The Voice of the World, Raised in Song

[Lengua-cenarion-circle]

The Radiant Song, it was known. Some minds couldn’t hear it at all. For those that could, it sounded different. Like chimes in the wind, some said. Like the call of a siren, according to others.

To Lengua, it sounded like screaming. Sometimes the quick cry of pain when one bangs their knee into a tabletop. Sometimes the shriek of one with a blade through their gut, dying on the field. Sometimes the prolonged agony of one whose every nerve was afire, writhing in their bed. Regardless of how it sounded on any given day, it was everywhere - from the Storm Peaks to the Dread Wastes, from the Azuremyst Isles to Booty Bay. Here in Zuldazar, it was like a ringing in her ear… a ringing that could become a prolonged, high-pitched shriek at any given moment.

Sitting alone along the dockside, she had a quill attachment over the index finger of her left hand, and her glasses were perched on her nose as she wrote in draconic rune into the journal in her lap. Since the blooming of Amirdrassil and the death of Fyrakk, I have been restless, she wrote. Emberthal has taken command of what remains of the Sundered Flame, now restored as the Ebon Scales. My own weyrn, the Dark Talons, have settled within the Horde. Yet I myself have not truly settled anywhere. Even with the help of Zulimbasha and his allies, even with the work I’ve done with the Azerothian Archives… I find myself unable to relax. My kind was made for war… and part of me thinks this is why I am so much on edge. Is war all I truly have to look forward to?

Thinking of Zulimbasha led her to look to her environment, and to her attire; she was once again wearing the chainmail robes of Valkia’jin, the Collector’s fallen friend, and carrying the staff of Vim’bal, his dead father. Both had been given to her just before they departed for the Dragon Isles with the expedition. She had sworn to carry these items with honor, and so she had, ensuring they were carefully preserved in Valdrakken’s vaults whenever she was geared “appropriately”. Being here in Zandalar, she thought it especially appropriate to dress in a recognizable style.

Zulimbasha was here too, back at his Loa’s temple, the Necropolis, in the swamps to the north. She wondered if she should pay him a call, ask for his advice…

More and more people hear the Song with each passing day, she wrote. I’m convinced that a new conflict is coming. The question is when and where. There are whispers among our void elf friends of a “Harbinger”. What we saw in Aberrus proves that even with the Old Gods dead and gone, their dark power remains everpresent… and lusting for the essence of our world. She sighed. Then there are those who think that a good thing…

Out the corner of her eye, Lengua spotted a Zandalari approaching. He wore a long red nautical coat, a pair of axes - one of which looked more a combination axe and pistol - at each hip, and a glass embedded into his dead eye socket. His gold tusks gleamed in the sunlight. Her jaw clenched, but she managed to keep her tone cordial as he approached, not looking up from her writing. “Captain Vizka. What can I do for you?”

Vizka Goldtusk grinned slightly. He did not miss the tone. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“Given the company you keep, no, I don’t.”

“And what really bothers you about dat lot, hmm? Is it because of what happened back in de Isles… or deep down, you worry they might have a point?”

Lengua now looked up over her glasses at him. “Maybe they are onto something with their beliefs, but I find their actions reprehensible. This ‘Path’ you’ve pledged to has a number of murderers, traitors, war criminals, and outright demons in their ranks. Given what I’ve heard about you, you certainly fit into at least one of those categories.”

His head tilted slightly. “You seem ta have a harsh view of things, evoker.”

“Events have made it so,” Lengua replied coldly. “Now be on your way, please, Captain. I’m busy.”

Vizka stared at her for a long moment… and then nodded. “As you wish. But a word of advice, if ya be willing ta listen… sometimes ya can’t avoid da dance.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

The captain tapped the side of his head. “I don’t just be a sailor, ya know. Da spirits speak ta me, land, sky, and sea… and it seems da tune has been chosen for us. All we can do now is dance to it.”

He hears it, too, she realized. She looked back down at her journal, the finger with the quill attached tapping the air… as if to a tune in her own head. “Perhaps,” she said finally. She sighed, and looked up again.

Vizka was gone.

[Galedeep-cenarion-circle]

Brother Septimus Galedeep heard the Song like screaming, too. But that was music to his ears - because he was a few fish short of a catch, as some of his fellow Kul Tirans would put it.

The Tidesage lived quietly on the outskirts of his home village of Brennadam in Stormsong Valley, much as he had for the past fifty years. Ever since his service in the Second War, witnessing the dark magics wielded by the Horde back in those days, he had felt the darkness within. Lord Stormsong’s fateful allegiance to Azshara and her Old God masters (as much as the Empress of Nazjatar would ever admit to having a master) had shown him the dangers of the path he was on, and yet, he continued to walk it. He wielded the power of the Void, and yet had so far managed to avoid being consumed by it. Tentacles weren’t really his thing anyway, especially growing out of the face (fearsome headgear notwithstanding).

Yet that voice grew louder… and so did that of the world, as if in… protest?

The Tidesage opened his eyes and rose stiffly from the floor of his cottage, flexing his fingers and working out the knots in his neck. He remembered when the Corruptor had come to him over a year ago, offering a place in a group that believed conflict to be the natural state of being. Now he could sense another war coming, and knew his patrons - which now no longer included the Corruptor, but still included warlocks like him - would be looking forward to the possibilities. The eredar would not be able to hear the Song, as they were not of Azeroth. Or perhaps they could, since now - more or less - they were. He didn’t know.

He didn’t much care, either.

“Septimus.”

He looked up at that voice. One he did not expect to hear again, unless cursing him. He smiled warmly. “Eugenie.”

“You hear it, I take it.”

“I do. Do you?”

“No. But enough people I trust say they do.” Lady Eugenie Pellerin folded her arms across her chest, eyes staring. She was at least a decade older than he, and also quite formidable for her age. “You’re going to cause trouble, aren’t you?”

Galedeep shook his head. “Not I alone, no. But I am working with those who will.”

“If you harm my daughter or her crew, I don’t care what power you wield… I will feed your corpse to the crabs, Septimus.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he replied, and he meant it. The Pellerins had been close friends for decades, ever since he had served Eugenie’s late father-in-law, Auguste, as Tidesage on his ship. He had no desire to be their enemy - but he also knew he and Eugenie’s only daughter were on opposite sides in many ways. “But whether she finds herself… in the path of the Path…” He gave a slight snort at the poor joke. “That will be up to her. She is a captain of Proudmoore’s fleet. She knows what lies ahead. As do I. Shadows and blood.”

Eugenie stared at him, not quite believing what she was hearing. “After everything you saw in the Second War, in the Broken Isles… here in the valley, at the Shrine! After all that… why?”

“I have embraced the darkness within as much as without, Eugenie… and I am too old to turn away from it now.” Then he grinned, not quite sanely. “Besides, I haven’t had a good fight in years.”

[Kalimos-cenarion-circle]

The Penitents, they were called. With the fall of the Burning Legion, the eredar had been left to seek their own path. Some held out hope that Sargeras would return, break free from the grip of his Titan brothers in the Beyond, and finish what he had begun. Others believed that they were the real exiles, not their draenei kin who called themselves such, and now sought to rejoin their people. Velen had opened his arms to them all - man’ari, Krokul - in the great Tishamaat. Now eredar, red of flesh and green of eye, wielding their dark magic, walked openly (but not without suspicion) with their Light-bearing brethren again.

Kalimos was red of flesh and green of eye, wielded dark magic, and walked (mostly) openly among the Light-bearers. But he was no Penitent. The ancient warlock recognized that Sargeras had failed, that the Burning Crusade was over. But that did not mean he sought forgiveness… he called himself the Unforgiven, and he was proud of it. To deny what he had done and beg for absolution would be an insult, not only to his own pride, but to the cold truth: Sargeras had not been wrong.

For Kalimos, even though he was not born of this world, could hear the Song - and he knew, from the tales told by the ethereals, what it meant. They had heard the same on K’aresh long ago. Then had come Dimensius…

These pitiful Azerothians, he thought. They think because the Old Gods are dead, they are safe. The Void is everywhere in the Beyond… and they will be reminded of that fact. He smiled to himself. Sargeras’ crusade is over. But I am still a crusader in my own way. Peace is folly… it breeds false security, and when war begins again, they are never truly prepared.

“My lord.” He turned to see the familiar features of his strong right hand, Savona. She bore a smile just as satisfied as his own. She had been born among the Light-bearers, but she had embraced the truth in her own way. She wore Mawsworn armor plate and carried a matching hammer, gifts from her new comrade Mariel Surrette, the Forsaken dark ranger. “It’s very strange being back here again. And this time… without the possibility of being attacked for it.” They were standing in a clearing outside the Exodar on Azuremyst Isle.

“Not by ‘our people’, anyway,” Kalimos agreed. Both he and Savona were wanted by the night elf Wardens… but they had their own concerns, settling in their new capital of Bel’ameth off the Dragon Isles. The two eredar, and their comrades of the Eightfold Path, had been banished from the isles by the blue dragon Esheregos. Both Kalimos and the leader of the Path, Lord Aldos Relsyn, had agreed to obey that prohibition… at least for now. In time, they, and all who embraced the truth, would walk freely wherever they wished, for chaos could not be contained by laws or borders.

“The hunters still hunt, though,” Savona pointed out. “And they have their share of allies.”

Kalimos nodded thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it’s time to begin removing a few of those allies… and taking them off our trail. I understand Brother Galedeep has found a new recruit who may be of some use in that regard?”

“Indeed; she was a scout for the Alliance expedition that pursued Ner’zhul to Draenor some years back. She became one of the void elves. Not particularly fond of the Horde - or the Alliance, for that matter, since they keep sparing the Horde every time they defeat them.”

