Quel'Thalas.
The elven kingdom resembled a disturbed anthill. Despite experience and training, one cannot help but start running like a madman when events occur for which you have prepared your entire conscious life, which for some was measured in five-digit numbers. Azshara, unlike her subjects, was in a state of contemplative indifference, and no, she was not broken by the series of recent failures with Nordrassil and the explosion of the Dark Portal: it's foolish to expect everything to go according to plan, and the queen of the elves by definition could not be foolish. She was more concerned about the appearance on Azeroth of such an odious figure as the right hand of Sargeras... or the left? She always confused which of the two fallen Eredar was more authoritative.
Here the elf, scanning the sentients present at the indefinite meeting, stopped her gaze on Naelis, from whom no one had yet removed the post of ambassador of the black dragons. Of course, one could assume that Azshara focused on how the dragoness in the form of an elf was nervous and biting her nails—yes, a truly amazing sight—but no, she just remembered something, and she didn't fail to voice that something.
"And where is the undead from Northrend? Has anyone heard anything about its appearance?"
The subjects looked at each other in silence and stared at Azshara, who, in turn, restrained the urge to perform her favorite gesture of putting her hand to her face and immediately began giving instructions:
"If the demons are here, they couldn't have failed to bring the undead with them. It no longer matters how they did it, but we need to find them, and as early as possible. Send out scouts, examine the approaches to Quel'Thalas. Check the shore of Lordaeron—it's the closest to Northrend. Especially the northern and northwestern coast—the mountains there come almost right up to the water, and if one wished, ten of our armies could be hidden in the cliffs, to say nothing of the undead. Question the scouts again, or better yet, everyone who is outside Quel'Thalas. Find me the second army; I don't believe it's still in Northrend—that's just senseless. Unless they're going to try to risk transferring the undead through portals using magic—the dragons would love that."
"They could have transferred them in small detachments under cloaking spells. They should have transferred them over six months..." but the elf cut himself off when Azshara looked at him dismissively, as if he had said something obvious in her opinion.
"That is why I said what I said, but I will repeat it again. Find. Me. The Army. Of Undead. I hope this time it sounded clear enough."
It took only half an hour to carry out the order. They got lucky. One of those present had a friend... who was the ambassador to Lordaeron. As soon as his disappearance was discovered, intelligence focused on Lordaeron, and fifteen minutes later, fresh data from it lay before Azshara.
"The prince has declared himself king, old Terenas has 'disappeared' somewhere, and an army of undead is calmly marching through Lordaeron and is heading, apparently, to Dalaran. Sad," Azshara summarized. "Warn all allies of the treachery and prepare portal platforms for evacuation from the city. There's no point in losing mages; they'll be useful to us, even the human ones. And don't forget to provide a cordon and check everyone with special care. We don't need agents of N'Zoth and Sargeras... Are there any of ours left in Stratholme? Bring everyone back—the demons won't stand on ceremony with Lordaeron.... What's the word on Archimonde?"
"Remained with the army in the Blasted Lands, they're preparing portals," Sylvanas answered instantly; after all, the question fell under her department.
"Well, I should think so: demons aren't stupid orcs to walk halfway across the continent. By the way, how are things going with our orcs?"
"All potentially useful ones are stationed in Quel'Thalas," one of those present reported and immediately added. "But I wouldn't count on them much; the training of shamans is going neither here nor there and is clearly not finished. And without magic, orcs are meat—stronger than usual, but only a little."
"Unfortunate, but nothing can be done. On the other hand, we managed to reach an agreement with the gnomes—the benefit of this one alliance alone outweighs any other troubles on the political front; all that's left is to convince them to move to our lands completely, not just as a small enclave... Well, my loyal subjects, we have prepared for this for ten thousand years. It's time to show who's who on Azeroth!"
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Lordaeron, Monastery of the Silver Hand.
