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 still a mystery to me. All I’ve seen you do is stand around Rommath and Halduron like they’re your babysitters.”
His face twisted in offense. “My name may not have two fancy words in it, but it’s Valarjar, not dwarven. And everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my people. Things you clearly don’t understand—”
I cut him off before he could go on with his self-important speech. “Oh really? Have you ever been to Northrend? Fought Zul’jin’s empire in Zul’Aman? Seen Tempest Keep lately? Or, better yet, sailed up north and gazed at the ruins of what used to be our glorious kingdom?”
He puffed out his chest. “Of course I have! All of that, actually. But back then, we had resources—gold, wood, food, craftsmanship, universities… even the shadier stuff like drugs and slave trades. But when the wars hit and the Alliance turned all xenophobic, we lost it all. Our people started falling ill, teetering on the edge of going Wretched. I became Regent Lord because I gave them hope, a home, aid when they needed it most. I turned to Sylvanas out of sheer desperation, and she only wanted to use us as cannon fodder against the Lich King. Thrall, on the other hand, had mercy. He understood that some of us were too shattered to face the Scourge again.”
I rolled my eyes, unimpressed. “Arthas was just a man. He bled like any other.”
He looked away, lost in his own memories. “That’s not how I remember it.”
I didn’t hold back. “You’re a coward. A sniveling weasel latching onto whichever horse you think is going to win the race. And before you ask—no, I’m not joking.”
His anger flared. “And how many times have you faced Arthas?”
“Twice,” I answered, no hesitation. “Once in Voltarus. I was alone and didn’t stand a chance. He tossed me around like a ragdoll after I tricked one of his commanders into bringing him to me.” I shuddered at the memory—mostly because of how foul that disguise had smelled.
“That was reckless. He could’ve killed you,” he stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I nodded, not even bothering to argue. “I was sixteen. Thought I had a solid plan, you know? Stick and move, because with armor that heavy, I figured he’d be slow. But then he hit me in the face with his non-dominant hand, and apparently, he found it hilarious.” I paused, feeling the weight of the memory. “In the Halls of Reflection, though… I saw my mother. Saw her trapped. And what I remember most? Arthas, begging me to stop while I hacked into his neck like a tree trunk. The wound kept closing up, and for a while, I thought maybe it was just some twisted revenge fantasy… but Sylvanas? She confirmed it. She said I nearly killed him.”
Lor’themar rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply. “I find that hard to believe.”
I shrugged, feeling the weight of the memories pull at me. “So did I. But Sylvanas spared me after my betrayal, probably because of that. Then she threw me right at Jaina Proudmoore, practically gift-wrapped, and I nearly killed her too.”
He shook his head, fully unimpressed. “I find that even harder to believe. Jaina Proudmoore? I’ve met her multiple times. She’s literally brimming with arcane energy from all her tireless training, study, and sheer work ethic. And I look at you… you can barely stand in those ridiculous heels. You look more out of shape than most humans. There’s cellulite on your butt through your armor, and don’t get me started on your gut. Honestly, I’m surprised you can even breathe in that plate. And that double chin? It’s painfully obvious every time you tilt your head back. Also, your teeth—well, I won’t even go there.”
He glanced away, as if it physically pained him to look at me. “Honestly, if I hadn’t seen Anduin wave at you, I’d say you should really lower your standards. Go on a diet, exercise—do something if you ever want a lover. How could you let yourself go like this? Don’t you care how you represent your people? And let’s be real, everything you’ve said? Can you even prove any of it?”
His words hit me like a freight train. I felt my eyes sting, my throat tighten, as I stared at the ground. “No,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I can’t.”
He rolled his eyes again, the condescension dripping from every word. “You and Sylvanas must’ve been so delusional, wrapped up in this obsession with killing Arthas, that you made up this little fantasy where you actually stood a chance. But Jaina? We all saw what she can do—that was real.”
I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back. “Did you come here just to insult me?”
He crossed his arms and scoffed. “To be fair, you insulted me first. But I’ve never, in all my hundreds of years, seen an elf as fat, ugly, and unhealthy as you, Perfectia.”
That was the last straw. “Why am I listening to you? I don’t have to take this—”
I turned to walk away, my whole body shaking with anger and humiliation.
“Don’t turn your back on me, paladin!” he shouted, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back around. His face shifted when he saw the tears streaming down mine. I tried to hold it in, tried to leave before he saw me sobbing, but it was too late. My nose was dripping, my voice cracking, and I could barely keep it together.
He hesitated, his expression changing as guilt crept over him. “Oh, Perfectia… I’m so sorry.”
Before I could respond, Kel’Magnus, my lion, came charging from behind the church, placing himself between me and Lor’themar. His deep, thunderous roar reverberated through the air, sending chills down my spine. His breath was visible in the cool air as it clouded in front of Lor’themar’s face, blowing his hair back.
Lor’themar took a step back, finally, and that small bit of space felt like salvation.
“Just leave me alone,” I said, tugging on Kel’Magnus’s fur. “You think you’re the first blood elf to tell me how strange my name is? How sick and disgusting I look, like some kind of freak. Maybe that’s something me and Sylvanas have in common…” I looked down, my thoughts swirling back to a memory. “Anduin said I was beautiful.”
Lor’themar nodded, opening his mouth to respond, but Kel’Magnus wasn’t having it. He barked and roared, completely drowning him out. “What the—” Lor’themar tried to say, struggling to get a word in between my lion’s outbursts. “Okay, how did— You’re a paladin! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE A LION IF YOU’RE A PALADIN!”
Kel’Magnus, clearly done with the conversation, rose up on his hind legs and swiped at Lor’themar’s face. He stumbled back, quickly drawing his bow. But before things got worse, I stepped between them, my heart pounding. Kel’Magnus’s face was twisted in anger—ears folded back, his brow furrowed, nostrils flared. His fangs looked sharper than ever, and the growl rumbling from his chest felt like it carried a charge. I reached out to calm him, but he pulled away, scratching furiously at the ground before running off into the distance.
“He’s not completely tamed,” I muttered, wiping at my tear-streaked face, trying to pull myself together.
Lor’themar let out a shaky breath, clearly relieved. “No beast ever is,” he said, still trembling from the adrenaline. “You know, I’ve always wondered why the Alliance chose that animal as their symbol. But I get it now.” He hesitated, then added, “I haven’t seen a single Void Elf in Quel’Danas, and I understand human standards are… different from ours, but I think I owe you thanks. You were looking out for us. I at least owe you that much.”
I shrugged, feeling the weight of everything starting to lift, even just a little. “Then you should’ve started with that. I think we were both a little… uncouth,” I said, trying to be polite.
He looked at me like I was speaking a different language. Thalassian probably wasn’t his strongest suit anymore.
I sighed, switching to Thalassian, though my Orcish accent was painfully obvious. “We didn’t leave on good terms last time.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, nodding. “I apologize again for that.” Then, switching topics with the grace of a brick, he asked, “How much Darnassian do you know?”
I blinked. “Not much,” I admitted, then rattled off a few phrases like greetings, counting to ten, and the ever-important, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He winced at my clunky attempt. “Your accent’s a bit… Common. Let’s stick to that.”
I let out a long sigh and nodded. “I was supposed to be working on my disguise, anyway.”
He raised an eyebrow, looking me over. “We can start with your voice. Try speaking deeper, more… sensual. And drop the sarcasm—it’s a dead giveaway.”
I tried to remember how Tyrande Whisperwind sounded—like a raspy troll with a weird mix of elegance and irritation. She always pronounced her TH’s like soft F’s and really leaned into the D’s and T’s. Clearing my throat, I mimicked, “Hello, do you have some spare time to talk about our goddess, Ellune?”
Lor’themar stifled a laugh, shaking his head. “No, that wasn’t bad, but don’t try to sound exactly like her.” He composed himself before continuing, “Perfectia, I came here because I want you to perform an act of remembrance for those who died in the Scourge attack.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of what he was asking, and shook my head. “I’m not interested.”
He looked at me, clearly confused. “I thought you weren’t afraid of Arthas. You said he was just a man. How old were you during the invasion?”
I glanced down, shrugging. “I was eight. I don’t remember much about how it was taken. I just knew that it was taken… and that I had to get it back.”
His expression turned puzzled. “If you were eight, then you couldn’t have possibly taken back Silvermoon.”
“I wanted to,” I said with a small smile. “I was the ‘Terror of the Sunwell.’”
Recognition flickered across his face. “I’ve heard that title before… You were the reason so many nobles were put on probation in the woods.”
I nodded, the memory bringing a faint smile. “Did you hear about what I did during the last grand tourney before the invasion?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t make it to the Isle of Quel’Danas for the last friendship week. The Cult of the Damned had just started causing trouble, and we had to be on high alert. But I did hear that a little girl gravely injured a bunch of martial arts demonstrators during the practice sessions. That was you, wasn’t it?”
I laughed, even though the memory was foggy and sharp at the same time. “Yep, that was me.” I tried to dig deeper into my memories, but it made my head ache. “Even when I was a kid, I knew how to fight. And I keep thinking… maybe I could’ve done something, saved someone.” I paused, the words hanging heavy in the air. “I remember having egg whites and grapefruit for breakfast that morning, hearing the alarms, my mother picking me up… and then… nothing. A few days later, I woke up in the church at Light’s Hope.”
Lor’themar took a few deep breaths, clearly grappling with his own memories. His hand moved to his chest, and he shook his head as if trying to push the thoughts away. “Are you sure you want to remember this?” he asked quietly, before lowering his gaze with sudden realization. “You fought hard in Northrend… Maybe it’s because you weren’t afraid—because you didn’t see what we faced here. But it’s not your fault.” He reached behind himself and pulled out a lantern from his belt.
