Nathanos stood at the edge of the shoreline, his eyes narrowing as the first of the Forsaken returned from the burning ruins of Darkshore. The familiar stench of charred wood and ash filled the air, but it was the sight of the bodies that gave him pause. They were being dragged by meathooks, Forsaken soldiers pulling them like lifeless, butchered animals. But it wasn’t the bodies themselves that unsettled him; it was the way his soldiers looked.
The Forsaken, normally stoic and desensitized to the horrors of war, seemed rattled. They moved stiffly, their movements betraying a deep, unspoken fear. Their pale faces were more ashen than usual, and their hollow eyes refused to meet Nathanos’s gaze. The heavy coats they wore glistened with soot and singed fabric, but it was clear that what they had witnessed in the inferno had left a mark.
Nathanos turned his gaze to the shore, watching the sky above Darkshore, where plumes of black smoke twisted into the air, mingling with the dimming light of the evening. From a distance, the scene resembled a flash fire—an uncontrolled, violent burst of flame that devoured everything in its path. The kind of fire that flared hot and fast, searing the land before retreating into an eerie stillness. It was the sort of devastation that made onlookers question if something unnatural had been unleashed.
He knew this fire had been no accident.
The embers danced in the wind, their glow visible even from here, like fireflies caught in a death spiral. From afar, a flash fire could seem almost beautiful, its rapid destruction masked by the way it lit up the horizon in a brilliant, scorching glow. But up close, it was a different story—everything in its path was turned to ash, vaporized before one could even comprehend what had happened.
The bodies being dragged now were testament to that. They were scorched beyond recognition, some still smoldering faintly. The damage had been swift, efficient, and utterly merciless. Nathanos didn’t need to ask to know who was responsible.
Perfectia.
He had seen her power before, but this… this was something else entirely. She hadn’t just killed them—she had obliterated them, leaving nothing but charred remains, twisted in their final moments of agony. The Forsaken soldiers continued to drag the bodies across the deck, the meathooks digging into flesh that had long since lost the ability to feel.
Nathanos clenched his fists, a mixture of pride and concern swelling in his chest. He had known Perfectia was dangerous—powerful in ways that few could match—but to see the toll it took on his own people, the fear in their eyes, made him question just how much of her had been consumed by this fire she wielded so recklessly.
As the last of the bodies was hauled aboard, Nathanos turned his gaze back to Darkshore, the flames licking the sky, the land scorched beyond recognition. This was what it looked like when a flash fire took everything—leaving behind only smoke, embers, and the knowledge that something far more dangerous lurked behind the destruction.
And Perfectia had become that danger.
Nathanos stood at the edge of the ship, watching the flames continue to dance along the Darkshore coast, the glow casting a sinister light over the water. The Forsaken were already gathering the bodies, dragging them through the sand, dipping them in the ocean before hauling them back aboard. The process was methodical, almost ritualistic, but Nathanos’s mind was elsewhere. His thoughts lingered on Sylvanas’s warnings, the way she had cautioned him about Perfectia’s potential for collateral damage.
“Follow the coastline,” Nathanos ordered, his voice cold and commanding. “Bring back any bodies you find. Night Elf, or otherwise. Drag them through the sand, rinse them in the water. We need to clean them up before they get any worse.” He knew the task was grim, but the Forsaken were no strangers to death. Still, he could sense their unease, the weight of what had happened here pressing down on them.
He turned back toward the burning forest, his eyes narrowing as he realized the full extent of what Perfectia had done. Sylvanas’s warnings echoed in his mind, every order to stand down when his confidence was brimming that Perfectia was just another soldier, another adventurer, that he could easily put down. Now he knew that the caution she had given him before setting this plan in motion. She had always known. Even the stories from First Arcanist Thalyssra started to make more sense. They had seen the raw, destructive force that lay dormant in Perfectia, and Sylvanas had weaponized it—turning her love, her loyalty, into something far more dangerous.
Perfectia’s love for Sylvanas had been twisted, reforged into something like the flames now devouring the coast: beautiful, chaotic, and utterly uncontrollable. It wasn’t just the fire that Nathanos feared—it was the way it spread, unpredictable, leaving nothing in its wake but ash and ruin.
Anduin, Sylvanas had whispered once. That boy. She had feared her niece’s love for the enemy king would lead to betrayal, but now Nathanos saw the deeper fear Sylvanas had carried. Perfectia wasn’t just in love with Sylvanas, she was obsessed with her. That obsession had become a weapon, a force of nature Sylvanas had unleashed, perhaps knowing full well the devastation it could cause.
Nathanos’s lips curled into a grim smile as he looked back at the flames, the shoreline still glowing under their infernal light. Could he have cautioned her to hold back? Could he have urged her to temper her fury? The thought passed through his mind, but he laughed it off. No. There was no holding back now. This was war. And this—this devastation, this overwhelming force—was exactly what they needed. “…Be honest with me, what are we looking at the terms of collateral?”
The Forsaken troops that had pulling bodies back looks at the destruction she caused, “Well… The Perfectia amount.”
He turned to his Forsaken, who were still dragging the bodies, the firelight glinting off their heavy coats. They had seen what Perfectia had done—what she was capable of. And in that moment, Nathanos knew, deep down, that Sylvanas’s plan had worked. Perfectia was a weapon, and the world was about to feel her fire.
—
Perfectia, her mind consumed by the flames and the bodies falling in her wake, had long overshot the place she had been ordered to raze. Darkshore was now far behind her, a mere smoldering memory as she pushed deeper into the heart of Ashenvale. Her every step was driven by the singular focus that coursed through her veins: destruction. It no longer mattered if she had been given specific targets or instructions. The fire burned too brightly within her, and the Night Elves were nothing but fuel for that fire.
The Forsaken, who had been diligently collecting the bodies in Darkshore, now followed her with a growing sense of unease. Perfectia’s signal for them to pick up the bodies had ceased, but still, she marched forward, deeper into Night Elf territory. The further they went, the more the Forsaken hesitated, the more they realized that she had lost sight of her original mission. They were no longer in Darkshore, and yet Perfectia’s thirst for blood had not abated.
Ashenvale’s trees, the ancient sentinels of the Night Elves, stood tall but began to blacken under the spreading flames. Perfectia didn’t notice the toll she was taking on the natural world. The trees, the wildlife, the people—they were all the same to her now. Tools. Parts. They had destroyed Sylvanas; now they would pay the price. It was all their fault. Their cries and pleas meant nothing as they begged her to stop, their voices lost beneath the roar of the flames.
She pushed on, driving deeper, until she reached Astranaar, the once-peaceful town now brimming with gathered Night Elves, ready to make their final stand against her. They had seen what she had done—had heard the stories of the burning coast and the bodies left in her wake. Desperation filled their eyes as they prepared for the worst.
Perfectia, now blinded by her fury, didn’t stop. She only saw more bodies, more fuel to restore Sylvanas. And in that moment, Astranaar was no longer a village. It was just another battlefield—another place where the bodies would fall, where her fire would burn.
Tyrande Whisperwind emerged from the gathering of Night Elves, her gaze sharp and filled with the ancient fury of the goddess Elune. She had seen the destruction, the senselessness of it all, the trees and wildlife in flames, and her people—her kin—falling like leaves in the autumn wind. Now, standing before Perfectia, she wanted answers.
“What did you do?” Tyrande’s voice was sharp, cutting through the roaring flames like a knife. Smoke curled around her, turning her into an ethereal figure of wrath. Her glowing eyes locked onto Perfectia, demanding an answer.
Perfectia blinked, swaying slightly as she tried to steady herself. She was deep in a drunken fog, and reality seemed more like a suggestion than a certainty. She squinted at Tyrande and, with the grace of a child who’d just been caught stealing from the cookie jar, slurred, “Yello?”
Tyrande’s eyes narrowed to slits, her knuckles whitening around her weapon. “What. Did. You. Do?” The question came again, each word dripping with righteous fury.
Perfectia, now giggling in a way that probably wasn’t appropriate for someone who’d just torched half a forest, waved her hand dismissively. “Alright, alright…” she muttered, drawing out the words like they were part of some grand confession. “But you can’t be mad at me, okay?”
The sheer gall of it made Tyrande’s jaw clench. “What. Did. You. Do?” she thundered, taking a step forward, her patience hanging by a thread.
Perfectia, completely unfazed by the storm gathering before her, pointed a wobbly finger in the general direction of the flames. “Okay, so, first of all… Sylvanas was trying to be nice, like… super nice.”
“Bull-!” Tyrande’s voice rang out, her hand twitching dangerously close to her weapon.
Perfectia swayed again, holding up her hands like she was trying to explain away a harmless prank. “No, no, no, she waaaas,” she drawled, her voice taking on the whiny, exaggerated tone of a kid caught red-handed. “I mean, sure, it got a little out of hand, but honestly— I think there’s enough now, since the Forsaken have stopped their pickup service. I mean… I think they have enough now.”
Tyrande’s eyes narrowed, her voice slicing through the thick, smoke-filled air, sharp with suspicion and barely restrained fury. “What madness are you speaking of?”
Perfectia’s eyes blazed with intensity as she stepped forward, her voice a raw, seething force. “You did this. You all did this to yourselves!” she spat, her words laden with scorn. “Every act of peace you met with treachery, every offer of mercy with deceit. You answered violence with more violence, and her cries for peace with your blind vengeance. And now,” she paused, her voice dropping to a deadly calm, “I will end it here. By ending all of you.”
As she spoke, Perfectia’s posture shifted—her back straightened, her presence commanding, as if the sheer weight of her words pressed down on everyone around her. The fervor in her eyes was undeniable, her belief unshakable. Every breath she took seemed to echo with purpose.
And then, with the fiery conviction of a zealot, she began to monologue, her voice rising like a storm building to its crescendo. “ I shall count thee among thy favored sheep and you shall have the protection of all the angels of the Light,” she declared, her voice growing stronger, more focused. “Angels, we do not fear a powerful hostile army as the powers of the damned shall fear the Light, and our enemies envy its protection.”
Before Tyrande could respond, the sky darkened, and the eerie presence of the Valkyries manifested, their spectral wings cutting through the haze. They loomed above the battlefield like harbingers of death.
Perfectia’s eyes glowed with a fevered light, her speech becoming more commanding. “Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thy inheritance and for thy possession the ends of the earth! I shall break them with the rod of iron, thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vase. Be wise now therefore, you kids. Be astonished by the judges of the earth!”
As her voice carried through the air, the earth beneath them trembled. The undead, once still, began to stir, their broken forms rising once more at her command. The dark magic of the Valkyrie flowed like a current through them, knitting them together in gruesome displays of power.
