#bird drust AU

[fireandirons]

Once again I am on That Sylvaina nonsense - listen, i have never claimed to be a comic artist so forgive me for the dumb format and sequencing of these panels

Brilliant scenes and dialogue from @romanimp ‘s Drust AU you search the mountain. Please, Sylvanas, just let Jaina drink her tea in peace.

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (4/6)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 15,080

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

NOTES: 

I got about 10k words into this chapter before I realised I needed to split it up, otherwise it would be stupidly long. Plus I was going mad trying to scroll through my monstrously large gdoc last chapter and I didn't want to do that again. So, here you go. An early present.

Next chapter will be some big battles and then they finally smooch or something idk don't ask me 

--

This time, Sylvanas did not ask. 

“I am taking your cavalry,” she told Lucille.

For the last few days since the battle of Barrowknoll, Lucille had turned into Sylvanas’ primary point of contact among their new allies. She acted as an envoy between Sylvanas and Jaina, when the two of them would refuse to speak with one another. She had been puzzled by the abrupt change, but had not complained. 

Now, Lucille blinked at her, opened her mouth to dispute this, then thought better of it when she saw the look on Sylvanas’ face. Raising her hands as though in surrender, Lucille said, “They are yours.”

She found Hayles and the others enjoying a spot of Drustvar tea, which she had come to learn was normal tea with a healthy dose of whiskey tipped in for good measure. It was the third day since the battle of Barrowknoll, and their little army was still fortifying the town after wrenching it from the hands of the Ashvanes. Anya was there, playing dice with the cavalrymen, who had grown leery of her around cards and now insisted she use their dice. Somehow she still won nearly every round, and a few of them groaned about the luck of the dead as they handed over coins. 

When Sylvanas approached, Hayles glanced up from where he sat on a pile of bricks being used to repair the church. After their victory, he had warmed up somewhat to the Horde forces, but he was still wary of their leader. Still, he lifted his mug to her. “A good morrow, Warchief. Can I help you?”

“Gather up a scouting party, Captain. No more than thirty,” Sylvanas ordered coldly. “We are riding north.”

Hayles drained his mug then slammed it onto the ground. He wiped excess tea from his beard with the back of his hand as he stood. “Been waiting for clear orders from the Lady Waycrest. What’s the plan, then?”

“The plan is we are going scouting,” said Sylvanas.

“Aye, but we was hoping for a bigger picture. Are we wintering here?”

A number of his men were openly eavesdropping on the conversation now. Even Anya had stopped rattling around a set of dice in favour of listening. Sylvanas swept her gaze over them, then said brusquely, “Get on your horses.” 

With a shrug, Hayles pulled his gloves from where they were tucked into his belt and began tugging them over his hands. He looked over his shoulder at his men, who had not yet moved. “You heard the Lady!” he barked. “Get off your arses, you fussocks!”

Immediately, they began shuffling about, shrugging on their cuirasses over their buff coats, buckling their helms over their heads, and clasping their pistol belts around their shoulders. Hayles’ cuirass had a touch more tooling than the others and a broad white sash worn over it to denote his rank, but otherwise he appeared very plain. Anya herself had continued to favour the dark-washed cavalry buff coat she had won earlier that week, wearing it over her usual Ranger leathers, so she could still pull her hood up. Even from a short distance, she would have blended in with the rest of them without trouble. She rode at Sylvanas’ side, when the others preferred to stay a length or two behind the Queen of the Forsaken. 

“Are we looking for something in particular?” Anya asked. Somewhere along the way, she had acquired herself a living horse, one of the deep-chested smoky chargers bred in the area. 

“The enemy,” said Sylvanas, her tone curt. She did not offer any more explanation. 

Sylvanas' skeletal horse was out of place among the flesh and blood beasts of burden ridden by the cavalry. That and her armour meant she stuck out like a sore thumb, but she was long past caring. The Ashvanes by now knew who they were up against. Or if they didn't, they were fools. 

Scarcely an hour later, and they were riding north along the road to Fallhaven. They would not hope to reach it today -- not when it was another three days trek from Barrowknoll -- but there was plenty of evidence of the Ashvanes' retreat. Not even the downpour over the last few days could hide it. She would have joined the scouting expeditions sooner, if not for the rain. Until finally she could not stand staying still another second, and taken Lucille's cavalry for her own. 

They stopped every now and then to read the landscape. Hayles at one point disputed Sylvanas' tracking, claiming that the Ashvanes had clearly gone west. In response, Sylvanas had glowered at him until he sighed and fell back in line. She was not about to discount a few centuries of experience tracking game and leading armies in favour of a man who, in her culture, would barely be considered old enough to wipe his own backside. They headed east at a fork in the road towards Carver's Harbour, until midday when Sylvanas pulled back on her reins. 

She frowned down at the tracks in the ground. "They doubled back south," she murmured, pointing. 

Hayles grunted in agreement. "Not all of them, though. Just a lightly armoured company, if that." 

"On horseback, no less." Sylvanas tugged at the reins so that her skeletal horse veered off in that direction. 

Hayles followed, kicking his horse forward to trot after hers. "If we're unlucky, we'll get caught on both sides." 

Sylvanas ignored him. She urged her horse to a canter, loping ahead of the rest so that she reached the treeline first. Behind her, she could hear Hayles cursing and the sound of him drawing his weapon. The cock of a pistol clicked, echoed by dozens of others as his cavalrymen followed suit. She did not bother drawing her own bow slung at her saddle beside the matching quiver. 

Her eyes scanned the woods. They were a far cry from the dense and foggy Crimson Forest, though they were nothing at all like the woods of her homeland either. The trees here wended across the gentle slope, their trunks moss-covered and sporting growths of white fungi. She guided her horse briskly through the trees. Her ears twitched at the faintest sound -- the rustle of tack, the snort of horses behind her, the creak of branches in a stiff breeze, the chattering of birdsong, the purl of a stream narrow enough to step over. And finally the faint strains of human voices. 

Lifting her fist into the air, Sylvanas pulled back sharply on the reins. Without turning, she made a gesture and then dismounted. Anya was by her side in an instant, arrow already nocked in her bow, eyes bright and alert. 

“Four hundred paces dead south,” Anya whispered in Common for Hayles’ benefit, as he crept up beside them on foot. 

Sylvanas turned to Hayles, keeping her own voice low. “Do you know the area?”

He nodded. “Aye. There’s a small ridge by a stream just up ahead. Barely a feature, but it’s something.”

All it took was a meaningful glance from Sylvanas, and Anya vanished through the trees like a wisp of smoke. Hayles blinked at her sudden absence, trying to get a good look after where she had gone.

“Wait here,” Sylvanas told him. “Keep the horses quiet. When I give the signal, you will approach with me on foot.”

“Begging your pardon, Warchief, but that kind of defeats the purpose of bringing cavalry in the first place,” he said. “We’re not dragoons.” 

“Which is why they chose to hide in the woods rather than risk skirmishing out in the open. Now, hold your tongue.” 

He huffed, but said nothing further. His troops dismounted and tied up their horses. They drew their sabres and stuffed extra pistols into the broad sashes tied around their breastplates. Rain drizzled from the pointed brims of their lobster-tailed helmets. On horseback, they were confident and easy-going, but on foot they appeared uncertain and ungainly. They would occasionally exchange puzzled looks and shift their grips upon their swords while they waited. 

The smell of smoke drifted through the air, though Sylvanas could not make out a fire through the thicket. The Ashvane scouts had obviously set up a small temporary camp further from their main body to feed back information. The lack of movement on the part of the Waycrest and Drust forces over the last few days would have puzzled them. 

Anya returned on utterly silent feet. She ghosted through the underbrush like a shadow, stopping when she reached their position. Her hands started relaying the information she had gathered using Ranger signs, until she realised Hayles and the others wouldn’t understand anything. Picking up a stick, she drew formations on the ground and held up five fingers, then four and five more. 

Sylvanas nodded in understanding. She pointed at Anya then at a few of the cavalrymen behind them. Anya inclined her head, then motioned for a group of five cavalrymen to follow her. When one of them stepped on a fallen log, his foot snapped through the wet and rotten wood with a noise loud enough to make the birds go quiet. 

Sylvanas closed her eyes as though praying, and grit her teeth. When she opened her eyes again, the cavalryman in question was being glared at by everyone in the platoon. One of his squad mates smacked him upside the head, so that his helm tilted down over his eyes. 

“You fucking moron,” someone hissed. 

Hayles shushed them, and they fell quiet again. The man carefully pulled his foot from the log, and the little group went off, following after Anya. Sylvanas gave them a head start, counting in her head until she was satisfied. Then, she gestured to Hayles and without looking back, she crept forward on silent feet. 

Her trained ears could hear the rustle of their own approach. The cavalrymen creeping along in her wake were accustomed to scouting by roaming broad countryside and hills atop their horses in easy formations. They were not used to this. Just ahead of them, Sylvanas prowled forward until she could see the peaked rise of tents over the underbrush, until she could hear individual conversation, the crackle of campfires, and the stamp of horses’ hooves. The horses were tethered on one side of the camp, their noses stuck in their feed bags. A few of them merely flicked their fuzzy ears upon seeing the approach of the Waycrest cavalry, but raised no alarm. 

Sylvanas raised her hand in a fist again and stopped. The men behind her hid behind the trunks of trees and in the thick underbrush, lying low on their bellies and squinting beneath the rims of their helms at what awaited them ahead. Peering carefully around the trunk of a tree, Sylvanas quickly counted men. Forty-five in the camp, according to Anya, who had counted rightly. Five more on the ridge. That was nearly fifteen more than they had brought themselves. Another glance around the tree trunk, and she spied Anya and the small group of cavalrymen in position at the ridge, waiting. 

Sylvanas caught Anya’s eye. They exchanged a brief nod, and then Anya struck. Quick as a bolt, she had a knife pressed against the throat of one of the sentries. The group of men with Anya burst forward as well, pistols raised, sabres at the ready. 

Straightening, Sylvanas stepped out from her hiding spot. “Gentlemen,” she said, lifting her voice, “how good it is to see you again.” 

A cry of alarm went up, and the men in the camp leapt to their feet. They tugged their weapons free, but their helms and cuirasses were still packed away. Their Captain drew his pistol and sabre, levelling the gun at Sylvanas. It was the same young Captain Ashvane that she had seen during her reconnoitre before the battle of Barrowknoll. His eyes were dark and sombre as he took in the situation -- the men with Sylvanas, the soldiers on the ridge with his sentries at knifepoint. Anya tightened her grip in the hair of the man she held steady when he tried to struggle, drawing a line of red at his exposed throat. 

Sylvanas spread her hands open to show she held no weapon, though Hayles stepped up to stand beside her, his expression grim beneath his heavy beard. “There needn’t be violence,” she said. “Cry ‘quarter’, and I will ensure you are well looked after.” 

Captain Ashvane grinned at her over the top of his flintlock. “Shame,” he said, cocking the weapon with his thumb. “I rather like a bit of violence with my afternoon tea. And you’ve come just in time, too.” 

“We have you surrounded, boy,” said Hayles, aiming down the sights of his pistol. “Best give up and come quiet now, yeah?”

Captain Ashvane swung his arm around so that his own pistol was now pointing at Hayles. “Not a chance, old man.” 

Hayles opened his mouth to speak, but the blast of a pistol snapped through the air. Captain Ashvane’s arm recoiled, the tip of his gun emitting a gout of smoke, and Hayles staggered back, grasping his shoulder. 

All hell broke loose. The Waycrest troops opened fire, and the air was filled with the crack of gunshot and shouts. Red-coated Ashvane scouts returned volleys, only for the two sides to toss aside their one-shot pistols and fall upon one another in a clash of swords. Hayles swore and fired his pistol at Captain Ashvane, but missed. The shot went wide, hitting a tree and scattering bark on the ground. On the ridge above, Anya had drawn her blade across the throat of the soldier she had been holding at knife point. His body was slumping to the ground as he gurgled and grasped at the tide of red spurting from his neck. She was already pulling back the string of her bow and firing arrows down into the camp. 

Captain Ashvane shoved his first pistol into the wide sash at his belt, and pulled out another. He aimed it at Hayles, whose eyes went wide. Moving quickly, Sylvanas shoved Hayles to the ground, and the shot narrowly missed. The Captain drew his sword and advanced upon her, arm raised, slashing down. She danced easily out of reach, moving away from Hayles so that the Captain would follow her instead. Foolishly, he did. He swung his sword in broad strokes, and Sylvanas avoided every blow with a calm assurance that only seemed to anger him. His face grew red. He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a silent snarl. 

When one of the other Ashvane soldiers tried to attack her as well, an arrow sprouted from his back. Sylvanas did not need to even look to know that Anya had shot it. Hayles switched his sword to his good hand, and was fighting a group of Ashvanes with his own men, rallying them together for something more elevated than a mere brawl.  

The Captain did not do the same. He was content to let his superior numbers do the talking for him, leaving him free to pursue Sylvanas, who continued to elude his slashes. He was no slouch with the blade. She could tell by the familiarity with which he handled his sword. A young nobleman trained in gentlemanly pursuits used to getting his way. When he drew too close, she grabbed his wrist and tightened her grip until she could hear the crunch of bone and tendons beneath her hand. 

The Captain cried out. He tried to kick her away, but she stepped aside so that his foot hit nothing. She did not let him go. Instead she twisted his arm expertly so that he was forced to drop the weapon or risk breaking his arm as she jammed his hand into the small of his own back. He was a tall man, and strongly built. But standing behind him, she planted her foot behind his knees so that he was forced onto the ground. 

“Call them off,” Sylvanas murmured into his ear, while he jerked futilely in her grasp. “Or I will make sure you never swing a sword in your life again.” 

He continued to struggle, grunting in pain when she pushed his arm a little further up. He grappled for purchase at her leg, but could do nothing to dislodge her. She leaned in closer to speak again, when she saw a flash of silver. With his free hand, he had pulled the knife from her boot and struck blindly at her over his shoulder. 

Reeling back, Sylvanas clutched at her face. She hissed, feeling the cut at her cheek, which bled black and sluggish. Captain Ashvane was scrambling to his feet. He rounded upon her, brandishing the hunting knife given to her by her mother when she had come of age. The same knife that had been used in the ritual to summon undead ghouls from the sacred Ardfert bogs not four days past. She could feel the anger boil in her lungs, frothing white-hot and wild, welling up in her throat until she was nigh drowning in it.

Captain Ashvane’s expression changed as he watched her. Smug certainty gave way to confusion and then to fear. He took a step back, holding the knife before him like an animal backed into a corner. Some of his men did not notice. All they saw was their commander continuing to fight and break free of the enemy. Several of them moved into position around her, swords raised, while Anya continued to fire into the fray. 

Shadows coiled at Sylvanas' feet, slowly gathering around her. Rage was a living thing in the crucible of her lungs, burning like liquid fire, clawing at the backs of her teeth. With a wordless snarl, her form flickered. In a blaze of black necrotic smoke, Sylvanas swept over the Ashvane men advancing upon her, over half a dozen including the Captain. The coils of shadow billowed outward, curling around them and swallowing them whole, until the air was filled with the sound of a shriek that tore itself from her mouth, drowning out all else. The note shivered high over the treetops, sending a startled flock of birds to flight. Everyone in the camp -- friend and foe alike -- clutching at their ears. Some fell to their knees. Others cried out in agony, blood dribbling from their noses, dripping from their open mouths, choking them until they could not make a noise. 

When the boiling black fog faded, Sylvanas stood in the centre of a group of dead Ashvanes crumpled along the ground. Their bodies were contorted into foetal positions, their skin grey and clinging to their bones as though the very essence of life had been drained from them. Sylvanas' shoulders and the tips of her fingers twitched. Her face was an uncanny mask, her eyes burning like red coals through the gloom. 

Those left untouched staggered weakly to their feet. The camp had gone eerily quiet, the absence of noise in the wake of the banshee scream almost as loud as the wail itself. They were all staring. Hayles' eyes were wide and uncertain, taking in the scene before him. His beard was wet and dark with blood. Even Anya watched warily from the ridge, waiting to see what would happen. 

Breathing out a long ragged sigh, Sylvanas straightened. It took effort to animate herself again as she usually did, as though her body had forgotten what it was like to pantomime life. When she turned her gaze upon a few of the Ashvane soldiers further away from her, they took a step backwards, gripping their weapons tightly to their chests. 

"Put those down," she said, and though her voice was soft, it still echoed with the vestiges of dark power that lingered in her chest like an unspoken threat.

Immediately they threw their weapons to the ground and raised their shaking hands. She turned her attention away from them, looking instead down at the dead body of Captain Ashvane. His fingers were still curled tightly around the hilt of her hunting knife. Reaching down, Sylvanas tugged it free. She took a moment to inspect the blade and clean it on his sash, before slipping it back into its hilt nestled away in her knee high boots. 

Hayles approached her slowly, his steps tentative, as though he were approaching a wild animal that might snap his arm clean off with one bite. "Your orders, ma'am?"

"Take them prisoner, and we'll drag them back to Barrowknoll for questioning."

"Pity about the Captain," he said, glancing down at the man's corpse. "He would've had the most information." 

Something in her expression must have changed, for Hayles went very pale and said hurriedly, "Not that it's a problem, mind. I'm sure the others'll have plenty to talk about when we bring them back to camp, ma'am."

Sylvanas tried to school her features into something resembling calm, but it was difficult when her muscles did not want to react normally. Her soul twitched in her body like a man wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes. It would take her a few hours to get used to having skin again. So, she merely nodded sharply at Hayles, then turned and began walking back in the direction of their horses. The Waycrest cavalrymen parted before her, staring as she passed. She lengthened her stride and paid them no heed.

Anya was at her side in a moment, trailing after her like a faithful shadow. She looked concerned, but said nothing. Not until they reached the horses, at least. While Sylvanas hauled herself into the saddle, Anya remained standing by the skeletal horse's side. She gazed up at her Queen, as if waiting to receive instruction.

"What is it?" Sylvanas asked. 

"Do you need me to fetch you an Apothecary, my Queen?" 

Sylvanas considered the offer for a moment before shaking her head curtly. "No."

Anya did not quibble. She just clasped her hand over her heart and bowed low. Then, she strode towards her own horse and climbed into the saddle. When she tried to urge the living horse towards Sylvanas however, it shied from the prospect, turning in a wide circle rather than get too close. Sylvanas pretended to not notice. 

By the time they returned to Barrowknoll, it was nearing the evening. On their ride back with prisoners in tow, it had begun to rain. Suddenly Anya’s fixation on an oiled buff coat did not seem so foolish. Sylvanas’ cloak was not nearly as effective as combating the elements in Kul Tiras. It was slower returning to camp than leaving it. The prisoners were not allowed to ride their horses. Rather, their hands were bound and they walked behind the Waycrest cavalry. Their horses were tethered individually to the Waycrest horses; it wouldn’t do to leave them behind. Horses were expensive. One could always find work for them in an army. 

Their return earned a few appreciative murmurs. Waycrest and Drust soldiers gathered round and asked questions of their friends in the cavalry as they rode into Barrowknoll. Jeers and hard looks were aimed at the Ashvane prisoners, but they were otherwise left alone before they were carted off for questioning. Hayles was approached by a Waycrest infantry Captain when he dismounted. Sylvanas eyed him sidelong as he clapped the man on the shoulder and began to speak with him boisterously. 

As if sensing her gaze upon him, Hayles turned. He caught her eye, and to his credit he did not look away. In fact, swept his helm over his heart and inclined his head towards her respectfully. Fearfully, even. 

Rather than reply, Sylvanas slid smoothly from her own saddle. She strode off, giving Anya a sharp gesture to imply that she wanted to be left alone. Anya did as commanded without question, returning, presumably, to the cavalry unit she preferred to haunt for company these days. 

Sylvanas headed towards her own quarters in Barrowknoll -- a repaired house near the Church, which itself was being used as the new headquarters. She quickened her step when she drew near the Church, knowing full well that certain unwanted parties often lingered within. Before she could make it past however, a voice called after her. 

“I see you’ve returned victorious from your little hunting expedition.” 

Going still, Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder. Katherine was walking towards her from the Church. Planks had been erected in a webwork of pathways across the muddy ground. The end of Katherine’s cane knocked against wood with every other step. 

With one last longing look towards her own private quarters only a few paces away, Sylvanas turned to face the Lord Admiral. She tucked her hands behind her back in an officious pose, trying to seem natural even when she knew she appeared stiff. “I did,” she said. 

Katherine stopped before her, and folded her hands over the top of her cane, leaning her weight upon it. She was undeterred by the rain. “Did we learn anything new?”

“Not yet.” 

Katherine cast a critical eye over her. “You look more dead than usual. Did something happen?”

“Your concern is touching,” Sylvanas drawled. “But unnecessary. I am fine”

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. 

“Unless there is something else you wished to discuss, I shall -” 

Before Sylvanas could finish speaking and try to slip away however, Katherine interrupted. “There was, actually. How good of you to ask. I was wondering when we might all have a strategy meeting. Since you and the High Thornspeaker seem to be conveniently busy whenever I try to get you both in the same room these days.” 

It was true. Any time Katherine or Lucille would try to convene a meeting to discuss their next steps, Sylvanas would find an excuse to be elsewhere. It was at least gratifying to know that Jaina was doing the same. Though she doubted it was to avoid her. Most likely it was to avoid her mother. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “These are busy times, Lord Admiral.” 

