#fugue-feast

Her mind turned back to her reflection, marred slightly by the tarnished silver of the mirror that was every bit as old as the house itself.

Iantha narrowed her gaze, echoed by the pair of fel-green eyes that levelled their own scrutinising look back at her before lifting to the top of her head.

Perched within the muted violet locks were two horns, almost hidden against the dark backdrop of her bedchamber: black, barbed weapons that swept backwards like twisted taproots. She'd learnt how to care for them properly over the years (thank the Sunwell for the Draenei), but no amount of polish nor decoration could disguise them for what they really were: an unmistakable sign of corruption.

Taking a step forward, Iantha leaned closer to inspect her face, first following the dark, runic tattoos over each eye. They had been the first of many wards that kept her Fel corruption in check, having gotten them soon after the agonising transformation—a shift so painful yet intoxicating, that it had reduced her memory of the immediate aftermath to nothing more than a vague haze. The tattoos themselves probably would have hurt too in any other circumstance, but it was a process she could only guess at.

Further down, two plump, garnet lips stood out from the rest of her mostly-Thalassian features like a red X on a treasure map. They curved slyly at the thought; her lips had always been one of her best features, and she was quietly grateful that they hadn't been twisted by corruption as well. Regardless, it still lurked nearby.

She curled them back into a fierce grimace and opened her mouth slightly. There, four fangs stood like deadly stalactites and stalagmites guarding a cavern entrance. They had been practical, she mused, not unlike a san'layn's own teeth.

"All the better to drink the blood of demons."

The sardonic words sounded loud against the stillness of the shrouded room, but any lingering echoes of it were absorbed by the layers of silk, velvet and stone that made up their little sanctuary. Briefly, her attention flicked to the shape of the canopied bed behind her, draped with gauzy, grey fabric like a wraith. Iantha smiled.

Like him.

The softer sound of a long exhale breezed through her nostrils as Iantha catalogued other changes: darkened hands and feet, each digit tipped with their own curved talon. The subtle bluish-purple cast of her skin beneath the shimmering arcane warding tattoos.

With a dramatic whoosh of air, a pair of great wings spread wide, their breadth spanning perhaps a quarter of the spacious room. Where iridescent, oil slick feathers caught the beam of sunlight, the rest faded into the shadows like her crown of horns above. Folding them again, she tilted one forward into the light, flexing it experimentally where it bent at the apex. There, two long digits and a shorter third perched, taloned in a similar way to her fingers and toes. It looked like the wing of a harpy, or some oversized, ancient bird.

Iantha's nose wrinkled with derision.

They hadn't always been like that—they'd been small and useless, made up of a mess of scrubby spiky feathers, just like any other felblood had. But that was before.

Before she'd foolishly, arrogantly cracked open that crystal to unleash the torrent of souls within.

Before she had turned the essence of each into the power of a life sacrificed. The power of entropy and chaos.

Before she had burned them to nothing, like wildfire through a tinder-dry forest; every leaf, branch and twig fuel for her furnace.

Just as it had been in Outland, every drop of blood in her veins felt like it had been lit ablaze, searing new lines through her flesh, transforming and corrupting further, pushing her deeper into fel's grip.

But, pain sometimes also begets pleasure.

Iantha closed her eyes, focusing on her heartbeat, and the tainted blood that coarsed like lava through her veins.

It only took a fraction of attention now before she could feel the rush of power rising like a dry desert heat before pulling herself back again. That was the problem: by its very nature, chaos refused to be controlled—couldn't be—and this power came with a steep price. A promise of utter annihilation, should she allow it to run rampant. Unchecked. Unfettered.

Even now, she wanted to.

The poisonous green aura licking at the edges of her feathers subsided as Iantha forced the chaotic threat back, willing her blood to cool as much as the Fel would allow. She could still feel the residual heat of it upon her skin though, pleasurable in its ever-present temptation.

Then—

Another sensation—one that could temper, or perhaps distract from the hellfire, even if only for a moment.

The dry, cold air of winter made manifest. A stillness that only the dead, or their stone effigies could achieve.

