Whisper in the void

The faintest shiver of the wards—hers, his—around the manor tucked into the woods was the first sign of her return. A portal into the gardens beyond the mudroom door was followed by a quiet steps and the faint creak of armor in the darkness. The door eased open on oiled hinges, silent to near everyone but him.

It was late as she slipped through the door from the mudroom to the kitchen and he turned where he sat on the couch with a book, a smile dawning as he stood up.

Wyn put a finger to her lips as she crossed the room, pressing herself into his waiting arms with a sigh. Joros buried his nose in her hair as he held her against his chest.

“You didn’t come back with the rest,” he murmured. “We figured you stayed behind.”

“Duty before pleasure,” she said with a faint crack in her voice. The sound of his heart was a comforting thump against her cheek even as her throat tightened. “I had to go to the city first. I’m sorry.”

He scoffed softly. “As much as either of us might want it to be otherwise sometimes, that’s what our life is like.”

It was and it wasn’t. If they were on the battlefield together, their eyes always sought each other first once the fighting ended. Anytime there was danger—one sought the other in the aftermath. It was what they did, had done since the day he’d nearly died and she’d realized she didn’t know what her life looked like without him.

“Still,” she whispered, arms tightening around his waist. “I should’ve come back with the rest. At least seen your face before I went to the Hall.” Wyn drew a slow, deep breath and looked up at him. “I was settling some last matters. Then I reported in and lost track of time.”

Joros smiled wryly, tugging one of the sharpened pins from her hair as he leaned down, lips hovering over hers. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

The kiss he stole was gentle and she smiled, capturing the hand that still held one of her hairpins. Her nose brushed his. “I should probably break that habit, shouldn’t I?”

“You came by it honestly,” he said, relinquishing the stick pin to her as he reached for the clasp of her cloak. “Do we know if…?”

“I’m home for the foreseeable future,” she said quietly. “But I don’t know how much time we have.”

His eyes fluttered shut, fingers going still for a moment against the edges of her cloak. A sigh, then he gathered her against his chest again, armor and all. “What is it?”

“Tyr saw something.”

“Another war?” He asked, pulling back enough to rest his forehead against hers. “Soon?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Neither does he.”

“But that’s why.”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s why.”

“Well,” Joros murmured, calloused fingertips brushing a strand of loose silver-blonde hair back from her face. “Then I guess we’ve some lost time to make up for before the next…whatever.”

Wyn trapped his face between her hands, staring up into his eyes. She could still fall in, get trapped there. “Yes,” she breathed. “I missed you.”

“That’s over now,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then grinning. “You know you smell like horses and fish, right?”

She choked on a laugh. “It was not exactly Dawn’s Reach in Hallowfall.”

Joros swept her up into his arms, armor and all. “Well. You can tell me about it in the shower. You’re not coming to our bed smelling like that.”

“Oh, is that your plan?” She whispered as she wrapped an arm around his neck.

Mage turned Blood Knight.

Victim turned General.

Mother, lover, soldier, friend.

Born the youngest daughter of Dessera Ilthyrii, Lady Ilthyrii, the spider perched in the heart of a silver web, Wyn was raised to inherit the matriarchal House Ilthyrii. Her mother’s skills at information gathering perhaps played a part in the fate that she met, murdered while trying to protect her two youngest children.

The letter is on good parchment and sealed in dark gray wax bearing the seal of Lady Ilthyrii. It shows minimal wear.

Zan,

I’ve been through the sketches you sent a dozen times as I’ve tried to write this. I can only imagine what it must have been like to be in the city in those moments. I can only imagine what it must have been like to see the fragments of the cobbles and the buildings scattered across the shore. We’ve had scattered reports and I’ve read them all at least half a dozen times, enough to give me a nightmare or three.

I’m thankful to hear that the warning did some good. I’ve shared your letter with Tyr—he’s had a spot of correspondence with his old Argent unit. It sounds as if they’re stationed somewhere in the same area you are, though perhaps nearer the wall. The last letter he let me see said something about holding the line.

