Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(7)

[Perfectia-moon-guard]

Isirami explained to me once, during a particularly strained conversation, that my sense of humor was something she didn’t like about me. At first, her words stung—how could someone I loved and who had loved me so deeply say that? But when I thought about it, I realized she wasn’t wrong. My humor had shifted, become a defense mechanism, something that came to the surface after the surgery. It wasn’t the soft, self-deprecating jokes that used to lighten the mood between us. Now, my humor was sharper, more biting—an armor I wore to protect myself from the vulnerability that terrified me.

The changes I underwent, physically and emotionally, brought out a different side of me. The pain, the procedures, the constant struggle for control—all of it had shaped me into someone new. And this new version of myself, with her broad shoulders and unyielding strength, had a different approach to coping. Jokes about our intimacy, crude and mistimed, had started slipping out more frequently. It was as though I’d taken on the persona of a soldier who laughed at the darkness, who needed the jokes to distance herself from everything that was going wrong.

But Isirami never asked for that. She never needed that version of me. The person she had fallen in love with was soft, fragile—someone who needed her, someone who relied on her for both physical and emotional support. The humor that emerged after my transformation was not the kind that brought us closer; it created yet another layer of distance, another reminder of how much I had changed. She would tell me, in moments of frustration, that it felt like I was slipping away, that the person she loved had been swallowed by someone she didn’t recognize. And as much as I wanted to deny it, I knew there was truth in her words.

As I read over my writing, it becomes clearer to me. The humor that emerged from my recovery, the cutting remarks, the jokes that didn’t land—it wasn’t who I had been before. It was something I used to cope with the power I’d gained, a way to try and take control of a situation that had left me feeling so out of place. And while it made me feel better, it made Isirami feel as though I was pushing her away, losing the tenderness that had once defined our love.

She told me that she didn’t like it—my new sense of humor. And maybe she didn’t like the person I had become, either. In those quiet moments, I knew that I couldn’t fault her for it. After all, I was still coming to terms with who I had become, too.

So, here’s my closing statement: it’s been four years since that time, and some scars still linger, like the digestive issues I’ve already detailed. The dyspareunia, I managed to work through with a lot of therapy. I’ve been able to make love and even self-pleasure since I started working at the garrison in Draenor, but the pirate’s life taught me a brutal truth—I can’t conceive. Even though I still get the itch now and then, meaningless encounters feel like trying to live off sweets and ice cream: satisfying in the moment, but ultimately empty.

I’ve been with another Draenei while at sea, but it was nothing like being with Oranio. I’ve had five miscarriages, each one more devastating than the last, and every time I’ve had to throw a tiny, lifeless form into the ocean, it’s felt like a deep, personal tragedy. That’s why I romanticize having a beautiful, successful pregnancy or why I’d write 20-plus pages about one or two encounters—because that’s the only time it felt real, and it probably always will be. Scarring, Asherman Syndrome, whatever it is—when I gave myself to Oranio, everything worked as it should, without pain or struggle.

Since Oranio died, physical recovery has been a long, grueling journey, and while I’ve grown stronger, emotionally I’m still on shaky ground. I thought random encounters would help, like ointment on a burn, but instead, they’ve left me feeling nauseous, disgusted with myself. I don’t feel drawn to anyone—men, women, or anything in between—like I did with Oranio and Isirami Fairwind. No pirates or captives have left a mark strong enough to even remember their names.

And the guilt of letting Oranio die hasn’t faded. There are so many things I could have said or done that might have kept him from that portal room in Dalaran. Sometimes, I miss the pirate’s life, the freedom of it all, but I walked away from that too.

I’ve been writing for over 24 hours now, and it’s been a year since I last opened this book. Holy cow dung—54 pages? I need to get some sleep. Editing this is going to be so much fun.

I Never Loved You

I never loved you, though

Your care kept me alive;

You knew my wounds ran deeper still

Than time could ever bind.

You let me in, with open doors

And shared the bed that night,

Without a judgment or a word,

My flaws you made alright.

Perhaps it wasn’t just to find

The one that I had been;

But to endure what had been lost,

To face the pain within.

And in that quiet, fragile space

You held what I could not,

Where once my brokenness remained,

You steadied every thought.

You weren’t just “mine,” a simple name,

But more complex than that.

I Never Loved You.

You wanted love, I couldn’t give,

A truth that stings me still.

You cared for me as helpless child,

And never turned away,

I had no strength to give it back,

No matter how I’d try.

You held me through my darkest dreams

And nightmares of the past.

The mothering we never spoke

Was there, though shadows cast.

But as we healed, it grew too raw,

Too fractured to repair,

I couldn’t reach the shattered parts

That lingered deep in there.

You knew the paths that scared my soul,

And made me face my fear,

To push beyond the comfort held

And force the wounds to heal.

There were dark moments, bitter rage,

Your hands had pressed too far,

But part of me, I had to see

I’d not gone fully numb.

Between the talks of care and rules,

Control would sometimes blur;

I knew the power in your gaze

Would guide me, take me there.

And though I hated feeling small,

I needed all your strength,

For every time you met my eye,

You knew what must be faced.

No, love was never what we had,

It was survival’s thread,

A binding built of darkness drawn,

To help the broken mend.

You were the cruelness that I faced,

The cure that held me tight,

I needed you with bitter thanks,

With no love to provide.

In those lost moments, I could feel

What meant to let things go,

And in the loss of holding on,

I found some strange new growth.

It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t kind,

But real, and it was true;

It held me till the time was done—

And then I lost it, too.

Editor

Dear Diary,
I really need an editor. Or at least someone willing to slap me every time I write something overly dramatic. But hey, let’s kick things off on a high note since the last entry was a real tearjerker. Honestly, I’m just glad I managed to write it all down—kind of like finally unclogging an emotional toilet that’s been backed up for years. Maybe someday, I’ll even say it out loud. Fingers crossed, and all that.

Oh, and about the lock on this book? Yeah, it’s rigged to break the moment I kick the bucket. Lovely gift from Lirath Windrunner. You know, like, “Hey, when you die, let all your secrets spill out for the world to see!” Thanks, buddy. It’s set up to reveal everything I’ve scribbled down, along with the little promise I made to him. Something about keeping my mouth shut on whether he’s still alive or not. He might be, he might not be—who knows? Anyway, one day I’ll be gone, the lock will snap, and everyone can read this mess. Although, let’s be real—the lock’s not what’s going to keep people from reading it. It’s my tragic sentence structure.

Speaking of tragic, let’s talk about Sylvanas Windrunner. That woman has gone through more outfit changes than a fashion-forward zombie playing dress-up. She went from “Corpse Commander Chic” to “Yes, I’m dead, but I’m still serving looks.” Remember when she basically lived under that hood? I used to wonder if she even had hair or if the whole thing was just glued to her scalp. Back then, her skin looked like old parchment—y’know, that kind of “I’ve-seen-things-you-wouldn’t-believe” texture. But now? She’s a porcelain doll with cyan-blue skin and cheekbones sharp enough to double as a weapon. Sylvanas could out-model all her sisters, especially Vereesa, who’s been hit by the triple threat of marriage, command, and kids. Someone get that elf a spa day, please.

But hey, life’s tough when you’re a High Elf. Vereesa’s out here trying to keep it together with regular food like the rest of us. Meanwhile, I’m over here barely tasting anything, because guess what? I’ve got synesthesia, and colors are way more interesting than flavors. Honestly, trying to eat and run at the same time is like someone’s constantly shooting party poppers in my face. Bright lights, colors exploding everywhere—it’s like a fireworks show I didn’t ask for. And yes, I’ve tripped and fallen because of it, and no, it’s not as graceful as it sounds.

I don’t have the patience for sitting down to eat like a civilized person, especially when you have to keep one eye out for backstabbing Alliance members. Plus, the whole eating and, you know, dealing with the aftermath—it’s just messy. Give me mana any day of the week. It’s like slurping up magic smoothies that make your body hum with energy. Way better than fish and rice, even if I do miss the bakery smells from Dalaran.

Could I survive on the blood of mana-infused beings? Sure. Would it turn me into a wannabe vampire? Absolutely. Red eyes, fangs, hair turning white—it’s a slippery slope, folks, and before you know it, you’re an extra in a Gilnean soap opera. And those guys think it’s cool! Spoiler alert: it’s not cool. Ignorance truly is bliss.

And let’s be real, Sylvanas might be on that very same blood diet. How else did she go from “frumpy undead commander” to “elven icon of the Horde”? At this point, Sylvanas isn’t even Sin’dorei anymore—she’s just… Sylvanas. I used to call her “Ranger General,” and she’d give me that look, like I’d just asked if her armor was from the bargain bin at Undercity. So, I stopped trying. She’s Sylvanas, and somehow, she’ll always find a way to be more undead than the rest of us.

Here’s what really gets me: Arthas wanted everyone undead so he could fight the Burning Legion. Then Deathwing was like, “Nah, let’s just end all life to keep the Legion away.” And Garrosh? He turned the Horde into an orc-only exclusive just so he could fight the Legion, and even went back in time for it. And in the end? The Legion showed up anyway, and now they’re gone. All that drama, all those world-ending schemes, and what did we learn? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I guess the universe just loves reminding us that it’s got a twisted sense of humor. My life’s been one big, repetitive joke, but at least now I’m in on it.

The World Tree

I feel sick—deeply, deeply sick. No matter how hard I scrub, I can’t seem to get clean. The acrid stench of smoke and blood clings to my clothes and skin, and the heat from the still-smoldering flames licks at my flesh, as if punishing me for what I had done. The eerie silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning tree, makes the weight of my actions impossible to ignore. The open bath is supposed to wash it all away, but it doesn’t. I’ve scrubbed until my skin is raw, red, and itching, but the sense of filth won’t leave. I helped her do it—I helped Sylvanas Windrunner burn down the World Tree, the sacred heart of the Night Elves’ birthright.

This is what I get for not paying attention. For blindly doing what I was told—killing, destroying, taking—never questioning why. I was honored when Sylvanas asked me to work with her; she was my long-time hero, a figure I had always looked up to. We were both warriors molded by our pain, both survivors of transformations that left us scarred but stronger. She was everything I wanted to be: fierce, resilient, and unbreakable. I saw her as a kindred spirit, someone who had faced death and clawed her way back, just like I had. But there was something else about her too, something magnetic that pulled me in, that made me want to be close, to bask in the glow of her presence. I admired her cunning, her tenacity, and the way she moved—so sure of herself, every step filled with purpose. I wanted to see how she overcame every impossible obstacle, how she wielded her strength like a weapon, and I wanted her to see me the same way—strong, dependable, capable of anything.

