Chapter 55: Kaizi's Anger Flares Again

After reporting to the council, Rhonin arrived outside Krasus's private laboratory, his fingertips hovering over the heavy oak door, hesitating to knock.

He took a deep breath, suppressing the turbulent emotions churning in his chest. (I can no longer delay this.)

The sound of his knuckles rapping against the wooden door was exceptionally clear in the silent corridor.

There was no response from within.

Rhonin frowned and was about to knock again when Krasus's voice echoed directly in his mind:

"Come in, child."

The voice was gentle, yet carried an unquestionable power.

Rhonin pushed the door open, greeted by the familiar scent of herbs and sulfur. Krasus's laboratory always resembled an isolated island forgotten by time, completely detached from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Flickering candlelight illuminated the red dragon mage's slender figure—he was standing before a row of dragon scale specimens, his fingertips gently grazing a red dragon scale, his golden slit pupils shimmering slightly in the dim light.

"Mentor." Rhonin came to a halt, his voice hoarser than he had intended.

Krasus did not turn around, simply continuing to arrange the specimens. "You arrived later than I anticipated."

Rhonin was startled. (He knew I was coming all along?)

"I have applied to travel to Northrend." He offered his mentor an apology. "I am sorry for not reporting this to you in advance."

Krasus's hand paused for a fraction of a second. "The reason?" The red dragon mage finally turned around, his golden pupils fixing directly on Rhonin.

Rhonin had long since prepared his excuse: "Malygos's recent actions have become increasingly unpredictable, and the connection between the Northrend ley-line nodes and the Dragonblight—"

"The real reason," Krasus softly interrupted him, "is Vereesa Windrunner, is it not?"

Rhonin's fingertips unconsciously rubbed the scorch mark on his cuff—left behind when Antonidas was experimenting with nitroglycerin. The sound of the explosion in the council chamber still seemed to linger in his ears, but clearer still was the temperature of Vereesa's fingertips tugging at his sleeve in the marketplace of Theramore.

"Dalaran needs arcane gas, and Theramore needs elven artisans." Rhonin stared at the red scale on the floor. "And I am merely a mail carrier delivering a message."

Krasus fell silent for a moment, then suddenly sighed. "So you choose to run away? Just as you handle all matters of the heart?"

Rhonin jerked his head up, only to see not reproach in his mentor's eyes, but an expression bordering on pity. The magical hourglass in the corner of the room emitted a faint sound as grains of time sand trickled into the bottom.

"Northrend is growing dangerous," Krasus finally said, his voice deep. "Arthas—no, he must be called a Death Knight now—his forces are growing stronger."

"It will serve as a convenient way to monitor the Scourge's movements in Northrend as well." Rhonin forced a smile.

Krasus gave him a deep look, then suddenly reached out and pressed a hand onto his shoulder. A sort of warm magic flowed into his veins.

"Since your mind is made up," Krasus withdrew his hand and turned toward the bookshelf, "take this."

He retrieved a ruby brooch from a hidden compartment, the gemstone appearing to possess flowing fire within. "Crush it should you encounter mortal peril." The red dragon mage handed the brooch to Rhonin. "But remember—it can only be used once."

Rhonin accepted the brooch. The moment his fingertips touched the gem, a surge of warmth rushed into his heart. (This is dragonblood magic...)

"Thank you, mentor," he murmured, not daring to raise his head to meet Krasus's gaze.

The red dragon mage quietly watched him for a long while before softly speaking: "You have changed, Rhonin."

Rhonin's body stiffened.

"You are no longer that reckless young man." Krasus's voice carried an imperceptible sigh. "Go."

Rhonin bowed deeply, turned, and left.

The moment the door closed behind him, his back was soaked in cold sweat.

(He noticed.)

In the shadows of the corridor, Rhonin clutched the ruby brooch tightly. The doubts of these past years rushed over him like a tide—

Why was it that despite his great contributions, he was constantly marginalized in Dalaran?

Why did every promotion opportunity inexplicably slip away?

Why could even an outsider like Vereesa perceive his predicament, while Krasus—the mentor who claimed to value him most—had never truly fought for anything on his behalf?

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of Rhonin's mouth. (The answer was likely there all along; he had simply been unwilling to admit it.)

What Krasus required was an obedient tool, not a truly independent mage.

And now, he finally had the chance to break free from this invisible cage. He told himself inwardly: Vereesa, forget me!

***

Several days later, Vereesa stood in the center of the Elven Quarter plaza in Dalaran, her short golden hair swaying gently in the breeze. She held a parchment scroll in her hand—the "Elven Artisan Exchange Agreement" personally signed by Antonidas.

"Twelve hundred elven artisans, plus civilians choosing voluntary migration."

This number exceeded even her expectations.

Around the plaza, high elves gathered in small groups, conversing in low tones. Their gazes occasionally flickered toward Vereesa, hesitation and longing flashing in their eyes.

"Lady Windrunner," an elderly elven artisan stepped forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, "are you certain Theramore can supply sufficient arcane gas?"

