Kael'thas. Shortly before the destruction of the Sunwell.
They walked quietly through the city streets. The squad of High Elves moved, spread out along the street, looking around, checking on each other. Warriors, peering into every open, broken door. Into every window, under carts, collapsed stalls full of rotten fruit, barricades soaked in blood. They were wearers of heavy armor, yet they did it quietly, without unnecessary noise. Occasionally, magical flame flared up, incinerating the bodies of the laid-to-rest elves.
Sometimes they had to pass by ruined Undead structures set up in alleys or in areas of artillery fire. The latter had become a very unpleasant, deadly surprise for the elves when the Silvermoon fleet tried to land on the shore of the island where the Sunwell was located. Cannons turned out to be installed both on the coast and on the Necropolises. The attack faltered; many elves who couldn't save themselves drowned under the weight of their armor. It quickly became clear—moving an army through the city was simply impossible; it would be torn apart on the approach.
Using magic was dangerous; the Sunwell could be damaged, and no one could predict the consequences. The very thought of doing something to the Sunwell, the heart of their civilization, seemed sacrilegious to many. But thanks to the efforts of Grand Magister Rommath and Prince Kael'thas, many accepted it as a possible solution. Of course, the Sunwell had to be reached first, and reached quickly. And once there, they would decide what could be done.
Those who would strike at the very heart of the High Elves, corrupted by the filth of the Scourge, were gathered. A small squad, capable of moving without delay. Only worthy, trusted elves, ready to go to the end, into the very heart of darkness. Kael'thas Sunstrider himself, Sylvanas Windrunner, the Ranger-General, and several of her subordinates. Grand Magister Rommath, Lor'themar Theron, Magister Umbric. Including the guard—fifteen of the best, capable of fulfilling the task, reaching the Sunwell, and protecting their people, even by making a very harsh, destructive decision for all elves.
They move forward while the main forces give their lives, distracting the main strength of the Undead. They burn away their former brethren, who in clothing and actions still remind them of who they were in life. For the most part—civilians, craftsmen, advisors, dancers, and servants. Now—all of them are merely aggressive and hungry Undead, falling before the squad, hacked and charred. Then follows a healing session, a brief restoration of strength, and the journey continues, in their march toward the future.
They step over the wreckage of carts, overturned stalls, and furniture, bypassing makeshift barricades that tried to hold the defense during the evacuation. In vain.
They strike any corpse lying on the streets. They must ensure it's not a trap, that not one of them will stand up. They burn out burrows, pits, sewers where Ghouls hide. They set fire to towers serving as cover for gargoyles and ghosts. To avoid a strike in the back. This is a cruel mercy for those who didn't wait for rescue. And hope for those still alive.
In the city, there were traces of shelters offered to the panicking by their dead kin. Those who were least affected. They lured survivors in to kill them and turn them into Undead. Or to feed them poisoned food so the risen would look more or less alive. Such dens cause the most disgust. How can one accept that the residents of the capital cast away everything that made them elves? Slid down to aggressive, hungry beasts, lusting for the blood and flesh of their still-living kin, relatives, and loved ones? An unforgivable, disgusting abomination!
"Avurr, kh..."
Another Zombie did not expect an intrusion of the living onto these streets and was instantly decapitated, barely having turned its head. The gray-green, dead body of the elf and its head fell onto the cobblestones with a soft thud. Empty eyes, in which nothing remained but hunger. How they all hated the Undead in that second. The Undead and those who let the dead through to the Sunwell, the traitors of their people. But their turn would come later.
One of the Pathfinders, whose figure was hidden by a gray cloak and who held a pair of short blades in his hands, raised a hand, demanding a halt. The squad obeyed the order instantly. For a second, everyone froze, listening to the surroundings. The sounds of battle drifting from the south, the quiet crackle of a fire, the wind. And nothing more. Receiving a signal from another Pathfinder creeping along the roof, the squad moved on. It seems there's no one. The roar and screech of artillery aren't heard either, and that's excellent.
For the prince of the elves, Kael'thas Sunstrider, this entire situation was very unpleasant. Silvermoon had always been a masterpiece, the greatest creation of elven civilization. It was so before, but now... Death and rot had left jagged, poisoned wounds on its beautiful body. As if mocking their entire history, wishing to erase and distort it. And yet... they didn't succeed.
The Undead, the pieces of bodies and blood scattered across the streets, couldn't change that. The smells of burnt flesh and furniture didn't change it. The stench of necromancy. The white stone, stained glass, soaring galleries, and patterns are so aesthetic that they couldn't be defiled despite all the efforts of the dead. Kael'thas thought that one day the elves would destroy the stench, restore the city, and it would shine again, just as majestic and beautiful. Having passed the trials, becoming even better than before. It wasn't the first time elves suffered losses. And not the first time they tore their future from the hands of fate, building it anew. He had no doubt—it would be so again.
And yet the dead tried very hard. They tried to erase everything that was dear in life, to kill everyone they could reach. Elves here and there tried to hide, build barricades, flee. There was panic. From the level of destruction, one could reconstruct the picture of the tragedy. Many tragedies that resulted in a panicked flight from the city. Most of the traces of battle were at the gates; the Undead tried with all their might to prevent the escape, even blocking the gates. And this led to a slaughter of colossal proportions, multiple attempts to get out of the city by other paths. Or to hide, barricading themselves in their homes. With an inevitably sad finale, whether it was the dead or magical poisoning, it didn't matter.