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, my dear. We all know what times these are.”

Sylvanas blinked. Not at the swearing -- Katherine was prone to cursing as fluently as any sailor worth their salt -- but at the endearment. Sylvanas had heard Katherine call people ‘my dear’ only when they crossed a certain unspoken threshold. For Tatanka it was with the first cup of tea. For Anya, after their first card game. For Arthur after exactly three seconds of conversation. For Sylvanas, apparently, it took nearly seven months and a victory on the battlefield. Some had more hoops to jump through than others, it seemed. 

"I want to know what the plan is," Katherine continued with a face like cold iron. 

"Since when was this my army?" Sylvanas sneered. "Last I looked, my people and I were just a resource for you to use."

Katherine scoffed. "Like you didn't want it that way. Still -" she shifted her weight so that she could tap her cane thoughtfully against the wooden planks beneath them. "I do wonder what the High Thornspeaker promised you to get you to deploy so many troops into Drustvar."

Sylvanas thought of the treaty in her personal quarters, stashed safely away, signed and sealed. Copies of it had been distributed to Jaina as well as to Durotar, so that no party could cry foul of the agreement. "That is between myself and the High Thornspeaker."

Katherine arched an eyebrow. "Not even a hint for an old woman?"

In reply, Sylvanas merely glowered. 

"You really think you can keep your arrangement a secret?" Katherine asked. "The truth will out eventually."

"Yes," Sylvanas said. "But not today." 

"I don't see why the secrecy in the first place."

It was so tempting. She could tell her so easily. Jaina's secret hung by a thread in Sylvanas' hands, ready to be severed with a single swipe of a sentence. There was little to gain by telling Katherine, but the pure spite of the deed was almost enough to sway her.

Almost. But not quite.

Finally, Sylvanas said, "I have died for secrets in the past, Lord Admiral. You’ll not suss them out of me with conversation alone.” 

There was a bullish squaring of Katherine’s jaw that followed. Sylvanas had seen it many times before on Jaina; the two shared more mannerisms than they likely knew. 

Sighing, Katherine said, “At least tell me what the plan is for the next week? What have you and the High Thornspeaker discussed?"

Sylvanas’ face darkened. In truth, she and Jaina had not exchanged a single word over the last few days. Every time Sylvanas so much as saw her, she began walking in the other direction. Thankfully Jaina never gave chase. "Ask her yourself,” Sylvanas said. 

"I tried. She refuses to talk to me.” This time when Katherine rapped her cane against the planks, it was annoyed. “I figured you would know, seeing as you're close allies, supposedly. Though I'm having second thoughts, now."

"Then ask Lady Waycrest," Sylvanas said. She turned away and continued striding towards her lodgings. 

"I wasn't aware I was marching alongside children,” Katherine called after her before she could take more than a few steps away. 

Stopping, Sylvanas glared over her shoulder. "I'm older than you."

"Physically, perhaps. But in other ways? Evidence suggests otherwise."

Taking a few steps after her, Katherine stopped and fixed Sylvanas in place with a look sharp enough to skin a hare. "If you ask me -"

"I'm not."

"If you ask me," Katherine repeated, undeterred. "This sounds like some petty row."

When Sylvanas did not answer, Katherine clucked her tongue in an admonishing sort of way and shook her head. "Dear me. Do I really need to encourage you and the High Thornspeaker to use your words? Sit down? Have an adult conversation?"

"The same way you used your words with your husband?" Sylvanas sneered. "Yes, I can see why you ended up widowed and childless."

Katherine went still. Her eyes were like chips of ice. "You mean to shock me, throw me off my tracks and derail the conversation. But I made my peace with myself years ago."

"Clearly."

"What's more interesting is that you would compare your relationship with the High Thornspeaker to mine with my late husband." Katherine sniffed delicately at the notion. "Well, if I'd known this was a lover's quarrel, then I wouldn't have intruded. What a messy business."

Sylvanas growled, "It's not. And we are not having this conversation."

"Might I suggest leaving what goes on in the bedroom out of our military affairs?"

Again, Sylvanas turned to leave. She had scarcely stomped a few steps away, when Katherine called after her, "Kindly pull your head out of your ass. Before we all die, preferably." 

When Sylvanas did not stop this time, Katherine raised her voice, "Do you really intend to let the Ashvanes take the initiative? For such a storied military leader, I honestly expected more from you."

Sylvanas froze with her hand gripping the handle of the front door. Her grasp tightened. She could feel the wrought iron handle crumple beneath her fingers like paper. Behind her, she could hear the intermittent thump of the cane against the sodden wood walkways until Katherine stopped just behind her.

"We cannot winter here," Katherine said firmly, yet softly enough that they would not be overheard. "You know it. I know it. Lucille knows it, but only because I told the poor girl. Does your High Thornspeaker know it?"

Without turning around, Sylvanas said, "She is not 'my' High Thornspeaker."

"I don't care what or who she is," said Katherine. "What I care about is winning. If I had to play go-between for the two of you, I would. But neither of you seem very inclined to speak with me, despite my best efforts. Now, if I can condescend to try and settle this debate or quarrel or what have you, then you can eat crow and talk to that Tides-forsaken druid for five minutes. I'll settle for three minutes, even. Enough for us to agree on a plan and execute it. Have I made myself clear?"

Unclenching her fingers made the iron door handle screech slightly. Pulling her hand away, Sylvanas straightened her shoulders. She rose to her full height and turned, her movements too smooth, too mechanical. Even with a slight stoop due to her leg, Katherine still stood a few fingers taller than her, but the implacable expression on Sylvanas' face made her brow furrow. Katherine leaned back slightly, her eyes suddenly wary. 

When Sylvanas spoke, her voice was quiet; it slithered like a dark echo. “I have no intention of losing. You will have your victory, Lord Admiral. Make no mistake. But do not presume to tell me how to handle my affairs, personal or otherwise.”

Katherine scowled, but this time she did not try to stop Sylvanas as she turned to tug the door open. Walking inside, Sylvanas shut the door behind her, hearing Katherine mutter to herself, "Damn high-handed elves."

Even in the cold damp reconstructed house, there was little peace and quiet. Nathanos was bowed over a table, arranging reports and maps and ledgers in preparation for her arrival. He straightened when she faced him. 

"Anya told me what happened," he said. "She also told me that you refused an Apothecary." 

"I don't need an Apothecary. Or a mother, for that matter. So, you can drop the act," she added snidely. Crossing the sparsely furnished room, Sylvanas rounded the table and sat behind it. "What I need is the latest news from the ships sailing to our position, and the movements of the Great Fleet. If the Zandalari ships don't manage to slip Lord Stormsong's noose, those reinforcements will never arrive, and we might as well abandon this for a lost cause."

"I wish you would," Nathanos replied. “I wish I could sway you to leave.” 

She had considered it. A few times over the course of the last few days, if she were being honest with herself. Leaving Kul Tiras would have been the more sensible approach. There was no use throwing good coin after bad, as her father had been so fond of saying. And knowing when to cut one's losses was a key trait in any military leader worth their salt. Still, the idea rankled.

It was about more than thwarting the Alliance, now. This was personal. And if there was one thing Sylvanas hated, it was losing. 

Sylvanas pulled the first report Nathanos had arranged for her on the desk. Her eyes skimmed over the lines, but every now and then she would glance at him over the top of the parchment. Despite her earlier rebuke, Nathanos hovered nearby. He seemed to have no intention of leaving her alone right now. Annoyance prickled at the back of her spine, but it was tempered by a grateful flicker of feeling as well. 

She did not often use her powers. It was never pleasant -- mostly for others, but for herself also. There were no days, no minutes where she could pretend she was anything than what she had become at the hands of the Lich King, but there were certainly times that were worse than others. An Apothecary could only do so much with their potions and poultices. Her body was a mere vessel for the spirit chained within. They could but settle her corpse, urge it to be soothed for a brief respite. She generally only submitted herself to their care for the sake of others rather than herself. The Forsaken -- her Rangers included -- felt better if they believed she was properly looked after. As though the thought of her distress or loss caused them pain of their own. 

It was the threat of her absence more than anything else. What it would do to them as a people and as a society were she to no longer be there to guide them at the helm. 

The thought rose unbidden in her mind, then. Jaina's offer. Being 'cured.' The possibility of it ached. How would they see her if she lived once more? What would they do? Would she abandon them? Would she stay? Would they even want her to? 

"Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas lowered the report back to the desk. Others found Nathanos difficult to read, but she had never found that to be the case. His careful veil of uncaring haughtiness was the most inhuman thing about him, but his actions were his ultimate tell. He would say one thing, and then do another. Spiteful words of ridicule in one hand, and selfless acts in the other. For the longest time, even back when they had been alive, he had thought she never noticed, but she was not one to reward skill alone. One had to have the proper disposition. 

Now, he hovered, and it was anxious despite his cool tone and his perpetual lofty sneer. 

Lifting her hand to her face, Sylvanas explored the cut on her cheek with her fingertips. She could withstand blows that would kill any living person, but her body did not heal normally, not like it once did. It would take time for the necromantic powers laden upon her spirit to knit this corporeal form back together. The process was slow. The flesh was weak, but the bond between body and spirit was weaker. She could get her Val’kyr to mend her, but she did not like wasting their powers for such trivial matters. 

Finally, she said, "Bring me an Apothecary, then. If it will soothe you, Nathanos."

"It is not I who needs treatment," he said, lying to himself. Sylvanas let him. He bowed and strode out of the house. 

With a sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her seat and waited for him to return with an Apothecary in tow. Perhaps after letting herself be fussed over for an hour or two, she could get some actual work done. 

Nathanos returned not long later with an Apothecary at his heels and -- to her surprise -- a familiar raven on his shoulder. Now that Nathanos knew about Arthur, he was tolerated rather than actively despised. Arthur had taken to ruthlessly abusing this change in status, much to Nathanos' annoyance and Sylvanas' amusement. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"He saw me getting the Apothecary, and wanted to see how this worked," Nathanos explained, shutting the door behind them. "I told him that it was not my decision to make."

With a shrug, Sylvanas rose to her feet. "He can stay, if he wants." 

"Yes," Arthur whispered triumphantly under his breath.

Since discovering what he was, she had watched his interactions with the Forsaken in a new light. Suddenly his queries about their undeath made sense. She had initially thought them to be curiosity, or him digging up information for Jaina. And perhaps there was a bit of that, to be fair. But it certainly was not the whole picture. 

The Apothecary was a mass of heavy robes. Strapped to his chest and back were darkly lacquered boxes, filled with all manner of potions and reagents. His rotting face was hidden behind a deep cowl, but his eyes gleamed golden through the dim light like candles. He limped as he walked, and even with his hunched stature he was still taller than Nathanos. When Sylvanas turned her gaze upon him, he bowed low. 

"If it would please the Dark Lady," he said in a gravelly voice. 

"It would," she murmured. 

He shuffled closer and began to disassemble the boxes upon the desk. They folded out with clever hinges, revealing a labyrinth of compartments within. While he worked, Sylvanas walked around the desk to stand before him, waiting quietly with her hands clasped behind her back. 

Candles were lit as well as incense. Soon, the room was filled with the smell of chrism and rose oil. The Apothecary took his time. He swung a thurible by its chain, walking around her and murmuring in Gutterspeak. She stood still, allowing the ritual of the process with a bored kind of familiarity. The air grew thick with smoke. When various bowls and vials and candles had been arrayed just so, the Apothecary bowed before her once again. Without needing to be told what to do, Sylvanas lifted her arms somewhat to allow him to begin disrobing her. Every piece of armour and scrap of cloth above the waist was removed and placed aside, handled with care and reverence. He even waved the thurible over her pieces of armour, muttering more incantations. 

On the other side of the room, Nathanos had turned his back for this process. Arthur on the other hand, shuffled around on Nathanos' shoulder to keep watching. That was, until Nathanos plucked one his tail feathers in admonishment.

"Ow! Hey! What was that for?"

"Keep your eyes to yourself," Nathanos growled.

"You always were an awful prude, Nathanos," said Sylvanas, watching them with some amusement. "I do not care if he watches."

There was a bit of dark grumbling at that, but Nathanos said nothing more. He maintained his own discretion, keeping his back turned, while Arthur looked on curiously. 

When her torso was fully revealed, Arthur made a whistling noise. Nathanos appeared on the brink of strangling him, but Arthur only said, "Does that still hurt?"

Sylvanas did not need to look down; she knew what he was referring to. The Val'kyr could mend many things when they reconstructed her body, but the wound made by Frostmourne was not one of them. The gash slanted across her abdomen just beneath her ribs. Along her back, the exit wound was a mirror. It had been expertly sutured back together and packed with a variety of reagents that she did not care to know more about beyond the fact that they smelled of warm myrrh and smoky incense. 

Rather than answer, Sylvanas countered, "Do your old wounds still hurt?"

"No," Arthur said.

"Well, then. There you have it." 

It was not strictly true. Sometimes, she could still feel the cold presence of that cursed blade as though it were sliding between her organs anew, splitting against her lower ribs. Those times were mercifully rare, and usually only occured when she used too much of her powers or spent too much time out of her body in nothing but spirit form. As though returning to her body reminded it of the very concept of pain. Today was not such a day. 

She lowered her arms, and the Apothecary began to unstitch the wound. He went carefully yet expertly, snipping the sutures loose and tugging them free with a pair of pliers and scissors plated in silver. Arthur craned his feathery neck to watch, trying to gain a bit more height to peek over the Apothecary kneeling at Sylvanas' feet and treating her. 

"Are there more Undead among the Drust?" Sylvanas asked. 

"There are lots of them!" Arthur said. "But not like me, no. They're mostly ghouls or restless spirits. They don't remember who they are or anything." 

The Apothecary was repacking the old injury now. His hands pressed the cavernous wound full of reagents. She did not flinch or even glance down at what he was doing. Instead she continued speaking to Arthur, "Do you have a difficult time remembering things?"

Arthur shuffled his wings. "Sometimes, yeah."

Immediately Nathanos' head twitched. Though he did not look around or speak, Sylvanas could tell he was listening very intently to the conversation now. 

"Does Jaina tell you to do things, and you seem to wake up later, not able to remember the past few days?" Sylvanas asked.

Even the Apothecary paused in his ministrations. Sylvanas glanced down at him sharply, and he returned to his task, though he too was now eavesdropping. 

Meanwhile, Arthur cocked his head in bemusement. "No?" he said, sounding confused. "I've never had anything like that happen before. The first year or so after she raised me though, I struggled with basic things. Walking and talking and stuff. I got better at it. She was very helpful."

"How?" Sylvanas tried to keep her tone light, so that Arthur would not get suspicious of this line of questioning.

"You know. She would make potions for me, and braces for my legs, and stuff. But she never could help with the wounds or anything." Arthur blinked, his eyes pale blue and filmy. A corpse's eyes. "I don't think she's very good at necromancy, to be honest. I mean, she's good at a lot of magic, but every magic user prefers some things over others. Like, I can turn into animals all day, but I'm terrible at healing people." 

Sylvanas frowned. "But if she gives you a direct order, can you disobey her?"

An incredulous caw was Arthur's answer. It sounded like a laugh. "Oh, yeah! I disobey her all the time! Why?"

The tension drained from the room. Sylvanas, Nathanos, and the Apothecary all relaxed, as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Sylvanas even let out a little sigh.

Bemused, Arthur looked between the three of them. "Is there something I'm missing here?"

But Sylvanas merely shook her head. "It's nothing. Nevermind." 

Arthur leaned down over Nathanos' shoulder, his tail feathers jutting up into the air for balance. "Have you ever raised anyone from the dead?" 

"I have," Sylvanas said truthfully. "Never without their permission. If you had been given the choice, would you have come back?"

For a long moment Arthur puzzled over that query. He shifted his weight back, and shuffled his tail. "I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe. It's not great, but I like it enough. And I didn't like dying. At all."

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Sylvanas then. Even Nathanos chuckled quietly. 

"No," Sylvanas mused with a faint smile, her killing blow on display. "No, I can’t say I did either." 

The rest of the procedure went forth without trouble. The Apothecary stitched her back up with a hooked needle and thread. He anointed her in oils like a god king, until she fairly gleamed. Death magic was woven heavy in the air, heavy on his fingers, as heavy as incense. By the time he worked his way to the more recent wound on her face, she already felt calmer, as though the Apothecary had sewn her soul more firmly into place. 

There was little more he could do about the cut on her cheek than stitch it together and seal it with fragrant chrism and a necrotic spell chanted from his lipless mouth, but it would help quicken the process along. 

The Apothecary helped her back into her clothes and armour, his bony fingers as deft with clasps and buttons as they were with a needle and thread. Soon she was shrugging her cloak around her shoulders, and allowing him to buckle her pauldrons into place as though he were dressing a high priest of the Light in sacred vestments of office. 

A knock came at the door. Sylvanas waved at Nathanos to answer it. When he did so, she could see a number of Forsaken soldiers clustered around outside. News of her minor scrape must have spread through the ranks like wildfire. She had to hold back a grimace. 

"Arthur," she called, gesturing for him to fly closer.

In an ungainly flap of wings, Arthur flew from Nathanos' shoulder and landed on the back of the chair behind the desk. "Yeah?"

"Change into your usual form."

After a moment's hesitation, he did so. There was a whirl of druidic magic, and he stood behind her chair looking curious but faintly uneasy by the way Sylvanas and the Apothecary were eyeing him up. When Sylvanas waved for him to approach her, Arthur rounded the table to stand before them, his pale gaze flicking between the two of them.

Tilting her head to one side, Sylvanas reached out and touched the rent flesh of his wrist. His clothes were scuffed and worn, but not in rags. They were a mark of a man who did not care for clothes, rather than a mark of neglect. His shirtsleeves had been rolled back above his elbow, revealing his hands and forearms, large portions of which had been peeled of flesh and muscle. 

"See what you can do for him," Sylvanas told the Apothecary. 

Without question, the Apothecary bowed to her, then gestured for Arthur to stand where Sylvanas had stood not moments ago. 

Arthur balked. “Oh - I don’t - I don’t know if -”

“Jaina’s speciality is not death magic. It is this man’s, however,” said Sylvanas firmly, indicating the Apothecary. “You will feel better after. I promise you.” 

Sheepish, Arthur allowed himself to be herded where the Apothecary wanted him to stand. He awkwardly held his arms out to the side, all while shooting Sylvanas a look that she could only describe as abashed.

Rolling her eyes, she turned away from him and walked towards the door. He was not so bold when it was himself being undressed in front of others. 

Humans, she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head. 

Nathanos was shutting the door once more when she reached him. “Did you tell them they could stop their worrying?” she asked.

“I did, though doubtlessly they will remain outside until they see you.”

She made a disgruntled noise.

“I also received word from Captain Hayles,” Nathanos continued. Lowering his voice, he said, “Apparently, one of the prisoners you brought back from your little scouting expedition has decided to talk.” 

Sylvanas’ ears canted up in surprise. “That was fast,” she murmured. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder back towards Arthur and the Apothecary, she said, “Do we know the High Thornspeaker’s current whereabouts?”

Arthur was not paying any attention to them. He was too busy pestering the Apothecary with rapid fire questions, which the Apothecary answered in a dusty wheezing voice. 

“The people I have assigned to watch her informed me that she vanished from camp sometime this morning,” said Nathanos. “Nobody has been able to ascertain her position since then. She has a habit of disappearing without a trace and reappearing again. I suspect portals and other translocation magics are at work, but none of the Forsaken mages I’ve designated can crack where she goes to so often.” 

Sylvanas hummed a contemplative note under her breath. “I have an inkling.” Tugging the hood of her cloak over her head, she said, “Stay here. Keep an eye on the camp while I’m away.”

Nathanos’ brows furrowed. “And where are you going?”

“Belore. You’re as bad as the others.”

“Incorrect,” he said with an affronted sniff. “I’m worse.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas reached past him to open the door. “I am going to speak with Hayles and the prisoner. And then I’m going to do something I will probably regret.”

He stepped aside to let her pass. “Which is?”

“I’m going to find the High Thornspeaker, and have a conversation.” 

  The fang was heavy in Sylvanas' hand. She weighed it in her palm, considering her next actions very carefully. Then she lifted the token by its string and said, "Take me to Jaina, please." She growled out the last word like it was a penance. 

That feeling hooked behind her gut as though latching onto her spine and pulled. In an instant blur of colour and darkness, she appeared at the entrance to Jaina's cabin. The fog had returned. A chill nipped the air. A shallow shower of snow dusted the grounds. On one side the cliffs were shrouded in white, and on the other the dark vastness of the trees seemed to vanish into the mist like the long march of time itself. As though this place were caught in a stasis, torn between the woods and the sea. 

Sylvanas tucked the fang back into her belt pouch. She stood before the front door, which had been hung with a wreath woven from blackthorn branches. The berries were dark and clustered along the wreath. Whether it was purely decorative or served some greater magical purpose, she did not know. She used studying it as an excuse to not knock on the door. Eventually, steeling herself, Sylvanas reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. 

There was no sound from within. Brows knitting together, Sylvanas leaned to one side in order to peer through one of the windows, but the glass was misted from the chill outside. It was impossible to see anything but the indistinct shape of furniture within. 

She knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Rocking back on her heels, Sylvanas tongued at the back of her teeth contemplatively. She had been so sure that Jaina would be here. Or perhaps she was, and she knew it was Sylvanas outside. Perhaps they were both avoiding each other. 

