Malfurion now faced two difficult choices: retreat and preserve a superficial peace, or strike back and embrace a defeat that was all but certain. Neither was an outcome he wished to face. What would the Druids who followed and believed in him think of him?
He seemed to have forgotten how, after leading the Druid army to defeat, he had fled in blind panic and had even been too ashamed to face Tyrande for a time. If not for recovering some of his reputation during the An'qiraj incident, he would probably still be sleeping in a cave.
After suffering the Orcs' endless betrayals, Malfurion could only accept the humiliating reality. He, leader of the Cenarion Circle and guardian of Azeroth's natural way, could do nothing but stand by. He neither dared to launch a substantial counterattack against the Orcs nor wished to seek aid from Tyrande's forces on Darkshore.
"Remain restrained," Malfurion finally ordered. "We cannot fall into their trap. They are provoking us, waiting for us to break the ceasefire first and give them an excuse for a full-scale assault."
"But, Archdruid! What is the difference between this kind of peace and surrender?!" another elderly Druid growled, unable to hold back. His fists clenched tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms.
Malfurion turned around, his gaze sweeping over every follower beside him. The same anger, confusion, and humiliation were written across their faces. He took a deep breath, and the air thick with the scent of destruction stabbed at his lungs.
"The difference is," he said in a low voice, carrying an unquestionable resolve, "that surrender means giving up hope, while we have not. We are buying time to regain our strength. I will go to Darkshore and ask Tyrande's forces to return and reinforce Ashenvale. We will