The warlock smiled. “Perhaps the Alliance recognizes our mindview after all - needing a good foe to maintain their false unity. Turalyon is a warmonger, and he has supreme power with the boy king missing. And most of the dissenting voices have begun hiding away as well… at any rate. Reach out to this void elf, and to the good Brother as well. Perhaps the Professor can also be of some assistance.” He was quiet for a moment. “You found someone as well, did you not?”

“I did. A former loyalist of Hellscream, raised to fight in the Shadowlands - only she never quite got there. She ended up in Pandaria, of all places. Some kind of ‘time war’ put on by the infinites.”

“Interesting… as I recall, there are a few of those aforementioned allies living out in the Kun-Lai plains, are there not?”

Savona smiled. “Kill them all?”

Kalimos nodded once. “Kill them all.”

[Blunderwitz-sisters-of-elune]

The old knight smiled warmly as he knelt, taking both of his visitors by the hands. “It’s good to see you, Englebert. I see you and Jenit have finally elected to make it official?”

“We have indeed, Sir Eran.” Englebert Blunderwitz blushed. “Credit where it’s due, I think she saw how it was going long before I did.”

Sir Eran Heskin started laughing. “It was the same for Katerina and I. ‘We doing this, or what?’ she said.” He rose, wincing at the bending of his knees, and beckoned them into the house, a small but nonetheless spacious abode on the outskirts of Binan Village in the Kun-Lai plains of Pandaria. He had lived here since his retirement during the Dragon Isles conflict. Sitting next to the fireplace were his hosts - Lorewalker Zhangren Puretide and his wife Chaiya, the latter with their young son Zhenyen on her lap. Along with them were Chaiya’s parents, Chaoyen Greenacre and Lazhna Trueflight, and Eran’s grandson Donal, wearing the uniform of a Kul Tiran sailor, a jeweled sword hanging from his belt.

Jenit took in the sight with a tilt of her head. “Are we interrupting a familial gathering here?”

“Not at all,” the Lorewalker replied with a smile, as he handed the two gnomes each a mug of ale. “Chaoyen and Lazhna just happened to be visiting us from the Wandering Isle, and Donal just happens to be visiting us on leave while his ship is being refitted back in Kul Tiras.” His eyebrows rose. “Though from the look on your face, Captain Blunderwitz, I’m assuming it is not mere coincidence that brings you here.”

“No, it’s not,” Englebert admitted. “We’re actually here on business. Well, I am, anyway; Jenit decided to accompany me. Dame Catherine sent me.”

“How is she faring?”

“Well enough, all things considered. It was a tough campaign in the Dream, but it’s panned out pretty well. The night elves have a new home, and the Greymanes led an effort to retake Gilneas - from the Scarlet Crusade, of all people. The Forsaken offered their expertise in Scarlet slaying before they withdrew their troops.”

Zhangren was surprised. “I’d heard the new leadership in Lordaeron had agreed to such a thing; they actually upheld it?”

“They did,” Donal - who had been there on the Pearl Queen - confirmed. “Baron Devaneaux was there with his Deathguard, and some of you’ve met him… you know how he is.” There were nods all around. “He hates the Scarlets with a passion.”

“Fitting, since he used to be one,” Eran pointed out, snorting.

“Now there’s word from our allies in Dalaran and in the Telogrus Rift,” Englebert continued. “More and more people have been hearing something called the ‘Radiant Song’. Shamans and the like seem most suseptible to it. They say it’s like Azeroth trying to say something, but no one is sure what.”

“We haven’t heard it,” Jenit added. “But a growing number of our acquaintances and comrades have. Their reactions differ immensely. Some say it’s like a welcoming, pleasant feeling. Others say it sounds like screaming. It started at approximately the same moment that Amirdrassil blossomed off the Ohn’ahran Plains, so some people thought it was linked to that.”

Eran was nodding. “I have felt something in recent days. Very faint, but…” His gaze suddenly shot up. “Wait. Do you hear that?”

“Footsteps,” Jenit - who had upgraded sensor inputs for her ears - confirmed. “Footsteps trying not to be heard.” Her nose twitched… and then her eyes widened. “Bertie!” she gasped.

Englebert smelled it too. “Everyone out, now!”

Then everything suddenly went white.

[Snowsteel-cenarion-circle]

With the work in the Dragon Isles done, Zhao-Ming Snowsteel had returned to the relative quiet of the Shado-Pan Monastery. It had been a good fight, he had to admit - and watching life return was a welcome bonus. Seeing Amirdrassil in the Dream had done his heart good… but seeing it back in the “real world”, it reminded him of when the Vale had begun its own healing after the defeat of the Sha. A new beginning.

Life finds a way. Not just idle words, so far as he was concerned.

The sky lit up in the plains to the south. Zhao-Ming focused his good eye - still sharp despite decades of service - towards the source… and felt his chest tighten. He knew Kun-Lai like the back of his paw, and knew exactly where that had come from… the old house outside Binan where his old friend and comrade Zhenren Puretide had lived. It was also where his younger son, Lorewalker Zhangren, resided with his wife Chaiya and their son Zhenyen. The Stormwind knight he’d met during the war in Zandalar was there too… and he knew they had enemies. Esheregos had warned him about them.

He did not hesitate. His storm serpent was at his side at once, and he flew like a hurricane wind… but instinct told him to land out of sight of it, because he suspected the monsters behind the attack would be there.

He was not disappointed. Moving silently behind rocks outside the property, Zhao-Ming spotted four figures. A burly-looking man in robes, wearing a fearsome, tentacle-faced helmet. A void elf in revealing purple and gold regalia, carrying matching blades. A brown-skinned orc who seemed to evoke the memory of Garrosh, right down to the bloodstained armor she wore and the equally bloody axe she carried, accompanied by a shambling bunch of ghouls. And a smaller figure, with rusted metal pincer hands, wearing Titan-designed robes and carrying a similar staff.

The orc kicked at the ash and debris, and occasionally at the bodies she found. The first such was that of Zhangren… and to Zhao-Ming’s horror, he could see he was still alive. “Blubbery fool who likes to think,” she sneered. “What do you think of this?” She kicked the Lorewalker in the ribs with her armored boot, then raised her axe to cut off his head.

A huge blade came out of nowhere to block it. Zhao-Ming recognized the other immediately, even beyond his dark armor and Shado-Pan headgear… for the dark armored warrior was his godson, Zhangren’s older brother. “I think you’ve done enough today, filth,” Zhaoren Deathtide snarled.

“Quite right.” Zhao-Ming leapt from his hiding place, his own weapons in hand - lightning steel spear of his own making, and wavy-bladed sword crafted by his mother long ago. His gaze focused on the smaller figure. “Professor Sputterspark.”

“Master Snowsteel,” Rakeri Sputterspark replied coolly.

“You and your associates have been warned about your conduct, Professor. I am inclined to cut you all down where you stand, but I will be generous, allow you to take the same route as the dragons offered… and banish you from Pandaria. Take your minions and leave now, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Step off the Path?” demanded the orc. “Never!”

Rakeri glanced at her for a moment, then looked to the large man. “Brother Galedeep, your thoughts?”

“It’s just the two of them,” the Tidesage replied. “Let their blood water the earth.” The void elf simply smiled in response.

Rakeri nodded, and turned back to the Shado-Master. “I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request, Master Snowsteel,” he said. At the warrior’s off-put look, he added, “Means ‘no’.”

“Very well, Professor. You will face Shado-Pan justice today.”

Rakeri grinned, his clamp-hands channeling with felfire. “Don’t count on it.”

A very loud gunshot - actually four going off at the same time - interrupted Rakeri’s spell… and also interrupted Rakeri’s right arm at the point where the mechanical met the organic. The warlock screamed in pain as he staggered and collapsed to the ground. The two Shado-Pan turned to see Jenit crawling out from the rubble, hauling out her wounded husband with one arm… the other hand carrying his gun, crafted for him by her father. “I will be putting in a recommendation to Prince Erazmin, Professor,” she said with a cold anger in her voice, “to shut down Sputterspark Industries for good.” She gently laid Englebert down, and took aim. “Just as soon as I shut you down for good, you psychopath!”

“KILL THEM ALL!” Rakeri shrieked.

[Nevasa-cenarion-circle]

Three pterrodaxes cut through the winds across the Jade Forest, heading up into the mountains. One was solid white and rather large, and carried a solidly-built Zandalari in bone-carved armor, the massive skull of a direhorn on one spaulder. The second was almost ethereal, and carried a slightly smaller figure, dressed in ritual Darkspear regalia. The third carried no rider, and was adorned with golden sigils.

As they crossed into the Kun-Lai plains, the Darkspear pointed. “There!” she shouted in Zandali. “The Puretide house!”

Nevasa, the Zandalari in the bone armor, nodded grimly. The Darkspear had seen the battle in a vision, as had her teacher, Zulimbasha. The Collector had dispatched them here at once. The three descended. Nevasa and Silna dismounted from their steeds, while the riderless pterrodax shifted forms, becoming a Zandalari herself. She wore richly-tailored attire, a contrast to her heat-hardened flesh and sun-bleached blonde hair. As they approached the ruins of the house, they suddenly found themselves looking down the quad barrels of a product of Ernulph Ratchetrouter’s weapon-crafting genius, held by his angry daughter.

Nevasa held out her free hand. “Hold, mam! Zulimbasha sent us.”

Jenit lowered the rifle, looking to her wounded husband. “They attacked and killed the injured… the monsters.” Her voice quivered. “They’re gone now, but…”

The scene was of slaughter. Zhaoren Deathtide lay on the ground, his weapon abandoned, his armor broken, his scarred paw touching that of his brother Zhangren. Both were dead. Eran Heskin lay bloodied on the ground next to them, his clawed hands coated in gore; he had given as good as he had taken. His grandson, Donal, lay next to him, his right leg bent at a hideously unnatural angle. Lazhna Trueflight was crushed under a roof beam, her Thalassian bow - a gift from House Ketiron - broken in two.

