Anduin lifted his head, letting the light catch his face just enough for recognition.
“Your Majesty.” Tommy’s voice wavered with surprise, and he quickly stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
Anduin entered, feeling the warmth of the small, humble home wash over him—a stark contrast to the cold ache that had settled in his chest. “I’m sorry to come at this hour,” Anduin said, his voice tinged with quiet despair. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
Tommy nodded, reading the King’s weariness. “Maybell!” he called out, closing the door behind Anduin. “We have a guest. Could you heat up some of that mushroom soup you made?”
Anduin shook his head, embarrassed by the sudden hospitality. “You really don’t need to—”
“No,” Tommy insisted gently. “You look like you haven’t eaten. You need something warm.”
Anduin reluctantly nodded, the smell of the house—simple, comforting—stirring something in him. He sat down at the kitchen table, feeling a strange mix of relief and heartache.
Maybell came down the stairs, looking bewildered at the sight of the King in her kitchen. “Your Majesty,” she gasped, quickly bowing her head before lighting a flame under the stove. She worked quietly, heating the soup and toasting some bread, her eyes darting occasionally to Anduin’s expression of quiet torment.
She set the bowl and bread in front of him. “Here you go,” she said softly. “I hope it helps.”
“Thank you, it smells wonderful,” Anduin said, inhaling the rich aroma as the steam rose from the bowl. The scent of earthy mushrooms mingled with the cream and herbs, curling into his senses like a comforting embrace.
He lifted the spoon, and the first sip flooded his mouth with the velvety texture of the soup, the salt and cream blending perfectly, coating his tongue with a warmth that traveled all the way down his throat, easing the knot that had been lodged in his chest all night. The flavor was rich, the mushrooms carrying an almost meaty depth that grounded him, a small solace against the chaos in his mind.
Anduin reached for the piece of hard, stove-toasted bread that Maybell had set beside the bowl, its crust golden and perfectly crisp. He dipped it into the soup, letting it soak up the creamy goodness before taking a bite. The bread was warm, with the faint taste of butter melting on his lips, adding a soft crunch that contrasted with the soup’s silky texture.
“I’m sorry, there was only enough for one more bowl,” Maybell said, watching him.
Anduin looked up, genuinely moved. “No, it’s lovely. Thank you.” He couldn’t remember the last time something so simple had brought him such comfort.
Tommy watched Anduin devour the rest, his movements growing more eager with each bite, the bowl nearly clean by the end. Anduin scraped the last remnants of soup with the bread, savoring every bit, like a man starved not just of food but of peace.
Tommy smiled, pleased. “Feel better?” he asked.
Anduin set the empty bowl down and managed a small, grateful smile. “A little,” he admitted, the warmth lingering in his chest long after the last sip.
“So, did she dump you or something?” Tommy asked, his voice carrying a touch of lightness that didn’t quite fit the weight of the moment.
Anduin shook his head, his breath trembling as he tried to collect his thoughts. “She wasn’t who she appeared to be. She was one of our enemies—a blood elf, disguised as a Night Elf. They arrested her.”
Tommy furrowed his brow, considering the situation. “Doesn’t sound like a great spy, though. How long was she here before she got caught?”
Anduin thought for a moment, his gaze distant. “Just over 24 hours, I think.”
Tommy let out a dry laugh. “A day? Not exactly the hallmark of a master spy. SI:7 wouldn’t even give her a second look.”
Anduin’s expression tightened, uncertainty clouding his eyes. “So you don’t think she was plotting against me? No hidden dagger, no trap waiting to spring?”
Tommy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s what she thought she was doing at first. But if she was brought to you by someone you trust—”
Anduin cut in, his voice sharp with confusion. “Vereesa brought her to me.”
“Who?” Tommy asked, blinking.
Anduin managed a faint smile, remembering the familiarity and trust he had with Vereesa. “Vereesa Windrunner. Leader of the Silver Covenant. She’s always been loyal to the Alliance.”
Tommy nodded slowly, piecing it together. “If Vereesa brought her, she must’ve seen something in her—something worth saving. Maybe they were friends. And if that’s true, then Melfina wasn’t planning on killing you. Not anymore.”
Anduin let out a weary sigh, the truth of Tommy’s words cutting deep. “She was trying to make up for the things she’d done. Maybe she wanted to stop Sylvanas, to be something more than just a blood elf. But she got too close… she fell in love, and it all went wrong.”
Tommy’s words hit Anduin like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from him. The spoon in his hand clattered against the table as he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “She didn’t do anything wrong,” Anduin choked out, his voice breaking. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to hide his grief, but it was too much, too raw. “And I let her rot in the Stockades. She kissed me, and then they just… took her.”
Tommy put a comforting hand on Anduin’s back, his presence solid and steady. “Who took her away?” he asked gently.
Anduin struggled to compose himself, his breaths ragged. “Alleria Windrunner and Tyrande Whisperwind. They knew her voice. She must’ve been there when Alleria nearly corrupted the Sunwell, when Teldrassil burned. But she also… she gave me water from the Well of Eternity. She believed—somehow—that we could start over, that there could be hope.”
Tommy nodded, understanding. “She sounds like someone desperate to atone, to make things right. But Anduin… you barely knew her.”
Anduin’s eyes were distant, filled with a sorrow that went beyond words. He shook his head slowly, his voice small and hollow. “I don’t know why it hurts so much. I’ve never met anyone willing to risk so much, to give everything for so little in return. She’s of noble blood, but it’s the blood of my enemy, and yet… her words, her actions… they were beautiful, just like she was.” He shrugged helplessly, caught between the weight of duty and the unfamiliar ache of love lost too soon.
Tommy settled across from Anduin, his gaze steady, hands folded under his chin. “I have to ask, Anduin—are you in love with her?” His voice was gentle, but the question hit with the weight of truth. “You know, my wife and I… our families were at each other’s throats since we were kids. The Maclures and Stonefields—bitter enemies, always feuding. But after everything, those grudges don’t mean much anymore.”
Anduin stared at Tommy for a moment, his eyes searching, but the words didn’t come easily. He looked away, his mind drifting into the tangled web of politics, alliances, and emotions. The idea of a union between the Horde and the Alliance was a fantasy, and yet… hadn’t the thought crossed his mind before? Once, he had even entertained the impossible notion of marrying Sylvanas, back when she was less the Banshee Queen and more a symbol of pride for her people. But that was a child’s dream, long before the weight of war had tainted everything.
And now, here was Melfina—a blood elf, part of the enemy but not quite the monster he’d been trained to see. Could she be the one to bridge the impossible divide? Could her presence, her voice, lead to something greater, something closer to peace? The questions haunted him as he touched the four torn pieces of paper hidden in his pocket. Each fragment held her words—words that revealed her kindness, her willingness to risk everything for the slightest chance of redemption.
He replayed her confession in his mind, her honesty laid bare without expectation. She knew he didn’t feel the same, yet she risked it all, paying the price for her crimes. Was it love? Or just another desperate plea for change?
“I don’t think this is the same thing,” Anduin said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Maybell, who had been quietly tending the stove, let out a small laugh. “You really don’t know our story, do you? If those kobolds hadn’t swarmed Fargodeep Mine, that strip of dirt between our farms would’ve seen a lot more than just arguments. There would’ve been blood. That’s where Tommy and I met, against all odds.” Her eyes softened as she looked back on those memories, both bitter and sweet. “I used to think the kobolds were a curse, but without them, we’d never have found each other.”
Anduin nodded, piecing together their tale. “A common enemy brought you together.”
Maybell shrugged, her gaze drifting as she recalled the past. “Yeah, something like that. But we had help, too. The Alliance gave us a chance to be something different. And, well, falling for Tommy wouldn’t have felt so thrilling if I didn’t know he was supposed to be my enemy. It felt… liberating to defy what was expected of us.”
Tommy looked over at her, a faint smile crossing his face. “That’s why I joined the Stormwind Guard. I wanted us to get away from all that. Can’t be adventurers now, though… not with you expecting.”
Maybell nodded, a small, contented smile lighting her face. “I know. But sometimes, I miss those days.”
Tommy looked at her in surprise. “You’re expecting?”
Maybell nodded again, her smile widening. “Aye, up in a duff.”
Anduin watched them, the ease of their love, the simple joy of building a life together—even against all odds. The bitter taste of envy crept in, stinging more than he expected. The Alliance had been a neutral force for Tommy and Maybell, allowing them to rewrite their destinies. Could Anduin ever find such a bridge for himself?
“Well,” Anduin finally admitted, his voice heavy with doubt. “I don’t know what to do.”
Maybell turned her gaze back to him, soft but probing. “How do you really feel about her?”
Anduin drew a deep breath, closing his eyes to steady the whirlwind inside. When he opened them, the answer was there, aching and unresolved. “I’d like to see her,” he confessed. The words hung in the air, tinged with longing and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, something good could come from all this.
Maybell lifted her head, her gaze lingering on Anduin with a motherly concern. She glanced toward the door, a silent encouragement. “If she’s in the Stockades, you should go see her.”
Anduin gave her a grateful smile, feeling the weight of his uncertainty lift, if only a little. “Thank you.” He left the house, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the warmth of their home in his wake.
Once he was gone, Maybell turned to Tommy, raising an eyebrow. “Is she really that pretty?”
Tommy chuckled, a light, knowing laugh escaping him. “Not my type, Maybell. You know that.” He grinned, eyes sparkling with a touch of mischief. “But when you see her… let’s just say, you’ll understand why Anduin’s got his head in knots. I mean, those hips—”
Maybell smirked, rolling her eyes playfully. “Hips don’t lie, huh?”
Tommy nodded, unable to suppress his grin. “More like they do all the talking. Trust me, once you catch sight of her, you’ll get it. But hey, she’s still not half as charming as you.”
Maybell gave a small, amused shrug, pretending to be unimpressed but secretly enjoying the banter. “I’ll take your word for it… for now.”
Anduin approached the cell in the Stockades where the enigmatic female Blood Elf was held captive. From their very first meeting, he had sensed something potent and undeniable—a trace of pheromones that lingered in the air, teasing his senses. It was intoxicating, almost maddening, like a whisper against his skin that made his pulse quicken. He couldn’t be sure if she was doing it deliberately or if it was simply part of who she was, but every encounter was marked by this subtle, provocative energy that clung to her, seeping into his veins.
