Quel'Danas, Sunwell Isle.

The island, situated off Silvermoon's northern coast, sat at the center of a vast intersection of ley lines, the largest in the Eastern Kingdoms. A place of quiet contemplation and serenity. Many made the pilgrimage to the isle every day to bask in the warmth of the Sunwell's radiance, and marvel at the font of their people's power.

Yet today was no such day.

While the isle still held some of the calm it was prized for, it was akin to that found before a mighty, but terrible, storm.

Plumes of smoke from the Eversong burning were clear as day to anyone who looked upon the mainland. As were the muted cries of terrified citizens as they attempted to board ships along Silvermoon's massive docks, their voices carried across the narrow North Sea to Quel'Danas and if the windows were open into the Magister's Terrace where Anasterian currently held court.

Or the closest approximation of a court with so many magisters overseeing the defense of the kingdom, or their own estates, his court was reduced to his inner circle and the Grand Magister.

Even here, he was not isolated.

News was constantly flowing into his ears; each tidbit worse than the last.

The kingdom was being ravaged, countless citizens were dead, the military was in shambles and retreating on all fronts, and the undead Scourge would soon reach Silvermoon's walls.

In response, Anasterian had given the order for the gates to be sealed. If there were stragglers still outside, be they citizens or soldiers, they would be brought over the walls by dragonhawk, spell, or whatever means were possible but he could not risk the undead breaching the city. Their flying creatures were already being spotted testing the sky around the city, he would not allow these creatures to pour through the streets.

While his generals gave speeches to the men about the righteousness of their battle, of how Silvermoon's walls had never been breached, fear was rampant in the streets. In some places they were packed with throngs attempting to escape via ship, pushing and shoving in large masses of bodies, trampling over one another for a spot on any ship leaving port. Other streets were silent as the grave, save for quiet prayers and soft crying.

Death came to Silvermoon.

Monsters stalked the Eversong, and the dead rose from their graves by necromancers to slaughter the living. The citizenry claimed first that this was a human problem, not worthy of their attention.

Now some whispered that it was the end of days…

While absent from international matters, his realm was hardly deaf or blind. He may have been mostly bedridden, but his magisters, ambassadors, emissaries, and other courtiers have been keeping him up to date on matters beyond the kingdom's borders.

While listening to reports come in, and pieces moved across a great map to show his forces being driven back in all directions, Anasterian's mind wandered as he wrote new orders and penned letters.

He wondered if his lack of surprise, or reaction at all, from the initial news of the undead plague in Lordaeron or its later fall, was written off as him having an 'off' day. Or that his jingoist rhetoric of hearing the horde march towards Quel'Thalas was merely his mind wandering to a battle fought long ago.

It was no secret that his health was failing, merely how severe it was was kept hidden from the general population.

While a slow decline, decades in the making, it was inevitable.

Even during the Second War he struggled simply ordering his troops about without constant attention and care. Why, just a week ago he could barely hold court let alone be expected to properly manage a war council.

Magnificent as it was, the healing properties of the Sunwell can only go so far, and only stave off the inevitable so long. While most days he felt more skin and bones than truly alive, his mind was as sharp as ever, though in recent years even that has been fading.

Years ago, fearing there would be a time when his health failed him at a critical moment, he had his apothecaries and alchemists brew him a potion to fortify his constitution and allow him to reign as the king his people deserved. They warned such a potion, given his already declining health, would not come without risks to himself.

When he received word of the undead crossing into the Eversong, he drank the elixir. A potion that rejuvenated him to an extent he hadn't felt in over a millennia. For the first time in decades, he held court without his joints aching, with his mind clear as day, and he spoke with all the fire of his youth.

But such rejuvenation merely delayed the inevitable.

They warned him this rejuvenated state would not last.

In a few months, perhaps as many as six, his condition would begin to decline. Rapidly. They spared no detail in how he would rot from the inside out and how he could potentially exist in this state for up to a decade before expiring.

Not that Anasterian feared he was going to live long enough to deal with those shortcomings.

