Kingdom of Lordaeron, Silverpine Forest. One of the many fishing villages scattered along the coast of the Great Sea. Year 11 since the opening of the Dark Portal.
On the sprawling branch of a massive dark pine, at a height of ten meters, sat a thin, dark-haired boy. Leaning his back against the trunk of the majestic giant, he swung one leg in time with the fingers drumming on the scratched knee of the other. Below him, on the ground, an indistinct clamor rose. The children desperately wanted to join their idol, but all their attempts to conquer the insurmountable barrier ended in failure, causing bouts of sharp envy mixed with admiration for the achievements of the local celebrity.
Paying no attention to the children's fuss, nor to the resin seeping through the bark, nor to the light rain that could not yet penetrate the thick canopy of needles sheltering him from the beginning storm, the boy with blue eyes serious beyond his years stared thoughtfully at the gray, wave-flecked surface of the sea. His thoughts rolled in like waves: "Still, there is a certain charm in normal sight. Undeniably, in war, Sargeras's gift is far more important and useful, and the vision of magic flows is a mesmerizing sight in itself, but in moments like these, you acutely realize exactly what you lost... and you involuntarily wonder if it was worth it..." However, he tried not to slide into completely defeatist moods...
More than ten years had passed since Illidan Stormrage was reborn as one of the Humans—the race whose representatives, it seemed, had only recently made attempts on his former body. During this time, he had managed both to rage over his losses and to be in a stupor regarding his future prospects: after all, in a Human child—the son of ordinary fishermen—there was no more magic than in the surrounding trees. Fortunately, although the stars had changed their positions, it wasn't so much that the former Night Elf couldn't figure out from the dome of the clear night sky that he was still living on his native Azeroth, rather than having fallen into some alien world from the myriad of existing ones. However, a long stay beyond the veil had considerably tamed his wild temper and made him much less impulsive—exactly what his teacher, brother, and beloved had always wanted him to be. And for this, it "only" took dying... In general, he accepted his rebirth as a representative of another race and the loss of the ability to manipulate Mana at a high level quite calmly…
Nevertheless, the famous Elf Mage categorically did not wish to become level with oaks and firs, and therefore tried by hook or by crook to stir that withered seed that constituted his energy core. He had received more practice in the finest manipulations of Mana over the past decade than he had in his entire past life. Despite the demand for such skills at all times, his past magical reserves had allowed him to neglect both small losses—which, by the way, amounted to no more than five percent of the total Mana reserve invested in a spell—and the crookedness of the weaves, which ate up another ten percent of efficiency. In this life, he was initially deprived of the ability to use not just energy-intensive charms, but practically any at all, except for the simplest ones, not counting direct Mana manipulations...
It cannot be said that his efforts were in vain—at least, by Human standards, he could certainly be called a Mage already. But his former capabilities compared to his current level seemed like a distant mirage in an endless desert, and he still had a long way to go in his attempts to touch the horizon. However, even guessing at the fruitlessness of his efforts to become the greatest Mage, Illidan Stormrage did not intend to give up, intending to take full advantage of the chance given by fate and live a second life without regrets about missed opportunities...
True, he suspected with good reason that his plans might be interfered with. Partial memory loss and an anxiety that awakened every time he tried to analyze the vague sensations of his stay beyond the veil provided additional motivation for training. "On the other hand," Illidan Stormrage reasoned logically, "since the world hasn't been taken over by demons and N'Zoth yet, things aren't all that bad…"
The noise below suddenly intensified, and into those rare minutes of contemplative rest with which he unloaded his brain from magic lessons, a child's shout wedged in:
"Lin!"
"Now they'll ask me to help them climb up again. As if I have nothing better to do," the twelve-year-old boy thought melancholically, but he was wrong in his assumptions.
"Lin! There's a real Mage there! He's showing magic, almost like yours, only real! Let's go watch!"
For a moment, the young idol of the village midgets thought about it, and then began to descend. "Well, since it's 'almost like mine, only real'—why not take a look? Though they're probably just more recruiters: looking for the gifted, replacing losses. Judging by the traders' stories, they are constantly at war in this era, which causes a 'natural' attrition among Mages."
Actually, his parents had named him Pfons, but... such a dog's name was not to his liking, and he quickly renamed himself as soon as he learned to speak articulately. He didn't bother much with the new name: he chose a few letters from the old one and joined them so they wouldn't grate on the Human ear. After all, a new life means a new name, and the image of the mighty elf that stood behind the name Illidan Stormrage didn't quite fit a Human boy.
