If there's one thing the Night Elves are guaranteed to churn out after death, it's a spectacularly miffed ghost. And not just a few. Every single one of them. The second and third places on that spectral leaderboard? Still taken by the High Elves and any other distant, unfortunate relatives of the Night Elves. The reason, of course, is the World Tree Nordrassil, a colossal spiritual vacuum cleaner, and the Dragon King's ancient blessing, which usually slurps up Night Elf souls and funnels them directly back to the tree, neatly bypassing the dreaded Shadow Realm. But woe betide the elf who croaks unexpectedly, unable to make their celestial appointment! Their soul gets snagged in the Land of Death, festering under the weight of negative emotions until, poof, they're not just dead, they're actively vengeful. The Moon Sisters, those radiant specters, were once in this exact, unenviable boat. Worse, Sargeras' clone had poured his putrid essence into them, turning their ethereal forms into conduits of pure, unbridled fury.
"Kill them all!" shrieked the huntress Casparine, her ectoplasm moon blade a ghostly blur. She lashed out with a moonlight battle glaive that didn't just cut—it vaporized the air, cleaving the throat of a demon guard. The monstrous brute, twice her size and half her ethereal form, went limp with a gurgle, its massive red blade clattering to the floor. It clamped both hands to its neck, a comical attempt to cork the arterial geyser now painting the cavern floor. Nearby, Captain Yasa had apparently decided that stealth was for amateurs, transforming himself into a mobile, arcane arrow tower. Each thrum of his longbow launched a furious arrow, each one thudding home with bone-shattering force into another screaming, angry guard. With the furious output of these two ethereal terrors, and the relentless onslaught of the other Moon Sisters, Prince Malchezaar found his inner circle of angry guards dwindled to a pathetic few in a mere handful of heartbeats.
As a high-ranking member of the infernal Burning Legion and a famously arrogant Eredar leader, Prince Malchezaar had never suffered such a humiliating, wholesale massacre. His temper, already volcanic, erupted. "Shadow Nova!" he roared, a ball of obsidian energy erupting from his gauntleted hand and detonating directly amidst the swirling ranks of the Moon Sisters. Dozens of Night Elf ghosts, caught in the devastating shadow magic, simply dissolved into shimmering, dim soul ashes, their wails abruptly silenced.
The three senior Moon Sisters let out a collective shriek of primal anguish the moment their sisters were erased, a sound that vibrated through the very bedrock. The remaining Moon Sisters, driven beyond any semblance of sanity, screamed like banshees and lunged at the surviving demons. This time, they weren't aiming for a clean kill. Their ethereal palms elongated into razor-sharp claws, tearing through the flesh of the angry guards, ripping into their very essence, grabbing their souls, and devouring them alive. "Ants!" Prince Malchezaar bellowed, gathering his infernal magic once again. From the very ceiling of the underground palace, hellish red fireballs appeared out of thin air, roaring like vengeful gods as they smashed down onto the ground. The Moon Sisters, who had been invincible moments before, were pulverized. In an instant, their numbers plummeted, with barely one in ten surviving the fiery apocalypse.
"As expected of Malchezaar," Galen sighed, observing the ongoing infernal bombardment with a surprising casualness. He watched the hellfires continue to rain down, seemingly recalling his own rookie misadventures in Karazhan. "Summons Hellfire in zero frames, and it's a group cast. Impressive." He then clapped his hands together with finality. "But this farce has dragged on long enough. Eonar, act!"
Malchezaar, ever the paranoid one, had kept a wary eye on Galen. He couldn't care less about a mere gaggle of ghosts. If the Legion could kill them once, they could grind them to ashes a second time! No, the true thorn in his side was the human draped in gold. Even standing utterly still, Galen radiated an unnerving, boundless pressure. The "water" in this temple was terrifyingly deep, and the sheer audacity of a human evading his demonic perception was maddening. Hearing the word "act" now only further tightened his already frayed nerves.
"Who else?!" Malchezaar screeched, activating his shadow shield, a desperate shimmer of dark energy. He barked orders at the last few angry guards, forcing them into a pathetic, trembling formation around him. "Malchezaar, have you ever heard of a palm technique that falls from the sky?" Galen queried, his voice deceptively mild.