The latter was even worse, for these elves partially retained a "living" appearance. Yes, their skin became gray, often with greenish spots, and even then not for everyone. The rest looked alive but were absolutely certainly dead. A separate story was the brothel workers luring people in. Dead brothel workers. Kael'thas simply burned them along with the establishment. Magister Umbric even joked that His Highness, upon returning from Dalaran, had decided to fight for morality. And though the joke was a bit crude, it helped to relax a little. Although Grand Magister Rommath was displeased.
"I do not understand how one can make merry in such a situation. This filth casts a shadow on us all. On all elves. It is our duty to mourn, accepting this heavy burden alongside His Highness."
Umbric nodded.
"It does. But we are alive, you must agree. And as long as we and our prince are alive, all this can be fixed. If one path does not work, why not try others?"
The prince himself separated them then.
"Enough. This argument will lead to nothing, except perhaps attracting even more Undead."
The disputants each kept their own opinion, but they became less noisy. And again, a signal from a Ranger, reporting danger.
"Air, one."
From above, a loud, mournful howl rang out, making the squad snap their heads up. It lasted only a second, then the gargoyle, having been hacked to pieces, crashed onto the street. It had clearly perched on a ledge, watching the street, and hadn't noticed the attack. The Rangers destroyed the creature almost instantly, striking at the wings. The creature turned to stone to avoid this but was knocked over and fell onto the cobblestones, shattering into pieces. It won't be getting up now.
And yet, it managed to raise the alarm. The squad silently spread out, expecting an attack from all sides. Everyone knows what to do; no one needs anything explained. The Undead also know they are here, so they have to act carefully; in the city streets, the Undead can overwhelm with numbers, especially if particularly strong dead arrive.
"From the alley. Get ready!"
From around the corner, exactly where they were told, a squad of the dead ran out. They were elves; their figures, pointed ears, and costumes gave them away. Dancers who had grown long claws and become Ghouls, ghosts, zombies. Kael'thas, noticing movement in the gallery to the right, sent a Fireball there with an effort of will. An explosion thundered, and pieces of burning flesh showered down. A couple more balls, for good measure. It would be especially convenient for dead archers to attack from above.
"Filth," someone nearby exhaled.
The prince agreed with the warrior but remained calm. As long as they attack like this, head-on, it's not difficult. Right now, all these dead, all this Scourge—are enemies. The dead should remain dead. And he would grant them peace. And when they finished, a new dawn would come for the elves. The fire of the phoenix would cleanse these lands of the grime.
"Fela!"
A magical seal unfurled beneath the feet of the Undead, and a pillar of flame struck, incinerating everything unliving, effectively blocking the street with a zone of absolute heat. The ignited dead howled, trying to beat out the flames, to escape, crowding and slowing each other down. But the warriors and mages didn't give them that chance, hacking into the formation of creatures that had formed a jam at the edge of the firestorm. The dead, abandoning their useless task, attacked just like that, while burning, with teeth and claws like animals. The mages had to act more carefully, but the gargoyles that landed on the roofs and began to roar left no one indifferent. And they served as convenient targets while the warriors dealt with the problem.
Nearby, the Ranger-General—the middle of the Windrunner sisters—attacked the dead with magical arrows. For a fraction of a second, Kael'thas watched the grace with which the elf, even in her closed leather uniform that emphasized her perfect figure, dealt with the dead. Graceful, shapely, dangerous. Flexible and strong, she could have been a wonderful wife if she weren't married to her work. Alas, there was no man yet who could become more important to her. No, of course, there are rumors about that disgusting Human, Nathanos Marris, but... the prince was almost certain they were just rumors.
Alas, there is no time for reflection on the battlefield, and the prince unleashed flame and his own dissatisfaction with that fact upon the Undead. The flame readily devours and cleanses the dead, leaving nothing that could pose a danger, only dust and ash. And yet, one should be careful so the fire doesn't trap allies as well. The building on the right, where the gallery was blown up, is already successfully burning. It would be bad if the flame spread elsewhere and blocked their movement. It's good that the mages are also trained in water spells.
The prince finished it all too. An Abomination that had broken through the wall of someone's house, swinging a huge cleaver, literally flared up and baked from the inside, after which it collapsed with a groan, impaling itself on its own weapon. The burning monster moved no more, but the nearest warrior still hacked at its head with a glaive, for good measure. Looking around, Kael'thas realized there were no more enemies left.
Subordinates who had sustained injuries drank antidotes themselves and awaited healing from their groups' Priests. And yet, not long ago, the Holy was largely an entertainment for the poor. But now it turned out to be one of the best weapons, illuminating the capital fallen into darkness and corruption.
"It seems that is all for now. Is everyone whole?"
Sylvanas nodded, pointing to the Priests. They worked silently, teeth clenched, trying not to look at what had happened to their brethren. Kael'thas understood but could do nothing. Now they could only grant them peace. Sylvanas remained calmer, but the prince saw that the general was also maintaining her composure with obvious effort. Except for Umbric, who was quite calm and self-assured.
"Nothing we cannot handle, Your Highness," the elf replied. "We need to move; the Undead will likely have reinforcements arriving soon. We have attracted enough attention."
