Beyond the Tattered Veil

Cenarion Circle and Sisters of Elune
1

Nyssha Swiftblade stood at the edge of the Ironwall Rampart in Icecrown, where the Argents had hastily set up camp for their operations out here, and had just as quickly removed themselves. Her cloak flickered in the wind, and she gripped the hilts of her sheathed blades like lifelines.

Near the summit of Icecrown Citadel, Acherus had settled into position; Highlord Mograine had ordered it moved from the Broken Isles when the incursions began, and now the time had come to once again leave the petty wars of vengeance behind and fight the real battle for Azeroth.

Next to her stood Sir Eran Heskin, grandly attired in his 7th Legion armor, and carring his axe-pike. Having left his wife Katerina and his grandson Donal back in Stormwind, he had come to see what had begun through to the end, just as he said he had always done. She had not invited him here, but he had happened to be on the boat, and Nyssha admittedly hadn’t minded the company. She did worry about him, though, especially this soon after the death of his son, Taran… under rather unpleasant circumstances. “So what do we do now?”

Nyssha smiled, a bit sadly. “I’m afraid there is no ‘we’ here, Eran. This is where we part ways for now. I have a feeling whatever awaits will call you in sooner or later, but for now… I must go alone. You need to go back.”

“For all the talk about getting out there to fight, you seem to like leaving me in the lurch.”

“I didn’t just lose my only son and daughter-in-law to madness,” Nyssha countered, not unreasonably. Heskin had the sense to bow his head at that, unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t think whatever the Highlord has in store for us will be done with a snap of his fingers. I don’t think it could have been even when he was the Lich King. We’re the first wave… after that, who knows.” She gripped his arm with a frost-coated gauntlet. “You can’t just charge in willy-nilly screaming ‘for the Alliance’, Eran. You’re not a twenty-year-old full of piss and vinegar anymore.”

Heskin was mildly insulted. “I’m well aware how old I am, thank you very much. That doesn’t make me decrepit.”

“No, but…” Nyssha sighed. “Eran, for once in your miserable life, can you just trust me? As I said, this is not going to be a one-and-done. You will have your chance to see what awaits. But you have people here who need you more right now. You’d just be another body up there. Your wife needs her husband, and Donal needs his grandfather. You’ve seen death, but not like this - give it time.”

Heskin gripped the haft of his spear tightly, and Nyssha was afraid he would snap it in two. But then, finally, he nodded. “Alright, Nyssha. We’ll play it your way this time.” He smiled. “Keep your head stitched on, would you?”

Nyssha chuckled, as she called for her circling frostwyrm. “I’ll do my best.” She hauled herself into the saddle, and with a flap of its wings, launched herself up to the Ebon Hold. As she landed on the upper deck - the lower “docked” midway up the citadel spire, near the entrance to the upper halls - she was greeted by three of the new recruits. “Is it time?”

“It is,” said the largest of them - a pandaren in dark armor, wearing Shado-Pan headgear. “The leaders are assembled up at the Frozen Throne. The Highlords are both already up there, and we are assembling in force. Mograine is not kidding here.”

“As well he shouldn’t be. If what he has seen is true…” Nyssha shook her head. “Alright, then. Up we go.”

2

Zulimbasha the Collector, high priest of Bwonsamdi, sat alone in the courtyard of the Necropolis in Nazmir, his heart gripped in anger and pain, and his mind questioning everything he has ever believed.

He had to admit, if only to himself, that he had been wrong about everything. The Ebon Blade, the Lich King, Sylvanas… and now even about the very concept of death itself. Bwonsamdi no longer answered him. He was not waiting on the Other Side because there was no Other Side waiting for the dead to arrive. There was only a realm of eternal torment, where the spirits of the noble and the nefarious alike went, no matter the efforts of those who sought to shepherd them to their proper fates. Or so said the initial reports sent back.

The idea of reports going back from the Shadowlands, as if the afterlife was just another routine battlefield to stomp over, galled Zulimbasha. Apparently, the Ebon Blade had managed to even open portals to connect the “center” of the place to Azeroth. The very idea was sacrilege to him. The land of the dead accessable just by walking through a portal, as if they were just going to Silvermoon or Pandaria? Utter insanity!

Worse still, it seemed the Shadowlands was not a single realm, but many. And it was not ruled by Bwonsamdi, but by strange armored… things, and blue-skinned angels, and antlered faerie-women. There was even a place of decay and disease that made northern Lordaeron look almost like paradise by comparison… and it was tolerated.

Zulimbasha had been shaken to his very core when he had heard the news. What he was hearing flew in the face of everything he had been taught, everything he believed. But what he was hearing was also true, and deep in the core of his soul, he knew it. Everything he had believed - about death, about the Shadowlands, about Bwonsamdi - was a lie.