Even now, as she lay in a restless slumber, her presence radiated something unspoken. Her lithe form was draped in leather that hugged every curve, leaving little to the imagination but everything to desire. Her hair cascaded in wild, fiery waves, untamed as if it defied any attempt to control it. She was a vision—angelic, but with the faintest hint of devilry at the corners of her lips, a silent promise of secrets and sin.
Her eyes, glowing like molten gold, were deceptively young but carried the weight of centuries. They told stories of pain and loss, of battles fought and lovers left behind. It was impossible to look at her and not be drawn in, not to wonder about the depths of her soul and the fire that flickered within. She was a paradox—innocent and dangerous, alluring and forbidden. Anduin realized, with a sudden sharp breath, that he hadn’t exhaled in what felt like an eternity.
He bit down on his lip, a futile attempt to ground himself in the moment. What do you say to someone who captivates you with just a glance? “Who are you? Your real name, I mean,” he finally managed, his voice husky, betraying more than he intended.
Perfectia stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she looked up at him, surprised but with a sly smile playing on her lips. “Who do you want me to be?” she teased, her voice dripping with playful seduction. “Wait—what’s a nice place like you doing on a guy like zis?”
Anduin blinked, momentarily thrown off by her boldness, feeling both the heat of embarrassment and the thrill of her defiance.
She laughed softly, the sound like silk brushing against his skin. “Perfectia,” she introduced herself, her tone suddenly formal, yet still laced with that unmistakable allure. “Perfectia Argento Dawnlight of Dawnstar Village, daughter of Kel’Donas Dawnlight.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the contradiction—noble and mischievous, a woman of breeding who still spoke with a roguish charm. “Funny, but still spoke like nobility. They haven’t mistreated you, have they?” he asked, concern slipping into his voice.
Perfectia sat up slowly, stretching languidly as if savoring the tension in the air. She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Um… Can you go away please?”
Anduin blinked, clearly confused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was a bad time, but I can’t exactly come back in broad daylight.”
Perfectia sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, clearly amused but flustered. “I know, I know, just… I need some soapy water, and like, ten minutes to clean up.”
Anduin’s breath hitched, torn between the impropriety of the situation and the undeniable pull he felt toward her. There was something raw and magnetic about Perfectia—a blend of temptation and torment that left him standing at the precipice, unsure whether to step back or to fall completely.
“Yes, I can bring you something like that.” Anduin said, disappearing into the shadows of the prison, his steps echoing faintly. He returned a few moments later, carrying a bucket filled with water and soap, sliding it under the bars with a sense of quiet urgency.
Perfectia eyed the bucket, a flicker of gratitude crossing her face before she smirked. “Thank you, now don’t look over here or I swear, I will kill your stupide cat.”
Anduin blinked, confused. “I didn’t know this prison had a cat.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Then whose kitty litter did I just—ugh, fifteen minutes, please.” She muttered under her breath, dipping her hands into the soapy water. “I warned them about the Texo Bell prison food, but, nooooo.” She grumbled, her voice filled with mock indignation.
Anduin leaned against the cold stone wall, the faint sound of water splashing as Perfectia scrubbed away. He found himself smiling, charmed despite himself. “So, you’re a Blood Elf then.”
“Oui, why do you zink I ‘ave zis outrageous accent, you silly king?” she shot back without missing a beat, her words dripping with exaggerated flair.
Anduin chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned back, watching the dim torchlight flicker on the stone walls. “You are a strange one.”
A few moments later, she finished dressing, the clinking of her leather armor echoing as she moved. “Okay, I’m done.”
Anduin hesitated, scratching the back of his head, still caught between amusement and something deeper. “Is it difficult for you to speak Common?” he asked, genuinely curious.
Perfectia shook her head. “I understand, yes. But speaking? My accent slipped because I was upset.” She looked away, her expression softening as she shrugged. “But I also zink… just like speaking Thalassian.”
Anduin laughed, but then his smile faded, replaced by a more serious, contemplative look. “I don’t…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t know what to do right now.”
Perfectia gave him a sympathetic smile, tilting her head slightly. “I guess we’re beyond ze point of slaps on le wrist and ‘promise I won’t do it again, mister’?”
Anduin sighed, his frustration showing. “Are you Sylvanas’s jester or something? I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”
Perfectia’s expression shifted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you ‘onestly zink zat anyone in Azeroth can make la Banshee Queen laugh? I would ‘ave better chances wiz a fish.” She rolled her eyes, her sarcasm dripping with charm.
Anduin looked around, feeling a bit lost in the whirlwind that was Perfectia. “I feel like I’m never going to get you to be serious. You said you loved me. Don’t you think that’s something to be serious about?”
Perfectia’s teasing smile faded, her gaze softening with a hint of vulnerability. “Love is tragedy, Anduin. I wrote zat because I’m miserable and depressed, and I used to zink it was because I was poor.” She sighed, her voice tinged with a melancholic honesty. “But every zing about us shouldn’t be. You gave me ‘appiness for one day. Just one. I thought I should tell you ‘ow wonderful you made my life, because of zat one day.”
Anduin looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and conflict. “Well, I think you’re wonderful too—beautiful, even. You’re something I didn’t know I needed, but you’re my enemy, and…” He looked away, struggling to piece together his emotions. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
Perfectia nodded, accepting his words with a faint, knowing smile. She stepped closer, leaning against the bars that separated them. Anduin instinctively backed away, her breath, sweet and intoxicating, filled his senses, clouding his judgment. The faint trail of her scent pulled him in, every inhalation making his heart race and his hands tremble with the urge to reach for her.
“I’ve disliked and even ‘ated most ‘umans for a very long time,” she admitted, her voice low and laced with a playful defiance. “But I’m not a smelly, one-dimensional culo like most of l’Alliance. And since you’re ‘ere, you might not be either. I don’t allow my ten-out-of-ten booty to be blinded by zat brown-eye hatred.” She smirked, running a hand through her wild hair. “I don’t let it define my supple cheeks—I just rub it in like Preparation H. I absorb it.”
Anduin couldn’t help himself; he tried to keep his composure, but a laugh escaped him, a mix of amusement and the gravity of their situation. He was caught somewhere between her humor and the unspoken wisdom hidden beneath it.
Perfectia’s smile faded slightly, her gaze turning thoughtful. “I didn’t expect zis.” She glanced around the cell, taking in the cold, unyielding stone. “So, what now? Is my only fate to rot in zis cell or face an executioner’s axe?”
Anduin’s expression turned serious, concern flickering in his eyes. “No. I want this to end. This war’s been going on since I was a boy, and I never thought it could end… until I started thinking about you.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head as if confessing a secret. “You’re right, you know. When you spoke to me through the emissary, I thought you were naive. That maybe you were just foolishly optimistic. But you stood there, a member of the Horde, trying to do the right thing, even though it was so stupidly risky.”
Perfectia looked at him, her eyes softening. “I met you, stole your first kiss, and if that’s worth an executioner’s axe, then I’d say it was worth it.” She smiled, a glimmer of something raw and genuine in her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d say that yesterday, but today… today, I’m glad I did. I’ve always been a writer, Anduin, but you made me a poet. These words, they just keep flowing, and I can’t help but want to share them with you.”
“Then share them,” Anduin said, his voice soft yet eager.
Perfectia blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Share what?”
“Your words,” Anduin repeated, his gaze intent.
Perfectia laughed, a soft, melodic sound that filled the small space between them. “You’ll need to give me some paper first, Anduin. They took my diary.”
Anduin glanced around, spotting a small book lying near the edge of the cell. He picked it up, holding it out to her. “Is this it?”
Perfectia’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Odd, I thought Alleria took that.”
“So she was here,” Anduin said, his voice laced with concern. “Did she say she was going to hurt you?”
Perfectia hesitated, her eyes darting away before meeting his again. She nodded.
Anduin’s lips tightened, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. His fists clenched, knuckles white against his skin. “She won’t,” he growled, the anger in his voice palpable.
Perfectia reached through the bars, gently touching his arm. “Please don’t hurt her, Anduin. That look, that anger—it’s a recipe for disaster. I know where it comes from, and I know it’s not just hatred. It’s hurt, it’s pain. This war is fueled by ignorance, by a lack of empathy, by the barriers we put up, including the languages we refuse to learn. But it can change. Maybe not today, maybe not even in a year, but it will change. And we have to be the ones to start it.”
Anduin looked at her, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. In that moment, he saw not just an enemy, but someone who believed, against all odds, that they could find a way to be more than what the war had made them. He took a deep breath, and for the first time, he felt hope.
“Yeah,” Anduin took a deep breath, his expression softening. “I promise I won’t hurt her. I’ll talk to her, and she’ll stay away from these Stockades while you’re here.” He pushed Perfectia’s diary through the bars, but before letting go, his other hand reached through, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. Their lips met, an impulsive kiss shared between cold iron bars.
Perfectia’s heart pounded wildly, her stomach doing flips as she melted into him. The kiss was electric, sending sparks down her spine, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the moment. As they parted, she bit his lower lip playfully, savoring every second of the stolen touch.
Anduin’s eyes met hers, filled with the same heat and intensity she’d seen before. “It seemed only fair that I steal a kiss from you, since you stole one from me,” he said, a roguish smile spreading across his lips.
Perfectia laughed, a sultry, teasing sound. “But I’m a prisoner—that makes you a criminal now.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess it does. But I wouldn’t mind sharing a cell with you.” Anduin paused, his expression turning a little more serious. “Tyrande tore up your poem. I’m sorry I didn’t take it when I had the chance.”
Perfectia waved it off with a mischievous grin. “Don’t be. If you’d taken it, I would’ve run faster than you could say ‘Light be with you.’”
Anduin leaned against the bars, his gaze searching hers. “What did it mean?”
Perfectia hesitated, her mind flipping through the vulnerable words she’d scrawled in the heat of a late night, when her heart had been aching with thoughts of him. “It means… well, something embarrassingly cringy that I’d never want the person it was for to actually read.” She fidgeted slightly, trying to maintain her bravado but unable to meet his eyes.
