Northrend, mountains north of the Frosty Heights.
The start of the operation against the emboldened demons was a success. After Naelis's help in the affinity ritual performed on the stone particles involuntarily brought by the Undead from the portal, the exact coordinates of the sought-after hideout of the Fel spawn were obtained. A combined detachment of representatives from the five dragonflights (even if only Naelis was present from the black one, she was present nonetheless!) after preliminary reconnaissance cautiously, observing safety measures, surrounded the area. Then, powerful anti-portal charms were placed on the region. And while the Nathrezim's ability to flit into the Twisting Nether was almost impossible to block, the dragons, generously fueling the charms, expected—not in vain—to prevent them from using existing portals or building new ones to save the Army of Undead.
The result of the first stage... was ambiguous. The demons, as if waiting for it, stopped masking their presence, and the cave deep under the mountain was enveloped in an activated powerful stationary defense, thereby revealing its exact location to the scanning spells. But what the minions of Sargeras wanted to show by this remained unclear at that moment. Either that they were ready for an attack and would fight to the last, or it was a hint that the dragons' actions had been anticipated and the demons had managed to evacuate, leaving emptiness under a thick "shell" of defense instead of valuable contents.
However, the sentient lizards were not intended to play a guessing game. They had come with a clear plan that did not involve a direct assault, and they were in no hurry to deviate from it; on the contrary—no sooner had bewilderment taken hold in the minds of the ambassadors who commanded the entire operation than their subordinates, unburdened by the need to conduct strategic planning, had already begun performing the second stage.
Immediately a couple of dozen dragons, at least a third of whom belonged to Malygos's kin, began pouring mana into a pre-prepared spell. Runic words began to manifest in the air, spiraling around a black figure frozen in the center of the rocky platform. Naelis was excluded from the chain of command, but this time the main reason for that was not her origin. She, as the best and most experienced specialist in Earth Magic, was, as they say, "at the helm" of the forming spell. Seconds turned into a minute, but the experienced mage did not need any more time—the massive runic construction simply collapsed downward and, passing right through the caster, disappeared without a trace, dissolving into the stone.
A moment or two, and the mountains shuddered. The dragons in bipedal form hurried to return to their true form and take to the sky, joining the ambassadors and kin continuing to maintain the spatial spell block.
An area of the mountains at least a square kilometer in size shook and, with its rocky spurs folding toward the epicenter, settled downward, significantly reducing the height of the terrain.
Huge boulders were still running down the slopes of the newly formed mountains while the ambassadors, circling near each other, exchanged impressions.
- "Well, what's the word?" Ysera was not strong in scanning spells, and therefore could not observe live the results of the massive weight falling on the shield covering the demons' refuge.
- "The shield didn't hold, the Undead are buried under the stones..." Korialstrasz voiced, but did so in a voice far too calm for such a moment as the successful completion of a plan.
- "But...?" the old friend of Alexstrasza's consort read between the lines and hurried him to provide clarification.
- "Но there are no traces of demons, and I suspect the Undead are not the ones Chronormu showed us."
- "They didn't make it in time," the huge green dragon stated the obvious, hovering next to his red kinsman, who was carefully studying a new projection formed by the indicators of scanning spells rather than visions of the past.
- "We must begin the search; we cannot allow the demons to accumulate strength," another ambassador joined the dialogue, distinguished from the rest of the group by the bronze sheen of his scales.
- "You think they're hiding here, in Northrend?" Korialstrasz asked Chronormu.
- "I don't think so—I'm almost certain. Но where exactly—alas, I don't even have a guess."
- "In another cave somewhere."
- "Yes, most likely. They don't have many options..."
It was decided to move further discussions to a calmer place, and the dragons headed for Wyrmrest Temple.
***
Durnholde Keep.
A drunken middle-aged man stared blankly at the bottom of his mug. Without any purpose and certainly not in search of truth. A face bloated from long drinking bouts, dull gray hair, a coarse scar across his left eye—with such an appearance, he, slouched on a rickety chair, did not at all resemble the brave, broad-shouldered, handsome young man who had heroically distinguished himself during the Second Orc War. And his dwelling place left much to be desired. A tiny cubbyhole, a time-worn table with a tabletop darkened by spilled wine, a smoking lamp—this was not the setting one expects to see when mentioning the home of one of Lordaeron's generals.
