The morning arrived in shades of slate and ash, a slow, unhurried dawn that offered no promises about the day ahead.
It was the kind of morning that felt heavy with the weight of things left unsaid, the air thick with a damp chill that clung to the stone walls of Windrunner Manor. North of the village, the broad field, once a place for elven celebrations and summer festivals was now a hive of grim, military activity.
By the time Leylin stepped out of the manor's shadows, the Sons of Lothar were already deep into their preparations. They moved with the effortless, synchronized efficiency of men who had spent half a decade breaking camp in the red dust of Draenor, where a slow morning could mean a swift death.
There were no wasted words, no unnecessary clamor. Instead, there was only the rhythmic sound of leather straps tightening, the metallic clinking of bedrolls being lashed to heavy saddles, and the low, perfunctory scrape of whetstone against steel.
Efficiency, Leylin noted as he watched them from the porch, was the true armor of the veteran. It was the psychological barrier against the chaos of war; it was the difference between arriving at the front line ready to fight and arriving as a liability.
These men were exhausted, their armor dented and their spirits weathered by a home they no longer recognized, yet they functioned like a single, well-oiled machine.
The previous evening, Leylin had been a shadow moving through the village. Working through Vereesa's extensive network of contacts, he had drained the manor's local stores, supplies painstakingly hoarded since the initial evacuation of the Scourge's path.
He had pulled from every cellar and granary he could find. What he had assembled in the wagons at the edge of the field was not a feast, but it was a lifeline.
There were crates of salt-cured meats, bags of hard tack that could withstand a month of travel, and medicinal salves made from rare herbs—quantities that spoke of a man who anticipated a long, bloody road north through the dead lands of Lordaeron.
The Sons of Lothar accepted the crates with a dry, unsentimental gratitude. They were soldiers; they knew that a full belly was worth more than a dozen poems about heroism. They didn't offer grand speeches or vows of eternal friendship. They simply packed the wagons, checked the wheels, and prepared to march into the unknown.
Leylin navigated the organized chaos of the camp, his eyes scanning the faces of the men he had helped bring back to a broken world. He finally found Khadgar standing near the edge of the tall grass, where the manicured lawn of the manor met the wild woods.
The Archmage was leaning on his staff, his posture slightly hunched, as if the very air of Azeroth was heavier than he remembered.
He was watching the preparations with an expression of quiet, layered intensity, but his mind was clearly leagues away, likely tracing the fractured ley lines of a world that had been shattered during his absence.
"Jaina is already moving," Leylin said, his voice cutting through the morning mist without a preamble. He knew Khadgar well enough by now to know the man had no patience for the decorative architecture of social pleasantries.
Khadgar didn't start. He simply turned his head, his eyes sharp and analytical behind the weary mask of age. "Jaina Proudmoore. The apprentice who stayed."
"She has been scouring the countryside for the Dalaran survivors," Leylin continued. "Mages who hid in damp cellars, scholars who fled into the hills when the sky turned purple. She's consolidating them in the south, laying the foundation for whatever the Kirin Tor is to become. She is trying to build a future out of ashes."
Khadgar turned his full gaze toward Leylin. "You've been tracking her movements with a suspicious amount of detail, Leylin."
"I've been maintaining a general awareness," Leylin replied, offering a half-truth that was just large enough to satisfy. "The point is, the foundation is already being laid. What it's missing is a steady hand—a voice that carries the weight of the old world but understands the darkness of the new. It's missing you, Khadgar."
Something shifted in Khadgar's weathered face. It wasn't vanity; Khadgar had long since moved past the need for ego. Instead, it was the deep, quiet relief of a professional being told that his specific expertise was the missing piece of a puzzle.
"And you?" Khadgar asked, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum. "Where do you fit in this new geometry of yours? You didn't bring us back out of the goodness of your heart, though I suspect you'd like us to think so."
"My role is... fluid," Leylin said, his mouth quivering into a ghost of a smile. "And currently under revision. Which is as close to an honest answer as you're likely to get today. I have my own fires to put out here in the Sunstrider's shadow."
Khadgar studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read the very runes etched into Leylin's soul. He saw the layers, the secrets, and the cold calculation, but he also saw the necessity of it.
