I thought back to Sylvanas’s ruthlessness, comparing it to the likes of High Overlord Saurfang or even Garrosh Hellscream. They had their people’s love, even when they faltered. Sylvanas… was feared, even among her own Forsaken. “But why is it so important that people fear her? Isn’t it better for a leader to be loved by the people they lead?”
Nathanos let out a dry laugh. “If she were a politician, or a queen trying to keep a crown, sure. But this isn’t government—it’s war. Sylvanas doesn’t care about being loved. Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron might take over the Eastern Kingdoms, Baine Bloodhoof might take over Kalimdor… the title of ‘Warchief’ might not even matter for a while.”
I stared off into the distance, remembering that Sylvanas hadn’t even wanted the position in the first place. Even when she wielded power, she was out there fighting on the frontlines, hunting enemies. “I still don’t get it. Why does she need to be feared to that extent?”
“The world isn’t wrong to fear Sylvanas for her potential to raise them as undead,” Nathanos explained, “but she’s not wrong for using that fear to prevent the genocide of her people. That’s the cruel irony. The Alliance fights for freedom and justice, yet they want Sylvanas dead because of what she represents—a threat to their ideals, sure, but also a survivor willing to do anything to protect her people.”
He paused, his gaze distant, voice thoughtful. “Sylvanas has become what the world needed her to be: malevolent, destructive, someone capable of fighting oppression with the same ruthlessness that’s been forced upon her. And in war, there’s no pure evil, no clear hero. That idea—winners being the most honorable fighters? It’s a fantasy for children. In reality, the end is always the same.”
Nathanos looked away, lost in his own memories. “An ‘honorable’ fight, even on both sides, just means more bodies in the ground. More fathers burying their children, more widows, more orphans. That’s the cost of honor. But I’m not saying the Horde is right, either. The world is… as it’s always been. You can cling to your Light, or your code, or whatever justifications you hold dear, but in the end, it’s always eat or be eaten.”
I couldn’t deny it, though it made my heart ache. The world was crueler than I ever wanted to admit. And perhaps Sylvanas, in all her darkness, was the only one willing to face that truth head-on.
I shook my head, still stubborn in my stance. “You don’t believe peace could happen? If one side wins?”
Nathanos rolled his red eyes, clearly unimpressed. “At any point, did you believe that the Alliance were the ones preventing peace?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And you’ve also thought the same about the Horde, haven’t you?”
Shame flickered in me, and I looked away, just nodding in silent agreement.
Nathanos smirked, a slight grin curling one side of his mouth as he looked off, then back at me. “You were a child then, you’re still a child now. You don’t see the futility of what you’re doing, the pointlessness of your actions. You don’t even know who the real villains are. The cruel truth is that the world itself is the villain, Perfectia. The only thing you should be fighting for is survival, not living in some fantasy where all the ‘evil’ enemies are vanquished. Even if one side—Horde or Alliance—were to win, believing that would end the conflict? That’s naïve.”
I glanced down, a passage from my book flashing in my mind. Aunt Telavani’s words to Kael’thas Sunstrider: “The world is meant for grownups. Raw, well-ordered, ruthless, careening on the jagged edge of reality. Self-pitying dreamers cannot survive here, much less rule.” Back then, I didn’t fully grasp it, but now… I was starting to.
“So,” Nathanos continued, “maybe you should find meaning in your own life. And in a way, I think you did. You saw something you wanted, and you went after it.”
“That wasn’t why,” I argued, voice defensive.
Nathanos raised a brow, his smile growing slightly, though he looked thoughtful. “Wasn’t it? You were ready to abandon four people on that bridge. One of them, if I recall, was a close friend. And you would’ve left them just to be with him.”
I shrugged, feeling that same defensiveness creeping back. “I wasn’t thinking. I just… missed him.”
Nathanos’ smile didn’t fade. “If peace was really your only motivation, why didn’t you rescue him when he was a captive in Pandaria?”
I crossed my arms, trying to find a quick answer. “Well, he was—”
“Not what you wanted,” Nathanos interrupted, that same smirk widening. “A fourteen-year-old boy isn’t exactly attractive to a woman of… How old were you then?”
“Nineteen. Almost twenty.”
“Right. I don’t blame you. I would’ve killed you, but at least I would’ve done it with some remorse.” He added the last part with a sly grin.
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks,” I muttered sarcastically.
I thought back to Sylvanas’s ruthlessness, comparing it to the likes of High Overlord Saurfang or even Garrosh Hellscream. They had their people’s love, even when they faltered. Sylvanas… was feared, even among her own Forsaken. “But why is it so important that people fear her? Isn’t it better for a leader to be loved by the people they lead?”
Nathanos let out a dry laugh. “If she were a politician, or a queen trying to keep a crown, sure. But this isn’t government—it’s war. And in war there are more important things than being ‘loved’. Preventing a enemy from attacking or destorying a enemy for your peoples survival takes more presence and for that reason Sylvanas doesn’t care about being loved. Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron might take over the Eastern Kingdoms, Baine Bloodhoof might take over Kalimdor… the title of ‘Warchief’ might not even matter for a while.”
I stared off into the distance, remembering that Sylvanas hadn’t even wanted the position in the first place. Even when she wielded power, she was out there fighting on the frontlines, hunting enemies. “I still don’t get it. Why does she need to be feared to that extent?”
“The world isn’t wrong to fear Sylvanas for her potential to raise them as undead,” Nathanos explained, “but she’s not wrong for using that fear to prevent the genocide of her people. That’s the cruel irony. The Alliance fights for freedom and justice, yet they want Sylvanas dead because of what she represents—a threat to their ideals, sure, but also a survivor willing to do anything to protect her people.”
He paused, his gaze distant, voice thoughtful. “Sylvanas has become what the world needed her to be: malevolent, destructive, someone capable of fighting oppression with the same ruthlessness that’s been forced upon her. And in war, there’s no pure evil, no clear hero. That idea—winners being the most honorable fighters? It’s a fantasy for children. In reality, the end is always the same.”
Nathanos looked away, lost in his own memories. “An ‘honorable’ fight, even on both sides, just means more bodies in the ground. More fathers burying their children, more widows, more orphans. That’s the cost of honor. But I’m not saying the Horde is right, either. The world is… as it’s always been. You can cling to your Light, or your code, or whatever justifications you hold dear, but in the end, it’s always eat or be eaten.”
I couldn’t deny it, though it made my heart ache. The world was crueler than I ever wanted to admit. And perhaps Sylvanas, in all her darkness, was the only one willing to face that truth head-on.
I shook my head, still stubborn in my stance. “You don’t believe peace could happen? If one side wins?”
Nathanos rolled his red eyes, clearly unimpressed. “At any point, did you believe that the Alliance were the ones preventing peace?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And you’ve also thought the same about the Horde, haven’t you?”
Shame flickered in me, and I looked away, just nodding in silent agreement.
Nathanos smirked, a slight grin curling one side of his mouth as he looked off, then back at me. “You were a child then. Hell, you’re still a child now. You don’t see the futility of what you’re doing, the pointlessness of your actions. You don’t even know who the real villains are. The cruel truth is that the world itself is the villain, Perfectia. The only thing you should be fighting for is survival, not living in some fantasy where all the ‘evil’ enemies are vanquished. Even if one side—Horde or Alliance—were to win, believing that would end the conflict? That’s naïve.”
I glanced down, a passage from my book flashing in my mind. Aunt Telavani’s words to Kael’thas Sunstrider: “The world is meant for grownups. Raw, well-ordered, ruthless, careening on the jagged edge of reality. Self-pitying dreamers cannot survive here, much less rule.” Back then, I didn’t fully grasp it, but now… I was starting to.
“So,” Nathanos continued, “maybe you should find meaning in your own life. And in a way, I think you did. You saw something you wanted, and you went after it.”
“That wasn’t why,” I argued, voice defensive.
Nathanos raised a brow, his smile growing slightly, though he looked thoughtful. “Wasn’t it? You were ready to abandon four people on that bridge. One of them, if I recall, was a close friend. And you would’ve left them just to be with him.”
I shrugged, feeling that same defensiveness creeping back. “I wasn’t thinking. I just… missed him.”
Nathanos’ smile didn’t fade. “If peace was really your only motivation, why didn’t you rescue him when he was a captive in Pandaria?”
I crossed my arms, trying to find a quick answer. “Well, he was—”
“Not what you wanted,” Nathanos interrupted, that same smirk widening. “A fourteen-year-old boy isn’t exactly attractive to a woman of… How old were you then?”
“Nineteen. Almost twenty.”
“Right. I don’t blame you. I would’ve killed you, but at least I would’ve done it with some remorse.” He added the last part with a sly grin.
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks,” I muttered sarcastically.
Nathanos chuckled, leaning back as he observed me. “J’ai compris ça,” he said, trying his best with the Thalassian phrase, but his Orcish accent was heavy, dragging the syllables down. “Do you always curse in Thalassian?”
I shook my head, smirking. “No… not just cursing.” I looked away, but the smirk stayed.
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Double entendre aside—"
“Also a Thalassian word, which means ‘hear,’ by the way—” I interrupted, enjoying myself.
“I know,” he said, clearly annoyed, but he pushed through. “You’ve surprised me a few times these past few weeks. Your leadership style seems to work well with the grunts, so I’m glad you turned down the troll princess’s laundry list of task rabbit assignments. We can get any idiot to do that.”
I shrugged. “I don’t hate doing those things. Sometimes I meet interesting people. But what would you prefer I be doing? Starting a chess club?” I laughed, but Nathanos wasn’t amused.
“That would be a start,” he said dryly. “But I think Sylvanas mentioned you spying at one point?”
I just shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t press for details.
“I know you weren’t there, but when Sylvanas and I were briefed by Garrosh, he had these papers. That’s how we stole the Focusing Iris. He referred to you as ‘my spy in the Silver Covenant.’”
I gave a half-hearted shrug, playing it off. “That could’ve been anyone. I’ve met plenty of spies who could’ve written those reports.”
“You’re lying,” Nathanos said flatly, but with an almost admiring tone. “But you’re convincing.”
I stiffened, the frustration rising. I wanted to laugh it off, but he interrupted before I could speak.
“Don’t bother denying it.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “You think you’re telling the truth, which is why you’re a good spy. You don’t just convince others you’re one of them. You convince yourself. That’s what makes you dangerous. You could even get promoted in the enemy’s ranks.”
I tilted my head upward, letting his words sink in. “That’s quite the assumption, Nathanos.”
