White-hot lightning streaked across the sky, if one could even call this a sky. It did little to illuminate anything, for the illumination in the Netherstorm came from the nether itself. There were no suns, no moons, just the wild and chaotic ribbons of magic floating through the heavens.

Zandrathis Sheynathren could feel them. But this was a strange, foreign magic to her.

The Sunwell’s energy was warm, inviting, and intoxicating. Like a finely-aged cognac. These nether magics were spiraling through oblivion in random, uncontrolled and unpredictable patterns. It did not ask to be used. It needed to be wrested from the nether. It needed to be conquered and subdued.

But not the Sunwell.

She missed it so much she ached.

Zandrathis couldn’t say what it was that separated her from her comrades. They were able to drink in these energies and feel sated, at least for a time. They could wield the magic from the nether or the corrupted naaru crystals and they were happy. But every time Zandrathis used them, it only reminded her further of what she had left behind. It only led her to one inescapable, horrific truth.

They had nowhere to go.

Oh, how Zandrathis had traveled the world of Azeroth. She had performed magic adequately, bathing in the energy of the Sunwell, using it as she pleased, never thinking it could ever go away. It was like imagining a desert without sand, a sea without water. She could tap into the Sunwell from every corner of the world. It was everywhere, and in everything.

But this was not all her travels had taught her.

Azeroth was now a world of politics. The elves of Silvermoon were fair diplomats, but they were always sorcerers, before anything else. Every elven child over twenty years knew how to conjure at least a passable light show for their friends. Their monarchs were among the most powerful wizards in all of the East. But none of that mattered.

Azeroth wasn’t a world of magic or even might, anymore. It was a world of politics. And politicking and face-saving had turned their once proud kingdom into a ragtag band of wayward refugees. What kind of world would allow for one ignorant human to hold an army of elves – led by the crown prince of Quel’Thalas – in prison awaiting execution without trial? Garithos had shattered the Alliance’s bonds of friendship with the high elves, and his men had only been too eager to see his vision brought to life.

The high elves had missed their window. Zandrathis understood that, even if her compatriots were blind to it. They had left Kalimdor to the night elves, and the eastern lands had been conquered by the humans as the high elves locked themselves behind their runestones and made for themselves an enchanting illusion.

The truth of the matter was that in the end, the high elves were at the mercy of their neighbours.

And so they had abandoned the world that had abandoned them. They had remade themselves blood elves and followed their prince into this strange new world. Outland was a realm of chaos, one that they could make a claim to. Under Illidan Stormrage’s rule, the blood elves had laid siege to the demon Magtheridon’s fortress, and defeated the mighty Pit Lord. When he fell, Outland had been ripe for the taking, and they had so taken it.

Zandrathis stared out into the Twisting Nether. The land was dead and broken. The cliff she stood on dropped off into nothing. Fragments of stone drifted only a few feet from the edge. She inadvertently kicked a stone as she took a step forward. It bounced on the violet, cracked ground and out into the Nether, where it spun away from her. Not down, just away. If there even was such a thing as up and down where that stone was going.

Her foot slipped from her shoe, and the stone felt cold beneath it.

This was their promise land. This dead, detached world. Not even a world so much as a shadow, a fragment. A severed limb, still twitching.

Her throat felt dry, and her tongue heavy, but she did not cry.

Would you call it falling if you never land? Perhaps that’s all flying really is.

“Zandrathis…”

Her voice was undulating, coiled, refined yet bestial. Zandrathis would have heard footsteps approaching, had she had feet.

She was remarkably beautiful. Her blue-grey face was smooth and angular, her eyes a dark, brilliant pink, and her lips a full purple. Her torso was fit and sleek, and it led seamlessly into a snake-like tail, covered in pale blue scales. She wore nothing but golden armour about her shoulders, a shining brass bustier, and a translucent silk skirt about her waist. She held her six arms folded before her, and the snakes that usually writhed about her head where an elf’s hair were spread out behind her, and were very still.

Lady Vashj slithered up beside her, and stared into the Nether with her.

Zandrathis’s face grew hot. “I… I wasn’t going to…”

“It’s all right, child,” said Vashj with a nod, still not meeting her gaze. “I understand.”