“What is that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
He hesitated, his eyes locking with mine. “Are you sure about this? I wouldn’t blame you if you turned back now.”
I nodded, even though my heart started to race.
“This lantern carries a flame born of the Sunwell. You’ll take it to locations significant to the fall of Silvermoon… and you’ll fight the memories we’ve been trying to forget.”
The thought of reliving everything, of seeing it all in painful clarity, sent a shiver down my spine. It scared me—more than I wanted to admit.
“I’ll accompany you,” Lor’themar said finally, after a long pause.
“Will I see my mother?” I asked, my voice full of hope. I wasn’t sure what answer I expected, but it felt important.
He sighed, shook his head, and gave a slight shrug. “I think so.”
I took the lantern from him. “I’ll be right back,” I said quickly, turning to head back into the Order Hall. I needed to gear up. The heavier armor wasn’t doing me any favors, especially with these ridiculous heels, so I swapped it for something lighter, making it easier to move without tripping over myself. While rummaging through my things, I found a gadget that Levitius had left behind, with a note attached: “I’s be working on several prototype weapons for you’s, Perfectia, but dis gun has one heck of a bang and kick dat I don’t tink any hunter could handle. Thought you could give it a test run.”
It was… a gun, but honestly, it was the size of a short sword. Two barrels sat next to each other, precariously held in place by a few screws. I’d seen hunters use guns before, but I never really paid attention to how they reloaded the things. As I tilted it to inspect, two thick rounds of ammo rolled right out of the barrels and clattered to the ground.
I knelt down to pick them up and felt another bag full of ammo at my waist, the sharp smell of freshly forged steel and gunpowder hitting my nose. I shoved the rounds back into the barrel, figuring out that the thing snapped shut when I pushed it back into place. It wasn’t hard, just… clunky.
Heading back outside, I decided to test the gun on the training dummy. Big mistake. I barely had time to brace myself before pulling the trigger.
The recoil was nothing like I expected. It kicked harder than Vereesa’s guns ever had—my arm flew straight up above my head, nearly dropping the thing entirely. The shot hit the dummy… and everything else in a five-foot radius. The explosion echoed throughout the hall, leaving my ears ringing, and before I could even process the chaos I’d caused, Lord Maxwell stormed over.
“PERFECTIA!” he shouted, his face a mix of shock and fury. “No guns in the Order Hall! By the Light, I thought the whole place had collapsed!”
I gave a sheepish grin, throwing up a mock salute. “Aye aye, sir.”
He rolled his eye at me—well, the one eye he had. “I’ve told you a thousand times, stop saying that. This isn’t a ship.”
“One ‘aye’ then,” I teased, enjoying his exasperation a little too much.
Maxwell shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Very mature,” he said, clearly not amused by my joke about his eye. “And don’t bring those things in here again.”
I nodded, still holding back a laugh, and stuffed the gun and all the ammo Levitius had given me back into my bag. As I climbed back upstairs to meet Lor’themar, I figured I’d definitely need something with that kind of punch. Even with only one working arm, I wasn’t going to be caught without a proper weapon.
By the time I reached him, he was already mounted on his Hawkstrider, looking more than a little curious.
“What was that noise?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I climbed up onto my mount, smirking. “I’m bringing a new weapon. You might want to bring hearing protection for it.”
“You could’ve at least brought the Ashbringer,” Lor’themar suggested, eyeing my arm. “But I guess since you’re injured, it’s better if you go practical. I’ll meet you in Tranquillien.” He turned to leave, ready to take off.
“Wait, um!” I blurted out, holding my hand up like I was raising it in class.
He stopped, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.
“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly, my gaze shifting to his Hawkstrider. “Why did we start riding those Hawkstriders and stop using horses?”
Lor’themar blinked, then glanced up as if digging through his memory. “Oh, we’ve always used Hawkstriders, but back in the day, they were just for delivering supplies and packages. You’d tell them where to go, and they’d go. Didn’t even need a rider. Then Garithos, in all his ‘wisdom,’ took all our horses for the war effort. When we returned to Silvermoon, all we had left were Hawkstriders, so we figured out how to ride them too.”
“Oh,” I nodded, realization dawning. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
When Kel’Magnus and I finally made it to the Ghostlands, Lor’themar was already waiting. Kel’Magnus wasn’t quite as fast as a horse yet, but he kept a steady pace. Poor thing was a bit winded by the time we got there, so I hopped off and fed him some dried fish I’d caught earlier. But as I walked toward Lor’themar, I was slipping and stumbling in my heels, which must’ve been quite the sight. His look of annoyance was priceless.
“Take those off,” he ordered, eyes narrowing.
I shook my head, refusing.
He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “No, I mean take them off and give them to me.”
Confused, I slipped off the heels and handed them to him, wondering what he had in mind. To my surprise, he put them on! Well, sort of. They were too small, of course, but he wrapped his feet with rope to secure them, angling his feet awkwardly. He looked like some kind of bizarre fashion experiment gone wrong. But once he stood tall—well, taller—he hopped a few times, lifted each leg, and adjusted. Now, Lor’themar was already over six feet, but with those extra inches? I had to tilt my head up even more to meet his eyes. He suddenly looked daunting.
“You need to keep a rhythm when you walk, Perfectia,” he said, his voice firm. “Like a march—1, 2, 1, 2.” He started marching in place, arms swinging exaggeratedly. Slowly, his march turned into long strides, each step deliberate. Then, he began to hop, keeping the rhythm steady. “Even when you run, keep the rhythm,” he said louder, running in a circle around me like this was some kind of bizarre drill.
Suddenly, he stopped right in front of me, straightening up like he’d just been called to attention. “You keep falling because you slouch,” he scolded, adjusting his posture dramatically. “Chin up, shoulders back, head high.”
He angled his toes outward, giving himself an air of confidence I could hardly believe. “If you have to break the rhythm, imagine you’re walking on a tightrope.” He demonstrated, walking away with one hand on his hip and the other swinging in a dramatic arc. He strutted like he owned the place, before finally cutting the rope and taking off the heels with a knife.
“Now, you try.”
I took the heels reluctantly, unsure of this side of Lor’themar I hadn’t seen before, and slipped them on. The moment I stood up, I felt… different. Taller. My field of vision shifted, and the ground seemed farther away.
“Chin up, shoulders back, head high,” Lor’themar instructed, positioning my good arm on my hip. His hand slipped when he touched me, jerking back like he’d been shocked or burned.
“You okay?” I asked, frowning.
He nodded quickly, his eyes avoiding mine. “Yes… Now, I want you to say three things you like about yourself.”
I blinked at him, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”
He nodded, his expression deadpan. “I’m serious. And it can’t be something about what you do as an adventurer. No strength, endurance, or anything like that.”
I hesitated. What was I supposed to say? “Well, I don’t know.”
“If you have to think about it, that’s good.” His voice was firm. “But keep your posture upright.”
My mind blanked as I tried to think of something—anything. I found myself looking down, shaking my head.
He touched my chin gently, lifting it. “Chin up. Shoulders back. Head high.”
I took a breath, forcing myself to follow his instructions. “I’m… intelligent, even though I don’t always know what I’m talking about,” I stammered. “And I’m a hard worker. Everything becomes harder when I work at it.” The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it.
“Stop doing that!” Lor’themar snapped, his eyes narrowing. “Look at you, you’re slouching again.”
I lowered my head in shame. “I’m sorry… This is just really awkward.”
“When you do that,” he said, more softly now, “you invite mockery. Do you like being insulted? Belittled?”
“No,” I murmured. “It’s just how I cope. You can’t be insulted if you’re always insulting yourself first… It’s like self-deprecation, just without the joke.”
Lor’themar’s gaze softened, but he shook his head. “People will still insult you, Perfectia. And more importantly, no one will truly respect you if you can’t respect yourself. Now, try again.” His hand found my chin once more. “Chin up, shoulders back, head high.”
I tried again, my voice shaking. “I’m a good writer… about how bad my l—”
“Stop that!” he interrupted sharply.
I felt the tears welling up, my posture crumbling despite his insistence. “I can’t…” The words slipped out as the tears fell. “I… can’t…”
And then I was sobbing, crumpling forward, no longer able to hold up the weight of everything inside me. Before I could collapse completely, Lor’themar pulled me into his arms. His armor was hard against my cheek, but I didn’t care. I cried into his chest, his arms holding me steady when I couldn’t hold myself together anymore. I don’t know if I deserve love, so why would I give myself a compliment?
I couldn’t stop the tears, no matter how hard I tried. It wasn’t about Lor’themar’s words, or the heels, or the ridiculous posture corrections—it was about me. About everything I’d been running from. All the expectations, the failures, the nagging voice in my head that told me I wasn’t enough, would never be enough.
Why did I always have to be strong? Why did I think I had to be perfect? I’ve spent so long hiding behind sarcasm, deflecting with humor, pretending like none of it got to me. But it does. Every insult. Every sideways glance. Every whisper. It’s like they’re all echoing inside my head, louder and louder until I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore.
“I don’t know how,” I whispered into Lor’themar’s armor, my voice barely audible over the sound of my sobbing. “I don’t know how to be… okay with myself.”
It felt like admitting defeat, but also like a weight was lifting off my chest. I couldn’t do this alone, and maybe… maybe that was okay. Maybe I didn’t have to be the hero, the one with all the answers. I’ve always been chasing after something—approval, love, power—but I never stopped to think about what I actually wanted for myself.
