CHAPTER 3

Gul'dan leaned on his staff, eyeing the portal. Something was wrong. None of the tethers were returning to his staff. He looked around the dimly-lit cavernous space, searching for discrepancies. Nothing had changed in his ritual. All was as it should be. Within the thick black stone walls of the Chamber of the Eye, deep within the Tomb of Sargeras, the sacrifices continued, feeding the portal and Gul'dan's staff.

He looked over the fel-runed circle, glowing with lurid yellow-green light. Set in the centre of the Chamber, the newest group of Nightborne rebels—gathered and delivered by Suramar's Grand Magistrix Elisande—huddled together, frightened. He had long since tuned out their cries for mercy, the bribes, the offers of service. They had only one use, their souls would bring him Illidan's. He waited while three Eredar ripped two more souls free, and fed them into the portal. It flickered as the disembodied souls merged with it, sending shafts of dark green streaking across its inky, viscous surface. Gul'dan stroked his beard, narrowing his eyes as two more souls succumbed to the siphoning spells of the Eredar, the victims collapsing, shrunken, lifeless husks.

He scoffed at the cries of terror coming from those still awaiting their fate. How disposable they were. He rather enjoyed this use of his time, he had begun to fancy that with each miserable death, he cleansed Azeroth of a little more of its trash. He held up his staff, catching the souls of two more unwilling victims. He glared at the portal, waiting. Still nothing. He had sent at least three dozen tethers through. He wasn't in the mood to lose any more. Perhaps he had become greedy, by forcing larger and larger tethers into the Nether. In his haste to please his Master, he wondered if he had asked the portal to give him more than it could. He shrugged, seeking to ease the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. He had been casting for days now, without sleep or nourishment. Illidan was proving to be stubborn. The polished skulls around Gul'dan's neck rattled as he lowered his shoulders, their clatter soft, familiar, reassuring. He murmured a spell, and the pain disappeared.

He paced before the portal, rubbing his fingers against his jaw, thoughtful. He could increase the amount of sacrifices. No. He had done his calculations carefully. He had already overcompensated by a wide margin. If he were to use more souls, he would have to create a bigger portal. He grunted, dissatisfied. No time for that. He reached out and touched the portal, seeking. Ah, there was something unexpected. The tethers were not lost. They were gone, as though they never existed. Hmmm. He pulled his hand away. That left one possibility, as improbable as it seemed.

Something from within the Nether was consuming his tethers. He glanced at the body—half-demon, half night elf—hanging suspended beside the portal, tethers of fel energy pulsating around him, feeding the corrupted pieces of Illidan's soul back into it, piece by precious piece.

Gul'dan chuckled, he liked games, especially those he knew he was destined to win. He prodded the body with his staff, watching with satisfaction as it stirred. It roused from its slumber, neither living nor dead. The thing's eyes opened, malevolent. It glared at Gul'dan, filled with hate.

"So Illidan, it seems you are not as helpless as you have led me to believe."

A hiss of indrawn air, followed by a deep voice, resonating with ancient power. It filled the Chamber, echoing from the walls. "Never touch my avatar again."

Gul'dan gaped, incredulous. It couldn't be. He was only half finished with the transfer. From the edge of his vision, he caught the Eredar breaking off from their spellcasting. They sank to their knees, their heads bowed, reverent. Gul'dan hunched down onto his good knee, keeping his gaze fixed on the smooth flagged floor beneath the hem of his robe. "Master?"

The fel runes surrounding the portal and on the floor glowed brighter, resonating to the voice of Sargeras. "You are failing me, Gul'dan."

Gul'dan shifted, uneasy. A setback, nothing more, and he had it in hand. He glanced up, the hybrid writhed in its bonds. Fascinated, he watched the struggle between Illidan's body and his tainted, stolen soul, attuned for Sargeras. "The tethers do not return. I believe Illidan is somehow preventing them from—"

A laugh, harsh, scathing. "Fool. Illidan does nothing."

Gul'dan felt his grip tighten on his staff. He was no fool, Sargeras needed him. He should remember that. Still, Gul'dan's uncertainty of what sort of destruction the hybrid could unleash made him choose his next words with care, "My Lord, I beg you, tell me what I must do, and it shall be done."

