Her expert strike just below the orc’s knee sent Thura falling to the side as her leg slipped. The orc’s grip on the ax loosened. The high priestess reached for the weapon —

Tyrande…a voice called in her head.

“Malfurion?” She could not be certain, but it seemed to be him.

“Malfurion—”

Distracted, she did not sense Thura’s renewed attack. The orc’s heavy fist caught her in the throat.

With a gasp, she tumbled to her knees. Desperately seeking air, Tyrande thought about the fact that Thura would next slay her…and all because of the voice. The high priestess fought to regain her breath in time to save herself.

And yet, the killing blow did not land. Finally able to breathe again, Tyrande managed to look up.

Thura was gone.

Tyrande struggled to her feet. She saw the great shadow and knew where the orc had gone. Still astounded that Thura had not attempted to slay her, the night elf gave pursuit.

But where the mist had in the past so readily given way to the Mother Moon’s illumination, now it pressed against the night elf as if seeking to smother her. Tyrande focused her mind, seeking to calm herself. As she did, the silver light grew stronger and the mist receded some.

Knowing that she would have to be satisfied with that, the high priestess pushed forward. She concentrated on the vast shadow. It ever loomed nearer, yet still she could not make out the tree that cast it.

But she did make out something else. Another, smaller tree.

Tyrande’s step faltered at the sight of it. Its monstrously twisted form shook her to the core. She felt both repulsed by it and saddened for the obvious torture it must be going through.

Of Thura, there was no sign, and Tyrande feared that she had followed the wrong path. Yet as she started to turn to her left, something drew her gaze back to the horrific tree. Even as it was, it did not disturb her as the shadow looming over it, the shadow that still refused to reveal its source.

Something whispered. Tyrande spun around to face from where the sound had come, only to hear another in the opposite direction.

A third caught her ear even before the night elf could turn to the second.

The mists were suddenly filled with whispers, but not just any whispers. Although Tyrande could not make out what they said, their sense was that of pleading. They needed help. They begged for help.

And despite the sinister aspects of the mist, the high priestess knew that the pleading was true.

Drawn to them by her innate compassion, Tyrande again turned from the tortured tree. She stretched a hand toward one of the murky shapes she saw there. For the first time it moved toward her rather than fled.

But something suddenly snagged her foot. Thinking she had walked into a trap, the high priestess immediately prayed to Elune, then shaped a spear of pure illumination from her light. Such an effort was costly to Tyrande, but she no longer felt as if she had any choice.

The spear came down on what held her foot. The light pierced as if made of true steel.

What she took at first for a tentacle immediately released its grip. Pinned by her gleaming spear, it writhed in obvious agony.

Only then did Tyrande realize that it was not a tentacle, but a root.

And realizing that, the enormity of what she had done struck her hard. The high priestess immediately dismissed the spear of light.

As it vanished, Tyrande knelt to heal the root. She was not a druid, but she felt that surely Elune would take pity on the damage accidentally done to an innocent by her follower.

As she touched the root, once more Tyrande felt Malfurion’s presence. It was so strong that she could almost believe that he was actually there as opposed to entering her dreams.

Her eyes widened.

She looked at the tortured tree. Her faced paled.

“Malfurion…”

The whispers sought to drive him mad, so Broll thought as he raced along the dank landscape in cat form. It was unfortunate that in this huge, feline shape his hearing was more acute. That only served the whispers.

But his nose served him. He had Tyrande’s scent and it was no trick. He was near.

His paws were caked with the sickening ooze that was the vermin’s insides, but even the acidic burn it caused was not enough to slow the druid. Each step crushed more of the foul creatures to mush and Broll’s only regret was that behind him he knew that new ones formed from the shattered remnants of the old.

The mists continually threatened to engulf him, but with an occasional slash of his paw that was accompanied by magical purple fire, the cat kept both the mist and the lurkers within at just a safe enough distance.

Then, a huge rumbling shook both Broll and his surroundings.

Despite his keen reflexes, the great cat was tossed around. Broll managed to roll back on his feet, then buried his claws in the ground as he regained his senses.

A huge shape swooped overhead. It was followed by another and another and another.

And even through the thick mist, the druid could see that they were dragons. Dragons of an emerald hue. Ysera’s subjects were still defending the Dream. The druid counted at least ten and prayed that there were far more.

Just as they were about to leave him behind, one suddenly broke from the group. It dove down toward the druid, who saw that it was female.

“What do you do here alone, night elf…and in your mortal form?”

He did not recognize the dragon, but that was not necessarily a surprise. Transforming, Broll quickly told her.

She gasped in surprise. “Eranikus flies the Dream again!

This—” She looked up in the direction the other leviathans had gone, as if hearing something. Her eyes widened.

The dragon growled, then said to the druid, “Night elf, climb atop!

I will take you with me!”

“My friends—”

“Climb atop me! I will explain when we are aloft!”

She did not add anything about it being safer up above and Broll knew better than to believe it so. With corrupted such as Lethon lurking about and the abilities of the Nightmare still very much a mystery, it was possible that “above” was even less safe than the ground.

Of course, with a dragon as his mount, the night elf felt a little safer.

Yet, as they rose into the sky, Broll saw that the foulness of the Nightmare now extended far beyond where it had previously. He could no longer make out anything but mist-enshrouded hills.

No, he could make something else out. In what seemed every direction — even farther up — brief but brilliant flashes of magical energy erupted like lightning during a fantastic storm. Again, there came the intense rumbling, so powerful that it even caused the green dragon to waver a moment.

“What’s happening?” he shouted.

The dragon twisted her head around so as to stare him square in the eye, though hers were closed, of course. “Did you not hear his call? You who are of his kind and seek him even now? Listen!”

“His—” But even as he started to speak, the druid did hear the call. It was the summons of the last one he would have expected to hear from, but the one from whom Broll had most hoped to hear.

Malfurion’s call.

It was not in the form of words, and yet it summoned those fighting against the Nightmare to be vigilant. Something was about to happen, something significant.

It was clearly also warning them. Malfurion did not want anyone hurt or perishing because of him. Yet the archdruid — wherever he was — also obviously knew that this went beyond his imprisonment.

This threatened everything.

“But how can this be?” the night elf asked. “And what do we do, then?”

“Can you not see it yet?” the green dragon called back, beating her wings harder. “Can you not feel its wrongness? Look ahead