She was reaching for the door handle, when she heard a voice behind her.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Jaina said. 

Sylvanas whirled around. It wasn't everyday someone could sneak up on her. The only people who could consistently pull it off were her Rangers. And, apparently, Jaina. It was so reminiscent of their first meeting, that Sylvanas narrowed her eyes warily. 

Jaina stood behind her, wrapped in a robe. A towel was slung over her shoulder. Her feet were bare. Her hair had been undone from its usual braid so that it hung, wet, over her shoulders. It was a rare occasion to see Jaina with her scars on full display, the neckline of her robes a low-draped décolletage revealing the rope burns at her neck and the hint of a sword wound over her heart. She faintly steamed in the cool air, as though she had just stepped from a pool of hot water.

Which was, Sylvanas realised, exactly what she had done.

"I have the house warded," Jaina explained. "If you try to force your way inside...well, it's not very nice. Let's just leave it at that."

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. "Noted." 

They looked at one another for a long moment, until Jaina cleared her throat and stepped past her. "I suppose you'll want to come inside. Unless you really were hoping to rifle through my things without my being here."

"I wanted to talk," Sylvanas said. 

"Now, I'm really worried," said Jaina dryly. 

There was a rusted old lock on the door, but Jaina used no key. She did not need to unlock the door. It opened at her touch without any trouble. Sylvanas wondered if she even locked it conventionally at all.

Jaina did not wait for her guest to follow after her; she simply stepped inside and left the door open behind her. Sylvanas removed her shoes, but hesitated to leave her weapons behind. Eventually however, she balanced the bow and quiver and knife against the outer wall of the cabin, and walked inside. 

The door shut itself softly behind her as though a draught had caught the edge. Jaina was standing before the fireplace. When Sylvanas had peered inside, there had been no light emanating from within. Now, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Jaina stood with her back to the flames and toweled her hair dry. 

The skull mask glowered at Sylvanas from its customary spot hanging on the wall. This time, the scythe-like staff was leaning against it. The runes carved into them glowed stronger when she drew near. Sylvanas moved past them both, entering further into the cabin. She made no motion to make herself comfortable. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back as though awaiting an infantry inspection on parade. 

Jaina pulled the towel down, her hair a mess until she began raking her fingers through it. "You're very quiet for someone who came all this way to talk to me," she said. 

From this angle, the fire lit Jaina from behind so that she seemed gilded. The soft fabric of her robe was brighter at the edges, more saturated, so that her body beneath was but a silhouette. 

Tearing her gaze away, Sylvanas wandered over to the table strewn with books and scrolls and various maps. She dragged her fingertips along the ragged edge of a vellum map. “I’m sure you will have already heard that I took Captain Hayles and a few of his men for a reconnoitre this morning.”

“I did,” said Jaina. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room and joined Sylvanas, careful to keep the table between them.

“We caught a few prisoners. Fortunately for us, one of them decided to cooperate.”

That got Jaina’s attention. She draped the towel back over her shoulder, and asked, “And what did they say?”

“There is a feature just to the northeast of Fallhaven,” Sylvanas said. “They call it Watermill Hill.”

“I am familiar with it, yes.”

“The Ashvanes have orders to take it from the defenders, and use it as a fort to bombard the city.”  

Jaina fell silent. Her eyes dropped to the table, and she began digging up a more detailed map of Fallhaven and its surrounding countryside. She pulled out her ledgers, placing them atop the map and scowling down at the both of them. 

Finally she said softly yet vehemently, “Shit.” 

Sylvanas hummed in agreement. 

Sighing, Jaina sank down into a chair. She rubbed at her eyes, scratching at the scar on one side of her face. “I had hoped to gain control over the peninsula by taking Carver’s Harbour from the Ashvanes.” 

“It is far too late for that, now.” Reaching over, Sylvanas tapped at a section of the map between Fallhaven and Carver’s Harbour. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make life difficult for them in the meantime. We just need to take the initiative.” 

Jaina nodded. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “So, we march for Fallhaven, and hope we can arrive in time to reinforce Watermill Hill. Otherwise we’ll have to take it back before they can blast through the eastern walls with artillery and create a practicable breach.” 

“And then we winter at Watermill, and harass their position at Carver’s Harbour until they wished they had never set foot in Drustvar.” 

“It’s a good plan,” Jaina admitted. “Though somewhat predictable, given the present company. I understand guerilla tactics are a favourite of yours.” 

Sylvanas gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “We all cling to our little foibles. Mine happen to involve a penchant for shock and hit-and-run doctrine.” 

Jaina smiled, but it was a fleeting thing. Her face looked raw and recently scrubbed. She held Sylvanas’ gaze and said, “You smell like death.”

“Don’t I always?” Sylvanas drawled.

“No,” said Jaina. “Not like this. What happened?” 

Sylvanas tried to make her shrug nonchalant. “I got a little carried away during the scouting expedition.” 

Jaina looked at the cut on Sylvanas’ cheek and murmured, “I see.”

"To add insult to injury, your mother cornered me upon my return."

"Oh?" Jaina's tone was light, but she would suddenly not meet Sylvanas' eye. She fiddled with the ends of the towel slung over her shoulder, picking at stray threads, her actions uneasy, faintly apprehensive.

"She wants to call a meeting to discuss our strategy moving forward."

"Good thing we have one now, then," Jaina said, gesturing to the map of Fallhaven. 

Sylvanas caught Jaina's eye and said, "I don't think that was all she meant."

In reply, Jaina swallowed thickly. The apprehension was more than faint now. She gripped the end of the towel tightly in one fist until her knuckles were white. A flicker of fear and uncertainty flashed across her features. She did not say anything.

"The truth will out," Sylvanas said. "That was what she told me. And she's right. This war will end, and our agreement will come to light. You cannot hide forever."

Inhaling deeply, Jaina lowered her hands to her sides and said, "I know." She chewed at her lower lip for a moment before asking, "What happened with you?" 

Sylvanas frowned in quiet puzzlement.

"When you -- you know -" Jaina made a strange motion with one hand. "When you saw your family again after you had died? How did they react when they saw you like this?"

The map was suddenly incredibly interesting. Sylvanas traced circles around Watermill Hill and its surroundings, wishing beyond all else that they could return to topics of war and strategy and killing, things she was infinitely more comfortable discussing. Not this. 

"My younger sister, Vereesa, was the first to see me,” she finally said, her tone blank and matter-of-fact. “It was awful."

"What happened?"

"She hugged me," said Sylvanas.

Jaina laughed, until she realised very quickly that Sylvanas was not laughing at all.

If she thought too long and too hard, she could still feel Vereesa’s arms around her, crushing her with a warmth that scorched. It hurt to touch her. To be reminded of the heat of life she could never again share. To want to be the person her little sister remembered and idolised -- a yearning so strong it tore her up inside until she thought she could feel a blade piercing her ribs.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Sylvanas said before she could sink too deeply into that melancholic memory.

“Please,” Jaina said, sounding relieved, almost eager for any scrap of advice in this surreal situation.

Sylvanas glanced up at her sharply, and her eyes burned crimson. “Don’t wait too long. The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

A little huff escaped Jaina at that. “I think we’re well beyond that, now. She’s thought I’ve been dead for years. Since before she even became Lord Admiral. I’m sure she’s made her peace by now.”

“She hasn’t. She told me she had, but she is lying.” Sylvanas ran her hands along the back of a chair tucked beneath the desk, her thumbs counting the rings of polished wood grain. “Grief is reaching out in love and finding nothing, and then filling it with something, anything to make that void a little less yawning, a little more manageable. The longer you wait, the more disruptive your return will be.”

Firelight played faintly about the strands of Jaina’s hair. She engoldened in the dim glow. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment of silence. “For assuming what you wanted. It's just that back in Ardfert bog, I thought -”

Sylvanas shook her head curtly. “No. Stop.” 

“Sylvanas -” 

When Jaina tried to round the table, to draw closer, Sylvanas slipped further away. She used the table as an obstacle to keep them apart. “I am not here to accept your offer. And I never will.”

Jaina did not try to pursue her further. She stopped, her hands coming to rest on the desk between them, just lightly touching a space between a stack of worn, well-read books. “I still don’t understand,” Jaina said slowly. “But only because given the choice, I would leap at the chance.”

The cabin was warming up, the fire lapping at the hearth and filling the space with a pervasive roiling heat. Sylvanas wished nothing of warmth. Not now. It was too close to body temperature, and she could feel her own skin begin to react to the heat, to drink it in and hold it fast as though hungry for it. “It is not just about what I want. I have an obligation,” she said, and the words felt as though they were being scraped from her throat. “To more than just myself. I cannot be selfish. I will not be.” 

That was how it always had been. Self-sacrifice above all else. Living for others and not herself. Wishing she could be selfish, but knowing she could never do so; she would hate herself if she did. And she did not need any more reason to hate herself. Especially now.

“If there is one thing you are allowed to be selfish about, it is your own life,” Jaina said, her words chosen with care and precision.

But Sylvanas was already shaking her head, even as Jaina was speaking. “Not mine. And not yours. Not anymore. We are more than people. We are symbols and titles.”

A scowl crossed Jaina’s face, though not one of anger. “Do you allow yourself nothing?”

“You are new to your position. Relatively speaking,” Sylvanas added when Jaina opened her mouth to protest. “There is a balance you must find between personal wants and public needs. I found it long ago when Quel’Thalas demanded a military leader of my family. It is easy for you now. You want to save Drustvar. You want what is best for you people. But there will come a time, when you will do things that go against your better conscience not because you want to, but because you must.” 

“And you believe you must remain dead?” Jaina asked incredulously.

Sylvanas’ answer came without err or hesitation. “Yes.” 

With a sigh, Jaina shook her head. Again, she raked a hand through her hair, which by now had begun to dry somewhat. 

“Your relationship with your mother is a prime example,” Sylvanas began, watching her reaction. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to her, but you know you have to eventually.” 

Jaina chewed at her lower lip again. Her brows knit. Finally she relented with a nod. “Yes. I know.” 

“It is easier if you think of yourself as two different people.” Sylvanas lifted her hands, palms facing up as though weighing objects between them. “The future Lord Admiral, and Jaina Proudmoore.”

A bitter smile twisted Jaina’s lips. “It seems you need more hands, if we’re going to talk about your personae,” she said with a nod towards her. 

Sylvanas lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When you live as long as elves do, you might need more than two, as well.”

“I will.”

At that, Sylvanas blinked. She looked at Jaina for clarification. 

“Druids live as long as elves do. Even human ones,” Jaina said. Then she grinned, amused by Sylvanas’ confusion. “It’s a perk.” 

“And here I thought the Kul Tiran nobility would be clamouring for you to conceive an Heir the moment you became Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas drawled. 

“Oh, they probably will anyway. But they’re going to be very annoyed when they find out that I’ll outlive them by a good few centuries at least.” 

“I can hear the cries of outrage from Boralus already.” 

Jaina’s grin widened, then softened. Her fingers played with the cloth belt holding her bathrobe together. “I have to say, this certainly has been a surprise.”

Sylvanas cocked her head to one side.

In answer, Jaina gestured between the two of them. “I thought this conversation was going to be far more unpleasant.”

"I can make it unpleasant, if you would prefer."

Jaina made a face. "Please, no. I thought we were doing so well."

When Sylvanas smiled, it did not reach her eyes. Her fangs glinted in the firelight. "Make no mistake. I am still very angry." Her gaze seared crimson.

Jaina made a noise at the back of her throat, something between a hum and a grunt. "I can see that. I don't suppose there's anything I can do?"

"More concessions when you become Lord Admiral wouldn't go unappreciated."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina said, "Anything that doesn't involve me whoring out my nation?"

Sylvanas tapped at her chin, pretending to think deeply on the subject. Finally she said, "No. Nothing."

With a snort of wry amusement, Jaina said, "Well, do let me know if that changes." 

"I will keep it in mind." A keen expression crossed Sylvanas' face. "I never forget when I am owed a favour." 

"Now, that is just ominous." 

"Good. It was supposed to be." 

The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the sky had fallen dark as night swept across the land. Glancing through a window, Jaina sighed. "I suppose I ought to make myself presentable and face the firing squad."

"I very much doubt your mother will draw a pistol on you, though I will admit that she is a difficult woman to read." 

"That's an understatement," Jaina muttered under her breath. She had begun to pick her way up the stairs, manoeuvring through the stacks of books haphazardly arranged along the steps. 

When she reached the mezzanine, she dropped the towel onto the bed and untied the belt of her robe. Sylvanas pulled the maps closer to herself to study them while she waited, but her eyes would stray up to where Jaina was getting dressed. There wasn't much to see through the pillars of the balustrade and the piles of books. Glimpses of skin and cloth here and there as Jaina pulled on a fresh set of formal robes. There was an exit scar on her back, where Gorak Tul had struck her through with a sword, right between her shoulder blade and her spine. 

A few minutes later, Jaina descended the steps, still tying the laces of fabric at her throat to hide the scars of her neck. Her cloak was draped across the back of the couch, and she shrugged it over her shoulders. The fabric rustled like the wind through dense branches. Sylvanas had long since given up the pretense of pouring over the maps, and stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Are you ready?" 

Jaina fiddled with her loose hair for a moment, as though contemplating taking the time to braid it. Eventually though she nodded. "Yes. Let's go." 

When they reached the door however, Jaina stopped. Her hand had immediately grabbed up the sickle staff, but she hesitated at the mask. Sylvanas waited patiently a step behind for Jaina to make up her mind. 

"No," Jaina said softly to herself, turning away from the mask. Before she could take another step towards the door though, she turned back to the mask. "Or...? Well...? Hmm." She grabbed the mask. "Yes." Then almost immediately she put the mask back on its hook. "What am I thinking? No."

Sylvanas sighed. "You are worse than a cat at the door."

"All right, yes." Jaina snatched up the mask, spurred into action, and pulled the door open. Once outside she placed the antlered skull over her head, and her shoulders relaxed somewhat, as though the idea of extra layer of protection was soothing. 

Sylvanas followed, closing the door behind them. She took a moment to pull on her boots and greaves. Once she had slung her bow over her shoulders, she pulled the fang from her belt pouch, but Jaina just held out her hand instead. 

"I'll take us back," she said, hand outstretched, waiting. 

Slowly, Sylvanas tucked the token away, and reached out for Jaina's hand. Jaina clasped their fingers together. Her skin was warm and calloused. Sylvanas could feel it even through the supple leather of her gloves. 

The dark sockets of the skull's eyes glowed with pinpricks of light, and Sylvanas tensed. Jaina tightened her hold, as if she were afraid Sylvanas would wrench her hand away while the spell was still taking form. And then that familiar hook-like sensation gripped at Sylvanas' stomach and gave a mighty tug. When the world righted itself again, they were standing on the second floor rafters of the church at Barrowknoll. 

The roof had been reconstructed with rough-hewn lumber. Stacks of bricks and munitions were piled up all around. The space was dimly lit from candles scattered around the main floor below them, and the sound of voices floated up the nearby set of stairs. 

"Tides help me, if you don't tell me this instant, Lucille Waycrest -!"

"I don't know anything! You must believe me, Katherine. If the Warchief or the High Thornspeaker had said something to me, they would have said it to you as well. I swear it."

"You’re hiding something. You all are. Oh, don't give me that doe-eyed look! You always were a terrible liar."

"I told you, I don’t know anything!" 

"You know I was there at your birth? Your mother held my hand. Nearly squeezed it right off, if you ask me. That woman had a death grip like no other."

"Yes," Lucille sighed wearily. "I know." 

"And when Meredith fell to the Coven? Who was the first to offer you aid?"

Lucille mumbled something under her breath.

"Speak up, my dear." 

"I said: You were."

"That's right. I was. And when those fools at Corlain attempted to burn you at the stake for some far-fetched witchcraft conspiracy, who got wind of it and rallied the Marshal for a rescue attempt?" 

"You did."

"And yet you have the nerve -- the absolute gall -- to look me in the face right now, and lie to me." There was the sound of boot steps, and the faint clack of a cane against wooden floorboards. When Katherine spoke again, her voice was low but not at all soft. "I had thought I could rely upon you, the last of my family, distant though you are. But I see I am cursed to live a life of disappointment, through and through." 

“That’s not fair,” Lucille sounded like she was choking on the words, or trying to hold back a wave of tears. “You know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. 

"You have a very poor way of showing it." 

"What am I supposed to do? Perform every action of my life as though I'm grovelling at your feet just to show how thankful I am?"

"Of course, not. You're being ridiculous."

"Don't say that! Don't you say that to me! You know I can't stand that, Kath!"

"Don't you 'Kath' me, young lady!"

As they eavesdropped, Jaina was gripping Sylvanas' hand hard enough that her fingers trembled. Sylvanas stole a quick glance at her. It was impossible to see what her expression was beneath the mask, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too rigid. 

Sylvanas squeezed her hand back, and Jaina's head jerked towards her in surprise, as though she had only just remembered that Sylvanas was present at all. But it was only to get her attention, for Sylvanas jerked her head meaningfully at the stairs, and gave Jaina a pointed look. She could hear a faint indrawn breath beneath that mask, and then Jaina let go of her hand. 

At the first creak of the floorboards beneath Jaina's feet, the two voices went silent downstairs. Sylvanas followed as Jaina descended the stairs, her own footsteps silent as a whisper. 

Lucille and Katherine were standing very close together before the large rectangular altar that had been converted into a planning table. Scrolls and scraps of notes, missives and ledgers and stacks of maps were strewn across the altar. The papers were weighed down with bits of brick and bronze lamps. Both of them appeared startled at the interruption and the idea that their conversation was being listened to. Katherine recovered more quickly, grasping the falcon head of her cane in both hands and schooling her features to their usual hard neutrality. On the other hand, Lucille’s lower lip trembled. Despite that, her gaze was sloe-eyed and unyielding. 

"Forgive the interruption," Jaina said, her voice cold beneath the horned skull. "But I thought I should step in." 

Lucille jerked her chin up and said steadily. "It's fine. We just got a bit sidetracked from a strategy discussion." 

Jaina hummed. She approached the altar, her hand reaching out to rest upon the stone surface. "Sylvanas has informed me of new developments that we all need to discuss." 

Hearing this, Katherine shot Sylvanas a look that could only be described as startled, though she tried to hide it. In return Sylvanas gave away nothing. She did not draw nearer the altar, keeping her distance, watching Jaina, waiting for what she would do. 

"I'm glad to hear you two are talking again," Katherine said carefully. Then she turned her attention upon the altar, waving Lucille and Sylvanas over to join them. "Shall we -?"

"No, not yet," Jaina said, cutting her off. Her voice was determined, but there was the barest hint of shakiness lingering beneath the surface. "You were right. There was something Lucille was keeping from you. And I think -- for all our sakes -- we ought to clear the air."

Lucille's eyes widened. She gave Jaina a panicked look. 

Jaina gave no indication that she noticed. Slowly, her hands reached up and clasped the base of the skull mask, lifting it away to reveal her face. Katherine was watching her with a bemused frown, which only deepened when Jaina set the mask atop the altar. Opening her mouth to speak, Katherine paused. She blinked. Then she went white a sheet, and her jaw slackened as the realisation visibly dawned on her. 

Katherine shook her head. “No, that’s - that’s not possible,” she breathed. “You died. They’d told me you died.”

“Yes,” Jaina said. Her hands were gripped into tight fists at her side. She held herself as though expecting to be struck.

From this angle Sylvanas could not see Jaina’s expression, but she could see Katherine's with all too much clarity. Something raw and painful shifted across Katherine’s pale face. Anger and anguish, disbelief and dread. Her hand tightened around the cane. She rapped the end of it against the ground, her jaw tight but her eyes welling up with unshed tears. “I planted a sword in the grave for you,” she rasped. “And yet here you are.” 

“Here I am,” Jaina echoed.

“If this is some trick, I swear to all that’s good, I’ll -” Katherine cut herself off with a rough swallow, breathing in heavily through her nose. 

“I’m real.” 

Katherine opened her mouth to say something, but words seemed to escape her. Hesitant, she reached out with one hand, but Jaina’s shoulders stiffened, and Katherine lowered her arm before she could touch her daughter. She had to muster up the ability to speak again. “You’ve grown very tall,” she said, a weak smile trying but failing to take shape. Her eyes flicked to Lucille and Sylvanas, and then her face hardened, her voice gaining strength. “How long have they known?”

Lucille looked like she would rather die on the spot than answer that question. Sylvanas herself kept her mouth firmly shut, letting Jaina answer. “Long enough.” 

Pain twisted Katherine’s features. “And you didn’t tell me? Why?” 

“Are you really asking me that? After what you did?” 

Katherine drew herself up to her full height, but the top of her head barely passed Jaina’s chin. “I did not want to, but I had to,” she said. “Everything I did, I did to safeguard Kul Tiras. I will not apologise for that.”

“Letting Tandred hang was all part of your plan to ‘safeguard Kul Tiras’?” Jaina asked incredulously.

“You were too young to understand,” Katherine snapped. “The political situation at the time was volatile. I did everything I could to change Daelin’s mind, to find some work around, to exile Tandred instead, but he would have none of it. And the gentry were baying for blood after the orcs had killed so many during the First and Second Wars.” 

Jaina scoffed. “Oh, great. So, dad wasn’t just a power-mad bastard. It was all because of politics. I see now why I should have come back to Boralus the moment he died. How foolish of me!”