Illidan's face twisted, fighting to hold back Sargeras's words. "Bring . . .the woman . . . here."

Gul'dan lifted an eyebrow, puzzled. What did this have to do with the missing tethers? Sargeras seemed to be waiting for him to respond. Gul'dan cleared his throat, and hazarded a guess. "Elisande?"

A sneer, followed by another struggle as Illidan tried and failed to prevent Sargeras from speaking. "Not that pretentious, ridiculous creature. No, you will bring me . . . Tyrande. Put her here . . . beside him, where I can see her."

Tyrande? Why? She was not part of their plan. Gul'dan suppressed his irritation, he didn't like having to change directions, especially when he was so close to finishing this task. "That might take some time. Shall I focus my energy on your avatar first, and then find the woman?"

The fel runes burst into flames, filling the Chamber with pillars of green fire. "You will never free me until you find her," Sargeras roared, his eyes blazing.

Gul'dan crouched lower, waiting for the flames to die down. So Tyrande must be the reason the tethers were going missing. But how?

A scream. Illidan strained against the tethers, fighting the words he was being forced to utter. "Find . . . her body, and bring her here. She is . . . in the Nether, channelling another, using their power to fight you, and heal Illidan."

Tyrande had gone into the Nether to protect Illidan? Gul'dan was impressed, he hadn't expected that. Sargeras said she was channelling another. He searched his mind. It would take the power of a god for her to enter the Void and still live. If it was Tyrande who had gone, there could only be one candidate. He glanced up, sharp, hoping against hope he was right.

"She is using Elune's Light to stop the tethers."

The hybrid smiled, twisted, triumphant. "Bring her body here, and use the tethers on both of them. Let her fight you, and drain Elune's Light. When she is weak enough, we will trap the Goddess inside her avatar." It chuckled, Illidan's face contorted, grotesque. "A worthy consort."

Illidan's body sagged, lifeless once more. Gul'dan tapped his fingers against his staff, considering what he must do. His knee began to ache. He wasn't used to kneeling. He rose, stiff, and gestured to the Eredar to cease in their labours. He waited until the prisoners were taken away before channelling into air.

"Show me where to find the woman, Tyrande."

His vision drifted over Azeroth, searching; seeking the tell-tale signs of Tyrande's signature imprint. Her power was so strong, even unconscious, she would be easy to detect. He felt a tendril tugging at him north of Orgrimmar. They had laid her body in Nordrassil? His lip curled with distaste. How provincial. He sped up the sheer walls of Mount Hyjal, anticipating finding her within one of the barrow dens. He searched them all, his irritation growing as her imprint ebbed and faded. Nothing. Hmmm. There, another tug. Further north still. He laughed. Of course. Why hadn't he thought to look there first?

He sailed down the side of Mount Hyjal, skimming over the trees of Winterspring. Another range of mountains, he slipped over them, her pull growing stronger. He knew it, they had placed her in the sacred barrow den of Moonglade, the very one used by Malfurion. He scoffed, derisive. How romantic.

He sped into the den, delving deep into its depths, following its twisting paths. He arrived at an empty den, and a dead end. He cursed and turned back. Her imprint saturated the place, he would have to find her the hard way.

He pressed on, determined, suppressing his impatience and deepening aggravation. Four times more he found himself deceived by the twisting tunnels. He raced back to the center and rotated in a slow circle. He had followed all of the branches, and each of the branches breaking away from those.

He stopped, and narrowed his eyes. A rock lay at an odd angle against the otherwise smooth surface of the barrow's curving walls. He moved closer, inspecting it. The shadows deepened, he pushed into them, blind, expecting to hit a wall. He didn't. He kept going. His brow lifted. A hidden path, clever, but not clever enough. He followed the steep descent, the tunnel burrowing deep beneath the mountains above.

He licked his lips, filled with anticipation. Her imprint called to him, his senses tingled with it. He was so close. He relished the thought of what was to come. To think he would not only provide his master with an avatar, but he would also create for him a consort, by capturing the goddess Elune herself. In his wildest dreams he had never expected his power to reach such heights. He had come far from his humble beginnings. Very far.