What purpose do I have now?

“I thought I might find you here.”

Zulimbasha started, having been so lost in his anger and self-doubt that he had not heard anyone approach. To add insult to injury, he recognized the speaker as Zhaoren Deathtide, the pandaren whose slumber had been violated by the Ebon Blade so he could march as one of their footsoldiers. “Come ta laugh at me, death knight?” he snarled. “Congratulations. Ya now-former Lich King and all ya walkin’ corpse friends be right, and I be wrong. Dere, I said it. Now go away!”

“I am not here to mock you, Master Zulimbasha,” Zhaoren replied calmly. “I am here to ask for your help.”

The Collector rose, hands shaking with fury. “Ya got scrote, mon, I give ya dat much. But da only help ya be gettin’ from me be what I promised - making sure you stay dead!”

To his astonishment, the pandaren simply nodded. “As you wish.” He held his arms out. His weapon - a sword, he noticed - remained on his back. “If it will make you feel any better to make me suffer eternity in the Maw, then so be it. Kill me or don’t. Help us or don’t. I honestly do not care anymore.” His voice became sharp. “If you had seen what we saw, you would not be so quick to judge me.”

That last comment stung. Zhaoren was right, and Zulimbasha knew it. He gave a mixture of sigh and snarl and turned away from him. “Me whole life, me whole service… all for nothing.”

“Not all for nothing, Master Zulimbasha. Your powers and your calling are precisely why we come to you. People like you will be needed in the Shadowlands… to restore the Balance.”

That got Zulimbasha’s attention, as Zhaoren had known it would. He turned his head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “Go on.”

“The Shadowlands is in turmoil. From what the attendants - the keepers of Oribos - tell us, the natural function of death has been usurped by the Jailer, lord of the Maw. Sylvanas is helping him do it. We knew she was part of this, but we did not realize just how much so until she split the Lich King’s crown apart with her bare hands. You’ve been to Icecrown. You’ve seen the sky. You’ve seen what came from it.”

Zulimbasha nodded. He had gone to Northrend to see for himself. He had shared what he had seen with Silna, his blind young acolyte from the Darkspear. He had gone back to fight the incursions. “I hear dere be a… mage portal to some city dere.”

“It took a lot more doing than a mage portal, but yes, there is a connection. Oribos is the very heart of the Shadowlands, and it is there that we make our base for the war to come. Not another petty race-war like what just took place. Alliance and Horde mean nothing here. The very cycle of our existence is at stake here, more so than even Azeroth herself.”

Zulimbasha contemplated what Zhaoren was telling him. If there was indeed a struggle for the Shadowlands, to preserve the Balance… could that be why Bwonsamdi was not answering? Was he so consumed by the war that he could not focus his attention on the mere mortals back on Azeroth? A bloom of hope stirred in his soul. “You will take me to dis place?”

“I would, but there was another who insisted. He is… somewhat different than who you remember, and I think he has come to appreciate the irony.” He raised his arm. “My lord.”

A tall, thin figure stepped into what light there was in the Necropolis’ shadow. He wore dark armor and an Ebon tabard. Upon his brow was a crown of frostforged steel, and in his hand was the scythe that Zhaoren had once carried; once again, it seemed, it was changing hands. Zulimbasha could feel the temperature around him dropping considerably just by his being here. But it was seeing the man’s face that made the chill go straight into the marrow of the death-priest’s bones.

“Hello, Zulimbasha. It seems we both have some… soul-searching to do.”

Zulimbasha’s mouth hung open, the horrified surprise rendering him speechless for a long moment before he whispered, “Randarel?”

3

“Ironic… and unfortunate. You have succeeded in removing a swarm of irritants, but that may leave us with an even bigger one.”

Urgan of the Black Harvest stood still as the Dreadscar armorers once again donned him with the regalia he had taken from an eredar lord he had slain on Argus; he had decided to look his best for the crossing over. He had stood on the edge of oblivion more times than he cared to count - particularly the years he spent trapped in the soulstone before the Black Harvest brought him back - and he had to admit, from an academic standpoint, that going to the land of the dead without actually being dead was kind of appealing to him.

Kneeling behind him as he spoke was his latest apprentice, Elodie Noirceur, who had spent decades as what one might think of as a shadow priest before taking the step into warlock magic. The Nightborne had the years on him, and had been practicing shadow magic since even before Urgan’s grandparents were born… but the Corruptor was the master warlock, having been empowered by the fel gift for forty years or so, and having participated - either peripherally or directly - in the wars from the First to the Fourth, and everything in between. He had tasked her with removing that obnoxious pest of an arcanist and his house from the playing field, trying to maintain the whole “common cause” spiel. Not that Urgan gave a damn about fostering amity of any kind, but it looked good for the rabble, and it distracted people from his true intentions. More or less.