He smirked, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t recognized your handwriting. Your cursive is remarkably clear, but those Z’s of yours—"
I groaned, shaking my head. “No one can read lowercase Z’s. I have to stop and print them.”
He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “You were in Theramore, weren’t you?”
I exhaled heavily, shaking my head again. “I didn’t know what was really going on over there.”
“So, you’ve only been with three men?” Nathanos asked, that ever-annoying smirk plastered on his face.
I shrugged, not really wanting to dive into the details, especially with him. Before I could even offer a half-hearted answer, he leaned in closer, his voice low and probing. “Why that look?”
I shifted uncomfortably, then decided to bite the bullet. “The one who hit me… was a woman.” I whispered.
He leaned back, arching an eyebrow. “Oh.” His reaction was more casual than I expected. “You know that’s actually more common in same-sex couples than people think, right? Gender roles get… messy.” He gave a nonchalant shrug, and I immediately regretted sharing. His gaze softened, but it didn’t feel comforting. “This isn’t the Alliance. You’re not going to jail for who you decide to take to bed,” he added, as if that was supposed to make me feel better. “But… I have heard worse about you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. A cold dread crept up my spine. Worse? What could possibly be worse? The rumors? No, no one could know. Unless—had I let something slip when I was drunk? Isarami Fairwind wasn’t exactly a vault for secrets, but this… no, she couldn’t have. Only a handful of people knew, and they wouldn’t dare—
“You lost your virginity to a horse, right? That’s why you’ve been pushing for horses in our ranks?” Nathanos’ voice was full of disgust, like he was talking about a piece of rotting meat.
“WHAT?!” I practically shouted, my voice echoing off the walls. “Who the hell said that?!” My face was on fire with anger and embarrassment. “And Lucy is a mare, not some station.”
Nathanos looked thoughtful for a moment, as if recalling the absurd rumor. “I think I started hearing about it back when you were… a bit heavier. You know, during those presentations you used to give?”
Oh, Light, those presentations. The memories hit me like a bucket of cold water. Back when I had to explain how stallion… fluids were collected, using that ridiculous horse replica I made from hay and cloth. Thrall laughed so hard, and Garrosh—while serious on the outside—was definitely holding back. And that last-minute disaster for Vol’jin? I had to improvise an entire fake stallion anatomy because I couldn’t get the real thing in time. What a nightmare.
“I never saw one of your presentations,” Nathanos added, “but Garrosh used to show us this… uh… crude drawing of you on all fours.”
I slapped my hand over my face, wanting to disappear into the floor. “I always wondered why Garrosh kept those stupid drawings. Guess he added a little something extra.”
Nathanos struggled to hold back a laugh, his voice betraying the grin on his face. “Well, when he put you in the hospital, he referred to you as ‘that horse f***er.’ No one’s called you that to your face?”
I shook my head, the heat in my cheeks only growing. “No, I’ve been called plenty of things about my weight, but I never imagined people thought… that.”
Nathanos sighed, his tone suddenly serious. “Listen, Perfectia, promise me something. Don’t turn your back on us unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve seen how your so-called ‘gentle king’ attacked you. You might not be as safe in his arms as you’d like to believe. Be prepared to defend yourself. It’d be a shame if something happened to you.”
His words hung heavy in the air, and I couldn’t help but feel the chill that came with them.
I nodded and extended my left hand. Nathanos reached out, grasping my wrist firmly, and shook it. “I guess we have a deal,” he said, his voice steady, but I could hear the subtle note of satisfaction.
He started packing up his chessboard, the pieces sliding back into their place. I watched him for a moment, something gnawing at me. “Wait. I haven’t beaten you yet,” I said, a playful edge in my voice.
He didn’t even glance up as he replied, “It’s fine. It’s been fun, but I’ll put in a good word for you with Sylvanas anyway. Besides, you’re not that good.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his confidence. “Wait a second.”
Nathanos paused, his head tilting just slightly in my direction, clearly curious.
“Maybe we could change up the rules for our next game,” I suggested, feeling a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
His eyes flicked up, interest piqued. “Intriguing. What did you have in mind?”
I leaned in, savoring the idea. “Let’s make the queens the key pieces of the game. Treat the queen just like you would the king. And if it’s a tie, the person who went first loses. But no turning pawns into queens when they reach the other side.”
Nathanos pondered it for a moment, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The king would be a worthless piece… but I see the irony.”
“Possibly.” I shrugged, keeping it light, but there was a deeper layer to the challenge. I wanted to poke at something more personal.
He studied me for a moment longer, then his gaze sharpened. “You want to ask me about Sylvanas, don’t you?”
I smiled, feeling a little exposed. “Guilty,” I admitted with a chuckle.
Nathanos rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine. But if I beat you again, we’re done, and you’ll tell me how you got to Stormwind in the first place.”
The sudden shift in stakes caught me off guard. That was a story I wasn’t ready to share—especially not with him. There were too many pieces in play, too many secrets that could unravel if I wasn’t careful. Vereesa’s involvement, the delicate balance between Horde and Alliance… it would be a disaster for her, for me, for everyone. “Actually, never mind. We should stop.”
Nathanos raised an eyebrow, his curiosity clearly piqued. “Is there something you don’t want me to know? You came up with all those rules, and now you don’t want to play?”
I glanced away, feeling the weight of it all press down on me. “I can lie, Nathanos… if I’m trying to protect my friends.”
He rolled his eyes, his expression hardening. “Was Garrosh your friend?”
I hesitated, but then nodded, keeping my head down. “He was… until he betrayed me. Well, we betrayed each other. I was careless, reckless, and…”
“Young,” Nathanos finished for me, his voice softer than I expected.
I wanted to tell him I had paid for that betrayal in more ways than one, but instead, I just nodded again, feeling the echoes of those mistakes ripple through me.
I chuckled softly, amused by Nathanos’s curiosity. “I’ll ask you something else then," he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a little curious about that spirit Sylvanas mentioned—Alexandros Mograine? I used to hear stories about him when I was a boy.”
A smirk tugged at my lips as I remembered. “There wasn’t anything particularly special about him before the Dark Portal opened,” I began, my voice slipping into that of someone else—someone far older, wiser, with a battlefield’s worth of weight behind their words. “He lost his whole platoon to a warlock wielding the dark Rezalb crystal, and what’s disappointing? Their names aren’t even in the history books.”
As I spoke, it felt like Mograine’s memories became my own. I could feel the mud, the arrows slicing through the air, the blood-soaked ground beneath my feet. My tone became colder, more resolute, as if Alexandros himself was pushing through me. “We were holding the western flank. Attacked on both sides—not just by orcs, but ogres too. You ever see an ogre break through a phalanx? It’s like watching toy blocks tumble. We were overwhelmed, outnumbered, and doomed. If Tirion hadn’t shown up, I would’ve been finished.”
Nathanos listened intently, his eyes never leaving mine, as I continued. “But the orc warlock… he was the real threat, wielding that cursed crystal. I had to call in the catapults, even though we were standing in our own kill zone. A javelin eventually found its way into that warlock’s chest, but I wasn’t just some legendary hero before that. I was strict, a soldier’s soldier. I expected my men to take pride in the uniform, to act like men, no whining, no excuses.”
I paused, shaking my head slightly, and moved my deformed hand just a bit, surprised that I could even do that.
Nathanos blinked, shocked. “Who’s in there?” he asked, his voice low and almost wary.
I shrugged, looking away. “It’s still me… mostly. But I got a lot of his memories before my fight with Jaina.” I flexed my hand again, feeling a faint flicker of life returning. “Ask me something else.”
Nathanos eyed me carefully, then smirked. “Do you play chess?”
I smiled, leaning forward. “Let’s play queen’s chess after a few games.”
Nathanos nodded, and we set up the board. I took rapid, calculated moves, almost as quick as him, but there was something different this time—a flow I hadn’t felt before. I stopped, eyes scanning the board, and suddenly realized. “That’s checkmate.”
Nathanos stared at the board, then back at me. “You won.” He sounded impressed, but it wasn’t just me in control. I felt Mograine’s presence settling deeper, his confidence filling my chest.
I leaned back, crossing my arms as Alexandros spoke through me, his voice colder than mine. “So why didn’t you join the Alliance if you were so good at killing Horde? I’m sure they could’ve used your skills.”
Nathanos half-smiled, unfazed. “Because I’m more than just an archer. I never cared for your formations, your honor-bound ceremonies, or the idea of standing in the back while others fought in the thick of it. I never wanted to be a soldier. I was raised by a woman who taught me money was more important than honor.”
Alexandros leaned forward through me. “So, mercenary work?”
Nathanos shrugged. “It paid well and didn’t limit me with pointless oaths or family pride. It gave me freedom.”
I felt Alexandros’ influence settle for a moment, and I smiled. “I guess you’re playing white now.”
Nathanos pulled out a two-faced chess clock and placed it beside the board. His smirk widened as he clicked it on. “Five minutes?”
Nathanos leaned back slightly, his eyes assessing me, before speaking again. “I can use an axe, you know. Better for chopping firewood in the wilderness. But I picked up the bow first. Simple enough to make. Just need wood, string, and you’re set. When I was a boy, I stole a sword once. A real one. But I couldn’t wield it properly—too big for me. Got it taken away. Nearly got my throat cut with it, too.” He chuckled darkly. “A bow, though? That gave me an advantage. I could hit my mother’s clients when they tried to run without paying. An arrow in the foot meant they’d come back, not a corpse left behind. Let’s play one more game, three minutes.”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “Alright.”
Another quick game unfolded, my fingers darting across the board, moving pieces before I could even think. Mograine was pushing me to dominate, every move sharper, faster, as if he needed to beat Nathanos into submission. But Nathanos kept up, playing just as ruthlessly, and then—there it was—a mistake. His knight fell to my pawn. I reached to hit the timer with my deformed hand, and the pain shot through me like fire. I screamed out in agony, the game suddenly vanishing from my mind.
I slammed my left hand down on the clock, flipping it over. “No more!” I shouted, my voice cracking under the weight of pain and frustration.
Nathanos looked at me, startled. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, genuinely taken aback.
“You think this is funny?!” I snapped, cradling my mangled arm. “You think I wanted this? You think I chose this for myself?” I glanced at the Ashbringer on the floor, its dull glow mocking me. “This… this worthless, cursed hunk of metal has done nothing but ruin my life!” I kicked the blade away, my voice breaking. “It doesn’t work when I need it to, and it cost me everything!”
My voice shook as I thought back. “Anduin and I—maybe we’d still be together if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t been able to summon it. None of this would’ve happened.” I held up my twisted hand, showing it to Nathanos. His face twisted into something like sympathy, or maybe horror. I turned to walk away, unable to deal with his pity.
