The winds of Ashenvale seemed to have changed direction overnight.
With the establishment of the Elf Council, Tyrande led the combined elven army back into control of the Ashenvale front.
The Druids stationed here had had enough of Malfurion's appeasement policy. The peace agreement had not brought peace; instead, the Orcs' incursions had only grown worse.
The shift in popular sentiment was unmistakable. Aside from a handful of diehards who followed Malfurion into seclusion in the Emerald Dream, everyone else rallied beneath the banner of the Elf Council.
Orders were issued one after another. Since the current peace agreement had been signed by Malfurion on behalf of the elves, Tyrande could not openly tear it up. But when it came to the Orcs crossing the line, they would no longer be treated so politely.
The hesitation and restraint that had once permeated the elven defensive line seemed to have been washed away by a sudden downpour, replaced by a long-lost sharpness carrying the scent of rust and arcane scorch marks.
The changes first appeared in seemingly trivial skirmishes. Several Orc logging crews from the Warsong Clan, as usual, habitually crossed the boundary they considered vague and unclear, attempting to fell ancient oaks near an elven outpost. Over the past few months, such probing incursions had at most drawn wary looks from elven sentries and a few warning arrows. As long as the Orcs were not too aggressive, they could often leave after a bluff-filled standoff with limited "spoils."
But this time, things were completely different.
The arrows were no longer warnings. They tore through the air with shrill whistles, piercing the lead Orc overseer's shoulder and thigh with precision. Then, a small squad of silent sentries emerged from the forest like ghosts. They made no attempt to communicate. Blades flashed