At the climax of the War of the Well, Tyrande and Andreas simultaneously poured their moonlight and Shadow Power into the tear of Elune.
The strange grey energy born of that fusion grievously wounded Mannoroth, giving Illidan the perfect opening to slay the demon lord in a single stroke.
At the time Andreas' strength was still meager; in the eyes of a Pit Lord he was nothing but an ant.
Yet it was precisely this ant who manufactured the killing chance that ended Mannoroth's life, relying on that still-incomprehensible grey fused energy.
Back then Andreas had not yet learned to convert light and shadow, and after the War of the Ancients countless matters kept him too busy to investigate the phenomenon.
He never imagined that, ten thousand years later, the mysterious grey energy would appear again—still born from the fusion of light and shadow.
Celeste walked worriedly to Andreas' side and asked, "You're not planning to kill yourself, are you? Think through the consequences before you act; large-scale energy backlash is no joke."
Andreas nodded. "I'll be as careful as possible. Celeste, stand back—Immolthar and Dragon as well."
The two little ones were chased off Andreas' body one after another; Celeste grabbed them left and right, watching Andreas step out of the crowd with anxious eyes.
First he infused a trace of Holy Light into the Staff of Ganir, channeling it into the tear of Elune; the faint golden glow looked rather hazy.
Next, with extremely fine control, he injected an almost identical amount of Shadow Power.
For quite a while the Tear remained half-gold, half-violet; the two energies stayed completely separated.
Carefully adjusting their intensity, Andreas finally saw the opposite forces begin to merge; the energy inside the gem gradually turned grey.
'Hmph—ten thousand years. Not easy. I thought you'd never discover the fusion of light and shadow.'
Andreas rolled his eyes inwardly. 'You knew all along—why didn't you tell me sooner?'
'Why should I tell you?'
Elune retorted righteously, "Power grasped through one's own comprehension yields the deepest insight. Had I told you earlier, you'd only have followed instructions mechanically and could never wield the new strength as naturally as your own arm."
"Enough for now; fused light-and-shadow energy is hard to control. One lapse and it explodes—focus your mind."
Elune fell silent, and Andreas fixed all his attention on the gem atop the staff.
As the two forces slowly increased, the originally faint grey energy began to brighten.
He tried to push the mass of energy out of the Tear, redirecting it toward Mandevilla.
There was no earth-shaking flash; the plain grey mist simply erased every trunk it touched like an eraser, boring ragged holes through the mighty kypa sacred tree.
Much like a rat-gnawed beam, the surface became pitted and the interior was severely damaged.
"That effective?"
Andreas and the others stared in surprise at the gaping holes in Mandevilla's trunk; the amber sap layer that had blocked Celeste's attack might as well not have existed.
This was Andreas' first attempt; he couldn't yet control the nameless grey energy with precision.
Having gained experience via the tear of Elune, he re-summoned Holy Light and shadow in his palms and decisively fused them together.
When he opened his hands again the grey energy had been stretched into a condensed energy spear, no longer the unstable mist.
Spinning the spear subconsciously, Andreas poked the trunk with its tip.
As expected, the kypa sacred tree's sturdy defense might as well not exist before this new energy; a conspicuous small hole appeared where the tip struck.
"Let's test it in actual combat."
Turning the spearhead forward and taking a throwing stance, Andreas' well-proportioned right arm bulged as he hurled the grey spear with a less-than-standard motion.
"Go!"
…Inside the trunk, in Mandevilla's royal palace, Empress Shek'zir was quietly awaiting the latest battle report.
The Swarm Queen looked perfectly normal, yet within her sleeves faint black-and-white ink-like light flickered—the corruption of Pride.
Crack!
A small sound came from above; a grey blur flashed past, and when the Empress looked up it seemed nothing had happened.
"What was that? Zorlok, go check."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Prime Minister bowed respectfully and turned to issue orders, but before the Herald could leave the council hall a grey energy arrow pierced the kypa sacred tree's shell from nowhere.
The poor Herald had no time to react; the impact nailed the Mantid to a large amber ornament not far from the Empress.
An irritated voice drifted through the hole in the trunk: "Tch—missed."
…Celeste stared speechlessly at Andreas, who was having fun; the weapon in his hands had become an energy longbow.
"You've never studied archery systematically; managing to loose the arrow is already good enough."
After repeated tests Andreas had basically grasped how to use the new force he had named Chaotic Energy.
The grey energy had no dazzling special effects; its sole property was that it could cut through anything.
So far Andreas had found no substance able to block its attacks; Mandevilla's defenses might as well be paper before Chaotic Energy.
"Preliminary tests complete—time to get serious."
Fusing a large amount of Chaotic Energy inside the tear of Elune, Andreas aimed the top of the staff at the core of the palace he had located earlier.
Countless small arrays floated around the staff-head, each charged by the grey energy.
