The temple rose from the heart of Teldrassil like a bloom of silver marble, carved into the living tree itself. The air shimmered with moonlight filtered through enchanted crystal, and the scent of lavender and myrrh clung to the walls like memory.
Nyxia moved in silence.
Her boots made no sound on the polished stone. Her fingers grazed the edge of a moonwell as she passed, cool water stirring at her presence like it remembered her.
It's too clean.Too whole.
Her heart beat hard in her chest, not from nerves — from urgency. Every breath tasted like prophecy. Every step carried weight.
Loque'nahak waited outside, unwilling to pass the temple threshold. He was spirit, and spirits knew boundaries better than mortals.
The inner sanctum opened with a whisper of magic.
Tyrande Whisperwind stood beneath a canopy of shifting starlight, cast by arcane mirrors in the ceiling dome. Her silhouette was tall, unmoving. Her gown was the color of midnight. Her glaive rested by her side like a patient blade.
She did not turn as Nyxia entered.
"You are the huntress with fire in her eyes," Tyrande said, voice low and clear. "Shandris tells me you knew the enemy's plan before they struck. That you saved dozens. That you should not have known."
Nyxia stepped forward. "I only did what I had to."
Tyrande finally turned.
Her face was moonlit steel — radiant and cold. Her silver eyes glowed softly, and her hair flowed like shadowwater over her shoulders.
"You bear a mark I do not recognize," she said.
Nyxia opened her palm.
The crescent-shaped brand pulsed faintly in the light.
Tyrande's gaze narrowed. "You are not void-touched. Not fel-cursed. But you are... altered."
"I'm something you won't find in a scrying bowl," Nyxia said carefully. "I've walked a path no one remembers. And I came back."
Silence.
Tyrande approached, slow, deliberate.
"What is it you want, Huntress?"
Nyxia didn't flinch.
"I want to stop the future."
Tyrande studied her like a blade on a stranger's hip — not yet drawn, but close.
"You speak like a prophet. But the Goddess did not send you."
"No," Nyxia said. "But She didn't stop me either."
Tyrande's eyes sharpened.
"You claim to have foresight. Of what? Of war? Of Sylvanas?"
Nyxia's pulse surged. The crescent on her palm glowed — then burned. Her breath hitched.
"I know… what she intends," she said, carefully. "Not just battle. Not victory. Destruction. Erasure. The kind of attack that doesn't stop at walls."
The pain flared again — behind her eyes this time, white-hot. She swallowed it.
"She wants to burn more than the tree. She wants to shatter our name."
Tyrande stepped closer. "How?"
Nyxia couldn't answer.
Her throat closed.
Her vision doubled.
She dropped to one knee, palm against the floor, breath ragged. The mark on her hand seared like an iron brand.
Tyrande didn't move. She watched.
"You are bound," she said at last. "By something old. Something deep."
Nyxia forced a whisper through her teeth. "I can't tell you the future. Not directly. I can only warn you where the ground cracks."
"And you expect me to act on that?"
"I expect you to feel it, like I do. In your bones. In the air. The world is off. And we don't have time to debate if I'm convenient."
The pain eased, just barely.
Tyrande looked at her for a long time.
Then said softly, "Stand."
Nyxia rose, breathing shallow.
Tyrande stepped past her, toward the moonwell. She dipped two fingers into the water, let droplets fall.
"Shandris believes in you. I trust her judgment."
She turned back.
"So I give you this."
Nyxia straightened.
Tyrande spoke slowly.
"Form a shield. One not of rank or temple, but of instinct. Form it from those who move like you. Who see like you. Who bleed the truth in silence."
Nyxia blinked. "You mean—"
"I mean if this fire is already coming," Tyrande said, "then we will need embers to survive the ash."
Tyrande's words hung in the air like incense—heavy with meaning, impossible to ignore.
"Form a shield... not of rank or temple."
Nyxia's mouth parted, but no words came.
Tyrande walked past her, pausing by the arch that led out into the temple garden. The wind stirred the drapes like whispers.
"You will not have formal support," she said. "No resources. No banners. You will move in silence. Between shadows. You will answer to no one but the Goddess… and your own conscience."
Nyxia's voice returned. "Then what will I be?"
Tyrande looked back. And for the first time, her gaze wasn't steel. It was... soft. Tired. Honest.
"A veil," she said. "Between the fire and the world that must survive it."
The words struck deep.
Nyxia felt them settle in her ribs like roots finding soil.
A veil against the fire.
Not a shield that breaks. Not a wall that falls.
Something quieter. Smarter. Harder to kill.
She nodded. "I'll find them."
"You already have," Tyrande said. "Or you will."
Shandris stepped out of the shadows behind the column. Nyxia hadn't even heard her approach.
She nodded once. "I'll make sure she has clearance to move freely."
Tyrande turned away, her silhouette lost again in the moonlight.
As Nyxia stepped toward the door, she hesitated.
"I already have a name," she said softly.
Tyrande stopped.
Nyxia looked down at her hand. The mark pulsed once — not with pain, but recognition.
"The Ember Veil."
Tyrande didn't turn. But her voice followed Nyxia as she left.
"Then let it burn."
The temple doors opened without sound.
Nyxia stepped into the night beneath a sky full of stars too beautiful to last. Moonlight spilled over the garden paths like silk, and the wind carried the scent of wildflowers growing in soil that hadn't yet known ash.
Behind her, Tyrande's presence lingered like a closing book—its final line not yet read.
Loque'nahak rose from his resting place beneath a silverleaf tree. His luminous eyes searched her face, as if to ask: Did it work?
She nodded once.
He bumped her shoulder gently with his head, then fell into step beside her.
Nyxia walked slowly, letting the night soak into her skin. Letting the burden of prophecy settle like armor, not a shackle.
The world still burned. It just hadn't caught fire yet.
But now—now she wasn't waiting to stop it.
She was already moving.
She paused beneath the ancient dreambough that arched over the eastern courtyard. The same tree she'd climbed as a child. Its petals drifted in the breeze.
This place will fall.But not everyone has to fall with it.
She opened her hand.
The crescent-shaped mark pulsed faintly, cool to the touch. No longer painful. Just… present.
A reminder.
From behind her, Shandris called out.
"We'll make space for you in the scouting network. Quietly. Unofficially."
Nyxia turned.
"No titles," she said. "No uniforms."
Shandris gave a wry smile. "Good. You wouldn't wear one anyway."
She tossed Nyxia a leather badge—blank, unmarked.
"For the record," Shandris added, "I still don't know what you are."
Nyxia caught it, tucked it into her belt.
"Neither do I."
And then she turned toward the path.
Toward the coast.
Toward the war.
But for the first time since coming back, she didn't feel alone.
She felt like fire that had decided not to burn out.