Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Disclaimer:

While the main characters and many of the side characters are my own invention, the world, the background events and also some of the side characters obviously don’t belong to me but to Blizzard.

Many voice lines and dialogues are copied from the game, coming from quest texts, cut scenes or cinematics, which of course belong to Blizzard as well.

2. Disclaimer & acknowledgment:

A huge shout-out goes to all people maintaining the Warcraft Wiki and Wowhead. Your articles and guides allow me to keep track of things and to easily look up stuff without having to replay all campaigns and quests. Couldn’t have done it without your help!

3. Acknowledgment & disclaimer:

A big thanks also to my beta-readers for pointing out typos, grammar errors and passages I phrased too vaguely!

The characters they play in World of Warcraft made their way into my story as side characters (Straszan & Nylanea) and therefore don’t belong to me but to them.

Another big help I want to mention honestly is ChatGPT, the use of which – hopefully – allowed me to avoid awkward sentence structures and phrasings my past books suffered from, due to me not being a native English speaker.

4. Announcement :

This book covers the lore of patch 10.0.2 up to and including 10.0.7 of the World of Warcraft: Dragonflight expansion.

PS: Yeah sorry, didn't manage to upload (and first rework) the whole Shadowlands stories yet... the new expansions keep coming too quickly, hence this series jumps from book one to book five; if you're interested, you can find out what happened during Shadowlands (book two, three and four) by taking a look at my other series (there called "SL (Part I)" to "SL (Part V)".

Chapter Text

“Now you’ve ruined it completely!”

Kee’dril Suntwist flinched at the guttural voice sounding from thin air right next to him. The sketchbook almost slipped from his lap, and only a quick grab saved it from a tumble down the several-men-high wall surrounding Lordaeron Keep… or rather what was left of it.

The undead blood elf flashed his gleaming red eyes at the Forsaken woman who had now turned visible and was crouching to his right.

“Blight, Holl! Why are you sneaking up on me like that? You almost made me ruin the picture!”

The cheeky Rogue had the nerve to laugh at that – a gurgling noise that reminded Kee’dril of the factthat he preferred his unliving colleagues here in Tirisfal not to make such sounds, despite him wishing they were a bit more cheerful.

“Are you seriously asking me that? The last couple of times I tried to so much as peek at your drawing, you snapped that book of yours shut faster than I could blink. And my lids still work perfectly fine.”

The elf grumbled sulkily while checking his newly finished work for any damage his frantic motion might have caused. Charcoal smudged easily, and he hadn’t yet applied the protective lacquer.

“Because I don’t like you looking at my drawings before they’re done,” he muttered, “but adding the highlights was the last thing I still had to do with this one.”

“I liked it better before, but either way – your pictures just prove you’re a hopeless dreamer, Kee. We’re never going to see something like that. And then with all the sunshine? Urgh.” Hollie screwed up her face, which made for quite a gruesome sight, given that it was already partially rotten to begin with.

The elf instead took another look at his own creation. He had used the ruins of Lordaeron Keep as they stood before him as a model, then added his own visions to the otherwise depressing reality. The broken parts of the castle were repaired; the lingering remnants of the Forsaken Blight from the Fourth War, gone; the tattered trees regrown and flourishing. But most important of all, the fallow, empty yard had been turned into a park. Instead of the few Dark Rangers and Forsaken lingering with gloomy faces, the place in Kee’dril’s drawing was filled with a motley collection of people – undead and living alike – chatting and walking together along the sunbathed paths.

“I’d rather call myself an optimist than a dreamer.”

The Forsaken grunted. “Even if a miracle happened and the living changed their minds, that’s not who we are. We’re not the type to stroll around in pretty clothes and joke in the sun.”

That’s not what you are – just what you’ve started believing you’ll always be, Kee’dril thought darkly to himself, but refrained from raising the topic again. The discussion had gone nowhere over the past months. He could already feel the oppressive mood of this place and its people creeping up on him again.

Although the Forsaken had started cleaning up the Blight used during the war against the Alliance about three years ago, Undercity – their actual capital – still hadn’t been restored, even with help from the Plague Eater of Maldraxxus in the Shadowlands. Brill had been mostly rebuilt, but the ruins of the human lands above Undercity remained tainted, stubborn streaks of green gas still clinging to the broken corners of collapsed buildings.

It must have been much worse before, but Lordaeron Keep still reeked enough to bother even Kee’dril’s undeath-dulled sense of smell – at least when he made the mistake of breathing in through his nose before speaking. It even masked the scent of decay that usually stuck to the Rogue and might have betrayed her approach.

Hollie Gutwell was one of the few Forsaken he had met here who still displayed a healthy sense of humor. Even so, she had clearly succumbed to the same fatalism that haunted most of her kind: the belief that they didn’t deserve anything better, that they were creatures of filth and shadow, and that beauty or light were for the living alone. If it hadn’t been for Hollie, Kee’dril would have left Tirisfal shortly after arriving – just over a year ago, after the sky over Northrend had closed and the Knights of the Ebon Blade returned to their duty guarding the mindless Scourge. Well – Hollie and the lack of any better options.

After lingering in the frozen north for far too long, Kee’dril had finally resolved to face his past and gone directly to Silvermoon. He had left the city almost two decades earlier as part of Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider’s retinue: a hopeful crusade to avenge the defilement of Quel’Thalas by the Lich King and to find a cure for the magic withdrawal plaguing their people after the destruction of the Sunwell.

However, for Kee’dril, the crusade had ended early and brutally at Icecrown Citadel, where he died fighting the Scourge as part of the joint forces of Kael’thas and Illidan. But his story hadn’t ended there. What followed was a five-year nightmare of fear, pain, and blood, and then a decade more of hiding, guilt, and uncertainty.

It wasn’t until after the Helm of Domination was shattered that Kee’dril truly began to reckon with what had happened to him. He had finally found the courage to ask whether there was still any part of his former self left to reclaim. Confronting that question head-on, however, had turned out to be a mistake.

Some prior research might have warned him about the recent efforts of a San’layn named Vorath to claim Quel’Thalas for the undead. But Kee’dril had walked in blind. All his bravery had resulted in was a swift and painful answer to his question: there was nothing of his past left to reclaim.

Upon visiting his cousin in Silvermoon – the only other member of the Suntwist family to survive the slaughter during the Invasion of the Scourge – Kee’dril had learned that the man was anything but pleased with his reappearance in the blood elven lands. The cousin had secretly alerted the city guard, trying to have him arrested. He would have succeeded, too, had Kee’dril not grown suspicious in time.

Barely escaping, the undead was left with a bitter truth: he couldn’t reclaim any of his old ties. Besides that cousin, merely one other person had remained in his thoughts; a remarkable man he had once called a close friend. But even that hope had died. During the stalling conversation with the cousin, Kee’dril had learned that the man and his family, who had improbably survived the Scourge attack during the Third War, had since all been lost.

With nothing left in the homeland that now viewed him with suspicion or outright hostility, the undead elf had turned to his new kin in search of a place to stay: the Forsaken. The Desolate Council had recently opened their ranks to all Darkfallen, including kaldorei Dark Rangers who had declined to rejoin the Alliance. So it hadn’t surprised Kee’dril that his welcome in Tirisfal was warmer than in Quel’Thalas.

Of course, the undead here had an easier time accepting his presence. They knew that the ichor in their own veins – though enough to fuel blood magic – wasn’t sufficient to sate the hunger of a San’layn. Not having to quietly fear becoming their new companion’s next meal made it easier for them to trust him.

Nonetheless, even after two years among them, Kee’dril still didn’t feel at home with the Forsaken. Maybe they were simply too different. And he didn’t mean the obvious differences: most of them were partially rotted corpses of once-human stock, while he had been raised quickly enough to fully preserve his elven form. Aside from his blood-red eyes and an ugly scar from the fatal sword wound on his chest (which no one usually saw), he could still pass for a living at a glance.

No, what set them apart was deeper. Not even among the sin’dorei Dark Rangers had the San’layn found what he was longing for: connection. Purpose. A sense of kinship deep enough to dull the edge of what he had lost.

However, as Kee’dril stared down again at his drawing after his friend’s comment, the image of the Forsaken laughing with the living and sauntering through the park between blossoming flowers suddenly did look a little ridiculous.

No! he thought vehemently and shook his head. This wasn’t just an unrealistic fancy – it was a possibility he needed to believe in. At times, holding on to optimism amid so much hopelessness and gloom simply became exhausting. It was contagious. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk of it infecting him too. But if the unlife of the Forsaken and their company would be all there was to his future…. He had lost the Light – and with it, the power to heal others. But he could still fight for them. For a future worth existing in.

Carefully, Kee’dril tore the page from his sketchbook, sprayed it with lacquer to keep the charcoal from smudging, and placed it in front of Hollie.

“Wait until it’s dry. Then it’s yours; a farewell gift.”

“Oh. Where are you going?” the Forsaken asked, not showing any surprise at his sudden announcement.

Stowing away his drawing utensils, Kee’dril considered for a moment. “I don’t know yet. First to Orgrimmar, I think.”

If he couldn’t change the other undead’s minds through words, he would give them proof by example – visible, undeniable – that unlife could be something more than just ruins and resignation.

“Be careful,” the Rogue warned him, “the other Forsaken and I told you before – sure, they’re more used to dealing with undead in Orgrimmar than in Quel’Thalas, but that doesn’t mean the living there like it. And you… After that fiasco with those San’layn who wanted to join the Horde at the start of the Fourth War, they’ll be especially hesitant to work with you.”

Kee’dril sighed. “I know.” Rising, he forced a smile before meeting Hollie’s eyes. “I’ll think of something.”

After putting the bag with his drawing tools away, he reached for the two swords he had leaned against the mural to his left. The blades were slender, easily mistaken for one-handed weapons by people who weren’t familiar with arms.

Maybe with some runes painted on, he could pass for a dual-wielding Frost Death Knight. That way, people might not flinch at the sight of a San’layn. Of course, it would have been even more effective to pretend to be a living person, but that would have missed the point, and would have been much harder to pull off, especially with the faint reverberation of undeath in his voice.

Hollie gave his shoulder a friendly shake. “Just remember: if you don’t find what you’re looking for out there, you can always come back. We’ll be here for you.”

The Warrior inclined his head. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, forcing himself to sound more cheerful than he felt at the thought of returning here: where all hope was lost. He knew even his optimism had limits, though he hoped he would never reach them.

Chapter Text

A violent gust of wind tousled the straggly strands of his hair, making everything that wasn’t neatly secured in the small village rattle and the leaves of the trees rustle, all of it blending into the cacophony of yet another storm. There had been an awful lot of those lately, and thinking too hard about them made Naethir Dawncaller’s chest ache. He was certain these storms weren’t natural – somehow tied to the strange uprisings of the elements they had been seeing all across Azeroth – and could only be heralds of something dreadful.

Still, in this moment, he didn’t actually mind the howling wind. It meant the noise he made wouldn’t be heard in the otherwise silent night.

The rat in his hands squeaked frantically. At times, the sound came disturbingly close to soft, humanoid screams. The creature squirmed and thrashed, trying to escape, but without success. He squeezed it harder, then pulled another of its whiskers, feeling a sharp spike in the waves of pain already consuming the small animal’s senses.

Through his otherwise useless Void powers, he shared in the rat’s agony. The pain didn’t diminish for the creature – but for Naethir, the Eternal Hunger that gnawed constantly at his core eased, as it always did when he caused suffering. He hated that. Hated the way the Death Knights’ curse rewarded him for cruelty.

Yet this time, his odd Void sense spared him the twisted relief that usually followed. The rat’s agony overwhelmed even the perverse satisfaction granted by the Hunger, flooding his senses with reassuring torment. It grounded him. Offered an escape.

Then came the voice.

“Stop this,” someone said – softly spoken, with a distinct accent, but sharp as a blade.

A jolt of fear cut through the pain. He hadn’t noticed the quiet tread of hooves. That realization alone was enough to shake him. He had let himself get too deep – too distracted. And yet… he reassured himself that such a slip would only happen here, at the company’s base in Raven Hill. It was one of the few places he could genuinely call safe. Or close enough.

Naethir reacted on instinct. He crushed the rat’s skull in one swift motion – merciful, maybe – and rose, the limp body of the little animal hidden behind his back. As he turned, the glare from the lanterns strung above the plaza struck him. The garlands of light in front of the Inn swayed gently, casting a soft halo around his stalker. In contrast, the garden where the undead elf had crouched remained in shadow; its lamps extinguished. Even so, he recognized the silhouette promptly. A female draenei: Remah.

She had joined the Spinecrafters soon after the Jailer’s fall. Thinnadis, her warlock partner, hadn’t been pleased, but this time, she hadn’t been able to change the Shaman’s mind. Remah had wanted to sharpen her fighting skills by training with soldiers. In the three years since, the dark-skinned draenei had not only done that, but had also become the company’s treasured go-to blacksmith. But she hadn’t got any less weird. She still had a knack for catching the Death Knight off guard by not behaving the way he expected.

And the Shaman did it again now with her next question, which wasn’t the obvious accusation Naethir had anticipated.

“Why are you hurting yourself?” she asked, her voice calm. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

Remah stood there merely dressed in a black cropped top and loose cloth trousers – the clothes she apparently slept in. She watched him closely, no weapon in hand, no horror on her face. Just concern.

Naethir didn’t say anything, though he knew silence wouldn’t deter her. It never did. Unlike most of the company, who kept their distance unless duty forced interaction, Remah came to him often, whether to talk or to sit quietly nearby.

The Shaman shook her horned head, concern softening her usually stern face. “I should’ve acted sooner. I noticed you doing this months ago. Back then, I thought it was just your way of managing the Eternal Hunger. But that’s not it, is it?”

Still, the undead said nothing.

Remah’s first guess hadn’t been wrong. He had started hunting vermin at night for that reason. The three years since the Jailer’s fall, life on Azeroth had been unusually peaceful and quiet. Too quiet. With no new catastrophe, no fresh crisis, Naethir had grown more anxious with every passing month – convinced this silence was just a pause before the next storm. Seemingly literally.

The few undead still haunting Duskwood, or the prey hunted for company supplies, hadn’t provided sufficient opportunities to harm something without dragging it out just for the sake of it. Naethir would endure the pain, but neglecting the Hunger posed another danger: mindless, blood-seeking hysteria. And he sure as the Maw would not allow himself to become a threat to his brothers or the other members of the company.

So he had found a compromise. Torturing vermin – pests that ruined harvests and spread disease – became his half-moral solution. Not noble, but tolerable.

Remah broke the silence once more.

“You weren’t enjoying it, which honestly would’ve been less worrying. You were using your gift on that rat to hurt yourself – without leaving marks Orthorin or Saewron might notice, right? Why? Do you despise yourself that much?”

Naethir grimaced. Damn it, again.

That the others had learned Saewron, the younger of his twin brothers, wasn’t the sole Dawncaller with a strange active ability related to their nature as void elves – that had been Naethir’s fault. Over the past year, he had tested his Void senses too openly. Searching for pain, picking up on it when others suffered. And because he hated sensing that in people he cared about, he ha d acted on it – like urging Orthorin to take it easy when he had another of his migraines, or helping Grimoth carry heavy buckets of water for their garden when the old dwarf’s joints were flaring. People had noticed. Saewron, hoping that would earn the undead some goodwill, had explained Naethir’s gift.

Remah’s voice cut in again – sharp, unwavering.

“Answer me! I won’t let this slide. Don’t assume I’m too noble to snitch. If you don’t give me a damn good reason, I’ll inform our captain of this.”

Her threat worked. It pierced through his numbness with a spike of fear. Not of punishment – but of having to explain himself to Orthorin. To Saewron. To make them feel bad. That was worse.

Only now did he realize he was still holding the rat. He dropped the limp thing under the nearest bush, for once not caring if someone found the body and started asking where all the dead little animals came from.

Returning his attention to Remah, Naethir let out a long sigh, which caused a cool draft that made goosebumps appear along the Shaman’s bare arms.

“I’m not doing it to punish myself. The pain… it at least still feels right, besides the fear. And pain’s easier to bear than that. Everything else…,” he paused, “has just grown dull. Or it’s gone.”

Naethir could remember the times when he had experienced pain as an enemy – in life, or as a ghost after his death – something he wanted to avoid, but by now he regarded it as friend. Familiar. Unchanging. One of the few things that hadn’t been altered by whatever was happening to him.

Remah’s eyes widened. “That’s… terrible!”

The Death Knight shrugged. “Isn’t that just another side effect of… what did you call it? The alabaster effect? That I’d grow numb to any positive feelings?”

That conversation kept resurfacing in his mind – the one during the housewarming for Saewron and Luthir’s new apartment in Stormwind. Along with it came flashes of other memories, ones that didn’t quite feel like his own, but echoed something similar. What disturbed him most wasn’t the numbness; it was what it might lead to.

What if he became something truly monstrous? Something cold and empty. Capable of abandoning his brothers. So far, he remembered that they mattered. That protecting them was his only reason to still be. But the feeling behind that duty… was fading. Concern remained – but little else.

“N-no!” Remah shook her head. “That doesn’t sound right at all.”

She stepped closer, lifting a hand; an unexpected gesture that made Naethir freeze. He couldn’t fathom why any living being but the twins would want to touch him. But the Shaman gently brushed her fingers through his hair, the straggly strands partially bleached white by the past years.

“When I saw your first white hair, I assumed it was the alabaster effect. But now… it doesn’t fit anymore.” Her brow furrowed. “That change is supposed to signal growing power. But – no offense – nothing’s happened in the last three years to trigger that kind of growth. And with what you’ve just told me…”

She shook her head again. Her voice broke.

“I think something’s seriously wrong with you.”

Naethir frowned;not just at her words, but at what he felt. His odd Void-sense picked up a subtle pulse of pain from her. Not physical. Emotional. She was hurting for him. Out of sympathy.

What a truly weird woman.

It was a misplaced emotion. And yet… something in her words stirred a feeling deep inside him. One he couldn’t quite place. Not warmth or comfort. Not exactly. But it made him want to ask.

“Something… wrong with me?”

Remah lowered her hand and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Yes,” she said softly. “You need help.”

Suddenly – almost violently – her last few words, along with memories tied to the alabaster effect, surged through Naethir’s mind. That flash was a certain sign it wasn’t just his own recollection. It was her: Avadel. Without a soulforge, this was the only way she could still communicate.

Had he misunderstood her?

Maybe those flashes hadn’t been meant to soothe him. Maybe she had been trying to lead him toward the same conclusion Remah had just reached. But if the alabaster effect wasn’t the cause of his emotional decay… what was?

Was it the broken state of his soul?

The fragments of his soul had been fused with Avadel’s; meant to stabilize it. Was that not enough? Was it unraveling again?

Maybe that was why the Deathlord hadn’t trained him further. In Ardenweald, when Naethir had chosen not to fully activate their soulbind just to leech her memories, the ancient draenei had promised to help him grow stronger as a Death Knight. He hadn’t noticed much of that ever since. She had occasionally sent him some of her memories to help him improve with what he had already learned. But maybe she had already seen what he was becoming. Maybe she knew he would fade. Or forget. Or cease to be.

It might even explain what Saewron had glimpsed during one of his so-called Spirit Healings that the Rogue had attempted.

Remah’s words stirred something else too. This memory, he knew, was his.

He looked down at the palm of his right hand, where a rune was tattooed: a sigil paired with one on each scabbard of his runeblades. Only he could draw them.

But his focus wasn’t on the rune. It was on a scar. A long-healed cut. One made to seal an oath.

A promise. One he still meant to keep.

Not because he believed help would come. But because not keeping it terrified him. Orthorin had once resented him deeply; for hiding the truth about how bad things had got after their father’s death. That choice had led to his own death. Back when he had still been Inean.

He wouldn’t repeat that mistake.

“I’ll tell Orthorin myself,” he said quietly.

“You will?” Remah sounded both surprised and relieved.

“Yes.” A moment passed. “But in the morning. I’m not waking him for this.”

Chapter Text

“Thank you, that’s all. You may go now,” Luthir said.

Talis gave him a slightly puzzled look. She had only recently joined his team specializing in the research of Void-modified organisms, and still treated him with the coy reverence of a newcomer.

“Are you… sure? There are still a lot of tubes to clean.”

The silver-haired void elf smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right. I’ll gladly take care of it myself. From time to time, I actually enjoy that kind of work.”

“A-all right.” The woman nervously wiped her palms on her smock before removing it and hanging it up. “Well then, have a nice evening – and give my regards to your partner. And Tulu, of course!”

“I will. You too. See you tomorrow.”

Luthir watched the woman leave with mild amusement, thinking of Saewron’s and Tulu’s most recent visit to Telogrus Rift. Talis had been absolutely smitten with the purple pet fox, who had curiously poked her nose into everything. The Rogue, however, was the reason Luthir had decided to dismiss the team early – even though it was only late afternoon. It was Saewron’s first evening back after another stretch of duty with the Spinecrafters. Since Luthir had returned to working full-time as a researcher, the next few days were among the rare ones they could truly spend together.

Of course, his team could have continued their work without their head of research, but after yesterday’s events, Luthir had anticipated that most of his colleagues would be glad to get to head off early and catch up on the city’s latest rumors. A lot had happened in the Rogue’s absence.

The lanky Priest turned back to the worktable, still littered with used glass containers of various shapes. That, too, was why he was looking forward to the cleaning. He lit the magical flame in the small brazier, donned his safety goggles, and reached for the gripper tongs. The repetitive task would help him unwind and collect his thoughts – which was exactly what he needed before an evening with Saewron, who would no doubt want to discuss everything that had happened, and its implications.

Lately, the dragons – and the dragonflights who served as Azeroth’s guardians – had grown restless. Initial guesses had attributed it to the strange uprisings of the elements that followed soon after: a previously unknown Shamanic cult had emerged alongside hordes of elementals, appearing in various locations across Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. The activity was accompanied by unusually frequent and violent storms.

While not the root cause of the dragons’ unease, the attacks had been connected to it. As it turned out, the strange longing that had been plaguing the dragons – which especially the younger ones could not explain – had been linked to the awakening of the Dragon Isles.

The ancient broodlands had been hidden from the world – including the dragons themselves – after their magic was drained during the Great Sundering. Now, that elemental energy had resurfaced, and the dragons had been drawn back to reclaim their kingdom. That in itself might have been a wondrous thing – had the event not taken an alarming turn yesterday.

Wrathion, the Black Prince, and Ebyssian – formerly known in his visage form as the Highmountain tauren Spiritwalker Ebonhorn – had returned from the Isles to Stormwind and Orgrimmar. With them came a group of winged, reptilian people of a newly discovered humanoid dragonkin race. And – more worryingly – news that a dangerous figure named Raszageth the Storm-Eater had been freed from her prison on the Dragon Isles.

Wild speculation had erupted across the city, though nothing had yet been officially confirmed. An emergency meeting of the faction leaders had been called for today.

Luthir glanced at the clock just as he put away the last of the test tubes. Cleaning had gone faster than expected, and he still had some time to spare. Even so, the Priest moved to leave, lost in thought as he tried to decide what to do next.

Stepping out of the tent, he nearly collided with someone shorter than himself. He caught only a flash of spiky black hair that made his heart skip… then his body burst apart into a cloud of shadowy dust.

Promptly reassembling himself after the unintentional Dispersion, the lanky void elf exclaimed with wide-eyed surprise:

“Magister!”

“Hello Luthir. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The Priest laughed awkwardly. “Never mind. I just hadn’t expected to see you here! So, the meeting is already over?”

Umbric nodded. “It is. And that’s why I’m here. Your request to our newest allies came up, though I imagine you’ll be interested in the rest of the news as well.”

The soft smile that touched the Magister’s lips stirred a warm feeling in Luthir’s chest. It wasn’t surprising, really. Umbric was often willing to share news with him that he withheld from others. They had known each other for decades. Luthir had become Umbric’s assistant before he had even come of age, and the older man had long since treated him like an adoptive son. That came with its challenges; but in this case, it was certainly a benefit.

“Walk with me?” the co-leader of the ren’dorei asked invitingly.

Luthir didn’t have to think twice. “With pleasure!”

As they strolled across the jagged, violet-tinged islands of Telogrus Rift, the Mage got straight to the point.

“Now, where to start? First: Scalecommander Azurathel has accepted your request. He’ll ask his people whether some of them are willing to participate in your study. He expects you’ll be contacted within the next few days.”

The Priest clapped his hands, delighted. “Wonderful! I’m really curious to learn more about our new scaly allies. The way the Void interacts with them might reveal a great deal.”

“About that,” Umbric added, with a slightly knowing look, “it was wise of you not to send your letter directly to the Scalecommander without someone to provide context. Otherwise, you might have received a… less than gracious reply.”

Luthir’s smile faltered. “Oh my. Why? I hope I haven’t caused you trouble?”

A pang of horror coiled in his gut, and with it, the Void’s whispers in the back of his mind crept closer – eager to taunt him for embarrassing the other man.

Fortunately, Umbric raised a calming hand as they passed through the Void Rift to the next isle. A few other void elves glanced in their direction, but none interrupted.

“Nothing serious,” Umbric assured him. “It was resolved easily enough. You didn’t know better – and the dracthyr leader recognized that quickly.”

“What did I do wrong?” Luthir asked, a bit too quickly. For a moment, he felt like that sixteen-year-old youngster again, who had just botched his first experiment under Umbric’s supervision.

“Nothing more than being a little hasty,” the Mage replied. “During the meeting, we had the opportunity to learn more about the dracthyr. First of all; they weren’t born naturally. They were created by Neltharion.”

“By Deathwing?!”

“Not quite. I used his original name intentionally. This happened twenty thousand years ago, long before the Aspect of Earth became known as Deathwing.”

Luthir arched a long, silver eyebrow. Twenty thousand years? That was ancient history, even by elven standards. Where had the dracthyr been all this time? The Sundering, which had sealed off the Dragon Isles, had occurred ten thousand years ago – and yet it seemed even the dragons hadn’t known about their existence until recently.

“They were placed in stasis by Neltharion himself – with help from Malygos, the former Aspect of the blue dragonflight. The dracthyr don’t even know why. But it explains why they’ve only just learned of their… father’s tragic fate.”

Understanding struck Luthir like a jolt. Of course. Now it made sense why his request to study the dracthyr’s reaction to Void magic might have offended them.

Deathwing – and the entire black dragonflight – had been driven mad by the Old Gods. As Aspect of Earth, Neltharion had been particularly vulnerable to the whispers coming from the depths. During the War of the Ancients prior to the Sundering, he had turned against his fellow Aspects after convincing them to pour much of their power into a weapon called the Dragon Soul. Neltharion had wielded that weapon not just against their enemy, the Burning Legion, but also against his allies.

Holding all that power had taken a heavy toll, starting to break the dragon’s body apart. That or the loss of his allies had caused Deathwing to retreat; only to return, time and again, as a looming threat until his final fall during the Cataclysm. Even then, it had taken the combined strength of Azeroth’s heroes and the remaining Aspects – who sacrificed the last of their titan-given powers – to unmake Deathwing.

Luthir’s request to examine the dracthyr had likely come across as a test to see whether they were prone to follow in their father’s footsteps – unintentionally implying a lack of trust.

“I see. Yes, knowing this, I would’ve approached the matter differently,” the Priest commented.

“I’m sure of it,” Magister Umbric acknowledged, then added: “That said, it’s worth considering this might actually have an impact on your study. The dracthyr are capable of wielding the magic of all five primary dragonflights, including the black. It’s quite possible they a re vulnerable to the whispers. I want you to inform me immediately if that proves to be the case.”

“Sure,” Luthir agreed. “If it turns out to be true, we could offer to teach them how to manage the whispers as a precaution – delicately, of course, and only if they’re interested.”

“That would be appropriate. Though we’d need to find a special solution to extend the offer to those dracthyr under Scalecommander Cindrethresh who have followed Ebyssian to join the Horde,” Umbric mused as they passed through another Void Rift, drawing closer to the large tent that housed his office.

“Is… Raszageth one of Neltharion’s creations too?” Luthir asked, curiosity piqued. “She was imprisoned in the same place as the dracthyr, wasn’t she?” He already knew she couldn’t be one of the humanoid-sized dracthyr; rumors claimed she had made even Wrathion’s dragon form look like a pup beside her.

The Mage gave a short, humorless laugh. “Sadly not. If she were, we could at least say she’s weaker than he was. It’s doubtful Neltharion would have created something more powerful than himself.”

With a wave of Umbric’s hand, the tent flap opened and they stepped inside, soon settling into two comfortable chairs among wooden desks and shelves overflowing with books, papers, glowing artifacts, and softly humming instruments.

“No, Raszageth is a so-called Primal Incarnate – the proto-dragon equivalent of an Aspect,” Umbric picked up his explanation. “Twenty-thousand years ago, they were at war with the dragons who had accepted the titans’ gift and were empowered by them. Unlike our Aspects, the Incarnates rejected the titans entirely and opposed their influence on Azeroth.”

“You’re speaking in plural. So there are more of them? Possibly imprisoned like she was?” Luthir inquired.

“There are,” Umbric confirmed. “And it stands to reason that she and her Primalists will try to free the others.”

“Primalists? So those Shamans…”

“Are her followers. Kurog Grimtotem must have made contact with her while she was still imprisoned and orchestrated her release. He’s one of the cult’s mortal leaders and seems to have recruited many like-minded individuals over the past few years. His name wasn’t unfamiliar. According to Alleria, he’s the tauren who had the audacity to crash First Arcanist Thalyssra and Lor’themar’s wedding – and caused… some upset.”

Despite the grim subject matter, Luthir couldn’t help but notice with a flicker of amusement that Umbric still refused to refer to the Lord Regent of Silvermoon by his proper title. The Magister had never forgiven the man for exiling him and the other Void researchers (justifiably so, in Luthir’s opinion) and remained clearly bitter about not being invited to the royal wedding in Suramar. All other Alliance leaders had received invitations – including Alleria. Luthir suspected the eldest Windrunner sister had been invited not as a representative of the ren’dorei, but as Turalyon’s wife. After all, he continued to serve as Stormwind’s Regent while King Anduin Wrynn remained missing on his travels.

“Still,” Luthir remarked, “it’s reassuring to know she doesn’t seem capable of creating her own minions. She’s dangerous, certainly – but that makes her threat level nowhere near that of the Burning Legion or the Jailer. Are you planning to hold another gathering to brief our people, like you did four years ago?”

Umbric shook his head. “While the situation is being closely monitored, it’s currently considered primarily dragon business; not a threat to all of Azeroth. And so far, there’s been no indication that our Void expertise will be needed.”

“Understandable.” Luthir nodded. “Though I have to admit I’m curious. Death- err, Neltharion must have come under the Old Gods’ influence while he was still on the Dragon Isles. It’s possible rediscovering them will bring some Void-related matters to light.”

“Possibly,” the Magister acknowledged, then added with a soft smile: “Don’t worry, Alleria and I have already decided to send the Riftrunners to the Dragon Isles. They’ve got experience when it comes to expeditions to new isles. They’ll report back regularly. I’ll leave it to our heads of research to decide whether any findings are worth a closer look. But I’m not suspending all our ongoing work again. Several current studies have reached a stage where another interruption would be too damaging.”

Though the Mage’s tone was mild, Luthir caught the faint bitterness behind his words. Umbric had been disappointed by the outcome of the grand research initiative in Bastion. While the team had made compelling discoveries and stayed in the Shadowlands long after the Jailer’s defeat, they had ultimately failed to confirm their theories. Umbric believed that unlocking the full truth would have required access to memories stored by the Kyrian – memories removed to ease the burdens of souls – but their request for access had been denied. He had hoped the faction leaders might intervene, but their interest had waned. Even most backers had withdrawn support. Privately, Umbric had called them fools. The people of Azeroth, he often said, were desperate to forget the Shadowlands and ignore the inconvenient truths uncovered there.

Luthir agreed with that sentiment. This choice to remain blissfully ignorant would come back to bite them one day, as ignoring a disliked reality didn’t unmake it.

To distract his friend and mentor from that bitter subject, he shifted the conversation toward the Magister’s current research. As Luthir had hoped, the tactic worked. Soon their discussion turned to more familiar territory: their shared work in the Rift.

Luthir didn’t just enjoy the exchange itself; he savored the familiar little gestures that accompanied his mentor’s words, the ones he so cherished. They reminded him how much the Magister valued these moments too.

At one point, though,Luthir had to stifle a yawn. Glancing at the clock, he nearly dispersed into a cloud of shadows for the second time that day. Midnight. How had the hours vanished so quickly?

Flustered, he apologized and took his leave, soon hurrying through the quiet, lamp-lit streets of Stormwind toward his and Saewron’s home in Old Town. Guilt prodded each step. He had meant to welcome his partner home with a prepared meal. Instead, the Rogue had spent the evening alone; and he would know exactly why. This wasn’t the first time Luthir had lost track of time like this. In the past, it had sparked more than one animated conversation between them – conversations Luthir would rather not revisit.

–.o.O.o.–

A soft, bark-like sound welcomed Luthir the moment he poked his head through the trapdoor that separated their apartment from the Stainless Steel – a shop for cheap metalware – on the ground floor of the building. He returned Tulu’s greeting in kind, equally subdued. Her quiet demeanor only confirmed what the darkened windows outside had already suggested: Saewron must already be asleep.

Luthir set his lantern down on the large table, a fresh pang of guilt blooming in his chest as he took in the laid-out leftovers and untouched dishes clearly meant for him. Only then did he notice his earlier assumption hadn’t been entirely correct; a faint light still glowed in their bedroom. But when he peeked in, it was as he had thought: the Rogue was asleep, lying diagonally across the bed, his head not on a pillow but on an open book. The lamp beside him flickered weakly, its gas nearly spent. He must have waited for Luthir and fallen asleep with the book in hand – something he almost never did.

The lanky Priest retreated to the table and grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a slice of bread – not truly out of hunger, but to delay waking Saewron. At some point during their talk, Umbric had conjured wine and snacks from a hidden cache they had shared. In hindsight, Luthir couldn’t understand how, at that point, he had failed to notice how late it had got. But it was too late now. He would have to face the music.

He sighed, dreading another confrontation. Especially since, from his point of view, there was no reason for one. After all, he wasn’t being unfaithful to his partner with Umbric. Saewron well knew that. He knew all about what had happened when the Priest, shortly after Sylvanas had torn a hole into the sky leading to the Shadowlands, had avowed his love to the Magister. Saewron knew Umbric had politely but unambiguously made it clear to Luthir that he would never be interested in him in such a way.

Still, Saewron had repeatedly accused him of choosing Umbric’s company over his. Since returning to full-time research in Telogrus Rift, Luthir had come home late more than once – and though Umbric didn’t work directly with him and was rarely even present in the Rift, Saewron often found a way to take issue with it.

Even after putting everything away and preparing for bed, Luthir lingered in the other room. Tulu had returned to her master’s side, curled up with her nose tucked under her bushy tail. Leaning in the bedroom doorway, the Priest watched his partner’s sleeping form.

Saewron’s face was partially hidden by fringes of navy hair that must have slipped from the band that by now usually held those gathered into a small bun at the back of his head. Luthir sometimes missed brushing back those teasing strands – but he never complained. The change was more than cosmetic; it reflected the confidence Saewron had grown into over the years. In turn, Luthir had let his sidecut grow out, knowing how much Saewron loved his silver hair. More hair meant more for his partner to enjoy. To preserve his old look, the Priest kept the grown sections braided into neat cornrows.

Only after undoing the last of those braids did Luthir finally pull himself together and moved to the bed. He gently shook Saewron’s shoulder.

The younger void elf woke with a quiet mumble, needing a beat to reorient himself, and rubbed at his face where the edge of the book had left an imprint. Then he smiled sleepily and sat up for a kiss.

As their lips parted, Saewron murmured: “Was wondering if you were going to spend the night in your lab again, like you often do when I’m off with the Spinies. Or if you’d come home after all. Sorry – I must’ve nodded off. Haven’t slept much the last few nights.”

Luthir remained tense, bracing for a reprimand – but those words triggered a different worry instead. “Trouble with the whispers?”

Saewron shrugged, already crawling to his side of the bed and nudging Tulu down to the foot of it. “A bit. Could’ve been worse.” He yawned, settling under the covers. “Let’s not talk about that now. I’m too tired.”

The moment the Priest slid in beside him, Saewron curled against Luthir, burying his nose in the older elf’s silver hair.

Still wondering if his partner’s statement might have included more than what had been bothering him the past nights, Luthir whispered:

“I’m really sorry it got so late. I meant to be home early, but I ran into the Magister just as I was leaving.”

There was the barest hitch in Saewron’s breathing – no comment, but Luthir didn’t wait for one.

“He had news from the meeting of the faction leaders,” he went on. “And afterward, we started talking about our work… I didn’t realize how much time had passed until it was midnight.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

The gas lamp flickered once, then winked out.

“It’s all right,” Saewron said softly, “That means it must’ve been a good conversation, right?”

Caught off guard, Luthir nodded. “Well… yes. Very much so.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” The Rogue nestled closer, laying his head to rest against Luthir’s chest.

Gradually, he allowed himself to relax. Saewron wouldn’t say such things if he didn’t mean them. Gently, Luthir stroked the smaller elf’s back, warmth spreading through him. Perhaps, since their last argument, Saewron had come to understand how misplaced his resentment had been.

“I love you, is h’iwn.” Overcome with affection, Luthir brushed a kiss onto the crown of his head.

“I know,” Saewron murmured – not dismissively, but with quiet understanding. “I love you too, dalah’suran.”

Chapter Text

The sundering of the various waterfalls, in the form of which the large mountain lake poured over the crater rim, was as roaring as always when Pilinor Highvale landed his hippogryph at the shore. He dismounted a little awkwardly, then clucked his tongue, prompting Yula, his large spider pet, to climb down from her perch on his back. The high elf with the light-purple hair rewarded her obedience with gentle scratches, then turned with a treat in hand, which he tossed in the direction he had come from. There, his wasp animal companion Roval had caught up to them and snatched it from the air.

Pilinor cast a look around to check if he was undisturbed, but the hard-to-reach place was deserted, as it was most times he came by. Satisfied, he moved to undress. His clothes – and he himself – were in dire need of a wash. The Hunter had spent the past week searching for ore deposits, flying back and forth between the Burning Steppes, the Searing Gorge, and the Badlands, and was now caked with dust, ash, and the grime of sweaty work.

Going to pretty yourself up before visiting that Rogue again? Remember who his partner is. You can’t trust him. One day they will turn you into a lab rat. The voice was deep, rumbling and echoing – not in the slightest affected by the roar of the nearby waterfall – and came from somewhere in his own head.

The words conjured an image of the navy-haired elf who lived in Stormwind – not far off when he wasn’t staying in Duskwood with his army colleagues. Pilinor didn’t interrupt what he was doing and growled softly: “Shut it. I’m low on supplies and need to go to the city anyway. And he sells cheapest.”

Besides, he had stopped worrying about Saewron’s close affiliation with the lunatics from Telogrus Rift. When Pilinor had first learned about it a little less than three years ago, it had rekindled his initial distrust in the void elf, and he had left the city in a hurry. But the next time the Hunter returned to Stormwind, he had eventually visited the alchemist again – drawn by the rare prospect of a friendly chat that wasn’t just about business. Ever since, he had done so every other month and hadn’t once run into trouble – only adopting the habit of first checking whether or not that wicked scientist was around.

At times over the past years, Pilinor had needed to remind himself not to get too attached to… the city. Going there more often than necessary did neither him nor anyone else a favor. He had always enjoyed his freedom and his solitude, but since his tragic run-in with the Twilight’s Hammer during the Cataclysm, keeping to himself in the wilds had become inevitable.

After bathing and cleaning his clothes, Pilinor was halfway dressed in his spare gear when the sight of his discolored hair – once blond – and the thick scar across his left cheek reflected in the surface of the lake, as usual, reminded him vividly of the hours of pain and fear in the hands of the mad cultists. But the worst consequence of the trouble his curiosity had landed him in, he had only discovered later: a memory linked to the gruesome picture of his hands covered in blood, and a motionless figure beside him. Pilinor shook his head vehemently to dispel the unwelcome image and reached for his belt and skinning knife. There was one more thing to do before heading to Stormwind.

Idiot. One day you’ll kill yourself doing that. Why not just make a deal instead? You do something for me, and in turn I’ll keep quiet for a while.

“Forget it. I’ll never give in to your demands. Not as long as I have a choice,” the Hunter muttered and set the blade against the scarred skin of his lower arm.

Yes, you will. You know that. One day you’ll give in. I’m patient, and the will of mortals is weak. You’ve denied me for a decade, but your kind lives for thousands of years. I doubt you’ll hold out even a few centuries.

The words made the Hunter feel ill. He had to admit to himself that the past decade had been harder than the past two centuries – despite the Third War and its aftermath, which had already changed his and his family’s lives forever. But the memory of their faces, once reassuring, now only prompted a wave of hurt. When he had needed them most, they had cast him out. It had probably saved their lives – but none of them could have known that at the time.

The voice in his mind droned on for some time as Pilinor rubbed his arm, stimulating blood flow rather than stemming it. With every drop of stained purple mixed with crimson that fell into the lake, the thing in his head grew fainter, until at last it fell silent. The elf knew it would stay that way – for a few hours.

–.o.O.o.–

About half an hour later, the purple-haired high elf landed his mount once again – this time before the gates of Stormwind, after descending from the mountains to the human capital.

He unloaded all the ore he had gathered in the Trader’s Hall and left it with the auctioneers to sell. They demanded their share of the profit, but it was easier than having to stay for the whole process. This way, Pilinor was free to continue with his commissions, which – last but not least – brought him to Old Town. Before he reached the Stainless Steel, he checked the apartment using his Eagle Eye. As hoped, he could see only the alchemist, busy at his work. However, the Hunter didn’t miss out on the fact that Saewron looked distracted, staring into space with a hand lifted to his temple. Pilinor knew that look; the Rogue seemed to be struggling with the whispers of the Void – the ones the ren’dorei heard all the time. Pilinor hadn’t been keen to talk about the topic, knowing that would draw attention to his own condition, but he had figured out that those whispers were likely different from the voice in his head – primarily because the whispers could apparently listen in on the thoughts of the void elves, while Pilinor was fairly certain that the thing pestering him couldn’t do that.

Assuming Saewron might welcome his intrusion in this case, Pilinor no longer hesitated to enter the shop. The man behind the counter recognized him, and the Hunter moved over to the stairs leading up to the trapdoor. In passing, he noticed the rack with various bottles and flasks at the bottom of the stairs – items that didn’t fit with the Stainless Steel’s usual range of goods. Saewron had made a deal with the shop owner, similar to the one the auctioneers had.

His knocking at the door caused a series of barks to erupt from the other side of the sturdy wood, which was heaved open a moment later.

“Spider-friend!” The Rogue’s greeting was interrupted as he moved to intercept his small purple fox from jumping at the Hunter.

“Drop it, girl! You know Pilinor doesn’t like that. Go to your spot.”

After another bark that somehow managed to sound sulky, the animal complied, and Pilinor dared to climb the last steps into the apartment, where the pleasant scent of herbs and flowers grew even more intense.

“Sorry about that. Long time no see!” Saewron added with a smile and stepped closer for a quick embrace before glancing toward the windows. “You’re here without company?”

Pilinor nodded. “Yula and Roval are guarding my stuff. I’ve got some clothes drying outside the city.”

That elicited a chuckle from the slender man before his expression grew serious again. “You know I wouldn’t be bothered if you brought those two here, right?”

“I do,” Pilinor confirmed.

“Good! Oh, and you’re in luck. I’ve just restocked my Healing Potions. I figure that’s what owes me the pleasure?”

“Perfect. I’ll gladly take the usual, although supplies aren’t the only reason I’ve come. I’ve got something for you.”

“Some unusual herbs?” was Saewron’s first guess.

The Hunter shook his head, but then reconsidered as he pulled forth his gift from his pocket and held it out. “Actually, it’s a sort of plant… the dead, horribly mutilated, and ink-stained kind.”

The Rogue took one look at the content of his hands and let out a healthy laugh that made Pilinor smile in satisfaction.

“That’s one of the worst ways anyone has ever described books to me,” Saewron said, still chuckling. “What did they ever do to deserve such an insult?!”

Knowing the question wasn’t entirely serious, the high elf nonetheless chose to answer. He shrugged. “I don’t really like reading… or writing. I know many people – like you – enjoy it, but it’s not for me. I keep mixing up the letters or words, and it doesn’t make me feel anything. It’s just ink on paper. I prefer looking at the things out there. Almost made me screw up my grades in school… but luckily, we had enough orals to compensate.”

The Rogue watched him with a curious expression on his pale face. “But your Common is really good,” he remarked.

“Well, I had over two hundred years to learn it by talking to people. As I said, it’s mainly the written part I struggle with.”

“I see,” Saewron offered him a crooked smile, “I’ll keep that in mind if I feel the need to pester you with letters again.”

The Hunter blushed. “That wasn’t meant as a complaint! I did read them. I just don’t often check the mailboxes.”

“I know,” the void elf said with a wink, then moved to inspect the books. “Where did you get these?”

“In Uldaman. I was there mining ore when I noticed a group of adventurers breaching a part of the titan vault that was inaccessible until now. Judging by what I overheard, they’d been sent there by Wrathion and the Dragonqueen herself to recover some disc – but were too slow. The Infinite dragonflight got there first.”

Hearing that, Saewron’s eyes widened in shock. Clearly, he was familiar with that part of the bronze flight – the one corrupted by the Old Gods and meddling with the timeways for their own purposes instead of preserving them.

“Since those adventurers were so kind as to clear out all the troggs and others enemies in those tunnels, I took the opportunity to poke my nose around. That’s where I also found those texts.”

“May I?” the Rogue asked, clearly intending to take a closer look at the books.

“Sure. I haven’t read them, but the glimpses I got made it seem like they’ve something to do with the titans… or rather their Keepers.”

Soon after, the Rogue was preoccupied with his reading, and Pilinor took the time to admire the way the void elf had transformed the city apartment into a space that felt like a hut nestled in a field of wildflowers. The windowsills and even the roof outside were covered in pots filled with herbs of all kinds. Choosing the spot next to the open windows, the Hunter set to work on repairing some of his arrows whose fletching had been damaged from use.

At some point, Saewron looked up with a gasp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to let you wait that long. I’m a terrible host. After all, you didn’t come here to watch me read.”

The Hunter offered him a soothing smile across the table. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. And I’m not in a hurry. Come across anything interesting yet?”

“Well… you were right. The texts are of titan origin; or rather, from their avatars here on Azeroth: the Watchers, and even some Keepers,” the Rogue began. “Two are from Watchers to Odyn… or maybe another Keeper, I couldn’t quite tell. But it talks about the Curse of Flesh, the Old God malady that turned the titan-forged from stone to flesh. It mentions several tribes of dwarves that were affected differently, one living in a place called Khaz Algar. The other book mentions a rebellion against the Watchers in a place named Avaloren.”

“Cas Allgar and Awalohren,” the Hunter repeated musingly. “Never heard of any place like that before.”

“Me neither,” Saewron agreed, “and I can’t tell for sure when those places existed, either. No way to tell how old these texts are. Maybe this Khaz Algar is what we now know as Khaz Modan – or it’s a completely different dwarven city , and the name only sounds similar.”

He put two of the thin books aside and pointed at a third. “This one seems linked to what you overheard those adventurers talking about. It’s from Keeper Tyr and mentions a disc that could help restore him in Uldorus – another place I’ve never heard of. I’ll take it to the Royal Library and see if they can pass it on to Turalyon. It might be important given what’s happening right now.”

“Sounds smart,” Pilinor commented, then asked: “And the others? What are those about?”

“I’m still working my way through them,” Saewron admitted.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to rush you. Go on then.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I still have some arrows to fix.”

This time, the Rogue didn’t remain quiet for long, though.

“Bloody Abyss,” Saewron cursed quietly.

Pilinor made an inquiring noise, but the other man was already absorbed by the text again, muttering more curses at times – enough that even Tulu poked her head out of the bedroom. She obediently stayed where she was, though, after a glance at the purple-haired elf.

“This is wild,” Saewron eventually commented, this time lifting his head to stare across the table at the Hunter. “I’m not sure what to make of these. I think some people would call them a fake – and accuse anyone who said otherwise of blasphemy. Bringing these to the officials might even cause us trouble… but Luthir will be highly interested.”

Pilinor stiffened at the mention of the Void scientist. He had seen the Rogue’s partner only once in recent years. The man had seemed pleasant on the surface, but Pilinor had glimpsed something dark beneath – something Saewron clearly didn’t see. Then again, finding out the silver-haired man was the head of research into Void-modified organisms hadn’t helped. Pilinor was tempted to shoot him in a dark alley for that alone. He and his team were doing to other beings what the Twilight’s Hammer had done to him – or at least tried to. Killing Luthir wouldn’t solve the problem, though; another mad scientist would just take his place. Pilinor was still aghast the Alliance tolerated what those ren’dorei were doing in the first place.

“So… they’re talking about something Void-related?” he guessed.

“Yes,” Saewron said, “though it’s only in passing. I’ve been reading a lot of dragon lore lately. I figure you’ve heard of Galakrond?”

“Massive, ugly proto-dragon who ate his own kind and then vomited them up as undead? Yeah, I heard that story,” Pilinor said, slipping the freshly repaired arrow back into his quiver. “Was the reason why the Aspects became Aspects. Alexstrasza, Malygos, Neltharion, Nozdormu, and Ysera all worked together to defeat the beast. That got Tyr to suggest to the other Keepers – and the titans – to give them more power. Turned them into the dragons we know today.”

Saewron nodded and then added: “Only that the stories never mention why Galakrond became so horrible in the first place. According to this text, it happened by drinking water corrupted by Yogg-Saron.”

“Well, doesn’t surprise me that the Old Gods were behind it. Everything bad that ever happened seems to go back to those horrors… or the Jailer, I guess.”

The Rogue let out a soft snort. “True, but what Tyr describes here suggests the Old Gods weren’t – or aren’t – the only ones using that method to influence other beings. Apparently, the titans did the same thing with Order magic and the dragons to…” he skimmed the text again, then read aloud: “to keep even the most willful dragons aligned with the titans’ philosophies.”

Pilinor frowned. “But you can’t really compare that. I mean, look at what the Old Gods did to Galakrond and then at what the titans did to the dragons. One is clearly bad, and the other’s good.”

“Looking at the results, yes. But looking at the method – both did something to make others act in their interest,” Saewron pointed out, “I’m not trying to say the titans are evil… but maybe, especially when seen in combination with the last text, they aren’t as good as we were led to believe.”

“What do you mean? What does the other book say?”

Saewron hesitated briefly. “It’s a letter from Odyn to other Keepers. Aside from the part where he apparently once considered eradicat ing all mortals – all the non-titan-forged races – from Azeroth, he also urges his fellow Keepers,” he paused again, then added more swiftly, “to… uh, make the Black Empire look worse than it was-”

“Wait,” the Hunter cut in, “The Black Empire was when the Old Gods ruled over Azeroth, right?”

“Yes. That’s why I said earlier that Luthir might want to take a look at these texts,” Saewron confirmed, and – clearly sensing the Hunter’s rising distaste – continued quickly: “Again, I’m not saying the titans are evil and the Old Gods good instead. But the text implies the Keepers did some things to make the titans appear better than they were – and made others seem worse. By purging things from the records, like certain advancements of the Black Empire or even the existence of the First Ones, or by attributing those things to the titans instead.”

“Advancements of the Black Empire. Sure,” Pilinor scoffed, “What did you say before? I’m starting to think those texts are fake. I should have left them buried in the rubble where I found them. Maybe the Infinites planted them as propaganda…”

“Possible,” the void elf conceded – to Pilinor’s relief, once again showing he wasn’t one of those lunatics who worshiped the Void. “I assume we’ll find out more soon. Exploring the Dragon Isles might bring answers. You’re gonna go there too, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the Hunter confirmed. “I’m already making preparations.”

“And you’re probably not joining the Dragonscale Expedition?”

Pilinor had heard of the organization, founded only recently after news of the Dragon Isles had spread: archaeologists and adventurers from both the Alliance Explorers’ League and the Horde’s Reliquary working together. They planned to follow Queen Alexstrasza’s invitation to explore the newly discovered lands alongside her kin.

He wrinkled his nose. “Nah, I’ll keep to myself… though I might look in on their camps now and then to see what they’re up to.”

“Then I’ll warn you now: expect to get some letters from me again,” the Rogue said with a touch of humor – one that gave way to a softer, more pleading tone as he continued, “and I’d appreciate if you wrote back. Doesn’t have to be anything detailed. Just a word or two to let me know you’re all right.”

Something about Saewron’s request made the Hunter feel awkward. He cleared his throat before replying, “I can do that.”

“Thank you!”

The other man’s heartfelt gratitude only deepened Pilinor’s awkwardness, and to change the subject, he asked: “So, the Spinecrafters won’t be traveling to the Isles?”

Saewron’s expression grew serious. “I’m… not sure yet. In the end, it’s Rin’s decision – he’s the captain. But honestly, I hope we stay.”

“Aren’t you curious about the new place?” the Hunter asked, surprised. He had thought the Rogue at least partially shared his own urge to explore the world.

“I am, but…,” Saewron sighed heavily. “Our brother’s sick. I think Rin and I leaving would only make it worse.”

“The Death Knight?” Pilinor asked in surprise, “I didn’t know they could even get sick.”

“Not physically. But what he has is something else entirely.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I know he was always a bit…,” Pilinor let the sentence trail off, unsure how to phrase it.

“I know,” Saewron replied, catching the meaning anyway. “Rin and I were worried years ago, but Naethir wouldn’t listen. It’s gotten worse. Bad enough that even he now admits something’s wrong.”

“Um… but that’s also a good thing, isn’t it? It means he’s more likely to accept help.”

Saewron made a noncommittal sound, absently reaching up to rub his temple.

Pilinor was reminded of what he had seen through his Eagle Eye when approaching the apartment – this must have already been weighing on the void elf’s mind then.

“I just don’t know how to help him,” Saewron murmured, voice trembling slightly. “I’m usually good with this kind of thing. My gift, it doesn’t work properly on him….” He looked up suddenly, his tone urgent. “I did tell you about it, didn’t I? Maybe I could at least help you with your nightmares before things get worse.”

The high elf flinched as Tulu darted past him, though the small fox wasn’t focused on him. Her attempts to distract the Rogue from the whispers, however, didn’t seem to be working.

Forcing himself to ignore the creepy fox, Pilinor stood and stepped over to Saewron, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Now, now. No need for you to worry about me, too. I get by,” he said softly, reassuringly. “C’mon fox-master – Tulu is getting all worried about you.”

The Rogue blinked, then seemed to pull himself together. He lowered his hand from his temple and, finally noticing the little fox’s whining, shifted his chair to make space for her to leap into his lap.

“Sorry, the whispers…,” he began, blushing.

“I know,” Pilinor said with quiet understanding, settling into the chair beside him.

Saewron shook his head, scratching his pet’s absurdly large ears. “Luthir’s right. I should remember not to give the whispers so many chances to get to me. It just makes them more aggressive.”

Pilinor frowned at that, another flicker of resentment stirring toward the scientist. Instead of lecturing his partner, Luthir should have stayed with him – should have been there, knowing how Saewron struggled with the voices of the Void.

The Rogue, eyes cast downward at his fox, sighed again. “It just isn’t always that simple. Sometimes, I really wish I still had some of my potions… something to make them stop, even for a little while.”

“Like the one you gave me when we first met?”

“Err, no,” the purple hue deepened on the slender elf’s cheeks. “I’m still resistant to those,” he coughed. “I, um, tested it earlier. Worse still, the ones from the Shadowlands have all spoiled, and with the Drust gone, Nox Root’s extinct.” He paused. “But – good point.” Rising with Tulu still in one arm, he crossed to a cupboard and eventually returned with a small vial, holding it out to Pilinor.

“Yours is old by now. Could probably use a replacement.”

The Hunter hesitated at first but then took it anyway – not because he expected to need it, but because he could tell Saewron would feel better knowing he had it.

“Thanks,” he said, then gestured to the table still cluttered with alchemical instruments and various herbs in different states of preparation. “Anything I can help you with?” he offered, quietly determined not to leave the void elf alone today.

Chapter Text

“Are you fucking serious?!”

Elarynn’s voice echoed loudly through the stony halls of the Wizard’s Sanctum. From the corner of her eye, marked by the black moon, she noticed a few passersby turning her way, but that didn’t faze her in the slightest. What raised her hackles was the fact that the woman in front of her didn’t even blink at her outburst.

“I put in that request two – no, almost three years ago! How can its status still be pending? This is downright ridiculous!”

“Please, lower your voice,” Jennea Cannon said politely, her tone neutral. “All I can do is remind the council again of your request. But as I’ve already told you, licenses for portal travel to remote locations are rarely accepted.”

The night elf forced herself to breathe. Not because of the human’s request, but because she could already picture Orthorin pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head in disappointment at her causing a scene in the middle of Stormwind. She gritted her teeth and made an effort to smile nicely, which probably looked more like she was snarling at the other Mage.

“Fine. I’ll wait another year just to hear nothing again. Honestly, at this point I’d prefer a rejection over more pending bullshit,” she said sweetly. “Have a really nice day.”

She turned on her heel and stormed off, muttering under her breath: “Remote? There’s nothing remote about Raven Hill!”

Outside, Elarynn stepped into the sunlight of late afternoon. She cast a swift Slow Fall on herself and jumped off the spiraling ramp that wound around the central tower of the Mage Quarter.

She regretted her hasty move, as she almost landed on two figures crossing the green below. They managed to jump out of harm’s way at the last moment in reaction to her alarmed yell.

“Ela, dear! I’m flattered you’re now willing to fall on me, but I would’ve preferred that a little less literally.”

The smokey, echoing voice made the kaldorei realize that she knew one of the two people.

“Thinnadis! Err, sorry again… I’m in a bit of a hurry and forgot to check before jumping.”

“In a rush to get back to that tasty ass of your Monk?”

“Something like that,” the Mage replied evasively, suppressing the irritation the Warlock’s saucy tongue always stirred. She never quite knew what to make of the woman. Thinnadis flirted with nearly everyone she met, giving off the air of a brazen harlot – but Elarynn had also glimpsed the sharp, cunning scientist Luthir swore she was. That strange contradiction kept the kaldorei wary.

“What’s brought you to Stormwind, then? Taking a break from the other Spinies?”

Elarynn hesitated, but then answered honestly. “I’m on my way back from a trip to Nordrassil.”

Thinnadis’ violet-gleaming eyes lit up with instant understanding. She leaned in, voice low. “I see. Went to have a last peek at that seed, didn’t you?”

The Mage blinked in shock. “You knew?!”

The Warlock smirked. “Knowledge is power, sweetie – and I do love power… among other things.”

Then again, Elarynn supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. It was hard – if not impossible – to keep anything secret among an entire people. Still, Tyrande and Malfurion had asked the night elves not to broadcast the fact that the seed of the World Tree had finally grown strong enough to be brought from the Shadowlands into the mortal realm.

Just as the knowledge of the seed’s existence had given their people new hope three years ago, so was its transition supposed to. For that reason, the kaldorei leaders hadn’t immediately brought it to Merithra, but had first put the seed on display in Nordrassil for a few days. Today, they had set out to the Dragon Isles to visit the daughter of the Dreamer as instructed by Ysera herself in Ardenweald. The child of the late green Aspect was said to know where – and how – it could be made to sprout. There had been a small ceremony to see off the seed in Tyrande’s and Malfurion’s care.

“Now, back to other things,” the magenta-haired woman said pointedly, throwing a glance at her companion, “give my kind regards to my gorgeous and the boys, will you?”

“Sure. Have fun the two of you, I guess,” Elarynn said awkwardly.

She still couldn’t wrap her head around the casualness with which the void elf handled having a steady partner on the one hand, and taking lovers on the other. At times, the Mage felt sorry for Remah, thinking the quiet Shaman deserved a more… faithful partner. But ultimately, it wasn’t her place. The two clearly had an understanding; and seemed content with it.

“Thanks, dear. We will,” Thinnadis replied with a purr.

Elarynn watched them walk away, unsettled by something she couldn’t quite place. She hadn’t paid much attention to the woman at the Warlock’s side – assuming to never see her again anyway. Thinnadis rotated companions like accessories after every wear, seemingly never satisfied with their gender, race, or shape for long.

Then it hit her.

She had taken the woman for a half-elf with a heavy hand on her makeup – due to her human shape and the pointed short ears. But now she realized: Thinnadis’ companion had had slit pupils. The woman had been a dracthyr.

It had surprised Elarynn to learn the newly emerged dragonkin could shapeshift like dragons, adopting Visage forms that let them blend with mortals more seamlessly. Their true forms weren’t especially odd – wings and scales aside – but still, she hadn’t expected to see one here.

The Mage’s frown deepened as she noticed something else.

Thinnadis wasn’t leading her guest toward The Blue Recluse, where she normally stayed – but toward The Slaughtered Lamb. That was where the Warlock had reportedly rented a room for her research after splitting from the Telogrus Rift scientists.

A flicker of concern for the scaled woman sparked. Elarynn felt the temptation to follow after the two figures – but stopped herself. She was probably just jumping to conclusions because of her own wariness toward the Warlock. Thinnadis was a trusted friend of Luthir’s. Surely she would never experiment on someone without their consent.

Elarynn shook off the thought. It wasn’t her business. Her business was to return – slowly – to the Spinecrafters’ base in Raven Hill. By gryphon. Because those sungazers up in the tower still didn’t want to let her open portals to Duskwood.

–.o.O.o.–

Night fell early and swallowed Elarynn whole as the gryphon dove into the black fog blanketing the land below. Neither the beast nor the night elf were concerned – both well used to the magical phenomenon that had cloaked the part of Elwynn Forest once known as Brightwood in everlasting night.

Arriving at Raven Hill was now a blinding experience. Its streets and squares, illuminated even during daytime, gleamed under the garlands of lights powered by the machine Sparks and Copper had built.

Along the way, Elarynn was greeted warmly by locals going about their business – civilians who, over the past few years, had begun to settle in the restored houses surrounding the ones the Spinecrafters had claimed. Of the soldiers themselves, the Mage saw few – understandable given the hour of her arrival.

The only one she passed was Naethir, patrolling the village on routine guard duty. The undead void elf paused when he spotted her.

“He will be glad you’re back,” was all he said before moving on.

The seemingly casual note was anything but that in case of the terse Death Knight and made Elarynn’s heart ache softly. She had been looking forward to dinner during the flight, but instead of heading to the Inn – still commonly called that, even though it no longer served the role – she went straight to the Officers’ Mansion.

She knocked softly on the door to her and Orthorin’s shared room to announce herself, then entered without waiting. The only light came from the dim artificial illumination filtering through the windows. Paired with the weariness in her partner’s greeting, it confirmed what Naethir’s comment had already hinted at. Elarynn followed the sound of Orthorin’s voice to his desk. Brushing back the ever unruly strands of her white hair, she bent down for a brief kiss, but then took up position behind her partner’s chair. Reaching out to his neck, she let her hands slide beneath the soft tentacles that adorned his hair, feeling around for a moment before digging in her fingers.

The relieved sound that escaped the ren’dorei caused a wave of satisfaction in the Mage, telling her she had found the right spots. She focused fully on her hands’ work, pleased to be able to allow the Monk at least some ease from his migraine.

“How was your excursion?” Orthorin asked after a while, his voice low and noticeably grateful.

“All right. I even touched the seed. It was… I could feel the power of the souls inside it,” Elarynn replied softly. She had no doubt he would keep that information to himself. “There was a bit of a commotion, though. A small group of kaldorei tried to disrupt the ceremony.”

She felt him tense under her hands and quickly added: “They didn’t get far. A few onlookers suffered minor injuries, but the intruders gave up and fled. I’m not even sure what their goal was. To stop the seed from reaching the dragons? Steal it? I can’t imagine them wanting to destroy it, but… who knows? I’m afraid they’ve made contact with those Primalists. They showed unusual, almost Shamanic abilities.”

Elarynn shook her head in disbelief, then clicked her tongue. “But enough of that. Shouldn’t you be lying in bed with a cold pack, trying to sleep through the worst of your headache, instead of working?”

“I missed the timing before it got too intense. But I am off duty,” Orthorin added, a defensive note in his voice that told Elarynn all she needed to know.

“Uh-huh,” she commented dryly, her eyes drifting to the jihui pieces laid out on his desk. The board itself was missing – another sign that the Monk was using the pieces for strategic planning.

“So what exactly are you doing?”

The void elf sighed and lifted a hand, staring at the piece he was holding. “I have to make a pressing decision. But…”

Concern crept in. Orthorin had been the captain of the Spinecrafters for four years, and was more than used to being in charge of them. She hadn’t seen him doubt his ability to make the right decisions since the time right after the Maldraxxus disaster.

“What’s bothering you about it?” Elarynn asked, still kneading at his neck.

“I’m biased. I don’t know if I’ve been able to look at the situation rationally enough to counteract that.” The Monk rolled the game piece between his fingers. “I’m afraid I’m making the same mistake I did with Saewron. I didn’t see it back then, but after we were changed into void elves… I couldn’t stand watching him suffer without being able to help. So I left, just to make it easier on myself. What if that’s why I’m so willing to send Naethir away now?”

A few days earlier, Orthorin had confided that his older brother had asked for help; he sensed something was wrong with himself. Elarynn knew that the twins, and much of the company, had long been concerned about the Death Knight’s increasingly narrow and one-sided interests, but Naethir had played their worries down. Apparently, his condition had worsened to the point that even the undead could no longer pretend it was a conscious choice.

“To the Dragon Isles?” she inquired, connecting it to things he had mentioned over the last few days.

Orthorin made a sound of confirmation.

“You said years ago that Naethir’s obsession with you and Saewron wasn’t healthy. Putting distance between you three could help. It will force him to redirect his attention somewhere else. That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Will it, though?” the void elf mused quietly.

“If it doesn’t, you’ll hear about it. He’s not going alone. The other Spinies will be watching out for him too. If they notice he’s getting worse or anything else is off, you can just call him back. But it’s worth a try.”

Despite her gentle prodding, he didn’t seem convinced yet. Elarynn briefly wondered if he truly believed the rest of the company didn’t care about Naethir because he was undead; but no, that couldn’t be it.

“Is there something else bothering you? Something I can’t see?”

Orthorin shut his eyes and didn’t answer immediately.

Elarynn was about to suggest they pick this conversation up once he was feeling better, when her partner replied after all:

“There is. Naethir let Saewron in on it some time ago. I only found out later, and we agreed it wasn’t something others needed to know. You’ll have to ask Naethir for details yourself, but in essence: he wasn’t raised quite like other Death Knights. His soul was broken – or rather, it still is. Bolvar had to… find a workaround first.”

A low gasp escaped Elarynn before she could stop it. No wonder the brothers had never mentioned it.

“So that’s the reason why Saewron’s Void-ability doesn’t work on him!” she exclaimed.

“Most likely,” Orthorin confirmed. “Naethir believes whatever Bolvar did to stabilize his soul is starting to fail. And that that’s what’s wrong with him.”

“Couldn’t Bolvar just repeat what he did before?” Elarynn began – then caught herself. “No… of course not. He no longer has the Lich King’s power.”

“Even if the Helm hadn’t been destroyed, it wasn’t him. According to Naethir, Bolvar made… deals.”

“Then maybe someone from the Shadowlands could help!”

“That was my second thought. But I doubt they would. The Jailer’s dead. We’re not anyone important – why would they offer help?” His voice darkened. “Worse, Naethir’s a Death Knight – a leftover of Zovaal’s meddling in the mortal realm. They’d probably rather see that legacy fade away. No, if Naethir’s right… we’re on our own. And sending him to the Dragon Isles certainly won’t fix it.”

“But you don’t think that’s actually the problem,” Elarynn guessed.

The Monk clenched the jihui piece in his fist.

“Or I don’t want to believe it is. Because if it is, there’s nothing I can do to help my older brother. And I know I can’t trust myself to stay rational when it comes to him. Or Saew… or you.”

The words caused a wave of affection for the man in front of her to surge through the kaldorei. It wasn’t diminished in the slightest by the observation that the shadows around them were stirring, drawn closer to the void elf by his doubts. Elarynn interrupted her fingers’ work, wrapped her arms around Orthorin from behind, and bent to brush a kiss against his cheek.

“Maybe not fully,” she murmured, “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. So tell me – what rational arguments are there against Naethir’s theory?”

The Monk took a deep breath, then let go of it slowly before he launched into a reply.

“First off, Bolvar was already gambling when he made those deals. He didn’t know what would come out of it – not exactly. I can’t imagine he’d go that far to maybe get a copy of his former Deathlord without at least some confidence the result would be stable long-term.”

Elarynn frowned, not quite grasping what he meant – but she didn’t interrupt. She was content with the fact that the shadows had settled again, and Orthorin was already continuing.

“However, that’s the weakest argument, since it’s based purely on assumptions. What matters more are the things Saewron saw during his Spirit Healings.”

“So he was able to connect with Naethir’s inner world?”

“Yes. That part of his gift still worked. Saew described it as a barren land where all vegetation had been strangled by parasitic vines – except for a small area near a tower, a tombstone, and a forked tree. That’s where he found our brother, trying to keep the vines at bay… with his bare hands. Usually, Saew’s patients respond to his presence and he can talk to them. But that didn’t happen with Naethir. He couldn’t see or hear Saew. My twin noticed something else: Naethir’s form – his ghost, or whatever it is – kept fading in and out. Every time that happened, he lost his grip on the vines and they crept closer.”

Elarynn found herself wondering what her own inner world might look like. Should she ask Saewron to use his gift on her one day? She discarded the idea quickly. What if she didn’t like what he saw? Better not to know – unless it became necessary.

“That was three years ago,” Orthorin continued, “When Saewron tried again recently, things had worsened. The vines had swallowed everything but the forked tree. Our brother was still there, still trying to stop them – but failing.”

She could easily picture it. The forked tree must represent the twins – the only thing the Death Knight seemed to still care about.

“So the vines are the issue,” Elarynn concluded. “And your brother can’t stop them whenever he fades out… unless that is the issue.”

Orthorin made an agreeing sound.

“I asked Saewron about that too. He said Naethir’s condition hadn’t changed – he’s not fading more than before. So Saew thinks the real issue is that Naethir lacks a proper tool to deal with the vines. Apparently that was also my problem, one my twin helped me solve when he healed me after our rescue in Maldraxxus.”

Elarynn considered asking more about Orthorin’s own healing back then, but stayed focused.

“So Saewron gave you that tool?”

“Not exactly. It was the same with all of us – me, Unya, Quint, Travis, and Galynia… Saew just helped us believe in our tools. Or showed us how to use what was already there. He guided us, but we had to help ourselves.”

“Then Naethir has to find his tool himself.”

“And for that, he needs to focus on something other than the forked tree,” the Monk murmured.

They both remained silent for a spell, until Elarynn summed it up:

“So the real question is: who do you trust more? Your older brother and his ability to judge his own state of… soul? Mind? Something like that? Or your twin and his gift.”

“That’s easy – Saewron. He’s proven himself again and again these last years,” Orthorin replied without hesitation. His voice turned bitter. “Last time Naethir had to judge his own state of mind, he ended up killing himself. But back then, he didn’t ask for help. That’s why it feels wrong to send him away now.”

“But it’s not the same as refusing to help him,” Elarynn pressed. “As I said, the other Spinies you’re sending with him will look out for him – and keep you posted. After everything you’ve told me, I still think it’s worth a try. Better than keeping Naethir here, where nothing changes, right?”

“True,” Orthorin admitted. He sat in thoughtful silence a bit longer, then finally sighed. After one last glance at the jihui piece in his hand, he placed it down among a cluster of others.

“All right. It’s decided.” He turned halfway toward her, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you. But now you should go check the kitchens – see if there’s still some dinner left for you.”

“You sure you want that? I’ll have to take my hands with me.”

Orthorin uttered a soft snort. “I’m aware. But I can hear your stomach growling, and I’m sure your fingers could use a break.”

Elarynn had to admit that he had a point.

“All right, I’ll hurry. Want me to ask if there’s any leftover soup for you?” She was certain he hadn’t eaten either. His migraines often left him nauseous.

Orthorin seemed to weigh the offer before answering. “Do that… but only if it’s really leftover. No need to make a fuss.”

“Of course, my love,” Elarynn replied with a straight face – though she had to stifle a chuckle. She knew full well Myreath always found a portion of leftover soup whenever it was meant for their captain.

Chapter Text

Aadrithea Dewspirit flinched as blood splattered across her face, but she managed to stifle the scream rising in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw her companion slump to the ground, yet she kept her gaze fixed on the glowing figures before her. The hulking giants watched her intently, their gleaming eyes set into heads that seemed far too small for their broad bodies. Their skin was almost as dark as hers, but covered in smoldering tattoos. One of them rode a lava mammoth – an enormous beast whose massive tusks could have crushed her with ease – while the rest gripped oversized weapons in hands disproportionately large even for their towering forms.

“Primal dragons, dragons; they’re all the same to us. We Qalashi only slay dragons. We don’t make petty deals with them,” the djaradin atop the mammoth snapped. “Next time one of you approach us with such an offensive proposal, none of you will leave alive. You’re so weak it’s almost dishonorable to kill you. But we will not tolerate such insults. Now off with you – before I change my mind.”

Aadrithea didn’t hesitate. In an instant, she shifted into raven form and shot skyward. Her heart pounded in her chest as she beat her wings furiously, inwardly praying to Ashamane that the brutes would keep their word and not take aim with ballistae. A rising updraft from one of the many magma streams crisscrossing the land near the Obsidian Citadel nearly singed her feathers – but it also carried her upward.

Only when the figures on the ground had shrunk to the size of ants did the Druid begin to feel somewhat safe. She glanced down but could no longer spot the body of the troll who hadn’t been as fortunate as she. Aadrithea felt a flicker of sympathy (trolls were, after all, distantly related to the kaldorei), but mostly she was relieved it hadn’t been one of her own kind sent on this errand.

The djaradin were a fearsome people. Like the primal dragons, these half-giants had descended from the wild elementals who once ruled Azeroth in the primordial age, before the interference of the Old Gods or the titans. They wielded magma, which made them exceptional blacksmiths. And after the dragonflights, led by the Aspects, had intruded upon their lands, the djaradin had become expert dragon hunters.

Aadrithea could understand why Raszageth had wanted to gain them as allies – but clearly, that hope was now dashed. And it would fall to her to bring the bad news to the Incarnate. The Druid only hoped the Storm-Eater had a better grasp of don’t shoot the messenger than the djaradin did.

She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the Primalists’ new leader. Kurog Grimtotem, despite being a tauren, had earned her trust over the past two years with his reasoned arguments and decisive actions. Raszageth, however, was another matter entirely. More Wild God than dragon, the Incarnate wielded elemental power rather than nature’s grace – and while her strength was undeniable, she struck Aadrithea as erratic, sometimes even obsessive. Then again, being imprisoned for twenty thousand years by one’s enemies likely left scars.

Nonetheless, Aadrithea didn’t fully understand Raszageth’s motives beyond vengeance and freeing her fellow Incarnates. Upon escaping her prison, she had declared her intent to scour the world of the titans’ stain. Most assumed that referred to dragonkind alone – but what if it didn’t? What if it included the mortal races shaped from the titan-forged, like dwarves, gnomes, and humans? Or even those whose creation had been influenced by the titans – like all elves? So far, Raszageth seemed willing to work with mortals, but Aadrithea wasn’t certain that would last forever…

–.o.O.o.–

As she reached the Wild Preserve, Aadrithea easily spotted her target. Raszageth – reminding her somewhat of a half-plucked chicken with her bristled scales and beak-like snout – was perched atop one of the towering stone pillars jutting from the forested valley. Many of the spires would have crumbled under her weight, but the Primal Incarnate had chosen a particularly solid one.

Aadrithea landed beside her, shifting back into her night elf form and dropping to one knee. She didn’t enjoy groveling, but after her recent brush with death, she wasn’t about to gamble with her life.

“I take it they weren’t pleased with our offer?” Raszageth asked, interpreting the absence of the night elf’s companion with ease.

The Druid relayed the encounter quickly.

“I’m not surprised. The djaradin are proud… and witless,” Raszageth rumbled. “They think all dragons have grown weak just because they managed to seize the black flight’s seat in its absence. We will see if they change their minds once they’ve been taught their lesson.”

The Incarnate’s gaze lingered on the distant silhouette of the Obsidian Citadel, but then her massive head swayed back to Aadrithea. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson as well. Return to the others.”

“Yes, Storming-One,” the Druid said respectfully, her heart skipping a beat as the dragon’s tone confirmed what she had feared.

Yesterday, she had dared to question the Incarnate’s inaction. Every day they waited increased the odds of Alliance and Horde reinforcements arriving, especially with Alexstrasza having called on the mortals to help restore the Aspects’ power. Clearly, Aadrithea’s criticism had marked her as expendable in Raszageth’s eyes.

–.o.O.o.–

After another lengthy flight, Aadrithea landed at the entrance of the cave that served as her and her companions’ shelter herein the Waking Shores. She paused to stretch; the muscles in her back and shoulder ached despite the transformation. The Dragon Isles werevast. Without the powerful wings of a dragon, distances became wearisome.

“Thea, you’re back! What a relief.”

A white-haired kaldorei hurried toward her, her ponytail swinging with every step. She made a move as if to embrace Aadrithea but stopped short. “Are you hurt?!”

“I’m… fine. It’s not my blood,” the black-haired woman replied quickly, only now remembering her gruesome face paint. She stepped inside the cave and made her way to one of the small ponds that filled with rainwater seeping through the rock.

“Those djaradin won’t join us, then?” Melidrussa asked.

“No,” Aadrithea said simply, wiping her face until only the light green claw-marks around her eyes remained – those she had earned in her youth, long before the War of the Ancients.

“Well,” Melidrussa admitted with a touch of relief, “I’m glad, honestly. That means I’ll have more time to practice cleansing those poor eggs of that horrible Order magic. I haven’t quite mastered it yet.”

Aadrithea couldn’t help feeling a flicker of concern as she watched her friend walk over to a stack of furs where a single dragon egg rested. Melidrussa was preparing for a key role in the upcoming operation. In truth, many of her companions had grown overly eager to please the Primal Incarnate, quick to jump at every wish Raszageth voiced. Aadrithea thought them foolish for it – but then again, after today’s events, maybe they were the clever ones.

She glanced around. “Where is Koroleth?”

“Summoned by Raszageth herself. For another special mission,” Melidrussa said. “She was all aflutter about it.”

“I see,” Aadrithea replied, keeping her voice casual, though the worry pricked at her. Lately, Koroleth’s behavior had grown even more intense. She had recently shaved her head, claiming her hair interfered with sensing the elements.

Further off in the cave, the siblings Dathea and Kadros were dueling each other again, honing their skills with the elemental powers. Since they had made their pacts with some of the elementals that had been banished from Azeroth to the Elemental Plains by the titans, they had developed entirely new combat styles.

Aadrithea herself had not been so radical. She hadn’t abandoned the millennia of Druidic training she had undergone. Instead, she now complemented her abilities with elemental power – mainly air and earth. The former made her cat form even more agile; the latter hardened her skin to absorb attacks, much like other Druids used their bear form for.

The dark-skinned night elf sighed as she lowered herself to the pond’s edge. Maybe she was just getting old – and it was all this change that made her uneasy. The past three years had been chaos. And all of it had somehow started with her finally being fed up with Tyrande and her conservative way to lead the kaldorei that had caused their people to grow ever weaker over the past millennia.

During the gathering after the banshee’s trial, Aadrithea hadn’t been able to contain her frustration. Tyrande’s continued reliance on blind faith in Elune – her willingness to accept each loss and tragedy with silent devotion – had long left Aadrithea seething. She had once pinned high hopes on the High Priestess, especially when she had embraced the Night Warrior’s power. But that promise of divine wrath had fizzled into inaction. What was supposed to have been a righteous storm had ended as little more than a wet fart.

When Aadrithea had walked out of that gathering in Nordrassil after her impromptu speech, she hadn’t expected others to follow. But many had. She wasn’t used to leading anyone. She had always been a maverick, fighting for herself and against convention. Long ago, she had been among the first women to seek training in Druidism – long before female Druids had found acceptance among the kaldorei.

