The Highlord
Perfectia Dawnlight’s Diary - Oct 8
I was forcefully yanked from my poor mother’s screaming womb two decades ago. My grandpa, in his infinite wisdom, told me that Mom wouldn’t spill the beans on who my dad was. All I knew was that he had black hair and no magic—a real winner who apparently made me a candidate for a one-way trip to the ocean at birth. But surprise! I popped out with a full head of blonde hair, earning me a fast pass to the Sunwell for potential magic powers. Mom didn’t even get to hold me for hours, probably because no one was sure if I was coming back. When I did, all purple and wrinkly, the first words out of anyone’s mouth were, “You have a perfect high elf baby girl.” So, they named me Perfectia Argento Dawnlight—a name combo Grandpa had in mind in case I turned out to be a boy. And “Dawnlight”? Just classic Elvin family branding.
Sure, this sounds dark to tell an eight-year-old, but here’s something darker: my grandpa was no saint, and Mom wanted me to know exactly what kind of person he was. Not that she was much better—Grandpa had a knack for aggressive, threatening conversations, but he treated me like his little protégé. And it takes real talent to tick off a Navy General.
So, if you’re reading this, congratulations! You either killed me and snatched my journal (rude), I trust you enough to let you read it (unlikely), or you tortured me into submission (ouch). No clue how you pulled that off since this diary only opens with a healing spell. Funny thing, though—there’s a whole bunch of these books in the paladin hall, filled with spells, runes, doodles, and adventure logs. And get this: when another paladin reads one, the writing magically translates into whatever language they understand. Except the swear words—those stay gloriously intact. Merdre, putain, zut alors, connard, va te faire foutre… you get the idea. I’m writing in Thalassian, but who knows what language you’ll end up with. Maybe someday, someone will shove all this into a printing press, but let’s not hold our breath.
If you’re a paladin in training and you picked up this book hoping to learn how to be a female, achievement-oriented, drug-free, proper adult virgin… No. Put it back, wash your hands, and rethink your life choices. The Silver Hand has mostly been a boys’ club, so here’s my advice: wear a full-face helmet, armor up, and only show your face when you’re about to cry—it freaks everyone out. Trust me, I used that trick to defeat Illidan Stormrage when I was fifteen.
And no, I’m not a virgin (sorry to disappoint). If you’re staring at my dead body right now, maybe you hated me and you’re looking for proof that I was awful. Well, guess what? I’d kill me too. Go ahead, spread these words like the clap for all I care. I’ve got enough labels to wallpaper Stormwind, and I’m not afraid to say that gay people fight just as well as straight people. Oh, and just to be clear, I’m openly racist toward humans and absolutely hate mages.
Or maybe you’re reading this for entertainment, curious about the weird stuff I say or how I say it. If that’s the case, welcome to the mess. Is it weird that becoming Highlord feels… lackluster? With two-thirds of the Silver Hand dead and its leader taken out by the Burning Legion, our order’s gone from a military force to a glorified book club. But hey, stick a woman in charge, work her twice as hard for half the credit, and maybe we’ll get this thing back on its feet. Girl power, am I right?
In case you don’t know, the Burning Legion is a demonic horde that’s been trying to wreck our world for decades. Their battle tactics? They’re basically obsessed with dying in the dumbest ways possible, constantly trying to one-up each other’s death stunts. Since Illidan Stormrage bit the dust, the Legion’s been nothing but a festering problem—a real pain in the rear. Now they’re doing a full-scale invasion, spreading faster than a venereal disease at a frat party. Advanced space-tech airships hitting farms and towns; silver lining? It’s temporarily paused the Horde and Alliance’s usual infighting.
With demonic aliens knocking at the door, everyone’s feeling cooperative for once. I mean, nothing says ‘let’s put our differences aside’ like an apocalypse, right?
Once we figured out where the Burning Legion had set up their main garrison, the Horde and Alliance launched a counter-invasion to take them down at the Broken Isles. While my fellow Hordies charged bravely into battle, I stayed back, consulting my trusty “How to Survive a Demonic Garrison for Dummies” guidebook. Spoiler alert: it didn’t help. It was a disaster, just like the Legion’s habit of throwing bodies at problems—except we weren’t much better. Key leaders died, and most of us who survived barely made it out with our lives. That’s when they started looking for new leadership. Enter me.
I’m a 22-year-old Blood Elf who, by elf standards, should still be playing with toy swords. But thanks to my overuse of fel magic (aka demon juice), I’ve aged like a discount wine and now resemble a middle-aged human more than a youthful elf. I’m 5’6, blonde hair, glowing green eyes, and my full name is Perfectia Argento Dawnlight—trust me, I’m anything but perfect. (Side note: These parentheses are for the sarcasm-impaired among you. If you get it, feel free to skip them.)
Most of my kin have those delicate, doll-like faces, but not me. My face is kind of square, like I’ve been in a few rounds with a boxing ring instead of a beauty contest. I also went through a rough patch after the fall of the Lich King where I ballooned up to 140 kilos (310 lbs.)—depression eating, it’s a thing. I’ve trimmed down to about 102 kilos now, but I’m still a lot heavier than most elves, who usually clock in at around 45 kilos for women and 70 for men. So yeah, thicker than the plot of this book… and sorry if that wasn’t funny.
If I’m not wearing special underwear, jogging feels like a battle of its own. My rear’s got a mind of its own, slapping around and tugging at my skin—basically, it sucks. I can still fight, but I don’t look like most elves from the waist down. My kin are brutally honest about it, too—mean, but honest. They love reminding me I’m fat, whether to my face or behind my back. I wish I could say I didn’t care, but it gets to me. It stings, and I run off to cry more often than I’d like. Ugh, I’m such a girl, and I hate it.
A couple of years ago, I had hip surgery, which isn’t exactly common among elves. Usually, magic can fix things like broken bones, but my injury was a mess of internal bleeding that required real surgery. Now, I’ve got a cool scar to show off at parties—if there were any parties in Azeroth…
Silver lining? My bestie Dr. Olisarra, master surgeon and all-around miracle worker, took care of the stretch marks and scars from my rapid weight loss. She usually does touch-ups whenever I swing by. I doubt she meant for my cheeks and legs to look like two bean bag chairs when I sit, but hey, at least I have a story. I know what you’re thinking: “Why not ask your surgeon friend to shrink your hips?”
Well, a recurring injury from trying to go “normal” taught me a painful lesson. Dr. Olisarra patched me up so I could take hits from swords, maces, falls, and dragons without falling apart. Priorities, people. Every time I visit, she stares at me like I’m her masterpiece, before inevitably pitching some kind of cosmetic or performance upgrade. And yeah, I usually take her up on it, which means three to four glorious weeks of getting high as a kite on anesthesia, eating ice cream, and lounging around while we gossip, drink, and dance like idiots in her Karazhan lab. It’s like a spa day if your spa included scalpels and battle-readiness.
But let’s get one thing straight: I’m single, but trying not to be. Yeah, it sounds desperate, but at least I know why. Relationships? Hard to focus on when demons are storming your doorstep. And I’m not settling for someone ugly, obnoxious, or toxic—I’d rather be alone. I’m emotionally exhausting and cute but not cute enough to compensate for it. I could wear more makeup, learn high heels, or pretend not to notice every passive-aggressive jab, but that’s not me. So, until the next world-ending invasion wipes out 3/4 of the population, I’m resigned to living like a demonic brood-mother… or maybe just get a bunch of cats.
Fighting the Burning Legion has given me a lot of downtime to talk to people. Some share their stories, some I drag the details out of. And guess what? People’s stories are actually kind of inspiring. I’ve decided to take writing more seriously, make it part of my nightly routine. So, maybe flip through these pages—you might find something worth your time.
If you were expecting me to say I’m just your average, clumsy, near-death-prone mess of an elf, think again. This isn’t some self-insert fanfic about a perfect little paladin. This is the story of a big, chubby, narcissistic, bitter girl with a misplaced sense of duty and serious daddy issues. So, buckle up and enjoy the ride.
Let me tell you, being a Horde soldier since I was 14 was one thing, but trying to speak Common? That’s like solving a Rubik’s cube blindfolded. Orcish? Even worse. I sound like a mix between a pirate and a drunk orc who’s had one too many. The H’s were a nightmare—like, I’d hear “Hello?” and immediately know what you had for breakfast. Great for awkward first impressions.
These days, I skip the H’s altogether. Thalassian’s my native tongue, and while there was a time when I could manage Common and people found my accent “cute,” now? Let’s just say my tongue’s lost the knack, and everything I hear gets mixed up. So, bear with me if you’re reading this in Common, and a few things get lost in translation.
I didn’t always want to be a paladin, but it has its perks. People trust you, no questions asked. You could walk up to someone’s front door, show a healing spell, and boom—instant access. I was born in Dawnstar Village, where High Elf nobility lived within spitting distance of the Sunwell. That place was the heart of our magic, nourishing us in ways that kept us from aging like humans do. My mom probably wanted me to be a mage since she was one herself, but between her distant work and my natural tendency to misbehave, let’s just say we didn’t quite see eye to eye.
Growing up, I was surrounded by every luxury—servants, slaves, and all the attention I could crave, except for my mom’s, or any mention of who my father might be. I had no siblings, just a bunch of aunts, uncles, cousins, and my seven-foot-tall mom, a mix of High Elf and Vrykul, which didn’t exactly make her a catch in the marriage market. The few times I’ve mentioned Dawnstar, my family, or our noble house, it’s only been to people I trust—and that’s not a long list.
Paladins weren’t a thing in my family unless they were trying to impress other nobles at tournaments. The Light was just something we were grateful for when we won a bet or a duel. My family was all blonde hair and “Dawn” in the last name, but not much on holy devotion.