The monastery complex was situated in the foothills of northern Lordaeron. Vine-covered hills, training grounds, a road stretching into the distance toward the capital, and a path lost among the crags leading to a lighthouse visible beyond them—all of this offered a magnificent view from the wall encircling several buildings of the monastery, where the training of paladins had been conducted for several years. The harsher the orders arrived from the current head of the order, Uther the Lightbringer, the more intense the training of the future warriors of Light became. Yet, simultaneously, a sense of unease grew within the monastery's population: recruits and mentors, laborers and servants alike. Even simple travelers who came to offer a few prayers and merchants arriving to purchase the latest batch of monastery red wine felt the anxiety hanging in the air.
And so, while a heated discussion regarding strange orders sent from the capital via magical link took place within the monastery's cathedral, a young bearer of the proud title of paladin rested on the wall from her righteous physical exertions. The girl, about twenty-five years old with light-red hair matted with sweat, was, by the way, the daughter of one of the men deliberating behind closed doors—a man well-known from the Second War with the orcs, High General Abbendis. Her favorite spot here on the fortress wall, fanned by a light breeze, stood in favorable contrast to the training grounds, which were baked to the very last stone. With her father's permission, the strategic position was equipped with all the necessities for a weary girl: a canopy to provide shade, a comfortable lounger to relax a body overstrained by training, and a couple of jugs of berry juice, chilled, of course.
Existing on the verge of grasping various mysteries of being, the privileged paladin certainly did not expect to be jolted out of her contemplative state by a girl's voice ringing right in her ear—unfamiliar, yet very pleasant to the ear.
"It's beautiful here, and the training is so cool... I've decided! I'm staying with you and joining the Order of the Silver Hand!"
The girl snapped open her eyes—closed, no doubt, for a better perception of her surroundings and not at all due to fatigue—and turned her head. Standing nearby, alternating her gaze between the countryside and the paladin herself, was a teenage girl with a striking, short but thick shock of silvery hair.
"Hi! My name is Sally, and from this day on, I'm your new recruit!"
"Brigitte Abbendis," the girl introduced herself automatically, somewhat taken aback by the appearance of such an obvious source of positivity nearby. Then she came to her senses and, frowning slightly, asked, "How did you even get onto the wall? They don't just let anyone up here."
"I'm not 'just anyone,' I'm a recruit!"
"I don't remember you at the morning assembly, and even if I did—recruits don't belong here! How did the guard even let you pass?"
"I told them I was a newcomer and wanted to admire the view from the wall," the girl shrugged.
"Impossible," Brigitte frowned even deeper.
"Well... I also did this," Sally made a face so innocently piteous that all the interrogator's negativity vanished on its own, replaced by a tender smile.
"I s-see... Well then, welcome!" With an incredible effort, the paladin regained control of her facial muscles and added, "I hope your warrior spirit is as strong as your acting skills."
"They wanted to take me as a priestess in the capital church, but I decided to become a paladin, like Uther the Lightbringer! So my parents brought me here..."
"A priestess?" Brigitte allowed herself to doubt the stated claim; in her view, the girl's temperament wasn't quite right for the priestly contingent. However, she forgot that character is not the primary determining factor in the choice.
In response, another demonstration was provided, but this time of more professional talents—a brilliant spark flared above Sally's palm. Yes, it was small, but its saturation with Holy was far stronger than one could have imagined. Especially for a fifteen-year-old (or however old she was) untrained midget...
Common topics for conversation immediately emerged, and the entire hour the girl had allotted for rest flew by unnoticed, spent on girlish chatter. For the animatedly talking representatives of the "weaker" sex, it mattered not at all that one had barely turned sixteen while the other already had a five-year-old daughter! In a word—women...
It is even possible that Brigitte would have missed her training—it wasn't often she got to gossip so freely with someone who spoke the same female language—however, fate decreed otherwise. Suddenly, at one moment, the sound of a bell rang out across the entire area. Moreover, it wasn't just a call to lunch or some similar reminder of the established monastery routine, but a full-blown alarm, sounding like a bolt from the blue. Such a conclusion to the conversation boded nothing good, and to realize this, the girl, leaping from her lounger, only needed to cast a glance at the surroundings. And there, a true horror was unfolding—a scene from a nightmare.