And then it hit me, like a sudden, painful truth: I don’t love myself. How can I give myself a compliment when I don’t even believe I deserve it? I’ve spent so long trying to live up to expectations that I’ve forgotten how to just… exist. Just be me. Not “Perfectia the Paladin,” not “Perfectia the Hero,” just me.
I pulled away from Lor’themar slightly, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
He shook his head, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. “You don’t need to apologize, Perfectia. You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to not have everything figured out.”
I stared at him, unsure of what to say. No one had ever said that to me before. Not like this.
“Maybe…” I hesitated, feeling the lump in my throat tighten again. “Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to be what everyone else wants me to be. Maybe that’s why I can’t think of anything I like about myself.”
Lor’themar nodded, his gaze steady. “It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being real.”
I couldn’t help but make the joke, “It’s not easy to be real, when you name is literally Perfectia.”
He laughed, “I’ll bet it isn’t. And real means sometimes… you don’t have all the answers. Sometimes you break down. And that’s okay.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I believed him. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, this was a start.
I sighed and looked away, “I really am a good writer, though.” Tooting my own horn… but honestly, reader, if you’ve made it this far, something’s gotta be keeping you interested, right?
Lor’themar raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”
Without missing a beat, I pulled out my paladin book, practically a tome by now. “More than three-fourths of this is memoirs,” I said, flipping it open for effect.
He eyed the book, then glanced back at me. “Can I read it?”
I smirked, nodding my head with a playful grin. “Over my dead body,” I quipped, the words dripping with humor, but I wasn’t completely against it. Not really.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe add ‘sense of humor’ to the list.”
I tried not to slouch as I thought about it. He was right. I was funny, even if it was my own brand of self-deprecating humor. “Fine,” I admitted. “I’m funny.” I said it out loud like I was admitting a secret and fought the urge not to say ‘looking’. “And… I think that’s all you’re getting from me.”
As I focused on keeping my posture, I walked, remembering the rhythm Lor’themar drilled into me: 1, 2, 1, 2. Click, click, went the heels on the rocky pavement, each step falling into place with surprising ease. It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting easier to hold my head up, shoulders back, and stride with a purpose. The pain in my feet was a dull throb now—nothing a healing spell couldn’t fix. Small price to pay for mastering these ridiculous shoes.
“Alright, I think you’ve got it,” Lor’themar said, his tone a mix of approval and amusement. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about you falling on your face again.”
I shrugged, wincing slightly. “My feet still hurt a little.”
He laughed lightly. “You just need to break them in.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t help but laugh too, feeling a little proud of myself for finally getting it.
He started to respond, “Oh, you’re wel—” but before he could finish, I threw my arms around him in an impulsive hug, catching him off guard. I held on tightly, feeling the warmth of his armor against me.
“Right…” he mumbled, clearly surprised, “You’re stronger than I thought.”
“Sorry.” I quickly let go, embarrassed, my hand awkwardly finding its way to the back of my head. I glanced down at him, and I couldn’t help the cheeky thought that popped into my head— Is that a Mana Wyrm in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? I didn’t say it, but it took all my willpower to keep that one to myself.
He brushed his pants off, clearly trying to collect himself. Then, turning his back to me, he pointed toward the wall separating the Ghostlands from the Plaguelands. “This wall,” he said, his voice steadying, “separated Quel’Thalas and the Kingdom of Lordaeron. When it fell, it wasn’t by force but by betrayal. A willing traitor. And yet, every soldier, every magister, rushed to defend our homeland. This gate now stands as a memorial to their sacrifice.”
I nodded, the memory of those events all too vivid in my mind. “I know. I put that traitor in the ground for a third time.” My voice came out a bit harsher than intended.
He shot me an irritated glance for interrupting his solemn moment. “If you’re going to speak,” he said, not without a hint of sarcasm, “at least speak like a Night Elf. Deeper, more sensual, and from the throat.”
Clearing my throat, I mimicked the tone he wanted, “Dar’Khan Drathir.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, then gestured toward an unlit lamp near the gate. “Light the lamp with the flame I gave you.”
I did as he instructed, touching the flame to the wick. The lamp flickered to life, casting a soft, warm glow that expanded outward, further than any light I’d seen before. The fog and gray clouds that usually hung over this forsaken place seemed to lift, revealing a clear sky above. Even the once-dying leaves of the Plaguelands were a vibrant, healthy green. It was almost… peaceful.
“This is where the end began,” Lor’themar said quietly, his voice tinged with the weight of memory. “My company was patrolling near Zul’Aman when we got word of the Scourge Invasion.” He paused, his breath catching slightly. “We were unprepared for what we faced.”
I looked at him, trying to keep the Night Elf tone. “You mentioned the Cult of the Damned earlier…” My voice was lower, more controlled, just as he’d told me.
He nodded, staring into the distance, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the gravity of the history we carried.
He nodded, “I did. We referred to them as transients, they were poor, homeless, and what we thought was crazy, but they were growing in number during the ‘Friendship Week’.” He sighed, “If someone that seemed like he hadn’t had a bath in a year started screaming at you, ‘The dead will rise.’ Would you take it seriously?”
I shrugged slightly, “That’s kind of a normality in this day in age, I would be more surprised if he was lying.”
He managed to laugh, “Well things were very different back then. Quel’Thalas had enjoyed years of idyllic peace. And suddenly, we were facing death itself.” He looked at me almost through his his dead eye, “I lost my eye in that battle… and would have lost my life were it not for Halduron.”
He looked outward in painfully memorization, “Words cannot describe the devastation our people suffered that day. That any of us survived to tell the tale is a miracle. One that we cannot afford to waste.” He paused and looked over at me, “And now to walk their path.”
I remembered the first time I laid eyes on the undead for the first time. They seemed ugly, mindless, and stupid. The paladins in Light’s Hope that killed the neighboring undead made it seem easy, but they screamed at me to the point I cried if I stepped too close. Then they would bring me back to the church and tell me how dangerous it was to step too far away. I was a child of nine years of age and would often scream for my mother. Maria Adams or as she is better known as Lady Blaumeux, would come by to comfort me if I got too scared. She taught me how to dress myself, feed myself, and even use the privy. But we often played hand-clapping games and sang kid’s songs from Lordaeron. I actually lost track of what Lor’themar was saying, not that I was trying to be rude or uncaring, but I had heard this story before more than a few times while I was in Northrend, “What?”
He sighed slightly realizing I wasn’t listening, “I said, ‘Witness the fall of the First Defenders’.”
I nodded in agreement, “Right, that’s over…”
“The base of the Dead Scar.” he pointed
I summoned Lucy but as I cast the spell my hands didn’t glow as bright as they usually did and to my surprise when she did show up but she was completely out her armor. I looked at my hands slightly confused, “Odd.” I said out loud.
“What’s wrong?” Lor’themar asked
“I…” I shook my head and dismissed the thought, “It’s nothing.” And I got on her back and headed to the Dead Scar. There were undead still there as I had come to expect and Lor’themar dismounted in the center of the river of corrupted earth.
“Here it should be fine. Put it down here.” He stated.
I put the lantern down and while the transition was slow the last time I lit it. This time it was instantaneous. Elves, High Elves were holding back the incoming undead army. The whole scene reminded me of my raid in Naxxramas in the Military Quarter. 25 people of organized phalanx, spellcasters, arches, and healers in positions as the army of undead broke themselves against a wall of shields, but this was not that.
I looked around at the Silvermoon Army and realized that in there despite need to stand their ground, they were breaking every single rule that I was drilled in. Disorganized and every man and woman seeming to be looking out for themselves, if there were any orders being given by petty officers, they were drowned out by the sounds of painful screams, but there was one thing I was impressed with. As I looked around at the senseless slaughter, I didn’t see a single elf retreating. As I walked forward, I put two rounds of heavy ammo into the gun I was given. As I guessed, the gun loudly fired balls of metal, and spayed through the undead, but also some of the Silvermoon rangers.
The gun had two shots before it was out. I would use the empty gun to keep distance and defend and use any respite to reload. I did what I was trained to do, not letting a single undead get a flank on me, but I was taking a step back almost every second. I told myself I was trained for this, I had done this so many times but as I looked forward, I saw the army get overrun, terrified as they were literally eaten alive. The sound of Kel’Magnus’s roar and blast of my gun were the only sounds that could be heard over the tens and hundreds of undead. “Fall back and regroup!” I screamed and repeated that again. “Fall back regroup!”
But I felt a hand grab me by the shoulder. It startled me and I pointed the loaded gun at him. It went off but he turned his head to the side nearly missing the blast. It was Lor’themar but his image was completely transparent. “They can’t hear you.” He said.
I felt my body turn cold and everything turned blue. This felt real, this felt painfully cold, I could glance at Arthas walking casually by on his horse.
“You will never reach the Sunwell.” I heard a voice say in Thalassian, “The Ranger General will stop you.”
The image faded and I was freed from the ice that kept me paralyzed.
After leaving that cold prison I half expected myself to be covered in water but it was just me, Lor’themar, Kel’Magnus, and a few weaker lingering undead. “Are you okay?” He asked.
My hands were shaking, and my chest felt heavy, and I was having some trouble breathing. I was worrying that I might be having a heart attack. I shook my head no. I was angry and partly thought that this was some kind of cruel joke. I felt Kel’Magnus nuzzle me with his head on my stomach and I came down to his level and he nuzzled my face and put his forehead on mine. I touched the side of his face, felt his fur and the vibration of his deep pur, and he put his paw on my leg, seeming to secure it. I felt his breathing and the vibration of his deep vocal cords and I felt calm. I opened my eyes and I remembered when I first looked into his blue eyes when he was a cub. I thought if he could speak, he would have said, “I’ll take good care of you.”