Somehow, though, she had inspired others. What she had begun – partly by accident – had gained momentum. Koroleth soon emerged as a key figure in their group. She had been the one to make contact with Kurog Grimtotem. He must have been in communication with the imprisoned Raszageth even then. The tauren had initiated them into the truths behind the titans’ so-called benevolence: how Azeroth’s original inhabitants – the elementals – had been locked away by the Pantheon, and how the titans’ interference had never ceased. The primal dragons, born of some escaped elementals, had resisted the titans’ influence; only to be enslaved by Order magic and betrayed by their own kind.

Before Kurog’s teachings, Aadrithea too had believed the story of the benevolent titans who had chosen the five unusually smart proto-dragons to be elevated to Dragon Aspects and protectors of Azeroth. Now she knew better. The Aspects were simply another tool of the titans to push their own – devious – agenda in regard to the planet’s World-Soul. That was what cosmic beings always did: twist what nature had created for their own interests, pretending it was a gift. Not just the titans – Elune, too.

Elune, whose worship had defined kaldorei society for millennia – yet none could say for sure what she was or what she wanted. Who she blessed, and why, remained a mystery. That was why Aadrithea had always preferred the Wild Gods. They were present. They spoke plainly. Their motives could be understood.

Not all who had set out on this journey had seen it through. Sometimes Aadrithea wondered what had become of those she remembered especially well. There had been Galynia, the Priestess who had broken down in tears during the gathering in Nordrassil. She seemed to have joined them mainly with the intention to rekindle their faith in Elune. She had left early, unable to sway them – and shaken by their desire to undo the titans’ work. Her parting words had been strange. Aadrithea doubted she had returned to her fellow Priestesses.

Then there had been Norana and Firodren. They had had no trouble accepting the truth about the titans, but had refused to work with tauren, trolls, and orcs. Aadrithea’s argumentation that they would have plenty of opportunities to rid themselves of their just temporary allies (foremost the green-skinned monkeys) after dealing with the titans hadn’t sufficed to sway them. They had moved on in search of a way to regain their immortality, which had been lost during the Third War.

Aadrithea still couldn’t understand that obsession with immortality. She was fully aware that without Nozdormu’s blessing, she probably wouldn’t have grown half as old as she was now and would have long since started to feel the aches of old age. However, the prospect to wither and die didn’t scare her. It was a natural part of life, one the kaldorei had escaped only through the titans’ interference. So long as she left her people stronger than they were now, she would meet the end peacefully, even if it came in just a few centuries. Let the others chase eternity. She would rather leave a legacy. Helping the elementals exact revenge on the titans – and winning their favor in return – would surely serve that cause.

She let her gaze sweep across the cave once more, pausing on her companions – with Melidrussa, now a dear friend, among them. There were many kaldorei among the Primalists. Some were stationed elsewhere across the Dragon Isles, others sent out on temporary missions like Koroleth. Even Aadrithea, who always kept a keen eye on her kin, didn’t know all of them by name – though she was trying.

Two women often caught her notice: they rarely left each other’s side and had recently begun practicing with storm magic, their wild spells crackling with unfocused energy. Aadrithea hadn’t yet spoken much with them, but their closeness reminded her of the camaraderie often shared among the Sentinels; the kind forged through long nights of vigilance and war. Though these two had now traded bows and arrows for storm and lightning, perhaps because the old weapons had proven useless to defend what they held dear.

Then there was the quiet one. A male kaldorei, always on the edge of the camp. His name escaped her – Erodal? No, Irodil? Neither of those seemed right. Aadrithea only remembered the faint shimmer of his cyan beard poking out from beneath his cowl and how he often lingered near the jungle’s edge, letting it snow softly in isolated patches around him as if his presence alone wove winter into the air.

She considered walking over, finally asking for his name again. But something in her hesitated. Today was not the day to try and forge new friendships. Not after watching a life end senselessly at the feet of giants too proud to accept potential allies.

Inwardly, the Druid offered a silent prayer to the Wild Gods and Elemental Lords alike. May her wayward tongue from three years ago not lead them all to find a violent end at the hands of the very fools they were trying to free from the titans’ grip.

Chapter Text

Quietly as an Inquisitor, Myreath Felthorn climbed down from the bunk bed, crossed the dormitory without stepping on a single creaking plank, and descended into the common room of the Inn. It was still in the middle of the night, but the Illidari knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

The simple walls of the building were no hindrance to his sight. He scanned briefly for patrols – he absolutely wasn’t in the mood to run into anyone. He was in luck. Not even Naethir was in sight. The kid often spent entire nights loitering around the nearby Officers’ Mansion, despite it not being his shift, as though expecting assassins to target his twin brothers at any moment. The Death Knight must be on graveyard duty.

As Myreath stepped outside, the night air felt especially cool on his face. He raised one hand and rubbed it with annoyance across his cheeks, now damp again. He loathed these dreams as much as he was grateful for them. They weren’t nightmares, though the endings certainly befit one – they were memories.

He quickly retrieved Nawag from the shelter around the corner of the Inn, where his little pet demon usually spent the nights in company of mainly Benthras’ Hunter pets. It was the only stable in Raven Hill owned by the Spinecrafters and rarely used to house their mounts. Stabling their riding animals was left to each member – accommodating the wildly varied needs of their beasts in one place would have been impossible.

Once at the outskirts of the small village, the Demon Hunter blew one of the whistles meant for his own mounts. A few moments later, his tame felstalker came trotting out of the woods. Myreath didn’t jump on its back. Instead, he led it a little farther into the dark forest, to a spot he knew would remain undisturbed. Bracing his back against the trunk of a tree, he finally sat. Nag immediately lay down beside him, resting its bare skull on his thigh. Nawag jumped up with a happy chuff, nuzzling its tiny snout against the Illidari’s chest, then into the larger felstalker’s mane of quills.

Holding both demons close, the scaled night elf forced himself to breathe deeply. He focused on his inner demon, Nurru, and its reaction to the other two. The closeness helped dull the longing and sorrow for his lost family. Seeing him now, the Slayer would have called him beyond pathetic for more than one reason: the leader of the Illidari had once ordered him to dispose of Nawag, concerned the small mutated demon might spread its deformity. And the Slayer would have laughed at the notion that demons should actually harbor feelings for each other that came at least close to those of a loving family. Of course, that mindset was common among the Slayer’s Elite – and the Illidari in general. Myreath knew better, though.

Back when he had undergone the initiation rite, maybe it had been the last urge of a softhearted Druid that had stopped him from slaughtering the rest of the small felstalker pack. He had only killed the one needed for his transformation. That single decision had undoubtedly made his existence as a Demon Hunter far more pleasant than it was for most Illidari. Contrary to their usual experience, his inner demon had never fought him much. Nurru had been willing to work with him almost from the beginning – grateful for the mercy shown to its kin, and that Myreath had continued to care for them.

Still gently stroking Nag and Nawag, Myreath let himself drift into the memories stirred by his dreams – at least the earliest part: back when he was still a Druid, a healer. When his days were spent teaching his two children, Vivisa and Nandon, about the animals and plants of Azeroth. When the day’s end meant preparing a warm meal, waiting for their mother Yadane to return from her Sentinel duties and join them at the table.

–.o.O.o.–

Myreath had long since returned from the woods as the Inn slowly came to life. He was busy with early breakfast preparations in the kitchen when the voices of the first Spinecrafters, crawling out of their bunks, drifted down the stairs and over from the common room.

“Oh, by Muradin’s hammer,” Syran groaned, “Ye know what I miss most from me off-duty days?”

“Having breakfast in bed?” Lendi’s voice replied.

The dwarf laughed. “Almost, but no. It’s steppin’ outside after wakin’ up an’ feelin’ the warmth o’ the risin’ sun on me face.”

The gnome made a sympathetic noise.

While Myreath didn’t mind Duskwood’s eternal night, he understood the Paladin’s point. Still, he doubted the company could have afforded a permanent base anywhere else. And it wasn’t as though they never saw the sun – various duties regularly took them to Elwynn Forest, Westfall or even Stranglethorn Vale.

“Maybe we’ll get that again soon. Bet the captain’s announcement today has somethin’ tae do with the Dragon Isles,” added another dwarven voice – Tondur’s, deeper than Syran’s.

“That would be awesome!” the gnome Rogue chirped.

Syran made a less enthusiastic noise. “But who’s gonna take care o’ this place while we’re gone? I might miss the sun sometimes, but I do nae want tae give this up or let it fall tae ruin!”

As his fellow Spinecrafters launched into a discussion of potential solutions, Myreath returned his attention to breakfast prep. He wasn’t thrilled with the state of their pantry. Over the past few months, his options had grown meager. More often than not, he had been forced to settle for gruel in the mornings. He could still experiment with flavoring – twists of spice here and there – but there was only so much to be done with dwindling ingredients. Spices weren’t cheap. A deployment to the Dragon Isles might be just what they needed; the Aspects would surely reward their allies well.

Nawag rising from his mat near the door distracted the Illidari. A quick glance confirmed his expectation. Moments later, a small purple fox darted into the kitchen, followed closely by its master. Tulu and the miniature felstalker broke into a frenzy of bark-like sounds and tail-wagging. Neither Myreath nor Saewron made a move to stop the ruckus – they knew the two pets just wanted to greet each other.

“Good morning! And sorry, Ri-… err, the captain stalled me with a question – but I’m all yours now!” the void elf declared cheerfully.

Yesterday evening, the captain’s twin had arrived late at Raven Hill after his usual off-duty days. Orthorin had likely been asleep, but had probably wanted news from the capital. Saewron – whose boyfriend was close to Magister Umbric and therefore rumors circulating in the highest ranks of the Alliance – was often their best source for such.

“All good. You’re still the first to show.” Myreath pointed toward one of the tables, “The nuts and fruits need chopping, but first we’ll want some fresh water. We’ll thin the milk a bit.”

“On it!”

Saewron had just stepped outside with buckets to draw water when a furred figure burst through the doorway, somehow looking burly and lean all at once, sending both pets scrambling in a flurry.

“Reporting for duty!” the young pandaren announced, then turned and apologized to the pets. “Same as usual?”

“Yeah – wooden bowls, spoons, and a mug. Nothing fancy,” the Demon Hunter confirmed, stoking the hearth.

Hyun-Su Longpath was their newest addition to the company. Unlike others – Travis and Quint came to mind – who had only spent a few months with the Spinecrafters during the past years before returning to regular army service once declared cured, Myreath had a feeling the Windwalker might become a permanent member of their non-combat unit. Sun-Mi’s younger brother seemed her opposite in almost every way: where the Shaman was serene and still, the Monk could barely sit without fidgeting for ten minutes and was often hasty.

The pandaren was already retrieving dishes from the shelves when Cassy finally arrived, completing the kitchen crew for this morning. Myreath paused – rather than reaching for a can of milk, he moved his hands to accompany his words, signing instructions to the Kul Tiran.

Saewron returned from the well for the second time just as a loud crash echoed from the common room, making everyone jump – except the deaf Huntress.

“Sorry! I’m fine… and the dishes are too!” Hyun-Su called from the common room.

Myreath chuckled, joined by the Rogue. Their captain had clearly known what he was doing when assigning the young Windwalker to morning kitchen duty only – else their pottery wouldn’t have survived the week.

–.o.O.o.–

The rest of their preparations went without incident, and eventually all the Spinecrafters – except those on guard duty – gathered in the common room, sitting and chatting with bowls of gruel in front of them. Today’s was yellow from the added spices.

Myreath took up his usual position, leaning against the counter of the bar just outside the kitchen. He never joined the others for meals, preferring to sate himself during the feedings at the Fel Hammer. Demon meat met both his physical needs and his body’s demand for fel magic. Still, he enjoyed watching the soldiers’ reaction to the food he served them, using those to tweak his recipes when needed. Meals also had a way of loosening tongues. The Demon Hunter used the opportunity to quietly listen, gauging what might need to be brought to their young captain’s attention – though, so far, Orthorin had always handled such matters well by himself.

Today, as he observed the gathering, Myreath once again noticed – with mixed feelings – just how many couples there were in the company. Aside from the captain himself and Elarynn, whose relationship had already been established when the Illidari joined the Spinecrafters in the Shadowlands, several new pairings had formed over the years.

Perhaps the most surprising, at least to most Spinecrafters, had been Thelri and Haaldar. The Lightforged Paladin had once been infamous for her hatred toward draenei who had refused to join the Army of the Light. But reportedly – Myreath had left earlier that day, after speaking with his wife’s soul – she and the Mage had confronted one another on Korthia after an encounter with the soul of Thelri’s sister. The conversation must have struck a chord. In the months that followed, the Paladin had sought Haaldar out more and more, at first just for friendly conversation – until it became something more.

Less surprising, though still unexpected, had been Agnes and Rohan announcing their relationship. It had come out of the blue; no one had noticed the worgen Rogue paying special attention to the quiet, withdrawn human Monk. But apparently, that had been by design. The two had grown close during their off-duty days. Similar to Orthorin and Elarynn, the two mostly limited their private relationship to off-duty hours, but no longer to times when they weren’t with the army company at all.

The strangest couple, without question, was Sparks – real name Barbara Clares – and Copper, who everyone continued to call by his surname since he disliked his given name, Ockirn. The human Mage and the mechagnome Warrior were still the worst troublemakers in the unit, regularly setting off unintentional explosions during their tinkering. But they were also brilliant engineers. If asked directly, they insisted their relationship was purely professional. Yet everyone – with eyes or without – could tell otherwise.

The newest lovebirds were Galynia Starwhisper and Benthras. The night elf Priestess had joined the company about a year ago, transferred from one of the regular army units after it became clear she was struggling with her identity and powers to a degree that impaired her performance. When she had first arrived, Myreath had known he had seen her before – but it had been Benthras who remembered where: the gathering after Sylvanas’ trial. The Illidari had been focused then on the Druid who had confronted Tyrande, but the Hunter had been right – Galynia had been the devastated Priestess, shaken to her core by the conflict surrounding Elune.

In addition to the couples within the company, there were also Saewron and Remah, whose partners – Luthir and Thinnadis – were not (or no longer) members of the Spinecrafters, though still well acquainted with them. And those were only the ones Myreath knew of.

He didn’t begrudge his comrades their happiness – not directly. But seeing them together made him miss his wife all the more at times. Today was one of those days. And with that came the sting of another truth: even if Yadane weren’t dead, her love for him was gone. She had made that clear more than once – though he hadn’t believed her the first time. Unlike the loss of their children, he couldn’t pin that wound entirely on his brother’s monstrous act.

You turned into a monster yourself. You’re on the inside just like what you look on the outside!

The words Yadane had spoken on Korthia, after the Spinecrafters had saved her soul from Torghast, were etched into his mind. And she was right. He had killed his older brother out of vengeance, but that had been a hollow victory – especially after learning what Kelorn had done to his wife, whom Myreath had believed dead for years, along with their kids. Thus, after learning her soul had ended up in the Maw, he had resolved to save her – and to finish his revenge. He had found Kelorn first. And had fed him to one of the soul-devouring hounds that haunted the Jailer’s domain.

In doing so, he hadn’t merely killed his brother for a second time. He had annihilated him. Myreath had come to regret it – not only because of Yadane’s words, but because during the past years, he had realized himself that this deed had left a disfiguring mark on him. One far more grotesque than the horns and scales that covered his skin in patches, which his transformation into an Illidari had left him with.

A commotion at the Inn’s entrance pulled Myreath out of his increasingly dark musings. He realized that breakfast was coming to an end, as the on-duty guards were now joining the other Spinecrafters. That signaled the imminent start of the morning assembly.

Myreath and the kitchen crew quickly cleared away the dishes with help from other soldiers, then rejoined their comrades at the tables. After the officers confirmed that every squad member was present and distributed today’s assignments, the captain finally addressed the topic all had been eagerly waiting for.

“You all know that our collaboration with the Night Watch has gradually decreased over the past few years,” Orthorin began, now standing beside his second-in-command at the front of the table rows. “Fortunately, that’s due to the decline in activity from the mindless undead. During our last meeting, Sarah Ladimore and I agreed that the Night Watch will continue their contract with the Spinecrafters for another year; but our responsibilities will be reduced even further. Since we’ve already had trouble finding additional employers in the region to cover our costs, we’ve decided that half the company, under Lieutenant Valentian’s command, will travel to the Dragon Isles. There, they’ll assist the dragonflights in recovering their Aspects’ powers and support them in their conflict with the Primal Incarnates.”

Though the room remained quiet as expected, a wave of tension and anticipation spread among the soldiers. Postures shifted. Curious glances flicked from face to face. Everyone was trying to guess who would go and who would stay.

Myreath kept his attention fixed on the captain. He expected Orthorin to clarify quickly. He wasn’t disappointed.

“I’ve reorganized our squads and selected the fourteen soldiers who will accompany Lieutenant Valentian,” the void elf continued after a brief pause. “Sergeant Lendi and Corporal Agia will be his supporting officers.”

Both women responded with crisp salutes.

“The privates joining their squads are as follows: Agnes…”

The Brewmaster Monk mirrored the salute, as did everyone whose name was called afterward.

“Benthras, Gal’dir, Gert, Grimoth, Haaldar, Milan, Myreath…”

The Demon Hunter felt a brief thrill as he acknowledged his name – though he hadn’t been surprised to hear it.

“Naethir, Renald, Rohan and Thelri.”

There was a beat of silence before many heads – Myreath’s included – turned instinctively toward the Death Knight. Everyone knew how closely Naethir watched his brothers and how protective he was of them.

However, the undead void elf said nothing. He just stared grimly at the tabletop in front of him, his earlier salute already given. Clearly, the twins Orthorin and Saewron had spoken with him about this decision in advance.

“Damn, we’re going to suffer without Myr here to cook for us,” Malaruk broke the somewhat tense silence that had arisen.

The Illidari couldn’t help but feel flattered. His pride swelled a little more as others chuckled or nodded in agreement.

“Private Myreath surely appreciates the compliment… and your additional help during kitchen duty this evening – for speaking out of turn,” Orthorin said dryly, reminding everyone that this was the official assembly and not the usual chat during meals.

The draenei’s skin turned a darker shade of blue and he grimaced. “Sorry, Captain.”

In the quickly restored quiet, a female voice spoke up shyly.

“C-captain?”

“Yes, Recruit Galynia?”

“Err… how definite is that list?”

Myreath noticed a barely concealed smirk on Valentian’s lips at the question.

“State your concern, Recruit,” the Monk prompted gently.

After another encouraging gesture from Benthras, who sat beside her, the kaldorei with the long purple hair found her voice again.

“Well… I’d like to go with Ben – err, them. Would that be possible, Sir?”

Orthorin’s face remained neutral. “Have you considered, Recruit, that your unit will be venturing into unknown territory? You’ll face not only hostile environments, but likely members of the Primalists. Are you confident you can reliably support them under those circumstances?”

Galynia clearly hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yes, Sir!”

Their void elf captain exchanged a knowing look with his Gilnean second-in-command before speaking again.

“In that case, I’ll leave the final decision to the Lieutenant and Private Grimoth, whom you’d be replacing as a healer.”

Neither objected. The old dwarf even welcomed the change – it meant he would get to keep sleeping on a proper mattress, which, according to him, his old bones would thank him for.

Myreath didn’t mind the switch either – aside from the fact that it meant being surrounded by three couples instead of two. He understood why Orthorin hadn’t chosen Galynia initially for the squads heading to the Dragon Isles: the Priestess still struggled at times to wield her powers. However, the Illidari also trusted his own skills – and those of Agnes and Valentian – as tanks to handle whatever came their way. They would keep the others safe, even if one of their healers didn’t perform at full capacity.

Myreath’s real concern was Naethir.

Being separated from his brothers could go either way. It might give the Death Knight some distance from his obsessive focus on their safety; something the twins themselves seemed to hope for. Or it could make things worse – possibly even turn the poor kid suicidal.

Myreath furrowed his brow slightly. He would be watching the undead. He wouldn’t let the kid do something truly stupid.

Chapter Text

Kee’dril sat on the broad railing of the Defiant Dragonscale, alternately looking at the open page of his sketchbook and the waves of the sea beyond the flying gunship. The airstream tousled his bright red hair, but it was short enough that he didn’t have to constantly brush wayward strands out of his face.

The journey to the Dragon Isles by zeppelin was slow, but his employer had insisted. It was easier to transport large amounts of equipment this way, and the airship flew directly to the Waking Shores – no transfers needed. The vessel was packed with adventurers and explores eager to begin their expeditions. At times, their impatience with the slow pace sparked tensions; especially among those unaccustomed to being idle, locked together in the ship’s confined space. So far, however, Captain Caspartine and his crew had managed to defuse any conflicts before they escalated.

The undead elf didn’t mind the slow journey. Since takeoff, he had been trying to capture the ocean’s vastness and shifting surface with charcoal, but despite his efforts, he wasn’t pleased with the result. It was difficult to convey both the depth of the sea and the constant motion of the waves.

“Trauga’s right!” a belligerent voice suddenly grumbled in Orcish, “Those aren’t real runeblades – they’re just painted!”

Alarmed, Kee’dril turned, sensing trouble. He immediately spotted the massive figure inspecting his swords – now leaned against the railing beside him after he had unstrapped them to be able to sit down comfortably.

The speaker was Mathog Hideflayer, a Mag’har orc he had clashed with shortly after boarding. The man had made disparaging remarks about the dracthyr, boasting to his companion that he would like to turn their horns and scales into armor. Kee’dril had noticed one of the nearby dracthyr visibly upset by the comment and had stepped in, prompting Mathog to apologize. The orc had complied, but Kee’dril had quickly realized he had earned the man’s resentment, and Mathog had been waiting for an excuse to strike back ever since.

“Are you even a real Death Knight?!” the brown-skinned orc demanded, jabbing a finger at the undead.

Kee’dril hesitated. Mathog’s outburst had already drawn the attention of nearby passengers, most of whom were bored and all too eager for a distraction. Answering truthfully would expose him. Denying it would mean lying outright – something he had avoided so far by letting his disguise speak for itself.

“Answer his question, or I’ll inform Arandil that he’s hired a fraud!” snapped Talanath Goldcrest, stepping forward with his hand already drifting toward his weapon.

Technically, Talanath was Kee’dril’s work partner – Arandil Featherdawn had hired both of them – but Kee’dril wasn’t surprised that he was now stabbing him in the back. Talanath had been all too happy to leave the heavy lifting to the undead during loading, but back in Orgrimmar, he had strongly advised Arandil not to hire Kee’dril at all.

With an inward sigh, the Warrior accepted that there was no graceful way out. He closed his sketchbook and packed away his tools, then reached for his shaded glasses and removed them, revealing the unmistakable red gleam in his eyes.

“No, I’m not a Death Knight,” he said calmly. “I’m Darkfallen. A San’layn. And an accepted member of the Forsaken.”

“Bloodsucker! You’re a bloody bloodsucker!” the orc shouted.

“A San’layn?!” someone gasped. “I thought they were extinct!”

“I knew there was something off about you!”

As Talanath finally drew his weapon, Mathog acted first. Kee’dril had only a heartbeat to react as the orc leapt onto the railing to strike.

“I’ll rip out your fangs and wear them as a necklace!”

Suppressing his instinct to fight and not reaching for his own swords, Kee’dril did the opposite – he used his Heroic Leap to vault to safety, landing cleanly on the deck several meters away. Passengers nearby scattered with startled yells.

He raised his empty hands in a calming gesture. “There’s no need for alarm. I mean none of you any harm.”

It did little to allay the crowd, though.

“He probably fed on us while we slept!”

“Throw him overboard!”

“Yes! Into the sea!”

The cry echoed and multiplied, and the vampyre’s concern grew. He couldn’t drown, but getting tossed into the middle of the ocean, far from any land, could still kill him. His strength wasn’t limitless – and blood magic was nearly impossible to wield in open water.

From the rear, Talanath called out, inciting the other passengers further. “Quick, grab him! Don’t let him use his foul magic!”

Kee’dril tensed, bracing for a fight – but then, over the growing uproar, the loud, commanding voice of Captain Caspartine rang out.

“Enough!” the nightborne barked. “This is my ship. No one walks the plank as long as I have a say in it.”

“Don’t you know what happened to the last Horde vessel that had some of these bloodsuckers aboard?!” Mathog demanded.

Another passenger added: “At the first sight of danger, they drained the rest of the crew to fuel their blood magic.”

“That’s right!” Krakz the goblin chimed in. “He’ll do the same to us if we don’t act first! You said this gig ends tomorrow, when we reach the Dragon Isles – and that proto-dragons might attack us!”

Captain Caspartine stepped forward, and the crowd parted to let him through. He turned to the Mag’har.

“You’re talking about what happened during the Fourth War, aren’t you?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for a reply. “Then you should know our passenger couldn’t have been involved. Those San’layn were wiped out by the Alliance during that attack. Your accusation has no basis.” He gestured toward Kee’dril. “Just because he’s a vampyre too doesn’t mean he’ll do the same thing.”

There was some disgruntled muttering, but the undead Warrior allowed himself to relax. Slightly. At least a few people aboard this ship were graced with some common sense.

During the early days of the Fourth War, when several San’layn had approached the Horde with offers of allegiance, Kee’dril had still been in Northrend. Even after Arthas’s fall six years prior – and his own success in resisting the mental grip of the next wearer of the Helm of Domination – he hadn’t trusted his newfound freedom. He had kept a low profile, carving out a quiet existence alongside Veronica, the human blood slave to whom he owed much of his escape from Blood-Queen Lana’thel’s terror regime. Kee’dril hadn’t been willing to abandon all they had built in Howling Fjord just to join the other San’layn in another war; or to risk drawing the new Lich King’s gaze.

In hindsight, that had been the right call, despite the fact that his time with Veronica had eventually ended before the war was over. Their parting had been overdue, though, and while a selfish part of him had regretted it, the rest of him had mostly felt relief.

“However,” the captain continued, snapping Kee’dril back to the present, “I can see that this isn’t something words alone will resolve.” He turned fully toward the San’layn. “For your own safety – and to reassure the other passengers – I suggest you allow yourself to be restrained for the remainder of the voyage.”

Kee’dril grimaced. This wasn’t exactly how he had pictured spending the rest of the trip. But it was certainly better than being tossed overboard by an angry mob.

“Fine, I agree,” he said, exhaling slowly. “But I’d like to point out again that this is really unnecessary.”

Five minutes later, he was tied to the metal railing encircling the ship’s main cannon – and gagged, just for good measure. The rag stuffed into his mouth reeked of old machine oil, and his wrists burned where a Paladin had reinforced the ropes with Light magic, ensuring the undead couldn’t break free. Kee’dril’s muffled complaints had fallen on deaf ears, including the captain’s. Meanwhile, some of the passengers found his obvious discomfort highly entertaining.

Several had already passed by to offer snide remarks, and Kee’dril was mildly surprised no one had yet spit on him or thrown anything. Almost on cue, though, Arandil Featherdawn appeared to inform him that he would no longer require his services.

“I should’ve grown suspicious when you named your price,” the sin’dorei remarked. “An Ebon Blade for a pittance? It was too good to be true. Your trick almost worked.”

“I warned you,” Talanath said, then turned to Kee’dril with a sneer. “What was your plan, huh? To feed on us once we were alone in the wilds?”

Kee’dril’s efforts to vindicate himself were reduced to nothing but unintelligible sounds by the oily rag in his mouth.

He hadn’t fed on anyone without consent since escaping Blood-Queen Lana’thel’s control – the power to compel her subjects bestowed upon her by Lich King Arthas. The only person he had ever fed on afterward had been Veronica, and that had been her own insistence in exchange for his protection. Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted even that, given her fragile state of mind… but Kee’dril had never pretended to be a saint. Not even before his resurrection. Of course, the people in front of him wouldn’t have believed any of those claims anyway.

Still, the humiliation wasn’t the worst of it. What stung most were the pitying glances from the few Forsaken crewmembers – those who looked at him with quiet sympathy, clearly grateful that the mob’s fury hadn’t turned on them as well.

Yeah. Great job, Kee. Showing them how peaceful coexistence with the living looks – working out just fantastic. Really nailed it. The vampyre stifled a bitter snort. Maybe Hollie was right. Maybe he should have just stayed in Tirisfal. Then again, if he hadn’t antagonized that orc… maybe his gamble would have worked.

As it eventually began to rain, the undead Warrior was almost grateful. The downpour drove the rest of the passengers below deck, finally sparing him their relentless taunting. However, as his clothes grew soaked, Kee’dril’s hope that the rain might soothe the burning pain from his bindings was quickly dashed. He twisted within the limited slack he had, trying again to find a position that might offer some relief, but the sensation – like fire crawling up from his wrists – remained as fierce as it had been for hours.

Blinking rain from his eyes – nearly joined by tears of pain and frustration – Kee’dril belatedly noticed a winged figure approaching. His anxiety spiked as the humanoid dragonkin drew a blade, until he realized it wasn’t meant for him. The dracthyr – now recognizable as the one he had made Mathog apologize to at the start of their voyage – stepped behind him, and to his astonishment, the searing pain in his wrists abruptly eased.

Kee’dril took a relieved breath, and removed his gag. “Thank you.”

Reflexively, he checked his arms, still trembling. Aside from the expected pressure marks, the Light-infused ropes had left no visible damage.

“Don’t mention it,” said the dracthyr with a scratchy voice. “But I’ll need to restrain you again soon. The captain’s given permission to use plain iron shackles this time. He also allowed you a brief walk across the deck in my company to stretch your legs – if you’d like.”

Kee’dril looked up at the reptile-like person, a tired smile creeping onto his face. “I’d appreciate that very much.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t intervene earlier,” the dracthyr said, who had introduced herself as Ascera.

They walked slowly, the dracthyr unbothered by the rain. Kee’dril wasn’t in a hurry to be chained again. His arms still tingled, and he massaged them in an effort to calm the nerves.

“I’m not familiar with the customs of today’s world,” Ascera admitted. “I was afraid of acting out of ignorance. But Captain Caspartine explained that the accusations against you were rooted in bias against your kind, not in anything you actually did. He said the undead aren’t liked among the scaleless. I find that confusing. Aren’t the Forsaken part of the Horde?”

“They are,” Kee’dril confirmed. “But that alliance was forged more out of necessity than goodwill. The Horde needed numbers in their war against the Alliance. The Forsaken were a convenient solution. Besides, there’s a difference between the undead in general and the Forsaken.”

“They’re not mindless monsters attacking everything,” Ascera said thoughtfully. “That surprised me. The only undead I’d ever heard of were Galakrond’s twisted proto-dragons. If the Forsaken were anything like those… I’d understand the fear. But you don’t seem any different from other scaleless.”

Kee’dril stopped at the railing near where he had sat earlier and looked out over the sea. Rain pelted the waves, roughening the surface into a seething mass like a boiling pot.

“The thing is,” the San’layn said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice, “about twenty years ago, the Forsaken didn’t exist. We were all part of the Scourge. That’s what people remember: a mindless army of abominations, stretching back to the War of the Ancients, whose only goal was to kill and devour… like those presently still contained by the Ebon Blade. Some of us broke free from the Lich King’s control, regained our minds – but that didn’t rid us of the curses put on us with our resurrection. If we don’t feed those regularly, we risk losing ourselves again. Even now, we can become what people fear.”

He paused, then added more quietly, “Some of the accusations you heard weren’t completely false. And constant rejection… it changes people. Some Forsaken grow bitter. Others, like the San’layn Mathog mentioned, become reckless.”

“But not you,” Ascera said, as they resumed their stroll.

Kee’dril shrugged. “I try. It’s not always easy.”

The dracthyr made a soft, sympathetic noise. “I’m truly sorry for what happened. I liked watching you paint a lot more than seeing you in pain.”

The undead had to chuckle at that. “Thanks.”

“It’s an unusual pastime for someone like us… a warrior, I mean.”

The way in which she said those words made him like the dracthyr even more. “Do you think so? I’ve known plenty of warriors who took up painting or poetry in their downtime. It’s a good contrast to life on the battlefield. I always liked drawing. But I wasn’t a typical warrior in life… I was a Priest.”

“I see,” Ascera muttered, “Maybe I’ll try it myself. It looked peaceful. Now that we dracthyr have awoken to this world again, we have a lot to figure out… and need to reinvent ourselves.”

“You should definitely try.” Kee’dril encouraged her, “Don’t worry if it doesn’t go well at first – keep at it and you’ll see improvements. Just play with shapes and colors. That’s how you get a feel for it.”

“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

Kee’dril’s mood dipped again as they neared the spot where his brief reprieve would end.

“Err… give me a moment?” he asked. Ascera didn’t protest, so he reached into one of his bags. Her nostrils flared as he opened a canteen. “Don’t worry, it’s from an animal.”

“So you actually do drink blood,” Ascera noted.

“That’s the San’layn’s curse,” he explained and took a swig, barely able to keep himself from screwing up his face. “We need to regularly drink blood, just like other darkfallen need to either inflict pain or eat living flesh to avert going mad, and to sustain themselves.”

“That sounds… difficult,” the dracthyr said with a frown.

Kee’dril shrugged. “I don’t see the difference to people needing to eat regularly… other than the threat of going crazy without food after a while. The Death Knights’ curse is a bit different; mere killing to eat doesn’t necessarily require your food to suffer. However, most people still think those curses can only be satisfied as long as the food is humanoid, which isn’t true. Arthas had us attack people primarily, but now we’ve got a choice. Blood, flesh and I guess also pain from alternate sources come with drawbacks, but they work. I certainly consider that a fair trade in exchange for my dignity.”

The undead forced himself to take another swig from the flask. He wasn’t hungry yet but wanted to prevent that from happening while he remained chained until the arrival at the Waking Shores. However, animal blood always tasted worse than any humanoid blood and was less potent, but especially in its stale state it grew downright vile. The powder he had needed to add to keep it from clotting didn’t help either, but the journey by airship had required him to bring supplies.

As he stowed the flask again, a thought struck him. He turned to Ascera with his hands held out, obediently.

“By the way… have you seen my swords? They weren’t where I left them.”

“I have them,” the dracthyr said, fastening the iron shackles around his wrists. “I’ll return them with pleasure as soon as we land.”

–.o.O.o.–

Not quite sixteen hours later, Kee’dril stepped off the Defiant Dragonscale after bidding farewell to Ascera and Captain Caspartine. His swords were strapped across his back, and he wore his shaded glasses once more. The Waking Shores greeted them with towering, jagged mountains bathed in sunlight, streams of lava cascading down their sides like molten waterfalls.

The Dragonscale Expedition – whose first ships had arrived some time earlier – had set up a camp at the shore. It had two piers: one to the right for Horde airships, the other to the left for Alliance vessels arriving by sea. Kee’dril hesitated as he noticed the Horde side of the camp had recently been scorched – partially consumed by a lava stream that had since slowed but was still smoldering. Off in the distance, guards battled proto-dragons attacking the perimeter. It certainly wasn’t the idyllic adventure some explorers had been expecting.

Kee’dril wondered how Arandil Featherdawn planned to conduct his independent expedition with only one mercenary left at his side. The sin’dorei had refused to cooperate with the joint Horde-Alliance initiative, but if the rest of the Dragon Isles resembled this hostile bay – and Kee’dril doubted the expedition had chosen the most dangerous place to land – then even two hired blades wouldn’t have been enough to keep the man safe.

He shook his head and pushed the thought aside. Not his problem anymore. Still, unless he planned to return to Orgrimmar (not before resupplying), he would need to find new employment here.

Carefully avoiding the scorched planks at the end of the pier, which had caught fire from the lava’s heat, Kee’dril became aware of numerous eyes tracking his every step. Word of the unwelcome passenger had clearly spread while the others disembarked. Mathog and his ilk had likely wasted no time warning the camp. His odds of finding work here were close to zero.

Still more concerned about the cliffside proto-dragons than the wary looks, the San’layn approached one of the guards stationed at the camp’s edge, cautiously testing the still-warm – but thankfully not searing – ground with his boots.

“Sinu a’manore,” he greeted the blood elf woman politely. “Could you tell me how to reach the next nearest hub?”

There had to be one. The camp was too small to house everyone who had already arrived on the Dragon Isles.

The guard turned to him with a neutral expression, her posture firm. “Follow the lava stream until you reach a path. That’ll take you to the Wingrest Embassy. But be warned – the land between here and there is crawling with dragonkin. They don’t just attack travelers. They turn on each other.”

Despite the warning, the Warrior thanked her and set off immediately. He wanted to reach the embassy before the rest of the passengers finished disembarking and preparing.

Rather than walking directly on the cooled lava – which cut a broad path through the forested terrain – Kee’dril stayed close to the rocky formations along its edge, sheltered beneath the trees. He was fairly certain taking the open road would only make him an easy target for the winged predators.

The guard hadn’t been exaggerating. The area teemed with proto-dragons and swarms of whelps. Unlike true dragons, these creatures used their wings as forelimbs and had stunted arms tucked close to their torsos. Fortunately, most of them ignored the passing undead, preoccupied with hunting monkeys or fighting rival kin.

But then, rounding a cluster of trees, Kee’dril suddenly came face-to-face with one of the larger specimens. The proto-dragon raised its spiked head and beat its wings in a threatening display.

“I’m afraid you picked the wrong prey, spikey,” the San’layn muttered, as he Charged at the beast with weapons already drawn – he hadn’t let go of them since leaving camp. He was confident in his ability to handle one such opponent by himself.

The proto-dragon clearly hadn’t expected such aggression. The Warrior closed the gap in seconds, landing a slash across the creature’s exposed underbelly. The scales were thinner there, but still prevented the blade from cutting deep. However, it was enough to draw blood. With that first tribute thus payed, Kee’dril siphoned some of the creature’s life essence to empower his limbs, his strikes growing faster and stronger as the blood magic took hold.

Even so, the proto-dragon recovered quickly, deflecting several of his blows with its claws and armored hide. Kee’dril had to throw himself to the side as the beast spat fire at him. He barely dodged it, only to get clipped by a swipe of its tail. He hit the ground hard but turned the fall into a roll and came up on his feet again. His ribs ached – a reminder that anyone without Death magic enhancing their body might have ended up with several broken bones.

The San’layn hissed at the proto-dragon in annoyance and channeled his fury into another series of slashes.

One strike sliced through the membrane of the dragon’s wing, making it howl and recoil. The injured limb pulled back, exposing its side. Kee’dril didn’t hesitate – he threw his full weight into the next thrust, driving his sword deep into the creature’s flank, right between the base of its wing and the stubby arm joint.

The proto-dragon let out a series of shrill screeches, staggered a few steps, then collapsed to the ground, unable to get back on its feet.

“So much for that.”

Kee’dril scanned the area. No other beasts had arrived to investigate. No other adventurers either.

Time to find out how dragonkin taste, the vampyre thought. Stepping closer, he used his magic to channel some of the blood seeping from the dragon’s wound directly into his mouth.

He was positively surprised. At first, he wondered if the impression was influenced by the lousy diet he had endured the past few days. But even after several swallows, the taste remained richer than expected, more akin to humanoid than animal blood. By the time he ended his meal, he took the opportunity to refill his canteen before continuing on, leaving the now dead reptile in his wake.

Several proto-dragons later – none of which had posed much of a problem thanks to his earlier refreshment – Kee’dril arrived at the base of a wide stone staircase. Horde Mages and Alliance Hunters flanked the steps, standing watch but making no move to hinder him. Clearly, their only goal was to repel incoming attackers threatening the hub.

At the top of the stairs, the San’layn found ruins – which didn’t come as much of a surprise after ten thousand years of abandonment. Tents had been set up in the courtyard between crumbling stone walls and half-collapsed watchtowers. A large dragon statue stood ahead, once majestic but now missing a wing and a foreleg.

As before, the camp was split in two. On the right stood the ornate sin’dorei tents of the Reliquary; on the left, the simpler canvas shelters of the Explorers’ League. The Horde side was nearly empty – aside from a few merchants and quartermasters – while the Alliance half bustled with activity. It seemed a ship from Stormwind had recently arrived, while most Horde passengers from earlier airships had already moved on.

Kee’dril’s gaze lingered on the busier left side. His Common was solid, thanks to years spent with Veronica. There was no real reason not to seek work from the Alliance side… except for the obvious: they might be even more suspicious of undead than the Horde, given they didn’t have Forsaken allies to normalize their presence.

“Don’t worry, Kee. They won’t bite!”

The voice echoed in his memory, followed by the innocent giggle that always came with the inside joke. Veronica used to say that whenever he hesitated to enter an Alliance settlement with her while she gathered supplies back in the Howling Fjord. As long as he kept his fangs hidden and wore shaded glasses, he could usually pass for a particularly pale high elf. Sometimes, he did go with her.

A wave of unexpected nostalgia rolled over the San’layn. He wondered how Veronica was doing now. Hopefully still safe in Westguard Keep, maybe even expecting another child with that kind-eyed medic who had saved her life – after Kee’dril’s own blood magic had failed.

During the first winter of the Fourth War, while most of the fighting between Horde and Alliance had raged elsewhere, Veronica had fallen dangerously ill. Kee’dril had tried to cure her himself, but in the end had seen no choice but to take her to a real healer. Afraid of being unmasked as a San’layn, he had left her near the Alliance outpost and kept watch from the shadows. She had been found and brought in, and her condition quickly stabilized. Soon after, Kee’dril had noticed the young medic who cared for her had clearly fallen in love. And over time, Veronica had returned his feelings.

At first, the San’layn had been jealous – furious, even. He had intended to reclaim his companion as soon as she recovered. But when the bitterness had faded, he had seen the truth: what he and Veronica had shared had always been fragile – a mutual delusion. Hers, shaped by trauma. His, born of guilt and longing.

After they had escaped Lana’thel’s court in Icecrown, Kee’dril had offered to bring Veronica back to an Alliance settlement for her to return home. She refused. Said people would judge her for having been a blood slave. And that she was in love with him: her rescuer.

Kee’dril had always doubted that, suspecting that something inside her had broken during her time as a blood slave; abused and fed on by the San’layn, himself included. Still, he hadn’t pushed too hard, and in time, had accepted her affection. Despite her being a human, Veronica reminded him of someone else. A woman he had loved in Quel’Thalas – the wife of his best friend.

He had never confessed those feelings. Never acted on them. But Veronica’s resemblance had stirred old, unresolved emotions. Her presence had given him strength. Had given him something to hold onto – something that helped him resist the Blood-Queen’s grip.

He had escaped Lana’thel’s domination. But the Lich King’s will had remained as a leash. Arthas hadn’t noticed or cared for one rogue San’layn, but the mental commands sent to his undead had nonetheless reached Kee’dril. With Veronica beside him, he had endured.

He owed her a great deal. But he had never truly loved her. Not for who she was.

When she had fully recovered and had come looking for him, he had done the right thing: he had sent her back, told her she belonged with the living. Then he lingered. Stayed in Northrend. Had watched from a distance to make sure the young healer treated her well.

He had. But eventually, Veronica and her new family had needed Kee’dril’s protection after all. When Sylvanas had shattered the Helm of Domination and the Scourge had run rampant, he had been there. He had helped defend Westguard Keep – quietly, without credit, without need for it.

Only when the Knights of the Ebon Blade and the champions of Azeroth had returned from the Shadowlands had he finally stopped finding excuses to avoid his own past.

And nostalgia wouldn’t help him now. He needed to focus on the present.

Kee’dril adjusted his shaded glasses and forced himself forward. With quiet confidence, the San’layn stepped into the crowd around the Alliance tents at the Wingrest Embassy.

–.o.O.o.–

Pilinor groaned as he stretched his limbs after slicing through the last of the spider silk that had cocooned him overnight. His muscles were cramped and stiff. He must have had another nightmare – one bad enough to make him thrash in his sleep.

“Sorry, Yula. I hope I didn’t disturb your rest,” he said, reaching out to scratch the abdomen of his large spider companion, who wiggled with delight at his touch.

A breeze rustled the leaves of the brave little tree clinging to the edge of the stone pillar before drifting outward over the bay. Several small islands and one larger one shimmered in the rising sunlight. The Waking Shores were a land of volcanic mountains and fertile valleys threaded with a meandering river. The valleys teemed with wildlife and vegetation; high stone pillars, resistant to erosion, and caves carved into canyon walls offered shelter from predators, rain, and sun. For the past few days, Pilinor had made camp in the Restless Wetlands, where the river split into a maze of slow-moving streams winding toward the sea. It was a breathtaking view – one that met the eyes of the still-drowsy high elf as he lazily raked a hand through his light-purple hair and began gathering his belongings.

Not for the first time, the Hunter considered briefly summoning his hippogryph to fly him down. But he wouldn’t need the mount again for a while, and each distant summoning drained the energy stones in its harness – an exhausting cost. With a disgruntled noise, he pulled a coil of rope from his belt pouch, secured it around the tree trunk, and began his descent.

A flutter of insect wings greeted him as he reached the ground, where his wasp companion waited on a nearby rock, keeping watch.

“Good morning to you too, Roval,” Pilinor said, then clucked his tongue. A moment later, the rope slid down, followed by Yula, who skittered easily down the sheer face of the stone pillar.

Stuffing the rope back into his pocket, he rummaged until he found the remnants of a loaf of bread and some dried fish, traded from a tuskarr the day before in exchange for ore and panthis nectar. The walrus-folk favored the honey-like nectar for their cooking, but Pilinor also liked it for sweetening his morning meal. Hoping to find more of it to collect, he wandered over to check the nearby plants.

Soon after, he set out along the same route he had followed for the past several days, still licking sticky residue from his fingers. Descending into the Restless Wetlands from his elevated campsite, the Hunter didn’t even blink at the sight of an airborne basilisk – its six limbs flailing helplessly while caught in an unnatural updraft.

He immediately sicced his companions on the wind elemental that was channeling the gust. Yula and Roval made short work of it, ending the other creature’s torment. When the elemental shattered into nothing but a crystal shard, the basilisk dropped to the ground and fled.

Continuing his route, the Hunter came across several crabs scuttling back and forth in a panic, clearly distressed by the elemental chaos. He paused to calm the poor creatures that looked so much like spiders wearing heavy armor. Grateful, they followed him for a time before slipping into the nearby stream.

The wind elementals weren’t the only ones stirring unrest. Spotting turtle hatchlings trapped in floating water bubbles, Pilinor waded through a shallow stream to free them, then made his way to the next sandbank, where water elementals were harassing the waterfowl.

Though the Dragon Isles had been hidden from outsiders for ten thousand years, time hadn’t stood still. Life had gone on for native flora and fauna. Only the elementals – and those most closely attuned to them, like the half-giant djaradin – had fallen dormant. Their recent awakening had triggered turmoil across the isles. The drakonid and dragonspawn, who had tended the land in the dragons’ absence, were quickly overwhelmed. While animals disturbed by elemental activity were a minor concern, the newly arrived adventurers were far more interested in fighting the giant, dragon-slaying djaradin who had seized several dragonkin settlements.

Pilinor had chosen a different path. He had no interest in proving himself through bloodshed. Instead, he found purpose in tending the disrupted wildlife while exploring these vast, mysterious lands.

Pleased with his work in the Wetlands, the high elf moved on, following the river inland. There, the ground grew drier; better suited for critters to build their dens. Pilinor checked the snares he had set to catch rabbits and hares. The first trap he came across was empty, but he wasn’t discouraged; it sat on a well-used trail, so he left it as it was.

The next snare, hidden between a cluster of bushes, had caught a Shaggy Rabbit. Resetting the trap didn’t take long, and he continued on his way with the rabbit secured to his backpack.

Near the road, by the bridge crossing the river, he found another snare. This one had been disturbed. Droppings on the ground suggested it had caught a rabbit, but the animal was gone without a trace. Frowning, Pilinor crouched to inspect the trap and the area around it more closely. There weren’t many predators in this part of the Waking Shores; except for the proto-dragons, who typically hunted larger prey. If an animal had scavenged the catch, there should have been some remains. But there were none. Nor did the scene suggest the rabbit had escaped.

Then he spotted it: a fairly fresh imprint of a heeled boot in the dirt nearby. Pilinor sighed in irritation. It seemed someone – rather than something – had gotten to the trap first. He didn’t bother resetting it this time. Instead, he packed it away. He had clearly set it too close to the road, and some hungry or opportunistic adventurer had helped themselves.

Following the road now, Pilinor kept alert – mostly watching for herbs and ore – when he noticed a flock of Wild Argali grazing on a nearby hill. He veered off his path without hesitation. While most of the Dragon Isles’ wildlife had clearly been shaped by lingering dragon magic – many creatures had developed traits like scales, fins, horns, or spines – the argali looked like ordinary sheep. Fluffy, wool-rich, and placid. The tuskarr, who lived along the coasts and relied on fishing, weren’t farmers. Pilinor was fairly sure they would be eager to trade for wool they could spin into cloth and string.

He ordered his two companions to stay back, then approached the herd slowly. Though many of the new arrivals to the Isles had likely hunted these animals, the argali hadn’t adapted yet. They didn’t bolt at the first sign of danger.

With patience and a few herbs from his pockets, Pilinor earned their trust. Some of the sheep let him shear them, and one even allowed him to collect milk; its two lambs bleating as they clumsily circled their mother.

While tending the flock, a few odd things happened. Pilinor occasionally set his shears aside to free his hands, only to find them mysteriously moved when he reached for them again. The first couple of times, he figured he had just forgotten where he had put them. Even when his cup turned up empty – though he had sworn there were still a few gulps of milk – he didn’t think much of it. But as his tools continued to shift location every time he looked away – this time intentionally – suspicion turned into concern.

Trying not to appear alarmed, he reached into his pockets and for the skinning knife fixed to his belt. With a low whistle he called Yula and Roval over and then, speaking loudly, he called out:

“Show yourself, I know you’re there!”

Pilinor used Orcish, although his knowledge in that language was limited, on the assumption that if someone was harassing him, it was more likely to be a Horde member than an Alliance one.

Getting paranoid, are we? Good. Makes you easier to break, the voice in his head murmured mockingly.

Pilinor ignored it. He knew better than to believe this was all in his mind. Someone had moved his tools. Someone had drunk from his cup.

“Took you long enough to notice,” came a feminine voice, speaking accented Thalassian directly into his left ear.

Pilinor flinched. He dropped the Flare he had prepared and simultaneously launched himself backward with a Disengage, creating distance in a heartbeat. The Flare’s crimson glow lit up a blur of blue skin and hair, but the figure was gone again before he could react – vanishing beyond the small circle of light that had revealed her Stealth. She was fast.

“What do you want?” the Hunter snapped, now with bow in hand and an arrow nocked.

The argali had scattered at the commotion, spooked both by his sudden movement and the arrival of his pets. Yula and Roval clicked and buzzed beside him, alert and scanning. Pilinor studied the grasses and dirt for any sign – movement, footprints, displaced dust – that might betray his attacker’s location.

It had to be a Rogue. The shape he had glimpsed wasn’t feline, ruling out a Druid. And neither Hunters nor Mages could sustain Invisibility or Camouflage this long.

A soft giggle rose from somewhere to his right, prompting him to swing around.

“You should’ve seen your face,” the voice teased. “That armistice’s made you Alliance folk soft.”

His heart leapt. The second part came from another direction – closer now. Before Pilinor could react, everything went black.

–.o.O.o.–

He came to with a start.

Yula and Roval were at his side, nudging him anxiously. It didn’t take Pilinor long to realize he was still lying where the Rogue had struck – victim of a Sap. Cursing under his breath, he got to his feet on shaky legs. A quick self-check confirmed that he was unharmed, though his heart was pounding.

You’re damn lucky she respects the armistice and didn’t actually want to kill you. Would’ve been child’s play, the thing taunted.

“No shit! So much for being paranoid,” Pilinor muttered, exasperated. “I fucking hate Rogues!”

Oh, is that so? I got another impression back in Stormwind.

While checking his pockets for stolen items, the Hunter snorted. “Fine. I hate Rogues – except one. Now shut up!”

The voice fell silent, but Pilinor cursed again when he discovered the rabbit tied to his backpack was gone.

“Bet it was that Rogue who took the one from my snare, too,” he grumbled, scanning the area. A heel imprint near where he had fallen looked like the one he had seen by the bridge. No other traces remained. Hopefully, sapping him had satisfied her twisted sense of humor and she had moved on to bother someone else.

Yula clicked her mandibles anxiously, sensing his frustration. Pilinor took a calming breath, crouched to scratch her back, and then offered Roval a treat.

“It’s okay. You did your best, and I’m fine. Let’s just keep going,” he said in a soothing tone. At least he had got some wool.

After collecting his shears and cup from the grass, the void-touched elf and his companions moved on. But as Pilinor scanned the landscape for herbs and ore, he was certainly more alert than before.

Fortunately, the next few hours passed without incident. No further signs of the Rogue appeared, and none of Pilinor’s tools developed a life of their own while he mined or sheared more argali.

Eventually, his route brought him near the Life Vault Ruins, where some of the Dragonscale Expedition were investigating the titan ruins and combing through the many documents they had found. Rather than approach the busy dig site, the Hunter veered left and followed the riverbank, trusting his sturdy leather boots to keep his feet dry.

He kept a wary eye on the opposite shore, where a raft of ottuks played in the water with their young. The creatures – like long, spined cats – were adorable to most, especially the tuskarr who trained them as mounts and hunting companions. But to Pilinor, touched by the Void and scarred by the Twilight’s Hammer, they looked eerie despite the spines growing on the top of their head, back and tail.

After collecting more White Bells – plants prized for their water-resistant pigment – he reached a shallow crossing. Hopping across stones and vaulting over the narrowest part, he arrived at a trail winding uphill toward Hornswog Hollow.

The pit had collapsed long ago, carved out by magma flows. Now it was home to massive frog-like creatures – mutated so heavily by the isles’ magic that they were considered dragonkin. They lounged in water and even lava. Unfortunately, their evolution had come with a nasty streak; they enjoyed bullying the smaller frogs that gathered around nearby ponds.

Pilinor intended to intervene on the frogs’ behalf, but stopped cold.

Hornswog Hollow wasn’t peaceful today.

Fire elementals now clustered inside the crater. Carefully moving closer, Pilinor soon spotted why: tauren, trolls, and Dark Iron dwarves were working near the lava pools. Not adventurers – Primalists. Cultists who used the power of the magma streams together with their elemental magic to rise up more of the Destructive Flames.

Lying prone on a ledge above the pit, Pilinor watched grimly. Whatever they were doing, it couldn’t be good. The sheer number of elementals and spellcasters below ruled out any lone-hero plans. He pictured what might happen if he tried: his body burning, screams lost in fire. He shuddered.

There was a way to correct that picture, though: by informing the dragons at the Ruby Lifeshrine. With Alexstrasza breathing fire down upon the Primalists, the smell of burnt flesh would no longer be quite so terrifying.

Pilinor was just about to withdraw when a commotion broke out deeper in the pit.

The alarmed voice of a female tauren Primalist rang out, drawing the attention of her companions. Pilinor followed the direction of her outstretched arm – and saw another figure suddenly flicker into view. An elf, judging by the long ears. A slender woman with blue skin and hair. He recognized her immediately, despite only glimpsing her before – the Rogue who had knocked him out.

Her Stealth had failed. A fire spell from the tauren had ignited her cloak. Without hesitation, the Rogue sprinted for the far edge of the pit, yanked the burning cloak off, and Vanished in a puff of smoke.

Pilinor sucked in a breath, eyes locked on the unfolding scene. As he had feared, she hadn’t moved fast enough. While visible, a second spell must have struck her – because she reappeared only a few paces later, the smoldering vest giving away her location.

The blue-skinned elf was surrounded in an instant.

A dozen Primalists and fire elementals closed in. The nightborne fell into a combat stance, swords drawn, but Pilinor doubted she would last long. A single melee fighter, no matter how skilled, was no match for that many casters.

Then one of the Dark Irons barked a command.

“Wait – do nae kill her!” the dwarf with smoldering hair and eyes shouted in thick Orcish. “Lock her up. We’ll finish here, then bring her tae the base. Koroleth an’ her lot will want tae try an’ sway her. We still need allies.”

A male tauren scoffed. “You really think that’s worth the trouble? She’s a nightborne. You know how Koroleth feels about Horde folk. If not for Raszageth, those kaldorei wouldn’t even tolerate us.”

Pilinor couldn’t hear the rest of the exchange as the dwarf stepped closer, lowering her voice. But it was clear she was winning the argument. The other Primalists dispersed, while two remained behind – a troll and a female tauren – escorting the Rogue away in a swirling cyclone of fire toward the western edge of the pit.

Pilinor rose halfway, gripping his bow, and began creeping in that direction, staying out of sight.

You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you?, the thing in his head asked in its gravelly voice.

The elf high only snorted softly and kept moving.

Need I remind you how your last rescue mission ended? Why even bother helping her? She toyed with you. Threatened you .

Pilinor hesitated. The words pierced deep. The memory surged back unbidden.

More than a decade ago, during the Cataclysm, he had gone to the Twilight Highlands to aid the Wildhammer Clan against the Twilight’s Hammer under command of Cho’gall. While scouting, he had seen a red dragon captured by cultists near the Twilight Citadel. His attempt to free the red had ended in disaster. He had been caught. Dragged into their labs. Used as a subject for their sick experiments. They had tried to bend him to the Void.

His hand shook as it brushed the scar on his cheek. It throbbed with phantom pain.

“Why do you care?” he growled. “That decision got me stuck with you. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

And I’ll break you eventually… but not if those Primalists get you and infuse you with primal magic. I don’t like competition. You belong to me, the thing’s voice lowered into a hiss. Remember, the Void knows every truth. I’ve seen what will happen. If you try to help that Rogue, they will capture you – and if you don’t join them willingly, they’ll force you to.

Pilinor’s knees wobbled as his mind dragged him back: sitting in a cage in the cultist’s laboratory for what felt like weeks, instruments and spells penetrating his body time and again and infusing him with the vile and cold magic of the Void.

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head violently. He swapped his bow for the skinning knife. “Enough! You can’t control me. Not even with fear. What you saw might be true – but that doesn’t mean it happens in this timeline.”

The knife bit into his arm. As blood hit the ground, the voice raged on – but began to fade. Gritting his teeth, he poured a few drops of Healing Potion on the wound and stowed the knife. His bow was in his hand again as he pushed forward.

Yes, the Rogue had played with him. Yes, she had stolen from him. But she hadn’t harmed him. And no one – not even a thief – deserved to be tortured by fanatics.

The situation in the pit hadn’t changed much. Pilinor was still vastly outnumbered – but at least the Primalists hadn’t imprisoned the Rogue in the center of the basin. From his vantage point, he absently traced the scar on his cheek as he studied the fire cyclone that held the nightborne, guarded closely by two cultists.

One more complication: there was no visible lock on the cage. He had to hope it would dissipate with the death of its caster; presumably one of the guards.

Pilinor turned to his companions. This wasn’t just risky for him. Yula and Roval would need to serve as the distraction – and make it out alive. Nonetheless, he at least had to give it a shot.

Trying not to think about ending up in a second cyclone next to the Rogue, he knelt beside his pets and whispered his instructions. Then he sent them off, waiting for the inevitable alarm from below.

Meanwhile, the Hunter took a steadying breath and studied the two guards. Under normal conditions, he could have handled them – but not without support. Fighting without his pets was like fighting without half his limbs.

Then it began: the Primalists’ shouts echoed upward – Roval and Yula had entered the fray. Seizing the chance, Pilinor slid over the edge of the pit, shrouded in his Camouflage.

He reached casting range unnoticed and hurled a Freezing Trap at the troll Primalist. For a moment, he hoped the trap alone might dispel the cyclone – but nothing happened. Either his assumption was wrong, or the caster was the other one.

The tauren hadn’t noticed yet. She was still distracted by the noise, giving Pilinor another precious second.

Although he hated it with every fiber of his being, he focused for a moment and reached out to the Void. As the dark magic flooded him, it washed away the creeping exhaustion he had felt all morning. He hated the relief that followed – the proof that his body had come to crave it. Pilinor tried to give in to the Void’s call as rarely as possible and had developed a technique to use the drawn magic for something else but the fleeting cure of his affliction. He directed it into the arrow nocked on his bowstring and loosed it at the second Primalist.

The Wailing Arrow struck true. The tauren screamed as the Void magic infusing the missile sent the part of her brain into a panic, which was used to concentrate on casting spells. Pilinor followed up with a Barbed Shot and a quick Cobra Shot before she could recover.

She retaliated by hurling molten rock at him – but her aim was off. The fight devolved into a frantic exchange of spells and arrows, both of them taking hits. Pilinor’s shots lacked strength on the move, and he flinched each time fire grazed his skin. Too many arrows missed their mark. Too many spells seared past him, too close for comfort.

But in the end, she fell. And the cyclone vanished.

So did the Rogue.

Pilinor wouldn’t have been surprised if that would have been the last he ever saw of her. But instead, she reappeared a heartbeat later – behind the troll. Just as Pilinor’s Freezing Trap wore off, she struck with an Ambush that left the cultist reeling. Together, they overwhelmed him in seconds.

Shouts from deeper in the pit snapped Pilinor’s attention away from the Rogue, who was staring at him now with open curiosity. One glance over his shoulder confirmed it – the other Primalists had realized the distraction was a ruse.

“Run!” he urged in Thalassian, pointing to the steep path up the side of the pit.

They ran.

Spells howled past them. Unable to watch his footing and dodge at the same time, Pilinor activated his Aspect of the Turtle for protection. A rising mist around the Rogue told him she had done the same with her Cloak of Shadows.

“Where to?!” the nightborne panted as they reached the top of the ridge, the Primalists still on their heels.

It was a gut feeling that caused his decision. “Across the ponds!”

The Rogue darted ahead again. As they crashed through the wetland, startled hornswogs abandoned their chase of the smaller frogs and turned their eyes on the newcomers. The Rogue didn’t slow, and Pilinor was right behind her.

The hornswogs didn’t move at first. But then the Primalists followed – that was the tipping point.

The dragonkin, clearly already irked by the elemental cultists trespassing in their domain, roared and hopped – redirecting their aggression. As their hunters suddenly became the hunted, Pilinor and the nightborne slipped away.

–.o.O.o.–

They stopped to catch their breath only once they were sure the Primalists had given up the chase. The river stretched out ahead of them, a little further upstream than where Pilinor had crossed it earlier.

“Are you all right?” he asked, studying the Rogue.

Her vest was scorched at the back, but the fiery cyclone hadn’t left any lasting damage. Strands of her long blue hair had come loose from the bun at the back of her head, and she looked more disheveled than injured. What stood out most, however, were her eyes – wide and alert, without the usual nightborne squint that gave her kind their signature look of aloof superiority.

“I’m fine. Better than you, it seems,” she replied, nodding toward his burns with a tone that was genuinely concerned.

Her words brought his own aches into focus – the sting of scrapes and seared flesh from his duel with the Primalist. But more pressing than his injuries was his rising anxiety: Yula and Roval hadn’t caught up yet.

“I guess I owe you an introduction,” the nightborne continued, offering a small smile. “And my heartfelt thanks. I’m Vynrois. I definitely didn’t expect you of all people to come to my rescue after our earlier encounter.”

“Pilinor,” he said automatically, but his attention was fixed on the horizon. “You’re welcome. Just… don’t knock me out again.”

“Sorry about that,” Vynrois giggled. “But it was hilarious. Watching you get more and more confused was already fun, but your reaction after waking up – priceless.”

Still scanning the path behind them, it took Pilinor a moment to register her words – then his face flushed.

“You were still watching me?!”

“Of course!” she said, arching a brow. “I couldn’t just leave you lying there. What if some predator came along?”

The exasperation rising in him was matched by reluctant understanding. Her actions, once again, didn’t seem rooted in malice – just an eccentric sense of humor.

“You’re one crazy blueberry,” she muttered, “but I wouldn’t have wanted you eaten on my account either.”

“I’m not a void elf!” Pilinor snapped, reacting to the jab.

Vynrois grinned impishly. “No? But you’re an Allie, and you were definitely talking to the voices in your head. Plus, you went all voidy back there – I saw that. I’m sure you’re one of them.”

“I’m a void-touched quel’dorei, not one of Umbric’s ren’dorei,” he grumbled.

“Oh look! There come your weird pets.”

That got his full attention. He spun around – and sure enough, Yula and Roval were approaching, uninjured. Relief flooded him. He met them halfway, kneeling to greet them with caresses and treats.

They resumed their journey along the river, and not long after, a storm broke over them.

“Where are we going?” Vynrois asked from behind. “Because personally, I wouldn’t mind some shelter.”

Pilinor stopped and turned with a slight frown. He had assumed she was heading toward the Dragonscale Expedition encampment at the Life Vault Ruins, which lay in this direction. From there, the Reliquary maintained transport routes across the Isles.

“We are not going anywhere in particular,” he said. “I was just finishing my daily gathering route, and then I planned to find a place to camp.”

“That sounds terribly boring. Don’t you want to go hunt for treasure across the Dragon Isles instead?” she asked brightly. “I think we’d make a great team. Had you been around earlier, I wouldn’t have been caught trying to reach that Simmering Chest. I’d even go fifty-fifty with you!”

The proposal caught him off guard, and he laughed. He didn’t dislike the idea. He always kept an eye out for valuables while gathering, after all. But…

“Believe me, I’m not the kind of guy you want for that.”

“No?”

“No. I’m a loner. I’m not really cut out for teamwork.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Pilinor did value his solitude – but he wouldn’t have minded the occasional company beyond his animal companions. The real problem was the thing in his head. Had he not silenced it earlier, it would surely have been sniping at him throughout this entire conversation. Interacting with others gave it far too much to work with. Alone in the wilds, it grew quiet – almost dormant. But around people, it always stirred.

“Well, guess I’ll have to keep looking,” Vynrois sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I shouldn’t have come here straight from Freehold. Should’ve assembled a proper crew first.”

“Freehold?” he asked with mock suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’re a frigging pirate.”

She gave an exaggerated snort. “I’m not a pirate. I’m a privateer. And before that, one of Suramar’s best smugglers!”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, huge difference.”

“It is! As different as being a void-touched high elf versus a void elf!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fair point. Fine.”

“Exactly. So, Mister Not-a-Void-Elf, are you seriously planning to just keep walking in this rain? Because I happen to have some fairly fresh rabbits in my pack – and I’m starting to get hungry.”

“I wonder where those came from…,” he muttered, but relented with a sigh. “All right. There’s a spot not far from here. We can rest, dry off, and eat.”

About an hour and a half later, they sat together by the fire they had lit inside a cave hidden behind a waterfall, a little above the main river. Pilinor had taken time to tend to his pets’ burns and – at the nightborne’s insistence – had finally allowed her to patch up his own injuries.

Returning the favor, he dabbed a few drops of Healing Potion onto the scorched spot on Vynrois’ back. It was then he noticed the faintly glowing runes tattooed into her smooth skin. For a brief moment, he was tempted to trace them with his fingers – but caught himself just in time. Helping her reach a spot she couldn’t treat herself was one thing. Stroking her without invitation was quite another. Still, he couldn’t help wondering why she was even still here. After confirming the Primalists were no longer after them, she could easily have slipped away. Maybe she felt guilty about the stolen rabbits, now that he had helped her.

Once their wounds were seen to, they turned their attention to the gnawing hunger in their bellies. Pilinor had been both incredulous and amused when Vynrois admitted she didn’t even know how to prepare a rabbit. He had shown her how, and to her credit, she watched carefully, smartly mimicking his movements with the second one.

Skinning and gutting rabbits was easy enough. Their skin was soft, and their bones so light that a skilled hand didn’t even need a knife at first. Starting from the hind legs, he peeled the hide all the way down to the head, which he removed along with the skin. Some hunters liked to cook the head too, but Pilinor preferred his simpler method.

Next came gutting. This was where the knife mattered. One had to be careful not to pierce the intestines while slicing open the lower belly. As long as that was avoided, he could slip in a hand and pull the organs out cleanly in one go. The heart, liver, and kidneys could remain. The lungs were better removed. Roasting took longer than prepping, but eventually, the meal was done.

Vynrois let out a satisfied sigh and stretched her bare feet toward the fire, wiggling her toes. “All right, now the only thing missing is a glass of fine wine to end the evening properly.”

Pilinor cast a wary glance toward the cave entrance. She was right. The fading light outside wasn’t just from the lingering stormclouds – it was growing late.

“Then I should be going soon… and you should probably head to the Life Vault Ruins. This cave might be hidden, but it’s not exactly secure for a lone traveler overnight.”

“Still so eager to be rid of me?” Vynrois teased. “I was hoping you might want to spend a little more time together. Sure, you’re a bit odd – but you’re also a good guy. And… I’m starting to understand why Thalyssra fell for Lor’themar. There’s something captivating about Thalassian men.”

He blinked at her across the fire, unsure for a moment if he was misreading her. But the look she gave him – playful, open, and unmistakably inviting – made things very clear. He felt a tug of conflict. Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind getting to know her closer. Vynrois was exactly the type he was drawn to – when it came to women. And this was the kind of offer he would be a fool to turn down.

But it was late. And he didn’t dare fall asleep around anyone – ever. Not since the Twilight’s Hammer.

Still… a sleepless night wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“There’s one problem,” he said with a crooked smile. “I might be tempted to stay a little longer – but that still doesn’t make me the kind of guy who plays well on a team.”

Vynrois laughed softly. “I wasn’t trying to buy you, Pilinor. Just offering us both a pleasant way to end the day. Besides,” her eyes twinkled mischievously, “I’m still hoping to earn a spot on that short list of Rogues you don’t hate.”

Pilinor chuckled. She had had a rough start, but there was no denying it – she was already halfway there. Even if she would never unseat the one who held the top position.

Chapter Text

Naethir stood motionless in the stone corridor of the inn at the Ruby Lifeshrine, his gaze fixed on the exit. Outside, rain fell steadily – as it often did in the Waking Shores. He noticed, absently, that the downpour was beginning to ease. The others would be glad for that. Their lunch break had been timed perfectly; they had stayed dry.

The Death Knight remained where he was, still and apart. The rest of the Spinecrafters deployed to the Dragon Isles were gathered in the large common room behind him – all but one, though the last of the squad was expected to return soon.

Lieutenant Valentian sat at one end of the long table near the kitchen, deep in conversation with his officers, Lendi and Agia, still eating. At the other end sat Agnes and Rohan. The Gilnean was carving something from a piece of wood while the Brewmaster had her face buried in a book. The quiet scene made Naethir pause, just for a breath, and offer a silent prayer – to what god, he didn’t know. He only hoped that his younger brother, Saewron, was doing the same back home. Safe. Not in danger Naethir couldn’t reach from half a world away.

Across the room, a few others had settled in near the corner carpet, where a cluster of hassocks surrounded a low table. Benthras lay sleeping there, his wolf companion on one side, his girlfriend on the other. The Priestess crocheted distractedly, pausing often to smile at the resting kaldorei and gently brush a hand through his hair.

A short distance away, Milan sat alone on a hassock, ignoring the two night elves. He was fully absorbed in his Hearthstone cards, arranging them with silent concentration, clearly determined to build a deck that would finally beat Elarynn’s latest creation once they returned to the main company in Duskwood.

Soft, steady notes from a flute floated through the room, coming from where Gert sat near the back wall. Luthir might have left the Spinecrafters, but the company’s musicians hadn’t stopped playing since his departure. Though now parted from the other band members, the Paladin obviously didn’t want to get out of practice.

Closer to where Naethir stood, a few more Spinecrafters were gathered at a side table. Gal’dir was fiddling with a set of arrows, muttering under his breath as he tried to infuse them with fel magic. Judging by the string of curses, it wasn’t going well.

Renald had been busying himself with an apparatus he had received from the catalogers at the Dragonscale Basecamp. It could make pictures of things put in front of it in a matter of seconds. Now he paused his doing, looking over at the Illidari. “Still not working, huh?”

Gal’dir grunted. “The coating isn’t thick enough. Even if I barely took time to aim, it’d dissolve before hitting anything.”

“You should try it with crossbow bolts,” Renald offered, giving the Demon Hunter’s shoulder a friendly pat.

The Illidari sighed. “I’m afraid it will come to that. I just… prefer bows over crossbows.”

“I’m impressed by your tenacity,” Haaldar added from the next table, his baritone voice unmistakable. “You’re trying to get fish to fly, which would be an impressive feat. Then again, you don’t want them to become birds to do it. That’s why you might actually succeed.”

Gal’dir gave the back of his head a scratch. “I’ve got no idea what that means… but I’m gonna make this work. Just you wait!”

If the Mage had intended to explain, he didn’t get the chance.

“Speaking of things out of their depth…” Thelri cut in, pointing discreetly toward the back wall. “See that drakonid over there? They have been staring at the bookshelf for ten minutes without touching a single title. It’s like they have no idea what books are for.”

The draenei followed her gaze. “They look like one of the shrine guards on break. Probably not used to free time yet. With the adventurers helping out, they can finally relax now and then.”

“Yes,” the Lightforged agreed, “But that one clearly needs to find a better hobby. They’re a good reminder that not everyone is suited to every task.”

Naethir caught the note in her voice – this wasn’t just idle judgment. Thelri was trying, again, to prove to Haaldar how far she had come in recent years.

Haaldar seemed to recognize it too. His reply was gentle. “Well, for the drakonid and dragonspawn, it’s of course a little different than for… other people. They were created for specific roles, to serve the dragons. I don’t think it’s impossible that some of them could find new paths in time… if Alexstrasza allows it.”

“You mean even they could spawn a few Haaldars?” Thelri asked, half-teasing, half-affectionate.

The blue-skinned man laughed softly.

“In that case,” Thelri added with a snort, “I hope more dragonspawn pick up arms than drakonid turn to scholarship.”

“Of course you’d think that, my smooth-hoof,” Haaldar chuckled, leaning toward her for a kiss.

Naethir let his gaze drift past them, back to the drakonid still frozen in place before the bookshelf. Maybe someone had told them to go read in their downtime, but they had never done so before. Maybe they didn’t know how to choose from the rows of unfamiliar spines waiting patiently to be picked up.

Naethir could see himself in that drakonid.

Since becoming a Death Knight, he had felt like one of the dragonkin – made for a purpose, bound to it. It had taken him some time to recognize it, but eventually he had understood what that purpose was: to protect his twin brothers.

The thought stirred unwelcome memories: Saewron’s face hidden beneath a Drust mask; Orthorin, blood-smeared and unconscious in a cage; Saewron, gasping as a venthyr strangled him; Orthorin again, bound by dark magic, the Jailer’s minions closing in.

Those last two haunted him most. Both times, he had been right there – within reach – and completely powerless to intervene.

Yes, even in the one task that still anchored him, he had failed. But watching over his family still felt like something Inean – the man he had been, the Paladin – might have done. Before he got himself killed. Before his memories were partially obliterated, and he had become the abomination he was now.

Of course, Orthorin and Saewron had tried to convince him that joining the Dragon Isles mission was another way of protecting them – that they, too, had once served the cause from afar when they aided the Covenants in the war against the Jailer. In the end, Naethir had relented. But deep down, he felt stripped of purpose. Hollow.

However, he had seen that his confession – how his ability to feel anything at all was fading – had shaken the twins. Saewron’s struggle with the whispers had worsened. Orthorin had thrown himself into searching for some solution, some way to help.

Sometimes, Naethir regretted burdening them with it. But he didn’t regret the choice itself. He had made an oath to Orthorin – and their father, Kath’dril, had taught them that such oaths were never to be broken. That much, at least, Naethir still remembered.

The twins had believed that sending him away might help. Naethir hadn’t shared that belief – he didn’t think he could be helped – but he had accepted it. If nothing else, his absence might lessen their worry.

So he had agreed. Gone along with the plan. And now he waited, inwardly hoping that they would call him back. The separation still felt wrong. But maybe that was a good sign. Maybe it meant he still cared. For now, he endured – following orders, fulfilling his role. Hopefully, Lieutenant Valentian would issue new ones soon.

Breaks like these made Naethir feel especially useless. He didn’t need food. Didn’t need rest. There was nothing for him to do but wait. Even standing watch was pointless with the drakonid guard posted at the door.

Sudden movement at the entrance jolted him from his thoughts. His hand went to the hilt on his back as a figure dropped from above, wings flaring at the last moment to slow the descent. The void elf forced himself to relax, recognizing the Demon Hunter.

“Sorry, kid – didn’t mean to startle you,” Myreath rasped as he landed and strode down the corridor.

The small pet demon that had been dozing nearby perked up and bounded over. The scaled man crouched to greet it with a scratch to its bare skull.

“Thanks for looking after Nawag,” he added, glancing up. “I really appreciate it.”

Naethir answered with a silent nod. The thanks weren’t needed. He hadn’t done anything. The tiny felstalker had just obeyed orders, staying at his side after Myreath left for the Fel Hammer earlier that day.

“Sinblood! Got something for you,” the elf with the dark purple skin and the light brown, almost orange hair called as he entered the main (or rather only) room of the inn, his voice echoing through the stone hall.

The other Demon Hunter caught the leather case Myreath tossed to him, paused a moment, then tucked it into one of his belt pouches.

“Thanks. That should last another month.”

Naethir knew what it was – vials of fel. Gal’dir had to inject the stuff now. Whatever strange condition he had developed after the Legion’s defeat no longer let him metabolize it from demon meat.

“Private Myreath, right on time!” Lieutenant Valentian’s bass voice boomed across the room as the Gilnean rose from his seat. “All right, up you lazy arses! Lunch time’s over!”

Benthras yawned and sat up. Milan looked stricken.

“But… my deck! I’m almost done!”

The dark-skinned man – now standing in the middle of the room – rolled his eyes. “Everybody, get ready and fall in at attention outside in ten minutes!”

By the time they assembled, the Spinecrafters stood in two neat rows at the foot of the stairs outside the inn, all wearing their Alliance tabards.

Lieutenant Valentian faced them, flanked by Sergeants Lendi and Corporal Agia. His voice carried easily across the formation.

“Business as usual this afternoon. We’ll aid the dragonspawn maintaining the Ruby Lifeshrine. Sergeant Lendi’s squad will go to Vaeros. Most likely, the whelps are having trouble with bees again.”

Naethir felt a flicker of relief. He wouldn’t have to go there. Every time his squad was assigned to the whelps, he could feel the director of the nursery watching him with barely concealed suspicion. The first time they had been told to take care of the bees harassing the newly hatched dragons at their playgrounds, Naethir had – without hesitation – grabbed the nearest bee and made short shrift of it. To his confusion, the dragonspawn had reacted with alarm. As it turned out, the goal had been to capture and relocate the creatures – not kill them.

Gal’dir and Milan had later insisted they could have made the same mistake, but the incident had shaken Naethir. Would he have acted that way as a living man? Or even just a few years ago? The bee hadn’t been hostile. He hadn’t even paused to assess. Just killed. On reflex.

Was this another sign of decay? Another piece of himself gone? Another step toward becoming the mindless kind of undead, driven only to destroy?

“Corporal Agia’s squad will seek out Dazakros at the Overflowing Rapids. More water elementals have been reported. And Private Renald thinks he’ll finish off the last roll of that camera thing this afternoon. So, after you’ve checked on the striders, swing by the Dragonscale Basecamp and return it. While you’re there, ask if the archaeologists need anything,” the lieutenant continued.

Some part of Naethir’s preoccupied mind registered the assignment included him. Valentian always put him in Agia’s squad. She was their only healer who wasn’t wielding Light magic, which would have been hurtful to him as an undead. Naethir wouldn’t have minded, but the others did.

However, the thought of him turning into a mindless monster lingered and sent a chill down his spine, accompanied by the well known ache in his chest. The prospect hadn’t come to his mind for the first time. Horrifying as it was, it had made it easier for the undead to accept his separation from the twins. Better for them to be as far away from him in case that was indeed what was going to happen. Additionally, the team here included some of their most experienced fighters. Naethir was fairly certain they could bring him down if they had to. He suspected Orthorin had made sure of that – had perhaps even warned them to keep an eye on him.

“My squad will link up with Akora and Keshki at the gardens. Another harvest is due,” the Gilnean with the dreadlocks announced.

The void elf was only listening with half an ear. He had long since noticed the pattern: whenever he wandered out of sight, especially during off-hours, someone followed. Myreath most often. But not only him. They tried to make it seem casual. It wasn’t. And it meant he couldn’t even try to rid himself of the fog. Couldn’t slip off to hunt vermin in some quiet grove, using their pain to drive away either the numbness or the terror – whichever had hold of him that day. At least the Eternal Hunger was no longer a danger. The Spinecrafters saw enough battle on their assignments for him to feed when needed.

Still, he had tried to sneak out at night – once, twice, a third time. But each time, someone had been suddenly awake. A suspiciously well-timed need to relieve themselves. The Demon Hunters were light sleepers, especially. After the third attempt, he stopped trying.

He was already enough of a burden. He didn’t want to keep waking the others. Didn’t want to give them more reasons to resent the fact that this half of the company had been stuck with the cursed undead.