"Your Majesty," a courier spoke up above the rest, his quiet voice betrayed concern and hesitation. "Given the…extraordinary situation, would it not be prudent to evacuate to a more secure location?"

"Are you saying the walls of Silvermoon and the royal navy around us are insufficient?" Anasterian countered, not looking up from the letter he was writing. He had long finished his missive to the Grand Alliance in Dalaran, but the personal letter to his son was proving far more difficult. "Or is it that you doubt the abilities of Magister Fire-Path to hold the walls?"

What forces that could have rallied to the walls of Silvermoon. Her walls were lined and manned with thousands of soldiers and rangers alike. What forces that can't be rallied in good order to the capital, regardless of the status or cohesion, were directed to disengage the enemy and retreat.

To where? Anywhere they could. Preferable the western coastline with their backs to the sea.

There was no point in feeding this undead horde more troops piecemeal.

The move seemingly saved half of his remaining forces.

The other half meanwhile….

"With all due respect, it's not a matter of ability," the courtier approached his dias, stopping several steps before the throne as the royal guard flanking Anasterian glared at him. "Is it not true that the objective of the undead is to defile the Sunwell."

"It is," the king sighed, realizing where this conversation was going. If he was any one beyond his inner court, he would accuse them of cowardice and order them to the frontlines the moment the topic of running was broached.

"If you remain here, your safety cannot be guaranteed."

"I am not decrepit yet, and what of it if I was," dipping his quill for more ink, he finally signed the letter. While hardly satisfied, too brusque for his liking. Though he hardly had the time to properly go into excessive detail to his son about all that has transpired or will most likely happen in the coming months. "Either they shall fall, or I shall. I am the King of the High Home, and I will not see some monster defile Sunwell without so much as a fight."

"But if you…fell your majesty," the man was almost terrified to say the word, as if the very notion was abhorrent to his very being. "To…fall against such a foe that can raise the dead and twist them to his desires, such a fate would-"

"Would be a lot better than if he ran."

A new voice spoke above the throng courtiers: a woman with long blonde hair. She strode into the chamber without even an introduction, even softly brushing aside a courtier who attempted to bar her path. Her clothes, while pedestrian in style, were clearly made of the finest silks and weaves. A large chest floated beside her as she made her way to a nearby couch.

Anestairan goaned.

He was afraid she'd do something like this…

"Excuse me, but who are you?"

"Not important," she replied with glib, reaching for a piece of fruit offered by a servant. Biting into it with a wet crunch, she continued to address the courtier even as she chewed. "What is important is that he doesn't cut and run."

"Do you have no shame?" another courtier spoke up, her face twisting from the woman's tone, attitude, and general appearance. Though it was clear her biting tone had no effect on the jovial expression of the new woman. "To address his Majesty in such a manner."

"Not much," she took another bite. "Now I might be only half as smart as I think I am, but even I know that if the King flees, because that's what it will look like to everyone, what little morale we have left with will vanish. I know this, so what excuse does shorty over there have?"

"Shorty," the courtier puffed up. "You insolent….I'll have you know I am the Lord-"

"Thank you, your excellencies," Anasterian spoke up, de-escalating the situation, "for your council, but I believe a recess would do us all some good. We shall reconvene within the hour."

While they looked among themselves for a moment, the crowd slowly filtered their way out of the chamber. One by one, collecting their belongings and whispering amongst themselves, a few gave the woman disparaging looks, the doors were shut softly behind them. Leaving the king, the Grand Magister, his closest royal guards, and the ancient woman alone.

Siad woman ate an apple like some squirrel with its cheeks puffed out. Looking very pleased with herself.

"Did you have to rile them up like that?" Belo'vir asked, the Grand Magister taking issue with her antics.

"Stupid questions get stupid answers," she wiped lips with the helm of her sleeve. "I'm also a little too old to care about this bullshit."

Hmph…Old she says.

An understatement if the king ever heard it.

The woman was ancient and probably older than the Kingdom itself.