I took my first easy breath since I was trapped in the recall spell, “I’m fine. That was the first time I’ve seen his face.”
He nodded slightly, “Well there still more. The next memory-”
“Where?” I interrupted.
He looked at me slightly confused, “Well there a memorial to a particular defender to the-”
“Sylavanas, Windrunner Spire, thank you.” And I whistled for my horse Lucy.
“Are you always this rude to every employer that gives you an assignment?” He asked.
I shrugged and shook my head, “There’s a certain level of detachment you should have if you expect to do eight or more of these assignments a day. Yes, every one of my employers will give me their morals or motivations for hiring me, but really… All I need to know is the location of my target and how much they’re paying.” I finally got on my horse.
He sighed and nodded his head, “We should kill a few of the ranger souls that reside there, then, light the lantern near Lireesa’s memorial.”
I nodded and moved the reins of my horse.
Lor’themar ran behind me for a little while but eventually his hawkstrider ran to his side, picked him up, and caught up and was riding by my side.
“You know I keep hearing about them, but I’ve never seen any there.” I stated once he caught up to me.
He stopped suddenly, waved over to me to come to where he was, and I rode to where he stopped, “You’re joking right?” He asked.
I shook my head, “No, I had to take spirit dust from the ghost from Windrunner Village, but in the spire, they just refused to come out.”
He crossed his arms and thought back, "Well I know the spirits can be more hospice when she’s around but… "He looked at me inquisitively, shook his head, and laughed to himself, “No.” He said under his breath and looked away.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled, “No, let’s continue.”
We came to Windrunner Spire, the former home of the Windrunner family that overlooked the beach. I slightly wondered if Liraith would be around, even though he revealed himself to me and Sylvanas, he struck me as a private person that might not like uninvited guests. I stopped my horse right outside the gazebo that was right outside of the stone paved road that started right outside the plantation. I got off my horse and told Lucy to stay put.
Lor’themar was still on his hawkstrider mount when I started walking on the pavement. “You know you can take the road all the way to the beach house.” He stated.
“I know.” I nodded.
He got off his mount as well and followed me but drew his bow and seemed to be high alert. Me on the overhand, was taking in the scenery. If the sun could somehow burn away all the gray clouds this would have been a great vacation spot. The place looked broken down, not just from looters and lingering undead, but a complete lack of maintenance. The stonework was falling apart and left a thin blanket of dust and sand on every step. “There really aren’t any banshee’s coming after us. They usually attack anyone that comes near here.” He stated.
I shrugged and smiled slightly, “Told ya.”
He shook his head and sighed, “Perfectia I have to ask; do you have any relation to the Windrunner clan?”
I laughed and shook my head, “No, my mother was a Dawnstar noble.”
“And your father?”
I shrugged, “A slave. No surname because he couldn’t use magic, but he had a sister whose last name is Lovewood. They both had black hair so they were looked at as second class citizens.”
He finally put his bow away, “I’m not an expert in genetic inheritance patterns but, females usually inherit the father’s hair color.”
I nodded in agreement, “I know, my grandfather used to say that it was a miracle I came out the way I did. Which was why my mother named me Perfectia.”
He was looking at me aggressively, “I guess that could be the case but that doesn’t explain why not a single ghost or banshee hasn’t come out yet.”
I shrugged, “I don’t know why… Can we just focus on finding that monument?” I started walking away from him into the beach house.
He grabbed me by my forearm to stop me when we were both inside, “Is it possible that your mother could have laid with someone else? Because the color of your hair and the shape of your eyes are just like hers.” He demanded, “How old are you exactly?”
I was shocked and extremely uncomfortable that he would try to grab me like that. “Lor’themar, you’re hurting me.” It also made me extremely nervous that we were completely alone and I knew how people in power could get away with crimes like this. I looked at where he was grabbing me from and looked at him confused.
We heard the sounds of high pitch screaking from all around us, “Let her go.” We heard a feminine whisper. “I see you.”
Lor’themar let me go, looked around himself on high alert, and there was an odd smell that was forming in the air and like when I would clear out the Bloodsail Buccaneer pirates. Standing knee-high in water foaming red with blood, ships fire all around me. Something seemed off about this disturbing atmosphere, my gut felt funny as the noise was getting louder. Then a sudden high pitched scream was heard from behind us, startling both of us as we looked behind us at the ghostly form that was there.
Entirely gray and black, with white glowing eyes, and jaw that only seemed to be held by stretched rotting skin. She reached forward into Lor’themar chest, I saw him gasp for breath, and she let out a scream into his face that caused me to cover my ears. I saw Lor’themar head shake, and his mouth let out a white foam as he got the full force of it.
I pulled out my gun but didn’t want to shoot it because she was still holding on to him and I struck the banshee with the butt of it. Her form went transparent and she let Lor’themar go. He gasped as he was freed from her grip and fell to the ground coughing. She looked at me, seeming to materialize again, I fired off a shot and it echoed in the small house we were in. It didn’t have much effect on her though, she still came for me with her long-fingered hand stretching toward me as it flooded my field of vision. I saw her fingernails go into my eyes.
I suddenly felt myself wrapped blankets and felt someone place a cooing baby on top of me. A vision was somewhat blurred as I tried to look around me, but I could see the baby clearly. I saw it with its hands on its face looking around like it wasn’t sure where it was, “You did it Lireesa, we finally have a son.” I heard a voice say.
The baby finally looked at where that voice was coming from. I also looked at where the voice was coming from and everything faded white and I was back to the beach and I saw the body of middle age elven woman in the Silver Covenant uniform, sleeping on a bed of sticks, but she wasn’t asleep, I couldn’t control what my body was looking at but I saw all of the grieving Windrunner family and members of the clan that littered on the beach.
Her husband took a flame to the pier and I watched the flame burn her body. He held out a bow for the three of them while one of them held a young elvan boy. He handed the bow to the daughter to his left, “Alleria, you need to take up the mantle of ranger general now.”
She saluted, and nodded, “Of course father, I will defend Silvermoon with my dying breath.”
He came to the daughter in the center, “Sylvanas, I will need you to help me raise Liraith and Vereera.”
She nodded, her face covered with tears, but she kept her composure, “Of course father, I will protect this family.” She vowed.
“What about me?” A high pitched preteen voice complained.
The husband came down to her level, “You can do whatever you want, Little Moon.”
Sylvanas held her younger brother, “Don’t worry, she is going to a better place now.”
“I don’t want her to go. Why does she have to go?” The boy cried.
His cries were unanswered as Sylvanas shushed him, holding him close.
“I will never leave you!” I heard that sound so loudly that it hurt my ears, but the family didn’t seem to notice the deafening objections that were repeated over and over as they watched the pier burn.
Everything went white again.
I was looking at Liraith as a grown man but his hair was long and blonde and he was speaking to my mother as she was walking away. “You’ll come by again soon right?” She looked up at her.
I saw my mother shake her head, “No, this will be the last time we speak. My father is used to me failing to marry up, I’ll tell him that you weren’t interested. I won’t say anything about how I told you about his original plan.”
Liraith shrugged, “So what’s going to happen to you now?”
She looked away and sighed, “I don’t know, my father’s advances toward me are becoming less and less discreet. I think he plans on taking me as his next wife.”
He looked disgusted, “But you’re his only daughter.”
She clenched her teeth and looked away, “I know, but if you knew about the experiments he was doing with runaway slaves you’d know that this was better.” And she started walking away again.
He held out his hand, “I don’t want this union, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you again.”
She look down, smiled to herself, and looked at him, "You’re sweet, and young, and… "
“Handsome, I hope.”
She laughed and nodded, “That went without saying.”
He shrugged, “Just write your letters and say we hit off really well, but you need more time. I would like for the rest of the clan to meet you.”
She nodded, smiled, and looked at him, “Okay.”
“Can I hug you?” Liraith asked.
My mother laughed and nodded yes.
He hugged her, rested his head on her breast, and he looked just like a young boy holding onto his mother, as she was a foot taller than him.
Everything faded again, everything to white, and back in the lower rooms where I last talked to Sylvanas. The two elves, my mother Kel’Donas and… Liraith, only covered by a white sheet as they looked into each other eyes, hands and forehead in contact. “What are we going to do? That wasn’t supposed to happen.” She whispered.
He laughed as he looked in her eyes, “We can leave this all behind if you want.”
She shook her head, “He’ll find us,” She whispered, “He always finds everyone that tries to run.”
He laid on his back and put his hand behind his head, “My sister made a lot of friends in Mount Hyjal, if we take our story to Maiev Shadowsong the Watcher’s should be able to protect us until they finish their investigation.”
She sat up slightly and held herself upward with her arm, “And then?”
He turned his head and looked at her, “Your father will be arrested.”
She placed a kiss on his face, “I never thought something like this would be possible. He’s always had ties with the Sunbrust Throne and has always been able to bride the other nobles.”
He looked back into her eyes, “The Watchers can’t be bribed. They only care about justice.” She pushed his chest, putting him on his back, and mounted him. “You want to go again?” He asked.
She looked down at him and nodded, “Yeah.”
Everything went black and red and I saw banshee remove her fingers from my face. That had been well over an hour of time traveling through memories, but only a few seconds had gone by. I looked at her confused, “You’re…” I said, stuttering, “You’re my…”
The banshee… Lireesa nodded.
I stood there, paralyzed, as the banshee—Lireesa—nodded. She was trying to communicate something deeper, but before I could process it, I heard the sound of Lor’themar’s blade slicing through the air. The bright orange glow of his sword pierced through her, and the banshee let out a final, agonizing scream. I felt it like a punch to the gut.