Katherine’s face was quickly regaining its colour again. The two of them were locked in a glaring contest, tempers rising, mingling with grief and years of bitterness. They continued speaking as though they had completely forgotten anyone else was in the room. 

“That’s not what I meant!” Katherine said hotly.

“Then what did you mean? Enlighten me.”

“You should have told me! Have you never heard of a letter? ‘Dearest mum, I am alive. Love - Your daughter, Jaina.’”

“You’re unbelievable! You -!” 

As silently as she could, Sylvanas crossed the room and murmured to Lucille, “Come. Let us leave them be.”

Lucille nodded without hesitation, and the two of them slipped away. Neither Jaina nor Katherine seemed to notice. 

“I could have protected you!’

“Oh, yes, because you’ve done such a good job of that in the past!” 

“How dare you! I am the reason why you survived at all!”

“You don’t know anything about what’s happened for me to survive! Or have you already forgotten? You threw me away!”

“I did no such thing!”

Sylvanas shut the side door to the church behind her, so that the sounds of their voices were muted. Outside, the night was dark and drizzly. Most of the soldiers were camped in the fields just to the north, but some still wandered the town performing their duties. Sylvanas kept her hand firmly on the latch of the door as though afraid it might burst open at any second, while Lucille leaned against the outer wall with a ragged exhalation, staying beneath the shelter of the eaves. 

Sylvanas studied her profile, then said, “You did well. I thought you would crack immediately under questioning.” 

A soft shaky laugh escaped Lucille at that. “Thanks,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. She glanced towards the door. “Should we wait here? How long do you think they’ll be?”

Sylvanas’ only answer was a shrug. “They will take as long as they take.” 

“Then they’ll be a while. ‘Stubborn as a Proudmoore’ they say in Tiragarde Sound.” Lucille ran a hand across her brow. She pushed herself away from the wall and said, “Would you like to join me for a drink? I desperately need one.”

“I don’t drink. And alcohol is wasted on me. It does nothing.” 

“Right. Of course. My apologies.”

One of Sylvanas’ ears tilted towards the door, hearing the rising volume of the voices within. She grimaced. “On second thought, I will join you.”  

“Thank the Tides,” Lucille sighed, already gathering up her long hems so that they would not trail in the mud. 

Sylvanas followed Lucille out into the rain, the two of them making a dash towards a nearby reconstructed house. She may not be able to enjoy a drink, but it was a better proposition than staying put; she had had enough eavesdropping for one night.

  Lucille had nearly finished what remained of the flask of whiskey she kept hidden in the drawer of her work desk, and Jaina and Katherine still had not emerged from the church to the Tides. Sylvanas sat in a chair beside the fire, while Lucille nursed a glass. Conversation was halting at first, but eventually Lucille's tongue was loosened by drink. Sylvanas took the opportunity to suss out any additional helpful information about Jaina and Katherine. Most of it she already knew. Some of it however, she did not.

"I wanted to go to Jaina's burial in Boralus, but my mother forbade it," Lucille said. She had draped a blanket over her legs to ward off the cold, and her chair had been pushed nearer the fire. 

"Why would she do that?" Sylvanas asked.

Lucille sipped at the amber spirits in her glass. "In hindsight, I think it was because she had already well fallen under the influence of Gorak Tul. But it wasn't just that. There really was bad blood between the Houses back then."

"Unlike now, where you all get along swimmingly," Sylvanas drawled.

Lucille snorted a laugh into her cup. "I didn't think you would actually have a sense of humour, you know. It's kind of nice."

"I'm a woman of hidden depths." Sylvanas waved for Lucille to continue. "Now, you were saying about the Houses?"

"Yes. Well. Katherine was right back in the church, really. Terrible business, the First and Second Wars. There aren't many people in Kul Tiras to begin with. Then nearly a quarter of the entire population died fighting the orcs. We are still recovering as a society. I don't know if we ever will. Not really." Lucille cradled the glass of whiskey between her hands as though praying that it would warm her. "Derek Proudmoore, Jaina's eldest brother, was one of the people to fall. Daelin and Katherine were crushed. But he wasn't the only one. Lady Ashvane's Heir died. Her husband, too. And some of Lord Stormsong's family. Everyone was affected. Then Tandred goes off and helps those shipwrecked orcs? I know he was being kind -- he was a kind soul, if a bit of an ass at times -- but it was a scandal. Everyone wanted him to hang. My mother included. The Proudmoores nearly lost the Admiralty over it. There was talk of overthrowing them back then. My mother said theirs was a whole line of traitors. That they weren't to be trusted. And there were plenty of people who shared that sentiment. An example needed to be made."

Sylvanas hummed. "A sacrificial lamb led to the altar to appease the masses."

Tipping her glass towards Sylvanas as though in a toast, Lucille said, "Exactly that."

"Which doesn't exactly bode well for me."

"Oh, definitely not," Lucille said. Alcohol made her earnest and far too honest. "I think it would be a disaster, personally."

Sylvanas gave her a dangerous look. "How reassuring," she said in a silky warning tone.

Usually Lucille got the hint, but not when she was four glasses deep and reaching for the flask to pour herself a fifth. "The only thing that might salvage the relationship is the fact that you're not an orc. Kul Tirans tend to be a bit -- uhm -- how do I put it nicely -?"

"’Negatively predisposed towards those of orcish descent?’" Sylvanas supplied dryly.

“That works, yes.” 

“And what does this have to do with Jaina’s burial, exactly?”

“Well -” Lucille expertly balanced the glass on her knee while she screwed the top back onto the flask. For a moment Sylvanas thought the glass was going to crash to the floor, but Lucille was apparently as Kul Tiran as any, for she snatched up the glass without fail or fumble. “There wasn’t a body, obviously, but Katherine wanted a funeral anyway.”

“People often do.”

“Anyway, it was a big public event. The Lord Admiral couldn’t keep it secret that she no longer had an Heir. Before that, she’d told everyone that Jaina was living with us in seclusion at Waycrest Manor.”

“Ah,” said Sylvanas. She leaned back in her seat and crossed an ankle over her opposite knee. “Yes. I see where this is going.” 

Making an affirmative noise into her glass, Lucille finished her sip of whiskey and continued. “When my mother refused to let any member of House Waycrest attend, it was a public indictment in all but name. A show that the Lord Admiral’s power was slipping in Drustvar. And to top it all off, my dear mother was already neck-deep in her dabblings with Gorak Tul and the Coven, so of course she wanted the Lord Admiral out of her business, so she could take over Drustvar without any hassle. It was a damn mess.”

Sylvanas tilted her head to one side. “And what do you want for Drustvar?”

“Me?” Lucille blinked, as though surprised at being asked that question at all. 

“Yes, you. You are Lady Waycrest, are you not?” 

Turning her gaze to the fireplace, Lucille stared into the flickering hearth. “I want a Drustvar free from corruption and at peace with itself. I want to clear the smirch on my family’s name. And I want to follow a Lord Admiral who has a clear vision for Kul Tiras.”

“And you think Jaina will give you those things?”

“I do,” Lucille said with real conviction. 

“Even if it means aligning yourself with people like me?” Sylvanas gestured to herself. 

Lucille’s mouth opened, but before she could answer the front door swung open hard enough that it hit the wall and bounced back. Jaina stormed into the house, skull mask beneath one arm. Rain was caught in her cloak and her loose hair, droplets gleaming like stars. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she had scrubbed recent tears from her cheeks. 

Katherine was conspicuously absent. 

“Right,” Jaina said, slamming the door shut behind her and stomping towards the fireplace to stand between their two chairs. “Well, that was awful.” 

Wordlessly, Lucille held out the glass of whiskey. To Sylvanas’ surprise, Jaina took it and slugged back its contents as easily as though it were water. 

“Welcome back,” Sylvanas said.

“Why did I listen to you?” Jaina asked, handing the glass back over to Lucille for refilling. 

“Think of it this way: you only have one surviving family member, so you’ll never have to do it again,” Sylvanas pointed out. 

“Thank the Tides,” Jaina grumbled.

Lucille handed the glass over to Jaina, filled with a good three fingers of whiskey. “Do we have a plan?”

“We have a plan.” Jaina took the glass. This time she did not immediately drain it in one gulp. Rather, she tipped it back and forth as though admiring the way the liquid slid against the interior of the glass. Then, she took a sip and said, “We march to Windmill Hill tomorrow morning to chase off the Ashvanes and wait out the winter. Or -” She craned her neck to peer out the nearest window, where the faintest sliver of dawn was creeping over the horizon. “Later today, actually. Ugh, but I need some sleep.”  

“And the Admiralty?” Sylvanas asked.

“You’re looking at the official Heir to the Admiralty and Scion of the Great Fleet. Cheers.” Jaina lifted the glass in the air, and tipped it back. What few drops remain, she cast into the fire, which spit and hissed furiously. 

Lucille and Sylvanas exchanged silent glances. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sylvanas said. 

“Yes,” Lucille agreed, though she sounded far less certain. “Congratulations, I suppose?”

In response, Jaina heaved a weary sigh. “Fuck me.”

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (3/5)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 26,133

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

Despite the recently signed treaty -- or perhaps because of it -- Sylvanas did not hear from Jaina for nearly a week. It felt like a game. Like a childish staring contest, waiting to find who would be the first to blink. Even Nathanos pointed out that they should begin formal liaisons with Lady Waycrest in order to understand exactly what supplies and reinforcements she needed to fight off the Ashvane forces intent on invading eastern Drustvar. Sylvanas ignored him utterly, with orders to withhold any further gold or aid for the time being. 

And then a rapping came at her door in Swiftwind Post.

Nathanos answered it. The moment he opened the door, the harsh winds made the fire splutter in the hearth, threatening to extinguish the flames. Sitting at her desk opposite the fire, Sylvanas listened even while she continued to read the latest reports from Zandalar. 

“What is it?” Nathanos asked, his voice a gravelly murmur. 

“It’s the bird, Ranger Lord,” came the voice of one of her Forsaken guardsmen. “I know we aren’t supposed to -- er -- ‘develop a rapport’ but he says he has a message for the Dark Lady.” 

On cue, there followed a flapping of wings as Arthur flew inside and landed directly atop Nathanos’ head. To his credit, Nathanos remained perfectly still, holding the door open while Arthur made himself comfortable. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Arthur, scrambling to right himself. “It’s just very windy out there. Couldn’t stand it for another second.”

His black feathers were sticking up in all directions, and he looked positively harried. For a raven. 

Sylvanas lifted her attention from the parchment she had been reading. “Do make yourself comfortable,” she said sarcastically.

“Oh, why thank you! Don’t mind if I do.”

“I mind,” Nathanos growled, though his only motion was to shut the door firmly. 

Arthur seemed unconcerned by this addendum, for he began to preen in an attempt to fix his feathers. 

“Arthur,” said Sylvanas sharply.

“Hmm?” Arthur lifted a wing and began running his beak along the longer flight feathers.

“You had a message for me?” she reminded him. 

“Right. Yes. I do.” Shuffling his tail, Arthur righted himself atop Nathanos’ head and said, “The High Thornspeaker has bid you come over for tea. Wait -- you don’t need to eat or drink anymore, do you? A meeting. She bids you come over for a meeting.”

“When?” Sylvanas enunciated the word very clearly, letting her irritation through despite herself. 

“When it suits,” Arthur answered. “And by that I mean: now.”

How impatient humans were. And how mercurial. Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas set down the sheet of parchment and scraped back her chair to stand. “Where are we meeting?” 

“Her house.”

Sylvanas’ steps slowed in her approach to the door. “At Gol Inath?” 

“What?” Arthur sounded taken aback. “No. Nobody actually lives at Gol Inath. That would be terrible. And uncomfortable. And -”

“All right, yes. I get the point.” 

Holding out her hand, Sylvanas transferred Arthur from Nathanos’ head to her own shoulder. An act which did very little to improve Nathanos’ mood; he glowered mutely at the raven as though he were a stain upon Sylvanas’ pauldron. But there was no point in denying Arthur’s place on her shoulder when he would end up there regardless of what she did. 

“Hold down the fort,” she said to Nathanos before she left. 

For all that Arthur had said ‘now’, it was a four day’s trek by horse to the Crimson Forest from Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas managed to get this down to three days by taking an eagle to Arom’s Stand, and then walking the rest of the way. And even then, Arthur had clung to her shoulder the whole trip. He did not seem to need to sleep, much to her dismay.

Sylvanas had expected Jaina to live in the heart of the Crimson Forest. Somewhere near the great tree of Gol Inath. Or perhaps in a hovel dug into the ground, like a wolf’s den. Maybe in a swamp like a bog witch. She did not expect Jaina to live in a nondescript cabin along the westernmost reaches of the Crimson Forest, where the woods met the cliffs, their branches raking against the overcast sky. The trees were set at a severe angle from the sea, whence the winds raced. Now, the treeline rolled with a slow-moving fog. It obscured the cliff’s edge, so that Sylvanas’ every step taken was wary. She could hear the roar of the nearby ocean. Sea salt scented the air, mingling with the smell of fresh damp earth and the darker smells of the forest. 

The cabin was nestled amidst the trees. It peered out over the nearby cliffside through the mist. It was -- for lack of a better word -- cosy. It had a thatched roof and vine-clutched walls. There was an iron-wrought lantern lit beside the front door. The windows glowed with internal firelight. 

It was not the sort of place a terrifying primal Druid lived. There wasn't a single cursed wicker effigy in sight. 

Jaina herself was walking around the perimeter of the cabin. There was no way she could have spotted Sylvanas and Arthur approaching through the soupy fog, but she looked around when they got within a certain range. At that point, Sylvanas could feel something settling over her skin. As though she had just walked through a spider's web. The wards allowed her to pass however, and she continued striding forward.

"You're early," Jaina remarked, when Sylvanas was near enough. 

"I was told I should arrive urgently," was Sylvanas' reply. 

"Really? I wasn't expecting you for another day."

Sylvanas shot Arthur a scathing look, and he ducked his feathery head in an almost sheepish manner.

"Well, would you look at the time!" Arthur said far too loudly. "I gotta go. Bye!"

And with that, he flew off from Sylvanas' shoulder, heading deeper into the trees. 

When Sylvanas turned from watching his retreat, Jaina was looking at her with an expression of calm amusement. Her skull mask was nowhere to be seen. Even her robes were more casual than during their past encounters. She had foregone the druidic trinkets and the cloak, leaving only a comfortable set of robes that she had hiked up around her knees to free up her stride. Her feet were muddy and bare. Fresh scratch marks adorned her skin in narrow red lines from where she had pushed through the thorny underbrush. Despite this, the robes were fastened high enough at her throat that her neck was covered. Perhaps to ward off the chill in the air. 

"Come on in, then." Jaina motioned for Sylvanas to follow her. 

Sylvanas did so without questioning why she was here. At the front door, Jaina washed her feet in a pail of water that had been left outside for just that purpose. She shot Sylvanas' boots a pointed look. Bending over, Sylvanas unbuckled her greaves and boots. She left them beside the door alongside her weapons before she was ushered inside. 

The interior of the cabin was warm and bare-timbered. Along the wall nearest the door, the skull mask had been hung on a peg as though it were a commonplace gentleman's hat. As though Jaina sometimes were too preoccupied, and would have forgotten to wear it out and about if not for its strategic location by the exit. Jaina moved through the house with a familiarity that spoke of years of dwelling here. She crossed over to the fireplace and swung a blackened kettle over the flames. 

"Tea?" she asked. 

"No, thank you," Sylvanas demurred. 

With a shrug, Jaina went about preparing a pot for herself, leaving Sylvanas to stroll about the main floor. The place was crammed with books and scrolls. Every nook and cranny heaped up with them. They were stacked in corners. They were jammed into shelves built along the walls. They crowded the little table before the fireplace, and even the stairs leading to a loft where Sylvanas could just spy a bed. To climb those stairs would have required someone to pick their way up each step along a narrow path precariously perched with old tomes and a leftover cup of tea teetering near the top rail.  

Picking a book at random from a nearby shelf, Sylvanas inspected its leather-bound cover without any real interest in its contents. “Where did you get all of these?”

“Libraries,” Jaina answered vaguely without turning around. 

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow at the title of another book’s spine. It was a rare Thalassian text that she herself had only ever heard about in her studies at home. “Drustvar doesn’t strike me as a place that is teeming with libraries. Especially not libraries with books like these.”

“Some of them I inherited from Ulfar. Others I was gifted by Lucille.”

Shuffling idly through a few pages, Sylvanas snapped the book shut between her hands. “And the rest?”

Jaina made a non-committal sound. “The rest I borrowed, you might say. From Dalaran.”

Sylvanas paused. Then, she placed the book back in its place. “So, when you’re not terrorising the local population, you steal books from the Grand Library of the Kirin Tor.”

“Just another one of my charming hobbies,” Jaina drawled. She finished spooning the proper amount of tea leaves into the pot and stoppered the jar, setting it aside. “I used to think it was a game when I was younger. Teleporting into the Violet Citadel and raiding the Grand Library for a new book to read before they could figure out I was even there.”

“I fail to see how triggering the wards of the world’s most powerful wizarding city could be considered a game.”

“Oh, the wards were the best part. They’re fun little puzzles, and you have to solve for the exact right piece to get in without being noticed.”

"You're mad."

Jaina laughed, and the sound was surprisingly light. "Maybe."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once." Jaina leaned back in her seat, waiting for the water to boil. "But I just pretended to be an Archmage's apprentice, and they let me go pretty promptly. I was young. And afterwards, I was a lot more cautious about my little dalliances outside of Drustvar."

Sylvanas turned back to perusing the shelves. In one corner of the room there was a pantry stuffed full of goods, both fresh and preserved, home gathered and even purchased from the markets of Corlain. Sylvanas could recall a few goods in particular from the weekend markets, but she had no memory of seeing anyone matching Jaina's description there. Perhaps the locals left offerings of food at the edge of the Crimson forest, as if to a vengeful god living nearby. Or perhaps, given Jaina's obvious predilection towards sneaking into places, she had simply disguised herself with a spell and walked through the markets without a care in the world. Both seemed equally likely.

"And Ulfar let you go?" Sylvanas asked.

"As if he had a choice. I was -- how would my brothers put it? -- a filthy little bilge rat brat."

Sylvanas huffed with laughter. "That sounds about right."

"About me? Or about my brothers?"

"Yes." She aimed a smirk over her shoulder at Jaina, who appeared unfazed. "I have siblings as well, you know."

"Let me guess..." Jaina held up her hands as though framing Sylvanas in a canvas picture. "Middle child?"

"Says the youngest. I bet you were spoiled rotten."

Jaina's smile slipped. "Being the baby in the family only got me so far. If anything it made things worse in the end."

With a hum of understanding, Sylvanas dragged her fingers along the spines of a row of books. Motes of dust wheeled in the air in their wake. She paused when she arrived at a wad of pages that had been stuck between two books. There were noises behind her of Jaina swinging the kettle away from the fire and filling the teapot. With her host distracted, Sylvanas dug out the pages, careful to shield her actions with her body.

"Find anything of interest over there?" Jaina asked.

"Why? Are you afraid that I'll steal them?" Sylvanas shot back, keeping her tone light even as she managed to pry the pages free. They were pretty firmly stuck between the books, and the threat of tearing the wafer-thin paper persisted until she had loosened them enough.

"I was about to say you could borrow one, actually."

"According to you, those two things are the same."

A snort of laughter, the creak of iron as Jaina hung the kettle back into place, then the gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain. Turning over the first page in her hand, Sylvanas went very still. One edge of the pages were ragged, as though they had been ripped out of a book. And on the first sheet there was a drawing labelled: 'Fig. 66 - The Hero in Thros.' The drawing was done in a familiar style, all in cross-hatched ink, sketched by a studious hand. It portrayed a man hanging by the neck from a tree. He was impaled through the chest by a broken sword, his toes dangling over a body of water. A massive raven crouched on his shoulder. It was plucking out his eye and eating it.

A sudden chill washed over her despite the warmth of the cabin. Her thumb traced over the side of the image as she studied it.

Behind her, Jaina sighed, and her chair creaked as though she had just leaned back. "Come sit down. Let's chat."

Sylvanas had the urge to steal the pages, to hastily stuff them into a leather pouch at her belt and cause a scene which allowed her to leave without Jaina being any wiser of her actions. It would be a retributive kind of justice. A theft for a theft. Surely, Jaina wouldn't notice the missing pages anytime soon. But instead, Sylvanas folded the pages back up and put them where she had found them. When she turned, it was to find that Jaina was blowing on her mug of tea, which steamed in her hands.

"Chat," Sylvanas repeated. "About what exactly?"

Jaina must have noticed the sudden chill in Sylvanas' voice, for her head swung towards her with a startled frown. "About us. The Horde and Kul Tiras. About our plans moving forward."

"Is that all?"

Slowly, Jaina lowered her mug so that it was cradled in her lap. "What else do you think this is?"

"You tell me. You're the one who invited me here, after playing hard to get." Hearing her own words, Sylvanas' eyes widened fractionally. "Ah. I see. So, that's what this is about."

Jaina's face screwed up in confusion. "What?"

Reaching for her gauntlets, Sylvanas began to unbuckle them. She slid them from her hands, pulling off the gloves beneath them as she went. She approached the long, low-slung couch before the fireplace, tossing the gloves and gauntlets onto the backs of the cushions. "If you had told me this was what you wanted to begin with, we could have avoided this whole song and dance. Honestly, what a bore."

