Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(15)

[Perfectia-moon-guard]

The Talk

I finally made my way to the Sunwell to fix this arm of mine. It looks a lot better now, no more charred blackness—I’m telling you, it was starting to look like something that crawled out of a burnt pie. The muscles in my forearm and fingers? Rebuilt. But my connection to the Light? Well, it’s… how do I put it? Let’s just say it’s a bit more “dimmed candle” than “blinding holy spotlight.” I still can’t move it, though. I left my arm soaking in the Sunwell for more than half a day, and while it doesn’t hurt when I whack it against things (which, let’s be honest, is a frequent occurrence), it’s still as stiff as a rusty old sword.

Naturally, I went straight to Bestie Olisarra to give her the update. She strapped it into a harness like it was some rare, fragile artifact from a museum.

“I’m not detecting any enchantment enhancements in the bones of this arm,” she said in that oh-so-soothing voice of hers while poking at my poor limb. “It’s as if someone disenchanted your arm, Perfectia.”

I blinked at her. “Well, that explains why it’s about as useful as a noodle.” I wiggled my good hand for emphasis.

She was busy checking my pulse, all doctor-like. “Are you in any pain?”

I laughed. “No, no, I’m totally fine! Just an arm that’s forgotten how to arm.”

She raised an eyebrow—classic Olisarra. “Your heart rate is elevated. Be honest, is there pain?”

Sighing, I confessed. “Okay, fine, it burns a little. Not the ‘set me on fire and call it a day’ kind of burn, but in the veins. Before the Sunwell treatment, it was like my whole limb was on fire. Flesh, bones, the works.”

Olisarra pinched my fingers lightly, and I had to give it to her—she knew how to test every nerve. “Your nerves are still functional, but the paralysis may be psychological. Start with trying to move your fingers. The limb may regain mobility.”

“I mean, I have moved it a few times since it happened…” I trailed off, hoping she wouldn’t throw a hundred more exercises my way.

She gave a small nod, pleased with the info. “That’s encouraging. Focus on continuing that effort.”

Then I had to ask the dreaded question. “Think you can re-enchant the coral in my bones again?” I wasn’t exactly eager for another round of magical surgery, but hey, sacrifices, right?

She let out a soft sigh—yep, the ‘this is going to cost you’ kind of sigh. “It will be both painful and expensive. Your arm was fully functional last time.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yeah, and look where that got me—arm’s still more for show than go.”

Olisarra’s clinical tone didn’t waver. “The issue here is muscular, not skeletal. I’ve tried all forms of healing magic to restore muscle function, but it’s proving ineffective. You mentioned being able to move it before, correct?”

I nodded, though I thought back to the times it only moved because, well, Alexandros Mograine had taken the wheel—er, arm—at the time. “Yeah, but it wasn’t exactly… me me. I might’ve had a little help.”

“Well,” Olisarra said, voice as neutral as ever, “whatever enabled that movement before, continue doing that. Concentrate on finger mobility first. If this paralysis is indeed psychological, no magic will help. However, if you can manage to move your fingers as if you were playing an invisible piano, we can proceed with rehabilitation therapy.”

I looked at my unresponsive fingers and sighed dramatically. “Great. So, now I have to become an invisible concert pianist, too?”

Olisarra didn’t even blink at my sarcasm. I love her.

So, I decided to crack open my trusty paladin book with my left hand—because apparently that’s the only one still willing to cooperate—and asked Olisarra, “Wanna take a stab at editing a few of my chapters?”

Instead, she hands me these dirty, half-crumpled pages. Not notebooks. Pages. I mean, come on. “I decided to drop the whole vampire thing. It was too hard to keep Christian from frying in the sun,” she says. Christian being her main character’s love interest, of course.

I spent the day reading what’s apparently her novel now, since she’d swapped out all the character names. And let me tell you, it’s steamy. Steamy as in “you might need a cold drink after reading.” And, hey, she thought my stuff was pretty good too! She had no idea my relationship with Isirami got that graphic. Olisarra even said I inspired her to attempt a girl-girl scene in her book, but she wasn’t thrilled about the plagiarism I’d unintentionally committed. Not because I’d stolen her writing—no, no. She just didn’t want details about the surgeries she performed on me to leak. She insisted that from now on, I tell people she only did cosmetic work on me. The woman looked scared, and I was like, “Wait, I don’t even understand half of what you did to me.”

Then she drops this bomb: when the Legion invaded Dalaran, she was kidnapped. They wanted her to replicate the procedures she’d done on me, but none of the red Draenei they forced her to work on survived. Mostly because she didn’t want them to. After she was rescued, she burned all her notes. Don’t worry, though—she’s got it all in her head now. She’s rigorously practiced and thinks she can replicate the procedures again, if we can get to her office in Karazhan. Easy peasy, right?

Later, over drinks, we chatted about Karazhan. She was telling me about some happy face portrait she drunkenly painted, and how she can only remember how to get there when she’s also drunk. Makes sense. Naturally, I suggested, “Hey, maybe it’s time we get a room?”

Olisarra gave me a look and laughed, “Respectfully, Helya no. I have a boyfriend—and no, you can’t join us.” Then she used her hearthstone and poofed back to Dalaran, leaving me alone with my arm, still flopping around uselessly in its harness like a wet noodle.

Things haven’t exactly gotten easier. Some shaman healers in Orgrimmar took a look at my arm and said it’s unlikely to ever return to normal. They even offered to cut it off and give me a fancy prosthetic that’d make me more effective in battle. Yeah, no thanks. My ego still insists I can manage with the limb I’ve got.

So, I wrote Anduin a letter—told him to meet me at the Darkmoon Faire. I guess I’m comparing his whole drama with Perfectia to my… situation with Oranio. I told Oranio I never wanted to see him again, and boy, did I regret saying that about an hour later. So maybe Anduin will show up, and maybe we can patch things up. Maybe we’ll even have some fun at the Faire. Maybe I won’t accidentally hit him with a foam mallet during Whack-A-Gnoll. Fingers crossed.

I also saved up enough gold for some new equipment. Gonna make some fancy glasses to change my eye color from gold to silver—because who doesn’t need disguise glasses? I was planning to spend the rest of my hard-earned money on game tickets. With or without Anduin.

Between all of this, I’ve been revisiting notes from my wilderness training with Vereesa Windrunner. You know, getting back to basics. But let me tell you, trying to do anything with one functioning arm is like trying to fight a murloc with a wet sock. Dressing myself? Hard. Tying my shoes? Forget it. Don’t even get me started on swimming or opening doors. Whack-A-Gnoll and Aim at the Turtle? Basically an exercise in humiliation. And mining ore or fishing? Yeah, those days are over.

I spent my time at the Faire trying not to whine, even though it’s tempting. It reminded me of when my hips were busted, and I was almost certain I’d never get back to normal. But hey, people deal with worse things, right? So, I kept gasping at every cloaked figure I passed, hoping it might be him. But no Anduin. Not a peep. Not even a whispered “hello” from the shadows. Dr. Olisarra eventually had to start telling people I was a little, uh, crazy for obsessing so much over it.

Still, the Darkmoon Faire wasn’t all bad. I tasted something. Something magical. But no loud, dramatic sounds of spells or music—just a faint, quiet magic lingering in the air. Maybe it was coming from a mage. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t Anduin.

I was minding my own business, clutching my hard-earned pile of Darkmoon Faire prizes, when suddenly I felt this weird sensation. Instinct kicked in. I drew my crossbow like I was about to start a showdown. Dr. Olisarra, bless her clinical heart, freaked out and grabbed my hand.

“Stop… Perfectia, stop. There’s no one there! I’ve told you at least three times to stop launching yourself out of the human cannon. You have a concussion.”

I was about to protest when, out of nowhere, an undead mage appeared, casually phasing out of invisibility like she was on a stroll. “Actually, she’s right. I am here.”

And then Olisarra screamed. Not just any scream, but the kind of scream that makes your soul leave your body for a second. “AAAHH! Open fractures, hypostasis, putrefaction—” she started listing every horrifying thing she could think of.

The undead, whom I recognized as Isaballa, glanced down at herself, all nonchalant. “I’m sorry for startling you, Doctor. Keeping this rotting flesh from… rotting more, especially in this dry climate, is a challenge.” She tugged on her purple and white mage robes like she was adjusting for a photo shoot. “How were you able to see me?” Isaballa, of course, always sticking to Sylvanas’s side like an overgrown shadow in Grommash Hold.

I sighed, figuring this day couldn’t get weirder. “I didn’t see you. It’s hard to explain. Did you need something, or are we just gonna chat about skincare routines?”

Isaballa nodded, all serious now. “The Dark Lady asked me to find you and deliver a message. And possibly teleport you, should you accept.”

I took the letter and read it aloud, like a dramatic performance for the benefit of the still-shaken Dr. Olisarra:

“Perfectia Dawnlight,”
“I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been deeply moved by your words, actions, and your unwavering conviction…”

The letter went on about shared struggles, how Sylvanas had endured prejudice, blah blah, and how she saw a kindred spirit in me. Okay, we get it, she’s all Forsaken and tragic, and I’ve had my fair share of elf-turned-pathetic moments, but… really? Sylvanas wants to stand beside me? On a battlefield? Where I have to risk my life for whatever it is she’s plotting next?

Dr. Olisarra leaned over my shoulder. “Wow, I think you should go. He’s not gonna show up,” she added, clearly referring to Anduin.

I groaned. “Can you stay one more hour? Just in case?” I tried not to sound too desperate.

Olisarra rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to be as obsessive as you, but fine, one more hour.”

I gave her a hug, mostly because I knew I was about to teleport away with Isaballa, and who knows what would happen next. The mage opened a shimmering portal to Silvermoon. I stepped through, feeling all sorts of things: the weird, tingly magic, the fact that I had unfinished business with Sylvanas, and the undeniable truth that the wine in Silvermoon sucks.

I stopped at the inn by Murder Row—because of course Sylvanas’s chosen meeting spot would require a pit stop at the seediest place imaginable—and here I am, scribbling this out. The juice they’re passing off as wine is sour enough to peel paint off walls, but that’s not the worst of my concerns.

I keep checking the time, waiting for the sun to set, nerves shot from thinking about what’s about to happen at Windrunner Spire. Sure, I’d like to think of Sylvanas as a friend… but knowing her, if I say the wrong thing, I might end up on the wrong end of a crossbow—or worse, a lecture.

Time to head out. Hopefully, I don’t get myself killed.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Perfectia arrived at Windrunner Spire, her nerves tingling as she ascended the stairs. The atmosphere was eerily calm, but Sylvanas awaited her downstairs in the dimly lit room. As she entered, the Banshee Queen looked up, her piercing gaze steady.

