Liadrin’s gaze drifted toward me, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence as we moved deeper into the distorted memory. “Did you… did you do this? Change the vision, I mean?” Suspicion and curiosity intertwined in her words, as though even she could feel the fabric of reality unraveling around us.
I shook my head, my answer barely more than a whisper. “Maybe,” I murmured, but the truth was far murkier than that. The holy fire flickered unnaturally in the lantern, its red-tinted flames casting long, twisted shadows that writhed against the land like living things. Even now, I couldn’t tell if I had somehow altered the vision—or if the vision was altering me.
With careful hands, I drew a portion of the fire into a small candle. The flame flared momentarily, its glow casting a sinister red and white hue that bled into the immediate surroundings, as though trying to mark its territory in this cursed place. “This should be enough for us to move around,” I said, though my voice sounded far away, as if swallowed by the very darkness that clung to this memory.
Liadrin’s laugh felt misplaced, as though humor had no place in a world as broken as this one. “What happens if the candle goes out?” I asked, half-expecting the very flame in my hand to snuff itself out, as if mocking my naivety.
She shot me a sideways glance, her smirk dark, almost taunting. “Then we’ll be stuck in the past.”
I froze, my heart pounding as dread clawed its way up my spine. “Seriously?!”
Her laughter broke through again, though this time it felt cold, like the wind howling through a forgotten tomb. “No, I’m just messing with you. If it goes out, we’ll just have to restart the ritual. But let’s not do that either, okay?”
The candle’s flickering glow seemed to warp the air around us as we pressed forward, deeper into the memory. The world itself felt wrong—stretched too thin, like reality was merely a skin draped over something ancient and waiting. As we moved, I became acutely aware of the weight of each step, as though the land beneath me had been defiled long before Arthas’ march.
And then we saw them. Villagers—ragged, desperate, and armed with whatever they could find—fought off the straggling undead. Makeshift weapons glinted in the strange light: pitchforks, sledgehammers, even something that resembled a wooden bat. Their strikes were wild, untrained, but effective in their raw brutality. They fought because they had no choice, because survival was their only instinct left in this decaying world.
“I’ve never seen this before,” Lady Liadrin murmured, her eyes scanning the scene, as if this moment in history had been lost to even her. There was something surreal about it all—how these villagers, ordinary and terrified, became warriors for the briefest of moments, just before death could claim them.
I watched, transfixed, as the undead fell under their makeshift weapons, but something was off. This wasn’t just a memory playing out—it felt like we were intruders in something sacred, something that had been forgotten, not by chance, but by necessity.
What had I done by lighting that lantern with my own fire?
And then, I saw her.
My younger self. Small, defiant against the overwhelming tide of death, fierce beyond her years, as if she were a creature born from the very chaos she fought against. The villagers called her ‘Terror,’ a name spoken half in awe, half in dread. I remembered the way they’d tried, in vain, to hold me back—my own childish rage too much for them to contain. But once they saw… once they witnessed the efficiency with which I dealt with the undead, they let me move closer, watching in horror and fascination.
Each swing of the bat connected with a nauseating thud, the sound of wood against decomposing flesh, each hit precise, methodical. I wasn’t the child they had hoped to protect. No, I was something far worse. My strikes carried the cold detachment of one who had already seen too much. My small body moved with terrifying efficiency, breaking bones and smashing skulls with the same mechanical rhythm that I heard the Scourge itself moving with.
But the battle’s rhythm shifted.
From the distance, a new wave of undead rolled forward—like the rising tide of some ancient, malevolent force, heralding the approach of Arthas. I felt the cold grip of memory tighten around my heart, as though time itself was constricting, forcing me to relive what had already been. My eyes found him—Arthas, the Lich King, riding forward with a glacial inevitability.
His gaze, colder than any mortal eyes could be, scanned the battlefield. For a moment, he and King Anasterian Sunstrider were locked in their dance of death. But even amidst that brutal clash of titans, his eyes, those dead, icy orbs, found me.
Me. A lone girl, a child wielding a bat among terrified villagers.
I saw it in his gaze—curiosity. Not contempt. Not even malice. It was interest, as though he were watching a peculiar experiment. What could make a child into such a weapon?
“RUN!” I screamed, my voice betraying the terror that crept into my bones. But even as I yelled, I couldn’t tell whether I was warning my younger self or trying to ward off the memories that flooded me, tearing me apart from the inside.
The scene grew too sharp, too visceral, like watching phantoms tear open old wounds.
Liadrin moved swiftly, pulling me back to reality, her grip on my shoulder firm, grounding. “Perfectia, it’s not real—it’s just a memory,” she urged, but her voice was distant, swallowed by the churning abyss of my mind.
The flashes came without mercy. The blade, cutting through flesh and cloth, the memory of its cold edge searing into me as it had then, long ago. The guilt overwhelmed me, twisting inside me like the very rot I had once fought against.
“No… no, no… it was my fault,” I whispered, my voice cracked and broken, the words spilling out as though they had been waiting there, hiding in my soul, all these years.
Arthas, still locked in his brutal combat with Anasterian, spared me one final glance.
Liadrin gripped me tighter, her voice a soft anchor in the sea of chaos. “It’s not real. Come back. It wasn’t your fault.”
But it was.
As I watched King Anasterian fall beneath Arthas’s blade, my heart sank deeper into the abyss. Liadrin, ever the pragmatist, sighed in frustration.
“We missed it.”
Liadrin’s gaze drifted toward me, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence as we moved deeper into the distorted memory. “Did you… did you do this? Change the vision, I mean?” Suspicion and curiosity intertwined in her words, as though even she could feel the fabric of reality unraveling around us.
I shook my head, my answer barely more than a whisper. “Maybe,” I murmured, but the truth was far murkier than that. The holy fire flickered unnaturally in the lantern, its red-tinted flames casting long, twisted shadows that writhed against the land like living things. Even now, I couldn’t tell if I had somehow altered the vision—or if the vision was altering me.
With careful hands, I drew a portion of the fire into a small candle. The flame flared momentarily, its glow casting a sinister red and white hue that bled into the immediate surroundings, as though trying to mark its territory in this cursed place. “This should be enough for us to move around,” I said, though my voice sounded far away, as if swallowed by the very darkness that clung to this memory.
Liadrin’s laugh felt misplaced, as though humor had no place in a world as broken as this one. “What happens if the candle goes out?” I asked, half-expecting the very flame in my hand to snuff itself out, as if mocking my naivety.
She shot me a sideways glance, her smirk dark, almost taunting. “Then we’ll be stuck in the past.”
I froze, my heart pounding as dread clawed its way up my spine. “Seriously?!”
Her laughter broke through again, though this time it felt cold, like the wind howling through a forgotten tomb. “No, I’m just messing with you. If it goes out, we’ll just have to restart the ritual. But let’s not do that either, okay?”
The candle’s flickering glow seemed to warp the air around us as we pressed forward, deeper into the memory. The world itself felt wrong—stretched too thin, like reality was merely a skin draped over something ancient and waiting. As we moved, I became acutely aware of the weight of each step, as though the land beneath me had been defiled long before Arthas’ march.
And then we saw them. Villagers—ragged, desperate, and armed with whatever they could find—fought off the straggling undead. Makeshift weapons glinted in the strange light: pitchforks, sledgehammers, even something that resembled a wooden bat. Their strikes were wild, untrained, but effective in their raw brutality. They fought because they had no choice, because survival was their only instinct left in this decaying world.
“I’ve never seen this before,” Lady Liadrin murmured, her eyes scanning the scene, as if this moment in history had been lost to even her. There was something surreal about it all—how these villagers, ordinary and terrified, became warriors for the briefest of moments, just before death could claim them.
I watched, transfixed, as the undead fell under their makeshift weapons, but something was off. This wasn’t just a memory playing out—it felt like we were intruders in something sacred, something that had been forgotten, not by chance, but by necessity.
What had I done by lighting that lantern with my own fire?
Liadrin’s gaze drifted toward me, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence as we moved deeper into the distorted memory. “Did you… did you do this? Change the vision, I mean?” Suspicion and curiosity intertwined in her words, as though even she could feel the fabric of reality unraveling around us.
I shook my head, my answer barely more than a whisper. “Maybe,” I murmured, but the truth was far murkier than that. The holy fire flickered unnaturally in the lantern, its red-tinted flames casting long, twisted shadows that writhed against the land like living things. Even now, I couldn’t tell if I had somehow altered the vision—or if the vision was altering me.
With careful hands, I drew a portion of the fire into a small candle. The flame flared momentarily, its glow casting a sinister red and white hue that bled into the immediate surroundings, as though trying to mark its territory in this cursed place. “This should be enough for us to move around,” I said, though my voice sounded far away, as if swallowed by the very darkness that clung to this memory.
Liadrin’s laugh felt misplaced, as though humor had no place in a world as broken as this one. “What happens if the candle goes out?” I asked, half-expecting the very flame in my hand to snuff itself out, as if mocking my naivety.
