The command chamber was a tangled web of felsteel arches and tempered glass, resembling the inside view of a monster’s half-open jaws. The sun shining through the stained windows turned the warm yellow sunlight green, casting a viridian hue on everything… and everyone. More gan’arg engineers than they could count were scrambling over each other and squabbling amongst themselves in a feverish rush to get the Krakenax up and running again. The felguards keeping them in line were far better armed and armored than their counterparts as well, looking more like bipedal black beetles than demons.

“For ten thousand years you nipped at my ankles. For ten thousand years you chased me.” Miraan the Benevolent shouted, her voice echoing off the walls with a thunderous boom. Her Benevolence sat atop an ebon throne of melted felsteel and charred skulls, most of which belonged to the eredar she personally killed. At first she didn’t turn to acknowledge their presence; but it wasn’t until they were all inside did the door suddenly close and lock behind them. “I was afraid you would die before we had our chance to meet again. Do you remember what you told me before we were separated?”

“J’a-l? R-pond! J-zel com- in!” What was left of her radio flickered and squeaked amongst the warped steel and melted rock. Slowly J’azel opened her eyes to see the fire-swept plains of Argus, cradling the remains of the Krakenax amongst the dirt and ashes. It still felt like her warframe was spiraling toward the ground, but she knew better; now that her consciousness was returning, she had to move fast if she wanted to reach her sister before the Horde did. “-azel?! Ans- -e!”

She reached up to dust off the damaged receiver, “J’azel… aauuugh… reporting in…”

“Than- the -ight!” Vice Admiral Taarth’s voice was clearer now, but it would be some time before she could fix her receiver. “I’m sen-ing a -escue squad! H-ld tight!”

Istrys hurried through chamber after chamber, occasionally raising more corpses along the way that her pets generously left behind for her. Yet even with them mapping the ship out, she still felt no closer to finding Rethandus than when she first boarded; and she would need to find him before that bomb went off, or all that would remain of them both would be fleeting memories.

Almost half of her ghouls attending the Oathguard were already slain, but that was to be expected. A surprise rush might work fine for unarmed mechanics still disoriented from the Krakenax slamming into the cliffside, but seasoned and well armed felguards wouldn’t be so easily vanquished. “The fewer ghouls the better.” Istrys thought. It would be easier to focus on finding Rethandus if she also wasn’t fighting a half dozen battles at the same time.

The Krakenax buckled from the explosion.

Her crew were ripped out of their seats and tossed against the walls like ragdolls, slamming and falling on top of each other as the strain on the ship’s hull caused her to groan in agony. A ripple traveled through the walls and floors as if the reinforced felsteel of the Krakenax were all switched out with water. In an instant the entire crew were engulfed in darkness from the sudden blackout, but they had little time to gather themselves before a second crash sent the disoriented demons back into the air. Without power the Krakenax had veered into the cliffside, the melted rock spires punching through the weakened hull and skewering the blinded and unwary. Entire rooms were crushed between the Krakenax and Argus, rendering the bottom starboard of the ship completely destroyed as she almost wrapped around the cliffs before rolling down onto even ground, in a cloud of cinders and dust.

J’azel walked to the staging area with the rest of her squad, to the tune of the staggered clicking of their iron-capped hooves against the metallic floor, the soft clanking of their thighs in their dawnsteel carapace armor, and the leathery twisting and rubbing of their pilot suits underneath. The steady hum of the Gladicaar and the vibration beneath J’azel’s hooves helped maintain her composure, but she was anything but tranquil; for at long last she had the chance to face her sister for all the atrocities she committed, and either redeem her in the presence of the Light, or bring her to justice.

“Alright, fall in!” Squadron Leader Isret turned to face her team while they stopped shoulder to shoulder with another and snapped to attention. “This mission - like all missions - will be pivotal to the final destruction of the Burning Legion. You know the stakes. You know the risks. Many of us may not survive to see the cosmos freed from Sargeras’ blight… if anyone has doubts, or things they want to take care of before this mission starts, you are free to leave. No one will judge you.”

Stepping back onto Argus after only a week of rest felt like Gonthar was visiting this planet for the first time all over again; the smoldering ash clinging to his wet snout, the dead wind scratching at his hide, the stench of fel sludge and death, all of it felt so foreign. Azeroth drifted between Argus and An’she, casting a colossal black shadow that draped across the whole of the planet; it was as dark as Argus could be away from its mother sun, which only made the impending battle that much more foreboding.

