Chapter 43: Mana Withdrawal

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Morning mist shrouded the harbor of Theramore, filtering the rising sunlight into a hazy veil of gold. Sylvanas stood upon the reef at the very end of the pier, the salt-laden sea wind lashing her cloak into a sharp, snapping rhythm.

She had not slept all night. Several days had passed since the arcane gas incident, and Sylvanas had come to welcome her people.

In the distance, the silhouette of the Kul Tiran merchant vessel Sea Swallow finally pierced the morning fog. The deep-blue Proudmoore sea-anchor emblem on its sails was soaked with mist, making it seem unusually heavy. Shadowy figures crowded the deck—elven refugees pressed along the rail, their pale skin drifting through the gray fog like wandering ghosts.

“Prepare to receive them!”

Workers of every race in the harbor sprang into motion. The wooden gangplank rang dully beneath a multitude of hooves. A goblin foreman shrieked orders as he swung the crane around, while several tauren laborers worked the enormous pulley.

The ship slowly came alongside. The instant the gangplank was lowered, a deathly silence fell over the pier.

The first elven girl to set foot on land suddenly collapsed to her knees. Her trembling fingers sank into the damp sand, her delicate knuckles blanching with the effort.

“Land…” Her voice was so hoarse it scarcely sounded elven. “We… we’ve finally reached land…”

Sand slipped between her fingers, mingling with the tears running down her face. Those hands—hands that should have drawn exquisite melodies from the harp in Silvermoon—were now covered in tiny wounds and scorch marks.

Sylvanas walked silently toward her. Silver greaves came to a halt within the girl’s blurred field of vision.

“Stand, child of House Morningstar.”

The girl jerked her head up. Disbelief appeared across her sand-streaked face.

“Ranger-General?”

Sylvanas extended a hand. As she pulled the frail girl upright, she saw that half of her face had been horribly disfigured.

“There are seventeen wounded like her aboard the ship,” Vereesa Windrunner said from behind her. “The Scourge plague… some wounds cannot be healed with magic. Fortunately, the Horde shamans knew how to cleanse them. That’s the only reason they survived.”

The three spellcasters Delren had once borrowed from Thrall had also returned to Kalimdor aboard the ship. Jaina had arranged for Horde representatives to receive them, and had paid them handsomely.

Sylvanas had not expected to find her youngest sister here. The two sisters exchanged the stories in their hearts and rejoiced that they had survived the destruction of Quel’Thalas. Before the fall of Quel’Thalas, Sylvanas had sent Vereesa to seek aid from the elven prince in Dalaran. But on the way, she had been blocked by undead forces. After overcoming countless obstacles, Vereesa finally reached Dalaran—only to learn that Sylvanas had already left and settled in Theramore. Once she received the news, Vereesa sailed to Theramore with the rangers to find her sister.

More and more elves descended the gangplank. They staggered like young fawns that had only just learned to walk. The long voyage had drained the spirits of these people, accustomed as they were to life on land. Some fell to their knees and kissed the earth. Others clutched the ruined bundles in their arms—the last scraps of their former lives salvaged from Silvermoon: a scorched book of poetry, half of a family portrait, a child’s toy stained with blood…

“It’s… so noisy.”

An elderly elf covered his ears. The roar of the harbor cranes, the cries of goblin merchants, the heavy thud of tauren hooves—all of it struck at the nerves of elves accustomed to the silence of Eversong Forest like blows from a blunt instrument.

Sylvanas looked into the frightened eyes of her people and suddenly realized a cruel truth:

These were not soldiers.

They were seamstresses who had happened to be hiding in cellars on the day Silvermoon fell, gardeners who had taken refuge in greenhouses, poets who had hidden in wine cellars. Ordinary people who had possessed no strength with which to fight.

“But it is safe here,” she heard herself say.

The sea wind suddenly strengthened, scattering the morning mist. Sunlight poured down, illuminating the broken elves on the pier—and the city rising behind Sylvanas. Humans, dwarves, and even a handful of friendly trolls were laying the foundations of the new city walls.

For one fleeting moment, she thought she saw the golden canopy of Eversong Forest.

But there were no trees here.

Only steel, stone, and the possibility of survival.