Celeste instinctively stepped behind Andreas; she had seen what this new energy could do—being grazed was no joke.
Loken, noticing nothing, kept hammering the kypa sacred tree with lightning, the entire trunk swaying under the ceaseless thunder.
In an inconspicuous corner Andreas drew the staff back slightly, gathering power; every small array spun at high speed, primed to fire.
"Here we go—eat this!"
As countless grey energy pellets sprayed out, Andreas shouted with wicked delight, "Myriad Meteor!"
Celeste reflexively brought her staff down on her husband's head. "Stop shouting random move names!"
Leaving aside Andreas' spur-of-the-moment nonsense, his assault was nothing more than a rapid-fire barrage of mana bullets formed by compressing chaotic energy.
Each individual bullet packed little punch, but thanks to the superior penetration of chaotic energy, the kypa sacred tree's defenses were pierced with ridiculous ease.
The clustered volley punched through the great tree's outer wards and rained wholesale into the palace core where Empress Shek'zeer resided.
Grand Vizier Zorlok had no time to react before the ensuing bullets turned him into a pincushion.
Eyes glazed, Zorlok gazed at Empress Shek'zeer and toppled backward.
"My beloved… Empress, I'll go on ahead…"
Shielded by countless meat-shields, Empress Shek'zeer wailed in grief, "No! Zorlok!"
"Boom!"
Bombarded without pause, Mandevilla was finally breached; the last barrier before the Mogu army vanished. Loken instinctively froze, then immediately switched targets.
"Crack!"
Golden lightning streaked through the throne hall; weaker or unprepared Mantid were carbonized in an instant under the Great Guardian's strike.
The Klaxxi মুক্তিযোদ্ধাদের council bore the sacred duty of preserving the Mantid legacy. Seeing doom approach and their race teeter on extinction, their leader, Grand Vizer Korven, flapped his wings, intent on fleeing the palace.
"Oh no, you stay right here."
Andreas yanked every airborne Mantid back down with Shadow Power; they crashed in a clatter. Loken stamped the ground and "purified" most with a surge of lightning.
Grand Vizer Korven survived, barely, by virtue of greater strength, but his charred wings made further escape impossible.
Andreas couldn't tell Mantid apart; he gauged rank only by the opulence of their attire.
Sweeping his gaze across the Mantid high command, he rubbed his chin. "The stray Klaxxi champions have been wiped out by me; the rest are all here, yes?"
Loken nodded confidently. "No one escaped; every Mantid that could fly was shot down."
Hisek the Swarmkeeper crouched, ready to risk all. "Titans' lackeys, do you truly intend to exterminate the Mantid?"
"I warn you—the Heart of Y'Shaarj is still in our grasp. Push us too far and…"
"Heart of Y'Shaarj?"
Andreas tilted his head, sudden understanding dawning. "You mean that shriveled heart drained of power and sliced up by me to incite Mantid civil war?"
"Did you really believe something so vital would be left unguarded by Lei Shen beneath the Throne of Thunder?"
Hisek stood stunned for a long moment before the sequence clicked. His defensive stance slackened in defeat; he knew the Mantid had no hope of turning the tables.
Empress Shek'zeer, lost in grief, shuddered and lifted her head in disbelief toward Andreas.
"You… it was you plotting against us! Despicable!"
Andreas shrugged, unconcerned. "Hindsight now? Winners write history; the moment you sided against Azeroth, this end was inevitable."
"Loken, finish it—no survivors."
"Crunch!"
...To ordinary Mortals the Klaxxi council was nigh-unbeatable; even Taran Zhu might not triumph one-on-one without his Heaven-Demon Blood-Spurt Art.
Yet with Andreas, Loken, and the august celestials—mighty demigods—presiding, the decimated council was finished in mere moments.
Distraught, Queen Shek'zeer was seized by Andreas' mind magic. After brutally extracting the Heart's location, he obliterated her soul.
With the queen fallen, the Mantid's high-threat leadership was annihilated; the remnants were doomed to fade into history, no longer a menace to Pandaria.
Recovering the Heart from the queen's chambers, Andreas—after consulting Loken—drove the sword of the dark empire through the purple, pulsing lump.
Its last vestige of Shadow Power siphoned away, the once-throbbing heart slowly stilled.
"Sss…"
Concentrated Holy Light purified the now-powerless heart into white vapor; both Andreas and Loken exhaled in relief.
"The final hope of YShaarj's resurrection is gone. Next, we simply eliminate the Six Sha that reappeared when the mists lifted."
"Hahaha!" Xal'atath laughed gleefully. "Excellent! I can't wait—let me devour YShaarj's last scraps!"
Andreas patted her blade-form, issuing a veiled warning. "Behave. I know you've regained much strength—don't get cocky."
