Leylin heard the Convocation long before he reached its halls. The sound traveled down the long, polished marble corridor, echoing off the high arches two turns before the great brass doors came into view.
It was a dense, overlapping wall of noise—a rising and falling roar of voices bouncing off the stone. This was no dignified assembly of silver-tongued statesmen; it was the unvarnished sound of forty Thalassian nobles, raised from birth to regard raised voices as the height of vulgarity, completely abandoning their upbringing in a flurry of heated debate.
"...a matter of foundational precedent, Lord Dawnstar, not sentimentality!"
"...and I maintain that the Sunwell's security cannot be delegated to—"
"...perhaps inquire of the Ranger-General's own household what they have permitted!"
A heavy wooden gavel or fist slammed against an oak desk. Someone shouted over the clatter. Someone else barked an immediate, angry counter-objection.
Leylin slowed his stride, stabilizing his balance.
He glanced to his left. Alleria had halted entirely, her gloved fingers pressed firmly against the bridge of her nose, her eyes shut tight. Her expression was that of a commander forced to endure an argument she had heard in various forms for two centuries, and had harbored a vain, desperate hope of being spared today.
"It is significantly worse than I remembered," Alleria muttered, her voice muffled behind her hand.
"Your headache has arrived early," Leylin observed mildly.
"I possessed a headache while we were still at the spire," she countered gently. "This is merely its glorious fulfillment."
Vereesa pressed her lips into a tight line, attempting to maintain military decorum, but failed silently as her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Leylin turned his gaze toward Sylvanas.
The Ranger-General stood at the base of the final marble stairs, staring up at the massive, carved double doors. Her longbow was slung securely across her back, her features locked in a mask of absolute, glacial calm. For a few seconds, she tilted her head slightly, listening with the intense, focused posture of a predator analyzing the rustle of foliage to locate the herd.
Then, she gave a single, lazy shrug of her left shoulder.
Without a word of warning, Sylvanas climbed the steps, placed both pale palms flat against the heavy Titan-carved doors, and shoved with unyielding strength.
The colossal doors swung inward with a long, echoing groan of ancient bronze hinges.
The shouting inside did not cut off instantaneously. It died in waves, like a roaring fire suddenly starved of oxygen. The loudest voices snapped mid-word as heads turned toward the entrance, followed rapidly by the lower tiers, until the final echoes faded into the vaulted ceiling. Within seconds, the vast hall had grown so quiet that Leylin could hear the faint rustle of silk banners hanging high in the rafters.
Every single eye in the Convocation locked onto the doorway.
The chamber was grand, ancient, and utterly hostile.
Tiers of plush crimson-and-gold benches curved upward in a massive horseshoe, rising from a mirror-polished floor inlaid with the brilliant sun-sigil of the Sunstrider dynasty. Bright autumn sunlight poured through soaring arched windows, painting the airborne dust in shades of liquid amber. Faded silk banners hung from the rafters—every ancient house represented, their colors softened by centuries of history.
And occupying those seats were the rulers of High Elven society.
Lords draped in rich brocades. Ladies adorned in silk and rare gems. Magisters in sweeping, rune-embroidered robes, their faces carefully schooled into masks of aristocratic detachment. Leylin felt the collective weight of their attention slam against him like a physical shockwave—forty pairs of glowing arc-arcane eyes, sharp with suspicion, outrage, and calculation.
Leylin did not avert his gaze, a hostile crowd always measures whether you flinch at the threshold. He permitted his eyes to sweep slowly across the room, unhurried, analyzing the assembly with the cold, measured diagnostic he would apply to an enemy deployment.
In doing so, he identified familiar people. Lady Liadrin sat among the Blood Knight delegation near the front tier, her polished golden armor catching the amber light.
When Leylin's mask aligned with her direction, she offered the subtle, almost imperceptible tilt of her head, the corner of her lips twitching upward.
Beside her, Magister Tyr'ganal looked as though he had been dragged into the assembly against his explicit will and was actively evaluating several life choices, though his eyes brightened considerably upon seeing Leylin.
Magister Aminel sat one row behind, a thick leather portfolio rested across her knees, her face locked in an expression so aggressively neutral it clearly masked burning fury.
Near the central dais stood Lord Regent Lor'themar Theron, tall, scarred, and imposing in his dark ranger's coat. He had served as Kael'thas's primary military anchor throughout the rebuilding, and he now surveyed the doorway with the quiet relief of a commander whose requested reinforcements had finally arrived on the field.
Positioned beside him was Grand Magister Rommath. The veteran spellbinder's angular face gave away nothing, but his sharp eyes flicked from Leylin to the traditionalist nobles and back again. The subtle set of his jaw suggested he was quietly enjoying the disruption.
