Imperfecta
You ever have one of those nights where your nightmares are so real, you wake up feeling like you actually got stabbed? Yeah, that was me. I dreamed of fighting this twisted version of myself—white hair, glowing blue eyes, wielding the Corrupted Ashbringer. I called her Imperfecta. She kept coming at me with overhead strikes like she was showing off some kind of fancy footwork, the “guard of the dragon-hawk.” I had my Ashbringer, the real one, and I tried to meet her head-on. I swung as hard as I could, the flames bursting out and lighting up the void between us, but every time she stepped forward, the fire just… died.
“Zat stance doesn’t work well with zat sword,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady as she circled like a predator.
She came at me, Corrupted Ashbringer high, and I dodged to the right. I lunged, aiming for her neck, but she just grabbed my blade with her bare hand. It sizzled against her skin, and I felt a jolt of pain—her strength was unreal. She swung her own sword up at my wrist, and I had to let go. My Ashbringer clattered to the ground, and she just kicked it away, looking at me like I was nothing.
Pain flared up, and I started to wonder if this was more than just a nightmare. The runes on my skin burned hot, glowing a sickly green. “Is this what you want, Imperfecta? You want me to use the spiritual Ashbringer?!” I shouted, trying to keep my voice steady even though I was shaking.
She nodded, smiling like she knew something I didn’t, and kept circling. The runes burned hotter, the pain like molten steel, and before I knew it, I was holding the Ashbringer—but it was wrong. Twisted. Corrupted. I stared at it, horrified. The crystal below my neck was a skull, not the Silver Hand I knew. My eyes reflected in the blade—glowing blue, just like hers. I dropped it like it was poison. “No. This isn’t me,” I said, backing away. “I won’t fight you like this.”
Imperfecta just sneered and prowled forward. “Fight,” she snarled.
“No.” I turned away, refusing to give in, but then there she was—my mother. Tall as ever, with those perfect golden curls, like she hadn’t aged a day since I was a kid.
“You’ve grown,” she said, eyes trailing over me with that judging look. “Everywhere, it seems.”
Before I could respond, I felt the cold steel of the Corrupted Ashbringer pierce my back, the blade erupting through my stomach. I staggered, choking on my own breath. “Mother? Help me,” I gasped, falling to my knees.
She just rolled her eyes. “Oh, Perfectia, stop being dramatic. She’s trimming the fat.”
I could barely believe what I was hearing. “Really, Mom? Now? I’m literally dying here.”
She waved it off. “Most of our kind were starving when the Sunwell was lost, and you, somehow, managed to pack on a few pounds. I’d call it impressive if it weren’t so… typical.” She gripped my face, her words cutting deeper than the sword. “What are you protecting? You don’t have any friends. No one likes you, they all think you’re impossible to work with. You’re a Highlord that no one will mourn.”
I forced a smile, though my eyes were stinging. “Oh, zat’s rich. You got that off a cereal box, or did you just pull it out of your—”
My mother just laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a Highlord, Perfectia, but they’re mass-producing you now. You’re just another pawn, another failure. You’re not a mage, you’re not a sorcerer. You’ve never known a damn thing about the arcane.”
Imperfecta twisted the blade in my back, and I felt my vision blur. “Embrace it,” she hissed.
I tried to shake my head, the pain overwhelming. “I won’t.”
“EMBRACE IT!” she roared.
I jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. The runes on my skin were fading, but the sting was still fresh. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but I could tell it would soon.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this. When I see Boros, I’m telling him I’m done. I’m leaving the order, and I can’t be the Highlord anymore. Maybe he’ll actually be glad to hear it.
Resignation
I woke up with a heaviness in my chest and a dread that clung to my every breath. I didn’t want to go back to sleep—didn’t want to face the dark that waited for me there. The sunrise was creeping closer, and I thought about taking a walk, anything to feel less trapped. But I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts, even if the only other soul awake was a half-asleep draenei nurse about to end her night shift.
When I heard the sounds of the Aldor waking up for morning exercises, their rituals and chants echoing through the city, I forced myself to get dressed. I’d never sided with the Aldor; they always seemed too distant, too righteous in ways that didn’t align with my path. But today, their presence was grounding, a noise that kept me from drifting too far into my own head. I told myself I’d repay my debt to them somehow—help the refugees, do something, anything to keep moving. And they had bathrooms. That was enough.
The nurse stopped me at the door. “We need you not to carry any weapons if you’re going to walk around this part of the city.”
I nodded, too tired to argue. “Zat’s fine. I don’t even want to put on armor.”
She looked at me, her expression a mix of concern and confusion. I was just a ghost wrapped in loose clothes and bandages. I didn’t feel like a paladin; I barely felt like myself. She brought me a plain white shirt, blue pants, and sandals. They were simple, ordinary—everything I wished I could be right now.
I stored my armor and everything else in the Scryer bank. As I stepped out, I saw Boros struggling under the weight of the Ashbringer strapped to his back. He dismounted awkwardly, trying to shift the burden, but it was clear he wasn’t built for it. “Zat sword looks good on you,” I said, my voice hollow.
Boros squinted, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Highlord, is that you?”
I nodded, giving a weak wave. “Yes, but please… don’t call me zat.”
“Highlord—I mean, Perfectia.” He corrected himself, the name sounding almost foreign in his mouth. “I heard you recovered. I also found out where we can find that shield we’ve been searching for.”
I raised a hand, cutting him off. “I’m not interested…”
Boros exhaled, almost in relief. “Good, because you are needed in the Order Hall. We have information—”
“I’m not going back to ze order.” My voice was flat, final.
He hesitated, the confusion deepening in his eyes. “Are you still not feeling well? Is that why you’re not wearing your armor?”
I looked away, the weight of everything pressing down. “I told you not to call me zat, Boros. Ze Ashbringer is becoming corrupted. I’m becoming corrupted. You were right all along. I can’t carry it anymore. You should carry it.”
Boros’s half-smile faded. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry for what I said before, Perfectia. But me and my elekk could barely bring this sword here, let alone wield it. And it whispers to me—your name, things about being complete. It’s too much.”
“Zen give it to someone else!” I snapped. “Trion Fording wielded zat blade without hesitation. He purified it, stopped ze Lich King. There are dozens of heroes waiting for a chance to hold it. I’ve been Highlord for two weeks—two meaningless weeks. No one will miss me.”
Boros studied me, and for a moment, he seemed to see past the words, into the fear and the darkness I was drowning in. “Perfectia, why are you running away from this? We’re all scared, but you must—”
“Stop.” I cut him off, feeling the burn in my chest, the rising panic that had become too familiar. “It’s better if I pull out now. Before I ruin everything.”
Boros ran his hand over his face, looking like he was trying to ward off a headache. “Perfectia, ze Legion tried everything to corrupt ze Ashbringer, but zey couldn’t. Zere’s a part of Morgraine’s soul in it. In you. But now, I’m losing it. I can feel it—every time I kill a demon, I feel it spreading inside me. If I die, ze Ashbringer will become corrupted. If I fall, it falls with me.”
Boros seemed to struggle with the weight of the sword. He set it down with a heavy clunk, the blade resting against the ground. “Great speech,” he said, his voice tight. “But it sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself.”
He walked away, calling for squires to carry the sword back, and I felt something inside me break. “Is zat all you’re going to say?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “No one’s saying you have to be the Highlord, Perfectia. But Trion saw something in you. He believed in you, even when others didn’t. You think you’re the first to want to quit? You think you’re the only one who’s scared?” Boros’s voice was edged with bitterness. “You people always think you’re alone. But someone else will get it done.”
I watched him go, his words echoing in my mind. I turned away, trying to ignore the faint whispers that seemed to seep from the Ashbringer, lying abandoned in the dirt.
“I… was… complete… once.” The voice was faint, hollow. I glanced back and saw it: Imperfecta, the twisted reflection of myself. She crouched beside the sword, her form a flickering shadow, her eyes glowing faint blue. She stared at me with a cruel smile, mocking me with my own face. I turned my back on her, but her laughter, cold and silent, followed me.
“Abandoned… by… my… wielder,” the Ashbringer whispered, its words barely audible. I saw Boros and the squires hefting the sword, and I heard it call out, “Perfectia…”
I stopped, my heart pounding. “Yes?” Boros asked, turning slightly.
“Where… where was zat shield, ze Blood Knight one?”
Boros rolled his eyes, the irritation clear. “Hellfire Peninsula. Go if you must, but we need a new Highlord now, and I’ve got portals to cross.”
As they carried the Ashbringer away, I felt something hollow open inside me. Even though I wasn’t a paladin anymore, I needed something to hold onto. Something to remind me that I once fought for something more than this darkness.
Corruption
Am I a writer? There are things in this book I am hoping to share but can’t, there are things in this book that people know but I wish that they didn’t. Does war give our lives meaning, meaning that makes our deaths more glorious? Do we lose purpose without war, losing our chances at a true gloryful death. Without glory would our deaths or our lives be meaningless? So if we truly made it to a time where peace and civilizations were in abundance, one would want to break through. I think of someone like Kel’thuzad clawing away at the walls of peace, until he was able to see his glory on the other side. His cult of followers, his armies of undead, and his champion the Lich King. Able to change the world as he saw fit and us, we finally had true villains, giving us the happy ending and glorious deaths we so desperately craved. From our majestic glory holes.
The people I fought alongside in the battlegrounds against the Alliance never really mattered to me. They were just familiar faces in the chaos—Horde, Alliance, it didn’t make a difference. Names and lives lost were just numbers, blurred memories of battles won and lost, and I never bothered to remember them. It was all just a game of power, a way to sharpen my skills, to feel the thrill of combat. After a while, it wasn’t even about loyalty; it was about proving myself, feeding that insatiable need to win, to dominate. But now, standing on the edge of something darker, I’m beginning to wonder if that need is more of a curse than a gift.