Over the crest of a hill located a kilometer from the monastery, which locked the valley with vineyards on its slopes, poured a whole crowd of diverse demons—real ones, just as the northern neighbors on the continent described them in their treatises. And it was easy to tell what had become of the people who met the spawn of Chaos on their path—to lose any illusions regarding their fate, it was enough to see the villagers tending the crops perish, as well as several travelers running toward the monastery in a futile hope to outrun the pack of hounds that had broken ahead. Behind the backs of the demons, humanoid figures in armor appeared, but Brigitte no longer saw them—at that moment, there were other things to do besides staring at the attackers!
Suddenly there was no time for talk, and the bell continued to wail desperately, as if someone could have failed to hear the tolling, not to mention the thunderous roar of the fiends of evil running toward the monastery walls beginning to drown it out. Regardless, before literally flying off the wall into the inner courtyard, Brigitte managed to shout to her new friend to run to the cathedral and hide. Truthfully, the paladin strongly doubted that if the defenders of this stronghold of the Order of the Silver Hand—who were already beginning to gather at the gates—were defeated, anyone would manage to hide anywhere on the monastery grounds.
Paying no mind to the guards running toward the wall (close combat isn't exactly prohibited for ordinary people... but why play the hero when there are warriors of Holy specializing specifically in melee available, and one can simply shoot at the enemies from above?), the daughter of the famous general, instead of joining her brothers, rushed to a rack containing elements of training armor. She clearly didn't have time to retrieve her own from her cell and put it on, and this was at least some additional protection...
The girl had barely managed to pull on the breastplate, helmet, and left bracer when a roar erupted from the gates, which no one had even thought to close since they served a purely decorative function. Of course, after a few seconds, it turned into a whimper, but Brigitte realized that every second truly counted. She tossed aside the second bracer, grabbed the first hammer and shield she found on the rack, and, wrapping herself in the protection of Holy, rushed to her comrades' aid, noting out of the corner of her eye that the main striking force—the top command—was running toward them from the direction of the cathedral.
When she broke out into the open (and paladins showed themselves best in an open field where there was room to swing), the rearguard of the demonic army had already been dealt with—the "doggies," bred to counter mages, had nothing to oppose the mysteries of Holy, half of the skills of which, despite their belonging to a magical discipline, worked entirely without mana, fueled by will and faith alone. But this success brought little joy—barely two hundred meters away, a small crowd of demons of various forms and sizes was charging at them. Among the otherworldly beings, large blue guys in armor with large glaives in their hands predominated; some small fry scurried beneath their feet, and a pair of "girls" with leathery wings and whips in their hands loomed behind them. And that was all. Except for the guys in armor with bared, naked skulls under open-type helmets and glowing blue eyes, who were alarming by their very appearance. And there were more of the latter than was necessary for a modest cloister. Also alarming was the bluish flair of clearly magical protection surrounding the attackers, and a certain purposefulness in the enemy's actions... as if someone were directing them.
This was all the girl managed to notice before the entire gathering, clattering their armor and making various indecent sounds, reached the wall and the paladins standing in a staggered formation, three meters apart from each other—of whom, alas, there were only a little more than two dozen. She didn't even have time to feel afraid. After that, everything merged into a trained sequence of actions: blind the enemy with Holy, empower the hammer with the same, strike harder, and step forward... or in another direction if the blow was spent in vain.
From the very first moments of the battle, it became clear that fighting strong but brainless beasts that periodically crawled out of the sea and fighting an enemy no less weak, but possessing at least the rudiments of intelligence and having magical support, were entirely different things. Yes, the paladins successfully resisted the numerous attempts of the demons to chop, roast, and otherwise deprive them of life, but they failed to boast any achievements in the field of killing the horned and tailed ones: the blue-skinned ones held their ground no worse than the warriors of Holy themselves, and the few small imps crushed in passing by hammers didn't count, as they were clearly not considered serious opponents, even though they threw fireballs left and right and generally only got hit by accident since they mostly attacked from a distance.
