Is'Ney-Azshara, royal palace.
"I assume you didn't invite me as a guest just to maintain a meaningful silence?" Lin said when the pause that arose after the closing of the portal from Dalaran began to stretch.
"Patience, Illidan Stormrage, patience," Azshara replied, not letting the jab pass her long ears; she had been sitting until then with the air of a "queen in thought, do not disturb." "Your sarcasm is misplaced; we shall settle something now, and then discuss our business."
She did not specify that, depending on the results of the first, they might not get to the second. A few hours ago, when Azshara had personally set out to find the "daddy" of her little daughter, she had, so to speak, laid some straw, planting doubts in Maywell as to whether the other parent loved her as much as Mama did, and whether he would even recognize her upon meeting... if he even wanted to meet at all. Of course, these preparations were meant to be a prelude to the news of the father's death, but even in this situation, a use could be found for this card.
A light rustle was heard behind the young man. Turning his head slightly, he saw with his peripheral vision that the door leaves, previously tightly closed, were now flung wide open, and someone was running toward them, toward the throne. A moment later, a white whirlwind rushed past, turning into a young Elf who looked like a carbon copy of Azshara. The unknown Midget settled herself on the latter's lap. The family-style tight embrace only confirmed Lin's hasty conclusions that nothing Elven was foreign to the Queen—not even such a concept as family.
Lin watched the pair with interest, letting the standard girlish cooing pass his ears and reflecting on the vagaries of fate: if someone had told him ten thousand years ago that the Great Azshara would settle down—he would have simply laughed in the joker's face. Being absorbed in his thoughts, the young man did not immediately notice that the "girls" had finished their exchange of news, and now both the adult Elf sitting on the throne and the young person situated on the lap of her elder relative were staring silently at the Human frozen before them.
"What?" a clear question appeared on the face of the guest, who was examining the "hospitable" hostess and her unexpected daughter.
However, the answer only confused everything further.
"It's him," Maywell finally confirmed her mother's suspicions.
There was something strange in the young Elf's gaze. A mixture of burning curiosity, inexplicable expectation, and obvious anxiety, put on display, hid something else beneath it... But Azshara did not intend to test the patience of her daughter, who, thanks to the impressions of the long-awaited meeting with her second parent, could break the entire plan to cast the father's authority to the very bottom—a plan cooked up literally on the fly in those minutes when she had met Illidan Stormrage. Maywell might at any second violate her mother's request, which she had conveyed to her using the magic of The Mind immediately upon returning to the palace, and therefore the Queen asked Illidan Stormrage directly, simply, head-on:
"Do you recognize this girl?" She stroked the child's head, ruffling the complex hairstyle and turning it into a beautiful example of materialized white chaos with bits of order sticking out of it—a pair of thin braids.
Judging by her smiling face, the girl not only did not object to such a manifestation of affection but, on the contrary, welcomed it.
Lin broke the exchange of looks with the presumed daughter of his former Queen and looked at Azshara, slowly shaking his head.
"First time I've seen her. Your daughter?"
"Yes, mine," Azshara smiled so sincerely that the hero of the War of the Ancients was taken aback, failing to hold back his emotions and allowing them to show on his face.
But then the sincerity vanished, leaving behind the more familiar triumphant sneer of the Queen, and it was this that returned Lin's lost composure... for a single moment.
"Papa, how can this be?!" tears welled up in the girl's eyes. "Mama was right, you don't love me!"
Lin opened his mouth but could not extract anything coherent—the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head was too powerful and swift, leaving it completely empty by the end. This sudden carousel was completed by the assumption of a joke, but nothing of the sort was read in Azshara's gaze, and therefore his subconscious discarded it as non-constructive. But nothing lasts forever, and the stupor that had seized one of the participants in the scene gradually faded away.
"Azshara?" the young man asked, not delaying in clarifying the question: "What kind of performance have you put on here? Don't I deserve at least the help of a prompter in such a case? Because I feel like an idiot who understands nothing."
"Don't worry, nothing was required of you except an honest answer to one question," the adult Elf smiled happily, clutching her squirming daughter in her arms.
"So who is this girl?"
"You don't need to know; the main thing is—you admitted that you are not her father."
