The fetters of fate, a phrase so lofty it practically screams metaphysics, divination, and dumb luck all rolled into one.
This was the kind of explanation that wasn't one. An anti-reason, so to speak. The kind of argument that only made sense if you believed in gut feelings, tea leaves, or the stars aligning because Mercury felt like doing a backflip.
Captain Garcia wisely chose not to dig deeper. Duke was being sensible, and more importantly, he was staying within the boundary Lothar had laid out. And when someone with clearance is playing by the rules, well, who wants to pick that fight?
After a few polite exchanges, Garcia nodded and said, "Within the hour, Mr. Reginald Windsor will appear before you, Your Excellency."
Now, a real soldier is a creature of habit, a beast bound by discipline. And most soldiers trained under Stormwind's banner weren't just brawlers in shiny armor, they were the real deal. That said, when Duke finally laid eyes on Windsor in the guesthouse, he nearly choked on his tea.
Oh, he said he was obedient. Sure. His body was following orders, but his face?
His face screamed, *"I loathe you."* It practically radiated a silent teenage tantrum with a dash of knightly contempt.
In the game, all Duke had ever known was the polished, gamified version of Windsor, stoic, stalwart, and beardy. But now? The real Windsor was a living, breathing hormonal contradiction. He was… young?
Yes, the future Marshal was once a fresh-faced 14-year-old. Still had the same signature short golden hair, but barely a whisper of a beard under that proud eagle nose. It was less "battle-hardened warrior" and more "shiny-faced kid who maybe once got in a fight with a squirrel and lost."
Square jaw? Check. Chiseled features? Check. Golden brows and skin so tight over his face it could be a drum. The poker face of a noble. The physique of a war god in training.
His muscles were no joke. Biceps like ropes of braided steel. Thighs like seasoned tree trunks. The kind of body that whispered, *"I could bench press a horse."*
Compared to Duke? Windsor could've punted him over the castle walls. Compared to a full-grown orc? Still kinda puny.
Duke grinned. "What's wrong, Windsor? Upset about being assigned as my personal guard?"
Windsor was the embodiment of a soldier, blunt, brash, and blessedly free of political polish.
"Yes! My goal is to fight on the frontlines as a glorious Stormwind warrior, not be some glorified babysitter, even for a supposed powerful wizard. Frankly, you don't seem all that powerful."
Big mistake.
Duke blinked. Then smiled. And then: **action time.**
Calm and Complacent – Buff activated.
Ice Arrow – BOOM. Instant karma.
"AAAAHHH!" The spell hit with surgical precision. Windsor's pristine armor might as well have been tissue paper against the cold bite of magic. The chill wrapped around his chest like an angry winter spirit. Duke had dialed it down, sure, but it was still enough to give Windsor a few days of teeth-chattering trauma.
Minutes later, the great knight-in-training huddled in front of the only lit stove in the Academy, wrapped in a blanket like a sad little cinnamon roll.
"I... apologize... for what I said earlier. Y-your Excellency," he managed through shivers.
Duke, radiant with smugness, handed him a cup of ginger tea. "Apology accepted."
Windsor took a sip, cheeks flushing with warmth,and maybe embarrassment. His expression softened slightly.
"But... I still think being your guard conflicts with my dream."
Duke leaned in. "And what is your dream, exactly? You ever really thought about it?"
Windsor blinked, confused. Hadn't he just said it?
Duke wasn't done. "My dream and yours, Windsor, they're the same: to fight for the future of Stormwind."
Windsor jolted.
"You see that lion emblem on your chest?"
Windsor looked down.
And then Duke launched into a speech that could rouse the dead.
He spoke of Emperor Thoradin, the unifier of the human tribes, who once forged the mighty Arathor Empire to stand against the troll menace. Of how prosperity fractured the empire from within, as lords grew lazy and fled to greener pastures.
Of how even Thoradin's last heir was left to rot among the crumbling ruins of Stromgarde.
Then came the knights who arrived at King's Valley, where a man raised a sword and swore that the Kingdom of Stormwind would rise from the ashes, inherit the glory of Arathor, and become the beacon of human strength and justice.
"But Windsor, answer me this, twelve centuries later, why is Stormwind's reach still only Elwynn Forest? Why is Westfall abandoned and lawless? Why do we call Redridge 'barren' when it's rich in iron and spirit?"
Duke's voice climbed with righteous fire.
"You don't draw your sword just for the present, you draw it for the future. For the children not yet born, for a tomorrow where humans aren't scraping by between orc raids. Stormwind doesn't need another grunt, it needs a pioneer!"
"Windsor, will you be that pioneer? Will you walk beside me into the unknown?"
Windsor's jaw trembled. His eyes warred between youthful defiance and a deep, aching sense of purpose.
But he wasn't quite sold yet.
"Sir Edmund... I'll consider it. But I want a real plan. A full one."
Duke grinned. "I'll show you."
Fifteen minutes later, Duke was leading a still-shivering Windsor to the docks of Stormwind.
Boats. Ships. Fleets. Escape routes and beachheads.
Duke remembered the movie. Remembered how gleaming Stormwind guards were swallowed by a tsunami of green orcs in the canyons. How their shiny helms counted for nothing when brute strength met confusion and desperation.
Orcs didn't care about terrain. What humans called impassable, they called a shortcut.
Duke didn't have the power to change fate outright. He wasn't royalty. He was just a civilian. A nerd with a system elf and a ridiculous amount of meta-knowledge.
So he thought of ships.
Ships meant survival. Ships meant strategy. Ships meant future counterattacks and a plan that didn't end with everyone dying heroically in a ravine.
This wasn't just about Stormwind surviving.
It was about Stormwind winning.