"Lady Sylvanas Windrunner tumbled in a free fall. Not in the physical sense; her body had been obliterated at the foot of Icecrown Citadel. It was her spirit that tumbled, lost, like a rudderless ship in a storm.
How had she gotten here? She couldn’t remember. Had she been killed by Arthas? Had she committed suicide? Had she been sent to judgment by the Val’kyr? Time was meaningless here. Her whole life seemed not a series of events but a single instant, a pinpoint flash of consciousness in an infinite void.
She saw only darkness.
And then she felt—truly felt, for the first time in a long while. She recoiled. In agony.
Here she was, her spirit once again feeling whole, only to feel it suffer. To feel once more, only to feel abject pain. Cold. Hopelessness.
Fear.
There were others in the darkness. Things she didn’t recognize, because nothing so terrible could exist in the world of the living. Claws tore at her, but she had no mouth with which to scream. Eyes looked at her, but she couldn’t look back.
Regret.
She sensed a familiar presence. Recognized it. The taunting voice that had once held her in its grasp. Arthas? Arthas Menethil? Here? His essence rushed to her, desperate, then shrank away in horrified recognition. The boy who would be Lich King. Just a scared little blond child, reaping the aftermath of a lifetime of mistakes. If any part of Sylvanas’s soul were not at that moment torn and tormented, she might have even felt—for the first time—the slightest glimmer of pity for him.
In the grand landscape of all the world’s suffering and all the evils of the infinite, the Lich King was… insignificant.
Now the others had her. Surrounded her. Gleeful, tormenting, tearing at her consciousness, delighting in her suffering.
Horror.
This was to be her eternity: the endless void, the dark, unknown realm of anguish."
Where’s that happen here? It doesn’t.