(This was a chapter I wrote that is in the middle of the overall story but you would only see it if you were 300+ pages in. So I thought I would put it in here as a stand-alone and see what you guys think.)
The cave on Spirit’s Rise was dimly lit, its walls lined with ancient carvings and flickering torches. The steady drip of water from the stone above echoed softly, creating an atmosphere of heavy silence. Baine led Perfectia deeper into the heart of the cave, where a simple holding cell awaited. The barred enclosure, though humble, carried the weight of tradition—it was a place of reflection, meant for prisoners to contemplate their choices rather than rot in captivity.
Baine unlocked the cell, his massive form blocking the faint light from outside. He gestured for her to step inside, his expression conflicted. Perfectia, her shoulders tense, complied without a word. She crossed the threshold, her steps echoing softly in the hollow chamber, and Baine gently closed the gate behind her.
He lingered there for a moment, his hand resting on the iron bars, watching her. She paced the small space, her mind clearly racing, the weight of her situation pressing down on her. The flicker of torchlight cast long shadows across her face, deepening the lines of frustration and sorrow etched into her features.
“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Baine said softly, his deep voice thick with sincerity. His gaze lingered on her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sylvanas may be Warchief, but I never wanted to see another trial like Garrosh’s.”
Perfectia exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was there, you know. What you did—it was an admirable show of mercy and patience. Not a flicker of doubt crossed my mind; I wanted to end that monster’s life right then and there.”
Baine nodded, a deep sadness filling his eyes. “I know that feeling all too well. After my father’s death, I had every intention of killing Magatha Grimtotem for her betrayal. My people had to hold me back.” His voice softened, reflecting on the past. “But in the end, I learned that mercy isn’t always for naught. She eventually became a champion of the Earthen Ring. I’ve felt recently that she’s passed on, and I can only hope it was for a better cause.”
Perfectia’s gaze shifted, her voice suddenly quieter. “You’re friends with Jaina Proudmoore, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Baine replied, watching her closely.
“And Anduin?”
“Yes.” He studied her more intently now, sensing the weight of her words.
“And she trusts you more than she trusts me, doesn’t she?”
Baine sighed, choosing his words carefully. “My vision for the preservation and restoration of the land hasn’t been completely disregarded. I didn’t agree to the burning of Teldrassil, but I accepted that deforestation in Ashenvale would continue. Yet… even I was surprised. Three-fourths of the loggers have been removed, and Night Elves from the Cenarion Circle are being allowed to settle there, as long as they stay out of the war effort. It’s why I’ve remained loyal to her, for now.”
Perfectia’s eyes darkened, her voice bitter. “And yet, you weren’t allowed on the battlefield.”
A slow realization washed over Baine. He inhaled sharply. “Now I understand. Nathanos… he kept me out for a reason.” His tone shifted, becoming more serious. “How many lives did you take on that battlefield?”
“Forty-two,” she answered quickly, her voice hollow. “Some might’ve been unconscious when I left them, but the blight finished the job. Most were already in the Undercity when it happened.”
Baine’s voice grew quieter, more pointed. “Are you still in love with Anduin? And yet, you remain loyal to Sylvanas?”
Perfectia turned her head, her expression tight with conflict. “Yes.”
A thick silence settled between them, the weight of the unspoken tension heavy in the air. Baine, his brow furrowed with both concern and curiosity, finally broke it, his voice low but steady. “So… which is more important, I wonder—love or loyalty?”
Perfectia closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath as if the question had cut deeper than any blade. “I… I don’t know. It feels like I’ve just traded one prison for another.” She paused, her voice tinged with bitterness. “I was in the Stormwind Stockades not long ago, you know.”
Baine’s eyes softened, but his tone carried a hint of dry humor. “Are the living accommodations to your liking?”
She gave a half-shrug, her lips twitching into a faint, sardonic smile. “No one’s threatened to torture me yet, so… could be better.”
Baine rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “Prison sentences imply that there’s a chance to leave—or at the very least, avoid execution. I don’t think torture is necessary.”