- "I had everything I dreamed of! I was strong, handsome. I had money and status in society," a raspy, dull voice broke the silence of the small room. "First, I lost my beauty," he traced his finger along the scar, barely touching it. "Then, in the pursuit of power, I lost my money—the post of commander of the internment camps didn't come cheap... And after... after they took EVERYTHING from me!" he let out a muffled growl—a pathetic shadow of a once-commanding voice swept through the cubbyhole.
- "Arrogant Dalaran bastards, cursed Long-Ears wretches, and Terenas... two-faced scum! How did he have the nerve to side with those Long-Ears fosterlings?! He should have supported me! Me—his loyal vassal! Who, by the way, gave all his savings for this position!!! And all for what?! For the sake of spending a whole year in the sweat of my brow organizing the camps, only to let those skinny weaklings in robes take over everything once it was ready?!" despite what he had drunk, his clouded brain had enough sense not to curse aloud at his liege and Lordaeron's allies, especially when the latter had settled almost behind the wall, but no one could forbid him from indulging in mental insults...
- "They even took my slave! Some lousy runt... half the camp is full of those green stinkers—take any one you want, but no—they had to take mine! Found themselves a 'great shaman,' as if there aren't enough seasoned Biotics users among the prisoners. Why did they need that half-trained boy? Why do they bother with these brutes at all??"
However, the answer to the last question was well known to Aedelas Blackmoore. Better than anyone—for having been impressed by the enemy's unquenchable rage, the general had already considered during the war that it would be nice if the orc army were led by a commander who was skilled and ambitious—that is, someone like himself. Cherishing this very thought, he used his connections, staked all his resources, and secured a transfer from the active army to the rear service as a "modest" quartermaster... But apparently, bright thoughts had occurred not only to him, and the potential army consisting of green-faced oafs had interested the northern allies, who brought in their minions—the Dalaranese...
In short, the position was lost and, as far as the former general understood, irrevocably. All that remained for him was to devote himself to his vice and indulge in unrestrained drinking, interspersed with curses and melancholy.
- "Taretha, bring more wine..." he said out of habit, but no one responded to the command.
- "Taretha, damn it, bring the wine!"
However, the daughter of his former servant had long since changed her status, becoming an assistant to one of the mages, and had no intention of returning to her past duties, much to Blackmoore's great displeasure.
- "To hell with them all..." the man muttered in his heart, having received no answer.
The heaviness in his head became completely insurmountable, and it fell onto his arms folded on the table. Another monologue of the drunken general had come to an end...
***
Temple of An'Qiraj.
A now-ancient Kaldorei proverb stated: "Before you go to kill an infernal, practice on Fiends." And no matter how much Azshara despised her traitorous compatriots, she did not disdain using others' wisdom to avoid making her own mistakes.
The final showdown with N'Zoth needed a rehearsal. And who better to serve as the ultimate training dummy before a clash with an Old God than one of his own kin? Weakened, yet having lost none of his dominion over the Void, C'Thun was uniquely suited for the role. That was precisely why the Queen of the Night Elves was now descending alone, with slow and regal majesty, into the depths of the ruined temple of the Aqir—down to where the god imprisoned by the Titans lay hidden, annihilating his guard along the way. With her chin held high and a commanding gaze, her snow-white dress made her light-blue skin appear even brighter... though in this place, artifacts held more significance than gossamer robes or royal charm. To her diadem—one of the last reminders of the power of the Well of Eternity—and the dragon medallion resting between her firm breasts, she had added a slender wand topped with a blue sapphire, a stone that manifoldly amplified her connection to the Source of Magic she had created.
Behind the elf, who surpassed an entire army in strength and thus required no escort, lay only mounds of mangled flesh, shards of chitin, and tentacles writhing in death throes. The spawn of C'Thun could not withstand the onslaught of a mage in whose hands were concentrated the experience of millennia, the energy of the Source, and the power of a dragon artifact. Naturally, a full-scale military operation would have simplified achieving the desired result; however, while Azshara herself could swiftly return to Quel'Thalas by forcing her way through the barrier of spatial distortions, doing so with thousands of elves in a reasonable timeframe was problematic even for her. To return on their own, the army would have had to spend an immense amount of time clearing the ruins to move beyond the range of the blocking wards, as her subordinates, for all their skill, were not capable of contending with the magic of an Old God on equal terms...
