In the Depths of Despair (SPOILERS)

[Aximand-cenarion-circle]

“Lothar’s ghost.”

From the deck of his flagship, the Kul Tiran battleship Iron Shrike, Admiral Eliphas Aximand stared in sheer astonishment at the great crater in the middle of the water, close to a mile ahead of them. Though Lady Jaina had been able to open a way via portal from Boralus, he wanted to see it for himself. So had his flag captain, Mersadie Kittridge, who stood at the wheel next to him.

“Well, this is a pretty pickle, and no mistake,” the Kul Tiran veteran said almost nonchalantly, although he could tell she was as stunned as he was. “Not gettin’ any closer than this with the ship, no way.”

“Not a chance,” Aximand agreed. “Not unless we want it to be part of Azshara’s collection.” He shook his head. The word that had come back that this was in fact the fabled Nazjatar, the undersea empire of the naga, was a shock. He recalled serving in Vashj’ir during the Cataclysm, and knew that the former elves made a point of living in the sunken ruins of the old kaldorei empire. “Bring us about, Captain. If we’re coming anywhere near this place again, it will be the way the Lord Admiral has opened for us.”

“Ship ahoy!” came the cry from the crow’s nest.

“Where away?”

“Starboard aft, marm! Looks like a goblin rattletrap, followed the same course we did!”

A slight inkling of recognition formed in Aximand’s mind as he reached for the telescope. “If they were coming from the same direction we were, he’d have been coming from Freehold, not Zandalar. I have a feeling I know who this one is.”

“One of your ‘friends on the other side’, sir?” Though her voice was level, Kittridge could not quite hide the contempt. She was an old Second War veteran, more than a decade older than he (even if he wasn’t dead) and full of the bitter elixir of hate for the Horde in all forms. But at least she tended to listen to him when he advocated restraint.

“Something like that.”

Kittridge sighed. “We can’t keep making exceptions, Eliphas. We’re at war.”

Aximand was slightly surprised; it was the first time she had called him by his name. “That’s as may be,” he replied, “but that does not mean we should stoop to the same level as our enemy in order to fight our enemy. Believe me, Mersadie… I know full well what a monster looks like.” He nodded to himself as he peered through the scope. “Mm-hmm… just as I thought. It’s the Assassin’s Treasure. Kitrik’s ship.”

“Kitrik the Assassin?” That was Kittridge’s first mate, Ian Blanky, an old comrade from the Second War; he’d ended up with a privateer crew in Freehold after, fleeing back to Boralus with some of his shipmates when the Irontide took over. “I’ve heard of 'im, Captain. Decent bloke for a goblin with a title like that. Only kills those who deserve it, they say. I’ve ‘eard the banshee’s lot have put a price on his head for killin’ Deathstalkers who tried to take 'im out. That’s why he 'angs about in Freehold.”

Kittridge was more convinced by her old friend’s comment than by Aximand’s familiarity. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but she still didn’t have the full measure of the man. She wondered if she ever would. “What do you suppose he’s here for, then?”

“The same thing we are,” the admiral replied. “Seeing what kind of hell we’re all going to get bogged down in.”

[Dawntotem-cenarion-circle]

“We ain’t gettin’ much closer than this, Keg.” Kitrik the Assassin pointed at the Kul Tiran battleship ahead of them to port; it was turning around and heading for home. “I think the admiral from Acherus has the same idea.”

Kegren Dawntotem nodded grimly. “Then we turn back, and go the mages’ way. Not much choice now.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I still intend to pay your little ‘transportation fee’.”

“Ain’t exactly a little fee, buddy. You’re payin’ me handsomely.” Kitrik couldn’t help but grin, though. “It’s no problem, though. At least we can dock in Zuldazar again, without worryin’ too much about Blightcaller and his snoops.” He gestured to the great pit in the sea. “Most of 'em are down there, is the word.”

“And we will be, too. If we’re not fighting for our lives back in Mulgore.” Word of Baine’s escape from Orgrimmar, and those who had engineered it, had spread fast…as had the news of angry spirits rising up in Mulgore, pacified by the efforts of Baine and his chosen champions. Among the tribes of Mulgore, a sort of traditionalist movement had spread, with many giving up the mishmash of gear they wore in battle in favor of “proper” tauren attire. Kegren was one such, having set aside his heavy armor and argunite-enchanted hammer in favor of an outfit crafted of wood and skins, a feathered headdress on his brow, and a massive totem on his back - not the one given to him by the Highmountain, but one more traditional to the tribes of Mulgore. Not that he gave up all of the Highmountain’s gifts; the spear in his hand was of a Highmountain design, and he rode around on a white-furred elderhorn from the mountains around Thunder Totem.

Needless to say, looking like that had made an impression when he stepped aboard the Assassin’s Treasure in Freehold.

