Dalaran.
A cup of hot tea with a pastry in the morning perfectly lifts the mood and sets the tone for the entire day. So thought the regulars of a small tavern, and the owners did everything they could to encourage such inclinations in their guests. At a table by the window sat a trio of the fairer sex, who for some time now had been regular customers of this establishment, which catered to young couples. Two striking brunettes belonging to the Human race—one quite young, the other noticeably older—and an elf with a magnificent mane of golden-blonde hair enjoyed their morning tea in silence, not bothering to utter any platitudes. Everything they wanted to discuss had already been talked over several days ago, during their first meeting, and now the girls were simply waiting, enjoying the moment of tranquility...
At this time, the plaza in front of the famous academy of mages was unusually lively. Dozens of elves filled the open space before the wide-flung gates, behind which, in the distance, the welcoming delegation was hastily concentrating. Naturally, the Highborne had no intention of waiting for the hosts to recover from their sudden appearance. Before the dispersed escort, consisting of the Quel'Thalas Royal Guard, three elves appeared. Two young-looking beauties and one young man. Led by one of the girls, they passed the fence and headed down the path toward the main building, from which members of the Kirin Tor were already rushing to meet them.
"We are pleased to welcome the esteemed representatives of Quel'Thalas..."
While Antonidas, slightly out of breath from the unscheduled morning jog and unable not to personally greet the dear allies, was churning out standard phrases automatically, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, as if something was missing...
The guessing game ended before it even began when the old mage was pierced from head to toe by a spark of realization, and a thought hammered in his head like an alarm: "Where, exactly, is Azshara herself?! She couldn't have changed her mind, could she? And surely this whole crowd didn't show up without her?.."
Yet no matter how hard Antonidas tried to conceive a correct assumption about the true state of affairs, all his hypotheses remained just that, and the questions troubling the master of Dalaran hung in the air like a vibrating string in anticipation of the fateful moment when answers would finally be found. However, most of them might be very much to the dislike of a man accustomed to managing events himself.
The morning had officially ceased to be dull...
While the city's chief mage was overcome by an intensifying migraine from the anxieties filling his thoughts, the wide-flung door of the aforementioned tavern creaked loudly, admitting another visitor. Or rather, a female visitor who, without even thinking of hesitating on the threshold—as was quite common for new customers—headed straight for the table favored by the trio of girls. Those present among the few customers who turned at the sound of the opening door, and those who, noticing movement between the tables, turned their heads away from their tea cups or their companions, as well as the establishment's staff, whose duty it was to greet new customers—all of them, as soon as their gaze fell upon the girl who had entered and their minds realized the scene before them, immediately fell into a stupor.
It wasn't every day that one could see a dazzlingly beautiful elf in white robes made of the finest and lightest spider silk, which revealed and emphasized more than they hid from greedy male and envious female gazes… And even more so, by no means every resident of Dalaran knew what the Queen of the Elves looked like, or had met her in person, or even seen her in engravings or illusion orbs, though the latter had recently become very popular. But be that as it may, the lack of knowledge regarding the identity of the entering elf did nothing to prevent them from being imbued with the aura of power, the source of which was the mask of arrogance frozen on her face. Her proud posture, majestic gait, and the mana-sparkling wand in her hands amplified the "I am the Queen!" effect.
The youngest of the girls sitting at the table where Azshara stopped was visibly nervous; the second brunette was also out of her element but hid it quite successfully, though her eyes occasionally darted warily toward the magic wand in the uninvited guest's hands. The eldest and most remarkable of the trio calmly watched the approach of her "kin," and her composure was something to be envied, for the girl, like the youngest of her friends, sat by the aisle, and Azshara stopped right next to their table, in immediate proximity to the red-haired representative of the Quel'dorei.
A dome formed around the four girls, impenetrable from the inside to sound and light. To those around them, it seemed as if a black hemisphere had appeared in place of their table. The protection against spying and eavesdropping set by Azshara served as the signal to begin the conversation, and the first to start was the eldest of those sitting—an elf whose appearance was dominated by yellow shades, from her eyes and hair to her clothing. Beneath the dome of silence, melodic speech in Elven rang out.
"See, I told you that we only needed to wait a little, and we would find ourselves at the source of events."
"At the source? I haven't been called that before… though, what else to expect from lizards," Azshara grimaced slightly, but immediately continued, making it clear she perfectly understood the essence of the phrase about the source: "Do you think, Soridormi, that you alone can play with Time? Would you like me to tell your fortune?"
