They didn't have a clue who lit the fuse on this whole catastrophe. Revenge? That could wait until the cows came home. Right now, their only prayer was to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this absolute train wreck of a disgrace.
As long as they could salvage their precious reputations, what did it matter if a few corpses piled up? Worst case scenario, they'd just have to slice up the pie differently. If they could keep their good names intact, even if the ship named Llane Wrynn went down in flames, they'd still have a golden ticket to go hat-in-hand to the other human kingdoms up north.
After huddling together like rats in a sinking ship, Marquis Damanin stepped forward and practically genuflected before Llane, his voice dripping with false sincerity: "If your majesty would be so gracious as to allow it, we humbly propose to spin this tale thusly: 'In a heroic act of selfless valor, the noble army under the gallant Duke Ferrens fought tooth and nail against the savage Bloodsail Pirates to cover the retreat of innocent civilians. Just as victory was within their grasp, treacherous nobles—secretly corrupted into demons by the vile Bloodsail Pirates—stabbed them in the back like Benedict Arnold himself, causing our glorious fleet to crumble. In that darkest hour, the lion-hearted Sir Lothar and the valiant Earl Edmund descended from the heavens on mighty griffins, joining forces with the remnants of our noble army to utterly annihilate the Bloodsail Pirates' Zanke Squadron in one fell swoop.'"
Absolutely despicable!
Shameless beyond all measure!
At this moment, Lothar was madder than a wet hen. It was YOU worthless parasites who had hijacked the warships of the Stormwind Navy through the most underhanded scheming imaginable! All so you could ferry away your blood-soaked treasure—wealth squeezed from the bones and marrow of hardworking people—and you had the astronomical gall to get blindsided by both pirates AND demons! Even now, with death staring you in the face, you still can't stop kissing your own backsides!
If Llane hadn't clamped down on him like a vise, Lothar would have blown his top the moment he heard about the warship seizure.
Lothar's hair and beard were standing up like he'd been struck by lightning, his hand already twitching toward his sword hilt, ready to send this shameless worm to meet his maker in the next heartbeat.
Suddenly, Marquis Damanin went flying through the air like a rag doll after being backhanded into next week.
Count Carton's pudgy body performed two complete rotations before crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
"SHAMELESS SCUM!" a voice boomed through the conference room like thunder splitting the sky.
The cluster of nobles gawked in stunned silence at their attacker. None other than the rising star of the new generation, the kingdom's golden boy himself—Edmund Duke!
This young duke radiated an aura that could make Lothar himself seem like a gentle lamb.
Duke suddenly thrust his finger at Marquis Damanin, whose face now resembled a bloated pufferfish, and roared with the fury of a thousand storms: "When common folk were literally risking life and limb digging trenches for a measly evacuation pass, you parasites had the unmitigated gall to toss Stormwind naval officers off their own ships like yesterday's garbage—all to make room for ONE MORE BOX OF GOLD!"
Lothar's eyebrows shot up like rockets.
"When 100,000 soldiers and civilians were ready to make their last stand and fight to the bitter end to cover the retreat, you had the brass-plated audacity to commandeer the final return voyage and boot the last naval soldier overboard—all for the sake of hauling away some pretty chambermaid!"
Duke Bolvar Fordragon's face turned redder than a forge fire.
"It's YOUR filthy lucre that drew those pirates like flies to honey! It's YOUR rotten souls that opened the door to your own damnation! And yet you have the titanium-plated nerve to claim you're heroes fighting the good fight against pirates? You dare claim to be the heirs of Emperor Thoradin?! HAH! I wouldn't be caught dead in the same kingdom as you miserable excuses for human beings!"
With that declaration, Duke hawked up a massive loogie and sent it flying straight into Marquis Damanin's swollen face.
While Duke had technically only insulted Marquis Damanin, every noble in that room felt like they'd been slapped with a wet fish. Even King Llane was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
Llane's mind was spinning like a whirlwind: Have I been wrong this whole time? Have I been catastrophically, monumentally wrong?
