The rain came to Elwynn as it always did in the spring, heavy and hard, staining the dirt a darker brown and feeding the forest in preparation for another long summer. It was a warm rain with hardly any wind, silvery puddles and diamonds against window panes, the smell of life thick in the air.
Mary stood in the doorway of Halethâs little house, admiring the rain and the lone black horse tied to the hitching post up the path. She was wrapped in a black dressing gown, lace and chiffon to her ankles, pulling it tighter around her as she stepped onto the stoop. Raindrops from the overhand threatened her bare feet, but she didnât mind. It wasnât entirely unlike home.
It had been weeks since they brought the horse back from Booty Bay. Weeks since sheâd picked through the ashen remains of a demonâs body, crumbling flesh and bone in search of a stone, delicate and strange. She held it in her hand, idly running a thumb across its glassy surface.
Would it hurt? She wondered. Did it matter if it did? Uncertainty tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a threshold, or it felt like one, that would stain her should she choose to cross it. Loss of life, yes, but what soldier couldnât say that? The twisting of life beyond recognition; to taint something so completely with fel and void it ceased to be the sweet boy tied to a post, tossing his head in the rain. Well. That was different.
A quiet voice from behind caught her attention, pulling her from her thoughts. Mary stepped back inside, wet footprints on wood, dressing gown clinging to her frame. The horse at the post watched with black eyes as she turned, a final look in his direction, and closed the door.
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The door to his little bath stood ajar, golden candlelight pouring out from within. Skeleton hands of moonlight crept across the floorboards and lukewarm water in the basin, across pale, bruised skin, and a discarded red dress in a heap by ceramic feet.
Their plan had gone poorly, despite Maryâs best efforts. One minute she was staring down a horse, her horse, the one sheâd had for years as a girl, and the next he was charging her with eyes full of fear as the fel tore through his body. A tarnished plate covered in splinters and a pair of tweezers still sat on a stool by the open door, coupled with a damp cloth covered in flecks of blood.
Heâd cared for her afterwards, of course, though she could hardly remember what was said. The low hum of his voice, his thumbs brushing tears from her cheeks. The kiss at her temple as she clung to him, soaking his shirtsleeves.
âI killed him, Hal.â Sheâd said it a dozen times already. Apricotâs remains were still outside, glowing like a gas lamp under a starlit sky, flesh torn apart by the very thing sheâd put inside of him: The crystal they picked from a demonâs ashen remains, disguised as a late night treat. A gift taken in trust. âI killed my horse.â
âYour sisterâs horse.â He corrected her, half-truths and shadow comforts whispered against her skin. âItâs alright.â
Mary pulled him across the rim of the tub, ignoring his protests and his hands fumbling with the clasp of his cloak. She ignored his little jokes and the splash he made as he fell in, soap and water spilling over the side of the basin, matching his laughter with her own as he struggled to right himself.
Itâs alright. She echoed him in her head, letting the quiet confidence in his voice steady her shaking hands. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but it would be. It had to be. What else could she do?
Her words dripped like honey from the comb, filling her modest room with more than just candlelight and the muffled din of Old Town beyond the door. The walls and windows ached with power, folding in around her, bowed and bent at the edges of her vision.
There were only a few hairs left. One from the ritual was already threaded through the center of a dreamcatcher, wood and twine and bone and seeping ill-intent. The second was wound around the outer ring, tied off with a stretch of red ribbon. The third was in her hands, working its way out along the twine from the inner web.
Itâs easier to show someone than explain it. Halâs words in her ear, his hand on her shoulder. He was right about that. Sheâd read her book dozens of times, and there were lines and passages and whole chapters on channeling your will into more than just fire, and each time sheâd fought and struggled and gotten no further than when she started.
But feeling it was different. It flowed through her like a river, from the warm touch of his palm to her chest, her legs, her fingertips. A spark like a firework that fizzled long after the light was gone. She poured it into her words and the twining of threads as it hummed beneath her skin.
Fear, loss, anxiety. An hourglass running low, a room with no door. Grabbing for a rope just out of reach. Taking in water when you need air. Pulling yourself along the ground, desperately willing a body that wonât listen to go faster, faster, to outrun whateverâs behind you. A spider just above the door, out of sight but watching.
She held the dreamcatcher tightly in her hands, fingers wrapped around woven twine, and poured the whole of her will into words and wood.
Joseph Brandstone. Find him, torment him, cling to him like a second skin. Fill his nights with terror and leave him ragged, haunted, afraid to close his eyes. Let his every waking moment be a warning for the next, and his dreams the gaoler for cell he canât escape.
There was an unusual hum of anxiety spreading through the veins of Old Town that day; sending its inhabitants scurrying to finish their chores and errands before the week-end. Merchants lost and found dockets and bills of sale, runners of all sorts dropped and reclaimed their product and purses, the guard quickened their pace along the worn cobblestone. Even the rats seemed to be in a rush.
Mary was not immune to this general sense of unease. She carefully closed the door to her room behind her, acutely aware of how cold they felt in the dwindling, late summer evening. The week had not been kind.
Accusations of curses and meddling had set her out of sorts, not because she doubted the truthfulness of the claims or because sheâd forgotten about them, but because her mind had since leapt to a different train on a different track, and she had hoped that to be the last of it.
Perhaps it would be now, after their confrontation by the park. Haleth tried to keep her from it as best he could, but there was still work to be done that only she could do. Recorking a bottle of wine, as it were.
She was met with a withering stare from a succubus coiled like a spring atop her bed, the binding runes that kept her tongue well in her mouth glowing faintly against her skin. Elerva, whose words dripped with a mix of poison and honey, had lost the privilege to speak some time ago.