The process of descending turned into another training session. By the time he stepped onto the ground, he held in his hands a decent ball of resin, cleaned of debris, which had previously covered his skin and clothes in various places: by getting very messy, he had deliberately complicated his task. A few seconds of concentration and the ball turned into an elegant statuette. In his hand was a "living" amber figure of a Harpy, hesitantly shifting from foot to foot on the boy's palm, and immediately the newborn descendant of AVINA spread its wings and set off on its first flight, which unexpectedly, bypassing the palms of the more agile children, ended in the hands of the smallest of the girls, pushed to the back rows. Another moment, and the resin hardened, forever fixing the swift grace of the winged creature.
The children crowded around the lucky girl, hoping to examine the gift, but a happy squeal made them recoil.
He knew that most of his "products" were taken by the rascals' parents and sold at a high price to passing traders, but he didn't care. He didn't scatter the figures as souvenirs. "Now they'll forget about me for at least a couple of days," the "beginning" Mage nodded to himself with satisfaction and headed into the village, whose palisade was visible behind a narrow strip of trees separating the beach from the fishermen's settlement...
The visiting Mage mentioned by the children was pacing a bit uncertainly in the middle of a small square, right in front of the elder's house. His uncertainty stemmed from the absence of the usual sight of village children who surrounded him every time he showed a couple of tricks like colorful illusions or magic fireworks upon arriving at another fishing settlement. The older youths and girls, huddled further away, behaved like adults and were in no hurry to boisterously admire his enticing tricks.
That was why the man with graying hair, dressed in a weathered gray robe, was as happy to see Lin emerge from the crowd into the front rows as if he were kin.
"Boy! Do you want to see a terrifying Orc? One of those defeated by our valiant warriors in the battle of Lordaeron four years ago!"
"Nope," the "boy" was practically picking his nose, showing in every way how uninterested he was.
This time the expected hitch did not follow; apparently, the Mage had managed to gain a lot of experience communicating with all sorts of children during his travels.
"Then perhaps you would be interested in a huge combat catapult?"
"Nope. I want to see combat magic."
"Oh!" the guest immediately perked up. "Then watch!"
The Mage stretched out his hand, and a Fireball began to form over his open palm, swirling from ribbons of fire appearing out of nowhere. Reaching a size of a meter in diameter, the spell took its finished form, and the ball began to rotate slowly with a hum, showing itself from all sides and sending out waves of warm air, scattering a heap of quickly fading sparks. True, not all particles of the summoned fire met the ignoble fate of fading; some had enough strength to reach the ground, where they fulfilled their purpose—to bring destruction to this world. The withered grass, trampled by hundreds of village feet, flared up, filling the air with the thin smell of smoke.
The crowd of villagers recoiled warily, but at the same time buzzed excitedly: they clearly liked the spectacle, touching hidden strings in their souls, allowing them to feel for a moment involved in the events of the past war. However, not everyone was impressed by the spell they saw. Specifically, the young men, acting like seasoned soldiers in front of their friends, were more brave than they actually were examples of composure. The boy, unlike the older ones, stepped closer, reached out his hand, and with a skeptical look, stirred it inside the "fireball" to the frightened gasp of the audience.
"Real magic," Lin specified.
Now the recruiter (and the guy had no doubt it was a recruiter: several wagons, the sides of which were perched upon by conscripts of various ages tempted by the prospects of becoming Mages, stood right on the outskirts) was truly surprised:
"You... how did you know it was an illusion?!"
And he immediately revealed the reason for his emotionality, which turned out to be a banal offense for his achievements in the field of magical art, which had failed before an ordinary village kid:
"Why, I was praised even in Dalaran itself!"
The spell, meanwhile, dissipated, as did the traces of its application: the burnt grass turned green again, and the smoke completely disappeared along with the smell.
"It's practically not hot, how can it be confused with a real one?"
But the man was no longer listening, continuing to mutter under his breath.
"In Dalaran itself... Why, the... the... Elf Queen herself noted the 'naturalness of the resulting images'!"
"What was that about the Queen of the Elves?" the boy asked with genuine curiosity. He loved learning news and rumors of this era, which was still unclear how far it was from the date of his death, because no matter how you looked at it, it was too boring without it.