The “utility woman,” Jaina Proudmoore, stood upon a raised platform at the pier, the sea wind lifting her long golden hair. In her hands she held a roll of parchment densely covered with Theramore’s labor requirements. Behind her, municipal officials were busy assembling a temporary registration station—several oak tables pushed together and covered with dark-blue cloth embroidered with gold thread, arranged to lend the proceedings as much dignity as possible.

“All adult elves, form a line here for registration!”

Her voice was amplified by magic, carrying clearly to every elf’s ears. The refugees gathered hesitantly, like a herd of startled deer. Many were still wrapped in the cloaks they had worn while fleeing, the fabric caked with dried blood and scorch marks.

Jaina’s eyes swept across the crowd, quickly assessing them. Most were elderly, women, and children. Few were young men in their prime. She noticed an elderly elven woman clutching a bundle tightly to her chest. Through a gap in the cloth, Jaina could see the scorched body of a lute.

“Theramore is expanding,” Jaina said, unfolding the parchment. Her voice was calm and firm. “Those willing to farm may be assigned land in the newly cultivated districts to the south.”

A stir passed through the crowd.

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“Farm?” An elven man wearing a monocle frowned. “I was a copyist in the Silvermoon library!”

Jaina was prepared for that. “The municipal archives are being expanded and require clerks. You may apply there.”

The man’s expression shifted from anger to astonishment.

“Each household willing to farm will receive twenty acres,” she continued. “There will be no rent or taxes for the first three years, and the city government will provide seeds and farming tools.”

The elves exchanged uncertain glances. Farming? In Quel’Thalas, the land was tilled by magical constructs, while the nobility merely pruned roses in their gardens.

A frail elven girl timidly raised her hand. “I… I know how to make elvencloth…”

Her voice was soft as a mosquito’s hum, but Jaina caught it at once.

“The textile mill is in urgent need of skilled artisans.” Jaina hurried down from the platform and approached the girl. “During the probationary period, the weekly wage will be ten silver coins, and lodging will be provided.”

Her words fell into the still waters like a stone. Several more elves raised their hands and said they could do the same.

“I—I’m willing!” Tears shimmered in the girl’s eyes.

Jaina noticed the scars on her face, but said nothing.

Sylvanas stood at the edge of the crowd, watching coldly. She saw how precisely Jaina soothed each elf—promising scholars positions in the archives, hinting to musicians that the opera house would need them, and even telling the old woman clutching the lute, “Our city orchestra needs teachers of traditional arts.”

What consummate political skill.

Yet Sylvanas had to admit it: Jaina was giving her people a choice.

Meanwhile, in Dalaran, Kael’thas was busy rebuilding his court with magical crystals.

“There are no arcane artisans,” Vereesa murmured, giving voice to her thoughts. “Dalaran took them all.”

Sylvanas sneered. The young and vigorous elves skilled in enchantment and runeforging were probably enjoying elven wine in the Violet Citadel, pretending that the tragedy of Silvermoon had been nothing more than a nightmare.

“What of the nobles?” she asked.

The corner of Vereesa’s mouth twisted. “All in Dalaran. I hear they’ve rebuilt the ‘Council of Silvermoon’ and spend all day arguing over who should sit to Prince Kael’thas’s left or right.”

A municipal official came trotting over. “Ranger-General, Lady Jaina asks to see you.”

In front of the temporary registration station, Jaina was speaking with several young elves. They appeared to be less than a hundred years old—children by elven standards.

“Do you know how to train hawkstriders?” she asked, pointing to an entry on the document. “Theramore could try introducing the animals here.”

The boys’ eyes lit up. Training birds was a traditional game among the children of Eversong Forest.

Sylvanas suddenly understood Jaina’s wisdom.

She was not offering charity. She genuinely needed these elves to help give the city the strength to grow.

A measured sound of marching footsteps rose in the distance.

Sylvanas looked up and saw a long column of rangers approaching. Their light armor still bore the marks of battle: leather edges torn by undead claws, breastplates blackened by fel fire, and bloodstains that could never be completely washed away. Yet their steps remained steady and their backs straight, as if they were still the elite force beneath the walls of Silvermoon that had once made the trolls tremble at their name.

“The ranger corps reports for duty,” said the ranger at their head, her voice hoarse but strong.

Sylvanas’s gaze passed over the familiar faces one by one—

—Halduron Brightwing, his left eye covered by a bloodstained strip of cloth;

—Venn’a Dawnstrider, most of the golden hair she had once worn with pride burned away;

—Lirath Windrunner, her youngest brother, an undead bite wound still visible on his neck.