She shot me a sideways glance, her smirk dark, almost taunting. “Then we’ll be stuck in the past.”
I froze, “Seriously?!”
Her laughter broke through again, “No, I’m just messing with you. If it goes out, we’ll just have to restart the ritual. But let’s not do that either, okay?”
The candle’s flickering glow seemed to warp the air around us as we pressed forward, deeper into the memory. The world itself felt wrong—stretched too thin, like reality was merely a skin draped over something ancient and waiting. As we moved, I became acutely aware of the weight of each step, as though the land beneath me had been defiled long before Arthas’ march.
And then we saw them. Villagers—ragged, desperate, and armed with whatever they could find—fought off the straggling undead. Makeshift weapons glinted in the strange light: pitchforks, sledgehammers, even something that resembled a wooden bat. Their strikes were wild, untrained, but effective in their raw brutality. They fought because they had no choice, because survival was their only instinct left in this decaying world.
“I’ve never seen this before,” Lady Liadrin murmured, her eyes scanning the scene, as if this moment in history had been lost to even her. There was something surreal about it all—how these villagers, ordinary and terrified, became warriors for the briefest of moments, just before death could claim them.
I watched, transfixed, as the undead fell under their makeshift weapons, but something was off. This wasn’t just a memory playing out—it felt like we were intruders in something sacred, something that had been forgotten, not by chance, but by necessity.
What had I done by lighting that lantern with my own fire?
And then, I saw her.
My younger self. Small, defiant, and wielding rage like a weapon, standing against the overwhelming tide of death. They called me ‘Terror,’ a name both whispered in awe and dread. The villagers had tried, in vain, to keep me from the fight—too young, too small, too fragile, they thought. But once they saw it—once they witnessed the calculated precision in which I dealt with the undead—they let me move forward, inching closer to the front lines. They watched in horror and fascination as I swung my bat with brutal efficiency.
Each thud reverberated through my bones as wood met decaying flesh, the sound of skulls cracking under the weight of a child’s hands. But I was not the child they had hoped to protect. I was forged in a place between discipline and trauma, a narrow bridge between fear and loss. What had shaped me was no mere practice or training; it was the unrealistic expectations, the cold, merciless hand of life that had beaten me into something far beyond my years.
I struck with the detachment of someone who no longer saw the faces of those they killed, only the goal ahead. The undead were nothing more than obstacles in my path—tools to be broken, shattered, removed. My body, small and unassuming, moved with the brutal discipline of someone who had learned to survive through pain. Every swing, every hit was methodical. I broke bones, shattered skulls, without so much as a second thought. My movements, so well-honed, mirrored the unfeeling rhythm of the Scourge itself.
There was no room for mercy in this existence. Cruelty had made me strong. It had taught me to push forward, to take what I wanted by any means necessary. I had learned, long ago, that power—real power—meant detachment. It meant sacrificing comfort, connection, and compassion for the sake of survival. The pain I had felt, the losses I had endured, all bled into each strike of my bat, each calculated motion driven by the need to prove something… or maybe to hide something.
I wasn’t just a girl with a weapon. I was the embodiment of discipline born from abuse, of determination fueled by fear, of strength forged from loss. I fought not because I wanted to—I fought because I knew no other way to exist.
But the battle’s rhythm shifted.
From the distance, a new wave of undead rolled forward—like the rising tide of some ancient, malevolent force, heralding the approach of Arthas. I felt the cold grip of memory tighten around my heart, as though time itself was constricting, forcing me to relive what had already been. My eyes found him—Arthas, the Lich King, riding forward with a glacial inevitability.
His gaze, colder than any mortal eyes could be, scanned the battlefield. For a moment, he and King Anasterian Sunstrider were locked in their dance of death. But even amidst that brutal clash of titans, his eyes, those dead, icy orbs, found me.
Me. A lone girl, a child wielding a bat among terrified villagers.
I saw it in his gaze—curiosity. Not contempt. Not even malice. It was interest, as though he were watching a peculiar experiment. What could make a child into such a weapon?
“RUN!” I screamed, my voice betraying the terror that crept into my bones. But even as I yelled, I couldn’t tell whether I was warning my younger self or trying to ward off the memories that flooded me, tearing me apart from the inside.
The scene grew too sharp, too visceral, like watching phantoms tear open old wounds.
Liadrin moved swiftly, pulling me back to reality, her grip on my shoulder firm, grounding. “Perfectia, it’s not real—it’s just a memory,” she urged, but her voice was distant, swallowed by the churning abyss of my mind.
The flashes came without mercy. The blade, cutting through flesh and cloth, the memory of its cold edge searing into me as it had then, long ago. The guilt overwhelmed me, twisting inside me like the very rot I had once fought against.
“No… no, no… it was my fault,” I whispered, my voice cracked and broken, the words spilling out as though they had been waiting there, hiding in my soul, all these years.
Arthas, still locked in his brutal combat with Anasterian, spared me one final glance.
Liadrin gripped me tighter, her voice a soft anchor in the sea of chaos. “It’s not real. Come back. It wasn’t your fault.”
But it was.
As I watched King Anasterian fall beneath Arthas’s blade, my heart sank deeper into the abyss. Liadrin, ever the pragmatist, sighed in frustration.
“We missed it.”
Arthas’s gaze bore into me, colder than the dead he commanded, his presence suffocating. The villagers I had once fought beside were no longer living. Their bodies, now twisted in death, moved with an eerie, unsettling precision, their lifeless eyes turning toward me, ready to close in.
I gripped my shotgun, heart pounding, the illusion of reality so suffocatingly real that I forgot it wasn’t. I squeezed the trigger, the sharp recoil reverberating up my arm as the shot ripped through the air and hit its mark. Arthas barely flinched, but something in me did. My hinged arm moved—it moved—on its own, free from the weight it usually bore, but too weak to break out fully from the hinge that held it. Still, the freedom was a jolt of hope, even if fleeting.
Arthas advanced, the cold gleam of Frostmourne inching closer. I raised the shotgun again, managing to block a few strikes before I saw it snap in two like fragile wood under the weight of the cursed blade. No… not like this.
Voices, sharp and discordant, screamed in my mind, Kill him. End him! They weren’t just Alexandros Mograine’s—there were others. Some were familiar, yet faint and distant, like echoes from a forgotten past, or perhaps memories I had chosen to bury.
In my haze of desperation, I saw it—the Corrupted Ashbringer. Its twisted form, dark and pulsing, drew my gaze like a forbidden temptation. My weakened arm twitched, but I knew I couldn’t grab it. I can’t… But then, the metal seemed to bend, warp, and contort, its jagged edges latching onto my arm as if it had a will of its own. It seared my skin, the pain indescribable, as though molten iron dripped across my bones. Spikes dug into my flesh, and I felt something dark slither into my marrow, granting me strength I hadn’t asked for.
Frostmourne came at me again, but this time, I raised my new, monstrous arm, blocking the strike. The force of the collision sent waves of darkness through me, but the power—whatever it was—coursed through my veins. I saw Arthas’s expression shift, surprise flashing across his cold features. The real Ashbringer shimmered into existence in my hand. I swung, tearing through the illusion of Arthas with all the fury I could muster.
And in that moment—there was a smile. I had done it. Arthas was dead. I had saved my people. Rewritten history. Changed the course of fate. Had I formed another timeline, one where the horror never unfolded?
But then, there was another. And another. My strikes tore through phantom versions of him, each one falling beneath my blade, fiery corpses collapsing in heaps at my feet. The world seemed to spin, the violence endless, my mind fevered with the thought of erasing him, erasing all of this.
“Perfectia, stop!” Liadrin’s voice cut through the madness. I felt her presence like a tether pulling me back from the edge. “You can’t change this.”
The Ashbringer slipped from my hand, its radiant light flickering and dying. The armor crumbled away like dust, and the world around me snapped back into place—the illusion shattered, leaving behind only the cold, empty reality of the present.
I looked down at my arm. Blackened, corrupted spots marred my skin, remnants of the twisted magic that had gripped me. I hadn’t changed anything. But something dark had taken root inside me.
Despite the chaos, Perfectia, even as a child, dealt with the undead that flanked her with a disturbing efficiency. Each swing of her bat was executed with lethal precision, surprising even Arthas, who took a moment to watch, curiosity flickering across his features. His armored frame loomed over the battlefield, and for a brief moment, it was as if time had slowed. Even Lady Liadrin, watching from the present, seemed curious, witnessing something she had never seen before.
Arthas, towering and cold, looked down at the young girl who moved with such deadly skill. “Are you lost?” His voice was deep, almost mocking, as if amused by the sight of a child so efficient at slaughtering his undead.
But before he could fully turn his attention to her, a fireball shot across the battlefield, hitting Arthas square in the back. He turned his gaze from Perfectia, his amusement replaced with cold fury.
