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(A/N: Chapter 109 will soon be on Patreon!)
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(Now back to the story!)
The sounds of roars, screeches, and maddened cackles rang across the battlefield as wave after wave of Beastkin charged toward the walls of Silvermoon City.
They paid little heed to the horrific casualties inflicted upon them by Elven artillery, arrows, fire, and magic.
If anything, every fallen Beastkin was immediately replaced by two more.
For every warband incinerated, an even larger one followed behind, trampling over the bodies of their fallen kin in their eagerness to reach the city.
The Daemons, however, employed a different strategy.
The servants of Khorne remained behind the Beastkin hordes.
Though they were far from pleased about it—and made their displeasure known very loudly—they had been ordered to begin their assault only after the outer walls had been breached.
The servants of Tzeentch focused on magical bombardment.
Sorcerous barrages rained down upon the city's defenses while powerful Heralds and ambitious Daemon Princes used their greater powers to punch temporary holes through the magical barrier protecting Silvermoon, allowing enemy forces to pour through.
The servants of Nurgle occupied some of the most forward positions alongside the bloodthirsty Beastkin.
Not only did their resilience and regeneration make them exceptionally effective "tanks", but the plagues surrounding them infected both the physical environment and the metaphysical space around them.
The land itself withered into diseased wastelands.
Even worse, the corruption clogged and tainted the local magical currents, making it increasingly difficult for magically gifted High Elves to draw upon the energies of the Aether/Warp.
It even interfered with their connection to the Sunwell.
And finally there were the Daemons of Slaanesh.
Much to the fury of the Khornate legions, they had been granted the honor of leading the first assaults against the defenders.
The reasoning was simple.
They were among the fastest and most technically skilled Daemons in existence.
Their task was to overwhelm the defenders through speed, precision, and relentless aggression while their unnatural presence spread confusion and temptation among the Elven ranks.
It also did not help that Slaanesh had developed what could only be described as an unhealthy fascination with the Elves of this world.
The Dark Prince desired to savor their souls.
Unfortunately for Slaanesh's followers, most of the Elves they had encountered throughout the war had been Night Elves.
For reasons the Daemons still did not fully understand, those Elves seemed unusually experienced when it came to fighting creatures like them.
That was before accounting for their immense skill.
The sole exception had been the High Elf known as Alleria Windrunner.
Unfortunately, obtaining her soul had proven nearly impossible.
She was almost always found fighting alongside the Night Elves, Alastor, or other Alliance champions.
Not to mention any Daemon, Beastkin, or Undead foolish enough to face her was swiftly cut down or skewered by one or several of her arrows.
Even more frustrating was another mystery.
Whenever a Night Elf died, their soul would "vanish" almost immediately upon entering the Warp.
At first, the Daemons believed the phenomenon resembled the Spirit Stones used by the Craftworld Eldar.
Others theorized that a World Spirit might be involved.
Neither explanation proved correct.
In fact, the phenomenon was not limited to the Night Elves.
Every soul from Azeroth seemed to "disappear" shortly after entering the Warp.
The realization infuriated the Chaos Gods and frustrated their Daemonic servants.
As if the invasion had not already been difficult enough.
From the moment they arrived, Azeroth had delivered one unpleasant surprise after another.
Its people were far more tenacious and defiant than expected.
Then the invaders discovered that the world possessed a structured magical system.
There was the Holy Light, an unknown power proven dangerous to Daemons.
There were Druids capable of wielding nature itself as a weapon.
There were Paladins, Knights, Archmages, and countless other powerful defenders.
And now they had learned they could not even harvest souls in the easiest manner they knew!
Technically, it was Tzeentch, Nurgle, and Slaanesh who were most displeased by these discoveries.
Khorne's anger stemmed from an entirely different source.
He was furious because he could not claim the souls of Azeroth's greatest warriors.
While all four Chaos Gods desired Azeroth and its inhabitants, the more they learned about the world—and the more information they gathered regarding the second son of the Anathema—the stronger their interest became.
For Khorne, that interest had evolved into outright desire.
Azeroth fascinated him.
Its people fascinated him.
And Alastor fascinated him most of all.
The servants of Khorne were arguably the only Daemons truly enjoying themselves despite the setbacks.
After all, Azeroth possessed no shortage of brave, skilled, and powerful warriors.
For Khorne and his followers, few pleasures rivaled battling worthy opponents head-on.
The skulls of such warriors carried far greater value than those of weaklings.
Indeed, the Blood God had entertained the thought more than once.
Why share Azeroth with the other three gods?
Why not fight them instead and claim the world entirely for himself?
Transform it into his own personal Daemon World rather than another realm dedicated to Chaos Undivided.
Which made the current situation all the more torturous.
He could see these magnificent warriors.
He could watch them fight.
Yet he could not claim their souls and remake them as his own servants!?
<---------------------------------->
Malak scowled as he stared at distant Silvermoon City while his armies relentlessly assaulted its defenses.
Nothing was going well.
In fact, everything was going wrong!
For many years, Malak had remained hidden.
After taking vengeance upon those responsible for destroying his life and murdering his family, he had disappeared into the shadows.
Yet his revenge had never felt complete.
Too many enemies still remained alive.
So he had remained patient.
He increased his power in secret, operating from the darkness while obeying every command the Chaos Gods delivered through visions and dreams.
No matter how cruel.
No matter how monstrous.