The plan had half-worked. House Vendross had shut itself up inside their estate in Suramar, banishing all non-Nightborne, but the fact that its patriarch’s body was missing before its burial led Urgan to one conclusion: The Ebon Blade had gotten its hands on Randarel’s corpse before the crown was broken, and managed to raise him as one of their last new recruits. If he didn’t jump out of the Ebon Hold and scatter himself on the rocks below - which Urgan doubted he would; the sorcerer was too proud for suicide, undead or no - then that meant he would have a potentially powerful enemy waiting for him on the other side of the rift. Randarel had been a powerful sorcerer in life; given his experience combined with the magics wielded by the Ebon Blade, who knew what terrifying levels of power the man could reach… and what kind of a mood he would be in upon seeing those who had arranged his death?

This complicated matters considerably. “It would appear that you need a lot more work, my Shadowreaper,” he said as he turned to her. He had shaved his head bare, with only his usual braids running from his temples down to his shoulders, alongside his beard, which ran to his waist. His chest was also bare, and he had marked his face and body with war paint, harkening back to the old traditions of his former clan, the Bleeding Hollow. Elodie stood her ground, but eyed him warily, wondering if he would lash out at her. “Had you more discipline, you could have easily overcome them all. But you look at this like you did your past calling. This is true dark magic, not the parlor tricks you’ve been practicing in Suramar.” Elodie was visibly insulted by this, but Urgan was beyond caring. He was in control here, and she knew it. “You will remain here in the Dreadscar and study properly the powers at your disposal, during the times you are not sent to work on the home front. I expect to see you when I return - and much improved in your studies.”

Elodie seethed at this, but did not argue. “As you will it, Master,” she said through clenched teeth.

The Corruptor put an armored hand gently but firmly on her shoulder, close enough to the neck to feel her swallow nervously. “Yes, Elodie,” he said with a cold smile, as he lifted the hand and began to walk away. “As I will it.”

4

Lucia Zherron stepped through the portal in Stormwind that linked to the new center of activity… and was thunderstruck.

It was like a gigantic scroll case floating in the ether. Guards in ornate armored suits stood at every doorway, and strange things mulled about - woodland creatures that would not have looked out of place in Darkshore or Ashenvale, hulking beasts armored in bone, dark-skinned elven figures, and blue-skinned humanoids wearing robes, some even sporting wings.

This is not what I thought the afterlife would look like.

“So you made your way here.” Lucia looked up to see Nyssha Swiftblade standing there, hands resting on the bone-carved hilts of a pair of swords at each hip. “Welcome to Oribos, Archdruid Zherron.”

“Lady Swiftblade.” Lucia gave a slight nod. “An impressive place. And surprisingly easy to reach.”

“Honestly, I thought the idea of stepping through like we were going to the Exodar or Boralus was fantastical too, but it works. I’ve only been back to Stormwind once since I got here, if only to test it.”

“And to send a message to me…” Behind Lucia appeared Liam Branscombe, the former (she hoped) serial murderer who had fought alongside her father during the Northgate rebellion, and had been among the first in his Shadowhowl pack. Nyssha had first encountered the Shadowhowl at around the same time, early in the Cataclysm. “What did you wish of me?”

Nyssha hesitated for a moment, and Lucia noticed it. “Walk with me.” As they circled around the great soul pillar in the Ring of Fates, she began to speak in a low tone. “While I’ve pledged to the Maldraxxi - bones, undead, endless battle, not much of a choice for me - I’ve been to the other realms of the Shadowlands as needed, and have explored them somewhat extensively. There was an encounter I had in Ardenweald, the realm of the Winter Queen, that inspired me to call for you. It is the realm where the spirits of nature on Azeroth and elsewhere go where they die… including your ‘Wild Gods’, like Cenarius, and the troll Loa.”

“But if this is the realm of the dead… wouldn’t they stay there? Cenarius has returned to Azeroth.”

The death knight shrugged lightly. “I honestly can’t say, Archdruid. I’m probably the wrong person to ask, come to think of it. I’ve been walking the edges of this place for years now.” She chuckled. “And at least I know I’ll have a place to go when I finally do go, if you know what I mean.” Then, just as quickly, she sobered. “At least I hope so.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve probably heard it’s a mess here. There is a drought of anima, our soul essence, and it’s affecting every part of the place. Even here in Oribos, although it may not look it. Ardenweald was especially hard hit. To top it off, the dead seem to all be rerouted to the Maw, the plane where the wicked go upon their demise, regardless of whether they actually were wicked. This all seems to have been planned out for who-knows-how long… like the Nether, time has no meaning here.”