Then came taste and scent at once: tingling mint, grounded earth root, then the faintly herbaceous notes of peacebloom over a bed of grave dirt. Overhead; cutting mountain wind and glacial snowmelt.

Falonel stepped over the threshold into the room, his lichfire eyes already upon her. He didn't pause or slow his approach, only stopping to wrap his arms around her waist.

"What are you doing, my Rose?"

Even as she stood naked before the mirror, there was no hint of confusion on his face, nor amusement in his voice. Instead, he pressed a kiss into the flesh of her neck, leaving a cool island in its wake. Iantha's gaze found his in the reflection of the mirror, tarnish marks framing them like an old photo. She smiled, nuzzling her cheek against the rough, silvery hairs on his face.

The felblooded elf cracked open an eye, sticky and crusted over with dried blood to survey the immediate area. Netherstorm’s horizon tilted beneath the swirling, nebulous purple sky, like a ship heeling in a storm. All around her, the Sunfury camp stood in a ruin of tattered silken banners on smouldering matchstick supports. Corpses—some bearing resemblance to people she’d known—lay strewn and broken across the charred wooden frames like a macabre garland. A few remaining embers flared angrily with the arcane wind, carrying with it the scent of memory written in ash and burnt flesh.

Some of it, she realised, was hers.

The eerie silence broke with a shuddering groan from her own lungs; a sound that both surprised and annoyed her. Why wasn't she dead already? It was taking far too long, and she didn't even have the strength left to hasten it herself.

Searching for a mental reprieve, one eye swept the area slowly, fixing upon a shape on her left. It was blurry, framing her field of vision in a strange, crooked way. A few experimental blinks and a narrowed gaze brought the shape into sharper relief. Her arm? It looked…wrong. Cautiously, she tried to move a finger.

It worked, but at a cost.

A lance of agony shot up her arm, causing her to gasp and wheeze, simultaneously cringing in some places and freezing up in others. A curse hissed out from between her teeth, sending a spray of dark red onto the barren, rocky ground.

It had taken an eternity, but inch by inch, the felblood had an inventory of her injuries; what could move, what couldn't.

She went still, waiting for the pain to recede.

Every nerve, every last cell had screamed when she shoved herself upright into a sitting position, teeth bared in a mute grimace until her back felt the splintered wreckage of a crate poking through fabric and feather.

Left arm, shattered. The right seemed okay. Both legs could move, though one ankle, or possibly her lower leg was certainly broken, and she'd actually laughed when she’d discovered that both wings—diminutive, useless, ugly things—were perfectly fine and intact. That had only managed to piss her off.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Too many mistakes had been made, alliances broken, and loyalties thrashed and shredded like sheaves of wheat. By now, her prince was dead—just as dead as the field of carrion surrounding her. Just as dead as she should be, if her body would actually remember that it could die.

They'll take trophies, she mused derisively, too wretched for anything like proper fear. Perhaps the raiding party would finish her off if they bothered to come back through this way.

A sudden shift drove splinters into her back as she slumped to one side.

No. They'll pay.

The thought came and went before she could stop it, gaze falling to the hard-packed dirt where her claws had dug narrow trenches.

A flicker of fury rose in her heart again, like an idea too old and stubborn to die, and with it, a poisonous tongue of green flame. It wreathed her fingers, kissing her skin with heat and a desert-dry thirst that she loathed and loved in equal measure.

A trace of a smile curved her cracked and bleeding lips.

She had been left for dead.

But not finished.

Just ahead, a smouldering tent frame collapsed under the weight of a charred body that had been leaning against it. Aeliora forced her eyes away, stomach protesting with an uncomfortable lurch.

You have lied, fought, bribed and prayed your way to this Light-forsaken place, Liora—you will not let it break you now.

Navigating over a tangle of scorched timbers, Aeliora had just stepped onto the main path through the camp when she heard it—a sound, barely human, coming from behind a stack of crates that had been reduced to kindling.

It sounded…pained.

Holding her staff defensively, her heart pounded as she changed course, heading towards the sound. A slight movement caught her eye—a misshapen figure, almost folded forward on itself. It jerked towards the sound of her steps like a puppet on strings, half-hidden in shadow. A flicker of green light guttered out between its clawed fingers.