Before I could get far, Nathanos grabbed my shoulder, stopping me. “Listen to me. He’d be dead. And you—” His grip tightened just a little. “You’d still be rotting in the Stockades. When I aimed for his neck that day, between his helmet and shoulder armor, I saw you. I shot you in the shoulder on purpose. I could have called you out right then, but I didn’t. You were wrecked. I knew you weren’t in your right mind. So, I let it go.”
I paused, trying to process his words. “Thanks,” I muttered. “But I’m not special, Nathanos. I cry. I bleed. I make mistakes, and I’ve lived with every one of them. Sooner or later, I’ll die, just like anyone else. Either surrounded by people who love me, or as a nameless soldier on some forgotten battlefield.” I shook my head. “If Sylvanas, you, even Anduin, think I’m this powerful queen you can pit against your enemies, then you’re all delusional. I’m just… trying to survive. What I can do doesn’t define who I am.”
Nathanos looked away, his arms crossing over his chest, his voice softer when he spoke again. “You would’ve won that last game, you know.” His eyes flicked back to me briefly, and for the first time in a long while, I saw something that looked like respect.
Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed dangerously as Nathanos spoke. “And I told you exactly what to do if she turned on me,” she hissed. “That ‘quick death’ was designed to be lethal, even through skin contact. It would’ve poisoned the boy king too. A tidy solution.”
Nathanos dipped his head in acknowledgement, his voice calm but edged with caution. “Of course, Dark Lady. Forgive me for doubting your methods. I understand now that whatever the outcome, you had it calculated. Though I have to tell you, they both walked away from that fight—barely. Perfectia’s lost function in her right arm, and Proudmoore? She was limping like a crippled old woman, barely holding herself upright with a cane.”
Sylvanas’ lip curled in disdain. “You think?”
Nathanos continued, a thread of tension tightening in his voice. “My orders were clear—to secure the Zandalari princess and, through her, their fleet. If killing Jaina was a priority, you should’ve given the command directly. Or at least informed me.”
A cruel smile flickered across Sylvanas’ face. “And do you think she would’ve followed that order? If I’d said, ‘Bring me her head and don’t return until it’s done’? You really believe Perfectia wouldn’t have taken the opportunity to plan her betrayal? She might’ve killed you if she had time to think it through.”
Nathanos sighed deeply, his frustration barely held in check. “No, she wouldn’t be loyal in the traditional sense. But I know how she could be.”
Sylvanas raised a brow, mock curiosity dripping from her voice. “Oh, enlighten me. Should I hold some horses hostage? Seems her and that boy king have an unhealthy attachment to those animals.”
Nathanos shook his head. “No, it’s not fear that drives her, Dark Lady. If you want her to follow your commands without question… you’ll need to be her friend.”
Sylvanas barked a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Friend? You’re serious?” She searched Nathanos’ face for any sign of jest, but his expression was resolute. “Oh my gods, you really mean that.”
“I do,” Nathanos replied, unflinching. “And you’re going to have to stop calling her ‘child.’”
Sylvanas rolled her eyes, irritation creeping into her voice. “I hate saying her name. Who in their right mind names their daughter ‘Perfectia’?”
Nathanos shrugged. “It might give you some insight into her, though. She keeps a diary—” He paused, patting his bag, his brow furrowing. “I know I had it. Large book, dragonhawk carving on a shield. I—damn it, did I drop it?”
Sylvanas’ gaze turned icy, her patience thinning. “Retrace your steps, Nathanos. I never took you for a thief.”
“I was going to return it," he muttered, clearly rattled. "I swear I had it.”
Sylvanas’ eyes gleamed as she changed the subject. “Do you at least have the Azerite shards?”
Nathanos nodded, quickly retrieving the shards from his bag and holding them out. “She had to use two during her fight with Jaina,” he explained.
Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, suspicion flashing across her face. “That sounds like my family crest,” she murmured, her voice low and dangerous.
Nathanos blinked, the realization dawning on him like a dark cloud. “I remember seeing that crest before… on letters you kept in your tent,” he recalled, his tone softening as he pieced it together. “When we…”
Sylvanas’ expression darkened instantly, her gaze snapping to him. “I told you never to bring that up.” Her words were cold, sharp enough to cut, the anger barely restrained in her voice.
Nathanos dipped his head quickly, recognizing his misstep. “Forgive me, my queen. But… what is she doing with something like that?”
For a moment, Sylvanas stood silent, her thoughts clearly racing, her mind working through layers of betrayal and intrigue. Then, with a controlled grace, she turned and walked back to the oversized throne Garrosh once occupied, the chair looming large behind her as she sat, still too big for even her commanding presence.
“I suppose,” she said slowly, her voice heavy with meaning, “once you find it again, you can ask her yourself.”
Her gaze met his, cold and unyielding. “You’re dismissed, Nathanos.”
Happy Birthday
The Horde boats arrived in the Zandalari Empire, bringing with them mages to establish a network of portals. Perfectia, exhausted and unaware of the activity, had slept through it all. When she finally woke, she found the portals already in place, humming softly with arcane energy. One led to Silvermoon, a path she hadn’t walked in a long time.
She hesitated, feeling a familiar twist in her gut. Silvermoon. Dawnstar Village. Home. Or what was left of it.
She took the portal, emerging into the golden hues of her homeland. From there, she caught a flight to Dawnstar Village, once a proud coastal haven, now a ruin. The once-bustling ship ports, where laughter and trade filled the air, were nothing but scattered debris, torn apart by Arthas’s devastating ice bridge. The icy claws of memory gripped her as she flew over the broken shores, her heart heavy with the weight of what had been lost.
Her village lay on the opposite side of the destruction, untouched by Arthas’s direct assault, but ravaged by time and neglect. The air was thick with the scent of salt and decay, and the wind carried the faintest sound of crumbling stone under her boots as she landed. She thought briefly of her mother and the small cottage where they had once lived, where warmth and laughter had been her entire world. Now, that world felt so far away.
Perfectia sighed. She wasn’t in any shape to confront the demons or Wretched that surely squatted in the ruins. Her body ached, and her right arm hung uselessly at her side, a cruel reminder of her recent failures.
But there was one familiar comfort waiting for her.
“Lucy,” Perfectia called softly, spotting her horse in the distance. The majestic creature stood tall, gleaming in her red and gold paladin armor, like a beacon of hope against the desolation.
“Hey, girly.” Perfectia patted Lucy’s side, her hand lingering on the horse’s warm flank, grounding her in the present. “You haven’t seen Protecto, have you?” she asked with a weak smile.
Lucy shook her head, the slight motion almost making Perfectia laugh.
“I got myself hurt pretty badly,” she confessed, her voice low. “Think you could take me to the Sunwell?”
Lucy lowered her head as far as she could, ever patient, ever reliable, making it easier for Perfectia to climb on. The gesture felt like an unspoken understanding between them—a quiet companionship that went beyond words.
“Oh, and if you see Protecto, don’t tell him what happened,” Perfectia added as she struggled to settle onto Lucy’s back. “He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
Lucy turned her head, blinking three times, as if promising to keep the secret.
Perfectia chuckled softly, but there was a heaviness in her heart. “Right. Horse. That’s why you’re such good company.”
They rode toward the Sunwell, the journey filled with the rhythmic clopping of Lucy’s hooves against the stone paths. The familiar route gave her mind room to wander, and she found herself talking to Lucy about the last few days, about her failures, her injury, and the gnawing self-doubt that plagued her thoughts.
As they approached the Sunwell, its radiant glow illuminating the path, Perfectia felt a sudden chill crawl up her spine. She halted just before entering the grand building, her eyes narrowing as the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
A whisper. Soft, almost inaudible, but distinctly feminine.
“Hey.” The voice drifted toward her. “Perfectia? Perfectia Dawnlight?”
Perfectia’s breath caught in her throat. She looked around, scanning the area, but saw nothing but the familiar, ethereal beauty of the Sunwell. The voice sounded close, too close, like someone standing just behind her. Her heart quickened, the whisper echoing in her ears as she tried to discern whether it was friend or foe.
Perfectia looked over to where the voice was coming from but there was no one there, “Salut?” she called out.
The voice came out of the shadow and the Night Elf appeared. It was Tyrande Whisperwind.
Perfectia pulled the Ashbringer off her back with her left hand and held it in a Prime position. Hand upward and blade pointing downward blocking most of her upper body. Thinking Tyrande would have her bow ready to fire, “I didn’t come here to fight you.” Tyrande stated.
“Why should I believe you, priestess. I never zhought you’d be one to do your own assassination work, but I guess you must really not want to see us together.” Perfectia explained.
Tyrande shook her head, “Quite the opposite actually. I’ve been waiting for you, I’ve been here for almost a week.”
Perfectia couldn’t hold up the Ashbringer anymore, she let the end fall on the ground, “What do you want, other than trying to recruit more confessional boys?” She asked.
Tyrande rolled her eyes, “He wants to marry you, make you his queen. He blamed me for your escape and rightfully so. So, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Perfectia looked away and laughed slightly, “You’re not exactly Miss Current Affairs are you Tyrande?” Perfectia sighed, “I don’t think he feels that way about me anymore.”
“What happened?” Tyrande asked.
Perfectia looked away as she recalled the thought, “I wanted to protect him and what happened was I made one stupid mistake after the other.” Perfectia shrugged, "I’ve been so fixated on him lately. It was like this war didn’t matter anymore and I know I don’t deserve him. You know I never wanted him to ever meet with me personally. I just wanted him to know that someone felt this way about him, I never thought that love would be returned in kind. ‘’ Perfectia let out a slightly disgusted grunt, “I am so far from my name, it’s… I don’t know.”
Tyrande nodded slightly, “It was cruel for your mother to name you that.”
Perfectia looked at her angered at her statement, “Tyrande?” She shrugged, “In the quiet words of the virgin goddess Ellune, “Come again”?”
Tyrande gave her a questionable look of shock, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me! The Nightborne.” Perfectia gestured toward the Sunwell, “Us. We’re Elves. There were so many of us that wanted to join the Alliance and you turned us away when we needed you the most. I was legitimately happy for First Arcanist Thalyssra that her people didn’t need to be stuck inside that dome their whole lives. That people that were separated from their families for thousands of years could be reunited and I felt like such an idiot for being surprised that you turned them away as well.”
