Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(14)

“Take off your blouse and lie flat,” Tyrande ordered.

Jaina complied, her movements stiff from the lingering pain. Tyrande swiftly cut away the fel-stained bandages, revealing the festering wound. With a calm precision, she channeled the Light of Elune, closing the visible tear in the flesh. But beneath the surface, she sensed the deeper damage—a fracture in Jaina’s astral form.

She grabbed a thick, red-tonic and applied it to the wound, then used a black quill to trace ancient Elven runes around the afflicted area. Jaina winced but sighed in relief. “That feels better,” she muttered, the pain ebbing slightly.

Tyrande didn’t respond immediately, taking out a small pouch of fine powder. She sprinkled it carefully onto the runes. The moment the dust hit Jaina’s skin, she cried out, “Ouch!”

“Purifying salt. It’s meant to hurt—your body is rejecting the poison,” Tyrande explained. “Now, sit up.”

Jaina pulled herself upright, arms crossed over her chest, as Tyrande prepared the acupuncture needles. “This might sting. Your pores are swollen, so the needles may hit a few nerves.”

Jaina nodded, gritting her teeth as the first needle pricked her back. A small trickle of blood ran down her skin.

Trying to distract herself from the pain, she asked, “So, what did Anduin say to owe you a favor?”

Tyrande focused on inserting another needle, her brow furrowing. “He said something… out of character. But I can’t blame him entirely, given the situation. They’re both young, idealistic, in love.” She massaged a bruised area before inserting the next needle.

Jaina hissed at the sharp pinch, but her curiosity was piqued. “Why her? A member of the Horde? Haven’t people been trying to set him up for years?”

Tyrande gave a small, tired laugh. “Genn’s been trying harder than anyone. But Anduin’s always been restrained by priesthood and his endless pursuit of peace. He’s so repressed, I doubt he even fully understands what’s happening to him.”

“What do you mean?” Jaina asked, her face twisting with a mix of pain and intrigue.

“Anduin has always wanted peace for Azeroth. He doesn’t care about past grudges or rivalries. She came to Stormwind disguised, trying to atone for what she did in Darkshore, but her cover slipped. Despite that, he accepted her… flaws and all. There was always something off about her, though.”

Jaina winced as another needle slid in. “If he accepted her, then why break up with her?”

Tyrande shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. Sin’dorei magic is volatile. They’ve bound themselves to fel to prolong their lives, but this… this weapon she used is different.” Tyrande’s eyes narrowed as she examined the runes. “I’ve only seen spiritual weapons do this kind of damage—wounds that cut into the spirit itself. Those scars won’t heal easily, if at all.”

Jaina clenched her fists. “What does a spiritual weapon usually do?”

“They don’t just leave a physical wound,” Tyrande said softly, carefully placing the final needle. “They scar the soul. And without the right kind of healing, that wound can linger for a lifetime.”

Jaina’s face paled at the thought, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Will it ever stop hurting?”

Tyrande looked at her with sad eyes. “Not until the soul is healed. But I’ll do what I can.”

Tyrande rubbed her hands together, warming them with a soft breath before placing them on Jaina’s back. “The damage starts deep—inside the soul. The pain alone should be enough to knock you unconscious, and honestly, it’s a miracle you’re even awake. When a spirit wields a spectral weapon, it tears at both body and spirit, sometimes so severely the victim dies from shock. To outsiders, it looks like a heart attack. But later, when the wounds reopen, it’s clear something far more sinister happened, and that’s when people start hunting ghosts.”

Jaina shifted uncomfortably. “What about artifact weapons? I’ve heard them called ‘living weapons.’ The Ashbringer is one of them.”

Tyrande let out a soft laugh, but her face remained serious. “Living doesn’t mean spiritual. A living weapon is bound to a soul, but not one that’s still tethered to life. Usually, the weapon carries the essence of someone who died wielding it. But wielding a spiritual weapon while alive… that’s impossible. You can’t be both living and dead.”

Jaina’s brows furrowed. “What about Frostmourne?”

Tyrande’s expression darkened. “Frostmourne was something different. It was bonded to the spirit of Ner’zhul, a powerful shaman turned Lich King. It did more than just kill; it enslaved souls. The blade wasn’t just physical—it was an extension of its master’s power.”

Jaina bit her lip. “Then what about the Ashbringer? She was able to corrupt it and summon six others. Six spectral swords at once.”

Tyrande’s eyes narrowed. “Six others? That’s something I’ve only ever heard of with Death Knights—and even they summon only one, through a form of astral projection. Death Knights don’t require souls to fight. But six… that’s beyond anything I’ve encountered.”

Jaina shook her head, frustration boiling inside her. “There’s a reason necromancy is forbidden.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” Tyrande said quietly, her voice tinged with melancholy.

Jaina’s gaze hardened. “So that’s what I was dealing with? A necromancer, a practitioner of the dark arts.” She scoffed, disgusted. “Maybe I should’ve killed her at the port.”

Tyrande raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Are you sure you want to hear this? You’ve already made up your mind about what’s right and wrong. You’re not open to crossing any lines.”

Jaina let out a yelp as a needle pressed into a tender spot, and Tyrande quickly wiped away the blackened blood. “Sorry,” Tyrande said. “I can focus better if I don’t have to explain everything. But if you face her again with the same narrow understanding, you’ll just be more afraid. And fear makes mistakes.”

“I’m not afraid,” Jaina snapped, too quickly. “I just know what she’s doing is wrong.”

Tyrande’s hands paused for a moment. “Do you really believe an evil tool can never be used for good?”

Jaina scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Are you going to tell me Frostmourne could’ve been used for good?”

Tyrande’s smile was faint, almost sad. “That depends on who’s holding it.”

Tyrande’s gaze grew distant as she recalled the past. “You know, fragments of Frostmourne were used by Death Knights to help defeat the Legion. So yes, even a weapon as dark as that can serve a greater purpose.”

Jaina shrugged slightly, curiosity piqued. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to hear more.”

Tyrande took a deep breath, her voice low and measured as she began. “Necromancy… it wasn’t always what we see it as today. The term comes from Nekromanteia, meaning divination through the dead. There was a time when it was a practical tool, used to solve crimes or bring justice. A murdered victim could be summoned to answer questions about their death, identifying the murderer or revealing key details. It was treated no differently than shamanism, and there was no stigma attached.”

Jaina’s brow furrowed. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“It was a different time,” Tyrande nodded, her voice soft. “There was another practice called Nekyria—a ritual where the dead were called upon to provide knowledge about the future. Sorcerers and sorceresses, the most powerful ones, would commune with the dead to learn the secrets of the underworld. They’d sacrifice animals, offer blood to the spirits, recite ancient incantations, and in return, they’d gain insight. But the risks… those were always high.”

Jaina’s interest deepened. “What kind of risks?”

“Rituals often went wrong. Some apprentices would call upon familiar faces—family members, friends—and lose control. The dead would lash out, sometimes killing the very sorcerers who summoned them. In the best cases, if the ritual succeeded, the apprentice would drink the blood offered and gain knowledge from the underworld—learning to return from such journeys with their mind intact. But this wasn’t just about necromancy,” Tyrande explained, her voice becoming somber. “It was a foundational practice for all magic. Much of what we now know as the Arcane was born from these dangerous journeys.”

Jaina shifted uneasily. “And necromancy wasn’t considered evil back then?”

Tyrande shook her head. “No, not at first. It was seen as a high-risk, high-reward magic. There was a common rite among mages and priests, called Katabasis, a physical journey into the underworld. It tested them, forcing them to complete a quest to commune with the dead. Another test was Harrowing—a practice to see if a mage or priest could protect themselves from possession. I’ve done it myself,” she added, her eyes hardening. “But over time, necromancers became focused on raising the dead not just for knowledge, but for control. When they began summoning bodies to serve as soldiers or servants, necromancy became twisted. It wasn’t about communing with spirits anymore; it became about dominance over death.”

Jaina grimaced, disturbed by the shift in tone. “So necromancers were originally more like priests and sorcerers seeking knowledge?”

“Yes,” Tyrande confirmed. “When necromancers focused on summoning recently deceased bodies for protection or wisdom, they performed grotesque rituals—animal sacrifices, mutilation, even consuming the dead. But sometimes, the simplest things—like wearing a dead person’s clothing—could cause a temporary possession, allowing them to manifest memories.”

Jaina frowned. “So when did necromancy become the dark art we know it as today?”

Tyrande glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “Do you want my opinion or the facts?”

Jaina blinked, bewildered by the question. “The facts, I guess.”

Tyrande sighed, her tone heavy. “The shift happened when necromancers stopped seeing death as something to understand and began using it as a tool of power. When the desire for control over life and death took over, necromancy became tainted. It wasn’t about healing or wisdom anymore—it was about creating armies, enslaving spirits, and desecrating life itself. That’s when it became taboo, condemned by all.”

Tyrande’s voice took on a more serious tone as she continued. “Journeying into the underworld wasn’t just risky—it was incredibly taxing on the body and mind. Even elves, with their longer lifespans, would find their lives shortened if they practiced necromancy for too long. It was meant to be a temporary pursuit—a few years of study to gather knowledge, then you let that wisdom guide you for the rest of your life. But eventually, we discovered the Emerald Dream—a safer, more stable realm. And with that, the need for necromancy faded.”

Jaina furrowed her brow. “That still doesn’t explain why it became unacceptable.”

Tyrande sighed. “Because humans couldn’t handle it without destroying themselves. Necromancers found they could summon armies of the dead, preying on people’s fears and hopelessness. They gained terrifying amounts of knowledge through communion with spirits, making them formidable threats. Human nations needed death to be final. Kingdoms rise and fall, heroes are celebrated, and villains are condemned—necromancy disrupted that cycle. It blurred the line between life and death, making it harder for nations to move forward.”