Kel’Donas, her robes billowing and almost as tall as Arthas seated on his deathly steed, fired another fireball, her voice filled with both urgency and terror. “Perfectia, run!”
For the first time, young Perfectia’s composure broke. She ran, darting toward the beach, her heart pounding in her chest as panic set in.
Kel’Donas, in a desperate move, teleported near Perfectia and scooped her up, but it was too late. Arthas was upon them. His sword, Frostmourne, glinted in the light as he drove it through Kel’Donas’s back with terrifying precision. The sound of steel piercing flesh was sharp and final. Perfectia watched in horror as the tip of the blade emerged from her mother’s chest, crimson blood staining her once-pristine robes. Kel’Donas collapsed, and her body quickly became encased in ice, trapping both herself and Perfectia in a frozen tomb.
Arthas raised Frostmourne and struck the icy barrier, his cold eyes peering in at the terrified girl. He called out, his voice carrying the weight of death, “Sylvanas, doesn’t this spell only last for a few seconds?”
Sylvanas, draped in a hauntingly white wedding dress, approached with a measured gaze. Her voice, cold and detached, carried a hint of dark humor. “The spell only lasts as long as you can hold your breath.”
“But she’s dead,” Arthas noted, his tone indifferent.
“Then she’s not coming out of it,” Sylvanas replied flatly, her expression betraying nothing.
Arthas took one last glance at the ice block, an idle curiosity flickering briefly across his otherwise expressionless face. The sight of the girl, frozen in time, was but another speck in the grand narrative of his conquest—nothing more than a ghost of a memory that held no weight in his endless march toward destruction. With a slight, almost indifferent shrug, he turned his steed away, guiding it effortlessly back into the shadows, as if what he had left behind was of no consequence to the grander, darker destiny that awaited him.
The world fell into a deathly silence after his departure, the frost gripping the earth like a skeletal hand, suffocating and final. All that remained was the stillness, cold and endless, as if time itself had died alongside the living. The ice block that encased my mother and me seemed to pulse in that frozen moment, the only sign of life being the faintest glow—a soft, eerie blue light emanating from the book my mother had left behind.
The light, gentle yet insistent, seeped through the ice, as if the pages themselves held the last remnants of her will. The ice trembled, cracking with a delicate sound that seemed deafening in the empty battlefield. Slowly, it shattered, the shards falling away like brittle memories, leaving me lying on the frozen earth, unconscious, my body teetering on the edge of death itself.
The magic bound within the book had done its job. My mother’s final act, tethered to the pages through a bond I could not yet comprehend, had shielded me, kept me alive when death was the only other option. Yet even in life, I was left with a chill that would never quite leave me.
The illusion, the nightmare of the past, shattered around me. Lady Liadrin and I stood once more in the present, amidst the ruins of Quel’Danas. The suffocating cold of that memory lingered, clinging to my skin like the frost from the battlefield.
Lady Liadrin, her voice now a mere whisper in the vastness of the moment, asked, “How did you survive that?”
I sighed, feeling the weight of the memories pressing in from all sides. “My dad,” I murmured, though the word felt like a ghost on my tongue. Lachance Lovewood. The name hung in the air, unresolved, as I tried to place the pieces of the past into something that made sense. He had saved me, somehow. I knew that. He had found me in that frozen tomb, pulled me out… done something. But the details slipped through my fingers like sand.
Lady Liadrin’s gaze lingered on me, studying my face as if trying to understand the labyrinth of memories I was trapped in. “Lachance Lovewood?” she repeated, the name dragging me further into the fog of recollection.
I nodded, but even then, I wasn’t sure how much of what I remembered was real. His face, his hands lifting me from the ice, the warmth I had felt despite the cold… it all blurred together, tangled with the magic and the horrors of that day.
I looked down at my right arm, the arm that had always carried my sword—the same arm that had been weak and broken for so long. But now… now it was whole. Somehow, impossibly, the injury that had plagued me for what felt like an eternity was gone.
The restoration should have felt like a blessing, but as I studied my arm more closely, a deep unease settled in my chest. Along the skin, dark patches marred the once flawless surface, blackened spots that pulsed faintly as though something lived beneath the skin. They stretched like roots, crawling just below the surface, corrupting the flesh that had been healed. It was as if my arm had been restored but at a terrible cost.
The spots moved subtly, writhing like shadows in the corner of my vision, and I could feel them—deep within the bone—spreading, twisting with a life of their own. They reminded me of the curse that I had seen in those old stories, the kind of curse that doesn’t kill you outright but slowly devours you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the darkness. The arm might have been whole, but it was no longer truly mine.
I clenched my hand into a fist, feeling the power surge through my fingertips, but there was something else there, something other, coiled within the muscle, within the marrow of my bones. Whatever had healed me had left its mark, and it was a mark I would never be free of.
This wasn’t healing. This was… something darker.
Lady Liadrin’s eyes narrowed as they fixated on my arm, her gaze lingering on the dark, writhing patches that marred the skin. She reached out tentatively but stopped short, as if touching it might further contaminate the air between us.
“That…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is Necromancy, Perfectia. What you did with the sword, with the spirits—you summoned something dark. A piece of armor… Ash Crow armor.”
Her words felt heavy, like stones sinking in water. Necromancy. My mind struggled to process it. “What is that?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Liadrin shook her head, her brows knitted together as if she were dredging up something from the deep recesses of her mind, some buried truth she hadn’t wanted to face. “I… I need to meditate,” she said, clearly troubled. “There are memories I must sift through, ones I’ve buried. Until I do, you can’t take part in the next ritual. It’s too close to the Sunwell, and I need to think.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand.”
Liadrin smiled weakly and tried to explain. “When you choose to forget something… you can’t remember that you wanted to forget the memory that you forgot.”
I blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
She chuckled softly. “It’s like having a library. Every day, you write a book with every memory you’ve made that day. But you can only keep so many books. So, you put some on the shelf, and if you want to read them again or ‘check them out,’ you have to sit down and meditate.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Is that why you forgot my name?”
Liadrin gave a sheepish nod. “I can’t remember wanting to forget who you were. But the person I used to be—the one who had all those memories—must have wanted to forget. Maybe she didn’t like you very much, or maybe you just didn’t seem that important, so you got replaced by… well, something else.”
I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Okay… I guess that kind of makes sense.”
It was a bizarre explanation, one that left me feeling both enlightened and slightly confused. But with all the strange things happening, I figured it was just another day in the life of me, Perfectia Dawnlight.
I shot Liadrin a sideways glance. “Okay, so… what if someone else’s books just sort of… fell on my shelf? Or, I don’t know, maybe someone decided to drop them there. Could I, like, shove them back in, rearrange everything, and maybe be… different? In a good way?”
Liadrin paused, eyes narrowing slightly as if I’d just suggested a new battle tactic. “Interesting idea,” she started, in that serious, thoughtful way of hers. “Memories can shape us, yes. And if someone else’s memories ended up on your shelf—let’s say, because of some… mysterious circumstances—it could affect you. But those memories wouldn’t be yours.” She gave me a look that felt heavy, like I was about to get a lecture. “Even if you tried to absorb them, embrace them, you’d always know. It’s like borrowing a book. You can flip through the pages, learn from it, but it’s never going to sit in your collection quite the same way.”
She sighed, rubbing her forehead like she’d been through this before. “Memories, especially those that aren’t yours, can mess with your mind. They might not make you ‘different’ in the way you’re hoping for. It’s more likely they’d create confusion, a fractured sense of identity, maybe even madness. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen. It’s not pretty.”
I blinked, staring at her. “Wait, madness? Is this some kind of warning or are we talking full-on, ‘I don’t know who I am anymore’ madness?”
Her voice softened as she met my eyes. “The memories of someone like Alexandros Mograine? Yeah, they’re powerful. They could teach you, sure, I’ve seen the way you fight. You have a lot of his idiosyncrasies and kinesics. I thought he trained you as a child. But JUST memories without hands-on experience could also twist you into something you won’t recognize. It’s like a paraplegic knowing a ballet dancer. You don’t want to carry what’s not yours—it’ll wear you down in ways you can’t predict.”
The flame flickered between us, casting our shadows long and strange. She glanced at it, the atmosphere thick with that uncomfortable truth she always seemed to drop at the worst times. “And if those memories force themselves onto you… well, the real struggle would be remembering who you were underneath it all.”
I gave her a half-smile. “So, uh… can you teach me how to meditate or whatever? You know, to deal with all this remembering and forgetting business.”
Liadrin looked at me for a long moment before she quirked a brow. “Only if you promise to forget my last name.”
I gave her a solemn nod. “Sure thing.” The joke’s on her, though—I already wrote it down.
She smiled wryly. “Then I’ll teach you.”
Lady Liadrin turned to me with a thoughtful expression. “Perfectia, I have other blood elves who need guidance through these rituals,” she said gently. “I can’t let you proceed to the next one just yet. It’s too close to the Sunwell, and after everything that’s happened today, I think we should take a pause.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So, what should I do in the meantime?”