This morning, I summoned Lucy as I always did, expecting her to be there like she’s always been. But when I tried to mount her, she pulled away, snorting and stomping her hooves in defiance. She’s done this before when she’s hungry or restless, so I took off her reins, thinking she’d calm down. But instead, she bolted, disappearing into the city without a second glance. I tried calling her back, tried recasting the spell, but nothing happened. The magic was gone, just like that.
Maybe she sensed it, too—the change in me, the creeping rot beneath my skin. I don’t know when I lost the Light, but I could feel its absence like a hole in my chest. I made my way to the armory, bought a simple two-handed sword, something heavy and unremarkable, something that wouldn’t care if I was no longer worthy of the Light’s blessing. I packed enough supplies to last a few days in the Hellfire Peninsula, hoping the familiar wasteland would offer some kind of distraction, maybe even a sense of purpose.
Before I left, I sat next to the naaru in the center of Shattrath, trying to siphon whatever peace I could from its presence. The pain of withdrawal faded, but the hunger remained, gnawing at me from the inside. No amount of holy light could fill the emptiness that had settled in my gut.
I spent the day fishing, casting line after line into the water, waiting for something, anything to bite. It felt pointless, every tug of the line was just another fleeting distraction. I caught a big one, just for sport, and healed it before tossing it back into the lake. But as I watched it struggle to swim away, I saw it float to the surface, belly up and lifeless.
It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, but that one small failure felt like a mirror to my own. I stared at the fish, its pale belly breaking the surface, and something inside me snapped. I sat there by the lake, feeling the weight of every failure, every mistake, and every fear I’d ever tried to bury. I cried—harder than I had in years—until I could barely breathe, my sobs echoing off the empty shores. There was no one there to see it, and maybe that was the worst part. No one to witness how far I’d fallen, how lost I’d become.
When the tears finally stopped, I looked up and found myself surrounded by something far worse than grief—a corrupted wasteland of blackened mud and death. The lake was gone, replaced by a foul, toxic mire that reeked of decay. Fish lay rotting on the surface, their bodies twisted and broken, and the once clear water was now a thick, inky sludge that stained everything it touched. It was like the land itself had absorbed my despair, poisoning everything in its wake.
“What am I becoming?” I whispered to the void, but the only answer was the sickening squelch of mud beneath my feet. The sun blazed overhead, but it felt cold, its light too harsh and indifferent, casting long shadows across the dying landscape.
I glanced down at my reflection, expecting to see my usual tired eyes staring back. But instead, I saw something else—something colder. My eyes were glowing blue, not the warm, comforting light of the Sunwell, but a frigid, icy blue that sent a shiver through my bones. I blinked, hoping it was just a trick of the light, but when I opened my eyes again, they were still the same. This wasn’t me, and yet, it was. The change was already inside me, deeper than any magic or spell I’d ever known.
I tried to summon the Light, to cast even the simplest spell, but nothing happened. No glow, no warmth, just a hollow emptiness that swallowed every prayer. It was like the Light had abandoned me, or maybe I had abandoned it. I looked around, desperate to find some trace of the lake that had been there before, but all I saw was the wasteland I’d created, the death I’d brought with my own two hands.
I turned away, forcing myself to walk back to Shattrath City, my steps heavy with a weight I couldn’t shake. I stayed on the Aldor side, craving the safety of walls and bathrooms, but nothing felt safe anymore. I stared at myself in the mirror before bed, searching for any sign of the person I used to be. But all I saw were the shadows, creeping in at the edges, waiting for their moment to take over.
Something has changed. I can feel it. And I don’t know if I can ever go back.
The Impossible
The next day, I took a flight path to Falcon Watch with just my backpack, pants, shoes, a shirt, and a cheap two-handed sword I picked up at a vendor. The sun was barely up when I saw a familiar silhouette overhead—Protecto, the time-walker dragon, swooping down and shifting effortlessly into his elven form, his golden armor gleaming in the light. The moment his feet touched the ground, I ran to him, throwing my arms around his neck in a tight hug.
“Oi, look who’s all sentimental today,” he teased, patting my back. “Heard you bailed on the order, huh? What’s next? Running tricks for booze and mana potions?”
I pulled back, rolling my eyes at his smirk. “That’s rich, coming from you. If you’re here to try and drag me back to the Order, you’re wasting your time.”
Protecto snorted, crossing his arms. “Nah, I’m not that desperate for punishment. They let me into the Argent Crusade, can you believe that? But the gig’s got me so constipated I’m practically a walking brick. So I bailed, figured I’d help some nether drakes instead. And then I heard you were moping around Outland, so, here I am.”
I shook my head, trying not to smile. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. It’s good to see you, really.”
He hesitated, glancing away as if he wasn’t sure how to start. “Listen, about everything in Draenor…”
I cut him off before he could finish. “Don’t. You don’t owe me any apologies. We both did what we had to do.” I shifted the conversation quickly, not wanting to linger on old wounds. “But hey, could you take me to one of those Blood Knight shields? I’m in the mood to practice, and you know how terrible I am with shields.”
He gave me a puzzled look, tilting his head like he was trying to read my mind. “You? Shield practice? Without armor? What’s the game plan here?”
I shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “Just thought I’d work on my weakest point. You know, without the whole audience of squires pointing and laughing at me every time I drop the damn thing. I might be ready to come back someday… not as a Highlord, but maybe as a squire or something. Gotta rebuild my confidence first.”
Protecto grinned, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Look at you, all humble. It’s weird. But I get it. Alright, if shield training’s what you want, I’ll take you. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
I laughed, nudging his shoulder. “When do you ever?”
“Exactly. Now, hop on. I’ll take you there in style.” He began to shift, but I quickly stopped him, placing a hand on his armored chest.
“Wait. Can you stay like this a bit longer? I’m… I’m not used to seeing you like this. All armored up and serious. Feels like old times.”
Protecto’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to be annoyed but clearly pleased. “Oh, alright. But don’t get used to it. I’m too handsome to keep hidden under scales all day.”
We ran side by side, laughing and teasing like we always did. For the first time in a long while, it felt like things were normal. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start finding my way back.
“One of the Blood Knight shields, yeah, we know.” The gnome cut me off, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’re not the first looking for one, and I doubt you’ll be the last. Blood elves from Tempest Keep have been abandoning Outland left and right, scrambling to join the paladin order once they heard the Highlord was one of their own.”
“We?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
I heard the unmistakable sound of metal tapping. “Was that Orcish or Thalassian?” one voice whispered, muffled but close.
“I don’t know; sounded like Common,” another voice replied. “Try setting it to Thalassian.”
“There’s no setting for that! Aren’t you supposed to be an elf? Translate already!”
Before I could respond, Protecto charged forward, smashing through a chunk of rock to knock the gnome flat on her back, her oversized goggles askew. She scrambled up, cursing under her breath, and dashed away. I sprinted after him, but he was already too far ahead, disappearing into a shadowy corridor. When I caught up, I saw him getting flung backward, slamming into me and sending us both crashing to the ground. His sword clattered to the side as a night elf emerged from the darkness, armored in chain and carrying a spear like he owned the place.
Then he stepped forward—a dwarf, stocky and smirking, wielding the Ashbringer like it was his birthright. “Highlord Dorvak Irontoe?” Protecto’s voice was laced with disbelief, tinged with anger.
Dorvak lunged at me, Ashbringer raised high. I saw the glint of the blade and braced for impact, but Protecto shoved me aside, taking the full force of the strike with his shield. He hit the ground hard, his shield shattered and his arm cut deep, blood pooling around him. Dorvak planted a boot on Protecto’s broken shield, ripping the Ashbringer free. “That’s one puny blood elf down, one to go.”
I saw the light fading from Protecto’s eyes as he struggled to keep consciousness. I reached out, wanting to heal him, but he shook his head, refusing.
I had no armor, no protection. So I did what I had to do—I ran. I pushed my legs harder than they’d ever gone, faster than I thought possible. But a deafening crack echoed, and suddenly I was down, a sharp, burning pain in my leg. The white-haired gnome had shot me, and whatever she hit me with was numbing me fast. Desperate, I called on the Light, its familiar warmth flooding me, pushing the venom or whatever magic it was out of my system. I felt my strength return, just enough to summon a burst of arcane energy, blasting her with a flash of light that rang like a bell and sent her tumbling, unconscious.
“Lucy, please, I need you,” I whispered, and in a blinding flare of golden light, my faithful steed was beneath me. I spurred her forward, but before we could gain any real distance, a spear pierced her flank, and she crashed down, crying out as she fell.
I staggered to my feet, my mind racing. The night elf charged, spear in hand, slashing wildly at me. I conjured a weak protection spell, just enough to deflect his blows, but I knew it wouldn’t hold. His weapon buzzed with ancient power, like the Silver Hand’s, and every time it clashed against my barrier, I felt its hunger, its pull.
From behind the night elf’s onslaught, Dorvak struck again, hammering the Ashbringer into my shoulder, the force shattering bone and flinging me into a nearby hill. My right side went numb, and the searing pain of broken bones shot through my body. I tried to crawl away, but every movement was agony, and I couldn’t hold back the scream that tore from my throat.
The night elf sneered, walking toward me with deliberate, measured steps. “Nice hit, Highlord. Shame she’s not wearing any armor.” He eyed me, almost curiously. “Looks like she hasn’t had her arcane fix in days.”
Dorvak, standing tall and smug, laughed, and for the first time in my life, the sound sent a chill through me. I was hurt, exposed, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I could keep fighting.
“How can ye tell?” Dorvak asked, slinging the Ashbringer onto his back, the weight of it seemingly nothing to him.
The hunter smirked, pointing at the faint glowing lines on my skin. “Blood elves get those runes when they’re jonesing for arcane magic. It’s like a big, flashing sign that says, ‘I need a fix.’ And she’s got it bad.”
Dorvak chuckled darkly, his eyes scanning me like I was some kind of amusing spectacle. “I’ve seen it before, sure, but not like this. She’s got them all over. Guess now I know who to toss out of the Order.”
