Get ready for a big ol’ read. For the sake of people who just want to casually browse, I’m putting this in this little detail thinger so it doesn’t take twenty minutes to scroll past.
Snowstorm in Suramar
“Farnois Luneaux, you are charged with treason against Suramar and her people. Lay down any arms you have and come with us.”
Arcane blue eyes connected. One blazed with fiery violet magic, the other icy purple. The thin lips of her former lieutenant spoke the words, sending chills down her spine.
“Not him,” she had said. Or perhaps she had thought it instead.
A flash of blades. Concentrated energy beam swords whistled like angry birds. Disarmed Duskwatch. Maeva utilized magic and swordsmanship alike in their defense, a storm of arcane weaponry.
Lucky hits streaked against her armor. Some drew blood, glittering at her feet like sparks of electricity. One, two, four, five, her body count increased. Her husband protested as each defender of their city fell. He didn’t understand. She had to protect him, even if he wouldn’t even protect himself.
Her prismatic shield stopped a volley of arcane blasts. Another volley made it tremble and vibrate. She carved their throats, stopping the sorcerers’ advance.
Green engulfed her vision. Farnois shouted. Her long ears rang. Everything burned and she was on the ground. Her magic armor sizzled as chaotic energy fought to devour the protective plate.
Emerald eyes came into view. A young nightborne smirked at her wickedly. Felborne scum. Her hand raised to Maeva, mouth contorting in a nameless spell. Another flash.
Maeva gasped for breath. Air pumped between her lips and she felt it escape through holes in her cheeks. Before she could reach up and finger the anomaly, a boney hand gripped her wrist. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, only able to make out a vague form lit up by two icy blue lights.
Though her sight was deprived, her ears twisted and perked up as sounds tumbled through the air. It was a cacophony of groans and wails, the warped noises of a torture room.
“Where-” she began. Her voice was strange. It echoed with an unholy mechanical sound. Everything was cold and muted. Her exposed flesh felt nothing, even as she rested on a glacial spike of ice.
“Icecrown,” answered a similar voice. The cloaked figure before her bowed its head in greeting. They were smaller than her, likely another race.
“What’s… wrong… with me?” Maeva demanded, flexing her hands, trying to regain blood circulation. It was as if her entire body had fallen asleep and would not awaken.
“You have been measured and found wanting,” the sullen figure explained helpfully.
“I don’t understand. Where is Icecrown? What did… you do?” She began to shift on the ramp, trying to sit up. Every muscle was sluggish and refused to move properly. Despite wearing nothing but a tunic and simple pants, she felt weighed down as if by armor.
“You stand at the foot of the Frozen Throne. Your business with the realm of the living is not complete. You may defend Azeroth once more,” the dark creature said, assisting her to her feet.
Strangely, her knees did not buckle as she expected. Each bend of the limbs held its shape, every fiber within her skin solidified into slushy ice.
“Azeroth…” she muttered. “Am I dead?”
“No.”
“Was I dead?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The answer shook her. Everything was a blur. Her memories were clouded and foggy, like the center of a snowstorm. She tried to step forward, only to find her knee would not bend in time. She awkwardly began sliding on the frozen floor into splits, hurling herself to her side to save her legs from the pain.
She landed in a thump on an outcropping of ice, jabbing the tiny glacier into her shoulder. The pain was a numb, aching one. It should have been more, yet all she felt was an unnatural excitement sparking to life in her brain. Suffering. Agony. Delicious. Exhilarating.
What was wrong with her?
“Am I undead?” She struggled to recall one of the Outlanders she had met. Undead who called themselves… “Forsaken?”
“The Forsaken are aimless and hold themselves to no standard. You are a knight of the King now,” the hooded man said, skull like face flashing a grin as she stumbled to her feet.
“What king?”
“The Jailor of the Damned. The true Dark Lord of the Dead, the Lich King.”
Even in her muted state, the name still forced a tremor of shock through her. The Outlanders often spoke of a being that commanded the Scourge, an endless army of undead poised to wipe out all life on Azeroth. She had met so many who were touched by his abyssal shadow, and now she was one of them.
