That voice and the person from the future

Disaster and hope alike descend without warning.

The golden age of the Night Elves continued unabated, while in the palace, Queen Azshara received certain peculiar tidings.

The great Light of Lights, Azshara of the Thousand Moons—her life endlessly prolonged by Arcane energy. This most exquisite of elves was no mere ornamental beauty; for years upon years, she had drawn upon the might of the Well of Eternity, making Her Majesty a formidable Archmage in her own right. Yet the Queen's boundless radiance meant she never needed to lift a finger herself.

As was her custom, Azshara lounged languidly on the grand terrace atop the palace, gazing down at the Well of Eternity below while gently swirling a goblet of Moonlight Wine.

"Your Majesty, your afternoon tea and pastries."

Head Maid Vashj approached softly, carefully arranging the delicate confections from her tray upon the small table beside the recliner, then retreated with utmost reverence, awaiting any command from Her Majesty the Queen.

At the terrace entrance, a male Night Elf clad in heavy armor stood like a statue, his right hand ever resting on the rune-enscribed longsword at his hip.

The Queen's most loyal captain of the guard, Varone—he had devoted everything to the great Light of Lights, guarding his mistress for decades as if each day were the first.

Yet Varone strove to conceal the possessiveness he harbored deep within for Azshara. Sometimes he even suspected the Queen had sensed this emotion, but Azshara said nothing of it.

The peerless Light of Lights would never love any elf, nor would she ever share physical intimacy with one.

She was inviolable. He must protect her. Only a great god could be worthy of the Queen—so Varone told himself.

And Azshara thought the same.

Alas, the gods made no reply.

As for the Moon Goddess Elune—well, the name alone made it clear she was female, and Azshara had no interest in relations between the same sex.

And the God of Magic, Sarodar... well, that deity paid her no heed at all. No matter how many times she urged the Highborne to build bridges, the result was always the same as with the Dragons: utter silence.

Was she even inferior to those so-called Chosen Ones? Azshara felt a touch of resentment, which slowly kindled into bitterness.

But as ever, disaster and hope alike descend without warning, and sometimes you cannot even tell the difference between them.

A mysterious presence reached out to her—its voice came from the Well of Eternity.

That voice told her that a god and his endless Titan legions wished to descend upon this world and cleanse it of all filth.

The Night Elves would become the god's sole favored children, elevated to supreme heights.

And Queen Azshara would rule this world forever—even become the god's consort.

The god's name: Sargeras.

To achieve all this was simple: the Queen need only command her mages to gather energy, harness the power of the Well of Eternity, transform it into a Portal, and welcome the Titan legions' arrival.

Then... the Titan warriors would help the elves stabilize and expand the Portal until it could bear the god's glory, allowing him to descend upon the world.

Azshara's heart stirred, and soon she was lost in the vision.

Sargeras... the great god...

The god's wife... Azshara...

That name sounded quite pleasing.

At this thought, a faint smile graced Azshara's exquisite features.

And her reign would stretch on into eternity.

"Varone, my dear captain of the guard?"

Hearing the Queen's call, Varone strode forward at once, bowing his head deeply, struggling desperately not to fix his gaze on the sheer, misty gown the Queen wore.

"I wish to summon Dath'Remar Sunstrider, immediately. Would you be so kind as to inform him for me?"

"As you wish, Light of Lights."

Varone bowed in acceptance, then swiftly withdrew.

A few days later, a new decree concerning the Highborne was issued.

Queen Azshara required the assembly of a select group of the most elite Archmages, who were to depart at once for the Capital Eldorei and commence an unprecedented glorious undertaking.

Meanwhile, Dath'Remar Sunstrider's magical message from Eldorei reached Suramar City, bearing a list of those chosen.

The selected Archmages dared not delay. They packed their belongings simply and set out immediately for the Capital Eldorei.

Elisande would remain in Suramar to oversee daily affairs and Arcane studies, with the Eye of Truth Council supporting her fully.

Dath'Remar thought highly of Elisande, once a mere librarian, seeing her as a talent brimming with potential and political acumen.

Not only was she eager to learn and quick to grasp, but she also took great interest in governance and handled matters admirably.

Thus Elisande's rise had been meteoric. Appointing her as interim council leader was meant to give her a chance to hone her skills, while he observed her results—a decision on her future would come after their return.

None of them realized, however, that once they left, they would never come back.

******

In the Val'sharah region, within the forest outside Black Rook Hold.

Above a weed-choked clearing, a violent swirl of sand suddenly materialized, pulsing with energy beyond mortal comprehension.

The next moment, two slender figures were spat out by the sand, crashing hard onto the ground.

"Ah... couldn't Nozdormu have been gentler? My poor backside... Have we arrived? The War of the Ancients, on the eve of the Great Sundering?"

Rhonin scrambled to his feet, brushing the dirt from his robes, then reached out a hand to help his companion up.

Krasus's fiery red robe was now equally caked with dirt and disheveled, but he had no time to care about his appearance. Instead, he pressed a hand to his forehead, his face twisted in pain.

"I feel... something strange, as if some ability has been... oh no... I can't transform, I can't return to my dragon form, I'm trapped in this human state, this can't be... I understand now, two identical dragons cannot exist in the world at the same time."

"Congratulations, looks like you'll need to get used to how we humans travel on two legs. But speaking of which, why did Nozdormu send us here? All mysterious and not explaining a thing. And where exactly are we... Enemy attack!"

Rhonin, who had been rambling on, suddenly changed expression. He spun around swiftly while raising a mana shield.

Whoosh!

An arrow with a black feather tied to its end was now embedded in the dirt before the two of them, the shaft still quivering slightly.

"Strange outsiders, state your purpose. Black Rook Hold does not welcome intruders!"

Seven or eight Night Elves emerged from the nearby forest, one of them a mage who raised his staff, ready to strike at any moment.

"Black Rook Hold? Black Rook Hold?"

Rhonin blinked in surprise. Both he and Krasus understood the Elvish language.

Just what kind of godforsaken place had Nozdormu sent them to!

The Black Rook Hold, that ghostly great ruin on the Broken Isles?

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