Eternity was a ripple upon the sea of stars. Chiming over each celestial beacon. Touched by the promise of certainty, in the way that certainty is measured by which side a die settles. Fate and destination. Set as firmly as any natural law might be, and yet broken… if the dice were loaded. Even stars, and eternity, may yield.

Beneath the incandescent boughs of the sanguine grove, the Sanguinaris Archinorum thrummed. Like a perverted hymn. Within, Nari was as powerful as ever. Her mind touched upon the world, passing through the veil beyond... viewing Azeroth through the eyes of her chosen. Not as any living mortal might. Not through one lens. But through all of them. All of them at once.

A decrepit room, ruined with grief and rage. A tavern, bustling and full of life. A home balanced with shadow, faith and a glass of milk. A life beset by the restless whispers of the dead. A theater. A dojo. An island.

The ripple carries on. Where eternity feeds on its own tail. Over a shard of peerless, infinite glass. Her mind is swept through with its wake as she drifts and her vision widens beyond the success of her chosen. In some other portion of the San’layn conclave perched in the vastness of the Twisting Nether, the Shattered Mirror woke. Awareness was a gentle caress over the surface of the single, large piece of glass. A moment of serenity, to peek upon the very essence of possibility : flanked by disaster.

The Vault of Whispers shuddered violently. The Shattered Mirror erupted in a miasma of Void that spread through every chamber along the floor  like ghouls dragging themselves to their next feast. The anchors of the vault, the trees themselves, briefly glinted an amethyst light that consumed the air itself. Her link with her chosen was severed like a jagged knife on flesh. A wound that would no doubt cut on both ends. In place of that connection was a singular voice. All too familiar.

“Touching,” said the Harbinger, words thick with satisfaction and as cold as death. “But you’re far too late to save anyone.”

Upon the glass was the image of the Sunwell. Wholly consumed. A twisting knife flashed within the confines of Her mind. An anguished cry. A hand, desperate and reaching. Death. She felt it all.

“We are out of time,” Nari said. Her voice did not emerge from the tome. Nor the chamber. But from every stone, item and bauble. The Vault of Whispers was no longer a part of the San’layn conclave’s remnants. Power and unbreakable will had molded reality itself to suit her needs. The hall. All of it. Was her. 

The words were subdued and scrawled with pain. The Sanguinaris pulsed with arcane might and the Shattered Mirror’s light, entire rooms away, subsided. She reined in the influence of the Void which had spilled, even so far away, wholly through her domain. The trees groaned, relieved as their knotted trunks once again coursed with blood-red magics.

Somewhere from within the vault, Charles’ diminutive form emerged like a blob of crimson feathers coalescing through cracks between the flooring. His golden beak gleamed as he stared up at his master’s levitating, massive leather-bound vessel.

“Master, is it time?” He asked, his tiny voice thick with finery that would rival the pomp of any well-to-do Sin’dorei.

There was no answer. Charles’ eyes were black as pitch, yet emitted their own sickly red luminescence. In the moment of silence that followed, they pulsed briefly. And he nodded his little chicken head knowingly.

“I will alert your Wardens at once, master. The simulacrum on Caelumbra shall be readied. The initiates will be assembled.”