Mana Addiction

Morning mist blanketed Theramore Harbor, filtering the rising sunlight into a hazy golden veil. Sylvanas stood on the reef at the very front of the dock, the salty sea wind snapping her cloak.

She had not slept all night. A few days after the Arcane Gas incident, Sylvanas had come to welcome her people.

In the distance, the outline of the Kul Tiras merchant ship Seawing finally pierced the morning fog. The dark blue Proudmoore Anchor Emblem on its sails was damp with mist, making it seem especially heavy. Shadowy figures crowded along the deck railings—elven refugees, their pale skin like drifting ghosts amid the gray fog.

"Prepare to receive them!"

Workers of every race throughout the harbor sprang into action. The wooden piers echoed dully beneath hooves and feet of all kinds. Goblin foremen shrieked as they directed the cranes to turn, while several Tauren laborers worked massive pulleys.

The ship slowly docked. The instant the gangplank was lowered, a deathly silence fell over the pier.

The first elven girl to set foot on land suddenly dropped to her knees. Her trembling fingers dug into the damp sand, her slender knuckles turning white from the strain.

"Land." Her voice was so hoarse it scarcely sounded elven. "We... finally reached land."

Sand slipped through her fingers, mingling with falling tears. Those hands—hands that should have coaxed beautiful melodies from a harp in Silvermoon City—were now covered in tiny cuts and burn marks.

Sylvanas silently walked up to her, silver boots stopping within the girl's blurred vision.

"Stand up, child of the Starfall family."

The girl abruptly looked up, disbelief appearing on her sand-streaked face. "Windrunner... General?"

Sylvanas extended a hand. As she pulled the frail girl to her feet, she discovered that half her face had been disfigured.

"Second Sister, there are seventeen wounded like her on the ship." Vereesa Windrunner's voice came from behind her. "The Scourge plague left some wounds that magic couldn't heal. Fortunately, the Horde Shamans had methods to purify them, and that saved their lives."

The three spellcasters Deren had borrowed from Thrall had also returned to Kalimdor aboard this ship. Jaina had arranged for Horde representatives to take them back, and their payment had been more than generous.

Sylvanas had not expected to meet her younger sister here. The two sisters poured out their feelings to one another, grateful that they had survived the destruction of Quel'Thalas. Before Quel'Thalas fell, Sylvanas had sent Vereesa to seek aid from the elven prince in Dalaran. But Undead forces had blocked her path, and she had only reached Dalaran after overcoming countless difficulties. By then, Sylvanas had already left Dalaran and settled in Theramore. When Vereesa learned of this, she had boarded a ship with the Rangers and come to Theramore to find her second sister.

More and more elves descended the gangplank. They staggered like fawns learning to walk, their spirits exhausted by the long sea voyage. Some knelt to kiss the ground. Others clutched damaged bundles to their chests—the last remnants of what they had snatched from Silvermoon City: a scorched poetry collection, half a family portrait, a bloodstained child's toy.

"It's... so noisy here."

An elderly elf covered his ears. The rumble of harbor cranes, the cries of Goblin vendors, the heavy hoofbeats of Tauren—all of it struck the nerves of elves accustomed to the silence of Eversong Woods like blunt instruments.

Sylvanas looked at the frightened eyes of her people and suddenly realized a cruel truth:

These were not warriors.

They were tailors who had happened to hide in cellars when Silvermoon City fell, gardeners who had hidden in greenhouse gardens, poets who had hidden in wine cellars. They were ordinary people without the strength to fight.

"But it's safe here," she heard herself say.

The sea wind suddenly strengthened, scattering the morning mist. Sunlight poured down, illuminating the battered elves on the docks and the rising city behind Sylvanas—humans, dwarves, and even a few friendly Trolls were laying the foundations for new city walls.

For one brief moment, she seemed to see the golden canopy of Eversong Woods.

But there were no trees here.

Only steel, stone, and the possibility of survival.

"Tool" Jaina Proudmoore stood on a raised platform at the docks, the sea wind lifting her golden hair. She held a roll of parchment densely covered with Theramore's labor demands. Behind her, City Hall officials were busy setting up a temporary registration station—several oak tables pushed together and draped with dark blue cloth embroidered with gold thread, made to look as solemn as possible.

