Aegwynn swayed gracefully as she approached Nielas Aran. She had dressed up especially for today, a rosy flush tinting her pretty face, which she normally left bare.
Her full lips curved slightly upward, as vivid as two overlapping butterflies. Her eyes were seductive and alluring, radiating a soul-stealing charm.
Licking her lips, she stared straight at Nielas Aran and parted her crimson lips.
"So you're Nielas Aran? Mmm, you have a bewitching masculine charm."
After a silvery giggle, the Guardian had somehow drawn close to the Archmage.
Her fair, slender hands caressed Nielas Aran's face.
Aegwynn's beautiful eyes stared into the man's pupils, and a green light flickered deep within her eyes before vanishing.
Nielas Aran seemed to have been immobilized by a spell. He gazed dazedly at the woman before him, breathing heavily, his face as flushed as a drunkard's.
Barathen looked enviously at the enchanting beauty and his spellbound old friend in the distance. With a soft sigh, he slowly withdrew.
"Now, then, you're mine..."
With a coquettish laugh, Aegwynn threw herself into Nielas Aran's arms, pressing the full figure beneath her mage robes against the Archmage's chest.
All of Stormwind Keep filled with a rosy, sensual atmosphere. Before long, a man's heavy panting and a woman's coy cries rang out.
Clenching his fists, Barathen dismissed the guards on duty and sat alone in silence in the corridor outside Stormwind Keep.
"Damn it, damn it, that whore, rutting in broad daylight. How dare she, how dare she do it on my throne..."
The obscene sounds drifting from the hall set the Lionheart King's fury ablaze.
Yet he could only endure in silence, because he knew he could not afford to provoke that wanton bitch. If he angered her, the entire kingdom would be destroyed beneath her merciless magic.
The Lionheart King, young, capable, wise, and mighty in the eyes of his people, now looked like a helpless child.
He crouched on the ground with his head in his hands, muttering incessantly. It was a sign of an adult on the verge of breaking down.
"I still have to endure. Yes, I still have to endure. I have to clear every obstacle out of my Llane's path..."
Tears filled Barathen's fierce eyes as he sobbed soundlessly. The vast kingdom was pressing down on him until he could scarcely breathe.
"Heh, Trolls... compared to those bloodthirsty jackals, the Trolls are nothing but a trivial ailment...
The nobles, those bastards in Stromgarde and Lordaeron-just wait. My little lion will burn you all to ashes."
The Lionheart King was as hysterical as someone suffering from schizophrenia.
Time slowly passed.
"I'm sorry... Nielas Aran."
The Lionheart King murmured, his expression bleak.
Had His Poor Majesty been a mage, even an intermediate mage, he would have been able to tell that his closest friend was no lust-crazed fiend indulging himself in broad daylight.
He had merely fallen under the Guardian's advanced illusion spell-Charm Person.
Barathen stood, wiped away his tears expressionlessly, and smoothed the creases from his formal attire. Only then did he walk out with a smile.
"Tom, good lad! I'm counting on you to maintain order in Stormwind City."
"For the king's glory!"
The marshal named Tom straightened his back, raised his head, and saluted. Walking past him was the highest object of his faith.
This lionlike man before him was His Majesty, beloved by the people-the Lionheart King of Stormwind, who would never fall!
Un'Goro Crater, Marshal's Refuge.
"When did I become the prince's mentor?"
Al scratched his head and kept reading.
The youth frowned as he skipped over long passages. It was not that His Highness's phrasing lacked elegance, nor that Kael'thas's literary accomplishments were so poor that his writing was unbearable.
"So he had that simp streak all along?"
Al finished reading with a dark expression. He had discovered that, apart from lengthy, lavish praise, the entire letter contained only the tiniest scrap of substance.
"A Dalaran academic symposium? All the Archmages in Silvermoon City will be attending?"
The youth rubbed his smooth chin, thinking quietly.
Why invite me? And why would His Highness address me as his mentor? What a baffling plot.
Still...
Fire flared, reducing the letter in his hand to drifting ash. A playful smile curled the youth's lips.
It's about time to harvest another crop of chives.
"Hello, hello, old man, can you hear me?"
The youth fiddled with the ornate round mirror in his hands, speaking loudly.
The mirror came from the court of Quel'Thalas. Rather than a round mirror, it looked more like an exquisitely crafted work of art.
The youth's face began to blur in the mirror. Amid a series of strange crackling noises, Belovar's aged face slowly came into focus.
"You little brat! So you still remember you have a grandfather!"
Al covered his buzzing ears and offered apologies with a sheepish grin.
"Do you have any idea how desperate I was when you were swept away by that spatial turbulence?"
The old man continued roaring from the other side.
"Boo-hoo... your parents died so young. If anything happened to you..."
"Hey, hey, hey, are you done yet?"
Al watched with exasperation as Belovar cried while sneaking glances at him.
"A 2,500-year-old relic, and your acting is still this bad."
Al curled his lip.
"Is that any way to speak to your grandfather?"
Belovar lowered the hand shielding his eyes and finally burst out laughing.
"You little brat, what made you think to contact this lonely old man? I heard you caused quite a stir in that place called Something-or-other Crater. Just a few months apart, and the former Father of Wartlings is already being hailed as the founder of a new era of arcane magic."
The chairman teased his grandson with a disdainful expression, but he could not suppress the smile tugging at his lips.
"Is this about the Bloodpetals and Jinkela? Fine, I should have known. Those adventurers won't lift a finger without something to gain, and every last one of them has a big mouth. I'd been planning to surprise you and His Majesty the Sun King when I got back."
The youth spread his hands helplessly.
"All right, Mr. Chairman, we'll have plenty of time to catch up once I'm back in Quel'Thalas. What I want to know is..."
The youth rubbed between his brows and continued.
"As far as I know, the last-and only-academic symposium between Dalaran and Quel'Thalas was 2,700 years ago, when the Council of Tirisfal had just been founded. Its organizer was Alodi, the first Guardian.
So... why?"
Al looked at his grandfather. When Belovar did not answer, he continued.
"It's political maneuvering between His Majesty Anasterian and Antonidas... isn't it?"
Belovar remained silent, but Al found the answer he wanted in the old man's eyes.
"The Bloodpetals?"
"And the formulas for Jinkela and Jinkela 2.0..."
Belovar sighed and looked at Al with a complicated gaze, hesitating to speak.
"Al, I am first the Grand Archmage of Quel'Thalas and chairman of the Silvermoon Council, and only then your grandfather. The nation's interests... come before everything."
Belovar spoke dejectedly.
"All right, I understand. I'll go to Dalaran at the end of this month to attend the symposium."
Al's expression was grim as he prepared to dispel the communication magic on the mirror.
But Belovar's aged voice came from the mirror again.
"So, in my capacity as Grand Archmage of Quel'Thalas and chairman of the Silvermoon Council, I order you..."
The gloom on Belovar's face suddenly cleared. He gave a gratified smile and looked lovingly at Al.
"Honorary Councilor Al, be yourself, and tell all that filthy politics to get as far away as it can!"
The youth stared absently at the clear mirror. Only when the sky began to darken and Hemet called him to dinner from afar did he come to his senses.
"When did the old man learn to dish out chicken soup for the soul...?"
A snicker escaped him, followed by a burst of hearty laughter.
"But, credit where it's due, that chicken soup really does taste good..."