"Ugh…"
Feeling the threat in Andreas' tone—and the chaotic energy gathering at his fingertip—Xal'atath wisely fawned, "Of course, of course. I haven't forgotten how I earned all this."
"Andreas, rest assured—our road together is long; I'd never betray your trust for short-term gain."
Andreas smiled as if oblivious. "Heh… let's hope so."
'Never short-sighted—meaning, given a perfect chance, she still might turn on me.'
Xal'atath was indeed invaluable, especially for obliterating Old Gods who refused to stay dead.
Yet Andreas would never drop his guard. Both knew the real reckoning would come only after Yogg-Saron and N'Zoth were dead… Returning to Kun-Lai Summit, Andreas met Emperor Shaohao. Confirmed in the waning of the Mogu and the fall of the Mantid, the last Pandaren emperor at last dissolved with the mists.
The mists enshrouding Pandaria for ten millennia slowly lifted; six emotion-born entities tried to flee into the land and feed.
Foreseeing this, Andreas had set the Four Gods Array atop Kun-Lai. With four Wild Gods standing guard, not one Sha escaped; each was devoured by Xal'atath amid despairing shrieks.
Having consumed YShaarj's split souls and the heart's refined energy, Xal'atath needed dormancy to digest.
Yet this slumber would be far shorter than after devouring C'Thun; her soul's strength now surpassed its former self.
As Shaohao faded, the Night Elf Republic's Second Flying Fleet sailed swiftly into Pandaria, landing before the Shrine of Two Moons beneath the gaze of local residents.
"This fleet will berth here for the time being."
Andreas patted Loken's calf. "Azeroth's Mortal alliance just fought the Burning Legion on an alien world; weary soldiers need time to recover."
"Loken, drill your rookies as you see fit. When needed, run joint war-games with the Second Flying Fleet—keep it realistic."
"Use this time to prepare. Secretly contact Thorim and Hodir; the day we strike back at Ulduar draws near."
Ever since the Dark Portal first opened, trouble has come one after another, leaving the Night Elves precious little time to farm in peace.
Fresh from battling Kiljaeden on Draenor, Andreas rushed straight to Pandaria to prepare for the decisive showdown in Ulduar.
After finally lifting Pandaria's crisis and dispersing the mist that had shrouded the continent for ten thousand years, Andreas could at last return to Astranaar for a proper rest.
During the six-plus months Andreas spent in Pandaria, Azeroth's situation changed little; the aftermath of Draenor's destruction still lingered, and both the returning Alliance Expeditionary Force and the Draenor refugees were struggling to settle into their new lives.
The moment Tyrande returned to the capital she stubbornly went into seclusion; all these follow-up matters Andreas learned from Maiev.
"The Mag'har Orcs and the new Horde share the same roots after all. Though their views differ, neither Jorin nor Dranosh is power-hungry, and with Go'el's grandmother Gaiaan mediating, open conflict is unlikely."
"Compared with the Horde, the Alliance Expeditionary Force were merely returning home; they quickly reacquainted themselves with present-day Azeroth."
Maiev flipped through the intelligence folio Prisim had compiled. "When Kurdran returned to Aerie Peak, the Wildhammer Dwarves threw a grand welcome feast. As a Wildhammer hero, Kurdran's fame only grew during his years lost on Draenor."
"Khadgar politely declined Antonidas' invitation; together with the recovered Garona he returned to Karazhan to cleanse the long-abandoned tower of the Guardian."
Andreas mused, "I recall Karazhan is crawling with bizarre creatures that slipped through astral rifts. Can just the two of them manage?"
Maiev shook her head. "Of course not alone. King Varian assigned plenty of soldiers to assist Khadgar. Old King Llane originally meant to go in person, but King Varian and Queen Tiffin finally talked him out of it."
Andreas gave an amused shrug. "Hardly surprising. With both of Llane's childhood friends gone, he probably wanted to visit Karazhan and mourn them."
Medivh, Llane, and Lothar had practically grown up together; though their ages differed slightly, their bond was unshaken.
Possessed by the demon king, Medivh strayed and was slain by Lothar; Lothar himself had recently passed of old age.
Aging Llane keenly felt time's toll—his energy failing, he chose to step back and leave the realm to his ever-steadier son Varian.
In retirement King Llane devoted himself to quiet life; like many elderly folk, memories of the past grew sharper once state affairs no longer crowded them out.
"Llane's days are numbered; once Khadgar and Garona finish cleansing Karazhan, he'll likely move into that memory-laden tower to live out his final years."
Khadgar's recent deeds were dramatic, yet they paled beside those of Danath.
Danath had already passed fifty when he returned from Draenor, his hair and beard turning grey, once-thick locks reduced to a shiny Mediterranean island.
King Thoras felt the passage of time far more keenly than his nephew; of late he found his strength ever more wanting.