A nudge from Myreath snapped Naethir back to the present. Apparently, they had already been dismissed. The other squads were moving out behind their officers.

Corporal Agia had just whistled for her ram mount. As she climbed into the saddle, she addressed them in her usual motherly tone:

“C’mon lads, ye know the drill. Off we go tae the Rapids.”

Naethir hurried to prepare Shadowdancer, his purple-and-black mare, and brought her in line beside Myreath’s felstalker and the two common horses Rohan and Renald rode.

They followed the road leading away from the Ruby Lifeshrine to the right. But instead of crossing the bridge ahead – which would have taken them northeast – they veered down into the valley cut by the converging streams. Keeping to the shore, they headed west until they reached the main river winding through the region. Ducks were the only wildlife they had passed so far, but now they were in salamanther territory – large, scaled creatures that prowled the riverside.

After dispatching one of the beasts that hadn’t been scared off by their approach, the group arranged their mounts in a loose defensive ring around Naethir.

“Give us a little coolin’, will ye, lad?” Agia prompted.

Naethir obeyed without comment. With a brief draw of Death magic from one of the runes on his sword, he extended his will outward and froze the water beneath their feet. The surface solidified in an arc ahead of them.

Holding the Path of Frost required focus. That’s why the others took up defensive positions – if something attacked, they would have to handle it so he could maintain the spell. A lapse would dump them all into the river.

The current here wasn’t especially strong, and everyone could swim. Still, it would have been inconvenient. In Naethir’s view, it was an unnecessary risk to rely on him for such river crossings. They could have simply followed the longer road like the other squads or used Agia’s water-walking magic instead. Her Shamanic spell was no more permanent than his, but he trusted her stability more than his own. Besides, she would only need to enchant herself, Rohan, and Renald – Myreath had a flying mount, and so did Naethir.

Shadowdancer could take to the air when needed. But most others in the company didn’t have that luxury. Flying mounts were expensive to own and maintain. With the expanding network of flight paths across Azeroth and beyond, many chose not to keep their own, even if they could afford it. And the regular armies of both factions certainly didn’t equip every soldier with one.

Fortunately, they crossed without incident.

On the far bank, a red dragonspawn awaited them: Dazakros, the one responsible for overseeing the local hornstrider population. The large, reptilian birds resembled hawkstriders from Quel’Thalas in stature but not in form. Nearly featherless, their skin was scaled, their heads horned. Small, useless wings sprouted from their backs – a trait, ironically, they shared with the blood elf breeds.

Dazakros handed out jars of salve before they continued upriver toward the hornstrider nesting grounds. Water elementals had invaded the area again.

While the others focused on treating injured birds, Naethir handled the elementals. He kept his distance from the animals themselves – his presence unsettled them. They panicked at his scent or even his shadow, which only worsened their injuries. So he stayed back, striking down the watery invaders with methodical precision.

Once they had purged the area of threats, the team returned downhill to their mounts, which they had left with the dragonspawn. From there, they followed the river southward against the current until a trail climbed the canyon wall, leading them back to a paved road. The rest of the ride to the Dragonscale Basecamp passed without trouble.

The joint outpost of the Alliance and Horde explorers sat nestled in the Wild Preserve, where the signs of dragon or titan influence gave way to rivers, waterfalls, and steep stone formations cloaked in moss and twisted trees. This part of the Waking Shores was wilder – untamed and lush – with high canyon walls embracing the terrace where the basecamp had been built. Tents, pagodas, carts, and campfires filled the space between shallow streams and towering cliffs.

As always, the camp bustled with activity. Adventurers and explorers moved about with purpose: hauling gear, sorting supplies, studying tomes, or poring over excavation finds. The arrival of the five soldiers went largely unnoticed.

While Corporal Agia, Rohan, and Renald split off in different directions, Naethir remained by the mounts. Myreath stayed too. For once, the Death Knight was fairly certain the Demon Hunter wasn’t hovering to keep an eye on him. Like Naethir, the Illidari usually kept to the background when dealing with civilians. Despite everything they had done in Azeroth’s defense, the fel-tainted warriors still made many people nervous.

Renald was the first to return. His picture apparatus still hung around his neck, swaying with his steps.

“They gave me new film!” the Hunter announced, grinning ear to ear. “Coralie loved my photos, and even Wulferd said I might be as good as him someday if I keep practicing.”

Naethir recognized the names: the nightborne and the gnome were the camp’s lead catalogers. Coralie and Wulferd were famously obsessive about documenting every artifact and each creature found on the Dragon Isles.

The last two members of their squad hadn’t returned yet, as, sometime later, Myreath muttered:

“Better late than never, I guess.”

Renald made a curious noise but didn’t look up, still tinkering with his camera – adjusting dials, peering through the viewfinder, trying to catch the perfect frame.

“The guy over there just realized he should’ve taken his wife and kid to Pandaria or Kul Tiras for vacation.”

The Illidari had his head turned away from them, so Naethir followed the line of the man’s eye-less gaze. Near the gryphon master Art Raskins, a small human family – father, mother, and a boy no taller than the man’s hip – were arguing. They were too far away for Naethir to catch their words fully. However, the Demon Hunter had much keener senses.

“I still think the Expedition made a mistake selling this place as a family-friendly adventure,” Myreath added. “But with the government downplaying the danger-” He broke off mid-thought.

“No! I’m not going unless I know!” the boy suddenly shouted, loud enough for even Naethir to hear.

The child turned and ran toward the camp’s center, eyes blazing with defiance. His parents followed, the father breaking into a frustrated stride.

When the man reached them, Myreath stepped sideways and blocked his path with an arm.

“What’s the trouble here?” he rasped.

The man stopped, glaring – about to snap back – until his eyes landed on the Demon Hunter’s blindfolded face. The words died in his throat.

It was the woman who answered. She caught up, winded but composed. “We’re terribly sorry. Our son… dear Tamas got very attached to the void elf we hired. As a bodyguard. Or… I suppose, more like a nanny, in some ways.”

“He showed me how to paint better!” the boy piped up, having turned around when he realized something was happening. “And he was funny! I don’t want him to be dead!”

The woman knelt, her tone soft but strained. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But you heard what the guards said… and you saw how huge that thing was.” She shivered visibly at the memory. “We waited as long as we could. But it’s time to go. This place is too dangerous.”

The boy looked up at her, defiance flickering again in his wide eyes. Then he turned to look at them.

Naethir braced himself. The boy’s expression shifted at the sight of Myreath – first surprise, then awe. But when his eyes landed on the Death Knight, Naethir tensed, expecting the familiar flicker of fear.

It came. Briefly. But then came something else: excitement.

“Dad!” the fair-haired boy gasped, stepping forward. “They’re soldiers, right?” He pointed at Myreath’s tabard. “We can ask them to go back there!”

The father sighed, less angry now – more worn down. “Tamas, we can’t afford to pay Alliance soldiers… and I wouldn’t ask them to waste time on a fool’s errand.”

“Then I’ll pay them! I have coins!” Tamas rummaged in his pockets and stepped forward, holding out a few copper pieces with trembling fingers.

The undead void elf watched as Myreath crouched, gently closing the boy’s hand around the coins.

“How about you first tell us exactly what happened?” he asked, voice softer than Naethir had ever heard it.

About fifteen minutes later, the five Spinecrafters rode out the western end of Dragonscale Basecamp, heading toward the excavation site in the Wild Preserve.

Corporal Agia and Rohan had returned just as the boy began telling his story. According to Tamas, his family had narrowly escaped being eaten by proto-dragons while visiting the dig site where archaeologists had uncovered a massive dragon skeleton. They had gone there under the protection of a single bodyguard – a void elf – after being assured by the expedition team that the local proto-dragons avoided both the road and the site itself.

That had clearly not been the case.

While examining the bones, the group had been ambushed by several proto-dragons, including one unusually large specimen. The family and the archaeologists had only made it back to the basecamp thanks to their hired guard, who drew the creatures away. He hadn’t been seen since.

Agia had agreed with Myreath’s suggestion to investigate without hesitation. Naethir hadn’t objected. He didn’t feel much of anything about the matter – and besides, he was fairly sure Orthorin would have made the same call. That made it easier to comply.

On the ride out, they saw and heard signs of nearby proto-dragons – snapped branches, disturbed undergrowth, distant screeches – but reached the dig site without incident. From a distance, it was clear that a battle had taken place. Four dead proto-dragons lay scattered around the perimeter, but there was no sign of the larger one, or the missing void elf.

“Maybe it grabbed him and carried him off?” Rohan muttered, sniffing the wind. He was in his worgen form now, nose lifted high.

Agia clicked her tongue. “Damn. I’m startin’ tae think we will nae be bringin’ that boy the answer he’s hopin’ fer. Proto-dragons have snatched travelers before. But we can nae search the sky.”

“That’s true, Corp,” Renald called from near the dragon’s massive skull. He crouched beside it, eyes scanning the dirt. “But if the guy managed to injure the big one, we might find traces. Maybe some blood, a wingbeat trail – anything that gives us a direction.”

The dwarf gave a slow nod. “Ye’re the tracker. Let’s hope ye’re right. We can nae run off alone, but let’s split up tae cover more ground. Myr, ye’re with Naethir. Rohan an’ Renald stay with me.”

They quickly agreed on a meeting point and signaling methods, then the two groups set off – each taking one half of the area surrounding the elongated excavation site.

Leading Shadowdancer away from the dragon’s skeleton, Naethir glanced sideways at Myreath on his felstalker and felt useless.

“Guess it’s all up to your magical sight,” he muttered.

Myreath snorted. “My sight doesn’t make me any better than you at spotting blood in the bushes, kid… unless it’s fel-tainted, and we’re not chasing demons here. A drake or a void elf won’t leave that kind of stain. I can see through trees and rock, spot proto-dragons perched on those stone pillars or gliding overhead – but my range isn’t infinite. Past a point, it all gets hazy. Too many overlapping auras.”

Naethir absorbed the information in silence and tried harder to examine their surroundings for signs.

“Speaking of which,” the Demon Hunter said some time later, as if their last exchange had just ended, “shouldn’t you have an edge here? Can’t you ren’dorei sense each other through the Void or something?”

Naethir frowned. Not quite, not the way Myreath phrased it – but not wrong either. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself?

He knew the answer. Deep down, he hadn’t cared whether they found the missing void elf or not. But he should care. It was their duty. And someone could be injured. That sudden realization stabbed into him like cold iron. Despite losing his capability to feel, he could counteract it by keeping his wits about himself. He did have an edge here!

“It’s not about him being a void elf,” he said slowly, “but maybe I can sense him… if he’s hurt. I don’t know how far my reach is, though.”

Myreath adjusted in his saddle. “All right, kid. Focus on that. Stretch your senses. I’ll watch our flank.”

Naethir nodded. He already had his Void-sense running, as he always did – it was second nature by now. But that low-level awareness only picked up Myreath’s ever-present pain. The rest of their squad was too far off. Maybe if he pushed it, he could expand the range.

They moved on at a slow pace, zigzagging to cover more ground. But as the minutes dragged by, Naethir began to falter. He wasn’t picking up anything useful. At one point, they steered clear of two proto-dragons mid-fight – Naethir had sensed a flare of pain as one of them took a blow – but Myreath had already seen them from afar.

It was sometime later when the Death Knight drew his mount to a stop merely to avoid getting distracted by its movement. He had suddenly felt something strange. The pain was very distant and somehow muffled, for want of a better word.

“Got something?” Myreath rasped.

“I’m… not sure. Maybe.”

“Lead the way.”

The signal wasn’t steady. Naethir couldn’t tell if that was due to fluctuating pain – or if their target was moving. More than once, they had to double back so he could reacquire the trail.

After a slow loop around a ridge, they came upon a massive green-scaled proto-dragon collapsed at the base of a stone pillar. Even from a distance, it was obvious it hadn’t died of natural causes.

“I’m guessing this is our big one,” Myreath said, dismounting. “Definitely didn’t die of old age. Those are blade wounds. Someone put up a fight. But I don’t see a body. Still picking up your signal?”

Naethir nodded, focusing.

“Maybe it swallowed him. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Myreath drew one of his warglaives. “Could be tricky to see even for me. We might need to gut it just in case.”

He stepped forward – but Naethir stopped him.

“Wait. Can you see something… up there?” He pointed up the stone pillar.

Myreath followed his gesture and tilted his head back. After a moment, his brows lifted. “Huh. You’re right. Someone’s up there. Wouldn’t have spotted him without the tip. Then again, I wasn’t looking for…” He trailed off.

“What?” Naethir asked, frowning.

The Demon Hunter made a face. “Never mind.”

Naethir let it drop. “Are there proto-dragons up there I can’t see?”

Myreath scanned the sky and nearby ledges. Then he shook his head. “Clear.”

“Then I’ll go. See if I can get him down,” Naethir said, goading his mount to take flight.

Myreath didn’t complain as Shadowdancer leaped into the air.

The rush of air from the ascent tousled Naethir’s straggly hair as the world below shrank, the Demon Hunter becoming a small figure on the ground. Moments later, Shadowdancer reached the flat top of the stone pillar. Signs of destruction were everywhere. The proto-dragon hadn’t landed. It had crashed. Deep gouges marred the ground, claw marks scoring the rock, and the trees that once grew here had been shattered by the beast’s massive body.

Naethir dismounted, reins loose in one hand, and moved toward the source of the strangely muffled pain he was still sensing. He stepped around broken branches – and froze.

Crimson eyes locked onto him for a heartbeat before shifting hungrily toward Shadowdancer. The mare snorted and backed away, nostrils flaring, as the figure bared sharp fangs. Instinctively, Naethir let go of the reins and drew his sword.

Flashes surged through his mind. Memories – some his own, some not – of Northrend, of Icecrown: sin’dorei shaped monsters attacking the brave members of the Argent Dawn as they had attempted to capture the seat of power of the Lich King. Like the rest of the Scourge, these undead had been under the control of the Helm of Domination – but knowing that hadn’t lessened the horror of what the blood-lusting creatures were capable of. The Paladins had fought through shadowy halls littered with corpses bled dry to feed their opponents and fuel their foul spells.

Clearly, their quest-giver hadn’t had his facts straight. This wasn’t a void elf.

“What is a damn San’layn doing here?”

He said it aloud, though he didn’t expect an answer. The figure on the ground didn’t speak. It couldn’t. Crushed beneath a heavy tree trunk, its chest barely moved – no breath, no voice. Worse, there was no spark of thought in those glowing red eyes. Just mindless hunger, overwhelmed by pain at times.

Naethir stepped closer, unconsciously noting that the undead blood elf’s hair matched the deep red of his eyes. Those didn’t pay the advance of the Death Knight any heed, remaining pinned to the horned horse. The only source of fresh blood nearby.

Naethir felt cold.

Would he become like this?

Nothing left but hunger, no thought, no control – just instinct. He couldn’t draw another breath. The icy weight around his ribs returned, pressing down.

Let them kill me, he thought. If I turn into that… let them end me.

A noise to his left snapped his attention back.

Myreath pulled himself over the edge of the pillar, rising easily to his feet, brushing off dust. He didn’t look surprised by the gruesome sight. He took a long moment to study the scene – one undead staring at another.

Then, carefully, he said, “I get that this is probably undead business, and it’s not my call… but considering the state you found me in, back in the Maw – maybe it’s worth seeing if we can bring him back to himself.”

Naethir blinked.

He looked down. His sword was lowered – pointed directly at the vampyre’s head. He hadn’t realized. His hands were shaking. He tried to still them, but failed.

Could an undead really be brought back from this?

Not if he lost control. Not if he lost his soul. But the San’layn’s situation was different. But was he worth the effort? The red-haired man was an undead, a perversion of a living being created by necromancy, like he himself. But the boy back at the camp had clearly cared for him. If he had hidden his nature, he had also fulfilled his duty. Protected people. Risked himself.

The blade wavered.

“Your call, kid,” Myreath said. “Either way, Tamas gets his answer.”

There was that strange gentleness again, hidden in the rasp of the Illidari’s voice. Naethir stared at the half-conscious figure beneath the tree. The San’layn didn’t notice the blade at all – his instincts were fully drawn to the living blood nearby.

Undead business.

Naethir remembered Korthia. Gal’dir had argued they should kill Myreath after dragging him out of the Maw – because that was the oath among Demon Hunters: kill those who lose themselves. But the undead had no such code. Not that Naethir knew of.

Killing this one would be clean. Sensible. Probably merciful. What he wished for himself.

But he wasn’t the one lying on the ground – it was a San’layn who was no longer controlled by the Helm of Domination. And he had used that freedom to save lives.

Who am I to judge?

Naethir sheathed his sword. “How?” he croaked.

“Well,” Myreath said, gesturing at the fallen tree, “getting him out from under that trunk seems like a decent first step. Looks uncomfortable.”

He grimaced, shaking himself out. “Seriously. You undead are on another level. Not even the strongest Illidari would survive that. But Death magic… yeah. It doesn’t let go easy.”

The thought made Naethir uneasy. He remembered something Avadel had once told him: it wasn’t easy to kill yourself as a Death Knight. Clearly, the same applied to other undead. Maybe the Death magic animating the vampyre would have reached its limits had his head been smashed. Lucky – or unlucky, depending how you looked at it – bastard.

“That trunk’s gonna be heavy, even for us,” Naethir said, skeptical. “And you’ll want to be careful not to get bitten.”

Myreath didn’t seem too concerned, stepping closer to inspect the fallen tree, ignoring the San’layn’s feeble attempts to reach him.

“I think I still have some of Saew’s sneezing potions. That should let us lift it. Oh, and first things first.” The scaled night elf touched his wrist before rummaging through his bags.

Only then did Naethir remember the vibrating bracelet. Orthorin had originally come up with the idea to help them signal their deaf Huntress, since shouting wouldn’t have worked. The company had since realized they were useful for other things too – like silent signals between soldiers who couldn’t see each other. The others would now know they had found their quarry.

Moments later, Myreath pulled out two glass vials and handed one to Naethir. Sneezing potions. That hadn’t been their original name – or their intended use. One of Saewron’s inventions, they were supposed to outdo standard strength potions and win him new customers. But, like many of his alchemical works, they came with a weird side effect he had missed while testing on himself. Sure, they boosted strength twice as much as a normal potion, but the user would be sneezing uncontrollably the entire time. Completely useless in combat.

“Chug it. We lift after the third sneeze, toss it before the next,” Myreath said.

Even with the potion’s boost, the trunk was still heavy. But they managed. It hit the ground below with a satisfying crash. Sneezing violently, they waited for the effects to wear off.

“Demon piss,” Myreath muttered after his final sneeze. “Remember what I said earlier? That almost did it. The Death magic was stretched thin the second we moved the trunk. We’d better hurry, or he’s a goner after all.”

That explained what Naethir had felt. Even freed from the crushing weight, the San’layn wasn’t moving more. If anything, the pain radiating off him was sharper, and the weak attempts to claw toward Shadowdancer or Myreath had stopped entirely. The purple mare still paced at the far end of the platform, keeping her distance.

“And now?” Naethir asked, casually vomiting up the remains of the potion so they wouldn’t rot in his gut. “I doubt a Healing Potion will do much in his state. One of us could fly back and get Agia, have her heal him here… but I’d still rather not bring him anywhere near the others while he’s… like this.”

Myreath stood over the dazed vampyre. “I’ve got something better than a Healing Potion – if he can stomach a bit of fel.”

It took Naethir a second to catch his meaning. “What? You’d let him drink your blood?”

Myreath shrugged. “Got a better idea? It won’t kill me, and it might help him. Maybe the pain made him snap. Get over here and hold him down. Don’t want him lunging at me.”

Naethir glanced at Shadowdancer but quickly dismissed the thought. She was already spooked by the other undead – recognizing him as a threat, even though she had grown used to Naethir. Tapping her for blood would only frighten her more, maybe ruin her trust in him. He had other mounts, but she was the only living one. He wanted to keep her.

“Fine,” he muttered, moving over and crouching down to restrain the San’layn. He gripped the one good shoulder and what remained of the ruined other, keeping him pinned.

Myreath didn’t hesitate. He lifted one of his glaives and drew it lightly across the scaleless inside of his upper arm. Blood flowed – crimson with a sickly trace of fel-green – down to his elbow, where he let it drip steadily onto the vampyre’s lips.

It worked – sort of. The San’layn stirred, struggling harder in Naethir’s grip. He seemed to heal just enough to gasp and make low, guttural noises. But nothing changed in his eyes. They stayed wild, clouded by mindless hunger.

“It’s not working,” Naethir warned. “Just making him harder to hold.”

Myreath pulled back and uncorked one of his own potions – colorless, unlike Saewron’s trademark red. He dabbed it on the cut and grunted. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Give him what he wants and poof – problem solved? Yeah, right.” His brows above the blindfold lowered in thought. “Still, the Death magic’s more stable now. Bought us some time.”

Naethir studied the crimson-eyed wreck beneath him. The vampyre was still locked on Myreath – hadn’t even tried to bite him. That was curious, even with his skin fully covered by plate.

“Maybe giving him what he doesn’t want will do the trick,” he said quietly.

Myreath immediately understood what Naethir was suggesting, and they carefully switched positions. But getting blood – well, the thick black ooze that passed for blood in an undead – out of himself wasn’t as easy as it had been for the Demon Hunter. Death Knights didn’t bleed much unless they were nearly cleaved in half. Their hearts barely beat; there was no real pressure to move the fluid along.

With a resigned sigh, Naethir gave up trying to coax out droplets and instead pressed the shallow cut on his forearm directly to the San’layn’s mouth. It wasn’t like he could catch anything from the bite.

At first, the vampyre ignored him completely, still fixated on the Illidari. But instinct kicked in. He latched onto the wound and drank. For a moment, Naethir thought this plan was failing too – which wouldn’t have surprised him – but then the San’layn’s body tensed.

The red eyes snapped away from Myreath and, for the first time since Naethir had found him, locked onto the Death Knight.

There was a flash of awareness. Then revulsion.

The San’layn tried to jerk his head away, lips pulling back, but Naethir held firm, keeping his arm pressed to the man’s mouth. That look – panic, then disgust, then dismay – burned into him. And then intelligence returned.

The feeling changed. Through the link, Naethir felt the shame rise up inside the other undead – raw and crushing. It was a familiar thing. A mirror.

Only then did he pull back.

The San’layn stared at him in stunned silence, then turned his head and spat out the black fluid.

“Fuck,” he croaked in Thalassian.

Naethir glanced at Myreath, who gave a lopsided smile and eased his grip on the injured man.

“You did it, kid. That was a good idea.”

Naethir instinctively looked for something to argue with – but came up empty. Oddly, something warm flickered in his chest.

The vampyre tried to speak – “Who a–AARGH!” – but the question broke off in a scream.

Naethir hissed through his teeth. The pain had returned to full force, no longer muffled. It poured into him through the Void-sense like fire down a raw nerve.

The San’layn clenched his eyes shut, writhing in agony. When he opened them again, he was gasping. His voice, faint and rough, came out in accented Common: “Help… please. Need… more blood. To heal.”

Myreath winced in sympathy. “Can’t give you more than I already have. But we know a healer who can fix you up – as long as you’re not gonna try and bite her.”

“I won’t!” the San’layn blurted, clearly embarrassed and horrified. Then, softer, with amazement in his tone: “You… fed me? That was… very generous.”

The Illidari gave a gruff, uncomfortable grunt. “Don’t mention it. Just one monster helping another. Now save your strength. Think we can move you? This place isn’t exactly secure.”

“Try,” he whispered after a pause.

Myreath looked to Naethir. “Can you take him?”

Naethir glanced over at Shadowdancer. The mare had calmed – she must have sensed the change in the San’layn too. He nodded. “She won’t carry both of us in flight, but we can hover down from here.”

They moved to lift the injured man – only for him to cry out again.

Naethir flinched as the Void-sense snapped… and then went completely silent.

Unexpected panic stabbed through him.

He stared at the limp form in his arms. “Is he-?”

Myreath scanned the undead carefully. “No. The Death magic’s still holding. He’s just unconscious. Probably for the best.”

Naethir felt a tickling sensation run though his body. Awkwardness. He could have sensed that himself, if he had tried. But he hadn’t known that undead could pass out. It had happened to him once, during a strange ritual in Bastion, though that could have been the magic at work. Still… it made sense. Even an undead mind could be pushed too far, forced to shut down.

–.o.O.o.–

He came to again – at least, he thought so. The pain was still there, sharp and gnawing. They hadn’t reached the healer yet. Or maybe she had refused to treat him. Was it even a she? Had that Illidari said so? He couldn’t remember. Most of it was a blur, distorted by agony.

Except one thing: the pale face of the Death Knight. The same one – he assumed – now holding him in the saddle. He couldn’t see the man’s face anymore. The man was seated behind him, and Kee’dril couldn’t move enough to look back. Honestly, he doubted he could move at all, even if he tried.

He was surprised he wasn’t in more pain. The mount beneath them hardly moved, and a steady breeze brushed past as they glided through the air. He drew another breath, and a ripple of stabbing pain swept through his chest.

“What’s… your name?” His voice was so faint, he wasn’t sure it had been heard.

“Naethir,” came the answer – cold and clipped.

Kee’dril frowned. Not what he had expected. Or hoped for? Then again… the sufferer. It sounded more like a cruel title than a birth name. Maybe it was.

After a pause – perhaps remembering it was customary to reciprocate – Naethir asked: “And yours?”

“Kee… Kee’dril Suntwist. Do you… have a… surname?”

Another beat of silence. “Why?”

Kee’dril inhaled shallowly. “Your face… reminds me… ghost from the past.”

More silence followed, but he felt Naethir shift upright behind him, which sent aches shooting through his own body.

“Naethir will do,” the Death Knight said. Colder now.

Then a sudden jolt ran through the mount as it landed, and the impact ripped a cry from Kee’dril’s throat.

“Damn, sorry! I should’ve landed more-” The chill in Naethir’s voice had thawed, but whatever he said next was drowned out by a familiar high-pitched ringing.

The world collapsed into black again, and Kee’dril welcomed the numbness.

–.o.O.o.–

He woke with a low, involuntary whimper. Pain greeted him like an old enemy.

A grunt came from behind. “You should’ve stayed out longer. We’re almost at the excavation site. But getting off Shadowdancer won’t be fun either.”

Kee’dril could feel the mount moving beneath them – every step a spike of torment. Maybe he should have asked them not to move him. But he had been afraid they would leave him otherwise. Irrational, maybe. But after what happened, the thought of being left alone again had been worse than the pain.

The ringing came again, and the darkness with it – but this time he fought it.

Losing consciousness wasn’t safe. What if his body used the last of the blood inside him to heal? What if he didn’t wake up as himself, but as… that mindless thing again?

So many mistakes.

He shouldn’t have kept attacking the proto-dragon while it was still airborne. He should have used his Heroic Leap to land atop the pillar. The impact had dazed him – already weakened from the fight. Then the tree had fallen. He couldn’t move. The proto-dragon’s corpse, its blood… out of reach. In desperation, he had burned the blood already inside his body. And triggered the frenzy.

He had lost himself. He had become what they all feared.

And the two strangers had found him like that. Helped him. One of them was undead – maybe that explained it. The other… just one monster helping another. Kee’dril could respect that.

But now he had to stay awake. He couldn’t risk slipping again.

“Here we are,” said the chilly voice. Naethir.

“Oh, by the Three Hammers! Ye brought him here in that state?! He looks more dead than alive,” a female voice exclaimed – clearly dwarven.

Kee’dril pried his eyes open. The giant dragon skeleton loomed in the background. Then he locked eyes with the dwarf.

She screamed and stumbled back.

Right. Red eyes. No glasses.

“Well, he’s as dead as I am,” Naethir said dryly.

That earned him a surprised stare from the braided dwarf and a raspy laugh from somewhere behind them: probably the Illidari from before following them.

“He’s a blood… elf?!” another voice growled. A faint smell of wet dog hung in the air. Worgen, then. Kee’dril was pretty sure that sentence was going to end differently before it got caught.

“I’m not so sure we should even heal him,” a third voice chimed in – human, this one. Cautious. Distrustful.

“We definitely are nae goin’ tae heal him. I am. An’ fer fuck’s sake – we’re all people, right? Every single one o’ us. Now enough with the talkin’, he’s obviously in pain!”

The human coughed awkwardly. “Um… yes, Corporal. Of course. You’re right.”

Kee’dril felt a tear slip down his cheek. He hadn’t meant to cry, but the words had done something to him. That tear was quickly washed away by a surge of watery magic – a healer’s spell, and a Shaman’s at that.

“Shouldn’t we get down first?” Naethir asked, sounding a little confused.

“Later,” the dwarf woman grunted. “I’ll take care of the worst before ye move him again. Ye and Shadowdancer will just have tae endure the drizzle.”

Eventually, Kee’dril felt like himself again – not just a sack of meat that had been beaten to pulp.

He sat on the rocky ground of the small cave at the excavation site, the dwarf shaman – Corporal Agia – beside him, the others peering in from outside. Carefully, Kee’dril tested his limbs. To his deep relief, everything seemed to work without pain. The plated pieces of his armor were gone – dented beyond use, no doubt. His rescuers must have removed them to make transport easier. He was grateful he hadn’t been awake for that. He would need to ask about his blades later… but more pressing matters came first.

“Thank you, Corporal Agia. Your healing is exceptional. I’m honored – and in your debt. I’ll gladly do whatever I can to repay it.” He bowed his head. Perhaps he should have stood first and given a proper bow, but this way, at least, he wasn’t looking down at her.

She regarded him with sharp, not unkind eyes. “Ye’re welcome, lad. What I’d like in return should be easy enough – an honest explanation why ye’re not the void elf little Tamas claimed ye were.”

The name caught him off guard. “You know him? Is he all right? And his parents… and the archaeologists?”

“I can nae speak fer the workers, but I reckon Tamas an’ his parents would’ve said if any o’ them were hurt on the flight back. They all made it.”

“Good to hear.” Kee’dril felt a flicker of embarrassment. She had asked a direct question, and he had answered with more of his own. And yet, she had replied anyway – graciously. Time to correct that.

“As for the void elf part… I’ve had trouble finding work due to… what I am. So I usually wear these,” he said, rummaging in his pockets, half-expecting to find only scraps. Surprisingly, one pair of shaded glasses had survived intact. He made a mental note: pay that bag vendor extra next time.

He slid them on. “With the pale skin, my voice, and the fact that I speak Common… people just assumed I’m a void elf. And I haven’t been too eager to correct them.”

He had been puzzled at first that no one had noticed what he was. But after seeing one of the real void elves working with the Dragonscale Expedition, it made more sense. Their eerie similarities – especially the reverberation to their voice – would have been a dead giveaway back in the Horde. But in the Alliance? Easy mistake.

“I see,” Agia replied neutrally. “And why are ye workin’ as hired muscle fer civilians? No offense, but most undead either stick tae themselves or serve the Ebon Blade – like our Naethir here.”

At that, Kee’dril glanced toward the mouth of the cave. He had been wondering what a Death Knight was doing among what otherwise looked like a regular Alliance unit. Seeing Naethir again, he was struck once more by how familiar the man’s features seemed. But after the haze of pain atop the pillar had cleared, he had realized it wasn’t quite the resemblance he thought. Still, something lingered. Naethir’s sharp reaction to his question earlier had told him he would have to tread carefully if he wanted to learn more.

“Well, the coin, obviously,” Kee’dril began honestly. “Not needing food or sleep lets me underbid most competitors. But more than that, I… like being around the living. Just their company. Doesn’t matter much if they’re Alliance or Horde.”

He half-expected the corporal to insist he reveal his true nature to the family, for their safety if nothing else. Instead, she turned to her soldiers, still watching Kee’dril closely.

“What do ye say, lads?”

The Hunter and the worgen exchanged uncertain glances. Kee’dril couldn’t tell if they were unsure of him or just surprised to be asked.

It was the Demon Hunter who broke the silence. “I’d say it’s high time we got back to Basecamp. That way, Tamas and his parents can still catch a flight to Valdrakken before nightfall.”

“And we’ll reach the Lifeshrine before Lieutenant Valentian starts wondering where we’ve disappeared to,” Naethir added.

Kee’dril felt another ripple of astonishment – and gratitude. These two had every reason to warn the others about him, to report the state he had been in. But they hadn’t. They didn’t even bring it up.

“Good points,” Agia said briskly. “Let’s pack up an’ get goin’.”

Keeping a wary eye out for proto-dragons along the road, the group was soon on the move again. Along the way, Kee’dril got the chance to ask about his lost swords. He was relieved to receive one back from the Demon Hunter – unfortunately, the second was gone for good. Still, one blade was better than none, and its familiar weight on his back felt reassuring.

As they rode into the camp, the excited cry of the boy greeted them. Tamas’ parents seemed mostly relieved that Kee’dril’s return meant their son would finally agree to leave. Still, the father offered the red-haired elf double his usual pay for today’s ordeal.

But that reward paled in comparison to what came next.

After the family had given their grateful farewells to their bodyguard and the soldiers who had found him, Tamas came running back once more while his parents mounted the gryphons for the flight to Valdrakken. The boy threw his arms around Kee’dril’s leg – the only part he could reach – and held on tightly.

Awkwardly aware that the soldiers were watching and still amazed none of them had corrected the boy’s mistaken belief about his identity, Kee’dril gently ruffled his hair.

“Thanks again for sending them after me. That really saved my hide,” he said warmly.

The boy looked up, then tugged at his arm, urging the tall elf to crouch. When Kee’dril did, Tamas hugged him properly, whispering in his ear: “I knew you wasn’t just dead! Vampyres don’t die that easy.”

A startled sound escaped Kee’dril’s throat before he could help it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell mum and dad. That’s our secret!” the boy whispered again, grinning. “Will you come visit me sometime at home? Then you can show me how to make my paintings even more pretty!”

Kee’dril had to clear his throat before finding his voice. “I… can’t promise anything. But I’ll think of you next time I’m near Eastvale. Now get back to those gryphons before your dad comes and drags you off by the ears.”

Satisfied, Tamas beamed and – after a final goodbye – ran back to his parents.

Kee’dril watched the family take off, still stunned by the boy’s revelation.

He hadn’t found the right moment to tell them the truth about himself, and that had been a sore point. He wanted to prove the living and undead could coexist – but doing so while pretending to be alive didn’t exactly count. He had told himself he was waiting until they trusted him more. Then the proto-dragon attack, the injury, the rush of their departure – none of it had left space for an honest reveal.

But now, knowing that the boy had seen through him and liked him anyway… that was worth more than anything Tamas’ father could have paid.

“Kids,” came the Demon Hunter’s voice as he stepped up beside him. “Sometimes they’re cruel without meaning to be. But mostly, the way they see the world is refreshing. Precious, even.” A wry smile played on his lips.

Kee’dril blinked, momentarily confused – then remembered Illidari had very good hearing. Of course the scaled elf had caught the boy’s whispered words. The San’layn returned his smile, wiping away the smudged tear tracks on his cheek.

“Well, this day’s taken a few turns,” he said. “Still doesn’t change the fact I’m jobless again.”

He paused, unsure if he was joking or being earnest.

“You guys aren’t recruiting, by any chance?”

Chapter Text

Sailing high above the Flashfrost Assault, Aadrithea scanned the battling forces below through raven eyes. Red dragonflight defenders clashed with Primalist allies across the frozen plain. As usual, the blizzards summoned by frost elementals veiled sections of the battlefield, transforming what had once been a warm, verdant stretch southwest of the Ruby Lifeshrine into a wasteland of snow and ice. At first glance, everything appeared normal.

Two weeks earlier, the Primalists had begun a carefully orchestrated offensive in this region. Their tarasek allies – bipedal dragonkin unaffiliated with any of the flights – were working alongside frost and earth elementals summoned by Shamans to advance on the cliffs overlooking the dragons’ treasured hatchery. It was a deliberate feint. The goal had never been to seize the shrine – only to provoke a measured response. They wanted the reds to feel threatened, but not alarmed. The attacks were designed to be repelled, not escalate, and to keep the so-called queen’s gaze fixed on the wrong side of the valley – away from the mountains where the elementals truly emerged. Sometimes, a faint and constant noise was more effective for slipping past one’s enemies than perfect silence.

The Primalists had not yet engaged the shrine directly. Instead, they had stirred up distant trouble – small, frequent disruptions across the Waking Shores meant to draw the attention of adventurers and locals alike, maintaining a presence without triggering full-scale retaliation.

That charade ended today.

For once, Aadrithea didn’t care much about being seen. Her diminutive raven form made her difficult to spot, and the skies were crowded with activity anyway. She swept down into the crevasse beyond the mountain ridge where enormous earth elementals hurled boulders onto the plain. Careful to keep her distance from the larger primal dragons perched or circling nearby, she remained high and away from their gaping maws. Unlike Raszageth and the handful of draconic commanders gifted with true intelligence, most of the Incarnate’s winged kin were more beast than sentient – driven by instinct and power. She had no desire to be mistaken for prey.

Diving deeper into the crevasse, Aadrithea broke through a layer of low-hanging clouds, conjured again by the frost elementals to obscure the ground from aerial scouts. Over the past month – far too slowly for her liking – Primalist forces had been gathering here, summoning reinforcements through ancient rituals and tethering more elemental forces to Azeroth.

Ignoring the bustle of preparations around her, Aadrithea landed lightly in the snow and shifted out of raven form. Taking on the shape of the black-furred cat – her favored guise, inspired by Ashamane herself – she padded through the cold, her coat thick enough to shield her from the unnatural frost that clung to the Enclave, so foreign to the typically volcanic landscape of the Waking Shores.

She slipped past other Primalists until she reached the ritual circle, where several of their colleagues were in the process of summoning yet more earth elementals. Standing nearby were the ones she sought: one a fellow night elf, the other a troll.

Melidrussa spotted her instantly. “Thea! Does this mean the others are in position?”

Aadrithea hesitated, her throat tightening. She let out a low purr instead of answering immediately, then forced her voice to return. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

The pale kaldorei gave a shaky laugh. “Bit late to change plans, don’t you think?” Her eyes drifted toward the stone tunnel ahead, a circular opening carved by earthshapers that led out to the plain. “This isn’t the moment for cold feet. It’s now or never. We have to try to save those poor little ones!”

Aadrithea growled softly. “I saw several adventurers near the gardens and at the shrine itself. They’re likely to interfere. If you meet unexpected resistance, don’t hesitate to abort the operation.” She raised her snout to meet her friend’s eyes. “This is what I warned Raszageth about weeks ago. More and more mortals drawn by coin are arriving. I know she believed they could be swayed to our cause, but she underestimated how deep the titans’ lies run in their minds. That misjudgment could cost us dearly.”

Surprisingly, it was Erkhart who responded first with a dismissive snort. “Dey won’t stop us. Dey don’t have da elements on deir side.”

Melidrussa nodded in agreement. “And I’m sure Draghar will be able to keep any would-be heroes away from my work.”

“No one will get past me as long as I draw breath!” the massive red-scaled drakonid roared, pounding a fist to his chest.

Fortunately, not all dragonkin left behind on the Isles had remained loyal to the flights that created them. Some had realized they were being used and hadn’t been pleased by the return of their masters. The Primalists had welcomed their rebellion with open arms.

Aadrithea shifted back into her kaldorei form and wrapped her arms around Melidrussa. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will,” her friend whispered back. “Same to you. If we pull this off, the reds won’t stay blind to what’s happening here for long. They’ll send forces this way soon enough.”

“I know,” Aadrithea said, giving her friend’s shoulders one last squeeze. “Good luck.”

“It’s ready!” came a shout from behind them. The summoning was complete.

“You heard dem, Kyrakka!” the troll bellowed, turning toward the fiery dragon waiting nearby.

“I’ll burn them all to cinders!” the primal dragon roared, launching into the sky as soon as Erkhart leapt onto her back.

In the wake of the colossal earth elemental – its bulk barely fitting through the tunnel – Melidrussa and her escort rode out, while Aadrithea shifted back into raven form. Beating her wings hard, she rose from the crevasse to scan the battlefield from above. From this vantage point, she watched as the riders and accompanying drakonid charged across the snowy plain, keeping close behind the elemental. They reached the far side without slowing.

The plan was working. Shrouded by the blizzards, the red dragonflight’s defenders didn’t notice in time that this elemental was far larger than those they had faced before. It smashed through their scattered front lines and crashed into the mountainside beneath the Ruby Lifeshrine, shaking the cliffs to their foundation. As the dust cleared, Aadrithea saw the breach: a fresh hole in the rock, stabilized by earthshapers, leading directly into the bowels of the shrine.

The resulting tremor was also the signal the rest of the Primalist forces had been waiting for. Aadrithea spotted Raszageth herself rising from their hideout, flanked by Jadzigeth and Erzigeth – the primal frost and earth dragons, dwarfed by the Incarnate’s immense form. Together, they soared toward the upper levels of the Lifeshrine, drawing all eyes to the skies and distracting the reds from the breach below.

The Storm-Eater’s taunts must have struck a nerve. Moments later, Aadrithea glimpsed Alexstrasza’s enormous form ascending into the sky, joined by other dragons. But not all of them followed their queen. Some veered downward, toward the breach.

Aadrithea’s pulse quickened, but she saw the summoners were already at work. Earth and frost elementals surged forward, one after another, reinforced by tarasek warriors. The enemy scrambled to prevent more Primalist forces from entering the breach, but they were too occupied to pursue those who had already made it through.

So far, everything was proceeding as planned. Melidrussa and her team had breached the shrine. Raszageth was engaging Alexstrasza. Now, all that remained was to keep the elementals flowing and the battle raging.

From her vantage point, Aadrithea soon spotted new shapes breaking through the skies – non-draconic forms. Adventurers. Several were clearly heading toward the Primalist enclave.

She turned toward one of the Enraged Cliffs hurling boulders at the plain.

“Warn the others. Don’t let those adventurers reach the crevasse!”

A chunk of the elemental split off, forming a smaller version of itself. It sank into the earth and tunneled rapidly toward the Primalist lines to deliver her warning.

Meanwhile, more enemies had reached the battlefield on the far side – many riding horses or other ground mounts. Aadrithea flinched as a dark shape swooped overhead: one of the flying adventurers had made it through the blizzard, dodging both the obscured view and flying projectiles. But now that they were closer, the elementals could strike more easily. A heartbeat later, the rider and their mount – an ugly bat – were knocked from the sky.

Aadrithea watched them plummet, catching how the undead Mage saved themselves with a Slow Fall, then raised a Frost Shield. Still, the collision had clearly injured them, and the shield would do little to stop the enemies now swarming the ground around them.

The Forsaken wasn’t the last to make it through. A two-headed chimera soon descended onto the cliffs nearby. A green-skinned figure leapt from its back and Charged the nearest elemental.

Eagerness surged, overtaking Aadrithea’s tension. She dropped from the sky and shifted into her cat form. Until now, she had avoided fighting those she had once considered allies. But she had no such reservations about the green-skinned monkeys. If they were foolish enough to offer themselves up, she would gladly cull a few more from Azeroth’s surface.

She slipped into the shadows and stalked the orc.

Focused entirely on the Enraged Cliff, the green-skinned woman didn’t notice her attacker until Aadrithea struck – claws first. Her Rake caught the orc off guard and left her stunned. The Druid pressed the advantage, landing several Shreds that tore open the orc’s exposed flanks.

Aadrithea scoffed. She had seen this foolishness before. The so-called armor worn by these monkeys always favored spikes and overgrown shoulder plates, while leaving their vitals scandalously unprotected – almost as if they believed sheer bravado would keep their enemies from exploiting it.

She was more than happy to prove them wrong.

Her next Ferocious Bite sank deep into the orc’s thigh, drawing a howl of pain. The woman’s counterattacks grew wild and desperate. Aadrithea had to admit: she wasn’t a bad fighter. But her wind-enhanced movements kept her one step ahead, and most of the orc’s blade swings sliced through air. She took only a few shallow cuts.

Suddenly, the orc leapt back. Aadrithea assumed she was trying to retreat – until she saw the woman pivot midair and come barreling back in a Charge.

They would have collided midleap had Aadrithea not called upon the wind. A sharp gust answered her, slamming into the orc and halting her Charge. The warrior hit the ground hard. Aadrithea landed gracefully on all fours.

Without hesitation, she pounced – fangs flashing once more as she tore into the orc’s shoulder. This time, her prey failed to escape.

When the orc finally collapsed, blood soaking the grass beneath her, Aadrithea stepped back, panting lightly. Satisfaction thrummed through her. There were few joys greater than removing one of these alien invaders from the face of the world.

But pain in her foreleg soon intruded on the moment. She looked around – no more enemies nearby – then shifted back to her kaldorei form.

As usual, the nature magic she could summon twisted in her hands like tangled briar vines as she tried to weave it into a healing spell. It had always been this way. Part of her longed to use her Druidic gift to heal, to tend the wounds of her people – but her restless spirit had never meshed well with the gentleness required for healing magic. Even now, it took effort just to cast a simple Rejuvenation, which would have to suffice to seal the bleeding gash on her forearm.

She was still watching the sluggish green wisps knit her skin together when the whirring sound of a mechanical device overhead made her snap her head up. Another adventurer had broken through the blizzards. She recognized the figure seated in the flying contraption: a gnome, his concentration-pinched face barely visible above the controls.

Unlike the others, he wasn’t intercepted by falling boulders or elemental attacks. Nor did he stop to engage the Primalists or their forces on the cliffs. Instead, he flew straight into the crevasse.

Fool, Aadrithea thought, with a flicker of regret. A few heartbeats later, one of the primal dragons guarding the Flashfrost Enclave burst from the snow-laced clouds and snatched the gnome from his seat. There was a wet crunch between the dragon’s jaws, and the pilotless machine spiraled into the rock face, shattering on impact.

Aadrithea averted her gaze and turned her attention back to the battlefield below.

Perhaps the remaining adventurers and mercenaries hired by the dragons had seen the gnome’s grim fate and would think twice. But she doubted they had caught more than glimpses – blizzards still clouded much of the plain, though she could now spot spots where the snowstorms had begun to falter. That troubled her.

Wings beating, she lifted into the sky again and then descended toward the field.

“Status report,” she demanded of the vulpera Primalist stationed at the tunnel entrance, as another summoned elemental thundered past, heading toward the Lifeshrine wall.

“Our frost elementals are failing,” the vulpera replied. “There’s an Alliance army unit out there – looks like a full one – systematically targeting them. And more fighters are copying their tactics. We can’t summon Heralds of Frost quickly enough to replace the losses. The blizzards won’t hold much longer.”

Aadrithea nodded. The update only confirmed what she had already suspected.

“I’ll alert the others. Withdraw into the Enclave if the situation turns,” she said, lifting off again before the vulpera could reply. No answer was needed. They had prepared for this scenario. The primal dragons would hold the line, defending the Enclave’s entrance. But she needed to assess the situation at the shrine – and inform the Incarnate.

They had hoped it would take the reds and their hired forces longer to dismantle the blizzards and push through the tarasek. Their estimates had assumed a chaotic, disorganized opposition. They hadn’t counted on facing a coordinated army unit, trained to fight as one.

As Aadrithea reached the Ruby Lifeshrine, her worries eased. At least here, things still appeared to be unfolding as planned. Erkhart Stormvein and Kyrakka circled above the shrine, hurling lightning and flame into the dragonkin ranks below. Kokia Blazehoof, meanwhile, set ablaze any defender attempting to reach the breeding pools, where the dragon eggs still floated in their titan-corrupted waters.

Above them all, Raszageth and Alexstrasza clashed in a ferocious battle – trading not only blows but thunderous insults that echoed across the mountaintop.

When the dragons parted once more, Aadrithea seized her chance and swooped close to the Incarnate, her raven form easily weaving between the colossal combatants.

She delivered her message quickly, and just as swiftly retreated – unnoticed by the enemy dragons. It was this utility, this ability to pass unseen, that had ultimately persuaded Raszageth to accept Aadrithea’s choice not to abandon her Druidic powers for full elemental devotion. In times like this, a discreet messenger was even more valuable than another brawler.

Upon returning to the Flashfrost Enclave, Aadrithea was met with an unpleasant surprise. Although remnants of the tarasek and elemental forces were still battling adventurers and members of the red dragonflight outside, several of the dragons’ mortal allies had managed to breach the crevasse. Among them, she recognized members of what had to be the previously mentioned Alliance army unit – all wearing the faction’s tabard – as well as others clearly from both the Alliance and Horde.

To her dismay, they were dispatching the elemental-infused primal dragons with ease, as though they were no more dangerous than the nearly mindless specimens wandering the Wild Preserve.

Maneuvering through the air on agile wings, she wove around stone arches sculpted by her colleagues, dodging spells flying wildly through the still-partially active blizzards. With each pass, her worry deepened: their main line of defense at the Enclave was collapsing.

It didn’t take long to spot the cause. A female gnome scrambled onto a boulder at a distance, clearly positioning herself for something. As she settled atop the stone, a kaldorei with olive-green hair approached and handed her one of several spears he carried. The weapon was almost comically large – nearly twice the gnome’s height – but she gripped it with steady hands, aimed, and hurled it toward one of the primal dragons overhead.

Aadrithea’s eyes widened as the metal-wrapped tip crackled with energy and pierced the dragon’s element-enhanced scales as if they were paper. The beast let out a roar of agony – its cry echoed by the Druid’s shocked caw.

This shouldn’t have been possible.

But the truth hit her with a sinking feeling: the reds must have kept relics from the War of the Scaleborn – their ancient war against the primal dragons. Clearly, they had now entrusted some of these enchanted weapons to their mortal allies. Weapons specifically crafted to pierce the defenses of the Incarnates and their kin.

The injured primal dragon crashed into the snow, and a squad of soldiers under the gnome’s command rushed toward it.

Intent on defending her ally, Aadrithea dove toward the approaching soldiers, heart pounding as she scanned for a target. Her hesitation returned: attacking members of the Alliance – and especially fellow kaldorei – still gave her pause. That eliminated the Hunter with a large wolf at his side, and the woman next to him whose hood didn’t quite hide her elven ears.

Left were three options: a human man; the woman who had just sprinted past the gnome with a Roll; or the gnome herself.

She zeroed in on the gnome – just in time to see her Vanish.

Rogue, Aadrithea cursed inwardly, narrowing her eyes as she failed to spot the woman’s trail. Frustrated, she turned her sights to the human man. A small imp perched on his shoulder – clearly a Warlock.

Perfect. The Druid had no qualms about harming someone already touched by fel magic.

She shifted into her cat form midair and used her descent to launch her attack.

The Warlock’s cry – half surprise, half pain – rang out as Aadrithea landed atop him, tearing into his robe with teeth and claws. The imp shrieked and fled, while the others shouted in alarm. She caught the acrid tang of fel energy starting to build around the man’s hands, but she was faster – snapping at his casting fingers before the spell could form.

But instead of flesh and bone, her teeth met resistance – a soft shimmer of light wrapped around the Warlock, shielding him.

Thorns! she swore silently. A Priest. One of the others had cast a Power Word: Shield.

And the rest of the squad wasn’t idle either. Aadrithea was winding up for a Ferocious Bite when a sharp crack struck the top of her skull: a Cheap Shot. Her vision blurred, and in the dazed second that followed, the gnome Rogue reappeared, Ambushing the Druid from the shadows.

Aadrithea reacted instinctively, summoning the element of earth to harden her fur into stone. The Rogue’s blade scraped off harmlessly, buying the Druid time to leap backward, aided by a gust of wind.

Meanwhile, the hooded kaldorei woman rushed to the Warlock’s side, her hand glowing with healing magic. Aadrithea’s gaze darted to the others. The Rogue was already turning toward her again, and both the Hunter – who had horrible burn scars on one side of his face – and the Monk were also now looking her way.

Aadrithea felt a knot of dread coiled in her chest. She hadn’t thought this through. She was up against at least three trained fighters. The injured dragon nearby was beginning to stir and shake off the spear embedded in its side, but Aadrithea doubted it would recover in time to assist her.

To her relief, the gnome Rogue spoke up – perhaps having noticed her gaze over her shoulder.

“Wait. Privates Agnes and Benthras, take care of that proto-dragon. I’ll handle the Primalist.”

The Monk and the Hunter gave quick nods and turned back to the fallen beast.

Aadrithea kept her eyes locked on the Rogue, tensing as the gnome shifted her footing. This, she could handle. As long as it stayed one-on-one, the Druid was confident she could win.

That, however, turned out not to be entirely true. While the Priestess was still busy healing him, the Warlock began interfering in Aadrithea’s duel with the Rogue – plaguing her with curses and afflictions that drained her stamina, compounding the damage from the gnome’s precise attacks. Each time she made even the slightest move toward the Warlock, the Rogue was there to block her, thwarting any chance she had of taking him down first.

Eventually, it became clear: if Aadrithea wanted to survive this, she would have to flee.

Dying here was not an option. Not like this – not at the hands of the very people she was trying to save. Not when she had yet to achieve any of her goals. Frustration surged within her. She had never wanted to fight the common people of Azeroth, least of all her fellow kaldorei. Why couldn’t they see that the Primalists weren’t the enemy? That they were trying to free them from the titans’ lies? She couldn’t die knowing her people remained shackled to their leaders’ cursed faith.

The next time she created some distance between herself and the Rogue, Aadrithea bolted – darting toward the edge of the battlefield, where fewer fights seemed to be taking place. All around her, the Enclave rang with the din of battle.

That was when the gnome surprised her with a move she hadn’t used before: a loud bang cracked through the air, and sudden pain bloomed in Aadrithea’s hip. She stumbled and crashed to the ground, instinctively shifting into her humanoid form to attempt another healing spell.

She had barely begun to wrestle with the unruly magic when the Rogue landed beside her, having closed the distance with a leap aided by her Grappling Hook. A second later, the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against Aadrithea’s temple, sending an icy wave of fear through her.

“You?!” The shout came from the Priestess, who was now hurrying toward them. “Sergeant – I… I know her!”

The gnome froze, clearly having been about to pull the trigger. “Don’t move,” she warned Aadrithea, her voice sharp. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll put a shot right Between the Eyes. Yield, and you might live.”

She didn’t lower the weapon much, but she turned slightly toward the other woman – though Aadrithea had no doubt the Rogue would still notice even the slightest movement.

“Private Milan, how are you doing?” the gnome called out.

“Still sore, but fine – thanks to Galynia, Sir,” the human Warlock replied as he dusted himself off. “Though my imp’s run off to who knows where, and no healing spell’s going to fix the rips in my robes!”

“Galynia… Starwhisper?” The name struck Aadrithea like a spark to dry tinder. That’s why she looked familiar.

The fear clutching her chest loosened, replaced by hope.

Galynia had left the Primalists early on. They had always differed in their views of the kaldorei’s faith, but she knew Aadrithea – knew she wasn’t some nameless evil to be disposed of. If anyone could sway the others, perhaps even help them see the truth, it would be her.

“I’m Aadrithea Dewspirit. Is it really you, Galynia? You’ve joined the Alliance military? I’m still saddened you didn’t stay with us after leaving Tyrande’s flock. I certainly never imagined you’d raise arms against us!”

She was proud of how steady her voice sounded, how much meaning she managed to fold into the words. She had reestablished a connection – reminded Galynia of their shared past and mutual goals.

The other kaldorei flushed, tugging nervously at strands of purple hair escaping her hood. “I only shared your doubts in Tyrande’s leadership – that’s all,” she said, voice faltering. “But you… you turned away from Elune. You sided with elemental-infused proto-dragons who are clearly up to no good. Of course we have to fight you!”

The Warlock and Rogue exchanged glances, stone-faced. The gnome still held the pistol on Aadrithea, but now it was pointed more toward her chest than her head.

Aadrithea considered using the moment to flee. Her hip throbbed, but she could move. Still, Galynia’s words stirred the frustration she had tried to bury.

“Up to no good? You, of all people, still believe that? You heard what Kurog told us – about the titans enslaving the dragons, the way they treated the elementals!”

Galynia grimaced and looked down at her feet. “Of course it’s about your evil titans again…”

Rage surged in Aadrithea’s chest. She bit back the urge to shift and pounce on the Priestess. But the Rogue beside her stirred, and she remembered just how closely she was being watched.

“You’ve been to the Ruby Lifeshrine, haven’t you? You’ve seen the breeding pools – the aqueducts running from Tyrhold to feed them?”

“Yes, but-”

“If you’d stayed, if you’d actually listened, you’d have heard the truth from Alexstrasza herself! She’s the one who enforced the titans’ edicts; infusing their eggs with Order magic before they even hatched. Those whelps aren’t given a choice! They’re being molded into tools of the titans. And when those who discovered the truth resisted? They were imprisoned and forgotten.”

A guttural roar tore through the air as another primal dragon fell to an enchanted spear nearby.

“What gives you the right to condemn those who only want freedom?” Aadrithea demanded. “Raszageth and her kin were wronged by the very powers you now fight for!”

The Warlock scoffed. “As if your Primalists are any better. What are you doing with the eggs you stole from the dragons?”

“We’re cleansing them – removing the Order magic!”

“By infusing them with your primal magic?” he shot back, skeptical.

Aadrithea blinked, momentarily thrown. “What? No! Our rituals don’t replace anything – they undo the corruption caused by the titan-blessed waters.”

The Rogue gave a thoughtful hum. “You sure about that? An adventurer brought one of those eggs back to the Lifeshrine recently – said it was saturated with elemental energy.”

Aadrithea felt her cheeks flush with heat. For a moment, she wondered if the gnome was simply lying – but no, she had heard rumors of such experiments before. She just hadn’t wanted to believe them.

“It’s the dragons’ stubbornness that forces us to fight fire with fire,” she said sharply. “Despite knowing about the titans’ meddling, they’ve picked up right where they left off ten thousand years ago! At least primal magic belongs to the elementals – natives of Azeroth.”

“Without the titans’ meddling,” the Rogue cut in, “Azeroth would have been overrun by the Old Gods eons ago.”

“That’s what they claim,” Aadrithea countered. “But the elementals were already fighting back before the titans arrived. And when they did, they locked both sides away – banished the elementals, tried to rip the Old Gods from the planet, and nearly tore Azeroth apart in the process!”

“They made a mistake,” Galynia added, her voice quiet and unsure. “That’s why they imprisoned the Old Gods instead of destroying them. But without that mistake – without the Well of Eternity – none of us would even exist. No elves. No dragons. Nothing to defend Azeroth now.”

“To defend Azeroth from everything except the titans’ own influence,” Aadrithea growled. The rising heat in her voice matched the pressure she was applying to her wounded hip. “The titans are gone, but their minions and machinery remain.”

To their left, the primal dragon that had been brought down gave a final, pained roar before the Monk and Hunter finished it off. Another soul silenced. Another one lost in the fight against the titans’ legacy – and Aadrithea’s efforts had barely made a difference.

“So what?” Galynia asked. “I never understood why you think that makes them evil. If the titans had truly meant harm, Elune wouldn’t have allied with the kaldorei. She wouldn’t have sent Ysera to Ardenweald.”

Aadrithea snorted. “Spare me. We’ve been over this. We don’t know Elune’s motives – any more than we know the titans’. We don’t even know what she is. And if she ever cared about us – really cared – then she’s grown too weak to help us. That’s why we must seek stronger powers. Powers that can actually protect our people.”

“She’s not weak!” Galynia burst out.

“Oh right,” Aadrithea sneered, voice low and sharp. “You think she let Teldrassil burn as punishment – for us failing to stop Sargeras. So, what, he-” she nodded toward the green-haired Hunter, who was approaching, “-deserved those scars? Because he couldn’t stop a fel-infused titan from stabbing the planet?”

“I… no… yes, but… it’s not like…” Galynia stammered, glancing helplessly between Aadrithea and the Hunter.

The man had clearly overheard, unsurprising given kaldorei ears. He raised a self-conscious hand to the ravaged side of his face but still stepped beside the Priestess, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders.

“W-what happened to Teldrassil reminded me we can’t stand idle while our h-home is threatened,” he said, voice steady despite the stutter. “That’s why I joined the m-military.”

Aadrithea narrowed her eyes, suddenly aware there was more between them than mere camaraderie. “I see. Love does change one’s perspective. Do you believe Tyrande was possessed by some evil spirit? That it wasn’t Elune who spoke through her?”

She didn’t care what the Hunter thought – her words were meant for Galynia. “Speaking of which… what did your fellow Priestesses say when you shared that idea?”

Galynia clutched the man’s sleeve, eyes fixed on the ground. “I… I never went back. I didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Of course not,” Aadrithea snapped. “Because you don’t even believe it. You-”

“Zip it,” the Rogue cut in coldly, the pistol’s barrel flashing in the light as she shifted her stance. “We’ve heard more than enough from you. For now. On your feet. Slowly.”

Aadrithea tried, but pain flared through her hip, stopping her short. “I can’t.”

“Recruit, patch her up,” the Rogue ordered. “We need to regroup with another squad before continuing. Too dangerous to drag a prisoner around solo.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” Galynia replied, kneeling beside Aadrithea. She stretched out her hands over the wound – but no glow came. Her expression twisted with panic. “No. Not again. Not now! Please-”

She clenched her fists, shut her eyes, tried again – but nothing.

“I-it’s not working,” she confessed, turning to the Rogue with a stricken look. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Lendi…”

“She brought it on herself,” Lendi said coolly. “Don’t stress over it. Private Agnes – can you assist?”

The Monk stepped up without hesitation. As Galynia withdrew – retreating into the safety of the Hunter’s embrace – Aadrithea braced herself. A moment later, a rush of chi slammed into her, stealing the breath from her lungs. The energy was blunt and jarring – like being hit with a healing spell wielded more like a shield than a salve. But the pain vanished.

“Not quite what our captain could’ve done,” the Monk said with mild disapproval. “But it’ll hold. The bleeding’s stopped. I’ll leave the rest to Gert or Agia.”

“Thank you, Private.”

Aadrithea pressed her hand to her side, then pulled it away. No blood.

“All right, let’s try this again, Dewspirit,” the Rogue prompted.

This time, Aadrithea managed to rise. The pain was still there, but tolerable.

As they made their way through the Flashfrost Enclave, Aadrithea remained on constant alert, painfully aware of the small woman with the pistol at her back and the soldiers surrounding her. But the other Primalists still within the caverns were far too busy trying to survive to offer her any aid. Adventurers swarmed the area, battling her comrades on the ground and attacking the primal dragons above. It was clear they wouldn’t be able to hold this ground much longer.

A sudden bang followed by a hissing crack of flame made everyone flinch. Nearby, a group of adventurers had overrun several Primalists attempting to flee with a heavy load. One of the intruders fired a flare into the air.

“They must have found another stolen egg,” the Warlock muttered. “Majordomo Selistra will be here soon.”

Indeed, moments later, a shadow passed overhead. A red drake – young and not yet fully grown – dove toward the adventurers ahead.

Aadrithea saw her chance. She froze, then melded with the shadows as only a kaldorei could. Despite the gnome’s sharp reflexes, she missed her mark. Aadrithea shifted into her raven form, beat her wings hard, and soared upward, ignoring the pain lacing through her body.

She had gambled that the Rogue wouldn’t fire with the drake in the line of sight. The bullets of a pistol might not have killed Majordomo Selistra, but a stray shot could injure them – and the red dragon was too focused on retrieving the egg to notice a fleeing Druid or the soldiers’ shouts.

But Aadrithea didn’t escape unscathed. The Warlock had cursed her before she got away, and now the afflictions gnawed at her stamina with every beat of her wings. She barely cleared the crevasse before landing roughly on a plateau above. Gritting her teeth, she forced a healing spell into place – not elegant, but enough to stop her from passing out.

Still aching, she launched into the air once more. Staying near the Enclave was too great a risk. The whole area would fall to the reds soon. She considered flying toward the Ruby Lifeshrine out of concern for Melidrussa – but her body protested too much. If her friend was still alive, Aadrithea was in no condition to help her.

Exhausted and hurting, she descended toward the northern mountains. As she did, she spotted two things: a massive shape – Raszageth – retreating from the shrine, and a small, familiar figure below, trudging through the snow.

She landed with a groan, startling the night elf ahead of her.

“Frost and ice – it’s just you!” the man gasped.

“Idoral! What happened? You were with Melidrussa’s group.”

The pale kaldorei shivered, avoiding her gaze. “Dead. They’re all dead,” he whispered.

The dread that had gripped Aadrithea turned to cold, heavy numbness. “How?” she asked, voice tight.

“Adventurers caught up to us. But not just anyone. I think… I think it was that Maw Walker. And their companions. I didn’t recognize them under all that armor, but – by the elements, they were strong. We never stood a chance. Even Draghar fell quickly. Bought Melidrussa a few more minutes, but she was killed too – even with the cleansed whelps trying to help her. I only survived because I… I hid.” He blushed with shame.

“They just… killed her?” Aadrithea’s voice cracked. “Didn’t they listen? Surely she told them what she was doing with the eggs. Showed them…”

“Of course she did. But do you honestly think they cared?” Idoral shook his head bitterly. “They saw an enemy in their way. Nothing more. After she was dead, red drakes came and carried them up to the shrine. I doubt anyone up there fared better. The operation’s failed.” He looked up at her. “You saw Raszageth fly off too, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Her voice was flat. “She won’t be pleased.”

In truth, Aadrithea hardly cared. Let Raszageth be angry. Let her punish them if she wished. None of it mattered – not now. Not after Melidrussa’s death. Slain without even being heard, by the very people they were trying to free from the titans’ grip.

She clenched her jaw as a slow-burning anger smothered the earlier numbness.

Maybe it was time to stop explaining.

Words hadn’t worked. Not with the adventurers. Not even with her fellow kaldorei. No matter how reasonable their arguments, how urgent their pleas, they were met only with suspicion and violence. If the world refused to listen…

Then the Primalists would have to show them.

Let them see with their own eyes what they had chosen to ignore.

And if any dared stand in the way?

Then their blood would stain the path to freedom.

Chapter Text

The evening light was fading as Myreath reached the gardens of the Life Pools at the foot of the Ruby Lifeshrine, his pockets filled with freshly collected ingredients for his alchemy. Most of it was the purple blossoms of Hochenblume, which reportedly grew in abundance across the Dragon Isles, but he had also found some of the rarer Bubble Poppy and Saxifrage.

The former plant thrived in humid places, its name coming from the bulbous growth at the base of its stem that contained a precious sap. The latter herb, with its small but numerous white blossoms, had a tendency to sprout in precarious places – atop boulders, on narrow pillars, or in crevices near magma streams. Gathering herbs on the Dragon Isles could become adventurous for more reasons than simply avoiding predators. Some plants, when exposed to elemental forces, adapted in strange ways, developing unexpected defense mechanisms – like launching collectors into the air with sudden gusts of wind. While most of the Spinecrafters who foraged for herbs had learned to avoid those, the Demon Hunter remained unfazed. His wings allowed him to glide and recover even if one of these temperamental herbs managed to toss him off a cliff.

With Saewron among the soldiers who had remained at their base in Duskwood, the responsibility – at least unofficially – had fallen to Myreath to supply his comrades on the Dragon Isles with potions and the like. Nobody asked it of him. Like the captain’s twin, he handed over his alchemical products voluntarily, knowing how much they benefited not just individuals but the group as a whole. He wasn’t as inventive as the Rogue in crafting unique concoctions and preferred to stick with the classics, but one of the native red dragonspawn, Zherrak, had told him about some Dragon Isles brews enhanced by elemental sediments that sounded like they could rival Saewron’s concoctions. These potions had unusual effects – one induced a temporary near-death state, while another greatly increased strength as long as the user remained motionless.

Lately, Myreath had managed to use more of his spare time to forage alone. With today’s harvest, he finally had enough materials to begin crafting a few of the new potions for the company.

Recognizing the familiar surroundings as safe, Nawag, the miniature felstalker, strayed from the Illidari’s side to inspect a nearby wagon filled with sorted debris. The gardens, where young dragon whelps received their earliest education, had fortunately gone largely unscathed during the Primalist attack two days ago. The assault had come as a shock to Queen Alexstrasza and her red flight. Though aware of Primalist activity throughout the Waking Shores, they hadn’t believed the rebels bold – or numerous – enough to raid the Lifeshrine itself. Only the dragons’ swift response and the help of adventurers had prevented the destruction of the hatchery and the theft of its eggs. The Primalists’ advance, made through a breach in the Shrine’s rocky foundation, had been halted, and the Life-Binder herself had held off Raszageth long enough for the defenders to deal with the invaders unimpeded by the Incarnate.

Even so, Raszageth had proven stronger than expected. The Dragonqueen had struggled in her duel with the Storm-Eater and suffered a brutal blow. Without Wrathion’s bold and unexpected intervention, she might have lost. It appeared Raszageth hadn’t meant to kill Alexstrasza, but to wound her – emotionally and physically – forcing her to witness the destruction of what she held dear. The Primalists had only partially succeeded in that regard. Though much of the Lifeshrine had been burned and blanketed in ash, most of the damage had already been repaired thanks to many helping hands – including those of the Spinecrafters.

Now that the Ruby Lifeshrine was once again under red flight protection, Wrathion had hoped to enlist their help in reclaiming the Obsidian Citadel – still held by the djaradin. But the queen had to decline. She was unwilling to send away any of her defenders and leave the Lifeshrine vulnerable to another attack.

Nonetheless, earlier today, she had asked the same adventurers who had aided her before to assist Wrathion and his agents in her stead. Lieutenant Valentian had accepted the request after some hesitation. Strictly speaking, the Spinecrafters were a non-combat unit – not meant for direct warfare. On one hand, the dragons and djaradin were clearly at war. On the other, helping the Black Prince recover the Obsidian Citadel would serve their mission: aiding the dragonflights in restoring their aspectral powers. Queen Alexstrasza still hoped to accomplish that goal by reactivating each dragonflight’s Oathstone, located at their ancestral seat of power.

As the evening light dimmed, Myreath approached the inn at the base of the Lifeshrine. The scent of one of the lieutenant’s cigars had already teased his nostrils from a distance, so he wasn’t surprised to find a small group gathered on the steps leading inside. Next to the dark-skinned Gilnean stood Benthras, his maned wolf Narbeleth at his heels, and Galynia, her arms wrapped tightly around her upper body.

“I’m so sorry… but I don’t think it would be safe for the rest of you if I came,” the purple-haired night elf said.

Myreath immediately knew what this was about. During the battle at the Flashfrost Enclave, Galynia’s squad had encountered a particular Primalist: Aadrithea Dewspirit – the Druid who had spoken out against Tyrande at the kaldorei gathering after Sylvanas’ trial. That meeting, over three years ago, had been what convinced Galynia to abandon the Priestesses of Elune. Facing the woman again had clearly rattled her, and now the night elf was once more struggling to connect with the Light.

“No need to be sorry about that,” Lieutenant Valentian replied, exhaling a plume of smoke as he caught sight of the approaching Demon Hunter. He gave Myreath a companionable nod. “I specifically asked you to carefully consider your participation because of your current… condition. In this case, your squad won’t join Wrathion’s operation tomorrow. You’ll continue helping out around here instead.”

“I… know, sir. It’s just… I can’t help feeling like I’m letting everyone down. Especially my squadmates.”

“N-not at all!” Benthras said quickly.

“Don’t worry. It’s not like the cleanup’s done yet. The reds will be glad not everyone’s running off to Wrathion. And keeping up good relations with the queen is important, too. You’ll be doing us all a service, Recruit.”

They left the lieutenant to his cigar after that, Benthras and Galynia entering the cozy inn together with Myreath.

“Knowing when to step back from a mission isn’t a failure. Coming along against your better judgment and then having to admit you can’t keep up mid-fight would be,” the Illidari said quietly.

Galynia blushed. “Thank you.”

While the pair joined their squadmates lounging on hassocks, Myreath made his way to the nearby table to sort his herbs. At the far end of it, Agia, Thelri, and Gal’dir were in the midst of a dice game. Distracted by Nawag hopping up onto the stone bench, the fel-green-haired Illidari rose to make room, swiftly gathering up the arms he must have been tinkering with earlier. They were still spread out across the tabletop. The women must have managed to distract the weapons master from his gear – a feat in itself, as Myreath well knew.

From the opposite side of the hall, a wave of laughter and exclamations rose from where Gert, Haaldar, Rohan, and Renald were playing cards on a rug, surrounded by scattered hassocks. An empty spot between the Paladin and the Mage suggested Valentian had recently stepped away from the game for a smoke.

Naethir, as usual, had not joined any of the groups spending their leisure time together. The Death Knight was leaning against a wall near the exit. Though the inn was mostly filled with Spinecrafters, a few other guests lingered – drawn by Vakaron’s meals or the simple comfort of a solid roof. Most were Alliance members; Horde travelers typically turned around upon noticing the tabards, unwilling to test the fragile truce. Naethir sometimes eyed these outsiders, but mostly, he just stood there, doing nothing in that unnerving way of his. Myreath knew he would remain like that until the squads set out again on the lieutenant’s orders the next morning.

Doing nothing, even briefly, bored most people. That was why they found ways to fill their spare time. Back in Duskwood, Naethir had spent his downtime keeping watch over his brothers – a behavior most already found odd, though at least it counted as doing something. Now his apparent lack of purpose during off-hours unsettled the company even more. He didn’t seem to share their perspective. Myreath suspected Naethir simply didn’t care one way or the other. Doing nothing was easier than forcing himself into something he didn’t care about.

Lately, though, someone had managed – at least occasionally – to pull the Death Knight out of that withdrawn state. To Myreath’s mild surprise, that person had a far higher success rate at engaging Naethir in conversation than Remah ever had, despite the draenei Shaman’s genuine efforts back in Duskwood. The Illidari assumed the difference stemmed from an unfair advantage – being undead himself.

Kee’dril Suntwist was the Spinecrafters’ newest addition – unofficially. Officially, the San’layn they had met about a week ago was considered a confederate of the company, not a full recruit. When the undead blood elf had submitted his request to join, Lieutenant Valentian hadn’t known how to respond. After holding a vote among the soldiers present – which had resulted in a majority in favor, despite five dissenting votes and three abstentions – he had devised a temporary arrangement. Captain Orthorin hadn’t been sure either whether a San’layn was technically allowed to join their Alliance unit. While he had voiced no personal objections, he had promised in his reply to forward the question to the Lord Commander when possible. That opportunity clearly hadn’t come yet, given Turalyon’s current obligations as Regent of Stormwind.

As the vote had shown, reactions to Kee’dril’s presence were mixed. Not everyone had been convinced of his sincerity, even after hearing of his sacrifice while serving as a bodyguard. In particular, those allied with the Light or Nature – except, surprisingly, for Thelri – struggled to look past his undead nature and the reputation of his kind. The Paladin had deemed Kee’dril trustworthy after challenging him to a duel… and losing.

For his part, the San’layn hadn’t seemed disheartened. He had taken care to get to know the others slowly and respectfully over the past several days. Myreath himself had decided he liked the bloodsucker from the moment they returned with him to Dragonscale Basecamp. In his eyes, anyone who treated children kindly and was willing to lay down their life for one deserved sympathy. And since that first impression, the Illidari’s judgment had only been confirmed.

Kee’dril was the reason Myreath had lately been able to spend more of his spare time collecting herbs. Whether it was due to their shared undead nature or a sense of gratitude toward his rescuer (the Illidari had by now convinced the San’layn to credit Naethir entirely for that rescue), the vampyre clearly took an interest in the Death Knight’s well-being. He had become a welcome accomplice in looking out for the kid – except during a few hours each night, as he surprisingly made a habit of sleeping.

At present, the red-haired blood elf was sitting on the ground a few paces from Naethir, absorbed in his favorite pastime. A somewhat crumpled sketchbook rested on his lap, a piece of charcoal in his hand. Kee’dril’s artistic skill, paired with his tactful efforts to get to know the company, had eased his gradual acceptance. He had delighted several Spinecrafters with quick drawings. Myreath had no doubt that, if he wanted to, the San’layn could have joined the men’s card game – though it might have taken the group a moment to return to their usual carefree energy.

But Kee’dril had instead chosen to keep Naethir company. He paused regularly in his sketching to look over and speak to the Death Knight. Judging by the absence of Naethir’s usual scowls (a contrast to how he had often reacted to Remah), he was actually answering the vampyre’s questions with a reasonable degree of willingness.

“Lieutenant!”

Milan’s sudden shout nearly made Myreath jump from his seat on the stone bench, pulled from his thoughts and the steady rhythm of the mortar he was grinding Hochenblume paste in. Both he – and his inner demon, Nurru – flared with brief annoyance. People too easily forgot how sharp a night elf’s senses were, especially an Illidari’s.

From the sour noise Benthras made, Myreath wasn’t the only one startled by the outburst. Across the room, the lieutenant – who had just reentered the inn – paused to wait as the human rushed over. Given Milan had used his title, it was likely something official regarding duty. Myreath considered listening in, but the shift in the conversation behind him caught his attention.

“What’s he up to?” Galynia asked, concern in her voice.

The pause before the reply was long enough for Myreath to imagine the two women sitting with the elves exchanging a glance before the gnome finally answered.

“Milan wasn’t too happy about getting benched, so to speak. While you were talking to the lieutenant earlier, he asked if I’d be okay with him helping out one of the other squads tomorrow. He thinks he has something to prove after what happened in the Enclave.”

“Oh. I see.” There was a touch of embarrassment in Galynia’s voice. “Err, how about the both of you? Are you… disappointed, too?”

Lendi let out a snort. “I am, but not with you or our assignment tomorrow. If I hadn’t let that Druid keep talking, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I was curious about her perspective and too slow to act when she started insulting you instead. As sergeant, it’s my job to look out for the rest of you – and that day, I let you and Milan down. That’s why I didn’t have the heart to forbid him from asking the lieutenant, even if I do think he’s being selfish. Still, Agia’s fine with him tagging along tomorrow.”

“Just Milan being Milan. He is a Warlock, after all,” Agnes added lightly. “I’m not disappointed at all. Aunt Flo’s visiting, and she’s going to be even more annoying tomorrow than today… so I’m glad I won’t be in the middle of a battlefield.”

Galynia and Lendi made sympathetic noises at that, while Benthras coughed awkwardly.

Turning his attention back to the Warlock, Myreath spotted the content grin on Milan’s face as he parted ways with Valentian. So, it looked like their squad would be seven strong instead of the usual five tomorrow. The Demon Hunter could see why Agia had agreed: he, Kee’dril, and Naethir were relatively self-sufficient – as long as they didn’t get flattened like pancakes. Even if the fighting got intense, Agia should have no trouble managing their injuries with her healing. And frankly, Myreath was looking forward to brawling with djaradin a lot more than spending another day scrubbing soot from stone.

–.o.O.o.–

The next morning, they – minus Lendi’s squad – traveled to the Obsidian Bulwark, where a flight path had been established. Wrathion and his Blacktalon forces – individuals from various of Azeroth’s mortal races who had worked directly for the Black Prince even before the rediscovery of the Dragon Isles – had set up a small base among some ruins below the Obsidian Observatory. The mountains to the northeast of the Obsidian Citadel provided a clear vantage point over the compound, which was crisscrossed by lava streams originating from the surrounding high volcanoes.

The Spinecrafters weren’t the only ones aiding the Blacktalons that day. In addition to many other volunteers from both the Alliance and the Horde, a contingent of dracthyr was also present. One of the reptilian warriors approached after their landing – black scales rippling, and introduced herself as Scalecommander Emberthal. She led Lieutenant Valentian aside to brief him on the current situation.

When the lieutenant returned, now in his worgen form, his expression was especially grim. The reason became clear at once.

“Listen up, Spinies,” the Gilnean said, and began once they stood at attention. “According to the Scalecommander, Wrathion’s Talons have put together a solid battle plan – but there are a few flies in the ointment. Our enemies are numerous and hold several advantages. It’s believed the djaradin entered the Obsidian Citadel by tunneling into it with elemental magic. That means the walls haven’t been breached – fortifying their position even more. Additionally, there’s a special forge inside the Citadel. If the djaradin have accessed it, they may be arming themselves with powerful weapons from the vaults. Emberthal doubts we have the numbers to break through their defenses… but Wrathion doesn’t seem to share her concern. Either way – I won’t lie to you – unless we get some unexpected reinforcements, we’re in for a rough ride.”

“As long as the djaradin can’t endlessly replenish their forces, I’m not worried. The Army of the Light faced worse odds,” Thelri said, patting the crystal head of her mace with a confident grin. “Being outnumbered doesn’t scare me.”

“Me neither,” Gal’dir added promptly, and Myreath gave a noncommittal grunt of agreement. Like the Lightforged draenei, the Illidari were no strangers to fighting hopeless battles – just look at the Burning Legion.