“Am I Scourge? What happened to my body? What happened to Suramar?” she asked in rapid succession, the reality of her situation bearing down on her like a wild manasaber. The man in front of her chuckled darkly.
“You are now a death knight of the Ebon Blade. The life you led before is meaningless, you now serve His command, Maeva Luneaux,” he said, beckoning her to follow as he turned away.
A jolt of delightful, mournful pain came crashing down upon her unbeating heart.
“Where is my husband? Did he make it out?”
The other death knight froze. As she listened to the howling groans of other new death knights in the citadel, she feared he would be the bearer of bad news. Instead he let out a growling sigh.
“Forget the life you had. I do not know what happened to your husband, but you will find only sorrow. We do not feel as the living do. Love, compassion, empathy…” he shook his head, saronite hood rattling. “We do not have such luxuries. It makes us more effective. But grief…”
The undead placed a hand to a ring on his hand, stroking it lightly.
“The absence of those emotions strengthens the others. Come, you will bind your first runeblade and then I will introduce you to your instructor.”
“I have been a warrior for ten thousand years. A sorceress for five hundred. I will not require an instruct-” she fumbled on the slick blue floor once more. This time the man caught her by the shoulder.
His bald, waxy face smirked. “You have never been a death knight. All of us are skilled fighters. Undeath, however, is a new experience for each initiate. Our command over the unholy is unlike any magic you have abused.”
A putrid sickly color extended from his fingertips, funnelingunder her skin like a spreading disease. The strange energy flooded through her veins in a cold drizzle. When it throbbed up her neck and into her skull, she felt a sudden increase of power.
She could rip apart an arcane construct with her two hands if she wanted. She could run faster, jump higher, think quicker. She would stop a swinging blade with nothing but her palms. She would crush any paltry living creature for the glory of the Lich King.
A gasp tore from her throat, lifeless air hissing out of her torn cheeks.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“The might of Death,” the man replied, tugging her to a large skull platform with a cool blue fire belching forth from its bowels. There were twelve total, circling around the room, elevated slightly to form some kind of sparring ring in the center. She could not recall entering this room.
“Never do that again,” she demanded anxiously.
“The more you hone your abilities, the harder it will be for another to control you. Consider it encouragement to continue your training.”
She glared at him, finding something intensifying at the back of her vision. A blue mist that drifted out of her eyes stronger with her anger. Just like his.
The man pointed to a table at the far end of the coffin-shaped room. Rusted old weapons rested upon it, along with a line fitted into a number of racks on the wall. As she ran her hand down the selection, she raised a long, slender eyebrow.
“These are not the weapons of legend,” she said skeptically.
“They are historic. These are the weapons of the dead. They belonged to men and women who died on the battlefield. Though their bodies are old and withered, these blades have the hauntings of greatness. Much like their wielders,” he explained, drawing two swords from their sheathes at his sides.
The twin blades were beautiful. An alien black steel formed jagged waves into deadly pointed tips. Starting at the gemmed hilt, she found cruel runes skittered up the middle of the weapons, glowing with spectral blue light. It was a true weapon of a champion of death.
“I will reforge one of these into something like that?” The man nodded at her observation.
“You’re catching on quickly. A runeblade is fundamental to the identity of a death knight. You will be guided by the fragment of the weapon’s former owner. When you reforge it, the runeblade will be charged with its power and consume the souls of those who wield it,” he told her dramatically.
Maeva began sorting through the items. Sure enough, she could now hear a faint echo in each one. The remnants of a battle long ago lost played through her mind.
“I assume that will not be a problem for the likes of us,” she said, then furrowed her brow. “What happens to the soul of the previous owner?”
“It is only a fragment. But yes, that fragment will be consumed,” he said, returning his runeblades to his waist.
“Unfortunate.”
“We do what the living cannot. We cannot afford to be soft, initiate,” he said, shrugging.