“I don’t have the patience of the dead, you know,” Sylvanas said dryly, “but I’m glad you made it. I wasn’t sure if I’d see you or if Isabella would be coming in your place.”

Perfectia shrugged with a hint of nerves. “Sorry, I had to… prepare myself to meet with you. I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

Sylvanas studied her for a moment, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She gestured toward a chair positioned opposite her, facing out toward the Spire’s lower level. Perfectia hesitated for a second before sitting down.

There was a pause, and then Sylvanas wrinkled her nose. “You smell awful.”

Perfectia let out a nervous laugh. “I felt like I needed a bit of liquid courage before coming here.”

“Are you sober?” Sylvanas asked, her eyes narrowing slightly with concern.

Perfectia nodded. “Couldn’t get drunk on that weak stuff they serve by Murder Row if I tried. It just left me with bad breath.”

Sylvanas’ lips twitched in mild amusement. “I’ve got some proper Silvermoon Port somewhere, if you’d prefer something a little more refined.”

“No, really, you don’t have to—” Perfectia began, but Sylvanas interrupted her by standing up.

“Perfectia, you’re a guest in my home.” Sylvanas moved with graceful precision to fetch a bottle from a wooden crate nearby, along with two glasses. She returned, setting them down on the table between them. “And I mean my actual home this time,” she said, pouring the wine with a wry smile.

Perfectia watched her for a moment, trying to ease her tension. “Do you play Hearthstone at all?” she asked, in an attempt to break the ice.

Sylvanas let out a soft sigh, shaking her head as she handed one of the glasses to Perfectia. “I’ve taken a few cards from Nathanos’s collection, but I don’t seek them out like he does. He enjoys his little games.” She smirked, reminiscing for a moment before continuing. “I used to play Gin and Spades with Lirath, back when we had time for such things. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a proper deck of cards, though.”

Perfectia nodded and took a sip of the wine, the tension between them easing just a little, though the unspoken weight of their meeting still hung in the air.

Perfectia looked away, reminiscing. “I remember him telling me about that when I was a kid. Did those games involve money?”

Sylvanas shook her head. “No, not with him.”

“I see goblins playing all the time, and they always have a pile of gold next to them. I asked once if there were any games that don’t involve money, and they just laughed like it was the dumbest question they’d ever heard.”

Sylvanas gave a knowing shrug. “For goblins, if it doesn’t involve gold, it’s not worth the time. As for us… well, most elves who know those games have been playing them for hundreds of years. Teaching new players is a bit like teaching a toddler how to use a sword—sure, they can learn, but they’ll be years behind.”

Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you always say you didn’t have time for games?”

“That was before Arthas died,” Sylvanas said with a slight sigh. “Now it’s harder to find anything interesting to do.”

“So… want to play Hearthstone?” Perfectia asked with a sly grin.

Sylvanas shrugged again, but there was a glint of interest. “Why not? I only ever play Nathanos, and I beat him every time. Though… sometimes I think he lets me win.”

Perfectia chuckled. “Have you ever played him in chess?”

Sylvanas smirked, locking eyes with her. “Who do you think trained him? I need his mind sharp, not just his skills. He doesn’t come close to beating me, but I see improvement.”

Perfectia grinned, reaching into her bag. She pulled out her Hearthstone and traced a finger along the glowing blue engravings—this time, in reverse of the usual recall spell.

“What are you—” Sylvanas took a step back as the stone exploded outward in a dazzling spray of arcane and nature magic, scattering glowing blue and green particles around the room. When the dust settled, Perfectia was holding a large, heavy board the size of a shield.

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “So that’s how he got that thing into Grommash Hold,” she muttered, clearly impressed.

“What deck do you play?” Perfectia asked, setting the board down on the table.

“Paladin,” Sylvanas replied, a hint of pride in her voice. “And you?”

“Warrior,” Perfectia said with a grin, adjusting the board. She glanced at the wine glasses. “Do you have your own card yet?”

Sylvanas gave her a suspicious look. “Stay by my side, and they’ll make one for you too.”

Perfectia smiled at the thought, placing her deck on the board. Sylvanas did the same, and the board glowed with white light before flipping to show their chosen heroes: Uther the Lightbringer for Sylvanas, Garrosh Hellscream for Perfectia.

Perfectia started first, playing a low-cost pirate card. “You know, I always liked the Undercity. It was efficient. Everything important was centered around the open trade area, with the training grounds on the outside. Made it easy to navigate, even when I couldn’t ride a mount yet.” She spoke while making her move.

Sylvanas nodded slightly as she placed a face-down card. “It served its purpose. But it always felt temporary to me, like I was squatting. My people liked it—dark, cold, humid. It helped preserve our… unique conditions. But it never felt truly Elven.”

Perfectia raised her glass of wine with a grin. “To the Undercity.”

Sylvanas turned her attention from the game, smiling as she lifted her own glass. “To friends.”

After their toast, Perfectia attacked with her pirate card, using her Hero Power to gain some extra armor. “Your turn.” She took a sip of her drink, as did Sylvanas. “I could never figure out why this wine’s so hard to find in Silvermoon.”

“The elves who make it live in Orgrimmar now,” Sylvanas replied, summoning a taunt card to block Perfectia’s next attack.

Perfectia finished her glass, nodding. “Ah, that explains it.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they focused on the game. Perfectia leaned on speed, using weapons to equip her hero, but Sylvanas countered with champion cards that could taunt and resurrect, gaining synergy as her champions’ deathrattles triggered repeatedly. When Sylvanas played Kel’Thuzad on her seventh turn, with two champions protecting him, Perfectia sighed in defeat.

“I resign,” she finally said, looking at the overwhelming board.

“You’ve still got plenty of armor left,” Sylvanas observed. “Sure you want to give up?”

Perfectia glanced at her hand, seeing her Heroic Innkeeper card. She kissed the card softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just send you in there to die.”

Sylvanas gave her a strange look. “Are you… talking to a Hearthstone card? What is that?”

Perfectia fumbled, quickly hitting the resign button. “Nothing! No one you know. Or I know. It’s… it’s nothing.”

Sylvanas held back a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay. I won’t ask then.”

Perfectia nodded, feeling the empty rumble in her stomach. “I’m starving… I take it you don’t have any pastries, sweets, or ice cream?” she asked, hopeful.

Sylvanas shook her head.

Perfectia sighed, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as her mind drifted into a craving. Pecan ice cream… rich, buttery, creamy caramel with that perfect nutty crunch… Her thoughts swirled, the taste almost tangible. Then her mind betrayed her, suddenly wandering to cherry-flavored lip gloss. Not just any gloss—Isirami’s favorite gloss, the one that left her lips glossy and soft, tasting like cherries when they kissed. Perfectia could practically feel Isirami’s body pressed against hers, the warmth, the softness… the way those lips lingered, playful yet so deliberate. Her cheeks flushed a little deeper, as she tried to shake it off.

No, ice cream… focus on the ice cream…

“You okay? You look a little flushed,” Sylvanas observed.

Perfectia snapped out of her dessert daydream. “Probably just my blood sugar.”

“Have another drink then,” Sylvanas offered, pouring her another glass.

Perfectia took the glass like it was a lifeline, downing it as if it were an antidote to some unseen poison. Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, smirking as she casually moved the wine bottle a bit farther away.

“I’m just going to put this here… No more, okay?” Sylvanas advised with a grin. “And by the way, you shouldn’t have used Gorehowl on my hero. Could’ve taken down some of my weaker taunt cards instead.”

Perfectia shrugged with a smirk. “I thought using a Paladin deck was kind of out of character for you, but now I see it fits.”

Sylvanas chuckled softly. “Things aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes, it’s better to use something more than once.” She poured herself more wine, but paused to add with a playful gleam in her eye, “And I didn’t think you could look at the face of the man who put you in the infirmary for so long.”

Perfectia blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”

Sylvanas leaned back, a subtle smile playing on her lips. “I looked into some intel on your family. From what I gathered, you’re nobility, aren’t you?”

Perfectia sighed and nodded. “Sort of. I’m a bastard, but technically the only surviving heir. My mom… well, she used to hit me on the forehead with a coat hanger. Can you see the scar?”

Sylvanas leaned in, eyeing her closely. “No.”

Perfectia shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, it happened before I was born.”

Sylvanas let out a breath, half-sickened, half-amused. “Wow, that’s… really dark. Especially for a paladin.”

Perfectia gave a light shrug, offering a wry smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem.” She took a moment, then added, “That’s how I ended up working in the mines when I came to Tempest Keep. But yeah, my family contributed a lot to the Kingdom of Silvermoon over the years. Never managed to marry into royalty though, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Your grandfather was Kel’Magnus Dawnlight, the Navy General of Silvermoon? The man who oversaw Dawnstar Spire?”

Perfectia nodded, “And Dawnstar Village, even though it’s in ruins.”

Sylvanas looked away slightly as she remembered, “At least your people’s spirits left. Windrunner Village is still infested with ghosts.”

Perfectia stood up proudly, “The Dawnstar ran Silvermoon’s Navy and we greatly provided for our cities defenses, so I don’t think they had a problem leaving this world.” Perfectia explained.

“Oh, come on, you can’t be serious?” Sylvanas argued thinking Perfectia was joking.

“Say what you want, the Amani couldn’t form a navy because they were afraid of us and we knew how to use the Maelstrom to our advantage.” Perfectia debated.

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, “No one could afford a decent navy because of that Maelstrom. It was a waste of resources, also, we Rangers stopped the Amani from cutting down our trees they needed to build ships.”

Perfectia nodded and laughed slightly, “Yeah, I heard how well your invasion went. You let their leader escape,” She shrugged, “low and behold I had to grow up and clean up what you left behind.”

Sylvanas was a little shocked by the statement but laughed through it, “He cut off his own arm! What would you have done, sold him into slavery?”

Perfectia rolled her eyes, “Say what you want about slaves, they kept our city clean and tidy, and they built so much.”

Sylvanas looked up slightly and shook her head, “What good is that to the garrison as a whole?”

Perfectia rolled her eyes and looked at her questionably, “Everything, a functioning government isn’t just run by its military might to keep enemies out, but its beauty to entice potential allies. You wouldn’t have had all those mercenary teams if people didn’t want to come to Silvermoon in the first place.”

Sylvanas laughed as she remembered, “Your people were barely disciplined, your hand to hand instructors refused to compete with us, our grand tourneys members were tougher then the armor you wore. Our uniforms were better…”

Perfectia interrupted in an argumentative way, “We had ground troops that wore green and gold. I don’t know why you insisted on wearing blue and white.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, “What ground troops did Dawnstar have?”

