The following morning arrived quietly, carried in on pale sunlight filtering through the silver-leafed trees of Quel'Thalas. For the first time in a long while, Leylin woke without the ache of battle or the pressure of imminent danger pressing against his mind.
Yet peace, he had learned, was never without its price.
Alleria found him later that day, standing on a balcony overlooking Windrunner Village. The wind stirred her long hair as she leaned against the railing beside him, her expression more solemn than it had been the night before.
"There are things you should know," she said at last.
Leylin nodded. "I figured."
She began slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
"After you vanished, the war only grew worse," Alleria said. "Lordaeron became the final battleground. The Horde pushed harder than ever, dragonfire, siege engines, fel magic. It was chaos."
Her fingers curled slightly as she spoke the next words.
"Sir Anduin Lothar fell at Blackrock Spire."
Leylin closed his eyes briefly. Even though he had already learned about it, hearing the name spoken aloud carried weight. Anduin Lothar—the Lion of Azeroth, had been a pillar of the Alliance, a man whose presence alone inspired armies.
"Alleria continued, "Turalyon took up his sword. Not just the blade—but his will. He rallied the Alliance when morale nearly broke."
Leylin exhaled slowly. "So he did."
"The final push crushed the Horde," she said. "Orgrim Doomhammer was captured. Their armies shattered. Some fled, some were imprisoned. Others… vanished."
Her voice hardened slightly. "Many wanted them executed. Others argued they should be used as labor, or studied. Politics took over once the fighting stopped."
Leylin had already seen the scars of that victory, burned villages, abandoned roads, broken keeps reclaimed by weeds and silence. Victory, he knew, rarely felt triumphant to those who lived in its shadow.
"The war ended," Alleria said softly. "But the cost was… enormous."
Leylin rested his forearms against the railing, staring into the distant forests. "And yet the world keeps moving."
Alleria glanced at him. "You sound like someone who's seen worse."
He smiled faintly. "I have."
After the conversation, Leylin felt a familiar pull, an obligation not to history, but to himself. There were people he needed to see.
—
The spires of Silvermoon rose gracefully against the sky as Leylin made his way through the arcane district. The hum of ley lines beneath the city felt comforting, familiar—like an old melody he had once mastered.
Grand Magister Belo'vir sensed him before he even reached the inner hall.
The air shimmered.
Arcane sigils bloomed briefly, and space folded just enough for the elderly high elf to appear before Leylin, staff in hand, eyes widened in disbelief.
"…You're alive."
Leylin bowed deeply. "Teacher."
For a heartbeat, Belo'vir said nothing. Then he laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound and struck Leylin lightly on the shoulder with his staff.
"Disappear for years without a word and then bow like nothing happened?" the magister scoffed. "You truly are my student."
Emotion flickered briefly in the old elf's eyes before he turned away. "Come. If you're here, Nallorath will want to know."
He raised his staff, tracing a rapid arcane pattern in the air. A pulse of blue light shot skyward, racing along invisible pathways.
Leylin felt it immediately.
A response.
Moments later, Magister Nallorath appeared in a flash of light, his composed expression cracking the instant he saw Leylin.
"…I knew it," he murmured. "I knew you weren't dead."
Leylin straightened, smiling. "You always did have good instincts, Teacher."
They led him into a private chamber, warded against scrying and interruption. Tea was poured, wards were reinforced, and only then did the questions begin.
"Where did you go?"
"What did you encounter?"
"What kind of magic have you been using?"
Leylin answered carefully.
He spoke of distant lands, of ancient ruins, of conflicts that reshaped his understanding of magic. He mentioned the Broken Isles, though not their full significance. He spoke of demons and old wars, but not timelines or fractured space.
And when he finally spoke of the Nightborne, both mentors went still.
"The other half of the Highborne?" Nallorath repeated quietly.
"Yes," Leylin said. "They survived. Isolated. Changed. Preserved by arcane means for ten thousand years."
Belo'vir's fingers tightened around his staff. "That… explains many inconsistencies in pre-Sundering records."
"They are powerful," Leylin continued. "But trapped by dependency, by fate, and by leadership that sees only the present moment."
The two magisters exchanged a glance heavy with implication.
"This knowledge," Nallorath said carefully, "could reshape elven understanding of our own history."
Leylin inclined his head. "That's why I'm telling you."
Belo'vir studied him for a long time. "You've changed."
Leylin met his gaze calmly. "So has the world."
A slow smile crept across the old magister's face. "Then perhaps… it's fortunate you came back when you did."
