William King - Illidan

He had suspected it might have something to do with the groups of sorcerers who had left the temple in the previous days. Rumors had flown thick and fast. It had all seemed distant, though. For the demon hunters, there had only been the endless rounds of training, right up until the moment the horns had sounded, and Varedis had told them to assemble in the central courtyard with their weapons prepared.

He had been surprised that there were few signs of active conflict when they emerged from the portals. The army they had seen gathering over the previous few days was there, and it had fought. It had obviously suffered a number of casualties, too.

The spell opening the gateway had not distinguished between those who had fought for Illidan and those who had fought for his enemies. It had sucked the souls out of them regardless of whose side they had been on. Perhaps it would have sucked the life out of him if he had been wounded. He had most likely stumbled on the reason why he and his comrades had been deployed last. It was clear that whatever their purpose was, it had nothing to do with the battle here. Their lives were being preserved for something else.

Looking at the yawning portal, flickering and shimmering ahead of him, he knew what that purpose was. Through the gateway, as it swirled, he caught the psychic traces of fel energy and demons. It was like standing some distance from a kitchen on a windy day and catching the scent of food cooking within it. The stench of demon buffeted his nostrils. When he licked his lips, he tasted a faint residue of fel magic. The gate was the mightiest spellwork he had ever seen. His new senses let him appreciate it as he never could have before.

The part of him that had wandered the woods of Ashenvale hated it. He knew his family and neighbors would have, too. The part that had devoured demons and followed Illidan appreciated it for what it was.

He touched the amulet he had made for Khariel and checked his rune-worked weapons. He was as ready now as he was ever going to be.

Soon. Soon, whispered the voice within him that was not his own.

Illidan turned Maiev’s armored form over with the tip of his hoof. She was skilled and powerful, of that there was no doubt. Looking at the carnage she had wrought among his forces, he had almost been tempted to take a hand in the fight himself. He had feared that she might break free and escape once more into the tortured landscape of Shadowmoon Valley.

He was glad now he had decided to deploy an entire army to watch over the gate. It had proved necessary before the way was opened.

She had almost succeeded in distracting him at the crucial moment of the ritual, when he had needed all his concentration to finish the weaving of energies and bring the construction to fruition.

Almost.

No matter. Maiev was his prisoner now and she would never trouble him again. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. It was a good omen, he thought. A portent of how this day would go. Whatever powers still watched over these ancient worlds looked favorably on his actions.

Do not be too confident, he told himself. We make order from chaos by the force of our wills. It is foolish to read anything more into the patterns random chance throws up. He took one last, lingering glance at Maiev and promised himself that she would suffer as he had. Ten thousand years of pain would not be too many for her to endure. She would not live for another ten millennia, so he would need to find a way to concentrate all that agony into a much shorter span. There would be time enough to consider such things later.

The portal shimmered and pulsed. Raising his hands wide, he spoke the final words of the great spell. The knots of energy tied themselves. The structure stabilized. The shimmering curtain parted, and the way to Nathreza, the homeworld of the dreadlords, was clear. A dagger of pure force sliced reality around the gate. Through it washed a torrent of fel energy. His tattoos channeled and absorbed it, filling him with ever greater power.

His satisfaction with this achievement exceeded even what he felt with Maiev’s capture. He had created a gate to a world farther away than any other reached from the surface of Outland. Gul’dan himself would have struggled to invoke it and contain its energies. This portal was the greatest feat of sorcery worked in Outland since its catastrophic creation.

An eerie green light bathed the upturned faces of his followers, making them look even more monstrous than usual. They were a weapon he had spent a long time forging. He wondered whether they would survive the first battle or shatter like a flawed blade created by a neophyte smith. They had been gifted with power, trained by masters. They had been selected from the most driven individuals with the greatest thirst for vengeance against the Burning Legion. They had survived when most others would have died.

That itself meant nothing. They could still perish in the next few hours. He could still die. His whole life could be turned into an empty cosmic joke by the whims of chance.

It was too late to worry about such things now. He would need to trust that his calculations were correct and that his schemes would work out as he had planned them.

He raised his hand into the air, flexed his wings, and soared above his troops. All gazes went from the gateway to him, just as he intended. He set himself down by the open portal, felt the tingle of magic around him, caught the scent of alien air.

He gestured for his demon hunters to follow, and then he swooped through the portal to confront his onrushing destiny.

Vandel bounded through the gateway, following Illidan. He raced to the brow of the ridge and crouched down, doing his best to keep out of sight. In the distance he sensed demons, thousands upon thousands of them.

Huge islands of rock drifted like clouds across the sky of this alien world. Green light burned from every boulder and blazed from the tiny orbiting sun. Beneath him, the ridge fell away to a cratered plain over which obelisks of reflective obsidian hovered. The portal back to Outland gaped, a hole in the fabric of reality, linking two worlds.

Illidan’s shadow fell upon him. The Betrayer stood on the crest of the hill, claws extended, every muscle in his tattoo-covered body tight with tension. Massive batwings cloaked his shoulders. Bestial horns curved from the sides of his head. A circlet of runecloth hid his eye sockets. A savage smile of anticipation curled his thin lips, revealing his bright fangs. He, too, sensed the approaching demons.

Part of Vandel tittered with mad mirth. He forced the demonic presence down, knowing that he could not hold it there for long. He was going to need its strength to survive the coming battle.

Illidan’s leathery wings creaked as he shifted his weight. His hooves struck sparks against the rocks as he moved.

Nearby, scores of Illidari demon hunters waited in the shadows, hidden by potent magic. Vandel prayed to whatever gods might be listening that those spells were strong enough. Out there in the darkness, enemies of terrible power waited.

Within the next few hours, they would find out whether the gifts the Betrayer had lavished on them were enough to preserve their lives. They would learn whether their months of harsh training and terrible sacrifices had paid off.

And still, something in Vandel yearned to serve the forces of the Dark Titan, Sargeras, and he feared it was not just the part that was transformed by his demon’s touch. A fragment of his elven soul responded to the nihilistic glory of the Burning Legion just as strongly as any infernal would.

Illidan’s nostrils flared as if he scented Vandel’s weakness. A growl sounded deep in his throat.