“I didn’t turn them away, I said I would put the situation into consideration, see how the people of Suramar will act with their new-found freedom. If I knew they would have got up and sided with my enemies I would have never helped them liberate the city. As for your people it had nothing to do with what your people are, but what they had done.” Tyrande explained, “Tell me, why did your people turn away Alleria and her Void Elves?”
“You know why. She nearly corrupted the Sunwell.” Perfectia was disgusted by the thought, “Then later she tried to lie to Anduin about it. Like it was our fault that we had to turn her away, whatever was inside her, tried to manifest itself and I had to deal with that personally. Can you imagine what an army of void elves could do to our people, our home?”
Tyrande rolled her eyes, “Your people think it was the water from the Well of Eternity that made us retain our immortality, but it’s really not. It’s true that it was the water that changed us in the first place, and yes, my grandparents were trolls, but over time we didn’t need it exclusively. The Night Elves’ faith in the goddess Elune kept us young. It’s kept me alive for thousands of years. For my husband it was the teachings of Cenarius. Even Illidan found ways through the arcane, but those were methods I didn’t really agree with, but they weren’t as bad as Queen Azshara’s. So, for as long as I can remember I’ve always tried, maybe I even hated that so many of our lives were dependent on this thing, and my goddess agreed with me. I’ve taught so many students through faith and devotion you could live for thousands of years without it. But your people, even against the laws and the teachings of the goddess, took that water and became so dependent on it.” She explained.
Perfectia shrugged, “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Tyrande nodded, “I know, there were a few people, high elves, humans, even dwarfs, that embraced the goddess’s teachings and lived longer than normal lives, but in the end, they were tired of living when their immediate family started dying.” She shrugged, “Now that I think about it there is only one High Elf that still embraces her teachings.”
“Who?” Perfectia asked.
Tyrande shrugged, “No one you would know.”
“Try me.” Perfectia stated, thinking she knew.
Tyrande looked at Perfectia and smiled slightly, “Telavani Lovewood.”
Perfectia laughed slightly, “She’s insane.”
Tyrande looked at her questionably, “Is she? …and how do you know her?”
Perfectia looked down slightly, “She’s my aunt.”
Tyrande stepped forward and looked at Perfectia up and down, “You don’t really look like her… Wait… That poem, did she help you write it?”
Perfectia shook her head, “No, but I know why you would think that. She was never one to really write what she said down.”
“Your aunt is Elune’s champion of shadow?” Tyrande explained with surprise, “You know I used to think she was crazy too, but I treated her like a child, so when she started wanting me to take her seriously I couldn’t trust her integrity.”
“Why not?” Perfectia asked.
Tyrande let out a long drawn out sigh and started walking away but gestured to Perfectia to follow her. “A long time ago when my husband was in the Emerald Dream, the goddess Elune told me that she would need a champion of shadow.” She said as she walked away from the Sunwell. “I knew more about its power more than anything. The pain and havoc it could cause to people was a power I never liked using, but I couldn’t be matched by anyone, even people that used it exclusively. But it wasn’t enough, not for Elune. I am her champion of Light. So, I started training initiates in the ways of the shadow. Thousands failed and gave up, hundreds died, and dozens went on killing sprees and had to be put down.”
Perfectia shrugged slightly, “So is my aunty the only one that passed?”
Tyrande smiled slightly and shook her head, “No, she was the one that showed up and claimed the title after I had given up. She was so powerful, but it wasn’t a power most people would envy, and I realized what the shadow of Elune was. It wasn’t darkness or destruction or a power that was opposed to the Light. It was Elune’s inner child, the part of her that wouldn’t be corrupted or exploited. I have known great wisdom in my servitude to Elune but it always fed my pride. However, there is something about humility and innocence that I could never understand. The part of Elune that wanted to play, and smile, and sometimes be cruel.”
Perfectia looked at Tyrande concerningly, “Did she hurt people? Did she kill people?”
Tyrande shook her head and laughed slightly, then out loud, then uncontrollably, “We used to have this group of initiates that refused to wear pants, wore hats on their feet, and wore gloves that looked like shoes, so the goddess would think they were right side up.”
“Is that why your people wear those flap things?” Perfectia asked.
Tyrande nodded, “My own design actually. There was also this group of people that claimed to be time travelers. They would run around waving various objects around saying that they were devices that made them travel back in time. They said they had changed major events that prevented the world’s destruction. I had to stop people from running around various large trees, because they said they were having a race that everyone could win. For me, the pranks were a little more traditional if I didn’t give her enough attention.”
Perfectia repressed a smile, “What did she do?”
Tyrande sighed slightly but still smiled as she remembered, “Honey in my shampoo or shampoo that wouldn’t wash out regardless of how much I rinsed. She would do this thing to my chairs and tables where she would cut a quarter of an inch off of one leg that would leave me slightly off balance. Sometimes someone would challenge her, and she would make them think that she killed them. They would walk around thinking they were invisible until they walked into a bathing room. Then there was the mocking decoration she would put on my statutes, but I wasn’t sure if that was her. People sometimes joined in her fun and blamed her. Tea was always at six, where I would try to decipher her rhymes and riddles or her psychotic outburst and predictions, and sometimes she was right.” Tyrande laughed, “If I missed tea for a few days out of the week I would find it in the water wells. It turned all the water brown. That may sound pleasant at first, but you have no idea how hard it was to clean sugar and honey out of those water lines. They would clog, then attract insects.” She smiled.
Perfectia nodded, “I don’t know if I should apologize or say your welcome.”
“When she finally left we thought she would come back. Soldiers and guards were a bit hyper vigilant after that, thinking she would trick them or do something that I would get angry over because they weren’t paying attention. I think that’s why adventurers really didn’t like spending time there unless they had to. After all the chaos she caused, the level of order just made things boring, but we used to talk about her sometimes.”
Tyrande smiled as she thought back reminiscently, but she shook her head, “And now it’s gone.” She whispered, then looked at Perfectia and had a sad look in her eyes, “You had no right to call Alleria out in the middle of that meeting. She had planned to tell Anduin in private about what had really happened, and you embarrassed her in front of everyone. You got to play a victim in disguise, where you had no right to. Teldrassil was my home, a place you helped burned down, so when Alleria told me who you might be, I wanted to deal with you personally.”
Perfectia looked away and started to cry, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know Sylvanas was going to do that, and I’ve been trying, so hard, to make up for what I did.”
Tyrande looked away and shook her head, “I know… I didn’t know that until later. You tried harder than anyone I thought could. So much that you stole our king’s heart, but do you really think becoming queen will stop Sylvanas from attacking?”
Perfectia shook her head, “No, but I know someone that can.”
Tyrande shrugged, “Thrall is too old to lead another rebellion, the harnessing of the elements is rarely beneficial in the long run.”
Perfectia looked away and half smiled, “No, I meant the youngest Windrunner sibling, Lirath. He’s been living in exile for over 20 years, but he told me he was going to be coming forward soon. If there’s anyone that can lead the Forsaken against her or stop her from attacking, it’s him.”
Tyrande looked around confused, "I gave that boy his last rights, but if he’s alive that would mean- "
Perfectia interrupted, “He’s undead, if he came to the Alliance he could end this peacefully.”
Tyrande looked away as she thought and nodded at Perfectia, “I can arrange a meeting with Anduin.”
“What?” Perfectia said in disbelief, “How, where?”
“You’re going to have to trust me.” Tyrande started and pulled a blindfold from her pocket.
“What are you going to do with that?” Perfectia asked.
“The Cenarion Circle has a meeting place in the Eastern Kingdoms, a place I don’t want to compromise.” Tyrande put the blindfold on her face and put it on somewhat tightly.
“You are not prepared!” Perfectia mocked deeply and jokingly but didn’t hear anything coming from Tyrande. She moved her face forward, licked her lips, and breathed in through her nose. She could taste Tyrande’s magical energy and it tasted like a thick milky salt with a bitterness to it, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Her teeth reacted to the taste almost like there was something in her mouth already. She walked toward her.
“Can you see?” Tyrande asked.
She shook her head, “No, it’s difficult to explain.”
Perfectia tasted her casting a spell as the flavor in her mouth felt a little richer and heard the sound of a hippogriff show up next to her. Tyrande guided her onto the flying mount and Tyrande got on in front of her. From there it was just the sound of the wind.
“Can I ask you something?” Perfectia said loudly over the hissing of the wind.
“It’s a long flight so, I suppose, but I may choose to not answer if it has anything to do with the Alliance.” She started loudly.
She shook her head, “No, it’s nothing like that. What do you see in Malfurion anyways?”
Perfectia felt Tyrande’s body move to the side as she did have two hands on her waist. There was a long pause.
“I guess you’re not going to tell me…” Perfectia asked
“Why do you care?”
“You’d be surprised how insightful my aunty was, she knew a lot about the heroes of Azeroth, Thrall, Arthas, Illidan, Kael’thas, even Sylvanas.”
“Lost Ones?” Tyrande asked questionably.
Perfectia nodded her head, somewhat surprised that she knew that, “I really don’t understand it really.”
Tyrande sighed slightly, “She used to do this thing with salad dressings and plates and make these designs. At first, I thought she was just playing with her food and she would use berries and small tomatoes to represent major figures. All the while voicing meetings… and fights.” She laughed, “I didn’t think much of it then but, I kept asking members of my order that were with me, if we’ve been here before. Having that same conversation, then when I looked at my maps I remembered those salad dressing designs. There was no doubt in my mind then that I should have taken those premonitions more seriously.”
Perfectia shrugged, “Well yeah, she does that, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s really none of your business.” Tyrande stated.
Perfectia sighed, “I would have picked Illidan.”
Tyrande laughed, “And why is that?”
“Because he’s hot. Those muscles, clean shaven, even that broodiness he has, I mean I could just picture him scooping me up in those arms and making me feel so safe. Like I could take over the whole world by his side and then there are the tattoos. Oh, my Light…”
“He was a demon!” Tyrande yelled trying to sound angry but there was laughter in her voice.
“Yeah, but a really sexy one. I mean have you ever seen the way Demon Hunters fight? The yells, the moans, and grunts, to the fighting style postures. It’s all surprisingly sexual.”
“How old are you?” She asked ironically.
“24.”
Tyrande sighed, “Okay makes sense, have you shared any levels of intimacy with a Demon Hunter, even so much as a kiss?”
Perfectia shook her head, “No, I’m a little on the thick side if you haven’t noticed. There was one I knew from back when, Redworm, he was telling me somethings about his past but he stopped talking to me when he found out I killed Leotheras the Blind.”
“Well I’ve noticed. My hippogriff is moving slower than usual, even for being double mounted.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes and sighed.