“No!” I yelled, stumbling forward, my heart racing. My vision blurred with the remnants of the memory, my mind still swimming in the emotions I had just relived.
Lor’themar, still on the ground, looked at me, concern flashing across his face. “Perfectia, are you alright? Can you see?”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I moved, anger burning through my veins. Before I knew it, my hand was gripping his armor, and I slammed my forehead into his face. The crunch of bone was audible as my headbutt connected with his nose.
“You stupid idiot!” I screamed, my voice shaking with frustration and grief.
“Perfectia, it’s me!” Lor’themar clutched his face, blood spilling between his fingers. “Ah, you broke my nose!”
I stepped back, breathing heavily. The anger inside me surged, but it wasn’t just about the banshee. It was everything. The memories. The confusion. The feeling of being out of control. And Lor’themar had taken away my one chance to understand… something. Anything.
But as I looked down at him, his face twisted in pain, the anger started to dissolve, leaving only guilt and confusion in its wake.
“What have I done?” I muttered under my breath, my voice barely audible.
I calmed down a bit, “I’m sorry,” I muttered halfheartedly. “Here, let me fix that.” Without much ceremony, I positioned myself on top of him, bracing my fingers beneath his eyes and applying pressure to his nose. The crunch of it snapping back into place made me wince, and Lor’themar grunted in pain.
“Hold still,” I said, focusing as my hands glowed faintly with holy magic. The light wasn’t as bright as usual—probably because I was still rattled from the fight—but I felt it ease his pain somewhat.
I got off him, my gaze shifting outside to Windrunner Spire. I could finally see them—banshees floating in the distance, just like the ones that always hovered near Sylvanas.
Lor’themar leaned against the wall, his breath shaky. He looked out at the banshees, shaking his head. “Oh look, they’re back,” he said between breaths. “Have you ever seen a banshee like the one we just fought?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. They’re rare, but not unheard of. I’m more surprised she wasn’t carrying any special weapons or armor. They usually have something extra on them.”
He sighed, still catching his breath. “You know, you were right earlier. I do need to get out more.” He tried to step forward but wobbled, his balance shot. He instinctively grabbed my shoulder, leaning on me heavily.
“Careful,” I warned, “you might have a concussion. Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”
Lor’themar nodded, focusing on keeping upright. “Was that advice from you or the banshee?” he asked, attempting a weak smile.
I laughed. “Maybe a bit of both. Lean on my right side.”
He adjusted, shifting his weight as I steadied him. “Here, take this,” he said, handing me his sword. “Your gun might not work on all the banshees we’re about to fight… and sorry about earlier. For a few minutes there, I thought you could’ve been related to Sylvanas.”
I raised my eyebrows, memories of what I’d just seen flashing through my mind. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be something. I guess I’ve just been lucky, coming by when they were all asleep.”
I glanced out toward the beach, seeing the mindless banshees wandering like every other undead horde I’d ever encountered. It was unsettling, but somehow felt routine at this point.
Lor’themar shook his head. “I don’t envy the Windrunners, but… well, maybe you should see for yourself.”
“So where do I need to put this lantern?” I asked, trying to focus on the task at hand.
He pointed back toward the two-way house we’d just left. “Just past there. Relight the candles, and it should trigger the recall spell.”
I nodded and gripped the lantern tighter, feeling the weight of what was coming next settle in my gut. Time to see what memories this place had left to show me.
As I placed down the last candle, the flames started jumping from one wick to the next until they connected with the lantern I was holding. The sky above shifted from the usual dull gray and silver to a soft, almost unfamiliar blue. I stood ready, half-expecting another wave of undead, but the eerie stillness persisted. I glanced to my right and saw Sylvanas Windrunner—the Ranger General herself—addressing a group of Silver Covenant riders on dragonhawk mounts. They saluted her, and she returned the gesture, her commanding presence somehow even larger than I remembered. Then again, I’d been a child when I last saw her like this.
"If Sylvanas hadn’t met Arthas with such fierce resistance, our people might not exist today. She paid the ultimate price so that enough of us could escape and rebuild our fallen kingdom…” Lor’themar’s voice droned on, but when I made a small circling gesture with my hand, his tone faltered. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” he asked, sounding a little offended.
I nodded, half-grinning. “Kinda. Sylvanas tells that story differently, you know. And my aunty… well, she tells it very differently.” I shrugged, smirking to myself. “Apparently, Sylvanas was basically giving Arthas a crash course on disabling the enchantments—under the guise of ‘warnings’—while also sabotaging the place. There was something about some dreadlords, the ghost of Kel’Thuzad, and then she dies about an hour later. Real action-packed stuff.”
Lor’themar blinked, clearly thrown off by the new version of events. “Who told you this?”
I chuckled. “My aunty, Telavani Lovewood. Ever heard of her?”
He laughed in surprise, a rare sound from him. “Telavani… plays the violin, right? She was the king’s jester. Sent south a few times to raise morale among the troops.” He paused, smiling fondly. “She should’ve been around when our people started falling ill. How is she? Does she still sing ‘The Wh—s of Sailortown’?”
I shrugged, suppressing a grin. “No, she’s more into the ‘Happy Un-Birthday’ song these days. Still crazy. Still funny. Pretty much exactly the same.”
Lor’themar chuckled, shaking his head. “Think she’d come do her act for us?”
“Well, it’s not an act. She’s like that all the time,” I clarified. “But sure, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her… if you promise not to arrest her for something she says.”
He waved the idea away quickly. “Of course not. It’s a jester’s job to insult royalty. But she’s ‘funny ha-ha,’ not ‘funny oh-Light-she-said-that?’” He laughed again. “You’re full of surprises, Perfectia Dawnlight. But I promise you, this next part won’t be boring.”
With a flick of his thumb, he pulled out a large silver coin and flipped it into the air. The high-pitched ping echoed, followed by a funny little “Salut” from somewhere nearby. The sound of pattering footsteps came toward us, and his hawkstrider appeared out of nowhere, eerily quiet as it stopped beside him. “By the Death Scar,” he muttered.
I just nodded, silently envious of how stealthy his mount was compared to mine. As I walked back to where I’d left Lucy, a few banshees drifted nearby, giving me trouble as I tried to avoid them. I rode through the Silvermoon Forest, appreciating how much of the greenery had remained. But, of course, the closer I got to the Dead Scar, the more corrupted everything became. The usual sight of twitching, rotting body parts and bones littered the ground. It wasn’t a place I’d arrange a pleasant afternoon stroll, but here we were.
Finally, I found Lor’themar again, standing at the designated spot. “Place the lantern here, and it should be fine,” he instructed.
As I followed his command, the flames in the candles seemed to leap into the lantern, casting an unearthly glow over the area. The sky began to clear, revealing a shade of blue I hadn’t seen over this land in years. But instead of the undead I had expected, I saw Sylvanas once more—leading, directing. I stared for a moment, feeling oddly detached from the seriousness of the scene.
“She really did everything she could, didn’t she?” Lor’themar said, more to himself than to me.
I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d heard this story a dozen times before, but the reality of it was sinking in deeper now. Sylvanas had given everything. And here I was, making jokes about it all. I wasn’t sure what to feel.
Lor’themar pulled me back to the present with a small cough. “Shall we continue?”
I straightened up, pulling myself out of my thoughts, deciding—just for now—to drop the banter. “Let’s finish this.”
I did as Lor’themar told me, but this time I kept my eye on him. As the recall spell took hold, his body shimmered and became crystalized, almost transparent. Even through the see-through form, he smiled and pointed toward one of our siege weapons.
“Pull the lever back until you hear a loud click. Then, step on the middle pedal,” he said, his voice unnervingly normal for what was happening.
Behind me, I could hear the chomping and crunching of the undead, but the sight of the siege weapons caught my attention. I’d never been one for the mechanics of them, but these… these looked like motorcycles with massive wings on each side, shooting out spinning blades at whatever you aimed at. My heart rate spiked as I got into one of them, the vibration of the engine humming under me. I glanced at the chaos of the undead swarming in front of me, and instead of panic, I grinned.
I followed Lor’themar’s instructions, pulling the lever and stepping on the pedal. Blades flew out, and the undead exploded like overripe fruit. A burst of laughter escaped me. Lor’themar was right. This wasn’t boring at all—it was downright fun.
But the undead kept coming, wave after wave, and as I kept targeting the larger, fat ones that burst in a spray of goo, I noticed something unsettling. The elves who’d fallen were rising again, becoming part of the Scourge. The river of corruption churned, swallowing more bodies and spitting them back out as fresh enemies.
Still, I could’ve kept going. When one siege engine ran out of ammo, I just jumped to the next one until all four of them were spent.
“Lor’themar?” I called out, a little breathless. “They’re all out of ammo. Can we stop now?”
He lifted the lantern, breaking the recall spell, and suddenly, everything snapped back to reality—the Death Scar in front of me, quiet, with only a few wandering undead left.
“There’s something you should know about Sylvanas,” Lor’themar started, his tone heavier. “About how she got those scars under her eyes. You see—”
I cleared my throat loudly, cutting him off. “Yeah, I’ve heard enough about that from Delaryn Summermoon. No need for a history lesson.”
Lor’themar raised an eyebrow. “It burned, it didn’t fall. You were part of that massacre?”
I shrugged, trying to keep the conversation casual. “I only killed soldiers. If the untrained innkeepers and shop owners decided to take up cutlery to attack us, well, that’s on them. But yeah. I even told Sylvanas I wanted to smash every Tyrande statue in Darnassus, but…”
I trailed off as I saw his expression. He looked at me with disgust, putting up his hand as if to shield himself from what I might say next.