Jaina watched Sylvanas' actions with increasing bewilderment. Yet her gaze followed every small section of exposed pale skin beneath layers of armour. When Sylvanas began to unbuckle her pauldrons and cloak, draping them over the back of the couch as well, Jaina said, "I have no idea what you're implying."

"I've never been that inclined to using this as a means of negotiation, but I suppose you aren't so bad." The gorget was cast aside, and Sylvanas ran a bare hand through her hair. It was bleached in undeath, a pale mockery of its former golden hue. "If you would like to help me with the cuirass, this would all be a lot easier."

"Help you with your -?" Finally, realisation dawned on Jaina's face. Her jaw dropped. And then she began to laugh. It sounded equal parts amused, incredulous, and nervous. "What? No! This isn't -! No. I don't know how you could have possibly gotten that impression."

Hands freezing on the stays of her cuirass, Sylvanas shot her a disbelieving look. "You're serious."

Jaina managed to school her expression, but for the tell-tale curve of her lips in a smile, and the slight pink tinge to her cheeks. "Very serious. This is not a seduction attempt. Though, I'm flattered you would consider it. I think?" She lifted her cup of tea to her mouth for a contemplative sip. "Yes, I've decided I'm flattered."

"Then why have you brought me here? Surely you must want something."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina cupped her mug between her hands. "If we're going to be working together, then I want to get to know you better." Sylvanas’ expression must have been skeptical, for Jaina straightened in her seat, looking indignant. “I mean it. I just want to talk.”

With a lilting hum, Sylvanas rounded the couch. She pushed aside her various articles of armour, and sat down. She did not bother putting it all back on just yet. Not when Jaina’s good eye lingered along the hints of Sylvanas’ figure beneath all that remaining leather and chainmail, before she realised exactly what she was doing and shook her head, as though annoyed with herself. 

Sylvanas casually crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back, slinging one arm over the top of the cushions. “Ask your questions, then,” she permitted in a magnanimous tone that made Jaina snort into her cup of tea. 

Despite the approval, Jaina did not say anything immediately. She thought for a moment. “What is your next step? After Kul Tiras, I mean.”

“Do you mean: do I intend to wage a pointless war with the Alliance, during which thousands of lives will be lost all for the sake of seeing Horde banners spread across a map?” Sylvanas sneered at the idea. “No. I won’t roll over for the Alliance, but I won’t fight them without good reason, either.” 

“So, you think there can be peace between your factions?”

Sylvanas toyed with a frayed edge of the pillow. “I think peace is only permitted when people have nothing to gain.”

“That’s very pessimistic of you.”

“Dying a few times does that.”

For some reason that reply made Jaina’s brows furrow. She tapped at the sides of her mug, then asked, “Do you -?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sylvanas raised a finger and waggled it as though at a spoiled child. “For every question you ask, I get to ask one in return. You want to be fair to your new ally, don’t you?”

With a huff of irritation, Jaina sipped at her tea and nodded for Sylvanas to continue. 

Carefully watching for Jaina’s reaction, Sylvanas asked, “If your brother had lived, if he had become the Lord Admiral and this civil war had never happened, what would you do?” 

Jaina answered without a hint of hesitation, “I would attempt to mend bridges between the Drust and the Kul Tirans, starting with my influence with House Waycrest.” 

“Your ambitions are rather…” Sylvanas sought the right word. “...lacklustre.” 

“And yours are rather megalomanic,” Jaina shot back. 

Sylvanas merely shrugged off the accusation.

“My turn.” Sitting forward in her seat to pour herself another cup of tea, Jaina said, “Do you like being Warchief of the Horde?”

“It is an honour, and a title I am proud to bear,” Sylvanas said the words like a mantra she told her constituents. The only thing Orcs loved more than strength was honour. Or at least the loose concept of it. 

“Yes, but do you like it?”

The immediate acerbic response died in Sylvanas’ mouth. She narrowed her eyes, her tongue running over the backs of her teeth in quiet contemplation. “I like power. I like the control it gives me. Do I like being Warchief?” Sylvanas tilted her head side to side as though weighing two options in her mind. “No more than I liked being Ranger-General, I suppose. But most of all I despise being helpless. Weak. At the beck and call of others. That is a fate I will not endure again.” 

Jaina hummed an understanding note. “I understand your past has been fraught -- for lack of a better word. The Emerald Dream can sometimes offer catharsis, if you have the right guide. I can take you back, if you wish.”

“Is that what you did with your horrible wicker man in the woods the first time I was trying to find Gol Inath?” Sylvanas’ lip curled. “I have no desire to Dream again. Nor will I ever.”

“Suit yourself,” Jaina muttered into her mug. 

Sylvanas gestured towards the scar on Jaina’s face. “How did you get that?” 

Reaching up with one hand, Jaina traced the scar that slashed down the right side of her brow and cheek. Her blind eye peered from between the cage of her fingers. “I was foolhardy and brash,” she answered with a tight smile. She lowered her hand. “It’s a wound of overconfidence. I rushed in and my opponent dipped when I thought he was going to dash, so to speak. And I paid the price for it.”

Jaina was dodging the question, but Sylvanas could not deny that she herself had done the same. Instead she remarked, “I’m amazed your eye survived intact.”

“It didn’t,” Jaina said darkly. “But it’s my turn, now.” She waited for Sylvanas to motion her to continue, and then asked, “Are there times you wish you were still alive?”

The contest of who would blink first was back. Sylvanas was strongly reminded of a childhood game she and her siblings used to play. Two truths and a lie. Each player had to guess which of the three statements was false. Vereesa always lost. She was too easy to read. 

Now, Sylvanas wondered if this were really an exercise about building trust -- as Jaina had implied -- or if it were only a means of sussing out the other player’s tell. A pity for Jaina. Sylvanas was an expert at this game. The trick was to cheat and always tell the truth. 

How that truth twisted itself to meet reality was another proposition entirely. 

“Yes. All the time.” The truth wrenched itself from Sylvanas’ lips in a hiss that made the fireplace flicker. “Do you ever wish you had been sent to the Tidesages or the Kirin Tor, instead of being smuggled off to the Drust?”

The firelight played across Jaina’s face, casting her blind eye in shadow so that it seemed to peer like a nocturnal animal’s through the gloom. “Yes,” she said softly. “All the time.”

A log in the fireplace cracked and popped. Jaina set down her tea on the table in order to lean forward and prod at the fire with an iron poker that had been leaning against her seat for just that purpose. She set the poker back down, but left her tea on the table. When she spoke she seemed to address the hearth, “How many times have you died?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Do you want to finish the game?” Jaina countered, turning her head back towards Sylvanas.

So, she thought it was a game, too. Convenient. Baring her teeth in a grim smile, Sylvanas said, “Three times.”

A strange expression flickered across Jaina’s face, but it left as quickly as it had come. Sylvanas tried to figure out what exactly it had meant, why that number was significant, but Jaina was watching her expectantly for another question. And so Sylvanas asked, “When you Dream, what do you see?”

Jaina’s mouth opened, then shut again. She busied herself with unfastening the tucked up hems of her robes so that they hung around her ankles once more. Finally, she said far too casually, “I see many things in the Emerald Dream.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

Shooting Sylvanas a bitter look, Jaina steeled herself before saying, “I see a tree that grows from the sea. Its canopy reaches the stars. Its roots pierce the depths. I am hanging from its branches. I see my father’s flagship wrestling the waves. He stands on the quarterdeck and yells every vile curse he can think of at me. He calls me a plague upon his House. He calls me the ruin of Kul Tiras. And beneath the shadow of the tree, the Great Fleet burns, and I can hear-” 

She cut herself off, clearing her throat and looking away towards the hearth once more, as though it might offer her some solace. 

“Yes, that sounds very cathartic,” Sylvanas said dryly.  

Drawing herself up, Jaina grabbed her tea from the table and took a heady gulp. “My Dreaming is different. It’s -” she grimaced. “- compromised. I can guide people through, but when I enter by myself, things get complicated.” 

Sylvanas sighed. “Trust a Druid to never just give a straight answer. What cryptic nonsense.”

“Like yours are any better.” Jaina tried to regain her airs of nonchalance, but it was ruined by the way she kept fiddling with the now empty mug in her lap. “Do you really think we can win this war?”

A slow confident smile tugged at the corner of Sylvanas’ mouth. “Now that I’m here? Absolutely.”

Jaina shot her an exasperated look. “Are you always this cocky?”

“Is that another question?”

Waving her away, Jaina said, “No, no. It’s your turn again.”

Sylvanas thought of hanged men. She thought of pages torn out of books. She thought of Gorak Tul, of ancient Drust, of secrets stashed between dusty tomes in Jaina’s personal library. Leaning forward on the couch, Sylvanas rested her elbows upon her knees. “Why don’t you like Arthur talking about what happened in Thros?”

Immediately Jaina’s face hardened. Her once open and amiable airs vanished like a whirl of smoke in a gale. Gone were the teasings of camaraderie, the mutual probing for information -- parry, riposte -- and in its place an unyielding quality in her gaze. Even without the mask and the dressings of the High Thornspeaker, she was once again that terrifying figure who loomed in the maw of Gol Inath, crowned in bone and blood and starlight.  

“I think we’re done with our game for today,” Jaina said with a voice like cold iron. “You may show yourself out now, Sylvanas. No doubt we will be seeing each other again soon.”

--

A gale was spitting down rain at Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas stood at the window of the second floor command building. She watched the tussock grass and heath far below the hills billowing in the wind like a sea of copper and verdigris. The land of eastern Drustvar was dotted with new snow. Patches of white gathered in the saddles of hills and the corners of valleys. Even now the wind drove the bluffs with flecks of white mixed through with rain. The air held a biting chill that would only continue to deepen as the land settled into its winter months with the inevitability of the grave.

Sylvanas’ personal quarters were bare. There was a bed with dark cotton sheets, in which she never slept. A single unoccupied chair crouched in one corner, its legs spidery; they creaked under the slightest weight. She had brought no personal effects with her to Kul Tiras. Indeed, she kept no personal effects in Grommash Hold either. Any scraps dear to her were locked away in the Undercity, or otherwise buried and decaying in Windrunner Spire. This room on Swiftwind Post was a mere placeholder. A simulacrum of personal space. A place where she could -- upon occasion -- be alone with her thoughts. It might as well have been a broom cupboard. 

She was looking north, as if trying to see a glimpse of the landscape in that direction. But not even her gaze could pierce the veil of rain and snow that blurred the distance into a canvas of faded white. Barrowknoll was a three day’s march north of their current position. She would need to walk the ground there herself before long.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Anya’s reports. Only that she did not trust this place to be what it seemed. And there was something about Barrowknoll that Jaina was refusing to tell her. It made Sylvanas uneasy.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Sylvanas did not turn around. Her reflection in the glass painted a grim overlay to the landscape beyond. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Nathanos stepped inside. Snow melted on his shoulders. He bowed. “You have guests.”

“Who?”

“Lady Lucille Waycrest.”

Sylvanas remained still as a statue, her hands clasped behind her back. “I will receive her here. Have her come up.”

Executing another shallow bow, Nathanos murmured, “Yes, my Queen.”

When he departed, he left the door open a sliver. The sound of voices drifted up the stairs, followed by the hesitant creak of footsteps on the stairwell. Sylvanas did not need to turn around to know that Lucille was dawdling just outside the room; she could hear the intrusion of her breathing, of her furiously beating heart.

“Do you think I am going to devour you in my lair?” Syvlanas drawled, keeping a close eye on the window, even while using the reflection in the glass to see what lay behind her.

Lucille’s reflection cautiously pushed the door open a little wider, but she still did not cross the threshold. “You do seem the type, you know.”

Sylvanas smiled to herself, and with her back turned her amused expression was not visible from the door. “If only your friend in the woods treated me with such caution.”

“She doesn’t scare easily.”

“So, I gathered.” Turning around at last, Sylvanas fixed Lucille in place with her gaze. “What can I do for you today, Lady Waycrest?”

Lucille stepped inside, bracing herself as though for a blow. “Quite the opposite, actually. You once asked me if there was something I could do for you.”

Now, that piqued Sylvanas’ interest. She leaned her shoulder against the window frame. Her armour scraped against the wood there. “Yes. I remember.”

“I have someone who needs shelter, and has sought me out for it. But if I were to give it to them, I would put a target on both our heads.”

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. “I fail to see how sheltering someone for you gives me anything of use.”

Shaking her head, Lucille said boldly, "You are mistaken, Sylvanas. I am doing you a favour."

Upon hearing her name, Sylvanas’ face darkened. Her eyes blazed, but when she spoke her voice was deadly quiet. "You will call me 'Dark Lady' or 'Warchief.'"

Lucille took an abortive step back, only to steel herself. "But Jaina calls you Sylvanas."

"You are not Jaina."

Nervously, Lucille wet her lower lip. Still, she held her ground. “Maybe not. But I have something you want, even if you don’t know it yet.”

Arms crossed, Sylvanas tapped her fingers against her opposite arm. The motion made a metallic click every time her clawed gauntlets touched her armour. “And if I do this for you? What do you expect in return?”

“Ten thousand soldiers,” said Lucille without a hint of hesitation.

Sylvanas blinked. “I’m sorry.” She pretended to shift her hood as though it had obstructed her ears. “I thought I just heard you say you want me to nearly double your forces in exchange for giving a single person shelter.”

Back straight, jaw squared, Lucille nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’m struggling to tell whether your intention was to make me laugh, or to make me angry.”

“Just -” Lucille waved her over. “- come downstairs? Please? I’ve brought my guest with me.”

Nathanos had mentioned guests. Plural. And Sylvanas would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued by the boldness of Kul Tirans, if nothing else. 

Pushing away from the window, Sylvanas strode towards the door. When she brushed past Lucille, she growled, “If this is a waste of my time, then I’m going to be very irritated.”

“It won’t be,” Lucille insisted, but she sounded less sure of herself when Sylvanas was glaring at her over her shoulder than when Sylvanas was safely across an empty room. 

The stairs did not creak beneath Sylvanas’ feet when she descended to the first floor, though the creaking came when Lucille followed closely after her. Voices continued to murmur from downstairs, growing louder with every step Sylvanas took. When she reached the bottom step and turned, she froze, her ears canting up in shock. 

Katherine Proudmoore was seated in a chair by the fire. She was engaged in a pleasant conversation with a Highmountain Tauren druid standing beside her, who was serving her tea. Sylvanas had not even been aware that they stocked tea at Swiftwind Post, but apparently they did when the Lord Admiral visited. Katherine’s legs were crossed. A silver falcon-headed cane leaned against one side of her chair. 

When the Tauren noticed his Warchief’s presence, he jerked upright, nearly scraping his impressive rack of antlers against the ceiling. The teapot seemed sized for a gnome when clutched between his massive hands. 

For her part, Katherine merely turned to look in Sylvanas’ direction, calmly sipping at her cup of tea. “Oh, good. You’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence.”

Sylvanas regained her composure quickly. She inclined her head towards Katherine. “Lord Admiral. I was not expecting to see you so soon.”

“Lucky you,” Katherine said dryly. “I would stand to greet you, but -” she tapped the head of her cane with her elbow. “- needs must.”

Eyes flicking towards the Tauren, Sylvanas jerked her head to the door. Without question, he set the teapot down and departed with a bow. 

Sylvanas approached, placing her hands behind her back. “An old war wound or a new one?”

Shrugging, Katherine sipped at her tea. “A bit of both.” 

Sylvanas stopped by the fireplace. There were no other seats, save her own behind the large desk on the other side of the room, and one across from it for the rare occasion when one of her rangers or generals were delivering a report. She cocked her head curiously down at Katherine, then looked over at Lucille. “Why did you bring her to me here and not to -?”

Before Sylvanas could finish her sentence, Lucille shook her head sharply from where she stood at the foot of the stairs. Sylvanas stopped speaking, her mouth shutting with a click of fangs. Katherine frowned between the two of them. 

“Bring me to whom?” Katherine asked, lowering her teacup and saucer so that they rested upon one knee. 

Lucille did not say anything, but she was still giving Sylvanas a significant look that spoke volumes. 

“Nobody,” Sylvanas lied smoothly, her face giving away nothing. “I only meant to inquire as to why Lady Waycrest cannot shelter you herself.”

Katherine appeared entirely unconvinced by these antics. Her storm-steel gaze moved to Lucille, trying to see if she would be the first to crack, but Lucille held her ground. Eventually, Katherine turned her attention back to Sylvanas, and she explained, “My enemies know that my last base of power is within Drustvar. What with my family being from the region originally. Lucille is a distant niece, of sorts. I knew she wouldn’t turn me away, should I be desperate.” 

“I see.” Sylvanas did not mention that Katherine had called Lucille ‘a paltry ally’ during their last discussion, though she was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, she said,  “And you don’t want to give your position away by running directly into the safety of Waycrest Manor.” 

“It’s best that my exact location remains unknown. For now, in any case.”

“Which begs the obvious question.” Sylvanas took a step closer, so that she stood between Katherine and the fire, so that she was silhouetted in flame. “Why?”

Lips pursed, Katherine picked up her cup of tea once more. She seemed to mull over her answer in the dregs, before draining them as if for courage. “The Great Fleet is in turmoil. Lord Stormsong has declared himself Lord Admiral on the basis that I have no Heir, and therefore must give up my claim to the title. He has children of his own. His line is secure.” 

From the sidelines, Lucille added, “He also controls the Tidesages, who are assigned to every major ship of the line.”

But Katherine waved that detail away impatiently. “Yes, but that is not what swayed over half the Navy to fly the colours of House Stormsong.” 

“And what is your plan?” Sylvanas pressed. “How do you intend to win back the Navy’s loyalty?”

At that, Katherine’s eyes flashed. Glowering at Sylvanas, she set aside her cup of tea and sat up in her seat. “The Great Fleet of Kul Tiras remains devoted to the Admiralty. That is not within question. This is a problem of succession, not of loyalty.” 

“Then who do you intend to name as your Heir?” Sylvanas gestured towards Lucille with a sneer. “Her?” 

Lucille looked affronted at the notion. Meanwhile, Katherine shook her head sharply. “Certainly not. Lucille hasn’t a drop of Proudmoore blood in her. Whoever it is must be related to Daelin’s line, or the balance will never be restored. As soon as the Ashvanes and Stormsongs have finished sweeping up Drustvar, they will turn on each other, and Kul Tiras may know civil war for generations.”

And yet for reasons unknown, Lucille had stopped Sylvanas from mentioning Jaina’s name at all. She could tell her anyway. Doubtlessly both Katherine and Jaina would be in her debt. 

But instead Sylvanas smiled. “Well, well. How times change,” she murmured. She approached Katherine’s chair and picked up the falcon-headed cane. “One moment you did not want my help, or even to keep my company. Now you need both.”

Katherine’s expression was pinched and sour. “Elves always did love the sound of their own voices. Spit it out. What do you want in return?”

For a moment Sylvanas merely toyed with the cane, tracing the falcon’s beak with her thumb. When she put pressure beneath the curved beak, the grip came away, revealing that it was in fact a sword cleverly disguised as a mere walking implement. Admiring it, Sylvanas sheathed the weapon once more. 

“Nothing.” Sylvanas handed the cane back over to Katherine. “Yet. You may stay at our encampment on the Eastern Cliffs near Falconhurst. You will be safer there. It’s further from the action.”

Snatching the cane sword from Sylvanas’ hands, Katherine snapped, “I didn’t spend the last six years of my life at sea commanding Azeroth’s greatest Navy only to hide from battle like some milksop.”

“I think the Golden Fleet of Zandalar might have opinions about that particular statement, but I’ll not quibble over semantics.” She stepped away from Katherine so that she was no longer looming over her. “You may remain at Swiftwind Post, but I am assigning you a protection detail.”

Propping her cane back against the side of the chair, Katherine sniffed. “Jailors, more like.”

“Your bodily safety is of utmost importance. And, I’ll admit -” Sylvanas said, “I cannot permit you to just waltz about my camp without some manner of escort. If you speak with me beforehand, I can arrange for my people to take you wherever you need. Within reason, of course.” 

An expression of hastily restrained disgust flickered across Katherine’s features. “You don’t mean for my guardsmen to be Undead, do you?”

Sylvanas levelled a dark look at her. “You come crawling to my doorstep,” she hissed. “and you have the gall to -?”

To her surprise, Katherine sighed. She brought a gloved hand to her face and rubbed at her brow. When Katherine looked back up, the steel had gone from her shoulders. In the place of the implacable Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, there sat a tired old woman. Her voice was warmer, softer, more sincere. “Forgive me, Sylvanas. That was inappropriate, given the circumstances.” 

Scowling, Sylvanas bit back the acrid taste of indignation and something uglier that brewed in her gut. She did not realise the fire had dimmed in the presence of her anger until the shadows lengthened across the room. It was a challenge to keep her words low and even. “They will be Tauren, if you prefer.”

To that Katherine said nothing. She merely inclined her head in quiet acceptance. 

From the base of the stairs, Lucille cleared her throat. “So, she can say your name, too?” she accused, pointing at Katherine. 

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. “Last I checked, you’re not the Lord Admiral, either.” 

Sylvanas walked towards the front door and opened it. A quick command was all it took for the Highmountain Tauren from before to tower in the doorframe. He needed to turn sideways and duck down in order to step inside. Once through the door, he stooped, his massive shoulders remaining hunched. 