“So why did you ask me here?”

“That encounter in Ardenweald I mentioned, a moment of inspiration.” Nyssha smiled with a hint of sad amusement. “Actually, if I’m honest… it was asked of me.”

“Who by?”

“I think I had best let you figure that out yourself. Come.” She led Lucia to the teleporter to the Ring of Transference, the upper level of the city, where Lucia saw strange ethereal steeds that looked for all the world to her like armored serpents. “The Pathscribe’s everwyrms can take you to Tirna Vaal, on the edge of Ardenweald. You will find out more there.”

Lucia wondered why the death knight would assume she would choose to start in a realm of nature, but then chastised herself for thinking she would go anywhere else. “Thank you, Lady Swiftblade,” she after a moment. “Most kind.”

Nyssha smiled and nodded as she raised her arms like a supplicant praying desperately to the Light, and began to channel ethereal energy. “I must take my leave of you now, Archdruid,” she said, her voice echoing far more than it usually did. “I hope you find out what it’s all about.” With a burst of energy, her essence launched into the air and was gone.

Lucia glanced at Branscombe, who had observed the entire thing in silence. The old killer just shrugged. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out,” she said with a resigned sigh, and stepped onto the back of the waiting wyrm, which wound its way along the paths of the In-Between to the great forest beyond.

5

Of all the people appreciating fate’s cruel sense of humor, none did so more than Randarel, he who was once lord of House Vendross.

Given his adamant hatred for all things involving undeath, particularly the Forsaken and the Ebon Blade, the fact that the latter had managed to bring him back before their Lich King’s power was lost forever… Randarel had to admit that was indeed rather funny, in a horrifyingly sick sort of way. He had expected to at last rejoin his beloved Elerina, knowing his soul would be safe from that witch from House Noirceur who had brought about his death, likely due to the machinations of some “higher patron”. When he came to in Icecrown, and realized what had become of him, he had expected to be absolutely horrified, to the point of leaping from the citadel’s summit to a final demise on the ramparts below.

But admittedly, he had taken rather well to this “return to duty” that had been imposed on him. Especially when he found out just what had awaited him on the other side of the veil…

Randarel walked a circuit around the Ring of Fates, just as Nyssha had been doing with Lucia Zherron. Despite being much, much younger than he, she had been at this death knight business for longer than he had, and he appreciated her counsel. She had also been there for his “proper” mentor, Zhaoren Deathtide, when he had been raised some months back. Like him, Zhaoren had taken his new power and new form in stride, believing that a higher purpose had returned him from death to fight in defense of his world. Randarel had been inspired by the pandaren’s stoicism. Not since he had been a novice arcanist, all those eons ago, had he felt awe at another person’s skill.

Walking with him was his former “spiritual advisor”, Zulimbasha, who was experiencing a crisis of spirit. Randarel didn’t blame him. The idea of the Shadowlands was far stranger to them both than what they had believed. Randarel had thought it was an all-encompassing place where the spirits of the dead congregated, not thinking there were real lands involved, certainly not to the degree he had heard of. Zulimbasha, on the other hand, had thought that all of the Shadowlands was the “Other Side” ruled by his patron, Bwonsamdi, only to learn that trollkind’s land of the dead was only a small part of this realm.

Seeing the place for himself had made the death-priest’s spirit huddle into itself, like a turtle into its shell. Randarel felt sorry for him. But at the same time, there was work to be done.

“This is our center,” he said after a long moment’s walking. “It is here that we will branch out into the other realms, to find where we are needed most, and act accordingly. I have managed to bring you here safely, and show you just where we stand.” As he gazed at the Zandalari, the enchantment of the frostforged crown he wore gave his face a skull-like appearance, far more natural to his features than the orc-skull mask Zulimbasha had once wore. The startled priest took a step back, and Randarel could sense his fear. “I leave you now to discover your faith again, Zulimbasha. I will help you where I can in fighting the foes of this land, but in matters of the spirit… that journey is yours alone. Just as the one I must take is mine.” He sighed, as the icy illusion around his face faded. “I too seek someone here. What I saw of her in the dreams you wove around me was just an echo. I wonder if she is truly here… and if so, where.”

Zulimbasha was silent, as he had been all throughout their walk. Randarel noted that he had given up the “typical” garb, the skull mask and the “soul braziers”, and gone solely with traditional Zandalari attire, including a rush’kah mask, the eye sockets burning with soulfire. Finally, he said, “So… dis be where we part ways, den.”