It was just another day, another job, a mission that should have been routine. The rewards were nothing special, some lukewarm praise and a few handfuls of gold. But working with her, being in her presence, seeing the fire in her eyes—it was intoxicating. The way she commanded a room, how her voice could cut through the noise, leaving everyone hanging on her every word. There was a captivating darkness to her, a twisted elegance that made her impossible to look away from. I craved her approval; every glance she threw my way, every fleeting smile, felt like the warmth of the sun breaking through the coldest of winters. And I was eager to prove myself worthy of it. So when she pointed us toward Malfurion Stormrage, when she set her sights on breaking him, I didn’t hesitate. The thought of putting him in a world of pain thrilled me—because it meant I was doing something she wanted, something she would see.

And I did.

But now, standing in the ashes of that moment, I wonder: could I have stopped her? Was there something I could have done, something I could have said, to pull her back from the brink before she went down this road? I think of the Sylvanas I once knew, the one who was a defender of her people, a leader who fought against impossible odds. I thought we were the same—two warriors hardened by our pasts, united by our need to keep fighting. But what had she gone through that I hadn’t seen? What pain had festered inside her that drove her to this? Was there something hidden beneath her perfect composure, something I had missed while I was too busy basking in her shadow?

I see her now, not as the hero I once idolized, but as someone consumed by rage, by hatred. And I hate myself for not seeing it sooner. Watching her lead the Forsaken and the Blood Elves from ruin to prosperity felt like witnessing an impossible miracle—she was everything I wanted to be: a symbol of resilience and hope for my own people. But I had been so caught up in my own desire to be noticed, to be close to her, that I missed the warning signs. Sylvanas made wielding that kind of influence look effortless, while I stumbled with every step I took toward leadership. She wasn’t just fighting a war; she was waging a battle against life itself, against anything that reminded her of hope, of joy, of anything good. She had become the embodiment of pain, and I had been too blinded by her presence, by the way she made me feel, to see the truth.

So now, the flames of the World Tree burn not just the home of the Night Elves, but the image I had built of Sylvanas, and of myself. She was a leader, a symbol of strength, but she was also a warning—a reminder that even the strongest can lose their way. And I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, if I had paid attention, if I had been the friend she needed instead of the soldier she used, things could have been different. If I hadn’t been so lost in the way she made the world fade away, maybe I would have seen the cracks in her armor, the pain beneath her flawless facade.

But now, it’s too late. I helped her do this. And I don’t know if I can ever make it right.

I told my friend from the second day I was in the Horde to throw his ax at Malfurion’s back. He knew what he did was dishonorable, but I told him this was the lesser evil, that he’d saved our Warchief.

Malfurion looked up at me, struggling on all fours, his body shaking as he tried to pull himself up with an ax lodged in his back. His eyes, once so full of wisdom, were now glazed with pain. “Wait… I know you. I saved you and your father, the alcoholic Highlord Perf—”

His words cut deeper than I’d expected. Before he could finish, I lashed out, my plate boot connecting with his groin in a vicious kick. Malfurion let out a high-pitched cry, collapsing back into the dirt, gasping and writhing.

“Every word you say just pisses me off,” I snarled, my voice tight with a fury I could barely contain. “You didn’t save me, you sentenced me to slavery! You zink sending us to Outland, to Tempest Keep, was some kind of rescue?” I leaned down, my eyes blazing with rage. “You ‘anded me over to be worked to ze bone in ze mines. You condemned me, and you expect me to zank you for zat?”

I pulled back to kick him again, ready to vent every ounce of my rage on his fallen form, but Saurfang’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I glared up at Saurfang, half expecting him to be smirking like he usually did at my outbursts, but his face was grim, and there was no amusement in his eyes. “What?!” I snapped, seething with frustration. “He deserves worse.” But Saurfang’s silence was heavier than any reprimand. I wanted to tell him to lighten up, to let me have this one moment, but his expression silenced me. I scoffed, tearing my gaze away. “Fine. Pull out your ax and bind his limbs. I’ll stop the bleeding. A clean death is too good for him.”

Saurfang nodded, but his movements were slow, deliberate, as if every action weighed on him. He yanked the ax from Malfurion’s back, and held him down and I thrust the Ashbringer into the wound, searing the flesh with holy fire. Malfurion convulsed in agony, his screams piercing the air, and a smile curled at the corners of my lips. For a fleeting moment, I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, a rush of vindication that surged through me like fire. He deserved this, I told myself—every ounce of pain.

But then, through the haze of my own fury, I caught a glimpse of Saurfang. He wasn’t just watching—he was frowning, his gaze filled with worry, almost disbelief. He knew. He knew I wasn’t doing this to stop the bleeding; I was burning Malfurion out of some sick, twisted desire for revenge. The way he looked at me—it wasn’t just disapproval; it was fear. Fear of what I was becoming. The realization hit like a slap, and the satisfaction that had surged through me moments before suddenly felt hollow. “That’s enough!” He screamed.

“Get away from him, harlot!” Tyrande’s voice rang out, sharp and furious, as she rushed toward us.

I raised the Ashbringer, pointing it at her with a cold, defiant glare. “So the husband comes to save his wife yet again. How many times is that going to be, Tyrande? Come for a parlay?”

She ignored me, her eyes only on Malfurion, broken and defeated on the ground. “You didn’t kill him,” she said, her voice strained. “Why?”

Saurfang, still kneeling beside Malfurion, stared at the blood on his ax as if it were a stain that could never be cleansed. “I struck without honor,” he confessed, his voice heavy. “I did not deserve to end him.”

“But we’ll take ‘im prisoner,” I insisted, unwilling to let go of my anger, of the satisfaction of seeing Malfurion brought low.

Saurfang’s hand found my arm again, gripping tight, and he shook his head.

I looked up at him, disbelief and frustration warring within me. “We need ‘im,” I argued, trying to pull free from his hold. “Let go of me. I’ll deal with ‘er myself.”

Tyrande’s voice was low, dangerous. “I’m taking my… wife.” She said in a mocking sarcastic tone, “Try to stop me, or let that paladin go, and I’ll end you both.”

I turned to her, my rage boiling over. “TE VA MERDE!” I shouted in Thalassian, every word dripping with contempt.

Tyrande merely smirked, her expression almost pitying. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

I looked back at Saurfang, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. “Don’t make me do zis, Varok. I need zis. Ze Horde needs zis. LET ME GO!”

He looked away from me, his face heavy with the weight of a decision he’d already made. “If you take him to Darnassus, I won’t be able to stop her when we conquer it… so flee somewhere far from here, and survive.”

Tyrande’s eyes were locked on mine as she began her teleport spell. I thrashed against Saurfang’s grip, pulling, twisting, biting, but his hold was iron. And then, in a blink, Tyrande and Malfurion were gone. He released me, and I stumbled forward, seething with rage. “WHY DID YOU DO ZAT?! We were supposed to bring Sylvanas ‘is ‘ead! What are we supposed to say when we walk to zat beach empty-handed?!”

“Perfectia,” Saurfang said, his voice a mix of authority and sadness, "this isn’t honor. If we take him to Darnassus. Let them go, and let them survive. So you can tell her the truth.” His voice was calm, unyielding, and it stung worse than any insult.

I slapped him hard across the face, my palm ringing with the impact, but he barely flinched. His eyes stayed cold, unfazed. I will," I spat, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were empty. The rage had burned out, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, aching emptiness.

I stormed down to the beach, each step heavy with dread and anger. Sylvanas was ahead, commanding the troops, her presence like a dark shadow looming over everything. Nathanos was beside her, silent and watchful. Sylvanas’s eyes were locked on a captured Night Elf general, a woman whose defiance was fading under Sylvanas’s steely gaze. I grabbed Sylvanas by the shoulder, trying to pull her attention. “Warchief, Saur–”

She silenced me with a single, sharp gesture, pressing a finger to my lips as if I were a misbehaving child. Her eyes glinted with something dark and mocking. “Shhhhhhh… child. The grownups need to have a discussion,” she said, her voice sweet and condescending, like a mother humoring a tantrum.

I flinched back, feeling suddenly small and powerless. The dismissal cut deeper than I wanted to admit, and a flicker of doubt wormed its way into my mind. Was my loyalty worth this?

“A discussion?” The Night Elf general coughed, her voice ragged but defiant. “To negotiate? Why? You’ve already won. Only innocence remains in the tree.”

Sylvanas leaned in, her posture languid but her presence suffocating, looming over the captive like a vulture savoring its prey. “This is war,” she said, her voice dripping with icy contempt.

“No… this is hatred.” The general’s eyes flickered, glancing at me for a fleeting second before returning to Sylvanas. “Rage. Windrunner, you were a defender of your people. Do you not remember?”

Sylvanas’s face tightened, her smile flickering into something sharper, colder. She leaned close to the general’s ear, her words barely audible, dripping with venom. “I remember a fall,” she whispered, and whatever she said next was too faint for me to hear, lost in the breeze. But the look on the general’s face—tear-streaked and broken—told me everything. Sylvanas stepped back, her eyes still on the general, unblinking, unforgiving. “Life is pain, hope fails. Now you understand.”

The general’s tears spilled, silent and steady, as she held Sylvanas’s gaze. “Don’t grieve,” Sylvanas continued, her tone almost mocking. “You’ll soon join your loved ones.”

“I grieve for you,” the general choked out, her voice cracking. “You’ve made life your enemy, and that is a war you’ll never win. You can kill us, but you can’t kill hope.”

Sylvanas straightened, her face twisting with a mix of disdain and amusement. “Can’t I?” She grabbed the general’s chin, forcing her to look at the World Tree in the distance, its branches sprawling like veins against the sky. Sylvanas stood tall, her presence like an unrelenting storm. “Burn it.”

The order hung in the air, heavy and final. My heart dropped, my breath catching in my throat. I stared at Sylvanas, disbelief freezing me in place. This wasn’t war—it was something else entirely, something monstrous. Was this truly what I had pledged my loyalty to? “But she said there are only—”

“BURN IT!” Sylvanas’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and furious. Her eyes blazed with a manic light, the madness of someone who had long since abandoned any hope of redemption. I flinched back, feeling suddenly small and powerless.