“True, numbers don’t always decide a battle,” came Kee’dril’s softly reverberating voice. His red-glowing eyes were, as usual, hidden behind shaded glasses. “I’m more concerned about the enemy’s skill. I haven’t faced the djaradin myself yet, but Naethir mentioned you’ve encountered them before?”

Lieutenant Valentian nodded. “We helped retake a settlement they had overrun. The djaradin are elemental half-giants – strong, tall, and reportedly expert dragon-hunters. But I’d say they’re not particularly skilled fighters in general. They can take more punishment than most because of their size and resilience, but they’re still… well, mortal.”

“And blunt,” Milan added. “They don’t pull tricks or ambushes. Most use fire magic, favor axes or clubs, though some specialize in casting.”

“I still can’t decide if I should be happy or sad Agnes isn’t here,” Rohan muttered. “It would be nice to have her and the others with us, but a few more of us won’t tip the scales. I’m just glad she’s safe at the Lifeshrine.”

“Do nae worry, lad. As long as we take care o’ each other like always, we’ll all be back at the Shrine in one piece,” Agia said, giving the Gilnean an encouraging look. “Maybe Emberthal’s concerns come from knowin’ the djaradin through the dragons’ eyes. She doesn’t know what we mortals can do yet.”

“Or maybe she’s trying to offset Wrathion’s… overconfidence,” Haaldar pointed out.

Following the draenei’s insight, all eyes turned toward the Black Prince. He was in his visage form – a tan-skinned young human man with thick black hair, a neat goatee, and glowing red eyes – striding toward the edge of the base, clearly preparing to address the assembled forces.

Myreath watched him skeptically. Despite being far younger than himself, Orthorin had earned the Illidari’s trust as a captain. The void elf’s decisions were always made with care and consideration, weighing their consequences for the company’s wellbeing. Myreath wasn’t sure the same could be said of Wrathion. Hatched during the Cataclysm after being purged of the black dragonflight’s corruption, the Black Prince was even younger than the Dawncaller twins. While his human form appeared as that of a young adult and his dragon form had grown from whelp to drake, he was only twelve years old in truth.

Myreath had heard stories of Wrathion’s past deeds. During the Cataclysm, he had hired Rogue adventurers to ruthlessly eliminate corrupted black dragons. In Pandaria and during the faction war, he meddled in the affairs of the Horde and the Alliance, aiding whichever side he believed could unite Azeroth to face the looming threat of the Burning Legion – something he claimed to have foreseen. When King Varian Wrynn refused to raze the Horde after the Siege of Orgrimmar, Wrathion had taken matters into his own hands and orchestrated Garrosh’s escape – allegedly for Azeroth’s good. That chain of events had ultimately led to alternate Gul’dan’s arrival on Azeroth and the beginning of the Legion’s next invasion.

Wrathion couldn’t be blamed entirely for those consequences, and he had since redeemed himself somewhat by playing a key role in the fight against the Old God N’Zoth. But to Myreath, the young dragon now seemed dangerously fixated on one goal: reclaiming the Obsidian Throne and securing his place as the new Aspect of the black dragonflight – at any cost.

“Blacktalon! Friends!” Wrathion’s clear voice echoed across the ruins of the Obsidian Bulwark. “The moment we’ve prepared for is finally at hand. Yes, you’ve no doubt noticed that our forces are few in number. But you forget – we also have me. I am an incalculable advantage, and I will be denied my legacy no longer. The djaradin will fall before us, and the Citadel will be ours!”

While most of the Blacktalon forces erupted into cheers, the Spinecrafters exchanged grim glances, clearly unconvinced by the enthusiastic declaration.

“From what we’ve observed,” Wrathion continued, “djaradin society is built on strength. Their strongest warriors serve as symbols – examples to drive the others to fight harder. Among the forces outside the Citadel walls are three of their mightiest champions… and your first targets. Eliminating them should deal a devastating blow to enemy morale.”

“I can spot the ones that stand out,” Renald muttered, peering through the viewfinder of his camera, which doubled as a telescope. “One’s reachable by following the road below. The other two are on that big island in the middle of the lava. We’ll need to fight through the rest of the djaradin and cross one of the bridges to reach them.”

As expected, the gathered forces were split into three strike teams, each assigned to eliminate one of the named targets: Modak the Flamespit, Piercer Gigra, and Olphis the Molten. Lieutenant Valentian ensured that the Spinecrafters stayed together, and it was Wrathion himself who tasked them with targeting the female djaradin on the island.

“Do not let your guard down… and call upon the Blacktalon should you need aid,” the Black Prince concluded, then raised his voice to rally the assembled troops: “To the Obsidian Citadel!”

Without delay, the ragtag force of Blacktalon soldiers and volunteers began their march down the road from the Bulwark toward the distant Citadel. About an hour into the journey – moving at a slow but steady pace – their enemies became visible even to those without enhanced vision. Between fortifications built along the road and the island beyond, which was lined with architecture resembling a crude fusion of ogre and orc design (oversized buildings bristling with spikes and bones – trophies from slain dragons), tall, muscular figures moved in patrol. Their coal-colored skin shimmered with glowing tattoos.

Although it was impossible for the djaradin to miss the approaching army given the open terrain, Myreath noted that they showed no signs of panic. There was no chaos, no frenzied call for reinforcements. Those within the Citadel clearly trusted the warriors outside to hold the line.

Their progress wasn’t halted at the first barricades. Wrathion’s combined forces soon smashed through and surged into captured territory, tearing down djaradin banners and dismantling siege arbalests along the way. The army split up as planned, with the larger portion heading for the lava-separated island. Though the stone bridges should have served as natural chokepoints, flying dracthyr and mounted adventurers overcame that obstacle swiftly, and combat erupted across the entire island.

While the bulk of the assault team kept the enemy forces occupied, the Spinecrafters advanced directly toward Piercer Gigra. Renald had spotted her manning one of the siege arbalests atop a tower at the island’s edge.

To Myreath’s surprise, the winding ramp leading up to the tower’s top was unguarded. Clearly, the djaradin champion considered the need for guards beneath her. Lieutenant Valentian wasn’t so confident – he stationed Gal’dir and Rohan as lookouts at the tower’s base, just in case reinforcements arrived during the fight.

Shield raised, Valentian led the charge without hesitation. As he approached, the giant djaradin woman turned from her siege weapon and hefted a massive mace from her back. The first blow she struck crashed against the lieutenant’s shield with a thunderous impact, forcing a grunt from him.

Myreath landed beside her with an Infernal Strike, joining the melee. An eruption of Light beneath the enemy’s feet signaled Thelri’s entry into the fray, encouraged by Kee’dril’s resonant Battle Shout. A blast of frost followed – Naethir’s Howling Blast – chilling the searing air and dulling the burning heat that radiated from Gigra’s glowing weapon. Despite its heat, the mace itself remained intact and deadly.

Milan and Haaldar flung spells from the rear, while Renald launched arrows with relentless precision. Under the combined assault, Piercer Gigra began to falter, snarling her frustration before unleashing a deafening, magically enhanced Burning Roar. The force of it knocked everyone backward, dangerously close to the tower’s edge – where a fall meant certain death, either from the height or from the enemies below.

Gert and Agia reacted instantly, as always doing everything in their power to protect their comrades. The Holy Paladin cast Blessing of Freedom on himself, hoping it would anchor him in place long enough to heal others. Agia, meanwhile, flung down an Earthgrab Totem, roots surging to halt those pushed back by the roar.

The totem saved several of them – Naethir included – by halting their momentum. Valentian and Kee’dril used the push-back to launch a counteroffensive, Charging into melee once more. Myreath spread his wings and used another Infernal Strike to land safely on the platform. Thelri simply activated a Divine Shield, rendering her immune to the force of the shout.

Gert, however, wasn’t so lucky. His Blessing of Freedom prevented the totem from gripping his feet – and he was blasted backward. Myreath, watching from the other side of the platform, saw the Paladin – surrounded by the orange glow of his magic – sail over the edge. Yet he didn’t plummet like a stone. Instead, he drifted slowly, buoyed by magic.

Haaldar must have gotten a Slow Fall off just in time.

“Oh no, Gert!” Milan exclaimed, voicing the collective shock of everyone who had seen it happen.

Lieutenant Valentian, already occupied with fending off renewed attacks from the towering djaradin woman, cast a glance over his furred shoulder and let out a sharp curse.

The Mage’s spell had only temporarily spared Gert. The Paladin was now drifting toward the lower part of the island – territory still firmly held by the djaradin. Alone, he wouldn’t survive for long. Clearly, Gert had realized that as well. Myreath saw him pull something from his pocket, lift it to his mouth, and then go limp in the air.

He took one of my Potions of Frozen Fatality!

Momentarily ignoring the enemy behind him, Myreath tracked the descent of the seemingly lifeless Paladin. The nearby djaradin didn’t attack immediately. The ruse might have fooled beasts – but the djaradin were more discerning. One of the half-giants began cautiously approaching the body.

“Naethir!”

This time, it was Kee’dril’s voice that made Myreath whip his head around – just in time to see the Death Knight, newly freed from Agia’s roots, sprint toward the edge of the platform and leap after Gert. A wave of alarm surged through Myreath – oddly mirrored by Nurru’s own unease.

Before anyone else could react, the San’layn dashed past him and jumped as well. Neither of the two had received a Slow Fall and the Illidari expected the landing to injure them despite the Death Magic enhancing their bodies. But just before hitting the ground, Naethir was hurled forward by an unnatural gust of wind – triggered by the Potion of Gusts Myreath had given him the day before. Kee’dril landed moments later, softening his impact with a Heroic Leap, almost catching up to the void elf who hadn’t stopped despite the shout behind him.

“Blood and claw!” Valentian cursed again. “Myr, after them! The rest of you – eyes on Gigra. We finish her first, then help the others!”

Relieved by the order, Myreath gave a brisk salute and leapt from the tower, soaring down after the two undead and their fallen comrade.

If Naethir’s plan – given he had one in the first place – was to distract the djaradin from Gert’s body with his own approach, then it was working. Several half-giants, including the one who had been approaching the Paladin’s body, turned to face the Death Knight. One, hefting a massive arbalest bolt, lowered its tip toward him.

Naethir stood ready, runeblade poised – but before the bolt could strike, Kee’dril intercepted, clashing with the djaradin. A moment later, Myreath landed on the opposite flank, catching the hammer swing of another attacker with his warglaives.

“What are you doing here?!” Naethir demanded, parrying a mace strike from a third giant.

“Aiding you and Gert, of course,” Myreath growled, slicing into his opponent’s bicep, drawing a trickle of glowing blood.

“What were you thinking?! We’re undead, not immortal!” Kee’dril snapped as he ducked under the bolt wielder’s counterattack.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch the Paladin die! Not again!” Naethir snarled, yanking his sword from his enemy’s chest just in time to deflect another mace strike.

Kee’dril finally reached the arbalest carrier and finished him off in a flurry of strikes. “And what if you’d died? That was reckless!”

“So what? If Gert lives, it’s a worthy trade.”

Myreath was briefly torn between lecturing the kid and killing the djaradin who had just collapsed in front of him. “I doubt many of us Spinecrafters would agree with that. Certainly not your brothers.”

“They’re biased,” Naethir muttered. “They don’t see me for what I really am – an abomination.”

“That doesn’t make you worth less than anyone else!” Kee’dril hissed, his tone unusually sharp. “It’s our deeds that define us – not what we are. You should know that better than most.” With that, he charged into the next djaradin.

Myreath caught the flicker of a frown on Naethir’s face, but the Death Knight didn’t reply. The next minutes passed in a clash of steel and roars of battle.

After downing another half-giant, Myreath dashed to Gert’s side. He shook the Paladin’s shoulder, prompting a gasp and a sudden flurry of motion as Gert scrambled to his feet.

“What-?! Oh! Thank the Light, your potion worked.”

Myreath didn’t mention that it hadn’t worked perfectly; this wasn’t the time. “We need to get back to the tower before these bastards decide to come at us in force.”

Several more djaradin moved to intercept them, but the quartet cut a path through. As they neared the upper island, the chaotic skirmishing of Wrathion’s forces made the final leg easier. At last, they reached the tower – where the rest of the Spinecrafters were descending the ramp, their fight with Piercer Gigra evidently finished.

Agia, who had handled all the healing alone, looked exhausted. Some of the others bore minor injuries, which Gert immediately began treating.

“I’m very glad you all made it back safely,” Lieutenant Valentian began, his tone firm, “but you shouldn’t have taken off by yourselves.”

“I apologize for not waiting for orders, Sir,” Kee’dril said quickly, casting a glance at Naethir.

The Death Knight kept his gaze lowered. “We were in the middle of a fight. There was no time to waste.”

“True,” Valentian conceded. “But that doesn’t justify risking your own lives – and others’. Yes, we completed our objective without you, and Gert might have died without immediate aid. Still – harsh as it sounds – it would have been better to lose one than several in a rash rescue attempt.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Naethir muttered. Whether he meant it or simply wanted to end the discussion, Myreath couldn’t say.

Either way, Valentian let it go. The assault on the enemy base was far from over.

While the Spinecrafters had taken down Piercer Gigra, another contingent of Wrathion’s forces had successfully dealt with the giant lava mammoth, Olphis the Molten. As they returned from the island to the mainland, they regrouped with the soldiers who had eliminated Modak Flamespit.

A short distance along the broad road, Wrathion awaited them – now in his drake form – surrounded by his Blacktalon operatives.

“The next battle will no doubt be fierce,” the Black Prince proclaimed, his voice carrying easily over the assembled troops, “but our courage and determination will overcome their superior numbers. I’m counting on each of your exceptional skills to lead us to victory. Ready yourselves for the assault!”

With that, Wrathion launched into the air, wings stretching wide as he soared over their heads, flying straight toward the enemy, who had assembled just beyond the gates atop lava mammoths.

Inspired by the bold display, the army surged forward with a thunderous chorus of battle cries. But before Wrathion even reached the first line of defenders, multiple shadows darkened the sky above. Streams of dragonfire rained down on the mounted djaradin – both mammoths and their fire-infused avian companions. The attack was devastating. Those not incinerated on the spot turned and fled behind the gates in panic.

While most of the dragons continued their pursuit over the walls, one of them turned back and descended toward the army at the gate. The black-scaled figure landed with grace on the opposite side of the bridge from Wrathion, blocking the entrance to the Citadel.

From his central position in the formation, Myreath suspected most of the Spinecrafters could only see fleeting glimpses of the confrontation. But with his enhanced vision, the Demon Hunter saw both dragons land and revert to their visage forms.

“What in the world…?” Rohan muttered. “That are black dragons! Where did they come from? I thought Wrathion and Ebyssian were the only sane ones left?”

Renald had slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled out his camera, its excited clicks already filling the air as he tried to capture the dragons overhead.

“I’ve got no idea,” Lieutenant Valentian said, his voice rough with barely restrained emotion. “But they certainly picked a good time to show up. That’s the unexpected help we needed.”

All around them, murmurs and surprised shouts broke out among the troops. Even Myreath, trying to focus on the confrontation ahead, couldn’t make out the dragons’ conversation. But their body language said enough: mutual disbelief – and a tension that suggested their meeting was anything but friendly.

Before the matter could escalate further, the djaradin burst from the Citadel gates, having recovered from their initial shock. The battle resumed at once.

With Wrathion and the dragons providing aerial cover – taking out wall-mounted siege arbalests and routing enemy snipers – the allied ground forces pushed through the breach. They fought their way into the Citadel and eventually secured the Upper Courtyard. The victory was hard-won but decisive.

Once inside, Wrathion returned to his humanoid form, which allowed him to move more freely in the tighter quarters of the Citadel.

“Sabellian and his forces will hold the line against any counterattack,” he announced, gesturing toward a squat stone pillar off to one side of the courtyard. “I will now activate the Oathstone to restore the power of the Black dragonflight.”

Myreath frowned. That unimpressive monument – the so-called Oathstone – didn’t look like the source of any kind of power, let alone something capable of reawakening a dragonflight’s legacy. Alexstrasza had told them the same back at the Ruby Lifeshrine. A similar pillar stood there, carved from a lighter-colored stone. She hadn’t yet managed to activate it, despite her vast experience and stature.

Clearly, Wrathion believed himself more capable. But as the Black Prince circled the Oathstone, examining it closely, his confidence began to wane.

“Something’s wrong here,” he said finally. “This… this cannot be. The stone is cracked?”

Another figure stepped up to Wrathion – one Myreath recognized as the black dragon from earlier, back in his visage form. Sabellian. He looked like an older, more careworn version of the Black Prince: same tan skin and black hair, though his was tied back in a tail. His eyes were honey-colored and slitted like a serpent’s, in contrast to Wrathion’s ruby irises.

“Father broke his oath,” Sabellian said quietly, but with weight. “And with that, the stone broke as well.”

Wrathion’s face twisted in outrage. “We must repair it!”

“And how do you plan to do that, little brother?” Sabellian asked, his voice laced with thinly veiled condescension.

A familiar chill ran down Myreath’s spine at that tone. It echoed with the same dismissive superiority Kelorn had once used on him – long before Yadane had entered their lives and torn the last threads of brotherly trust. At least now the black dragons’ sudden appearance was explained: like Wrathion, Sabellian had come to reclaim their legacy as Neltharion’s heirs.

One of the black drakonid among Wrathion’s forces dared to step forward, cutting into the rising tension.

“It is possible. The Forge of the Earth-Warder is nearby – one of the most powerful dragon forges ever built. Our ancestors used it to craft weapons and armor of unparalleled strength to defend Azeroth. The power in its hearth could be enough to restore the shattered Oathstone.”

Scalecommander Emberthal, who had been watching quietly thus far, picked up the idea at once. “The djaradin have been looting the Citadel. Perhaps they’ve taken the fragments.”

With that, she and a large part of Wrathion’s forces moved out, aiming to sweep the vaults below that remained infested with djaradin.

The Spinecrafters, meanwhile, accompanied the drakonid who had spoken up – now introduced as Forgemaster Bazentus – across the courtyard toward the ancient forge.

“In addition to the fragments, we’ll need Cindershard Coals to fuel the flames,” Bazentus instructed them. “And plenty of it.”

One of Wrathion’s Talons inspected the nearby heaps of coal and returned with a concerned expression. “Some of it’s been corrupted by djaradin magic. Be careful – it could react violently.”

“You heard her, Spinies,” Lieutenant Valentian barked. “Test the piles before picking anything up. Prod at them first. Let’s gather as much usable coal as we can for Bazentus.”

“I’ll do the testing,” Naethir offered immediately. Catching the skeptical frowns from Myreath and Kee’dril, he added defensively: “What? It’s true that if anything explodes, curses, or lights up, I’ll handle it better than anyone else here.”

Myreath snorted. “Fine, kid, but you’re forgetting something; some of us,” he gestured to himself and Gal’dir, “can sense magic before it tries to bite.”

With that clarified, both squads coordinated their efforts. The Illidari scouted the piles for traces of unusual magic. At first, they stuck to uncorrupted coal, but when that ran out, Naethir triggered one of the suspect piles while shielded by an Anti-Magic Shell. As anticipated, the heap animated into a coal elemental, but after slaying it, the creature crumbled into usable coal like the rest.

At the forge, Bazentus was soon joined by two more drakonid, and together they prepared the great forge. When all was ready, Wrathion himself arrived and added his fiery breath to the furnace. As Emberthal’s team returned with the recovered Oathstone fragments, the reforging began.

Back at the pillar, Wrathion – still in his visage form – carefully placed the mended fragments into their original positions atop the Oathstone. To Myreath’s surprise, something actually happened. The stone glowed from within, and sparks erupted from its peak, shooting high into the sky.

Celebrations were short-lived.

Wrathion, eyes narrowing, suddenly turned to see Sabellian and his flight taking wing, heading toward the Upper Citadel. Alarm flashed across the prince’s face. Without another word, he transformed into his drake form and gave chase, leaving the majority of his flightless followers behind in the courtyard.

“Great,” Gal’dir muttered. “So what now? Sit around and wait for our temporary boss to remember we exist?”

“Looks to me like the assault’s over,” Lieutenant Valentian said evenly. “Wrathion’s Blacktalon and Sabellian’s brood can hold what we’ve reclaimed today. It’ll take time to purge the vaults and the outer compounds, but that’s their problem now. We’ve done our part. Let’s return to the Lifeshrine.”

Many of the other volunteers who had supported Wrathion’s forces that day followed suit, either heading back to the Obsidian Bulwark to use the flight path or simply departing on their own flying mounts. The Spinecrafters hadn’t yet reached the halfway point through the mountain ruins when a large shadow fell across the path. Moments later, Sabellian landed in front of them and shifted into his visage form – followed immediately by Wrathion.

“You there, in your Alliance tabards,” Sabellian addressed them, “I have need of a group like yours… if you’re up to the task.”

At least the older dragon had the decency to phrase it as a request, not a command.

Lieutenant Valentian stepped forward. “What do you have in mind? It’s been a long day, and my soldiers deserve their evening, but if your task aligns with our goals, we’ll certainly consider it.”

As it turned out – it did.

Sabellian, who had traveled to the Dragon Isles from Outland, had not only brought his flight with him, but also something thought lost to Azeroth’s future: uncorrupted black dragon eggs.

“With the Oathstone empowered once more, we must now transport the future of our kind to the Life Pools. It is the right of every true Dragonflight to have their eggs nurtured by its waters,” Sabellian explained. “Unfortunately, our enemies will be watching the skies, now that we’ve revealed ourselves. We’ll make the final leg of the journey on foot like mortals to avoid their scrutiny.”

And since dragons – even grounded ones – were hardly inconspicuous, he needed mortals to escort the wagon carrying the eggs. So instead of flying back to the Lifeshrine, the Spinecrafters walked alongside Sabellian, Wrathion, and the wagon.

Their pace was slow and delayed by repeated attacks from tarasek that crossed their path. Wrathion’s growing impatience became more visible with each skirmish; he would have much preferred to fly, enemies watching or not. Still, he remained with the group – unwilling to abandon the eggs or to let Sabellian return to Alexstrasza without him.

The dragons’ constant bickering along the road made it obvious: they were locked in a contest for leadership of the black dragonflight. Sabellian, once anointed as caretaker by Neltharion himself, clearly hadn’t anticipated being challenged by a self-important whelp younger than even the mortals walking beside him.

Wrathion, in turn, showed himself unimpressed by the age and experience of his older brother. He had only just learned of his existence, as Sabellian had kept himself and his flight hidden in Outland to fight off Deathwing’s madness. Instead of marveling at their survival, the Black Prince saw their withdrawal from Azeroth as an abandonment of their duty, which he himself had tried to uphold on behalf of the whole flight since he had hatched.

After dispatching yet another tarasek ambush, the younger dragon snapped. “This is getting ridiculous. How many random encounters must we suffer before you realize your ruse has failed? Let’s take wing and be done with it!”

Though Myreath generally found himself more aligned with Sabellian, he had to admit Wrathion had a point. The number of tarasek hunting parties they had run into was… suspect. The Spinecrafters had traveled this road before without seeing any sign of them.

Sabellian’s response was sharp. “Cease your fidgeting! If anything is putting us at risk of discovery, it is your childish impatience.”

Lieutenant Valentian, now suspicious himself, dispatched Gal’dir and Renald ahead as scouts, suspecting Primalists might be lying in wait. Myreath and Rohan were assigned to watch the flanks of the wagon, attention raised for any signs of danger.

Sure enough, the next wave of attackers – this time Primalists with elementals – was spotted early. Thanks to the advance warning, the Spinecrafters intercepted and eliminated them before they could threaten the wagon.

But just as they neared the curved archway into the gardens of the Ruby Lifepools, Myreath caught something – a shape diving at them from above.

He had grown used to ground-based attacks and let his vigilance toward the sky slip. The best he could do now was shout a warning.

The Spinecrafters reacted instantly, trusting his alarm without hesitation. They dove aside just as a stream of fire engulfed the road from above.

The proto-dragon’s ambush left most of them with only light burns. Sabellian and Wrathion stepped away from the wagon unscathed by the dragon fire. However, the same couldn’t be said for the horses pulling the wagon – they were incinerated instantly. Worse, the eggs were now nothing but ash.

Wrathion stared, stunned, then stepped forward. With a flare of wings, he transformed into his drake form as if to give chase – but the proto-dragon had already retreated, unwilling to risk a confrontation with the red flight so close to their base. It disappeared into the skies above, veering toward the upper Lifeshrine.

As it vanished, Wrathion took off after it, but not before hurling one last scathing remark at his brother: “Is this the leadership you offer our people? Perhaps the others will see reason, now!”

Strangely, Sabellian remained unfazed. Myreath, who had already suspected something, felt his suspicions solidify.

The older dragon simply sighed. “Whelps these days. Be assured, this is far from over – and you have fulfilled your task as expected.”

“But… the eggs!” Thelri pointed to the still-smoking wreckage.

“They weren’t real, were they?” Myreath asked. He hadn’t been sure earlier, but the eggs’ look beneath the cloth hadn’t matched those he had seen before. They might have fooled ordinary sight, but not his.

“Indeed,” Sabellian said, smiling smugly. “The eggs were never in danger. The cart, and my presence, were merely to draw the attention of our foes and allow my clutch to move unobserved. They will have brought the eggs to the Life-Binder by now. The only thing unaccounted for was Wrathion’s presence testing my patience.”

A round of relieved sighs and half-laughs followed, tinged with a shared sense of awkward amusement at Wrathion’s expense. A few even chuckled at Sabellian’s jab.

Moments later, the older dragon shifted once more and took flight, likely off to resume his squabble with his younger rival – this time in front of the Dragonqueen herself.

–.o.O.o.–

Sergeant Lendi and the rest of her squad welcomed them back with heartfelt enthusiasm – partly out of genuine concern for their comrades’ fate during Wrathion’s assault, but also, quite plainly, because their stomachs were growling. Due to the unexpected escort mission instead of an immediate return to the Lifeshrine, the two squads arrived at their temporary home – the inn at the base of the red flight’s seat – well past the usual dinner hour.

By now, the others were already seated around the broad stone tables in front of Vakaron’s hearth, digging into whatever the dragonspawn chef had decided to serve that night. Myreath often joined them for company, even though he didn’t partake in the meals himself (he had scheduled another trip to the Fel Hammer for tomorrow). But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for chatter. Instead, he had taken up a quieter spot near Naethir, lost in thought.

Unlike him, Gal’dir had joined the others at the tables – though judging by his expression, he wasn’t especially thrilled with the food. The other Demon Hunter had recently told Myreath how much he was looking forward to eating his cooking again. Myreath had made a point of always slipping extra spices into Gal’dir’s rations, knowing how an Illidari’s taste was skewed by fel consumption. He himself was looking forward to cooking for the squad again soon. He had a strong hunch they wouldn’t be staying in the Waking Shores much longer and would soon be moving on to the Ohn’ahran Plains – where the luxury of an inn to house and feed them all was unlikely.

As dinner wound down, their comrades gradually drifted away from the hearth, seeking out the cozier seating areas or quieter corners of the hall. Myreath noticed Thelri and Haaldar heading for the inn’s exit. The Lightforged Paladin clearly looked eager to have her partner all to herself. After spending years around her, Myreath could easily read the signs. A good day of battle – and watching Haaldar prove his worth in it (especially his rescue of Gert from a lethal fall) – was just the sort of thing to get her into the mood.

Myreath wasn’t entirely sure how he would have felt in Haaldar’s place. As a Demon Hunter, he was better built for heroic feats than as Restoration Druid, but Yadane’s desire for him had worked differently. In the early years of their relationship, novelty and passion had been enough. But after centuries together, their love life had deepened into something more intimate and profound. Caring for Yadane after a long day – surprising her with her favorite snack, a quiet massage, or simply giving her space – had often drawn her close again. Parenthood had only deepened that connection. While teaching Vivisa and Nandon or tending to their needs, Myreath had often seen that gentle, misty-eyed look on his wife’s face… and shortly after, she would drag him somewhere quiet to love him softly and completely.

He suppressed a low growl and silently cursed himself for letting his thoughts drift. The memory of Yadane’s beautiful face sent a familiar ache through his chest – one of yearning, swiftly followed by the sharp, biting grief of loss. Her and the children.

A part of him, however briefly, resented the Spinecrafters for that – especially Thelri and Haaldar, and Rohan and Agnes, who had had a touching reunion earlier. The ever-present snuggling of Galynia and Benthras had become a background constant he almost managed to ignore. Their company brought back memories of what he had once had and lost – more often than during his time with the Slayer’s Elite.

But that wasn’t a bad thing, even if it was painful.

Back then, he had been a monster among monsters. The Illidari had fought for a noble cause, yes, but many of them had reveled in cruelty – not just against demons, but also among themselves.

Now, he was a monster among people – trying to redeem himself. Whether that redemption was even possible, he didn’t know. Certainly not in Yadane’s eyes. Her words on Korthia echoed through his thoughts yet again, soon joined by Kee’dril’s from earlier that day:

It’s our deeds that define us, not what we are.

Monster. Abomination. His deeds had defined him, indeed. And they had proven what he was – something worse than merely Illidari.

If being a Demon Hunter were the only mark against him, things might be different. His training partner back at the Fel Hammer, Acharin Crimsonwing, had found love on Azeroth after the Legion’s defeat. So had one of Acharin’s companions, who had bonded with a nightborne. But neither of them were monsters who had killed their own brother and obliterated his soul out of vengeance.

True monsters couldn’t be loved.

The best Myreath could hope for now was someone like Thinnadis occasionally climbing into his lap – someone who didn’t care about character as long as the exterior was appealing. And fortunately for him, the Warlock had a peculiar taste.

“Are you all right?”

Myreath actually flinched, startled. He cursed himself again – he had let his guard down in more ways than one. He hadn’t noticed Kee’dril return at all.

While the rest of the company had been eating, the undead blood elf had gone out to find his own meal. Clearly, he hadn’t been tempted to taste any of the djaradin’s blood earlier. Myreath imagined it would leave anyone – undead or not – with a severely scorched tongue.

“I’m fine,” he growled.

Kee’dril raised both hands in a soothing gesture. “Just wondering. You looked pretty glum.”

The Demon Hunter sighed, regretting his bristly response. “Just being haunted by the past.”

The San’layn looked like he was about to say something, but their conversation was abruptly cut short when Zherrak burst into the inn, unusually animated.

“Everyone, great news!” the dragonspawn announced to the entire room. “The Ruby Oathstone has just been reactivated!”

Surprised, joyful outcries rang out from all corners – Spinecrafters, other guests, and even a few dragonkin. Questions followed in a lively chorus.

“The return of the black flight’s eggs made it possible,” Zherrak explained. “Dragonkind is once more united; something that hasn’t happened in thousands of years.” Another burning question was addressed, too: “No, the Life-Binder hasn’t chosen between Wrathion and Sabellian as the new Aspect. She’s leaving that decision to the black flight itself.”

As the excitement ebbed, Vakaron raised his voice cheerfully: “I’d say these good news call for a round of free drinks for everyone!”

Cheers and applause followed instantly.

Suddenly, the others’ elated mood felt suffocating. Myreath turned back to Kee’dril with a muttered excuse: “I’m going out for a walk. Maybe it’ll help clear my head.”

He didn’t stay out for long, though.

Soon, he returned carrying Nawag in his arms. Earlier, he had sent the little felstalker off with Nag to keep the pet out of harm’s way during Wrathion’s assault. It hadn’t been without risk – demons were still targets in many eyes – but he trusted them to look after themselves, despite one of them being comically tiny. If another Illidari had crossed their path, he hoped they would have recognized Nag’s harness and known better than to interfere. Nurru, at least, had been relieved to find them both unharmed, and his inner demon’s contentment at the reunion worked just as Myreath had hoped: it soothed something in his own soul.

Still, he didn’t linger outside. He was tired – more than tired. The exertions of the day, combined with an overdue need to feed, had left him drained.

Back inside, the rest of the Spinecrafters – aside from Thelri and Haaldar, who remained absent – had slipped back into their usual pastimes. Cradling Nawag and offering lazy belly rubs, Myreath crossed the hall and joined Valentian, who stood flipping through a tome near the bookshelf.

“Doing some last-minute research on the next stop of our journey?” he asked, hazarding a hopeful guess.

The corners of the worgen’s mouth twitched. He half-closed the book, offering Myreath a glimpse of the cover: Centaurs and Their Clans. “Guilty as charged.”

“Is there another book on the Plains you haven’t checked out yet? I wouldn’t mind a read.”

“Oh! Sure.” Valentian handed him another tome. “I was planning to look at this next, but you’re welcome to it. We can trade impressions afterward.”

Myreath nodded, thanked him, and carried the book to a quiet corner. As he passed through the hall, he caught a puzzled look from a Kul Tiran woman – though it wasn’t aimed at him, exactly, but at the book in his hands. Right. Plenty still thought the Illidari were completely blind. In truth, they simply saw differently.

Lowering himself into a seat, Nawag curling up contentedly on his lap, Myreath opened the tome: Merithra and the Pact with the Maruuk. To his quiet pleasure, it was a magically scribed copy rather than a handwritten original. Magical script left slight traces of energy that made it easier to read. For that reason, Illidari often mixed fel into their own ink when writing to one another.

Skimming the pages, he was reminded that Merithra was Ysera’s daughter, and that she and a contingent of the green dragonflight had once been at war with the centaur of the Ohn’ahran Plains – before uniting with them against the proto-dragons.

But just as he was starting to read deeper, his attention was drawn away by a nearby exchange between the two undead.

“Why do you always keep to yourself?” Kee’dril asked gently. “I’m fairly sure the others would let you join their games. Maybe even me… though I’m not quite brave enough to test that yet.”

“I don’t want to bother them,” Naethir replied quickly.

“But… I don’t think you would.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Why?” the San’layn pressed, voice still quiet. “It’s one of the things that really struck me about this company. Some of them clearly care about you – and the rest, at the very least, accept you. They don’t just see you as an abomination. What you’ve got here is incredible. Other undead can’t even dream of that. Are you aware of it?”

“I…” Naethir hesitated, then said, “That’s just because they like my brothers. Saewron’s always kind to everyone, and they respect Orthorin as their captain.”

For the second time that day, Myreath felt the urge to cuff the kid upside the head – but resisted. He wanted to hear how this played out.

“Then why are they also nice to me?” Kee’dril wondered.

Very good question! The Illidari inwardly applauded the San’layn, once again feeling his judgment of the bloodsucker reaffirmed.

“Earlier, Gert even came to thank me for helping to rescue him… and he was one of those who voted against me staying,” Kee’dril added, clearly touched.

“Because… you’re different from me,” Naethir said, the pain in his voice barely hidden. “More alive, in a way.”

Kee’dril looked at him thoughtfully. “You might have a point. I always liked drawing… it helps me feel more alive. Maybe you could try something like that.”

Naethir stared at his own hand, flexing it slowly – as if testing whether it still obeyed him. He said nothing.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” Kee’dril asked. “Just watching the others, or waiting for them to wake up again?”

That surprised Myreath. He had assumed the kid’s quiet distance was just typical for undead. Before meeting Kee’dril, he had never seen a Death Knight or Forsaken sketching or sewing. But then again, he had mostly met them in battle.

“I used to,” Naethir said. “But not anymore. I don’t really mind the waiting now… or anything.”

Kee’dril frowned. “So what did you do when you did get bored?”

“I cut gems.”

“Oh! You’re a jeweler? I’d love to see how that works.”

“I… don’t have the materials,” Naethir said evasively.

“Then let’s get some tomorrow,” Kee’dril offered easily. “I’ve gathered ore before. That’s where gems come from, right?”

“Yes, but… I never really cared about it. I’m not good at it. It was just something to keep my hands busy.”

“Then isn’t there something you did like doing? There has to be something.”

Naethir shifted, clearly uncomfortable, and looked away.

Kee’dril waited.

“Train with the sword… maybe?” Naethir said finally, though he sounded unsure even of that.

Myreath was surprised he had answered at all.

“Then let’s do that!” Kee’dril stood.

“Now?!”

“Why not?”

“But… we just fought all day.”

“So? Don’t tell me you’re tired. That’s something I haven’t been since I died.”

The comment reminded Myreath just how drained he felt himself. He needed to feed soon. The idea of sparring right now was laughable.

“Err… no, I’m not tired either,” Naethir said reluctantly.

“Great!” Kee’dril reached for his arm to tug him toward the exit, then paused. “Wait… I still need a second sword. Think Gal’dir would mind if I borrowed one again?”

They hadn’t recovered Kee’dril’s missing blade, and Gal’dir had lent him one this morning – an unexpected gesture of trust from the weapons master.

Before Naethir could answer, the vampyre shook his head. “Never mind. For training, one sword will do.”

“Would you mind a spectator?” Myreath asked, lowering the book with only a faint stab of guilt. He could catch up later.

“I wouldn’t,” Kee’dril said at once.

Naethir just shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Outside, night had fallen. Lanterns lit the area before the inn in a warm glow that cast long shadows across the stones. Myreath settled on the stairs with Nawag curling up beside him, while the two undead squared off in the open space below.

“This sure takes me back,” Kee’dril remarked, testing the weight of his single sword with a few sweeping arcs.

Moments later, the clash of blades rang through the air. The metallic notes echoed against the stone walls, sharp and crisp. Myreath observed their movements closely – both combatants moved with discipline and purpose. They seemed to be evenly matched, but it was clear they hadn’t yet reached the peak of their skill.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got,” Kee’dril needled during a brief lull, clearly seeing the same potential for more.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The San’layn snorted. “What do you take me for? So used to training only with the living that you’ve forgotten what a real sparring is?”

Without waiting for a reply, Kee’dril struck again, quick and precise. Naethir took the hit. Myreath flinched at the impact, even though his own skin was reinforced by demonic scales. The Death Knight didn’t cry out, but flexed the struck limb and straightened, determination now replacing his usual hesitation.

“Fine. As you wish.”

As the duel intensified, Myreath considered withdrawing further up the stairs. The clang of weapons grew louder and even began to draw a crowd – a few curious Spinecrafters filtering out.

“W-what’s g-going on here?” Benthras asked, just as Rohan gave a questioning grunt.

“Our two undead letting off some steam,” Myreath said dryly, “and testing their blades.”

Benthras nodded and turned to head back inside. “I-I’ll tell Galynia. S-she thought we were under attack again.”

Rohan followed him, while Gal’dir lingered, eventually sitting down beside Myreath to watch the match unfold.

The fight made Myreath think of his own duels within the Slayer’s Elite – so-called training bouts that had often blurred the line between exercise and dominance. Back then, every move was a veiled threat, every exchange a test of status. This, by contrast, had none of that venom. These two fought hard, but there was mutual respect etched into every parried strike and every moment of stillness between each round.

Eventually, Thelri and Haaldar returned from their evening walk. The Lightforged practically glowed – more than her gold tinged skin and the rune on her forehead usually did. Her good mood unmistakable, she plopped onto the stairs beside them, eyes lit with excitement as she watched the duel.

The fight reached a climax when Kee’dril disarmed Naethir in a blur of motion and leveled his sword at the Death Knight’s throat – a finishing move so swift Myreath nearly missed it. Thelri whooped in delight, clapping for the victor.

But the tone shifted.

Naethir stood frozen, eyes wide with shock. He didn’t immediately take back the runeblade Kee’dril offered.

“Don’t look at me like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kee’dril said, lowering his weapon slightly.

“But I have.”

The San’layn chuckled. “I know the feeling.”

“That move…” Naethir’s voice was uneven. “I’ve seen it before.” He finally took his sword back.

“I’m not surprised,” Kee’dril said. “I told you I was a battle priest before my death. One of the men who trained me was extraordinary – a mentor, a friend. His name was Kath’dril Dawncaller.”

Naethir flinched like he had been hit, his posture stiffening.

“So I was right,” Kee’dril murmured, studying him. “You know that name.”

“O-of course,” Naethir stammered. “He was a famed war hero… and my-” He paused, then sighed. “He was my mentor. My paragon, back when I served as a Blood Knight.” His gaze dropped to the sword in his hands. “He taught me that move… and how to counter it. I should’ve known better. But of course I screwed it up.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Kee’dril replied gently. “I caught you by surprise, that’s all. And I had centuries more to practice it – your f-…-amed mentor and I sparred together for nearly four hundred years. Given you trained with him as Blood Knight, I’ve had far more time to get used to it. It was Kath’dril’s signature move.”

A wistful smile crossed the San’layn’s lips as he examined his blade. “Honestly, I’m amazed I still pulled it off right. Been too used to dual-wielding lately.”

Their duel had ended, but their conversation continued, now thick with unexpected connection.

On the stairs, Thelri frowned. “Wait… Dawncaller? It’s the same last name, isn’t it? Among you people, doesn’t that mean-?”

“Yes,” Myreath confirmed quietly, cutting her off. “He wasn’t just Naethir’s mentor. He was most likely his father.”

Thelri blinked. “Then… why doesn’t he say so?”

“Because he’s ashamed,” Haaldar said, his voice carrying a note of sadness.

“Of his father?”

“No. Of himself,” the draenei replied. “For feeling like he’s failed his ancestor – failed to live up to the man’s legacy.”

Myreath nodded in agreement.

Gal’dir leaned in. “Explains a lot. Why he’s so withdrawn. It’s not just the whole undead thing.”

“Should we tell Kee’dril?” Thelri whispered. “Let him know?”

Myreath shook his head. “I think he already knows. But he’s giving Naethir the space to say it himself.”

“Then we should do the same,” Haaldar murmured.

Below, the two undead were still talking, but Thelri’s voice rang out brightly: “Well? We’re waiting! Is there going to be a rematch or what?”

Kee’dril glanced at Naethir, then up at the moon, now glowing high in the night sky. “Not tonight. It’s getting late – and we don’t want to keep anyone from sleeping.”

Thelri sighed in exaggerated disappointment. “Fine, fine. But tomorrow, I expect a rematch!”

Kee’dril turned to the Death Knight. “What do you say? Rematch tomorrow?”

Naethir gave one of his habitual shrugs – but then, catching himself, frowned and adjusted his stance.

“Actually,” he said quietly, “I think I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

You’re not seriously intending to climb up there, are you? Are you trying to get yourself killed? The gravelly voice in his head almost sounded panicked.

Pilinor smiled to himself, savoring the flicker of unease in its tone.

“One might think you actually care about my well-being,” he murmured. “But I know better. You’re only concerned because me dying would be… inconvenient for you, right?”

A beat of silence.

You’ll slip. A fall from this height will break every bone in your body. Yes, having to move around that way would be… bothersome. Don’t be stubborn – call your new bug. It can carry you there safely.

“It’s not a bug. It’s a skitterfly,” Pilinor corrected absently.

That pause before the voice responded – subtle, but telling – confirmed what Pilinor had long suspected. The thing in his head didn’t want him dead. It hadn’t denied the real concern, only deflected it with technicalities. It never spoke of him dying, only of injuries that would still leave his soul intact – and tethered. That was the key.

If the time ever came when he could no longer resist the presence clawing at the corners of his mind, he knew one sure way to stop it: sever the connection himself. It was reassuring. In a way.

The Hunterstepped closer to the edge of the aqueduct. Far below, the fjord separating the Waking Shores from Thaldraszus glittered in the sunlight. A warm updraft tousled his light-purple hair and rushed past his elongated ears.

Yes, falling from this height would be fatal. Not even a well-timed Disengage could save him. But Pilinor had known the risks since climbing onto the aqueduct wall at the Ruby Lifeshrine.

With both Oathstones restored in the Waking Shores, many explorers and adventurers were ready to move on. Most aimed for the Ohn’ahran Plains, but Pilinor had no desire to follow the crowd. He had set his sights on the Azure Span to the south. That meant crossing either the plains to the west or the mountainous region to the east.

He had chosen the latter. Not only did it offer a route to Valdrakken – where he could sell his collected goods and restock supplies – but it also promised less-traveled terrain. Though flying would have been easier, Pilinor preferred exploring on foot, especially in new territory.

When he had asked the dragonkin about footpaths to Thaldraszus, they had offered little help – except one, who had jokingly suggested the aqueduct from Tyrhold.

It had worked surprisingly well as a bridge. Wide and stable, the walkway beside the rushing water was a good path – as long as one didn’t suffer from vertigo. But now, facing the cliff where the aqueduct ended in a waterfall, the real challenge began.

“Well, not that much different from our usual morning and evening workouts, right?” he said to Yula, his spider companion, who clicked her mandibles in agreement.

Roval didn’t seem to share that opinion. The big wasp buzzed anxiously, circling above the aqueduct before landing again with a disgruntled hum.

See? Even the wasp has more sense than you. Listen to it, if you won’t listen to me.

“We’ll ignore the height. I haven’t fallen yet, and there’s no reason to start now – no matter how far the drop is.” Pilinor gestured up the mountainside. “Let’s go. Yula, you know the drill.”

The first part of the climb was easy. The slope wasn’t vertical, and there were plenty of natural handholds. But as he ascended higher, the rock face became smoother, merging into carved stone. That’s when Yula’s silk lines became essential.

He slipped twice – badly enough that he would have died if not for Yula’s help. Each time he clung to the wall, heart hammering, he expected the voice in his head to sneer at him. But it stayed silent, perhaps wisely avoiding distractions.

At last, drenched in sweat and shaking with exhaustion, Pilinor reached the top. Flat ground had never looked so good.

But before he could even catch his breath, a fire elemental charged at them. Roval intercepted it, and Pilinor slung his bow from his back. Yula was at Roval’s side in moments, still trailing silk behind her. Together, they brought the creature down. To avoid drawing the attention of more of the fire and steam elementals, they retreated from the terrace of hot springs and went farther up the mountain to rest.

I told you you’d slip. Trusting your life to spider silk… You’re a fool. Then again, that’s what will get me what I want in the end.

Pilinor shivered at the voice’s return. He considered shutting it out with his usual method – but the taxing way ahead to Valdrakken made him hesitate.

Fortunately, as the three of them followed the steep path winding up toward the mountain city, the thing in his head grew quieter – just as it usually did whenever the Hunter was on the road with only his pets for company.

He paused often – not only to relax or let his companions recover, but to collect the useful resources he spotted along the way: blue Vine Flowers, prized for their rope-making fibers; seeds from the ripe Gratona, used in moisturizers for scaly skin; and gold-tinged Titan Orchids, sought after for paint in architecture and outdoor crafts. The dragonkin he had spoken with had mentioned their value. The more he could sell in Valdrakken, the better.

–.o.O.o.–

Valdrakken looked unlike any city Pilinor had visited before – perhaps because it was the first city of dragons (and their kin) he had ever set foot in. The Ruby Lifeshrine had already hinted at the distinctiveness of draconic architecture, rising as it did in one great tower layered like a tiered cake – but that had only been a shrine, not a city.

Valdrakken felt like an entire collection of such towers, sculpted partially into the mountainside and built entirely from stone. Several high spires were linked by arched bridges to an even taller central tower crowned with a domed roof. The so-called smaller buildings weren’t all that small either – short, broad towers in their own right. Everything about the city defied the crowded, compressed layout of mortal settlements. Where those crammed buildings close together with narrow, winding alleys, Valdrakken offered wide roads, generous plazas, and open space – clearly designed so that dragons in their true forms could roam freely without feeling constrained.

Fountains and canals were a familiar sight in cities like Silvermoon and Stormwind, but Valdrakken took the concept further: several large and small streams meandered through the city in their natural state and spilled over ledges in cascading falls. As cities went, Pilinor quite liked it. At one of the flowing rivers, he paused to wash off the sweat and grime of his journey.

There was one actual fountain he came across: a modest one, set in a green patch in the middle of the city’s largest square, located at the base of the broad stairs leading to the entrance of the tallest tower. Around this square, Pilinor found what he was looking for – a bank carved directly into the rock, marked by a mosaic of a treasure chest; an auction house; and an inn built into one of the stubby towers. The mailbox outside the inn’s entrance reminded him that trade wasn’t the only reason he had come to Valdrakken.

Weeks ago, he had been warned a letter would arrive – and sure enough, it had. Saewron had written to ask after his travels and well-being. Just words on a page, yet the message had left Pilinor oddly uplifted. He had even written a reply – longer than usual for him. On a whim, he had asked one of the dragonspawn at the Lifeshrine to proofread it. He had felt a bit silly afterward, but also relieved. On the one hand, he had told Saewron he wasn’t great with words and letters – so why fuss with edits? But on the other, he had managed to misspell most of the local herbs and plants, which could have frustrated the alchemist if he wanted to research them later.

Now standing at the mailbox, letter in hand, Pilinor hesitated. He was in Valdrakken. Somewhere in the city there was a portal to Stormwind – just a short walk and a heartbeat away from seeing Saewron in person. He could just… go. Tell him everything face-to-face. Spend time together.

But he held back.

It took effort, but he managed to resist the pull. Two thoughts helped: first, it was the wrong day – Saewron would be in Duskwood with the Spinies. Second, it had only been a few weeks since they last saw each other. In the past, Pilinor had spent months on the road before feeling drawn back to his friends and lovers. He wouldn’t lose his freedom to this – this bond. He had to prove to himself that he still had control over it, not the other way around.

Still, during the past weeks, as his thoughts had returned to the gentle void elf more often than he liked to admit, Pilinor had come to accept the truth of what that bond really was.

Thinking of Saewron brought other faces with it; some clear, some blurred by time. He remembered Cedrine and Leric most vividly. Cedrine, a Priestess, had been his partner for decades until the Third War claimed her life. Back then, the Highvales hadn’t forsaken magic, and she had been a skilled healer. When news spread of the wounded flooding Silvermoon’s infirmaries, Cedrine had traveled north to help – and died when Arthas breached the city walls.

Leric had been a Priest as well, though his connection to the Light had been weak and barely trained. He used poultices and salves, gathered medicines from various cultures. Yet he hadn’t needed any of that to win Pilinor over – just his empathy and open heart.

After Pilinor’s time as a prisoner of the Twilight’s Hammer, his family had discovered he could no longer survive without drawing on the Void. The Highvales had allowed him to recover at the Quel’Danil Lodge, but once he was no longer bedridden, they had asked him to leave. Respectful of their rules, Pilinor had gone.

That journey to Silvermoon had nearly broken him. Along the way, he had first started to hear the eerie voice in his head. By the time he reached the Ghostlands, its constant presence had become unbearable. In his desperation, Pilinor had seriously considered ending his own life – anything to silence the whispers.

Meeting Leric had pulled him back from that edge. The village healer had shown him that peace was still possible, even with that parasite in his head. While the faction war in Pandaria had been fought out and the following chase after Garrosh through time and across worlds had happened, they had made a quiet life together. Then…

The smiling image of Leric dissolved into another – his face pale, eyes blank, a line of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Pilinor could rarely recall the good memories without that final, brutal one eclipsing them all.

That was one reason Pilinor feared giving in to his feelings for Saewron. He would be putting him at risk – especially without telling him the whole truth about the nightmares and the voice. Saewron believed he heard the same whispers all void elves did. He didn’t. And if he told him, Saewron would want to help – of course he would. That would only put the ren’dorei in even greater danger.

And then there was the inconvenient fact that Saewron was already in a relationship – something Pilinor still didn’t quite know how to approach.

They’re staring at you, you know? Ever since Deathwing, the dragons are wary of anyone touched by the Void.

The gravelly voice in his head roused Pilinor from his thoughts. He was still standing in front of the mailbox, the reply letter in his hand. Quickly, he dropped it off and turned, eyes scanning his surroundings as he moved on. Sure enough, a few people were watching him – likely wondering what he had been waiting for. One orc, clearly another mortal, stepped forward now to post his own letter.

But of course they were staring. Pilinor was a stranger in a city not his own, just as he was watching everything and everyone with wary curiosity.

There were plenty of other mortals around: Alliance and Horde alike, along with native races like tuskarr and centaur. Yet what fascinated Pilinor more were the dragons – red, bronze, green, or blue – flying overhead or perched on the terraces of the towers. Many more moved among the streets, though not in their true form.

When he had first arrived, Pilinor had been struck by the number of elves – Thalassian and Darnassian both – frequenting the city. Only later did he notice the subtle signs: slit pupils and glowing eyes. These were dragons in their visage forms. Elves, being one of Azeroth’s oldest mortal races, were an obvious choice of disguise. The only race he hadn’t seen as a visage form yet were orcs – understandable, given their relatively recent arrival on Azeroth and the Dragonmaw clan’s sordid history with the red dragonflight. With the subtle aid of Deathwing, the Dragonmaw clan had enslaved pretty much the whole flight, forced Queen Alexstrasza to lay eggs and used the dragons as living weapons or mounts during the Second War. Something like that was not easily forgiven.

His next stop was the Artisan’s Market, spread across three terraced sectors of the mountain city. The uppermost level housed forges, blacksmiths, and tinkerers. Here, Pilinor set about selling the ore he had mined.

It was a mistake to come here like this… You’re still filthy. Look like a beggar; they’ll lowball you because they think you’ll take anything; listen to me, you’ll get more gold for your ore by selling over the auction house; don’t trust those dragonkin, they’re cheating you!

Pilinor gritted his teeth, ignoring the voice. He descended to the mid-tier terrace, where herbalists and scribes worked under a canopy of glass. The stone arches holding it up were choked with creeping vines, and the roof sparkled with embedded crystal.

Don’t answer that – no! Don’t make the first offer! You’ve made a fool out of yourself – again; Idiot… you just told her you don’t know the gem’s worth. She’s going to take advantage; decline, the tailors will give you way more for that pigment than that scribe. He’s a swindler; you need to be more perceptive. They’re all laughing at you behind your back!

Haggling would have been difficult on its own, but with the thing in his head, it became utterly exhausting. The voice didn’t just whisper – it shouted, drowning out the actual conversations. Pilinor was forced to ask traders to repeat themselves, making him look slow, inattentive. Worse, the voice’s constant criticism began to undermine his confidence.

He regretted not silencing it earlier. In Stormwind, he might have ducked into a side alley to do what needed doing – a painful method, and one he avoided for good reason – but the wide-open architecture of Valdrakken offered no such cover. And he certainly wasn’t going to draw blood in public just to quiet the parasite in his head.

Grinding his teeth against the noise, he moved on to the lowest tier of the market, where peddlers, enchanters, leatherworkers, and tailors set up shop. Here he sold the last of his wares and used some of his hard-earned coins to restock provisions.

See how the centaur wrinkles her nose? She despises you; those horse-people don’t see a two-foot as a proper hunter; you shouldn’t sell here, you know it! Leave before it’s too late; they’re lying to you, those seeds aren’t of poor quality! Stupid, don’t listen to them; the cheese, don’t buy it – the spellwork’s off. It’ll rot you from the inside out…!

The warning about the bronze dragon’s magically aged cheese gave the high elf a moment’s pause, but he bought it anyway.

By the time Pilinor was done, his head throbbed from the strain of resisting the voice. Though he meant to explore the city further later, for now he headed toward its outskirts – seeking quiet, solitude, and space to catch his breath.

Sitting beside one of the streams, where only the occasional dragon in visage form strolled past, Pilinor dug into his recently bought provisions and rewarded his companions with well-earned treats. He soon noted with relief that the voice in his head was finally growing quiet again. It hadn’t been this obtrusive in a long time – perhaps it was lashing out in revenge for his earlier decision to make that dangerous climb?

Meal finished, Pilinor remained seated, curiously observing the city but not yet ready to move on. His attention caught on a group of dragons – no, drakes, not fully grown yet – approaching the nearby bridge in front of the arched city gate. What actually drew his eye wasn’t the drakes themselves, but the figures mounted on their backs.

He had glimpsed mounted drakes before, usually just blurs in the sky. He had been surprised even then. After all, dragons – especially since the orcish Dragonmaw’s atrocities – were known to be reluctant about carrying mortals. So what was going on here? Was riding duty some kind of punishment for young dragons?

Watching the riders dismount and enthusiastically wave goodbye to their scaled companions, Pilinor reconsidered. The cheerful farewells didn’t fit the punishment theory. Curious, he perked up his ears as the group headed into the city. Their conversation wasn’t exactly quiet, and they passed close enough that he had no trouble overhearing.

“Ha! We showed those Hordies!” the male human boasted.

“Yeah! Lion’s Wrath totally crushed them. Fastest team on the Isles!” the gnome added with a proud grin.

The dwarf woman shot him a reproachful look. “That was nae thanks tae ye! Mudormi’s nae smaller than the rest o’ our team’s drakes, an’ ye’re the lightest rider! Ye still came in last – behind that smelly tauren with the lame proto-dragon!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” the gnome snapped. “Didn’t you see? Mudormi and I nearly had to stop mid-track to avoid hitting that goblin who crashed!”

Another voice joined in – soft, female, and shaking slightly. “He’s right. I saw it. That accident looked awful. If her partner hadn’t pulled up at the last second, that goblin would be dead – crushed between the cliff and the drake.”

“They’ll be fine,” the other human said with a dismissive wave. “The green was there in minutes. He’ll have healed them both by now. They’ll be flying again soon.”

The dwarf nodded. “Aye, I hope so. They’re our best opponents. Would nae want their team tae suffer if one rider needs replacin’.”

The first woman remained thoughtful. “Still, with just a little less luck, not even a healer could’ve helped. It’s worth remembering – dragonracing isn’t just fun and games. It’s dangerous.”

“Ugh, don’t be such a killjoy,” the gnome groaned.

“Do nae tell me ye’re thinkin’ o’ quittin’ now!” the dwarf asked, alarmed.

“What?! No, of course not! I’m just saying-”

They passed out of earshot, but Pilinor had heard enough. So carrying riders wasn’t punishment after all – these dragons partnered with mortals willingly, likely as part of some competition. Apparently, younger dragons were more open to the idea.

Dragonracing. It sounded exhilarating. Pilinor had seen how fast dragons could fly. Even his new skitterfly or his older flying mounts were slow by comparison. Racing at that speed, pushing the limit – it was dangerous, yes. But also thrilling.

He thought back to the climb. How alive he had felt, how focused – and how quiet the thing had gone. It had fallen silent during the moments of real danger. So did thrilling mean quiet?

A grin crept onto Pilinor’s face. This was worth investigating.

He stood, dusted himself off, and headed back to the main square. There, he quickly spotted one of the drakonid guards.

“Excuse me – can I learn more about dragonracing somewhere in the city?”

The guard nodded and pulled out a tablet with the city’s map. He tapped a location with one claw. “Right there. You’re in luck – Lord Andestrasz flew in earlier. He’s the Dragonriding Emissary and oversees all the races and events.”

What are you planning now, fool? the voice growled.

“So it’s real?” Pilinor asked, still half in disbelief. “Mortals really ride dragons in races?”

“Sort of,” the drakonid replied. “More like dragons racing each other while bringing mortals along. Especially the young ones – always been competitive. Championships like racing and Talon Toss go way back. Some of the tracks across the Isles are ancient.”

“But what about riding in pairs? A flier and a rider? Did any of your kind – drakonid – do that?”

“Scales, no!” the guard said, chuckling. “Some drakes used a rider during training runs, thinking an extra set of eyes might help despite the weight. Full races with riders, though? That’s new.”

“Thanks,” Pilinor said. “I’ll see if any drake’s up for teaming.”

“Good luck,” the drakonid offered.

Was that doubt in his voice? The thought barely formed before the voice in Pilinor’s head returned.

Really? Did you not hear what those dragonriders said? Racing is dangerous. Didn’t my lesson earlier teach you anything?

“A lesson, huh? Just as I thought,” Pilinor muttered. He hoped any passersby would think he was talking to his pets. “You can be as annoying as you want, but I won’t let you condition me. I’m not going to avoid doing things the way I like them just because you don’t approve. I hope this will be your lesson. Now shut up, or-”

He left the threat hanging, already walking away, undeterred by the thing’s curses as it faded again into silence. Pilinor made his way toward the spot the drakonid had pointed out, more determined than ever.

Getting there without wings required a small detour, but eventually the void-touched Hunter reached the large elevated platform beside a tower housing a small office. Pilinor quickly spotted who he assumed to be Lord Andestrasz: a red-robed night elf who clearly wasn’t a night elf at all, but a dragon in visage form. Most dragons wore the colors of their flight, and the Emissary’s name marked him as a member of the red flight. Pilinor’s assumption was confirmed as soon as he addressed the man.

“Lord Andestrasz?”

“Yes?” The dragon looked up from the ledgers in front of him.

“I’ve been told you’re the right person to talk to if someone wants to get into dragonracing.”

“I am. But let me warn you straight away: right now there are more mortals looking for a drake to team up with than the other way around. I’m happy to put your name and details on a waitlist, though.”

“I see. Well, I don’t mind waiting while I keep exploring.”

“Do you already have any experience with dragonriding?”

“Not yet,” Pilinor admitted. “But I’m not afraid of heights, and I’ve had my share of flying mounts.”

Lord Andestrasz smiled. “That will certainly work in your favor. Next question: do you prefer solo races or direct competition?”

“What exactly does solo racing mean?” Pilinor asked, unsure of the distinction.

“There are generally two types of races. In the first, you and your partner fly the track alone, racing against the best recorded times. In the second, multiple pairs race simultaneously, competing to finish first. The latter often includes organized team formats.”

Pilinor thought of the dragonriders he had overheard earlier – they clearly belonged to the second type. But the idea of solo flying intrigued him.

“I assume the solo format is easier to coordinate?”

“Much. You only need to sync with your dragon partner. The solo tracks are open at all times.”

That eased one of Pilinor’s concerns. Coordinating schedules with an entire team had always been a hassle, and racing with just one partner reduced the risk of mid-air chaos.

“I’d prefer solo races, then.”

They continued with some basic registration questions: name, weight, age, race. Lord Andestrasz paused when Pilinor answered.

“Quel’dorei?” he repeated, frowning slightly. “Pardon the bluntness, but judging by the color of your hair… though your voice lacks the reverberation…”

Pilinor sighed. If it wasn’t something else that gave him away, it always came down to his stupid purple hair. At times, he had considered shaving it all off, but unfortunately, the hair on his head grew far faster than his beard. And there were his eyebrows, too – shaving those would only make things worse.

“You’re right; it’s not dyed. I had an… encounter with some Void cultists. It left a mark. But I’m not one of Umbric’s or Alleria Windrunner’s ren’dorei.”

“But you do maintain an active connection to the Void?”

“Unfortunately yes – though not by choice. I take it that negates some of the advantages I mentioned earlier?”

“I’m afraid so. For reasons I don’t need to explain, my kin are understandably cautious about working with anyone at risk of succumbing to the Void.”

“I get it. So, my chances of getting a dragon partner aren’t great, then?”

How sad, the gravelly voice mocked. Looks like your little attempt to teach me a lesson failed before it even began. And I didn’t even have to lift a finger.

Pilinor clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to fire back at the smug voice.

“Competitive activities often bring out the desire to perform under ideal conditions,” Andestrasz admitted. But then he paused, thoughtful. “Although… there is a young dragon who’s had trouble finding a partner for precisely that reason. Introducing you two might be worth a try – if you’re not set on breaking records.”

Pilinor considered asking why this dragon had trouble finding a rider but decided against it. He wasn’t here to win medals – just to feel the wind, the thrill, and maybe get a moment’s peace from the voice in his head.

“I’d be happy to get acquainted.”

“Excellent.” Lord Andestrasz rose from his seat and stepped outside, turning to a woman in blue near the mounted harnesses.

“Lithragosa, could you please take over here? My new friend and I are going to see if Fisira is in her usual spot.”

–.o.O.o.–

“We’re in luck. There she is,” Lord Andestrasz said as they approached a pagoda in the Emerald Enclave, the domain of the green flight within Valdrakken.

Despite being built from solid stone, the structure was surprisingly graceful, its lattices overgrown with exotic vines bearing pink and orange blossoms, each swarmed by butterflies. The pagoda stood at the edge of the city, overlooking a deep valley carved through the mountains behind it.

Pilinor did his best to avoid the flitting insects with their colorful, unsettling wings – he would have much preferred wasps buzzing about – and followed the red dragon in his visage form toward a figure standing alone at the cliff’s edge.

“Fisira,” Lord Andestrasz called in a cheerful tone, “this is Pilinor Highvale. He’s interested in teaming up with you.”

Fisira turned, and Pilinor’s bemusement only grew. The figure reminded him of a younger Varian Wrynn: broad-shouldered, athletic, long brown hair pulled into a fox-tail, a low-cut green shirt revealing a muscular, hairy chest above matching green trousers. The eyes were different, though – and explained Fisira’s difficulty finding a partner. One gleamed yellow with a slit pupil, inspecting him curiously. The other was milky and clearly blind.

The grim expression didn’t leave the male human’s features as the younger dragon faced the older. “Ah. I see why you brought this one to me, Andestrasz. He’d have a hard time getting chosen by the others – but I can’t be as picky, eh?”

Andestrasz merely smiled, unfazed by the pointed tone.

Fisira uttered a snort and then examined the elf once more. “Well, he’s got both eyes intact… though looks like it was a close call once.”

Pilinor instinctively raised a hand, tracing the scar that ran from just below his eye on the left side of his nose and past the corner of his mouth down to his jaw. He remembered the moment clearly: the Twilight’s Hammer cultist hadn’t intended to take his eye; he had mocked the spilling tears, laughing as the cut had turned them crimson – with blood that hadn’t yet been stained by the purple Void-corruption.

“Fine,” the green’s sharp and deep voice brought the Hunter back to the present: “Pilinor, ever flown with a dragon before?”

“No,” the high elf admitted.

Surprisingly, Fisira didn’t mock him for it. “Then let’s find out if your stomach can handle dragonriding before we even start talking about racing.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lord Andestrasz said, stepping aside. A moment later, he shifted into his dragon form, his voice deepening as he added: “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

As soon as the dragon had flown off, Fisira stepped up to where the red had transformed and did the same.

The drake wasn’t only smaller, but generally built very differently than most dragons the Hunter had seen thus far. Pilinor was reminded of a Horde wyvern with its forelimbs forming wings and the tail ending in a thorn. Contrary to a wyvern, Fisira had no mane and – to no big surprise – the drake’s slim body was covered in green scales.

“Well then, hop on.”

A surprised noise escaped Pilinor upon hearing the prompt, not because of the words themselves but because – like Andestrasz’s before – Fisira’s voice had changed with the transformation. However, while it had also gained a certain weightiness, it no longer sounded distinctively male and his earlier bemusement articulated itself.

“So… you’re female after all?”

The drake titled her head “Yes. I’m sure Andestrasz mentioned it. Or is there a problem with that? Oh, wait – it’s the visage form, isn’t it? You mortals get confused so easily.”

Pilinor flushed. “No, there’s no problem! But… am I supposed to think of you as she even when you’re in a male guise? Words are already complicated enough, and it’s confusing when someone’s appearance doesn’t match the pronoun.”

Fisira snorted “Our visages are just illusions. They’re not who we truly are. But do as you like – I don’t care. Females and males are equal, after all. I won’t take offense if you call me he.”

“Fair enough,” Pilinor said, hesitating a moment. His curiosity got the better of him. “But why pick a male visage at all? Do you just enjoy confusing mortals like me?”

“Not exactly, though that is a perk,” she said, with a glint of amusement. “No, the reason’s simple: I’ve already got one visible flaw.” She blinked her blind eye. “I didn’t want to add another by appearing as a mortal woman.”

Pilinor frowned. “Wait. Didn’t you just say males and females are equal? Why would a female form be a disadvantage?”

You’re aware that annoying a dragon might not be the wisest idea? the gravelly voice in his head offered dryly. But Fisira didn’t seem offended.

“Because that’s not a contradiction,” she replied calmly.

“No?” Pilinor asked, scratching his head.

“No. In a world of warcraft as we live in, physical appearances and the strength implied by those matter a lot. How old are you, whelp?”

“Two hundred and fifty-six.”

“I’m a drake, and I’ve still seen more centuries than you’ve seen seasons. Believe me when I say: on average, mortal women look physically weaker than men. That’s nothing to be offended by, just statistics. Neither has it any influence on your women’s worth in a general sense, but it does matter in regard to looks… and looks are all visage forms are about.”

“Hmm,” Pilinor muttered. “But there are men who look more feminine, and women who look more masculine. Why not craft your visage accordingly? You can shape it however you want, right?”

“We can. But that would make me stand out. A visage is meant to help us blend in, not attract attention.” Her thorny tail flicked in mild impatience, but she continued anyway. “Which is why I think the dracthyr got it all wrong by keeping their horns and scales. I don’t see the point of a visage that still outs them as different and doesn’t let them pass as just another mortal.”

She shook her angular head, flexing her claws.

“Anyway. Do you want to keep debating such trivialities or are you ready to take to the skies and find out whether you can keep your lunch down? And if not – please give me warning. I’d rather not get any of it on my scales.”

Pilinor hurried to obey Fisira’s prompt, instructing his pets to wait at the pagoda before climbing onto the drake’s back. The seat itself wasn’t uncomfortable, but he immediately disliked the absence of a saddle – especially when his hands met the slick scales of her neck.

“How am I supposed to hold on? Shouldn’t we get some kind of harness first?”

“Oh? Eager to strap me in like one of your mounts already?” she asked, her voice laced with mockery.

“What? No! I just-” Panic flared in Pilinor’s chest as he felt the muscles beneath him tense.

“Use your legs. In a real race, you won’t be able to rely on your hands anyway. Think of this as training.”

And with that, she launched into the air, ripping an alarmed squeal from his throat.

I told you annoying a dragon was a bad idea. She’s clearly trying to get you killed.

Part of him agreed – but mostly he was too focused on clinging to her slim midriff with his legs to listen. A few powerful wingbeats hurled them skyward, much faster than anything his mounts had ever managed. It felt as though they had left his stomach behind.

Once they had reached a respectable height, Fisira surged forward and leveled into a glide.

“Relax. Look around,” she prompted.

Pilinor exhaled shakily and forced himself to comply. Wiping a clammy palm on his thigh, he glanced down – only to immediately regret it as vertigo gripped him. It wasn’t the height itself, but the vulnerability of relying entirely on the creature beneath him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

His throat felt too tight to reply, but he took a slow, grounding breath and looked outward instead. The view of Thaldraszus wasn’t entirely new – he had flown before – but this perspective still caught him off guard. When Fisira accelerated again, he tensed, but this time it passed quickly. The fear began to ebb, replaced by something else: wonder. The sky wrapped around them, the wind brushing through his purple hair like a lover’s caress.

“So,” Fisira asked after a while, “ready to learn how fast I can really go?”

“I… yes,” Pilinor said, bracing. This time, he leaned into the motion as she beat her wings.

It was nothing like flying on a hippogryph or skitterfly. He could feel the raw strength of her body beneath him – not just because of the lack of a saddle, but because of the sheer force behind every movement. Then came the speed. The wind tore through his hair, the landscape rushed past in a blur. He whooped with delight as Fisira surged forward again, diving through valleys and weaving between mountain peaks. Fear was gone. Trust had taken its place.

“Why are you even looking for a rider?” he asked over the wind. “This is incredible – but I don’t see what you need me for.”

She angled into a turn, then gestured ahead with her snout. In the distance, the titan facility at Tyrhold gleamed gold among jagged peaks.

“Let’s say we raced another drake and rider from here to Tyrhold. We might win, no problem. I’m fast enough, and the path is straightforward. But that’s not how the real tracks work. In actual races, it’s about more than speed – you have to pass through floating golden rings, navigate tricky terrain, make sharp turns, avoid obstacles. With only one working eye, judging distance and spotting the checkpoints becomes harder. Out here, that’s fine. But in forests or narrow canyons…”

She hesitated, clearly reluctant. “The others gain an edge with riders. But for me? I’ll be relying on mine. You won’t just be along for the ride. You’ll need to work… and I’ll need to trust your calls.”

“That’s for you to decide,” Pilinor said evenly. “I can’t promise perfection, but I can promise I’ll try my best. I’m not eager to slam into a tree mid-flight – and I’ll be on your back, after all. I’ll do everything I can to keep us both safe. And I’m willing to put in the effort to make our team work.”

Fisira didn’t respond right away. Instead, she said, “Time to return to Valdrakken. I’ll take it slow. Normally I’d dive – but I doubt you’d enjoy that without being strapped in.”

“Much appreciated.”

They landed eventually beside the pagoda, where Yula and Roval were waiting. Pilinor slid down from her back as she shifted into her visage form and stepped beneath the roof to observe his reunion with his pets.

“So,” Pilinor said, rising from his crouch, “I’m heading to the Azure Span next to continue exploring. Will I see you again?”

“Azure Span, huh?” Fisira mused, running a hand along her stubbled chin. “There are some beginner-friendly tracks in that region. Better than the mess in Thaldraszus. I’ll find you there – and I’ll bring a saddle this time.”

Pilinor’s heart soared. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Likewise.” She offered her hand.

He clasped it at once.

“I’ll let Andestrasz know he can strike us off his waitlist. Good journey, Pilinor.”

“Thank you.”

As Fisira walked away – still in her mortal form, and not in much of a hurry – Pilinor considered asking for a quick lift to the Azure Span. But he held back. Better not to press his luck. Roval wouldn’t be able to keep up anyway. Rather than burdening Fisira with a slower pace, he would take his skitterfly and travel in his own time.

Chapter Text

Kee’dril swiveled in the saddle, casting another glance at the Death Knight riding behind him atop the black-purple horned horse named Shadowdancer. What impressed the San’layn most about it was the fact that the animal was alive – and that the undead void elf had apparently earned its trust through training alone.

Kee’dril’s own horse – which he had dubbed Chilver – wasn’t undead either. But despite her generally placid nature, he had needed to influence her with blood magic to bring the ebony mare to accept him as a rider. That meant feeding her sugar cubes spiked with drops of his own blood. Over time, Chilver had developed a taste for the strange treats, so maintaining the spell had become less of a hassle than it had been in the beginning. The Warrior could only marvel at that behavior. Maybe an undead’s blood tasted worse to him as a San’layn. After all, fresh blood hadn’t exactly tasted good either when he was alive – he remembered that from the occasional split lip – whereas now, it was the most exquisite thing in existence.

Kee’dril gave the mare beneath him a gentle pat on the flank. She tossed her head and snorted but continued to trot behind the others at a steady, unhurried pace, needing no further direction.

Kee’dril and Naethir had taken up the rearguard of the long caravan the Spinecrafters had joined several days ago. They had traveled alone through the first stretch of the Ohn’ahran Plains, having set out after most adventurers had already departed. A few days later, they had encountered some of the natives of the plains: a group of centaur calling themselves the Aylaag. After some negotiation, Lieutenant Valentian had decided to continue the journey in their company.

Their pace had since slowed to a crawl. Not all centaur clans were nomadic, but the Aylaag were, and their progress was hampered by wagons loaded with tents and belongings, as well as elderly and children – called foals – traveling with them. It made for a vulnerable caravan, but the past days had proven that the assigned guards could easily dispatch any predators or wild beasts that ventured too close. So far, they hadn’t encountered anything more dangerous. Either the Primalists hadn’t yet moved into this part of the Plains – though the caravan had passed the freshly killed body of a massive proto-dragon days earlier – or they had other targets in mind.

With no immediate danger, Kee’dril had taken to sketching while loosely performing his duties as rearguard, leaving most of the actual watching to Naethir. No one – not even the lieutenant – had commented on it. He had mostly kept his attention on the landscape while getting a better feel for steering his mount with his legs and counterbalancing the saddle’s sway. Satisfied with his most recent sketches, Kee’dril had turned to a new subject: capturing the somber features of the Death Knight with the white streaks in his dark hair. His fingers moved the charcoal almost unconsciously, though his thoughts were fixed on the other undead nonetheless.

Back during their first training duel, Kee’dril had taken a gamble and revealed that he had once been a student and friend of Kath’dril Dawncaller. So far, the risk had paid off.

The San’layn had suspected the truth ever since realizing it hadn’t been Kath’dril who saved him – and was now certain: Naethir was Inean Dawncaller, the firstborn son of the famed war hero. Though the ren’dorei still awkwardly avoided calling Kath’dril father, he had spoken of his younger twin brothers – a detail uncommon enough among elves to confirm Kee’dril’s suspicion. He couldn’t recall having heard their names back then, but he remembered clearly when Kath’dril had announced that his wife, Erezia, was pregnant again. With twins.

If Kee’dril had wanted, he could have asked the other Spinecrafters to confirm that their captain’s full name was Orthorin Dawncaller. It would have been easy to prove the connection. But doing so would have been harsh – and counterproductive. Kee’dril wanted to get to the truth gently. Needed to, if he didn’t want to alienate the Death Knight in the process.

Kath’dril’s death and the events around it were clearly a deep wound for Naethir; one that had never healed. Kee’dril had heard from his cousin in Silvermoon that the renowned battle priest had joined the Blood Knights and later the Argent Crusade, which had been nearly wiped out during an early battle against the Burning Legion. Kath’dril among them.

More concerned with the son’s fate, Kee’dril had asked if Naethir had also been present at the battle. The void elf’s confirming nod had stirred a surge of anger in the San’layn. Kath’dril had dragged his still-young son to these foreign shores, far from home and family? It was a bitter reminder of the disagreements he and his mentor had so often clashed over. After centuries spent fighting side by side, those arguments had driven a wedge between them – one they would now never have the chance to mend.

Caught up in that memory, Kee’dril had been slow to notice the distant look in Naethir’s eyes – and the pain that had crept into his expression. Pushing further had led nowhere. The Death Knight had revealed only that he hadn’t died in the same battle – and seemed to carry a crushing guilt for failing to save his mentor.

Kee’dril had wanted to say that Kath’dril wouldn’t have expected him to do what the older elf himself couldn’t – but he had held back. It wasn’t his place to make assumptions, not without knowing the details. And he didn’t yet have the courage to ask for them. The topic clearly caused Naethir too much discomfort. The San’layn understood the feeling. There were painful memories of his own that he avoided just as fiercely.

No, bold questions would only harden the walls Naethir had built. Kee’dril had to take his time, to learn who his old friend’s son really was – not just who he had been born to. If Naethir felt he had to carry the same shame in front of Kee’dril as he did before his father, any real connection between them would be lost.

Thankfully, it seemed he had come to see Kee’dril not as a ghost of the past, but another fallen student – not so different from himself.

Sounds of lively conversation further down the caravan line pulled Kee’dril from his thoughts. Lifting his gaze from the sketchbook, he quickly spotted the cause for the stir: an immense, stony bird shape looming through the haze in the distance.

“Looks like our common-sighted companions finally noticed it too,” came Myreath’s raspy voice from ahead, where he rode beside the other Demon Hunter.

“What is it?” Kee’dril asked curiously.

“Must be a statue of the centaurs’ bird god,” Gal’dir guessed with a shrug, stating the obvious.

Kee’dril had already assumed it was a tribute to Ohn’ahra, the Wild God worshiped by the four-legged people of the plains. A moment later, Myreath confirmed what he had actually hoped to learn – having clearly picked it up through the fel-infused night elf’s keen hearing:

“According to Huntmaster Malkik, we’ll find Maruukai at the base of the peaky mountain that harbors Ohn’ahra’s roost. He expects we’ll reach it by tomorrow evening.”

“Wonderful!” Kee’dril offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I just hope we can get things sorted quickly once we’re there,” Milan muttered as he reined in his mount to fall back beside them. “Blocking us from crossing the plains now would make no sense – we’re already halfway through! Going back to the Waking Shores would take just as long as pushing on to the Emerald Gardens. It’s ridiculous they even need to vote on it.”

“But the Plains belong to all centaur clans,” Agnes replied calmly. “Since we want to cross the whole region, it’s only fair that all of them get a say in it. We should count ourselves lucky they called the Khural even before we set foot on the Isles.”

“Fine, fine,” the Warlock said, rolling his eyes and wrinkling his nose. “Still don’t like the idea of sticking around for the full gathering. You heard Toluiqi – a Khural can last days.”

“I doubt we’ll be there that long,” Myreath replied. “They’ll probably address our request right away. I don’t think they want outsiders hanging around during the entire event.”

“Right,” Milan admitted, then grumbled: “The next one who calls me a two-foot is getting a very close-up look at one of said feet!”

Gal’dir chuckled at that, but Myreath only shook his head.

“C’mon, Milan. It’s just a fact; we’ve got two feet, they’ve got four hooves. I wouldn’t get offended if someone called me a horned demon-eater.”

Kee’dril agreed with the logic, but the human wasn’t quite ready to let it go and kept grumbling. The San’layn, for his part, turned his focus back to his sketching.

–.o.O.o.–

“Ouff.” One hand resting on his stomach, the Demon Hunter with the fel-green hair flopped back into the grass, a content expression on his face. “You know, Felthorn, one day you’ll have to admit there’s magic in your cooking.”