Anduin’s voice softened. “I promise I won’t judge you.”
Perfectia breathed in, gathering her courage, her cheeks warming as she finally spoke. “It means that I love you, Anduin. And…” she glanced away, the vulnerability catching in her throat, “I’m afraid you might not feel the same way. I’m scared you’ll reject me.”
Anduin smiled, moving closer, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her that always seemed to draw him in. “Then stop being afraid. You’ve stolen my heart.”
Perfectia’s lips curled into a soft smile, and she leaned in through the bars, kissing him again. His kiss was already familiar, but it still sent a thrill through her every time. She knew that even if she kissed him every day for a hundred years, she would never grow tired of the feeling. She wanted him tonight—every part of him. “Can you open this door?”
Anduin looked down, frustration etched on his face. “I didn’t bring a key. Nobody even knows I’m here.”
Perfectia’s eyes flashed with determination. She grabbed him by the neck, pulling him into a fierce kiss, her other hand reaching lower to grip him boldly. Anduin gasped, his mind spinning as he pulled back, shaking his head in a daze. “That’s… not why I came here.”
Perfectia grinned wickedly, seeing the battle waging within him as he backed away. “But we could… you know… in between ze bars.” She raised an eyebrow suggestively. “You seem like ze kind of man who could ‘old a cup of ‘ot coffee in each ‘and and still carry a dozen doughnuts.”
Anduin’s face turned crimson as he pieced together what she meant. “How would I… oh… oooohhhh.” He burst out laughing, the tension breaking for a moment as they shared a mischievous, knowing look.
Anduin gazed at her, his eyes filled with longing. “You’ve made these Stockades a place I never want to leave. My Love Poet.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ornate compass, offering it to her. “I want you to have this.”
Perfectia’s eyes widened as she shook her head, hesitant. “Anduin, no.”
But he gently pushed it into her hands. “Please.”
Reluctantly, she took it and opened the compass, finding a small picture of Anduin from before his days in armor, back when he was still a priest clad in deep blue robes. The image captured his softer side, and she felt a pang of affection. “Can I keep ze picture?” she asked, her voice softer now.
Anduin smiled, nodding. “Yes. And when I get back, I’ll have an artist put a picture of you inside mine.”
Perfectia sighed, shaking her head. “I ‘ave a problem with pictures of myself… and ze problem is my face.”
Anduin rolled his eyes with a slight smile, charmed by her self-deprecation. “Perfectia, stop belittling yourself. You have a beautiful jawline and those sharp cheekbones…” He traced the lines of her face with his gaze, as if memorizing every curve. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met.”
Their tender moment was interrupted by the sound of bells echoing from outside. “It’s almost morning,” Anduin said, realizing their time was running out. Perfectia carefully took the picture and placed it on an old troll gem she had worn since she was a child, tying it around her neck.
Anduin stood, his gaze lingering on the necklace as he leaned in for one last kiss through the bars, his lips brushing hers with the urgency of unspoken promises. “I love you,” he whispered, almost surprised by his own admission. He looked away, guilt flickering in his eyes.
Perfectia reached through the bars, gently pulling his face back to hers, refusing to let him hide. “Don’t look away. Say it again.” Her voice was soft, but firm—a reminder of moments they both longed to relive.
Anduin met her eyes, his voice trembling with sincerity. “I know I barely know you, but I love you. From the moment I first saw you.”
She smiled, her heart swelling. “Me too, I love you too.” She suddenly grabbed the prison bars, pulling at them with frustration. “Uvre cette putain de porte!”
Anduin jumped back, startled by her sudden outburst.
“Comment peux-tu être aussi idiot et oublier d’apporter une putain de clé!” she cursed, falling to her knees, overwhelmed by the helplessness of the situation.
He moved closer, a soft smile on his lips. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, but I think you just called me an idiot.”
Perfectia nodded, her eyes glistening. “Oui.”
Anduin sighed, reaching out to touch her cheek. “Even if you could break down that door right now, I have to go.” He hesitated, his heart aching at the thought of leaving her. “Come here.”
She stood, avoiding his gaze, the pain of their inevitable separation weighing heavily between them.
“I still love you,” Anduin said softly. “But when I get back… you won’t be here.”
She nodded, leaning in for one last kiss through the bars, trying to imprint the moment in her memory.
As Anduin began to walk away, he suddenly turned back, rushing to the bars and pulling her into another deep, lingering kiss. “Okay, I think I’m good now.”
Perfectia nodded, trying to steady her breathing. “Oui, you ‘ave zings to do.”
He kissed her again, unable to resist. “I like your accent.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “But you’re right. I’m the king of Stormwind. People’s lives depend on me.”
She watched him, a small smile playing at her lips as she nodded along, finding his sense of duty endearing.
He glanced back at her, catching the amusement in her eyes, and before he knew it, he was rushing back for another kiss. “This feels too good to let go,” he admitted, his forehead pressed against hers. “But I have to do my kingly duties.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes dramatically. “I wish I was kingly duties.”
Anduin laughed, kissing her yet again. “Why are you making this so hard for me?”
She sighed with a playful grin. “Okay, now you’re just doing zat on purpose.” She nodded, trying to muster the will to let him go. “Maybe you should… go. And zink of me.”
Anduin took a deep breath, finally tearing himself away. “Okay,” he said, his voice heavy with reluctance. And with one last longing look, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Perfectia standing alone, with only the memory of their stolen kisses to keep her company.
A Queen’s Dilemma
Oh, the cringy feelings I’m having right now. But it’s good; things are good, things are finally GREAT! Is this a dream? I hope it isn’t. Will I wake up in Dalaran or Orgrimmar or the Chapel of Hope, and if this is all just some wonderful illusion? I’d still bless the Light for giving me these moments of bliss. But it’s real. My lips burn, my heart aches, and all I want is to be in his embrace. Thank you so much, aunty—I had so much doubt, but you put me on this path. I was holding on to so much guilt, but I feel like I can finally put it all down. Because if everything I went through led me to this moment, maybe my life wasn’t wasted. I’m in prison, though, but I don’t think I’ll be here for long. I love him so much, and for the first time, the one I love said it back. Isn’t that crazy?
Breaking the news will be hard; aunty was always impossible to understand, speaking in riddles and rhymes. She used to say things that sounded like nonsense, but now, looking at how my writing has changed, I wonder if I’m more like her than I ever thought. Have I gone insane? Because I feel like I’m starting to understand what she felt—this strange beauty in madness that made her smile when no one else could. She always wore a grin, even at the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I know she led me here, and for a moment, I saw her without that smile when she whispered, “I’ll miss you.”
It’s a wonderful day, but I don’t trust it, and that scares me. Why, after so much joy, do I feel this creeping dread? Oh, Anduin, please don’t go. Please don’t die like my first love, Oranio. I hope Anduin brings a key next time; I couldn’t hold him the way I wanted. And maybe taking his purity would forsake his vows to the Light, but I have to accept that he’ll save himself for his wedding night. When the bells toll with every passing hour, the night will bring me my Anduin.
But Anduin can’t marry a prisoner. A queen can’t—…
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour because it just hit me: I could be a queen. A queen of humans, but a queen nonetheless. Humans aren’t so bad… They’re like dogs, right? They don’t live long, but they bring so much joy. Dogs… that can impregnate you. Not bad at all. When I found Lucy, I wished I’d been born human because they value horses so much, and that’s partly why I was so excited to come to Stormwind. The sea taught me to value a good ship, and Stormwind felt like a brand-new glove that fit perfectly. If I weren’t an enemy, I’d belong here, but how long would it take to convince everyone of that? I hadn’t planned on walking Stormwind’s streets out of disguise. I wanted to be known as a hero, not someone who married into power before showing her true self.
But I love Anduin so much—he’s strong, brave, kind, and devastatingly handsome. By the Light, those deep blue eyes, that strong upturned nose, those warm pink lips, and that stubborn jawline on his boyish face… I wonder what he’d look like with his hair down. And his hands… I felt their strength when we first kissed, even through his gloves, but when he kissed me again, I felt his warmth. I dream of being wrapped in those arms, feeling his body under the covers, his hair falling around us. I wanted him so badly, but those cursed bars kept us apart. I’d love him with or without the crown, but since he is royalty, I have to be prepared to be royalty, too.
What if his people don’t accept me? What if Anduin changes his mind if more threaten to leave the Alliance? It makes me think of Oranio’s plan to run away, but I know Anduin won’t abandon the Alliance, and I’ll do anything to make his people accept me if it means I can stay by his side. Just don’t let what happened to Oranio happen to Anduin. The memories of Oranio’s death keep haunting me, and I can’t help but see Anduin falling the same way to Sylvanas.
No, he won’t die like that. Maybe my aunty foresaw my death; maybe she knows I’d die to protect him. And you know what? I think I will. When I think about how wonderful my life could be with someone like Anduin, I don’t want to go back to my old life, bouncing from task to task, never meeting anyone who says more than a few sentences outside of a job description. It’s always the same—fighting ghouls, hags, and wraiths, and then a godlike entity pops up, threatening to destroy the world. It never ends.
But with Anduin? It’d be different. Could he even live that kind of life? Maybe if he wore a cloak, I could show him what it’s like to be an adventurer, going place to place, fighting for toll and gold. We’d battle through every waking day, side by side, and it’d be the best vacation—maybe even a perfect honeymoon. I know I complain about quests and jobs, but it’s not the work I hate. I just want someone with me, someone who won’t leave when the quest is over. When I’m tired, I want a place that feels like home.
If the Alliance and the Horde can finally find peace, we could face whatever comes next together. Even if that means dealing with N’Zoth, the Drowned God, the very entity my aunty worships. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said, “I’ll miss you.” Maybe she knows N’Zoth is coming, and I can’t take her words lightly anymore. One day, I’ll have to have that conversation with Anduin. That little piece of land I wanted to raise horses suddenly feels so small compared to the looming threat. We need to stop fighting amongst ourselves; we need to be ready.