And scattered through the battle-mage benches, Leylin spotted three faces he had last seen during the Northrend Campaign: Julia Sunstriker, Seyla Dayleaf, and Elna. They had walked through the abyss of the Lich King and emerged forever altered.
They stared down at Leylin with a curious gaze. Julia offered a sharp, tiny nod. Elna lifted two fingers off her knee in a quiet, military salute. Seyla held her gaze directly, her expression communicating an unspoken truth: Whatever happens, I'll follow your lead.
Leylin felt a solid anchor settle in his chest. He was not isolated in this room.
At the center of the elevated dais, seated upon a high-backed throne of carved white stone and gold leaf, sat King Kael'thas Sunstrider.
The young monarch had risen halfway from his seat when the doors groaned open, one hand gripping the carved armrest of his throne. His fine features were a complex study in warring emotions: sudden relief, sharp alarm, hope, and a touch of horror—as though he had been caught mid-sentence in an argument he was losing, only to have his comrades walk through the door to witness it.
Kael'thas's eyes locked onto Leylin's dark mask. His lips parted slightly, forming a soundless phrase: You came.
Leylin inclined his head—a crisp, minimal gesture of respect. The King slowly sank back into his white throne, a fraction of the rigid tension bleeding from his shoulders.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Sylvanas crossed the threshold first, her heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor. She assumed a station just inside the archway, her back to the wall. She did not bother glancing at the assembled lords; she simply stood there, one hand resting loosely on the grip of her longbow, projecting the distinct posture of a sentinel who was casually blocking the only exit.
Alleria followed, her posture straight, her emerald-and-silver cloak sweeping the floor with quiet grace. Vereesa marched beside her, her chin held high.
Then Leylin stepped into the hall. His footfalls resonated with flat, measured precision across the silent chamber. He advanced ten paces onto the sun-sigil inlaid into the floor, stopping dead in the open expanse at the center of the horseshoe, fully exposed to every tier of the assembly.
Arcturis padded through the threshold behind him. The massive, translucent spirit bear paused, unbothered by the hostility, and sat down heavily at Leylin's heel with a soft thud. A visible ripple of unease washed through the upper benches.
Arcturis let out a slow, rumbling yawn, displaying a terrifying array of translucent teeth.
Somewhere in the upper left tier, a noble lady's silk fan snapped shut with a sharp crack.
It was a lord positioned in the second tier who finally shattered the silence.
He stood up slowly, executing the movement with the practiced, theatrical deliberation of a statesman who had been waiting for this exact vulnerability. He was tall, silver-haired, and draped in flowing robes of deep violet velvet trimmed with heavy gold thread. A massive signet ring glinted on his hand as he adjusted his cuffs. His face carried an expression of mild, pained courtesy—the look of an aristocrat forced to correct an ignorant servant.
Lord Duskwither. Leylin instantly recognized the house crest embroidered across his chest.
"Forgive the sudden interruption," Lord Duskwither began, his voice smooth, resonant, and carrying effortlessly across the vaulted acoustics of the hall. "However, I must confess to a profound sense of confusion."
No one in the assembly dared to interrupt him.
"This is a closed, sovereign session of the Convocation of Silvermoon," Duskwither continued, his eyes scanning the tiers before dropping to the floor. "An assembly reserved exclusively for the great houses, the high magisters, and the sworn officers of this realm. By ancient Thalassian statute, this chamber is accessible only to those possessing legitimate standing—by noble bloodline, by official rank, or by the King's explicit written decree."
He turned his body slowly until his gaze locked directly onto Leylin's face.
"And so I must inquire, as a matter of simple legal propriety, and without the slightest personal malice..."
He paused. The air in the chamber grew taut, stretched to the absolute limit.
"Who, precisely, invited you into this hall?"
The question hung in the golden air, heavy with lethal political intent.
Upon the dais, King Kael'thas's knuckles turned white against the arms of his throne. Grand Magister Rommath's eyes narrowed into slits. Lor'themar's hand drifted downward, hovering inches from the hilt of his broadsword. By the grand doors, Sylvanas did not shift her stance, but a dangerous, predatory smile touched her pale lips—the smile of a hunter watching a mark walk blindly into a killing field.
Every eye in the Convocation locked onto Leylin, awaiting the collapse of his standing.
And Leylin, positioned in the center of Silvermoon's highest court with a spectral bear at his side and the crushing weight of three thousand years of Thalassian arrogance pressing against his frame, took a slow, deep breath, preparing to speak.
Before he could utter a word, a second voice echoed from the elevated benches—sharp, cold, and entirely unexpected.
"I did."