Kee’dril had been surprised at first by the Illidari calling each other by their surnames, but apparently that was common among their kind. The two had kept the habit even after joining the Spinecrafters, though with an amiable twist. Across the glimmering campfire between them, Kee’dril saw the corners of Myreath’s mouth twitch before the night elf replied:

“As if you couldn’t tell if that were the case. You’ve no trouble spotting the difference between Elarynn’s conjured meals and handmade food.”

“Well, that doesn’t take special skills. She’s just awful with magic when it comes to food,” Gal’dir pointed out, then winced. “Please don’t tell her. Or the Captain.”

Rohan let out a hearty chuckle. “He’s not wrong, though. Didn’t think those weird birds would work in one of your stews, Myr.”

“They’re called ducks,” Valentian chimed in from the log he was sharing with the other Gilnean, currently working on his second helping. “Apparently similar breeds are common across the Dragon Isles. Huntmaster Malkik said we were lucky to catch any. The Shikaar must have passed through here earlier. Their clan’s mostly made up of hunters – they’re tasked with providing game for the Khural.”

“I see. That explains why we’ve barely seen any wildlife lately,” Agnes said, giving Rohan a playful nudge.

“That might change tomorrow,” Valentian added between spoonfuls. “Hadari Khan had us camp here for a reason. It’s not just the river – those woods ahead are prowler territory. The Shikaar don’t bother culling them, apparently their meat’s no good. We’ve been advised to keep a sharp eye on the treeline tonight.” His gaze shifted to the quiet figure seated beside Kee’dril. “Naethir, you’re still fine taking the full night watch?”

“Sure,” the Death Knight replied without hesitation, already staring off toward the dark stretch of forest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just want you to know that if you ever change your mind and decide to sleep like the rest of us, you’re well within your rights to request a relay.”

“I’m fine,” Naethir said curtly, then added: “But thanks.”

Valentian gave him a firm nod, and the conversation drifted back to birds and whether Myreath could pull off a miracle stew in the middle of a desert.

“Do you miss the taste of food?” Kee’dril asked softly, leaning slightly toward the other undead. San’layn and Forsaken retained a crude sense of taste, but – as far as he knew – Death Knights did not. For Naethir, everything probably tasted like ashes, just as anything but blood now did to Kee’dril.

Naethir brushed a hand over his wiry chin beard and shook his head.

“Really? Not at all?” Kee’dril prodded gently.

That earned him a slight frown, but also a more thoughtful reply. “I talked to my brothers about something like that once, back when we were traveling through Bastion. Told Orthorin I did miss the joy of sharing a good meal with others.”

Kee’dril made a thoughtful sound. “But… this isn’t so bad, is it? We can still sit here, share their company.”

Naethir’s frosty gaze swept over the Spinecrafters gathered around the fire. Then he muttered, “It’s not the same.”

Kee’dril didn’t argue. Not all of the group had grown comfortable with him, even after weeks together. Those nearest made an effort to appear relaxed, but others – Galynia, Renald, Gert – had chosen the far side of the fire for a reason.

Still, to Kee’dril, it was a remarkable scene. One he had longed for. But it could never measure up to the feasts of his past – family dinners surrounded by his parents, grandparents, countless siblings, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Arthas’ invasion of Quel’Thalas during the Third War had taken them all. Nothing could replace them.

Family had always been the most important thing in Kee’dril’s world. It was one of the reasons he and Kath’dril had clashed. The famed war hero had once believed the needs of the many justified any personal cost. That began to change after the birth of his first son, but even then, it remained a point of contention between them.

Erezia, Kath’dril’s wife, had already been of advanced age when she became pregnant with their first child. When Kee’dril learned she was expecting again – twins this time – he had been furious. He had loved her, secretly, quietly. She had agreed to the risk just as her husband had, but Kee’dril would have tried to talk her out of it. Encouraging her, as Kath’dril had done, still felt unforgivable. That she survived the birth, yet came away permanently weakened, only deepened Kee’dril’s resentment.

“You miss your brothers, don’t you?”

A flicker of panic crossed Naethir’s face.

“I… should be with them. To protect them.”

Something about the way he said it unsettled Kee’dril, but before he could press, Agnes’ raised voice broke the moment.

“Agia, come join us! I saved you some stew!” Then, in a more concerned tone, “You look troubled. Something wrong?”

The dwarven Shaman with the pigtails accepted the bowl gratefully and eased into a seat near the fire.

“Nothin’s happened yet,” she said darkly, “but somethin’ might. I was with Barnak earlier, learnin’ more about their ways, an’ he performed one o’ their mystic rituals while I watched.”

The centaur mystics all belonged to Clan Ohn’ir, but at least one served in each of the other clans as spiritual advisors. Their powers reminded Kee’dril of a strange blend between a Shaman and a Druid – able to commune with ancestral spirits, channel Ohn’ahra herself, and even command the wind.

“Barnak asked Ohn’ahra about the Khural. Her answer’s a matter o’ interpretation, but apparently she warned him o’ a storm. I doubt she meant a literal one.”

Valentian, now puffing on one of his cigars, exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Of course. Wouldn’t be a proper Spinecrafters mission without something going sideways. I’m not betting against you, Agia. If the Primalists are up to something again, we’d better be ready. Something tells me this centaur festival might not be the peaceful gathering they’re hoping for.”

–.o.O.o.–

It wasn’t Agia’s ominous warning that disturbed Kee’dril’s sleep that night, but one of his usual nightmares – visions dominated by bloody fangs and pain. Thankfully, he was spared the worst of it. A firm shake to his shoulder roused him before the dream could run its dreadful course.

As so often, his mind tricked him at first: the face above him looked like Kath’dril’s – until full awareness returned and he realized it was Naethir.

Kee’dril drew a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, then rose from his bedroll under the open sky. He dressed fully before stepping over to the spot where the Death Knight had already resumed his silent vigil.

“Thank you.”

“Just doing what you asked,” came the neutral reply.

As Kee’dril scanned the edge of the forest in the silver-blue moonlight, Naethir spoke again, low enough not to disturb the sleeping soldiers behind them.

“Why do you keep trying? You could avoid the nightmares altogether by not sleeping. Do you insist on it just because… it’s one of the things that make you seem more alive?”

“It does make me feel more alive,” Kee’dril replied, earnest. “I believe sleep is important for more than just biology. It’s part of what keeps us sane. Part of our… mental health.”

Naethir arched a skeptical brow. “By tormenting us over and over with every horrible thing we’ve ever experienced?”

“In a way, yes,” Kee’dril admitted, running a hand through his bright-red hair. He searched for words that matched what he only understood instinctively. “Nightmares are unpleasant, but I think reliving bad memories helps us deal with them – subconsciously. And there are good dreams too. They remind us of what was worth holding on to.”

Naethir didn’t look convinced. “I doubt that. Even in life, it was the bad dreams that lingered. The one time I slept since being raised, it was all nightmares. They didn’t help. Just dragged up things I hadn’t thought of in years and made everything worse the next day.”

“Ouch,” Kee’dril muttered sympathetically. He studied the taller elf. Naethir stood stiff, arms crossed, fingers digging into his upper arms. His gaze remained locked on the tree line – not just to keep watch, the Warrior suspected, but to avoid looking at him.

“Well,” Kee’dril said gently, “one bad night won’t change anything, true. And maybe sleep alone isn’t enough either. Sometimes talking helps too. I’m willing to listen, if you ever want to share.”

He hesitated, then added carefully: “Have you ever talked to anyone… about the day Kath’dril died?”

Naethir’s reply came quickly, with an edge of steel. “Of course I have. After that battle, when they sent me home to recover, I talked to my brothers. And to my mother. I told them everything.”

His voice dropped off. Clearly, the memory still had a grip on him.

“Sometimes the people closest to you aren’t the ones best suited to share your pain. It hits too close to home,” Kee’dril commented softly, reminded of his own and Veronica’s struggles after their escape.

When he focused on Naethir again, Kee’dril immediately knew he had made another mistake. The grip of the void elf’s fingers around his arms had grown cramped.

“Take over the watch,” the Death Knight said abruptly, voice clipped. “I need to… I’ll be back soon.”

He turned sharply and strode toward the forest.

“Wait!” Kee’dril called after him, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others – but it was too late. Naethir was already gone.

The vampyre cursed under his breath. He considered chasing him, but he couldn’t just abandon the watch. Still, part of him…

“What are you waiting for?” a raspy voice cut in. “Go after him. I’ll take your shift.”

Startled, Kee’dril turned and saw Myreath sitting up. The Illidari had been one of several Spinecrafters who skipped setting up tents, trusting the dry weather, and had been fast asleep earlier – his miniature felstalker curled beside him.

“I… don’t know if I’m the right person for that,” Kee’dril said, uncertain. “Shouldn’t you go instead? You’ve known him longer. I clearly messed things up. I’m not subtle. I charge into things without thinking.”

Myreath grinned faintly. “Well, you wouldn’t be a true Warrior otherwise, right?”

Kee’dril snorted. “I used to do that even as a Priest. Got me and my mentor in trouble more than once.”

“Exactly. And that’s why you’re the right person. You’ve made Naethir open up more in the past few days than the rest of us did in years – outside of his brothers, anyway. Now go after him, before he does something stupid.”

“A-all right,” Kee’dril agreed quickly then, already turning. “Thank you.”

Myreath just grunted, settling into Kee’dril’s spot as the San’layn slipped off into the dark after Naethir.

–.o.O.o.–

The trees grew denser as Kee’dril moved deeper into the woods. Moonlight no longer fell in clear streaks but filtered through the branches in jagged slashes, scattered across patches of underbrush. He slowed his steps. Though his undead eyes could still pierce the gloom better than most living folk, they weren’t keen enough to make out more than motionless outlines or the occasional gleam of wet leaves.

A soft rustling breeze stirred the ferns around his boots. The forest smelled damp and rich with decay – crushed moss, overturned earth, wet bark. But of Naethir, there was no sign. Kee’dril had hesitated too long; the Death Knight had gotten a head start.

He scanned the ground. Tracks were faint but discernible – booted prints, pressed into the soft soil and veering slightly uphill. Naethir hadn’t tried to conceal them. He had moved with purpose, not stealth. There were animal tracks too, old and fresh, but Kee’dril dismissed them. He wasn’t worried about the prowlers. Animals usually were reluctant to approach an undead. With luck, neither of them would draw any unwanted attention in these woods.

A few more strides, and he spotted a shape kneeling ahead – the faint silhouette of a man crouched low in a clearing, half-shrouded by shadow. Something squirmed in his hands. A rabbit. It twisted and thrashed in his grip.

Kee’dril frowned, puzzled. What was he doing?

“Naethir?”

The rabbit kicked free and vanished into the undergrowth. The undead void elf sprang to his feet as if struck. His hand flew to his chest, his eyes wide, his face tight with panic. He looked winded, though neither of them needed regular breath.

“Kee – what? You’re supposed… to be on watch!”

“Myreath’s covering for us,” Kee’dril said quickly, hands raised instinctively in a calming gesture. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I… I didn’t mean to pry earlier. If I overstepped-”

Naethir didn’t answer right away. His fingers gripped the edge of his chestplate over his ribs as if trying to hold something in – or hold something together.

“Promise me,” he whispered, wrestling for another breath, “if I lose control… you’ll kill me.”

Kee’dril blinked. “What?”

“Like the Illidari. They swear an oath – if one of them succumbs to their demon, the others end it.” His eyes lifted, wild with fear. “If I lose my mind, do the same for me. Swear it.”

Kee’dril stepped closer, slow and careful. He had expected grief. Guilt. Maybe even anger about Kath’dril. But not this.

“All right,” he said softly. “If it comes to that… I promise. And I’d ask you to do the same for me. But only if there’s truly no way back. I’d sure as the sunrise try everything first.”

Naethir didn’t look comforted. His voice dropped again, barely audible. “There won’t be a way back. Not for me.”

“You don’t know that,” the San’layn said gently. “There was for me. There might be for you.”

Naethir looked away. “You don’t understand. It’s different for me.”

Kee’dril frowned. “You’ve said that before. That we’re different. I figured you meant because you’re a Death Knight and I’m not-”

“It’s not just that,” Naethir interrupted, his voice strained. “I’m broken. My soul… it’s fractured. And I think… whatever Bolvar did to stabilize me when I was raised – it’s coming apart.”

Kee’dril went still.

Wind whispered through the leaves around them, brushing against their armor like passing ghosts. Naethir’s gaze drifted, unfocused, as though seeing some distant memory instead of the trees around them.

Then, quietly, he continued. The words came haltingly, but once they started, they didn’t stop.

“You asked about the day I came home. After Kath’dril… died.” His jaw clenched. “My family wasn’t angry. I said something that helped them make peace with it. I think… it was that neither of us broke under torture. That he died protecting people. That it mattered.”

He rubbed a hand through his white-streaked hair, eyes clouded.

“But I don’t remember why that mattered. I can’t feel what I’m supposed to feel. I know I used to miss sharing meals. That I loved my brothers. I told Orthorin that, in Bastion. But now… it’s all distant. Like it happened to someone else. I know I swore to protect them. But it’s just a thought now. Not a feeling.”

Kee’dril didn’t hesitate. He reached out and wrapped his cold fingers around Naethir’s shaking hands. The contact made the Death Knight flinch, but he allowed it.

“All I still feel is fear. Fear that I’m forgetting how to be a person. Fear that I’m close to losing the last of it.” His voice was hoarse now. “It’s… exhausting, but I’m afraid that when that’s gone too… I don’t think anything will be left of me.”

Kee’dril didn’t try to speak. He only moved closer and pulled the other undead into a tight, grounding embrace – as if his arms alone could hold together what Naethir feared was already falling apart.

The gesture didn’t make the Death Knight relax; his body remained stiff, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. But he didn’t pull away either. His voice came in a whisper, close to Kee’dril’s shoulder:

“That’s why I’m an abomination. Not just because I’m undead. Sometimes… I’m not even sure I’m a full person anymore.”

The words hit heavier than any blow. Kee’dril held still, listening.

“The fel that killed me,” Naethir went on, “It destroyed so much. It burned holes straight through my soul. I didn’t notice at first. But the more I talked with my brothers… or with you…” His voice faltered, dropped. “The gaps became impossible to ignore. Things you and they say about Kath’dril – things I know I should remember – are just… gone.”

Kee’dril said nothing, afraid to interrupt. He could feel the tremor beneath Naethir’s words now – not in his voice alone, but in the way he was holding himself together, barely.

“I’ve stopped trying to think about the past,” Naethir admitted. “I’m scared I’ll find more holes. More of me… missing.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the forest rustling faintly around them – wind through the leaves, distant chirps of insects, the faint hum of unseen wings. The night had its own rhythm, but none of it reached either man.

Kee’dril’s thoughts were racing, whipped into a frenzy by Naethir’s words. They had brushed the topic of his death before. The vampyre had known the former Paladin had died in a demon attack, but he hadn’t thought about the possible consequences of this kind of death. Kee’dril had heard that fel magic could destroy souls: which was what the Warlock Gul’Dan had done when killing Varian Wrynn.

However, Kee’dril wasn’t sure what Naethir’s lack of feelings had to do with the missing memories. Undead had trouble sensing positive emotions, but that seemed to have grown worse for the void elf after he had been raised, not simply due to it. But what the San’layn knew for sure was that he wanted to help the other man who was clearly suffering.

Kee’dril finally stepped back, enough to meet Naethir’s eyes – pale and luminous in the dark.

“Then we’ll fix your soul,” he said quietly.

Naethir blinked, the hope too fragile to touch. “You know how?”

“No,” Kee’dril admitted, “but I believe it’s possible. And that’s enough to start with.”

The Death Knight’s brow furrowed, skepticism creeping back into his expression. “The Lich King couldn’t fix it. Neither can my brothers think of a way.”

Desperate for an answer, the vampyre blurted the first thought that came to him: “That’s because… neither of them are artists!”

Naethir arched an eyebrow at him.

“I’m serious,” Kee’dril said, getting more excited by his own idea. “Imagine your soul as a painting. Scorched, torn, cracked. We don’t need to restore it exactly the way it was – we need to fill the empty spaces. Like patching a mural with something new that still fits the style. I have memories of Kath’dril. His words, his teachings. I could share those with you.”

Naethir’s skepticism deepened. “But… I don’t remember those moments myself. Hearing about them won’t make them real.”

“Not just hearing,” Kee’dril said. “I mean showing you… through blood magic.

That got a full step of retreat. “Blood magic?”

“Relax. Not the sacrificial kind.” Kee’dril raised his hands placatingly. “There’s a spell: a scrying ritual that lets you project into someone else’s memories using blood as a focus. It’s mostly used for visions of the past or prophecy. That way, I could share my memories with you.”

“And you think that’ll restore my soul?”

“I think it could help you reconnect with parts of it. Maybe not rebuild what’s lost, but reweave around it. Like an artist can restore an other’s painting by adapting the style. My memories of Kath’dril’s lectures should be similar to what you experienced. It wouldn’t be the same, but maybe close enough to fill some of the holes in your memories. Isn’t that worth trying?”

Naethir’s face was hard to read, but eventually he asked: “And you would do that for me?”

A flicker of unease broke through Kee’dril’s excitement. “Not exactly. I could teach you that spell… because for it to work, you’d need to cast it yourself.”

Naethir’s gaze fell. “I’d have to learn blood magic? That’s… not something I ever wanted.”

The San’layn wasn’t surprised. Blood magic was considered a dark and vile form of magic. Given the former Paladin’s bad experiences with the Void, he clearly wasn’t keen on trying another kind of dubious magic. However…

“I know, but… I can’t do it for you. That’s not how the spell works. Besides, you already did blood magic before. Your second blade – it carries blood runes. Those reduce how much willpower and control you need to cast a spell. And drawing blood in a fight provides you with the required tribute.”

Naethir stared into the dark forest around them, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he muttered: “I never felt comfortable with that sword.”

Then his gaze suddenly snapped to Kee’dril, his mouth thinned to a line. “But why are you doing this? Why offer this to me? The last two times someone offered me power, it caused more harm than good.”

The undead blood elf didn’t look away. “This isn’t about power. It’s about healing. Blood magic’s a tool. Same as the Void. Same as Light. Kath’dril used to say that all the time. It’s not the magic – it’s what you do with it.”

The Death Knight didn’t respond.

“You don’t remember that either, do you?” Kee’dril asked gently.

The other elf shook his head.

He exhaled, then reached out, pressing a hand over Naethir’s – grounding him again. “Then let me remind you. I want to help you because you’re hurting; because… of the man we both knew; and because you saved me. As it turns out, you’re just as stuck under a tree as I was, and I want to free you. Or do you think me evil?”

Silence. A long one. A heavy one.

He regretted not to be wearing his shaded glasses. Confronting someone with that questions while his eyes were gleaming crimson in the dark that was otherwise made up by black and gray alone certainly wasn’t helpful. The San’layn worriedly watched the void elf, waiting on a reaction. Was he merely imagining it or had Naethir more white streaks in his hair than earlier when Kee’dril had been drawing him?

Then, Naethir finally nodded – a quiet, hard motion.

“All right,” he said. “Teach me. Teach me blood magic.”

Kee’dril let out a slow breath, only then realizing how tight his chest had felt.

“Okay,” he said, voice steady. “We start tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

“Demon piss.”

Instantly alert, Myreath rose from his crouch atop the large stone and stepped down. The pillar, one of a pair flanking the small river that ran through Maruukai, towered several times his height. It was adorned with rope and perforated in an intricate pattern. The Illidari had no idea what purpose the stones served beyond decoration, but at least none of the centaur had seemed bothered when he climbed one earlier. It had served as a useful lookout, giving him a figurative eye on his companions and the rest of the Maruuk centaur capital – currently teeming with activity.

He caught his fall with a quick extension of his leathery wings and landed lightly at the stone’s base, where he first had to gently fend off a mock assault from Nawag, who had been napping nearby.

“Not now,” he chided the miniature felstalker in Demonic, then added, “Go get Nag. Both of you – hide in the forest nearby until I summon you again.”

He was maybe being overly cautious, but the scaled night elf immediately felt better knowing his demons would be outside the city. This done, he moved to the riverside where Sergeant Lendi and Corporal Agia were hunched over a map of the Ohn’ahran Plains, discussing the route ahead – assuming they would be allowed to depart in the first place.

“Officers,” he calmly addressed the gnome and the dwarf, keeping his voice low, “I’m afraid the storm is about to break.”

Lendi’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of a sword at her belt. “What’s wrong, Private?”

“I just realized something. Over the past hour, the Nokhud have been slowly spreading out across Maruukai. And now, their leader is heading toward the krutal.”

The krutal was the two-story structure that overlooked the entire city; the seat of power, guarded by the khansguard, where the Khanam Matra presided over the Maruuk clans.

“Certainly unusual after what Scout Tomul told us yesterday; members o’ the clan have been keepin’ tae themselves, only grudgingly allowin’ some outsiders tae visit their campsite,” Corporal Agia agreed.

The sergeant frowned thoughtfully. “Couldn’t they have just had a change of heart? Maybe Balakar Khan’s going to attend an audience with the Khanam Matra?”

Myreath glanced toward the sun, still low in the sky. “Seems early for that. The green dragon emissary is supposed to get the first audience today – that’s why the Lieutenant went to find her. I doubt that’s even begun yet. Besides, I checked. For every lookout guard, there’s now conveniently a pair of Nokhud just hanging around nearby.”

“All righty, you’ve convinced me, Private. Prolly shouldn’t have questioned your call. Sounds fishy indeed,” Lendi said with a nod.

Myreath didn’t mind her skepticism. It was the mark of a good officer not to jump to conclusions. Yes, he was millennia older and way more battle-tested, but if he had wanted others to just jump at his words, he could have easily insisted on being made an officer himself. However, that wasn’t why he was staying with this particular army company. He needed to remember how to serve others instead of only his own vengeful intentions, to redeem what he could. Whether or not redemption was possible, he didn’t know.

Sergeant Lendi turned to the Shaman beside her. “Corporal, I’m leaving this group to you. I’ll go warn our friends at the forge.”

She strode off at a casual pace to avoid raising suspicion, heading toward the Shikaar camp on the nearby hill. Most of the city’s workshops were clustered there. Several of the Spinecrafters – including Thelri, Gal’dir, and their two undead companions – had gone up to begin refining the ore they had collected during their journey across the plains.

“I’ll tell the lassies an’ lads tae secure their catch an’ gear up,” Agia muttered, her eyes scanning the gurgling river. Many Spinecrafters had spread out along the banks, fishing to supplement their provisions. “Private, I want ye tae head tae the krutal. Drop some quiet warnings tae the guards along the way, but yer main job is tae get the Khanam Matra – an’ our Lieutenant – out if things turn ugly. I’d like tae send more, but that might provoke the Nokhud. Ye’re our safest bet.”

“Understood,” Myreath replied with a salute. “Stay safe, Corporal.”

A few minutes later, he reached his destination – atop the higher hill nestled at the foot of the peaky mountain. The ground floor of the krutal could be entered from three directions, the path Myreath had taken led him to one of the side entrances. There was no need to repeat his earlier warnings; the two centaur who usually stood guard outside had moved indoors and were clearly on alert. The reason for that was obvious to his Spectral Sight. Inside, the leader of the Nokhud had left his entourage below, the bulky warriors glaring at the other centaur present. Their hostility was making the khansguard visibly tense.

But Myreath’s focus was on Balakar himself, who had already ascended the ramp to the second floor. To his surprise, the Nokhud Khan wasn’t alone – a female night elf accompanied him. At first glance, the Demon Hunter assumed she was just another adventurer, but his battle instincts flared with warning. There was something off about her.

Certain the Nokhud guards would bar him from using the ramp, the Illidari took a few steps back and summoned the strength of his inner demon, Nurru. Drawing on its power, he launched himself upward with an Infernal Strike, using the spears and shields mounted along the exterior walls as decoration for footholds. He hauled himself up onto the wooden walkway that ringed the second floor.

His vision pierced the walls effortlessly. Inside the chamber stood several centaur – including Khanam Matra Sarest – along with a bakar (a local dog breed), the dragonspawn emissary of the green flight, and two outsiders. One of them was Lieutenant Valentian; it seemed he had successfully convinced Gemisath to allow him into the audience. On the opposite side of the room, Balakar and the night elf approached the entrance.

Khanam Matra Sarest’s voice rang out:

“If Ohn’ahra wills it, I’ll blow the Horn of Drusahl on the morrow to signal our accord with the Green Dragonflight.”

“Merithra, daughter of Ysera, is grateful for your…” Gemisath faltered as Balakar and his companion strode into the chamber.

“Grateful? Ha! Dragons only respect dragons,” Balakar scoffed, “No Maruuk blood will be spilled for them.”

“You are not the Khanam Matra, Balakar,” one of the elder female centaur said, stepping forward.

“A true leader would never surrender this land to outsiders. You desecrate the memory of Maruuk Thousandbones, Sarest.”

“Stand down!”

“No. These plains belong to the Maruuk – and Maruukai belongs to the Nokhud!”

Balakar raised his arms, and suddenly, a roiling storm cloud gathered above the building. Before anyone could react, a bolt of lightning crashed down through the open ceiling. It was blinding – so charged with magic that even Myreath had to avert his gaze.

When he looked back, the green emissary lay dead on the ground. The other figures were still all on their feet, hooves or paws. Yells and the sundering of hoofbeats ascending the ramp to his right made the Illidari whirl around. Balakar’s lightning attack must have been the signal. The Nokhud were on the move.

Myreath growled, a noise that grew even more wild while his body transformed. Muscles bulged, bones cracked and lengthened, jagged spines sprouted from his back and neck, and his skull stretched into a monstrous snout. Skin tore away, leaving bone exposed. He hadn’t used his Metamorphosis since joining the Spinecrafters, but if there were ever a time, it was now. That herd of stampeding centaur would not reach their leader.

He relished the fear in the eyes of the first Nokhud who spotted him. In his demon form, he resembled a ghoulish, hulking worgen – like a felstalker reared onto hind legs, front hooves now deadly claws still capable of gripping his glaives.

To their credit, the Nokhud still charged – seven to one odds. Had they been orcs or trolls, the number would have doubled. But Myreath held the high ground, and he was Illidari. Not just any Illidari, but one of the best – once. Most people of the Alliance and the Horde probably knew this meant he could muster the fighting force of several common soldiers. But these centaur had no idea what they were truly facing.

He didn’t draw his weapons right away. Instead, he caught the four-legged warrior by the chest as the brute tried to barrel past him, all hooves and horse-like mass. Straining his enhanced muscles, he lifted the centaur cleanly off the ground, and hurled him over the edge. Myreath silently hoped the throw landed in the direction of the path leading to the krutal’s side entrance – clear of bystanders.

The show of strength had the intended effect. The remaining attackers hesitated, advancing slower, which made them easier to fend off. Myreath quickly felled three more before the survivors broke and fled back the way they had come. Down below, the khansguard surged to intercept them.

Nurru wanted to give chase, but Myreath restrained the urge with a silent apology, then reverted to his night elf form. He ripped off his torn shirt and tabard with irritation. They hadn’t withstood the shift. His chest, now bare, showed the intricate arcane tattoos glowing a dark green against his scaly purple-gray skin.

He rushed toward the entrance of the audience chamber, relieved to see no other figure had fallen aside from Gemisath – but two were missing.

“Well done, Private Myreath,” Lieutenant Valentian said, approaching in his worgen form.

Myreath nodded in acknowledgment.“What happened to Balakar and… the other one?”

“Koroleth cast a spell. She and Balakar jumped – wind caught their fall,” said Okir, clearly displeased.

“Koroleth?” Myreath echoed. “She must be one of the Primalists. Have you met her before?”

Okir signed and then watched Sansok Khan.

Thanks to his time with Cassy, the unit’s deaf huntress, Myreath could catch fragments of the hand signs exchanged between the two, but was still grateful when Okir translated:

“She approached Clan Shikaar shortly before we left for the Khural. Tried to convince us to join the Primalists. Sansok Khan, of course, refused.”

“Orc breath,” the Lieutenant muttered. “So the Primalists are already active on the plains.”

“It seems Balakar was an easy target for Koroleth’s corruption,” Khanam Matra Sarest said bitterly, looking out over the city where chaos now reigned. “They’ve turned their backs on our traditions. Balakar shames his people, leading them into a storm fueled by pride and greed. He must be stopped.”

“We won’t let them take the city,” Myreath said, drawing his warglaives.

“Aye,” the Lieutenant agreed with a rumbling growl. “Let’s go, Private. Sounds like there’s still work to be done.”

Together, they turned and raced down the ramp to join the khansguard, the loyal clans, and the adventurers already fighting to defend Maruukai from the Nokhud.

–.o.O.o.–

The scent of smoke and blood still hung thickly over Maruukai as the Spinecrafters sat together around a campfire that evening.

Despite the others only being pathetic excuses for centaur according to Balakar, the Nokhud forces he had brought to the sacred city had not been enough to seize it. Their attempted coup had been thwarted – rebelling centaur were either struck down, taken prisoner, or forced to flee like Balakar and his Primalist ally. Only a few warriors from the loyal clans had fallen, and the wounded had already been treated. Corporal Agia, Galynia, and Gert had tended to the injured Spinecrafters, patching them up after the battle.

Myreath had already checked on Nag, rewarding the demon – who usually served him as a mount – with an extra helping of mana crystals. Now he sat with Nawag curled up in his lap, quietly watching with the others as Lieutenant Valentian returned from a second audience with the Maruuk leadership.

“Khanam Matra Sarest intends to rally the clans for war,” the Gilnean began, now back in his dark-skinned human form. “She’s sent messengers to those of the loyal clans who remained behind during the Khural, and scouts have been dispatched to find the Wild God Ohn’ahra. Her blessing is required to sound the Horn of Drusahl, which would invoke the ancient oath between the Maruukai and the green dragonflight.”

He glanced around the circle.

“Many of our fellow adventurers have pledged their support to the Khanam Matra,” he continued. “But officers Lendi, Agia, and I have decided that we will not do the same.”

Myreath heard a quiet sigh of relief from Galynia. A few hushed whispers passed between others, but they subsided without needing to be silenced.

“The Khanam Matra and the other Khans have granted us permission to travel the Plains,” the Lieutenant said. “However, that won’t shield us from attacks by the Nokhud or smaller clans that may have sided with them and the Primalists. Even so, I intend for us to set out for the Emerald Gardens first thing tomorrow. The emissary of the green dragonflight was slain, but I gave Gemisath my word this morning that we would aid in restoring the Emerald Oathstone.”

Valentian stepped around the fire again, turning so all could see him clearly.

“I won’t break that promise,” he said firmly. “Besides, I suspect this war may be a deliberate distraction orchestrated by the Primalists. The green flight is weakened – they’re more gardeners than warriors. Their emissary came to request aid from the Maruuk. But now, the centaur are embroiled in their own conflict.”

He let that sink in for a moment before concluding:

“I believe we can do more good by traveling to the Emerald Gardens – by bringing the news to the dragons and aiding them – than we could by joining a war between clans. That’s the mission. For now, you’re dismissed. Get some rest. We depart at sunrise.”

The Spinecrafters stood and saluted in practiced unison before dispersing. It had been a long and demanding day. While many had still assisted with treating the wounded and cleaning up the city, the Illidari and his assistant for today had prepared a meal, but not everybody had found the time to eat yet. Those now hurried to catch up on that, others returned to their spots around the fire, settling in to relax and chat, while a few slipped away to their tents – still intact from the fighting – to grab some extra sleep or prepare for the journey ahead.

Eventually, the distant clash of weapons caught Myreath’s attention and drew him toward one of his more favored evening pastimes. Since their first duel back in the Waking Shores, Naethir and Kee’dril had developed a regular habit of sparring in the evenings. As tireless as the two undead were, tonight was no exception – even after the day’s battle.

The Demon Hunter found pleasure in watching their graceful, calculated exchanges, curious whether the San’layn would follow the bout with another lesson in his unique magic, as he had the night before. Two nights ago, Kee’dril had somehow coaxed something useful out of the withdrawn void elf, which had sparked their current arrangement. Perhaps the twins had been right to send their brother away. Naethir seemed to have found someone he could finally open up to. Myreath was intrigued to see where that might lead.

–.o.O.o.–

Others among the Spinecrafters laughed joyfully, cheered, or tried to join the song – like Gert, who had paused his flute only briefly and was now quickly adapting to the new melody. But Myreath’s heart ached as Galynia sang.

Nag, beneath him, immediately sensed the shift in his rider’s body. The felstalker let out a confused snarl, expecting an attack. Myreath could feel a similar wave of unease from Nurru stirring within him. Only Nawag, running ahead of the convoy at a casual trot, remained oblivious for now. They had been riding at a walk for the past half-hour, letting their mounts recover before picking up the pace again.

When Benthras’s hesitant voice joined his girlfriend’s, the Illidari’s sorrow deepened. Neither kaldorei was an exceptional singer, and they had chosen a lighthearted traveling tune, but that only intensified the illusion. In his mind, their adult voices shifted into those of children, echoing memories of singing that very same song with Vivisa and Nandon.

“It’s the singing, isn’t it? Should I ask them to stop?” Naethir’s cold voice was quiet, his mount now drawing closer.

It took Myreath a moment to remember the Death Knight’s uncanny ability to sense emotional pain. He was surprised the void elf had decided to speak up at all. A flash of annoyance stirred within him – an instinctive reaction to what felt like an invasion of privacy – but he caught himself. Anger would be too easy, a distraction from the pain he didn’t want to face.

“No,” he said at last. “Let the others have their fun.”

“But you’re hurting.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, kid.”

Myreath half-expected more questions, but Naethir simply guided his mount back to its earlier position with a curt, “I see.”

“It reminds you of someone you lost, doesn’t it?” another low voice asked gently. A dark brown mare had replaced the black-purple one.

“Aye,” Myreath replied quietly. “My kids… they loved learning new songs when we were out foraging in the woods.”

Kee’dril’s eyes, shaded behind his glasses, softened further with sorrow. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. No parent should have to endure the death of their children.” He hesitated. “Do you… mind me asking what happened?”

It would have been easy to let the old rage rise again – not at the question, but at his brother, its true target. That fury still burned in the depths of Myreath’s heart, though it no longer ruled him as it once had. In its place, regret had taken root: regret over how his rivalry with Kelorn for the same woman had spiraled so far, regret over everything that followed, leading to the unthinkable: him feeding his brother’s soul to the anima-consuming beasts of the Maw.

He exhaled a slow, heavy sigh. “They were killed by someone… connected to the Burning Legion.”

“Is that why you became a Demon Hunter?”

Myreath was about to answer when the air around them suddenly seemed to hum with energy. Startled, he straightened in the saddle, scanning the surroundings for a source. Further down the line, Galynia and Benthras abruptly fell silent – but the song carried on through Gert’s flute and a few lingering voices.

“What is it?” Kee’dril asked, alert now, though more puzzled than alarmed.

“What was that?” Myreath muttered, the strange sensation fading as quickly as it had come.

“What was what?” Rohan asked, turning in his saddle to glance back at the Illidari riding behind him.

“You didn’t feel that?” Myreath asked in disbelief.

“I felt it,” Gal’dir called from the front of the convoy, where the Lieutenant’s squad rode.

“Felt what?” piped Sergeant Lendi’s voice from somewhere near the center of the group.

“Halt, everyone!” Lieutenant Valentian called. He turned his mount and cut back across the field, riding toward the rear of the column. “Report, Private Myreath.”

The Illidari quickly described the strange experience. When he finished, the Gilnean addressed the entire group:

“It seems most of us didn’t sense anything. Who else noticed something?”

Gal’dir repeated his earlier confirmation. After a few hushed words between them, Galynia raised a hand.

“Ben and I didn’t feel anything,” she said. “But we heard something – a very low, deep wailing. It didn’t seem to come from any particular direction.”

The Lieutenant muttered something under his breath, then raised his voice again. “It appears to be something only the kaldorei among us can detect. If that sound – or sensation – returns, call it out immediately. We’ll continue onward, but no more singing for now. Stay alert. This may have been some kind of warning or alarm… possibly from our enemies.”

More than a quarter hour had passed without a recurrence of the strange sensation – and neither had they been attacked. That had only happened once since setting out on the second part of their journey across the Ohn’ahran Plains, not far from Nokhudon Hold. They had, of course, tried to bypass the stronghold of the enemy centaur clan but had run into a patrol nonetheless. Despite being outnumbered, the centaur had engaged them – clearly underestimating the Spinecrafters, much like their kin had back in Maruukai. It hadn’t ended well for them this time, either.

Movement in the sky eventually drew Myreath’s attention – something too large to be just a bird. Soon, three green dragons soared overhead, flying high and fast, heading northwest.

“This really isn’t fair,” Milan grumbled. “We spend days on end in the saddle until our arses are sore just to get anywhere, and the dragons can cross the entire plains in a few hours.”

Thelri snorted. “Milan doing what he does best – complaining. If your backside’s too soft for a little riding, go find us a bunch of drakes to haul us around!”

They had occasionally seen adventurers mounted on young dragons since arriving on the Dragon Isles. But dragons didn’t take kindly to being treated as mere mounts. Some were willing to cooperate with explorers or adventurers for a time – often to reconnect with their ancestral homeland or complete a specific mission – but tagging along with an army company for the sake of transport was another matter entirely.

“My backside isn’t soft!” Milan exclaimed. “But don’t tell me you – mighty warrior of the Light – actually enjoy slogging along the ground instead of soaring proudly through the sky on the way to kick some Primalist butt!”

Not bad for a comeback, Myreath thought, though he kept it to himself so as not to encourage further bickering.

“Guys, those weren’t just adventurers riding with their dragon buddies,” Renald said, forestalling whatever retort Thelri was about to fire back. He was peering through the viewfinder of the camera he had somehow managed to convince the Dragonscale Expedition to rent to him – indefinitely, it seemed. “That looked like an envoy of the green dragonflight. One of them was huge – might’ve even been Merithra herself, with two escorts!”

Myreath hadn’t paid them much attention – dragons, unlike proto-dragons, posed no threat. Now, however, they were already distant shapes, too far away even for his sight to determine if they were carrying passengers. Renald cursed as the trio glided lower and disappeared behind the hills.

“Could it be that the strange feeling earlier was the horn being blown – the one Khanam Matra mentioned?” Haaldar asked.

“The Horn of Drusahl,” Lieutenant Valentian added with a nod.

“Yes, Sir,” the draenei mage replied. “It would make sense. It can’t just be a regular horn – its sound would have to be impossibly loud to reach across the entire Plains and as far as the Emerald Gardens. Maybe instead it produces a kind of… magical call, an alarm that resonates only with those strongly attuned to nature – like night elves or green dragons.”

“That’s my smooth-hoof; strong and brilliant!” Thelri said proudly, grinning at her partner.

“You might well be right, Private,” Lieutenant Valentian agreed. He cast a wistful glance toward the distant hills. “I wish we could see where they’re going.”

“Maybe I can help with that, Sir – but we’d need tae stop fer a wee moment,” Corporal Agia offered.

At the Lieutenant’s order, they halted their mounts. The dwarven Shaman settled cross-legged with one of her totems and closed her eyes. It took her a moment to get her Far Sight working, but when she opened them again, her eyes glowed brightly.

“All right, I see the dragons. They’re flying toward a range o’ hills. There’s a settlement on top o’ one – aye, an’ there’s a huge horn! But somethin’s nae right… there’s fightin’ goin’ on! And – oh no! This looks bad. Really bad!”

“What is it?” Gert urged her. “You have to tell us what you’re seeing, Corporal!”

“Sorry! It’s – one o’ them’s been hit! They fired some kind o’ ballista just as the dragons approached. The smaller ones tried tae shield the big one. One got hit an’ fell like a stone! The others are trying tae catch them, but – ouch!”

Agia flinched and blinked. The glow faded from her eyes. She stared down at the totem, puzzled. “Me connection tae the wind – it was just severed… by somethin’.”

“Sounds like those dragons flew right into a trap,” Gal’dir said grimly, voicing the thought that had just crossed Myreath’s mind.

“It must have been the Nokhud and the Primalists who blew the horn instead of the other Maruuk,” the lieutenant rumbled, having transformed into his worgen form from excitement.

“But Sir, didn’t you say that the blowing of the horn would require Ohn’ahra’s blessing?” Agnes asked, tapping her toes nervously.

“Yes, but…” Valentian trailed off, seemingly at a loss for an explanation.

Galynia nudged her way out of the crowd of mounts and people that had unconsciously clustered around the Shaman. “The Primalists can control storms, right? And Ohn’ahra is a Wild God of the wind… but storms overpower the wind. Maybe they… forced her to give her blessing,” she offered, her voice unsteady.

“That’d explain what severed me connection tae the wind,” Agia agreed. “The storm must’ve noticed me watchin’ an’ did nae like it.”

“But what was their plan?” Sergeant Lendi asked, the only soldier who had remained mounted, likely to keep her vantage point. “Even if they fired more than once, they couldn’t know Merithra would show up at the horn. And killing her wouldn’t serve much purpose either.”

That got Myreath thinking. “Maybe that wasn’t the goal,” he said. “Maybe the real plan was to test the weapon – on any dragon that responded. At a location where they had time to prepare… and where their target would be isolated.”

“You’re right!” Lieutenant Valentian clapped his paws together. “I was wondering why the Primalists helped the Nokhud with their coup. It wasn’t just to start a war and distract the Maruuk – it was to secure allies with the means to kill dragons. And now, they know those weapons work.”

–.o.O.o.–

Although the Spinecrafters had picked up their pace after Agia’s troubling vision, it still took them another day to reach the Emerald Gardens – specifically, the Shady Sanctuary, where they were warmly welcomed by the members of the green dragonflight. Their Gardens stretched across the western coast of the Ohn’ahran Plains, a landscape of steep cliffs and marshy shoreline. The vegetation was more lush and vibrant than elsewhere on the plains, dense and almost jungle-like, clearly affected by the magic radiating from the nearby portal to the Emerald Dream.

Their earlier suspicions were soon confirmed by none other than Merithra herself. She had returned with the body of the fallen dragon Solethus, accompanied by her son Gerithus, long before the ground-bound Spinecrafters had reached the green dragonflight’s domain. After Solethus was struck down, the Primalists had ceased their assault and retreated, leaving the village with the Horn of Drusahl to the advancing Maruuk forces – but taking with them the captured Ohn’ahra. The Khanam Matra had explained the situation to the remaining dragons and pledged the support of the Teerai, Shikaar, and Ohn’ir clans for the defense of the Emerald Gardens, now that it was clear the threat was far greater than just a centaur civil war.

While those three clans rallied their forces and began marching toward the Gardens – hoping to arrive before, or at least alongside, the Primalists and their Nokhud allies – the Spinecrafters spent the time helping the greens reinforce their defenses. The Primalists had been attacking the grove sporadically since the dragons’ return to the Isles. Those early raids had been easy to repel, but everyone knew that would change now that the enemy had dragonkiller ballistae.

Eventually, word arrived: Khanam Matra Sarest and her forces had reached the Emerald Gardens. A massive enemy invasion was gathering on a beach to the north. Once more, the Spinecrafters readied themselves to join the fray. Their mission – to aid the dragonflights in restoring their aspectral powers – currently hinged on securing and repairing the Oathstones. They wouldn’t stand by and watch while the Primalists threatened the greens’ sacred isle. It was no coincidence that their detachment was composed of the most veteran soldiers in service. No one had expected to make it through this assignment without seeing their fair share of battles. After all, on Azeroth, even helping a farmer could quickly spiral into an armed conflict.

When the Spinecrafters reached the battlefield, the clash was already well underway. But they easily located Khanam Matra Sarest behind the barricades they had helped construct in recent days. The centaur leader spotted them and beckoned Lieutenant Valentian over.

Despite the howling of the unnatural storm above – a storm no doubt conjured by the Primalists – Myreath could still catch the exchange between the worgen and the centaur leader.

“Glad to see you again, Lieutenant. We could use the assistance of you and your brave soldiers.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Valentian replied without hesitation.

“Good. I’ve already sent a combined force of adventurers and my warriors to disrupt a portal the enemy’s using to reinforce their troops. I also dispatched another special team to take out the dragonkiller ballistae, so our winged allies can join the battle. But there’s another problem.”

She pointed into the distance. Myreath followed her gesture and spotted a figure atop a proto-dragon, hovering in place before a massive stone pillar carved with glowing runes. Thin, crackling lines of energy arced between the rider and several other positions across the battlefield.

“Koroleth is attacking one of the pillars powering the magical barrier around the Ancient Bough. That barrier is what prevents anyone from approaching the sacred isle. It’s now obvious the Primalists are targeting the Bough – where the Emerald Dream portal and the green Oathstone reside.”

A chill traced down Myreath’s spine. The green dragonflight were the protectors of the Emerald Dream, and as a former Druid, he understood well the importance of the spirit world accessed through its portals. The Dream was the untouched blueprint of Azeroth – the very heart of balance and renewal. The idea of the Primalists gaining access to it wasn’t just alarming; it was catastrophic. If they corrupted the Dream, they could endanger not only Azeroth but every reality tethered to that ethereal domain.

“We didn’t expect the Primalists to be strong enough to threaten the barrier’s anchors,” Sarest continued. “But Koroleth is being empowered by storm magic – channeled through those pylons.”

“So we need to take them out,” Lieutenant Valentian said grimly.

“Indeed,” the Khanam Matra replied, nodding. “But they’re well protected. Even if we could break through, we couldn’t destroy the pylons on our own. We need the dragons.”

“Who can’t attack while the ballistae are still in play.”

“Yes and no,” Sarest clarified. “The dragons can’t fly low enough without exposing themselves to the ballistae. The storm clouds are masking the battlefield below, so even those dragons capable of long-range strikes can’t see their targets unless they descend – and that’s suicide. Merithra is one of the few who can attack from above the storm, but only sparingly. However, she’s given me magical seeds that act as signal flares in times of crisis.”

She held out a small pouch. “I’d say this qualifies. Get as close to the pylons as you can, signal Merithra, and let her do the rest. Can you do that, Lieutenant?”

“We’ll make it happen,” Valentian said, his expression hardening. “You can count on us.”

“Three squads, three pylons,” Lieutenant Valentian continued, following a concise summary of the Khanam Matra’s orders. “Each squad gets a seed. Your job is to reach a pylon and set off the signal. Corporal Agia, you’ll take the one furthest to the north. My squad will target the central pylon. Sergeant Lendi’s group will handle the southern one – Confederate Kee’dril, you’re assigned to support her squad.”

“Err, yes, Sir!” Kee’dril replied promptly. As the worgen moved on to offer a few final words of encouragement, Myreath caught a hushed exchange between the San’layn and Naethir.

“Do you think he knows Lendi and most of her squad… aren’t exactly fond of me?”

“Probably,” Naethir replied in an equally low voice. “Might be why he’s placing you with them today instead of assigning you to Agia’s team with me. Their squad’s the weakest without an Illidari – or me. Having you along evens the odds.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Don’t worry. They might not want to play cards with us, but they’ll work with you when it counts. Trust me.”

The undead blood elf exhaled gently. “I do. Just don’t get yourself into trouble, all right? We will get your memories back.”

That last part made Myreath blink. Before he could dwell on it, Naethir’s response nearly drew a laugh from him.

“Don’t worry. I doubt the Nokhud know enough about undead to properly break us – and Myr will probably be babysitting me anyway while you’re off making friends. Just stay safe. Or Galynia might heal you with Light magic.”

“Now, squads to your officers!” Valentian barked. “Let’s do this!”

A ragged cheer went up from the Spinecrafters, somewhere between a salute and a battle cry, before they scattered to form up.

Myreath stepped beside Naethir and muttered: “I do hope I won’t have to change your swaddling, kid.”

Naethir tensed, scratching at his chin beard. “I should’ve known you’d hear that. But it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“It’s not my fault people forget how keen my hearing is. Besides, aren’t you doing something similar all the time with that pain-sensing trick of yours?”

That made the void elf pause. “Fair point… I’m sorry. I just can’t always help it. It’s… better than the alternative.”

Myreath wanted to ask what that meant, but Corporal Agia cut in:

“All right, lads, here’s the plan. Private Myreath, ye’re carrying the seed.”

He stepped forward, palm outstretched. The object, fitting snugly in his hand, felt heavier than expected.

“Ye’ll need tae peel off its outer coat tae activate it,” she instructed. Then she turned to the Gilnean, who had assumed his worgen form. “Private Rohan, ye’ll cast Shroud on us as soon as we’re clear o’ the barricades. We’ll head straight fer the coast, cut through the shallows in front o’ the pylon, an’ make fer our target.”

The Rogue and the Hunter exchanged uneasy glances. Rohan voiced their concern:

“Err, Corporal… I won’t be able to keep us Shrouded all the way there. Even with the invisibility potions, it won’t last that long.

Myreath nodded. He had brewed those potions himself, and while potent, they weren’t miracle elixirs. Their effects were fleeting – too short to cover such a distance on foot.

“I know, Private,” Agia replied. “But we only need tae sneak past the fightin’ around that ballista. After that, we go in openly. I do nae expect us tae get through this with dry feet.”

Her glance toward Naethir made clear she wasn’t suggesting the Death Knight freeze the water beneath them. They would have to wade – or fight – their way through. Myreath could already spot small storm elementals and tarasek prowling the waters ahead.

“What about Koroleth?” Renald asked.

Myreath grunted, eagerly drawing his warglaives from their holsters. “She’s focused on that pillar. Breaking it is her priority. So long as we don’t interfere directly, she won’t bother with us. She’s too empowered to consider us a threat.”

“Exactly what I’m bettin’ on,” Agia agreed with a nod.

They set out, Rohan cloaking them in invisibility as planned. They hadn’t even reached the water before the Rogue’s stamina gave out. Navigating as a group of five while avoiding hostiles had forced them off the direct route – and the added effort quickly drained his reserves.

Still, although their reappearance didn’t go unnoticed, the battlefield around them was chaos. Enemy forces were locked in combat with Maruuk loyal to the Khanam Matra, and the Spinecrafters’ presence went largely ignored.

Their advance through the shallow waters of the bay was – predictably – slowed by patrols posted to protect Koroleth and her proto-dragon. Storm elementals and tarasek tried to bar their path, but none posed a lasting threat. Myreath, scanning ahead toward the pylon, could see tougher resistance waiting – larger elementals and Primalist casters bristling with unstable magic.

He prepared to leap forward and draw their focus when a blast of energy cracked through the sky to their right, obliterating a jagged earth-and-stone formation that had been raised by enemy magic.

“That was the Lieutenant’s pylon!” Renald exclaimed. “They’ve already made it!”

“I hope the Sergeant’s squad is all right. Theirs was closest…” Rohan added, concern creasing his brow.

Myreath understood the deeper meaning. Agnes was with Lendi’s squad. The worgen’s protectiveness was no secret.

“If they haven’t triggered their seed by the time we finish here, we’ll help them,” Corporal Agia said firmly. “But for now, we focus on our target.”

“Understood, Sir,” Rohan replied, slipping into the shadows.

Taking that as his cue, the Demon Hunter launched into action. Two Sigils came first: one of Silence, muffling the casters and forcing them to draw blades; then a Sigil of Flame, which erupted into a burst of fel-green chaos energy. It scorched their enemies, weakening their strikes. With a roar, Myreath launched himself with an Infernal Strike, landing squarely among the defenders.

The earlier success of the Lieutenant’s squad had unintended consequences. Alarmed, the enemy began reinforcing their position, drawing more Primalist soldiers toward them. The storm elementals, slipperier than expected, loosed bolts of lightning that struck with brutal force. Still, Myreath held the line.

With Naethir flanking and freezing enemies into brittle chunks, Rohan striking from the shadows, and Agia and Renald keeping their distance – one with arrows, the other with healing spells – they steadily pushed forward. After a bruising fight, they reached the pylon.

Myreath triggered the seed.

“Time to move!” Agia barked, already retreating.

They didn’t need telling twice. Even before the magic flared, they were in motion. Moments later, a focused beam of draconic acid arced from the sky and vaporized the pylon, melting it into a bubbling pool of molten stone.

Myreath turned, scanning the field for the third pylon.

It was still standing – its storm magic flowing in a steady stream toward Koroleth, who hovered on her proto-dragon, silhouetted against the churning clouds. The last pylon pulsed with power, and now the fiercest fighting on the beach had coalesced around it.

To the left, Myreath spotted the Lieutenant’s squad – clearly attempting to reach the sergeant’s team. But they had been cut off by a wave of Nokhud warriors.

Their own path remained momentarily clear – until a group of smaller storm elementals gathered to intercept them. As they braced for another clash, a bubble of energy flared into life around the base of the final pylon.

At times, it was hard to tell in which color a non-Illidari would see the things Myreath did, but this time his experience suggested it to be red. Blood magic.

“Must be our vampyre who pulled off that trick,” he muttered to Naethir while raking his glaives through one of the elementals, scattering it to harmless breeze.

The Death Knight, shattering a frozen elemental into shards of ice, grunted in agreement.

Before they could speculate further, a familiar squad burst through the enemy lines ahead. Sergeant Lendi and her team made it out – barely clearing the blast zone in time as Merithra’s attack rained down from above. The Nokhud and Primalists chasing them weren’t so lucky. They were engulfed in a downpour of corrosive poison – liquid death that devoured stone, flesh, and bone alike with terrifying ease.

“Oh, thank the Three Hammers, ye made it!” Corporal Agia exclaimed in relief, hurrying toward Sergeant Lendi and her squad.

They looked battered. Their clothing was scorched in irregular patterns – clear marks of lightning strikes. Benthras was the worst off, the long metal shaft of his spear having clearly worked against him in this particular skirmish. Galynia downed a waterskin Agia handed her without a word, while a staggering Agnes collapsed into Rohan’s furry arms, drawing a tight embrace from the worgen.

Kee’dril approached, flashing an awkward smile that exposed his unusually prominent fangs.

“Looks like you’re the one who actually got into trouble,” Naethir greeted him.

“Damn storm elementals,” the San’layn muttered indignantly. “A whole cluster boxed us in – and they don’t bleed! Made me feel completely useless.” He sighed, softer now. “I seriously need a drink after this.”

“Why not now?” Myreath asked, curious. “Plenty of bleeding enemies to choose from.”

Kee’dril raked a hand through his red hair. “I try to keep fighting and… feeding separate. Easier not to blend those instincts in the heat of battle. And I’m not keen on eating in front of an audience.”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

Myreath knew plenty of Illidari who acted similarly, avoiding consumption of demonic flesh in public out of respect – or shame. He didn’t share the concern, but he understood it.

“That was too close for comfort! But well saved, squad,” Lendi called, drawing attention back to the group. “You too, Confederate. Without your Rallying… Cloud – whatever that was – I wouldn’t have made it out to plant the seed. You gave us a moment we sorely needed.”

Kee’dril blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Don’t mention it. I still think I let you down – I wasn’t much help earlier.”

Milan, off to the side and halfway through a summoning ritual (his imp, predictably, had fled mid-battle), snorted. “You did fine, considering you only had your swords. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my spells had cut out.”

“I… thanks,” the San’layn said quietly, glancing down at his paired blades – one his, the other Gal’dir’s. He still hadn’t found a replacement to his liking; most of the centaur or drakonid weapons were too thick for his taste.

“All still standing?” came the familiar growl of Lieutenant Valentian, striding into view with his squad. A quick scan of the gathered Spinecrafters confirmed the answer. “Good job, Spinies. With the pylons down, we just need to take care of the ballistae and-”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as they fixed on something in the distance.

“By Goldrinn’s aching tooth… that one’s persistent.”

Myreath turned. It didn’t take long to see the cause: Koroleth, though stripped of the pylon’s storm empowerment, hadn’t fled as expected. She and her proto-dragon remained in the sky, channeling a concentrated beam onto the stone pillar that protected the green dragonflight’s sacred isle.

“Looks like there’s still one thing left to deal with,” the Lieutenant growled. “Let’s stop her. She won’t last against all of us.”

“Maybe we can talk some sense into her,” Myreath murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

However, any hope of resolving the standoff peacefully eventually dissolved. Despite their attempts – words of reason, offers of fair trial, even open pleas – Koroleth refused to stand down. Her grief, her fury, her determination to destroy the pillar were absolute. Mounted on her proto-dragon, she lashed out with raw elemental power.

But the lieutenant had been right. Together, the Spinecrafters soon threatened to overwhelmed the scarred, bald-headed night elf and the large reptile. In desperation, she dismounted.

“No… I will not be defeated!” she cried, slamming a hand onto the proto-dragon’s scaled chest. “Give me your strength, beast!”

The creature shrieked in agony and collapsed. Koroleth rose, reinvigorated with crackling storm magic – but even bolstered, she could not break through the ring of blades and spells tightening around her. At last, she fell, her body limp, the power around her extinguished.

For a moment, everything stilled. The Spinecrafters froze. In the eerie silence, even the sounds of the distant battle – where Primalists, elementals, centaur, and adventurers still clashed – seemed to fade.

It was the first time they had killed a Primalist who had counted among their trusted allies not long ago. At the Ruby Lifeshrine, the unit had mostly faced elementals, tarasek, and a few tauren or vulpera summoners – enemies familiar from their days fighting the Horde. This felt different.

Myreath was the first to move again. He knelt beside Koroleth’s body and gently reached out to close her eyes.

“This is a very regrettable outcome,” Lieutenant Valentian said at last, his voice low and heavy. The glow in his eyes softened as he looked at each kaldorei in turn – Galynia, Benthras, Gal’dir, Myreath. “After all your people have suffered… I regret that it was us who had to add another loss.”

“S-she left us n-no other choice.” Surprisingly, it was Benthras who found his voice first.

Galynia, clinging tightly to him, nodded slowly – her wide eyes fixed on the fallen Primalist.

“Indeed. She made hers,” Gal’dir said firmly. “This was no different from putting down a Felborne or anyone who joins the enemy.”

“We tried,” Myreath added quietly. “But she was beyond reason. Consumed by grief, by rage. And those things… they feed on themselves.”

He looked down at her face, now oddly peaceful beneath the drizzle. It reminded him of another: Aadrithea Dewspirit.

She hadn’t appeared on the battlefield today, and for that, Myreath felt an unexpected wave of relief. Then again, if Aadrithea had stood in Koroleth’s place… maybe they could have reached her. She had spoken with Sergeant Lendi’s squad during the battle in the Waking Shores. Had shown signs of doubt. Myreath deeply hoped that would still be the case if they ever encountered her again. He remembered her yellow-gleaming eyes at Nordrassil – the pain in them. The barely checked fury.

Myreath knew the consuming hunger of emotions like that; how they twisted everything inside a person. He didn’t want to see her – or anyone – lost to that darkness. Rage and pain didn’t fade by feeding them. They only grew, until the person bearing them became a monster they could no longer recognize themselves in.

“Look, guys – the dragons!”

Lendi’s voice cut through the hush, pulling every gaze toward the shoreline.

From above, green-scaled dragons swooped low beneath the storm cover, wings slicing through the air. With Koroleth defeated, the Primalists had broken ranks, scattering. The Maruuk loyalists had surged forward, seizing the ballistae.

“With the dragons joining the fight, the enemy won’t last long,” Gal’dir said. “Maybe further bloodshed can be avoided – for today, at least.”

Chapter Text

While Pilinor walked over to where his prey had fallen – and where his two pets, Yula and Roval, were waiting obediently – he pulled up the thick scarf around his neck until it covered his mouth and nose. He wasn’t sure if it would actually protect him, but it made him feel safer as he crouched beside the fallen deer. A noise of disgust escaped the void-touched Hunter as he pulled his arrow from the carcass – an actual carcass, since the creature looked like it had been dead on its feet for over a week.

It wasn’t the first zombie animal he had encountered that day, but the experience was no less vile for its familiarity. The Azure Span was still, without question, his favorite region on the Dragon Isles – but it had its share of problems, one of which was the creeping spread of decay magic. Especially in the western parts of the vast forest – larger even than the Ohn’ahran Plains – it had begun to corrupt both land and beast.

With his arrow retrieved, Pilinor rummaged through his belt pouches and took out a small bundle of tools he had received from a kindly Mage at the large Kirin Tor camp in central Azure Span. He sprinkled the carcass with a silvery powder, then dropped a lit match onto it and backed away. As always, the entire body ignited at once in a blaze far hotter and faster than any ordinary flame.

Next to him, the giant wasp clacked its mandibles in protest; clearly displeased by the waste of what, in its eyes, was a delicious meal.

Pilinor sighed and lowered the cloth from his face. “C’mon, you big dummy. I’ve told you a dozen times: eating any of that would only make you sick.”

He pulled out a few treats and held them out to Roval, who responded with a conciliatory wing-buzz and gently plucked the bits of dried meat from the quel’dorei’s hand. While the wasp chewed contentedly, Pilinor turned to his other companion and crouched beside her, giving the massive red-and-black spider a hearty scratch.

“We’ll find you some clean prey this evening. But snacking was never your thing anyway, huh?”

Yula wiggled her abdomen in affirmation beneath his hand.

He lingered there, caressing her until the fire had finished its work and only ashes remained. Then, after ensuring the flames had properly died out, he set off again – strolling aimlessly through the forest in search of more corrupted creatures that needed culling.

Unlike his usual hunts, there was little need to mind his steps or stay quiet. The terrain in Azure Span was unusually forgiving: the underbrush was sparse, and the ground between the towering trees was carpeted in thick grass that muffled his movement. And the trees – some modest in height, others towering several times higher than any normal growth – were evidence of the potent ley lines running through the region, feeding their size with magic. Besides, the corrupted beasts no longer possessed their natural instincts. They no longer fled at the sound of footsteps.

Soon, Pilinor spotted another infected beast: a hyena, loping awkwardly through the brush. It was a strange animal, somewhere between a large cat and a wolf. He and his companions dispatched it quickly, and he incinerated the corpse like the last. Nothing from such creatures could be salvaged. And knowing he was only treating the symptoms, not the root cause, robbed the hunt of any real satisfaction. There was no thrill in the kill – only a sense of grim necessity. Pilinor wished he could help the land in a more lasting way, but no better option had presented itself.

According to the tuskarr down by the coast, the Blue Dragon Aspect Kalecgos and an adventurer had attempted the same only days earlier. They had found the source of the corruption in Brackenhide Hollow, where local gnolls – hyena-like humanoids – had begun practicing decay magic. Their efforts hadn’t been enough. Some sources of decay clearly remained, continuing to poison the forest and its creatures.

After stamping out the last of the smoldering embers, Pilinor followed the slope of a hill, tracking a sluggish vulture overhead. The bird’s flight was clumsy and unsteady – yet another victim of the spreading blight. As he peered up at it, angling for a shot, he nearly missed the figure ahead.

The sight made him freeze.

A squat, hunched form was moving in the distance. Pilinor immediately dismissed the vulture from his mind and ducked behind the nearest tree, signaling his pets with a silent mental command. Yula and Roval slipped into cover without a sound.

From behind the trunk, the void-touched elf studied the newcomer: a gnoll, from the look of it. It resembled a bulky worgen, all teeth and ragged fur. Pilinor tensed. Gnolls typically saw anything that moved as either enemies or food.

The gnoll ahead appeared to be alone, which was unusual – gnolls were known to live and fight in packs. Perhaps this one was waiting for others. She or he (the difference was hard to tell with gnolls), was pacing back and forth in front of what – on second glance – looked like the entrance to a stockade surrounding some kind of settlement.

A shiver crawled up Pilinor’s spine as an unpleasant sequence of mental images flashed through his mind: gnolls with toothy maws taking bites out of him in turns, their squeaky laughter echoing between each snap. He scolded himself for losing focus – he had nearly wandered straight into hostile territory without noticing.

Still watching intently, he realized something odd: the gnoll was fiddling with something on its head. It looked like… a crown? Made of paper? Pilinor strained his ears and caught the creature muttering to itself.

“Shamans stink. Decay gross. Me first gnoll Mon-Ark. Gnolls so dumb. Not obey crown! Need teach them. How?”

Intrigued, Pilinor stepped from behind the tree, signaling his pets to stay hidden. He approached slowly, bow in hand, arrow nocked but pointed toward the ground – a clear enough message, he hoped: I’m not here to fight, but I can if I have to.

What are you doing?! Leave before the thing tries to eat you, fool!

Pilinor flinched at the sound of the gravelly voice that seemed to shout into his ears, then suppressed an annoyed huff. One would think that after more than a decade of living with that cursed parasite, he would be numb to its sudden interjections – but no. The voice in his head, audible to no one but himself, was still something that unsettled him every time.

He ignored the thing as usual and cleared his throat, hoping to draw the gnoll’s attention.

The creature spun to face him but didn’t immediately attack. It eyed him up and down, then spoke:

“You no gnoll! You help me, I no eat you. Fair, meat?”

Run. Now. the voice spat. It can barely string a sentence together, but that doesn’t mean it’s too stupid to set a trap.

Pilinor resisted the urge to shake his head in irritation and focused on the gnoll.

“Err, hello. Who are you?”

“I am Mon-Ark!” the gnoll said proudly, puffing up.

“O-okay. Nice to meet you. I’m Pilinor. What do you need help with?”

“Idiot gnoll not understand crown. Only understand violence. Beat them up or I eat you!”

I warned you. When will you start listening to me?

Shut up, Pilinor thought angrily, though he knew the thing couldn’t hear him – not like the void elves and their whispers.

“Sure, I could help you beat them up,” Pilinor said aloud, “but what good will that do? What about the decay?”

“Decay gross, smelly, painful. Have bigger plans, but beating gnoll up first! Then stupid decay. Thinks it in charge, but me in charge. We kill it. Is what Mon-Arks do. Now stop talk or you want me eat you?”

Pilinor hesitated, then gave a nod. “All right. My two friends and I will help you.”

Contrary to the voice’s persistent warnings, things actually went surprisingly well. After dispatching a few gnolls in the camp, Mon-Ark had Pilinor collect rotten sap from the infected trees nearby. Down at the river, the gnoll purified it, transforming the Smelly Ooze into friendly blobs of slime. Armed with spears they had pilfered from the gnolls’ weapon cache, the slimes helped them destroy the hidden decay totems placed by Shamans throughout the camp.

At last, they reached a cave atop the hill and entered together. There they found the Root of Decay: a monstrous elemental that looked like a twisted, nightmarish version of a treant, the usually good-natured tree-folk elementals often found in kaldorei lands. Between Pilinor, Mon-Ark, Yula, and Roval, they made short work of it.

“Me lead gnolls to better hunt now,” Mon-Ark declared as they stepped out of the cave, the fallen elemental behind them. “You… not so bad. Make okay gnoll, but better friend. Gnolls hungry though, and you still meat. Leave. Me no chase.”

Pilinor lowered the scarf he had pulled up again during their time in the foul-smelling cave and offered Mon-Ark a genuine smile.

“Thanks. I wish you and your people the best. Farewell.”

Not keen to test his luck any further, the Hunter turned and left the camp at a brisk pace, leaving its unusual new leader behind.

He felt a rare sense of satisfaction. Whether that grotesque treant had truly been the final source of corruption in western Azure Span or not, it had at least felt like a victory. Certainly more gratifying than the slow, thankless work of taking down and burning infected animals one by one. Hopefully the blight’s spread would now begin to slow. Pilinor intended to keep a close watch over the area in the coming days.

–.o.O.o.–

It was already early evening when Pilinor reached Three-Falls Lookout. Perched atop a hill between three waterfalls, a camp run by explorers from the Dragonscale Expedition had sprung up, complete with an inn inside one of their largest tents. The gnome siblings in charge, Willa and Valdo Stronghinge, were friendly enough but chronically forgetful when it came to ordering supplies. They were always grateful when someone offered to forage for them – and paid reasonably well. That suited Pilinor just fine; he rarely needed gold, except for the occasional crafted item or stuff he couldn’t scavenge or make himself. Ever since his first dealings with the gnomes after arriving in the Azure Span, he had made it a habit to pass through the lookout regularly.

As he walked through the camp, the void-touched high elf glanced uneasily toward the caved-in mine entrance nearby. A pair of enchanted pickaxes still hovered there, endlessly chipping away at the rockfall. Despite their tireless work, the blockage seemed as intact as ever – perhaps for the better.

“Yo, Hunter! Yer face looks familiar. Thanks again fer the fruits an’ herbs last time. I’d offer ye a sip, but the mead’s all gone already!”

Pilinor turned to see Modurun Sixtoes, the elderly dwarf who had once led the crew tasked with clearing the mine, lounging beside the inn’s entrance.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Pilinor lowered his voice. “Say… that wall. Have you or anyone else heard those voices again? The whispers you mentioned last time?”

Modurun grimaced. “By me beard, don’t remind me o’ that creepy nonsense! Haven’t heard a peep since. Neither have the lads, far as I know. But talkin’ about voices, well… does nae help no one. Nae that I need tae tell ye that, right?”

Pilinor winced. As usual, people mistook him for a void elf. In this case, he let it slide. “Sorry. I just worry about what might be lurking behind that wall. Some things aren’t worth the curiosity.”

“Aye, agreed. Me an’ the crew have a new job now, an’ none o’ us want anythin’ tae do with what’s behind that rock. But the order tae leave the pickaxes goin’ came from higher up – we do nae get a say.”

“I see,” Pilinor murmured. A flicker of unease stirred in his chest – and worsened when the thing in his head chuckled.

There’s absolutely no need to concern yourself with what’s down there. None at all. Trust me, little fool.

“Easier just tae forget about it,” Modurun said with a shrug. “Now come on. Let’s check whether the Stronghinges finally managed tae order some proper brew.”

Inside the inn, the warmth from a large stove welcomed them. Several tables were set up for eating or cards, including a Hearthstone board. Furs and rugs were piled in the corners, making the place look surprisingly cozy.

To Modurun’s delight, a shipment of brew had arrived this time. Tankard in hand, he slunk off to a nearby table beside a hooded traveler, leaving Pilinor to speak with Willa.

“We’re always in need of more meat,” the pink-haired gnome told him brightly. “And bear pelts! To fight off the cold.”

“I’ll bring some next time I pass through,” Pilinor promised, pocketing the loaf of bread he had traded for, intending to pair it with his own dinner.

“Don’t you wanna stay the night?” Willa asked. “It’s getting late. I won’t charge you if you promise to bring me your best pelts.”

Pilinor glanced toward the inviting heap of furs near the fire. For a moment, he saw his own bedroll there in his mind’s eye. It had been a while since he had slept anywhere so warm and soft. He didn’t often miss real beds – but some mornings, when his body ached from cold and stiffness, he longed for the comfort he used to have.

“I’ll be fine,” he said instead. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Doesn’t it get awfully cold out there?” Willa asked, hugging her arms for warmth.

Yes, it does, doesn’t it? the thing in his head purred. Why not take the offer? I know you want to. Let’s make a deal: I won’t interfere with your dreams tonight – if you swear to obey one command I give tomorrow. After you leave. What do you say?

Pilinor hesitated. The offer wasn’t without merit. He could always linger at the camp until just before midnight tomorrow – minimizing the time for any order to arrive and reducing his risk. But…

He swore softly under his breath. No. That line of thinking was dangerous. It was always the danger of interacting with others: revealing just enough of himself for the parasite to exploit. He couldn’t risk making deals. That was the first step toward surrender.

Ignoring the voice, he shrugged at Willa’s question. “Not as bad as further east.”

He had been relieved when Fisira had mentioned the western regions were milder. Racing through snow-covered forests had been exhilarating despite the biting cold, but the nights – oh, the nights – had tested even his endurance.

Outside once more, Pilinor paused by the mailbox. He stared at it blankly for a moment before remembering why: part of him had hoped to see the red letter icon hovering over it, marking unread mail. Saewron hadn’t replied yet… not that he should care. He had been the one to warn the gentle Rogue that he wasn’t fond of letters. But now he expected another message as soon as he had sent of the last?

Pilinor rolled his eyes at himself and gave a low whistle. Yula and Roval appeared from where they had waited outside camp. Together, the trio set off into the trees. He didn’t plan to go much further before making camp. It had been a long day.

Killing zombie animals and gnolls was hard work – for someone who wasn’t a legendary hero like Lireesa Windrunner or able to wield powerful magic like Thrall or Jaina Proudmoore. Plus, night was falling – and he had promised Yula a decent meal.

Once the giant spider had been rewarded with a Frosty Flowerpine, which she gleefully juiced for a slow, satisfying snack, Pilinor climbed one of the massive fir trees until he reached a ledge of thick bark wide enough to sleep on comfortably. Up here, he was out of reach of most forest predators. His pets might be resting too, but they never truly slept. Not like him. If needed, they would rouse themselves in a heartbeat to defend their master.

He unrolled his bedding, handed Roval a bedtime snack, and gave Yula a few firm pats. She twitched with pleasure and obediently began spinning a cocoon of silk around him – tight enough to keep the void-touched elf from thrashing or rolling during the night.

Wrapped and secured, Pilinor finally closed his eyes.

–.o.O.o.–

The first thing Pilinor realized upon waking was that his head hurt – badly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had such a severe headache. Maybe not since his youth, after one of those long nights drinking – but that had been centuries ago. This pain was worse. So bad, in fact, that he dreaded opening his eyes for fear of what light dawn might bring.

But it wasn’t just his head. He was freezing, and the rest of his body ached too – especially his back. Something was wrong. No mere night of cramped muscles could explain this. And… was that grass he smelled?

The scent struck him like a jolt. Alarmed, Pilinor forced his eyes open. A stab of pain flared through his skull and dragged a groan from his throat, but the light wasn’t as harsh as he had feared – brighter than moonlight, yet faint enough to mean dawn hadn’t fully broken. Bright enough, though, to confirm what the scent had suggested: he was lying on grass, not wrapped safely in his bedroll high up in the branches as he should have been.

And more alarmingly, he was no longer encased in Yula’s cocoon.

Another groan escaped him, part pain, part raw frustration. He reached shakily for the back of his head and felt something sticky clinging to his hair. When he pulled his fingers back, the metallic scent on them told him exactly what it was: blood.

He must have hit his head hard – hard enough to bleed. Had he somehow torn free of Yula’s silken binding and fallen? A fall from such a height should have ended far worse than with a headache and a few bruises. And how had no predator stumbled across him while he lay unconscious?

When he tried to sit up, the world spun sickeningly. He barely managed to shift to one side before his stomach rebelled, forcing him to retch up what little remained of his dinner.

Urgh. As I feared. Definitely a concussion. You should take one of your healing potions. For once, those will actually serve a proper use.

The voice in his head – gravelly, smug, and slightly distorted this time – sounded dimmer than usual, likely due to the blood loss.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Pilinor muttered, memory hazy but dark. Another nightmare. One of those nightmares.

He crawled away from the puddle and, though loath to follow the voice’s advice, fumbled through his belt pouches until his fingers closed around a familiar glass vial. Fortunately, he rarely removed more than the bulkiest of his gear before sleeping. He uncorked the potion and drank deeply. Warmth spread through his body as the healing magic took hold, easing some – but not all – of the pain. He would need another dose, eventually. The effect of potions was limited. The body couldn’t process the healing provided by them as easily as that received by a skillfully woven spell.

You didn’t want to take the deal I offered, the voice said, oozing smugness.

“I hate you,” Pilinor spat.

He whistled sharply and stared up at the tree beside him. But as his vision cleared, he realized it wasn’t the same tree he had climbed the night before. That might explain why neither Yula nor Roval had come at his call – they were likely still guarding the tree he had abandoned, holding position at the last place he had commanded them to stay.

A glimmer in the grass caught his attention. Heart quickening, he crawled toward it, wary of standing again just yet. It was his hunting knife.

Blood stained the blade. Blood that showed no traces of corruption unlike his own.

Pilinor recoiled from the weapon, dread surging through his chest. “Oh, by the Sunwell… what did you make me do this time?”

It could be animal blood – but every instinct he had told him otherwise.

The voice chuckled. Don’t you remember? You were attacked. I helped you defend yourself. They fought harder than I liked, but I’m sure they’ve bled out by now. After all, you’re still alive.

Fear surged through him, cutting through the lingering dizziness. He staggered to his feet and began searching the area. The grass bore signs of a scuffle – flattened stalks, smeared dirt, trampled leaves. No footprints, but a fight had clearly taken place.

More blood, too. A trail.

He followed it for a few tense paces until the trail abruptly vanished.

“Liar,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I didn’t kill anyone. There’s no body. Whoever it was, they fled. Bound their wounds. They’re alive.”

But you’ve killed someone.

Pilinor flinched.

“Not this time,” he said, voice low and brittle.

Are you really sure about that?

The Hunter spun around, vertigo crashing back over him. He swayed, steadied himself, and forced one foot in front of the other, heading toward the tree in the distance that looked – felt – like the one he had chosen last night.

As he approached, a familiar, acrid scent reached him.

Burned flesh.

His heart pounded faster. He rounded the immense trunk, every step a dread-soaked weight.

And then he saw them.

Two bodies. Burned nearly beyond recognition – but not enough to hide their shapes: the twisted, blackened remains of a giant wasp, and a spider with legs curled in death.

Roval. Yula.

“No!”

The Hunter’s cry rang out into the dying night, echoing off the trees, bouncing his own grief back at him in cruel waves. He barely managed a few steps before his legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, wracked by sobs.

He still couldn’t remember a thing – just as with every one of those cursed nightmares – but this time, he could imagine all too clearly what had happened: the thing in his head must have made him see Yula and Roval as infected by decay. He had set them on fire. He had killed them.

“Why?!” Pilinor choked out between ragged breaths. “Why did you make me kill my pets? They didn’t do anything!”

The voice in his mind chuckled, steeped in satisfaction.

As much as I delight in your anguish, I must correct you. I didn’t lie before. I never do, even if not all comes to pass in this reality. There was an attacker. They killed your pets.

“What?”

Pilinor sat up, wiping at his face, eyes stinging. He remembered the bloody knife. The tracks. The blood trail. It could explain those.

It’s pathetic how attached you were to those beasts. But how about I help you avenge them? Let’s make a deal.

“A deal. Again?” A disbelieving, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “So that’s what this was about all along.”

You were right earlier. The attacker got away. Let’s hunt them down and finish this. I’ll lend you my power while you’re awake. You’ll see just how far we can go together.

“Shut up!” Pilinor snapped, the vehemence of his outburst slicing through the early morning stillness. “I won’t let you manipulate me like that.”

Don’t your dear pets deserve justice? Shouldn’t their killer pay for what they did?

He shook his head – instantly regretting the movement as pain lanced through his skull from the not-quite-healed concussion. “There must’ve been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not going to kill someone over that. Not like this.”

But –

“Enough!”

With trembling fingers, Pilinor pulled his skinning knife from his belt. Smaller and sharper than the hunting knife, it cut easily into his scarred lower arm.

Careful, fool. You’ve already lost too much blood.

“I don’t care. I just can’t deal with you right now,” he muttered, dragging the blade deeper through the skin.

The voice continued its tirade, but its words grew distant – muffled – fading further with each drop of his tainted blood that spilled onto the grass. When the voice finally fell silent, Pilinor reached for another Healing Potion and dripped a few drops onto the open wounds. Nothing happened.

He sighed. Right – the earlier potion hadn’t worn off yet. He would have to wait before using another. Annoying, but he wouldn’t bleed out. Not yet.

Letting the knife drop, he pulled off his scarf and wrapped it tightly around his arm to stanch the bleeding. Cradling it against his chest, he sat in silence, body aching, soul hollow.

His gaze drifted back to the two scorched remains beside him. With his uninjured hand, he reached for one of Yula’s curled legs. At his touch, the fragile structure collapsed into ash.

Tears welled anew. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “This is all my fault.”

A soft throat-clear cut the silence. Pilinor flinched.

“Ah, actually… it’s not,” said a guttural voice.

His eyes snapped up – and froze.

A nightmare stood before him. A creature pulled straight from his dreamscape: a scaled figure with horns, a snout full of fangs, and leathery wings stretched behind it. Instinct took over.

He Disengaged without thinking, the maneuver launching him backward. He recalled too late that he had dropped his weapons – the hunting knife, his bow. Even the skinning knife was lost somewhere in the grass. Not that it would have mattered. A wave of vertigo hit him hard. He crumpled with a grunt, ears ringing, vision swimming.

The monstrous figure began to shift as it approached, its form blurring and shrinking. By the time it stopped, an elven man with long hair stood in its place.

He said something – gentle, maybe – but Pilinor couldn’t make out the words. Everything was muffled. Fuzzy. Too far away.

The man crouched and placed a hand gently on Pilinor’s shoulder.

Flames blossomed from the touch – not searing, but warm. Comforting. They spread across his shoulder and chest, up his neck into his head and down into his injured arm. Healing fire.

It wasn’t just warmth – it was relief. Soothing. Safe.

