Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(16)

[Perfectia-moon-guard]

But as Perfectia continued to sob, something flickered in Sylvanas’ mind. Gosh, she looks like Lirath… and acts like him too. She’s family, Sylvanas. Her thoughts grew somber. You have to protect the family.

“I know, I know,” Sylvanas finally said, her voice softer now as Perfectia began to step closer. “No, no, don’t hug me, but I’m here for you. You’re both so young, and you both think you’re in love, but the reality is, we’re at war.” She took a step back, observing Perfectia with more sincerity. “If we weren’t, I would be happy for you, but I’m wondering… what would you do if you were in my position?”

Perfectia’s tears slowed, but her face remained wet, streaked with pain. A sudden shift in her posture, her trembling lip firmed. She looked at Sylvanas, her eyes burning with a renewed, intense determination. “No!” she screamed, before violently hitting her own head with her fist, repeatedly, as if trying to force the thoughts away.

Sylvanas’ amusement evaporated instantly, replaced by genuine concern. What is she doing? Her mind raced, her body instinctively moving to stop Perfectia from hurting herself. She’s family. Protect the family.

“Don’t touch her!” a deep voice spoke out in Common, reverberating through the room.

Sylvanas froze mid-motion, her eyes narrowing as she looked around for the source of the voice.

(“Perfectia’s in pain,”) an accented masculine voice said through Perfectia’s mouth. (“You were going to let ‘er kill ‘erself.”)

“I wanted her to kill Sylvanas. She’s not her friend! Perfectia, we’re leaving!”

Perfectia slammed both fists into the table, breaking the hinge that kept her arm secure. “NO!” she screamed in her natural voice, her right hand shaking from the pain.

Sylvanas furrowed her brow, more confused than ever. “What’s going on?”

Perfectia, cradling her injured hand, winced. “Yes, that’s excruciating,” she said in a deeper, calm voice, her eyes glowing blue, though her hair remained blonde. “So, are you finally going to listen to me now?”

“What…?” Sylvanas muttered, glancing upwards for Mograine, but the familiar figure wasn’t there.

Perfectia shook her head. “He’s not there. Neither is she, and…” She doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Oh no, oh no. Why? …No. Oh, that hurts, that hurts so much.” She groaned, her voice tightening with pain. “Oh gosh. Oh my gosh, this hurts so much.”

“What’s wrong? Is it your arm?” Sylvanas asked, still trying to grasp the situation.

“No, my stomach hurts, and I’m hungry. I feel like my skin is being ripped off from the inside, and I’m so tired.” She leaned forward, resting her head on the coffee table. “How do you do this every month? And how long does it last?”

“Four to seven days,” Sylvanas replied, her confusion giving way to realization. “Oh…”

“I’ve never been here while this was happening. No wonder she was so moody.”

“Yeah, I stopped having those when I became undead.” Sylvanas chuckled dryly. “A silver lining I never really appreciated. So, if you’re not Mograine, who are you?”

Perfectia let out a long, pained sigh, her voice deeper and more controlled. “I was first called to her to ensure Perfectia’s survival when she was chained inside Ragefire Chasm. Pain is what calls me. Since I spent more than a decade inside Frostmourne, pain doesn’t phase me as it does the living.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident. “Pain seems to be phasing you pretty intensely right now.”

Perfectia rolled her glowing eyes. “This is new pain, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I feel so malcontent and defeated, like I could cry, but it wouldn’t help. Do you have any more of that wine? Maybe this headache will go away.”

Sylvanas found herself oddly fascinated. This being, whoever it was, clearly had no experience in a woman’s body. “That’s because you’re not pregnant, but your body thinks you should be. Your hormones are telling you that you failed.” She rose from her chair, going to fetch the wine. Whoever this is, they’re going to be in for a rough time if they’re stuck in her body for too long, Sylvanas thought with amusement.

As she poured the wine into Perfectia’s glass, she asked, “So, what are you doing here? What do you want from her?”

Perfectia—no, the voice—took the glass gratefully, but paused. “I was brought to keep her alive… but there’s more to it. I can’t explain all of it.” A flicker of distress crossed Perfectia’s face as if the being was struggling with the bodily sensations.

Sylvanas snatched the wine bottle from his hands, her voice sharp. “Give me that.” She took a deep swig, tipping the bottle until it was nearly upside down. She paused for a breath. “That’s a little better. She almost did it with Anduin…” His eyes widened, and a wicked grin spread across her face. “Oh wow… Huge dopamine rush. That wasn’t just the wine. Every feature of his—” Her voice, no longer her own, deepened with unsettling amusement. “It’s making my blood tingle.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “He’s handsome, sure, but I take it you don’t swing that way.”

Kel’Magnus shook his head. “No, but she feels that way about you too. She’d never admit it, but she’s drawn to you. Wants to save you, protect you… loves you, even, in a way a man does."

Sylvanas crossed her arms and leaned back, her voice flat. “Flattered, but who are you, besides a man experiencing his first menstrual cycle?"

A smile stretched across his face, unnervingly wide. “You were right about one thing. You were a fool, Sylvanas. Trying to be your sister, clawing out from her shadow all those years. I never liked you for it. I could see the counterfeit behind all that pride. And now, you’re trying to outdo Arthas Menethil… Old habits, I suppose."

Sylvanas stiffened, her eyes narrowing. She knew who was speaking now. “Kel’Magnus Dawnlight,” she said, her voice cold, her gaze locking on Perfectia’s body—now an unsettling vessel for the long-dead Navy General of Silvermoon.

Kel’Magnus nodded, pleased. “In the flesh… so to speak. Want to know what I would have done? Or better yet, what you should have done?”

Her head tilted slightly, though her guard remained up. “Go on then, enlighten me.”

Kel’Magnus’s smile didn’t falter as he leaned in slightly. “Teldrassil… oh, my hat’s off to you for burning it. But you stopped short, Sylvanas. You let their leader leave. That was your mistake. You should have sent your orcs into Darnassus to reap the spoils of war—take everything. Break the spirit of the Night Elves not with fire, but with flesh. Pass them around, let your grunts take what they wanted. That would’ve crushed their hope far more than watching their precious tree burn.”

Sylvanas recoiled, her lip curling in disgust. “You mean ripe and pillage? No. That’s not how I lead. They knew who they were fighting.”

Kel’Magnus laughed, a harsh, grating sound that didn’t fit the feminine voice he now borrowed. He placed a hand on his throat, amused by the sound. “You said the R-word, not me. You should have captured as many as you could—not just for slaves, but soldiers. Imagine it, Sylvanas. Take two colored stones—red and blue—and ask them if they choose death or slavery. The ones that choose slavery? Line them up. Every tenth man, step forward, and nail him to a cross while the new slaves watch. Do the same for the ones who choose death, only mark them with white paint and tell their comrades, if those wearing white aren’t dead in five minutes, they all die. But… you won’t kill them.”

Sylvanas stared at him, her patience eroding. “What’s the point, Kel’Magnus? What’s the grand strategy behind this… madness?”

Kel’Magnus leaned back with a smug grin. "It’s simple. If the ones in white survive, you’ve got elite troops on your hands—people willing to kill for a chance at life. And if not? You’ve demonstrated the cost of cowardice, loud and clear. It’s a win-win, really. Psychological warfare, Sylvanas. You missed your chance at Darnassus. The beach should’ve been littered with crucified Night Elves before you torched it. Imagine the fear that would have spread when survivors returned to tell those tales. Lordaeron would’ve been untouchable.”

Sylvanas gritted her teeth, fury rising. “You’re disgusting, even in undeath, Kel’Magnus. You still manage to sicken me.”

Kel’Magnus chuckled darkly. “Disgust? Coming from you, Sylvanas? The one who’s slaughtered women and children? I wouldn’t do that, I see long term stability above all else. Come now. Don’t pretend you have morals now that it’s convenient.” His voice dripped with mockery. “When you run out of insults, feel free to switch to Orcish. I won’t understand, but I promise I’ll still be offended.”

Her fists tightened. “You were a waste, Kel’Magnus. That’s why no one remembers you. You squandered resources—boats we didn’t need.”

He rolled his eyes dismissively. “Boats? You think I cared about fame or recognition? I hunted Naga, eradicated them from the surface while our so-called leaders wasted time. You have running water today because of my vigilance, and yet here you are, pretending to be better than me.”

Sylvanas felt her anger boiling, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. “You demonized magicless elves. They weren’t worthless, and I regret not doing more to stop you.”

Kel’Magnus’s eyes gleamed with wicked satisfaction. “And that, Sylvanas, was your failing. When Arthas came, those same elves you defended? They were butchered in the woods, helpless. Would you rather they had died as slaves, or without hope at all?”

Sylvanas’s lip curled in disgust. “You’ve never cared for anyone, have you?”

Kel’Magnus’s grin widened. “I had ambitions greater than you could ever imagine. A king’s ambitions. And the truth is, Sylvanas, history is written by the victors. You could have built something greater—an empire that would have survived anything. But no… you cling to these weak ideals.”

Sylvanas’s anger flared, but there was something else—something deeper. For a brief moment, she remembered her own words: I was destroying a god. But in Kel’Magnus’s twisted logic, she saw a mirror of her own ruthless tactics. And it made her skin crawl.

“You think I should follow in your footsteps?” Sylvanas sneered. “Rule with brutality, destroy everything in my path, just to cling to power?”

Kel’Magnus’s eyes gleamed. “It’s the only way to survive. You’ve already started down this path, Sylvanas. Don’t pretend you haven’t. But you’ve only scratched the surface of what true power is.”

Sylvanas leaned forward, her voice low and cold. “I will never become what you were. And I sure as hell won’t become another Arthas.”

Kel’Magnus’s laugh was cold and hollow. “That’s the real joke, Sylvanas. You already have.”

She rolled her eyes, “You demonized our people because a few couldn’t hold a fire in their hands. Not all magicless high elves were worthless. I didn’t question it then, but I look back on it now and I should have done more.”

“And because of your ‘patriotism’ to all high elves. Those numbers were used against us when Arthas invaded! So many elves waited with nothing but trees and arrows for the undead to reach them. Which fate is worse, I wonder: To live as a slave, or to die without hope in the woods? The slaves I did sell eventually came back to Silvermoon once they started falling ill from magic withdrawal. It got people out of the most indefensible parts of the land and put money into the nobility’s pockets at the same time. Our whole race was facing extinction, it didn’t matter who was demonized or not. If you or Kael’thas Sunstrider would have failed, our people would have at least been an endangered species.”

“Well, you must be so proud,” Sylvanas teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you sell your own children or grandchildren into slavery if they were born magicless too?”

Kel’Magnus laughed lightly. “And if I did, so what?”

Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have no conscience whatsoever?”

“Of course not. I’m a general with the ambitions of a king.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now who’s the egotistical one?”

