On the way back, Perfectia leaned toward Lirath, keeping her voice low. “What do you think? Is he loyal?”
Lirath glanced at Noth, who was walking ahead, still mumbling to himself about various potions and formulas. He sighed quietly before answering. “Not ‘loyal’ in the traditional sense, no. But he’s not harmful either. He’s more interested in his work than in causing trouble. He wants to collaborate with the apothecaries—what he finds there will determine whether he wants to stay or go.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “But he’s not going to hurt anyone?”
“No,” Lirath assured her. “Hurting people isn’t part of his plan.”
Satisfied, Perfectia nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
Heigan the Unclean stood in their way, his face twisted in a permanent sneer, making it clear from the moment Perfectia and Lirath approached that he had no interest in negotiation. Without a word, the battle began.
It was chaotic, almost like the notorious dance of death, with waves of green plague spreading across the floor in timed intervals. Perfectia and Lirath found themselves dodging deadly bursts of corruption, forced to stay light on their feet as they returned fire.
Perfectia used her crossbow with deadly precision, timing each shot in between the eruptions of plague, while Lirath, using Sylvanas’ bow, delivered arrows that hummed through the air with lethal accuracy. Despite Heigan’s relentless assault, Lirath’s keen instincts and Perfectia’s brute force managed to whittle down the necromancer’s defenses.
Finally, Lirath pinned Heigan to the ground, his blade at the necromancer’s throat, ready to finish him off.
“Wait!” Heigan rasped, his voice strained. “I’ll negotiate!”
Lirath hesitated, glancing at Perfectia, who gave him a nod. They both stepped back, letting Heigan rise to his feet, though Lirath kept his weapon drawn.
Heigan coughed, rubbing his throat before spitting out a bit of bile. “What do you want?”
They explained Sylvanas’ situation, detailing the enhancements and the help they required for the ritual.
Heigan sneered, but he agreed. “Fine, I’ll help. I have no interest in defying the Banshee Queen.”
On their way back, Perfectia once again turned to Lirath. “Is he loyal?” she asked.
Lirath sighed, watching Heigan ahead of them. “He plans on being fiercely loyal to Sylvanas. For once, he’s relieved that his talents will be recognized, but…” Lirath paused, frowning slightly, “he doesn’t think she’ll give him the admiration he craves. He’ll follow orders, but part of him doubts she’ll ever appreciate him the way he wants.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous mindset.”
Lirath nodded. “It is. But for now, he’s useful.”
When Perfectia and Lirath approached Gothik the Harvester, his demeanor was immediately disarming. Too disarming. His smile was wide, his gestures friendly—almost suspiciously so.
“Well, look who’s here! My dear friends, you’ve been busy,” Gothik said, his voice light, as if they were catching up over tea instead of in the middle of Naxxramas. “I’ve been watching you escort my colleagues to some… unknown destination, and, well, I must say, I’m intrigued! I want in on whatever you’re doing.”
Perfectia glanced at Lirath, her wariness clear. “We’re here for something bigger than just leaving,” she explained, detailing Sylvanas’ situation, the enhancement, and the ritual they were planning.
Gothik’s eyes gleamed with interest as she spoke. “Fascinating,” he murmured, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to leave this place, and to serve someone like Sylvanas? Oh, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty to her!”
As they made their way back, Perfectia leaned in to whisper to Lirath once more, “Do you think he’s genuine?”
Lirath chuckled, shaking his head. “No,” he replied with amusement. “He’s planning on killing us all the first chance he gets. As soon as he’s finished with his part, end him.”
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed. “Of course,” she whispered, already calculating the best moment to strike.
Perfectia glanced at Lirath, the weight of their recent negotiations still hanging in the air. “Do you think you’re being exploited?” she asked, her tone probing. “Your talents could be useful to any leader. You can figure out who’s truly loyal or not.”
Lirath sighed deeply, his eyes drifting away as if looking back on something distant. “You’re not the first to ask me that,” he admitted. “I’ve heard Sylvanas say similar things when she thinks I’m not listening.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What does she say?”
“She thinks about Vereesa and her boys. About Alleria and Arator. About you and me.” Lirath’s voice softened as he continued, “She’s been thinking a lot about family… and she wants to have a child. But don’t tell her I told you that.”
Perfectia’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by the revelation. “A child?” she murmured.
Lirath nodded, his expression growing more serious. “Yeah. She does think she’s exploiting me, though. But she feels guilty about it… at least a little. But she also thinks it’s necessary. And I… I agree.”
Perfectia looked at him thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense. She’s always been pragmatic.”
“She is,” Lirath agreed, then smiled faintly. “But she still feels like she’s using me in ways I never expected, but the thing about it is, I do expect it, and we have similar goals.”
Lirath and Perfectia stepped into the room, immediately sensing the intense focus surrounding Sylvanas. To their surprise, Cadence wasn’t the only one attending to her. Heigan the Unclean was at Sylvanas’s side, holding her down firmly, a strip of leather placed between her teeth to muffle her cries. He called her “my queen” in a reverent tone, as if he had already pledged his undying loyalty to her.
On the other side, Grand Widow Faerlina was meticulously cutting into Sylvanas’s exposed bone, her movements precise and practiced. As each cut was made, she dropped a piece of enchanted coral into place, watching as it fit like a piece of a puzzle, fusing with the undead flesh. Noth the Plaguebringer stood nearby, holding Sylvanas’s skin open with steady hands, ensuring that Faerlina’s work remained undisturbed.
Perfectia raised an eyebrow at the scene. “How’s it going?”
Cadence looked up briefly, her hands still moving expertly as she worked. “We’re just over halfway done with the implants. It’s going well, though not without its… challenges.” She nodded toward the others. “And I owe a lot to these three for helping out. I couldn’t have done this without them.”
Heigan smirked proudly, holding Sylvanas down with reverence. “It’s a pleasure to serve her, my queen.”
Grand Widow Faerlina added, her focus still sharp on the task, “Yes, an honor.”
Noth didn’t say much but gave a small nod of agreement, his usually frantic demeanor more calm in this moment.
As they watched the procedure continue, Gothik the Harvester stepped forward, his face an unreadable mask. “Need a hand?” he offered.
Perfectia shot him a sideways glance. “I think we’ve got it under control,” she replied coolly. “Thanks, though.”
Gothik chuckled softly but didn’t press the matter further, stepping back into the shadows of the room. Perfectia and Lirath exchanged a glance, knowing they’d need to stay vigilant with him around.
After two grueling hours of incisions and coral implants, the final wound was stitched closed. Cadence stood over Sylvanas, her voice calm but serious. “This isn’t going to be like the shock treatment we did earlier. The pain will be constant. Your bones will feel like they’re being radiated. Even though you’re undead, you can still die from cardiac arrest. Are you sure you don’t want something to numb the pain?”
Sylvanas, already feeling every grind and shift of the coral inside her bones, sighed heavily. The agony had been relentless, and she knew it was far from over. The thought of the pain intensifying made her hesitate, but only briefly.
“You know,” she finally admitted, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, “you were right, doctor. This has been the most painful thing I’ve ever been through, and now you’re telling me it’s about to get worse…” She paused, then sighed again, this time with a hint of resignation. “I want a drink.”
Perfectia, standing nearby, perked up with excitement. “I got you covered, Aunty,” she said, pulling out the jug of fermented goat milk she’d saved. She poured a generous amount into a cup and handed it over.
Before Sylvanas took a drink, she looked over at Perfectia. “This isn’t about numbing the pain,” she said, her voice stronger than before. “It’s about celebrating the victory to come. For our family.”
Perfectia smiled and poured herself a glass, lifting it in a toast. “To family.”
They clinked their drinks together—Perfectia’s glass to Sylvanas’s jug. While Perfectia sipped, Sylvanas downed the entire jug in one go, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Start the ritual,” Sylvanas commanded, her eyes filled with grim determination. The next phase was upon them, and there was no turning back.
Cadence stood at the center of Thaddius’s workshop, eyes narrowing as the immense energy from the surrounding tesla coils crackled and surged. “Gothik, Noth, Heigan, Faerlina,” she ordered, pointing to the massive batteries lining the walls, “start channeling your shadow and death magic into the coils. We need to charge them fully before we begin.”
As the four necromancers began to cast their spells, dark energy filled the air. The once-electrical hum of the workshop was now mixed with the deep, sinister resonance of shadow and death magic. The tesla coils flared, sparking violently as they absorbed the unnatural energy. Blue and violet tendrils of shadow intertwined with crackling arcs of blackened lightning, coursing through the metal like veins filled with necrotic blood. The atmosphere became thick with dark magic, as though the air itself had turned malevolent.
Cadence glanced at Lirath and nodded. “When I give the signal, pull the lever—just a quarter of the way down. We can’t overwhelm the system too fast. And Perfectia,” she added, her voice steady despite the grim circumstances, “stay by her side. She’s going to need every bit of support she can get.”
Perfectia moved closer to Sylvanas, who lay on the cold, metal table, her body rigid with anticipation. Sylvanas’s face was unreadable, but her hands clenched into fists, bracing for what was to come.
Lirath approached the lever, gripping it tightly. “Now,” Cadence called out.
Lirath pulled the lever just a quarter of the way down, and the coils erupted with an explosion of shadow-infused lightning. The energy surged directly into the metallic structure beneath Sylvanas, spreading across her body. Her bones, reinforced with enchanted coral, began to radiate with the dark magic.
Sylvanas’s eyes shot open, wide with sudden, excruciating pain. Her body convulsed as if her very skeleton was being set aflame, but with the cold, devouring touch of death itself. It wasn’t the sharp, electric pain of the previous shocks; this was a slow, agonizing burn, as if her bones were being hollowed out and then filled with shadow. Her muscles tightened, locked in spasms, but she refused to scream, her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together in defiance.
Perfectia grasped Sylvanas’s hand, her grip tight, her presence unwavering as her aunt shuddered beneath the waves of necrotic power. “You can do this, Aunty,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “Hold on.”
Every pulse of magic felt like a death knell to Sylvanas, each thrum of power magnifying the agony in her bones. Her body felt both too heavy and too fragile, as though the weight of the shadow itself would crush her at any moment. Yet, somewhere deep inside, she knew this pain wasn’t just suffering—it was transformation.
The room was suffused with the dark, eerie glow of shadow and death magic, as it surged through the workshop’s massive coils. Cadence, directing the entire operation, had a grave expression on her face, her eyes focused on the complex machinery around them. The ritual had begun, and every spell cast into the Tesla coils sent a pulse of power that vibrated through the walls of Naxxramas.