“Kiss the son lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way… when its wrath is kindled but a little,” Perfectia continued, her voice taking on a chilling resonance, as if she were no longer entirely herself.
“My mission,” she said with a final, terrifying calm, “is to punish any heretic that would deny the work of the Light. Crush their unholy bodies and salt the earth with their dust. Praise to the Light. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We are nothing more than dust, and to dust, we shall return.”
The Valkyrie swooped low, their cold, spectral hands guiding the newly risen dead toward their next grim task. The scene before Tyrande had shifted into something she could hardly comprehend—what had once been a night of battle had now turned into a twisted parody of judgment, with Perfectia standing at the center, a force both unstoppable and deeply wrong.
Tyrande, once vengeful and furious, now stood horrified. What had she unleashed in trying to protect her people?
As Perfectia faced Tyrande, the air around them felt thick with the weight of what was to come. Perfectia stood tall, the twin Ashbringers burning with a terrifying zeal in her hands. Her eyes gleamed with a righteous fury, and every word that escaped her lips was not her own but a twisted recitation of holy scripture. She had become a vessel, a tool wielded by the Light for one singular purpose: destruction.
Tyrande’s grip on her glaive tightened as Perfectia began to speak, her voice ringing out like a preacher in the throes of madness.
“I am the sword of righteousness! The heathen shall fall beneath my blade, their bones shall be ground to dust! Praise be to the Light, for it has sent me to cleanse this world of its heresy! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—none shall remain but the faithful!”
Perfectia’s words carried the weight of divine conviction, each syllable cutting through the air like a razor’s edge. Tyrande’s heart raced as she felt the power behind those words—this wasn’t a mere drunken warrior before her. This was something far more dangerous, something far more consuming.
“The Light is my guide, and it shall not suffer the wicked to live!” Perfectia continued, her voice growing louder, more fervent with each passing second. The flames around them seemed to respond to her, flaring higher and hotter as if feeding off the zeal in her voice. “Their pleas for mercy are but the cries of the damned, and I will hear none of them! For I am the angel of vengeance, the chosen of the Light, and I shall not be swayed!”
Tyrande took a cautious step back, her mind reeling. This wasn’t a fight she could win—not here, not against this. Perfectia had given herself completely to the Light, forfeiting her own identity for the singular purpose of carrying out its will. There was no reasoning with her, no stopping the righteous fire that burned in her soul.
“I shall deliver them into the Light’s judgment!” Perfectia’s voice rang out like a bell. “The wicked shall perish, and I shall leave no heretic standing. Their bodies shall serve a higher purpose, their souls to be ground into dust beneath my feet!”
Tyrande’s breath quickened. She could feel the weight of Perfectia’s words pressing down on her, suffocating her with their certainty. She had faced many foes in her time, but none quite like this. Perfectia was no longer herself. She had become the embodiment of the Light’s vengeance, a living weapon with no purpose beyond destruction.
Tyrande whispered a silent prayer to Elune, knowing what she had to do.
The Night Elves behind her, those who had gathered to make their final stand, stared in horror as the realization dawned on them. There was no stopping this force, no appealing to reason or mercy. This was zeal, pure and unrelenting, and it would consume everything in its path.
“Run,” Tyrande whispered, her voice barely audible as she turned to her people. “Run!”
The Night Elves scattered, disappearing into the shadows as Perfectia lifted her twin Ashbringers high, her face twisted in a rapturous grin.
“The Light has chosen me to cleanse this land, and I shall burn away the unworthy! Kiss the son lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way!”
With a final, maddened scream, Perfectia swung her blades down, the ground beneath them erupting in flame. Tyrande turned and fled, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she had just faced something far worse than any battle—she had faced a soul completely consumed.
As Perfectia stood amidst the smoldering embers of the battlefield, the chaotic whirlwind of destruction that had followed her began to settle. She swayed slightly, the zeal and madness that had fueled her rage starting to ebb as the adrenaline wore off. Before she could fully comprehend the aftermath, a Valkyrie, shimmering with ethereal light, descended from the sky and grabbed her shoulder firmly.
“Dawnlight…” the Valkyrie spoke in a low, commanding voice. “We have enough. More than enough.”
Perfectia blinked, the haze lifting slightly. The Valkyrie’s grip grounded her, pulling her back to reality.
“I can fly you back to Darkshore,” the Valkyrie continued, her gaze steady, “but now we must clean up, lest the entire forest burns away.”
Perfectia’s golden eyes flickered with the remnants of her fury as she nodded slowly. She glanced back at the smoldering wreckage, the bodies strewn across the battlefield, and the flickering fires that still threatened to consume the woods.
“I didn’t want to kill her,” Perfectia murmured, her voice surprisingly soft. “I’m glad she decided to run.” There was a small, almost inaudible sense of relief in her tone, though it was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and madness.
The Valkyrie gave her a firm nod, silently acknowledging the complex storm brewing beneath Perfectia’s surface. With a powerful flap of her wings, she prepared to lift Perfectia from the scorched ground, leaving behind the still-burning embers of her destruction.
—-
Nathanos stood at the ship’s railing, arms crossed, gazing through his spyglass at the burning coastline of Darkshore. The flames licked the horizon with a ferocity even he hadn’t fully anticipated. The crackling fires that dotted the landscape were more than just destruction—they were chaos made manifest, an uncontrolled force of nature that not even he, with all his planning, could have prepared for.
“This is a little excessive, don’t you think?” Nathanos muttered, lowering the spyglass and rubbing his chin.
“That’s an understatement,” one of the Forsaken grumbled from behind him, shifting uneasily. The usual stoic demeanor of the undead soldier was visibly shaken by the scale of the destruction before them.
Nathanos let out a long sigh. “I mean, this is what we wanted, right?” He glanced back at the flames. “We needed her to be…unleashed.”
The Forsaken shook his head, grimacing. “Maybe on some level, yes. But I think we were expecting a four, and this is definitely an eleven. A four would have been good enough.”
Nathanos groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re going to have to clean this up, aren’t we?”
The Forsaken soldier nodded grimly. “I think we should start trying.”
With a resigned roll of his eyes, Nathanos barked an order. “Fine. Send word to the shamans and druids. Get them to deploy here immediately. Maybe they can summon enough rain to douse this before it spreads further.”
As he watched the Forsaken relay the message, Nathanos turned back to the blaze, the fire’s glow flickering in his cold, calculating gaze. The plan had worked—too well, in fact. But now, they had to figure out how to contain the wildfire they had set loose in the form of Perfectia.
The Valkyrie descended from the smoke-filled sky, carrying Perfectia in her arms like a semi-conscious ragdoll. As the ash fell like snow around them, she gently laid Perfectia at Nathanos’s feet. Perfectia, still lost in a drunken haze and the lingering heat of battle, started singing with a slurred voice.
“Let it go, let it go… won’t hold it back anymore,” she mumbled, a twisted grin spreading across her face as she replaced the icy imagery of the song with fire. “Let the flames rage on… .”
Nathanos crossed his arms, gazing down at the chaotic scene, the smirk on his face growing more pronounced. “This… I wasn’t expecting.”
The Valkyrie, Annhylde, stood by his side, watching the smoldering aftermath of Perfectia’s fiery rampage. She nodded curtly. “She’s done enough damage for one night. The forest still burns, but we can contain it. I’ll return her to the ship.”
Perfectia, barely conscious, her voice slurred from both exhaustion and the drink, muttered in a drunken tune, “The flames… the flames never bothered me anyway…”
Nathanos shook his head, more amused than surprised at this point. “We have to clean this up,” he said with a sigh. His eyes turned toward the Forsaken commander beside him. “Have we enough parts to fill the boat?”
The commander, lugging another charred body onto the deck, nodded gravely. “More than enough. We’ve got enough parts to sink the damn thing.”
Nathanos turned to Annhylde, her towering presence unwavering as the ash swirled around them. “Good. Resurrect these Night Elves. Persuade them that joining our cause is their only hope if they want to save the forest they were so desperate to protect.”
Annhylde stepped forward, her spectral wings unfurling, casting a soft glow over the dead Night Elves littered along the charred ground. With a deep breath, she began her ritual. A faint humming filled the air as the Valkyrie’s hands glowed with a radiant blue light. She hovered over the corpses, her magic seeping into the still bodies.
The Night Elves’ limbs twitched as Annhylde’s voice echoed like a lullaby of doom. “You fought for this land, for these trees… and now, you will fight again. Not as the fallen, but as Sylvanas’s chosen. Save what you hold dear, serve the Banshee Queen, and rise once more.”
One by one, the fallen elves stirred, their eyes snapping open, now glowing with the cold, blue light of undeath. They rose slowly, reluctantly. Their gazes darted between the flames still consuming their forest and the Valkyrie before them. The weight of their choice hung in the air.
“Serve… or watch everything you love burn.” Annhylde’s voice was low, her promise chilling, but the urgency undeniable.
The newly risen Night Elves looked at each other, their faces drawn with a mixture of horror and grim determination. One by one, they nodded, their voices barely a whisper as they ‘volunteered’ to join the service of Sylvanas. They had no other choice—either join the Banshee Queen or see everything they had fought for reduced to ash.
Annhylde smiled softly, her ritual complete, as the resurrected Night Elves bowed their heads, bound to a new purpose, their loyalty now sworn to the one who had caused their death… and now their resurrection.
Nathanos watched the scene unfold, his arms still crossed, his satisfaction visible. “Good,” he muttered. “We’ll need every one of them.”
Perfectia stirred in her hammock, the soft sway of the ship doing little to comfort the pounding in her skull. The putrid, rotting stench filled her nose, tugging her from the dregs of sleep. She jerked upright, her stomach twisting in response as she gagged, scrambling to the side of the ship. Her boots barely touched the deck before she heaved over the edge, the contents of her stomach splattering into the churning waters below.
Panting, light-headed, Perfectia wiped her mouth and spat the last remnants of bile from her lips. It was then that she realized the ship was moving, the wind whipping through her hair. Her senses dulled, the memories of the night before only half-formed images in her mind.
Her eyes locked on a figure at the helm—Dread-Admiral Tattersail, her hollow-eyed gaze fixed on the horizon. The Forsaken moved around her in eerie silence, their movements methodical as they tended to the ship. The overwhelming stench, she realized, was the “cargo” they’d collected.
“What… what happened?” Perfectia rasped, her voice thick from exhaustion. “Where are we going?”
Tattersail turned to her, a hint of a smile curling at her lip. “You happened,” she replied, her tone flat but pointed.
Perfectia’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall. Flashes of clinking mugs with Nathanos, laughter, the brawls, then… fire. Too much fire. She clutched her head, wincing as the throbbing in her skull surged. “I remember drinking with Nathanos, and then… fighting,” she muttered. “What did I drink?”
