On the Broken Shore, the northern sands stretched bleakly, nothing but jagged reefs and treacherous shallows connecting to the shadowy lands of Suramar. Through the perpetual gloom, the ghostly remnants of an ancient causeway, once linking the Temple of the Moon to Suramar City ten millennia past, still clung to memory, a silent testament to a forgotten age. But ancient history was far from the minds of the Burning Legion, for after dozens of days of brutal, soul-crushing combat, their once-unyielding defense line on the Broken Shore had shattered, losing over 80% of its infernal might. They had been forced to scuttle back to this miserable stretch of coastline, their backs to the unforgiving waves.
With only a handful of charred coastal outposts left, the infamous Eredar twins, who had been skulking behind the scenes, had no choice but to finally slither out. Their task: to somehow "reassure" the dwindling tens of thousands of shell-shocked demons that remained. These two female Eredar, veterans of countless star-shattering crusades and planet-scouring victories, now found themselves gripped by an anxiety that would make a felhound whimper.
"Sister, what in the name of the twisting nether are we supposed to do?!" screeched High Warlock Auresthes, the younger of the twins, her normally composed features twisted into a mask of pure exasperation. "The firepower of these wretched mortals is beyond savage, it's positively insane! This isn't the kind of raw, unholy destruction a 'low-level civilization' should possess!"
Auresthes scoffed, remembering her initial, supremely arrogant thoughts: How could our glorious Vanguard Army, nearly a million strong with battle-scarred starships, possibly lose to these pathetic, inferior races? The answer, it turned out, was with extreme prejudice. They hadn't just lost; they'd been hammered into the dirt and then ground in for good measure. She'd dared to peek at the front lines, only to witness with her own, horrified eyes the Azerothian naval fleet unleash a biblical barrage. Tens of thousands of artillery shells had plowed the narrow beach repeatedly, turning sand and demon alike into a chunky, unrecognizable paste.
The impact of those shells was monstrous. Even high-ranking demons, those who usually laughed off lesser explosions, were instantly vaporized on a direct hit. Perhaps only the truly colossal, granite-headed brutes like the Abyss Lords stood a ghost of a chance. Now, a mere tenth of their million-strong army remained. The very thought of returning to their teacher, the eternally grim Kil'jaeden, with such a paltry showing made Auresthes's heart seize with a terrifying chill.
"This is a defeat so humiliating, it feels like a personal affront to our very existence!" declared Queen Salolas, her eyes blazing with a reluctant, bitter helplessness. It wasn't the failure itself that stung so deeply; it was the raw, undeniable fear she saw flickering in the eyes of every single surviving legionnaire. They weren't just defeated; they were broken.
In their past galaxy-spanning conquests, victory had been so effortlessly sweet, so predictably absolute, that it had conveniently papered over every gaping flaw in the Legion's structure. Now, faced with a true, skull-crushing enemy capable of beating them senseless, the demons had finally learned the meaning of fear. How could they not, when they'd watched mighty Abyss Lords torn limb from limb by concentrated artillery fire, or the imposing head of a Lord of Doom unceremoniously lopped off by some ridiculously potent champion on the other side? It was enough to curdle the very ichor in their veins.
Oh, they prattled on about how demons couldn't be truly eradicated outside the Twisting Nether. A nice little fairy tale, perhaps. But every last imp and annihilator knew the cold, hard truth: the Legion would always prioritize resurrecting their precious, powerful demon lords and those mid-to-high-level commanders. As for the lowly cannon fodder like them? They were utterly disposable, mere numerical entries in a galactic ledger, and the Legion could churn out as many as their dark hearts desired.
The Eredar twins exchanged a meaningful glance, the same desperate thought sizzling between them.
"No, sister! We still have a chance!"
"Exactly! Malchezaar is still burrowed deep within the temple! As long as that arrogant oaf completes his objective, our mission will be considered a glorious success!"
If Prince Malchezaar pulled this off, tapping into the formidable energy source within the temple, he could easily rip open an interstellar portal, a glorious escape hatch to whisk their corrupted hides far, far away from Azeroth's vengeful wrath.
"Precisely! In such a scenario, Lord Kil'jaeden won't just not blame us for this disastrous setback; he'll probably reward us for our cunning!"
