The sky above Winterspring was as still as a painting. There was no wind, no snow – Haiendrion was almost surprised to find air still there to breathe, the place seemed so empty. The trees didn’t sway, the birds didn’t chirp, and had he not known better, he would have thought the legion of blue dragons watching them from the valley walls were statues. He had never before wished ignorance upon himself.

The dryad at his side, Thelnylla, moved with much more surety than he. When she caught him quivering, she would put a hand on his shoulder, gift him with a reassuring smile. It helped, but not much.

There were dozens, possibly even a hundred. Young whelps perched on the shoulders or at the feet of the dragonspawn, who made up the majority of these ranks, and sparsely among them were drakes – blue dragons who were matured, but not yet fully grown. The drakes were each the size of a full grown kodo. Haiendrion found sweat on his brow at the thought of these dragons growing even larger.

Haiendrion, with his dark aubergine skin and bright purple hair, struck a stark contrast with both the white furs he wore, and the rest of snow-covered Winterspring. Thelnylla, however, looked right at home. There were times, in their journey, that he actually lost her in the landscape. Her frosty skin, dark blue-green hair, and the flecked grey coat of her cervine half made her perfectly suited to the wintry hills and snow-swept mountain passes of Winterspring. She seemed right at home.

The dragonkin made no move and no sound. Even their breath didn’t turn to fog in the frigid air. They merely followed the two with their icy gaze.

Thelnylla gripped his arm again. “You are perfectly safe,” she assured him.

The valley they were in came to an end at a large, frozen waterfall, which had seemed daunting enough from a distance, and Haiendrion drew only more exasperated as they got closer. He doubted that he could climb it, let alone Thelnylla with her four hooves. Yet she didn’t say anything, just trekked onwards.

Haiendrion knew that these dragons had been expecting them. He knew that Bandalar had received word that they had permission to tread so close to Mazthoril. But Haiendrion didn’t trust the blues as much as Bandalar seemed to. What if it was a trap? What if they had turned, like the black dragons before them? After all, the blue dragons used the arcane like it was their plaything. If any flight would fall to corruption, Haiendrion rationalized, it would be them.

Every step forward they took made Haiendrion that much more certain that they were about to spring their ambush. They were just waiting until they could box them in at the icy falls.

They were nearly at the foot of the falls when Thelnylla stopped. Haiendrion did likewise. They waited, hundreds of golden, draconic eyes staring them down.

Haiendrion leaned in close to his companion. “What now?”

Thelnylla whispered back: “She’ll come when she’s ready. I wouldn’t recommend getting impatient with a dragon.”

Haiendrion was about to ask for further clarification when the icy waterfall suddenly melted before his eyes. With a flash of white smoke, the gargantuan wall of ice shattered, and fell to the ground, exploding into a sparkle of white dust before vanishing altogether. This, by itself, would have been spectacle enough to impress Haiendrion, but on top of all that, behind the wall was a massive cave; massive enough for a full grown dragon to fit in. He knew this largely because there was a full grown blue dragon standing at the mouth of the cave, staring them down.

Haiendrion tried not to cower, but couldn’t help it. Thelnylla stood her ground – actually smiled up at the dragon.

The blue dragon spoke, and there was nothing unusual about her voice, save that it was coming from a blue dragon.

“I am surprised,” she said with a hint of friendly bemusement, “the greens have become distant of late. I was not certain of what they told me.”

Thelnylla shrugged with an apologetic smile. “The Emerald Dream isn’t what it used to be.”

“Indeed,” the dragon sighed, then raised her head. “I am Andorgos, of the Brood of Malygos. Tread you now on holy ground. Know this, and know also that you only do so out of our continued mercy. Conduct yourselves accordingly, or that courtesy will be relinquished.”

Haiendrion bowed hurriedly. Thelnylla nodded as one nods to an obvious request.

Andorgos continued: “I cannot be certain of what the green messenger was attempting to convey. The Dream has become strangely muddled. Speaking with the greens has become something of an ordeal. There was mention of Norgannon’s Tear, but surely he did not expect us to simply give it to mortals.”

