Father! Please save me! the vision of Anessa cried.

And yet, despite the sure knowledge that this was not his beloved daughter, the druid felt his nerve begin to slip. A part of him so much wanted to try to save her —

Emerald tendrils seized Anessa. She squealed and tried to flee them, but they held her tight.

The cat reared back, reverting to the night elf. This isn’t how she died —

The emerald tendrils curled tighter and tighter. Anessa’s body crackled. Her head was caught in a terrible grip.

The skull cracked, yet Anessa still cried for his help. However, now out of her mouth — and out of every broken part of her body — there spilled the millipedes, roaches, and other carrion eaters.

With them poured a deep, inky substance that bore the green tint of rot.

Before Broll’s horrified eyes, the last recognizable traces of his daughter vanished within the tendrils. All that remained were the grotesque things that had poured forth from her. They spilled to the ground, spreading among the filth already there.

“You — are — real…” managed a voice that a stunned Broll needed a moment to recognize was not his own. “Unlike she, who was a semblance created to draw you into the Nightmare…”

A huge figure emerged from the mist ahead. Broll shifted to bear form and threatened the shape with his claws.

“No, druid…I mean you no harm…” It was an ancient.

Broll reverted. “Gnarl?!?”

But almost as soon as he blurted that, the druid realized that he was wrong. The figure resembled Gnarl to a point, but was built more bent at the shoulder and his tusks were longer. His barklike skin was of a more greenish hue, even taking into account the current surroundings.

Moreover, this ancient, like Gnarl, was known to Broll. “I remember you,” the night elf managed. “Arei…”

The ancient of war bowed his thick head. Many of the leaves that should have been part of his beard and mane were withered.

The ancient looked very weary. “I am that one…” His gaze surveyed the druid. “And you are Broll Bearmantle.” Arei squinted.

“As I have, through a portal you came…Ashenvale, I would guess…”

“Yes.”

The giant being frowned. “And from your words, Gnarl no longer keeps it safe?”

Swallowing, the night elf replied, “Gnarl was taken…by the Nightmare…”

Arei let out a sound akin to a massive tree slowly cracking in half. It sent chills through Broll, for it was such a primal cry. He could sense Arei’s great loss at this news.

“Another fallen…” the towering guardian murmured. “Our numbers dwindle as the Nightmare’s multiplies…we fight a battle we cannot win…”

“Who is ‘we’? What do you do here?”

“What we can.” The ancient looked away. “Come…he will need to know you are here…”

“Who do you speak of?” Broll asked, but the ancient had already stepped deep into the mists. The druid stood where he was for a moment, torn between following Tyrande and obeying the ancient.

However, the answer was made for him, for the high priestess’s trail was now gone and even in the form of the cat Broll doubted that he would be able to pick it up.

There remained one hope…that Arei or this other of whom he spoke would know the whereabouts of Malfurion Stormrage. That would at the same time put the druid back on Tyrande’s trail. With that desperate hope in mind, Broll resigned himself to chase after the ancient…and pray that he was not falling into another terrible trap by the Nightmare.

Tyrande was very aware that she had been unduly reckless in rushing into the mist, but an overriding fear for Malfurion had taken her. Throughout the many millennia that their hearts had been intertwined, she had faced the terrible prospect of his dying several times. Yet not since their first struggle against the demons of the Burning Legion had the high priestess felt the horrible dread that she did now.

Brox’s ax had brought it home to her. She knew its power, knew its monumental strength and its powerful magic. In Brox’s grip, it had done great things, mighty things…

And now that strength and magic had been turned upon Malfurion. She could only assume that this was the Nightmare’s last horrible jest for both she and her love.

No! You will not die! Tyrande almost angrily thought at Malfurion.

I will not let you do this!

Her anger was misplaced, of course, but it drove her on.

Tyrande had only the vague shape of a keep that evidently should not exist here to guide her path. Even through the thickest of the mist, it remained just visible enough. Again, she was aware that it could be a trap, but it was her only clue.

Tyrande remained aware that there was something else lurking in the mist, something that ached to reach her. She knew that it was tied to the sleepers that Eranikus had feared he had harmed through attacking their dream shapes, but sensed that it went deeper and darker than even those.

And whatever it was pressed closer and closer as she progressed.

The murky keep appeared no nearer than previous, which also concerned her. In the Emerald Dream, distance and time were without finite meaning. Malfurion had taught her that much. For him, his captivity might have seemed like centuries, not years. He could be very nearby, yet she might have to run the equivalent of days to reach his location.

“No!” she murmured. “I will reach him and soon!”

No…no…no…the mist suddenly whispered in a thousand voices. No…no…no…

The high priestess glared at the dank, nearly unseen landscape, seeking the whisperers. She prayed to Elune and the glaive glowed. Tyrande brought the weapon’s illumination to the left, but the wedge it cut revealed only more scattering carrion bugs.

But just beyond the light-Tyrande moved toward it, but whatever it was retreated with the mist. It was there, just vaguely seen.

And waiting for her to make a fatal misstep.

Mother Moon, guide me now…steel my will… the night elf prayed.

Will…will…came the whispers.

She could not help but shiver. They did not only echo her words, but her very thoughts. Was there nothing safe?

Nothing safe…nothing safe…nothing safe…

Tyrande had her answer. Nevertheless, she did not even consider retreating. Her desire, her mission, was a clear one. She had never thought that she might sneak up unnoticed to Malfurion.

The high priestess expected to fight and fight hard. Therefore, if the Nightmare did know she was there and what she intended, it hardly made a difference.

“I will face anything you throw at me,” she muttered to the mist.

“And I will vanquish it!”

There was no mocking whisper. Whether that was for good or ill, Tyrande could not say.

She pressed on. Although the vermin fled from her, she could hear them quickly returning in her wake. In addition, the ground itself grew more and more slick as a black-green substance that reminded her of the bugs’ insides covered everything. She had to pull her feet free, an act most often accompanied by a sickening, sticky sound. Her progress slowed.

“It will take more than this,” she told the mist.

A feminine chuckle wafted through the mist.

The chuckle chilled Tyrande more than anything else thus far.

She knew that laugh, still dreamed of that laugh.

It was Azshara’s laugh.

But the queen of the night elves was at the bottom of the sea that marked where her city and the Well of Eternity had once been situated…at least, as far as Tyrande knew. It was that tiny bit of doubt, though, that knowledge that she had never actually witnessed Azshara’s death, that had caused the nightmares she had suffered on and off over the centuries. Even though the mad queen — enthralled by the power of Sargeras and thinking herself the titan’s future consort — had surely had no opportunity to flee Zin-Azshari, perhaps she still had managed somehow.