But when he had made the choice to start looking like a proper tauren, he had to admit that it was the first time since Stormsong had led other Grimtotem to side with Baine against Magatha, what felt like a lifetime ago, that he truly felt like a proper tauren. And if Sylvanas intended to burn Thunder Bluff to ashes as she had done to Teldrassil, then he would die as a proper tauren, proud and honorable, rather than as a monster. He remembered what Tenatsali, his friend from Highmountain, had told him about being called a “baby killer”, hiding behind “protecting his people”. Kegren had hidden, too… but now he knew he couldn’t anymore. And though he knew there were some tauren, both from Mulgore and from Highmountain, who were firmly in the banshee’s grip, Kegren hoped that he and others would show that those tauren were the exception, not the rule.

“You ever get tired of this crap?” Kitrik asked after a long moment. “The constant backstabbing, crazy black magic and what not? First Garrosh, now this…”

“Naturally,” the Sunwalker replied. “It seems to have become an endless cycle. For now, we ride with it, until somebody, somewhere, somehow, breaks it. It likely will not be you or I, but…Earth Mother willing, we will both live to see it.”

“I’d just like to live without worryin’ about being visited by Deathstalkers for the rest of my life,” Kitrik muttered.

Kegren chuckled. “That too.”

[Vendross-sisters-of-elune]

“Behold the Glory of Azshara.”

Randarel, lord of House Vendross, stood in the ruined marketplace, his arms outstretched to encompass the devastation around him. But in his mind’s eye, he saw it as it had been ten thousand years ago, when it had been a shining city, alive with activity. His hand went to the diamond pendant around his neck, as it was prone to do whenever memories rose in his soul; the tiara in which it had originally been set had come from this very market. He had promised Elerina to show her the sights of the capital, and had bought it for her to remember the journey. She had worn it every day for ten thousand years afterward… until that murderous sow Relsyn had taken her head in front of him.

Valya Tiren, his once faithful guard captain, had recovered it when Randarel was exiled to wither away, and made pendants from the white diamonds in it. The one he wore was one such. Tiren had worn another, until he had taken it from her when he banished her for aiding the Forsaken in murdering their distant kinfolk in Darkshore. The others were worn by Randarel’s two children, Erdanel and Telisa…

“But for the grace of the Light, go we.”

…and by the sin’dorei magister standing behind him. Randarel turned with a sad smile. “Indeed so, Menarian. Though I condemn her spirit and memory, we have much to thank Elisande for. We would not be here otherwise.”

“We have much to thank Sylvanas for, too, I think,” Menarian Talashar replied with a slight smile. “If it weren’t for all the trouble she’s stirred up, we wouldn’t be here, either.”

Randarel considered this… and chuckled. “I never thought of it that way.”

“History tends to have a slightly sick sense of humor, I find.” Menarian shared a brief laugh with him… and then suddenly tensed.

Randarel felt it too. It was like the power used by the void elves during the periodic Alliance attacks on Zuldazar. In fact… it was virtually identical. “Show yourself, ren’dorei,” he snapped in Thalassian.

“Very well,” came the reply in the same tongue. The owner of the voice stepped forward; she carried herself regally, long purple-black hair running to her shoulders, and wearing robes that showed off her statuesque figure. She carried a void-enchanted staff in her hand. Next to her was a “voidlord”, a more powerful variant of the voidwalkers regularly summoned by warlocks.

“Tavira,” Menarian hissed.

Lady Tavira Nightswan grinned. “Hello, Menarian. Exiled as well, I see?”

“At least I left Silvermoon with my soul intact.”

“Please. Spare me the notions of poetry, ‘Magister’. Your soul belonged to the Horde filth the moment you stood there and watched Lor’themar sell us into slavery - and did nothing.” Tavira glared at him with contempt. “You may have chosen to forget the Second War, Menarian, but I have not.”

“I have forgotten nothing, Tavira. I simply have the wit to see that this Horde…” He fell silent, unable to finish the sentence. Randarel could understand why.

So could the warlock, who laughed mockingly. “This Horde is different? You don’t even believe it yourself anymore, Menarian. Otherwise…you would say it.”

“If we could come to the point,” Randarel said, a hint of impatience in his otherwise neutral tone. “What do you want?”

“Yes, I think we’ve beat around the coral enough… Ketiron’s archives. You have them. I want them.”

“Why?”

“That’s my business, not yours.” Her smile and matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down Randarel’s spine. “Give it to me willingly, Menarian, and you can continue to enjoy your slavery to Sylvanas for a little while longer… or you will die, here and now. The choice is yours.”

Menarian glanced out the corner of his eye at Randarel, who gave a brief nod. Then he turned back to the warlock. “I’ve read your little tract, Tavira. It’s fair to say you plan to kill us at any rate… so I choose not to make it easy for you.”

Her smile widened. It was probably the most vile thing Randarel had ever seen. “So be it. Arrenhae, if you would?”

A night elf in dark vestments, her eyes as dark as night, materialized out of the air behind Menarian. She stabbed one blade deep into his back; as he let out a hiss of pain, she ran the other across his throat. Blood sprayed from his neck and through his fingers before he collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

“No!” Randarel screamed, his expression a mixture of horror and anger as he whirled on Tavira. “Why?!”

