Daughter of Azeroth

78 | OUTSIDE OF TIME

The font was enormous. It stood in the centre of an austere windowless hall, its dark stone floors and walls stripped bare of furnishings, tapestries, and rugs. Supported by an ancient ashlar of stone, the contents of the font's wide, shallow basin undulated as they approached, its viscous, metallic fluid shifting; a greasy, molten silver. A shudder of revulsion rippled through Idira as she sensed its sentience, quivering as it followed them around the room, reacting to their presence. Behind the font, a narrow stone staircase butted up against the plinth, leading to the basin. Freed of her body, she stood in spirit form beside Khadgar on the top step and looked back at their bodies held immobilised within an arcane force field; arcane runes spinning and rotating around them, enclosing them in a complex web of intricate blue light.

Frozen in time, Khadgar stood positioned in the casting stance, holding her protectively against him with one arm, while casting with his other hand, his staff held outward, its crown glowing with arcane energy. She had rested her head against his shoulder as she waited, her hand against his chest, frost riming the front of his collar where her fingers touched the leather. The pain had come soon after. Ice and fire had sluiced into her, releasing the bonds which connected her body to her spirit. It had been most unpleasant. How Khadgar could have gone down this path more than once told her just how committed he was to the protection of Azeroth, even beyond his own brutal suffering. She endured the agony of her terrifying transition from corporeal to incorporeal, feeling his hand finding hers, holding it tight, reassuring her, reminding her he was there with her, that she was not alone.

Before he had opened the door to the shadowy room he had told her they would only have one hour within the font for her to complete her readings. Quavering with dread anticipation, she looked down at the quivering meniscus within the basin. An hour? Even a minute in that thing would be too long. As though reading her thoughts, Khadgar squeezed her hand again, reassuring her. Before they left their bodies behind, she had added an additional spell of her own, enabling them to speak to each other through their thoughts, a spell she had discovered encrypted deep within one of Medivh's books buried in his office, something Khadgar had missed.

Are you ready? Khadgar asked.

Yes, she answered.

Follow me into the font.

He stepped into the basin, lifting his hand to steady her so she could follow him in. She hesitated for a heartbeat then stepped over the basin's ridge. Her foot disappeared into the liquid, but she felt nothing. It was as though she had stepped into thin air, despite the metallic liquid swirling around the outline of her foot. She brought her other foot down and watched, horrified as the liquid swam around the outline of her gown's hem, creeping upwards.

Khadgar pulled her against him. Don't look.

She slid her arms around his torso, trying and failing not to look at the liquid slithering up, moving toward her waist, terror clawing at her.

Hold on tight. Do not let go.

She tightened her grip on him, sensing his concentration as he cast the incantation that would carry them to their destination.

The font disappeared. She blinked and looked around. She stood within a damp, dark, claustrophobic tunnel, cut from living stone. Fel torches dotted its length—lurid pools of sickly green light stretching into the shadowy distance.

Her Light bloomed, awakening, reacting to the Legion's foul taint; scenting the dark magic which lurked, hostile and malevolent at both ends of the tunnel, paid for with the souls of the living. Her senses prickling, she moved forward, her Light intuiting the complicated weave of the wards blocking the tunnel, at once understanding Khadgar's difficulty in unravelling them. The wards were not only the work of the necromancer Gul'dan. Deep within them, at their core lay the darkest wards of all, enhanced by the power of a titan.