So here I am, newly minted Highlord of the Silver Hand, and everyone’s probably imagining I’m the offspring of devout Light-followers who trained me from birth to wield a sword and say prayers. But no, it’s not like that. Most people have no clue where I come from, and frankly, they’re idiots if they think they do.
Being a noble bastard in a kingdom that doesn’t exist anymore doesn’t exactly get you clout at parties. Trust me, I’ve tried. “Hey, did you know I’m part of the royal bloodline? Yeah, Silvermoon’s a ruin, but my ancestors were pretty cool.” People just give you that awkward nod and slowly back away, like you’ve just told them you have a contagious disease.
Very few even believe my claim of noble birth, and it’s not like it matters. I couldn’t have inherited anything anyway—no titles, no estates—since I’m a bastard and, surprise, a woman. And even if I could have, there’s no kingdom left to claim. The Undead Invasion wiped all that out, took the Sunwell with it, and left us scrambling. Nobility in a fallen kingdom? Might as well be a punchline.
Sure, there are still descendants of noble lines, some even tied directly to King Anasterian Sunstrider. But they’re mostly traders, business owners, or guild leaders now. Any real power is long gone.
I don’t usually broadcast my noble background because, honestly, it’s kind of pathetic. But I remember what it was like—the glamor, the feasts, the sense that we were untouchable. Those days are dead, and I can’t even mourn them properly. So how does a foul-mouthed, demon-juice-slinging paladin like me end up leading the Silver Hand?
Maybe it’s because I’ve got zero guilt and treat vows of celibacy like punchlines. They say fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity, and I’m living proof. Tirion Fordragon, the former Highlord, barely knew I existed. I think I saw him twice, and the only words he ever said directly to me were, “You can’t go.”
Which brings me to the worst day of my life. When we finally cornered Arthas Menethil at Icecrown Citadel—the maniac who destroyed my kingdom and corrupted our Sunwell—I was ready to finish what I’d been training for my whole life. I wanted vengeance, and I wasn’t going to let anyone stand in my way. But then Tirion, in all his holy wisdom, decided to crush my hopes with three little words: “You can’t go.”
It was personal for me, more personal than anyone knew. Arthas, Illidan, Kael’Thas—they ruined everything. So when the time came to finally face him, and Tirion shut me out, it felt like the universe was having one last laugh at my expense.
That whole depression thing? Yeah, the one where I intentionally put on 70 kilos because I was trying to eat and drink myself to death? Fun times. I guess it’s better to have a tight belt around your waist than around your neck… Not my best joke, but hey, it’s been a rough ride.
In the end, Tirion Fordragon gave me the Ashbringer with his dying breath, and I still don’t know why. If he’d handed it over sooner, maybe he’d still be alive. If I had that sword, it would’ve been me striking Arthas down. Or at the very least, I would’ve been there to see it happen.
Becoming Highlord didn’t exactly live up to the hype. Sure, I’m glad I got the title, but on some level, I was almost relieved Tirion kicked it. When Gul’Dan took him out on the Broken Shore, my first thought was about the Ashbringer, not the guy who led the Argent Crusade. But wielding this thing? It’s been… exhilarating. It’s light as a feather but moves like it weighs a ton, slicing through demons and cauterizing wounds in one go. Who needs therapy when you’ve got a flaming sword to take your anger out on every undead in sight?
So how did I end up as Highlord? Not because I was chasing truth or justice, that’s for sure. Turns out, I’m here because I’m a walking mess—a cocktail of mental illness, anger issues, and a broken moral compass. Now I’m seriously considering adopting a cat.
But here’s what’s been gnawing at me: this job comes with a lot of responsibilities I never wanted. Most of the Silver Hand now includes more Alliance races than Horde, and that means playing nice and treating everyone with some level of respect and equality—two things I’ve never been good at. I’ve spent my whole life just wanting to hit things with a sword, not manage people. And the irony? The last thing I want to do now is kill anyone… but it’s still on my short list of things I’m good at.
So here I am, trying to figure out how to be a better leader. I still spend just as much time getting ready in the morning, make less money, and hate everyone equally. But hey, maybe I’ll start treating people with the dignity they deserve. And if you guessed that’s still almost none, congrats—you’ve won a cookie. I’ve read enough books of the Light; maybe it’s time I write one myself. Let’s see if I can make the most of this mess.
This book I’m writing in? It was my mother’s. My first entry was when I was nine—so, what, thirteen years ago? I wrote about surviving the Undead Invasion led by Arthas. I left the book in Moonglade, a druid training ground, before my dad and I got teleported to Tempest Keep. Malfurion Stormrage kept it in their library, and when I returned to Val’Sharah, he handed it back. He said, “A lot of powerful sorcerers tried to open this book, but nothing worked. We started to wonder where it came from, then remembered you and your father wanted us to teleport you back home. So when I heard you were coming, I figured I’d give it back.”
Nice of them to keep it safe, nice of Malfurion to bring it to me, but Tempest Keep? Total nightmare. We didn’t go straight there; we landed in Sylvanaar, a Night Elf settlement in the Blade’s Edge Mountains nearby. Tensions between Blood Elves and Night Elves were high, and while Sylvanaar was better than Tempest Keep, I still clung to the idea of reclaiming some semblance of nobility. I wanted that life back, clueless about what waited for us. Night Elf Sentinels escorted us to Kael’thas Sunstrider’s garrison, and while the setting felt alien—the constant thunder, cold purple stone, and barren dirt—I kept thinking, “At least I’m finally with my people.”
Turns out, being nobility didn’t mean squat. When we reached our people, they threw us into the caves to work the mines. It was rough. Not the glamorous return to Elven high society I had in mind.
There’s a part of me thinking, “Edit, edit, edit.” How many of these sections are going to have angry scribbles and lines crossing out every word? I got my book back from Malfurion, but I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. I showed him the messy entries I wrote when I was nine and the rune designs my mother had created. As I made friends during my travels on the Broken Isles, I started asking people how they’d survived, too. Turns out, everyone’s got a story, and they’re all pretty wild.
I’m still a Blood Knight, and the style is one of the strongest of Elven martial arts—great for taking down bigger foes. It’s all about speed and striking at weak points in armor. But there’s a side to it that’s less elegant, like flipping your sword around and clubbing someone with the hilt. It’s a style built for shield users, which isn’t really my thing, no matter what people say about my build. The technique gives an edge in analyzing and countering opponents, but sometimes, brute strength is the deciding factor when you’re up against a beast or someone who knows your moves. I’ve crossed swords plenty, and opponents are always shocked when they realize I can overpower them.
The shield style? That’s a whole different mess. It’s like wrestling but with a sword and shield—at least from the Blood Knights’ perspective. Without weapons, the style relies on grappling, pushing, and throws, but the “noble” techniques exclude stuff like punching, finger bending, or hair pulling, which, honestly, would make things way easier. It’s designed to take down bigger opponents by using their own weight against them in tight spaces—twists, trips, and body slams. Add a sword and strap a shield to your forearm, and you can turn a small, delicate-looking elf into a powerhouse that can knock down a giant. But honestly? I hate practicing it. The moves feel clunky and far from elegant. I have to wear tight clothes just to keep everything in place, and while I can handle most women, fighting men gets… awkward. Especially when they “accidentally” grab where they shouldn’t. Mainly my rear.
And then there’s the judgment. You’d think my kin had just discovered I was wearing a false limb when they see what’s under the armor. They touch a bit of extra flesh, and suddenly, I’m a freak. The women are the worst; they look at me like my horse deserves an apology. “Oh, I thought she was wearing extra padding.” Yeah, that hurts. Did I mention I sometimes cry over things like that? So yeah, I steer clear of the shield style when I can.
These are my strengths and flaws. I’m a surgically enhanced super paladin—more than just fat transfers. I’ve had intramuscular injections to increase tissue density and decrease recovery time. There’s a thyroid implant loaded with growth hormones to speed up muscle and bone healing. (Yes, I’m reading straight from my medical records here.) I’ve got enchanted coral bone grafts making my bones nearly unbreakable, retinal prostheses to improve depth perception, and something called “alterational bio-electrical nerve transduction.” Basically, a bunch of troll shamans zapped my spine to boost my reflexes.
But hey, no surgery can fix a broken mind or fill an empty heart. If I wasn’t constantly fighting, training, or running like my life depended on it, I’d probably have a whole list of medical conditions—or worse, visible side effects that’d make people stare even more. As Highlord, my job is to find talented people and let them shine. Contrary to popular belief, being Highlord doesn’t mean I get to march around declaring my greatness like, “Look at me, I’m the Highlord!” No, it’s more about managing chaos and hoping my next decision doesn’t sink the whole ship.
Let’s see if I can keep this boat afloat, or if it’s destined to crash and burn thanks to my questionable life choices.
My Origin Story
My name is Perfectia Argento Dawnlight. Yes, that’s right—Perfectia. And before you roll your eyes, remember: I didn’t choose it, my mother did, because the moment I was born, she couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. I’m not here to tell you about how flawless I am (spoiler alert: I’m not), but to give you the full story—unfiltered, unedited, and definitely not pretty.
I was born to Kel’Donas Dawnlight, a noblewoman of Dawnstar Village, and Lachance, a commoner with nothing but black hair and a faint resemblance to the elves. From as far back as I can remember, I was surrounded by servants who catered to my every whim, but what I really craved was attention from my parents. My mother, always so distant, and my father, who might as well have been invisible. I was the bastard child she decided to keep, but she told me I was the most perfect thing she’d ever seen, so Perfectia became my name. As a toddler, I was her little princess, constantly by her side, absorbing the Sunwell’s magic and sharing her bed.
My early memories are a blur of her glowing blonde curls and her protective gaze. She carried me everywhere, refusing to put me down, not even for those fancy gnome tech strollers that other parents used. I felt like I was something sacred, never to be touched or let go. It was just the two of us, and for a while, that was enough.