âGood evening, sweetheart.â Mary locked the door behind her. âYou look like youâve been busy.â
Indeed she had. Papers and books lie scattered and upturned around the minimal room. Clothes, candles, crystals of all sorts, even the fel shards Cam had given her had been strewn across the floor. A constant reminder to the novice warlock that her grip on her demon was tenuous at best.
The mess was something to be dealt with later. Mary pulled a ring of keys from around her neck and moved to the squat little desk by the window, stepping over a dispersed pile of scrolls and tomes between them.
She could hear the succubusâ tail whip the bed behind her. Key in the lock of the top drawer. The contents inside were untouched, for the most part. Her grandmotherâs tome, her motherâs wedding ring, a rabbit skull on a velvet band with a matching set of earrings. Only one thing was missing.
Whip.
Mary turned on her heel, eyes wide. There, on the bed, cradled by a pair of pale grey hands, was the dreamcatcher. Elerva grinned, her sharp, glistening teeth framed by thick, blackened lips.
It was undamaged, for the most part. Joeâs hair had been removed shortly after the curse was set, and any magic from her or Haleth would be little more than vapors. Even the repugnant Drust signature from which sheâd plucked it would have gone inert. But if left alone in the hands of a succubus, especially one so hesitantly attached to a master, the most basic focus could become disastrous.
Mary stepped toward her hands outstretched. âThatâs not for you, Elerva. Give it here.â
The succubus uncoiled, stretching her long legs out before her. Her lips curled into a delicate pout as she shook out her hair, holding the dreamcatcher close to her generous chest. She would have giggled and teased, had her voice not been threaded to the back of her throat.
âElerva.â Mary moved closer, her hands emmenating a warmth all too familiar to servants of the Burning Legion. âYou remember what happened last time you didnât listen.â
Another binding spell. Defiant protests, when she could still speak. The feeling of an axe cutting away at her skin, again and again. The manâs idea: H A L E T H. She remembered. The hot searing of her flesh in fel fire, the swirling searching emptiness of the twisting nether before her body was called back to her again.
Elervaâs petulant pout turned to a snarl of hatred as Maryâs too-hot hands closed in on her. She held the dreamcatcher up before her in reluctant submission, all but flinging it at the warlock as she plucked it from her hands.
âThank you.â
Mary stepped away from the bed. Wood and twine and bone began to smoke and burn beneath her fingers, casting a brilliant green light across the room. They kept their eyes on each other; pale green and blood red.
âI think itâs time we made some adjustments.â The warlock spoke softly, letting the smouldering remains of her focus crumble in her hands. The thought had already crossed her mind, earlier in the week when she spoke to Moz. Sheâd thought about it several times since then. Which demonologist sheâd go to, how they would go about it, whether or not it was worth it to release her into someone elseâs care or simply cut her loose. Or kill her.
However she decided to do it, there was one thing she knew for certain: It was time for Elerva to go.
The room felt empty. The unpleasant crackle of the fel that accompanied her succubus was gone; the ward sheâd set around the perimeter of the room inert, and scuffed, and nothing but plain white chain on wooden boards.
The signs of Elerva were still there: Upended books, scattered papers, unlocked and opened drawers. Sheâd been there, but she wasnât now. She never would be again.
Mary placed a hand on her chest. There was something close to loss settling there. Not regret, not guilt, not sadness. A palpable emptiness joined by the burning in her hand and the weariness in her limbs. Wyatt said it was to be expected.
Sheâd been lucky, in a way. Everyone knew demons lied, but they could be compelled to tell the truth like anyone else. They could be convinced, bargained with, bought and sold. But Elerva was different. She was disobedient, hateful, bound through sheer force and little else. Their contract was smudged, altered, weak and bending. Tenuous at best, and the demon knew it.
It felt like a curse, before all this. More than just the horns on her head. Saddled with the most unruly succubus in the world. But it was a sign of her growth, she thought, to turn that to her advantage. Joe was tired, the dream catcher burned, and the contract destroyed. Three little victories, and all she had to do was hold her head above the water.
Now she could focus. Mary pulled her mop of black hair back, tying it at the base of her neck with a ribbon. The rest of her books needed to be moved to Halâs, along with the contents of her desk. The crystal sheâd picked up from the Herald, the ring of thorns, the wooden bear. Her room at the Pig needed to be cleaned and organized and made to look normal once more, and then⌠then it was done.
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She had weaved, like a spider, her web across the open altar. Each thread was enchanted by her hands and silver; the kind of silver only present in your memory: A full moon, a reflection on the water, dew on the grass. It danced in the low candlelight of the main room, winding tighter around the imp caught in its strands.
âPyewacket.â
He kicked his legs in vain. The woman addressing him was soft and small, painted in red and black to match the robe that pooled around her on the floor. She was bent over a circle of glyphs every imp knew by heart: A binding ritual, flooded with power.
âYou can give up on that.â She smiled without a hint of warmth. âThe more you struggle, the tighter they get.â
Heâd had a contract with a warlock before. Nice enough guy, an elf, not too interested in the details as long as the job got done. That had been easy. Simple. Clean. He watched the woman before him lift her fingers from the floor, dripping shadow and silver like inky threads. This was different.
He felt a knot at the center of his stomach and a tightening of his chest. Cracks and aches wracked his body and he squirmed, the strands of her web cutting into his flesh. He heard her voice, calm and quiet, unmoved as his form began to change.