“La Silver Hand…” I managed to rasp out, the words coated in blood and defiance.
Dorvak’s gaze snapped back to me. “What was that?”
“You don’t ’ave to kick zem out…” I spat, tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “Ze Silver Hand, zey help with arcane addiction. We can still fight…” My voice cracked, and I coughed hard, spitting crimson onto the dirt. “Bit my tongue.”
Dorvak sneered, amused at my pathetic state. “You think I care about saving your kind? Nah, I don’t want to help you mana junkies. I want you gone. You’re too much trouble. Why do you think I kept sending you all on these wild goose chases for your precious Blood Knight shields?” He laughed, the sound as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Now finish her.”
The night elf hunter stepped closer, gripping his spear tightly. “Fine. This one’s for Gearz,” he said, raising his weapon, ready to strike.
“Actually, I’m good, thanks.” The gnome’s high-pitched voice cut through the tension, and I twisted slightly to see her, casually leaning against a rock, twirling one of her daggers like it was all a game.
The hunter hesitated, lowering his spear just a fraction. He sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “Well… what’s your name, blood elf?”
“Perfectia,” I replied, my voice firm despite the pain.
Dorvak’s face twisted in shock, his expression flipping from smug to panicked in an instant. “What?!” He turned sharply to the hunter, his voice frantic. “Kill her! Kill her now!”
The hunter hesitated, his grip on the spear tightening, but for a split second, I saw the doubt flicker in his eyes. This wasn’t just about the Order or some petty rivalry anymore—this was personal.
“You know—” the hunter started, but Dorvak shoved him aside with a growl, lifting the Ashbringer high. It came down hard, and instinctively, I raised my left hand, feeling the weight of a different blade—one I had no right to hold. The Corrupted Ashbringer met his holy weapon with a shuddering clash, its dark energy pulsating through me, forcing bones back into place and pain to vanish. I saw the fear flicker in the night elf’s eyes as my blade found his midsection, his body folding as he gasped, “She’s a Death Knight…” But Dorvak was already running.
I didn’t even have time to feel the pain as two sharp stabs pierced my back, cutting through muscle and bone, forcing a rasping breath from my lungs. I twisted around to see the gnome, her eyes wide, filled with terror as she tried to yank her daggers free. Without thinking, I grabbed her by the skull, her light body dangling helplessly in my grip. I watched, detached, as the Corrupted Ashbringer’s sickly green energy swirled through her like poison, expanding until she burst in a flash of fel light. I tossed her broken weapons to the ground, and for a moment, I thought I saw her—Imperfecta, here to gloat over what I’d become. But then I realized it wasn’t her; it was me—me, watching myself give in, finally.
For a second, the rush felt good, almost right. I stared down at the corrupted blade, still humming with stolen life. “Oh yeah, this is going into someone,” I muttered, almost as if it were a joke—one that landed too close to the truth. I stepped over to the night elf, the blade sawing into his chainmail until it tore through. Blood soaked my hands, and his eyes met mine, a desperate plea for mercy. But I felt nothing as I drained his life away, his final breath rattling against the blue glow of my own corrupted gaze.
Then I heard her, the old me—Perfectia’s voice echoing in my ears, screaming, “Don’t kill him, please!”
“They were killing my friends!” I snarled back, my voice distorted, alien even to my own ears. I drove the blade deeper, the sound of ripping flesh and bone somehow…satisfying.
As his body stilled, I saw her again—me, the real me—looking down at the carnage with utter disgust. “You’ll be needing more friends? Are you the darkness, my old friend?” she asked, and for a moment, the twisted humor in her tone cut deeper than any blade.
I hesitated, staring at her, and for the first time, I felt the weight of my own cruelty. Wow, I thought, is that really what I’ve become? No wonder no one can stand me. I tried to walk through her, but her presence lingered, mocking me. I was the butt of my own jokes now, and it was hard to tell where the real Perfectia ended and Imperfecta began.
“Nobody wants to be your friend,” I whispered bitterly to myself, watching the dwarf sprint away in fear. My hand stretched out, and I saw his form blur, pulled to me in an instant, his throat clamped tight in my grasp. I clenched my fist, feeling the power surge, knowing I could end him with just a thought—and realizing, maybe, that was the problem all along.
He was heavier than the gnome, so I set him down, feeling the Corrupted Ashbringer’s hungry pull on his life force. The dwarf fell to his knees, trembling. “Please, don’t kill me,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. “I know who you are; the Ashbringer whispers your name all the time. I never wanted to be the Highlord—I just wanted the Ashbringer to win fights in the battlegrounds.”
He fumbled with the Ashbringer, holding it out in front of him like an offering. “Please, take it. It wants to be with you again.” I could feel the weight of his fear as he handed me the blade; it felt impossibly light in my grip, like it belonged there. “There… Can I just go now?” His voice wavered, barely a whisper.
I tilted my head, a dark smile curling my lips. “Shoryuken.”
He blinked, caught off guard, “Thank you, that’s actually very—”
Before he could finish, I swung the blunt side of the Ashbringer upward, catching him square under the chin. He flew back, landing hard on the ground. I moved swiftly, placing both blades at his neck as he lay unarmed, helpless, a pitiful sight.
As the Corrupted Ashbringer began to fade, I focused, willing it to drain more of his life force. I crossed the Ashbringer and its corrupted twin, pressing their edges against Dorvak’s throat, poised to sever his head like cutting through a branch. “You killed my people,” I growled, my voice seething with a cold, merciless fury.
“Mercy, please,” he sobbed, his tears mingling with the dirt on his face. “Misery-cord.” He choked on the words, his Common slipping awkwardly into Thalassian—a desperate attempt to communicate that ‘mercy’ didn’t mean the same in his tongue. The Ashbringer burned him, the Corrupted Ashbringer feeding on his fear.
To my right, I saw her—Perfectia, my past self, looking at me with pleading eyes. “He’s asking for mercy,” she whispered, her voice softer than I remembered. “The Light forgives those who wish to atone.”
For a split second, I hesitated, feeling the weight of my own judgment. I stared at the blades, one holy and one corrupted, both reflecting different parts of me. Wow, I thought bitterly, is that what I’ve become? No wonder no one can stand me.
I pulled the Ashbringers away from his neck, letting the corrupted one fall to the ground where it disappeared without a sound, fading like a shadow. I slung the Ashbringer onto my back, leaning in close enough to see the green glow of my eyes reflected on his sweat-soaked skin. “No more battlegrounds,” I said quietly, pulling him to his feet.
He let out a shuddering breath, relief washing over him. “Thank the Light,” he mumbled, half in disbelief.
I stood there, feeling the ghost of my own judgment lingering, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was the Light or something darker that had spared him.
Protecto laughed, a hint of self-awareness in his voice. “That would still make me the baby of the Aspects, but there’s… something that’s been bothering me.” He lifted his head, cracking his neck like he was shaking off a heavy thought.
I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head to look up at him now that he was closer to my height, even in dragon form. “What’s going on in that thick dragon skull of yours?”
“It’s Nozdormu. Now that he’s become Murozond, the Lord of the Infinite Dragonflight, he knows every time he’s going to be stopped by his past self, by the adventurers of Azeroth, and by the Bronze Dragonflight.”
I gave a casual shrug, half-smiling. “Yeah, and? That’s like, Tuesday for you time dragons, isn’t it?”
Protecto turned his gaze toward me, his eyes serious in a way I wasn’t used to. “Perfectia, if you knew exactly when and how you were going to die, wouldn’t you try to change it? Do something—anything—different? You wouldn’t just follow the script knowing it leads to failure.”
Time travel stuff always twisted my brain into knots, but I tried to keep up. “So you’re saying, maybe Murozond isn’t just doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result?” I shook my head, feeling a headache forming. “Look, this stuff is confusing enough when you’re not throwing paradoxes in the mix. Do you even have a plan?”
Protecto sighed, exhaling that warm, spicy breath that always smelled like ginger tea. “Not really. I know I have to protect this timeline, because I don’t remember enough of my past to be afraid of the future. Time’s like a river, right? I just need to keep it flowing the way it’s meant to. And if Murozond destroys the world in some other timeline, fine. But not in the one where I’m living.”
I moved closer, touching the side of his snout gently, feeling the warmth of his scales. “I missed you, you big dumb dragon. You’d make a great Aspect of Time, you know that?”
Protecto chuckled softly, though I could see the weight of his thoughts hadn’t fully lifted. “Murozond can scheme all he wants. I’ll keep protecting. It’s simple, really.”
I laughed, a genuine sound that felt good after everything. “Simple is good. We could all use more simple.”
But then his expression darkened, his voice dropping. “There’s one thing that scares me.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, a bit more concerned.
“If I become the Aspect of Time, I might remember everything… my past, everything I’ve ever done. What if I was a monster? What if I become something terrible or just… not me anymore?” There was a sadness in his voice I wasn’t used to, the kind that made me want to punch whatever was making him feel that way.
I looked him right in his eyes, dead serious. “Listen to me. You’re you, Protecto. You jumped in to save me without a second thought, and even if that wasn’t who you were before, this is who you are now. You’re the best version of you that you can be. It’s simple, right?”
He laughed slightly, though I could see the tension still lurking beneath. “I hope you’re right, Perfectia.”
I nodded, reaching up to tap his snout playfully. “I am right. Now come on, let’s head back to Light’s Hope. They’re probably wondering when their Highlord is gonna stop playing around and get back to business.”
Protecto transformed back into his elven form, shaking off his doubts. He took off his broken shield, revealing a black one beneath it, the Blood Knight symbol cracked but still visible. “I’m sorry it got damaged. We can…”
I cut him off, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Forget about it. Now, important question—do you want to get ice cream?”
Protecto’s face lit up like a kid’s. “I WANT FROYO!!” he shouted right in my ear, making it ring.
I winced, pulling back with a laugh. “Fine, fine, froyo it is!”