“For now,” Randarel agreed. “But as I said, if you need me, I have no doubt you can find me.” He bowed his head. “May you find what you seek, my friend.”

“Da same for yaself, mon.” The death-priest bowed at the waist, and then stepped onto the teleportation platform to the upper level, where the Pathscribe waited.

Randarel stood alone for a moment, lost in thought. When he had arrived here with Zulimbasha, he had made a point to see what there was of this place first before setting out into the lands beyond; what he knew of those lands, he knew from Nyssha, who had gone ahead first. What had particularly piqued his interest was this place called Revendreth, which Nyssha had explained had devolved into civil war, much like the rest of the Shadowlands. When she told him about a tyrannical ruler amassing power for a darker patron, and a noble and his allies rallying to try and stop him, he had surprised her by laughing. “Just like Suramar,” he had said, remembering the Nightfallen rebellion in which he had participated.

Just another of fate’s little jokes, he thought, as he then stepped onto the platform and up to the Ring of Transference himself…

6

He stood in a twilight grove in some place far beyond what he knew - far beyond what anyone should know. The place teemed with life, but there was an underlying current here, like all was not well. It was confirmed when he walked into the nearby glade, to find the trees wilting and dying. He saw strange creatures who walked upright like a man, but bore the appearance of a deer. Another, similar-looking creature was like a centaur or a Keeper of the Grove.

He noted both creatures wore strange masks… and to his horror, he recognized exactly what those masks were, and the power tied to them. He had seen almost identical appearances in the wicker monsters animated by the covens in Drustvar - and the Order had found out exactly what those were.

As he took in this terrible sight, the forest shook with the force of a mighty earthquake, as a great roar echoed through the glades - a roar not of rage or panic, but of triumph.

As the roar faded, the creatures were gone. And then he heard a voice speak from behind him, and to his astonishment, it was some kind of feathered wolf. "You can’t hide from this. They will need you. She will need you…"

Gabriel Underwood sat up bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring down his face and chest. The forest, the creatures, and the strange speaker were gone; he was in his own room, at his own home, at Arom’s Stand in Drustvar. Here he had remained since the decision was made for the armistice with the supposed rebellion against Sylvanas, as he had refused to participate in any more Alliance campaigns due to their betrayal of the memory of the fallen by allowing the Horde to continue to exist.

He’d heard there had been an opportunity to dismantle the Horde the last time they had besieged Orgrimmar some years back, and Varian had not taken it. Anduin was an even bigger fool than his father had been, a sentimental child who wanted to be friends with everyone - even murderers and traitors. It made him wonder what use Kul Tiras really had for the Alliance; what was the point of having a defense pact when the other members refused to defend?

There was a knock on the door. Gabriel rose from his bed, bare from the waist up, and opened the door, shivering as the freezing air from outside touched his sweat-drenched skin. His caller was one of the Waycrest Guard. “Sorry to disturb you, Inquisitor, but there’s someone waitin’ outside the walls to see you. Some worgen, says it’s urgent.”

Lucia Zherron, most likely, Gabriel mused. She had always hoped he would come around and join her on whatever crusade she found herself on. “Thank you, I’ll be along shortly.”

“Sir.” The guard moved off.

As he dressed, Gabriel wondered what Lucia wanted him for, but had no doubt she wanted him to come with her on whatever crazy peace-and-love mission she was trying to go on. Admittedly, he had started taking after her a bit more than he had before; he had begun invoking nature’s wrath from afar, like she did, rather than up close as he had done during the war. Her talk of “Balance” had made sense to him. Not much else she said did, though - like breaking bread with those who had been responsible for her father’s death. She saw the Forsaken and the Horde as different. He didn’t. And that was the last they had said to one another.

As he tugged his tabard into place and secured his belt, Gabriel stepped outside and walked to the gate, and it took him a minute to see the worgen because of the white fur. Not Lucia, then - and then he saw it was a male, with striking blue eyes and a scarred face. “She asks to meet you,” he said without much preamble.

“And who might that be?”

The worgen snorted. “Don’t play dumb.”

Gabriel’s expression was one of baffled rage. “Given that I have no idea who the hell you are,” he said coldly, “either get to the point, or get lost.”

“Lucia sent me. She wants to meet you. That clear enough?”

She can’t be bothered to see me herself, so she sends the brute squad, he thought uncharitably. Does she think to strongarm me? “And where does she want to meet me?”

In response, the white worgen - whose eyes were the cold, murderous orbs of a murderer, if Gabriel was any judge - gestured to the heavens. “Out there somewhere.”

The inquisitor sighed. “I’m really not in the mood for games.”

“No game. She’s off in the Shadowlands. Said something about a great forest.”

