Three days passed swiftly. Too swiftly. Within those days, preparations were made quietly.
Coordinates were confirmed. Contingency arrays were embedded beneath Leylin's sleeves in the form of dormant sigils. A thin spatial anchor was woven into a small silver ring on his finger, insurance, should an emergency happen.
On the morning of the third day, the sky over Windrunner Manor was clear. The sea was calm. An omen of nothing. Inside his chamber, Leylin stood by the open window.
He could feel the subtle pull of the western currents of mana, Lordaeron's coastline always carried a different texture compared to Quel'Thalas. Denser. Salt-laden. Human lands were less refined in arcane distribution, but not weaker. Merely different.
If Daelin Proudmoore was coming himself, then this would not be treated lightly. Jaina hesitated slightly.
"Be careful," she said.
Leylin's lips curved faintly.
"I intend to be."
He stepped toward the window's edge. Then—mana surged. His form blurred, bones shifting, robes folding into feathers as arcane light compressed inward.
A heartbeat later, a silver-feathered hawk launched into the sky. The world changed in flight. The ground became lines. The forests became flowing green currents. The ocean, vast, endless, stretched beneath him like polished steel.
Wind rushed past Leylin's wings as he cut across the sky. He maintained altitude, conserving energy while using controlled microbursts of arcane propulsion to accelerate.
From above, the western coast of Lordaeron came into view within the hour. Jagged cliffs. Sparse beaches. A meeting place chosen deliberately, isolated, difficult to ambush without detection.
As he descended, Leylin scanned the shoreline with heightened perception. Then—he saw it. A vessel bearing the proud insignia of Kul Tiras.
Blue and gold sails billowed powerfully, the lion crest snapping sharply against the wind. The ship rode the waves with the confidence of something built not merely to sail but to dominate.
Kul Tiran craftsmanship was unmistakable. Heavy hull. Reinforced keel. Built for war.
Leylin circled once, ensuring no hidden escorts lurked beyond sight.
Satisfied, he descended toward the shore. Mid-descent, his form shifted again. Feathers dissolved into arcane motes. Wings reshaped into arms. Boots touched sand without a sound.
He straightened just as a longboat detached from the larger vessel. Moments later, boots met shore from the opposite side.
He was taller than most men. Broad-shouldered. Weathered by sea and war alike. His armor was practical not ornate but carried authority in its simplicity. And his presence was commanding without needing to speak.
Daelin Proudmoore stepped onto the sand, accompanied by two officers who remained respectfully behind him. For a moment, the two men observed each other.
One shaped by sea and steel. The other by arcane and foresight. Then Daelin stepped forward and offered a firm salute.
"Archmage Leylin," he said, voice deep and steady. "An honor."
Leylin inclined his head respectfully.
"Admiral Proudmoore."
Daelin's gaze sharpened slightly as he studied the young man before him.
"You seem different than the last time we met," he said frankly.
"Years have passed, everyone grows" Leylin replied evenly.
A faint huff of amusement escaped the admiral.
"So I've heard."
Daelin extended his hand—not as a king, but as a soldier. Leylin accepted it. The grip was firm. Measured. Evaluating. After a moment, Daelin released him and nodded.
"I owe you acknowledgement," Daelin said. "Your assistance during the Second War did not go unnoticed."
His eyes hardened briefly.
"You stood beside my old friend."
The name lingered unspoken. But both knew it. Anduin Lothar. The Lion of Azeroth. Dead at Blackrock Mountain. Leylin's gaze grew quieter.
"He fought with conviction," Leylin said.
Daelin's jaw tightened.
"He did."
A brief silence followed, heavy not with tension, but memory.
"I've read accounts of your exploits during the second war," Daelin continued. "During the Battle of Hillsbrad, you took charge against the Horde. Your predictions proved true, that the Horde would continue its campaign through the north invading Quel'Thalas."
Leylin said nothing. Praise was irrelevant. War was war.
"You have my respect," Daelin concluded firmly. "Regardless of age."
The sea wind carried salt between them. Daelin gestured slightly toward a flat stretch of sand.
"We speak plainly here," he said. "No courtiers. No scribes."
