Francis had to admit his misgivings about the new king, even if having one meant that the ‘friendly’ Alliance presence ended up leaving everyone alone. The king was young, everyone said.

 

A boy.

 

A mage.

 

It was not heartening news at all, and many in his village shared the sentiment.

 

Some confidence in the new reign was gained when royal decree saw taxes immediately lowered. But it was almost balanced out by the declaration of moving everyone from the farther reaches of Alterac closer towards the cities.

 

Francis still kept his home, thank the Light, but his village quickly became a town with how many new faces moved in. Fallow lands around the region were worked by the reluctant migrants, or new businesses opened, and at first friction between locals and transplants was a real concern. But eventually everyone got along, uniting in doubt at more developments from the capital.

 

Dwarves and gnomes started appearing more often, the former to work the mines, the latter to carve out chunks of road and random ditches that interfered with everyone’s lives. And then wagons of outside food were introduced, making the farmers and fishermen like Francis worry more. 

 

Skepticism was rampant at first, but then when months passed and the mining jobs were made actually much more tolerable instead of being completely stolen by the dwarves, Francis and his friends began shaking off their doubts. In the same vein, the food turned out to be bought from the elves, and the rather exotic fare did its intended job of keeping stomachs filled through the winter, and was not a complex scheme to ruin local farmers as some had feared.

 

Then the new sewer and toilet systems were unveiled, and everyone agreed that the cleaner and safer replacements to outhouses was well worth the hassle. A year after it was introduced, Francis almost forgot what summer-baked latrine holes smelled like. And then the tractors were introduced, which at first drew concern by the farmers, but after the first harvest that finished faster and gave more than usual, everyone became proper fans of their young king.

 

They might not be toasting him in the taverns, but Francis heard grateful grandmothers and matrons praying for King Kyle’s soul, that the mage-king would repent from his arcane damnation and seek salvation in the Light.

 

Then fountains of gold began popping up, apparently in every village and town square along with other prominent locales. Francis’ town had two pop up overnight - one in the main square and another right outside the church. Nobody heard or saw anything at night save the town watchmen, but no matter how they were plied with drinks, not a man spoke about what they saw. 

 

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway,” was the common excuse.

 

The new king was very good with people, apparently.

 

After that little excitement, things quieted down a good bit. Everyone got used to the chugging of tractors in the background, the streets no longer stank of piss and shit when the wind blew a particular direction, and life genuinely felt comfier than before.

 

Then news trickled in later on about a massive gnoll horde that the king and his budding army had soundly defeated, and some of the townsfolk felt relieved that they were relocated here instead of being caught in the path of the ravenous invasion. Passing traders provided more details about a glorious one-sided slaughter, where Alterac soldiers utterly crushed the gnolls thanks in no small part to the king’s new inventions. Most prominent were the golden machines that the royal guard rode into battle, that (if true) were faster and deadlier than any warhorse.

 

There were rumors too about unhappy Gilnean and Stromgardian merchants due to their trade in essential commodities drying up in Alterac, which explained their growing absence nowadays.  

 

Francis couldn’t feel sorry for them, not when a shovel made by smiths who worked metal bought from local mines was not only cheaper by half, but the adherence to dwarven quality meant that the tool remained unbent and uncracked even after bashing a boar’s head in during an unfortunate fishing excursion. Also, Gilnean ceramics and glassware were pretty and all, but gnomish brass bowls were far more durable, and matched the new sense aesthetics too.

 

The advancements brought to the new Alterac under the brilliant (if eccentric) King Kyle saw local sensibilities slowly but surely change. Gone was the dejection many felt from the Alliance occupation years ago, and instead a sense of purpose fueled everyone with diligence and self-respect that was further supported by the new gnomish and dwarven neighbors. 

 

Thanks to dwarven-guided builders, everyone began to appreciate the qualities of solid, stone-wrought buildings, with its multiple subterranean levels that made for surprisingly comfy rooms once you got your hands on a decent gnomish lamp. Stromgardian lamps could do the job, but the gnomes had some sort of mirror finish that made the flame brighter, and a ‘filter’ that blotted out most of the smell and soot of burning oil.

 

And they were about the same price, so…why’d you want a mere iron lamp with swirly patterns when you could have one that could literally survive explosions (Francis always enjoyed watching the demonstrations whenever he could). The pricing of gnomish and dwarven goods was boggling at first, but after a friendly merchant enlightened him to the concepts of trade tariffs and diplomatic subsidies in exchange for a few pints, Francis sort of understood the state of the kingdom he lived in a little better.

 

Basically, after some sort of mess, King Kyle made Alterac good friends with the dwarves, the gnomes, and even the elves. They in turn found him to be a good enough friend that discounts and assistance were offered for cheap. It was a bit weird, but after being used to the dwarves and gnomes, Francis had to say that at least they were far more sociable than the Gilnean, Stromgardian or Lordaeronian soldiers that used to police the place. The Lordaeron merchants that passed by no longer had their noses so high in the air now that they had to beg customers away from the gnomish tinkerers or local artisans who adopted dwarven work ethics.

 

Francis hadn’t seen an elf yet, but supposedly they worked exclusively as rangers. And you only saw rangers when trouble’s near, so he simply thanked the Light for that.

 

With how new friends were being made all around, Francis found himself conflicted between fear and curiosity when murlocs suddenly waded out to the banks while he was fishing one morning. Instead of legging it, he actually froze still and seriously considered if King Kyle had made friends with the murlocs as well.

 

And it turns out, the king likely did. 

 

The fishmen barely gave Francis any notice as they actually dragged out a very confused and poorly tied up cow that floated after them. Both bovine and fisherman exchanged similar lost looks as the former was rolled out to land and cut free from the sodden ropes. The fishmen then finally turned their goggly eyes at Francis, and one of them gargled something before they disappeared back into the river.

