You are a foolish child, Hepzibah of Gleamingdown.
The Naaru loomed overhead, flexing angrily against its magical bonds. The Magisters at the other end of those tethers were oblivious to the scene before them, entrenched deep in their concentration.
A dark-haired woman, still young by Blood Elf standards, knelt before M’uru of the Naaru, held captive beneath the city of Silvermoon. She had fled her home in anger to find him, under the naive assumption that he would be the one to help her. The final straw had broken between her and her father that night.
Da is right. I will never be as powerful as he is. The thought raced through Hepzibah’s mind as her mount sped her toward the city. I will be better than him. For all his vaunted magical prowess, he had never managed to harness the power of the captive Naaru the way the Blood Knights could, had never been able to join their ranks. To say he’d always been bitter about it might be the single greatest understatement one could make about her father. She, however, would achieve his dream. If she could not make him proud, she would make him feel the shame she’d known since childhood.
Or so she’d thought. Of the handful of times she’d been allowed to see the Blood Elves’ greatest treasure, never once had she heard him speak. Somehow, though, her plea had stirred him into response, if not the one she’d been hoping for.
