Time. That was all Leylin had ever wanted. Not victory. Not glory. Not even survival. Just time. And in the end, time was all he gained.
The Scourge did not stop. They did not slow. They did not hesitate.
Even after the battlefield had been shattered into ruin… Even after the earth itself had risen to deny them passage… Even after every calculation, every delay, every precise intervention Leylin had woven into existence, they continued their march. Relentless. Unyielding. Inevitable.
Like a force of nature that could not be reasoned with… only endured. And yet—
They were late. By days.
To any other commander, any other strategist, it would have meant nothing. A fleeting reprieve before inevitable collapse. A delay measured in heartbeats against an endless tide.
But to Leylin, it was everything. Because within those stolen days, He had moved the world.
Settlements outside Silvermoon City were no longer bustling. They were hollow. Silent. Abandoned.
Where once there had been laughter, commerce, and music drifting through golden streets, there was now only the echo of footsteps and the distant murmur of ordered movement. Doors stood open. Belongings lay scattered where they had been deemed unnecessary. Entire homes had been reduced to shells, stripped of life in favor of survival.
The evacuation had not been perfect. It could never be. There had been delays.
Moments where fear threatened to break through the carefully maintained order. But those moments had been contained. Controlled. Directed.
Civilians had been gathered, organized into structured waves, guided through predetermined routes by magisters and guards who moved with disciplined urgency. The young were carried. The elderly were supported. The wounded were transported with careful efficiency.
No one was left to wander. No one was allowed to hesitate. Because hesitation was death.
Far from the heart of the city, beyond its radiant spires and flowing arcane currents, an isolated clearing had been transformed into something far greater than a battlefield. It was no longer land. It was an arcane formation.
A design imposed upon reality itself. Leylin stood at its center. Before him stretched a massive arcane formation, its scale vast enough to swallow entire buildings.
Runes layered upon runes, each one etched with impossible precision. Circles intersected with geometric complexity that defied natural understanding. Lines of power pulsed faintly beneath the surface, forming a network so intricate that even the most seasoned magister would struggle to comprehend a fraction of it.
It was not merely a spell. It was architecture. And at its core, a portal. Not a gateway meant for short travel. Not a temporary distortion of space. But something far greater. A bridge between worlds.
Leylin's gaze moved slowly across the formation, analyzing, verifying, adjusting. Every segment, every connection, every flow of energy was accounted for within his mind.
"…stability at eighty-seven percent," he murmured.
His voice was quiet. Measured. Acceptable. At first, he had considered another option. Lordaeron.
A kingdom vast enough, strong enough—perhaps—to shelter those who could escape. Its territories might have offered refuge. But that assumption had collapsed under scrutiny.
He could not confirm its condition. Could not verify which lands remained untouched. Could not ensure that it had not already fallen. And uncertainty was unacceptable.
So he removed it. Instead of searching for safety, he created it.
"Draenor," Leylin said softly.
A world beyond this one. A world distant enough… untouched enough… To serve as refuge.
His hand rose. The formation responded instantly.
Light surged through the runes, spreading outward like a living network. The ground trembled as power flooded the structure, each line igniting in sequence. The air warped, bending under the strain as space itself began to distort.
At the center, Reality twisted. Folded inward. Compressed into something that no longer obeyed natural law. The world resisted. Leylin did not.
The distortion deepened. Light fractured into impossible angles, forming a swirling convergence of energy that tore open the boundary between worlds.
And then it stopped. Not the spell. But Leylin.
Because something else had already begun.
Far away. Beyond the boundaries of Azeroth. Beyond the reach of the Scourge.
On a broken world beneath a crimson sky, a signal arrived.
Draenor.
The wind carried dust across the scorched expanse of Hellfire Peninsula, its barren landscape scarred by war and time. The land itself seemed wounded, its soil infused with remnants of destruction that had never truly faded.
But far from its chaos, beyond its jagged cliffs and shattered plains, life endured.
In the shadowed depths of Terokkar Forest, beneath towering trees twisted by time, a hidden encampment stood. Temporary, but prepared.
Alleria Windrunner stood at its center. Her posture was still. Her expression was composed.
But when the air shifted, she felt it. A ripple. Subtle. Precise. A signal.
Her eyes closed briefly.
"…so it begins," she murmured.
Around her, motion ignited instantly.