“YAAAAAAAHHH!!!” he cheered, and for just a moment, everything felt a little bit lighter.
Here’s a more humor-infused version of this section, emphasizing Perfectia’s snarky, self-aware tone:
Kidnapping
My name is Perfectia Argento Dawnlight, and I am a paladin. People like to say I’ve fallen from grace, but let’s be real—I was never up there long enough to get comfortable. Truth is, I haven’t written anything in almost a year. Not because I’m too busy saving the world or whatever; I’ve just been out here, far from the dramas of the Horde, the Alliance, and the Legion. The Ashbringer, that legendary sword everyone loses their minds over? Yeah, it’s just a fancy metal stick collecting dust these days. Well, one of them is, anyway.
Imperfecta—my annoying, corrupted dream-self—once told me to embrace something. The call to darkness, maybe? Honestly, she’s vague, and I’m not taking advice from someone who’s basically me but moodier. So, I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been on a pirate ship, raiding and plundering like it’s a nine-to-five. I figured if the whole holy crusade gig wasn’t working out, why not try piracy? Spoiler alert: it’s way more fun. Turns out, yelling “Avast!” at people and making them hand over their gold is a lot more fulfilling than dealing with interspecies politics.
So, yeah, I killed a high-ranking paladin and his two buddies. Cold blood, blah blah blah, moral quandary—I’m over it. The real kicker was that everyone saw I could dual-wield two Ashbringers. You’d think that’d be a cool party trick, but apparently, it’s a big deal. One Ashbringer is already overcompensating; two is just showing off. I imagined myself striding into the Order Hall, dual-wielding those bad boys like some kind of divine blender, but it turns out people don’t love that vibe. Their loss.
Anyway, let’s rewind the clock a year. Picture me, hungover from the Aldor Inn, thinking I’d have a chill morning with my dragon buddy, Protecto. But no. I wake up in chains on an ironclad ship, explosives all around me, and a crowd of Dark Iron dwarves with boomsticks aimed at my head. Fabulous. “Well, look what we ‘ave ‘ere,” I said, trying to sound casual, “If it isn’t ze consequences of all my questionable actions.”
Now, just a heads up, not everything I blurt out lands perfectly—sometimes it’s just annoying. But since I’m telling the story, I’ll focus on the bullseyes. And yeah, at one point, I may have threatened the crew with syphilis and tapeworms if they had any funny ideas. Hey, I was the only woman on a ship full of grumpy men. What would you think?
Anyway, the Ashbringer—my Ashbringer—was sitting pretty on some dwarf’s back. The thing about these swords is, they’re technically dwarf-made, and by that logic, dwarves think they own the rights. Sorry, boys, it’s mine now. Well, it was. I told them I was the Highlord and needed to get back to my order, but of course, I got interrupted.
“No, no, no, you’re not,” said this clean-shaven dwarf who stepped forward like he was auditioning for the role of ‘smug antagonist.’ Brown skin, red eyes, and a fashion sense that said, ‘I stole my granddad’s pajamas.’ He was casually carrying my Ashbringer. “You quit, remember? Now I know you haven’t completely forsaken your vows, but who could know about that now? The Paladin Order is going to need a new Highlord soon. The Legion’s attacks are relentless, and there are plenty of adventurers who would kill to wield this sword.” He slammed my Ashbringer down dramatically in front of me, which was supposed to be intimidating, but honestly, I just felt secondhand embarrassment.
He held the sword up to his ear like he was trying to hear the ocean, “It still calls to you. Perfectia. You know, Tirion Fordring used to think it was saying ‘Perfect again,’ but now I can hear that extra ‘te-ya.’” He leaned the sword toward me, like he was offering me a cupcake. “Of course, you can have it back.”
I was tied up, hanging like a shoddy chandelier, hands above my head, right next to a cluster of explosive barrels. Five, to be exact. I looked at him, tilted my head, and gave a half-smile that said, ‘Oh honey, this isn’t my first rodeo.’ I crossed my legs and chuckled softly.
“IF!” He barked, yanking the sword back like it was some kind of dramatic prop. “You tell us where the other one is.”
I snorted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Mon dieu, you might want to sanitize your grubby little hands before you point that at me, eh? Zat one wasn’t made by a dwarf, and it certainly ain’t a weapon of la Light.”
He shrugged like I’d just insulted his cooking, then turned his back on me, letting the Ashbringer drag along the floor like a sulking child’s toy. “Perhaps,” he mused, “but if that’s true, then the Corrupted Ashbringer should be destroyed—or, I dunno, sold to some desperate Death Knight or wannabe Warrior. Doesn’t matter to me. Your shiny naaru buddy in Shattrath’s been showing us these.” He pulled out a fist-sized crystal, glowing like it thought it was important. “Rezalb crystals, found only in the cliffs of Outland. Familiar?”
I blinked, then shrugged dramatically, like I was auditioning for the role of “person who gives zero cares.”
“It’s the crystal the Ashbringer was made from,” he continued, like he was unveiling the latest in a line of overpriced kitchen appliances. “Now, we’re not exactly sitting on a Magni Bronzebeard level of blacksmithing talent, but we can cobble together something that looks and swings like the original.”
I smirked, tilting my head. “Oh, so what do you need me for, huh? Go ahead, make your Ashbringers, make a hundred of ‘em! Sell ‘em on the corner like knock-off potions. Sounds like you’ve got a solid business model, really. I’m sure a few goblins are wetting their pants with envy right now.”
His face twisted into something between rage and constipation, and he leaned in so close I could count his nose hairs. He had this strong chin and those dimples—honestly, if he wasn’t being such a little monster, he might’ve been a catch. “See, that’s the problem. We can make them, sure, but we can’t make them sing like yours does.” He gestured grandly like he was directing an invisible orchestra. “Our versions can’t match Tirion Fordring’s catastrophic power, or the legendary strength of Alexandros Mograine. And you, Perfectia Dawnlight, wield this oversized blade like it’s made of cardboard. You cut, burn, and melt steel all in one swing. That’s something we need.”
“Oh yeah, keep going, dirty baby,” I teased, winking.
He blinked, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, pretending to backtrack. “I get all… chatty when people get rough with me.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I know, son, I’m Perfectia, your daddy.” I grinned, knowing that was a dad joke for the ages.
His brow furrowed. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”
“Oh, trust me, so am I,” I chuckled. “But I’m failing spectacularly, and I’m sorry for that. See, I’m a little tied up right now because some little boy took my favorite toy and now he’s asking me where the batteries are, like I’m his negligent, wine-drunk mother. Maybe get Mommy a beer and I’ll show you how to get it to vibrate.”
I barely finished my sentence before he swung a punch right at my jaw, nearly snapping my head back. “STOP TALKING!” he snarled, face red with fury.
His punch landed like a drunk donkey kick to the face. My ear rang like I’d just stuck my head inside a church bell, and my brain felt like it was doing the cha-cha in my skull. I blinked a few times, trying to keep my consciousness from slipping away like my last paycheck at Brewfest. “OWW… Mon dieu, your ‘ands are like ice blocks! Ever ‘eard of warming zem up first, or you just into that cold, clinical vibe?” I flexed my jaw, testing if it was still attached. “Seriously, terrible bedside manners. Who taught you? A slab of granite?”
He rolled his eyes, as if I’d just insulted his grandmother’s soup. “Your jawline’s thicker than most elves’. I thought you’d take a hit like a champion, not like a wet noodle. And you know, back when Thane Thaurissan was in charge, women knew their place.”
I smiled crookedly, the kind that says ‘I’m in pain but still making fun of you.’ “Oh, I get it now. No wonder le Council of Three Hammers treats your kind like the dog that ate the roast.”
He squinted at me, sizing me up. “What would you know about that?”
I shrugged dramatically. “What do you know about me? Besides my sparkling personality, of course.”
He shrugged right back, the kind of move that screams ‘I don’t care but secretly I do.’ “You? You’re nobody. But Moira knew Alexandros Mograine personally, and she’s itching to meet him again.”
I glanced around at the dingy ship and all the scowling dwarves. “Seems like I’ve got a fan club, lovely. But seriously, what’s with the whole ship, kidnapping, and playing tickle with the trigger on those death buttons? We could’ve hashed zis out over some drinks.”
He snorted, like I’d just told him the sky was green. “Oh, I heard about your ‘drinking problem,’ so don’t play dumb. We had to stop you, and let’s be clear, you’re not going back to the Eastern Kingdom. We need you to forge Perfectia. Word is, you’re pretty good at it. We just need to know where the other Ashbringer is and maybe a few tips on souping up the rest.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And if I say no? Gonna keep smacking me around? Honey, I’ve been to Blackrock Depths; that place is a resort compared to this. You’d hurt me more making me listen to Twilight Hammer recruitment pamphlets.” I chuckled, because if you can’t laugh at death threats, what’s the point?
He rolled his eyes again. The man must have been working out his ocular muscles with all this exercise. “You really crave attention, don’t you? I heard what Garrosh did to you. Not just the hip, but the rest of it—locked you up in Ragefire Chasm for nearly half a year. Alone, blind, not a soul to speak to. Makes the rest of this look like a picnic.”
My smile faltered, and for a split second, I almost let that thought sink in. “Oh, you’re right, it was really traumatic. I’ve already got my therapy sessions booked—with sock puppets reenacting every horrible moment, obviously. I might need some snacks for that show, though. Maybe a fruit platter?”
He saw my face and chuckled, the kind of laugh that says, “Oh, you’re screwed, and I’m going to enjoy it.” “We’re at sea, no one’s coming to save you, and we’ve got plenty of time. Remember those screams you heard in Blackrock Depths? Just folks we left alone. No need to rush.” He turned to his men with a sadistic grin. “Bind her hands and bring her on deck.”
They dragged me up, hands tied behind my back like some kind of parade float. The sun hit my eyes like a jealous ex throwing shade, blinding me after being stuck in that dark room. When my vision cleared, I saw Protecto, in his elven form, struggling under a net that was about five sizes too big. He tried to shift into his dragon form, hoping to snap free, but the dwarves stabbed him with a spear, and he let out a pained roar before shrinking back.