“Actually, Andorgos,” said Thelnylla with a little bow. “That is what we’ve come to collect. It’s of dire importance to us – to all of us. The Emerald Dream connects all of –”

“I do not need a lecture on the significance of the Dream,” Andorgos interjected, annoyed. “But perhaps you must be reminded of the significance of the Tear. It is the rarest flower in all the world. Only one has ever been known to exist, and if plucked, it will take six years to grow back. Norgannon’s Tear is brimming with scintillating arcane power. And we, as the guardians of all things magical, would protect it with our lives even if it did not grow on the very peak of Mazthoril.”

Thelnylla stood her ground. “Six years is a small price to pay, Andorgos. We need to find out what’s wrong in the Emerald Dream – we must have the tear!”

Andorgos’ reptilian eyes narrowed. “Do you presume to make demands of the Blue Dragonflight within their own home.”

Thelnylla sighed impatiently. “Of course not, Andorgos. What I do presume to make is a plea, from one defender of this realm to another.” She made to say something else, floundered desperately for a moment, and then made another appeal. “Please. Our alliances dwindle with every passing century, Andorgos. First the black dragons, now the furbolgs… even the new Arch-Druid seems to resent us. How long do we have before all we have is each other?”

Andorgos eyed first Thelnylla, then Haiendrion. Haiendrion avoided her gaze as best he could. Andorgos finally heaved a loud, cold sigh. “I will need to confer with the others.”

The dragon turned around, her giant, spiked tail as thick as a redwood swinging over their heads, nearly blowing Haiendrion over with the wind it kicked up. With steps that sent minor tremors through Haiendrion’s feet, she withdrew into the gaping cavern.

Thelnylla smiled. “I’m so relieved. I had a feeling for a second there that we’d come all this way for nothing.”

Haiendrion noted as subtly as he could that the army of blue dragons remained on the cliffs overlooking them. “How long are they just going to sit there watching us?”

Thelnylla had been staring intently into the now-empty cave, and now examined the blue dragonkin with a sigh. “This is Mathzoril, Haiendrion. These dragons rarely entertain visitors, and these armies are generally unforgiving to any outsiders. For many of them it’s probably the first time they’ve seen a dryad or a night elf without killing them.”

“This does little to ease my mind.”

“Oh calm down,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we came here before they gave us permission. Trust me, you’d know if we didn’t have it. Besides, Bandalar wouldn’t have let you come if there was any chance you were in harm’s way.”

“Bandalar didn’t want me to come,” Haiendrion reminded her. “He wanted to come himself.”

Thelnylla nodded. “That’s true, but you were right to insist. It’s more important that Bandalar makes contact with the Green Dragonflight. It took us weeks just to find a whelp who was willing to act as a messenger, and then we lost track of her almost immediately. If the blues hadn’t sent their missive, I would’ve thought she’d never made it at all. Either way, though, that doesn’t mean Bandalar’s going to risk your life sending you here. He only did it because he knew we’d be safe.”

“Still…”

Thelnylla folded her arms in thought. “I guess you’re too young to remember the War of the Ancients.”

“Nearly ninety-eight hundred years too young.” Haiendrion muttered.

“Well back then the dragons were friends to mortals,” she explained. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call them sociable, but they weren’t averse to getting a few mortal agents here and there. Especially the blues, they were friendly and affable. Then Malygos lost it and, well, the rest is history. Oh, shut up, she’s coming back.”

Andorgos had appeared from the darkness of the icy cavern, and her steps grew in volume and force as she neared.

“We have contacted our elders abroad, and have decided to grant your request. But,” she held up a single claw to forestall Thelnylla’s gleeful dance. Haiendrion nearly fainted. “But,” Andorgos repeated, “we do not lightly give this favour. If we later discover that the tear has been used for some ill intent, then you will never be free from the wrath of the Blue Dragonflight.”

Thelnylla smiled, almost affectionately, at Andorgos. “I wouldn’t take it if it was lightly given.” Considerably brightened, she turned to Haiendrion. “Well, we should get moving, there’s a long…”

“Actually,” Andorgos interrupted, “I might provide some assistance.” She opened her mouth and reared back, and Haiendrion had to make an effort to not believe she was about to kill the both of them, but braced himself for a fatal spray of her ice breath nevertheless. Instead, however, an incandescent bolt issued from her mouth and shot into the ground before them, leaving a narrow trail of violet in its wake. As the bolt struck the snow, it sent up a small flurry before them, but as it cleared, Haiendrion could make out a faint, intricate design on the snow – intersecting circles of runes and glyphs in a pale lavender.