"All adult elves, please line up here to register!"

Her voice was amplified by magic and reached every elf clearly. The refugees hesitantly gathered like startled deer. Many were still wrapped in the cloaks they had worn while fleeing, the cloth covered in dried blood and scorch marks.

Jaina's gaze swept over the crowd, quickly assessing them—mostly elderly people, women, and children, with very few young or middle-aged men. She noticed an elderly elven woman clutching a bundle tightly to her chest. Through a gap, she could see a scorched lute inside.

"Theramore is expanding." She unrolled the parchment, her voice steady and firm. "Those willing to farm can be assigned to the newly reclaimed southern lands."

A stir ran through the crowd below.

"Farm?" An elven man wearing a monocle frowned. "I'm a copyist at the Silvermoon City library!"

Jaina was prepared. "The municipal archives are expanding and need clerks. You can give it a try."

The man's expression shifted from anger to astonishment.

"Each household willing to farm will receive twenty mu of land," she continued. "No rent or taxes for the first three years. Seeds and farming tools will be provided by City Hall."

The elves looked at one another. Farming? In Quel'Thalas, land was tilled by Magic Puppets, while nobles only needed to prune roses in their gardens.

A frail elven girl timidly raised her hand. "I... I know how to make elven cloth..."

Her voice was barely audible, but Jaina caught it immediately.

"The textile mill is short on skilled workers." She quickly stepped down from the platform and approached the girl. "Ten Silver Coins a week during the trial period, with dormitory housing provided."

The words fell like a stone into still water. Several more elves raised their hands and said they could do it too.

"I... I'm willing!" Tears welled in the girl's eyes.

Jaina noticed the scars on her face but said nothing.

Sylvanas stood at the edge of the crowd, watching coldly. She saw how precisely Jaina reassured every elf—promising archive positions to scholars, hinting at opera house openings for musicians, even telling the elderly woman holding the lute, "Our city orchestra needs teachers of traditional arts."

What practiced political skill.

But Sylvanas had to admit it—Jaina had given her people choices.

Meanwhile, in Dalaran, Kael'thas was busy rebuilding his court with Magic Crystals.

"No Magic Craftsmen," Vereesa Windrunner quietly voiced her thoughts. "Dalaran poached all of them."

Sylvanas sneered. Those young, able-bodied elves skilled in enchanting and rune-forging were probably enjoying elven wine in the Violet Citadel right now, pretending the tragedy of Silvermoon City had been nothing but a nightmare.

"What about the nobles?" she asked.

Vereesa Windrunner's mouth twisted. "All in Dalaran. I heard they rebuilt the Silvermoon Council and spend all day arguing over who should sit to Prince Kael'thas's left or right."

A City Hall official hurried over. "General Windrunner, Lady Jaina asks that you come over."

Before the temporary registration station, Jaina was speaking with several elven youths. They looked no older than a hundred—children by elven standards.

"Do you know how to raise Chocobos?" She pointed to an entry in the documents. "Theramore could try introducing these animals."

The youths' eyes lit up. Bird taming was a traditional game for children in Eversong Woods.

Sylvanas suddenly realized Jaina's wisdom—

She was not offering charity. She truly needed these elves to bring strength for the city's development.

Orderly footsteps sounded in the distance.

She looked up and saw a long formation of Rangers approaching. Their light armor still bore traces of battle: leather torn by Undead claws, breastplates blackened by Fel Energy, and bloodstains that could never be fully washed away. Yet their steps remained firm, their backs straight, as though they were still the elite force beneath Silvermoon City that had once terrified Trolls.

"The ranger unit reporting in." The leading ranger's voice was hoarse but powerful.

Sylvanas's gaze passed over each familiar face—

—Hadron Brightwing, his left eye covered with a bloodstained strip of cloth;

—Vianna Starfall, whose once-proud golden hair had been mostly burned away;

—Leras Windrunner, her youngest brother, with an Undead bite wound still on his neck.

"You could have stayed in Dalaran," she said softly. "Kael'thas is reorganizing a new Silvermoon Council."