“Who are you?” She demanded, her voice small under the hush of dry wind.

The figure groaned again, stirring more slowly now as their head tilted uncertainly.

Their features were covered in soot and blood, but what the priestess could see made her blood freeze: long, dusty purple hair hung in twisted ropes framing a familiar face with delicate features so like her own, but the woman’s eyes—Sun’s mercy—once grey like a rising storm, now twin furnaces of fel-light.

It was her sister, but not the one she remembered. Aeliora tightened her grip on the staff as she felt her stance waver.

“…Iantha? What have they done to you?!”

“You took your time,” Iantha rasped. She gave the priestess a sardonic smile, a fang just brushing her cracked, dry lip. “As for this,” she continued, motioning to herself. “Well, let’s just save that story for the ride home.”

Aeliora staggered forward despite herself, simultaneously wanting to reach out and recoil. It was like she was looking at her sister through a nightmare lens; the same woman she’d studied with, grown up with, shared a womb with—twisted into something demonic. She shook her head in disbelief, dark blue eyes stinging with dust and tears.

“You’re…you’re hurt. Here, let me—”

The Light came instinctively, enveloping the priestess’ hands in a halo of warmth, pressing the radiance towards her broken body.

Iantha reeled back with a strangled, snarling sound, hunched over and clutching her arm where the Light had touched her—but there was no smoke, no searing burns. The dark-haired sister just looked her as though suffused with a visceral sense of wrongness.

“Stop! Stop,” she pleaded, breath ragged. “It feels—” Iantha broke off, baring her teeth in a grimace. “It doesn’t belong in me any more.”

Aeliora felt a slow, torturous rend tear through her heart as she allowed the Light to fade from her hands.

“Okay,” she whispered, reaching out to her. “Let’s just go home.”

The journey out of the camp was much slower going this time around.

Iantha leaned heavily against her as they picked their way up a hill towards the edge of the camp, eager to make their exit. It had been hours since Sunfury Hold had been razed to the ground, and they’d both agreed they didn’t want to get caught out should anyone come back through knowing the way had been cleared. Regardless, every step across the fractured landmass was a labour, even after Aeliora had found a relatively decent path through the wreckage.

They hadn’t gone far when they heard the first one.

A weak, rattling breath and shifting movement caught their attention just a few feet from the path ahead. Someone alive.

Sorrow clutched the priestess like a fist. A human mage—likely a would-be raider—lay sprawling in the dust, leg bent at an unnatural angle where a dark pool seeped into the cracked ground beneath. She moved to kneel, raising a hand in benediction when Iantha’s shot out, fingers curling around her wrist.

“Don’t.”

Aeliora’s mouth opened in protest as her sister crouched over the dying man, wings twitching over her back like a carrion bird’s, one fel-blackened hand hovering over his chest.

“Iantha, what are you—”

Her words cut off sharply as the mage gave a sudden, agonised gasp, his body arching violently up off the ground in writhing coil of sickly green magic. Aeliora watched with dawning horror as the last threads of his life twined with the fel like an unholy skein, knitting Iantha’s wounds closed with unsettling speed. Her sister inhaled deeply, eyes blazing brighter as her features settled into something uncomfortably close to satisfaction.

Aeliora stumbled back, watching the man’s lifeless body crumple to the ground, little more than a dessicated husk.

“Light preserve us.”

Iantha gave herself a little shake. “We’ll preserve ourselves,” she corrected. “Unless you preferred me to crawling out of here?” Stepping over the body, the felblooded woman pressed ahead. Aeliora followed in stricken silence.

It did not stop at one.

Each broken victim they came across, Iantha’s face twitched with that same hunger, crouching to draw out breath and life from their bodies into herself, twisting it into something corrupt. The magic hummed like discordant harp strings, every note grating and wrong. Aeliora’s eyes fixed on the path ahead, but she flinched each time she heard that sigh of satisfaction.

They’re beyond saving.

It’s their lives, or hers.

Her survival is worth it.

…isn’t it?

By the time they heard the first shouts echoing from across the ravaged landscape behind them, Iantha was no longer leaning or stumbling. Her stride was firm, and her fingers danced with a flicker of emerald flame.