She offered a small smile. “Stay around. I’ll guide you through your next ritual two hours before sunset. That should give us both some time. I’ve already spent more time with you than I usually allocate, but I must admit, it was informative—a spice of life I didn’t realize I needed.” She chuckled softly. “But now, I have to get back to work.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, watching as she walked away to attend to her duties.
Left to my own devices, I glanced down at my right arm. The blackened spots were still there, a stark contrast against my skin. When I touched them, there was a slight sting, but beneath that was a newfound strength. The arm felt solid, powerful even.
Spotting a training dummy nearby, I decided to put this to the test. I picked up a practice sword and began running through combat drills. Each swing was precise, the movements fluid. The blackened areas throbbed faintly, but they didn’t hinder me; if anything, they seemed to augment my strength.
As I trained, I couldn’t help but overhear Lady Liadrin in the distance. Every half-hour or so, she’d gather a new group of blood elves and lead them through the rituals. Her voice carried over, filled with the same nostalgic enthusiasm each time.
At first, it was inspiring—the way she spoke, the passion in her words. But by the fifth time, I began to notice the rehearsed nature of it all. The exact same phrases, the identical intonations. It was like watching a repeat play.
I paused mid-swing, resting the tip of the practice sword on the ground. The realization settled in—her speeches, though heartfelt, were part of a routine. The genuine warmth I felt during our interaction seemed absent now, replaced by a well-practiced script.
“Back to ‘the work’ indeed,” I muttered to myself.
I continued my training, but my mind wandered. Was this what happened when duty became a repetition? Did the meaning fade, or was it just buried under layers of obligation? I watched her from a distance, delivering the same lines with perfect precision, and couldn’t help but feel a tinge of… disappointment? No, perhaps understanding.
After all, we all have our roles to play.
Returning my focus to the dummy, I tightened my grip on the sword. If nothing else, this downtime was an opportunity—to hone my skills, to reflect, and maybe, just maybe, to figure out what these blackened marks truly meant.
Lady Liadrin returned from her duties, shedding her armor for something a lot more relaxed but no less stunning. She was wearing a simple red top, tied loosely around her neck, with her entire back exposed. And, of course, her skin was flawless—toned and smooth. The kind of skin you’d expect from someone who’s spent their life in battle but somehow skipped out on the scars. Her muscles were sculpted, moving with a kind of grace that made her seem powerful even without the heavy armor.
Her pants were simple, cloth, and just tight enough to remind me that this woman could snap someone in half if she felt like it. There was something disarmingly graceful about her casual attire. She looked at me with that same casual authority she always seemed to carry and asked, “Do you have any light clothes?”
I blinked. “Light clothes? No. I didn’t think I’d need any… I sleep in full armor, even when I’m in a hammock.”
Liadrin raised an eyebrow, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “In full armor? In a hammock?” She let the chuckle escape this time, the sound almost musical. “Well, if you need something, you can borrow some of mine.”
I glanced at her, then at her outfit, eyeing the form-fitting pants and the top. I couldn’t help myself. “Do you really think I’d fit into anything you own?”
She gave me a look, one that seemed to assess every inch of me in a single glance, and shrugged. “You’re right. You’d probably rip the pants.” Her eyes flicked to my waist. “Are you at least wearing underwear?”
For a second, I was torn between being mortified or just rolling with it. After all, it was Liadrin. “Yes,” I said, still debating if I should have lied just for the fun of it.
She nodded, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Good. I’ll get you some blankets, then. Not as stylish, but they’ll do the job.” And with that, she left, leaving me wondering if I’d just been outmaneuvered by the Blood Knight matriarch in a conversation about pants.
I headed down to the beach, feeling the weight of the day lift off my shoulders with every step. The air was cooler here, refreshing against my skin. By the time Liadrin caught up with her blankets, I had already begun unbuckling my armor. Piece by piece, it clanged to the sand until I was left standing in nothing but my undergarments, feeling a bit lighter in more ways than one.
Liadrin looked me up and down, her gaze lingering longer than I expected. “Whenever I saw you walk away, I always assumed you were… less lean. I didn’t realize your hip-to-waist ratio was so dramatically different.”
I paused, raising an eyebrow as I turned to face her. “You thought I was fat?”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “It’s what everyone says about the ‘Alcoholic Highlord.’ I was expecting a beer gut… not abs like that.”
I grinned, flexing just a little. “Well, if you’re disappointed, I can start downing pints to match the rumors. Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”
Liadrin smirked, unfolding one of the blankets. “No need. I’d say you’re doing just fine.”
As we sat down by the beach, Lady Liadrin took a deep breath, and I mirrored her, though I wasn’t sure what was coming next. The sound of the waves lapping against the shore was soothing, and the stars above seemed to pulse in time with the rhythm of the sea.
Liadrin settled into a comfortable position, closing her eyes. “Meditation isn’t complicated, Perfectia. You don’t need to make it harder than it is. Just focus.”
I followed her lead, shifting awkwardly on the blanket as I tried to find the right spot for my armor-bruised body.
“First, close your eyes,” Liadrin’s voice was softer than usual, a gentle guide rather than the commanding tone I was used to. “Breathe deeply. In through your nose, and out through your mouth. Feel the tension in your muscles, and let it melt away.”
I did as she said, letting my breath slow, my mind still buzzing with the day’s events. “You’re not trying to force the thoughts out,” she continued. “Just observe them, acknowledge them, and let them drift by like leaves on the water. Don’t hold onto them.”
I felt the cool night breeze on my skin, the distant call of a seabird blending with the steady sound of the waves. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, but my mind kept wandering. I was about to say something when Liadrin spoke again.
“Now, I want you to imagine a flame. It can be any color you want. Feel it burning in your chest, but not hot. It’s steady, like the light of the Sunwell. This flame represents your strength, your will. Focus on that flame.”
I pictured the holy fire I’d used earlier, flickering with a mix of yellow and red. As I focused, it seemed to grow stronger, filling me with a warmth that pushed back the cold grip of doubt I’d been feeling all day.
“Breathe into the flame,” Liadrin instructed, her voice steady. “Feel it grow with each breath, becoming brighter, stronger. It doesn’t consume, it doesn’t destroy. It just is. It’s your source of power.”
As I focused, I felt the warmth spread through my body. It was like a light was blooming inside me, chasing away the lingering darkness of the past, the memories that still clung to me.
“If your mind drifts, that’s okay,” Liadrin continued. “Just come back to the flame. Let it center you.”
I could feel it, the sense of being grounded in that flame. The noise in my head—Alexandros’s voice, the weight of the past—began to fade. It wasn’t gone, but it felt quieter, more manageable.
“That’s enough for tonight,” she said after a long pause. “It’s not about forgetting. It’s about understanding what to hold onto and what to let go.”
I opened my eyes, the cool night air brushing against my skin, the world around me feeling heavier and lighter all at once. The weight of everything—the past, the memories—seemed to shift, settling into a different kind of silence. Liadrin was watching me, a small, knowing smile on her lips.
“You’re doing fine,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “But the real test? Let’s see if you can hold onto that peace when you’re not sitting here on a quiet beach.”
She took a deep breath, the sound of it steadying, grounding us both. “Now… tell me,” her tone turned playful, “what’s my last name?”
I blinked, the question hitting me with unexpected weight. Her last name? I knew she’d told me to forget it, and I vaguely remembered the moment. But when I tried to recall it, nothing came. It was like the memory had slipped away, vanished without a trace.
“Oceanwalker?” I ventured, the first thing that popped into my head.
Liadrin let out a laugh, a genuine one, the sound cutting through the heavy night air. “Close, but no. Thanks for letting that one go. Then again…” she paused, her eyes glinting with some hidden wisdom. “I’m not speaking to the same person anymore, am I?”
I frowned, feeling the edges of something I couldn’t quite grasp. “This is… confusing,” I admitted, the words sounding hollow against the realization that I had let go of something and didn’t even know when it had happened.
Liadrin’s smile softened into something more understanding, more knowing. “I know,” she said. “And I remember the Ashcrow Armor now.”
“Funny thing, identity. You think it’s solid, like a shield you can hold onto in battle, but it’s really just… smoke. A collection of memories, moments, books on a shelf that could be knocked over at any time. And what happens when those memories are gone? Or worse, when they’re twisted by something ugly, like trauma or self-hatred? You wake up one day and realize you’re not even the same person anymore. Like you’ve been chiseled away piece by piece, until all that’s left is a shape you don’t even recognize.”
“I’ve spent all this time trying to find the truth, chasing down memories that were repressed, buried deep in some corner of my mind. Trying to stitch together the pieces of who I used to be—before Arthas, before Frostmourne, before the betrayal. But the more I dig, the more I wonder… what if those memories aren’t mine anymore? What if they’re gone for good? What if I’ve already been shaped by the lies and the losses, and this person I’m trying to reclaim is nothing but a ghost?”