Silna knelt next to Donal, hearing his ragged breathing. “Da young sailor lives,” she said. She rested a hand on Eran’s chest. “De elder…” She shook her head.

Nevasa sheathed her sword and knelt next to Jenit. “Did anyone escape?” she asked gently.

Jenit nodded. “The Lorewalker’s wife, Chaiya, and their son. Her father too, I think. She’s a mage; the Lorewalker had her open a portal to take them away.”

“Thank de spirits for dat, at least. And de scum who attacked?”

“Sputterspark is wounded, as is the orc working for him. We were holding them off, before another showed. A red-skinned draenei with dark eyes. Her armor seemed to match that. She flattened Master Snowsteel with a single hit of her hammer… then invoked some dark power to take the others away.”

Nevasa’s teeth clenched. Zulimbasha had told her of these “eredar”, essentially demons; the draenei had escaped from them long ago. With their “Legion” defeated, many of the red ones had been invited to return by the draenei Prophet, becoming “Penitent”. She also knew that the Path had at least two who certainly were not “Penitent”…

“We got another live one here, Nevasa,” shouted the blonde Zandalari. “One of de Shado-Pan.”

Nevasa stood and walked over to the fallen pandaren, his hat broken, but the red scarf around his face and the sigil on his belt unmistakable. Her comrade had helped him into a sitting position. “Master Snowsteel?”

Zhao-Ming shook his head as if to clear it, his good eye focusing on the figure in front of him. When he saw it was a Zandalari, he made to reach for a weapon, but his weapons were on the ground several feet away from him.

Nevasa raised both hands. “Peace, Shado-Master. We be friends here. Zulimbasha sent us.”

His suspicious glare did not waver, but he also knew that his allies trusted the Collector. He winced as he reached up to the knot on the back of his head.

“Easy now,” Silna said from behind him, as she gently unwrapped the red scarf from around his neck. “Ya took a nasty smack to da skull, mon. Don’t go messin’ with it.”

Nevasa looked to her companion. “Some water for him, Soji.”

Soji nodded and unhooked a waterskin from her belt. Zhao-Ming hesitated, prejudice warring with necessity, before letting her help him. “The others?” he asked quietly.

“A lot of 'em are dead,” Nevasa replied grimly. “Da live ones - da young Heskin and Cap’n Blunderwitz - are roughed up pretty bad. Silna and I know some healin’ skills, but dey don’t exactly be our expertise. We can get 'em well enough ta be cared for by proper healers. Da cap’n’s missus tells us da Lorewalker’s wife escaped with her boy, and her fa’da as well.”

Zhao-Ming nodded, and immediately regretted it. After he had finished vomiting, he sat still as Silna wrapped the scarf around his head, and Soji helped him drink carefully, to clear the bile taste from his throat. “He told her to get them out,” he said finally.

“Do ya know where?”

“No. But I believe Chaiya’s teacher is an archmage in Dalaran. She may have gone to him, if anywhere.”

Nevasa looked back on the scene, anger in her heart. “Dis be a hell of a time,” she said. “What with dis ‘Song’ everyone be hearin’.”

“You hear it, too?” Zhao-Ming looked surprised. “I thought it was just… the feeling of being home again. But even with this… I can still hear it.”

“We can,” Nevasa replied with a slight nod, indicating her companions as well. “And so does Zulimbasha. Dat may be partly why he and Silna had da vision of dis attack, and sent us to aid ya.” She sighed. “I know ya don’t trust us, Shado-Pan. But we don’t all be like Zul and his minions. We be here ta help, if ya be havin’ us.”

Zhao-Ming had to admit he could not argue with that. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Nevasa looked back again, and clenched her fists tightly. Silna, finished with her work, stood and walked up next to her, gently putting a hand on her arm. Though blind since birth, her senses were surprisingly keen. “Forgive me, my friend,” she said quietly in Zandali. “I wish I had seen this sooner.”

Nevasa rested her hand over the Darkspear priestess’. “You are not to blame, Silna,” she replied in the same tongue. “Visions are not perfect. You know this, and so does Zulimbasha. I regret that we could not have stopped this, but… perhaps we were not meant to.” The prelate closed her eyes, sighing. “We must trust Bwonsamdi to look after our friends now.” Silna bowed her head at that.

[Zulimbasha-sisters-of-elune]

“BASTARDS!”

Zulimbasha punched his fist into the crumbled stonework of the courtyard in the Necropolis, causing several stones to collapse to the ground - and Soji winced as she heard the snapping of bones. She wasn’t sure if it was the bones sewn into his robe, or the fracturing of the fingers of that hand. Sure enough, she saw blood dripping from his sleeve. He would regenerate, or heal the wound himself, she knew, but… she had never seen him so angry. It scared her.

Lengua, standing next to him, hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder. The Collector’s head snapped and he glared at her, causing her to step back. Then he sighed. “Bastards,” he snarled again, closing his eyes in pain - and not the physical pain of a man who just broke his hand. He turned to Soji. “Where are de survivors now?”

“Chaiya Puretide fled ta Dalaran wit’ her son and her fa’da. Nevasa and I confirmed with Esheregos; dey be safe dere. Her teacher be a gnome archmage, he be watchin’ dem.”

Zulimbasha bowed his head, grateful that at least the little one would be allowed to live… though he feared what kind of life he would have now, with this tragedy so early in his life. “De Lorewalker?”

“Dead. So be his bruddah, da death knight - for real, dis time.” Soji shook her head. “Good mon, for a dead mon.”

“Aye, he was dat,” the Collector agreed.

“Eran Heskin and Lazhna Trueflight are also dead,” Lengua added grimly; Soji had come to her first, in Zuldazar’s harbor, and they had both come to the Necropolis. “Donal Heskin is in rough shape. Silna thinks he might lose the leg, even with the healers in Pandaria ministering to him.”

“And Captain Blunderwitz?”

“Lost an arm, but he will live. His wife has taken him to Mechagon. She’s bringing the word to Dame Catherine in Stormwind as well. I expect she will have… choice words.”

“Our friends in de Alliance will not be happy about dis,” Zulimbasha agreed. “Especially Captain Pellerin. Donal be an important part of her crew.”

“This ‘Path’ is recruiting, too… I’ve mentioned Captain Vizka, I’ve seen him in Zuldazar from time to time.”

“Vizka be a mercenary, not a true believer,” Soji commented. “Trouble is, blood money still be money ta nuttas like dat. Dat’s why he worked for Sylvanas.”

“That’s what I’ve heard… and from what Nevasa, Silna and Soji were told, there’s now a blood-crazed Mag’har and a void elf assassin working for them. The latter is probably under the guidance of Brother Galedeep - it seems the ‘Madman of Brennadam’ may be insane, but he is also very smart.”

“And I t’ink de eredar pullin’ de strings knows dis, too,” Soji agreed. “And has turned 'im loose.”

Zulimbasha looked curiously at her. “You t’ink Kalimos be in control here?”

“I do. De Nightborne warlock may be de ‘official’ leader, but I t’ink de eredar be da real powah. Especially from da description da cap’n’s missus gave us of da one who clonked Master Snowsteel upside da head. It be his enforcer, Savona - da one he broke out of da Wardens’ vault.”

“I was hopin’ dat we could focus on dis ‘Radiant Song’ business. Lotta people on Azeroth be hearin’ it. Includin’ us.” The Collector sighed. “Soji, head back ta Vol’dun and see if ya can find Vilaya. I got a job for her.” He turned to Lengua. “Head back ta Valdrakken, and see if ya can’t get word ta Warden Ravensong in Bel’ameth. We need blades in de dark ta watch our backs while we deal with da bigger problem.”

“Poquelin is still in Valdrakken too, getting his strength back after that whole mess.” The dracthyr archivist looked at him curiously. “You think this ‘Song’ could be a problem?”

“Anyt’ing de entire world - or damn near entire, anyway - can hear will turn out ta be a problem, Lengua. Bet on it.”

[Hildreth-sisters-of-elune]

Dame Catherine Hildreth stood amidst the ruins of the Heskin farmstead in Westfall, which had been abandoned following the tragedy here just before the war for the Shadowlands. The pyre had already been set, and two figures - the draenei death knight Khorag and the Shado-Pan warrior Zhao-Ming Snowsteel, still looking somewhat frazzled, but otherwise alright - carried the body and laid it on top of it. They arranged him in a dignified gesture, then bowed and silently withdrew.

Zulimbasha stood at the head of the pyre, invited by Catherine to help ease the passage of his spirit. Standing next to him, having come up from a stop in Booty Bay, was Silna; next to her was Captain Elizabeth Pellerin of the Pearl Queen. “It don’t seem right ta not have his grandson here,” the blind Darkspear commented.

“No,” Elizabeth agreed, “but he insisted this be done regardless. His fear of the body being violated… it was why they did the same for his grandmother after she died, just before we left for the Dragon Isles.” Donal was still recovering after the attack, and the healers in the Vale were hoping they could allow him to keep his leg, shattered by the explosion. She had grown fond of the lad, as had they all.

“Dat be why we’re here as well,” Zulimbasha assured her, indicating himself and his student. “I t’ink he had a fondness for Bastion when he was on dat side of de veil. And wit’ a former kyrian as de Arbiter, perhaps he’ll choose ta go dere. His wife be waitin’ for him dere, I’m sure of it.”

Catherine nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right, Zulimbasha.” She had worked with Eran during that conflict, and had also pledged to the kyrian. Nowadays, though, she had returned to the regalia of Stormwind, right down to the jeweled sword at her hip, and carried the shield once borne by Saavedro of Stratholme, her fallen mentor… fallen in so many ways.

Zulimbasha placed a hand onto Eran’s forehead and began to stamp his staff into the earth with the other as he spoke in Zandali, invoking protection for the spirit of the fallen as it crossed to the Other Side. Silna, moving expertly despite her lack of sight, anointed the body with sacred oils. Once this was done, the Collector stepped back, and turned to Catherine.