Aeliora spun towards the sound with a snap of her staff, dark blue eyes hard. “They’re coming.”

The poised shape of her sister glided to her side like a liquid shadow, the licking flame in her hand coalescing into a roiling ball of fury.

“Good.”

She studied her twin: lips curled into a predator's smile, cloaked in corruption, and felt a trickle of dread slip down her spine.

As he rounded the corner of the spiral stairwell, the priestess came into view: cloaked in dark blue, hood down as she sat quietly at a table, copying notes from a tome. Her pale blonde hair had been plaited hastily, perhaps to keep out of the ink, he found himself wondering.

He saw her before she saw him, realising too late that he'd lingered overlong.

She looked up.

Her smile was warm and unguarded, causing his heart to lurch and his composure to shift in a way that he neither wanted nor welcomed. They'd only spoken a few times— discussions regarding her sister, that fel-ridden warlock—but her gentle grace had disarmed him far too easily.

“Good afternoon, Executor Blacksun. Your fellow knights have finally unchained you from your paperwork I see.”

He blinked once, the molten gold of his eyes bright in the dim light of the archives. A laugh slipped out—abrupt, uneven—betraying more nerves than he cared to admit.

“And you're a long way from the Violet City, Priestess Dusklight.”

“I am. They had a book that the Conclave needed some information from, and there were no copies in Dalaran.” Her gaze shifted to the missive in his hand, curious.

“Oh, were you looking for one of the archivists? I believe they're out getting some lunch.”

Vedrenus looked down at the scroll in his hand, almost surprised it was still there.

“I, uh—yes, actually. Nothing urgent, just…housekeeping, I suppose you might say.” He set it down too quickly upon a lectern nearby.

He should have excused himself then. Told her he was needed back at the Hall of Blood, that he had mountains of paperwork to do. Instead, he asked, “Have you had lunch yourself yet, Priestess?”

Aeliora stood to smooth out her robes, and as she straightened, his eyes caught hers: a glint of pale gold like sunlight shimmering upon an ocean of blue.

It was ridiculous—he was a knight, not a schoolboy—but he couldn't stop his hands from fidgeting, and the room somehow seemed far too warm.

Before he knew it, her hand was resting on his arm. He looked down, mouth opened. No words came, just the creaking hitch of his voice.

I've faced Scourge, death and demons, for Light’s sake! he cursed inwardly. Yet this woman has me tripping over my own tongue!

The paladin inhaled slowly to buy himself just a moment of composure and took her arm in his. Vedrenus cleared his throat, ignoring the heat that crept up from under the high collar of his uniform.

I noticed the absence of the particular, tidy ghost that usually roamed this tower.

The crumby plate, still on the table from yesterday.

My muddy boots—one, rather—kicked off carelessly halfway across the Great Hall.

I couldn't even feel the whispers from that void-cursed Saronite of his.

“Maddening,” I muttered, turning away from the empty armour stand. The irony of it wasn't lost on me.

When had I come to crave being haunted?

---

His side of the bed was always cold, but when my hand slid across the silk looking for him, I realised how warm it had truly been.

As I made coffee later that morning, I found myself arranging the spices on the rack, to face each meticulous label forward like obedient little soldiers.

I studied the formation for anything out of place. Nothing was—but neither was it right.

---

I sensed it that afternoon.

Not the constant, subtle tug of our bond—that magic we'd accidentally forged ages ago—but the other magic, tethered to something far more ordinary than a soul.

The small, unassuming book was just where I'd set it last (of course it was). Nearby, one of his shades was tending to the hearth I hadn't bothered to light yet.

My hand trembled, reaching for the warm, embossed leather. The texture of it felt familiar under my fingers: an Uldumi vista framed by ancient Tol’vir statues perched atop their monolithic plinths. Overhead, the rays of a glorious, golden sunrise reached down from the heavens.

I pushed open the cover.

A single word, still shining wet on the papyrus, greeted me, obnoxiously, arrogantly, beautifully, in the middle of the page:

Nearby, Falonel rode his deathcharger, its hooves thundering, churning up the dead soil as he kited feral undead towards the warlock with terrifying efficiency. Every so often, a dark hand would lash out to bring stragglers into the fold.