“It makes you think, doesn’t it? How far could my identity be twisted, erased, until I’m someone else entirely? Hell, maybe I already am. Maybe I’ve twisted myself so much with self-hatred and doubt that the person standing here now isn’t even the same Perfectia from before. Is there even a ‘before’ anymore? Or just this endless now, where I’m constantly rewriting myself?”
“I can crack a joke without missing a beat, but give myself a real compliment? That’s like trying to climb a mountain with no legs. Funny how I can be quick with the wit but slow as hell when it comes to being kind to myself. I guess that’s part of the problem. Maybe if I didn’t spend so much time loathing the person I was, I wouldn’t feel so damn lost about who I am.”
But at least I kept my promise from the first few pages of my book. I remember that spoiled kid I was who hated her mother and couldn’t even remember enough to be grateful for her sacrifice. It’s my fault she died. But the warning Imperfecta gave me was a good thing, a reminder that I shouldn’t fall deeper into self-hate and blame. I just need to remember the person I think I need to be. I wonder if you moved on Imperfecta, or you’re still going to come back for… I don’t know a few Death Knight spells and foreboding sense of dread writing style you have. Yes, I’m noticing it during the rewrites, but… Thanks.
“So, this Ashcrow Armor… it restored my arm, kind of.”
Liadrin nodded, her expression serious. “I came across something like this early in my priesthood. It dates back to the Black Empire, during N’Zoth’s reign. The trolls, created by N’Zoth, were used as slaves to operate tools and machines. They lacked the warlike abilities or survival instincts of the other creations, but they were excellent for construction—building temples, pyramids, that sort of thing.”
“Wait—what does this have to do with armor?” I asked, not seeing the connection.
Liadrin sighed. “The trolls weren’t built for battle. But when the Titans invaded, N’Zoth needed them to become something more—something unbreakable. That’s when the Ashcrow Armor came into being. His books, scattered throughout his underwater temples, described a ritual to create this armor. It could turn trolls into soldiers, ready to withstand the machines of the Titans.”
“That sounds like a good thing… right?” I raised an eyebrow.
“At first glance, yes. But it wasn’t what we expected. The ritual had to be performed on a freshly fought battlefield, where the dead outnumbered the living. The name ‘Ashcrow’ came from the fact that where crows gathered, it was an optimal spot for the ritual. Trolls were bathed in flame and magic, encased head-to-toe in this armor. We… tried it, once. But we only managed to summon a single piece. It latched on, burning the skin of our test subject—Les Dunwoodly. It gave him incredible strength, at first. We thought we had succeeded. But…”
I could hear the regret in her voice as she trailed off.
“What happened?”
“He started showing signs of infection, slowly at first. Within nine months, it spread through his entire body—bone and flesh alike. He was in excruciating pain. A year later, it killed him.” She sighed, deeply troubled. “We didn’t understand the true nature of the ritual until it was too late. It wasn’t meant to protect. It was meant to turn trolls into expendable warriors. Cannon fodder. I burned the books, and I buried the memory of it. But I should’ve realized sooner, when you summoned that piece of armor on the Death Scar… it’s too similar.”
My heart dropped. “So, what—you think I have a year to live?”
Liadrin shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure, Perfectia. This might not be the same thing. But I wasn’t fully certain until I went back into those memories. And I can’t let you near the Sunwell again until we figure this out.”
“Can I cut it off?” I asked, already knowing the answer but desperate for any solution.
“We tried that with Les,” she replied, her eyes dark. “It only delayed the inevitable. The marks came back, even stronger.”
I clenched my jaw, anger and fear battling inside me. “So what—I’m supposed to just accept this? That I’m going to die in a year?”
“You can sit here and dwell on it, go through all the stages of grief if you want,” Liadrin said bluntly. “Or you can face what’s coming without letting grief consume you. But either way… I can’t let you go through the Sunwell ritual. Not again.”
I tried to steady myself, her words sinking in like a weight pressing down on my chest. “And what about the Black Empire?”
“N’Zoth is long gone, his empire lies deep beneath the sea.”
A sudden thought hit me, connecting the dots I’d been too stubborn to see. “Aunt Telavani…” I cursed, loudly. The realization slammed into me like a runaway wagon. Of course. She worshipped that Old God. Everything was starting to make sense now.
After an embarrassing amount of crying, yelling, and wild idea-spinning, Liadrin stood by, arms crossed, mechanically narrating each stage of my grief as if she’d seen it all before. Finally, she cut in, telling me about a party with drinks, food, and a nice gift of armor. Everyone who finished the ritual would be there, and she strongly suggested I celebrate as hard as possible.
So I did.
Woke up the next morning with a skull-splitting hangover, in bed with two different bedroom partners. Didn’t even bother waking them up or asking for names. Hopefully, they won’t remember me either.
Father not Daddy
Lirath stepped into Silvermoon, instantly regretting his decision. The city was a cacophony of thoughts, feelings, and endless noise—most of it unspoken. Being a mind-reader wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, especially in a crowded place like this. Even a few passersby, seemingly quiet on the outside, could sound like a heated internal debate. Their unexpressed desires, fleeting thoughts, and private anxieties banged around inside his skull like a thousand voices in a single, chaotic chorus.
He hadn’t been in the city for more than a minute, and already his head was pounding.
Passing by a small group of elves, he caught a snippet of thought—Who is that? Darion Sunblade?—and he smiled, forcing himself to respond in kind.
“Yes, Darion Sunblade. That’s me.”
It was easier to give people whatever name they assumed in their heads. Less explaining, fewer questions. And honestly, it wasn’t like his real name mattered here, especially since the idea of introducing himself properly felt almost laughable in a place so noisy. He wasn’t ready for this. The constant intrusion of other people’s minds, the emotional static… it was exhausting.
But he had promised.
As he moved deeper into the city, weaving through the crowds, he continued listening—though “listening” wasn’t really the word for it. It was more like the thoughts just entered his mind whether he liked it or not. By now, he could handle the small groups, but anything larger than five people? That was enough to turn his head into a battlefield.
Another thought drifted into his mind as he passed a tavern: Perfectia… Alcoholic Highlord… It wasn’t hard to follow the mental breadcrumbs through the crowded streets of Silvermoon, each passerby’s idle thoughts only adding to the constant throbbing headache of city life. Too many voices, too many minds. It was like standing in the middle of an argument he wasn’t part of.
He found her eventually, slumped over a half-eaten breakfast, head resting on an open book like she was ready to use it as a pillow. Lirath hesitated, mentally bracing himself. What name would she think of? What name would he have to go by this time?
Clearing his throat, he kept his voice light, despite the pressure pounding in his skull. “Excuse me… Alcoholic Highlord? Or Perfectia, perhaps?”
Without lifting her head, Perfectia groaned, clearly not in the mood. “Depends. Who’s asking?”
Lirath opened his mouth, ready to answer as usual with whatever name she was thinking of, when suddenly the thought was as clear as if she had shouted it at him.
“Hi, my name is Deadbeat Dad.” He froze, blinking in confusion. “Wait, what?”
Perfectia lifted her head slightly, squinting at him through bleary eyes, her voice dry with exhaustion. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Sit down,” she said, nodding toward the empty chair.
Lirath opened his mouth to object, but before he could say anything, Perfectia’s voice shot across the room, “SIT!”
He complied, dropping into the chair with a sigh. “I know you have a lot of questions.”
“Did you ever wonder where I was?” Her voice was sharper than before.
“Of course. And… I’m sorry about your dad—” Lirath began.
“Don’t interrupt me.” She held up her hand, the weight of what she needed to say apparent in her tone. “Let me say it out loud… They broke him in Tempest Keep. They broke both of us.” She paused, her words heavy, “Do you know what he did to save me?”
Lirath shook his head, his expression softening but tinged with exhaustion. “I can’t see images, and the voices… they don’t stop.” He rubbed his temples, his gaze momentarily distant as if caught in the mental whirlwind of other people’s thoughts. “It’s hard to know who’s speaking out loud or just screaming in their heads,” he admitted, glancing away, clearly uncomfortable. “Even now, I can hear so many people nearby—some thinking about the weather, others wanting to rip my head off. It’s constant.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve heard the same threat a dozen times in the last thirty minutes alone. I want to leave, but I promised I’d find you.”
Perfectia smirked. “Aww, I’m sorry, ‘Edmand Calling.’”
Lirath chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “Did you think that before you said it?”
She gave him a look, as if to say, You should know by now. “You know my wit’s sharp. I don’t even think about it before I say something funny. I just say it.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you have a lot of questions, but… Sylvanas needs you. She’s hurt.”
Perfectia blinked, caught off guard. She glanced down at her half-eaten omelet, pushing it toward him. “Eat this.”
“We don’t have time,” Lirath muttered.
“Then eat fast,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “And answer whatever questions I’m thinking.”
Lirath sighed, taking a bite, chewing methodically. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked aloud, almost daring him.