I still remember being small, barely able to walk, and feeling my mother’s arms around me. She held me like I was a sacred possession, refusing to put me down or let anyone else touch me. I remember the springy curls of her blonde hair, how they bounced like soft, golden springs when I pulled at them. The scent of her hair was warm and sweet, a comforting mix of lavender and something uniquely hers that lingered in the air. In those moments, I felt cocooned in her protection—her light blue glowing eyes always watching me with a blend of pride and vigilance. We would walk together everywhere, her holding me close, sharing every moment at the Sunwell, where the magic felt like an extension of her love. Even when we were apart, I could still feel the ghost of her presence, the warmth of her embrace, and the faint perfume of her hair that made me feel safe, cherished, and seen.
But then I got older, and things changed. I started noticing other kids with not just mothers, but fathers too—dads who picked them up and played with them in ways my mother never did. They looked content, like their parents’ love was enough to keep them safe. I remember tugging on my mother’s sleeve, pointing at a father and his child, and asking, “What mommy?”
I remember my third birthday vividly. Our home was filled with aunts, uncles, and cousins—many old, some newborns, all bearing the “Dawn” name: Dawnbreaker, Dawna, Dawnsong, Dawnridge. Most of us had blonde hair, with some lighter reds among us, while the black and brown hair belonged mostly to servants and slaves, rare among noble lines like ours.
It was also the first time I really ate anything. The food platters were filled with sweets and vibrant fruits, colors that danced before me like streams of green, blue, and orange, slithering like curious snakes. My mother sat beside me, her eyes on mine. “Do you like the fruit, Perfectia?”
Distracted by the swirling colors only I could see, I shook my head. “Do you not like the taste?” she asked, concern lacing her voice. Taste was a sensation I associated with magic, not food. Everything else—smell, texture—felt muted to me. The oranges smelled like oranges, grass like grass, but the taste was absent unless it was something magical. Food, when I closed my eyes, was just a bland texture sliding down my throat. My mother watched me with worry as I reached for things that weren’t there, colors and sensations no one else could see. Synesthesia, it was called, but that word meant little to me then.
Living near the Sunwell, I never needed food for nourishment; we lived off its magic, only drinking water to stay hydrated. So, this experience of eating became a rare occurrence, never revisited.
Months after my birthday, I was talking more, asking my mother about the men in our family, and why other children had two parents. Her answers were always short: “He’s not here” or “He’s away.” Then one day, she was gone—not forever, but gone from our daily routine. I still went to the Sunwell, played at the park, and attended lessons, but the comfort of her presence was missing. Instead, a black-haired servant took her place—Lachance, though I didn’t know he was my father then, and neither did he act like one. He never held me more than a minute, spent most of his time preoccupied with his nails or his hair.
When my mother finally returned that evening, I clung to her, saying I missed her and didn’t like Lachance. He just shrugged, uninterested. “You hired me to clean and find books for your library, not look after your child,” he said dismissively, making it painfully clear where his priorities lay.
My mother, Kel’Donas, looked at Lachance, sighed, and shook her head. “You’re not going to fire me, are you? I did everything you asked. She’s not hurt; I kept her safe. ‘Guarded her with my life,’ like you said,” Lachance explained, his voice flat, more concerned with his position than with me.
“No,” my mother said dismissively. “I’m putting you on assignment. There are books in Kul Tiras I need from Daelin Proudmoore. His next book is almost complete, and he needs some of mine. If it isn’t done, stay and assist until it is. I want the first copy off the press.”
“That’s halfway across the planet. Without the Sunwell…”
“There are mana potions, and you can survive on ‘normal’ food,” she cut him off sharply. “It’s not like you need the Sunwell to keep going.”
Lachance, like all servants and slaves, couldn’t use magic. Mother handed him a pile of papers, and he left without another word. She bent down to me, her tone softer. “I’m sorry, Perfectia, but Mommy has to work now. Don’t worry, I’ll fix this.” But it was hard to believe her.
After that day, I never knew how much I could miss her overprotective nature—the way her eyes were always on me, the way she stood as a shield, scaring off even the most arrogant nobles. Without her, the world felt colder, emptier. Every time I was far from her, I found myself turning, expecting her to be there, waving to reassure me that I hadn’t been left behind. Lachance would glance at me every now and then, but his focus was always elsewhere—on himself or on flirting with other women. He barely spoke, and when he did, it was in dismissive grunts and shrugs. I never told my mother about it because, deep down, I feared if I did, I’d be left even more alone.
That first day without her was the worst. Even though everyone told me she was just working, I couldn’t shake the thought that something had happened. That night, I slept alone in our bed, feeling a terror I couldn’t name, a gnawing absence where my mother should have been.
The second morning, the anger found an outlet. I screamed, cried, and broke everything I could reach. Servants tried to wrestle me into submission, to dress me, feed me, bathe me—but I fought them at every turn. I shouted for my mother until my throat burned, but she didn’t come. When she finally returned just before sundown, I ran to her, expecting comfort. Instead, she scolded me, her voice full of disappointment. “You’re behaving terribly, Perfectia. From now on, you’ll sleep in your own room.”
That second night, I wasn’t terrified. I was numb, sinking into the cold realization that I was alone, abandoned in the very house that once felt so safe.
From the time I was five, I had a small entourage of two to seven servants escorting me around the Sunwell Plateau. On the rare occasions I saw my mother, I would list which servants I liked and which I didn’t, which educators were boring, mean, or ugly. I’d complain about how a servant dressed me, carried me, or fed me, or simply how they didn’t listen to my every whim. The ones who dared to say ‘no’ to my tantrums or demands? I rarely saw them again.
But it wasn’t just the servants who bore the brunt of my wrath. Other children at the parks and businesses were targets too. If they had a toy I wanted, I took it. If someone my age was getting attention, I made sure they stopped. If the bigger kids fought back, they disappeared just like the servants. My tantrums earned me the nickname ‘Terror of the Sunwell,’ and soon, children avoided me entirely, making my fury grow even hotter.
My world became lonelier by the day. Entertainers—clowns, jugglers, performers—replaced educators. The more I was catered to, the harsher I became. I boasted about my “school” to other kids, drawing them in with stories of extravagant shows and magical toys their parents couldn’t afford. For a while, they played along, talking to my servants the way I did, basking in the fleeting rewards of being in my company. But as soon as their parents saw them mirroring my behavior, the insults started—“bastard child,” “royal brat,” “corrupted princess.” Sometimes a servant would step in before things got physical, but I still got slapped across the face more than once.
Whenever this happened, I complained to my mother’s stand-ins, but she was never around enough to hear or care. And like the kids, I never saw those parents again. Eventually, I wasn’t allowed to play at the park at all, and even at the Sunwell, parents kept their children away, as if my presence were a curse.
Trapped in my gilded cage, I was left to my own devices, surrounded by whatever toys I demanded. I threw tantrums, broke things, screamed until my voice gave out, and even hurt myself in fits of rage—scratching, banging my head against walls, anything to release the pent-up anger. My violent outbursts scared away even the best-paid teachers, who were often blamed for my self-inflicted wounds.
For a brief period, small animals were brought in to keep me occupied. They were cute, cuddly distractions, at least until they made a mess. As soon as I stepped in a pile of their filth, I lost all interest. I’d throw them outside, where they’d either be picked up by predators or wander off—at least, until servants brought them back. The ones I truly disliked were chained in a small room or left outside to starve.
One day, a dead black-and-white cat—one I’d chained to a tree for defecating on my desk—was brought to my mother. It had been tossed back into my room so many times that I finally took matters into my own hands. I woke up early, trapped it in a blanket, and left it tied to a chain. It never made its way back.
After barely seeing my mother for more than a few minutes a day for nearly a year, she finally confronted me. She threw the cat’s lifeless body at my feet. “Well?” she demanded, her voice edged with anger.
I looked in the bag and saw the blank, dead eyes staring up at me, the stench of rotting meat filling my nose. I rolled my eyes and glanced at my mother. “It scratched me,” I said flatly.
“So you killed it?” she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and anger.
“I never wanted it, but it kept coming back, so I made sure it didn’t.”
She stared at me, horrified. “I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about you, Perfectia. Would you care to read the letters I’ve received from your cousins?”
I shrugged, unbothered. She handed me a piece of paper. “Read it out loud,” she ordered.
I squinted at the elegant script. “Perfectia Dawnlight is such a sweet and charming girl. We wish you would bring her by so she can come to all of our parties.”
My mother’s face twisted with rage. “You think that’s funny?” She snatched the parchment away, towering over me like a giant, her presence suffocating.
I knew that look. It was the same look adults gave me right before they struck. I remembered the first time someone hit me—it hurt so badly I cried, but after that, I realized they always paid the price. My family made sure of it. From then on, when the blows came, I just took them, knowing they had sealed their own fate. “That’s what it says,” I replied dismissively, baiting her like I had done to the other parents, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
My mother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Read it again. Sound it out, Perfectia. Slowly.”
I blinked, confused. I knew my letters, knew how to write my name, but sounding them out? That was foreign to me. She stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, and I braced myself, ready for the sting of her hand. Instead, she picked me up and placed me on her writing desk, settling me on her lap. She dipped her quill in ink and handed it to me. “Perfectia, write the letter A.” Her voice wavered, as if she were holding back tears.
I hesitated but did as she asked for the first time in a long time. “Now, what sound does the A make?” she asked, her tone trembling.
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling an unfamiliar knot in my chest.
“I’ve spent so much time with that child prodigy…” she mumbled, her words barely audible.
“What?” I asked, glancing up at her.
“Nothing…” she whispered, a tear falling onto the back of my head. “We’re moving to Silvermoon City tomorrow.”