Tattersail’s grin turned cruel. “Enough to wake the dead, I’d say.”
Perfectia groaned, leaning heavily against the railing. “Why do I feel like I’ve made things worse?” she grumbled. “Got anything for a hangover?”
One of the Forsaken shuffled over and handed her an orange. “Here. This’ll help.”
Perfectia blinked at the fruit, confused, before peeling it. “Do the undead even get scurvy?”
The Forsaken shrugged. “Beats me. More of a habit at this point.”
Perfectia bit into the orange, her gaze drifting to the crew. “So… did we win?”
Tattersail’s smile faded as she turned her gaze back to the sea. “We got what we needed… and then some,” she said. Her voice carried a heaviness, something unsaid lingering in the air. “But you didn’t fight soldiers, Perfectia. You slaughtered civilians. Innocents. Most of them didn’t even realize they were under attack until it was too late.”
Perfectia blinked, confusion knitting her brow. “I don’t get it.”
Tattersail’s voice dropped, her words cold and measured. “A victory is when your enemy knows they’ve lost. What you did… it wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre. They were trapped by the fire, by smoke. And you were there to finish them off.”
Perfectia’s jaw tightened, her gaze hardening. “They brought it on themselves,” she snapped. “Supporting the enemy makes them the enemy. I wasn’t there for glory, Tattersail—I was there to replace rot with something stronger. One day, you’ll thank me.”
Tattersail rolled her eyes. “Or maybe I’ll reject them outright. Because I know exactly where those limbs came from.”
Lirath entered Dalaran under the looming shadow of its majestic towers and arcane spires, a city that blurred the line between grandeur and tension. The swirling vortex of magic that was the heart of Dalaran hummed faintly in the distance, like a living force watching over the city’s every corner. With both Horde and Alliance forces occupying the city, there was an air of mistrust that rippled through the streets. The way people looked at him made it clear they didn’t quite know what to make of him.
Was he a Void Elf? A Night Elf? Or perhaps even a Blood Elf? His stature certainly didn’t help—tall, standing at 6’1", draped in shadowy robes, with a hood obscuring his features. His tall figure gave him presence, while the hood left much to speculation. His appearance kept him an enigma, and he leaned on that uncertainty to his advantage. No one could pin down exactly who he was or what his motives might be. The guards, already wary of anyone, seemed unsure whether to approach or leave him alone.
But Lirath had a gift—or rather, a curse—that made navigating cities much easier. Being a mind reader, he could weave through the city with ease. The trick wasn’t in sneaking in; he could simply offer the guards a passing thought, something that quelled their suspicions. With a few well-placed words or the right response at the right moment, he could pass unnoticed. The hard part, however, was staying within the city. The longer he lingered, the more likely someone would notice something off.
Among the countless voices that assaulted his mind, Void Elves were by far the loudest. Their inner monologues clashed with the whispers of the void itself—paranoid, tumultuous, and unrelenting. Lirath could barely stand the cacophony in their presence, the constant noise making it difficult for him to keep his own mind clear. Yet, he had learned a method to silence it.
Killing them.
He had perfected the art in exile, blending into shadows and snuffing out his targets when necessary. He’d change memories if someone saw him and got too close to the truth. A mental touch, a slight shift in their recollection, and suddenly he was a passerby they forgot in a blink. This time, though, he wasn’t here simply for survival—he had a more specific purpose.
Skin.
Perfectia had muscle, bones, and everything she needed to restore her body, but Void Elf skin—the dark, void-touched flesh—was the final piece of the puzzle. He needed a cart full of bodies, enough to fulfill what she sought. But each hunt in the city came with challenges. He couldn’t strike quickly or loudly. The Void Elves, as chaotic as their minds were, were still sharp. They were paranoid, glancing over their shoulders frequently, always wary. That paranoia helped Lirath stay hidden. He’d watch as their minds filled with fear, allowing him to blend further into the background until the moment came to strike.
Each kill took an hour or more. It wasn’t just about ending them—it was about timing, finding the perfect moment when the Void Elf was isolated, away from the gaze of others. And yet, some recognized him in their final moments, their eyes widening as they realized the truth, just before their last breath escaped them.
Lirath moved with precision, the weight of his cart growing with every body added. The hum of Dalaran’s magic pulsed around him, a constant reminder of the arcane energy that suffused the city. The task was grim, but necessary, and he knew time was running short.
He had stored the bodies in a room within the Filthy Animal Inn, a secluded and often overlooked corner of the city. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet enough to work unnoticed. When the time came, Perfectia would meet him here, and they would transport their grim cargo to the Plaguelands. From there, his sister Sylvanas was just a short ride away—a mere twenty minutes, and the bodies could be put to their intended use.
As he maneuvered the cart, Lirath’s mind was suddenly assaulted by a powerful presence. Another Void Elf. Their voices were loud, too loud. He looked around, scanning the crowd, and that familiar void presence seemed to recognize him, calling out with the warnings that Void Elves often ignored: Cursed, kill him, he’ll kill you, abomination, undead, end him now.
The whispering voice of the Void wasn’t new to him—it followed every Void Elf he encountered—but this time, something was different. Usually, a Void Elf would argue with the voices, dismissing them, but now, there was silence. No real thoughts to drown out the cacophony, no arguments—just the void’s screams.
It made Lirath uneasy. His mind raced, scanning for any sign of danger. He was standing in the Portrait Room, the arcane gallery of Dalaran where the walls were adorned with enchanted paintings—living portraits that moved and watched passersby. The room was busy, bustling with mages and adventurers going about their business. And yet, the warning from the Void still echoed in his head, but he couldn’t pinpoint its source.
Then, he saw it.
Not a Void Elf. A figure in green hooded leathers, standing across the room with an aura that felt all too familiar—but not in the way he had expected. There was no Void presence, no sense of corruption.
Lirath’s breath caught in his throat as recognition dawned on him. “No… it can’t be,” he muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.
It was her. Alleria Windrunner.
Lirath instinctively pulled back into the shadows, his breath catching as the reality sank in. Of all places, all moments, to see her here—Dalaran, amidst his dark task. He cursed under his breath, knowing that no good could come from this.
Deciding to listen in, Lirath honed in on Alleria’s thoughts. The usual jumble of void voices that accompanied any Void Elf was subdued in her. Her mind was quieter, more controlled than others of her kind. He inched closer, letting the mental haze settle.
What he heard wasn’t a void’s warning or paranoia. No, these were not her thoughts at all, but fragments of memories. Titles to books, like mental chapters of her life replaying. He caught names—Anduin Wrynn, Turalyon, Arator—pieces of her past, her connections to the people she loved.
She was thinking about family.
The thoughts were like audio recordings in her mind, faint and distant. He could hear the emotions beneath them, a kind of melancholic reflection. But there were no images, just the voices.
Suddenly, the flow of memories shifted. Lirath’s heart sank as he caught the next name.
Perfectia.
Then his own. Lirath.
Her mind replayed a moment from long ago, his voice—his childish voice—echoing in her thoughts, a faint reminiscence. He couldn’t see the image, but he knew it was there. He could feel the tug of old emotions, the way her mind lingered on that memory. Remorse? Nostalgia? He wasn’t sure.
And that’s when he saw the faintest flicker on her face—a subtle shift in her expression, like a memory that had been buried too long surfacing unexpectedly. She was thinking about him.
Lirath swallowed hard, a knot of tension forming in his chest. His sister, Alleria, stood just a few paces away, lost in her thoughts, but this was no ordinary reunion. He had always known her to be calm, composed—the unwavering beacon in their tumultuous family—but now, with the Void coursing through her veins, she was something more dangerous, something less predictable.
For a moment, he considered walking away, letting this moment pass. But then the thought of Perfectia crossed his mind, her safety hanging in the balance. If Alleria had any intention of hurting or hunting his daughter, he needed to know. His heart wrenched as he contemplated what he was about to do.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Lirath’s voice came out raspier than he intended, his nerves betraying his usual poise.
Alleria glanced at him briefly, her expression neutral. “Waiting for a lot of things, actually,” she replied, her tone flat.
“Like what?” he pressed, trying to keep the conversation light but feeling the weight of his intention tugging at him.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she responded, her words edged with suspicion.
Lirath hesitated. He could do it now—reach into her mind, find the answers he needed—but the thought of invading her thoughts, of using his powers on his own sister, felt wrong. Yet the need for information clawed at him. Perfectia’s safety came first. Reluctantly, he raised his hand, brushing the air near her face, directing the faintest whisper of influence toward her.
“Talk.”
Alleria blinked, her mind shifting under his subtle command. “I’m waiting for reports… reports from Master Mathias Shaw. Depending on those reports, we’ll plan our next move.” Her voice was distant, as if she were talking on autopilot.
Lirath’s chest tightened. He needed more—needed to know if she posed a threat to Perfectia. “What do you want with Perfectia Dawnlight?” he asked, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.
Alleria’s mind flickered. Her thoughts swirled with names—Anduin, Turalyon, Arator—but when it came to Perfectia, there was only a faint recollection. Lirath breathed a small sigh of relief. She didn’t seem to remember his daughter with any clarity, just a fleeting memory. Nothing more. But he couldn’t shake the worry. If she ever did remember, would she come for her?
He pulled his influence back, retreating from her thoughts as quickly as he could, feeling the weight of his actions. It had worked this time, but what if she noticed later? What if she realized he had manipulated her?
“Well, your business is your own,” Lirath said quickly, trying to mask the unease in his voice.
Alleria blinked again, as though waking from a dream. She frowned slightly. “Did you just ask me about someone?”
“No,” Lirath lied smoothly, his face impassive. “You just seemed a little on edge. I was worried.”
Alleria glanced at him, a mixture of curiosity and confusion in her eyes. “I’m fine,” she muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.
Lirath hesitated, then raised his hand again, his voice softer, more persuasive. “You should go home. Get some rest. Forget you saw me.”
Alleria’s expression softened, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his suggestion. “Wise words,” she murmured, opening a portal into the Void. She stepped through without another word, disappearing into the swirling darkness.
As the portal closed behind her, Lirath let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart hammered in his chest. He had gotten what he needed—Alleria wasn’t after Perfectia. Not now, at least. But the guilt gnawed at him, a bitter reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to protect his daughter.
One day, she might catch on. One day, she might realize what he had done. But for now, he had bought them time.
Time was all he needed.
Lirath, feeling a sense of relief, realized that the frequency of void-empowered voices and presences had significantly decreased since he had made Alleria leave. Maybe they had been drawn to her, or perhaps they sought her out for advice. She was their connection to the Void, after all. Either way, her absence gave him some space to breathe. But now, the task ahead weighed on him, the tension of what needed to be done gnawing at him.