The path curved back onto itself, ending at a door, glowing with runes. He drifted through it, into a small den, luxuriously furnished. Rugs in rich purple and gold covered the earthen floor. Sconces held glowing wisps of blue light, and a small, smokeless fire burned in a little brazier set near the bed, filling the little chamber with warmth. How charming. Night elves certainly were fond of their little comforts.

He moved closer to the bed, Tyrande lay completely still. To look at her, she appeared dead. As lifeless as Illidan was when he took him from the Vault of the Wardens. He looked around, considering. There was no one around. He could materialise beside her, conjure a portal and bring her back before anyone was the wiser. He began to utter the incantation to begin his teleportation when the door opened with a soft creak. Startled, he waved his hand, and retreated back to his state of observation.

Malfurion entered, followed by two female attendants carrying towels over their arms, trays containing two bowls, and a variety of pretty stoppered vials. Gul'dan hissed, frustrated. Now he had found Tyrande, he wanted to get this errand over with so he could return to his original task. But, a part of him reminded him, it would be better to be patient. If he could take her without anyone knowing who had her, his advantage would be enormous. The two attendants knelt beside Tyrande. One began to undress her, while the other mixed the contents of the vials together in a bowl, preparing the waters to bathe her.

A whisper crept into his brain, insidious. "Stop wasting time. Take her."

The hairs on the back of Gul'dan's neck lifted. He turned, slow, from his view into the den. The hybrid had awoken once more. He gazed at Tyrande, its unreadable eyes burning, molten gold. Hunger showed on its features, but whether it was Illidan's or Sargeras's mind which was upon the creature—or even a bizarre allegiance between the two—it was difficult to tell.

Gul'dan gestured at the sundered space. "Not while Malfurion is there."

The hybrid's eyes narrowed into slits. "Show me."

Gul'dan shifted to the side, so he would both no longer obstruct the creature's view and be able to keep an eye on it. He didn't like the feel of its eyes on his back. He tilted his staff, and rotated the view so it faced the door. Oblivious to Gul'dan's intrusion, Malfurion paced the confines of the narrow den, his eyes moving from the floor to his wife and back again.

Gul'dan glanced up and caught the creature smiling, malevolent. "He looks worried. He should be. Soon she will be mine, as she always should have been."

"So, it is Illidan this time—or at least the part of him I have brought back."

The hybrid jerked its head at the den. "Quiet, fool. Show her to me again." It licked its lips. "I want to see her."

Gul'dan tipped his staff once more, and the view turned again. Tyrande lay naked atop her bed, with only a set of towels covering her breasts and groin. The women washed her arms with gentle movements, singing softly to her.

The creature groaned. "I will not wait. Bring her to me. Now."

Gul'dan's jaw stiffened. It needed to learn who was in charge. Until Sargeras took Illidan over, the hybrid was Gul'dan's servant, not the other way around. Gul'dan shook his head. "When they are gone. I will not reveal my hand when there is no need. Our master would want it so."

The hybrid roared, furious. A writhing tendril of orange light snapped out from his chest. It grasped onto the edge of the opening. Horrified, Gul'dan watched as the creature channelled its power into it, turning it into a portal. Within the den, the frightened screams of the women rose up. There was a clatter of broken crockery. Malfurion was shouting, ordering them to get help.

The portal lay open, a pulsating ring, rimed in fiery orange light. Another tendril snapped out, and wrapped around Gul'dan's neck. It tightened. He scrabbled at it, fighting for air.

"Until he returns, I am your Master. Displease me—" the tendril squeezed, vicious. Gul'dan felt his eyes bulging "—and I will end you. Now. Bring me Tyrande." It flung him into the portal.

Gul'dan crashed through the portal into the den, slamming against a dresser. He turned, his throat aching, and found Malfurion standing in front of Tyrande, casting a powerful spell. Sun and moonfire seared Gul'dan's body. His robes began to smoke, and his cloak smouldered. He cursed, and threw up a protective shield of fel energy. Ignoring Malfurion, he stomped out the sparks on his cloak's hem before they caught fire. What a mess. This was not how he intended to go about this task. The hybrid's haste had left Gul'dan off guard, and had taken away his intended advantage of secrecy and stealth. When he returned he would think hard how to subdue that thing, he would not have what just happened to him happen again. A dozen more spells crashed against the barrier.