I watched in horror as Nathanos, ever obedient, set the catapults ablaze. The first volley struck, igniting the great tree in an inferno of screams and searing light. I turned to Saurfang, my hands trembling, my stomach churning with disgust and disbelief. “Varok, there are… children.”

His eyes were distant, hollow. “I know.”

I glanced at Sylvanas, her face illuminated by the growing flames, her expression almost serene as she watched the tree burn. There was no honor here, no justice, just raw, unbridled destruction. I felt my fists clench, my breath come in ragged gasps. This wasn’t what I had signed up for. This wasn’t the war I had wanted to fight.

Sylvanas had always been a symbol of strength to me, a hero who had defied death and emerged unbroken. But then, as I stood beside her in the flickering light of the burning tree, I realized just how far she had fallen—and how far I had fallen with her.

We both looked at Sylvanas, who was almost entranced by the destruction, her eyes flickering with a dangerous, almost ecstatic light. She looked as though she might break into a dance, swaying to the screams of the burning Night Elves. The sight of her made my stomach turn, and I glanced at Saurfang beside me. His face was etched with disgust, his usually stoic demeanor cracking under the weight of the atrocity unfolding before us.

“There is no honor in this,” Saurfang growled, his voice thick with restrained fury as he stepped forward. “They will come for us now. All of them.” He spoke as if each word weighed a ton, heavy with the inevitability of what was to come, but Sylvanas didn’t even look at him. She was too absorbed in her own dark triumph. Ignored and visibly defeated, Saurfang turned his gaze to me. His eyes, usually stern and resolute, were now filled with a quiet, painful disappointment. “You can ‘tell’ on me if you still want to,” he muttered, almost as if daring me to say something—anything.

I shook my head, a pit forming in my stomach. He stared at me a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before turning his back on the inferno and starting the long, solitary walk back toward Orgrimmar. I watched him go, feeling his judgment heavy on my shoulders, a reminder of what I had allowed myself to become. Saurfang’s retreat was not just physical—it was a moral withdrawal, a silent condemnation of everything that was happening, of everything that I was complicit in. He hadn’t just walked away from the burning tree; he was walking away from us, from Sylvanas, from everything that was wrong.

I stood there, watching the flames lick up the great boughs of the World Tree, and for the first time, the weight of my actions fully hit me. I had always disliked Tyrande Whisperwind for her relentless sense of right and wrong, for her stubborn refusal to compromise. But now, I found myself envying her clear-cut morality. No one deserved this—not even her. The World Tree was the heart of the Night Elves, just as the Sunwell was ours. I knew too well the pain of watching something so sacred be reduced to ash. The elders, the children—if the World Tree was anything like the Sunwell, they wouldn’t just lose their home; they would lose a part of themselves.

I prayed silently that somehow, some part of it would survive. That the Night Elves would not suffer the same loss I had endured. I prayed for anything to make this right, but I knew, deep down, that the damage was already done. I had played my part in something monstrous—something that was all too familiar to me. I never thought I would be standing on the other side, helping someone commit an atrocity so akin to what Arthas had done to my people.

As the tree burned, I moved to the water’s edge, scooping up what little I could with two water skins. The fire roared behind me, and I felt the heat on my back as I filled the containers. Sylvanas’s presence was sudden, a cold hand snatching my wrist. “What are you doing, child?!” she hissed, her eyes blazing with fury.

I stared at the ground, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I zhought we should save some of it… in case we needed it,” I mumbled, the words weak and hollow, barely masking the real reason I was trying to salvage something—anything—from this nightmare.

Sylvanas’s grip tightened, and she shot me a scornful smile, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And why do you think we would need that?” she sneered, her voice dripping with contempt.

I struggled to meet her gaze, feeling the weight of her judgment. “When ze Night Elves are finally under our thumb… zey will eventually need the World Tree again,” I said, trying to sound pragmatic, as though there was some twisted logic in preserving even a fraction of what we were destroying.

She released my arm and eyed me with a mix of amusement and disdain. “I appreciate someone who thinks long-term,” she said slowly, her tone almost mocking. “But the Kaldorei will never forget this defeat. It’s better if they are eventually… completely eradicated.” She extended her hand, her eyes burning with an unspoken threat. “Give it to me, child.”

I hesitated, clutching the water skins tightly. I handed one over, but kept the other hidden in my bag, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She took a sip, tilting her head back and savoring the taste, her eyes flickering green for a moment—an eerie echo of the Blood Elves’ own addiction to arcane magic—before returning to their familiar red. “Interesting vintage,” she mused, licking her lips. “Not quite the Sunwell, but not entirely unlike it, either. Try it,” she commanded, holding out the half-empty skin to me.

I touched the water to my lips, feeling the magic swirl inside me. It was like a balm to my burning guilt, but it did nothing to douse the shame. “All of it,” Sylvanas ordered, her tone leaving no room for defiance.

I hesitated, staring at the water, knowing that this was more than just a drink—it was a bitter reminder of what we had done. I lifted the skin and drank, the magic filling me, but it was a hollow satisfaction. Sylvanas’s eyes never left me, and I realized that she wasn’t just watching me; she was measuring me, testing me, seeing how far she could push.

The air around us was thick with smoke and the dying cries of the Kaldorei. Saurfang’s words echoed in my ears: “There is no honor in this.” He was right. And as I finished the last drops, I knew that whatever honor I thought I had, whatever admiration I held for Sylvanas, was tainted beyond repair.

I lifted the water skin over my head, gulping down the nature magic that the Night Elves had been keeping hidden. It felt different, like a soft, humming chorus of bees filling my ears as the magic surged through me. The energy was intoxicating, almost pure, a sharp contrast to the familiar arcane thirst that gnawed at my soul. I looked down at my arms and saw green glowing runes flicker along my forearms and legs, vivid and alive, like the heartbeat of some ancient forest. I touched my eyes and saw that the golden hue they had taken from the sea had shifted back to green, a twisted echo of the addiction I had tried so hard to control. It was like a recovering addict being forced to take the very thing she had fought so hard to stay away from. The magic surged through me, pure and intoxicating, like experiencing the it with a clean palate once again—only I knew where these feelings led. It made me feel powerful and confident, alert and strong for hours, even sexy. I loved how it dulled my appetite, how I didn’t feel the need to eat. But as much as I craved the rush, I knew how dangerous it was. I had danced too close to the edge before, and with one command, I knew I was already back on that same treacherous path. A path where I could easily be manipulated for another hit.

“Try not to make that a habit,” Sylvanas warned, her voice cold and biting. “You’re not much use to me as a Wretched elf.”

I glanced down at the water that had splashed onto the burning ground, steam hissing as it met the flames. My breath hitched, and I found myself staring at it, feeling the tug of something primal. The desire to dive in, to drink every drop, to let the magic fill the endless hunger inside me was overwhelming. My body trembled with a mix of pain and need, and I could feel the magic singing on my tongue, pulling me toward the water like a siren’s call. I was on the verge of losing control, about to take the plunge, when Sylvanas’s hand gripped my shoulder, firm and unyielding.

I jerked away, startled, but her hold was ironclad. “If you’re thinking about doing what I think you’re thinking,” she said, her voice sharp, “that water won’t cure your hangover.”

I blinked at her, confused and still shaking. “Warchief, I haven’t been drinking.”

She leaned in closer, her gaze piercing through me. “Child, I can smell it on you. Denial is always the first step, and that water would do more damage than you can imagine.” Her voice lowered, almost tender in a twisted way. “You don’t want to become a Wretched, do you?”

I shook my head, my breaths coming out ragged. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”

“Of course, you don’t.” Sylvanas smiled, but there was no warmth in it, just the condescending edge of a predator toying with its prey. “Soon, all of this will be behind you. The temptation will be gone, and you’ll still have the Sunwell.” She stepped even closer, her presence suffocating. “Garrosh used to keep a jug of sour goat’s milk—stronger than anything in this miserable world. Come by later, and I’ll share it with you to celebrate.”

“No, thank you,” I mumbled, stepping back, feeling cornered not just by the devastation around us but by her overbearing presence. I reached into my bag for my Hearthstone, desperate for an escape. I lined my fingers on the familiar blue spirals, ready to disappear from this nightmare, when an arrow suddenly pierced through my hand, shattering the stone into useless shards. Pain shot through me, but it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Sylvanas standing there, bow drawn, another arrow already nocked and aimed at my heart.

“Did I say you could leave, child?!” Sylvanas’s voice was a whip crack, filled with rage and control. “There is still work to be done, more Night Elves to kill, and I know you’re hiding something.”

My breath hitched, and my heart pounded in my chest. This was the last place I ever wanted to be—caught between the warchief I had once admired and the burning, sickening truth of what she had become. The Corrupted Ashbringer appeared in my hand as I pulled a small piece of Azerite from my pocket and concentrated on its power. The sword materialized quickly, its dark edge gleaming as I raised it just in time to deflect Sylvanas’s next arrow. The impact sent vibrations through my arm, and I could feel the weight of her gaze boring into me, testing me.

Nathanos stepped forward, bow raised, an arrow pointed directly at my chest. “Do you think that sword scares us anymore?” he sneered. “We know what happened to the Ashbringers that touched Sargeras’s blade—they’re worthless now.”

I stared at the sword, the familiar weight both a comfort and a curse. My hand trembled, not just from the strain but from the crushing realization that I was teetering on the brink of something I couldn’t walk back from. Sylvanas’s eyes stayed locked on mine, unyielding, unrelenting. This wasn’t just a battle of weapons; it was a battle of wills. I could feel her pushing me, daring me to make a choice that would seal my fate forever.

I could strike her down. I could try. I could end this madness right here, right now. But then what? I knew that even if I succeeded, there would be no redemption, no forgiveness, only the cold, hard end that awaited those who defied their warchief.

My grip tightened on the hilt, my knuckles white, my body screaming with the effort to hold back.

In the dim caves of Tempest Keep, the stories of Sylvanas Windrunner were what kept me going. Tales of her unyielding defiance, her fierce battle against all odds, echoed through my mind during the darkest nights, when the pain from lashings and the endless labor seemed too much to bear. I held onto the stories of a hero who stood against death itself, believing that if she could rise above her torment, maybe I could too.

And then, after all those years of dreaming, I finally got to meet her. I remember how my heart had swelled, how seeing her up close felt like a dream fulfilled. She wasn’t just a hero from stories, she was real, tangible—a symbol of hope that had helped me survive both the abuse of the mines and the agony of recovery afterward. The admiration I had for her had once been absolute, unshakable.