Tyrande shrugged, “That’s more my opinion than fact, though.”

Jaina gave a small smile. “I suppose I can see your point.”

Tyrande continued, “When human kingdoms demonized necromancy, we didn’t fight it. The art had already outlived its purpose for us, and many agreed with the humans’ embrace of the Light. The Church believed only those with an unshakable faith could perform resurrection, viewing necromancy as a mockery of that power. Both practices—resurrection and necromancy—involve communing with the dead, but the focus of necromancy became raising armies, enslaving spirits for control. It’s easy to see why it became viewed as inherently evil.”

Jaina nodded. “I get that, but I also spoke with my father once, using necromancy… or something like it. I think it was him.”

Tyrande raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What did you learn?”

“I lit a torch, sang a song he used to know, and I found where his ship had sunk. I was able to raise it from the depths.”

Tyrande’s expression softened. “Necromancy wasn’t always about raising armies or controlling spirits. It was once a means of seeking closure, of understanding. But it’s dangerous, and I wouldn’t recommend doing it again without proper guidance. If you start having nightmares about being trapped or find yourself paralyzed when you wake, you must see me immediately.”

Jaina looked at her, surprised by the warning. “Why? What could happen?”

Tyrande breathed in deeply. “Necromancy operates on principles similar to shamanism. But unlike the elements, which are simple and grow more intelligent as they gather, each spirit of the dead has sentient intelligence. The line between communicating with spirits and inviting something malevolent is razor-thin. Even a grieving widow can accidentally summon an evil spirit pretending to be her husband. And, just like the elements, spirits can be enslaved. Necromancy can lead you down a very dark path if you’re not careful.”

Jaina’s face tensed with understanding, the gravity of what Tyrande was saying sinking in. “So, even well-intentioned necromancy can go wrong?”

Tyrande nodded. “Very wrong.”

Jaina’s expression tightened as she tried to process everything. Her mind kept wandering back to her own actions with the Focusing Iris, and the dangerous potential it had held.

Tyrande continued, her tone firm but compassionate. “Enslaving spirits for necromancy never ends well, not for the user, and certainly not for the spirits. When the necromancer dies, they are at the mercy of those very spirits they’ve enslaved. And possession, while rare, is a real threat—an enslaved spirit can retaliate. There’s a thin veil between the spirit world and the physical one, and necromancy walks that line. The Light keeps us tethered to the physical world, giving us glimpses of the spiritual realm, much like standing at the edge of the ocean—you sense the waves but aren’t pulled in. That’s why some can pull others back from death. But a spirit strong enough can manifest in both realms, as a ghost or even forge a spiritual weapon. Frostmourne was one of the few to achieve that power.”

Jaina’s curiosity piqued. “But is such a weapon really impossible to create again?”

Tyrande hesitated. “Not impossible, but highly improbable. A weapon reforged from countless lives taken could cause damage to both realms. Silver, too, can wound spirits, but it’s too soft and pure to sustain the fel magic needed for a wound like yours. And summoning multiple weapons out of thin air? Even calling forth just one spectral weapon is a feat nearly impossible.”

“Nearly impossible?” Jaina pressed. “There’s a saying here in Dalaran, 'Anything that can happen, will happen.’ Lightning can strike the same place a hundred times, after all. I need to understand how this could happen, so I’m ready if it happens again.”

Tyrande admired Jaina’s persistence. She sighed and began her explanation. “For someone to summon even one spiritual weapon, the spirit behind it must have been immensely powerful in life. More than that, they must be willing. We’re talking about spirits—friends, family, maybe lovers—who chose to turn their backs on the peace of the afterlife to protect the summoner. Several spectral weapons would mean several powerful, willing participants. But even good spirits can be dangerous if they accidentally possess the user. Without a strong will, the summoner could lose themselves, confusing their memories with those of the spirits. This is why necromancers bind spirits to objects instead—it’s safer for them.”

Jaina’s eyes widened. “Do you think that’s what happened to Arthas?”

Tyrande paused, reflecting. She inserted another needle into Jaina’s back with gentle precision. “It’s hard to say. If Arthas had been at the mercy of enslaved spirits, we would have seen more chaos, heard their cries from within Icecrown Citadel. I do believe some spirits aligned with his cause. But, considering Bolvar took up the mantle of the Lich King, it’s more likely that he sent Arthas’s soul elsewhere, sparing him any torment.”

Jaina shuddered at the thought, her mind whirling with the new perspective. “So, even the greatest powers can slip from control… and bring unimaginable consequences.”

Jaina furrowed her brow, perplexed. “How do you know so much about all of this?”

Tyrande smiled softly, her expression both serene and distant. “Balance has always been my purpose. I’ve served Elune for over nine thousand years.”

Jaina looked at her in disbelief. “Nine thousand? That can’t be right. You’re well over twelve thousand years old, Tyrande.”

With a small, wistful smile, Tyrande responded, “True. But I haven’t always walked the righteous path. I’ve had other ambitions, other interests… and I’ve done many things I regret.”

Sensing the weight behind Tyrande’s words, Jaina nodded and chose not to press further. “I understand. I won’t ask for details.” She lay back down, allowing Tyrande to continue tending to her.

Tyrande resumed her work, speaking quietly as she focused. “Many druids choose to live in the Emerald Dream permanently. It’s a realm where the restrictions of the physical world are weakened. Manipulating reality there is almost effortless compared to here. Think of it as a blank canvas where one’s creativity is the only limit. The underworld, by contrast, is crowded, chaotic, teeming with spirits. In both cases, power comes through faith—whether it’s in the Light, the elements, or in the stories we tell. The same is true for magic. Our books, our teachings, they aren’t just instruction—they’re meant to inspire belief.”

Jaina’s curiosity was piqued. “So, you’re saying magic—whether it’s divine or arcane—is really just about belief?”

“Yes,” Tyrande nodded. “Faith is the foundation of power. Whether you’re a mage or a priest, it’s belief that fuels your strength.” She paused and then added, “When you fought Perfectia Dawnlight, did you notice? Did she ever waver? Lose confidence, even for a moment?”

Jaina thought back to the battle. “No,” she admitted slowly. “Not for a second.” She frowned, recalling something. “Is that really her name? ‘Perfectia Dawnlight’? It doesn’t even sound like a proper elven name. It reeks of High Elf vanity.” She paused, her mind working through old memories. “Wait… could she be related to Kel’Donas Dawnlight?”

Tyrande raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

Jaina leaned forward slightly, her voice thoughtful. “Kel’Donas was an author, or maybe an artist. A tall elf, a tailor by trade, but…” She trailed off for a moment. “When I was little, I thought her books were coloring books. Basic Principles of Mana Weaving. She also had advanced books on the Arcane, but she would design crystal formations to enhance spellcasting. I remember coloring in those diagrams.”

Tyrande looked intrigued. “A mage? That might explain why I never knew her. I forbade any of my people from practicing the Arcane.”

Jaina smiled nostalgically. “I met her when I was five. She taught me how to use a loom, and she was faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. I remember asking her to show me magic, but she refused. She told me arcane magic was far too dangerous for humans, especially children. I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d sewn mana crystals into my clothes. When I asked her why, she said, ‘If you’re going to practice, at least look ze part and protect yourself from backfire.’” Jaina mimicked the posh Thalassian accent Kel’Donas had used. “‘If ze arcane is your dream, it is not ze sort of dream where you are permitted to wander, or you will be little more zan an angry dog.’” She laughed softly at the memory.

Tyrande smiled warmly at Jaina’s impression, her expression thoughtful as she listened.

Tyrande raised an eyebrow, confused. “I heard you were something of a child prodigy. If your clothes were infused with mana crystals, that means…”

Jaina chuckled. “It means I cheated. I wasn’t the prodigy people think I am. I was just a girl who wanted to learn because someone told me not to.”

Tyrande couldn’t help but laugh with her.

“Kel’Donas was so sophisticated, with expensive taste. She was demanding, a bit stuck-up even. She had this peculiar laugh when she won at anything—usually at the expense of a ‘lowly peasant’ or ‘sea barbarian,’ as she called them.” Jaina mimicked the high-pitched, exaggerated laugh, covering her mouth. “‘Oh-ohohohoh!’”

“You sound like a villain, Jaina,” Tyrande teased with a smirk. She stood, crossing her arms as she drifted into thought. “Dawnlight… wait.”

Jaina turned, her smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

Tyrande shook her head. “No, nothing. It’s just that ‘Dawnlight’… there are many High Elves with ‘dawn’ in their surname. I think I remember a kin of mine, also named Dawnlight, who died in Teldrassil. What was her name again?” She paused, trying to recall. “Moriana. She was a bit of a troublemaker between the High Elves and Night Elves.”

Jaina’s curiosity piqued. “Who was she?”

Tyrande sighed, visibly disgusted by the memory. “Someone who doesn’t deserve much remembrance. But I do remember Talanas Windrunner—Sylvanas’ father. He was a good friend of mine. I still recall Sylvanas when she was just a little girl.” She grew quiet, her voice solemn. “When the orcs slaughtered most of his clan, he told me, ‘No one is meant to live forever,’ even after his son’s death. That friendship prevented wars between our people for thousands of years.” Tyrande shook her head. “It’s astounding what has happened in the last thirty years.”

Snapping out of her thoughts, she looked back at Jaina. “Are you in any pain?”

Jaina rolled her shoulders gently. “No, I feel a lot better. Are you finished?”

