The flare of teleportation magic surged and then faded. The representatives of Lordaeron had vanished, leaving behind an "Alliance" council chamber thick with the stench of calculation and betrayal.
Inside the hall, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and a stifling silence.
Grandmagus Antonidas sat back in his seat, looking every bit his age. Beside him, the greedy councilor who had spearheaded the demands looked deathly pale, cold sweat beading on his brow.
Uther's final look had felt like a brand of Holy Light upon his soul, an invisible mark of shame that made him feel as though his very spirit had been scorched. He knew his career in Dalaran was over; he had been too eager, too desperate to seize Titan technology for his own gain.
Back at Southshore, the news of the council's treachery spread quickly among the Paladins. Indignation turned to cold resolve. Renault Mograine gripped his warhammer until his knuckles turned white.
"The Alliance? Hmph! From this day forward, we trust only the steel in our hands and the brothers at our sides!"
Princess Calia stood at the bow of a ship, watching the grey swells of the Great Sea. Her voice was brittle but determined.
"Rhodes, Lord Uther, Jaina—we leave. To Kalimdor! Lordaeron's future will not be decided by these men. We will forge it ourselves. We shall remember the kindness the Alliance once showed us, but we will never forget the betrayal of today."
Rhodes stood behind her, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was the shift in perspective they needed. Kalimdor was to be their stronghold, their new beginning. Once the Burning Legion made its move and the dust of the Third War settled, they would return to reclaim their homeland on their own terms.
Over the next two days, reinforcements arrived. The High Elves of Quel'Thalas, the Dwarves of Ironforge, and the Gnomes each sent detachments.
Even Dalaran saw a small exodus; several mages—peers and juniors who had studied alongside Jaina—chose to follow her rather than stay with the Kirin Tor.
Rhodes integrated them all. He knew that even within neutral organizations like Dalaran, political unity was a myth. The High Elves held significant sway there, and Kael'thas Sunstrider's intervention had been the only reason they had been allowed to leave Southshore without a fight.
"Rhodes, I believe we must maintain a permanent foothold here in Southshore," Calia suggested during a strategic briefing. "If we can secure the cooperation of the Steamwheedle Cartel, they can help us ferry the remaining refugees to Kalimdor and maintain a supply line between the continents."
The Princess had matured rapidly. The "delicate royal" was being replaced by a pragmatist.
"It is essential," Rhodes agreed. "But we cannot leave our lifeline in the hands of goblins indefinitely. We need our own fleet, and more importantly, we need their aviation technology. We need to secure zeppelin blueprints."
"A technology transfer?" Calia looked skeptical. "The goblins guard their zeppelin designs like dragon gold. They won't just give them up."
"For the right price, a goblin would sell his own mother," Rhodes countered. "We don't just want the ships; we want the production facilities and the engineering specs. Once we have the hulls, I can adapt my arcane propulsion systems to them. We won't just have zeppelins; we'll have flying arcane warships."
Rhodes looked toward the horizon. The technology of Azeroth was a chaotic mess of extremes. One year the world saw interplanar spaceships like the Fel Hammer, yet a few years later, the Great Powers were back to wooden galleons, begging for the help of the Kul Tiran fleet.
He intended to fix that "crooked" tech tree. If Gnomes could build bipedal combat suits and goblins could build shredders, there was no reason they couldn't produce ironclad dreadnoughts. If he could bridge Gnomish precision with his own magical insights, he would leapfrog centuries of development.
"I'll leave the 'negotiations' with the goblins to you, then," Calia said with a tired smile.
After she departed, Rhodes returned to his own quarters. Waiting for him was the military advisor sent personally by Prince Kael'thas: High Magus Capernian.
A master of the Crimson Fire, Capernian was one of the Prince's most trusted advisors. She was a specialist in pyromancy, known for her mastery over the most volatile aspects of the arcane.
"Lord Rhodes," the elf said, bowing gracefully. "By order of Prince Sunstrider, I am here to oversee the integration of our forces and to instruct you in the higher mysteries of Fire Magic."
"It's a pleasure, Lady Capernian," Rhodes said. "I'm a quick learner. You can skip the theory—just show me the flow of the mana and the structural patterns of the spells."
"But Lord Rhodes, the foundations of pyromancy take decades to—"
"Trust me," Rhodes interrupted. "Just show me."
Using the 'Wisdom' skill he had recently acquired—now that he had reached Level 8—Rhodes's ability to transcribe and internalize magical patterns was unparalleled.
Capernian began with the basics of a Fireball. Ten minutes later, Rhodes conjured a roaring sphere of flame the size of a boulder and launched it into the sea, the impact sending up a pillar of steam.
Capernian stood frozen. "How...? Did you already know the chant?"
"Next," Rhodes said simply.
Over the next forty-eight hours, Rhodes systematically "drained" the High Elf's repertoire. He mastered the Flame Lance, the wide-scale devastation of Flamestrike, and the intricate heat-signature of Living Bomb. He even adapted a version of Molten Armor to supplement his defenses.
By the end of the second day, Capernian looked physically and mentally exhausted, her worldview as a mage thoroughly shattered by Rhodes's unnatural rate of progression.
"Lord Rhodes," she whispered, watching him snuff out a miniature sun between his palms. "Your affinity for the flame... it is as if the Sunwell itself has blessed you."