The paladin stepped forward, laid a hand gently on Eran’s chest, and bowed her head. “By the Light and the honor of Stormwind,” she intoned, “I pledge that justice will be done to those responsible for this crime. These death-cultists murder and maim our friends and loved ones, and will seek to exploit the coming conflict for their own ends… and we must stand against them.” She looked up at the others. “But we must also remember our duty to Azeroth. The world cries out to us. We cannot forget that we are part of a greater whole, and we must not lose sight of that whole. She calls… and we must answer.” She turned and reached down to a small fire behind her, handing each of them a lit torch. “For Azeroth.”

Zulimbasha nodded, as he accepted the torch from her hand. “For Azeroth.”

“For Azeroth,” echoed the others.

Catherine turned back to the pyre. “Goodbye, my friend,” she whispered, a tear running from her good eye, as she cast the torch onto it. The others did likewise, consigning the shell of the warrior once called in this world Eran Heskin to the flames. But in her mind’s eye, Catherine could see where he had gone…

She saw him standing in the presence of Pelagos the Arbiter, his young and noble face gazing serenely down at him. “Welcome, brave soul,” he said. “You need not say where it is you wish to spend your eternity… you choose to reside with the one you spent your mortal days with.” The Arbiter turned ever so slightly, one hand gesturing to a figure next to him. “She has waited for you.”

Though her flesh was the sky blue of the kyrian, and she looked far younger than she remembered, Catherine recognized her instantly. So too did the spirit standing before the Arbiter. The kyrian stepped uncertainly forward, and said only one word. A name.

“Eran…”

[Blunderwitz-sisters-of-elune]

Jenit looked nervous as she saw her father standing outside the medical bay. “How is he?”

“It will take some adjustments, but he is a gnome - he will manage, and quite well at that.” Ernulph smiled. “Come. We will see to him.”

Inside, the technicians stepped back as they completed the adjustment to Englebert’s new arm. He looked up at his visitors, a grim expression on his face. “Not how I’d wanted to be ‘upgraded’, but…” He met Jenit’s gaze. “They know?”

“I informed Dame Catherine, yes. Her reaction was… as expected. Sir Eran has been laid to rest, as have the Puretides… the Lorewalker’s wife and son, along with her father, fled to Dalaran. They are being seen to.”

“Indeed they are.” They all turned to see another gnome in the violet vestments of a Kirin Tor archmage, carrying a matching staff, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.

“Caedus?” Englebert looked worried. “Is anything wrong? Are they --”

“No, Chaiya and her family are fine,” Caedus Netherfist assured him. “I am here to see someone I regret I have not kept in touch with, the son of an old and dear friend who rests in the halls of the Titans… and to find out what has become of our other mutual acquaintance.”

Jenit recalled what Englebert had told her. Caedus had attended Gearshaft University in Gnomeregan long ago with Englebert’s father, Wilbert, and Rakeri Sputterspark. Wilbert, who had gone to the priesthood following the Cataclysm, had elected to end his days in Ulduar. And Rakeri… “You know what he’s done, then,” she said, teeth clenched.

“Indeed I do, Mrs. Blunderwitz.” Caedus couldn’t help but chuckle. “I admit to being surprised I am able to say that. But… yes, I am aware. I have already put the word out in Dalaran as well.” He shook his head. “Rakeri… all that potential, and this is what he chose to do with it. A disgrace to gnomanity.” Then he smiled slyly. “Though I understand you showed him what we do to people like that. An arm for an arm?”

Jenit grinned back. “Something like that.” Then she sobered quickly. “But the cost…” She looked to Englebert. “Once we get you back into shape, we’ll go after him, and his murderous friends.”

To her surprise, though, Englebert shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere but to work… here at home.”

“We discussed the current events while you were away in Stormwind, Jenit,” Ernulph explained. “Englebert is of the opinion that he can do more good now as an engineer than a fighter. He and I will work together in my workshop here in Mechagon, to produce new weapons, upgrades, and the like. Including a few designs you and he worked on for his stable of mechanical companions.”

“And what about those companions?”

Englebert glanced at Ernulph, who nodded. “They’re yours now, Jen.”

“What? Me? But…” Jenit looked over to her father, who held out the rifle that he had crafted for Englebert. The rifle she had taken up to blast Rakeri’s arm off before he could unleash his fel magic. “I…”

“You’re probably the most capable person I know. We’ve had quite the adventure, you and I - and I had my share before that, too. But I’m a tinkerer. I need to tinker. I’ve wanted to see more of this place at work, and I’ve not been able to because I’ve been so… busy. I’ve seen my share of stuff related to Titans and Old Gods… figure you should get a shot.” Englebert chuckled. “Besides, I think the battle-chickens like you better than they do me.”

Jenit mused about this… then finally, she sighed. “Pop…” Her father looked at her curiously, as she tapped just under her eye. “Gonna need an upgrade. My long-range vision is… well, it could be better.”

Ernulph smiled as he exchanged glances with Englebert. “I think we can arrange something.”

[Pellerin-cenarion-circle]

“The injury was very severe, Captain Pellerin. We did not think he would keep the leg, but… we will ensure he is back up to trim in good time. He may be left with a limp, but the limb will still be usable.”

“I appreciate your efforts, friend. He is a good lad.” Elizabeth Pellerin stood alongside her mother, Lady Eugenie, as the stretcher was brought in. They had insisted that he be moved to the Pellerin estate in Boralus… mainly because it was a lot less likely to get attacked and burned to the ground. The captain felt a pain in her chest at seeing the horrific injuries, including his entire leg, encased so that it would not move… considering it had been moved in a wholly unnatural direction before that.

The pandaren gently moved him to the upstairs bedroom, then transferred him to the bed with the aid of Eugenie’s house stewards, under the direction of their matron, Henrietta. Despite the disdain both Eugenie and Elizabeth had for her (both calling her “Henny”, even though - and perhaps because - she hated that nickname), neither of them could argue with her efficiency; she ran a tight household. She bowed to them both. “The pandaren have already provided me with the necessary unguents for his care, and one of their healers will be here to aid me,” she assured her mistress. “Young Heskin will be cared for.”

“Thank you, Henrietta. Leave us for a moment, please.” The chief steward hesitated, but bowed her head regardless. Eugenie put a gnarled hand on the lad’s forehead. “Can you hear me, lad?”

Donal Heskin’s eyes fluttered for a second, then opened, just a crack. “Wh…where…” He blinked rapidly, recognition slowly dawning. “Ah…”

“Yes, Donal, you’re in my family house in Boralus.” Elizabeth joined her mother at his bedside, before asking gently, “Do you remember what happened?”

There was a pause, and then a single word. “Everything.” A tear ran from his eye down his cheek. “Grandda… did you…?”

“Yes, Donal. As you and he wished.”

Powerful medicines had been administered for the pain… yet she could see a cold anger in those blue eyes of his, so like his grandfather’s. “I want their heads,” he whispered bitterly. “They want death… give them death…” He drifted off and fell asleep.

The two women quietly retreated, and left him in Henrietta’s care. They went downstairs and outside, walking around the harbor. “Hell of a time,” the captain said angrily. “Already the world is being upheaved, and… this. It sickens me.” She turned to her mother. “You spoke to Septimus before this… and from what we’ve heard, he was involved.”

Eugenie nodded, scowling. “He has embraced the madness now. Perhaps those who followed Lord Stormsong did not fully understand what evil they were channeling, but Septimus… I think he does. The man we knew is gone, and this… monster is all that remains now.” She gently put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “He will probably die for this, Beth… and you might have to prepare yourself to be the one who takes his life.”

The captain’s mind recoiled at the idea. Septimus had been a friend of the family for as long as she had been alive, and they had served together in the Second War. But… she had seen the evidence for herself. “I pray it does not come to that,” she said quietly.

“As do I. But we have had to make hard choices before, child. Your father, for instance. For me here, when he was alive, until he wasn’t… and for you, in Revendreth, when his tattered soul proved irretrievable.” She looked back towards the house. “I hope the boy’s soul is not so poisoned now. Though heaven knows I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Nor I,” Elizabeth agreed grimly. “We will find a way, though. We always have.”

[Ketiron-cenarion-circle]

Ord’taeril Ketiron felt the wind flutter through his hair as he stood outside Arom’s Stand in the mountains of Drustvar. His first trip returning from the Dragon Isles was for the funeral of his mentor, Lorewalker Zhangren Puretide. The Lorewalker’s brother Zhaoren had been buried in the graveyard of the Shado-Pan Monastery, just as he had been when he had been killed by the Legion, before the Ebon Blade brought him back; Ord’taeril had taken Zhangren’s staff, the very staff that he had carried through the Shadowlands and the Dragon Isles, and planted it in the Wood of Staves on the Wandering Isle, next to that of his father, Zhenren. The flowers that bloomed from it were gold, to match the silver of Zhenren’s, which had become a good-sized growth in the years since his death.

After visiting the Pellerin estate in Boralus - having been partly responsible for Donal Heskin’s current line of work, he wanted to check in on him - he had gone at the young man’s behest to Drustvar, to seek out an ally… someone, Donal had said, who would help him. He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. The man was shorter and carried a good deal of weight, but it made the gold-trimmed long coat he wore look much more intimidating, in Ord’taeril’s opinion. “Inquisitor Underwood,” he greeted him.

“Good to see you again, Lorewalker. It has been a most… interesting time.” Gabriel Underwood looked grim as they walked; the Inquisitor’s brown hair was frosted with gray, and he seemed to lean somewhat on the staff of burning blossoms he carried - a gift from Lucia Zherron, who had perished in Zereth Mortis. “But I’m guessing, from your people’s investigations, that you know that.”

“It has been, and I do. And the madmen are out in force.” Ord’taeril explained what had occurred to the Puretides in Pandaria.