Even Dath'Remar himself wrote of the woman in detail. Of how she helped organize the flight of their ancestors, even determining the placement of Silvermoon itself when they first came ashore all those millenia ago.

As has every king since written of similar interactions. Of how she appeared again and again across high elven history. Always giving almost clairvoyant advice about the future, then vanishing until the next point of conflict where her wisdom would be needed.

When he took the crown, she revealed herself to him. She was the one who urged him to begin cultivating relations with the scattered human tribes. It was her prodding that created the first alliance of men and elves during the Troll Wars.

Yet she also advises of future events. Anasterian was counseled about the Dark Portal and the Horde that would pour from it decades before the actual fact. At that time, she urged him to join the Grand Alliance that would form in the immediate aftermath.

He ignored her that time, though the sly smile she gave him when he claimed he would not join the Alliance all but assured him he would be, in one manner or another. So he was hardly surprised when Anduin Lothar came before him and urged him as the last direct descendent of the Arathi to honor the pact he made with the human's forefathers.

Oh how that woman snickered in the shadows as he publicly devoted the full might of Quel'Thalas to the Alliance he claimed he would have no part of.

So when she appeared before him once again a decade ago, claiming the return of the Burning Legion, the same demonic horde that his forefathers wrote nearly destroyed the world ten millenia prior, was imminent, he took it with all the seriousness such a prediction came with.

Supplies were quietly stockpiled, contingencies were created for the worst possible outcomes, war plans were laid, and, with the utmost secrecy and care, lines of communication were reestablished between the High Home, isolated Suramar, and those tree dwelling kaldorei that drove his ancestors into exile.

And events had proceeded mostly along the paths she foretold.

There was a plague of undeath in Lordaeron.

The crown prince of Lordaeron falling to the darkness and leading the undead to destroy his own homeland.

Even the undead marching on Quel'Thalas next was known ahead of time.

He revealed the information to only his closest advisors, who planned for every possible eventuality.

This foe was the ancient one the high elven people were destined to fight once more. For they alone were capable enough to lead the world against the coming darkness. His ancestors drove the Burning Legion from Azeroth once before. Now it was time for their descendants to lead the charge once more.

They would drive back these demonic invaders from their world with those willing to stand beside them in this great struggle. If not the Quel'Thalas, who would lead the charge against this foe?

The divided humans and dwarfs?

The gnomes?

The greed driven goblins?

The orcs?

He would not even entertain the idea of trolls leading the charge.

Perhaps the dragons, but they lacked true unity and cohesion to hold the burden.

No. Only the high elves were ready for this task.

And so they planned, theorizing and strategizing the best and worst outcomes of such a conflict. If the fate of the world rested upon their shoulders, nothing could be left to chance.

The worst case scenario they could convince assumed half the kingdom would fall in the first fortnight, followed by an advance to Silvermoon by the end of the year and a siege that would last until the end of the conflict. It was even proposed that the city's barrier would be breached and fighting would spill into the city proper. The death toll was expected to climb to truly disgusting highs, but victory was assured.

The true battle would be fought across the sea, in ancient Kalimdor. An expeditionary force had already been prepared, stocked, and has set sail for that distant land using what few maps remain from the first crossing. This force would land and march to Nordrassil to meet this ancient foe with their estranged kin.

This was the conflict they had planned, stocked, and readied their fortifications for.

Yet less than a week into this invasion almost quarter of his people were dead and nearly half his military was dead or dying.

The speed and sheer brutality of the Scourge exceeded the most pessimistic predictions.

"Did you have to rile them up like that?" Belo'vir shot the woman a look, chastising her almost like a child.

"Stupid questions get stupid answers," she wiped lips with the helm of her sleeve. "I'm also a little too old to care about this bullshit. Anyway, you seem chipper than usual Anasterian. Positively radiant even."

"Radiant," he huffed, what an interesting choice of words. "What about yourself? Were you successful?"

"Naturally," her chest puffed up, she kicked the chest across the floor towards Anasterian's throne much to the chagrin of the Grand Magister. "See for yourself."