Old King Llane's retirement stirred him: among the eight leaders who had founded the Alliance, only immortal Brunhilde, stubborn Genn, and soon-to-retire Antonidas remained.
Were Crown Prince Galen Torbald not so incompetent, Thoras would love to retire as Llane had; alas, Galen's frequent antics kept him from ever relaxing.
Galen, now over forty, had grown up in luxury, learning none of Thoras' virtues and all of his recklessness.
In Andreas' words, the forty-something prince was still an overgrown man-child, constantly acting on childish whims.
Thoras racked his brains to make his son improve, but to little avail.
Danath' return offered Thoras another path: if his son was unfit to rule, why not pass the crown to the steadier Danath instead of leaving him to clean up Galen's future messes?
Though Galen merited Andreas' "man-child" label, as royalty he kept his guard up.
He read in his father's attitude toward Danath the threat to his own succession, and unrest began brewing in Stromgarde.
Nobles who had gone all-in on Galen doubled down, slandering Danath and blaming Stromgarde's recent woes on his rash departure years ago.
Danath, the lifelong soldier, answered those baseless accusations head-on.
Not only did Thoras see in Danath the vigor of his own youth, Stromgarde's nobles—fed up with the foolish Galen—also began to stir.
For Stromgarde's future, they felt the throne must not, could not, pass to such an infantile heir.
"Hmph—" Andreas gave an ambiguous chuckle. "Let them fight; infighting is humanity's favorite pastime. Hasn't Gilneas still not settled its own civil strife?"
"Speaking of which—"
Maiev turned to a page in the folio and spun the heavy tome toward Andreas.
"The Gilneas mutating virus has been identified. If Prisim's intel is correct, it ties back to us Night Elves."
"Oh?"
Andreas' expression turned serious as he read.
Half an hour later, the full story emerged, stirring long-buried memories.
'So that's how it unfolded.'
Even after ten millennia Andreas had not forgotten his werewolf character, but the details of their origin had grown hazy.
Thanks to Prisim's on-the-ground investigation in Gilneas, the truth finally surfaced.
As Maiev said, the worgen were indeed linked to the Night Elves—they were the druids of the claw who had lost themselves to Goldrinn's rage.
After the Satyr War, Malfurion sealed the worgen deep within the Emerald Dream, hoping time would calm them.
Events, however, did not go so smoothly.
Even ten thousand years of slumber failed to soothe them; the moment they awoke, they lapsed into frenzy.
Fearing catastrophe, Malfurion kept them sealed, checking on them from time to time.
A mage named Arugal stumbled upon the worgen in the Dream; ignorant of its nature, he assumed they were otherworldly beings.
After much experimentation he found he could control these avatars of fury with magic, and when Gilneas was beset by the Scourge he proposed summoning worgen to King Genn.
Andreas closed the heavy book with a weary shake of his head.
"When people insist on courting disaster, nothing stops them. Genn is, after all, a king; even at his darkest hour he shouldn't resort to such desperate quackery…"
Right after Arthas seized Lordaeron by murdering his father, the Scourge's power exploded.
Even hidden behind the Gryphon Guard Wall, Genn could feel the undead's vast threat; every day endless corpses slammed the sturdy ramparts.
The dead need no rest, but men do.
Weary Gryphon Guard defenders could no longer match the undead's tempo, and gaps appeared in the wall's defense.
With no other choice, Genn adopted Arugal's plan, summoning worgen from the depths of the Emerald Dream, hoping these "controllable" beasts could turn the tide.
Arugal succeeded; through the worgen he gained unprecedented status and power, yet Genn and Gilneas lost everything.
Even Arugal could not perfectly control the feral, rage-filled worgen. After driving back the Scourge, the beasts began to rampage across Gilneas.
Anyone bitten by a worgen would transform within a day, becoming a mindless, savage beast.
Having finished his experiment—his death wish—Arugal strolled away, occupying Pyrewood Village and Shadowfang Keep beyond the wall, styling himself a lord by virtue of the worgen's might.
Arugal simply dusted off his hands and left, but the plague he loosed ravaged Gilneas.
The spreading worgen curse finally reached the capital, stirring up a storm.
Just then High-Lord Darius Crowley, angered by Genn's isolationist policy, launched a rebellion. Beset within and without, Gilneas fell into unprecedented turmoil.
Even though the Scourge war had ended and Lordaeron had reclaimed its capital, Gilneas remained locked in internal strife, knowing almost nothing of the outside world.
"So?"
Andreas turned to Fandral. "Does the Archdruid know the whole story? What does he think?"
Fandral rubbed his brow with a bitter smile. "What else? Just as you guessed—he blames the Night Elves for the worgen chaos and insists on aiding Gilneas."
Subduing worgen is not difficult; the key lies with Fandral's only son, Vastann.
