"Food, food… ah, I want to become a mage for the first time now. Their mysterious language can communicate with aliens without any barrier!" shouted one of the night elves.
In the Black Crow Square, Tyrande performed another healing round for the strange green creature. Broxigar had struggled for half a day, and finally the elves managed to convince the orc that the jug of water in front of him and the fruits—enough to feed a flock of birds—were their staple diet.
But Broxigar clearly didn't believe it. He stared at the red apple in his hand with a puzzled and suspicious expression. The elves' pointed ears claimed that fruit was their main food. But for a tribal warrior like Broxigar, fruit wasn't food—it was a snack for children.
"Do the alliance elves really eat this stuff every day? Doesn't seem worth giving yourself a basket of fruit. What's so good about fruit? Isn't meat better?" he muttered in frustration.
Illidan, standing not far from the cage, shot a sharp glance at the orc. "Do you even know how to be grateful, you beast…" he growled under his breath.
Broxigar ignored him. Though he didn't fully understand the elven language, the tone was clear enough. That male elf had no goodwill toward him.
"How dare he ignore me, that…" Illidan didn't get to finish his sentence as two figures recently welcomed by Lord Ravencrest appeared in the square. They arrived by chance, strolling, and now stood before Broxigar.
"Ah, Master Krasus! Master Rhonin! So glad to see you again, I…" Illidan exclaimed enthusiastically.
"I'm glad to see you too, Illidan. Of course I remember you. We met at Lord Ravencrest's," Krasus replied, stepping toward Rhonin.
"Yeah… good to see you, Illidan," said Rhonin, though his expression was somewhat strained. His joy was clearly not mutual. There was a sense of rejection and distance in his eyes.
Illidan didn't care about Rhonin's expression. He was too excited. He felt important, remembered by two mysterious masters with immense power. He was still impressed by how Krasus, with terrifying magical manipulation, had instantly defeated the court mage beside Lord Ravencrest. Well, former court mage.
That alone made Illidan, who had long craved immense arcane power, immediately revere the two aliens.
"An orc? How is there an orc here? Did Nozdormu send someone from that tribe too? Since when are orcs part of the alliance team?" Rhonin asked in confusion, eyes fixed on Broxigar inside the cage.
Rhonin leaned in and whispered to Krasus, his tone full of suspicion.
Broxigar, aware of the newcomers' presence, stared at them warily. He clenched his large, powerful fists. These alliance bastards… they followed him into the mysterious hole that brought him here.
"Humans… Union dogs…" Broxigar said in broken human speech, his tongue stumbling.
"Alright, shut up, tribal pig," Rhonin snapped sharply.
Krasus frowned, then shook his head. "Impossible. Nozdormu only sent the two of us. I'm fairly certain this orc… he must've been accidentally affected by time and sand."
Krasus stepped up to the cage and began speaking to Broxigar in Orcish. As a dragon—especially one who had lived for thousands of years—he possessed vast knowledge of many languages. He learned them easily, and now used that skill to bridge communication.
"You're from the future too? You just said 'Alliance dogs'—does that come from the old tribe era or the new tribe era?"
"Old tribe? Ha! I'm Broxigar Saurfang, a warrior of the Thunder King clan! Warrior of Warchief Thrall! I…" Broxigar shouted proudly, his voice echoing across the square.
"Alright, sounds like you're from the new tribe. That'll make communication easier. Now shut up and listen to me," Krasus said firmly.
This strange human seemed to carry an aura of dominance like a wild beast. Broxigar felt uneasy. Was this creature not human at all, but some great being disguised as an adult?
With Krasus's quick and simple explanation, Broxigar fell silent. He listened carefully, and gradually began to understand the situation unfolding around him.
"I don't know how you ended up here, but now you have a choice. Join us for the time being. If we're still alive when this is over, I'll ask Nozdormu to reunite you and send you back to the future."
Broxigar stared at Krasus with sharp eyes. He didn't respond, but the look in his eyes showed he was seriously considering the offer.
Rhonin nodded slowly at those words. Though he didn't fully agree with his dragon mentor's decision, he knew that in a situation like this, personal opinions didn't carry much weight. The world was on the brink of collapse, and every move had to be made with sharp calculation.
"Now, in this era, the Highborne are led by Dath'Remar Sunstrider. Will he trust us?" Rhonin asked, his voice filled with doubt.
"If my memory serves me, he should be in the capital, Zin-Azshari. Suramar is managed by the upper parliament. That could be a gap. A chance to deliver the truth before it's too late," Krasus replied, his eyes gazing far to the east.
Suddenly, a calm yet firm voice came from behind them. Malfurion opened his eyes, ending his mental communion with Cenarius.
"Two masters, and this one… uh… Orc. My honored mentor, the demi-god Cenarius of the forest, invites all three of you to visit the woods. He wishes to speak directly."
