"It is an honor to meet you, Lord Abbendis!" In the audience hall, Tyrande lifted her chin high, greeting the man seated upon the lord's throne.
Though her words were polite, the pride in her stance could not be missed.
In truth, Tyrande was a gentle soul in her private life. But here, as envoy of the powerful night elf empire, her pride was not only justified but required. She spoke not as an individual, but as the voice of her entire people.
And why not? At this time, the night elf empire stood unmatched in Azeroth—second only to the dragonflights themselves. At least, that had been the case before Abbendis gained his dimensional trade beacon. A great nation must always show its stature.
"The honor is mine," Abbendis replied with an easy smile, though inside he was silently cursing. "To be recognized by the powerful night elves—now that is something any nation would envy."
Yes, the elves—purple-skinned or pale-skinned—were all the same, he thought. Since forging his ironclad power base, few had dared show arrogance before him. Even the naga, once so haughty, now treated him with increasing respect. As for the human kingdoms, aside from Daelin Proudmoore, who bristled at their competition at sea, most nobles greeted him with exaggerated courtesy.
Had Terenas not secured a marriage pact early, offering his daughter Calia to Abbendis, there would have been a line of nobles from the Unfallen City to Mount Hyjal begging to wed their daughters to him. Thɪs chapter is updated by 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡✶𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚✶𝙣𝙚𝙩
But two powers still carried themselves with untouchable pride—the night elves, and the high elves of Quel'Thalas (A/N: excepting the pragmatic Ranger-General's army of the Windrunners).
'Hmph. One day I'll have you both tied up and properly taught respect,' Abbendis thought darkly, even as his eyes lingered on Tyrande.
Josh had told him many tales of the night elves, often mocking this so-called "Tyrande." In person, Abbendis found her ethereal, yes, but not as stunning as legend claimed. To him, the "handmaiden" at her side was lovelier by far.
And truly, he wondered, what on Azeroth had driven the famed demon hunter Illidan to such obsession with this woman? When Josh had retold night elf history, Illidan's saga was always the longest.
…Yes, this maid was striking indeed.
While Abbendis weighed Tyrande and her "handmaiden" with a mix of disdain and curiosity, both night elf women were also studying him.
Their first impression was simple—young.
Both Tyrande and Maiev had lived more than ten thousand years. Though the night elves were reclusive, they were not isolated; they had crossed paths with countless other races and seen many of Azeroth's rulers. Against that backdrop, Abbendis stood out: so young, and yet already a figure of legend.
Never before had they seen someone so young command such vast power.
Twenty years old, perhaps? At that age, not only by the measure of the long-lived night elves but even among humans, he was hardly more than a youth.
"Lord Abbendis, you are too modest. With the prosperity of your realm today, even Thoradin the Great himself could claim no more," Tyrande praised.
"Hahaha, enough, Lady Whisperwind. There's no need for empty flattery. Better we speak of your true purpose here. Surely you did not come all this way just to trade compliments? You must know, I once sent many envoys to Ashenvale… and those were hardly pleasant memories!" Abbendis interrupted, smiling but sharp, savoring the comparison to Thoradin, the first emperor of humankind, yet refusing to let it cloud his focus. His jab was deliberate—he still remembered how every delegation he had sent was turned back at Ashenvale's border, not even allowed entry.
Were it not the night elves, but one of the human kingdoms, such insult would already have sparked war.
"I sincerely apologize for the rudeness of my subordinates," Tyrande said, rare contrition in her voice. In truth, she had wanted to meet Abbendis's envoys long ago. Not necessarily to open diplomacy, but at least not to spurn them outright. The problem had been Fandral Staghelm, whom she could not overrule.
In the War of the Ancients, Malfurion's pact with the dragons to plant Nordrassil and grant the elves immortality had made the druids of the Cenarion Circle the dominant voice among their people. Staghelm's merit in the War of the Shifting Sands had only increased his influence. So even with Malfurion lost to the Emerald Dream, Tyrande's own authority often fell short beside his. And her temperament—yielding in non-critical matters—had only widened the gap.
But to outsiders, she would not shift blame. The fault was hers, and she bore it.
"Still… on our way here, we saw your armies mustering. Might I ask why?" Tyrande's words softened, but her gaze hardened, steering the subject toward the fleets she knew were preparing to sail.
Her intelligence already told her the answer, but it was not something to bring out directly. Better to raise it cautiously.
"Oh, you mean the fleet preparing outside?" Abbendis chuckled. "No need for concern. I have always been a lover of peace. I will not lightly start wars, nor ever turn against the peace-loving night elves. My destination is, in fact, a place I suspect you know well—the Broken Isles."
"…The Broken Isles? By Elune, do you know what that place is?" Tyrande's face paled, her voice sharp with shock.
Her reaction was so natural that Maiev, standing by in disguise, nearly twitched. What an actress—pretending such surprise when she had known all along.
"Of course I know," Abbendis answered calmly. "But do not mistake me. I go only to aid a companion in seeking lost kin, nothing more." He gestured toward Baine Bloodhoof, standing nearby with his steady, earnest presence.
"Seeking kin?" Tyrande blinked, confused now.
"Surely you, a heroine of the War of the Ancients, remember the name Huln Highmountain?" Abbendis said slowly.
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