“You do?”

Vashj turned, her burning pink eyes sincere and compassionate. “I do. We high-borne were blasted to the bottom of the ocean. We had losses too, my pet. Many of our friends died, and over the millennia we became less and less of what we were. There were many times when I considered what you consider now. Many times when I mourned friends who took one more step than I; when I envied their conviction.”

“I just…” Zandrathis shook her head. “They’re all so satisfied. They all seem so… content.” She sighed. “I so miss my Well.”

“And I mine.”

Of course. Vashj, too, had had a Well once. To tap into its energies would made Zandrathis’ beloved Sunwell no more than a mere trinket. To tap into its energies would have overwhelmed Zandrathis beyond imagining. To tap into its energies would likely have killed her.

That well, the Well of Eternity, was Vashj’s well. Its destruction had turned her from night elf to naga, and she hadn’t felt its powers for ten millennia. Zandrathis felt ashamed that her grief had pushed her to the edge, when Vashj had survived for so much longer than she. But Zandrathis couldn’t help it, and found it hard to care.

“The only answer, Zandrathis, is toil.” Vashj took a deep breath, straightening up. “We distract ourselves with tasks and duties. For some it is enough. For others…” Her head sank.

Her work. Zandrathis was among the foremost of Kael’s engineers, having been trained by goblins years ago. Her work was important, and her duties demanded her attention. But much of the time, she found herself distracted by the things she didn’t have.

“I have a new task for you,” said the Lady Vashj. “One no other can do. It will be fraught with perils, but you shall not be asked to complete it alone.”

Zandrathis closed her eyes, and withdrew her foot. She searched the ground behind with her toes her until she felt the shoe. She dragged it forward, slipped her foot back into it.

Zandrathis turned away from the Twisting Nether. Vashj turned with her, and put one of her hands on Zandrathis’ shoulder.

The blood elf nodded. “I live for the glory of the Sin’dorei,” she whispered mechanically. Vashj began slithering back towards the Keep. Zandrathis fell into stride beside her. “Will this ever get easier?”

“In some respects, yes,” said Vashj. “In others: no. But I’m afraid you will never forget the fruits of your Well.” Vashj stopped, and turned. She put her hands on Zandrathis. One pair on her shoulders, another on her arms and another cupped her face. Her scales were gentle against Zandrathis’ skin. She held her as one holds their child, moments before revealing a truth of the world they seldom with to.

“But I ask you, Zandrathis Sheynathren… would you ever want to?”

If Evindath Sunchaser had closed his eyes, he may well have convinced himself that he was back in Quel’Thalas. The light of the sun; light of the stars twinkling in the farthest reaches of the Twisting Nether – it didn’t matter. Both looked the same when filtered through the golden leaves of an eversong beech.

He closed the book he was reading, and leaned his back against the butter-coloured trunk. He closed his eyes. He smelled the sweet scent of their blossoms, saw the shadows of the leaves dancing across his eyelids. What a stirring illusion this was.

But it was an illusion nonetheless, Evindath knew. It was inescapable.

He allowed himself his half-smile anyway, and let out a contented sigh before waking himself and opening his book again.

Evindath started at the sight of a chemist standing in the tall arch leading into the cloister. He was fidgeting nervously, and his face brightened immediately at the sight of Evindath awake.

“Hail, Sunchaser,” the chemist called. “I have an urgent message from Freywinn. He seeks your immediate attention.”

Before Evindath could reply, the chemist departed. Evindath raised an eyebrow.

Freywinn was the High Botanist, as close to a leader as the Botanica possessed. He led the research, he spearheaded all the newest operations, and he delegated duties to the other Sunseeker elves, of which Evindath was a member. The warrior Sarannis had recently been instated to oversee security in the Botanica but their paths rarely crossed. Sarannis’ Bloodwarder elves kept out of the Sunseekers’ way.

Evindath was a talented sorcerer, no one questioned that. But his work as an herbalist had always come first. He had been forced to set that aside during the war with the Scourge, and had been chosen by Kael to pursue the path of the blood mage. They arrived in Outland before his training was complete, however, and the fantastical array of plants and herbs in this strange new world fascinated Evindath so much that he returned to his first love.