“The energies of the Tear make it dangerous to transport you directly to the summit,” Andorgos explained, “but if you step into this runic circle, you will be taken to the upper reaches of the mountain. It will cut down on your journey substantially. Unfortunately, once retrieving the Tear, you will be forced to descend the mountain without magical aid. The Tear will warp any spells cast in such close proximity.”

Thelnylla seemed to think this an adorable gesture. She put a hand to her chest. “Oh, you are so gracious.”

Andorgos ignored this. “Another word of precaution; as the daughters of Cenarius are unaffected by most forms of sorcery, I would suggest that you” she nodded to Thelnylla, “carry the Tear. Even so, do not touch it with your bare hands, and do not look directly at it for too long. It is possessed of strange, potent energies that even we cannot fully catalogue.”

Though she still smiled, Thelnylla’s face took on a serious facet as she nodded. “We’ve come prepared.”

“Good, then,” said Andorgos with finality. “I bid you well on your journey.”

Thelnylla held out her hand to Haiendrion. He took it, and they stepped together into the runic circle. It flared beneath them, and Haiendrion beheld a bright flash of silvery light.

The higher peaks of Mathzoril were not as tranquil as its foothills. Wind swept through the mountain, carrying sheets of snow. Haiendrion drew his fur scarf about his face and tugged his cloak closer to him for warmth. Thenlylla, meanwhile, spread her arms and with a laugh shook the snow from her leafy hair.

She stopped in the middle of one such laugh, and stood as still as the mountains around them. She turned to Haiedrion. “Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?” he asked bitterly, rubbing his elbows.

“Forget the cold for a second, Haiendrion,” Thelnylla urged. “Relax your thoughts, like I taught you.”

Haiendrion barely had to try before he knew what she meant. Like a warm current in a cold stretch of ocean, it was unmistakable, if invisible. It was the tempting chaos of the arcane.

“Is that the flower?” he asked, his voice muffled by the scarf.

“It must be,” Thelnylla surmised, squinting into the wind. “The blue dragons wouldn’t allow any other mess of arcane in Mathzoril.”

She began to trot forward, struggling now and then with a deep patch of snow. Haiendrion followed. He understood her method; they could use the aura of the Tear to hone in on its exact location.

They trudged through the snow for some time. The fog and snow obscured the sun, making it difficult to tell time, but Haiendrion guessed they must have walked for at least a few hours. As they drew closer to the Tear, the aura became stronger and stronger. Every time he felt it increase, Haiendrion thought they must be close. He thought there was no way it could get any more palpable. But as they continued, he knew that even a layman would have been able to detect the power here.

He noticed something else, too. It was minor, barely worth noticing, like a faint smell of rot in an apple orchard, but he recognized it. It was so familiar that it took him a few minutes to place it. This strange undercurrent of magic was the same sensation he had experienced that night in Nendis years ago…

The port village of Nendis had been his home all his life. Haiendrion was a mere century and a half old – a pup by night elf standards. Nendis was a fishing town, even the village idiot could put lure to rod and cast like a ribbon dancer. Haiendrion’s family was no different, and Haiendrion himself was their pride and joy. Some joked in Nendis that Haiendrion must have been fished from the womb. It was not an axiom he often entertained, due to the unnerving imagery it conjured, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. Even after Archimonde’s return, Nendis had been largely unharmed, and the people there were happy and prosperous.

Haiendrion was happy and prosperous.

Then Illidan the Betrayer came.

Haiendrion had never met Illidan. He had never seen his crimes or their effects, he was far too young. Illidan had taken an almost mythical status. He wasn’t so much a person as a character in folklore. Something night elves used to frighten their children

“Don’t go wandering near Hyjal – Illidan will get you.”

“Behave yourself, or the Watchers might sic Illidan on you.”