But right now, I miss him. I wait for the bells to toll, bringing the night, and the night bringing me my Anduin. Please, let him bring a key this time. Or let him lead me somewhere far from the eyes of others, where we can walk the city streets hidden and free. He loves my poetry; I can see it in his eyes, the way his heart melts with every word. I want to sit on his lap, read him stories, and just be close. Watch the sunrise over Westfall, then retreat to bed, wasting away the day until night falls again and we can be secret lovers once more. I miss you, Anduin. I miss you so much.
I will miss you in the morning,
When all the world is new;
I know the day can bring no joy
Because it brings not you.
I will miss the well-loved voice of you,
Your tender smile for me,
The charm of you, the joy of your
Unfailing sympathy.
The world is full of war, it’s true,
But I could never be without you.
I will miss you at the noontide;
On the battlefield filled with pain,
It seems but a desert now, I walk
Broken and bloodstained.
I miss your hand beside my own,
The warm touch of your hand,
The quick gleam in the eye of you
So sure to understand.
The world is full of war, it’s true,
But I could never be without you.
I will miss you in the evening, my king,
When daylight fades away;
I miss the sheltering arms of you
To rest me from the day.
I try to think I see you yet,
Where my golden eyes will gleam,
Weary at last, I sleep, and still
I miss you in my dreams.
Wow, that came out so easily, like a good bowel movement. This is for you, my love—this piece of romantic excrement.
(Perfectia rips out the poem and stuffs it in her pocket, a sly smile playing on her lips.)
A group of guards arrived, clamping handcuffs onto Perfectia’s wrists before dragging her out of the cell. As they led her away, she saw her lion, Kel’Magnus, sprawled on his side, unmoving. “Kel’Magnus!” she called out, but he didn’t even twitch.
“Come on, let’s go,” one of the guards barked, yanking her chain.
Perfectia glanced at the bowl of raw meat beside her lion, untouched. “Wait. He can’t eat that yet; his teeth aren’t strong enough. He still needs milk.”
The guard pulled harder, ignoring her protests, forcing her outside. The sudden sunlight stung her eyes. She was shuffled into a carriage, then transferred to Stormwind Keep. As they marched her up the path, she noticed the empty throne. Anduin’s scent lingered—faint but familiar—stirring memories of their first meeting. “Where’s Anduin? Where is the king?” she demanded, voice tinged with urgency.
None of the guards answered.
Anduin’s absence weighed heavily on Perfectia as she was escorted through Stormwind Keep, the looming architecture cold and foreboding in contrast to the warmth she remembered from their fleeting moments together. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of anxiety and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. The guards led her through the grand hall, their footsteps echoing ominously against the stone floor.
As they reached the base of the throne, a voice rang out, clear and authoritative.
“He’s not here.”
Perfectia looked up to see Alleria Windrunner standing near the steps, her gaze as sharp as her arrows. There was an unsettling calmness in her demeanor, and her void-infused eyes glimmered with something sinister.
“Where is he?” Perfectia asked, her voice shaky but defiant. “What have you done to him?”
Alleria smiled faintly, stepping down to meet Perfectia face to face. “He’s where he belongs—tending to his people. You, however, are about to answer for your crimes.”
Perfectia’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “Crimes? What crime—falling in love with a king?”
Alleria’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t flatter yourself. You may have manipulated your way into his heart, but you will not manipulate your way out of justice.” She paused, circling Perfectia slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re a danger to him. You always were.”
Perfectia pulled at her restraints, anger flashing in her golden eyes. “I’m no danger to him! All I ever did was care for him—more than any of you ever will!”
Alleria scoffed, stepping closer. “You’re not a queen. You’re not even worthy of standing in his presence. And yet, you had the audacity to kiss him. To believe you could be part of his world.”
Perfectia’s heart raced, but she held her ground. “You think you can keep him safe by keeping him away from me? You don’t understand him at all.” Her voice softened, the defiance giving way to something more vulnerable. “He needs someone who sees him as more than just a king, more than a symbol. He needs someone who loves him for who he is.”
Alleria’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—perhaps doubt, or a distant recognition of her own past—and for a brief moment, the tension between them seemed to wane. But just as quickly, her expression hardened again.
“That’s enough,” Alleria said coldly, motioning to the guards. “Take her back to the dungeons.”
One of the guards that was holding her chains condescended her order, “Actually we have orders to take her up to Anduin’s room.”
Alleria looked at him confused, “He’s not planning to… I mean they’re not going to?”
Perfectia had a grin from ear to ear, “Ooooh, I hope so.”
“He’s not there. Anduin wants to have her portrait painted.” The guard answered.
Perfectia scanned the group, trying to spot a familiar face. “Stonefield, where’s Tommy-Joe Stonefield?” she asked.
“Stonefield’s with him,” one guard growled. “On his way to Hearthglen.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “I thought that place was for paladins.”
“Move.” The guard pulled her chain again, dragging her toward the tower stairs behind the throne.
They ascended to a new floor, unfamiliar to her, and she was shoved into a room where a gnome in a black suit stood by a canvas. He adjusted his monocle and stared, his eyes practically bulging out as they trailed down her figure. “Oh, so you’re my subject today… and… oh… wow… um…” His voice was high-pitched, raspy, caught somewhere between fascination and disbelief. He glanced over at the guard. “This is really going to be from the chest up?”
The guard nodded, his expression deadpan. “By his request. That’s why you’re here.”
The gnome hesitated, then gave Perfectia another lingering look. “Are you sure? Because I could—”
“On your own time, gnome,” the guard cut him off with an eye roll, glancing at Perfectia’s curves. “But yeah, I get it.”
The gnome composed himself, clearing his throat. “Well, I’ve always wanted to paint someone from the enemy faction, and this one’s quite lovely.” He gave her an exaggerated bow. “Name’s Kirkland.”
“Zank you, Kirkland,” Perfectia replied with a playful smirk, her accent slipping through. “Is zis Anduin’s room?”
“It is,” Kirkland confirmed, fiddling with his paintbrush.
Perfectia’s eyes flickered with annoyance as she watched the guard’s hand drift to where it shouldn’t. She shook her head, amused and exasperated, like a parent catching a child trying to sneak a treat. “You ‘ad to go and do zat, didn’t you?” she muttered under her breath. Without another word, she drove her forehead into his helmet with a resounding thud. The guard reeled back, crumpling to the ground like a dropped sack, his snores echoing through the room as he lay there, completely out cold.
Several guards burst into the room, weapons drawn, chaos erupting around her.
Kirkland threw his hands up dramatically as the guards charged in, his voice sharp and commanding. “STOP! All of you, just stop! I saw the whole thing. The guard touched her, and she gave him exactly what he earned. You should be thanking her for the lesson.”
One guard leaned down and peeled the helmet off his unconscious comrade, frowning at the deep crack. “She dented the damn thing. That could’ve killed him.”
Perfectia rubbed her forehead, wincing slightly but still looking more amused than hurt. “I vasn’t trying to kill him, chéri, just educate him a little. He had a helmet, didn’t he? No damage done—except maybe to his pride.”
The guard rolled his eyes, his frustration giving way to caution. “Right, well, let’s not take any more chances. Bring in the crossbows. We’re not getting within arm’s reach of her again.” He tossed her a key. “Remove your own cuffs and toss them back. No funny business.”
Perfectia caught the key effortlessly, her smile laced with playful defiance. “Oh, zat’s so kind of you. I do love a good game of trust.” She unshackled herself and tossed the cuffs back, the faint clink echoing in the tense room. Riflemen quickly took the place of the plated guards, all keeping a wary distance.
Another guard let out a nervous chuckle as he sized her up, noting her athletic build and absurdly wide hips. “Anduin better stay on her good side, huh? Wouldn’t want to end up like helmet boy here.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes, her gaze cutting to Kirkland as if she were silently saying, These men… always underestimating. She shook her head, amused but slightly exasperated.
Kirkland, ever the dramatic, clapped his hands and gestured toward a room divider. “Perfectia, chérie, right this way! We have a little… project for you.”
Perfectia stepped behind the divider and found a dress draped over a stand, a stunning piece in shades of white and blue, adorned with delicate crystals and trailing fabric that looked like it belonged at a royal wedding. Perfectia held it up, her brow furrowing as she turned it this way and that. “I’m supposed to fit into this? This dress weighs more than my last set of armor.”
“NURSES!” Kirkland called out with the flourish of a man summoning a royal entourage.
Four elderly maids bustled into the room with surprising speed and surrounded Perfectia like a pack of busy hens, poking and pulling at her with relentless efficiency. “Hey, watch the hands!” Perfectia protested, her voice sharp as she tried to fend them off.
“Let them do their work, Perfectia,” Kirkland said, barely suppressing a grin. “They’re professionals… if a bit grabby.”
The maids, undeterred, continued their rough adjustments, pinching her skin, taking her measurements, and muttering about fabric. “We’re going to need a bigger dress,” one of them finally declared, squinting at Perfectia’s formidable curves.
“What’s her size?” another maid asked, struggling to get a proper hold around Perfectia’s hips.
“Thirty bust, twenty-eight waist, and…” the maid paused, fighting to measure around Perfectia’s hips. “Fifty-five inches around the hips? Saints preserve us, she’s built like a warhorse!”
Perfectia shrugged, unfazed. “Zat’s fine. I usually have to adjust my own armor anyway.” Without hesitation, she stripped off her top, ready to dive into the process.
The maids gasped, their eyes falling on the delicate necklace around Perfectia’s neck. They stopped, their expressions shifting from flustered to reverent. Perfectia instinctively covered the pendant, her fingers tracing the small, familiar contours. One of the maids, her voice tinged with awe, asked, “Did our king give that to you?”
Perfectia’s smile softened, but there was a defiant spark in her eyes. She nodded, holding the necklace close like a shield. “Yes, he did. And if you have a problem with that, ve can take it outside, no?”
The maids exchanged glances, their attitudes shifting completely. One of them nodded, her eyes warm and approving. “No problem, chérie. No problem at all. Let’s make you look your best.”
The maid gave Perfectia a warm smile, her demeanor completely changed. “We’re so sorry about earlier, chérie. We were just rushing to get this done, but now we’ll make sure you look absolutely stunning.”
Perfectia returned the smile with a nod. “Merci,” she said softly.