Of course, Evindath’s enthusiasm paled in comparison to Freywinn. The High Botanist had been overwhelmed with the resources offered by the netherships of the enigmatic naaru. The Botanica had afforded him and his department a wealth of new opportunities. They had selectively bred plants, created new strains, and harvested new and intriguing powers from them. They had also grown samples of plants harvested from Azeroth, which allowed for the cloister full of trees from Eversong Forest.

Freywinn was meticulous but obsessive, and this had caused some concern amongst Evindath and his colleagues. In Quel’Thalas, he had been the closest thing the high elves had to a druid. He had used his knowledge of botany to manipulate nature in the same basic manner of the Cenarion druids. Since arriving in Outland and pursuing his research there, however, Freywinn’s powers had grown considerably.

They had voiced their concern to Sarannis, and she had offhandedly promised to convey their sentiments to her commanders in the Eye, who could relay them to Kael’thas himself. In the meantime, Freywinn’s tendencies were well within acceptable limits. For how long, Evindath could not say.

The Botanica was very open-concept, architecturally. There were sections and tiers, but the laboratories were by and large undivided by walls or doors. Frewyinn had found a small area across a bridge and designated it his personal laboratory. The entrance was guarded by a pair of Bloodwarders but even from far away, Evindath could see the lab.

Freywinn did not appear to be there, and Evindath thought that perhaps he should look elsewhere or return later. There was nothing there but Freywinn’s equipment, and a sapling tree, rooted, apparently into the very floor. Evindath was about to leave when the tree suddenly turned, trundled over to an alchemical apparatus, and began picking up vials with its arm-like branches. Set in its trunk was, in fact, a face with two glowing eyes.

It was no tree, it was a treant – a minor tree spirit, a servant of the greater ancients. They were most famously commanded by the druids of the Moonglade. Had Freywinn conjured for himself a servant?

Intrigued, Evindath approached the laboratory again, and the sight corrected him. The treant’s bark began to crack and ripple, the branches sprouting from the treant’s head began to sink into the tree. The face shrank. The bark became an earth-coloured robe, the branches became small twigs sticking out of a leafy mantle, and the face became that of a blood elf. The treant had transformed into Freywinn.

As Evindath approached them, the Bloodwarders crossed their spears in front of him, but a moment later, Freywinn came up along the bridge. “It’s all right, let him through.”

The Bloodwarders obeyed in unison and Evindath admitted himself.

Freywinn smiled, and held open his arms. “Come, my friend, I have excellent news.” They crossed the bridge to his small study.

“I saw your transformation,” said Evindath. “Very impressive.”

“Mmm,” Freywinn nodded, distracted. He opened a thick book with stiff, crackling pages, spattered with stains and smudges. The book looked like it had gotten wet and been dried. He began flipping through the pages. “The druidic powers of healing and regrowth channel more effectively through a plant than an animal. Several Cenarion druids have perfected the process of transforming into a treant to increase the output of their regenerative magics.”

“Fascinating,” said Evindath.

“Hm?” Freywinn looked up from the book for a moment, and nodded before returning his attention to the book. “Oh yes, an ingenious strategy, I admit. One I would have put past them. The druids are normally so… domesticated. I have followed their example and created a process of my own, though it lacks their clarity. Nevertheless, I believe that in time I shall bring myself to their level. It’s a shame there are no druids here in Outland.” He snapped the book shut, thinking to himself. “I could likely interrogate one into divulging some key details I may be overlooking. Ah, of course!” he set the book down and knelt beside a workbench, pulling out a crate of journals, leather-bound books, and a number of loose papers.

“I’m afraid I have no time but to get right to business,” Freywinn apologized. “The upper echelon of the Sunfury elves has concocted a very important mission, and Kael’thas has surveyed the breadth of our forces and selected three elves to aid him. Lady Capernian singled you out specifically. She was pleased with your interest in becoming one of the blood magi.”

“Oh,” Evindath started. “I’m being pulled from my assignment here?”

