Grom, the "trash of the night elves," as Duke had so casually put it, certainly didn’t recognize the na. But Tyrande had just worked alongside him; how could she not know him? Grom was speechless. Duke, that cunning bastard, had thought of everything.
If Queen Azshara truly intended to move against the naturalists, she would undoubtedly deploy her most trusted and powerful subordinates: the Moon Guard. Yet, within the very ranks of the Moon Guard lurked the naturalists’ greatest betrayer, a mole capable of direct communication with their highest leadership. It would be a miracle if the Queen’s faction could ever succeed.
Grom, though loath to ask, couldn’t help but wonder about the current standing of Tyrande and the Stormrage brothers. Their positions, he instinctively knew, must be considerably high.
Grom’s intuition was chillingly accurate. At this very mont, Tyrande was the revered leader of the Sisterhood of Elune, and Malfurion had long been a student of the demigod Cenarius. To provoke them now would be like pulling a single carrot only to unearth an entire tangled root system, dragging a cascade of unforeseen consequences into the light.
Still, Grom, ever the warrior, couldn’t surrender his last shred of hope. "Is it wise to sow such chaos among the night elves now?" he pressed.
Duke’s retort was a chillingly logical counter-question: "Do you believe the night elves would suffer heavier casualties from a surprise attack by their own kin, or from a direct, unmitigated assault by the Burning Legion? Kil’jaeden, besides sending , will undoubtedly dispatch other champions to open the portal. Since we are bound to ensure the core of this history remains unchanged, why should we not control the very pace of these events?"
Duke’s words resonated with such undeniable, brutal logic that Grom was left utterly speechless. In the past, Grom had simply found Duke intimidating, but he had never truly grasped the depth of his cunning. Only now, working directly alongside him, did he realize that Duke’s intellect surpassed that of every Orc he had ever known. Though cast into the very maw of the Burning Legion, Duke had sohow concealed his identity, risen to the rank of a great lord, and was now shalessly leveraging the Legion’s fearso reputation to swindle all. What was even more outrageous was that, having defrauded one master, he was now poised to exploit the next. Whether it was the Burning Legion or the Kaldorei Empire, both possessed the power to effortlessly crush him, yet it seed both were being manipulated like puppets on Duke’s strings!
Had Duke not always been an upright hero of the Alliance, had he not willingly endured Archimonde’s fatal curse for the sake of Azeroth, Grom would almost suspect Duke was a born conspirator, a creature of pure deceit.
At the sa ti...
As Duke actively deceived his superiors and manipulated his subordinates, secretly siphoning the power of the Kaldorei and injecting his own insidious sches into the fabric of history...
The saga of Azeroth continued, just as it had in the original tiline... probably.
At the Temple of the Moon in Suramar, Tyrande Whisperwind concluded her evening prayers. Erging from the sacred prayer room, she slowly sank into a chair, stretching limbs stiff from prolonged kneeling. Yet, a persistent unease had troubled her for too long. With the passage of ti, the relationship between Malfurion, Illidan, and herself had subtly warped. They were no longer re childhood playmates. The innocence and joy of their youthful world had evaporated, replaced by the intricate, often painful complexities of adulthood.
Her feelings for Malfurion and Illidan had shifted, and she knew theirs for her had, too. The competition between the two brothers, once a friendly rivalry, had grown increasingly overt, a developnt she found deeply unsettling. Now, it had almost devolved into a bitter struggle, as if their very purpose was to outdo each other. Tyrande knew—she was the prize they fought over.
She felt a strange mix of flattery and burden. Deep in her heart, she believed that when the ti ca to choose a life partner, it had to be one of them, either Illidan or Malfurion. She desired to hurt no one. But she knew that choosing one would inevitably wound the other. And not choosing either? That would be the cruellest outco, inflicting pain on both.
Forcibly banishing these worries from her mind, Tyrande prepared to leave. Draped in a silver hooded robe, she moved swiftly through the temple’s magnificent marble halls, her footsteps silent. She offered only a faint smile even when other priests greeted her. She looked up at the temple’s ’summit,’ which had no roof, for the main prayer chamber opened directly to the sky. Moonlight drifted gently down, a soft, maternal caress.
Tyrande passed the looming, ancient carving of the goddess, finally stepping across the marble floor of the porch and out of the temple. Outside, the cool night breeze offered a welco solace. She descended the snow-white, smooth steps, rging with the crowd. Many bowed their heads in greeting; others respectfully parted for her. Indeed, in the eyes of Suramar’s populace, the priests of the Temple of the Moon were the very embodint of the goddess. Tyrande herself was, unconsciously, being deified. She sighed softly, offering a weary smile to the people, but in this mont, Tyrande yearned only for a return to a peaceful, simple life.
Mounted on her night saber leopard, Tyrande’s silver hair stread in the evening wind. She smoothed her slightly disheveled locks, allowing the Night Blade Leopard, with whom she shared a telepathic bond, to guide her ho, while her mind plunged into deep contemplation.
The latest news was unsettling: Her Majesty the Queen, who had almost never left Azshara, had abruptly journeyed to a royal villa in Garhala. Rumor had it the Queen had ’condescended’ to visit a mysterious guest, all for a new, potent form of arcane energy. This was not a good on. The high elves’ reckless abuse of the Well of Eternity’s magic had long been a topic of grave concern within the Sisterhood of Elune, a potential harbinger of disaster. The Queen’s actions filled Tyrande and the other Moon Priests with profound worry.
At that very mont, a sudden, loud commotion drew Tyrande’s attention. She noticed a massive cage at the edge of Suramar’s central square, surrounded by a throng of night elves pointing and murmuring. What she saw within was a colossal, green-skinned humanoid, powerfully built. From a distance, it bore a crude resemblance to a troll, but a closer look revealed this obviously male creature to be at least twice as sturdy. Bulging muscles rippled across his body, hinting at explosive, untad strength.
Illidan was there too, accompanied by a few Moon Guards, all gesturing at the monster.
"What is happening?" Tyrande asked Illidan, her voice laced with concern.
"I don’t know. Our patroln found this creature unconscious in the forest." As Tyrande instinctively moved closer to the green-skinned monster, Illidan gently but firmly gripped her arm. "Be careful! This brute nearly killed a Moon Guard the mont he awoke. The sword he wields can slice through our armor with terrifying ease."
Tyrande’s gaze fell upon the Moon Guard next to Illidan, who clutched a massive two-handed sword, clearly no ordinary weapon. It was a peerless blade, utterly alien to the night elves’ style! Just as her attention sharpened on the greatsword, a guttural voice bood from the ferocious green monster: "Lady Tyrande Whisperwind!"
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