Perfectia leaned back against the cool stone of the cell, her smirk widening. “Fine, then. Only one star. Hopefully, your legal advice is better than the continental breakfast around here.”
Baine sighed, shaking his head. “Perfectia, please. Try to be serious. Start from the beginning—I don’t think we’ll have a magic hourglass to rewind time and present evidence.”
She chuckled, her tone softening but never missing a beat. “Alright, alright. You want the whole story? Fine. It all started with the burning of Teldrassil. You know, the screams, the fire, the complete destruction of an ancient tree. Real ‘light up the holidays’ energy.”
She paused, shaking her head, before adding with a dry smile, “I mean, sure, setting someone on fire technically keeps them warm all year round, but Sylvanas could’ve just handed out bad Christmas sweaters. Less painful. Although… marginally.”
Baine rolled his eyes but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
Perfectia’s grin widened, leaning into the tale she was clearly exaggerating. “Alright, Baine, you want the details on my little vacation in the Stockades? Simple. I was minding my own business, charming and brilliant as always, and then—bam! They threw me in there. I mean, if I’d known being irresistible was a crime, I would’ve dialed it down ages ago.”
Baine arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Anduin risked coming to see you while you were imprisoned… for what, exactly?”
“Oh, that?” Perfectia shrugged with feigned nonchalance, her grin not faltering for a second. “Simple: he took one look at me, saw the real me, and was swept right off his righteous feet. Couldn’t resist my charms. Honestly, the boy was a goner from day one.”
Baine’s expression was flat, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Perfectia, this isn’t going to work if you keep lying and deflecting with jokes. And I know you’re capable of taking this seriously.”
Perfectia feigned offense, pressing a hand to her heart. “Baine, are you saying you don’t think I’m irresistible? I’m offended.”
He rolled his eyes. “What I’m saying is, you need to start being honest. Lawyers, including me in this situation, have confidentiality with their clients. It’s called attorney-client privilege. Whatever you tell me stays between us. It’s meant so clients can talk openly without fear, even if it’s… complicated.”
She paused, the humor slipping from her expression just slightly as she absorbed his words. “So, no matter what I say, you won’t go running to Sylvanas?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “This isn’t about amusing stories or winning anyone over with charm. This is about giving me the truth so I can give you real advice. And if you don’t trust me, you’ll only make things harder for yourself.”
Perfectia’s smirk softened as she leaned back, her gaze distant. “Fine… you want the truth? I went to Vereesa Windrunner, asked about joining the Alliance. We became friends when I was spying on the Silver Covenant. She vouched for me, took a risk. I don’t want her paying for it because of my choices.”
Baine looked at her skeptically. “If you were a spy, why would she help you?”
Her eyes flickered with a memory, one that seemed to weigh heavily on her. “Remember when Garrosh took the Divine Bell through Dalaran?”
Baine’s expression grew somber. “Yes.”
“Well, the story’s a bit more twisted than Aethas Sunreaver just ‘turning a blind eye.’ The Silver Covenant actually helped Garrosh move that Bell. Vereesa was involved. She told me to keep quiet, and later, Aethas begged her to take the blame off the Silver Covenant.”
Baine frowned, recalling the trial. “But why? He could have saved so many of his own people when Jaina purged the city, just by telling the truth.”
Perfectia’s voice dropped, her tone hollow. “That’s where I came in.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the ground as if reliving the memory. “Garrosh… he crippled me. Right there in Dalaran, in front of Aethas. He didn’t intervene. He just… watched.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I think he wanted to help, but the shame paralyzed him. He’d rather take the blame, bear the weight of Jaina’s wrath, than admit what he let happen.”
Baine’s face remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. “That’s… a lot to carry, Perfectia. And you’re really willing to go to trial with all this weighing on you?”
Perfectia nodded slowly. “Yes. And you’d better keep this under wraps. Vereesa helped me—she trained me, disguised me, got me into the Alliance. You made me break a promise, but she shouldn’t have to suffer for my mistakes. I wanted to protect her… to stop Sylvanas from becoming another Garrosh.”