Rangers moved to the perimeter, their bows ready, eyes scanning for threats. Magisters raised their hands, reinforcing the area with stabilizing wards that shimmered faintly between the trees. Supplies were repositioned, triaged, prepared for an influx that had yet to arrive.
Alleria turned toward the clearing at the heart of the camp. Her voice carried clearly.
"This is not a normal transfer."
Every movement paused. Every gaze shifted.
"Whatever comes through that portal," she continued, "we receive them immediately."
A brief silence followed.
Then— Action resumed. No questions. No hesitation. Because they trusted her. And because the signal had come from him.
Back in Silvermoon, the portal ignited.
A violent surge of arcane energy erupted from the formation, tearing through space itself. Light twisted and collapsed inward, forming a massive rift that stabilized just enough to hold.
Beyond it, a different sky. Draenor. The connection is locked.
Leylin exhaled slowly.
"Stability confirmed."
The first stage—Complete.
Behind him, the evacuation began.
Civilians approached cautiously at first, their steps hesitant as they stared into the unknown. Fear lingered in their eyes, mixed with exhaustion, uncertainty, and fragile hope.
But there was no alternative. One by one—They stepped through. And vanished.
Leylin did not move. He watched. Calculated. Adjusted.
Every passage strained the portal. Every individual added weight to the connection, forcing Leylin to redistribute energy, reinforce structural integrity, maintain alignment between two entirely separate worlds.
There was no margin for error. Because error meant collapse.
Far away, in Terokkar Forest, the first arrivals emerged. They stumbled forward, disoriented, their expressions shifting from fear to disbelief as they realized they were still alive.
Alleria watched them. Elves. Humans. Civilians. Wounded. Exhausted. Alive. Her expression softened just slightly.
"…you made it," she whispered.
Behind her, her forces moved quickly, guiding the arrivals, offering aid, restoring order. The camp expanded. Not chaotically. But with purpose.
Back within Windrunner Village, the flow continued. Group after group passed through. The numbers dwindled. Time narrowed.
And still—The portal held.
At the edge of the formation, another presence remained.
Jaina Proudmoore stood still, her staff lowered, her breath uneven as she stared at the massive construct before her.
"…this isn't possible," she whispered.
Her gaze shifted. To Leylin.
"I've studied portal magic my entire life," she said slowly. "Even the most advanced gateways require anchors… stabilizing foci… external power—"
"This one doesn't."
She turned. Tyr'ganal and Aminel approached, their expressions sharp, their movements controlled.
"…he did it alone," Tyr'ganal said.
The realization settled heavily. Jaina's eyes widened slightly.
"…that's not sustainable."
"No," Aminel said quietly.
"It isn't."
Because the truth was far worse. Leylin stood unmoving. But beneath the surface, everything strained.
His mind operated across multiple layers, each one managing a different aspect of the portal. Spatial alignment. Dimensional anchoring. Energy distribution. Temporal synchronization.
Each demanded perfection. Each demanded power. And there was only one source. Him.
"…consumption rate is increasing," he noted internally.
Mana reserves were no longer enough. So he drew deeper. Past the surface. Past the reserves. Into something more fundamental. Something finite.
The portal flickered. Just for a moment. Jaina stepped forward.
"Leylin—!"
"It's stable," he said immediately.
And it was. Because he forced it to be.
Far beyond the city—The Scourge arrived. Their presence darkened the horizon, a wave of death pressing forward without pause.
At their head—Arthas stopped. His gaze lifted. Towards the city.
"…Soon, it shall fall," he murmured. Frostmourne pulsed. "…It is inevitable."
Back at the portal, Leylin's voice remained calm.
"…final phase."
Only a few remained. The last of the evacuation. Jaina stepped closer.
"You can't keep this up."
"I don't need to," Leylin replied. A pause. "I only need to finish."
The final group crossed. Silence followed. The portal remained open. Waiting. Leylin stood alone beneath it.
Between two worlds. Behind him, the Scourge approached. Before him, salvation.
"…Leylin…"
Jaina hesitated.
For the first time, he turned. And something shifted. Not weakness nor fear but weight.
"Go," he said.
She didn't argue. She stepped back and crossed.
Leylin turned once more. Toward the approaching darkness. The portal behind him glowed steadily.
But now, there was no one left. Only him. And the cost. The ground trembled. The Scourge roared. Arthas advanced.
And Leylin, held the door open. Until the very last moment.