He looked up at Malfurion from under his brow, and almost laughed at the desperation on his opponent's face. Archdruid or not, the night elf knew he had lost. Yet he fought on, his eyes cold as he wasted his spells against Gul'dan's near impenetrable barrier.

Neither one of them had been prepared for this confrontation. But Gul'dan would not waste time fighting, not when he knew Malfurion had sent for help. He crossed the space, slowed by Malfurion's countless spells and roots. But everything the druid cast, Gul'dan could counter with a wave of his hand. So far, so good.

Once he reached the portal, he murmured an incantation, and Tyrande levitated from the bed. With a curve of his fingers and a few spoken words, Tyrande began to float toward the portal. Malfurion cried out, screaming for aid, his spell casting intensified. The fool even cast roots on his own wife. She halted in mid-air.

Gul'dan had had enough. He waved his hand at Malfurion, covering his eyes with darkness. Malfurion cried out, scrabbling at his eyes, his casts misdirected, blowing up pieces of furniture. Massive holes exploded from the walls.

On the other side of the portal, Gul'dan could see the thing watching them. It thrashed within the bonds of the tethers holding him in place.

"Hurry fool, " it snarled. "There are more coming in the tunnel."

It was true, Gul'dan could hear them now, even above the noise of the explosions around him; the pounding of their feet against the raw earth, the shouts of command ringing out. A least two dozen were on their way. Too many. He would be able to escape, but not with Tyrande.

With a flick of his staff, the roots around her disintegrated in flames of fel, there was no time to waste. He scuttled over to her, and took hold of her arm, pulling her behind him, still levitating, toward the portal. The door crashed open, filling the room with druids, all of them casting spells. Sun, moon, and starfire rained down onto him, relentless. Under their onslaught, he sensed his protective barrier weakening. He was running out of time. He shoved Tyrande headfirst into the portal. She slipped into the Chamber and tumbled to the floor. His lip curled in satisfaction. As always, the night elves were too late.

An enormous spell hit him. Gul'dan staggered, stunned by the impact. Despite his blindness Malfurion had struck him, hitting him with the full power of the moon. Gul'dan's barrier succumbed. The druids howled, triumphant. They rallied, raining their fire down onto him. Gul'dan bellowed, writhing in agony. It burned. He leapt into the portal, his robes in flames. He slammed the portal closed, cutting off those who followed after him, several dismembered body parts tumbled to the floor. Blood splattered onto Tyrande's face and hair.

Nourished by the Chamber's fel energy, Gul'dan cried out an incantation to extinguish the flames. He sagged against his staff, shuddering. This was not how he had wanted to do it. Now Malfurion knew exactly who had Tyrande and where she had been taken.

He got up and turned to leave. The thing stopped him, its voice low, dangerous.

"Are you just going to leave her there?"

Gul'dan turned, furious. He didn't care anymore about what that thing could do to him. He was in control, not it. He nodded at the creature, terse.

"You have those fiery tethers of yours. Put her where you want her. I am going to change my robe."

Ignoring its outraged hiss, he left the thing behind. But as he passed out of the Chamber, he glanced back, and caught the hybrid reaching out for her. Four tendrils slipped out from its torso and wrapped around her, gentle. It lifted her up, and held her upright in front of it, its eyes moving over her, filled with adoration. More tethers shot out, fashioning themselves into a gown, covering her nakedness. The gown was actually quite beautiful, worthy of a queen, or even a goddess. The thing must have sensed Gul'dan watching him, it glanced at the corridor, suspicious. Gul'dan drew back into the shadows—despite the smouldering stink of his burnt robe—his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

The creature pulled Tyrande closer. Several more tendrils slipped free, smaller ones. They touched her face and hair, and with tender strokes, it wiped the blood splatters away, using its light to burn it away without hurting her. When it was finished, it held her there, suspended in front of it. It drew her closer still, close enough for their lips to touch, but at the last moment it lowered her and pressed its lips against her forehead instead.

It moaned, quiet, straining against the tethers holding it in place. It longed to hold her. Gul'dan sneered at its fruitless struggle, relishing its frustration.

