Later that evening, everyone gathered in the living room.
"Grand Magister Belo'vir and Magister Nallorath," Leylin said.
He spoke the names across the heavy wooden kitchen table just after Merelen had cleared the evening plates and retreated to her pantry. The two names landed in the quiet room with the heavy, resonant thud of stones dropped into a deep well.
Sylvanas froze mid-stride near the hearth. Alleria looked up sharply from the parchment letter she had been reviewing for the third time. Vereesa, who had been quietly paring an apple with a silver utility knife, stopped chewing entirely.
"What about them?" Sylvanas asked, her crimson eyes narrowing.
"That is precisely why this political campaign is being executed now," Leylin explained cleanly. He rotated his tea mug a quarter turn—a small, unconscious habit he had never managed to break. "Analyze the timeline of the whisper campaign. It didn't ignite when I first arrived in Quel'Thalas five years ago. It didn't ignite when we cleansed the Sunwell, nor when we returned from Icecrown. It exploded now, after Ulduar. After the two of them were gone from the board."
"Grand Magister Belo'vir fell during the Scourge assault on the Sunwell," Alleria said slowly, her mind tracing the past events. "And Magister Nallorath succumbed to..."
"Both are dead," Leylin stated flatly. "Grand Magister Belo'vir and Magister Nallorath were ancient men possessing long memories and absolute authority. They observed me bearing the thermal burden of the Sunwell with their own eyes. They knew precisely what capabilities I brought to bear, and they knew the exact cost required. Any noble who wished to whisper treasonous motives against me while those two lived had to whisper around them. Belo'vir would have terminated the conversation with a single look."
"They were your shield," Vereesa murmured softly, setting down her knife.
"They were a pair of unassailable ancient voices whom the traditionalist nobility was terrified to publicly contradict," Leylin corrected. He exhaled a long breath behind his dark mask. "Now those voices are gone. The nobles who were biding their time—playing the polite hosts for two years because the political cost of opposition was too high—no longer face that counter-weight."
Sylvanas's lip curled into a sneer. "Cowards."
"Patient, calculating cowards," Leylin refined. "Which makes them exponentially more dangerous than armed zealots."
A secondary analytical realization materialized in his mind, slower to form, but far more troubling in its implications.
"There is a secondary objective," Leylin continued, leaning forward. "This campaign is not exclusively focused on isolating me."
Alleria's green eyes sharpened into steel. "Elaborate."
"Observe the specific targets named in the whispers," Leylin instructed, ticking the points off on his gauntleted fingers. "The Ranger-General's private household. Lady Liadrin's reformed Blood Knights. The Windrunner line. They are not launching a direct assault on my position—that would invite a dangerous counter-strike. They are systematically attacking everyone standing beside me. If I am framed as a foreign threat to the crown, then the individuals who sheltered me are inevitably framed as either naive fools or active accomplices."
The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted violently. The previous tension dissolved, replaced by a cold, deadly stillness.
"They are targeting our house," Vereesa whispered.
"They are targeting the Windrunner name," Sylvanas corrected, her voice dropping into a register that made the candle flames flicker. "A name that has been an agonizing thorn in the Convocation's side since Alleria marched into the Dark Portal. The traditionalist families who never forgave her for leaving. The lords who seethed when I took the Ranger-General's seat—a woman of our line seizing a position reserved for a noble's son."
"They have been searching for a leverage," Alleria said, her tone absolute iron.
"And my presence provided it," Leylin concluded.
"No," Alleria interjected, her voice leaving zero room for argument. "You provided them nothing, Leylin. They created a breakthrough where they think they can find errors."
"They may seem irrelevant," Leylin replied cleanly. "If I maintain silence and continue residing here at the spire, the political stain spreads to you. To Vereesa. To Sylvanas, who has bled for this kingdom longer than half those Convocation lords have been alive. I can comfortably endure being labeled a foreign schemer. I will not permit that corruption to bleed onto the people who opened their home to me."
"So your solution is to depart," Sylvanas stated flatly, stepping closer to the table.
"No." Leylin raised his head, and the cold, absolute focus in his posture made the Ranger-General pause. "My solution is to march directly into their sanctum."
"The Convocation?" Sylvanas stared at him. "You intend to attend a session?"
"I intend to crash it."
