After the blue-purple arcane light fizzled out and the floating runic streamers dissolved like confetti at a drunken mage's wedding, the Stormwind royal guards reacted like true professionals: with barely-contained panic.
These were the elite of the elite—veterans who'd seen dragons, demons, and possibly worse in the noble toilets of Stormwind Fortress. Yet even they stiffened, blinked, and then ten of them slammed their spears down like synchronized swimmers in a high-stakes martial ballet. Their two-meter-long spears, usually ceremonial props, were now very much not just for show.
But then... hesitation. Glorious, paralyzing hesitation.
Because they recognized him.
Medivh. The Guardian of Azeroth. The living arcane nuclear warhead. They'd seen him descend from skies, float across courtyards, charm birds off branches with that mild-mannered poet face. He was supposed to be the kingdom's magical teddy bear—charming, calm, almost suspiciously polite. Maybe a powerful artist. Maybe a sentient robe with opinions. But this?
This wasn't that guy.
This Medivh had his chin tilted up like he was sniffing for insolence. His eyes, once kind, now sliced the crowd with surgical disdain. Gone was the royal blue-and-white court robe, symbol of his status. In its place: a cloak of pitch-black feathers that screamed "I don't follow your dress code." His velvet robe looked like it had been wrestled on mid-transformation into a raven. His hair? A tragic nesting ground for abstract ideas and poor choices.
Worst of all? Not a single sigil of Stormwind on his person.
This was the most high-profile banquet of the year. Nobles were glittering like sequined magpies. Medivh showed up looking like he just clawed his way out of a noir novel.
A wave of confused gasps passed through the nobles like a contagious cold of awkwardness.
He didn't care. Not even a little. His gaze slithered through the crowd and found Duke. And then, with a grin that could slice granite:
"Huh. Didn't expect to see you here, Duke boy."
Boy?
Duke's eyelid twitched like it wanted to leave his face. A system message flashed in his mind:
"You are receiving the deep attention of Medivh (currently 100% Sargeras-flavored)."
Duke straightened, bowed with the grace of someone fully aware his life was hanging by the thinnest of plot threads.
"Respected Guardian, what a... surprise. We'd heard you'd gone missing. There was concern. Now that we see you again, changed though you may be, we are grateful. After all, the well-being of the Guardian ensures the well-being of the realm... and perhaps the world."
Carefully worded. Not too submissive. Not too cheeky. Just enough doubt in there to tempt a god.
Sargeras grinned wider.
His eyes flicked to the four naga standing proudly by Duke's floating "carriage" like they were trying not to wet themselves.
They failed.
Ancient fear rippled through their aquatic DNA. Somewhere, buried in the genetic trauma of being Azshara's leftovers, something screamed "He Who Burned the Sky is looking at you."
Sargeras snorted. Not worth his time.
He pointed lazily at Duke. "Power is eternal. Your title, your beasts, your pretty baubles mean nothing. I could snap my fingers and erase your Sea King nonsense. Those naga? They wouldn't even have time to scream."
Duke didn't flinch. "There is nothing on this world you can't destroy."
A hush fell.
Gasps. Audible ones. Like air had suddenly become a limited resource.
Was Duke calling out the Guardian? Accusing the kingdom's greatest defender of being the kingdom's biggest threat?
The nobles gossiped with their eyes: Is this a death wish? Or... a promotion?
Sargeras... laughed.
"HAHAHAHA! One day you'll understand! Only power is real! Power is all that remains! HAH! HAHAHAHA!"
The laugh chilled the hall. It had echoes of burning stars and weeping gods.
Anduin Lothar entered at that moment, resplendent in his knight's uniform, glowing with the kind of hero aura that made bards swoon.
He stopped. His hand instinctively touched the hilt of his sword. Subtle. But not unseen.
"Medivh?" Anduin asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Old friend!" Medivh-Sargeras purred, stretching out his arms. In the black feathered cloak, it looked like a predatory bird ready to swoop.
Anduin stepped into the hug like a man shaking hands with a live mana bomb. His spine was so stiff it might snap.
Duke exhaled silently. A hug. Okay. We're still in banquet mode. For now.
Because this Sargeras wasn't here to annihilate the city. Not yet. That would be too easy. Too boring.
He wanted to play.
Ten thousand years of rage doesn't fizzle out with fire. It festers. It grows teeth. It wants revenge by inches. To twist heroes into monsters. Make them kneel.
So tonight... he plays the part.
Grabbing the Legendary Staff of Atiesh, Medivh sauntered up the red carpet like a dark god crashing prom night. The staff itself was... hideous. A dark orange abomination. The head looked like a burnt turkey leg. Occasionally, three spectral crows flapped above it like unpaid interns.
Duke blinked. He recognized it. That was Atiesh.
Ugly in the game. Just as ugly in real life.
And yet...
His heart stirred. Would he, someday, wield it? The artifact of legends?
The curtain hadn't dropped yet.
This was just Act One.