The moonglaive—an artifact fashioned by the Worgen Druid leader Ralaar Fangfire from Goldrinn's fang and Elune's staff.
With that glaive Vastann can somewhat curb the worgen's fury.
Yet the problem now is more than the worgen themselves; to enter Gilneas they must first obtain King Genn's consent.
Malfurion tried repeatedly through official channels, but Genn never replied.
Malfurion may be a soft touch, yet even soft touches have tempers.
The worgen disaster did begin with the Night Elves, and Malfurion had long blamed himself for not spotting it sooner.
Now that the curse had spread to other lands, the Archdruid felt deeply responsible. After countless unanswered letters, he simply acted on his own.
"The Archdruid ordered Vastann to lead a band of Wolf-Bond Druids to Gilneas ahead of time, to hide in the hills and await orders—while capturing feral half-worgen whenever possible, studying how they differ from the originals."
Andreas lowered his head in thought. "Since things are moving, let Vastann keep following the Archdruid's orders."
"If the chance arises, have him remove the mage called Arugal—the true hand behind the worgen summoning and control."
Fandral nodded. "I'll pass it on; the task should be easy."
Prisim's intelligence clearly stated Arugal's background.
He had been an ordinary mage of Dalaran, mediocre in every respect except ambition—he craved a chance to rise above the rest.
By sheer coincidence Arugal contacted the worgen slumbering in the Emerald Dream.
Even now, commanding a worgen army, Arugal's personal power has scarcely grown; infiltrating deep into Shadowfang Keep should make killing him simple.
"Enough of Gilneas for now—anything else of note?"
Jarod raised a hand. "I've news; not sure if it matters."
"Speak."
"Mm… about Archmage Rhonin."
Andreas lifted a brow. "Oh?"
After returning from Draenor, both Rhonin and Khadgar were granted the title of Archmage by Antonidas, who also invited them to join the Kirin Tor Council and serve as Kirin Tor senators supporting Dalaran.
For different reasons, both politely declined Antonidas' invitation.
Khadgar's motive needs no retelling—the little old man is currently toiling as a janitor in Karazhan.
As for Rhonin… Jarod shrugged. "After coming back from Draenor he finally decided to marry Queen Jaina. As a royal consort, he naturally can't sit in Dalaran's council."
"Pfft—"
Andreas nearly burst out laughing. 'As expected, no human can escape the law of "So tasty!"'
Andreas didn't know what Rhonin went through on Draenor, but the long separation seemed to have shown him his own heart.
"Let him be. When's the wedding?"
"End of this year—about three months away."
Andreas smiled casually. "I'll attend in person, as thanks for Rhonin's help in the Draenor campaign."
…With the grand wedding of Lordaeron's Queen Jaina and Archmage Rhonin concluded, the year 23 after the Dark Portal finally drew to a close.
Rhonin looked in good spirits at the ceremony and showed no reluctance; his mentor Krasus sincerely rejoiced for him.
The turn of a year is a time to cast off the old and welcome the new. After the tumultuous year 22, Azeroth entered a relatively peaceful spell.
The badly battered Burning Legion was busy with internal affairs and had no time to plot against Azeroth.
Though the Old Gods kept scheming, the ever-vigilant Night Elves gave them no chance to make waves.
After Queen Jaina's wedding, Aurora—who had attended the banquet with Andreas—ended her holiday and returned to Quel'Thalas to resume her duties as ambassador.
Back on Kalimdor, Andreas, accompanied by Shandris, visited remote Winterspring to inspect a major project under construction there.
The development of the Spacecraft is still in full swing, and to send these massive objects into orbit, the anti-gravity tech used planetside simply isn't up to the task.
Naaru ships can shift from zero to maximum speed seamlessly, shaking off a planet's gravity in mere moments.
Andreas would love to copy that tech in one leap, but the researchers warned that trying too much too fast tends to end painfully.
Stuffing one vessel with too many unproven black-box technologies at once is a recipe for disaster.
After much debate, Andreas shelved the idea for now, opting for a more primitive Mass Accelerator to boost the ship past gravity and into space.
primitive in name, yet to most planet-locked civilizations a Mass Accelerator is already black-box science.
The principle: use Mag-Magnetics to sling the craft to First Cosmic Velocity in seconds, cutting launch energy and boosting efficiency.
Building one big enough for a full-sized starship is no small feat; the accelerator's size and limits make boosting a complete, massive vessel in one go almost impossible.
With the ship team joining the talks, a compromise emerged.
Split the hull into modules, launch them separately, and assemble the final craft in zero-g.
Luckily, Andreas had introduced assembly-line production years earlier; the modular concept was quickly embraced by Night Elf engineers.
Winterspring was chosen mainly for its solitude.
The frigid valley sees few visitors, avoiding nuisance and leaks during construction.
It also sits at the foot of Mount Hyjal, deep in Night Elf territory—any disturbance would be spotted instantly.