âI donât need an imp.â
Claws from his fingertips. He arched his back as his tail grew longer and longer, sprouting thick black hairs that crept their way along the whole of his body. He squeezed his eyes shut as light flooded in, and let out a hiss and a yeowl in a voice that was not his own.
âAnd I donât need an animal that can get lost, or stolen, or killed.â
The warlock opened her arms to him, waving the threads and shadows and webs away with a flick of her wrist. He landed on his feet, all four of them, and padded across the floor to her. A contract was a contract, no matter how strange.
âI need you, Pyewacket.â She cooed as he settled in her lap, soft and warm. âA cat who is not a cat. A familiar of my very own.â
Exsar snorted into his coffee, black, eyes flicking to the corners of the cafe in nervous hesitation. The only other patron was silent, absorbed in their own business, and wholly uninterested in a pair of renâdorei soaking up sunlight at a window table.
âI-I did, yes, but not so loudly, please.â He pulled his chair closer and lowered his voice. âI just donât understand what she means. Itâs an odd thing to say.â
Verana across from him sipped her coffee, two sugars, two creams, giving him a moment to compose himself before answering. She was dressed more modestly than was normal for her, in a trim, calf-length day dress embroidered with red berries and birds, and hardly a pearl pinned in her hair.
âSo I heard you correctly.â She sighed, a wry smile playing at her lips. âYou canât think about those things too much, Exsar. Did you think she meant you harm, or to toy with you? I doubt it. Unlikely! You know how Stormwind is by this point, donât you? Everyone is after something, always, and if you say youâre not you must be dull or lying. Honest conversation is met with suspicion, havenât you noticed that? That includes yourself. You give a man a rose and he looks for the thorns beneath it.â
She raised a slender hand at his protest and he relented, settling back into his chair, drink forgotten for the moment.
âOr perhaps your personalities are just at odds. Could that be? I admire your honesty, truly, but not everyone speaks as plainly as you. Should you decide to try again, I could accompany you. A translator of mysteries, as it were. I shall add it to my titles! And donât apologize, donât you dare. It is no trouble to me at all, Exsar, I hope you know that.â
Sheepish. He returned her smile, a crooked thing less often used, and cleared his throat to cover the creep of blush at his cheeks. âI wasnât going to apologize.â
âIs that so?â Verana tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, all starlight and ocean blue, bright eyes wide with feigned surprise. âItâs good that you werenât, truly. I have in mind all sorts of terrible punishments for liars, did you know that? Escorting me around town, giving into my every whim, listen to me talk for hours on end. Such awful things come only to liars, you know. Is that alright with you? What do you think?â
She was always this way with him: warm and clear, with a hint of mockery in her voice like a bell. His smile grew wider and he looked away, through the window to the bustle of Dalaranâs cobblestone streets.
âI think,â he said, quiet and sure, âthat sounds just fine.â
He looked like a boy when he was asleep. There were no jabs, no jokes, no mocking smile on his lips. Adrift in the space of half-truths and familiar stories that make up dreams; dark hair clinging to his forehead in the warmth of their Elwynn home. She wondered how many others had seen him this way.
Mary slipped from beneath the covers, bare feet on the wooden floor drawing a shiver beneath her skin. Her winter robe, thick and plush, lay discarded across the back of the desk chair not far off.
It must have been a full moon, or close to it. The front room was bathed in silvery light, freckled with the shade of trees that loomed just above their front windows. Not that her things were especially difficult to find, even in darkness. She kept her chalk and her grandmotherâs book at the corner of her desk when she was home, and the black candles sheâd picked up long ago had remained in the top drawer since sheâd moved in. Over a month ago now, must be.
Another look toward the bedroom. An adoring smile. He hadnât heard, or moved an inch. And he may berate her for it later; chastise her for not waking him, involving him, heeding his suggestions. But, Mary thought, opening the door to the chill of late autumn with her ritual arrangements clutched to her chest, sometimes it was best to just do it alone.
She heard it in Odumâs voice; the deep quiet of a still lake. She saw his clear eyes that strained to see the sun and the silver that dusted his temples. The lines in his skin and the chill of it at her touch. He almost looked like a normal man.
They expect it of you now. The bullshit.
She heard it in her fatherâs voice; the unsettling shadow of looming pines. He poked at holes in the corners of her thoughts. He edged in on her vision, in corners and rafters and bends in the road, until she stopped trying to catch him at all. He looked like he did just before he died.
Why do you think Haleth didnât notice? Hm? You think he takes you seriously?
Mary waved her hand to dismiss the thoughts as a flies and cleared her throat. There was work to be done, and less time for the errant whispers of the void. Local maps from across the Eastern Kingdoms littered her desk, peppered with little red circles in search of their novice cultist friends. A little eye drawn at the top as a reminder. The signet ring of Abraham Blackwater tossed to the side. She could still see Mozelle with her knife, carving a warning in his flesh for the rest of them.
It didnât matter if anyone took her seriously, not really. It didnât matter how long it took them to realize she wasnât a novice anymore. Didnât matter if people spoke around her like a child, chiding her betters and elders for not watching her more closely.
And if she was a child, she could play like a child: Hide and seek with the Blackwaters and their anticipated reckoning, heads barely visible above a dark and growing tide. Chess with Malrek, all his little pieces neatly arranged before sheâd even sat down. A game with sticks as swords with Odum that she was meant to fail. He was the Nightâs Watch and she was the feral worgen in the deep wood. Just a game, but she could already feel the rules being stacked against her. The Watch is supposed to kill the worgen, Mary. Thatâs just how it works. You wanted to play, didnât you? Somebody has to lose.
Youâll come when I call.
