Azshara lay limp on the soft couch, her face flushed and radiant yet utterly exhausted; such contradictory expressions on one face proved oddly fascinating. Feeling the steady influx of power, the instability that had plagued her earlier was now completely resolved—her strength had even improved. Truly profound.
She could sense a closer affinity with the world itself. She had always been a favorite of the world soul; otherwise she could never have possessed those unique golden eyes. Among the Kaldorei, they were the loftiest emblem—one glance could drive her subjects into fanatical devotion.
Pity she had taken the wrong path; otherwise her accomplishments would have been even greater. The world soul had blessed her in the hope that Azshara would safeguard Azeroth and ensure her safe awakening. Alas, it had all gone awry—the Burning Legion's invasion was partly her doing, though she pulled back at the final brink.
If you do wrong, admit it; if you must be punished, stand tall.
'So the heartless wretch finally remembers to come home. Hmph, how long this time?'
It was hard to imagine the arrogant, haughty Azshara adopting such a girlish air, like a wife pining in her boudoir. Ten millennia of waiting would have broken any other woman; the span was simply too vast.
He gently stroked her silver hair, damp with sweat across her brow, a touch of tragic beauty in the sight. His eyes held tenderness; whatever the case, this was his wife, his mate, who had waited so long for him—if not for merit, then for effort.
Pride? A distinctive trait, nothing wrong with that. Having a haughty queen for a wife was hardly a bad thing. Azshara brought the entire Naga race as dowry—no one could match that.
'I'm not leaving again; the task is nearly done. Now that I'm firmly a demigod, further advancement is simply a matter of time. Tell your trusted followers to embrace the Guardian faith; I can grant them blessings. Naga who wish to regain their former forms may do so—provided they are devout.'
'If you'd like to live in Lordaeron, stay there. I've prepared a place for you in the manor by the sea—facing the ocean, with flowers blooming in spring. We'll have a few children; it's time we enjoyed life.'
Recently Arthas had been eager for children—perhaps a fixation after becoming a demigod. Why should Cenarius have offspring while he could not?
Azshara felt elated: the clouds had finally parted. But several children? Did he think her a sow? She rolled her eyes in exasperation.
'How many do you want? I'm not birthing a Horde—get your other mates to do that.'
She was the noble Queen of the Kaldorei, Queen of the Naga, Light of Lights—she could not spend her life giving birth.
Yet she couldn't bear to have none; whenever she saw Shandris she wished the girl were her own daughter.
'Heh, shall we ask Vashj, then?'
Vashj: There's a windfall like this?
'Pah! I knew you had your eye on that flirt. If I don't show you the queen's might, you'll keep having wandering thoughts!'
After a few days in the Eternal Palace—ravenous at first—Azshara, once sated, did as her husband asked. She gathered her trusted aides and bade them follow the Guardian faith, to worship Arthas.
In public she granted them strength and stable forms, letting them shift freely between Highborne and Naga shapes. Under her aura their mana, health, and stamina regeneration soared; they felt vigorous and bright.
In addition to improved recovery, their casting, attack, and movement speeds rose a notch;
their spell and attack power increased a level—tiny water spheres swelling to wagon-sized ones proved it. Even defense improved; every aspect was enhanced.
Such miracles, coupled with the titles of queen's consort and ancient hero, turned ordinary believers into fanatics at once. All were nobles who had followed their queen beneath the sea, gladly taking the hideous Naga form.
Now the fanatics were the most zealous and devout: they would obey any command without hesitation, complaint, or restraint. Bearing children was the least of it; they would give their lives without blinking—true fanatics.
Azshara had no objection to living in the City of Hope; the Eternal Palace could not be abandoned, either—after ten millennia it held sentiment as the Naga's pilgrimage site and seat of rule. Still, she longed to walk the world above, for herself and for her retinue, to leave the crushing depths and return to land.
Ten thousand years of asceticism had won her the freedom to switch between forms; whether boon or bane, it was over—time for a new life.
The Kingdom of Lordaeron, City of Hope.
His Highness Arthas had come to his most loyal domain. Upon his return, crowds lined the streets shouting his name; flowers rained from above—another triumphant return. This time he was neither the filial son nor a Death Knight, but a demigod.
To his left stood Jaina, to his right Sylvanas; behind him followed Azshara, mother and daughter Onyxia, mother and daughter Jandice—noble, beautiful women both pleasing to the eye and formidable in power, each a national beauty.
This return also served as his coronation; many friendly powers were invited, both to inform them and to display the might of the Lordaeron Alliance—greater now than ever.
King Genn Greymane of Gilneas had not wished to come, but his son and daughter persuaded him. Gilneas could no longer remain sealed; its nobles traded secretly with Lordaeron, slipping over walls or cooperating with Naga to ship by sea.
The waters near Gilneas were riddled with hidden reefs that even veteran captains could not navigate; no one braved the route. Small boats could pass but could carry little cargo.
To the Naga, this was trivial: they carved a safe channel, yet to deter smuggling they wove spells so the reefs reappeared when the path was unused, forcing Gilnean nobles to rely on the Naga.
It was Onyxia's plan; she minded not playing the villain for extra profit. If Gilnean commoners suffered, what was that to her? Let them petition their king—so long as they didn't mind seaweed and egg-drop soup.
The three royal brothers of Ironforge came in person, as did the dwarf lords of Aerie Peak and the red-clay dwarves of the Twilight Highlands.