Gothik, Noth, Heigan, and Faerlina worked relentlessly, chanting incantations in low, guttural tones, their magic intensifying with each second. The surge of necrotic energy grew stronger, the coils crackling with shadow and death magic. Sylvanas, lying on the table, bound by restraints, already wore the look of a warrior steeling herself for the pain to come.
“Lirath,” Cadence ordered, her voice calm but firm, “pull the lever all of the way. Perfectia, stay close to her. This will be… intense.”
Lirath moved to the lever and pulled it down as instructed. Immediately, the room was filled with an intense hum, and the air grew heavier. Sylvanas’s body convulsed as the magic struck her, radiating into her very bones. Every inch of her skeletal structure felt like it was being split apart and reconstructed simultaneously.
Her scream echoed through the chamber, her chest heaving as the pain coursed through her. The agony was unbearable. Her bones felt like they were being ground into dust and reformed, over and over again. The necrotic energy surged through her, tearing apart muscle and sinew only to fuse them back with a twisted sense of purpose.
She gasped, every breath a battle for control over her own body. “You did this… didn’t you, child?” she rasped, her voice trembling as she looked up at Perfectia, who stood by her side, trying to offer what little comfort she could.
“I did,” Perfectia whispered, her hand gripping Sylvanas’s tightly. “And I survived it. So will you.”
The pain was unlike anything Sylvanas had ever endured. The Banshee Queen, who had faced death and betrayal, who had walked through the fires of war and damnation, now felt herself on the edge of something far worse. Yet, there was no turning back.
Cadence, watching Sylvanas carefully, her face pale but composed, stepped closer. “We’re only halfway through, Sylvanas. Your bones are being fortified, but the magic will cause incredible strain. You need to stay strong.”
Sylvanas clenched her teeth, her entire body trembling. “You… don’t say,” she spat through the pain. Her usual sharp wit was buried under layers of agony, but still present, if only in small flashes.
Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, each beat heavier than the last. Cadence could see the strain—it was becoming too much. Sylvanas’s heart was fighting against the surge of death magic, and Cadence knew that if they continued without pause, it would give out. The Banshee Queen’s body wasn’t handling the ritual as well as expected.
Suddenly, Sylvanas’s eyes shot open wide, her scream cutting through the room as her body convulsed violently. Then, just as quickly, she went limp.
“No…” Lirath whispered, rushing to her side.
The air went cold, and the silence that followed was deafening. Cadence, her face pale, quickly moved to check Sylvanas’s vitals, but she already knew.
“Sylvanas… her heart. It’s—” Cadence’s words broke off as she looked at the others, her face stricken with dread. “Her heart has burst.”
“Cadence, fix this! She can’t die here!” Perfectia’s voice broke, raw with desperation, as she held Sylvanas’s limp hand.
Cadence stood still for a moment, running through every option in her mind. “There’s only one way… but it’s not ideal. She needs a new heart. Now.”
Lirath’s gaze darkened, and he stepped forward, already knowing what needed to be done. “Then use mine.”
Perfectia whipped her head around to face him, her eyes wide in shock. “What are you talking about?”
Lirath took a deep breath, his voice steady, though the weight of his decision hung heavy in the air. “It’s the only way. We share the same bloodline, and my heart… it’s strong enough to keep her alive with the necrotic energy. Cadence, you have to implant my heart into her.”
“Absolutely not!” Perfectia’s voice was a mixture of horror and disbelief. “You can’t ask me to kill you!”
Lirath, however, was resolute. “Perfectia, listen to me. I ran away for years, hiding in the shadows, avoiding responsibility. This… this is my chance to do something right. I failed you once. I won’t fail my sister. You know it has to be done.”
Tears welled in Perfectia’s eyes as she looked at her father, the weight of his words sinking in. “No… Lirath… please…”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression softening. “You’re strong, Perfectia. You’ve always been stronger than me. But this… this is the only way. For our family.”
Cadence, understanding the gravity of the situation, prepared for what needed to be done. “We don’t have time,” she said quietly. “Lirath, are you sure?”
Lirath nodded. “I’m sure.”
Perfectia, her heart breaking, raised her blade, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry…” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Lirath smiled softly, his eyes filled with nothing but love for his daughter and sister. “It’s okay. This is my choice. I love you my child”
“I love you too, dad.” With one swift, merciful strike, Lirath fell, his life extinguished in an instant. Cadence wasted no time, immediately beginning the heart transplant. The room was silent save for the sounds of Cadence working, the others too stunned to speak.
Hours passed like minutes as Cadence worked tirelessly to replace Sylvanas’s heart with Lirath’s. Perfectia stood by, her grief palpable, but she remained strong, knowing this was the only way to save her aunt.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Cadence stepped back, wiping the sweat from her brow. “It’s done,” she whispered. “Now… we wait.”
Sylvanas’s chest rose and fell, her body still fragile, but alive. Perfectia knelt beside her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“I love you, aunty,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And so did he.”
The cost of saving Sylvanas had been enormous. But in that moment, the Windrunner family had forged a bond that would transcend even death itself.
Perfectia knelt beside Lirath’s body, her shoulders shaking as sobs racked her frame. Her tears dripped onto the cold floor, staining the stone with the raw, unbearable weight of her loss. The Ashbringer was still glowing in her hand, its light seemingly dimmed by her sorrow.
Gothik, ever the opportunist, stepped forward and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. His voice, surprisingly soft, carried a false sense of sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, his tone too practiced, too hollow.
Perfectia froze, her fingers tightening around the Ashbringer’s hilt. She didn’t move for a long moment, her grief overtaken by a new, seething anger. Slowly, she stood, her tears still flowing, but her eyes hardening with purpose. Without a word, she swung the Ashbringer, its holy light flaring to life as it cut through Gothik’s form.
The necromancer barely had time to register what was happening before his body was obliterated, a scream of pain torn from his lips as the Ashbringer’s light purged him from existence.
The other three necromancers—Heigan, Noth, and Faerlina—stared at her in shock, frozen in place by the sheer brutality of the act.
“Why did you do that?” Faerlina demanded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and outrage.
Perfectia wiped the tears from her face, her voice raw and ragged as she spoke. “My father… Lirath, was a mind reader,” she began, her tone filled with grief but also conviction. “He knew all of your intentions for helping us. He knew the lies you were spinning.”
She turned her gaze to each of them, her eyes burning with accusation.
“You,” she pointed at Noth, her voice quivering with rage, “you’re only here because you wanted access to the apothecaries. You would have betrayed us the moment you got what you wanted.”
Noth flinched, his mouth opening to protest, but he couldn’t find the words.
“And you,” Perfectia pointed to Faerlina, her voice cracking with the weight of her grief. “You never planned on serving anyone. You were ready to cause havoc as soon as you join the ranks of the Horde.”
Faerlina’s eyes widened, but she didn’t deny it.
Finally, Perfectia turned to Heigan, her breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. “And you… you were just waiting for Sylvanas to give you the admiration you crave. But you knew she never would, and you know what? You would have been right.”
Heigan took a step back, fear evident on his face.
Perfectia’s chest heaved, her tears mixing with the blood on her hands. “My father knew. And now… I know.”
There was a pause, a deadly silence that filled the air as the necromancers stared at her, realizing that any further deceit would lead to their deaths.
Perfectia stood, the Ashbringer still pulsing in her grip as the necromancers stared at her, expecting death. She took a deep breath, her chest tight with grief, but she spoke with clear resolve.
“Your deceit,” she began, her voice cold but steady, “is not reason enough for you to die today.” The tension in the room shifted as they listened, uncertain of their fate. “But she might see things differently when she wakes up,” Perfectia added, glancing at the still form of Sylvanas on the table.
Noth, ever the cautious one, stepped forward, his voice measured. “I still want to join the Horde,” he said, his words carefully chosen. “My research can do a lot of good. Whatever you decide to do with it, I hope you use it for the greater good. If not,” he paused, glancing at the others, “I’ll leave. No harm to you or your cause.”
Perfectia regarded him for a moment before turning to Faerlina, who took a deep breath and spoke next. “This can still be a good give-and-take relationship,” she said, her tone even. “Whatever plans your father heard, they were a contingency if I ever felt that my relationship with the Horde was one-sided.” Her gaze hardened slightly. “I can still do right by the Horde, as long as the Horde does right by me.”
Perfectia considered her words carefully, then her eyes turned to Heigan, who sighed, crossing his arms. “If she truly won’t appreciate the talents I bring to the Horde, then that’s her loss,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’ll stay here. But if she really wants my help,” he paused, meeting Perfectia’s eyes directly, “she needs to ask me herself. And we will negotiate.”
The room fell into a heavy silence as Perfectia weighed their words, the reality of leadership settling over her like a mantle of responsibility. The necromancers waited, their loyalties conditional, their motives clear. It would be Sylvanas’s choice, but for now, Perfectia needed to navigate this delicate balance of power and trust.
Perfectia stared at her father’s still body, her mind swirling with grief, anger, and helplessness. The idea gnawed at her. She looked up at the necromancers, her voice hoarse, “Can you bring him back?”
The three necromancers exchanged glances, their expressions shifting between curiosity and hesitation. Noth, the most cautious of the three, spoke first, “It’s possible, but there are conditions. We would need the body of a family member no farther than a cousin.”
Faerlina chimed in, her voice smooth and calculating, “So, it could be you, Perfectia. But we don’t know how the Banshee Queen will react. And more importantly…” She paused, giving Lirath’s body a glance. “We know how he might feel about it.”
Perfectia’s heart sank. Lirath had sacrificed himself to save Sylvanas. Would bringing him back dishonor that sacrifice? Could she live with the consequences?
Cadence, standing nearby, put a gentle hand on Perfectia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should take them both back to Windrunner Spire. Let’s wait for Sylvanas to wake up. Then we can break all the bad news to her together.”
Perfectia’s throat tightened, and she nodded, her resolve wavering. “Yeah… Let’s take them home.”
Without another word, the necromancers moved to assist, lifting both Sylvanas and Lirath’s bodies with practiced care. They began the solemn journey back, the weight of their mission pressing down on everyone present.
—–
A week later, Sylvanas awoke to the familiar stillness of Windrunner Spire. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light filtering through the room, but something was different. She felt it immediately. Glancing down at her body, her gaze traced the stitched scars where the coral implants had been embedded, marking the culmination of the grueling procedures. She gingerly touched the new scars, but rather than feeling pain, she felt strength—immense, raw power.