Krasus and Rhonin exchanged glances, then nodded in unison. They knew an invitation from Cenarius was not something to ignore.
"Then let's go. We've always admired the forests near Val'sharah," said Krasus.
Broxigar, who had been muttering to himself, didn't fully understand what the humans and elves were discussing. But he didn't care. He saw them moving, and he followed with heavy steps.
"Can I go hunt my own prey? Your Alliance dogs won't even let me make that request…" Broxigar grumbled, still bitter about not having eaten meat all day.
---
Meanwhile, in the city of Suramar, inside the central tower of the grand mages, the atmosphere was far more tense.
In a chamber known as the Pillars of Creation, the light was dim. The only illumination came from mysterious crystals embedded in the walls, pulsing with faint violet light.
More than a dozen aged elven mages sat in a circle, their bodies facing the center of the room. There, suspended and guarded by demons, hung a body bound by an intricate circle of runes. Mysterious energy wrapped around it like chains, slowly rotating above a floor covered in ancient symbols.
"Begin the projection," commanded a clear female voice from the corner of the room.
Dozens of mages immediately began chanting spells. Their voices echoed, forming a magical resonance that vibrated through the air.
Elder Elisande stood in the shadows, holding the image crystal she had just read. The information from the capital, Isaline, deeply troubled her. She knew Dath'Remar Sunstrider was right. The so-called celestial warriors were not fair and orderly biological beings as promised.
The dark green energy they carried was not divine magic. It was evil, corrosive, and destructive. Nothing a true god would ever wield.
"I see… ahhhhhhh!" screamed one of the mages, his body writhing in pain.
The scream was quickly followed by others. The Highborne mages seated in the circle began convulsing. Dark green fire burst from their eyes, burning their faces into two horrifying black holes.
"What did you see?" Elisande rushed to the only surviving mage, her face filled with concern.
"Endless evil fire… demons… disaster is coming… it must be stopped… or the continent of Kalimondor will explode…" the old mage replied, his voice trembling.
His body spasmed briefly, then went still. No sound remained. Nearly a dozen mage regiments performing the projection had vanished, consumed by uncontrollable magic flames.
Elisande stood, her eyes fixed on the floor now covered in ash and magical scars. Her expression was grave. The situation was far worse than she had imagined. Action had to be taken immediately. There was no time left for hesitation.
---
At this moment, Silmalorë had been residing in Eärendil's domain for a full month. But boredom had begun to creep into his mind. He felt stagnant, and the world around him was too quiet for an entity who had once been a tree and now manifested as the protector of Tolkien's races on the planet Azeroth. He decided to send Eärendil to the continent of Valinor, with one goal: to ask the Valar to dispatch forces to Kalimondor.
Silmalorë handed over his token—a sacred artifact possessed only by beings who had once merged with the Song of Ilúvatar. The token would serve as proof that Eärendil was sent by him, so the Valar, who had remained idle in Valinor for far too long, would understand that this summons was not trivial. He called them lazy—not out of disrespect, but out of frustration with their indifference toward a world teetering on the edge of ruin.
After that, Silmalorë decided to wander through the dense forests of Kalimondor. He didn't know exactly where he was—not because he couldn't know, but because he chose not to. He rarely walked alone in the ancient Kalimondor, which had yet to explode. He usually observed from afar, from the roots of his body still planted in Valinor.
He had also asked the elves and Dúnedain to gather strange flora and fauna from Kalimondor, so they could be sent to Valinor and Middle-earth. It would be a shame if all those creatures were wiped out by the explosion of the Well of Eternity. He wanted to preserve as much life as possible before the disaster truly arrived.
From atop a mountain whose name he didn't recognize, Silmalorë saw the elves' harbor. He nodded in satisfaction as he watched various animals—each in pairs—being loaded onto a massive wooden ship built by the dwemer. The ship was specially designed to carry living beings on long journeys across the ocean. Silmalorë felt relieved. At least a small part of Kalimondor would live on elsewhere.
He continued his journey on foot, unaware that the Burning Legion had already arrived on the continent.
Along the way, Silmalorë passed through a cold forest, surrounded by towering trees of varied shapes. The leaves were still covered in snow, and the air was filled with the chirping of unfamiliar creatures. He paused for a moment, observing his surroundings.
"It's been so long since I was in Kalimondor, and so much has changed," he murmured, shaking his head firmly.
He felt his mind beginning to clear. He needed to understand what was truly happening in Kalimondor, so he could prepare a better future for the Tolkien races he had created and protected on Azeroth.
"In short, we need to figure out where we are. Ancient Kalimondor is far larger than the fragments of later generations, and all the land is still connected," he said, gazing toward the horizon.