But now, staring at the woman in front of me, the weight of that reverence shattered. The person I had imagined all those years wasn’t the person standing before me. My hero had become someone else—someone capable of destruction beyond reason, someone who looked down on me with contempt rather than compassion.

I struggled with the image of her that I had cherished—the hero I once idolized—and the cold, unforgiving figure before me now. I looked at Sylvanas, begging her with my eyes, with the unspoken plea that hung in the air between us, fragile and desperate.

“Please… don’t make me do this,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, choked with fear and resignation.

Sylvanas’s gaze never wavered. She saw my hesitation, my doubt, and in that moment, I knew she had me. Not with her arrows, not with her magic, but with the sickening realization that she could push me to the edge and I would still stand there, wavering, unable to make the final, decisive move. The world around us blurred, the screams, the smoke, the burning—all of it fading into the background as I stared at the woman who had once been my hero.

And I hated her for it. I hated myself more.

Sylvanas raised her hand, gently signaling Nathanos to lower his bow. “That’s not the same sword the adventurers wield. Stand down,” she commanded, her voice steady, but with a hint of something softer beneath the surface.

The Corrupted Ashbringer trembled in my grip, its presence both a comfort and a curse. I could feel the weight of its power, far more dangerous than the depleted weapon strapped to my back. But I was scared, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Sylvanas’s eyes bore into me, sharp but with an emotion I hadn’t seen before—a flicker of regret, even understanding. She could see the desperation behind my fear, the fraying edges of my resolve. She knew that pushing me further might cause me to lash out, not out of hatred or malice, but terrified impulse. Even the strongest can be driven to reckless action when cornered.

“What are you hiding, child?” she asked, her tone softening, shifting from command to something closer to a plea. “I know you’ve got something. Just hand it over.”

I shook my head, clenching the gem tightly in my hand.

Sylvanas sighed, her posture softening further as she took a careful step forward. “Listen to me, child,” she began, her voice calmer, almost coaxing. “If you fight us here, it won’t end well. You might get a shot at me or Nathanos, but the Horde will cut you down before you even blink.” Her eyes met mine, and for a brief second, I saw a sliver of the Sylvanas I used to admire—the leader who fought fiercely but also knew when to be strategic. “What is Mograine telling you right now?” she asked, her gaze flickering with concern. “Does he really want you to die here, of all places?”

The Corrupted Ashbringer vanished from my grip, and for a fleeting moment, the object I had been holding was revealed. I pulled it closer to me, hesitating.

“Let me see that,” Sylvanas said, her voice gentler now, almost coaxing.

Slowly, I extended my hand, revealing the shard of the rainbow-colored gem. Its surface glinted with a mesmerizing array of lights, but all I could feel was the weight of my mistakes.

“That doesn’t belong to you, child,” Sylvanas said quietly, her words carrying more truth than accusation.

I closed my hand around the shard, holding it protectively at my side. “I need it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Sylvanas crossed her arms, her eyes never leaving mine. There was no anger in her gaze, only a tired resignation. She could see she had pushed me to the limit and knew what could come if she pushed me further. “Let me ask you something,” she said, her tone almost conversational, as if we were just two warriors sharing a moment. “What did it show you when you first touched it with your bare hands?”

It was a shift—from a predator trapping its prey to someone who knew that, sometimes, you had to let a cornered creature breathe.

The question sent a shiver through me. I gripped the shard tighter, the memories it had shown me flooding back, vivid and unrelenting. “Numbers,” I said, my voice trembling.

She raised an eyebrow, a faint, rueful smile touching her lips. “Numbers?” she repeated, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Alright. Care to elaborate?”

I swallowed hard, the truth burning on my tongue. “I saw exactly what everyone would sell for on the slave trade,” I confessed, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “Who would buy, who would sell for the most, the costs of travel and confinement… Everything.” I pointed at her, my eyes hollow. “You, Sylvanas, would go for 800,000 gold alive for a public execution. But if it was just your body, just your head, it would be a fraction of that.”

Sylvanas’s expression shifted, a mixture of exasperation and something that might have been pity. “Both Nathanos and I speak Thalassian,” she said, her tone almost teasing but layered with a weary undertone. “So why don’t you just speak it? Your accent is getting on my nerves.”

I licked my lips, nodding as I switched to my native tongue. I turned to Nathanos, my voice steadier but tinged with bitterness. “You, Nathanos, would sell for 200,000 gold for a ransom. But that would double the moment any exchange took place. Otherwise, they’d slice you up and sell you in pieces.” I shrugged, feeling the sting of my own words. “And if I were the broker, I’d only take 25% since it’s a risky deal.”

Nathanos scoffed, his gaze narrowing with a mix of irritation and disdain. “Really? You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”

I met his eyes, defiant. “I don’t have a drinking problem.” But even as I said it, I could feel the weight of Sylvanas’s judgment pressing down on me, the unspoken knowledge that she knew exactly what kind of battles I was fighting—not just against her, but against myself.

Sylvanas looked at me with a quiet, almost sad understanding, as if she knew she had pushed me too far but was unsure how to pull me back. It was a fleeting moment, a crack in her armor, but it was enough for me to see the complicated woman behind the warchief’s mask. She wasn’t just pushing me; she was testing herself, wondering how much farther she could go before something broke—either in me or in herself.

And in that instant, I knew that we were both teetering on the edge, caught between duty and destruction, between the past and a future that neither of us could control.

Sylvanas glanced at Nathanos, sharing a cold, mocking laugh before turning back to me. “So you want to keep the Azerite, to become some grand slave trader? That’s hardly the path of a paladin,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain, yet there was a curious edge to her words, like she was probing to see how far I would go.

I rolled my eyes, but my insides twisted. “Sylvanas, you know my family’s reputation before the undead invasion. The Dawnlight family built ships, but we also dealt in the shadows, trading magicless high elves like cargo.” I paused, my voice dropping lower, almost as if confiding in her. “The Azerite showed me a vision—an army at my feet, bound by chains, loyal to nothing but gold and fear. Not just any army. It was a world ruled by Lightforged zealots, where everything was cleansed in the name of the Light.” I looked at her, my voice a mix of bitterness and pain. “I saw myself as a golden goddess, a shining enforcer of tyranny, ruling over a sea of enslaved souls.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, her gaze narrowing, as though trying to determine just how much of what I was saying was real. There was a flicker of something almost like respect—maybe admiration—when I spoke of the vision, but it was quickly buried under her calculating stare.

“An interesting fantasy,” she said slowly, her voice laced with suspicion. “But I wonder, is that truly your desire, or just the fear speaking?”

I bit my lip, the guilt gnawing at me. It wasn’t what I truly wanted, but with Sylvanas, the truth often had to be wrapped in something darker to be heard.

The numbers were lies, but the vision was real, a twisted future that resonated with her own ruthless ambitions. I thought it was what she wanted to hear.

Sylvanas crossed her arms, her expression hardening as she contemplated my words. For a moment, her eyes seemed distant, almost reflective. “I see,” she said slowly. “I had a vision too when I first touched the Azerite. Not as grand as yours, but effective—ways to crush the Alliance, to make them kneel.” Her tone had a strange softness, almost nostalgic, as if recalling a time when her goals were simpler, less tainted.

I gestured toward the burning World Tree, its branches twisted in agony. “And look at the wealth we’re destroying,” I continued, my voice thick with bitterness. “Night Elves, broken and desperate, could be paraded as body slaves, sold for twenty thousand gold a head to anyone in the Venture Company. Their misery turned into profit—until the gold ran dry.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but I spoke them anyway.

Sylvanas sighed, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the tree, then back at me. “I’m sorry, child, but this is my Horde, and we do things my way. The Kaldorei must be wiped out.” She snatched the Azerite from my hand and began to walk away, the gem glowing faintly in her grip—a symbol of both power and corruption.

I shrugged, forcing a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “I suppose you’ll need extra parts for Forsaken limbs,” I said, my tone hollow, masking the turmoil beneath.

Sylvanas paused mid-step, turning back to me with a sly smile, something almost playful yet dangerous. She tossed the Azerite back to me. “On second thought, I might need your skills when the Alliance crumbles. Keep it. Stay in touch, Ashbringer.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, I saw the glint of something else in her eyes—an understanding of the darkness that had shown itself in my vision. She knew I was walking a dangerous line, and she seemed content to see how far I would go before I fell over the edge.

“That’s not my title anymore,” I replied, my voice strained, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity.

She smirked, looking past me with a glint of cruel amusement in her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about you,” she said, her gaze shifting to something unseen, something above.

I glanced down at the Azerite in my hands, the swirling colors of the gem mesmerizing yet haunting. Sylvanas’s words echoed in my mind, tainted by the undertone of manipulation. I was teetering on a knife’s edge, knowing I was being pushed into a place I never wanted to be. I watched her walk away, and something in me snapped. “Sylvanas!” I called out, my voice sharper than I intended.

She turned, her expression unreadable, the light of the burning tree casting shadows across her face.

I took a breath, my chest tight with the weight of unspoken words. “What would Lirath say if he knew what you were doing right now? If he were alive, I mean.” My voice cracked slightly, not just from fear but from the deep-rooted disappointment that was gnawing at me. I saw her flinch—just barely—but enough to know my words had struck a chord.

Sylvanas’s expression shifted, a flicker of shock crossing her features as she glanced around at the smoldering devastation she had wrought. “Lirath would be disgusted to see me now—siding with the very bloodthirsty orcs who took his life,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly. She stepped closer, her presence overpowering, her red eyes piercing mine. “He would despise the creature I’ve become. But what he’d hate even more is if I stood by and let our enemies trample over everything we once fought for.”

She grabbed the front of my chest piece and pulled me closer, her grip unyielding, almost desperate. “And he would never forgive me for taking advice from a family of slavers,” she snarled, her voice dripping with venom, the weight of her words cutting deeper than any blade.

I met her gaze, feeling the intensity of her wrath, and for a moment, I saw not the Warchief but the broken soul trapped beneath layers of bitterness and rage. The sickly green glow from my eyes reflected on her face, only to flicker and shift back to a faint gold, a glimmer of something purer, long forgotten. “You didn’t see him when you threw yourself from the top of Icecrown Citadel, did you?” I asked, my voice trembling under the strain of keeping my emotions in check.

Her expression twisted into a dangerous snarl, a storm of fury swirling behind her crimson eyes.