Sitting up, she flexed her fingers, then her arms. Her movements felt fluid, her muscles responding with a speed and precision that startled her. Her senses felt sharper, more heightened than they had ever been. Even the faintest sound in the spire seemed clear, the scent of the sea breeze reaching her from the shore.
Her eyes flickered to the ocean, focusing beyond the horizon. For a moment, everything blurred as she blinked. Then, in perfect clarity, she watched as a single fish broke through the surface of the water, leaping before vanishing beneath the waves. She smiled. The enhancement had worked.
Pushing herself to her feet, she marveled at how light her body felt. She had always favored her bow, her distance giving her a tactical advantage, but now… Now she felt like she could face any opponent head-on. Close combat had never been her preferred method, but the newfound strength in her limbs made her reconsider. Perhaps now, she could obliterate any foe who dared challenge her. Even Saurfang would struggle against her might, and perhaps, just perhaps, she could even take on Perfectia Dawnlight herself.
The thought brought a wry smile to her lips. She had watched Perfectia grow stronger over the years, always with a hint of jealousy. But now, standing in the Spire with her body newly reforged, Sylvanas felt her own power rise to match. Perhaps the time had come to test just how far that strength would take her.
Sylvanas stepped out of Windrunner Spire, the cool breeze brushing against her as she began her walk. Her destination: Menethil Port, deep in Alliance territory. The landscape around her was familiar yet different, and as she moved with purpose, her strength was undeniable. Every step felt as if the world bowed to her.
As she passed through enemy lands, Alliance soldiers took note of her. First, it was a small group of scouts, startled by her casual approach. Their warnings rang out as arrows were fired in her direction. Sylvanas didn’t flinch. She simply raised her hand, catching the arrows mid-flight without breaking stride. The archers stared in disbelief, watching as she casually tossed the arrows to the ground and sighed, shaking her head.
More forces appeared as she neared their encampments, gunfire and spells directed at her. But bullets, too, seemed useless. She tilted her head, hearing the crack of a gun before the bullet could hit, swiftly blocking it with her hand. She smiled as the attackers’ panic became evident, their confident stance crumbling in the face of her unstoppable advance.
Their terror fueled her, and when they began to flee, her smile widened. In an instant, Sylvanas dashed toward them with speed so great that they had no time to react. Her presence alone sent the remaining soldiers into a frenzy of fear. They abandoned their posts, scattering in all directions.
As Sylvanas ventured deeper into Alliance territory, her presence did not go unnoticed. Whispers of the Banshee Queen walking through Arathi Basin had reached both the Syndicate and Alliance forces alike. Word spread quickly, and soon enough, a contingent of Syndicate rogues and Alliance adventurers banded together, forming an uneasy alliance to confront their mutual foe.
They prepared an ambush, setting traps, hiding in the shadows, and positioning their mages and archers along the ridges. Sylvanas, however, moved as if she were taking a leisurely stroll through a familiar forest, unconcerned by the forces gathering around her. Her keen senses picked up the faint whispers and rustling movements long before the ambush was sprung.
Just as she stepped into a clearing, the trap was triggered.
Syndicate assassins and Alliance soldiers surged from all directions, surrounding her in a tight circle. A momentary silence fell over the clearing as everyone drew their weapons, ready to strike. Mages began chanting spells, archers notched their arrows, and swordsmen raised their blades, their eyes filled with anticipation and fear.
For the first time since she began her journey, Sylvanas came to a halt. Her crimson eyes scanned the crowd, a slow smirk creeping across her lips as she assessed her enemies. The Syndicate leader, a grizzled rogue, stepped forward, his daggers glinting in the dim light.
“You’re surrounded, Banshee Queen,” he sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. “This is where your journey ends.”
Sylvanas let out a quiet, amused laugh, shaking her head as if disappointed in their lack of imagination. Slowly, deliberately, she reached into her cloak and withdrew a single dagger, twirling it effortlessly in her fingers.
The Syndicate and Alliance soldiers tensed, waiting for her response.
“The only thing I’m surrounded by…” Sylvanas began, her voice low and menacing, “…is fear and dead men.”
Before they could comprehend her words, Sylvanas moved with a speed that defied their understanding. She became a blur of shadows, striking with the precision and lethality of a master assassin. The first rogue barely had time to blink before Sylvanas’ dagger sliced through his throat, his body collapsing to the ground in silence. With a fluid motion, she disarmed the nearest Alliance soldier, twisting his sword from his grip and impaling him through the chest in one swift motion.
Arrows rained down from above, but Sylvanas simply raised her hand, catching them mid-air once again. This time, she hurled them back with deadly accuracy, each arrow finding its mark in the throats of the archers who had dared to attack her. The mages unleashed their spells, but she weaved through the arcane blasts effortlessly, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.
In a heartbeat, she was upon the Syndicate leader. His daggers flashed as he lunged at her, but Sylvanas parried each strike with contemptuous ease, her dagger flicking out to sever the tendons in his wrist. He dropped his weapons, staggering back in shock, but Sylvanas was already upon him, plunging her blade into his chest.
“Fear…” she whispered in his ear as the light faded from his eyes.
The remaining adventurers and soldiers scattered in terror, but there was no escape. Sylvanas was a wraith in the darkness, cutting them down with their own weapons. She moved like a storm, taking blades and axes from the fallen, using them to dismember and disarm her enemies. The once-organized ambush had turned into a bloodbath, the ground littered with bodies as screams of agony echoed across the clearing.
Within minutes, it was over. The last of the ambushers lay in a crumpled heap at her feet, blood soaking the earth beneath them.
Sylvanas wiped the blade of her dagger clean on the cloak of a fallen soldier, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She sheathed the weapon and resumed her walk, leaving behind a scene of utter carnage as she approached Menethil Port.
Upon reaching Menethil Port, she found an Alliance ship crew, who froze upon seeing her. She approached them with an air of command that left no room for defiance.
The crew of the Alliance ship that awaited her stood frozen in terror, their hands gripping their weapons but not daring to make a move.
With a slow, deliberate step, Sylvanas approached, her voice carrying the weight of inevitability. “Your command… or your lives. Choose wisely.”
The crew dropped their weapons, bowing their heads in submission, knowing there was no point in defying the Banshee Queen.
“Take me to Orgrimmar,” Sylvanas ordered, her voice calm yet firm.
The crew, though terrified, complied without hesitation, knowing that resistance was futile. Within moments, the ship set sail, their fear-laden obedience guiding her to the heart of the Horde.
Sylvanas stood at the bow of the ship, watching the waters ahead with quiet confidence, knowing that her presence alone now commanded a power even the Alliance could not resist.
Sylvanas stood at the edge of the ship, gazing at the vast ocean before her. She could feel the power coursing through her muscles, stronger than she’d ever imagined. With a sudden burst of energy, she leapt into the water, slicing through it with incredible speed. The waves barely resisted her as she swam with the grace of a shark, her enhanced body propelling her effortlessly beneath the surface.
The coolness of the ocean soothed her, and she reveled in the sensation of her newfound power. When she finally surfaced, she summoned her skeletal horse with ease, its bones materializing from the depths. Climbing onto its back, Sylvanas rode swiftly, the wind whipping through her hair as she approached Orgrimmar.
Once there, Sylvanas wasted no time. She called forth her best warriors for sparring. One by one, they faced her—each armed with the deadliest weapons and clad in heavy armor. Yet, despite their formidable strength, none could match her. She wielded nothing but a wooden sword, easily outmaneuvering and overpowering even the mightiest of them.
The strongest warriors fell to her, their weapons shattering under the force of her strikes. Heavily armored combatants crumbled as she used her bare hands to crush their defenses. Even the monks, renowned for their agility and stamina, only managed to last a minute or two longer before they, too, were hurled yards away by her sheer strength.
As Sylvanas stood victorious over the scattered bodies, her chest barely heaving from the exertion, she thought to herself, Perfectia, is this how powerful you’ve always been? Why didn’t you use this power to rule? If you were always this strong, why did you only follow?
The question lingered in her mind, a nagging thought as she began to wonder what restrained Perfectia from taking more, from ruling with the iron grip Sylvanas had always wielded. Was there something more that Sylvanas couldn’t see? Or had Perfectia simply chosen a different path—one that avoided the darker truths Sylvanas had embraced so long ago?
Sylvanas’s sharp eyes followed the orc warrior who had just stepped out of the sparring ring, his powerful frame now rigid with a strange nervousness. He had fought well, though she barely broke a sweat in their duel. Now, he stood before her, visibly unsettled, his nervousness palpable even behind the imposing presence he carried.
“Bring my niece to me. Tell her I want to see her immediately,” Sylvanas commanded coolly, wiping the sweat from her brow after the sparring session.
The orc hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides. “About that… Warchief…”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Sylvanas’s face. “Is something wrong?”
“Well… that depends on what you mean by ‘wrong,’ Warchief.” The orc’s deep voice wavered slightly, betraying his usual confidence.
Her patience thinned. “Explain.”
The orc shifted, glancing back as two more Horde soldiers entered, carrying two heavy chests—one overflowing with glowing Azerite shards, the other brimming with golden troll statues. Their riches glittered under the torchlight, casting uneasy shadows.
“King Rastakhan, Warchief… He’s been asking for your niece’s… company.” The orc hesitated before continuing, his voice low but steady. “He said if you could convince her to agree to marriage… he’d give you his entire fleet.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Sylvanas’s gaze bore into the orc, calculating, assessing. She could see the nervous sweat on his brow, the way his massive arms flexed despite the clear tension in the room.
The smirk that crept across her lips was slow, deliberate. “Marriage?” she echoed, her tone as cold as winter’s edge. “He wants to trade my niece for his fleet?”
The orc warrior’s eyes darted to the chests, as if they could somehow offer protection from the Warchief’s growing fury. “It’s a… generous offer, Warchief,” he said, forcing the words out.
“Generous.” Sylvanas’s voice was a whisper now, tinged with amusement. Her eyes flicked from the orc to the chests. She could feel the power behind Rastakhan’s offer, the strength that came with such a fleet.
But she knew one thing for certain—Perfectia wasn’t a pawn to be bartered.
“Tell Rastakhan,” she said, her voice cool and measured, “I’ll think about it.”
Sylvanas’s icy stare pierced through the orc as he nervously backpedaled, realizing the weight of his words.
“Most of the Zandalari have been… obsessing over her since she set foot in Zuldazar," he stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Her appearance always seemed… strange to me, but there hasn’t been one Zandalari troll that hasn’t mentioned ‘Perfectia the Booty Elf—’”
Sylvanas’s eyes flashed with anger, and the orc’s words stumbled to a halt.