"Eh?" the illusionist struggled to detach himself from his problems.
At that moment, from the back rows of the youth, who unlike the old people hadn't even thought of running away from the manifested spell and therefore heard the mention of elves, a thin youthful voice filled with indignation rang out:
"Yeah, stop showing us children's lanterns here! Give us elf girls!"
An approving murmur rolled through the crowd, generously seasoned with the indignation of the female part of the settlement. However, the latter vanished as soon as a girl's shout was heard, this time about "long-eared hotties."
"Elves, elves!" the villagers were almost chanting, shouting the name of the allied race.
Tension began to build in the square. Moments were rapidly slipping away, and the requested elves were still nowhere to be seen. The crowd, not getting what they wanted, began to grow indignant. Sensing the change in mood, the Mage finally came out of his stupor and dispelled the illusion of the ball.
"Of course, of course, ladies and gentlemen! I have been with the troops many times and have seen our allies in all their glory! And I even had the honor of being present at the headquarters of the commanders of the southern front and beholding the leaders of the elves! Ah, what an unprecedented sight, I tell you! Their eyes were filled with wisdom! Their bodies—perfection itself! And their faces are so beautiful that I have no words..."
While the Mage was sweet-talking the crowd, concentrating simultaneously on the spell, obviously with the aim of presenting it as effectively as possible (clearly some pre-rehearsed routine), Lin meanwhile watched the movements of the wizard, who seemed to be waving his arms aimlessly. Even if the observation of Mana flows was now inaccessible to him, thanks to the rich experience of his past life, he could recognize the casting of charms with his eyes closed. Literally by the smell. And in his current state, he was quite attracted to alternative methods of Spellcasting: you never know in which pile of manure you'll find a bag of emeralds. Although, of course, this didn't mean he had to dive headfirst into every such pile, but if he had the time... just to poke it with a stick... why not?
Having seen everything that interested him in the stranger's sorcery and realizing that no one was going to show him "real" combat magic, Lin was about to leave without saying goodbye. However, as soon as the boy turned his back on the Mage, the latter finished:
"And-d-d allow me to present! Her High Elven Highness—Queen Azshara!"
But it wasn't the mangled title and name of the Queen that made him turn around. The crowd fell silent all at once. On the faces of the simple, illiterate fishermen froze an expression of a whole mixture of feelings: among the pronounced worship and delight, there was room for lust and envy from the male and female parts of those present, respectively. Interest in what was happening was willy-nilly awakened in Lin as well.
Turning around, it was his turn to fall into a state of surprise that almost reached a dropped jaw. Until this moment, everything said by the recruiter was divided if not by itself, then somewhere close to it. But now... now Lin was ready to bet his life that at least once, this man had indeed seen Azshara in the flesh. The famous facial expression "I am the Queen, and you are dirt!" was impossible to fake from someone else's words or pictures… at least, he sincerely thought so. Lin did not deign to notice the half-naked girlish charms: one sideways glance was enough to understand that everything except the face was the illusionist's personal fantasy to attract the public.
The shock was caused, firstly, by the fact that Azshara had clearly changed her principles of communicating only with the strong. In any case, the possibility of the Queen being in the company of such a worthless Mage and a Human to boot did not fit in his head. Even if he had just been standing somewhere nearby for the crowd.
And secondly, although the understanding that right now his own mother wouldn't recognize him, including his brother, former teacher, and Tyrande Whisperwind, hadn't gone anywhere, still, from the realization that Azshara was somewhere nearby, and not disdaining to visit Human lands, Illidan Stormrage felt uneasy...
"And I'd..."
At that moment, the silence of the people turned into a deafening roar, drowning out the end of the phrase from someone in the back rows. The boy started, and an exceptionally sound, if belated, thought occurred to him. "I'm simply wasting time in this backwater. What's the use in perfecting Mana control if Elven magic as such is too energy-intensive and therefore inaccessible to me for now? No, I need to move to this Dalaran of theirs and learn the Human approach to magic, even if for this they give me a shamanic tambourine and I have to act like a clown, waving my arms... Better that than nothing. After all, artifacts haven't been canceled yet. And there I'll improve control in parallel—perfection, as is known, is unattainable. Perhaps something else will turn up."
Picking his parents out of the crowd with his eyes, he, without another second's hesitation, headed toward the huddled women, paying no attention to his father, who was excitedly commenting on the charms of the elf girls in a circle of fellow villagers.