“It’s not ego, Sylvanas. It’s wisdom. Wisdom earned through enduring,” he said, dismissively. “I once believed leading from the front was all it took to inspire loyalty, that rank and a spear were enough. But none of you—” he pointed at her, his tone biting, “—knew how to make soldiers truly follow you. You coddled them like spoiled children.”

Sylvanas crossed her arms, unimpressed. “And your idea of leadership was slavery?”

He smirked. “It worked, didn’t it? At least my methods got results.”

She sighed, tired of his posturing. “Do you ever think about why romantic love was discouraged for souls trapped in Frostmourne?”

Kel’Magnus shook his head. “It’s not about love. Arthas and Ner’Zhul were no strangers to heartbreak. They knew that in the face of tragedy, people would breed—like animals—after every loss. But that wasn’t enough for them. When Illidan began breaking the Frozen Throne, their plan shifted: no life, no rebirth, just annihilation.”

He paused, his voice dropping with a hint of regret. “I loved my daughter, Kel’Donas. She was clever, beautiful. If she hadn’t been my daughter, she might have been my wife.”

Sylvanas’s stomach twisted in disgust. “Oh, will you just stop,” she snapped.

Kel’Magnus shrugged, unbothered by her revulsion. “Her mother was a half-elf. Lived about 500 years. Tall, thick curves… something to die for, really.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, curious. “A human?”

Kel’Magnus recoiled slightly, the distaste clear on his face. “Ew, no. Humans were barely suitable as slaves back then.” He chuckled to himself. “Valarjar, Vrykul—those were the ones worth attention. Well, except the ones with wings. They’re sterile. But her mother was the only one that gave me a girl.”

Sylvanas shrugged, barely concealing her disgust. “Do you even remember her name?”

Kel’Magnus tilted his head, thinking for a moment before chuckling. “47,” he said with a smirk. “After 11,000 years and over 50 marriages, names became trivial. At some point, even open incest started to cross my mind.”

Sylvanas looked away, suppressing the urge to retch. “I see why Kel’Donas chose to have a bastard child.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe. If that brat had been born with black hair, I’d have tossed her into the sea without hesitation.”

Sylvanas’s lips twitched, amusement flickering beneath her otherwise stoic expression. He has no idea, she thought, inwardly smiling at the irony. The resemblance between Perfectia and Lirath had always been obvious to her. It was almost laughable that Kel’Magnus hadn’t pieced it together yet.

“So, Kel’Donas was…?” she asked, pushing him for an answer.

“Quarter Vrykul,” he responded, dismissively, as though the lineage bored him.

“And Perfectia?” Sylvanas pressed, her tone sharper, eyes glinting as if testing his awareness.

“An eighth,” he shrugged again. “Not really a talking point. Besides, she never told me who the father was, so who knows?”

Sylvanas suppressed a smile, letting his ignorance hang in the air like a private joke. The fool doesn’t even know. She found a flicker of satisfaction in his failure to see what was right in front of him. Perfectia’s lineage was a Windrunner secret he hadn’t even considered.

Her amusement faded, replaced by a flash of irritation, and she shifted the conversation abruptly. “Did Arthas have plans for Deathwing? Lei Shen, the Thunder King?”

Kel’Magnus shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Should those names mean something to me?” He winced slightly, as if wrestling with fragmented memories. “Wait… Arthas brought back Onyxia. That was a nightmare—she came back fully restored, as if she’d never even died. He couldn’t control her, though. Arthas was strong, but dragons… dragons can fly, and he couldn’t. Had to retreat.” His laugh was bitter, hollow. “But she fell… eventually. To the Horde, to my granddaughter. Beyond that, things are a little fuzzy. Being locked in Frostmourne does things to your mind.”

Sylvanas let out a quiet, bitter laugh of her own. “Fuzzy memories seem fitting. Your granddaughter could barely see straight after Arthas fell. She drank herself into a stupor. Spiraled into depression. Not that I blame her,” she added, her voice dropping, almost bitter. “I nearly threw myself from the cliffs for failing to be part of his downfall.”

Kel’Magnus rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Well, it’s good you had each other through those hard times.” He sneered for effect. “Oh wait, you didn’t. It was Garrosh Hellscream who showed her any sympathy. He got her to sober up long enough to put down the bottle and become a spy.”

Sylvanas’s expression hardened, her voice like ice. “Hundreds of people wanted a piece of Arthas, but only twenty-five got their chance on the front lines.”

A smug smirk spread across Kel’Magnus’s face. “And none of them were as skilled or deserving as my granddaughter. She could’ve ended him easily, taken the Frozen Throne for herself—or handed it to you. Arthas’s soul would’ve suffered a hundredfold if either of you had claimed his crown.”

Sylvanas looked away, nodding slightly.
Kel’Magnus grinned. “Your Horde has a bigger problem than you realize. You’re always going for the throat but missing the bigger picture.”

“Do tell,” Sylvanas said, leaning back, raising an eyebrow.

“Say what you want about Anduin, but he’s got the people’s love—hell, even my granddaughter’s. Things run smoothly over there, even without Azerite. And Jaina…” He chuckled. “She could win this war on her own if she wanted.”

Sylvanas shook her head. “No, Perfectia injured her.”

Kel’Magnus laughed darkly. “She got lucky. Jaina was holding back. It wasn’t until Perfectia drank her blood that the tides turned.”

Sylvanas blinked. “She’s a San’layn?”

“Not quite,” Kel’Magnus replied. “Just a few drops. But that blood made her stronger, faster. Jaina’s power turned against her, poetic, isn’t it?”

Sylvanas’s lips curled into a small smile at the thought. “Interesting.”

Kel’Magnus shifted, tapping into Perfectia’s memories. “You’ve got quilboars, centaurs, naga, harpies… even humans stranded by the Alliance. And there’s a lich in the mix.”

“Amnennar the Coldbringer,” Sylvanas recalled.

“Exactly. Bend him to your will, and those quilboars become soldiers—or bacon.” He laughed, but Sylvanas remained unamused. “Come on, that was at least a little funny.”

Sylvanas sighed. “Garrosh considered it, but Saurfang wasn’t keen on the screams. I’ll think about it.”

Kel’Magnus shrugged. “Any race abandoned by the Alliance is worth enslaving or using as cannon fodder. Look outside your gates—those tribes are stunted. Enslaving them would be a mercy. Lead them against weaker enemies, and when they refuse to surrender, kill every man, woman, and child. Let the survivors see the corpse piles. You need to break them, show them what total war looks like.”

He paused for a moment, then continued, “Your leaders are split—honor versus survival. If you pick survival, you’ll need to break those who cling to honor, like Saurfang and his sympathizers. Replace their tribal identities with one uniform culture, one that serves the Horde, no matter where they come from.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, calculating. “And what would that leave us with?”

“A Horde that’s not just a patchwork of tribes, but a unified force—under you. That’s how you win.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, a cold edge in her voice. “You do realize that already happens when someone is raised by me or my Valkyrie, right?”

Kel’Magnus laughed, the sound echoing harshly. “Oh, I’m sure. And I’m sure the rest of Azeroth is incredibly envious of the ‘unity’ the undead bring. So charming, so blessed.” His sarcasm dripped from every word.

Sylvanas crossed her arms defensively. “Point taken.”

He shook his head with a smirk. “No, Sylvanas, don’t make Arthas’s mistake. The dead can serve you, and over time, so can the living. Absorb the lesser tribes, expand, forge your Horde into a weapon that cuts through anything. People will see your ‘acceptance’ and rally to your banner, something the Alliance will never offer. You’ll create a society that survives, a totalitarian machine where individuals exist only for the Horde, stripping away culture and identity for long-term stability.”

Sylvanas half-smiled, letting out a dark chuckle. “And why didn’t you do it before, then?”

Kel’Magnus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Because of you. And your father.”

Her smile widened, more wicked now. She shook her head. “As glorious as it sounds, conquering all of Azeroth would burn through every resource the land has. Feeding and housing every enslaved tribe would drain us dry. Say what you want about my tribal leaders, but they know the land has to be preserved.” Her eyes narrowed, her voice low and dangerous. “Remember who I was, Kel’Magnus. Before death. I wouldn’t have let you deforest our lands for your conquest. My mother would’ve survived the Amani invasion if your navy had joined the battle.”

As the words left her mouth, something stirred deep within her. “Remember who I was…” The words lingered in the air, more for herself than for him. She felt a flicker of that old fire—the ranger-general who fought for Quel’Thalas, for her people, for the land. That part of her wasn’t truly gone, no matter how many times she tried to bury it beneath the cold logic of undeath.

Sylvanas straightened, her tone sharper now. “I was never going to let you destroy the land I swore to protect. Not in life. Not in undeath.”

“I had successfully recruited the Valarjar to aid us with the Trolls, under one condition—that we help them eradicate their defective offspring.”

“Humans?” Sylvanas asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kel’Magnus nodded. “In my youth, they were like us—battle-hardened, brave. Many of them were even my friends. But the Sunstriders… they were obsessed with magic. The King saw it as more than mere parlor tricks, and that obsession blinded him. You’d think we’d learn from our mistakes.”

“Meaning?” Sylvanas pressed.

He sighed heavily. “Alexandros has spilled some of his own memories into my granddaughter’s mind. And while he died at 45, impressive swordsman as he was, I’ve lived for nearly nine thousand years. You think a child like Perfectia can handle that weight?” He paused, giving Sylvanas a sharp look. “Don’t mention this to her.”

Sylvanas said nothing, her gaze steady.

“I was a child during the Sundering, when the planet tore itself apart. I saw the full extent of the Burning Legion’s power, and despite my warnings about the dangers of magic, I watched humans make the same mistakes Queen Azshara did. I hid in the ocean, pretending I was doing something important, but really… I was just a scared boy. The same demons walked my streets.”

He leaned back, smirking. “I would have joined the Troll Wars, but your mother—she refused me, refused my advice. I told her to spread arcane influence beyond our people. I wanted her to leave her incompetent, tree-hugging, Elune-worshiping husband.”

Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed.

Kel’Magnus laughed. “I wasn’t surprised when I found out he could only produce daughters. I even questioned Lirath’s legitimacy.”

That was it. Sylvanas shot to her feet, fists clenched, the urge to strike him nearly overwhelming. Kel’Magnus raised his hands in mock defense.

“Not my body, remember?”

Her fist hovered in the air, trembling with barely-contained rage. But then his words hit her, and she froze. “Wait. What did you say about my father?”

Kel’Magnus blinked. “He could only produce—”

“No, before that,” she interrupted, her voice sharper now. “You said he worshiped Elune.”

Kel’Magnus chuckled. “Ah, yes. He did… until he managed to piss her off.”

Sylvanas’s face paled, eyes widening. “You’re lying.”

Kel’Magnus only smiled, tilting his head, savoring her reaction. “You really didn’t know.”