For a brief period, a parity was established, and then the Undead joined the fun. One might think, what could the spawn of necromancy do against the cleansing Holy? However, the creators of the Scourge understood this perfectly well, and therefore did not throw the army, so painstakingly created under the noses of the dragons, to the slaughter, but sent them into battle while providing the necessary support: the people defending the monastery could not see it, but Liches were also present behind the backs of the skeletons. Thus, the attackers gained the advantage and began to gradually push the defenders toward the gates. Fortunately for the latter, there were no losses yet, greatly aided by the active use of the ultimate protection so beloved by Uther the Lightbringer. But, as the people felt, luck was already standing sideways to them and was about to start turning in an undesirable direction.
The turning point was the arrival of the commander of the demonic army onto the battlefield. Behind the paladins, who were forced to huddle into a full semi-circular formation, the figure of a tall demon with huge, leathery, bat-like wings of green color appeared as if from nowhere. The warriors of Holy, being engrossed in the battle, did not notice the appearance of the new enemy, unlike those who were trying to strike the foe with crossbows from the walls. But even loud warning cries could not help protect against the sudden attack. The Nathrezim, having barely appeared, immediately swung a hand wreathed in poisonous greenery, aiming for the neck of the nearest paladin, and his claws passed through the holy blessing and protective chainmail as if they were not there. Then the demon vanished... only to immediately appear on the other side of the formation with the goal of reducing it by one more defender. And again, and again... By the time the paladins realized the tragedy of the situation, they had already lost five, and their formation began to burst at the seams: the demon specifically chose targets among those who were not under the effect of divine protection. But before the last fallen could hit the ground, the squad was enveloped in a radiance of Holy. The created illumination was not blinding; it was soft and so dense that it seemed the barrier could be touched with one's hands.
The monastery's superior had not joined the ranks of the melee fighters for nothing. It was thanks to his efforts that the paladins could focus on the battle, ignoring wounds that closed almost at the moment they were inflicted—one did not receive one of the highest ranks in the Church of the Holy Light for their looks. Brother Benjamin had been enticed to the cathedral being erected in Stormwind, but he preferred to remain here, in his home monastery, which had become the training base for the Order of the Silver Hand. Now, standing with his staff raised, he generously spent mana saving the lives of his brothers, if not in the Order, then certainly in faith.
The Nathrezim, appearing near the next paladin, did not succeed in killing him: the blow turned into a shove and merely threw the man back, catching him right in mid-swing. The empowered strike landed directly on the head of the blue powerhouse who was the warrior of Holy's target, and it did not hold, marking the first serious loss on the demons' side. The Nathrezim grimaced and, casting a malevolent glance toward the priest, vanished again, only to appear exactly above the man who had provoked his anger. Between his palms, directed at the priest, a dark-green flame quickly formed, taking the shape of a spear, and hurtled downward. It would seem that a man specializing in opposing the forces of evil should easily handle such a calamity, but what does the rank of High Priest mean against several thousand years of experience? The spell easily pierced through several barriers but could not overcome the very protection for which enemies so dislike paladins. One of the paladins nearby managed to react and cover the superior, who had been knocked to the ground by Brigitte, the first to notice the demon. Following this, a consecrated hammer flew into the Nathrezim's nostrils, which were flared with rage, and the demon was thrown back and slammed hard against the wall, further graced from above by a pillar of Holy.
"Annoying insects!" a half-roar, half-scream erupted from the Nathrezim's maw, becoming the first words spoken on the battlefield, not counting, of course, swear words and curses upon the heads of the demon spawn, as well as various prayer-shouts like "In the name of the Light!", serving as activation keys for the paladins' numerous skills. The demon vanished again, and when he reappeared, he returned to his subversive activities, and not unsuccessfully: though everyone was on guard, the ability for instantaneous movement across the battlefield and attacks that pierced standard protection like paper were very strong trumps. The warriors of Holy began to die again.
"Into the courtyard!" General Abbendis ordered, realizing that this was likely the end and they wouldn't even have time to retreat—the decision to lead the paladins outside under such circumstances had been a mistake.