“We had mechanized infantry.” Perfectia explained.

Sylvanas crossed her arms as she remembered, “Those engineers could barely stand the cold for a few hours.”

Perfectia looked at her questionably, “They still helped form your phalanx’s, didn’t they? We went around the world to fight enemies for potential allies. We weren’t just stuck hanging out in the woods.”

Sylvanas looked at her questionably, “You act like I never left. My mother fought in the first war if you recall and so did Alleria.”

Perfectia crossed her arms and looked at her, “Did things go well when you were overseas or were you as standoffish as you always are?”

Sylvanas looked up, smiled slightly, and looked at Perfectia, “Hey, I had some big shoes to fill after my sister left, so excuse me for wanting to stay where I was comfortable, and working with your grandfather made me more than a little nauseous.” She explained.

Perfectia shrugged slightly, “You could have traveled a little more if you did.”

Sylvanas looked up somewhat disgusted and she thought back, “His excuse for trading slaves was that he was weeding out the defects. So, you understand if spending time in his garrison, his ships, didn’t seem all that appealing. Rangers didn’t need magic, at least not as much as others.”

Perfectia shrugged slightly, “You act like we were the only ones that were doing it. Humans were killing and enslaving every orc they could find, and we were doing that even before we changed into elves. There are troll tribes that are still doing it now.”

Sylvanas looked at Perfectia seriously, “Would you choose the life of a slave over death?”

Perfectia was a bit taken back by the question, “I will always choose life Sylvanas and you can free yourself from slavery.”

Sylvanas laughed slightly, “You can free yourself from death as well.”

Perfectia smiled as she agreed, “I guess I gotta give you that one, but death comes for us all, sooner or later.”

“Not for long.” Sylvanas stated.

Perfectia looked at her a bit confused, “Do you ever think you’ll get tired of living?”

Sylvanas shook her head, “Not if you’ve seen what I’ve seen. You know I thought it was the suicide that made me go to the black place in the void. I was extremely reckless when I was invading Gilneas, maybe it was Garrosh’s influence, but I thought if I died honorably in battle I would be embraced by something good. But I wasn’t, I went back to that place again.”

“What about the first time?” Perfectia asked.

Sylvanas sighed as she remembered, “It was too brief.” She recalled and shook her head.

Perfectia sighed sympathetically, “You have parents on the other side, don’t you?”

Sylvanas nodded, “And lovers.” She smiled holding up her glass of wine.

Perfectia looked at her questionably.

Sylvanas finished the glass and looked at her, “What? Did you think Nathanos was my first?” Sylvanas started with a mocking smile, “I was young and rebellious at one point, we all were, I was nearly forced into an arranged marriage at one point. My parents stopped pressuring me and Vereesa once Lirath was born though, they had a son that could carry the family name. I remember when he was a baby, it fell on me to act as a mother figure to him after my mother passed.” She explained.

“What about Alleria?” Perfectia asked.

Sylvanas shook her head, “She was the acting Ranger General at the time, there were holidays when we all came together though.”

Perfectia crossed her arms and looked downward, “It doesn’t make sense to me. The position changed so many times. My grandfather seemed distant, but he gave me anything I wanted. It wasn’t until I came back to Quel’Danas did I feel like he was taking me under his wing.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, “He always seemed like he would have never given the position of Navy General to any of his offspring from what I gathered.”

Perfectia narrowed her vision angrily, “Well, you’re wrong, you didn’t know him like I did. He saw me fishing off one of his boats one day and he asked me what I was doing. I couldn’t understand why my mother seemed to hate him so much until later I found out about all the slave trading he was doing, but then, he was just my grandfather that was teaching me how to sail and use a sword. I hated my mother so much for what she did to me.” She explained

“What did she do?” Sylvanas asked.

Perfectia sighed as she recalled, “I know she did the best she could to raise me with the maternity leave she had, but I never felt like I was part of the family. I was so spoiled and that pushed people away and they treated me like I was a problem that needed to be fixed. Really, I wanted so much to impress people, to get attention, but the only way I knew how to do that is by asking for more things or misbehaving. Eventually, I was kidnapped, but I escaped into a tribe of trolls. They forced me to work, to learn, and in a few days, I learned how to fish and cook. It was the first time I ever felt like I was part of a community, like I was contributing, not like I was someone’s problem.” She looked away and shook her head, “She took that away from me. That over protective nature she had, that kept me spoiled and mentally stunted, was used to burn all those trolls alive like… Well, meat. My arson mother thought she could pass the torch on to me, but I didn’t want anything to do with her after that. My grandfather on the other hand, was impressed with what I learned, and I told him that I didn’t want to be a mage like my mother. I wanted to do what he did.” She explained.

“How old were you?” Sylvanas asked.

Perfectia shook her head, and let out a slight grunt of distaste, “Seven.” She crossed her arms and looked away, “I hate mages so much. Warlock’s know that they’re evil but what good have the powers of the Arcane brought? Nothing but destruction and even when their body count tallying up in the thousands they tell themselves that it was for the greater good. Really, it’s nothing but the complete arrogance of thinking you’re smarter than everyone else because you read a few books, but mages don’t heal anyone and the powers they command only help themselves. A warlock is clear in their intent, but a mage is always unknown.”

“Our city was founded on the principles of magic, of the Arcane.” Sylvanas explained in disagreement.

Perfectia could feel the anger building up inside her, and she looked at her somewhat angered, “Medivh was the one that brought the orcs that killed your brother in the first place. The reason why your sisters left to the dark portal and don’t even get me started with Jaina. If she ever thought of anyone but herself, well, things would be a lot different.” Perfectia shook her head and looked into Sylvanas’s eyes, “Our prince, Kael’Thas, you should have been there when he died. Seen what he had done to what was left of our city.”

Sylvanas nodded slightly as she thought back, “There were issues with the Worgen that I couldn’t ignore. The curse was spreading to our people. It was potent among humans, but it spread to a few blood elves. Also, if Kael’Thas hadn’t destroyed the Sunwell it would have been a conduit to further Arthas’s power and a lot more of Silvermoon would be corrupted.” Sylvanas looked to the side and shook her head as she thought back, “We were pleasant acquaintances for a long time, I didn’t really believe what I was told about him in Tempest Keep.”

She laughed slightly at that, “I lived there for four years, what you were told about him was most likely true.”

Sylvanas shrugged, “You didn’t say anything to me.”

Perfectia looked up as she started to recall their first meeting, “It didn’t seem like you would be interested in hearing about that. I was told so many stories about you when I was working in those caves and even after you died you were still…” Perfectia looked away, “When I brought you that necklace that I found here… I can’t tell you how happy I was to finally meet you. You were rude and dismissive, but when you thought I had left I heard you singing. You were still the Hero of Silvermoon.” Perfectia was referring to Alleria’s necklace that she had found on Windrunner Spire and brought to her. “What happened before didn’t matter. What mattered is that we were both still here.”

She looked up and thought for a few seconds, “I guess that’s true. When I first met you two.” Sylvanas looked above Perfectia’s head, “You didn’t seem like you had been abused and you seemed far from Wretched.”

Perfectia smiled and nodded, “Alexandros protected me before any lasting damage could be done. Else I would have been soiled, working in the Den of Mortal Delights.”

Sylvanas looked away in disgust as she remembered her, “You looked pretty young, a little bit past adolescence, how old were you, like…” Sylvanas looked at her when she did the math in her head, “Wait, you’re like 20 something, you are a child…”

Perfectia nodded and smiled slightly, “That is one of the reasons why none of my kind wanted to ‘date’ me. Fel was used to magically age orcs from infants to grown men. Then a possession ritual. For elves it just makes us age about as fast humans. I heard it can even pass into a mothers breast milk.” She laughed at the memory, “Malfurion was the one who sent us to Outland. So I was pretty excited about killing him.”

Sylvanas nodded slightly as she remembered, “So you came from Silvermoon,” She put her right index finger in her palm, “then to Light’s Hope, and then…” She hinted questionably as she was trying to put Perfectia’s story together.

“Quel’Tithien Lodge, that where I met Liraith…”

She looked at her suspiciously, “And the Mograine spirit.” She looked upwards for a second, “I’m sorry, things aren’t really adding up.”

Perfectia raised her eyebrows, “Oh, no. That was before. Okay let me be brief. Okay…” She got her thought pattern in place. “First Silvermoon, then Light’s Hope, then Stratholme, back to Light’s Hope, then Quel’Tithien Lodge, then Balnir Farmstead for a night, then Brill, a few inns in Kalimdor. Me and my father had to work a bit to get adventures to escort us to place to place, but we were heading to Dreamgrove in hopes that we would stop getting treated like peasants.”

She nodded, “I thought you said you were going to be brief?” She asked and yawned.

She nodded quickly, “Right, got kidnapped and held hostage by the Timbermaw tribe and they eventually let us go into Dreamgrove, a few weeks later Malfurion opened a portal to Sklvanaar.”

Sylvanas looked at her confused like she didn’t understand what she was saying.

She noticed that Sylvanas didn’t spend a lot of time in Outland, if any at all. “It was a Night Elf settlement in the Blade Edge Mountains.”

She nodded and moved her finger from left to right, “Oh, and that’s next Tempest Keep.”

Perfectia nodded, “Yeah. Little did we know that living like peasants was a lot better than living like slaves.”

Sylvanas leaned back, crossed her arms, and sighed. Seeming to be relieved that Perfectia was done with her story, “Well it makes sense now.”

She paused, “Sylvanas did you ever think-” She looked away and shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas asked slightly curious.

Perfectia seemed disturbed by the thought, "It’s nothing, just forget it. "She shook her head and recalled something, “Wait, there was something.”

“Spit it out then.”

“The Wrathgate… did you?”

Sylvanas laughed slightly, shook her head, and sighed. “I can trust you, right?”

Perfectia looked away, “I may write about it, but no one ever gets to read that.”

Sylvanas nodded and laughed slightly, “You never lie about anything, do you?”

Perfectia shrugged, “Well, I wasn’t there but… Jaundace was.”

Sylvanas took the bottle of Silvermoon Port, finished the whole thing, threw the bottle at the wall, and it smashed to pieces, “That mage had been in my service a year before I met you. What I saw him do in the invasion was nothing short of savage and I wasn’t surprised to find out that he was Kel’Thuzad’s apprentice. I didn’t recognize him before because he could barely hold a flame in his hand when my undead brought him to Tirisfal Glades. He didn’t remember anything but his name, until he saw his… ‘wife’. His involvement in the Warthgate removed any doubts that I was exclusively trying to only save undead from the casualties of Grand Apothecary Putress, but he survived. Disappointing really.”

“So, you knew?” Perfectia asked.