Haiendrion had sometimes gone so far as to doubt that Illidan existed at all. But that horrific night, he could not deny his senses. He saw Illidan, more monstrous than he could ever imagine, with bat-like wings and cruel horns curving out from his forehead. His cloven hooves seared the ground where he walked and his mighty twin warglaives left a trail of green fire as he swung them about in a ballet of blood, gore and magic.

He was not alone. Nightmarish snake people and bestial satyrs were at his side, razing the town with otherworldly flames. It was chaos and confusion. Haiendrion had survived, but had barely survived. His parents and siblings had not been so lucky.

If you could call him lucky.

That night had haunted his dreams ever since. And every time he revisited it in his mind, he felt the same biting, sour energy that he felt now.

Could Illidan have returned to Azeroth? Could he, too, be after Norgannon’s Tear? Perhaps he was the true mind behind the Nightmare in the Emerald Dream.

“Thelnylla!” he blurted out. “Illidan is here!”

“What?” Thelnylla raised an eyebrow, looking around. “Where?”

“I can feel him; his magic,” Haiendrion explained in quick, panicked bursts. “The same way I felt him in Nendis.”

Thelnylla sighed. She took Haiendrion by the shoulders and came in close to him, sorrow and pity in her eyes. “Haiendrion, listen to me. It’s just the Tear. It’s overwhelming, but you’ve got to press on. Illidan is in Outland, and he’s not coming back. Everything is fine.” She released him and continued on ahead. “Come on.”

Haiendrion followed, but more because he was afraid of losing her in the snow than of any desire to see his quest through.

The power emanating from the Tear seemed to be intensifying exponentially. It was hard to think of anything else, and that dark, sour energy was stronger than ever. He even began seeing things. As he trudged behind Thelnylla, he thought he saw a dark mass moving our of the corner of his eye. He turned, searching the storm with his golden eyes. He thought he could make out a shape; a figure standing tall behind a sheet of snow, horns arching out of its brow.

Illidan.

No. He shook the thoughts from his head. It was just the snow, the energy from the Tear, the fear and the pressure of being pulled from some novice who would serve and die in welcome obscurity to being the chosen soldier of a demigod.

“Haiendrion!”

Thelnylla’s voice came through the storm, wrapped in snow. He tore his eyes from the shadows in the wind and followed her calls.

He saw her silhouette in the snowscreen, staring down at something on the ground. It took him a few seconds, in the confusion bred by the chaotic aura, to realize that she was looking at the Tear itself. He steeled himself as best he could, ready to be assaulted by such liberal proximity to Norgannon’s Tear, and took the last few steps to Thelnylla’s side.

Haiendrion thought for a fraction of a moment that he was dead. So stark was the transition between the assault on his senses from the Tear and the storm to the ethereal calm in its presence. The aura had vanished. He still sensed it, in a way, but it wasn’t so directly attacking him.

The storm had disappeared as well. A wall of undulating snow spun around them in a perfect circle. The wind still howled, but did so from a distance. Haiendrion took his scarf from around his nose and mouth and breathed deeply. The air was crisp and refreshing, even after emerging from a torrential snowstorm. There was a strange scent, too, like crushed, frozen apples.

Haiendrion’s education from Thelnylla kicked in immediately.

Norgannon’s Tear was an arum. It had a single bloom, with a deep sapphire spathe that hooded the bright white spadix spike in its heart. The rim of the spathe was pure white as well, and bled into the blue until it reached the stem. Three leaves met the stem at its base. They were sharp, long, and thick, and the same deep, icy blue as the stem. Comparing this plant with other arums he was familiar with, Haiendrion would have guessed the flower to be female, but the family was diverse, and he would need to study it more closely to be sure.

Thelnylla’s alabaster hand covered his eyes. “Stop looking at it.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey,” Thelnylla elbowed him playfully. He looked at her and found her smiling, which brightened him up some. “We still have a job to do,” she reminded him.

Haiendrion nodded and knelt, opening his backpack. He withdrew a pair of leather gloves, which he handed to Thelnylla and she slipped them on with minimal trouble navigating the vines entwining her arms. Next, he took a sheathed pruning knife, a simple wooden box with a clasp, and a crystal vial full of a thick, dark green salve. He handed the knife to Thelnylla and opened the box in front of him.