Hadron gave a scornful laugh. "Go serve as a ceremonial guard for those noble lords?"

"We follow the Windrunners, not the Sunstriders." Vianna simply tore off her burned braid and let her short hair scatter in the wind.

Leras stepped before his sister, his young face carrying a resolve beyond his years. "Silvermoon City has fallen, but the Rangers' oath has not."

Sylvanas's hand trembled slightly.

Jaina's voice came from behind them at just the right moment. "The Theramore Guard is expanding. The city is growing and urgently needs experienced veterans."

She wore casual clothes, her golden hair loosely tied behind her head, as if she had rushed over in a hurry. But the sharpness in her blue eyes had not diminished in the slightest. "If you're willing, you can join as a complete unit and retain your original organization."

The Rangers exchanged glances. Becoming guards for a human city? It had once been unimaginable in their pride.

"The terms?" Sylvanas asked bluntly.

Jaina met her gaze. "The Rangers can be responsible for security in the elven district, especially—"

"Especially in the beginning. They need familiar faces. When children wake in the middle of the night, seeing their former Rangers on patrol will reassure them more than seeing human soldiers."

Sunlight passed through Sylvanas's golden hair, scattering flecks of light across her face. She thought of the disfigured elven girl at the docks and the scorched lute in the old woman's arms.

"We accept," she finally said. "But the Rangers answer only to my orders."

The corner of Jaina's mouth lifted slightly. "No problem. It's all for the defense of Theramore, our home."

As she turned to leave, Leras suddenly asked in a low voice, "Sister, are we really going to serve as guards for humans?"

"No." She adjusted the tension of her bowstring. "We're defending our new home."

Sylvanas had thought everything was beautiful—reunions with her sister, her brother, her comrades, and her people on this hopeful land. A brand-new life lay ahead. But three elves bound in iron chains at the rear of the ranger formation shattered all those dreams.

The three elves were carried on stretchers, their wrists and bodies locked in specially made Arcane Suppression Shackles. Nothing remained of their former elegance—

Aerolas Brightwing, the ranger unit's most outstanding Arcane Archer, was now tearing at his own sleeve with his teeth. Silk ripped with a shrill sound beneath his sharp teeth, saliva dripping from his chin onto the exquisite silver-thread embroidery.

Liandral Mingyi, the noble daughter famed throughout Silvermoon City for her poise, was repeatedly smashing her head against the stretcher. Her carefully maintained golden hair was caked with filth, and the heirloom moonstone hairpin among it hung crookedly, making faint sounds with every impact.

Most alarming of all was the old scholar Sarissell—the court tutor who had once rebuked Prince Kael'thas in elegant ancient language. He was now panting like a beast, harsh wheezes coming from his throat. The hem of his robe had been torn into strips, exposing calves with bulging veins.

"It started on the third day of the voyage." The leading ranger's voice was dry. "First their fingers trembled, then—"

Her dry voice seemed afraid to recall what had happened. "They seemed to become different people, with no reason left, only the instincts of beasts."

Aerolas suddenly raised his head, his cloudy purple eyes meeting Sylvanas's gaze. For an instant, a trace of clarity flashed in them. "General?" His voice sounded as if it had been scraped by sandpaper. "Please... kill—"

Before he could finish, his facial muscles suddenly twisted, and his whole body convulsed violently. The chains clattered as his spine arched backward at an impossible angle, like a snapped bow.

"What exactly is happening?" Sylvanas was completely stunned. From elegant elves to mad beasts—what was happening that she did not know about? In her daze, she remembered that man's words: "This is a medicine, specifically for treating a certain illness among your elves."

At that thought, she could not wait to find that man.

"Sister, where are you going?" Vereesa saw her sister hurry away and immediately followed after her.

"To find the medicine." Sylvanas spoke as she unleashed the Windrunners' greatest agility, covering several meters with every stride as she raced toward the city.

Leras wanted to follow as well, but the ranger unit still needed him to organize it. He could only stamp his foot and return to the rangers.

Yesterday's second update was delayed because some words violated the rules, and it was only released after revision. I'll need to check more carefully in the future. I'll keep working to create even more exciting stories. Thanks, brothers, for your support, bookmarks, and votes—send them in even harder!