Gabriel listened quietly, his jaw clenched at the mention of the deaths of the Lorewalker and Eran Heskin, and those found responsible. “Have Captain Pellerin or Lady Eugenie put the word out against the Madman?”

“Lady Eugenie has reached out to the guard in Boralus, and also in Brennadam. The Brother’s house is abandoned, but the shadow magic there was overwhelming, they say.”

“Not surprising. As much of an aura as you and yours put off, Ord’taeril… people like him worry me. We saw what happened to Stormsong and his lot.” His expression softened. “Young Donal lives?”

“He does, thankfully; he’s on the mend in Boralus. And he is partly why I’m here… at his request. He has asked for your assistance.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose over his thick-rimmed glasses. “My assistance? In what way?”

“The Path is controlled either by outright demons, like Kalimos, or those who traffic in their power, like Relsyn and Caradell. He wants to learn how to fight against them, and he thinks your witch-hunting methods might be suitable to help him do that.”

“It’s possible. I have used certain of our methods when dealing with the odd demon or elemental creature… together with what I learned from Lucia and the Cenarion Circle.” Gabriel stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully. “What does Captain Pellerin think?”

“You’ve seen how she looks after her crew, Gabriel. And he is as beloved by them as he is by her. She is worried about him, especially given what happened to Eran… but at the same time, she told me she saw something of Eran in his eyes. He would go after them whether we helped him or not. Besides, you and the captain got on relatively well during the Dragon Isles campaign, and she has said she could use an inquisitor on her crew, especially if we’re going after ‘Void beasties’.”

Gabriel considered this… then finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll check in with the Order, and make my way to Boralus.” He smiled slightly. “I would make some comment about how I hope he’s prepared, but… it seems he has had plenty of preparation.”

“Indeed he has,” agreed the Lorewalker, who knew something about that himself.

[Chaiya-shadow-council]

She sat next to her sleeping son’s bed, quietly singing in the old imperial tongue, the song of Liu Lang - the only parts of that dialect she actually knew, taught to her by her Lorewalker husband. She had heard it often enough growing up on the Wandering Isle, and wanted to make sure her son - who had never been there, yet - would hear it, even in sleep. She tried to make sure her voice did not shake too much…

“Chaiya…”

Chaiya Greenacre-Puretide looked up sharply, incensed at this interruption, until she saw who it was. She curtly gestured for him to wait outside for her, as she stroked Zhenyen’s headfur one more time before rising to follow him.

“I did not mean to interrupt, Chaiya. I was just checking to see if you were…”

“Well?” Chaiya sneered as she closed the door to her son’s room. “Of course I am not well, Caedus. My mother, my husband, and my brother-in-law are dead. Their murderers also killed our honored guest, and nearly killed my father and my son. And they roam freely. How would you feel in such a situation?”

Caedus Netherfist was not sure he liked the look in her eye. It was a far cry from the optimistic explorer he had taken in years ago. Not that he could blame her. “Donal Heskin feels very similarly, and his captain is working with him to ensure his recovery, so that he can make good on it. I have also just come from Mechagon after checking on the Blunderwitzes, and their feelings are the same. Dame Catherine and Master Zulimbasha agree.”

“Then we will hunt them down and burn them out?”

“In due time, yes… but I warn you against giving into hate and anger too much, Chaiya. Especially with your talents. Fire does not discriminate between ally and adversary, or between those it is being wielded against… and the one wielding it.”

Chaiya’s eyes narrowed, her fists clenched. Caedus took a cautious step back. He was certain he could take her if she lashed out, but not without injury. To his relief, however, she closed her eyes, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry, Master,” she said, her voice sounding small. “I…”

“Worry not, child,” Caedus soothed her. “When the time comes, I will not hold you back. But for now, we must wait, and find time to recover. You would do yourself no service if you charged ahead, burning as you went… and you would do even less to Zhenyen. He has lost one parent already.”

That started the tears. “I can’t help how I feel,” she whispered.

“I know. These fools are trying to goad us into a conflict we do not need, especially not now, with Azeroth… reacting to something.” Caedus looked uneasy. “The Song. You hear it?”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Most of us did,” she recalled. “We were talking about it when those… monsters came.” A worried look came over her face. “You think it’s Azeroth trying to say something?”

“Plenty of wise people in this city and elsewhere do, and I am inclined to take them at their word. Something is coming, Chaiya… and these lunatics seem to be more aware of it than we are.”

Chaiya shook her head, fists clenching once more. “Have we not suffered enough?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Her mentor found he could not answer that.

[Eregesh-cenarion-circle]

Eregesh Silvergale - as he was still known among the Kirin Tor, at least in this form - sat quietly in the Ledgerdemain Lounge in Dalaran, waiting. He did not have to wait long, and he smiled as he saw her enter. “Ah, Lengua, good to see you. I wanted to have you here before we made the move.”

“Move?”

“The Council of Six has sent word that we are relocating the city. Again. I was here when we moved from Lordaeron to Northrend, and again when we came here… the second time was rather rocky, to put it mildly. I’m hoping we have it better this time.”

Lengua’s eyebrows rose over her glasses. “Moving Dalaran? Where?”

“Word is that another hidden land has been uncovered, a region called Khaz Algar.”

Lengua frowned, that name ringing a bell in her mind. Then her eyes lit up. “The place from the records found in Uldaman?”

Eregesh nodded approvingly. “The very same. What is waiting for us there, we don’t know, but the Council seems to think it urgent enough to move us there. As you are probably the most scholarly person I know these days, I thought you would like to be here.”

The evoker bowed her head. “Thank you, Esheregos. I am honored.”

“The honor is mine, my friend.” Eregesh held up a warning hand. “I must say, however… this is not like traveling through portals. You may find it… unsettling. And our people are taking better precautions this time, that they’re not pelted by flying debris. I hope you’ve not recently eaten…”

“Master?” He looked up, seeing Caedus standing in the doorway. “Word from the Citadel. The Council is ready.”

Eregesh clapped his hands, pleased. “Splendid.” Then he frowned, a concerned glint in his eye. “And Chaiya?”

“Still here, but when I told her of the Council’s decision, she sent her father and her son to the Wandering Isle. She thought it best, and so do I. As for her…” The gnome shrugged. “She is determined.”

The dragon-mage nodded in understanding. “Thank you, Caedus. Let us proceed to the Citadel.” He smiled as he rose, clapping Lengua on the shoulder. “The journey begins.”

The Council of Six, along with other powerful members of the Kirin Tor, were combining their efforts to teleport the city, as they had done twice before - relocating from its original place along Lordamere Lake to Northrend’s Crystalsong Forest, and again near the Broken Shore and the Tomb of Sargeras. Word had been going out to everyone in the city to prepare for the transfer. Eregesh had been here both times, and Caedus had been here for the move to the Broken Isles. Both knew what was expected of them.

Given how quickly she took up scholarly life as well as soldiering, it’s good to have Lengua here for this, he thought. It should be a most interesting journey…

[Kalimos-cenarion-circle]

“What have you done?!” Lord Aldos Relsyn stared in enraged horror. “All that effort to remove this obsession with personal vendettas… and now you have a group of them with a personal vendetta against us! This is not the reason we toppled the Corruptor, Kalimos!”

“Suddenly afraid to shed blood?” Savona sounded positively smug. “It’s hard to stoke the fires of war when you’re not willing to carry the torch, ‘Lord’ Relsyn.”

“Silence, you dark-eyed harlot,” the Nightborne warlock snapped. “I will deal with you later.”

“Savona is my servant, Aldos… not yours.” All manner of deference was absolutely gone from Kalimos’ voice. “I am not your servant, either.”

Relsyn’s eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t. You can’t.”

“I can, and I will. You are too concerned with public opinion, Aldos. You can tell yourself all you want about why you rid yourself of Urgan… or should I say ‘Murgan’?” Kalimos grinned down at the diminutive figure next to him, which screeched at him in Nerglish - as he had been transformed into a murloc. “My reason was vengeance. I lived eons in the Nether, burning all these pathetic civilizations… and yet this one small man had the temerity to kill me? I could not allow that to stand.” He grasped Relsyn by the shoulder… and pushed, hard. The Nightborne had no choice but to collapse to his knees. “I bowed to Sargeras, and nearly paid the price for it. I will not bow to anyone again. Certainly not to you.”

“But you said --”

“I said it, and I meant it… then. I was recovering my strength. I am not so weak now.” Kalimos smiled evilly. “I think it is time to drop our pretenses, Aldos. At least between you and I. You may be the leader… but I am the master.”

Relsyn seethed with rage, but self-preservation warred with pride. He was already an exile, so submissive was not too far off… “As you say,” he whispered, his tone thick with hate.

“I am so glad we can agree.” Kalimos glanced behind him to the silent gathering of the Path’s chosen. “Now then. Word has come to us of an… interesting development in an area off the western coast of Pandaria. Apparently Dalaran teleported to that region… and then was completely obliterated.”

“Dalaran destroyed?” Brother Galedeep, who had been there often during the Legion war, was surprised at this. “How?”

“The very powers you wield, my friend… but on a grand scale. I think this ‘Harbinger’ has made her point.” Kalimos actually looked pleased. “The war has begun, Septimus. This is what we have waited for.”

“But which side are we on?” asked Zaidu, the ex-Sundered Flame evoker. “We have no love for the supposed forces of order, but we saw what happened in Aberrus, and the powers that corrupted Sarkareth - and Fyrakk. I’m not sure we want this ‘Harbinger’ to prevail, either.”

The eredar warlord nodded. “I agree completely, Zaidu. This is why Sargeras created the Legion; while Kil’jaeden had us hunting for the draenei, the Dark Titan was burning planets corrupted by the Void. Especially those, like Azeroth, with their own souls… Titans waiting to be born. This is what we do now - inspire conflict as a means for our world’s so-called guardians to remain alert. Warriors are always looking for a new war… and if it’s one that keeps this little world we’re forced to share spinning, so much the better.” He glanced at the well-dressed figure next to Zaidu. “Captain Vizka, I believe you said you wanted to get some wind in your hair. Up for a voyage?”