That got Gabriel’s attention. There were rumors of a rift in Northrend that led to the realm of the dead. Was this what his dream was about? “How do I get there?”

“I could kill you, but she’d have my hide.” The worgen sounded amused, but his eyes made clear he meant what he said. “Plus, you might not get there. It’s kind of weird what’s going on… portal’s open to some city there, from the Mage Tower in Stormwind.”

The more this man spoke, the more Gabriel was sure he was not the voice he had heard in the dream. But still, he found himself inclined to go. “Alright,” he said finally. “Head on back to her then and tell her I’m on my way.”

The worgen snorted. “Tell her yourself,” he said bluntly. “I’ve got stuff to do.” And with that, he vanished. Some kind of assassin’s trick, Gabriel thought, shaking his head.

Were it not for the mention of a forest, he would have ignored the summons entirely - and probably killed the man for wasting his time. But his curiosity was piqued. What had Lucia gotten herself into? And what did she need him for?

“I suppose I’ll find out,” he said quietly to himself.

7

Sir Eran Heskin stood on the edge of Lion’s Rest, looking over Stormwind Harbor. Every waking moment, when he was not beating another training dummy to splinters to let off steam, he was here, gazing out at the Great Sea.

He had not spoken to anyone about what had happened weeks before at the old homestead in Westfall. Nyssha had sealed up the little house and put it to the torch, partly to cover up the bad memories… and partly to ensure that the new Scourge threat could not violate the corpses of his only son and his daughter-in-law. He hoped that Madeleine would forgive him that, if she had truly gone to a better place - and to his surprise, given what the boy had done, he wished the same for Taran. He suspected that his son was right about one thing: It was in Westfall, a place of dried-up fields, ruined villages, and bandits clinging to the memory of the late Edwin VanCleef. No one in Stormwind gave a damn about Westfall. They never had.

Donal had become very quiet since that night in the homestead, the night that he had taken his little blade and run it through his father’s gut to try to protect his grandfather. He didn’t even wear the sword anymore when he went outside; it stayed behind in Eran’s room at the Trade District inn. Eran’s heart ached at his grandson’s dilemma. On the one hand, it was an evil man trying to kill a protector of the realm. On the other, that evil man had been his own father.

If the roles were reversed, and it had been a father forced to kill his own son, Eran doubted he would have taken it any better than Donal did. That made this whole thing worse.

A gentle hand on his arm told him his wife had come up, holding out a bowl of hot soup. He took the bowl with one hand, and gently took her hand in the other, careful not to hurt her with his gauntlet. “She will not forget what she told you,” she said without preamble.

Eran gave a slight snort as he spooned up his soup. It was a seafood chowder - a Kul Tiran recipe, if he remembered rightly. “You read minds now, Kat?”

Katerina smiled. “I don’t need powers to know your mind, Eran.” He knew she was right, too; after forty years, she knew his moods better, at times, than he did himself. “I’ve heard people have actually come back from this place. I didn’t think anyone could go to the beyond when they weren’t dead… although there’s been a lot of the dead coming back.”

Eran could only shake his head. “Light only knows, Kat.” He continued to eat his chowder while it was still hot. The late season had set in, and the sea air was chilly - not nearly as cold as places like Dun Morogh, but still. “It’s the latest in the strange things we’ve had to deal with all these years. Green-skinned brutes from another world, warlocks, demons, legions of undead, a continent across the sea we never knew was there… going to worlds beyond our own, finding out about the Titans, finding out our world is a Titan…” Eran had taken an interest in the Titans’ works during the war in Northrend years ago, and had regularly explored the halls of Ulduar when he had a chance - although the lingering taint of Yogg-Saron made any visits there… uncomfortable, to put it mildly. He wondered what had protected him from madness. “I’ll be seeing the truth behind all our myths about the Shadowlands for myself, no question of that. The only question I have, though…”

Katerina understood all too well. “You’ve taken him everywhere else. I don’t see why you would leave him behind now. He’s followed you on many a bloody battlefield.”

“This is different. Even Argus was an actual, physical place - beyond our world, yes, but no less real than our own. This is the land of the dead, and is bound to be far more dangerous even than the stronghold of the Legion.” Eran sighed, as he finished his chowder. “Still… I suppose that would be his choice now, wouldn’t it?”

Katerina’s head tilted slightly. “How do you mean?”

“Leaving aside who it was… hard as that may be for him, and for us… he took up a blade and struck down a foe who stood against all we hold good and true. Not exactly the action of a boy, is it?” Eran smiled sadly. “This is not what he expected when he chose to follow me, after all my tales of adventure. So I will let him decide. He may want to stay with you here, and protect you while I’m gone. He may choose to go with me. Or… whichever way he chooses to go. It will be up to him.”