Then came the revelation.
The arrival of the demigod son of the one the Gods called the Anathema.
Through whispers carried by their servants, the Ruinous Powers informed Malak of their desire for this newcomer.
And from that moment onward, everything changed.
This was exactly the type of opportunity Malak had been waiting for.
As the strongest mortal servant of Chaos on Azeroth, he had been promised unimaginable rewards if he successfully delivered both the Primarch and Azeroth itself to the Ruinous Powers.
Ascension to Daemonhood as a Daemon Prince was only the beginning.
The Four Gods had even offered him an additional boon.
Should he succeed, he would not merely ascend—he would begin his new existence as a high-ranking Daemon Prince within whichever of the Four Courts he chose.
And beyond that, Azeroth would finally become the enlightened world he had always envisioned.
No longer an isolated cage trapped within its own reality.
No longer cut off from the greater galaxy due to "safety".
Thus, after confirming the Primarch's arrival, Malak immediately began putting his plans into motion.
The revelation that Alastor had been adopted by Llane Wrynn only strengthened his resolve.
If he succeeded, he would not only please the Gods but also spit in the eye of the self-righteous bastard he'd always despised.
For more than a decade, Malak used every resource available to him to prepare for what he believed would be Azeroth's final war.
He accounted for contingencies.
He established countermeasures.
He planned for every variable he could imagine.
Then, at long last, he set the final stage into motion.
First, he and his followers would spread chaos and instability throughout the north.
The Undead plague would be unleashed.
Frostmourne would find a suitable vessel.
And when the first bells of war rang across the continent, Alterac's great ritual would activate.
Long-range communications would be disrupted.
The primary Warp Portal would become both the source of Daemonic reinforcements and the anchor for Chaos sorcery and blessings.
Azeroth itself would be engulfed by Warp storms.
With the main rift established, additional temporary portals would be opened.
Through them, his armies would strike at the southern Human kingdoms and the Dwarven realms.
Supply lines would collapse.
Kingdoms would be isolated.
Their eventual destruction would become inevitable.
As for Stormwind and the Primarch...
Malak had prepared something special.
Through his "alliance" with Gul'dan, he arranged for Grimgor Ironhide himself to pursue Alastor.
As brutish as the Ork was, his strength was undeniable.
Malak had believed Grimgor would either kill Alastor outright or, at the very least, keep him occupied in the south.
With all these preparations...
With all this planning...
And considering how successful the first phase of the war had been...
Malak had genuinely believed victory was inevitable.
Even a demigod should have struggled to untangle such a catastrophic mess.
AND YET THEY WERE THE ONES LOSING!
His fists clenched.
There were countless reasons why everything had gone wrong.
But at the center of every disaster stood one man.
Alastor fucking Wrynn!
Malak had been shown visions of Primarchs.
He knew what they were generally capable of.
That knowledge was precisely why he had prepared Grimgor.
Yet not only had Alastor slain both Grimgor and Gul'dan at Stormwind...
The damned demigod had somehow awakened a form of sacred flame uniquely devastating to the forces of Chaos.
Then Alastor proceeded to undo nearly everything Malak had accomplished.
He broke the sieges.
He liberated kingdoms.
He united nations.
And somehow he transformed a fractured coalition into a single Alliance under his leadership.
An Alliance now supported by some of the greatest heroes on Azeroth.
Then came Alterac.
The city had fallen.
The Warp Portal had been destroyed.
Lordaeron had been sacrificed, but even that loss achieved nothing.
Malak had known the kingdom would eventually be reclaimed.
Especially once the Red Dragonflight openly joined the Alliance war effort.
With the primary source of Daemonic reinforcements destroyed and Azeroth's connection to the Realms of Chaos significantly weakened, Malak had been forced to redirect every remaining reserve of Warp energy simply to maintain the corporeal forms of his Daemons.
And even that was becoming increasingly difficult.
The Beastkin and Daemons currently gathered before Silvermoon represented the last truly significant Chaos force remaining on Azeroth.
The Scourge was finished.
Arthas was dead.
Slain by Alastor's own hand.
And without him, the Undead were being purged with alarming speed.
Malak was no fool.
He knew exactly what came next.
Alastor was not merely marching north to restore order.
He was not merely seeking to destroy the hosts of Chaos.
He was hunting him.
Personally.
The realization made Malak feel something he had not experienced in a very long time.
Fear.
There was not a single faction on Azeroth that did not want him dead for one reason or another.
But Alastor was different.
Because of Llane Wrynn.
Malak had no doubt that if given the opportunity, Alastor would gladly destroy his very soul for murdering his adoptive father.
Forget the rewards promised by the Gods.
Forget Daemonhood.
Forget glory.
At this point, merely surviving felt like an impossible challenge!
Each passing day reduced the number of places he could flee.
Each passing victory by the Alliance tightened the noose around his neck.
And so, in his desperation, he made one final gamble.
Quel'Thalas.
More specifically...
The Sunwell.
He no longer needed another massive Warp Rift.
Nor some grand ritual spanning continents.
This would be his final attempt.
His last chance.
If it failed...
Then he truly had no options left.
Malak frowned as he glanced toward the Black Mage standing beside him.
"Inform the Masque that she and her sisters may move."
The mage immediately bowed.
Malak's expression darkened.
"Tell her to find Sylvanas Windrunner."
A cruel scowl appeared across his face.
"And kill her."
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