She thought back reminiscently, “I planned it actually, what I wasn’t planning was the timing. What I wasn’t planning was Saurfang the Younger being the first casualty, I expected at least a little more fight in him. I had hoped that Arthas would have been weakened by the armies of the Horde and the Alliance but Bolvar Fordragon would have been next. Arthas would have chased down the remaining troops like sacred sleep. I showed Grand Apothecary Putress, exactly on a map where I wanted Arthas to be when he dropped his plague, knowing full well both Alliance and Horde would be there.” Sylvanas laughed, “If Arthas had to climb up even one flight of stairs through plague, he would have died there as well.”

Perfectia nodded and remembered what people had told her about what happened there, “I guess if Arthas would have died there, you’d have been a hero.”

Sylvanas laughed somewhat hysterically, “I really didn’t care about that and I knew Varimathras would eventually betray me, but Putress. I thought he was smarter than that, what kind of plan would he really have if I died and he took over the Undercity. I miss our talks, he would go on and on about experiments and chemical compounds. He would create things faster than he could name them, but he did have limitations, and almost no morals whatsoever.” Sylvanas shook her head somewhat disturbed.

Perfectia smiled slightly, “Thank you.”

Sylvanas shook her head, “No, it’s fine. It’s actually something I’ve always wanted to get off my chest.”

Perfectia smiled again and nodded gratefully, “I’m glad I could help, but I don’t think you called me over for just confessions and to discuss High Elf politics.”

Sylvanas looked away and nodded, “It is a political topic which is why I opened up with something we were both familiar with and it brings back memories when things were simpler. Also it’s nice to speak Thalassan with a native speaker.”

Sylvanas laughed slightly, shook her head, and sighed. “I can trust you, right?”

Perfectia looked away, “I may write about it, but no one ever gets to read that.”

Sylvanas nodded and laughed slightly, “You never lie about anything, do you?”

Perfectia shrugged, “Well, I wasn’t there but… Jaundace was.”

Sylvanas paused, holding the bottle of Silvermoon Port. She finished the last bit in a slow, deliberate sip, placing the empty bottle carefully on the table, her fingers lingering on the glass as she recalled, “That mage had been in my service a year before I met you. What I saw him do in the invasion was nothing short of savage, and I wasn’t surprised to find out he was Kel’Thuzad’s apprentice. I didn’t recognize him before because he could barely hold a flame in his hand when my undead brought him to Tirisfal Glades. He didn’t remember anything but his name… until he saw his ‘wife’.”

She clenched her jaw slightly, the only crack in her calm demeanor. “His involvement in the Wrathgate removed any doubts I had about his nature. He survived. Disappointing, really.”

“So, you knew?” Perfectia asked.

Sylvanas leaned back, crossing her arms as she thought back, her eyes cold. “I planned it, actually. What I wasn’t planning was the timing. What I didn’t expect was Saurfang the Younger being the first casualty. I thought he’d put up more of a fight. I had hoped that Arthas would have been weakened by both the Horde and Alliance armies, and then Bolvar Fordragon would have been next. Arthas would chase down the remaining troops… like sacred sleep.”

Her lips twisted into a dark smile as she continued, “I showed Grand Apothecary Putress exactly where I wanted Arthas to be when the plague was unleashed, knowing full well both factions would be there. If Arthas had to climb even one flight of stairs through that plague, he would have died there too.”

Perfectia nodded, recalling what others had said about the event. “I guess if Arthas had died there, you’d have been a hero.”

Sylvanas let out a quiet, bitter laugh, the mirth never reaching her eyes. “I didn’t care about being a hero. I knew Varimathras would betray me eventually, but Putress… I thought he was smarter. What kind of plan did he have if I died? How did he expect to take over the Undercity?”

She sighed, her fingers tracing invisible lines on the table, the memory clearly stirring something uncomfortable. “I miss our talks, in a way. He would go on and on about experiments and chemical compounds, creating things faster than he could name them. But he had limitations. And almost no morals.”

Perfectia smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

Sylvanas shook her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s something I’ve always wanted to get off my chest.”

Perfectia nodded gratefully. “I’m glad I could help, but I don’t think you called me over for just confessions and to discuss High Elf politics.”

Sylvanas looked away for a moment, then returned her gaze. “It is political, which is why I opened up with something we both understand. It brings back memories of when things were simpler. And… it’s nice to speak Thalassian with a native speaker.”

Perfectia smiled as she nodded in agreement, she was less nervous now.

Sylvanas handed a letter to Perfectia. “Anduin gave me this letter after we started mining Azerite and the Alliance started attacking us with his MI:7 agents.”

(This is Christie Golden’s letter to Sylvanas in the book Before the Storm the World of Warcraft Novel)

Perfectia took the letter and read, "Queen Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken and warchief of the Horde. King Anduin Llane Wrynn respectfully greeting.

I write to you with a proposition that has nothing to do with armies, territories, or goods, but it is one that I believe will serve both the Horde and the Alliance.

I will cut directly to the heart of the matter. When you approached the Alliance, seeking a home for your people, you were refused." Perfectia laughed at the thought, “Yeah, that’s an understatement, didn’t Grand Marshal Garithos try to eradicate your kind?”

Sylvanas smiled as she agreed, “He did, but keep reading.”

Perfectia nodded and looked down at the paper, "We were still reeling in terror from what Arthas had done to Lordaeron and couldn’t understand that your Forsaken were truly different.

I have spoken recently with a Forsaken who was greatly respected in the life and have learned that despite all he has endured, he still follows the Light. His name is Alonsus Faol, and he was once archbishop of Lordaeron. He has agreed to be a go-between in the interest of helping both the living and the undead.

This missive is about families. Families that were torn apart not by Horde and Alliance but by Arthas, who rained despair and devastation upon all of us. Spouse, children, parents- so many separated, divided first by death, then fear and anger. Perhaps, if we can work, those driven apart can last be reunited.

We are not currently at war. But I am not so naïve as to believe that means hostilities do not still linger. We have experienced recent tumultuous change to our very world in the form of Azerite- a manifestation of the pain Azeroth herself is feeling. With unity, we would direct our exploration of this substance in ways we can save her. Let us therefore focus on the a smaller but no less important gesture of unity as a first step toward a potential future that benefits both the Horde and the Alliance.

I propose what amount to a single day of a cease-fire. On this day, those families who have been divided by war and death will have a chance to meet with the ones they lost. Participation will be strictly voluntary. All those on the Alliance side will be thoroughly sighted, and no one who I believe would be a danger to the Forsaken will be allowed. I would ask the same of you. We will determine a limited number of participants.

A site suitable for this event is the Arathi Highlands. I will have my people assemble for this event is the Arathi Highlands. I will have my people assemble at the ancient fortress of Stromgarde Keep. Thoradin’s Wall is close to a Horde outpost. There, in the open field, with sufficient protection as agreed upon by the two of us as leaders of humans and Forsaken, these ruptured families will meet. It will last from dawn until dusk. With your agreement, Archbishop Faol and other priest will facilitate, assist, and offer comfort as needed.

Should any harm befall my people, be certain I will not hesitate to retaliate in kind.

I also understand that should my people harm any Forsaken, you will do likewise.

As a priest, as king of Stormwind, and as the son of Varian Wrynn, I will guarantee safe passage to the Forsaken who choose to be involved. If this cease-fire is successful, it could be repeated.

Do not mistake this for an offer of peace. It is only an offer of a single day’s compassion for people who were cruelly torn apart by a force that was neither the Horde nor the Alliance.

You and I have both family, Warchief. Let us not force that upon others who, like us, did not choose it." Perfectia looked up at Sylvanas and back down at the ground.

“You have that look in your eye.” Sylvanas stated.

Perfectia didn’t make eye contact with her and shrugged, “I didn’t know he could write so well. Who gave this to you?”

Sylvanas looked away as she remembered, “A blood elf in red leathers. I suppose she works for the Alliance, but she disappeared when I realized who she was working for.”

Perfectia stared at Sylvanas blankly for a moment, then looked away, disgust evident in her expression. “She was working for the Alliance?” The distaste in her voice was palpable.

“There’s THAT look in your eye now,” Sylvanas laughed slightly, observing Perfectia’s growing frustration. “I’m sure there’s nothing going on between those two, but I could be wrong.” She shrugged, a casual dismissal of the potential alliance.

Perfectia clenched her left hand into a fist, her emotions surging. The idea of a blood elf working for the Alliance felt like a betrayal of her people. Her mind raced with thoughts of loyalty, of what the Alliance represented—the same Alliance that had been responsible for so much bloodshed in the past. It wasn’t just a betrayal of race; it felt personal, like a deep wound reopened. The disdain she held for the Alliance now spilled over, thinking about Anduin’s role in this too, and the anger that had been simmering boiled over as she slammed her fist into the armrest of the chair.

Sylvanas, ever the observer, quickly interrupted before Perfectia could spiral further. “Do you remember what you saw when you first touched Azerite?” Sylvanas’s tone was calm, but it was clear she was steering the conversation away from the emotional outburst.

Perfectia, still glaring, responded with frustration in her voice. “It honestly wasn’t a vision I liked, but there was no war, and so much prosperity. Silvermoon was greater than it ever was—a utopia, a perfect world where we didn’t just have beauty and order, but we explored other worlds too.”

Sylvanas leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as she probed deeper, her tone laced with quiet suspicion. “And you enslaved them?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. The question wasn’t just about the vision—it was a subtle commentary on the blood elves’ tendencies toward grandiose visions of dominance. Sylvanas had seen it before, that sense of superiority among her people, that belief they were destined to rule. Was Perfectia merely echoing the same arrogance, or was there something darker at play?

Perfectia rolled her eyes and smiled as if amused by the question. “We made them realize their full potential through labor and technology,” she said casually, shrugging as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “And the non-believers were eradicated. Even the undead painlessly embraced the Light. No one could deny my claims to my name then. Everything was perfect… The Void power the Legion feared couldn’t match the effect our people were making on the universe.” She spoke with the confidence of someone who believed in her vision completely, but there was an edge—perhaps a hint of the same superiority Sylvanas herself had seen in so many of her kin.

Sylvanas crossed her arms, her gaze shifting as memories stirred. “You know, your grandfather had a similar vision,” she began, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “He wanted to build a new Sunwell on Kalimdor. He was willing to go to war with the Night Elves who denied him. We were close allies with them then, and they taught me many of the ranger tricks I still use today. I stood by the Alliance when I heard about his plan. I couldn’t support it.”

Perfectia tilted her head, curious now. “How did you find out?”

Sylvanas hesitated for a moment, looking back into the past. “Your mother told me, actually. Kel… Kel’Donas, was it?” She smiled slightly, finally remembering.

