Azjara

Illidan's unexpected, hatred-fueled Eye Beam was less a tactical maneuver and more a dramatic declaration of "I hate everything, especially you!"—a move Galen hadn't quite factored into his meticulously crafted battle plan. This guy's pride was so immense, it probably had its own gravitational pull. However, it didn't so much disrupt Galen's grand strategy as add a delightfully chaotic, green-tinged flourish. Without a second thought, he ripped Thunderfury from his waist, a lightning bolt of pure, unadulterated fury, and bellowed, "CHARGE—! And try not to trip on any tentacles!"

"CHARGE!" The Scarlet Crusade, a glorious tide of gleaming armor and unwavering faith, echoed their Highlord's battle cry. Over ten thousand paladins, looking like a particularly shiny, very angry bulldozer, surged forward as the vanguard, followed by five entire legions, a veritable tsunami of righteous indignation, launching a full-scale assault.

The Nagas, bless their fanatical, scaly hearts, were utterly unwilling to back down—behind them lay their mistress's palace, probably filled with expensive seashell décor. Brandishing their tridents like deranged pitchforks, they howled like banshees at a discount sale and charged headlong at the ranks of the land-dwellers. In an instant, the Scarlet Crusade and the Naga forces stationed around the Queen's Court erupted into a full-blown, utterly unhinged battle royale! The clash of steel and war cries filled the very air, a symphony of destruction, and within moments, hundreds of Naga corpses littered the ground like discarded fish scales. Yet their numbers seemed as endless as a bad dream, and the Scarlet Crusade's casualties steadily mounted, each fallen paladin adding to the growing pile of "oh, dear."

From the Naga's rear, a sinister, pulsating, octopus-like creature, looking like a sentient, very annoyed purple blob, fired a dark, soul-sucking ray at the fallen bodies. Purple souls, looking utterly bewildered, were forcibly ripped from the corpses, then, with a horrifying pop, turned to attack the surrounding crusaders. It was Soulbinder Ozmash, making his grand entrance and proving that even octopi could be evil necromancers!

Galen, ever the multi-tasker, lightly tapped his forehead, establishing a psychic connection with the massive, golden kraken, Ozumat, who was probably just trying to enjoy a nice nap. The next moment—a colossal, golden tentacle, looking like a particularly enthusiastic noodle, erupted from the waterfall behind the Queen's Court, coiled around the startled blue octopus, and, with a sound suspiciously like a giant toilet flush, dragged it into the murky depths. Problem solved, Ozumat could go back to napping.

This brief, utterly bizarre interruption did precisely nothing to slow the battle. Both sides were locked in such a frenzied, bloodthirsty slaughter that the fighters had no attention to spare beyond their immediate surroundings. They were too busy trying not to get impaled, decapitated, or accidentally eaten by a very large fish-person.

The seawater pooling on the ground was soon stained a rather festive shade of red with blood. Breathing in the thick, metallic scent, Galen turned to Thalendris and Tortheldrin, a look of serene confidence on his face. "I leave this delightful carnage to you two. Try not to get too messy."

"Understood, Highlord. We'll make sure it's tastefully done."

"No problem, Highlord! We'll even bring snacks for the clean-up crew!" Thalendris and Tortheldrin nodded in affirmation, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Galen then gestured to Illidan, Farondis, Elisande, and Vashj—it was time to move. The main event was about to begin.

Illidan, predictably, took the lead, his newly recruited, surprisingly elite Tideblade murlocs following closely, looking like very enthusiastic, very stabby toddlers as they stormed toward the gates of the Eternal Palace. Behind him came Elisande with a contingent of her perpetually grumpy Duskwatch and Prince Farondis with a squad of his equally elite Court Nightwatchers, who probably just wanted to go home and read. Bringing up the rear were Vashj's Lightforged Naga, gleaming like angry, holy snakes, and Galen's personal paladin retinue, who were probably wondering why they always got stuck with the weird assignments.

Illidan burned with a nameless fury, a simmering rage that made his demonic hooves leave scorched footprints in their wake. The intense heat vaporized residual seawater, sending thick plumes of steam into the air, creating a dramatic, hellish fog. Within the swirling mist, a sinister green glaive flashed—every Naga raider, every unfortunate soul in the demon hunter's path, was instantly bisected. Severed limbs and gushing green blood painted the ground like a scene from a particularly avant-garde abyss, a true masterpiece of dismemberment.