Brother Benjamin created another barrier, and it did a decent job of protecting against the pressing crowd. The mentor himself was surrounded and protected by three paladins, including Brigitte. The people slowly backed away, holding off the demons and Undead and not forgetting to look behind their backs, though this didn't always help. The Nathrezim continued to attack, choosing victims at the edges of the monastery defenders' defensive positions, and the priest's guards involuntarily relaxed, missing an attack on their charge. However, to tell the truth, alertness would not have helped them: the blow came from an unexpected direction. Nothing foreshadowed it; simply, at one moment, a stone spike rapidly grew from the ground, and Benjamin was gone. A brief stupor followed, during which the priest's protective technique dissipated.
"PROTECTION! INTO THE COURTYARD!!!" the general put all his strength into this shout and, setting an example, enveloped himself in the pink flair of temporary immortality, as some members of the order called this skill.
Not everyone is granted the ability to maintain such a useful skill for long. "If your will is strong, then the Light shall be your salvation"—under this motto, the ability appeared in the sacred texts, and its application truly depended on will more than any other skill. "A pity we aren't as strong-willed as Uther," Brigitte thought as the comrade running beside her lost his head, for rumors said the head of the order was capable of maintaining the protection for a very, very long time—not infinitely, of course, but he usually had enough time to deal with any opponent.
The girl felt that she would soon share her neighbor's fate, for the protection was about to fall. She felt an unbearable urge to throw back her head and look at the sky, at the sun, to see the Light one last time. Her eyes stung... The divine blessing began to dissipate, and as she slowed down, she began to lift her gaze upward, but unexpectedly saw her new friend. Sally was standing on the wall in the same spot where she had spoken to her before the attack, near her relaxation corner. On the girl's face, horror, misunderstanding, hope, fear, faith, and sadness were mixed... For some reason, in this final moment, Brigitte felt all these emotions acutely. Then their eyes met, and her lips curled into the word: "Run!" Then came a short prick of pain, and the Light faded...
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Draenor. Slightly earlier.
Initially, the Naaru paid no attention to the Legion Invasion. They noticed it (hard not to—such a crowd ran practically right past their ship), but... what, hadn't they seen demons before? Now, if they had made an attempt on Tempest Keep, then—yes, then the automatic defense system would have dealt with them. Otherwise, let the elves handle them. After all, they were Naaru, perfect beings of Light who had long ago transitioned to an energy-based life form, and their business was to mentor others, weaker and uncomprehending creatures, to teach them and pass on flawless Wisdom so that the cause of Light might spread throughout the Universe. Let others do the fighting—for example, those same elves who refused to partake from the source of knowledge regarding the sacred meaning of life. The Naaru themselves no longer even remembered when they had directly participated in battles...
However, instead of creating chaos on Draenor—their usual pastime—the demons proceeded to the Throne of the Elements, and the Naaru became worried, if one can use such a term for beings who, by their own words, do not have emotions in the sense familiar to most sapient beings. But it was too late; the opportunity to intervene had been missed, and Archimonde appeared on these lands—the closest associate of the Dark Titan, whom they had recently (only half a hundred millennia ago) designated as their primary Enemy. The fallen Eredar himself was not particularly terrifying—even Sargeras's assistant would have had a hard time if he poked around the ship of the messengers of Light, for right now there were about a dozen Naaru in Tempest Keep who could more than power the defense systems with their energy. What was more terrifying was that Archimonde's very appearance became possible only due to the destruction of the Throne of the Elements—the heart of this miserable fragment of a once-prosperous world. Now the countdown to when Draenor would finally perish was down to mere days.
And though the Naaru were somewhat overconfident and considered themselves the ultimate authority, what could not be taken from them was the care and desire to help inherent in the tenets of Light. The fact that not everyone accepted their help and guidance distressed them immensely. In short, the Naaru did not wish to lose their followers on the dying Draenor, and therefore, at an accelerated pace, they gathered Draenei and generally anyone who came to hand, except for the elves. But the Pointy-Ears did not make it onto the rescue craft not because the Naaru decided to take petty revenge on them for the disdain with which the elven queen had treated the higher beings—simply, Azshara's subjects, no doubt in their pride, did not accept the outstretched hand of help and decided to save themselves, fleeing through the Dark Portal after the Legion had crossed through it.