"Well, for the sake of justice, it's worth noting that I didn't say that..." At that moment, amber eyes flashed dangerously, and Lin realized that this question was very important to the woman who had invited him as a guest, which meant it was critical for the safety of his hide, and so he hurried to continue his thought: "But, definitely, I physically, neither in my past nor in my current body, can in any way be the father of this lovely girl," he added a compliment at the end, knowing that such things have a very positive effect on the mood of parents, and the latter was always in short supply in conversations with Azshara.
Apparently, such an answer satisfied the strongest mage among the Elves, and so she again switched her attention to her daughter, addressing her with the words:
"Do you still want to 'visit' with 'Papa'? You see, he is not interested in you and doesn't even recognize you..."
"No!" Maywell managed to twist out of the tenacious clutches of her loving parent with a sliding movement and stepped toward the candidate for a lost family member, reaching out her palm.
Lin, meanwhile, froze, instinctively realizing that his life hung by a thin thread. From the context of the conversation, he was no fool and had already guessed that the young representative of the Elven people was very important to Azshara, and the fact that the child for some reason considered him her father was immensely unnerving the Queen. So much so that she wanted to send her old acquaintance for a repeat reincarnation. The owner of the throne stared gloomily at the headache of the last few weeks, but she was in no hurry to take any action yet, which Lin interpreted as permission for further "communication" with the girl who remained nameless to him, and he also reached out his hand.
At the moment of the cautious contact of the two palms, the pair of newly minted relatives froze. The rapid exchange of images through the resulting empathic connection passed unnoticed, even by Azshara, but the result of this silent "conversation" could only be missed by someone completely blind. At some point, the young man and the girl moved slightly, and their figures quickly dissolved in the air—the effect of short-distance teleportation remained unchanged even in the case where the author of the spell was an Avatar of the Source. Regarding the latter, by the way, Azshara guessed almost immediately, allowing a paranoid thought about her daughter's kidnapping to seize her mind for only a moment before immediately discarding it—Illidan Stormrage's current body did not possess such a powerful potential in magic to break through the anti-portal charms fueled by the Source itself.
The Queen jumped up from her seat and also vanished, guessing that the missing pair should be sought in the most sacred place of the Elven lands. A teleport, a short dash through the corridors, and there she was before the entrance to the place of concentration of Azeroth's magical energy. The doors, which seemed indestructible, swung open from a light push, and the following view opened before Azshara. It turned out that Illidan Stormrage had taken her favorite spot on the ledge while Maywell had settled nearby and, dangling her legs in the Source, was splashing in the glowing "water" and telling the former Elf something.
"Mom! He's definitely my papa!"
Azshara froze for a moment, keeping the bad words bursting to get out under control, and then finally allowed herself a barely perceptible sigh as a reward for her victory over her emotions. But inside, she did not stop asking herself: they had only been separated for a minute—what could one possibly ask a stranger to so confidently count him among one's closest? Of course, one could not ignore the connection that helped Maywell in her search for her father, but just now, thanks to Azshara's simple trick, her beloved daughter had learned that Illidan Stormrage knew nothing about her! So how?!
"He can't even be killed now! At least not in the near future... I don't want to find out how the mental pain of an Avatar will affect the Source..." Objective thoughts ended, and the inexperienced mother could only silently watch the idyllic picture of the father and daughter's reunion...
"Azshara, I think we need to talk," the newly minted daddy contributed his part, looking hardly older than his own "flesh and blood."
"Yes... perhaps."
***
Somewhere in the Twisting Nether.
A fairly large flat boulder had once been part of an inhabited world, and now, lifeless, it drifted slowly in the Great Void... But then, at some point, the usual course of things changed, as had happened more than once over the last twenty-five thousand years. On the surface, which could very conventionally be called the top, a huge red-skinned Demon appeared—one could not say otherwise, for he was massive, horned, with hooves and breathing Fel—all the attributes of a supporter of the Burning Legion were present, and one could tell at a glance that the arrival was part of the high command.
A second after appearing, the Archdemon was already seating himself at a table created by magic, and a few moments later, a very similar individual, only with blue skin, took the seat opposite him. The growths that adorned their chins instead of the beards familiar to most sapient beings identified them as Eredar—inhabitants of Argus, the very world whose fragment had become the site of their meeting. And apparently, the latter was by no means accidental—Sargeras's henchmen were either allowing themselves a bit of nostalgia or indulging a perverted sense—admiring the result of the betrayal of their people, in which they had distinguished themselves exactly twenty-five thousand years ago...