But these Nagas were no ordinary foes—oh no. They had been handpicked by Azshara herself, their minds lovingly broken by the Void. Madness made them fearless, seeing death not as an end, but as a glorious, tentacle-filled ascension. They were the ultimate fanboys, utterly convinced they were doing N'Zoth a solid.

Unlike their brutish male counterparts, the higher-ranking Naga sea witches, being slightly more evolved, retained a few more of their emotions. Terrified by Illidan's monstrous visage (which, to be fair, was quite monstrous), they scattered in a panic, looking like a flock of very confused, very scaly chickens. Yet the blood-crazed demon hunter would not let such delicious prey escape so easily. With a flick of his wrist, the twin blades of the Warglaives of Azzinoth arced through the air, slicing the fleeing witches in half at the waist or, for variety, simply cleaving off their arms. Their lifeless bodies collapsed mid-flight, probably still wondering if they'd left the oven on.

Through sheer, unadulterated slaughter, Illidan carved a path of blood, a crimson highway of death, allowing Galen and the others to advance unhindered to the platform of the Queen's Court. It was less a strategic advance and more a very violent parade.

BOOM!

A barrage of meteoric fire—Prince Farondis's signature spell, which usually involved a lot of dramatic pointing—shattered the palace's ancient wards with brute force, sending glittering shards of magic everywhere. This allowed the first outsiders in ten thousand years to step inside, probably tracking mud all over the pristine floors.

The queen's court was brilliantly lit, the glow of enchanted orbs illuminating the city's Highborne architecture in perfect, shimmering clarity. The streets they now walked were an exact replica of the ancient night elf capital—residences, shops, everything preserved as it had been, right down to the little "Beware of Dog" signs. In the distance, the towering palace stood as proud and regal as it had ten millennia ago, looking like it hadn't aged a day, unlike some of its former inhabitants.

"Such a familiar sight," Galen murmured, a hint of wistful nostalgia in his voice.

"Of course it is, you oaf," Vashj, now fully embracing her Naga form, slithered to his side, her voice a dry hiss. "I was the one who oversaw the relocation of the old palace ruins from Zin-Azshari, stone by painstaking stone, to rebuild it here. You try moving a million tons of ancient masonry without magic. It's a nightmare." Since arriving in Nazjatar, she had dismissed the Dragon Soul's illusion, preferring her natural, scaly form for battle. It was much more aerodynamic.

"After ten thousand years, Nazjatar once housed nearly a million Naga at its peak. To manage overpopulation, which was getting a bit squishy, we later resettled many to Vashj'ir, another sunken realm. Think of it as a very exclusive, underwater retirement community." The Naga inhabiting coastal regions—like the Baradin Bay, Darkshore, Stranglethorn, and Dustwallow Marsh—were all exiles, minor clans cast out from the empire, probably for not using enough glitter.

Only Azshara's most loyal subjects, the ones who knew how to properly polish a seashell, were permitted to dwell near the Eternal Palace.

Yet now, the streets were completely empty. Not a single Naga in sight. Not even a stray crab.

Everyone's expressions darkened. Clearly, Azshara had anticipated their decapitation strike and evacuated the palace in advance. The Queen was not one for impromptu meet-and-greets.

The group pressed forward, though now with heightened caution, their steps echoing ominously in the silent city. Elisande and Prince Farondis shielded themselves in shimmering arcane barriers, wary of ambush, probably expecting a giant "SURPRISE!" banner to drop at any moment.

"Ahead lies the noble district," Vashj explained, her eyes scanning for hidden threats, her tongue flicking out occasionally. "The closer a Naga's dwelling is to the queen's chambers, the higher their status. It was all about real estate, even then."

"These are the descendants of the original Highborne," she continued, a hint of disdain in her voice. "Like me, they were among the first transformed after the Sundering. We retained all the knowledge and intellect of our elven heritage—Queen Azshara's most prized assets, the core of her rule. The ones who could still do long division."

Galen understood. The first-generation Naga were the ones Azshara had fought to preserve—scholars, artisans, archmages, Moon Guard—those who had lived through the empire's golden age and remembered its glory. They were the old guard, the ones who still complained about "kids these days."

Later generations, born in the depths, knew nothing of that glorious past. Some exiled tribes even reverted to savagery, probably forgetting how to use cutlery.

And that was why they were more easily corrupted by N'Zoth's whispers, splitting the Naga into factions. It was a classic generational divide, but with more tentacles and existential dread.