Sylvanas slowly sat back down, folding her hands in front of her, staring blankly ahead. Doubt flickered in her eyes—memories, small fragments of her past, shifting into place.

“I think you’re lying,” she muttered, but it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself.

Kel’Magnus rolled his eyes. “Where do you think he got that bow? It was a fragment of a demi-god’s power, a gift from Elune to protect Lireesa—your mother. Highborne, through and through. But your father corrupted it when he dipped it into the Sunwell. He didn’t push the belief on you because the bow wouldn’t work for anyone else. Tyrande has one just like it.”

Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed. “Then that would make me and my family…”

“Half Kaldorei,” Kel’Magnus finished. “Before the Sunwell changed us, we didn’t look too different from Night Elves. Blonde hair came later.”

Sylvanas shook her head, stepping back. “No. It’s a lie.”

He let out a cold laugh. “Believe what you want. You’ve been trying to kill off the Night Elves for a reason, haven’t you? I always knew your line wouldn’t last.”

“SHUT UP!” Sylvanas snarled, fury igniting in her voice.

Kel’Magnus merely smiled. “If it helps, the king liked you more. He found me embarrassing. Even though I funded his kingdom—slaves were easier to make than boats. He told me the Sunwell would be destroyed. Said he had dreams about it. My daughter—she ruined everything, got pregnant out of wedlock, wouldn’t even tell me the father’s name.” He sneered. “She had black hair, and if Perfectia had been born with it, I’d have tossed her into the sea.”

Sylvanas’s fists clenched, but she stayed silent. He continued, less amused now.

“But when she was born—blonde like her mother, powerful—she was perfect. And there was something else.” His tone softened. “She had your mother’s determination. Perfectia told you about the trolls, didn’t she? When she came back to Dawnstar, she was more focused. That fire in her… it was beautiful. I thought she’d make us warriors again.” He paused, struggling with the emotions. “I never thought I’d cry over this. Damn these hormones.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “You might’ve loved her more than any of your descendants.”

Kel’Magnus looked away and nodded. “Yes, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But she’s fragile. She needs to cry. We all love her, which is why we’re still here. But she can’t know about us—just Alexandros. Even him possessing her was risky.”

Sylvanas tilted her head. “How many?”

“Six. Seven if you include Perfectia. Four were there in the Halls of Reflection when they fought Arthas—Morgaine, Zeliek, Thane, Blaumeux. Then me. And her first lover, Oranio.” His voice turned grim. “This isn’t what you or Arthas do with your undead. We stay because we choose to protect her. But if she starts calling us to the surface, she could fade away entirely.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp. “This sounds like Dissociative Identity Disorder. You might just be a figment of her imagination.”

Kel’Magnus chuckled, glancing away. “That’s possible. And you’re not entirely wrong. There’s a Death Knight persona I didn’t mention, born from repressed memories during the Undead Invasion. None of the seven can recall those memories. It’s something an eight-year-old should never have gone through.” He paused, eyes narrowing as he continued, “But I knew you back then. We weren’t fond of each other, but we were acquainted. Remember?”

Sylvanas’s expression hardened. “And you think I’m going to lose, no matter what?”

Kel’Magnus scratched his nose slightly, his smile fading. “Yes. Because everything you do is driven by personal animosity, ego, or emotional outbursts. You don’t follow Hegelian Dialectics—the notion that history is shaped by the inevitable clash of opposing forces. Alliance versus Horde, denial versus acceptance. Garrosh failed because he turned elitist, putting orcs above all others—just like the flaw in the Alliance that my granddaughter hates. But Perfectia… she’s different.”

Sylvanas listened, folding her hands together, feeling a mixture of anger and cold detachment. “So, what? You’re telling me there’s no way I can win unless I turn into her? Start worshiping the Light, cry at the slightest provocation, and act like a drama queen?”

Kel’Magnus laughed knowingly. "I’m saying that if you want to win this war, you need to do it fast. The Horde has to evolve. Long wars only drain resources and leave nothing but scars. History won’t care about the details if it ends quickly. The Alliance won’t be able to adapt the way you can. And don’t fear the changes my granddaughter will bring—Anduin fell for her because she’s the synthesis between two opposing worlds. She knows what it takes to find peace. Even Genn Greymane suspects

Sylvanas shook her head, fighting the urge to snap. She closed her eyes, took a slow breath, her voice low and bitter. “I tried. I was even willing to lay with that boy king for the sake of peace.” Her face twisted with disgust at the admission.

Kel’Magnus’s smile widened. "Oh, Perfectia’s really not going to want to hear about that.”

Sylvanas shot him a cold look. “Not like you’ll be able to tell her.”

“I could always write a letter,” Kel’Magnus chuckled, the smirk lingering on his lips.

She scoffed, though resentment simmered beneath the surface. “I didn’t do it for peace. I did it because I wanted Lirath to come home.”

Kel’Magnus raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Ah, of course. Always personal. But you know, he’s here right now.”

Sylvanas’s blood ran cold, her eyes widening. “What… What did you say? Who told you that?”

A voice, firm and familiar, answered. “Me.”

Perfectia held her head in pain as Kel’Magnus left her.

“Did you talk to Alexandros?” she asked, but Sylvanas ignored her, stepping outside to see a figure standing amidst the fallen bodies of dark rangers.

Lirath.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, half in disbelief. “You’re… You’re alive?”

Lirath tilted his head. “Well, not exactly wrong,” he said dryly. “But what’s with all the dark rangers in our home?”

Sylvanas’s eyes scanned the beach, the bodies of over 30 rangers scattered like fallen leaves. Her gaze returned to Lirath—his red, glowing eyes, the scars that marred his face, the white hair, and the strange mix of leather and metal armor that gave him an otherworldly appearance.

“Thirty highly trained dark rangers,” she muttered, her voice low. “And you killed them without a sound?”

He smirked. “Sleep spell. To their credit, they were just as surprised to see me as you are, but they didn’t exactly knock first.”

Sylvanas shook her head, a sad smile threatening to form. “I accepted you were gone. I made my peace with it. I even tried to kill Alleria, you know."

Lirath chuckled, shrugging as he sheathed his sword. “Friendly family fratricide. Who hasn’t?”

“I knew she was your favorite,” Sylvanas said, her tone dry but softening.

“Presumptuous,” Lirath said, raising an eyebrow. “No… not even close.” He paused, reading the question forming on her lips. “And no, I’m not going to kill her for you.”

Sylvanas blinked. “How are you…? You can read my thoughts?”

Lirath nodded, his smile fading slightly. “I can’t turn it off. It’s how I’ve stayed hidden for so long. Everyone’s thoughts are so… loud.” He sighed. “But I just wanted to come home.”

Sylvanas crossed her arms, the ghost of a smile flickering. “I’d keep the place tidier if I could stop the ghosts from messing it up.”

Lirath looked at her, confused. “I haven’t seen any ghosts here. Nothing in Windrunner Village either. Just a few confused adventurers. Your dark rangers were the most people I’ve come across.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “How long have you been here?”

He shrugged. “Stopped by for a few hours, then spent five days in Windrunner Village. Soft beds there, fish in the river… Though the fog from the Death Scar makes it hard to tell time. You should get some druids to clear that.”

“I thought my rangers cleared out the ghosts already,” Sylvanas muttered, scanning the area.

Lirath raised an eyebrow. “You brought 30 rangers? I thought you knew I was here. Almost left, but then I saw Perfectia… and the way they were gripping their bows.”

Sylvanas bit her lip, her thoughts spinning. Against Perfectia? Was I really…

Lirath sighed, glancing away. “If you’re having second thoughts, I won’t hold it against you. Most people don’t act on their impulses. But if it was about Perfectia…” He paused. “Maybe I should go.”

“No,” Sylvanas said quickly, holding out her hands. “I’ll be honest.” She looked at Perfectia, then back at him. Does he know she’s…

Lirath just nodded, as if he did.

Perfectia stepped outside cautiously. “Lirath, what are you doing here?” She turned to Sylvanas. “Aren’t you going to give him a hug?”

Both Lirath and Sylvanas exchanged awkward glances. Lirath opened his arms tentatively, trying to approach from above.

“No,” Sylvanas protested, holding up her hands. “You’ll choke me like that. Did you hug Kel’Donas like that?”

“Sort of… had to jump,” Lirath said sheepishly, lowering his arms. “But you’re a lot taller than Perfectia.”

Sylvanas half-smiled, still wary. “You’re taller than me.”

Lirath glanced at Perfectia. “Seems we don’t hug in this family.”

Perfectia smirked. “Looks that way.”

Perfectia shrugged, slightly out of breath.

Lirath glanced at her with concern. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

She tugged at her breastplate, wincing. “I feel dizzy. Did I drink that much? This armor feels heavy.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow at her. “She’s on the rag. You can take it off if you want.” She glanced at Perfectia. “I’ll have one of my dark rangers bring you something lighter.”

Lirath rolled his eyes with a soft laugh, removing his cloak and handing it to Perfectia.

She took it gratefully, pressing the soft fur to her cheek. “Wow, this feels amazing.” She began removing her heavy shoulder armor and gloves.

Lirath nodded. “Made it myself.” His gaze shifted to Sylvanas. “I’ve missed you.”

Sylvanas sat back down, studying him. “You look like our father now. I remember when you always looked like a child, even when you were grown. The scars… they suit you.”

Lirath smirked. “Dying leaves its mark. The orcs didn’t go easy on me. What about your scars?”

Sylvanas looked away, smiling faintly. “Frostbite… and dying, like you. But you only had that one. What about the others?”

He lifted his chin, showing the cross-shaped scar on his chest. “Fel Reaver. Hellfire Peninsula. Didn’t hear it coming, and I wasn’t exactly equipped back then. Learned to stay in the caves after that.”

Sylvanas nodded, her gaze narrowing. “And the cheek?”

Lirath hesitated, then exhaled. “Darion Mograine. First time I met him.”

Sylvanas frowned. “You went to him first?”

Lirath nodded. “I wanted answers, to learn how the Death Knights resisted the call. Hid in Quel’Lithien Lodge for a while—crippled and ashamed. But I started hearing Kel’Thuzad’s voice again. When that happened, I stole a horse and rode to Outland. A’dal was waiting for me there, fixed my legs. It gave me a second chance.” He paused. “The other scars? From Death Knights, mostly.”

Sylvanas looked pensive. “You could have come home… to the Undercity.”

Lirath sighed. “I thought about it. But the Forsaken scared me. Seeing the undead… the things roaming Lordaeron. It felt safer to stay away. Then I heard about what you did to Koltira. That’s when I decided to stay with the Ebon Hold.”

Sylvanas lowered her gaze. “You must think I’m a monster.”

Lirath chuckled softly. “No. I think you take risks that don’t always pay off. You do it for the greater good—or at least your version of it. But evil is evil. You, Arthas, Kel’Thuzad… the Ebon Blade… we’re all just trying to survive unlife. I chose not to pick sides, Alliance or Horde. But family? We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We should protect each other.” He paused. “That’s why I’m staying.”