“Hasn’t he already chosen? By being squired to you, he made his choice.”

“I know. But… with all that’s happened, if he wants to change his mind, he has that right.” Eran bowed his head. “Although I worry about him, Kat. With Taran gone, he is all we have now. The last of us.”

“I can live with that.” They both turned to see Donal standing behind them. The blade that had taken his father’s life was again back at his side. His voice had started to break somewhat, as the first signs of manhood began to set in. “We started together, Grandda, back in the Broken Isles. I want us to finish together.”

Eran gazed at him for a long moment… and then finally nodded. “I suppose that’s the answer I needed, lad.” He sensed another presence approaching, and looked up… perking an eyebrow seeing what his visitor was wearing. Her armor seemed to be crafted of bone, as did the blades she wore at each hip. Despite his long-held fear of death knights, Donal surprisingly held his ground, not wanting to lash out at her for “raising” people. He apparently had learned that particular lesson after the mess at the homestead. “Gone native, Nyssha?”

“Somewhat. We’ve… more or less set up shop at Oribos, the city at the center of the place. I think it’s time I showed you around.”

Eran glanced at his wife, who gave a smile and a slight nod. He handed the empty bowl to her, and picked up his helm and halberd. “We’re ready.”

8

“Welcome, welcome!” The faerie flew around Lucia’s head with a giggle. She had barely landed in Tirna Vaal before this creature approached. Lucia couldn’t help but smile a little; she reminded her of the faerie dragons back home on Azeroth. “The name’s Treerose. Welcome to Ardenweald, friend!”

“Thank you. I’m Lucia. I’ve come from Azeroth.”

“You and a lot of other people, it seems! It’s strange to see so many mortals coming around here before their time is done, but anyone who can help, we’re glad to have them!” The faerie seemed to sniff the air around Lucia’s head. “You have ties to nature where you come from, don’t you?”

“I do,” Lucia agreed. “I’m a druid.”

“Ah, that explains it! We’ve had a lot of you druids come in to join the Wild Hunt - you change shapes, too, don’t you? You’ll fit right in here.”

“I have no doubt. This place is fantastic.” Lucia meant it; the closest place she had ever seen like this was the Dreamgrove in Val’sharah, and the Dreamways that connected it to various places in Azeroth touched by the power of nature. “I wonder if you could answer something for me.”

“Of course!”

“There was a mortal here, who looked… somewhat like this.” She shifted into her human “mask”. “But she has red hair, glowing blue eyes, and her skin’s kind of pale. She has stitches around her neck. Wears armor made of bones.”

Treerose pondered for a moment. “You know, I think I’ve seen her. Looks like she went with the Maldraxxi, since that’s the kinda armor they wear; her swords are the same. Kinda creepy people, and they all like battle…”

No argument from me, Lucia thought. “She told me someone asked for me. She said she encountered someone who wanted me to come to the Shadowlands… and she told me they would be here somewhere.”

“Hmm… wait, you said your name was…” Treerose brightened. “You know, I think I heard her talking to someone. Think his name was… Aydrun or something like that. I think your name came up. He might be at the Heart of the Forest - and if you’re here to help, you might end up there anyway. Come with me!” Lucia followed the faerie over to where a rather large moth waited. “Climb on and we’ll go!”

It was a short trip when in flight. After she landed, Lucia looked up at what was probably the largest tree she had ever seen. It made Nordrassil look like a sapling, and its boughs seemed to make up the very sky itself.

“Behold… Tirna Achiad, the Heart of the Forest.”

Lucia looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. It was strangely familiar, yet there was an echo to it that made it hard to pin down. As she did, a rather large shape swooped down from the sky and landed directly in front of her and her faerie guide. It was an ethereal figure, which appeared to take the shape of a wolfhawk, a creature native to the Broken Isles.

Treerose swooped over. “Hello, Aydrun! We had just been talking about you. Is this who…?”

“Yes. Thank you, Treerose. Could you please give us a moment?” The faerie dipped her head and flew off, into the great tree. “I see Nyssha’s message reached you. It’s good to have you here. Ardenweald will need the help of people like you.” The wolfhawk stared for a moment just over Lucia’s shoulder. “I see you carry my scythe.”

The fur on the back of Lucia’s neck stood up as she finally realized why she recognized the voice. The last time she had heard it was on the bloody battlefield of Tirisfal, what seemed like an age ago. “It can’t be.”

“It can, Lucia. After all, you are part of the reason I ended up here, and not as some sort of fodder for the Banshee’s apothecaries to play with.”