She walked me through the letters, one by one, her patience thin but present. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever learned them or if I’d just forgotten. Reading felt alien and uncomfortable, something I despised. We made it all the way to J before my eyelids grew heavy, and the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to me.
I was six when we moved to Silvermoon City. I didn’t really care or understand why my mother had been away from me for nearly three years, but now we were crossing the water to the grand High Elf city. I had heard stories from the entertainers who visited the Sunwell Plateau; most were from Silvermoon, though not all were High Elves. My mother told me I would be going to school there, and we’d only make short trips back to the Sunwell if I were sick or injured.
“What about Grandpa and all my cousins?” I asked, feeling a strange sense of detachment.
Mother rolled her eyes, sighed, and shook her head. “You have a few here, and besides, did you really see many of them when we were back home?”
I thought about it. The only times I could recall seeing my extended family were during birthdays. “Not really,” I admitted. “Are we going to still have servants?”
Mother laughed, though there was a bitter edge to it. “Maybe, but not as many as before. And you’re going to have to start being nicer to them from now on.”
“I’m always nice to servants, Mommy. They like how I treat them.” I said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Mother gave me a hard look. “What makes you think they like the way you treat them, Perfectia?”
“If they didn’t like how I treated them, they would work hard to be rich like us.” I recited this with the earnestness of a child who truly believed it.
She blinked, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Where did you hear that?”
“Grandpa,” I said proudly.
She turned away, chuckling softly but not in amusement. “We will most likely not have servants. I’ll be the one changing you from now on.”
Our new home was a cramped, single-bedroom apartment. Most of the clothes and linens were stuffed into corners, the bed and writing desk shared the small space with us. The living room, my personal sanctuary, was filled with my toys and collectibles.
School was strange and uncomfortable. It was just a building full of kids and one adult barking orders. It was nothing like the Sunwell Plateau, where my name had clout and servants jumped at my every whim. Here, no one cared who I was. It was humiliating but also freeing in a way—the teacher never tried to hit me or call me names. If I threw a tantrum, the class went on without me, or I was simply sent outside. I even tried to run away once, but the city guards dragged me back without much fanfare.
The routine became monotonous: wake up, bathe, let my mother dress me. By the time we left for school, someone—whom Mother called a “friend,” though I knew she was a servant—had already slipped into our apartment to clean. After school, my mother would pick me up and bring me home to find everything neat and orderly, laundry done, and a fresh half-barrel of water waiting for us.
Dinner was always somehow hot, and although I didn’t understand it then, I later realized that my mother used arcane fire magic to heat the food and the bathwater. She would put her hands in the water until it reached just the right temperature for me. After dinner, we’d sit at the writing desk to tackle whatever schoolwork I had, her patience thin but unwavering. When that was done, I’d retreat to the living room to play with my toys, flip through picture books, or scribble on whatever paper I could find.
Mother would bathe, and when she was done, she’d dry herself and tell me it was time for bed. She’d change me into my nightclothes and hold me as I drifted off, cradled in the warmth of her arms. In those moments, I’d cling to her like I used to, but it wasn’t the same. The comfort felt distant, and her touch, though still gentle, carried the weight of something unspoken—something I was too young to understand but old enough to feel.
There were still bad days, times when I didn’t want to eat at all. I’d beg to go back to the Sunwell, hoping for something—anything—different from the monotony of having books read aloud to me or watching Mother scribble away at her desk. Our routine was rigid, almost sacred, and I clung to it even as it suffocated me. If we fell behind schedule, or if she missed her coffee or Thistle Tea, Mother’s mood would turn sour. She’d pull me along, her grip tight, and sometimes she’d erupt in these piercing, guttural screams of “WHAT?!” if I so much as interrupted her thoughts. After each outburst, she’d offer an apology, blaming a headache or a bad day, but the damage was done. Some days, nothing I did could make her happy, and on those days, we would take unscheduled trips to the Sunwell—a two to three-hour boat ride that felt both comforting and tiring, depending on the weather.
Sometimes, even after I’d fallen asleep, I’d wake to see her hunched over at her writing desk, scratching at a large book or parchment with furious intensity. Lachance showed up occasionally to take over for Mother. I treated him like any other servant, though not as cruelly as I had those on the Sunwell Plateau. His presence meant fewer rules; he was more interested in his own musings and flirting with lonely housewives than in disciplining me. Some days, Lachance would walk us to school, and on those days, Mother would buy lunch from a food stall wrapped in paper bags. I remember coming home to the mess they’d leave behind, and now, looking back, I think I understand what was really going on between them. They were being intimate, but back then, I didn’t have the words for it.
My time with Lachance was an opportunity to get away with more. I even convinced him to take me beyond the city gates of Silvermoon, where I met a slave boy with fiery red hair. He was a curiosity at first, a new plaything. But playing with him meant tormenting him. I pulled his hair, burned him with candle flames, and poked him with needles. He was like any other servant—submissive, unfeeling—only he was closer to my age. When those small cruelties didn’t bother him, I found other ways to hurt him. I’d lie about knowing where his mother was, or I’d promise him a meeting with her, only to leave him waiting all night. The next morning, I found him crying. And even as I reveled in the suffering I caused, something inside me broke. He was crying because he missed his mother, just like I missed mine. I held him, feeling the sting of regret that I didn’t quite understand. Maybe I felt bad because, for the first time, I saw a mirror of my own pain in someone else. I didn’t know who my father was, and I’d been called every nasty name imaginable in Dawnstar Village. We were both children lost in a world that made little sense.
From that point on, I tried to be nicer to him—well, as nice as I could be. I was still bossy, still quick to anger, but I didn’t want to make his life unbearable, and I wouldn’t let anyone else hurt him either. His name was Redworm, but I called him Red. My mother was pleased I had found a friend who wasn’t terrified of me. We spent almost every afternoon together, and even on weekends, Red was there, a constant presence in my life. My bond with him allowed me to escape some of the schoolwork I despised, and it felt good to have someone around, even if it was just Red.
Mother saw the change in me and even considered adopting him. One afternoon, she visited Red’s master and offered to buy him outright. But his master, wary or perhaps just greedy, stalled, saying he needed time to think about it. She increased the offer, yet he repeated his hesitation. At the time, it felt like a small setback, but now I realize it was more than that—it was a threat, a refusal to let go of control. And it was the beginning of the end of my fragile happiness with Red.
He didn’t need to think about it, because he knew exactly who we were—nobles from the Dawnstar house. Red’s master knew the power my mother’s name carried, just by the way she spoke, and he knew what it meant to cross her. But he wasn’t going to let Red go so easily.
One day, Red and I were playing as usual, chasing each other through the narrow alleys near his master’s home, when everything changed. I remember the moment vividly: the sudden rush of footsteps, the sharp smell of sweat and smoke, and then darkness. His master had crept up behind me, throwing a coarse sack over my head with practiced precision. I felt his rough hands pinning my arms, binding my wrists together so tightly that the ropes bit into my skin. I kicked and screamed, but the sack muffled my cries. The world outside turned into a distant, muted hum, and my vision was swallowed by the stifling darkness. I could hear Red shouting, but his voice faded as I was dragged away, my feet barely touching the ground. I had no idea where they were taking me, or why, and every second felt like an eternity.
I was thrown into a small, dank space that smelled of mold and rot. My heart pounded as I listened to the faint rustling outside, the footsteps that came and went. I felt small and powerless, stripped of everything that made me feel safe. Hours passed, though it felt like days, and the fear of the unknown gnawed at me. I didn’t know where I was or what they planned to do with me. My mind spun with every possibility: punishment, ransom, or worse. I was used to getting what I wanted, but here, tied up and blindfolded, I was utterly helpless.
It was deep into the night when I heard the faint, familiar sound of soft footsteps. I tensed, unsure if I should hope or hide. The sack was suddenly pulled away, and I blinked against the dim light. It was Red. His face was streaked with dirt, his red hair wild and messy. He looked terrified but determined.
“Perfectia,” he whispered urgently, his voice shaking as he fumbled with the ropes binding my hands. “You have to run. Run as far as you can.”
I stared at him, my throat tight with fear and confusion. “Run where? I don’t know where to go.”
Red didn’t have answers, only desperation. “Just go,” he pleaded, his eyes darting nervously to the door. “If they find you, they’ll kill you.”
I hesitated, but his fear was infectious. With the last of my strength, I bolted, my feet pounding against the grass as I ran blindly into the night. I didn’t look back, didn’t stop to think. The only thought that filled my mind was escape. But even as I ran, the sense of being hunted stayed with me, every shadow a threat, every tree a dead end. I was a noble’s child, lost and alone in a world that suddenly felt vast and unforgiving.
I hesitated, but Red’s fear was infectious. With the last of my strength, I bolted, my feet pounding against the grass as I ran blindly into the night. I didn’t look back, didn’t stop to think. The only thought that filled my mind was escape. But even as I ran, the sense of being hunted stayed with me, every shadow a threat, every tree a dead end. I was a noble’s child, lost and alone in a world that suddenly felt vast and unforgiving.
I ran until my legs burned and my lungs ached, blindly pushing through the forest. I stumbled over roots and stones, branches clawing at my face and arms. Every sound, every rustle of leaves, sent a jolt of terror through me. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I found myself in a clearing surrounded by unfamiliar faces. A tribe of trolls. Before I could scream or run, they grabbed me, throwing me into a makeshift cage. This time, there was no escape. I watched them warily as they continued their strange rituals—drums echoing in rhythm with their chants, bonfires crackling with a hypnotic light.
The trolls were unlike anything I had ever known. They had a kind of magic I didn’t understand, something raw and alive. Their rituals—dancing, drumming, and chanting around the fire—created a warmth in the air that felt like a distant echo of the Sunwell. I couldn’t explain it, but the energy they created had a taste, something silky and sweet like a cool, refreshing drink. The urge to join them, to dance to the beat of the drums, became irresistible, and when they saw my awkward attempts from inside the cage, they let me out.
