Shame

The Sun King Anasterian's heart wasn't just bleeding; it was doing a full-blown gush, like a punctured wineskin. Prince Kael'thas, his face a mask of utter despair, looked like he'd just swallowed a poisoned frog. And the usually high-and-mighty members of the Silvermoon Council? They weren't just hanging their heads; they were practically trying to burrow into the polished marble floor, looking like a pack of kicked puppies caught with their paws in the cookie jar.

Not only that, but in the magnificent, echoing hall, almost every single elf, from the lowliest scribe to the most ancient archmage, had lowered their proud, pointed heads in shame.

The unholy coalition forces of orcs and trolls, a green tide of destruction, had finally, undeniably, reached the very gates of the great, shimmering Silvermoon City. And the magic defense system, the very pride and joy of their isolation, the arcane barrier they'd boasted was as impenetrable as a dragon's hide? It had been shattered once again, not by an army, but by one conniving warlock named Gul'dan. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow.

Looking into the distance, tears, real, honest-to-goodness tears, streamed from the corners of the Sun King's eyes, carving new rivulets through the already deep crow's feet etched by centuries of leadership and worry.

He remembered it like it was yesterday. The founding king, Dath'Remar, a legend etched in their very souls, had organized the upper elves, scattering them like seeds to contain the relentless troll menace while pushing ever northward. After countless hardships, enough to break a lesser race, he'd found a paradise in the dense, ancient forest – a sanctuary, a place that could preserve the very bloodline of the upper elves, ensuring their survival.

This place, nestled between towering mountains and kissed by the sea, was a natural fortress, easy to defend and a nightmare to attack. The land was fertile, the springs bright and beautiful, a true haven. Dath'Remar, with a reverence that bordered on the sacred, had poured the last precious drops of the Bottle of Eternal Water into a small, shimmering lake, creating another Well of Eternity – what they now called the Sunwell. He had named this blessed land Quel'Thalas, the "High Home." He had named the new city Silvermoon City and personally, with his own visionary hand, drawn up its architectural blueprint, ensuring it retained the luxurious, breathtakingly beautiful architectural style of the upper elves, a constant reminder of their glorious past.

Before Silvermoon City was even fully completed, the reborn high elves, bursting with renewed purpose, couldn't wait to crown Dath'Remar as their king. Yes, they needed a kingship, a strong man, a true leader who could control the overall situation, a steady hand on the tiller. Dath'Remar was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most suitable choice. He was brave as a lion, decisive as a lightning bolt, ambitious as a rising sun, tolerant as the open sky, but also cunning as a fox, agile as a lynx, cold as winter's breath, and proud as a griffin. All the qualities that a king should possess could be found in him without exception, and even more precious, rarer qualities could be found.

He was the first king of Quel'Thalas, Dath'Remar Sunstrider! And thus, the mighty Sunstrider family, the royal line, was born!

In the Troll Wars that had raged for thousands of years, a brutal, unending conflict, the High Elves had been pushed to the brink, almost wiped off the face of Azeroth. The then-royal successor, Anasterian himself, had made the agonizing, personal decision to swallow his pride and ask for help from humans. For two thousand eight hundred agonizing years, the Silvermoon Council had been a constant thorn in his side, a chorus of nagging voices, attacking the king for "giving too much" to humans, all in their relentless, power-hungry quest to gain more influence.

At this very moment, the Sun King, sitting on his supreme throne, said nothing, his sharp eyes, now burning with a cold fire, sweeping over each and every Silvermoon councilor. He was taking names, and they knew it.

Every single member of parliament felt his scalp tingling, a cold sweat breaking out on their backs. They were about to get a dressing-down of epic proportions.

The Sun King turned slightly, his magnificent red robe with gold edges swirling on the throne platform like a rising sun finally engulfing the darkness, a stark, terrifying symbol of his awakened wrath. He gripped the golden Phoenix Scepter tightly in his pale but still powerful hands. The scepter, usually just a symbol of office, now seemed to pulse with a faint, angry light, reflecting the splendor of the palace, shining with a golden luster like the sun itself.

His pale face had lost all expression of joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness; it was cold, indifferent, and utterly unhurried. He was beyond human emotion.

The voice of the Sun King finally rang out in the hall, low and dangerous, each word a hammer blow.

"Members of the Silvermoon Council," he began, his voice laced with a bitter, chilling sarcasm, "when I, your king, begged for aid, you saw fit to give my son a mediocre army, a ragtag bunch of cannon fodder, to fight against the brutal orcs. You, meanwhile, hoarded the best elite troops you could imagine, keeping them safe in their gilded cages. If my son's failure had been exchanged for your success, if his sacrifice had led to a victory for the high elves, it would have been a triumph for our people after all. But now, tell me, how do you repay my concession to you? How do you repay my patience?"