“Are you ready to meet with Illidan’s pet projects and the Naaru’s slaves?” Istrys asked, standing next to her Gonthar. He was beginning to realize why Rethandus was always ignoring her constant quips. He adjusted his belt and gauntlets in front of the cracked and dirty mirror at the base of the Command Tower before nodding. Slowly they stepped back out into the harsh winds of Argus with only the torches lining the walls and the large Draenei warship looming overhead casting any semblance of light. A lightforged beacon sat just outside of Felfathom Keep, south of the entrance. Although Istrys seemed apprehensive of using such a device for obvious reasons, Gonthar was eager to experience the ancient and blessed technology for himself. The Holy Light washed over his body with an intense warmth, making him suddenly feel weightless while the beacon lifted him off the ground. A blinding flash and an instant later and he was inside the warship with a rush of vertigo.

Ijiro, Eristel and Istrys all exchanged varying glances but Zolaar never saw them; all of his attention was focused on Kaarst Shattercraft handing Gonthar his freshly-sharpened axe. “Commander, I know you don’t trust him…” Ijiro started, taking a small step to the Sunwalker’s side. “But this isn’t a good look for your first day on the job, yeah?”

“I don’t care what this looks like.” His retort was aggressively curt. “He is a traitor, he must be punished.”

What was left of Rethandus’ runeblade rested on the table before Istrys. The runes along the battered hilt were spent and destroyed, with most of the blade missing, twisted, or melted from felfire. Even worse the Harbinger’s body and the rest of his team were nowhere to be found; Istrys couldn’t decide whether that made her feel better or worse. Istrys sat at the high table in the newly constructed barracks, with the whole of the Oathguard squeezed into the meeting hall with her. How they bickered and argued in their commander’s absence made her angry, but she could hardly blame them. Under her command the Oathguard has grown stagnant. Restless. 

Things were different when she lead the Blackguard aboard Zaldrannar. The only person she had to impress was Zerethel, and the only person she had to watch out for was herself; she would never get used to putting the needs of the living before her own, and these past few weeks have proven she wouldn’t be any good at it for a long time. Without Alucieus the Oathguard lacked direction, and without Rethandus, a purpose. She and the other officers needed someone to lead them until he was found, and after much thought, she finally came up with a solid plan to get them back into shape to finish the Burning Legion off.

From the moment Rethandus dropped from his deathcharger and began the rest of the way to the Burning Legion stronghold on foot, he never felt more alone.

Wrestling with his inner demons was a daily routine. When he managed to subdue them by rationalizing his actions, he would spend the rest of the day a somber yet stable man. He knew all of the people he killed to sate his curse was wrong, yet justified; the many others that got in his way felt justified too. Thinking about all of the people he slaughtered seemed fair when stacked against all the people he saved. On the days he proved victorious the burdens on his shoulders were light and easy to carry, his sins almost negligible. Other days when he lost the battle, the world around him would slow to a crawl. He would think of all the innocent people who died aboard Zaldrannar, and for what? His skewed sense of honor? Of justice?

His desire to do what he felt was just and righteous cost Tyrasam her husband, Jaeras her surrogate father, and Alucieus a close friend. His eagerness to prove he could defeat Whitstan in a duel cost hundreds of good men and women their lives; furthermore all of Quel’Thalas was put at risk of a second undead rampage, with all the blame shifted on Istrys’ shoulders. He was a blind fool, staggering in the dark and trampling on the lives of the innocent for his misguided quest for redemption. Today he was not worth saving. Today he was not worthy of even standing beside good people. Today he lost the battle.

Fifty brave soldiers marched to the thunder of war drums. Many sang songs, both famous in the Horde and obscure alike, while others laughed and taunted each other; anything to dull the edge of the impending battle. They seemed happy, eager to step out of the dust and shadows and reunite with the forces of Azeroth. All but Gonthar as the drums reminded him of home. He could still smell the Stonetalon Mountains like he was there this morning, the bitter chill of the wind sweeping through the passes, the fat buzzards circling overhead. The hideous glow of burning tents, and the screams of pacifist tauren and would-be heroes alike. The Sunwalker could still feel the tattoos etched into his hide when he rubbed at his neck. The mark of the Grimtotem would stay with him. Always.