An unpleasant truth; the prince was still not a master of stealthy movement and killing, preferring to bring down the heat of the phoenix and the power of the sun upon his enemies. Partly to show off his power, capturing the focus of attention. Now it was a hindrance.
"Of course, let's move out. We need to reach the Sunwell as quickly as possible."
And now there was a little time to think. Kael'thas remembered an interesting story he had heard from the Magisters during dinner. In their army's camp, persistent rumors were circulating about some elven genius building a weapon capable of destroying the Sunwell without a direct attack on it. Admittedly, the prince had been skeptical. The Undead had created a solid defense, and thanks to the distorted magic of the source, teleportation had become an extremely dangerous undertaking. That's why they had to approach along the surface, acting so riskily.
And yet, having thought a little more and made sure the Undead had left them alone for now, the prince asked his companion:
"Lady Sylvanas, do you believe the rumors about a weapon capable of destroying the Sunwell are true? I realize now is not the best time, but looking at the city, it's hard not to think about alternatives."
The general, who had been actively surveying the area all this time, cast a brief glance at the prince.
"I do not think they have enough power to destroy the Sunwell, Prince. That is why we are going there," and she turned away.
The prince was taken aback for a second. He had expected disdain, disbelief. But the general had effectively admitted that such a device was being built; it was just too weak to achieve the result. But that's such a small thing; they have many powerful mages who could sacrifice a little power to solve the problem!
"Are you serious? I haven't heard of such a thing. Why wasn't I informed? We must consider all options!"
And judging by the faces of those around him, the question interested many. Grand Magister Rommath snorted.
"Idle rumors, my prince. One should not turn to fairy tales at moments when we all need the power of magic. Do not misunderstand me, but we are talking about an elf with neither education, nor experience, nor a worthy patron who could provide all that. And refine this young talent. I am reasonably assessing the potential of this elf, nothing more. And I turn to more realistic options."
The elf looked at the Mage with no pleasure, but she replied to the jab at her:
"In the group of the Magimechanic building this device, there is a Ranger. As Ranger-General, I did not even have to try. Merely summon her officially and give an order. She is confident in her comrade's success."
Rommath did not hide his disdain.
"She is a child, Lady Sylvanas. However talented, she is just a child. Her presence in the camp was a folly from the start. She should have gone to Brinthlien for evacuation. I could agree with you in peacetime—assess and guide. But now, when the threat of destruction hangs over all elves, when our entire society, our entire way of life is under threat, we do not have the right to make mistakes!"
Magister Umbric laughed.
"It seems you are simply jealous, Grand Magister. My colleagues are also certain the project is worth it. Even if it challenges the foundations of our state. And the proper way of life, where everyone is in their place."
"Gentlemen mages, kindly shut up," Lady Sylvanas almost hissed. "We are still in hostile territory. But I also believe the girl should be given a chance. Her successes on the southern border are quite noticeable, and her inventions have their own fame. A promising child."
The prince was shocked. A young elf—that meant she was less than a hundred years old. And a child would build such a weapon, capable of bypassing all their problems with the Undead? How? This is no joke; the general wouldn't joke in such a situation. But how? How is that? The prince felt a pang of curiosity, the kind that often overtook him in Dalaran when he saw talented Human mages. For example—Lady Jaina Proudmoore, who studied under Archmage Antonidas quickly, very quickly indeed.
"Lady Sylvanas, if you believe so, I will be glad to receive information about this when we are finished. The crisis that has befallen us will require all available capabilities. If she is truly as good as you say."
The general gave a short nod, continuing to monitor the territory.
"I will do so, my prince," no one argued with that.
And the information would be provided, and if Kael'thas wished, they would even bring her in person. Likely, there would be those who would also spread a rumor: "better a young elf than a Human woman." However, no one voiced such a stupidity aloud. Lor'themar Theron asked the question that was on the prince's own tongue.
"But why did no one tell us? And what does this weapon have to do with the southern border? There's nothing there except Goblins and their camp. If she is so good, perhaps we could refine her idea ourselves."
Sylvanas snorted. She froze, listening, but after a couple of seconds she thawed, relaxing. And the others followed suit.
"She is twenty-four, gentlemen mages. Who would even listen to her? I know for a fact that if it weren't for her teacher, a Magister, she would have been looking for resources for years. And as for the southern border... she invented a machine that converts necro-energy into pure Mana, supplying the guard with it. A more than worthy claim for herself," the next sentence was dropped with obvious disdain, "alas, the inhabitants of the capital would have seen her at best as a young, beautiful dancer pleasing their eyes or a creator of amusing mechanical toys for their entertainment. But not as an equal offering a working solution. Without influential patrons or parents."
Nothing more needed to be said. Age had always been a serious obstacle, as had social status. Without a patron, no one would have even listened to her. And with one, all the glory would still have gone to the elder. After all, what can a child do? It's all the merit of the mentor and only him. On the other hand, Sylvanas had assigned a Ranger to the girl? That sounds like a claim of patronage. Expressed among a more than serious company, in the presence of Kael'thas. Curious.
At that moment, they passed through another arch and found themselves in the port. Here, the traces of slaughter were much, much greater. What could burn had burned. What hadn't burned was destroyed by artillery. The smell of char, burnt flesh, smoke, and death literally hit the nose. And on the horizon, the Scourge's Necropolises were visible. Pyramids of dark stone, heavy and threatening. And the sky was overcast with gray, leaden clouds.