It wasn't that the two old friends were swamped with work, but they didn't like to waste time either, and so before they had even settled in, a "friendly" conversation began between them.
"Kil'jaeden," the last arrival said, "your vaunted Nathrezim are treading water and stalling. The deadlines have passed, and the Plan is not moving."
"Circumstances of force majeure," the "boss" of the Dreadlords replied calmly and quickly.
"Really? Since when did flying lizards become such?" the chief military commander of Sargeras showed considerable awareness, though he did not go overboard with sarcasm toward his colleague, who held the position of "chief" of spies in the Legion.
"Roughly since the elders of their flights became Aspects," the Archdemon politely explained the balance of power on Azeroth to his brother.
"And so? Did the Aspects appear yesterday or perhaps a week ago? They've been marinating in that jar with undying spiders for fifty millennia—and failing to account for the Titan-spawn and the Void's regurgitation in your actions means admitting your own impotence."
"And so?" the red-skinned Demon allowed displeasure to show on his face. "It is already clear that the Nathrezim are mediocre executors of collective tasks; they only want to intrigue to their heart's content. But at least, albeit with some deviations, the main business is moving slowly forward..."
"Exactly, 'slowly.' Have you forgotten the saying? 'Better once on time than twice correctly.' Who will need their Army of Undead if all of Azeroth is seized by these cunning little gods? Do you think your vaunted Nathrezim will be able to reach the Source if they have to fight their way through every meter? And I doubt that after the Void's victory on Azeroth, anything worthy of our master's attention will remain... except perhaps corrupted Sources."
"The Maelstrom, Archimonde, the Maelstrom," Kil'jaeden prompted with a sneer, the latter referring to the fact that in the worst-case scenario, according to the backup plan, it would not be the clever Nathrezim who would have to break through, but rather the main military contingent of the Legion—the subordinates of the Dark Titan's left hand. "It cannot be used directly, of course, but energy is energy, regardless of its alignment."
The former Eredar were silent.
"Fine, and now to the point," the "first after god" concluded the exchange of barbs. "What about the main plan?"
"There is progress, and the Army of Undead will soon be ready, but there is little hope for success—we have carefully studied the defenses of Quel'Thalas; the Elves are too well fortified."
"Then I suggest making Plan B the primary one."
"Hmm... That is your domain. How soon and how quickly can you transfer troops to Draenor?"
"That depends on how quickly the Naaru and their satellites, as well as the Elven scouts, locals, Human research groups, or whoever else is prowling the fragments of Draenor, find out about the invasion. But that is your task—to cover us from them or make them shut up."
To which Kil'jaeden shook his head.
"All the main specialists are busy playing hide-and-seek with dragons, Elves, and N'Zoth on Azeroth. I can spare a few Nathrezim, but you will have to manage with your own forces. In the end, secrecy will become largely irrelevant at a certain stage. Agree—it is better to do everything quickly and not give the enemy time to use the information than to drag it out to the last, hoping that no one found out anything. You know yourself— our Legions are not among those things that are easily hidden."
"Fine," Archimonde agreed after a few seconds of thought. "Then shall we coordinate the time?.."
***
Is'Ney-Azshara, royal palace.
"You've stepped on the same rake again: instead of uniting in the face of a common threat (that is, swearing a magical oath to me and toiling, toiling for the good of Quel'Thalas...), you've started putting spokes in my wheels again. I was negotiating with the Dwarves about joining the alliance. I provided them with a whole heap of evidence of the danger of Fel and the Void. And just as success in persuading these thick-headed Midgets was in sight, you showed up and multiplied all the efforts of years of work by zero! Though, of course, these stubborn bearded ones are also something: 'we have our own Elves now, we can tell Azshara where to go!' And the Humans? They are under my direct protection! They are, one might say, my brainchild! What did you lose in Stormwind?! Apparently, my advisors were right when they said I treated your transgressions too forgivingly..." Azshara conducted a monologue to herself, reading through intelligence reports. One didn't need to be a genius to understand exactly to whom this mental address was directed.
