Deal

If it weren't for Duke's video evidence and the orcs' blood-soaked rampage, Duke Barov would've laughed in Duke's face at the idea of "50,000 elite soldiers."

In this age, so-called "rumors" were about as reliable as a goblin's warranty—all hype, no substance.

An army "a hundred thousand strong"? More like thirty thousand actual fighters if you were lucky. And that was before counting the poor sods dragged into battle with nothing but pitchforks and prayers, or the supply guys who spent more time hauling grain than swinging swords.

But after seeing the orcs up close—those green-skinned, axe-wielding maniacs—Duke Barov had a sudden change of heart. If Duke and Stormwind had managed to save that many citizens and soldiers from a tidal wave of muscle and murder, it wasn't just impressive—it was a gods-damned miracle.

When Duke saw the look on Barov's face, he knew he had him.

With a grin sharper than a whetstone, Duke leaned in. "Now, I won't sugarcoat it—there's no guarantee the Horde will come charging out of the Hinterlands like a bunch of drunk ogres. But let's be real, Your Excellency—selling grain now in exchange for the friendship of Stormwind, King Wrynn, and yours truly? That's not just a good deal. That's winning the lottery and finding a gold mine in your backyard."

Then, holding up three fingers like a merchant sealing a pact, Duke laid it out: "Stormwind's offering a 30% premium on 5,000 tons of wheat—cold, hard Arathor gold, no funny business. And as a personal bonus? I'll hand you the exclusive rights to sell New Pearl Road luxury goods in Hillsbrad and Arathi. No strings attached."

Barov's jaw nearly hit the floor.

Five thousand tons. Exactly the amount of old wheat rotting in the Barov family's storage. If Duke claimed he hadn't been snooping, Barov would've called him a liar to his face.

In this era, grain storage was about as reliable as a mage's first fireball—even in a dry cave, three years was pushing it. And let's be honest: refugees weren't picky eaters. Old grain for a mountain of gold and Stormwind's favor? That wasn't a deal—that was daylight robbery in Barov's favor.

From a business standpoint? No-brainer. As a future insurance policy? Even better. Barov couldn't find a single reason to refuse—short of suddenly developing a conscience.

Duke stood, extending his hand like a king offering a pact. "Duke Barov, for the people of Stormwind—hell, for all of Azeroth—I'm asking you to stand with us."

As both an actor and a leader who might just hold humanity's fate in his hands, Duke's smile was so sincere it could've melted a frost wyrm's heart.

Barov exchanged a glance with his wife, sighed like a man who'd just lost a poker hand to a gnome, and stood. "I've got more questions than a rookie in a magic lecture, and I'm no prophet. But you? You've got guts, kid. Fine. I'm in."

With that, the deal was struck.

Meanwhile, Makaro's heart finally stopped trying to escape his ribcage.

He hadn't been at Stormwind's last stand—he'd been stuck managing the refugee camp in Southshore. If Edwin VanCleef was the construction boss, Makaro was the guy keeping everything from collapsing before Duke showed up.

And Duke? He'd prepped like a man possessed.

Fifty blueprints. Water systems. Sanitation. Security. Everything but the one thing that mattered: food.

Every day, more refugees poured in. Every day, Southshore's supplies shrank faster than a troll's patience. Two measly pieces of black bread per person? That barely kept the riots at bay.

But now? Duke had pulled off the impossible. The Barov deal meant food. Real, actual, not-rotten food.

Barov clasped Duke's hand like a miser finding a gold coin. "Edmund Duke, I'll need to run this by King Aiden. But let's be honest—he'll listen to me. What I really want? Your friendship."

Alex Barov was sharp as a dagger. Only a handful of people could call Alterac's king by his first name—just like only Anduin and Queen Taria could drop "Llane" casually. By doing it now, Barov was flexing. Hard.

Duke, knowing exactly how this game was played, smirked. "In that case, Uncle Alex, just call me Duke. Makes things… cozier."

"Duke," Barov grinned, "it's been a pleasure."

And just like that, two foxes walked out arm-in-arm, leaving the scent of fresh profit in their wake.

Meanwhile, in Lordaeron…

Lothar was pacing like a caged worgen. Finally, he punched the wall hard enough to make the stone whimper.

"That son of a gnome! Days wasted, and Menethil still won't see us?!"

Llane, sipping tea like this was a garden party, barely glanced up. "Anduin, kings don't meet like tavern buddies. Patience."

"PATIENCE?!" Lothar's voice could've shattered glass. "The Horde's multiplying like rabbits, our people are starving, and Terenas is hiding behind 'illness'? And that smug Lordaeron noble? He looked at us like we were beggars!"

Llane set his cup down. "A king without a kingdom is a beggar, Anduin. We wait."

Just then, the last surviving mage of Stormwind's court jerked upright, eyes glowing.

"Your Majesty—Duke's deal with Barov is sealed. Five thousand tons of wheat. Thirty percent markup."

Lothar's rage hit critical mass. "THAT GREEDY LEECH—!"

Llane cut him off. "Anduin, think. Those refugees aren't Alterac's problem. No kingdom feeds half a million foreigners out of the goodness of their hearts—not even Lordaeron."

A griffon rider swooped in, delivering a letter from Bolvar Fordragon:

Southshore was stabilizing.

VanCleef's "cookie-cutter" houses (Duke's design) were popping up like mushrooms. A new "temporary palace" overlooked the coast—Varian loved it.

Best of all? Duke's murlocs were herding fish to shore like aquatic sheep. Cast a net, pull in dinner. Problem solved.

But Bolvar's words were grim: Morale was in the gutter. No clear mission. No equipment. And food? Two weeks left.

Llane sighed. "Bolvar and Benedict are doing their best. But Duke? He's the one making miracles."

Lothar grunted. "Don't forget—he's fifteen."

"And we're out of options," Llane countered. "Maybe it's time we gave him more… responsibility."

Five days later, Southshore…

Duke returned, exhausted.

His detour to Alterac's king? Waste of time. Aiden Perenolde was too busy playing politics to care about some "upjumped duke."

All Duke got was a royal decree (barely worth the parchment) and a "charity meal"—like tossing scraps to a stray dog.

Makaro fumed. Duke just laughed. He knew what kind of snake Aiden was.

Then, as they neared Southshore, Makaro froze.

The refugee camp wasn't a camp anymore.

It was a city.

Rows of identical wooden houses stretched for miles. Kids played. Women cooked. Men built. And when they saw Duke's banner—the skull-and-sword of his house—everyone stopped.

"Lord Edmund's back!"

"Bow! Salute!"

Not just civilians. Guards. Soldiers. Even the damn sheriffs.

Every last one dropped to a knee, fists to chests, in perfect unison.

For these people, Stormwind's fall was distant. But Duke? He'd fed them. Housed them. Saved them.

An officer bellowed: "Hail the Hero of Stormwind—EDMUND DUKE!"

And then, like a thunderclap, a hundred thousand voices roared back:

"LONG LIVE DUKE!"