The Diplomatic Reception From Hell

Quel'Thalas had always practiced self-isolation in both political and military terms, maintaining the kind of stubborn independence that made hermit crabs seem socially outgoing.

However, in matters of everyday life and economic ventures, high elves could be found scattered throughout the entire Eastern Kingdoms continent, peddling their magical expertise and superior attitude wherever coin could be earned and mortals could be properly condescended to.

Hell, even King Daelin Proudmoore had managed to secure himself an elven lover—though whether through charm, political necessity, or simply offering enough gold remained a matter of tavern speculation.

Just because Anasterian refused to join the Alliance in their desperate struggle against the Scourge didn't mean the Sun King lived in complete ignorance of outside events. Information had a way of reaching even the most isolated kingdoms, especially when that information involved the systematic destruction of neighboring realms.

Even with all his advance knowledge, Anasterian's ancient heart couldn't help but perform an uncomfortable gymnastics routine when he laid eyes upon the rotting, undead visage of his former colleague Antonidas. Seeing your old academic rival transformed into a flesh-hungry abomination had a way of putting things in perspective.

The symphony of destruction surrounded them on all sides: pitiful whimpering and soul-crushing wails from the survivors, the hungry crackling of flames consuming millennia of elven architecture, the thunderous explosions of magical artifacts detonating in chain reactions, and the steadily increasing war cries echoing from what used to be the city gates. The Sun King filtered out this cacophony of chaos with the practiced skill of someone who had ruled through multiple apocalypses.

Every ounce of his attention focused like a laser beam on Antonidas—now sporting the fashionable lich aesthetic of rotting flesh and glowing eye sockets—and the death knight standing beside him. The armored figure leaned casually against a sword shaped like a screaming skull, because apparently subtlety was the first casualty of undeath.

Along with the overwhelming miasma of evil that radiated from these uninvited guests, a supernatural frost descended from above, spreading across Silvermoon City with the efficiency of winter's cruelest ambitions. The unnatural cold blocked out the sun and murdered summer in its tracks.

Three seconds of ominous silence passed before a voice descended upon the palace of Quel'Thalas like divine judgment delivered by a particularly vindictive deity.

"Anasterian—"

The voice carried crystalline clarity and majestic authority, yet beneath those qualities lurked an inhuman coldness that suggested its owner viewed all life with the emotional investment of a butcher examining livestock.

The Sun King's eyes, decorated with crow's feet earned through three millennia of ruling, narrowed to suspicious slits as he compressed his weathered features into an expression of royal disdain. He snorted with the contempt of someone who had outlived entire dynasties: "Hmph! Arthas, you traitorous little shit?"

Generally speaking, short-lived humans—whether exalted kings or common peasants scrabbling in the dirt—failed to capture the Sun King's attention for longer than a mayfly's lifespan. Unless, of course, they achieved the extraordinary greatness of legends like Emperor Thoradin, most mortals remained beneath his notice.

But Arthas represented something entirely different. Beyond his infamous achievements in patricide and mentor-murder, he embodied a concept that both fascinated and infuriated the ancient elf king: eternal existence! Though achieved through the aesthetically questionable route of undeath, his supernatural strength compensated for his cosmetic shortcomings.

A flicker of raw jealousy flashed through Anasterian's ancient eyes, and that momentary emotional vulnerability was immediately detected by the ever-observant Antonidas.

Frostmourne, being the most malevolent magical weapon ever forged and possessing an unhealthy obsession with corrupting souls, seized upon this psychological weakness with predatory enthusiasm. The blade's insidious whispers caused Arthas' lips to curve into an expression that would have made demons uncomfortable.

The Sun King drove his breathtakingly ornate, blazingly golden staff through the palace's stone floor with enough force to shatter marble, then delivered his response with a sneer that could have curdled dragon's milk.

"Congratulations on your new career path, you worthless fuck. Dar'Khan... you treacherous bastard, you've certainly improved your magical signature since selling out your own people!" The Sun King's gaze swept briefly over the great traitor Dar'Khan, whose power had increased dramatically since embracing undeath, before returning to focus on the main threat. He bellowed with the authority of three thousand years of absolute rule: "If you want to murder me and steal the Sunwell, then stop wasting time with dramatic entrances and get on with it!"

"Murder you? Steal the Sunwell? When did I make such pedestrian declarations?" Arthas smiled with the serene confidence of someone holding all the cards in a rigged game. Then fanatical fervor blazed across his undead features: "No, my ancient friend! I come bearing the Lich King's most generous offer—the gift of eternal existence! Simply embrace lichdom voluntarily, and you can rule your subjects forever, command power beyond mortal comprehension, and never again suffer the indignity of aging flesh!"

