Art of the deal

Duke Alex Barov was no spring chicken. He'd seen more faces than a tavern keeper on payday, from petty thieves to snarling trolls, from conniving princes to the truly deranged. But never, not in all his long years, had he encountered a man so utterly, brazenly overbearing. Yet, the sting of Duke Edmund's audacity was softened by the undeniable glint of gold.

"Give wealth to my friends, and death to my enemies, eh?" Alex squinted, his gaze sweeping over the towering carriage convoy that stretched behind Duke like a golden serpent. Even if it choked him to admit it, he had to concede: "This little whippersnapper certainly didn't come to a knife fight with a spoon."

A throbbing headache, the kind that felt like an Orcish war drum pounding behind his eyeballs, began to bloom in Alex Barov's skull as he recalled the dizzying dossier on Edmund Duke, the boy who had rocketed to prominence faster than a goblin rocket. Too young, too powerful, and clearly playing by a different set of rules. If 'Duke' was a title passed down through generations, Alex could have dismissed him as a pampered heir. But this Duke? He was as self-made as a Gnomish invention, and just as prone to unexpected explosions.

Last summer, at a tender fourteen, the lad had been plucked from obscurity to become a magic apprentice at Stormwind's Royal School of Magic, nestled in the serene East County Monastery. By the year's end, he'd not only become a full-fledged Adept Mage at the entrance ceremony – a feat unheard of – but had also audaciously turned down the legendary Guardian of Azeroth, Medivh himself, who'd offered to take him as a personal disciple.

And what a bullet dodged that turned out to be! Duke, it was later proven, had been sensitive to the demonic stench clinging to Medivh like cheap perfume. And that, dear reader, was just the warm-up act.

In the ensuing months, he'd single-handedly wrestled a small Naga clan into submission from some forgotten corner of the sea, gained control of nearly ten thousand Murlocs, and then, with a flick of his wrist, opened a shipping lane between Stormwind City and the war-torn Westfall. He'd even pioneered a 'Pearl Road' that, if the rumors were to be believed, raked in millions of gold a day. The sheer audacity of it all was enough to make a seasoned merchant weep into his ale.

But the real jaw-droppers were yet to come.

When Medivh, possessed by the Dark Titan Sargeras, finally ripped open the infamous Dark Portal, Duke, a mere fifteen-year-old at the time, had actually waltzed into the haunted tower of Karazhan with the legendary Anduin Lothar. They didn't just kill Medivh; they kicked Sargeras back into the Abyss where he belonged, sending the Dark Titan packing like a dog with its tail between its legs.

What followed was a string of miracles that defied belief: burning 100,000 Orcs to a crisp, luring the Horde's Warchief to his doom, and then, as a grand finale, conjuring a colossal ice ship to rescue 50,000 elite Stormwind soldiers in one fell swoop. Every single one of Duke's outrageous feats had a mountain of witnesses and undeniable evidence, leaving no room for doubt or fraud. Indeed, the sight of an entire lake frozen solid had just been witnessed by Duke Barov himself, a chilling testament to the young man's power. This was, without a shadow of a doubt...

"Absolutely astonishing, Archmage Edmund! How did you freeze the entire lake? What was the energy output balance of the ice elemental world? And the magical coordination? What spell did you use? Was it pure ice magic, or did you weave it with arcane energies?"

Hearing the familiar, utterly breathless female voice erupt from beside him, Duke Barov's headache intensified, threatening to crack his skull.

"Ah! My apologies! I'm simply bursting with excitement and haven't even introduced myself yet! I'm Janice Barov, the mistress of this humble abode, of the illustrious Barov family! Of course, before all this domestic bliss, I was an Archmage myself! I'm actually the junior sister of the esteemed Archmage Antonidas of Dalaran!" This graceful and elegant lady, in her boundless enthusiasm, had just thrown her husband under the bus with the speed of a charging Kodo.