"Please don't do that," the Grand Magister grumbled, his face twisting into a mixture of fear and concern as the container slid to a halt.

"You think I'd be kicking it across the room if I thought anything could break? These chests are wrapped up in so many enchantments I could literally drop this from the highest spire and not only will the chest be fine, but everything inside will be as well."

"Please don't."

"I mean, we tested it like then when it was just filled with empty vials, so I'm guessing it will work with filled ones."

"Oh Light, have mercy…."

"They're fine. See for yourself," with a smile, she snapped her fingers and the chest swung open. Inside were a set of ten vials, all shone with the flickering light of pure arcane power. Each filled with a sliver of the Sunwell's arcane waters.

"And how many were you able to give our forces before they departed," Anasterian could feel the radiance just by holding his hand near them. A pale imitation of the Sunwell, but capable of creating wellsprings of power in excess to whatever was naturally available to them.

"About twenty chests or so," she shrugged.

"What about our.. Cousins across the sea? What did their High Priestess say?"

"Ah yes," the woman rubbed the back of her neck. "Tyranda said that she 'acknowledges the highborne's return'."

"Oh, she 'acknowledges'," he snorted. Yes, that very much sounded like the woman from the handful of correspondence they shared. Honestly, the way she used that word, 'highborne', in the handful of letters they exchanged made it come across as some sort of slur.

"It's… better than I thought it would be," the ancient woman tried clinging to any positive results. "I honestly thought she'd say no at first just out of spite."

"How do you deal with that woman?" Belo'vir murrmued, the magister having read the letters she sent back to Anasterian.

"Easily enough, we go way back. Helps that she doesn't think of me as a 'highborne', or if she does, I guess I'm just one of the 'good ones'," she chuckled.

How she could spark up a relationship with one of those elves he will never know.

In the king's mind, the kaldorei as a whole are a stagnant culture from what little he has heard. They were great once, after all his ancestors came from that land and built Quel'Thalas, but have since become stagnant in every sense of the word. Their customs have not changed, their language has not changed, their views have not changed, millenia have come and gone and nothing changes.

"Should the force expect a battle the moment they set foot on dry land?" Anasterian questioned, knowing too well the animosity that branch of their race held for his own for simply living a different way of life.

"If there is, it's not because she ordered it," she kicked her feet up onto the table, ignoring the dirt and grime stuck to her shoes. "I mean, we're about to see two cultures filled with people who think they are morally superior to one another and abhor the values the other holds are about to come into contact with one another for the first time in millenia. I'll honestly be surprised if nothing goes wrong."

"You mean you don't know?"

"I'm not omniscient," she rolled her eyes, reaching for another apple.

"Clearly," Anasterian mused, unable to hold in the questions he's wanted to ask her for days now. "If you were, you would have told me of the Gatekeeper being compromised by the turncloak in our midst rather than have me waste time and resources organizing this expeditionary force to fight a battle on the other side of the known world."

"...that was different," her voice became somber, losing a tinge of its youthful vigor.

"So did you, or did you not know our defenses were compromised?"

"...yes."

"Yes that you knew or yes that you did not-"

"Yes I knew," she bit into the apple. "It's a damn mess, but I couldn't say anything."

"Were you physically incapable? Did the words die in your throat whenever you uttered them? Did the world render you incapable of saying them?" The frustrations Anasterian had been building up began to bubble over as he vented his anger. "Because I can see no other reason why this news was kept from me when lives could have been saved!"

It wasn't about the Gatekeeper, deep down he knew that. But after days of staying stone faced in the face of so much death, hearing tales of whole communities being slaughtered and raised to fight onwards…

"...it was out of my hands, Anasterian."

"Out of your hands? Really? With everything you can do, this was too much!?" The king vaguely noticed the Belo'vir take a step back from his line of sight. "Crossing the sea to Kalimdor, unearthing Suramar from the depths, predicting events that will happen decades ahead of their time are all easy tasks to you, but THIS, THIS was too damn much!"