Sylvanas looked at him, surprised.

“I’ve been killing Void Elves, sending a message back to Alleria. Maybe it’ll help convince her to try to cure herself.”

Sylvanas nodded. “Thank you.”

Lirath smiled faintly. “Don’t thank me. This place holds good memories too. I’ve seen ghosts, but none that would’ve required an army of rangers.”

Perfectia, now wrapped in Lirath’s cloak, spoke up. “I could speak to Vereesa. She might be in Trueshot Lodge.”

Sylvanas turned to her. “How do you feel about spying again? This time with better equipment.”

Perfectia shrugged, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “What if I see Anduin?”

Sylvanas took a deep breath. “If you don’t think you can handle it—”

“I can handle it!” Perfectia burst out. “I volunteer as tribute!”

Lirath shook his head, chuckling. “You’re not actually taking his advice, are you?”

Sylvanas smiled slyly. “I wouldn’t be your sister if I didn’t take risks.” She glanced at Perfectia. “And I trust you, my child. You don’t mind, do you?”

Perfectia beamed. “I won’t let you down.”

Sylvanas thought for a moment. “I don’t expect them to forgive me overnight, but if I explain things, maybe loosen my terms… Just, while you’re there, don’t try to kill Jaina again.”

Perfectia blinked, confused. “But she—”

“I said don’t,” Sylvanas cut her off.

Perfectia sighed, shrugging. “Fine. It’ll be nice to wear something lighter anyway. My disguise could use some work.”

Sylvanas nodded. “I’ll send my specialist to Light’s Hope. If you’d check your mail, you’d know your lion is ready for combat.”

Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “You went through my mail?”

Sylvanas’s response was flat. “Yes. You’ve been under surveillance, remember? I trust you with this, but I need reports every other day.”

Perfectia smiled. “Alleria knew I was—”

“Avoid her!” Lirath interrupted. “I’ll deal with her.”

Perfectia nodded, then activated her hearthstone, disappearing back to Dalaran.

When she was gone, Sylvanas stood up and embraced Lirath. “Welcome home, Lirath.”

He returned the gesture, softly. “Thank you, sister. Perfectia won’t betray you… She loves you. But she loves him too.”

Sylvanas looked up, her voice low. “I don’t need to read minds to know that. Are you going to tell her, or should I?”

Changes

I have no idea what’s going on anymore. How many people are living in my head? How many have VIP access to my thoughts? Seriously, I’m losing it—losing my mind, my marbles, the cheese has slipped off my checker… but hey, at least I’ve still got chess.

Yep, chess. I’ve been playing it with myself (because what’s weirder than that?) and even a few games with some Tortollan folks. You know, the turtle people. And get this: I’m winning. Like, really fast too. Alexandros’s games with Renault are just there in my brain, all his strategies, every move burned into my memory. It’s wild. When I play, I can practically see Renault getting all frustrated, just like back in the day. And then there’s me, nodding and shaking my head at the Tortollan like I’m some chess grandmaster. No pressure, right?

But here’s the kicker—I’m actually able to move my right hand when I play. Like, little twitches. And I’m thinking, maybe this is the start of my recovery? Or maybe… maybe I’m just handing over more control to Alexandros. And honestly? That terrifies me. I don’t want to lose myself in all this.

This is my life. Not Alexandros’s. I don’t want to die, and I know he doesn’t want me to either, but still—why am I even playing these chess games? What’s the point? The expectations on me don’t make sense anymore. I made a promise to only use the Ashbringer to protect people, right? But if I can’t even protect myself without Alexandros taking over, what’s the point of any of this? It’s not fair.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m still that selfish brat who used to kill small animals and ruin people’s lives just for attention. Or maybe I’m still trying to follow in my mother’s footsteps, marry into power, and get my father’s approval. Honestly, at this point, I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I had another life—one filled with duty, honor, and the hope that I could be more than just a soldier. I was a husband, once. I was a father. But in one moment, all of that fell apart, and I realized I had failed at all three. Renault, my firstborn, lost his mother when he was just a boy of four. I could feel his resentment growing like a shadow, but I was consumed with tending to Darion, an infant who needed me just as much. The weight of my duties at the frontlines, the endless battles, and my own grief… they drained me. I stopped being the father I needed to be. I should have remarried. I should have sold our house and moved somewhere full of life—somewhere bustling, where Renault could have had friends, laughter, and light. But no. I selfishly clung to my own exile, hiding in the shadows of my pride, thinking I could be both mother and father to him. And in doing so, I lost both sons—one to my neglect, and the other… to the blade I forged in my own righteousness.

Even now, I hold onto that guilt. I let Renault slip away, blinded by my belief that I could handle it all alone. My arrogance, my failure, led to his betrayal. And Darion… Darion paid the price too, for my blind dedication to a world I thought I could save.

Why am I still hanging onto this guilt? I mean, seriously, that wasn’t me! But here I am, stuck, writing “I” and “me” when it should be “him” and “he.” It’s like I’m living Alexandros’s life, and it’s messing with my head. I have to stay being me. I need to keep writing this stuff down, remind myself I’m still Perfectia Dawnlight. Yeah, there’s a part of me that needs to be someone else—a spy again, back in that sneaky life. But honestly, the lines are blurring. I feel like I’m losing myself.

Being a High Elf? Oh, that was easy. It felt normal for the longest time, you know? But being a Blood Elf? That… never really clicked. I wasn’t there for all that horror—Illidan’s campaign, escaping from prisons, running from demons. The whole “devolution” of our culture? I just kind of ignored it, pretended it wasn’t happening. It was easier that way. Being with the Silver Covenant… it felt like coming back home. I even went by a different name: Melfina. Ha! Just writing it down makes me smile. There’s “elf” right there in the middle of the name, and it fits perfectly.

But “Perfectia"? I think of my mother when I hear that name. And I wonder… am I a disappointment? Maybe she gave me that name out of vanity. Or maybe she expected me to live up to impossible standards. I don’t know. I wish I could’ve learned more from her. I wish my last thoughts of her weren’t filled with anger and resentment. Maybe… maybe if I had been different, she wouldn’t have had to sacrifice herself.

Then there’s this whole Void Elf thing. My friend, she talked about these voices she heard before she transformed. I wonder, is that what Alleria deals with too? How strong is Lu’ra, that Void Naaru? But this… this isn’t just about hearing voices. It’s more like my ideas are getting tangled. My foundation, my mindset—it’s blending with Alexandros Mograine’s. What I want to do, where I want to go… it’s all swirling around like a storm, and I’m scared. The result? Unclear. Completely.

Am I even in control anymore? No wonder Anduin broke up with me. There’s that other part of me that wanted to kill him. Yeah. I’m that messed up.

But I have to go back to Stormwind. Do I really see King Anduin Wrynn as a tool for my ambitions? Could I actually tame him? Turn him into my puppet, have his armies marching to my drum, crushing my enemies in the process? Maybe… but let’s be real. I couldn’t resist him. Not with that smile, those eyes. I could try to be the queen pulling the strings, but every time he’s close, I feel like I’d just melt. I know I’d be clay in his hands, and, honestly? I don’t think I’d want it any other way.

There’s just so much going on inside my head—emotions, memories, all clashing into one giant mess. My grandfather, Kel’Magnus, he was trying to do this for so long—keep the legacy alive. But the original Dawnstar nobles, the ones who actually built the Sunwell’s defenses, they’ve all but disappeared into obscurity. And me? I keep telling myself I don’t want Anduin’s crown. I’ve told him that I just want him. But can I even trust my own mind anymore? It’s all over the place—confusion, resentment, jealousy… and love. Yeah, love. It’s a twisted jumble. And what if I feel nothing for him now? He’s the enemy, right? He wanted me to join the Alliance—maybe to protect me, or maybe even to use me. (fingers crossed ) And Sylvanas, well, she’s whispered enough poison in my ear about him that I can’t tell what’s real anymore.

But why does he have to be so… so him? Attractive, graceful, bold, kind, generous. Every time I think of him, it’s like my brain short-circuits. Even if Sylvanas is right about him—saying he’s manipulative, self-serving—I can’t help but imagine what he’d be like in bed. How perfectly in control he’d be, how he’d ravage me, owning every part of me. And that’s frustrating. Because I know I’m teetering on the edge of screwing things up. Could I really betray Sylvanas for just one night with him? Ugh, how could I mess everything up like this?

And Sylvanas… she sees Alexandros. What does that make me? The way I think about life and death—am I even me anymore, or just some puppet influenced by Alexandros? Sylvanas said I’m unstable, said I can’t control this thing inside me. Maybe she’s right. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still me.

She said something that’s been gnawing at me: “Make peace happen as quickly as you can.” She mentioned Anduin when she said that. Does that mean she wants peace? Maybe she wants me to seduce him. She never said I couldn’t… and I really, really want to.

There’s this ridiculous thought in my head—walking down the aisle with Sylvanas on one side, Lirath on the other. Some members of the Alliance and the Horde there, watching me marry Anduin. I laugh at the thought because, well, it’s absurd. But peace… peace is starting to feel sweeter, more real. Before, peace just meant the end of war. Now? It feels like a future, something better.

I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, though. I mean, we’re still broken up. But what Anduin said before, “I’ll have too much blood on my hands for you to love me…” Maybe that doesn’t have to come true.

But then, like a dark cloud raining over my fantasy, I picture something else. It’s a wedding—mine—and suddenly the skies open up. First rain, then snow. A blizzard freezes everyone solid—except me, standing there in my dress, helpless. I look up and she’s there. She, with her icy vengeance, destroying all my dreams of peace. She walks up to Anduin, frozen solid, and whispers, “You betrayed me, little Anduin.” Her touch crumbles him into pieces, and I run to catch him, but he shatters in my arms. “Not again… please, not again,” I whisper, holding his broken form.

And then she laughs. She looks down at me like I’m some pitiful thing. “You just can’t seem to keep the men you love alive, can you?” she taunts.

“THEY DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!” I scream, but my voice is swallowed by the cold.

Writing this… thinking about it… it’s strange, but I can move my right hand again. It feels stronger. And I know exactly what I’m going to say to Jaina Proudmoore if I see her while I’m in disguise.

—-

I ended up sleeping longer than I usually do—no big surprise there, considering how tired I’ve been lately. Levitius showed up with Kel’Magnus, my lion, and wow… he’s huge now. His mane isn’t fully grown in yet, but even without it, he’s absolutely stunning. It took him a little while to warm up to me again. I mean, I promised him I wouldn’t cage him, but… well, we both ended up in Stormwind Stockades for a while. I guess maybe he bonded with Levitius more than I thought during that time. Not too surprising—she’s been a beast master hunter as long as I’ve known her.