Tyrande nodded. “There are twelve needles in your back. Most of the blackened blood is gone.” She quickly removed the needles and massaged the red tonic into Jaina’s skin. “Don’t shower for 24 hours or it’ll hurt worse than before.”

Jaina slipped her blouse and shoulder armor back on, rotating her shoulders. “I really do feel much better.”

“Good,” Tyrande replied with a satisfied nod. “What will you do now?”

“I’ll talk to Anduin with a clearer head,” Jaina said. “Do you want me to teleport you back?”

Tyrande shook her head, glancing out of the window. “No, I haven’t been here since the city has been in the air. I’d like to take in the view, if you don’t mind.”

Jaina smiled softly. “I’ve invited you here before. You didn’t enjoy the view in Northrend?”

Tyrande stepped outside, Jaina following. Together, they gazed out over the Broken Isles, the air calm but heavy with the weight of their thoughts. “There are fewer regrets here,” Tyrande murmured. “Good luck, Jaina.”

Jaina stepped through the portals near Hero’s Welcome and took a griffin toward Stormwind Keep, her thoughts tangled as she prepared to confront Anduin again. The flight felt longer than usual, but when she finally landed, she found him waiting. His posture was tense, shoulders drawn tight, as if bracing himself for another emotional battle.

“I spoke with Tyrande,” she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her.

Anduin didn’t immediately meet her gaze. His eyes flickered with recognition, a brief shadow of guilt crossing his face before he masked it with a blank stare. “And your injury?” he asked, his voice a little too flat.

Jaina forced a small smile. “Better.”

“I’m glad.” His response was stiff, and his smile barely reached his eyes. “Does she know I’m sorry for what I said?”

“She does,” Jaina nodded, watching his expression, searching for a flicker of vulnerability beneath the walls he’d built around himself. “She understands.”

“And you?” He turned to face her fully, eyes darker, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps?

She sighed, the weight of her memories pulling her down, recalling the paths she’d walked before, the roads that led her to Arthas and Thrall, and the endless grief they left behind. “I’ve been down this road before, Anduin,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sorrow. “It never ends well.”

Anduin’s face hardened, a storm brewing in his blue eyes as he clenched his fists. He took a deep breath, as if trying to quell the rage rising inside him, but his voice was sharp when he spoke. “You nearly killed Thrall.” His words were more accusation than statement. “How long did you know him before the bombing of Theramore?”

Jaina stiffened. “Please, don’t—don’t bring that up.”

But he wasn’t listening, his voice rising with every syllable. “Because if it were Thrall you were in love with, you’d understand this isn’t the same road!”

Jaina fell silent, her heart heavy as Anduin unleashed the torrent of his anger. He threw her past in her face—the betrayal of her father, the lies to the Council of Six, her failure at Northwatch. He dredged up every misstep, every regret, even the lovers she’d taken in her life. And she stood there, taking the full force of his fury with quiet acceptance.

For several long minutes, his voice echoed in the chamber. His words were venomous, but beneath them lay the grief he couldn’t express. His breath came in ragged gasps as he finished, his rage spent, leaving only silence between them.

“I remember when you were kind,” he said, his voice hoarse, almost broken. “When you wanted peace more than anything. You were so admirable back then.”

Jaina didn’t flinch. She only shrugged slightly, her voice calm. “I’m still that woman, Anduin.”

“Are you?” His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. “Where were you during the Draenor campaign?”

Jaina lowered her gaze, feeling the familiar ache of loss creep in. “I was mourning,” she said quietly. “My home was destroyed. So many of my friends were dead. I had to make sure their families were cared for. And Khadgar was there—there was no need for me. Besides, he was working with the Horde.” She paused, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “Where were you?”

“Physical therapy, education, and prayer to the Light…” Anduin began, his voice taut with frustration, “If you had assisted Khadgar in Draenor, Gul’dan might not have made it here. Maraad might have even survived.” His tone sharpened as he spoke, the words carrying more weight than he intended.

Jaina looked down, her face softening with the burden of guilt. “Are you blaming me for your father’s death?” she asked quietly. “If I remember correctly, Vereesa told me she planned to kill Garrosh in his cell.”

Anduin nodded, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “That’s true. And if Garrosh had died, eventually I would’ve found out what you were up to with the Sunreavers anyway.” He paused, his voice tightening with anger. “But that’s the difference between us, isn’t it? A stone can be used to kill someone… or to build something.”

He was quoting Garrosh’s trial, the memories flooding back. He clenched his fists as the familiar pain returned. “I forgave him for everything he did to me. I was in excruciating pain for months after that bell, Jaina. I still feel the effects today!” His voice rose, raw with emotion. “The Sunreavers were willing to forgive you for what you did to them because the Legion was an even greater threat. And yet, you—you threw a tantrum like a spoiled child!” He slammed his hand on the table. “The world was on the brink of destruction, and you did nothing because things weren’t going your way! But the second you smelled vengeance on the shore… here you are.”

Jaina nodded slowly, her face impassive, though her eyes flickered with an unspoken pain. “Yes, you’re right,” she said softly.

Anduin’s breath caught in his throat. His anger simmered, bubbling over as he slammed his hand down again, this time hard enough to make a nearby cup tremble. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?!” he shouted, his voice breaking slightly.

She nodded again, silent.

Anduin took a step back, his voice shaking with the weight of his emotions. “You know… that’s why I need you. Whatever your motivations are.”

Jaina whispered under her breath, “He’s bargaining now…” But Anduin didn’t hear her. He pressed on, searching for any reason to make sense of it all. “I spoke with Valeera Sanguinar while you were gone. Do you know her?”

Jaina’s response was mechanical, as though rehearsed. “We haven’t been formally introduced, but I know of her. She helped your father regain himself after Onyxia and fought alongside him in Undercity.”

Anduin barely registered her words. He was lost in his own thoughts, his mind racing. “I asked Valeera if there had ever been anything between her and my father.”

Jaina glanced at him, sensing the vulnerability in his voice. “What did she say?”

“She was furious—told me it was none of my business. But when I explained my situation, she told me the story of the woman who killed my grandfather, Garona.” Anduin’s voice softened as he recalled it. “Garona fell into the arms of Medivh… they had a son, Med’an. Valeera said Med’an fought Cho’gall and freed Garona from her possession—he could’ve taken the title of Guardian, but he disappeared with his mother after the battle. Valeera thinks they’re still together… making up for lost time.”

His smile was fleeting, but for a moment, there was a glimmer of hope. He put his hand over his mouth, looking away as the thought consumed him. “It made me wonder… if we made peace, could Sylvanas bring my mother back?” His voice cracked on the last word, his belief almost childlike in its sincerity.

Jaina took a deep breath, trying to hold back her own emotions. She knew this moment, this stage. “Anduin…” she whispered under her breath again, sensing his spiral into bargaining and denial.

His eyes were pleading, lost in the whirlwind of his grief. “She could, couldn’t she?” he asked, almost begging for an answer. “Sylvanas could raise her, right? Just like she did with Nathanos?”

Jaina stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Anduin, no. Even if she could, it wouldn’t be your mother. You know that.”

He flinched, her words cutting through the fragile hope he was holding onto. He took a deep breath, but the weight of her truth pressed down on him, and he couldn’t hold back the flood of depression that followed.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper now. “I’ve lost so many people. My father, my mother… you…” His eyes were glassy, and for a moment, he looked lost—just a boy carrying the weight of a world that had broken him.

Jaina nodded, her heart aching for him. She wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but she knew he needed to go through this—needed to find his way to acceptance on his own.

“I’m still here,” she whispered under her breath, as much for herself as for him.

Jaina’s heart sank as she listened to him, his words a dark echo of another time, another man. He was talking about genocide—cold, calculated, and cruel. Her mind flashed back to Stratholme and the moment she last saw Arthas before his descent. The memory gripped her. “I’m sorry, Anduin, I…” Her voice faltered, and she instinctively raised a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. She realized with horror that she was about to say the same words she had said to Arthas all those years ago.

Anduin noticed her trembling. “Are you okay, Jaina?”

Jaina lowered her hand, her voice strained. “Your children will most likely be blonde.” The words came out without thinking, a desperate attempt to shift the mood, though they felt hollow even to her.

Anduin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He looked away, then smiled faintly, his cheeks flushing. “I… suppose,” he murmured, shrugging with a sheepish grin. “I’ve never really liked elf ears, but…” He laughed awkwardly, then caught himself. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because you’re not Arthas,” she said firmly, her voice regaining strength. “Don’t start acting like him, Anduin. I know you’re in pain, but don’t let that pain turn you into a monster.” She looked down, her expression softening as she recalled her own mistakes. “I’m aware of how hypocritical that sounds, but I’m not going to leave you. I’ll help in any way I can.” Words she wished she had said to Arthas back then.

Anduin’s eyes softened as he looked at her, understanding lighting his expression. “She was wrong about you,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you survived, Jaina. Not just because I need you on the battlefield.”

Jaina smiled slightly and tossed him a pear. “Here,” she said, “Perfectia does look like one.”

He caught the pear and smiled down at it, the sight sparking a bittersweet memory. “I miss her… or maybe just the idea of her. It felt like we were so close. I’m sorry.” He looked up at Jaina, the weight of his emotions cracking through his voice. “This isn’t your fault.”

Jaina tilted her head, her gaze softening. “Anduin, you’re not alone in this.”

Anduin chuckled softly, trying to mask his pain. “That woman is deadly in battle, but her most dangerous weapon isn’t the Ashbringer.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s a quill.”

He handed Jaina a folded piece of paper. “She told me to give you this and made me promise not to read it. Don’t expect it to be flattering—she hates you.”