"...I understand your angry about the situation-"

"You're damn right I am! Look out the window," he pointed to the clouds of smoke over the horizon. "My home is burning, and my people are dying! Butchered like cattle and the single most powerful being here won't so much as lift a finger to stop it! You knew decades ago, perhaps even more before you told me! And you did nothing! Why!"

"...it's complicated."

"Oh I beg to differ. You either didn't do anything because your just a charlatan or you enjoy watching us suffer for some sick-"

"Watch it," her cold, dead words almost took the air out of Anasterian's gut. It almost reminded him of a disappointed mother scolding their child and just what sort of being he was speaking to. A being who wore the skin of a high elf, but was something far more than that. "You can vent and call me a fuck up all you want, that this is all my fault, but don't you dare say I wanted this to happen."

"Then why-"

"Because it's more complicated than what I want!" she finally raised her voice. The Ancient pointed across the room to an empty corner, "you have no idea how much I would do if I didn't have those guys hovering over me! They'd yank my leash in a heartbeat and then not even the little I can do would happen."

Anasterian looked to the empty space, using his magic to try and see if there was someone hidden before his eyes. Yet he found nothing. The Grand Magister's expression showed he tried as well and was met with similar results.

Yet clearly there was something there, and whatever it said made the woman frown, her foot tapped irritatedly on the table, eyes glaring back at the space.

"Oh shut the fuck up already! Can you just try and not be a cold blooded lizard for five minutes?" Silence rang to the king's ears, though again, the Ancient clearly did not approve of the reply. "Well who asked you anyway!" faster than his eyes could follow, the apple she was eating was thrown and shattered against the wall.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she ran a hand through her hair, "look, just take it from me, nearly all the stuff I want to do I can't do."

A short silence fell on the chamber.

Anasterian was the first to break the silence.

"...I apologize, that was uncalled for," the king apologized, his emotions back centered once more. What he said, his loss of emotional control, was unbecoming of a monarch.

"... no. No, it was entirely justified," she replied, swearing under her breath. "But it still doesn't change what I'm allowed to do."

"...so what now?" Anasterian finally broached.

"Now?" she nodded to herself, as if debating it. "Now you will send someone out to recover Sylvanas Windrunner from Fyrestone."

"Fyrestone?" Belo'vir questioned. "I thought the general was in Fairbreeze setting up a new line of defense?"

"She was, then Arthas nearly killed her… nearly," she smiled at the word as if it held greater significance. "You will recover her immediately."

"I'll make the arrangements at once." Anasterian answered, gesturing for a guard to bring in a messenger.

"Also bring in the one who saved her," the Ancient added with a smirk, "she'll have an interesting story to tell."

"As you say," the king nodded.

She looked as if she wished to say more, only for her head to jerk towards the empty corner and growl something under her breath. "It looks like my time here is up."

Grumbling more under her breath she looked to Belo'vir, "make sure more of those Sunwell vials are made and that they're all stored properly in the vaults beneath the island. Lock them down personally to make sure the seals work."

"Why do we need more? The expedition is already away-"

"Look I have to go now," she interrupted him, walking to the window and giving Anasterian one last look. "But you were right, there was more I could do. I've done what I am allowed to do, strained the limits of my leash, and all I can hope is that it was enough."

With a somber expression, she flickered out of existence.

The chamber door opened moments later, a courtier bowed to him, and awaited his commands.

But before he could even speak, a mighty roar shook the windows and foundations of the building.

Out the window Anasterian saw several large red dragons speed in the direction of the city, with another of their kind rising from the city itself to meet them above SIlvermoon's sky. The one who rose from the city began flying towards the Magister's Terrace, while the others began strafing the land beyond Silvermoon's walls with fire.

Anasterian stared at the sight, even more so when the dragon flying to the terrace landed and transformed into a beautiful red haired elf who made her way inside.

His mind raced with possibilities.

Yes….yes they will greatly help the defense.


The last thing he remembered was a bright flash of light.

Then pain.

