At that exact mont, as if the gods themselves blinked, a jagged ice wall burst into existence—boom!—right in the flaming path of Duke's sizzling Pyroblast. The fireball detonated on impact, erupting in a spectacular collision of ice shards and flas. Sparks flew like fireworks, lighting up the entire hotel lobby in a chaotic inferno of elental wrath. A shockwave of heat rolled over the room. And as if the universe wanted poetic justice, Brando's loyal dogs—his smug, puffed-up servants—were caught in the splash zone. Flas licked at their fancy robes, and in an instant, the self-important bullies were screeching like pigs in a butcher's yard.
Pandemonium erupted. The once-cozy inn transford into a circus of stampeding guests. Cowards who had been peeking from behind furniture bolted like frightened deer. Chairs overturned, plates shattered, so panicked fools hurled themselves out of windows, and others fumbled with doors like toddlers fighting a locked cookie jar.
In less than ten seconds, only a handful remained: a half-burned innkeeper, Brando and his goons now more roast than noble, and the main characters of this escalating soap opera of magical vengeance.
Old man Norton, looking like a cross between Santa Claus and a thundercloud, had finally stepped in. He had been trying to keep the peace, playing the tired ga of political wizardry—Stormwind wizards often needed to kiss noble rear ends, unlike their high-and-mighty brethren in Dalaran. But when Brando started screeching about murdering an Arcane Academy apprentice right in front of him, Norton knew the gloves were off. Diplomacy was officially dead.
He had been one breath away from intervening. But before he could, Duke—bless his chaos-loving heart—had gone full pyromancer, firing off the fireball like it was the Fourth of July. Norton had blocked it just in ti, but the sheer aura of this kid made him blink.
And Duke? He noticed. He spun his head toward Norton and shot him a glare so cold it might've refrozen the ice wall.
Norton winced. "Yep. This little lunatic hates too now. Great."
Before Norton could utter a syllable, the clattering of armored boots thundered through the door. Northshire Abbey's guards had arrived—led by the ever-serious Lieutenant Wilhelm, flanked by four soldiers carrying a stretcher covered with a ragged cloth.
No one spoke as Wilhelm yanked off the cover. What lay beneath was a horror show.
A corpse, or what was left of one. The legs were stripped to gleaming bone, red and raw. A banquet for sothing hungry and lacking table manners.
Brando took one look, turned green, and projectile-vomited across the floor. "Hrrrugh!"
Wilhelm, completely unfazed, looked at him. "Recognize the boots? Cost a fortune. Belonged to your man, didn't they, Sir Brando?"
Brando gagged again, wiped his mouth, and pointed with a shaking hand. "Y-Yes! That was Gasco! My servant! That treacherous cur over there murdered him!"
He jabbed a trembling finger at Duke like he was naming the Antichrist.
Duke smirked. Just as he opened his mouth to deliver a biting coback, Wilhelm cut him off with a perfectly-tid bombshell.
"Highly unlikely. I saw this idiot leaving for the forest at midnight. I warned him about murlocs, but he was all 'I'm not scared of fish n, hur hur hur.' Well, guess what? He went full buffet for them. Idiot."
Duke, loving the performance, clapped a hand to his chest in mock sorrow. "Yes, yes, tragic. Poor Gasco. A young man, full of dreams, eaten by a fish that probably couldn't spell its own na."
Brando's jaw dropped. That was his plan! His script! And now these lunatics were rewriting the whole narrative!
He pointed again, red-faced and trembling. "He hit ! He HIT ! ! That slap was an insult to the bloodline of Thoradin himself! That's a capital cri!"
"Enough!"
The walls rattled. The windows buzzed. Norton had finally had it. His voice exploded like a thunderclap spell, vibrating through bone and soul. He stord forward, grabbed the blood-stained dagger from beside Gasco's corpse, and stared at the shimring sheen on the blade.
A telltale shimr.
Brain Paralysis Poison.
It made spellcasting harder, slower. Nasty stuff. Not just expensive, but restricted. No street thug could afford it. Only nobles terrified of getting toasted by fireballs kept this kind of venom in their arsenal.
Norton's expression darkened like a stormfront. He turned to Brando with murder in his eyes.
"So that's how low you stooped. You sent a poisoned assassin after a kid who hasn't even graduated. You're lucky he survived, Brando. If he hadn't... I'd have buried you myself."
Norton then looked at Duke and did sothing utterly unexpected. He smiled.
"Ah! A mosquito!" he declared.
Duke didn't miss a beat. He strode forward and, in a theatrical whirlwind of motion, unleashed his hand once again.
SLAP!
It echoed like a church bell at midnight. Brando's other cheek exploded in a firework of blood and humiliation. A molar took flight, pirouetted in the air like a ballerina, and landed squarely on a serving tray with a delicate plonk. It spun there, trembling, as if applauding its own departure.
The crowd, the guards, the bystanders—everyone froze.
Norton stepped forward, beard twitching with barely-contained magic.
"Tell your precious family," he growled, "if they lay one finger on Duke again, I will personally reduce your ancestral ho to rubble. And I'll use the ruins to line my garden path."
With that, the old man slapped a hand on Duke's shoulder, dragged him toward the door like a disappointed dad pulling his troublemaking son from a tavern brawl.
As they passed the stunned masses, Norton called back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Brando? Your application to the Royal Arcane Academy? Denied. I'm the examiner. divh himself couldn't change my mind."
SLAM.
The doors swung shut.
Duke, now grinning ear-to-ear, gave one last glance at the chaos behind him.
Sowhere in the lobby, Brando's missing tooth finally stopped spinning.
And in that mont, the tide of the story had turned.
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