"Good, we are almost there," the prince said. "Get ready; as soon as we are on the other side, there will be no time to warm up. We will engage in battle immediately."
Everyone nodded, checking their gear. The prince surveyed everything with magical sight. It was exactly ahead that the largest, most disgusting concentration of darkness lay. Filth.
Unexpectedly, Sylvanas Windrunner was nearby, also peering tensely at the horizon.
"Something is happening. I feel it."
"What?"
No one had time to finish. What followed took less than a second. A bright white dot pierced the clouds, punching a rapidly expanding hole in them, scattering the clouds with great force, opening the sky to the sunlight that fell upon the island for the first time in these days. The white dot struck exactly the building constructed over their source.
And then an explosion rang out. Magic shuddered, and Kael'thas, experiencing almost physical terror, used Teleport on raw reflexes, snatching everyone around him, driven by a sense of power, a sense of colossal pressure.
They were thrown straight into the elven camp. Every single one of them. And then the cataclysm reached them too. The ground trembled slightly, the wind struck with a howl, and screams rang out all around.
"Look! What is that?"
"A wave, save yourselves!"
"A portal! Hurry!"
A violet wave of energy, shaking heaven and earth, crushed Silvermoon, evaporating the clouds. The power simply went beyond the bounds of anything the prince had ever seen in his life. And not just him; many elves in the camp stared at the cataclysm in shock. The wave itself didn't reach them, but they could see how, as it faded, it crushed the towers of Silvermoon.
"What was that?" he whispered in shock.
From the side came laughter. Turning around, the prince saw Magister Umbric laughing, stroking his goatee.
"Children grow up so fast. So small, and so destructive. Amazing!"
It didn't hit the shocked elf immediately, though quickly enough.
"You think she did this?"
Lor'themar Theron answered.
"It is the best of our versions. Personally, I know of no other options."
"This is not the end," Rommath suddenly said. "Look, there, beyond the city! Energy is accumulating! There will be a second explosion! The Sunwell is still active and unstable; the trail is intensifying! We must leave!"
The prince peered in, applying magical sight again. And indeed, the pillar of energy where the Sunwell should have been was thickening, throwing up waves of energy. If the Sunwell wasn't destroyed, it was certainly destabilized.
"Evacuation! Everyone—urgent evacuation! Drop everything, mass teleports! We are leaving for the backup sites! Brinthlien! Port Alah'Thalas! Faster!"
That was a safe and large port, protected by mountains, on the border with Lordaeron. And there, if he remembered correctly, help from Stormwind and Dalaran had recently arrived. It was precisely because of the cliffs that it had been recognized as a safe point for retreat. And there's a large port there, which is also very useful. Of course, it will be crowded; very many survived.
But it is precisely when everyone is safe that current issues can be discussed. That young talent who managed to destroy the Well must be brought under control. In the very next few hours, rumors of what happened will spread, and they will be the wildest ones.
And the second important task is to decide what to do next. If the Well has indeed been destroyed, the people of Quel'Thalas will face a multitude of problems: where to get the magic necessary for life, where to live now, and how? The prince himself plans to head to Dalaran; the local mages might help solve the problem. But besides him, there are plenty of other influential elves. And now, each of them can and will have their own position.
If the cataclysm is truly over, the question of "who is to blame and what to do about it" will become key. Politics—how tedious.
***
Kel'Thuzad.
The Lich was digging himself out with a mix of irritation and delight, shaking off the debris of the building under which he had been buried after the explosion. What power! What destruction! And what a senseless waste of resources. He wondered who had done all this. He probed the space around him with magic but found no one extra.
Strange and incomprehensible. No enemies in sight, and an explosion of such force would have killed them too. The Lich felt the acolytes, the living servants of the Cult of the Damned, dying around him. Death energy scorched their bodies and ripped the souls from their forms. Many of them rose, but without the Master's weaving, they turned out to be mere beasts. The dead handled the situation better, but the explosion was of such magnitude that even they suffered.
And yet, where was the enemy? Enemies... as expected, no enemies or living beings at all could be sensed nearby. Only a few strong and nearly stable sources of magic. Considering exactly who was in the building or near it at the moment of impact, that arrogant elf had survived too. Regrettable. On the other hand, the Death Knight had survived as well, which was useful.
Separately, the Lich noted the Sunwell, blazing with magic and spewing energy. Blazing figuratively; even amidst the destruction and boiling energy, it felt like a cursed sun erupting with power. A very bright, dangerous, searing sun that scorched everything around it, singeing even the Lich's bones and wounding him. And with every passing moment, this power was mounting! He had to hurry; this was not the end yet!
Digging himself out proved not so easy; the building's collapse during the explosion had buried his skeleton under a mass of rubble and stone boulders. The Lich noted with grim humor that his dead body was aching, and he had literally laid down his bones, pinned by stone slabs. Every little bone had suffered in one way or another, not to mention those that had crumbled to dust. He needed to crunch his bones, stretch every little bone, and check them.
Either way, jokes aside. He had to hurry; judging by the Well's activity, both the Lich himself and the Master watching through his eyes assumed that another wave of chaotic death energy would soon occur. This could not be allowed; the troops, equipment, and structures simply would not survive such abuse. Even after the first strike, the losses among their forces had been quite unpleasant. If they lost as many again, the plan might be jeopardized, and they would have to move to the backup plan of the backup plan! Unacceptable!