Yes, she supposed, turning the signet ring over between her fingers. Somebody has to lose. Shadows willing, it wouldnât be her.
Fireflies. They were the eyes of the forest when it was dark; the swirls and patterns of stars beneath the canopy of dense trees that covered all but the chilly banks of Drustvar. They hovered around gas lamps along the road, winking in and out, undisturbed, as if nothing at all had happened.
Raethian sat in the middle of the western road, one leg stretched out in front of her. The cobblestone had been blown to hell, leaving scars of dirt and carnage strewn across the once quiet route. Broken corpses, trolls and orcs and goblins, jutted out from the shadows like bramble bushes and old trees, tugging at the edges of her vision.
Donât look. Focus.
Her leg throbbed despite the mist. Her leathers, burnt and torn by fire and shrapnel, clung to her like a second skin. Dried blood and dirt mingled together beneath her hands; beneath the water she poured over top. Paint on a tattered canvas.
She ran a thumb over the radio at her side, checking to be sure it was on and functioning, as sheâd done a dozen times over the past hour. The wounded were stable, the dead tended to. Cinn had long since gone to check on her mechanical children. Out there, in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, it seemed only she and the fireflies were awake.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. It was hard to see the moon through the trees, and the quiet reverie of the forest stretched time out before her in a thick, uncomfortable tension. Scenes from the battle played themselves out in her head like nightmare. Fal reaching for his gun, his body bent and bloody. Serena collapsing behind the forge, too far to reach. Zeyad falling in the road as the bombs went off behind him. Lady Raysseâs voice booming over the din of battle.
She was pulled from her thoughts by a rustle in the wood not far from her. She placed a protective hand over her radio, still silent, and clambored to her feet. It was harder than it should have been, and she winced, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth.
Focus.
The man who stumbled out of the woods was barely recognizable. His face and sandy hair were caked in mud and blood, ash and grease from goblin engines. His shirt was torn in several places and she could see, by the silhouette from the gas lamp, that several pieces of armor were missing.
âLove.â His voice was rough and and low, warm and tired all at once. He stepped onto the road and Rae rushed to greet him, falling into his arms with a cry of relief.
âMalrek! You made it!â
He held her close, letting the cool of her skin mingle with his own, the familiar smell of good dirt and jasmine almost overpowering as he buried his face in her hair. âOf course I did.â He mumbled, planting a kiss above her ear. âIâm home.â
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They ran like rats through the cobbled streets of Old Town; men and women, young and old, scurrying from one place to the next with the hurried gait of those who know lingering is inadvisable. The ducked between stalls that spilled out into the road, selling everything from pandaran peaches to liberated Horde trinkets. The deeper you went, the more crowded it became, and the fewer questions you were meant to ask.
Mary watched from her window above the Pig & Whistle. Storm clouds from the west loomed overhead, painting the city in dreary shades of blue and grey to suit her mood.
âDid they really call you a common whore?â The voice behind her cooed. âThereâs nothing wrong with that, you know. You should try it. Give that man of yours a little squeeze.â
âStreetwalker.â Mary gave the demon on her bed a disparaging look. âAnd Iâm not going to squeeze anyone, Elerva. I can take care of myself.â
Elerva smiled, tucking her hooves beneath her as she sat up. She wore next to nothing as usual; everything boosted and primped and tucked appropriately, her smooth skin even paler than her masterâs. She crooked a finger at the girl in the window.
âCome now, little witch. Even I can see youâre upset. Sit and tell me all about it.â
A tempting offer, and one she would have taken, months ago. The memory of her seared flesh, her silent screams, her hand frozen and clutching the stones in her hand. Picking through the remains of her temporary body outside of Halethâs house.
The anger sheâd shown being summoned back. The fear lurking just behind her eyes.
Mary pulled away from the window, leaving the shutter open to the street. The sound of hagglers and daytime drunks was covered by low, rolling thunder and the rustle of upturned leaves in the wind.
She stood in front of the roomâs only mirror, fastening the buttons of her collar up to the neck and smoothing down the brocade pinafore that covered her front. Stockings up high, bare thighs, gloves still smudged with chalk from the night before. Who really cared if she dressed that way? This was Stormwind, not Duskwood.
âIâm going out.â She addressed Elerva without looking, pinning a cloak around her shoulders. âDonât expect me back tonight. Iâll summon you if I need you.â
One last look in the mirror. I think she looks beautiful. Words like a candle flame in a room bereft of light. Mary smiled to herself, careful not to let the succubus see, and tucked the packet of papers from her nightstand under her arm.
âMary?â Elerva asked, coiled like a snake on the bed. âWhat about the storm?â
Mary paused in the doorway, pulling her cloak tighter around her delicate frame. âLet it rain.â
The deep forests of Drustvar were not unlike his home. He followed his father through the mountain and the river that cut the land of Tiragarde off from the wood on the other side, and his father was at ease to have made it through the snow and ice.
Lorthanil marveled at the winding paths they crossed, littered with red and orange leaves despite the budding season. He reached his branches to the sky and drank in the warm sun, and bloomed, and was happy.
After many miles they came upon a bear, who sat at a crossroads beneath a gnarled oak. The bear was wrapped in wicker and stone, its eyes deeper than many wells, with runes of life carved into its head and legs. Lorthanil knew it was not a real bear but a Thornspeaker, and spoke to it in the language of trees that his father could not hear, and the druid regarded him fondly.
