The longest day of the year was drawing close. With all the discretion he could muster, while Archimonde and Kil’jaeden were obsessing over Sargeras, Velen sent out tendrils of thought to those he trusted. Others were gathered by Talgath, coming to Velen’s side in defense of themselves and their people. Velen then turned his attention to weaving the subtlest of magic webs about the two traitors he once held as dear friends, so that their attention was not caught by the frantic activity occurring just beyond their vision.
With startling speed and yet an agonizing slowness, an intricate web was created. When at last the day came, and the eredar who had chosen to follow Velen assembled atop the tallest mountain of their ancient world. Velen saw that their number was sickeningly small. They numbered only in the hundreds, these who were the only ones Velen truly trusted. He did not dare risk all by contacting those he thought would possibly turn against him.
Only a short time ago, Velen had taken the ata’mal crystal from its place. He had spent the last few days fabricating a false one, so that no alarm would be sounded when it was discovered missing. He had carved it from simple rock crystal with the utmost care, casting a glamour upon it so that it would glow. But it remained dead to the touch. If someone brushed this false crystal with his or her fingers, the theft would be revealed.
The true ata’mal crystal he now held close to his heart as he watched his people climbing the mountain, their strong legs and sure hooves finding easy purchase. Many had already arrived and looked at him expectantly, the question clear in their eyes if not on their lips. How, they were wondering, would they escape?
How indeed, Velen thought. For a moment he despaired, but then he recalled the radiant being who had linked its thoughts with his. They would come. He knew it. In the meantime, every moment that passed meant they were closer to being discovered. And so many were not yet here, not even Talgath.
Restalaan, another old and trusted friend, smiled at Velen. “They will be here soon,” he said reassuringly.
Velen nodded. More than likely, Restalaan was right. There had been no sign that his old friends and now enemies Kil’jaeden and Archimonde had been alerted to this outrageously bold plan. They had been far too consumed with anticipating their future power.
And yet, and yet.
The same deep instinct that had warned him to mistrust Sargeras now nagged at his mind. Something was not right. He realized he was pacing.
And there they were.
Talgath and several others had cleared a rise, smiling and waving, and Velen exhaled in relief. He started down to meet them when the crystal he held sent a powerful surge through his body. His blue fingers clenched tightly around the gem as his mind opened to its warning. Velen’s knees buckled as the mental stench assaulted him.
Sargeras had already begun. He had already started creating his hideous legion, taking eredar who had been foolish or trusting enough to listen to Kil’jaeden and Archimonde and distorting them into the man’ari Velen had seen in his vision. There were thousands of man’ari of every physical description and ability, lying just beyond his sight and sensing. They were disguised, somehow. If he had not been holding the ata’mal crystal, he never would have sensed them until it was far, far too late.
It might already be too late.
He turned a shocked gaze to Talgath, suddenly aware that the taint was emanating from his old friend as well as from the multitude—the Legion—of monsters who lurked beyond his sight. A prayer, wrenched from the utter depths of his despairing soul, shivered up in his mind:
K’ure! Help us!
The man’ari were scrambling up the mountain now, sensing that they had been exposed and closing in like hungry predators for the kill. Except Velen knew that death would be preferable to what these distorted eredar would do to him and those who followed him. At his wit’s end, Velen gripped the ata’mal crystal and thrust it upward to the sky.
As if the heavens themselves were cracking open, a pure shaft of radiant white light appeared. Its glory shone directly onto the crystalline prism, and before Velen’s stunned gaze, splintered the white light into seven distinct rays of various hues. Pain stung Velen as the crystal he held shattered. The sharp edges sliced his fingers. He gasped and instinctively released the fractured crystal, watching enraptured as the pieces hovered in the air, each transforming itself into a perfect sphere, and taking on the seven radiant hues of the light that had once been a single, perfect shaft of pure white radiance. The seven crystals—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet—shot upward, then sped to form an enclosure of light around the frightened forms of the gathered eredar.
At that precise instant, Talgath raced toward him, naked loathing in his gaze. He slammed into the circle of multicolored lights as if into a stone wall and tumbled backward. Velen whirled and saw the man’ari descend, snarling, drooling, their claws scrabbling on a wall, made only of light, which yet protected Velen and his people.
A deep, thrumming sound raced along Velen’s nerves, more felt than heard. He looked upward and on this day of wonders saw something that surpassed even the miracle of the seven stones of light. He beheld what looked at first like a descending star, so bright he almost could not bear looking upon it. As it drew closer, he saw that it was nothing so elusive as a star in the night skies, but a solid structure, its center as soft and round as the orbs, adorned with jutting, crystalline triangles. Velen wept openly as a mental touch brushed his mind:
I am here, as I promised I would be. Prepare to abandon this world. Prophet Velen.
Velen extended his arms upward, almost like a child begging a loving parent to be swept up into an affectionate embrace. The orb above him pulsed, and then Velen felt himself being lifted gently into the air. He floated upward, and saw that the others too were rising toward the … vessel? For such Velen now understood it to be, though it also vibrated with a living essence that he could not yet comprehend. In the midst of the quiet joy, Velen heard the shrieks and screams and bellows of the man’ari as their prey escaped. The base of the ship opened, and a few seconds later Velen found himself standing on something solid. He knelt on the floor, if such it could be called, and watched as the rest of his people floated toward safety. When the last one had arrived. Velen expected the door to close and this ship—this ship that was made of metal that was not metal, flesh that was not flesh, and what Velen suspected was the very essence of K’ure—to depart.
Instead, he felt a whisper in his mind: The crystals—where there was one, there are seven. Recover them, for you will need them.
Velen leaned over the opening and extended his hands. With shocking speed, the seven crystals surged upward toward him, striking his palms so hard he gasped. He gathered them close, ignoring the incredible heat they emanated, and threw himself backward. At once, the door disappeared as if it had never been present. Clutching the seven ata’mal crystals, his mind stretched so far he felt he was brushing the edge of madness. Velen hung suspended for an endless instant between hope and despair.
Had they done it? Had they escaped?
From his position at the head of the army. Kil’jaeden had an unobstructed view as the mountain was swarmed by his slaves. For a glorious moment, he tasted victory, almost as sweet as the hunger Sargeras had planted in his mind. Talgath had done his job well. It had only been pure luck that Velen had been holding the crystal at the moment of the onslaught; had he not, his body would be lying on the ground, torn into a handful of fleshy bits.
But Velen had been holding the ata’mal crystal, and he had been warned. Something had happened—some strange lights had sprung up protectively around the traitor, and something had come for them. Now as Kil’jaeden watched, the peculiar vessel shimmered and … disappeared.