Freywinn allowed himself a grunt of triumph as he pulled a loose piece of parchment from the crate and stood. “I’m afraid so, however your work here will not be in vain. Here,” he handed Evindath the parchment. He took it and looked it over.

There was a sketch of a plant, with a tall, leafless stalk, and a translucent hood on its cap. From the sketch it was difficult to tell, but there appeared to be a small tongue of flame within the hood. Beside the sketch was written a list of physical attributes.

“It’s called a flame cap,” Freywinn explained, then added with a shrug, “or at least, that’s the closest translation to the draenei term I can deduce.” He grinned, his voice gaining momentum. “My researchers had a few samples taken from the Zangarmarsh, the species appears to have slipped into rarity since the cataclysm. It has some quite exciting properties.”

Evindath handed him back the parchment. “Such as…?”

“Most notably, it amplifies the output of all fire-based magic!” Freywinn looked as though he was stifling a churlish giggle. He calmed himself down and continued. “I’ve talked it over with Telonicus, and we may have found a way to use the flame cap in your mission. Your expertise in properly handling a variety of plants, including some quite volatile species, had Kael and his advisors backing Capernian’s recommendation immediately.”

Evindath blushed. “This is quite the honour.”

“So you’ll agree, then?” Freywinn clapped Evindath on the shoulder.

Evindath nodded. “Of course. I live to serve the glory of the Sin’dorei.”

High Botanist Freywinn gave a lofty bow to the Lady Vashj.

Lady Vashj opened her six hands and made a flowery curtsey to the High Botanist Freywinn.

Zandrathis Sheynathren and Evindath Sunchaser glared at each other from behind their masters’ shoulders.

Vashj and Freywinn turned, and led their charges down the winding hill in the wilds of the Netherstorm.

“I’m afraid the Botanica has… urbanized me,” Freywinn confessed. “I was unenthused to find this the venue of our meeting.”

“It couldn’t be helped, I assure you,” said Vashj serenely. “The blood elves have been tested and proven worthy many times, but we cannot be too cautious about what prying ears may hear.”

Vashj and Freywinn continued their conversation, but Evindath ignored it and leaned in to Zandrathis.

“I wouldn’t have been so eager to accept had your name come up,” he hissed through his teeth to her.

Zandrathis sighed, shaking her head. “Behave yourself. This is an excellent opportunity for both of us. If I can muster up the wherewithal to remain professional, I’m sure it’s not beyond you.”

“I won’t have any trouble when other eyes are about, but I suggest you watch your back on those long hauls together alone.”

“You do know, Evindath, that threats are just as incriminating even when they’re empty?” Zandrathis whispered. Before he could reply, she turned away. “By the Light, you’re so dramatic.”

Evindath raised himself upright, and put a hand to his beard in mock consideration. “Hmm... I wonder who you’ve inundated yourself with to get this assignment. I know Telonicus regards you highly, and had heard rumours that you were working closely with Lothander. Word has it Vashj has indulged stranger predelictions in her time.”

“You’re so pathetic, Evindath.”

He continued unabated. “Val’razeq was heartbroken when you left him, you know. Of course, we all saw it coming. I even wrote him a letter warning him about you. Unfortunately, the sting of his betrayal was still rather fresh at the time, and I tore it up before I ever managed to get it to a messenger. Pity. The stories say you even stole his hawkstrider’s hatchling.”

“Oh please,” Zandrathis spat, “I raised Ventaxia from the moment she hatched. I’ve seen the way he treats her mother, I wasn’t going to just leave her with that lunatic. She’d be long dead by now and of use to no one.”

“Now that sounds like the Zandrathis Sheynathren I know,” he shot her a mocking smile. ”Action according not to love or hope or sentiment, but action according to pragmatism.”

 ”You’re embarassing yourself,” Zandrathis glared at him, “and normally, I’d expect little else. But we’ll be working together after this and you’ll have plenty of time to preach to me from your little soap box. For now, though - and this is for your sake more than mine - why don’t we put this little exchange on hold?”

Evindath grimaced but was silent. Now that they had fallen silent, they could clearly hear Freywinn conversing with Vashj.

