Teron Gorefiend felt it the moment his armored boots touched the stones of Stormwind City.
Arcane energy, dense, layered, and ancient hung in the air like a silent storm. It coiled through the city's foundations, flowed beneath its streets, and converged toward a single point within the great castle that had been raised upon the reforged bones of Stormwind Keep.
The death knight's hollow eyes burned faintly green.
"So," he rasped, his voice echoing unnaturally beneath his helm, "this is where you were hidden."
From across the veil, Ner'zhul had already drawn his conclusion. There were few relics on Azeroth capable of radiating such focused power.
The Book of Medivh.
Gorefiend moved through the city like a curse given form. Shadows bent toward him. Mortals recoiled without knowing why. By the time he reached the Royal Library, its guards were already dead, bodies stiff with cold, throats slit with brutal precision.
An Alterac blade lay abandoned near the fallen sentinels.
Gorefiend knelt, his gauntlet hovering over the corpses. The truth was immediate and bitter. "The book has been taken," he growled. "By traitors."
Someone had moved ahead of him. Someone with knowledge, intent and no small amount of nerve.
The death knight rose slowly.
"Very well," he muttered. "Then we adapt."
—
Orders were sent swiftly.
One of his lieutenants, Ragnok, was summoned and given command of a secondary force. Alongside him were Fenris, Tagar, and a contingent of hardened warriors loyal only to Gorefiend's will.
Their destination: the Tomb of Sargeras.
Their prize: the Jeweled Scepter of Sargeras.
To reach it, Gorefiend invoked the pact he loathed yet required. Deathwing answered.
Black dragons descended from the clouds like living cataclysms, their wings blotting out the sun as they landed beyond the city's reach. Their presence alone sent tremors through the land, as if Azeroth itself recoiled from their corruption.
With grim efficiency, the orcs stole three vessels from Menethil Harbor, slaughtering dockhands and guards alike. Their escape was nearly cut short when sails bearing the sigil of Kul Tiras appeared on the horizon.
Admiral Daelin Proudmoore had responded swiftly.
Warships closed in, cannons primed, intent on wiping the intruders from the sea.
Then the sky burned.
Black dragons plunged downward, spewing fire that shattered hulls and sent ships screaming into the depths. Three Kul Tiras vessels were annihilated within minutes. The survivors turned back, not out of cowardice, but survival.
Against dragons, fleets meant nothing.
With the sea cleared, Ragnok's force vanished toward the Great Sea, their course set for the cursed island that housed the Tomb.
—
Meanwhile, Gorefiend pursued a different path.
Alterac.
The mountains whispered treachery long before Gorefiend arrived. King Aiden Perenolde was a man who understood fear and self-preservation better than loyalty. When Deathwing's shadow fell across his kingdom and Alliance outposts began to burn, the king did not hesitate.
The bargain was struck quickly.
The Book of Medivh, hidden away and guarded by deception rather than strength, was surrendered.
In return, Deathwing's flames erased Alliance fortifications from Alterac's slopes.
When Gorefiend finally held the book in his grasp, the arcane pressure nearly tore the air apart. The pages whispered of guardians, gateways, and worlds bound together by fragile laws.
"This," Gorefiend said reverently, "will tear reality open."
But there was no time to linger. The final prize awaited.
—
Dalaran rose from the waters of Cross Island like a defiant jewel, wards blazing, towers humming with layered enchantments. The Eye of Dalaran was not merely protected; it was watched, studied, revered.
And it knew it was being hunted. Gorefiend did not bother with subtlety.
The shoreline defenses fell beneath waves of necromantic frost and fel fire. Undead surged across the docks as wards shattered one by one. Death knights advanced relentlessly, their blades soaked in magic older than the city itself.
The Violet Citadel rang with alarms.
Within the Arcane Vault, Gorefiend confronted the finest minds of the Kirin Tor.
Antonidas himself stood in his path, flanked by Krasus and Kael'thas Sunstrider. The clash that followed shook the tower to its foundations. Spells collided in blinding arcs of fire, frost, and raw arcane force.
Death knights fell, frozen, incinerated, torn apart by magic.
But Gorefiend pressed on.
The Eye of Dalaran was wrenched from its containment amid screaming wards and collapsing sigils. As the death knight turned to flee, Sathera fell beneath his blade, her final spell dying unfinished upon her lips.
With the vault in ruins and the city reeling, Gorefiend escaped atop Deathwing's back, black dragons spiraling into the clouds behind them.