“Sunsheath?” Sahe snapped him out of his depressed trance with the call of her soothing voice. The Druidess walked alongside him with only the clammer of her feathers and hollow charms dangling from her mane making any noise; she was always deceptively deft at keeping quiet, often catching Gonthar by surprise without even trying. “Is everything alright?”

Out of everyone in the Oathguard, Eristel had the best arrangement in the entire operation.

As Quartermaster, it was his sole duty to ensure the Oathguard was properly equipped and prepared for their time on Argus. Every two weeks he would have to count every crate of supplies they had to make a comprehensive list of what they needed to last them another fortnight. He then would establish a secure connection between Felfathom Keep and the Amber Glade to deliver the goods; during that six hours of transitioning he was free to visit his family, watch Jaeras’ progress with her pyromancy, and most importantly, spend some quality time with Tyrasam.

Until the next fateful encounter, Eristel decided to keep himself occupied the best way he knew how. Channeling spellflame was now as easy as breathing, and he worked to improve his pyromancy at any given time; his last encounter and his second true battle against the Burning Legion proved he was still too overzealous with his incantations. Despite engulfing any demons he came across with molten vengeance so hot it would make Ragnaros blush, no pyromancer worth their weight should ever exhaust themselves of mana minutes into a battle. He needed to pace himself and exercise restraint if he wanted to be of any use to anyone.

Nairi didn’t know what to think when her father led the reconnaissance team deep into enemy territory. She traveled with him through these wastes before, but with far greater numbers and with a much lighter mood. Death was on the horizon and everyone could feel it hanging over them like a shroud, yet no one was more eager to face it than Nairi; she was eager for another chance to prove herself in her father’s eyes, and she was more than ready to get drunk off her bloodlust while painting Argus with the essence of her enemies. While she left Felfathom Keep with adrenaline coursing through her veins, almost half a day later traversing the wastes had taken a major toll on her patience.

She never knew how much she missed the hustle and bustle of Silvermoon City. The clanking of dirty plates, the splash of ale and wine across tavern floors, the steady chorus of vapid and shallow gossip exchanged between countless forgettable faces, and the occasional teenager pestering passerbys with their poorly written songs, dreaming of becoming the next world-famous bard. Whenever she was stationed in the city in between her missions, she would always do her best to avoid such noisy places, but now it was all she could think about. No one here talked more than a few words - for good reason - leaving long periods of time without anyone speaking at all. Nairi was subjected to the crunch of gravel and ashes beneath everyone’s feet, the occasional mournful howl of the dead dry wind, or the guzzling bubble of filthy fel magma nearby; they would step across freshly scorched earth if she was lucky, allowing her to walk on melted stone and listen to the thin layer of glass shatter under the slightest shift in weight. Naturally boredom quickly became her next challenge, and she decided to tackle it the best way she knew how.

Ijiro rubbed a soft handkerchief between his course fingers. He pressed it against his scarred cheek, closed his remaining eye, and deeply inhaled; the scent of her skin was now faint, but still enough to remind him of home. The Hunter looked up at Azeroth looming low in the sky, but most of the Eastern Kingdoms was covered in swirling clouds; a pity, he wanted to pinpoint the Amber Glade all the way from here. Sometimes he wondered if Syrahn was doing the same on the other side.

Abrupt shouting caught Ijiro’s attention. He turned to see Gonthar in a fit of rage, practically tossing elves aside while he made his way through the gathering crowd. It wasn’t until he saw the murderous intent in his beady eyes did the seriousness of the situation hit home.

As eager as she was to depart from Felfathom Keep to traverse the desolate wastes again, Nairi was forced to stay her feet and not tread beyond the thick stone walls without her father’s permission. Ijiro kept her close nearly at all times; any closer and she might as well be conjoined with him at the hip. Rarely did he allow her to leave his side, not after the fiasco against that hulking fel lord. Nairi knew her protest would fall on deaf ears, so she didn’t bother. As the dust stung at her dry throat and eyes, while the Oathguard prepared to deploy for their first incursion - their first real battle against the Burning Legion on Argus, her father eventually opened his mouth to speak.