With the other trolls, I danced in the glow of their fires, my movements clumsy but filled with an odd joy. I placed my hand on one of their gems, a smooth, cold stone that hummed with power. As soon as I touched it, I could taste its magic—a burst of sweetness that spread across my tongue, cool and comforting. Somehow, I could understand their language when I held it, the unfamiliar words turning into something I could grasp. They told me I couldn’t use the “juju” every day, that it wasn’t something to rely on. They expected me to learn their ways, little by little.
I feared I’d be forced into another strict schooling, but their lessons were different. The trolls taught me to fish, their big, three-fingered hands guiding mine. It was fun, even though cleaning the nets left my small fingers aching and my clothes smelling awful. I was one of many, joining troll children of all ages as we worked side by side. The next day, they tried to teach me how to swim, splashing around in the water with wild abandon, and they even showed me how to use spears, though I was terrible at it.
Only once did I throw a tantrum, a wild storm of anger and frustration, throwing myself on the ground as I screamed. I expected punishment or for them to ignore me, but instead, the woman who shared her hut with me—Tema—scooped me up, holding me close. She shushed me gently, rocking me back and forth as she hummed a tune I didn’t recognize. Other troll women joined in, murmuring in soothing tones, and I felt the anger melt away in their embrace. They passed me around like a baby, singing softly until my rage subsided. They called it “berserking,” a curse that needed comfort rather than discipline, and from then on, my fits were fewer, their strange treatment somehow working.
Not every night was a wild dance party, but every evening was filled with stories told in exaggerated gestures, trolls acting out the day’s events with humor and flair. They’d tap me on the back, mimicking the fish I’d caught or the silly mistakes I’d made, their laughter infectious and warm. Food was fresh and rich, harvested, hunted, or grown, with every bite full of flavor. I didn’t know hunger, but I finally understood taste.
Then there were the dinosaurs—massive creatures that terrified me at first but quickly became affectionate giants. Some would nuzzle against me, their large heads resting on my lap, and I felt something unfamiliar: guilt. I thought of the small pets I’d hurt, the cats and dogs I’d neglected and mistreated, and it all came rushing back. I was used to being a terror, but here, I was just a girl with no power, learning to care for things bigger than herself.
Tema, the troll woman I lived with, would find me in tears at times. She’d hold me close, passing me to others who would whisper reassurances. She treated me like one of her own, never asking more than I could give, and I found a strange, unexpected comfort in her care. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, she’d bring me into the circle of dancers, letting the rhythm of their chants and the beat of the drums lull me into a peaceful slumber.
I didn’t realize it then, but those trolls were showing me a different way to be—one that wasn’t about power, control, or cruelty. They taught me that strength could come from community, that love could be found in unexpected places. But like all things, it was not meant to last.
I wanted to tell them that I missed my mother, that I came from a noble house, and that maybe we could be friends if they brought me back home. But as much as the thought crossed my mind, a larger part of me resisted. I didn’t want to go back to the emptiness, to being ignored, neglected, and left to rage in the shadows of grand halls. Here, I was seen. Here, I was validated. And I didn’t feel the constant hunger for the Sunwell’s magic; their gems sustained me, filling the void my old life never could. I must have stayed with the trolls for a month or two, and while they tried to set up a bed or hammock for me, I slept in that cage the whole time, feeling oddly safe in its confines. They gave me blankets, but that’s not what my mother saw when she came.
She arrived one day with a group of high elves, storming the camp with the kind of fury only mages can muster. I thought being a mage was just another job, like being a librarian or an artist. I didn’t understand their power until that day. She burned the camp mercilessly, flames roaring to life with a flick of her wrist. Trolls scattered in terror, some trying to fight back, others trying to flee. My mother’s spells were relentless—fireballs that set huts ablaze, frostbolts that froze fleeing trolls in place.
She told me to look away, to close my eyes, but I didn’t. I watched, horrified, as she unleashed a torrent of destruction. I screamed at her to stop, but my voice was lost in the chaos, drowned out by the screams and the crackling of burning wood. The cage I was in wasn’t even locked, but I stayed put, feeling powerless against the storm she had unleashed. When she got close enough, I tried to hurt her in the only way a seven-year-old could—I swung at her with small, furious fists, telling her I hated her, begging her to stop. I called out the names of the trolls I’d grown to care about, pointing at the burning wreckage of their lives, but she didn’t even look at me. It was like she didn’t see me at all, like I was just throwing another tantrum.
Then, in a fit of rage, I yelled, “Ebost Asala, Temassran!” The words came out of me like a curse—“Your soul is dust, parent.” I didn’t even know the proper words for mother or father in Troll, but that’s what they had taught me to say. Those words got her attention.
“What did you say?” she snapped, her spellcasting hand freezing mid-air. For the first time, she looked directly at me, her eyes wide with shock.
I hurled every Troll phrase I knew at her, twisting even their greetings into venomous insults. It was nonsense, but I wanted to hurt her, wanted her to feel as small and powerless as I did. Finally, she slapped me—a sharp, stinging blow that sent me sprawling to the ground. This wasn’t like the slaps I’d gotten from parents on the playground; this was different. It was a slap that cracked through my entire body, leaving my cheek burning and swollen. I could taste blood on my lips.
As I lay there crying, the words came out like a chant, “Ataash varin kata,” over and over. “In the end lies glory.” It was a phrase the trolls had taught me, one that gave them strength. My mother grabbed my arm, hauling me up so quickly I thought she might hit me again. Her eyes darted around, suddenly cautious. The ground beneath us had started to glow with a faint yellow fire, like the sun’s light trapped just beneath the earth.
She pulled me away, tip-toeing like the ground was sacred and dangerous. She finally stopped when we were clear of the glowing patch and looked at her servants. “Do you know what spell that was?” she asked, her voice shaky.
They glanced back, the fire slowly fading. “No, my lady. All the trolls are dead or fleeing. Did you want us to track them down?”
Mother shook her head, still holding me tight. “No. Perfectia is safe.”
Safe? I felt anything but. Anger surged in me again, and I bit her arm as hard as I could. She let out a yelp, dropping me to the ground. I scrambled away, rushing back to the remnants of the fire. I grabbed one of the small, cold gems they kept by the flames, clutching it close. I’ve kept that gem ever since—a reminder of what was lost and what was taken.
I tried to run again, to escape into the forest, but my mother’s apprentices were quick. They caught me within minutes, dragging me back kicking and screaming. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go back to the life I had known. But I had no choice.
I calmed down a bit on the way back to Silvermoon City and told my mother I wanted to go back home and take Red with us. Mother told me that I wasn’t going to want to see him again. I went back to the slave master’s house and saw him. He was walking around with a stick because they had cut out his eyes; I don’t think he knew I was there. But she was right. I didn’t want to see that, and I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to him.
The sight of Red broke something inside me. I had known cruelty, but seeing what had been done to him, someone I had hurt and befriended, felt like a reminder of the world I was returning to—a place where power meant taking without consequence. I wanted to run, to scream at my mother, to somehow undo the damage, but all I could do was stand there, helpless. For the first time, I felt a kinship with Red’s pain, a recognition that we were both victims in different ways.
When we went back to Dawnstar Village, everything felt different. I thought when I moved into a one-bedroom apartment with my mother, or when I was living in a hut, that I had moved into extreme poverty, forced to live among peasantry. But this… this felt so much worse than all those times. I had always believed that because of my nobility, I was somehow above others, that I was destined for more. Now, the grand halls and opulent estates felt hollow, like an illusion I had been fed since birth. I felt truly poor. I realized that the wealth and luxury around me had only masked a deeper emptiness. My servants couldn’t believe how much my personality had changed. I displayed habits that suited living with a community—setting up tables, arranging food, even cleaning dishes after meals. These simple acts felt more fulfilling than all the toys and treasures I’d been given as a child. But my family scolded me, confused by my new behavior.
My uncles and older cousins would ask me how I had survived among “savages,” treating the trolls as less than people. They would demand that I say something in Troll, expecting curses or violent phrases. When I said, “Shoka ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shoka,” which meant, “Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against,” they sneered. They assumed it was some gruesome curse, something fitting of the “corrupted princess” they believed I had become.
I looked at them and realized I was staring at the person I used to be—arrogant, self-absorbed, believing in a hierarchy that only served those at the top. One cousin, Kulick Dawnlight, pushed me during my welcome home party, calling me a bastard and disgusting for being tainted by trolls. He shared my last name, a noble with both parents, but his words didn’t cut as they once might have. I saw my former self in him, the disdain and blind entitlement. I headbutted him in the mouth, breaking his nose, but he was two years older, trained in swordplay, and stronger. He beat me until my mother and grandfather intervened. I wasn’t invited to any parties after that, but for once, I didn’t care.
I spent my free time fishing off my grandfather’s war boats, finding solace in the repetitive motions—the way the line cut through the water, the tension as a fish bit, the satisfying snap when I pulled it up. My grandfather, Kel’Magnus Dawnlight, Navy General of Silvermoon, saw me gutting and cooking fish I caught with improvised sticks and string. He was impressed, not because of the skill, but because it was something no tutor or servant had taught me. It was survival, something I had learned when no one was around to coddle me.
My grandfather Kel’Magnus Dawnlight, the Navy General of Silvermoon, approached my small campfire where I was cooking the fish I’d caught. The sun was dipping low, casting a warm, golden hue over the water. I didn’t expect to see him; he rarely strayed from his duties, but there he was, watching me with an expression that was both curious and—dare I say—proud.
“Perfectia, you’ve learned how to be self-sustaining?” His voice carried a mix of surprise and admiration.