âI know you, Malrek One-Eye, and I know your son and will let no harm come to you here.â said the Thornspeaker, âI know you come from the mountain to the east, and have seen the bright star that came before you, but just barely. To-morrow you may tell me how this came to be, but to-day I must make my way through Fallhaven and to the north, where there are other druids I must meet.â
His father took interest with the druids too, and the three of them traveled north for many more miles until they came upon a misty glen, where the druids of Hallowhearth made their home.
Seven of them sat around a long table, dressed in brown robes and wearing antlers on their heads. They said little but watched with great suspicion as the outsiders approached, and when Lorthanil reached out to them as little trees do, they did not answer.
The druids bade them sit except for his father, who was made to stand at the end of the table where a great drinking horn lay. âHe is not a druid, and must be tested by the horn Gwenwyn before he is to join us in our feasting.â
His father could drink more than any man he had ever seen and had never lost a contest among the other Stewards, and Lorthanil was not worried that his father could not drain the horn before the druids of Hallowhearth.
The druids watched with their backs turned to the Thornspeaker, whose eyes glowed with the green of the forest. His father brought the horn to his lips and drank and drank until it was empty, and placed it on the table before him. âI have emptied the horn Gwenwyn.â said his father, âMay I join you at your table?â
But the druids whispered among themselves and did not answer for some time, until his father grew impatient and reminded them of the custom of the land.
âYou are not a druid. You must be tested by the knife Lleidr before joining us in our feasting.â A knife as black as the night sky was laid before him. Its blade was thinner than a blade of grass and finer than Eonarâs auburn hair, but the druids just laughed and settled back in their chairs.
âLleidr only cuts the skin of the unworthy, and all those who are unharmed by its bite may eat of the landâs bounty.â
Lorthanil, who knew his father was a good man, was not worried by this. He was honest, and all the time had been teaching Lorthanil how to behave unlike a tree and how to be good to the Stewards and the other fleshy things of the world.
But the druids laughed amongst themselves and spoke of blood for the land, so sure were they in their triumph. They turned away from the Thornspeaker, whose eyes flashed with the green of the forest.
His father took the knife in hand and ran it along his skin, but not a drop of blood was spilled. Again and again he drew the blade across his palm, but no matter how many times he tried it refused to cut. The druids gnashed their teeth and stood from their chairs.
âIâve cut my skin with the knife Lleidr and drawn no blood, and emptied the horn Gwenwyn.â said his father, âMay I join you at your table?â
But the druids were not satisfied. They threw themselves upon his father, binding him in rope and carrying him to their cooking fire. âYou are not a druid! You will be tested by the flame Newyn! If you burn, you are unworthy to join us at our table!â
Lorthanil, being a small and simple ancient, was afraid for his father, and hid behind the Thornspeakerâs great body as it rose from the chair. It whispered buds and blooms in his own language, and calmed his quaking branches.
He watched from behind stone and vine as his father was thrown into the fire. The druids called for more wood to be placed around him and it was, and the fire grew higher and hotter. They stood around it in a circle, delighted to have set a living man there and being sure of their victory.
Malrek One-Eye did not scream. When the fire died down and the wood was all burned away, he stood in a pile of ash and fixed his fearsome gaze upon the druids. The rope fell from his body and he stepped out of the fire pit with his greatsword in hand.
The druids rushed to him and found their bodies frozen, held to the ground by stinging brambles that cut their flesh. The Thornspeaker rose above them all, its voice the deep rumble of the earth itself, and spoke without speaking.
âWitches of the Hallowhearth coven, be expelled from this land! You have earned the ire of the spirit of the forest, and will be welcome here no longer! Begone, false druids!â
Lorthanil watched as his father struck the head of the tallest witch from its neck and sent it tumbling back onto the feasting table. The remaining company howled and tore their skin on the thorns, shrinking away until they became beasts and fled into the wood.
The Thornspeaker came forward and smiled at them both and bade them welcome to the forests of Drustvar. It blessed their table for feasting and drinking long into the night, under stars new and old, perfect for a father and son to count together.
All the Stewards under the House of DaâKien had gathered in Vigil Hill to watch the road to Drustvar. Raysse, the queenly wife of the Lord Steward, was there. The younger Lady Kien and her consort Kale were there, and Lisana Cloudgaze and the old bear by her side. There was Rellisa Thrum and her younger cousin, and the mage Danielle who watched him lovingly, and Cinn the Tinker, who took care of many things, and Acinovath and Falerelan at the back of the crowd, and many more.
They found lot of work for themselves while they waited for the Lord Steward, and entertained themselves with drinks and stories and patrols until he returned. Many of them were good times, but some were not.
Lorthanil was small compared to the other Ancients, not being quite an Ancient yet himself, and surrounded by others who were unlike him. His mother, as he knew her, was a medic for these Stewards, and confined to bed with injuries quite often. Lorthanil would stand at the side of her bed and show her flowers, quietly, even when her eyes were closed.
His father, as he knew him, was a giant man with a greatsword at his back and a patch covering his right eye. He was gone from them more often than not, but when he was home he would sit the little Ancient on his knee, and ask him questions he couldnât answer and tell him stories of the world outside.
One day, early in the morning before the sun was up, Lorthanil saw his father readying his armor for a long journey. He saw the dried meat, the cheese, the hard bread wrapped and stored safely in his leather bag. He saw the beaten chestplate polished and repaired, strapped across fatherâs chest. He saw the sword oiled and sharpened.
His father was quiet. He heard his mother say his name in her sleep, but it was not in the old language, and meant nothing of acorns and seasons and the budding leaves, so Lorthanil forgot it frequently.