Vereesa let out a sharp, startled sound that was half-gasp, half-laugh. Alleria's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"I am not on the formal guest manifest," Leylin continued with absolute, clinical calm. "I hold no diplomatic standing or legislative title in Quel'Thalas. The noble houses will declare I possess zero legal right to step past the threshold of the sun-chamber—and by the strict letter of Thalassian law, they will be entirely correct." He leaned back in his chair. "However, Kael'thas is the reigning King. A monarch possesses the absolute privilege to invite whomever he pleases to his court. If Kael'thas stands before the assembly and declares me his royal guest, they cannot refuse my entry without committing open lèse-majesté against the Sunstrider throne."
"You would force Kael'thas to publicly commit to a side," Sylvanas observed, her eyes gleaming.
"He already committed to a side," Leylin noted. "He simply executed the maneuver poorly. This time, he will have my operational support beside him. And I intend to deliver a very specific message to those traditionalist houses."
Silence descended over the kitchen once more.
Then, slowly, Sylvanas smiled.
It was not her usual dry, sardonic smirk. It was a terrifying, razor-sharp expression—the expression of an apex predator who had just been informed the quarry was strolling directly into a trap.
"The Convocation convenes in four days," Sylvanas revealed, her voice dripping with dark anticipation. "At the Hour of the Setting Sun. It is the mandatory plenary session—every noble house, every high magister, every military commander will be present in full court regalia. It is the most formal, politically charged gathering of the season."
"Optimal parameters," Leylin stated.
"They will not anticipate your presence."
"That is the foundational asset of the operation."
"They will attempt to publicly humiliate you the moment you step onto the marble."
"They are welcome to try." Leylin shrugged faintly. "I have been subjected to psychological warfare by the Lich King and an Old God. I am reasonably confident I can survive a lord wearing velvet."
The remainder of the evening devolved into a meticulous tactical planning session that reminded Leylin, with absurd clarity, of their pre-engagement briefings in Ulduar.
Sylvanas unrolled a map of Silvermoon, sketching the architectural layout of the Convocation chamber on the reverse side with a charcoal pencil. She mapped out the seating tiers of the great houses, identifying which lords were loud obstructionists, which were subtle political manipulators, and which were dangerous in the patient, terrifying manner of men who never raised their voices above a whisper.
Lord Duskwither would open the offensive, Sylvanas explained, because he always spearheaded traditionalist motions. He would present his points with gentle, patrician concern. Lady Saltheril would follow, offering seemingly innocent queries regarding foreign mana-consumption that contained lethal political subtext.
"What should I speak first?" Leylin asked, reviewing the seating layout.
"The truth," Alleria stated instantly.
"The comprehensive truth is far too long for a court session."
"Then deploy the distilled version," Alleria instructed, pulling her chair closer to his. "You informed Merelen weeks ago that society rarely believes grand speeches. They believe what they observe you execute."
"I recall that observation."
"Then do not offer them an elaborate speech, Leylin. Offer them an undeniable moment."
Leylin turned the variables over in his mind. Outside the spire, the autumn wind rattled the window frames, and Arcturis shifted in his sleep near the hearth, his translucent ears twitching.
"I will not threaten them," Leylin decided slowly. "Deploying aggressive force or arcane posturing would merely validate their propaganda. Nor will I offer defensive pleas."
"So? What are you going to do?" Sylvanas demanded.
"I will publicly agree with their core premise."
Three pairs of eyes locked onto him in complete disbelief.
"They are entirely correct to question what I desire," Leylin explained. "They are correct to exercise extreme caution regarding unchecked power. If I stand before their assembly visibly enraged or defensive, I validate every suspicion they have engineered. But if I stand before them and state: Yes, you should exercise extreme caution regarding an entity of my capability. Here is the precise metric of what I am, here is the exact scope of what I require, and here is the absolute boundary of what I will never permit..."
A faint, sharp smile appeared. "That is something that is vastly harder to dismantle than a defensive argument."
Sylvanas studied him for a long, silent moment.
"That maneuver," she declared softly, "is either utter tactical brilliance or utter madness."
"The two categories frequently overlap in high-stakes engagements," Leylin noted.
"You deploy that justification entirely too often."
"It remains accurate."
On the night preceding their departure for the capital, Leylin found it impossible to remain still.