Perfectia wouldn’t approve of what came next. Lirath knew this. He was about to seek help from someone she’d likely never forgive him for consulting. But he needed her expertise—someone who knew how to fix what was broken, to replace what had been damaged. And that person was Dr. Cadence Olisarra, known more familiarly as Olisarra the Kind. He had learned about her through fragmented conversations between Perfectia and Sylvanas during his time in Windrunner Spire.
He walked through the bustling streets, cloaked and hooded, avoiding unnecessary attention. The clinic was small, tucked between two unremarkable buildings. The kind of place most wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it. Lirath entered quietly, the faint smell of antiseptic and herbs greeting him as he stepped inside. A young assistant glanced up, but before they could say anything, he spoke.
“I’m looking for Dr. Cadence Olisarra. Is that your name?”
A soft voice responded from behind a curtain. “Yes, I’m Dr. Olisarra.”
As the curtain was pulled back, Lirath took a moment to look at her, surprised by how strikingly young she appeared. Her platinum hair was tousled, with short bangs framing a face that was pale but delicate, with light eyes that were both distant and perceptive. She wore a simple white coat, the only embellishment being the silver trinkets pinned to her lapel. Her expression was thoughtful but a bit distracted, as if her mind was always working through a dozen problems at once.
He found himself staring a little longer than intended before speaking. “You’re very beautiful,” he said with a small smile. “I can see why she likes you so much.”
“Is she okay?” She asked, “She’s not hurt is she?”
Lirath blinked, momentarily taken aback by Cadence’s immediate concern. He wasn’t accustomed to people reading him so easily. It was unnerving, disarming even. He hesitated, feeling the weight of her worry in the air.
“She’s…” He paused, unsure how much to say. Perfectia’s dying, but that wasn’t his story to tell. “Perfectia will need to talk to you about it… You should talk to her.”
Cadence’s eyes widened, anxiety tightening her features. “Okay… I’ll write her a letter, let her know… but I can fix it, right?” Her words tumbled out in a nervous rush, betraying the depth of her concern.
“I’m not a doctor,” Lirath responded softly.
“You’re right, I—” Cadence stopped herself, her hands fidgeting. “Can you bring her here? Tell her it’s an emergency?”
Lirath could see the connection between Cadence and Perfectia; it was strong, something that went beyond mere professional concern. It felt… personal. She was chastising herself internally—I should have stopped her, I should have told her to rest that arm.
“I’ll tell her,” Lirath promised, “as soon as I see her.”
Cadence paused, narrowing her gaze. “Who are you, really?”
Lirath lowered his eyes for a moment. “You’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath, right?” She nodded. “My name is Lirath Windrunner… I’m her biological father.”
Cadence froze. He’s supposed to be dead. Her thoughts raced, her clinical mind analyzing every detail of his appearance. Masseteric hypertrophy… no, this isn’t just decomposition… necrotic, but what’s that under the surface? Her brain raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. Why did it have to be undead?
Lirath smiled faintly. “I can read minds too. Thank you for trusting me with that thought.”
Cadence’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Like Edmund Calling?”
“I can’t see images, I just hear thoughts. Most of the medical jargon you were just thinking was lost on me,” he admitted with a chuckle.
Cadence smirked skeptically. “Alright, I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 10.” She mentally chose 21, smirking to herself.
“That’s cheating, doctor, but… 21.”
Her expression turned skeptical. “Okay, I’m thinking of a color.” She pictured a bright yellow flower.
“Flour?” Lirath guessed. “So… white?”
Cadence sighed. “No… but close enough.”
Lirath’s smile faded as he grew serious. “I’d like to turn it off sometimes, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Perfectia?” Cadence asked, concern creeping back into her voice.
He shook his head. “My sister… Sylvanas.”
“You want me to help the Warchief of the Horde?” Cadence’s face darkened.
“No, I want you to help my sister—Perfectia’s aunt. She’s hurt, and I know you’re worried she’ll make offers you can’t refuse, but she trusts me enough to render her unconscious. She won’t know it’s you working on her. You swore to help people, regardless of faction or status.”
Cadence’s thoughts raced, battling between her instincts and the logic that told her to trust her training. How can I trust him? The question looped in her mind, louder than she wanted.
Lirath, sensing her unease, spoke softly but firmly, “If anything happens to you, Perfectia would never forgive me.”
His words cut through the whirlwind in her mind, and Cadence found herself locking eyes with him. After a long, tense pause, she exhaled and nodded. “Okay,” she agreed, though her voice was calm, her mind still spun with worry.
Lirath wasted no time. “Can you enhance her? Like you did Perfectia?”
Her response was immediate, a flash of anger crossing her face. “Did she tell you that?”
“I picked it up from a conversation,” Lirath admitted. “She would never break your trust.”
Cadence shook her head, disbelief and frustration mixing in her voice. “That’s an extreme violation of our trust. What’s your name again?”
“Lirath. Like Lie-Wraith.”
Cadence held his gaze, incredulous. “First, no. Second, what I did for Perfectia wasn’t just some enhancement. I cared about her—I love her like she was my own sister. And third, your sister wouldn’t survive. Sylvanas is undead. The same Light-infused process I used on Perfectia’s bones would destroy her.”
“In the Exodar?” Lirath suggested, pushing forward.
“Stop it!” Cadence snapped, clearly wrestling with the weight of what he was suggesting.
“What if you took her to Naxxramas?” Lirath continued, unfazed.
“No,” she said, her voice firm, though in the back of her mind, Cadence’s curiosity began to toy with the idea. She tried to silence it. “Stop it,” she murmured, as if scolding herself.
“I can’t understand half of what you’re saying,” Lirath said, sounding exasperated. “You’re talking too fast and there’s too much medical jargon I can’t keep up with.”
Could I? Cadence’s mind raced. If she doesn’t survive… She shook the thought off, guilt creeping in. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s fine,” Lirath reassured her, watching her closely.
Cadence sighed deeply, rubbing her temples. “You need to tell her. Be honest. Let her know the risks—let her know it’s going to be painful. It could cripple her permanently… But,” she hesitated, her voice dropping, “there’s a part of me that wants to do it.”
Lirath nodded solemnly. “I’ll tell her. Hopefully, she’ll just ask me to put her back on her feet.”
Cadence gave a half-hearted nod, still wrestling with her thoughts. “Yeah… let’s hope.”
“Perfectia will meet you in Silvermoon. I’m talk to my sister before you get there.”
—–
Lirath approached the dark room where Sylvanas lay still, her body weakened by the injury she sustained. Her leg, twisted and broken, was evidence of her vulnerability—a sight that few had ever witnessed. He took a slow breath, bracing himself for the conversation that was to follow.
“Sylvanas,” he began quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “I’ve found someone… someone who can help you.”
Her red eyes flickered toward him, the cold fire behind them dimmed but not extinguished. “Help me?” Sylvanas repeated, her voice tinged with skepticism. “Who?”
“She’s a surgeon, anonymous. She’s done this before,” Lirath explained. “She’s the reason Perfectia went from a helpless cripple to the super paladin she is now.”
Sylvanas let out a bitter laugh, a trace of her old sarcasm resurfacing. “Ah yes, Perfectia and her… enhanced 55-inch waistline.” She shifted uncomfortably, the smallest hint of a smile playing on her lips. “That ridiculously over-the-top rear. I don’t exactly aspire to end up looking like her.”
Lirath’s lips twitched with amusement, but his tone remained serious. “I can assure you, that’s not what this surgeon would have in mind for you. If you choose to go through with it, the surgery will take a few weeks, and it will be painful. But you’ll be stronger, nearly unbreakable.”
“Just like Perfectia,” Sylvanas muttered, rolling her eyes.
“Yes,” Lirath nodded. “Just like Perfectia. But the cost is high. It’ll be brutal, Sylvanas. You could die. Or worse—you could end up permanently crippled.”
The room grew colder as the weight of the choice settled between them. Lirath knelt beside her bed, his eyes searching hers. “But if you don’t go through with it, she can still fix you—pain-free, with no memory of the procedure. You’d wake up with new legs, new skin. It’d be like you were never injured. Quick. Painless.”
Sylvanas stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. The temptation of a quick recovery was evident in her silence. But then, after a long pause, she turned her gaze back to him, her voice soft but resolute. “Quick fixes are for the weak. I don’t need to simply be repaired, Lirath. I need to be stronger. If there’s a chance for more power, then that’s what I’ll take.”
Lirath sighed, a mix of pride and concern washing over him. “Then you’re choosing pain—today’s pain, today’s risk—for tomorrow’s power?”
Sylvanas nodded, her voice like ice. “I’ve always chosen power, Lirath. What’s a little more pain?”
Lirath rose slowly. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
As he turned to leave, Sylvanas called after him, her tone dry. “And make sure I don’t end up with her hipline.”
Lirath smiled faintly but said nothing. He knew what Sylvanas was risking, but he also knew that she would never settle for anything less than the overwhelming power that came with surviving the ordeal ahead.
—-
As soon as Perfectia stepped out of the portal into Silvermoon, Cadence was there to greet her. Without a word, she pulled her into a warm, tight hug, as if that simple embrace could mend whatever had gone wrong. Cadence’s eyes instinctively went to Perfectia’s arm. It wasn’t bound in the hinge anymore. Confusion flashed across her face as she stepped back to take a better look.
“How did you recover so fast?” Cadence asked, worry tinging her voice. “There’s no magic that could’ve healed that arm… not after everything.”
Perfectia sighed, the weight of the truth settling on her shoulders. She took off her steel gauntlet slowly, revealing the spreading, dark mark that seemed worse than it had been before she left for Darkshore. “I didn’t recover,” she said quietly. “The Ashbringers… using them too much must’ve sped this up. The infection’s spreading.”
Cadence’s brow furrowed as she studied the mark closely. “Is it… cancer?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.
“No,” Perfectia replied, shaking her head. “It’s the Ashcrow Armor… from the Black Empire wars. Just wearing one piece of it curses you. The strength it gives me… it’ll keep spreading until it consumes me. Then I’ll die.” She said it as if she were reading from a script, already resigned to her fate.
Cadence shook her head vigorously, refusing to accept it. “I’m not giving up on you,” she said firmly, her voice laced with determination.
Perfectia smiled faintly, but there was no warmth behind it. “I know you won’t. But I’m not letting you amputate my arm. I’ve been through the stages of grief already, Cadence. My time’s coming, and I’ve made peace with that. I’m just going to make the most of it while I can.” She let out a long breath. “What are you doing here in Silvermoon?”
Cadence hesitated, glancing away for a moment before answering. “Everything I did to you… well, I’m going to do it for Sylvanas.”
