Respite

The shadow of the Horde still loomed, a monstrous, bloodthirsty promise of carnage that refused to fade.

The Alliance and the Horde, two colossal titans locked in a death grip, had merely paused their brutal ballet. A temporary truce, forced by the biting winds and relentless blizzards, allowed them to lick their grievous wounds, each side plotting the other's utter annihilation.

Even with a trickle of vital summer grains reaching the beleaguered Stormwind refugees shivering in the Hillsbrad Foothills, it was barely enough to keep their bellies from rumbling like thunder. Duke, ever the man with a thousand burdens, knew he had to brave the treacherous roads back to the Barov family, hat in hand, for more.

Old Man Barov, it turned out, was off gallivanting in Alterac – probably trying to strong-arm some poor peasant out of their last copper. But to Duke's utter, jaw-dropping astonishment, it was Duchess Janis, a woman known for her sharp wit and even sharper tongue, who received him. And even more shockingly, she actually agreed to his plea for provisions.

"No sweat, dear Duke," the Duchess purred, a smile playing on her lips that was almost too sweet. "The valiant folk of Stormwind have been pulling their weight, and then some, in this grim dance against the Horde. It's only right that the Barov coffers contribute to such a noble endeavor. How about a cool ten thousand tons of this year's finest wheat? And, of course, at the previous price."

Duke nearly choked on his own tongue. "Previous price?" His mind raced, recalling how just a few months ago, a mere five thousand tons would have cost him an arm and a leg, plus a firstborn, at a thirty percent premium. It sounded like the Barovs were still playing a crooked game, but then the grim reality of the war-torn continent slammed into him. The brutal, no-holds-barred brawl at Southshore had ripped the wool from everyone's eyes across the northern kingdoms: the green-skinned menace wasn't just knocking; they were kicking down the door.

Those hulking, muscle-bound, green-skinned brutes weren't just looking for a skirmish; they were out for total human extinction, ready to carve up every man, woman, and child like a holiday roast.

Consequentially, the price of everything from a loaf of bread to a rusty nail had shot through the roof, higher than a Gryphon on a sugar rush. Even with the Alliance having handed the Horde a truly spectacular, boot-to-the-face victory, and various kingdoms scrambling to slap down price-gouging policies faster than a goblin tinkerer's fuse, the cost of basic food had still rocketed by more than two and a half times. A farmer could practically buy a small castle with a single sack of flour!

So, selling at the 'previous price'? That wasn't just not a scam; it was like winning the lottery, finding a unicorn, and getting a free beer all at the same time! It was a deal so good, it made Duke's suspicious nature practically purr.

Duke, usually as stoic as a granite statue, found himself genuinely flustered. "This is... this is truly beyond generous, Duchess," he stammered, feeling a lump form in his throat. "On behalf of the starving souls of Stormwind, I thank you from the bottom of my weary heart."

"Think nothing of it, Duke," the Duchess replied, her smile widening, perhaps a touch too wide. "Helping the good folk of Stormwind is, after all, helping the grand Alliance, which in turn, helps little old us here in Alterac." She leaned forward, a glint in her eye. "And speaking of help... I've heard whispers that your private soldiers are, shall we say, a bit... under-dressed for a proper war. Is there anything else the Barov family can assist with?"

In this hellish state of war, the market had gone absolutely bonkers. Weapons, food, manpower, even the lint from a soldier's pocket – anything remotely connected to the brutal business of battle had prices soaring higher than a dragon on a caffeine binge.

Duke's once-thriving luxury goods empire had been flatter than a pancake under a steamroller for ages. If his 'private army' – a motley crew at best – hadn't managed to scrounge up every last rusty sword and dented shield before the war truly kicked off, they'd be fighting the Horde with nothing but sticks and harsh language.

Naturally, everyone was scrambling for arms, especially after being kicked out of their ancestral lands. Even with Duke having managed to cobble together a makeshift blacksmith shop in the refugee camp north of Southshore, finding skilled workers was like searching for a needle in a haystack, and raw materials were rarer than a polite Orc.

The Barov family, however, seemed to have more of these precious commodities than they knew what to do with.

"To be entirely frank, Duchess," Duke began, his voice carefully neutral, "both the Stormwind Kingdom and my own humble soldiers are in dire straits. What, if I may be so bold as to ask, is the price for such... generosity, Mrs. Janis?"

"Oh, these trifling bits and bobs?" the Duchess waved a dismissive hand. "Merely a token of the enduring friendship between the esteemed Barov and Edmund families. Nothing worth mentioning, truly. However," she paused, her eyes glinting mischievously, "if you insist on knowing my personal desire, perhaps you could impart the arcane secrets of Multicasting to my dear daughter, Ilucia?"

Duke's jaw dropped so fast it nearly hit the floor. Then, a booming laugh erupted from his chest, echoing through the Barov halls.

Ah, yes. The oldest trick in the noble's playbook: nothing cemented an alliance quite like a good, old-fashioned arranged marriage. Or, in this case, a slightly less obvious, but equally binding, strategic mentorship.

Duchess Janis, it seemed, was as sharp as a goblin's wit and twice as cunning.

