Pale sunlight pierced through the clouds, falling upon the dusty statue in the Fountain Plaza.
The air was filled with the smell of mold and a faint arcane aura.
The newly healed mutated individuals in their cages were still gasping, their breaths intertwining with the whispers outside, forming a dull and ominous hum.
Liriel stood atop a wooden crate in the center of the plaza, her slender figure ramrod straight, like a newly erected lighthouse piercing through the gloom.
A gentle breeze ruffled her faded robe and silver-white hair. She slightly raised her chin, her gaze calm and resolute as she swept over every face below—some numb, some skeptical, some pained.
Just a few hours ago, she was a stranger, having just stepped into this dying corner.
Now, she was the focal point of everyone's attention.
Sindaiseth and Rielian stood behind her.
The Dracthyr Scale Leader's face was stern, showing no emotion.
As for the leader of the commoner elves, his face was agitated, his eyes red, clearly having just cried.
However, the corners of his mouth were now slightly upturned, his previously taut nerves seemingly finally relaxed, revealing an undisguised sense of relief and anticipation.
Liriel clapped her hands softly, quieting the murmurs.
She slowly surveyed the crowd and spoke softly:
"In your eyes, I see fear, I see questions—but more than that, I see pain that has been suppressed for too long."
"I understand this pain. The burning emptiness after the loss of magic, the madness that creeps up your throat at night—"
"Because, like you, I too have tasted the pain of magic depletion."
She paused, a hint of indescribable sorrow seemingly flashing in her eyes.
"I know you don't trust me."
"You don't believe in gods, nor do you trust any promises."
"Because now you only believe in one thing—magic."
"That heart-wrenching craving, that all-consuming pain."
Her tone held no reproach, only a calm statement:
"Mages call this pain 'mana addiction.'"
"But it's not just a physiological dependence, not just a lack of mana."
"It is, moreover—a curse."
She tilted her head slightly, looking at the mutated individuals still in their cages nearby.
"It makes us no longer seen as 'people,' but as burdens, patients, even monsters."
"It forces us to beg for favors from the nobles, only to receive a mere pittance from between their fingers."
"And now, not even a single trace of magic is granted anymore."
Her voice grew deeper:
"But we are not failures. Not cowards."
"We are simply the abandoned ones."
These words echoed over the plaza for a long time.
Some people wept softly, some clenched their fists, and many more stared at her blankly.
Liriel did not stop.
Liriel's voice suddenly rose, no longer a statement, but imbued with a sacred anger!
"But by whom exactly were you abandoned?!"
"By them!"
She abruptly pointed towards the noble district. The pale towers and mana conduits, still shining even in daylight, came into everyone's view, like a cruel irony.
"It is those nobles high in their towers, that group of ruthless councilors in the Mage Council, and that'Starfall Well' which no longer belongs to the people!"
"For generations, you have dedicated everything to them, yet you can only queue like beggars, merely to obtain a negligible drop of magic residue!"
"They erect statue after statue for 'Azshara,' yet they never mention how she betrayed you, how she pushed this city into the abyss."
Liriel's eyes blazed, looking directly at the stunned elves:
"Are you truly willing to live like this? Willing to live out the rest of your lives as 'inferior' citizens under their rule?!"
The plaza fell silent, save for heavy breathing and suppressed sobs.
Liriel's question was like a red-hot iron, searing the numb hearts of every elf.
She withdrew the arm she had pointed towards the noble district, her hands clenching slightly at her sides, knuckles white from the effort.
She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her tone was no longer one of soaring anger, but a deliberately lowered, cruel calm:
"Do you know that just last night, in the banquet halls of the noble district..."
"Simply to light those foolish crystal chandeliers, the magic they squandered was enough for how many of us to endure nights of mana addiction?"
She saw a gaunt elf in the front row suddenly cover his mouth, his shoulders trembling violently.
"The Starfall Well has not dried up!" Liriel's voice suddenly rose, firm and decisive. "Although they claim invaders stole a large amount of magic, their banquets and parties have never ceased!"
"It's just that since that day, every single drop has been intercepted by them! Locked away in the noble district! For them to squander, for them to maintain that ridiculous, high-and-mighty facade!"
At this moment, anger spread in the silence. Some began to curse softly, some pounded the ground with their heads, their voices sounding as if they were about to boil over.
Liriel, however, slowed her pace, her voice regaining its composure:
"But even in such despair, I still see hope, because your souls have not yet died."
"Among you, some still remember order—helping each other in chaos;"
"Some still remember knowledge—seeking ways to heal their mutated brethren;"
"Some still remember guardianship—standing watch at night, protecting everyone—"
She looked into everyone's eyes, nodded gently, and continued:
"This is the spark within you—it has not gone out. It has merely been buried, taken away, and trampled for too long."
The anger on Liriel's face gradually subsided, replaced by compassion and conviction.
She no longer stood aloof but calmly stepped down from the wooden crate, like a shepherd entering his flock.
The crowd instinctively parted a path for her.
Her steps were steady, each one seemingly in rhythm with a drumbeat.
Finally, she stopped by the fountain, her gaze gently sweeping over the faces filled with surprise and uncertainty:
"I was once like you," Liriel's voice was calm and sacred, "lying on cold stone slabs, feeling my magic gradually ebb away, the pain slowly intensifying."
"I thought I would be forever forgotten in some dirty corner, becoming one of those things that lost their minds, or silently rotting away."
Then, slowly, with an almost devout solemnity, she raised her right hand, palm upward, fingers slightly spread, as if receiving an invisible blessing.
A faint glow, not the blue-purple of arcane magic, but a warm orange-red, silently gathered and swirled in her palm.
The light was not dazzling, yet it strangely dispelled the gloom that enveloped the plaza, attracting all eyes.
"Until—I met him." Liriel gazed at the light in her palm, her voice soft, "Obsidian."
She did not use the word "God."
"He is the Emberglow Dragon, the light in the darkness, the witness to mortal suffering, the steadfast anchor of order, the keeper of the flame of hope."
"It was he who answered my despair."
"It was he who calmed the mana addiction within me. It was he who told me," she raised her head, her gaze sweeping over the faces filled with surprise and longing, "that we are not cursed; we are merely heirs whose power has been stripped away."
She turned slightly: "Rielian."
The leader of the commoner elves took a deep breath, straightened his back, and stepped forward.
The excitement on his face had not yet subsided, but his eyes were unusually bright.
"What Lady Liriel said is true!"
"You all saw it, she healed our mutated brethren whom we were utterly powerless to help!"
He walked with firm steps to several cages, opening them one by one without hesitation, releasing the already healed mutated individuals.
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