Jaina raised an eyebrow and carefully unfolded the note. “Why does she hate me?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling. “Aside from thinking I was trying to take you from her.”

Anduin’s expression grew somber. “She was there when you exiled the Sunreavers.” His voice was heavy with regret. “Read it out loud.”

Jaina’s face tightened as she remembered that dark day. “I didn’t know so many would turn into Wretched… but I suppose that’s no justification,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, she began reading aloud:

Tread lightly, she is near
Under arcane snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
Where daisies won’t grow.
Her one bright golden hair,
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Jaina’s voice wavered as she continued:

Rest, lily white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Vengeful she grew.
Regret heavy as stone
Lie on her breast;
That she’s not atoned,
She is at rest.

As she finished, her eyes glistened with emotion. “I guess I’m getting it here too,” she whispered.

Anduin frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jaina lowered the paper and sighed. “In my homeland, there’s a song about me. It tells of how I betrayed my father. I didn’t think much of it at first… because Thrall and Rexxar were my friends, and I thought peace would be worth the sacrifice. I thought all of Azeroth would benefit. But now?” She paused, her voice cracking. “Now, I’m homeless with a head full of gray hairs.”

Anduin looked down, his voice quiet. “You’re not alone, Jaina. Depression…” He hesitated, recalling a phrase that wasn’t quite his own. “Depression is a privileged disease. It tells you that you’re not poor.”

Jaina furrowed her brow, momentarily confused. “Excuse me?”

Anduin winced, realizing how it sounded. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice tinged with regret. “She rubbed off on me.”

Jaina let out a soft, breathy laugh, relieved by the levity. “Oh…” she smiled faintly, her voice tinged with mirth. “Funny.”

Regret heavy as stone,
Lie on her breast;
That she’s not atoned,
She is at rest.

Jaina looked down at the poem, her mind turning inward. “It’s true, you know. I have so much to atone for. And I think I need to go.”

Anduin’s eyes widened in concern. “Where?” he asked, his voice faltering.

“Home,” Jaina said firmly, her eyes meeting his, but her thoughts already far away.

Perfectia stormed into Grommash Hold, her heart heavy and her eyes wet with unshed tears. She locked her gaze on Sylvanas Windrunner, who sat on her throne with an air of detached superiority.

“He won’t stay with me,” Perfectia said, her voice trembling. “He won’t meet with me… He won’t love me.” She choked out the last words, her hand covering her face as she fought to hold herself together.

Sylvanas glanced at her, barely lifting her chin. “I’m sorry,” she said, though the words were laced with indifference.

Perfectia’s face twisted with rage. “No, you’re not!” she screamed, her tears finally falling freely. “You’ve never loved anyone but yourself! All you care about is vengeance. Nathanos loves you, but you treat him like garbage, and I know why!” She stepped forward, shaking with anger. “You don’t want love—you want everyone to be as miserable as you are. So go ahead, Sylvanas. Let me into your pity party. Will you let me give you a hug now? Will you finally be my friend?”

Sylvanas sighed deeply, as if dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. She rolled her eyes, visibly unimpressed by Perfectia’s display. “Everyone out,” she commanded, her voice soft but cutting. The room hesitated.

“Did you not hear me? I said OUT!” she barked, her voice snapping like a whip.

Perfectia wiped her tears and raised her voice, her fury returning. “NO! Two of you stay.” Her hand moved to her back, drawing the Ashbringer with her left hand, and she pointed it at Sylvanas, holding it in a shaky but resolute Quarte position. “I don’t care which two, just stay,” she said, her voice strained but determined.

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow, confusion and intrigue flickering across her face. “Are you issuing a Mak’gora?” she asked, stepping down from her throne and approaching Perfectia cautiously.

Perfectia nodded, her eyes filled with fire. “Do you accept?” she demanded, her grip tightening on the Ashbringer despite her shaking arm.

Sylvanas stopped in front of her, inspecting the broken sword with disdain. “You only have one good arm,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “And that’s not even your sword arm. You’re holding a broken Ashbringer you can barely lift.”

Perfectia’s jaw clenched, her voice shaking with emotion. “I said, ‘Do you accept?!’”

Sylvanas leaned closer, her gaze narrowing as her lips curled into a cruel smile. “I don’t accept,” she whispered, her tone mocking. She raised her eyebrows slightly, her eyes gleaming with malice. “But I’ll give you this—take the mantle of Warchief if you want it so badly. But tell me…” She paused, letting the words linger. “Do you really think that will make him love you?”

Perfectia looked away, shaking her head in frustration. “No, no… you’re wrong.” She looked up at Sylvanas, her voice trembling with desperation. “We’re supposed to fight to the death. Those are the rules!” Her grip on the Ashbringer tightened.

Sylvanas watched her carefully, her gaze cold but curious. “You want to hurt him by throwing your life away,” she said quietly.

“JUST SAY YES! SAY YOU ACCEPT!” Perfectia screamed, her voice raw and desperate, as if the weight of everything she had been holding inside was threatening to crush her.

For a brief moment, something almost like pity flickered across Sylvanas’ face. She sighed and looked away. “Do you really think becoming Warchief will make him love you?” Her voice was softer this time, almost resigned.

Perfectia’s shoulders slumped, the fire in her eyes extinguished as she let the tip of the Ashbringer fall heavily to the ground. “No…,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be Warchief.” She knelt down, placing the Ashbringer on the floor beside her, her head hung low as she covered her face with her hand, unable to hold back her tears any longer.

“Everyone leave,” Sylvanas ordered quietly. “This isn’t a Mak’gora.” Her voice was authoritative, leaving no room for hesitation. The last two guards exchanged glances before quietly exiting the room, leaving the two women alone.

Perfectia collapsed fully to her knees, her body shaking with sobs. “You’re wrong,” she muttered through her tears. “I just wanted him to love me.”

Sylvanas watched her for a moment, then spoke softly. “You’re wrong, too. I do want love…”

Perfectia looked up, her tear-streaked face filled with confusion. “But Nathanos…”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, letting out a long, tired sigh. “I don’t love Nathanos. I’ve never loved him, and I never will. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want love. And as much as you might think otherwise, I don’t want everyone to be as miserable as I am… and certainly not as miserable as you are.”

Perfectia shot her a sharp, angry look, but Sylvanas merely raised a hand, her voice softening. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” She moved toward a nearby table and sat down, gesturing for Perfectia to join her. Reluctantly, Perfectia got up and sat down at the opposite end, still trembling.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” Sylvanas warned, her voice calm but serious. “I’m trusting you… as a friend.”

Perfectia looked away, her emotions still swirling, and shrugged slightly.

Sylvanas began, her voice quieter now, as if sharing a confession. “Nathanos… he was one of the only humans in the Farstriders at the time. A lot of my kind were disgusted by him, but none of them could deny his skill. He had a fearlessness that I found appealing. He wasn’t some young upstart trying to be guided into greatness. Nor was he an aging veteran afraid of losing everything he’d built. He was just… Nathanos. He knew he came from nothing, and that he would likely die with nothing.” Sylvanas chuckled bitterly. “He used to tell me he was expendable.”

She paused, her gaze distant as she remembered. “I threw him at the most dangerous enemies. And every time he survived, I found myself drawn to him. Not because he was a hero… but because he made me feel something. Most men were afraid of me—they knew I could kill them or ruin their lives with just a word. But Nathanos…” She laughed softly, a sound filled with nostalgia. “He never cared about that.”

Sylvanas’ expression darkened as she thought back. “I didn’t think of Nathanos once while I fought Arthas. We had the numbers, knew the terrain—how could I have predicted betrayal from within my own people?” She shook her head, voice tinged with disgust. “When I was under his control, unable to make a single move without his permission, I kept hoping… maybe one of Nathanos’ arrows would pierce Arthas’ neck, free me from that torment. But he was never there.”

Her gaze turned cold. “Then that cursed mage, Jaundace, somehow broke free of Frostmourne’s control because of love?” She laughed bitterly. “I’ve never been so disgusted—so angry and regretful. Why couldn’t Nathanos and I have had something like that?” Her lips curved into a half-smile. “The thought of it made Arthas’ control over me waver. I started imagining what might’ve been, and little by little, I regained control.”

Perfectia leaned forward. “Did you see him again, after?”

Sylvanas nodded, her eyes hard. “After I killed Garithos, Nathanos came running. He killed a few of my Forsaken guards and fell to his knees in front of me, declaring his undying love.” She shook her head, disgust creeping into her voice. “It was pathetic. He begged me to forgive him for not being there when I needed him. It was like he thought I was some kind of wounded puppy that needed nursing back to health. The memory of him—handsome, confident—was shattered in that moment.”

Sylvanas’ voice dropped, colder. “Before, just being near him made my cheeks burn, my lips ache. But standing there, seeing him grovel, all I felt was anger. Maybe it was the curse of undeath, or maybe… maybe he knew he was never good enough for me while I was alive. But now that I was cursed, now he wanted me. So when I passed my curse onto him, I felt nothing.” She smirked, darkly amused. “I made sure he stayed in the Plaguelands, far enough away so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of what might have been.”

Perfectia watched Sylvanas closely, absorbing her words. “Do you regret it?”

Sylvanas gave a half-smile. “Maybe. Over time, I became less angry. After my sister, Vereesa, refused to help me kill Garrosh, I found myself alone. Then, after I was declared Warchief, loneliness became a constant companion.” She shrugged, “So, Nathanos remained by my side. Does he love me? Probably. But I can’t return it. If he died tomorrow, it would only be the loss of a capable soldier. Though,” she admitted, “I suppose it would feel a bit lonelier.”