He swallowed, glancing up. “Lachance had already claimed you. He was more capable of protecting you… and I didn’t know for sure until I had you make that blood oath.”
“Did you know where I was?”
“No,” he answered flatly.
Perfectia frowned, her frustration bubbling. “It’s not fair. I can’t read your mind.”
Lirath rolled his eyes. “I’d gladly trade places with you, if you wanted.”
“Are you sure about that?” Her voice dropped, serious now. “I’m dying, you know.”
Lirath’s eyes widened. “What?! Why wasn’t that the first thing you—” He stopped, squinting as if trying to focus. “Stop thinking in images.”
Without a word, Perfectia peeled off her plated glove and unwrapped the bandages, revealing the black and purple marks creeping up her arm.
“Ashcrow armor,” Perfectia muttered, her eyes narrowing as she studied the darkened skin on her arm. “It’s tied to N’Zoth’s people… the empire he once ruled. They designed it for their soldiers or something.”
Lirath looked at the decaying bandages wrapped around her arm, clearly tainted by the corruption that had begun eating away at her skin. He shook his head and grabbed fresh bandages, beginning to rewrap her arm with care. “Did Alexandros Mograine have something to do with this?”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow, waving her hand in a circular motion above her head. “You don’t see him right around here?” she asked, half-sarcastic, half-serious.
Lirath blinked, looking confused. “No… why would I?”
Perfectia sighed. “Never mind. I thought maybe you could see something I couldn’t.” She shrugged. “Sylvanas mentioned something once, though. Maybe she knows more than we do. We should ask her.”
Lirath nodded, his gaze drifting back to the plate. “Sounds good… but I’m still hungry.”
Without missing a beat, he wolfed down the rest of the omelet, leaving Perfectia smirking as she shook her head.
—
The journey from Silvermoon to Marris Stead was one of stark contrast. As they rode through the vibrant, golden hues of Eversong Woods, the trees stood tall, bathed in the sunlight that filtered through the canopy. The horses moved steadily, their hoofbeats a steady rhythm against the dirt path, the peace of the surroundings a sharp reminder of how close they still were to the safety of Silvermoon. But with each passing mile, the scenery shifted. The transition into the Ghostlands was gradual yet unmistakable. The trees became more twisted, their leaves sparse, their branches gnarled like skeletal hands reaching toward the sky. The air grew colder, and a sense of unease began to settle over the land.
Lirath, riding beside Perfectia, seemed to tense as the scenery darkened. His gaze constantly shifted, his mind occupied by more than just the road ahead. Perfectia noticed his distracted demeanor, but said nothing for a while, the quiet of the Ghostlands seeming to stretch on forever. Even the wind felt different here, carrying with it an eerie stillness that hung in the air like a shadow of the past.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Lirath finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the stillness as if he had been debating whether to ask.
Perfectia glanced at him, her lips curving into a slight smirk. “Don’t you already know?” she teased, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
Lirath shook his head, his gaze turning distant again. “Not really. The voices… they sound like arrows whipping past my ears when I’m in motion like this.” His tone was serious, but it was the kind of serious that masked something deeper—an admission of vulnerability, even frustration.
Perfectia looked at him, surprised by the honesty. He rarely spoke about his limitations, and it wasn’t like him to admit there were things even he couldn’t grasp when it came to his mind-reading abilities. The voices, usually clear and ever-present, became little more than a blur when he was riding like this, their thoughts scattered like fleeting whispers in the wind.
It was a strange thing, to realize that even someone who could pry into the minds of others had moments where he was just as in the dark as anyone else. It made him seem more human somehow, despite the strange abilities that set him apart from the rest.
“What happened to your head?” Lirath asked.
Perfectia spoke internally seeming to test her anonymity, he didn’t catch it, “I’m hungover…” She shook her head, “I guess more then usually. It would usually go away by now.”
“No. I mean the side of your head.”
She looked back at him confused, “What?” She touch the side of her head and it stung as she put her fingers there. Some of her hair was gone. She started to remember the night before. Some of the music, some of the daning, some of the more intimate things. She just told that she was going to die soon, but what had she let happen? Branding… She saw some people get held down and marked with the symbol of the Sunwell. A fireball of sorts. Some people on the forearm, the leg, she couldn’t remember… But it seemed she was trying to one up everyone. “It was initiation thing… I guess that explains why the pain hasn’t gone away.”
Perfectia and Lirath arrived at Marris Stead, a sense of foreboding hanging in the air. The familiar battlefield chaos wasn’t there, but something darker, more personal, took its place. It was the weight of seeing a legend reduced, of witnessing someone who had always stood tall now lying broken.
The room was dim, and as Perfectia laid eyes on Sylvanas, the sight froze her. Sylvanas, the Banshee Queen, her indomitable aunt, lay pale and weakened in a simple bed, her leg bound tightly in bandages. The sharp edge of her warrior spirit was dulled, but there was a flicker of strength, of defiance, still in her eyes.
“Aunt Sylvanas…” Perfectia’s voice cracked, struggling to process the vulnerability before her. This wasn’t the image she had carried of her fearless leader, her hero. This was a person beaten, broken, and fragile. She stepped closer, her heart breaking as she took in the sight.
Sylvanas’s eyes fluttered open, locking onto Perfectia with a weak but still piercing gaze. “You shouldn’t be here,” she rasped, the sharpness in her voice unmistakable even through her weakness.
Perfectia knelt beside her, trembling as she reached for her aunt’s hand. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
Nathanos, standing across the room, interjected with venom in his voice, “She took your advice. Genn Graymane did this.” His tone was laced with anger and bitterness, and it made Perfectia flinch. He wasn’t wrong. She had been the one to encourage Sylvanas to seek peace, to bridge the gap. But now those words seemed hollow, foolish.
Perfectia could hardly believe what she was hearing. This… all of this was because she had wanted her aunt to take the higher road. “I told her… I didn’t—” her voice broke, guilt creeping up her throat. She looked down at Sylvanas’s broken body, at the leg that would never heal the same way again.
“She made the choice on her own,” Sylvanas whispered, her defiance cutting through the pain. “Don’t carry his burden.”
But Perfectia couldn’t stop the flood of emotions. “This can’t be you,” she whispered, the words thick with disbelief. “I’ll kill him… I’ll kill Graymane for what he did.” Her voice trembled with fury, eyes blazing with a desperate need to fix this, to make it right through bloodshed.
Sylvanas smiled softly, though the expression didn’t quite reach her dimmed eyes. “My child, come here.” She beckoned Perfectia closer, her touch gentle despite her usual commanding nature. The fire of revenge in Perfectia’s chest warred with the cold truth of Sylvanas’s weakness. The rage and love in her heart clashed, pulling her in different directions.
“Revenge is not the answer,” Sylvanas said, the words falling from her lips in a way that startled even her. It was almost out of character, but it was part of the game. Sylvanas knew exactly what she was doing. She was showing Perfectia a side of herself no one else was allowed to see—a weak, vulnerable Sylvanas who needed to be protected. Perfectia was special; she alone had been chosen for this moment, to see her hero at her lowest.
It was a manipulation, but a subtle one. Sylvanas wanted Perfectia to believe she was fighting for something greater, that her coming acts of violence wouldn’t be acts of rage, but acts of salvation for her aunt. Perfectia was now bound to this moment, and Sylvanas needed her to believe that everything she was about to do was for a higher cause.
Perfectia’s heart screamed for blood, but she nodded, swallowing down the overwhelming desire to tear Graymane apart.
Sylvanas’s voice lowered again, her strategy taking shape. “My undead body… it needs to be restored. That is what matters now. No one can see me weak.”
Perfectia leaned in closer, desperate to offer help. “Whatever you need. I’ll do it.”
Sylvanas’s gaze drifted. “Darkshore… there were many casualties. I wouldn’t want you to relive it, but…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the heavy implication hanging in the air.
“I’ll go," Perfectia interrupted, her voice firm. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll find whatever you need.”
Nathanos, his anger now replaced with a cold pragmatism, stepped forward. “The fresher the better, Perfectia. But know this—the Night Elves will attack you on sight.”
“I’ll slaughter them,” Perfectia hissed through clenched teeth, her resolve unshakable. The promise of bloodshed and action ignited her.
Nathanos exchanged a glance with Sylvanas, the shared understanding between them thick with unspoken words. They both knew what Perfectia was capable of when she was unhinged, and this was exactly what they had wanted. Nathanos stepped in closer. “I’ll go with her. We both know what kind of collateral damage she’s capable of.”
Sylvanas nodded weakly, allowing Nathanos to take the lead. “Make sure she doesn’t overdo it,” she instructed.
Lirath watched as his daughter and Nathanos stormed off on horseback, the weight of what had just happened settling heavily on his shoulders. His eyes, still fixed on Perfectia’s fading figure, darkened with the realization of the manipulation that had unfolded. Sylvanas—his sister, the ever-calculating tactician—had drawn him back into her web without so much as a second thought. He could feel the frustration bubbling beneath his skin, but he forced it down, knowing there was little point in confronting her.
