King?

In the rugged expanse of the Hillsbrad Foothills, a hulking stone fortress, a defiant fist punched into the very earth, stood sentinel atop a windswept hill. This was the makeshift royal digs of the Stormwind Kingdom, a temporary palace that, by all rights, should have been a grim, utilitarian affair. Instead, it was a daily deluge of opulent nonsense.

Every morning, it seemed, a new monstrosity of decor arrived: grotesque gargoyles leering from battlements, fountains spitting molten gold, marble statues so grand they made the old ones look like garden gnomes, and, of course, the constant, infuriating replacement of the previous, utterly pathetic, mud-caked floor tiles. King Llane, bless his weary soul, had wailed like a banshee, repeatedly stating the kingdom didn't have two coppers to rub together for such extravagance. But the stonemasons, a shifty-eyed lot, swore on their grandmothers' graves it was a "token of undying gratitude" for Duke saving their hides. After slaving away on those blasted bunkers, winter hit them like a frozen axe. With nothing but idle hands and a mountain of rock, they'd simply "found some stones to practice." Right. And I'm the Lich King. But, they added with a wink and a nod, "a deal's a deal." When Stormwind City rose from the ashes, their wages would still be due, but only at cost price. Like getting a dragon's hoard for the price of a single scale. Llane, too exhausted to argue, simply nodded, probably dreaming of a quiet life as a shepherd.

Looking out at the sprawling, ridiculously prosperous "refugee camp" – a name that now felt as appropriate as calling a dragon a lizard – Llane was speechless. It was a full-blown, bustling city in the making, practically thumbing its nose at the very concept of 'refugee.' A hulking, ten-foot-tall stone wall, wide enough for three fully armored Gryphon riders to trot abreast, sheltered a staggering half-million souls, a veritable kingdom within a kingdom. The freshly tilled fields, stretching to the horizon, were ringed by fences stout enough to repel a charging Kodo. Every few hundred yards, a thirty-foot-tall wooden arrow tower stood sentinel, its watchful eyes sweeping the fertile plains like a hawk.

This wasn't just a camp; it was a blueprint for civilization, a fully functional, self-sustaining marvel. Markets buzzed, healers tended, sanitation teams (a truly miraculous sight) kept the grime at bay, fire brigades stood ready, fresh water flowed freely, and the City Guard, surprisingly disciplined, patrolled the meticulously planned streets. Every building, every alleyway, every latrine pit was accounted for, a testament to meticulous, borderline obsessive, planning. In this nascent city, where coin was scarcer than a friendly Orc, there were no handouts from the crown. Every morsel of food, every scrap of cloth, had to be earned with the sweat of one's brow. A solid thirty percent of the autumn harvest went straight to the Ministry of Civil Affairs – basically, the royal tax collectors. In return, the Ministry issued coupons, stamped with the royal seal and an equivalent value, redeemable for life's necessities. Logging, quarrying, whatever the task, materials were collected proportionally, and the workers received those same precious coupons as their hard-earned wages. Despite the crippling scarcity of hard currency, this 'refugee camp' hummed along like a well-oiled machine, a self-sufficient kingdom in miniature, a testament to sheer grit and the power of 'Duke-onomics.' It was utterly mind-boggling to think that just six months prior, these very same people had been a desperate, broken mass of humanity, their hopes shattered like a dropped crystal.

One crisp December morning, as Llane gazed out at the plumes of black smoke curling from a thousand chimneys, a warmth, inexplicable and profound, bloomed in his chest. It was the warmth of home, of hope, of a kingdom refusing to die. And then, as if summoned by the very spirit of resilience, Anduin Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth, strode back into the picture. Llane, a man who rarely showed emotion, practically tackled Lothar in a bear hug that would make a Mountain King proud.

"Anduin, my old friend, what in the Light's name have you been up to?"

"Alas, my King, in this blasted winter, I, the esteemed Commander of the Alliance, have been reduced to a beggar with an empty bowl, rattling it at every kingdom's door. All I've managed to scrape together is a mountain of empty promises, not worth the parchment they're written on, and certainly nothing you can actually eat." Lothar grumbled like a disgruntled Gryphon, letting loose a torrent of complaints, knowing full well there wasn't another soul within earshot to judge his un-commander-like whining.

"A promise, my friend, is better than a kick in the teeth." Llane, ever the gracious host, waved a servant over for a steaming mug of spiced wine.

Lothar, still blinking the road dust from his eyes, finally took in the room. His jaw dropped faster than a goblin's landmine. "By the Light, Llane!" he choked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Am I seeing things, or did I just teleport back to Stormwind Fortress? This place is swankier than a High Elf's boudoir!"

"It does, doesn't it?" Llane chuckled, a rare sound. "I didn't twist any arms, Anduin. The stonemasons just… 'practiced.' All on Duke's tab, apparently."