Perfectia hesitated. “How old are you, really?”

Sylvanas’ brow furrowed. “Seventeen.”

Perfectia blinked. “Seventeen?”

A rare smile crossed Sylvanas’ lips. “I stopped counting my Elven years a long time ago. I became free of Arthas’ control on October 18th. That’s when I was truly reborn—so yes, I consider that my birthday.”

Perfectia tilted her head, remembering. “That’s when Hallow’s End begins.”

Sylvanas nodded. “It’s a shame I won’t be able to burn the wickerman this year. I always liked that.”

Perfectia smiled softly, “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

Sylvanas half-smiled back, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I hope so. Promise me one thing—don’t tell anyone about the birthday. The last thing I need is a traditional celebration,” she said, her tone teasing but still guarded.

Perfectia held up her hands in mock defense. “No worries. It’s your day, however you want it.” She paused, lowering her hands, her expression turning more serious. “Actually… I have something to tell you.” She hesitated before continuing, “Your brother, Lirath—he’s still alive.”

Sylvanas froze, her usually impassive face betrayed a flicker of shock. “What did you just say?”

Perfectia looked down, her voice quieter now as she started to recall. “I met him as a child, back at Quel’Lithien Lodge. And I saw him recently, just before the invasion of Lordaeron. Kel’thuzad brought him back during the events before Silvermoon.” She shook her head, guilt in her voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but Lirath made me promise to keep it quiet.”

Sylvanas’ voice was sharp, disbelief edging in. “You could’ve told me… I searched for him. I went to where he was buried. Why didn’t you tell me?” Her words were laced with a rare vulnerability, a crack in her icy demeanor.

Perfectia shifted, guilt washing over her as she glanced away. “I was scared. Back then, we were all so focused on vengeance—on Illidan, on Arthas. I thought if you knew, it would make you… vulnerable.” She shook her head, her voice faltering. “After Arthas died, I went back to the lodge, but Lirath was gone. I figured… what was the point?”

Sylvanas took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as memories flooded back. “And your depression,” she said softly, more as a statement than a question.

Perfectia blinked in surprise, her voice quiet. “You remember that?”

Sylvanas nodded slowly, her voice steady but laced with a distant sadness. “Undeath dulled everything for me—joy, love, even pain. But when Arthas died, I could still feel echoes of what you went through. I saw it in you, unfiltered, undiluted. When I saw you… blind, pale, and screaming you’d kill him, I—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I was grateful for what undeath had done to me. You bore all of it, raw and human. I made sure Garrosh redoubled his efforts to keep you alive.”

Perfectia looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

Sylvanas nodded, her voice gentler. “You look better now.”

Perfectia gave a small smile. “Well, if my eyes hadn’t turned blue, I might’ve gotten what I wanted.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her expression. “Meaning?”

Perfectia hesitated, the weight of her confession settling in. “I was trying to eat and drink myself to death.” Her voice cracked slightly, as if admitting it out loud for the first time. “The Light frowns on suicide, so I thought… maybe that way.”

A rare softness touched Sylvanas’ face. “Maybe if you were there, I wouldn’t have jumped from Icecrown Citadel.” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “And to answer your question from before—no, I didn’t see Lirath after Arthas.”

There was a long, shared silence. Perfectia could feel the weight of her revelation sinking into both of them, heavier than the Ashbringer she had laid on the ground moments earlier.

Perfectia thought back, remembering the things people had told her over the years. “Maybe these things happen for a reason. I lost most of the weight after spending six months chained inside Ragefire Chasm… and you wouldn’t have the Valkyrie if you hadn’t jumped.”

Sylvanas looked away, her expression distant as she recalled her past. “I’m running out of those, you know.” Her voice was quieter, almost introspective. Then she turned back to Perfectia, a question lingering in her gaze. “But why hasn’t Lirath come forward yet?”

Perfectia sighed softly, recalling his words. “He said he’d come forward soon, but he’s been waiting for the war to end between the Alliance and the Horde. He doesn’t want to be involved in anyone’s war. He’s been living in exile.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Nathanos mentioned you have a book with my family’s crest on it.”

Perfectia didn’t respond at first, her eyes shifting away, uncertainty in her silence.

Sylvanas pressed, “I just want to see it. I’ll give it back to you.”

After a moment, Perfectia nodded, pulling the book from her bag. She handed it over, “The book was originally my mother’s, but Lirath added the embroideries and the locking mechanisms.”

Sylvanas took the book, her fingers brushing over the dragonhawk crest, her lips curving into a small, unexpected laugh. She pressed her hand lightly against her eye, wiping away a stray tear. “He’s alive,” she whispered, the realization sinking in. She shook her head, then looked at Perfectia with a rare softness. “Thank you.”

Perfectia was caught off guard when Sylvanas stepped forward and embraced her. Her arms were still stiff at her sides as she smiled, unsure of how to react. “I thought you said you hated it when I did this.”

Sylvanas let out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “I do.” She paused, her gaze turning more serious. “I’m sorry about Anduin. You didn’t deserve what he did to you.”

Perfectia’s smile faded, but she nodded. “You don’t have to be lonely anymore,” she offered gently.

Sylvanas looked down, nodding slightly. “I’ll need a minute to put my brooding face back on. I’m sure it would shock a lot of people if they saw their Warchief smiling.”

Perfectia smiled at that and turned to leave but stopped just before the door. Slowly, she unclasped the necklace around her neck, the one with Anduin’s picture. She held it in her hand for a moment, staring at it as if weighing her decision. Sylvanas noticed the action but said nothing.

Perfectia looked at the picture one last time, then tilted her hand, letting the necklace fall to the ground with a quiet clink. Without another word, she left Grommash Hold.

Sylvanas watched her go, then approached the necklace lying on the floor. She crouched down and picked it up, holding it delicately. Her eyes lingered on the image of Anduin before she sighed, slipping the necklace into her pocket. Her thoughts wandered to Lirath, and for a moment, the Warchief let herself feel something close to hope.

Poem is an adaptation of Oscar Wilde; Requiescat, Robert Burns’s; My Luve, and Thomas O. Davis; A Welcome

Anduin & Sylvanas

I don’t know why that last encounter with Anduin was so painful. I can talk about Oranio like he was just a sprained ankle—why can’t I do the same with Anduin? How could he make me feel like I wasn’t going to be alone, that someone would love me, want me—and then leave me? What difference does it make that he’ll never love anyone as much as he loves me? He’s gone. Voluntarily.

So why does it hurt so much? Why am I reliving every one of our encounters, even in my shallowest dreams, hearing his voice ignite something in me? Even in those dreams, the heat that builds inside me, the pleasure, is never enough to peak. I always wake up in a cold sweat, realizing that this is my reality—my torment. It’s been literally nauseating, to the point I can’t eat, drink, or even take in arcane magic. I toss and turn in bed, his voice playing like a melody in my mind, over and over. I can’t see anyone else but him…

Oranio, if you can see this, I’m so sorry.

I told Sylvanas about Lirath. The one person he told me not to tell. Why did I do that? Vereesa must have told Alleria about him, but even then, could anyone actually find him if they started looking? Alleria doesn’t have any information on him—I know that for sure. And Sylvanas… she didn’t push for details. Maybe she trusts me. Maybe she believed me when I said he’d be coming forward soon. But I wonder.

If I saw Lirath in the woods, just some figure moving through the wilderness, I probably wouldn’t have given him a second glance. But in a city? Adventurers everywhere, people might approach him, ask questions. He looks different now. I haven’t seen any male dark rangers besides Nathanos. What is he?

A “manshee”? Sorry, bad joke. It’s just how I cope.

A ranger, a hunter, a death knight… He’s not funny, but it was nice to see him again. I’m glad I was able to regain my powers because of him. Though, they’re still not completely restored. At least I can see colors when I eat again.

I reflected on Lirath’s ability to read minds, a gift that must have aided him in staying hidden all these years. It was no wonder he avoided cities—too many voices, too many thoughts could overwhelm even the strongest mind. He had always preferred solitude, slipping through the shadows, reading the intentions of anyone he encountered before they even spoke. It explained how he managed to elude detection for so long, moving through the world like a ghost. But that power also made it difficult for him to engage with others, making him wary of being around too many people. He must have known exactly what I was thinking the moment we crossed paths, which unsettled me more than I let on.

But Lirath—he knew so much about me. Has he been watching me this whole time? It’s unnerving. Alexandros Mograine was one thing, but with Lirath… there’s something else. Whatever he did at Darkshore, he hasn’t done again. Maybe he’s seen or heard everything Sylvanas said. I know that sounds crazy. I guess I’m focusing on this because the truth is—Anduin is gone. And I can’t think of a way this can end peacefully.

War’s how we parted
With silence and fears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew your words so cold
Cold as your kiss
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this
In secret we met-
In silence I grieve
That your heart could forget,
Your spirit deceives.
If I should meet you
After war’s long years
How should I greet you?
With sword or with tears?
The battles we weathered,
The scars that we bore,
Are ghosts that now tether
My heart to this war.
Your crown was my beacon,
Your words, my command,
But now they’ve grown weakened,
Like castles in sand.
You promised a kingdom,
A future so bright,
But now I see wisdom
In shadows of night.
I watched as you faltered,
As battles took toll,
But still, my heart altered,
And you’ve left it whole.
A prince turned to phantom,
A king made of stone,
In dreams, you still haunt them—
The heart that you own.
If time could rewind us,
Undo all the strife,
Would you still remind us
Of love, not of life?
The world keeps on turning,
As you hold your throne,
Yet here I am yearning,
Still fighting alone.
If ever we meet,
When the war drums subside,
Will we find defeat,
Or will love still reside?

