Chapter 97: The Fading Echoes of Tirisfal

　　The zeppelin's landing was a jarring return to gravity, the groaning of wood and steel a stark contrast to the days of silent flight. The hatch opened, releasing a wave of air that was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of decay and pine. Kaelen stepped out into Tirisfal Glades, and the Eastern Kingdoms enveloped him in a clammy embrace.

　　The landscape was a study in gloom. A perpetual, grey twilight seemed to hang under the gnarled, leafless branches of the trees. The ground was soft with rotting leaves and a pale, sickly moss that glowed with a faint, unholy light. In the distance, the jagged spires of the Undercity, the Forsaken's capital, pierced the sky like a crown of thorns. This was a land of the dead, a kingdom of sorrow ruled by those who had cheated the grave.

　　He moved through the woods, the silence broken not by birdsong, but by the occasional, distant wail of a banshee or the rattling breath of a ghoul lurking in the shadows. The further he walked, the more the world seemed to lose its substance. The trees became indistinct, their forms wavering like smoke. The chilling air grew warm, then uncomfortably hot. The scent of decay shifted, replaced by a sterile, chemical smell that stung his nostrils.

　　A sharp, rhythmic beeping sound began to pierce the fog, distant at first, then insistently close. The gloomy forest of Tirisfal dissolved, replaced by a blinding, white ceiling and the blurred outline of a face.

　　"Kaelen? Kaelen, can you hear me?"

　　The voice was familiar, strained with tears and hope. It was his mother's.

　　The cold of Tirisfal was gone. He was burning up. The weight of blankets was oppressive. He tried to move, to answer, but his body was a leaden prison. A deep, throbbing pain radiated from his side, anchoring him to a reality he had been fleeing for so long.

　　The image of the Forsaken lands flickered and faded, replaced by the sensation of a cool cloth on his forehead. Another voice, deeper, his father's, murmuring, "The fever is breaking. I think... I think he's coming back to us."

　　He was trapped between two worlds. The phantom sensation of hooves on soft earth warred with the immobility of his limbs. The memory of the zeppelin's ascent was so vivid—the thrill of leaving Kalimdor, the vastness of the sea. But now, the only vastness was the sterile, confined space of a hospital room. The chronicle of Azeroth, so rich and real, was unraveling, its threads snapping one by one against the harsh, unyielding loom of reality.

　　A low moan escaped his lips. It was not the sound of a centaur, but of a teenage boy, raw and weak.

　　"That's it, son. Fight. Come back to us."

　　The plea was a lifeline, pulling him from the depths of the dream. But the dream was reluctant to release its hold. The cold of the Glades, the memory of his journey, felt more tangible than the starched sheets against his skin. He was losing a world, and the grief of that loss was a physical pain, sharp and profound. He drifted again, the beeping fading, the forest shadows reaching for him once more, offering the familiar escape of the chronicler's path. But the voices of his parents were now a constant, tender counterpoint, a melody of love that was slowly, inexorably, pulling him home.