“I guess that’s why you decided to sneak into Stormwind in disguise? To try to atone?” he asked, his voice cold.
I laughed, but it was hollow. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel bad about anything I did before that. Rarely do I give it much thought, really. I mean, trespassing and invading? That’s just another Tuesday.” I chuckled, remembering the ogre camps in Draenor. “Sometimes, I do it just for fun.”
He shook his head, clearly appalled. “Do you think Arthas did what he did for fun?”
That question hit harder than I expected. I paused, trying to piece together all the stories I’d heard—my aunt’s ramblings, the history in my paladin book. But none of it formed a clear answer. I could only go by what I knew firsthand.
“If Arthas was a complete embodiment of evil, he would’ve killed me when we first met,” I said slowly, turning the thought over in my head. “He didn’t. He said it was amusing that I thought I could kill him. So maybe… maybe he did think it was fun.”
Lor’themar’s expression softened, just for a moment. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“I didn’t say it did,” I snapped, feeling the weight of his judgment. “But maybe that’s why it scares me. Maybe I’m more like him than I want to admit.”
Lor’themar didn’t respond, and I felt the silence stretch between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud, but there it was, hanging in the air.
“You seemed like you were having a lot of fun blowing up those abominations,” Lor’themar remarked, still struggling to keep his balance as he leaned heavily on his sword.
I couldn’t help but laugh, nodding. “Yeah, it was oddly therapeutic.”
He winced, touching his forehead where I’d headbutted him earlier. A swollen knot had formed, and I could see him cringing in pain. “Can I have my sword back, please?” he asked, trying to play it off casually, but the discomfort was clear.
I raised my eyebrows, realizing I was still gripping it. “Oh yeah, here.” I handed it back, feeling a little sheepish for holding onto it for so long.
He took it, using it as a makeshift cane. “I’d like to go with you to Quel’Danas, but I think I might need some medical attention first,” he said, trying to maintain his dignity. “The dragonhawk master in Fairbreeze Village has orders to take you there. Someone more familiar with the events will meet you.”
“Who?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
He smirked. “You’ll see.” He flipped his coin, and his hawkstrider appeared as if on command, ready to whisk him away.
“Wait!” I called out, just before he could leave. He stopped, turning to look back at me. “Thanks for showing me how to walk in these shoes.”
He gave a slight shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “How are they treating you anyway?”
I smiled, amused at his question. “The balls of my feet hurt a little, but I like how I can feel my hips sway when I walk.”
For a moment, he seemed caught off guard, glancing away as if he were blushing. “Well, I definitely noticed that,” he muttered under his breath, looking almost flustered. “Just keep working on your night elf voice, and maybe I won’t get into too much trouble with our Warchief.”
I nodded, giving a small wave as I turned to mount Lucy. “Perfectia, wait,” he called out again, his tone suddenly serious.
I paused, curious. “What is it?”
“I get it now,” he said, his voice softer.
“Get what?” I asked, tilting my head.
“What Anduin sees in you.” He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. “You’re not like Jaina. But you… you radiate something I can’t explain. You’re quite beautiful, in a different way than I’m used to, but I can’t deny it anymore.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, though there was a slight awkwardness in it. “Thanks… but maybe you should get your head checked out.” I gave him a wink before darting off on Lucy. “And I can feel you staring at my rear, Lor’themar!”
I heard his stammered apology behind me, but I wasn’t really offended. Just wanted to throw his words back at him—the whole ‘can’t explain’ thing. After all, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people tend to underestimate me… until they don’t.
I had ridden through Silvermoon Forest countless times, knew every bend in the road, every tree, every shadow. So when something hit me square across the chest, knocking me backward off my horse, it was the last thing I expected. The world blurred—my vision swimming as my head smacked the hard earth. I blinked through the haze, trying to make sense of what I’d hit.
A figure stepped forward, pale skin, white hair. My hair. Cold blue eyes stared down at me, and it wasn’t just the shock that chilled me—it was seeing my own face. Imperfecta. “Go home, paladin,” she said, her voice distorted, as if echoed from the depths of some unholy place.
I tried to pull myself up with my left hand, gasping for air as her grip tightened around my throat. Kel’Magnus’s roar shook the air, and I saw Imperfecta’s head turn just before she was tackled by two hundred kilos of angry lion. “Legs, Kel’Magnus,” I rasped, pulling the shotgun from my jacket as my lion clamped his jaws on her legs.
I shoved both barrels of the gun up her nose, her expression flickering between shock and panic. I didn’t give her time to beg or plead. I pulled the trigger.
Her body disintegrated—dust, bones, and Death Knight armor scattering across the ground. The smell of decay lingered, but the satisfaction I expected didn’t come. As her remains settled into the dirt, I found myself standing there, gun in hand, waiting for… something. Some kind of relief. But there was nothing. Just silence.
I knelt down, gathering her ashes. “Don’t bother,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to see Imperfecta again, her form now translucent, floating like a ghost. “You’re not real.”
She shrugged, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “I was pretty real a moment ago, wasn’t I? And I’ve helped you before. So maybe hear me out this time.”
I shook my head, annoyed. “I thought you were going to kiss me back there, not try to kill me. And honestly, I wouldn’t have been able to stop you if you did.”
She sighed, exasperated, like she was tired of hearing the same old joke. “This is who I could have been if I hadn’t died.” She paused, as if waiting for me to catch up.
I guess in her timeline I wasn’t the self loathing joke cracking paladin that I am right now.
She looked back at me, “It’s complicated, but Bolvar Fordragon did bring me back as a Death Knight so I don’t think I could be a ghost twice. Do you remember when we met during Garrosh’s trial?”
I nodded.
“I thought my timeline was the true timeline. It was the timeline where I ended Garrosh’s tyranny by raiding Orgrimmar, but when we started getting recalled back I had so many questions, so I got stuck.”
“So you’re trying to get home now?”
She shook her head, “No, I like it here. Perfectia, you have to go home. You have to be the paladin that I couldn’t be and when you need to be a Death Knight I’ll be here to protect you. You have to let me carry your burden, the memories you’re looking for will only cause you pain, let me carry that for you so you keep being a better person then what I was.”
“Do you remember The Invasion?”
“Yes… and I’ll tell you everything you need to hear.”
“No.” I started to side-step away from her.
“SHE DIED PROTECTING YOU!! She held you in an Ice Block spell and Arthas stabbed her in the back.”
“I feel like there is more to it than that.”
“That’s all you need to know. Go home.”
I side stepped to get out of Imperfecta’s way.
“DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME!! You did that to Mograine and look where it got you.”
“61 infiltrations, two dozen raids, more personal contracts then I can count, and more lives ended by my hand then I’m scared to even know. Every single one of them could have killed me if I was careless or made a mistake, because a fight needed to be fought, and I was told it was the right thing to do.”
“This isn’t the right thing, do you want to go back to that drunk stupor you were in, or worse, end up like me?”
“It will be the truth.”
“Then take this truth: I was surprised to see you as you were to see me. In my timeline I overdosed on painkillers, partially on purpose and partially on accident. They buried me in the place where I had my first intercourse with Oranio. There was a part of me that wanted to be with him again, but I guess I cared about revenge a little more. During his trial I put myself in a place where he only had to turn his head to the left a little to see my unblinking, unmoving, cold blue death stare. And then all those alter egos showed up. I was expecting a fight. But I got you, a pathetic cripple, couldn’t fight, couldn’t wipe her own rear without help. If you die or become like me I’m pretty sure I won’t exist in this timeline anymore.”
“Or maybe you never existed in the first place and you’re just a figment of my imagination, a symptom of my mental condition, and a coping mechanism from a trauma I’ve been trying to block.”
She laughed, “Maybe, but I have helped you before, given you power, you go through with this… and I’m gone, and you’re going to wish I was a coping mechanism when you need my power again. But I’ll be gone, a sentient being exercising her free will. ”
Perfectia nodded and crossed her, “What is hardest to believe that in any other timeline I actually would have a rear that was as flat as yours.”
Her image tried to punch me but as soon as it would have made contact with my face, her image went away in a flash of dust…
I feel I need to write something because I’ve read good writing before and I’ve read bad writing before. Most stories have introduction, plot, compelling characters, villains, character’s have purpose, and eventually meet that purpose, and I’ve been rereading a lot of my stuff and I think it drags on a little in different places and sometimes I’ll lie… and end the story of a chapter in a way where I said something I didn’t. Mostly because I wish I were more clever then I actually am, those points where I wish I could have said something that I actually didn’t. But I will say now that I’m not able to erase or edit once it goes down and the ink dries. Not all my stories have conflict, raising action, climax, conclusion, and resolution, and if I do manage to end the existence of another deity hell bent on the world’s destruction, my life will continue on in the same way it’s always been. No ride off into the sunset, no happily ever after, because I’m going to have to do the things that have kept me alive for all these years whether I like it or not. For the most part I’ve liked the journey more than the destination and if I ever had the fame, glory, and riches I’ve always dreamed of having, I would probably find a way to start up a new journey.
I guess this story will most likely never go through the passages of the story matrix and if it ends… unless I’m infected by an incurable disease, it will just end suddenly. I’ve never met an author that was able to tell the last story of their book. It will either end suddenly or I will just decide that writing is a waste of time.
But I’ve figured out that Lirath Windrunner is my biological father… and I never thought I would be shown the second I was conceived.