Wait a second! What blood elves are in the Alliance? Did I miss a memo? Anduin didn’t say “void elves,” which means it wasn’t about Alleria and her gang of sparkly misfits. I swear, I blink, and all of a sudden, there’s a whole new roster. Did I miss some blood elf farmers secretly tilling the fields for Stormwind? Maybe Anduin was offering me a job herding pumpkins or, better yet, a ranch hand, brushing the shiny coats of royal horses. Oh, the glamour of it all! Honestly, what would I even be doing? Going undercover again, wearing a big straw hat, blending in with the livestock? Real top-tier espionage work right there. But no, Nathanos made me promise, no side-switching unless absolutely necessary. I won’t betray that trust, and I certainly won’t betray Sylvanas.

But I feel… betrayed myself. It’s like someone sucker-punched me right in the heart, and it hurts so much I wanted to crawl into the ground and just be done with it. And of all the people in the world, Sylvanas is the one offering me comfort. I mean, she’s not known for being warm and fuzzy, but she’s kind of… acting like a friend? Who knew? They always said people need to be afraid of her, but maybe it’s not so bad to be feared. Not everyone has to cloak themselves in shadows like she does. I’m realizing now it might not be such a terrible thing to be seen, as long as you’re not the one everyone’s watching too closely.

The whole Oranio thing didn’t help either. My relationship with him probably screamed, “I’m a loyal member of the Horde!” to anyone paying attention, but did it ever occur to me that sending a love poem to Anduin could’ve easily been my assassination ticket if I hadn’t opened my big mouth? No, I need to learn how to blend in better. Be there, but not really there. Invisibility 2.0, but without the spell. And now, I find myself thinking: what if I were in Sylvanas’s shoes when Arthas attacked? Maybe I would’ve just handed him the key, and then wham! Off with the hand that held Frostmourne. Simple, right? But hindsight’s twenty-twenty. I mean, now that I can make practically anything into a magical great-sword, the game’s changed. Sylvanas must have spent decades dreaming up her own what-ifs after being turned into a banshee.

Maybe seduction is my new go-to. Heck, why not a pen, too? As they say, the pen is mightier than the sword—or, in my case, the Ashbringer. Dr. Olisarra, bless her, didn’t just fix me up for combat. She practically turned me into some kind of super-soldier with curves to match. And here I was thinking she was just getting me back in the game—who knew I’d turn heads along the way? I’ve caught myself staring in the mirror more than once thinking, “Wow, I’m kind of… hot?”

But let’s be real: I really need to stop falling for men I might have to kill later. This trend is… less than ideal. I suppose dying in the arms of a seductive femme fatale wouldn’t be the worst way to go. In fact, the more I think about it, the more appealing the idea becomes. Violence isn’t always the answer; people crave understanding, friendship, and yes, sometimes love. I’ve seen it with Anduin. He wanted peace, love, and something deeper. It’s something that can be used—even if that sounds cold.

Take Jaina, for example. I know more about her than I care to admit. She’s not great at keeping her sob stories under wraps, even with the Horde. I could probably spin a tale of my own:

“My name is Ilvanya Dusksong, born in Azshara. Small tribe of Night Elves, traded with the Horde back when Thrall was Warchief, all peace and supplies. Then Garrosh came along, and poof—there goes our home. Suddenly, we’re on the run, pushed into Ashenvale, fighting for our lives. After Teldrassil burned, I realized there’s no running anymore. If I want my home back, I’m going to have to fight for it, and the Alliance is my best bet.”

Yep, anyone can be seduced by the right sob story. It’s not just men who fall for the “damsel in distress” act; women do too. This world’s full of people who think they’re the hero of their own story, and the trick is figuring out what role they want you to play. Be the heroine they need, and they’ll follow you anywhere.

Now I just need to make sure I’m playing the right part.

(Meanwhile)

Sylvanas took the form of mist, slipping past the walls into Anduin’s chambers like a shadow. The guards were dispatched before they even had a chance to scream, their bodies collapsed in unnatural poses as they followed her into his room, only to fall at her silent command. Inside, the room was bathed in darkness—she had extinguished every flame, ensuring not even the moonlight would intrude.

When Anduin entered, the absence of his guards immediately put him on edge. “Bathroom break?” he muttered to himself, though his hand instinctively went to his sword. The eerie silence in his dim quarters made his pulse quicken.

He pushed open the door to his chamber and frowned. Everything was off—no flickering lamps, no warmth from the hearth, nothing. He unsheathed his sword, its glow casting faint light, illuminating the room in a soft, holy sheen. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Before he could react, he felt something cold, a whisper of death itself, wrap around him from behind. “Don’t scream,” Sylvanas whispered in his ear, her voice a deadly caress. “I just want to talk.”

Anduin tensed, recognizing the familiar chill of her presence, and stepped away from her grasp. “Sylvanas,” he muttered, frustrated, “What are you doing here?”

She stepped forward, appearing from the shadows like death itself. “You wouldn’t let me in otherwise, would you?” She reached into her cloak, pulling out a matchbox and tossing it to him. “I broke your gnomish toys,” she said nonchalantly, her lips curving into a smirk.

Anduin caught the matches, side-eyeing her. “Because breaking things is such a civil way to ask for a conversation." He struck a match, lighting the lamp beside his bed. “Where are my guards?” he asked, already knowing the answer, his voice tense.

“Dead.” Sylvanas said it so casually, it was as though she were commenting on the weather.

Anduin sighed deeply, staring at her with an expression torn between exasperation and anger. “Of course they are. You didn’t have to—”

“Do you think they would have just let me stroll in here for a late-night chat?” she cut him off with a snarl. Sylvanas spotted the bowl of pears on his desk, picking one up and taking a large bite. The loud crunch echoed through the quiet room.

“Put that back,” Anduin snapped, visibly irritated.

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, mouth full of pear. “Why?” she mumbled through the bite. “You’ve got more. And they’re going bad.”

Anduin rubbed his temples, muttering, “I was drawing those.” He let out a long, weary sigh. “But sure, go ahead, devour it. That’s what tonight is, apparently.”

She ignored his annoyance, sitting in the chair by his bed and tossing the pear core aside. “Lamp light suits you, by the way,” she added, adjusting her cloak. “Now, sit.”

With another sigh, Anduin placed his sword carefully against the bedpost, still within reach, before sitting on the edge of the bed. He watched her, brow furrowed. “So, not exactly the most… polite entrance. You’ve killed my guards, broken my lights, and eaten my food. Care to explain why you’re here?”

Sylvanas leaned back in the chair, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “The pears were good,” she said, dismissing his tone, “but they’ll rot if you don’t get to them soon.”

Anduin’s patience was running thin. “I know,” he said dryly, “I do eat them, eventually.”

A sly smile tugged at Sylvanas’ lips as she crossed her arms. “Well, you should—unless you’re saving them for a special occasion. Like a royal fruit salad?”

Anduin groaned, exasperated, “Is this about the fruit or do you have a real reason for sneaking into my room?”

Sylvanas leaned back in the chair, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest, her index finger tracing her lips. She eyed Anduin up and down, as though weighing him. “You are something,” she said, letting the words hang in the air. Her finger slid slowly over her teeth, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Take off your armor.” Her eyes locked onto his, a challenging glint behind them.

Anduin blinked, startled, his body instinctively tensing. “What?” His voice was filled with disbelief.

Sylvanas rose fluidly from the chair, her fingers brushing over the cold, engraved metal of his chest plate. She moved closer, her tone low and almost teasing. “I said, ‘Take off your armor,’ Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin recoiled, sliding to the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sylvanas shrugged, moving closer, her presence predatory. “I’m offering peace. Lay with me tonight, and there will be no more war.”

Anduin stood abruptly, moving around the bed to put distance between them. He shook his head, the disgust evident on his face. “This is a trick,” he spat. “You’re undead.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes dramatically, crossing her arms as she lazily stretched herself across his bed. “And what does that have to do with anything? Everything still works, Anduin.” She raised an eyebrow, amused at his hesitation. “Sure, reproductive organs are shot,” she added with a smirk, “but I assure you, we’ll both enjoy it.” She gave a soft, mocking laugh. “No harm will come to you. I promise.”

Anduin let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Why would I trust you? Every time we’ve crossed paths, you’ve tried to kill me.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You too, if I recall.” She sat up, her eyes hardening slightly. “During our little parley at Arathi Highlands, you tried to take the betrayers from me. I had no intention of killing you then. In fact,” she said, her voice softening with a hint of sarcasm, “I didn’t plan to kill any humans that day.” She paused, smiling darkly. “Well, except for the Lich King’s sister, but surely you understand why I couldn’t let that one go.”

Anduin’s expression darkened. “They were your people,” he said, his voice tight with restrained anger.

Sylvanas nodded slowly, her gaze lowering, as if she were almost… regretful. “You’re right,” she murmured, her tone soft and distant. “They were my people.” She sighed, then glanced at him with a sly smile. “Speaking of people… how is Vellcinda Benton doing these days? Able to fill her husband’s role, I hope?”

The mention of the fallen soldier caught Anduin off-guard. He stammered, “I—” His face twisted in confusion, the memory of a time when peace felt within reach surfacing painfully. “She’s dead,” he finally said, his voice flat.

Sylvanas furrowed her brow, tilting her head in surprise. “No,” she replied, shaking her head slightly, “You saved one of them.”

“That was Emma Felstone,” Anduin corrected, his tone heavy with grief. “She was elderly. But she wasn’t undead.”

Sylvanas looked away, as if recalling something. “I didn’t find her body,” she said, almost absently. “I assumed…” Her voice trailed off.