"That is preferred," Leylin agreed.
They began walking slowly along the shoreline, boots leaving parallel marks in damp sand. Daelin did not waste time.
"My daughter's letter suggested urgency."
"There is," Leylin replied.
Daelin's gaze flicked toward him.
"The Horde?"
"Yes."
Daelin's expression darkened.
"They're broken."
"Not entirely."
That made the admiral stop walking.
"Explain."
Leylin turned slightly, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
"Remnants escaped Draenor before the Dark Portal's destruction."
Daelin's eyes sharpened instantly.
"You're certain?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Enough."
The admiral's jaw clenched.
"They slipped through unnoticed."
"While attention was focused on Draenor's collapse," Leylin said calmly.
Daelin exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Damnation."
His gaze shifted toward the horizon.
"They'll regroup."
"Yes."
Daelin looked back at him.
"And you believe this will escalate."
"I believe consolidation is inevitable."
The wind picked up slightly, tugging at Daelin's cloak.
"You called me here because of the fleet," Daelin said.
"Yes."
Daelin studied him carefully.
"You expect conflict on multiple fronts."
"Yes."
A long pause followed. Then Daelin nodded once.
"My ships are ready," he said. "They always are."
His voice was iron.
"But I need more than a warning. I need projection."
Leylin's eyes flickered faintly with arcane light.
"There are larger movements beyond the Horde."
Daelin frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Leylin did not answer immediately. Because the truth about Ner'zhul, about the darker forces gathering, about the whispers that would one day carry the name Kel'Thuzad—could not yet be spoken without sounding like madness. Instead, he chose to give clues.
"Be vigilant," Leylin said quietly. "Not only for warships."
Daelin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're speaking in riddles."
"I am speaking cautiously."
The two men stood facing the sea. One commanded fleets. The other studied the currents of fate. And both understood something instinctively. The tides were shifting again.
And when they did, it would not be a simple war of banners. It would be something far more insidious. Daelin broke the silence first.
"You wouldn't have called this meeting lightly."
"No."
"Then I'll take your warning seriously."
That, from a man like Daelin Proudmoore, was no small promise. The waves continued to roll in, indifferent to politics and prophecy alike.
But upon that quiet shoreline, two forces had aligned. Steel and sorcery. Sea and space. Preparing. For what would soon rise beyond the horizon.
The wind had grown colder. Not violently. But subtly. As if the sea itself sensed the shift in tone between the two men standing upon its shore.
Daelin Proudmoore did not strike Leylin as a man easily unsettled. He had weathered storms that split masts and wars that split kingdoms. Yet the longer the silence stretched, the more his instincts sharpened.
He was not merely an admiral. He was a strategist. And strategists feared what could not be mapped.
"You mentioned," Daelin said slowly, eyes still on the horizon, "larger movements."
The tide rolled in, then receded. Leylin clasped his hands behind his back.
"Yes."
Daelin's gaze flicked toward him.
"Speak plainly."
Leylin exhaled once.
"There are undercurrents within the human kingdoms."
That drew a frown.
"Political?"
"Not entirely."
Daelin folded his arms.
"Then what?"
Leylin chose his words carefully.
"Instability. Ideological fractures. Ambitions that have not yet found their shape."
Daelin's jaw tightened slightly.
"You're speaking of Lordaeron."
"Yes."
The admiral went still. Kingdoms did not fall overnight. They eroded from within, through arrogance, complacency, or corruption. But Daelin's voice remained steady.
"What do you advise?"
Leylin turned to face him fully.
"Gradually recall Kul Tiran forces stationed outside of Kul'Tiras."
Daelin's eyes narrowed.
"That would draw attention."
"Not if done incrementally."
"And the reason?"
"Preparedness."
The wind snapped sharply against Daelin's cloak.
"You believe something will happen within Lordaeron."
"I do."
"When?"
"I cannot say."
That was true in form if not in knowledge. The timeline was shifting already. Leylin's interference in subtle places had created ripples. The future was no longer a fixed script.
But the direction remained unchanged. Daelin studied him for a long moment.
"You're not a man given to panic," he observed.
"No."