I glanced up, not entirely sure what “self-sustaining” meant, but I could tell by his tone that he was impressed. I had caught three fish that day, and I offered him the one I was cooking, skewered neatly over the fire. “You’re my mother’s father,” I said, feeling a strange need to confirm the bond, even though I knew it in my heart.
“Yes,” he nodded, taking the fish from my outstretched hand. “And that makes me your grandfather. Where did you learn to do this?”
I hesitated, my eyes dropping to the flames. The memories of the trolls were still fresh, tangled with guilt and confusion. I began to cook the next fish, my hands working on autopilot while my mind wrestled with whether I could trust him. Tears welled up despite my best efforts to hold them back. “I’m not allowed to say,” I mumbled, my voice breaking.
He crouched beside me, his expression softening in a way I had never seen before. “I promise you, Perfectia, no one will hurt you again. You can tell me anything.” There was a warmth in his voice that felt unfamiliar yet comforting, like a fire on a cold night.
So, I told him everything. I told him about the trolls—their kindness, the way they made me feel seen when I felt invisible. I talked about their fire rituals, the strange comfort of their songs, and how I learned to fish and swim alongside their children. I confessed to the moments of joy I found in their community and the pain of watching them burn at my mother’s hands. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I spoke, and he listened without interrupting, letting me pour out every hidden feeling I had been too afraid to share.
When I finished, I braced myself for anger, for him to dismiss the trolls as savages or blame me for caring about them. But he surprised me. He didn’t raise his voice or scold me. Instead, he looked at me with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “I understand, Perfectia,” he said quietly. “It’s not your fault.”
His words felt like a balm on an open wound, soothing the guilt that had gnawed at me since that day. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, feeling a flicker of hope that I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I don’t want to be a mage, Grandfather. I want to be like you—I want to sail, and I want to fight.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the determination in my eyes. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind that warmed the chill of the evening. “Well, Perfectia, if you want to fight, you’ll have to learn how to wield a sword. But it won’t be easy.”
I nodded, ready to prove myself. “I don’t care how hard it is. I want to be strong.”
He grinned, a spark igniting in his eyes—a spark that mirrored my own. “Then let’s begin.”
From that moment on, our bond was forged in the rhythm of practice and the clashing of swords. We trained for hours, sometimes well past the point where others would have stopped. He would correct my form, show me how to hold the blade, and push me further each day. Whenever we reached a stopping point, he’d say, “Okay, Perfectia, that’s enough.” But I would look at him with the same fire he had seen in himself as a young man and insist, “I’m not tired. I can keep going.” And we would train for another hour.
He began to prioritize our time together, brushing off naval duties and rescheduling meetings, something I’d never seen him do before. “Can’t you see I’m doing something important right now?” he would snap at his soldiers when they interrupted, and he meant it. For the first time, he made me feel like his most important responsibility.
There were days when I sparred against his men—tough, seasoned soldiers who held nothing back at his command. They’d knock me down, and each time I would get back up, bruised and sore but driven. My grandfather would watch with a critical eye, arms crossed, but there was a sense of pride there that he tried to hide behind his stern exterior. “Another,” he’d say, pushing me to face them again.
On the days I felt discouraged, overwhelmed by the pain and the relentless pace, he would kneel beside me and remind me of the trolls. “You wanted to protect them, didn’t you?”
I’d nod, my resolve tightening even through the pain. “Yes, I did.”
“Mages won’t let you start over once they knock you down,” he’d tell me, his voice hardening with the weight of experience. “They’re relentless, and they won’t care about your name or your birthright. But if you fight like this, you’ll stand a chance.” He’d gesture to his soldiers. “These are just men, but a mage is a monster.”
And so, I kept going. I fought, I learned, and with every strike, I could feel the inferno inside me growing—a fire stoked by my grandfather’s belief in me. He wasn’t just training me to be a swordsman; he was nurturing the spark he saw in me, fueling it with every word of encouragement, every hour spent together. For the first time, I felt like I was more than just a noble’s child or a failed mage’s daughter. I was becoming something stronger, something fierce, and it was all because my grandfather had chosen to see me not just as a duty, but as his granddaughter, with potential that even he was excited to watch unfold.
There was one time when the other soldiers had an idea: if I performed some of the flashy moves and choreography we’d practiced together, maybe my grandfather would be impressed. I was supposed to take on six armored soldiers at once, running drills that looked more like a dance than a fight. We rehearsed jumps, strikes, ducks, and parries, blending them into a routine that felt like a staged performance rather than combat. When it was time to showcase, I executed each move flawlessly, landing graceful strikes that had no real power but dazzled in execution. I could see the admiration in the soldiers’ eyes as I downed one, then two, and finally all six. They applauded, and for a brief moment, I basked in the recognition I had craved.
But my grandfather sat there, silent and unimpressed. His eyes didn’t light up with pride or approval; instead, they were clouded with a look of discontent and something deeper—disappointment. The applause died down, and the once-beaming faces of the soldiers grew tense as he stood and approached us.
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as if watching a child’s clumsy attempt at mimicry. “Get up,” he ordered the soldiers, and they obeyed, rising to their feet with confusion etched on their faces. “Now, fight her for real.”
They exchanged bewildered glances. “General, she’s a child. Your granddaughter.”
His face hardened. “I know exactly who she is, and I need you to fight her like you’re trying to kill her. I’ll tell you when to stop.” His voice was cold, almost unrecognizable, and he turned to me, his expression fierce. “Perfectia, you are not a dancer. You are not here to entertain. You are here to hurt people.”
I took a step back, the weight of his words sinking in. This was not a request. It was a command, and I could feel the sting of humiliation creeping up my spine.
“PERFECTIA!” His voice roared, filling the training grounds like a thunderclap. “IF YOU RUN AWAY, I’LL MAKE SURE YOU NEVER SEE A SWORD AGAIN!”
The threat echoed, cutting through me sharper than any blade. I put my head down, swallowing the fear and hurt, and glanced at the six soldiers I’d spent weeks choreographing with. They were no longer my partners; they were opponents, and I was no longer performing. This was real. I nodded at them, signaling that I was ready, though my heart was pounding in my chest.
“Now fight,” my grandfather ordered, his voice calm but relentless.
I moved through the steps I’d practiced, landing hits that were meant to look impressive but lacked the force to dent their armor. The choreography failed me as soon as their weapons swung back with intent. I dodged and blocked as best as I could, but one of them eventually struck me across the back. The sting was immediate, searing, and my small frame buckled under the force.
The soldier who hit me hesitated, looking back at my grandfather with a mix of regret and concern, but his compassion only fueled my grandfather’s anger. He stormed over, seizing the soldier by the collar. “Hold back like that again, and I’ll kill you right here,” he snarled, his voice laced with unrestrained fury.
He retrieved a steel bar from behind him and with a swift motion, extended it into a spear—his favored weapon. He pounded it against the sand twice, the sound sharp and threatening. “Now, again!”
Fear overwhelmed me as the soldiers advanced. Their blows were no longer choreographed; they were harsh, deliberate, and punishing. I tried to block, but every defense crumbled under the sheer weight of their attacks. I felt the crack of wood against my skull, a sharp jab to my jaw, and a bone-rattling strike to my leg that sent me sprawling. I lay on the ground, battered and breathless, hoping for the familiar command to get back up—but it never came.
Instead, the soldiers hesitated, looking to my grandfather for direction. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted. “I told you to keep going until I say stop.”
They resumed, and this time, it wasn’t a sparring match; it was a beating. I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself as best as I could, but every strike felt like a deliberate punishment, not just for me but for them as well. I could sense their reluctance, their discomfort with what they were being forced to do, but my grandfather’s presence loomed, unforgiving. He snatched a weapon from one of the soldiers, demonstrating his own brutal strike across my side. The pain exploded in my kidney, sharp and blinding, and I screamed, the sound raw and broken.
It went on like that—minutes that felt like hours, each blow stripping away the illusion of play and exposing the harsh reality of combat. When it finally ended, and he called them off, I lay there in excruciating pain, bruised, bleeding, and sobbing. I felt utterly defeated, not just physically but in the realization that I was not the warrior he wanted me to be.
My grandfather walked over, his expression hard but not without a trace of regret. “I know you think that was cruel of me,” he said, his voice low.
I looked up at him, trying to muster some semblance of strength, my breath hitching as I repeated something he’d told me many times before. “But mages are even more cruel.”
He stared at me, and for a moment, the harshness in his eyes softened, replaced by a reluctant respect. “Yes, they are,” he agreed, his voice breaking with the weight of his own brutal lessons. He scooped me up, ignoring my weak protests, and carried me to the Sunwell.
As he submerged my body in the water, he watched the magic heal my wounds, the light turning my eyes a radiant gold. “Wow,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. “They really do turn gold.”
It wasn’t just a comment on the Sunwell’s magic—it was an acknowledgment of the potential he saw in me, buried beneath the bruises and tears. He wasn’t just trying to beat a lesson into me; he was trying to reshape me into the warrior he believed I could become. He wanted to see the spark in me grow into an inferno, fierce enough to burn away every trace of doubt and weakness.
But as I lay in his arms, feeling the Sunwell’s warmth soothe my battered body, I couldn’t help but wonder if his fire was too much for me to handle—or if it was the only thing that would ever make me strong enough to stand on my own.
As Kel’Magnus held me in the Sunwell, I felt his grip tighten, almost protective, as if shielding me from the world he was trying so hard to prepare me for. The magic of the Sunwell’s waters wrapped around me like a warm, comforting blanket, dulling the pain of bruises and soothing the ache in my muscles. I could feel its energy surge through me, making my eyes glow that strange, golden hue. I watched my reflection, a flicker of something fierce staring back at me—a fire he had tried to stoke into a controlled burn but which was dangerously close to raging out of control.
