The night sky above Tirisfal Glades was a bruise of storm-clouds when Sylvanas Windrunner arrived at the gates of your empire. Her crimson eyes burned faintly through the gloom, a reminder of the dark power she wielded—yet for once they carried something rarer than malice: calculation.

In the great hall of your citadel she stood before your throne, cloak dripping with the cold rain of distant battlefields. “The Alliance gathers priests and paladins in numbers I cannot match,” she admitted, voice sharp but steady. “Divine magic burns the very shadow I command. My Horde will not endure a war fought on their terms.”

She let the silence stretch, the echo of her words mingling with the low growl of thunder. “Your empire,” she continued, “has forged weapons that bend both steel and spirit. You command soldiers who fear neither Light nor void. Lend me your strength, and together we will unmake the armies that would see us undone.”

Her gaze locked with yours—an unspoken challenge and a plea in one. The Banshee Queen, who bent death to her will, had crossed half the world not to conquer, but to bargain.