The wand, as if of its own accord, turned, and now its pommel pointed directly at the head of the spouse of Nozdormu, nearly burying itself in the mane that mistakenly belonged to the elf. Apparently, Azshara did occasionally grieve that long ago she had to switch to a short haircut due to certain circumstances known as N'Zoth, which had deprived her of the beautiful long white waterfall that once cascaded down her back.
"I do not believe in prophecies," the bronze dragon in the form of an elf shook her head, not at all intimidated by the poorly veiled threat.
"Then why have you gathered here? Don't tell me you aren't aware that your kin are not welcome in Dalaran."
"Nozdormu sent me."
"To talk to me?" Azshara allowed herself to doubt, knowing firsthand the reclusiveness of the winged one who held the title of Master of Time.
"To resolve the crisis of Azeroth," Soridormi repeated her previous head movement with precision—evidently, the head shake was her favorite gesture. "Through a conversation with you, with someone else, or through some other actions—it doesn't matter. But the threat to the world must be eliminated."
"Just think of it," in a subtle moment, Azshara found herself sitting at their table, except for some reason, instead of a chair, Her Royal Majesty sat upon a throne, the dimensions of which, while small, still allowed her to tower over her interlocutors by a full head and look down upon them condescendingly. And from this position, with an expression of infinite condescension appearing on her face, it was very easy and pleasant to bury her companions under tons of sarcasm: "The 'Great and Terrible' Nozdormu himself has deigned to solve the problems of Azeroth… And as usual, 'just in time'! Not millennia ago, when both the demons and N'Zoth could have been taken almost with bare hands, but right now, when Azeroth is frozen on the threshold of a great war, or even another cataclysm. Is he truly the Time Aspect? So far, such actions only speak to the strength of his hindsight. You know, if during the War of the Ancients his late intervention could be attributed to chance, the repetition of his reaction in similar events reeks of a pattern."
"Precisely because he sees further and more than any of us—his actions should not be doubted. He chooses the best probability-time lines and follows them."
"For some reason, all his choices veer toward inaction. Even now, he did not intervene himself, but sent only you out of thousands of dragons. So you can feed your kin that nonsense about 'principles of non-interference,' 'time paradoxes,' and 'causal relationships leading to a worsening situation due to thoughtless intervention'—I already heard all that from you last time, when your whole kagal descended upon me in an attempt to seize my new Source. No need to repeat yourself."
"You do not wish to unite?" Soridormi inquired, not losing her indifferent facial expression.
"With you?" a raised eyebrow was meant to clearly show all the bewilderment that should grip any rational being upon receiving such a proposal in a similar situation. "Or perhaps with them," a slight nod followed toward the two black dragons who were listening to the conversation attentively and silently, having quite successfully masked themselves as human girls for several days now. "Something tells me that after Neltharion's antics, the members of their flight don't even reach a three-digit number. But even so, that would be far more than what you, it seems, intend to offer me."
"Not everything is measured by the size of an army."
"Alright, jokes aside," Azshara's face became a mirror image of the yellow-eyed elf in terms of lack of emotion. The bronze dragons in general, and this representative in particular, irritated her by the mere fact of their existence. "To business; I don't intend to waste any more of my time on you."
Soridormi silently shifted her gaze to the elder brunette—the ambassador of the black dragons, Naelis. This hint was hard to interpret any other way—she was passing the baton to her companions, simultaneously informing their future ally that they were not acting as one, and their proposals differed.
"The black dragonflight is ready to join you."
"In exchange for what?" Azshara clarified. "I do not believe in altruism in any form of its manifestation. Only these," she nodded dismissively toward the maned girl, "can sing dithyrambs about 'rallying ranks in the name of Azeroth' when they need something, but when you're the one needing help, they charge an exorbitant price."
"In exchange for safety. It is hard to fight while suspecting that at this very moment your kin might be facing death."
"One cannot protect against everything, but I understand you. Providing a place in Quel'Thalas is not difficult—the mountains are full of secluded valleys. But I will need guarantees. I will not let those I cannot trust into my country—the shadow of the madness of the Old Gods hovers over your flight. Therefore, from you, an allied oath on the Dragon Soul. Here are the conditions," a single sheet of paper appeared out of the air with not a particularly large amount of writing—Azshara disliked ambiguities in such matters, for as a rule, such tricks worked both ways. "If you agree—welcome."