More tethers spiralled out from it, cradling her; phantom arms to replace the hybrid's own. "Tyrande," it murmured. "My love. At last, you are mine."

Gul'dan backed away. He had seen enough. Thanks to Tyrande, he had found the way to control that thing. He chuckled, and went to change his robe, his mood improving with each step. The future was turning out to be interesting indeed.

Malfurion stared, panting, at the suddenly, impossibly empty bed. His sight had returned the moment the portal closed. He reached out and touched the blankets, disbelieving. It had happened so fast. She was gone. Taken by Gul'dan himself, into the Tomb of Sargeras.

Within the portal he had seen a creature hanging suspended in fel tethers watching them, intent. Illidan . . . or, at least what used to be Illidan. Only the body looked the same as the one stolen from the Vault. Its eyes, though, were another matter altogether. No longer blindfolded, its eyes burned with orange light, blazing with fire. The eyes of a god—or a titan. Malfurion shuddered. And now, it had her. Despite all his careful precautions, Malfurion had lost Tyrande to the most dangerous being in Azeroth.

The other druids gathered around him, quiet, their expressions sombre. Three had died attempting to follow Tyrande through the portal. Malfurion knelt beside the fallen ones, and closed their eyes. Whispering his thanks for their valour, he commended their souls to Elune. His heart empty, he watched the druids collect the dead and depart back up the tunnel. Their footsteps retreated. Silence fell.

He sat down on the bed, the broken vials of perfumed Moonwell water crunched under the pads of his feral feet. He stared at shattered pieces, numb. How would he ever get her back? He had scoffed when she told him they needed to retrieve Illidan's body from the Chamber of the Eye, had even said it was impossible.

Malfurion shook his head. He couldn't think straight. He felt shock taking hold of him, soothing him, comforting him, filling him with denial. He looked around the ruined room, sceptical. None of this was real. It was a trick of his mind, residue from the Nightmare that still clung to him, his fears for Tyrande were preying on him.

He patted the bed. Yes. Tyrande was still safe in the Den. He was just having a bad dream. Soon, he would wake up. He waited, staring at the opposite wall, where a misfired bolt of Moonfire had left a gaping hole. That looked real enough. A clod of hard-packed soil slipped free and tumbled onto the floor with a dull thud. It broke into pieces; a few rolled away. He watched them come to a halt against the broken furniture or ricochet down the holes in the floor. Silence fell again. Numb, he stared at nothing.

He lifted his head sensing the actinic stink of fel taint. It had begun to seep from every surface, a faint mist of foul green coated the den. It crept, sinister up the bed, and across his lap. He stood up, alarmed, brushing at his legs. The fel mist slid to the floor, and pooled at his feet. He shuddered. He wasn't dreaming after all. Just by being there Gul'dan's presence had corrupted the sanctity of the Den. The mist spread toward the door, insidious. He cursed, anger filling him. Was it not enough Gul'dan had taken Tyrande, did he have to corrupt Moonglade's most sacred Den as well?

He looked at the empty bed, slithering with greasy fel tendrils. He rubbed the back of his forearm over his eyes. He was so tired. His brief respite with Tyrande had revived him, but since she had gone, the fatigue he had suffered since escaping the Nightmare had returned with a vengeance. Exhaustion dragged on him, leaving him angry, pessimistic and irritable. He forced himself to recall the room on the other side of the portal; perhaps there would be something useful he could remember, a detail, anything.

A thought struck him, offering him a sliver of hope. As far as he knew no one still living had seen inside the Chamber of the Eye since Illidan buried the Tomb of Sargeras under a pile of rocks millennia ago. Malfurion's brief glimpse of its interior might present an advantage, even if only a small one. It was better than nothing.

Malfurion longed to leave the fel-tainted space, but his rational mind told him the connection to the Chamber was strongest in Tyrande's den. If he left, would he remember as much? He forced himself to stay, despite ripples of revulsion snaking up his spine. Tyrande's life was at stake, nothing else mattered. Ignoring the eddies of yellow-green mist drifting over his feet and wrapping around his ankles, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

The Chamber had been circular, its walls constructed of enormous ashlars of stone, black as night, reeking of a great age, long lost to Azeroth's history. Above, the ceiling had been cloaked in shadow, but there had been a sensation of height. So, it must be deep underground. He shrugged his shoulders, sensing the fel mist had begun to curl around his neck. It fell away, only to begin its climb anew. He suppressed a shudder.