Turning back to the dimly lit room, he locked eyes with his sister. Disappointment flickered in his gaze, but Sylvanas merely tilted her head, offering a faint, knowing smile, one that lacked true warmth.
“This,” he said quietly, his voice edged with bitterness, “is exactly why I wanted to stay in hiding.”
“No one is asking you to do anything,” Sylvanas replied, her tone devoid of the empathy she so carefully manufactured when it suited her. “But I am grateful for your rescue… and this opportunity.” She glanced around the room, gesturing with her chin toward a small table and chair. “Can you grab those?”
Lirath scoffed under his breath, moving to comply, though his thoughts swirled in growing irritation. “So this idea just dawned on you?” he muttered, his words sharp with unspoken accusation. “I wouldn’t have agreed to bring her here if I knew this was your plan.”
“You know what I’m thinking, Lirath,” Sylvanas said, her voice steady. “And you know I don’t want to talk about that.”
Lirath sighed, dropping the items into place and sitting down across from her. “It doesn’t make sense to play Gin Rummy with you if I already know what cards you’re holding.”
“Then let’s treat it as an exercise in silencing my thoughts,” Sylvanas said, already pulling out the deck. She began to shuffle, her movements precise. “You said you can’t see images. I’ll try to keep my mind focused on that.”
They started playing, and it wasn’t long before Lirath realized he had been right. Sylvanas, despite her strategic brilliance, couldn’t keep her thoughts entirely quiet. She played three moves ahead, memorizing card orders, cold, and calculating as always. But knowing her every move took the edge off the game, making it almost too easy for him.
Mid-game, Sylvanas’s voice softened. “I’m happy you’re here. It almost feels like we’re back to the people we used to be before everything fell apart.” She paused, her eyes dropping to the cards in her hands. “And I’m grateful I have to be completely honest with you.”
Then, without warning, I love you flickered in her thoughts, and she immediately looked down, embarrassed. “Please… don’t say it back.”
Lirath didn’t respond to her words directly, instead steering the conversation elsewhere. “So I leave for a few hours and come back to you manipulating everyone around you, being this leader you feel you have to be. And you let Nathanos break your leg?”
“I’m pragmatic,” Sylvanas replied, shrugging. “Perfectia’s a Windrunner. She’ll be fine. No, she’ll be better than fine. She’ll get the respect she deserves.” Her expression grew distant for a moment. “I just need her to be serious for five minutes.”
“You’re manipulating her for love?” Lirath asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sylvanas looked away, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “I want to see our family restored—not tainted by half-breeds. When you passed, I told Nathanos it was over. I thought about getting pregnant again and again. It crossed my mind often, but I couldn’t. I was looking for someone else to take the mantle of Ranger General.”
Lirath’s voice was heavy with regret, his gaze distant. “I’m sorry… Maybe I should have come forward, but I was ashamed. How would you have felt seeing me… undead, broken?”
Sylvanas, ever composed, placed her cards down on the table with a quiet smirk. “That’s a hundred points, Lirath.”
“You distracted me,” Lirath replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the tension between them.
Sylvanas chuckled, the sound a rare softness in the cold air between them. “The trick is to move with autonomy, let your mind wander… It’s how I manage.” She paused, her tone shifting, more serious. “If I’d known, back then… I suppose I would’ve tried to find who did it to you. But now? Now I understand how you felt. Lirath, it’s been a struggle. To rekindle our ‘elficality,’ to feel like ourselves, when the world and the people we once loved treat us so…” She searched for the word.
“Inhumanely?” Lirath supplied, his tone biting, though not at her. It was at the reality they both had endured.
Sylvanas nodded, though her expression flickered with discomfort at the word. “Yes. I envy the path you took, Lirath. Running away, letting the chips fall where they may. You didn’t have to be perfect all the time.” Her voice grew softer, more vulnerable. “And you came back… for her?”
Lirath’s gaze softened, the regret still visible in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to kill her, Sylvie. Family shouldn’t hurt each other, let alone kill each other.”
Sylvanas’s expression hardened again. “Alleria would have been fine. She could have teleported herself out of the gas.”
“I don’t believe you.” Lirath’s voice was firm, not unkind, but resolute.
“I’m not lying,” Sylvanas retorted, her voice colder now.
“I know. But I don’t think you put much thought into making sure she’d survive. It was an afterthought. You believe it… but I don’t think you would’ve cared if she died.” His words were a direct challenge, though his tone was measured, as if testing the waters.
Sylvanas’s steely gaze faltered just slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I wish I could read your mind.”
“Then ask,” Lirath replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Don’t assume.”
“Fine. Why didn’t you try to seek me out? Or Perfectia?”
Lirath sighed, the weight of his past decisions catching up to him. “Fear. Fear of facing things I didn’t understand. And… there wasn’t a need until recently. That lock on Perfectia’s book… it lets me see glimpses. But she didn’t always carry it with her. She only started writing in it after she became Highlord. And… she’s filled it with other people’s stories too, making it easier for me to approach things.”
Sylvanas leaned forward slightly, curiosity evident. “What’s in it?”
Lirath shook his head. “Not my story to tell.”
Sylvanas’s eyes darkened, and she let out a frustrated sigh. “If I could read your mind, I’d take what I need.”
Lirath’s smile returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you want to trade places with me, Sylvie, I’d let you. There’s no joy in this curse. I hear everything from everyone, all the time. And you know what? None of you are different. Eat, sleep, seek pleasure, conquer. But the stories you tell yourselves? Those are the real entertainment. The stories are shaped by how you want to see yourselves, not the truth.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Because the truth is… you’re all just cattle.”
The venom in his last words hung in the air for a moment, the rawness of his loneliness palpable. He rolled his eyes at his own bitterness and softened, “I love you too, Sylvie.”
Sylvanas, for the first time, seemed to understand his curse, not just on a surface level, but deeply. She realized how alone he had been—cursed with a mind that could see past facades, and cursed to hear what others never voiced. In that moment, she understood: Lirath wasn’t just running from responsibility. He was running from the weight of everyone.
“Can you hug me?” Sylvanas asked, her voice quiet, vulnerable in a way she rarely was.
Lirath stepped forward and pulled Sylvanas into a gentle embrace. For a moment, the quiet of Marris Stead seemed to hush the world outside, and they were just siblings again—no manipulation, no guilt, no war. Just two people, both fractured in their own way, taking comfort in knowing they weren’t as alone as they once thought.
Sylvanas rested her head against him, the cold edges of her usual demeanor softening just a little. “You’re not going to have to go back to that… purple skin tone you once had," Lirath murmured softly, almost teasing. "I’ll keep an eye out for some void elf bodies. I know that’s more the look you’re going for.” His smile was faint but sincere. “And… Perfectia knows someone. Someone who can help.”
Her eyes flickered with a glint of curiosity. “Better than Vellcinda Benton?” she asked, her voice skeptical but intrigued.
“Far better. But you’ll have to promise me something,” Lirath said, his tone turning serious. “This person only works on you. No other Forsaken.”
A thin smile played across Sylvanas’s lips, though her eyes remained distant. “You know I can’t do that. If they can help me, they can help others like me. It’s not something I can keep to myself.” She let out a long sigh, her thoughts drifting even though she tried to guard them. Velen? No, he would never… Her inner musings were visible to Lirath, despite her attempts to hide them.
“Then let me sedate you,” Lirath countered, gently but firmly. “Trust me, Sylvie. I’ll not only restore you… but enhance you.”
Sylvanas’s expression softened. The idea of being vulnerable, even with Lirath, was not one she took lightly. But still, she nodded. “I can manage that. No promises that I won’t… resist.”
Lirath chuckled, his mind reading the unspoken defiance in her tone. “That’s all I ask,” he replied, his voice filled with understanding. He heard her thoughts even when she didn’t voice them, and for once, they were on the same wavelength—both seeking control, both willing to bend just a little for each other. “I owe you another game. I was to focused on your cards that I didn’t focus on mine.”
The Slaughtering of Darkshore
The air around the ship was thick with the stench of decay, the scent of the Forsaken working tirelessly, their undead forms creaking with every movement. The boat creaked and swayed as it cut through the waters, making its way toward Darkshore with a sense of grim determination that matched its crew. Forsaken sailors moved methodically, their hollow eyes reflecting nothing but the moonlight and a sense of dutiful purpose. The ship felt like a floating mausoleum, its crew made up of the dead and the restless.
Perfectia stood near the bow, every muscle in her body tensed like a coiled spring. Her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon, though her mind was far away—back in Marris Stead, back in that dimly lit room where she had seen Sylvanas lying frail and broken, a ghost of the Banshee Queen she had idolized. The image was seared into her brain, feeding the fires of her rage. It gnawed at her, an all-consuming fury that made her restless.