Sylvanas gestured to him. “This is Tatanka Thunderchaser. He will be your escort and primary point of contact. Tatanka,” she pointed to Katherine. “This is the Lord Admiral, and your new ward until I say otherwise.” 

Katherine was rising to her feet, one hand using the cane and the other pushing off from the arm of the chair. She took inventory of Tatanka’s appearance, his dark shaggy fur, his palmate antlers, the streaks of bold red paint around his face and arms. When he bowed to her, she returned the gesture with surprising grace for someone who walked with a heavy limp in every other step. 

“I don’t suppose you have any more of that excellent tea of yours?” Katherine asked as she crossed the room towards him. “Honestly, you could make a fortune smuggling the stuff into Boralus.”

His answering chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest. “I’m not much of a smuggler, Lord Admiral, but I’m sure we can manage another cup for an honoured guest.”

When he offered his arm, she took it. As the druid was showing Katherine out -- the two of them already engaged in friendly conversation once more -- Lucille went to follow but Sylvanas stopped her with a hand at her upper arm. 

“Not you.” Sylvanas murmured. “I would like a few more words with you before you slip away again, Lady Waycrest.”

Lucille winced, and Sylvanas loosened her grip. She hadn’t thought she had been holding her so tightly, but that seemed to do little to lessen Lucille’s discomfort. Sylvanas released her entirely, and Lucille shuffled away a few steps until there was some distance between them. 

Ah. So, that was the issue. 

“If we’re going to be allies, you’re going to have to pretend to tolerate my presence,” Sylvanas said dryly. The sting of social stigma had long since lost its bite. Sylvanas barely felt it these days. Not unless there was some sudden rude reminder of her past -- seeing her sisters; seeing her homeland. 

“It’s not that,” Lucille insisted, even as she balled her hands into fists and looked anywhere but at Sylvanas. “It’s just -” She made a weak gesture towards the cabin that served as Sylvanas’ headquarters. She appeared faintly ill. “I have bad memories. Of the Undead. Of witches. Of my family. It’s not you, or your people.”

Sylvanas had heard stories of the Drust incursion some years ago, the conflict that took the lives of the previous Lord and Lady Waycrest. How Lady Meredith Waycrest had attempted to summon Gorak Tul into the mortal world, leading a coven of witches, corrupting her husband into a ghoulish construct, defiling Waycrest Manor until it was a ghostly shadow of itself, teeming with undead. The people of Corlain still whispered that the place was haunted. What Sylvanas had seen of it atop the hill had loomed like a gothic portrait, all spires and gargoyles and clinging darkness lanced through with lightning, something she might read about in a penny dreadful sold on the streets of Dampwick Ward. 

“I shall maintain my distance, then.” Tilting her head, Sylvanas indicated that Lucille should take a seat upon the chair opposite her desk. She herself rounded the desk and sat in her own seat. Sylvanas waited until Lucille had made herself comfortable -- or at least given the semblance of comfort, given her obvious uneasiness around the Undead -- before speaking, “Now, tell me: why the secrecy about our beloved High Thornspeaker?”

Lucille did not answer immediately. She fiddled with a pleat in her dress. “I’ve known Jaina for a long time. Since we were children,” she finally said. “When she disappeared into the forest, I didn’t see her for years. And when she came back out she was -” Lucille shrugged. “- different. Harder. She’s had every opportunity to go back to Boralus after her father died, but she’s never done it. I may not know the reasons why she stays away from her family, but I know better than anyone that family can be...complicated.” 

Sylvanas grimaced. Her only reply was a hummed note of distaste and understanding in the back of her throat.

Clasping her hands together in her lap in an attempt to keep herself from fidgeting, Lucille straightened in her seat. “Use Katherine as leverage, if you must. Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what this is about. I’m not stupid. But please -” Lucille cast Sylvanas a pleading glance. “- speak with Jaina first before saying anything. That’s all I ask.”

“That rather defeats the purpose of leverage,” Sylvanas drawled. “But your point is well received. I am not as cruel as you might have been led to believe.”

Lucille’s expression could only be described as wary. Like a prey animal that was locked in a cage with a lion. “Aren’t you?”

Sylvanas smiled at her, baring a bit of fang. “Only to my enemies, Lady Waycrest. Are you my enemy?”

Hastily, Lucille shook her head.

“How fortunate, then.” Picking up a pen, Sylvanas dipped it into an inkwell. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, and began to make notes. “Now, I’m going to need some information from you about your latest deployments and military expenditures. How is your supply corps holding up?”

Lucille seemed startled by this sudden line of questioning. “They’re fine, as far as I’m aware. We have enough food to sustain us through to next spring even without Jaina's help. Why?”

“Because,” Sylvanas shot her an amused glance over the table, “I’m going to need to know, so I can give you those reinforcements you asked for.”

--

For the last two weeks, Jaina had been sending information regarding troop positions and plans via Lucille or Arthur. He would arrive in various animal forms outside Sylvanas' command centre at Swiftwind Post. Not once had he appeared human. Most notable was the time he shoved his way through the front door as a bear with twisted branches for legs and a bleached skull for a face. The Forsaken guardsmen had long since learned to recognise him on sight and let him in without any hassle, but Nathanos maintained that Arthur's manner was utterly inappropriate. Moreover, that Arthur ought to be taught a lesson on propriety in the presence of one's social betters. Nathanos would often say this while stroking the handle of an axe, glaring holes at Arthur, who in turn was completely unconcerned with the murderous intent nearby. 

Today thankfully he arrived in the form of a raven, which seemed to be his preferred form most times. "Knock, knock!" Arthur said as the Forsaken guard opened the door and allowed him to fly inside. 

When he landed on Sylvanas' desk, she did not even glance up at him. She continued reading her latest reports from Orgrimmar, news of border disputes and power plays between various internal factions. "Long flight?" she asked. 

"Not too bad, thank the Tides." 

"I hope you have good news for me."

He held out his leg, to which paper had been tightly bound in a coil. "Nothing but the best for you, Dark Lady."

She did look up at that. "My, my," she murmured, setting down her report and reaching forward to untie the scroll from his leg. "I see Nathanos has finally managed to teach you some manners."

Arthur held still until she had finished taking the scroll off, at which point he shuffled his feathers. "Anya told me I should call you that in private, and then call you by your first name when he was around."

Sylvanas snorted. "And you listened to her?"

"I like Anya. Even though she cheats at whist. And dice."

"Have you considered that Anya told you that so Nathanos would be even more tempted to shoot you?"

Arthur cocked his head in a very birdlike manner. "Maybe. She did seem kind of angry when I helped that old lady beat her at cards. But it seemed only fair."

A small chuckle escaped Sylvanas in spite of herself. She began to unroll the paper, but stopped with a furrow in her brow. "Wait. Old lady?"

"Yeah!" Arthur hopped around her desk, inspecting the map of Drustvar and its troop movements. "The one with the cane and the nice coat. Is she a defect from the Navy or something?"

Sylvanas did not know what information was more startling. That Katherine played Anya at cards and won -- no small feat in and of itself -- or that he did not know who the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras was on sight. Perhaps it spoke more to Arthur's own seclusion within the region. The Drust were not particularly fond of the Navy, and with good reason. Years of the press and other indignities did not endear them to Kul Tiras' ruling body. Or perhaps the Lord Admiral really was so lofty a position that the average citizen could never dream of seeing her in person. She had not noticed Kul Tiran currency stamped with the faces of their rulers, as was the custom in many other places. The coins and banknotes here tended towards abstract images: anchors, ship’s wheels, cephalopods, oars, and the like. 

Regardless, it was a mercy. Arthur was the High Thornspeaker’s eyes and ears at Swiftwind Post. News of Katherine’s presence in the camp would not have reached Jaina yet.

“You might say that, yes,” Sylvanas said. She tapped the scroll against her wrist, watching Arthur. When he began to pick up tokens in his beak and move them around the map -- as if purely out of corvid pique -- she rapped her knuckles against the desk, startling him. “Stop that.” 

He stopped, but only to hop over to another part of her desk, where he began fiddling with the bronze cast base of a candlestick. She placed the tokens back into place, then unfurled the scroll. It was a dry tally and update of the mustered Waycrest cavalry units at Corlain that would be making their way over the pass at Arom's Stand before the snows got too deep. Sylvanas made an unimpressed noise as she read over the brief report. There were barely enough mounted units to justify two cavalry battalions. But they would have to do for now, until the Horde reinforcements could arrive in three months time. By that point, the Waycrest forces would be wintering in Fallhaven and repelling a full-blown siege.

If only Jaina hadn't been so stubborn. They might have been able to muster a force to Drustvar's shores sooner.

Setting aside the report, Sylvanas picked up a pen from its inkwell. She tapped a swell of ink from its nib and then updated her own ledgers. "Arthur," she said.

"Hmm?" Arthur was busying himself with prying apart the candle-holder's handle with his beak. Better that than her maps and charts, she supposed.

"I need you to send a message to Jaina for me."

At that, he turned a milky white eye upon her. He did not seem to need to ever blink. "Sure thing. Do you want me to take a scroll or something?"

"That won't be necessary. Tell her -" Sylvanas set the pen away once more. She considered the words of her message very carefully before saying, "Tell her that I must speak with her urgently. About her appalling cavalry numbers."

"Appalling cavalry numbers," he repeated slowly under his breath, as though reciting it to memory. "Right. Got it!"

She added quickly, "And tell her I will come to her again. Save her the trip."

"No problem. I'm on it."

Despite his words, Arthur did not move. Sylvanas picked up another report but paused as he continued to watch her expectantly. "What?"

He lifted a clawed foot in her direction, his talons grasping the air. "Can you open the door for me?"

She scowled at him. "Turn into a human and do it yourself."

"If I call you Dark Lady again, will you do it for me? Please? Oh, Queen of the Forsaken?"

Sighing irritably, Sylvanas stood and crossed the room to open the door just to get him to leave. 

Less than a week later, Sylvanas was once again making her way through the Crimson Forest with Arthur on her shoulder. The fog had retreated from the sea. When she arrived at the white cliffs, she could see well into the distance, where the ocean silvered beneath an overcast sky. Her wine-dark cloak whipped about her ankles. The wards permitted her presence once again without issue, but Jaina was nowhere in sight. 

Sylvanas gave Arthur a questioning look, but he lifted his wings in an avian shrug. A brief reconnoiter around the cabin proved that Jaina was not there. Sylvanas was about ready to ask Arthur to see if he could scout around, when she heard a rustling in the trees behind them. Her long ears twitched towards the noise, and she turned. 

Jaina was trudging slowly towards the cabin. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was wearing the skull mask, until she saw that the antlers belonged to a stag. She was carrying the dead animal from the shadow of the woods, its front hooves draped over her shoulders so that its back hooves dragged along the ground behind her. Blood soaked her robes. It dripped from the animal carcass and down her neck. She left red footprints in her wake. When Jaina looked up, her eyes seemed to gleam through the dim dusky air, but that might have just been a trick of the light. 

"You have a habit of catching me at bad times," Jaina said by way of greeting.

Sylvanas nodded towards the stag. "Did you go hunting?"

"I did."

Jaina continued towards the cabin, dragging the stag beneath a partially covered awning that Sylvanas had originally thought existed for gardening purposes. She heaved the carcass onto a workbench, then wiped at her face with her hand. All it accomplished was smearing the blood even more. It was then that Sylvanas noticed her hands and arms were wrought of dark and twisted wood again. 

Jaina pointed to the hilt of the hunting knife tucked into Sylvanas' boot. "Can I borrow that?"

"Only if you give it back." Even as Sylvanas said it, she reached down to pass it over. Arthur shifted on her shoulder so that he could maintain his balance. 

Jaina took the knife. She carefully ran her thumb across its edge. The moment she did so, the woodgrain began to crawl down her arms, retracting into her skin until her hands were mere flesh once more. "I thought your people preferred gold over silver."

"If you are referring to the sin'dorei, you would be correct. But my family liked to give me gifts of silver as a reminder of my namesake." 

Jaina took a moment to admire the blade. "It's a fine piece of craftsmanship," she said. Then with a fluid motion she stuck its point into the deer's stomach, cutting a slit from its neck all the way down its belly. "You wanted to talk to me about my -- how did you put it? -- appalling cavalry numbers?"

With a glance at the raven on her shoulder, Sylvanas said, "Arthur, give us some privacy."

Arthur waited for Jaina's nod before he took flight and winged off back over the trees. 

“Well, now I’m worried,” said Jaina dryly, even as she returned to gutting the stag. She worked quickly and efficiently, dumping the organs into a bucket on the ground -- all but for the heart, which she carefully severed from the carcass. When she pulled it free, she inspected it thoroughly before setting it aside in a wicker basket on a corner of the benchtop.

Leaning against the wall of the cabin, Sylvanas crossed her arms in a creak of leather and chainmail. “An unexpected guest has shown up at my door at Swiftwind Post.”

"Are we playing a guessing game this time?" Using the knife, Jaina began to make strategic cuts in the deer's hide. "Was it Lady Ashvane? She is the type to be lured by the promise of coin, of which you seem to have plenty to spare."

Sylvanas watched as Jaina set aside the knife on the counter in order to lift the carcass onto a hook from the awning's frame so that the stag's head dangled almost to the ground. She would have offered her help, but Jaina hauled the dead weight around with surprising ease. 

"No," Sylvanas murmured. "In fact, it was your mother."

Jaina went stock still. Beneath the bloody smears, her face paled. She turned slowly to stare. "What?" she rasped.

"Lord Stormsong has proclaimed himself Lord Admiral, and she has lost the support of the Navy due to her lack of an Heir," Syvlanas explained. 

Jaina's hands were trembling slightly. She swallowed. "Does she -? Did you tell her about -?"

Sylvanas shook her head. 

A sigh of relief escaped Jaina. She chewed at her lower lip, then snatched up the knife, gripping it tight, and turned back to the carcass. "Good," she said. Then repeated more firmly. "That's good. That's -" Jaina had begun to use the knife to peel the hide starting at the stag's hind legs, but stopped. "Why didn't you tell her?"

There was suspicion in her voice. She was gripping the hunting knife in a white-knuckled grasp, her hands slicked red and gory. 

Sylvanas cocked her head and replied calmly. "Should I have?" 

"I don't know. I am trying to think of what you have to gain by coming to me first. Or maybe you're lying again."

"You can come to Swiftwind Post and see for yourself. She's currently terrorising my Dark Ranger at cards. I'm sure Anya would see your intervention as a kindness," Sylvanas offered with a shrug. "Or you can just ask Arthur."

Immediately Jaina shook her head. With jerky motions, she set the knife back down and began tugging the hide free in a single unbroken sheet with nothing but her bare hands. "No. I'm not ready. I can't -" Jaina drew in a deep shaky breath, and pulled hard on the hide. "I can't talk to her yet."

"I understand." 

Blinking in shock, Jaina stopped and turned her wide-eyed gaze upon Sylvanas. 

"Family reunions can be difficult. Especially when they thought you were dead. Or worse." Sylvanas gestured to herself. "So, yes. I understand. And I will keep my silence. It is, after all, not my secret to tell."

Jaina's shoulders sagged in relief. Some of the colour was returning to her cheeks. "Thank you," she breathed. "I did not expect that of you. In fact, I - I owe you an apology."

Grimacing as though at a bad taste in her mouth, Sylvanas waved that notion aside. "I would prefer it if you didn't."

But Jaina continued as though Sylvanas hadn’t said anything. "I misjudged you. And for that I’m sorry. I thought you would use this as leverage against me somehow."

Her expression was far too sincere. It made Sylvanas uncomfortable. She much preferred it when Jaina was acting lofty and bored. So, of course she said, "I haven't ruled that out, mind you. I’m not above a little blackmail." 

"You won't. Not with this, you won’t.”

The confidence with which Jaina said that and returned to her task was perhaps the most aggravating part about this entire encounter. Mostly because she was right. Sylvanas hated it when she was right. How utterly infuriating. 

Jaina wiped the bloodied knife clean and handed it back. “You said silver was a reminder of your namesake?”

“A nickname. My sisters used to call me Lady Moon.” Sylvanas propped her foot atop the bucket of offal in order to sheathe her hunting knife once more in her boot. Its silver handle gleamed at her calf, always within easy reach. 

“And I presume they didn’t take it very well?” In explanation, Jaina made an all-encompassing gesture at Sylvanas. 

“They did not.” 

Most times, Alleria refused to talk to her. When she did, it always ended up in a screaming match, which benefited no one. And Vereesa spoke to her as though speaking over a grave. Everything in the past tense. Lots of tears involved. Sylvanas could hardly stand it. Not to mention, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near her nephews. Both for being Undead and for being Horde. 

But as Lucille had said: family was….complicated. 

Jaina had returned to skinning the deer. She seemed more relaxed now. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she wanted to be alone. Sylvanas had learned from her last visit that Jaina could, at will, have an aura of menace that rivalled her own. But she didn’t have that now. 

“When was the last time you saw Katherine?” Sylvanas asked. 

Giving a particularly vicious yank downwards on the deer hide, so that it peeled away from the membrane that attached it to muscle, Jaina grunted. “At the gallows in Unity Square. She made me watch them hang Tandred. And later that night, she had a loyal guardsman put a bag over my head and drag me to Drustvar.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Human ages are strange to elves, but twelve seems rather young even for humans.”

“It is.” Another vicious tug at the hide. She pulled it over the carcass’ shoulders. “My brothers were quite a bit older than me. Tandred was nineteen when he died.” 

“Hmm.” Sylvanas nodded. “There’s an age gap between myself and my siblings as well.”

“Oh?”

“That’s not an invitation for me to talk about them, though.”

Jaina snorted. “Hypocrite.” 

Gamely accepting the accusation with a shrug, Sylvanas said, “I will make sure Katherine stays at Swiftwind Post, so you don’t go running into her by accident. I propose our future meetings to discuss the coming battles be either at the Horde encampment on the Eastern Cliffs, or here. Whichever you prefer.” 

At last Jaina managed to tear the hide the last of the way free. It peeled back like the rind of a nectarine from the incisions around the stag’s neck and legs, so that she held it up in one sheet, perfectly intact. She folded it into a roll, and then placed it on the ground by the workbench to be dealt with later. Wiping at her brow with the back of one hand, Jaina nodded towards her. “Do you still have that token of mine?”

Jaina was holding out her other hand, still grimy with dried blood. Digging around in one of the leather pouches at her belt, Sylvanas passed the fang to her without question. Jaina took it and without another word, stepped around the deer carcass and started walking around the cottage. Puzzled, Sylvanas followed. A short stint found them both standing near the front entrance, where Jaina unexpectedly squatted down on the ground. Daubing a bit of coagulated blood from her clothes onto her fingers, she drew a series of runes on the ground. When she whispered in an ancient unintelligible tongue, the sound echoed faintly on the breeze, and the hair on the back of Sylvanas’ arms and neck stood on end. 

The fang hung from its string over the runes, suspended in air even when Jaina let go of it. As soon as she finished mumbling whatever spell she was casting, the fang dropped to the ground with surprising weight, heavy as a lodestone. 

Clearing her throat, Jaina picked up the fang and stood. She casually handed it back to Sylvanas as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “There,” Jaina said. “If you ask this token nicely, it will now teleport you to this spot.” She indicated the runes on the ground with her foot. “And when you use it again, it will return you to the exact location you were before.” 

Rather than be pleased, Sylvanas glared at her. “You couldn’t have given this to me sooner? You know it takes at least three days to get here?”

“I didn’t trust you sooner.”

With a disdainful sniff, Sylvanas nevertheless stuck the fang back into her pouch. “I don’t suppose you have a map inside? We should go over a few things while I’m here.”

“I do. But I was rather hoping to take a bath before it grows dark. In case you haven’t noticed -” Jaina gestured to the blood and mud caked onto her clothes, her arms and legs, even on her braid. “- I’m filthy.”

“Tomorrow?” 

Jaina thought about it before saying, “I should be free in the evening, yes. So long as you don’t mind if I eat while we talk about military matters.” 

“Fine,” Sylvanas relented. "I meant what I said, by the way.”

Blinking in confusion, Jaina said, “About what?”

“Your cavalry numbers really are abysmal."

Jaina laughed.

--

When Jaina had said she needed to ‘ask the token nicely,’ Sylvanas hadn’t thought she had meant that literally. Standing in her private quarters at Swiftwind Post, Sylvanas held the fang by its string. 

"Take me to Jaina," she said. 

Nothing happened. 

With a scowl, she lifted it to eye level. "Take me to Jaina," she growled, then added, "Please."

There was a wrenching sensation in her gut, as though a harpoon had been lodged in her stomach and then yanked. A whirl of colour and darkness, and suddenly she was standing on the glyph of blood marked outside of Jaina's cabin. She stuffed the fang back into her pouch, then knocked on the door. 

Jaina opened it and waved her inside with a wooden cooking spoon, "Shoes off, please." 

It took Sylvanas a moment to rid herself of her greaves and boots, leaving them at the door along with her weapons. Jaina had already disappeared back inside. The skull mask greeted her on its hook by the exit. Closing the door behind her, Sylvanas stepped further into the living room.

The house was filled with the smells of cooking. Jaina was already spooning herself a serving of what appeared to be a hearty stew into a bowl. She did not offer any to Sylvanas. That suited Sylvanas just fine; she did not like eating unless absolutely necessary. Usually that necessity was due to the living wanting her to keep up appearances for their sake. She had not needed to eat to sustain herself for years. And ridding her stomach of whatever she consumed was always messy. 