“YOU PROMISED!” A voice bellowed suddenly, loud and accusing, echoing in my mind like a hammer on glass. I staggered back, clutching my ears as the sharp pain shot through my skull. “You promised, Perfectia Dawnlight!” I blinked through the haze and saw him—a transparent image of Lirath, standing before me, as real as the day he died.

Sylvanas glanced around, her brow furrowing in confusion at my reaction. “Are you always this dramatic?” she asked, her tone laced with irritation. “I didn’t even touch you.” She grabbed me, hauling me back to my feet as if I were nothing more than a rag doll. “What could you possibly know about Lirath? You weren’t even born when he died.”

“I…” I struggled to steady my breath, the frantic beating of my heart drowning out my thoughts.

Lirath’s ghostly figure pointed at me, his gaze burning with righteous fury. “Not another word, paladin. Do not forsake your oath to the Light. Remember your promise.” His voice was a command and a plea, laced with the heavy weight of our shared past.

I tore my eyes away from him, forcing myself to focus on Sylvanas. “I’m sorry, Warchief. It’s… nothing.” I choked out the words, feeling the shame clawing at my insides. “It won’t happen again.”

Sylvanas watched me for a moment, a mix of annoyance and something else—pity, maybe—flickering in her gaze. She sighed, the cold steel of her demeanor returning. “We achieved a great victory today, child. Try to find some solace in the fact that the Night Elves will no longer be a threat,” she said, her voice now dispassionate, distant. “Maybe you should speak to our rehabilitation therapist soon. I’d hate to see you end up in chains in Ragefire Chasm again.”

I nodded, my pride swallowed in that moment of surrender. “Of course.” It was all I could manage to say.

I whistled for Protecto, my dragon, and as he swooped down, I clutched the shard of Azerite in my hand. I kissed it, the cold stone pressing against my lips, a bitter reminder of everything I had done. I tucked it away, mounting Protecto’s back, the weight of my actions pressing down on my shoulders.

“Did you really help her burn down the tree?” Protecto asked as we soared through the air, his voice tinged with disappointment.

I glanced down, the charred landscape below a testament to my failures. “I’m trying to make up for it,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. “I stole some water from the Well of Eternity. Maybe… maybe there’s still hope.”

Protecto turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge my sincerity. “Hope,” he muttered. “It’s a fickle thing, Perfectia. Just don’t lose sight of it.”

I nodded, staring ahead, feeling the cold wind against my face, and silently vowing to find a way to make things right—even if the path was fraught with the ghosts of my own mistakes.

As Protecto flew in silence, the wind howling around us, I couldn’t help but think back to the times when his voice was the only thing keeping me grounded. I remembered the first time I met him, this snarky, sharp-tongued dragon who seemed to revel in making me uncomfortable. He was never one to mince words or hold back his thoughts, and that was something I always appreciated about him—even when his honesty cut deeper than any blade.

There was a time in Draenor when we’d landed after a long, brutal battle, both of us bruised and battered. I had been sitting by the campfire, my hands trembling as I tried to clean my sword, the weight of the day pressing down on me. Protecto had nudged me with his snout, nearly knocking me over, and let out a gruff laugh. “Are you going to polish that thing all night, or are you going to eat something? You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder.”

I had laughed then, despite myself. Protecto’s rough-edged humor was exactly what I needed—grounding, comforting in its own twisted way. He never let me wallow; he was always there with a sarcastic remark or a playful shove to remind me not to take myself too seriously.

But now, as we flew over the burning land, the air heavy with ash and regret, Protecto’s silence cut deeper than any insult ever could. He didn’t even look at me. His wings beat steadily, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and I realized that the bond we shared had frayed in the wake of my choices. His disappointment was a cold, quiet thing, more painful than the blunt honesty I was used to.

Protecto turned his head sideways, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his eyes, once so full of mischief, now dulled by anger and sorrow. “A lot of people died because of you… because of us. The Horde. Do you really hate Night Elves that much?”

I shook my head, the weight of his words sinking into my chest like stones. “I’ve always disliked them, but not like this. They didn’t deserve what happened. None of them did.” I looked at him, searching for the dragon who used to laugh at my darkest jokes, who had always been there to knock me down a peg when I needed it most. “Can you just… insult me or make fun of me like you always do?”

Protecto didn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering as he stared straight ahead. “No. I don’t even want to speak to you.” His voice was flat, devoid of the playful jabs that once defined our dynamic. It was the first time I felt truly alone, even with him right beside me.

“Fair,” I muttered, the word barely leaving my lips.

We flew in silence, the air between us heavy with unspoken guilt and disappointment. We reached Outland, heading toward one of those hot springs Haris had shown me—the kind that was supposed to soothe the body, but I knew even the hottest water couldn’t wash away what we’d done. Protecto landed softly and kept his distance. “Get another Hearthstone when you find an inn… and use the flight paths if you need to go anywhere,” he said, his tone flat and distant. “I need to be alone.”

I nodded, feeling the sting of his rejection. “Yeah… you’re fine.”

He spread his wings and took off without another word, leaving me alone with the burning ache of regret and the cool, mocking calm of the hot spring. I still had one water skin filled with the World Tree’s essence, and though every part of me was tempted to drink it, to feel the magic course through my veins, I knew it wasn’t meant for me. Someone wiser, someone who could restore what had been lost, needed this more than I did.

I held the Azerite shard tightly as I wrote, feeling its unnerving pull—the vision it had shown me was vivid, unsettling, and filled with darkness. What I saw was evil, and I knew I’d never escape the shadows of that moment. But if I’d fought Sylvanas then, on that burning shore, I would have died without any chance of making amends.

So, I’ll hold onto this Azerite for now. Not as a tool for power, but as a reminder of what I’ve done, of the line I crossed. Maybe one day, I’ll find the strength to let it go, but for now, it stays with me. I need it to remember who I am, and more importantly, who I don’t want to become.

Aunt Telavani Lovewood

My aunt Telavani, my father’s twin sister. A priest, no, a shadow priest, a mad, completely crazy, nuttier than squirrel droppings, shadow priest, but powerful in her ways, and is rarely wrong in her visions for the future. She knew the Ashbringer that Tirion Fordring gave me would break. The things she says, “Greetings. Laughter. Forms out of air. Light. Memories. Light and Darkness. So many. Broken paths at every… Missing. Missing. Missing! It’s breaking Perfectia, it’s breaking. It will not last long… `` And she would point at the Ashbringer.

Yeah, things like that.

Now she gleefully expects her master to rise up from the ocean floor and I know this because she told me her story about her love affair with Kael’thas Sunstrider before and during the Scourge attack, but it’s hard to say what is really going on with her. The purple glow that would appear in her eye’s during combat is something I would see in a lot of priests that used shadow powers, but they still retained their minds when they stopped using it. For as long as I’ve known my aunty she’s always been this way, always had that unfading grin even in times of pain or despair.

I had seen her get angry though, I think that was the only time I haven’t seen her with a face that wasn’t uncontrolled glee. Wait, maybe I’m wrong.

She does care about her brother (my dad) and me, and at times I’m sure she has had some moments of despair during the invasion, but the front that she puts out is crazy. Her visions were always bad, is her smile maybe just her will not to give into despair, in spite of knowing that something terrible is going to happen? I’m at a point in my life where I don’t know what to do and the riddles of my crazy aunty are a much-needed distraction compared to what is present.

I mentally prepared myself for this, I found an undead priest that was exiting the Order Hall and lightly tugged on his robes to get his attention.

“You shouldn’t do that, it’s rude.” He looked back at me with a look of surprise,

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to bother-” I started.

He looked back, behind me, “Not you, her.”

“Lose something?” She said, I was startled by the voice that was behind me. My aunt Telavani was levitating behind me like she was laying on the ground, but she was face to face with me.

“Just stay away from me, okay?” The undead priest looked up at her.

I half smiled and rolled my eyes as the undead priest ran away in a panic. “Staying popular I see.” I said sarcastically.

With my back turned to her she came behind me and hugged me from behind making a small amount of panic go through my body, “I heard your drinking problem had gotten worse but you don’t smell like it. I’m so glad you’re making progress and came here to see me. Me being with you. You are safe, away from space.” She said,

I put my hand on her touch and sighed, “Aunty, could you at least please try to speak normally.” I complained.

I heard her laugh, “I am speaking normally, see? They’re, no need for proof reading, at least my parts anyways.” I think she knew I was going to write about this…

I put my hand on my head and told myself that I had mentally prepared for this, “I was wondering- “

“Quite alright.” She interrupted, I turned around, faced her, and crossed my arms, “One moment please.” She continued. “Second chorus.” She said and started singing a funny childlike song. I motioned with my hand in a circular motion hoping that she would get the picture that I wanted her to get through with her act, so I would get a moment to talk, but she started disappearing into nothingness. Her voice was getting farther away.

“Wait, don’t go please.” I pleaded when she had completely faded from my sight.

Her smile glowed white and her green eyes shined through, I couldn’t see anything else of her. “There you are.” She came back into full vision, “Very well, third chorus.”

“No, no, no. Thank you, aunty.” I bowed. “But I just need to know what I should do now, where should I go?”

She was still levitating like she was laying on the ground, she told me she was able to do this when she was near the Sunwell. Now that it came back, she had grown even more powerful after that as well. Even more so than from her story. She held her head up with her hands. “Well that depends.” She said as she crossed her eyes and looked away. “On where,” she looked back at me, “You want to get to.” She touched my nose with her finger.

I sighed and shook my head, “I don’t know, I guess it doesn’t matter. As long as-”

“Then,” She interrupted, stood up, and shrugged, “it really doesn’t matter which way you go.” She put her feet on the ground and started walking away. She started disappearing again, but I could hear her footsteps as she walked away.

I grabbed at where the sound was coming from and it felt like I put my hand through running water, but my hands weren’t wet. She appeared again. “Tell me something, aunty!” I demanded, “I came to you for help, I’ve done something terrible and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Aunt Telavani smile faltered, her gaze drifting as if she were looking through me, seeing something or someone far beyond. She tilted her head, speaking softly, but her words felt like they were aimed at something just out of reach, an unseen audience hovering on the fringes.

“What do you think you’re waiting for?” she murmured, her tone distant, almost absentminded. “Is it a happy ending you seek, or just a reckoning? Heroes, villains, kings, tyrants—they all blur when the sword breaks, don’t they?”

She paused, her eyes flickering with that unsettling knowingness that made my skin crawl. “The heaviest blade to wield, sharper than vengeance, crueler than you’d think. But some of us… some of us are just here to watch, aren’t we?”