Perfectia’s eyes widened, and her voice came out sharp. “No. You can’t. She’ll kill you.”
Cadence’s face fell. “Your… dad told me they’re taking her to Naxxramas.”
Perfectia stiffened, her jaw clenching. “Lirath is not my dad. He’s my biological father, but he’s not my dad.” Her voice was cold, a cutting edge of finality in the words. “You’re coming with me to Marris Stead. And get ready to fix a broken jaw, because I’m punching Lirath in the face.”
—-
As they approached Marris Stead, the tension between Perfectia and Lirath was palpable. Perfectia’s strides were deliberate, her mind racing as she locked eyes on her target. She clenched her fist, ready to follow through on her earlier plan to punch Lirath right in the face. He was already reading her intent—she could feel it. But as she closed the distance, Perfectia smirked, shifting her weight at the last second. Without hesitation, she drove her knee up into his groin.
Lirath crumpled to the ground, gasping as the pain surged through him. “That… wasn’t what I expected,” he managed between wheezes, eyes watering.
Perfectia crossed her arms, an amused grin dancing on her lips. “Of course it wasn’t. You were reading me the whole time, weren’t you? Had to change things up.”
Cadence sighed from a few steps behind them, shaking her head as she watched the scene unfold. “Are we done with the theatrics now? You two are unbelievable.”
Lirath, still struggling to his feet, nodded at Cadence. “We need to sedate my sister. Once she’s out, we can move her to Naxxramas safely.”
Cadence’s expression hardened immediately. “No,” she said, her voice steady but firm.
“No?” Lirath echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Cadence, this is the best way to—”
“I said no,” Cadence interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not going to sneak around and operate on someone while they’re unconscious. I don’t care if she’s the Banshee Queen or the damn Warchief—I need her consent. If she wants this procedure, then I’ll do it. But she needs to be fully aware of what she’s agreeing to.”
Perfectia shot her a concerned look. “Cadence, she’s not like the others you’ve worked on. This isn’t a normal patient.”
Cadence met her gaze squarely. “I know that. But she’s still a person, and if I’m going to operate, she needs to understand what’s going to happen to her. I’m not here to trick her into anything.”
Lirath, still nursing his pain, looked between the two of them. “You understand what you’re risking, don’t you? Sylvanas might refuse—she’s… difficult. And she won’t want to be in a weakened state for long.”
Cadence sighed, crossing her arms. “I’ll take that risk. But I’m going to meet with her, and she’s going to know who I am. I won’t do this in the shadows.”
Perfectia bit her lip, torn between admiration for Cadence’s ethical stance and the gnawing worry that Sylvanas wouldn’t agree to the surgery. “You’re brave,” she muttered, shaking her head. “But Sylvanas isn’t exactly… easy to persuade.”
Cadence smiled wryly. “I’m not easy to persuade either.”
Cadence entered the dimly lit room, her steps measured. Even though she had mentally prepared herself, seeing Sylvanas Windrunner lying there—injured but still radiating an aura of power—made her pause. Sylvanas’s red eyes turned toward her, calculating and cautious. Her leg, bound in thick bandages, lay still, but her pride was ever-present, a palpable force that filled the room.
Sylvanas didn’t say a word at first, simply observing the woman standing before her. After a long moment, she broke the silence. “I don’t like being at the mercy of others. Especially someone I don’t know.”
Cadence nodded, maintaining her composure. “I understand. And I’m not here to make you feel weak, Warchief. I’m here because you asked for help. My goal is to make you stronger.”
Sylvanas’s gaze hardened. “Stronger, you say? You made my niece powerful beyond measure, didn’t you?”
Cadence hesitated, unsure how much Lirath had already told her. “Perfectia… she was in a bad shape because of me, because of my mistakes. I corrected them, so, yes, I helped her, but it wasn’t easy. The procedure I performed on her made her stronger, but it came with a price. It was painful, and she’s been left with… consequences.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Sylvanas’s face. “Consequences. You mean that ridiculous figure of hers? That’s not something I’d care to replicate.”
Cadence allowed herself a small smile. “No, Warchief. I’m not in the business of creating clones. You wouldn’t come out looking like Perfectia, I assure you.”
Sylvanas’s amusement faded as quickly as it appeared. She shifted slightly in her bed, her eyes narrowing. “Lirath seems to think this enhancement will make me… what? Unbreakable? Is that what you’re offering?”
Cadence took a step closer, her voice calm but firm. “It’s not a guarantee. You would become stronger, yes. Your body would be reinforced, able to endure more than it ever has before. But there’s risk. A lot of risk. Pain, the possibility of permanent damage… or worse.”
Sylvanas sat up a little straighter, the challenge clear in her eyes. “Pain doesn’t concern me. I’ve lived through more pain than you could possibly imagine.”
“I’m sure you have,” Cadence replied, meeting her gaze without flinching. “But this is different. You’ll be vulnerable during the procedure, and that’s not something I take lightly.”
Sylvanas was quiet for a moment, her expression unreadable. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, though no less commanding. “Regardless of how this turns out, Doctor… you made my niece stronger. For that, I am grateful.”
Cadence nodded slowly, her respect for the Banshee Queen deepening. “Thank you. I promise, whatever decision you make, I will do everything in my power to help you.”
Sylvanas’s lips curved into a small, bitter smile. “I will not be seen as weak. Not by my enemies, not by anyone. But you have given me something to think about.”
Cadence inclined her head. “Take your time. I’ll be ready when you are.”
Lirath approached Sylvanas carefully, knowing that this conversation would define whether she chose an excruciating path or an easier one. The decision weighed heavily on them both. Perfectia stood nearby, quiet but resolute, the lingering aura of her own enhancement evident in her powerful stance.
Lirath cleared his throat. “We’re ready to proceed. Cadence has adapted the machines in Naxxramas to enhance you using necrotic energy. It’s dangerous, far more experimental than what she did for Perfectia. But it can make you stronger, nearly unbreakable.” He glanced at Perfectia, then back at Sylvanas. “The pain will be unbearable. It might kill you. But if you survive, the power you gain…”
Sylvanas listened in silence, her expression unreadable. She understood the weight of this decision. She could regain her strength through a relatively painless restoration, or she could endure unimaginable pain to become something far greater.
She cast a sideways glance at Perfectia. Her niece had undergone this trial—enhanced by Light magic and a willingness to suffer for the sake of future power. The memory of seeing Perfectia fight with the Ashbringer, her strength unrivaled, flashed in her mind. If she could endure it, so can I.
Perfectia, standing tall, met her aunt’s eyes. “It’s painful, Aunt Sylvanas. Worse than anything you’ve ever felt. But it works.”
Sylvanas shifted in her chair, the weight of her broken leg a bitter reminder of her fragility. She clenched her fists, her pride refusing to let her remain weak any longer.
“If Perfectia can endure this, so can I,” Sylvanas said at last, her voice cold and resolved. “I’ll take the risk. Pain is temporary. Power is forever.”
Lirath and Perfectia exchanged a glance, both recognizing the gravity of her choice. Sylvanas would undergo the necrotic infusion, pushing her to the brink. And when it was over, if she survived, she would rise as something more powerful than ever before.
“Let’s begin,” Sylvanas commanded. “I’ve suffered worse before.”
The cart jostled roughly over the uneven road leading toward the Northern Plaguelands, its creaking wheels hitting every bump and rock along the way. Sylvanas, resting in the back, felt the sharp jolts through her broken leg and damaged body, but her expression remained stoic. Her features occasionally betrayed her pain—a faint wince here, a tightening of her jaw there—but she said nothing. To demand they slow down would be pointless; the pain was merely a taste of what was to come.
The wind howled through the dead trees of the Plaguelands, carrying the scent of decay, an ever-present reminder of the world she had shaped in her undeath. The Northern Plaguelands, a land scarred by necrotic forces, felt like home and an omen all at once. It was fitting that she would face her most painful trial here.
As the cart approached the portal to Naxxramas, the dread citadel floating in the diseased sky above, the air thickened with the stench of death and dark magic. Each bump and rattle of the cart felt like a prelude to the horrors awaiting her beyond the portal. She had chosen this path, knowing it would test her limits. Power—that was the only thing that mattered now.
Even as the pain rippled through her with every jolt of the cart, Sylvanas’ mind remained sharp, focused on what lay ahead. Necrotic energy would course through her body soon enough, reshaping her bones, her very essence. What was a little pain now compared to that? The broken leg, the wounds—all would be forgotten once she emerged from Naxxramas stronger, more powerful than ever.
The portal loomed before them, a swirling vortex of dark magic. Sylvanas felt the cold bite of dread in her chest as they approached. But she did not hesitate. If Perfectia could endure the agony of enhancement, then so could she.
They crossed through the portal, the cold grip of Naxxramas wrapping around her. And with that, the true trial began.
Perfectia and Lirath approached Dr. Cadence Olisarra, standing outside the Arachnid Quarter, where the overwhelming task awaited them. Cadence handed them a rolled-up anatomy map of Maexxna’s body, with careful notations indicating exactly what they needed.
“Listen closely,” Cadence began, her tone urgent but calm. “You’re not after her venom, but her growth hormones—specifically from her adrenal glands. They’re located here,” she pointed to the thorax on the detailed diagram, marked with a cross. “You’ll find the glands just beneath the surface in her thoracic cavity, protected by a thick layer of chitin. Extract the glands carefully, they’re delicate, and if damaged, they won’t be of any use.”
Lirath studied the map intently while Perfectia nodded. Cadence continued, “Once you reach the glands, use this.” She handed Lirath a surgical tool. “It’s sharp enough to pierce through the chitin but delicate enough to avoid damaging the tissue. After extraction, store them in this vial,” she added, passing them a small container with preservation runes etched on the glass.
Perfectia tightened her grip on her Ashbringers, her eyes locking on the map. “Got it. Let’s get this done quickly.”
Cadence met her gaze, “This is no small task, but if you succeed, it’ll be a key component for Sylvanas’ enhancement. Remember, this isn’t just a fight—it’s precision surgery.”
With a last glance at the anatomy map, Perfectia and Lirath steeled themselves for the challenge ahead. The battle would be intense, but the extraction even more delicate. They moved with purpose into the lair, their mission clear.
Perfectia and Lirath entered Maexxna’s lair, the air heavy with the stench of rot and decay. The Arachnid Quarter was dark, the oppressive atmosphere closing in around them as they approached their target. Maexxna loomed ahead, her massive legs skittering across the floor, creating an echo that reverberated through the cavernous room. Her body was grotesque, pulsating with unnatural life, her multiple eyes glowing with a predatory gleam.