This time, the table before the fireplace was stretched with a map of Drustvar. It was far more detailed than the one in Sylvanas' outposts. Extra notes had been scribbled here and there in Jaina's cramped handwriting. Most notably were the addition of extra sites that Sylvanas had never encountered during her time here. All with the 'Gol' preffix before their names. Drust sites, then. 

Jaina sat in the same chair she had frequented last time, gesturing for Sylvanas to take the nearby couch again. She tucked into her stew, balancing the bowl in her lap so she could study the map while she ate. "You'll be pleased to know that I've managed to levy an extra five hundred infantry."

Sylvanas' eyebrows rose. "Since yesterday, you mean?"

Spoon in her mouth, Jaina nodded smugly. 

"You work quickly," Sylvanas murmured. She sat on the couch, resting her elbows upon her knees and leaning over the map. She pointed at Fletcher's Hollow. "Ah, yes. I see them here. Do you have a spare pen I might use?"

"Mmm!" Jaina hummed a note of affirmation around a mouthful of food. She set the bowl down on the map, and went to bustle around a bookshelf. When she returned, she handed Sylvanas a quill and inkwell. 

"Thank you," Sylvanas murmured, taking the items. 

She pulled a small ledger from a pouch at her belt, a mirror of the larger one she kept at each Horde outpost. While she updated it, Jaina sat back down and returned to her meal. 

Sylvanas looked up from her notes. “I don’t suppose you’ve acquired any more cannons in the last twenty four hours as well?”

“We now have a total of fifty,” Jaina said. “And roughly two thousand artillerymen to man and supply them.” 

Flipping to another page in the little notebook, Sylvanas scratched a few figures onto the parchment. “Make it one hundred guns and four thousand artillerymen.”

“We can’t. We simply don’t have that number.”

Sylvanas shot her an exasperated look. “No, I am giving you those numbers.”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Jaina’s chewing slowed. She swallowed, then said, “You told me you weren’t storing munitions at your sites.”

Sylvanas blinked innocently at her. “I wasn’t.”

“Sylvanas.”

Lifting one shoulder in an elfin half shrug, Sylvanas said, “I was stowing them offshore. In Suramar, if you must know. And since it’s only four weeks to sail from Drustvar to Suramar, I ordered them to begin shipment three weeks ago. They will arrive here just in time for whatever action we may require.”

Jaina made an irritated noise.

“You can hardly be angry with me for being a bit inventive,” Sylvanas said.

“I can. And I will.”

In reply Sylvanas rolled her eyes. She lowered the notebook and pen into her lap, hand poised to continue writing. “I received news from Zandalar recently. We managed to sign a treaty. They are now going to be counted among the ranks of the Horde. Which means we’ll have ships to help break the siege of Fallhaven come spring.”

Slowly Jaina lowered her spoon back into her bowl. She regarded Sylvanas carefully. “Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” 

“Another notch for your belt.”

Sylvanas sniffed. “How crude.” 

“But true.” Setting aside her bowl as though she had lost her appetite, Jaina said, “Don’t ship them off just yet. I’ll need to ensure we can properly support them. Food isn’t a problem of course, but other supplies might be.” 

“And how many battlemages do you have in total now?” Sylvanas asked.

“House Waycrest has none they can spare. Many either died during the incursion a few years ago, or are no longer able to fight. Too young. Too old. Too injured.” Crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat, Jaina said, “But I personally have about forty druids that we can field. Including myself.” 

Sylvanas could feel her eyebrows rise in spite of herself. Back when she was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, battlemages were parcelled out to her very rarely. She’d had to rely far more heavily upon standardised artillery than upon mages in wartime. Even now as Warchief of the Horde, having forty mages attached to a single division was -- in short -- a luxury. 

Mages were both like and unlike fancy artillery pieces. On the one hand, you couldn’t just order in a new set from some goblin factory. But on the other hand, they could win you the battle through feats of raw firepower alone. Quite literally, in some cases. 

“And you expect that we won’t finish until next year?” Sylvanas said incredulously. “When you have forty battlemages?” 

“Druids,” Jaina corrected. 

Sylvanas waved away the technicality. “Do the Ashvanes even have battlemages of their own?”

“We have to assume they are still using Tidesages for now.” Sighing, Jaina rubbed at her forehead. “Have your backup artillery and soldiers ready to march for Barrowknoll soon. We’ll group just north of Swiftwind Post, and move from there.” 

“Have there been any Ashvane movements that I should be aware of?”

“None yet. But there will be. Call it a hunch.”

“One you can see from orbit.” Checking to see if her words were dry on the pages, Sylvanas set aside the quill and ink. She snapped her little notebook shut. “In any case, you look tired, and I should take my leave for the evening.” 

Still kneading at her brow, Jaina gave a little murmur of appreciation. Sylvanas rose to her feet and turned to leave. Jaina said nothing further on her way out, though Sylvanas paused at in the entryway. 

The skull mask watched her. And just below it on the ground was the singed little wicker effigy made by Mace. She had not noticed it when she had first entered the cabin. Now, a chill raced across her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, but Jaina was scowling down at the map and scrawling more notes on its surface. 

Jaina must have felt the weight of Sylvanas' gaze upon her, for suddenly she looked up. She smiled, but it did not seem to reach her eyes. "Good night. Will you come around again tomorrow."

"The day after," Sylvanas answered. "I have a few things of my own to attend to."

"I look forward to it."

Yanking open the door, Sylvanas stepped outside and left. 

--

Even when she had been alive, she had always been suspicious of events going according to plan. There was always something that threw a wrench into the mix, so to speak. Over the next week, Sylvanas kept a watchful eye out for any such wrench, and was stymied when she could not find it. 

The ships from Suramar arrived, slipping up the eastern coast of Drustvar and past the Ashvane forces without any hassle, even though Sylvanas had contingency plans put in place just in case. Her rangers were not needed to save the ships from a watery grave, and the arrival of guns and artillerymen were well received. Jaina and Lucille had both been equal parts thrilled and relieved to hear the news. 

Mostly relieved, if she were being honest. And she could hardly blame them. One could never have too much artillery. Back when she had been Ranger-General of Silvermoon, her troops had teased her for her increased emphasis on artillery, calling them 'Windrunner's Kings.' The artillery division had even given themselves patches with a crown insignia on their uniforms, a fact which Sylvanas had always dreaded would make its way back to Kael'thas one day. And indeed there had been political hell to pay for a few years when it had. 

The arrival of more artillery did little to brighten her mood, however. Sylvanas approached the Highmountain Druid assigned to Katherine one day, questioning him about the Drust. He proved himself next to useless. While he thought the Drust odd, he could find no fault with their magic even if it was rather more macabre than most other Druidic schools. When he started droning on about 'the balance between life and death' and 'the fascinating equilibrium of mortality,' Sylvanas lost all interest. 

If there was one thing she had never been good at, it was listening to long-winded explanations of magic. And Druids were the worst sort. Always on about vague mysticism this, and restoring the balance that. What drivel. 

Jaina herself was no help either. Now that Sylvanas could take frequent visits without wasting precious time, she did so. Based on how long it had taken her to convince Jaina to agree to this arrangement in the first place, Sylvanas had prepared herself for the worst. As it turned out, Jaina was surprisingly cooperative now. Mostly this seemed to extend to the fact that Sylvanas had not told Katherine about her daughter. 

And even Katherine was not as difficult to deal with as Sylvanas had originally thought. The world really was coming to an end. When Sylvanas started probing for more information about the information Katherine had received during the Drust incursion, the Lord Admiral merely leaned back in her chair before the fireplace with a mournful look.

“This is what you interrupted my game of cards for?” Katherine asked, though she sounded more weary than belligerent. “I would have beaten your little Ranger again, too, given a few more minutes.”

“I have no doubt of that. Tea?” Sylvanas offered a cup, pouring it from a pot and adding a splash of milk. It had been how she’d lured Katherine away in the first place. 

“Thank you.” Katherine held out her hand and took the cup and saucer. “Why the sudden interest in the Drust incursion?”

Sylvanas propped her ankle atop her opposite knee, sitting with one leg splayed. She did not partake in any tea herself. “Originally, I’d thought you only had two children, but I’ve recently learned you had three. A daughter. Jaina.” 

The cup stopped dead in its tracks before Katherine could take that first sip. She set it back upon its saucer, then balanced both atop the arm of her chair. “I did,” she said softly. 

“What happened?” Sylvanas asked. She kept her voice delicate and aloof.

With a sigh, Katherine picked up the cane that was leaning against her bad leg. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was going to push herself upright and hobble away, but Katherine only turned the cane between her fingers, as though admiring the falcon head wrought from pure polished silver. “It’s not that complicated, really. She developed magical talents very young. Her father and I fought about it. There’s no magic blood innate in his side of the family, you see. So, of course it was all my fault. And then he wanted to cloister her away with the Tidesages, to live out her days as some mute, robed Sister.”

Katherine snorted in derision and shook her head, falling silent. Sylvanas said nothing. She waited for her to continue. 

“I thought that by sending her away to the Drust, I was protecting her. And then -” Katherine gave a wave of her hand. “For naught. In the end, I might as well have let Daelin send her to the Monastery. Grief comes for you in strange ways,” she mused, fiddling with her cane. “The news came to me over a week after she had died. Somehow, the idea of her being alive was a hope in and of itself. And after I knew she was gone, I saw emptiness everywhere.” Then she gave an unexpected snort. “I was even sad to hear the Old Bear had passed away.”

“Old Bear?” Sylvanas repeated, puzzled.

“Ulfar. The last of the great High Thornspeakers.” Katherine smiled wistfully at the flames dancing in the hearth. “I remember my grandfather telling me tales when I was a child of Ulfar haunting the forests and mountains. A great bear lashed together by bone and vines that would protect the animals from greedy hunters by eating their livers.” 

She chortled, and Sylvanas shot her a puzzled look. Kul Tirans had a very queer sense of whimsy, indeed.

“From what I understand,” Sylvanas said. “The last time she was seen in Boralus was at her brother’s gallows.”

Katherine went white. She jerked in her seat so suddenly she nearly sent the teacup and saucer crashing onto the floor. “Who told you that?”

In reply, Sylvanas only shrugged. 

Setting down her cane to steady the cup, Katherine took a moment to collect herself. She fussed over the spot of tea she had spilled onto the saucer before answering, “Whoever your sources are, they’re very good.”

“They also wish to remain anonymous,” Sylvanas said. 

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. She took a sip of the tea. “It’s true. And she was wroth with me. As wrathful as only a child can be. But it served its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Well, she never did try to come back when her father was still Lord Admiral, did she?” Katherine gave her a thin smile and added, “Better angry with me and alive, than the alternative.”

--

Through the second story window, Sylvanas was overlooking the valley below Swiftwind Post when she received the news. In her hand, she toyed with the fang token, rolling the texture of it between her fingers. She hummed to herself idly, a half forgotten tune of home. The notes lingered in the dusty corners of the room that she called her own here in Drustvar. This place could not have been less like Quel’Thalas, yet the memory of home had washed over her today like a storm. 

“You’re in a good mood,” remarked Nathanos from the doorway behind her. 

The song trailed off in the back of her throat, but her next words still held onto it, as though reluctant to let it go. "There's no threat of the Legion. We have signed a treaty with Zandalar. We have the Alliance on the back foot. And we are on the cusp of instigating a revolt in foreign lands." Sylvanas said. Her reflection in the glass smiled, and she turned around to face him. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

"Perhaps I should caution you on having too much fun." Nathanos gave Jaina’s token a pointed look.

Sylvanas stiffened. Her hand gripped the fang so tightly she could feel its point dig into the leather of her glove. She aimed a glower at him and stashed the token away again. All levity vanished. "And perhaps you should hold your tongue."

He inclined his head in a quiet apology. But what he said was, “I do not share your ease, I’m afraid. This whole situation feels off. I keep expecting to find something behind every corner. Like a Draenei nesting doll. Hosts within hosts within hosts.”

Her mouth twisted to one side, but her ears cocked inquisitively. “Yes,” she said. “I can understand that sentiment.” 

Nathanos held up a small scroll, the kind that was usually wrapped around Arthur’s leg. “The High Thornspeaker has sent another message.” 

In reply, Sylvanas held out her hand. He crossed the room and gave it to her, then stood back in respectful silence while she unfurled it. Her crimson gaze skimmed across the message. She looked at him over the scroll, then handed it back to him. 

“Assemble the troops,” she said. “We march on Barrowknoll tomorrow morning.” 

With a bow, Nathanos turned heel and left to do as ordered. 

It took two days for a division of twelve thousand soldiers to march west for the hills due south of Barrowknoll. Sylvanas was used to personally commanding more impressive forces -- at the very least whole corps fifty thousand strong -- but she had fond memories of smaller detachments like this. Back when little had been expected of her, when her older sister was next in line to inherit the title of Ranger-General of Silvermoon, and Sylvanas was left to the excitement of border skirmishes and tactical missions with a trusted coterie of colonels and captains at her beck and call. 

Now, Sylvanas rode, bored, at the head of a force her younger self would have been eager to command. The horse beneath her clattered softly with every step, the rattle of its bones muted only somewhat by a saddle and royal drapery. She had been able to summon a skeletal horse to ride. This far east, Jaina’s iron-clad will over the dead was not as strong as it was in the heart of the Crimson Forest, allowing Sylvanas to snap her fingers and bones to rush from the ground with soothing familiarity. 

What wasn’t so soothing was the Lord Admiral’s presence at her side. Katherine rode as though she had been born in a saddle. Her wound did little to diminish her skill. Her bad leg was set in a brace, and her silver-headed cane strapped where a cavalry sword would have normally sat for easy access. She wasn’t the chatty sort -- thank the Sun -- but Sylvanas always had the impression that Katherine’s silences were secretly passing judgement. As though every order Sylvanas issued could have somehow been improved. Sylvanas ignored her as best she could, speaking instead to her rangers to pass the time.

On the end of the second day, they met Jaina and Lucille at the foothills southeast of the pass from Arom’s Stand. The two divisions combined created a motley army, all a-clash with colour and equipment. If Sylvanas had been younger -- and alive-- the lack of standardisation and coherence would have given her hives. As it was, she merely wrinkled her nose.

Sylvanas was already ordering camp to be made for the night, when Jaina and Lucille rode up to greet them. While Lucille sat astride a smoke-dark charger, Jaina’s mount was a more unconventional stag. It looked like the Wild God from the forest, but smaller and with a less lustrous white coat -- an offspring of Athair, perhaps. With her skull mask, and her dark mantle of leaves, and a massive raven perched on her shoulder, she looked every inch a High Thornspeaker. 

Straightening in her saddle, Sylvanas said, “You’re not looking so unkempt today, Arthur. Did you finally discover the joys of a bath?”

The raven on Jaina’s shoulder snapped its beak in reply. Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow in surprise. 

"That's enough of that now, Adalyn," Jaina chided. Then she turned to Sylvanas. "Don't mind her. She's just very protective."

"I can see that,” Sylvanas murmured. “I trust the mountains weren’t too difficult to cross?”

Lucille shrugged and answered, “They could have been worse. We won’t be getting back over them anytime soon, though.” 

At Sylvanas’ side, Katherine shortened her grip on the reins when her horse stamped an impatient hoof and began pawing at the soft ground. “You must be the new High Thornspeaker.” She nodded curtly to Jaina in a greeting. "Katherine Proudmoore. Lord Admiral."

"I know," Jaina answered. Her voice was even and cool.

Frowning in confusion at this chilly reception, Katherine remarked, "You're not a bear. Or any other type of animal."

"No. But I can be."

"And what is your name?" Katherine asked.

Jaina's answer was wintry. "You may call me: High Thornspeaker."

An uncomfortable silence descended over them. Eventually, Lucille cleared her throat awkwardly and jerked her head for Katherine to follow her. “If you’d like to come with me, Katherine.”

“I think I would.” Katherine shot Jaina one last puzzled look, then kneed her horse to trail after Lucille’s. The two of them rode off towards the Waycrest camp.

Sylvanas watched them go. “Follow them,” she said to Velonara and Tatanka. “Keep reporting back, as you have been.”

Both nodded, and went after the pair, leaving Jaina and Sylvanas alone. Apart from Adalyn, who continued to glower at Sylvanas with a peculiarly corvid intensity, and Nathanos, who matched Jaina’s raven bodyguard glare for glare. 

“Well then,” Sylvanas said after another moment of awkward silence. “I thought that was a good start.”

“Don’t,” Jaina warned, her tone dark and echoing beneath the mask. 

“I am being very sincere right now.”

“Sylvanas.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Sylvanas continued talking, “To be honest, I am disappointed. There wasn’t a single punch thrown.” 

And with a sound of disgust, Jaina wheeled her stag around, riding off towards her own Drust troops. 

After she had gone, Nathanos said, “Remember what I said about having too much fun?”

“In fact, I had already forgotten,” Sylvanas drawled. “But I am sure you’ll remind me.”

He bowed in the saddle. “Only doing my duty for my Queen.” 

“Yes, that is the problem.”

--

On the third day, they rode north, abandoning their hold on anything further south than Swiftwind Post. The only thing Sylvanas thought they had accomplished by holding out for so long to the south was depleting Asvhane’s resources. It seemed to do very little however. House Ashvane had very deep pockets, and a liberal manner with gold. Indeed, a few Waycrest troops had been lured over to wear the red by virtue of higher pay alone. Sylvanas had thought Jaina would be angry at this blatant act of disloyalty, but when Velonara reported back on figures lost, Jaina just sighed and updated her ledgers.

By mid morning of the fourth day, their combined forces had at last reached Barrowknoll. Rising up on her stirrups, Sylvanas looked out across the fields. The river Reilig wended its way through the town of Barrownknoll, forded by two bridges, both heavily guarded by Ashvane forces to the east. There would be no crossing there. Not without a bloody battle on their hands. Bloodier by far than what they could hope for here at the town proper. On the easternmost side of the town, a graveyard sprawled with tombstones of various sizes and states of weathering. It surrounded a church, which milled with artillerymen loading carts of munitions onto oxen-pulled wagons. Further east on their side of the river, a swamp spread in a great mass, extending nearly all the way to the first bridge. 

The only feature worth taking at this point was a rolling hill just south of the riverbend in which Barrowknoll was nestled. Pulling sharply back on the reins, Sylvanas nodded towards the hill. “We should establish our artillery there and shell the town.”

“I agree,” Jaina said promptly, while Katherine nodded in approval. 

“Are we confident the town has been evacuated of all civilians?” Lucille asked.

“Do you hear that, Velonara?” Sylvanas drawled. “Lady Waycrest doubts your reconnaissance.” 

“That’s not -! No, I just mean -!” Lucille spluttered, while Sylvanas and Velonara watched her flounder with amusement. 

Poor girl. She wouldn’t have survived five minutes in an elvish army. The teasing would have killed her stone dead. 

Jaina did not let this go on for long. “I’ve had a raven fly over the area closely. There are no civilians. They’ve all fled north to Fallhaven.”

Casting her a curious glance, Sylvanas asked, “Arthur?” 

But Jaina shook her head. “No. He wanted to fight. He’s in the infantry ranks.”

Sylvanas opened her mouth, realised she was going to protest, and then closed it again with a frown. 

Meanwhile, Katherine had spurred her horse forward. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s set up the artillery, and then rain fire down on these bastards.”

A number of guardsmen, including the Highmountain Druid Sylvanas had assigned, went trotting after Katherine’s horse as she rode towards the hill. Lucille followed, pulling her horse up beside Katherine, who had already begun barking out curt decisive orders with the kind of inherent authority that had Waycrest officers leaping to attention. 

Sylvanas watched all this, and said aside to Jaina in a low voice so that her words would not carry, “Your mother certainly has spirit.”

She couldn’t see any expression beneath the mask, but Jaina’s head turned towards her with a distinctly exasperated air. And rather than reply, Jaina urged the stag to chase after Lucille and Katherine. 

It took the better part of three hours to get all of the artillery into place. Oxen pulling massive carts strained at their yokes, leaving deep grooves in the wet earth behind them. Their handlers hauled at their nose rings, coaxing the oxen up the hill and into position where their goods could be unloaded. While the artillerymen carefully placed their cannons and took measurements to judge the range between them and the town, the rest of the army began to dig into the southeast of the hill in anticipation of battle. Only a stone’s throw away from their artillery, but sheltered enough by the slope that they would not be caught in the enemy crossfire. 

Sylvanas trained a spyglass on the enemy within the town, watching them do much the same. Soldiers in bold red coats scurried about in front of the church and all along the bend of the riverbank. They peered down the length of their own tools and and spyglasses. They adjusted their guns to point just so, reacting to every new order given by the unlikely Alliance between the Drust, House Waycrest, and the Horde. By the end, both battalions were sweating despite the cold damp atmosphere of Drustvar, and not a single shot had been fired yet. 

By the time they started exchanging barrages, the groundworks were nearing completion and Katherine was being poured her first cup of tea. The roar of the cannons was so loud it made the air tremble. Katherine spilled tea all down the front of her greatcoat.

“Oh, blast!” She swore. "They couldn't have warned us before they started?"

“I would have thought you’d be used to a bit of cannon fire by now,” Lucille pointed out.

Katherine scoffed. “It doesn’t work like that.” When Tatanka passed her a delicately embroidered handkerchief from one of his pouches, she murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”

When Sylvanas shot him an odd look, the Tauren shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made it for me.”

