The group slowly approached, and the full expanse of Suramar City emerged like a dream from an ancient painting, gradually filling their entire field of vision.
The first thing they saw was the enormous arched Magic Barrier enveloping the entire city. It was not a solid entity, but more like a constantly flowing veil of deep-blue arcane light. It refracted a crystalline sheen beneath the sunlight while blurring the city's inner details into a mysterious halo. The hum of energy was low and steady.
Beyond the barrier lay a jagged, shattered coastline and vegetation so lush it seemed unnatural.
Through the barrier's shifting glow, they could vaguely make out the city within: countless slender, magnificent elven towers rose from the ground, their spires piercing the heavens. Their architectural style embodied all the elegance and intricacy of the ancient Night Elves. Even filtered through the barrier, the dim radiance of the Arcane Crystals embedded in the towers could still be felt. The entire city resembled an ancient work of art carefully preserved beneath a violet crystal dome—gorgeous and exquisite, yet suffused with a suffocating sense of stagnation and decadent decline.
In stark contrast to that splendid fantasy landscape were the twisted figures wandering near the barrier's edge like withered shadows. They were the final destination of Mana Addiction: the Withered. Cast out of Suramar, they had become what they were under the torment of their addiction.
Azshara, who had been acting immature until just moments ago, gazed upon the city she had not seen for ten thousand years. A complicated trace of remembrance flashed through her eyes. She drew a deep breath, as if she wanted to draw that air, steeped in both glory and corruption, into her lungs.
"My Suramar..." For the first time, the teasing tone left her whisper,