However, in reality, this was merely an attempt to fight fire with fire. Azshara was very much bothered by the results of the negotiations with the unexpectedly appeared Illidan Stormrage, which is why she, to distract herself, grabbed onto one thing then another and ultimately still returned to the events of the past day...
"... So you're saying that Maywell told you about her nature and connected you to my Source?"
Lin didn't need any deep experience in communicating with the Queen to guess that she was, to put it mildly, indignant about what she had heard.
"After everything I've heard, it's very strange to hear even from such a possessive person as you that it's your Source," if Illidan Stormrage had been intimidated by Azshara, he never could have taken a place beside her, practically becoming equal in status to such odious personalities as Lord Kur'talos Ravencrest, who commanded the army during the War of the Ancients, or Varo'then, who was the captain of the Queen's personal guard, despite not even being one of the Quel'dorei. However, for the sake of objectivity, it's worth noting that the aforementioned Kur'talos Ravencrest also did not belong to the Highborne caste...
"It is mine in every sense of the word: I created the Source, and Maywell is my daughter."
"I don't see how the second follows from the first for you. Doesn't it follow from this whole story that it's Maywell's Source, and you're just her mama?"
"Just?!"
"Fine, fine. Beloved mama," Lin corrected himself, beginning to find the situation as a whole amusing. He already realized that after everything that had happened, immediate execution did not threaten him. "But—mama, not owner. You don't consider this lovely creature property, do you?"
"Stop playing with words, Illidan Stormrage," Azshara composed herself, though in such situations, when it concerned Maywell, it was not easy for her, especially lately. "The Source and Maywell are one and the same. And in saying that Maywell is mine, I imply that she is my daughter, no more, but no less... Do not provoke me."
"Oh..." Lin felt awkward—angering Azshara too much was not in his plans.
"Better tell me how my dear little daughter managed to pull all this off in a couple of minutes."
"Oh..." the young man repeated, but this time with light surprise. "Actually, the conversation lasted no less than two hours... but now that you've mentioned a couple of minutes, I realize that it wasn't so simple."
"Time Magic... that little brat!"
And so much was mixed in that exclamation: a sense of pride in her daughter's success, surprise, joy, and a whole heap of different intonations and overtones—that Lin couldn't help himself and began to be seditious again:
"Azshara, you should have gotten a daughter ten thousand years ago, or better yet fifteen, and not one, but five at once—for insurance."
"What are you implying?!" the Highborne Elf switched from mercy to wrath in an instant.
"Nothing," Lin replied quickly, smiling inwardly—teasing the power-hungry Queen turned out to be a fun activity. "Maybe instead of family squabbles..."
At these words, a crack was heard from the enchanted stone throne beneath Azshara, as if it were holding on with its last strength and was about to crumble into dust.
"... Ahem, so, maybe we should better discuss the problem of the Legion and N'Zoth?"
Before answering, the Queen, darkening, waited for the appropriate pause.
"I see you've completely relaxed in that Human skin. I am not your Friend, Illidan Stormrage. One more joke from you, and believe me, I will find a way to deal with you, one that won't upset Maywell. For example, you have a little Friend-apprentice..."
"Enough threats, Azshara," Lin frowned now. "If you looked at us from the outside, impartially, you would realize that what we are doing is exactly squabbling. I suggest returning to a more important topic."
"I am Queen Azshara, and I decide what is important and what is not!" the Elf on the throne grew angry, but she did it more out of habit—the main heat of passion had subsided.
"That's better," he praised her. "So, about N'Zoth..."
"Why should I discuss this with you?" this time the snark was on her side. "Who are you that I should consult with you on geopolitical problems? Perhaps an Archmage, a hero of the War of the Ancients, or, say, the possessor of unique eyes and tattoos? You are a Human Mage with weak potential, whom even a connection to the Source won't help to quickly cast high-rank spells. You were off somewhere when I needed reliable executors, and now you've come to everything ready-made and want to stand beside me? Don't get ahead of yourself, Illidan Stormrage. I called you to settle the matter of your presumed fatherhood of Maywell, not at all to talk about Sargeras and N'Zoth."
"So in your arrogance, you will reject my support, my experience? Strange, and I heard that these days the Quel'dorei have changed significantly and do not disdain anyone's help."