The sight of Protecto wounded? Oh, that did it. Rage flooded my veins faster than a bad brew on Brewfest. These dwarves were barely taller than my kneecaps, but I was about to make them feel very, very small. With all the elegance of a bull in a ballroom, I squared my stance, tightened my abs, and launched my head straight into a dwarf’s skull. There was a sickening crack, like a bad dance move gone worse. He hit the deck hard; I couldn’t tell if I’d knocked him out or just knocked some sense into him.
I spun on my heel, swinging my legs low, taking out knees like they were the evening’s entertainment. The Ashbringer was still on Draves’s back, and I saw him grip it tighter. I darted towards the dwarf holding the spear that had stabbed Protecto, kneed him right in the chest, and felt the satisfying crunch as my strike followed through under his chin. He toppled like a sack of bad decisions, and I snagged the spear from his limp grip, snapping it like a twig.
That’s when Draves came charging, Ashbringer gleaming in his grip like he was about to make a statement. I summoned both the Corrupted Ashbringer and its spectral twin, bringing them up to block his swing. “Seriously? Two of them? What are you, a magic shop special?” Draves growled, staring at the swords in disbelief.
But just like a cheap illusion, the Ashbringers crumbled in my hands, leaving nothing but burnt sticks. I glanced down in mild horror—so much for flashy entrances.
Behind me, I heard the familiar sound of boomsticks being cocked, each one loaded and aimed my way. Draves still had the Ashbringer poised, and he sneered. “So this is why we couldn’t find the real deal.”
I threw a glare his way, but my attention snapped back to Protecto, still tangled and cursing under that net. “Let ‘im go! You do not mess wiz le P and P!” I shouted, trying to inject some bravado into the ridiculous situation.
Protecto groaned, his eyes rolling so hard they could’ve launched into orbit. “You HAD to say that, didn’t you? P and P? Really? I’d rather die than listen to that again.” He shot a sideways look at one of the dwarves holding a spear. “Honestly, go ahead. End me.”
The dwarves erupted into laughter, their own taunts flying faster than arrows in a skirmish. Protecto’s pained sighs and theatrical eyerolls spoke louder than any weapon.
Draves sauntered forward, casually tucking the Ashbringer behind his back. “Look, lass, I could kill him. I really could, but here’s the thing: you broke free of dark iron, and we’re a hundred miles out to sea. Even if you both managed to get off this ship, you wouldn’t make it to shore. And let’s not forget—you’ve killed two of my men.”
“Zey’re probably just taking a nap,” I countered.
A dwarf nudged the guy I headbutted, who didn’t so much as twitch. “Nope, he’s dead.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but ‘e was not looking zis good before I headbutted ‘im. Call it an improvement. You should be thanking me for the free cosmetic work.”
Draves shook his head, barely stifling a laugh. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
And with Protecto tied up and the boomsticks aimed squarely at us, I couldn’t help but think—yeah, but I’m the best piece of work you’ll ever meet.
He laughed, “Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen. You see they’re smart enough to know not to not get within arms reach of you.” The dwarf looked away in distant thought, “But stupid enough not to remember that there’s enough powder on this ship to blow us all to kingdom come.”
I don’t know what came over me, I just started laughing, and I started walking away from the whole thing. “Wait, so are you going to help us?” He asked.
“Nope. You can put me back in chains if you want to.” I answered.
“But we have your dragon.” He gestured toward Protecto.
“Yep you sure do.”
“We will kill him if you don’t help us!”
I stopped, turned around and looked at the dwarf leader and all his men, “I used to be so indecisive. Now, I’m not so sure, but I think you’ll kill both of us if I do. You wanted to know where le other Ashbringer was, I showed you. You wanted me to make new Ashbringers, well zat’s something I’ve never done before.” I turned my back and walked to the door leading under the deck. “But good luck with your fakes! I’m sure no one will know la difference!”
Draves stared at me, flabbergasted, his face doing that weird twitchy thing like someone who just realized they left the oven on. “You can’t just walk away!”
“Oh, I assure you, I absolutely can.” I waved a dismissive hand, enjoying the sound of his teeth grinding together in frustration. “See, zis is where you learn a valuable lesson about dealing with unstable paladins who have had just about enough of zis nonsense.”
Protecto, still tangled in his net, gave me a slow, sarcastic clap with his one free hand. “Bravo. This is top-tier leadership right here. Let’s just hope ‘walking away’ is a skill we can level up.”
One of the dwarves tried to be intimidating, stepping forward with his boomstick pointed at my back. “What’s to stop us from shooting you?”
I paused, giving him my most unimpressed look over my shoulder. “Nothing at all, really. But let me ask you zis: have you ever shot a paladin who doesn’t care if she gets hit? No? Well, you’re in for a treat!” I threw my arms wide in mock invitation. “Go ahead, boys! Aim for ze big target!”
The dwarf hesitated, boomstick wobbling just a little. Draves rolled his eyes and signaled him to stand down. “You’re not worth the ammo.”
I spun around with a smirk, hands on my hips. “Zat’s what all my exes say, too.”
The crew groaned, Protecto snorted, and even Draves looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“I’ll be downstairs, probably figuring out ‘ow to build a better Ashbringer with two sticks and a prayer,” I said with a wink. “Or, you know, just taking a nap. Call me if you need a miracle.”
As I pushed open the door to the lower deck, Protecto called after me, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “If you see my dignity down there, tell it I’m sorry.”
I blew him a kiss. “Oh, it’s long gone, darling. Long gone.”
And with that, I shut the door behind me, leaving Draves and his merry band of pirates to wonder just what in Azeroth they’d gotten themselves into.
Sea Sick and Secrets
I spent a few days in the bowels of the ship with Protecto in his elven form, which was great because at least I had someone to talk to, even if that someone was hunched over, turning different shades of green. Turns out, Protecto can’t eat in his humanoid form, but he sure can throw up—and what comes out is sand. Because, you know, that makes sense.
A couple of dwarves approached me, smirking like they were about to hear the best comedy act of their lives. “You’re that funny paladin. Tell me a joke.”
I deadpanned, “You’re life.”
It took them a second, and they left with their spirits about as high as their IQs. Protecto, meanwhile, got dragged up to the deck for fresh air and food. But give it a few hours, and he was back down again, feeding the floorboards his breakfast in a spectacular display of motion sickness.
Living on an island for most of my youth meant I knew my way around a ship—storms, rough seas, and all. They threw some conjured mage bread at me, which did the trick for my hunger and even took the edge off my arcane withdrawal. Weirdly enough, I didn’t need to defecate the whole time I was down there. Guess I’m just magic like that.
To pass the time, Protecto and I played ‘I Spy,’ though it mostly turned into ‘I Spy Something Depressing,’ given our location. We also discussed our dream meals, with Protecto going on and on about lamb, in every possible preparation. Like, seriously, there’s only so much you can say about roast lamb and lambskin blankets before it gets weird.
We even made our own version of checkers with random screws and nuts from the ship. In the middle of our game, Protecto paused and asked, “Do you ever get the feeling someone is playing games with you?”
I thought back. “Now that you mention it… All the time. But I’ve been thinking—”
“Wait, you can think?” Protecto interrupted, feigning shock. “You have a brain? Wow, that’s news. I just thought you were some wind-up toy with no off switch.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s been four days, and you’re still stuck on the P and P joke! Do you really think they’d keep us alive if they didn’t find us amusing?”
“I’m joking,” he smirked. “I know there’s a real person in there… somewhere. Even if you are blonde.” He hesitated. “But seriously, were you actually going to leave me to die?”
I laughed. “Protecto, darling, I am as petty as I am powerful, so yes? Besides, we’re imprisoned but breathing. I was just wondering if maybe you and I could be… more than friends. Maybe if I found you more romantically appealing, I’d have fought a little harder.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “Perfectia, you’re not the first humanoid to ask. But let me clarify: I wasn’t in Outland helping Netherdrakes for the charity points. I found them… attractive. After a few daring rescues and some… wrestling, things just sort of happened.”
“Oh,” I said, genuinely curious, “Do you have someone special in your life?”
He laughed. “It’s not like that. Netherdrakes aren’t exactly the brightest; they’re more like oversized, horny sharks. Once freed, they just latch on. Then, after some gnawing and body slamming, it’s over, and they dump their eggs on a mountain somewhere. Courtship in my world involves biting and brawling with other males. I win most of the time… unless it’s an ambush.”
“That sounds awful and dangerous.”
“That’s life, Perfectia. Everything’s a competition, especially when it comes to… well, mating rituals. You know, the usual bite-fight routine. I know you don’t get it because you’re a woman, but hey, no judgment. Adventuring as a blood elf is fun, but you remember when I was trying to perfect this transformation, right?”
I nodded, flashing back to all those half-formed dragon hybrid experiments Protecto put himself through—some of which made me wish I could unsee things.
He glanced at his hand, sighing like someone contemplating the philosophical wonders of having opposable thumbs. “I never thought I’d live without my talons, but thumbs? Revolutionary. They open locks, pick things up… Honestly, they’re magical. But hey, you never actually explained what’s under a male elf’s small clothes. I figured it just pops out like it does for us dragons. You know, scales, skin, surprise!”
I gave him a horrified look. “Okay, stop. We’re not doing this. I need a mental cleanse just from hearing that.”
He laughed, unbothered by my visible discomfort. “What brought this up, anyway?”
I shrugged and chuckled, trying to play it cool. “You’re not bad-looking, Protecto. We’re stuck here, and I’ve been thinking—if Jaina could do it, then maybe—”
He nodded, cutting me off with the calm understanding of a wise but still slightly awkward dragon. “Kalecgos probably had a better grasp on this whole humanoid-relationship thing. Honestly, though, I don’t get why any woman would want to be with a dragon, scales or not. It’s not like we can even give you kids.”
