Chapter 96: The Crossing

　　The world dissolved into a monotonous, elemental expanse. The familiar landmarks of Kalimdor—the golden plains, the jagged mountains—shrank into a hazy, blue-grey line on the horizon, then vanished entirely. The zeppelin was a tiny, fragile bubble of noise and life suspended between the endless, deep blue of the sea below and the vast, pale blue of the sky above. Time lost its meaning, measured only by the sun's slow arc and the constant, rhythmic thrum of the engines.

　　Kaelen remained at the porthole, a silent sentinel. The other passengers, a mix of orc veterans, troll scouts, and a few taciturn tauren, went about their routines—sharpening weapons, sharing dried meat, playing games of chance on crates. They cast occasional, curious glances his way, but his stillness and silence discouraged conversation. He was an island within the floating island.

　　The sea was not a flat canvas. From this height, he could see its true nature—a living, breathing entity. Great, swirling currents traced patterns in the deep blue, like veins beneath skin. Storms brewed on distant horizons, colossal anvils of cloud lit by silent lightning. Pods of leviathans, looking like tiny, dark specks, moved with a slow, ancient purpose through the depths. It was a humbling perspective. The wars and struggles of the land were invisible from here, erased by the sheer scale of the ocean.

　　Days bled into one another. The sun rose from the sea and set into it, painting the sky in fiery hues that were reflected perfectly on the water's still surface. Nights were profound, the sky a black velvet dome pierced by countless cold, sharp stars, their light mirrored by the phosphorescent glow of creatures in the sea below. The world was reduced to its most basic elements: air, water, light, and the thin shell of wood and fabric that kept them from the abyss.

　　He thought of the fisherman's words. The sea did carry stories away. With each passing mile, the memories of Kalimdor—the heat of the Barrens, the damp of the marsh, the silence of the peaks—felt more distant, like dreams upon waking. They were not forgotten, but they were being layered over by the immense, silent journey. He was being cleansed by the passage, prepared for a new land.

　　On the fifth day, a change stirred among the crew. The casual atmosphere tightened into focused activity. Goblin crewmen scrambled through the rigging, their shouts more urgent. The orc overseer barked orders, his eyes fixed ahead.

　　Kaelen returned to his porthole. A dark smudge had appeared on the eastern horizon. It was not another storm. It was land.

　　A slow, collective tension filled the gondola. The veterans checked their gear with a grim familiarity. The scouts' eyes narrowed, scanning the approaching coastline for threats. This was not a homecoming; it was the approach to a front line.

　　The smudge grew, resolving into a rugged, forested coastline under a sky that seemed heavier, greyer than the skies of Kalimdor. This was the Eastern Kingdoms. A land of older wars, deeper scars, and kingdoms long fallen into dust and shadow.

　　The zeppelin began its descent, the engines changing pitch. The sea rushed up to meet them. Kaelen could now make out details: the white foam of waves crashing against dark cliffs, the dense, brooding canopy of a forest that seemed to swallow the light. The air coming through the vents changed, losing its clean, salty bite and gaining the scent of damp pine, cold stone, and something else—a faint, cold taint of old magic and decay.

　　The journey was over. The sea had been crossed. The chronicle of Kalimdor was sealed. Below him lay a new volume, its pages stained with the blood of humans, dwarves, and the undead legions of the Scourge. The zeppelin dipped into the coastal mists, and the first trees of Tirisfal Glades reached up like skeletal fingers. The descent was not just a landing; it was an entry into a darker, more complex chapter of the world's story. Kaelen straightened, his silent vigil unbroken. The witness had arrived.