"Is that so? And do you have something to offer?"
"That's what I was trying to start with, but actually, even if I had nothing, isn't the help of an experienced mage, albeit a weak one, who is well-acquainted with the situation—already more than nothing?"
"You tire me... Apparently, to get you to leave me alone, I'll have to listen to your fairy tales. Go on, you can start," Azshara settled in more comfortably, resting her head on her fist with her cheekbone against her extended index finger, and prepared to listen with such a bored look as if she were about to be told a tedious story she had heard at least a hundred times already...
...And on the whole, her expectations were met. The story of Illidan Stormrage's adventures was not filled with amazing events and fit into five minutes. But his magical research looked interesting enough; however, she herself had long understood the potential of cooperation with the Gnomes, and her own researchers were busy studying the inventions of the Midgets and conducting experiments similar to Illidan's.
"Your Friend is right about the magnifying glasses—their magical version is not without flaws that an opponent can too easily use to neutralize the effect of the spell. As a one-time trump card—yes, but it won't do for everyday use."
"It's just an idea," he shrugged in response. "Raw, unfinished, but in my view, promising in its potential... And I have many such ideas."
"Fine, fine, you've convinced me—you'll be of use: you were always good at adapting. But since today is a day of revelations, I can tell you 'family-style' that we no longer have time for scientific research. A year or two at most, and Azeroth will plunge into the abyss of War. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow."
- All my developments are the result of four years of research. So two years is a significant amount of time. And, by the way, why are you only interested in Gnomes? I have gleaned many interesting concepts and theories from Humans, though perhaps they have already been found by you during my absence, and it was your subjects who passed them on to the Dalaran Mages.
"Write down your findings and send them through Anasterian," Azshara, Queen of the Nagas dismissed the young man's latest attempt to draw her attention to the potential of scientific research. "Now, let us return to a more important topic."
Illidan sighed… mentally.
"Maybe I should just swear to you on one of your magical trinkets that I won't try to harm Maywell in any way or use her or… well, whatever else you come up with—and we can end it at that?"
"A wonderful suggestion!" the girl immediately brightened. "Let's discuss the phrasing…"
------------------//------------------
Northrend.
How do you hide tens of thousands of dead, the vast majority of whom were elite Undead and possessed corresponding dimensions? Especially under conditions where the dragons, with heavy hearts, had enlisted their brethren from the Black Dragonflight—known experts in everything concerning Earth Magic—to join the search for Nathrezim shelters in the mountains. But the Dreadlords were able to find an answer to this difficult question, and now dozens of seemingly unremarkable icebergs drifted around Northrend, lost among thousands of their kin… for now. Of course, should anyone crack open one of these specimens, they would be very surprised by the contents of the "nut" and would not be at all happy about it.
Convenient, practical, and it solved the issue of stealthy delivery to the eastern continent: whether to the shores of Tirisfal or to Quel'Thalas itself. Though the latter, given the complex situation in the coastal waters of the Elven Kingdom, was undesirable—a clash with N'Zoth's army was not planned until they seized the Source and organized a stationary portal into the Twisting Nether for Sargeras and the countless demonic hordes.
Yes, of course, such a ruse did not provide the same mobility as portals, but icebergs, shielded to the maximum from emanations of Death, were practically impossible to track unless one knew what to look for and did so purposefully; otherwise, chunks of ice near northern shores in winter surprise no one. The Nathrezim, for their part, had never had a single defector in all their history, though this was ensured not by some kind of loyalty, but by their own scheming nature and fear of the power of the Fallen Titan.
A year after the plan went into effect, the guests from the north were expected to reach the shores of Lordaeron; during this time, everything was to be prepared for a swift takeover of the kingdom, replenishment of the army, and an attack on Quel'Thalas. An attack on the elves seemed like madness, especially from the southern side, protected by natural defenses—mountains—and heavily patrolled by the long-ears, despite the fact that they bordered their allies there. And that was indeed the case, if one did not know that right now, hired Dwarves were busily tunneling under the mountains, laying paths past all the cordons identified over the last few hundred years of continuous reconnaissance. And no, the Ironforge shorties hadn't gone mad by associating with demons; they simply believed they were fulfilling an order for their League of Explorers, which, as all interested parties knew, you couldn't keep from sending a couple of archaeological expeditions into Quel'Thalas—or better yet, a couple of dozen, just to be sure. For generous pay, the shorties, fueled by patriotic sentiments (working for the League was considered quite prestigious among them), were digging to a serious depth.