Urged by the Master's will, the Lich began to dig more diligently, aiding himself with spells and magical ice. A stone slab shifted with a crunch, crushing one of the tusks of his new body. Unpleasant, but unimportant now.
Of course, the collapse, should it happen, would not kill the Archlich; the phylactery was not here, hidden outside the blast zone. But the necessity of extracting stone fragments from himself, breaking out of a trap using poorly responding magic—there was little pleasure in it. The Lich felt no pain, but emotions, especially negative ones, were very much available to him.
He had almost dug himself out when he heard voices. Familiar ones.
"What barbarism! We must find the one who committed such an act and show them the full extent of their error! Perhaps we should resurrect the naive fool and entomb them in a statue! Let them watch for an eternity, marveling and drawing conclusions about the wisdom endowed upon the Master! About all those masterpieces they rejected with this disgusting deed! But first, they shall know suffering. All the suffering I can devise while we hunt this scoundrel!"
Dar'Khan was indeed alive, and judging by his voice, he was feeling quite alright. In response, Muradin's grumbling and slightly jarring voice rang out:
"You're suggesting making him a part of this greatness. Kel'Thuzad, I see you're still in there. Get out, there's work to do."
The Lich almost ground his teeth and crunched his bones—these fools didn't see the problem! He began to dig much more actively. Suddenly, he was helped. Multi-ton boulders glowed with the greenish fire of necrotic transmutation, allowing the Lich to levitate. It seemed Dar'Khan had applied the power of the Well, beginning construction and transmuting the stone. The Dwarf, meanwhile, approached, inspecting the Lich's body with visible skepticism.
"Look at how you've been squashed," Muradin remarked, "yes, it was quite a blast. I wonder who was so clever and how they managed to bypass all our lines of defense. Dar'Khan! You said teleportation here was impossible!"
"Don't talk nonsense, Muradin," the dead elf replied with genuine indignation, "I answer for my work; our enemies only reached the port, I am certain. And now they are either dead or have fled. It wasn't them. Alas, I would have liked to see the faces of those upstarts when they beheld my masterpiece. Vandals!"
Kel'Thuzad only cursed at this tirade. Why were they being so slow?
"There is no time! We must stabilize the flow! Another energy discharge is about to happen."
The elven mage, in a robe gray with dust and grit that made it match the color of a dead man's face, continued to stand before the Well, hands raised. The magic around was tense; he was clearly trying to fight the chaos of energy. He was doing reasonably well, though not fast enough. There was clearly something inside the Well, and that something was hindering their work. It seemed the parasite who did this had tossed something inside. And they didn't have time to extract "it" safely. Truth be told, at that moment, the Lich even admired the enemy's audacity and malice. He looked at the source once more, shuddering from the waves of chaotic energy striving to dissipate him as well.
This was no longer a Well; it was a madly spinning, boiling vortex of colossal pure power, occupying the entire hall and sparking with bolts of Arcane and necro-energy. Definitely, something had been added to the Well to destabilize it, and it was clearly an artifact of Holy. The Lich looked around.
The building around had been turned into grit, scattered from the epicenter. Precious moldings, expensive statues depicting dancing and whimsically curving elven women—destroyed and ground up, scattered around in pieces in total disarray. And similar destruction had covered the entire island as far as the eye could see. He did not feel Sapphiron, one of their trump cards against invaders. It seemed the explosion had finally laid the lizard to rest. The invaders were still nowhere to be seen. Likely, they had a mage who managed to bypass the island's blockade and save everyone. Or they, like the acolytes, perished in the explosion. The latter was sad, as it meant revenge was simply impossible. He had to make an effort to push aside the sting of powerful magic and concentrate on the task.
Of the three Necropolises that previously hung over the island, only Naxxramas, tilted at about fifteen degrees and sparking with huge purple lightning, continued to hang. The other two were overturned, destroyed, and judging by the sensations, unlife remained in few of their inhabitants.
Naxxramas, however, was relatively functional. But it wouldn't survive a second wave, nor would many of the still-functioning Scourge soldiers. They had to hurry; controlling the Well would be impossible anyway; all of Dar'Khan's actions were doomed to failure!
"This energy cannot be controlled, elf," the Lich rasped, "we must change tactics."
The elven mage, who had been quietly whispering spells amidst the magic circles surrounding the Well, cast his eyes upward at the energy trail stretching into the sky and spoke so all could hear:
"Oh, Master, why must I work with such amateurs?" he said, stunned. "I have far more experience working with the Well than you, than all your lives combined, mage! And I already know the Master's plan! Connect, we need to move the troops as soon as possible! I know what to do; we will have enough control if you submit to my wisdom."
The Lich silently complied with the demand, continuing to think while helping the Dwarf seize control over the Scourge troops. Most had survived the explosion. Yes, few on the island survived, but the dense and quite sturdy construction of the High Elf capital had dampened the energy, and legions of Undead could be felt beneath the rubble. They could still be saved and used in the Master's plans.
How to move them? The Master had thought of that too. Corrupting a magic source of this level is not a quick process. Even without a guardian, magic resists distortion. Years would have passed before not a drop of Arcane magic remained in the source. And Arcane means mass teleportation. They needed to catch the troops, direct the power of the Well toward them, and when the energy began to spill out—turn the Mana into a spell effect.
