Another day, another pile of corpses strung up like grotesque garlands across Stormwind's harbor.
For three straight days, the decaying body of the Grayscale Naga priestess—still smoking from five Pyroblasts to the face—hung from a rusted harpoon pole at the docks, flanked by hundreds of murloc corpses like grotesque bunting. A lovely welcome banner, really.
A crude wooden sign hung beneath her cracked jawline:
"Here lies fish soup that forgot who runs the sea. – Duke"
The message was loud and clear. Stormwind's waters now belonged to one man: Edmund 'Duke' the Unyielding.
Bards sang, fishermen cheered, and gulls feasted like kings. Somewhere, a crab got promoted.
Posters appeared on every tavern wall and pier piling, written in elegant calligraphy beneath an exaggerated sketch of Duke striking a heroic pose atop a pile of fish-people skulls:
"Notice from the Stormwind Chamber of Commerce!"
"The great Edmund Duke has purged the seas of scaly scum for a full 300 miles around Stormwind! Sailors, rejoice! You may now fish to your heart's content without being skewered, swallowed, or seduced by angry sea witches!"
"No boat? No problem! Join our noble Chamber! Just sign a humble five-year labor contract, spend 25 weeks a year at sea, and deliver 30% of your catch. Do that, and the boat's yours at the end. And maybe your dignity too, if you still have it."
Makaro, Duke's official hype-man and part-time dock philosopher, shouted it loud enough to shake barnacles from hulls. Once a mere mouthpiece, he had ascended to full-blown zealot—now basically a cult recruiter with a clipboard.
And join they did.
Desperate sons of bankrupt sailors. Retired dock brawlers. Gutter poets. Even a failed bard who couldn't hit a lute chord to save his life. All flocked to the Hurricane Chamber of Commerce like moths to a flaming keg.
Business was booming.So much so that last month, Duke did what any sane warlock-turned-entrepreneur would do: he started a whaling fleet.
On a newly delivered Kul Tiran-built galleon, Duke stood at the bow beside a row of wine-barrel-sized floats, one boot up like a sea conqueror.
"This," he declared, slapping the barrels like a used chariot salesman, "is the future of slaughter."
He gestured grandly toward the harpoons lined like iron fangs on the deck. "We don't chase the beast. We stab it, tire it, and let the sea do the killing. Work smarter, not harder!"
Beside him, Reginald "Reggie" Windsor blinked slowly like someone hit in the head with a life preserver. He'd just returned from Kul Tiras with a shipment of craftsmen and a burning question:
What in the hell had happened while he was gone?
Kul Tiras had barely stopped buzzing about Duke's so-called "Pearl Road"—a flourishing trade route forged through diplomacy, intimidation, and industrialized clam-hunting. Nobles across the Eastern Kingdoms were now addicted to his underwater delicacies: shark steaks, sturgeon fish eggs, and something horrifying called "eel jelly."
Windsor, trying to keep his dignity while surrounded by yelling sailors and flopping barrels, muttered, "Do we eat this thing?"
Duke chuckled darkly. "You could. But I want what's inside."
He didn't elaborate. Windsor didn't ask. The last time he'd asked Duke too many questions, he ended up explaining whale anatomy to a council of confused fishermen while holding a bucket of blubber.
Of course, Duke was talking about ambergris—the gold of the sea. A substance so valuable, nobles would duel over it, and ladies would commit murder to wear it in their perfume.
And the best part? Duke already had plans for whale soy sauce. That's right. He was going to make flavored ambergris a thing.
Even the whales would be impressed if they weren't, you know, being exploded by wizard-hurled javelins.
A Few Days Later – Stormwind Palace
A rare dinner party was underway. King Llane, Queen Taria, their two brats—I mean royal offspring—and Sir Anduin Lothar gathered for what they assumed was an ordinary noble meal.
Then the royal chef brought out a silver tray.
The lid lifted.
Raw fish.
Llane recoiled slightly. "Is this... bait?"
The chef bowed. "A delicacy from the docks, Your Majesty. Chilled salmon, served raw. A Stormwind sensation."
"Fish? Raw? Isn't that how commoners die of mouth rot?" the Queen asked, nose crinkled.
But the chef had been thoroughly briefed by Duke's kitchen spies. He squeezed lemon over the fish, dipped it in soy sauce, added a dab of mustard paste, and held it out with reverence.
Llane tried it.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Paused.
"...Oh."
The Queen stared. The prince reached. The princess demanded two. Suddenly, raw fish wasn't peasant food—it was court cuisine.
And then, of course, Anduin Lothar opened his mouth.
"Did I mention? This recipe comes from a wizard."
Llane raised an eyebrow. "A wizard made this? Isn't he supposed to be summoning fireballs, not salmon?"
Anduin chuckled. "He's doing both."
Then he proceeded to explain how Duke not only invented this dish, but also founded a trading empire, charmed the fish-people into farming pearls, established a soy sauce distillery, and now commands a whaling fleet larger than the navy of Westfall.
Llane leaned back and stared at the glowing red coral centerpiece on the table—a gift from Duke. It practically radiated smugness.
"I like this lad. Pays taxes, kills sea monsters, feeds the kingdom. Can we clone him?"
Anduin's smile faded slightly. "Well... there is a small problem."
Llane narrowed his eyes. "Oh?"
"He just sent me a formal petition. He wants to conscript 200 men, arm them with enchanted javelins, and build a fortress-sized dry dock. He says he's expanding the whaling fleet."
A long pause.
Llane stroked his beard.
"…Approve it. But make him promise to feed the whales to the nobles first."