Maeva knew that logically and morally she should be outraged, yet she felt a mild curiosity at the idea. If anything, she wanted to feel the exquisite pain of having ones soul devoured, ripped apart and stripped of all identity until it is nothing more than energy to be used by a stronger individual. Her nerves fired off at the thought, pretending almost as if she were still alive and had just thought of something exciting.
It disgusted her how anxious she was to begin. She felt a pull and desire to do that to all of the weapons present. Twist the souls and make them suffer. She clenched her fists.
“Which do I choose?” she asked.
“The weapon will call to you…” he began, just as she picked out a kaldorei captain’s greatsword. It was vaguely familiar, like an ancestor was calling out to her. The sword was elegant and curved, still in finer shape than the majority of the chipped gallery around her.
“…though most will be drawn to weapons of their race,” he finished. “A fine choice.”
A quiet whisper filled her sensitive ears. Shouts of battle, kaldorei sisters leaping from the trees and cutting down a pack of ghouls. The sharp crunch as arrows let fly only to disintegrate. The bone chilling laughter of the Defiler as he vaporized the sentinels on his way to the World Tree.
“Now what?” she asked, drawing herself away from the stolen memories.
“Now you begin the task of reforging the sword into a runeblade,” the death knight insisted. He guided her to the forge, and gestured to the blue flame.
She nodded and thrust the tip of her sword into the ice cold fire. An exciting scream of terror filled her head and her lips curled into a sadistic grin. Sparks of excess soul floated from the searing pit in the form of white embers. She inhaled calmly, closing her eyes to picture the image of the women she’d just obliterated.
The beautiful, purple haired woman stared at her with horrified silver eyes. Maeva wanted to console her, assure her it would be alright. Tell her she would honor her noble memory. But all she could do was take in the glorious intoxicating feeling of making another quiver in fear, and drink in the delicious suffering she caused.
Though it had only been a week, Maeva felt as though her induction in Icecrown Citadel happened a lifetime ago. The dreadful memories she had of the place were burned into her mind, crisp as a newly plucked fruit. But she was different now. Arguably better.
Her instructor warned her of the innate desire to cause pain. It was a pleasure that death knights were granted unlike any other. It made her feel alive and more, but it was addictive. So many had fallen in the past to their instincts, driven mad by a need to murder and torture. Maeva was determined to overcome her hunger. She had dealt with a mana addiction in the past, she could deal with this and remain a protector, not a terrorizer.
She stood on the upper terrace of Suramar, overlooking the menagerie below. The Shal’dorei always loved their zoo. They delighted in gawking at the exotic creatures, staring at them with innocent wonder. They were completely unaware of the monster that stood above them not one hundred yards away.
She had no business with the Shal’dorei themselves. Upon her return to Suramar, she sought out her husband. The archivists and former rebels led her on a wild goose chase, hiding their shame behind riddles upon riddles of false clues and leads.
Farnois Luneaux was exiled following her death. He went with Elisande’s loyalists without a fight, ever the pacifist and idealist. They pushed him out of the city just north of the vineyards, where the former noble would wander away in search of mana to sustain him. That was the last documentation of Farnois Luneaux.
Her tracking through the autumnal forests around Suramar was a waste of time. She hunted through the woods for an entire day before settling upon Shal’aran. The caretakers at the magical tree, the Arcan’dor, were the only useful individuals around. They recalled one of the withered wearing a silver ring with a white flower engraved in it.
The snowlily, a symbol of his house. It was also a rare defect in dusk lilies that left them pale as snow. Shal’dorei considered it great luck for one to grow in their gardens.
That luck failed him, it seemed. He never found the rebels in time, and they rounded him up along with the rest of the withered like cattle. Chances were, he perished as they threw him at the Nighthold like cannon fodder.
Her beloved husband. The smart, kind, and brave soul who sheltered children orphaned by Elisande’s tyranny. He was treated like a wild animal to be slaughtered for the benefit of the rebels and their allies. It repulsed her to even think she held sympathy for them once.
If this was how the people of Suramar treated their heroes, then Maeva would have nothing to do with them. She traveled to the city for only one reason. That reason was likely lying in a rotting mass grave beneath the Nighthold. When she received the closure she needed, she would leave the city behind and never return.