The two girls dressed in black quickly scanned the text of the magical oath, the conditions of which were surprisingly simple: non-aggression against allies, assistance in repelling external threats, and an equal exchange of knowledge. In return, the dragons were provided a safe corner in Quel'Thalas—the most guarded state in Azeroth—as well as the opportunity to freely visit elven cities and even—truly generous!—use the energy of the Source on equal terms with the ordinary residents of the country. Despite the simplicity of the contract, Naelis, who had gained some experience during her time as ambassador at Wyrmrest Temple, saw something suspicious here, but due to a lack of information, she could not yet piece together the fragments of guesses floating in her head. Otherwise, she would have known that the doctrine in Quel'Thalas was such that the elves gave more to the Source than they consumed: everything for Azshara, everything for victory, and so on in that vein.
Dragon bodies themselves possessed excellent sources of energy, and the ruler of the elves clearly expected that her future subjects… that is, of course, allies, would dump their mana into the general system of energy channels every day, and the voluntariness of this would be ensured by the oath on their relic…
"We need to…"
Naelis decided to take advantage of the traditional pause in negotiations and properly think through every point, but…
"We agree."
…Onyxia, being younger than her partner, nevertheless stood a step higher in the flight's hierarchy, being the daughter—blood of the blood and flesh of the flesh of the Earth Aspect, and Naelis did not dare to object so as not to quarrel in front of a future ally, sincerely hoping that they would not be required to take the oath right now, and then she would have time to study the contract and discuss everything with Onyxia and other members of the flight.
Azshara, having waited a little and received no objections to the last words, began to entangle the allies in new obligations.
"Excellent. It is heartening to see such rationality at such a young age, and in a direct descendant of the mad Neltharion at that… Onyxia, right? Speaking of descendants… I heard that your brother, Nefarian, has settled in the Twilight Highlands, captured the Draenor remnants, and is now nurturing dreams of expansion, gathering…"
As the details were listed, a sense of surprise and approaching trouble grew in one of the heirs of the Earth Aspect. Even she herself, occasionally receiving word from her kinsman, was not aware of the state of Nefarian's affairs.
"…So, I doubt he will take the oath, and I have no use for such troublemakers anyway, so you will have to get rid of him."
"Is this a mandatory condition? If everything is as you say, then he has accumulated great forces, and we are too few for victory to come at a small price."
"Well, if you aren't afraid of the flight splitting into two packs… then in principle, that's your problem. For me, carving up this Nefarian would be like a cook wringing a chicken's neck—it would take a couple of seconds for the whole thing. Just know that you won't be able to play for both teams: if I find out that the dragons who swore to me are creating problems on the side and ruining my reputation, whether it's attacks on human allies or neutral dwarves and the like, you will regret it, and it won't matter at all whether they are with Nefarian or cooperating on their own to 'relive the old days and scare the humans.' Keep your own in check and there will be no problems from my side, for I know how it usually goes—some time passes, all the bad things are forgotten, and allies start acting up. In short, if anything happens—you will be the one held responsible first and foremost."
The briefing was over. The two brunettes exchanged looks, and Onyxia announced the result of their glances:
"We will ensure there are no problems."
"Then I expect everyone who wishes to come, let's say, exactly a week from now at the eastern border…" from her voice, Onyxia and Naelis understood that the stated timeframe was not subject to revision, but they still had something to tell to increase the loyalty of the mistress of their future home.
"We have news—the Nathrezim are gathering an Army of Undead of high rank somewhere near Northrend."
"And why am I not surprised that this is happening right under the noses of your scaly brotherhood… Tell me."
As she learned the details of the operation recently conducted by the dragons, a shadow of thoughtfulness became more evident on Azshara's face.
"I never doubted the Aspects' ability to sleep through an invasion of Sargeras's lapdogs right into their own home," the blonde elf summarized what she heard in her unique style. "When you are in your temple, advise them on my behalf to look into its basements—if I were the demons, I would hide an Army of Undead right there, under the thick red ass of that old broody hen Alexstrasza."
"Fine."
In response to the sarcasm, Naelis allowed herself a malicious smile—she would certainly make sure to convey Azshara's "advice" to Korialstrasz word for word. In Wyrmrest Temple, she was in no danger, but seeing the facial expression of that arrogant snob after such a message was worth a lot.
"And now to deal with you," the focus of the conversation shifted to Soridormi.
Nozdormu's spouse did not stand on ceremony and went straight to the point:
"I know you are looking for someone. I can help… But not for free, of course."
"Oh, so you know where N'Zoth's lair is?" the Queen allowed interest to show on her face, her whole appearance suggesting she didn't understand who was being discussed.