“Yes, that’s it,” Perfectia nodded.

Sylvanas continued, her voice quieter, more reflective. “It was supposed to be a matchmaking meeting for Lirath, but your mother confessed her father’s plans to me. I went to Nordrassil to meet with some of my friends in the Sentinel brigade. They sent letters to the Wardens on the Broken Isles, and they were supposed to meet me in Silvermoon. But when I arrived back home… your mother was gone, and Lirath had passed away.” Sylvanas trailed off, her gaze shifting back to Perfectia, as if studying her face more closely.

Something wasn’t adding up in Sylvanas’s mind. The way Perfectia carried herself, her determination, her connection to the past… there was a familiarity there that Sylvanas couldn’t quite place. Could it be…? Sylvanas shook off the thought, though it lingered, unresolved. “Is something wrong?” Perfectia asked, sensing Sylvanas’s intense scrutiny.

Sylvanas shook her head, masking her suspicions with a laugh. “No, it’s nothing.” She chuckled, brushing the moment aside. “What kind of name is ‘Perfectia’ anyway? Why would she name you that? It doesn’t suit you.”

Perfectia shrugged, trying to let the strange moment pass. “I agree. You can call me Melfina if it bothers you, or just go back to calling me ‘child’ like you always have.”

Sylvanas smirked slightly, still keeping some of her thoughts to herself. “Would it bother you if I did?”

Perfectia laughed, shaking off the tension. “No, it’s fine.”

Sylvanas nodded, seemingly relieved by Perfectia’s agreement, but her expression quickly darkened as she broached the next topic. “So… the boy king?”

Perfectia rolled her eyes, “I would appreciate it if you called him Anduin.”

Sylvanas smirked and shook her head slightly, but there was a softness behind her sharp features. “How do you feel about him? About all of this?”

Perfectia sighed heavily, her fingers absently curling into the fabric of her robe. “I don’t even know what I was thinking, being with him. I mean, I can’t even give him an heir.”

Sylvanas looked at her, confused. “Why not?”

“You do know I can’t conceive, right?”

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow. “You’re literally menstruating right now.”

Perfectia’s eyes widened. “You can tell that?!”

“I don’t usually mention it, but I can smell it over the alcohol. It’s what I smelled when you walked in. I only called you out on it because you said you couldn’t conceive.”

Perfectia sighed, leaning back in her chair, her humor dark and biting. “I can’t carry for more than a month or two before I miscarry. Little parting gift from Garrosh. Unlimited abortions, whether I like it or not.”

“That’s not funny,” Sylvanas said, her voice stern.

“I know,” Perfectia admitted, her tone softening. “It’s just how I cope. The cycles still happen, though, so I’m sorry about the smell."

Sylvanas sighed, sensing the deeper hurt behind the humor, but neither of them was quite ready to dive into it.

“I guess I’d better go. I don’t want to bleed all over your furniture,” Perfectia said, moving to stand.

But Sylvanas stood first, her eyes locking onto Perfectia’s. “I’ll have it.”

Perfectia blinked, confused. “Have what?”

“If the Alliance is no longer a threat—or even if he steps down and joins the Horde—I will take your egg and his seed, implant it, and deliver.”

Perfectia stared at her, completely dumbfounded. “Is that even possible?”

Sylvanas shrugged as though the idea was no more significant than discussing strategy. “Everything still works down there. I’ve been able to fornicate and feel just as I did when I was alive. I’ve never heard of an undead having a cycle, but I’ve never been pregnant either. I could try.”

Perfectia was silent for a moment, her mind racing between the offer and the surreal situation. She eventually shifted, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Why did you send me to Stormwind, knowing I was in love with him?”

Sylvanas looked away for a moment, her lips curling into a faint, nostalgic smile. “I thought you would commandeer that ship. But the probability of anyone getting close enough to kill Jaina Proudmoore was you, and I knew you wanted to after what happened in Lordaeron. She’d already shot down a few of my Forsaken scouts, and I figured you’d have a better chance of eliminating her than betraying me.”

Perfectia blinked, absorbing the cold calculation in Sylvanas’s words. “I got hurt though… I still can’t move my arm,” she said, lifting her hinged arm slightly.

Sylvanas’s gaze softened for a brief moment, before she smirked. “Do you remember what you did to Arthas in the Halls of Reflection?”

Perfectia furrowed her brows, trying to recall. “I remember attacking him in a blind rage. Then you teleported me back to break down an ice wall and incoming Scourge.”

Sylvanas chuckled, her tone almost affectionate. “You don’t remember summoning five Ashbringers and knocking Arthas around like a rag doll? It was almost comical.”

Perfectia’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I… did that?”

Sylvanas nodded, her amusement flickering. “You did. And I believed Uther the Lightbringer when—”

Sylvanas sighed deeply, her gaze hardening. “Arthas couldn’t be defeated there, but it would have killed anyone else. If I hadn’t been trapped by Scourge and ice walls, I might have left you there to torment him.”

Perfectia held her head in her hands as if in pain, her voice tight. “No… that didn’t happen. My arm wouldn’t have been… I was still able to use it afterward.”

Sylvanas shrugged nonchalantly. “You didn’t have the original Ashbringer. You might have been drawing power from Tirion Fordring. I would have liked to have seen you in the Argent Tournament. Garrosh brought you up—it’s too bad you weren’t there when Arthas was defeated.”

Perfectia’s eyes flashed with anger. “I would have died.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “What? How can you be so sure?”

“He said,” Perfectia’s voice faltered, “I would have died if I faced Arthas in Icecrown Citadel. If Frostmourne hadn’t been shattered… I thought about taking it for myself. I wanted to see my mother again.” Her words came out in a rush, laden with old grief. “But Alexandros told me—no, he warned me—that I was meant to be a last resort. Maybe after whatever I did in the Halls of Reflection, they decided I wasn’t fit for Icecrown. Tirion said I couldn’t go.”

Sylvanas watched her with an inscrutable gaze, but her tone softened. “This isn’t about Arthas. This is about Anduin, isn’t it?”

Perfectia stiffened at the shift. “What happened during that meeting?”

Sylvanas let out a bitter laugh. “He brought Calia Menethil—Arthas’s sister—so she could convince the Forsaken of her birthright to the kingdom of Lordaeron. She wanted to take my undead and have them switch sides.”

Perfectia frowned. “But if it was their choice, what did it matter?”

“BECAUSE IT MATTERED!” Sylvanas’s sudden scream filled the room, her voice raw and angry. “My child, you’ve been caught between sides more than once, because of what you are. Something you had no choice over.” She seethed, pacing the room. “Several undead, loyal to the Alliance… how could I know if they were spies, moles? I already made that mistake, thinking that being undead united us, that it didn’t matter who we had once been. And it got me killed. For the third time.”

Her voice dropped, cold and deadly. “I was fine with them reuniting with their families… but to go to the Alliance, to be brainwashed by that boy king?!”

Perfectia’s heart pounded. She could feel the weight of Sylvanas’s words, but her voice was quiet. “You don’t know if that would have happened.”

Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you know what my sister said to me?”

Perfectia lowered her gaze, murmuring softly, “That she should have killed you the last time you met.”

Sylvanas nodded, the anger in her face mixed with a deep hurt. “Yes. She had the nerve to call me an abomination after what she did to herself. I thought it was the voidlord she absorbed that twisted her mind. But no, child. More of my undead being pulled away, to the other side? No. They had to be put down.”

“You… killed them,” Perfectia whispered, staring at the floor, her voice almost hollow. She had seen death, but the coldness in Sylvanas’s words was something else. There was no remorse, no hesitation.

Sylvanas nodded solemnly, her anger dissipating into a grim certainty. “Yes. They chose the wrong side. And they were lost to me.”

Sylvanas nodded, her voice softer than before. “Calia… she shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

Perfectia leaned forward, watching her carefully. “Did you know Giramar was there too?”

Sylvanas’s brow furrowed. “Giramar?”

“Vereesa’s son. Your nephew.” Perfectia hesitated, watching Sylvanas’s reaction carefully. “He came on his own, wasn’t supposed to be there either, but… he wanted to meet you. After The Meeting, he wanted to kill you.”

Sylvanas fell into silence, her gaze hardening as the weight of the revelation sank in. She hadn’t known. “I didn’t know he was there,” she said, her voice suddenly quieter, more fragile than before. She seemed to wrestle with the emotion, her anger wavering under the surface. “If you see him again… tell him I’m sorry. Truly. He wasn’t supposed to see that.”

There was a bitterness in her tone now, but also something more—something like regret. For all her calculated actions, for all her willingness to do what was necessary, this… this was different. Family. She had wanted hope, not despair.

“I didn’t want them—all of them—to see me as a monster,” Sylvanas muttered, almost to herself. “I didn’t know he was there…”

Perfectia crossed her arms, feeling a rare sense of moral victory wash over her. She had gotten through to Sylvanas—at least for now. “Calia Menethil would have made a good queen.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing at her lips. “You’re welcome?”

Perfectia’s gaze hardened, and she spoke quietly, “What about me?”

Sylvanas blinked, taken aback. “Didn’t you just say—”

“I said it was unlikely, not impossible, that I could be queen.” Perfectia’s voice was firm, her eyes locked on Sylvanas.

Sylvanas looked away, a shrug rolling off her shoulders. “You’re too naïve.”

“You’d kill me?” Perfectia asked, leaning forward, her voice daring Sylvanas to answer.

Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed, the anger building beneath the surface. “If it weren’t for you, I would never have known about Lirath.”

Perfectia’s eyes softened, seeing the shame on Sylvanas’s face. “If I were queen, and you or Nathanos had killed me… you would have never known.”

Sylvanas’s fury flared again, her voice sharp. “Oh, stop playing innocent. That may work on Anduin, but I see you for what you really are! Both of you—dangerous.” She paused, her voice quieter now. “I couldn’t kill you if I wanted to.”

Perfectia leaned back, crossing her arms, her expression more resigned. “What was it you said to that Night Elf commander after she told you that you couldn’t kill hope?”

Sylvanas’s face darkened, her voice low. “‘Can’t I?’ Then I showed her home… and gave the order to burn it. What of it?”

Perfectia nodded slowly. “You care about your sisters, about your family, don’t you? You didn’t just burn down hope for the Night Elves, Sylvanas. You burned it down for yourself.” She met Sylvanas’s gaze, her words soft yet cutting. “Lirath is the only one left. But if I were queen of Stormwind, and you killed me—or even tried to—you’d never have known. I would have died believing you were a monster.”

Sylvanas’s face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Perfectia’s words landed hard, and she couldn’t deny the truth in them. Perfectia sighed, her voice dropping as she added, “I don’t feel that way about you now. But tell me, how do you think Lirath will feel once he finds out what you’ve done?”

