Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 625: Calia

"Duke, quit pulling my leg!"

Mograine, born with a silver spoon in his mouth from noble stock, had a knee-jerk reaction to assume the worst. Like a dwarf eyeing a goblin merchant, he smelled trouble from a mile away.

The noble class was pickier than a gnome choosing his beard wax when it came to bloodlines and family trees. If you weren't the golden child - the legitimate heir - you'd be about as welcome as a murloc at a fancy dinner party. The Arathi bloodline had been running strong for over 2,800 years, longer than a tauren's memory, and the nobles were all connected by blood thicker than kodo stew.

Sure, most of the time these family ties were more distant than Ironforge from Stormwind, but blood was blood. So when some far-flung cousin showed up claiming the throne, the only thing running through the nobles' minds was: "Great, here comes some foreign king trying to pull a fast one and steal our kingdom smoother than a rogue pickpocketing in Goldshire."

If King Terenas had just kicked the bucket and Duke dragged in some random Joe Schmoe claiming he wanted to wear the crown, it would've been the biggest slap in the face to loyal ministers like Mograine since Arthas went full death knight on everyone.

Duke didn't want to spill the beans, but if he didn't play this ace up his sleeve, he really couldn't stop the Alliance from going down faster than the Hindenburg - or in this case, faster than Dalaran when Archimonde showed up to the party uninvited.

Why was the Alliance always getting dragged into bed with the Horde to fight the Burning Legion in later years? Talk about sleeping with the enemy!

First off, the Burning Legion packed more punch than a fully-charged siege engine, so they had to scramble for allies like a desperate innkeeper during Brewfest. Even though they knew the Horde was about as reliable as a goblin rocket launcher, it was still a thousand times better than the Alliance trying to go it alone like some suicidal hero in a bad tavern tale.

Second, the Alliance had been going downhill faster than a cart with broken wheels on the road to Blackrock Mountain compared to its glory days.

Not only had several kingdoms been wiped off the map like chalk from a blackboard, but most importantly, their population had been slashed worse than prices at a goblin fire sale.

If the Alliance could handle the Burning Legion solo, the Horde wouldn't have a snowball's chance in the Molten Core.

Duke buried his face in his hands like a man who'd just bet his last copper on the wrong wyvern, then let out a sigh deeper than the Maelstrom itself before adding, "It's Her Royal Highness Princess Calia."

The Day of Triumph thirteen years ago was the Alliance's finest hour, shinier than a paladin's armor fresh from the forge. On that glorious day, the Alliance and the four guardian dragons teamed up like the ultimate raid group to take down Deathwing, that black-scaled harbinger of doom who'd been terrorizing Azeroth for ten thousand years longer than anyone cared to remember.

But that same day was blacker than the depths of the Undercity for Lordaeron, because that's when Princess Calia - beautiful and pure as freshly fallen snow on Dun Morogh, beloved like a saint by every soul in the kingdom - supposedly met her maker.

The grief hit Lordaeron's citizens harder than Thrall's Doomhammer on an orc's skull.

Now suddenly hearing that Princess Calia was still among the living?

This bombshell didn't just make generals like Mograine jump - even Molev, who was practically one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, let out a shriek that could wake the dead in Andorhal.

"Impossible!" both generals bellowed like angry tauren.

"I saw it with my own two eyes..." Molev struggled and screamed like a banshee.

Then, faster than you could say "Leeroy Jenkins," all three shouted in perfect unison: "Duke, you magnificent bastard, this was YOUR doing!?"

What were the odds? Everyone present here had front-row seats to that royal meeting in the throne room on that fateful Day of Triumph.

"I remember it clear as crystal - when I was covering His Majesty's retreat, YOU were the one who swooped in to save Her Royal Highness!" Mograine fired the opening salvo like a siege engine.

"Duke, you sneaky son of a!" Abendis thought, his mind racing faster than a rogue in stealth mode.

"Impossible, I saw Princess Calia with my own eyes, deader than Kel'Thuzad before his first resurrection..." Molev wailed.

"Don't forget, this guy's got more tricks up his sleeve than Medivh himself - he's the most powerful master of illusions in all of Azeroth!" Mograine growled through clenched teeth.

True enough, Duke had shown off his magical sleight of hand more times than a street performer in Stormwind's Trade District.

Molev's next words hit Duke like a critical strike to his reputation: "Hold on just one cotton-picking minute! Then how in the nine hells did Her Highness's dress end up on that corpse? We couldn't have screwed that up..."

Oh boy! The dress!