I shrugged. “It’s not about having kids; it’s about power, acceptance, and, you know, bragging rights. People think you’re handsome, Protecto. They’d be jealous. Kalecgos? He’s powerful. And I know you don’t get it because you’re a man, but that kind of thing matters.”
He half-smiled, looking both amused and slightly relieved. “Well, I’m flattered, but I’ll have to pass. The whole ‘descent into a feral spiral’ thing? You people don’t know what you’re missing.”
I remembered something from my past adventures. “Actually, I think I’ve had a taste of it. But hey, does this mean you’d be down for, you know, a double-mounted flight?”
Protecto burst into laughter, almost coughing up another round of sand. “Perfectia, I’d rather swallow a fireball. And let’s not forget, you people have this whole ‘bleed a quarter of the time’ thing. It smells, it’s messy, and you just go about your day like it’s normal.”
I sighed, a little embarrassed. “Yeah… I know that freaked you out when it first happened. You almost dropped me mid-air.”
He shrugged casually. “It’s happened more than once, but I’ve learned to deal. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose.”
I stared at him, half-amused, half-confused. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of it. But, seriously, how do dragons even—?”
He looked up, cheeks reddening slightly. “Ever seen a cannon shoot a rocket that spirals out, twists, and then lands with a perfect hit?”
I blinked, trying to imagine it. “I think I get the picture.”
“Well, it’s like that, but, you know, more… twisty.”
I thought back to the dragons near Black Temple, twirling in what I assumed were mid-air battles. “I always thought you were fighting.”
He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Nope. Keep that between us, though. The last thing we need is people thinking dragons are just doing synchronized swimming in the sky. I learned to transform because I wanted to help you, just like you’ve always helped me.”
I smiled at him, “Thanks. You know, it’s really hard for me to make friends, let alone something more. Everyone’s so busy saving the world or stabbing something. It’s exhausting.”
“Is it because you’re… heavy?” Protecto asked with a cheeky grin. “I mean, I carry you all the time, and you’re not exactly feather-light.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending to be offended. “You know what, screw you. And yes, you’re not wrong, but still… screw you.”
He laughed and shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’ve missed you, Perfectia. I don’t want to see you stuck or hurt. You just need to lower your standards, play the field a little. You’re the legend, remember?”
I looked down, feeling a little nostalgic. “I’ve only been with one man… and that was two years ago.”
He nodded knowingly, “Yeah, yeah, the story of your life. But what about that one—”
“Do not bring that up,” I cut him off quickly, shooting him a glare.
“Ah, your first ex. Got it.”
“We didn’t even date,” I explained, trying to downplay it. “It was more like… physical therapy. For, you know, my… condition.”
He raised an eyebrow and chuckled, “But you had orgasms, right?”
I looked away, feeling that familiar flush of embarrassment. “It was therapy.”
“Oh, sure, therapy,” he snickered, barely holding back laughter. “Well, orgasms are super therapeutic. I think I need some of that therapy, actually.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “You know, some of these Dark Irons aren’t that bad-looking. Draves is kind of hot… for a dwarf. If only they discovered the wonders of razors and soap.”
Protecto gave me a side-eye. “Didn’t he slap you? You told me about that.”
I squinted, trying to remember. “Oh yeah… right.”
He rolled his eyes. “Perfectia, you’re better than that. Look, you’re still figuring things out. You gotta get out there and be like, ‘Hey, I’m new to this, but I’m Perfectia, and I’m awesome.’ And then, when the world asks, ‘Can you do this?’ you just say, ‘Hell yes.’ And if the answer isn’t yes, make it yes. You’re the f—king legend, and everyone else needs to catch up.”
I nodded, feeling slightly more motivated. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Protecto looked out at the deck, eyeing one of the dwarves. “Hey, where’s me tuna?!”
I smirked. “I thought you weren’t interested in female humanoids.”
He rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
The Ashbringer’s Gamble
A few days later, our ship met up with another Dark Iron vessel, and I was taken aboard to stand before Moira, the queen of the Dark Irons. She studied me with a keen eye, her expression unreadable. “So you’re the Ashbringer,” she stated.
I shrugged slightly, feeling the weight of her scrutiny. “Well, technically Draves is le Ashbringer since ‘e ‘as le sword.”
“But you can make your own,” she pressed, her tone carrying an edge of curiosity and skepticism.
“Technically, yes.”
She nodded, unfazed. “I’ve seen you with two, and I’ve received letters saying you can summon them.”
I shook my head, feeling my frustration simmering. “I need some-zing to focus on; it doesn’t always work when I want it to, and sometimes it backfires. I don’t really know ‘ow it works.” I looked her in the eyes, my voice sharp. “I’m an adventurer, a paladin—I don’t just summon Ashbringers for every stupid task I’m given.”
“How did you learn to summon? Could you teach others?”
I told her about how I was there when Alexandros Mograine died when I was nine, how he saved my life. I left out the parts about Lirath Windrunner and how Mograine had turned on me days later. Some things were better left buried.
Moira’s gaze lingered on me, and then she asked, almost hesitantly, “Can I speak to him?”
I opened my mouth to tell her no, to explain that it didn’t work that way. But before I could respond, the Ashbringer was suddenly on my back, and a chilling draft swept through the room. My vision blurred, and the world around me dimmed. When I finally regained focus, the sun was nearly set, casting a deep orange glow through the windows. Moira’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked as though she’d been crying.
“ ‘ow long was zat?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
She wiped her eyes and shook her head. “A little less than three hours, I think. He explained everything. My men will send you back to Light’s Hope.” She forced a smile. “You’re lucky, you know.”
I looked away, my mind spinning with anger and confusion. “Lucky?” My voice cracked as I tried to contain the fury bubbling inside me. “I just lost tree hours of my life! Zis ‘as ‘appened before, and you zink I’m lucky? ‘E hunted me like a dog, killed two of my best friends right in front of me—Maria Adams and Thane Korth’azz. Zey were my family, and zen ‘e enslaved Sir Zeliek when ‘e tried to protect me. Alexandros Mograine wasn’t a hero. ‘E was a monster.” My voice rose as my control slipped. “I would give any-zing to watch ‘im die again. Do you ‘ave any idea what it feels like to ‘ave a monster inside you, to take control of you?”
Moira looked down, her expression pained as if wrestling with her own memories. “Aye,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I do. He was trying to protect you.”
I snapped, my voice a raw, wounded snarl. “I DIDN’T ASK!! This is my life! I am not some pawn for odd zer people to take control of whenever zey please!” My hands were trembling, my breath ragged. It was as if I could still feel Mograine’s presence, the suffocating weight of his will over mine.
The sudden, sharp sound of cannon fire interrupted us, breaking through the thick tension in the room. Moira’s head snapped up, alarm flashing in her eyes. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
A Dark Iron dwarf burst into the captain’s quarters, his face pale. “We’re under attack.”
Moira’s brows furrowed. “The Horde?”
He shook his head, breathless. “We don’t know.”
I rushed to the window, the taste of salt and fury in the air. Far out to sea, near the setting sun, a storm was brewing, dark clouds twisting and turning like the inside of my mind. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the ship’s crew scrambled, their shouts blending into a chaotic chorus as they manned their battle stations.
Moira grabbed a spyglass from her pocket, extending it with a practiced flick before raising it to her eye. She scanned the horizon, her jaw tightening. “Bloody pirates,” she muttered, her voice low and filled with disdain.
I clenched my fists, glaring at the approaching storm. It felt like a fitting backdrop for the mess inside me—rage, defiance, and a refusal to be controlled ever again.
A few days later, our ship met up with another Dark Iron vessel, and I was taken aboard to stand before Moira, the queen of the Dark Irons. She studied me with a keen eye, her expression unreadable. “So you’re the Ashbringer,” she stated.
I shrugged slightly, feeling the weight of her scrutiny. “Well, technically Draves is le Ashbringer since ‘e ‘as le sword.”
“But you can make your own,” she pressed, her tone carrying an edge of curiosity and skepticism.
“Technically, yes.”
She nodded, unfazed. “I’ve seen you with two, and I’ve received letters saying you can summon them.”
I shook my head, feeling my frustration simmering. “I need some-zing to focus on; it doesn’t always work when I want it to, and sometimes it backfires. I don’t really know ‘ow it works.” I looked her in the eyes, my voice sharp. “I’m an adventurer, a paladin—I don’t just summon Ashbringers for every stupid task I’m given.”
“How did you learn to summon? Could you teach others?”
I told her about how I was there when Alexandros Mograine died when I was nine, how he saved my life. I left out the parts about Lirath Windrunner and how Mograine had turned on me days later. Some things were better left buried.
Moira’s gaze lingered on me, and then she asked, almost hesitantly, “Can I speak to him?”
I opened my mouth to tell her no, to explain that it didn’t work that way. But before I could respond, the Ashbringer was suddenly on my back, and a chilling draft swept through the room. My vision blurred, and the world around me dimmed. When I finally regained focus, the sun was nearly set, casting a deep orange glow through the windows. Moira’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked as though she’d been crying.
“ ‘ow long was zat?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
She wiped her eyes and shook her head. “A little less than three hours, I think. He explained everything. My men will send you back to Light’s Hope.” She forced a smile. “You’re lucky, you know.”
I looked away, my mind spinning with anger and confusion. “Lucky?” My voice cracked as I tried to contain the fury bubbling inside me. “I just lost tree hours of my life! Zis ‘as ‘appened before, and you zink I’m lucky? ‘E hunted me like a dog, killed two of my best friends right in front of me—Maria Adams and Thane Korth’azz. Zey were my family, and zen ‘e enslaved Sir Zeliek when ‘e tried to protect me. Alexandros Mograine wasn’t a hero. ‘E was a monster.” My voice rose as my control slipped. “I would give any-zing to watch ‘im die again. Do you ‘ave any idea what it feels like to ‘ave a monster inside you, to take control of you?”