Sylvanas’s eyes flickered with something—regret, fear, maybe both. She looked away, the weight of Perfectia’s question hanging heavily between them.

Sylvanas looked away and frowned, "I’m sure if he has ears he knows already. What do you want me to say? ‘I’m sorry for what I did?’ "

“YES!” Perfectia screamed, “By the Light, yes! That would make you a hundred times better than Garrosh! Why did you think I wanted to leave? I couldn’t sit there and watch you turn into him, I’ve always admired you, but I saw what was happening and I wanted to stop you.” Perfectia started crying but didn’t look at her, “You’re not Garrosh though, you’re the Ranger General that died protecting Silvermoon, you’re the woman that brought us into the Horde, the woman that killed the man that took everything away from us, the one that helped us escape the Legion when we were facing their sheer numbers. You are so much better than they are. I could never understand why you would do something that was so similar to what Arthas did to us.”

Sylvanas looked away, her gaze distant, as if she were reaching for some memory buried deep. There was a flicker—something in her eyes that could have been regret, or perhaps just a moment of clarity. It was subtle, but for just a second, the weight of Perfectia’s words seemed to hit her. “The woman you remember died a long time ago,” she whispered, her voice softer. She turned her gaze back to Perfectia. “I’m sorry if that upsets you, but I am not the childhood hero you remember. Like I said to that Night Elf commander, I was a fool.”

Perfectia looked downward as she remembered back, “No, that is not what you said. When did you say that?”

Sylvanas looked at her questioningly, “What did you think I said?”

“‘I remember a fall,’” Perfectia muttered, looking back at her. “You fell harder, deeper, and more painfully than anyone I thought could possibly fall. You failed over and over when anyone else would have quit, and you have yet to succeed in any of your endeavors.” Her voice cracked with emotion, “But you always got right back up, you never quit when anyone else would. I will never stop believing in you. Whenever I was in the deepest darkness, I always thought of you. I just wish you could see yourself the way some of us saw you.”

Sylvanas shook her head slightly, the flicker of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it came. “You hold me too high in regard.”

Perfectia rolled her eyes and shook her head, “How should I see you then? Stupid, selfish, impulsive, hypocrite, who didn’t just take a page from Arthas, but wrote a sequel to his book?”

Sylvanas stood up, her expression hardening. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

Perfectia, seemingly unphased, looked up at her, “Then answer my first question…”

Sylvanas looked down on her, her hand slowly rising as if to draw an arrow. But before she could make a move, the room was suddenly bathed in a glow of blue fire. Sylvanas froze, her eyes darting upward. “You saw that, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice lower, almost shaken.

Perfectia nodded, glanced around, and got up. “You know I can’t control him. Maybe I should just go.” And with that, she turned to leave.

“Wait, my child.” She said the words and it seemed to surprise her. But it stopped Perfectia. “I want to trust you and I want you to trust me, I know I’m all of those things you just said, and if there’s any difference between me and the Lich King… Well I couldn’t tell that there was much, but I never sought this power out. I can only use it for the good of the Horde and for Azeroth.” She sighed, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Why not?”

She looked downward and started talking, “I want whatever I need to do as Warchief to be over soon as possible. I want the people to be afraid of me so whatever that thing is I need to do gets done, I can go back into the shadows and be with just a few people I can trust. If I was ever forced to be paraded around like a prize turkey for some good deed I did… Well, I think I die from disgust…” She sighed, “…I was like that when I was alive as well. But that wasn’t the person I was allowed to be.”

She laughed slightly at her, “So you’re staying you have some kind of social anxiety?”

She shook her head, “I’m saying that I’m not that different from Anduin.”

Perfectia got a laugh out of that, completely unbelieving, “Oh that is rich. How are you two anything alike? He cares about his people.”

"All those things you two like about heroics, honorability, and leadership; the attention, approval, and unconditional love from the crowd, those are the things I hate about it. "

“Why?”

Sylvanas looked downward to her right, “You’re both going to find out that when the people put you on a pedestal, every new person you meet and even your once close friends, will be disappointed with you for failing to meet their expectations.” She shook her head as she remembered back, “I don’t like people and for some reason I’m always put in these jobs where I need to lead. Very few people approve of me because of my tenacity, so, thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome, when you used to say, ‘There is no joy in this curse’ I kind of understood why you would say that. You could say that you’ve been the victim of unfortunate circumstances, things that were beyond your control, so why would you take joy in the fortunate circumstances that were also out of your control.”

She nodded, “That’s true.”

“But it’s up to you to be the person you want to be with whatever control you might have, regardless of what people expect of you. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not what most people would consider a traditional paladin, but I choose to be this way and I can change whenever I like. Sylvanas, you have the freedom to dismiss the expectations of others, it’s up to you to choose the role you want to play.”

She pointed a finger at her, “And that’s why I take such pleasure in killing traitors, child. They can be changed on a whim. Freedom and foolishness more often than not coincide, many people fumble in this world looking for meaning, and while under Arthas control I saw followers that were not spiritually linked to him as I was, but I understood why they followed, why they betrayed. They were given a singular purpose which they were willing to go any lengths to fulfill. But then I was given a purpose too, it was to escape his control, then to kill him, and now it’s to dismantle the Alliance.”

Perfectia looked down sadly, “When will it be over then? Are you really so afraid of going back to the woman that might have enjoyed the present moment, that didn’t look for meaning and purpose? Because it would be foolish? Because I think you’re very narrow minded and that’s foolish to me.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes and shook her head, “I don’t know, I suppose deal with that bridge when I get to it. Also, Teldrassil wasn’t the same thing as Silvermoon. Do you know why we were exiled to Tirisfal?”

Perfectia shrugged slightly, came back to her chair and tried to recall her history, “It had something to do with the Well of Eternity.”

She nodded slightly and sat down as well, “Nordrassil was somewhat of a second home to me and when I was a child, I wanted so badly to be a druid, to turn into a bird or bear, and enter the Emerald Dream, but I was refused because of… Well, something I didn’t have any control over. But that world tree was planted the same way the Sunwell was created. And I thought of the whole thing wreaked of hypocrisy, but I did find some companionship with Night Elf Sentinels.”

Perfectia rolled her eyes and laughed slightly, “Are you going to tell me that you committed genocide out of some petty childhood revenge?”

She laughed slightly, “No. You see child, the waters that made the world tree’s and the Sunwell, notoriously draw demons, and while Silvermoon was protected by powerful barriers and runestones. Nordrassil was protected by “blessings” of the Dragon Aspects but still managed to draw one of the most powerful demonic deities.”

“Archimonde.” She nodded as she recalled her history.

Sylvanas nodded, “I wanted to help with the battle at Mount Hyjal, I really did, but I wasn’t officially part of the Horde yet and the Alliance, well, you can imagine how well any pleads might have gone if I offered to help them.” For a few seconds Sylvanas remembered the burning of Teldrassil fondly. In all her thousands of years she had never committed so much raw destruction. She entertained the idea that she wanted to see Stormwind in even greater flames not because they were the enemy, not because it would be the closing of the threat of the Alliance. But because it was the raw destruction and the chaos in its entirety was beautiful to her. These were the thoughts of bloodthirsty tyrants, not a masterful tactician that she thought of herself as. She shook off the idea, there was a method to her madness, she had to explain it to her, as well as herself, “Teldrassil wasn’t blessed or even approved by the Dragon Aspects, do you know how long it took for that World Tree to become inhabited by lesser demons?”

Perfectia shrugged her right shoulder slightly, "I don’t know a year or two. "

She raised her eyebrows in slight surprise, “A day.”

Perfectia looked down sadly, her voice soft but firm, “When will it be over then? Are you really so afraid of going back to the woman who could live in the present moment, who didn’t need to seek meaning and purpose in every action? Because to me, that fear… that’s narrow-minded. And that’s foolish.” She met Sylvanas’ eyes, searching for something—perhaps an acknowledgment, a break in the Warchief’s carefully constructed walls.

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, a flicker of annoyance passing through her features, but there was something else too, something she wasn’t willing to confront. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I suppose I’ll deal with that bridge when I get to it.” Her words lacked conviction, almost like she wasn’t even sure of what she was saying.

She shifted the conversation, her voice more controlled, “Also, Teldrassil wasn’t the same thing as Silvermoon. Do you even know why we were exiled to Tirisfal?”

Perfectia shrugged, trying to recall her history. “It had something to do with the Well of Eternity?”

Sylvanas nodded slightly, sitting down as well. “Nordrassil was like a second home to me, in a way. When I was a child, I wanted so badly to be a druid, to transform into a bird or bear, and enter the Emerald Dream. But I was refused… because of something I couldn’t control.” Her voice softened for a moment, betraying a rare vulnerability. “That World Tree was planted the same way the Sunwell was created. The hypocrisy was… staggering.”

Perfectia rolled her eyes and laughed bitterly. “So, what? You committed genocide because of some petty childhood grudge?”

Sylvanas laughed softly, the sound hollow, her expression darkening. “No. Not quite.” She leaned forward, her voice growing colder, more resolute. “The waters that created the World Trees and the Sunwell? They draw demons. That’s their nature. Silvermoon had powerful barriers, runestones to protect it. But Nordrassil, it relied on the blessings of the Dragon Aspects… and still, it managed to attract one of the most powerful demonic entities.”

“Archimonde,” Perfectia muttered, recalling her history.

Sylvanas nodded. “I wanted to help during the Battle of Mount Hyjal, I really did. But I wasn’t part of the Horde yet, and the Alliance?” She scoffed. “You can imagine how well my pleas for assistance would have gone.”

For a moment, Sylvanas fell silent. Her mind wandered back to Teldrassil. In all her centuries, she had never unleashed such raw, unfiltered destruction. She had reveled in it, in the chaos, the sheer beauty of it—there was something intoxicating in watching the flames consume everything. And yet, a part of her recoiled at the thought. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. She wasn’t supposed to be like those who thrived on mindless carnage. Was she?

Her eyes flickered, betraying a brief flash of guilt, quickly masked. She straightened, speaking more to herself than to Perfectia, trying to rationalize it once again. “Teldrassil wasn’t even blessed by the Dragon Aspects. It was vulnerable. Do you know how long it took for that World Tree to become infested with lesser demons?”

Perfectia shrugged, her right shoulder lifting slightly. “I don’t know. A year or two?”

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows, her tone filled with grim satisfaction. “A day.”