“The Horde is a plague - one that has been spread by fools like this one. It is not enough to simply kill Sylvanas… we must ensure no one can ever replace her. We must not make the same mistake Varian did after Orgrimmar.” Tavira knelt, rummaging through Menarian’s robes, and finding what she was after. The twin-headed eagle of House Ketiron was emblazoned on the front cover. Satisfied, she opened a void portal behind her. The night elf stepped through it, glaring at Randarel as if he was filth beneath her boots. “Consider what you have seen here today, Lord Vendross,” Tavira said, all mockery gone from her voice. “And consider what side you want to be on when you hear the song heralding the coming of the night.” She gave a slight curtsey, and then stepped through. The portal closed behind her.

Kneeling next to his friend’s body, Randarel reached out with one hand for the white diamond pendant around Menarian’s neck, gently pulling it free.

His other hand shook with barely contained rage… and the rage of a sorcerer is best kept in check.

[Blunderwitz-sisters-of-elune]

While others made their way down to Nazjatar, others chose a more… technical approach.

Captain Englebert Blunderwitz - lately of Gnomeregan’s militia forces, and now part of the growing ranks of the Gnomish Elite Aerial Rangers - stepped out of the bomber that had taken him from Boralus to the Overspark Expedition’s encampment on the coast of Mechagon Island. Ever since he had arrived in Kul Tiras with the wave of Alliance soldiers and privateers, he had wondered what the true origin and purpose of the vault south of Bridgeport, surrounded by mountains of rusting scrap and guarded by mechanical wolves, had been. Overspark had found out - as had Gazlowe, the veteran Horde engineer, who was one of the few goblins Englebert could think of that he considered “decent”.

When he arrived, he was met by a familiar face. “I figured you would not be able to stay away, Englebert. A place like this probably tickles your tinkerer’s senses.”

“Any gnome worth the name would think so, Father.” Englebert grinned. “Good to see you.”

Mechpriest Wilbert Blunderwitz returned the grin. “And you, my son.” His expression sobered quickly. “It’s been interesting, to say the least. Our techno-organic kinfolk seem to be in the midst of civil war. Prince Erazmin leads the resistance in Rustbolt over there against his father, King Mechagon. It’s like Fizzcrank all over again, except there’s a whole army of mechagnomes and machines here that would make Mechazod’s gears spin. And it gets worse - they don’t want to do it just to gnomes. Everyone is at risk.”

Englebert nodded. “Had a feeling it wouldn’t just be a pleasure trip when the commander sent word. And if this Prince Erazmin is willing to take help from them…” He indicated the goblin submarine nearby. “…as well as us, it must be pretty bad. I’ll leave the undersea ruins and such to the historians and the crazies. This is where I’m meant to be.”

The elder Blunderwitz’s grin was sly. “The Light meant for me to be here as well, it would seem. Coincidence?”

Englebert couldn’t help but chuckle; his father was among the first gnomes to enter the priesthood, and he had a tendency to preach. Englebert himself didn’t buy into it - the Light was just another power in this world, and not one in his reach, so far as he was concerned - but if it worked for his father, he was content with that. The wounded that Wilbert patched together over the years of war certainly seemed content with that…

Wilbert gestured for him to follow, and together father and son entered Rustbolt. Looking around the place, Englebert admitted to being fascinated by the different array of mechanical augmentations these people had, as well as their ability to create masterworks from whatever junk they could get their hands on. They were taking on an empire with nothing but hope and a little luck. Though their appearances and some of their mannerisms were strange to him, as he listened to them talk, he realized that they sounded no different than what he was used to among his own, flesh-and-bone people.

So many people had found distant kinfolk and made friends with them - the blood elves and the Nightborne, the dwarves of Ironforge and the Dark Irons… could gnomes and these mechagnomes be the next pairing? In his heart and soul, he could not help but believe they would be.

As he rounded a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks, a gasp escaping his mouth. He saw a mechagnome tinkering with some of the gnomes and goblins who had come to aid the resistance. She had reddish-pink hair, worn loose and dissheveled; both of her eyes were glowing green cybernetics, and she had also had one arm replaced. A pair of swords was sheathed on her back.

His father noticed his expression. “Englebert? What is it?”

The mechagnome looked up, as if sensing the scrutiny. Her jaw clenched slightly as she saw him, and then she returned to her work. That had been all the confirmation that Englebert needed.

“Marennia…?”

[Nightswan-cenarion-circle]

As she returned to the front lines in Nazjatar, Lady Tavira Nightswan was convinced that ignorance seemed to be the order of the day in the Alliance. So long as spineless dewy-eyed toads who liked to fight the war from the home front continued to impose limits on how far they wanted the real soldiers to go for victory, the cycle would simply continue. Just as it did after Hyjal. And Northrend. And the Cataclysm, and Draenor, and Argus… on and on and on.

Tavira was tired of it. She wanted to be able to study her mysteries and work on her gadgets in peace. But she would never know peace, so long as the Horde continued to exist.