“... and from what my teams can gather, had quite a vast array of plant life, at the time. The flower known as ‘netherbloom,’ however, has appeared instead since the cataclysm. Which raises one of two possibilities: that exposure to the Nether has mutated an indigenous species, or, it is a species somehow native to the Twisting Nether itself!”

“Fascinating,” Vashj mused. “I should send you some of my herbalists, Freywinn. Their efforts in the marsh have uncovered vast arrays of plant life.”

Freywinn’s face looked elated but then suddenly dropped. “Yes, we’ll... I’ll have to look into arranging that.”

Zandrathis noticed his sudden change in mood, and glanced at Evindath to see if he had as well, however he was still smoldering and was lost in his own thoughts.

Vashj, however, seemed to pick it up, and pursued it no more.

As they rounded a small rock formation, they found others had already gathered. Zandrathis’ commander, the Master Engineer Telonicus, was present, as well as the Grand Astromancer Capernian. A dark-haired blood elf woman dressed in leathers stood to the side, and a hooded figure had his back to the newcomers.

Capernian saw them first. “They’re here,” she muttered to the hooded man, and he nodded.

As he stood, the looked as though it fell away, but as it did, it seemed to tear into three pieces, which each coalesced into a flaming green orb. These three sphered encircled the elf as he turned to greet them.

“My Lord!” Zandrathis and Evindath said in unison and both dropped to a knee.

Kael’thas Sunstrider nodded at their approbation. “Rise,” he commanded, and they did, brushing off their robes. He flew open his black cloak, revealing his ornately decorated red robes, studded with gems that glowed the same piercing green as his eyes. ”We all have much to do so I will waste no one’s time. We have received word that the Aldor are preparing to lay siege to Tempest Keep.”

“Word?” asked Vashj suddenly. “Word from whom?”

“We have an agent who has infiltrated their ranks,” Capernian answered promptly. Kael shot her a look, and she quieted down.

“Infiltrated the Aldor?” Vashj was astounded. “How is this possible? Who is this agent?”

“My Lady Vashj,” said Kael, with a voice that verged on patronizing, “surely as one commander to another you understand the security measures we must keep in place, here. Only a select few among the Sunfury know of the processes at work, and I’m afraid I must keep it that way.”

“Kael, you know I have no desire to invade your authority,” Vashj assured him. “and were I here on my own behalf, your explanation would suffice. However I have travelled here as an envoy to Illidan himself, and he will not take kindly to being left in the dark.”

Telonicus sighed. “Placating Illidan has become tedious business.”

“Telonicus!” Kael shouted. “How dare you speak ill of our lord!” Teleconus lowered his gaze, blushing. Kael returned to Vashj. “We have no time for this. I assure you, Vashj, that all is operating according to plan but understand that secrecy is of utmost importance.”

Vashj looked unsatisfied, but nodded.

“The Aldor were largely driven from this Netherstorm after our initial conflict, and fled south,” Capernian explained, “and their resistance was minimal even when they had substantial numbers here. Normally such intelligence would not have given us pause, but our agent reports that the Aldor are pouring their numbers into this effort, enough to cause considerable losses even if they failed to retake their quarry. And, apparently, Velen himself is leading the assault.”

Vashj blinked in surprise. “These draenei certainly are committed.”

“The plan of attack is to raid the Exodar and retake control,” Teleconus grumbled. “Once that is successful, Velen’s engineers will activate the inter-dimensional reactor and flee this world.”

“This is where you come in,” Kael’thas gestured to Zandrathis and Evindath. “We have played through a number of scenarios and concluded that we will suffer heavy losses should the raid go as planned. In truth, we may be able to repel them, or, if all else fails, destroy the Exodar. However, we have created a scenario in which we successfully bring our foes to their knees while preventing undue loss of life from out own forces.”

“We shall arrange a distribution of the Sun Hawks into a number of other squadrons,” Capernian explained, “though still leaving a manageable force aboard the Exodar. We have instructed Commander Hawkwing to play the defensive, and give ground to the draenei until they have control of the navigational array. Once they activate the reactor core, it will be time for you to move in.”

