Archmage

Are you kidding me!? A sixteen-year-old Archmage? That wasn't just impressive; it was like watching a gnome bench-press a gronn. That overwhelming, terrifying wave of raw arcane power alone was enough to make most Master Mages spontaneously combust or, at the very least, soil their finest robes. And Duke wasn't just any Master Mage; he was a first-class Master Mage! Not to mention the guy was a triple threat, a super-mage fluent in the languages of fire, frost, and arcane! Anyone who didn't cling to such an exaggerated, super-golden thigh like a barnacle to a battleship was a complete, unadulterated fool.

The very same loudmouths who had been squawking the loudest before, threatening to jump ship and whine to Antonidas, practically tripped over themselves scrambling to Ilucia. They begged for forgiveness from the noble Miss Barov, promising their firstborn and a lifetime supply of polished boots if she just kept her trap shut. As if Ilucia, no matter how good-tempered, was some kind of doormat for them to wipe their muddy boots on. She almost, almost, gave them the stink eye they deserved, but instead, she just bottled up their resentful looks and, with a grim satisfaction, spilled the beans to Duke about every single whine and complaint from the past two months.

Duke, channeling the moral integrity of a saint (while simultaneously activating his 'Hypocrisy' skill to maximum effect), put on his most contrite face. "Oh, it's quite alright," he sighed, a picture of false humility. "This is merely human nature, after all. No, no, it's entirely my fault. My regrettable absence delayed everyone's studies, and for that, I am truly sorry. I will, of course, do my utmost to compensate you for your lost time and inconvenience. And if, after all this, you still find my terms unreasonable, I am more than willing to terminate our agreement. Don't you worry, there will be more than enough compensation to go around."

Of course, in his head, it was a completely different story: Oh, you thought you could pull a fast one on me, did you? You wanna stir the pot? Listen up, buttercup, if you've got the guts, don't you dare leave. I promise I'll send you to the 'safest' place on the battlefield. Like, say, the front lines of the next suicide charge.

Those guys, bless their cowardly hearts, were all bark and no bite. They hadn't left before, and they certainly weren't leaving now. If they truly had no faith in Duke, they wouldn't have bothered showing up in the first place. The ones who came were mostly poor apprentices or novice mages, scraping by on a shoestring budget, looking for any leg up they could get. As the old saying goes, fair-weather friends are quick to abandon a sinking ship. But Duke's towering oak of power wasn't just standing tall; it had grown into a colossal, awe-inspiring redwood. No one in their right mind was going to jump out and cause any real trouble now.

After Duke held several massive, spellbinding classes in a row, and even took some of the formal mages aside for a few private coaching sessions, all that simmering resentment evaporated faster than a puddle in the Blasted Lands.

With the gentle kiss of spring, the drums of war began to beat once more. The orcs, who had been lying low all winter, weren't just itching for a fight; their bloodlust had intensified, boiling over like a cauldron of molten steel. Glory and land – these were the two things the Horde craved, and they were never, ever satisfied.

Reports from spies and the ever-vigilant dwarves of Ironforge sent shivers down the spines of the Alliance's top brass. The orcs, who had migrated south during the brutal winter, were now slowly but surely heading towards the Wetlands. And the orc laborers who had stubbornly remained behind were already, ominously, rebuilding their damned ships.

In the hallowed halls of Lordaeron, the first high-level Alliance meeting of the second year of the Dark Portal, chaired by the legendary Anduin Lothar, was packed to the gills. Kings from every corner of the Alliance were gathered once more. And, seizing the opportunity before the orcish fleet could blockade the seas, Prince Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge had made the long journey to Lordaeron again.

Thanks to the winter lull in orcish activity, Duke had used his personal fleet to ferry countless batches of desperately needed supplies to Ironforge. Life for the Bronzebeard dwarves, cooped up in their mountain stronghold, had become significantly less miserable. The dwarves' underground warfare was a beast no other tall race could truly tame, so sending foot soldiers was like sending a gnome to fight a dragon – pointless. Duke's act of tightening his own belt to provide medicine and food had truly warmed the dwarves' stony hearts.