Sylvanas looked down, her expression softening for a brief moment before she nodded. “And for the most part, you’ve served me well. Tonight, I don’t see you as just another soldier. You deserve an explanation.” She met Perfectia’s gaze, her eyes hard but with a flicker of something more vulnerable beneath the surface. “I needed time. Time to set up the apothecaries and evacuate the adventurers. Saurfang bought me that time. I was going to negotiate, but they… they were so sure they’d already won. All they wanted was to gloat, to boast, to make death threats. Your former lover made it clear I had two choices: surrender or die. So, I did what I had to.”

Perfectia, still wrestling with her own disappointment, narrowed her eyes. “Do you think Lordaeron is better off, filled with death and plague?”

Sylvanas’ voice took on a sharper edge. “We’re here, aren’t we? If I hadn’t blown those apothecaries, what do you think would have happened? What if I let the Alliance establish a foothold in Lordaeron? Where do you think they would’ve gone next?”

Perfectia’s thoughts drifted to Anduin and her homeland. “Silvermoon,” she muttered, her voice tight.

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, watching her closely. “And you’re not going to defend him? Tell me he wouldn’t have done that—invaded your home?”

Perfectia shook her head, her voice heavy with reluctant truth. “He said he wouldn’t use the Void Elves to attack Silvermoon, but… someone would have convinced him. He’s impressionable. Needy. He wants validation from everyone around him. He probably broke up with me because he thought people wouldn’t approve.” Her voice grew colder as she spoke. “I predict his whole life, he’ll take the easiest road, always seeking peace, making the simplest choices. And when things get too hard, he’ll play the victim and blame assertive people—people like you, like me—and make them out to be villains, so someone else can swoop in and save him.”

Sylvanas smiled slightly, though it was a bitter smile. “Then I’m glad you’re not as blind as I once thought.” She paused, then asked, “How is Saurfang?”

Perfectia’s face fell. “He’s given up. He tried so hard to find an honorable death, to reclaim what was lost at Darkshore. Now, I think he’s settled for a dishonorable one.” Her voice turned sadder. “You should have asked for Malfurion’s head.”

Sylvanas shrugged slightly, but her eyes remained locked on Perfectia. “Why didn’t you give it to me, then?”

Perfectia sighed, shaking her head. “I wasn’t confident I could take on Tyrande, and Saurfang wasn’t interested in fighting anymore.” She paused, her voice softening. “I was going to tell you when I arrived on the beach, but… I didn’t like what I saw. The Legion was gone. We could have had a dozen World Trees, a dozen Sunwells, and it wouldn’t have mattered. The Burning Legion was dismantled.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, her disgust at Perfectia’s words evident, but she couldn’t entirely dismiss them. Her voice sharpened. “You say it’s nonsense. What do you know of nonsense? Spend your life in someone else’s shadow and then be ruled by another? Watch your family dwindle to a handful, watch your entire culture be annihilated in front of you, and your people slaughtered to near extinction. Then tell me what wills you to go on, other than your own strength… Don’t you dare judge me.” She turned away, her expression haunted by the memories. “Did you know Garrosh had plans to burn Teldrassil too? Plans I spoke out against, knowing full well what the Alliance would do to Lordaeron and Silvermoon.”

Perfectia’s voice trembled with anger. “Then why did you do it if you were against it?”

Sylvanas turned back, her tone sharp and unapologetic. “Because I felt it was necessary at the time, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. That boy,” she spat the words, “was weak. Clumsy. A deceitful coward hiding behind righteousness, with no business ruling anyone. Only choosing peace when it suited his wants, needs, and goals.” She scoffed, looking into the distance, her voice tinged with disdain. “He was no different from Onyxia, using political games to further his agenda. He was absent when the Legion was burning our world to ash, while Genn…” her gaze met Perfectia’s, remembering that confrontation vividly, “You saw what Genn did. We needed those valkyrie. But no, he cared more about his personal vendetta than the world’s survival.”

Perfectia, her voice quieter now, but no less emotional, answered, “He didn’t want to attack Lordaeron.”

Sylvanas frowned in confusion. “Then why did he?”

Perfectia’s shoulders slumped under the weight of regret. “Because of me.” She looked away, her voice filled with pain. “When Tyrande found out about me, she threatened to leave the Alliance if they didn’t attack. She screamed at Anduin, said whatever we had was never going to happen. I don’t even know if he wanted me. He planned to reject me anyway.”

Sylvanas was taken aback, her disgust deepening. “So many deaths, on your hands. We lost Lordaeron because of you! That’s on your head!”

Perfectia looked down, guilt flooding her. “The Alliance would’ve lost if Jaina hadn’t shown up. I would’ve tried to arrange a parley, or even a surrender, if I married him.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, dismissive. “You think he would’ve married you after losing that battle?”

Perfectia shrugged weakly. “He said he would. He told me he gave me his heart, that he would’ve given me his kingdom. But I broke his heart.”

Sylvanas, still not fully convinced, pressed. “And when did he say that?”

Perfectia’s eyes clouded with sorrow as she whispered, “When he was trying to kill me.”

Sylvanas’ confusion quickly shifted into something darker, her lips curling into a bitter smile, almost a laugh, filled with disdain. “What, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I…” Perfectia’s voice cracked, her mind spinning, trying to find words, but she faltered. “It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean to. He was angry, and… we were just… I was my-”

“Don’t you dare say it was your fault, child!” Sylvanas’ voice rose to a near scream, her fury vibrating through the room. “Please don’t tell me you’re that stupid. How much more does he have to hurt you before you realize he’s a monster?! DOES HE HAVE TO STRING YOU UP AND CASTRATE YOU LIKE GARROSH DID?!”

Perfectia’s face twisted with pain, her tears falling freely, but she refused to let herself break. “Try to speak louder next time,” she hissed through her sobs, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I think there are some comatose elves in Quel’Thalas who didn’t hear you.”

Sylvanas crossed her arms, turning away, her own rage simmering beneath the surface. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Perfectia blinked through her tears, her words quieter now, yet filled with a raw sadness. “Did you know I was carrying a half-breed? A Draenei. He was my first, at twenty.” She shook her head slightly, the memories coming back without the overwhelming grief she once felt. “He died right in my arms.”

Sylvanas sighed, looking away as if the weight of Perfectia’s confession was too much, but there was a flicker of regret in her voice. “Oranio felt love and kindness in his last moments. Find solace in that.”

Perfectia gasped softly, her voice tinged with surprise. “How did you know…?”

Sylvanas barely moved, her face set. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard about it.” She scowled, crossing her arms, her voice bitter. “Garrosh bragged about what he did. That’s how I knew. My Forsaken and a few sin’dorei had to replace you to keep tabs on what was happening in Dalaran. Where were you, anyway? My scouts asked your doctor and she just said you needed to be transferred.”

Perfectia shrugged helplessly. “I wish I could tell you. I was in an induced coma for half a year.”

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into her voice. “Why would you need to be put in a coma for a hip injury?”

Perfectia winced, struggling to recall the details. “My best friend, Dr. Cadence Olisarra… she’s the head doctor. She’d never seen an injury like mine before. Her whole team had to learn how to fix me.” She cringed again, struggling with the terminology. “They had to study Ortho… Ortho-”

“Orthopedic,” Sylvanas corrected coldly.

“Right,” Perfectia nodded. “They needed training.”

Sylvanas frowned deeply, turning away. “Who trained them?”

Perfectia laughed bitterly, her tone almost mocking. “Funny you should ask, because they never stopped bragging about it. Velen trained them. They worked on Anduin first. Always said their care was fit for a king.”

Sylvanas shook her head in disbelief, the irony hanging thick in the air. “And where was this surgery performed?”

“Karazhan mostly,” Perfectia began cautiously, “small procedures in Dalaran, and a major one in the Exodar.”

Sylvanas’ eyes widened, her expression hardening. She swallowed, as though something bitter had just crossed her tongue. “They weren’t trying to make you Lightforged, were they?”

Perfectia blinked, surprised by the accusation. “No, there were no Lightforged people at that time. Is something wrong?”

Sylvanas’ lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze distant, calculating. “We might need to invade Bloodmyst Isle very soon.”

Perfectia frowned, confused. “Why?”

Sylvanas turned to meet her gaze, the weight of her next words heavy. “I have a small battalion of Blood Elves stationed there, keeping an eye on a Draenei ‘nursing home.’” She sneered slightly. “But some of their injuries were recent. Others… were being held against their will. Lobotomized. And my scouts suspect they were experimenting—perhaps trying to Lightforge others. Then you mentioned the Exodar.” She met Perfectia’s eyes. “Now I’m thinking… what if they were trying to make something like you?”

Perfectia’s mind raced. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of her friend, Cadence. Could it be true? Were they missing some vital piece of this puzzle? “What did you find?” she asked softly.

“Cruelty. Pain. Unelfical living conditions,” Sylvanas spat, her words sharp.

Perfectia tilted her head in confusion. “Unethical, you mean?”

“That’s what I said,” Sylvanas grumbled. “It was our word, once. Unelfical—before humans twisted it into their version. ‘Humane,’ they call it now. They took the elf out of it.” Her voice was thick with disdain. “As a matter of fact, the Valkyrie coined the term ‘human’ as slang for ‘humiliating offstring.’”

Perfectia nodded, trying to absorb this. “I guess that makes sense… I never thought about it when I was learning Common.”

Sylvanas’ expression darkened. “I burned the ‘hospital.’ Even my scouts said it was an act of mercy.” She shook her head, then added with a hint of regret, “But I should have sent photographers. I could have made a spectacle of their cruelty.”

“You still can,” Perfectia suggested. “With the Sentinel Garrison dismantled, you could send scouts more boldly to investigate what experiments they were conducting. I’ll go myself. I’ll find out what’s happening.”

Sylvanas’ smile was brief, almost reluctant. “That’s relieving to know. I haven’t been able to spare scouts with all the squabbling over Darkshore. If they managed one or two successful procedures… well, Anduin’s rapid recovery might make more sense.” Her brow furrowed in thought.

Perfectia shrugged, trying to downplay the tension. “He’s a teenager. And he had the funds. It’s no surprise he bounced back so fast.” She paused, noticing the way Sylvanas’ mind was working. “Is something wrong?”

“Karazhan mostly,” Perfectia began cautiously, “small procedures in Dalaran, and a major one in the Exodar.”

Sylvanas’ eyes widened, her expression hardening. She swallowed, as though something bitter had just crossed her tongue. “They weren’t trying to make you Lightforged, were they?”

Perfectia blinked, surprised by the accusation. “No, there were no Lightforged people at that time. Is something wrong?”

Sylvanas’ lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze distant, calculating. “We might need to invade Bloodmyst Isle very soon.”

Perfectia frowned, confused. “Why?”