It’s only a matter of time, I think, before someone sneaks off to see what’s what. As for me, for now, my place is here with the rest—we’ve work to do that will keep us from the new front, at least for the short term. Volunteers have filled out a decent Farstrider contingent, though, and they shipped before I received your last letter. Lord Hawksong is with them, at least temporarily, and there are several dozen of the Watch, both active and retired, that have answered the call for reinforcements to ship out. Still others have gone to help fill gaps in the kingdom as others ship to the front for whatever waits for them there—for however long they’re required.

I send this by way of an unusual route—the last time, I routed it through Argent contacts, which I’m sure you noticed. This time it was a bit more direct.

I suggest you have a look outside toward the nearest wall with a likely perch.

Take care of each other. Please.

Faithfully,

Wyn.

——

Outside, settled onto a likely perch and halfway through an apple is a blonde Farstrider of mutual acquaintance, one who bears a striking resemblance to the author of the letter that’s arrived by his hand.

In response to @zanrethan-sunforge:

[Part 7 here.]

Deployment.

Right now, they were asking for volunteers, but somewhere deep down she knew—she knew—that if he had still been with the Order today, there would not have been any volunteering. He would have been shipping out with the first push whether any of them liked it or not.

The idea of it had left her queasy all night, made worse by his absence. It was his turn for the overnight watches. She’d grown used to them slowly but surely, but sleeping alone still came hard.

It always would, now.

Her toes dug into the sand of the shore. The wind off the water was strong, kicking up whitecaps and driving the tide a little higher the beach. Perhaps there was a storm offshore.

It would have certainly matched the proverbial one raging onshore.

She knew full well what they had to do, just not the how or any of the details involved and it had nothing to do with a city falling from the sky—or did it? Sometimes she wondered how much things might be connected, how much everything bled together. The flap of wings setting off a chain reaction a thousand years later and a thousand miles away.

It was simply the way of things.

The knight-champion rested her chin on her knees, staring out over the sea. The sky was dark with clouds that hid the moon, the stars. Out here, it was almost cold.

It reminded her of another place and time, of the smell of woodsmoke and blood and ice and the salt of the sea, of cold that nibbled at fingers and toes and the clash of steel and shouts of battle that would give way to the cries of wounded or the murmur of survivors, of commanders. Icecrown—both of her stints there—had been a long time ago. And yet, unbidden, the memories swam up now.

Why?

Her brow furrowed and she hugged her knees against her chest, fingers bunching in the soft cotton of her dress. She wasn’t a Seer like Tyr, but she knew her own mind. If that had swum up from the darkness, there was a reason for it.

The question was what the reason might be.

Was it the reports? Simply the chill of the water and smell of the sea wouldn’t be the culprit; she came out here to think far too often for that. Was it contemplating what came next?

Something else? One of the thousand things bothering her?

Everything was complicated.

The last casualty lists had come through that afternoon. There was a new name among the missing, another person unaccounted for.

She didn’t know if anyone else had seen it yet, that list. Didn’t know what to do about it.

Perhaps it was that.

There was another war coming. There always was. Somehow, this felt different. It felt more like the one they’d all but ended—or thought they had, until the revelation that there was a cycle that continued, that hadn’t yet been broken.

Break the cycle.

It plagued her, what it might mean. She had her theories and all or none of them could be true. It was something she tried not to let bother her as much as it did.

But this—whatever chain reaction had started when Dalaran fell from the sky—this felt similar in some ways. Like the beginning of something big, something that would fundamentally alter everything that came after.

Of course, it was entirely likely that was her overactive imagination talking.

Her problems were both much larger and much smaller.

She wouldn’t volunteer. Most of them wouldn’t. They were needed—either here, or set to another task.

That task still loomed large in her thoughts, helped fuel her sleeplessness tonight.

Break the cycle.

If they could. If they succeeded.

The letter comes bearing a surprising number of seals across its seam—the Order, House Ilthyrii, and that of the Argent Crusade. It’s written on good parchment but is a bit creased at the edges, as if from the bag it was carried in, and entirely possible that the courier that brings it to his posting wears the colors of the Argent Crusade.

Zan,

I can only guess where you are, though my gut says that your unit was one of the ones immediately dispatched—likely before anyone truly knew what was going on. The official reports only started coming when I received your letter and actual word of anything happening has only reached the public in whispers and rumors.