Vereesa nodded, drawing a test tube from the leather pouch at her waist and gently swirling it. "Lady Jaina has promised that the mana addiction of every migrating elf will receive free treatment."

The test tube reflected a dazzling halo in the sunlight, instantly drawing a wave of suppressed gasps from the surrounding crowd.

"But His Highness Kael'thas..." The old artisan hesitated, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Vereesa's jaw tightened. She knew all too well what her compatriots were worrying about—the pride of the Quel'dorei, the dignity of the royal bloodline, and... the last remnants of dignity for those elven women who had already been reduced to playthings in Dalaran.

"Listen," she lowered her voice. "At midnight over the next few days, goblin airships will depart from near the Old Quarter clock tower. There will be no registration, no background checks." Her gaze swept across the crowd. "Those who wish to come must decide for themselves."

A stir rippled through the elves.

In a corner, a thinly clad elven maiden clutched the hem of her dress so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Frightening bruises still stained her wrists.

"I've had enough." The maiden suddenly raised her head, her voice trembling yet resolute. "I am going."

Her words acted like a spark, igniting dry tinder that had been suppressed for far too long.

"Count me in."

"Me too."

"Bring my sister..."

Watching the light reignite in her compatriots' eyes, Vereesa felt a gentle warmth bloom in her chest. (This is what the Quel'dorei ought to be.)

Suddenly—

Boom!

A deafening explosion echoed from afar, causing the ground beneath their feet to tremble slightly. Vereesa instinctively rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, only to see Dalaran residents merely sighing out of habit.

"Another experiment of Lord Antonidas, I suppose?"

"That makes the seventh time..."

Suddenly remembering something, Vereesa caught a passing apprentice by the sleeve: "Where is Mage Rhonin? I have something to give him."

The apprentice scratched his head. "You should look for Archmage Krasus. Head that way; his wizard tower is over there. Rhonin is his student."

Inquiring as she walked, Vereesa eventually located Krasus's magic tower. Upon entering, she found a mage registering visitors at the desk. Seeing Vereesa's ranger attire, he stood up to welcome her and asked how he could assist. Learning that she was inquiring about Rhonin's whereabouts, his expression turned peculiar. "Mage Rhonin is no longer in Dalaran. He has gone out to execute a secret mission."

Vereesa's fingers stiffened. (He left? Without even a goodbye?)

"Very well! Thank you." Vereesa's heart filled with disappointment. The distance between her and Rhonin was only growing wider.

Just as she was sinking into depression, a flash of red arcane brilliance suddenly illuminated the space, and Krasus stepped out of a portal, looking at Vereesa warmly. "You must be Miss Vereesa. We met some time ago."

Vereesa possessed a sharp memory and immediately recognized the mage before her as the one she had encountered during her adventures in Grim Batol. She happily curtsied to him: "Hello, Archmage. We traveled together in Grim Batol."

Krasus nodded. With a wave of his staff and a brief spatial shift, the two of them found themselves standing amidst a starry expanse. Krasus spoke leisurely: "Rhonin departed for Northrend not long ago to carry out a mission monitoring the blue dragons. It may take several years."

"Will it be dangerous?" Vereesa asked urgently, "And why did he leave in such a rush?" A trace of desolation crept into her tone.

Krasus let out a light chuckle. "He's a shrewd fellow with formidable personal strength. I trust he will return alive."

"Is it also to run away from me?" Vereesa felt a flicker of annoyance.

Krasus nodded slightly. "Perhaps he simply didn't know how to face this romance! The lad is in his thirties, yet he remains as clueless and ignorant about matters of the heart as a fledgling. Flight was his only option."

Vereesa took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. She drew a letter entrusted to her by Jaina from her robes: "Then please deliver this to Speaker Antonidas."

Krasus nodded, accepted the letter, and escorted Vereesa back out.

That night, the night sky of Dalaran was illuminated by sudden bursts of arcane fireworks.

On the topmost floor of the Violet Citadel, Antonidas's booming laughter echoed across the entire city—

***

The elderly mage laughed heartily for a long while before finally regaining his composure. He gazed once more at the test tube surrounded by frost, murmuring to himself: "Low-temperature stabilization! So that is it! Jaina, that girl, truly did not disappoint me! Ah, that red-haired mage also reminded me previously about controlling the temperature. Heh, I'm getting old, my memory is failing!"

With a wave of his hand, he levitated the test tube and carved a tiny fire-elemental array onto its outer layer of ice. Then, with another sweep of his staff, a gust of wind carried the test tube high into the upper air. Enhanced by the Eye of Kilrogg, Antonidas watched as the test tube successfully reached an altitude of several hundred meters, after which he gently used his magic to detonate the rune array on the ice surface. "Boom!" Another brilliant, yet far deadlier, firework erupted in the skies above Dalaran.

The old mage's ecstatic laughter startled a flock of night ravens into flight. In his view, so long as a magic apprentice possessed basic proficiency in wind and fire spells—or even merely knew Mage Hand—they could utilize this glycerin compound to exponentially increase their destructive output. Dalaran's military strength would nearly double as a result.

Meanwhile, in the various alleys of the Elven Quarter, an increasing number of figures were quietly packing their belongings, slinking toward the clock tower in the Old Quarter.

