The outer rim of the Well of Eternity was quiet, far from the laughter and music of the palace terraces.
Here, the light ran slow and deep, a steady pulse rather than a blaze. The air smelled faintly of salt and ozone; each breath seemed to echo against the vastness below.
Lord-Magister Vandryl Darkrune preferred it that way. He loathed interruptions, least of all from courtiers who thought curiosity could be contained by etiquette.
Aydris Starscribe moved within the containment circle, graceful and precise. The shallow basin before her shimmered with Well-water so clear it looked like liquid light.
"Careful," Darkrune said, adjusting a quill between his fingers. "We are listening, not commanding."
"I know," she answered, smiling faintly. Her magic moved like breath around the basin, coaxing ripples into ordered lines.
For a time, everything was perfect—runes pulsing in slow rhythm, the water humming in harmony with her touch. Darkrune allowed himself the rare pleasure of approval.
Then the resonance thinned. The basin's glow dimmed.
"Hmph. The water's spent," he muttered. "Fetch more from the Well, please."
"Yes, Master."
Aydris lifted the small silver bucket and stepped toward the edge of the circle. The mist clung faintly to her boots, turning the stone treacherous.
She reached the edge of the platform—light welling up from below like a pulse beneath the world—leaned down, and dipped the bucket into the surface.
Then her boot slipped on the damp stone.
Aydris caught herself, almost, but the bucket tilted, and she went forward with it—arms outstretched, a single startled cry before she vanished into the radiance.
Darkrune shouted her name and lunged to grab her, but the containment wards flared, turning the sound to glass.
The light folded inward instead of out, collapsing through itself like a dying star. It struck with no sound—only a brief, searing bloom that vanished as the wards drove the force straight down into the Well.
When the glow faded, the platform was empty. The runes still held, steady and perfect, enclosing nothing. A faint vapor lingered, smelling of rain and ash.
Far below, the Well's vast surface stirred once, then smoothed again, flawless and still.
By the time the report reached the palace, Queen Azshara already knew.
She didn't ask how; she rarely needed to.
"Containment held?" she inquired, her voice mild.
"It did, Your Majesty," the messenger said.
"Then there is no tragedy," she replied, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
Later that afternoon, a guard arrived at the Darkrune apartments with a sealed scroll and quiet efficiency. The message bore Vandryl's hand—elegant, decisive:
My dearest Starlys,
A new commission binds me to the palace for an extended term. You and Apprentice Tisserand are to return to Suramar at once, under escort. Do not delay; this is my express instruction. I will follow soon.
The guards bowed, began to pack, and left no room for argument.
Starlys protested—bewildered, angry—but the escorts only repeated, "Orders from Lord Darkrune. Departure within the hour."
Jace said nothing. Something in the guard's eyes told him there was no truth left to ask for.
By sunset, their carriage rolled north beneath the gilded arches of the city, the towers gleaming behind them in the reflection of the Well.
That evening, Azshara stood at her balcony, gazing toward the horizon where the Well shimmered as serenely as ever. The world had already smoothed itself over, as it always did.
"Such a pity," she murmured. "Brilliance never lasts."
A scribe stepped forward from the shadows. "The Darkrune journals, Your Majesty. The Vael'theran records have been secured."
"Keep them," Azshara said, eyes still on the light. "Call them myth if you must. Myths endure longer than men. We may find use for them yet."
The doors closed behind her, and the palace returned to silence.
Far below, the Well shone unchanged—vast, radiant, and utterly indifferent.
And somewhere in the long dark between stars, something vast and formless turned its gaze—not yet knowing why, only that a sound it had forgotten had just brushed the edge of its awareness.