Duke Bolvar Fordragon, supreme badass of the Alliance and possessor of the biggest brass balls in Azeroth, literally teleported his armored hide straight into the heart of Silvermoon City—a move so audacious it would make a dragon weep with envy. Standing before the Sun King with the diplomatic fury of a thousand burning suns, he declared that the Scourge was about to turn every living thing into bone soup and demanded that Quel'Thalas rejoin the Alliance before they all became undead appetizers.
Bolvar didn't grovel, didn't threaten to burn down their precious spires, and didn't even mention who'd be calling the shots in the Alliance. He simply asked the elves to join as equals, which was about as reasonable as asking a cat to bark.
The result? The Sun King and his collection of preening peacocks on the Silvermoon Council unanimously told Bolvar to shove his offer where the Sunwell don't shine.
Bolvar stormed out that day with enough rage to power a siege engine for a month.
Since Bolvar's visit had all the subtlety of a rampaging kodo beast, every pointy-eared citizen in the kingdom heard about it within hours. The common folk clutched their magical security blankets, absolutely convinced that their shiny new defense array could turn a million undead into the world's largest pile of bone dust without breaking a sweat.
Meanwhile, the soldiers on the front lines looked about as cheerful as mourners at a funeral.
The arcane mysteries of magic were as comprehensible to Ranger Generals like Sylvanas, Halduron, and Lor'themar as a troll's philosophy dissertation. But Sylvanas had spent years absorbing Duke's wisdom, and his most memorable lesson echoed in her mind: "The only unbreakable defense is right here," he'd said, thumping his chest with enough conviction to shatter stone, "not in some fancy fortress or glowing magic circle. Master the trick, and those things become children's toys."
The magnificent magical defense array that wrapped around Eversong Woods was powered by the seemingly bottomless magical reservoir of the Sunwell—a source so potent it made other magical fountains look like puddles.
Long ago, Dath'Remar Sunstrider had performed the greatest magical heist in history, stealing a precious vial of water from the Well of Eternity that Illidan had liberated, and used it to create the Sunwell as the high elves' personal magical power plant.
To everyone else, the Sunwell was the eternal engine of elvish supremacy.
But Sylvanas knew better—if the original Well of Eternity could fall, what made anyone think their knockoff version was invincible?
This gnawing doubt festered in Sylvanas' mind like an infected wound.
Recently, apart from Kael'thas sneaking out to actually do something useful by inspecting the front lines, the high-level wizards had vanished from Eversong Forest entirely. The Silvermoon councillors continued their daily routine of hosting elaborate tea parties, backstabbing each other with the enthusiasm of starving wolves, and squabbling over political scraps while the kingdom burned around them.
Sylvanas' heart bled watching this spectacular display of incompetence, and she was struck by a premonition so dark it could eclipse the sun—if the Scourge cracked their precious magical shell this time, Quel'Thalas would be as doomed as a goblin's retirement fund.
And this time, no hero would come charging over the hill to save their elegant hides!
August 22nd dawned with the same false tranquility as the previous fortnight. Despite alarming reports of war raging in the south, the Scourge remained conveniently distant from Quel'Thalas, giving everyone the illusion of safety.
The Holy Light Alliance, led by the righteously furious Saidan and Turalyon, had managed to bottleneck the Scourge at the Thandolil River between the Eastern and Western Plaguelands, while the Cult of the Damned in the Eastern Plaguelands was being systematically exterminated with the efficiency of a housewife dealing with cockroaches.
Sylvanas began to wonder if she was losing her mind. The garrison assigned to Eversong Forest had grown so complacent they might as well have been taking afternoon naps. Only the rangers showed any urgency, frantically directing arcane golems to construct fortifications outside the forest, while everyone else acted like they were preparing for a picnic rather than an apocalyptic war.
Suddenly, her heart lurched with supernatural dread.
"By the Sunwell's blazing light, look to the north!"
Every ranger within earshot of Sylvanas snapped their heads around, then their eyes bulged with terror so pure it could have powered a lighthouse.
The high elves worshipped the sun with the devotion of devoted cultists, decorating their entire kingdom with solar totems and golden imagery.
But at that moment, the sky transformed into a nightmare canvas of absolute darkness.
The blazing sun had been murdered without ceremony, replaced by a sky choked with ice and malevolent shadows.
A crescent moon radiating evil so thick you could taste it began its sinister ascent near the center of their supposedly impregnable magical barrier.
The entire Sunstrider Forest responded to this abomination by trembling like a terrified child.
"Rustle…"
Leaves danced in panic and branches convulsed with fear.
This was no mere illusion—this was reality bending over backward to accommodate pure evil.
The scene screamed of ultimate darkness approaching with the inevitability of death itself.
Sylvanas had never witnessed such a malevolent moon, yet something about this horrific vista felt hauntingly familiar, as if from a nightmare she'd tried to forget.