As soon as they stepped within range, Maexxna launched herself at them, moving with terrifying speed despite her size. Perfectia reacted first, her twin Ashbringers flashing through the air as she met the massive spider head-on. The clang of steel against chitin rang out, sparks flying from the impact. Lirath moved to her side, using his agile movements to stay out of Maexxna’s reach, all while keeping an eye on her thorax, where the adrenal glands were located.
The battle was chaotic. Maexxna sprayed webs from her spinnerets, aiming to trap them in her sticky, suffocating silk. Perfectia spun her blades, cutting through the webs, but even she struggled under the relentless assault. Lirath used his mental abilities to anticipate Maexxna’s next moves, dodging and striking whenever he could, trying to create an opening to get to her thorax.
Maexxna reared back, hissing, her venom-dripping fangs narrowly missing Perfectia. She slammed her legs into the ground, causing the floor to quake, sending a ripple of force that knocked them both back. But neither Perfectia nor Lirath could afford to lose focus. They had a mission: extract the adrenal glands and get out.
Lirath seized the moment when Maexxna paused, her guard down for just a second, and darted forward. With surgical precision, he jabbed the tool Cadence had given him into the soft spot in Maexxna’s thorax. Maexxna screeched in pain, thrashing violently, but Lirath remained steady. He sliced carefully, extracting the glands just as Cadence had instructed.
Perfectia kept the spider’s attention, her strength enhanced by the Ashbringers, her movements relentless and fluid despite the fatigue setting in. She held her ground, creating the distraction they needed. Lirath’s extraction was quick, but Maexxna wasn’t going down without a fight. As he finished, Maexxna let out one final, deafening screech, her body collapsing as Perfectia delivered the finishing blow.
Breathing heavily, the two of them stood over the fallen spider. Lirath held up the glands, safely stored in the vial. “Got it,” he said, his voice strained but triumphant. Perfectia nodded, wiping the sweat and webbing from her face. They had succeeded—but they knew this was only the beginning.
With the glands in hand, they hurried back to deliver them to Cadence, knowing that this crucial piece of Sylvanas’ enhancement was now within their grasp.
Lirath and Perfectia entered the makeshift operating room, the air thick with the staleness of Naxxramas’ eerie atmosphere. Their footsteps echoed as they approached Cadence, who was deep in the process of replacing Sylvanas’ leg with the new one. Cadence was working quickly but precisely, her gloved hands snapping Sylvanas’ new joints into place.
Sylvanas, still under anesthesia, was draped in a thin sheet, but her lower body was exposed. The situation was awkward at best—no lower garments, no underwear, and Cadence’s clinical focus on the procedure seemed at odds with the usually poised, calculating Banshee Queen. Perfectia’s eyes widened in mild embarrassment, and Lirath shifted uncomfortably beside her, holding the vial containing Maexxna’s adrenal glands.
“Is this a bad time?” Perfectia asked, her voice half-joking as she tried to ease the tension.
Cadence barely looked up, her focus on the work. “Not at all, bring me the vial.” Her voice was calm but efficient, as if this situation—despite its awkwardness—was just another day in the life of a surgeon dealing with the undead. She worked without any of the awkwardness or hesitation that Lirath and Perfectia felt in witnessing their revered Sylvanas in such a state.
Lirath handed over the vial, clearing his throat as he tried to avert his eyes. “I… uh… thought you’d wait for us to finish the job first.”
Cadence finished adjusting Sylvanas’ new leg, taking the vial from Perfectia and carefully placing it into a small casing. She inserted it near Sylvanas’ left thyroid gland, her precise hands working efficiently. She explained, “This pellet contains the growth hormone you found that’ll slowly release into the body, boosting both skeletal and muscle tissue growth. As it dissolves, the hormone will stimulate fast and slow-twitch muscle fibers, resulting in significant gains in strength and size. The osteoblasts will also strengthen her bones, making her more resilient.”
She paused, her clinical tone unchanged but now carrying a hint of warning. “But there’s a side effect. The enhancement could cause abnormal tissue growth, leading to a condition like elephantiasis. It’ll make certain areas—unusually large.”
Lirath interjected with a dry smirk, “Suppressing sexual drive is something all undead deal with. She’ll survive.”
Perfectia, standing with her arms crossed, gave a playful grin and slapped her own rear. “Yeah, that’s what happened here.” She winked. “Thanks for that, Doc.”
Cadence rolled her eyes, not missing a beat. “No, Perfectia. That’s just your… situation.” She returned to her work, clearly accustomed to Perfectia’s humor but not letting it derail her focus.
The tension in the room eased, but the seriousness of Sylvanas’ situation lingered. The enhancements had their risks, but there was no turning back now.
Cadence’s hands moved with clinical precision, carefully shaving Sylvanas’ head as she prepared for the delicate surgery. “Perfectia, Lirath, I need you to retrieve a vital sample from Grobbulus’ shoulder. It’s crucial that you bring it back intact.”
Her eyes flicked between them, explaining further, “Grobbulus has the hormone we need—a serum containing pholestain, a protein that inhibits myostatin. This will allow Sylvanas’ muscles to grow past the augmented bone structure, providing protection in future combat. Her muscle tissue will develop to levels far beyond that of a normal elf, making her stronger than before.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “Larger muscles, huh?”
Cadence didn’t pause, continuing to work as she shaved the last bit of hair from Sylvanas’ scalp. “Yes, but her strength will be unmatched if this works."
Without missing a beat, she outlined the next step, her tone becoming more serious. “I need to rearrange the capillaries in the occipital lobe of her brain. This will boost the blood flow to her retinas, enhancing her vision. But the procedure is delicate. Any interruption could leave her permanently blind.”
She glanced back at them as she began marking Sylvanas’ scalp, her voice firm. “No interruptions. Bring back what we need—intact—or we risk losing more than just time."
Perfectia and Lirath cautiously entered the Construct Quarter, the atmosphere thick with the stench of disease and decay. They moved through the eerie halls of Naxxramas, where the grotesque abominations loomed around every corner. The air was damp and reeked of chemicals, their steps echoing ominously as they closed in on their target—Grobbulus.
“Remember,” Lirath said quietly, his eyes scanning the area, “we need to keep the injector arm intact. No reckless moves.”
Perfectia nodded, gripping her weapons tightly as they approached Grobbulus’ lair. The massive flesh giant towered ahead, his mutated body pulsing with vile green fluids, and the massive syringe grafted to his arm glowed ominously. The ground beneath him was slick with toxins, and the green ooze bubbled from every pore.
“We’ll have to cut him down without damaging that arm,” Perfectia muttered, her golden eyes narrowing as she assessed the behemoth.
Grobbulus noticed them then, his grotesque body lurching forward with a sickening sound, each step leaving behind pools of poison. “Careful of the clouds,” Lirath warned, darting out of the way as Grobbulus spewed noxious gas into the air, the toxins curling up toward the ceiling.
The battle began with careful precision, every strike calculated. Perfectia dodged a massive swing from Grobbulus’ free arm, her movements fluid as she aimed for his legs. Lirath weaved in and out of Grobbulus’ reach, striking at weak points, but always mindful of the delicate machinery in the giant’s shoulder.
Grobbulus retaliated, slamming the ground, causing ripples of poisonous slime to spread beneath their feet. Lirath had to leap back, eyes sharp on the injector arm. “It’s fragile. Don’t get too close to it,” he reminded Perfectia as she lunged forward, cutting deep into Grobbulus’ flesh, the stench of rot and decay overwhelming.
The giant let out a bellow, his arm swinging down in a massive arc, nearly catching Perfectia. She rolled to the side, rising with her sword at the ready. “We need to finish him!” she shouted.
Lirath nodded, focusing his mind on Grobbulus’ next movements. The void whispered, guiding his strikes. He targeted Grobbulus’ chest with a fierce blow, and as the abomination staggered, Perfectia aimed a precise slash to cripple his legs.
Grobbulus groaned, collapsing to his knees, the poison in his body oozing out like a ruptured dam. Lirath moved quickly, cutting at his throat with a final, fatal blow, but carefully avoiding the injector arm.
As Grobbulus fell, his body shuddered and the green fluids poured onto the floor, but his arm—thankfully—remained intact. Lirath reached for the massive syringe-like appendage, carefully removing the adrenal gland from Grobbulus’ thorax, the greenish liquid pulsing within.
“Got it,” Lirath said, holding up the vial they had worked so hard to retrieve.
“Let’s get this back to Cadence,” Perfectia replied, her breath heavy but relieved.
They left the Construct Quarter, the grotesque halls of Naxxramas behind them, victorious but eager to finish what they had started for Sylvanas.
Perfectia and Lirath carefully maneuvered the heavy contraption between them, the adrenal extractor from Grobbulus’ hulking form, handling it with deliberate precision as they entered the dimly lit chamber. Cadence was deeply engrossed in her work, her focus laser-sharp as she meticulously completed the final adjustments to Sylvanas’ body.
Sylvanas lay on the table, pale but composed, her expression revealing nothing of the discomfort she must have been feeling during the intricate process. Her head had been shaved, her skull delicately bandaged from the earlier capillary surgery, and her new leg was in place, joints being snapped together with eerie precision.
Without making a sound, the two placed the massive contraption gently on the floor, careful not to disturb the critical process Cadence was immersed in. Both stood back, watching quietly as she worked. The room was filled with the quiet hum of machinery and the occasional clink of medical tools.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as they waited, tension filling the air. Perfectia and Lirath exchanged glances, both anxious but determined. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Cadence exhaled slowly, her hands resting on the side of the surgical table as she finished the final attachment.
She glanced up at them, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction in her eyes. “She’s stable for now,” Cadence said, wiping the sweat from her brow. The room, despite its cold, felt heavy with the heat of the moment.
Perfectia and Lirath stepped forward, the massive contraption still sitting by their feet. “We’ve got what you need,” Lirath said, nodding toward the adrenal extractor.
Cadence looked down at it, a brief flicker of interest crossing her face. “Good timing,” she murmured, her voice steady but tired. She straightened, her attention shifting back to Sylvanas. “I’m going to need that for the next phase.”
Without wasting a moment, she knelt beside the extractor, beginning the delicate process of preparing the next enhancement. Perfectia watched, her usual confidence replaced by silent anticipation. Sylvanas was close to regaining her power, but the tension in the room was palpable.
Lirath, crossing his arms, exchanged a look with his sister’s unconscious form. There was no turning back now.
Cadence let out a deep sigh, her face showing a strain she hadn’t yet revealed. “This isn’t over. The next part… it needs her awake.”
Perfectia grimaced, already knowing where this was going. “Uh-oh. I think I know what you’re going to have to do. But we don’t have any shamans.”
