Originally, Al'Akir, the mercurial Wind Lord, had been basking in the resurgence of the wind elemental domain, his thoughts consumed by where next to unleash his devastating power. His grand design was clear: first, to conjure a sky-shattering gale, a storm of sand and sea to utterly engulf the defiant Tol'vir, then to sweep beyond the borders of Uldum, conquering new territories.
Yet, his ambitious plans remained mere whispers on the wind. Before a single grain of sand could be stirred, the very heart of his domain, Skywall, was brazenly invaded. In less than half a day, the formidable Skyreach fortress, a strategic stronghold and the sacred hatching grounds of his storm dragons, was captured! Dragon eggs, countless future warriors, now lay vulnerable in enemy hands. The thought of his wind elemental army crippled by such a loss ignited a furious tempest within him.
How could he, Al'Akir, Lord of the Skies, tolerate such an affront?
Enraged, Al'Akir immediately convened the Wind Council, his voice a thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the elemental plane. Their objective was singular: reclaim Skyreach, no matter the cost.
"Wind Riders! Hear my command!" His voice ripped through the air, a gale made manifest. "Target! Skyreach!"
As Wind Lord Al'Akir issued these two earth-shattering commands, Galen watched the spectacle unfold.
Al'Akir's form was colossal, a towering figure that rivaled the avatar of Ragnaros himself within the Molten Core. Like the fallen West Wind Lord Asaad, Al'Akir possessed a humanoid upper body that tapered into a swirling whirlwind of elemental energy, a living genie of the tempest. His upper torso was encased in thick, golden armor, etched with crackling runes. Two spheres of raw, violent lightning orbited his shoulder plates, casting an eerie glow. Beneath a backdrop of royal purple and gold-trimmed ribbons, a pair of wind elemental arms, wreathed in arcs of pure electricity, extended from his form. A majestic blue cloak billowed behind him, a constant storm in itself.
Galen's gaze then settled on Al'Akir's waist, where a weapon of fearsome beauty hung: a golden and silver storm war blade, shaped like a cruel crescent moon, its edges serrated with wicked barbs. This, Galen knew, must be the Stormreaper, Al'Akir's signature elemental holy blade.
Behind Al'Akir, four other colossal figures emerged, the Wind Element Great Lords, each a mirror image of their master: humanoid upper bodies, whirlwind lower halves. They were adorned with peculiar, gem-encrusted felt hats, their bodies glowing with distinct elemental hues.
First, the greenish Westwind Lord Anshal, whose very storms were imbued with the dual power of life and death, capable of both healing allies and poisoning foes with a single gale.
Next, the yellow Eastwind Lord Rohash, his wind element infused with the raw power of earth. His sandstorms were legendary, capable of grinding the mightiest mountains into dust.
The Northwind Lord Nezir was a chilling vision of pure blue, his storms as frigid and unforgiving as the arctic wastes themselves.
Finally, Southwind Lord Siamat, the youngest and weakest of the Conclave of Wind. His power lacked the elemental integration of his predecessors, manifesting as pure, unadulterated lightning wind.
These five were the largest, their immense size in Azeroth a direct testament to their power, each containing a staggering reservoir of elemental energy. Little did Wind Lord Al'Akir and his Four Winds Lords suspect that their very power was now coveted.
Galen surveyed the approaching might of the wind elemental army, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He had not come unprepared. Alongside his Golden Holy Dragons, hundreds of thousands of Tol'vir warriors stood ready.
"Mortals! You actually dare to invade my divine domain!" Wind Lord Al'Akir's voice thundered, a cold, biting wind that sought to strip the very flesh from their bones.
"Your divine domain?" Galen's retort was calm, dismissive, yet laced with an undeniable challenge. "No, now it's mine!"
As he spoke, three pairs of radiant holy light wings unfurled from Galen's back, propelling him upwards, soaring above Skyreach.
This audacious declaration, this blatant claim of dominion, directly enraged Al'Akir. The blue lightning dancing across his form intensified, growing brighter with every pulse. With a furious roar, he abandoned his army, surging forward to meet Galen in the heavens.
The Four Winds Lords watched, accustomed to their master's volatile nature. Unlike the stoic Stone Mother Therazane, the fiery Ragnaros, or the sagacious Tidehunter Neptulon, Al'Akir was the most aloof and unpredictable of the elemental lords, as fickle and untamed as the true wind itself. It was this very capriciousness that necessitated the Wind Council, who managed the wind elements of Skywall in his stead.
Both supreme powers ascended, choosing the vast, open sky as their arena, leaving the chaotic platform of Skyreach to their legions.
"Wind Rider Legion! Charge!"
"Golden Holy Dragonflight! Tol'vir Legion, attack!"
Accompanied by the thunderous roars of the Four Winds Lords and Nefarian, a brutal battle erupted on the Skyreach platform. Nefarian clashed with the gloomy Northwind Lord Ner'zhul, Onyxia faced the scorching desert winds of Rohash, and Sabellian engaged the verdant tempest of Anshal. The youngest and weakest, Southwind Lord Siamat, found himself overwhelmed by the combined might of the Windrunner sisters, Alleria and Sylvanas. At the peak of their legendary power, wielding the Scepter of Azshara and Thas'dorah, Legacy of the Windrunners, the sisters effortlessly contained the "weak" Siamat.
The true fate of Skyreach, however, would be decided high above, where two demigods clashed.
"A demigod of the Holy Light lineage," Al'Akir's voice, though still powerful, carried a hint of caution now. His eyes, burning with purple light beneath his Indian Asan-like bandage headdress, fixed on Galen. "My wind domain has no grievances or enmities with you. Why do you invade my divine domain?"
The Wind Lord, for all his bluster, was not foolish. He admitted to himself that his initial roar had been premature, spoken before he had truly gauged Galen's strength. Now, facing the six-winged embodiment of Holy Light, his tone softened, a testament to his ever-changing nature. He was the weakest of the four elemental lords, yet his power fluctuated wildly with his temperament. In moments of strength, he could stand against Ragnaros; in weakness, he was the bottom of the elemental hierarchy. Yet, in the original timeline, Al'Akir had been permanently slain in Skywall, a fate that implied his "explosive" moments of power were rare indeed.
"Al'Akir," Galen responded, a hint of amusement in his voice, "you are the most restless of the four elemental kings, save for Ragnaros. Your nature is chaotic and disorderly, no less so than the Burning Legion. As a member of the Order camp, I represent the Holy Light to crusade against you!"
The Wind Lord's questioning struck Galen as utterly absurd. The four elements had wreaked havoc on Azeroth since its very inception, later aligning themselves with the Old Gods. To feign innocence now was a ludicrous display.