“How did you get so full figured anyways? You’re a Blood Elf, and I thought your kind was more than a little vain.”
She didn’t like the question at all, but she did have an answer that was partially true, “Beer and pork.” She shrugged, “I really thought the world was going to end when Deathwing came, if anything I hoped it would. Very few days of my life were spent sober. I got my waistline to trim down but my rear kind of stayed the same size.”
Tyrande laughed, “I think that might be the reason why Anduin was so attracted to you. He never seemed to have a problem with eye contact even with low cut tops. Who could have figured him as someone that was so attracted to hips?”
She leaned forward and held Tyrande around her arms, “You think so?” She asked gleefully.
She screamed out in pain in Perfectia’s embrace, “Let go of me! Let go of me, Perfectia!”
“Sorry.” Perfectia let go quickly. “I guess if I came any closer there would be insertion.”
“By Elune… Could you be any more inappropriate? But you are stronger than you look. I know I don’t look it, but I’m still an old woman.” She took some deep breaths.
“I’m sorry.”
Tyrande sighed and shrugged, “What do you see in Anduin, then?”
Perfectia soaked her lips and bit them slightly, “It’s difficult to explain.”
She moved her back toward her, “Try.” Perfectia could hear a smile in her voice.
Perfectia took a deep breath, "I thought he was gorgeous and elegant and gentle and sweet. But strong both physically and willfully. "
“So, you like things about him.” She stated factually.
"It’s more than that, there’s also something else to him. Something dark.”
She looked back at her and remembered her last conversation with him, “Go on.”
“Well you must see it. Why would someone that inherited so much power, be so kind, feel the need to be so strong, to be so wise?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because of pain, trauma, turmoil, there is a beautiful broken heart aching for mending and it feels like my broken pieces might fix there." Perfectia laughed, "does that make sense to you?”
“You sound like your aunt.” Tyrande nodded, “You know we Night Elves have an unspoken rule, 'Allow a mortal to have your help, your time, but never allow a mortal to have your heart, especially if you’re one who truly gives all to your lover. Never take a mortal, it gets incredibly lonely living 30 of their lifetimes.”
“Do you think humans feel that way about their dogs or horses? Do you think flowers are not worthy of tending because they die out every winter? Mortals don’t just die of old age you know. Yes, it’s lonely when a lover passes but elves are not exempted from death. We just have one advantage they don’t, an elvan life can be just as short and just as beautiful as a mortal one and if it’s not to be, well, you remember the people you fell in love with just as much as one awaits flowers in spring.”
Tyrande laughed slightly, “I’m finding it a bit pointless to argue with a poet in love, it’s been entertaining nonetheless.”
“Thank you, he wasn’t my first though.”
“I know.” Tyrande breathed in, “I’m short tempered if you haven’t already noticed.”
Perfectia shrugged, “Okay?”
“So is Illidan. I did think he was more handsome then Malfurion, overall he was more attractive, but we used to argue so much like two waves coming from opposite directions. Neither one of us would submit an argument, even if one of us was wrong, it used to bring me to tears sometimes. Even when he came here to save Azeroth I was afraid he would start gloating or guilting me about how many wrong decisions I made. I couldn’t bear to see him again.” Tyrande explained.
“You know, I never saw him when he came back. Everything I know about him are just things that I heard.”
“And before?” She asked.
“You shouldn’t ask me that. I wasn’t the same person when I was 15.”
“Did you kill him?”
Perfectia nodded, “Yes.” She said blankly. “And I don’t regret it.”
“Good, because I was opposed to his methods in spite of the ‘greater good’ there and the ‘needed sacrifice’, it disgusted me actually.” She paused, “Malfurion would just stand there nodding when I would become enraged. He mourned the loss of his brother, but he was rarely angry, and never acted without a clear mind. If anything, he taught me the meaning of patience…”
“But don’t you remember when he got kidnapped. He sounded like a damsel in distress. Also, I was in the Emerald Nightmare and he seemed to have no interest in personally ending the life of Xavius, someone that had corrupted the bodies and minds of some of his close’s friends. I would have wanted him to suffer, he’s barely a man.”
“One more word like that and I’ll throw you off this hippogriff.” She stated angrily.
Perfectia removed the blindfold and looked her in the eyes, “Go ahead, I can survive the fall.”
“You know I could still kill you?”
Perfectia laughed, “I know you think so. Did Jaina recover from her wounds?”
She shrugged slightly, “I didn’t even know she was back.”
“You can’t.” Perfectia stated blankly.
“Let’s find a place to set you down. I don’t feel comfortable bringing you to the only Cenarion Circle base in the Eastern Kingdoms. For Elune sake my hippogriff is tired of carrying you.”
“Stop body shaming me you oldfangled bully, think my kind hasn’t told me these jokes before?”
“Just shut up.”
And so, she did.
—
Perfectia was brought to an unknown location in the Eastern Kingdom. She waited for Tyrande to come back, but later Anduin arrived, riding the hippogryph. His darker brown outfit and hood shrouded him, making him look more rugged, more powerful. He dismounted, pulled back his hood, and scanned the area. His eyes found her immediately.
“Perfectia, I’m so sorry it took so long for us to meet again.”
Perfectia felt her pulse quicken. “Anduin.” Their eyes locked, and Perfectia ran to him, her entire body melting into his touch. For all her strength, her power, she found solace in him, in the way he could bring her to a place of surrender. She recited the verse she had prepared for him:
“Come in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you’re looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcomes you’ll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I’ll adore you.”
She smiled up at him, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. “I prepared that for you.”
Anduin nodded, his voice soft but steady. “It’s beautiful, Perfectia. You honor me.” He began to lift his arms, wanting to pull her in, but something in him hesitated. The air between them thickened, her scent overwhelming his senses—jasmine and orchids, intoxicatingly sweet but commanding, just like her presence.
Perfectia sensed the shift, her body yearning for him to take control, to pull her deeper into his world. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.
Anduin’s eyes darkened as he looked into hers. His heart ached, but there was something else. She was so strong—so much stronger than anyone else he had ever met. But in this moment, in his arms, she was yielding, seeking something only he could give her. His usual gentle nature fought against the raw desire rising within him. The tension between his morals and his primal instincts gnawed at him, but the pull of her was too strong.
He touched the side of her face, his thumb brushing her cheek as if to claim her. “Nothing’s wrong,” he whispered, though everything about this felt dangerous, electric. He pulled her closer, his eyes lingering on her lips before diving back into her gaze. He felt his control slipping—he was losing himself in her.
Perfectia leaned into his touch, her body arching into him. “More,” she whispered, her voice low, needy. Her words were commanding, but her tone begged for him to take what he wanted. Her submission wasn’t weakness; it was a gift, a surrender she rarely offered to anyone.
Anduin felt the flood of emotions and desire crash over him, obliterating the walls he had built within himself. Her need to be dominated ignited something in him, something he hadn’t fully embraced before. He let out a low growl, claiming her lips with a fierceness that caught them both off guard. His hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her harder against him. He tasted her deeply, as if drinking her in, his tongue exploring her mouth with possessive hunger.
Perfectia moaned into the kiss, feeling her entire body surrendering to him. It was so rare to find someone strong enough to dominate her, to take charge when she was used to commanding the battlefield. But here, now, Anduin was the one in control, and it was exactly what she needed.
His grip tightened, and in a surge of passion, he lifted her effortlessly, pushing her against the tree with enough force to make her gasp. His body pressed against hers, his lips trailing down her neck, and for a moment, everything else—the war, their factions, the chaos—disappeared. There was only this. Only them.
Anduin breathed heavily, the restraint he usually showed all but gone now. His voice was husky as he spoke against her skin. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.” His lips found hers again, hungry and unrelenting.
Perfectia’s body responded with equal passion, her mind spinning from the intensity of the moment. She had always craved someone who could control her like this, someone strong enough to match her power. And here he was—Anduin, the king, the man who could break through her walls with just a touch.
“I’m yours,” she whispered against his lips, the truth of it sending shivers through her body.
Anduin’s hands gripped her harder, his control over her solid and undeniable. “I know.”
As Perfectia’s back made contact with the rough bark of the tree, she let out a slight grunt, but it only fueled the intensity between them. She knew Anduin was flying off the edge of his instincts, and she welcomed it. He was no longer the gentle boy she had met before—he was a man, full of raw power that made her submit to him, willingly, eagerly.
Perfectia’s lips found his, rough and hungry, her large, plush lips crushing against his as her tongue thrust down his throat, desperate to taste him. A moan escaped her, half-choked as her body arched against the hardwood pressing into her back. She rolled her hips, pushing herself closer to him, feeling the heat between them rise. “You have no idea how beautiful you are when you kiss me,” she whispered, her voice a mix of lust and surrender.
Colors swirled in her vision—shades of red, orange, and yellow dancing before her eyes, and she smiled. “You taste like pears.” Her words were breathy, intoxicated by him.
He pulled back slightly, panting, a slick strain of saliva still connecting their tongues before it fell away. “And you look like one,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. There was a predatory hunger in his eyes now, a dominance that sent shivers down her spine.
She smiled, taking deep breaths as she looked down at him, his eyes half-shut with desire as he still held her up against the tree. Her hand traveled downward, feeling the hardness between his legs. Without thinking, she blurted out, “You feel harder than getting my dad to quit drinking,” her voice teasing, but immediately, she regretted it.
Anduin’s eyes flickered with confusion, the lighthearted moment killing the intensity. “What?” He looked down at himself, clearly unsure, “Oh, I’m sorry… is it…?”
Perfectia cringed internally, cursing her misplaced sense of humor. The mood had shifted, and she could feel the tension drain away, the weight of her joke crashing the moment they were sharing. “Don’t be,” she tried to recover, her smile faltering for just a second before she smoothed it out. She gently touched the side of his face, trying to bring back the connection. “I think there are some abandoned houses by Raven Hill.” Her voice was soft now, trying to regain the balance, but the playfulness she intended was gone, replaced by her regret.
“I’m so sorry, Anduin, I don’t know why I said that.” she whispered, her voice softer now, more vulnerable.
Anduin shook his head, his grip tightening on her as if afraid she might slip away. “No, I’m sorry, Perfectia.” His voice trembled slightly, his emotions raw. He pulled her closer, holding her tightly, as if trying to make the moment last. “I don’t want to let you go.” Slowly, he set her back down, their bodies parting just enough for her to feel the cool air between them again.