Her icy stare flickered away from the animal pens below. Beyond the violet ramparts would be a telemancy beacon. Nothing was to be gained from pondering on them. The living would continue about their business complacent and apathetic to others. As they were prone to do.
Heavy steps fell upon the fine elven masonry. Despite her distaste for their treatment of a good man, Suramar remained as beautiful as ever. The atrium was a gorgeous weaving of silver and maroon archways. Lanterns and enchanted moonstones shone at their peaks like stars stolen from the heavens.
The assortment of portals on the terminus terrace were explicitly brighter than the ambient lighting of the city. The eternal dusk lighting parted around the various standing portals, each shining with powerful arcane currents. Several citizens were passing in and out, taking with them shipments of shadefruit or returning home from a long day’s work.
The midnight elves gave her no special attention. Maeva put a great deal of effort to hide her corpse-like features with a black hood and wrapped a cloak around the rest of her death knight armor. Fortunately, the lichfire in her eyes was only faintly different to the more violet glow of a living nightborne’s. As far as most of them would know, she was simply a cautious merchant.
The portal she sought was in the center of the terrace. The tear in the fabric of reality stormed around an image of an archway, the entrance into the Nighthold. It saw the least use out of the majority of the portals in the network. Most who took portals about the city were artisans collecting materials or going to the market to sell their goods.
She found passing through the portal did not bring the typical dizzying sensation common to telematics travel. Though she would be happy to credit this reaction to her experience in the arcane field, she knew it was a result of her undeath. She was always discovering new perks for being undead.
As expected, few others resided on the other side. Most nobles sided with Elisande at the time, leaving the decadent house of lazy elite emptied for the most part when the rebellion stormed the palace. The few inhabitants now of the shell pink gates were just two ignorant guards.
They stared deep into one another’s eyes, sparks of violet energy pulsing around them as they passed the time arcfencing, a popular game among the nightborne. Though the sparsely armored duskwatch remained still, an invisible force pushed against both of them. The one to fall over first would lose.
At their feet lay a small number of coins. It seemed gold was once again becoming a more common among the Shal’dorei as they assimilated back into the world. They were taking bets.
Maeva cleared her throat and the two broke off quickly, glancing up sheepishly.
“Passing the time?” she asked, eyebrows raised with irritation. The casual dismissal of their duties would never have stood with her troops.
“Nobody has business in the Nighthold anyways,” the female spellblade muttered. Maeva’s eyes burned with escalated annoyance.
“What she means,” began the clearly more eloquent of the two, “Is that the First Arcanist is away.”
“Your duties end when no one is watching?” she said.
“And what is your duty, pray tell?” the male asked, quickly changing the topic.
“I am here to find my husband,” she told him, crushing his defiance with a frozen gaze.
“Name?” the woman asked, flicking a wrist and summoning a floating piece of parchment.
“Luneaux,” Maeva said, sliding her hands to her hilt. She did not want to subjugate them, but she had to find her husband.
The cantrip buzzed aggressively at the watchers and the man shook his head.
“No Luneauxs, check with the city registry.”
“Of course there are no Luneauxs. Your First Arcanist used the last living Luneaux as cannon fodder two years ago,” she accused. Instantly the duskwatch drew their blades.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but your tone speaks volumes. You had best be off, my lady,” he demanded.
Maeva was slow to draw her runeblade. The guards posed little threat to her, but were an important means to an end. They had access to the archway beneath the hold. The mausoleum of the withered, now.
“You don’t belong here…” whispered the girl, who immediately shrunk as Maeva faced her, the air growing ice cold.
She did not bother with additional words. Her attack was instant and relentless. A freezing blast stuck the man to the wall of the gatehouse. When the spellblade woman attempted to strike her, she simply grabbed her wrist before the enchanted sword could follow through.
A quick jab from the woman’s left hand forced Maeva to disengage. Drawing her own weapon, she swiped with the glowing edge to keep the woman corralled against the wall. Her companion was heating the ice with fingers of flame.