Sylvanas turned to meet her gaze, the weight of her next words heavy. “I have a small battalion of Blood Elves stationed there, keeping an eye on a Draenei ‘nursing home.’” She sneered slightly. “But some of their injuries were recent. Others… were being held against their will. Lobotomized. And my scouts suspect they were experimenting—perhaps trying to Lightforge others. Then you mentioned the Exodar.” She met Perfectia’s eyes. “Now I’m thinking… what if they were trying to make something like you?”

Perfectia’s mind raced. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of her friend, Cadence. Could it be true? Were they missing some vital piece of this puzzle? “What did you find?” she asked softly.

“Cruelty. Pain. Unelfical living conditions,” Sylvanas spat, her words sharp.

Perfectia tilted her head in confusion. “Unethical, you mean?”

“That’s what I said,” Sylvanas grumbled. “It was our word, once. Unelfical—before humans twisted it into their version. ‘Humane,’ they call it now. They took the elf out of it.” Her voice was thick with disdain. “As a matter of fact, the Valkyrie coined the term ‘human’ as slang for ‘humiliating offstring.’”

Perfectia nodded, trying to absorb this. “I guess that makes sense… I never thought about it when I was learning Common.”

Sylvanas’ expression darkened. “I burned the ‘hospital.’ Even my scouts said it was an act of mercy.” She shook her head, then added with a hint of regret, “But I should have sent photographers. I could have made a spectacle of their cruelty.”

“You still can,” Perfectia suggested. “With the Sentinel Garrison dismantled, you could send scouts more boldly to investigate what experiments they were conducting. I’ll go myself. I’ll find out what’s happening.”

Sylvanas’ smile was brief, almost reluctant. “That’s relieving to know. I haven’t been able to spare scouts with all the squabbling over Darkshore. If they managed one or two successful procedures… well, Anduin’s rapid recovery might make more sense.” Her brow furrowed in thought.

Perfectia shrugged, trying to downplay the tension. “He’s a teenager. And he had the funds. It’s no surprise he bounced back so fast.” She paused, noticing the way Sylvanas’ mind was working. “Is something wrong?”

“My clan has always been intuitive,” Sylvanas sighed, her voice laced with suspicion. “I have some theories, but they’re premature. My gut tells me something is going on.”

Perfectia shook her head, pushing the unsettling thoughts of Dr. Olisarra to the back of her mind. The idea of her friend being forced to perform the same excruciating procedures for the sake of war made her stomach turn. Dr. Olisarra was a healer, a person of trust, caring, and platonic love—she wasn’t made for war. Yet, how many others might be suffering because the knowledge hidden in Olisarra’s head was incomplete? Perfectia wondered what lengths others might go to fill that gap.

“Are you alright?” Sylvanas’ voice snapped her back to reality.

Perfectia forced a nod. “I was just… preparing for what I might find on Bloodmyst Isle.” She paused, then shifted the conversation. “Would you have killed Vereesa and her boys if they joined the Horde? Made them like you?”

Sylvanas blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I never breathed a word of that to anyone, but yes, I considered it. Is that what she told you?”

“Not exactly,” Perfectia admitted. “But I think she sensed it. That gut feeling of hers.”

Perfectia scoffed, her tone dismissive but thoughtful. “Do you think she would have approved of becoming undead? Would her children have wanted to see their mother like that?” Her expression soured, her unease apparent. “You would’ve killed them, wouldn’t you?”

Sylvanas shrugged, her gaze cold. “It was on the table. I had planned on making it look like an accident or forcing them to disappear. But don’t tell her that.”

Perfectia couldn’t hide the disgust that twisted her features. Sylvanas noticed and sighed, her voice hardening. “Think about how different things would be if Garrosh had died in his cell. No Iron Horde, no Legion. We might have had decades of peace.”

“What would you have done with decades of peace?” Perfectia asked quietly.

Sylvanas’ gaze drifted away, her voice distant. “I haven’t thought much about it. What ifs are meaningless. I just know that the pain I felt—the hope for something different, something better—was unbearable. I wasn’t made for love or joy. Those are for the living.”

Perfectia narrowed her eyes. “Is that you talking or Arthas? Jacob Parkingsons, wrote a chapter in this book you know.”

Sylvanas flinched at the name, her mouth open as if to respond, but nothing came out. She touched her throat, confused. “I… I literally can’t speak about that night.”

Perfectia tilted her head, her tone biting. “Cat got your tongue?”

Sylvanas shook her head, struggling for words. “Pandaria. I ran into Jaina before the trial. I wanted to tell her what happened in Stratholme, to mock her… to gloat. She could’ve been the Lich Queen.” Sylvanas’ voice faltered again, as if choked by an invisible force.

“Because he still loved her.”

She nodded, “Parkingsons was freed from that curse which is why he was able to talk about that. But he had been under the submission of his own pet demons he summoned. He regained some control or at least I think he has. You haven’t shared that story with anyone else, have you?”

Perfectia looked away and remembered back, “I think Vereesa and her boys know.” She lifted up the book that was in her bag, “They read this thing front to back. Even some of the erotica I wrote.”

Sylvanas repressed a laugh. “I’m not sure if I approve of that. How old are they now?”

“16, pretty good fighters actually. She trained them well.”

“How do you know Vereesa anyways?” She asked.

“I met her under the alias Melfina Lovewood when I was spying on the Silver Covenant. She was the first person I told about Lirath.”

"And because of that she helped you? You were most likely responsible for her husband’s death. " She stated.

Perfectia looked away sadly and shrugged slightly, “I know, that’s why she didn’t trust me at first until I told her and I broke my vows to the Light and I fell ill. I’m not really sure how long I was gone.”

She shrugged. “Neither am I, you were nobody that was particularly noteworthy, I can’t keep tabs on every adventure that steps into my city.”

She gave her a strange look.

Sylvanas noticed, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. If you were looking for praise go to Khadgar; he seems to worship the ground you walk on.”

She rolled his eyes, “He talks like that to everyone, I sometimes wonder how genuine his words actually are. He always wants something from everyone.”

She looked upwards and shrugged, “Maybe he just knows how to make friends and influence people. He’s not terribly unattractive either for a man his age. I wish more humans were like him.”

Perfectia thought back and remembered something she said. That you love people that have principles, have character, and have a purpose that is bigger than themselves. She looked at her in sudden realization, “Hey, you like him.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, “And if I did?”

She gasped and smiled, “Oh my Light! Do you want me to write a letter or love poem?”

She sighed annoyingly, “No, will you please grow up? I can’t believe you’re so proud you managed to pry that out of me. Besides no one has heard from him in months, it’s a shame really, he would make a handsome corpse.”

Perfectia tilted her head to the side and flexed the side of her face, “I’m going to guess that that’s the highest comment you can give.”

Sylvanas looked up and thought, “He put in a lot of ground work into ending the Legion and the Iron Horde. If he managed to get his hands on any azerite he could prove to make a very useful ally even if his intentions were to stalemate us. I wonder what he’s up to?”

She looked at her confused, “You’d really be okay with that, with a draw?”

Sylvanas stopped, rested her arm to the side, leaned her cheek against her knuckle, and looked upward in thought.

“Are you okay?” Perfectia asked.

She nodded, “I would consider myself a pragmatic person and I’ve done things people don’t agree with because it produced the desired result.” She sighed and shook her head, “You’re making me think ‘what if’ my child. If we lose more, would Khadgar help balance the scales back in our favor?”

Perfectia smiled as she heard the ‘my’ in her sentence, “Well it’s likely that he doesn’t really care about the faction wars, only with helping Magni Bronzebeard restore the planet, but if you never seek him out he’ll never be your potential ally or lover.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed slightly, “What should I do, put on makeup and a dress and beg for his allegiance to the Horde? Also, do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Now there’s a thought.” Perfectia looked up and away and shrugged slightly in glee, “If you were willing to shallow some of that pride I think it could happen, maybe he’s in Karazhan. You won’t be able to take a full force there because it’s so close to Stormwind.”

Sylvanas nodded, “I’ll consider that.”

Perfectia’s eyes widened, “Maybe I can get you into something that isn’t just chains and leather. Maybe I can go into Stormwind and get you a nice silk dress, no, velvet. Velvet is heavier. Dark red velvet, with gold embroideries, cut low in the front to show off your features.”

She rolled her eyes, “I was joking. I thought you weren’t into women? Stop staring at my breast like that.”

She looked at her puzzled, “But you don’t think it would be nice. Maybe take off that hood, we could put up your hair, and show off that lovely neck. I think I still remember the make up the human nurses used on me. I was getting all kinds of comments that day.”

“Can you please just drop it? The answer is no.”

“Well, the ones that kill innocent people, sure, but what about the rest?”
Sylvanas shrugged, her voice casual, almost dismissive. “I don’t know. Changing the tide of battle is difficult, to say the least. Changing people’s minds is something I’m working on.” Her eyes met Perfectia’s. “The Alliance fights for a way of life, not life and death. They believe the world would be brighter if all living things were stripped of individuality. They only lack the will to get more blood on their hands. I’m trying to provide that.”

She paused, her gaze narrowing as a memory surfaced. “I didn’t see Tyrande in the battle, though.”

“I…” Perfectia hesitated, unsure if she should continue. “…I think she had some regrets. I met her on the Isle of Quel’Danas. She actually took me to Anduin so he could… break up with me. She said that…” She trailed off, unwilling to say more.

“What did she say?” Sylvanas asked, her tone sharp with curiosity.

Perfectia swallowed. “She built up my hope. So did Anduin. He kissed me, and I finally got to feel his body and his embrace.” Her voice wavered, and she hugged herself tightly. “And then he killed it.” She looked directly at Sylvanas, tears forming. “I guess you’re not the only one who can do that.”

Sylvanas sighed, looking away, shaking her head. “When someone told him that he couldn’t have you, he wanted you even more. But when you made yourself available again…” She allowed herself a slight smirk, amused by the parallel. “I understand.” She shrugged. “There’s a reason why all three of us have lain with humans. Father was against it.”

Perfectia’s tears finally broke free. She covered her face with her hand, nodding through her sobs. “He wanted me to join the Alliance, but he said he wouldn’t be with me. Like I would work alongside Jaina after everything she did. Was that all I was to him? Something he couldn’t have?”

As Perfectia tried to explain, her words tumbled out in broken fragments, punctuated by heavy sobs. She was desperately trying to make sense of her feelings, but her emotional outburst made it hard to communicate. Sylvanas, for a moment, struggled to contain her amusement.

I was not made to deal with emotions like this. Sylvanas thought, her lips twitching upward in an almost imperceptible smile. Then again, I don’t think I could handle someone like her even if I were alive. She shifted slightly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Why did I agree to this? I’m not a therapist… Why did I agree to be her therapist?