These ignorant fools called her “Void-Sylvanas” and believed she had no regard for people. They could not be more wrong. She had a great regard for people - but she did not consider the Horde to be people. Especially not the Forsaken. Or the orcs, come to that. They accused her of advocating genocide. But she wasn’t advocating genocide. She was advocating a cure for a plague that had afflicted Azeroth for more than thirty years. Everyone liked to say it was a different Horde than the one that had first come to Azeroth. But she had seen Teldrassil, and knew that this “new” Horde was no different than the one that had marched into Quel’Thalas during the Second War, burning its forests, defiling its Runestones, and murdering its inhabitants. Tavira’s father and two elder brothers had been among the dead. Even with so much blood spilled, Lor’themar and his lot had bought into Thrall’s deception and decided to forget that not so long ago, orcs and undead had been trying to murder them. He decided to break bread with the enemy. She had never accepted that. She never would. Granted, the Alliance was not much better - ruled by weaklings and children - but they had not been the ones to kill her family and despoil her land…

The problem was that the major decisions that shaped the world were being made by narrow-minded idealists - people who believed that if they told everyone that peace was possible, it would happen. Varian had made that mistake in Orgrimmar, with Vol’jin - and they had both ended up dead. She saw Anduin not only destined for that same fate, but almost looking forward to it. And lemmings like these “Feathers” seemed willing to follow him into it. It was disheartening.

But one flicker of hope remained: Genevra Stoneheardt and her Conclave. They were seekers of knowledge, and did not restrict their search for it based on some arbitrary label of “good” and “evil”. They believed, as Tavira did, that knowledge was power. She had spent the better part of her life learning how to wield that power, and honing the discipline needed to understand it; so had they. Genevra had surprised her, being the first person she had met in the Alliance who understood that the Horde was the Horde, and would never change no matter who led it. Plus, the darkness had tasted the human’s soul in the past; but for a quirk of fate, she could well have ended up much like Tavira was now. Genevra protested, of course, talking about her “penance”… but unlike other Light-thumpers, this one was different, and Tavira had been thankful that her instinct - or perhaps those everpresent whispers from the Void? - had led her to this woman.

Genevra had made her choice, of course, sticking true to her belief in the Light. Tavira had no intention of forcing her to do otherwise. She was not Sylvanas - she did not force her “curse” upon anyone. In time, perhaps she would change her mind. But in the meantime, the library that Genevra’s people maintained at Northshire would be a good place for Ketiron’s archives. Plus, the last scion of House Ketiron belonged to the Alliance now - his family archive had no business being kept in the hands of Horde filth…

This particular “Horde filth” had not been easy for her to deal with, though. She and Menarian had been lovers in their younger, more innocent days, before the Scourge. There had been talk of marriage, perhaps. But in the aftermath of Arthas’ invasion and then the willing enslavement of the sin’dorei to the Horde, they had drifted apart. He had become pious, puritanical, and dedicated to making the sin’dorei a proud part of this “new” Horde. She had remained cynical, dedicated to her dark mysteries, and chafed at the idea of her family’s murderers now being her overlords.

She had recognized Umbric’s search for Telogrus as an escape, and she had not hesitated in taking it - nor had she regretted it. Still, there was that personal history… which was why she had Arrenhae take the magister’s life, because she did not feel she could do so herself. The night elves were never fond of the Highborne or their descendants anyway, and the dark-eyed assassin had never been shy about shedding Horde blood. Normally, Tavira would not have been either. But this was different.

Her thoughts again turned to those fools in the tavern. That Lightforged had been willing to actually kill her for telling the truth. She wondered, if she had seen her gnomish girlfriend slaughtered by these Horde animals, if she would have been so restrained…

Unlike Sylvanas, there was a method to her cruelty. The black flag would bring peace at last to Azeroth. There would be a considerable amount of bloodshed required, of course, but there would be peace. Real peace. It was a shame no one else seemed to see it, or was willing to listen to her.

Except, perhaps, for Genevra - and people did listen to her…

[Urgan-sisters-of-elune]

Standing on a lower terrace of the great pyramid of Dazar’alor, looking west towards the sacred peak of Mount Mugamba, Urgan of the Black Harvest waited. He had requested a meeting some days ago, but the priest seemed either too caught up in his “work” to bother with him, or too reluctant to associate with a warlock. Now, however, he had received word that the man was en route.

Things had come to a head in recent days, both with the ongoing war and with certain folk he had kept an eye on as much as possible. He had supported the effort to bring the Zandalari into the Horde, for whatever his support was worth; he was a relatively small fish in the rather large ocean of conflict nowadays, and this time around he was content with that. He had recently assumed a new role, and that new role required a more… subtle touch than he was usually known for. His methods tended to be both public and brutal, and it had been for those reasons that he had been absent for so long.