I feel like it’ll be easier for us now, though. He’s eating meat again, so I can just feed him whatever extra meat I get from the beasts I kill. Definitely different from taking care of Lucy—she only needed hay and wheatgrass. Oh, speaking of strange advice, Levitius told me, “If you want to keep him sedated, give him beer. It has enough calories to sustain him for weeks as long as he doesn’t move much.” Only in Azeroth would that sound like reasonable advice.

Levitius didn’t come alone either—she brought two dark rangers with her to Light’s Hope, and then we rode to Marris Stead. That’s where they started prepping me for the mission, and they had a whole plan to make me look like a Night Elf again. I thought it’d just be some makeup—simple, right? Yeah, not at all.

First, they stretched my face with tape and string. Painfully, I might add. Then, more makeup than I’ve ever seen in my life, topped off with a green wig. Even though the skin tone was spot-on, they kept saying things like, “This is the elf that the boy king fell for. He can’t recognize her.” I mean, it was working, but… I’m pretty sure I looked like some sort of painted streetwalker or a green-haired drag queen with the way they had me done up. It didn’t help when Levitius put on the glasses that were supposed to change my eye color from gold to silver. I could feel the makeup slowly dripping into my eyes. “It’s really uncomfortable,” I complained, obviously.

Espesa and Velonara—the dark rangers—started rifling through their bags, and one of them pulled out this flimsy piece of rubber. “Let’s try latex,” she said. Great. So, they soaked my hair down, tied it back, and slapped that latex piece on my nose. More makeup blending followed, but at least it felt better this time. When Levitius added the glasses again, it wasn’t as bad. Finally, Espesa tilted her head like an artist evaluating their work and said, “Okay. I think that finishes it.”

And here I was, transformed again.

Velonara stared at me, her face a mixture of horror and amusement. “Did you ever wear makeup when you were alive? Because she looks… awful.”

I glanced at the mirror they’d set up behind me and winced. “I look like I was crossbred with a goblin,” I groaned.

Espensa crossed her arms, unfazed. “What matters is that you look different. Besides, you look elderly. Don’t Night Elves age like humans now?”

“None of them look this old,” I shot back, still horrified by the reflection.

Espensa rolled her eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. “It’s a work in progress. You could always claim you were actually crossbred with a goblin. You wouldn’t even need platform shoes for that.”

“Anduin knows how tall I am!” I protested. “That excuse will never fly, and I refuse to look this… ugly.”

She chuckled. “Honestly, it’s not that much of a downgrade.”

I scowled. “Oh, screw you.”

Levitius stepped in, always the problem solver, and pulled out something from her bag. “I’ve got just the thing to fix your height problem.” She held up a pair of gleaming blue and yellow shoes, the yellow bits glowing with some kind of energy, and the heels were… well, dangerous-looking spikes.

“Jet boots,” she said with a grin. “The heels should give you the height you need.”

I took them, impressed despite myself. They were surprisingly heavy, almost like plate boots. “This is some intense equipment, Levitius. I bet it’d really hurt if I kicked someone with these. May I?”

She nodded, and I slipped them on. Immediately, I found myself balancing more on the balls of my feet, making it impossible to put weight on my heels. Still, they did the trick—I was as tall as I’d been in Vereesa’s platform shoes. But then, I heard Velonara and Espensa snickering.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, frowning.

Velonara giggled. “Oh, nothing. Just… you could definitely stack some extra supplies there is you wanted to.”

I blinked, not getting the joke.

Levitius, always ready to defend her work, chimed in. “I think she looks great. You should try a pair.”

Velonara raised an eyebrow and smirked. “High heels were never meant to be worn by women, you know. They were all the rage with judges and nobles in Silvermoon for a while. For… obvious reasons.”

I glanced at myself in the mirror again. My legs did look longer, and with my feet angled down, there wasn’t an obvious platform. “Well,” I said, straightening up, “I think they look fine.”

“Look at yourself from the side, Perfectia,” Espensa instructed.

I turned, glancing in the mirror. “Oh Light, my rear.” I stared at my reflection—my bottom was sticking out more than it ever had.

Espensa chuckled. “Levitius has been drooling since you put those boots on. I guess customs are different in Draenor?”

Levitius rolled her eyes. “Dey are. We wear dem for ceremonies and special occasions. But Perfectia,” she gave me a serious look, “Me tinks dis be a bad idea. Even if we make you look like a Night Elf, yous hips are too wide.”

I bristled. “I never thought a friend would call me fat to my face.”

Levitius shook her head. “Me didn’t say fat. If you lived in Draenor, men would tink you beautiful. Most elves look skinny, like dey starvin’. Not you.”

I was still annoyed, but the compliment softened it. “Thanks… I guess?”

“But me also tink you should do something ‘bout yous scent.”

I sniffed my armpit. “Do I smell bad?”

Levitius shook her head, but Espensa and Velonara both said, “Yes.”

“You smell like a candy factory. It’s a bit… overwhelming,” Espensa added.

Levitius disagreed. “More like sand and coconut.”

I thought back to Anduin and how he used to inhale deeply when he was near me. I shrugged. “Thanks, but I think they’re right.”

Espensa gave a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness. We’ll find something more earthy—like whiskey or tobacco.”

“Mahogany and cigars?” I suggested.

“You’ll smell like a man, but sure.”

I looked at myself again, considering Tyrande’s comment that Anduin might’ve been attracted to me for this exact reason. “I’ll look and smell different now. That’s what matters, right?”

Espensa shook her head. “You can’t be serious. You look like a mule.”

I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s not much of a downgrade, then. If I wear a heavy jacket and cloak, I should be fine.”

Velonara shrugged. “We might have something we can customize, but the problem is, you’ll look like one of us. A dark ranger.”

I half-smiled. “As long as I don’t look like myself, that’s all that matters.”

They tried one more time with the drag makeup, the wig, and a few more pieces of latex. I looked in the mirror, and honestly, it was a bit of an upgrade. My cheekbones actually had some fullness, and my face looked more rounded. For a moment, I thought, Huh, not bad. I looked back at Velonara and Espensa, “It looks perfect.”

But the looks on their faces were strange—like they were nauseous.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Velonara glanced at me, “Well, maybe if she doesn’t move her face, she’ll be fine.”

Espensa added, “This is Perfectia we’re talking about. This drama queen can’t control her emotions, better yet have none.”

I frowned at them. “I’m standing right in front of you, you know.”

I looked back in the mirror, questioning my expression. I tried flexing my cheek muscles, which felt stiff, and opened my mouth, “La, la, la, la, la,” and oh Light, it looked ridiculous. Actually, no—it looked disturbing. No, this isn’t going to work.

I turned back to them. “Why are we even doing makeup to begin with? Alleria caught me by just throwing water on me.”

“It’s waterproof,” Velonara said, trying to sound convincing. “But you’re right. We might need to make a mask from scratch.”

Espensa groaned, “That’s going to take forever.”

“But we have our mission from the Dark Lady.”

“If Vellcinda were still here, we could’ve taken skin straight from the source and made a mask in no time.”

“Excuse me, who?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Velonara muttered, “No one.” But Espensa, always the blunt one, said, “A traitor.”

I crossed my arms and stared at them both. “Traitor? Do tell.”

“She used to make upgrades for Forsaken limbs,” Espensa explained. “Almost artistically. She worked on the Dark Lady, on us. But she died when the Alliance attacked Lordaeron.”

A slight grin tugged at my lips. “Then why call her a traitor?”

“Well, she—”

“She died in the Arathi Highlands, didn’t she?” I interrupted, recalling that part of Anduin’s letter to Sylvanas.

They exchanged glances and shrugged. Espensa finally said, “I know we should feel bad for her, but we don’t. There’s no doubt we lost something valuable. Not all of us asked for this curse.”

I rolled my eyes, lifting my eyebrows. “You don’t feel bad because you shouldn’t. If the Lich King’s sister hadn’t shown up, those people would still be alive. And really, you two don’t have to worry about going Wretched. Plus, no more menstrual cycles once you’re undead. Silver linings, right?”

They both said, “That’s true,” at the same time, and I just shook my head.

“You should count the blessings you do have. Honestly, I envy you,” I admitted with a sigh. “If I were like you, maybe I wouldn’t be such a drama queen.”

Velonara glanced away and shrugged. “But you fell in love.”

“And it hurts,” I murmured, looking off into the distance, memories flooding back. “And I wish it didn’t.”

They told me they needed more supplies. Of course. Always something. It was getting pretty close to sunset, but I went back to the supply trader in Light’s Hope anyway, figuring I’d get it out of the way. The guy had a list of things for me, like some kind of errand girl. He even gave me a “go for” task—as if I don’t have better things to do—and then I had to explain if he needed any blacksmithing done.

Just for fun, I ended up making him a spare wagon wheel. I even secured the wood myself. I’ll admit, I actually enjoyed carving it. For a moment, it was peaceful, just me and the wheel. I even thought about adding some decorative curves to the metal, but there wasn’t enough daylight left. Maybe less than two hours, and the shadows were already getting longer.

So now I’m sitting here, writing, thinking that maybe I’ll look into some poetry. I mean, why not? I could use a distraction from… everything. Maybe there’s some solace to be found in words that rhyme, at least for a little while.

—-

The rocky shores of Fenris Isle were as bleak as Sylvanas remembered—cold, desolate, with fog clinging to the jagged rocks like a second skin. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the keep, sending an eerie, constant whisper through the air. The Isle, long abandoned, was the perfect setting for a conversation that would almost certainly be a confrontation.

She stood alone, crimson eyes scanning the horizon where the mist met the water. Sylvanas had sent the message days ago, specifically to Genn Graymane. Despite their hatred, she knew he would come. How could he resist? Here, where nothing lived but the wind, the past could breathe between them.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Genn Graymane’s broad form emerged from the fog like a specter. His hulking silhouette was unmistakable, and Sylvanas could feel the storm of rage and grief radiating from him. Each step he took was loaded with the weight of loss, the memories of his son hanging over him like a blade.

Sylvanas waited, unmoved, her lips curling into a faint smirk as his figure fully emerged. Genn’s eyes blazed with fury, his fists already clenched.

“I guess you’re wondering why I called you here,” Sylvanas said, her voice cold and sharp as the wind.

“To surrender?” Genn’s response was laden with sarcasm, but his smile was bitter, barely masking his anger.

Sylvanas chuckled darkly. “No, Genn. If I intended to surrender, I wouldn’t have chosen you. Out of all the Alliance leaders, you’re the one I dislike the most. And I’m sure you feel the same.”

Genn’s eyes flared. His hand trembled as it curled into a fist, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. “Dislike? You killed my son. You betrayed my king. ‘Dislike’ doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel toward you, Banshee Queen.”

Sylvanas met his rage with an unnerving calm. She touched her fingers to her nose, exhaling softly as if dismissing his outburst. “I respected Varian,” she began, her voice almost soft. “I was at a loss when he died. He kept you on a short leash. And as for your son… it wasn’t personal.”

