While Queen Azshara was immersed in her research on the Well of Eternity in the capital city of Zin-Azshari, Silmalorë, who resided in the mountains of Angband, paused his work for a moment. He had been forging a ring of power when he suddenly felt a tremor of foreign energy coming from the direction of Kalimondor. His gaze turned toward the continent, and he murmured softly.
"It seems seventy thousand years have passed," said Silmalorë, closing his eyes, trying to comprehend the source of the power that had just brushed against his awareness.
It had been a very long time since he last read any reports on the development of the races he had created. The Dwemer, the Elves, and the Dúnedain had evolved without his direct supervision. He no longer knew the state of Valinor or Middle-earth. Yet the emergence of energy from the Well of Eternity stirred his curiosity. He decided to journey to Kalimondor, and had already planned to go with Thorondor, the giant eagle who had long guarded the northern skies.
Over the past seventy thousand years, Silmalorë had not been idle. He had conducted various experiments to create beings that could help him maintain the balance of the world. From all those trials, he succeeded in creating four artificial dragons. Though many failures occurred, the final results were satisfying enough.
The first dragon born was Glaurung. Wingless and more akin to a giant wyrm, Glaurung mastered the magic of the mind. He could implant illusions, fear, and mental influence into living creatures. Silmalorë had once considered ending Glaurung's existence because his form did not match the original vision. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Glaurung was the product of the early phase of creation, and Silmalorë saw immense potential within him.
The second dragon was Ancalagon the Black, a creature long awaited by fans of Tolkien's world in Silmalorë's previous life. Ancalagon was the largest and strongest dragon in the history of Arda. His body towered like a moving fortress, and his breath could scorch the sky. Silmalorë felt that a dragon of such size was not impressive enough without proper equipment. So he summoned Durin, leader of the Dwemer in the mountains of Gundabad.
Silmalorë asked Durin and his people to forge two suits of armor for Ancalagon, using Dwemer metal and mithril. Though Durin was already very old, he begged Silmalorë to allow him one final creation before death claimed him. He wished to craft a legendary armor for Silmalorë's creation. The request was warmly accepted. Durin and the Dwemer traveled from Gundabad to Angband, bringing their forging tools and the resolve passed down through thousands of years.
The next experiment gave birth to Scatha the Worm. This dragon closely resembled the creature slain by Fram, ancestor of the Rohirrim, in the original history of Tolkien's world. Silmalorë placed the small dragon in the Grey Mountains, a quiet and misty region. His form was unlike the Western dragons with broad wings and majestic bodies. Scatha resembled a giant lizard mixed with an earthworm, a creature that slithered between rocks and carried poison in its breath.
The final dragon was Smaug, Silmalorë's second favorite due to his appearance in The Hobbit film from his previous life. Smaug was known as a dragon greedy for gold, hoarding treasure with an obsession bordering on religious fervor. In Smaug, Silmalorë saw not only greed, but also intelligence and arrogance that could be exploited. He asked Durin to forge a personal armor for himself, inspired by Ancalagon's design.
These four dragons would become vital assets for Silmalorë in the first war against the Burning Legion, the demon army summoned by the Highborne through the magical rift of the Well of Eternity.
However, not all of Silmalorë's experiments ended in success. He failed to create the three rings of power for the Elves—Narya, Nenya, and Vilya. For over seventy thousand years he had tried, but the results were always unsatisfactory. He began to doubt his own abilities, even questioning whether only Celebrimbor had been destined to forge those three rings.
Even so, Silmalorë was not entirely defeated. He succeeded in crafting seven rings for the brave Dwemer—rings that enhanced their logic, endurance, and mechanical prowess. He also created nine rings for the Dúnedain, descendants of both Elves and Dwemer, which strengthened their intuition, courage, and diplomatic skill. Lastly, he forged four rings of power for the Elves, each possessing distinct elements and functions.
The Ring of Kementarwa represented earth and connected its bearer to the spirits of the forest.
The Ring of Rambacíl controlled lightning and atmospheric energy.
The Ring of Calimírë radiated light that could heal and expand vision.
The Ring of Morcullo mastered darkness and allowed its bearer to merge with shadows and access hidden dimensions.