Baine’s gaze sharpened. “You could have stopped her in Lordaeron. Knocked her off one of those towers she likes to brood on. She could’ve been captured, and Lordaeron might have been saved.”
Perfectia’s gaze hardened. “Thought about it yourself, haven’t you?”
He exhaled. “I won’t lie. It crossed my mind.”
Perfectia’s voice dropped. “Anduin broke up with me… and I lashed out, out of jealousy. Attacked Jaina Proudmoore’s ship the moment she arrived. Foolish. I did warn you on the ship.”
Baine’s brow furrowed. “So… what, you and Anduin were together for a day or two?”
Perfectia sighed, her expression softening as she met his gaze. “We only kissed once—through prison bars. I confessed how I felt, and he… he felt the same. But others were there, and next thing I know, I’m in the Stockades.”
Baine’s arms crossed as the pieces fell into place. “I see.” He looked away, pensive.
Perfectia shifted uncomfortably in the silence. “That’s it?”
He glanced back at her thoughtfully. “I’m thinking about how to defend you. Execution seems unlikely, but strict surveillance… maybe probation. Would you be willing?”
She gave a resigned nod. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Happened my third day in the Horde, actually.”
Baine cracked a small smile. “Then you know what to expect.”
“More than I’d like to admit.”
He nodded. “Alright, I’ll get you some paper for a formal statement. Let’s start there.”
Perfectia spent the next few hours writing out her report in painstaking detail, each word carefully chosen to capture the events surrounding her alliance with Vereesa, her connection to Sylvanas, and the fateful encounters with Anduin. Despite Baine’s warnings, she fought the urge to lace the report with her usual humor, knowing this was no time for sarcasm.
For three days, she waited in her cell, her mind cycling through strategies, memories, and the all-too-familiar pangs of regret. The quiet was stifling, but she focused on her purpose, even as apprehension gnawed at her. Finally, on the third day, Baine appeared, his expression serious.
The time had finally come. Baine led Perfectia to the Valley of Strength, where the Horde leaders and allies were assembled, waiting for her trial. As they walked, he turned to her, his voice both steady and urgent.
“Do you plan on speaking in your own defense?”
Perfectia met his gaze and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Baine paused, concern shadowing his expression. "Please, Perfectia. No jokes. This is as serious as it gets, and your life depends on keeping your composure.”
She smirked, though it was tinged with nerves. “I’ll keep it in check. No jokes. Promise… Buuuut two guys walk into a tavern—"
“Seriously?” Baine glared, clearly unamused.
Perfectia laughed, holding up her hands. “Alright, alright, that was the last one. I swear.”
Baine exhaled, calming himself. “Good. If you feel like talking, lean on legal terms—throw around things like ‘ex parte’ and ‘post hoc ergo propter hoc.’ That might bore them into a settlement. But remember, they’re likely to ask about Anduin, so you might want to leave out any mention of… lingering feelings.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Just don’t be in love for the next two hours. He broke up with you, and if I recall correctly, he hit you.”
Perfectia sighed. “Fine.”
“And please, no dramatic poetry. Keep it natural. If someone says something you don’t like, I’ll yell ‘Objection!’ and we’ll improvise from there.” He let out a long sigh, giving her a final, imploring look. “Remember, Perfectia, the less you say, the better. That courtroom isn’t your stage.”
They continued forward, each step a reminder of what was at stake and the gravity of what lay ahead.
Perfectia took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders as they stepped into the Valley of Strength. The gathered crowd parted, and the hush that fell over them was almost louder than the jeers and whispers she’d been expecting. She felt the weight of a hundred piercing stares from Horde leaders, advisors, and warriors—faces full of judgment, suspicion, and, in some cases, disappointment.
Sylvanas stood at the head of the assembly, her expression unreadable, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she watched Perfectia approach. Lor’themar, Geya’rah, and the others flanked her, their faces as guarded as Sylvanas’s.
