life out of some mystical, self-sacrificing devotion to another human being? That was a concept as foreign to him as a Murloc opera.

As a time-traveler with the cheat sheet of history tucked firmly in his back pocket, Duke understood that life without coin was a miserable slog. But he also knew that having too much gold was, in the grand scheme of things, about as useful as a chocolate teapot when true power was what mattered. The real currency? Strength. His own, raw, unbridled power, and the disciplined might of those who fought under his banner.

According to the dusty scrolls of history, the First War was supposed to end with the Dark Portal still gaping open and Stormwind City reduced to a smoldering ruin. Then, the Orcish Horde, like a plague of locusts, would regroup and march north, unleashing their fury upon every race and kingdom across the continent, kicking off the infamous "Second Orc War." Duke wasn't entirely sure if the greenskins would stick to the script this time around. But when his system's 'Azerothian Historical Similarity' gauge stubbornly dropped from 80% to a mere 79%, Duke realized that the universe, in its infinite stubbornness, would insist on keeping things surprisingly similar.

He'd saved an extra 50,000 elite soldiers, a feat that felt like pulling a rabbit out of a dragon's maw. He'd also managed to keep King Llane from buying the farm, a historical deviation that still made his head spin. Of course, poor Khadgar had bitten the dust, but in doing so, he'd taken out hundreds of thousands of Orcish elites and given Orgrim Doomhammer a truly epic kick in the teeth. All these monumental shifts in fate, and the similarity gauge had only budged by a single percent? It was enough to make a sane man chew on his own armor.

However, then his mind drifted to the colossal, universe-devouring might of the Burning Legion and the god-like Creation Titans lurking in the distant future. Suddenly, getting a measly 1% change in the fabric of reality after all that blood, sweat, and strategic genius felt like a monumental achievement.

Alright, back to the grindstone.

By noon the next day, the first wave of ships, looking like a flotilla of salvation, docked at the makeshift harbor. These vessels, surprisingly spacious, were quickly unloaded. After replenishing the dwindling supplies of daily necessities and medicines for those still waiting on the island, they swallowed a total of 16,000 souls, eager to leave the desolate shores.

Onboard, Duke was already a whirlwind of activity. The Orcish Horde, bless their short-sighted, axe-wielding hearts, hadn't paid much attention to the war-torn Westfall. This oversight had allowed Duke to pull off a logistical miracle: secretly diverting the summer grain, originally destined for Stormwind City, to the beleaguered town of Southshore. This golden tide of grain would be a godsend, a true lifeline against the gnawing famine in Southshore.

Then there was the rather peculiar matter of the Murloc and Naga migration. Truth be told, the Orcs couldn't do much to the Murlocs along the coast anyway. But Duke had a far more pressing need for them – the bustling port town of Southshore.

The sprawling Eastern Kingdoms continent was, in essence, two massive landmasses, north and south, connected by the colossal Thandol Span, a bridge that seemed to defy gravity itself. To the south of the southern continent lay the battered Stormwind Kingdom and its territories. North of that, the sturdy dwarf lands, centered around the mighty mountain stronghold of Ironforge.

On the northern continent, the southeastern reaches were dominated by the rugged Arathi Highlands, home to the Kingdom of Stromgarde, with its capital of the same name. Just south of that lay the Hillsbrad Foothills, the rather uninspiring territory of the Kingdom of Alterac, widely considered the runt of the seven human kingdoms. The very place where the Stormwind refugees had evacuated was Southshore, nestled on the southern coast of those same Hillsbrad Foothills. A bit to the west of the northern continent shimmered the magical kingdom of Dalaran, and further north still, the undisputed powerhouse: the Kingdom of Lordaeron. And, of course, at the very tip of the northern continent, resided the aloof high elves in their shimmering kingdom of Quel'Thalas.

Duke's grand Murloc migration wasn't just for kicks. He needed the scaly little creatures to help him 'reclaim' the local Murloc populations (read: bring them into his fold) and, more importantly, to fish their fins off, providing a much-needed protein source for the starving Stormwind refugees.