Parrying another attack, Maeva beared down on the woman suddenly, using the weight of her armor to pin her to the wall.
The spellblade struggled, bringing her knee to Maeva’s stomach. It bounced off her armor harmlessly. With the spellblade’s feeble counter attack failing, she grabbed her opponent’s throat and squeezed. Another pang vibrated off her saronite as the stuck elf tried to gouge her in the back.
An excited murmur left Maeva’s lips as she watched the woman’s squirming and eyes dim at the same time. The feeling of having such power over another’s life and to bring it to an end almost distracted her from the flash of the other guard’s arcane blast. She tried blocking it with her hand. The saronite in her glove protected her from the brunt of the explosion, but it knocked her away from her target.
Both women fell to the ground, one gasping and barely clinging to breath, the other rising from the ground without any sign of faltering. The man was preparing another spell but was quickly caught off guard by her fast recovery. A hilt to his chin caused him to stumble back, where she promptly froze his arm to the wall again. One enemy at a time.
The woman behind her scrambled onto her feet just in time for Maeva to bring her own knee up into her brow with a harsh crack. She flailed onto her rear, looking up at the death knight with horror. A look of dreaded realization peeled across the spellblade’s face and she dove away, using a blink spell to teleport herself down the steps. Heading straight for the portal.
Maeva tried to pursue her, but the man grappled her by the shoulders from behind.
“Keep goi-” he called out before she threw him overhead. As he landed on his side, she rooted his leg, arm, and chest to the ground, hoping this time the pesky duskwatch would stay down.
Her attention turned to the fleeing woman. The spritely thing was already halfway there. As she charged forward, it became increasingly clear that the spellblade’s lack of armor and lighter frame was the victor this time. Once she passed through the portal, she would call for help. Reinforcements would arrive and detain her, preventing any chance she had of finding her husband.
An infuriated shriek howled out of her lungs and she reached helplessly for the escaping elf. Dark purple energy coiled around her, initially deceiving her into thinking the persistent man had sent another spell to assist his ally. Instead, it yanked the spellblade back with a surprised gasp, straight into Maeva’s grip. Another perk had made itself apparent, evidently.
Maeva took advantage instantly, straining her muscles to lift the smaller elf over her head to slam her to the ground, cracking the intricate masonry around them. A sharp groan emitted from the woman below her, who tried to roll away. Something was broken, as she cried out from the attempt, arching her back and writhing in agony.
“Don’t touch her!” shouted the spellblade behind them. Maeva turned to eye him up. His milky blue eyes glittered with the desperation of someone about to lose a friend. Perhaps even more.
She grinned wickedly at him, realizing just how much she craved his terror. It was a delight to discover yet another way to cause pain and sate her lust for it. Without looking, she pointed a free hand at the writhing woman. A dark curse reached for her and she began screaming.
“Stop! What, are you mad?!” he yelled, renewing his effort to shatter the bonds that held him down.
An echoing sound penetrated the air, caused by the sudden restriction of flow to her lungs. The elf beneath Maeva gagged and gasped, gripping her throat. Wordless choking gurgled out of her mouth as she fought for air, saliva dripping down her chin in panic. Maeva smiled at the sight malevolently. It wouldn’t be long before the fire of life faded.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” bellowed the man. “I will do ANYTHING, spare her!”
“Take me below the Nighthold,” Maeva replied coolly. She lifted her runeblade to him and the ice shattered. As he tried to stand she closed the gap between them and held the blade to his chest. “Don’t be a hero.”
“I… wouldn’t… try it,” he growled, glancing at his friend. Maeva uncurled her fingers and the woman’s choking turned into a strained inhale.
“She will not die immediately now. But it is not enough to sustain herself forever. One hour before permanent brain damage,” she said, eyes lighting up. “Three before complete system failure.”
“Then we had best be quick,” he said, clenching his fists in held back anger. For a moment, Maeva worried he might try something. She did not want to kill anyone.