… When I was kid I always felt alone and every time I thought I found a family it was taken because I wasn’t strong enough to defend it. My alcoholic abusive father and my crazy aunt that would disappear for years on end. The Horde was my family but I turned my back on them for a little while and when I came back it was just a city where I didn’t know anyone and nobody cared to know me. And then all of a sudden I find out I have a family and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. So I figured I should just do this one thing and then just go home.
So I took that flight to Dawnstar Village, the place of my birth.
The flight was smooth, but my mind was anything but. As the recall lamp did its work, memories began to stir—things I hadn’t thought of in years. They felt disjointed, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together yet.
I saw my mother, Kel’Donas, and it was just a regular day. We were at home. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside, a typical morning in Silvermoon. She was pouring tea, talking to me in that casual, light-hearted tone she always used on quiet days. I couldn’t remember what we were talking about, something simple, something unimportant.
Then the alarms went off.
I could still hear the shrill noise cutting through the air, sending a jolt of anxiety through me even now. I remembered looking up at her, confused. She stood there for a moment, her cup paused in mid-air. Her face tightened, and she set it down, already moving toward the door.
“Stay with her,” she told the servant in a firm voice, barely glancing back at me.
The servant grabbed my arm gently, keeping me from following. I pulled against it a little, wanting to understand. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“No enemy ships have docked,” I heard the servant say. There was a pause, and then, “Maybe they’re coming from the other side.”
Kel’Donas stopped for a moment, turning halfway to look at the servant with a confused frown. “How?” she muttered under her breath, almost to herself.
I followed her gaze toward the window, expecting to see ships on the horizon, banners of some enemy force. But there was nothing. No sign of an invasion at all. Just the quiet lull of a typical day in Silvermoon.
That was when the memory broke off.
I felt myself being pulled back to the present, to the wind rushing past me on the flight. The island was coming into view. But the feeling of unease from that day lingered in my chest. I hadn’t remembered that moment in years—my mother’s look, her hesitation, the ringing of those alarms.
It wasn’t a full memory, not yet. But something about that day was coming back, piece by piece.
I could feel it.
As the Isle of Quel’Danas came into sight, I braced myself for what the recall lamp would show me next.
The flight was smooth, but my mind was anything but. As the recall lamp did its work, memories began to stir—things I hadn’t thought of in years. They felt disjointed, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together yet.
I saw my mother, Kel’Donas, and it was just a regular day. We were at home. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside, a typical morning in Silvermoon. She was pouring tea, talking to me in that casual, light-hearted tone she always used on quiet days. I couldn’t remember what we were talking about, something simple, something unimportant.
Then the alarms went off.
I could still hear the shrill noise cutting through the air, sending a jolt of anxiety through me even now. I remembered looking up at her, confused. She stood there for a moment, her cup paused in mid-air. Her face tightened, and she set it down, already moving toward the door.
“Stay with her,” she told the servant in a firm voice, barely glancing back at me.
The servant grabbed my arm gently, keeping me from following. I pulled against it a little, wanting to understand. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“No enemy ships have docked,” I heard the servant say. There was a pause, and then, “Maybe they’re coming from the other side.”
Kel’Donas stopped for a moment, turning halfway to look at the servant with a confused frown. “How?” she muttered under her breath, almost to herself.
I followed her gaze toward the window, expecting to see ships on the horizon, banners of some enemy force. But there was nothing. No sign of an invasion at all. Just the quiet lull of a typical day in Silvermoon.
That was when the memory broke off.
I felt myself being pulled back to the present, to the wind rushing past me on the flight. The island was coming into view. But the feeling of unease from that day lingered in my chest. I hadn’t remembered that moment in years—my mother’s look, her hesitation, the ringing of those alarms.
It wasn’t a full memory, not yet. But something about that day was coming back, piece by piece.
I could feel it.
As the Isle of Quel’Danas came into sight, I braced myself for what the recall lamp would show me next.
As I dismounted from the dragonhawk and my boots touched the familiar soil of Quel’Danas, I wasn’t prepared for who was standing there to greet me.
“Highlord,” Lady Liadrin said, her voice carrying a tone of respect and a hint of warmth.
I blinked, taken aback. “Wait… Lady Liadrin?” Lady Liadrin, standing before me, was as imposing and graceful as ever. There was something undeniably captivating about the way she carried herself, every movement precise yet fluid, like a warrior who knew the weight of her own power. Her crimson and gold armor seemed to catch the light just right, casting a warm glow over her form, the plates perfectly molded to her body, emphasizing her strength without compromising her elegance. That armor, shining so brilliantly in the sunlight, was a perfect complement to her long, golden-blonde hair, which flowed over her shoulders in a loose braid. There was something almost distracting about how her hair framed the sharpness of her face—features that were both fierce and achingly beautiful.
Then there were her eyes, those fel-green eyes, so full of purpose and focus. The way they locked onto mine sent a quiet thrill through me, though I wasn’t sure if it was admiration or something more. Her expression was calm, but beneath the surface, I sensed a kind of intensity that made my pulse quicken, a dangerous edge to her serenity that had always drawn me in.
The runes etched into her plate armor shimmered subtly, and as I caught their glow, I couldn’t help but notice the rise and fall of her chest beneath the tabard of the Blood Knights—a silver phoenix proudly displayed there, but my attention kept wandering. It wasn’t just the emblem of Quel’Thalas that drew my gaze; it was the woman who wore it, with an aura of command that was magnetic in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
There was something undeniably captivating about her… and… and…. I can’t erase that. She was very pretty in a not so arousing way…
She nodded with a small smile, but I was still trying to process the title she’d used. I waved it off quickly. “Highlord? No, no—please. I only held that position for two months. Hardly long enough to deserve that title.”
Liadrin’s smile didn’t falter. She gave a slight bow of her head. “You earned it, and I will continue to address you as such.”
I shook my head, sighing, “No, really, call me by my first name.” I paused, looking at her with a teasing glance. “You do remember it, don’t you?”
There was a brief silence as Liadrin’s confident expression faltered. She looked away, slightly embarrassed, then reached into her armor and pulled out a flask. “Would you like a drink?” she offered, avoiding the question.
I sighed again, crossing my arms. “Is that the only thing you remember about me? That I enjoy a good drink?”
She laughed softly, her flask held out in offering, the awkward moment between us lightened by the familiar gesture. “Maybe it’s just one of the more memorable things.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop a small smile from creeping up. “Fine, I’ll take a drink.” I took a careful sip, wanting to keep my senses clear enough to remember everything. “It’s Perfectia Dawnlight.”
“Oh, I still remember your grandfather when he was just a kid.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re that old?”
She laughed softly. “I’m that… classical. My first hundred years, I served in Queen Azshara’s army. Your grandfather survived the Sundering when he was just a boy. We found him washed up on the shore.” She gestured towards the Sunwell, her expression growing more serious. “But we’re not here to reminisce about ancient history. Not far from here, we lost one of our greatest leaders—Anasterian Sunstrider, the last king of Quel’Thalas. He led the final stand against the Scourge and even crossed blades with Arthas himself.”
I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Did you know Kel’Donas Dawnlight?”
She let out a long sigh. “Perfectia… Highlord. You do realize that your surname is as common as the name ‘Smith’ among humans, right?”
I shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed. “I guess so.”
She smiled, more kindly this time. “Most of my memories are of training, battles, and war, but I do remember your grandfather. He was the Navy General, but… he had over fifty wives and a dozen children with each one. Anyone with ‘Dawn’ in their name could have some distant relation to him.”
Curious now, I asked, “What’s your last name?”
Liadrin sighed again, this time a little more deeply, and looked away. “I was born in Nazjatar, so it’s not like the two-part surnames most of us have here.”
I leaned in, intrigued. “What is it?”
She hesitated before gesturing me closer. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered. “It’s Okeanos.”
I blinked, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, that’s… definitely not an Elven name.”
“I know, but I’ve been married a few times. Some husbands I don’t even remember… Understand when you past 1000 years you can only keep so much.” she muttered, shaking her head slightly. “Now can you go place the lantern over there?” She pointed at the monument behind us.
I started walking in that direction but stopped, my gaze drifting towards where my childhood home had been. An old, buried instinct tugged at me. Without thinking, I began walking toward it instead.
“Where are you going?” Liadrin called out, sounding both confused and slightly concerned.
I held the lantern up, its light casting long shadows across the familiar yet haunting landscape. “I need to see something,” I muttered, not entirely sure what I was looking for, only that some pull was drawing me toward it.
“You NEED to light the lantern at the monument to initiate the recall spell,” Lady Liadrin called after me, her voice stern.
I stopped, turned back, and took the other lantern from the monument, quickly opening the glass and securing it. Then I sprinted toward where my old home used to stand.
“HEY!” Liadrin’s voice grew closer, but so did her footsteps. She was gaining on me, but suddenly I heard a deep, guttural growl, followed by a startled grunt.
I looked back and saw Kel’Magnus, my lion, pouncing on her, pinning her to the ground. “Just hold her down, no biting!” I commanded, and he obeyed, pressing her lightly under his massive paws.
Liadrin stared up at him in disbelief. “How do you even have one of these?!”
I didn’t stop to answer. The remains of my old home loomed ahead—once a grand four-story building, each floor a generous fifteen feet tall, designed just so that my mother could never quite touch the ceiling, no matter how she stretched. Now, only the main stone structure remained, crumbling yet defiant, while everything else had long since been consumed by time and battle.
Liadrin appeared beside me, Kel’Magnus padding quietly at her side. “What happened to your arm?” she asked, noticing the way I favored my left.
I sighed, shaking my head. “It’s a long story.” I called to Kel’Magnus, “Come,” but the stubborn lion stayed put, lounging next to Liadrin. “Fine, stay there. Keep her company,” I grumbled.