—
The final retreat was swift.
Under Ner'zhul's surgical command, the Horde regrouped, artifacts secured, losses accepted without sentiment. The Dark Portal flared once more as they withdrew to the relative safety of Draenor.
The Book. The Scepter. The Eye. All lay within Ner'zhul's grasp.
The ritual could begin.
And somewhere, unseen by all involved, the threads of fate tightened, drawing heroes, villains, and worlds toward a collision that would shatter what remained of certainty itself.
—
The bells of Lordaeron Keep tolled low and grave, their echoes rolling across the capital like the warning of an approaching storm.
King Terenas Menethil II stood at the head of the council chamber, his aging hands resting upon the polished oak table. The years of war had carved lines deep into his face, lines not of weakness, but of resolve hardened by loss. Before him stood the pillars of the Alliance, men and women who had bled for Azeroth and survived.
"The orcs are not finished," Terenas said at last, his voice steady but heavy with certainty. "Their silence is not peace. It is preparation."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Reports had arrived from every corner of the realm, fel energies stirring near the ruins of the Dark Portal, scouts vanishing along the Blasted Lands, strange arcane disturbances felt as far north as Dalaran. Too many signs aligned too perfectly to be a coincidence.
"The Horde has been broken," one noble ventured cautiously, "but not destroyed."
Terenas nodded. "And broken beasts are often the most dangerous."
At his right stood General Turalyon, clad in silver and gold, the Lion's mantle resting upon his shoulders. He had taken up Anduin Lothar's banner not by decree, but by merit, by standing when others fell and refusing to yield when the world demanded surrender.
At Turalyon's side was Khadgar, Archmage of the Kirin Tor, his youthful face bearing eyes far older than they should have been. The echoes of Medivh's legacy still followed him, as did the burden of knowing what lay beyond the veil of worlds.
"The Dark Portal must be sealed," Khadgar said quietly. "Or destroyed. Whatever Ner'zhul is attempting, it cannot be allowed to reach completion."
Terenas straightened.
"Then we shall not wait for invasion," he declared. "We will bring the war to its source."
The room fell silent.
"I hereby order the formation of an Alliance Expedition," the king continued. "You will cross through the Dark Portal, pursue the remnants of the Horde, and end this threat once and for all, on their world, not ours."
All eyes turned toward Turalyon.
"General," Terenas said solemnly, "you will command this expedition."
Turalyon went to one knee, fist to chest. "By the Light, I will see it done."
"And you, Khadgar," the king added, "will serve as its arcane guide. Whatever lies beyond the portal, your knowledge will be our shield."
Khadgar inclined his head. "I will not fail."
—
The call to arms spread swiftly across the Alliance.
From the battered but unbowed kingdom of Stromgarde, Danath Trollbane answered without hesitation. His soldiers, veterans hardened by years of border warfare, stood ready, grim and disciplined.
From the peaks of Aerie Peak, Kurdran Wildhammer descended astride his gryphon, laughter echoing even as he sharpened his hammer. "If there's a fight beyond that gate," he boomed, "I'd hate to miss it!"
And from Quel'Thalas, a figure long absent from the southern wars returned to the fold.
Alleria Windrunner.
Clad in ranger's green, her bow never far from her grasp, she listened as the summons was read. The moment she heard the words Dark Portal, her expression hardened.
Orcs. Draenor. An unfinished war. She accepted without a word of protest.
Her departure was quiet, unannounced to most yet somewhere in Eversong, unseen threads of fate stirred as the wind shifted eastward.
—
Preparations began at once.
The ruins of the Dark Portal became a hive of activity, mages reinforcing spells, engineers erecting fortifications, soldiers drilling beneath a blood-red sky. The air itself felt strained, as if reality resented being forced open once more.
Khadgar stood before the portal's skeletal arch, studying its fractures, his staff humming softly. "This gate should never have existed," he murmured. "And yet… we will use it again."
Turalyon joined him, gazing into the swirling energies beyond.
"We end this," the general said firmly. "No retreat. No half measures."
Khadgar nodded. "Beyond that gate lies a dying world and enemies desperate enough to tear the cosmos apart to save it."
Turalyon tightened his grip on his sword.
"Then we stop them."
As banners were raised and troops assembled, none could know that this expedition would not merely end a war—but fracture time, worlds, and destinies alike.
And far away, beyond sight and sense, a lone mage—thought lost to history—remained unaware that the next great turning of fate was already in motion.