 

It took a good few minutes before Francis decided to call for someone, and learned that one of his neighbors was in a panic after wolves sent their cows stampeding. Not only did a quick inspection confirm that the cow the murlocs dragged to land was one of his, but tavern gossip later that evening made it almost indisputable that murlocs had also ambushed and dragged the wolves into the river while leaving the livestock untouched.

 

“King Kyle’s got us friends in the murlocs then?” someone asked, dumbfounded.

 

“Seems so,” was the general consensus, and considering that the fishmen had spared a bovine massacre from occurring, nobody was about to disprove that new fact yet.

 

It took a couple of months later for sentiment to fully shift towards the positive when the murlocs were sighted again, this time dragging a couple of fishermen to the banks after their boat had tipped over. The fishmen even helped salvage the boat and fishing rods, and nobody got so much of a gnaw. Francis and the other fishermen began leaving a portion of their catch by the river after that. 

 

Just as everyone was adjusting to a peaceful life alongside murlocs (even the gnomes were having trouble with that fact), terrifying news trickled from the capital: Demons had ruined the grand cathedral’s consecration. Scores of guards were slaughtered, and supposedly even the bishop and the great paladin Uther Lightbringer of all people almost fell to the despicable infiltration.

 

Exact details were vague and conflicting as more traders and travelers passed the word, like whether or not Prince Arthas of Lordaeron was a demon himself or if he was killed, or if Princess Jaina of Kul Tiras was part of the fighting or had been busy protecting people with a dome of ice.

 

Official word followed days after, and whether people wanted to believe or not, the herald spoke of how a powerful demon had fooled and almost magically charmed Prince Arthas and Uther the Lightbringer, and in its arrogance, the disguised demon and its servants followed them into the cathedral, where bishop Falric took notice and immediately tried to banish it. Despite the holy ground weakening it the monster was still too powerful, hence the bloody fight breaking out that saw scores of Alterac’s best slaughtered.

 

Nobody from Francis’ town lost any relatives, praise the Light, but the fact remained that the capital had narrowly averted a proper catastrophe if not for King Kyle’s intervention and the sacrifice of the guards. The king had managed to chase off the insidious demon, and his arcane defenses finally finished it off.

 

And what were the defenses used?

 

Francis and everyone else were startled when the fountain behind the herald hummed and glowed to life.

 

“His highness wishes to reassure everyone that these fountains are only meant as a security measure against severe threats like orcs, gnolls…or demons. No loyal sons and daughters of Alterac will need worry about their well-being around them.”

 

It didn’t stop a mob from dragging the twat Grif over to the fountain days later after he was finally caught fouling his neighbors’ seed stock. Compromising the kingdom’s food production was a severe crime, and it was Grif’s brothers who led the mob, eager to distance themselves from the culprit and prove their innocence. Francis didn’t take part, but from the excited stories told the next evening, apparently King Kyle actually manifested by the fountain and told everyone to disperse.

 

“Actually looked pissed as all fuck,” old Jon recalled. “The kid- His highness just told us to send Grif to the constables instead of wasting everyone’s time.”

 

That made sense. Wouldn’t be town guards or magistrates walking about if the king decided to use his magic to handle such things. Plus, Francis could imagine how annoying it must be if everyone kept coming to him for every small crime.

 

“Then, because we probably looked like idjits, he told us not to pray or sacrifice anything by the fountain. Judgin’ by his face, it’s prol’y not his first time having to say that.”

 

“Huh. You think some other town might’ve tried?”

 

It was Burke the tanner who answered with a scoff. “Knowing those hicks who came from Darrowmere Lake? I bet the king’s had to worry about people trying to baptize their kids in the fountains or turn them into a shrine or sommat.”

 

Yeah, that sounded right. The really rural folk up north tended to be of that sort. Francis wouldn’t be surprised if the bull milkers brought their queer practices over when the king ordered everyone to move away from the borders.

 

“Well, with demons and gnolls running about, I suppose he’ll want them things working right,” Francis offered, earning nods of agreement from around his table.

 

“A-yup,” Jon drawled, and then narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “Especially if the demons really were wearing human skins. The ones at the cathedral were s’posed to be Stromgarde folk.”

 

And frowns grew all around as everyone remembered where the gnolls came from.

 

“Never thought Trollbane would stoop that low…” someone muttered.

 

“Maybe it’s not him,” Francis reasoned. “Could be some mad wizard or such.”

 

Burke gave him a doubtful look. “But he’s the king, he has to know, yeah?”

 

Francis couldn’t refute that. Thoras Trollbane was supposed to be a good and mighty king. Good and mighty kings don’t just overlook a massive gnoll horde or demons pretending to be their subjects.

 

The conversation meandered through possible conspiracies, speculations, and good old fear mongering. Some people were sure that Thoras was being envious about Kyle, and had let himself get lost in spite. Others insisted that the friend of a friend said that Stromgarde was lashing out because King Kyle had been offered the hand of Princess Calia Menethil, an offer that should have went to Thoras’ son Galen. Still more said that Thoras was in the dark about it all because a possessed Galen had actually taken over and the court of Stromgarde was nothing but a puppet to fool Thoras.

 

By the end of it all, everyone in the tavern had a mind to keep a closer eye out for any Stromgardians that passed by. 

 

As the tavern closed, Francis joined the others in making a detour to the fountain to say his thanks to King Kyle before heading home. Just in case the young mage-king could hear them. Heretic mage or not, it didn’t hurt trying to earn some cheap grace from a king half Francis’ age who had faced and defeated a demon where bishops and paladins failed.