As Leylin left the spire later that day, the ley lines beneath Silvermoon thrummed softly, alive, patient, and waiting.
And somewhere ahead, fate was already shifting once more.
—
The discussion did not end with revelation. It deepened.
Belo'vir sat across from Leylin, fingers steepled, the glow of the arcane lamps casting long shadows across the chamber. Nallorath stood by the tall window, gaze fixed on the distant spires of Silvermoon, as if weighing the future against the city's elegant skyline.
"This information," Nallorath finally said, breaking the silence, "cannot simply remain with us."
Belo'vir nodded slowly. "The survival of the Nightborne… a living remnant of the Kaldorei Empire. If the court of Silvermoon knew—"
"They would do nothing," Leylin said calmly.
Both magisters turned to him.
"Or worse," Leylin continued, voice even but firm, "they would pretend to do something while scheming for influence, prestige, and control."
The words were blunt, but neither Belo'vir nor Nallorath refuted them.
"You're suggesting we keep this from the Sunstrider court," Belo'vir said quietly.
"I'm saying," Leylin replied, "that knowledge without the will or ability to act is meaningless. Right now, Quel'Thalas has its own wounds. The war has ended, but complacency has taken root."
He gestured vaguely toward the city beyond the walls.
"The nobles are content. The magisters are divided. The Farstriders carry the weight of defense while the court debates titles and lineage. Even if you told them of Suramar, what would they do? Send envoys? Demand alliances? Attempt to interfere?"
Nallorath's lips thinned. "They would posture."
"They would argue," Belo'vir added softly.
"And while they argue," Leylin said, "the Nightborne face demons at their gates, internal decay, and leadership blind to anything beyond survival through stagnation."
Silence followed.
Belo'vir leaned back heavily in his chair, age briefly visible in the slump of his shoulders. "You speak as one who has seen it firsthand."
"I have," Leylin said. "And they are not ready to be pulled into another web of elven politics. Neither are we ready to untangle it."
Nallorath turned from the window. "Then what do you propose?"
"For now?" Leylin answered. "You keep this knowledge between us. Not out of fear but patience."
He met their gazes evenly.
"The Nightborne must face their own reckoning. Quel'Thalas must face hers. Only then will this information matter."
Belo'vir let out a long, weary sigh. "You're asking two magisters to sit on knowledge that could redefine elven history."
Leylin smiled faintly. "I'm asking two wise men not to throw a spark into dry leaves."
That earned him a quiet, humorless chuckle from Nallorath.
"…You've grown dangerous," the magister said.
"I learned from the best," Leylin replied lightly.
Their mood shifted then less burdened, more curious.
"Tell us," Belo'vir said, eyes alight despite himself, "how did they survive? Ten thousand years is no small feat."
And so Leylin spoke again.
He explained the Nightwell, their dependence upon arcane sustenance, the slow withering that awaited those who lacked it. He spoke of Suramar preserved beneath a temporal shell, of arcane constructs more refined than anything Silvermoon had achieved, of spellcraft that blurred the line between ritual and instinct.
Nallorath listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions about rune efficiency, about mana circulation, about their unique fusion of time and arcane elements.
Belo'vir, for his part, looked like a scholar reborn.
"Such precision," he murmured. "To bind an entire city to a single artifact… reckless, but magnificent."
"It came at a cost," Leylin reminded him. "Power always does."
Time slipped past them unnoticed.
Scrolls were unrolled. Diagrams were sketched. Comparisons were made between Highborne theory and Nightborne application. At some point, Frank, the arcane construct quietly brought in a modest dinner, warm bread, spiced meat, and lightly enchanted wine.
They ate without ceremony, still deep in discussion.
It was only when the arcane lamps dimmed slightly responding to the cycle of night—that Belo'vir paused.
"…It's late."
Leylin glanced around, surprised. "So it is."
Nallorath chuckled. "You always did have a talent for stealing hours from the world."
After parting words and quiet assurances, Leylin departed the spire, walking alone beneath the starlit streets of Silvermoon. The city was peaceful, too peaceful, perhaps but for tonight, he allowed himself to simply exist within it.
By the time he reached the Windrunner estate, the lamps were lit and the air carried the faint scent of night-blooming flowers.
Tomorrow would bring plans, responsibilities, and choices.
But for now, Leylin returned home carrying knowledge that could shake civilizations, yet choosing restraint over upheaval.
And somewhere far to the west, beneath ancient ruins and broken fate, the consequences of his choices were already beginning to stir.