“We buried her next to her husband,” Anduin added quietly, his words filled with the weight of loss.

Sylvanas shook her head in frustration, her voice dripping with contempt. “Of course, you would save a human that didn’t need saving. Why am I even surprised?” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You could’ve saved Calia on that griffin, you know.”

Anduin’s temper flared at the mention of Calia, the memory of the disastrous Meeting crashing into his mind like a wave. “You think I don’t know that?!” he snapped. The image of arrows raining down, the chaos as he tried to protect the innocents, flashed before him. “You never wanted peace. All you want is death, war, and misery—”

“Do you ever get tired of being the victim?” Sylvanas cut him off coldly, her eyes narrowing. “It’s extremely unattractive. I understand you may not have known about Calia’s intentions, but you could have stopped her.” She started listing names, each one landing like a blow. “Toma Grey, Parqual Fintallas, the Felstone boys, Jack, Jake, Jem—Elsie Benton. All dead because of her.”

Anduin’s face twisted with confusion and anger. “You and your rangers loosed those arrows! How can you blame her?”

Sylvanas’ eyes burned with fury, her voice low and dangerous. “One moment of betrayal can cause more ruin than any army or disaster, Anduin. Even with all the pain you’ve caused me and my people, I wouldn’t wish that kind of betrayal on you. They deserved far worse than a swift death from an arrow.” Her lips curled into a bitter smile. “Yes, some of them might have seen reason, but if we let them live, more deaths would have followed.”

Anduin’s voice wavered as he fought back his disgust. “Just because they opposed you doesn’t mean they wanted bloodshed. You killed people who were running away. People who were innocent.”

“Innocent,” Sylvanas echoed mockingly, letting out a harsh laugh. “Innocence? Only the foolish mourn the loss of innocence. This world never rewards the naïve. You should be grateful.”

Anduin felt his stomach churn at her words, the images of the dead—no, people—of Lordaeron flashing through his mind. His jaw clenched. “No, they weren’t just corpses. They were people of Lordaeron.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, watching him with a detached curiosity as he wrestled with his emotions. “It’s easier to blame me, isn’t it?” she said softly, almost teasingly. “I fit the villain so perfectly. Meanwhile, you’re shedding tears for people you barely knew.” She shook her head, her tone turning almost pitying. “You can’t carry the weight of every death, Anduin. You’ll drown in it.”

He glared at her, fury rising in his chest. “Do you think the people you kill don’t want you to feel guilty?”

She laughed again, a hollow, empty sound. “When you dream about the dead, it’s not their anger you feel. It’s your own. And if their spirits do watch you, trust me—the only thing they want is to have not died in the first place.” Her expression softened briefly as she remembered the undead she had raised. “Most of us just wanted to go back to our normal lives. When we realized that was impossible, we had to find new reasons to keep going.”

Anduin’s brow furrowed in thought. “Then why were you against the Meeting?”

“I saw it for what it was,” she said bluntly. “I was opposed from the start. I would’ve tossed your letter into the fire if it weren’t for Nathanos and Vellcinda persuading me otherwise. They believed in the potential for peace. I saw an opportunity to exploit it.”

Anduin stared at the ground, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “Do you think… if Calia hadn’t shown up, things would have been different?”

Sylvanas shrugged, her voice almost bored. “What happened, happened. There’s no point dwelling on it now. But tell me, Anduin, were you in love with Calia?” she asked, her tone sharp.

He shifted uncomfortably, his voice defensive. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. The way you threw yourself in front of us—risking death, undeath, and war to protect her corpse. I wasn’t blind to the potential a marriage between you two could’ve had, even if she was older than your father.” She let out a dark laugh. “Maybe you weren’t in love. But from what Nathanos told me after the battle at Lordaeron, you nearly—”

Anduin’s fists clenched. He cut her off, unwilling to let her finish the thought. His heart was still heavy with the memories of what had happened, the people lost, and the choices he’d made. Every word she said, every cruel jab, was a reminder of the cost of his decisions.

Sylvanas’ expression remained unreadable as she watched him, waiting for him to react, to crack. But all she saw was a young king, burdened by the weight of his crown and the loss of those he couldn’t save.

Anduin’s face twisted with disgust. “Good people died that day, Sylvanas. For what? A petty reason like jealousy?” His voice trembled with anger as he recalled the horror of that day. “They were happy, hopeful… and you killed that.” He paused, his sadness palpable. “Because—”

“I never said it was right.” Sylvanas interrupted, her tone flat but tinged with regret. “I realize now that I was wrong.”

“So… you’re saying you’re sorry for what you did?” Anduin asked, his anger barely contained.

Sylvanas let out a bitter laugh and shook her head. “‘Sorry’ would mean I’m asking for forgiveness or sympathy, and I’m not looking for either.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened was my doing, but I am trying to be better.”

Anduin gave a nod, though it was more out of resignation than agreement. “Then what does any of this have to do with Perfectia? What was her role in all of this?”

Sylvanas glanced upwards, lost in memory for a moment before speaking. “The first time I met Perfectia, she was just a teenager, and honestly, a bit of a nuisance. She greeted me like a starstruck fan, which I found… annoying.” Sylvanas rolled her eyes at the thought. “I dismissed her. But later, when her skills grew, she came to me and told me she was going to kill Illidan Stormrage and Kael’Thas Sunstrider. She wanted me to come to Outland with her.”

“Illidan and Kael’Thas? Why?” Anduin asked, perplexed.

“She blamed them for the destruction of her people. She wanted revenge.” Sylvanas’ voice was cold. “I didn’t see the point. Illidan, maybe. But Kael’Thas? He was my prince, an old acquaintance. I didn’t want him dead. So, I declined.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘With or without you, I will have my vengeance. I thought you, of all people, would understand.’” Sylvanas smirked. “That fire in her reminded me of myself when I was hunting Arthas. And sure enough, she did it. She killed both of them.”

Anduin frowned, trying to piece it all together. “But why would she hate the Alliance?”

“For Garithos,” Sylvanas explained, her tone growing darker. “The betrayal of Kael’Thas by the Alliance, Garithos’s cruelty—it all led to her hatred. She sided with Garrosh Hellscream and helped him join the Horde, and they fought side by side against the Lich King. But when the Horde and Alliance were forced to work together… things changed.”

Sylvanas paused, looking into the distance as if reliving those battles. “When I led her into the Halls of Reflection, I realized she had that same fire I once carried for Arthas. Her hatred for the Lich King was burning as brightly as mine. Arthas killed her mother right in front of her.” Her voice dropped lower. “But in the end, she was denied the kill. The Argent Crusade stole that from us.”

Anduin shook his head, still trying to understand. “But what does that have to do with—”

“She wasn’t allowed to fight in Icecrown Citadel,” Sylvanas interrupted, her voice cold and sharp. “She almost killed Arthas in the Halls of Reflection, but it wasn’t enough. The Crusade locked her out. She wasn’t there for the final blow.”

“She was that close to Arthas? And you think she wanted the same thing for Jaina?”

Sylvanas laughed dryly. “Most likely. I’d wager she did the same to Jaina that she tried with Arthas. Jaina’s lucky she survived their encounter.” Her eyes gleamed with a dark amusement. “Perfectia was always relentless.”

Anduin’s eyes narrowed. “So all this time, she just… accepted you? Through everything?”

Sylvanas shrugged, a rare flicker of softness in her gaze. “More than that, I think. She understood me.”

Sylvanas nodded, her voice soft yet cutting. “I didn’t need to be jealous. I had something those people at the meeting would never have—someone who saw you for who you really are, not the monster you’ve become.” She glanced at Anduin, her eyes hardening with a hint of bitterness. “So, if she meant so much to you, why did you break her heart like that? I would’ve never forgiven you. I would’ve killed you ten times over and brought you back just to do it again.”

She shook her head, almost in disbelief, as though reliving the memory. “Do you know she nearly challenged me to a Mok’gora? Not because she wanted to be warchief… but because she wanted me to kill her.” Sylvanas rolled her eyes, a touch of exasperation in her tone. “Even in all her pain, she still managed to show me kindness. So how could you—how could you—hurt someone like that? She loved you. And you, you seem to love her.”

Sylvanas laughed bitterly, her gaze darkening. “But she’s still so young, so naïve. She trusted you, something I would never do.” She stood up, pacing, her voice dropping into something colder. “You think you’re different? No. I see you for what you are—zealous, self-righteous, uncompromising.” She smirked, her disdain evident. “A fanatical monster, Anduin Wrynn, just like the rest of your Alliance.”

Her tone shifted to something sadder, more distant. “And my sisters… they’re just as hypocritical. The Alliance took everything from me.” Her voice cracked, just for a moment, but she quickly masked it with anger. “You’re not a king, you’re a cult leader, and the Alliance took away my family.”

Anduin’s anger faded as guilt seeped into his expression. He looked away, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I am sorry. I didn’t want to hurt her again. I thought… if she hated me, you wouldn’t hurt her.”

Sylvanas approached him, her steps slow and deliberate. She took his hand, gently placing it on her body. “Well, you succeeded. She does hate you. But…” she smiled wickedly, “I’m willing to forgive you for everything.” She brought her other hand to his face, her touch icy against his skin. “Let me help you. Let me teach you.”

Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “You don’t have to kick people into the dirt just because they disagree with you. People have joined my Horde because I accepted them, I protected them.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. “You don’t have to be what they want you to be. And you could never hurt me, Anduin.”

Anduin pulled back, his mind spinning as his body reacted involuntarily. “I can’t—”

Sylvanas laughed softly, the sound both mocking and knowing. “I understand there will be people upset. Angry. Some may even try to kill you. But they won’t. Not with me by your side.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Or they’ll die.”