“Not my words, I swear!” he quickly blurted out, holding up his hands as if trying to shield himself from the inevitable fury of the Banshee Queen.
Sylvanas let the silence stretch for a moment longer, her sharp gaze cutting into the orc as if daring him to speak again. She finally exhaled in annoyance, the irritation palpable as she turned her attention elsewhere. “Who would’ve thought?” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with both amusement and frustration. “Maybe I should have asked Dr. Olisarra to do a little work in the back.”
The orc warrior, still tense from his earlier blunder, lowered his head further, grateful the conversation hadn’t taken a worse turn. He remained in place, unsure if he was dismissed or if further explanation was needed.
Sylvanas’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. As she considered Rastakhan’s offer and the strange fascination her niece had generated, a wry smile touched her lips. It was as if the Zandalari obsession had turned Perfectia into more of a political tool than Sylvanas had anticipated.
“Just being my niece,” Sylvanas mused aloud, her tone colder, “I have even more questions for her.”
The orc, though still wary, glanced up ever so slightly, sensing the Warchief’s mood had shifted to one of deeper contemplation. The political ramifications of Rastakhan’s proposal were clear: Perfectia, despite the odd nature of her newfound Zandalari nickname, had become a key player in a game that spanned alliances, empires, and potential betrayals.
One Week Ago:
Cadence Olisarra agreed to preserve Lirath’s body for as long as possible, knowing that Sylvanas deserved a say in what would become of her brother. However, time was working against them. After two days of waiting, Cadence and Perfectia decided they could no longer afford the risk of Lirath’s body decomposing. Though Sylvanas was expected to awaken soon, Lirath’s remains needed to be placed in cold storage before rigor mortis set in.
Perfectia, torn between her grief and her sense of duty, made the decision: Lirath would be transported to Dalaran, where Cadence could safely store his body and continue checking in on Sylvanas periodically. Despite the emotional weight of the situation, Cadence and Perfectia both knew that these preparations were necessary.
Before parting ways, Cadence looked to Perfectia with concern. “What are you planning to do in the meantime?”
Perfectia, donning her disguise as Melfina Lovewood—a tall Night Elf complete with high heels to match the expected stature—was prepared to walk unnoticed among the crowds of Stormwind. The disguise was perfect for blending in with the city’s diverse population, where elves of many kinds wandered without drawing too much attention. But this time, it wasn’t just about blending in—it was about being able to maneuver with purpose, without her true identity being revealed.
Cadence nodded solemnly, aware of the depth of the mission ahead. “I’ll keep an eye on Sylvanas. And you know where to find me when you’re ready to return,” she reassured her.
Perfectia, disguised as Melfina Lovewood, wandered through the bustling streets of Dalaran. Her Night Elf form was perfect, and the heels she wore gave her the extra height to blend in. She scanned the crowd, her heart pounding in anticipation of the moment she would see her again—Isirami Fairwind. The weight of her disguise pressed against her, not just physically but emotionally. This was a reunion she’d longed for, and yet feared.
There she was.
Isirami stood by one of the magical fountains, her posture relaxed, unaware of the storm brewing behind her. Perfectia, as Melfina, approached slowly, her steps measured.
“Hey,” Perfectia said softly, “It’s me… Melfina.”
Isirami turned to look at her, recognition dawning in her eyes as she scanned the figure before her. The hesitation lingered for a heartbeat, then her gaze shifted, something like remembrance flickering through her features.
“Oh,” Isirami said, her voice cautious, “Melfina… I didn’t realize it was you.” She looked her over with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
Perfectia felt a pang of nerves, but she smiled, pressing forward. “Can we go someplace private?” Her voice was smooth, but there was an underlying urgency she couldn’t suppress.
Isirami hesitated but then nodded. “Sure… I suppose.”
They found a quiet alleyway, the noise of Dalaran fading to a distant hum. Perfectia’s heart raced as they stood facing each other. Isirami’s guarded expression betrayed her uncertainty.
“I haven’t seen Vereesa in a long time,” Isirami started, her voice more businesslike. “But when I do, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.” She paused, trying to read Perfectia’s intent. “Do you want me to tell her where you might be waiting?”
Perfectia shook her head. “No, don’t bother. I’m going to be moving around a lot. Besides, I’m also looking for Alleria.”
Isirami’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “I’ll pass the message along.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.
“I have a little bit of free time,” Perfectia said, stepping closer, her voice low and thick with longing.
Isirami shifted, clearly nervous. “That’s… nice,” she stammered, her body stiffening as Perfectia closed the gap between them.
The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, and before she could stop herself, Perfectia rushed forward, her lips crashing against Isirami’s. It was a desperate kiss, full of everything she’d been holding in for so long—the yearning, the hope, the unresolved emotions.
But then, as quickly as it started, it ended. Isirami shoved her away, her hands firm, eyes wide in shock.
“Why did you do that?” Isirami demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and confusion.
Perfectia’s breath hitched as the rejection hit her harder than any blow. Her voice was a whisper, trembling with vulnerability. “I’ve been thinking about you… so much. I miss you.”
But before the weight of her words could sink in, another voice broke through the moment.
“What’s going on here?” Marcella Bloom’s voice was sharp as she stepped into view, her eyes narrowing at the scene before her.
Perfectia froze, her heart sinking as she watched the subtle, almost imperceptible exchange between Isirami and Marcella. The small gestures, the way Marcella moved closer to Isirami, protective and possessive, the slight shift in Isirami’s stance—Perfectia could see it clearly. They were together. They had a connection.
Her heart cracked, the realization like a knife twisting in her chest. She had been replaced. Isirami had moved on. And all the love, all the feelings Perfectia still carried for her meant nothing now.
Perfectia swallowed hard, forcing a smile that barely reached her eyes. “I’m… I’m happy for you,” she said, though her voice wavered, the pain impossible to hide.
Isirami didn’t meet her eyes, guilt and discomfort written all over her face, while Marcella stood firm, her arm subtly brushing against Isirami’s as if to stake her claim.
And in that moment, Perfectia knew—things would never be the same. The love she had once known was gone, replaced by the cold reality of time and change.
Perfectia, her heart still aching from the rejection in Dalaran, stepped through the portal to Stormwind. The vibrant streets bustled with life, yet it all seemed distant, muted against the weight pressing on her chest. Every step she took felt heavy, and her mind swirled with thoughts of Isirami, of what could have been. The sharp sting of heartbreak had left her hollow, with no desire to seek out her family, no desire for comfort. Even a reunion with Vereesa, which she once might have looked forward to, seemed unbearable now.
Her mind briefly wandered to familiar comforts, to the thought of soothing herself the way she used to. A pint of ice cream and a box of pastries from Dalaran’s finest bakery—sugar had always been her escape. The sweetness used to remind her of Isirami’s kiss, the scent, the taste, the warmth of those moments. But not anymore. The memories were too raw, too painful, and the idea of indulging in those treats now felt like a betrayal to herself.
No, she couldn’t succumb to food this time. Sugar had once been a comfort, but now it was a reminder of the love she had lost, of everything she was trying to forget. Isirami’s presence lingered in her mind like a shadow she couldn’t shake, and the thought of indulging in something that tasted like her kisses made Perfectia feel sick.
She’d have to find another way to cope with it all—find a way to move on. But how? She had no idea. The path forward wasn’t clear, and as much as she wanted to bury the pain, it clung to her like a second skin.
The bulletin board stood at the center of the city, pinned with dozens of notices and requests. Perfectia approached it, scanning for something that could pull her out of her thoughts. And then, her eyes caught the name Jaina Proudmoore. A request for escorts to take her to Kul Tiras. It was a simple task, straightforward. The kind of mind-numbing work Perfectia knew she needed right now.
Without a second thought, she pulled the notice from the board.
Family could wait. She wasn’t ready to face them—not now, not while the ache of Isirami’s rejection still gnawed at her insides. Instead, she would throw herself into something new, something far away. Kul Tiras would be a much-needed distraction.
She crumpled the paper slightly in her hand, feeling the sharp edges dig into her palm, grounding her. Taking a deep breath, she set off to begin the mission. The mindless routine of travel, of escorting, of fighting—yes, that was exactly what she needed right now.
The disguised paladin approached Stormwind Keep with steady, determined steps. Her black and purple leather armor, reminiscent of the Banshee Queen’s rangers, cloaked her body, making her look every bit the dangerous warrior. Her high heels clicked against the stone floor… Sylvanas’s voice echoed in her mind, though it wasn’t truly her aunt’s words: “Don’t fail me again.” She didn’t need the reminder. Facing the man she once loved required all her composure, her loyalty to Sylvanas anchoring her against the flood of emotions this encounter could stir.
As Perfectia approached, she noted that Anduin sat on his throne looking more worn than regal, the gold and stone armor weighing on him as heavily as the sleepless nights etched into his young face. He held a pear, turning it over absently in his hands, scratching at its skin, taking small bites at moments that seemed more to fill silence than hunger. She braced herself for his usual speech, something on the value of the Alliance and gratitude for every sword sworn to it—but cut him off before he could begin.
“Don’t care,” she said, her voice deliberately deeper, more sensual—a tone she had carefully practiced for this disguise. “Just point me toward the Horde.”
Anduin blinked, taken aback. He paused, scratching at the pear again, clearly flustered. “One of my emissaries will provide you with a wax seal once you make your oaths. That will bind you to the Alliance officially and assign you missions.” His gaze drifted over her, catching briefly on her form before he quickly looked away, his face coloring as he tried to regain his composure, fingers nervously digging into the pear’s flesh.
“What’s your name?” he asked, voice barely above a murmur, eyes shifting down to the pear in his hands as he absentmindedly gouged a line in its skin.
The question caught her off guard. “What?” she stalled, feeling a momentary flash of panic. She couldn’t say Melfina—he’d recognize that immediately.
“Your name?” he repeated, his brows knitting slightly as he glanced up, thumb scraping another bit of skin from the pear.
“Thunderhead,” she blurted out, instantly regretting the absurdity of it.
Anduin’s lips twitched in an awkward smile. He shifted the pear between his hands, finally taking another small, distracted bite. “You have… uh… beautiful hips,” he muttered, voice trailing off as he stared down at the fruit in his hands, clearly realizing how ridiculous he sounded.
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed, and she shot him a look that could have sliced through armor. “Let’s keep this professional, your highness,” she snapped. “I didn’t come here to be ogled like one of your court maidens.”