Now that her feet were on the ground, she had to look up to meet his gaze. Without her platform shoes, he towered over her, and it made her feel… smaller, but in a way that she craved. “I’m yours, Anduin. If you would hold my hand, I’d be yours forever. A simple promise." She paused, the words heavy with meaning. "That’s all I can offer, and if it’s not enough… If it’s too late… I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
The words echoed Nathanos’ warning, but with a tenderness and vulnerability she hadn’t felt before. Her strength, so powerful on the battlefield, melted in the face of her emotions for him.
Anduin looked down at her, his eyes glistening, the faintest shimmer of tears forming as her words reached him. “That was beautiful,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
Perfectia looked down, feeling a wave of shame wash over her. “I can’t take credit for writing that,” she admitted, “but I’ve written more poems, you know. Things got a little dark these past few weeks.” She took a deep breath, wanting to confess more. “You know… I’d like to read to you what I wrote before we met in Lion’s Rest.”
Anduin nodded, his expression softening. “I’d like to hear it,” he said sincerely. Then, his tone shifted, a weight settling over his words. “But… why did you try to kill Jaina?”
The question hung in the air between them, and Perfectia’s chest tightened. She looked away, unsure of how to answer, knowing that this was the moment she feared.
Perfectia looked away, upset, stepped back, and crossed her arms, “Do we really have to talk about that?” She looked down and shook her head, “Can’t this just be about us…” She paused for an extended amount of time, looking at Anduin somewhat ashamed, and sighed, “Which time?” She said in a blank sarcastic tone and rolled her eyes.
Anduin looked at her questionably, “Well the first time.”
Perfectia looked away, “I regret that. You know I do, we would have been facing Sylvanas together in Lordaeron if I hadn’t done what I did. It was just the way you were looking at that monster in the sky. You looked at me like that when… when you found out what I was. I saved your life, but she saved your Alliance. It was like she threw more slop into your feeding pin and you were right back on the war path again. I thought she was going to steal you away from me, from the way I saw her by your side.”
“And Alleria?” Anduin asked.
She looked away and shook her head, “Are you really doing this Anduin?” She asked
“Doing what?”
“Putting me on trial,” She looked around, “Do you have some SI:7 agents to ambush me if you don’t like my answers?”
“No.”
She quickly pointed a boomstick at him.
He looked at it strangely, “That’s an old dwarven model. It has one shot but it’s prone to backfire. Where did you get that?”
She nodded, “Moira gave to me when I asked for the Ashbringer back, so if it doesn’t backfire, if it front fires, it will turn your pretty face into a fine red mist.” She said in a mocking tone.
He nodded, “That’s true.”
“I’M GOING TO SHOOT ZE KING OF STORMWIND IN ZE FACE IF DON’T STOP ME!!” She looked around and screamed, “AT COUNT OF THREE!”
“Perfectia it’s just me.”
“UN!”
“Someone will come if you don’t stop-”
“DEUX!” She pointed the boomstick at him.
Anduin started looking around thinking maybe should have brought protection, “Perfectia you can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry…” She looked away as she was about to pull the trigger, “TROIS!”
Anduin took that opportunity to rush her and try to grab the gun. The gun went off, making an echoing boom sound that scared away all the nearby birds. Anduin’s left side of his face was covered in a black soot.
“It was just powder, I didn’t load a slug.”
Anduin stood there kind of struck, his ears were ringing and the powder did string a bit but for the most part he was okay, “I love you so much.” He managed to say in that moment of shock.
Perfectia kissed him on the cheek but tasted the soot that was on his lips, “Blaaah.” She started cleaning off the side of his face, “Let me just.” She got most of it off “I told Alleria to stay away from me. She came after me first while I was unarmed.” Perfectia explained as she cleaned off her face, “She didn’t know I could use a crossbow. And besides, she already threatened to torture me and turn me into a Wretched if I didn’t tell her about her brother. I told you about that already.”
Anduin looked at Perfectia confused, “Wait, a brother?”
Perfectia sighed as she finished up cleaning his face, “There’s a lot you don’t know, Anduin.”
Anduin looked away and thought back, “I know you helped those trolls escape and you flooded our hospital beds from all the guards you injured.”
She shrugged, “I didn’t kill them, well, not all of them.”
He sighed, “The guards are trained to play possum at a certain point, but you gave most of them complex fractures that couldn’t be fixed with healing magic, not to mention the mages that are actually dead, that could have helped with the fire you started.”
“I didn’t start that fire, how could I have known those mages would be needed later?” She backed away and shook her head, “Anduin is it really so unattractive to know that I’m actually dangerous.” She shrugged, “Because I understand if you’re intimidated by me, I get it.” She shook her head, “Generally men want someone that’s-”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” He stepped forward and touched her face, “You are so wonderful, so perfect. Your name fits you so well.”
Perfectia lost herself in ecstasy when she looked up into his eyes and listened to his voice “I only did that so I could see you.” She said with a smile, “That there was maybe a chance I could find you. I saw Saurfang and didn’t know what happened, but she knows, Anduin, Sylvanas saw us waving to each other above Lordaeron. There’s a lot of people watching me now.” Perfectia was disgusted with herself, “Gosh, what were we thinking?”
Anduin shrugged, looked down, and shook his head, “I’m still in love with you, even though I was hurt.”
Perfectia smiled, nodded, and looked at him, “I know…” She remembered saying that to Isirami Fairwind, “…I love you too.” She was glad she could say it genuinely. She shrugged, “What are we going to do?”
Anduin looked away and shook his head, “I already tried to kill you twice. I don’t think we should do anything.”
Perfectia breathed out and nodded, “Okay… So maybe we could meet somewhere in disguise?” She said with a slight shrug, “You know Outland is fairly free of turmoil. It’s why Thrall always goes there for refuge. There are these heated baths there I’d like to show you.”
Anduin shook his head, “No, I mean we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
Perfectia looked away from Anduin and back at him in shock, “What are you saying?! I don’t blame you for trying to kill me, I tried to kill Jaina and Alleria would be dead if you hadn’t intervened.”
Anduin’s eyes narrowed as he stepped back, his voice filled with rising frustration. “And what if Genn wasn’t there? Or Mograine? What would you have done then?”
Perfectia blinked, confused at the shift, “Is that what you’re afraid of?” She shook her head, her tone incredulous. “Mograine said if I killed Jaina, you’d never forgive me. And I didn’t kill her—for you!”
Anduin’s expression darkened, disgust flickering in his eyes. “Monster? You called her a monster? Do you even realize what she’s been through? The Horde destroyed everything she ever cared about. Garrosh reduced her home to rubble! And despite everything, she didn’t let that hatred consume her.” His voice was strained, emotional.
Perfectia’s lip curled into a bitter smile as she crossed her arms. “Ah, vraiment? You think she took the high road, don’t you?” Her voice was sharp, mocking, before her face turned cold. “I call her a monster because that’s what she is, Anduin. You and I were both there for Garrosh’s trial. She didn’t drown hundreds of people only because Thrall and Kalecgos stopped her in time. She had the Focusing Iris in her hands, and if it weren’t for them, she would have slaughtered countless innocents. She almost killed your father that day.”
Anduin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “She was devastated. She lost everything. But she pulled herself back from the brink, Perfectia. She became the leader of the Kirin Tor because she chose peace.”
“I don’t zink you know what the blink is or real devastation.” Perfectia laughed slightly, looked away, and shook her head, “You honestly think that her tyranny ended when she decided not to commit mass genocide? She still killed dozens of my people. Do you think when she exiled the Sunreavers that she kindly asked them to leave? No, she killed unarmed citizens and left their bodies in the streets of Dalaran and she was always on the hunt for more, and the rest were transferred to a concentration camp where my people worked and starved to death. Do you know what an anti-magic field does to a blood elf, Anduin?”
Anduin shook his head.
Perfectia nodded angrily at his ignorance, “It turns them into a Wretched and it’s irreversible. You know, thank the Light the Iron Horde invaded, because that’s when they were finally released, but we had to put so many of them out of their misery and the ones that were returned to their families were never the same.”
Anduin shrugged, “Your people took people from Dalaran as well…”
“We fed them, they only needed food, and only because your Alliance started kidnapping our people first.”
Anduin shook his head in disbelief and remembered, “What about that bell? Didn’t your people just let Garrosh walk past with it? Do you know what he did with that bell, what he did to me?”
Perfectia looked at him enraged, “I know what Garrosh did to you, but Anduin… Did you ever wonder why Garrosh never used that bell on himself?”
Anduin shrugged, “Because he saw what it was doing to his men.”
Perfectia shook her head, “No, because he had already used it on himself once, when I fought him. That was the first time I was able to summon the Ashbringer at will.” Perfectia held onto her heart as she recalled, “Do you have any idea what he did to me?” Tears were falling down her face, “He killed my first love, right in front of me. He died right in my arms. I never even got to tell him I loved him. Then Garrosh slammed Gorehowl into my uterus after I told him I might be pregnant.” Perfectia shook her head, “It took me two years for me to fully recover, through several painful experimental surgeries, but my digestive tract and reproductive system were permanently damaged. Do you know what that’s like Anduin, to lose that? Do you want me to rip off your balls so you know what that feels like?”
He shook his head no.
“Jaina lost friends, soldiers, and a couple buildings, but no women, no children, Garrosh gave Jaina plenty of time to evacuate the helpless. Everyone on Theramore was willing to fight and die if necessary. Oh, and a new hairstyle, little envious of that actually. I’m not saying it hasn’t been hard for her, but stop acting like Jaina Proudmoore is the only person that suffered because of what he did.”
“I don’t zink you know what real devastation is,” Perfectia scoffed, her voice wavering between anger and disbelief. She looked away for a moment, gathering herself before locking eyes with Anduin again. “You really think Jaina’s tyranny ended when she decided against mass genocide? No, Anduin. She killed dozens of my people when she exiled the Sunreavers. Do you think she kindly asked them to leave? No. She butchered unarmed citizens in the streets of Dalaran, their bodies left to rot, and she sent the rest to concentration camps where they starved to death.” Her voice cracked as she continued, bitterness laced with sorrow. “Do you even know what an anti-magic field does to a Blood Elf?”
Anduin shook his head, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes.
“It turns them into a Wretched,” she said, her voice thick with disgust. “And it’s irreversible. They lose everything—sanity, family, everything. It’s a fate worse than death, and Jaina sentenced my people to that. Thank the Light the Iron Horde came along and freed them, but we had to put so many out of their misery. The ones who survived… they were never the same.”
Anduin tried to defend his position, his tone soft but firm. “Your people took hostages from Dalaran too. You weren’t innocent in all of this.”