My aunty’s gaze snapped back to me, her expression unreadable, as if she hadn’t just spoken something meant for ears other than mine. She leaned in closer, her smile returning with an unsettling serenity. “He wields the broken sword and separates kings from tyrants,” she whispered, dropping the riddle with a knowing look before slipping back into her cryptic, otherworldly demeanor.

I was disappointed, but she looked at me blankly, which was something she barely did, which made me think she was being genuine, it was something, “I guess you’re going to disappear into thin air again.” I complained.

My aunty rolled her eyes, “I was actually thinking about using the stairs.” She paused, “I will miss you.” She left to the portal going to Silvermoon.

I told Protecto the riddle and brought me to the Elwynn Forest on a high mountain where no one could see me. At least no one in the Alliance did. The Bronze Dragon Flight was neutral so he was able to fly down there and tell what the statue said, “Former Lieutenant to Lord Anduin Lothar. Knight of the Silver Hand. High General of the Alliance Expedition that marched into the orc homeworld of Draenor. Presumed deceased. Esarus thar no Darador - By Blood and Honor We Serve. You were the right hand of justice and virtue, old friend. Your name will be honored in our halls always.”

We brainstormed it for a while. We’ve been staring at that broken sword statue that’s near the front gates of Stormwind for about an hour now. I’ve been writing for about three hours. “Is there some way you could join the Alliance?” Protecto asked.

“I kind of already have.” I looked up and remembered back.

“You had to put on a hundred plus pounds to get your eye’s to turn blue? I don’t know if my back and wings can take that.” I teased me, as always, but I didn’t understand the statement completely. “45 kilos, I think.”

“Oh… No, it was a lot more, and technically I haven’t lost it. It just decided to relocate,” I said with a grin, giving my own rear a playful slap. The familiar curve, the way it wiggled under my hand… ugh, Olisarra really did a number on me. Sculpted me into something that’s a pain to lug around but weirdly nice to look at. I can feel every ounce shift with every step, a constant reminder of the choices I made and the hands that shaped me. “I don’t even want to think about how heavy I would be if I tried to gain weight like that again… I think even Lucy would start to complain.”

I’m glad me and Protecto were able to work through what happened, but how could I possibly join the Alliance, I think I might know a way. It’s a long shot and I think Protecto wouldn’t approve of who I’m going to have to go through, so I’m going to need to keep this away from him, but I think she will help. I didn’t want to go down this road again, but I need to find Vereesa Windrunner.

(Lines from Alice in Wonderland)

My Friend Isirami Fairwind

I thought about starving myself of arcane magic for a few days to see if my eyes would turn blue again, but they’ve been gold for a while now, and honestly? I’m kinda digging the look. Blue is so last century. Plus, there’s no guarantee they’ll change back unless I somehow manage to get a Draenei in bed—and let’s be real, that’s more complicated than it sounds. Oranio’s… unique appearance caught me off guard at first—the hooves, the tentacles, the horns, the very generous forehead—but, you know, after a while, you get past the aesthetics. It’s amazing what big muscles and a kind voice can do for a guy. Turns out, if you spend enough time with someone who doesn’t treat you like a quest dispenser or an errand girl, you start seeing the charm beyond the cosmic goat vibes.

Being in the Horde is like living on borrowed time. You never know who’s gonna be here tomorrow, so you keep moving, keep yourself busy, and avoid thinking too hard about it. It’s like therapy but with a lot more bloodshed. I’m trying to stay on this funny little middle ground—the kind that makes you feel something without the baggage of an army on your back. Not exactly meditation material, but it’s the best I can do.

I get why some adventurers just bounce from inn to inn, town to town, like professional couch surfers. It’s all fun and games until you realize your social life revolves around a rotating cast of strangers and overpriced ale. Oranio, I miss you. We only had two days of playing house, but those months of friendship were worth it. Honestly, my time as a pirate was just me living a carnival life, running from all the mess back home. It was great until it wasn’t, like all good parties. But I can’t go back to that—not now, not after what I’ve done. No amount of gold, glory, or mind-numbing routine can fix this gaping hole in my chest.

I made my way to Dalaran, floating high and mighty over the Broken Isles, hoping to pop into the Hero’s Welcome, but surprise, surprise—it’s not Silver Covenant territory anymore. Instead of high elves in fancy armor, it’s guarded by Worgen. Think werewolves, but less charming and more ‘don’t touch my stuff.’ I’ve dealt with their kind before—usually decent folk unless you catch them before breakfast. As I strolled up, the Worgen on guard duty gave me a look like I’d just stepped in something nasty.

I put on my best polite face. “Where are ze Silver Covenant? Zey used to guard zese ‘alls.”

The Worgen barely glanced at me, growling low in his throat. “Leave,” he snapped. “Oh my Light, that accent is awful.”

“Charming.” I rolled my eyes. “Relax, Worgen Freeman. I’m looking for Vereesa. ‘Ave you seen ‘er? Maybe we can go for a walk and sniff her out together.” I gave him a playful smirk. Bloodthirst and anger are one thing, but if you can’t have a little fun with it, what’s the point?

Apparently, my sense of humor wasn’t appreciated. The Worgen lunged, slashing at me and leaving a burning sting across my cheek. I instinctively reached for my two-handed club, ready to turn him into a very hairy rug, but before I could bring it down, the other Worgen grabbed his brother’s arm, yanking him back.

“Don’t, brother. We’re not here to do that.” He held his brother’s arm tight, shooting me a warning glance. “The Silver Covenant don’t come to these parts anymore. We’ve replaced them.”

I touched the side of my face, feeling the warm trickle of blood, and sighed. “Well, good for you. Do you also do birthday parties, or is it just guard duty?”

The calm Worgen glared at me, clearly not in the mood for jokes. “Isn’t it obvious you don’t belong here? Go back to your Horde, savage.”

I considered arguing, maybe throwing out some choice insults about fleas, but before I could, a voice I hadn’t heard in far too long cut through the tension.

“Melfina?” The familiar, melodic tone of Isirami Fairwind hit my ears like a soft bell. She stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light, looking at me with a mix of surprise and something softer. She grabbed my hand, pulling me inside with a firmness that made my heart skip.

The angry Worgen slashed down and hit me in my gauntlets, but Isirami wasn’t wearing armor. I saw his claws rake across her skin, leaving two red lines on her forearm. She reached back in pain, and I felt my blood run cold. My teeth clenched as a growl escaped me. In one swift motion, I yanked my two-handed club from my back and pinned the Worgen’s neck against the wall, slamming his head hard enough to rattle his senses, my grip squeezing tight.

The calm Worgen unsheathed a sword from his back, its edge suddenly cold against my throat. “Let him go,” he snarled.

I eyed him, my mind racing. I knew a spell that could stun the Worgen long enough to snap the neck of the one I held, but I knew better—knew this would only lead to more bloodshed.

“Stop, please. All of you!” Isirami’s voice cut through the chaos, raw with worry. “It was my fault. We used to let her come freely.” She turned her gaze to me, pleading, “Melfina, let him go.”

Reluctantly, I released my grip, and he staggered back, sucking in air like he’d forgotten how to breathe. My eyes shifted to Isirami. “Zis was a stupide idea,” I muttered, my voice edged with frustration. “I’m sorry to 'ave bothered you.”

“Wait, Melfina,” she said, stepping closer, still clutching her wound. “There’s plenty of Dalaran left for us to see. They’ve got this amazing coffee place across town—you have to try it. Maybe we could catch up?”

I tried to smile, but my eyes lingered on her injury. “Zat wound needs purification by someone who knows zeir way around healing magic. If not, it will fester.”

The Worgen who had struck her looked down, shame flickering across his face. “I’m sorry, Isirami. But she can’t be here. No exceptions.”

Isirami shook her head. “It’s okay. The clinic is on the way. I’ll be fine.”

The Worgen nodded, guilt weighing his words. “Send me the bill when you get back. I’m sorry I hurt you, Isirami.”

She glanced between us. “And Melfina?”

The Worgen’s eyes met mine briefly before shifting away. “I’m sorry I struck you.”

I gave him a curt nod. “And I’m sorry about ze ‘fido’ comment earlier.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

We strolled through the bustling streets of Dalaran, and I chatted Isirami’s ear off about my time in Draenor and those wild years at sea. We headed into the clinic, and the moment I stepped inside, I heard my name called out in a voice that practically sang with glee.

I turned, and my jaw hit the floor. “OH MY LIGHT, CADENCE!?!” I shrieked, bounding over like a deer on caffeine, jumping, screaming, and wrapping her in the tightest hug I could manage. “Oh my gosh, I thought you were setting up shop in Karazhan!”

Olisarra nodded, her eyes twinkling as she spoke. “I did. Got loads of studying and practice in while Khadgar made his frequent appearances, but let’s just say it’s not the safest place—lots of ghostly roommates and rogue mechanical whatnots. I still perform surgeries when someone’s brave enough to clear the place out first.” She gave a little shrug, her hand rubbing the back of her head like she was replaying a particularly messy operation. “It’s a bit of a gauntlet just to get to my lab, but hey, adventure, right?” Then her gaze drifted past me, and her expression shifted. “Wait, what’s she doing here?”

Isirami quietly showed Olisarra her scratched arm, letting the lines of red speak for themselves. I jumped in. “A Worgen scratched us—uh, we’re not gonna turn into one of them, right? I’m not really in the mood for fur, claws, or chasing cars.”

Olisarra chuckled, amused. “Relax. Part of the Gilnean peace treaty is that Worgen keep their claws blood-free in combat, no unauthorized nibbles unless King Genn gives the green light. There’ve been accidents, sure, but if it’s caught early, no harm done. Let me see.” She inspected the scratches, poking around like she was solving a puzzle. “Any blood transferred?”

Isirami shook her head. “No.”

Olisarra sighed and dropped Isirami’s arm. “Then you’re good to go.” She spun around, already heading to her next task.

“What about infection?!” I called out, exasperated.

Olisarra paused, giving me a pointed look before glancing between us. “Wait, are you two…?”

“No,” I blurted out quickly.

Isirami just shook her head, looking mildly amused.

“Good,” Olisarra said, her tone sharp. “Because those ‘medical procedures’ you were running weren’t exactly legal.” She glared at Isirami. “After what you did to her, you’ve got some nerve—”

“Cadence!” I cut in, waving my hands. “You’re Olisarra the Kind, aren’t you? Hypocritical oath and all that. Just patch her up, please.”