Moira looked down, her expression pained as if wrestling with her own memories. “Aye,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I do. He was trying to protect you.”
I snapped, my voice a raw, wounded snarl. “I DIDN’T ASK!! This is my life! I am not some pawn for odd zer people to take control of whenever zey please!” My hands were trembling, my breath ragged. It was as if I could still feel Mograine’s presence, the suffocating weight of his will over mine.
The sudden, sharp sound of cannon fire interrupted us, breaking through the thick tension in the room. Moira’s head snapped up, alarm flashing in her eyes. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
A Dark Iron dwarf burst into the captain’s quarters, his face pale. “We’re under attack.”
Moira’s brows furrowed. “The Horde?”
He shook his head, breathless. “We don’t know.”
I rushed to the window, the taste of salt and fury in the air. Far out to sea, near the setting sun, a storm was brewing, dark clouds twisting and turning like the inside of my mind. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the ship’s crew scrambled, their shouts blending into a chaotic chorus as they manned their battle stations.
Moira grabbed a spyglass from her pocket, extending it with a practiced flick before raising it to her eye. She scanned the horizon, her jaw tightening. “Bloody pirates,” she muttered, her voice low and filled with disdain.
I clenched my fists, glaring at the approaching storm. It felt like a fitting backdrop for the mess inside me—rage, defiance, and a refusal to be controlled ever again.
“My queen, we can’t aim the cannons when they are attached like this, and they’re coming toward the bow! We should raise the white flags while we still can!” one of the dwarves yelled, his voice barely masking the panic.
Moira glared at him like he’d just suggested they surrender their axes and pick up knitting. “Riflemen at the ready!” she barked, her voice echoing across the deck. “Rest of you, cut the lines except where they’re attached at the bows!”
She spun toward me, eyes blazing with that familiar Dark Iron fury. “Perfectia!” she called out. I snapped to attention, startled by the intensity. “When I was a lass, Mograine showed me how he could fight on a tightrope. Can you?”
I blinked, utterly baffled. “I don’t know! I usually prefer fighting on, you know, solid ground.”
Moira waved her hand dismissively, as if ‘solid ground’ was just a minor luxury. “I need you to get on the line where the ships are attached at the bows—it’ll move our cannons into position.”
I stared at her, half expecting this to be a joke, but her expression was dead serious. “You want me to dance on a rope between two ships while cannonballs fly at my face?”
“Welcome to the Dark Irons,” she said with a smirk.
I sighed, nodded, and ran to the front of the ship, yelling at the dwarves to keep the lines connected. I climbed onto the ropes, balancing precariously as I started jumping up and down like I was auditioning for some circus act no one asked for. The ships began to move, and a few other dwarves got the idea, hopping on the ropes beside me. Slowly, the boats adjusted, but when I glanced out at the pirate ship, their cannons were already aimed at us.
Moira’s voice cut through the chaos. “Bear up, men, you’re still short!”
“Your Highness, they’re out of our range!” a dwarf shouted back.
As the lines sank lower into the water, I could hear the terrifying whistle of cannonballs soaring overhead and the sharp, splintering sound of wood cracking on the deck. I scrambled up the rope, sliding back onto the ship like some deranged sailor and headed straight for the lower decks. My eyes glowed faintly green as I descended into the dim space below, and there was Protecto in his dragon form, heaving sand like it was the worst piñata prize imaginable.
“Are you okay?” I asked, genuinely concerned as I tried not to step in any of the sand piles.
He coughed and shook his head, looking more like a seasick puppy than a mighty dragon. “They’ve been poisoning my fish! I can’t breathe fire!”
“Well, that’s just great,” I muttered, gripping the Ashbringer and slamming it into the lock on his cage. Sparks flew, and the metal bent slightly but didn’t break. I hit it again, harder this time, and the lock gave a pitiful creak.
Protecto shifted into his elven form, cloaked in black smoke, and backed up. “Move.” He charged and shoulder-slammed the door, flinging it open like it had just insulted his mother. He grabbed his sword and shield, struggling to get his armor on, but before he could even finish strapping it up, we felt the ship shudder under another barrage of cannon fire.
We rushed to the upper deck, only to find it peppered with holes—it looked like a block of Alterac cheese, except a lot less appetizing. Protecto’s eyes widened as he glanced up. “GET DOWN!” he roared, throwing himself in front of me, shield raised. A cannonball slammed into it, sending him stumbling back but deflecting it off to the side.
I stayed low, ducked behind some debris. “Can you fly?” I shouted over the din.
“We’ll die if I don’t!” Protecto grumbled, transforming back into his dragon form. I clambered onto his back, and we launched into the air, narrowly avoiding another volley.
As we circled back toward the pirate ship, Protecto twisted his neck to glare at me. “What are you doing, Perfectia? This is not ‘fly directly into enemy cannons’ day!”
I pointed toward the ship defiantly. “We can’t make it to land like this. We take back our ship or we swim. Your choice.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, muttering something about paladins and their suicidal bravado, but he banked toward the pirate ship anyway. “You know, next time, I vote we just stay in and play checkers.”
Protecto sighed, clearly rethinking his life choices as he flew me toward the enemy ship. Below us, chaos reigned—rifles cracked, dwarves screamed, and the deck was slick with the spilled pride of Dark Irons who thought they were tougher than cannonballs.
As we closed in, I leapt off Protecto’s back, casting Blessing of Protection just before I hit the deck, because nothing says “unstoppable” like falling from the sky and landing without a scratch. The riflemen whipped around like they’d just seen a ghost—a very angry, heavily armed ghost. Orcs, humans, worgen, and even some traitor dwarves were firing wildly, but I was ready for this mess.
“Hello, boys!” I yelled, as my boot met the chin of the closest rifleman, sending him flying off the deck and into the water like a really disappointed dolphin. I backed up, swinging the Ashbringer in a wide arc. The blade’s holy fire ignited their cheap leather armor like it was paper, and they flailed around screaming, trying to put out flames with sheer stupidity.
One pirate charged at me with a broadsword, clearly mistaking himself for a hero. I sidestepped, smacked his blade away, and headbutted him so hard I swear I saw his past lives flash before his eyes. I grabbed him by the neck, slammed him to the deck, and wondered if I should feel bad about ruining his dental plan. Spoiler: I did not.
The rifles cracked again, and I felt the slugs bite into my skin. It was like getting stung by very angry, very metal bees. I flinched, but kept going—because of course, I wasn’t wearing my paladin armor. Why would I? That’s only for sensible people.
More riflemen aimed their guns at me, ready to turn me into an extra holey version of myself. I glanced around, realizing there were more of them than I’d hoped. And by “hoped,” I mean, I was hoping for zero.
“DON’T!” a voice shouted. I turned, expecting some kind of divine intervention, but it was Moira, looking like she’d just been forced to attend a family reunion with people she barely tolerated. “She’s not one of ours; she was our prisoner!” Moira pleaded, her voice full of enough regret to fill a tavern.
Standing behind her was a tall, dark-skinned human, decked out in a pirate hat and sleeveless trench coat—clearly someone who thought sleeves were for the weak. “I’m who you were looking for, right?” Moira continued. “You don’t have to kill any more of my men.”
The pirate captain smirked like he’d just found a rare collectible. “Bring the powder and crystals to our ship,” he ordered, glancing at Moira like she was the crown jewel of his pirate collection. “Start writing your letters to your friends in Ironforge. No one will believe we have the queen of the Dark Irons unless it’s in your handwriting.”
Moira’s shoulders slumped. She nodded, beaten but unbroken, and started scribbling.
Meanwhile, I pulled the Ashbringer off my back, and the sound of rifles cocking filled the air. I held the sword up, casually, like I was just showing off a particularly sharp letter opener. “I don’t think the title ‘alcoholic Highlord’ carries the same prestige these days,” I said, letting the blade dangle from my fingers like a barely balanced teacup. “But I think the Paladin Order will be more worried about losing this.”
I held the Ashbringer out, two fingers delicately clutching it, watching the captain’s eyes light up with the kind of greedy joy usually reserved for finding gold or an open bar. He reached for it, clearly underestimating how much this sword didn’t want to be his.
He grabbed the hilt, and the sheer weight of the Ashbringer nearly yanked him to the floor. “Son of a—!” he yelled, stumbling like he’d been sucker-punched by a ghost.
I snatched the sword back and laughed. “Looks like it doesn’t like you much either.” I slung the Ashbringer back over my shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of the only thing in this mess that made sense.
The captain straightened, rubbing his shoulder and trying to look dignified despite the very undignified near face-plant. “Leave the sword in my quarters,” he ordered, “and get to the lower deck.”
I nodded and backed away, but not before shooting a glance at Moira. “See you in Ironforge. Don’t let this clown ruin your handwriting.”
Because in the end, whether you’re facing pirates or angry dwarves, there’s always a way to keep your head—and your sense of humor—above water.
“Fill up the prison cells with as many Dark Irons as we can. The rest? Ship them off to Bloodsail Island in Kalimdor. Let them work on their tans.” The captain barked like he’d just won a prize at a pirate fair.
One of his crew, who looked like he hadn’t washed his hair since the last invasion of Azeroth, raised a hand. “Captain, we broke both of the spreaders on both ships during the attack.”
The captain shrugged like this was just another Tuesday inconvenience. “Well, we’ve got two ships still floating, don’t we? Let the Dark Irons patch them up, or they can row their way home. Good for the biceps. The rest of you, set sail toward Ironforge!”
I saw Protecto stagger onto the pirate ship, shifting back into his elf form and doing a whole dramatic “I surrender” hand raise before dropping his sword and shield with all the grace of someone who’s given up on life—and fashion.
And just like that, Moira, me, and about eight Dark Irons were back to being prisoners. “You wouldn’t happen to ‘ave another Ashbringer lying around somewhere, would you?” I asked Moira, knowing full well the answer was a big, fat no.