"Okay?" Malchezaar grunted, utterly bewildered.
BOOM!
A colossal hand, forged of pure, unadulterated bronze, truly did fall from the sky, materializing directly above Prince Malchezaar's head. It descended with the force of a collapsing mountain, flattening him with a sound that rocked the entire underground palace. The sheer seismic jolt was testament to the unholy force behind Eonar's slap. When the hand lifted, Galen peered down, seeing nothing but a vast, shimmering pool of virulent green blood, surrounded by five or six smaller, crimson splotches. It was as if someone had just swatted an entire mosquito nest at once. It was clear: Prince Malchezaar was beyond doomed. The Eredar Prince never even dreamed that the bronze giant he'd so arrogantly ignored would be the one to finally squish him.
The complete annihilation of this elite demonic force, which had plunged deep into the Broken Beach, declared Galen's cunning trap an unqualified success. On the periphery, the true allied forces could finally open fire, closing the net on the rest of the Legion.
"Your Majesties, Commanders! Most of the 102 Legion Portals the demons have erected on the Broken Shore have been obliterated, turned into glowing splinters! Only ten in the core area remain fully operational and capable of transporting demon armies!" A Hidden Blade agent, cloaked and shadowed, reported the latest intelligence from the front line. Aegwynn nodded, a grim satisfaction on her face. Galen's orders to "close the net" had just come through, and the battle was progressing perfectly. "Have you located the enemy's supreme commander?" the Guardian inquired, her voice a low growl. Previous attacks had shredded countless mid-tier Legion commanders—Abyss Lords, Dread Lords, Doom Lords—but the core command remained elusive. The Hidden Blade and the Wings of Holy Light had been engaged in covert decapitation strikes, yet failed to fully cripple the Legion's chain of command. This meant a higher-level puppeteer was still pulling the strings.
"They've been found!" The Hidden Blade agent's eyes glinted under his hood. "According to the Illidari's Soul Eaters, two high-ranking Eredar warlocks are lurking in the shadows, orchestrating the demon army." He paused for dramatic effect. "They are Kil'jaeden's very own female lieutenants, Alyss and Sarolash. One is a mistress of shadow magic, the other a pyromancer of unparalleled cruelty."
"Oh!" An exclamation rippled through the assembled crowd. Everyone turned to see the Draenei representative of the coalition, a high-level priest, his eyes wide with a mixture of dread and fierce resolve. Seeing the collective gaze, the Draenei priest explained, his voice thick with ancient sorrow: "Alyss and Sarolash were Kil'jaeden's personal magic apprentices over 20,000 years ago. They were, and still are, his deeply trusted instruments of destruction. During the interstellar exodus led by the Prophet Velen, these two cunning, sadistic villains butchered countless of my compatriots. Please," he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion, "help us avenge them! Help us kill them!"
"No problem!" came the immediate, unified roar. "For Azeroth and our allies, we will do whatever it takes! We'll peel them like grapes!"
"Kil'jaeden has truly committed this time," someone muttered, "sending out two of his direct subordinates!" Aegwynn listened to the chatter, knowing in her heart that the High Lord had already sent an Eredar magic prince to his eternal reward.
"Everyone," she announced, her voice resonating with grim authority, "we have endured a brutal hunt, slaughtered tens of thousands of demons, but our soldiers have also suffered grievous casualties." The Eastern and Western Fronts had borne the brunt of the assault; even with battleship artillery raining down fire, the demons' resistance had been horrifyingly stubborn. They clung to life, even with barely a shred of health, fighting to the last. More than half of the Centaurs and other vassal troops brought by the Crusaders had been cut down. Aegwynn delivered her final, chilling conclusion:
"The Burning Legion is hell-bent on destroying Azeroth. We will fight to the last moment. Until the very stones bleed!"
Varian, his armor caked with demonic ichor, tightened his grip on Shalamayne, the great sword humming with anticipation. Drake, ever practical, drew his pistol and reloaded with a series of grim, metallic clicks. Shandris, graceful even in her blood-soaked attire, waved her bow, silently offering a desperate prayer to the moon goddess Elune. Their faces were grim, their eyes blazing with an unyielding fire. "For Azeroth!"