"Where do you wish to move?" the mage clarified. "We must set an exit point! And hurry, the Well is like a headstrong, hot woman; it does not wish to wait!"
Well, Kel'Thuzad didn't think long on that account. Partly because the will of their Master and his jailers was clear. The Lich King's plan must be carried out.
"Dalaran. It is the intersection of ley lines. The Master wishes for us to go exactly there."
Muradin nodded.
"No mages can handle our army. Well, it's only right; who else could have made such a bomb if not those Biotics users! Without them, the task will become easier. The elves are knocked out; we'll knock out the Human mages. To Dalaran! Especially since there's a communication point with demons nearby; we need to go there too."
Admittedly, when the Lich connected to the spell weaving, he experienced something that could be called fear. A churning ocean of mighty magic, to which the Lich previously had no access. And now this cauldron was ready to explode, incinerating everything around, and Kel'Thuzad was not just in the blast zone—he was standing literally next to the epicenter of the future explosion.
And yet, such was the Master's order. And he knew exactly what he was doing. In the first seconds, the storm nearly broke free, madly Attacking and disrupting the spell structure at many points simultaneously. Which the elf immediately noticed.
"If you are incapable of performing your job well, 'colleague,'" Dar'Khan snapped, clearly seeing the energy fluctuations, "better not interfere. Time is limited!"
This, as well as the Lich King's attention, forced the Lich to cast aside doubts and begin stabilizing the magic seals more actively. They didn't need this whole ocean to be unable to break free; they needed the discharge to occur in a controlled manner. So that part of the energy went exactly where they needed it.
Muradin remained standing nearby. Alas, the Dwarf as a mage wasn't fit to hold a candle to either of them. They had to work themselves.
The energy continued to accumulate, humming with a magical storm. The trail of magic turned into a necrotic torch reaching the heavens, but the magic poured out by the unstable Well still performed its task—he managed to sense all the surviving dead in the elven capital and another part—south of the city, beyond the camp. More than enough to crush those Dalaran upstarts! And his power was enough to reach out to all of them, to each one. And even to the five surviving acolytes, which was quite good.
"It begins..." the Master's voice whispered in their minds.
A moment later, the ocean compressed and straightened, spewing energy. Kel'Thuzad felt the wave of necro-energy strike the seals, heading upward. But the Arcane continued its movement, absorbed by the formation they created. His skeleton was scorched; the amount of energy was so great that the purple storm broke even through their Defense. But it didn't matter; they had to succeed! Such was the will of Ner'zhul!
And then the seal filled, and both mages lowered their hands on command, beginning the mass teleportation. The world was flooded with white light; disorientation followed. But a second later, it passed. The world regained its integrity, and it was full of magic. Quiet, calm magic. Looking down, the Lich saw not stone grit and debris, but rapidly withering green grass. The terrifying pressure was no more. They had survived; they had succeeded. Just as the Master predicted.
"Hm. Looks like we'll get to fight soon," Muradin remarked mockingly, looking ahead.
Following the Dwarf's gaze, the Lich saw walls and tall, pointed towers. Dalaran. And several carts with peasants who were transporting some goods along the road, and now, stunned and paralyzed with fear, were staring at the army of dead that had appeared right next to them. A huge army; the Lich felt them all. Ghouls, Abominations, Zombies, Ghosts, Banshees, Death Knights, wights, spirits, machines, and servants. And he felt the terror of the peasants, unable to even move.
"An impressive sight?" he inquired of the nearest peasant, a fat Human man.
The man snapped out of it and, along with his family, screamed in sync. Wincing internally, the Lich struck with a frost star. Crystalline spikes growing from the ground shattered the wagons, tore apart and scattered the screamers, staining themselves with blood. The bodies were damaged, but a few fools were a small price for silence and peace. Their own fault.
"A good thought, colleague. They were excessively noisy," the elf announced to the air with a haughty smile, looking at Dalaran. "I presume this wretchedness is our next target?"
"Exactly," Muradin laughed maliciously, "deploy the base, whoever can! Lich, elf, get to building. The fanatics turned out to be a bit flimsy, dying off too quickly. The sooner we start, the sooner the fight!"
Soon Dalaran was ablaze. A separate army headed south, toward the Orcs. That was where the portal remained, through which they could contact the demons. And replenish the ranks of the Undead, of course.
***
The vortex of the Sunwell, a day later.
Chronormu flew over the elven lands alongside the consort of the Red Dragonflight, Korialstrasz. They flew in silence, surveying the destruction below. Ash, dust, and curses covering the elven lands. A sad sight even for her, let alone for the dragon of Life.
Chromie didn't even try to speak with the irritated old Red Dragon. The husband of the Life Aspect, Alexstrasza, had excellent self-control, but the sight of the kingdom of death beneath them sincerely saddened him. Chronormu knew this, partly from probable time streams in which she had tried to talk about it. Just as she knew that excessive curiosity would only spoil the moment. So the dragoness tactfully remained silent, simply fulfilling the role of escort for her senior. The dragon masquerading as a mage had departed north when he felt the monstrous fluctuations of dark energy. Chronormu decided that peeking was impolite and made contact herself.