The Zandalari privateer grinned. “Give de word, Lord Kalimos.”

“I would like to accompany the captain, Master,” Savona spoke up. “To scout the way ahead for you.”

Kalimos glanced at Vizka, who nodded. “Fair winds to you, Captain.” Vizka and Savona bowed their heads and left.

[Araen-sisters-of-elune]

Araen Warpwalker sat alone at Lion’s Rest in Stormwind and wept quietly. News of Dalaran had come to Stormwind, but everyone was more focused on the “new land” the Kirin Tor had found.

“I wish you had just left me in Pandaria,” she whispered bitterly. “Or you had killed me. You would have helped a lot more. This is… too much.”

“Perhaps you might think so.” The elven figure standing next to her - who had not been there a second earlier, or perhaps he had? - replied. “But you are of purpose, Araen.”

“You keep saying that, Tremas, and yet you never tell me exactly what the hell that means.”

“It means precisely what it says,” Tremas replied sharply. “I had hoped you would realize that by now.” His expression softened. “This is what you were made for. This is why you followed Alleria Windrunner to Draenor. This is why you followed her to Argus. This is why you followed her to Telogrus.”

“Constant war? You sound like that freak Tidesage.”

“Not constant war, ren’dorei,” the infinite dragon corrected her. “You have been shaped by conflict, yes - and you are better at it than you think. But you are different from him, and from her too… you fight because you must. They fight for the fight itself. These idiot cultists have some mad idea that the way to fight the real foes, like the Harbinger, is to fight everything and everyone. Including each other.” He snorted. “I’ve seen what trying to fight the entire world does. It does not go well. That’s why Eternus chose the way she did. That’s why those like me followed her.”

Araen looked up at him. “That’s why you went to Pandaria. And took people like me there.”

“Yes. Some of you learned along with us. Others… learned nothing at all, or worse, they took the wrong lessons from the experience. Some had been through that time before. Others, like you, had not.”

Araen looked up at him. “Did you know that whole thing in Telogrus was going to happen the way it did? Or Dalaran, for that matter?”

Tremas perked an eyebrow. “Contrary to what you may think of us, or our bronze kin, we don’t know everything that will happen. We see possibilities, not definites. But to answer your question… no. The possibilities showed a conflict coming at this time. It did not give specifics.”

The huntress snorted. “Convenient.”

The visaged dragon shrugged. “It has its disadvantages, I will admit.” Then he smiled. “Come. There is someone you must meet. Another comrade of yours from Outland, the gryphon rider, has been working with her already. She will be glad to have you.”

“Torcall? I haven’t seen him since the Shadowlands. He went off to Maldraxxus, looking for a fight. I’d wondered what happened to him…” She sighed. “It will be nice to have a more pleasant reunion.”

“Ach, ah’ll say!” She looked up at that voice. Torcall Macphearsome had not changed much - still barechested, tattooed, mohawked, and carrying his hammers. The scar from a Zandalari javelin and the glow in his eyes betrayed his actual state, of course. “Yer a sight fer any eyes, Araen, sore or otherwise.”

Araen shook her head, grinning. “Still incorrigible as ever, I see.”

“Louder than a whole tavern at times, but he is a good man to have in a fight.” Araen glanced over to see a human with shoulder-length red hair, wearing Stormwind-marked armor, hand resting on a jeweled sword hilt. One eye was slashed out, and the one that remained was bright. “I’m Catherine Hildreth. Your friend here said you would be coming.” She nodded not at Torcall, but at Tremas.

Araen glanced over at the infinite dragon, who was the picture of innocence. “It has its advantages, too,” was all he would say.

“Dame Catherine’s our boss,” Torcall explained. “Our band’s called th’ Deathsworn Heralds. We’re paired up with a Zandalari priest who’s proved ta be a good bloke, and a buncha folks from th’ Horde who aren’t complete monsters. Even a coupla Forsaken who aren’t tae bad, if ye can believe it.”

“Torcall had mentioned he had worked with you while trapped in Outland,” Catherine said. “You’d been reported missing following the death of the Jailer. Your dragon friend here explained to me the circumstances… and you’re not the first we’ve heard of who was ‘diverted’.”

Araen looked again at Tremas, this time more in acknowledgement than annoyance. “Yes,” she said. “And I seem to have come back at an… interesting time.”

Catherine noted the look on her face. “Something troubles you, friend,” she said gently. “Tell me.”

Araen did.

---

Araen shook her head to clear the disorientation, and found herself standing once again where her new life began. “Telogrus… there are a lot more people here than before,” she said.

“Indeed.” Tremas nodded, no hint of condescension at all left in his voice; if anything, the infinite dragon sounded somber. “This Harbinger is a great threat, and so many have come seeking your people out, because of your ability to walk within the worlds of both light and dark. The Void is even more insidious than the magics of Order used by the Titans. The Titans are not subtle in their power; they demand obedience, adherence to their code. The Void promises freedom, but it conveniently does not mention the cost.” He gazed at her, a hint of respect in his eyes. “You know this. You fight it within you constantly. Now… we must fight it outside as well.”

Araen seemed surprised at this, and a hint of a smile curved her lips. “We?”

A hint of the old haughtiness came back. “Whatever you think of me and my kind, ren’dorei, we live here, too. And we want to live freely, just as you do.”

“On that, we can agree.” Araen’s gaze was caught by two individuals nearby. One was a Kul Tiran in dark vestments, his face hidden by a leering tentacled mask; he reeked of corruption to her, even Void-altered as she was. But it was the other who really got her attention - someone she had last seen in Boralus. “By the Nether… Estalia?”

A lean figure turned, dressed in the purple and gold regalia of the ren’dorei, a pair of matching swords sheathed at her sides. She looked just as surprised for a moment. “Araen…” Then that look was replaced by a smug smirk. “Heard you were dead.”

“I’ve been… occupied,” she said. “Who’s your friend here?”

“Someone offering me a way forward,” Estalia replied shortly. “Someone stronger than weak boy-kings and meddling elves.”

The Kul Tiran inclined his head. “Since our mutual friend here seems to be skipping the introductions, I am Brother Galedeep, prophet of the Eightfold Path.”

“Prophet, eh? Sounds ominous.”

“Indeed it is, Araen Warpwalker.” There was a hint of amusement. “Yes, I know who you are. The Void whispers your name - and it is strong here.”

“I’m well aware of that. You working for this Harbinger?”

“Stars, no. Accoutrement aside, I’m not one for tentacles. That’s why I was glad to be away from the Shrine when Pike cleared it out.” Galedeep chuckled. “No, I work for a far greater purpose. A reminder of mortal-kind’s true state, its true purpose.”

“And that is?”

“Chaos, my dear void elf. Chaos is our natural state. And conflict is our true purpose. Peace? A pathetic joke. We try to convince ourselves it will last, and yet it never does.”

Araen looked over at Estalia, who seemed almost… enraptured. And worse, she could not detect the Tidesage using spells on her. “Please don’t tell me you’re buying this, Estalia.”

“We’ve been through enough together, you and I, to know the Brother’s truth,” Estalia replied. "The Alliance is weak, and the Horde is monstrous. Just as they have always been. The Alliance let the Horde burn our forests and murder our people during the Second War. Let them despoil Draenor and turn it into Outland. And all that effort we expended following that stupid child around, letting him play second to a butcher in a duel with another butcher, honoring his corpse… when he should have been BURNING THE PLACE TO CINDERS!" The former scout’s shriek of anger caused Araen to step back, though in the back of her mind she took a guilty pleasure in seeing that Galedeep did, too. “I’ve had enough of following orders from lesser people. Cowards don’t know how to hate.” She looked at Araen curiously. “Have you become a coward, Araen?”

Araen’s jaw clenched. “Call me one again, and you’ll find out.” She sighed. “I hate what they have done just as much as you do, Estalia, but giving into hatred is lunacy. If hate is all we have, we can never hope for peace.”

“Peace?” Estalia spat the word. “You say you have hate, but… I’m not hearing it. I’m hearing the same whimpering we got for years from Wrynn.” She stepped up, standing in Araen’s face. “You may use your hatred from time to time, but I have embraced mine fully. What peace do you hope will come, Araen? We both spent decades floating in the Nether before we came to Telogrus. You and I both know peace is a fantasy. There will always be war, always be bloodshed. It is the truth of our existence.” She stepped back… and spat at Araen’s feet. "You are a coward. And I’m ashamed I ever called you friend."

Far from reacting how she had warned, Araen was frozen in disbelieving shock. Was this creature claiming to be made of pure hatred truly the same person she had known in Outland for all those years? Seeing this reaction, Estalia sneered, then turned to Galedeep. “Take me to the others, Brother. I’m anxious to see who I will be working with.”

“It would be my pleasure.” The Tidesage pulled a beacon - a gnomish device - from his robe and activated it. An instant later, the two were gone.

---

“Him again.” Catherine’s hand tightened on her sword-hilt as she sat next to Araen, listening to what had happened when Tremas returned her to the present time. “This is not the first run-in we’ve had with him, and this ‘Path’ he works with. A cult run by warlocks is never a good sign.”

Torcall snorted. “What kinda cult ever is?”

“Fair point,” the paladin conceded. She looked back to Araen, and put a hand on her arm. “You’ve been through a great deal, so I hesitate to ask… but you’ve heard what happened to Dalaran. You know where we’re all inevitably heading next. I could use good people. Torcall vouches for you, and as irritating as I find his recklessness at times…” The Wildhammer death knight simply grinned. “…I’ve never known him to lie. We would be honored to have you with us, Araen Warpwalker.”