Cadence nodded grimly. “When Lirath mentioned Naxxramas, I knew this would come up. We need to kill Thaddius. His workshop—the energy there—it’s what we need for the next part of the procedure.”
Perfectia’s eyes widened as the realization hit her. The workshop and its electric batteries were notorious. “Electricity, huh? You’re thinking about jump-starting the necrotic tissues?”
“Exactly,” Cadence replied, standing tall despite the situation. “But it’s not simple. When Thaddius dies, the energy stored in his batteries is balanced between positive and negative charges. They both need to stay above fifty percent, or this won’t work.”
Perfectia groaned, rolling her eyes in frustration. “Seriously? Can’t we ever just have something easy for once?”
Cadence remained resolute. “I’m serious. Unless you want to drag her all the way to the troll areas, this is our best shot.”
Lirath, listening quietly, finally chimed in. “We’ll handle it. Clear out Thaddius and the workshop. No shortcuts.”
Perfectia nodded, determination returning to her face. “Alright. We’ll get it done. Or die trying.”
With that, they prepared themselves for the next phase of Sylvanas’ resurrection. The workshop loomed ahead like an unspoken challenge, but they knew what was at stake.
The fight against Thaddius would be a battle of precision, and the vast space of his workshop demanded range and strategy over brute force. Perfectia gripped her crossbow tightly as she scanned the room. The air around them crackled with electricity, while the faint hum of Thaddius’ creation echoed like an ever-present pulse in the background.
“Ready?” Lirath asked quietly, adjusting the grip on Sylvanas’ bow, its familiar weight giving him a moment of confidence despite the grim task ahead.
Perfectia nodded. “I’ll aim for the power nodes. Keep him distracted.”
They had Cadence’s warning fresh in their minds—balance the energy, keep the charges steady, or risk it all. They didn’t have the luxury of brute force here. Precision was everything.
The lumbering giant, Thaddius, rose from his station. Bolts of energy sparked wildly from the wires attached to his body, lighting up the dim room. His massive frame was slow, but every movement radiated power. And those energy discharges—they could fry them where they stood if they weren’t careful.
Thaddius’ massive, electrically charged hands swung out, sending waves of lightning into the room. The voltage crackled dangerously close to them as Perfectia dove to the side and unleashed a series of bolts from her crossbow. Each hit landed with a sharp, satisfying thunk, targeting the critical points on Thaddius’ chest.
But as strong as she was, the crossbow could only hold him back for so long. “He’s still powering up!” she called out, her voice edged with urgency.
Lirath, standing at a safe distance, drew Sylvanas’ bow with steady precision. He was channeling all the instincts of a Windrunner, aiming for the energy nodes scattered throughout the room. The glow of his arrows filled the air, each one striking with pinpoint accuracy. “I’ll keep him off balance. You go for the nodes!”
Perfectia narrowed her eyes, rolling out of the way as another surge of lightning crashed into the ground beside her. She flipped up from her roll, immediately sending another volley of crossbow bolts straight at Thaddius’ power sources. The monster’s groan reverberated through the room as sparks shot from his hulking frame.
“I’ve got the left side!” Lirath shouted as his arrows found their mark, temporarily destabilizing the energy field around Thaddius. Perfectia quickly adjusted her aim, hitting the core of Thaddius’ adrenal glands as instructed by Cadence.
Thaddius roared in pain, his electrical power flickering as the growth hormone they needed was exposed. “Keep going!” Lirath urged, “We almost have him!”
Perfectia could feel her muscles tense from the constant dodging, but she wasn’t going to let up now. She took a deep breath and unleashed a final round of bolts. This time, they struck true, and Thaddius’ immense body staggered back. The room went silent for a split second as the energy within him seemed to drain away.
Thaddius’ body collapsed, the adrenal glands now within reach.
Lirath stepped forward, inspecting the body cautiously. “Got it. The batteries are intact.”
Perfectia exhaled in relief. “Good. Let’s get this back to Cadence.”
With the critical component now in hand, they carefully transported it back, taking great care not to disturb the fluid in the contraption.
As Lirath and Perfectia made their way back from the battle, the tension between them hung thick in the air. The victory over Thaddius should have brought relief, but it only served as a temporary distraction from the unresolved issues between them.
After a long silence, Lirath finally spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Why won’t you acknowledge me as your father, Perfectia? You call Sylvanas your aunt, but you won’t call me ‘dad.’ Why?”
Perfectia slowed her pace, the question clearly something she had thought about before. She didn’t meet his gaze at first, staring ahead, her jaw tightening.
“Sylvanas… she’s always been there for me,” Perfectia began, her voice calm but with an edge of finality. “Even if she didn’t act like a parent all the time, her presence was constant. She was a shining example of the person I wanted to be. Strong, determined, willing to do whatever it takes.”
Lirath remained silent, listening.
Perfectia finally turned to face him, her golden eyes gleaming with emotion. “But you? You ran away. For years. You left, knowing this entire time that I was your daughter. You stayed hidden, leaving me to figure it out on my own. I can understand running away as a friend. I might even sympathize with that. But as a father?”
Her words cut through the air like a blade. She took a deep breath, her gaze hardening. “That makes you a terrible person. A coward. Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive you for that. But don’t you ever ask me to call you ‘dad.’ You haven’t earned that.”
Lirath swallowed, the weight of her words sinking in. He had known this confrontation was coming, but hearing the pain in Perfectia’s voice was something else entirely. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes, as they continued their journey in heavy, uncomfortable silence.
Lirath gently lifted Sylvanas from where she lay, feeling the weight of his sister’s frail body in his arms. Despite the coming ordeal, she felt surprisingly light, a stark contrast to the strength she once radiated. Perfectia followed behind, carrying the battery they had retrieved from Thaddius, its size and weight a challenge even for her enhanced strength.
They approached the ominous table that had once held Thaddius himself. Its cold metal gleamed under the dim lights, ready to be the site of a transformation that would either save or destroy Sylvanas. Cadence had already prepared the table, fitting restraints along the sides. She motioned for them to place Sylvanas on it, quickly and efficiently securing her wrists and ankles. The air around them felt thick, charged with the tension of what was to come.
As soon as Sylvanas was restrained, Cadence glanced at Perfectia and Lirath, her face tight with concentration. “We need to wake her up. You both remember how loud she was last time. Prepare yourselves.”
Cadence had already placed hearing protection on herself and handed out earplugs to Perfectia and Lirath. They both nodded and braced themselves.
Perfectia stepped forward, placing her hands over Sylvanas and beginning the spell to awaken her. Sylvanas stirred, her body twitching slightly as the magic surged through her, pulling her back to consciousness. The instant her eyes snapped open, the pain hit her like a tidal wave.
A scream tore from Sylvanas’s throat, primal and raw, shaking the very walls of the chamber. Her entire body convulsed against the restraints, arching off the table as if trying to escape the unimaginable agony coursing through her veins. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the sheer force of the necrotic energy fusing with her, tearing apart and rebuilding her flesh, bone, and muscle in ways that defied nature.
Cadence looked at her firmly but gently. “You need to lie as still as possible, can you do that?”
Sylvanas nodded, her breath shallow, her face pale but resolute.
“I wasn’t supposed to do all these procedures in one day,” Cadence continued, her voice calm but urgent, “but you’re doing a great job so far.”
Sylvanas nodded again, beads of sweat forming on her brow.
“It’s going to get worse from here,” Cadence warned, her eyes flicking to the controls. “We need to use electroshock for this part. Perfectia did it awake as well.”
Sylvanas’s tears fell, trailing down her pale cheeks. Her red eyes locked onto Perfectia’s, her voice raspy and broken. “My child… I love you.”
Perfectia stepped to her side, taking her hand gently. “I love you too, Aunty. You can do this. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Cadence nodded at Lirath, signaling him to pull the lever.
Lirath hesitated for only a moment before yanking it, sending a jolt of electricity surging through Sylvanas’s body. She let out a rasping scream, struggling against the restraints as the electric shock tore through her, but she fought to hold back her signature Banshee wail, her entire form shaking violently with the effort.
Perfectia squeezed her hand tighter, whispering, “You’ve got this.”
The electricity crackled through Sylvanas, and though every fiber of her being screamed for release, she gritted her teeth, enduring the unimaginable torment with a strength that mirrored her niece’s faith in her.
For 45 agonizing minutes, Sylvanas endured the stop-and-go shocks, each one pulling her to the brink of her strength. Every time Cadence reminded her they had to drain 50% of the battery for the procedure to succeed, Sylvanas nodded, signaling that she was ready for another jolt. Her body shuddered with pain, her grip on Perfectia’s hand like iron.
Perfectia stayed by her side the entire time, her hand intertwined with Sylvanas’s, never wavering. She braced herself, absorbing part of the current, sharing in her aunt’s torment, but she wouldn’t let go. Not for a second. Her face tightened with every shock, but her presence gave Sylvanas the strength to nod for more.
Each wave of electricity felt like a hammer blow to Sylvanas’s soul, and yet she fought through it, driven by a will as fierce as the pain itself.
Finally, the battery died, the chamber falling silent save for the shallow, raspy breaths from Sylvanas. “Is it over?” she whispered weakly, her voice a mere shadow of its usual commanding tone. “Is it over?”
Cadence gave a quick nod, signaling to Lirath. He stepped forward, casting a sleep spell to ease Sylvanas into unconsciousness, offering her a merciful release from the suffering.
“Rest now,” Cadence said softly as Sylvanas’s body finally went limp, the hardest part behind them—for now.
Cadence turned to Lirath and Perfectia, her expression tense. “We can’t continue the procedure right now. She needs time to rest, and more importantly, she needs food. If we push her further, she won’t survive. Perfectia, you remember, don’t you? You woke up during the last surgeries. It was dangerous.”
Perfectia’s face hardened, her memories of her own grueling enhancement surgeries rising to the surface. “I remember, but this is different. I did every one of these procedures in weekly intervals. Are you trying to kill her, Cadence?”
Cadence shook her head, her eyes firm but tired. “No. I’m not trying to test her either. But this place… I don’t like it. We need to leave as soon as possible. I wasn’t completely sure you’d make it through your procedures, Perfectia. And every one of you, Sylvanas included, is pushing the limits of what’s bearable. You all have a high tolerance for pain, but I’m not sure if she’ll survive this last part if we rush it.”
Perfectia sighed, running her hand over Sylvanas’s hair, the fear etched deep in her voice. “I’m scared we’re going to lose her. She’s not perfect, but she’s the best of us.” She bent down and kissed Sylvanas’s forehead, her expression softening with a rare vulnerability.