The Sun King then continued, his voice eerily imitating the pompous, self-important tone of the former Speaker of the Silvermoon Council.

"I have Admiral Panfenis!" he mimicked, his voice dripping with mockery.

The very next moment, the Sun King's chilling impersonation was replaced by the terrified, breathless cry of a messenger bursting into the hall.

"Your Majesty, it's bad! Pamphilis was killed by the orc chieftain Lucker... cut down like a dog!"

The sound switched again, the Sun King's voice resuming its mocking imitation.

"I have Rusfang, the master of arcane!" he declared, his voice a cruel parody.

"Your Majesty, it's bad again!" another messenger shrieked, his face white as a sheet. "Master Rusfang was killed by the enemy's two-headed ogre, Cho'gal! Torn to pieces!"

Every time the Sun King changed his voice, it was like a huge, resounding slap in the face of the remaining Silvermoon Councillors. Each Councillor's face felt hot, burning with shame, and they couldn't help but lower their heads even further, wishing the ground would swallow them whole.

Finally, one of the members, unable to bear the excruciating silence and the Sun King's relentless verbal assault, blurted out, "Your Majesty, we can actually ask for help from humans... Duke's forces are right there!"

"I have to go to your Silvermoon Council!" the Sun King thundered, his voice raw with years of suppressed rage. "Because of my last request for help, you have scolded me for two thousand eight hundred years! If I don't go this time, if I don't fight, then the very bloodline of the Sunstrider King family may be cut off, extinguished right here in Silvermoon City!"

"Your Majesty!?" Almost every high elf noble in the hall cried out in shock, a collective gasp of horror.

The king was going to fight to the bitter end! He was going to go down with the ship!

They knew, with a sickening certainty, that there were less than thirty thousand soldiers left in Silvermoon City. While it was possible to organize capable civilians for defense, throwing them into a pitched battle was no different from killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, sacrificing their very future. It seemed clear: Silvermoon City simply could not be defended by the elves alone.

No one would be happy if Silvermoon City was breached. There was no way back to Kalimdor, no safe haven. There was no place left for the high elves to stand on this continent, now filled with the smoke and flames of war. They were truly between a rock and a hard place.

Cold sweat soaked the backs of all the congressmen, chilling them to the bone.

"No! Your Majesty, please be careful with your words and thoughts!" the parliamentarians shouted, their voices a desperate chorus of pleas.

The Sun King seemed to have lost his hearing. He sat on the throne like an ice sculpture, unmoving, unblinking, not saying a word. He just watched the noisy, desperate chaos below quietly, a silent judge. Kael'thas wanted to say something, anything, but in the end, his body trembled violently, and he froze, unable to move a muscle.

At this critical, desperate moment, a large number of nobles and parliamentarians finally remembered an elf.

One had been ignored by all elves because of "having secret dealings" with outsiders, branded a pariah. Another had been ignored because of "knowing about the invasion of the Horde early on but not resolutely attracting the attention of the top leaders," blamed for their own inaction. But the third elf still stood in the hall, head held high, unbowed, unbroken, a beacon in the storm – Alleria Windrunner.

Countless pairs of eyes, filled with a desperate, dawning hope, looked at the female ranger general standing stoically at the end of the hall.

Yes! It was in this moment of utter despair, with the walls crumbling around them, that they remembered this heroine, who had always been bold and outspoken, but was consistently rejected by the mainstream power structure.

Sylvanas, who had been standing quietly beside Alleria, a silent storm herself, suddenly raised her head and said in the language of the wind, a whisper no one else could hear: "Sister! You must not be soft-hearted towards these bastards! If you don't lop off this dead weight, this rotten flesh, Quel'Thalas will perish sooner or later. Mark my words."

A colleague who was once high and mighty, who had probably dismissed her countless times, now looked at her with a desperate, almost fawning expression. He walked in front of Alleria, saying in an almost sickeningly flattering tone: "Ms. Alleria, regarding the siege of Silvermoon City, the Council would be most... grateful to know your opinion."

Alleria felt a surge of emotions: excitement, anger, resentment at why the high elves kept so many termites, so many dead weights, in power! She wanted to roar, to scream why the high-level officials refused to listen to any reasonable opinions, why they were so determined to drive their kingdom into the ground.

But when the top brass, the very people who had scorned her, actually deigned to "listen" to her opinions, Alleria felt a profound sense of... indifference.

That's right, it was a kind of indifference that was more sorrowful than a dead heart, a numb acceptance that had settled deep in her bones. She was beyond caring.

"I have no objection," Alleria replied calmly, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.