A horrific winged form materialized.

“The Nightmare desires these mortals…especially the female night elf…” the foul dragon Emeriss cooed. Her diseased and decaying body filled the air before them. “Come accept the inevitable…Azeroth and the Nightmare are now one…”

“You shall not have them!” the other dragon countered. She exhaled.

It resembled fire, but fire that was more ghost than real. Yet when it struck Emeriss, the corrupted dragon howled in agony and her body glittered as if suddenly covered in a million fireflies.

Ysera’s servant did not wait. She dove around her struggling foe.

But an angry roar indicated that Emeriss had already shaken off her pain. A moment later the corrupted leviathan soared toward them.

“She flies too swiftly and I fight against forces that I cannot see but that slow me!” the dragon informed her charges. “There is but one thing I can do!”

The magic surrounding the mortals flared so bright that the night elves in particular were forced to shield their eyes.

“Find your Malfurion Stormrage!” their rescuer shouted to them.

“My mistress would not lie!”

And with that, she cast them ahead.

Surrounded by her spell, they were protected from harm. Broll saw what she intended before the rest did.

“The portal! She’s sent us toward—”

Before he could finish, they flew through.

The magic dissipated the moment that they were back in Azeroth. Yet the green dragon had not intended for them to be injured in their landing. They emerged from the portal mere inches from the ground and when the spell vanished, the four simply came to a rest.

All but Lucan immediately leapt to their feet. However, as Broll approached the portal, the energies within…froze.

“Not possible…” he muttered. The druid jumped up to the portal and thrust a hand toward the magical gap.

It was like striking an iron door. Broll grimaced at the brief pain caused by his impetuousness.

The high priestess joined him. “Can we not get through?”

“No…either she sealed it after us…or something sealed it so that she couldn’t follow…”

Tyrande shook her head. “She sent us to safety at her own expense…and all for Malfurion!”

The druid looked over his shoulder. “It’s even a question whether she sent us to safety at all…”

They turned to face Thura. The orc had Brox’s ax ready in her hands. She eyed the other three with wariness.

“Where is he? Where is Malfurion Stormrage?” she demanded.

Her question caused Tyrande to stride toward the husky, greentinted warrior. As she neared, the high priestess glowed with the light of Elune. “He is beyond your petty reach, assassin!”

Thura met her glare…and then, to everyone’s surprise, the orc lowered the weapon. She looked extremely weary.

“He is the one who made me chase him…he tricked me. Why did he wish to die?”

The night elves looked at one another. “He wasn’t seeking death, not truly, anyway.” Tyrande told her. “Your ax was needed to break the spell, I think…”

The orc slumped. “So…my purpose is false…I am nothing.”

“Excuse me,” Lucan interrupted, causing heads to turn to him.

“Was he supposed to come through with us?”

The others looked to where he pointed. It was Broll who recognized the towering figure first.

“Gnarl!” he roared with joy. “You—”

“Get away from him!” Tyrande shouted, dragging Broll back.

The ancient of war let out a nerve-ripping laugh. As he stepped near, the fungus covering his body became evident. His leaves were filled with rot and his eyes glowed black.

“He wishes you to return…” the towering figure rasped.

His eyes were on Tyrande.

“Keep back!” The high priestess started to pray.

Gnarl’s great arm swept toward them. Broll shoved the others back, taking a glancing blow that was still mighty enough to send him to his knees.

The ancient reached for the fallen night elf. Tyrande cut in front of Broll, her expression grimly set. “I’m sorry, Gnarl…”

The light of Elune struck the corrupted ancient dead-on. Gnarl stumbled back…and then righted.

“He is too strong for you this time,” Gnarl mocked. “Azeroth is his…finally…”

As he spoke, the mists thickened. In them formed shapes that quickly defined themselves. Too familiar now were the grasping hands, the ever-shrieking mouths, and the desperate, hungry eyes.

The Nightmare’s slaves surrounded them. The four pressed close together. Gnarl let out a harsh laugh.

Broll blinked. He was in the midst of a different battle and in his hand was a familiar object. The Idol of Remulos. The druid shook his head. This is another dream! This is another trick!

But his surroundings remained constant. Worse, he heard a voice nearby him calling for his help. Against his better judgment, the former gladiator looked —

Tyrande knelt beside a stone cairn. She was weeping, but it took her a moment to realize why.

Malfurion was buried here.

He was dead, though the cause of his death the high priestess could not recall. She only knew that she ached for him, ached for the life together that they had never been allowed to have.

“No!” Tyrande shouted angrily, rising at the same time. “I will not be cheated! We will not be cheated!”

She looked to the sky, where the moon shone full and bright. The high priestess raised her hands to the moon, to Elune.

“Grant me this wish! Fill me with your light as you never have before…”

Tyrande knew that what she hoped to do was wrong — indeed, something about the entire situation struck her as wrong — but a dread determination filled her. She would have Malfurion back!

She would!

The light of the Mother Moon radiated from her. She gestured at the cairn. The silver glow bathed it.

The stones shook. A few at the top fell away.

A skeletal hand thrust out.

Tyrande tried to stop her spell, but it kept feeding Elune’s light into the cairn. The hand shoved more stones away. Despite the silver nature of the Mother Moon’s gift, the cadaverous fingers shone a sinister green.

Then, with a great rumble, the cairn burst apart. Stone rained down on Tyrande.

From the ruined burial mound, a monstrous Malfurion roseThura stood surrounded by the elders of Orgrimmar. She felt ashamed enough to stand before them, but at their head stood the great Thrall himself. He looked terribly disappointed in her, disappointed and angry.

“You’ve shamed your kin,” Thrall declared. “You were given a great weapon and took a blood oath to avenge Broxigar!”

She knelt. “I failed. I know. But the night elf—”

“Lives to laugh at you while the life fluids of Broxigar still drip from his foul hands!”

Thura had no reply.

The orc leader reached out. “You’re not fitting to wield the glorious ax. Give it over.”

Head bent low, Thura offered up the weapon to Thrall. A sense of guilt coursed through her as the ax left her hands.

Thrall hefted the weapon, admiring its balance and workmanship.

Gripping it tight, he glared at the female orc.

“And now, you will make amends for your failure…”

He raised the ax high, preparing for a killing stroke —

Lucan stared at his companions. They stood as statues and with their eyes half-lidded. Their gazes seemed to have no focus.

They were caught up in the Nightmare.

Why he was not as they were was a question to which he had no answer. Likely because he was the least of the threat to the Nightmare. Even now, all the cartographer wanted most was to hide.

And in his desperation, that seemed the wisest choice to Lucan.

The human grabbed his three companions as best he could, hoping that his touch alone might be sufficient. They did not move even then, but Lucan had no time to concern himself with their conditions.