Perhaps there could be another way in, from the sea? He shook his head. There would be time enough for strategy later. He needed to hurry, he still had to find Keepers to cleanse Tyrande's room before the taint spread into the dens of other helpless, sleeping druids. He furrowed his brow, focussing.

In what appeared to be the Chamber's centre, a large circle of fel runes had glowed on the stone floor, lurid green. He had been able to see another series of fel runes rising up the side of one of the walls beside Illidan's captive body.

Could that have been the edge of the portal to the Twisting Nether? He couldn't be certain, but if he could remember the series of runes, it might help. He committed them to memory, safe for later use. Someone, somewhere might be able to use this information.

He continued to search for other details but apart from Illidan's body hanging suspended in the air by fel tethers attached to a frame of fel, nothing more came to mind. The placement of Gul'dan's portal into Tyrande's den had shown no exit from the Chamber. The portal must have been facing away from the Chamber's exit. Malfurion opened his eyes, the layout of the room fixing itself in his mind's eye. If the runes on the wall were for the portal, it meant the portal to the Twisting Nether should face the entrance to the room, across the circle of runes. It would have to be enough.

He shook off the tendrils of mist, fighting a fresh wave of despair. Ever since the Nightmare, bleak feelings of desolation plagued him, robbing him of even the smallest measures of peace, and now with Tyrande gone . . . He touched the indentation left on the pillow by her head, and brushed the tainted mist away.

No. He would not give up. Never before had he had to fight despair, but now it seemed this was his additional burden. No one left the Nightmare unscathed, and he had remained there far longer than any. The others had gone mad. Helpless, he had watched them.

He went to the door, and left the ruined, poisoned room behind. He hurried up into the central chamber and on through the twisting tunnels until he reached the fresh, clear air of Moonglade. He gestured to two Keepers to join him. They listened to his description of the encroaching taint, their expressions cold. They nodded, grim. They would cleanse the Lady Tyrande's den, no trace of the foul necromancer's presence would be left behind, they would ensure it.

They departed, calling for help as they entered the Barrow, four dryads hurried to join them, the usually ebullient females came forward wringing their hands, fearful; two of them were crying. Malfurion clenched his jaw, and bit back an oath. The whole of Moonglade would know by now that Tyrande had been taken.

It had been hard enough on her people to learn what she had decided to do—but this—this would crush their spirits. His own already sagged under the weight of his additional responsibility, everyone looked to him now that Tyrande was gone. She had done so much, a steward of the people and a shepherd of their souls. He felt so inadequate in her stead. He realised he had spent far too much time walking the Emerald Dream. He might have gained much as a druid, but he had lost more as Tyrande's consort. He had failed her all his life. He rode out another crashing wave of despair. He would not fail Tyrande anymore. He would prove he was worthy of her.

He left the Barrow's gardens and took a gryphon back to Darnassus. The flight would take awhile, but it would give him time to think, and sort through his thoughts. He still did not have a plan. As the gryphon's wings beat a steady rhythm toward the towering trunk of Teldrassil, he considered the scenario he now faced.

The Tomb of Sargeras. Once, long ago, when he had been a young night elf, the Tomb had been Suramar's Temple of Elune. But long ago, during the War of the Ancients, the Burning Legion had destroyed the bridge from the city to the small island which housed the once stunning, elegant Temple and tried to open a second portal there to usher more demons into Azeroth. Thousands of years later, the Guardian Aegwynn defeated the Avatar of Sargeras within the Temple's ruins, and the once beautiful temple was renamed the Tomb of Sargeras. It was sealed and left buried under the waters of the sea. But Gul'dan had come and raised the Tomb from the sea upon a new island marred by the taint of the Legion. Stripped of all life, its desolate surface lay blackened and smouldering. The only variation to the bleak vista were the pools of fel lava bubbling up from the corrupted soil.