Genn’s body trembled, barely containing his fury. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Not personal? Then what was it?” His voice was strained, barely keeping his grief in check. The loss of his son was a wound that still bled fresh in his heart, and hearing her speak of it with such cold detachment made him want to tear her apart.

Sylvanas tilted her head, eyes narrowing in thought before she continued. “Infection. Mutation. Outbreak. Containment. Quarantine.” She spoke each word deliberately, her gaze unflinching as she looked directly into Genn’s eyes. “Do these words mean anything to you, Genn?”

Genn blinked, momentarily thrown off by the clinical terminology. He looked away, his mind racing. “There are protocols for dealing with disease. I’m familiar—I was a king, you know.”

Sylvanas’s eyes sharpened. “For six years, I’ve been cleaning up the mess you’ve made. Your curse—your people—infected mine. You sat in your doghouse, a benign tumor that kept growing. I dealt with that cancer before it could spread any further, but I could never cut it out at the source. The curse that runs in your blood spread to my people before you ever left your city walls.” Sylvanas’s voice grew colder. “Arugal. He was one of yours, wasn’t he? A servant who spread the curse to my people, turning them into mindless beasts under his control. I had to put them down—personally.”

The weight of her words hit Genn hard. His shoulders slumped, and he fought to keep the snarl off his face. He could feel his claws digging into his palms as memories of his son flashed before his eyes. “Undead can’t be infected by the worgen curse,” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“I wasn’t referring to the undead,” Sylvanas corrected, her voice biting. “I meant the living. Sin’dorei. My people. The curse ravaged them, sure it was potent among humans but it infected dozens of elves. Arugal turned them into slaves—puppets. I had to destroy them. You think I wanted that?”

Sylvanas crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. “Grand Apothecary Putress suggested we experiment with the virus. The curse.”

Genn’s lip curled. “That name supposed to mean something?”

She shook her head. “Not anymore. He’s long dead. But his ideas—dangerous as they were—could have reshaped everything. I could have turned the curse into a weapon, maybe even found ways to infect other races. But I didn’t.”

Genn narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because I actually care about my people,” she said, her voice low, each word cutting like ice. “The curse was contained. It wasn’t a threat. And at the time, Kil’Jaeden loomed over us all from the Sunwell. I didn’t have the luxury to focus on hypothetical threats.”

Genn’s fists tightened, his claws scratching the leather of his gloves. “We thought the same. Thought the curse wasn’t a problem. We got complacent. Some of us even told our children it was nothing more than a bedtime story.”

Sylvanas gave a bitter laugh. “And how wrong you were. How wrong we both were. But you—” She turned her gaze sharply to him. “You kept your worgen alive.”

“They were still citizens of Gilneas. And the night elves—druids—gave us a potion. It helped us retain our humanity.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “A dozen of my blood elves were infected. I had to put them down myself before the curse spread. And you call me filth? Tell me, Genn, what does that make you?”

Genn’s face contorted with rage. “You attacked us as soon as our walls fell!”

Sylvanas stepped closer, her voice rising with sharp fury. “Do you know what a benign tumor does when it bursts? It spreads. My scouts heard the howls of your kind echo over your gates before the Cataclysm broke them down. I sent ships to investigate, and I don’t know who attacked first. But we both had our reasons. You thought we were mindless Scourge. We thought you were savage Worgen.”

Genn bared his teeth, stepping closer, his voice trembling with anger. “Why would you think that?”

Sylvanas turned, her cloak billowing slightly in the wind, a cold smile playing on her lips. “Arthas brought Archmage Arugal back. His spirit spread the curse again, making Worgen loyal to the Lich King. Worgen, just as obedient as the Scourge.” She tilted her head, her voice laced with cruel amusement. “I guess we’re not so different after all.”

Genn snarled, his whole body trembling with barely-contained rage. “Don’t you dare compare us to you.”

Sylvanas’s laughter was cold, humorless. “You’re right. That was beneath me. At least we broke free from the Lich King through sheer will. For you, it took a potion.” She turned back to face him, her voice dropping to a sinister whisper. “But if I were to strip that potion away, I wonder… would your people still be so civilized? Or would they become just as savage as the Worgen my people have fought for years?”

Genn’s face twisted in a mixture of confusion, anger, and dawning horror as he realized he had revealed too much. “Is this why you called me here? To scare me?”

Sylvanas shook her head, her laughter cold and brief. “No, Genn, I called you here because I need to act quickly—make peace, or…”

“Make peace?!” Genn interrupted, forcing out a bitter laugh. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Rumor has it, you snuck into Anduin’s bedroom and jumped his bones.” His mocking smile widened. “Did you take his purity? When I got your message, I half-expected you were planning to jump mine next.”

Sylvanas smirked, her crimson eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, the rumors are true. I did try.” She gave a short laugh, enjoying the look of shock on Genn’s face. “He’s actually the first man who ever proposed marriage to me.”

“You’re lying,” Genn snarled, his fists tightening.

She shrugged, unfazed. “He’s still in love with Perfectia. And would you be surprised to know that she’s my niece?”

Genn scoffed. “You don’t look anything like her.”

“She takes after her father,” Sylvanas replied, rolling her eyes. “And I turned down Anduin’s proposal, despite what your face would look like if I’d said yes.” She chuckled at his outrage. “But don’t worry, Genn, I wouldn’t jump your bones. I’m sure they’re all buried by now.”

Her cruel laughter echoed through the mist, and Genn’s face darkened, his claws digging into the palms of his hands as he tried to hold back his rage.

“GENN!” Sylvanas snapped, her tone sharp and commanding.

He blinked, refocusing on her.

“Joking aside,” she began, her voice lower and colder, “we started fighting because we didn’t understand what enemies we were. I thought you were like a pack of wild dogs—animals that needed putting down. I thought it was as simple as finding an archmagi pulling your strings. Then, it would have been a matter of hunting down some beasts.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “But you were different. Sentient. That made things more dangerous. When I dropped the plague on your city, it wasn’t out of hatred, but necessity. Containment wasn’t an option anymore. Quarantine was the only answer. And yes, the Alliance saved you. But I thought your people would spread the infection—infect Stormwind, infect their guards—go savage.” She sighed and crossed her arms. “But you didn’t. None of your kind have infected anyone in all these battles since.”

Genn stared at her, his emotions a storm beneath the surface. “So, what you’re telling me is… this was all a misunderstanding?”

Sylvanas didn’t look away, her expression unflinching. “Basically.”

—

The sun was dipping below the horizon as Sylvanas and Lirath approached Marris Stead, the once-abandoned farmhouse that now served as Nathanos Blightcaller’s stronghold. The air was thick with the acrid stench of rot, and the moans of the restless dead echoed faintly through the decaying fields. As they drew nearer, Lirath noticed the place was heavily guarded by skeletal warriors and Forsaken rangers, all standing vigil like statues of death.

Nathanos was waiting for them, his stoic demeanor masking the concern in his eyes. But as soon as he saw Sylvanas’s battered state—bruises forming on her face, dried blood smeared across her armor—his expression tightened into a fierce scowl. He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, and bowed deeply, though his eyes never left Sylvanas.

“My lady,” Nathanos said, his voice edged with a mixture of anger and worry. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

Sylvanas waved him off, but there was no disguising her fatigue. “It was nothing, Nathanos. Just an… encounter that didn’t go as planned.”

Nathanos’s eyes darkened, his usual calm now laced with barely contained rage. “You shouldn’t be out there alone like this,” he snapped, his voice trembling slightly. “If I had been there—”

“I’m fine,” Sylvanas cut him off, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “This is Lirath, my brother.” She gestured toward Lirath, whose eyes were quietly assessing the place.

Nathanos turned his gaze to Lirath, sizing him up immediately. His eyes narrowed as he took in Lirath’s scars and the hardened look of a man who had seen far too much. There was a tense silence, a mixture of suspicion and reluctant acceptance.

“I didn’t know you had any family left,” Nathanos said coldly, his tone guarded.

Lirath met Nathanos’s glare with a slight, wry smile. “There’s a lot of things people don’t know about me. I’ve been away for a long time.”

As he spoke, Nathanos’s eyes flickered with an unspoken barrage of questions: Who is this man? Where has he been? Why is he here now? The unrelenting questions swarmed through his mind, probing at Lirath with silent suspicion.

Suddenly, Lirath winced, rubbing his temple as a sharp ache formed behind his eyes. Nathanos’s inner voice was like an aggressive swarm buzzing in his head—his distrust, his need to know, everything Nathanos wasn’t saying out loud struck Lirath’s mind like arrows being fired in rapid succession. He clenched his jaw, fighting to regain his composure as the mental onslaught continued.

The volley of unspoken suspicions made Lirath’s head throb, but he forced himself to smile despite the pain. “I’ve been away,” he repeated, his voice steady even though his skull felt like it might split open. This isn’t the time to answer all of Nathanos’s questions, Lirath thought to himself. The answers Nathanos craved would remain buried for now.

Sylvanas noticed the tension but said nothing, watching as the silent war between Nathanos and Lirath played out in the background of her own exhaustion. Nathanos, still seething with suspicion, finally broke the moment with a curt nod, but his distrust lingered like a shadow.

Nathanos nodded, still clearly upset but trying to mask it. “I hope you’re here to stay. The Dark Lady could use all the help she can get.” His words were pointed, tinged with a mix of loyalty and frustration. It was clear he didn’t fully trust Lirath, but the concern for Sylvanas overrode his usual caution.

Sylvanas took a seat on a nearby broken stone wall, her movements slow and pained, and Nathanos moved closer, his brow furrowing deeper as he inspected her injuries. “This was Genn, wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice low and seething. “I can smell his stench all over you.”

Sylvanas nodded slowly, her face blank but her eyes burning with a hidden fury. “I extended him an olive branch,” she said bitterly. “He answered with claws.”

Nathanos’s expression twisted in a mixture of anger and anguish. “If you had let me deal with him—”

“I needed to do this myself, Nathanos!” Sylvanas snapped, her voice momentarily regaining its sharpness. “I needed him to hear my side, to see if there was any chance—” She cut herself off, frustration bubbling up. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Lirath watched the exchange with quiet intensity. He could see Nathanos’s devotion and the pain it caused him to see Sylvanas in this state. It reminded him of his own failures, of the times he had been too far away to protect those he loved. But there was something else in Nathanos’s eyes—something darker, a simmering fury that Lirath recognized all too well.

“We’ll make him pay,” Nathanos said, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “He won’t get away with this.”

Sylvanas looked up at Nathanos, and for a brief moment, Lirath saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the weariness that only Nathanos seemed to understand. “We don’t have time for vendettas,” Sylvanas said, though her tone lacked conviction. “There’s too much at stake.”

Lirath stepped forward, breaking the tense silence. “Nathanos, was it? I appreciate your loyalty to my sister, but we need to think bigger than just one Worgen. He’ll get what’s coming to him, but now’s not the time.”