Please tell me you were not in Dalaran when it fell from the sky. I’ve only seen two reports with any sort of depth of description and both left me sick to my stomach. The casualty lists contradict each other—no one seems to have a good accounting of the living or the missing or the dead.

They are asking for volunteers to go with the relief—some by portal, some with the fleet. The Magistry is reluctant to commit many mages to the cause at this point, given what’s happened and the number of unknowns, but the Kingdom sends troops to be certain. I have word that the Alliance does the same. Clearly, so do other organizations. I’m sure you’ve noticed the Argent seal on the letter. Their request for volunteers came even before the official ones were posted at the Hall. I think Tyr’s received a direct request but I doubt he’ll ship, not yet. There are things that must be done before he can think of it, but I deeply suspect that his unit—the 58th Argent Crusade—is already en route if they’re not already on-station.

My uncle and Lord Hawksong are coordinating the Farstrider volunteers and the reservists and retired rangers signing up for one more fight sourced from the Watch and the people of the Everlight. Hawksong is making noises about going himself but I’ve not heard what anyone thinks of that, least of all athair.

Ardus intends to go. That’s all I know right now.

I pray that wherever you are out there, you’re safe for now. If there’s anything you need that may be in my power to give, ask. I’ll do what I can.

Please, my brother, be safe.

Faithfully,

Wyn.

[ @zanrethan-sunforge ]

In response to

[See @graceintheshadows for part 2 and @lordaeronslost for part 1]

“What is taking so long?”

Wyn cut a look toward Tyr, frowning.  “Just relax.  They should be here soon.”

The medic glowered, his limp growing heavier with each step.  Soon he’d have to actually use the cane in his hand instead of pretending it didn’t exist.  “I don’t understand why it would take so long for you to get this information.  You’d think that it’d be routed through the Order and you’d be able to lay hands on it at the Hall.”

“Bold of you to assume that the information you’re looking for is ready to sift down beyond the highest levels,” Wyn said, crossing her arms.  “You could have asked Sol to lay hands on this for you, you know.”

“No one can find Sol right now, not even his wife.”  Tyr stopped, squinting at her.  “Do you know where he is?”

“You think that I’d have an idea if Kal doesn’t?”  She shook her head.  “He’d tell Radi before he told me.”  Her eyes scanned over the sun-splashed expanse of the Exchange, looking for the expected courier.  While her brother had his fingers tangled in the threads of part of their mother’s web, she had hers in others—including a few well-placed in the Magistry.  Still, it was a delicate dance, getting information from them, especially when one was looking for information that was being spoken of in whispers and rumors and exaggerations more than fact.

Part of her was more than half certain the details remained unknown.  Another was already contemplating what the response might be, if even half the rumors that had begun to fly in the city were true.  Who had been there when it happened?  Who would be among the first wave to respond—if anyone at all?

What, exactly, were they about to face, how many of them would it take, and how many would not come home?

“Something destroyed an entire city,” Tyr muttered, following her gaze out over the Exchange as he slumped against the wall beside her.  “You would think everyone would be on the highest alert.”

“Perhaps we just don’t know enough about the circumstances yet.”  She glanced toward him with a faintly furrowed brow.  “Did you ever...?”

“No,” he whispered.  “Nothing—nothing solid enough for me to want to give it voice.”

“But you wrote it down?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.  “Yes.”

Wyn nodded in return and looked back out at the crowds milling along the Exchange, straightening from her lean as she caught a glimpse of the expected courier.  “Wait here.”

For a second, she thought he might protest, but after a second Tyr simply nodded, sagging a little more against the wall with a faint frown.  She held his gaze for a moment before she slipped off into the crowds.  The courier caught her eye a moment later and they both stopped in the shade of one of the Exchange’s awnings.

“Lady Iltyhrii,” the courier murmured.

Wyn inclined her head, turning a hand with a pair of gold crowns and something bundled in a bit of silk toward the courier, who took them in exchange for an envelope and a small trinket.  “Thank you.”

“Always a pleasure, m’lady,” the courier murmured, lingering a few moments more before they stepped away and back into the crowd.  For the span of a few heartbeats, Wyn lingered behind, watching people come and go before she started to make her way back to Tyr.  The medic was frowning at something as she approached, his gaze—and thoughts—seemingly elsewhere.  It wasn’t until she laid a hand on his arm that he startled back to himself, blinking.