A'dal, the leader of the Naaru, would never admit it, but when the Dark Portal exploded, belching magical fire that incinerated three-quarters of the demons who hadn't managed to cross to Azeroth, he experienced true satisfaction. And no, the cause of the ecstasy that gripped the most virtuous embodiment of Light was not the deaths of tens of thousands of Sargeras's soldiers. He didn't particularly care about those pawns and the destruction they could bring. The Naaru were primarily interested in the struggle against Chaos as a concept, a philosophy, rather than chaos on the material plane—in short, they preferred to fight for the minds of mortals rather than for their material goods: fighting the entropy of the infinite Twisting Nether was a fool's errand. Therefore, he derived pleasure when the elves, cut off from their homeland and realizing they had no choice, rushed to him to "bow down" and negotiate. He would have let them save themselves anyway, of course, but he didn't deny himself the chance to indulge a not-so-righteous quality.
And so, once the elves had quickly boarded the ship, it was necessary to decide where to head. Tempest Keep could pierce space faster than light, teleporting at the command of its "captain." There was no point in waiting for Draenor's demise, so A'dal designated Azeroth as the destination... Well, where else to go, if that was where the fate of almost the entire Universe was apparently being decided right now?
A small shift in space along the fifth coordinate axis, and they were already in orbit of Azeroth. Но the sleeping Titan met them unkindly. Too much negativity emanated from the planet; its inhabitants were clearly going through a difficult time. A'dal was already choosing a parking spot when he felt a strong call for help. It wasn't calling for him specifically, but he could not mistake an appeal to the Light for anything else. The Naaru decided to delay the parking: the ground wasn't going anywhere, but a servant of Light potentially at the level of Velen, who was on the ship, didn't just grow on trees. So why not help? Without any ulterior motive, A'dal opened a channel for the seeker—who turned out to be a young human girl—to his energy reserves. The emanations of faith from her were very strong, despite the feeling of horror that had gripped her. And faith was always a choice morsel for the Naaru. He felt she needed all possible support, so he decided not to be stingy.
Well, what could a mortal spend the power of Light on? Blind an enemy? Heal a wound? Protect oneself? A'dal didn't understand what happened, but the outflow of mana was catastrophic. No less than half the reserve went in one go! Before the Naaru could recover, another thirty percent or so vanished as if licked away by a dragon's tongue! And this wasn't simple theft of resources—no single human could endure storing that much mana in their body, which meant it had all gone toward the proverbial "blind, heal, protect"! And how could an unprepared mortal pass such power through herself?!
A'dal hurried to break the channel... and in fact, he suddenly decided to land somewhere far away from enterprising humans... for example, on the other side of Azeroth.
Meanwhile, near the monastery of the Order of the Silver Hand, a slaughter was taking place. Young Sally watched the destruction of the defenders with horror, yet in her head lived a hope, unfounded, blind in its faith for a better outcome. She saw the paladins die, one after another. She saw the old priest die a terrible death. She saw her new friend, while calling for her to run, fall, decapitated by the terrible demon flickering across the battlefield. She saw the rest of the warriors of Holy killed shortly after. She saw too much for a sixteen-year-old naive girl. And Sally believed so fervently in the best that even when the demons began to burst into the inner courtyard, the girl who hadn't managed to become a paladin waited for a miracle to happen at any moment, for Evil must not win. Her Faith in the Light was so strong that the Light answered her call. At least, so it seemed to her. It was as if she found herself in an infinite bright space, whose soothing, soft, not-at-all-blinding Light was ready to do whatever the failed young priestess desired. An indistinct female whisper that rang out seemed dearer than her mother's voice, overflowing her capacity for impressions. Gripped by inspiration, Sally flung her arms wide, as if embracing the whole world, and wished... wished right from the bottom of her heart, so much so that the Naaru who shared his energy with her was moved. And because the wish was not clearly formulated (it was more of an intuitive image), its fulfillment required a colossal expenditure of energy. Sally's mental impulse consisted of two different parts and manifested in reality sequentially as well.
