The Forsaken surged again, weapons spattered with blood and awash in rainwater. The figures who fought were gray in the mist, their cries somehow silent echoes as they were hacked apart. By now, even the defenders were reeling. They had killed so many: could anything be left?
The first wave of orcs caught the Gilneans by surprise. Horde forces rushed forward over a carpet of corpses, lust for victory in their eyes and throats. Everything was silent now. And then it was gone.
In its place stood the Bulwark, the half-finished fortifications that lined Lordaeron's border with what had become known as the Plaguelands. Master Apothecary Lydon was there, his left arm missing and an enormous gash across his face. He spoke urgently to his people, but no sound came out. He was orchestrating a last-minute defense at the Bulwark, but had little to work with. The heart of the Forsaken army had been sacrificed at Gilneas.
What little remained faced off against an organized force of humans and dwarves marching west, fresh from its victory at Andorhal. The ragged force that remained at the Bulwark had little hope of victory. The rest of the Horde was nowhere in sight.
This isn't real, Sylvanas realized, suddenly aware of her own consciousness observing these ghostly events as they unfolded. She was dead: she could feel it, but her spirit was being held in limbo. What is this?
The last thing she remembered was falling to her demise. These visions—they were like memories of events that hadn't yet happened. Where did they come from? Where was she now?
The capital was suddenly under siege. King Wrynn stood beyond the burning remains of the zeppelin tower, drawing diagrams of the Undercity for his generals. He had stormed the city before; he was confident of victory.
Within the city walls, bonfires raged. Sylvanas seethed; the Alliance was already burning the corpses. No. Wait. She tried to make sense out of the clouded vision. The few Forsaken who remain are throwing themselves into the bonfires, she realized, rather than facing their executioners.
"This isn't real!" Sylvanas announced, her voice echoing in her head and sounding as it had when she had been alive. Were her people really so weak? No—no! Garrosh had all but murdered the best of her troops in his own wasteful campaigns. The Forsaken leadership had been gutted. That was what these visions showed.