The coordinates of the sanctuary of one of the four Old Gods had been revealed, surprisingly enough, by Maywell. How the avatar of Azeroth's third Source had obtained this information, Azshara never did discover. Even guessing that her daughter, when mentioning the "many-faced one," was referring specifically to C'Thun had been no easy task—Azshara simply didn't realize at first that the word should be interpreted literally. Fortunately, the "endless ruins in the sand" were hard to mistake—sand was only found in the south of present-day Kalimdor, and while there were plenty of ruins in both Tanaris and Uldum, only one place was associated with the word "endless": An'Qiraj, the domain of the former Aqiri, which occupied nearly a quarter of the entire desert.
Of course, had she known earlier that such filth was hiding here, she would have razed the place long ago... But Azshara had never been interested in conquering the remnants of insects—the study of magic was far more interesting than some semi-sentient bugs, and after the continent was torn asunder, she had even less time for such things. For that matter, the Qiraji had behaved quietly both during her reign over all Azeroth, wisely avoiding the attention of the dominant Quel'dorei, and after the Destruction of the Well of Eternity: as it had now become obvious, they feared their rival in divine mischief—N'Zoth. But now it had come to light that C'Thun wasn't merely hiding from everyone in fear for his hide; no, he was gathering strength, surely dreaming of a triumphant return to world domination!
He dreamed in vain...
Azshara raised the elegant wand held in her left hand and directed a well-proven wave of structured distortions down the corridor leading toward the center of the underground complex; in its wake, only minced enemies remained. She had no intention of using anything more destructive. This was not out of fear of being buried in the ruins—a collapsing ceiling wouldn't have harmed her—but the Queen categorically refused to waste time clearing a path, fully agreeing in this instance with the Bronze Dragonflight, who claimed that Time was the most precious thing a sentient being possessed.
When she felt her goal was within reach, a rising noise echoed from behind. Azshara turned, and a spell based on Chaos magic and the elemental power of air was directed this time toward the other end of the corridor, which had already been subjected to her influence just minutes ago. The eternally young woman was not at all surprised by the appearance of an enemy at her back; after all, she had opened a portal to the entrance of the central temple of An'Qiraj, while the main army of the Old God was stationed in the city ruins. Now, however, the enemy forces were rapidly mobilizing and flocking to the point of penetration to protect their master.
The vanguard of the reinforcements was shredded into ribbons, just like the remnants of the defenders who had rushed out in a desperate attempt to reach the elf. Finally, a foot in a soft white shoe stepped onto a circular plaza of immense proportions. It was surprisingly empty, save for the fact that in its center sat a large pool, its smooth surface covered by an oily black sludge—or perhaps it didn't just cover it, but filled it entirely.
Stopping halfway to the target bog, Azshara nodded with satisfaction—the famous mage had reached the goal of what she hoped would be a short visit. Without wasting time on idle observation, the girl raised her hand, pointing directly at the center of the black "reservoir," above which a pillar of light formed out of nowhere. At the moment the suspicious sludge and the antagonistic energy collided, a hiss rang out, but there was no other visible reaction: the surface remained as smooth as before. It was unknown how the confrontation between the two primal elements would have ended, but the creature dwelling in the depths of the puddle clearly disliked the greeting from its visitor. The black surface began to churn and emitted a thick smoke of the same color, which quickly enveloped the pool. Then, having accumulated a certain critical volume, it surged upward and completely obscured the dazzling yellow pillar... only to subside a moment later, revealing a giant, hideous creature in place of the high-level Light magic combat spell.
The master of the reservoir, filled with emanations of the Void, for some reason most strongly evoked the image of a dandelion. Not the kind that displays white umbrellas of fluff to the delight of children, but a common, blooming flower. Except that instead of yellow petals, the base was bristling with foul-looking, writhing tentacles of a sickeningly vomit-like color. At the tip of each tentacle, eyeballs quivered. And in the center of the "flower" rose the primary difference from its botanical cousins—a massive orb-eye. The physical manifestation of C'Thun—for this creature could be no one else—had a peculiar fetish for organs that grant sight: eyes were poked even into the substrate from which the sighted tentacles sprouted.