The journey from the outer city to the inner palace was largely uneventful, which, given their luck, was suspiciously uneventful. With Vashj's intimate familiarity with the terrain and Illidan's relentless, unthinking assault, the group quickly reached the core of the Eternal Palace. There, they finally encountered real resistance. Not just a few angry fish-people, but real resistance.

Ahead stood rows of formidable Naga royal guards, their formation unyielding, their tridents held at the ready. Vashj stepped forward with her Lightforged Naga, a look of steely determination on her face, and snarled, "Sivara, stand aside. We demand an audience with the Queen! And bring her some tea, she looks stressed."

Blocking their path was Sivara, the abyssal commander with the unfortunate centaur-like lower body. She smirked disdainfully at Vashj's words, her lobster claws clicking menacingly. "Traitors. You are unworthy of seeing the Queen! And you're late for your appointment!"

Galen sighed inwardly. He had barely managed to placate Vashj's inner turmoil by framing this as a "cooperative" mission, a delicate dance of diplomacy, and now this freakish Naga had to go and poke at her sore spot with a very sharp stick. The word "traitor" struck a nerve—Vashj's expression darkened, her beautiful features twisting into a mask of icy fury as she drew her serpentine longbow. Frost magic surged around her, and the temperature in the hall, ominously known as the Theater of Pain, plummeted. Water trickling in the corners froze solid, forming tiny, dramatic ice sculptures.

"I. Did. Not. Betray. The. Queen." She spat each word with icy venom, each syllable a frozen dagger.

But the sudden chill did not faze Sivara or the royal guards. Living in the crushing depths, they were no strangers to frost magic; they practically bathed in it. Sivara, with a flourish, conjured an identical frost longbow, already nocked with an icy arrow, looking like a very angry ice sculpture.

"If you wish to pass, you'll have to walk over our corpses! Which, frankly, would be quite rude! Servants of the master—ATTACK!"

"SHOOM!" The moment Sivara released her arrow, it streaked toward Vashj's face—only to be intercepted midair by another frost arrow, fired with impossible speed. It was a magical game of chicken.

Illidan and the others tensed, ready to strike, their weapons gleaming, but Galen stopped them with a raised hand. He had noticed something.

"Hold," he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "These are just more Naga whose minds have been fried by N'Zoth's whispers. Let's see which is stronger—Lightforged Naga or Void-corrupted Naga! My money's on the shiny ones!" Then, turning to the Serpent Lady, who was still trading ranged shots with Sivara, he called, "Hey, don't hold back, darling. Show her what a real queen's handmaiden can do!"

Galen could tell Vashj was restraining herself, likely reluctant to harm her former kin, a touch of lingering loyalty. "This freak isn't loyal to the Queen—she's one of the Old God's puppets! A glorified sock puppet!" He added a taunt for good measure: "Make it quick. If Azshara's royal guard has been infiltrated by such... unfortunate specimens, I fear she might be in danger! Or at least in need of a new interior decorator!"

What danger? Azshara's power and intellect were among the absolute pinnacle of Azeroth. A chained N'Zoth stood no chance against the Naga Queen at her full, glorious strength. But Vashj didn't need to know that.

"CRACK!" A bolt of sizzling silver lightning erupted from Vashj's hands, striking the nearest Void-corrupted Naga. The violent electricity exploded on impact, then arced through the water to shock dozens more charging foes. The first wave died instantly, turning into crispy, electrocuted husks; the second, paralyzed and twitching, were swiftly crushed by Lightforged Naga wielding massive anchors, looking like very enthusiastic, very heavy-handed bouncers.

With her masterful control, Vashj turned the floor into a slippery, electrified slaughterhouse in seconds. It was a truly shocking display.

"Damn you, you traitorous snake!" Sivara's face twisted in fury, but she refused to back down, her lobster claws clicking in frustration. Her upper arms continued firing frost arrows while her lower hands wove a spell—a billowing green mist descended upon the Lightforged Naga, looking suspiciously like a very aggressive fart cloud.

Poison. Even from a distance, Galen could smell its sickly sweetness, like a thousand rotten candies.

Sivara—master of frost and venom. A truly delightful combination.

But Vashj was unfazed. She, too, was a mistress of toxins—and more. Frost, poison, lightning. She knew exactly how to counter the deadly mist. She was about to unleash a counter-spell that would make Sivara's head spin.