She chuckled, “Oh, sure, I’ve got a spare right next to my tank keys in my other handbag. Right after I find a lost treasure map and the will to survive this nonsense.” She glanced at me, eyeing me up and down. “You know, you look pretty good for an elf.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you mean fat?”
She shook her head, slightly amused. “No, no, just… healthy. Most elves look like they’ve been living off a strict diet of kale and regret. You, though—yeah, I guess that beer is doing wonders for your curves. I heard you’ve got a bit of a drinking problem.”
I gave her a mock-serious nod, shrugging with the kind of grace only I can muster. “I do not ‘ave a drinking problem. I ‘ave a drinking solution. Besides, most paladins fast, but I like to indulge for the colors. Adds a little spice, you know? Like painting the inside of your liver with happiness and bad decisions.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re one of a kind, Perfectia. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, but hey, it’s something.”
I smirked. “Trust me, Moira, it’s usually both.”
She squinted at me, clearly confused. “Of food?”
I waved her off with a small laugh. “Forget it, I’m not explaining my artistic palette to you.”
Moira eyed me skeptically. “Alright, alright, so what’s your plan? You’re not just talking yourself out of this one, are you?”
I glanced outside the cell at the pirates clanking around, rifles slung over their shoulders like fashion accessories. The swords they carried looked about as sharp as a dinner spoon, and their armor was… well, nonexistent unless you count questionable fashion choices. One had shoved a bowl of corn mush through the bars at us, like this was some five-star prison catering service. A few Dark Irons grabbed their bowls, digging in like it was a gourmet feast, but Moira turned her nose up at it like it was toxic waste.
I muttered, more to myself than anyone, “Zey don’t ‘ave a mage on zis ship.”
A Dark Iron nearby grunted. “You survived on conjured bread for a week, and now you’re picky? Not that I blame you.”
More bowls of sad mush slid under the cell door. The pirate waiter went back upstairs, and I sidled up to Moira, whispering, “I zink I can get us out of ‘ere.”
Moira gave me a wary look. “How exactly? You going to charm them to death?”
I smirked, “Nah, I’m going to need all your spoons.”
The dwarves looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but one by one they handed over their spoons, about ten in total. I stared at them, gripping the cold metal in my hand, praying this wasn’t going to blow up in my face. I could feel the stares of Moira, Protecto, and the Dark Irons, and I knew we were in a ticking time bomb of a situation. But I closed my eyes, focused on that deep, burning memory of the Ashbringer at its peak.
The spoons began to change, melting and shifting until they formed the Corrupted Ashbringer in my grasp. The dark energy pulsed as I slammed it against the cell lock, sparks flying. Moira rushed forward, putting all her strength against the sword’s hilt. “Come on, help us pry this thing open!” she shouted.
The Dark Irons jumped in, shoving with all they had, but I could feel the sword pulling at them, draining their energy like they were nothing more than batteries. One of them groaned, “Your Highness, this sword… it’s sucking the life out of us.”
Moira gritted her teeth. “Just a little longer, lads. Fight on!”
I dug deep, pushing with all my might as the Corrupted Ashbringer sucked at our strength. Finally, the door burst open, and the sword evaporated into ten twisted, blackened spoons in my hands. My arm buzzed and tingled like it was half asleep, but it still worked well enough. We bolted upstairs with Moira and her dwarves, fists flying as we fought through pirates who were either half-drunk, half-asleep, or both.
Reaching the captain’s quarters, I kicked the door open with all the grace of an angry paladin. There, in a scene that would make even the most hardened sailor blush, was the captain and a very naked female orc. The sight was enough to make me pause, but not enough to lose my edge.
I snatched the Ashbringer from where it lay and leveled it at the captain, who was as naked as the day he was born, and looking twice as guilty. “We ‘ave your ship now,” I growled, pointing the blade at him. “Call off your men before I ‘ear another gunshot, or I will be personally cutting you for every blast I hear. And I’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression today.”
The captain’s eyes went wide as saucers, scrambling to cover himself with whatever dignity he had left, which, at this point, wasn’t much.
Blackgrave raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the whole situation, and sighed. “Lane, if you could.”
The orc, Lane, smirked and glanced at me, taking her sweet time getting up. “Yes, Captain Blackgrave.” She slid off the bed, making no effort to cover herself, much to my dismay.
I grimaced and gestured with the Ashbringer. “Cover yourself, please.”
Lane glanced over her shoulder with a cheeky grin. “I don’t take orders from you,” she retorted, strolling past me stark naked like she owned the ship—and maybe a nudist colony.
From outside, I heard a sharp whistle cut through the night air. Blackgrave looked at me with a smirk. “So, parley?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s Moira’s call, not mine.”
He tilted his head, curiosity in his eyes. “You were a prisoner, weren’t you? Why help her? I had no plans for you; the Ashbringer means nothing to me.”
I stared at him, my grip on the hilt tightening. “I don’t care what your plans were.”
Blackgrave chuckled under his breath, glancing at the half-destroyed ships and the ragtag bunch of Dark Irons. “You don’t have enough men to sail this ship, let alone make it past the Maelstrom. What are you going to do? Kill us all?”
I shook my head, keeping the Ashbringer poised. He moved to reach for something, and I thrust the blade closer, making sure he got the message. “Don’t even think about it.”
He paused, hands raised slightly in mock surrender. “Just grabbing me clothes, love. I’m not quite as shameless as Lane.”
I rolled my eyes and averted my gaze. “Fine. And, um… you and her… you’re, uh, together?” I asked, trying not to sound as nosy as I was feeling.
Blackgrave snorted. “Aye. She’s my first mate,” he said, tossing a quick smile that suggested there was a lot more to that story. “In more ways than one.”
I watched him get dressed, my eyes lingering longer than I intended before I snapped my gaze away. I couldn’t help but feel that familiar sting of jealousy. The way they were so effortlessly together, even in the chaos of piracy—it reminded me too much of Oranio. They made it look easy, a cross-faction romance working out despite everything. I mumbled under my breath, “That must be… nice.” I forced myself to sound casual, but the bitterness in my voice was hard to hide. “We never considered a life at sea.”
Blackgrave finished buttoning up his coat, his brow furrowing as he caught my tone. “We?”
I straightened up quickly, my face flushing with embarrassment. “No one. Just… talking to myself.” I tried to brush it off, but the truth gnawed at me. I didn’t want to think about Oranio right now, about what could’ve been, about how everything fell apart. Yet, standing here, watching this pirate captain and his orc lover—it was impossible not to compare.
They had their messy, chaotic lives, but at least they were in it together. I was standing here, alone with my misplaced envy, fighting for a cause that felt more distant every day.
The deck above was flickering with torchlight, casting eerie shadows on the gathered pirates and Dark Irons. I stood behind Blackgrave, keeping the Ashbringer in a defensive position, while Moira held Lane at knifepoint. All around us, pirates and dwarves were eyeing each other warily, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.
Blackgrave glanced at Lane, clearly exasperated. “Lane, for the love of—put on some clothes, will you?”
Lane, still stark naked, shrugged. “I’m going to bed. You lot can sort this out, sing Kumbaya, whatever.” She sauntered back toward the captain’s quarters, unapologetic as ever.
This showdown might have started as a battle of ships and swords, but now it was just a bizarre standoff between pirates, dwarves, and, well… an orc who really didn’t care for dress codes.
The three-day sail back to the Eastern Kingdoms was filled with unexpected moments of connection. Moira Thaurissan and I swapped stories that veered between lighthearted and deeply painful. She spoke of her father’s skill at the forge, the weight of the crown she never truly wanted, and the torment of her abusive husband. I didn’t press; some wounds weren’t meant for my diary. I shared bits about my time with the Horde, why I’d left the Order, and how I’d thought I’d find my way back. For a while, I almost believed it myself. But when we reached Menethil Harbor, I couldn’t make my feet move off the deck.
Moira watched me, her eyes soft with concern. “Perfectia, we have mages that can teleport you back to Dalaran.”
I glanced at her, hesitating. “I’m not going back.” She stepped closer, worry etched on her face, as I unhooked the Ashbringer from my back. “Your father made this sword. You should have it.”
She took a step back, shaking her head. “I’m not a paladin.”
I held the sword out, almost pleading. “Then make more. Enough to fight the Legion, enough to save whoever needs saving. Just… don’t let faction politics ruin it. Promise me that.”
Moira’s expression softened, a mix of gratitude and sadness. “We still need you, Perfectia. You’re more than just a sword.”
I shook my head, fighting back the knot in my throat. “I need something else right now. Over there, I’m just another soldier, another piece on the board. Here… here, I’m something different. I need to be different.”
Moira wrapped her arms around my legs, hugging me in that stubborn, dwarven way. I knelt down, and she pointed a finger at me, serious as a heart attack. “Don’t pick me up again.”
I chuckled, hugging her properly this time. “I’ll miss you, Moira.”
She squeezed me tighter. “I’ll miss you too. And don’t worry, I’ll handle Draves. That bastard’s going to pay for everything.”
I laughed, even if it was a little forced, and watched as she took the Ashbringer from my hands. She hefted it with both arms, feeling its weight, before glancing back at me one last time. As the plank was pulled back and the ship began to move, I waved, trying to keep the smile on my face. She waved back, and for a moment, I let myself feel the loss.
“So, you’re really not coming back?” Protecto’s voice rumbled from his dragon form, his eyes fixed on the sea ahead.
I shrugged, staring at the horizon. “I don’t know. I just need something else for now.”
He nodded, understanding more than he let on. “I get it. But this isn’t goodbye. When you’re ready, find me in the Caverns of Time. Someone there can point you my way.”
I smiled, trying to hold onto that small comfort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned to leave, his massive wings spreading as he prepared to take flight. “See you later, Perfectia.”
“See ya,” I called after him, watching as he soared into the sky. For a moment, I felt lighter, like I was on the edge of something new. The world was still out there, waiting for me, and maybe, just maybe, I was finally ready to meet it on my own terms.