In another lifetime, before Duke had become the Alliance's golden boy, the shining star of the Lordaeron Alliance, a match between him and Ilucia would have been a no-brainer. But now? He was the Deputy Commander, the man who'd saved five kings from certain doom, the architect of the Southshore victory! Duke wasn't just a hero; he was practically a walking, talking miracle, a legend in the making. Any noble family worth their salt was practically tripping over themselves to marry off their daughters to him.

He had more princesses vying for his attention than a dragon has gold coins, including the rather fetching Princess Calia of Lordaeron herself.

For the Barovs to propose a marriage alliance now would be like bringing a knife to a gunfight – utterly humiliating.

On the flip side, the Barov family was desperate for a safety net. Alterac itself was about as formidable as a wet noodle. Even with the drums of war beating, their entire 'army' barely scraped together thirty thousand souls, twenty thousand of whom were fresh-faced peasant conscripts. These farmers, who'd probably just wiped the mud from their boots before being handed a rusty pitchfork, were about as useful in a real battle as a chocolate teapot, utterly devoid of morale and training.

Aside from the ever-scheming Lordaeron, the displaced Stormwind Kingdom was a far more palatable partner. Sure, the Stormwind refugees might be squatting near Southshore for the foreseeable future, but as long as the seven human kingdoms stood, and the Alliance breathed, Stormwind would never dare to stir up a hornet's nest by openly coveting Alterac's meager lands. It was a political tightrope walk, but one the Barovs clearly understood.

So, in a move that was less about spiritual enlightenment and more about strategic survival, the Duchess had orchestrated this 'apprenticeship' as a roundabout way to save her family's skin, and perhaps Alterac itself.

In the hallowed halls of Azeroth, while the adage of a 'teacher being a second father' wasn't quite etched in stone, the bond between master and apprentice was as sacred as a paladin's oath. To betray one's teacher, or worse, to strike them down, was an act so heinous it would earn the scorn of every human kingdom, unless it was for the gravest matters of national survival or the very fate of the realm. Even then, it left a stain that no amount of 'justice' could truly wash away.

This was precisely why, in the annals of history, even Khadgar, who had slain the corrupted Medivh to save the very world, still carried the whispers of condemnation from many.

Duke stroked his chin, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Now, Duchess, I'm honored, truly. But with my current gig as Deputy Commander of the Alliance, I'm busier than a goblin engineer with a ticking bomb. My schedule for teaching Miss Ilucia the finer points of Multicasting might be... shall we say, limited."

Duchess Janis's heart leaped into her throat faster than a startled rabbit. This was it. This was the moment. Relationships like these weren't static; they either moved forward or crumbled into dust. And now, with Stormwind having firmly planted its flag, it was the militarily anemic Barov family, facing the looming green tide, who were begging at Duke's feet. The tables had turned with a vengeance.

The power dynamic had shifted dramatically. Duke and the formidable Stormwind Kingdom could now simply shrug off Alterac and the Barovs like a bothersome fly.

For Duke, playing nice with the Barovs was a coin toss – neither a grand boon nor a crushing blow. If he truly considered the grim fate awaiting the Barov family in the 'future' – their eventual, tragic demise – he had absolutely no reason to lift a finger for this ill-fated clan.

But then, a chilling vision flickered across Duke's mind: the skeletal, decaying visages of Duchess Janis and her daughter, Ilucia, as he'd seen them in the cursed Scholomance Academy, their dead eyes staring blankly. The horrifying image superimposed itself over the living, breathing Duchess before him, a stark reminder of their impending doom.

A strange, unsettling wave of sympathy washed over him. Why now? he wondered. After all this time, all this fighting, just to avoid becoming a mindless ghoul myself, why do I suddenly care about their rotten future?

He saw Ilucia Barov, not as the vibrant young noble before him, but as a hollow shell, a puppet among a coven of cackling necromancers. Her family, once so proud, now just a stone's throw away, yet she stood utterly alone, awaiting the Lich King's chilling summons to the very heart of the Undead Scourge's blighted domain.

And Duchess Janis... he saw her too, a grotesque parody of her former self, frantically dissecting one rotting corpse after another. The elegant, beautiful mistress of the Barov family was gone, replaced by a madwoman whose eyes, wide and unseeing, found solace only in the company of soulless, shambling zombies.

From the ashes of the First War, through three relentless, soul-crushing conflicts, countless kingdoms and noble houses had been utterly obliterated. Duke knew, deep in his bones, that he wasn't some grand savior, capable of rescuing every lost soul.

But this particular tragedy, this horrifying glimpse into a future he could potentially alter, was unfolding right under his very nose. Blast it all, he thought, I might as well give it the old college try.

With a mental shrug, Duke cleared his throat, a new resolve in his eyes. "However, Duchess," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "if the esteemed Barov family doesn't mind a rather busy, and occasionally grumpy, mentor, then I would be honored to take Miss Ilucia as my apprentice."

It was only then, as Duke's words hung in the air like a sweet melody, that Duchess Janis finally, truly, let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, a shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated relief.