The frozen moon hung in the sky like a cosmic scythe, slicing upward through reality itself. Though it should have been merely a celestial body, its ascent was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something fundamental breaking apart.
Their ears weren't playing tricks—something invisible and vital was being torn to shreds in the heavens above.
Initially, the destruction crept forward so slowly that even elven eyes could barely perceive it.
Soon, ghostly structures appeared in the sky above the forest, resembling bridges made of crystallized starlight.
The "glass bridge" blocking the evil moon was pierced and began fragmenting into a dozen massive chunks. Instead of crashing into the trees below, these ethereal pieces hung suspended in midair, their translucent surfaces spiderwebbing with cracks before exploding like divine grenades, shattering into countless smaller fragments.
The pieces grew smaller and smaller until they dissolved completely, erased from existence itself.
At first, Sylvanas and her fellow ranger generals stared in bewildered horror, until understanding crashed over Sylvanas like a tidal wave of ice water.
"By all the gods! The magical defense array is annihilated!"
Those words hit the assembled elves like a thunderbolt from an angry deity!
Every drop of blood drained from every elven face on the defense line, leaving them pale as freshly bleached bone.
At the epicenter of their former magical sanctuary, a high elf draped in noble finery with a Silvermoon Council emblem gleaming on his chest was weaving treacherous magic with the confidence of a master puppeteer.
Hundreds of malevolent black runes erupted from his hands, defying gravity as they soared in all directions before embedding themselves in the void, forming a circular pattern over fifty meters in diameter.
These cursed symbols assembled into a massive interdimensional gateway that rivaled the infamous Dark Portal in both size and ominous presence.
For the first few heartbeats, this colossal portal remained as still as a tomb painting. Then black magical energies began churning across its surface like a cauldron of liquid nightmare.
The next instant, several malevolent consciousnesses descended from the void.
Demonic eyes snapped open around the portal's perimeter, their disgusting orbs rotating frantically as they surveyed their new hunting ground with predatory glee.
Beyond the portal, otherworldly beings streaked through the darkness at impossible speeds, trailing icy contrails across the phantom sky.
The massive gateway erupted like a volcano of pure evil, disgorging countless black shapes into the heavens.
A rain of darkness began falling from above. What started as mere specks rapidly expanded during their descent, and by the time these densely packed shadows revealed their true forms, they had carpeted every square meter of forest within a five-kilometer radius.
The Scourge had arrived!
Arthas emerged from the portal wielding Frostmourne, his head tilted at a jaunty angle as his lips curved into a smile that could freeze hellfire: "Dar'Khan, you magnificent bastard, you've exceeded my wildest expectations!"
Kael'thas stumbled out of the palace in a daze, feeling like his entire world had just been fed through a meat grinder.
A belief that had anchored his soul for millennia was crumbling faster than a poorly built sandcastle.
Was this the noble pursuit he'd worshipped for thousands of years? Not the quest for magical perfection, but merely a pathetic addiction to power and a slavish worship of strength?
What would happen when Sylvanas eventually achieved her sister's exalted status?
The kingdom's hierarchy was a transparent pyramid of limited positions—you could see the summit from the bottom, but unless you possessed noble blood and wizardly talent, that peak might as well be on another planet.
The promised advancement was nothing but a beautifully wrapped lie, a carrot dangled before donkeys too stupid to realize they'd never reach it.
Gazing up at the sky, Kael'thas released a sigh that could have powered a windmill. He found himself envying humans, and the object of his envy was Duke—the man who'd achieved the impossible.
Because Duke, and only Duke, had clawed his way from common dirt to the pinnacle of Alliance power through sheer ability and cunning.
Meanwhile, he, Kael'thas, possessed a princely title but remained a glorified marionette, dancing to his father's strings and the Silvermoon Council's whims, accomplishing absolutely nothing of consequence.
His noble status was as useful as a chocolate teapot.
High elves lived for millennia, and though his father was approaching the twilight of his existence, who could predict how much longer the old monarch would cling to power? As long as his father drew breath, the crown prince remained nothing more than an unfulfilled promise in the political arena.
"Duke, I'd trade my entire bloodline to walk in your boots!" Kael'thas declared to the uncaring heavens.
Meanwhile, at the southernmost edge of Eversong Woods, Sylvanas was wrestling with her own demons.
In the eyes of ranger-generals Lor'themar Theron and Halduron Brightwing, the returning Sylvanas had transformed into something beyond remarkable—she'd become a tactical genius who made ancient military masters look like bumbling children.
Under her command, the elves labored with religious fervor on defensive preparations using methods so revolutionary that rangers who'd lived for millennia scratched their heads in amazement.
In the wasteland south of Sunstrider Forest, she'd ordered a massive firebreak cleared—every blade of grass eliminated to create a barren killing field. This would allow devastating fire attacks against approaching enemies from the south.