Anduin’s lips twitched into an awkward smile. He shifted the pear between his hands, tossing it absently as if he were weighing his words as much as the fruit.
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed to slits, her look sharp enough to cut steel. In a flash, she drew her knife, flicking it with precision. It caught the pear midair, the blade sinking into it as Anduin’s hands froze, empty.
Without breaking eye contact, she deftly sliced off a small piece and lifted it to her mouth, eating it off the knife’s edge. “I came here to kill Horde,” she growled, her voice edged with barely-contained fury. “The Horde took—”
“Don’t care,” Anduin interrupted, his voice devoid of malice but weighed down with weariness as he echoed her own words back at her. His tired eyes met hers evenly. “I hear my fair share of sob stories. But it was… nice to meet you, Thunderhead.” He extended a hand for a shake, his tone as dispassionate as his stare.
She glanced at his hand, her jaw clenched. Then, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she curtsied mockingly. “Likewise,” she muttered before turning on her heel, her heels clinking as she walked away.
Anduin sank back onto his throne, watching her go, the pear still in her possession and his pride slightly bruised. As Perfectia disappeared from view, Jaina Proudmoore, who had been quietly observing from the shadows, stepped up beside him, arching an amused brow as she gently nudged his shoulder.
“I was hoping someone would finally take that pear away from you,” she said, her voice light. “Though I didn’t quite expect it to be that… dramatic.”
Anduin rubbed the back of his neck, his face warming. “Forgive me, Aunt Jaina. I just… wasn’t expecting her.”
Jaina chuckled, shaking her head. “She certainly knows how to make an impression. But next time,” she smirked, “maybe leave the produce out of it?” Jaina smiled, watching the Night Elf—Perfectia in disguise—vanish from sight. “But Thunderhead? Really? Who names their child that?”
Anduin rolled his eyes. “Adventurers’ names never surprise me anymore. Would it kill any of them to choose something normal like John or Jane?”
Jaina raised an eyebrow at him. “Anduin isn’t exactly common either, you know.”
He blinked in realization and shook his head, laughing lightly. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“You apologize too much, dear,” Jaina said with a smile, her tone growing softer. “You shouldn’t hold on to so many regrets.”
Anduin didn’t respond immediately, instead pulling out his compass. He opened it, glanced at the picture inside, and snapped it shut just as quickly.
Jaina caught the glimpse. “Who was that?” she asked gently, her curiosity piqued.
“It’s no one,” he said too quickly, his fingers tightening around the compass. “Just checking where north is.”
Jaina smirked. “You know, I never took you for a liar.”
Anduin chuckled softly, shaking his head. “On the contrary, Aunty. That’s because I’ve gotten very good at it.”
Jaina shook her head, confused. “Well, you certainly didn’t learn it from your father.”
“No,” Anduin agreed, looking out the window at the trophies of dragon heads mounted along the castle’s walls. “No, I didn’t.”
Jaina reached out, her voice softened with understanding. “May I see it?”
Anduin hesitated, a shadow crossing his face before he stood silently, moving toward the war table. The only sound was his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty room. He gestured for Jaina to join him, then, with a subtle nod, slid a small, worn compass across the table.
She picked it up, curiosity etched on her face, and opened it. Inside, there was a delicate portrait of an elf in a silvery white dress, her gaze serene yet piercing. Jaina glanced up, her tone probing but gentle. “This is her, isn’t it?”
Anduin nodded, his expression tight, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.
Jaina looked at the picture again, then back to him, concern lacing her voice. “So, what does this mean for you, Anduin?”
He closed his eyes briefly, his words barely above a whisper. “It means I can’t let go. I can’t move on. The thought of entering another romantic relationship feels… impossible. It’s something that gnaws at me every day.”
She watched him closely. “How has that been going?”
With a wry smile, he said, “I asked Genn to compile a list of prospects, set up parties—the whole thing.”
“Has he?”
Anduin’s smile faded, replaced by a flicker of regret. “He said, ‘If you’d asked me two years ago, I’d have seen you married by your eighteenth birthday. But now… now I know why you’re asking. And I won’t let you repeat my mistakes.’”
Jaina looked down, considering his words carefully. Her voice softened, yet carried a weight of its own. “Maybe you were right earlier. I haven’t been fully committed to making peace. But perhaps… perhaps it’s time to try. Maybe we could arrange a parlay, hear out what Sylvanas truly wants. I believe she still has feelings for you, Anduin. She’s been keeping a necklace where this picture once was.”
Anduin shook his head, a small sigh escaping his lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar green necklace. “She was here a week ago, Jaina,” he explained, his tone heavy with unspoken memories.
Jaina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Sylvanas was here? Why?”
Anduin stared down at the necklace in his hand. “She said she wanted no harm to come to me. But I think what she really wanted was my purity. My connection to the Light—my vows as a priest… I think she wanted to take that from me.”
Jaina looked away in disbelief, her disgust evident. “Even if you weren’t a priest, the risks… She could’ve given you a disease. What was she thinking?”
Anduin shrugged, his shoulders weighed down by more than just his armor. “I didn’t believe her. Not really. I think she had an ulterior motive. So… I asked for her hand in marriage, after she gave me this.” He held up the necklace.
Jaina’s expression was one of both shock and disbelief. “Marriage?” she laughed bitterly. “So you have a thing for elves now?”
He offered a half-hearted smile, then shrugged. “Void Elves have interesting accents. But that distortion in their voices… It’s unsettling.” He paused, his expression softening. “Perfectia doesn’t even look like a common elf. She has this sharp jawline—”
“And abnormally large hips?” Jaina interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Anduin blushed slightly, his eyes darting away. “Yeah… well.”
“I don’t have to be a priest to see that. She nearly broke my ribs with one kick,” Jaina said, shaking her head. “But there’s something about her… she doesn’t seem entirely Thalassian.”
Anduin sighed, his thoughts drifting back to Sylvanas. “It’s complicated. I don’t know why I keep apologizing…”
“You don’t have to,” Jaina reassured him gently.
“No, not for that. Gen met with her before… and I think he told her that I was planning to break things off with her,” Anduin admitted, a shadow crossing his face.
Anduin’s face grew thoughtful, his voice quieter. “It’s just… I lashed out at her in anger, and I did the same with Moira Thaurissan.” He grimaced, remembering those moments. “I think I have an issue with anger. So, I’m going to stop apologizing and try to be better.” He chuckled lightly, though there was a bitter edge to it. “It’s idiotic how much I’ve victimized myself, seeking sympathy for my own mistakes.” He glanced at Jaina, more somber now. “Sylvanas came peacefully to parlay, but we both agreed to war.”
Jaina’s expression tightened. “You let the most dangerous member of the Horde walk away, and you couldn’t secure peace. You could lose your crown if word gets out about this.”
Anduin only shrugged, a resigned look in his eyes. He wasn’t sure he cared.
Jaina pointed to the compass on the table. “If Sylvanas gave you that necklace, then Perfectia’s under her influence. You know she’ll use your feelings for her to manipulate you.”
Anduin’s gaze drifted as he remembered his campaign against the Lich King. “What was it you said to Uther the Lightbringer in the Halls of Reflection?” he asked quietly.
Jaina blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “I said… I was sorry. I said…” Her expression softened as she realized where Anduin was going. “I said, if there was any hope of reaching Arthas, I had to try.”
She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “When you were furious with me, I let it go because I knew you were grieving.” Jaina looked at him, the weight of understanding between them. “How long have you and Perfectia known each other?”
Anduin shook his head. “It’s not about how long. It’s about how we feel.”
Jaina picked up the necklace with his picture. “And what if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if she’s moved on? Or worse—what if she’s using you?”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Anduin shot back, his voice quiet but firm.
“Love can die as easily as it’s ignited, Anduin,” Jaina said softly. “You might have to accept that things have changed… after Stormwind Port, after you ended things. After she gave this to Sylvanas.”
He looked at her, his face hard. “Didn’t Arthas keep the necklace you gave him?”
Jaina shook her head. “Stop using him as a comparison. Arthas and I were friends for years.”
“And Kalecgos?” Anduin asked, his tone less emotional now but still probing.
Jaina sighed. “He was there when I needed him. But we’re not together anymore. This isn’t about hypocrisy, Anduin. This is about helping you.”
Anduin turned away, shaking his head. “What do you want, Jaina? Do you see children in your future? A home you can protect?”
Jaina’s confusion deepened as she studied him. “What did she do to you?” she asked, her tone soft but edged with frustration.
Anduin hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides as he fought to control his emotions. “I’ve started to see myself differently, thanks to her,” he admitted with a quiet laugh that lacked any real humor. “It’s ugly. She was right.”
Jaina’s brow furrowed. “What’s ugly?”
“Me,” he said simply, shaking his head. “I keep rolling my eyes, mimicking her mannerisms without realizing it… It’s like she got into my head, Jaina. Every conversation feels like a losing game of chess with her. She knew exactly which keys to press.”
Jaina frowned, recalling her own interactions with Sylvanas and her manipulation. “And you’re angry about that?”
He shook his head, sighing. “Not just that… I need to stop apologizing and start being better.”
Jaina crossed her arms, her gaze steady. “So what happened between you two? How could you have fallen for her?”
Anduin’s eyes met hers, full of conflict. “You mean, how did I fall in love with her?” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not as simple as that, Jaina.”
Jaina’s skepticism was evident. “She was in disguise, wasn’t she? Came here under false pretenses, and yet you didn’t see through her.”
“No,” Anduin said quietly, his eyes darkening with memory. “Never in my life have I needed something so much and never known until I received it.”
“Which was… A big rear end?”
Anduin laugh recalling something she said, “ ‘You harder then my dad to quit drinking’ She… I finally get it… That is so bad, and inappropriate, but hilarious.”
“She’s funny?”
“Extremely… I would like to maybe not take myself so seriously.”
Jaina shook her head in disbelief. “And now? What’s left?”
Anduin touched his chest, over his heart, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “Can we… not talk about this, please? It’s getting to me.”
Jaina sighed and shook her head, “You know, I once tried to make things work with Kael’Thas Sunstrider. My mother seemed to dream of half-elf grandchildren. A lot of my first instructors were High Elven, and she was always excited when they came to port. Kael’Thas, though… he wasn’t the prince I thought he’d be. During one of our get-togethers, he told me something that changed everything. He wasn’t as in control of his navy as I thought. He said if he had the Kul Tiran fleets, he could take full control.” She gave a dry laugh. “That’s when things started to fall apart. Arthas became my retreat from all that.”
Anduin tilted his head. “So, you weren’t with him because of power?”