As a backup plan, an aerial Undead landing was being considered. But for now, this project was in the development stage because the Nathrezim had not yet decided exactly how the Undead would get into the air. On zeppelins? Slow and unreliable. On frost wyrms? There were too few of them to use as transport vehicles, and the resurrected dragons pressed into Ner'zhul's service were one of the pinnacles of the art of Necromancy, which did not imply a mindless waste of their potential. Portals? On one hand, anti-portal wards could be bypassed—it was enough to open portals of any "flavor and color" at an altitude of several kilometers—but on the other, falling from such a height would have an extremely negative effect on the integrity of the army, even if it was unliving, to the point of being completely unfit for battle. The latter option had various nuances, such as opening a portal over lakes, of which there were plenty in the enemy's territory, some of them located in dangerous proximity to the capital that needed to be captured. Of course, in the water, the Undead would seriously lose mobility, but that was a solvable issue. That was why the third method of implementing the backup plan was currently in the lead.
However, Tichondrius, placed in charge of the operation by Lord Kil'jaeden, did not know that N'Zoth had been trying for many centuries not just to conduct reconnaissance, but to spite the elves, and many of the ruse currently devised by the Nathrezim had already been tried by the Old God, and therefore the elves had their own countermeasures. But that discovery was still over a year away. Why a year? Because the Nathrezim, who had overstayed his welcome on Azeroth, was about to receive the order that would start the countdown…
------------------//------------------
Somewhere in the Twilight Highlands.
"You dare to challenge me?! Fools!"
In the air, echoing across the entire area, boomed the Intimidating Shout of a huge black dragon. However, these loud words were "slightly" dissonant with the current situation. The aforementioned dragon was holding himself in the air above a couple of hundred Ogre-Mages, which looked unimpressive compared to the kin of the lizard surrounding them. And even if only the pathetic remnants of the Black Dragonflight were present, serving more as a reminder of the former power of the lineage, even so, there were several dozen black dragons, albeit slightly smaller in size (in fact, the dragons weren't small—Nefarian simply took after his father in stature).
"Nefarian!" his own sister called him by name. "We have come to end our father's madness."
"I am the one who is mad?!" the direct descendant of the Earth Aspect had enough understanding of the situation to put two and two together. "You have betrayed the will of the Father, the Earth Aspect! We, the black dragons, must rule Azeroth!.."
"Well, why don't you go ahead and say we must conquer them all to protect them from wars," Kalira, supporting herself in the air next to Onyxia, was in her usual form.
"Yes, exactly!"
Kalira shook her head in response to such words and even managed to cover her snout with a wing as a sign of disappointment without losing altitude: it wasn't for nothing that she had once maneuvered herself into the role of ambassador to be as far away from the flight leader as possible. But the exchange of barbs ended before it could truly begin. On the flat peak of the mountain where the welcoming meeting of the delegation—come for the heads of Neltharion's legacy—was taking place, changes in the terrain began to show. A part of the rock simply subsided inward, and from the resulting breach, a dragoness unhurriedly emerged. A very large and angry dragoness. And it immediately became clear why the "leader" of the Ogres had been so self-assured.
Sintharia, consort of Neltharion and concurrently the mother of Onyxia and Nefarian, appeared before the flight in all her glory. Only slightly smaller in size than her husband, she seemed the personification of that power of Earth that the Titans had once imbued into the Aspect of this element.
In response to the quite tangible threat radiating from Sintharia, a wave of tension emanated from the younger members of the black dragon flight. At the same time, Onyxia and Kalira "frowned" in sync, which in dragon form was expressed by squinting. Neither felt fear as such, and if everything was clear with the representative of the Wyrmrest Temple—reckless as a matter of fact—the biological daughter perfectly understood her mother's strength, except... Azshara was clearly stronger, even without considering that behind the elf, besides personal power, stood the might of all Quel'Thalas.