He walked the winding stone path up to the crest of the hill in the pitch dark, Arcturis padding silently at his side, the frost-covered grass crunching softly under his boots. At the summit, he paused, looking down at the quiet lights of Windrunner Village scattered across the valley floor like fallen embers.
This engagement was minor compared to the frozen plateau of Icecrown or the abyssal depths of Ulduar. No apocalyptic dragons. No cosmic gods.
Yet, it provoked a subtle tension in his computational matrix that he was reluctant to admit.
A cosmic horror could be fought with kinetic force. A Lich King could be systematically dismantled. But a marble hall filled with cultured, powerful individuals deciding politely—in the elegant, weaponized language of high manners—that your presence was an infection... that was an entirely different class of adversary. There was no physical core to strike. There was only the grueling, agonizing work of being seen clearly, alongside the constant risk that absolute clarity would prove insufficient to overcome entrenched prejudice.
"You are analyzing again."
Alleria had trailed him up the hill. She stood a few paces back, wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak, her breath rising in soft, white clouds against the starry sky.
"I am running preparations," Leylin corrected.
"You are brooding while preparing," she said gently, stepping up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "Just go be yourself."
Leylin considered filtering his answer, then discarded the idea. "The situation where I state the absolute truth, and it yields zero impact."
Alleria remained silent, watching the dark canopy below.
"And the fallback," Leylin added, his voice dropping, "where if this diplomatic maneuver fails, the political cost falls on you. On Sylvanas. On Vereesa. In this village. They will demand a target, and I have personally handed them the weapon to strike your family."
"Leylin."
"Yes?"
"Look at me."
Leylin turned his head. In the pale starlight, her face was sharp, beautiful, and completely devoid of fear.
"Do you truly believe we invited you into our home out of simple charity?" Alleria asked, her voice tight with quiet conviction. "Do you believe for a second we were ignorant of what the Convocation would attempt? We are Windrunners, Leylin. Our family has been a lightning rod for political scandal since before you were born. I stepped through the Dark Portal, survived a century in alien worlds, and returned with strange habits and wild stories—and those lords still whisper about me behind their wine goblets."
A dry, fierce smile touched her lips. "If the Convocation wishes to make our line their battleground, they will discover we possess centuries of practice in destroying our critics."
"That is hardly comforting."
"It is not intended to comfort you. It is intended to define who we are." She reached out and grabbed his gauntleted hand, her fingers interlocking with his. "You are not walking into that chamber isolated. Sylvanas will be standing at your back, and she is utterly terrifying. Kael'thas will be standing at your side, and he is learning how to rule. And I will be positioned exactly where your eyes can find me."
Leylin looked down at their joined hands, feeling the solid, unyielding warmth of her grip.
"Acknowledged," Leylin said quietly.
"Acknowledged?"
"I will act based on the situation."
"Good." She squeezed his hand hard. "And Leylin?"
"Yes, Alleria?"
"Permit yourself to enjoy threatening them just a little. Those arrogant lords will never see it coming."
Dawn arrived pale, crisp, and cold, coating the high road to Silvermoon in a brilliant sheet of silver frost.
The four of them rode in disciplined silence, with Arcturis loping alongside like a massive, translucent shadow. Vereesa had braided her silver-gold hair into the intricate, formal style of the Thalassian court. Alleria wore her high ranger-captain's cloak—deep emerald velvet draped over polished silver shoulder guards. Sylvanas had categorically rejected every suggestion of court attire, arriving in her pristine, battle-worn Farstrider leathers—a choice that was, in itself, a blunt political declaration.
Leylin wore the deep blue, unadorned robes he had worn during his debriefings at the Violet Citadel. No noble crests. No decorative signets. Only the quiet, ambient pulse of his spatial monitoring network humming at the back of his mind.
The grand gates of Silvermoon materialized ahead—soaring golden spires piercing the clear morning sky like polished lances.
Somewhere inside, within a vast marble chamber dripping with velvet banners and centuries of political grudges, a young King was waiting, an assembly of powerful lords was gathering, and a faction of patient cowards was about to discover that the human mage they had been whispering about had ceased waiting politely for an invitation.
Leylin drew a long, measured breath, stabilizing his internal systems.
"Ready?" Sylvanas asked, checking the drag on her quivers.
"Negative for comfort," Leylin replied honestly. "Let's go."
Sylvanas let out a short, dangerous laugh. "Comfort is for retirees. Move in."
The golden gates groaned open.