He tapped the vial with his gloved fingertip. Within was one of the potions he had learned to brew – crushed dreamfoil rendered with dream dust. He opened the vial and poured its contents into the box, then used his hand to smear it all over its interior, including the inside of the lid. Once he was finished, he clapped the excess from his gloves, and nodded to Thelnylla.

Thelnylla smiled and approached the Tear. She sat herself down in front of the Tear, and drew the knife. Its blade was smooth and translucent, carved from azsharite.

All had been tedious to gather, but the precautions needed to be taken. Bandalar was insistent.

Haiendrion watched Thelnylla only from the corner of his eye. She leaned forward, and daintily took hold of the stem. She drew back, with a sharp breath.

“What’s wrong?” asked Haiendrion, worried.

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “Just a shiver, it’s fine.” She held the stem again. Haiendrion moved closer on his knees, holding the box as close to her as he could, still with his gaze averted. Thelnylla moved her other hand with graceful swiftness, cutting the flower and depositing it in the box. The azsharite blade crumbled away like sand.

Haiendrion closed the box, and stood, leaving it on the ground for her. He could no longer sense the flower’s magic.

He helped Thelnylla to her hooves, and she handed him the hilt, which he put back in his backpack with the empty vial.

“Well that was easy enough,” said Thelnylla with a wink.

Haiendrion rolled his eyes and laughed.

He was then struck in the chest by a bolt of black magic. It threw him off his feet, propelled him to the other side of the clear area. His backpack, the hilt, and the vial flew through the air.

Thelnylla was by his side in seconds, helping him to his feet. He clutched his chest, and cried out. Every heartbeat sent a spike of pain through his ribcage. He looked up.

The shadow stood just beyond the wall of snow. It was the same shape – the tall figure, the horns, the hooves.

“Illidan…” Haiendrion whispered.

He knew the laugh of Illidan. He had heard it echoing through the streets of Nendis. The laugh that issued out of the storm was not his. It was ragged, sinister, and bestial. The figure stepped out into the open.

His legs were covered in mangy, matted fur of a deep purple, all the way down to his cloven hooves. His pale chest was bare, though tufts of fur sprouted from his shoulders and arms. His face was elven, but the eyes were strange and feline, and wiry hair were interrupted by a pair of long horns arcing behind him. In one of his hideous, clawed hands was a dark, jagged axe. In the other curled fist was a swirling mass of shadowy energy.

A satyr.

Thelnylla moved herself in front of Haiendrion. The two druids looked fleetingly at the wooden box on the ground on the other side of the still circle. The box not too feet from the satyr’s snow-encrusted hooves.

“Really, I’m flattered,” the satyr nodded. “I’ve been mistaken for much in my day, but Illidan Stormrage is certainly a new addition to the list.”

“What are you doing here?” Thelnylla demanded. It was strange for Haiendrion to see her this way, so stern and commanding. Even as his teacher, Thelnylla had always been happy, gentle, and soothing. What he saw in her now was undaunted anger and contempt.

“The same thing you are doing, Thelnylla,” he spoke her name with such venom, “I have been sent by my master to perform a quest.”

“And what master would that be?” Thelnylla’s eyes narrowed.

He laughed again. “Don’t concern yourself with such matters. For if you live today it shall be only the mercy of Acherix that allows you to do so.” He held up his clenched fist, shrouded in shadows that followed it like smoke.

Acherix spotted the box in the snow in front of him and smiled. “Well,” he spoke in a high, mocking voice, “that was easy enough.” He raised his hoof to crush it.

“No!” Thelnylla shouted, lashing her arm out at him. An arc of thorns shot from the vines around her hands and peppered Acherix across the chest. He roared in pain and staggered back. In the few moments of reprieve, she hoisted Haiendrion upright. “The Tear! Hurry!”

Haiendrion ignored his chest pains and ran for the small wooden box. Acherix saw him coming, and hoisted his axe above his head. Haiendrion saw the axe, but was determined. He dove forward and clasped the box in his hands. Thelnylla jumped over Haiendrion and landed in front of Acherix. She reared up on her hind legs and batted him in the face with her fore. He spat blood, but kept his footing, and as she landed again, he grabbed her about the neck with his claw and shoved her aside. She choked and fell to the ground.