Jaina shrugged. “Kael’Thas said it wasn’t about power. He admired me, thought I was beautiful, wanted me by his side. And then—” She smiled wryly, “he stole my first kiss.”
Anduin chuckled, recalling something familiar. “They do have a tendency to do that.”
Noticing him blush slightly, Jaina rolled her eyes and smirked, before continuing. “Anyway… after that came the endless gifts, poems, courting. It was too much. I got pretty good at invisibility spells just to avoid him.”
Anduin glanced down as Jaina spoke, her words tugging him into his own thoughts. Jaina’s irritation toward Kael’Thas reminded him of Perfectia’s unapologetic sense of humor—a relentless charm that had been both endearing and exasperating. Her boldness, her quick-witted remarks, even in the most serious moments, had once seemed overwhelming but now left an ache in their absence. Lost in a quiet nostalgia, Anduin drifted into his memories, almost missing the rest of what Jaina was saying.
She shook her head, the memory still making her laugh. “Eventually, he got the hint… sort of. He left me with an awkward offer, ‘If you change your mind…’ It only made things worse. But Arthas, he knew I didn’t want all that pomp and show. We just wanted to play in the snow like we always had as kids. Kael’Thas eventually found out about us. He wasn’t happy.”
Anduin raised a brow, intrigued. “So you didn’t want to be courted like royalty? Why didn’t you stay in Lordaeron as his courtier?”
Jaina sighed, and her smile faded. “A few weeks after we became intimate, I made a joke. I said, ‘Our children will most likely be blonde.’” She paused, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean anything by it, but… it was too much for him. He wasn’t ready for something so serious. I let him go because I understood. Maybe I scared him the same way Kael’Thas scared me with all his plans for power.”
She paused, her expression darkening. “That’s when Kael’Thas mentioned something else—his kingdom couldn’t control their navy general, Kel’Magnus.”
Anduin’s eyes widened as he recalled the name. “Kel’Magnus… I’ve heard of him recently. Why isn’t he more well-known?”
Jaina shook her head. “That’s the point. He was the longest-serving military general in Silvermoon, but most of his campaigns happened before human kingdoms even existed. He’s well over ten thousand years old, obsessed with hunting Queen Azshara. But the truth? He sold his own people into slavery, forced marriages. He was a tyrant.”
Anduin looked troubled. “What happened to him?”
Jaina leaned forward. “The Sunstriders kept him in check, but if it weren’t for them, Kel’Magnus would’ve enforced King Ymiron’s laws—eradicating humans in Tirisfal. After the Troll Wars, his racial superiority ideas became laughable, and he was an embarrassment to Silvermoon. He even wrote a book, Male Kampth—'My Struggle.’ In it, he laid out which races should lead, which should be cannon fodder, and which should be enslaved or eradicated. It was… horrifying, really. It’s why no one talks about him.”
Anduin let out a slow breath. “I think I’ve heard whispers about him recently. His name keeps coming up in certain circles.”
Jaina nodded. “He’s dangerous, Anduin. If he’s resurfacing now… we need to be ready.”
“Did Arthas know about him?” Anduin asked, his brow furrowed in thought.
Jaina nodded. “He did. Kel’Magnus was a figure both Arthas and Kael’thas knew about. He wasn’t easy to forget, even if history tried to bury him.”
Anduin took a deep breath and stared at the map in front of him, his fingers tracing the outlines of Silvermoon. “Do you think that’s why Arthas went to Silvermoon first? Was he trying to uproot the legacy of Kel’Magnus, or was it just for the Sunwell?”
Jaina gave a half-shrug, clearly still grappling with the question herself. “Possibly. The Sunwell was the main objective, but Kel’Magnus’s influence—his ideology—lingered in Silvermoon’s ruling class. Arthas may have wanted to stamp out that darkness too, even if he didn’t realize it fully.”
Anduin looked up at her, the weight of history pressing on his thoughts. “How much of Male Kampth did you read?”
“The whole thing.” Jaina’s face darkened at the memory.
“And how much of it did you take to heart?” There was a seriousness in Anduin’s tone, as if he was preparing for an answer he didn’t want to hear.
“None of it.” Jaina looked sharply at him, surprised by the question. “You know me better than that.”
Anduin let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t have to assume I can read your mind, Aunty. I can’t.” He paused, a new thought forming. “But… the internment camps in Pandaria… did his ideology influence you without you realizing?”
Jaina’s eyes flickered with a momentary pang of guilt. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about that. The camps, the segregation… it’s not something I’m proud of. Kel’Magnus’s poison seeped into the minds of many leaders, even after he was long gone.” She exhaled, feeling the weight of her admission. “It’s terrifying how ideology can linger and infect, even in those of us who think we’re above it.”
Anduin nodded gravely, understanding. “I’ve been thinking about Duskwood,” he began, shifting the conversation slightly. “The undead there… I’ve considered deforesting it, purifying the land with Lightforged tech. We could use the resources for reinforcements and ships.”
Jaina’s eyebrows raised. “That would take years. The Zandalari fleet could arrive in weeks.”
“I know.” Anduin pointed toward Stranglethorn Vale on the map. “But if I employ the Venture Company, it could go faster. Goblins aren’t the only ones they hire.”
Jaina sighed, skeptical. “Goblins are opportunists, Anduin. Are we willing to trust them with such a delicate operation? Do we even have the gold to fund this?”
Anduin looked up at her, determination set in his eyes. “I could issue IOU documents. We’ve been robbed by pirates enough times during the Legion invasion to know that gold is just a target. Besides, we’ve depended on adventurers to keep the economy going, right?”
“True,” Jaina admitted, “but adventurers work on goodwill and promises. Goblins… they won’t be so easy to keep in line.”
Anduin crossed his arms, leaning against the table. “I’ve always fallen asleep in financial meetings, but the last few weeks have been eye-opening. Teldrassil’s trade impact was significant. If we’d strengthened the Kaldorei economy, maybe they could’ve imported more weapons to defend themselves. Maybe we could’ve fortified their garrison.”
Jaina shook her head, her expression heavy. “Sylvanas would’ve attacked no matter what. But Teldrassil’s strength wasn’t in gold. They’ve always relied on natural resources to survive.”
Anduin nodded in agreement. “And Sylvanas knew that. She knew how to exploit their weaknesses—how to take those resources and use them to destabilize everything.” He crossed his arms, a flash of regret in his eyes. “Wasn’t Theramore’s economy crippled after you emptied your treasury to help Baine retake Thunder Bluff?”
Jaina sighed, a shadow of memory crossing her face. “Yes. That’s why I had to start taking in more apprentices. Kinndy Sparkshine was particularly talented with baked goods. I used them for fundraisers.” Her voice faltered, and the image of the pigtailed gnome, her parents, and the ash after the Theramore bombing surfaced in her mind. “But what does that have to do with anything?!” Her voice rose in frustration.
“Everything.” Anduin seemed taken aback by her anger. “Kingdoms aren’t sustained by military might alone, Jaina. They need provisions, financial stability, and trust—trust that the leader can make sound decisions and influence others effectively. That’s where the Venture Company has an edge. Unity, despite racial tensions.”
Jaina gave him a skeptical look. “Unity? For the sake of profit.”
Anduin rubbed the back of his head, acknowledging her doubt. “Even if Stormwind is drowning in debt, our people will gain work and experience in a diverse environment, despite racial divides. I’m not asking my people to welcome Horde members at their dinner tables, but this is a step in the right direction.”
She nodded slightly, though doubt lingered. “Duskwood has been overrun by undead for a long time, but it’s still a sacred burial ground for humans and Night Elves. They won’t approve.”
“This whole city will be a burial ground!” Anduin suddenly shouted, his frustration spilling over. He paused, visibly collecting himself, taking deep breaths before continuing more calmly, “If we don’t move forward with a plan… And I can’t be the only one wanting a middle ground between total surrender and complete annihilation of our enemies.” He shrugged, his voice softer now. “If I do nothing, my people will lose faith that I can lead.”
Jaina’s face hardened. “It sounds like you’re selling your people into slavery. The Wrynns aren’t known for paying their debts. They’ll likely sell your plans to the Horde, just like Katrana Prestor did.” She paused, realizing the weight of her words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Anduin looked away, clearly annoyed but holding back. “Do you realize how often you use stereotypes to generalize an entire group?” He shook his head. “And don’t worry about my mother—I never knew her.” He paused before continuing, more resolved. “Regardless of the likely outcome, this is the plan I’ll be moving forward with. You have a voice in the council, so I hope there will be better alternatives in the next meeting.”
As he walked toward the throne room, he stopped beside her, his tone soft but firm. “If you have a better plan, Jaina, I’ll look forward to hearing it.” Without waiting for a response, he took his seat on the throne, leaving the weight of the conversation lingering between them.
—–
Perfectia had been watching Anduin from the shadows, her heart pounding as she saw him pull out his compass and glance at the picture. She gasped, barely able to contain her emotions. He still has it, she thought, her mind racing. Maybe he missed her. Maybe he regretted breaking up with her. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she tried to work up the courage to approach him, each inhale fueling her desperate hope.
“Okay, this is it,” she whispered to herself, nodding determinedly. She took a bold step toward Stormwind Keep, ready to throw herself into Anduin’s arms. But before she could take another, a strong tug on her leather coat yanked her backward. She flew to the ground, her head hitting the stone floor with a thud. “Ouch…” she muttered, rubbing her head in confusion.
Expecting to find her coat caught on something, she looked up to see a stout red-haired dwarf standing over her, arms crossed, her braids rolled neatly on both sides of her head.
“Hey, Moira…” Perfectia groaned, her natural voice betraying her irritation.
Moira shook her head, looking down at the elf with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Hay’s for horses. I thought that was you,” she said, dragging Perfectia away from the keep by her coat.
Perfectia pouted, now being pulled by the collar. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice a mix of frustration and confusion.
“Away from him,” Moira replied bluntly.
“But I like him! I can’t believe you’re vag badgering me like this.” Perfectia protested.
“It’s been a while, Perfectia.”
“Could you not use my real name in public, please?” Perfectia hissed, glancing around nervously.
“What am I supposed to call you then?” Moira asked, her tone flat but curious.
Perfectia crossed her arms, glancing upward as she tried to remember the Night Elf name she’d chosen. “Melfina is fine. Just not in front of Anduin.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t recognize you?”
Perfectia shook her head, her voice tinged with sadness. “No, he didn’t.”
“Where are you taking me?” she repeated.
“Away from him,” Moira insisted. “He’s tried to kill you twice. I’ll drag you back to Silvermoon if I have to.”
