The cliffs of Darkshore echoed with the clang of steel and the bark of orders.
Sentinels in full armor lined the ridge in formation, eyes sharp, bows drawn. Beyond them, trainees and volunteers — some green, some veterans called back to duty — waited at the edge of the glade for the signal.
Nyxia adjusted the grip on her glaive, scanning the tree line ahead. It was familiar terrain. Too familiar.
This was where the first breach had occurred in the old timeline.
Two days before the fires. One day before the walls fell.
Boo lounged on a flat rock nearby, chewing an apple and watching the group form up.
"They said this was just a simulation," she called out. "Try not to dismantle anyone's career too hard."
Nyxia gave her a dry look. "I'll only use 70 percent of my trauma."
A horn blew once — sharp and clean.
The trial began.
Half the trainees surged forward into the thicket. The other half stayed in formation, mimicking a defensive hold. Nyxia fell into position behind a shield wall, eyes flicking left, right — then up.
The Horde never came straight.They came from above, through the overgrowth and root-bridges, using smoke to shroud their drop.
And here it came.
One of the instructors used an illusion scroll — warpainted orcs fading into the brush, simulated siege weapons conjured from glamourdust and arcane projection.
It was a clever test. But it was based on assumptions.
Nyxia shattered those.
She darted forward, breaking from her line, and flanked wide. She climbed a twisted pine trunk in seconds and loosed a flare shot high above the false siege weapon's projected path.
A second later, the "enemy" shimmered into visibility — caught before their ambush could even begin.
Her unit blinked. The instructors froze.
"How the hell did she know—?"
Nyxia was already in motion.
She dropped into the illusion-line from above and struck clean through three target dummies with the flat of her blade, taking out the lead units before the next wave could react.
By the time the horn blew a second time — ending the drill — Nyxia was already back with her team, breathing steady.
Silence followed.
Then applause.
A few Sentinels muttered. One instructor clapped slowly, warily.
From the stone above the ridge, Captain Ilyrianne watched with arms folded.
Next to her stood a second figure — tall, armored in silver-and-violet, with eyes like the sea before a storm.
Shandris Feathermoon.
Nyxia's chest tightened.
I couldn't save her last time either.
The summons came at dusk.
A junior runner in Sentinel leathers found her sharpening a blade beside the barracks. "Captain Ilyrianne requests your presence. Immediately."
Nyxia stood without a word.
Loque'nahak stirred from where he'd been dozing under the eaves and followed silently, his eyes alert. Boo gave a low whistle from her bunk as Nyxia passed.
"Don't get conscripted into politics," she muttered. "They don't offer hazard pay."
Nyxia didn't answer.
She already knew this was politics. And risk.
The meeting tent near the command ridge was dimly lit. Silver lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting long shadows on the war maps spread across a central table.
Captain Ilyrianne stood at attention. Beside her, arms crossed and face unreadable, was Shandris Feathermoon.
Her presence radiated command. Every inch of her was carved from purpose: the veteran's poise, the stillness of her breath, the lines of worry that hadn't yet hardened into defeat.
Nyxia saluted.
"At ease," Ilyrianne said.
Shandris studied her. "You predicted a pattern no one else saw. Broke formation. Repositioned your squad with minimal casualties. How?"
Nyxia chose her words carefully. The mark on her hand pulsed like a warning flare beneath her glove.
"I've studied Horde war doctrine," she said. "I've seen how Sylvanas fights. She doesn't use the front door."
Shandris raised a brow. "That's speculation. Our scouts have confirmed no large-scale Horde movements north of Ashenvale."
"With respect," Nyxia said, "that's exactly the kind of comfort Sylvanas exploits."
She stepped forward, voice steady.
"She doesn't attack where you're watching. She doesn't wait for proper declarations. She cuts at the roots while you're guarding the branches. You know this. You've fought her longer than anyone."
Shandris's expression didn't shift. But something in the air went still.
"You're saying she'll try something unorthodox," Ilyrianne said, slower now.
"I'm saying," Nyxia replied, "we can't afford to assume she'll fight fair. And if I'm wrong, then we've only lost some sleep."
She let the silence linger.
Finally, Shandris spoke. "And what would you have us do?"
"Strengthen the Darkshore watchlines. Double the warding stones. Keep eyes on the sea, not just the borders. And—" She paused. The mark on her palm burned cold. "—tell Tyrande not to wait for smoke in the sky to move."
Captain Ilyrianne nodded slowly.
Shandris said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "You're dismissed, Moonscythe."
Nyxia saluted again and turned to leave.
As she stepped through the tent flap, she heard Shandris murmur behind her—
"Send word to Darnassus. If the High Priestess is open to counsel… she needs to hear this."
Nyxia stepped out into the wind, the horizon already dark with gathering storm.
For the first time in this second life, she felt the future twitch.
A thread had moved.
It wasn't enough. But it was a start.
Night in Darkshore was never still.
The wind sighed through the pine canopies. Sea foam hissed against the cliffs. Lanternflies flickered in the branches like stars trying to find their way home.
Nyxia sat on the rooftop of the barracks, knees drawn to her chest, watching the horizon.
Loque lay curled beside her, his breath slow and deep. Boo snored two rooms below, dead to the world after a long day of combat drills and subtle looting.
From up here, the outpost looked peaceful. Almost serene.
But Nyxia's gaze stayed locked on the ocean.
That's where they'll come from.
The Horde would not march down from the north like fools. They would come from the sea, in darkness, cloaked by fog and magic and treachery. They would torch the coast before the watchfires were even lit. The war wasn't a march.
It was a knife.
And it had already been thrown.
Nyxia unwrapped her journal, flipped past sketches of terrain, notes on patrol schedules, glyph diagrams, and the ink-blotted names of people she couldn't yet reach.
She turned to a clean page and wrote, carefully:
Tyrande WhisperwindTrust her instincts, but sharpen them.She listens more than she speaks. She will sense it.
Below that, she added:
MalfurionToo slow. Too rooted. Needs prompting. Speak to him sooner.
She paused. Her hand hovered over the page.
Then she wrote:
The Ember Veil must begin to form.If they cannot be saved, they must at least be gathered.If the tree must burn, let them not burn with it.Not this time.Not again.
She closed the journal.
A breeze lifted her hair.
Far on the edge of the water, she thought she saw it: a thin line of smoke. Not thick enough to alarm the sentries. Not yet.
But it was there.
Nyxia watched it rise into the night sky and whispered—
"I see you."