Lothar ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, a gesture of utter exasperation. "Compared to that little wizard, I'm about as diplomatic as a rampaging Ogre. Any good news from our resident miracle-worker?"

"Is a brand-spanking-new Stormwind Royal Mage Corps considered 'good news'?" Llane deadpanned. "Two hundred full-fledged mages, Anduin. Five hundred apprentices. Three-year contracts, for now."

Lothar's eyes bulged like a startled Murloc's. "Antonidas actually let them go?! He's usually tighter with his mages than a dwarf with his gold!"

"Duke, in his usual cryptic way, claimed he 'traded' for them. Something about a copy of a magic book from Karazhan. Look, I don't speak 'arcane mumbo jumbo,' but he said since Stormwind had bent over backwards to gather these refugees, it was a fair trade. And frankly, I wasn't about to look a gift Gryphon in the mouth."

"Agreed?! My Light, Llane, that kid is a force of nature! He's got more tricks up his sleeve than a goblin tinkerer!" Lothar clapped Llane on the back with enough force to dislodge a lesser man's teeth.

Llane managed a faint, almost imperceptible, bitter smile. It was the smile of a man who knew he was being outmaneuvered by a prodigy.

"What's with the long face, old friend? If we keep this up, we'll be back in Stormwind before the Orcs can say 'zug zug'!" Lothar gulped down his wine like a thirsty Ogre, clearly trying to drown out Llane's lingering melancholy.

"Anduin," Llane began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've been chewing on something. If we actually do reclaim Stormwind… why don't we just crown Duke king?"

The words hung in the air like a poisoned dart. Lothar froze, mid-gulp, his mind struggling to process the sheer audacity, the outright treason of such a thought. It was like Llane had just suggested they all start wearing dresses to battle.

"Think about it, Anduin. We all know Duke isn't exactly a native son of Stormwind. But what has he done for us? Without him, we'd be lucky to have ten, maybe twenty thousand starving refugees left, scattered to the winds. I'd be worm food, long since dispatched by Garona or buried beneath the rubble of my own city. I know you'd look after Varian, you'd probably even become the Alliance's Grand Poobah of Commanders. But what real power would you wield? You don't even have a standing army to call your own! Even if you somehow manage to lead the Alliance to victory against the Horde, how many loyal citizens would be left to help you and Varian rebuild a shattered kingdom?"

"But… Llane, that's… that's insane!"

"Look out that window, Anduin. Five hundred thousand Stormwind citizens, fed, sheltered, and ready to face the winter. A hundred thousand elite soldiers, their morale higher than a Gryphon's nest, ready to die for this kingdom. Before the snow flies, more of our scattered people will flock back, drawn by the promise of safety. All of this, Anduin, all of it, is thanks to Duke. That man has the Midas touch, the strategic mind of a thousand generals, and the charisma of a freshly polished crown. He's a founding monarch in the making, plain and simple."

Lothar, for once, was struck dumb. Llane had laid it out, plain as day, and the truth hit him like a Frostbolt to the chest. It was the truth, unvarnished and brutal. The very stability of this 'refugee camp' in Southshore had become a beacon, drawing back their scattered countrymen like moths to a flame. The ranks decimated in the last bloody skirmish? Replenished faster than a Murloc can spawn. If it weren't for the logistical nightmare of feeding and equipping them, they could probably raise an army of two hundred thousand, strong enough to make the Horde wet their pants. In fact, every able-bodied man in the camp was already undergoing military training, a veritable ocean of reserve soldiers just waiting for the call.

"Emperor Thoradin was a legend, no doubt, but even Stromgarde, the mighty capital of the Arathor Empire, withered on the vine. Other city-states splintered off, becoming independent kingdoms like Lordaeron and Dalaran. Humanity faces a million enemies, Anduin. If this is the way the wind blows, an unstoppable tide, why fight it? Why not embrace the split?"

"Have you… have you floated this idea past Duke?" Anduin asked suddenly, his voice barely a whisper.

"No," Llane sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "But you don't need a crystal ball to see this coming. Duke has his own loyalists, his own inner circle. At some point, it won't be a question of if Duke wants the crown, but whether he can avoid it." Llane sighed again. "I lost my kingdom once, Anduin. I've made peace with it. I'll go with the flow. When Stormwind rises again, if Duke wants the crown, it's his. If not, he'll be treated like a prince, and I'll lay down a national policy, a decree, to be passed down to Varian and his heirs: 'Don't mess with Duke.' As long as Stormwind keeps the lion's share of Elwynn Forest, we can let Karazhan… well, let Karazhan be its own little kingdom."

"Alright, Llane. You've twisted my arm. Let's see how this madhouse plays out." Lothar, still reeling but seeing the grim logic, finally gave a heavy, resigned nod.