Lucia knelt, putting a hand gently on the mane of the ghostly form in front of her… and her eyes went as wide as hen’s eggs. “Papa?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

“I admit I asked myself the same thing when I appeared here like this.” Although the face could not show it, she could definitely hear the smile in the voice of the soul that had been known on Azeroth as Eidan Zherron. “Fate has given us a second chance to make up for lost time. I thought, with the living coming here from Azeroth, you would make your way here eventually - and since we ended our last meeting on something of a wrong foot…”

Lucia could not help but laugh - both at the incredible understatement… and the fact she was having this discussion with him at all.

9

“This is absolute insanity.”

Desolane Felrunner stood in the main hall of the Fel Hammer, the Illidari fortress-battleship that had remained stationary on Mardum ever since the end of the campaign on Argus. His arms were folded across his chest as he gazed sternly at her; he had long ago given up his blindfold, and had also let his hair and beard grow wild (literally; both were entangled with vines). Nemiya Shadowsun, his former student, had her reddish-blonde hair cut short, and she gazed at him (in the way that those with the traditional Illidari blindfold did… “very carefully”, as some might put it) with a look that Desolane would call “exhaustion” in anyone else. Gods knew he felt enough of that, given that he was fifty times her age. She had called him back from the front lines - he had gone to Ardenweald after arriving in Oribos - for “something important”.

But this was not what he had expected.

“You want to bring him back?” he continued, when she didn’t reply. “After all he pulled last time?”

“This is a very different war from last time, which calls for a very different warrior.” She shrugged. “And besides… I have enough ghosts without having to go seek them out beyond the veil.”

“So instead you dig up the one in our basement. That’s so much better.”

“Snark doesn’t become you, Master,” Nemiya said with a thin smile, as the two hunters descended into the Fel Hammer’s hold.

Desolane gazed at her with concern furrowing his brow. “Even if this works - considering we found his soul wandering on Argus, and you found his body as a pile of ash outside the Tomb, and he’s been sitting down here all throughout the last war - what makes you think he will bother? He allowed himself to be distracted by his petty personal vendettas last time, and it got him killed. No great loss to us.”

“I feel differently about the last part, as you know,” Nemiya replied calmly. “As for the rest… Ketiron is dead, and his only son is banished and without status. I think he will be content with that, Desolane. His pride will be soothed.”

“Bah. You sin’dorei and your pride.”

Nemiya could not help but laugh. “You can talk.”

As they entered the lower sanctum, they saw the shining soul gem and the rather nondescript bag on the floor below it. The gem pulsed. You certainly took long enough, Nemiya.

“I told you I would come back.” Nemiya stepped forward. “I think it’s time.”

You think… or you know?

Nemiya took a deep breath. “I know.”

Then let us begin.

Nemiya turned to Desolane for a moment and, to his surprise, she embraced him. “Goodbye, Master.”

Desolate looked absolutely baffled. “What do you mean, ‘goodbye’? What are you intending to do?”

With a smile, Nemiya raised her hands and approached the soul gem. As her fingertips lightly brushed its surface, both hands seemed to clamp onto the gem, as if magnetized. A hiss of suppressed pain escaped her lips. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, sister.

“Sacrifice?” Desolane’s hands flexed, wanting to reach for his blades to smash the damned crystal. “What are you doing?”

Nemiya spoke through gritted teeth. “Are… you… ready?”

Oh, Nemiya… you have no idea.

At that, the gem shattered, and the bag on the floor split open. A cyclone of ashes and felfire began swirling around the room, forcing Desolane to retreat to the edge.

When the flames and the ashes faded, Nemiya was gone; all that remained of her was the pair of felfire-bladed warglaives she had been carrying on her back, now lying on the floor. Standing above them was another blood elf, a male, tall and almost cadaverously thin, with red hair that ran to his shoulders. A jeweled red blindfold covered the burning fel embers in his eye sockets. He felt the flesh of his arms. “Scales… hmm. You’ve given me more than just my physical form back, it would seem…”

Desolane stared in horrified fury. “What have you done?” he demanded. “Was that truly necessary?”

“Of course it was necessary, you sentimental old fool,” sneered the other. “She knew full well what the price would be. That was why she left me here; she felt she had work to do back on Azeroth. From what I have seen of her memories, I missed rather a… gruesome war. That banshee witch… and she is still out there, eh?”

Desolane kept down his anger. “She is,” he confirmed. “And she will suffer for her crimes. Her and all of her kind. Even if we have to hunt them until the end of time.”

The blood elf laughed. “Now you sound like an Illidari again, Desolane.”

“Do not presume to tell me what an Illidari sounds like, Poquelin. I have been like this long before your ancestors were born.”

“For all the good it did you.” Poquelin the Accursed smiled cruelly. “Now then… what’s this about a hole in the sky above Icecrown?”