Haiendrion fumbled with his reagent pouch, finally finding two small, dried bulbs. As Thelnylla struggled to regain her composure, Acherix advanced, hefting his axe. Haiendrion threw the bulbs and they landed directly in front of Acherix, though the satyr didn’t seem to notice them. He was about to step on one when Haiendrion focused his will, channeled his energies, and pleaded with the spirits to heed his call.

The bulbs exploded into life, shooting roots down into the snow and entwining Acherix’s leg. He stumbled down to one knee, and the vines wound around his nearest arm. They even went after Thelnylla, though they ignored her once they got close.

The result had been far more than Haiendrion had expected. He had never been able to produce so much before. His eyes fell to the box in his arms.

Acherix attempted to cut the roots away with his axe, but the moment he did, more grew to take his place. It was all he could do to keep them from capturing his axe, as well. Meanwhile, Thelnylla was up, her hands gathered a ball of green light in front of her. Her fingers danced wildly and the vines around her arms whipped the ball, adding to its intensity.

Acherix finally freed his other hand, and immediately shot a shadowy bolt at Thelnylla. The bolt collided with her shoulder, but dissipated immediately. She made no reaction, and second later, her spell was finished, and she propelled the ball at Acherix, trailing a swirl of emerald lightning as it sailed through the air. Acherix finally freed his leg and stood upright just in time for the ball to strike him directly in the face. The force of the blow carried him off his feet, and he flew backward into the wall of snow.

Haiendrion scrambled over to Thelnylla. He examined her shoulder, but there wasn’t a mark on it. She was panting, but shot him a smile.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

His chest still ached, but he nodded. “We should go,” he said.

Thelnylla suddenly gasped and pushed him away. He fell back in the snow, and a roaring fireball whipped past them and exploded in the snow from behind, sending a flurry up into the air. Haiendrion was temporarily blinded.

He heard the satyr’s growls, and a defiant cry from Thelnylla. Then, the horrific sound of metal piercing flesh. As the snow cleared, he saw Thelnylla fall to the ground, a gaping wound in the side of her neck. Dark violet blood began to stain the snow. She was very still.

Acherix loomed up over her fallen body. The axe he gripped in his claw dripped her blood onto the snow. He approached Haiendrion. The druid backed away.

“I have no quarrel with either of you,” Acherix sneered. “I have merely come for the flower. Relinquish it and your life will be spared.”

Haiendrion struggled to pull himself away, the box clutched to his chest with the other arm. He looked at Acherix, then to Thelnylla, half-expecting her to rise up and finish him off. But she was very still.

“Truly, I pity you, as I do all night elves,” said Acherix, taking another step towards him. “You who are satisfied with such a limiting form. You will never know true power until you are willing to sacrifice everything for it.”

“I have no intent to know true power,” Haiendrion spat. “And we would never sell out our fellows to the Burning Legion.”

“The Legion?” Acherix laughed, and it chilled Haiendrion thoroughly. “Foolish boy. I serve not the Legion, nor have I ever served them. The purpose I serve holds plans for this world. Plans beyond mere destruction and consumption. You can be a part of that, too.” He outstretched his hand. “Give it to me.”

Haiendrion’s hand fell on something solid in the snow. He knew what it was immediately. He closed his fist around it.

Acherix stepped forward and grabbed Haiendrion by the collar, hoisting him up, and bringing his face to his own. “My pity and mercy do know limits, druid! I am done playing-”

Haiendrion drew up his free hand, and shoved the crystal vial within it into Acherix’s open mouth even as he was speaking. The satyr tried to spit it out, but Haiendrion quickly punched him under the chin, forcing his jaw closed. The vial shattered in his mouth. Acherix screamed.

He spat blood on Haiendrion and dropped him into the snow. Haiendrion rolled away while the satyr doubled over, spitting blood into the snow and clawing out bits of glass from his mouth. A jagged fragment stuck out from his cheek, varnished in his dark purple blood.