Lirath, standing beside them, placed a hand on Perfectia’s shoulder. “We’re all scared. But we’re family, and we’ll get through this. What Sylvanas wants is for us—every Windrunner—to be here for her, together. I think it’s time we gave her that.”
Perfectia blinked back the emotion, keeping her eyes on Sylvanas. Lirath’s voice was steady. “I’m sorry for leaving you, Perfectia. I’m sorry I never came for you. Does she know… you’re dying?”
Perfectia shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “No. Let’s not make this about me.”
Lirath nodded, his face serious. “Then let’s make sure it’s about her. We won’t lose her, not today.”
The camp was quiet, the air thick with the weight of everything that had happened. The flicker of distant torches cast shadows on the stone walls, while the distant hum of necrotic energy from Naxxramas reverberated around them. As the team settled in for the night, exhaustion tugged at their minds and bodies.
Perfectia lay on the cold stone floor, sleep pulling at her despite the tension coursing through her veins. Just as her eyes fluttered closed, a whisper cut through the silence.
“Child…”
Her heart skipped a beat. It was Sylvanas, her voice soft, almost fragile, calling to her like she hadn’t since Perfectia was young. Perfectia rose slowly, approaching her aunt’s side. “Aunty, are you alright?”
Sylvanas looked at her with tired eyes. “Undo the restraints.”
Without hesitation, Perfectia worked at the bindings, her fingers deftly releasing the tight clasps. Sylvanas flexed her hands, the lingering tremor from the pain still shaking them slightly. She watched her own hands for a moment, before turning her gaze back to her niece.
“I hate your name,” Sylvanas whispered, bitterness in her voice.
Perfectia chuckled softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You and me both.”
A faint smile tugged at Sylvanas’s lips, but it was fleeting. She stared at her trembling hands again, her voice quieter this time. “Why did you let that woman do this to you?”
Perfectia sighed, her own memories of her enhancement procedures swirling back. “It was that or stay a cripple. My lover… she was a blessing, but I couldn’t love her back. She hurt me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, and I didn’t want to be hurt again.”
Sylvanas’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t know you liked women.”
Perfectia looked away for a moment. “I don’t know if I do. I had to trust her, depend on her. I thought… if I could be her equal, maybe I’d love her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t love anyone.”
Sylvanas tilted her head, eyes softening. “What about Anduin? Do you love him?”
Perfectia let out a breathless laugh. “Do you really approve of that, Aunty?”
Sylvanas paused, her expression thoughtful. “I just don’t want you to be miserable. Not like me.”
A silence settled between them, but Sylvanas’s next words cut through it like a knife. “I was close to having a family again. And he took that from me. So I’ve hated him for so long… he killed my only hope, he took Little Moon. And Alleria… So I took everything.”
“You still have me, Aunty,” Perfectia said softly, her hand resting on Sylvanas’s. “And you have… Papa.” She laughed lightly. “We’ll make them see reason. No more Horde, no more Alliance—only Windrunners.”
Sylvanas’s eyes softened, something between pride and sorrow in her gaze. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Perfectia’s forehead. “I love you, Perfectia Windrunner.”
Perfectia smiled, her heart warming at the words she had longed to hear. “I love you too, Aunty. Always.”
And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, the Banshee Queen let herself rest, comforted by the presence of the family she still had left.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy with tension. Cadence stood over the surgical table, carefully arranging the coral reefs—sharpened and gleaming, each piece destined to become part of Sylvanas’s bones. The process ahead was brutal, and everyone present knew it.
“These coral reefs,” Cadence began, “will be attached to your 20 major bones. We’ll leave out the skull and jaw for safety, but the rest—your arms, legs, spine—they’ll all be reinforced. Once bonded, they’ll enhance your bone structure to a nearly unbreakable level. But it’s going to hurt… a lot.”
Cadence’s eyes moved from the coral pieces to Sylvanas, gauging the Banshee Queen’s reaction. “I need you sedated. Instructor Razuvious has the anesthesia we need; Perfectia and Lirath, you’ll get it.”
But Sylvanas, grimacing through the lingering pain from her recent surgeries, shook her head. “No anesthesia.”
Perfectia stiffened, her brows furrowing in concern. “No, Sylvanas, you don’t understand. This is the most painful part. It’s not just dangerous… You’ll feel like you’re clawing and dragging yourself back from death itself for eight straight hours. It’s like fighting the ocean tide of death and—”
“I can handle it,” Sylvanas interrupted, her voice unwavering. “You did it. So can I.”
Cadence stepped in, her tone firm but concerned. “Sylvanas, Perfectia couldn’t be put under because her body was still mortal, with natural limits. I can use that much anesthesia on you. Your body might be undead, but you still have a heart, lungs, functioning organs—if they shut down, it’ll disrupt the process."
Lirath, quiet until now, suggested, “What if we amputate her limbs first, then reattach them afterward?”
Cadence shook her head. “No. The supplements running through her bloodstream would deactivate if we removed the limbs. You’d be disrupting the entire flow of hormones that are enhancing her. Without those, the process would stop cold. Undead or not, her heart and lungs are keeping the hormones active—cut off the limbs, and they lose their potency.”
Sylvanas looked over at Lirath, her face unreadable. “Read her mind. Is she telling the truth?”
Lirath closed his eyes, focusing on Cadence’s thoughts. After a moment, he opened them, shaking his head. “Her mind is… wrapped up in medical jargon. I can’t understand a word. But she’s sincere.”
Sylvanas exhaled slowly, nodding. “Then we move forward. No anesthesia. If Perfectia could survive it, so can I.”
Cadence took a deep breath and turned to Sylvanas, her tone cautious but direct. “Sylvanas, I need to ask—when you revive the dead, are they bound to your will indefinitely?”
Sylvanas, still adjusting to her newly enhanced limbs, glanced at her hands. The subtle tremor from the pain hadn’t subsided yet. “For a while, yes. But to maintain long-term control, I need my Val’kyr for that.”
Cadence nodded, considering this. “We need more than just brute strength or control for this procedure. The magic we require must come from Gothik the Harvester, Noth the Plaguebringer, Heigan the Unclean, and Grand Widow Faerlina. They’re the key to enchanting your bones.”
Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I can link with the Val’kyr. But they’re scattered—Darkshore, Northrend, the Broken Isles. It’ll take time for even one to reach us.”
Perfectia, leaning against the wall, spoke up with a pragmatic suggestion. “Maybe we don’t need them right away. Maybe we can… talk to them.”
Cadence looked at her, surprised. “When did you become so cold-hearted?”
Perfectia shrugged. “I’m not being cruel. I’m just saying that maybe the people here in Naxxramas—those beings—are tired of this place. Maybe they’d prefer to serve Sylvanas, the Banshee Queen, willingly. Instead of forcing their hand with necromancy, we could offer them a favor. Something they can’t refuse.”
She glanced down at Sylvanas with a knowing smirk. “You’ll need to return a bigger favor than what you offer most undead you bind to your will, though.”
Sylvanas considered this, her blue eyes flickering with intrigue. “That’s actually how I prefer it. Soul-binding is exhausting in the long run.” She paused. “But how do we know they’d truly be loyal? This isn’t just about allegiance—it’s about survival.”
Lirath stepped forward, his voice confident. “Leave that to me. I’ll tell you if they’re pretending, feigning loyalty. And if they are…” His gaze darkened, his mind already strategizing. “I’ll end them before they have a chance to turn on you.”
Sylvanas’s lips curled into a cold, calculating smile. “Good. If they betray us, I’ll leave their corpses here to rot.” She turned her gaze toward the towering halls of Naxxramas. “But if they serve willingly… they’ll know the power of a true queen.”
Grand Widow Faerlina stood near the entrance to her chambers, preparing herself for a battle she assumed was imminent. She had heard the unmistakable sounds of combat and witnessed the piling corpses being dragged through the halls. The tension in the air was thick, but when Perfectia and Lirath arrived, she was caught off guard by their calm approach.
Perfectia stepped forward first. “We’re not here to fight, Widow,” she said, her voice even. “We’re here to negotiate.”
Faerlina raised an eyebrow, her hands still close to her weapons. “Negotiate? You raid my domain, slaughter my allies, and now you come with diplomacy?”
Lirath, sensing the tension, added quickly, “We’re in need of your help for a powerful ritual, one that will benefit you just as much as it will aid us. Your skills are… uniquely suited for the task.”
Faerlina’s eyes narrowed, her curiosity piqued. “And why, pray tell, would I help Sylvanas Windrunner and her… minions?” Her tone was dripping with disdain.
Perfectia cut to the heart of the matter. “Because what we’re offering isn’t servitude. It’s power. Power beyond what you have here. We need your talents to complete a ritual that will elevate Sylvanas—and in turn, elevate all of us, including you.”
There was a moment of silence as Faerlina processed the information, her mind weighing the options. Finally, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well. I will help with your ritual. But mark my words, this is not an act of allegiance. I have my own path to follow.”
Lirath and Perfectia exchanged a quick glance. It was clear she wasn’t as easily fooled as they had hoped, but for now, her cooperation was enough.
On the way back to Sylvanas, Perfectia leaned close to Lirath, whispering, “Do you really think she’s going to serve?”
Lirath glanced at Faerlina walking a few paces ahead, her posture tense, ready for battle at a moment’s notice. He shook his head slightly and whispered back, “She’ll help with the ritual, but after that? She plans on causing havoc the moment she enters the ranks of the Horde.” He made a quick cutting gesture across his neck.
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she nodded. “I figured as much.” The two continued walking in silence, knowing they would have to keep a close eye on Faerlina once the ritual was complete.
Noth the Plaguebringer paced nervously, muttering to himself as he scanned through various concoctions and vials scattered around his worktable. He looked like someone scrambling to meet a deadline, his gaze flicking between notes and half-finished experiments. The usual stench of decay that clung to him was more pungent, as though even his own anxiety had seeped into his work.
When Perfectia and Lirath entered, Noth nearly jumped out of his skin, knocking over a vial in his panic. He fumbled to catch it, his eyes wide as they darted between the two intruders.
“I-I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he stammered, his voice as shaky as his hands. “Is it time already? I… I haven’t finished! There’s so much to prepare, so much still to refine—”
“Relax,” Perfectia interrupted, her voice calm yet firm. “We’re not here to hurt you. We need your help.”
Noth blinked, clearly startled by the unexpected words. His tension didn’t fully ease, but the panic in his eyes began to subside. “Help? What sort of help?”
Perfectia and Lirath exchanged a brief look before she answered. “We need your expertise for a ritual. It’s vital for Sylvanas Windrunner’s enhancement process. Your skillset is essential.”
Noth hesitated for a moment, then nodded quickly. “Yes… yes, of course. I can help. I’ve been working on some… formulas. I can be useful.”