Now, however…

“My lord Corruptor.” He turned to see a blood elf approaching him, with a tall, well-built Zandalari behind him. He wore traditional Zandalari garb, with two major exceptions - the gold-encrusted soulcatchers in his shoulderguards, and the orc skull mask he wore over his face - a gift from the Laughing Skull Mag’har who had come from the alternate Draenor. He carried a staff carved of bone, also writhing with soul energy.

Urgan dismissed the elf with a curt nod, and turned now to his guest. “Death-priest. I appreciate your coming.”

“Skip de pleasantries, warlock, and get to de point.”

Rather than be offended by the blunt tone, the warlock nodded. “Very well.” He looked around, just to be sure; none of the Deathguards who had come with Blightcaller were present. Nonetheless, he spoke in a low tone. “Between you and me, no matter her popular support, Sylvanas is done - it’s merely a matter of time now before the entire world stomps her flat, just like with Garrosh, during my… enforced absence. So your master will get the soul he wants, the one he demanded in exchange for his patronage to Queen Talanji. I have a lead on another, one too long delayed its final journey.”

“Dat be ironic comin’ from you, mon.”

“Perhaps,” the Corruptor conceded. “But my flesh is not rotten; consider me an abomination if you wish, but at least I am not that much so. I know how you Zandalari loathe the undead.” He smiled icily. “Do you loathe them enough, perhaps, to grant me a bit of a reprieve?”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. “And what be ya offerin’ in return?”

“As I said… a soul for a soul, as it were. You marked him as a wanted man the moment you saw him step off the boat in the Port of Zandalar. I can give him to you. I would rather keep on the good side of your queen’s new patron; it would make my work here far easier.”

“And what work would dat be?”

The Corruptor’s smile widened. “You need not worry yourself about that, death-priest. But worry not, there will be no harm to your people or your empire from it. I would give you my word on it, but I would imagine you would not trust it.”

The priest continued to stare. “Dis soul you seek… ya have a personal connection to it.”

“I do,” Urgan admitted, choosing to be honest. “He was responsible for my death in Northrend, leading to my being imprisoned and forgotten in a soulstone for years. I will not make the same mistake I did before, and charge in at him… I have obtained considerable resources in recent days, and can put them to use against him. He has begun to be wielded by his power, rather than the other way around; that’s the inherent risk of the Void, and I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more like him. Just like that whole mess with Zul, and G’huun.” He gave a light snort. “He had been a powerful enemy, when he was a living man wielding the Light. I had thought of containing his soul as mine had been, to torment him a bit longer. Now he is just another void-puppet. Bwonsamdi can have him, and good riddance.”

The priest was silent for a moment, considering. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, Corruptor. I be waitin’ for ya to uphold ya end of da bargain. When it be done, bring it ta me at da Necropolis in Nazmir, and I be puttin’ a good word for ya with Bwonsamdi. Da rest be up ta him.”

“Fair enough, Master Zulimbasha. I hope to not keep you waiting too long.”

[Ketiron-cenarion-circle]

When he had entered the halls of Northshire Abbey to confer with Genevra and her inner circle, Ord’taeril Ketiron had expected to hear the typical news from the front lines. Instead, he watched as another tie to his late father was severed forever.

He had heard that his family’s archives - kept by his foster father, Gehn, during all the years they had spent in the Nether - had been relinquished to Menarian Talashar, a student of his great-grandfather in the years before the coming of the Horde. He had thought it would remain in Menarian’s hands. Instead, he had seen it in Genevra’s hands when he entered the abbey. That meant only one thing - Menarian was dead as well, and the sole intent of killing him was to obtain the tome. And he knew only one person who would benefit from it.

He had gone first to Pandaria to confer with his mentor, Lorewalker Zhangren Puretide, and explained what had happened, and his suspicions about who caused it. The Lorewalker had been silent all throughout, simply listening. Finally, he said only: “There is only one way to find out.”

So he had returned to the Telogrus Rift, sent word through the Riftblades to request a meeting… and waited.

“Ahh… Ord’taeril Ketiron. I see you are just as impetuous as your father.” That voice did not belong to who he expected, but he still knew who it was.

“Magister Lianis.” Ord’taeril sneered at him. “I understand you go by ‘Darkfrost’ now. How dramatic.”

“My mistress’ suggestion.” The older elf shrugged lightly. “Not quite as catchy as ‘Nightswan’, but it’s fitting nonetheless. My mistress has received your message, and I have come at her behest.”

“Oh, no. I am not dealing with her head henchman.” His eyes narrowed as he noticed something else about the sorcerer. “Certainly not one who flaunts stolen property.”

Lianis looked confused for a moment before he realized what Ord’taeril meant. “Ah, yes… the Staff of Kal’manis. A most potent artifact indeed. It belonged to your mother’s family, as I recall?”

“Given that the last person who carried it was Magister Talashar, I presume you also know it does not belong to you.”

Lianis gave another shrug. “It does now.” He raised a hand to silence the inevitable retort. “I merely accepted it from my mistress’ hands; I did not ask why she took it from him. Or the archive, for that matter. Though with the latter… I understand it has reached the Lady Stoneheardt-Nash safely?”