Perfectia’s eyes blazed. “We fed them, Anduin! We didn’t starve them or turn them into monsters. We only did it because your Alliance started kidnapping our people first.”
Anduin shook his head in disbelief, memories resurfacing. “What about the bell? Garrosh took it right out from under your people’s noses. Do you know what he did with it? What he did to me?”
Perfectia’s face darkened, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what Garrosh did to you, Anduin.” She paused, her breathing heavy as she fought to contain the emotion that had been simmering beneath the surface. “But did you ever wonder why Garrosh never used that bell on himself?”
Anduin shrugged, unsure of where she was going with this. “Because he saw what it was doing to his men.”
Perfectia shook her head, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. “No, Anduin. He did use it on himself. I know, because I was there when it happened. When I fought him.” Her hand instinctively moved to her chest, as if she could still feel the pain. “That was the first time I could summon the Ashbringer.”
Tears began to spill from her eyes, and her voice cracked under the weight of her confession. “Do you know what he did to me? He killed my first love, right in front of me. He died in my arms, Anduin. I never even got the chance to tell him I loved him.” Her voice broke, and she clenched her fists as the memories came flooding back. “And after that, Garrosh slammed Gorehowl into my stomach… after I told him I might be pregnant.”
Anduin’s eyes widened, shock and horror freezing him in place.
“It took me two years to recover,” Perfectia continued, her tears now flowing freely. “I went through agonizing surgeries just to be able to stand again, but my digestive system, my reproductive system… they were ruined. Forever. Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose that, Anduin?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, cold and sharp. “Do you want me to rip off your balls so you know what that feels like?”
Anduin shook his head, his face pale, unable to speak.
Perfectia wiped away her tears angrily, her voice a raw mixture of grief and fury. “Jaina lost her home, yes. But Garrosh gave her plenty of time to evacuate the innocents. She lost soldiers, not children. And yet you hold her up like some kind of martyr, as if she’s the only one who suffered because of him.”
Anduin shook his head, clearly overwhelmed. “This is a lot. Archmage Aethas Sunreaver confessed to everything, even after the Purge.”
Perfectia’s expression shifted from hurt to disbelief, her defenses rising. “Ok, mon amour. You need proof?” She undid her belt and struggled to pull down her pants, the movement difficult with only one functioning arm.
Anduin furrowed his brows, confused. “Perfectia, what are you doing? I didn’t come here for that.”
“This isn’t about that,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. She looked away, embarrassed by her own weakness. “Help me… s’il te plaît.”
Seeing her vulnerability, Anduin stepped forward, helping her remove the tight pants. His hands paused when he saw the six round scars below her navel, each marking a haunting memory. He touched them softly, the sight of her mutilated skin shaking him.
“Recognize the measurements?” Perfectia asked, her voice distant.
He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s the back of Gorehowl.”
She exhaled, her gaze darkened by the weight of the memories. “It took me years to recover from that. The Silver Covenant… they helped Garrosh move the bell to Pandaria. Aethas… he just stood there, frozen while Garrosh did this to me.” She gestured to her scars. “He kept silent, even during the Purge.”
Her voice cracked as she continued, speaking of her lost love. “Garrosh killed Oranio, right in front of me. He didn’t care. And when I told him I might be pregnant…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
Anduin’s hand hovered over her scars, his heart aching for her. “Perfectia… I’m so sorry.”
She gave a bitter laugh through her tears, trying to hide the pain. “Help me with my pants, will you?”
Anduin blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh… right.” He helped her pull the pants back up, struggling against her curves and the tight fit.
As his hands lingered, trying to smooth the fabric, Perfectia moved closer, pressing his hand to her rear. “It hurts here too,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “You should grab it with both hands.”
For a moment, Anduin’s resolve wavered, the tension between them palpable. But then he pulled away, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
Perfectia froze, hurt flashing across her face. “What do you have to be sorry about? You love me, you want me. So take me, Anduin. Or maybe… you want something else.”
Anduin’s heart raced, but he held firm. “That’s not it… it’s just not here, not like this. I wanted to marry you first.” His voice cracked with regret. “Well… I did want to.”
Perfectia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, I see. You’re waiting for a woman of power, someone who can give you castles and crowns.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Anduin interrupted, trying to explain, but the words came out hollow.
Perfectia crossed her arms, looking away. “I don’t believe you. You’re just another greedy king. But… I don’t care.”
Her words cut deep, and Anduin stepped forward again, his expression pained. “If you want to help with the Alliance’s endeavors, I would welcome it. But I can’t be with you, Perfectia.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “What?”
He hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It’s just… the Horde has hurt you so much. But you could have a place in the Alliance. You could belong here.”
Perfectia stared at him, her eyes filled with a mix of hurt and confusion. “What are you saying? Do you think I need to prove myself to you? What, do I have to earn your love by doing a bunch of quests for the Alliance? I fell in love with you, Anduin, not your damn kingdom.”
Anduin shook his head, struggling to respond. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Are you in love with Jaina Proudmoore?” Perfectia interrupted, her voice barely hiding her resentment.
Anduin looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before meeting her eyes again. “If I was in love with her, would you try to kill her again?”
Perfectia’s lips curled into a bitter smile as she unwrapped her arm, revealing her deformed hand.
Anduin stared at it, disturbed. “Did she do this to you?”
Her eyes darkened, the anger simmering beneath her words. “If I told you she did, would you believe me?”
He looked between her hand and her face, the tension rising. “Yes.”
Perfectia nodded slowly, a touch of bitterness still lingering. “Good. But she didn’t do this to me.” Her voice dropped, regret seeping through. “This happened after our fight. It wasn’t her fault.”
Confusion flickered across Anduin’s face. “Then why—why say that?”
Perfectia chuckled softly, a hint of weariness in her laughter. “Because I know how she’ll twist it. She’ll bat her eyes, tell you how terrified she was. How could you be involved with someone like me? And you’ll start to wonder if she’s right.” Her eyes met his, hard and unwavering. “But don’t let her fool you. The only thing Jaina cares about is vengeance. She’d turn you into a monster to rebuild her shattered world.”
Anduin recoiled slightly, taken aback by the venom in her words. “Jaina has been through—”
“I know what she’s been through!” Perfectia interrupted, her voice rising. “I was there, Anduin. We both were. She’s not the victim she wants you to believe. If it were up to her, Theramore would rise again, built from the ashes of a hundred thousand lives. I didn’t kill her because of you. But if I see her again… I won’t make the same mistake.”
Perfectia reached into her bag, pulling out her worn book. She tore a page from it and held it out to him. “Give this to her. Don’t read it.”
Anduin hesitated, taking the paper but looking at her with concern. “I don’t love her, Perfectia. I love you. But I need her. For the Alliance.”
Perfectia’s lips curled into a sad smile. “But you don’t need me?”
Anduin’s gaze dropped, guilt heavy in his voice. “I want you… but I don’t deserve you.”
Perfectia took a step closer, her voice softer, pleading. “What about peace? We both wanted that. We still want that.” She gently took his hand, pulling off his glove, her skin brushing against his. “We have it right now, Anduin. Can’t we at least try? I don’t care about your throne, your title. I just want you.”
He didn’t know how to respond, the weight of her words settling over him like a burden he wasn’t ready to carry.
She kissed his other hand, her voice almost breaking. “I’ll do anything. I can walk around in disguise if you want. I don’t need a title, I don’t need a place at your side in public. We could get married in secret… I just can’t keep fighting. I’m so tired of this war, Anduin.” Her voice cracked, her desperation clear. “Don’t let her turn you into something you’re not.”
Anduin felt his resolve crumbling. He knew, deep down, that Perfectia was his—if he said the word, she would follow him anywhere, do anything. But that wasn’t the man he wanted to be.
He looked at her, his heart torn. “I told you… you could join the Alliance.”
Perfectia let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Do you really think me joining the Alliance would bring peace?”
Anduin shook his head slowly, his eyes heavy with regret. “I could protect you from the Horde.”
Perfectia let out a soft, bitter laugh, looking down at the ground. “And who would protect me from the Alliance?”
He lowered his gaze, nodding in acknowledgment. “Or who would protect you from me?” The words seemed to break him further, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Perfectia. I’m already a monster. Even if this war ends, even if we win, I’ll have too much blood on my hands for you to love me.” His eyes met hers, pained. “War is all I’ve ever known.”
Perfectia’s heart tightened as she stepped closer. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
He shook his head, his expression defeated. “It’s just the way the world is.”
“No,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, clinging to him like a lifeline. “No.” Her voice trembled, pleading. “Anduin, please. I love you. We can—”
But he didn’t return the hug. His arms stayed limp at his sides, his body rigid.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice cold, distant. Anduin reached into his pocket, pulling out his hearthstone, the familiar blue glow flickering in his palm.
“No, please,” Perfectia’s voice cracked as she grabbed for the stone, her fingers brushing against his hand, but Anduin turned his back to her. She could feel him slipping away.
“Anduin, don’t leave me. Please.” Her voice wavered, filled with desperation, as she hugged him tighter, pressing herself against him as if her warmth could stop him from disappearing. “Vivre d’amour et d’eau fraîche,” she whispered, tears slipping down her face. “I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you.”
Anduin hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering on the hearthstone. He turned his head, just enough to look back at her, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow that cut her to her core.
“I love you too.” His voice was soft, almost broken, but the words carried the weight of his guilt and grief. And then he was gone.
The blue light of the hearthstone enveloped him, and in an instant, he vanished, leaving Perfectia standing alone in the cold emptiness of the Eastern Kingdoms.
—-
Anduin reappeared in Stormwind Keep, the familiar walls offering no comfort as he made his way up the grand staircase. His heart felt hollow, his mind clouded with the memory of her face, her words. He barely noticed Genn Greymane until he was directly in his path.
“My king, are you alright?” Genn’s voice was filled with concern as he took in Anduin’s pale expression, the weight of sadness etched into his features.
Anduin shook his head, not even able to meet Genn’s gaze. “No,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking. “Please, leave me alone.”
Before Genn could say another word, Anduin rushed past him, his steps hurried and uneven. The door to his room slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the stone walls. Genn stood outside, frozen in place, hearing only the faint sound of muffled sobs.
—-
The next day, Anduin returned to his duties as king. His presence was there, but his mind was elsewhere. The soldiers and adventurers who came for their briefings might as well have been ghosts, and his own voice sounded distant to his ears, like an echo trapped in a hollow chamber. He sat on his throne, fidgeting with the pear in his hand. It had become more than a fruit—it was something to occupy his hands, something to control.