Once these rings of power were fully forged, Silmalorë ordered the Valar to distribute them to the elves, Dúnedain, and dwemer deemed worthy of wearing them. The distribution was carried out through a selection ritual that tested the soul, will, and loyalty to the order of the world.
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Silmalorë stood at the edge of a stone platform inside Mount Angband, watching Durin and the dwemer as they forged armor for Ancalagon and Smaug. The sound of hammers striking metal echoed through the underground corridors. The forge fires blazed brightly, and sparks of molten metal danced across the cave walls. Silmalorë nodded slowly, satisfied with their dedication.
He ascended to the peak of Angband, leaving Durin and the dwemer still working in the depths. Standing atop the highest stone, he began to whistle—a long, piercing call to summon Thorondor.
A loud, drawn-out cry rang from the sky. Thorondor came from the north, slicing through clouds and wind, then landed on the summit of Angband with wings spread wide. Silmalorë opened the large satchel he carried and pulled out fresh cuts of meat, offering them directly to Thorondor.
The giant eagle had been his companion since the earliest age. Thorondor's body was old now, his feathers fading, and his movements no longer as swift. Silmalorë stepped closer and touched the eagle's chest, channeling a small stream of life energy from his own body so that his old friend could endure a little longer. The current leader of the giant eagles was Gwaihir, and Thorondor had entered a semi-retirement, appearing only when personally summoned by Silmalorë.
"It's been a long time, my friend," said Silmalorë, stroking Thorondor's rough, scarred neck.
Thorondor responded with his signature cry, loud and resonant across the mountains.
"Are you happy? This will be our final journey together," Silmalorë continued, climbing onto Thorondor's back with steady motion.
Thorondor cried out again, then beat his wings and soared into the sky. Silmalorë gripped the feathers of his friend's neck tightly and looked southward.
"Let's go, my friend. We're heading to Kalimondor."
They flew across the sky, piercing clouds and cold winds. During the flight, Silmalorë began to recall the past. Though he hadn't paid much attention to developments in Valinor and Middle-earth, he had always kept watch over Kalimondor through the roots of his tree, which spread across the continent.
When trolls first appeared in Kalimondor, Silmalorë was immediately intrigued. Perhaps because trolls were the only intelligent beings in the Warcraft world capable of cultivation and forming their own civilization. They built a vast and powerful empire, spreading across the continent. Aside from trolls, another civilized race was the Mogu, who established a brutal and authoritarian dynasty in the region of Pandaria.
Trolls and Mogu became the two strongest kingdoms in Kalimondor. They endured for thousands of years, though frequent skirmishes occurred with Silmalorë's creations migrating from Valinor and Middle-earth. The elves, dwemer, and Dúnedain often clashed with trolls, but no great war ever broke out. Only border friction—and Silmalorë didn't care much.
During this period, the trolls organized a massive army and launched a full siege against the remaining Aki Zerg in the region of Ahn'Qiraj. They built towering walls and attacked relentlessly. Eventually, not a single insect survived behind the grand walls of Ahn'Qiraj.
Still, Silmalorë remained indifferent to both races. He had no interest in the Mogu's aesthetics, which he found discordant. Even the five great and three stout leaders of the Mogu bore faces resembling unicorns or lions, and their body shapes clashed with the design principles he upheld.
The trolls didn't impress him either. Their bodies were tall—over two meters—but hunched all day long. Their feet were large and coarse, their tusks jutted upward from their mouths, and their hairstyles were wildly varied, from mohawks to bizarre braids with no practical function.
Savage creatures remained savage. Yet their sexual and aesthetic orientation was clear: heterosexual, and never once had Silmalorë shown any interest in troll females. Though his primary body now was a giant tree rooted deep in Valinor, the trace of his human soul from a previous life remained intact. He still had preferences, and in this case, he favored the elegance of Tolkien's elves—far more beautiful and aesthetic than wild creatures like trolls.
For centuries, Silmalorë continued forging rings of power in Angband, refining his own magic, and observing the world from afar. Until one day, the migration of a small group of trolls caught his attention. He looked southwestward, toward a magical lake nestled in the heart of Kalimondor—a lake believed to be the gathering place of Azeroth's blood, a source of undefined primordial power.
The troll group settled by the lake and formed a circular settlement. Their village was primitive, rough, built from wood and stone taken directly from the surrounding forest. But over time, the influence of the Magic Lake began to change them. Mutations occurred gradually, and generation after generation of trolls living there began to differ from their kin scattered across the land.