The valley now looks nothing like its old self: a sweeping upward-bent rail runs through its center, with scores of golem laborers working under remote guidance.
Shandris lifted her gaze, expression unreadable, toward the accelerator that seemed to pierce the clouds.
Though no stranger to new tech, she had gone into seclusion while this titanic thing rose from the ground; its sudden presence was hard to digest.
"This can really hurl a ship into space? It bends into a right angle at the end—won't the vessel just fall off?"
"Of course not."
Andreas slipped an arm around her waist. "Mag-mag acceleration keeps the ship clamped to the rail. Unless something freak happens, it's not falling anywhere."
Archbishop Hataru muttered, "…Could you not jinx it? We'll make sure the accelerator is fool-proof before we hand it over."
Andreas waved dismissively. "Relax, just an example."
Besides, with the current strategic focus elsewhere, you've plenty of time to refine it—no need to rush."
Hataru, though usually buried in research, still keeps track of Azeroth's bigger picture.
"When do we move on Northrend?"
Andreas pointed east. "Once the Archdruid returns from across the sea, we can begin."
Despite repeated counsel from Andreas and Fandral, Malfurion insisted on personally handling the Gilnean worgen mess.
Partly to clean up the Night Elves' own disaster, partly to show goodwill to Gilneas.
Hataru sighed. "Why is the Eastern Kingdoms always in trouble? The worgen curse in Gilneas isn't settled, and now Gnomeregan is under Trogg attack."
Troggs—botched side-products from when Archaedas and Eonar crafted the Earthen in Uldaman.
From the moment of their flawed creation, Archaedas sealed them away in remote tunnels of Uldaman.
With Archaedas and Eonar's reawakening, the long-forgotten Troggs began to stir.
Knowing something in Uldaman could crush them, the Troggs instinctively tunneled north to escape.
Gifted diggers, they bored through the earth and surfaced in Gnomeregan, the underground capital of the Gnomes.
Gnomes invent brilliantly but, hampered by their small frames, fare poorly in direct combat.
Though failed Titan Constructs, Troggs aren't weak; their aggression and brutality simply displeased Archaedas and Eonar—and their looks didn't help.
In combat they rival the Earthen and easily outmatch Gnomes.
Caught off guard, the Gnomes lost most districts; even the high-tech Engineering Quarter fell.
On hearing the news, the Bronzebeard Dwarves rushed aid to their long-time neighbors, and both sides now fight a bitter house-to-house war.
Stormwind's army, unscathed by the Defias crisis and free of threats from the Thunderlord Clan and Blackrock Orcs, marched the moment Varian learned of the Gnomes' plight.
Though Sicco Thermaplugg's betrayal weighed on High Tinker Mekkatorque, Stormwind's reinforcements let the triple alliance slowly retake Gnomeregan.
Thermaplugg had long coveted Mekkatorque's post and opposed his diplomatic policies.
He believed Gnomes should expand through genius inventions, not stay holed up in Dun Morogh.
Mekkatorque, content to tinker, stood for the opposite—classic hawk-versus-dove.
Words couldn't bridge the gap.
Frustrated, Thermaplugg seized the crisis to rebel, seizing a chunk of the city and declaring war on both Mekkatorque and the Troggs.
Andreas had full reports on the Trogg invasion and Gnomish civil strife, but offered no comment.
After all, it's an Alliance internal matter; Night Elves aren't members—meddling could breed mistrust.
He devoted far more attention to Gilneas.
Long withdrawn from the Alliance, Gilneas refused to ask neighbors for help even on the brink of ruin, blaming Alterac and Gilneas for carving up Silverpine—and resenting Lordaeron and Stormwind for fanning the flames.
Through Vastann's talks with Genn, the stubborn king vowed never to rejoin the Alliance.
Seeing this, the High Council judged that Quel'ling the worgen curse might draw Gilneas toward the Night Elf Republic instead.
'Controllable worgen…'
Andreas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'They could become a sharp blade on future battlefields.'
Shhk!
A frigid flash of light, and crimson blood spurted from the human neck.
Clutching his throat, the masked mage stared in despair. "D-damn… my… werewolf empire… ugh!"
The white wolf's razor claws swept across; the mage's unfinished words flew skyward together with his head.
"The daydream of a failure."
Licking the blood from his claws, the white wolf melted into light and shifted into a green-haired Night Elf with a moonglaive on his back.
At first glance he looked much like Fandral—bare-chested even in deep winter, wild green hair as unkempt as weeds, similar features—yet their eyes told them apart.
After ten millennia in power Fandral, though still fiery, carried the natural authority of rank.
Those who knew little of him were easily awed by his usual commanding calm.
Yet when he played with his granddaughter Estaria he became a different man entirely; few ever saw that side.
