Dusk was blood-red, and the setting sun streamed between the branches of the ancient trees in Ashenvale. The bloodstains on Malfurion’s deerskin cloak were still wet. As he lifted the flap of the tent, the damp scent of pine resin, mixed with the bitterness of medicinal herbs, washed over him. Tyrande was wiping her moonblade with a cloth soaked in moonlight. The silver gleam of the blade cast butterfly-wing shadows beneath her eyes. Illidan leaned against the bronze pillar supporting the tent roof. Fel sparks danced at his fingertips, flickering in the gloom and dividing his profile into fragments of light and shadow.
“That was no ordinary darkness.” Malfurion’s fingertip traced the tactical map, leaving a scorch mark where the mysterious man had launched his ambush. “When his cloak billowed, I smelled the corruption of the Emerald Dream, like the heart of an oak hollowed out by a swarm of insects.”