He followed his father into the breaking dawn. âIâm going to be gone for a little while.â he said, in his quiet voice. âYou have to look after Rae for me until I get back.â
This was how it usually went. His father would leave before the sun was truly up, his mother would wake, and sigh, and the two of them would take to the Hill and look after the other Stewards and each other until his adventure was done and he returned home.
But it was spring now, thought Lorthantil, looking around their home. The ground was wet from rain, the earliest flowers had already begun to bloom, and the trees that stood tall against the sky opened their eyes and groaned and creaked and shook the snow from their branches.
It was time for an Ancient to have adventures too.
Lorthanil followed his father into the mountain, many paces behind so he would not be seen. When his father grew suspicious and turned to look, he would freeze, and raise his branches to the sun, and bloom with delicate spring blossoms to fit in with the other trees. His father must not have noticed, because he kept going and did not say anything at all.
Their way was through a pass in the mountain, where the snow was still thick and the wind cut through to the bone. They had been walking for many hours, and Lorthanil saw his father stoop with hunger and weariness. It was then that they came upon the cave of a hill ettin, sitting on a rock outside of his home by a meager fire.
âMy name is Malrek,â said his father, âIâve come a very long way from Vigil Hill and am tired, and hungry after so many miles. Could you spare me a seat, and some of the food youâre cooking at your fire?â
The ettin told him he could sit by his fire and enjoy his company, but the broth he was cooking was too thin, and there was not enough meat to share with human travelers who wandered up into the mountain.
Lorthanil sat by a bramble off the path from them, resting his limbs and drinking in the sunlight that dipped below the mountain tops and cast long shadows along the snow and rock. He listened to them speak of many things. He listened to the ettin speak of things he understood: The change of the rivers at the turn of the seasons; of the newness of the elk and kits and bear cubs that took their first steps; of birds returning to the island from the mainland to the south. He listened to his father talk of blood and battle and the rolling tide; of his woman back home and the days stretched out before them like a woodland path.
He watched the ettin watch his father, and stir his pot of too-thin broth, and marveled at the size of his limbs and brow, not much smaller than an Ancientâs.
The two of them sat and talked until the sun went down completely, and the ettin climbed to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. âYou have been very good company, Malrek of Vigil Hill, but my soup is not yet done, and I have no other meat to keep my belly full. You are unfortunate in that there are many dangers in the mountain, and when I am done eating you, there will be no bones or flesh to find.â
The ettin reached for his club, but Malrek was much faster. He had his greatsword in his hand before he was on his feet; a gleam of steel under the growing moonlight. Lorthanil watched between his branches as the two circled one another, his father dancing out of the way at the ettinâs heavy swings.
It was hardly more than a moment, it seemed, that the ettin stumbled, and turned too late, and his father drove his blade into the giantâs eye. The mountains echoed with its howling cry, and the rumble of earth and rock as it fell to its knees in pain and defeat.
âDonât kill me!â The ettin begged. âTake your blade from my eye and leave me. I have nothing to offer you, but if you let me live you may travel unhindered, and the mountain will be good to you, and bother you no longer.â
Lorthanil knew there was good in this. The mountain had many dangers, those visible to humans and not. The snows and trees could bury his father forever if they wanted to, he knew. But a promise of safety from the ettins of the mountain could let him rest for awhile, and regain his strength, and be bothered no longer.
His father saw this too, for he was wise about these things. When he pulled his blade from the ettin, its eye came with it, glittering and black like ice.
Lorthanil watched as his father hurled it high into the sky and looked up, and saw, at the very same time, what looked like a shooting star.
The air itself was unfamiliar when he opened his eyes. The smell of wood smoke was overpowering, mixed with something he couldnât quite place. An eerie orange light washed over everything, flickering and bright and harsh. He could once, and again when it was hard to breathe.
The fire.
He stumbled out of his little room on the second floor, open to the elements as they all were, nearly toppling off the ramp that curled downward to the ground below. The wood creaked and snapped beneath him. He had to get down.
He saw a family, a mother with her daughter and husband nearby, wading into the water with so many others to cry for help. Even the boats were on fire. The clung to each other, eyes wide, looking for a way out. The very banks of the river seemed to snap at them with unforgiving jaws and all of them, huddled close, stood still and waited for hope to come back to them.
Charred bodies littered the road. Cracks in the marble once lined with moss now glowed red, and burned the bottoms of his feet as he ran. He could feel the soles of his shoes sticking to the stone, eyes filled with tears from the stinging smoke.
The archway to the temple was flooded with people, shoving and elbowing their way through to the portals. He saw the priestesses standing above them, his sister among them, begging their patience and order as they held the way open.
Her silvery eyes fixed on him as he pushed closer and she hopped down off the rim of the moonwell, lily-white hair clinging to her face with sweat.
âYou must go.â He heard her voice far away. âInto the portal with the rest of them, please.â
She pulled him down to her height, planting a kiss on his forehead with chapped lips. âElune guide your path, Corvis. I will find you when everyone is safe.â
He looked behind him. He could still see them in the water, pressed against the stone, begging for help. Their cries followed him as he stepped through the portal, sick to his stomach, wondering if he should have gone back.
A whimper of pain escaped his lips when he tried to move. He could see bandages on his arms, crawling up his arms and chest, and he couldnât move. Please no, he tried to speak. Not the fire, please.
âOh?â An unfamiliar voice drew closer. âYou shouldnât be awake just yet, Mr. Snowcloak. You suffered some pretty nasty burns last night. Itâs best you sleep through the worst of it.â
He tried to shake his head. He was dreaming, just dreaming, but he didnât want to go back. He could still see his sister climbing back to the moonwell, shoulder to shoulder with the other priestesses, hurrying people to a safety they themselves would never reach.