"You dare to attack a God? Pitiful creature, you have hastened your demise. Your death is foreordained..."
But the chilling, otherworldly voice that seemed to arise directly inside her head did not interest Azshara in the slightest, let alone move her to conversation. Nor was she bothered by the attempt at mental influence that the fallen god had been exerting on her through Mind magic throughout her descent into the abode, and which had intensified tenfold upon C'Thun's appearance. As for wasting time gazing at this monster... no, that was not why she had come.
However, the Queen of the Night Elves did not forgo a certain amount of theatricality for the sake of the moment. With a simple snap of her slender fingers, spears imbued with Holy light appeared around the god's main eye. Launching into flight that very instant, the magical projectiles, despite the element of surprise, failed to reach their target and struck an invisible barrier. Spreading like inkblots across the surface of the shield, the spells could not break its structure, but they at least made it visible to normal sight. A murky dome ran exactly along the rim of the pool.
Appraising the power and impregnability of the barrier fueled by the forces of the Void, Azshara gave a silent huff. She was not one of those sentients who enjoyed measuring raw strength, for magic was, above all, an Art... and in the barrier, there was nothing but a staggering amount of mana. Between Azshara and C'Thun, three orbs of yellow, light-green, and dark-green light appeared, beginning to weave into a multicolored spear as thick as a tree two arm-spans wide.
Using Holy against Darkness was, on one hand, perfectly logical, as it is its direct antagonist. Yet the reverse was also true: these two essences exist in balance, but given the slightest advantage, one easily overcomes the opponent. That was why the light spears had no chance of defeating the god's defense. They possessed a finite charge, unlike the sphere, which had a potentially infinite source of replenishment: everything depended on the throughput of the channel feeding the seemingly indestructible shield. However, adding elements of Life and Chaos to the Holy light—forces that conflicted violently with the emanations of the Void—could bear the fruits of victory. The question of fueling the spell remained, but seeing as the new spear was already formed and the multicolored clouds showed no sign of vanishing or ceasing their energy supply, Azshara had not overlooked this detail.
"...You are already dead, accept it," C'Thun continued his psychological conditioning, confident in his safety, while trying to crush her mental barriers. However, the fact that no protection was visible around Azshara did not mean it wasn't there at all. She knew how to learn from her own mistakes as well as those of others.
Finally, the spell took shape, and it turned out to be no spear at all. From the end of the light-staff, a three-colored beam tore loose, spinning around its axis into a sort of elongated rope, and bit into the protective sphere directly opposite the pupil of the massive eye. Just a second later, C'Thun faltered, and his eye focused on the enemy spell attempting to bore through. Near the point of contact, the defense began to blur, gradually dimming. But this did not last long; a moment later, a patch of gloom opposite the beam began to regain its ground, concentrating more and more energy. Simultaneously, the rest of the sphere grew pale, shedding the muddy swirls of the Void. The system froze in a kind of equilibrium, where three forces challenged one.
But this state of affairs suited neither side. The clouds fueling Azshara's spell began to grow, thereby increasing the diameter of the energy beam. But the Old God also made his move, and the plaza shuddered as various tentacles, also topped with eyes like the main body of their creator, burst through the floor, shattering the stone slabs. At one point, most of the appendages suddenly looked directly at the elf, gloom swirling in their pupils, while the rest focused on the mana sources of the light-drill. Behind her, from the ill-fated corridor, a rising rustle could be heard—the elite forces, having formed a strike force, were rushing to the site of the unfolding battle.
Without a change in expression, as if being surrounded by hundreds of tentacles was her normal pastime, Azshara placed her right hand on the Dragon Soul, and in that same instant, the world froze. Of course, not all of Azeroth stopped to suit the Queen's whim, but a local temporal anomaly encompassing a significant portion of the temple did take place. The elves were not masters of Time Magic, but the study of the artifact—in which the Bronze Dragonflight had played a part—had not been in vain.