Perfectia huffed. “He didn’t mean to. Besides, I have a mission.”
Moira stopped, letting go of her. “Did she send you?” she asked, her voice more serious now.
Perfectia turned, meeting Moira’s gaze with a nod. “She’s not as bad as you think.”
Moira’s expression hardened. “Where do your loyalties really stand? If you’re here on her orders, why were you looking at Anduin like that?”
Perfectia shrugged, her mind swimming in memories. “I know I should hate him, but… I just can’t let it go. I know your late husband was abusive, but this is different. We’re enemies, but…”
“You’re not an enemy, Melfina,” Moira interrupted, her voice softening. “Not to me.”
Perfectia’s face lit up, a smile spreading wide beneath her mask. Her golden eyes glowed brightly, overtaking the silver hue of her disguise.
Moira took a step back, alarm creeping into her voice. “Perfectia, control yourself! You know I hate—”
But before she could finish, Perfectia scooped her up in a tight hug, squeezing her with overwhelming affection. “Oh my gods, you’re so maximally adorable, I can’t stand it anymore!” she squealed, pressing her cheek against Moira’s in pure delight.
Moira squirmed, trying to free herself from the elf’s grip, her protests muffled by Perfectia’s enthusiastic embrace. “Perfectia, let me go!”
“I’M NOT KIDDING, LET GO OF ME RIGHT NOW!” Moira growled, struggling in Perfectia’s iron grip.
“I missed you so much, Moira!” Perfectia squeezed tighter, her overwhelming affection completely disregarding Moira’s protests.
“Get your tree trunks you call arms off me!” Moira huffed, pushing against Perfectia’s chest and face, grunting with frustration. After what felt like an eternity—about thirty seconds—Perfectia finally relented, setting her down.
Moira glared, adjusting her clothes with a huff.
“So,” Perfectia said, unphased, “do you wanna grab some cheese? I used to love the stuff they served in the inns, but I heard there are even better places around here.”
Moira eyed her suspiciously but then nodded. “Humans do make good cheese, but it always gives me gas.”
Perfectia blinked and then scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “Oh… right. Maybe not then.”
Moira chuckled, but quickly shifted the conversation. “So, what’s the mission? Your boss send you for some valuable intel?”
Perfectia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Why does everyone assume spies are just after secret info?”
“Don’t say ‘spy’ so loudly, Melfina!” Moira hissed, glancing around nervously.
“What? Spy? Spy, spy, spy…” Perfectia teased, lowering herself to Moira’s eye level with a mischievous grin. “Watch out, Moira, I might spy on you.”
“Cut it out! What if someone hears you?” Moira snapped, still glancing around, clearly on edge.
Perfectia straightened up, brushing it off. “As long as I don’t do anything suspicious, no one cares. Plus, I’ve already reintroduced myself to some of the guards—they know me.”
Moira’s eyes widened in disbelief. “There are guards that know you’re a spy?! Why would you—”
“They just don’t want me causing trouble,” Perfectia interrupted, shrugging. “And they appreciate a heads-up if something’s about to go down.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Eventually, everyone will know!” Moira exclaimed, throwing her hands up.
“You’re making a scene, Moira,” Perfectia whispered, bending down slightly, a sly grin spreading across her face. “You could blow my cover.”
Moira groaned, shaking her head.
“Besides,” Perfectia continued, “I’m just doing what other adventurers do—fighting, odd jobs, helping out the community. I spend time with the kids, write a few notes about it, and drop them at the dead drops outside the city. Blend in, be useful, and no one will want you to leave.”
Moira paused, frowning thoughtfully. “That’s… actually pretty clever.” She shrugged. “But what about all the things I’ve read about spies? You know, like MI-7 agents—sitting in full camouflage for days, or doing acrobatics to get past high-level security?”
Perfectia smirked, leaning in slightly. “Do you think most spies actually tell the truth? Doing crazy stunts like that is how you get caught.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “You got caught. Twice, if I remember right.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes. “Things got… complicated. Besides, back then I wasn’t even a spy. At least not when it counted.” She winked, clearly amused at the memory.
Moira shook her head with a sigh. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“If only you could stop the will of your heart,” Moira teased, laughing softly. She glanced back at Melfina, but her amusement quickly faded when she saw the paladin had stopped walking, her expression darkening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Melfina shook her head, her voice lower, tinged with a sadness Moira wasn’t expecting. “You’re right.”
Moira sighed, shrugging slightly, trying to brush off the weight of the moment. “You could have at least said ‘hello’ when you were in Stormwind last time. I was at that meeting when you yelled at Alleria.” There was a slight edge of complaint in her tone.
Melfina glanced sideways, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I wanted to.”
Moira tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Were you too busy falling in love?”
Melfina didn’t respond immediately, only offering a faint shrug, but the lack of denial spoke volumes.
Moira’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I know he still loves you.”
“Then why did he break up with me?” Melfina’s voice was soft, yet the question held a raw edge of pain.
Moira looked away, her own discomfort surfacing. “I don’t know,” she muttered, avoiding the question she couldn’t answer.
Noticing her hesitation, Melfina frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Moira replied quickly, shaking her head. “Why would you ask me that?”
Melfina placed her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing in thought. “You’re doing that thing with your fingers, tapping them together. You always do that when you want to say something but don’t.”
Moira tensed, her gaze sharpening. “Don’t do that, Melfina. Those memories aren’t yours.”
The words hit like a warning, cutting through the air between them. Melfina hesitated, her expression softening as the realization of what she had said settled in. “I—” She sighed deeply, shaking her head as if trying to clear the invading thoughts. “You’re right. It’s just… sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
Moira’s tone softened as well, her expression now tinged with concern. “It’s him, isn’t it? Alexandros’s memories?”
Melfina nodded slightly, a weariness in her eyes. “He knew Magni… and you, when you were a child.”
“That’s not the same,” Moira said gently. “Those memories… they aren’t yours to carry.”
Melfina took a deep breath, trying to shake off the overwhelming weight. “I’ll be fine. I just need to eat something, maybe pick up some supplies. Soap, new clothes, whatever I can find. If I’m not going to be taking in mana for a while, I’d better get used to it.” She turned as if to leave.
“Melfina, wait.” Moira’s hand reached out, her voice carrying an urgency that stopped her in her tracks.
Melfina paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Are you going to report me to the guards?”
Moira’s brow furrowed in confusion. “No, it’s not that. I was just wondering… have you met my father before?”
Melfina froze at the question. Her hand instinctively moved to her head, fingers tightening. “Yes, we’ve been friends since before you were—” She stopped herself abruptly, realizing the slip. A moment passed before she corrected herself, her voice more measured. “I mean, no. I’ve never met him.”
Moira studied her closely, the weight of the memories hanging between them. “I think he’d like to meet you.”
Melfina and Moira walked through the bustling streets of Stormwind, their arms full of various supplies as they made their way toward the Deeprun Tram. Moira, eager to fill the silence, spoke up, “So, my father stepped down from the Ironforge throne to commune with the heart of Azeroth. Now he’s… well, a crystalized blue statue that can still move.”
“Like a golem?” Melfina asked, intrigued.
Moira winced slightly, tilting her head. “Kind of? But he still has all his memories. He’s still my father, just… different.”
“Does he need to eat, sleep, or… you know, do other normal things?” Melfina pressed, her curiosity piqued.
Moira sighed softly. “Honestly, I don’t know. He’s been pretty distant since the transformation. It’s hard to tell what’s really going on with him.”
“No, I mean, does he talk in a creepy monotone, ‘I am a golem, I must destory all mortals’ or have a booming, god-like voice? Maybe he recites limericks now?” Melfina grinned. “I love a good limerick. Like—" She cleared her throat theatrically:
“There once was an elf with a song,
Who tripped and fell into a pond,
She never came out,
And without a doubt,
It’s probably because she was blonde.”
Moira burst into laughter. “Is that one about you?”
Melfina feigned innocence. “No.” She paused, then laughed. “Maybe… Anyway, that’s interesting and all, Moira, but—” She hesitated.
“But what?” Moira asked, sensing the shift in her tone.
“How do you know about everything that happened? You weren’t there for a lot of it, right?”
Moira shrugged casually. “Adventurers aren’t exactly known for being tight-lipped. A few drunken confessions here, some loose tongues there, and you start piecing it all together.”
Melfina chuckled. “Maybe you should write a book.”
Moira shook her head firmly. “Nah. There are archivists who handle that sort of thing. How’s your own writing coming along, though?”
Melfina waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not writing a book.”
“But I’ve seen you writing a lot,” Moira countered, raising an eyebrow.
Melfina rolled her eyes. “It’s just therapeutic. You can read it when I’m dead.”
Moira let out a small laugh. “Incriminating yourself again, are you?”
Melfina smirked. “Always. But I don’t need to write it down to do that.”
Moira crossed her arms, thinking back. “Honestly, with everything I’ve heard about your escapades in the Great Sea, I’m surprised you don’t have a million-gold bounty on your head from both factions.”
Melfina laughed, reminiscing. “Well, at least if that happened, the factions would finally be working together.” She winked, recalling her pirate days. “Have you heard from Lane Bonny or Blackgrave recently?”
Moira nodded, her expression darkening slightly. “They got greedy, found a ship loaded with gold, but they were caught not long after. Blackgrave was sentenced to hang. Lane… well, she was pardoned because she was carrying a kid.”
Melfina’s smile faltered as she remembered her time in the Stockades. “I haven’t seen any gallows there, and Blackgrave wasn’t in any of the cells when I looked around.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying there’s more to the story?”
Melfina nodded thoughtfully. “Always is.”
“It was the Kul Tirans who caught them, so I don’t know if Blackgrave’s alive or dead,” Moira explained, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Melfina’s expression darkened as anger resurfaced. “I told Lane we could’ve joined the Horde together. Think of the riches we could’ve taken from Darnassus.”
Moira shot her a knowing look, her own frustration simmering beneath the surface. “Well, she would’ve been disappointed,” she muttered.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Melfina sighed as they both stepped off the tram. “Where’s Lane now?”
“If she’s not locked up, then somewhere. Kul Tirans aren’t exactly fond of orcs, but I can’t picture her scrubbing floors for a living.”
Melfina considered that, her brow furrowed. “You might be wrong. If she’s caring for a kid—half-breed or not—they might’ve taken her in. Are there any pirates left in Kul Tiras?”