âJust count to ten for me and youâll be back under, alright? One⌠two⌠threeâŚâ
Not again. Corvis shook his head. I donât want to dream anymore.
âFour⌠five⌠sixâŚâ
The protest died on his lips. Heavy lids, breathing steady, bandaged hands curled in defiant fists.
There would have been the canal in the heart of the city. There would have been the marble walk, the pillars of the temple, the staggering ancients that swayed their ivy beards from side to side while they walked. There would have been the winding wooden towers of the craftsmanâs terrace, and the howling oak that the worgen called their home. The tree shaped like a roaring bear where the boardwalk connected. There would have been sentinels at the eastern gate, practicing with their glaives.
And there would have been fire. So much fire, and the stink of death. Every time he closed his eyes.
Alcohol, needles, catgut stitches, clean linen bandages. Fading light filtered through the lodgeâs solitary western window, mingling with the glow of the lamp by the door. There were enough supplies for several emergency packs they could carry about, and the rest was good for storage. If they could find a place that didnât leak and mold to hell, anyway.
Four leather packs, oiled and cured, sat empty at the edge of the table. They looked more expensive than they should have been; flourished and stamped and dyed to match the colours of the House of Stewards, but as long as they kept the water out she wouldnât dwell too much on it.
She had her own, of course. The pack around her back held enough supplies for her and a couple others, plus her own additional fancies. A sea stalk flower. A pipe. A leather portfolio lined with bloodthistle. The little pink potions sheâd been experimenting with. The new packs wouldnât need all that.
âRae?â Quiet, soft, thick with sleep. Malrek shuffled up behind her, resting a calloused hand on her hip.
âYouâre up.â She smiled, busying herself with the packs. Heâd come in with the ships that morning, when dawnâs rosy fingers stretched out across the harbour and paved the streets with new light. He stank of tar and sweat and brine.
Malrek cleared his throat. âAny coffee?â He slipped away from her, crossing the floor to paw through their food stores by the hearth. âAnd what are you doing?â
The drawback of a wayward man. Heâd left on some salvaging mission before she was awake nearly a week earlier; hunting down rumors off the coast of Kul Tiras aboard a schooner heâd talked his way onto. The Ladyâs Piety, or something like that. A privateer vessel bought out by a merchant several years before. The name, no doubt, was a shabby attempt at currying the favor of the tidesages, upon whose blessings a crew would gladly sail.
The Inquisitor had missed a lot sailing with the jacks, and more than that acting as a forward scout in Zuldazar the week before. And skulking around Stormwind in beggarâs clothes the week before that. A litany of felt absences that picked away at her, flickering in and out like the radio static that kept them connected.
âWeâre trying a new approach, shona.â She heard him hum behind her, smiling at the familiar nickname. âOne for Dave, one for Raysse, two extras for anyone who wants one. Maybe Acinovath? Heâs my new boss, you know.â
Two mugs set on the table. A kettle by the fire. âIâm your boss.â
âOne of many.â
âDonât be crabby, babe.â His tone was almost playful.
âIâm not being crabby!â Rae tilted her head to the side, a little pout growing on her lips. âIâm just worried.â
âAbout what?â Malrekâs became serious. He was at her back again, arms around her waist, planting kisses along the nape of her neck.
âAbout this.â
She tied the first pack off with a leather cord, setting it aside at the other end of the table. It occurred to her that she could stitch names into each of them if she really wanted. Your name, your pack. Donât lose it. No exceptions.
âWe canât let another patrol like that happen again.â she said, âWe have to be more careful.â
âWe will be.â Kisses on the back of her neck. âIâll be there.â
âYeah?â
âMhm.â
âYou promise?â
He stopped, looking over her carefully organized supplies. The empty, expensive bags. The kettle was boiling behind them, two lonesome mugs waiting on the counter. The basin out back sheâd insisted he wash in as soon as he got there.
Orange and red, sunset rays like summer roses, cast a warm glow over her skin. He pulled her closer.
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He could see the cliffside and the overgrowth that spilled over it; standing proud with its back to the warport. It was sunny in the valley on the other side, but there at the top the light was cut into ribbons by the canopy above, and when the troll moved it was through a screen of swaying shadow.
He hadnât been keen on the assignment, but almost no one was. They knew the dark iron had set up a camp just off the beach, around a natural bend where the mountainside tapered off. They were out of sight of both the goblin cartel and the shipyard and they were few, but they were definitely there.
The curve of the land meant someone had to get in close to keep an eye on them, and that someone was decided by the draw of a short straw every couple of days. Jiaâtul had drawn it this week. It was his first.
They were pushing recruits through faster these days. He knew it. Almost everyone in his squad knew it. Between the blood trolls and the saber-rattling of the Alliance, the rank and file were dropping faster than they had in years. âFresh meatâ, they called the new boys, and each of them barely spent a month in training before they were given an armband, swore an oath to the King, and shuffled off to their post.
Jiaâtul was smaller than most trolls his age. He was slender and a little short; more like a Darkspear than a Zandalari, and heâd heard a lifetime of that since the day they all started getting their growth spurts.  Good for ridicule, but⌠also good for scouting.
He left the warport on foot earlier than day. Raptors were too obvious that close, and he had to scale a fair bit of rock to get to the post theyâd carved out long ago. All he had with him was his knife, his rope, his bedroll and enough salted saurolisk meat to last him the two days he was meant to stay.