"I am not talking about the Old God," Soridormi answered patiently, like an experienced fisherman not rushing to hook an overly cautious fish.
"Then your offer does not interest me," Azshara shrugged her shoulders slightly, portraying a shrug, and declared with put-on aplomb: "And anyone I need, I will find myself."
"I don't doubt it," the fake elf agreed. "But you will lose time. With my help, you will meet him today."
"Old age is no joy, is it?" Azshara asked suddenly. "Strength is failing, eyes are going blind, the scent is failing, the tail is falling off… I sympathize. If you were as informed as you try to appear, you would know that I will meet the necessary being today. And I will do it on my own."
The yellow eyes narrowed, as if trying to determine how honest the short-haired blonde was in her words. The jab about age was ignored by the dragon with her characteristic composure.
"You know the identity of the one who interests you? I don't believe it."
"That is your right, but I don't need to know the identity of the one I'm looking for. I am a Mage, after all—it's enough for me to be able to find him, isn't it?" after waiting a few moments and receiving no answer to the rhetorical question, Azshara continued: "Any other offers?"
"I can look into the future…"
"Pff… you found something to surprise me with! I can look into the future myself," the elf subtly shifted her body, and the medallion resting between her luxurious breasts, as if of its own accord, changed its position, drawing everyone's attention. "Any Archmage can look into the future, or a talented self-taught one, even Shamans can do it easily, and not at all with the help of the sacred legacy of the Titans, but merely thanks to a tincture of swamp toadstools!"
"And yet, I do not think their capabilities and mine are comparable."
Soridormi proved to be a tough nut to crack, showing not a hint of anxiety over the failing negotiations. Azshara was already starting to get tired of this; after all, she had arrived in Dalaran specifically to search for Maywell's unknown father, not to wag tongues with mangy lizards who thought too much of themselves. But the Queen did not allow the irritation gripping her to spoil the result she had been gradually leading Soridormi toward throughout the conversation, namely—to bait her into a trial vision; she specifically wanted to clarify something…
"So far, your qualifications in this field do not inspire confidence. You found out I would come to the tavern? Not much of an achievement; if you lot, reeking of dragon magic all over the neighborhood, weren't here—naturally, I wouldn't be here either. And as for the search organized by my subordinates, that could be learned in ten different ways, from magic to eavesdropping on conversations. So for now, I see nothing unique in the product you're offering. And by the way, you haven't said what you want in return. Perhaps in response, I will ask for something else entirely."
"I need the part of our Aspect's power contained within the Dragon Soul," Soridormi said clearly, leading with the main point and not even thinking of evading the direct question. "And also…"
As she listened to the "wants" being voiced in all seriousness, Azshara's dull irritation shifted into her famous royal wrath. She rose silently; the throne beneath her vanished. At first, the trio thought the elf, clearly dissatisfied with the waste of time, would leave them without saying goodbye, but at the last moment, as the guest was about to turn away, she cast a furious glance at the bronze dragon, accompanying it with the words:
"You have nothing to offer for that. Even if Nozdormu gives me ten like you as eternal slaves, it would still not be an equal exchange. Not even close. Not an equal exchange."
The protective dome disintegrated into rapidly fading swirls of mana. To the back of the departing elf came the words:
"And if I say I know where the lair is?"
Azshara didn't even turn around, but her cold voice gifted the tavern patrons with goosebumps.
"And what makes you think I don't know? You'll get nothing from me, greedy lizard."
The door closed with a mournful creak. A sad smile froze on the face of the one who wielded Time. The conversation hadn't gone perfectly, but overall, it went as it was supposed to, yet for some reason, Soridormi felt sad, though this was far from the first time she had sacrificed one for the many, a part for the whole, a minute for eternity… It was a pity she herself hadn't been able to find out exactly who Azshara was looking for—it would have simplified the task. Well, she had done all she could here, but responsibility wouldn't let her just leave without monitoring the result. After all, the price at stake was nothing less than peace on Azeroth.
------------------//------------------
Somewhere in Dalaran.
Through the streets of the abode of Human Mages, illuminated if not by the first then certainly by the second rays of the sun, an elf walked quickly. A very angry elf. Which all early passersby sensed. Even her beauty and the richness of her attire were noticed only secondarily this time.
Azshara did not use a portal, deciding to air herself out and dampen the flames of rage that had flared up for no apparent reason at the end of the negotiations with the crazy dragons, or rather with one of them. And at the same time, she was following a guiding artifact her daughter had whipped up on the fly to find her lost "daddy." And the Queen very, very much wanted to find him, perhaps even more than Maywell herself. But, naturally, with entirely different goals. Of course, depriving a child of one of their parents was wrong, but… what could be done? It was better than losing her daughter herself.