Olisarra sighed the kind of sigh that comes with dealing with difficult patients—or difficult friends. She grabbed a glass bottle, splashed the contents onto Isirami’s wound, and bound it tightly with cloth. “I’d like to check on those bone grafts,” she said, glancing at me.

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

She shrugged. “It’s just an x-ray, ten minutes tops. I’m not asking you to chaperone me back to Karazhan.”

I glanced at Isirami, who just shrugged. “Fine,” I huffed.

I hopped up on the medical table, grumbling as Olisarra worked her magic. She ran her hands over my pelvis, scanning my limbs and bones, and conjured a strange black paper. With a flash of light from her palms, she imprinted an image onto it, studying it closely.

“Everything good?” I asked, feeling a twinge of nerves.

Olisarra glanced up, her expression unreadable. “I need to look these over more carefully. I’ll send you a letter if anything’s off.” She offered me a small, reluctant smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

We finally left the clinic behind, the weight of Legion hanging in the air, but I figured Olisarra had probably heard enough of that chaos already. We ducked into the Legerdemain Lounge and ordered some coffee, though the place was packed to the brim. We snagged a couple of seats and settled in. I’ve never been a fan of coffee—it’s bitter, hot, and frankly, I don’t see the point—but Isirami loaded mine up with so much cream and sugar it was actually drinkable.

“Stay away from the overpriced stuff,” she quipped, stirring her own cup. “Everything you need to survive a hangover is right here for free.” She glanced at me, a smile playing on her lips. “You still haven’t lost that Thalassian accent.”

I shook my head. “Would you mind if we spoke Thalassian instead?” I asked, switching to the familiar language, knowing she’d understand.

Isirami took a deep breath, her eyes softening. “No, I don’t mind,” she replied in Thalassian, her voice carrying the comfort of old memories and shared history.

I took a sip, and it was like drinking liquid comfort, sweet with a touch of bitterness that somehow made it perfect, just like Isirami herself. It painted my world in pinks and reds, and for a moment, I felt like I was floating. “I was really worried when I heard your voice,” she said, her tone soft but tinged with something sharper. “I heard your drinking got worse and I thought you’d come stumbling in here, confessing your feelings like you used to when you were under anesthesia.”

I threw my hands over my face, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Ugh, I never remember what I say on those drugs—and I don’t have a drinking problem.”

She smirked, her gaze drifting away as if she was replaying those moments in her mind. “So why the dramatic entrance at Hero’s Welcome? Did you miss me that much? You know you could’ve just, I don’t know, talked like a responsible adult.” She nudged me, teasingly.

I rolled my eyes, smirking. “When have I ever solved anything like a responsible adult?”

Isirami laughed nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear. “So you didn’t actually come to see me?”

I chuckled. “Well, I knew you’d probably be around. I might’ve peeked at your schedule a few times. You really do work too many hours.”

She nodded, almost like she was agreeing with an old version of herself. “I quit drinking a year ago. So it didn’t make sense to keep working the bar, even if the tips were great. But I heard about what you’ve been up to on the Broken Isles. Why haven’t you stopped by more often?”

I blinked at her. “Wait—you quit drinking? And you left the bar?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you disappointed?”

I glanced down at my cup, swirling the last bit of coffee around. “No…” I said, but I totally was. I missed her behind that bar, owning the room, turning every night into a party, especially when she’d had a few and her sass levels went through the roof. “So… what do you do now, hand out hearthstones like some magical receptionist?”

She smiled softly and nodded. “I still do what I always did. People want to feel seen, validated. I ask how their day’s going, ‘What are you up to today?’ or…” She rolled her shoulder up and slipped into a voice that was pure Isirami—sweet, flirtatious, and just a little bit wicked. “‘Hi guys, how are you? My name’s Isirami.’ Even when people are having a bad day, you bring it back to a positive.” She looked down, and I saw a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “It’s what I always tried to do for you.”

“I know,” I said, my voice a little softer. “And I learned a lot from you.” I leaned back, thinking back to those nights we’d spent together, the way she’d light up a room. “It’s just that you refuse to leave the safety of your inn, and I keep declining your offers to move in and live in your closet like some adorable boogeyman.”

She glanced around, checking to see if anyone else could understand our Thalassian whispers. When she was sure we were safe, she leaned in. “You know I wasn’t being literal about that,” she whispered, her voice a mix of frustration and something else I couldn’t quite place. “It was just something I said in the moment.” She crossed her arms, looking away, her voice hardening a little. “Turning things into a positive and making everything a joke aren’t the same, you know.”

There it was—beneath all the smiles and playful banter, a reminder of the lines we walked and the unspoken things we kept tucked away.

Ouch. I nodded, feeling that familiar sting. “…I know.” I forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve missed you too, Isirami, but… I was really there to see Vereesa Windrunner. I thought maybe if I, I don’t know… yelled or something, she’d give me an audience.” I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly, knowing full well that wasn’t much of a plan.

Isirami chuckled, but I could tell she was trying to be kind. “Well, you would’ve definitely gotten some attention, but most of the Silver Covenant who are left in Dalaran just run the inn now. The rest of them have gone to Trueshot Lodge to join the fight against the Legion.”

I squinted at her. “I’ve been all over these islands, and I’ve never even heard of that place.”

“It’s up high, pretty hidden, and you won’t find it on any flight paths. Only hunters and rangers are invited,” Isirami explained, letting out a small sigh like she was already tired just thinking about it.

I sipped my coffee, the bitterness a welcome distraction. “I’ve written letters, you know. They always get returned. Vereesa once told me I could come back to the Silver Covenant anytime I wanted.”

Isirami gave me a look that was half sympathy, half ‘oh sweetie.’ “Was that before or after Garrosh’s trial?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Before,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded knowingly. “She’s not going to be as understanding as she was back then.”

I leaned in closer, desperation creeping into my tone. “Please, you have to try, as a friend. She might not remember me, but she’ll remember you.”

Isirami’s smile was small and sad. “She remembers you, Perfectia,” she said, using my real name, and it hit me right in the chest. “You went through what she went through. Only… she still has her children.” Her voice wavered, and she wiped at her eyes. “Are you fully recovered from your injuries?”

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not in pain anymore, but… well, let’s just say it’s complicated. And I’d rather not get into it.”

Isirami, ever the persistent one, pressed on. “Have there been any other men since Oranio?”

I shrugged, looking away. “There were some pirates I crossed paths with…” I trailed off, biting my lip. “I wasn’t really trying, but I think… I think some damage is irreversible. The kind even the Light can’t fix.”

She winced, the memory of everything Garrosh took from me flickering in her eyes. “Garrosh took everything away from you.”

I nodded, trying to hold back the bitterness that bubbled up every time I thought about it. “Yeah… he did. But hey,” I forced a smile, trying to pull myself back from that ledge, “I’m still here, right? Even if it’s just to drink bitter coffee and swap war stories.” I looked at her, my voice sharp and detached. “He got what he deserved. Even if he died believing he was some tragic victim of his own circumstances.”

Isirami’s face softened, and I saw a hint of pink creep into her cheeks. She nervously rubbed the back of her neck, her gaze locked on the floor. “Have there been any… women?” Her voice was barely a whisper, the last word almost swallowed by her hesitance.

I sighed, the memories of those difficult therapy sessions flickering in my mind, the struggle with my dyspareunia and everything that came with it. “No,” I said quietly, almost too soft to hear. “Just you.”

She met my gaze, her eyes searching mine. “Are things different in the Horde?” she asked. “The Alliance barely tolerates ‘normal’ displays of affection. If I were to pursue what I truly wanted, I doubt they’d let me keep running the inn.”

I shook my head, the teachings and harsh realities of the Horde coming back to me. “The Horde… it’s primitive in its own way. Men have more freedom, sure, but it’s a twisted kind of freedom. If you can’t prove yourself on the battlefield, an ‘alpha’ can claim you. He might not force you, but refusing would bring shame, and if he did… well, there wouldn’t be many repercussions.”

Isirami looked horrified, shaking her head in disbelief. “That sounds like something orcs would do…”

I turned my eyes away, feeling the weight of my own experiences. “It’s not just the orcs. Blood Elves have leaned into that societal norm ever since our numbers dwindled. That’s why so many of us—especially women—took up sword and magic. It’s survival, plain and simple.” I tried to lighten the mood, offering a small smile. “I could teach you how to use a sword, if you want.”

She laughed nervously, her eyes clouded with doubt. “I remember what you went through to get where you are. Would I have to endure the same… process?”

I quickly shook my head, panic creeping into my voice. “No, no, nothing like that. Just enough to defend yourself.”

She sighed deeply, the conflict clear in her expression. “But would I have to fight? To kill members of the Alliance?”

I nodded. It was a hard truth, but it was still the truth.

Isirami’s face fell, and she shook her head. “I don’t think I could fight for a faction that holds beliefs like that. At least in the Alliance, I can hope things will change, that Azeroth will evolve.”

I shrugged, a sad smile tugging at my lips. “You could always be ‘the alpha,’ you know.”

She smiled, her fingers reaching out to lightly brush mine. “Could I force myself on you?” she teased in that high-pitched, flirty voice she used when she wanted to get a reaction out of me.

I laughed, cheeks burning, and shrugged nervously. She knew exactly what her touch did to me—my lips tingled, and my skin practically ached to lean into her. I was hurt, and knew she could heal me, but couldn’t put through all that again. I pulled away, forcing a smile, trying to play it off. “No, thank you.”

She nodded, a sly little glint in her eye telling me she’d noticed the way my breath caught. “I’ll get you an invitation to Trueshot Lodge. You should find Vereesa there.”

Without thinking, I reached across the table and hugged her tight. “Thank you, you have no idea what this means to me.” It felt so familiar, holding her like this—she still smelled like warm spices and something sweet.

She nodded, holding me for just a moment longer before pulling back. “My break’s almost over. I need to get back.” She took a step, then hesitated, glancing back at me. “Melfina?”

I looked up from my half-finished coffee. “Yeah?”

She bit her lip, unsure. “Did you ever think that maybe we could…?” Her voice trailed off, the words getting lost somewhere between hope and regret.

I sighed, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between us. “I had to lock my heart away, and I’m sorry I hurt you.” I paused, staring into my cup as if it held answers. “If there was anything I could do to repay your kindness, I’d give it to you. But I can’t give you that.”