It wasnât safe, but at least it was short. Every scout camp back with a similar report: More men, more supplies, more barricades. They werenât building a fortress down in Xibala, but they definitely werenât prepared to abandon it. It sounded to him like they just wanted to keep an eye on things. Not so bad. Not like the way they built their ships was a secret, after all.
The little scout looked up at the canopy, shielding his eyes from the dying sun. Itâd be darker on this side of the cliff than anywhere else. A boon to him, but it also meant he had to prepare things a little early. No fires, of course. Try to do your best work when you donât have a shadow. Stash yourself during the day when itâs bright.
Jiaâtul pulled a strand of beads from his belt, sliding them one by one through his fingers. The little skull at the end swayed with every movement; its wide, unblinking eyes staring back at him as he prayed.
âJust gotta stay de one night, an Iâm all done.â He sighed, holding the skull at eye level. âIf Bwonsamdi be seein it fit to let me alone out here, ya? Just gotta keep me spirit outta him sights. Not as hard as I t--â
It took him a moment to register what happened. The pain was slow, spreading out from the palm of his hand like fire, a steady stream of blood pouring down the palm of his hand. Jiaâtul let out a piercing howl, clutching at the arrow shaft protruding from just below his knuckles.
He staggered to his feet just in time to get hit again, another arrow embedding itself in his shoulder. The fletching. Blue and black, just like his beads. Just like the flames in the eyes of his little skull, discarded in the dirt.
The third one hit him in the stomach and he stumbled back, a cry for help caught in his throat. Something jumped from a tree maybe thirty paces in front of him, dressed in black and gold and carrying, what, a longbow? How had he not seen?
The night elf made his way up the secluded path, knocking an arrow as he grew closer. A smile split by a scar on the upper lip. He looked too cheerful for this. Jiaâtul slumped forward.
âWell now, old boy. Very nice to say hello.â The ranger spoke to him in broken orcish, his voice low and soft; almost soothing. Jiaâtul reached out, groping in the dirt for his prayer beads. The empty eyes of the skull seemed bigger, then.
The ranger nudged them closer with his foot. âI will not deny you that.â He cooed, still holding his arrow at the ready. âWhere youâre headed, youâre going to want them with you.â
Somewhere, far off, Jiaâtul heard the deep laughter of the Loa mix with the sound of a tightening bowstring, and felt Bwonsamdiâs cold fingers around his neck as the ranger drew the fletching to his cheek.
This is the end, he thought, clutching the beads to his chest. What was the point of all those prayers? What was the point of any of it, if you could draw the short straw one morning and end up dead by evening? Where was the mercy heâd asked for, made offerings for, all his life? What a waste. What a waste.
There was dirt under his fingernails, and little white scars along his knuckles like a boxer that could hardly be seen through years of sun and weather. She could see by the flickering light of the campfire outside a small burn between his thumb and forefinger, the light hair on his arm, the colour of an old tattoo. She kissed his thumb, his first finger, his second. He did not wake.
Their tent was a two person set up; almost too small to sit up in at the middle and lined with just enough blankets to make the sand and the clay of Nazmir mildly comfortable. When she slept it was with her head on his shoulder, or his arm around her middle and his nose buried in her hair. He snored a little, but it was alright.
Last night she had a dream. Her brother in his knightâs armor, auburn hair tied at the back of his neck. He was standing on the shores of Northrend; so cold the icicles clung to his nose and eyelashes. She saw his sword in his hand, shield gone. His left arm hung limp at his side. The great dark figure that tore through the ice towards him was fiercely hungry, and its roars like an avalanche echoed off the white cliffs.
She yelled for him to run, but her voice never reached him. He crumpled like a doll into the sand, stained red, a cry for home caught in his throat.
Did they see it the way she had? She wondered. The way her brother had? Sequestered in the safety of Eversong, her greatest threat the dwindling Shadowpine tribe to the south of the city. The twisting curling spread of red-gold fingers above fair tree trunks. The bleed into deep green, into sickly blue, into the gate that forbade them from traveling into the Plaguelands.
Did they see the elves that fought beside them in Northrend? At the gates of Icecrown where fathers and sons, orcs and humans, were no different from one another in the bulwark they formed against cruelty and death? Or did they just see the banner of the Horde, black on red, snapping in the icy wind?
If what they said was true, those sturdy and steadfast soldiers of the Alliance, they could not have seen it more differently. Wistful dreams of revenge against their most hated enemies, even those who stood shoulder to shoulder with them in another time. âThey hurt you,â she heard in his voice, âand they hurt me too.â Their nightmare both did and did not include her, then and now, and it was hard not to feel it settling in her chest.
A low murmur pulled her back to reality; to the ragged outpost at the northern point of the swamp. To the damp ground and the hum of bugs above the water, the spit of wood in a fire, to the muffled chatter of the night watch.
Malrek mumbled something in his sleep, some nonsense, and ran his hand down her side before letting it fall, without ceremony, back into the mess of blankets. A strand of sandy blonde hair obscured the spider web of scars across his eye; an empty socket where the other was brilliant blue, and as familiar to her as her own skin. She brushed it out of the way.
Maybe it mattered, maybe it didnât. The ties she had back home, all but severed. The dead lain still in their graves, unable to protest or approve. The willowy spectre of battles seared into the minds of those who lived through them, unable to recall exactly whose faces looked back from across the field.
Eventually theyâd all have to come to terms with the damage done by others, to themselves, to the world they lived in. Eventually more ties would have to be cut and remade, wounds healed, memories recognized as just that. It was inevitable, she thought, and necessary. For their past; for their future. Â But not right now.
Rae settled down in the blankets, safe in a pair of arms that pulled her closer.