Baine gave her a reassuring nod and stepped forward, addressing the gathered leaders. “Honored allies and leaders of the Horde, today we stand to judge the actions of Perfectia, and in doing so, to consider whether she remains one of us or whether her actions have broken the very fabric of our loyalty.”
The crowd murmured in response, a wave of mixed reactions spreading through them.
Sylvanas’s gaze settled heavily on Perfectia. “Perfectia, you stand accused of divided loyalty—of bearing allegiance to our enemies even while swearing fealty to the Horde. Do you deny this?”
Perfectia held her head high, looking directly into Sylvanas’s eyes. “No, Warchief,” she began, her voice steady. “I don’t deny that my loyalties have been tested. There are times I’ve questioned where my loyalty should truly lie.”
Sylvanas’s eyes flashed, her tone biting. “And what answer did you come to?”
Perfectia hesitated, feeling Baine’s silent plea to tread carefully. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I swore my loyalty to the Horde,” she said, her voice steady. “But yes, I’ll admit… there were times I acted on personal motives. Maybe even stupid motives. But I swear—I did it with the intent to protect us, not weaken us.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, skeptical and charged. Sylvanas stepped forward, her voice sharp as a blade. “Personal motives?” She narrowed her eyes. “Be specific.”
Perfectia let out a dry chuckle, unable to resist. “I don’t know… maybe something to do with the whole, ‘genocide as a brand strategy’ thing you’ve got going. Like revenge was some limited-time product you wanted to launch?”
Baine groaned, his palm pressed firmly against his face. “Why, Perfectia?” he muttered, exasperated.
Her quip, though, managed to coax a few strained laughs from the crowd, each one uneasy under Sylvanas’s steely gaze. Sylvanas’s forced smile barely masked the fury in her eyes. She stepped closer to Perfectia, her voice as cold as ice. “I couldn’t have done it without you, child. And Malfurion… the way you kicked him in the groin, hearing him yelp like a wounded cub?” She paused, letting the moment hang, her words biting. “Now, that was funny.”
A ripple of awkward laughter floated through the crowd, but the tension thickened, unyielding.
Sylvanas’s gaze hardened as she addressed the crowd, her voice steady and cold. “Whatever Delaryn Summermoon might have believed, occupying Teldrassil was never a simple conquest. Reinforcements could have poured in through Alliance portals, drawing out a siege with no guarantee of our victory. And for what? The so-called riches of Teldrassil?” She scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “All that would have come at the cost of countless lives, and perhaps even the Horde’s own.”
Sylvanas’s gaze cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. “Enough about me. This isn’t my trial, Perfectia. You claim loyalty to the Horde, yet if you’re entangled with the King of Stormwind, it casts a shadow over every word you say. So, tell the truth. Here and now—for the record. Are you in love with Anduin Wrynn?”
Perfectia faltered, emotions playing across her face before she answered, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. “I… I wish I could say no.” She looked directly at Sylvanas, her voice breaking. “But yes. I am.” She took a steadying breath, her gaze sweeping the room, landing again on the Banshee Queen. “I thought… maybe if I stayed close, if I fought beside you, you’d find your way back from the edge. But I was wrong.”
She lifted her chin, her resolve hardening as she met Sylvanas’s eyes, defiance sparking behind the vulnerability. “But don’t doubt my loyalty. I’ve fought, bled, killed, and sacrificed for the Horde, more than most here will ever understand. If any of you aren’t prepared to do the same right here and now—or even tomorrow—then shut the hell up and let me do it.”
The tense silence of the trial was shattered as Sylvanas, eyes gleaming with cold resolve, stepped forward and without a hint of warning, drove her boot directly into Perfectia’s face. The force sent Perfectia sprawling, a sharp crack resounding as one of her molars flew from her mouth, skittering across the floor. Perfectia lifted her head, dazed, blood dripping from her split lip as she looked up at Sylvanas, utterly bewildered.