The accuracy of the craft was ambiguous. Of course, within Azeroth, "a kilometer plus or minus"—the figures given by Maywell's talent—looked encouraging enough, but within a densely populated city, such values were not very pleasing. That was why, when the scouts equipped with the artifact reached Dalaran, Azshara intended to personally visit this "refuge of the natives" and lead the search. Fortunately, combing the city up and down with the crowd of people she had brought with her as an escort could be done even without the artifact. The search activities were supposed to start immediately after the quick completion of the official part of the visit to the allied state, but childhood whims flared up in a certain place, and the Queen decided to independently test the capabilities of the budding Artifactоrics practitioner's first creation. That was when she stumbled upon Soridormi and company, and now she had set out for another round through the back alleys of Dalaran. Without any particular expectation of success—aiming only to cool her head a bit…
So, Azshara, looking around gloomily, mused on this and that until the bracelet-shaped artifact gave a short pulse indicating the proximity of the target. And almost simultaneously with this event, the elf "on a stroll" met the gaze of an unremarkable Human lad. The glint of predatory amber met the bright blue of an open sky. Those who met immediately stopped. The girl walking hand-in-hand with the guy also froze, staring in surprise at the young elf who had stopped in the middle of the street in a seemingly insanely expensive dress. Recognition and wariness began to show on the academy student's face—if anyone, the Princess of Kul Tiras knew exactly what the monarch of the most powerful country in all Azeroth looked like. With an involuntary gesture, she squeezed her boyfriend's hand tighter. Perhaps it was this last action that gave the push to the conversation.
"Azshara… What brings you here?" Lin said, demonstrating perfect Elven pronunciation, as if nothing had happened, as if he had met her at least yesterday, and, remembering the royal habits well and seeing signs of anger in the form of unkind sparks in her eyes, he couldn't resist asking: "Who managed to infuriate you so much and stay alive? For if you had killed them, you wouldn't be throwing lightning now, and we heard neither crashes nor explosions."
Azshara inhaled loudly through her nose and slowly released the air. The therapy helped a little, and the Queen managed to compose herself, albeit with difficulty. Having finally found the answer to the question that had tormented her from the very moment her daughter mentioned a second parent, she wanted to close it as quickly as possible… But the identity, and—let's be honest—the appearance of the daddy were quite intriguing, so she reluctantly gave up on a quick solution to the problem.
"Illidan. Stormrage," Azshara drawled slowly, with relish, finding no desire to hide the notes of disbelief in her voice, which grew less the closer the name of the deceased "hero" came to the end. "You wriggled out after all."
"Solely by your prayers," Lin stated in all seriousness, correctly assessing that no one was threatening his life or freedom... for now.
The elf curled her lips either in a smirk, catching the joke, or in disbelief, taking the statement at face value. The brief exchange of phrases allowed her to probe the guy, to scan him under a magical X-ray up and down. And what resulted, on one hand, the Queen couldn't help but like, as such a weak Mage would hardly become a threat to her influence over her daughter, since he simply wouldn't be able to penetrate all those lines of defense she had twisted around her palace, and on the other hand… it was Illidan! Who, if not he, having hidden for ten thousand years, could find a loophole.
Apparently, Illidan didn't like the appraising look of his former Queen, because he hurried to speak "against" the application of murderous actions toward him:
"You do remember that I saved you? And then died? It seems to me that's quite enough to close all debts between us."
the appraising look of the amber eyes did not cease, but now thoughtfulness appeared in it as well, which the human youth deemed a favorable result of his efforts. Naturally, he was mistaken. But he didn't have time to continue sinking into self-deception.
"What did you do with the essence from the Source?"
"I poured three vials into the lake, drank two, and gave two more to you," Lin replied, lost in guesses as to why she needed this information, half of the events of which she had participated in herself.
"I'm not talking about that. What did you do with the essence after you collected it? In terms of magical impact," she clarified.
If before, at the mention of the Well of Eternity, she was filled with rage, now even her heart didn't skip a beat—just a few memory images flickered, and that was all. After all, a long time had passed since those days, and she had a new creation, which, as it turned out relatively recently, appeared in the literal sense of the word and received the name Maywell.
"I tried to shield the box with the flasks and hid it. What else could have been done with them?"
"Well, you managed to guzzle half a liter of essence like some kind of wine and stay alive."
"Regarding the latter—you're wrong. I actually died a little!"