Pilinor closed his eyes and let go, surrendering to the balm of heat.

–.o.O.o.–

Pilinor wasn’t entirely sure if he had blacked out completely, but he only opened his eyes again once the pain had ebbed away, replaced by a lingering warmth – even after the stranger hastily stepped back.

Still cautious, the Hunter slowly sat up. The dizziness didn’t return.

“I… I’m not going to hurt you. I just healed you,” the almost-elf said, his voice a mix of wary and imploring.

“I noticed. Thank you,” Pilinor replied, studying him more closely now that the dawn light had strengthened. Scales shimmered faintly across the stranger’s brow and cheeks.

The man winced. “I… don’t think you really need to thank me. I was also the one who put you in that state. Well… mostly.”

Pilinor’s gaze drifted to the blackened patches on the ground where the bodies of his pets lay. The sight still hurt – deeply.

“I’m truly sorry about what happened… to you and, um… did I hear that right? Your pets?”

The Hunter climbed to his feet.

The stranger made a step back again, clearly uneasy under Pilinor’s gaze.

With a sigh, the high elf spoke, his tone sharper than intended. “I’m not going to hurt you either. You’re a dracthyr, right?”

“Y-yes. My name is Straszan.”

“Straszan, huh?” Pilinor echoed, but the customary pleasure to meet you stuck in his throat. That humanoid lizard had as much as admitted to killing his companions. The thing in his head hadn’t lied.

However…

“I’d appreciate it if you explained to me – at length – what the fuck actually happened.”

“Of course!” Straszan nodded rapidly, wringing his hands. “Um… I was staying at the inn – Three-Falls. I saw you there last night!”

Pilinor frowned, then recalled the hooded figure sitting quietly in the corner. Yes – the shawl Straszan now wore matched.

“Unlike you, I stayed the night. But I couldn’t sleep – there was a very loud dwarf snoring next to me. So I got up early, flew out. I was following the road when I spotted you. You were high up in a tree… wrapped in a cocoon, with a massive spider close-by. You didn’t have that with you at the inn!”

Pilinor groaned, already guessing where this was going. He should have gone deeper into the woods.

“I thought it was going to eat you!” the dracthyr said defensively. “I shot it with a Living Flame, hoping to lure it away from you and landed. It worked. It chased me, and it wasn’t alone. I… I killed both the spider and the flying insect with my Fire Breath. After all, they had attacked me!”

“After you attacked them!” Pilinor said grimly.

“Err… yes,” the man with the short pointy ears and the mostly blue hair admitted, avoiding the gaze of his eyes with the slit pupils.

“And next?” the Hunter pushed.

“I flew back and freed you from the cocoon. You were unconscious – at least I thought so. I touched you to check for signs of life, and suddenly you lunged at me!” Straszan cast an accusatory look at Pilinor. “Your eyes were different than now, though. Purple, not blue. I flew off, but you leapt after me and tackled me mid-air! I lost control – we crashed. You came at me with a knife. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I panicked. I managed to throw you off with a Tail Swipe – you hit a tree and passed out. I saw you were still breathing, but I… didn’t dare get close again.”

Honestly, Pilinor couldn’t blame him.

“I healed myself and hid nearby. I was rattled. None of you scaleless have been hostile to me before. I didn’t understand. You seemed nice at the inn. Then you started talking to yourself when you woke. Well… kind of to yourself. It was unsettling.”

Pilinor flushed. Given what Straszan had witnessed, it was amazing he hadn’t just taken off and left the lunatic in the woods.

“But I could see that you were bewildered by what had happened, and when you found the b-beast I’d slain and started crying, I realized I’d misunderstood. You called them your… pets?”

“Yes, they were my animal companions. Yula-,” his voice caught, “she wasn’t about to eat me – she was… guarding my sleep. I left her and Roval outside Three-Falls yesterday because I know not everyone… appreciates those kinds of animals.”

“I’m so sorry!” Straszan repeated once more, this time taking a step closer, “I heard what you said. I didn’t want you to believe you had killed them. You’re odd, but I misjudged the situation. And yeah… I guess I really scared you when I woke you. I’m still getting used to these visage forms. I realize now that looking more… familiar matters when approaching someone. Especially at night.”

Pilinor rubbed a hand across his face, noticing the stubble there. “It is… more complicated than that,” he begun with a sigh.

After everything Straszan had seen – and his brave choice to return and explain – he deserved the truth.

“Years ago, I had an unfortunate run-in with a cult called the Twilight’s Hammer. They worship the Old Gods. They… corrupted me. With Void magic. Ever since, there’s been a voice in my head. It wants me to do things.”

The Hunter paused, studying the dracthyr’s face closely, searching for signs the other man was arriving at the conclusion that putting Pilinor down instead of healing him might have been the wiser choice. None came.

“I can usually resist it while I’m awake. But when I sleep… the boundaries blur. That’s why I trained my spider to cocoon me every night. Yula knew to only release me when she couldn’t sense the Void’s presence anymore. I had a nightmare last night. When you woke me… I still thought I was dreaming. I wouldn’t have attacked you otherwise. I’m sorry.”

Straszan was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I think I understand. That… explains a lot. The Void – it’s what corrupted… Deathwing. I can see now that you’re carrying a heavy burden. That you’re still yourself says a lot about your strength. Please – if there’s anything I can do to make this up to you, just tell me.”

Pilinor needed a spell to process the dracthyr’s words that sounded weird but honest. He gave the back of his head an abashed scratch, incidentally noticing that there was still dried blood in his hair.

“Er… do you know where I might find another spider? One with a sense for magic?”

Pilinor asked mainly to fill the awkward silence. It hurt to think about simply replacing Yula. But it was vital for him to train another spider as soon as possible to take up her task. Until then, he wouldn’t be able to spend a relaxed night. He could make due without a second pet for a while and at least pay Roval’s memory due respect.

Straszan tilted his head. “I’m not sure about the magic part, but there are some large spiders in the grottoes of Thaldraszus.”

“I see. Thanks.” Pilinor glanced at the sky, now bright with morning light. “I guess I’ll make a detour.”

He turned and eyed the tall tree nearby. His shoulders sagged.

“What’s wrong?” Straszan asked.

“My gear’s still up there. Including my mount whistle. Yula usually helped me climb.”

“I can retrieve it for you,” Straszan offered quickly. “That’s the least I can do. I’m going to shift – don’t be alarmed.”

Pilinor nodded.

A plume of smoke enveloped the man, and when it cleared, a tall, humanoid dragonkin stood in his place. The dracthyr was blue from head to toe – or rather from horns to claws – though his scales displayed a wide variety of the color, his armor matching in hue and lined with silver. His wings stretched behind him in quiet dignity.

Strangely, Pilinor didn’t find the form frightening now. Not like before. The realization unsettled him. Had it all been a trick of the nightmare?

“I’ll pack everything into your bedroll for easy carrying,” Straszan rumbled in his draconic voice.

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

Pilinor shook himself from his thoughts. “I’ll go find my knives.”

When Pilinor returned, the dracthyr had already placed the bundle of his belongings on the ground and shifted back to his visage form. While the Hunter sorted through the contents, Straszan lingered nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot – clearly unsure whether he should stay or go.

As Pilinor reached for the first piece of his armor, looking forward to another layer of warmth against the chill of Azure Span now that the dracthyr’s healing warmth was fading, he pulled himself together.

“What brings you to Azure Span, Straszan?” he asked, hoping that some light conversation would help dispel the lingering tension between them. “I heard your kind are eager to explore your homeland after the long… slumber. Like the dragons.”

“Oh! Yes, absolutely,” Straszan replied, visibly relieved at the question. “I mean, I am exploring in a way, but I’m actually searching for someone. I guess you’d call him a brother. Civotrath and I were clutch-mates – very close before the stasis. But now… he hasn’t taken well to everything we’ve learned since waking up. I’m afraid he’s fallen under a bad influence.”

He hesitated. “Civo left with Scalecommander Sarkareth and those of his weyrn.” Straszan grimaced. “Err, that probably sounds confusing if you don’t know much about us.”

Pilinor, by then halfway through strapping on his chest piece, tried to recall what he knew of the elite warriors Neltharion had created.

“Is a way-thingy like a dragonflight?”

“Weyrn,” Straszan repeated, nodding. “You could say so. And the Scalecommanders are like the Aspects, leaders of their weyrn.”

“But this Sarcares person isn’t a good one?” Pilinor moved on to fastening his shoulder guards.

“I wouldn’t necessarily say so, but… Sarkareth felt betrayed by what was done to us. But cutting ties with the dragons and rebelling against them? That was a mistake. He’s let his anger blind him. He and his followers are defectors. They’re stirring up trouble across the Dragon Isles. I need to find my brother before Sarkareth’s influence can corrupt him further. It’s a difficult time for all of us. We need to reinvent ourselves, but whatever the Sundered Flame is trying to achieve... They’re alienating all our potential allies! That can’t be the right path into the future.”

“Sounds like it,” Pilinor agreed as he slung his bow over one shoulder. “I wish you luck. I hope you find your brother – and talk some sense into him.”

“Thank you.” Straszan paused, brow furrowing slightly. “I… don’t think I ever caught your name.”

The quel’dorei felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he realized he hadn’t introduced himself. “It’s Pilinor.”

The dracthyr smiled. “Thank you, Pilinor. I hope you find what you’re looking for in Thaldraszus. And strength to carry on.”

“To not go utterly mad, you mean,” the Hunter muttered before he could stop himself. He avoided the other man’s gaze, unsure why that truth had slipped out.

But Straszan didn’t recoil. “I don’t think you’ll share our father’s fate,” he said gently. “My first impression of you back at the inn was right.” He shifted to a lighter tone. “As long as no idiot like me puts a hole in your wing, you’ll be fine.”

Caught off guard, Pilinor let out a short, rough laugh and clasped the hand Straszan extended. “Thanks.”

Soon, the Hunter was airborne again, rising into the skies atop his skitterfly, while the dracthyr – back in his true form – took flight in the opposite direction. But Straszan’s parting words haunted Pilinor’s thoughts. He had to stifle a laugh, one that would have come out far too close to hysteria. To avoid sharing Deathwing’s fate… he would have to be stronger – mentally – than Neltharion himself. Stronger than the Aspect of Earth. But could someone like him ever hope to be?

Lately, Pilinor had found himself wondering more and more if he could keep living with his burden (as Straszan had called it). If he wanted to. After Leric’s death, the idea of suicide had felt… wrong. Disrespectful. It wouldn’t have brought his lover back. Leric had always wished for Pilinor to live well, despite the corruption. He had paid dearly trying to make that life happen.

But a decade had passed. Ten years of isolation, of keeping his distance from everyone – out of fear. He loved Azeroth, truly. Its wild places, its people. Even if he preferred the latter in small, infrequent doses. His contact with Saewron had been a compromise. A risk. Another reason he had needed space from the man again.

Pilinor shook his head, trying to banish the spiral of thoughts. Now wasn’t the time. Not the day after a nightmare – and certainly not after losing Yula and Roval.

He had to focus. First: find another spider. Train it. After a few nights of proper sleep… maybe the world would seem a little brighter again.

Chapter Text

Luthir paused at the entrance to the Magister’s office tent, puzzled that the flaps didn’t part automatically as they usually did when he arrived for his regular progress report. He was perfectly on time, and ordinarily, so was Umbric.

He reached for the cord beside the entrance and touched the runes woven into it, activating the enchantment that served as a doorbell. The response from within came promptly, at the same time as a flash of blue and white energy erupted in the distance, shooting upward toward the dark black-purple sky above Telogrus Rift.

“Come in!” the Magister called, and the tent flaps rustled open.

Luthir immediately grew more alert. Most wouldn’t have noticed the shift in tone, but he caught the subtle edge in Umbric’s voice – the tightness that signaled annoyance. Since the Priest was fairly certain he wasn’t the cause of it, curiosity rose in him about what might have drawn the Mage’s ire before his arrival.

The man with the small tentacles in his short black hair sat behind his desk, still distracted as he lifted his gaze from a stack of papers.

“Luthir! Ah – of course. Apologies, I lost track of time.”

“No need,” the Priest replied, settling into the seat Umbric gestured to. He nodded toward the scrolls arrayed across the desk. “Bad news?”

A soft smile curved the Magister’s lips – small, but enough to stir a flicker of warmth in Luthir’s chest.

“You know me too well,” Umbric admitted, removing the weights that held the parchment in place. “It’s a report from the Riftrunners on the Dragon Isles. They’ve observed some troubling developments. Recently, they followed a lead to the Azure Span, where a group of miners refused to continue their work after hearing whispers from the depths. Our agents haven’t uncovered more on that yet, but while they were there, Kelain and the others caught word of a talking artifact the Sundered Flame was after. Apparently, a Kirin Tor Mage found it first. She was possessed by its power and had to be killed.”

“Oh my!” Luthir exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Tragic indeed.”

“And… do we know what happened to the artifact?”

“That’s the other tragic part. A reckless adventurer destroyed it, and the Kirin Tor seem to think that’s acceptable.” Umbric’s tone soured. “It’s unbelievable. All Zarra could recover was a name: Valthrux. I hope we’ll be able to trace something from that, but without the artifact itself…”

He shook his head, frustration plainly written across his face. “I’d have expected better from the Kirin Tor. They know the dangers of cursed artifacts. They could have consulted us.”

Now the reason for the Magister’s irritation was obvious. Luthir offered a quick solution: “We should ask Archmage Doreyn to reach out to the Kirin Tor again on our behalf. With his connections, he might remind them to… keep us in mind in future.”

“I will,” Umbric agreed, rolling up the scroll and filing it into a shelf already thick with similar reports. “But the Kirin Tor aren’t the only ones showing reluctance. Lorinas just submitted his findings from the Ohn’ahran Plains – something about Sundered Flame members turning on each other in some ruins. They were apparently driven into a frenzy by an artifact called the Black Locus. The Dragonscale Expedition secured it and has refused to send it to us for further study. They wouldn’t even let Lorinas inspect it.”

Luthir frowned, twisting a strand of silver hair around his finger. “Perhaps they’d be more cooperative if one of our senior researchers visited in person.”

Umbric inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps. Though it displeases me that we must beg others to work with us every time something like this occurs.”

Luthir was still turning over the implications in his mind. “It’s telling that the Sundered Flame was involved with both of these artifacts. If I remember right, they’re the faction of dracthyr defectors? But they’re acting independently from the Primalists?”

“To the best of our knowledge, yes.”

“Then either the dracthyr aren’t just more susceptible to the powers of the Void – as my team’s research showed – but also drawn to it… or they still recall locations where they’re likely to find remnants of Deathwing’s machinations,” Luthir paused, then added thoughtfully, “This might be worth investigating.”

Umbric didn’t look surprised. He knew Luthir well enough to expect this train of thought. “And your team’s current work would allow for such… diversions?”

His tone made it clear he still resented the idea that, due to others’ reluctance, their researchers might now be required to travel the world chasing already-secured artifacts.

“I wouldn’t involve the entire team,” Luthir assured him. “And the time needed to organize the operation would give us a window to adjust schedules.”

Umbric considered that. “You’d be traveling to camps already established by the Dragonscale Expedition or Kirin Tor, so you could take advantage of their infrastructure. But you’d still need guards for the journey. You know that Alleria and I can’t spare any more Riftwalkers or Ghostblades from Telogrus right now.”

Luthir felt a stir of unease at that reminder. Strange surges of Void energy had been reported in multiple locations across Azeroth. Though not directly relevant to his own research, even their experts had yet to discover the cause.

He pushed the worry aside and refocused. “Would you be willing to authorize a special fund for the expedition?”

“On such short notice, only a modest one. And that may not be enough. Mercenaries charge dearly – especially when Void magic is involved,” Umbric warned.

“Let that be my concern,” Luthir replied lightly.

The Magister frowned briefly – then understanding dawned, and the tension eased from his face. “Ah. I see.”

The lanky void elf smiled. “I’ll handle the arrangements personally – after I’ve finished the rest of my report.”

–.o.O.o.–

Luthir’s gryphon touched down in Raven Hill in the late afternoon. Since his last visit, the army company stationed there – along with the civilians who had moved in – had clearly made some upgrades to the village’s lighting. While most of Duskwood remained shrouded in perpetual twilight, the garlands strung overhead cast a convincing illusion of daylight. Saewron had told him the lights could even be adjusted to simulate the rise and fall of the sun.

The first Spinecrafter Luthir encountered was Malaruk, one of the company’s Shamans. He was pulling a cart of firewood toward a civilian’s home.

“Well, now – that’s a rare sight!” the draenei exclaimed, spotting him.

“Sinu a’manore,” Luthir greeted smoothly. “Do you happen to know where I can find your dear captain?”

Malaruk paused, either momentarily uncertain or – more likely – caught off guard, having expected a different question.

“He’s on kitchen duty,” he replied at last.

Luthir raised a silver brow, amusement flickering in his expression.

“You know how he is,” Malaruk added with a shrug. “Doesn’t think tasks like that are beneath him… and I’m sure he minds it even less today, given the company.”

Luthir could guess what that was supposed to mean. He thanked the Shaman and continued on. Before entering the Inn – now serving as the company’s main barracks – he made a detour, recalling something Saewron had mentioned the day before while off duty at home.

Rounding the back of the building and approaching the gardens, he was rewarded with the sight of a familiar shock of navy hair.

Saewron was tending a vegetable patch with his back turned. It was Cassy, the deaf Kul Tiran Huntress, who spotted Luthir first. Without hesitation, she picked up a small pebble and tossed it at the Rogue to get his attention, then gestured for him to turn around.

“Luthir!” Saewron lit up, leaping to his feet and dropping his tools before hurrying toward him.

“Stains!” the lanky scientist warned, his voice sharper than intended as he caught sight of Saewron’s soil-smeared fingers.

The Rogue froze mid-step, then grinned and clasped his hands behind his back with exaggerated innocence – to avoid tainting the Priest’s always immaculate robes.

Their kiss followed, warm and genuine – but when it ended, something small and wordless remained between them. Not quite tension. Just a fleeting shadow, gone too quickly to name.

“Were you pining for me?” Saewron asked with a wink.

“Always,” Luthir replied with a smile, then added, “Though I must admit I’m actually here on business. Magister Umbric received a report about the Dragon Isles that warrants further investigation.”

Saewron’s smile faded into a frown.

Luthir hesitated – then cursed himself inwardly. He shouldn’t have mentioned Umbric. His partner had clearly hoped this visit was for him alone, and now he had gone and brought up the one person who might still sting. Saewron hadn’t shown signs of jealousy in weeks – not even after Luthir’s late return from Telogrus – but that didn’t mean the change in him was unshakable.

“And we Spinies are expected to get involved?” Saewron asked.

The question came casually, and Luthir felt the knot of tension ease. Maybe he was overthinking it. Still… old habits of doubt didn’t vanish just because the silence had lasted a while.

“Indeed, but I need to speak with your twin about the details first.”

“You’ll find him inside.”

“I know. I just wanted to say hello to you first.”

That earned him another grin. “Will you stay the night?”

Luthir hesitated, but one look at his partner’s hopeful expression made the decision for him. “If there’s room for me…”

Saewron scoffed. “Half the company’s away – you know there’s room. And even if we were full, there’d still be a place for you here.”

Inside the inn, Luthir gave a respectful nod to Corporal Lauren, who was seated at a table reviewing ledgers in her human form, then made his way directly to the kitchen.

There, Captain Orthorin Dawncaller was busy chopping vegetables. As expected, Elarynn Moonsong was working beside him, forming small dough globes. Or rather, three Elarynns were doing so – two of them faintly translucent, unmistakably Mirror Images. They looked up in unison as Luthir stepped into the room and greeted him with a chorus of cheerful surprise.

“Hey!”

“Luthir, what a pleasant surprise,” the void elf – whose royal blue hair was adorned with tentacles – greeted him. “I take it you’re here looking for my twin?”

The Priest smiled and shook his head. “Already found him. I was hoping to speak with you on official business, Captain.”

One of Orthorin’s eyebrows quirked upward – a rare sight.

“Certainly… though I’m not sure I’m at liberty to just walk away from my post without consequence.”

The Elarynns all made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Then the two Mirror Images froze mid-motion as the real Elarynn spoke in an amused tone, “It’s hardly my place to forbid you from withdrawing, Captain.”

“That’s debatable,” Orthorin replied dryly. “You’re in charge of the cooking today, and I’m merely your humble assistant, Private.”

Elarynn chuckled. “Well then, Captain, dinner might run a little late. Even if I conjured another image capable of wielding a knife, it’d still do a poor job of replacing you. But don’t worry – I’ll forward any complaints about sudden starvation directly to you.”

“Fair enough, Private,” Orthorin said, stepping away from the cutting board, the corners of his mouth twitching with a smile.

A few moments later, they had withdrawn to the unoccupied Officers’ Mansion. After expressing his thanks for the captain’s immediate attention, Luthir began laying out his proposal.

“It wouldn’t be a high-risk mission,” he concluded, “since I don’t intend for us to get involved in recovering the artifacts directly. The explorers on-site have their own guards for that. Still, given the nature of these relics, I understand if some soldiers might feel hesitant about the assignment.”

Orthorin was quiet for a moment, absentmindedly stroking the neatly trimmed beard that framed his mouth and chin. Then he asked with measured curiosity, “How many soldiers are you counting on? We could spare a few if the rest of us cover some double shifts. But I’d prefer not to pull anyone from the platoon currently on the Isles with Lieutenant Valentian.”

“Oh, no more than a squad,” Luthir assured him. “Would that be feasible?”

Orthorin nodded. “It is. I’ll put together some suggestions, then we’ll consult the soldiers – see who’s willing, considering your concerns.”

“Marvelous.”

They discussed a few more operational details before returning to the Inn. As they stepped through the door, a loud crash erupted from the floor above. Both men flinched, while Corporal Lauren sprang to her feet and shifted into her worgen form mid-motion.

“On it, Captain,” she growled, bounding up the stairs.

Back in the kitchen, Luthir offered to help make up for the delay he had caused, and he and Orthorin were already following Elarynn’s instructions again when Lauren returned to give a terse report. She had changed back to her human form but still looked annoyed.

“That boy’s going to drive me insane,” she muttered. “He strung up a hammock between two of the bunk beds and was using it as a swing. I sent him outside to burn off energy. Let’s hope he doesn’t manage to uproot any trees while setting it up out there.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Corporal,” Orthorin replied calmly. “Good call. Hyun-Su wasn’t hurt?”

Lauren snorted. “No, Sir. He’s got a thick coat and, fortunately, the bunks are built to last. They’ve got a few dents now, but nothing serious.”

Once she left, Luthir leaned closer and asked quietly: “I don’t suppose the young Windwalker is on the shortlist for the mission?”

“No worries,” Orthorin answered genuinely, not taking the offer for a jest, “Letting Hyun-Su anywhere near potentially valuable – and dangerous – artifacts? That’s never even crossed my mind.”

They learned who the captain did have in mind after dinner – potato-and-wheat dumplings served in a savory vegetable-and-meat sauce – which had only been slightly delayed. Saewron, having sulked semi-seriously through most of the meal after being denied early details of the mission, perked up the moment Orthorin concluded his briefing.

“I wanna go! Err – Captain,” the Rogue declared eagerly.

“I assumed as much, given who’s organizing the mission, Private,” Orthorin replied, ignoring the interruption for now. “But have you considered the risks? The location and the goal?”

Saewron frowned, then his cheeks flushed a faint purple. “I’m sure I can handle any whispers from those artifacts… they’ve been much quieter lately.”

He is lying, you know that, don’t you? He will only be a liability – a distraction. You will regret taking him along.

Normally, Luthir was good at shutting out the whispers of the Void that murmured at the edge of his mind. But this time, the words struck home. He didn’t need them to feel concerned.

Saewron’s time away from Naethir had helped ease his stress – and on the nights Luthir had been present, the Rogue’s sleep had seemed less troubled. Still, the strain of the past weeks had taken its toll. Saewron had relapsed with the anti-whisper potions. They hadn’t worked, hadn’t brought him the relief he had hoped for, but the fact he had turned to them at all was enough to worry Luthir.

Taking him near Void-corrupted artifacts again… it didn’t feel like a wise decision.

“Are you sure?” Luthir asked gently, leaning in.

They were all still seated around the table, with only Orthorin standing at its head.

Luthir had tried to keep his tone soft, but Saewron still flinched at the question, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“You’re not seriously thinking of leaving me behind?”

“I want you with me, is h’iwn,” Luthir said quickly. “But I don’t want to put you in an impossible situation. Think back to the relics in Korthia.”

That gave Saewron pause. But then his jaw set with quiet resolve.

“That was when I was still learning to manage the whispers without potions. And before we’d recovered my mother’s soul. I’ve grown since then. After everything you did for me in the Shadowlands, the least I can do is support your work now. If it gets bad, I’ll tell you. We’ll handle it if it happens. Please, dalah’suran. Trust me.”

Around the table, a few of the other Spinecrafters shifted awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable witnessing such a personal exchange. But Luthir barely noticed. The Void had more to say.

Are you sure you can trust him? He will slow you down. He will crack. Leave him here. It is better – for everyone. You know we only mean you well, child.

Luthir fought down a shiver and fixed his gaze on Saewron’s face instead.

“Of course I trust you, Saew.”

The Rogue inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Good. Then now that that’s settled…” He turned to face Orthorin, a slightly defiant glint in his eyes. “Captain, is there anything you still object to?”

“There is, actually,” the Monk replied. “I’m also thinking of our brother. We sent Naethir off under the assumption that we wouldn’t be going to the Dragon Isles.”

Saewron’s expression fell – concern replacing defiance. But after a moment, he tilted his head thoughtfully.

“We never said it outright,” he pointed out. “And Naethir doesn’t have to know I’m there.”

The captain remained impassive. “The Spinecrafters under Lieutenant Valentian will know there’s another squad on the Isles. And it’s likely both groups will spend some time in the Ohn’ahran Plains. There’s a decent chance they’ll cross paths.”

“Then… just don’t tell him I’m in the squad?”

Orthorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “And when he asks about you specifically? What do I do then? I’m not lying to him, Private – and I’m not asking anyone else to lie for me, either.”

Luthir half expected Saewron to make a case for white lies – as he had in the past – but instead the Rogue just made a face.

“Well… maybe he’ll be too distracted to ask? I mean, miracles do happen.”

That earned a dry, humorless laugh from Orthorin. “Sure. Let’s bank on that,” he said, then raised a hand before Saewron could speak again. “But you’re right in another sense: we’ll deal with it if it comes up. I don’t intend to derail this entire discussion with family complications.”

“So… I’m in?” Saewron asked hopefully.

“Yes, Private.” Orthorin’s tone carried a note of impatience.

Saewron whooped and threw his arms around Luthir’s neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. The pure joy on his partner’s face chased away the last of Luthir’s lingering doubts.

“Oh!” someone suddenly exclaimed.

“Yes, Private Remah?” Orthorin said, returning smoothly to form.

The female draenei cleared her throat awkwardly. “Err… speaking of distractions – I’d like to volunteer for the mission too. Thinna’s on the Isles, and I’d really love the chance to sneak a peek at the San’layn they picked up. Do we know yet if we’re allowed to keep him, Sir?”

A ripple of laughter ran down the table. The Shaman’s phrasing made it sound as if she were asking about an unusual pet.

“No, Private,” Orthorin replied after a pause. “But personally, I see no reason Lord Commander Turalyon would object if the man chose to join our company permanently. As long as he’s willing to take the same oaths we have, there’s nothing preventing it. The San’layn aren’t officially part of the Horde.” He gave her a pointed look. “As for your request – I was about to suggest you anyway. So yes, you’ll have your chance.”

“Great!” called another voice. “Then Copper and I are off the hook, right, Captain? There’s only one spot left unless you need a tank and a healer, and we’re neither! Plus, we really don’t want to abandon the turbine project we just started!”

“Expressing full consent to Sparks’ statement, Sir!” added the gnome beside her – his mechanical limbs whirring faintly as he raised a hand.

Orthorin’s fingers twitched upward, but he stopped the motion halfway and instead transitioned into hand signs as he spoke – making sure to include Cassy, who was watching attentively.

“Yes, Privates. That’s correct. And no, I hadn’t planned to include either of you on Luthir’s mission. Your project takes precedence – it could benefit more than just our base here. Now, if there are no further interruptions, I’d like to finish assigning the rest of the team.”

Everyone fell silent at once.

“Corporal Lauren,” he continued, “earlier you struck me as someone who wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. Unless you object, I’d like you to serve as officer in charge of the escort.”

The Gilnean saluted. “With pleasure, Captain.”

“Excellent.” Orthorin turned next to the opposite side of the table. “Speaking of scenery changes. Private Syran, I know you’ve said you miss the sun now and then. The Dragon Isles might be just the fix.”

The dwarf Paladin’s eyes darted from Orthorin to her potential squadmates and then briefly to Luthir. “Err… beggin’ yer pardon, Sir. I do appreciate the offer, truly, but… spendin’ time near creepy Void relics doesn’t quite sit right with me. I’d be mighty grateful if someone else could take me spot.”

Orthorin nodded without judgment. “In that case, Private Tondur – it would fall to you, as Corporal Lauren would be required to step back for Corporal Josie to pick up her place as officer.”

“No problem, Captain. I’ll take the post,” the Dark Iron Warrior replied, saluting both his commanding officer and Syran with a modest smile.

“Thank you, Private Tondur,” Orthorin said, confirming the change. “Which leaves one final position – healer. I’m clearly out for several reasons, so that leaves two options. I haven’t decided yet, so I’ll ask directly.”

“Sis, that’s you,” Hyun-Su whispered to his Pandaren sister across the table. She had been listening intently but hadn’t seemed to realize she was now on the spot.

“I’ll go,” came a voice from beside her before she could reply.

The elderly dwarf next to Hyun-Su gave a friendly nod. “I do nae mind gettin’ tangled in a bit o’ Void research. An’ I think our dear Sun-Mi would rather stay here with her little brother,” the Discipline Priest added with a kind smile – then turned a more serious look toward Luthir. “I just hope we’ll get proper cots. Me old bones aren’t happy with simple sleepin’ mats anymore.”

“Certainly!” Luthir assured him at once. “I’m not one to pass on a little comfort. I’ll make sure we requisition some of those big Thalassian-style tents the Dragonscale Expedition uses – tall enough for me to stand in, and wide enough for actual beds.”

“Then it’s settled,” Orthorin announced. “Corporal Lauren, and Privates Saewron, Remah, Tondur, and Grimoth will accompany Luthir’s research team to the Dragon Isles as their escort.”

“I’m more than happy to work with all five of you again – although it’s a different setup this time,” Luthir said warmly. The others gave him a mix of casual salutes and grins, with Saewron’s the brightest among them.

“In that case,” Orthorin concluded, “everyone except myself and Private Elarynn is dismissed. Though you might want to hold off just a moment – she has a small announcement.”

The Mage stood with a proud little flourish. “In honor of our special guest, I’ve conjured up a surprise dessert for everyone!”

A tense silence fell across the room, nearly as total as the one that had followed the captain’s earlier call to order.

Elarynn blinked, clearly having expected cheers. Then she snorted and threw a series of mock-glares around the table.

“Seriously? I didn’t mean conjured literally. Besides, no one’s died from my conjured food. I know it’s not good – but I’m getting better!”

“I’m sure you are,” Luthir offered politely.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. “Are you saying I’m so bad it’s impossible to get worse?”

“Err… I-I…” Luthir spluttered, casting a desperate look toward Saewron, then to Orthorin.

The twitch at the corner of the captain’s mouth was certainly a hint, but then Elarynn’s expression already changed from a thundercloud to one of apologizing amusement.

“I’m messing with you, Luthir. Relax,” she grinned. “But no one’s allowed to complain about the dessert!”

Fortunately, no one had the slightest reason to. The dessert – a yogurt mixed with crumbled cookies and honey, and topped with berries – was a hit. When the last of it had disappeared, Corporal Josie, the Kul Tiran druid, approached Luthir.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Will you lend us a few songs? We’re missing Gert’s flute, but I have a feeling your voice will make up for it.”

Luthir didn’t need to be asked twice. With Saewron’s warm presence by his side, and tempted into one tune after another by Josie’s horn, Sun-Mi’s wistful lute, and Tondur’s steady drumbeats, an elated evening elapsed.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high over the Shady Sanctuary, casting a silver sheen across the paved terraces surrounded by the tranquil gardens. Naethir sat at one of the workbenches of the crafting area on the outskirts of the hub, his hands steady as they worked. Before him, a collection of tools lay neatly arranged alongside a half-finished gemstone; a blood red garnet he had pre-shaped back in Maruukai.

The gem caught the light from the lantern at the edge of the workbench, its unpolished surface gleaming dully. The Death Knight turned it over in his fingers, examining its flaws. Small chips along the edges, uneven curves, faint scratches that needed smoothing. It wasn’t bad work, he supposed, for someone who hadn’t done this in years.

Naethir exhaled slowly; not because he needed to breathe, but because the motion helped ground him. He set the gem into a clamp on the bench and reached for a file. His motions were deliberate, mechanical, as he dragged the tool along the garnet’s surface.

Scrape. Pause. Adjust. Scrape. The sound echoed loudly in the still night, steady and rhythmic, like the pulse he no longer possessed.

Jewelcrafting had been a way to keep his hands occupied during the long, quiet hours of keeping watch during the travels in the Shadowlands. Back then, it had served as a distraction, a means to pass the time while his younger brothers slept. Over time, though, everything but their safety had ceased to matter. His role as their protector, their guardian against the dangers of Azeroth, had overtaken all else. He had always been a fighter, and gripping a weapon felt more natural than delicate tools ever had. But during the past three years, the mere thought of doing something unrelated to protecting the twins had become frivolous.

And yet, Kee’dril had drawn him back to it. The vampyre had encouraged Naethir to collect ore and raw gems during their travels, and later in Maruukai, Kee’dril had nudged him toward the crafters’ shops with their workbenches, suggesting that perhaps it was time to see if his skills had dulled. Naethir, more out of a desire to avoid further pestering than any real interest, had reluctantly agreed. It had felt strange at first, sitting down to craft after the long break, but there had been an odd sense of familiarity in the motions.

Now, the garnet’s deep red hues caught his eye again, and he found himself pausing. The color was striking, vivid even in its unpolished state. It reminded him of Kee’dril with his crimson hair and the unsettling glow of his eyes. The San’layn might like this stone.

Naethir frowned, shaking his head as if to dislodge the idea, unsure where it had come from. He returned to his work, focusing on smoothing the gem’s edges, his hand moving with slow precision. Yet, even as he worked, his mind wandered back to Kee’dril. The San’layn had spoken before about the value of creative pursuits, how drawing made him feel more alive in some intangible way.

More alive. Was that what this was? The void elf studied the garnet under the pale moonlight, the edges now smoother, the surface beginning to catch the light more cleanly. The stone in his hand, once rough and formless, was becoming something better. Something whole.

The thought lingered. Naethir’s soul, fractured and incomplete, was something Kee’dril believed they might be able to fix together. Memories of lessons Kee’dril had lived might help to patch the fissures in his soul. Tonight, Naethir was supposed to attempt to use blood magic to peer into Kee’dril’s past for that very reason.

An ominous feeling stirred within him, something unfamiliar. Perhaps it was hope; a fragile, tentative feeling that stood in stark contrast to the fear and pain that had defined him for so long. Hope that this idea might work, that it might save him from the slow descent into becoming a mindless undead. A creature who had lost all semblance of the person he once was. A creature that would be nothing but a danger to his brothers. He hastily set the thought aside, focusing on the garnet in his hand instead.

The Death Knight switched tools, picking up finer grit sandpaper to polish the stone’s surface. His motions remained deliberate, each pass of the sandpaper guided by care. When the garnet grew warm under his touch, he paused and reached out to one of the frost runes etched into his blade. A pulse of icy energy flowed through him and into the gem, cooling it instantly. Frost bloomed briefly across its surface, a delicate white veil that melted away in moments, leaving the garnet ready for more work.

When the gemstone finally gleamed in the lantern light, its surface smooth and flawless, the undead void elf let out another slow breath. He glanced upward, catching sight of the moon. Had it really been so long? He hadn’t meant to lose himself in the work, yet a large portion of the night had slipped away.

Kee’dril hadn’t returned yet.

Naethir frowned, his eyes scanning the nearby woods and the empty pathways leading back to the Greenscale Inn, where the rest of the Spinecrafters were most likely fast asleep at present. The vampyre had mentioned spending some time drawing before their planned attempt at blood magic. Kee’dril had even refused Naethir’s suggestion of a sparring match; a rare occurrence.

Naethir’s fingers brushed the finished gem, his thoughts lingering. The idea of peering into Kee’dril’s memories unnerved him, especially the blood magic involved in the process. Despite Kee’dril’s assurances and Naethir’s own agreement to learn, part of him still balked at the idea. Blood magic felt wrong – corrupt, even worse in a way than Void magic once had, by being a twisted form of Life magic – but the possibility of regaining his memories carried enough weight to sway him. And maybe witnessing Kee’dril’s memories would help him to see this matter differently anyway.

Naethir pocketed the garnet carefully, the cool weight of it pressing against his armor. Rising from the bench, he scanned the quiet surroundings one last time before setting off to find Kee’dril. The moon was dipping lower now, but the night wasn’t over yet.

Naethir moved steadily, his plate boots clanking softly against the weathered stone stairs leading down. The torchlight flickering left and right to the archway cast long shadows across his armor, faintly illuminating the Alliance colors on his tabard. The Emerald Scaleguards stationed there nodded at him and let him pass without question. The Spinecrafters had proven themselves allies in the battles to protect the green dragonflight.

The path away from the Shady Sanctuary was steep, winding down into the lush expanse of the Emerald Gardens. Memories of the chaos that had plagued these grounds weeks before rose in Naethir’s mind. Smoldering corpses – mostly vulpera, tauren and trolls – had littered the earth here, casualties of the Primalists’ attacks that had threatened the Sanctuary. Those skirmishes had ceased since Koroleth’s defeat, though no one truly believed the Primalists’ ambitions had died with the bald night elf.

The Life magic seeping from the portal to the Emerald Dream had begun to reclaim the land in the dragons’ absence. The gardens were alive with verdant overgrowth; flowers blooming in bursts of color, vines creeping over ancient stone, trees standing tall with roots that reclaimed the ancient stone paths for themselves. The Spinecrafters had helped to restore some semblance of order to the area, but much of the land remained untamed. Naethir barely noticed the beauty around him; his focus was elsewhere.

The path led him toward the coast, the sea’s gentle roar growing louder as he approached. The air was tinged with salt, mingling with the earthy scent of the gardens. At the shore, he stopped. An island lay just ahead, separated from the mainland by a narrow stretch of water. The Ancient Bough – sacred to the green dragonflight – was veiled by a shimmering barrier, a translucent green haze that obscured what lay beyond.

Naethir stepped forward, activating the runes on his blade with a silent thought. Magic surged through him, chilling the air around him. Paths of Frost formed beneath his feet, each step freezing the water solid for the briefest moment before melting away behind him. The green shimmer rippled as he passed through the barrier. Even now, after weeks of freely entering and leaving the isle, Naethir found it remarkable that the green flight allowed him – and Kee’dril – to tread here. Undead were rarely welcomed in places so steeped in life. Yet the Spinecrafters had proven their worth, and Merithra had made no distinction between the living and the undead among their ranks.

The Ancient Bough was lush beyond words, its vibrant flora illuminated by the faint glow of Life magic. Deep purples mingled with the usual greens of the trees and the water seemed to shimmer, its surface rippling with an ethereal light. The lushness reminded Naethir starkly of another place: the otherworldly forest of Ardenweald, though here green dominated where blue once had. And just as he had felt there, he couldn’t shake the sense of being an intruder; something that didn’t belong here. He moved carefully, mindful of every step, as if afraid his presence might disrupt the fragile harmony around him.

Naethir followed the road toward the eastern edge of the isle, where the Emerald Oathstone stood, set in the center of a circular platform surrounded by shallow water.

Kee’dril was exactly where the Death Knight had expected to find him, perched on a cluster of rocks beneath a sprawling tree just off the platform. The San’layn sat with one leg tucked beneath him, the other dangling lazily over the edge of the rock. His sketchbook rested on his lap, illuminated by the faint glow of a nearby torch. Kee’dril’s crimson hair caught the light as he bent over the page, his movements precise and fluid. He seemed absorbed in his work, unaware of Naethir’s approach.

The void elf hesitated for a spell, watching Kee’dril in his peaceful state. A pang of regret struck him for what he was about to do – disturbing that tranquility felt almost wrong. But he had come for a reason and so,straightening his posture, he stepped forward.

Kee’dril’s charcoal froze mid-stroke and he flinched visibly. Without looking up, he partially closed the book with a faint rustle, mindful of the delicate charcoal that could easily smudge. Naethir blinked, mildly startled by the motion. He had seen Kee’dril do this before, but he had never given it much thought – too numb to care at the time. Lately, however, he had begun noticing such things more often, each small observation adding to a growing sense of clarity that had eluded the Death Knight for years. Perhaps the fragments of his soul were unraveling slower than feared, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

“You dislike people peering at your unfinished works, am I right?” Naethir asked, his voice carrying its usual chill, the slight echo of undeath lacing his words.

Kee’dril hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “That’s part of it,” he admitted. “It’s also… an old habit. I had a friend who loved doing exactly that – sneaking a look before I was ready to share. She’d always sneer at what I’d drawn.”

“Some friend,” Naethir remarked dryly. “Sounds more like someone who enjoyed getting under your skin.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Kee’dril’s face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hollie Gutwell, she was a Forsaken Rogue I spent a lot of time with back in Tirisfal. She wasn’t wrong, though, about my drawings, at least. She used to call me a dreamer. Always in a mocking tone, of course.”

“And you weren’t offended?”

“No,” Kee’dril replied with a faint shrug, his long ears twitching slightly. “I felt sorry for her. She was bitter, like many Forsaken are – resigned to her fate, convinced she didn’t deserve anything better. She sneered at my drawings, but I think she was really sneering at herself.”

“Not like you, then,” Naethir pointed out.

Kee’dril turned to him, one long eyebrow raised in question.

“I mean,” Naethir continued, searching for the right words, “you left the Forsaken. You didn’t let their bitterness drag you down. And you’re not like… her.” He paused, then added quietly: “Or me.”

Kee’dril tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Not quite,” he said after a moment. “Hollie resigned herself to misery, convinced she did not deserve better. You, on the other hand, seem… different. Like you still want to be happy, even if you don’t quite know how to reach for it. That’s something I admire about you, you know.”

The San’layn’s words caused a tickling sensation to pass through Naethir’s body, which he couldn’t interpret. For a moment, the two sat in silence, the sounds of the sea and the gentle rustling of leaves filling the space between them.

Naethir’s eyes drifted to Kee’dril’s sketchbook, still closed on his lap. “What were you drawing?”

Kee’dril hesitated, then opened the book slowly, revealing the beginnings of a detailed sketch of the Emerald Oathstone. The short stone pillar stood prominently on the page, its folded stone wings and gleaming gemstone meticulously captured in charcoal.

The drawing brought Naethir’s thoughts back to the events of several days earlier, when the centaur clans and Merithra, leader of the green dragons, had renewed their ancient vows before this very Oathstone. The ceremony, curiously observed by the Spinecrafters, had reactivated the dormant pillar, sending a radiant beam of green light into the sky. Those vows had already borne fruit: the allied Maruuk clans, alongside some green dragons and adventurers, had freed Ohn’ahra – the Wild God – from Nokhudon Hold. Though the Nokhud rebels remained a constant nuisance, their defeat there marked the decline of a once-severe threat, allowing life to return mostly to normalcy for the people of the Ohn’ahran Plains.

“It’s so lifelike,” Naethir murmured, leaning closer to examine the drawing. “But not like one of Renald’s pictures. That strange apparatus of his… the camera? It’s not the same.”

Kee’dril chuckled softly. “The camera copies what it sees on the surface,” he said. “Soullessly, without understanding. This… this is different. A drawing can capture something deeper. It breathes more life into the picture.”

Naethir nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he understood. His gaze lingered on the sketch for a moment longer before he straightened, a faint frown crossing his pale features as he remembered why he had come.

“We should try the spell,” he stated, glancing at Kee’dril. “Unless you’ve had second thoughts about letting me… into your head.”

Kee’dril’s expression flickered, though it was difficult to read.

“No,” he said finally, closing the sketchbook carefully and rising to his feet. “We might as well try now.”

Naethir gave a short nod but held up a hand. “Not here,” he insisted firmly. “This is sacred ground. Let’s move off the island first.”

Kee’dril inclined his head in agreement, and the two began their journey back toward the mainland, the shimmering barrier rippling faintly as they passed through it once more.

–.o.O.o.–

The moon cast its pale light over the shoreline, illuminating the stretch of sand where Naethir and Kee’dril had settled. The faint sound of waves lapping against the shore and the occasional scuttle of crabs created an atmosphere of eerie stillness. Naethir’s fingers tapped against the cup he had retrieved from a belt pouch, betraying the nervousness that he tried to mask.

“So,” Naethir began, his voice steady but carrying its typical, chilling echo, “how exactly is this going to work?”

Kee’dril rested his slender sword across his knees, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Blood magic,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “isn’t science. It’s… instinct and willpower. Even as a San’layn, I can’t tell you exactly what will happen. But you’ve practiced the runes and know how to channel the magic. It will work.”

Naethir nodded. “Yes. That part I’m confident about. But…,” he gestured vaguely, “the memory. This… tribute thing. Your blood.”

“Willingly provided,” Kee’dril interjected, his lips quirking into a wry smile. “That’ll enhance the potency. As for the rest, it’s up to you. You’ll be able to Scry for any information you need, but the more you know about the event, the easier it will be to find. That’s why I already told you as much about it as I can actively remember. The vision itself will be much more detailed.”

Naethir’s brow furrowed slightly. “I know the people involved,” he said slowly. “You, as an adolescent. Kath’dril, my…” he hesitated for the briefest of moments, his gaze flickering away before he continued, “our mentor, and the location: the Priests’ headquarters in Silvermoon, about four hundred and fifty years into the past. I even know some of the words that are supposed to be said.”

“Good,” Kee’dril said, nodding approvingly. “That should give you a solid anchor. Just remember, your time isn’t unlimited. The blood – or what passes for blood in the likes of us – will only last so long. Focus on one of my early sword fighting lessons with Kath’dril.”

With that, the vampyre drew his sword and made a shallow cut along his forearm. A black substance oozed from the wound; thicker and darker than mortal blood. Kee’dril frowned slightly, then the ichor responded to his silent command, flowing more readily from the cut and gathering into a small, swirling orb above his palm. With careful control, he directed it into a cup Naethir held out.

When Kee’dril released the spell, the flow of ichor stopped almost immediately. He wiped the blade on a cloth and sheathed it, inspecting the runes Naethir had drawn in the sand. Steel would have been an even better medium, but the Death Knight had practiced enough for the sand to suffice.

“These will work,” Kee’dril said after a moment’s scrutiny. He offered Naethir a small, sardonic smile. “Cheers.”

The grimace accompanying the word reminded Naethir of the fact that undead blood tasted vile to San’layn, something that had come in handy the day the Spinecrafters had found the vampyre, but currently Kee’dril was clearly relieved he wasn’t the one having to drink it.

Naethir lifted the cup without hesitation. The ichor had a slimy texture as it coated his throat, but the taste wasn’t as bad as he had feared. It was reminiscent of ashes – a flavor he had grown accustomed to since his resurrection. He downed it quickly and set the cup aside.

“Lie down,” Kee’dril advised, his tone serious. “The spell will take hold fast, and you’re not experienced enough to keep your balance during a vision. Better to be safe.”

Following the advice, Naethir stretched out on the sand, his black hair streaked with white strands standing out starkly against the pale shore. The runes on the ground began to glow and he felt a pull, as though the world itself were tilting. He closed his eyes.

–.o.O.o.–

Naethir stood on training grounds steeped in golden sunlight that filtered through stained glass windows, their intricate designs casting dappled rainbows onto the polished stone floor. The air was warm, tinged with the faint tang of sweat. The Death Knight had never been to the Priests’ headquarters, not even as a Paladin, but the architecture was distinct; elegant, arched, and shimmering with the subtle magic that seemed to flow through every stone of the ancient city.

Naethir found himself experiencing the moment through Kee’dril’s eyes, unable to influence his movements or speak. Across from him stood Kath’dril, his dark brown hair tied neatly into a tail, his sharp, middle-aged features framed by a short, well-kept beard. He looked barely younger than the man Naethir remembered, though his father had been centuries older by then. Kath’dril wore a simple yet well-fitted training garb, and in his hands was a longsword. It was clear from the way he held himself that this was a man who had seen countless battles – and won them.

The sight threatened to overwhelm Naethir. Shame coiled in his chest like a poisonous snake. His father had been everything Naethir aspired to be and yet, in his own mind, had utterly failed to become. The weight of his failures as a son, the deep disappointment he imagined his father would feel, pressed heavily on him. But then, Kee’dril’s emotions surged to the forefront, pushing Naethir’s aside. The adolescent elf’s focus was razor-sharp, his determined concentration cutting through any distractions as he mentally prepared himself.

Naethir – no, Kee’dril – gripped his own practice blade tightly, his juvenile body tense but ready. His longer hair, slightly damp with sweat, clung to the sides of his face as he squared off against his mentor. The younger elf’s confidence was clear in the way he moved, stepping lightly on the balls of his feet as he circled Kath’dril. The clashing of blades echoed in the room, joined by the muffled sound of others sparring nearby – though their faces were indistinct, as if Kee’dril had not committed their identities to memory.

“You’re skilled,” Kath’dril remarked, his voice even but carrying a calm assurance. He deflected Kee’dril’s strike with smooth precision, the force of the parry sending a sharp vibration up the younger elf’s arm. “Your form is impressive, as expected. I can see the effort you’ve put in.”

Kee’dril pressed the attack, trying to keep Kath’dril on the defensive, his movements quick and precise. Though still young, his years of training to join the Farstriders showed in the sharpness of his strikes and the agility of his footwork. But Kath’dril wasn’t merely a skilled swordsman – he was a living legend, and his mastery was absolute. He sidestepped Kee’dril’s thrust easily, pivoting and bringing his own blade around in a sweeping arc that forced the younger elf to scramble back, barely avoiding a blow that would have disarmed him.

“Impressive effort,” Kath’dril said, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stepped back into a ready stance. “Now, if only you’d put as much energy into learning how to wield the Light.”

Kee’dril’s response came quickly, almost defensive. “Swordplay… makes sense. It’s real, tangible. The Light…” He hesitated, searching for the words as they circled each other. “It’s… complicated. It’s not how I imagined my future – standing back and mending wounds.”

Kath’dril didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he lunged forward, his blade coming in low, forcing Kee’dril to block awkwardly. The young elf tried to counter with a quick strike toward his mentor’s shoulder, but Kath’dril deflected it, the impact jarring Kee’dril’s grip.

“It’s not the weapon or the power that makes someone a hero,” the battle priest said as their blades locked. His voice was calm, but there was an intensity in his gaze. “It’s the deeds they accomplish with it.”

The words hung in the air, striking a chord within both Kee’dril and Naethir, who silently observed. Naethir recognized this as the key moment Kee’dril had wanted him to see. It was a sentiment Kee’dril had mentioned before, something he had claimed was one of Kath’dril’s core beliefs, but Naethir had struggled to accept it – struggled to reconcile how he had never heard his father speak these words directly to him, despite their profound importance. Surely, a belief so central to Kath’dril must have been expressed in some way more than once – yet if it had been, Naethir had no memory of it, which was very strange.

Their sparring went on, Kath’dril’s movements fluid and precise, each strike and parry a lesson in its own right.

“The Light is a force – a tool, just like this sword,” Kath’dril continued. “You can use it to heal the wounded, to shield those who cannot protect themselves, or to smite down those who threaten what you hold dear. How you wield it, and the purpose behind it – that’s what defines you.”

Kee’dril didn’t respond, his focus split between the sparring and the weight of his mentor’s words. He was tiring, his strikes becoming less controlled, and his footwork sloppy. Then his attention wavered entirely as movement at the edge of the training area caught his eye.

Standing by the entrance was Erezia, Kath’dril’s wife. Her light brown hair, almost blonde, was pinned up into a loose bun, and she wore a simple yet elegant dress that complemented her ageless beauty. She wasn’t a Priestess and didn’t usually frequent the headquarters, but it seemed she had come to offer her services as a seamstress once more. Unlike the other faces in the memory, hers was perfectly detailed, every line and curve etched into Kee’dril’s recollection with startling clarity.

A strange wave of emotion coursed through Naethir – Kee’dril’s emotions, he realized. There was admiration, respect, and something deeper, something Naethir recognized only faintly as love. But it was different than the love Naethir had once felt for the woman who was his mother. This emotion was more complex, tinged with a yearning that Kee’dril had clearly buried deep. Naethir had never felt anything like it, not even when he had been alive, but he had a hunch: could it be that Kee’dril had harbored a quiet, unspoken crush on Erezia, his mentor’s wife? Why else would he feel ashamed of those emotions? They were subtle, carefully hidden, but undeniably there.

“Focus!” Kath’dril’s sharp command snapped Kee’dril’s attention back to the fight, but it was too late. In a blur of motion, Kath’dril executed his signature move – a feint followed by a quick disarming strike. Kath’dril’s blade darted forward in a blur, striking Kee’dril’s sword at just the right angle. In an instant, the younger elf’s weapon was wrenched from his grip and caught deftly in Kath’dril’s free hand. The elder elf held both blades for a brief moment, his calm composure a stark contrast to Kee’dril’s flushed frustration, before extending the hilt back to him with a faint, knowing smile.

“You’re distracted,” Kath’dril said, his tone mildly chastising but not unkind. He stepped back, lowering his weapon. “Distraction is a weakness, Kee’dril. On the battlefield, it can cost you your life – or worse, the lives of those who depend on you.”

Kee’dril moved to retrieve his weapon, his face flushed with embarrassment. He didn’t look at Erezia again, though Naethir could feel the lingering weight of her presence in the back of his mind.

The memory began to blur at the edges, the details growing indistinct. The last thing he saw was Kath’dril, his expression painfully familiar, thoughtful as he watched Kee’dril reset his stance.

–.o.O.o.–

Naethir’s awareness returned slowly, the pressure of the ground against his back reminded him he was no longer in the memory. He was lying on the shore, and his vision swam as he blinked away the lingering haze. Something wet clung to his face, and when he lifted a hand to wipe it away, his fingers came away streaked with a mixture of frost and the thick, inky substance that passed for blood in the undead. Tears. He had been crying.

A shadow loomed over him. Kee’dril, kneeling close, his red eyes filled with something between concern and expectation. Studying him. Searching for something that might tell him if the spell had worked; if Naethir remembered.

The Death Knight exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright, the remnants of the vision still pressing against his mind. He recalled the lesson. Kee’dril’s lesson. His father’s words. But that was it.

The spell hadn’t worked. Not the way they wanted.

“I can’t remember… my own lessons,” Naethir admitted, his throat tightening. There was no use in pretending otherwise. Whatever hope had flickered to life earlier was swiftly snuffed out, leaving only the familiar emptiness in its wake.

Kee’dril’s expression flickered with frustration, then determination. Naethir barely had the energy to brace himself before his friend was already moving, standing sharply as if the force of his thoughts needed an outlet.

“Then we try something else.”

Naethir sighed, feeling drained. “Kee’dril-”

“No, listen,” the Warrior interrupted him, pacing a few steps before turning back. His gaze flicked toward the dome of green haze in the distance, the shimmering veil concealing the isle with its portal to the Emerald Dream. “We’ve been thinking about this all wrong. The green dragonflight was entrusted with safeguarding the Dream, yes?”

Naethir nodded warily, uncertain where this was going.

“Then what about the bronze?” Kee’dril pressed. “The guardians of time itself? If we go to Thaldraszus, if we help them restore their Oathstone, we might gain their favor. They could let us go back. We could retrieve your blood – your memories – before your death. You could see your memories with your own eye.” His enthusiasm was palpable, his always pale face beaming with the sheer possibility of it. “This could work.”

The Death Knight felt nothing. No spark of excitement, no flicker of belief. “You’re assuming a lot,” he murmured. “That the bronze will even agree. That it will do anything. That it won’t-”

“Naethir,” Kee’dril cut in, as though sheer insistence might change the void elf’s mind. “This is our best chance. We just need to ask Lieutenant Valentian for leave. Or – better – get him to send us there on a special mission.”

Naethir shook his head, his voice raw. “I can’t.”

Kee’dril exhaled sharply, but there was no frustration in it. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

Naethir looked away. Doing something for himself had never led to anything good. He had wanted to prove his worth to his fellow Death Knights by freeing them from the Maw, and Saewron had almost payed the price for his hubris, falling into the Drust’s hands. He had wanted to prove himself to his Covenant in Revendreth, and had got himself and a friend captured, drained and nearly killed. His brothers had needed to save him. Every selfish step he had taken had only endangered those he loved.

Instead, he found himself saying, “If I do, I should ask him to let me switch squads. The other team of Spinecrafters that’s leaving for the Dragon Isles to guard Luthir and his researchers. Saewron will be there.” He met Kee’dril’s gaze. “I should be, too.”

Kee’dril’s brow furrowed. “But that won’t fix anything.”

“I swore myself to protect him.”

“I thought you wanted to fix your soul. You can no longer protect your brothers if you become one of the mindless,” Kee’dril said softly.

The words nonetheless hit like a hammer strike, but it wasn’t that which caused Naethir’s posture to turn rigid. It was the way the air felt too tight all of a sudden, the unseen weight on his chest shifting from cold to crushing.

The memory of black chains locked around him. The spell pressing down on him, forcing him to his knees, rendering him helpless. Unable to protect Orthorin from the Mawsworn.

Naethir’s fingers curled into the sand. His mind flickered backward, spiraling…

Saewron, his body writhing as the Venthyr’s hands tightened around his throat. Naethir pulled, twisted, fought; but the bonds held fast. They always held fast. Bonds, or the bars of a cage. His father’s fingers twitching inches out of reach. No matter how Naethir strained against the bars holding him, the distance remained. Always unable to protect those he wanted to protect.

A hand on his shoulder. Solid.

“Naethir.” Kee’dril’s voice was steady, unwavering. “You’re here.”

The grip squeezed slightly, a tether to the present. Naethir clung to it, forcing himself to focus on the sensation; the solid weight, offering a kind of warmth despite their cold skin and armor. Slowly, the tightness in his chest eased, the memories retreating.

Kee’dril didn’t move until some of the tension had left Naethir. Then, and only then, did he speak again.

“Giving up, or running away to protect your brother, won’t make things better. It won’t change anything.” The San’layn leaned in a little closer. “You don’t need to remain pinned down under your tree. We can do something. Together.”

Naethir swallowed, his fingers still shaking but his chest no longer too tight to draw a breath for speaking.

Kee’dril smiled faintly.

“How can you always stay so optimistic?” Naethir muttered.

“For a long time,” Kee’dril admitted, “if I stopped believing things could get better, I wasn’t sure I’d ever start again. It was easier to chase the next hope, the next chance – because stopping meant looking back…. But to remain always on the run gets exhausting. And then I met you and the other Spinecrafters, who finally showed me my optimism was indeed more than the silly hope of a dreamer.”

Naethir let out a slow breath. Kee’dril was still watching him, expectant. Waiting.

Instead, Naethir deflected. “That memory of yours.”

Kee’dril stiffened slightly. “What about it?”

“You… cared for Erezia. My-” he caught himself awkwardly, “our mentor’s wife.”

The San’layn looked away, his usual ease faltering. “Y-yes.”

Naethir tilted his head. “More than a crush?”

Kee’dril stiffened. His face betrayed no surprise, only mild discomfort. “You saw that, did you?” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I loved her. Still do, in a way. I never told her, or Kath’dril. She was always faithful, and I would never have-” he shook his head. “She was kind to me. But she never saw me that way.” He hesitated, then met Naethir’s gaze. “Do you think I’m… perverted for that?”

The undead void elf blinked. He had no experience with love. Awkwardly, he admitted, “I don’t think I was ever… capable of something like that. Even before everything.” He looked down. “But I know from my brothers that you don’t choose who you fall for. That you’re… helpless in that regard.” He glanced up. “And I certainly don’t think less of you for it. Erezia was a wonderful woman.”

Kee’dril let out a breath, his lips twitching upward. “Good to hear. But what I’d really like to hear is…” his smirk widened, “Do we have a mission to request from Lieutenant Valentian?”

Naethir hesitated. And then, slowly, he nodded.

A soft glow touched the horizon, streaks of gold cutting through the darkness. The sun was rising.

Naethir glanced at Kee’dril. “You lost a night of sleep over this.”

Kee’dril’s laughter was light. “Luckily, I don’t actually need sleep. And even if I did… it was a worthy sacrifice.”

Chapter Text

The wind howled across the frozen peaks of Vakthros, carrying with it the scent of charred air and the hum of Arcane magic barely holding against an onslaught of elemental fury. Aadrithea Dewspirit soared through the icy sky in her raven form, her eyes locked onto two approaching figures: one, a massive blue dragon, his scales reflecting the sunlight that bathed the Azure Span; the other, a large black raven not unlike herself in appearance, but shaped by vile magic rather than the teachings of the Wild Gods. Kalecgos and Khadgar had arrived.

Below her, the Primalists toiled, their Shamans and elementally-infused warriors hammering the frozen rock with earth and fire magic. Their goal was clear: to carve through the mountain, break apart the ancient defenses that guarded Vakthros, and forge a path for their ground troops to storm the tower above. The air crackled with the force of their efforts, glowing runes forming along the fissures they had created in the ice and stone. The tower was connected to the major ley lines in Azure Span; if those were severed, the entire domain of the blue dragonflight would fall into chaos.

Aadrithea knew what needed to be done. She arced her wings and descended swiftly, weaving between jagged spires of ice and storm-forged rock. Landing lightly on a frozen outcrop, she shifted back into her night elf form and hurried toward where Korthrox the Destroyer loomed over the battlefield, his massive primal dragon form glowing with veins of molten energy. Nearby, Ruvin Stonegrinder barked orders to a squad of Primalists, her scarred face twisted into a grimace of determination.

“The enemy approaches,” Aadrithea reported, pointing at the sky where Kalecgos and Khadgar drew ever closer. “We don’t have long.”

Ruvin snorted, barely sparing her a glance. “Then make sure the others don’t stop working,” she growled. “I don’t care how you do it, just keep them from getting distracted. If we lose momentum now, the entire operation is at risk.”

Aadrithea hesitated for a fraction of a second before inclining her head. She despised doing as the green-skinned monkey told, but Ruvin was right; the ground forces had to reach the tower, or the entire attack would crumble. She would have to find a way to ensure that.

The orc had already turned away, her gaze now fixed on a group of Shamans who had gathered around several captives: Mages from the Kirin Tor. Their arms hung stiffly by their sides, their fingers twitching as if straining to weave spells, but they could not. Howling wind swirled around them, violent and erratic, the gusts controlled by the earthen cages that imprisoned them. The combination of elemental magics prevented their escape, each attempt met with the walls tightening and pressing closer. Their robes were torn, their faces lined with exhaustion.

These prisoners had been taken during the skirmishes at Camp Antonidas and Rhonin’s Shield. Khadgar and some annoying adventurers – who were as always meddling wherever they could – had fought bitterly to protect them, but the Primalists had still managed to take some prisoners. Now, those Mages would pay the price for their heresies.

“Keep playing with them,” Ruvin said coldly, motioning toward the prisoners. “They deserve no mercy. Their magic is a stain left by the titans. Make them understand their corruption.”

Aadrithea watched in silence as a troll Primalist stepped forward, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. The troll was not merely tormenting the quel’dorei Mage before her – she was studying him, eager to unravel the taint of Arcane magic that had poisoned the high elf’s very existence. The Mage gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out as raw elemental energy coiled around his limbs, burning through the remnants of his strength.

Aadrithea felt a strange dissonance in her heart. A part of her recoiled from the scene before her, a reminder of the brutalities she had once condemned. Yet another part of her agreed. The Arcane had led Azeroth to ruin before: the reckless use of its power had brought about the War of the Ancients, had shattered her homeland and turned the night elves against their own kind. And the quel’dorei? Their ancestors had spurned her people, stolen lands from the trolls they had displaced, and continued to weave their corrupt magic without a second thought.

She turned away before she could dwell on the sight any longer. There was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt. With a powerful beat of her wings, she was airborne again, climbing back into the by now storm-choked sky. She caught sight of Khadgar standing atop a floating arcane platform, his hands glowing with restrained power. Beside him, Kalecgos was hovering in the clouded sky, summoning Mirror Images of his humanoid form to send into battle as well.

Aadrithea wondered for a spell whether the two Mages, the dragon and the human, were actually intending to take all of the Primalists on by themselves, but then she saw them: adventurers. More mortals, surging toward the battlefield, ready to once again interfere. Her talons clenched instinctively. She would not hesitate this time.

–.o.O.o.–

Aadrithea wasted no time rallying the Primalist Shamans, landing among them with the force of the storm itself. “Focus your power on the Aspect! Bring Kalecgos down from the sky!”

Lightning crackled in the hands of the gathered Shamans, their eyes gleaming as they turned their attention upward. Forks of electricity lanced through the storm, coiling toward Kalecgos in searing arcs. The ground beneath trembled as jagged spikes of earth and torrents of fire magic erupted toward the massive dragon, seeking to tear him from the sky. He roared in defiance, brilliant blue scales gleaming even against the violent onslaught.

As the Shamans unleashed their assault, Aadrithea’s gaze settled on one of them – a familiar figure. Idoral.

The pale night elf had always been timid, a far cry from the zealotry of their more fervent comrades. She had spoken with him after the battle at the Ruby Lifeshrine, after he had barely escaped the adventurers who had slaughtered Melidrussa. Now, he fought alongside the others, but the tension in his stance was evident.

An idea struck her. “You – Idoral, with me!” she ordered abruptly.

He hesitated, glancing at her with confusion. “Me? But-”

“Do not question me!” Aadrithea snapped. “Come!”

Though clearly puzzled, he obeyed, withdrawing from his caster colleagues.

Kalecgos twisted in the sky, his voice ringing over the battlefield: “Raszageth! I am giving you and your followers one chance to stop this insanity.”

The Incarnate scoffed, barely sparing him a glance as she turned her attention toward the tower at the peak of the mountain. “Your flight lies in ruins. What good did clinging to titan magic do for you? At least your predecessor was an Aspect to be feared. You play with powers you do not understand!”

“I am no stranger to putting down maddened dragons, Raszageth,” the blue dragon replied, evading another barrage of Shamanic lightning with frustrating ease. “You’ll be nothing more than a footnote in our history.”

Aadrithea ignored the exchange overhead, leading Idoral toward a group of waiting primal dragons perched on the cliffs nearby. As she approached, she commanded them: “You too, keep Kalecgos from following Raszageth! Keep him occupied!”

One of the larger beasts, a storm-infused primal dragon with jagged horns, narrowed his glowing eyes at her and bared his fangs. “You dare order us about like trained beasts? Do not think too highly of yourself, elf. You may speak with Raszageth, but you’re still a mortal. Easily crushed.”

Aadrithea did not waver. “And yet Raszageth trusts me to ensure this battle is won. Will you question her judgment?”

The dragon let out a low, thunderous growl but did not strike her down. Instead, the group of primal dragons finally lifted off, surging toward Kalecgos in an attempt to keep him engaged.

Yet, as Aadrithea turned away, a sliver of unease twisted within her. The storm-infused dragon’s hostility could be dismissed – he was powerful, but not especially intelligent. However, what if his disdain reflected a deeper truth? What if, despite all their efforts, none of the primal dragons ever truly accepted them? Hadn’t Raszageth spoken of undoing the titan’s influence? What if she saw mortal Primalists as part of that corruption, too?

Aadrithea forcibly silenced the thought. She could no longer afford such doubts. They had already sacrificed too much. She had sacrificed too much. Now, there was only one path left to walk.

Steeling herself, she turned her attention toward the battle below.

The adventurers were still advancing, cutting down the Primalists holding the lower slopes of the mountain. Worse still, they were destroying the lava orbs that empowered the elementally-infused warriors breaking a path through the ice and stone.

She turned to Idoral. “Look down there. Do you recognize any of them?”

He stiffened, his expression darkening. “I… I don’t know if I want to.”

Aadrithea narrowed her eyes. “You were there at the Lifeshrine. If some of them were the ones who killed Melidrussa, we have to avenge her.”

Idoral swallowed hard, but he looked. His hesitation was clear, his fear real – fear of those adventurers, of what they had done, and what they could do again.

Then, his breath hitched. “Them,” he breathed, pointing toward two figures fighting below. “The Druid and the Monk. They were there.”

Aadrithea’s hands curled into fists. “Then we go.”

She rallied the Primalists nearby, motioning for them to follow. Together, they descended further down the mountain, toward the frozen lake at its base where the adventurers fought.

As they moved, Aadrithea’s gaze locked onto the Druid. He was a worgen. That made her pause.

Worgen had good relations with the kaldorei, their curse entwined with the old ways of her people. The thought of fighting one of them stirred something unsettling deep inside her, but she forced the feeling down. It didn’t matter. He was an enemy. He had ignored Melidrussa’s pleas, had struck her down without thought. She would return the favor and avenge Koroleth in the process.

They engaged the adventurers in battle, Aadrithea shifting into her cat form, and she made straight for the Druid.

The worgen was already mid-incantation when she lunged, but his sharp ears caught her approach, and he snarled, shifting into his moonkin form in an instant. The transformation made him larger, bulkier, his feathered limbs crackling with lunar energy as he turned to face her.

“You killed Melidrussa!” the night elf growled as she lunged.

She struck with feral precision, her claws raking through feathers and flesh. The Druid staggered back, wincing, but recovered quickly, calling down a Starfire that exploded beside her. She darted aside, evading most of the blast, only to find herself struck by a Typhoon that sent her skidding back across the frozen lake.

She barely regained her footing before the Druid sneered, “Meli-who? Oh, wait. I remember. That lunatic trying to cleanse the dragon whelps at the Lifeshrine. Went on and on about saving them, then she threw them at us like that would help her. Hardly stalled her death.”

Aadrithea saw red.

She lunged, faster, more ruthless, every ounce of her training and rage pouring into each strike. The Druid fought back, shifting between forms, trying to hold her off, but he was on the defensive now. She was faster, deadlier, fueled by vengeance.

A final, vicious rake of her claws tore through his chest, and his form crumpled. He shifted back into his worgen form as he fell, breath ragged, eyes wide in shock.

Aadrithea stood over him, panting. “For my friend.”

The life left his eyes.

The battlefield continued to rage around her, but she only registered it in passing. She turned, scanning for Idoral – and found him standing over the Monk’s body. He had won his fight.

Then she spotted it. A shadow soaring toward them, crossing the lake with speed unnatural for any mortal. A rider and their mount – something horrible, something she couldn’t yet make out.

Idoral saw it too. And unlike before, this time he did not hesitate. His face went pale. “That one,” he gasped as he turned to flee. “That’s them.”

Aadrithea tensed. She didn’t need him to explain further.

The Maw Walker.

The rider landed. As the snow settled, the armored figure knelt beside the fallen Druid, checking for life. Finding none, they slowly rose and looked up at Aadrithea. Their voice, distorted by the helmet, was impossible to place.

“You killed my friend.”

Aadrithea’s anger burned hot, but a different sensation twisted in her chest as well: fear.

“As you and yours killed mine,” she replied nonetheless.

“Maybe, but you and your friends are on the wrong side of this conflict. We have every right to strike you down.”

Aadrithea wanted to argue, but the Maw Walker drew their weapon.

Before the night elf could react, the mountainside above rumbled. An avalanche roared down, burying the Maw Walker in an instant.

Aadrithea looked up sharply and spotted Idoral further up the mountain, his hands still glowing with residual magic.

“That won’t hold them for long,” he yelled. “You need to get away! We can’t fight them.”

She hesitated, but knew her colleague was right. The Maw Walker was too strong. With a sharp breath, Aadrithea transformed into her raven form and took to the skies. As she climbed higher, she saw the snow shifting below.

The Maw Walker was already breaking free.

–.o.O.o.–

Aadrithea’s thoughts churned as she soared higher, the chaos of battle unfolding below her, leaving that terrifying figure behind. The bitter wind whipped against her feathers, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her mind. She had failed to avenge her sisters: Koroleth and Melidrussa. Two names, two losses, both still raw, both burning within her.

Koroleth had been unyielding, a force of nature in her own right, willing to take whatever steps necessary for the Primalists’ cause. At times, that unwavering devotion had worried Aadrithea, but she had also admired it. She had never seen her friend doubt, never seen her waver. And now Koroleth was gone, struck down on her mission to seize the Emerald Dream’s portal. Another mission ruined by bungling adventurers who were just blindly following the will of their titan-corrupted masters.

Her thoughts flickered to Malidrussa and her tragic death, and the ache in her chest deepened. Malidrussa had been different than Koroleth. Less of a leader, more of a friend, softer, yet just as devoted, her warmth balancing the storm of their movement. She had been someone who had shared the burdens of this war with Aadrithea, who had laughed with her in quiet moments between battles. Melidrussa had been the first of their tight-knit circle to fight and die for a future free from the titan-forged shackles.

Was this her fate? To watch their strongest, their most devoted, fall one by one while their enemies celebrated? The injustice of it burned in Aadrithea’s veins. But she wasn’t going to throw her life away foolishly either. Others would need to deal with the adventurers.

Aadrithea watched the battle unfold below her. Kalecgos was struggling under the relentless assault. She had been forced to retreat from the battle for now, but at least she had bought time for her comrades to focus on bringing down the Aspect.

Yet, even now, more Primalists fell under the onslaught. When would proud Korthrox finally enter the fray? Their numbers thinned as the adventurers pushed forward, freeing the captured Kirin Tor Mages along the way. Some were too weakened to teleport away and instead fled across the frozen lake at the mountain’s base.

Aadrithea considered chasing them down, but something else drew her eye. Ruvin Stonegrinder lay dead in the snow, her hammer slipping from her grip, her lifeless gaze staring skyward. A cluster of adventurers had gathered around her fallen body. Aadrithea’s breath hitched in her raven chest. The adventurers had not only slain the orc, but one among them now held something in their hands: Ruvin’s Elemental Focus.

Aadrithea knew what was coming even before she saw it: the stolen artifact pulsed, and in mere moments, the adventurers turned it against her kin, draining Primalists of their power and severing the Lava Beacons that had kept the sky aflame with elemental magic.

With each beacon destroyed, Kalecgos’ form grew stronger in the sky, his movements more fluid as the Primalists’ magic faltered. The battle was slipping away from them.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Far above, Raszageth roared, her wings crackling with the storm’s fury. “Mortal fools! You fumble with Arcane magic and spread its use like blight upon this world!”

Khadgar’s voice rang back, steady despite the storm. “This power is meant to be studied and harnessed, not feared! You would kill those who seek to use it for the greater good?”

Raszageth’s laughter was thunder. “I will eradicate your insignificant kind and end your meddling with the unnatural!”

Lightning lanced toward him, but Khadgar raised his staff, absorbing the strike with a shimmering barrier.

The Druid’s attention shifted to Korthrox the Destroyer, his molten wings stretching wide. At last, even he seemed to recognize the threat these adventurers posed. With a furious bellow, the primal dragon launched himself from his perch, fire gathering in his maw as he streaked toward them.

But he was too late. Without the Lava Beacons, their strongest offensive line had crumbled. Kalecgos, now free from the oppressive onslaught of the Primalists’ magic, rose higher, his massive wings beating against the storm. He turned toward Raszageth, relieving the Archmage of his efforts to stall the Incarnate.

From her vantage point high above, Aadrithea watched the human break away from combat and advance toward the tower. He lifted his hands to the sky as he began weaving powerful arcane wards around the structure. The Archmage, no longer preoccupied with Raszageth, was reinforcing the tower’s defenses, ensuring the ley lines could not be easily severed.

Aadrithea reacted quickly and dove down the mountain slope, back to where the remnants of their ground forces were still rallying, for the moment unmolested by any adventurers, who had assembled and were now facing off against Korthrox. She entered the tunnel and followed it until she spotted a familiar figure for the second time this day.

“Idoral!” she called sharply, making the pale night elf turn toward her with visible unease.

“Aadrithea? What’s happening?” he asked, clearly wary after their last encounter with the adventurers.

“The battle is shifting,” she stated. “The summoners need to start opening the portals. The elementals must cross into Azeroth now!”

Idoral hesitated. “But… the tunnel isn’t finished yet. We still need to-“

“I will take care of that,” Aadrithea cut him off. “Do as I say. Watch the summoners. Ensure no interruptions.”

Idoral swallowed hard, but nodded. “Alright. Just… be careful.”

Aadrithea turned from him and pressed on deeper into the tunnel, until she reached the earthshapers.

“Quick!” she urged them, “You have to make the breakthrough. We need those forces at the tower. Now! Khadgar needs to be stopped.”

The tauren hesitated, his hooves grinding against the stone floor. “If we narrow the exit, our own forces could be trapped if-“

“Then they better fight their way through!” Aadrithea snapped. “If we don’t reinforce the tower now, there won’t be a battle left to fight. Move!”

The earthshapers exchanged wary glances but obeyed. Aadrithea turned away as the first glimmers of light broke through the retracting stone, proving her orders were being followed.

The Druid once more assumed her raven form and shot through the small exit and out into the sky atop the mountain, eager to see what had happened in her absence, worried about what she might find.

No longer harried by Khadgar’s interference, the Primal Incarnate had shifted her focus and turned her attention to the tower itself, drawing the energy from its foundations, meanwhile avoiding Kalecgos’ attacks. Crackling arcs of power leapt from the walls, sucked into the swirling maelstrom of Raszageth’s hunger. If she succeeded, the ley lines of the Azure Span would be irreparably disrupted, and the land fall into chaos. However, the Archmage on the ground below was countering her move, replenishing the ley energy.

Aadrithea wondered how long he would be able to keep this up, but the sight of figures finally pouring onto the platform at the tower’s base gave her an answer: not long if he would also need to defend himself against elementals swarming him. Storm and fire elementals rushed across the platform, clashing with Arcane Familiars and Mirror Images summoned by the Aspect to help out his human friend, but the Druid had no doubt their elementals would eventually outnumber their opponents, more of them being steadily brought into this plane by the summoners in the tunnel, where those remained protected from attacks.

However, angry roars of a primal dragon caused Aadrithea’s focus to snap down the mountainside again, where she witnessed yet another loss strike the Primalists: Korthrox had been cut down by the adventurers, his massive form collapsed into a smoldering heap, which was all that remained to stop the adventurers from advancing into the tunnel to slaughter the rest of the Primalists’ ground forces.

Raszageth noticed as well.

The sky fractured as Raszageth’s fury ignited the heavens. A colossal arc of lightning split the air, its sheer heat warping the storm itself. Aadrithea had mere moments to react – her wings beat furiously as she veered aside, but static energy wracked her body like jagged claws, making her feathers bristle with painful heat. Below, Kalecgos had no such escape.

The Aspect plummeted like a dying star, his body smashing into the ground with a force that sent ice and rock careening down the cliffs. The shockwave ripped through the battlefield, forcing the Druid in her raven form to bank sharply to keep from being thrown by the gust. Below, the mighty dragon stayed motionless, stunned by the sheer force of Raszageth’s attack.

The backlash from Raszageth’s strike ripped through the air, slamming into Khadgar with force enough to send him staggering. His grip on his staff faltered for a moment before he gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. Shaking off the impact, the Archmage rushed to Kalecgos’ side, knowing the dragon had no hope of defending himself while still reeling from the blow.

“Weakling… you need a mortal to defend you!” Raszageth’s mocking voice rang out. “Abominations, both of you… and you will perish here, cold and alone!”

The storm surged again, another bolt forming at the Incarnate’s will. Aadrithea steadied herself, watching as the final blow was about to be delivered.

But then, a different light appeared: a shield of translucent blue magic. It flared into being just as the Storm-Eater’s second strike was unleashed, absorbing the brunt of the lightning before it could reach its target. The force of the attack dissipated against the arcane barrier, sending shock waves rippling outward.

“He is not alone!” Senegos’ words carried across the battlefield as a flight of blue dragons soared in, their magic swirling together in a defensive formation. More of Kalecgos’ kin had arrived, their presence shifting the momentum of the battle.