The horde approached in a wall of groping limbs and gnashing teeth.

Licks of green flame shot out of the sigils scored into the earth around Iantha, angry and hissing like an infernal cat. Her body strained as the tension of the spell neared its peak. Her voice distorted, the sound of it all but drowned out by the rising, hellish gale.

Falonel rode by, bringing with him a tide of undead.

“Now!”

She spoke the final phrase as he galloped away, and the air shattered with a deafening pulse.

A vortex of felflame tore skyward from below in coiling, emerald spirals, scouring anything and everything in its path. The resonance that had been building snapped like a bowstring, the shockwave lashing out with unrestrained violence. Bodies and limbs blew apart, reduced to smouldering cinders before they could hit the earth.

Then—smoke and silence.

Iantha swayed.

She hadn't heard him when her knees gave—her ears were ringing—but somehow he was there to catch her, supporting her beneath the arms. Turning her to the side, Falonel hoisted her up against the cold plate of his chest.

"You absolute lunatic."

Iantha laughed, interrupting the raspy, dry sound with a wracking cough.

"Did it work?"

Falonel merely sighed, lifting her up onto the charger's back, waiting until she was stable before climbing up himself. Curling an arm around her waist, he surveyed the ravaged land around them; vitrified spikes of pitch-black rock and dirt. The corner of his mouth twitched at the memory of a smile.

"It worked.”

---

Also inspired by the prompt in the previous post:

She rubbed her eyes to ward off the fatigue that had begun to set in and peered at the small box before her. It sat on the desktop surrounded by the organised chaos of her notes, reference texts, and old journals that represented months of quiet research. Research that, after no small amount of convincing and well-reasoned logic, she'd turned into an officially sanctioned project. Inside the box—the aetheric isolation chamber, she reminded herself—two small crystals hovered opposite each other, suspended by tediously unobtrusive magic.

Dark tendrils of Shadow magic swirled lazily around the first crystal, nearly obscuring the shape of it entirely. Its presence was heavy; lingering, like an uncomfortable truth.

By contrast, the Holy-infused crystal shone with a radiance that could not be denied, it's long, double-pointed shape crisply defined. A halo encircled the crystal itself, almost as if highlighting its own divinity.

While there were few materials involved, the two crystals had been quite expensive, even with Netherlight's connections to the gemcutter in the Exodar. Both of them had to be identical: facets cut with unerring precision, size, clarity...all to ensure one didn't overpower the other. Despite her precautions and preparations however, they refused to cooperate.

Bringing her hands to either side of the isolation matrix, Aeliora channeled shadow and holy magic into the device for what seemed like the millionth time. After a short delay, both crystals began to spin slowly. The priestess hardly dared to move, let alone breathe as she watched.

At first, it seemed like they might play along, each of the opposing forces gaining momentum at an equal rate. It wasn't to last though—a tendril of shadow lashed out from the darker of the two, sending its radiant twin into a chaotic spin. Aeliora flipped a switch on the side of the box.

Both crystals dimmed, before coming to a slow stop.

A dull thudding sound echoed from the small alcove as the quel'dorei let her forehead bump against the surface of the desk. As sensitive as the experiment was, weariness had taken precedence.

---

The Twisting Nether flowed like a nebulous river of colours and particles, set into motion by the opposing energies of Light and Void.

Mere inches of prismatic glass was all that separated Aeliora from such primordial forces as she stood before the massive window in the Hall of Balance. The juxtaposition of it was not lost on her: the ordered structure of Netherlight Temple, neatly divided into slices of Light and Void as it floated in amongst the detritus of the cosmos.

Strands of colour stretched the expanse like nebulae pulled, condensed and woven between unseen hands. The thickest bands moved slowly, carrying with it billions of particles—motes of Light, Void, and others yet to be discovered. Some ribbons of colour ran like small tributaries, rushing quickly in and out of the first, while others lagged behind. Every so often, small bursts of light or shadow would explode slowly, only to be carried along with the inexorable tide.

How does Twilight ever emerge from such chaos?

None of it suggested any semblance of structure or symmetry.