This elf's gaze was wilder, colder—an alpha wolf in human form, proud and ruthless, exuding a charisma utterly unlike Fandral's.
He pulled a spellbook from the headless corpse and leafed through it briefly.
"Hmph."
Tossing the book skyward, he drew the moonglaive and carved it to shreds; leather pages fluttered like snow.
"Delirious drivel—doesn't even know the Emerald Dream—and wants to publish?"
Footsteps approached; several druids in simple leathers strode in.
A calm, tattooed woman at their head reported, "Vastann, the castle is clear; every worgen is secured."
"Good."
His grim face easing, Vastann nodded. "Mission accomplished. Bring the worgen; I'll try to restore their minds."
"Yes, sir!"
The others left; only the female druid stepped closer. "Hurt anywhere?"
"Not a scratch." He touched noses with her. "Worry about Estaria being spoiled rotten by Father instead."
Leiana rolled her eyes. "There you go again."
The druid was his wife, Leiana; knowing Fandral's doting, she feared for their daughter's future.
"Heh."
Vastann kissed her cheek. "Relax—Father's busy showing Speaker Moonshadow the baby; with the Speaker and his wife watching, he can't do anything too mad… probably."
Leiana: "…Did you just say 'probably'?"
"Haha! Quit fretting."
Arm around her, he walked out. "Enjoy the mission for once. Once these worgen wake sane, they'll be strong allies."
The headless Arugal had summoned these worgen from the Emerald Dream; once they had been Night Elves.
Arugal cared nothing for half-breeds; he left the mongrels in Gilneas to rot.
In Shadowfang's great hall a hundred captives lay heaped; Vastann stepped forward, moonglaive glowing in hand.
As he lifted the blade, Leiana and the others fed each worgen a draught of alchemy.
The first Wolf-Druids, too rash, had botched their shift and become feral worgen.
Corrected by Andreas himself, Vastann's wolf form was the true one Goldrinn desired.
After millennia the wolf god cult within the Druidic Order had grown so large even Malfurion could not ignore these Claw-Druids' might.
Raising the moonglaive, Vastann intoned, "By moon goddess Elune and Wolf God Goldrinn I call—return, kin, to your people; Quel'l the endless rage!"
Draught and rite were ready long ago; only Malfurion's caution had stayed the awakening—until Arugal obligingly did it for them.
Now they could test brew and ritual on these subdued beasts.
Pale moonlight poured through the windows, drawn by the moonglaive onto the worgen.
The beasts stirred; some convulsed, others shakily rose.
"Awooo!"
A lone, far-carrying howl rang out and was answered by a chorus.
Under the elves' gaze the creatures' fur receded, revealing leather armor and smooth skin; only their heads stayed lupine while torsos reverted to Night Elf form.
"Emmm…"
Vastann and Leiana wore comically conflicted smiles—Night Elf bodies topped with worgen heads looked more absurd than fearsome.
"…Seems the brew needs refinement, but overall—success?"
The transformed stared at restored limbs; reason sparkled in their eyes.
"Welcome back, kin."
Setting aside the absurdity, Vastann spread his arms in greeting.
"I am Vastann Staghelm, leader of the Wolf-Spirits Druidic Sect. Sorry we can't yet fully restore you."
"But by Goldrinn we swear—we'll perfect the cure so you can stand proud among loved ones again."
"L-loved ones…"
A scarred worgen rubbed his fuzzy head. "How long were we mad? Did the Satyr break our realm?"
Vastann and Leiana exchanged glances; she answered gently, "The Satyr War ended millennia ago; the Night Elf Republic's tale since is too long for words."
"Please stay calm; we'll help you rejoin society."
The scarred leader raised a hand. "Wait—who rules the elves now? Still High Priest and Archdruid?"
"Yes and no."
Vastann stepped forward. "With the Republic's birth, both joined the High Council."
"They sit with High Inquisitor Maiev Shadowsong, Archdruid Fandral Staghelm, and Speaker Andreas who chairs the Council."
"With High Commander Jarod Shadowsong and Shandris Feathermoon, these seven hold the Republic's supreme authority."
Explaining the changes of a nation to a bunch of old-timers sealed for millennia is exhausting; Vastann certainly doesn't think he has the patience for it.
With the patient explanations of Leiana and the other druidesses, the worgen finally grasped the broad strokes of what had happened to their country over the ages.
Their understanding only goes so far—if they saw the mass accelerator in Winterspring, these antiques' worldviews would probably shatter on the spot.
Fortunately, familiar faces from their memories soon appeared.
Archdruid Malfurion left the Emerald Dream and rushed to Gilneas, meeting these newly lucid worgen in person.
Malfurion felt both relief and guilt over the worgen's transformation; had his own conservative approach been less rigid, they might have recovered far sooner.
Still, eight thousand years versus seven thousand hardly seems different; the worgen couldn't even figure out why Malfurion was apologizing.