"'A little'?" the question in the intonation was present more for the sake of propriety—the lion's share was occupied by sarcasm, frozen far from the boundary of propriety separating it from simple irony.
"Ten thousand years is not such a long time compared to the chance to live a full life again, rather than wandering as a wisp of a soul somewhere on the flip side of the world."
The answers only generated even greater questions, which was already starting to irritate Azshara: after all, the first alleyway of a human city was not the place where it was pleasant to conduct long conversations. And setting up her portable throne here—that was extravagant even for the Queen of the Elves, famous for her extraordinary actions. As if eavesdropping on her thoughts, Jaina joined the conversation, seizing the moment, and the princess was not deterred by her lack of knowledge of Elven.
"Your Majesty, forgive me, but perhaps we should move to a more appropriate place for conversation?"
Azshara momentarily turned a sharp gaze toward the companion of the reappeared savior or traitor—depending on which act was being assessed—and then turned her gaze back to Illidan.
"Who is this?"
"Jaina Proudmoore, Princess of Kul Tiras, future Archmage," Lin introduced his companion and added: "She is with me," putting a deeper meaning into it than appeared at first glance.
"Traded Elune's little dog for a human girl? A rational choice, congratulations," she simply ignored the young Mage's question, choosing a new, more relevant topic.
If Lin hadn't been well acquainted with Azshara in the past and didn't represent the level of relationship between the two recognized beauties of the elven people, which, judging by the recent meeting with old acquaintances, hadn't changed much, he might have taken these words for praise and approval, but there was nothing of the sort—the ruler of Quel'Thalas had merely once again casually let fly a jab at her former rival for the title of the first beauty, placing her below a human girl.
"The two of you simply cannot let go of an old feud, even in the face of a new threat," the guy shook his head, showing his sadness at such a state of affairs.
"Oh, so you met that hysterical woman? 'Life for Elune!' Ugh, it's disgusting even to remember!" in feigned disgust, the elf curled her lips.
"What will you do with the Kalimdor Source?" not only Azshara knew how to, loved to, and practiced changing the subject.
"Hm," another appraising look from the amber eyes ran over the rather scrawny-looking teenager, and, having decided something for herself, Azshara said: "Fine, we really should change locations. I have questions for you. Leave your little friend here and follow me."
A portal opened between the Queen and her former subordinate, into which its creator stepped, leaving the pair of young Mages tête-à-tête. Lin eyed the perfect posture, clearly visible from the back of the elf as she slowly walked away from the boundary of space that separated Dalaran from the huge Throne Room. A few steps, and Azshara settled comfortably on the throne and stared expectantly at the invited guest. But the guy thoughtfully examined the portal frame and the piece of the Throne Room, not afraid to lock eyes with the beginning-to-be-irritated Queen, but he was in no hurry to cross the line.
"I take it she didn't invite me," Jaina stated, utilizing her famous female intuition and personal qualities: an analytical mind and considerable intellect.
"If anything happens—you know what to do," with these words he took a step, but the girl's palm, still holding his hand, squeezed around the guy's fingers at the last moment.
Lin stopped and exchanged silent looks with his student and, concurrently, his girlfriend.
"Hey, lovebirds, it seems to me you don't respect my time at all. And rational beings who don't respect my time usually lose their own. And often forever."
Only a deaf person or a complete idiot could fail to hear the threat in these words, spoken in the most benevolent voice. The young princess was neither the first nor, even more so, the second, and therefore, to the anxious beating of her loving heart, she let her other half go to meet his past. And though her soul was uneasy, at least now, looking at the place where just a moment ago there had been a direct passage into the heart of the legendary Is'Ney-Azshara, Jaina understood that the meeting with Azshara could have taken a much more tragic turn…
Somewhere in the distance of the street, a red spot flickered and vanished. The stately elf, under whose image the bronze dragon was hidden, headed back to the cafe. The plan had failed, but at least some clarity had emerged, and now she needed time to think and consider new arrangements. True, if you asked her what the plan actually was, she wouldn't be able to answer clearly… Oh, these bronze dragons!
------------------//------------------
Somewhere near Northrend.
"…To go against the Legion means to go against Sargeras!"
"A profound thought, brother. Но what is it for?"
The leader of the Nathrezim had no reason to hide the irony in his voice. He, Tichondrius, was the most powerful among his brethren, and therefore treated them with deliberate disdain. Some with light disdain—like his current interlocutor, Mephistroth, who was the third in strength and who was allowed to advise and conduct conversation almost as an equal with the most worthy of the Dreadlords. And some were not even granted the honor of opening their mouths in the presence of Tichondrius—such characters did not take part in general meetings and were young Lords whose qualifications were sufficient, in the opinion of seniority, only for "fetch-this-carry-that-get-out."