Nathanos glared at Lirath, his protective instincts flaring. “And who are you to decide that? You’ve been gone—”

Sylvanas raised a hand, silencing Nathanos with a firm look. “He’s right, Nathanos. We can’t let this derail us. There are greater battles ahead.”

Nathanos backed down, though the anger didn’t leave his eyes. He took a deep breath and turned to Sylvanas. “You should rest, my lady. We’ll fortify this place. No one will touch you here.”

Sylvanas nodded, grateful but too proud to show it openly. She looked at Lirath and then back at Nathanos. “Lirath will be staying with us. Treat him as you would treat me.”

Nathanos’s expression softened, if only slightly. He nodded curtly. “Of course, my lady.” He looked at Lirath again, this time with a touch less hostility. “If you’re here to help her, then you’re welcome.”

Lirath nodded, appreciating the subtle shift. “I am. And I’ll do whatever it takes.”

As Sylvanas retired into the dim shadows of Marris Stead, Lirath and Nathanos stood in silence, two men bound by their loyalty to the same woman, yet wary of each other’s presence. They both knew this was only the beginning. The scars Sylvanas bore were more than just physical wounds; they were reminders of the war that raged on, both outside and within.

Nathanos watched as Lirath helped Sylvanas inside, his expression a mix of anger and concern. Once Sylvanas was out of sight, Nathanos turned to Lirath, his voice laced with frustration and an undercurrent of protectiveness that bordered on rage.

“Why did she do this? Why did she think it was safe to encounter that dog, Genn?” Nathanos demanded, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t understand why Sylvanas would take such a risk, especially alone.

Lirath paused, taking a deep breath. He could feel Nathanos’s burning gaze on him, but his mind drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Sylvanas and Perfectia, an interaction that felt heavy with unspoken truths and complicated emotions.

“They talked for a long time,” Lirath began, his voice distant as he recalled the tense exchange.

Nathanos’s brow furrowed, suspicion creeping into his features. “Who?” He stared at Lirath, studying his face intently. Something was gnawing at him, a recognition he couldn’t quite place. There was something hauntingly familiar about the man before him, a reflection of features he’d seen before. “No… I know you from somewhere.”

Lirath rolled his eyes, trying to deflect the suspicion. “I’ve been living in exile since the day I was raised, long before you came into the picture, Nathanos.”

Nathanos’s expression darkened, but he wasn’t buying it. “How would you know anything about that?” Nathanos’s voice was tense, and he looked closer at Lirath. The square jawline, the sharp angles of his face, the shape of his eyes—there was something unmistakably familiar about him, something he couldn’t ignore. Then, it struck him, like a bitter revelation.

Nathanos’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him. “I meant… the way you look… your face. It’s… it’s—”

Lirath let out a resigned sigh, knowing Nathanos was piecing it together. The truth was written in the lines of his face, the unspoken history that had brought him back to this place. He looked away, uncomfortable under Nathanos’s scrutiny.

“He’s Perfectia’s father,” Sylvanas’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She stepped back into the room, her presence a cold, commanding force. “I didn’t think it was going to come out like this, but it was bound to eventually. We thought if-”

“She talked you into this didn’t she?”

“Watch your tone Nathanos it was my decision to arrange the meeting.” Sylvanas snapped.

She took a sit on Nathanos bed and laided down. “Send the surgeons to restore my damages limbs, Vellcinda B-… Oh right. She’s dead.” The name Vellcinda or Elsie Benton one of the leaders of Desolate Council that died in the Gathering dawned on her. She was the one that restored her body from the tighten black robes she wore to the flawless figure that she had, but she was gone. There was no one that could bring her back to her glory. “Do we have another forsaken surgeon that is as skilled as Vellcinda Benton.”

Nathanos sighed and shook her head, “We don’t. Since the majority of Forsaken have moved to Orgrimmar they been more focused on trying to keep themselves from drying out.”

“I can’t be seen as weak.” Sylvanas said.

“They won’t… We will find someone to restore you Dark Lady.”

Lirath was picking up on his thought process but he wasn’t sure if he should tell Nathanos about his little head trick. He was thinking about finding Perfectia.

Sylvanas’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unflinching. “He’s Perfectia’s father,” she revealed, stepping back into the room with an air of command that sent a chill through the air. “I didn’t think it was going to come out like this, but it was bound to eventually. We thought if—”

Nathanos’s eyes flared with anger and frustration. “She talked you into this, didn’t she?”

Sylvanas’s expression darkened. “Watch your tone, Nathanos. It was my decision to arrange the meeting,” she snapped, her voice as cold as ice.

Sylvanas walked over and took a seat on Nathanos’s bed, laying back with a weariness she seldom allowed herself to show. “Send the surgeons to restore my damaged limbs. Vellcinda B—” She caught herself, the realization hitting her hard. “Oh, right. She’s dead.” The name Vellcinda Benton, one of the leaders of the Desolate Council who had died during the Gathering, was a bitter reminder of her losses. Vellcinda had been the one to restore Sylvanas’s body after countless battles, bringing back her flawless, fearsome appearance. But now, there was no one with the same skill to return her to her former glory.

“Do we have another Forsaken surgeon as skilled as Vellcinda Benton?” Sylvanas asked, her voice tinged with frustration and something bordering on despair.

Nathanos sighed, shaking his head slowly. “We don’t. Since most of the Forsaken have moved to Orgrimmar, they’ve been more focused on trying to keep themselves from drying out. We’ve lost most of our skilled hands.”

Sylvanas clenched her teeth, her expression twisting with anger. “I can’t be seen as weak,” she insisted, her pride refusing to allow her to show any sign of vulnerability.

“They won’t…” Nathanos said, trying to reassure her even as he grappled with his own doubts. “We will find someone to restore you, Dark Lady.”

Lirath watched the exchange, feeling the weight of Nathanos’s frustration and Sylvanas’s determination. He knew what Nathanos was thinking—searching for Perfectia, the one person who might still have the resources to help. Lirath hesitated, wondering if he should reveal his own ability to read minds, a trick that had kept him alive and hidden for so long. But trusting Nathanos with that information felt like a risk, especially now.

“I’ve seen Perfectia’s skill firsthand,” Lirath finally spoke up, his voice careful and measured. “She might know of someone. Or… if she’s willing, she might be able to help directly. She’s resourceful, and she’s been through a lot of her own restorations.”

Nathanos looked at Lirath skeptically, his eyes narrowing. “You think she’d help? After all this?”

Lirath nodded. “She cares about Sylvanas more than you know. And if she sees her in this state…” He glanced at Sylvanas, who was trying to mask her pain behind a stoic facade. “She won’t hesitate.”

Sylvanas remained silent, staring at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts. She hated the idea of relying on anyone, especially Perfectia, but she couldn’t deny the truth of Lirath’s words. Perfectia had always idolized her, even when their paths diverged. And perhaps, just perhaps, that loyalty could be called upon once more.

Nathanos crossed his arms, still clearly agitated but not entirely dismissive of the idea. “I don’t like it,” he muttered, “but we’re running out of options.”

Sylvanas closed her eyes, feeling the weight of her injuries and the cost of her decisions pressing down on her. “Do what you must. I can’t afford to appear weak. Not now.”

Lirath gave a slight nod, already thinking of how to find Perfectia and convince her to help. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he also knew that Perfectia’s loyalty to Sylvanas ran deeper than most would ever understand. As he turned to leave, he glanced back at Nathanos, who was still watching him warily.

“If you go to her, you’ll need to be careful,” Nathanos warned. “Perfectia isn’t the same as she once was. None of us are.”

Lirath smirked, the weight of his own secrets lingering unspoken. “I’m not worried. I’ll bring her back, and together, we’ll make sure Sylvanas stands tall again.”

As he left the room, Lirath couldn’t help but feel the pull of his own conflicted emotions. Protecting Sylvanas, reuniting with his daughter, and navigating the tangled web of loyalties that bound them all—it was a heavy burden, but one he was willing to bear. And as Nathanos watched him go, he made a silent vow of his own: he would never let Sylvanas fall, not while he still drew breath.

Lirath gave a slight nod, already contemplating how to find Perfectia and convince her to help. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but Perfectia’s loyalty to Sylvanas ran deeper than most understood. As he turned to leave, he glanced back at Nathanos, who stood silently but warily watching him.

“If you go to her, you’ll need to be careful,” Nathanos warned. “Perfectia isn’t the same as she once was. None of us are.”

Lirath smirked, the weight of his own secrets lingering just beneath the surface. “I’m not worried. I’ll bring her back, and together, we’ll make sure Sylvanas stands tall again.”

Lirath left the room, but Nathanos remained still, his brow furrowed in frustration and concern. His protective instincts flared, but his loyalty to Sylvanas was unwavering. He wouldn’t fail her—not again.

Meanwhile, Sylvanas remained seated, her posture tense, her mind racing with thoughts of what had to come next. The bruises on her face and the cuts on her body were not enough. They would fade soon. But she needed something more. Something that would drive the point home for Perfectia—something that would shake her to her core.

She glanced around the room, eyes landing on a heavy sledgehammer leaning against the wall. Her cold expression didn’t waver as she slowly turned toward Nathanos.

“Nathanos,” Sylvanas began, her voice eerily calm.

“Yes, my lady?” he replied, instinctively moving closer to her.

Her red eyes locked onto his. “Grab that sledgehammer.”

Nathanos hesitated, confused but obedient. He retrieved the hammer, its weight making a soft thud as he gripped it tightly.

Sylvanas stood slowly, favoring her bruised side. “Break my leg,” she ordered, her voice void of emotion.

Nathanos froze, staring at her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said coldly, her gaze unwavering. “If Perfectia is going to see me like this, bruises won’t be enough to send the message. She needs to feel the shock, the reality of what Genn did. She needs to understand how dire this is, how much I’ve risked.”

“My lady, you don’t need to—” Nathanos’s voice shook with disbelief, a rare glimpse of his fear for her.

“I do need to,” Sylvanas interrupted sharply, her voice like ice. “I need her to be fully invested. If she sees me in this state, she’ll be pushed to act. Do it. Now.”

Nathanos’s face hardened, a war of emotions playing across it. His devotion to her was unquestionable, but this was something else entirely. He hesitated, gripping the sledgehammer tighter, as if trying to summon the strength to strike her.

“I’ve trusted you with worse, Nathanos,” Sylvanas added, her voice softening just slightly. “This is necessary.”

Nathanos swallowed hard, his grip white-knuckled on the hammer’s handle. “As you command,” he whispered, the words heavy with sorrow.

Without another word, Nathanos raised the sledgehammer high, his heart pounding. He brought it down with brutal force, shattering Sylvanas’s leg with a sickening crack.