"Sintharia, what are you doing here?" Onyxia decided not to deviate from the family tradition established a few minutes ago and addressed her mother by name, as if drawing a line between herself and her close kin.
"The lineage will submit to us or die."
Onyxia glanced around briefly; uncertainty was written in the postures of her comrades. It seemed the dragons needed only one push to sway them toward the necessary decision... for example, following the son and wife of the leader who had died, notably, at the hands of the elves, under whose wing she was calling them. And Onyxia decided to be the first to throw a stone onto the scales, wagering the most valuable thing she had—her life. Small compared to the impressively appearing individual, the dragoness folded her wings and lunged downward, using magic to accelerate. Her voice, filled more than ever with power and confidence, rang across the area—she gave it her hundred percent and even added something on top:
"Follow me, brothers and sisters! We will no longer be expendable material!"
Flame, amplified by magic, burst from the dragon's throat, only to splash helplessly around a large defensive dome that shimmered in the petals of fire. It couldn't be said that the call rallied the sparse ranks of the allies all that much, but nevertheless, in small groups, the dragons rushed after the one they had entrusted to lead them into a bright future. The battle for dominance over the Black Dragonflight had begun.
It cannot be said that Onyxia and Kalira were thrilled with the idea of serving under Azshara. No, not at all—there were no "Life for Azshara" sentiments to be found here. The alternative was simply much worse—death for disobedience. Submitting to Nefarian meant life, but a short one filled with fears… the experience of the fallen nine-tenths of the Black Dragonflight confirmed this.
Whether it was luck, or Onyxia had discovered a talent for eloquence, or the surviving members of the lineage perfectly understood the current stakes, or perhaps it was simply the herd instinct—the so-called crowd effect—but whatever it was, everyone took part in the ensuing fray. No one stayed on the sidelines, as everyone could figure out that the waverers would get the short end of the stick regardless of who won. But what was more surprising was that those who had arrived for the showdown with Nefarian stood on the side of the new leader, despite the fact that a battle with a multi-millennial dragoness, who had picked up various tricks from her Aspect husband, seemed like an obvious suicidal venture.
Nefarian, who had rushed toward his mother for some unknown purpose, was intercepted in the air by a seven of his younger kin, and together they engaged in a merry-go-round of scorched snouts, torn tails, and broken wings. Another couple of dozen lizards turned their attention to the Ogres… they were not pleased and took cover from the endless stream of flame and attacking spells behind a powerful barrier set by collective efforts, not even thinking of going on the attack yet. The rest concentrated on the main threat—Sintharia—and as practice showed, not in vain. It was in the battle with the consort of the former Aspect that the first permanent losses of the entire fight occurred: a five of lizards, dodging some kind of net glowing with a nasty blue light, performed their maneuver too close to the ground and paid for it. The seemingly empty rock exploded almost instantly with stone spikes—that was what it meant to fight a mage who was first in power in Earth Magic… after the Aspect, of course. The grown spears didn't last even a couple of seconds, but that was enough—they had already done their work and, crumbling into dust, left behind five motionless dragon carcasses that thudded heavily onto the plateau.
From then on, the fight went back and forth and wasn't particularly spectacular: the dragons methodically hammered the Ogres' shield with area-of-effect spells, but it held, only now and then failing before some particularly sophisticated or high-capacity spells that pierced the defense through with narrow beams, but took only one, at most a couple of two-headed mages. Sintharia, who never took flight and remained on the plateau, occasionally managed to hit someone and drop them to the ground, where the fate of the unfortunate was unenviable but swift. Nefarian also managed to get one more opponent—but he didn't have much time to celebrate, because from the group besieging the Ogres, three lizards immediately rushed and joined the flights around the Aspect's son, and naturally, they weren't just flying there...
At this time, Kalira, who had no intention of getting involved in this crazy game of "catch the spell" with a five of kin from her—if one could put it that way—retinue, was composing a water whip spell—a "slightly" modified Frostbolt. Sintharia's low activity (dying kin would certainly not agree with such a phrasing) made her nervous and hurried, and therefore prone to making annoying and completely unnecessary mistakes. But whatever the oldest dragoness was up to, the ambassador and her assistants managed to finish their preparations first.