“How long was I—”

“Never mind,” she said, brow furrowing.  “What were you seeing?”

“Nothing that made sense,” he admitted.  “At least not yet.  Did you...?”

She nodded.  “Yes.  Come on.”  She started walking, trusting him to follow as she wended her way toward an old hole-in-the-wall they’d frequented in another life, back when both had been playing pretend at being anything other than what they really were—or perhaps discovering who they were really meant to be.  Tyr fell in behind her, silent, frowning.

“Where are we—?” he stopped himself and shook his head.  “Why there?”

“Because at least there I’ll have a chance to get in front of you if you decide to go off fully cocked about something,” she muttered.  “And we won’t be reading this in the middle of the Exchange.”

“No, we’ll be tucked away in the Row where we both know that you’re like to become a walking target in that armor.”

“Not where we’re going,” she muttered.  “Take a breath, Tyr.”

“How can I when...when we’re still not sure what happened, only that something did.”  He kept close as she ducked down a narrow lane that twisted down toward the shadows of Murder Row.  “Wyn, please.”

She simply gave him a level look and opened a door mostly hidden behind a tail of cloth and some crates.  “In, Tyr.  We’ll read it in the old corner and decide what to do about it.”

“Somebody destroyed Dalaran, Wyn,” he whispered as he passed her and ducked through the door, leaving her to follow.  “And no one in the city seems to be doing anything about it.”

“Likely to prevent some kind of panic,” she said, shucking a gauntlet as she followed him down the narrow passage.  It opened up behind a curtain and into a tiny tavern and inn, one remarkably clean and snug given its locale.  Wyn flipped a coin to the barkeep and ushered her friend to a corner where they’d spent more than a few hours in times now long gone. Wordless, Tyr dropped into an overstuffed chair, leaving her to perch on the edge of a low table as she slid her thumb beneath the envelope’s plain seal.  The sheaf of papers inside was thick, thick enough to make her heart stutter for a moment in her chest.

What had they gotten their hands on?

The first page was in the familiar scrawl of one of her mother’s oldest contacts, sketching what was known in broad strokes.  She read it once, then again, then handed it to Tyr.

“Aethas Sunreaver is among the missing, along with three dozen highly ranked mages,” she said, her voice grave as she started to thumb through the documents—casualty lists, carefully duplicated reports.  “No one has solid word on what’s happened—some reports suggest he survived, others say he perished along with most of his host.  At least one report suggests that the city was destroyed by some kind of void explosion.”

“Void,” Tyr echoed.  “What would—?”

“I don’t know,” she said, still thumbing through the rest of the pages.  “But I imagine that the reason why the city doesn’t know anything is because they’re waiting for final word on the archmage and whether or not he’s alive.  And deciding what we’re going to do about it.”

“The Spire—”

“Will have opinions.  I know.  So will the Farstriders and the Order.  One way or another, we’ll figure out what’s what.”  Her lips thinned as she watched him reading over that first page.  “Whoever it was—they more than certainly just wiped out at least half the Kirin Tor, Tyr.  And who knows how much magical knowledge and—” she broke off, swallowing past the lump in her throat.  Suddenly her thoughts went to Juden, who—if not for pure happenstance and a lack of final decisions made—might have been there.  Might have been among a generation of fledging mages devastated by whatever had just occurred.

Tyr grasped her hand and squeezed hard.  “I know,” he whispered.  “I tried, Wyn.  I tried.”

“I know,” she echoed, squeezing back.  “All we can do is—is hope.  At least for now.”

“And after?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “We have...we have other work.  But who knows who they’ll call up.  Who knows what the response will be.”

“You think there will be one?” he asked, taking the rest of the papers from her and starting to thumb through them slowly.  He’d return them to her before they left—she knew that.  “That they’ll risk...?”

“I don’t know what it will be, but there will be something,” she said softly.  “One way or another, we’re about to send people to war.  I just don’t know what it is yet.”

“Nor I,” Tyr said, then sighed.  “But as you said.  We have our own.”