Ord’taeril was outraged. “It was safe enough before your ‘mistress’ murdered him! Or did she conveniently forget to mention that when she gave it to you?!”

“Tavira hides nothing from me,” Lianis replied coldly, “nor I from her. I have served her family since before she was born. I know full well what has been done, and what needs to be done. Granted, I am not quite as… open with my feelings as she is with hers, but given her history, can you blame her?” His expression was curious. “I admit I fail to understand the problem here, young Ketiron. The Horde is doomed. Sylvanas has seen to that. Why would you want your family heirlooms in the hands of a traitor like Menarian, to be lost with him when the end finally comes?” He shook his head. “Even your precious Lady Stoneheardt-Nash admitted to my mistress that she recognizes the truth. The Horde is the Horde, and will never change - no matter how much young, idealistic human kings might want it to. We are part of the Alliance to ensure that the Horde will never victimize Azeroth or its people again. Surely that is a noble goal?”

“You and that witch you serve do not speak for all of us. You taint us all with your bigoted filth.”

Lianis’ expression was one of surprising sympathy. “You still sound like the pseudo-vindicator you once were, Ord’taeril. A word of advice, if I may: Never indulge your morals over your practicals. Not now, not when so much is at stake.” He politely bowed his head. “I will relay your… gratitude to Lady Nightswan for the recovery of your family archives, young Ketiron. I would advise you to refrain from any further attempts at contact with us until you remember what you actually are… and which side you are on. You may not find the alternative to your liking.”

“Do not presume to threaten me, old man.”

“I did not threaten you, young Ketiron,” Lianis corrected with icy logic. “I merely reminded you of the position you are in.” He bowed his head again. “A service that House Nightswan is happy to render to a brother ren’dorei.”

[Darkfrost-cenarion-circle]

Estate of House Brightswan, Silvermoon
During the Second War

The doors opened with a resounding bang. Tavira had been pacing, it seemed, for days, ever since the Horde had laid siege to Silvermoon. Only the power of the Sunwell kept the vile greenskins - both the orcs and the wretched Amani - at bay. But now…

The first person she saw was Lianis, her father’s high counselor. His robes were shredded and covered in blood, but from the way he moved, Tavira was sure that almost none of it was his own. His expression was one of both grief and anger, both of which she had never seen on his face before. “My lady,” he said, bowing his head.

“Lianis, are you alright? What – Ann’da!” Tavira’s blue eyes went as wide as saucers when she saw the guard carrying in the litter. The figure lying on it was that of her father, Magister Hendar Brightswan, the lord of the house. His robes were in a similar state of raggedness as Lianis’, but his labored breathing and the horrific gashes in his chest and limbs made it clear that the blood he was covered in was his own.

“T…Ta…Tavira…” He labored to get his only daughter’s name out. He weakly raised a hand, beckoning her to follow as the guards brought him to his bedchamber. After he was laid down into his bed, she held his hand… seeing that his whole other arm was missing, and only a burst of flame - no doubt self-inflicted, as he was a master pyromancer - had cauterized the wound enough to prevent him from bleeding to death.

But it was not enough, and Hendar knew it. As he labored to breathe, he looked up at Lianis and gave a slight nod. The counselor sighed, leading Tavira to look up at him. “Lady Brightswan,” he said gently.

Tavira could understand the import behind that title. It was not just a courtesy. “No,” she said at once. “But… what about Valnir, Aldan… where are they, anyway?” Lianis bowed his head, reluctant to speak the words, but knowing she deserved the truth. But he didn’t have to speak. The look on his face was enough. “No,” she said again. Tears were streaming down her face. She clung onto her dying father’s one remaining hand like a lifeline. Her mother had perished to a fever just a few years ago, and that had shaken her.

This… this was her entire life falling down around her.

“Tavira.” The dying magister had found his voice again. “You… are our house now. The last.” As she shook her head, trying to deny it, he gently shushed her, before spasming in pain for a moment. When it passed, he continued, “That lad… Menarian… he can help you… help ensure our future.” He looked up. “Lianis.”

“My lord.”

As Hendar made to speak again, he again stiffened in agony, but nonetheless he made the effort to get the words out. He had to. “I have… always counted on you. I owe… owe you a great deal.”

“It was the least I could do, Hendar,” Lianis said quietly. “You helped give me a future.”

Through gritted teeth, he replied, “And you helped… give me mine.” He looked into his daughter’s eyes for a moment. “Take… take care of her… for me. Be her voice of reason… as you have been for me.”

Lianis, who usually prided himself on his composure, could not keep the tears from running down his cheeks as he bowed his head. “You have my word, my lord,” he said.

Agony lanced through Hendar’s body once more, making him as rigid as the plank of a destroyer’s deck, before at last, he relaxed, his breath rattling in his throat… and then nothing.

---

Telogrus Rift
Present day

Elves have long memories. For Magister Lianis Darkfrost, this was especially true. Every day since Hendar had died, nearly thirty years earlier, he had remembered that moment when the dying lord had asked him to watch over his now-only child. To ensure House Brightswan had a future.