A narrow lash formed in the air, the end of which, instead of striking the most dangerous opponent, wrapped around her son's neck, overcoming his defense and drawing into itself, pulling the entire water stream along with it. Nefarian hit it as if he had run into a wall, freezing in the air in the middle of another evasive maneuver, which those participating in the merry aerial carousel did not hesitate to exploit. Streams of dragon flame and several spells struck the magical dome surrounding his bulk, which stood out against his opponents. Moreover, the subsequent failure did not deter the attackers, and new spells rushed into the shimmering grayish coating.
Meanwhile, Nefarian tried to get rid of the ring tightening around his neck. A couple of seconds later, after the "treacherous" attack, the protective sphere filled with fire, chosen as the antagonist to the water structure of the enemy spell. The support group, due to the sharply increased consumption of maintained spells, began to flap their wings awkwardly and out of sync and slowly descend. Kalira, making desperate efforts to accelerate the tightening of the ring, decided to invest the maximum available resources: her own defense and levitation spells vanished, and her attention concentrated exclusively on the task at hand.
And such self-sacrifice bore fruit; events began to develop rapidly. Sintharia, monitoring what was happening to some extent, could not help but notice the disappearance of the protective dome of the bold girl who had attacked her son, and reacted immediately, ceasing to form an amplified fire arrow to pierce her armor and instead throwing an ordinary lightning bolt—the fastest spell in her arsenal, calculating that for one defenseless dragoness, such would be more than enough. The only thing Sintharia did not take into account was that the target of her spell would start to fall—not just descend, but specifically fall. No matter how fast natural lightning was, its magical counterpart was noticeably inferior in speed, and so it was not surprising that it passed by, right over the head of the overly focused Kalira.
A moment later, Nefarian's defense collapsed, and the fire raging beneath it vanished. The falling body of the Aspect's son was immediately "caressed" by the dragons circling around, but it proved unnecessary: the body and head fell separately; Neltharion's male line was severed.
Kalira managed to come to her senses well before meeting the ground and before Sintharia could repeat the attack with lead time or use Earth Magic. The ambassador needed a few seconds to gain altitude and rejoin her team, which looked exceptionally battered despite not participating directly in the fray. Meanwhile, the freed forces joined together to fall upon the Ogres: which was quite logical, since even if the natives of Draenor did not participate directly in the battle, by the mere fact of their existence, they blocked quite large forces of the black dragons who desired freedom. Kalira, assessing the situation, decided to join Onyxia: the Ogres would have more than enough reinforcements, but the squad circling Sintharia could use some help.
With the joining of Kalira's group, a turning point arrived for the consort of the dead Aspect. The main sign of the approaching denouement was the fact that the attackers stopped losing kin. Sintharia began to attack less, defend more, and generally tried to retreat inside the mountain, but she didn't have much success with the latter: the old passage had collapsed during the fight, and to create a new one, she needed to spend some time. A couple of minutes later, they were joined by two and a half dozen kin: the Ogre shield had been dealt with using a ruse, growing several dozen mushrooms under the dome that scattered their poisonous spores around, and by the time the Shamans figured out what was what, more than half of the two-headed squad could no longer take part in the battle.
Sintharia's fate was sealed, and all participants realized this.
"Don't let her escape!" Onyxia ordered, breaking out of the whirlwind of spells and fire at the sight of a portal frame beginning to form under her mother's dome.
The difficulties for the dragoness stomping by the portal lay in the portal's size: creating a stably working teleport in the current conditions was already no easy task, and making one that a dragon could fit into was completely impossible. So her lot was a portal quite suitable for elven dimensions. All that remained was to take a two-legged form and slip into the transition frame. This was where the main problem for all dragons lay—that this process took not one or even two seconds, but no less than five, during which dragons become more vulnerable. While Sintharia was deciding, an operatively composed group spell aimed at blocking spatial work went into effect. The oval frame trembled, the film connecting two different places rippled, and the portal dissipated. The countdown to the end of the battle was down to seconds…
Later, during searches of the abode of the Earth Aspect's followers, fresh clutches with unusual eggs were found, their very appearance speaking of their foreignness to the entire dragon race. And it was then that it became clear they had caught Sintharia after she had laid the eggs, when she was in a severely weakened state. Given the losses they had sustained—and no less than a sixth had perished—the conclusion was sobering. In a word—they were lucky…
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