Finally, he extended a hand. Leylin took it, and the handshake felt like the closing of a circle, an unspoken pact between two men who knew that the true war, the one against the darkness between worlds, had only just begun.
"Find her," Leylin said. "Together, you and Jaina can figure out how to make magic matter again."
Khadgar nodded once, a brief and decisive gesture, and turned back to his task of preparing his magical reagents for travel.
Kurdran Wildhammer was even easier to find. The sound of Sky'ree's occasional chirping and the dwarf's boisterous, gravelly voice acted as a beacon.
He was standing at the far edge of the field, the massive gryphon preening her feathers behind him with the serene authority of a predator. Kurdran was glaring at the northern horizon with the deep-seated skepticism of a Dwarf who didn't trust any land that wasn't under a mountain or at least five thousand feet in the air.
"Falstad held," Leylin said as he approached, his boots crunching on the frost-covered grass. Kurdran went perfectly still. He didn't drop his gear; he simply stopped existing for a heartbeat.
The name hung in the air, thick with the weight of years and the ghosts of lost brothers left behind in the red wastes.
"Falstad," Kurdran repeated. The tone was soft, almost a prayer, a stark contrast to his usual bluster.
"The Wildhammer clans in the Hinterlands are intact," Leylin continued, keeping his voice steady and factual. "Falstad has been holding Aerie Peak through everything. He consolidated the riders, kept the clans from fracturing when the news of the Second War's end turned sour. It hasn't been easy—the world is a darker place than when you left, Kurdran—but they've held. The Peak remains theirs."
Leylin watched as Kurdran's hand moved instinctively to Sky'ree's neck, his thick fingers burying themselves in her golden feathers for grounding.
"Your people are waiting, Kurdran. They've been without a High Thane for a long time. They have myths about you now. Your return changes the shape of their future."
Kurdran was silent for a long time. A look crossed his face that wasn't quite a smile, but it was the closest thing to peace Leylin had seen on him since he stepped through the portal.
"Aye," Kurdran rumbled, his voice thick. "That's Falstad for you. Too stubborn to let the world end without his permission. He always was a prickly bastard."
He turned to Leylin and offered a hand that felt like a rough-hewn stone. The handshake was solid and brief, a warrior's acknowledgement.
"Thank you," Kurdran said, his eyes meeting Leylin's with a rare sincerity. "For the supplies. For the door. For not letting us stay lost in the red dust. A Wildhammer never forgets a debt, lad. Remember that."
Leylin offered a single, respectful nod. He watched as Kurdran hoisted himself into the saddle with surprising agility. Sky'ree let out a piercing, triumphant shriek that echoed off the manor walls, a sound that seemed to announce their return to the skies of Azeroth.
Turalyon was the last to be found. He was standing by the road that led north into the Ghostlands—the path that would eventually lead into the heart of the plagued Lordaeron.
He was dressed in his full, battered plate, the Light shimmering faintly around him even in the grey morning. He looked like a man standing on the threshold of a different life, one he had been preparing for without even knowing it.
"The road south," Leylin said, coming to a halt beside the Paladin.
"The road south," Turalyon echoed, his voice distant. "It feels different. The air... it tastes of rot, Leylin. Even here."
"There is a Marshall—Garithos—working in the ruins of the capital," Leylin said, choosing his words with surgical care. He didn't want to bias Turalyon, but he needed the man to be cautious.
"He's trying to piece together the fragments the Scourge left behind. He gathered survivors, fortified what outposts he could. It's early work, and it's... complicated. The man is a soldier, not a diplomat."
Turalyon turned his head, his blue eyes searching Leylin's face with the intensity of a confessor. "You're not telling me to join him. You're warning me."
"I am telling you that his methods and yours may not align," Leylin said flatly. "I can tell you what I've seen from a distance, but you need to meet him yourself. You need to see the state of the Alliance on the ground before you commit your sword to his cause. Lordaeron isn't beyond saving Turalyon, but the shape of its salvation is still a question."
Turalyon considered this, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Do you trust this Marshall?"
"I think he is doing what he thinks is right in a world where every option is a tragedy," Leylin said. "That is the foundation of a partnership, but not necessarily of trust. He is a man driven by grief and a very narrow view of the world."