He often wondered if Hendar would have recognized what had become of it today. Tavira had been transformed by the power of the Void, as had the others who had followed Umbric to this place. She had rebranded herself as “Nightswan” as a result… and she had reached out to the remainder of her family’s retainers in Silvermoon.

Decades after they had attempted to destroy Quel’Thalas on the battlefield, the orcs and their allies decided to destroy Quel’Thalas by making its people part of their Horde. Lianis had been sickened by the idea. When the word had come from Lor’themar of the agreement with the Horde - particularly that banshee witch, who wore the skin of Sylvanas Windrunner and desecrated her memory with every word she spoke - all he could see in his mind was Hendar’s death throes. Which was why when Tavira called, promising an escape, he had answered.

Looking around the Void-blasted landscape, he had to admit that this was not what he had in mind. But it was too late for regrets now. He had undergone the change willingly, and continued to serve as the “voice of reason” that Hendar had charged him with being.

But these days, reason was not the voice Tavira wanted to hear.

Not that he disagreed with her desires at all, not one bit. The Horde was a plague, a pustule of malignant ooze on the face of Azeroth. But her public declarations and her pamphlets calling for a “black flag” war would make things worse, not better. She bragged about how she had made a Lightforged angry enough to consider committing murder, as if it were some kind of a cheap thrill.

Thanks to his transformation into the ranks of the ren’dorei, Lianis heard the same whispers of darkness in his mind that she did. These days, he began to wonder just how much she heeded them instead of him…

[Daeron-sisters-of-elune]

Daeron Soulscorcher had been dabbling in the power of fire since he was a young man growing up in Shadowforge City. But as time went on, the fire he wielded was not that of Ragnaros, but something far darker. It had not taken much coaxing to be pointed to the Council of the Black Harvest during the Legion war; he had been fairly adept on his own, but he had flourished when he had been allowed entry into the Dreadscar. His mentor had been a nobleman from Gilneas, an engineer and scribe who combined his craft with his powers.

It was to him that he now came. Or at least, what was left of him. Like the Corruptor, he had been encased in a soulstone for some time, after he had been killed by the Nightborne - the Horde-aligned Nightborne - in Suramar. His last thought before his demise was, “Well, that’s gratitude for you” - as he had been part of the combined forces that had helped to liberate Suramar from Elisande.

While a portion of his knowledge - a copy of the grimoire which he had written during the Draenor campaign - was safe in Daeron’s hands, the original grimoire had found its way into the clutches of Lady Nightswan, so rabidly anti-Horde that she refused any association with the Council. She had been accumulating artifacts - typically by robbing or killing the previous owners - for the better part of a year.

Upon stepping out of the mole machine from the Stormwind embassy, Daeron made his way home and entered his study, where he opened the arcane chest - a relic recovered from Nazjatar, complete with Mardivas’ puzzle code lock - that contained the soulstone. “Master.”

What news?

“I think it’ll be doable. If it worked fer a damn dirty orc, it’ll work fer ye as well. And no one’ll cry about it, I don’ think.”

Excellent. And the others?

“I’m no’ entirely sure th’ face he puts out in public is just an act. I think he’s tryin’ ta show his distance. Which means when we move, he’ll prob’ly do nothin’. With th’ other one… hard ta tell. She plays 'er cards close ta ‘er chest. Th’ demon 'unter might know more.”

No, let’s not involve him just yet. He is too attached to her, and may not be as willing to watch her die, even if she is her thrall.

“Too zealous anyway,” Daeron muttered. “Might just as soon kill me as look at me.”

Speaking from experience?

The Dark Iron smiled through his smoldering white beard. “Sorta.” He had spent the past few years, ever since the fall of Ragnaros, hunting down those of the clan who had remained allegiant to the Firelord and his Old God masters. Among them had been his own father; he had incinerated the old man without so much as a hint of hesitation. “So we stick ta watchin’ an’ waitin’ fer th’ nonce, then?”

Aye, for the nonce. The fool will eventually anger the wrong person enough to kill her. It’s a matter of when, not if. In the meantime, there is someone I suggest you reach out to. She may be willing to take you in. She certainly didn’t seem to mind me… only don’t mention me to her. Not yet. I want to wait until I… return.

“Where can I find 'er?”

Northshire. If you don’t mind being in the presence of the Light…

[Vendross-sisters-of-elune]

It seemed that the path taken by Randarel, lord of House Vendross, kept turning back to the quiet garden-tombs of Tel’anor, in the mountains north of Suramar. The latest tomb to be added to the plot claimed by House Vendross had just been completed… but it was not a Nightborne, or even an ancient Highborne, who lay here, but a child of the blood - a scion of Silvermoon.

It had taken some time and a favor or two called in, but at last, the effigy that marked the sarcophagus of Magister Menarian Talashar was complete. It stood not far from the gazebo that contained the sarcophagus of Randarel’s beloved wife, Elerina - the thought of her making him reach for the pendant around his neck, as it always did - and, when his time finally came, it would contain his own.