Yet before she could act, golden light flared across the Theater of Pain—several grievously wounded Lightforged Naga, with a final, defiant roar, chose to self-destruct. In death, their bodies erupted with holy energy, searing nearby Void-Naga into oblivion and miraculously cleansing their allies of the insidious poison. It was a glorious, if slightly messy, sacrifice.

The sight pained Galen. Unlike the Curse of Flesh, which worked through the Forge of Wills' subtle, almost polite influence, the Naga had been directly warped by N'Zoth's Void energies, like a bad plastic surgeon. Their Lightforging process was as volatile as that of the black dragons—many exploded during the conversion, turning into sparkly dust. Only the strongest-willed, most powerful Naga survived the ordeal, probably with a permanent headache.

Though Naga numbers dwarfed those of black dragons, and years of effort had built a decent force, losing them as suicide bombers was still, in Galen's professional opinion, a colossal waste of perfectly good cannon fodder.

"ARGH!" Near Sivara, a dying Lightforged Naga unleashed its holy explosion. The commander took the full brunt—her Void-tainted flesh sizzled like acid had been poured on it, leaving her arms and chest scorched and smoking. She looked like a burnt marshmallow.

"Master! Save me! I'm melting!" she wailed, her voice a pathetic gurgle.

The Lightforged Naga were no weaklings—their holy energy was potent, like concentrated sunshine. Sivara's body burned from within, her Void essence clashing violently with the invading Light, a truly spectacular internal battle.

"Pathetic..."

Her cries did summon aid—but not the kind she hoped for. A massive faceless one, looking like a particularly aggressive pile of sentient spaghetti, emerged from the shadows, its grotesque limbs lashing out. With a single, crushing grip, it reduced Sivara to pulp, ending her suffering (and her complaints).

"Worthless. You couldn't even bear a fraction of the master's power! And you called yourself a commander?" The faceless one turned its many, many eyes toward Galen's group, a look of pure, unadulterated malice on its... face.

"Invaders! Drown! And in drowning, all eyes shall open! Preferably to the glory of N'Zoth!"

It was Zaxasj, the Herald of N'Zoth! And he sounded very, very confident.

"Finally, a worthy opponent! One that doesn't just explode on contact!" Illidan bared his fangs in a gleeful grin, his eyes practically sparkling with anticipation.

"He's all yours, big guy. Try not to get any of his slime on us." Elisande, the Grand Magistrix of Suramar, hadn't fought in millennia—her skills were rusty, and she preferred a nice cup of tea to a messy brawl. Prince Farondis, though powerful, saw himself more as a scholar than a battle-hungry warrior. Both agreed to leave the grotesque faceless one to Illidan, who was clearly enjoying himself far too much.

"Perfect!" The green demonic tattoos on the demon hunter's bare torso flared to life as his bat-like wings unfurled, looking like a very angry cape. With a powerful thrust, he shot forward like an arrow—a very fast, very green arrow—

BOOM!

Afterimages streaked through the air as Illidan, now fully demonized and wreathed in fel flames, crashed into Zaxasj with devastating force. The faceless one's shoulder armor shattered instantly, sounding like a bag of potato chips exploding, and one of his tentacle-like limbs was split open by the Warglaives of Azzinoth. Black blood, looking suspiciously like crude oil, gushed from the deep wound, spraying across the floor like a very messy art project.

Roaring in fury, Zaxasj swung his massive, malformed claw at Illidan, who backflipped out of range with graceful agility. Though the strike missed, it forced the demon hunter to retreat—just as the faceless one intended. Without hesitation, he began channeling dark magic. A pitch-black rift tore open behind him, spewing forth a tide of unspeakable horrors that surged toward Illidan! It was like a very bad horror movie, but with more tentacles.

The Tideblade murloc swordmasters, seeing their new lord surrounded by squirming, shadowy abominations, moved to assist—but Galen stopped them.

"Hey, don't interfere. Those are Old God minions, masters of shadow magic that corrupts the mind. I don't doubt your will is unshakable, but if you care about your kin's sanity, stay put and let your boss handle this. He enjoys this kind of thing."

Turning to Vashj, he saw she had already finished off the last of the Void-Naga, clearing the battlefield with ruthless efficiency. She was a very tidy fighter.

"Let's head to the Queen's chambers. Illidan can handle this alone. He's probably having the time of his life."

Leaving the Tideblades to wait patiently for their master, the group pressed on. The Halls of the Chosen, the Lightwater Basin, the Hatchery, the Queen's Court—all were eerily empty. Not a single Naga, not a single dust bunny.