I drifted off in the water, the weight of my grandfather’s expectations drowning in the comforting warmth. His voice was faint, distant, and for a moment, I thought everything might just be okay. But the fire, like those errant flames he tried to snuff out, was far from extinguished.
After that day, I avoided him. Every practice session felt like a confrontation I wasn’t ready for, each swing of the sword reminding me of the relentless pressure to become something I wasn’t sure I wanted to be. I took refuge far from his ships, opting for the solace of fishing, where every cast of the line felt like an escape from the harsh demands of swordplay and discipline.
But Kel’Magnus found me. He always did. “You never missed a practice before, Perfectia,” he said, his voice edged with the familiar sternness.
I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the water, watching the ripples spread out endlessly. “I didn’t feel like it today. I just wanted to fish.”
He crossed his arms, trying to soften his tone but failing. “You could have brought your fishing line to the ships. There’s always a place for you.”
I didn’t look up. “I don’t want to.”
His patience frayed. “At least watch the other men practice. You can’t just turn your back on this.”
I finally looked at him, my gaze defiant. “No.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the sheer bluntness. “No? Who do you think you are?”
I turned away, feeling the weight of every bruised lesson, every expectation pressed into me. “The Terror of the Sunwell, remember? And you broke your promise, Grandpa.”
He stiffened, understanding washing over him—his methods, the relentless push, the way he tried to snuff out the dancer in me, had backfired. He was trying to turn me into something fierce, but the fire was uncontrollable. “You’re still a child, Perfectia. Sometimes a child needs to be punished.”
He moved closer, his hand reaching out as if to bring me back to the fold, but my anger flared—sudden, fierce, like a spark hitting dry kindling. I leaned back, disengaging from his grip, and without thinking, I lunged with my fishing pole, aiming for the one vulnerable place I knew: his left eye.
The moment of impact was sickeningly soft, a gruesome pop that sent shockwaves through both of us. Kel’Magnus staggered back, clutching his face, his roar of pain echoing through the trees. “You little terror!” he bellowed, his voice a mixture of rage and disbelief.
But I didn’t back down. I moved like he taught me, side-stepping to his left, exploiting his blind side as if we were locked in a deadly dance. “You’ve slain your kin before, haven’t you?” I taunted, the pole pointed at him, my stance fierce and unyielding.
His remaining eye, wild and wide with pain, tracked me, desperate and cornered. “You think you can take me, child? You have no idea what it means to fight.”
“I know enough,” I snapped, lunging again, aiming for his side. But his reflexes, honed through decades of battle, were still sharp. He snatched the pole from my hands, ripping it away with a strength that reminded me just how small I was.
There was a moment where we both stood there, breaths heavy, caught in the wake of what we’d just done—what he had pushed me to do. It wasn’t just a training session anymore. It was a fracture, a moment when the spark he tried so hard to control flared into something neither of us could put out.
I bolted away from my grandfather, my heart pounding as fast as my feet hit the ground, but he was faster. He grabbed me by my clothes, lifting me off my feet as if I were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. I kicked, bit, and screamed, trying to wriggle free, but his grip was ironclad. I didn’t know where he was taking me, but it didn’t matter—I was terrified of what he might do.
He carried me to the practice area, throwing me onto the sandpit with a force that knocked the breath out of me. “STAY THERE!” he roared, and I froze, curling in on myself as I tried to make sense of what was happening.
He turned to one of his soldiers, barely holding back his anger. “Run her through the swordplay lesson I prepared,” he ordered, then looked back at me, his face twisted with a mix of pain and frustration. “I need medical attention.” He stormed off, the sound of his heavy boots fading, leaving me to face the consequences of what I had done.
I stared at the ground, ashamed and scared, feeling more like a prisoner than his granddaughter. One of my older cousins, Dorian Dawnridge, approached with a hesitant smile. His long red ponytail swung as he moved, and he seemed unsure how to act around me. “Perfectia,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, “Grandfather wanted you to work on something special today. A new training dummy.”
I followed him to the dummy—hard wood, rough, and unyielding, unlike the ones I was used to, which were laced with hay and fabric to soften the blows. I tapped on the wood, frowning. “It’s too hard. How am I supposed to practice with this?”
Dorian chuckled, tightening some screws on the limbs. “It’s meant to be like an enemy in full armor. You’ve got to learn how to break through.” He pressed on a joint, and the arm popped off with a sharp click. “That’s how you break a man’s arm. Simple once you know the weak points.”
I nodded, but my mind was still on my grandfather, on the damage I’d caused. “Did you… did you see his eye?”
Dorian hesitated, glancing at me with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “Yeah. Did you…?”
I shook my head quickly, lying through my teeth. “No.”
He laughed softly, putting the arm back into place. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
But it wasn’t that simple. I tried everything—pressing, pulling, prying, striking with all the force I could muster. I climbed up and tried to put my weight into each move, but I was too small, too light. I tried using my sword as a lever, wedging it against the dummy’s joints, but nothing worked. The dummy was unbreakable, unyielding, and every failed attempt only fueled my frustration.
By sunset, my hands were raw, and I had gone through five or ten practice swords, each breaking uselessly against the stubborn wood. Tears of anger stung my eyes as I screamed at the inanimate opponent. “You stupid dummy! You stupid, stupid dummy!” I swung again, but the sword snapped back, striking me in the face and knocking me to the ground. I clutched my cheek, sobbing from the sting and the shame.
I was ready to give up when I noticed my grandfather standing there, his silhouette framed against the dying light. His left eye was bandaged, a spot of blood seeping through the cloth. He watched me, not with anger, but with something I couldn’t quite place—pride, maybe, or understanding. “You weren’t about to quit, were you?” he asked.
I scrambled to my feet, wiping away the tears. “Grandpa, I…” I choked on my words, gripping my arm. “I thought maybe if I used a real sword…”
He shook his head. “You’re not ready for that yet.” He walked over, examining the dummy with a thoughtful sigh. “It’s about technique, not brute strength. Loosen the bolts so the limbs can move freely. Pull quickly once it’s extended, then strike the weak point. Even a child could do it, but the timing has to be perfect.”
I paused, feeling the weight of his words. I sometimes forget when people use the word ‘perfect,’ they’re not always referring to me. I loosened the bolts, watching the limbs wobble unsteadily from side to side. I tried again, following his instructions, but I kept slipping, the strikes never landing where they should. Each failed attempt felt like a blow to my confidence.
“It’s just my name, Grandpa,” I cried, my voice breaking with frustration. “I can’t do it.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, his expression softening in a way I hadn’t seen before. “Stop crying,” he said, though there was no anger in his voice. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say you couldn’t do something.”
He sighed, looking at me thoughtfully. “Don’t go to the Sunwell tonight. Let your muscles feel the strain. Eat eggs for breakfast, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”
I nodded, my heart heavy with guilt and shame. “Grandpa… I’m really sorry about your eye.”
He looked away, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his stern expression. “Go to sleep, Perfectia. You have nothing to apologize for.”
So, the next day I started my strength and resistance training in the morning with some of his navy sailors even before I ate breakfast, and I tried the methods my grandfather told me to use but it still wasn’t working but I was less frustrated this time. Cousin Dorian showed me a few breaking techniques, but he was still a grown man. He showed me that the head could come off if he twisted it to the side. He was able to get the wooden dummies head to twist if he really wound up a strike with a practice sword, but my sword usually broke in half when I tried to do that. He showed me this technique where my feet were square, knees slightly bent, and I held the sword in a ‘kamae stance’. (That’s a sword point facing upwards, holding the grip near the center of your chest. Also, I’m about to say a lot of stuff, and explain about a million things about swordplay. So, if you’re not interested in that you can just skip the next few paragraphs because you might think this is boring.) At least that’s how the hands were kept. Hands on top of each other but he wanted me to hold the sword from behind my head as opposed to keeping it in front of me. We talked about this sword swing for about an hour before he would let me get a full motion of how it was done. How I was supposed to move my front foot to emphasize timing. I was supposed to bring my front shoulder down lower than my back shoulder to create an access that I can swing around so when I got to the point of contact my shoulders would switch. My front shoulders would be higher, and my back shoulder would be lower.
I really feel I need to mention this technique with emphasis. I’m sure there are a lot of people that know nothing about swords except that the pointy end goes into the other man, and this might sound like a foreign language, but I still use it today when fighting a beast of prey. Out of all the different sword techniques I do know, this has been my foundation. Because if you begin your sword swing from this starting point you can really feel your hips and lower half almost pulling the sword through the point of contact. This is where MY power comes from, and I think a lot of men swing a sword the same way they chop wood using only arms and back muscles. But when you’re chopping a tree, you’re not trying to get the axes stuck in the wood.
Anyways, Cousin Dorian showed me an exercise so my back leg and the ‘but’ of the sword were moving at the same time and even before my first swing I did this exercise for over 20 minutes. Back and forth making sure my back heel raised up and my front foot launched forward slightly. I was feeling a lot of stress and tension in my thighs and hips from this exercise. Even after I was finally able to do a full swing, Cousin Dorian still had a lot of say about my form, how I need to keep my elbows the same distance through the whole swing until I hit the point of contact.
This whole thing made me more than a little frustrated. It seemed boring, tedious, and he was ordering me around for over two hours over and over, over something that should have only taken one or two seconds to execute, and I finally snapped, “This is so stupid! You really expect someone to just stand there and let me swing at them while doing all these stupid steps?!”
He rolled his eyes, “It’s about timing and swing accuracy, Perfectia.”