Right! Magic first, or husband first? Was that even a question?! Of course, it was magic! Ignoring her husband's pained grimace, Mrs. Janice practically glided towards Duke, who had just dismounted, peppering him with questions like a star-struck fangirl at a rock concert. Well, before the negotiations had even begun, the Barov family had already taken a 20% hit.

Duke Barov, his face a mask of mortification, could only manage a strangled cough. "My dear, don't you think it's a tad rude to leave a distinguished guest standing at the door like a forgotten delivery?"

"Yes, yes, you're absolutely right! Let's go inside and talk!" Janice chirped, her enthusiasm so infectious she almost grabbed Duke's hand and dragged him bodily through the castle gates.

Stepping through the massive archway, Duke gazed at the castle, now completely enveloped in the majestic greenery and vibrant prosperity of midsummer. A wave of unexpected emotion washed over him. So this is what it looked like before it became the Scholomance, he thought, a flicker of dark humor in his eyes.

As a nobleman of ancient lineage, immense wealth, and undeniable influence, the Barovs certainly weren't living on a bare rock. As the castle's owners, they had meticulously selected every tree species on the island, ensuring they were neither too tall to impede defenses nor too green to obscure sightlines in most seasons. If this castle evoked any feeling in Duke, it was a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. Once upon a time, as a college student with a head full of impractical dreams, he'd fantasized about buying a grand villa for vacations, once he struck it rich. With his current ducal status and his overflowing coffers, he could certainly afford such a luxury now.

But here he was, in Azeroth, where the concept of a "stable home," so commonplace in peacetime, felt distant and alien, as if it belonged to another lifetime entirely. If not for the relentless onslaught of crises that constantly plunged Azeroth into cycles of destruction and rebirth, perhaps such a castle would have been Duke's ultimate goal, his personal slice of paradise. Seeing every intricate detail in this prosperous yet deceptively peaceful stronghold, Duke suddenly wondered if he should ever get around to renovating Karazhan. Perhaps add a guest wing?

As they walked down the spacious, brightly lit corridor, adorned with opulent decorations, Duke Barov's gait was a masterclass in aristocratic bearing, far superior to Duke Edmund's more casual stride. His shoulders were ramrod straight, his posture unwavering. His chin, held at a slight, confident angle, conveyed authority without arrogance. Every firm step seemed measured with a ruler, not an inch more or less, a testament to generations of refined etiquette. In the subtle dance of noble decorum, this genuine duke was leagues ahead of Duke, the time-traveling upstart.

Duke Edmund knew, deep in his bones, that if he didn't win this round, there was no point even sitting down at the negotiation table. This wasn't hyperbole; it was cold, hard truth. The secret to any successful negotiation, he'd learned, wasn't just about what you said, but how much groundwork you laid before the talking even began. You had to whet the other party's appetite, dangle what you had and what they desperately wanted right under their nose. If you showed up to the table already looking like a beaten dog, no amount of sweet-talking or groveling would earn you anything but disdain.

He wanted to crack open the Barov family's treasure chest and extract its most valuable contents – grain. To do that, he first had to get a firm grip on the Barov family's Achilles' heel. Without that leverage, any amount of begging or pleading would be meaningless. Unless he unleashed his soldiers to simply take what he needed, he wouldn't get a single grain of rice from the Barov family's overflowing granaries. Fortunately, Duke knew precisely what his next move would be.

But first...

Duke subtly activated his magic circuit, a common practice among mages. Many liked to constantly absorb elemental molecules from the atmosphere, gradually solidifying higher-purity magical power into better circuits to replace old or damaged ones within their bodies. But Duke's approach was, well, a little extra.

Just by opening her half-closed eyes, in a mere blink, Duke had scanned every single magic trap within a 300-meter radius. Madam Janice could distinctly feel that, at that very moment, all the intricate magic traps and arrays she had so carefully controlled had subtly, almost imperceptibly, shifted. It wasn't that she didn't want to regain absolute control of these vital magical defenses; it was as if the magic circles themselves were afraid, shrinking away from her touch. She suddenly realized that if Duke so much as willed it, his overwhelming power would dominate everything, seizing control in an instant.