But in fact, she did want to kill them. She wanted to hear him scream as her weapon feasted upon his friend’s soul, only for him to join her. She hated that. She was torn between her instincts and all that she knew to be right.
The man’s features softened in defeat and his shoulders sagged.
“Where to?”
“The catacombs you call the Arcway. Where you so ceremoniously left the bodies of our withered people,” she said, relief flooding into her. Death would not be dealt that day, even if her very being hammered it into her mind every second.
The spellblade nodded slowly, staring at his friend with a distressed frown.
“Tic toc,” Maeva reminded him. “Perhaps you can stall for three hours, but would you risk the one?”
“Curses upon you, demon,” he hissed, pushing past her to stomp towards a side gate.
The accusation stung her deeply. She was anything but a demon. The demons did this to her, indirectly, by killing her with their felborne slave. Warding off the thought, she stepped up behind him while he worked to disable the arcane lock.
With a vibrant hum, the gate swung open and Maeva insisted they continue with an aggressive step forward. Her large black figure provided only one direction for the white haired elf to go. Sparing one final glance at his wheezing friend, he motioned for Maeva to follow.
Follow she did, trailing him with heavy footsteps. His curved ears flexed and twitched with every footfall, ever alert. At least he had some awareness, now that his life was in danger.
They went down a system of stars and paths that hung to the side of the Nighthold. As was prided in elven construction, it was designed beautifully with complex railing and a number of twinkling lamps and plant pots hanging over the edge. The lights reflected in the sea below like a mirror of the night sky.
Their silence broke as the man reached the Arcway entrance. It burrowed deep into the guts of the Nighthold, even connecting to the remnants of the Nightwell itself. When he dispelled the lock, he quickly turned to leave. Maeva planted her heavy arm in the wall next to him.
“I did what you asked, now release Relle!” he demanded.
“We both know that would be a mistake on my part,” Maeva said, shrugging.
“What more do you need?” He asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“You’re coming with me,” she replied, pointing down the black abyss of the tunnel.
“Why?”
“So you don’t warn the others,” she said sharply, grabbing his ear and yanking him after her. He yelped in shock and stumbled down the steps with her.
The darkness swallowed them up with each flight of stairs they descended. Maeva did not mind much, as the faint blue glow from her armor provided enough for her to see. Her captive, however, began to moan about being unable to see. His living senses were not attuned to shadow.
With a sigh, she muttered a spell and the braziers on the sides of the hallway burst to life with a ghostly flame.
“You could have done that any time?” the spellblade asked indignantly.
“Yes.”
“You’ve walked these halls,” he then keenly observed.
“Yes.”
“What happened to you?” he asked with wide eyes.
“It does not matter. When I get what I need, I will leave and you will never see me again,” she said, keeping a firm grip on his arm in case the chatter emboldened him.
“What are you looking for?”
“A victim,” she said.
“You’re here to pay respects to the fallen?” he asked, raising a long brow.
“Does that surprise you?”
“I should have known only love would drive someone to actions this desperate,” he said. The fool had a death wish.
When Maeva did not humor his response, he pushed further.
“What is your name?”
She paused, causing the man to stumble down a few steps. “Why do you care?”
“Because there is a bond among Nightborne. We’re all from this city, shared the same sorrows. I am having trouble figuring out what… happened.”
“I am a knight of the Ebon Blade. That is all there is. The lives we led before were meaningless,” she said.
“I don’t believe that,” he muttered. He was right, naturally. Maeva was here for a reason, after all.
The tight space around the stairs opened into a larger circular area, coiling around a mesh of silver and stone. The hollow emptiness spoke even to Maeva. It was an empty coffin for their beloved Nightwell. Long ago, the life giving arcane energies flowed from below, through the spire up into the rest of the Nighthold.
“What happened,” she stated at the man.
“The First Arcanist believed it was necessary to give up the Nightwell and our addiction to mana in order to become independent,” he said.
Maeva squeezed her grip around her runeblade. The Dusk Lily had not only turned her back on the withered, but also the heritage of the Nightborne. There was nothing left for her in Suramar, which only fed her desire never to return.