I looked at him slightly confused and shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t understand what that meant. “Right place, right time?” He tried to explain better, but I still wasn’t getting it. He let out a sigh, “I guess it will be easier to show than to try to explain this to you.” He walked away from the training area and came back with a smooth apple size stone and a heavier training sword and positioned himself so that he was facing the ocean but still in front of me. “Timing…” He said as he held the stone in his hand in front of me and the training sword in the other. He tossed the stone in the air slightly, went through all the steps, and swung the training sword at the stone in midair. The sound made such a loud crack that it made my ears hurt and I saw the stone fly hundreds of yards away and splash into the ocean water. “And accuracy.”
“Oh my gosh, that was amazing,” I said in awe, my eyes wide as I watched the stone vanish into the ocean.
Cousin Dorian chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Thanks. My father used to take me to a lot of town ball games when I was a child.”
“What’s ‘town ball’? Is that like a party?” I asked, my excitement bubbling over.
He smirked, his eyes distant as if reliving a fond memory. “It’s a game we used to play with humans. Rules vary from place to place, but there hasn’t been a seasonal game since the orcs showed up.”
I frowned, not fully understanding. “I don’t get it…”
Dorian let out a heavy sigh, then patted my shoulder. “Never mind. Let’s get you back to swinging that sword.”
I nodded, my spirits lifted, eager to replicate what I’d just seen. It looked easy, but with every swing, I realized how wrong I was. Cousin Dorian stayed patient, encouraging me when I missed the mark. The more I tried, the more my arms ached, each failed attempt feeling like a personal defeat. I wanted to stop, to run back to the Sunwell where the pain would melt away, but something kept me there—maybe it was the hope of seeing that rare approving smile from my grandfather.
When he showed up later that afternoon, I looked up at him expectantly, still gripping the training sword despite the burning in my hands and the heaviness in my legs. “Have you been to the Sunwell today?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good.” His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. For a moment, it felt like everything was worth it.
But as the days went on, the weight of the training grew heavier. My body ached in places I didn’t know could hurt, and each time I picked up the sword, I felt the sting of fatigue. The routine was relentless—running with the sailors at dawn, facing the wooden dummy, and enduring the drills. Each hit from the soldiers was a harsh reminder of my own weakness, yet every time I wanted to quit, the image of my grandfather’s disappointed face kept me going.
I started to question why I was pushing myself so hard. Was it for him? For me? I wanted to be strong, but I also wanted to feel safe, and the training blurred those lines in my mind. When I finally managed to break off a limb from the dummy, I turned to him, searching for that rare smile. He gave a brief nod, barely a second of satisfaction before he said, “Again.” The fleeting praise felt hollow, but I forced myself to keep going, even as my muscles screamed in protest.
On the third day, after hours of trying, I managed to break off one of the dummy’s legs. I turned to my grandfather, my heart pounding with a mix of pride and desperation. He nodded, his expression barely changing. “Again.”
It felt like a never-ending cycle, and yet, I kept returning. I wondered why I felt stronger, why the pain in my body didn’t make me run back to the Sunwell. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to be seen as weak, or maybe I just didn’t want to disappoint him. But with every bruise, every cut, every late-night session, I couldn’t ignore the growing doubt in my heart. Was this what I really wanted? Or was I just chasing the approval I’d never fully receive?
I glanced at my grandfather as he sparred with another soldier, the bandage over his missing eye a constant reminder of what I’d done. I wanted to ask him if he was proud of me, if I was finally becoming the warrior he wanted me to be, but the words always caught in my throat. Instead, I picked up my sword, gritted my teeth, and swung again, each strike a quiet plea for recognition I wasn’t sure I would ever truly get.
My grandfather eventually stopped attending my training sessions. After mastering Cousin Dorian’s grappling and swinging techniques to dismantle the limb dummy, I was ready to return to traditional swordplay and fencing. I saw more of my grandfather than my mother during this time, but even that wasn’t much compared to the hours I spent training alone. Educators were assigned to teach me reading, writing, basic math, and Common—the human language. I wasn’t excelling academically, but my choreographers—men who had beaten me black and blue—mentioned that a special event was coming: Lordaeron-Silvermoon Friendship Week. Humans, Dwarves, Night Elves, and Gnomes would flood the city, reenacting the Troll Wars and celebrating our alliance. They wanted me to participate in a demonstration.
I asked my grandfather for permission. “If you promise to keep working on the limb dummy, then yes,” he replied.
I threw myself into training, eager to prove myself again. My mother even showed up to watch some of the team’s practices. She brought her friends along, bragging about me as if I were some sort of “enchantress” or “battle sorceress.” She painted me as something mythical, blending magic and swordplay like the legends in her books. It was obvious to me that she just wanted to show off.
When the day arrived, I wasn’t the main attraction as I had been in previous demonstrations. This time, it was a larger performance involving multiple choreographies—brick breaking, synchronized combat sequences, and complex routines that the entire team had to memorize. We executed everything perfectly, ending with a unified bow. As we straightened, I noticed my grandfather making his way to the front, clapping slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Great performance, men,” he said, addressing the team. Then, he turned his attention to me. “Perfectia.” His voice was sharp and commanding. “Now, fight my granddaughter for real.”
The crowd gasped, a murmur of confusion spreading through the audience. My teammates, however, looked less surprised; they had already been warned. One of them, hesitating, glanced over at me with an apologetic look. “We’re sorry, Perfectia, but he paid us.”
My grandfather smirked, his single eye gleaming with a sinister satisfaction. “Fight her like you’re trying to kill her, and I’ll tell her when to stop,” he said.
There were about ten of them, and they weren’t armored this time, just armed with wooden weapons. One man, uncertain, turned to my grandfather. “Wait? What do you mean ‘her’?”
He never got an answer. I launched at him, swinging my wooden sword in the ‘Town Ball Swing’ technique Dorian had shown me. The sickening crack of his neck echoed through the arena, sending a shiver through the onlookers. I could hear the collective gasp of the crowd, their disbelief palpable, but I didn’t hesitate. I went low, aiming for knees and calves, striking any vulnerable spot I could find. If the legs didn’t break, I jabbed at the groin with ruthless efficiency.
One man tried to grab me from behind, and I swung my sword blindly, catching him in the eye. He fell back, screaming, clutching his face. The others fared no better. My sword shattered after the first few strikes, but I snatched weapons from my fallen opponents, relentless in my assault. I didn’t fight with finesse or style—it was raw, ugly, and brutally effective.
By the end, the arena was a scene of chaos. Bodies lay scattered, groaning in pain. I had bitten off fingers, snapped arms, and dislocated knees. The crowd outside the ring was horrified. I could hear people asking, “This is just a show, right? They’re not really hurt, are they?” Some were visibly sick, turning away in disgust. But amidst the chaos and the chorus of boos, my eyes found my grandfather. He stood tall, tears glistening in his eye, smiling with pride.
At that moment, all I could think was, “Anything to make him happy. Anything.”
He hugged me for the first time.
For a while, I wore the name “Terror of the Sunwell” like a badge of honor. I felt powerful, validated, and finally seen. But that happiness was short-lived, because not long after, Arthas came to Silvermoon, and everything we knew turned to ash.
—–
So, I heard there’s a Tree of Nightmares somewhere in the Broken Isles, and if you purify it, it grants you one wish. Now, if I just stopped talking to myself and got out of bed, I could go fulfill my wildest dreams. But I’m lazy right now. Maybe tomorrow.
Tee gy
—sweet sweet egg
—–
Apparently, there’s some dire financial crisis at Hearthglen—the plantation that Tirion Fordring owned where a lot of the paladins trained—and we can’t use it anymore. Seems like I might have racked up a few expenses that I’m having difficulty remembering. They’re listed under “PADDY,” which stands for Perfectia Argento Dawnlight Drinking Yeager, even though Jagermeister starts with a J. Some entries are more straightforward, labeled “Entertainment.” Apparently, I spent 200k gold on “Candi girls,” painted the Blood Knight symbol with goat blood on some of the horses, and released them back into the wild. Oh, and there were the pumpkin farms I torched because I thought they belonged to the Scarlet Crusade. That one I do remember.
The Alliance has agreed to pay for the damages, but they’ve made it clear—I can’t be in charge of it anymore.
——
It’s been a week, and I’ve been hiding in my room for the last three days, supposedly working on my autobiography. Instead, I’ve been editing, rewriting, and reading trashy erotic romance novels I found in Draenor. My so-called celestial legs are practically fermenting as I blaze through these pages… No, that sounds disgusting. I’m not a writer. This is gross, honestly.
I’ve been trying to recall the details of my escape from Silvermoon during the Undead Invasion, but it’s all a blur. What am I even doing with my life? Just lying here, breathing. Occasionally stepping out to eat or grudgingly fill out paperwork on paladin deployments. Every time someone knocks on my door, I pretend to snore loudly until they go away. If I’m going to make any progress, I should probably start writing about something that’s happening now instead of getting lost in Twilight fan fiction.
Tomorrow. For real this time.
—----
So, on my tenth day as Highlord, I made the terrible mistake of going outside. The minute I stepped out, I realized I’d missed the Darkmoon Faire, and it was a stupid idea to even write about any of this stupid stuff. This sucks, everything sucks, and I hate the Legion, this order, these soldiers, and this pathetic look I get on my face whenever I’m… well… depressed. It’s not my fault everything is awful! Maybe if people were nicer to me and stopped body-shaming me all the time, I wouldn’t feel this way.
I was outside Light’s Hope Chapel in my PJ’s, and every merchant, contractor, and adventurer couldn’t resist mocking the size of my body. The worst part? They were teaching their kids to do the same—giving me disgusted looks, laughing behind my back, or right in my face. I didn’t ask to look like this. Most days, I can handle the insults, but today, I just can’t.
These people are idiots, every last one of them. I hope they all die in a grease fire. They have no idea how much I despise them for how they treat me, the pain they cause, the torture I endure just to keep going. They don’t get it. They never will. I’m only trying to help, and they hate me for it.
This will be my last entry.
(Continued here)