There was absolutely no doubt—none, zero, nada—that Duke was the gravitational center of the entire banquet universe. Not even when Khadgar, the prodigious disciple of Medivh himself, was officially recognized as a full-fledged Master of Earth did it peel away the thunder Duke had stolen, swallowed, and welded to his very soul.
Why?
Because Duke, at the mind-melting age of 14, had already slammed into the ceiling of apprentice wizardry and was now banging his head on the adept wizard bottleneck like a caged dragon demanding to be let loose. Khadgar? Poor guy had studied night and day, eaten spellbooks for breakfast, and lived in arcane fumes for years—yet he reached the same level a year later, at the geriatric age of just over 15. In any other reality, he would have been hailed as the second coming of Medivh. But sadly for Khadgar, he lived in the Age of Duke.
Compared to Duke, even a shooting star looked like a candle trying to shine at noon.
The nobles gave Khadgar polite congratulations, more out of respect for Medivh than for the boy himself. But Khadgar could hear the real commentary trickling between goblets of wine and gilded fans:
"Such a pity. Just when we thought we had a genius, we got a sequel."
"Hush! Have some tact. Still, you're right—Duke is on a whole other level. A prodigy, a phenomenon!"
"Medivh did try to recruit Duke, remember? If Duke had said yes, would Khadgar even have a spellbook to read now?"
The comments struck like a hailstorm on Khadgar's pride. He was still a fifteen-year-old boy after all, still wrestling with growing pains and a chest full of unspoken expectations. His forced smile was stretched so tight it looked like it might snap.
Desperation flared in his heart. He turned to look for his master, for the wise, all-knowing, all-comforting Medivh.
And then the lightning bolt hit.
Medivh. His revered, mystical, once-gentle mentor... was barely looking at him.
The Archmage of Karazhan, a man who once told him that every soul had value, now wore a detached smirk like a mask made of stone. Cold. Empty. Indifferent.
Khadgar's gut twisted.
What happened to you, Master?
But the show must go on. Before the dancing began, there was the traditional ritual of gift-giving to the king. A quaint event where poor nobles wrote bad poems hoping for charity and rich nobles paraded their wealth like peacocks on performance-enhancing potions.
Duke stood to the side, trying and failing to suppress laughter as a low-tier noble strutted up and earnestly delivered a masterpiece: "The queen is like a star blinking like a frog, blinking..."
Duke wasn't sure if the system AI mistranslated that or if the man had been dropped on his head as a child. But judging from the way King Llane laughed and flipped the man a few gold coins to send him packing, it was probably the latter.
Now it was Duke's turn.
The ceremonial officer had already declared Duke's gift the second-to-last presentation,just before Medivh's, which was a polite way of saying, "Get ready, peasants, the real fireworks are coming."
With theatrical flair, a tray covered in plush red velvet was carried forward. On it sat a camphor wood box, ornately carved, reeking (in the best way) of cool, spicy fragrance.
"This is..." Llane asked, intrigued.
Duke motioned for the box to be opened. A collective gasp rose from the noble crowd.
Snow-white pearl cream.
Not just any cream. The stuff that turned wrinkled matrons into radiant roses, that erased blemishes, lightened skin, and had become the hottest fashion item in just one week. Noble ladies would kill for it. Some were probably already plotting murder.
And Duke had just given the queen several kilograms of the stuff.
The queen squealed inwardly and cooed outwardly: "Oh Sir Edmund, this must have cost you a fortune!"
Duke gave a bow so deep his nose nearly brushed the floor. "For Your Majesty's unparalleled beauty? No cost is too great."
Complete lie.
Duke wasn't just a scoundrel—he was a master con artist. True, pearl cream was supposed to be made of rare and expensive pearl powder. But Duke knew better.
He didn't use pearl powder. He scraped nacre off clam shells.
Real pearl powder? Please. That stuff was more diluted than nobles' common sense. He could buy a literal basin of it for 15 silver. The most expensive part of the queen's gift wasn't even the cream—it was the box it came in.
And then came the crown jewel.
Duke presented the king with a pearl.
Not just a pearl. A goose-egg-sized, flawless orb of moonlight. It shone with an ethereal glow, a whisper of the divine, the kind of thing that could make kings weep and queens faint.
Llane was dumbfounded. He stared at it like it was a newborn sun.
"By the Light, you've wasted money," the king muttered.
"I merely fished it out, Your Majesty. Only you are worthy of its radiance," Duke replied, somehow keeping a straight face.
A lie so bold it deserved its own knighthood.
Truth was, any pearl that perfect had to be fake. Real pearls are born of irritation—sand, dirt, chaos. A flawless round pearl? That meant someone had shoved a perfectly spherical bead into a clam and waited.
Which is exactly what Duke did.
In fact, he had a farm of colossal clams, each the size of a wagon, out in the Western Sea, with magical drills and locked shells ready to mass-produce royal-quality pearls. If he wanted, he could've gifted Llane a pearl the size of a pumpkin.
But he had bigger plans.
This wasn't about generosity.
This was psychological warfare.
Duke was laying a velvet-lined trap for Medivh, now clearly under the dark sway of Sargeras. He wanted to dazzle Llane and Anduin with light so that when Medivh brought darkness, it would crash all the harder.
Duke bowed again after Llane praised him to the heavens and promised future conveniences. He stepped back, radiating victorious smugness.
Now all eyes fell on Medivh.
The mage of Karazhan stood with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His gaze swept across the hall like a storm cloud teasing a lightning strike.
Everyone waited.
Because the real show was about to begin.