“The withered were taken below,” her indentured guide said.
“Stay here,” she muttered, sheathing the greatsword. When the spellblade gave her a look she crossed her arms. “If you don’t you will condemn your woman to death.”
“She’s not my-”
“After surviving a life and death situation together she might be,” Maeva said, shrugging. “If you asked.”
“Did I just get relationship advice from the knight that beat us to near death?” he asked, chuckling in dismay.
Maeva rolled her eyes. “Just stay here. You have almost survived your encounter with a death knight.”
She trudged onward, leaving the spellblade to his make his own decisions. Dust caked the once brown floor before the stairwell to the final chambers. It erupted around her boots as she approached her destination, making her thankful her nose no longer functioned. Or existed.
She did not bother with lighting the hold below. It cascaded across a number of stacked bodies, barely illuminating the outlines of the withered corpses. There were hundreds, if not thousands stacked neatly in tunnels of all directions. With the extinguished well in the center, the cavernous system had been refitted into a tomb for the Shal’dorei’s past.
Mechanical pinging noises resounded up and down the bodies, ringing in her ears like a chorus of bells. Rusted arcane constructs roamed the catacombs, shifting and repositioning corpses. It seemed the Nightborne cared so little for their former brethren that they did not even bury them below the Nighthold themselves.
A construct drew near, clinking and panging in curiosity at her. When she moved to shoo the construct off, it reared up and darted back, realizing the corpse it was about to sort was still alive.
Maeva hissed at the artificial beings and turned to scan through a pile. It would take her days to look through them all, especially with the malfunctioning constructs repositioning them every few minutes. She did not have that time. Nor did Relle.
Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses. The whispers of the dead greeted her. Grunts and rasps attacked her ears, mixed with the occasional disembodied words of those who still had some brief memory of who they were as they died. Farnois likely did not have any memories left of them. Maeva had enough for them both, at least.
She began walking through the body stacks, listening intensely for a familiar feeling. Something, anything. The haunted moans of the dead were accelerating the deeper she went, stacking with each pile she passed. The chaos soon became an unbearable clash of violet, angry spirits.
Clutching her skull, Maeva dropped to her knees, lights flashing behind her eyelids as she became overwhelmed. She cried out and forced her eyes open, breaking herself out of the trance. The silence that returned was almost just as painful.
Another arcane construct made its way to her, raising and lower its head as it stared at her with its lifeless face.
“GO!” Maeva screamed, waving her arms. The construct jolted back and galloped away.
She dropped to her hands and felt a drizzle of cold creeping up her veins. Her body was reacting to the shock of emotions from the ghosts. She snarled at the weakness, thrashing out at nothing. All she received was a greeting from the ground as she fell face first onto it.
As she lifted her eyes from the dusty cobblestone, she caught sight of a glint in the withered bodies. Someone was wearing jewelry.
Moving on what she assumed to be destiny, she crawled up to the cadavers. As she expected, it was a ring. A snowlily was engraved on in and she quickly grabbed the arm, pulling the body free. A construct dinged angrily, but turned to flee as Maeva unleashed a howling blast of ice in its direction. It was him, and nothing would keep them apart.
“Far,” she whispered, touching his sullen eyes. He was barely recognizable. His muscles had shrunk around his bones, barely covering them in a thin layer of skin. Most of his hair had fallen out and hung sparsely in an unsorted mess from his scalp.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to feel something. All she could do was stare at him with apathy, stroking his face as she had done when they were alive. She was staring at the corpse of her beloved husband and yet all she felt was annoyance at the constructs around them.
What monster felt nothing when staring at the love of their life?
Maeva’s throat vibrated into a growl that grew into a shout. Rage filled her soul. She had to feel something about his death. She had gone through so much just to find him, and now she realized she was too twisted to care.
Her victory, her opportunity to find closure was hollow.
Another construct chittered as it crept up to her. Long spider like arms reached out to snag the body. A flash of enchanted saronite and the appendage split from its body, perfectly cut. Another flash and she sliced it in two.