Bearing shattered pride and faint hope, they prepared to embark on an uncertain journey toward Theramore.

Vereesa stood atop the clock tower, the night wind fluttering her short hair. Gazing at the brightly lit expanse of Dalaran in the distance, she clenched her fists tightly.

By morning, Kael'thas Sunstrider stood by the central fountain in Dalaran's Elven Quarter, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.

The fountain had long since run dry, its basin choked with rotting fallen leaves. It mirrored his kingdom—the once-glorious Quel'Thalas, now reduced to little more than a pile of ruins.

"The thirty-seventh household," his guard reported in a low voice, laced with unease. "The Morningwalker estate was discovered empty this morning; even their ancestral silverware was taken."

Kael'thas's golden pupils constricted slightly. The Morningwalkers—an ancient noble lineage that had served the Sunstrider dynasty for generations—even they had chosen betrayal?

"Are they all going to betray me?" Kael'thas's tone betrayed his rising anger. "Have they forgotten who helped them find sanctuary in Dalaran?"

"Find Antonidas! I refuse to believe Dalaran will simply stand by and watch all the elves flee to Theramore," Kael'thas said through gritted teeth.

Outside Antonidas's laboratory, the hem of Kael'thas's robes was stained with the dust of the corridor. He had stood there for a full two hours until the old mage finally opened the door a crack, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Dalaran must forbid elven emigration!" The prince discarded all etiquette. "This is a desecration of Quel'dorei traditions!"

The old mage's eyebrows still bore traces of glycerin explosive residue: "And then what? Let your people continue mugging people for arcane crystals on the streets? Or force my mages to deal with brawls sparked by elven noblewomen out shopping every few days?"

A sickly flush spread across Kael'thas's pale cheeks: "We can rebuild—"

"Rebuild with arcane gas?" Antonidas let out a sarcastic snort. "Save it, boy. Your father is still alive yet hides away all day—why do you suppose that is?"

Regaining his composure, Kael'thas attempted a patient persuasion: "Archmage Antonidas, we high elves are an essential supplement to Dalaran's defensive forces, particularly in the face of the Undead Scourge. They need to be organized and incorporated into Dalaran's magical strength."

"And what of mana addiction?" Antonidas asked disdainfully. "We have already consumed far too many arcane crystals to alleviate your people's addiction. Now that an alternative like arcane gas exists, why cling to some noble tradition and refuse it?"

"But arcane gas is utter degradation!" Kael'thas argued. "If the Quel'dorei lose their dignity and pride, what remains?"

"You might not even have a tomorrow, yet you speak of dignity and pride," the old mage mocked. "Adapt or become obsolete. I simply cannot fathom what goes through you high elves' minds. Is a bit of flexibility truly that difficult?"

Kael'thas was left speechless.

"Why not ask your royal father to step out and take charge? He hides away constantly until everyone has nearly forgotten the Sun King still lives. That was his responsibility to begin with. You should simply focus on being a Kirin Tor councilor and prepare to repel the undead assault," Antonidas suggested.

"Do not mention him!" The prince's ambient mana suddenly surged out of control, causing every glass vessel in the laboratory to shatter simultaneously. "Without him, I can control everything."

The old mage narrowed his eyes, the tip of his staff beginning to gather arcane radiance: "Ignore elders at your own peril. Do as you please; despite living for thousands of millennia as a prince, you remain utterly green, boy."

With a flash of blue teleportation light, only Kael'thas remained in the corridor. His shadow was stretched long by the setting sun, resembling a snapped sword.

***

The airship platform in the night was packed with elves. Vereesa was tallying the head count when a blinding flash of fire forced her to take two steps back.

"Windrunner," Kael'thas emerged from the flames, his crown hanging crookedly upon his brow. "The royal family has been more than generous to your house."

Vereesa's fingertips unconsciously brushed the Theramore insignia at her waist: "I merely remain loyal to Quel'Thalas, Your Highness. And what have you done for your people? For so long, their living conditions in Dalaran have deteriorated drastically. Theramore at least treats them like human beings."

Her words acted like a switch. Among the crowd, an elven maiden in disheveled clothing suddenly burst into tears. More people began to recount their grievances in low voices:

"Yesterday, two more girls were found when it was already too late..."

"My son tried to steal a crystal and is now locked in the Violet Hold..."

"At least Theramore gives us land to farm and gas for treatment..."

Kael'thas's gaze swept over these once-noble faces, now marked only by hunger and desperation. He thought of his father, the Sun King, hiding away in his chamber refusing to see anyone—had he anticipated this outcome all along?

"What on earth... did I do wrong?" Kael'thas thought of his empty treasury, of the painstaking efforts he had made to secure privileges for the nobility. Yet when he found himself impoverished, they had abandoned him without a moment's hesitation.

"Ha, so it was all a lie—no wealth, no power, the crown was merely a hollow illusion." The night wind scattered the prince's murmurs. As the first airship lifted off, no one noticed that the figure who had once shone as bright as the sun was walking alone toward the darkest corner of Dalaran.