Her thoughts turned to the two small crystals bobbing within the aetheric isolation chamber nearby as she watched irregular chunks of matter float by the window. The two environments couldn't possibly be more different.

Her pale brows furrowed in thought.

The currents outside the window carried on, ignorant of the priestess' woes.

"Nothing is ever fixed, is it?"

Aeliora jumped, turning toward the source of the voice.

"Oh, Sister Elaionne!" She pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady her heartbeat. "Sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment."

The young Shal'dorei woman bowed, offering a serene apology. "Forgive me, Priestess Duskl—err, Blacksun, now isn't it?" She bowed again, flushing against the deep indigo of her cheeks.

The quel'dorei woman waved it off. "There's nothing to forgive. Such transitions take time to get used to, yes?" There was a pause as she peered back out the window. "What did you mean by that? 'Nothing is ever fixed'?"

Sister Elaionne stepped beside her, gesturing towards the strands of colour just outside the window.

"The Nether—it's never fixed in one place. It's always there but never exactly the same, is it?"

Aeliora nodded. "No...it isn't," she agreed, blue-gold eyes narrowing with a hint of scrutiny. "It's always changing, the very fabric of it constantly being distorted."

The priestess tilted her head, body tensing with sudden realisation.

"Of course...Twilight Resonance can't be achieved reliably through symmetry," she muttered. "Power equilibrium isn't enough—how could I be so naïve?"

She cast a glance at the tall Shal'dorei woman beside her. "I'm sorry Sister Elaionne, I've just realised something!" Silver and blue layers of silk whirled as Aeliora took off towards her desk at a restrained jog, looking back over her shoulder. "Thank you for your help!"

Dumbfounded, the young acolyte stood wide-eyed and open mouthed, watching the blonde woman disappear into a research alcove.

"You're...welcome?”

---

Back at her desk, Aeliora frantically searched through her notes for the most recent hypothesis. Inking her quill, she crossed out the words taking up the bottom of the page and began writing anew.

Hypothesis: it is not a precise balance of power from which Twilight Resonance emerges, but from a constant, tenuous interplay between Light and Void. The natural state of both dictates constant motion; one giving ground to the other in most circumstances. On rare occasions, the relational tension between forces reaches a threshold where neither fully dominates nor retreats. This liminal harmony allows for Twilight Resonance to occur—a state where both forces momentarily stabilise through mutual resistance, not cooperation.

Setting the quill down, Aeliora took a few deep breaths and closed her eyes, willing her hands to stop shaking. If her hypothesis was correct, this would require her full concentration.

The twin crystals hovered within the aetheric isolation chamber, their surfaces dull and unchanged since the last attempt. Once again, she slowly brought her hands to either side of the box.

This time, it wasn't about channelling equal amounts of magic into either crystal. Instead, she would feel it out.

It's not arithmetic, Liora. It's nature.

She closed her eyes as magic flowed from her hands into the matrix, and after a moment, the device began to hum, indicating that the crystals were being empowered.

To one side, the mutable nature of shadow magic swirled and expanded outward, its chilly essence lingering before drawing back again. It writhed and pulled, refusing to be constrained.

On the other, the guiding light of Holy magic shone like a warm beacon. It was structured; orderly, but not in the same way as the Arcane. It radiated clarity—the very architecture of will and purpose.

The two forces battled immediately, and it took every thread of her focus to mediate between them: pulling back here, pushing more here. Small adjustments through constant articulation.

Her hands began to vibrate.

Aeliora's eyes shot open.

Inside the box, a crack—no, a seam—had begun to form in the open space between the crystals. It thrashed like a trapped snake as the manifestations of Light and Void pulled, threatening to snap it like a thread. The priestess exhaled slowly, not allowing excitement to overtake her.

As the seam grew, it slowed, moving with an undulating grace, neither shimmering nor darkened, but some indeterminate mixture of both.

Then, it broke.

The aetheric isolation chamber gave a jolt, jumping off the desk a short distance and landing with a clatter. Aeliora yelped—in surprise, or delight, it didn't matter.

Neither balance nor stasis, but a living tension. Volatile harmony drawn from contradiction.

Twilight.