Aadrithea’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the elder dragon. She knew Senegos. She had met him on the Broken Isles, at Azurewing Repose. He had been dying then, his massive body resting in a shimmering mana pool that barely kept him alive. He had seemed wise but frail, a relic of a time long past. Yet here he was now, no longer the withering creature she had seen in Azsuna, but strong, his presence reinforcing Kalecgos’ defenses when the Primalists needed them weakened. His renewed strength should have been impressive, perhaps even reassuring, but now it was infuriating instead. His presence only stood in their way.

Raszageth’s eyes blazed with unchecked fury, the storm around her crackling and surging as if it, too, shared her rage. But even as she seethed, a glint of something else flickered in her expression; satisfaction. The battle at Vakthros may have been over, but the war itself was far from it. Their assault had not been in vain. Without another word, she beat her wings, sending arcs of wild lightning into the sky, but she no longer sought to press the attack.

“You’ve failed, Aspect. You will soon learn that killing you would have been a mercy,” she spat, her wings flaring as she turned from the battle. With one final glare at the defenders of Vakthros, she took to the sky, lightning trailing in her wake as she vanished into the storm.

The Storm-Eater’s voice echoed through the peaks, a final warning before she disappeared completely: “Now you can watch your empire collapse alongside your false queen.”

–.o.O.o.–

The storm hadn’t fully abated, but the battle for Vakthros was over. Aadrithea soared away from the smoldering battlefield, following in the wake of Raszageth as the Incarnate led their retreat toward Thaldraszus. The jagged peaks of the ancient land loomed in the distance, their mist-shrouded summits rising like the teeth of a great beast. It was a place untouched by the war, but not for much longer. The fight was far from over.

Ahead of her, Raszageth cut through the storm like a bolt of living lightning. The Incarnate’s massive form was framed against the roiling clouds, her scaled body wreathed in raw elemental energy. Her beak-like snout was twisted in a scowl, her bristled mane crackling with barely contained fury. The primal forces that surged through her were unrelenting, her very presence sending wild gales ripping across the sky. Aadrithea had long since stopped fearing the Incarnate’s raw power, but she never stopped being awed by it.

The loss of Vakthros was nothing but a temporary setback.

Aadrithea knew what their enemies didn’t: what appeared to be a victory for the Aspects was, in truth, a carefully engineered step toward the Primalists’ true goal. The battle had served its purpose. With each strike against the tower, each unleashed force of raw elemental magic, the protective mechanisms of the Vault of the Incarnates had been weakened. The titan-crafted prison, where Raszageth’s kin had been locked away for millennia, had been destabilized. Vakthros was linked to its defense mechanism, vital knowledge the Storm-Eater possessed, while it had been lost to their enemies with the loss of the former Blue Aspect, his predecessor barely more than an impostor. Now, they were closer than ever to breaking the chains that bound the other Primal Incarnates.

Fyrakk. Vyranoth. Iridikron.

The thought of them sent a surge of anticipation through Aadrithea. She had never seen them, had only heard whispers of their power, of what they had been before the Aspects and their titan masters imprisoned them. If Raszageth alone could shake the skies, what would it be like to stand in the presence of all four? She imagined the storm they would unleash, the unrelenting fury that would finally purge Azeroth of the corruption of the titans.

Yet even as she longed for that day, she knew it wouldn’t come easily. The battle for Vakthros had proven that the Aspects wouldn’t sit idly by as the Primalists enacted their plans. The adventurers – those relentless mortals who had already cost them so much – would return, drawn by their misguided allegiance to the dragons who had forsaken their true nature. They would fight to the end to prevent Raszageth from shattering the titan prisons within the Vault.

Aadrithea would ensure they failed.

She would put everything she had into the preparations for the next battle. She would sharpen her claws, hone her strength, and gather those loyal to the cause. She had lost too much already. Melidrussa, Koroleth; she wouldn’t let their sacrifices be in vain.

Briefly, her thoughts flickered to Idoral. He had been in the tunnels when she last saw him. Had he got out before the adventurers stormed them? She told herself he had; he was a survivor, even if he often acted like a coward. Aadrithea didn’t care for him the way she had cared for Melidrussa or Koroleth, but he was a kaldorei, and the Druid wouldn’t lose another of her kind if she could help it.

The winds of Thaldraszus howled around her as she flew onward, resolute. There was no room for hesitation anymore, not for any of them. The storm had not ended. It had only begun.

Chapter Text

The world shifted around Elarynn as she stepped through the shimmering portal, the familiar scent of Stormwind fading in an instant, replaced by the crisp, invigorating air of Valdrakken. The transition always left a strange sensation in her bones, a momentary dissonance between places, but she had grown used to it. The Mage’s gaze immediately caught on the enormous stained glass picture dominating the wall inside the huge hall they had arrived in. The image depicted a majestic dragon, its form rendered in vibrant hues, light cascading through it to bathe the room in a kaleidoscope of colors. The grand stairway to their left led directly up to the glasswork, and at its base stood two imposing dragon statues, their watchful gazes set in stone.

Elarynn pressed her lips together. The sight of it all – the grandeur, the reverence for dragons – only reignited her simmering resentment. Malfurion’s absence still weighed heavily on her mind, and every golden-scaled effigy seemed to mock the loss of her people’s leader. She wasn’t alone in that sentiment; many of her kin had been left adrift, wondering why their High Priestess had accepted such an arrangement. Ysera’s return was undoubtedly significant, but at what cost? The kaldorei needed their strength now more than ever, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

A warm hand brushed against Elarynn’s arm, pulling her from her thoughts. Orthorin, standing at her side, had been watching her. His royal blue hair shimmered softly in the morning light filtering through the stained glass. She sighed and gave him a small nod – she could brood later. For now, there were more immediate matters to tend to.

Behind them, their companions fully emerged from the portal. Corporal Lauren led her squad – Saewron, Remah, Grimoth and Tondur – while Luthir’s research team, consisting of two more void elves the Mage hadn’t met before, followed closely behind. Their boots echoed against the polished stone floor as they all made their way toward the exit of the grand hall.

Outside, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue, marred only by the dark silhouettes of dragons soaring overhead. The heart of the city was alive with motion, draconic figures of all kinds mingling with mortals, and the sight of so many great beasts so casually moving about was enough to make even the most seasoned adventurer pause. Elarynn’s gaze followed the flight paths of several dragons before finally falling upon the towering structure behind them. It was only now, standing in front of it, that she could fully appreciate the sheer scale of the building they had arrived in. The thought struck her that the teleport platform she had seen inside might lead to its uppermost reaches. The idea of seeing the view from such a vantage point intrigued her, and she made a mental note to investigate later if the opportunity arose.

Across the plaza, past the central fountain where water glistened in the morning light, the Flight Master’s station was already prepared for their arrival. A contingent of Greatwyrms – elegant, sleek creatures with an unmistakable arcane presence – awaited them. These were not mere mana wyrms, but truly remarkable specimens of their kind, and Luthir’s enthusiasm was immediately evident. The silver-haired Priest practically vibrated with excitement as he took in their forms, eyes shining with academic intrigue.

“This bodes well,” Luthir said, glancing back at his own team and the guards. “If the Dragonscale Expedition is already prepared to accommodate us in this way, our collaboration might progress more smoothly than anticipated.”

Elarynn smirked, watching the way his fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to take immediate notes. Few mana wyrms ever reached such size, and she knew his fascination for lifeforms influenced by magic would keep the lanky scientist occupied for hours if given the chance.

Nearby, Orthorin was finishing a quiet conversation with Lauren, ensuring all final details were in order. Meanwhile, Elarynn’s attention was caught by a small commotion just to her right. Saewron was frantically searching through his pockets, his expression tightening with each passing second. At his feet, Tulu, his tiny purple pet fox, barked insistently, trying to get his attention.

“Saewron?” Elarynn asked, stepping closer.

He barely registered her voice at first, still rifling through his belongings with increasing panic. “I-” he exhaled sharply. “I think I forgot to give Unya the key.”

Elarynn frowned. “Unya?”

“The orphan girl looking after the apartment,” Luthir supplied, his voice calm as he placed a reassuring hand on his partner’s arm. “Saew, you did. I watched you hand it to her before we left.”

Saewron blinked, then exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Right… I just – it’s the first time since we moved in that we’re both away for more than a day. Feels… strange.”

Luthir smiled gently. “We can always portal back if needed, remember? And Unya knows what she’s doing. You trained her well.”

Tulu barked again, nuzzling Saewron’s ankle, and he finally relented, letting out a small chuckle as he crouched to scratch behind the fox’s ears.

By then, Orthorin had finished his talk with Lauren, and he turned toward his twin, his normally composed expression softening.

“Permission to hug, Captain?” Saewron teased lightly, though his voice held a hint of hesitation.

Orthorin didn’t hesitate. “Come here, little brother.” He opened his arms, and Saewron stepped into the embrace.

Elarynn, watching the scene, couldn’t help but reflect on how much things had changed between them. Once, little brother had been a dismissive sneer, a way for Orthorin to belittle Saewron’s struggles with the whispers of the Void and his emotions. Orthorin had always prided himself on his control; both over his own emotions and over the whispers that haunted their kind. Saewron, by contrast, was more vulnerable to them, and Orthorin had once resented his twin for that. Now, though, there was no malice in the words, only warmth.

Elarynn took a step forward as the moment passed, clapping a hand on Saewron’s shoulder. “Stay safe out there. And don’t let the scientists wander into any Void portals unsupervised.”

Luthir smirked. “No promises.”

With that, farewells were exchanged, and the squad made their way toward the waiting Greatwyrms. Within moments, they were airborne, their figures shrinking against the bright sky. As the last glimpse of them vanished beyond the horizon, Elarynn turned back to Orthorin. There was still business to attend to, but a glance at the sun’s position told her they had more time than expected.

The Monk folded his arms, exhaling slowly before turning to her. “Seems we’re early.”

Elarynn tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Then I suppose we have time to check out the top of that tower after all.”

Orthorin huffed, but there was amusement in his eyes. “Let’s make the most of it while we can.”

Good, the kaldorei thought. With Lauren’s squad gone, their workload would only increase. Elarynn was determined to make sure her partner had at least this moment of reprieve before the next wave of responsibilities came crashing down upon them.

–.o.O.o.–

They stepped onto the teleport platform inside the grand tower of Valdrakken. The energy surrounding them hummed before a brief sensation of weightlessness took hold. In the next instant, they emerged at the very top of the tower: The Seat of the Aspects.

The space was vast, an open terrace crowned by a massive dome that arched overhead, sheltering it while remaining open to the elements. Designed to accommodate their grand forms, it could easily host five or more full-grown dragons without feeling crowded. The morning air was crisp and invigorating at this altitude, carrying with it the faintest scent of distant pine and stone. Sunlight filtered through the open framework, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the elegant floor of smooth, polished stone.

Elarynn took a slow turn, her black eyes drawn to the breathtaking panorama before them. To the east, the jagged peaks of Thaldraszus stretched into the horizon, their rocky spires kissed by golden morning light. Just beyond, the unmistakable towers of Tyrhold rose, a solemn and ancient monument. She had heard the place mentioned before; the Mother Oathstone rested there, a vital relic in Queen Alexstrasza’s efforts to restore the full aspectral power of the Dragonflights. While most of the Oathstones had been rekindled, the one belonging to the bronze dragonflight remained dormant, but hopefully it would be the only thing remaining that prevented the Mother Oathstone from being reactivated. Over to the south, the faintest glimpse of treetops broke through the distant haze. The sheer size of those trees was almost absurd, considering the distance.

Orthorin took note of her gaze and explained: “Saewron mentioned those. That’s the Azure Span. His friend, Pilinor, has been spending a lot of time exploring it. He wrote that the region is vast, with ancient forests that are seemingly endless.”

Elarynn arched a brow. “I thought it was supposed to be frozen?”

She had heard of Tuskarr living in the Azure Span, and the walrus-people usually preferred arctic places.

“Reportedly, a good part of it is,” Orthorin confirmed. “There’s a whole stretch of land where snow never melts, even in summer. The mountains we see now must be obscuring the view of the snow-covered peaks further south.”

She hummed in acknowledgment, then turned her gaze westward. The landscape softened there, transitioning into rolling hills and open plains stretching toward the horizon. She recognized them immediately. “That must be the Ohn’ahran Plains.”

Orthorin nodded. “The Emerald Gardens lie at their very edge.” His expression darkened slightly. “I wonder how Naethir is doing.”

Elarynn glanced at him sidelong. “Still no letter?”

Orthorin shook his head. “Nothing recent. The last thing he sent to Saewron was short – said not to worry about him, that he was following the lieutenant’s orders, and that we already knew about the rest from Valentian’s reports. Told us to call him back to Duskwood whenever we needed him.”

“That’s… not very lengthy,” Elarynn said.

Orthorin chuckled, but it sounded more rueful than anything else. “Well, Naethir always was more like me when it comes to writing letters; sticks to the bare essentials. Saewron hasn’t written back yet. He worries that if he does, it will only remind Naethir of our absence and make him dwell on it more, which is exactly what we want to avoid.”

Elarynn let the silence stretch for a moment before glancing toward the northwest. In the far distance, she could make out a dark, smoking peak. “That must be the Obsidian Citadel,” she mused. “Wrathion and Sabellian’s domain.”

She didn’t try to hide her curiosity. According to the lieutenant’s reports, the two black dragons had been vying for control over their flight, both seeking to claim the title of Aspect.

“I wonder how their little contest is going,” the Mage mused, “If it were up to me, I’d go with Wrathion. Sure, he’s vain and self-important, but he’s proven himself and is at least familiar. He helped us fight N’Zoth; that counts for something. All I know about Sabellian is that he served Deathwing, which doesn’t exactly inspire trust.”

Orthorin exhaled sharply through his nose. “Wrathion might have proven himself capable in battle, but that doesn’t mean he’s suited to lead. He’s impatient, impulsive and expects loyalty to be handed to him, not earned. Sabellian, on the other hand, has the experience, but he’s out of touch with Azeroth as it is now and – as you said – he was loyal to Deathwing for too long. People haven’t forgotten that.”

Elarynn tilted her head. “So neither, then?”

“Neither,” Orthorin agreed. “If there’s one black dragon who might actually deserve the role, it’s Ebyssian.”

Her brow shot up. “Ebyssian? I totally forgot about him. But he’s not even competing for the role!”

“That’s exactly why I think he’s the best choice,” Orthorin countered. “He doesn’t seek power, isn’t blinded by ambition. Wisdom, patience, and humility; those are the qualities the black flight needs in a leader, and he has them all.”

Elarynn let his words linger, then smirked, leaning slightly toward him. “That’s so you. You always see the potential in people, even the ones who don’t demand the spotlight, who might not even realize their own strengths. You think about what they could do, not just who they are right now.”

Orthorin’s lips twitched faintly, his gaze thoughtful. “I just try to look at the task and the people available for it from a rational point of view. But it’s not always that simple. I’ve misjudged people before.” His voice dropped slightly. “Sometimes badly.”

Her smirk softened into a warm smile. “Maybe. But certainly not in this case.” She nudged his arm lightly. “You get it right most of the time, and that’s what makes you such a good captain.” Then, because she was determined he wouldn’t be a captain all day, she changed the subject. “Speaking of which, did you bring the things I asked?”

The ren’dorei arched a brow at her, his cheeks flushed faintly purple from her earlier words. “Swimming trunks, sunscreen, towel. Yes.”

Elarynn narrowed her eyes playfully. “You can actually swim, yes? Because I don’t remember us ever going.”

Orthorin smirked slightly. “I can swim. Saewron and I were taught as children in Quel’Thalas. Our mother insisted on it.” He crossed his arms. “That said, I haven’t gone in years, so if you’re planning to make me leap into a freezing mountain torrent-”

Elarynn chuckled. “No canoeing or cliff-diving, I promise.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Then what, exactly, do you have planned?”

She grinned. “First, a nice lunch. Hopefully, Valentian won’t take too long, because I had to book us a spot.”

Orthorin exhaled, resigned but amused. “Fine. But if this ends with me being thrown into a lake, I will retaliate.”

Elarynn laughed as they turned back toward the teleport pad. The time for their meeting was drawing near, and soon they would have to make their way to the Emerald Enclave.

–.o.O.o.–

Elarynn and Orthorin arrived right on time, stepping onto the lush, verdant grounds where soft green light filtered through the dense canopy above. The scent of moss and fresh water filled the air, accompanied by the distant sound of birds and rushing waterfalls. They barely had time to take in their surroundings before a tall, muscular human wearing an Alliance tabard strode toward them.

Valentian greeted Orthorin with his usual enthusiasm; eschewing all formalities as he pulled the void elf into a bear hug. “Good to see you, Cap.”

The gesture was jarring in its familiarity, considering the strict military protocol they usually followed.

Orthorin allowed it with a resigned sigh, giving Elarynn a brief glance as if to say, he will never change.

The Gilnean then turned his bright yellow eyes toward Elarynn and flashed a grin, the contrast of his sharp white teeth against the dark skin of his human form always striking.

“Private Elarynn,” he greeted warmly before gesturing for them to follow.

He led them toward a more secluded part of the enclave: a stone platform bordered by benches, with running water and towering trees surrounding them. Waterfalls cascaded nearby, filling the space with a soothing ambiance. A few peculiar birds paddled in the shallows, their odd quacking sounds catching Elarynn’s attention.

She tilted her head. “Those are… weird.”

Valentian smirked. “Ducks. They’re common around the Dragon Isles. Also taste delicious.”

Elarynn briefly considered offering them some conjured bread but hesitated. While her conjured food had improved significantly in the past year, she wasn’t sure if feeding unknown creatures was a good idea. Besides, she reminded herself, she was currently back in her role as Private Elarynn, granted the rare opportunity to attend an officer’s meeting. It was not the time to get distracted feeding animals.

Orthorin, standing beside her, exhaled slowly before finally voicing the question that had clearly been weighing on him.

“How did you manage to get here without Naethir insisting on tagging along, Lieutenant?” His voice carried a touch of humor, but the concern was evident beneath it.

Valentian’s grin faltered slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly hesitant. “About that, Captain… I hadn’t mentioned it in my last report because I wanted to explain in person.

Orthorin’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

The lieutenant raised a placating hand. “Nothing bad. Naethir isn’t with my platoon anymore. I sent him and Kee’dril to the bronze dragons in Thaldraszus.”

Elarynn’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She hadn’t expected that.

Orthorin’s expression shifted into immediate concern. “Why? Did something happen with the green dragons? Or with the company?”

Valentian shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Some were wary of Kee’dril at first, but I’ve handled that. It was Naethir’s request.”

The Monk blinked. “Naethir asked to go?”

The Gilnean nodded. “Your brother came to me with two reasons. First, he pointed out that at least some of us should be assisting the bronze dragonflight with their Oathstone, since the rest of us are staying with the greens, defending against potential Primalists attacks. It was a valid point. Second, he had something personal to take care of, though he refused to say what.”

Elarynn exchanged a glance with Orthorin. It was rare for Naethir to ask for anything for himself, which made this development all the more unexpected.

“And you agreed, Lieutenant?” the ren’dorei asked.

Valentian shrugged. “Of course. You and Saewron sent him away so he could have the freedom to make his own choices. This is the first thing he’s asked for. I wasn’t about to deny him that, Captain.”

Orthorin folded his arms, processing the information. “And this Kee’dril? What do you think of him?”

Valentian’s expression became serious. “I trust him. I’ve spoken with him privately. He knew your father, and I believe him when he says he only wants to look after his mentor’s son. That said, I made him swear to bring Naethir back in one piece – or else he’ll have the entire Spinecrafters coming after him.”

Orthorin considered that for a moment before nodding. “I trust your judgment, Lieutenant.”

Elarynn exhaled softly, relieved the conversation hadn’t taken a darker turn. Valentian was not only Orthorin’s second-in-command but also one of the few people the Monk trusted implicitly. If he believed Kee’dril was sincere, then there was little reason to doubt him.

With that matter settled, the captain shifted gears. “Thank you for the update, Lieutenant, but that isn’t the primary reason we’re here.” His gaze leveled on Valentian. “You requested that Private Elarynn attends this meeting, yet it seems you wish to discuss information only a select few should hear. Why bring her into this?”

Valentian nodded, his usual humor fading. “That’s right, I asked for Private Elarynn to be here because this information concerns her people directly. The Spinecrafters stationed at the Emerald Gardens have discovered something significant: the Seed of the World Tree is on the Dragon Isles.”

Elarynn’s eyes widened in shock. “What?!”

She had known, of course, that Tyrande and Malfurion had brought the seed to Merithra months ago, but she had never expected them to leave it here. The revelation left her reeling.

The Gilnean continued, “Technically, it’s not really on the Isles. It exists within the Emerald Dream version of the Isles.”

Orthorin’s brow furrowed. “How did you find out?”

Valentian sighed. “It happened after Naethir and Kee’dril left. The Primalists launched another attack. This time, it was led by a drakonid named Rymek.”

Elarynn frowned and muttered to herself: “Rymek… haven’t heard that name before.”

Valentian nonetheless picked up on it. “Me neither before that day. He came to the Emerald Gardens under false pretenses, posing as an emissary from the blue flight. He claimed he was there to learn about and protect the Gardens. Merithra herself guided him, showing him the ways of the greens. Along the way, they discovered dryads slain by frost magic. Merithra feared the Primalists were at work again, but she had no reason to suspect Rymek. She sent him with an adventurer to aid Gerithus in his magical research further in the gardens. Rymek witnessed all of it. Afterward, he asked about the Ancient Bough, and Merithra – still believing him to be an ally – sent him there. He met Somnikus, whose son Solethus died only recently protecting Merithra. Through manipulative words, Rymek convinced the grieving father to let him see the portal to the Emerald Dream. That was the moment he struck.”

Elarynn couldn’t hide her surprise. “He alone? How could he manage all of that against dragons and guards… Sir?”

“He transformed into an empowered form,” the lieutenant revealed. “He incapacitated Gerithus, the guards, even Somnikus. He revealed his true colors, channeling frost magic to entomb them while his storm and ice elementals poured through a portal. The Primalists seized the Ancient Bough and held it under their control, preventing the greens from breaching its defenses.”

Orthorin exhaled sharply. “How was it taken back, Lieutenant?”

Valentian’s gaze darkened. “That’s where Ysera comes in. Merithra realized the only way through was from Death and that they’d need to reached out to Ysera in the Shadowlands. In his grief and guilt, Somnikus offered to take her place so she could return. But he lacked a connection to Ardenweald. Only someone bound to the Winter Queen could make the trade.”

Elarynn’s voice was hushed. “Malfurion.”

Valentian nodded solemnly. “Malfurion saw that he alone could make the exchange. Though Tyrande opposed it at first, she finally agreed. With the Winter Queen’s permission, Malfurion took Ysera’s place in Ardenweald, allowing her to return.”

Orthorin’s expression was unreadable. “And then?”

Valentian’s voice grew steadier. “Ysera was able to enter the Ancient Bough from Ardenweald and clear the way for the green dragonflight and us Spinecrafters. We still had to deal with the Primalists in the Dream, though. Somnikus was the first through, but Rymek defeated him, leaving him wounded. He had two Azure Dragonspawn maintaining an ice barrier, and a Frostdrake guarding his position, but once we eliminated those, the way to Rymek was opened.”

Elarynn smirked. “And I assume you blasted his fucking head off?”

The Gilneangrinned widely. “Darn right. Bolstered by Ysera’s Ardenweald magic, we cut him down.”

Silence stretched between them. Elarynn was still absorbing everything. Ysera’s return, Malfurion’s sacrifice, the near loss of the Seed of the World Tree. But in the end, the kaldorei still had a future. That was what mattered.

Orthorin finally spoke. “That proves your decision to remain stationed at the Gardens was the right one, Lieutenant.”

Valentian inclined his head. “We’ll continue guarding the portal leading to the Emerald Dream for as long as necessary, Captain.”

The Monk met his gaze, his voice firm. “Good. Protecting that Tree is more important than anything else right now – even more than assisting the Aspects in regaining their power.”

Of course, the Mage knew the void elf wasn’t saying that just for her, that wasn’t like him, but Private Elarynn nonetheless had to stop herself from kissing her captain then and there.

–.o.O.o.–

After that, the meeting had soon reached its end and the lieutenant took his leave, returning to the rest of his company in the far west of the Ohn’ahran Plains. Elarynn and Orthorin set out to their next appointment, the one that Elarynn had organized.

They exited Valdrakken to the north, strolling down the serpentine path until they reached an archway – the entrance to the Serene Dream Spa. A small line had formed at the entrance, filled with a diverse gathering of patrons: dragons in their humanoid forms, members of both the Alliance and Horde, even a centaur. The sight alone made Orthorin hesitate.

His brow furrowed as he took in the scene. “A… spa?”

Elarynn smirked, anticipating his skepticism. “Yes, a spa.”

Orthorin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not exactly the kind of place I imagined myself ever visiting.”

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re missing,” she countered. “I read all about it in one of their flyers.”

His expression remained skeptical, and Elarynn knew that convincing him would require more than a promotional pitch. “Some months ago, they had trouble with elementals trying to claim the hot springs for themselves, but that’s all been resolved now. It’s perfectly safe.”

Orthorin exhaled, glancing at the people in line. “I still don’t see the point.”

“Well, for one,” Elarynn said smoothly, “we’re getting lunch first. So if it makes it easier for you, think of it as a visit to an unusual inn. After that, we’ll see what happens.”

That at least seemed to settle his resistance somewhat, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. She had noticed before that the Monk often got a slightly distant look whenever she tried to pull him away from his work to spend time together. The whispers of the Void. They always seemed to push him toward working more, urging him to exhaust himself. Perhaps they believed that if he burned out, he would be more vulnerable to their influence.

Five years ago, Orthorin had believed himself immune to their sway. He had been confident in his ability to resist, to keep his mind clear despite the constant murmurs at the edge of his thoughts. But the truth was, the whispers had influenced him. They had slowly twisted his perception, convincing him that his duty came before everything else. When his superiors had questioned his aptitude as a captain, putting him through a trial to judge his fitness for command, he had nearly given up without a fight. It had taken others – his comrades, his twin – to remind him of his worth. And it was that realization that had shifted his view of Saewron, changing his disdain into something else, something closer to understanding.

Elarynn had made it her mission to counter that influence in his life, but the problem was that Orthorin was naturally diligent. Even without the whispers, he was the kind of person who buried himself in duty, pushing aside personal needs for the sake of others. It was something she admired about him, but at times, she regretted it – especially when it meant they had so little time alone together.

Eventually, they reached the front of the line. The Spa Concierge, a warm and welcoming pandaren woman, greeted them. After confirming their booking, she gestured for them to follow a dracthyr spa worker, who flew them up to the VIP island floating above the hot springs. The air was warm, scented with soothing herbs, and the soft bubbling of the springs below created a serene atmosphere.

They were soon seated at a table reserved just for the two of them beneath a wide stone canopy covering most of the island, not unlike that at the Seat of the Aspects. The meal was exquisite – fresh, flavorful, and clearly unlike anything Orthorin had expected to find at a spa. The table was set with an impressive spread: Steamed Scarab Steak, Argali Tenderloin, and Seasoned Hornswog Steak, each prepared with fragrant spices that complemented the rich flavors of the meats. Alongside the main courses were dishes of fresh fruits and vegetables sourced from all across the Dragon Isles: vibrant berries, crisp greens, and an assortment of small tasting plates designed to let guests experience a variety of flavors in a single sitting.

It was enough to make Orthorin momentarily forget his reservations, though Elarynn wasn’t about to let him off the hook just yet.

“So,” she began after a sip of her drink, “there are plenty of options for what we can do here.”

Orthorin arched a brow. “Oh?”

She grinned. “You-ga classes, mud masks, pedicures, manicures, massages….” She trailed off, watching his reaction.

He grimaced. “I’m not sure about handing myself over to some stranger for a massage.”

Elarynn chuckled. “Oh, come on. You train constantly, you fight, you put yourself through all sorts of physical strain – working out some of that tension could do wonders.”

He exhaled, crossing his arms. “Maybe. It could help against the migraines… though I haven’t had one recently.”

“That’s the spirit,” she teased. “But don’t worry. Everything here is voluntary. No one’s forcing you into anything.”

Orthorin still seemed somewhat unsure, but at least he was listening. Elarynn leaned back, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “Personally, I’m looking forward to just lying in the sun for a while. After lunch, of course.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Orthorin’s features. “That, at least, sounds reasonable.”

Elarynn smirked. One step at a time.

Done with their lunch, Elarynn and Orthorin left the VIP island, declining the offer of a dracthyr to fly them down. Instead, Elarynn cast a Slow Fall on the both of them, and they hovered gently toward the lower spa area. The descent was peaceful, the warm air rising from the hot springs below adding to the sensation of weightlessness as they drifted downward.

Upon landing, they changed into their swimwear. While Elarynn stretched out on one of the smooth, sun-warmed stones to sunbathe, Orthorin chose instead to meditate. He settled into a cross-legged position nearby, hovering slightly above the ground as he allowed himself to slip into a deep trance. Elarynn watched him through half-lidded eyes, smiling to herself. Even in a place of relaxation, he defaulted to discipline.

Some time later, Elarynn sat up, stretching lazily. “I think it’s time for a proper cooling.”

Orthorin opened one eye. “That might be difficult,” he pointed out, glancing at the steaming pools and bubbling streams around them. “Everything here is a hot spring.”

Elarynn grinned. “Ah, but I did my research. There are pools of ice water inside the caves.”

Leading the way, she guided him toward the cavern entrance. Inside, the tunnel system was dark but atmospheric. Bioluminescent plants and mushrooms cast a gentle, eerie glow along the rocky walls. The further they ventured, the quieter the sounds of the spa became, replaced by the distant trickle of underground water. Few guests lingered here; most seemed to prefer the open-air springs above.

They found a secluded pair of pools deeper into the tunnels, one filled with clear, ice-cold water, the other a warm mineral bath. The contrast was refreshing, and they alternated between the two, the sharp chill of the ice pool making the warmth of the other all the more pleasant. Eventually, they sat at the edge of the warm pool, letting the heat dry their skin as they enjoyed the tranquil silence.

Elarynn stretched her legs, tilting her head toward Orthorin. “You know,” she mused, “since you’re so tense about the idea of a massage, maybe I should handle it.”

The void elf arched a brow, shifting slightly. “You? You don’t need to do that.”

“Well, I’m no stranger. And I want to.”

He considered for a moment before nodding. “Alright.”

Having banked onthis, Elarynn promptly produced a small set of oils and a few soft cushions from a conveniently placed rack nearby.

Orthorin gave her a pointed look. “That was suspiciously well-prepared.”

She only smirked. “Lie down.”

He obeyed, folding his arms beneath his head as she straddled his back and poured a thin stream of warm oil along his shoulders. Her hands moved deftly, kneading into the tension she knew he carried there. At first, he was rigid beneath her touch, but gradually, she felt him relax, sighing softly as the tension melted away.

But then, as her fingers traced along his spine with lingering, deliberate pressure, something shifted. His breathing deepened, and she felt the subtle shift in his posture; the way he became more aware of her touch rather than merely accepting it.

A small smirk played at her lips. “You owe me for this, you know,” she murmured.

Orthorin’s voice was low. “Do I?”

She leaned closer, her lips brushing just against the shell of his ear. “And I don’t mean just a simple massage.”

He tensed briefly, then exhaled, rolling onto his back beneath her. His softly glowing eyes met hers, searching, uncertain. “Elarynn….”

She knew what he was thinking before he voiced it. “No one has come by,” she assured him. “We won’t be disturbed.”

Still, he hesitated. He was always the responsible one, always the one to weigh the risks. But she had seen that look in his eyes before; the way a part of him, one he rarely allowed to surface, wanted to take the risk. The idea of this, of her pulling him into something spontaneous, something reckless, thrilled him. He wanted to let her take control; just for a while.

She traced her fingers lightly down his chest. “You owe me,” she whispered again, teasing. “And I think it’s time you paid up.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips before he finally let go.

Afterward, they returned to the pool, slipping beneath the warm water to clean off. Orthorin leaned back against the smooth stone edge, his expression contemplative.

“Seems luck was on our side,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of something else there; an unease beneath his usual composure.

Elarynn grinned knowingly. “Oh, that had nothing to do with luck.”

He turned to her, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

She stretched her arms overhead, looking smug. “I booked several of the pools.”

Orthorin blinked. “You what?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be disturbed. I didn’t want to be disturbed either.”

His expression was caught between disbelief and exasperation. “You set me up.”

Elarynn smirked, resting her chin on her hand. “And you fell right for it.”

Orthorin shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re impossible.”

She leaned closer. “But you liked it.”

He sighed, giving her a long look. “Y-yes.”

Her smirk grew wider. “I knew it.”

Rolling his eyes, Orthorin dipped his head back against the stone edge, resigned. “You planned all of this, didn’t you?”

“To some extent.” She hesitated, then softened. “Three years ago, you wouldn’t even let me make a portal without a proper license.”

He let out a dry laugh. “I still think that was reckless.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I was terribly annoyed, and that was when Saewron told me a little story. About how, when you were kids, you always followed him into the gryphon roosts at Aerie Peak. He wanted to sneak in, but you? You said you were watching over him.”

Orthorin’s expression shifted at that. He looked away briefly, before sighing. “I told myself that, yes.”

Elarynn rested a hand on his chest, her touch light. “I wanted to offer you the same excuse today. To forget about the rules for a while.”

Orthorin was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he turned back to her, his gaze softer. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” He reached up, brushing a stray strand of white hair from her face. “And I love you.”

Her heart gave a familiar, warm flutter. “I know,” she whispered, leaning in. “But I like hearing it.”

With that, they let the water envelop them, savoring the last quiet moments before duty would call them back once more.

Elarynn felt undeniably smug about how her plan had played out. It wasn’t often that she managed to get Orthorin into just the right mood, to coax him into letting go of his usual restraint and embrace something purely for pleasure’s sake. It had been too long since they had been together like this; since he had surrendered himself so completely to her touch. That, more than anything, made her happy. He needed this, even if he wouldn’t always admit it. And perhaps, next time, he wouldn’t be so hesitant to ask for what he wanted.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn filtered through the forest canopy, casting muted greens and golds over the thick cocoon of silk encasing Pilinor. He was lying on the wide ledge of the bark he had chosen the previous evening; the flat surface formed by the natural growth of the giant fir tree. He stirred, his limbs stiff and aching from the stationary position he had slept in, but the Hunter wasn’t bothered by the discomfort. It was actually good, even reassuring, asit meant Nirwa’s cocoon was still intact, and her training was paying off.

With a steadying breath, Pilinor reached out mentally, testing the Void magic. It was always there, lingering like a shadow, ready to flood his senses with a surge of energy. The high elf allowed it to rush through him, hating the invigorating jolt even as it smoothed away the dull ache in his joints and cleared the fog of sleep from his mind. The magic had become a necessity, one his body demanded as much as water or air. Pilinor gritted his teeth, holding the Void tightly for a moment longer before issuing his first order of the day.

“Nirwa,” he said firmly, “free me.”

The soft sound of skittering legs reached his ears as the tarantula approached. She stopped just short of him, her purple eyes gleaming in the dim morning light. She twitched her mandibles uncertainly, then hesitated, backing away. Pilinor felt a flicker of satisfaction. Good. She was behaving just as she should, refusing to release him while she sensed the Void magic on him.

Satisfied with the test, Pilinor released his hold on the dark magic. The rush faded, leaving him hollow but composed.

“Nirwa,” he repeated, “free me.”

This time, the tarantula obeyed, slicing through the silk with careful precision. When the last strands fell away, Pilinor sat up, groaning as he stretched out his arms and legs.

“Good girl,” he praised, reaching out to scratch Nirwa’s abdomen. She clicked in approval and leaned into his hand. The Hunter couldn’t help but smile. The tarantula had a fur; soft and downy. It felt pleasant against his fingers; much more so than the chitinous shell of Yula, his previous spider. Nirwa’s light-gray hairs, tinged with blue and paired with her striking purple eyes, made her almost… too cute for him. She was eerie enough to catch his Void-warped taste but comely enough that he knew others might find her appealing, or at least less revolting.

Pilinor sighed, scratching her butt again as she made a soft chattering noise. “At least Saewron might find you easier to tolerate,” he mused aloud. He doubted the kindhearted Rogue would ever voice his discomfort, but Pilinor knew Saewron endured his companions out of respect for him rather than genuine fondness.

The voice in his head chuckled, a low gravelly sound that made his skin crawl. You must be pleased with yourself. This one’s training is coming along nicely. But you know all this wouldn’t be necessary if you just made a deal with me. No more silk, no more lonely nights in the woods. You could sleep in a proper bed. Just say the word.

Pilinor snorted, his tone biting. “I’d rather sleep in ten cocoons than make a deal with you.”

The voice tsked. So stubborn.

Ignoring it, Pilinor climbed to his feet, brushing the last remnants of silk off his clothes and then hastily readied himself. He gave a low whistle, and the familiar whirring of wings announced the approach of his skitterfly. The vibrant insect landed neatly on the bark’s edge, its body gleaming with the morning dew.

Before he could mount, Pilinor turned to Nirwa, who had clicked her mandibles in what seemed like protest at the skitterfly’s arrival.

“On my back,” he commanded, tapping his shoulder.

Nirwa hesitated, her legs shifting uncertainly.

“Come on,” Pilinor urged, his tone firm but patient.

After a moment of pause, she crept toward him, climbing up his leg and onto his back with stiff, careful movements. Her weight settled awkwardly at first, her legs digging into his sides as she adjusted.

The hesitation tugged at Pilinor’s heart, and his thoughts drifted to Yula. His old spider companion had perfected this move after months of training, her larger frame fitting snugly as if she had always belonged there. Nirwa’s body, though softer, felt unfamiliar. He let out a quiet sigh, a pang of sadness tightening his chest.

“Yula had to learn, too,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Once Nirwa was secure, Pilinor swung into the saddle of his skitterfly. The creature’s wings buzzed to life, sending a soft vibration through his frame as it prepared to take off. Pilinor glanced down at the ground far below. Another pang struck as his gaze dropped to the empty spot where Roval, his late wasp companion, would have flown alongside them. He still hadn’t found it in himself to tame another to take Roval’s place. Maybe he never would.

Shaking the thoughts away, Pilinor gave a gentle nudge with his knees. The skitterfly buzzed into the air, its wings carrying them toward Camp Antonidas.

As he flew, the meadows of western Azure Span gave way to frost and ice, the cold biting at his exposed face. Pilinor adjusted his cloak, grateful for the layers beneath his chain mail. Since first arriving in the region, he had swiftly learned the value of dressing for its harsher climate. In addition to the body of the spider shielding him, Milkweed Fiber lining kept him snugly warm as the snow grew thicker below.

Camp Antonidas came into view, nestled in the ruins of ancient buildings. The dragons had built them long ago in the titan fashion: towering structures of stone with sweeping arches. One high tower rose above the others, though it was partially crumbled, its spire broken and jagged. Smaller buildings dotted the area, most in various states of decay, save for one with an intact domed roof.

As he descended, Pilinor noticed something new; arcane runes glittering faintly in the air, their magic forming a protective web around the camp. They hadn’t been as numerous the last time he was here. It was clear the Kirin Tor had fortified the area. The camp bustled with activity as the Mages tended to wards, trained their apprentices, and prepared supplies.

Pilinor dismounted near the cobbled square between the buildings, his boots crunching against the frosted ground. He turned toward his skitterfly and murmured a quiet command:

“You’ve done well. Off you go.”

With a brief shimmer of light, the teleportation rune etched into the creature’s harness activated, and the skitterfly disappeared in a swirl of magic. The air stilled as the faint hum of the spell faded, and Pilinor glanced down at Nirwa, who had already scuttled off his back and onto the ground.

The tarantula blinked her bright purple eyes up at him.

“You stay here,” he said firmly, gesturing toward a stack of empty crates nearby.

Nirwa hesitated, her mandibles twitching, but obediently moved toward the crates and settled down beside them.

Pilinor gave a short nod of approval before turning his attention toward the domed building.

Inside, he spotted Emely, the human Mage who had supplied him with the powder for burning decay-corrupted corpses. She stood near a table piled high with vials and scrolls, her movements slow and deliberate. Her pale face was gaunt, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“Emely,” Pilinor said as he approached, his brow furrowing. “You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

Emely offered a weak smile. “Better than I was a few weeks ago. I just… haven’t been sleeping well.”

“What happened?”

Emely hesitated, glancing around as if to ensure no one else was listening. “The Primalists,” she said softly. “They attacked the camp weeks ago. Took prisoners… me among them.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “They wanted to punish us for using arcane magic, to study us, I think. Adventurers freed me when they defended Vakthros, but… it was close. I barely made it back after they cut me loose and rushed off to deal with the Primalists.”

Pilinor’s hand rose to his cheek, brushing the scar that ran from his eye to his jaw. The elf understood her pain all too well. “Adventurers mean well,” he said quietly, “but they often think freeing someone is the end of the story. They don’t think about what comes after.”

It had been the intervention of an adventurer who had allowed Pilinor to escape the hands of the Twilight’s Hammer, but he had only received medical aid after dragging himself to one of the dwarven settlements in the Twilight Highlands. He almost hadn’t made it.

Emely nodded, her gaze softening. “Maybe. But I’m safe now. The Aspect himself and Khadgar have strengthened the wards here and at Vakthros. The Primalists won’t get this close again.” She offered another faint smile. “Staying busy helps. It’s better than having too much time to think.”

Pilinor didn’t argue, respecting her resolve. He gestured to her supply table. “What do I owe you for the powder?”

Emely shook her head. “Nothing. I already told you, you’re doing us a service by cleansing the woods. Take what you need.”

“Thank you,” Pilinor said, hoping he would soon be done with that gruesome task. He hesitated, then added: “Take care of yourself.”

Pilinor turned and made his way toward the tower at the center of the camp that served as an inn. He didn’t plan to step inside but approached the sturdy mailbox standing just outside its entrance. As he drew closer, the red symbol of an unread message pulsed softly above the box, causing the void-touched Hunter’s heart to leap.

He retrieved a single letter. It was from Saewron. The sight of the Rogue’s familiar handwriting stirred a mix of anticipation and warmth in Pilinor. He was curious what news the void elf might have from the Eastern Kingdoms and the Spinecrafters in Duskwood. Already a few days old, the letter would make for good company during the flight ahead, even if the act of reading wasn’t something Pilinor particularly enjoyed. Saewron’s letters, however, were worth the effort.

Sliding the parchment carefully into the pocket of his cloak, the void-touched elf made his way to the flight platform, whistling to call Nirwa to his side, who obeyed promptly. A blue drakonid stood there, his scales glimmering in the morning sun as he nodded at Pilinor.

“Good morning, traveler,” the drakonid greeted in a deep, resonant voice. “Do you require swift transportation?”

“Yes,” Pilinor replied. “I need to reach the Skytop Observatory in the Waking Shores.”

With his appointment with Fisira later in the day, time was of the essence, and the slower gryphons offered at the Three Falls Lookout wouldn’t have sufficed.

A nearby drake perked up at the destination, flexing its wings eagerly. “The Waking Shores? I’d love to stretch my wings with a long flight!” The drake’s voice was enthusiastic, carrying a youthful energy that made Pilinor smile faintly.

The drakonid chuckled. “It seems Jidragos has volunteered himself. He’s an excellent flier; you’ll be in good claws.”

“Thank you,” Pilinor said, mounting the drake’s back after Nirwa had done likewise with him, this time following his command without hesitation. The Hunter settled into the saddle and secured himself with practiced ease. After weeks of racing with Fisira, the power and speed of dragons were no longer unfamiliar to him. If anything, they were thrilling. As Jidragos shifted beneath him, the drake’s sheer strength reminded Pilinor why dragons were leagues beyond ordinary mounts.

“Hold tight,” Jidragos advised with a chuckle. “We’ll make good time.”

With a powerful leap, the drake launched into the sky, his wings slicing through the cold air. Pilinor adjusted to the saddle, finding the rhythm of the flight as the snowy ruins of Camp Antonidas fell away below. The wind against his face was invigorating, carrying with it a sense of freedom.

Reaching into his pocket, Pilinor pulled out Saewron’s letter. The steady beat of Jidragos’s wings was a comforting backdrop as he began to read, eager to uncover whatever news the Rogue had sent.

–.o.O.o.–

The wind tugged at the edges of Saewron’s letter as Pilinor unfolded it, threatening to snatch it from his hands. Perched on the back of the drake, soaring above the snowy expanse of Azure Span with the jagged peaks of Thaldraszus ahead, he held the parchment carefully. His fingers curled tightly over the edges, mindful of the gusts sweeping past as they flew.

The Hunter’s eyes fell on the small, cramped note at the top of the letter. Saewron’s usually neat script was squeezed into the header, and Pilinor frowned in frustration as he tried to make sense of the words.

I’m sorry this letter has turned out so long… skip to the last paragraph… if you don’t feel like reading the whole thing.

Pilinor huffed, his lips twisting in a grimace. “Well, that’s considerate of you,” he muttered to himself. For a moment, he did consider it. The wind was distracting, his tendency to mix up letters and words made the task daunting, and the thought of sifting through what was obviously going to be a long letter felt like trying to untangle a knotted fishing line.

But he shook his head, refolding the top of the letter slightly to keep it from flapping too wildly. No, Saewron had written all this for a reason. He would read it.

Resolutely, Pilinor started with the first line.

Dear Pilinor,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you’re continuing to enjoy your adventures on the Dragon Isles.

The standard opening gave him a small foothold, and he pressed on, his brow furrowing in concentration. The neatness of Saewron’s handwriting further down the page was a small mercy, though deciphering the words was still a struggle. Pilinor’s eyes tripped over letters and words that seemed to shift on the page.

As for myself, I’ve recently arrived here, and I’m writing from Emberwatch in the Ohn’ahran Plains.

Pilinor’s eyes widened, and he froze mid-sentence, rereading the line. Saewron was on the Dragon Isles?! The Rogue hadn’t mentioned anything about coming here in his earlier letters. In fact, Pilinor could have sworn Saewron and Orthorin had explicitly decided not to travel here, sending their brother instead. What had changed?

He scanned the next line, hoping for an explanation, and wasn’t at all surprised when the answer came swiftly.

I’ve come here with Luthir’s team of researchers to investigate some Void-related artifacts uncovered by the Dragonscale Expedition.

Pilinor’s lips pressed into a thin line as he glared at the name. Luthir. Of course it had something to do with him. Pilinor’s feelings about Saewron’s partner were… complicated. Luthir was undeniably brilliant, but his work with Void magic grated on the Hunter’s nerves. It wasn’t just the magic itself – though that was certainly a big part of it – it was the way Luthir seemed to influence Saewron, drawing him deeper into a world Pilinor wouldn’t and couldn’t follow.

And now, it seemed, Luthir had drawn Saewron all the way to the Dragon Isles. Pilinor couldn’t decide if it was frustration or envy that churned in his chest. Perhaps it was both. He hated the way Luthir made him feel, hated the subtle tension that crept into his mind whenever the Shadow Priest’s name came up.

Pilinor clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move on. It didn’t matter. Saewron made his choice.

Knowing your feelings about Void research, I’ll spare you the details of the work, though I’ll admit it’s been fascinating. I’ll stick to what I know you’ll care about: the people.

Pilinor felt a flicker of relief. The last thing he wanted to read was a detailed account of experiments involving powers he hated and feared. Saewron sparing him the specifics was a kindness Pilinor appreciated more than he would admit.

As the letter delved into the people Saewron was working with, the Hunter paused again, squinting as the drake’s wings shifted beneath him, altering the words’ trajectory slightly.

Telemancer Aerilyn and Astrandis, who lead the Dragonscale Expedition’s efforts here, turned out to be agreeable enough, despite Luthir’s initial worries about their collaboration. There were some misunderstandings at first – imagine researchers arguing over whose jurisdiction an artifact falls under – but once that was resolved, the two groups have been working well together.

Let me tell you a bit about the people I’m with. Talis, one of the other void elves on Luthir’s team, is still new to this kind of work, but she’s learning quickly under his guidance. She’s fond of Tulu, and the feeling is mutual. Tulu seems to enjoy Talis’ company almost as much as she likes mine. She’s even made another friend in camp: a massive duck named Roberts who lives in the lake at the center of the camp. It’s ridiculous but endearing watching them together.

“Tulu made a friend,” Pilinor muttered aloud after puzzling through the line. His lips curved into a wry smile. “Of course she did. She’s cute enough to charm anyone.” His voice softened, and he glanced out at the horizon. “Too cute,” he murmured under his breath, his fingers tightening on the letter. For someone like Pilinor, whose Void-twisted perception skewed his view of certain things, her innocence felt alien and uncanny. It was a shame, really. He wished he could feel the same warmth toward her that Saewron so clearly did.

Boreus, the Mage on the ren’dorei’s team, is blind. I’ll admit I felt awkward around him at first, unsure how much help to offer without undermining his confidence. I think I’ve struck the right balance now, and I’m honestly in awe of his abilities. His fine sense for magic has already helped uncover several artifacts the Dragonscale Expedition overlooked, and he has a knack for deciphering how they work.

It took Pilinor longer than he would have liked to parse through the description of the other researcher, but the mention of Boreus’ blindness caught his attention. The Hunter paused, his lips silently forming the words again.

Blind but still finding artifacts, he marveled. It wasn’t something he could easily imagine. Pilinor thought of the world without sight; how much harder tracking would be, how much more dangerous the woods would feel without the ability to see a predator’s shadow. He found himself intrigued with the man’s fortitude despite himself.

The next part, however, made Pilinor’s grip on the letter tighten. He scowled, squinting against the wind as he forced himself to focus on the words about Vulpy and the mana wyrms. It took three tries before he could parse the explanation.

It’s also thanks to Boreus that Vulpy is still alive. Let me explain.

I made a mistake; one I’ll regret for a long time. I’d tied Vulpy down near the Greatwyrms from the Dragonscale Expedition, when they suddenly attacked her! As it turned out, it was actually her harness that was their target. As you might know, mana wyrms feed on arcane energy. The crystals of Vulpy’s harness contained a lot of energy to allow her to fly, something I hadn’t realized in all those years since I got her. The wyrms attacked her to get at the crystals, injuring her in the process. I was too shocked to react promptly, but Boreus pointed out what was happening. Thanks to him, I managed to remove the harness and toss it aside. The Greatwyrms gorged themselves on the crystals, leaving Vulpy alone, but the damage had been done.

“Damn it, Saew. Wasn’t that kinda obvious?” Pilinor muttered, his tone somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. Obviously common foxes didn’t just fly without some kind of magic involved. His brow furrowed as he imagined the scene, the wyrms going after the harness with its arcane crystal and Vulpy caught in the chaos.

His chest tightened as he pictured her injured and vulnerable, and a pang of frustration welled up. He clenched his jaw, muttering a low curse under his breath. Saewron should have known better. Though young, it wasn’t like the Rogue was new to magic or its peculiarities.

Grimoth healed Vulpy fully, but the crystals’ destruction means she can no longer fly. Her coat has also changed, switching from blue to an orange-red; something I didn’t even know could happen. At least she’s fine, but I’ve only Stormrider left as a flying mount now, and he’s not always available. I’ll need to be more careful in the future.

Pilinor took in the part about Vulpy’s coat changing color. He nodded slightly to himself, not surprised. It made sense; magic left its marks. He sighed, adjusting his grip on the letter as the wind tugged at it again. At least Vulpy was alive, even if she couldn’t fly anymore. That was what mattered in the end.

Despite that incident, our time here has been pleasant. We’ve made new friends among the Dragonscale Expedition. Luthir and Tondur often join Joanna Newsplice, a Nightborne harpist, for evenings of music.

He chuckled under his breath, but there was no humor in the sound.

Still trying to convince me Luthir’s not some sinister Void-crazed lunatic, huh? Pilinor thought to himself, imagining Saewron’s good-natured insistence. The idea of the man playing music alongside others didn’t entirely fit the image he had of the cold, calculating researcher. Still, the mention of such evenings painted a picture of camaraderie and normalcy, something Pilinor reluctantly acknowledged might exist even among evil Void scientists.

The Hunter squinted at the next section of the letter, his lips moving silently as he carefully sounded out the words.

Fig Fireheart, the Pandaren innkeeper, has become a favorite of mine. Her cooking rivals Myreath’s, and she’s taught me a lot about local plants. It’s thanks to her that I’ve started experimenting with Fangtooth, a potent poison used by the centaur for big-game hunts. I’ve also been working with some of the herbs you mentioned in your last letter, which are abundant here in the Plains.

Grimoth spends hours stargazing and philosophizing with Stefen Edgley, a Worgen, while Remah enjoys her discussions with Draakon, a Draenei, comparing life on Azeroth to that on Outland and the Genedar. Corporal Lauren has been working closely with Uluami, a Zandalari jeweler, and her apprentice, Eliani the Vulpera, to process ore she likes to mine. The Spinecrafters have an easy time here. Luthir even got us cozy tents with proper cots, much to Grimoth’s delight. Sharing shifts with the Dragonscale Expedition guards gives us ample free time to explore or visit Maruukai, which isn’t far.

Speaking of exploring, I’ve discovered something that made my heart soar: slyvern! They’re fox-like creatures with wings, and I wonder if you’ve seen them in your travels. I’ve tried to befriend some, but they either attack or flee – especially those with young. If only Benthras were here; he’s a natural with wild animals. Then again, I’m writing to you, so perhaps you might help me get closer to them. I’d love your advice!

Pilinor paused, his interest piqued. His mind flickered to the agile, winged foxes he had spotted in Azure Span. They had caught his eye during his hunts, gliding effortlessly between the towering trees, their sharp, inquisitive eyes always alert.

“Slyvern, so that’s what they’re called,” Pilinor muttered, filing the name away. He had already intended to mention them in his next letter to Saewron, pointing out that these animals were as close to natural flying foxes as one could get.

The slyvern. That’s where you’re at? Took you ages! No wonder you spend so much time chasing beasts and slinging arrows. A simple mind, suited to simple work. The tone of the thing in his head was smooth, almost conversational, but Pilinor felt the barbs sink deep.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. Rising to the bait would only confirm this weak spot. He couldn’t afford that. Still, a wave of discomfort rippled through Pilinor. His trouble with reading indeed made him feel inferior to those whose sharp minds danced through written letters and numbers effortlessly.

He shook his head, as if to dispel the sensation, and focused on the parchment again, instead thinking on Saewron’s struggles to approach the fox-like animals. Maybe he could help with that… if they would meet. However, the thing’s words had rekindled the Hunter’s doubts, making him feel uncertain about whether that was such a good idea.

On that note, I was hoping we might meet. It’s been too long since we’ve spent time together. I’m planning a small party for my twenty-eighth birthday in fifteen days. My twin, Orthorin, will hopefully be celebrating with the rest of the company back in Raven Hill, but I was hoping to gather some of the folks here for an evening together. Thinnadis, who traveled to the Dragon Isles for her own research a few weeks ago, hasn’t visited us yet, despite her girlfriend being with our squad, but I’m hoping she’ll come for the occasion.

If a party isn’t your thing, perhaps we could explore the Ohn’ahran Plains together on one of my off duty days. I know you’d enjoy the wildlife here.

Looking forward to hearing from you, spider-friend. Until then, stay safe and well.

Best regards,

Saewron

Pilinor folded the letter carefully, slipping it back into the safety of his cloak. His fingers lingered over the fabric for a moment, his thoughts swirling as the drake’s steady wingbeats thrummed beneath him. Saewron’s words were still fresh in his mind, each one carrying its usual warmth and lighthearted charm. And yet, they left Pilinor feeling heavier than before.

The idea of seeing Saewron again stirred something deep inside him; excitement, yes, but also fear. People Pilinor cared about had a tendency to meet tragic ends, often sooner rather than later. Cedrine’s loss during the Third War still haunted him, the memory of Leric’s lifeless body remained an unshakable shadow over his heart, and the sight of Yula’s and Roval’s charred forms was still way too vivid in his mind’s eye. The thought of losing Saewron to an unforeseen calamity or his own curse made his stomach twist.

And then there was the complication of… that man. Saewron loved Luthir deeply, though Pilinor couldn’t reconcile the Priest’s cold intellect with the Rogue’s kindhearted nature. Saewron’s faith in people, in their potential for kindness, was something Pilinor admired about him. But it also worried him. At times, Saewron seemed blind to the darkness that lay beneath the surface of others – Pilinor himself being the best example for that. Neither was Luthir just some harmless eccentric. A part of Pilinor wondered if Saewron truly understood the risks of being so close to someone who delved into the Void so deeply. The scientist couldn’t be trusted, he was convinced. He had no proof, nothing concrete to point to, but after all Pilinor had seen, all he had endured, he couldn’t stop himself from suspecting the worst.

And yet… even with that suspicion gnawing at him, Pilinor knew he could never voice it to Saewron. The Rogue was happy, and Pilinor didn’t want to jeopardize that. As long as Luthir didn’t harm Saewron in any way, Pilinor could live with his doubts. What he couldn’t shake, though, was the faint, hopeful part of him that wondered if there might still be room for him in Saewron’s life. Not to replace Luthir, but to share in the love and connection Saewron so freely gave.

Pilinor sighed, leaning forward as the drake shifted its wings to ride an updraft. Saewron’s openness was something Pilinor found both beautiful and terrifying. He didn’t know what the Rogue would think of the kind of relationship Pilinor had once shared with Cedrine. She had understood his need for freedom, his wandering soul, and they had loved each other without the constraints of jealousy or exclusivity. But that kind of arrangement wasn’t something many people understood, let alone practiced. Pilinor doubted Saewron’s situation would allow for anything similar – and even if it did, was it fair to Saewron? To his partner? To anyone?

He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his light purple hair, a reminder of his corruption. It wasn’t merely fear of rejection that kept Pilinor from admitting his feelings to Saewron – much worse was the ever-present danger he carried within himself. His latest nightmare that had almost cost the innocent dracthyr his life was still fresh in his memory, and the thought of putting Saewron at risk made him feel sick. Maybe it was better to simply let the Rogue live his life in peace, far away from the dangers Pilinor could bring.

His musings were interrupted as the drake dipped lower, the air growing warmer as the Waking Shores came into view. The change in terrain was a welcome distraction, pulling Pilinor’s mind away from Saewron and to the task ahead. The rugged cliffs and volcanic peaks stretched out before him, their fiery hues a sharp contrast to the snow-draped forests of Azure Span. The void-touched Hunter straightened in the saddle, shifting his focus to the upcoming races with Fisira.

For now, at least, he could leave Saewron’s letter – and the tangled emotions it stirred – in the back of his mind. There was speed to chase, competition to embrace, and the thrill of dragonriding to drown out everything else.

–.o.O.o.–

The towering spires of the Skytop Observatory loomed closer as Jidragos descended toward the plateau. Pilinor adjusted his grip on the saddle, mindful of the tarantula clinging to his back like a rucksack. Below, dragons of vibrant hues perched on ledges, riders adjusting harnesses, and the bustle of preparations for the day’s flights.

As Jidragos touched down, Pilinor dismounted swiftly, holding still to let Nirwa climb down from his back and then offered the drake a respectful pat on his scaled shoulder.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Jidragos rumbled in reply, the sound vibrating through his chest. “May your skies be clear and the winds favorable.”

Pilinor folded his cloak back, adjusting to the warmer air and began crossing the plateau. He scanned the gathered figures for Fisira’s familiar form. Before the quel’dorei could spot her, a drakerider stepped into his path. The bulky man’s studded leather armor gleamed in the sunlight, and his expression held curiosity.

“Archenon poros, traveler!” the draenei said, his voice rich and warm. “You look a bit overdressed for the Waking Shores. Coming from the colder reaches, are you?”

Pilinor gave a short nod. “Azure Span,” he replied. “At the beginning of my flight here, there was still snow covering the ground.”

The draenei chuckled. “That explains it. I’m Taaldanos. If you’re looking for a drake to team up with for races, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll gladly show you the ropes. But, judging by your gear, I’d guess you’ve already got some experience.”

“Yes, I’ve got an appointment with… my drake,” Pilinor said, his gaze catching on a figure near the harnesses – a man in simple cloth gear. Fisira, in her male human visage form. Pilinor’s lips twitched as he thought of the awkwardness her chosen form always caused him.

Taaldanos followed Pilinor’s gaze. “Ah, that one. Haven’t seen him around before. Tried to talk to him earlier, but clearly he isn’t the talkative kind. But say, since you’re experienced, you surely know that good gear is everything. A proper saddle, sturdy harnesses, gloves enchanted with grip spells – it can mean the difference between winning a race and taking an unexpected dive into the cliffs. If you and your partner need anything, I’m the right man to ask.”

“Thanksfor the offer, but we’re fine with our equipment for now,” Pilinor said absently, his attention flickering back to Fisira.

Her human guise still felt wrong to him, despite the time he had spent around her. Calling her he would feel like a betrayal of her true nature, but calling her her in front of others would only confuse them. It wasn’t an option – Fisira would hate that – and they made Pilinor’s skin crawl. She was but one dragon and not royalty either, and language was complicated enough without adding layers of ambiguity.

“All right, all right, then I won’t keep you,” Taaldanos said with a grin. “Dioniss aca, my friend.”

Pilinor muttered a quick thanks and made his way toward Fisira.

As he approached, she turned her sharp gaze on him. “Took you long enough.”

“Got held up,” Pilinor replied flatly, as she clearly must have seen his exchange with the merchant drakerider.

Fisira smirked. “How’s your condition today?”

Pilinor stiffened at the familiar question. Ever since he had once spaced out in the middle of a casual conversation with her, because the thing in his head had been especially annoying that day, she had made a habit of asking him that whenever they met first of all.

Before Pilinor could answer, the thing in his head laughed. Ah, your condition. What a considerate dragon she is to ask. Why do you even put up with her, little fool?

He felt a twinge of anger at both the voice in his head and the drake in front of him. It was the things fault that Fisira had even actively noticed an effect of his corruption, but it was unfair of her to now always remind him of the one time he had slipped up in her company. However, he didn’t want to rebuke her yet again, knowing he wouldn’t easily find another dragon willing to team up with him.

Pilinor voiced none of that, not wanting to give either party any satisfaction by showing his annoyance and just shrugged. “Fine enough.”

“Good,” Fisira replied, stepping back. “Then let’s get started. Saddle me and we’ll head to the Ruby Lifeshrine.”

With a flash of green light, Fisira shifted into her true form: a sleek, emerald-scaled drake with one piercing eye and thorny tail tip. Pilinor worked quickly to secure the saddle, cinching the straps tight and checking the stirrups with practiced efficiency. When he finished, he commanded Nirwa in position, then swung into the saddle and gave the drake a light tap.

Fisira launched into the air with a powerful leap, her wings cutting through the wind as they headed southwest until the Ruby Lifeshrine appeared before them. The crimson leaves of the trees growing on its compound danced in the wind that carried the faint scent of wildflowers and volcanic minerals, and the sound of distant waterfalls echoed faintly between the stone arches of the seat of the red dragonflight.

Fisira’s wings beat steadily as she descended toward the outer wall of the Lifeshrine, where several Bronze Timekeepers were stationed. The dragonspawn, their sand-colored scales gleaming under the afternoon sun, stood at their posts, ensuring the races ran smoothly. Some of them were always present at the tracks and Pilinor had come to respect their meticulousness.

As they landed, Pilinor dismounted, giving Fisira’s side a quick pat before ordering Nirwa to climb down. Once on the ground, the tarantula blinked up at him, her mandibles twitching as if in protest.

“You stay here,” he said firmly, gesturing toward a flat rock near the Timekeepers. One of them – a young dragonspawn with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor – glanced at the spider but made no comment as Pilinor approached to register.

“Names?” the Timekeeper asked.

“Pilinor Highvale. I’ll be racing with Fisira,” the high elf replied, gesturing toward the green drake stretching her wings nearby.

The Timekeeper nodded and made a note in the record. “You’re registered for both tracks: the Ruby Lifeshrine Loop and the Flashfrost Flyover. Follow the flowing sand to see the track outlines.”

As soon as the registration was done, a line of shimmering bronze sand materialized in the air, winding ahead in elegant curves through the hoops that marked the route.

Pilinor stepped back, his gaze sharpening as he surveyed the starting line. This was where the thrill began.

“Let’s get to it,” Fisira said, her voice firm but with a glint of excitement to it.

Pilinor climbed back into the saddle, securing himself.

“Ready when you are.”

Fisira leaped into the air, and the rush of wind hit Pilinor’s face as she surged forward. They entered the first hoop, the bronze sand guiding them through sharp turns and steep dives. The exhilaration of the race consumed Pilinor, his focus narrowing to the obstacles ahead.

Their first run ended abruptly when Fisira’s wing clipped a branch near a sharp turn, forcing her to steady herself and abandon the course.

Pilinor sighed as they returned to the starting line, but a small grin tugged at his lips.

“Let’s go again,” he said, and Fisira snorted in agreement.

Despite the frustration of failed attempts, Pilinor reveled in the challenge. The thrill of racing, the sharp focus it required, and the sense of partnership with Fisira all made it worth the effort.

The Hunter couldn’t deny the joy he felt when they nailed a tight turn or hit an updraft perfectly, soaring effortlessly through a line of hoops. The thing in his head was blessedly silent during all of it, its reluctance to distract him during a potentially fatal activity serving Pilinor’s purposes perfectly.

“Right! Now dive!” Pilinor shouted as they neared the end of the Ruby Lifeshrine Loop. Fisira folded her wings and plunged downward, catching the exact angle needed to hit the next hoop.

The Timekeepers watched from the sidelines, their expressions unreadable as the duo crossed the finish line with their best time yet.

“Not bad,” Fisira said as they landed. She turned her head to glance at him, her one eye glinting. “Let’s see how we fare with the other.”

They moved on to the Flashfrost Flyover after a short break, a far more challenging track than the Ruby Lifeshrine Loop. The remnants of the Primalists’ attack were evident in the jagged stone pillars and narrow tunnels carved unnaturally through the cliffs. The track’s difficulty was no secret, and Pilinor knew it would take every ounce of focus for them to succeed.

The initial hoops were deceptively simple – wide arcs with plenty of room to maneuver – but the course quickly narrowed, leading them into the labyrinth of twisted stone formations. Pilinor shouted instructions, his voice steady despite the rush of wind.

“Sharp left! Watch the overhang!” He called as they approached a low-hanging cliff.

Fisira banked hard, her wings brushing dangerously close to the rock face. Pilinor felt his stomach lurch but gritted his teeth, focusing on the next hoop.

The tunnels were the worst part of the track. They had to navigate through narrow, twisting passages where jagged pillars jutted out at odd angles, their edges glinting with traces of elemental magic. One misstep could mean disaster.

“Steady,” Pilinor urged as they entered the first tunnel.

The golden hoop ahead flickered as if daring them to falter. Fisira angled her wings, folding them slightly to slip through the tight space.

Pilinor leaned forward, his fingers gripping the saddle tightly.

“Updraft, two o’clock!” he called, spotting the ripple of rising air currents just in time.

Fisira adjusted, catching the lift perfectly, and they soared upward into the next hoop.

The thrill of the maneuver was short-lived as they emerged from the tunnel into an area littered with dead trees and sharp stone spires. The next hoop hovered precariously between two pillars, their tips nearly meeting in the center.

“Straight through,” Pilinor commanded, his voice firm. “Keep your wings close.”

Fisira growled softly in acknowledgment, tucking her wings tightly against her body as she shot through the gap. The maneuver was flawless – until a sudden downdraft caught them off guard. Fisira wobbled mid-air, her tail brushing one of the stone spires.

“Steady!” Pilinor shouted as Fisira growled in frustration, pulling up sharply to regain her balance. They veered off course, the shimmering line of bronze sand disappearing from view.

Fisira landed heavily on a nearby ledge, shaking out her wings.

“That was unexpected,” she muttered, her tone clipped.

Pilinor exhaled slowly, his pulse pounding. “We’ll get it next time.”

Hours passed in a blur of retries. They had to restart several times, missing hoops or misjudging updrafts. Pilinor’s muscles ached, and Fisira’s breathing grew heavier. But each attempt brought them closer to perfection, their coordination improving with every misstep. The challenges felt insurmountable at times, but the sheer exhilaration of the race kept Pilinor pushing forward.

On their final attempt, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, everything seemed to click, skill and a bit of luck finally aligning in their favor. The golden sand shimmered brighter as they crossed the finish line, signaling a gold-ranking completion.

Fisira landed near the Timekeepers, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She turned her head to glance at Pilinor, her emerald scales glowing in the fading light.

“We’ve improved,” she said, her voice tinged with both pride and exhaustion.

Pilinor slid off the saddle, his own muscles screaming in protest, but a triumphant grin lit his face. “We make a decent team.”

Fisira snorted, her one eye gleaming with amusement. “Decent? Don’t undersell us. We’re the best.”

The void-touched elf chuckled softly. “Maybe if you stop brushing against pillars.”

Fisira swatted her tail playfully against his side. “Maybe if you gave clearer instructions.”

The playful exchange lingered as they returned to the starting platform. The Bronze Timekeepers handed Pilinor a small token, marking their achievement. Fisira stretched her wings once more, turning her sharp gaze on him.

“You did well today,” she said, her voice free of her usual sarcasm. “We shouldn’t overdo it, though. I’ll contact you as soon as I know when I’ll be free again. My duties with the flight come first, but we’ll keep pushing for better times.”

“Looking forward to it,” Pilinor said sincerely.

With a final nod, Fisira launched into the air, her powerful wings carrying her swiftly out of sight.

The Hunter watched her go, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Their relationship might not be a friendship, but it worked. With Fisira, he at least didn’t have to worry about endangering someone he cared about or navigating the complicated emotions that came with close bonds. Their connection was simple and professional – and in this case, that was enough.

–.o.O.o.–

The stonework of the Ruby Lifeshrine glowed warmly in the fading evening light. The pools shimmered beneath the last rays of the sun, their surfaces rippling as dragonspawn moved carefully between them, tending to the eggs nestled in their care. Whelplings darted and played overhead, their joyful cries carrying on the wind. Pilinor walked along the path through the park-like grounds, Nirwa following at his heels.

The Hunter wasn’t sure yet if he would take to the skies again immediately. The day’s racing had been exhilarating but exhausting, and the thought of returning to the colder reaches of the Azure Span that same evening felt daunting. His thoughts wandered as he took in the Lifeshrine, noticing how pristine it looked now. Not a trace of the Primalists’ attack remained. It was almost as if the chaos and destruction had never happened. The pools were full, the eggs prospered, and the air buzzed with life.

As Pilinor neared the Flight Master’s ledge, he overheard two dragons speaking quietly. He hesitated, their words pulling his attention.

“Veritistrasz has been in one of his moods again since yesterday,” one said, a crimson-scaled dragon with her wings half-furled.

The other dragon nodded, his scarlet scales gleaming faintly in the dim light. “I thought the diary would help him move on. He seemed so hopeful when the adventurer brought it to him. But today….” He shook his head. “It’s like he’s slipped back into the past. He’s barely spoken to anyone.”

The crimson dragon sighed. “I can’t imagine what it must feel like, carrying that kind of guilt for so long. If only there were something we could do.”

Pilinor followed their gazes and spotted a dwarf sitting alone near the border of the ledge. His broad shoulders were hunched, his head bowed low as if the weight of unseen years pressed down on him.

In high spirits from the thrill of the day’s racing, Pilinor found himself unexpectedly bold. He determinedly approached the lone figure.

“Evening,” he began, his voice cautious but firm. “I, uh… overheard you might be feeling down. Thought maybe I could help. Or at least keep you company for a bit.”

The dwarf – Veritistrasz, Pilinor guessed – didn’t look up at first. When he finally did, his eyes swept over the Hunter, lingering on his purple hair. His expression shifted subtly, from disinterest to something sharper, more intent.

“You’re a void elf,” Veritistrasz said, his tone quiet but weighted.

The term made Pilinor stiffen. He instinctively took a step back, running a hand through his hair. That darn color.

“Not exactly,” he muttered. “Close enough, I guess. Look, if this is about Void magic, I can leave. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

To his surprise, Veritistrasz shook his head. “No. Wait. Please.” His voice softened, almost pleading. “I know my kind is often wary around people like you, but I didn’t mean to offend you. I… I’d like to talk. If you’re willing.”

Pilinor hesitated, then nodded. He gestured to Nirwa, who obediently stayed behind as he stepped closer and sat beside the dwarf.

Veritistrasz studied him in silence for a moment before speaking.

“You remind me of someone I once knew,” he began, his voice tinged with melancholy. “A friend. Her name was Distyia. She was of the black dragonflight.”

Pilinor’s brow furrowed. “You had a friend in the black flight? Weren’t they…?” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

Veritistrasz chuckled dryly. “Corrupted. Betrayers. Mad. Yes, that’s what everyone knows them as now. But they weren’t always like that. She wasn’t always like that.” His gaze grew distant. “She was my best friend. We grew up together. Played together. I thought we’d stand side by side forever.”

He paused, his hands tightening on his knees. “Then she changed. Slowly, at first. I thought she was just… struggling. Everyone was, after the Sundering. After the wars. I didn’t see it for what it was until it was too late.”

Pilinor listened intently, something in Veritistrasz’s voice striking a chord within him. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

“I came home one day and found her standing over the bodies of my family.” Veritistrasz’s voice broke, and he took a shuddering breath. “I killed her. I had no choice. But every day since, I’ve wondered… could I’ve done something? Could I’ve been a better friend? If I had noticed the signs earlier, if I had told her how much she meant to me, could I’ve saved her?”

Pilinor stared at the dwarf, his heart tightening at the raw pain in those words. Despite the centuries that had passed, the dragon’s grief lingered, sharp and unresolved, kindling self-doubt. In that moment, Pilinor found himself seeing Saewron in Veritistrasz’s place, imagining the Rogue asking himself the same questions, consumed by regret. He pictured Saewron wondering what he could have done differently, questioning if his efforts to bridge the distance Pilinor had created had been enough. The thought unsettled the Hunter deeply, and he hastily shook it off, scolding himself. Saewron probably wouldn’t even notice if he disappeared. Pilinor had striven to keep things casual between them, after all.

He pushed the image aside, focusing on the dragon before him. “You probably couldn’t have done anything,” Pilinor said quietly, his tone steadier than he felt. “Sometimes, trying to help someone who’s already too far gone… it just gets you hurt. Or worse.”

Veritistrasz looked at him sharply. The dragon tilted his head, leaning in ever so slightly. “You speak as though you know this to be true. Do you?”

Pilinor hesitated, his chest tightening. His fingers twitched at his sides before he finally nodded, his voice low and uneven. “I do.” He paused, searching for the words. “I live with… something that makes me dangerous. There are times when I can’t trust myself. That’s why I push people away. To protect them. Keep them safe.” Belatedly realizing how that sounded, he hastily added: “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be here – around others – if I thought that was currently the case.”

The explanation came out guarded but honest enough, though it stirred a storm of thoughts within the void-touched Hunter. Pilinor’s mind turned to Saewron again, to the kindness and persistence that the Rogue had shown over the years. If Pilinor truly wanted to spare Saewron from the kind of pain Veritistrasz was describing, there was only one solution: he would have to cut him off completely. No more letters, no more meetings.

But Pilinor knew Saewron well enough to know that the Rogue wouldn’t simply give up. To truly sever their bond, Pilinor would have to hurt Saewron badly; say something cruel enough to shatter his faith in their friendship. The thought twisted Pilinor’s gut. Saewron didn’t deserve lies or cruelty. He didn’t deserve to be punished for caring.

“It’s not always easy to push people away,” Pilinor admitted, his voice fainter. “Even when you think it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes… sometimes it hurts them in ways you didn’t intend.”

Veritistrasz studied Pilinor closely, his expression thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, though no less steady. “Perhaps the worst thing we can do is assume our loved ones can’t handle the truth of who we are. I’d have preferred to know. Even if I couldn’t have stopped her descent, I’d have shared her burden. I wouldn’t have felt like I’d abandoned her.” The dragon paused, his words measured but laden with emotion. “If you care about someone, Hunter, give them the chance to care about you in return. Let them be a better friend. It’s not about fixing everything – it’s about not letting them suffer alone.”

The weight of the dragon’s words settled over Pilinor like a mantle. He averted his gaze, his throat tight. Veritistrasz’s plea echoed uncomfortably close to his fears and doubts about Saewron. Could Saewron handle the truth? With his compassionate nature, maybe. But even if Pilinor admitted the dangers posed by his Void-corruption, would Saewron see it as a reason to keep his distance? Or would he try to help, as Leric had done?

That thought made Pilinor’s chest tighten further. The possibility of putting Saewron at the same risk was terrifying. And yet, Veritistrasz’s words lingered. Was it fair to deny Saewron the chance to choose for himself?

Pilinor took a steadying breath and met the dragon’s gaze again. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said quietly. He offered the dwarf a faint, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

Veritistrasz regarded him for a moment before inclining his head. “I hope you find your answer. And… may you never know the regret of leaving words unsaid.”

Pilinor let that sink in for a moment before adding, with a hint of humor: “This wasn’t how I imagined this conversation going, though. I thought I’d be cheering you up, not the other way around.”

The corners of Veritistrasz’s lips twitched in a shadow of a smile. “Perhaps you have, in a way.” He gestured toward the expanse of the Lifeshrine with a small nod. “It does the heart some good to know others carry similar burdens… and that we’re not so alone in them.”

Pilinor nodded slowly, letting the words settle in his mind as he offered a quiet farewell.

He turned and headed toward the Flight Master, Nirwa scuttling faithfully at his side. Though his heart still felt heavy, a thread of resolve wound its way through his thoughts. Saewron deserved to make his own decision based on the full truth, and he deserved the chance to be a better friend.

Chapter Text

The soft murmur of the nearby river blended with the quiet rustle of aquill scratching on parchment. The morning light barely touched the walls of the small cave, but it was enough for Kee’dril’s sharp senses. He stirred from his brief, yet oddly restorative sleep. Undead as he was, Kee’dril held onto the habit, even if his body didn’t demand it, firmly believing it was nonetheless essential –not for his survival, but for his sanity. That knowledge alone didn’t make bearing the nightmares easier, though. The blood elf sat up, relievedhe hadn’t dreamed this time.

Across the cave, Naethir was already awake – of course. He always was, despite Kee’dril’s gentle prodding, still refusing to sleep as well. The Death Knight was penning something on a piece of parchment, a second sheet already lying rolled and sealed next to him. His fingers moved with a grace born of habit, but Kee’dril could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight furrow of his brow. Beside the sealed scroll, two trinkets glinted faintly in the soft light.

“You’re writing letters?” Kee’dril asked, his echoing voice slightly raspy from disuse during the night. He stretched, standing and running a hand through his tousled red hair, before he began fastening the plate pieces of his armor over his undergarments as he spoke. “No longer trusting Valentian to report all the necessary, as you put it?”

Naethir glanced up, his shoulder-length black hair with the white streaks falling across his face in straggly strands, before returning to his work. “These aren’t reports. They’re birthday letters.”

Kee’dril raised a brow, pausing mid-buckle. “Birthday letters?” He made no effort to mask his surprise. “Well, that’s unexpected. And those trinkets… let me guess – gifts?”

Naethir set the quill aside and carefully picked up one of the pieces. He turned it over in his pale hands, the faint blue cast of his skin catching the morning light. “This is for Orthorin. Green, like the mists he casts as a Monk.”

Kee’dril stepped closer, adjusting the fit of his shoulder armor as he inspected the jade pendant, noting the craftsmanship. It wasn’t extravagant, but precise and clearly made with care. His gaze shifted to the other trinket, a gold-tinted ring. “And this one?”

“For Saewron,” Naethir said, as expected. “The citrine reminds me of Tulu’s fur. When she’s happy.” There was a fleeting softness to his tone that Kee’dril rarely heard.

“Tulu,” the San’layn echoed, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the little fox, right? The one whose fur changes colors?”

“Yes.” Naethir’s voice dropped, his hands fiddling with the ring as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “She sheds the Void’s influence when she’s joyful. Her fur turns golden.”

Kee’dril nodded thoughtfully, his mind drifting back to the past weeks. He had often seen Naethir at the Bronze’s outpost in the Shifting Sands, seated at the jewelcrafting workbench. At the time, the undead blood elf had been pleased to see the other man doing something creative without his constant prodding. Something for himself. Now, though, Kee’dril wondered how much of that time Naethir had spent thinking about the twins, rather than rediscovering a piece of himself.

“Do the gems do anything?” Kee’dril asked, gesturing toward the pendant and the ring. “Enhancing abilities, magical effects?”

Naethir hesitated, his fingers tightening around the ring. “No,” he admitted. “I tried. I wanted to add some protective properties, but the gems’ quality isn’t good enough. And I’m not skilled enough. They’re just decorative.” His tone betrayed a hint of disappointment. “I hope they’ll like them anyway.”

