Titan Tech

"Your Majesty, I have not betrayed you! I merely... I merely believed you were under N'Zoth's control. While seeking the waters of the Well of Eternity from Illidan, I was also searching for a way to save you!" Vashj prostrated herself on the floor, her body trembling with emotion.

Seeing this, Galen couldn't bear it any longer. He stepped forward, shielding Vashj. Though his feelings for her weren't as deep as those for the Windrunner sisters—and his initial advances hadn't been entirely pure—Vashj had held onto him for ten thousand years. Galen wasn't the type to discard someone after getting what he wanted. She had earned a place in his heart.

"Your Majesty, it's been a long time!"

And indeed, it had. For Azshara, ten thousand years; for Galen, a mere decade. By the current timeline, Galen was only thirty-five, just entering his fourth decade of life. Ten years apart was a significant stretch for him.

"Galen Remar!" Azshara's gaze locked onto him, her previously elegant tone shifting.

"You dare not kneel before your Queen?"

Yet when Galen remained standing tall, her tone softened with reluctant admiration. "I must admit, your emergence back then truly astonished me. Compared to Tyrande and Malfurion—those peasants who dragged the night elves back into savagery—what you accomplished in Dire Maul far surpassed their failures."

"However!" Her mood shifted again, fury flashing in her eyes. "I elevated you beyond your station, and this is how you repay me?!"

With a flick of her wrist, a devastating arcane blast surged toward Galen.

But Galen was prepared. He raised Scale of the Earth-Warder, deflecting the spell effortlessly. The redirected energy struck the obsidian floor, carving out a meter-wide crater.

Azshara's eyes narrowed. She hadn't held back—that strike, though casual, carried enough power to obliterate most foes. Yet Galen had parried it with ease. His strength was now on par with hers.

As a fellow demigod, she couldn't easily overpower him—and with his mastery of teleportation, pinning him down would be nearly impossible.

For the first time in millennia, Azshara hesitated.

Seizing the moment, Galen spoke. "Your Majesty, times have changed. The magisters who once served you now stand as your equals, wielding power to rival your own."

"The rights and wrongs of the past are clear to us both. Our divergence was never about betrayal—only ideology."

"We both know what lurks in your palace, twisting everything it touches. I know it's N'Zoth. I know his illusions grow stronger by the day, that he teeters on the brink of breaking free."

Azshara cut him off impatiently. "I built an empire without you!"

"Yet you despise what you've become," Galen fired back, unflinching.

He had no complex loyalties toward her like Farondis or Elisande. To him, his time as her "magister" had been a ruse—nothing more.

"What do you want?!"

"What Vashj said is true. She has found a way to lift the curse—to restore our people's true forms."

Lift the curse. Regain their bodies.

This was the key to freeing Azshara and her naga from N'Zoth's influence. More importantly, it meant shedding the grotesque form she loathed—the three extra eyes, the revolting tentacled lower body. She yearned for the elegant legs she once had.

Azshara was no fool. She knew how to weigh her options. If the benefits outweighed the costs, even the sting of betrayal could be endured.

She chose to trust Vashj—one last time.

Raising her scepter, Azshara wove multiple layers of arcane wards around the hall, sealing them in privacy.

"Prove it to me. Now."

Galen helped Vashj to her feet, nodding for her to reveal the Dragon Soul.

The golden disc glowed as Vashj channeled a trickle of magic into it. Titan-forged Order energy surged forth, enveloping her completely.

Under Azshara's watchful gaze, Vashj's writhing serpentine hair smoothed into sleek black tresses. Her six arms merged into two. Then, her tail split—reshaping into long, slender legs as the gray-purple scales dissolved, revealing dusky violet skin beneath.

"Hah... hah... hah..." Vashj gasped, every muscle trembling. The process of purging the Void's corruption felt like molten agony.

Galen draped a cloak over her barely covered form.

"Vashj has proven her loyalty. I've proven my sincerity. What say you, Your Majesty?"

"The Dragon Soul... Titan power?" Azshara recognized the artifact instantly.

"Correct," Galen confirmed. "After vanquishing Yogg-Saron and C'thun, I forged ties with the Titan Keepers. They granted me... certain boons."

He emphasized the last words, letting Azshara infer their magnitude.

And for the first time in millennia—Azshara's resolve wavered.

"Then... what is your price?"

The temptation was too great. Even if this was poison, she would drink it.

"I ask for your service—you, and your empire."

"Impossible!" Azshara's voice was ice. "I am Azshara! Queen of the ancient night elf empire! Even N'Zoth only secured a pact of equals!"

"If you free me from that deranged Old God, I will consider an alliance. But I was once your sovereign. Do not expect me to kneel."

Galen wasn't disappointed. Negotiations were all about starting high and meeting in the middle.

"Then let us compromise. The naga will join the Grand Alliance of Azeroth—as the Abyssal Kingdom, with a council seat and a voice in its future."

"That is my final offer."

Azshara weighed his words.

"...Agreed."

The assault on the Eternal Palace ended not with a climactic battle, but with tense diplomacy.

To Illidan, it felt unsatisfying. Galen had dragged him from Mardum, halted his campaign, and subjected him to Azshara's mockery—only to call it off just as he'd begun venting his fury on a demigod faceless one.

"Galen Remar! You used me!" The demon hunter's voice was dangerous.

Though Illidan would never betray Galen, he would punch him if provoked enough.

"Hah... well..." Galen rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Plans change. If we can talk our way out of bloodshed, why not?"

Truthfully, he'd stumbled upon signs of Azshara's rift with N'Zoth—and couldn't bear Vashj's torment any longer.

Truce? Yes.

Cooperation? Never.

Galen would never treat Azshara as an equal. Not after bowing to her in the past. He hadn't forgotten those humiliations.

Leaning in, he whispered his true intentions to Illidan. The demon hunter's scowl melted into a smirk.

"They call me the Betrayer, the fallen one... but you, Galen, are far more wicked." He crossed his arms. "I approve."

"Good. Now, take Farondis and Elisande to Draenor. They've spent too long in their ivory towers—their forces need hardening."

Illidan's grin widened. This was a task he'd relish.

As Illidan departed, Azshara arrived at the Circle of Stars—where Galen oversaw the construction of a holy barrier.

"The site is prepared. When will you begin the ritual?"

This was the crux of their deal: the mass purification of the naga curse.

Azshara had chosen the location—Terror's Lair, an island near Galen's stronghold of Dire Maul. A gesture of wary trust.

Galen surveyed the cleared ground. "Now is as good a time as any."

He opened a portal, summoning a thousand peasant workers.

Azshara arched a brow. "Humans?"

"Titan facilities require their... authorization."

A flimsy excuse, but the humans were harmless—barely tier-one in strength.

Then, the impossible happened.

In half a day, a town hall rose. By dusk, it had become a fortress. By the next dawn—a palace.

Azshara's eyes gleamed.

Titan technology... truly terrifying.

The game was afoot.