She glanced at my arm again, her eyes narrowing. “Your injury… it looks familiar.”
Ignoring her comment, I placed the lantern where I remembered the kitchen being. “This is where I was when the alarms went off,” I said quietly, the weight of the memory pressing down on me. I reached for my backpack, struggling to maneuver the straps with my left hand and my teeth.
“Let me help you with that,” Liadrin offered, opening the bag for me. She pulled out the items I needed with ease, her movements efficient and smooth.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re helping me now?”
She sighed as she transferred the flame from the lamp I was given to the one I had stolen. “There’s nobody watching. They don’t know how far I’ve been chasing you. I give the same speech over and over when someone comes to light these.” Her tone was tired, like someone who had been repeating the same ritual for too long.
I looked around the remains of the dining room. It had once been a place of warmth and laughter, where I sat with my mother, eating breakfast every morning. The table had been long and sturdy, made of dark mahogany wood, polished to a near mirror sheen, with intricate carvings of arcane symbols along the edges. Sunlight had always streamed through the tall, arched windows that lined the room, casting soft golden rays over the table and chairs. I remembered the smell of fresh bread, the crispness of morning fruit, and the faint scent of cinnamon lingering in the air from my mother’s tea.
The chairs had been plush, upholstered in deep red velvet, with high backs that made even the simplest meal feel regal. There was always a vase of fresh flowers in the center of the table—usually lilies or roses, their petals delicate and bright. The walls had been adorned with elegant tapestries depicting scenes of elven history, their colors vibrant and rich, telling stories of our people’s past.
But as I stood there now, the dining room shifted. I blinked, and suddenly, I wasn’t alone.
Across the table, I saw a younger version of myself, but something was off. I wasn’t in my usual childhood dress—no, I was wearing a military naval uniform, its dark fabric and golden embroidery crisp and sharp. It was the same uniform my grandfather had worn, an emblem of strength and respect. My posture was rigid, cold, my face devoid of any softness. Next to me, Kel’Donas sat in her mage robes, the deep blue and silver fabric flowing elegantly around her, but there was something hesitant about her stance, as if the robes were more a burden than a symbol of pride.
The air between us was thick with resentment, a grudge I hadn’t realized had been festering for so long. I could feel it in my younger self’s body language—my crossed arms, my refusal to meet her gaze. She was trying to bridge the chasm between us, but I remembered the bitterness I had carried back then. The grudge I held for her slaughtering the only family I had cared about—the trolls.
I had worn that resentment on my sleeve, and Kel’Donas… she seemed almost afraid of me. It had been two months since the Silvermoon Friendship Week, where I’d injured ten martial artists. I could still recall how I had walked around with the same air my grandfather did—respected, but also feared.
She tried to smile, her hands fidgeting as if searching for words, some way to reach me. “So… I heard you’re doing a lot better in school now,” she said, her voice soft but strained.
I cracked the hardboiled egg in front of me with a deliberate slowness, my eyes fixed on the table. “Yep,” I replied flatly, not even bothering to look at her.
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire, ready to snap. She was trying, I could see that now, but at the time all I could feel was my own anger. I remembered thinking, Of course you’re proud. Of course you respect me now. I can defend myself. I can hurt people.
I hadn’t wanted to look at her face back then. I was so wrapped up in my own bitterness, in my belief that the only way to earn her approval was through violence and strength. But now, standing here, watching this memory play out, I could see it—the sadness in her eyes, the regret.
Maybe she had wanted to apologize. Maybe she had wanted to be the parent whose approval I sought, the one who could give me the reassurance I craved. But she wasn’t, and I was too blinded by my own anger to notice how torn she was.
I saw my mother’s hand reaching toward my blonde hair, her touch hesitant, perhaps even affectionate.
I jerked away, quick to parry the gesture. “Don’t touch me!” The words were sharp, defensive. I grabbed my eggs and grapefruit, moving deliberately to the other side of the table, creating distance between us. I set my food down with a thud. I was still a spoiled brat, just in a different way now—angrier, colder.
Lady Liadrin’s voice broke through the memory, observing with a hint of concern. “What’s wrong with that girl?”
“A lot of things,” I muttered, feeling a wave of humiliation sweep over me as I remembered my younger self.
“Was that you?” she asked, her tone softer now.
I only nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“How old were you?”
“Eight,” I answered quietly, the number feeling hollow. It hung in the air for a moment, but before the weight of it could settle, the alarms rang out.
The memory snapped into sharper focus. The chaotic sounds, the urgent cries for help—it all rushed back with terrifying clarity. I watched as my mother left me behind, her urgency filling the air like a suffocating fog. A servant tried to hold me back, but I slipped free, my eyes locking onto the heavy wooden training sword resting in the corner.
It wasn’t just a toy—it was more than a training sword. It was practically a weapon, thick and sturdy, something that could easily break an arm or a skull if swung with enough force. I remembered how I had relished its weight in my hands, the way the heavy end smacked against my palm with a satisfying thud. It made me feel strong, capable, like I could face whatever was coming.
I thought I was ready.
How could I have been so stupid?
The image of my younger self began to fade, dissolving into the flickering light of the recall lamp. I watched as that child—so small, yet so full of reckless determination—ran outside with her ‘sword’ in hand, thinking she was ready to take on the world.
Lady Liadrin turned toward me, confusion evident in her eyes. “Did you really think you could…?” Her voice trailed off, as if the thought itself was too absurd to finish.
I blinked, feeling the weight of the question settle in. “I don’t remember any of that.” My voice was distant, the shock of seeing that part of myself clouding my thoughts.
“But it’s what happened,” Liadrin said softly, her tone a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “And somehow, you’re still here.”
I looked down at my hands again, the weight of her words heavy on my mind, pressing down like an invisible force. “What do I do now?” I asked, the uncertainty creeping into my voice.
Lady Liadrin’s expression softened as she replied, “I need to take you to where King Anasterian Sunstrider died.”
“Is it safe?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The battlefield was never truly safe.
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, confused by the question. “Are you scared?”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure. I was scared, but not of the battle itself, not of facing Arthas again, but of the memories that were starting to surface. They weren’t just fragments anymore—they were becoming real, vivid, and overwhelming.
“I’ll come with you," she reassured me, her voice steady and confident. "You will be fighting, you will see Arthas, but if it looks like you’re in over your head, I’ll be there.”
I nodded, the knot in my chest loosening just a bit. “Okay.”
She gave me a small, reassuring smile. “I’ve led a lot of people through these rituals. You’ll be fine, Perfectia.”
“Yeah… Thanks.” I forced a smile, hoping I could convince myself of the same.
As I left Dawnstar Village, the ride toward the Dead Scar felt heavy. The trees around me, once tall and vibrant, now seemed weighed down by the history of this place. The forest was quiet—too quiet. It wasn’t peaceful; it was like the land itself remembered the devastation that had swept through it, the Scourge’s path of destruction lingering in every shadow.
The wind cut across my face, cool but far from refreshing. It felt like it carried the weight of memory. The Death Scar loomed ahead, a reminder of everything lost. Even after all the battles I’ve fought, there was something about this moment that unsettled me.
I tightened my grip on the lantern as we got closer. With each step of my mount, the past felt closer, like it was closing in from all directions. When I finally dismounted, I found myself standing at the edge of the Scar. The air was thick, tense, as if waiting for something.
This was the spot. The place where I was supposed to light the lantern and begin the recall spell. But as I brought the incense close to the flame, I hesitated. Memories of what I’d already seen on the island clouded my mind.
It didn’t feel right.
I stared at the flame. The incense seemed too detached, too ritualistic. And something inside me—a pull—told me I needed to do something more personal. With a quick breath, I snuffed out the incense and raised my hand over the lantern. Slowly, my own holy fire sparked to life, glowing in my palm. This was my strength, my will.
“Maybe this won’t work,” I thought, but I knew I had to try.
I let my holy fire ignite the lantern. For a brief moment, the light flared brightly, then settled into an ethereal glow. It felt different—alive, as if the land itself responded to the light.
Lady Liadrin stood beside me, her eyes scanning the horizon. She frowned. “Wait, what’s going on? Where are we?”
I followed her gaze. The Dead Scar wasn’t there. Instead, the land was green, lush, vibrant in a way it hadn’t been for years. But the ice bridge… it was still there, like an omen.
I didn’t answer because I didn’t know either. Then we saw them—the phalanx of High Elves, their armor shining in the sunlight, shields held high. The undead crashed against them, wave after wave. The elves were a machine, blades and shields cutting through the Scourge like they were nothing. The undead didn’t stand a chance, or so it seemed.
“This was before,” Lady Liadrin murmured, swinging her weapon at a stray undead that ventured too close to us.
I looked down at the lantern in my hand. Its flames had changed. Red streaks ran through the once-pure yellow and white light. “There’s… red in the flames. It’s not supposed to be like this,” I said, unsettled by the sight.
Liadrin’s expression darkened. “We’re going to be stuck here for a while. Until Arthas shows up.”
The battle in front of us was intensifying. At first, the elves had been holding the line flawlessly, pushing back the undead with calculated precision. But as the bodies of the fallen piled up, something changed. The elves couldn’t push them back anymore, couldn’t kick away the bodies fast enough. Slowly but surely, the Scourge was advancing, and the Death Scar was forming, inch by inch.
The ground beneath their feet was becoming tainted, the grass dissolving into decay. The air was growing thick, heavy, making it harder to breathe, even for me. This was how it began—the slow, inevitable corruption of the land.
I felt my chest tighten. This wasn’t just a memory; it was a scar etched into the land, and I was watching it form in real-time.