Then the cold.

Then nothing at all.

And now he awoke in absolute darkness.

And dirt.

So much dirt.

Everytime he opened his mouth, more of the stuff went down his throat, and when he wanted to nurse his headache, but his arms were held in place by it.

Was he…buried alive?

His inability to move his arms or legs seemed to lean in that direction. Forget about a coffin, the schmucks buried him in a pit! What was this some sort of extreme hit and run!?

He tried to check his pockets to see if his wallet and phone were still there, but of course, he couldn't move either limbs and they were at a weird angle.

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful….

Seeing no other way out, he started to dig.

Up, down, left, right, didn't matter. He just moved body and pushed soil around him.

And he dug.

And dug.

And dug.

For whatever reason, he felt calm. Probably less calm and more 'in shock'. No doubt the moment he got out of this and into a hospital he was going to have a massive panic attack about almost being buried alive.

So he dug.

And dug.

And dug.

Oh he hoped it wasn't still the middle of the night. It probably was knowing his luck, and the fact he hasn't suffocated down here. Oxygen deprivation can really ruin your brain after all.

Dig.

Dig.

Dig.

Dig.

Dig

Dig.

And then he felt it. His fingertips pierced a layer of dirt and felt cold, frigid air.

He sped up his digging, feeling more like an octopus wiggling its tendrils about as he put his whole body into it.

Then his arm was out.

Then another.

Then a leg.

Then his chest and head breached the surface.

Crawling out of the hole, his first mouthful of air was followed by heavy coughing as all the dirt he swallowed suddenly poured out of his mouth. His mouth was so dry not even saliva was coming out, just dirt.

Finally upright, he patted his sides down checking for his phone and wallet. He swore when he felt nothing. It wasn't just a hit and run, but theft as well?

For fuck sakes! How was he supposed to call for help now? He was lost in the middle of, what looked like, nowhere!

Briefly looking down at his hands, he couldn't help but notice they were a tad… pale.

But before he could focus on that any more, he heard a roar like a jet engine. He looked up to see if it was a plane landing or taking off, maybe an indication of an airport being nearby where he could ask for a phone or something.

Instead, he saw a red scaled monster flying high above.

Was that a… dragon?

No…

…a hallucination.

It had to be.

But he was a little out of it, and already filled with adrenaline, so he couldn't think that clearly. So he ran from the 'dragon'. Even as it spewed fire in every direction.

It just… couldn't be real.

Each step he took running was a strange sensation, like his legs were asleep, or that there was a lack of blood flow to them. And yet he still caught up more dirt. He hadn't taken a breath since he started running, coughing up dirt, yet he still felt fine.

He didn't think much of it. He just ran.

Soon enough, he tripped on some monstrous sized root and hit the ground face first into some dank puddle.

Propping himself up, he wiped away the mud that clung to his face and, for the first time, he looked at his reflection in the murky water. He noted the cuts and marks on his hands more closely now, making a note to get them disinfected asap. They looked deep, and could almost swear he saw a bit of bone.

But that was impossible.

SUre they felt odd, but they didn't hurt so it couldn't be that-

Then he saw it in the water. Before his eyes, in his tangled up clothes, with his face, a corpse with dead eyes staring back at him.

And so he screamed.


AN: So, a bit of context to why this took so long to get out.

I wanted to get Defense-III out last month, but due to a whole host of issues on my end, I'm hilariously behind in all my stuff at the moment.

So I am going with Plan B: posting the Interlude that was set to come out after Defense - III early. (I'm somehow still only halfway done with Defense-III!)

Doesn't really change anything plot wise, might even make more sense in hindsight, but that's the plan for now.

Then all I have to do is finish all the other stuff for my other works. I've "probably" spread myself too thin...

Anyway!

We get some insight into the King's mindset, some mysterious figure working behind the scenes, very not canon stuff happening, and some completely random guy wakes up (heh) in the Eversong using all sorts of 21st century Earth lingo looking like a walking corpse.

Probably just an oversight on my part~