From his earliest memories, the previous king had hammered home the sacred doctrine that nobles were the bedrock of the kingdom—untouchable, unassailable pillars of society. Llane had treated this as gospel truth carved in stone. But as the years rolled by, he found himself choking on the nobles' actions, though he'd always held back from taking the hard line, bound by his father's dying words.
This moment was like a red-hot poker jabbing at Llane's conscience and sense of justice, making him tremble like a man possessed.
Yet he couldn't bear to see Duke—the kingdom's shining hope—lock horns with the old guard aristocracy in a battle that could tear everything apart.
For a moment, Llane felt like he was drowning in quicksand.
Meanwhile, the nobles erupted like a disturbed hornet's nest.
Duke, you young hothead! Why did you have to blow your stack NOW of all times? Any other moment would have been peachy! Wasn't the whole point to hash out the terms behind closed doors, and only when negotiations hit a brick wall would anyone take off the gloves?
You fly off the handle at the drop of a hat? This is exactly why we can't stand seeing these ignorant peasants elevated to nobility!
The nobles were cunning as foxes, and they sure as hell weren't going to get bogged down in a tar pit over something that was already a lost cause.
"Apologize! Your conduct is a disgraceful stain on the honor of all nobility!"
"Absolutely! Apologize! Apologize to Marquis Damanin this instant!"
"Or we'll strip you of your noble title faster than you can say 'peasant'!"
The whole pack of nobles started yapping like rabid dogs, insisting that Duke had trampled all over aristocratic protocol.
"HAH!" Duke's snort was so cold it could freeze hell itself, dropping the temperature in the entire hall by more than ten degrees. "Shut your pie holes and talk about noble etiquette and proper conduct... Fine. I'll play by your precious noble rules."
The moment Duke finished speaking, the nobles exhaled in relief, thinking this young upstart had finally seen sense and was waving the white flag. But before they could even blink, Duke whipped out his white gloves and smacked the Marquis right in his bloated face.
Well, nobles did wear white gloves for formal occasions. And hurling white gloves into someone's face meant only one thing—a duel to the death!
When the bad blood between two nobles reached the point of no return, they could settle their differences with steel and a suitable witness. Anyone who refused to duel would be branded with the scarlet letter of cowardice and banished from noble society forever.
"Let's dance, you yellow-bellied worm! Don't you think I besmirched your precious honor? Then face me like a man and wash away the shame with blood!" Duke's eyes bored into Marquis Damanin with the cold intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. Those eyes, utterly indifferent to life and death, made the Marquis's blood turn to ice water.
The next instant, Duke drew his weapon.
Duke didn't carry a conventional sword. Instead, he conjured a blade of pure fire magic, molding it into a perfect replica of Stormwind City's standard longsword. The fire element—which should have been a raging, uncontrollable inferno—was as tame as a house cat in Duke's grip. If not for the scorching heat that could be felt from twenty paces away, no one would have believed it was genuine flame.
"No... no... I didn't... I didn't feel insulted by you..." Marquis Damanin actually cowered backward like a whipped dog.
Indeed, after sending so many souls to their maker, there was bound to be a killing aura thick enough to cut with a knife.
Duke had made his bones slaughtering gnolls, murlocs, nagas, and orcs by the hundreds. Recently, he'd barbecued thousands of orcs into charcoal. His murderous presence was absolutely bone-chilling.
On top of that, he'd killed Sargeras himself, and legend had it he'd carved his way into and out of the Horde camp seven times like a one-man army. Even if Duke was just bragging about his swordsmanship, what noble was stupid enough to face him in single combat?
"You don't have the stones? You limp-wristed, yellow-bellied, small-dicked coward!" Duke spat out the words like venom from a serpent's fangs.
Just when everyone thought the fireworks were over, more than three dozen white gloves suddenly filled the air like a blizzard, smacking every last one of the nobles who'd been running their mouths—not a single one was spared.