"Without regrets," he reminded himself, barely moving his lips.
In principle, the young Mage could have left without saying goodbye, but he decided to stock up on supplies now so as not to waste time searching for and preparing them later. As he suspected, his parents, with whom he had developed surprisingly neutral relations despite all his oddities, had long since resigned themselves to the obvious fact of his departure, and therefore had thrown all their energy into raising his four brothers and sisters. Naturally, the freedom of action granted to him was only to his advantage.
***
Outskirts of Lordaeron. Training ground of the Order of the Silver Hand.
"...Feel the Holy. Cast aside its demonstrative warmth: when necessary, it can be ruthless. Let it into yourself. Feel this incredible fusion of calm and determination. Trust it, and it will not fail you in minutes of peace, nor in the hour of war..."
"I'm hot, Uther. Maybe we can train in the shade?" the blond youth of royal blood didn't look particularly tired, even though he was clad in heavy training plate, but he still squinted unfriendly toward the cloudless blue of the heavens.
The mentor, who was slowly but surely becoming a friend to the young prince, glanced disapprovingly at his charge, who was trying with varying success to imbue the hammer with the power of the Holy, but said nothing and only sighed: excessive softness was still present in the student, despite all his efforts to beat it out of him.
"Arthas, Uther! Stop fooling around! Finish your wizardly things and see what glorious beer I've snatched from the cellar!"
The pair occupied with training turned at the familiar voice. And their expectations were met: on a roughly made bench, in the shade of a warehouse wall, sat a massive shorty, whose identity as a Dwarf could easily be determined by such attributes as: the presence of a full set of combat plate Armor (and this despite peacetime...), a very long red beard braided into a pigtail, and the indispensable keg of beer. The image was completed by a hammer and an axe neatly leaned against the wall—well, what Dwarf who survived the siege of Ironforge would go out into the street without Arms?
"Muradin," the man in gray armor with gilding reacted immediately, his face, framed by a well-shaped light brown beard highlighted by the silver of gray hair, frowned. "Do not interfere with the lesson."
The direct gaze of the paladin's stern blue eyes met the squint of the ambassador of Khaz Modan, which was hard to distinguish because of his bushy eyebrows. But if the expression of the eyes was unclear, the smirk on his face was quite definite: the brother of the current king of Khaz Modan was bored, and he was looking for worthy company. And who could be more worthy than the young Prince of Lordaeron, who was also his student, and an old friend—the first Paladin of the newly created order, whose influence had spread far beyond the borders of Lordaeron, as evidenced by the fact that the main residence of the Silver Hand was actually located in neighboring Stormwind, being rebuilt after the victory in the Second War with the Orcs.
"Oh, come on, Uther! Look at the lad," the uninvited guest nodded toward Arthas, who, after his teacher's rebuke, was intensely making a purposeful face, showing that no one and nothing could stand between him and training. "On a day like this, you should be running after girls or drinking beer in the shade, not doing high-moral crap."
"Beer and girls will not save his life or help him make the right decision in a difficult situation, unlike the teachings of the Holy, which you called 'high-moral crap.'"
"Well, if there's one thing I'm a hundred percent sure of, it's beer!" Muradin slapped himself on the protruding roundness of his breastplate, specially created by Gnome smiths for the convenience of their kinsmen when consuming the foamy drink in industrial quantities. "And as for the girls... I seem to remember there's a certain blonde person, quite well-versed in magic. Well, I suspect that midget's Fireball will be more useful than your 'lantern.' And in the prospect of saving a life, it's more profitable to hang around such a girl than to study military science by the sweat of your brow. Besides, her skirt is wide—it'll be convenient to hide behind..."
When Uther caught what his old friend was getting at, not a trace remained of his initial desire to kick him out. Especially after the speech, designed to play on the prince's pride and self-esteem, found a good response in his fifteen-year-old rebellious soul. Now Arthas wasn't trying for show, but took up the training in earnest, and his thoughts were by no means directed at courting his childhood friend.
Rivalry, vanity, pride... Even if the motivation wasn't the best, the Paladin was now convinced that not a minute would pass before the student's face was furrowed by the tracks of the proverbial sweat. Uther believed that sooner or later, he would beat all the nonsense out of the Prince and set him on the right path. Giving a thumbs-up to his fellow mentor, the man again delved into the theory of the teaching of the Holy...
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