As if choreographed to emphasize Arthas's dramatic proclamation, death knights materialized from the ruins of Silvermoon City with supernatural speed. These armored harbingers of doom dismounted from skeletal warhorses, dropped to one knee with military precision, placed gauntleted hands over their hearts, and demonstrated the highest form of respect to their undead prince.

Archlich Antonidas stepped forward with the confident swagger of someone who had transcended mortality's limitations, his skeletal grin radiating smug superiority: "My dear old friend, observe how pathetically frail you've become. I was exactly like you mere months ago—watching my body decay while my magical power dwindled like a guttering candle. But now? Now I am magnificently transformed."

"Transformed into what, exactly?" The Sun King felt the Sunwell's mana veins still pulsing beneath the palace foundations, and that connection filled him with overwhelming confidence. He raised his head with aristocratic contempt and declared with the certainty of absolute power: "This is Silvermoon City, you rotting fool—my domain, my seat of power, my fucking home field advantage! No force in existence can defeat me here! Antonidas, our previous stalemates occurred only because we fought on neutral ground like civilized academics."

"Home field advantage?" Antonidas's laugh carried the hollow echo of tomb chambers: "This battlefield belongs to both of us now!"

In the next instant, Anasterian comprehended the horrifying implications of his old rival's words.

Death permeated the air.

Terror saturated every breath.

Agonized wailing rose from countless throats.

Raw, primal fear leaked from every survivor.

All the negative emotions and spiritual anguish that living beings were capable of experiencing had become fuel for the archlich's exponentially growing magical power.

This was natural disaster given consciousness!

This was evil refined into its purest essence!

Moreover, as the teleported Scourge forces continued their systematic slaughter and terror campaign throughout the forest and Silvermoon City, Antonidas would only grow stronger with each passing moment.

This continuous power amplification was clearly sufficient to bridge the gap between the archlich's base abilities and the Sun King's natural advantages.

What disturbed Anasterian most profoundly was the realization that the Scourge had seized control of one of the three major Sunwell mana veins, using it to power their dimensional portals. With each tick of the clock, more undead monstrosities would manifest on Quel'Thalas soil!

But surrender remained absolutely unthinkable!

How could someone who had ruled as an absolute monarch for over three thousand years possibly submit to serving as a lackey for some upstart death deity that had crawled out of the frozen wastes?

"Fucking never! Here, in this place of power, nothing and no one can defeat me!" The Sun King's roar shook the palace foundations, and his staff erupted with divine radiance that burned hotter and brighter than the surface of stars.

"We transcended humanity long ago, you fossilized relic!" Antonidas sneered, raising his own staff with theatrical flair that would have impressed stage performers.

"Educate this antique about modern power dynamics!" Arthas remained motionless, standing with casual authority while gripping his soul-devouring blade.

One heartbeat later, violent magical energies that could reshape continents burst forth from elemental dimensions, took radically different forms and properties, then collided in midair with the force of colliding planets.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of this magical catastrophe, an elite elven military force led by Sylvanas advanced with the grim determination of those who knew their homeland was burning.

This army represented a fascinating mixture of military specializations: rangers with their supernatural archery skills, warriors wielding enchanted blades, spellbreakers trained to shatter enemy magic, paladins radiating holy power, and numerous arcane golems that had been hastily recalled from frontier defensive positions.

The Scourge assault had struck with such devastating speed that many soldiers discovered they had been completely separated from the main force after dealing with whatever enemies had been directly in front of them.

The wounded were abandoned to their fate.

Those too slow to maintain the killing pace were left behind.

Soldiers trapped by circumstances found themselves alone.

Yet not a single elf voiced any complaint or protest, because they were racing to serve their king, risking everything to save their capital city, their ancestral homeland, their entire fucking civilization.

At this moment, Sylvanas bore no resemblance to a typical forest ranger. Instead, she had transformed into something that could only be described as a goddess of warfare incarnate.

Gripping her longbow with hands that never trembled, she maintained position at the absolute front of the assault formation, displaying her lethal grace and heroic presence to inspire every elf fighting behind her.

The vibration of her bowstring created an almost musical rhythm that never ceased. When her left arm grew weary from drawing, she smoothly switched to her right. When her right hand began to numb from repetitive strain, she flowed back to her left with fluid precision.

Each arrow she loosed contained the concentrated fury of wind and thunder, and every single shot found its mark in the skull of the most dangerous undead opponents.

Whether facing a powerful lich whose magic could ignore protective enchantments, shatter defensive barriers, and annihilate souls with pure lightning, or confronting armored death knights whose very presence froze the blood of mortal warriors, Sylvanas never missed her target.