Everyone in the party was sharp enough to realize: Azshara had already completed her plan. She had cut her losses, probably with a dramatic flourish, and fled.

But—would the proud Queen of the Naga truly abandon her capital so easily? It seemed rather un-Azshara-like.

Doubt gnawing at her, Vashj bypassed the remaining areas and led them straight to Azshara's private sanctum, probably muttering about the Queen's annoying habits.

Here, at last, they found signs of life. Actual, breathing, non-exploding life.

Naga royal guards, wielding gleaming silver tridents, stood vigil outside the Queen's towering spire. Unlike Sivara's forces, these elite warriors made no move to attack. A silent understanding passed between both sides, a mutual agreement not to start a pointless brawl, and the group halted, waiting.

Soon, the spire's grand doors swung open with a theatrical flourish, and a stunning night elf handmaiden emerged, looking impossibly serene.

Farondis and Elisande, both master spellcasters, instantly recognized the illusion magic cloaking her. It was a very good illusion, but not good enough for them.

"Pashmar!" Vashj blurted out, a hint of surprise in her voice.

The handmaiden, utterly ignoring Vashj, lifted her chin imperiously. "Honored guests, Her Majesty has been expecting you. She's just finishing her beauty routine. Follow me."

Leaving their forces behind—Lightforged Naga, paladins, Duskwatch, and Nightwatchers, who were probably all very relieved—Galen's small group followed the illusionary servant. Farondis and Elisande remained tense, their minds sharp with caution. They were about to face the most powerful sorceress in Azeroth's history, a woman so formidable even Archimonde had probably sent her a nervous Christmas card.

Unbeknownst to them, Pashmar was just as nervous, if not more so. Her back was rigid with tension, probably convinced she was about to be turned into a new rug.

Galen, Prince Farondis, Grand Magistrix Elisande, and Chief Handmaiden Vashj—each a legend from the ancient empire. Azshara, the "Light of Lights," had always demanded excellence. Only the most elite of the Highborne had ever held her favor, the ones who could perfectly balance a teacup on their head while reciting ancient poetry.

And Vashj? Not just any noblewoman could become the Queen's handmaiden. Status was the first hurdle—her mother had ruled the city of Vashj'ir, which helped. But true proximity to the Queen required ability. Without it, one would never even glimpse her radiance, let alone get to polish her tentacles.

Pashmar knew this well. She had been a mere servant, probably polishing a lot of very dusty things, until Vashj's disappearance, Nazjatar's fall, and Lady Vashj's failures left the Queen's inner circle barren. Only then had she risen to become an adjudicator in the royal court, a rather lonely promotion.

Inside the spire, they entered the grand hall—and there, seated upon her throne, was Queen Azshara. Looking utterly, breathtakingly, annoyingly perfect.

Three former rulers of the ancient empire now stood before the sovereign they had once served, probably feeling a sudden urge to curtsy.

"Hmhmhm..."

"Ahahaha!"

"Welcome to the Eternal Palace, my most loyal courtiers—and Lady Vashj, to whom I granted every honor and privilege, and who then ran off with my enemies. How quaint."

"I've been waiting. And I'm getting impatient."

Azshara's laughter, laced with mockery yet dripping with allure, echoed through the hall. Her voice was languid, almost bored, yet carried the weight of absolute, unyielding authority. She sounded like she was simultaneously judging your outfit and planning your demise.

And—she was not in her Naga form.

Before them stood the Queen as Galen remembered her: the flawless image of the night elf empire's ruler, the "Light of Lights." Perfect in figure, face, and those golden, star-filled eyes that seemed to see right through your soul and judge your life choices.

Farondis and Elisande stiffened, their gazes darting away uncomfortably, probably wishing they'd stayed outside with the exploding Nagas. Vashj had already prostrated herself on the floor, looking utterly humiliated.

Only Galen met Azshara's imperious stare head-on, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

It took him a moment to confirm—this was no magical projection or illusion. It was her. The sheer realism of her glamour defied even his perception. She was that good.

"Vashj," Azshara purred, her voice dripping with condescension, "why grovel so? Have you betrayed me, witnessed my failure, and now come to flaunt your repentance before your... man?"

"You disgust me. And your taste in companions is questionable."

As the Queen's words fell, the already frigid hall grew even colder. A ghostly mist rose, swirling around them like a spectral shroud, probably smelling faintly of judgment and old magic.