The maids worked with renewed care, meticulously fitting the dress to Perfectia’s unique figure. They snipped, sewed, and adjusted, ensuring it draped perfectly over her hips before carefully zipping it up at the back. As they adorned her with bracelets and lace, they added a light spray of floral perfume—details that seemed unnecessary next to the necklace she wore, a jewel she held dear above all else.
In hushed voices, the maids whispered about Anduin’s rumored disinterest in women, speculating whether he might be gay, a eunuch, or simply asexual.
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed, and she couldn’t help but interject. “‘E’s not a eunuch, chéries,” she said, voice dripping with both pride and irritation. “He could rearrange your crusty old ovary and make an omelet out of it.”
The maids burst into laughter, one of them wiping away tears as she giggled. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her too! We’re sorry, love. It’s just that we’ve never seen him take an interest in anyone. Not even my granddaughters, and they tried every trick in the book.”
Perfectia looked down, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. “What are ze women zat ‘ave tried to court ‘im like?”
The maid shook her head, glancing away as if remembering past attempts. “Nothing like you, chérie. Certainly not one who could put an armored guard on his back with just her forehead.”
Perfectia lifted her chin, the necklace gleaming prominently against her chest as if daring anyone to question her place. The maids continued their work, taking their time as they made sure every detail was perfect, while Kirkland grew increasingly impatient.
“This portrait is only from the chest up, chéries,” Kirkland grumbled, tapping his foot. “Do you really need to do her nails?”
“Let us do our job, Kirkland,” one of the maids retorted, unbothered by his impatience.
Finally, Perfectia was dressed and seated on a plush, elegant chair. The maids carefully applied her makeup, slid long white gloves over her hands, and styled her hair with glistening gems, finishing with a large silver wing-shaped hairpin that secured her slicked-back hair.
“There, finally!” Kirkland exclaimed, throwing his hands up in mock exhaustion. “Now hold still, Perfectia.”
He adjusted his strange, engineer-style glasses and began dabbing his brush against the canvas, studying her intently. “What color do you want your eyes to be?” he asked, still focusing on his strokes.
Perfectia blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What color are zey now?”
“Green,” Kirkland said, sounding almost disappointed. “I was told they were golden. I brought this special paint just for that.”
Perfectia sighed, a wistful look crossing her face. “Make them gold, then. It’s how Anduin remembered me when we first met, and I’ve been away from ze sun for too long.”
She settled back into her pose, and as Kirkland resumed painting, Perfectia let her mind drift, holding tight to the golden memories she wished to reflect in her eyes.
Kirkland nodded, his eyes darting between the canvas and Perfectia as his brush moved in tiny, precise strokes. He worked quickly, dipping and dabbing, occasionally glancing up. Perfectia, lost in her thoughts, accidentally made eye contact with him and couldn’t help but smile.
“Try not to smile, chérie, or you’ll have to hold that expression for the whole painting,” Kirkland warned, though not unkindly.
Perfectia straightened up, her smile fading to a small, playful smirk. “Sorry.”
She fell back into her memories, letting them transport her far from the bustling room. She thought of Silvermoon, of her childhood when her mother was the epitome of elegance and poise. Perfectia could see her so clearly—graceful, refined, every step like a dance, every word like music. In her mind, Perfectia mimicked her mother’s elegance, imagining herself gliding through grand halls, mastering the Arcane arts or serving as a Priestess of the Light. She pictured a life where Arthas never darkened their doorstep, where she might have grown up surrounded by beauty and wonder.
She lost herself in visions of vibrant celebrations, opulent banquets, and the lilting songs of her people. The scent of blooming Eversong woods, the soft glow of magical lanterns, the harmony of their once-flourishing culture played in her mind. That was the pride that had carried her through battle and exile—the pride of what was, and perhaps, what could have been.
“Okay, and done.” Kirkland’s voice pulled her back. “Thank you, you are quite the model.”
Perfectia blinked, momentarily disoriented, before looking at him. “May I see it?”
Kirkland smiled, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of his work, and gestured toward the painting. He handed her his monocle, and she leaned in for a closer look. The portrait was small, intimate—designed to fit inside Anduin’s compass. Perfectia’s breath hitched. It was beautiful, capturing her in a way she had never seen herself before.
“Is zat really me?” Perfectia asked, her voice barely a whisper, filled with awe.
Kirkland nodded, lifting his hand toward the mirror nearby. Perfectia shuffled over, her dress swishing with each step, and gazed at her reflection. Her eyes widened as she blinked, watching the colors shift from green to gold again, the gleam of her eyes glowing bright.
“Zat’s…” Perfectia breathed, trailing off as she examined her own face, seeing herself anew. She turned her head, marveling at every angle, unable to believe what she saw.
“Do you like it?” one of the nurses asked softly.
Perfectia pressed her hands over her face, trying to contain her overwhelming emotions. She nodded, tears welling up despite her efforts.
The nurse quickly grabbed a rag and rushed over. “No, no, chérie, don’t cry! You’ll mess up your makeup,” she said gently, dabbing at the corners of Perfectia’s eyes. “Those golden eyes really are something special.”
Perfectia took a deep breath, nodding as she tried to regain her composure. “Merci beaucoup,” she whispered, still looking at her reflection, a mix of gratitude and disbelief flooding her senses.
Kirkland clapped his hands and turned to the guards. “Alright, we’re done here!” he announced.
Several guards entered the room, but they, too, paused momentarily, captivated by the sight of her transformation. Perfectia stood tall, still wearing the dress and the necklace that hung close to her heart, feeling a strange, fleeting connection to the vision she’d just seen—an image of grace, strength, and the heritage she held so dearly.
Three guards entered, their expressions shifting to awe as they took in the sight of Perfectia. She glanced down at herself, smoothing the folds of her dress. “Yes…?” one of the guards stammered, momentarily lost. “We, ah, need you to change back into your other clothes, mademoiselle, and then we’ll escort you back,” he managed, trying to sound respectful.
Perfectia curtsied elegantly, her movements fluid and graceful, bowing her head ever so slightly. The guards, clearly outmatched in decorum, offered stiff, awkward bows in return, their hands fumbling at their sides.
Perfectia lingered for a moment, her gaze lingering on the exquisite fabric draped over her form. She didn’t want to remove it, not now, not after seeing herself this way. She turned her gaze back to the guards. “I have no intention of leaving Stormwind,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of royal defiance. “This is where Anduin would wish me to be upon his return, oui?”
One guard hesitated, then shrugged helplessly. “He’s not coming back for some time, and you still have your trial ahead. I’m sorry, but you’re still considered a member of the opposing faction, which means no bail.”
Perfectia nodded, resigned but composed. “Oui, je comprends.” She reluctantly changed back into her old gear, though she kept her makeup intact and left the ornate hairpin securely in place. Climbing into the carriage bound for the Stockades, she glanced at the guard beside her.
The guard cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “About earlier… I didn’t mean to offend. You look… truly lovely.”
Perfectia nodded, offering him a soft, albeit guarded, smile. “Merci.” She turned her gaze to him, her eyes sharp with concern. “And where is he? The king?” she asked quietly.
The guard sighed, his expression shifting to one of genuine sadness. “He’s on his way to the gates of Lordaeron, leading the siege.”
Perfectia’s breath caught, her heart racing as painful memories surged forth. She clenched her fists. “Will he face Sylvanas there?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Most likely,” the guard replied, his tone heavy with uncertainty.
Perfectia’s resolve hardened. “I need to go. I have to save him,” she pleaded, her eyes locking onto the guard’s. “Please, let me go.”
The guard glanced away, then back at her, torn. “He’ll return, and if he doesn’t… we still have to keep you until your trial. Regardless of the outcome, you’ll most likely be released, with or without him.”
Perfectia shook her head, frustration and fear mingling in her eyes. “I cannot take that chance. Let me go. I do not wish to harm you.”
The guard chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You won’t, my lady. You’re still in chains, regardless of whether you’ve captured the king’s heart. We’re under orders to keep you here until he returns.”
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed, her voice a mere whisper, laced with a threat. “If he returns?” she repeated, her gaze piercing.
The guard hesitated, then leaned closer, pretending to inspect her cuffs. He whispered in her ear, “One chance. Make it count.” With a swift, discreet movement, he released her cuffs.
The carriage pulled up to the Stockades, and as the guards reached for her, Perfectia tilted her head, feigning submission. In a fluid motion, she reached for the hairpin at the back of her head, transforming it into the Corrupted Ashbringer. She swung the cross-guard, striking the guard across the face and slamming his head into the ground with a force that left him unconscious.
Perfectia stood over him, the weight of her actions settling, her eyes alight with a fierce resolve. “Forgive me,” she whispered, stepping over his fallen form.
Perfectia squared off against the remaining two guards. She noticed one of them inhale sharply, preparing to attack. Without hesitation, she rushed forward, swinging the blunt side of the Corrupted Ashbringer into his face. The guard crumpled to the ground, knocked out cold. Perfectia turned to the last guard, raising her sword high in a feint. As the guard instinctively raised his shield to block, she swiftly kicked him in the groin, doubling him over. With a fierce follow-through, she brought the hilt of her blade down on the back of his helmet, sending him sprawling.
She unsummoned the Corrupted Ashbringer, grabbed the keys from the guards, and made her way down into the Stockades. There, she found her lion Kel’Magnus, lying weakly on his side. His once-mighty frame was now frail, his ribs painfully visible beneath his fur. Perfectia’s heart sank as she gently touched his side, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his breath. “Non, mon chéri…” she whispered, cradling him. “What have they done to you?” Her voice wavered as she picked him up, his body alarmingly light in her arms.
She felt a surge of anger, her eyes flickering with a faint blue glow. The voice of Imperfecta echoed in her mind, cold and ruthless: “Kill them all.”
Perfectia shook her head, forcing the rage down. “No,” she said firmly, her voice trembling. “We need to help Kel’Magnus first.” As she looked up, she saw Imperfecta’s reflection, her mirror image with long, flowing hair, standing before her. Perfectia walked through the spectral figure, brushing past the apparition as she stepped outside.
“Protecto,” she whispered into the wind. “Protecto, where are you?” But there was no sign of him, only the faint sounds of guards beginning to stir. Perfectia clutched Kel’Magnus tighter, knowing she couldn’t fight with him in her arms. She put her fingers to her lips and whistled, loud and sharp—a signal to her dragon.
The whistle caught the attention of nearby guards, and Perfectia heard a familiar roar in response. Protecto was close, but so were the enemy. One of the guards spotted her. “A blood elf!” he shouted, charging with his sword drawn. Perfectia tried to kick him in the chest, but her foot glanced off his shield, and she stumbled backward, still clutching her lion.
The guard advanced, sword raised high, and Perfectia felt a cold wave of panic. She held Kel’Magnus tightly, shielding him with her body as she braced for the incoming blow. Suddenly, the Corrupted Ashbringer appeared, but not in her hands—in Imperfecta’s, blocking the strike. The guard stared in disbelief at the floating weapon, unable to see Imperfecta herself. “A Death Knight?!” he gasped, his voice filled with terror. “A DEATH KNIGHT!”
Protecto finally descended, his massive form crashing down with a roar, scattering the guards with a blast of magical fire. They staggered back, singed and panicking.
“Protecto!” Perfectia called out, “Change into an elf and give me my garrison hearthstone!”
With a flourish of black smoke, Protecto transformed into a blood elf paladin. He quickly tossed her the hearthstone and cast a protection spell over her, creating a shimmering barrier. Perfectia ran her fingers over the stone, focusing on the spell to teleport away.
Protecto shielded himself and activated his own hearthstone. Guards lunged at them, but the protective magic held. “Get a mage!” one of the guards shouted, but it was too late. The magic was already taking hold.
“I’ll see you later, Perfectia,” Protecto said as his form began to shimmer.
Perfectia nodded, the spell pulling her away. “Merci, Protecto.” She whispered, a faint smile on her lips as they both disappeared in a flash of light.
Perfectia found herself once more in Draenor, the great expanse of blue swirling around her until she landed on the familiar soil she hadn’t walked in years.
“Commander?” Warmaster Zog, clad in his dark armor, approached with a curious look.
Perfectia smiled at the familiar face and gave a slight nod. “Bonjour, Zog. You know, you don’t have to call me that anymore—it’s just Perfectia.”
Warmaster Zog dipped his head respectfully. “As you wish, Perfectia.” His eyes drifted to the frail lion cub cradled in her arms. “But that cub of yours… he doesn’t look well.”
Perfectia let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Stormwind Stockade hospitality,” she said with a scoff. “I assume Levitius has been managing my duties in my absence? I desperately need her help with this.”
Zog pointed towards the forge, pausing briefly as his eyes took in Perfectia’s regal appearance. “She’s over there, and… I have to say, you look… very distinguished.”
Perfectia’s smile softened. “Merci, Zog. Stormwind’s idea of hospitality does come with some perks.” She nodded gracefully before making her way toward Levitius, aware of Zog’s inquisitive gaze lingering as she walked away.
Levitius was hunched over her workbench, tinkering with a peculiar gadget that buzzed and sparked. The green orc, rough around the edges with the speech of an ogre, was a genius in engineering and a seasoned beast master hunter—the very reason Perfectia had sought her out.
Spotting Perfectia approaching with the weak lion in her arms, Levitius dropped her tools immediately and rushed over. “What happened?” she asked, gently taking the cub from Perfectia’s arms.
Perfectia looked away, her expression filled with guilt. “I couldn’t wean him off his mother’s milk yet. They were feeding him chunks of meat in the Stockades… He’s too young for that.”
Levitius examined Kel’Magnus, placing her fingers near his mouth and frowning. “He’s dehydrated, too.” She carried the cub toward the stables. “I’ve got a Clefthoof that’s still nursing—he can feed there. But he’ll need something softer to chew on if we’re going to get his teeth to grow right.”
“Will he make it?” Perfectia asked, her voice tinged with worry.
Levitius chuckled, a rough but reassuring sound. “He’ll be fine. Rehydration is easy. But he’s not ready to be a hunter’s pet, not by a long shot. It’ll take time before he’s combat-ready. Who gave him to you, anyway?”
Perfectia hesitated, her thoughts drifting to Anduin. She didn’t want to reveal too much. “Someone… important to me. I think he believed I could raise him until he was strong enough.”
Levitius raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Sounds like the kind of gift a lover would give. Has some orc chosen you as his mate?”
Perfectia’s cheeks flushed. “No, no… Not an orc,” she replied quickly, then added more thoughtfully, “But… if it wasn’t an orc, would it still be considered a lover’s gift?”
Levitius paused, thinking it over with a knowing grin. “Oui, the way I see it, it’s definitely a lover’s gift.”
Perfectia’s smile grew wide and unrestrained as she hugged Levitius tightly. “Please, take care of him for me,” she said, her voice filled with gratitude.
Levitius hugged her back with a strong, reassuring grip. “I will, Perfectia. And whoever this person is, they must care a lot for you. You deserve it.”
Levitius hugged her back, a mischievous grin sneaking across her face. “I will, and I’m happy for you, whoever this mystery man is.” She gave Perfectia a light shove back, enough to make it playful. “But hey, someone’s been sniffing around for you this past week.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow, half-curious, half-amused. “Oh là là, a fan already? Who is it this time?”
Levitius scratched her head, recalling the details. “Didn’t give a name. Looked… well, odd. Undead, I think. Walked around all upright like he owned the place. And kinda… you know, smartass vibes.”
Perfectia smirked. “So, just my type?”
Levitius snorted. "You tell me. He’s in Wor’gol, hanging out with the Frostwolf Clan. I didn’t trust him much, but they seem to think he’s alright. Sent him there to keep an eye on him.”
Perfectia tilted her head, weighing her options. “An undead smartass in wolf country. Sounds like my kind of trouble. I’ll go check it out.”
Levitius put a hand on her shoulder, mock serious. “Just… try not to end up in a snowbank, okay?”
Perfectia winked, adjusting her hairpin. “Chérie, if there’s a snowbank, I’ll make it fashion.”
Perfectia landed and made her way through the camp, asking around until she caught sight of a familiar figure—cloaked in black, two thin swords crossed on his back, white hair flowing, and pointed elf ears peeking out. He sat by the fire, exuding an aura that was both haunting and nostalgic. She approached him cautiously, her heart racing as she tried to place the face. “Could it be…?”
He turned his head slowly, the glow of red eyes meeting hers. “Salut, Perfectia.” His voice was warm but tinged with something deeper. “Look at you, all grown up.”
Perfectia’s hands flew to her face as tears welled up. “Lirath? Is it vraiment you?”
He nodded, standing up with the kind of grace she had only seen in memories. She rushed into his arms, holding him tight. “Oh, Lirath, mon frère, I missed you more than words can say.”
Lirath held her close, the moment almost too fragile to break. “And I missed you, ma sœur. Look at you… you are magnifique.”
Perfectia clung to him, her tears staining his shoulder. “I broke my vows… the ones I made to you. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
He kept his embrace firm. “It’s alright, chérie. I’m the one who’s sorry—for leaving you to carry that weight all alone.”
Perfectia pulled back slightly, reaching into her bag. She pulled out her diary, pages worn and filled with her secrets. “I’ve been writing, Lirath, so much. I have stories to tell you… and I’ve fallen in love.”
Lirath’s eyes softened. “I’m happy for you, Perfectia. You deserve that joy.”
Perfectia wiped her tears, a determined look replacing her sadness. “I can protect you now, Lirath. I’m not the same little girl anymore. I’m stronger—stronger than any ranger in those cursed plantations. No one will ever hurt you again.”
Lirath chuckled, his laugh a bittersweet reminder of the past. “I left those cruel days behind a long time ago. Those people were more monstrous than any beast.”
Perfectia’s eyes scanned him up and down. “But… you’re standing, walking without a cane.”
Lirath nodded. “The Naaru healed me in Outland. I met Darion Mograine; he helped me find my strength again. I’ve been living in exile, yes, but I haven’t needed anyone’s help… though I’ve missed you every day.”
He pointed toward a nearby orc shaman, Farseer Drak’Thar, who watched them quietly. “He said you’d come. He knew you’d find me.”
Perfectia thought back, her mind flickering to the day she almost confessed to Sylvanas. “You didn’t reach out to me then. When I needed you most… why?”
Lirath sighed, a heavy regret weighing his voice. “Sylvanas would have killed you, or worse. I couldn’t bear to risk you before the time was right.”
Perfectia’s face tightened. “I told Vereesa.”
“And I’m glad you did,” Lirath replied with a knowing smile. “I’ve heard she’s looked out for you.”
Perfectia nodded, her voice softer. “Alleria knows too…”
Lirath’s gaze lowered. “I’ll be stepping into the light soon, Perfectia. These Frostwolves… they’ve taught me that family is worth the risk.”
Perfectia straightened, her resolve shining through. “You don’t need to hide anymore, mon frère. I have the power of Mograine’s soul, the Ashbringer answers to me when virtue calls.”
Lirath smiled faintly, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t always answer, does it? Not when you need it most.”
Perfectia sighed, frustration and truth evident. “Non, it’s fickle. And when I overuse it… my sword arm goes numb.”
Lirath looked at her, his smile sad but proud. “I’ve learned to survive on my own terms. And if anyone comes looking for me, well… sometimes they don’t leave.”
Perfectia frowned slightly, concern evident. “Are you… you don’t just kill anyone who crosses your path, do you?”
He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Non, ma sœur, not everyone. I’ve learned some… unorthodox tricks. Let’s just say, I can keep curious eyes away when I need to.”
Perfectia watched him, heart heavy and hopeful. “You’re not alone anymore, Lirath. And neither am I. We’ll find our way back to the light, together.”
Lirath chuckled softly. “Non, it’s not as sinister as it sounds. These rune spells—well, they’re a bit more intricate. Darion didn’t teach them to his other Death Knights. They’re spells that can influence minds, bending thoughts and words temporarily. That’s how I managed to reach out to you, Perfectia, even when I was far away.”
Perfectia’s brows furrowed, her expression skeptical. “That… doesn’t seem right, Lirath. It feels manipulative.”
He nodded, acknowledging her concern. “You’re not wrong, chérie. I never said it was right. But Darion trusted my intentions; he saw I wasn’t looking to abuse the power. And I have no plans to betray that trust.”
Perfectia tilted her head, trying to piece it all together. “So you can just… read people’s minds when you feel like it?”
Lirath shrugged, smirking playfully. “Only when I want to know something specific, though it’s not as straightforward as you’d think. I’ve been practicing with Farseer Drak’Thar, and it’s like—”
“Puppies!” Farseer Drak’Thar suddenly shouted from across the camp.
Lirath snapped his head towards the orc, his face a mix of frustration and amusement. “Non, non, that did not count! You cheated, Drak’Thar!”
Farseer Drak’Thar’s laugh was hearty and filled with mischief. “Ah, I knew I had you the moment she showed up! You’re too distracted, elf.”
Lirath sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. What was your word, old man?”
“Charcoal,” Drak’Thar replied, a victorious gleam in his eye.
Lirath rolled his eyes, thinking it over. “I kept circling around embers or flares… almost had it.”
The orc walked up, grinning as he reached out his hand. “Fair’s fair. Hand it over.”
Lirath grudgingly pulled a large piece of leather marked with ‘puppies’ from his pouch and exchanged it for Drak’Thar’s stone labeled ‘charcoal.’ The orc chuckled as he pocketed his winnings. “You’re going to have to do better, elf. Maybe pick something that isn’t in plain sight next time, eh? I’m off to sleep. Better luck tomorrow.”
Perfectia watched the exchange with a raised brow. “Was that like some twisted version of vingt questions?”
Lirath shook his head, still smirking. “Not quite. It’s a guessing game, but with runes. If you get the word wrong, you lose. But the trick is not to dwell too long on the answer, or you start giving clues away unintentionally.”
Perfectia nodded, piecing it together. “So when I asked if you could read minds, you… slipped.”
Lirath shrugged, his smile playful. “Oui, exactement. It’s a bit of fun, even if it makes us look completely insane to onlookers.”
Perfectia laughed softly, then looked at him more seriously. “So… are you a Death Knight now?”
Lirath considered her question, his gaze distant for a moment. “Not exactly. I wouldn’t call myself one. It’s more like a fusion—techniques from Darion, ranger skills from my family, and some runes of my own making. It’s… my own path, really. A bit of swordplay, a bit of magic, but mostly surviving on my terms.”
Perfectia smirked, amused by the way Lirath sifted through her mind so effortlessly. “Always the unique one, Lirath. Never fitting neatly into anyone’s mold, not even your own. So, are you like Edmund Cullen from the Twilight books?”
Lirath glanced at her with a bemused expression, picking up the scattered thoughts of vampires and brooding from her mind. “Non… I don’t sparkle, chérie, and I’m not some controlling, obsessive stalker either. Really, you need to stop reading those.”
Perfectia laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment by shifting the topic. She pointed at the swords slung over Lirath’s shoulder. “Why do you carry two swords on the same shoulder? I can’t imagine you’re out here dual-wielding like some kind of show-off.”
Lirath smirked, a sly light in his eyes. “One is for killing, and the other… is for dancing.” His tone dripped with sarcasm, but his smile hinted at a playful edge.
Perfectia blinked, momentarily thrown. “Dancing? Really?”
Lirath sighed, shaking his head as if he’d expected the confusion. “A joke, Perfectia. One’s for killing, the other’s for training. The training sword’s heavier—good for building strength. But when I don’t see anyone around, I use whichever is closest, usually for hunting or… more mundane tasks.”
Perfectia tilted her head, her smile tugging at her lips. “You didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor back when we met.”
Lirath shrugged. “It’s hard to develop one when everyone hangs on your every word, agreeing with everything you say. Darion was the darkest person I knew, but he never indulged in self-pity. If someone started whining around him—me included—he’d just roll his eyes. It didn’t take long to figure out that the best way to get under his skin was with humor.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How’d you manage that?”
Lirath’s grin turned wry, his eyes reflecting the years of hardship. “My father always drilled it into me: speed and finesse beat brute strength. He was wrong, of course—at least when it came to orcs. Took me years to figure that out and adapt. But it’s funny how dark humor comes easier when you’ve been on the losing side a few times.”
Perfectia let out a soft laugh. “That’s pretty grim.”
Lirath nodded, acknowledging her point. “Merci. Not really the ha-ha kind of funny, right?”
Perfectia met his gaze, her tone suddenly more serious. “Are you reading my mind right now? This conversation is about as comfortable as a batch factory rejected of dill-flavored dough left in the sun.”
Lirath smirked. “You’re a lot better at that then I am.”
Perfectia shook her head denying the compliment, “You’re going to run into the lines between awkward, offensive, and confusing before you land on funny. Trust me, it why I have very few friends and why I need to stay away from kids.”
“I’ve been trying to read your mind, but it’s all flashes of colors. You think in images, Perfectia—your thoughts are rapid, like scenes in a play. I keep catching the name ‘Anduin’ slipping through… but mostly, it’s just a blur. Farseer Drak’Thar is the same way, always thinking ahead, even though he’s blind.”
Perfectia looked away, her thoughts racing back to her ranger training. “You know, Vereesa taught me how to hunt like a ranger. Is that what you’ve been doing?”
Lirath shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s… not quite that either. My style’s a mix—Darion’s training, the Windrunner traditions, and a few things I’ve invented along the way. But I’ve been hiding for too long, and I feel it’s time I come forward… though, honestly, I’m scared.”
Perfectia’s expression softened, and she nodded. “Sylvanas might try to manipulate you, or worse, if you don’t align with her plans. And Alleria… her void magic is volatile, more than she lets on. If Vereesa thinks you’re a threat, she’ll do whatever it takes to protect her children.”
Lirath’s eyes widened in surprise, his voice carrying a mix of longing and disbelief. “I have nieces or nephews? What do they look like, Perfectia? Describe them to me…”
Uh… Yeah, twins. They look like Ronin, except…”
Lirath raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “You kissed him? Don’t do that again. Sixteen?”
“Stop that!” Perfectia exclaimed, pressing her palms to her forehead, embarrassed. She glanced away, then back at him, her cheeks flushing. “Stop laughing at me, Lirath…”
Lirath’s smirk softened, and he looked away, regret flickering across his face. “You’re not the only one who slows down for… intimacy.” He sighed, the weight of unspoken fears hanging between them. “I want to come home, Perfectia. But people love their secrets, and I’m afraid… afraid they won’t be who I remember, or worse, that they’ll try too hard to be.”
Perfectia pulled him into a gentle embrace, holding him close. “It’s going to take time, Lirath, but it will be worth it. I understand why you’re scared; I would be too.”
Lirath met her gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “Promise me, Perfectia, if anything happens to me, to my sisters… you’ll guide us with your blessing. I don’t want to see the void again. Not for me, not even for Sylvanas. She doesn’t deserve to suffer that, and neither do I.”
Perfectia nodded solemnly, her voice rich with conviction. “By the Light I cherish, I vow this to you, Lirath. Even if I have to wait in purgatory for eternity, I will guide you and your sisters to the Light.”
As she spoke, Perfectia’s eyes began to glow, so bright that Lirath shielded his face from the radiant light. Golden runes traced along her skin, and she was lifted from the ground, hovering with newfound grace as luminous wings unfolded from her back. Slowly, she descended, her power renewed and coursing through her veins.
Perfectia gazed at her glowing arms, feeling the Light resonate within her. “Lirath?” she called, still in awe.
Lirath, stunned but curious, looked around and found a crate of apples nearby. He picked one up and tossed it to her. “Here, chérie, catch.”
Perfectia bit into the apple, savoring the taste as the vibrant colors of the world seemed to dance before her eyes. She smiled, feeling whole once more. “I’m back.”
Warmaster Zog hurried over from the flight path, his tone urgent. “Commander—uh, Perfectia. The Alliance is laying siege on Brill. It won’t be long before they reach the gates of Lordaeron. They need you. If you use the portals, you might still get there in time.”
Perfectia’s gaze turned to Lirath, her decision already made. “I have to go. Anduin needs me.”
Both Zog and Lirath’s faces registered the same shock. “What?!” they exclaimed in unison.
Perfectia looked between them, unwavering. “You heard me.”
Lirath reached out as she turned away. “Perfectia, wait…”
She paused, looking back at him, concern in her eyes.
“Don’t bring up the head thing anymore, please? I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
Perfectia glanced down, her demeanor shifting to a soft understanding. “I won’t.”
Lirath smiled, knowing she meant it. “Thank you.”
Perfectia took off on the flight path, her heart set on reaching Anduin. As she flew, she whispered to herself like a prayer, “I will find you, mon amour.”
Battle for Lordaeron
“I appreciate the opportunity, Your Highness, but I should be in the battle with you,” the Stormwind guard said.
Anduin shook his head slightly, a trace of frustration in his voice, though he kept it controlled. “It’s ‘majesty,’ actually. I’m not a prince anymore. You took a risk, broke the rules—yes, out of ignorance—but you didn’t do it for my favor, and that’s why you have it.”
“But that’s not fair. There are others more deserving. I’ve only been in Stormwind for half a year, and a guard for less.”
Anduin’s jaw tightened, and he forced a calm breath. “Life isn’t fair. I’m not giving you a special privilege, even if it feels like that. OCS won’t be easy, and as your king, I’m ordering you to return to Stormwind as an officer. If you fail, we’ll rotate you out of the middle guard shift.” His tone softened for a moment. “We’ll stay friends.”
The guard paused, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his expression. “It would’ve been an honor to fight by your side, Your Majesty.”
“Then you will, if you pass OCS.”
“Then I won’t waste the opportunity.”
“I’ll see you in 14 weeks. Take the griffin to Hearthglen. You’re dismissed, Cadet.”
As the guard left, Tyrande Whisperwind stormed in, her presence like a cold wind. She bumped into Cadet Stonefield on her way in. “The love poet Blood Elf we had is gone. Did you let her out?” she demanded, her tone sharp.
Anduin, caught off guard, fumbled with a pear he had been toying with, more out of anxious habit than hunger. He looked up, startled. “How did you—”
“Alleria told me,” she cut him off, her voice biting.
