Once a jewel of the Night Elf Empire, Suramar stood as a testament to grace and arcane artistry. But now, a symphony of destruction unfolded as its elegant spires groaned and shattered with earth-shattering force. First, the delicate crowns of the towers fractured, followed by the agonizing collapse of their majestic bodies. The process seemed an agonizing crawl, yet utterly inevitable, as if a colossal, unseen hand was systematically crushing the city's proud skyline.
The devastation spread with terrifying speed, the remaining structures succumbing to the same brutal fate. The cacophony of destruction hammered against Thalyssra's eardrums, a deafening roar that threatened to shatter her sanity.
"It is finished... Suramar is no more," she whispered, her voice a broken echo of despair. As if to punctuate her lament, the crystalline towers of the Star Court imploded, showering the ground with glittering debris. The light within the evacuation portal flickered erratically, then died, plunging the courtyard into shadow.
The nobles, their escape route severed, scattered like panicked insects, their cries lost in the symphony of destruction. A massive spire hurtled directly towards Thalyssra. With lightning reflexes, Chief Teleporter Oculeth lunged, shielding her from certain death. But the barrage of falling masonry continued. In a final act of desperation, the teleporter crushed his teleportation orb, and in a blinding flash of white light, they vanished from the doomed city.
Those nobles and their retinues who possessed the arcane skill to teleport attempted their own desperate escapes. The rest, stripped of their privilege and power, could only await the inevitable embrace of oblivion.
East of the ravaged city, Galen observed Suramar's descent into ruin, a grim tableau painted by Archimonde's devastating magic.
"Tsk, tsk," Galen mused, a hint of detached amusement in his voice. "Archimonde certainly has a flair for the dramatic. That little tantrum must have drained quite a bit of mana, wouldn't you say? Rebuilding Suramar will be quite the investment. Perhaps I'll offer my... assistance... with the Eye of Aman'Thul as collateral, of course. Grand Magistrix, you wouldn't mind, would you?"
Only then did Galen deign to glance at the limp form of Elisande cradled in his arm. Her eyes were vacant, her life force extinguished.
"Uh..." A flicker of something akin to awkwardness crossed his features. "Perhaps I was a touch overzealous in my rescue attempt?"
He quickly dismissed the thought. "Though, to be fair, Frostmourne did pierce her heart. Her demise is hardly my fault, wouldn't you agree?"
With casual disregard, he plucked the Eye of Aman'Thul from her lifeless grasp. Then, with a subtle gesture, he extracted the lingering essence of Elisande's soul. A surge of brilliant Holy Light flooded her body, purging the icy tendrils of Frostmourne's deathly power.
"Elisande really ought to thank me," Galen muttered. "Without my intervention, she'd be rising as one of the Lich King's delightful minions. Only the Altar of Kings can truly contest Frostmourne's claim on a soul."
He gently placed Elisande's corpse upon Ancagalon's back. "Take her to the resurrection circle. We'll need her to keep these Nightborne in line later."
Having indulged in his destructive artistry, Archimonde finally stood, surveying the ravaged cityscape with an air of profound satisfaction. The northern districts were a wasteland of shattered stone and twisted metal. The southern civilian areas, being of less imposing height, had largely escaped his wrath.
"Such is the reward for defiance!" he boomed, his voice echoing across the ruins. Ten thousand years ago, Suramar had slipped through his fingers, a humiliating defiance that had festered in his pride. Today's display of power was a cathartic release, a petty vengeance exacted on stone and mortar.
His gaze swept over the disorganized undead ranks. "Tichondrius," he commanded, his tone dismissive, "the Lich King has served his purpose in opening the gate. He is now obsolete. Henceforth, the Scourge will answer to you, the dreadlords."
Arthas, returning with the newly resurrected Death Knight Malyndus, froze at Archimonde's words. A long period of rigorous mental discipline allowed him to mask the shock and incandescent fury that threatened to consume him.
The Lich King... useless?
Why? Why did I forsake everything, pledge my very being to the Lich King? Why is he now discarded like so much refuse? And I... I am now beholden to these vile dreadlords!
Just as Arthas's inner turmoil threatened to erupt, a chilling whisper slithered into his mind: "Patience, young death knight. I foresaw this turn of events. In my grand design, the Scourge's true ascendance will occur after the inferno of Archimonde's war against this world!"
Archimonde, oblivious to the undead's silent resentment, turned his gaze westward. "Tichondrius, I sense a potent energy signature in that direction. What lies there?"
"Master Archimonde," Tichondrius replied, his voice oily with deference, "that is the continent of Kalimdor. Ten millennia ago, after the Sundering, the night elves sought refuge around Mount Hyjal. That is likely their primary gathering place. It is said the dragons themselves gifted them a Tree of Life, granting them immortality."
"Immortality?" Archimonde roared with laughter, a sound devoid of mirth. "Intriguing! I had pondered how I might exact my vengeance if they had all perished. Since these resilient insects still crawl upon this world, then Kalimdor shall be our next conquest!"
Vengeance for ancient slights was one motivation; the immense power radiating from this so-called World Tree was another, far more enticing prospect. Archimonde, his ambition a burning inferno since the days of Argus, would not squander such an opportunity for ascendance. He immediately ordered Tichondrius to marshal their forces for a transoceanic voyage, their destination: Kalimdor, and the construction of a massive new portal.
Tichondrius swiftly conscripted the Scourge's elite, dispatching the volatile Arthas back to Lordaeron to continue the systematic destruction of the remaining human settlements. Simultaneously, he deployed a cadre of dreadlords, led by the insidious Varimathras, to Lordaeron, their task: to monitor the Scourge's progress and the movements of the unruly death knight.
When Galen returned to Netharel, the once-proud city was overflowing with refugees. Alongside the familiar violet-skinned night elves were throngs of Suramar Nightborne, their complexions now bearing a darker hue, a testament to the fel-tainted air. The oppressive aura of Archimonde's power still hung heavy in the east, a constant reminder of the cataclysm they had barely survived. Fortunately, Suramar's leadership had not been entirely extinguished. Thalyssra, the indomitable Chief Arcanist, and Oculeth, the resourceful Chief Teleporter, were among the six advisors who had once served Elisande, now tirelessly working to soothe the panicked populace.
The fates of Astromancer Etraeus and Senior Botanist Tel'arn remained unknown. They had been stationed within the Nighthold when the disaster struck and had not been seen since, likely victims of the treacherous advisor Valtrois. The loss of Chief Swordsman Malyndus had dealt a severe blow to the Nightborne's already depleted military forces. Of the original ten thousand Duskwatch, only the two thousand stationed in the southern districts and the Star Court had managed to escape. Now, under the command of Chief Spellblade Aluriel and Patrol Captain Gathos, they were desperately trying to locate and aid the wounded amidst the chaos.