"Someone sabotaged my plan," the Demon clearly ground his fangs, his leathery wings folded behind his back having a pronounced blue color.
"So, you failed to lure one of the Kirin Tor council to our side not because you were stingy with the price and he feared elven retribution for betrayal more than he wanted the reward you offered?"
Not accepting the ironic tone from his "colleague" dressed in red armor, Mephistroth hissed angrily:
"I almost succeeded… he was spooked!"
"Of course, of course!" Tichondrius continued to mock.
Affairs in Tichondrius's department were far better than those of his rival in the struggle for the attention of Kil'jaeden and Archimonde. And this could not but please the chief Nathrezim, for his positions remained as strong as ever: despite the fact that all demons were in the Burning Legion and supposedly strove for a common goal—the spread of Sargeras's dominion—each of them had their own ambitions, which, however, did not differ much among the high representatives of the demonic race.
"You can mock as much as you like," Mephistroth said, composing himself, and then proved that he too knew how to threaten. "Don't forget that my failure is a failure of the entire operation, and when I provide evidence of sabotage… do you know what Lord Archimonde will do with a traitor?"
"Such loud words: 'sabotage,' 'betrayal'! You'd do better to remember 'responsibility,' 'diligence,' 'efficiency'…"
"Empty words..."
The Nathrezim, who considered themselves masters of convoluted intrigue, held little respect for honest toilers, preferring to feast upon the fruits of others' labor. Of course, the latter was rarely practiced when orders were issued personally by the former Eredar or the fallen Titan himself, but occasionally there were true devotees of the traditional Nathrezim pastime of "deceive thy neighbor," or simply desperate daredevils who disregarded the displeasure of the Burning Legion's leaders. At the very least, the Dreadlord, having just signed off on the failure of his assigned mission, suspected one such thrill-seeker from among their ranks.
"Do you think your complaints will soften the punishment for failure?" Tichondrius allowed himself to doubt, a familiar irony in his voice.
"I think the Lords will be very interested to know which of their servants is striving to fulfill their commission, and who is attending to personal matters to the detriment of the common plan."
"That will be of little help to you specifically: Archimonde and his brother dislike failures as much as they do 'saboteurs.' And if someone else completes the work of this bungler..."
The two Nathrezim exchanged looks.
"Stay out of my business, and then the wrath of the Lords shall pass you by."
"Less paranoia and more diligence, and then you shall achieve success."
"I have warned you."
During the conversation, Tichondrius had become fully convinced that Mephistroth posed no threat to his position. The latter certainly had some backup plan up his sleeve, but the chief Nathrezim was only interested in this insofar as it mattered: he had spoken the truth when he said the masters did not like failures, and thus he did not worry about the possible actions of his hapless kinsman. Tichondrius grunted and did a favor in the form of a heavy hint regarding the source of his junior colleague's troubles.
"Then it is Mal'Ganis you should be warning."
Mephistroth narrowed his eyes, hiding the emotions churning in the depths of his demonic gaze, and nodded, acknowledging a small debt.
But no matter how insignificant the favor, the Dreadlord named Tichondrius intended to eventually present a bill for this information...
***
Stormwind.
Hardly had the short summer night given way to pre-dawn twilight when the northwestern outskirts of Elwynn Forest filled with loud sounds. Dull thuds against wood, the rhythmic clatter of metal against stone, the crack of breaking branches from falling trees, the snaps of chipping stone blocks, the whine of saws. And, of course, how could one do without the encouraging profanity of sleep-deprived workers? The sawmills and quarries located near the capital of the southernmost Human kingdom were working at full capacity, having supplied construction materials for nine years now to Stormwind, which was being rebuilt after the bitter defeat in the First War with the Orcs. The five-year timeframe targeted by King Varian Wrynn and the nobles of Stormwind shifted every time, but not at all due to the negligence of workers or a lack of gold, as one might think, but for an entirely different reason. The opened coffers of the nobility and merchants of Stormwind, the fraternal aid from allied Human nations—in which Lordaeron particularly distinguished itself—and the unexpected but pleasant interest-free loan from Quel'Thalas—all this allowed the boundaries of imagination to expand greatly, and Varian "got greedy." In the good sense of the word.