"And you would not summon me here on speculation."
"No."
"Then tell me what you believe."
There it was. The demand beneath the calm exterior. Leylin remained silent. The sea roared softly between them.
For several seconds, he did not answer. Daelin's eyes hardened slightly.
"Archmage."
Leylin's gaze lowered briefly toward the sand. Then, almost inaudibly—
"The fall of a kingdom."
The words were not dramatic. They were quiet. Measured. But they struck harder than any shout. Daelin went completely still.
"Whose?" he asked.
Leylin did not respond. That silence said enough. Lordaeron was the beating heart of the Alliance's human kingdoms. If it fell, the entire continent would tremble. Daelin's face darkened.
"You speak of catastrophe."
"Yes."
"War?"
"Worse."
The admiral's brows drew together.
"Worse than war?"
Leylin looked toward the sea again.
"There are forces that do not conquer by siege."
A long pause.
"They consume."
Daelin understood enough not to dismiss it. He had seen what the Horde's warlocks could unleash. He had witnessed corruption firsthand.
"Is this Horde-related?" Daelin pressed.
"Indirectly."
That answer did not comfort him. But it did solidify his resolve. Daelin nodded slowly.
"I will begin recalling outlying detachments," he said at last. "Quietly."
"Good."
"And if Lordaeron begins to fracture?"
"Secure your homeland," Leylin replied. "Do not overextend."
That advice clashed with Daelin's instincts. But he did not argue. Instead, he asked one final question.
"If this comes to pass… will you stand with us?"
Leylin's expression did not change.
"I will stand where the balance demands."
Daelin studied him carefully. Not the answer of a politician. Not the answer of a patriot. But the answer of someone who saw the board differently. Finally, the admiral extended his hand again.
"Then let us hope your foresight proves overly cautious."
Leylin clasped it firmly.
"I would welcome being wrong."
Moments later, Daelin returned to the longboat. Oars cut through the water in a disciplined rhythm. The Kul Tiran warship turned gradually, sails catching wind as it began its departure.
Leylin remained standing on the shoreline until it became a distant silhouette. Only then did he allow his posture to relax. The first piece had been set in motion.
He did not transform immediately. Instead, he walked along the coast for some distance, letting the salt air clear his thoughts. When he finally shifted into hawk form once more, his ascent was swift and silent.
An hour later, the golden forests of Quel'Thalas stretched beneath him like an endless emerald sea. He landed beyond the gates of Windrunner Village, feathers dissolving into robes as his boots touched familiar earth.
The village greeted him with the same quiet warmth as before. Children waved. Villagers bowed lightly. Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.
Inside Windrunner Manor, Jaina Proudmoore was waiting. She rose as he entered.
"Well?"
"He will act."
Relief flickered across her face.
"That's good."
"For now."
She caught the subtle weight in his tone.
"You told him?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Enough."
She searched for his expression.
"And?"
Leylin removed his gloves slowly.
"He asked what would happen."
"And?"
"I did not answer."
Her brows knit slightly.
"Why?"
"Because certainty invites disbelief."
That silenced her. After a brief pause, he added quietly:
"I warned him to prepare for the worst."
Jaina swallowed.
"The worst."
"Yes."
Silence settled between them. Then Leylin shifted slightly.
"I will be leaving."
Her eyes widened.
"Leaving?"
"For a short time."
"Where?"
"Dalaran."
The name lingered in the air like a spell. The city of mages. Seat of the Kirin Tor. Jaina's posture straightened instinctively.
"Why?"
"Because if Lordaeron trembles," Leylin said calmly, "Dalaran will not remain untouched."
He began moving toward the stairway.
"There are also archives I need access to. Conversations I need to initiate."
Jaina stepped forward slightly.
"You're preparing something."
"Yes."
"What?"
Leylin paused at the base of the stairs. He did not turn around.
"A safeguard."
Against plague. Against undeath. Against inevitability. Jaina watched him ascend. And for the first time, she felt it too. Not fear. Not yet. But pressure. Like the air before a storm.
Above them, the sky over Quel'Thalas remained clear. But far to the west, over Lordaeron clouds were already gathering.