Sylvanas collapsed to the ground, her face twisting in pain, but she didn’t scream. She clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose as the shock of the injury rippled through her body. Her broken leg lay at an unnatural angle, and the agony was evident, though she refused to show weakness.

Nathanos dropped the hammer, his hands trembling as he knelt beside her. “Sylvanas…” His voice was thick with regret.

Sylvanas’s gaze met his, still sharp despite the searing pain. “Good. Now she’ll see what’s at stake. Help me up. We need to be ready for her.”

Nathanos nodded, his heart heavy as he lifted her carefully, supporting her weight. Even through the pain, Sylvanas’s mind remained focused. Perfectia’s reaction to seeing her in this state would ignite the fire she needed to move forward. Sylvanas’s sacrifice was not just of flesh, but of trust in those closest to her—trust that they would see the plan through, no matter the cost.

—

Genn’s breathing was heavy, labored, as he worked the knife Lirath had left in his palm. Each tug against the rope only tightened the knot around his neck, but he wasn’t in a rush to break free. The carnage around him felt suffocating—Worgen bodies littered the ground, heads severed, blood soaking into the earth. His men were gone, and he had been left with nothing but the weight of his own thoughts.

Finally, the rope loosened enough, and he collapsed to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers. He could have gotten up. He could have walked away. But instead, Genn stayed where he was, feeling the cool air settle against his skin, the distant cries of scavengers echoing from the trees. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was oppressive, thick with the unspoken questions Lirath had left behind.

Perfectia’s father. Sylvanas’s brother.

The realization hit him harder than he’d expected. He hadn’t gotten a good look at Lirath before, but now his mind pieced together the resemblance—that sharp jawline, the same defiant spark in his eyes, the way he moved with purpose. It was all too familiar. Genn had seen that same fire in Perfectia. The same unwavering loyalty, though to different causes.

Why did Lirath let me live? The question gnawed at him. Lirath had him pinned, the perfect way to crucify him, it would have been slow and humiliating. But he hadn’t. Was it because of Perfectia? Was it some twisted sense of familial loyalty? He knew that he let Perfectia go when he was suppose to capture or kill her… How?

Genn clenched his fists in the dirt, growling lowly under his breath. The answers weren’t clear. They never were with the Forsaken, or their allies. His thoughts drifted back to Sylvanas, the bitter exchange they’d had just moments before Lirath had arrived. You killed my son. The memory of his own words echoed in his mind, sharp and raw. He had been ready to rip her apart for what she did, for taking Liam from him.

And yet, in that moment, when she’d offered to bring Liam back, something had stopped him. The darkness in her words, the twisted promise of resurrection—it was a fate worse than death. He had felt a flicker of something else then. Fear, yes, but also something darker—resentment, confusion. Would I have taken her offer? Could I have?

The knot in his chest tightened as he imagined Liam walking again, undead, a hollow shell of the son he once knew. No, that wasn’t the answer. But it didn’t change the pain. It didn’t make the questions go away.

Lirath’s face swam in his thoughts again. Perfectia’s father. Was this what she had been running from? Was this the kind of family she was trying to distance herself from? Or had she known all along and simply chosen her own path?

Genn’s thoughts spiraled deeper. Anduin. What was his role in all of this? Perfectia had been close to him, and rumors about Anduin and Sylvanas had only added to the confusion. The boy had been king for so long, but Genn could see the cracks, the pressure weighing down on him. How much of this tangled web was pulling Anduin in?

Was it all just manipulation? Genn questioned, his hands shaking as he pulled the last of the ropes free from his wrists. Or was there something more?

Even without the rope, Genn felt bound, trapped by the weight of the choices he had to make. Walking away from this place wouldn’t free him—not from the questions, not from the doubts. Lirath had let him live, but at what cost? Was it an act of mercy, or was it a challenge? Genn couldn’t tell anymore.

He looked at the battlefield again, the bodies of his fallen men lying lifeless in the moonlight. It should have driven him to move, to fight, to retaliate. But instead, all he could do was sit in the carnage, staring at the blood-stained earth beneath him, feeling the gravity of everything pressing down on him.

He wasn’t bound by the rope anymore.

But the questions Lirath and Sylvanas had left him with—they bound him better than any noose ever could.

What comes next?

Genn didn’t know.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Remembrance

So, on a good note, I can move my sword arm again, but it still hurts, and this time I can’t take it to the Sunwell. There’s this burning pain that comes and goes with every passing minute. I’ve even noticed a few black marks on my right forearm. Lovely, right? Right now, I’m just trying to keep it under wraps, literally, with bandages. Lady Liadrin, the matriarch of the Blood Knights, told me it’s some kind of curse from practicing necromancy. Fantastic.

I told her I’d taken it to the Sunwell before when it started looking like this, and back then, it wasn’t as bad as it is now. If anything, it was an improvement. She didn’t seem convinced, but then again, I don’t exactly make a habit of talking about what I can do with the Ashbringer. Mostly because I can’t prove it. Every time I’ve been able to use it at will, it’s been during moments where I’m about to get skewered or vaporized. The other times I’ve tried? Well, let’s just say they backfired in spectacular fashion and landed me in the recovery room.

But things changed. Lady Liadrin… Maybe I should start from the beginning.

I woke up that morning at Light’s Hope to someone telling me there was a visitor who wanted to speak with me. Naturally, I assumed it was Levitius and those two Dark Rangers again, ready to try more makeup combinations to disguise me as a Night Elf. So, I strapped on my rocket-heeled boots and ran outside. Well, more like stumbled outside. These things are a nightmare to walk in, let alone run. I was tripping over every rock in the Order Hall, blistered feet screaming with each step. But I pressed on.

To my surprise, it wasn’t Levitius or the Dark Rangers. No, standing there in all his polished glory was Lor’themar Theron, the leader of the blood elves. Great. Just what I needed. He looked ready for battle, all decked out in red and yellow leather armor shaped like a dragonhawk, his bow slung over his shoulder, quiver fully stocked. He wasn’t even wearing that old eyepatch of his anymore, showing off his battle-scarred, white left eye.

“Good morning, Perfectia Dawnlight,” he said formally, eyes scanning me with suspicion. “What exactly are you wearing?”

I looked down at my ridiculous boots, dragging my heels like an idiot. “Long story,” I muttered, trying not to trip again.

“Is there a reason you’ve stepped away from your throne room to bother me in this neck of the woods?” I asked, frustrated. “Because I don’t need my lawn mowed, the Light doesn’t want to cancel holidays, and you’re a bit too young to be a boy scout. But leave the kettle corn and sod off.”

“There’s that wit I’ve heard so much about,” he responded, clearly not amused. “You could show me a slightest bit of respect, paladin. I am still your leader, and I came all the way out here to see you.”

I rolled my eyes. “This is the second time I’ve seen you outside the gates of Quel’Thalas. If you were human, I’m sure you’d be quite fat,” I joked. Badly, might I add. Not my best work.

“That was uncalled for,” he retorted, giving me a once-over. “And hypocritical.”

I sighed, shaking my head, already tired of the whole exchange. “Listen, I have more important things to do. I’m sorry you wasted—" Before I could finish, I turned too fast, forgetting about my ridiculous shoes, and promptly fell flat on my side. Brilliant. Now my arm had a fresh scrape, and I’d bumped my head for good measure. Normally, I’d break my fall with my right arm, but it was practically useless.

“Are you okay?” Lor’themar asked, reaching down to help me up.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, mortified. I tried to push myself up with my left hand. “Just… leave me alone, okay? Go home.”

I focused on the Light, healing the scrapes and rashes I’d earned from those awful shoes. I walked away as carefully as I could, determined not to trip again.

“Why do you hold her in such high regard?” he called after me as I headed back toward the Order Hall. “Sylvanas, I mean.”

And that stopped me in my tracks.

Sylvanas. Of course, this would come up. It always does. Why do I hold her in high regard? Why do I defend her? Even after everything she’s done, why does she still matter to me? I could feel the weight of his question settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak, suffocating, pressing me into the ground. Maybe it’s because I understand her in ways most people never could. Or maybe I’m just as lost as she is.

Maybe… maybe I need her to be right, because if she isn’t, what does that make me?

I stopped in my tracks, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. “She’s our Warchief,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

He shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. You want her approval. I’m even willing to bet that even your so-called betrayal was some form of attention-seeking. Because if you betrayed her, you’d have her obsessive, undivided attention.”

I shrugged, shaking my head slightly. “I wanted to stop her. I wanted peace. I…” I hesitated, remembering what Nathanos had said, how important it was for people to fear her. “You know what? It’s really none of your business.”

Lor’themar looked away, thinking, as if weighing his words. “There were a lot of things I couldn’t make sense of when we were above Lordaeron. Things that were out of character for her. And then there’s this… memory loss of yours.”

“I remember everything now,” I stated, more forcefully than I intended.

He looked up, half-smiling, and shook his head. “How convenient.”

“Do I strike you as a talented liar?” I asked, the frustration starting to edge into my voice.

He studied me, suspicion lingering in his eyes. “I know you’ve been a spy before.”

I laughed, though it was more bitter than amused. “It’s really not a hard job. Do a little training, mingle a bit, and report back to your contacts every now and then.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at me like I was missing something. “You must’ve done more than that—cloak and dagger, sneaking around, subtle machinations?”

I shook my head, laughing again, this time for real. “I’m not a rogue. Besides, doing all that just makes people think you are a spy. Or a prostitute. Drinking, mingling, telling jokes, writing things down—that’s all it took. Most people just thought I had a bad memory whenever I’d scribble down something important. Being blonde helps, too.”

He looked downward, clearly trying to make sense of it. “I can’t tell if you’re the worst spy I’ve ever heard of or the best. Maybe that’s why you’re being sent back on assignment?”

“As a kaldorei again. How did you know?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I told Espensa and Velonara to leave you alone. You have something more important to do,” he said, his tone casual, like he hadn’t just messed up my entire schedule.

I glared at him, confused and angry. “Why did you do that? I need to get back to my assignment now. My orders are from our Warchief. How can you defy her like that?”

He smirked, that smug look creeping back. “Looking forward to seeing Anduin again, aren’t you?”

I snapped. “You don’t know anything, Lor’themar! I can’t believe you’re trying to vag badge me like this! And I don’t know why you think I owe you any level of respect. What’s your last name, again? Dwarven, isn’t it? However many generations back, that disqualified you from any claim to nobility. If anything, even as a bastard, I’d have a better claim to the Sunburst Throne than you.”

Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(17)

Lor’themar gave me that self-righteous nod, like he had me all figured out. “So, is that why you were sneaking into Anduin’s bedchambers? Trying to be queen?” I dropped my gaze, not even sure how to argue with that. Was that really why I’d been so drawn to him? Sure, at first, it was just him, Anduin. But as time went on, the thoughts started creeping in—what could I do with that kind of power? “Doesn’t matter anymore,” I muttered, brushing it off. “But why you were made Regent Lord? That’s sti…