“You could have remained in Dalaran,” she said softly. “Kael’thas is reorganizing a new Council of Silvermoon.”

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Halduron gave a mocking laugh. “To serve as a ceremonial guard for those noble lords?”

“We follow the Windrunners, not the Sunstriders.” Venn’a abruptly tore away her scorched braid, letting her short hair fall loose in the wind.

Lirath stepped before his sister. His young face held a resolve far beyond his years.

“Silvermoon has fallen, but the ranger’s oath has not.”

Sylvanas’s hand trembled faintly.

Jaina’s voice came at the right moment from behind them. “The Theramore guard is expanding. The city is growing and urgently needs experienced veterans.”

She wore ordinary clothes, her golden hair tied carelessly at the back of her head, as though she had hurried over in the midst of something else. But there was no less sharpness in her blue eyes.

“If you are willing, you may join as a complete unit and retain your existing organization.”

The rangers exchanged glances. To become the guards of a human city? Such a thing would once have been unthinkable to their proud hearts.

“Conditions?” Sylvanas asked bluntly.

Jaina met her gaze. “The rangers can be responsible for security in the elven district, especially—”

“Especially during the early stages,” Jaina continued, “when the people will need familiar faces. When a child wakes in terror during the night, seeing the rangers they once knew on patrol will comfort them far more than seeing human soldiers.”

Sunlight passed through Sylvanas’s golden hair, scattering flecks of light across her face. She remembered the disfigured elven girl on the pier. She remembered the scorched lute in the old woman’s arms.

“We accept,” she said at last. “But the rangers answer only to my command.”

The corners of Jaina’s mouth lifted slightly. “No problem. We are all protecting this home called Theramore.”

As she turned to leave, Lirath suddenly asked in a low voice, “Sister, are we really going to serve as guards for humans?”

“No.” Sylvanas adjusted the tension of her bowstring. “We are guarding our new homeland.”

Sylvanas had thought everything was beautiful: reuniting with her sister and brother, reuniting with her comrades, reuniting with her people upon this land filled with hope. A brand-new life lay ahead.

But three elves bound in iron chains at the rear of the ranger column shattered that dream.

The three elves were carried on stretchers, their wrists and bodies locked in specially made arcane-suppression restraints. All traces of their former elegance had vanished.

Elorath Dawnwing, the ranger corps’ finest arcane marksman, was tearing at his sleeve with his teeth. The silk shrieked as his fangs ripped through it, while saliva dripped from his chin onto the exquisite silver embroidery.

Liandria Brightwing, the noblewoman renowned throughout Silvermoon for her impeccable bearing, was repeatedly striking her head against the stretcher. Her carefully tended golden hair was caked with dirt, and the moonstone hairpin passed down through her family hung crookedly among the strands, giving off a faint chime with every impact.

Most horrifying of all was the old scholar Salither. This former court tutor, who had once rebuked Prince Kael’thas in elegant archaic speech, now breathed like a beast, rasping harshly in his throat. The hem of his robe had been torn into strips, exposing calves corded with bulging veins.

“It began on the third day of the voyage,” said the ranger captain hoarsely. “First their fingers began to tremble, and then…”

Her dry voice seemed reluctant to remember what had happened next.

“They became like different people. There was no reason left in them, only the instincts of beasts.”

Elorath suddenly raised his head. His clouded violet eyes met Sylvanas’s.

For one instant, a spark of clarity returned to them.

“General?” His voice sounded as though it had been worn raw by sandpaper. “Please… kill…”

Before he could finish, the muscles of his face suddenly contorted, and his entire body began to convulse violently. The chains clattered as his spine arched into an impossible curve, like a bow pulled until it broke.

“What in the world happened?” Sylvanas stood in a daze. How could an elegant elf become a raving beast? What was it that she did not know?

In a haze, she remembered the man’s words: “It is a medicine, specifically intended to treat a certain illness among your people.”

At the thought, she was seized by an urgent need to find that man.

“Sister, where are you going?” Vereesa called, hurrying after her.

“To find the medicine.” Sylvanas broke into a run toward the city, drawing upon the Windrunner gift for speed, covering several yards with every stride.

Lirath wanted to follow, but the ranger corps still needed him to organize them. He could only stamp his foot in frustration before turning back to join the rangers.