Roughly 50,000 of the Stormwind refugees had been taken in by the sea-faring kingdom of Kul Tiras. Another 100,000 were being shuffled off to Stromgarde, Alterac, Dalaran, and even Lordaeron. This meant that the number of people actually staying in Southshore, even with the 50,000 elite soldiers about to arrive, was still a staggering 450,000 souls.

Even with Duke's magic grain, this was a burden heavy enough to break a dragon's back. Through his trusty system AI, Duke had crunched the numbers. Even if he found enough arable land to plow and sow immediately, they'd still be short by at least 20,000 tons of grain just to survive until the first harvest next year. In this era, that was an astronomical figure, a number that made the mind boggle. It was far more food than could ever be purchased through conventional trade.

King Llane, bless his optimistic heart, was essentially ducking his head in the sand and dumping the entire food crisis squarely into Duke's lap. This was proving to be a royal pain in the neck. Duke had a laundry list of things to do, like taking a detour to the southernmost reaches of the Eastern Kingdoms to mop up the last of the Bloodsail Pirates. Or, you know, finding time to actually practice his magic.

After much agonizing, Duke finally decided to pay a visit to the Barov family in Alterac first. Many might scratch their heads at this: Southshore was in Alterac, so why not go straight to the king? Ah, but this tale begins with the Kingdom of Alterac's rather sordid history.

The original history of the Kingdom of Alterac was long and storied, but the current royal family's tenure was surprisingly short, barely two decades old. The first King of Alterac, a man born into a family dripping with coin, had founded the kingdom purely out of a desire for his own crown. He'd chosen to build his domain on the unforgiving, barren slopes of the Alterac Mountains. The land was as fertile as a rock, and the living conditions were so abysmal that few were willing to follow him, leaving the kingdom's actual territory and power laughably small. It was no exaggeration to say Alterac was the weakest link in the chain of the seven human nations.

The current King, Aiden Perenolde, had inherited this hot mess, and the situation hadn't improved much until the Barov family waltzed in. The Barovs of Alterac were a family so filthy rich, they made the royal family look like paupers. They controlled a vast swathe of land east of the Alterac Mountains, including the grim lands of Brill, the bustling Tarren Mill, the ancient fortress of Caer Darrow, and the coastal town of Southshore. These were their personal fiefdoms. Their wealth was so immense it dwarfed even the king's coffers. They boasted the ancient blood of the Arathi people, their family seat being the venerable, crumbling castle of Caer Darrow County, a place steeped in the noble, if fading, legacy of the Arathi nation.

In fact, it was the Barov family Duke had been wheeling and dealing with all along. From the outset, Duke hadn't even considered relying on other powers for food. Transportation in this era was an absolute nightmare; moving goods even a short distance could mean losing half the cargo. Duke was banking on the fact that most families, due to the unpredictable harvests, had a habit of hoarding food. As long as he could cut a deal with the obscenely wealthy Barov family, he wouldn't have to worry about feeding his people until next year's harvest.

A week later, King Llane, Duke, and their entourage arrived in Southshore. Llane's jaw nearly hit the newly laid stone as he beheld the expanded town. The stone pier, built to the formidable standards of Stormwind City itself, stretched into the sea. Beyond the town gates, an endless sea of neatly arranged wooden houses sprawled out. Medical facilities, bustling eateries, fire brigades, even proper latrines – every conceivable amenity for civilized living was in place. There was even a colossal wooden wall, still under construction, promising to make Southshore a formidable bastion.

But after a brief, whirlwind tour to pacify the grateful populace, Llane, ever the king, had to rush off to Lordaeron for the grand Alliance summit. Duke, however, stayed behind. He left Windsor, a man he trusted implicitly, to whip his private soldiers into a fighting force. Duke himself, taking Makaro and a few others to lend some gravitas to his entourage, set off for Caer Darrow County, to rub elbows with Alex Barov, King Aiden's closest confidante and now, officially, Duke Barov.