The Blood Elves were represented by Regent Lord Lor'themar and a far more flattering Liadrin than the one in the CG trailer. Kael'thas hadn't come; word placed him in Northrend, keeping company with Illidan. Their plan, apparently, was to strip the Undead Scourge of its riches and then carve out a grand future for themselves on Outland.
The Highmountain Tauren had arrived as well, with Mela herself leading them. Having embraced the world soul Guardian creed and joined the coalition, they considered the coronation a solemn duty—one they had to attend.
Even the Harpy tribes—longtime foes of the Tauren—had sent a chieftain. Their demi-goddess Aviana had given them a sign, though their formal admission to the Alliance still required assessment.
Flight alone made them a strategic asset: more numerous than Dragons and far more agile. As scouts or assassination squads they were adequate; in a straight fight they fell far short.
Gnolls, Kobolds, and even Murlocs—so-called 'uncivilized' races—were present. Disdain them if you will, they were full members of the Alliance. Poor warriors, perhaps, but invaluable in logistics.
Gnolls herded, Kobolds mined, Murlocs cultured pearls. A single Gnoll could replace several human herdsmen, finishing the work faster and better. Their cattle and sheep produced finer milk, finer wool—superior in every way.
The Murlocs' contribution was obvious: pearls came in two sorts—freshwater and ocean. Freshwater pearls were worthless, outclassed by the meat of the mussel itself. Only ocean-cultured pearls mattered—lustrous, plump, and rich in Arcane energy. Critical for portal-crafting and always in demand, the more the merrier.
The Night Elves had dispatched an envoy as well; the plan had been to send Archdruid Malfurion. Yet when Arthas caught sight of a slim figure in pure-white moon-robe, he nearly forgot himself.
It was Tyrande.
Years had passed; she looked more mature, her presence more sacred—like a still forest pool, quiet, graceful, intoxicating.
Quilboar, Mantid, Furbolg—all had sent delegates. Even the Forest Trolls, mortal enemies of the Blood Elves, had come, drawing stares of disbelief. Blood Elf and Forest Troll in the same hall and not at each other's throats—now that was a marvel.
Once, every royal coronation had to be blessed by the Archbishop of the Church of the Holy Light. Not today; no church would place itself above the crown.
Priestess Whitemane bore the crown on its cushion; Arthas took it and set it on his own head.
'From this day forward I am King of Lordaeron—Arthas Menethil. Any nation that treats Lordaeron as friend shall never know war from us. To be our ally is fortune; to be our foe is fatal.'
'Today the Alliance formally declares war upon the Lich King in Northrend. We will not rest until every enslaved undead is destroyed.'
'Enough grim talk for a day of joy. The fare is humble; forgive us if we fall short. Yet all Lordaeron celebrates: eat your fill, drink till dawn, and may none leave sober!'
Arthas lifted frostmourne high and roared.
'For Lordaeron! For the Alliance! For Azeroth!'
At that very moment a rainbow arched across the sky, ringing the City of Hope. A phoenix of living flame wheeled overhead, shrieking in salute as the Emperor of Azeroth returned.
Gasp!
Unaffiliated kingdoms ground their teeth at such a display of destiny, so lavish it seemed unfair.
King Genn could find no sleep. His people still suffered under the Worgen curse, destitute, while he lacked the courage to lower the Greymane Wall and rejoin the Alliance. Watching Lordaeron—ravaged by the Undead Scourge and the Burning Legion—rise stronger than ever filled him with dread.
It proved the truth of the king's words: friendship brought luck; enmity brought ruin.
Inside the capital, commoners danced in the streets. For three days food was free—feast as you please. Tangible bounty wins hearts; anyone who dared malign His Majesty would find a drum shoved over his head and be told to think with it. Survival was luck; death, deserved.
Fireworks blossomed, painting the sky with brilliant bursts of color.
Arthas did not seek old friend Varian; instead he went to Tyrande.
In a guest room of the manor there were no words—only communion.
'Forgive me; I came too late.'
'No. You arrive exactly when you should, and no apology is needed. You are a hero. Without you and Azshara all Kalimdor would lie beneath the sea. Besides, you left me the finest gift—our daughter, Shandris.'
Tyrande showed no scalding fury, no theatrical tears, only the calm that had always been hers.
Save for those private moments she behaved as any woman might, the rest of the time she remained the wise, gentle High Priestess.
'Come whenever you wish, however busy you are. Let us meet more than we part. Shandris is lonely; she needs more sisters.'
The words earned an exasperated roll of eyes. She needed neither sweet promises nor vows, yet that did not mean she needed nothing. Still, she answered.
'Very well.'
Looking at Tyrande's serene face, Arthas could not resist teasing; he grinned and pinched her cheek.
'Was that Elune's command, or your own heart?'
She turned, cheeks still flushed, and stroked his face.
'Both.'
'We have delayed long enough. You should greet your allies. I will stay here often, though I'll still visit Teldrassil for duties. I dislike portals—they unsettle me.'
A true wife never clings or vies for favor; she had no such wish. Guarding her people was task enough, and meddling in Lordaeron's politics would serve no one.
'As you wish.'
With burdens lifted, Tyrande's smile brightened. While Arthas attended the kings, she joined the women—now a queen herself.
Indeed, queen: every woman was a queen, each granted equal title without rank or rivalry. Roles differed, cooperation reigned, competition never.
Queen Sylvanas?
Say that again—louder.