Nathanos watched her carefully from a distance, his gaze never leaving her. He knew the kind of storm brewing inside her, had seen it in others before. He didn’t need to read her thoughts to understand her thirst for vengeance. But what worried him wasn’t her rage—it was the way she seemed to hold onto it as if it were the only thing keeping her alive. The images of Sylvanas lying helpless in that bed were driving Perfectia to the edge, inching her closer to the moment when she might snap.
Perfectia’s frustration bubbled over as she muttered into the wind, the sound of the waves doing little to soothe the storm inside her. Her grip on the railing tightened, as if sheer force of will could make the ship move faster. She could feel every nerve in her body screaming for action, for vengeance. Her mind was consumed by the image of Sylvanas—her Sylvanas—reduced to something so weak, so fragile. It was wrong, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Without a word, Nathanos approached her, his presence strong and steady. From his pouch, he pulled out a large bottle filled with a pale yellow liquid, its head of foam gently bubbling at the top. He held it out to her.
“I want you to drink this,” Nathanos said, his voice low and measured.
Perfectia glanced at the bottle suspiciously. “Is that some kind of enhancement drink or potion?”
Nathanos shook his head, his expression unreadable. “It’s fermented sour goat milk. Garrosh started brewing this stuff when he became Warchief. Never touched it, though.”
Perfectia blinked, looking at the strange concoction. “You want me to get hammered before we go into battle?”
Nathanos’ lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but his tone remained grim. “I want you to focus.” His voice was sharp, cutting through her growing tension. “There will be nothing about what we are about to do that will be funny, or light, or worth remembering.”
He sighed deeply, his gaze hardening as he looked toward the horizon. “Both Sylvanas and I agree… if you can drink enough of this that you don’t remember what you’re about to do, it will be a mercy. You’ll thank me later.”
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed, but she took the bottle. As much as her mind screamed for action, for rage, for blood… maybe Nathanos was right. Maybe forgetting was the only way forward.
As the coastline of Darkshore came into view, Nathanos turned to Perfectia, his expression unreadable beneath his ever-calm demeanor. “Start drinking,” he insisted, his voice lacking any trace of warmth.
Perfectia glanced at him, her frustration barely contained as the waves lapped at the ship. The sight of Darkshore ignited her fury even further. “I don’t like drinking alone.”
Nathanos raised an eyebrow. “Fair.” He reached into his coat and pulled out another jar, matching the one in Perfectia’s hand. The liquid sloshed inside, the fermented sour goat milk swirling around with the foam at the top, its pungent scent unmistakable.
Perfectia raised her glass, the fire in her eyes burning as fiercely as the rage in her heart. “For the victory of Sylvanas,” she toasted, her voice hard, unyielding.
Nathanos gave a slow nod, clicking his jar against hers. “To not remembering how it came to be,” he said quietly, his words chilling in their calculated detachment.
Without hesitation, Perfectia downed the sour liquid, grimacing at its sharp taste but welcoming the burn as it spread through her chest. Nathanos, however, tossed his drink over his shoulder, his cold eyes never leaving the shore as it loomed closer.
Perfectia wiped her mouth, shaking her head as the first effects of the drink began to crawl through her system, dulling the edges of her anger but sharpening her desire to unleash it. “Another,” she growled.
Nathanos, unphased, poured more into the glasses. They toasted again, but this time, Nathanos only drank half. “That’s too much for me,” he muttered, though the smirk that tugged at his lips suggested otherwise.
Perfectia snatched his jar, glaring at him. “Lightweight,” she scoffed before tipping it back and downing the rest in one swift motion.
The ship continued its slow approach, but Perfectia’s pulse quickened, the mixture of anger and alcohol swirling inside her. She could feel the change coming, feel the inferno building within. Soon, the shore would be theirs. Soon, Darkshore would burn, and there would be no forgetting the storm she was about to unleash.
Nathanos stepped forward, his expression sharp and commanding as he prepared to disembark. His eyes flicked toward Perfectia as the ship neared the shore. “You didn’t bring the Ashbringer,” he pointed out, his voice level but carrying an edge of concern.
Perfectia, without missing a beat, held up her hands. Before Nathanos’s eyes, two Ashbringers materialized—one glowing pure, the other dark and corrupted. She looked back at him, her gaze unflinching. “Make sure Kel’Magnus stays on the ship regardless of what he hears.”
Nathanos, momentarily stunned by the sight of both blades, nodded with a grim understanding. There was no telling what kind of chaos Perfectia was about to unleash, and Kel’Magnus—loyal as he was—didn’t need to be part of it.
As Perfectia strode away, Nathanos watched her go, his mind already shifting gears. He turned to his forsaken soldiers and began issuing orders. “Gather the bodies she leaves behind,” he commanded, his voice cold and precise. “No one gets left uncollected.”
The flash fire of destruction that followed Perfectia felt sudden, almost instantaneous. Night Elves in Darkshore, already on edge from the embers of Teldrassil’s burning, were startled when they first noticed the blaze. A deep orange glow, followed by the suffocating heat, filled the night air. They looked up, disoriented, assuming that some stray ember from the great tree’s final breaths had ignited this blaze. Smoke billowed in thick clouds, spiraling upward, turning the night sky an oppressive shade of black.
Panic set in as they realized the flames were spreading too quickly, consuming everything in their path. Every tree, every blade of grass seemed to wither and crackle under the fire’s touch, and the very air tasted of ash. Some believed it to be a natural disaster—an uncontrollable act of nature that had tragically followed Teldrassil’s demise. Water buckets were grabbed, spells cast, and the elves worked frantically to put out the blaze.
It wasn’t until they realized their efforts were in vain that they began to understand the gravity of their situation. The water hissed as it touched the fire, but the flames only seemed to grow stronger. It was unnatural. This fire wasn’t one of nature. It was something far more sinister.
Then, through the thick smoke and swirling embers, she emerged.
“The Ashbringer.”.
Her armor gleamed in the firelight, a beacon of wrath and purpose. In her hands, she wielded the Ashbringers—one pure, the other corrupted, flickering in sync with the destruction she wrought. Her golden eyes, alight with fury, cut through the smoke. The heat of the fire seemed to bow to her will, making way as she moved, her presence commanding.
The Night Elves’ worst fears were realized—not only were they losing their homeland, but they were under attack by a force more ferocious than they could have imagined. What they had thought was a natural disaster was now revealed to be something far worse: an enemy who had come to finish what the flames of Teldrassil had started.
The outpost groaned under the weight of its own destruction, ancient wood splintering, stone columns cracking, and stained glass shattering as flames licked hungrily at the walls. Shadows danced across, stretching the grotesque forms of warriors slinking through the inferno.
In the heart of the blaze, Perfectia stood, her cloak whipping behind her, yellow hair catching the firelight in ghostly glimmers. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as a druid lunged toward her, its claws outstretched, fangs bared. Without even a blink, Perfectia twirled the Ashbringer in her hand and swung with ease, cleaving the creature in two mid-air. Its screech was drowned out by the crackle of flames as it dissolved into ash.
“Is this really the best you’ve got?” Perfectia called out, her voice carrying over the roar of the flames. “I thought the Druids of the Flame could do better.”
More druids in beast form surged from the wilderness, grotesque figures covered in fur, fangs, and rage filled eyes. Their glowing eyes locked onto her, their guttural growls filled with bloodlust. Perfectia shot them a playful wink before flicking crossbows Jade and Jasper from their holsters.
The crossbow clanked mechanical, each shot precise and unrelenting. One Night Elf fell, a arrow piercing its skull, another crumpled as Perfectia leapt over a shattered altar of Ellune, spinning mid-air, raining fire down on the pack that rushed toward her. The outpost was a symphony of chaos—grunts, collapsing stone, and the wails of dying Night Elves.
Landing in a crouch, Perfectia grinned, rolling her shoulders like she was just warming up. “Alright, who’s next?”
A massive Treant lumbered through the flames, its hulking form nearly scraping the branches above, molten cracks running across its barklike skin. Its eyes gleamed with malevolence as it swung a spiked club, the force sending waves crashing against the earth. Perfectia sidestepped the attack with effortless grace, sliding along the burning floor. She chuckled.
“Big, slow, and ugly. Now we’re talking.”
In a flash, she charged forward, the Ashbringers gleaming as he sliced through the Treants’s leg with ease. The creature roared in pain, staggering, its massive weight causing the floor to buckle beneath it. Perfectia didn’t miss a beat—vaulting onto the creature’s back, she drove her swords deep into its spine, twisting with a savage grin.
The treant fell with a final, earth-shaking crash, its body disintegrating into ash as Perfectia landed softly on her feet. Behind him, the forest was crumbling, flames consuming everything, but she stood undeterred, as if the chaos was just another day at work.
“Guess it’s time to find something bigger,” Perfectia muttered, unsummoning the Ashbringer’s and walking through the flaming wreckage as if the world wasn’t burning down around her.
With a final glance over her shoulder, she grinned. “Hope there ready for round two.”