Turalyon nodded slowly, absorbing the information. He looked back at the road, his expression shifting from contemplation to a quiet, resolute acceptance. The Paladin was a man of action, and the period of waiting was finally over.
"Take the supplies," Leylin added. "The roads are not what they were. The dead do not sleep as they used to, and the shadows have grown longer since you were a boy in the Abbey."
Turalyon looked at Leylin, his expression unreadable for a moment. "You're staying here. In the shadows of your own making."
"My place is here for now," Leylin said. "This region is a wound that needs tending, and I have obligations to the Sunstrider crown that cannot be ignored. When the time comes for the next move, I'll find you. I know where Khadgar will be, and now, so do you."
Turalyon offered a hand, and for a moment, the two men stood in the gray light, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They were both builders in a world of wreckers, though their tools—Light and shadow were vastly different.
"If you need anything, Leylin... if the darkness here becomes too much, send word," Turalyon said.
"I'll know who to call," Leylin replied.
Turalyon turned and walked toward the head of the column. With a single, sharp command that rang out across the field, the Sons of Lothar began to move.
Leylin watched them go. The column moved with a heavy, purposeful cadence, a line of steel and grit winding into the misty woods of the north. Kurdran's gryphon circled once above them, a dark, majestic silhouette against the clouds, before banking sharply toward the Hinterlands. Khadgar had already vanished, likely teleporting toward the southern coast to begin his search for Jaina.
The field felt suddenly, jarringly empty. The morning continued on, indifferent to the departure of legends. The trampled grass and the smell of woodsmoke were the only signs that a piece of history had just passed through.
Leylin turned back toward the manor and saw Alleria standing near the entrance. She was leaning against a stone pillar, watching the dust settle on the road.
Her expression was composed, the mask of the Ranger-General firmly in place, but her eyes carried a peculiar, soft light. Since she had returned, she had carried herself with a quality of being 'present'—as if she were memorizing the very feel of the air against her skin, the scent of the pines, and the weight of gravity.
"Sylvanas will ask you about Silvermoon," Leylin said as he reached her, his voice softening. "And Kael'thas. Politically, your return is a seismic event. The Council will want a report. They'll want the legendary Alleria Windrunner back in her tower, leading the defense."
Alleria looked at him, her head tilting slightly. "I know. I can already hear the summons in my head."
"And?"
She was quiet for a long moment. She looked at the empty road where the column had disappeared, then she looked at the manor—at the smoke rising from the village chimneys and the familiar, weathered stone of her ancestral home.
"Later," she said softly, the word carrying a weight of defiance. "The politics can wait. Kael'thas can wait. The world went on without me for years; it can survive another few days of my absence."
She met Leylin's eyes, her gaze steady and remarkably uncomplicated. "I spent a years in a world that wasn't mine, Leylin. I lived under a sky that felt like a bruise, fighting a war that felt like it would never end. I would like, for a little while, to simply be here. With my sisters. With you." She paused, a rare moment of vulnerability flickering in her eyes. "Is that permitted? Or does the grand architect have another plan for me already?"
Leylin looked at her, seeing the exhaustion beneath the warrior's mask, and the simple, human need for a home. He reached out, his hand briefly brushing her shoulder.
"It is," Leylin said. "The world isn't going to end in the next forty-eight hours. And if it does, I'll make sure it waits until you've had your tea."
"Then that is what I will do," she said, her voice holding the finality of a decree.
They stood together in the fading grey light, the silence of the manor grounds wrapping around them like a shroud. Somewhere inside, Vereesa was likely bossing around the kitchen staff, and Sylvanas was probably watching them from a hidden window, satisfied with the tactical arrangement of her family.
The road towards Silvermoon was empty. The village below was humming with the quiet, mundane sounds of people starting their day—the clink of milk bottles, the distant barking of a dog, the smell of baking bread. Alleria took a deep, slow breath of the cold Azeroth air, and she didn't look like a woman who intended to go anywhere for a very long time.
Leylin didn't suggest she should. He simply stood with her, a quiet observer of the peace they had fought so hard to secure. They turned together and walked back toward the manor, leaving the world's problems to wait for the afternoon.
For now, the morning was enough. It was more than enough.