How did that fancy white gown that Princess Calia had been wearing - the one meant for her blind date with that snake-in-the-grass Lord Prestor - end up clothing the body double?

If Princess Calia was still breathing as Duke claimed, then there were only two possibilities, and neither painted Duke in a flattering light:

Option one: Duke was a complete scoundrel. When he "rescued" the princess, he stripped her clothes off faster than a goblin counting gold. Given Duke's reputation, status, and generally decent character, this seemed about as likely as finding an honest politician in Stormwind.

Which left option two: Duke was smoother than a snake oil salesman and worse than a villain in a dime novel. Duke had won over both the princess's heart AND her wardrobe long before the crisis hit, and she'd peeled off that white silk dress and handed it over herself.

Facing the suspicious stares burning into him from every direction, Duke felt more wronged than a paladin accused of consorting with warlocks. He was seriously considering whether there was a river deep enough in all of Azeroth to wash away this scandal.

By the Light's holy hammer!

Sweet merciful Uther!

He really hadn't laid so much as a finger on Calia inappropriately!

Duke was redder than a blood elf's robes!

It was bad enough getting those looks from everyone else, but when even Ilucia beside him started smirking like a cat who'd caught the canary, Duke seriously considered whether he should dig a hole deeper than Ironforge's deepest mine or just teleport himself to the far side of Outland.

That's when Mograine stomped over to Duke and clamped his two massive bear-paw hands on Duke's shoulders like a vise: "If you weren't Edmund Duke - if you weren't the man too humble to claim a crown, hailed as a hero across the Alliance, and revered as a living saint by millions - I'd draw my blade right here and send you to meet your maker faster than you could blink."

Mograine hit the nail on the head.

Talk about your cosmic coincidences.

Here you had the prince of Lordaeron, the crown jewel of the Alliance, turning into an undead abomination and running his own father through with a cursed blade, and there you had Duke pulling the kingdom's only legitimate heir out of thin air like a rabbit from a hat. If anyone else had orchestrated this political theater, they'd be branded as the mastermind behind the biggest conspiracy since the seven human kingdoms first planted their flags in the dirt. freewebnoveℓ.com

But Duke's reputation was cleaner than a paladin's conscience and brighter than the Light itself!

Even though Duke himself sometimes doubted his own saintly image, everyone else bought it hook, line, and sinker.

Mograine shifted gears smoother than a well-oiled siege engine: "Whatever your reasons for keeping the princess under wraps - whether you were protecting her, hiding her, or playing some long game - not a soul in Lordaeron will hold it against you now. As long as you can prove that our princess still draws breath, you'll be hailed as the greatest hero Lordaeron has ever known."

Not just Mograine - every last man there nodded like bobblehead dolls.

Princess Calia being alive wasn't just important - it was everything.

The bloodline of the Menethil royal family, rulers of this land for 2,800 years strong, hadn't been snuffed out like a candle in the wind. This was better news than finding a cache of epic loot after wiping on a raid boss. Princess Calia would become their banner, their rallying cry, leading the people of Lordaeron back from the brink of despair and into the light.

Duke turned at that moment and gave Ilucia the nod.

Ilucia immediately began weaving her spell. Don't underestimate this powerhouse - in the ten years Duke had been away playing interdimensional hero, Ilucia had blossomed into the boss-level talent she was always meant to be, earning her stripes as a full-fledged Archmage. Opening a portal was as easy for her as breathing.

Duke stood still as a statue, watching Ilucia's graceful figure vanish through the shimmering gateway.

Until he could produce Calia in the flesh, he was essentially a hostage to his own claims. Even though Mograine knew him like a brother, when it came to matters this monumental, there was no room for taking anyone's word at face value.

The Lordaeron generals didn't have to wait long to have their faith rewarded. Just three minutes later - faster than you could say "For the Alliance!" - a white-robed priestess of breathtaking beauty and regal bearing stepped through the portal like she was walking on air itself.

"Princess Calia!" For one heart-stopping moment, Mograine, Abendis, and Melev completely lost their military composure, tears streaming down their battle-scarred faces like rivers.

Her face had matured like fine wine, but that unmistakable noble bearing was still there, familiar as an old friend. The elegant woman before them seemed to have stepped straight out of their most cherished memories, like a vision from better days.

Calia had grown into her power like a true leader of men, and the aura of Holy Light surrounding her blazed brighter than a thousand torches, more radiant than she'd ever been in her youth.

But even after thirteen long years, the battle-hardened generals who had served alongside Princess Calia in days gone by recognized her in a heartbeat, as surely as they'd recognize their own reflections.