The Pattern
How long had it been? Since the Fourth War? Since the deafening silence that followed? Since the isolation, the regret, and the endless nights that dragged her back beneath the burning sun of Vol’dun? Since Dalaran fell from the sky? Perhaps time had simply lost its meaning somewhere between conflict and quiet. When Sarahni first stepped through the gates of Stormwind again, the city struck her like a physical force. The crush of bodies, the overlapping voices, the clatter of wheels against stone. She stopped in the middle of it all, unable to move, while the crowd divided and flowed around her. Years of isolation had left their mark. She searched the passing faces for something familiar, hoping that recognition might soften the noise, but there was nobody. Everyone she had known, everyone she had loved, was dead, missing, or had simply continued living without her. It was her own fault, truly. She had allowed every letter to go unwritten and every connection to fade. She had built the silence herself, one abandoned thread at a time. She was alone.
For nearly a year, the Magus remained in the North, serving beneath the banners of Stromgarde. The calm of the Northlands suited her. The open hills gave her room to breathe, and among the stone walls and cold winds, she began to meet new faces. For a time, it almost felt different. Then the red banners appeared across the Highlands. The Crimson Dawn came seeking to tear the kingdom down, and once again Sarahni found herself surrounded by fire, steel, and the thunder of violence. Nobody noticed the tremble in her hand after she cast. Nobody saw her freeze when the flames climbed too high or when the crack of gunfire echoed across the battlefield. Afterward, when the fighting stopped and the silence returned, the pattern resumed. She left. She left the banners, the Northlands, and him. Another connection severed before it could become something she might lose.
Her return to Elwynn was never meant to be permanent. Sarahni had intended only to pass through Stormwind and secure passage to Kul Tiras. There, she told herself, she could finally be happy. There, perhaps, she could find peace. But the pattern found her first. The land was saturated with Ley energy, restless and dangerously unstable. It drew her into the forest and toward the estate of a nobleman who seemed entirely unaware of what was building beneath his feet. She chided him for his inaction with little concern for how her bluntness might be received. She had long since stopped caring whether strangers found her difficult. Instead of taking offense, he laughed. Then he asked for her help. She had heard those words before. The Holts. The Alliance. The Kingdom of Stromgarde. Each had asked for her aid, her knowledge, and her strength. Each had given her a reason to remain until remaining became unbearable. And yet, she agreed.
Now Sarahni lends her expertise to the Vanguard, designing a Mage Tower that will safely channel the Arcane before the land itself begins to fracture beneath its excess. She speaks politely enough. She greets those who approach her. She listens, nods, and offers measured conversation while calculations and spellwork occupy her hands. To anyone watching, the Magus has found purpose again. Perhaps even a place. But beneath every conversation and every cautious connection, Sarahni is waiting. Waiting for the banners to change. Waiting for the fires to begin. Waiting for the pattern to show itself once more.