As for the legions of twitching, terrified demons left behind? Well, they were just cannon fodder anyway, weren't they? Certainly not precious Argusans, their own kind. The Eredar Twins couldn't have cared less. With this last, flimsy straw clutched tight, the two demons immediately tried to hail Prince Malchezaar within the Tomb of Sargeras via the Burning Legion's notoriously unreliable magical channels.
They called. And called. Nothing.
"That absolute, infuriating bastard! The useless, incompetent trash!" Queen Salolas, despite her deceptively "sweet mouth," let out a stream of curses that would make a fel reaver blush.
Then, a faint, garbled whisper: "Who... is it...?"
"...Calling... me...?"
Prince Malchezaar's voice finally crackled through the fel crystal communication stone. But it wasn't his usual pompous drone; it seemed laced with a peculiar mix of pain and... something utterly bizarre. The frantic Auresthes, too consumed by panic, didn't register the weirdness. She snapped back instantly: "This is the Commander-in-Chief of the Broken Shore position, Malchezaar! Report! How fares your mission?"
Auresthes's tone dripped with unconcealed arrogance and a heavy dose of thinly veiled accusation. Both the Eredar twins and Prince Malchezaar had been fellow apprentices at the esteemed Argus Mysteries Academy. The crucial difference: the twins had hitched their ambitions to Kil'jaeden, while Malchezaar had foolishly gravitated towards Archimonde. Decades ago, Malchezaar had conveniently avoided accompanying Archimonde's ill-fated invasion of Azeroth, a decision that had, perhaps accidentally, saved his miserable hide. After Archimonde's rather explosive demise on Azeroth, Malchezaar had, with the speed of a fleeing succubus, immediately defected to Kil'jaeden's service.
In the grand pecking order of the Legion, the Eredar Twins were clearly above Prince Malchezaar. But the wretched prince possessed an undeniable knack for teleportation spells and an uncanny ability to sniff out spatial loopholes within the fabric of Azeroth. It was this singular talent that had earned him Kil'jaeden's dubious task of infiltrating the Tomb of Sargeras, with the Eredar Twins assigned the rather degrading role of babysitters. Militarily and socially, Malchezaar was miles beneath them, which explained why the two sisters relished the opportunity to boss him around like a glorified imp.
"Humph..."
After a pregnant, crackling silence, Malchezaar's voice returned, stronger now, but still unsettling. "Give me... one hour. I will bring Him out immediately!"
The Eredar twins practically shrieked with unholy delight. "Excellent! We'll hold this cursed line for a little longer, just hurry it up!"
BOOM!
CRACK!
FWOOSH!
No sooner had Salolas finished speaking than the sky above them erupted in a searing blaze of fire, followed by a series of concussive explosions that rattled the very felstone beneath their feet. The Alliance for Azeroth had returned, fresh from their triumph, and were now systematically purging the last, pathetic remnants of the Burning Legion's coastal outposts.
"Hold the line, you pathetic wretches! For the Legion's glory! Our mission is almost complete!" Auresthes shrieked, desperately attempting to rally the cowering demons while simultaneously locking her baleful gaze onto the swarms of gnome aircraft and griffon riders dive-bombing from the heavens. "Shadows will exist beneath the flames! Envelop them, Shadows!"
"The fire will burn in the shadows and consume them, the flames!" Salolas roared, twin torrents of fel energy, one sickening crimson, the other frigid cobalt, erupting from their hands.
Shadow Blade!
Shadow Nova!
Inferno!
Flame Touch!
Combust! Blaze!
Their combined assault was a maelstrom of destruction. Two entire teams of dwarf flying machines and hundreds of griffon knights, caught in the infernal crossfire, plummeted from the sky like charred raindrops, their valiant cries abruptly silenced.
In the distance, Muradin Bronzebeard, witnessing the massacre of his kin, roared with a rage that shook the very ground. He was about to unleash his formidable, God-like power and charge directly into the fray, a one-dwarf wrecking crew.
But Aegwynn, the venerable Guardian, appeared beside him in a flash, stopping him cold with a subtle frost nova that shimmered around his boots. She shook her head, her expression grim. "That isn't our objective, Muradin, and you cannot storm in there! Besides, the Great Lord has already laid out the plans with crystal clarity!"
Trusting in Galen's strategic genius, Muradin reluctantly reined in his fury, grinding his teeth as he turned towards a strategically important sentry post to the northeast.
The very gods seemed to descend upon Azeroth, and the devil's last defense line was, in short order, utterly obliterated.
The Legion was being defeated!