An attentive observer would have easily noticed that the time distortion did not affect everyone equally: unlike the motionlessly frozen tentacles, the massive eye, shrouded in black mist, twitched slightly, as if attempting to cast off the chains binding it. In reality, however, Azshara's spell had not stopped Time for everyone, but had accelerated her—for it was far simpler and less energy-intensive to pluck only herself from the flow of Time than a plaza of several hundred square meters. Now C'Thun was trying to compensate for the monstrous difference in the speed of the flows of Time and somehow match his opponent, but she hadn't trespassed onto Nozdormu's "territory" just to squander a hard-earned advantage by spending it staring at a bug-eyed monster...
C'Thun did not understand what the insolent elf had done, blurring in the vision of his numerous eyes that hadn't even managed to join the fray, but suddenly he was engulfed by Holy light. A lot of Holy light. It appeared as if from nowhere, right beneath the protective dome previously considered impenetrable—after all, the Titans had quickly grown tired of picking at his defense in their time and had chained him right along with it. That's what he got for concentrating Void energy at only one point of the shield, leaving the rest of the defense to more neutral mana!
If Uther the Lightbringer, head of the Order of the Silver Hand, had been present, he would no longer have been able to doubt the question: "Can elves use the Holy light abilities of paladins?" A somewhat modified Grace in skilled hands ceased to heal allies effectively but proved ruthless to enemies, and it still required no direct access to the target. In her time, the principle of bypassing magical defense had been deconstructed and thoroughly researched, and the conclusion was drawn that this was a privilege of the Holy light, but Azshara wasn't too upset by this fact—for her plans, using this aspect of magic was sufficient.
The transition from the soft, soothing embrace of the Gloom to the hegemony of the ruthless Holy light birthed a terrible pain that even he, an Ancient, could not ignore! A loud sound, somewhere between a groan and a gurgle, echoed in the hall—alas, C'Thun had not provided a specific orifice for screaming, but in the mental field, his shriek burst far beyond the temple's limits. For a moment, the god lost his concentration, and the protective dome ceased to provide the necessary level of resistance to Azshara's spell—the very one that was still trying to break through the defense. And now, finally, it succeeded. Before C'Thun could recover and reel from the previous blow, the center of his eye was pierced by the beam, shimmering with the three colors of the forces that birthed it. The god's essence was struck by a literal state of pain shock, and then the bonds of the Void holding the focus of his power in the material plane of Azeroth in a cohesive state began to thin, tear, and vanish...
"Rejoice while you can, but this is not yet the end..." With his final thought, C'Thun tried to have the last word despite his ignominious defeat in battle.
"As if I didn't know," Azshara muttered under her breath, glancing briefly at the tentacles vanishing in throes across the plaza and then peering intently at the main body of N'Zoth's brother.
Gradually, however, the elf calmed down. The Void decreased its presence the more the black essence vanished from the rapidly emptying fountain, which turned out to be a literal well. The rehearsal was over. Even though the knowledgeable mage understood that permanently destroying an Old God, who was practically flesh of Azeroth's flesh, was a task beyond her current capabilities, despite the pile of trumps in her hands and up her sleeves. But even a temporary discorporation of N'Zoth would grant a reprieve and an opportunity to grow stronger, to acquire the knowledge lacking for victory, or to devise a new, more cunning plan. At some point, the black mist stopped swirling over the fountain, and before leaving, Azshara repeated the spell that had started this battle—sunlight shone over the empty abyss. Just in case...
***
Dalaran, the tower of the head of the Kirin Tor.
The first rays of the sun peeked cautiously through the window. In a chair with a tiger skin laid over the seat sat an old man, stroking his long white beard and thinking intensely as he examined a scroll. The head of one of humanity's two most famous orders could not be preoccupied with minor problems—for those, he had several assistants, students, not to mention ordinary servants. It was no surprise, then, that the subject of his ruminations was global, serious, and... exceedingly problematic. And no, the issue was in no way related to the denizens of the Twisting Nether, the followers of the Void, crazed dragons, or other current world woes—the very ones awaiting Azeroth in the not-so-distant future. One still had to live long enough to reach those potential catastrophes, preferably in one piece, but it was that very "one piece" part that was problematic, given the desire of the neighboring country's ruler to visit Dalaran with "friendly intentions," which were clearly expressed in the very message Antonidas was studying.