Sylvanas planted her banner on the highest hill and calculated wind patterns to determine where flames would spread and where they'd die, turning fire into a weapon of mathematical precision.
Near the northern river source, enormous ceramic vessels filled with holy water stood ready. If the Scourge attempted a river crossing, a few well-placed hammer blows would transform their advance into a bone-dissolving catastrophe.
Throughout the forest, Sylvanas introduced the construction of revolutionary hollow bricks. Bunkers built with five layers of these ingenious blocks could withstand even an Archmage's frost arrows without a crack.
Splash them with holy water, and according to the court magicians' calculations, they could repel shadow arrows from master Warlocks.
Every innovation Sylvanas implemented seemed miraculous to the elves watching in awe.
She received adoration that bordered on worship. Despite her decade-long absence and semi-treasonous departure, the rangers loved her with a fanaticism that overshadowed their loyalty to direct superiors Lor'themar and Halduron.
But Sylvanas knew the humiliating truth—these seemingly brilliant tactical innovations had nothing to do with her genius.
Every technique she'd taught the elves was stolen wholesale from Duke's incredible arsenal of military innovations!
She couldn't fathom the workings of Duke's mind. Conventional wisdom dictated that mystery could only be countered by mystery, yet Duke had used absurdly simple and primitive methods to bridge the gap between ordinary mortals and the mystically powerful.
What terrified Sylvanas even more was the realization that these defensive measures, originally designed to combat orcs, showed clear signs that Duke had somehow anticipated the Scourge invasion thirteen years before it occurred—when the Horde war was barely over.
Looking south toward the human territories, ranger scouts reported continued organized resistance. Fresh human reinforcements had arrived by sea and were rapidly constructing an unbroken defensive line.
Logically, even if the Scourge reached Quel'Thalas, it wouldn't happen for months. The high elves had abundant time to prepare for war.
Yet Sylvanas' mouth tasted like she'd been chewing on grave dirt.
"I refuse to accept defeat!"
"I will surpass my sister's achievements!"
"I will break free from Duke's protective shadow and accomplish something meaningful!"
"But... what exactly am I accomplishing now?"
More than a decade had passed since her departure. Though the Windrunner family's influence persisted, transferring to nobility and abandoning the kingdom was tantamount to treason. Returning to the forest she'd once loved with obsessive passion, all she encountered were suspicious glares and distrustful whispers from the rangers.
But she couldn't abandon them to their fate.
A dozen years represented nearly an entire human generation.
For elves who'd remained unchanged for millennia, it felt like a brief afternoon nap.
Stubborn and catastrophically isolated.
Sylvanas was horrified to discover that most rangers were still planning to fight the undead Scourge with wooden arrows.
What kind of suicidal madness was this?
Wooden arrows against zombies? You could turn an undead into a walking pincushion and it would still shamble forward to eat your face!
As long as the lich or necromancer controlling the low-level undead remained functional, zombies would continue their assault even with a hundred arrows decorating their rotting flesh.
To save her homeland, Sylvanas had secretly observed the front lines at Southshore before returning home.
Physical damage was about as effective against the undead as trying to kill a mountain with harsh language!
She'd attempted to educate the rangers, but her words fell on ears more closed than a miser's purse. In desperation, she implemented the methods Professor Duke had taught her years ago...
Holy arrows to eliminate enemy commanders.
Fire and water-based assault tactics.
Three-dimensional defensive networks combining elevated shooting platforms with ground-based bunkers, creating overlapping fields of devastating crossfire.
These revolutionary concepts, these game-changing combat philosophies—all originated from Duke's brilliant mind.
The defense of Sunstrider Forest grew stronger daily, and their chances of protecting the homeland increased with each passing hour. She should have been ecstatic, but the more impregnable their defenses became, the more crushing her sense of personal failure.
Because none of these achievements belonged to her. She was merely standing on the shoulders of the giant Edmund Duke, shamelessly plagiarizing and squandering the military wisdom he'd graciously shared.
Without comparison, there would be no devastation.
Having witnessed the prosperity of Elwynn Forest and the explosive economic and technological advancement of Stormwind Kingdom, Sylvanas realized that without radical reform, the high elves would be swept into history's dustbin like yesterday's garbage.
But what greeted her return?
A kingdom so corrupt and stagnant it made moldy cheese look dynamic!
Though she'd once been proud of her heritage, careful examination revealed a shocking truth—the surnames dominating the kingdom's hierarchy hadn't changed since the nation's founding.
She'd sworn thirteen years ago that if she ever chose a partner, she'd seek a male hero no less capable than her sisters—a true champion who far surpassed even Duke's accomplishments.
Unfortunately, surveying the entire High Elf Kingdom and observing the so-called nobles who combined maximum arrogance with minimum achievement, Sylvanas wanted to vomit up everything she'd eaten since childhood.
Exactly!
The same brutal truth echoed again!