Directly behind him were his two children. His son and heir, Erdanel, followed in the arcanist’s path just as his father did. His daughter, Telisa, was leaning in a surprisingly different direction - having elected to follow the ways of the pandaren, after a number of their wandering monks had begun to descend on the Broken Isles. Several could be found in Highmountain, training the tauren there, but no small few had made their way in and around the Nighthold as well.

Standing behind his children were two others. The first was a stern, pious Blood Knight Master named Kirenna Summerlight, a veteran of the campaign in the Broken Isles. She wore black and red armor, the same color as the tabard of her order, and carried a burning spear forged of titansteel. Next to her was the Forsaken monk Euphrati Velade, who had come (much to his astonishment) when he had requested a master of the pandaren fighting arts to tutor his daughter. She wore well-crafted leather armor and wore a tabard similar to those of the pandaren Lorewalkers, and carried a staff shaped like the head of the Jade Serpent.

Silent for a moment as he regarded the stone features of his fallen friend, Randarel finally looked up. “Master Summerlight,” he said in perfect Thalassian, without relying on the translation enchantment of the ring Menarian had given him, “thank you for coming.”

“It was my honor, my lord,” she replied in the same tongue. “Whatever bad blood he may have had with the higher-ups in Silvermoon is meaningless now, especially with the Regent seeing the writing on the wall. Quel’Thalas will have its vengeance on the traitors responsible for this.”

“Whatever you require for the hunt that is in my power to grant, I will provide it,” Randarel promised. Then he looked over to the Forsaken, activating the ring so that he could understand and be understood in Orcish. “Master Velade. Your presence is…” He paused, trying to find a word.

“Unexpected? Or perhaps unwelcome?” She could not help but smile. “We’re not all plague-mongering zealots, Lord Vendross. And I am all too familiar with the kind - like Father Shankolin, as he insists on calling himself… or my own father.”

“The missive you provided from the monastery speaks highly of you. The pandaren are better judges of character than many people… myself included, I will admit. I will therefore take the chance, and allow you access to my household so that my daughter can learn from you.” He glanced in Telisa’s direction. “If this is truly what you want to do,” he added, speaking now in his native Shalassian.

“When Valya betrayed us to Shankolin, it decided me, Father,” she replied. “I cannot sit idly anymore. We were hidden under the bubble my entire life… then when that was gone, I was hidden like a secret package in the dark alleys of Suramar when Elisande’s thugs murdered Mother and sent you to wither to death. I can’t do that again.”

“It would also be a step towards rebuilding the House Guard,” Erdanel added. He wore traditional arcanist’s attire, with a jeweled spellsword at his belt. “If Teli sets the example for them, others might follow, and we’ll have fighters in our ranks again.” He grinned as he put an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “We can’t all be arcanists, after all.”

“Says the arcanist,” Telisa retorted with a snort.

Randarel chuckled, before looking back at Euphrati, who had watched the exchange with a hint of sadness. She had never had this close family setting, not even when she had been alive. “I make the same offer to you, Master Velade, that I made to Master Summerlight - whatever you require that is in my power to give, I will ensure you have.”

Euphrati inclined her head. “I will not require much, my lord, merely an assurance.” She glanced now at Telisa. “Whatever thoughts you may have about the fact that you’re thousands of years old, the life you’ve lived, so on… I suggest you set them aside real quick. If you truly want to go out into the world, I’m going to prepare you for it properly. You’ve seen the death and destruction come to your doorstep, so you know it’s not all sunshine and roses… and neither am I. There will be pain, difficulty, and likely a fair share of injury. So are you really up for this? Because this is your last chance to back out.”

Telisa met her challenge with a steely expression of her own. “I will not back down,” she replied. “If a few bruises, broken bones, and assaults on my dignity are required, then so be it. I will endure it all.” She glanced at Randarel. “Just as my father does.” She looked across the way, at Elerina’s tomb. Like her father, her hand went to the white diamond pendant around her neck. “Just as my mother did.”

Euphrati’s gaze went first from Telisa to her father, then back to Telisa… and then finally, she nodded. “I will await you in the courtyard of the Nighthold.” She bowed to Randarel, before summoning a golden disc, which created some kind of… cloud. Standing on the disc, she flew away, towards the spires of Suramar. Kirenna mounted a horse with red and silver barding, and also made her exit, heading towards Dalaran.

Randarel put his hands on his children’s shoulders. “Go on back. I will be along shortly.” Both of them nodded, as Erdanel provided a portal back to the Nighthold for both himself and Telisa. Once they were gone, Randarel crossed the way to his wife’s tomb, resting his hand on the carved features of her face on the sarcophagus lid. “So much has changed, beloved,” he said, as if speaking to her. He looked back behind him, at Menarian’s grave. “At least you will have a guardian in your rest… until the time comes for me to join you.” He sighed. “I fear that time may be soon.”