So, when Magni finally met Duke in Lordaeron, he expressed his gratitude in the most direct, bone-crushing way possible: he used his prodigious dwarven strength to bend Duke's spine into a pretzel with a bear hug that could crack ribs. "Ugh, ugh, Magni, that's enough!" Duke wheezed, his eyes rolling back in his head, practically foaming at the mouth. "I can't breathe!"

"Hahaha!" Magni roared, releasing Duke with a hearty clap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling. "Thank ye, Duke! Ye truly are the best friend a dwarf could ask for! I can hardly wait for the day ye lead yer army to fight back against those green-skinned fiends!"

"If we're lucky, we'll be able to counterattack this year," Duke gasped, rubbing his bruised ribs. "But it all depends on whether the Light blesses us."

Magni, that cunning old badger, automatically filtered out the rest of Duke's sentence. "Aye, I told 'em that if they could just hold on for another half a year, you'd be there!"

"Damn it, I meant…" Duke started, but Magni just blinked his shrewd dwarven eyes, revealing a glint of pure mischief. "My people are in the toughest spot, lad. They need hope. And if all else fails, ye can just send a few thousand soldiers to Ironforge next winter. That'll count as yer 'arrival,' too, won't it?"

Holy cow, is that even possible!? Duke thought, his jaw practically hitting the floor. You're really a dwarf, Magni? Are you sure you're not a goblin in a dwarven skin suit? Duke wanted to roll his eyes so hard they'd get stuck.

In return for the Alliance's unwavering support for Ironforge, Magni had brought with Duke's fleet a veritable treasure trove of extended hammers and axes, forged by dwarven hands throughout the winter. There was no getting around it; dwarves just didn't cotton to swords. Better to make what the dwarven smiths excelled at than awkwardly churn out longswords. Anyway, a dwarf's two-handed warhammer or battle-axe was practically a human's one-handed version. Make them a little longer, adjust the balance, and boom! You had the finest weapons in the human world. That was a staggering thirty thousand finely crafted dwarven weapons!

All the kings present eyed the dwarven masterpieces with undisguised envy, but Magni, stubborn as a mountain goat, refused to budge. The food and medicine had come from Duke, so the weapons were Duke's to distribute. Duke, however, was no hog, and he certainly wouldn't eat alone. After some heated wrangling with the other kings, he laid down the law: he didn't care about the size of your kingdom; in principle, whoever contributed the most troops, coin, and manpower got the biggest slice of the pie. As expected, King Terenas happily scooped up the lion's share. The elite Scarlet Crusade, led by the formidable General Mograine and Abendis, even got shiny new uniforms, making everyone else green with envy.

After this rare moment of camaraderie and benefit-sharing, the military meeting hall quickly devolved back into a madhouse, thanks to the latest intelligence on the orcs. "We! We must also build a line of defense, a veritable wall of bunkers, on the South Flow Coast!" King Genn of Gilneas roared, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. "We demand your 'cement,' Duke! Lots and lots of cement!" After Duke had transformed the Hillsbrad Foothills defense line into an impenetrable fortress, the most excited person in the Alliance was King Genn. Logically, if the Horde couldn't land at Southshore, their next closest landing spot would be the South Flow Coast, the very doorstep of Gilneas. He hammered this point home no less than ten times within the hour. During the brutal winter, the frozen, snow-covered land had made construction impossible. But with spring here, cement was the only way to throw up a defense line in the shortest possible time.

"Don't worry, Genn," King Daelin of Kul Tiras rumbled, trying to soothe the agitated monarch. "If the Horde, without warships, dares to sail all the way to Gilneas, the Kul Tiras fleet will bleed those greenskins dry."

"For the Light's sake, can't you be a little more nervous!?" Genn exploded, his thick red neck looking like it was about to burst a blood vessel. "Those insane greenskins can conjure up two-headed ogres and reanimated undead knights! Why in the blazes couldn't they conjure up warships or even flying demon legions!?"