A light haze descended upon the monastery's surroundings, if one could describe a weightless quilt made of sunbeams that way. The Undead, paying no mind to the manifested illumination, continued to burst through the gates. The demons, however, possessing some degree of intelligence, all as one, including the Nathrezim, stared at the defensive wall, directly at the source of the unfolding magic. And it was hard to mistake the latter—there stood a girl with arms outstretched and eyes closed, enveloped in a golden radiance.
Mal'Ganis (for it was he who commanded the detachment sent to destroy the non-compliant monastery) squinted evaluatively, not understanding what he was facing. Intuition, honed by many millennia of life, screamed of approaching trouble, and if he didn't do something now, things would turn bad... bad for him, Mal'Ganis. The Nathrezim vanished, only to reappear near the incomprehensible priestess. A proven Fel Spear hurtled toward the outwardly defenseless human (the demon did not risk attacking in melee), only to disintegrate into a rapidly bleaching suspension half a meter before reaching her. The Nathrezim did not waste time on bewilderment, surprise, or other human stupidities, but began to form something more lethal.
But the commander of the Scourge detachment was too late. The sunbeams flickered and began to rapidly thicken over specific spots. If the soldiers of the Legion were a bit smarter, they would have noticed that this was happening everywhere, but exclusively over the bodies of the fallen humans. Pillars of Holy pierced the sky, momentarily blinding everyone possessing sight. And when the demonic eyes cleared, they were deafened by the ecstatic roar of the people returned to life. The inhabitants of the monastery did not know at that moment that the miracle of Resurrection, available only to priests and paladins of the highest ranks, had occurred within a kilometer radius—after all, the leader of the Naaru had immeasurable power and could not be compared to the meager capabilities of humans, who didn't even suspect that one could bring people back to life on such a mass scale, rather than just a dozen people once every few days, and only those who had just died. The battle, unexpectedly for both sides, entered its second phase. And the poisonous-green huge orb that crashed against the priestess's unremarkable shroud met the fate of the previous spell.
Subconsciously realizing that the bad news hadn't ended, Mal'Ganis decided to make one more attempt to kill the girl, and if another failure awaited him, to get out while the getting was good. His own skin was dearer than some mission, especially one received only from Tichondrius and not from Archimonde, Kil'jaeden, or Sargeras himself. Но this time his intuition failed him. Before he could even finish half the formula, another flash lit up the monastery walls, and a wave of Holy rolled across the area—but not that weightless and soft kind, but blinding and scorching, no worse than any fire.
The Undead got it worst of all: everything unliving simply dissipated into dust, and pieces of armor, clanking against each other, showered onto the ground. This time the Liches could not help their brothers in death... The fruits of necromancy were practically antagonists to light spells; what could one expect? Death and Darkness are very close neighbors...
The demons got off with the aforementioned blinding and burns. The Nathrezim himself was practically unharmed despite his proximity to the source of the area of effect spell—apparently, the damaging wave spread more along the ground than through the air. Mal'Ganis broke off the forming charms and looked around. Not even half a minute had passed before his detachment was broken, and victory had turned into a brutal defeat. The demon cast a piercing gaze at the faces turned toward him, as if memorizing them—though why "as if"? The Nathrezim was definitely memorizing the enemies who were right now beginning to finish off the Legion soldiers, so that one day, given the chance, he might cruelly avenge his ruined plans. Feeling a return gaze, Mal'Ganis looked at the priestess he had failed to kill and involuntarily shuddered: the girl's wide-open eyes were bottomless wells of Holy. And from there, someone was watching him very intently... and memorizing him too. Having barely realized this fact, the twice-shuddering Nathrezim simply vanished, as they say, without saying goodbye.
The people who survived thanks to a lucky coincidence would be coming to their senses for a long time, as would the creator of the miracle herself, whose holiness effect was gradually fading, never suspecting that they were also lucky that Sally hadn't wished for something like "Peace in the whole world"—then the energy clearly wouldn't have been enough for her, regardless of any help—the reserves accumulated by the Naaru were very much finite...
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Somewhere near Azeroth...