Anduin turned away, memories of Perfectia flooding his mind. He recalled her face, the softness in her eyes when she asked him for peace. But this—this was different. Sylvanas’s words dripped with cold manipulation, her offer steeped in promises he couldn’t trust.

Sylvanas noticed his distraction and her tone sharpened. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? The one you broke. The one who isn’t coming back.” She smirked, her voice lowering to a hushed, dangerous whisper. “Lay with me, and you’ll never have to worry about her again. The pain will fade. She’ll become a memory, a stepping stone to the peace you crave.”

She paused, her voice turning almost sweet, a mockery of sincerity. “Think of the peace between the Horde and Alliance, the lives you could save. I want no harm to come to you. If you want to die an old man, I’ll allow it. If you want what I have, I’ll give it to you. And if you want children…” She half-smiled, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Well, arrangements can be made.”

Anduin stood frozen for a moment, his mind clouded with conflicting emotions. Then, with a heavy breath, he turned his back on her. “Please, leave.”

Sylvanas blinked, momentarily shocked. Then she laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “Are you serious? I gave you a choice: peace or war. And you’re choosing war?”

Anduin kept his back to Sylvanas, his voice firm but tinged with bitterness. “I’m choosing not to lay with you. I’m not like you. I’m not a monster. And I will find her again. I’ll beg for her forgiveness, for all the pain I’ve caused.” He turned slightly, glancing at Sylvanas. “And regardless of what Perfectia says… yes, I am choosing war.”

Sylvanas’s eyes flared with anger. She yanked a necklace from her boot and hurled it against the wall, but the chain didn’t break. “You think I am the monster?” Her voice grew dark as she remembered the horrors of Silvermoon. “You have no idea what a monster looks like.”

She took a step toward the door, her anger palpable, but stopped, turning back to him. “I’ve tried to be the voice of tolerance, of compromise, but you—you choose to stay with your so-called elites and their ancient, outdated beliefs.”

Pausing at the doorway, she glanced back one more time, her tone sharp. “I’ve given your Alliance every opportunity to lay down arms and make peace, but you’ve refused. Know this, Anduin: today, you could’ve saved your people. Instead, you’ve doomed them. Death itself will come to the gates of Stormwind, and when it does, I will claim all of your people. And when I kill you… you will rise to serve me.” Her words echoed with a cruel familiarity, almost quoting the very words Arthas Menethil had spoken when he sought to corrupt the Sunwell.

Anduin, shaken, glanced at the necklace Sylvanas had thrown. He bent down and picked it up, his fingers trembling as he held the locket close to his chest. “Sylvanas, wait.”

She stopped, her eyes narrowed in curiosity, arms crossed. “Yes?” she asked, her voice cold, but intrigued.

Hesitant, Anduin couldn’t meet her gaze directly. “Did she… give this to you?”

Sylvanas took a deep breath, visibly calming herself, then let out a small, humorless laugh. “She dropped it on the ground in Grommash Hold, right in front of me.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s how I found out you two were… together.”

Anduin clutched the locket tightly against his heart, his voice trembling with grief. “You want my kingdom, and I want to stop more deaths.” He exhaled heavily, fighting back tears. “If it will end the war, I propose we marry our houses.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, taken aback for a moment before a cynical laugh escaped her lips. “Marriage? You’re serious?”

Anduin cut her off, his tone cold and resigned. “I won’t lay with you. It would be for appearances. I’ve already taken vows of celibacy.”

Sylvanas smirked, unable to suppress her amusement. “Would you really die a virgin?” she teased.

Anduin turned away from her mocking gaze, a mixture of shame and determination on his face. “It wasn’t my plan,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But if she’s truly never coming back… then at least we could still accomplish our shared dream of peace.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. “You know,” she began with a sigh, “I’m sure you think Perfectia inspired me to come here with this offer. And you’d be half right.”

A faint, sad smile tugged at Anduin’s lips as he nodded. “She has that effect on people. I think you’ve changed because of her too.”

Sylvanas’s smile faded instantly, her eyes hardening. “Don’t.” She took a deep breath, her voice steady but strained. “I don’t know what Genn told you about the Broken Shore, but we were being slaughtered. Our strongest warriors were falling under the Legion’s overwhelming numbers. We had no choice but to retreat.” Her voice softened with rare vulnerability. “I regret leaving your father there to die. And I am truly sorry for your loss.”

Anduin nodded slightly, recalling how he’d once asked Sylvanas about her father’s death before the meeting in Arathi Highlands. He searched her face for any signs of deception, as he had before, but found none. “That’s not what you said last time,” he muttered, “but… thank you.”

Sylvanas offered a thin smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Point being—if we’d won that day, if your father had survived, and I’d become Warchief… I might’ve made this offer to him instead. With our houses united, we might’ve brought down the Legion without needing Illidan. I imagined you’d take the throne, seeking to avenge your father’s death, and maybe we could’ve struck an arrangement… at least until you came of age. But do you know what my scouts told me?”

Anduin shrugged, his brow furrowed.

“You were gone,” she said coldly. “Your subordinates were running your kingdom, Genn was practically sitting on your throne, and out of blind rage, your ‘loyal dog’ was laying siege to my ships, too stupid to see the bigger picture. He took something from me that I needed—greatly.” Sylvanas laughed bitterly. “And where were you? Nowhere. The Legion was at your doorstep, Gul’dan was still breathing, and your father’s killer roamed free, but you couldn’t be found.”

Anduin flinched, his grip tightening on his sword.

“You should’ve been there when Gul’dan died,” she continued, her voice mocking. “Instead, adventurers stole your glory. But I understood—you were weak, too young. At least the Alliance was helping in the fight.” She tilted her head, smiling darkly. “After all, a headless lion still proves useful… and when Sargeras left his final parting gift, I finally had what I needed to kill the headless lion and his dog.”

“And that’s why you attacked Teldrassil,” Anduin said, his voice thick with anger.

Sylvanas shook her head, laughing softly. “No, that wasn’t the only reason. Your Alliance attacked us first when we were mining Azerite. What you tried to pull in Arathi—did you really think I wouldn’t retaliate? I wanted your people off my continent.” She paused, her expression twisting into something more sinister. “But yes, it was personal too.”

Anduin remained silent, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the bed.

Sylvanas’s gaze drifted upward as she continued, her voice filled with venom. “Ever since I was a child, the Kaldorei have looked down on my people. Like our ‘watered-down blood’ made us unworthy of immortality, as if we were cursed because the Highborne lost Elune’s favor. But do you know what a god is without worshippers, without believers?”

Anduin shook his head, unsure of where she was going with this.

“Nothing,” she spat. “That’s why I burned Teldrassil. I wasn’t just destroying a home, or a people, or a culture—I was destroying a god. A god who had forsaken my people before I was even born. The Night Elves needed to understand the meaning of humility and defeat. They were no better than anyone else. An arrow will kill them just as easily as any other race in Azeroth.”

She paused, her voice growing colder. “And if they can’t understand that, it will be the reason for their extinction.”

Anduin’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on Sylvanas as her words began to dig deeper, striking nerves he’d been trying to keep buried. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with frustration.

Sylvanas let out a small sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose as if the question itself was a minor irritation. “Anduin,” she began, lowering her hand and staring him down, “when you attacked Lordaeron, I thought you were a child. A fool playing at war. You needed to be taught the meaning of humiliation. To know that war isn’t a game or a story from some dusty tome.” She paused, a glimmer of respect hidden beneath her words. “But you didn’t run. You didn’t quit. Even when Perfectia stood in front of you—this… naive, melodramatic, alcoholic mess—you kept pushing forward.” Sylvanas laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. “You showed the same tenacity as your father.”

Anduin took a step toward her, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowing in anger.

Sylvanas noticed and raised a hand. “Relax. I won’t go on about her. But you broke her heart, Anduin. And yet, here you are, still thinking of her.” She looked away for a moment, as if remembering something painful. “Do you really think I’d trust this arrangement? I’d hate to think what you’d do to her…”

Her tone turned cold as she met his gaze again. “I won’t marry you, Anduin. You’re pathetic. And frankly,” she chuckled, “I don’t trust you. Every marriage needs trust, even between enemies.” Her smile faded, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I suppose that means I’m choosing war as well.”

Anduin exhaled, his anger simmering just below the surface. “I’ll escort you out of Stormwind.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “Afraid to be seen with me?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.

He shook his head, his expression firm. “No. I want them to see. I’ll walk you outside the front gates if you like. Though I doubt you trust me to do that.”

Sylvanas smiled, nodding slightly. “I don’t. Just take me outside of Stormwind Keep. I have a bat that will fetch me.” She turned, her voice softening just slightly. “Thanks for the gesture, though.”

True to his word, Anduin escorted Sylvanas down the stairs, past the astonished stares of his guards. The tension in the air was thick, and one of the guards, wide-eyed, dared to speak up. “Your Highness, what—”

Anduin cut him off with a fierce glare. “You are not to speak unless spoken to, Guardsman. All of you, stand down!” His command echoed through the hall.

Sylvanas chuckled softly under her breath, amused by the king’s attempt to assert control. Once outside, she let out a sharp, high-pitched screech, calling her bat to her. As it descended, she mounted the creature gracefully, casting one last look at Anduin.

“Sleep well, King Anduin,” she said, her voice smooth, almost mocking.

Anduin met her gaze, his tone just as composed. “You as well, Warchief Sylvanas. And next time, send a letter. I’d rather not lose any more guards.”

Sylvanas smiled, nodded, and with a final glance, took to the sky.