“You frightened me.” he spoke in a hushed tone, turning his head slightly in her direction; but all she could see was the black leather eyepatch embracing his scarred face. “I thought I was about to witness the death of my daughter, my firstborn. You may not understand that kind of fear yet… and I pray you never will.”

The reconnaissance team had little time for rest before they were tasked with relaying as much information as possible to Commander Andu’al and his officer corp. His office at the peak of the tallest tower in Felfathom Keep was too windy and, thanks to the manabomb they detonated, too dusty to use. Rethandus instead commandeered the recently vacated mess hall for this purpose; it was the largest building with a closed roof for now, and despite the bits of discarded food and trash still lying about, the long table was well suited to hold the scribbled map of Argus.

Ijiro had a haunch of roasted chicken in one hand and a ceremonial knife in the other, barking and muttering orders at his team to ensure the accuracy of their work. The map itself didn’t have to be precisely to scale, but the Hunter needed it realistic enough for his commander to comprehend both the lay of the land, and the demonic threat they were up against. Rethandus remained silent while they scribbled away at the sheet of thick parchment spread across the table, taking in any knowledge he could gleam before the start of their discussion began. At least that’s what he intended.

The Krakenax lurked in the great shadow cast by Argus, adrift in low orbit with minimal power. Originally a stealth cruiser designed to sneak behind enemy lines for crippling ground incursions via rapid deployment, the ship has been retrofitted countless times, picking at the bones and entrails of destroyed ships like a vulture in the aftermath of great and terrible battles. Now the dreadnaught was capable of bombarding worlds into oblivion if left unchecked, and therefore remains one of the Burning Legion’s greatest assets close enough to Argus to defend their bastion; a gift to one of the last Eredar worthy of the Dark Titan’s blessings.

On top of that, the Krakenax is home to ten thousand strong. Much like the ship herself most of the crew were plucked from battlefields, survivors that have gone off to face impossible odds only to barely return again and again; the metaphorical wheat from the chaff. All were eager to push themselves to the limits of their fel-gorged bodies. All were eager to prove to Sargeras that they would prevail when the greatest army ever forged crumbled around them. All were eager to fill the void left behind by Kil’jaeden and Archimonde’s defeat at the mortal hands of Azeroth, and all were eager to end the power vacuum before it threatened to break the Burning Legion.

Nairi sprinted through the thick cloud of dust and blue embers that choked the landscape in the wake of the manabomb’s violent detonation. No former signs of life persisted this close to the initial blast, with the rare exception of a chunk of armor or blackened bones jutting out of the glassed earth; but as the Bandit moved further and further out, she began to find potential prey that managed to survive on the outskirts of the explosion. Several Felguards were still alive, but barely. The searing heat had melted their armor onto their scorched flesh, leaving most of them with serious burns. Other less fortunate survivors had their prosthetic limbs melted together, leaving them both mortally wounded and crippled. Nairi ignored their anguish and denied them a merciful end to their suffering, choosing to let their deaths be as long and as painful as they were wicked; she wasn’t interested in picking off demons who were already hand-delivered to Death’s door. There was no sport in that. No, she needed a challenge to test her skills, a bounty big enough to put another notch on her belt, and another tally on her growing list of impressive takedowns. As if fate was paying attention, her ideal prey appeared in the embers and dust.

It was the largest Fel Lord she had ever seen, lumbering through the haze, more angry and dazed than injured. A small squad of four heavily armored Felguards accompanied him, all still standing; she knew facing them alone was foolhardy, even in their disoriented states, but she had something to prove. Maybe if she impressed them enough, one day Ashelin and Areus would let her join their team and teach her everything they know. Nairi ran low enough to scrape her elbows and knees against the burning dirt, hidden beneath the thick haze of dust as to not be detected until she was a ready. The demons barked at each other in a language she hasn’t cared to understand, completely unaware of her presence. She circled around, swiping her saber out of its sheath while she rose out of the shadows to begin her dance of death. Nairi abandoned any further attempts for stealth, sprinting as fast and as hard as she could toward one of the armored Felguards from behind; her boots landed hard on his shoulders and she used him to launch herself toward her target’s back, hoping to drive her blade in between his armor and end this fight before it began.