She had long ago lost track of the time she had been forced to remain in a state of deep sleep. An endless fall into a dark abyss—that had become her lot. Rare glimmers of consciousness allowed her to make attempts to break free from the prison created by the Titans, but her strength was barely enough to slip into a shaky half-slumber saturated with green hues, where the prisoner immediately became bogged down in the sticky webs of visions of what was happening in reality. And although observing without the possibility of influencing the fate of the world that had given her life at the dawn of time was a form of torture, she was glad for even that: to sleep and see dreams filled with the events of Azeroth was far better than plunging into the proverbial abyss. The Titans in their time had not been too lazy to be ingenious and cut her off from her source of power in such a non-trivial way...
Occasionally, she managed to accumulate energy and manifest her will in the material world. However, as a rule, such actions immediately returned her to her original state, cutting off the "dream show" organized by the Emerald Dream, which had been created by no means to "preserve the untouched image of Azeroth." It mattered not what the prisoner tried to accomplish: whether to pass a few words of guidance to her followers or to grace them with a small but real miracle.
Yes, followers… The mere fact of their existence could have had a beneficial effect on her existence, or even helped her break free from her imprisonment! Yes, it could have… but instead, it was a mockery. The believers, as was expected, prayed to her, turned their hopes and aspirations toward her, generously sharing their faith... but the energy from the latter practically never reached its destination. After all, she was not a god of Nature, but a goddess of Holy. All she received were pathetic crumbs. Given that while the believers were many, all their knowledge of the object of their worship was distorted by lies imposed by the jailers' minions and far from the reality of the situation, and also that their "goddess" rarely responded to calls, the power in the prayers was, for all intents and purposes, nonexistent. And a crumb of that "nonexistent" was clearly not the resource one should count on when planning an escape. Breaking out into freedom was the sole goal toward which all her thoughts were directed: for her, a being of Holy, being imprisoned in pitch darkness was quite the ordeal…
"Recently," another set of "followers" had appeared, but those used her power—Holy—directly, taking advantage of the fact that its owner was locked in a prison. Needless to say, this brought no benefit whatsoever to the prisoner herself...
But then, in one wonderful moment, everything changed, and surprisingly—for the better, to say the least. She was in the midst of another slumber, indifferently observing life on Azeroth, when she felt it. The call. And the fact that this call was weak and barely audible played no role, for it was the first summons to her that had penetrated the barriers of her prison in... she already found it difficult to name the exact amount of time spent in captivity. The appeal was not to a moon goddess or to the faceless Holy as some aspect of one of the world's energies, but to an entity with the right to command it. Otherwise, the unaddressed plea would simply not have reached her, just as the invocations to the Holy from Human Paladins and Priests do not. Fortunately, in her unmodest opinion, her rights to possess the Holy remained more than sufficient, though her capabilities, admittedly, had faltered.
Her focus shifted, and upon closer examination of the connection formed with the young girl, it turned out that she was not the only one who had responded to the call. There was a third party. However, at that moment, she didn't care about the identity of her "colleague"; far more important was the fact that the stranger turned out to be a true benefactor and shared his reserves with the needy one, unaware that she was not alone, and it was still a question of who exactly needed more power: the former goddess or the future postulant?..
It was within her power to strip the hapless A'dal of all his reserves. She could have given nothing to the human girl, taking everything for herself. Yes, she could have left her dungeon in an instant! She could have… but she didn't. Even in such a situation, the thirst for long-awaited freedom could not eclipse the light of the spark of her mind. Reasoning soundly that being free was not yet the solution to all problems. Weakened by long imprisonment, she would have become a desirable prey for old enemies who were enjoying themselves on Azeroth, not to mention the Aspects and other henchmen of her captors. Besides, such meanness contradicted her very essence. That is why A'dal did not lose his entire supply, and Sally received the result she needed. And the fact that instead of a burst of raw power, the goddess demonstrated her skill by borrowing the resulting difference in Mana—no one noticed that. But even so, the energy received would have been quite enough to break free, but as already mentioned, the goddess was in no hurry to leave the prison, preferring for now to limit herself to "stepping out of the dark cell into the corridor."
Having protected herself from returning to the gloom of oblivion, she froze in a fragile Balance between slumber and wakefulness and was in no hurry to cross the line, while at the same time gaining the long-awaited opportunity to prepare the ground for a safe return…
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