Soon after the aftershocks of the Blessing Ceremony subsided in Ital'ruk, another operation quietly unfolded deep within the Moonsong Forest of Northrend.
The forest was dead silent in the dead of night, with only the faint rustling of dry leaves rubbing against each other echoing in the darkness as a gentle breeze passed through.
The air was filled with a thin layer of arcane energy, mixed with a hint of decaying sweetness, creating a scent reminiscent of old spices.
Five figures, perfectly blended with the night, moved silently among the massive fir tree roots.
Their movements were precise and efficient, each step carefully avoiding leaving traces, each movement cleverly utilizing the shadows cast by the tree trunks.
The standard Darkclaw Camp gear covering their entire bodies silently absorbed most of the light, minimizing the chance of detection.
The leading Dracthyr suddenly stopped, clenching his fist.
The team instantly froze, completely merging into the shadows.
His cold, vertical pupils under his helmet – he was Scale-Leader Xindesaish – scanned ahead.
Through the sparse woods, the outline of a city was faintly visible in the distance.
Sendarra.
It was completely different from the elf cities people imagined.
At the heart of this city stood an elven spired tower built of pale white stone.
The tower was covered with crisscrossing, thick pipes through which flowed liquid, blue-white glowing arcane energy.
These pipes, like the city's veins, extended from the central spire, delivering energy to every corner of the city—
Especially to the magnificent, elaborately decorated buildings, also constructed of pale stone, that surrounded the central tower.
That must be the noble district; even in the dead of night, it was brightly lit, and faint music could even be heard.
However, in the outer areas, the scene changed dramatically.
Low, crowded shacks of wood and stone formed a depressing and gloomy area.
Only a few scattered, dim magical lights, as if about to extinguish, dotted the area.
Evidently, this was the commoner district.
The magic conduits, upon reaching here, suddenly became thin and old, and their light appeared dim.
"Illusion." Xindesaish's voice was low and hoarse.
The command was concise and powerful, devoid of any superfluous emotion.
The five Dracthyr closed their eyes simultaneously, concentrating their power.
Subtle energy fluctuations gently swept over their bodies.
The scales covering their entire bodies gradually retracted and smoothed, and their angular draconic faces began to soften and reshape.
Within a few breaths, four pale faces, bearing the characteristic arrogance and weariness of High Elf, replaced their original forms.
Under the effect of the illusion, their equipment also transformed into uniform, slightly plain dark blue patrol scout uniforms—this was the disguise they had chosen after days of observation.
"Remember," Xindesaish spoke again, his voice mimicking the elven accent, but still cold and efficient.
"Objective: Noble District, locate energy nodes. Then steal mana, avoiding any unnecessary combat."
"Yes." Four equally cold voices responded.
The team moved again, this time like a true night patrol, with a ranger-like lightness, following a path leading deep into the commoner district.
The streets were empty and silent in the dead of night.
The doors and windows of the shacks on both sides of the road were tightly shut, with only a few windows emitting extremely faint magical lamplight.
The decaying scent in the air was particularly strong here, mixed with a desperate smell akin to rotting wood.
Xindesaish's gaze, sharp as a hawk, swept around, revealing the mottled traces of decay in the commoner district everywhere he looked.
Moss quietly spread in the cracks of the house corners, covering the originally exquisite carvings until they were mottled and unclear.
The paving stones on the road were missing a corner here and broken a piece there, showing signs of dilapidation.
A faint trace of arcane energy lingered in the air, but what should have been invigorating magic was now mixed with the foul odor of decay and dampness, making one feel disgusted.
Clearly, this place had not received even the most basic maintenance for a long time.
More seriously, the magic here was slowly and continuously depleting.
They passed a small square enclosed by low bushes.
In the center of the square was a dried-up fountain, with only a few green, foul-smelling drops of liquid remaining at the bottom.
Above the fountain stood a dusty statue of an elven poet, looking particularly desolate.
This might have been a place where commoners gathered during the day, but it was now empty.
"Who's there?" A wary yet tired voice came from the shadows of a nearby alley.
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