Moira shrugged. “The Kul Tirans don’t hold the Alliance in high regard since we’ve been harboring some of their criminals. I’ve thought about writing pardon letters, but… having contacts within the Bloodsail pirates had its uses.” She leaned in closer, her voice low. “But if I did that, it’d just prove them right—that I wasn’t just harboring pirates, but employing them. So… let’s keep this between us, okay?”
“What about The Revenge?” Melfina asked.
“The ship or literal revenge?” Moira asked, smirking.
“The ship.”
Moira shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I doubt the sea folk in Kul Tiras would just toss away a ship that fast.”
Melfina’s eyes glinted with determination. “I need to find a way over there. Find Lane and Blackgrave, and get The Revenge back up and running.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “And are you doing this for the Alliance or the Horde?”
“Neither,” Melfina answered confidently. “Pirates were free from the racial tensions that this war’s based on. If I can steal ships from the Kul Tirans, I can rally more people to a neutral cause with promises of gold.”
Moira chuckled. “Were you ever in charge of that ship?”
“No,” Melfina admitted, “but I knew how everything worked. Besides, I preferred being in the thick of the fight, not standing in the back giving orders.”
“Aye, you’re starting to sound like him now,” Moira said with a wry smile.
“Who?”
“Alexandros.”
“Didn’t he eventually take over the Silver Hand?”
Moira glanced at her. “You’d know more about that than I would.”
Melfina’s gaze grew distant as she recalled kneeling in the Silver Hand Mansion, taking the oaths to lead with the Ashbringer in hand. She could see it all so clearly in her mind, even feel the sense of pride Alexandros had, standing before the admiring soldiers. The energy of the crowd was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like her own memory. But then she shook her head, grounding herself in the present. “Of course,” she murmured, realizing how vivid the memory felt—but it wasn’t hers.
“Where are we going?” Melfina asked, suddenly aware they were being led away from the Ironforge throne.
“I thought we were meeting Magni Bronzebeard in Ironforge,” Melfina continued, confusion setting in. “But you said he’s not king anymore.”
“We’re going to Silithus,” Moira stated, her tone casual.
Melfina groaned, recalling the last time she was there. “This doesn’t have anything to do with MI-7, does it? I’d rather steer clear of them. Spies can usually sniff out one of their own, you know.”
Moira shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. It’s going to be a long ride to Menethil Harbor, though. I grabbed some wine from that cheese shop earlier. Want some?” She held out the bottle with a grin.
Melfina hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m only a social drinker.”
Moira raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming. “Aren’t we being social right now?”
Melfina chuckled and took the bottle from her. “Good point,” she said, taking a swig.
As the wine flowed, Melfina started to lose control of her horse, to the point where Moira had to tie her reins to her own saddle. The more Melfina drank, the more her inhibitions slipped, and soon enough, her words spilled out in a wave of drunken confessions. She rambled on about how much she still loved Anduin, her insecurities about her appearance, and how Sylvanas had become like the mother she never had.
“I love them both so much,” she slurred, her voice thick with emotion. “Why do they have to keep fighting all the time?” She complained, her words trailing off into a mix of frustration and sadness.
Moira glanced over at her, her expression softening. “It’s complicated,” she said, but Melfina, too drunk to focus on any explanation, simply sighed heavily, lost in her conflicting feelings.
“I know, Melfina. You’re going to need to keep quiet about that—we’re almost at the boat,” Moira whispered as they neared Menethil Harbor.
The ride from Ironforge had been long, and though it seemed like they were drinking together, Moira had been taking small sips and spitting some out when Melfina wasn’t looking. By the time they reached Moira’s boat, Melfina was passed out, slumped forward in the saddle. Moira had to carry her aboard and lay her down in the boat’s small cabin.
A few minutes after being settled into bed, Melfina stirred awake, but something was different. Her voice, now deep and masculine, grumbled, “Really, Moira? You had to get her drunk?”
Moira sighed, crossing her arms. “You know she hates it when you possess her, Alexandros.”
“It’s not just me in here,” Alexandros said through Melfina’s body, his tone resigned.
“How many are in there?” Moira asked, her voice soft but curious.
“Seven in total, including Perfectia’s soul. Four of them have been obedient, but her grandfather… he’s becoming more problematic.”
Moira’s brow furrowed. “Has he taken over before?”
Alexandros nodded, still in Melfina’s form. “The first time was after a fight with Jaina Proudmoore. I was too weak to hold him back. The last time was during the reenactment of Arthas’s undead invasion. He thought he could change the outcome, save his daughter from being murdered again.”
“I’m sorry he had to relive that,” Moira said, her voice softening.
“That’s not the point,” Alexandros snapped, his frustration clear. “The point is, he now knows he can overpower me. But the only thing stopping him is his care for Perfectia—he won’t take over completely because he doesn’t want to hurt her.”
Moira stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “What does that mean?”
"It means that if it’s not in my granddaughter’s best interest, I’m not going to let you do it,” another voice cut through, this time with a distinct accent. Melfina’s eyes flickered blue, a stark contrast to the gold they had been moments ago, glowing beneath the glasses perched on her nose.
“I told you!” Another voice—Alexandros—shouted as her eyes changed back to gold. “You can’t control all of them! They’re under my command, and they won’t listen to a cold-blooded tyrant like you!”
Moira watched, concerned but calm, as she observed the shift in personalities. “Her memories are merging with yours, Alexandros,” she said softly.
Alexandros, still speaking through Melfina, let out a frustrated sigh. “I know. If I fade away completely, Kel’Magnus will take over, and he has over 8,000 years on me. She might end up as bloodthirsty as he was.”
“I would never!” the other voice snapped, Melfina’s eyes returning to blue. “She fought tooth and nail to free her people from Frostmourne’s grip, and you took away the chance for her to land the final blow. Who saved her from suicide? From alcohol poisoning? From dehydration when she was left to cook in Ragefire Chasm? You would have let her die just so you could be free?”
“I let you in because I needed your help,” Alexandros growled.
“And I am helping,” the other voice retorted, its accent thicker now.
Moira stepped forward, her tone gentle but firm. “Can I just speak to the grandfather, Alexandros? You don’t need to fight him anymore.”
For a moment, the body went still, then Melfina’s eyes turned a steady blue as a new voice emerged. “What do you want, dwarf?” The tone was sharp, but not hostile.
Moira met the gaze, her voice steady. “Why are you fighting Alexandros?”
The figure tilted its head. “You speak Thalassian, yes?”
Moira shook her head. “No.”
The figure let out a small sigh. “It is best for Perfectia in the long term. If it were up to Alexandros, she would be a husbandless, battle-scarred, nameless soldier on some forgotten battleground. She deserves so much more than that.” He paused, his expression hardening. “I was brought into the… what’s the word… ‘collection?’ After I was freed from Frostmourne. After years of torment in that blade, I endured the torture of Garrosh’s ‘weight loss program,’ and I watched as she spiraled into crippling depression. I couldn’t let her die—not after she succeeded where I failed.”
“But you were a tyrant,” Moira reminded him, her tone even but questioning.
He nodded slowly, a flicker of regret crossing Melfina’s face. “Yes, people called me that. I rarely cared for others. I was just a boy during the Sundering.” His hands moved, gesturing as if trying to pull memories from the air. “My mother and father were part of Queen Azshara’s guard. I assume they were eventually transformed into Naga when our city was consumed by the tides. I remember the destruction, the water swallowing everything—drowning me. But I woke up on a stray rock, only to be picked up by the blue dragonflight.”
Moira’s curiosity deepened. “Your name?”
He straightened slightly, as if reclaiming a part of himself. “’Ow rude of me. Kel’Magnus Dawnlight, formerly known as Kel’Magnus Reignsong of Zin-Azshari,” he introduced himself with a slight bow, his accent thick but deliberate.
“You lost your home, just like Perfectia did,” Moira observed, her voice softening.
He nodded, a shadow crossing his face. “I raised so many—what do you call zhem—'sprouts,’ trying to recreate someone worthy to lead ze Sunburst Navy. I pushed discipline to ze edge of madness, bordering on syphilitic insanity, but I could never recreate what I lost. Centuries clawing for survival, endlessly battling zat bottomless hunger… I raised spoiled, over-entitled brats, royal blood in zheir veins but no steel in zheir souls. At best, I made zhem ambitious—but always reeking of self-entitlement.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Talanas Windrunner, that fool, accused me of trying to make a forest out of grass seeds while his three daughters were true trees. He might’ve been right. I was trying to build an army from ze fruit of my loins, but… it was never enough.”
Moira nodded slowly. “And Perfectia?”
“When she returned from her kidnapping, she mourned the deaths of trolls, Moira. She felt loss… and for ze first time in centuries, I felt something I hadn’t in so long—empathy.” He paused, the word seeming foreign on his tongue. “That pain was just ze prelude. Bastard or not, she would have been worthy.”
He shook his head, a hint of regret in his voice. “Bastard? I can’t believe I let that sense of entitlement rub off on me.”
“Do you still feel entitled?” Moira asked, watching him carefully.
He shrugged, his eyes distant. “In my final years? Why not? My ambition drove me to hunt every Naga outpost I could find, searching for that cursed witch Azshara, who destroyed my home and twisted my people into abominations. I dreamed of killing her, of freeing my kin from that curse. But as a High Elf, my reach was limited. Finding their underwater outposts was difficult enough—annihilating them was even riskier.”
A bitter chuckle escaped him. “Night Elves screamed at me countless times for ‘polluting’ the oceans with my chemical warfare. But I didn’t care. I hunted Naga relentlessly. Our cowardly king? He wouldn’t even put boots on sand to fight them toe to fin. Only the Valarjar had ze guts to join me, and together we killed krakens, took war trophies… glorious times. But after 5,000 years of hunting, I grew restless. I stopped looking and tried to enjoy what I’d built. I thought, perhaps, someone would want Azshara’s head as a trophy. But no. Everyone was more interested in studying the arcane. Everyone wanted to be a mage.”
Moira tapped her fingers together thoughtfully. “Wow… and I thought Perfectia’s accent was thick,” she muttered, half to herself. She glanced at him, realizing he had paused. “Oh, you’re done?”
“Yes,” he replied curtly.
“Have you always been this loquacious?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He laughed heartily, a deep rumble. “I’ve been a general longer zan anyone alive. I’ve been known to get on a soapbox from time to time.”
“I could tell,” Moira quipped. “I was about to start falling asleep.”
Kel’Magnus grinned but then turned serious. “You’re her friend, and for zat, I am grateful. But… did you say something to Anduin?”
Moira sighed, her posture stiffening. “I get the feeling you knew I was lying.”