In short, the showdowns with demons loomed in the future, but Azshara intended to pay a visit in just a couple of days—and thank Magic that he... the city had those very two days! Last time, she had shown up without any warning at all! And how did that end? With several corpses and ruined buildings that offended the sense of beauty... no, no, it wasn't quite as tragic as it looked at first glance. "Unwise humans" had turned out to be too greedy for someone else's gold and had organized an ambush on Azshara's path from this very tower to the academy. For what purpose they had decided on this suicidal act was unknown—the attackers were quickly apprehended by the Queen's escort after the surroundings felt the effects of the Antimagic spells cast by the lead elf. It was because of the latter that the aforementioned destruction occurred: many Dalaran buildings were held together only by the spellcasting of their owners, and after the binding spells were dispelled, only piles of construction debris remained of the original structures...
However, the main reason for the quiet panic of the most influential man in the city was by no means the possible casualties among the fools or the losses to the housing stock—but the results of the aggressive poaching of mages that Azshara had conducted during her last visit. Back then, she had advertised Quel'Thalas so well that, on the wave of circulating rumors about elven magic and the testimonies of eyewitnesses who had participated in joint campaigns with allies during the Second War, there was no end to those wishing to intern with the famous mages! And that, mind you, meant the loss of potential subordinates and, at the same time, potential agents of influence for the Long-Ears "allies"! And the mages of Dalaran had only just begun to restore their numbers, which had been significantly thinned after two wars...
Against the backdrop of the expected second wave of propaganda about the charms of studying abroad, Antonidas was especially worried about the younger generation, which specifically included his students. A political scandal over the Princess of Kul Tiras fleeing to the elves would clearly be superfluous in the career of the Archmage of Dalaran.
His second student, though quite capable and suspiciously knowledgeable, had been thoroughly snubbed by nature when it came to the distribution of the magical gift. Knowledge won't help if the mana capacity ceiling is that of a senior mage. Not a Magister or even a master, but just an average, run-of-the-mill mage, of which the city was full even now, in the post-war years. Naturally, one doesn't need a massive reserve in all fields, but the road to leadership positions was closed to Lin. Antonidas, in fact, had planned to keep the student at the academy, as he was surprisingly well-informed in many disciplines. At first glance, such a person would be of no use to the elves—they wanted potential masters, nothing less. However, the rumors circulating in the academy regarding the newcomer's kinship—who had received a gold amulet in record time—with the race of Long-Ears mages were somewhat troubling. After all, there's no smoke without fire, and the chances that the elves would take an interest in the boy were far from zero. Would he be able to resist the temptation to drink from the source of ancient knowledge? This was the question that troubled Antonidas, for to lose a student meant losing face, something the head of the Kirin Tor categorically did not want. The wise old man, who was personally acquainted with Azshara, didn't even consider the word "no"...
"Right, I need to ship them off somewhere out of harm's way, but in a way that looks natural," the pensive mage decided to put an end to his fears. "Maybe organize some delivery to Stormwind? A couple of books for the local branch? No, too far... Give them a vacation and send them to Kul Tiras? But the island is arguably even further than Stormwind, and the Admiral won't be happy if I send his daughter to the sea, which has become quite restless lately... Declare a holiday and let all the students go? The elf would rip my head off for that, since one of the stated goals of the visit is 'getting to know future colleagues and Keepers of Peace between the two allied states,' and there was something else about 'exchange of experience,' but the latter sounded too fantastic: for representatives of the most arrogant race in Azeroth to decide to bless some random bunglers with knowledge—that looked implausible even on paper!"
"In the end, it's not necessary to send them to populated places, is it? I can send them for some ingredient again. Elemental cores will do perfectly. I recall there were always plenty of them in the Arathi Highlands... It's settled! That's what I'll do, I'll send them out of the city this very day..."
Antonidas could not have known that Azshara, having returned from her "business trip" to An'Qiraj earlier than expected, had decided to move the date of her visit to Dalaran forward by exactly a couple of days...
The glass cube sitting on the table lit up with a soft glow. On one of its faces, turned toward the mage, appeared the image of a young-looking woman with a piercing gaze of dark-green eyes, sharp features of a sleepy face, and a short hairstyle of ash-colored hair—it was the assistant to the Archmage and a member of the Council of Six.