She nodded, the sadness settling back in. “I know. You know, a lot of men tell me they can take care of me, bring me gifts, drinks, whatever. But I know what they want in return. And I hate that about myself, that it disgusts me.” She hesitated, her voice softening. “But you… you were different. You were in so much pain, and you made me feel like I was needed. I’m sorry I fell in love with you. Do you still…?”

I looked away, swallowing hard. “I don’t know. You still make me feel… a certain way, but it’s not love. And despite what Dr. Olisarra said, I was able to move on because of you.”

She nodded slowly, brushing a tear away. “I still miss you. Especially those hugs.”

I stood, wrapping my arms around her waist, hugging her tight but gentle, just like old times. I buried my face against her chest, feeling her warmth, her soft breath against my hair as she wrapped her arms around me. The comfort of it, the safety—it sent shivers up my spine. But when she leaned in closer, her lips just inches from mine, I pulled back and shook my head.

She stepped back, the hurt clear on her face, mixed with embarrassment. “I’ll make sure Vereesa gets my letters… I’m sorry.”

I tried to lighten the mood with a shrug. “No, it’s fine. I mean, hey, I might come back if I need a pap smear. You know what they say, ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’” I grinned, but it fell flat.

She winced, anger flashing across her face. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to make jokes about that! That’s one thing I don’t miss about you.”

I dropped my head, guilt settling in. “I’m sorry. You know you made a joke about—”

But she was already gone, walking out of the coffee shop before I could finish.

I sighed, watching the door swing shut, leaving me alone with the familiar ache. There’s always hope, but hope was a bitter thing, like something stuck in my throat that only sugar could soothe. Ever since the fall of Arthas, I’d fallen into this habit—ice cream, cake, anything sweet to drown out the guilt and pain, to feel something comforting when everything else hurt too much. It was my reward and my punishment all rolled into one. A way to quiet the memories, even just for a moment.

Today, I’d put Isirami through that hurt again, and that gnawing guilt clawed at me. So, just this once, I’d let myself have it. Two pints of ice cream, a poor replacement for what I really craved but the only thing that made the silence bearable. I’d pay the price later, but right now, I needed it.

Vereesa Windrunner

Just like Isirami said, I needed an invitation to get to Trueshot Lodge, and just as she said she could, she got me one. The flight path was a long hour ride from the peaks of High Mountain, and for a while, I was convinced the bird I was riding was either blind, lost, or just as confused as I was. This mountain was so high above the clouds that when I finally landed, I felt like I was one step away from knocking on the Titans’ front door. The view was something to write home about, though: clouds rolling over mountaintops, with peaks poking through like arrowheads through a fluffy white blanket. Few places in this world could compare. Truly beautiful and breathtaking—both figuratively and literally, because I was sucking wind up here like I’d just run a marathon with a hangover.

Vertigo hit me like a bad night out, and the air was so thin it made my armor feel like it was made of solid lead. I was ready to pass out just from trying to breathe. I took off my chest piece and held it at my side, but even that was too heavy, like carrying a drunk friend who refused to get off the dance floor. My club? Left on the ground like yesterday’s regrets. I found a campfire nearby, sat down, and peeled off into lighter clothes. At least I wouldn’t pass out from sheer weight. A few hunters and rangers passed by, and I greeted them with a smile—though I wasn’t sure if they were smiling back or just confused by the crazy paladin barely holding it together.

I didn’t know how long it’d take before I could even think about putting my armor back on, but I was ready to sit there as long as it took, clinging to the campfire like it was the last bit of sanity I had left.

It took three days for Vereesa to show up. The hunters were kind enough to feed me and, bless them, there were actual bathrooms up here—a small miracle on a mountain that high. By then, I had finally acclimated to the air, though I still felt like I’d been in a fight with gravity and lost. When Vereesa finally showed up, I was sitting by the campfire in my full armor again, looking like I’d barely survived my own self-imposed high-altitude boot camp.

“Melfina, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Vereesa said, as if she was dropping by for tea instead of finding me half-dead on a mountain.

I looked up at her, managing a smile despite feeling like a deflated balloon. “Took you long enough,” I said. “I’ve been up here for three days, and this altitude is worse than a three-day bender. I thought I’d been cursed to live out the rest of my days with nothing but thin air and existential dread.” I was still weak from the acclimation, but seeing her made the whole miserable wait almost worth it.

She bent down, poking at the fire with a stick like she was roasting marshmallows instead of checking on a half-dead paladin. “You look pretty hungover. Do you need me to bring some coffee, water, or maybe an entire IV drip?”

I sighed, rubbing my temples like the dramatic hero I sometimes pretend to be. “It’s the acclimation, not alcohol withdrawal. Although, after three days up here, a stiff drink wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Denial is the first stage, Perfectia,” she said, giving me that knowing smirk that made me want to bury myself under the nearest rock. “Should have gone by your alias; I would have realized it was you sooner. It wasn’t until I ran into Isirami that I knew you were here. This place doesn’t see many paladins, you know—especially ones who look like they’re about to confess to crimes against sobriety.”

I still can’t fathom how the rumor of “The Alcoholic Highlord” got started. Maybe it was the time I was seen using a mana potion bottle as a decanter, but can you blame a girl for getting creative? Anyway, she wasn’t wrong about the paladin part. I probably should’ve introduced myself as Melfina Lovewood, not Perfectia Dawnlight, but hindsight is 20/20—or maybe 20/200 when you’re high on a mountain. I looked out at the view, letting it spin me around like a bad carnival ride. “I can tell why. This place is as friendly to paladins as a fish is to a frying pan.” I took a deep breath and tried not to pass out. “But hey, at least I got some time to acclimate… and contemplate every life choice that led me up here.”

Vereesa half-smiled as she sat across from me, her face flickering with the firelight. “So, you must have a reason for subjecting yourself to this mountain’s version of hazing. If you’re going to ask to join the Silver Covenant, you should know it’s not what it used to be.”

“What happened? Did everyone leave to pursue careers as travel bloggers?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

Vereesa sighed, and it wasn’t the cute kind of sigh. “More than half of them have turned into void elves, some of your Horde blood elves too. I gave them the choice to stay, but they followed my sister Alleria instead. The void is like that weird cult-y juice cleanse everyone’s doing—tempting but a nightmare to manage.”

I shrugged, feeling suddenly exhausted just listening to all this void drama. “Sounds like your hands are full. Hopefully, it means more time for family? How are the boys?”

She looked away like she was searching the horizon for lost sanity, then gave me a wistful smile. “They need their mother less and less. It won’t be long until they start making names for themselves. A mother couldn’t ask for more, but sometimes I wish they’d need me just a little longer.” She paused, then asked, “How old were you when you officially joined the Horde?”

I smiled, thinking back to my early days, all wild hair and clumsy sword swings. “Fourteen. Running around the forests of Silvermoon with hand-me-down armor that might as well have been tin foil.” I glanced at her, curious. “How old are your boys?”

She looked at me like I’d just told her I fought a war with a rubber chicken. “Sixteen. You were fighting Illidan at their age? What did your parents say?”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Oh, you mean my father, the drunken, abusive waste of air who didn’t care if I lived or died? And my mother? Well, she was too busy getting killed heroically at the Sunwell to leave a note. Parenting award material, both of them.”

Vereesa gave me a pensive look, like she was trying to figure out if I was joking or just bitter. “But… he must have done something for you. I mean, you would’ve been what, nine when Arthas attacked?”

“Eight,” I corrected, my voice heavy with old anger. “He got me out of Silvermoon. I helped him get out of Tempest Keep. So yeah, we’re square.” I rolled my eyes and leaned back. “But hey, did you know your sister nearly corrupted the Sunwell for a second time? Real family fun. She ripped off her clothes, dove into the Sunwell and was like,” I couldn’t resist the urge to add, in my best monster impression, “‘I AM A KRAKEN FROM THE SEA!’” complete with claw gestures and fangs.

Vereesa looked at me angrily, then away, shaking her head in exasperation. “Well, it was nice seeing you again.” She started to get up, brushing off the moment like I was just another inconvenience in her day.

I was taken aback. “But you just got here, and I have questions,” I pleaded, my voice a mix of desperation and frustration.

Vereesa rolled her eyes, her patience thinner than the air up here. “Yes, I’m sure you do, but Isirami was right—you’re not exactly pleasant company, and believe it or not, I have better things to do.” She said it with a heavy dose of sarcasm, turning on her heel to leave.

I scrambled up, grabbing her hand, but she pulled away like I was poison. “I need your help!” I insisted, my voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “I’m sorry about the impression—it was just a joke! You owe me this, Vereesa!”

Vereesa pushed me back with both hands, her eyes blazing. “I don’t owe you anything, Perfectia Dawnlight. Didn’t you just hear me? The Silver Covenant is in shambles! What could I possibly do for you, even if I wanted to?” she snapped, her words sharp enough to cut through the thin mountain air.

I looked down, feeling the weight of my own desperation. “I need to join the Alliance,” I whispered, the words feeling almost forbidden.

Vereesa laughed, but there was no humor in it—just a mocking, bitter sound. “Wow, you think I’m going to help you spy again?” She shook her head in disbelief. “No, Perfectia. After everything the Horde has done to my family, you think I’d help you, you little girl?”

“Family?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes, family. You’ve heard of it, right?” She shot back angrily, her voice dripping with contempt. “And don’t give me any talk about your warchief. Do you have any idea what she would have done to me if I joined your Horde? What she would have done to my sons? Do you really think I’d ever help her?”

“I’m not asking you to help her, I’m asking you to help me!” I cried, my voice cracking under the strain. “I know exactly what she’s capable of, but I can’t stop her like this.”

Vereesa rolled her eyes again, turning away like she couldn’t bear to look at me. “The Horde can deal with their own messes; they’ve done it before. But I won’t help you do what you did to me last time.” She started walking away, each step echoing the finality of her words.

I was out of time, out of options, and I yelled out the only thing I had left. “YOUR BROTHER MAY STILL BE ALIVE!”

Last rewrite of Perfectia Dawnlight diary… For the Blizz Forums(8)

She froze mid-step and turned back slowly, her face a mix of disbelief and pain. “What?!” she snapped, shaking her head as if trying to clear away my words. “No, I saw what the orcs did to his body.” “Lirath,” I choked out. “He was like her, but not. He was kind to me, Vereesa. Please, I swear he’s alive.” She took a deep breath, her face tightening with a conflict of emotions. “Why should I trust you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but each word weighed down with years of mistr…