He put his hand to his chest, then drew the outline of a circle in which he then added two vertical, curving streaks. The streaks represented the antlers of Cenarius. The full symbol itself represented the Cenarion Circle.

The druids clasped their hands together in preparation for the beginning of their efforts. Broll cleared his mind of concerns and petty mortal thoughts and instead began to put himself into a meditative trance. Beside him, Hamuul did the same.

Turning to Teldrassil, Fandral touched the great trunk with his free hand. His fingers ran down the coarse bark.

Within the World Tree, something stirred, something that every druid could feel as if it were a part of them. Even in his meditative state, Broll sensed a tremendous presence joining the convocation… Teldrassil’s essence touching those who had helped raise it up.

The World Tree was more than merely the home of the night elves. It was linked to the very health of Azeroth. Ill, it affected not merely its immediate surroundings, but those lands beyond the island. Even the very air or the rushing seas were not immune. At the very least, a Teldrassil that was not well could not maintain the balance between nature and decay.

The ground shook, but neither Broll nor any of the others felt any fear, not even when what first appeared to be tentacles burst underneath them.

But these were not tentacles. Rather, they were the very roots of Teldrassil. Toward each of the druids a root moved, snaking up to them as if about to strike. Yet none moved away. They knew that Teldrassil did not seek to harm them, but instead asked for their help…

One massive root already twined about Fandral. As it did, from the main root tiny extensions sprouted. They, in turn, wrapped around the archdruid like creeper vines, until he stood halfshrouded by them.

It was a variation — a tremendous one, naturally — of one of the ways in which the druids communed with the flora of Azeroth. What could not be seen was that the tendrils permeated their very beings, almost merging night elf and plant as one.

Fandral held forth the Idol of Remulos. It now glowed a faint green, the color of the dragon it not only represented but also that of the true beast bound to it. Not even Remulos knew to which of the green dragons his creation had been bound, for that choice had been made in secret by Ysera. Whatever dragon had been chosen, it had been a mighty one, indeed.

Broll felt some trepidation as the magic of the figurine touched both him and Teldrassil’s root, but his trust in the archdruid overcame his memories of the artifact’s foul deeds. The magic seeped into the druid’s mind and soul…

He became Teldrassil and Teldrassil became him.

Broll could not keep back the euphoria that filled him. He felt as if all Azeroth lay open to him, so deep and so far did the World Tree’s roots already spread. He saw beyond the island, beyond the surrounding waters…

But before his consciousness could stretch further, Broll felt a tug. A hint of weakness touched him. But Fandral’s thoughts filled his mind, assuring him — and the rest — of the safety of what he planned.

The power of the druids flowed into Teldrassil, feeding it.

Strengthening it. With so much will and desire behind their offering, Broll was certain that whatever ailed the Great Tree would be vanquished and that then, as the archdruid had indicated, it would then be able to assist them in rescuing Malfurion —

No sooner had he thought of his shan’do, than Broll experienced a jarring in his consciousness. A darkness spread through his thoughts and he felt the same uneasiness that had hit him when he had imagined Teldrassil monstrously corrupted. Broll tried to dismiss that uneasiness, but it grew —

Broll Bearmantle…

The calling of his name shattered the last of the druid’s calm.

Did he know that voice? Was it —

The binding between Teldrassil and him snapped. Broll let out a gasp and fell to one knee. Vaguely, he sensed others around him, including Hamuul. Was it Hamuul who had called out to him, as he had earlier? No, it almost didn’t seem real; the sound of it had vanished from his thoughts without a trace.

It was hard to focus, as if, like a dream, his mind was already slipping away to his subconscious…

Hamuul put a hand on his shoulder. Broll looked up. A handful of druids had surrounded him, mostly friends.

“I’m well,” he told them, breathless. “Forgive me for shattering the spell—”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Naralex commented as he crouched beside Broll, sounding quite puzzled. “Hamuul called attention to your bent body and we who were nearest quickly came, but you did not cut off our efforts …”

Naralex and Hamuul aided the druid in standing. Broll was flush with embarrassment. “If not my lacking, then what?”

But even as he spoke, he sensed through the land around him that the druids were no longer alone. A presence was fast approaching.

Broll looked toward Fandral, who was standing with his back to Teldrassil and his gaze upon the path to their left. It was now clear to him that the archdruid had stopped the spellwork due to the approach of outsiders.

A group of newcomers marched into the convocation without hesitation, those behind spreading out in protection of their leader.

Although they were night elves, they could never be mistaken for druids.

All female and clearly of a religious order, they wore empty sheaths at their sides and quivers on their backs; Broll figured they must have left behind their weapons in respect to those of the druidic calling. He could tell from their lithe forms and gracefulness that these females were proficient in not only a variety of weapons, but hand-to-hand combat as well.

There were eleven in this party, though the number of their order was greater than that by far. They were clad in shimmering moonlight-silver robes that stretched down to their ankles. Long, elegant teardrops of silver began from the middle of their bodices and descended roughly halfway down, each end encased in a blue orb. Near the waist, arched, linked belts clasped onto decorative crests. The robes were very free-flowing, allowing much room and maneuverability for those also trained in martial arts. Even without blades or bows, the eleven represented a ready fighting force.

Their leader quickly — almost impatiently — scanned over the druids. She spread her hands… and through the overcast sky there suddenly shone the larger of Azeroth’s two moons, illuminating the area.

“Our presence is not troublesome here, is it?” Tyrande Whisperwind politely asked. “After all, this is not where the Circle generally convenes …”

“The Sisterhood of Elune is ever welcome,” Fandral answered.

“Although surely a convocation of druids is of little import to the high priestess of the moon goddess and ruler of all night elves …”

“It would not be important, even with its location unusual,” she replied, her expression hardening in a manner that made Fandral frown and the other druids stir, “if Elune herself had not revealed to me the dread truth.”

There were rumblings among the druids. Fandral waved for silence. Frowning, he asked, “What ‘dread truth,’ High Priestess?”

Tyrande swallowed, the only sign that the news touched her especially. “Malfurion is dying …”

“Impossible! We have kept his barrow den secure and your own priestesses minister to his body daily. There is no reason for such a dire circumstance—”

“Nevertheless, there is,” she returned. “His situation has changed. Malfurion is dying and we must act with all possible haste.”

Before Fandral could respond, Broll found himself uttering, “And what shall we do, High Priestess?”

Tyrande’s voice was edged with steel. “First, we must journey to the Moonglade.”