Acherix narrowed his gaze at Haiendrion, and roared, sending a bloody mist from his mouth. “You insolent cur!” he cried, and rose to his feet, charging Haiendrion with his axe raised.

Haiendrion clutched the box tight in his arms, closed his eyes, and stretched out a hand at Acherix.

A pillar of moonlight blasted out from the sky, shaking the ground beneath Haiendrion’s feet. He opened his eyes. It had engulfed the satyr. He reared back, screaming. Haiendrion had never seen any druid call on such a powerful pillar of moonfire – had not seen even the keepers or dryads accomplish such a feet. It vanished, and in its place stood Acherix. His skin was blackened, his eyes were ash, and what little remained of his fur had tiny blue-white flames dancing along their edges. His joints were worn and bleeding. The head broke off from his axe, whose handle now looked like day-old embers in a bonfire. The snow at his hooves had melted away, leaving a bare spot of charred stone. He coughed once, then fell into the snow.

Haiendrion fell to his knees. He had felt it coursing through him. He had seen, for a fraction of a moment that lasted forever, the arcane magic swirling through the whole world.

Acherix had been wrong. Haiendrion had known, in that instant, true power.

He looked at the box he cradled like a babe to his chest. He was a novice. Thelnylla’s instruction had given him a basic understanding of druidic magic, and even that had been increased to proportions he’d never even dreamed of. If he trained himself fully, the Tear could make him a veritable god.

Haiendrion had visions, then. Visions of him leading the Cenarion Circle to a new age of prosperity. Of forcing Remulos and Staghelm to make amends. Of dragging Illidan back to Azeroth to make him pay for his crimes. Of healing Nordrassil with a mere wave of his hand. Of resurrecting Cenarius. Of plumbing the furthest reaches of the Emerald Dream and bringing Malfurion back to the waking world, where, in awe of his power, he declared Haiendrion Arch-Druid.

He felt his face twitch then in a way it never had before. It was this sensation that brought Haiendrion back from his visions. He was smiling. It was a smile he had never smiled before; one of lust, greed, and glory.

It terrified him.

Haiendrion dropped the box in the snow and backed away. He knew then that he couldn’t do it. Andorgos was right. He couldn’t carry it, the temptation was far too great for him. He felt weak and hopeless then, staring up the eye of the snowstorm. The power of the Tear would overwhelm him if he carried it all the way down the mountain, and it would be weeks before Bandalar thought to send help, and weeks more until help arrived. Haiendrion dared not leave and hope it would be there when he returned. Acherix spoke of a master, so he obviously wasn’t working alone.

“Thelnylla!” he cried her name aloud, and crawled over to her side.

Haiendrion searched his pouch until his fingers felt the familiar shell of an ironwood seed. He pulled it out, and carefully placed it in the dryad’s wound, still leaking blood. He put his hand over it, he willed it to become one with her, to repair the damage, to bring her back to life. The seed shuddered beneath his palm, shoots grew out from it, and tickling him through his glove, and gingerly searching out the dryad’s interior. Then it was still. Haiendrion tried again. Nothing happened. She was immune. She couldn’t help him.

He collapsed on top of her. The last traces of warmth still clung to her. He shuddered, and wept fleetingly.

Haiendrion couldn’t leave it, would die if he stayed with it, and was too weak to take it with him.

“You’re wrong.”

He looked at Thelnylla, her dead face veiled with her leafy hair. She did not stir. It had been her voice.

“You’re stronger than you know.”

He looked ahead, squinting into the wind. He saw a shape beyond the wall of snow. The silhouette of a dryad, accented with two glowing eyes of the deepest, most vivid green.

“Pick it up,” her whisper echoed through the storm.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You will. You must.”

He looked back at the box containing the Tear. He crawled over to it until it was right in front of him.

“I’ll be here,” Thelnylla’s ethereal voice assured him. “I will guide you.”

He looked at the shadow in the snow. The green eyes bobbed up and down, nodding.

Haiendrion reached out and took the box. He stood.

The shadow turned, looked back at him once, and then disappeared into the storm.

Haiendrion took a deep breath, and it his chest ached with the effort. He walked into the storm after it.

Haiendrion followed the shadow down the mountain.