Wide paved streets, stone-lined canals, even rows of three-story houses, not to mention the underground component: the capital turned out to be entangled in sewer passages to the delight of the Dwarves and Gnomes invited as builders and engineers for a handsome sum. Three of the most large-scale projects were particularly noteworthy: a massive palace complex sprawling in the northern part of the capital, a majestic cathedral—which, if not in width, then certainly in height rivaled the King's future residence—and the port. And while everything was clear with the first two—secular power needed a visible confirmation of its might, and the Paladins and Priests, glorifying the Holy Light, fought not so much for minds as for the souls of the inhabitants—the matter of the port was somewhat different...
It would seem—what could be surprising about an ordinary pier for ships? As it turned out, plenty! The gigantism in the port's construction exceeded even the wildest fantasies of even such "modest" fellows as the bearded Midget-Dwarves, who were known to every guest of Ironforge as sapient beings with acute bouts of megalomania. Stormwind was situated on an elevation dominating the seashore by several dozen meters. A vast, flagstone-paved pier, capable of accommodating up to a hundred ships at anchor simultaneously, was protected by two bastions on the sides, which reached the level of the plateau in height. But despite the tons of material used to transform the once-precipitous coastline into a gray strip without a single glimmer of other colors, it was not the pier that claimed to be the embodiment of an "ode to Stone." In the rocky foundation, a wide Staircase had been hollowed out (and in some places, conversely, built up), comparable in length to the harbor. Each step of this outrage against the budget would have allowed only some giant capable of lifting a leg more than ten meters to traverse it. Each of the man-made ledges was intended for a separate line of defense and was already, at the stage of completing construction, being hastily equipped with fortifications and cannons. Naturally, for the ascent from the port to the city and, accordingly, the descent down, ordinary stairs were provided in several places, connecting the base of one Step to another. From a distance, they looked like broken chains due to their perpendicular arrangement relative to the steps of their giant relative and their equipment with resting platforms, after which the direction of their movement reversed. For the movement of cargo, elevator shafts were provided, hollowed out in the uppermost Step and leading to the pier through tunnels laid in the lower one...
On the observation deck of the cathedral's highest tower, a man stood still in armor gleaming in the sun. Leaning on the parapet, the head of the Order of the Silver Hand surveyed the surroundings. Before his eyes, as if in the palm of his hand, opened a view of the palace, the inner courtyard of the order's residence, and the unceasing construction on the city streets and in the port district. His gaze lingered on the temporary quarter of the allies—the Dwarves and Gnomes helping with the construction for cold coin. On the edge of the quarter lay a pit with a shaft gaping in one of its walls, from which excavated soil was being hauled out in a continuous stream on carts along rails. Pensiveness vanished for a moment from the Paladin's gaze, and he winced: in his opinion, allowing the bearded ones to build an underground train linking Ironforge directly to their city was a mistake on Varian's part. With all due respect to his comrade-in-arms, Muradin, Uther did not quite trust the Dwarven politicians... in fact, he didn't trust that lot at all: politicians, advisors, ambassadors, and other schemers regardless of their racial affiliation—remembering perfectly well what the disunity during the first war with the Orcs had led to. And now, watching the bustle of "ants" from afar, tirelessly hauling various loads, dark thoughts visited him. The attempt to chase two hares, making overtures toward both Azshara and Magni, could backfire heavily on Stormwind in the future. However, that was not the issue now, and Uther even partly understood the King, who was clearly counting on finding a middle ground—all possible resources were important to him. Stormwind, ravaged by war, needed comprehensive support. This issue became particularly acute when the Elven ambassadors demonstrated a globe with a recording of the destruction of Kezan and the monster attacks on the coast of Quel'Thalas...
In the thoughts of the High Paladin, that unforgettable sight flashed for the umpteenth time, and he gripped the railing until it creaked—the mere memory of this Abomination, unnatural to the Holy Light, evoked a storm of emotions in him that the man did not even think to hide, likening himself to the Orcs in their mad rage despite all his famous restraint. The entire essence of the head of the order of champions of good and justice called for the destruction of the antagonists of the Holy Light. If it were up to him, he would have already tried to enlist as a volunteer in the Elven army, as several of his brethren and Priest colleagues had already done, but duty held him back. Besides, intuition told Uther that he would not be able to avoid battles with this N'Zoth even if he wanted to. He only had to wait...
Except no one said that waiting had to be idle. Uther stepped away from the parapet and headed for the descent: the training hall awaited him. Casting a final glance toward the rising defenses of the port, he spoke softly:
"May the Holy Light be with us."
***
***
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