Telonicus nodded. “The reactor core is in close proximity to the Menagerie, which is a low priority area and it’s unlikely the Aldor will devote many forces to it. You will infiltrate the Menagerie and place a number of explosive charges. Zandrathis, this will be your area of expertise. Once core is activated, you will detonate your charges.

“Once the reactor core is damaged, the navigational array will no longer function. Your third partner, Fenissa,” here he gestured to the dark-haired elf at the side, who nodded curtly at her mention, “will then interface with the reactor, fooling its sensors into believing the array is working properly. The draenei will see this and attempt to land the Exodar before it becomes lost in the Twisting Nether. Due to Fenissa’s sabotage, they will break through to Azeroth.”

Zandrathis looked up, her eyes wide. “Our world?”

“Indeed,” Kael nodded.

“It’s unlikely anything will be functioning properly once they enter Azeroth, and the Exodar will likely crash. The Sun Hawks will prepare for it as best they can, however you will be forced to endure separately. It is of utmost importance that you survive the crash.” Telonicus sighed. “Unfortunately we have no means of ensuring where the Exodar will emerge on Azeroth.”

Zandrathis felt light-headed, and looking at Evindath, he seemed to be experiencing the same feelings. They were returning to Azeroth! Even without its Sunwell, her world looked less hopeless and despairing.

“After you survive the crash,” Capernian continued, “you will make your way to Quel’Thalas while the Sun Hawks remain to clean up the Exodar and salvage what they can. You will deliver a missive to Grand Magister Rommath. I’d tell you not to open it but I needn’t, since it has been enchanted to respond only to him.”

Kael nodded. “You will be received as representatives of the blood elves of Outland,” he added, “and will be expected to carry and present yourselves as such. Zandrathis, I understand you already own a hawkstrider, but Evindath, you shall be outfitted with one at once. We shall supply you with ample funds and supplies to outfit yourselves. Be generous to any of our brothers who offer you aid in any way.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Zandrathis with a bow.

Capernian nodded her approval. “Our agent was unable to plot a specific timetable, so we need to be ready to act at a moment’s notice. The attack could come tomorrow or not until the end of the month. You’re to prepare immediately.”

Kael raised an open hand serenely. “Go with the blessings of the Sin’dorei.”

Zandrathis and Evindath bowed graciously, then turned and followed Freywinn from the meeting place.

From the rim of the Exodar, the Twisting Nether seemed detached from Zandrathis Sheynathren. Watching it from the ground was another matter entirely, but from there, she could appreciate the beauty of its chaos. A flock of netherays flew past her, swirling around each other in a delicate spiral in the void. They made no sound.

A clinking of glass behind her turned her about. Evindath was there, with two glass flutes and an amber bottle of thin, red liquid.

“What’s this?” she raised an eyebrow.

“An apology,” said Evindath with a shrug. “Seeing you again was… jarring. But we’re to be working together for some time, it would seem. I reasoned we had best leave our past in the past and start fresh.”

Evindath pulled the cork from his bottle and poured it into the two flutes. Zandrathis took one as he spat the cork over the railing.

“I admit myself impressed,” Zandrathis nodded, “I had thought such thinking not your strong suit.”

“On the contrary, it’s the principle of good botany. When a blossom dies, you prune it, to allow a new one to grow. Thing ended poorly between us, I’m sure we can both admit, but that’s no reason this new arrangement between us cannot succeed.”

Zandrathis sniffed the flute. The drink was blood red, but it smelled like a white. “What is this?”

“Thistlewine,” said Evindath. “Utterly intoxicating.”

“You’re not afraid I’ll spread rumours you’re a thistlehead?” asked Zandrathis with a grin as she took a sip.

Evindath finished one himself. “Feel free. Sooner than later we’ll be worlds away from this Netherstorm and on our way back home.”

Zandrathis’ smile faltered for a moment.

Home…

She wasn’t sure it was something they had anymore.

“I feel a toast is in order,” Evindath proposed. He raised his glass. “To the glory of the Sin’dorei!”

Zandrathis tightly clanged his flute with hers. “What else?”