Stella nodded vigorously at the side. "Yes, our benefactor is definitely not a petty person!"
Paval straightened up, a trace of unease still lingering on his face.
Allen thought for a moment, then reached into his clothes and felt around, pulling out a piece of malachite.
"This is for you." He pressed the stone into Paval's hand.
Paval lowered his head to look at the emerald-green stone, momentarily stunned.
"Th-this is…"
Allen said seriously, "This gem has been with me for a long time. By giving it to you, it symbolizes that I forgive you."
Paval lifted his head, his face full of flattered disbelief.
"Mr. Prestor, this… this is too valuable…"
"Valuable?" Allen waved his hand. "Just take it."
What he said was the truth. A whole pouch of malachite had been on him for quite a while, and he still hadn't gotten rid of it all. This stuff really wasn't that valuable.
Paval clenched the piece of malachite tightly in his palm and nodded firmly.
"Thank you, Mr. Prestor. I will treasure it well!"
Allen smiled and said nothing more.
At that moment, the ship gave a slight jolt.
They had docked.
On the pier, a squad of soldiers was already lined up, waiting.
They wore neat uniforms, with the emblem of Lordaeron embroidered on their chests.
At the front stood two men. One was a middle-aged man in naval dress uniform, golden oak leaves on his epaulettes—the Admiral of Lordaeron, Edmond West, commander of Menethil Harbor.
The other wore a luxurious silk robe and a feathered hat, clearly a noble of Lordaeron.
The gangway was lowered, and the first to disembark was Captain Dylan along with several officers.
Dylan strode forward and shook Edmond's hand firmly.
"Admiral West, long time no see."
"Dylan." The old admiral smiled and patted his arm. "Quite the display you've brought. Three massive warships—I almost thought enemies had arrived."
Captain Dylan gave a wry smile. "We were attacked by naga last night. The flagship was damaged, so we had no choice but to trouble you."
"Naga?" Edmond frowned. "There are naga in these waters? I've never heard of such a thing…"
"We'll talk later." Captain Dylan stepped aside, making room behind him. "First, meet our lady."
Jaina slowly walked down the gangway.
Today, she wore a light blue dress, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, a composed smile on her face.
Edmond stepped forward quickly.
"Lady Jaina, Menethil Harbor welcomes your arrival."
The noble also stepped forward and bowed, his movements elegant and reserved.
"Lady Jaina Proudmoore!" His voice rang out clearly. "Welcome to Menethil Harbor! I am Lord Marius Bertholdt."
Jaina stepped off the gangway and nodded politely in greeting.
After a round of pleasantries, Bertholdt asked, "I hear that your journey is to Dalaran?"
Jaina nodded.
"What a coincidence." Bertholdt's smile grew warmer. "Our Prince of Lordaeron, His Highness Arthas, happens to be in Dalaran recently. If you have the chance to meet, I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."
Jaina smiled politely, saying nothing further.
Bertholdt's gaze lingered on her for a moment before shifting to Allen, Morgan, and Stella behind her.
"And these are?" he asked.
Jaina was about to introduce them, but Allen spoke first.
"My name is Allen. I'm a Royal Arcane Advisor from Stormwind. I happen to be traveling with Lady Jaina. These two are my friends."
The closer they got to Lordaeron, the less Allen dared to swagger around under Prestor's name.
If he ran into his so-called "father," he'd be finished.
Before he could finish speaking, Bertholdt had already looked away.
The corners of his mouth dipped slightly, a trace of undisguised disdain flashing in his eyes.
Stormwind?
That backwater in the south?
He turned to another noble beside him and said something in an ancient language.
This was Thalassian. In Lordaeron, many learned Thalassian to study older and more powerful magic. Quite a few nobles also used it to maintain a sense of superiority.
Allen's brow lifted slightly.
He raised a hand, a faint glow flowing at his fingertips.
[Comprehend Languages]
The words instantly became clear.
"…a bunch of country bumpkins from Stormwind." Bertholdt's voice was lowered, but the contempt was unmistakable. "Look at those clothes—no taste at all. And that gnome? They even brought a gnome. What is that, a pet?"
His attendant chuckled softly.
"And he claims to be a Royal Arcane Advisor?" Bertholdt scoffed. "A place like Stormwind—what kind of proper mage could it produce? Just a bunch of savages picking up a few tattered books from ruins and calling themselves advisors."
"My lord speaks the truth," the attendant echoed. "If not for Lordaeron helping them restore their kingdom, they'd still be wandering."
"Exactly." Bertholdt sneered. "A nation that's already fallen once—what can you expect from it?"
Allen stood there expressionless.
Jaina was escorted forward, surrounded by nobles and officers, chatting warmly as they moved along, the distance between her and Allen's group growing wider.
She glanced back several times, trying to introduce them, but couldn't find an opening.
After a while, Allen, Morgan, and Stella stood where they were, exchanging looks.
Lord Bertholdt had invited Jaina and the others to dine at his estate.
But the three of them hadn't been invited, left behind on the spot.
Allen was silent for a moment.
"Let's go," he sighed. "We'll find an inn and handle things ourselves."
Just as they were about to leave the dock, Allen suddenly noticed a small boat slowly entering the harbor.
Was this the very black dot he had seen on the horizon earlier?
The people on the boat were dressed tightly, and there was a massive cargo crate onboard, nearly as large as the boat itself. Dockworkers approached, calling out offers to help unload for a fee, but the people aboard kept shaking their heads and waving them off.
"Benefactor! Hurry up! It's my first time in Menethil Harbor!" Stella's voice pulled Allen back to his senses.
The three of them walked along the streets leading into Menethil Harbor.
The port city was bustling with life. Shops lined both sides of the streets, and crowds flowed back and forth. Merchants with all kinds of accents hawked goods from every corner of the world.
They passed street after street.
Allen was still thinking about what kind of restricted-grade dream to arrange for Bertholdt tonight.
Then suddenly, he stopped.
He stared in shock at the corner of a building.
In an inconspicuous spot, he saw… a mark.
The carving was shallow, blending into the weathered wall—easy to miss if you weren't looking closely.
But Allen saw it.
He had seen it again—the same as every one before.
It was a vertical eye, shedding tears of blood.
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