Other constructs whirred as they turned to watch their brother spark and shatter. Maeva gave them no chance to react. A snowstorm of unholy and frost engulfed the catacomb, accented with the screeching of metal being hewn in half.
When she ascended the steps back up into the empty Nightwell room, she found the spellblade waiting. She remained as cool as before, hiding the meltdown she was enduring with the poised experience of ten thousand years.
“I hope you found what you were l-” his eyes bulged as Maeva drove her runeblade though his exposed abs.
Glittering arcane blood drizzled down her hilt as the runeblade feasted gluttonously on his dispersing soul. He grabbed her wrists and tried weakly to yank the black steel from his flesh. He failed.
“Wh… gggh…” he whimpered, wild eyes flickering to take in as much of the world as they could before being extinguished.
She took her time removing the blade. The sound of wet flesh tearing against its edge sang like the priestesses of Elune to her. When its tip squelched free, the blood slipped off nearly instantly, as if the runeblade itself had consumed it.
His body hit the floor in a thud, releasing an explosion of dust into the air. Maeva stared emptily as his corpse leaked out onto the floor. Tiny rivulets of pleasure throbbed in her darkened mind. Included with the pleasure came a mixture of other emotions too, however.
Faded images of her life with Farnois twinkled in the back of her mind. She was off duty when they first met, hunched over a spellbook she’d been saving up money for for the last few centuries. He had a way with words. No matter how dismissive she was of the spoiled nobleman, he seemed to have some clever reply. Compliments that made her feel special and comfortable around him.
They courted for years while he taught her magic. With their marriage he assured she would become an arcanist. It broke her heart that the occupation led to a denial of her application. Farnois consoled her the entire time. She cried into his arms almost weeks before her death.
She naturally reached up to wipe away a tear. In her brief moment of living memories, she’d forgotten the simple costs of undeath. That she could not cry. Her heart froze once more as the pleasure fogged away. Wind howled from the Nighthold’s exit, inviting her to leave it far behind. She let out a ragged breath before stepping forward.
Flakes of snow formed and drifted around her, settling on her armor and fur lining like glitter. She was once more overlooking the city of Suramar, this time standing on rocky hill at the northern side. Her actions to this point were numb and thoughtless, as if running purely on instinct.
Farnois’ body lay several feet away, worn and beaten from her dragging him out of the city. She did not know why she took him outside, nor did she know exactly why she killed the spellblade and spared the other. Something dark and warped inside was twisting her actions, yanking her aloof thoughts into one of pure obsession. She would be with her husband again.
A grating noise echoed across the deserted woods as she drew her runeblade. The ominous runes banished the night’s darkness with an eerie cyan glow, which intensified as she pointed it at Farnois. There was a delay, a hesitation as the hero still trying to survive in her soul attempted to convince her not to do this. Not to force this existence upon her husband.
Her obsession prevailed, and the light of her greatsword transferred out, bathing the former noble’s body with a pale white mist. A hand grasped out of it, followed by another. Soon the vague form of a humanoid thrashed and flailed in the mist. The translucent figure eventually settled into the vessel, and as the fog dissipated, Farnois arose.
Maeva sheathed her sword, dark eyebrows furrowing in thought.
“Far…?” she asked, unable to hold back. She hurried forward and took hold of the sides of his face.
The withered husk gazed vacantly at nothing, empty blue eyes filled displaying only mindlessness. She murmured something softly and stroked his hair as she did when he was stressed. The ghoul simply drooled and gurgled in a weak attempt at acknowledging its master.
A veil of regret instantly swarmed her. This was not Farnois. Where was the warmth? The wit? Where was the man she felt so safe around?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry…”
She placed a hand to her hilt. Her runeblade was suddenly so heavy. She knew she should release him. Instead she left him go, spinning to channel as spell. A gateway of death and shadow unlocked before her. Echoing from it came the haunted moans of Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
“Come, dear,” she said gently, taking his hand in hers as she guided the lost spouse to his new home. It only hissed and growled in agreement.