After countless tweaks by the alchemists, Vastann finally found the perfect ritual and potion ratio, completing the worgen's full reversion under the witness of Gilneas' Prince Liam.
"I never thought I'd see the day I regained human form."
The worgen chieftain Ralaar Firetooth stroked his now-smooth face in wonder; he had been the scarred worgen who asked so many questions.
Once hot-tempered, Ralaar's impulsiveness had sparked the worgen uprising and harmed many innocents, causing them all to be sealed for millennia.
Since awakening, Ralaar has blamed himself, reining in his fiery temper and appearing far more refined and easy-going.
Learning the worgen had regained their sanity, Andreas and Shandris teleported from Winterspring; Ralaar and the others finally met the Night Elf Republic's top leader.
A single sleep of millennia meant these druids, memories still stuck in the Satyr War, would need time to integrate into the Republic's new society.
Since they were here anyway, Andreas decided to meet King Genn personally after consoling the Worgen Druids.
But at the mention, Prince Liam's face clouded.
"Speaker Moonshadow, by rights my father should greet you, but he's… indisposed at the moment."
Gilnean Prince Liam is in his thirties; accompanying him is the young and beautiful royal princess Tess Greymane—yet Gilneas' King Genn is nowhere to be seen.
Andreas had reviewed the memos beforehand; he studied the troubled Liam. "Prince Liam, speak plainly: has King Genn been bitten as well?"
Princess Tess' eyes flashed; she lifted her ornate court gown and drew a dagger from the boot beneath.
Walking an S-curve, Tess attempted to get close enough to silence Andreas.
Before she came within five meters, vertigo sent the little princess off balance.
When Tess came to, a hooded night elf held her down, a blood-grooved dagger resting at her throat.
Gulp—
Swallowing nervously, the pampered princess, now inches from death, realized the recklessness of her act.
"Please, wait!"
Events moved so fast Prince Liam hadn't time to stop his sister.
With a bitter smile he bowed to Andreas. "Speaker Moonshadow, forgive Tess; your… accurate guess unsettled her."
Andreas waved Prisim off; Little Red Riding Hood released Princess Tess and vanished back into the shadows.
"Princess Tess, think twice next time. Had I been vindictive, your act would count as an assassination attempt on a foreign head of state."
Tess touched her neck, the icy killing intent still lingering.
Lifting her skirt, she curtsied and forced a smile. "I overreacted; my apologies, Speaker Moonshadow."
Andreas dismissed the childish tantrum, offering a diplomatic smile. "No matter—let's return to business."
The siblings' reactions confirmed Andreas' guess.
No wonder King Genn had offered no response—he too had lost his mind to a worgen bite.
Thus the man in charge of Gilneas now is Prince Liam, first in line to the throne.
"Prince Liam, you've seen the cure's results; if you wish, our druids can help King Genn complete the transformation."
"About that… there are complications," Liam sighed. "Gilneas isn't plagued by worgen alone; Grand Lord Darius Crowe's rebellion still rages.
Learning my father has fallen, Count Godfrey and the eastern lords press the crown harder each day; the realm is uneasy, and my prestige… is not enough to cow them."
Liam is no mediocrity, but beside Varian—tempered by hardship since youth—he still lacks seasoning.
Much of that stems from King Genn's refusal to share power; without real practice, growth is impossible.
A prince without ruling experience facing such a multi-sided mess can still keep the balance—already a talent in itself.
Clearly the Greymane royal house is at its wits' end, else Liam would never admit such humiliating weakness.
"Count Godfrey?" Andreas mused. "I suppose he suspects King Genn was bitten?"
"Yes," Liam sighed. "Godfrey's youngest son died beneath worgen claws, left not even a whole corpse; I understand his hatred."
Should he learn my father became the very thing he despises, our already crumbling nation would suffer fresh wounds."
Andreas stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So, with the crown weakened, Count Godfrey grows bold, and curing King Genn must be done behind his back?"
"Exactly," Liam said, gloom thick in his voice. "My mother buys time in the capital, but with Crowe's advance, we haven't long left."
"Then we strike on two fronts."
Andreas offered with a smile. "Today's Gilneas cannot face both noble factions; set wolf against tiger—stir discord between Darius and Godfrey."
For instance…" he grinned, "blame the abandonment of Silverpine and the sealing of the Greymane Wall on Godfrey—claim the king acted only under relentless pressure from the eastern lords."
Liam's mouth twitched. "At this point, would Duke Crowe believe it?"
"Belief is irrelevant."
Andreas' smile turned meaningful. "What matters is what Darius himself thinks."
"Must he keep battering the Greymane throne, or has he longed for ceasefire yet finds himself trapped by momentum?"
"Spread the rumor and we gauge his stance, while diverting Godfrey's attention—convenient for our next move; why not?"