It was the dead of night. Arcing above the green fields and shattered ruins of Azshara the countless stars of the cosmos twinkled in the inky blackness, eternal and unchanging. But if one of particularly keen eyesight were to watch carefully, they would think they saw a new star growing imperecptibly larger as it moved slowly across the heavens.
Something was coming to Azeroth.
Meanwhile, below the same starry sky and nestled within the ruins of forgotten Eldarath, the secret sanctum of the Warlock known as Eschaton Fell lay silent and unmoving. The wards that the Warlock had placed around the walls before his departure had done their job well, dissuading all curious eyes from entering his domain. Upon the bookshelves and workbenches that adorned the walls no dust lay, as if time was standing still, and around the great Summoning Circle at the centre of the room the silence hung in the air as an almost palpable presence, testament to the primacy of Nothing as the greatest force in the universe.
But then the emptiness moved.
In the air above the Great Circle a sudden distortion rippled through the room, as if the very fabric of the world was being stretched, bent inwards by some outer power. Suddenly the distortion coalesced into a single point of darkness and then exploded into a sphere of utter night, it's perfectly smooth surface surrounded by a coruscating nimbus of black lightning, the air of the sanctum cracking and hissing with the sudden unleashing of such otherworldly forces.
Suddenly there was movement, a distortion rippled it's way across the surface of the sphere, setting off a series of vibrations that caused the walls of the sanctum to resonate in response, and then without warning a figure came hurtling headfirst through the portal, landing unceremoniously on the marbled floor of the sanctum, a tanlged and bloody mess of dishevelled robes and torn flesh.
The figure struggled to it's feet, wavering unsteadily as it tried to raise itself with one arm while in the other clutching a large tome. Standing unsteadily and staring grimly through the blood that caked his face, Eschaton focused his will and with his free hand quickly drew in the air before him a glyph of warding. Instantly the runes and glyphs that adorned the three layers of the Great Circle burst into life, ready to bind and restrain any Power that might come through the Portal. And it was not a moment too soon, for suddenly from the shimmering blackness burst forth a huge hand, it's red scaled talons making a lunge for the injured Warlock. There was a brilliant flash of white light as the massive hand intersected the the wards of the Great Circle. The room shook with a thunderous detonation as the lunging hand was set alight in streams of white fire, too bright for the eye to bear. As Eschaton tried to shield his eyes from the light, an inhuman scream of hate deafened him as the burning hand withdrew into the portal, causing the sphere to collapse in on itself. The cacophany of light and sound ceased, the sudden silence only broken now by the warlock's laboured breathing.
Clutching the book to his breast, Eschaton staggered towards his desk, where he lay the precious tome on the large ensorcelled chest he had prepared for this very moment many moons ago, when he first contemplated making the perilous journey that had almost cost him far far more than just his life.
But all that was almost forgotten already as the Warlock contemplated the glyphs that adorned the front of the strange tome, glyphs that no other mortal in millenia had gazed upon.
Yes, it had been worth the price.