"Antonidas! The Guard reports that a portal has opened in the plaza in front of the academy, and elves are coming out of it! She's already here!" Modera's voice was seasoned with a fair amount of panic—after all, it's not every day that fate brings you face-to-face with a mage who positions herself as the strongest on Azeroth and shows up at your doorstep at the crack of dawn.
The master of the tower remained silent for a while, his face not even twitching as if nothing had happened, and then he snapped out of it and jumped up with youthful vigor, managing to throw into the communication artifact:
"I'm on my way! Meet them for now!"
***
Northrend, Coldarra.
Long ago, in the days when Coldarra, like all of Northrend, was still part of Azeroth's single continent—Kalimdor—this modest, snow-covered valley was not overly rich in inhabitants. Now, however, after the many millennia that had passed since Malygos chose the island for his residence, Coldarra had come to life, and in the literal sense of the word! Hardened by the prolonged cold, the trees, being in the constant energy field surrounding the abode of the Aspect of Magic, had turned into Frost Treants—formidable, mighty treants. And now these giants, draped in caps of fluffy snowflakes, wandered slowly through the snow-covered forest, their every ten-meter-tall joint creaking. The dragons visiting the valley at Malygos's summons paid them no more attention than they did the excessively breeding energy parasites—mana wyrms. The former were slightly dangerous but uninteresting; the latter were harmless but annoying with their cockroach-like habits, namely: constantly scurrying underfoot, though just try swatting those flying dodgers...
The living trees posed a serious threat only on the ground in a fair fight, whereas from the air they were easily destroyed by both the dragons' natural weapon—breath—and any even slightly serious magic. But now, neither strength, nor size, nor wooden armor, nor even quite decent magic resistance—nothing could help the forest dwellers. One after another, the trees shattered into tons of splinters under the blows of scaled claws; even more were frozen forever as bizarre sculptures under icy breath, or simply vanished, being reduced to nothing...
The master of the valley watched the carnage unfolding around his home with pain and bitterness in his eyes. No, the wooden things themselves were of little concern to him, to say the least. But the fate of the one under whose claws and blows of simple but powerful spells the flora—or rather, the fauna—of the island was suffering, very much concerned Malygos. For the one who had brought destruction to the peaceful forest was none other than his dearest consort—the very first one...
The Resurrection of Sindragosa had been more than successful. The body had been formed to the envy of Alexstrasza—the beauty recognized by all the drakes. The soul had fit into "place" like a glove. The power of the energy core, for the creation of which a dozen kin had to be sacrificed, would have impressed the most sophisticated dragon-mages... But as always, there was a "but." In this beautiful death-machine that Sindragosa appeared to be before her husband, there was not a drop of reason, and what's more—all the aspirations of the "newborn" dragon were filled with rage and hatred for everything around her, regardless of what it was: an unfortunate Frost Treant, an unlucky rabbit that caught her eye, or Malygos himself—the maddened beloved recognized no one and nothing. Having fought off the resurrected one, he had, with some loss of scales, evicted the raging lizard from his tower for some "airing out" and was now gloomily observing her bloodthirsty behavior, refusing to recognize his consort in this creature.
In Malygos's soul, a fierce flame of hatred was igniting, commensurate with Sindragosa's madness. Only it was directed at a very specific object.
"N'Z-z-zoth!" A sound, part roar and part hiss, escaped the armored chest of the mage-dragon.
It required no great wisdom to identify the culprit behind the state of the object of his passion. And now the reason why all past resurrection attempts, despite any efforts, had met with failure had become quite obvious. It was simple—the soul, having become the quintessence of madness, no longer remembered what it was like to be a proud dragon. How the Ancient had managed to do such a thing was a secondary matter, but in any case, the messenger of the Void had miscalculated. Instead of removing Malygos from the opposing Systems Alliance by saddling him with the insoluble task of resurrecting his consort, he had gained the Aspect of Magic as an enemy. And all this thanks to underestimating the best mage of Azeroth!
N'Zoth was destined to repent for this mistake more than once, as Malygos swore to himself by the blessed memory of his consort, the hope of meeting whom had just died in terrible agony...
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Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan