Saurfang chuckled at her bold humor. As Isabela exhaled, a blue aura enveloped around 20 members of the Horde, including Perfectia and Saurfang. The teleportation felt unsettling, flashes of black interrupting their journey through the arcane blue. Despite the instability, they arrived in the Undercity mostly unscathed, though a few Horde members looked nauseous. Saurfang, as ever, remained unfazed.
Perfectia steadied herself and asked, “Saurfang, where’s Sylvanas?”
He looked up, “The Warchief is still fighting above, but she’ll manage.”
Perfectia sighed, “And we’re stuck down 'ere dealing wiz ze Alliance sneaking up our rear.”
Saurfang grunted in agreement before focusing on their mission.
Gripping her paladin’s club, Perfectia joined the other Horde members as they advanced. The Undercity was crawling with SI:7 agents—gnomes, scurrying like cockroaches. The Horde soldiers formed into an arrowhead, moving with military precision, but they tightened into a phalanx when outnumbered by the Alliance assassins. Saurfang’s deep, commanding voice rang out, ensuring no one straggled, and when the Horde had the upper hand, they swarmed the gnomes mercilessly.
As they encountered Druids of the Claw, they made short work of them despite being outnumbered 3 to 1. The Horde’s coordination—arrows, magic, and steel—overwhelmed the Alliance’s feral charge. Cats clawed and bit, but they couldn’t match the Horde’s unity.
Amid the chaos, Perfectia focused on aiding the wounded and helping citizens flee. Her Light magic soothed the weary and wounded, guiding them to safety. Saurfang remained ever practical, shouting, “No time to waste! Open a portal to the keep, we need to report to the Warchief!”
A surviving undead mage cast the portal, allowing the Horde soldiers to swiftly enter. In a blink, Perfectia and the others appeared on the upper floor of Lordaeron, ready to confront whatever awaited.
There stood Sylvanas with more Horde members than Perfectia had expected, the weight of her decision pressing in. She had considered striking Sylvanas down, but hesitation gripped her—attempting it meant death.
“Is the Undercity evacuated?” Sylvanas asked, her voice cold.
“Yes, Warchief,” Saurfang replied.
“Then it’s time. Saurfang, rally your troops. Prepare the Azerite machine.”
Saurfang addressed the Horde. “Champions! The Alliance seeks to take what is ours. We will not allow them victory. Blood and glory await! Lok’tar ogar!”
Perfectia followed the Horde, her heart heavy. The familiar thrill of battle was absent—this time, everything felt different. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, searching desperately for Anduin. The Alliance forces were vast, a sea of soldiers covering the horizon like ants.
“Saurfang!” Perfectia called, worry in her voice. "Even wiz all zese men, zis isn’t ze kind of load we can ‘andle on our own.”
Saurfang, swinging his axe into the nearest Alliance soldier, looked over at her. “I missed you, Perfectia. But we just need to hold until reinforcements come.”
She nodded, joining him in the fray, her club clashing against Alliance heavy armor. But her thoughts wandered as she fought. Where was Anduin?
Suddenly, his voice rang out across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos. “It’s over, Sylvanas! The walls of Lordaeron will soon fall!”
Perfectia’s heart leaped at the sound of Anduin’s voice. “Anduin!” she screamed, trying to break through the noise, but Sylvanas’s powerful voice drowned her out. “Boy king, you’ve no idea what you’re up against!”
Anduin’s eyes locked onto Perfectia’s, and for a fleeting moment, they both forgot where they were. She could see the shock in his eyes even through the lion’s helm. He moved, and she took a step forward, but before they could reach each other, the Azerite machine roared between them, its spikes driving into the ground, sending her flying backward.
Genn Greymane growled nearby, eyes wide at the monstrous device. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Anduin, glowing with Holy Light, gripped his sword and stood tall. “Anything made can be broken! Genn, with me!” They leapt onto the machine, determined to tear it apart.
Perfectia scrambled to her feet, still reeling, her mind racing. She had to get to him, but Sylvanas’s war machine loomed ominously between them, a deadly obstacle that would not be easily destroyed.
There stood Sylvanas with more Horde members than Perfectia had expected, the weight of her decision pressing in. She had considered striking Sylvanas down, but hesitation gripped her—attempting it meant death.
“Is the Undercity evacuated?” Sylvanas asked, her voice cold.
“Yes, Warchief,” Saurfang replied.
“Then it’s time. Saurfang, rally your troops. Prepare the Azerite machine.”
Saurfang addressed the Horde. “Champions! The Alliance seeks to take what is ours. We will not allow them victory. Blood and glory await! Lok’tar ogar!”
Perfectia followed the Horde, her heart heavy. The familiar thrill of battle was absent—this time, everything felt different. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, searching desperately for Anduin. The Alliance forces were vast, a sea of soldiers covering the horizon like ants.
“Saurfang!” Perfectia called, worry in her voice. "Even wiz all zese men, zis isn’t ze kind of load we can ‘andle on our own.”
Saurfang, swinging his axe into the nearest Alliance soldier, looked over at her. “I missed you, Perfectia. But we just need to hold until reinforcements come.”
She nodded, joining him in the fray, her club clashing against Alliance heavy armor. But her thoughts wandered as she fought. Where was Anduin?
Suddenly, his voice rang out across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos. “It’s over, Sylvanas! The walls of Lordaeron will soon fall!”
Perfectia’s heart leaped at the sound of Anduin’s voice. “Anduin!” she screamed, trying to break through the noise, but Sylvanas’s powerful voice drowned her out. “Boy king, you’ve no idea what you’re up against!”
Anduin’s eyes locked onto Perfectia’s, and for a fleeting moment, they both forgot where they were. She could see the shock in his eyes even through the lion’s helm. He moved, and she took a step forward, but before they could reach each other, the Azerite machine roared between them, its spikes driving into the ground, sending her flying backward.
Genn Greymane growled nearby, eyes wide at the monstrous device. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Anduin, glowing with Holy Light, gripped his sword and stood tall. “Anything made can be broken! Genn, with me!” They leapt onto the machine, determined to tear it apart.
Perfectia scrambled to her feet, still reeling, her mind racing. She had to get to him, but Sylvanas’s war machine loomed ominously between them, a deadly obstacle that would not be easily destroyed.
Perfectia rose, her heart racing as the fear of losing Anduin gripped her. “Not again,” she whispered fiercely. She grabbed her club, pouring all her strength and desperation into bending the azurite weapon. The V-shaped pieces in hand, she transformed them into the Ashbringers, her thoughts locked on protecting him at all costs.
Each swing against the tank was driven by fear and love—a need to stop this madness. Her stabs sent splinters of azurite dust into her lungs, but she didn’t care. Arrows pierced her body, but she yanked them out, healing her wounds as fast as they were made.
Her mind was torn—duty to the Horde or love for Anduin. Every clash, every strike was a reminder of what she stood to lose. She could see him, fighting valiantly, but he was surrounded. She had to stop this.
Suddenly, an arrow struck her shoulder, numbing her arm. She saw Nathanos from the Undercity, his bow still raised, questioning her actions with a glance.
Perfectia clenched her teeth, cleansed the poison with her Holy magic, and let her other Ashbringer fall to the ground. She smirked from across the battlefield, walking away from the tank, knowing it was ready to explode. It wasn’t fear she felt—just resolution. She wouldn’t lose Anduin, not today.
As the tank exploded behind her, Nathanos’ voice rang out in fury, “What did you do, Dawnlight?!”
She casually pulled the arrow from her shoulder, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she tossed it back to him. “You dropped this.”
Nathanos sneered. “That arrow was meant for him.”
Perfectia’s smile widened. “Maybe next time you’ll hit what you’re aiming for.”
Nathanos, unamused, growled, “Very funny.”
Sylvanas’ cold voice echoed through the battlefield, “Prepare the Blight! Let it rain down upon their armies!”
Perfectia’s mind raced again—Sylvanas’ voice pulled her back to the brutal reality of war. But in that moment, all she could think about was Anduin.
Nathanos tilted his head to the side and looked at Perfectia, “I would go inside if I were you.” He stated as he saw the look of dread in Perfectia’s eyes and walked into the gates of Lordaeron. Perfectia looked up and saw that Sylvanas was bickering with Saurfang over what they were planning, but Perfectia saw the goblins and undead walk out with gas masks.
Perfectia ran up to the goblin and tackled him for his gas mask and grabbed two, “Hey one per customer!” he yelled as Perfectia ran off with two. Perfectia whistled as loud as she could and Lucy her horse came out of an explosion of holy light and she got on her. “Come on girl!” she shouted as she and her horse ran out to the battlefield.
Perfectia saw Anduin across the battlefield as he looked at the clouds of green toxic gas getting closer to him. Perfectia jumped off her horse Lucy and wrapped herself around Anduin’s body. He panicked for a few seconds as she removed his helmet, but Perfectia put the gas mask around his face, so he could breathe. “Perfectia?!” Anduin said as his voice was muffled by the mask.
“I’m here for you.” Perfectia said to him.
Anduin, Perfectia, and Genn cleared out to an area that the gas wasn’t reaching, and Anduin took off the mask and Perfectia jumped off his back. Perfectia put her poem inside the mask and handed it to him, “Thank you, you saved me.” He said as he took the mask back. Perfectia smiled and nodded. Andiun and Genn looked out onto the battlefield.
“The Blight has broken our ranks.” Genn claimed.
Anduin looked down, “Our assault has been for nothing.”
“We ‘ave to go, she’ll kill all of us.” Perfectia pleaded.
“Who are you, elf?” Genn asked.
Perfectia looked at Genn, “I’m trying to ‘elp.” She looked back up at Anduin, “We should run as far as we can go, live out at sea, or go to the Caverns of Time where none of this is going on.”
Genn looked at her in shock and familiarity. He looked at them both slightly confused.
Anduin looked at her questionably, and looked down and back at her, “You want me to run away with you?” He asked.
Perfectia nodded her head, "Yes. We don’t need zis, we could just go. " She said.
Anduin looked at her, the battlefield, and then Genn, but then heard something behind him. The winds were getting louder like the sound of sheets to the wind. It was a sound Perfectia knew very well, but the ocean was more than a few miles away.
A spear came through the clouds and Perfectia looked back at the ship that was approaching from the sky and back at Anduin.
Perfectia’s gaze darted between Anduin and Jaina, her heart twisting as she saw the hope in his eyes. He can’t look at her like that. Not after everything we’ve been through. Her hand trembled as she pulled out the Azerite, her mind clouded by jealousy and fear. Desperation clawed at her, and in a rash moment, she hurled the Azerite at Jaina’s ship, knowing it would jeopardize everything.
As the Corrupted Ashbringer hit the hull, Anduin’s horrified expression cut her deeper than any blade. He got off his horse, pushing her back, “What do you think you’re doing, Perfectia? Jaina is a friend!” His words stung, his disgust piercing her heart.
“I—I didn’t mean to…” Perfectia’s voice faltered, her confidence shattered. I just want him. Why doesn’t he see that?
But Anduin’s disbelief turned to anger. “Was this your plan all along? Separate me from my kingdom?” His voice shook with betrayal.
“No!” she cried, her own desperation surfacing. “I never wanted your kingdom, Anduin. I just wanted you…”
The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “You said you wanted to stop Sylvanas. You said you were fighting for me. Was it all a lie?” He demanded, his voice cracking.
Her resolve crumbled. “I loved you when I saw you. I—”
“Shut up!” Anduin’s hand trembled, gripping his sword. “Leave my sight!”
Perfectia’s heart shattered. “Anduin, please…”
He raised his sword to strike, his voice breaking, “I SAID GO!”
But Genn caught his arm, his voice gruff yet calm. “Don’t, Anduin.” His eyes flicked to Perfectia, silently urging her to leave.
Perfectia turned, running back toward the gates, tears streaming down her face, her heart aching as Anduin’s rage echoed in her ears. She had failed him, and worse—she had lost him.
Genn let go of Anduin’s sword hand, stepping back, and Anduin’s face hardened. “She’s the enemy,” Anduin stated. “Why did you stop me?”
Genn sighed. “I know that look, Anduin… that was not an enemy.”
Dismissive, Anduin shook his head, mounting his horse. “She tried to kill Jaina Proudmoore. That makes her my enemy.”
As Anduin charged toward the gates of Lordaeron, he glanced back at Jaina’s ship. “Jaina, the wall!” he shouted.
Jaina, with visible effort, guided arcane energy from her ship’s cannons, blasting the gates of Lordaeron until they crumbled.
Inside the gates, Perfectia lingered in the shadows, trembling as the walls shook. She gripped her hearthstone, tempted to flee, knowing full well she had lost everything. The cold weight of her regret felt like a stone in her chest, but the pendant brushing against her armor—the image of Anduin—tugged her heart. She closed her eyes, her fingers tracing the lines of the picture. “I have to finish this,” she whispered, steeling herself.
Meanwhile, Sylvanas paced, her eyes narrowing. “Saurfang?” she called, suspicious. “Where did he go?”
Nathanos stepped forward, ever loyal. “Leave it to me, Dark Lady. I will lead the reserves.”
Sylvanas barely looked at him as she commanded, “Do not fail me. Meet with Lor’themar. Quickly.”
As Nathanos turned to his task, he caught sight of Perfectia. Her makeup, streaked from tears, betrayed the turmoil she tried to mask. He saw the exhaustion in her, the broken spirit. His lips curled slightly in pity. Perfectia, avoiding his gaze, brushed her hand across her face in an attempt to conceal her vulnerability.
“Heroes, follow me,” Nathanos called, leading the army toward the west side. Perfectia trailed behind, her mind spinning with guilt and self-doubt. She had no weapon left—the two Ashbringer summons had shattered her club beyond repair. She wasn’t here to fight anymore; she was here to heal, to survive, and maybe to salvage some part of herself.
Baine Bloodhoof awaited them, his eyes narrowing as Nathanos approached. “Baine,” Nathanos commanded, “gather the catapults and apothecaries. Send them to the keep.”
Baine nodded but asked cautiously, “Where is Saurfang?”
“There is no time,” Nathanos barked, his voice sharp and urgent. “We have precious moments before we lose our terrain advantage! The choke point will funnel the Alliance through, thinning their ranks. Out in the open, we outnumber them ten to one.”
Baine nodded. “Understood. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“No,” Nathanos ordered firmly, his gaze hard. “Lor’themar and I will handle the interlopers. You must stay with the warchief. I can’t risk her being unguarded.”
Baine hesitated, concern creasing his brow. “How long do you expect to hold them off? What is Sylvanas planning?”
Nathanos sighed, his reluctance clear. “It’s better if she tells you herself. Now go!” With that, he mounted his wolf and rode off, rallying the Horde with sharp commands. “Follow me, Champions! Your warchief commands it!” His words echoed over the battlefield.
Perfectia trailed behind, her steps slow and her heart heavy. As she reached for the hearthstone at her chest, the weight of her indecision pressed down on her. Every fiber of her being screamed to run, to escape the pain of seeing Anduin on the battlefield. She held the stone tightly, feeling its cool surface against the warmth of her skin, her thoughts swirling in chaos. Her fingers brushed the pendant he had given her, the picture inside a reminder of everything she could lose.
“I can’t,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “Not again.” She lowered the hearthstone. “I have to protect him.”
Ahead, Nathanos was barking orders. “Blight throwers, to the front! You will create a line of Blight between us and the enemy!” His voice was steady, but when his gaze fell on Perfectia, a fleeting look of pity crossed his face. He saw the tear-streaked makeup on her cheeks, the grief and conflict written in every line of her body. She turned away, embarrassed, and wiped at her face, trying to hide the storm inside her.
“Soldiers, fall into position!” Nathanos roared as the Alliance approached.
Perfectia steeled herself. I have to face him**.** Even without a weapon, drained and exhausted, she followed the others, clutching onto the only thing that remained—her will to fight.
As the Alliance forces gathered, Anduin, Genn, and Jaina appeared at the front. The sight of Anduin under his lion helm stopped her cold. Even from across the battlefield, her heart wrenched at the sight of him. He looked toward her briefly, but the helmet shielded his thoughts. What was he feeling? Did he see her pain, or did he only see betrayal?
“I have to keep him safe,” she thought, shaking her head. “I have to try.”
Nathanos stepped forward confidently. “It is you who is outnumbered now,” he claimed, his voice dripping with arrogance.
Jaina, her gaze scanning the Horde army, spoke quietly. “Their numbers are vast… Anduin, give the word, and I can teleport us out of here.”
Anduin didn’t look at her. His voice was steady, resolved. “If we turn tail now, we become prey. No. We fight—and die, if we must, for what we believe in.” His words hung heavy in the air, but Perfectia could only focus on him, desperate to understand what he was thinking behind that mask.
As he stood there, the distance between them seemed insurmountable. But in her heart, she knew she couldn’t let go, not yet. She wasn’t fighting the Horde, Sylvanas, or even herself anymore—she was fighting for him, for the love she couldn’t afford to lose.
“Your time is up, King Anduin!” Nathanos cackled. “VICTORY FOR THE FORSAKEN!”
“ALLIANCE,” King Anduin shouted, “HOLD YOUR GROUND!”
Perfectia’s emotions surged as she saw Alleria across the battlefield, the one person who stoked the flames of her anger and despair. She needed a weapon, anything to strike her down. She yanked a crude blade from a fallen Royal Dreadguard, her heart racing as she whispered to the Ashbringer within her, “Alexandros, if you ever cared for me, give me the Ashbringer and let me kill her!”
But the weapon remained dull, powerless. Her plea echoed in the chaos, unheard. Desperation clawed at her as the battle raged around her.
“Let us even the odds, King Wrynn!” Alleria’s voice cut through the battlefield, commanding her void elves to engage. Anduin, relieved, turned to her.
“Alleria! Thank the Light you’ve made it,” Anduin said, hope in his voice as the two sides clashed once again.
“Are you ready, Mekkatorque?” Alleria asked, her voice calm but filled with purpose.
“Indubitably!” Mekkatorque’s machines hummed to life, freezing the blight on the ground, cutting through Nathanos’ planned defenses.
“Jaina, Genn,” Anduin called, his voice filled with determination. “Help me with Blightcaller and Lor’themar. Alleria, take the rest.”
Perfectia’s hands trembled around the crude blade. “No… not her,” she whispered, her eyes locking on Alleria. Her heart pounded with rage and a need for vengeance. She couldn’t just heal others while the woman she despised fought on the battlefield. She needed to fight her, to end this.
As the chaos unfolded, Nathanos let out a laugh, his voice dark and mocking. “Look who joins the fray. Good, I was hoping you’d keep this interesting!”
Across the battlefield, Alleria’s gaze landed on Perfectia. With a chilling smile, she called out, “Oh, there you are.”
Perfectia spotted a discarded Royal Dreadguard crossbow and seized it, loading a bolt in a swift motion. “Don’t come near me, void elf!” she shouted at Alleria, her voice sharp with rage.
Alleria, unfazed, moved with lightning speed, readying her own arrow. Perfectia fired, the bolt veering to hit Alleria’s bow, knocking the arrow off course. Alleria glanced at the bolt lodged in her bow. “Odd,” she mused, pulling it free.
Perfectia quickly reloaded, but Alleria unleashed three arrows in rapid succession. Perfectia dove to the ground, barely avoiding the lethal shots. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the crossbow string back, dipped her next bolt into the Blight pooling around them, and fired again. Alleria, faster than expected, caught the bolt, though a bit of the Blight splashed into her face, distorting her vision.
Seizing the moment, Perfectia discarded the crossbow, charging at Alleria with a fierce battle cry. She slammed both fists into Alleria’s head, knocking her to the ground. Stunned, Alleria struggled under Perfectia’s grip, her hands pushing at her attacker’s face. But Perfectia’s glowing eyes, blazing like twin suns, scorched Alleria’s vision. “I told you!” Perfectia shouted, her voice crackling with fury. “I told you they would be the last thing you saw!”
With both hands, Perfectia gripped Alleria’s head, Light magic crackling around her fingers. “I will draw you out, voidlord, like poison from a wound!” Her hands glowed, channeling the Light as she battled not just Alleria but the dark Naaru within her. The air around them sizzled with energy, a clash of Light and Void.
Perfectia’s Light magic clashed violently against the dark force within Alleria, the voice of the voidlord booming from her lips, “She is mine. All your people will be mine!”
Perfectia pressed harder, her Light blazing hotter. “You couldn’t take the Sunwell, and you won’t take her!” The voidlord thrashed within Alleria, but Perfectia poured another surge of Light into her. “Begone!”
Suddenly, Anduin’s sword struck, knocking Perfectia off Alleria and crashing her to the ground. His face twisted with betrayal. “You ----! I gave you my heart! My kingdom!” Anduin kicked her hard, each blow laden with his anguish and fury. Perfectia barely had time to summon her strongest protection spell before his sword came down again, each strike punctuated by the words: “YOU! HAVE! BROKEN! MY! HEART!”
The last blow almost shattered her protection, but as the magic faded, Perfectia blocked with both hands—now wielding two Ashbringers. Their clash sent sparks flying as Perfectia’s eyes glowed a cold, furious blue, her hair turning fiery red. She pushed Anduin back with a forceful shove, knocking his helmet to the ground.
Anduin, stunned and confused, stared at her. “What is this, Perfectia? Another trick? Another mask?”
But her voice was no longer her own, a deeper, masculine tone resonated as she spoke. “Stay away from her, boy king.” The ground trembled as five glowing Ashbringers manifested and pinned Anduin by his armor and cape.
Perfectia, or the being within her, looked down at him, both Ashbringers gleaming in her hands. “I could end you now, but I know that would hurt Perfectia. You will stay away from her, or next time, I will kill you.”
Anduin looked around, bewildered. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Perfectia stood tall, eyes glowing with unfamiliar power. “I am Alexandros Mograine, leader of the Silver Hand, the original wielder of the Ashbringer. And I will guard Perfectia until the end of her days.”
As Alexandros walked away, the Ashbringers floated around him, merging into one, a symbol of his strength. Anduin, now regaining his composure, helped Alleria to her feet. “Crazy ex-girlfriend you got there, Anduin. Hell hath no fury, right?" she joked.
“She was like you, but with the Light,” Anduin replied grimly.
Alleria chuckled, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t remember much until you pulled me up. Was I winning?”
Anduin sighed, laughing softly. "No. But that doesn’t matter now, we still have to finish this.”
In the distance, Alexandros stood at the back, arms crossed, watching the chaos as Baine Bloodhoof called for a retreat. Sylvanas detonated a Blight apothecary to cover their escape. She turned her gaze downward, noticing Perfectia’s blonde hair. “What are you doing here?”
Alexandros stared at her coldly, his voice unwavering. “Don’t you have bigger problems to deal with, Sylvanas?”
The Banshee Queen barely glanced at him before commanding her forces to flee. “Everyone! Follow Nathanos to the courtyard. I will block the Alliance.”
Alexandros ignored the battlefield chaos, focused solely on protecting Perfectia. His duty was clear. As the battle waned, Alexandros took the portal to the airship above the city, disinterested in the outcome of the fight below. His only concern was Perfectia’s safety.
When she finally returned to her body, Perfectia cried out in pain, clutching her right arm. The tingling had turned into unbearable agony. She could barely move it. “Stop!” she screamed, only to realize she was on the Horde’s airship, surrounded by their forces. Relief washed over her, but her arm throbbed with intense pain, rendering it nearly immobile.
Nathanos glanced over at her, scoffing. “Wow, you really are melodramatic.”
Perfectia’s eyes swept over the scene. She saw the Blight seeping out of Lordaeron’s windows below and Sylvanas’ dark, serpentine form landing on the airship. She looked out, her eyes meeting Anduin aboard Jaina’s floating ship in the distance. Perfectia weakly lifted her hand toward him, her heart torn. He waved back, but his expression was cold.
Sylvanas, observing the moment, turned toward Perfectia with narrowed eyes. “What was that?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.
My Queen
Genn Greymane watched as Anduin waved to the departing ship before turning away in frustration. “Anduin!” Genn called after him, his concern growing. “What’s going on with you and that Sin’Dorei?”
Anduin paused, keeping his gaze low. “It’s none of your concern,” he muttered, his voice strained. He glanced toward Alleria and gave her a command. “Find Tyrande. Tell her she was right, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make amends.”
Alleria nodded solemnly, disappearing into the void with a quiet, “Of course, my king.”
Frustrated, Anduin looked down at the gas mask that Perfectia had given him. His expression darkened, and with an enraged shout, he slammed it to the ground, shattering it before storming off below deck.
Genn, watching in silence, noticed a piece of paper fall from the broken mask. Crouching down, he retrieved it, unfolding it carefully. As he read Perfectia’s words, a strange feeling washed over him, his human form returning. He glanced toward the door Anduin had disappeared behind, understanding more than he let on.
The ship glided over the ocean for some time before settling on the water’s surface. Jaina, visibly relieved, let out a quiet sigh, finally able to rest after guiding the ship.
Soon after, a griffin landed gracefully on the deck, carrying a well-dressed gnome who hurried over. “Did the battle go well?” the gnome asked with polite enthusiasm.
Genn offered a tired smile. “We survived,” he replied simply.
The gnome nodded approvingly. “Good. I finished the portrait the king requested. I wanted to deliver it in person—it’s one of my finest pieces.”
Genn arched an eyebrow. “You flew to a battlefield just for a delivery?”
The gnome shrugged and rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand. Artists can’t focus if something feels unfinished. I had to come.”
Genn chuckled lightly. “Is it that blood elf, Perfectia?”
The gnome’s face lit up with a smile. “Yes, Perfectia. I heard she escaped, and I hoped to paint her again—on something more substantial than a compass.”
Genn shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. She was here, but things didn’t go as planned. Now’s not the right time to give him that portrait. I’ll hold on to it for him.”
Hesitantly, the gnome handed over the sealed letter containing the portrait. Genn, unable to contain his curiosity, broke the seal despite the gnome’s half-hearted protest, and carefully looked at the picture inside.
Genn Graymane pulled out his reading glasses and examined the picture before glancing back at the gnome. “This is really good.”
The gnome smiled. “Once they put her in a dress and makeup, she was one of the most beautiful subjects I’ve worked with. She was definitely surprised herself.”
Genn noticed the familiar colors on the necklace Perfectia wore. “What’s with the necklace?” he asked.
The gnome shrugged. “I couldn’t capture it too clearly, but it’s a picture of Anduin when he was younger. He told me he gave it to her.”
Genn nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, uh…” he hesitated.
“Kirkland,” the gnome supplied.
“Thank you, Kirkland.”
Genn made his way down to the war table, where Anduin was staring at a pear in his hands. “Do you actually eat those or just think they’re pretty?” Genn asked, trying to break the tension.
“It’s not ripe yet,” Anduin replied, not looking up. “I specifically asked for Thalassian butter pears. They have to be a certain softness before they’re perfect—juicy and delicious. You can’t rush them, Genn. You have to wait, but it’s worth it. Right now, this is just a conference pear.” He glanced up. “Not what I want.”
Genn narrowed his eyes slightly, realizing Anduin wasn’t just talking about pears. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
Anduin’s focus shifted back to the fruit. “They’re never right until you spend time with them.”
Genn nodded, picking up on the subtext. “I think I get it. But I didn’t come to talk about fruit. This came for you.” He handed Anduin the sealed picture.
Anduin barely looked at it. “Throw that cursed thing away.”
Genn, growing frustrated, snapped, “What’s the matter with you, Anduin? She told you she loved you, and then you tried to kill her?”
Anduin stood up sharply. “She tried to kill Jaina! And she nearly killed Alleria! Yes, I tried to kill her, but I did it to defend my people.” His voice softened slightly. “Why do you care? You said yourself she might betray me.”
Genn sighed, regret heavy in his tone. “I’m sorry.”
Anduin laughed bitterly. “Don’t be…” He shrugged. “I could have saved myself so much pain if I’d left her in those Stockades.” He paused, meeting Genn’s eyes. “I should have listened to you… and to Tyrande.”
Genn stepped closer, voice firm. “Would you have preferred I let you kill her? Look me in the eyes, Anduin, and tell me that you would’ve been better off if she was dead.”
Anduin sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands. After a long silence, he lifted his gaze, tears welling in his eyes. “No.” He shook his head, the grief in his voice unmistakable. “Why do I miss her so much? Everything I’ve been taught, everything I know, says I could never be with her. I shouldn’t be with someone like her. Everyone around me sees it too—it’s like she’s always slipping farther and farther from me.”
He clenched his fists. “I should give up, find someone from the Alliance, or at least someone… human.” His voice faltered, but then, softer, he added, “But my heart… it says I’m so close. Just keep trying, and she’ll be mine forever.”
Genn, moved by the king’s vulnerability, handed him the letter containing her picture. “Then keep trying, my king.”
Anduin, surprised, took the letter and opened it, gazing at the picture of Perfectia. “Is this really her?” His voice was soft, almost in disbelief.
Genn nodded.
Anduin carefully opened his compass and placed the picture inside. “My queen,” he whispered, a tenderness in his voice. He glanced up at Genn, gratitude etched on his face. “Thank you for saving her. I hope she can forgive me for what I did. I… I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself if I truly harmed her.”
Genn sat beside him, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Do you know why my wife and I only had one son?”
Anduin shook his head, still lost in thought.
“Mia nearly died giving birth to Liam,” Genn explained, his voice growing heavy. “And when Tess was born, we almost lost her too. We waited so long for children, and after that, I didn’t want to risk losing her again. Mia was forty when Liam was born.”
Genn chuckled softly, reflecting. “I could have had anyone back then. As a prince, there were plenty of young, beautiful women at parties, on hunts. But Mia… she was different. Skilled, strong, and wise.”
He smiled at the memory. “One day, while hunting, she told me to keep going south. I told her we had to return to Gilneas, but she said, ‘No, let’s keep going. We can survive, just the two of us.’ That’s when I realized—she didn’t care about the kingdom or the crown. She cared about me. And that’s when I knew I loved her.”
Genn met Anduin’s eyes. “So when that blood elf told you she wanted you, not your kingdom, I knew she wasn’t your enemy. She wanted to be the one to save you.”
Anduin nodded, “She did, she gave me that mask.”
Genn handed him the note, “She’s quite the poet. When did you realize you were in love with her?”
Anduin thought back, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know. There was something about her, even when we first met. She seemed nervous, but she had this quiet grace about her—like she belonged to some elegant world far away. It was brave of her to tell me the truth about what really happened in Silvermoon. Her ambitions for peace seemed almost naive.”
He paused, recalling that moment. “At first, I thought the war would change her, that it would show her what the Horde really was. But then I gave her that lion, and I saw how much it meant to her—she was almost in tears. I felt ashamed, knowing this war would corrupt someone so pure.” He glanced downward, remembering the tenderness of that exchange.
“The next day, a guardsman gave me a poem she wrote. It was beautiful but sad—talking about a kiss she thought she’d never have. I was planning to tell her that my kingdom had to come first, that I needed to marry into noble blood. But she understood that already. She even told me so. I remember thinking—she really gets it, gets me. And I didn’t say no. I wanted to know more about her.”
A warm smile spread across his face, recalling her awkward but heartfelt confession. “She blurted out ‘Dawnstar Village’ when I asked where she was from. At first, I thought maybe she was a High Elf. But then the pieces clicked when she wiped off her purple makeup. When she kissed me…” He trailed off, soaking his lips with a breath, “I felt like I could hold onto her forever. But then… she had to go. The truth came out, and suddenly everything felt… conflicted.”
Genn eyed him, understanding. “Do you think it’s because she was forbidden? Maybe that’s what drew you in?”
“No,” Anduin shook his head. “It wasn’t about that. Valeera’s a blood elf, and I’ve never felt this way about her. Perfectia told me she fell in love with me the first time she saw me. If anything, I felt the same—though I didn’t know it until later.”
Anduin chuckled softly. “She’s written me three poems now. She can be a bit dramatic.” He paused, then half-smiled. “But there’s something you should know about her. Do you know who Alexandros Mograine is?”
Genn frowned, nodding slowly. “The first Ashbringer.”
“Well, apparently… he’s her guardian spirit.”
Genn looked at him, a little taken aback. “Wait, she could summon an Ashbringer from nowhere?”
Anduin nodded. “She summoned seven—or maybe it was Alexandros doing it through her. He warned me to stay away from her, said he’d kill me if I got close again.”
Genn looked away, processing the revelation. "I’ve heard of her, ‘The Alcoholic Highlord,’ though it’s mostly stories of what comes out of her mouth. When someone curses like a sailor, people assume they drink like one too.”
Anduin raised an eyebrow. “So… she’s funny?”
“In more ways than you think,” Genn smirked, then paused. “But she’s… promiscuous, Anduin. And not just with men.” There was a faint hint of discomfort in his voice. “I’m not saying she doesn’t care about you, but… you could do better. There are other blood elves.”
Anduin shook his head firmly. “It’s not about being with a blood elf. I want to be with her.”
Genn, sensing more beneath the surface, chuckled knowingly. “We could find someone with hips if that’s what you’re after.” He gestured toward the pear in Anduin’s hand. “I know why you keep staring at that thing.”
Anduin bit into the pear, savoring its softness. “That might have been what drew me to her at first, but… it’s more than that now.” His voice softened with realization. “She means more.”
Genn sighed, giving in. “A pirate, huh?”
Anduin nodded, looking distant. “That makes sense… explains the humor.”
Genn eyed him with curiosity. "How many elves do you know from Silvermoon who actually grew up there?”
Anduin shrugged.
“Being romantic, conceited, and sexual… it’s kind of how they are—or were.” Genn narrowed his eyes. “Has she put her tongue in your mouth?”
Anduin smiled, nodding slightly.
“They invented that,” Genn quipped with a shrug, adding lightly, "Might need to look into this more, Anduin. If she’s as powerful as you say, she could turn the tide of this war.”
Anduin’s expression turned serious. “Just find her, Genn. Bring back my Love Poet.”
Genn nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
(Meanwhile)
Sylvanas glanced sharply at Perfectia. “I said, ‘What was that?’ ”
Perfectia avoided her gaze at first, then looked up weakly. “I was saying goodbye to our home.”
Sylvanas half-smiled, shaking her head. “One, you’re a terrible liar. Two, I’d believe it if I hadn’t just seen the boy king wave back at you.”
Perfectia dropped her head, shoulders sagging. “I…”
“Where have you been the past few weeks?” Sylvanas’s tone sharpened. “I’ve been resupplying troops, arming them to wipe out the Kaldorei, and you’re not even wearing that gear.”
Perfectia hesitated, then looked Sylvanas in the eye. “I’ve been around. Honestly, I thought all that killing was a waste of resources.”
Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed as she noticed Perfectia’s limp arm. “What happened to your arm?”
Perfectia touched it, unable to move. “I used the Ashbringer too much during the fight. I would’ve killed Alleria if Anduin hadn’t intervened. Nathanos saw it.”
Behind her, Nathanos chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I watched. You had Anduin on the ground, ready for a killing blow… but you didn’t take it.” He turned to Sylvanas. “Paladins—soft as always.”
Perfectia frowned, trying to recall. “I don’t remember that. He tried to kill me… and then… I was here.”
Sylvanas’s gaze drifted upward, not at Perfectia, but above her head—she was seeing him, Alexandros Mograine. Perfectia stiffened as she realized who Sylvanas was watching.
“Stop looking at him,” Perfectia snapped, her voice trembling slightly. “Look at me. I’m telling the truth.”
Nathanos, oblivious, looked puzzled. “What’s she talking about?”
“It’s none of your concern, Nathanos.” Sylvanas turned coldly. “You’re too unstable. If you can’t control that thing inside you, you’re no use to me.” She added coldly, “Nathanos, retrieve the Azerite she stole.”
Nathanos grabbed her roughly from behind, his fingers curling around the necklace. “Ah, so she made it into a necklace,” he sneered as he yanked it from her neck.
“No!” Perfectia cried. “Please, don’t!” She struggled, but her weakened state rendered her powerless. Nathanos tossed the necklace to Sylvanas.
Sylvanas looked at the necklace in disgust, then back at Perfectia, who had collapsed to her knees, covering her face with her hand.
“What is this?” Sylvanas demanded, casting a quick glance upward again, toward Alexandros.
Perfectia shook her head, searching for a lie but found none. “It’s… it’s Anduin,” she admitted.
Sylvanas bent down, grabbed Perfectia by the hair, and dangled the necklace in front of her. “I can see that. But where did you get it?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
Perfectia was about to say something but Nathanos intervened, “He must have given it to her, that’s why she was attacking the Azerite machine.” He said. “Can you explain yourself now!?”
Sylvanas tilted Perfectia’s chin up, her cold fingers digging into her skin. “Did my lovely little Ashbringer just turn traitor on me?”
Panic surged through Perfectia. “No, Warchief. I swear,” she stammered, eyes wide and pleading. “Please… don’t look at me like that.” Her voice was laced with shame.
Sylvanas leaned in, her voice like ice. “Then start telling the truth. No jokes, no snark, or I will kill you right here. Where have you been the last few weeks?”
Perfectia’s gaze fell as her mind raced back. “I was in Stormwind… in disguise.” She hesitated. “And… I fell in love with Anduin.”
Sylvanas laughed sharply, standing straight and pressing the necklace to her own forehead before looking back at Perfectia. “So, he’s in love with you, too? Is that what this is?”
Perfectia blinked, thinking back to the battlefield. “For a time…” she whispered.
Sylvanas smirked and pointed outward. “If he waved to you, even from a distance, that means he still feels something.” Her words oozed mockery.
Baine Bloodhoof stepped forward. “Warchief, maybe we can use this to our advantage.”
Sylvanas put her hand on her hip and arched an eyebrow. “What? Hold her hostage? Or should I start matchmaking?”
Perfectia interrupted, her voice rising. “It won’t work. He told me he never wanted to see me again. The last thing I remember before waking up here was him almost killing me.”
Lor’themar Theron scoffed as he stepped in. “You’re just trying to save your skin. You were supposed to behead him, not bed him.”
Nathanos shot Lor’themar a cold glare. “The Warchief said no jokes, and she’s right. I’ve never seen Anduin fight like that before, not even when I faced him.”
Perfectia spoke again, her voice softer. “Warchief… the Horde has always been about tolerance and compromise. The Alliance… they stand for elitism and outdated beliefs. We were so close to leaving it all behind.”
“You betrayed us, Perfectia,” Lor’themar stated, his voice cold with disapproval. “How can you even call yourself Sin’Dorei? Did you fornicate with him? The Void Elves were one thing, but this… this is lower than any of us expected.”
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed, venom creeping into her tone. “Speaking of outdated beliefs, that would be twice now that you tried to bring our people into the Alliance, right?” She shrugged, unfazed. “Would you have rejoined the Alliance if Alleria hadn’t nearly corrupted the Sunwell?” Her smirk twisted. “Because that was her original plan. I remember how accepting you were of a High Elf who not only fornicated with a human but brought a half-breed into the Horde.” Her eyes gleamed, "Wouldn’t this be the third time you weaseled your way back into the Alliance?”
Lor’themar took a sharp breath, clearly shocked by the bluntness of her accusations. “You’re joking, right?”
Perfectia shook her head calmly. “If I were joking, I’d call you a vag badger, not a weasel. It’s more literal.”
A ripple of barely-restrained laughter spread through the ranks. Only Lor’themar stood stone-faced, as if her words had cut deeper than he wanted to show.
“Arator has never taken a side,” he hissed between gritted teeth. “Even when Rhonin died, Arator proved himself. He has never betrayed us.”
Perfectia shrugged lightly, showing no remorse. “Just know that I’ve learned things while I was there, Lor’themar. I looked out for my people. I even called out Alleria when she lied to Anduin about what happened at the Sunwell. He agreed to keep the Void Elves out of Silvermoon because of it.”
Lor’themar had no immediate retort. He looked down, clearly wrestling with her words.
Sylvanas, observing the exchange with calm interest, finally spoke. “So, what does this all mean?”
Perfectia took a deep breath. "It means Anduin and I would’ve left the battlefield and vanished. He wouldn’t have been a thorn in your side anymore. I was so close, Sylvanas, you have no idea.”
Sylvanas’ eyes gleamed with curiosity. “What happened?”
Perfectia’s fury reignited. “That ----- Jaina Proudmoore happened! She showed up with her ridiculous flying boat and ruined everything for me!” Perfectia’s voice broke slightly as she recalled the memory. “I tried to kill her. I threw the Ashbringer with the Azerite piece you gave me.” She sighed, deflated. “But I missed.” She met Sylvanas’ eyes. “That’s why Anduin was trying to kill me on that battlefield.”
Sylvanas crossed her arms, nodding slightly. “It seems both our plans were foiled by her,” she admitted with a frown.
Perfectia stood, extending her hand toward the necklace in Sylvanas hand. “Warchief, let me convince him. I can make him see that our approach is better, that he doesn’t need to be burdened by his kingdom anymore.”
Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And if he doesn’t agree?”
Perfectia half-smiled, her voice laced with regret. “Then I’ll know he’s fallen for Jaina Proudmoore. And when that happens, I’ll gladly watch you turn him into one of your mindless undead.” She raised her chin defiantly. “But I think he’ll trust me enough to meet me. He always has.” She motioned toward the necklace Sylvanas had taken.
Baine Bloodhoof crossed his arms, wary. “I don’t like this plan, but our other methods have failed.”
Sylvanas handed the necklace back, a sly smile playing on her lips. “If you see him, I want a report. No more secrets, Perfectia.” She smirked. “You’re back to spying. Do a better job this time. Dismissed.”
Later, Sylvanas retreated below deck, settling at the war table. Nathanos followed, eyes dark with suspicion. “My queen, tell me you don’t actually believe her.”
Sylvanas glared at him, crossing her arms. “What choice do I have, Nathanos? If you knew what that woman was capable of, you’d understand why she’s better facing our enemies.”
Nathanos raised an eyebrow. “Capable of what exactly? She could betray us again. And what spirit are you talking about?”
Sylvanas sighed, her tone bitter. “The spirit of Alexandros Mograine. He resides in her. I doubt you’ve seen him, but every time she’s near, I see his scowling face.”
Nathanos let out a bitter laugh. “You’re afraid of her.”
Sylvanas half smiled, letting out a soft laugh as she glanced at Nathanos, her voice dripping with a mixture of bitterness and nostalgia. “Ten years ago, during the Northrend Campaign, she wouldn’t even answer to her name—just ‘paladin.’ Never took off her helmet, never hesitated. She had this… unrelenting obsession with killing any undead she could find, Forsaken included. We had to supervise her constantly, but she still caused massive damage. She was ruthless, even maniacal, but exactly the kind of soldier I needed in the Halls of Reflection. If you’d seen what she did there, you’d understand why I’m cautious.”
Nathanos frowned, confused but intrigued. “So she was just a skilled warrior with a penchant for battle? We’ve seen others like that.”
Sylvanas clicked her tongue, looking up with a grim expression. “That’s what I thought too. But then I caught a glimpse of the spirit within her—Alexandros Mograine. And Arthas… Arthas was surprised by it. She unleashed something far beyond a normal paladin’s strength in that cursed place. We barely escaped, and when it was over, she held onto me, saying, ‘Sylvanas, I saw my mother. We have to get her out of there.’” Sylvanas shook her head, her tone shifting to one of disgust. “She had no memory of the destruction she caused. The Argent Crusade forbade her from entering Icecrown Citadel afterward. A waste, really.”
Nathanos shifted uncomfortably, sensing the weight of her words. “Sounds like you two were close.”
Sylvanas sighed, her gaze hardening. “We both suffered under this curse—unable to feel joy or lust, but also spared from shame or regret. Yet, I still threw myself from Icecrown Citadel." Her voice wavered just slightly, revealing a hint of vulnerability. "She went through the same horrors as me, but her suffering was raw, unfiltered. She gained weight, lost herself, and I—” Sylvanas trailed off, looking down, as though ashamed. “I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I saw in her what I feared I could have become.”
Nathanos asked softly, “How so?”
Sylvanas turned away, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if I’d just given Arthas the key?”
The two stood in silence, the weight of that alternate history sinking in, leaving an unspoken understanding between them.
Sylvanas broke the silence, her voice dripping with frustration. “If it wasn’t for that fool Garrosh Hellscream, Tirion Fordring might’ve handed her the Ashbringer. But even I knew what that would’ve done to the balance of power between the Horde and the Alliance. If it were anyone else, I would have killed them on the spot. But with her? I’m not sure if I even can.”
Nathanos grunted, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You’re the Banshee Queen. I’ve seen you control all kinds of undead. Isn’t there some way to tear that spirit from her?”
Sylvanas paused, eyes narrowing as if a sudden thought struck her. A wicked smile slowly crept onto her lips. “Not yet. But I will find one,” she said as she rose from her seat, approaching Nathanos with a rare glint of amusement in her eyes. She leaned down, gently gripping his chin. “This is why you’re my champion, Nathanos. You’re so… useful.”
Nathanos lowered his head, his loyalty unshaken. “I live to serve you, my queen.”
She crossed her arms, her mind already calculating. “For now, watch her closely. If she so much as flinches in her loyalty, we’ll hold her and deal with her once we’ve figured out how.” She laughed to herself, the sound low and sinister. “I do rather like the idea of controlling that power myself.”
Love or Loyalty
The cave on Spirit’s Rise was dimly lit, its walls lined with ancient carvings and flickering torches. The steady drip of water from the stone above echoed softly, creating an atmosphere of heavy silence. Baine led Perfectia deeper into the heart of the cave, where a simple holding cell awaited. The barred enclosure, though humble, carried the weight of tradition—it was a place of reflection, meant for prisoners to contemplate their choices rather than rot in captivity.
Baine unlocked the cell, his massive form blocking the faint light from outside. He gestured for her to step inside, his expression conflicted. Perfectia, her shoulders tense, complied without a word. She crossed the threshold, her steps echoing softly in the hollow chamber, and Baine gently closed the gate behind her.
He lingered there for a moment, his hand resting on the iron bars, watching her. She paced the small space, her mind clearly racing, the weight of her situation pressing down on her. The flicker of torchlight cast long shadows across her face, deepening the lines of frustration and sorrow etched into her features.
“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Baine said softly, his deep voice thick with sincerity. His gaze lingered on her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sylvanas may be Warchief, but I never wanted to see another trial like Garrosh’s.”
Perfectia exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was there, you know. What you did—it was an admirable show of mercy and patience. Not a flicker of doubt crossed my mind; I wanted to end that monster’s life right then and there.”
Baine nodded, a deep sadness filling his eyes. “I know that feeling all too well. After my father’s death, I had every intention of killing Magatha Grimtotem for her betrayal. My people had to hold me back.” His voice softened, reflecting on the past. “But in the end, I learned that mercy isn’t always for naught. She eventually became a champion of the Earthen Ring. I’ve felt recently that she’s passed on, and I can only hope it was for a better cause.”
Perfectia’s gaze shifted, her voice suddenly quieter. “You’re friends with Jaina Proudmoore, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Baine replied, watching her closely.
“And Anduin?”
“Yes.” He studied her more intently now, sensing the weight of her words.
“And she trusts you more than she trusts me, doesn’t she?”
Baine sighed, choosing his words carefully. “My vision for the preservation and restoration of the land hasn’t been completely disregarded. I didn’t agree to the burning of Teldrassil, but I accepted that deforestation in Ashenvale would continue. Yet… even I was surprised. Three-fourths of the loggers have been removed, and Night Elves from the Cenarion Circle are being allowed to settle there, as long as they stay out of the war effort. It’s why I’ve remained loyal to her, for now.”
Perfectia’s eyes darkened, her voice bitter. “And yet, you weren’t allowed on the battlefield.”
A slow realization washed over Baine. He inhaled sharply. “Now I understand. Nathanos… he kept me out for a reason.” His tone shifted, becoming more serious. “How many lives did you take on that battlefield?”
“Forty-two,” she answered quickly, her voice hollow. “Some might’ve been unconscious when I left them, but the blight finished the job. Most were already in the Undercity when it happened.”
Baine’s voice grew quieter, more pointed. “Are you still in love with Anduin? And yet, you remain loyal to Sylvanas?”
Perfectia turned her head, her expression tight with conflict. “Yes.”
A thick silence settled between them, the weight of the unspoken tension heavy in the air. Baine, his brow furrowed with both concern and curiosity, finally broke it, his voice low but steady. “So… which is more important, I wonder—love or loyalty?”
Perfectia closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath as if the question had cut deeper than any blade. “I… I don’t know. It feels like I’ve just traded one prison for another.” She paused, her voice tinged with bitterness. “I was in the Stormwind Stockades not long ago, you know.”
Baine’s eyes softened, but his tone carried a hint of dry humor. “Are the living accommodations to your liking?”
She gave a half-shrug, her lips twitching into a faint, sardonic smile. “No one’s threatened to torture me yet, so… could be better.”
Baine rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “Prison sentences imply that there’s a chance to leave—or at the very least, avoid execution. I don’t think torture is necessary.”
Perfectia leaned back against the cool stone of the cell, her smirk widening. “Fine, then. Only one star. Hopefully, your legal advice is better than the continental breakfast around here.”
Baine sighed, shaking his head. “Perfectia, please. Try to be serious. Start from the beginning—I don’t think we’ll have a magic hourglass to rewind time and present evidence.”
She chuckled, her tone softening but never missing a beat. “Alright, alright. You want the whole story? Fine. It all started with the burning of Teldrassil. You know, the screams, the fire, the complete destruction of an ancient tree. Real ‘light up the holidays’ energy.”
She paused, shaking her head, before adding with a dry smile, “I mean, sure, setting someone on fire technically keeps them warm all year round, but Sylvanas could’ve just handed out bad Christmas sweaters. Less painful. Although… marginally.”
Baine rolled his eyes but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
Perfectia’s grin widened, leaning into the tale she was clearly exaggerating. “Alright, Baine, you want the details on my little vacation in the Stockades? Simple. I was minding my own business, charming and brilliant as always, and then—bam! They threw me in there. I mean, if I’d known being irresistible was a crime, I would’ve dialed it down ages ago.”
Baine arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Anduin risked coming to see you while you were imprisoned… for what, exactly?”
“Oh, that?” Perfectia shrugged with feigned nonchalance, her grin not faltering for a second. “Simple: he took one look at me, saw the real me, and was swept right off his righteous feet. Couldn’t resist my charms. Honestly, the boy was a goner from day one.”
Baine’s expression was flat, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Perfectia, this isn’t going to work if you keep lying and deflecting with jokes. And I know you’re capable of taking this seriously.”
Perfectia feigned offense, pressing a hand to her heart. “Baine, are you saying you don’t think I’m irresistible? I’m offended.”
He rolled his eyes. “What I’m saying is, you need to start being honest. Lawyers, including me in this situation, have confidentiality with their clients. It’s called attorney-client privilege. Whatever you tell me stays between us. It’s meant so clients can talk openly without fear, even if it’s… complicated.”
She paused, the humor slipping from her expression just slightly as she absorbed his words. “So, no matter what I say, you won’t go running to Sylvanas?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “This isn’t about amusing stories or winning anyone over with charm. This is about giving me the truth so I can give you real advice. And if you don’t trust me, you’ll only make things harder for yourself.”
Perfectia’s smirk softened as she leaned back, her gaze distant. “Fine… you want the truth? I went to Vereesa Windrunner, asked about joining the Alliance. We became friends when I was spying on the Silver Covenant. She vouched for me, took a risk. I don’t want her paying for it because of my choices.”
Baine looked at her skeptically. “If you were a spy, why would she help you?”
Her eyes flickered with a memory, one that seemed to weigh heavily on her. “Remember when Garrosh took the Divine Bell through Dalaran?”
Baine’s expression grew somber. “Yes.”
“Well, the story’s a bit more twisted than Aethas Sunreaver just ‘turning a blind eye.’ The Silver Covenant actually helped Garrosh move that Bell. Vereesa was involved. She told me to keep quiet, and later, Aethas begged her to take the blame off the Silver Covenant.”
Baine frowned, recalling the trial. “But why? He could have saved so many of his own people when Jaina purged the city, just by telling the truth.”
Perfectia’s voice dropped, her tone hollow. “That’s where I came in.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the ground as if reliving the memory. “Garrosh… he crippled me. Right there in Dalaran, in front of Aethas. He didn’t intervene. He just… watched.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I think he wanted to help, but the shame paralyzed him. He’d rather take the blame, bear the weight of Jaina’s wrath, than admit what he let happen.”
Baine’s face remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. “That’s… a lot to carry, Perfectia. And you’re really willing to go to trial with all this weighing on you?”
Perfectia nodded slowly. “Yes. And you’d better keep this under wraps. Vereesa helped me—she trained me, disguised me, got me into the Alliance. You made me break a promise, but she shouldn’t have to suffer for my mistakes. I wanted to protect her… to stop Sylvanas from becoming another Garrosh.”
Baine’s gaze sharpened. “You could have stopped her in Lordaeron. Knocked her off one of those towers she likes to brood on. She could’ve been captured, and Lordaeron might have been saved.”
Perfectia’s gaze hardened. “Thought about it yourself, haven’t you?”
He exhaled. “I won’t lie. It crossed my mind.”
Perfectia’s voice dropped. “Anduin broke up with me… and I lashed out, out of jealousy. Attacked Jaina Proudmoore’s ship the moment she arrived. Foolish. I did warn you on the ship.”
Baine’s brow furrowed. “So… what, you and Anduin were together for a day or two?”
Perfectia sighed, her expression softening as she met his gaze. “We only kissed once—through prison bars. I confessed how I felt, and he… he felt the same. But others were there, and next thing I know, I’m in the Stockades.”
Baine’s arms crossed as the pieces fell into place. “I see.” He looked away, pensive.
Perfectia shifted uncomfortably in the silence. “That’s it?”
He glanced back at her thoughtfully. “I’m thinking about how to defend you. Execution seems unlikely, but strict surveillance… maybe probation. Would you be willing?”
She gave a resigned nod. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Happened my third day in the Horde, actually.”
Baine cracked a small smile. “Then you know what to expect.”
“More than I’d like to admit.”
He nodded. “Alright, I’ll get you some paper for a formal statement. Let’s start there.”
Perfectia spent the next few hours writing out her report in painstaking detail, each word carefully chosen to capture the events surrounding her alliance with Vereesa, her connection to Sylvanas, and the fateful encounters with Anduin. Despite Baine’s warnings, she fought the urge to lace the report with her usual humor, knowing this was no time for sarcasm.
For three days, she waited in her cell, her mind cycling through strategies, memories, and the all-too-familiar pangs of regret. The quiet was stifling, but she focused on her purpose, even as apprehension gnawed at her. Finally, on the third day, Baine appeared, his expression serious.
The time had finally come. Baine led Perfectia to the Valley of Strength, where the Horde leaders and allies were assembled, waiting for her trial. As they walked, he turned to her, his voice both steady and urgent.
“Do you plan on speaking in your own defense?”
Perfectia met his gaze and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Baine paused, concern shadowing his expression. "Please, Perfectia. No jokes. This is as serious as it gets, and your life depends on keeping your composure.”
She smirked, though it was tinged with nerves. “I’ll keep it in check. No jokes. Promise… Buuuut two guys walk into a tavern—"
“Seriously?” Baine glared, clearly unamused.
Perfectia laughed, holding up her hands. “Alright, alright, that was the last one. I swear.”
Baine exhaled, calming himself. “Good. If you feel like talking, lean on legal terms—throw around things like ‘ex parte’ and ‘post hoc ergo propter hoc.’ That might bore them into a settlement. But remember, they’re likely to ask about Anduin, so you might want to leave out any mention of… lingering feelings.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Just don’t be in love for the next two hours. He broke up with you, and if I recall correctly, he hit you.”
Perfectia sighed. “Fine.”
“And please, no dramatic poetry. Keep it natural. If someone says something you don’t like, I’ll yell ‘Objection!’ and we’ll improvise from there.” He let out a long sigh, giving her a final, imploring look. “Remember, Perfectia, the less you say, the better. That courtroom isn’t your stage.”
They continued forward, each step a reminder of what was at stake and the gravity of what lay ahead.
Perfectia took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders as they stepped into the Valley of Strength. The gathered crowd parted, and the hush that fell over them was almost louder than the jeers and whispers she’d been expecting. She felt the weight of a hundred piercing stares from Horde leaders, advisors, and warriors—faces full of judgment, suspicion, and, in some cases, disappointment.
Sylvanas stood at the head of the assembly, her expression unreadable, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she watched Perfectia approach. Lor’themar, Geya’rah, and the others flanked her, their faces as guarded as Sylvanas’s.
Baine gave her a reassuring nod and stepped forward, addressing the gathered leaders. “Honored allies and leaders of the Horde, today we stand to judge the actions of Perfectia, and in doing so, to consider whether she remains one of us or whether her actions have broken the very fabric of our loyalty.”
The crowd murmured in response, a wave of mixed reactions spreading through them.
Sylvanas’s gaze settled heavily on Perfectia. “Perfectia, you stand accused of divided loyalty—of bearing allegiance to our enemies even while swearing fealty to the Horde. Do you deny this?”
Perfectia held her head high, looking directly into Sylvanas’s eyes. “No, Warchief,” she began, her voice steady. “I don’t deny that my loyalties have been tested. There are times I’ve questioned where my loyalty should truly lie.”
Sylvanas’s eyes flashed, her tone biting. “And what answer did you come to?”
Perfectia hesitated, feeling Baine’s silent plea to tread carefully. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I swore my loyalty to the Horde,” she said, her voice steady. “But yes, I’ll admit… there were times I acted on personal motives. Maybe even stupid motives. But I swear—I did it with the intent to protect us, not weaken us.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, skeptical and charged. Sylvanas stepped forward, her voice sharp as a blade. “Personal motives?” She narrowed her eyes. “Be specific.”
Perfectia let out a dry chuckle, unable to resist. “I don’t know… maybe something to do with the whole, ‘genocide as a brand strategy’ thing you’ve got going. Like revenge was some limited-time product you wanted to launch?”
Baine groaned, his palm pressed firmly against his face. “Why, Perfectia?” he muttered, exasperated.
Her quip, though, managed to coax a few strained laughs from the crowd, each one uneasy under Sylvanas’s steely gaze. Sylvanas’s forced smile barely masked the fury in her eyes. She stepped closer to Perfectia, her voice as cold as ice. “I couldn’t have done it without you, child. And Malfurion… the way you kicked him in the groin, hearing him yelp like a wounded cub?” She paused, letting the moment hang, her words biting. “Now, that was funny.”
A ripple of awkward laughter floated through the crowd, but the tension thickened, unyielding.
Sylvanas’s gaze hardened as she addressed the crowd, her voice steady and cold. “Whatever Delaryn Summermoon might have believed, occupying Teldrassil was never a simple conquest. Reinforcements could have poured in through Alliance portals, drawing out a siege with no guarantee of our victory. And for what? The so-called riches of Teldrassil?” She scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “All that would have come at the cost of countless lives, and perhaps even the Horde’s own.”
Sylvanas’s gaze cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. “Enough about me. This isn’t my trial, Perfectia. You claim loyalty to the Horde, yet if you’re entangled with the King of Stormwind, it casts a shadow over every word you say. So, tell the truth. Here and now—for the record. Are you in love with Anduin Wrynn?”
Perfectia faltered, emotions playing across her face before she answered, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. “I… I wish I could say no.” She looked directly at Sylvanas, her voice breaking. “But yes. I am.” She took a steadying breath, her gaze sweeping the room, landing again on the Banshee Queen. “I thought… maybe if I stayed close, if I fought beside you, you’d find your way back from the edge. But I was wrong.”
She lifted her chin, her resolve hardening as she met Sylvanas’s eyes, defiance sparking behind the vulnerability. “But don’t doubt my loyalty. I’ve fought, bled, killed, and sacrificed for the Horde, more than most here will ever understand. If any of you aren’t prepared to do the same right here and now—or even tomorrow—then shut the hell up and let me do it.”
The tense silence of the trial was shattered as Sylvanas, eyes gleaming with cold resolve, stepped forward and without a hint of warning, drove her boot directly into Perfectia’s face. The force sent Perfectia sprawling, a sharp crack resounding as one of her molars flew from her mouth, skittering across the floor. Perfectia lifted her head, dazed, blood dripping from her split lip as she looked up at Sylvanas, utterly bewildered.
“W-What was that for?” she managed, her voice thick with disbelief.
Sylvanas loomed over her, her face a mask of disdain. “So, you expect me to take your loyalty at face value?” She spat, each word laced with contempt. “That’s nice—but that’s not how this works. Your betrayal has already removed you from the Horde.” Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper as she leaned in closer. “But, there’s a way back. We can reinduct you… the old-fashioned way.”
Perfectia’s expression turned wary, blood still trickling from her mouth. “And that is?”
“The same way you’d join any gang…” Sylvanas straightened, cracking her knuckles. “Initiation.”
Without further warning, Sylvanas launched herself at Perfectia. Her fists flew, each strike calculated and ruthless, a brutal testament to her wrath. Perfectia staggered, stumbling with each blow, her vision blurring as pain blossomed in waves across her body. She could feel her ribs bruising, her face swelling, but through the haze, she gritted her teeth, refusing to fall.
The assembled leaders watched in tense silence, none daring to interfere. This was Sylvanas’s show—a merciless test, an ultimatum in blood. And as the beating continued, Perfectia knew one thing for sure: this was no mere punishment. This was a proving ground, a brutal reckoning of loyalty.
Sylvanas finally stepped back, breathing heavily, her fists still clenched. Perfectia, barely holding herself upright, looked up through swollen eyes, defiant even as she swayed.
Sylvanas paced back and forth before Perfectia, her gaze dark and relentless. Then, with a chilling smirk, she crouched to Perfectia’s level, her voice as cold as death itself.
“You look pathetic,” Sylvanas sneered. “Tell me, do you think loyalty is a warm word whispered in the dark? Do you think saying it makes it true? Real loyalty doesn’t hesitate. Real loyalty doesn’t falter when faced with pain, blood, or death.”
Perfectia’s lip curled as she struggled to hold herself upright, her breath ragged. Sylvanas sneered down at her, leaning close. “So, are you loyal?” she demanded. “Or are you going to look at me with those eyes that beg for pity?”
Before Perfectia could respond, Sylvanas drove her fist into her ribs, nearly taking her off her feet. “You think you can call yourself Horde without sacrifice?” She punctuated her words with another vicious blow, her voice low and unforgiving, each word sharp as a blade. “You think you can claim loyalty without facing the agony of it?”
The blows kept coming, and with every brutal strike, Perfectia could feel the weight of Sylvanas’s fury—and her twisted respect. It was as if Sylvanas were shaping her, beating out every doubt, every question, as if proving her loyalty through blood was the only way.
Sylvanas finally stopped, her hand still clenched as she breathed heavily, looking down at Perfectia with something darkly triumphant in her gaze. “You want to be Horde? Then prove it,” she snarled, her voice echoing with the bitterness of years of hard-won loyalty.
“You don’t get to just say you’re loyal,” Sylvanas hissed with a sinister smile. “You have to earn it. Or you’re just another weakling who won’t survive.”
Sylvanas looked around at the gathered leaders, her eyes fierce and unyielding. “Pretty words mean nothing in the Horde,” she began, her voice a low growl that resonated through the assembly. “The only things that bind us are action, honesty, and unbreakable loyalty. If your allegiance can be bought with soft promises or swayed by empty comforts, you’re nothing but a weak link waiting to snap.”
She gestured sharply toward Perfectia, lying battered but unbroken on the ground. “Remember this,” she declared, her tone icy. “What you just witnessed was me showing mercy to a traitor. That’s what mercy looks like in the Horde.” Her gaze swept over the crowd, daring anyone to question her.
One by one, those gathered nodded, acknowledging her authority, reaffirming their silent vow to follow a leader whose loyalty ran deeper than words.
Finally, Sylvanas tossed a worn towel at Perfectia’s feet. “Clean yourself up,” she said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “Welcome back to the Horde.”
As Perfectia reached for the towel, wincing as she moved, she met Sylvanas’s gaze. She understood: this wasn’t forgiveness. It was survival, earned and paid for in blood. And she would wear it with pride.
Love is Tragedy
I can’t seem to bring myself to write about the battle at Lordaeron—there was so much I missed. I want this story to be good. My story. It may not be perfect, but it’s mine. Sometimes, to reach your happily ever after, you need to fall. You need to crawl through that dark pit of despair, searching for even the faintest light of hope.
I close my eyes, and I can still hear my mother’s soft whisper by my bedside, telling me how I got my name. Her perfect little Dawnlight. There were so many things I was unsure of, and yet, somehow, I survived. I should feel thankful, but I can’t ignore the bruises left behind. Anduin tried to kill me—twice. But can I even play the victim? I tried to kill Jaina, nearly killed Alleria… I’m not blameless, not by any means. Sylvanas knows now too. She knows I want Anduin. And I would have taken him, kingdom or no kingdom. Now? It seems like my only option is without.
The weight of this choice hangs over me. Can I really make him leave everything behind? Could I ever change the minds of his advisors? This feels bigger than anything I’ve ever taken on before, and I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll fail. I gave up on freeing the slaves in Tempest Keep because the task seemed too big—what if I fail again?
But when I look into the distance and see Anduin, I know I can’t give up. I have to keep fighting, harder than I’ve ever fought. Even if it takes until Anduin is an old man, I’ll keep trying until he’s mine again. I will feel his lips on mine, his hands, his eyes—those soft, deep eyes—once more. I just wish I could think of a plan. Maybe Vereesa would know what to do. I could use her advice right now.
I’ve always liked the sound of the name Melfina—there’s something soothing about it. It has the word “elf” in it, and my own name, Perfectia… feels so far from the truth. Am I perfect? I was to my mother, or at least I hope I was. I think back to her, to those dreams I’ve been having. Are they really her? Or are they just the voices of my own insecurities whispering to me?
When I was born, they dipped me in the Sunwell, as all newborns are, to see if I had magic. My mother hadn’t named me yet. She was afraid—my father had no magic in him at all. But when I was immersed in the waters, and my eyes glowed, she finally breathed and said I was perfect. From then on, that’s all she called me: her perfect little dawnlight.
She was a good mother. And Perfectia is a good name… I just don’t know if I can live up to it.
Author Note: When I wrote this there was no lore written that the relationship between Moira and Dagran was good or bad. Just that she was kidnapped, so I assumed ‘bad’.
Anduin sat across from Moira Thaurissan in the Stormwind Emissary, her expression sharp as always. “So, can you tell me anything about Perfectia Dawnlight?” Anduin asked, eager for answers.
“Aye, she was one of the first female blood elf Highlords of the paladin order,” Moira began, folding her arms, “but she quit not even two weeks into the job.”
“And the drinking problem?” Genn interjected, skeptical.
Moira rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Lies. I’ve drank with her. She’s no lightweight, but she’s not the hopeless drunk the rumors make her out to be. Far from it.”
Anduin nodded, somewhat relieved, though the question still burned. “Why did she leave the Paladin Order then?”
“Other than the awful nicknames—‘The Alcoholic Highlord,’ for one?” Moira grimaced. “The weight jokes, bad Orcish and Common insults. They threw everything at her.”
Genn and Anduin exchanged knowing glances. “We both know what it’s like to have our leadership constantly questioned or mocked,” Genn remarked.
Anduin nodded in agreement. “I’ve had my fair share of ‘boy king’ and ‘little lion’ taunts.”
Moira sighed. “Perfectia’s a strong one, but she’s not as thick-skinned as you might think. She’d laugh it off, sure, but when the insults came from all sides… It wore her down. Body-shaming didn’t help either.”
There was a pause, and then Moira added, “But there’s more to the story. What most don’t know is… we kidnapped her.”
Anduin and Genn both stiffened. “Why?” Anduin asked.
Moira took a deep breath, leaning back slightly. “Ever since I returned to Ironforge, I’ve been working with my father to recreate the Ashbringer. We got close, but the key—whatever made that blade float just above the metal, the special crystal—was impossible to replicate. We tried everything, even using the same spells my father used, but nothing worked. When he turned his focus to communing with the Heart of Azeroth, I was left to figure it out on my own.”
Moira’s eyes darkened with memory as she answered Anduin’s question. “It wasn’t just about another Ashbringer. It was about proving something—to my father, to myself, and to the entire legacy of the Dark Iron clan. The Ashbringer was more than a weapon, it was a symbol of hope, and one my father had mastered. When I couldn’t replicate it, it became an obsession. I spent years researching, testing, and failing.
“Every time I failed to get that crystal to float, it was like watching my people slip through my fingers again—losing our place, our power. My father had always been one for forging new paths, and I thought this would be my moment, my redemption for everything I’ve been through.”
She paused, looking down. "That’s when I had the dream. A’dal—the Naaru—showed me where to find the missing piece. It wasn’t just a crystal, it was about the right connection, something more than metal and spells. When I learned Perfectia had the corrupted Ashbringer, I knew that the key to fixing it was in her hands.”
She laughed bitterly, “So, I had her kidnapped. I wasn’t going to lose the chance again."
Anduin exchanged a glance with Genn. “You took a great risk, Moira.”
“I had no choice,” she said softly, “the Ashbringer’s song was silent until her hand touched it. I needed that connection—her bond with the blade. But when I saw how she carried it… there was more at play. It wasn’t just a weapon for her. It was part of her.”
Moira nodded gravely. “Aye, but none of them were like the original. My father’s Ashbringer sang to Alexandros Mograine… and then it sang to Perfectia Dawnlight. It connected to them in ways I couldn’t replicate. But there was something else. The corrupted one—she had it. She had both versions of the Ashbringer in her hands. And I needed it."
A smirk curled her lips. "So, I told my men to kidnap her. She’d already quit the Paladin Order, and no one seemed to care about the fake blades we were putting in adventurers’ hands. But I needed the corrupted one she had. Imagine it, Anduin—an Ashbringer in every warrior, death knight, or hunter’s hands. We were just breaking even, but with hers… we could’ve changed the war.”
Moira lifted her eyebrows, recalling the past. “But when we got her on the ship, she showed us the truth. That blade didn’t come from any forge—it came from her.” She laughed bitterly. “Pirates attacked us, and she helped us escape. Then she stayed with them. ‘Closest thing to peace,’ she said. Horde and Alliance working together, no pointless war.”
Anduin’s lips curled into a soft, reminiscent smile. “That sounds like her.”
Moira’s gaze softened. “She thought the demons were corrupting her… and, in turn, the Ashbringer. She feared what she’d become, and she could’ve been right. The Legion tried for weeks to twist it back, but they couldn’t. I think she kept it pure. There’s a link between her and the sword—a connection that Tirion Fordring and the others must have known.”
“How?” Anduin asked.
“Because my father built the sword. It was meant for Alexandros Mograine, and during its forging, pieces of his soul became embedded within it, severing him from the Light. That’s why no other Ashbringers sing the same way.”
Anduin’s expression tightened as realization dawned. “That piece of Alexandros… is inside her.”
Moira tilted her head. “How do you know that?”
Anduin paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I, we…” He met her gaze. “I’m in love with her.”
Moira smiled warmly, “I’m happy for you,” she said, a hand on the back of her head as she reflected. “Normally, I wouldn’t be thrilled about you being with an elf, but Perfectia’s different. She’s got some proper strength in her, not like those malnourished elves we see so often. She’s sturdy—built to last, you know?” Moira gave a knowing look. “Good on you for going practical, choosing someone who’s more than just grace. She can hold her own.”
Anduin chuckled lightly.
“Where is she now?” Moira asked.
Anduin’s smile faltered. “I was hoping you could tell us.”
Moira shrugged. “The Paladin Order at Light’s Hope might know something. She mentioned Olisarra the Kind a few times. But… if you love her, why isn’t she here? Why aren’t you married?”
Anduin looked away. “She’s a blood elf. I’m human.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re keeping her a secret? You’ve got a blood elf in MI:7, Valeera, right? What’s stopping you?”
Before Anduin could respond, Genn Graymane stepped in, his expression grim. “There were… complications.”
“I met her on the battlefield when we invaded Lordaeron,” Anduin spoke truthfully, his voice weighed down by regret. “I… I tried to kill her.”
Moira’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Why?”
Anduin exhaled heavily, shaking his head as the memories flashed through him. “She tried to kill Jaina. I thought she was working with Sylvanas, that this whole thing was a setup to lure me away from my kingdom. She said she wanted me to run away with her.”
Moira stared at him, her shock turning into disbelief. “And that… that was your reason for trying to kill her?” Her voice grew sharper. “Because she wanted to get you away from that cursed battle—a battle that, mind you, got us nothing in return?”
Genn looked uncomfortable, casting his eyes away. “I stopped him,” Genn added quietly. “Then she ran back to the Horde.”
Moira shot him a grateful look before turning back to Anduin. “So, what happened after that?”
“Jaina cleared the Blight that was choking our ranks. We advanced forward,” Anduin answered, his voice quieter.
Moira folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. “Did you think you’d meet her on the battlefield?”
Anduin hesitated, then nodded. “It was… possible.”
“And when you did? Did you try to reach out to her?” Moira asked, her voice hard.
Anduin shook his head, regret dripping from his words. “No.”
“Did she attack you?” Moira pressed.
“She didn’t even have a weapon,” Anduin admitted, running a hand over his face. “She was shaking her head at me, trying to stop me. But then Alleria and her void elves showed up. I think that’s when Perfectia… found her motivation to fight.”
Moira’s expression darkened as she pieced things together. “So, you tried to kill her again?”
Anduin lowered his gaze. “Yes.”
Moira, visibly stunned, took a deep breath. “Because of something you assumed…” She raised her voice, the edge of anger seeping in. “Anduin, if you knew anything about her—”
She paused, her voice faltering as emotion began to creep in. “We thought we wouldn’t need Illidan because we had her,” Moira confessed, her tone softening with memories. “She was… my friend. Perfectia never fought for herself. She used every ounce of her power to protect the innocent, to right wrongs. She was funny, you know? Even when the situation was dire, she’d crack some line—” Moira let out a breathy laugh through the tension. “‘If had the power to heal emotional wounds instead physical ones, I’d take it.,’ she’d say.”
Tears welled up in Moira’s eyes, her voice shaking as she tried to keep steady. “And you… tried to kill her. Twice?”
Anduin tried to argue his case, “She was going to kill Alleria, she had her pinned down and she was slamming her head against the floor.”
“Did she headbutt her?” She asked.
He thought back and tried to remember, “No.”
Moria remembered back on how Perfectia fought, “She wasn’t trying to kill her. If she headbutted her she would have.” She laughed slightly, “That woman lied to you during the emissary meeting,” She thought back, “I was in that meeting. Now that I think about it I should have recognized her, you didn’t even try to restrain her, did you? You just slammed your sword into her as hard as you could, right?”
Anduin looked downward and nodded. “If the spirit of Alexandros Morgaine didn’t intervene,” he shrugged, “I think I would have killed her.”
Moria looked at Anduin with wide eyes and nodded, “He was a good man, my father said he is what all Paladins should inspire too and even in the afterlife. You don’t deserve to hold a candle to him and you definitely don’t deserve her.”
Anduin looked at her in shock and shook his head, “I’ll do anything to get her back, I’m so sorry for what I did, I would never do that again.”
Moria grunted out a laugh, “Yeah, that sounds familiar. Do you know who Dagran Thaurissan was?”
Anduin shrugged and shook her head.
“He kidnapped me and forced me to be his wife. Well, I agreed, Stockholm Syndrome you understand, but he gave me everything I wanted, and he would break anyone that even looked at me cross-eyed. It felt like power and I liked it, but I couldn’t leave. I became pregnant with his child, and that does something to you. You stop being so selfish, you start thinking about what kind of life you want to bring your child into. So, when I was against summoning a monster like Ragnaros the Firelord, he beat me to the point where I lost my child.” She thought back and was disturbed by the thought, “It was still alive when it came out, but there was no magic I could use to save it.” Moria looked at Anduin, “He said the same thing you just said, but it wasn’t the last time. I said, ‘I would never lay with you again.’ And it got so much worse from there. He would drug me, force himself on me, and he would hit me in front of everyone if I didn’t toe to line like one of his soldiers. I had another child that wasn’t beaten out of me, he named him after himself. I’ve always called him Junior, because I hate saying his name out loud.” Moria laughed slightly, “Thank the Light he died by a bunch of strangers trying to loot his treasures.”
Genn shook his head, “That isn’t Anduin, he’s a good king.”
Moria laughed slightly and nodded, “Like his father, you know I heard he used to have an issue with anger. I’m sure if your mother was alive long enough, that she would have gotten to see him at his worst.”
Moria laughed slightly and nodded, “Like his father, you know I heard he used to have an issue with anger. I’m sure if your mother was alive long enough, that she would have gotten to see him at his worst.”
Anduin shook his head, a spark of anger flaring. “Don’t.” His voice was low, a warning. “Don’t you dare.”
Moria smirked but didn’t let up. “Do you know that Katrana Prestor used to change your diapers, Anduin? A dragon bent on the world’s destruction, and your father left her to look after you. Thank the Light there was always a war. If he ever had to truly parent, he’d have failed miserably.”
“Shut up!” Anduin snapped, his temper finally breaking as he pulled his sword. He swung it toward her, but Moria dodged with practiced ease. With a swift kick, she knocked his legs out from under him, sending him face-first into the floor. Her club hovered an inch from his head before she relented.
“You’re a monster, Anduin Wrynn.” Her voice was cold, but the club returned to her belt. “But you’re still my king.”
She backed away, looking him over with disgust. “You have my Dark Irons. And I’ll tell you more about Perfectia Dawnlight—but only because I want you to know how dangerous she is. Don’t think for a second I’m helping you get her back.”
Moria detailed what she knew of Perfectia’s connection to the Ashbringer—her power, her resilience, and the dark history behind it. Anduin took in every word, his guilt growing with each revelation.
“So, anything else?” Moria asked, crossing her arms.
Anduin hesitated before asking, “Would you say she’s… melodramatic?”
Moria scoffed. “Quick to anger? Absolutely. She’d cry over anything—or start a fight in the next breath. And the hugging! If I had a gold piece for every time she picked me up like a doll, I’d be rich. But get her a drink, and she’ll spill every last tragic story in her head without shedding a tear.”
Genn raised an eyebrow. “And you tolerated that?”
Moria smirked. “We’re all flawed. I wasn’t about to throw stones when I knew what we had—” She glanced between Anduin and Genn, “—wasn’t their business.”
She nodded curtly and left the room.
Genn turned to Anduin, seeing the turmoil on his face. “So, what happens now?”
Anduin looked down at the compass in his hand, the picture of Perfectia staring back at him. He lifted it as if to throw it away, but stopped short. “I always thought my will could break anything—walls, enemies, even fate.” He exhaled heavily. “But it breaks the things I care about, too.”
He lowered the compass, staring at his father’s sword. “She once said to me, ‘Love is tragedy,’ and maybe she was right. I keep hurting her, yet I still want her. But I can’t… I won’t hurt her again.” His voice wavered as he looked at Genn. “I need to figure out how to stop loving her.”
As the blade caught the light, he murmured, “I used to wonder why my father never remarried. But now I understand. He lived his life by the sword—and with that, you lose too much. You can’t hold on to what you’re afraid to lose.”
Anduin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like I’m always on the verge of breaking something or someone,” he murmured. “I keep pushing people away—my father did that too. It’s as if I’m cursed to follow in his footsteps.”
Genn tilted his head. “But he had you. You were his light, his reason.”
“Maybe,” Anduin said softly. “But even when I was a child, Bolvar felt more like a father than my own. My father was always distant—duty came first, always. I don’t think he ever knew how to be there for me.”
“And Onyxia?” Genn asked.
Anduin huffed out a laugh. “Like a surrogate mother in disguise, but what does that say about me? I grew up surrounded by people pretending to care. How am I supposed to know what a real family is supposed to feel like? Maybe I’m not meant to be with anyone. Maybe it’s safer that way.”
Genn narrowed his eyes. “You’re being too hard on yourself, boy.”
Anduin turned, the shadow in his eyes deepening. “Tell me something, Genn. How would you feel if I married Tess? Could you trust me? After everything I’ve done, could you stand there and say you wouldn’t worry I’d hurt her in a moment of anger or weakness?”
Genn’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts flaring. He growled softly before exhaling, lowering his gaze. “I trust you, but… no. Not after today. Not after seeing what’s inside you. I couldn’t lie and say it wouldn’t cross my mind.”
Anduin nodded sadly. “Exactly. You’d have a war on your hands if anything ever happened to her. And that’s why I can’t be with Perfectia. I can’t risk hurting her—not again. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me.”
He looked down at his father’s sword, the weight of legacy heavy in his hands. “I thought love would be simpler than this. But Perfectia was right—love is tragedy. And I keep hurting her… but I won’t do it again. I’ll tell her I can’t be with her.”