His movements were restless, shifting in his seat, tossing the pear from hand to hand with increasing force. It was small, fragile, and yet his frustration kept pushing him to squeeze it harder. Genn, standing nearby, noticed the tension but hesitated to comment. Still, he couldn’t ignore how agitated Anduin seemed as he handled the pear during conversations, sometimes eating it absentmindedly, other times gripping it too tightly.
Genn finally stepped forward, his concern growing. “Your Highness, you don’t have to be here if you’re not feeling well. It’s alright to take a break.”
Anduin shook his head, not meeting Genn’s gaze. “No. I need to stay busy.” He looked down, trying to remember something that had been nagging him since the previous night. “Genn, do you know what… Vivre d’amour et d’eau fraîche means?”
Genn’s ears perked up at the familiar phrase. “Yes, that’s an Elvish saying. It means something like ‘to live on love and fresh water,’ or, more drastically, ‘to love so much you’d rather die than be apart.’” He paused, recalling his own time in Gilneas. “It’s what Elven wives would say when their husbands went off to war.”
Anduin nodded, his grip tightening around the pear, tossing it aggressively between his hands. The tension in his fingers was palpable, and Genn could see his frustration building with every passing second. “Anduin, can you put down the fruit?” Genn finally said, sensing something was about to snap.
But Anduin didn’t calm down—instead, he shook his head fiercely, his voice rising with a sudden surge of emotion. “Can you not!?.. Please?!” He yelled, his voice cracking with frustration.
In that moment, his grip tightened uncontrollably, and the pear burst in his hand, its juice and pulp splattering down onto his fingers and dripping to the floor. Anduin stared at the crushed fruit in his hand, the remains slipping through his fingers as he looked at it, stunned. His voice softened, almost hollow, as he let the pear drop from his hand. “I-I don’t know what just came over me.”
He looked down at the ruined pear as if realizing for the first time how his anger had consumed him. “I planned on eating that.”
The guardsman, sensing the awkwardness, stepped forward. "I’ll get you another one, your majesty. Warm, with soft skin, just how you like them… and I’ll grab a mop.”
Genn raised his hand at the guardsman. “No, just the mop.”
Turning back to Anduin, he spoke quietly, “Anduin, you’re going through a lot, but you can’t keep bottling it up.”
Anduin saw someone approaching, fast and furious. Jaina Proudmoore stormed into the room from the left of Stormwind Keep, her eyes blazing with anger. Anduin’s expression hardened, disgust flickering across his face.
Without a word, Jaina reached back with her right hand and swung it toward Anduin’s face in a slap. But before she could land the blow, Anduin caught her wrist mid-air, his grip firm. “Let go of me,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
He held her gaze for a moment, then released her hand without a word.
“Jaina, this isn’t the time,” Genn Greymane intervened, stepping forward cautiously.
Jaina didn’t even glance at Genn. Her eyes were locked on Anduin, sharp and accusing. “You’re involved with a mana vampire? What do you think this is, some badly written teenage romance novel?”
Genn stifled a laugh, but Anduin remained cold. He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “Genn, it’s fine. Let’s not do this here.” He turned back to Jaina, his voice lower, “If you’re going to scold me, can we at least go somewhere less public?”
Jaina, arms crossed and seething, jerked her head toward the map room. Without another word, Anduin followed her. Genn trailed behind but stopped outside the door, letting them settle their quarrel in private.
Inside the map room, Anduin walked to the far side of the war table, putting distance between them. Tyrande and Malfurion were already in the room, discussing strategy, but Anduin signaled for them to leave. One of the guards stepped forward, holding a sundae glass filled with cut pineapple, pandaren orange slices, heavy cream, and coconut.
“Your Majesty, should I put this in the cold storage?”
Jaina eyed the dessert, her annoyance apparent. “Isn’t it a little early for sweets?”
The guard glanced at the glass. “It was made for him last night, but he hasn’t touched it. It’s been sitting out all morning.”
Anduin waved a hand dismissively. “Let him have it. I’ll ask the cooks for another later.”
The guard grinned, taking the glass as he and the others left the room, shutting the door behind them. The silence thickened.
Jaina wasted no time. “Who is she, Anduin?” Her voice was laced with disdain.
From the shadows near the exit, Tyrande hesitated, listening intently. Malfurion gestured for her to follow him out, but she shook her head, casting a stealthy Shadowmend to blend in, watching silently.
Anduin’s eyes darkened, his shoulders slumping as he looked away. “No one that matters anymore,” he replied flatly. “It’s over. You don’t need to worry about her sitting on the throne.”
Jaina’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea what she did to me?”
Anduin’s expression remained distant. “She spared you.”
Jaina scoffed, her voice rising. “She only spared me because I saw that necklace you gave her! It was like living a nightmare. She slammed me into the ground so many times I thought my spine would snap. I could barely walk after that fight!” She clenched her fists. “If the Horde has someone that powerful, we need to be prepared to deal with her. If she comes back, we have to be ready.”
Anduin’s face remained stony. “You mean kill her?”
Jaina’s expression hardened. “If it comes to that, yes.”
Suddenly, Tyrande faded into view, stepping forward from her hiding spot. “What exactly did she do, Jaina?”
Jaina spun around, startled. “Tyrande! You were asked to leave—what are you doing here?”
“I arranged the meeting between them because I thought they could make peace. I didn’t expect Anduin to break her heart like that.” Tyrande’s voice softened, a rare empathy coloring her tone. “I would have spared her that pain.”
Anduin’s control finally snapped, his voice filled with frustration. “I told you to leave, Tyrande!” His fists clenched as he struggled to contain his rising anger.
Tyrande met his gaze, unflinching. “Anduin, we’ve all lost people we care about in this war. Don’t make this worse by closing yourself off to those who can help you.”
Jaina watched the exchange, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion. She had never seen Anduin lose control like this. But before she could speak, Anduin turned away, his hand gripping the edge of the map table, knuckles white with tension.
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on all of them.
Anduin walked into the map room, signaling for everyone inside to leave, including Tyrande and Malfurion. He moved to the far side of the war table, creating a noticeable distance between himself and Jaina. One of the guards approached, holding a sundae glass filled with cut pineapple, pandaren orange slices, sweet heavy cream, and coconut.
“Your Majesty, should I put this in cold storage?” the guard asked.
Jaina glanced at the dessert, her brow furrowing. “Isn’t it a little early for dessert?” she remarked, the curiosity in her voice cutting through the tension in the room.
The guard offered a small explanation. “The cook made it for him last night, but he hasn’t touched it. He’s just been smelling it all morning.”
Anduin’s eyes flickered toward the glass, his expression tightening for a moment before he masked it. “Just hold onto it,” he instructed, his voice heavy with distraction.
The guard, seemingly drawn to the sweet aroma, hesitated. “May I have it, Your Majesty? It really does smell incredible.”
Anduin let out a soft, hollow laugh, though the weight of his unspoken thoughts lingered in the air. “Yes, go ahead. I’ll ask the cooks to make me another.”
As the guard left the room, taking the dessert with him, a hint of regret clouded Anduin’s face. The lingering scent of the pineapple and sweet cream had stirred something in him—a reminder of something he hadn’t been able to enjoy, or perhaps couldn’t bring himself to.
“Who is she?” Jaina demanded, her voice sharp as her gaze fixed on Anduin. Tyrande, who had been quietly following Malfurion, paused mid-step. Malfurion gestured for her to keep moving, but she shook her head, casting a shadowmend spell to melt into the background, staying to listen.
Anduin turned his head away, his voice hollow. “No one that matters anymore. You don’t need to worry about her sitting on the throne. It’s over.”
Jaina scoffed, disgust clear on her face. “Do you have any idea what she did to me?”
“She spared you,” Anduin responded, his tone flat and unyielding.
Jaina’s eyes blazed with fury. "Only because I saw the necklace you gave her. You don’t understand—it was like something out of a nightmare. I could barely stand after the fight, Anduin. Do you realize how many times she slammed me into the ground? If the Horde has someone that powerful… we need to be prepared. "
Anduin raised an eyebrow, his voice edged with disbelief. “You mean kill her?”
Jaina crossed her arms, her expression hard. “If it comes to that, yes.”
Before Anduin could respond, Tyrande stepped forward, her presence ghostly as she emerged from the shadows. “What exactly did she do?”
Jaina spun around, startled. “Tyrande? What are you doing here? I thought Anduin told you to leave.”
Tyrande ignored her, her voice calm but pointed. “I arranged the meeting between them. I didn’t think Anduin would break her heart—I would have spared her that pain.” She shot a glance at Anduin, her tone accusing.
Anduin’s control was slipping. His voice sharpened, “I told you to leave, Tyrande.”
Tyrande’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you told me you’d do anything to make things right after what happened.” She turned back to Jaina, her eyes narrowing. “I heard about what you did in Lordaeron, Jaina, but you’ve been leaning on that staff like it’s more than a prop. Why haven’t you seen a healer for your injuries?”
Jaina’s anger flared, her silver eyes glowing briefly before settling back into their usual blue. “I have seen healers!” she snapped, then winced as a fresh wave of pain rippled through her.
Anduin’s concern was immediate. “Jaina… what happened?”
Jaina glanced at Anduin, her voice dropping to a whisper as she spoke to Tyrande. “Don’t show him.”
With hesitant hands, she lifted the back of her blouse, revealing bandages soaked with green, fel-infused pus that seeped through the fabric. Dark veins spidered from the wound, creeping across her back, their blackened tendrils pulsing with tainted energy. “She cut me with the Corrupted Ashbringer,” Jaina murmured, her voice strained. “The healers closed the wound, but it reopens every few hours… the pain never stops.”
Tyrande’s expression softened as she studied the wound. “Anduin,” she said gently, “this is more than a physical injury. It’s a wound on her spirit.”
Anduin stepped closer, his concern growing. “Let me help. I’ve spent my life studying the Light—I should be able to heal this.”
Tyrande placed a hand on his chest, stopping him. “This isn’t something the Light can touch. The damage runs deeper… to her astral body. If we don’t act quickly, her strength will continue to fade, and the wound will keep tearing open. I have herbs from Darkshore and I’ll need to perform an acupuncture ritual to stop the poisoned blood from spreading.”
Anduin’s throat tightened as he nodded. “Of course… Please, do whatever you must. Thank you.”
Tyrande gave him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll take care of her.”
Jaina grimaced, her voice softer now. “I have a place… in Dalaran. My old room should still be intact.” She raised her hand, arcane energy swirling around her fingertips, and within seconds, they vanished in a burst of magic, leaving Anduin alone in the war room, staring at the place they’d stood.