And now, Tyrande's body was trapped deep within the Legion's stronghold in Azeroth, its walls impenetrable until all the pieces of the Pillars of Creation were collected and assembled by the Kirin Tor. The last Malfurion had heard was various factions had managed to gather all but the final, most powerful piece—and that piece was rumoured to be held by Gul'dan himself.

Malfurion scoffed, bitter, as despair reared its ugly head once more. It was an impossible situation. They could not get into the Tomb without the completed Pillar, but to be able to even approach the Broken Shore, they needed what Gul'dan held, and apart from the necromancer's sudden, unexpected visit to Tyrande's hiding place, he never left the Tomb. Of course, after the hundreds of attacks by the Legion across Azeroth, the armies of both the Horde and Alliance had gathered to attack the Legion's stronghold. Malfurion shook his head. The cost had been enormous.

Despite the support of thousands of champions, and wielding the legendary sword Shalamayne, the powerful King Varian Wrynn had fallen at the gates of the Tomb of Sargeras. Malfurion had heard the reports, sent out afterwards by Greymane, the bitter, vengeful leader of the Worgen. He blamed the Horde for the loss of Varian and of his own son in the failed confrontation.

Greymane had watched from high above in a retreating airship as Gul'dan struck down the valiant, brave Varian as he fought off dozens of wrathguard so his people could escape. The leader of Horde, the troll Vol'jin, succumbed to his own injuries soon after the Horde's retreat. In a very short space of time, the Legion had nearly annihilated both the Alliance and the Horde, and with almost no effort. Both the Horde and the Alliance had had to name new leaders. Sylvanas, the Banshee Queen of the Undead had been chosen by Vol'jin as he died, and Varian's son Anduin, had had to take his father's throne. Malfurion liked the boy, but the loss of Varian was serious. The Alliance lacked a true leader, and had fallen to petty bickering and infighting. If Varian still lived, Malfurion would have gone to him at once, but the boy . . . No. He had not yet earned the respect of the other factions. Malfurion could not go to him with this. There had to be someone else, someone who could bring the factions together, and lead them as one, as Varian had once done.

Malfurion thought of Alexstrasza. Good, kind, benevolent Alexstrasza, once the Dragon Aspect of Life, though no more. He could trust her, although would she risk angering her kin by involving herself in mortal affairs? If only Ysera still lived, she would have convinced the Aspects to help galvanise the factions—his gryphon was closing in on Rut'theran Village fast. He braced himself for the landing.

Once off the gryphon, he made his way into the soft fuchsia glow of the portal, a heartbeat later he emerged at the top of Teldrassil. Guards stood to attention as he passed. He ignored them, and made his way to Tyrande's house, his thoughts churning carrying on where he left off. Alexstrasza was a possibility, but there had to be someone else, someone he could trust, who also had the trust of the people, not just of the Alliance, but of the Horde. He stopped in his tracks. Of course.

Khadgar. Malfurion changed direction, and headed to the Temple of the Moon, where the Draenei mages provided portals to the other capital cities. His steps slowed, as fresh doubts rose up. While Khadgar did have the trust of many, he was not an isolated entity, and could not lead others without the support of the Council of The Kirin Tor, and the Council was more political than all of the factions on Azeroth put together. Plus, Malfurion had heard Khadgar had at least one very powerful enemy. Jaina Proudmoore.

Not long ago, the Archmage Jaina had departed, furious, when Khadgar had led the vote against her refusal to work with the Horde mages in the fight against the Legion. Filled with bitterness over what she believed was the Horde's betrayal at the Broken Shore, she left, refusing to be a part of what Khadgar intended. Things were no more stable in Dalaran than they were anywhere else. The whole of Azeroth seemed to be falling apart. Was nowhere safe? Was nothing sacred anymore?

Malfurion stopped himself, sensing the thoughts that plagued him so often, of darkness and despair returning. He shook his head. Tyrande needed him now more than ever, and here he was standing on the lake bridge in the center of Darnassus dithering over the infighting of the Kirin Tor. He was wasting time. She still lived, and it was his duty to bring her body back from that pit. He had failed to protect her today. He would not fail her again. Filled with determination, he pushed his way through the guards flanking him, hastening to the Temple of the Moon. It was time to go to Dalaran. Khadgar would help him get Tyrande back, he had to, because Malfurion wasn't going to take no for an answer.