Araen again looked to Tremas, who simply shrugged. “Your choice, ren’dorei.”

[Heskin-cenarion-circle]

He rested a hand on the small plaque in the earth in Stormwind’s cemetery, the only sign that they had ever been here at all - their remains cremated and scattered to the winds, as they had wished… as his own would be, if fate was kind.

Dedicated to the memory of
SIR ERAN HESKIN
Devoted protector of Stormwind and the Grand Alliance
Together in eternity with
KATERINA HESKIN
His beloved wife and inseparable partner for more than fifty years
“Our love has no goodbyes, touch my face and remember me”

“Donal. Or should I say, Inquisitor Heskin?”

Donal Heskin looked up, a tired smile on his face. “Lorewalker Ketiron. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, my friend. And just Ord’taeril now, I think. We’ve both come a long way.” The void elf Lorewalker looked him over, seeing the tabard, with the sword piercing the tome - the emblem of the Order of Embers, Kul Tiras’ witch hunters. “I see you’ve been working with Gabriel.”

Donal nodded. “Inquisitor Underwood taught me a lot, aye. Thanks for talking to him for me. I would have, but…”

“Worry not, my friend. How is the leg, by the way?”

The newly-minted inquisitor winced as he came to his feet. “Glad to still have it, but it hurts like mad.” He glanced back at the plaque in the grass. “I wanted to make sure people knew, even if they aren’t actually here.”

Ord’taeril read the plaque himself… and then nodded. “Runs the chance of being overgrown, but being that it’s in the middle of Stormwind proper, part of me doubts that. Enough detail without being too flashy.” His eyebrows rose. “The epitaph is an interesting touch.”

“Song I heard in Valdrakken, funny enough. Apparently it’s something the ‘darker’ folks like. The Forsaken and the Darkfallen, particularly. I liked the sound of it.” Donal looked at him curiously. “You think I’ve gone mad with hate, don’t you?”

Ord’taeril blinked, wrong-footed by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

“It’s the way you and the captain have looked at me since I decided to take up the Embers’ witch-hunting technique. You’re all thinking I’m probably another mad zealot about to go off on a crusade, and not care who was friend or foe - all are evil in my sight.”

The thought had indeed occurred to him. “Are you?”

“If there is one thing I have learned from my grandda, it’s that the best fights - those that can’t be avoided - are those with friends at your side. I’m still part of the Pearl Queen’s crew, and I will fight with them. The captain has my loyalty, just as you do.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Both turned, seeing Elizabeth Pellerin standing nearby. Next to her was a very youthful-looking - and equally vengeful-looking - night elf, dressed in the regalia of the Wardens. “Which is why I’m asking if you’re ready for a voyage, Inquisitor Heskin.”

Donal bowed his head. “I am at your command, Captain. Where are we heading?”

“Word has come from the Lord Admiral - she and the orc chieftain, Thrall, have been to this new land, this ‘Isle of Dorn’ off the west coast of Pandaria. A combined fleet is on its way there. We will head that way soon ourselves, but we’ll be taking a bit of a detour first.”

“Where to?”

“Freehold. I’ve had a tip come in… Savona is taking ship onboard the Seaking, a Zandalari privateer that’s been based out of there since the war. Zulimbasha sent his messenger Soji to find Warden Ravensong here, after… what happened in Pandaria. She and I both agree: there will be no Vault of the Wardens for her this time.”

Donal’s hands clenched into fists at the idea of taking down this lunatic, especially given her part in his grandfather’s murder. But a nagging question lingered. “Can we trust the source? It could be a trap.”

“Believe it or not, I thought the same thing,” Elizabeth replied with an amused look in her eyes. “But risk is part of the game here, Donal. We have to show them we’re not afraid of them, and that we can take from them as readily as they can from us.” She approached and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you prepared for this?”

Donal looked her square in the eye. “As I said, Captain, I am at your command.”

[Devaneaux-sisters-of-elune]

Baron Kieran Devaneaux stood quietly atop the gates of Lordaeron, looking out towards a landscape he could finally see without the green haze of the Blight, the work progressing in restoring the Forsaken holdings in Tirisfal Glades.

“My Baron.” He turned, seeing Kirenna Summerlight approach. She looked him over. “I see you’ve decided to go for the uniform after all. Was the bonesteel from Maldraxxus getting heavy for you?”

Kieran chuckled. He had indeed set aside his Maldraxxi plate in favor of “proper” Forsaken regalia, marked with the sigil of the fallen Kingdom of Lordaeron. It was a reminder of where many of them were from, and the land they still called home. “It left its impression, but… I am Forsaken, as we’re often fond of saying.” He looked curious. “Something amiss?”

“Word from Orgrimmar. The fleet has been deployed, as has that of the Alliance. The rumors were true.”

“Another land of Titanborn,” he mused. “This should be interesting. Are the preparations made?”

“They are. The Assassin’s Treasure awaits us in Booty Bay. Zulimbasha has called on Kitrik to locate Lengua and Eregesh; they have not been heard from, even though we know there were survivors from Dalaran. Kitrik remembers your interest in Titan lore, and has offered to take us with him.” The dark ranger grinned. “No charge.”

Kieran nodded, smiling. “Kitrik’s a good one. A killer with a code, I remember that from Northrend. He’ll find them, and any help we can offer, we will.”

“You think they’re alive?”

“Dragons can die, Kirenna - recent events have especially proved that. Those two, however… I think they will be fine. But this lack of contact worries me, too. Her in particular, I would have expected letters abound.” He snorted. “I’m sure the mail would still work.”

“It usually does,” Kirenna agreed. She looked pensive. “I’ve had an unwelcome thought.”

“Go on.”

“The amount of ties to the Titans has increased quite a bit. Yes, there was Ulduar, but… we’ve seen much more of their works since Argus. The war over Azerite. The Dragon Isles. Now this.”

“You think we’re in some kind of ‘end time’? I did not take you for a doomsayer, Kirenna.”

“I’m not about to go join a cult, relax. But…” The dark ranger looked worried - and that look concerned him. “I don’t know. Something is coming, and we’re not going to like it - and we’re sure as hell not going to be prepared for it.”

Kieran stared at her for a long moment… then nodded. “I’ve felt it too. The whole ‘Song’ business people keep talking about; I’ve heard it. Almost like a siren call in a breeze, like the sailors say. Some have heard what the ethereals have said about K’aresh. How they felt the same thing… and then came Dimensius.” He sighed. “Ever since word came about Dalaran, I’ve wondered if that was a sign. Our greatest city of magic, simply gone, like a moth in a flame. There were happy times there, even amidst all the death and the chaos. You remember?”

“I do.”

“And much good has come of late, in spite of everything. We’ve regained our home here, after Sylvanas denied it to us simply to try and deny it to them… the night elves have their new World Tree, and the Gilneans are reclaiming their lands… can it never just be that? Does it always have to be followed by tragedy?” He shook his head. “I’m a warrior, much like you. I fight the good fight, and I do it gladly. But I…”

Kirenna put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, Kieran. I am, too.” She closed her burning red eyes, sighing. “Nothing for it now, though. We should be heading to the Bay, should we not?”

“Indeed… let’s not keep our goblin friend waiting too long.”

[Itzara-sisters-of-elune]

Itzara Ravensong felt the disorientation for a brief moment as she, Donal Heskin, and a dozen Proudmoore marines were teleported onto the deck of the Zandalari vessel Seaking. The Pearl Queen’s Tidesage, Calum Granden, had provided them a teleportation scroll given to him by a tortollan scribe years before. She disliked teleportation; she considered it a necessary evil, one to be avoided when at all possible. She had joined Captain Pellerin in Stormwind after being called from Bel’ameth by Soji, and they had set out for the Kul Tiran coast. Just outside Tiragarde Sound, the Pearl Queen had been waiting, and sure enough, the Seaking was spotted almost immediately, the gold tusk on its sails (and the fact it was a Zandalari ship in a traditionally human-oriented harbor) being easily identified.

The crew - a mix of Zandalari, some humans, and even the “smaller folk”, like gnomes and vulpera - immediately looked up from the deck, and blades were drawn. A dozen more emerged from below decks. Right behind them was the one they were after: the fallen vindicator, Savona, in her Mawforged armor.

“Stay your blades, all of ya.” That voice came from the wheel, on the tiered deck above. A tall Zandalari in a long red coat, monocle set in a dead eye, stepped down the stairs onto the main deck. “You are a bold bunch. I knew she was sendin’ a party ta parley, but… teleportin’? Serious business.”

“An emphasis on how serious we take the matter, Captain Vizka,” Itzara replied. “As, I believe, do you.”

Donal was surprised at this… then he realized that the captain himself was Captain Pellerin’s contact. “How did you know?”

“Because Captain Pellerin knows, being a ship’s master herself, that only one person would know exactly when the ship was leaving.”

Donal’s eyes lit up in realization. “The captain.” Vizka inclined his head.

Savona’s eyes were wide with outrage. “You tin-toothed, backstabbing son of a…”

“Backstabbing? Given what ya used ta be, I’d take care accusin’ anyone of dat…” Vizka sneered at her. “I may be inclined ta follow your master and take his coin, but unlike you, I don’t murder people for fun.”

“Lord Kalimos will have your head, pirate.”

Vizka smiled evilly. “Kalimos will never know what happened here, Savona. Because you will be too busy bein’ dead. And good riddance to ya.” He turned around to the crew. “Back away, all of ya! Dis is between her and dem.”

Savona’s expression turned from rage to fear as she suddenly realized the magnitude of Vizka’s betrayal - because the entire crew made it a point to keep their distance from her. She was trapped, and they all knew it. Panic took hold. “Captain, you can’t --”

Whatever it was she thought the captain could not do turned to a scream and a gurgling sound in her throat as she was run through by a titansteel spear. Donal’s jaw was clenched, even as tears ran down his face. “For my grandda,” he whispered, as he withdrew the spear. He stepped back.