Their height shrank slightly. The long tusks that once protruded from their mouths vanished. The large feet that had defined trolls transformed into a pair of human-like legs with more proportional form. Their hair changed drastically—becoming smooth, soft, and long, especially among the females, whose waist-length white hair became a pleasant sight to behold.
Their facial features became remarkably refined, with eyes that radiated a mysterious energy. Their skin shifted into a shimmering violet hue, with a hazy glow that resembled a mist of light. They could no longer be called trolls. This tribe had abandoned its old name and began referring to themselves as night elves. They even refused to acknowledge trolls as part of their origin.
Here is where the night elves were born. Here is where the Well of Eternity stood, the center of transformation and the source of limitless power.
Their culture changed drastically. If trolls were known for their wild and crude voodoo style, the night elves built architecture that was beautiful and grand. Their buildings resembled ancient Greek styles from Earth, complete with tall pillars and intricate carvings adorning every corner. They created a civilization of elegance and aesthetic refinement.
The night elves formed a structured nation-state, led by a beautiful queen named Azshara—light within light, moon within moon, and light within a thousand moons. Her magnificent palace stood at the edge of the Well of Eternity, part of the Lake View Villa Estate complex that became the center of their governance and spirituality.
Centered around the Queen's palace, a majestic city was built: Zin-Azshari, the eternal capital of the night elves.
But the transformation did not stop there. Some night elves underwent further evolution. They developed distinct cultural traditions, inscribed mysterious energy runes as tattoos on their bodies, and became masters of magic drawn from the Well of Eternity. They formed an elite noble class: the high elves.
These high elves served Queen Azshara directly as court magisters and elite combat forces. They built an exclusive city for themselves: Suramar. This city was open only to high elves, and all its inhabitants were powerful sorcerers who avoided interference from ordinary night elves. Suramar became a center of magical study and luxurious living, isolated from the noise of the outside world.
The Sunrider family controlled the entire high elf structure. The Dath'Remar Sunstrider clan, whose patriarch once served as Archmage in Queen Azshara's court, held immense influence and extraordinary magical power. Having lived in Zin-Azshari for so long, they formed a daily family council that decided all major and minor affairs in Suramar.
In Suramar's largest library, a high-level mage apprentice worked as a humble librarian. He was lost in a sea of knowledge, exploring the treasure troves of magical literature while forgetting to eat and sleep.
Silmalorë, observing all this from the peak of Angband, sensed something strange. The history of the Warcraft world seemed like a reflection of Tolkien's world, especially during the great war between his created races and Queen Azshara. He recalled the war against Morgoth, and now Azshara appeared to be assuming the same role. He chose not to intervene, merely to observe and assess whether the magic of Tolkien's world could withstand the sorcery of Warcraft.
Disappointment followed. As he had suspected, the Song of Ilúvatar magic had not yet matched the power of Warcraft's magic. Fortunately, Silmalorë had taught his own magic to the three races he created—magic inspired by the game Dragon Nest. Without it, they would not have survived.
Dragon Nest magic was not as destructive as Warcraft's, but its flexibility allowed it to counter more aggressive magical forces. Still, Silmalorë knew that after the war against the Burning Legion, he would need to create a new form of magic.
He began contemplating light magic, like that used by paladins in the Warcraft world. But the core of that magic was faith in a god. That's where the problem arose. His elves did not believe in gods. They saw Silmalorë as a mother tree, not a divine entity. The dwemer were the same—skeptical of divinity. The Dúnedain were even more extreme, rejecting all forms of worship.
Silmalorë felt a bit stressed. He asked himself whether he should become a fraud—disguise himself as an old staff, like a priest from his previous life, and say with a holy face, "May the Lord bless you, young one," while sprinkling water on their faces.
The image made him shudder. Though he had been religious in his previous life, he was never devout. He practiced faith in a casual, ordinary way. But Warcraft magic demanded full belief, total worship, and deep spiritual devotion for blessings to descend.
Silmalorë let go of the thought. He knew that path wasn't for him. He began thinking of something else, something more aligned with the principles of the races he had created. As he flew with Thorondor toward Kalimondor, he let the night wind sweep through his mind full of questions.