Chromie herself took what happened to the elven lands with extreme calm. Ultimately, the power of her flight, the authority over time, allowed her to see everything in perspective. Yes, as a result of the explosion, the land was poisoned, and three-quarters of the High Elf population had perished. From hordes of Undead, from magical poisoning, having no constant access to replenishing magic from other sources.
But the alternative was ninety percent killed! This was much better, including in the future, in the dynamics! Many survived; they would scatter across the world, carrying knowledge and order! Moreover, the future would become more stable, losses in perspective—smaller! And all this without direct interference, without breaking orders. Just the right elf with a lever was able to turn the world. Or rather, an elven woman. This was a victory, however you looked at it.
But how to explain this to those who don't see such things? Who look at the world in the moment, without turning to the power of time, to probabilities and perspectives? This had always been the cause of misunderstanding with other flights. Yes, the Aspects didn't need such things explained; they knew and understood it all. But other members of the flights might say nothing, yet the Bronze ones know. They always know.
What happened to the Sunwell stirred them all. The Red, the Blue Dragonflight, and the Bronze one too. For different reasons. The Blue ones remembered Malygos, the mad aspect who tried to take magic away from mortals, which they supposedly didn't know how to use and would surely cause terrible cataclysms. And you can't explain that the current result is better than the alternative. Moreover, Malygos's followers would raise their heads too. She already saw several skirmishes between the Blue ones and mortals, including her charge. Let her vent; they would go into battle themselves.
The Red Dragonflight, hm. Korialstrasz's irritation was felt almost physically. And Chronormu could say why with minimal mental effort. The consort of the Life Aspect was repulsed by the necro-energy that poisoned this land. And the stupidity of mortals who succumbed to darkness and chaos, arranging all this. Perhaps... it wasn't worth mentioning that the culprit of the explosion was effectively her protégé. He would misunderstand, want to find and punish her, just in case. And Chromie didn't want such an outcome, for she had done everything quite well. Why don't they want to understand? She could have gotten an answer, but she didn't. Some things are better left unknown.
To distract herself, Chronormu looked down at the ruined and darkness-stricken elven lands. Four waves of energy. The third and fourth had effectively ground the island to dust, partially submerged and completely destroyed the elven capital, and turned the surrounding territories into a burial ground full of restless spirits. Gray, dead land, where all colors seemed muted, replaced by grayer analogs. Elven buildings, light, soaring, even beautiful, had faded, become dusty, lost their luster.
Beautiful statues were partially broken, weathered, crumbled, as if the darkness of ages had fallen upon them, even though Chronormu knew for a fact—it hadn't. And yet, the influence of dark energy was hard to deny.
Korialstrasz slightly changed course, spreading his mighty wings to glide down toward what remained of the island where the Sunwell had been just a day ago. Now, most of the island was a flooded crater from the explosion, lit by magical flashes. The Well was destroyed, but there was still plenty of energy here. Chronormu followed her senior, looking around.
Despite the explosion, despite the destruction of the Well, magical energy was spilled around in more than abundance. For Chromie, what would happen next was no secret. Just like the words that would be spoken. But she simply waited for them to be uttered, for that was the right way. And also, it annoyed many when a Bronze one knew exactly what you were going to say before you did. Keeping silent was useful for respect and relationships.
Two dragons—a truly enormous Red one and a much more modest Bronze one—sat on the edge of the crater, where they were supposed to. They sat, they were silent, they looked around. Korialstrasz spoke:
"All this, all this darkness. Kel'Thuzad did a fine job desecrating these lands for his new master. In moments like these, our mad brother Malygos comes to mind. But can he truly be considered mad, or did he see all this? Saw it, and simply could not accept it?"
Chronormu politely remained silent. No one had asked her anything. Some things Korialstrasz, being one of the members of the Council of Dalaran, took far too personally. Of course, the dragon didn't advertise his status as a mage, but those who needed to know, knew. Kel'Thuzad had been a mage of the Kirin Tor, the organization of Dalaran mages which the dragon headed as one of the city's six leaders.
And the fact that one of the pupils had effectively betrayed life itself was taken by the dragon as an insult. One of the reasons for the mages' extremely harsh response to Scholomance. He had seen to it that that filth burned without a trace.
The subject of contemplation himself inhaled the magic noisily.
"It seems life has left this place... not entirely. Right, Chronormu? It is still possible, if not to fix it, then to take the first step. Life will always find a way, and yet death's path must be closed. Death always arrives on time, and now is not that time."
The dragoness nodded with respect, bowing her head.
"Of course, Lord Consort. The desecration was not complete; the power of death is supported partly by dissolved Arcane. Mortals," she pointed a claw into the depths of the crater, "used an artifact to slow the contamination. Alas, it was destroyed by the explosion. And yet, its Holy energy slowed the process somewhat."
The Red Dragon looked around once more, now with interest, clearly assessing the scope of work.
"There is much energy here. Perhaps it shouldn't be left for the dead. And yet... if mortals are so reckless in their stupidity that they throw around such power, they will have to earn their liberation. So be it."
Chromie didn't argue; there was no point anyway. Besides, she knew exactly how this would turn out. And this finale suited the Bronze Dragonflight quite well. Korialstrasz, meanwhile, choosing the flattest area, turned to his power, surrounded by magic. Life will always find a way.