Savona collapsed to her knees, blood running from the hole in her chest. “No…” She shook her head. “So much… to fight…”

The Warden stepped forward. “Savona of Shattrath, for your crimes against the kaldorei and all other peoples of Azeroth, you are hereby condemned to death,” she intoned, as she drew the pair of daggers made for her by Poquelin the Accursed, her former prisoner-turned-ally. “I hereby carry out sentence.”

With a flash, she slashed both blades across Savona’s neck. The eredar’s horned head toppled to the deck, a moment before her body did likewise. Vizka applauded sarcastically. “A fine display,” he said. “Are we satisfied? Yes? Are ya gonna get off my ship now?”

Itzara looked up at him. “The Admiralty of Kul Tiras has a bounty for your capture or death, Captain,” she reminded him.

“That’s true,” Donal agreed. “But in light of your cooperation, Captain Pellerin is inclined to offer a reprieve. For now.”

“So generous. Then we will be seein’ ya in Khaz Algar, then.” The captain grinned. “I’m actually willing to bet we’ll arrive first.”

“Not quite, Captain. I said you were getting a reprieve - we weren’t going to capture you and your ship. However… Sergeant, is the Pearl Queen still there?”

“Like a mother waitin’ for her kiddies, aye,” the marine sergeant said. “Er, no offense, lad.”

Donal smiled. “None taken. Light it up, please.”

The sergeant pulled two flares from her belt and lit them both. Keeping one held up high… she dropped the other one to the deck, close to the mainsail. Vizka’s eye went wide as he realized the import. “Why, you little…”

“Sorry, Captain. At least you’re close to Freehold.” Donal tipped two fingers to his brow as the teleport spell took them.

Itzara once again felt the disorientation of being magically hurled across the world - or at least, across the sea a little - and was forced to grasp the railing, suddenly thankful it was there. She took a deep breath, and straightened up.

“It’s done, then, Warden?” She looked up to where Captain Pellerin stood by the wheel.

“It is, Captain,” she replied.

The captain leaned down over the rail. “Mr. McDonnell, let’s conclude our business with Captain Vizka.”

“With pleasure, Captain,” Alexander McDonnell, the first mate, shouted back up. “Fire!”

[Kitrik-cenarion-circle]

“Holy crap.”

Kitrik the Assassin looked grim as his zeppelin, the Assassin’s Treasure, floated over the ironically-named Tranquil Strand on the western end of the Isle of Dorn. In the middle of the shoreline could clearly be seen the remnants of Dalaran’s Tower of the Guardian. Next to him, Kieran Devaneaux was absolutely stunned. “Hearing about it was one thing,” he said quietly. “Seeing it…”

“Yeah,” Kitrik agreed. His gaze was suddenly attracted by movement, and he turned to the goblin steering the ship. “Hold her steady,” he said, as he looked over the side, his blue-violet eyes searching.

Kieran joined him a moment later. “What is it?” Then he spotted it too, and his face blanched in disgust. “Nerubians…”

“That figures.” Kitrik snorted. “Of all the threats this ‘Harbinger’ had to dredge up from the Void, it just had to be bugs. What is it with the Old Gods and bugs?” He continued looking. “I’m not seeing any of our people moving down there.”

“I’m not, either. I hope they were able to make it to safety.”

“Better than being bug food, that’s for damn sure.” Kitrik looked up, shading his eyes from the sun as his gaze went to the east. “Out there in the distance, Kieran, look. That look like a city to you?”

“Indeed it is,” came a voice from above them. Goblin and Forsaken both looked up as a figure landed right there on the deck… the familiar form of Archivist Lengua.

“Well, you just saved me a whole lot of trouble, missie,” Kitrik commented, a smile on his face. “Zulimbasha sent us after you.”

“Titans know we could use the help. Things are a mess here. The fleet only just arrived, so it’s taking time for the forces to deploy.”

“You seen your blue dragon pal anywhere? Zuli has us looking for him, too.” The pained expression on her face made the Assassin worried. “He’s not…?”

“I don’t know,” Lengua admitted. “I haven’t seen him since the crash. But… the nerubians. They’ve been taking our people. If he’s not dead, then…”

“You know where they mighta been taken?”

Lengua was quiet for a moment. “Possibly,” she said. “The nerubians are… not of common cause. There are actually some who are aiding us. Their queen is corrupted by the Void, and there are those of her court who are not of similar mind.”

Kitrik exchanged a look with Kieran. “This sound like Pandaria to you?”

“With probably the same result,” the Baron agreed. “We help them, then they work with the people trying to kill us.” He shook his head. “Still, we might not have a choice. We know close to nothing about this place.”

“Yet,” the Assassin corrected, smiling. He turned to Lengua. “There a place we can set down? You confirmed that’s an actual city out there.”

“Yes… Dornogal, capital of the earthen that reside here.”

Kitrik’s eyes went wide. “Whoa, hold up. Earthen? As in, ancestors of the dwarves earthen?”

“Indeed. Records recovered from Uldaman indicate they’ve been here many thousands of years, brought here by the Keepers. This place was identified as Sector AR-938, but the earthen gave it the name. They seem to have taken up certain aspects of dwarfkind, despite being separated from their kin who were affected by the Curse of Flesh.” She looked amused. “Including their predilection for drink. I would recommend caution if you ever try the cinderbrew.”

Kitrik looked up at Kieran, who was as surprised as he was. “This changes everything.”

“Indeed it does. But we’re only half done now. We’ve found one… I think the three of us should go to find the other. One might think a dragon would be easy to spot, but if he was caught in his visage…”

“Yeah.” Kitrik turned back to Lengua. “You know where these so-called good nerubians are hanging?”

“There’s one called the Weaver who resides in Azj-Kahet, deep below us. I can take you to her lair. Someone there may know something. I understand your Trade Prince has been around there…”

[Lengua-cenarion-circle]

The earthen allowed the zeppelin to land on the roof of the engineering enclave in the Forgegrounds, appropriate for its captain. While Kitrik attended to his ship’s anchoring, Kieran walked through the streets with Lengua, marveling at what he was seeing. “How much of this place have you seen, Lengua?”

“A lot of the surface, of course, but there is a surprising amount of space down below. There is a group known as Arathi down below.”

That got Kieran’s attention. “Arathi? The first human nation? But… Arathor hasn’t existed in over a thousand years.”

“Not entirely human anymore, it would seem. I’ve traveled through Hallowfall, their new land - my visage helps me blend in somewhat…” She smiled, indicating her own pointed ears. “They appear to be descended from humans who traveled with a group of high elves and settled an island somewhere ‘off the map’. That’s where their current Empire apparently exists. They call your home lands ‘the Old World’. Their emperor apparently sent them after a vision of Light, embodied in some kind of gigantic crystal ‘star’ down there. They maintain cordial, if somewhat distant, relations with the earthen.”

“And what of the earthen? This city is… fantastic. How they’ve kept everything so well, even despite the recent attacks by the nerubians.”

“Dornogal is their center. It’s ruled by a Council, but things are very much in flux. There was a group called the ‘Unbound’ who believed the best way to serve their people was to break from the ‘Edicts’ the Titans laid down. They’ve slowly started a reconciliation, as they were the stonemasons who helped build the place. At least one of the council, the ‘High Speaker’, was corrupted by the Void.”

“The Harbinger has been busy here, it seems.”

“Indeed so, Baron. Trying to corrupt the earthen, an ‘Order of Night’ among the Arathi… and of course, there’s the nerubians.”

“Not all of them are tainted, you said.” Kieran’s skepticism was clear. “How can you be sure? We thought the same thing with the Klaxxi in Pandaria - they helped our forces take down Empress Shek’zeer when she was corrupted by the Sha, only to reveal to us after that they were devotees of the Old Gods. They followed Garrosh when he found the Heart of Y’Shaarj.”

“The Weaver’s followers didn’t tell me much, but it seems that the Old Gods - or at least N’Zoth, the last of them - came to them at the end of your recent Alliance-Horde war, when the Black Empire was making its comeback. Their old queen refused to aid them. But it seems that the current queen sees the Harbinger as a way of restoring nerubian greatness. There’s talk about some kind of ‘Ascension’ ceremony. A number of the nerubian commanders who have attacked both the earthen and the Arathi have mentioned it, claiming we could not stop it.” Lengua shook her head. “They’re even more mad than the Primalists.”

“The Void has a tendency to do that.” Kieran frowned. “You said one of the earthen council was corrupted - is that why there are so few earthen around here?”

“Not quite. It seems their machinery had been in disrepair, and none of them truly knew what was required to fix it. Time and energy expenditure literally shut them down on the spot. But something has happened in recent days. Again, not a lot of details, but the Machine Speakers - their engineers and maintainers - have spoken of a ‘miraculous intervention’ that has reactivated their Halls of Awakening.” Lengua looked almost… wistful. “It seems so familiar to me.”

Kieran could see why. “If it’s true, perhaps you can help guide some of them, Lengua. Just as Zulimbasha and his friends helped guide you.”

The dracthyr looked surprised. “Me?”

“You have earned much experience in the short time out of your creche, but you’ve also proven to be wise and patient.” Kieran smiled. “You share an experience - a creation of those blessed by Azeroth’s makers… finding their way in a new world. I can think of no one better, and I’m sure our comrades would agree.”

“Look at you two chatterboxes.” Kitrik looked amused. “Havin’ fun without me, I see.”

Lengua smiled. “I would not dream of it, Master Kitrik.” She looked to the two of them. “I hope you have flying vehicles or steeds. It’s a long way down and through. I’ll meet you below at the gates to Hallowfall.”

“And how are you–” Both Forsaken and goblin were nearly blown off their feet as the dracthyr suddenly shifted and took off like a rocket, gliding around them, before diving straight down into the Coreway.

“Right,” Kitrik muttered. “Dragon. Wings.”