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Before I could understand what was happening, the devastation was upon us. The ground trembled and our fair spire, which had stood citadel over Dalaran since the Second War, shattered.
I remember screaming as my father's face disappeared behind the tumbling scaffolding, but I heard nothing. Even in my terror, I thought of my magical training. If I could only slow this disaster-but the spells died within me. Traces of demonic power barred my efforts. There was no hope. I closed my eyes and waited. But somehow, I am still here.
The wreckage shifted for hours. I was certain each new thundering tremor would finally end it. Instead, I remain huddled beneath an archway that had once framed our view of the bustling market streets. How many times had I seen my sister returning from there, her arms loaded with goods? Now only dust and stone stand before me.
I must believe in the Kirin Tor. The great mages of Dalaran would not desert their people. This rubble that imprisons me is no more than a trifle to a skilled spellcaster, I will be saved, and one day, I will finish my training and stand among them.
There are no signs of others or of my family. I have called for them. Everything above is silent now, I am not sure whether I am blessed or cursed. My heart would quiet itself and follow the others to rest, but my mind is thick with fear.
It grows darker and the air is thinner. The faint lights I summon to write burn into my eyes. I can do no more. My energy must be saved for what may yet come. I am audacious enough to hope that these scraps of paper will hold out against the silence as I cannot. I would become a voice, singing up through this abyss, softening until a whisper, and then fading into the sky.