From all sides, trickles of energy flowed toward the dragon. Not just pure Arcane but also the surviving, still pure waters of the Well that had escaped dissolution. The dragon was not in a hurry, carefully gathering the power drop by drop. Chronormu didn't even think of interfering, turning to probabilities. No, technically her body was still at this point in space-time, but simultaneously, it wasn't.
She needed to find out in advance exactly what her charge was going to arrange and whether intervention was required. The Infinite Dragonflight had tangled the cards quite a bit in Karazhan, and no one wanted a repeat of that. The plan was to knock her out of the time in which she could react, and let her flounder in her ignorance. But the Infinite flight intervened, and we have what we have.
How difficult it can be with mortals who know too much! Predicting the reaction to her actions becomes much harder; she has to spend more attempts in the stream of probabilities looking for the right scenario. One that would preserve the Key Sequence of Events, while not allowing interference, and would let the girl make her own decisions.
Of course, she wasn't just watching her; simply, to be honest, this anomaly genuinely fascinated the dragoness. Accustomed to stability and predictability, Chromie sought self-expression in a certain flamboyance, a chaos trying to reshape order in its favor.
Considering this, Nozdormu's decision, their Aspect, to entrust the anomaly to her was logical. Chromie received a challenge that tried to break all sequences, write its own timeline, create not chaos, but a different order, and this needed to be watched. It was unexpected, unusual. And very interesting! So fascinating! Mortals could be so interesting.
Another problem and point of divergence—the elves. Far more of them survived. Far more of their leaders survived. And now they would start deciding where to go. For all their leaders would gather together and hold debates. And then there were the Night Elves, Nordrassil, and the elves of Theramore. And all of them, thanks to the greater number of survivors, would be more active.
At least here the charge wasn't going to change the scenario. The Night Elves would lose their eternity. That was another key point; she would have had to intervene.
And then there was Lordaeron and the events within it...
Suddenly, Chromie found a very fascinating sequence. What if she brought her charge together with someone who would balance her? No, she would remain a generator of chaos, but differently! And it would be very interesting, and again within the rules!
Chronormu found a certain Night Elf Druid. Effectively a voluntary exile who fled his native forests to avoid falling into hibernation as the Green Dragonflight required. One who studied the world and its peoples, a possessor of a very flexible but firm mind. Very old and experienced, he had been wandering Kalimdor for ten thousand years. If she tossed him traces of the demons' return... It would be exactly what was needed! Changes to the world, but far more meaningful, and all of it—within the rules; she had broken nothing, that was for sure.
Chronormu flowed along the necessary sequence, the timeline. Straight into the deserts of the Silithid, into their ancient stone temples. One of which her target would be studying. Exactly what was needed. The appearing Gnome giggled, ignoring the total darkness, and extracted a hammer and chisel from nothing.
"Well, let's see. We need an ancient prophecy so he'll definitely notice."
The work took many hours, but Chromie didn't lose heart, humming a cheerful song. The Aspect had allowed it, agreeing that chaos needed to be balanced with order, so the prank sincerely amused the dragoness. Many hours later, she lowered the chisel, scuffed her foot to rub away the stone grit, and critically surveyed her work.
"Exactly what's needed!"
Time flowed rapidly forward. Days turned into nights; the abandoned temple was covered in sand, and then it was blown somewhere else. Until five years ago, a Druid wandered into it. Or rather, he looked like a huge black panther covered in complex patterns and glowing symbols.
The cat was completely unconcerned about the gloom, seeing perfectly in the dark, inspecting every wall, every drawing. Until he saw Chromie's creation, slightly crumbled over the millennia but perfectly readable.
A short pulse, and in place of the cat stood a tall Night Elf Druid. In a blue robe bleached to a light azure, green fingerless gloves and boots, with wooden spaulders overgrown with branches, and a staff, he approached the wall, peering at the images.
"Hall of the Prophecies of the End. Hm. Just as I thought."
The elf inspected the first drawing.
"This is... icy wastes. A huge crystal, and inside it—armor."
The elf ran his hand under the drawing, inspecting the next.
"Lands of the elven mages. This is... an explosion?"
The second drawing depicted Silvermoon being destroyed by the explosion of the Well. And a huge drawing of a skull, for clarity.
"Ships arriving at new shores. This is Kalimdor, in the north, by the Barrens. And who are you?"
Against the background of many ships, figures were depicted, but only a few stood out. A sorceress, judging by the staff, and her protégés in strange helmets with T-shaped visors. A warrior with a large shield, an archer, and the possessor of the gauntlets seemed to be looking into the distance, at the mountain ahead.
"Burning Nordrassil..."
The last sight was the most detailed and recognizable. The burning World Tree on the mountain peak, amidst the forest. Archimonde the Defiler striding toward it.
The dragoness left the elf. He would need time to check the walls, gather information, and think over what he had found. But he would be there, at the right time and in the right place. Excellent, now everything would go as it should!
Chromie returned to see that Korialstrasz had finished too, very pleased with herself.
Before the CAS, a girl was forming from pure energy. Anveena. The secret that would allow the elves to restore the Well in the future. And find other paths for life. In the Fel, the void, in vampiric gauntlets. The elves would seek solutions and find them. It would be very curious! Nozdormu approved of her decision. If fate gifts you a very cheeky generator of Chaos, let them do something useful. Protect the world. In good company, because there's no point in doing foolish things and then having her, Chromie, clean it all up.
***
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