The familiar flare of frustration rose in Anduin, though he tried to contain it. He stood, a slow, deliberate movement, trying to focus his thoughts. “Where is she?” His voice was strained, edged with a control he was starting to lose.
Tyrande raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “The blood elf? I thought you’d be the one telling me.”
Anduin’s composure cracked. “Not Perfectia!” he spat, rising from his chair, his breath quickening. “ALLERIA! WHERE IS SHE?” The rage, buried deep and unfamiliar, clawed at the surface, and his voice broke louder than he intended.
Tyrande blinked, startled at the sudden change in his tone. “She’s gone. That woman can teleport at will, almost like a mage.”
Anduin pressed his palm against his forehead, the pressure doing little to dull the storm brewing inside him. He began pacing, muttering, “No, no, no…” His thoughts raced, and he swung his gaze to her, voice shaking with accusation. “Did you have something to do with her escape?”
Tyrande’s brow furrowed. “No, why would I—”
“DON’T LIE TO ME!” His voice snapped like a whip, the control he usually prided himself on slipping. “You knew what she wrote to me! You knew how she felt, and you couldn’t stand it, could you?” His chest heaved, a mix of anger and pain bubbling to the surface. “As your king and as your friend…” But his words carried none of the warmth of friendship. “Where is Perfectia Dawnlight?”
Tyrande’s face twisted in bewilderment and disbelief. “The Horde has already taken so much from me, Anduin. And now, a member of the Horde has taken my king’s heart?” She laughed bitterly, the sound cold and hollow.
Anduin’s hands clenched at his sides, trembling. “I will find her. And when I do, I will ask her for her hand in marriage. And if you don’t like it, you can go. Take all your people with you—I don’t care.”
He took a few ragged breaths, trying to reign in the anger surging through him. But then, his eyes darkened with something deeper, something more dangerous. “But if anything has happened to her… and it can be traced back to you or Alleria…” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “I will finish what Sylvanas started at Teldrassil.”
Tyrande’s blood ran cold as she met Anduin’s eyes, eyes that no longer belonged to the gentle king she had known. In that moment, he felt less like an eighteen-year-old boy and more like a force she had underestimated. She bowed her head, silent, and left the room, walking into her husband’s waiting embrace.
“Azeroth isn’t safe for us anymore, husband,” she murmured. “We’ll have to make a new home someplace else. That cursed sin’dorei just might be our new queen.”
“Good,” Malfurion said with surprising calm.
Tyrande’s eyes widened. “Good? Did you not hear Anduin? He threatened to kill us if his woman isn’t brought back! We need to leave!”
Malfurion sighed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a waterskin. “Anduin gave me this. That cursed sin’dorei offered our people a glimmer of hope. There’s more saltwater in this than drops from the Well of Eternity, but… she tried.”
“She tried?!” Tyrande’s voice tightened. “That woman nearly killed you, burned down our home—how is one act enough to atone?”
Malfurion shrugged, sadness in his eyes. “You’re right. She deserves to answer for her crimes. But Anduin… He didn’t deserve what you did. You’re torturing him, Tyrande, just as much as you feel tortured.”
Tyrande hesitated, her expression softening for the first time. “I had nothing to do with her escape. I just… reacted when I found out about their affair.” She locked eyes with him, her voice strained. “How did this happen? We’ve been through four wars, lost so much… The first nearly destroyed the world for love.”
Malfurion’s gaze grew distant. “This isn’t like that. Azshara didn’t love Sargeras. It was fear—fear of losing her power, of being vulnerable. The mortal races have been at war for thirty years, changing in ways we never imagined. But Anduin… he spoke of her like she was one of us.”
Tyrande let out a short, bitter laugh. “Clearly, you didn’t ask what she looks like. He could have anyone, and he chooses her?”
Malfurion’s eyes glinted with memory. “Remember Zaetar and Princess Theradras?”
Tyrande visibly recoiled, a disgusted expression crossing her face. “How could I forget? That… monstrosity still haunts me. And now you’re comparing her to that? Don’t make me sick.” Her voice was sharp, biting. “Perfectia is a grotesque insult to elven beauty—there’s nothing about her that makes sense. And yet, somehow, she has the king’s heart? It’s as though he’s blind to the very thing that defines us.”
Malfurion sighed. “Love rarely sees beauty the way we do.”
Tyrande’s voice lowered, tinged with frustration. “When I read her letters, I wanted her to feel every ounce of the pain she caused. I knew she loved him… but why him?”
“Are you going to find her?” Malfurion asked quietly.
Tyrande nodded. “I have to try.” She summoned her hippogryph, mounting it with a practiced grace. “I’ll search near the Sunwell. Sooner or later, she’ll return there. Wish me luck.”
Without waiting for a response, Tyrande flew off, leaving Malfurion standing in silence.
Malfurion walked in as Anduin tossed a pear from hand to hand. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food?”
Anduin bit into it, still pacing. “Tenderized food tastes better. Want one?”
Malfurion declined. “Do you really know what you’re getting into with her?”
Anduin rolled his eyes, already tense. “You too? Why does everyone act like I’m making a mistake?”
Malfurion smiled slightly. “She’s not like Tyrande or any elf you’ve known. Strong, reckless, aggressive… She even kicked me in the groin after Saurfang’s ax dropped me. I have to admit, she’s tougher than most men would find comfortable.”
Anduin chuckled, looking Malfurion up and down. “Did you catch her sense of humor while she was at it?”
Malfurion winced at the memory. “A little. Getting kicked there might be funny, but definitely not when you’re the one experiencing it.”
Anduin repressed a laugh as he imagined Malfurion’s predicament. “Malfurion, are you really going to throw that stone at me, considering you married Tyrande?”
Malfurion hesitated, flustered. “That’s… not the same thing! We waited thousands of years until we were sure. And besides… she’s reckless, immature, barely a few years older than you, and by elf standards, practically a child.”
Anduin sighed, looking away. “Do I really have the lifespan to wait until she develops?”
Malfurion shook his head. “No, but Tyrande agreed to help find her.”
“We aren’t… it’s complicated. We only kissed a few times, but she’s a poet. I wish I could be like that, not always so serious.” Anduin’s eyes softened. “What if she could make people laugh—something I’ve never done?”
Malfurion smiled faintly. “I understand. Even Illidan had a gesture that made a difference… something small that mattered in the end.”
Anduin nodded and looked at Malfurion, “Thank you, but my heart grows heavy with these thoughts and I need to concentrate on the upcoming battle.”
Malfurion nodded, “Of course, my king.”
—–
Perfectia’s head spun as she made her way from portal to portal, the disorientation from the constant teleportation weighing on her. Ashren City to Orgrimmar, then to Dalaran—each jump felt like tearing through space. The portal to the Undercity, however, wasn’t working.
She found Nelur Lightsown, her old trainer, a paladin hardened by battles past. “Where’s the portal to the Undercity?” she asked, her voice tight.
Nelur shook his head grimly. “Evacuated. There’s no one on the other side. If you’re joining the fight, head to Orgrimmar, but… I wouldn’t recommend it.” His one good eye lingered on her, concern etched on his face.
“I have to go,” Perfectia insisted. The weight of the battle tugged at her—she couldn’t sit this one out.
Another disorienting teleport back to Orgrimmar left her lightheaded, but there was no time to recover. In Grommash Hold, the atmosphere was thick with tension, adventurers and soldiers alike bracing for the portal’s opening. She hurried to Saurfang.
“Have they taken Brill?” Perfectia’s breath was shallow, her stomach tight.
Saurfang’s eyes were somber as he shook his head. “Annihilated. Our forces are barely holding on.”
Two undead soldiers stumbled through the portal, gasping. “They’re in the Undercity now. We can’t stop them.”
Isabela, the undead mage maintaining the portal, was collapsing under the strain. Her hands sparked with energy as she tried to hold it open. “I can’t do it anymore,” she wept, crumbling to her knees.
Saurfang’s voice boomed with desperation. “Hold on! If you let go, they’ll die like animals!”
Isabela shook her head weakly, her magic flickering. “It’s beyond me…”
Saurfang turned to Perfectia, his eyes hard but hopeful. “I’m glad you’re here.” He glanced at Isabela. “Send us through. We don’t need numbers, we need to be there.”
“It’s suicide,” Isabela murmured, her voice frail.
Perfectia clenched her fists, understanding the weight of the decision but knowing she couldn’t turn back now.
Saurfang smiled grimly, his memories flickering across his face. “Cast it. As many as you can,” he ordered. His eyes scanned the Horde soldiers, then rested on Perfectia. “The Alliance comes for vengeance, for Teldrassil. We will not let them take what is ours. Blood and glory await! FOR THE HORDE!”
The war cry echoed, but Perfectia kept her head low. Normally, the drums of battle excited her, but today felt different. The faces of the Alliance haunted her thoughts—people who knew her as a Night Elf, her disguise slipping with each passing moment.
Saurfang noticed her unease. He approached her, his voice quieter. “Perfectia,” he called, gesturing for her to stand beside him. “You’ve always had a way with words. Say something.”
She hesitated, glancing at the weary faces of the soldiers. Her voice cracked with nerves. “Are zere any children present?” Her Thalassian accent surfaced, betraying her discomfort.
Saurfang chuckled softly. “No.”
Perfectia took a deep breath, eyes glinting with mischief. “Ze Alliance ‘as come ‘oping for la Horde’s finest ‘ospitality, non? Zey want elegance, wine, maybe a little ‘and-holding. But… I say we give zem a proper ‘orde welcome!" Her smirk deepened. “Zey’ll open zere legs for us, expecting sweet nothings—but what we’ll give zem is everything. We’ll leave zem twitching, gasping, begging for more until zey’re naught but gaping ‘oles of pleasure… or pain, depending on ‘ow you like it!”
The crowd burst into raucous laughter. Laughter spread through the soldiers like wildfire. They needed this. One grunt started the chant, “For the Horde!” and the others joined in, louder, more determined.
Saurfang watched the scene with a small smile before turning to her. “You look quite lovely, by the way,” he commented, as Isabela prepared her spell.
Perfectia smirked, tension melting away. “If it’s our last day in Azeroth, might as well go out looking good.”