“W-What was that for?” she managed, her voice thick with disbelief.
Sylvanas loomed over her, her face a mask of disdain. “So, you expect me to take your loyalty at face value?” She spat, each word laced with contempt. “That’s nice—but that’s not how this works. Your betrayal has already removed you from the Horde.” Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper as she leaned in closer. “But, there’s a way back. We can reinduct you… the old-fashioned way.”
Perfectia’s expression turned wary, blood still trickling from her mouth. “And that is?”
“The same way you’d join any gang…” Sylvanas straightened, cracking her knuckles. “Initiation.”
Without further warning, Sylvanas launched herself at Perfectia. Her fists flew, each strike calculated and ruthless, a brutal testament to her wrath. Perfectia staggered, stumbling with each blow, her vision blurring as pain blossomed in waves across her body. She could feel her ribs bruising, her face swelling, but through the haze, she gritted her teeth, refusing to fall.
The assembled leaders watched in tense silence, none daring to interfere. This was Sylvanas’s show—a merciless test, an ultimatum in blood. And as the beating continued, Perfectia knew one thing for sure: this was no mere punishment. This was a proving ground, a brutal reckoning of loyalty.
Sylvanas finally stepped back, breathing heavily, her fists still clenched. Perfectia, barely holding herself upright, looked up through swollen eyes, defiant even as she swayed.
Sylvanas paced back and forth before Perfectia, her gaze dark and relentless. Then, with a chilling smirk, she crouched to Perfectia’s level, her voice as cold as death itself.
“You look pathetic,” Sylvanas sneered. “Tell me, do you think loyalty is a warm word whispered in the dark? Do you think saying it makes it true? Real loyalty doesn’t hesitate. Real loyalty doesn’t falter when faced with pain, blood, or death.”
Perfectia’s lip curled as she struggled to hold herself upright, her breath ragged. Sylvanas sneered down at her, leaning close. “So, are you loyal?” she demanded. “Or are you going to look at me with those eyes that beg for pity?”
Before Perfectia could respond, Sylvanas drove her fist into her ribs, nearly taking her off her feet. “You think you can call yourself Horde without sacrifice?” She punctuated her words with another vicious blow, her voice low and unforgiving, each word sharp as a blade. “You think you can claim loyalty without facing the agony of it?”
The blows kept coming, and with every brutal strike, Perfectia could feel the weight of Sylvanas’s fury—and her twisted respect. It was as if Sylvanas were shaping her, beating out every doubt, every question, as if proving her loyalty through blood was the only way.
Sylvanas finally stopped, her hand still clenched as she breathed heavily, looking down at Perfectia with something darkly triumphant in her gaze. “You want to be Horde? Then prove it,” she snarled, her voice echoing with the bitterness of years of hard-won loyalty.
“You don’t get to just say you’re loyal,” Sylvanas hissed with a sinister smile. “You have to earn it. Or you’re just another weakling who won’t survive.”
Sylvanas looked around at the gathered leaders, her eyes fierce and unyielding. “Pretty words mean nothing in the Horde,” she began, her voice a low growl that resonated through the assembly. “The only things that bind us are action, honesty, and unbreakable loyalty. If your allegiance can be bought with soft promises or swayed by empty comforts, you’re nothing but a weak link waiting to snap.”
She gestured sharply toward Perfectia, lying battered but unbroken on the ground. “Remember this,” she declared, her tone icy. “What you just witnessed was me showing mercy to a traitor. That’s what mercy looks like in the Horde.” Her gaze swept over the crowd, daring anyone to question her.
One by one, those gathered nodded, acknowledging her authority, reaffirming their silent vow to follow a leader whose loyalty ran deeper than words.
Finally, Sylvanas tossed a worn towel at Perfectia’s feet. “Clean yourself up,” she said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “Welcome back to the Horde.”
As Perfectia reached for the towel, wincing as she moved, she met Sylvanas’s gaze. She understood: this wasn’t forgiveness. It was survival, earned and paid for in blood. And she would wear it with pride.