To conceal his identity, Silmalorë coated his body with a special paint he had created himself, so his skin would resemble the signature purple of the night elves. His true body remained a tree in Valinor, and the body he now used was a construct made from his own tree roots, transformed through the magic of Ilúvatar's song. His appearance now resembled the elves of Tolkien's world. He even patched his ears with clay to make them appear longer.
Elves in Tolkien's world had a more human-like appearance, with slightly elongated ears, soft and handsome faces, and fine hair pulled back to highlight their broad, elegant foreheads. Silmalorë wanted to blend in with the living beings of Azeroth as an ordinary person—not as a god or a guardian.
He looked up, observing the trees around him. With light movements, he leapt back and forth between the branches, displaying the agility typical of Tolkien's elves. Gradually, he approached the top of a towering tree above his head.
"Wow!" he exclaimed as birds in the tree scattered in fright.
A large bird hiding in the canopy finally poked its head out from the thick foliage.
"Huh… this tree is way too tall, at least around 100 meters. But since it stands upright, my view is clear. Let's see if there's anything important around here," Silmalorë muttered.
He stretched his legs and stood on the highest slender branch. Using the regular force he controlled, he nullified the gravitational vector that normally pulled his body downward. He could stand easily atop the canopy, gazing out at the surrounding landscape.
"Hah? Is that…" he said, eyes widening.
---
From the top of the towering tree, Silmalorë looked into the distance. Beyond the thickening snow mist, he saw a bustling city, with magical towers glowing softly and buildings with distinctive architecture. The city felt familiar. He sensed he'd seen it somewhere before—perhaps in a vision, perhaps in fragments of history stored within the roots of his body. But he couldn't recall any specific details at the moment.
He reached out, catching snowflakes drifting gently onto his head. Cold air enveloped the area, and the trees around him indicated the temperature was in a cold zone—or even below freezing. He turned, observed again, then murmured, "Snow's coming… and judging by the vegetation, this should be Northrend?"
After estimating the location, Silmalorë guessed the city was Suramar—not the Suramar rebuilt by the Highborne of later generations, but ancient Suramar, one of the six great cities of the night elf empire before the War of the Ancients.
He stood atop the tree with his chin resting on his hand, thinking silently. "One?" he muttered, trying to recall something faint.
At that moment, he realized something was off with his body. He quickly checked himself, pacing back and forth, inspecting every detail. His clothing was still the casual aristocratic attire he usually wore in Valinor—a long robe layered with enchantments, designed by the elves to self-clean, regulate temperature, and adjust to body shape.
But something felt wrong. The outfit that normally fit perfectly now felt shorter. When he extended his arms, the sleeves hung about ten centimeters behind his palms. His pants also seemed to ride higher than usual.
He looked at his skin, still coated in purple paint, then sighed softly. "Looks like my disguise is flawless," he said, half relieved.
With his location clarified, the next step was to determine direction. Unfortunately, Silmalorë wasn't sure what to do next. His main forces were still in Valinor, and the elves, Dúnedain, and dwemer had already been ordered to evacuate to the Hyjal mountain region. He wasn't confident that the original root-body he had planted in ancient Kalimondor could withstand the explosion of the Well of Eternity.
He didn't want to alter the history of the Well. Better to let it explode, he thought, so the world would have enough time to evolve before the arrival of the Orcs. After all, this was the real world. The forces coming to Azeroth would be massive. Elf reproduction was pitiful—nowhere near as fast as humans. Every elven life was precious to him.
He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. "Wouldn't it be better to go to Suramar City to find out the current time and the state of the world?"
Had Rhonin, Krasus, and Broxigar already arrived in this era? Who knew. He'd think about it later. Living in a time this volatile, even if he didn't take the initiative to stir trouble, he still couldn't avoid the Burning Legion's attacks.
"By the way, was Suramar ever attacked during the War of the Ancients? I don't think the city was mentioned…"
He tried to recall stories from official Warcraft lore. "I've forgotten a bit—it's been tens of thousands of years living here. I think in the official lore, the demons wanted to open a second portal at the Temple of Elune…"
Suramar was where the Dark Night Empire stored mysterious relics and various magical artifacts. It made sense that many valuable items were kept there. Though not used as a frontline in the war, Suramar remained a vital logistics hub.
"Forget it, I won't overthink it. Let's just go to Suramar and see what's going on."
Unable to find a clear answer, Silmalorë replaced thought with action. He moved nimbly through the treetop canopy, swiftly heading toward Suramar.
As he neared the city, the trees grew sparse. Finally, about five kilometers from the city, the forest vanished entirely. As a final move, he leapt from the canopy's peak—over 100 meters high. He used vector control to counteract gravitational impact during the landing. With a light thud, he stood firmly on the ground.
"Perfect! I don't have to worry about being slammed to death later. I can survive no matter how high the sky falls!"
He looked down at the ground beneath his feet, then murmured, "Are my tree roots really that strong? Well, it's not like anyone wants to run experiments on their original body anyway."