Kee’dril smiled faintly. “Oh, they will. Because you made them.”

Naethir’s gaze flickered toward him, and for a moment, Kee’dril couldn’t tell whether he was grateful or guarded. The San’layn rarely broached the topic of the twins, knowing how much Naethir struggled with the absence of his brothers. But since they were already on the subject, he decided to push a little further.

“So… tell me about them,” Kee’dril began cautiously, sliding down to sit across from him. “Orthorin’s a Monk, you said?”

Naethir’s lips twitched in a faint approximation of a smile. “Yes. He left Quel’Thalas to train at a monastery in Pandaria. Before that, he was training as a Rogue.”

Kee’dril blinked. “A Rogue? Not exactly the most… reputable profession.”

Naethir shrugged. “Our father knew a man who taught Rogue techniques. A good man. Honest. He offered to train the boys. That was enough for him.”

Kee’dril hid a smile, knowing full well who our father was – and that Naethir didn’t want him to know. So, Kee’dril played along, stopping himself from making a comment at the thought of Kath’dril’s reaction to his sons’ choice of combat style. It wasn’t worth confronting Naethir about something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“And Saewron?” The San’layn inquired, shifting the topic slightly. “What’s he like?”

Naethir’s lips quirked faintly. “Saewron stuck to Rogue training. He’s an assassin now. The most unlikely assassin in all of Azeroth. He likes flowers and animals. He’s… sensitive. Kindhearted.”

“That does sound unlikely.”

Kee’dril chuckled softly, but the sound faded as he noticed Naethir rub his chest, his expression clouded by a shadow of pain.

“It hurts,” Naethir said quietly. “Talking about them. I miss them. Not just because I should be there to protect them, but because…,” he faltered, as though struggling to find the right words. “Because they’re not here.”

Kee’dril nodded slowly, understanding the weight of the admission. A part of him felt glad about it, remembering Naethir’s words months back. It was still mostly different sorts of pain the Death Knight was experiencing, but Kee’dril deemed that progress over the numbness or constant fear and worry his friend had described to be stuck with.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” he asked carefully, though his tone was casual. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it.

Naethir shook his head firmly. “No. Fixing my soul is more important. I won’t abandon our efforts.”

“Good,” Kee’dril said simply.

Naethir’s hand lingered on the ring, his fingers tightening momentarily as though it were a lifeline. He didn’t speak right away, but the San’layn could see the struggle in his gaze – an internal battle that was all too familiar by now.

“Do you want to visit them?” Kee’dril asked gently, tilting his head. “For their birthday, I mean.”

Naethir let out a slow, hollow breath that echoed faintly in the cave. “No,” he said firmly, though his voice carried a weight that betrayed his certainty. “If I went… I don’t think I could leave them again. And I can’t stay. They’re safer without me.”

Kee’dril leaned back, inclined to agree with that assessment. But in an effort to lift the mood, he asked instead: “How old are they turning, anyway?”

“Twenty-eight,” Naethir replied, then hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly as if the number carried a weight he hadn’t considered before. “They’ll be older than me now… or still younger. I’m… not sure anymore.”

Kee’dril tilted his head, one of his elongated ears twitching, feeling intrigued. “You were born in year six, true? It’s forty now. That makes you thirty-four, whether your body’s still aging or not.”

Naethir frowned, his gaze drifting toward the parchment as if it might hold some answer. “But I died at twenty-six. Should I really count the years since then?”

Kee’dril let out a soft laugh. “Of course you should. Age isn’t just about the body – it’s about the soul. The years we live, or spend unalive, shape us, no matter what state we’re in. You don’t stop being part of the world because your heart stopped beating. You’ve still experienced those years, haven’t you?”

Naethir frowned, his gaze distant. “But what about the years I spent dead? Not alive or… unalive. Do those count, too?”

Kee’dril tilted his head, considering. “You were a ghost then, weren’t you?”

Naethir hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

“Then they count,” Kee’dril said simply. “Being a ghost doesn’t mean you stop existing. Your soul was still out there, still part of Azeroth. You were you, just… in a different state.” He leaned back, a faint smirk crossing his face. “The only time that wouldn’t count is the time you were fully gone, but that never happened to you.” He shrugged, his tone turning light. “I don’t even count my time fully dead. I was only out for an hour, if that. Barely enough time for my soul to figure out it was supposed to leave yet.”

“Maybe,” Naethir said finally, though his tone remained uncertain. “It’s… a perspective I can live with. For now.”

“Glad we could sort that out,” Kee’dril said with a grin. “So, you’re thirty-four now, Naethir. Whether you were alive, unalive, or ghosting around, the years have passed. And as far as I’m concerned, they’ve all shaped the person sitting here now.”

Naethir’s lips pressed into a thin line, his posture growing tense.

Kee’dril immediately realized his mistake, cursing himself silently. He could see where his friend’s thoughts were heading; to the relevance of the lost parts of his memory, the lost experiences, the potentially lost parts of his person.

Not intending to let Naethir go there, Kee’dril tried to gloss over the rising tension, forcing himself to keep his tone light: “So, congratulations. You’re still the older brother. Grumpy, brooding, and all that. No argument there.”

The maneuver seemed to work, as Naethir’s lips twitched again, his gaze dropping to the letters.

Kee’dril seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation further. “So, what did you write to them? Did you tell them about what we’re doing? About our plan to fix your soul?”

The void elf shook his head, his expression darkening slightly. “No. I didn’t want to raise false hopes. If it doesn’t work – if we fail – shattering those hopes would be worse than never giving them in the first place.”

The San’layn clicked his tongue, leaning forward slightly. “That’s your pessimism talking. You know it.”

Naethir didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he met Kee’dril’s gaze with a quiet intensity. “It’s not just pessimism,” he said, his voice low. “Weeks of work, and we still haven’t gained the bronze’s favor. They haven’t met our wish to travel to the past. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t us who restored the Oathstone. Maybe our efforts just aren’t enough.”

Kee’dril exhaled sharply through his nose, refusing to let Naethir’s doubt drag him down. “That’s not how it works, and you know it. These things take time. Chromie will come around – Nozdormu just needs to get back on his feet. The bronze dragons are juggling enough trouble right now without adding our requests to the pile.”

“And when will that be?” Naethir countered, his voice sharper than usual. “It’s only gotten worse. First the Infinite dragonflight attacked. Then the incident with Eternus and Chromie made the timeline instability even worse. And now the Mother Oathstone failed and the Primalists have breached the Vault of Incarnates.”

The Warrior held his ground, undeterred by Naethir’s rising frustration. “Heroes of Azeroth will deal with Raszageth and her Primalists. They always do. Troubles like these come and go, but eventually, they’ll all be solved. That’s how it’s always been. And while they’re dealing with that, we’ll keep working on gaining the bronze’s favor. We just need to be patient.”

Naethir let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “It’s not patience I’m lacking,” he said quietly. “It’s time. With every day that passes I worry I might lose more of what’s left of me. If we don’t find a way to fix this soon….” He trailed off, his hand unconsciously moving to his chest.

Kee’dril’s smile faded, his red eyes gleaming faintly behind the shaded glasses he had just put on. He stepped closer, his tone soft but firm. “We’ll find a way. You’re not turning into one of those mindless husks – not while I’m around.” He straightened, forcing a note of levity back into his voice. “But worrying about time isn’t going to make it move slower. So let’s focus on what we can do. One step at a time.”

Naethir exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking toward the letters he had just finished. “One step at a time,” he echoed, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Kee’dril clapped his hands together, the sound reverberating faintly through the cave. “Exactly. Now, are you done with those?”

Naethir nodded silently, slipping the letters and wrapped gifts into a pouch on his belt. Kee’dril nodded toward the cave’s entrance. “Good. Let’s get moving, then. Eon’s Fringe might need us again. And if they don’t, maybe we’ll finally catch Chromie between crises – assuming she isn’t juggling five new ones by now.”

Naethir rose without a word, but the faintest flicker of resolve had returned to his expression. It wasn’t much, but Kee’dril would take what he could get. Optimism wasn’t Naethir’s strength, but it was Kee’dril’s – and for now, it was enough for both of them.

–.o.O.o.–

The river flowed quietly beside them as Kee’dril and Naethir made their way toward the small stone bridge leading into Eon’s Fringe. Morning sunlight reflected off the rippling water, though its beauty was lost on the two undead. Kee’dril adjusted the last strap of his armor as they approached the archway at the bridge’s end, his eyes scanning the village beyond. The once-bustling settlement lay eerily still, its inhabitants locked in a strange stasis. The air just beyond the bridge shimmered faintly – a constant reminder of the Temporal Anomaly that plagued the area.

Two Temporal Investigators stood by the bridge, their uniforms with the bronze tabards stiff and formal. They perked up at the sight of Kee’dril and Naethir, clearly recognizing them.

“You’re here to help again, I take it?” one of the investigators, a gnome with copper hair tied into an elaborate braid, called out.

“Yes,” Kee’dril confirmed. “Any need for us in the village today?”

The gnome shook her head, a frown creasing her forehead. “Not at the moment. The anomaly is stable – at least as stable as it ever gets. You’ve done enough for now – especially considering how much time you’ve already spent in there without… complications.”

Her tone made it clear she still found their resistance to the stasis effects unnerving. Few mortals could linger near the Temporal Anomaly for long without succumbing to its influence. However, Kee’dril and Naethir’s undead nature rendered them uniquely suited for the task. It was a distinction that clearly unsettled the living.

The investigator’s orc companion stepped forward. “If you’re looking for work, head to the Shifting Sands. The collectors down there are overloaded again, and more Rifts have opened.”

Kee’dril nodded and glanced at Naethir, who remained silent, his icy gaze fixed on the shimmering air over the village. “Guess we’re heading to the Sands,” Kee’dril said lightly. “We’ll check in there.”

The investigators nodded, their attention already shifting back to their instruments as the two undead crossed the bridge and continued southward. The path wound through the fertile Flowing Forests, the soft rustle of leaves occasionally interrupted by the cries of ohuna overhead. The vampyre’s mind wandered as they walked, his thoughts drawn to their past few weeks on the Dragon Isles.

When they had arrived in Thaldraszus, the valley had been in chaos. The Infinite dragonflight had launched a brazen attack on the Bronze Temple, attempting to corrupt the Oathstone at the Temporal Conflux, the wide terrace in front of the temple. The Oathstone, representing the bronze flight’s sacred duty to safeguard time itself, had been in danger of getting corrupted, which could have paved the way for Murozond to rise. The dark, future version of Nozdormu, the Aspect of the Bronze, represented everything their dragonflight feared. His rise would mean the end of the timeline as it was meant to be, the true timeline lost, an eternity of chaos and destruction.

Kee’dril still remembered the chaos of that battle: the swirling currents of time magic, the Infinite dragons pouring through rifts, and the sheer weight of impending doom that had hung over every moment. Together with Naethir and several other adventurers, they had pushed back the Infinite dragonflight and prevented Murozond’s emergence – for now. But the battle had left its scars. Spilt time magic lingered in the valley, destabilizing the timeline and creating rifts and anomalies that the bronze dragons were still working to contain.

As if that hadn’t been enough, the confrontation between Chromie – Chronormu in her draconic form – and Eternus, one of the Infinite’s leaders, had worsened the situation. Kee’dril and Naethir had only heard secondhand accounts of what had happened, but the story was enough to leave them uneasy. Chromie and Eternus had clashed in a collision of opposing time magics that sent both dragons tumbling through the infinite possibilities of time. Their battle had taken them all the way back to the Black Empire, to a time when Old Gods ruled Azeroth; a place no mortal or dragon should ever tread.

When the adventurers had finally pulled Chromie and Eternus back to the present, the damage had already been done. Ripples of destabilized time caused by their passing were still spreading outward, touching other timelines. Though Nozdormu had let Eternus go as a mercy for her cooperation in restoring the Oathstone, which had reacted positively to the teamwork of the opposing dragons, the aftermath of their battle still lingered.

By the time Kee’dril and Naethir reached the Shifting Sands, the desert-like landscape stretching out before them, the Bronze’s outpost was already a flurry of activity, with Timewalkers scurrying about carrying collectors and scrolls. Kee’dril immediately recognized Andantenormu – or Dante, as the Timewalker preferred to be called – coordinating the effort.

“Dante!” the Warrior called out as they approached.

The dragon in his tauren visage form turned, his face brightening as he spotted them. “Kee’dril, Naethir,” he greeted them warmly. “Good timing. We could use extra hands – especially yours.”

“Rifts?” Kee’dril asked, already knowing the answer.

“Rifts,” Dante confirmed. “And relics. Time magic has flooded the collectors again, and there’s a new wave of displaced creatures. Raptors, quilboar, even some arakkoa from timelines long lost.”

“Perfect,” Kee’dril said dryly, glancing at the undead void elf. “At least it’s never boring.”

Dante handed them a pair of Timewalker Staffs, their golden adornments gleaming faintly. “You know the drill. Absorb the excess time magic from the collectors, and use it to deal with anything that doesn’t belong. Just don’t let the rifts get too large – or we’ll have even bigger problems.”

Kee’dril twirled his staff experimentally before swiftly catching up to Naethir who had taken off with no hesitation. Together, they moved deeper into the Shifting Sands, where the faint hum of unstable magic filled the air. Several rifts shimmered into view not far ahead, and they quickly spotted the displaced creatures that had wandered out of it.

Naethir stepped forward first, confidently drawing his runeblade. Frost magic began to swirl around him, freezing the sand at his feet as he advanced on the creatures. Raptors, sleek and vicious, lunged at him, but Naethir’s strikes were swift and deadly, the Remorseless Winter slowing their opponents movements.

The San’layn flanked him, his movements brutal yet fluid as his blade cleaved through the remaining creatures. His vampyric strength made short work of the quilboar, their jagged weapons glancing harmlessly off his armor. Despite the intensity of their strikes, both undead moved with a calm precision born of experience. This was routine for them now – everyday business in the aftermath of the Infinite dragonflight’s attack.

Between blows, they used the staffs to absorb and redirect bursts of erratic time magic, closing rifts and stabilizing the area around them. The hum of the collectors began to soften as the energy levels fell back into balance, and the shimmering rifts finally collapsed, leaving only a faint golden scar in the air.

Before they could move on to the next Time Rift, a group of Timewalkers from the Temporal Conflux approached at a hurried pace. Their expressions were grim, their urgency palpable.

“The Primalist Future is in trouble,” one of them said quickly. “We need all available adventurers to help.”

Kee’dril glanced at Naethir, who gave a curt nod.

Without hesitation, they followed the group back to the Temporal Conflux. There, in the heart of the Bronze’s domain, a swirling portal shimmered golden. It was the gateway to the Primalist Future: a timeline ravaged by elemental magic, where icy storms and primal chaos ruled. It was one of the timelines where Chronormu and Eternus had temporarily stopped tumbling through time. Nozdormu and Soridormi, his Prime Consort and leader of the Timewalkers, had decided to keep a steady time portal open to that peculiar timeline to help deal with the effects that still occurring time ripples may cause, since it was their timeline who had caused the other some – further – trouble.

“Let’s see what kind of mess we’re dealing with there,” Kee’dril muttered, as he stepped toward the shimmering gateway.

–.o.O.o.–

Naethir’s first step into the Primalist Future felt like stepping into the Void itself. The air was bitter and cold, clawing at the senses in a way even he, as a Death Knight, couldn’t entirely ignore. Frost-coated stone and twisted, jagged shards of earth rose from the ground like splintered teeth, marking a desolate battlefield long since ravaged by primal chaos. The howling wind carried flecks of ice. A perpetual storm loomed above them, swirling clouds crackling with unnatural lightning, casting the world in a gray-blue hue. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like the growl of an ancient beast.

Kee’dril emerged beside him, his red eyes gleaming faintly behind his shaded glasses as he surveyed the apocalyptic wasteland. “Charming,” he muttered, his voice cutting through the relentless storm. “I see they went all in on the end of the world motif.”

Naethir ignored him, his gaze scanning the bleak horizon. This was their first time in the Primalist Future, and already the bleakness of this timeline struck him. He had heard stories – accounts of Raszageth’s victory, of the Primalists freeing her siblings and taking over Azeroth – but seeing the aftermath was another matter entirely. It was a vision of ruin, a world where the Aspects had failed, and the champions of Azeroth had fallen.

“Over here!” a familiar, light voice called, pulling Naethir from his thoughts. A figure approached, shimmering bronze and gold against the endless storm. Siaszerathel – Zera – strode toward them, the scales of her true form glinting in the faint light. The dracthyr Timewalker was already armed, her clawed hands gripping a staff crackling with temporal energy.

Naethir and Kee’dril moved to meet her as she stopped close to the border of the wide terrace, gesturing for them to join her. “You’re a little late,” she said, her voice carrying a sharp edge but not without warmth. “But I’ll take what help we can get. This timeline’s a mess.”

“No kidding,” Kee’dril said dryly, his gaze flicking toward the chaotic landscape. “What exactly are we dealing with?”

Zera gestured toward overhead, where a faint shimmer marked a barrier of some sort – translucent, yet swirling faintly with the colors of sand. “The resistance fighters here have hidden this place from the Primalists. It’s the last thing standing between them and the Bronze Temple, where the timeways could be accessed. If the Primalists get through and seize the Temporal Conflux, they’ll spread their chaos across every timeline, not just this one.”

Naethir frowned, his fingers itching to reach for the hilt of his still sheathed runeblade. “And the resistance fighters themselves?”

Zera’s expression darkened. “Struggling. The time ripples caused by Chronormu and Eternus passing through here have wreaked havoc. Enemies appear where they shouldn’t, or are far stronger than they’re supposed to be. The resistance’s resources are nearly drained trying to keep the Conflux shielded and hidden.” She pointed to the shimmering barrier. “That shield is powered by the essence of elementals, but maintaining it has become harder with the ripples. That’s where you two come in.”

Kee’dril tilted his head. “You need us to collect more essence?”

“Exactly,” Zera confirmed. “And to recover what survivors you can find. Kill any Primalists in your way. Many of the Primalists here have been enhanced by time magic, which makes them especially dangerous.” She glanced between the two of them. “You have an advantage, though; you’re undead – you’ll handle the storm better than most. The cold doesn’t bother you, and you won’t need to keep returning to the fires to avoid freezing.”

Naethir nodded, already drawing his blade. “Understood. Where do we start?”

Zera motioned toward the expanse ahead of them. “There’s no specific point to start, just head out there and see what you come across. Help struggling resistance fighters and bring back as much elemental essence as you can carry.”

Naethir began to move, but a whisper from nearby caught his attention. Two resistance fighters, both mortals – a worgen and a troll, by the look of them – were talking in hushed tones, just barely audible over the storm.

“Isn’t that…?” the worgen murmured, his gaze flicking to Kee’dril.

The other glanced at Kee’dril and shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the bloodsuckers just all look the same. Who cares?”

Naethir’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t comment. Kee’dril seemed to have heard the exchange, too, though he made no move to acknowledge it.

“Let’s go,” the San’layn said instead, his tone light but edged with focus. Naethir nodded, and together, they set off into the storm.

The storm enveloped them as they stepped further into the desolate valley, the biting wind howling like a living beast. Snow swirled chaotically around them, reducing visibility to a few dozen paces at best. Even for the undead, the relentless push of the wind was an annoyance, forcing Naethir and Kee’dril to brace themselves against its strength with each step. The deep snow piled against their boots, slowing their pace further as they trudged along the edge of the valley.

Naethir kept his runeblade drawn, its faint glow cutting through the gray haze. The jagged cliffs of the mountains rising to their left offered a modicum of shelter from the worst of the storm, though the wind still whipped around the exposed outcroppings, carrying shards of ice that stung even against Naethir’s lifeless skin.

Occasionally, shapes flickered in the distance – figures of Primalists moving purposefully through the snow. The Death Knight slowed his steps, motioning for Kee’dril to follow his lead as he pressed closer to the shelter of the cliffs. There was no reason to confront a patrol unless necessary. Their foremost task was to find survivors, not to waste energy on unnecessary battles.

For a long stretch of time, they moved in silence, their senses sharp and focused. The cold didn’t bother Naethir, but the storm’s constant pressure felt oppressive, the howling winds a reminder of the immense power the Primalists held over this broken timeline. They were masters of this place, and every inch of the valley bore their mark.

It was near the base of a jagged rock formation that Naethir spotted a figure slumped against a boulder, partially obscured by snow. He raised a hand to signal Kee’dril, then approached cautiously, his boots crunching through the snow. The figure stirred weakly as they drew closer; a human resistance fighter, their armor battered and cracked, with blood staining the snow beneath them.

Naethir knelt beside them, inspecting the wound on their leg. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it had clearly left the fighter unable to walk. He reached for the pouch at his belt, pulling out a bandage and a Healing Potion.

“Drink this,” he said, as he handed the potion to the fighter.

They hesitated, staring at his pale, undead features, but Kee’dril’s looming presence seemed to snap them out of their daze.

“You’re lucky we found you,” Kee’dril said with a faint smirk, but his tone lacked its usual levity. “The storm isn’t forgiving.”

The fighter gulped down the potion while Naethir wrapped the wound with practiced hands. “Can you make it back to the Conflux?” Naethir asked, his tone leaving little room for argument.

The fighter nodded, their strength visibly returning. “Y-yeah. I think so. Thank you.”

Naethir helped them to their feet, watching as they limped back toward the direction of the Temporal Conflux, their silhouette quickly swallowed by the swirling snow. He hoped the fighter wouldn’t run into further trouble on the way back, but there was little they could do. They couldn’t head back and forth with everyone they found.

Just then, a shadow fell across them, blotting out what little light filtered through the storm. Naethir’s head snapped up as a roar echoed through the valley. Above them, a massive frost-infused proto-dragon swooped low, its wings kicking up a flurry of snow as its glowing blue eyes locked onto them.

“Fantastic,” Kee’dril commented, stepping into a defensive stance. “Looks like we made a new friend.”

The proto-dragon dove, its frost-infused maw spewing shards of ice that shattered against the ground around them. Naethir darted to the side, frosty Death magic surging through his runeblade as he struck at the beast’s flank.

The dragon roared in defiance, its scales glowing faintly with elemental energy, but its every movement also sent ripples of time magic coursing outward.

Kee’dril flanked the creature, landing a precise strike along its exposed side. “These things were bad enough in the Waking Shores,” he muttered, dodging a claw swipe. “This one’s tougher – more elemental than dragon.”

Naethir’s frost runes flared as he unleashed a freezing blast, coating the dragon’s wings in ice and grounding it temporarily. Kee’dril took advantage, driving his blade into the creature’s neck.

The proto-dragon shuddered and collapsed to the snow with a final guttural roar. Its lifeless body glowed faintly, residual energy pulsing in rhythmic waves.

Kee’dril crouched beside the corpse, his brows furrowing as he inspected the pooling blood. “It’s not normal,” he muttered, running a hand over the faintly glowing liquid. “Its blood isn’t… right. It feels more like raw energy than anything I can use.”

“What do you mean?” Naethir asked, his blade still at the ready.

“Watch,” the vampyre said, his tone measured as he raised his free hand. Slowly, the red liquid began to separate, threads of shimmering blue essence rising and solidifying into crystalline forms. When he finished, the proto-dragon’s body lay drained of blood, leaving behind a handful of translucent blue crystals on the snow.

Kee’dril exhaled and straightened, holding one of the crystals up to the faint light. “Elemental essence. Looks like this one’s blood wasn’t entirely useless after all.”

Naethir knelt to gather the crystals, his gaze flicking between them and the dragon’s corpse. “The resistance fighters will surely be able to use this,” he said, tucking the crystals into a pouch. He gave a quick glance toward the storm, ensuring no other threats were approaching.

“Let’s keep moving.”

It was deeper into the valley, when Naethir spotted the hidden entrance of a cave and promptly moved over to check it for survivors. A chest stood on the floor in the middle of the cave, drawing his attention first due to the flickering light it emanated. Then he noticed the faint outline of a figure lying unmoving on the floor, half-shrouded in shadows. Its shock of red hair caught his eye, making him pause.

“Over here,” he called to Kee’dril, his voice sharp. He motioned toward the cave. “This might… get awkward.”

Kee’dril frowned, stepping closer to peer inside. His red eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he spotted the figure lying motionless near the chest. The air in the cave was eerily still, the faint hum of residual magic lingering like a whisper.

Naethir crouched beside the motionless figure, his runeblade still in hand. Up close, the resemblance to Kee’dril was uncanny; though this version of him looked battered and broken. His armor was torn and missing large pieces, exposing pale, lifeless flesh streaked with undead blood that had pooled beneath him on the cave floor. A deep gash on his thigh stood out, jagged and severe, the wound barely starting to knit together.

Kee’dril knelt beside his future self, his worry etched into every line of his expression. His movements were quick but careful as he reached for one of the enchanted belt pouches at his side. From its seemingly bottomless depths, he pulled a silver canteen. It was one of the vampyre’s most important tools, filled with emergency blood for situations like this. “He’s not dead,” Kee’dril said quietly, as though reassuring himself as much as Naethir. “Not yet.”

Unscrewing the lid, the San’layn tilted the canteen, letting the crimson liquid drip into Future Kee’dril’s mouth.

The reaction was immediate. Even in his unconscious state, Future Kee’dril’s hand twitched weakly, instinctively reaching out. His fingers brushed against Kee’dril’s wrist, then tightened with surprising strength as he grabbed for the canteen. Kee’dril let him take it, and his future self drank deeply, the blood disappearing down his throat in long, desperate gulps.

When Future Kee’dril finally let the canteen fall from his lips, his eyes fluttered open. His eyes were not like Kee’dril’s, though, not entirely. Gleaming in a familiar faint red, something hollow and fractured flickered in the depths of their gaze that Naethir hadn’t seen in his companion before.

Future Kee’dril’s gaze landed on the Death Knight first. “Naethir,” Future Kee’dril croaked, his voice hoarse, broken and heavy with exhaustion. However, as he kept staring at Naethir, his expression shifting to something almost like relief. “So this is the afterlife, huh? It’s finally over.” Then his expression changed once more, growing desperate. “You know I didn’t want to kill you, right? You’re not mad at me, are you? I promised-”

Naethir frowned, interrupting him with a sharp tone. “We’re not dead,” he said firmly. “Neither of us is.”

Future Kee’dril froze, confusion flickering in his hollow gaze before it shifted to disbelief. He turned his head slightly, his gaze landing on Kee’dril for the first time. The silence between them stretched, heavy and tense.

Then, Future Kee’dril let out a rasping laugh that quickly grew into something louder, more unhinged. He clutched his chest, his whole body shaking with the sound. “Oh, this is rich,” he choked out. “It’s not the afterlife. I see it now. You haven’t turned yet, have you?”

Naethir exchanged a glance with Kee’dril, but his companion’s expression had hardened, his jaw tight.

Future Kee’dril continued, voice thick with bitterness. “You don’t know, do you?” he said, staring at Naethir. “He hasn’t had the pleasure yet. The pleasure of killing his own hopes. That’s what this is.” He gestured at Kee’dril, then at himself, an eerie grin splitting his face.

Naethir remained silent, watching as Future Kee’dril’s laughter gave way to something quieter, darker.

“Fate’s got a sense of humor, doesn’t it?” Future Kee’dril said, his tone tinged with hysteria. “It enjoys tormenting me. First it takes my family, the one I was born to, in the Third War; trampled by Arthas and his damned Scourge on their way to the Sunwell. Then Veronica; my new family. She loved me, but I had to give her up. What we had… it wasn’t healthy for her. Staying with the Forsaken never felt right, but then, when I found you…” He pointed at Naethir, his voice cracking. “I got to kill you with my own hands.”

Naethir drew a shaky breath, but before he could respond, Future Kee’dril spoke again, his voice more pained. “You made me promise. You asked me to kill you, and I always keep my promises. I’m good at that. Better than I am at keeping people alive.”

Naethir felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm raging outside. Future Kee’dril’s words hung heavy in the air, the madness behind them as palpable as the tension between the three of them.

Kee’dril finally spoke, his voice low and firm. “Enough,” he said sharply, snapping his future self out of his manic tirade. “What were you doing out here?”

Future Kee’dril exhaled slowly, the energy draining out of him as he leaned back against the cave wall. “Gathering resources,” he said, his tone flat. “That’s all they ever need me for. I’m best suited to stand the storm, so they send me out again and again. If I’d stop, they’d all die. And I can’t let that happen. I bring back what I can find, they tolerate me for another day, then I go back out again. Rinse and repeat.”

Kee’dril’s expression tightened, but he said nothing, letting his future self continue.

“I found that,” Future Kee’dril said, pointing weakly at the chest in the center of the cave. “Thought it might be something useful. Something that would help the resistance. But it’s trapped.”

“Trapped?” Naethir asked, stepping closer to inspect the chest. It sat harmlessly in the middle of the cave, its surface covered by a faint glow. Something about it felt… off.

Future Kee’dril nodded. “Open it, and you’ll get a nice surprise. A swarm of frost and stone elementals, enough to overwhelm anyone stupid enough to try. They don’t bleed, either. Couldn’t even use their blood to fight back.” He let out a hollow chuckle. “Almost got me killed. Still a pity they didn’t finish the job. Probably can’t tell the undead from the dead. But I’m guessing the chest is why you’re here, right? To try your luck?”

Naethir glanced at Kee’dril, who shrugged faintly.

“We’re not here for the chest,” the San’layn explained. “But now that you’ve mentioned it….”

Future Kee’dril snorted softly, though his eyes flicked toward the chest with a mix of resignation and disdain. “Figures. I’ve softened it up for you, at least. Consider it my contribution to the cause.”

Naethir crouched beside the chest, inspecting it carefully. The glow seemed to pulse faintly, and he could feel the faint trace of elemental magic lingering in the air. He turned back to Future Kee’dril. “Were you alone?”

Future Kee’dril nodded once. “Always. No one wants to be around me for long. I’m useful, but I’m not welcome. Not even here.”

Naethir didn’t respond, though his grip on his runeblade tightened. He turned back to Kee’dril, who was watching his future self with an unreadable expression. Then he stood, slipping the canteen back into his enchanted pouch.

“We’ll deal with the chest,” the red-haired undead said firmly. “And you’re coming back with us.”

Future Kee’dril blinked, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Why?”

Kee’dril’s expression hardened. “Because you’re not dead yet,” he said firmly. “And I don’t intend to let you die here.”

Future Kee’dril let out a dry, rasping laugh, though it lacked the bitterness from before. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered, though there was no real venom in his voice. “But fine. Lead the charge, hero.”

Naethir hesitated, then, and with a reluctant sigh, he sheathed his current blade and reached for its counterpart, the one etched with blood runes. The crimson sigils pulsed as he drew it, humming with energy that felt heavier in his grip. He disliked using this blade – its twisted magic left a bitter taste in his mouth. But it was what the situation called for.

“We ready?” Kee’dril asked, his gaze flitting between Naethir and Future Kee’dril, who stood leaning against the cave wall, still looking worn but steady enough to hold his blade.

“Ready,” Naethir confirmed grimly.

Kee’dril stooped, his gloved fingers tracing the surface of the chest. With a faint click, the lid shifted slightly, and the glow flared. The air in the cave grew heavy, humming with elemental energy. A moment later, the ground trembled as the first wave of elementals appeared: two hulking stone creatures and a smaller, jagged frost elemental.

Naethir welcomed them with a Death and Decay, corrupting the ground beneath the elementals’ feet, his blade glowing faintly red as it carved into the nearest stone elemental. The creature’s rocky form shuddered under the strike, and Naethir felt a rush of energy as the blade siphoned the elemental’s power into him, sustaining him.

The frost elemental lunged for Kee’dril, who sidestepped the attack with vampyric agility, driving his blade into its core. The elemental shattered into a burst of ice shards.

Future Kee’dril moved to intercept the other stone elemental, his strikes precise but less effective against the creature’s dense body. “I hate these things,” he muttered, his voice strained. “They don’t bleed.”

“Just keep going!” Kee’dril shouted as he wrestled the chest open further, triggering the next wave.

More elementals materialized in a swirl of frost and stone, their forms crackling with raw energy. The fight became a deadly dance as the trio worked together, Naethir drawing their opponent’s attention, his blood-runed blade cutting through the elementals with ruthless efficiency, Kee’dril darting between them to deliver furious strikes, and Future Kee’dril holding the line with a grim determination. The waves came one after another, each more ferocious than the last, until the air was thick with the remnants of shattered ice and broken stone.

Finally, the glow around the chest dimmed, and the ground stopped trembling. The trap was exhausted.

Kee’dril flipped the chest open fully. Inside, neatly packed supplies gleamed in a faint light: enchanted food rations, pouches with elemental essence, and bundles of dried herbs and ore. The Primalists’ cache was a great treasure trove for the resistance fighters.

“Not bad,” Kee’dril muttered, pulling out a bundle of supplies and handing it to Future Kee’dril. “Let’s get this back to the Conflux.”

Back at the Temporal Conflux, the air was a little warmer, the faint golden glow of the shield offering respite from the storm’s relentless chill. Future Kee’dril made his way to the quartermaster, a stocky female tauren who glanced up from her inventory ledger as the undead deposited the supplies, starting to scribble hectically.

Future Kee’dril hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat.

“Got some thread and a needle I can borrow?” he asked, gesturing to the gashes in his tattered clothes. “Need to patch these up.”

The tauren snorted softly, her voice low and practical. “You won’t freeze anyway. Waste of resources.”

Future Kee’dril blinked, then let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sorry. Of course, you’re right.” He turned and walked away, leaving the supplies behind without another word.

Kee’dril, watching from a distance, sighed. “Wait,” he called, stepping forward and pulling a small sewing kit from his enchanted pouch. He offered it to Future Kee’dril. “Take this.”

Future Kee’dril stared at the kit for a long moment before shaking his head. “Keep it,” he then said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Doesn’t matter.” Without another word, he vanished into the storm, the swirling snow quickly swallowing his silhouette.

Naethir watched him go, a strange ache blooming in his chest. It wasn’t like the hollow pain he had grown used to. This was sharper, more immediate, and it left him itching. He glanced at Kee’dril, his thoughts weighing heavily.

“Shouldn’t we do something to help him?” he asked quietly.

The Warrior didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the storm, his expression hard to read. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but tinged with an edge of frustration. “What can we do? That’s not our fight. It’s not our timeline.”

Naethir exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to the faint tracks Future Kee’dril had left in the snow. “He’s still you,” he murmured, half to himself.

Kee’dril forced a chuckle, though there was a faint undercurrent of unease in the sound. “Running from the future. That’s a new one for me.” He shook his head, his tone turning serious. “I’d rather make sure this doesn’t happen to us. That’s all we can do.”

Naethir glanced back at the center of the Conflux, where the adventurers from their timeline were wrapping up their tasks for the day. The Primalists had been pushed back – for now, buying them time.

“Let’s go,” Kee’dril said, his tone firmer now. “We’ve done what we can here. Time to head back.”

Naethir nodded, falling in step beside him as they approached the portal. But as they stepped through, he couldn’t shake the image of Future Kee’dril disappearing into the storm, and the sharp ache in his chest lingered, leaving him quietly unsettled.

–.o.O.o.–

The shift back into their timeline hit Naethir harder than expected. One moment, the oppressive storm of the Primalist Future swirled around them, biting at his skin with its icy claws. The next, it was gone – replaced by the milder, golden glow of Thaldraszus. The air was still cold, but not in the same way; it was the natural chill of the mountain valley, untainted by the chaos of elemental magic. It should have felt like relief, but it didn’t.

Naethir stopped a few paces from the portal, staring out over the Shifting Sands. The valley stretched before him, its tranquil beauty marred by the faint shimmer of unstable time magic lingering in the air. He grunted, the weight of what they had seen in the Primalist Future pressing down on him like a physical force.

“I never should have asked you for that promise,” Naethir said suddenly, his voice low but edged with something raw. He didn’t look at Kee’dril, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “It wasn’t fair. To put that on you.”

The San’layn stood beside him, silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm but kind. “I’m not taking it back, my friend.”

Naethir turned to him, his expression conflicted. “You should.”

Kee’dril shook his head. “No. That’s not what we need to change to prevent that future.” He met Naethir’s gaze, his red eyes gleaming behind his shaded glasses. “You know that as well as I do.”

For a long moment, Naethir said nothing. Then he exhaled, a short, sharp breath that carried more frustration than relief. “You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Kee’dril’s smirk was faint but genuine. “When is anything ever easy for people like us?”

Naethir gave a small nod, his shoulders still tense. Without another word, he turned and started walking toward the closest path leading them back down to the Shifting Sands. Their work wasn’t finished; not here, not yet. Kee’dril followed, the two of them quietly resuming their task of closing Time Rifts and stabilizing the timeline.

But Naethir’s thoughts were anything but stable.

The image of Future Kee’dril haunted him, the hollow gaze and fractured laughter replaying in his mind. And then there was the other revelation. Future Kee’dril’s words echoed in the void elf’s head: You haven’t turned yet, have you? The knowledge that his future self had indeed become the very thing he feared most, gnawed at Naethir with relentless precision.

His time was running out. He could feel it – an invisible clock ticking in the back of his mind, counting down the days, hours, minutes until he lost himself completely. The Primalist Future had solidified something within him: a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. The bronze dragons had shown no indication of granting them permission to travel to the past, and Naethir doubted they ever would. Even if they agreed to the time travel itself, bringing something – a piece of his own past; his blood – back to the present would violate the rules they so carefully guarded.

That left him with… what? A broken future, a ticking clock, and no path forward. Unless…

Naethir’s thoughts shifted, memories stirring of their early training as apprentice Timewalkers. Back then, the use of time magic had been a delicate thing – easy to channel incorrectly if one wasn’t careful. He had experienced a few so-called hiccups during that time, moments where a spell had gone awry and flung him into brief flashes of the past. The experiences had been disorienting, and they hadn’t always resolved quickly. On some occasions, Dante had been forced to travel into the past himself to retrieve him. The lecture he had received afterward had been as sharp as Dante’s concern had been visible.

But those flashes had always been memories – things he had seen or done, fragments of events he could recall even without the use of time magic. If he could replicate the effect deliberately, there was a chance he could access something he couldn’t remember. Something lost to him, swallowed by the Void and fel.

Naethir’s fingers tightened around the relic in his hand – a small, shimmering dagger that pulsed faintly with unstable time energy. It was a simple task: return the relic to its proper timeline, stabilizing the ripple it had caused. But if he deliberately mishandled the magic….

The risk was significant. Naethir knew that. But the alternative was worse. If the bronze wouldn’t allow him to retrieve his blood for the ritual of which they hoped it could restore his memories, this might be his only chance. He didn’t have time to wait. He had to act now, before it was too late.

He glanced at Kee’dril, who was a few paces ahead, examining another collector. The vampyre was distracted, and that was just as well. Naethir didn’t want him interfering – not with this.

Taking a deep breath, the Death Knight channeled the time magic into the relic, deliberately letting the flow destabilize. The shimmering energy around the dagger grew erratic, sparking and twisting as if resisting his control. He pushed harder, guiding the magic into a dangerous spiral. The air around him shimmered, then everything shifted.

The world dissolved into a blur of light and sound, the familiar landscape of Thaldraszus vanishing in an instant. For a heartbeat, the void elf felt as though he were falling, weightless and untethered…

…then, with a jarring lurch, he landed somewhere else.

The world around Naethir settled into clarity, the rush of time magic fading but still clinging faintly to his frame. Glimmering sands continued to swirl around him as he looked about, standing in the familiar woods of Quel’Thalas. The air smelled crisp and alive, the faint scent of sun-drenched leaves and grass drifting on a gentle breeze. It was a stark contrast to the colder, harsher lands he had grown used to, and for a moment, the sheer familiarity of it made him falter.

He hadn’t seen this place in so long. Not like this.

Naethir’s sharp hearing caught the sound of soft voices. He froze, instinctively moving behind a tree for cover. His fingers tightened on his runeblade before he forced himself to relax. This wasn’t a battlefield. He leaned carefully around the trunk, his gaze narrowing as he tried to make out the figures approaching along the forest path.

When he saw them, his chest tightened.

Two figures emerged from the shadows of the red and gold-leaved trees, bathed in sunlight. The first was unmistakable: Kath’dril. His father’s tall, commanding presence was as familiar to Naethir as the woods themselves. His long, dark brown hair was tied back neatly, just as it always had been, and his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, a natural gesture that radiated confidence and readiness.

Beside him, holding onto his father’s other hand, was a child; a boy, no more than six or seven, with lighter brown hair that gleamed in the sunlight. Naethir flinched as recognition struck him like a physical blow. That’s me.

Kath’dril suddenly paused, his sharp gaze sweeping the trees around them. His expression darkened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Wait here, Inean,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The boy – little Inean – stopped obediently, his wide eyes watching his father with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Naethir ducked back behind the tree, his heart racing. He knows someone’s here. Panic seized him as Kath’dril’s footsteps drew closer. He couldn’t run – his presence here was already a mistake, and he didn’t dare draw more attention to himself. But hiding was futile. Kath’dril’s sharp instincts would find him no matter what.

When his father stepped around the tree, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, Naethir did the only thing he could think to do.

“Don’t be afraid, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, pointedly stepping away from the blade he had thrust point first into the ground. The faint echo of undeath clung to his words, making them sound hollow, unnatural.

Kath’dril froze, his eyes widening in shock. Soon after, recognition dawned in his gaze. “Inean?” he breathed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “What…? How?”

Naethir swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I… I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “Back home, after your death-”

“Don’t!” Kath’dril cut him off sharply, his tone commanding.

Naethir fell silent immediately, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like a chastened child, time magic softly swirling around him.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the weight of Kath’dril’s words hanging heavy in the air. Then his father’s expression softened slightly, though it was still marked by tension. “This…,” he began, his voice quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to Naethir. “I’ve had dealings with the bronze dragons before… but they wouldn’t work with the Lich King. That means….” Kath’dril’s hand dropped away from his sword, eyes flickering back and forth as if trying to keep up with the tumble of questions that must be whirling through the man’s mind. He took a deep breath, likely to ask some of them, but instead stopped himself abruptly, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. “No. They’d need to fix this.”

Kath’dril’s gaze focused on Naethir’s face once more, his sharp features softening with something that might have been sorrow. He stepped forward and reached out, his hand brushing Naethir’s cheek in a gesture so gentle it made Naethir’s chest ache.

“I hope you’ll succeed in whatever has brought you back to this time, son,” Kath’dril said softly. Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

Naethir remained frozen in place, his body rigid and his mind racing. He could only listen as his father returned to the boy, the two of them obscured by the trees.

“What was it, ann’da?” little Inean asked curiously.

“Nothing to worry about,” Kath’dril replied, his tone steady and reassuring. The two began walking again, their voices growing faint.

But Naethir didn’t need to hear them to know what came next. He remembered this day. He had lived it. It had been a quiet walk through the woods, a moment he hadn’t thought about in years – until now. His father had talked to him about the duties of an older brother that day. It had also been the day Kath’dril had told him Erezia was with child again, that he would soon have not one but two little brothers.

Naethir clenched his hands into fists, then retrieved his runeblade. He remembered how his father had picked him up and hugged him tightly, the unexpected intensity of the embrace making him worry at the time. He remembered asking: Is something wrong? And his father’s reply – soft, steady, and completely puzzling to his young self – still echoed in his mind: No, don’t worry. I’ll always love you.

Back then, he had thought it had something to do with them having an addition to the family, but…. Naethir’s chest tightened, the ache of the memory sharp and sudden. But before he could dwell on it further, a voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

“There you are!” Andantenormu’s familiar voice cut through the haze of Naethir’s emotions. The bronze dragon, in his tauren visage form, strode toward him, his tone brisk and slightly exasperated. “We need to go.”

Naethir turned, startled, and instinctively glanced toward the trees where his father and little Inean had disappeared. Kath’dril’s voice carried faintly through the forest, the words indistinct but still audible enough to remind Naethir of their presence.

Dante followed his gaze, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Have they seen you?”

Naethir hesitated, his throat tightening again. He shook his head, not trusting his voice. They hadn’t. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

“Good,” Dante said, his tone firm. “Now let’s hurry.” He grabbed Naethir’s arm and pulled him back toward the swirling sands of time magic that had brought him here.

The woods of Quel’Thalas faded away, dissolving into the familiar blur of light and sound as Naethir was dragged back to the present.

But the ache in his chest lingered, sharper than ever.

–.o.O.o.–

Kee’dril stood at the edge of the temporal flow, his eyes narrowing as the shimmering sands of time swirled and distorted the space where Naethir had vanished. His grip on the hilt of his sole blade tightened, though there was no one to fight. Just the oppressive weight of unease settling over him like a thick, suffocating fog.

The moment Naethir had disappeared, Kee’dril had bolted to find Dante. The bronze dragon, as reliable as always, hadn’t wasted time. Now, Kee’dril waited, his gaze locked on the shimmering magic before him. When the air shifted and Andantenormu stepped through, Naethir stumbling at his side, Kee’dril felt the tension in his shoulders ease – but only slightly. Something was off. He could see it in the way Naethir carried himself, the distant, haunted look in his eyes.

Before Kee’dril could say anything, Zera landed nearby, her wings kicking up a gust of wind as she called for Dante’s attention.

“Thank the Aspects you’re back! I tried but couldn’t track her. Another adventurer was just caught by a hiccup,” she explained.

“Seems to be the day for it,” Dante muttered to himself, then hesitated, his gaze flickering to Naethir for a moment before turning to Kee’dril. “Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly. He turned, his form rippling as he shifted into his drake form. His golden scales gleamed as he spread his wings and took to the air, following Zera as she flew ahead toward the forests.

The Warrior turned back to Naethir, who stood motionless, staring at the ground as though lost in another time. Kee’dril stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What happened?”

Naethir didn’t answer at first, his lips pressing together. Then, in a quiet, resigned tone, he said: “I messed up.”

The undead blood elf frowned, his brow furrowing. “I noticed that. I mean… in the past?”

Naethir’s eyes flickered toward him, but the look was fleeting. “I spoke to… my father.”

“You did?”

The Death Knightnodded slowly, and this time his voice was uneven, shaken. “He called me his son.”

Kee’dril blinked, stunned into silence for a moment, struck by his friend’s emphasis. It wasn’t the young Inean Kath’dril had addressed as his son – it was Naethir, his grown, undead son. The realization settled over Kee’dril like a heavy weight. Kath’dril must have learned a great deal from that brief encounter, more than Naethir himself likely realized.

“Of course he would,” the vampyre said gently, but couldn’t quite shake his worry either. “Does Dante know?”

“No,” Naethir admitted quickly, his voice tinged with desperation. “Please don’t tell him or the other Timewalkers!”

“I won’t. I promise,” Kee’dril replied, shaking his head firmly. He wasn’t about to throw his friend into the bronze’s wrath. More than that, though, the San’layn couldn’t bring himself to take this moment away from Naethir. He could already see how important it was. This wasn’t something the bronze dragons could – or should – erase.

Naethir seemed to sink further into himself, his gaze distant. His voice dropped to a whisper, more to himself than Kee’dril. “He wasn’t speaking to young me back then, but to… my present self. But… that would mean he knew all these years….”

His hand rose slowly, almost reverently, to touch his cheek. “He knew… and the day he died…. No… but then again, he would’ve had decades to mull over my words back then…” His voice cracked, and his hand fell back to his side as his knees buckled.

Kee’dril moved quickly, steadying him before he fully collapsed. But Naethir didn’t fight to stand. Silent tears rolled down his face, glistening faintly in the light of the evening. Kee’dril knelt beside him, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. The cool metal of his gauntlet pressed against Naethir’s armor, but Kee’dril knew the meaning of the gesture went deeper than touch.

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say. So he stayed, grounding Naethir as his friend silently grieved.

The sound of wing beats broke the stillness, and Kee’dril glanced up to see Dante returning. The bronze dragon landed with surprising grace for his size, his wings folding neatly against his sides. He approached slowly, clearly having noted Naethir’s state, his head lowering until his sharp, golden snout was close to Kee’dril’s elongated ear.

When Dante spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft for such a massive creature, carrying a note of quiet concern. “Will he be alright?”

Kee’dril hesitated, his gaze flickering back to Naethir. His tears were still leaving smudgy lines on his pale skin like streaks of charcoal on a pristine canvas. He was in pain, but that didn’t necessarily had to be a bad thing. Healing could hurt, too.

“I think he will,” Kee’dril said finally. “He merely saw someone he misses a lot.”

Dante studied Naethir for a moment longer, his gaze thoughtful. Then he gave a short, sharp nod and backed away. “Let me know if he needs anything.” Without waiting for a response, he leaped, his powerful legs propelling him into the air. His wings spread wide, catching the wind as he rose into the sky and disappeared toward the outpost.

It took time for Naethir to recover, but Kee’dril waited patiently. When his friend finally straightened, Kee’dril gave him a moment before speaking. “You want to tell me what that was really about?” he asked gently.

Naethir’s shoulders stiffened, and he looked away. “I messed up on purpose,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I wanted… I thought I could avoid the ritual. If I could see the past – the things I’ve forgotten – then I wouldn’t need the blood.”

Kee’dril sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Naethir….”

“I thought it would work!” Naethir snapped, though the frustration in his voice was directed at himself. “We’re running out of time. You heard what he said – what happened to both of us. I can’t let that become true. Neither for me, nor for you.”

Kee’dril’s expression hardened, though his tone remained steady. “The Primalist Future isn’t set in stone, Naethir. It’s a potential future, not a certain one. We can avoid it. But not like this.”

Naethir’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Even if the bronze agreed to let you revisit the past,” Kee’dril continued, “it wouldn’t work. You’d need to travel back too many times to recover everything you’ve lost. They’d never allow that. And if you keep causing these hiccups, they’ll figure out what you’re doing – and shut us out entirely.”

Naethir lowered his head, the weight of Kee’dril’s words pressing down on him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was impatient. Every time I try to do something for myself, I just… I mess it up.”

“That’s why we’re doing this together,” Kee’dril said firmly. “You don’t have to face this alone. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Naethir looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Kee’dril. He clapped a hand on Naethir’s shoulder and stood, offering his friend a hand to pull him up.

“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Text

The wind whistled sharply across the vast expanse of ocean, the sky above a deep canvas of midnight blue, broken only by the pale silver light of the moon piercing through wisps of dark cloud. Below, the sea churned in restless undulations, reflecting the glow of the stars like shattered glass upon its surface.

Aadrithea soared through the storm’s dying remnants, riding the air currents in her raven form. It had been far worse before – Raszageth’s death had caused the great tempests surrounding the Forbidden Reach to finally abate, leaving behind only fading turbulence. The storm had served its purpose well, guarding the ancient secrets buried within the Reach, denying the enemy access to Neltharion’s abandoned holdings. But with the Storm-Eater slain, nothing remained to keep them away.

The Druid was not alone in the sky. Above and ahead of her, three massive figures blotted out sections of the heavens: Iridikron the Stonescaled, Vyranoth the Frozenheart, and Fyrakk the Blazing. The Primal Incarnates flew with the effortless might of beings unshackled after millennia of imprisonment, their immense wings beating against the air with a force that seemed to shake the very sky.

Iridikron was a behemoth among them, his giant form shaped like the mountains themselves, his very scales a jagged landscape of darkened stone. His colossal wings carried him forward with a slow, deliberate pace, bespeaking him as an unstoppable force.

Vyranoth was different, cutting through the air like a blade of ice, her form sleek and adorned with jagged frost. Rime clung to the edges of her wings as they sliced through the wind like razors. A biting chill followed in her wake, a ghostly mist forming around her body as if the very air recoiled from her presence.

And then there was Fyrakk.

A blazing specter of fury, his body wreathed in molten light that pulsed through the cracks in his obsidian skin. His horns flared outward in fiery arcs, the glow of smoldering embers trailing his movements as he flew in restless circles around the others, never content to simply glide forward. Aadrithea could feel the heat radiating from him even at this distance, his presence a stark contrast to his female sibling and the cold of the night.

Though she flew behind them, Aadrithea was not insignificant. Unlike other mortals who had fought alongside Raszageth, she remained. She had proven herself worthy of this battle, of this cause. She was no lesser being, no fragile thing to be cast aside like so many others. The storm had not claimed her – only strengthened her resolve.

The Vault of the Incarnates had been a hard-won victory.

The Primalists had fought fiercely, throwing everything they had into the battle to stall the ever-meddling Alliance and Horde adventurers in company of Khadgar and Kalecgos, while Raszageth worked to unseal her siblings’ titan-forged prisons.

Commander Eranog had fallen early – an unforeseen loss. Without his leadership, the battle had teetered precariously, forcing Aadrithea to act. It had been her idea to summon Terros from the Elemental Plane, the great hulking terror of stone and destruction. Though the ritual had been interrupted, leaving the beast trapped between realms, it had still been enough. The delay had been precious, stealing the mortals’ time while Raszageth worked on the titans’ wretched bindings.

The so-called heroes of Azeroth had done what they always did – fought blindly, cut down those in their path, and claimed victory through sheer force. And in the end, they had killed Raszageth.

But they had been too late.

The prisons had shattered. And the Incarnates were free.

Aadrithea had expected to feel something in Raszageth’s absence – grief, perhaps, or rage. But she felt nothing. Raszageth had been a force of nature, but not one Aadrithea had ever truly connected with. The Storm-Eater had been unpredictable, erratic, too consumed by the past to see the greater future. Her death was a loss, but not an end.

The Primalists no longer needed Raszageth for their cause to survive. Nor did they need Kurog Grimtotem.

He, too, had fallen in the Vault. The Shaman had been the driving force behind Raszageth’s release, the one who had first given their movement shape. Aadrithea had respected his conviction, but she had never liked him. Kurog had been a tool – one they no longer required.

But not all losses had been so easy to dismiss.

The siblings Dathea and Kadros – Aadrithea’s kin – had risen high in the Primalist ranks, their power undeniable. When they had ascended to the Primal Council, the Druid had felt proud. They had been more than just allies to her; they had been a testament to what the kaldorei could become when freed from Elune’s empty promises and the shackles of the titans’ will.

And now, they were gone.

Kadros had fought valiantly, but in the end, he had fallen like so many others. And Dathea… Dathea had gone too far.

Aadrithea had seen what she had become – had watched as Raszageth granted her more power than she could contain. The Incarnate had known the price, had given Dathea the gift of power regardless, knowing full well it would consume her.

And yet… hadn’t Dathea wanted that? Hadn’t she sought that strength, that vengeance for Kadros? How far should one go to avenge the fallen?

Aadrithea clenched her talons against the wind, her feathers ruffling against the cold night air.

Sacrificing one’s own life for revenge seemed excessive to her.

Ahead, the jagged silhouette of Forbidden Reach drew closer and soon, Aadrithea and the Incarnates soared between its mountains toward the Old Weyrn Grounds.

Eventually, they descended and headed for the landing platform before the War Creche. The structure loomed before them, an imposing titan-crafted entrance set against the mountainside, its towering archway framed by the tattered banners of Neltharion. The old sigils of the Earth-Warder still clung stubbornly to the past, their edges frayed and torn by time and Raszageth’s storms. The thick trees surrounding the entrance rustled violently as the last vestiges of Raszageth’s tempest still echoed through the land.

Spellsworn wardens awaited them.

Aadrithea watched as the blue-scaled dragonkin bristled in recognition of the intruders, their armored forms tensed, weapons raised in warning. They had once been the last line of defense in Malygos’ service, placed into stasis alongside their captives when the Forbidden Reach had been sealed. Now, like the dracthyr, they had awakened to find their world changed – and their loyalty unchanged. With Malygos long dead and their Aspect’s will having turned to dust, they still clung to his last command: to stop escaped dracthyr and to keep outsiders from uncovering whatever secrets had been left behind.

The Spellsworn never had a chance.

Vyranoth struck first. She inhaled sharply, her chest expanding, and then exhaled a freezing gust of all-consuming cold. The frost surged over the defenders, their bodies instantly locking into ice. She swung her wing like a massive blade, shattering them into frozen shards.

Fyrakk wasted no time in following suit, his molten claws glowing as he pounced upon another cluster of dragonspawn. His flames ignited their armor, their flesh – whatever they touched was reduced to ashes within moments. He laughed, delighted in their screams before they were silenced in a wave of fire.

Iridikron, ever methodical, raised a single, taloned wing, his massive bulk barely moving. Aadrithea watched as the air around his intended targets thickened, the ground beneath them quivering as if struck by an unseen tremor. The Spellsworn hesitated, barely able to react before the very stone beneath their paws betrayed them, rising in jagged spears that impaled them from below. They collapsed without so much as a cry, their bodies nothing but broken remnants on the rocky platform.

As the last of the Spellsworn fell, Aadrithea landed lightly on the stone, shifting seamlessly from her raven form into her kaldorei shape. The transformation was second nature, her feline grace carried into her bipedal stance as she took stock of her surroundings. Her skin, dark as the deep night, bore the pale green markings of her kind, the claw-like streaks running sharp around her golden eyes. Her black hair was drawn into a single thick braid that draped over one shoulder, its loose strands catching in the wind.

She turned her gaze toward the entrance of the War Creche, noting its arched design, the titan-forged metal embedded in the stone. The structure was large by mortal standards, but not so large that three full-sized primal dragons would fit inside. She narrowed her eyes slightly, considering. Perhaps that was why she had been brought along.

The thought stirred a bitter amusement within her. She had always known her decision to maintain her Druidic shapeshifting had been a boon rather than a hindrance. Unlike Dathea or Kadros, who had abandoned all they once were to fully embrace the elemental power, Aadrithea had found a balance. The Incarnates had never questioned her commitment, nor had they seen it as weakness. They had seen it for what it was: wisdom.

But then something unexpected happened: the Incarnates shifted.

Aadrithea’s breath caught as she watched, for she had never seen Raszageth do the same, had believed this ability to be a gift granted to the dragons by the titans. But apparently these forms were pure, untouched by the titans’ corruption.

Iridikron’s visage form was sculpted from the earth itself. A towering figure, his body composed of light stone, his molten core barely contained beneath the cracked expanse of his chest. A hood rested over his head, with his curved horns jutting forward from the shadow of its depths, and leather straps bound his chest, as if holding him together. His hands and shoulders were covered by metal armor, his lower body by a sturdy kilt.

Vyranoth was ice itself, a figure seemingly cast from frozen mist and jagged frost. Her form was sleek, yet sharp, crystalline spikes rising from her head in a mockery of hair, her features cold and statuesque. A wing-like dress curled over one shoulder.

Fyrakk’s limbs were long and thin, but there was strength in them, an unnatural, twitching energy that hinted at barely-contained madness. His mandible-like jaws twitched in tandem with his tail, blazing horns rising above his stony face. His armor was less a defense and more an extension of his being; spiked stone covering his chest, shins, wrist and shoulders like cooled-down sections in a sea of magma.

Still baffled, Aadrithea followed them inside.

The corridor leading into the Creche was dark, the air thick with ancient dust. They had not gone far before they encountered their first obstacle: a collapsed passageway, stone debris blocking their path.

Iridikron stepped forward, his right hand glowing with barely restrained power.

“While the Aspects’ power has waned, their forces grow stronger,” he mused. “And we must even the scales.”

Aadrithea barely had time to brace herself before Iridikron unleashed his might. A deafening crack echoed through the chamber as the rubble burst apart, the force of his will alone carving a path forward. She exhaled, impressed despite herself.

“They kept so many secrets…” Vyranoth murmured, stepping forward as dust settled around them. “From us, and even from each other.”

They moved on, descending into a cavernous chamber: a vast space with a pit of molten rock to one side, glowing red and emanating dim light. Steps led further into the chamber, toward the shadowed remains of what once had been a place of power.

Aadrithea halted when she saw it: a dragon statue, ancient and unmoving. As she stared, she noticed its eye glint, a flicker of red light scanning their presence.

Then, the ground trembled.

Glowing circles flared to life across the floor of the chamber, and from them, crystalline earth elementals crawled forth, pulling themselves into motion. Aadrithea tensed, recognizing the trap too late.

A towering elemental lunged toward Vyranoth, but with a single exhale, she froze it solid. It shattered before it could even reach her.

Another rumbled as it swung down upon Fyrakk, only to be caught in his strong grip, its stone form melting into lava at his touch. Fyrakk laughed, letting the molten remains drip from his claws.

Iridikron barely moved. He simply raised his hand, lifting the remaining elementals into the air, then crushed them with a flick of his wrist, turning them to dust.

Aadrithea exhaled. There had never been any real danger. She had been foolish to think otherwise. It was a stark reminder that the Incarnates were beyond mortal limits – beyond her limits. Whatever this place had been, whatever traps Neltharion had left behind, they were insignificant before the might of Raszageth’s kin.

Iridikron stepped forward, his gaze locked on the dragon statue that had triggered the ambush. His glowing hand flexed as if reaching for something unseen.

“It is here,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying across the cavern like distant thunder. “Neltharion’s betrayal shattered their unity…” Iridikron said, his voice thick with meaning. “Left fissures in their hearts.”

Aadrithea carefully moved closer, curious to see what happened.

The other Incarnates stepped forward, their eyes gleaming in the dim, molten light. Iridikron lifted his right hand again, and this time, the power he channeled pulsed with purpose. The air vibrated as an unseen force gripped the statue, and with a sharp motion, he lifted it from its foundation.

At its base, an artifact was embedded – an ancient relic surrounded by a glowing rune. As soon as it was exposed, Aadrithea felt a deep, resonating hum beneath her feet, as if the very earth was acknowledging the artifact’s presence. A secret buried beneath the weight of ages, now unearthed.

“Yet the pain he inflicted was only the beginning,” Iridikron continued, reaching down.

He grasped the artifact, his massive, gauntleted fingers curling around it as his power flowed into its core. It flared to life – runes hidden within it pushed outside, hovering above the disc.

Vyranoth’s icy gaze narrowed as she studied the runes. “Aberrus,” she intoned, the name carrying an edge of contempt. “His hidden laboratory.”

Aadrithea’s eyes widened. She had heard rumors of Neltharion’s secret experiments, his twisted creations. Had this been the place where they had been fashioned?

Iridikron’s molten heart pulsed visibly through the fractured stone of his chest as he rumbled: “One last secret, deep within the earth.”

With a final surge of power, he released his grip, and the artifact dimmed, its magic stabilizing. The chamber grew eerily silent in its wake, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

Aadrithea inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Whatever Neltharion had hidden here, the Incarnates had found what they were looking for. They turned and left the War Creche behind.

Outside the War Creche, the storm had weakened further, the once howling winds reduced to restless whispers. Even here the moonlight now flickered from behind shifting clouds, on and off illuminating the jagged peaks of the Forbidden Reach.

Vyranoth’s stern face turned toward the sky. “It will not take long now,” she pointed out. “With the storm fading, others will grow bold. They will come.”

The Druid followed her stare, watching the heavens with a calculating frown. Vyranoth was right. Secrets, once uncovered, had a way of drawing scavengers, fools, and opportunists like flies to a corpse. Even now, she wondered if the enemies of the Primalists had already taken notice of the shifting winds.

Iridikron turned toward her, his stone-etched visage unreadable in the dim light of the night. “Spymistress, did you ensure that Sarkareth and his Sundered Flame will head directly for the Old Weyrn Grounds and the War Creche?”

Aadrithea inclined her head. “Yes. Our spies spread whispers of Neltharion’s treasures hidden there.” She allowed herself the smallest smirk. “They believe themselves the rightful heirs to his legacy. It was not difficult to stoke their hunger for what was left behind.”

Fyrakk snorted, the sound more like the crackling of a fresh fire being kindled. His ember-lit eyes glowed with disdain. “Dracthyr. Twisted, malformed things. How desperate must a creature be to cling to the scraps of a dead tyrant?” His lip curled, revealing teeth like smoldering stone. “Pathetic.”

Aadrithea did not immediately respond. Instead, she let his words roll over her, considering them as she studied the three Incarnates before her.

Fyrakk unsettled her in a way Raszageth never had. There was something unhinged in him, something cruel; not the reckless destruction Raszageth had wielded in her raw, untamed power, but a deliberate, hungry malice. He didn’t just destroy; he relished in it. She had no doubt that, given the chance, he would burn the world for no reason beyond his own satisfaction.

Iridikron, by contrast, was far more measured. He was deliberate, calculated; always thinking, always planning. There was a ruthlessness in him, one that did not seem bound by any morality the Druid could recognize. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals, and though she was devoted to the Primalists’ cause, she could not shake the awareness that he would sacrifice any one of them if it furthered his plans.

Vyranoth was the one she favored most, though favor was a strong word. The Frozenheart was distant, cold, but rational. She did not waste words or let emotions cloud her actions. Aadrithea respected that. If there was an Incarnate she would willingly serve, it was her.

Iridikron, having ignored Fyrakk’s words, now turned his full attention back to Aadrithea.

“The Sundered Flame will be useful,” he said with certainty. “They seek strength, purpose. If guided correctly, they will serve as a useful distraction.”

Aadrithea gave a sharp nod. “Shall I continue monitoring them?”

“Yes,” Iridikron confirmed. “Keep an eye on Sarkareth and his followers. If they move to travel here, you will inform us at once.”

Without hesitation, Aadrithea lowered herself onto one knee before them, bowing her head in deference. “It will be done.”

She had no trouble kneeling before Iridikron and Vyranoth, recognizing their authority without question. Fyrakk, however, was another matter. But she could ignore him.

For now.

–.o.O.o.–

Night draped the Forbidden Reach in shadow, a light rain falling over the jagged landscape. Aadrithea glided above the darkened terrain, her raven form blending seamlessly with the dark-clouded sky. The last remnants of Raszageth’s storm still stirred the winds, but they were fading; weakening with every hour of her absence.

Hours earlier, Aadrithea had reported to the Incarnates, concealed at Talon’s Watch, a lonely tower rising from an island halfway between the Waking Shores and the Reach. Sarkareth and his Sundered Flame were on their way. The first bait taken. And now, she followed them through the night.

Below her, three figures carefully walked along the old stone paths, their scaled forms nearly blending with the dark. Aadrithea knew exactly who they were. The Primalists’ agents embedded within the Sundered Flame had provided ample intelligence about Sarkareth’s movements, as well as the identities of those closest to him. The Scalecommander led the way, his golden scales dimly reflecting the moonlight. Dezran and Civotrath, his most trusted lieutenants, flanked him as they ascended toward the Old Weyrn Grounds.

A distant roar broke the night.

Sarkareth tensed, halting abruptly. His sharp eyes turned skyward.

Aadrithea followed his gaze. Across the heavens, three immense figures streaked through the clouds: Iridikron, Vyranoth, and Fyrakk, their glowing forms unmistakable against the dark sky.

Sarkareth’s voice was a sharp whisper. “Take cover!”

The three dracthyr bolted for the nearest trees, crouching beneath the thick branches, their wings tucked close to their bodies. Above them, the Incarnates carved through the sky, their massive wings sending currents rippling through the air.

A nervous whisper broke the silence. “Who are they, Sarkareth? Is it the Aspects?” Civotrath’s voice trembled slightly.

Aadrithea shifted just enough to glance down at them. She wasn’t able to read Sarkareth’s thoughts, but she saw them reflected in his magenta eyes: the glowing forms of the three Incarnates soaring past, the last remnants of the storm breaking around them.

“No,” Sarkareth replied grimly. “Raszageth’s kin.”

Aadrithea allowed herself a smirk. Iridikron had planned this well. The dracthyr had been given warning, a taste of what lurked in the shadows before it could pounce. Now, they would feel the need to act; to lay claim to whatever Neltharion had left behind before others did.

As soon as the Incarnates disappeared over the ridge, Sarkareth motioned for his lieutenants to move. They rushed forward, making for the entrance of the War Creche, their movements urgent but controlled. Their eyes darted over the ruins, searching for signs of intrusion. There were no Spellsworn bodies left to spot.

However, they weren’t wrong to be cautious.

Just as they were about to step inside, the Incarnates circled back.

Sarkareth hissed through clenched teeth. Without hesitation, he and his warriors ducked behind the tall decorative arches flanking the entrance, their scaled bodies pressed into the stone’s shadow.

Aadrithea landed silently behind them, shifting into her cat form.

Cloaked in the darkness, she crouched low, hidden in the long, wet grass. Her keen eyes tracked the Incarnates as they descended upon the War Creche.

The moment their clawed feet touched the ground, they shifted.

The air crackled with elemental power as the three primal dragons melted into their visage forms, humanoid yet outlandish.

Vyranoth was the first to speak, her voice tinged with sadness. “The last echoes of her storm are fading. She is truly gone.”

Fyrakk scoffed, his molten eyes flaring. “We should be devouring her murderers’ hearts.”

Iridikron, as always, remained composed. His deep voice rumbled like shifting stone. “Do not underestimate them, Fyrakk. Our sister’s overconfidence was her downfall.”

Aadrithea’s tail twitched as she watched them stride into the War Creche. They knew the dracthyr were watching. They knew exactly how this had to play out.

The three dracthyr remained still, barely daring to breathe, and the Druid stayed with them, knowing it would not be long before the Incarnates reappeared. Minutes passed. Then, as expected, the Primal Incarnates emerged once more.

Vyranoth’s gaze settled on the artifact in Iridikron’s grasp. “The location of Aberrus must lie within this vessel. I’ll decipher its knowledge.”

Iridikron handed it to her without hesitation. Fyrakk, however, scoffed, his lip curling in disdain.

“What use are Neltharion’s twisted experiments to us?”

“The laboratory itself is of no consequence,” Iridikron replied. “But the molten fire that powers it… that we can use.”

Aadrithea barely suppressed an amused purr.

Not far away, Sarkareth leaned in, whispering his command. “Keep eyes on them, Dezran. Whatever remains of Neltharion’s legacy… belongs to us.”

Perfect. The Incarnates had given them a push, and now, Sarkareth would lead his forces exactly where they were meant to go. Aadrithea watched as the Incarnates took to the skies once more, their vast wings sending waves of wind rippling through the treetops.

As expected, Dezran peeled away, slipping into the shadows to tail them. Sarkareth, however, remained, his expression sour.

Civotrath turned to him hesitantly. “Have you ever heard of Aberrus before, Scalecommander?”

“No.” A muscle in Sarkareth’s reptile face twitched. “Damn it. We were too slow. That vessel should’ve been ours.”

Frustration simmered between the two dracthyr, but Sarkareth was nothing if not decisive. His eyes hardened with determination.

“Civotrath,” he ordered, “split our forces. Tell them to search and ransack the island. There must be more clues. More treasures. We will claim what is rightfully ours.”

Civotrath saluted swiftly. “At once.”

As the dracthyr moved, so did Aadrithea. Silently, she withdrew into the night, satisfaction curling within her.

The plan had taken root. Now, it was only a matter of time.

–.o.O.o.–

Morning had broken over the Forbidden Reach, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the sky was clear. The storm that had long raged over the island was gone, leaving only the crisp sea breeze and the warmth of the sun breaking through the dissipating mist.

Aadrithea stretched her limbs where she lay concealed among the ruins of Talonlord’s Perch, her black fur finally beginning to dry. She had spent the night tailing the Sundered Flame, ensuring that they found the clues intentionally left behind for them. Thus far, everything was proceeding as planned.

Civotrath and his search party had led her here, where they combed through the crumbling remains of Neltharion’s past, scouring the ruins for whatever scraps of knowledge might lead them closer to their supposed legacy. Aadrithea crouched within the shadows of a half-collapsed archway, her cat eyes fixed on the dracthyr.

Then, movement. A reptile figure slipped into view that approached with deliberate care, making an effort not to be seen. Aadrithea tensed, her ears flicking forward as she focused on the newcomer. Another dracthyr. But not Sundered Flame.

The blue-scaled dracthyr moved with purpose, eyes sweeping over the group until they locked onto one particular figure.

Sarkareth’s lieutenant, oblivious at first, continued to scour the rubble. But when the newcomer threw a small object – hitting his target spot-on at the shoulder – Civotrath stiffened. His head jerked up, blue eyes narrowing in suspicion. He hesitated, then cast a wary glance at his comrades before following the newcomer out of sight and earshot behind one of the ruined buildings a little farther away.

Curious, Aadrithea ghosted after them, her presence undetected.

The moment they halted, the black and blue scaled dracthyr crossed his arms, his wings twitching with impatience.

“I should’ve known you’d show up eventually,” he muttered. “How did you find us here, Straszan?”

The other dracthyr took a steadying breath, his silver and purple armor reflecting the early morning light that filtered through the trees.

“No lucky coincidence,” he admitted, his tone softer than Civotrath’s. “I hoped you’d come. Our home is calling to all of us, isn’t it? I expected the Sundered Flame to feel it too, to seize the chance to return now that the storm is gone. I’m glad I was right.”

Civotrath exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “Let me guess, you came to drag me back to Emberthal’s little band of faithfuls? Hoping I’d see the light and fall in line with the Aspects like a good soldier?”

Straszan stiffened but held his ground. “I came because you’re my clutch-mate,” he stated firmly, “because I know you, Civo. This,” he gestured toward the ruins behind them, where the rest of the Sundered Flame continued its search, “this isn’t you. All Sarkareth is accomplishing is to burn bridges before they’re even built; to make enemies of those who should be our allies! But you can still leave this behind. Please, come with me.”

Hidden in the undergrowth, Aadrithea found herself straining to follow their words. Their Draconic had a strange, old-fashioned ring to it, different from the modern dialects of the dragons she had become familiar with over the past odd year. Even the Incarnates spoke in a way that was easier to understand. She didn’t particularly like spying on dracthyr for that very reason, but still she listened intently.

Civotrath snarled, his patience clearly thinning. “And who are our allies supposed to be, Straszan? The Aspects?” His wings flared as his voice sharpened. “Do you even remember what they did to us? They locked us away! Left us to rot. Forgotten for millennia! You and Emberthal are bowing to those who took everything from us, taking orders like nothing ever happened.”

“I know what they did, but-,” Straszan began, obviously shaken by his clutch-mate’s fierce reaction.

“But what?” Sarkareth’s lieutenant cut in, eyes narrowing. “You still think Emberthal and her followers made the right choice? You’re all fools. We don’t need the Aspects. We don’t need to be their obedient little creations anymore.” Civotrath stepped closer, jabbing a claw toward the blue scaled dracthyr’s chest. “The Sundered Flame has done the only sensible thing. We’ve renounced the vows that chained us to them. We’ll go our own way and claim what’s rightfully ours.”

Straszan exhaled slowly, his voice quieter now. “Civo, your anger at the other Aspects blinds you. They did us wrong, I won’t even deny that, but it was Neltharion who abandoned us first! He’s the one who locked us away when he lost the means to control us. It was him who called on Malygos’ aid to put us into stasis!”

Civotrath’s entire body went rigid. “You have no proof of that.”

“Nozdormu showed Scalecommander Emberthal visions of what happened,” the blue-scaled dracthyr stated calmly.

“Oh, did he?” His clutch-mate sneered. “I hadn’t expected you to be so naive. Visions. Do you think the Aspect of Time couldn’t easily manipulate those? That they’d show you anything but their own version of events?”

Straszan sighed, rubbing a hand over his snout. “Fine, let’s ignore that matter for now. Instead tell me what that legacy is supposed to be that Sarkareth seeks. Do you even know?”

For the first time, the other dracthyr faltered. Uncertainty flickered across his face. Aadrithea watched carefully, noting the way the white scaled jaw of the otherwise black and blue dracthyr clenched before he spoke with forced conviction.

“Neltharion carved his own path. Now we’ll do the same; what our father would’ve wanted – before the Aspects killed him.”

“Our father’s path?” Straszan’s frustration gave way to something more raw, his voice now pleading. “Civo, Neltharion was corrupted by the Void, that’s why the Aspects had to stop him!”

Civotrath’s eyes flashed and he let out a growl, shaking his head. “And you just believe that? Do you swallow every lie the Aspects feed you? The others feared him because he had found a power greater than theirs. That’s why they turned on father. Murdered him.”

“They aren’t lies,” Straszan insisted, sounding resigned at the same time, probably sensing his efforts to sway his clutch-mate were of no avail. His wings drooped as he added softly: “Neltharion wasn’t the father you think he was. His legacy is not something we should be proud of; it’s one of betrayal and madness.”

Civotrath averted his gaze. “Leave, Straszan. Go back to your new friends. Stop following me.” His tail lashed against the ground in agitation. “Next time I find you spying on our ranks, I’ll take you before Sarkareth myself. And he has no patience for Aspects’ lapdogs.”

Straszan flinched, his breath catching for a moment before he set his jaw. “I won’t follow you again,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you find the truth on your own. When you do, you’ll know where to find me. I’ll be waiting for you. Always.”

Civotrath’s shoulders tensed. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something; his claws twitched, his wings lifting slightly. Then, just as swiftly, he shut down whatever emotion had flickered through his expression.

Without another word, he turned and stalked back toward the ruins, rejoining the other Sundered Flame in their search for clues.

Straszan remained where he was for a long moment, his shoulders tense, his clawed hands curled into fists.

Aadrithea watched as he exhaled, turning away with a quiet, sorrowful expression before taking off into the sky.

The Druid slowly slunk back into the deeper shadows, watching as Civotrath rejoined his comrades, his body language tense, his movements clipped.

That, she mused, had not been a pleasant conversation. But it had been an interesting one.

Aadrithea cast another glance in the direction Straszan had flown, his shimmering blue scales now nothing but a faint glimmer in the distance. A moment of fleeting pity settled in her chest. They were both stubbornly refusing to see the truth. Both equally blind. At least Civotrath no longer listened to the Aspects. Straszan, on the other hand, still clung to them and their lies about the titans.

And yet, despite Civotrath’s conviction, he was walking an even more dangerous path. Aadrithea could see it, even if he did not. The Sundered Flame was being led toward a darkness that would likely swallow them all. Their reckless defiance made them useful for now, but ultimately, they were little more than pawns. She wondered if the two brothers would ever see each other again – if Civotrath would live long enough to understand the truth Straszan had tried to show him.

Perhaps not.

Her cat eyes narrowed slightly as she considered the broader picture. The Sundered Flame and their dracthyr were unlike the drakonid who served the Primalists. The drakonid followed them willingly, having abandoned their old masters without much thought – trading servitude to the Aspects for servitude to the Incarnates. They still followed, obeyed, fought, and died without question. They had been created to serve, after all, uplifted from mere tarasek to be the ever-loyal attendants of their dragon masters.

The dracthyr were different. Neltharion had needed a tool to control them, something more forceful; something ensuring their obedience. Straszan had been right about that. The Oathbinder, Aadrithea recalled from Raszageth’s descriptions, a titan-forged artifact, a glove infused with Order magic. It had allowed the Earth-Warder to subjugate the dracthyr, to bend them to his will without question. Only when Raszageth destroyed it had they been freed, and then Neltharion had locked them away. Sealed them beneath the earth like an old mistake.

That was the difference, wasn’t it? The dracthyr had to be forced or manipulated, while the drakonid had simply been made to follow. And now, the Primalists were using them both, though the drakonid were much easier to control.

Aadrithea’s tail flicked as an uncomfortable thought crept into her mind. Were the mortal Primalists the same? Were they just another tool for the Incarnates to wield as they saw fit?

She silenced the thought immediately. No.

Iridikron was pragmatic, but he treated her and others with a respect he would never afford the dracthyr. And Vyranoth; she had never been cruel, never dismissed them as lesser creatures. If anything, she was the only one who seemed to truly understand their value. Fyrakk was different, of course. But then, Fyrakk was much like Raszageth had been: reckless, volatile. He enjoyed destruction for the sake of it. The Incarnates did not all think the same.

And mortals were not the same as the dracthyr or the drakonid.

The drakonid had been lifted from lesser creatures, reshaped by their masters. The dracthyr had been created from scratch, born of dragon essence and mortal adaptability. But mortals like herself? They had evolved naturally – if one ignored the fact that the titans had tampered with their world, reshaped it, stolen its history and claimed it as their own.

Whatever the titans had done to Azeroth’s people, they had done it without consent. They had weakened Elune’s influence, twisted the fates of entire civilizations, shackled the elements, imprisoned the Old Gods only to leave their corruption behind, and dictated what was right for the world. And for what? A grand experiment?

Aadrithea shook herself, adjusting her posture as she turned her attention back to the Sundered Flame. No. She had a purpose.

She would not allow the titans’ mistakes to continue.

And she would make sure the Incarnates never forgot that the mortals who followed them were not just another army to be used and discarded.

The Druid exhaled softly, returning to the task at hand. The Sundered Flame was moving again, and her watch was not yet over.