“That does not make this any better,” she growled.

“Oh, do calm down,” Katherine sighed. “Have a cup with me. You too, over there.” She waved over Jaina. “Or do you really never take off that bloody thing?”

Upon being addressed by her mother, Jaina’s already rigid posture seemed to go impossibly more tense. She mutely shook her head, turned, and strode away towards the Horde and Drust troops, which were working further east along the battlements. 

Lifting her now refilled up of tea to her lips, Katherine sipped contemplatively. She studied Jaina’s retreating back over the rim of her cup. “Your High Thornspeaker isn't very talkative," she remarked to Lucille.

“Ah, no,” said Lucille. “I mean -- sometimes she can be a bit -- well, she’s very -- uhm --”

At a loss for what to say and not give everything away, she cast Sylvanas an imploring glance. Shaking her head in exasperation, Sylvanas went back to her skeletal horse and lifted herself easily into the saddle. She tugged at the reins, wheeling the steed sharply around, and said to Lucille, “Give me your cavalry.” 

Lucille blinked up at her. “What for?”

“For their primary purpose: scouting.” 

“Just give them to her,” Katherine said. “She’s going to be boorish about it. I can tell. Always needs something to do, that one.” 

Sylvanas didn’t dignify that with a response. She waited for Lucille’s reply. 

“Very well,” Lucille relented. “Go. Scout.”

“Velonara, stay here. Nathanos, keep our High Thornspeaker company. Anya, with me.” Pointing to each of them in turn, Sylvanas did not wait for Anya to mount up before she was urging her skeletal horse forward. She could hear Anya swearing in Thalassian behind her as she tried to mount up and follow quickly enough. 

The cavalry Captain, a burly bearded man by the name of Hayles, was puzzled and initially suspicious of being ordered about by the likes of the Warchief of the Horde. But he did not question it much, despite his obvious displeasure. When Sylvanas fixed him with a crimson glare, he shoved his helm onto his head and mounted up with the rest of his battalion, grumbling all the while. 

Sylvanas led them towards the river Reilig, sweeping wide of the bend to avoid the back and forth barrage of artillery fire between the two sides. Even so, sprays of mud would explode near enough for the living horses to shy. The cavalrymen had quick hands on their reins, easily holding formation as they rode. 

There was a fork in the river on the western side of the town. Sylvanas pulled her skeletal steed to a halt at the first branch, then rode up and down the bank a few paces. She stood up in her stirrups to get a better look at the water until she found a suitable spot. 

"Here," she said, digging her heels into the horse's bare ribs out of habit alone. It only needed the lightest of touch at the reins to do her bidding.

The skeletal mount splashed out into the water, fording the river. Hayles, Anya, and the others followed. At the deepest point of these shallows, the water just barely reached the horses’ chests. Deep enough to dissuade an infantry advance, but not deep enough to completely discount it. Certainly easy enough to ford for cavalry. 

On the other side of the river, the Ashvane troops had long since noticed their presence. Now, red and white coated cavalry in far greater numbers than their own shadowed their movements. Hayles kept a grim eye upon them, drawing his sabre and resting it expertly against his shoulder as he rode a length behind Sylvanas. Meanwhile, she ignored the enemy cavalry utterly for now, paying more attention to the landscape. 

The next branch in the fork was shallower still than the first. She kept her distance. The Ashvane cavalry captain across the way was close enough that she could see the eagerness on his face beneath his crested helm. He appeared young. Hungry for a fight. Clearly he believed his numbers advantage would win him anything. He didn't realise exactly who it was that waited for him on the other side of the water. For a moment Sylvanas considered baiting him across the river for a bit of a skirmish just for the fun of it -- she had been cooped up for far too long on these rain-lousy islands, and the idea of luring a headstrong youth to his untimely demise was, admittedly, very appealing -- but eventually after a few hours of scouting and posturing, she turned the cavalry battalion back towards the southeast. She could almost hear the sigh of relief from Hayles behind her. 

The artillery barrage had not slowed during their time along the Reilig. They had arrived in the late morning, and already the sun was beginning its descent towards the horizon behind the thick bank of cloud that covered the sky. All along the fields between the hill and the town, the earth was churned up with great gouge marks from the cannonballs ripping into the ground. In the distance, the town's buildings had been mostly reduced to rubble. Only a few houses furthest away from the river had escaped unscathed. The church's belltower had collapsed. Holes riddled its wooden roof, and the air was filled with an acrid smoke so thick it was difficult to see the enemy artillerymen loading their guns. 

The cavalry had to weave their way between patches of relatively flat earth so that the horses would not break their legs. Much to Sylvanas' dismay, a drizzle had started up. The craters in the ground were starting to fill with water. Her own cloak was thoroughly damp as well. She would give her ears a periodic flick to rid them of rain, to very little effect. Anya would do the same. Hayles and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry on the other hand seemed unperturbed by the change in weather.

As they rode up behind the artillery, Sylvanas could see that the infantry had made temporary camp behind their groundworks. Soldiers were beginning to serve themselves dinner, settling in for a long evening. Every few minutes, a cannon would go off with a recoil that shoved the entire artillery piece back a few meters, and a group of twenty to thirty men would rush about like a swarm of bees to get it back into position for another round of firing. After each blast, a flinch would shiver through the ranks of infantry and cavalry nearby. Sylvanas could tell just by the reactions which were veterans and which were green bloods. 

Most, she was pleased to see, appeared to have seen battle before. Surprising, considering how quickly Lucille had levied troops. The Ashvane ranks would be filled with new blood. The Navy marines would be tied to Lord Stormsong now, and Lady Ashvane would have thrown gold around to attract anyone young and foolish enough to have a gun shoved into their hands and a red coat draped across their shoulders. 

When Sylvanas dismounted and dismissed Captain Hayles for the evening, he grudgingly saluted with his sabre before sheathing it once more at his saddle. Meanwhile, Anya was already chatting up a few of the lower ranked cavalrymen, who were easily won over by a pretty face and the idea that they would get a few games of whist with their supper. Sylvanas left them to their fate -- knowing full well that Anya would clean out their pockets and leave them high and dry before the night's end -- and went in search of the command tent. 

No less than four guardsmen flanked the command tent's entrance. On one side, the Highmountain druid assigned to Katherine and a Forsaken heavy infantryman. On the other, a Waycrest guard in full plate and a Drust in the form of a sabre cat. The Drust sat on the ground like a sphynx, its gnarled, branch-like paws crossed almost primly. It glowered balefully at Sylvanas as she approached. 

"Good evening, Adalyn," Sylvanas greeted dryly.

A rumbling growl rolled from Adalyn's fanged mouth in response. 

Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. Inside, Lucille, Katherine and Velonara had their heads bent over a table bearing a detailed map of the area. Lucille was drawing notes directly onto the map with careful penmanship, while Katherine pointed to various places with a murmur and a frown. On the other side of the tent, Nathanos and Jaina were engaged in an unlikely alliance, conversing softly together in their own corner. Jaina of course still wore her mask. Luckily whoever had erected the tent had taken this into account, and made the ceiling high enough that neither she nor the Tauren outside would be at risk of puncturing the canvas with a stray antler. 

The moment Sylvanas stepped inside, all heads turned in her direction. She took a moment to clean off her muddy boots before venturing further in, but she still left prints in the rugs that had been strategically placed along the ground. 

"Did you learn anything of interest?" Katherine asked immediately. 

"I did." 

Sylvanas crossed over to the table. She was joined by Jaina and Nathanos so that they all crowded around the map. They stood so close together that Jaina's elbow jostled her own. Sylvanas made a motion towards Lucille, who handed over the pen. When she tried to mark the map however, she had to dip the nib into fresh ink before trying again.

"On the banks of the loop nearest enemy territory, the Ashvanes have built up groundworks anticipating a frontal assault on the church." Sylvanas drew a crescent-shaped line while she spoke. "Meanwhile to the west there are two areas where the river can easily be forded, should we decide to attack in that direction instead."

Leaning heavily on her cane, Katherine jerked her head towards the cluster of Waycrest troops represented by black tokens. Currently they were sitting alongside the green and purple tokens denoting the Drust and Horde forces respectively. "Lucille and I will ford the river. We'll take the Waycrest infantry and cavalry, and make the Ashvanes think we're going to push hard for their flank. They'll need to divert quite a few men to head us off. That should thin their ranks enough for you to take the town in a frontal assault."

When Lucille's name was spoken, she glanced at Katherine. Not with surprise, which Sylvanas had expected, but with gratitude that there would be an experienced guiding hand helping her along. She leaned forward to arrange the tokens as Katherine had suggested. When she had done so, suddenly the Ashvane forces holding the town were equal to the Drust and Horde's. They would still be holding a defensible position, though. And the numbers advantage granted by the Waycrest movements was better than mother, but unideal.. 

"Be aggressive, but not too aggressive," Jaina said. "I would hate to see the Lord Admiral shot down in a land battle." 

Katherine let loose a bark of laughter. "No. You're right. A Lord Admiral should die at sea, as the Tides intended." 

Remaining silent, Sylvanas licked at the backs of her teeth in a contemplative manner. Nathanos was watching her carefully. "Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at the map. "No," she murmured after a moment. "It's a good plan. We will go ahead with it."

Katherine gave a curt nod, pleased at her plan being so easily approved by the others. "Well, Lucille," she said, starting to limp towards the exit. "We ought to find our own tents before it gets too late. Nothing like a poor night's sleep to ruin a battle."

"I will show you to yours." Lucille very nearly hopped to attention to follow after her.

In another life, she would have made an excellent Captain, given the chance and the right commander. Eager to please, but ultimately lacking in her own vision. Sylvanas had known many Ranger-Captains like her. Had she not been born to a Great House, she doubtlessly would have lived an unremarkable life. Which, to her credit, probably would have been preferable to the excitement that had already been crammed into her life so far. 

Turning to Nathanos and Velonara, Sylvanas said, "Give the orders. Make sure the officers know the plan."

With a bow, they too left. 

Outside, the non-stop clamour of artillery had crept to a desultory halt. Both sides would have been running low on munitions, keeping enough for the battle proper, but otherwise finished trading blows for now. The lamps that had been lit in the tent were now necessary to see, as night had swept over Drustvar. The sounds of soldiers and oxen and horses wound their way through the canvas walls. There was no such thing as privacy in a military camp. Everyone practically atop everyone else. And at any moment, someone might burst into the tent with report of enemy movements. 

Sylvanas picked up one of the red Ashvane tokens from the centre of the town map, and frowned at it. 

"Nathanos was right," Jaina said. "Something is troubling you."

Though the tent was now empty but for the two of them, Jaina had not moved away; they still stood close enough together that their arms brushed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas set the token back down, angling it so that the line of Waycrest forces was curved in an encircling crescent across the Reilig. 

"No," she said. "It’s fine."

The skull mask watched her impassively. "You're lying again. You know, I thought you'd be better at this."

"Battle?"

"No. Lying."

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas rounded the table and headed for the exit. "You're the only person who's ever told me that."

"Not even your siblings?" Jaina followed, ducking to get through the canvas flap after Sylvanas. 

"We are not talking about my family," Sylvanas said firmly. 

That comment earned her an odd look from the remaining guards outside of the tent. Straightening her shoulders, Sylvanas stalked off in the direction of the artillery still lined up along the hill. She heard Jaina murmur something to Adalyn, and then footsteps trailing after her. The stench of gunsmoke still burned in the air, but it was fading. The winds were not as harsh here as they were further south. At least her Rangers would be pleased by this change of pace. 

She stopped when she had a good view of the town. Firelight flickered like motes of dust through the darkness. With the moon hidden behind a bank of cloud, the river snaked across the landscape, darkly gleaming. 

"I didn't think you would be the type to run away from a situation you didn't like," said Jaina's voice behind her. Jaina herself stepped forward so that they stood side by side, facing Barrowknoll. 

"The irony of you saying that does not escape me," Sylvanas countered. 

"At least I'm honest with myself."

"Do you always look for a fight when you're nervous?"

"I'm not looking for a fight."

"Then you might consider not baiting me further." Sylvanas' voice slipped to a lower note, something more dangerous. A warning. 

Jaina had no reply to that. They fell silent. Sylvanas was content to let that silence stretch, when Jaina asked, "What would you do, if you were me?"

Glancing over at her, Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. “You’re actually asking my opinion?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“When has that ever made a difference?” 

“I’m curious. Indulge me.” When Sylvanas still said nothing, Jaina sighed. “You didn’t like my mother’s plan. Why?”

“I liked it just fine,” said Sylvanas evasively. “It’s very conventional.”

“But you don’t like conventional and obviously would do something different.”

Turning her eyes back to Barrowknoll, Sylvanas scanned the area for weaknesses through the gloom. The Ashvanes had gotten the upper hand in every regard. They had cut off the retreat to Fallhaven. They had taken the defensible position. They had more munitions, more soldiers, more time. Even if they simply waited, the combined Wacyrest, Horde and Drust forces would need to give up and find shelter or risk losing their lives to ice and disease through winter.

Well, the Waycrest and Drust, perhaps. Not her Undead. And maybe not the Drust, now that she thought about it. 

Sylvanas nodded, pointing to the east. “That swamp. They’re treating it like it’s an impassable wall. I would order the cavalry to screen our left flank. Then, I would throw everything at the centre, draw the enemy in, and when the fighting to the south starts to thicken, I would send an unarmoured division across by foot to flank them by surprise.”

“The artillery wouldn’t be able to support them,” Jaina said. “There’s no way you're getting cannons into that bog.”

With a shrug, Sylvanas replied, “If their sacrifice would mean my victory, then so be it.”

“Such sacrifices aren’t always necessary. And from what I understand, there aren’t many of your people that remain.”

“And to which people would you be referring?”

“You know which.” 

Pursing her lips, Sylvanas gazed out over the night-darkened fields. Beside her Jaina shifted her staff between her hands almost nervously. Noticing this, Sylvanas remarked, “You haven’t seen much battle, have you?”

“Not as much as you, perhaps. But I’ve seen enough,” Jaina answered, her tone grim. “Enough to know that being a military leader is not my first choice of professions, by any stretch of the imagination. Unlike some of us.”

Sylvanas peered sidelong at her. “You think I wanted to be Warchief? Or even Ranger-General, for that matter?” 

“I don’t -”

“No,” Sylvanas interrupted coolly. “You don’t. So, I would suggest you keep your assumptions to yourself.”

The skull mask swung towards her in silent contemplation. Finally, Jaina said, “you’re awfully good at being a war leader.”

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas looked back towards Barrowknoll. “People get good at what they do. In time, you will grow to be a perfectly serviceable Lord Admiral.”

A self-deprecating laugh was Jaina’s answer. “Well, I don’t know what I was so worried about, then. That’s high praise from you.”

“I have very exacting standards,” Sylvanas agreed. 

“Careful,” Jaina warned, and even though Sylvanas could not see her face her words were playful and chiding. “That’s twice you’ve flattered me, now. A girl might get ideas.”

It was Sylvanas’ turn for a huff of self-deprecating laughter, almost a scoff. She gave Jaina a dismissive wave. “Go. Try to get some sleep. My people and I will keep watch.” 

She expected some resistance, but Jaina simply inclined her head and left. 

The night was short, and nothing at all interesting happened. No raids. No alarms. The Ashvane forces were risking nothing for the sake of initiative. They kept their position, confident in their safety in numbers. They sent no more scouts. They slept until the first grey watery light of dawn crept over the horizon. 

They were, in short, complacent. Sylvanas liked that in an enemy. It was a refreshing change of pace. 

The morning was misty and dim. The foothills to the west appeared almost idyllic, until they sloped into the fields torn up by artillery fire. All through the night, the bold red medical tents had worked, tending to those wounded in the exchanging barrage. When the camp was packed up, the medical tents were some of the few that remained behind to continue their work away from the fight. 

By the time all the troops had been organised into position, it was only a few hours until midday. The sky remained overcast, but mercifully free of rain. Not that it helped much. The ground was still horrible and soggy. It reminded Sylvanas too much of fighting in the rainy jungles of Zul'Aman. She had bad memories of leather boots completely rotting away after being saturated with mud for weeks. 

Sylvanas was sitting atop her skeletal horse beside Jaina on her stag, when Anya rode up beside her. Breaking away from her conversation with Jaina, Sylvanas gave Anya a once-over. "I don't recall issuing you a Waycrest cavalry coat."

"I won it," Anya said smugly. 

"Along with a great many other things, I'm sure."

"There's a helmet that comes with it, too."

"Is this your way of telling me that you want to ride with Velonara in the Waycrest division?"

"No," Anya replied. "I will be guarding you while Nathanos heads the troops."

"Do I get any say in the matter?"

Anya did not answer.

"Wonderful," Sylvanas sighed. She shifted in her saddle to turn towards Jaina. "Whenever you are ready."

Jaina's deer stamped one of its cloven hooves. Her head slowly turned as she swept her gaze over the troops arranged on the field before them. A mass of uniform colour to their left being the Waycrest troops in three block formations, along with a cavalry screen. And a mismatch of Undead and Druids in various forms comprising the solid blocks of infantry directly ahead. Lucille and Katherine could be seen with the Waycrest cavalry, surrounded by a cluster of other officers on foot and on horseback. 

Jaina nodded towards their own cluster of officers in attendance. Flags were waved. Trumpets were sounded. And the Waycrest forces began their march towards the river. 

In the town, large numbers of troops in red coats were broken up by the buildings. But in the fields behind them, even more Ashvane troops were arrayed in formation. Across the distance, more horns were raised, and the bulk of the Ashvane troops began to move in lockstep with the Waycrest's, both angling towards one another across the river. The only advantage of Katherine and Lucille's lesser numbers was that it allowed them to move more quickly.

Sylvanas leaned forward in her saddle to better watch as they forded the river before the Ashvane troops could cut off their advance. The moment the first Waycrest infantry had crossed the river, Sylvanas turned to one of the Forsaken officers nearby. "You there, get those guns firing again," she ordered. Then she said to another, "And you, sound the advance."

With a bony-handed salute, both of them trotted off to do as commanded. Soon, the artillerymen behind them were scurrying about the cannons. The first round of artillery fire of the morning sent a flock of startled birds into flight from the bog to their west. Sylvanas could feel the shudder of the earth even atop her horse. And then, they began to march. 

It was a slow steady plod through the mud. The officers brought up the rear just to the left of the advancing soldiers, leading a small cohort of reserve troops that would be able to accomplish very little on their own should it come to that. Enemy fire roared out in answer from the town. Cannons ripped through the advance, sending sprays of mud through the air flecked with blood and teeth as men fell screaming. But for every enemy shot, two were stalled by the presence of their own artillery blasting away at the town. More still were stopped completely by magical shields thrown up by clusters of Druids arranged along the infantry ranks for just that purpose. The shields flashed across the air in front of the advance, deflecting cannon balls into the mud, where they bounced away or cracked into pieces like shrapnel. 

One such cannon hurtled in the direction of the reserve troops, but Jaina raised her hand and it shattered in a fan of iron ore like a wave breaking against a pane of impenetrable glass. Sylvanas had never been so grateful to have mages fighting on her side. 

From the east, Sylvanas could hear the pop of shots fired. Her ears twitched towards the noise. She stood in her stirrups in an attempt to see what was happening, but the ground from Barrowknoll sloped gently upwards towards that direction. Lowering herself back into her saddle, she asked, "Do we have eyes on the Waycrest forces?" 

Jaina turned to Adalyn, who was trotting alongside the stag in the form of a sabre. "Go get vision and come back." 

Without question, Adalyn turned into a raven and swept off into the air. She returned a few minutes later and landed on Jaina's shoulder to whisper in her ear. 

"They have engaged in earnest," Jaina relayed to Sylvanas. "Nobody has given ground yet. The cavalry are attempting to outflank one another, but Hayles is holding his own." 

Sylvanas spoke directly to Adalyn. "Get flying again and keep us informed. I want to know exactly if and when someone starts to buckle." 

In response, the raven gave Sylvanas an extremely unpleasant look with one black and beady eye. But Jaina murmured something in a low tone. With a caw of complaint, Adalyn nevertheless took flight from Jaina's shoulders, wheeling back towards the east. 

The main advance on Barrowknoll slowed when they reached the river. Soldiers lifted their arms above their head to keep their muskets dry as they crossed. The Ashvane forces continued to fire from their position. Their artillery were beginning to run low on ammunition, but a line of muskets would aim and take fire over the groundworks, while others took shots from the second story of the ruined church, and even from the rooftops of nearby buildings. It may have just been a mound of dirt built as tall as a man and stretching in a crescent shape between the river and the town, but the earthworks was enough to give them cover for any returning fire launched in their direction. The Ashvane soldiers would duck back behind the earthworks when lightning was called from the sky, sending sprays of earth in all directions and leaving behind the stench of burnt ozone and flesh. 

Sylvanas and Jaina remained on the other side of the river with their reserve troops and cluster of officers. Even though Adalyn did as told and returned with regular updates on the enemy position, Sylvanas urged her skeletal horse to pace along the riverbanks to and fro. Anya shadowed her every movement, along with a few Forsaken and a Tauren in the form of a bear with streaks of green warpaint on his fur. Glowing crimson eyes trained along the fight, searching every angle for a hint of weakness. A gap, perhaps. A flagging flank. A faint faltering of morale. The stench of gunsmoke was acrid and thick. It clouded vision beyond a hundred yards even for her excellent eyesight. 

The Horde and Drust line were fighting to take the earthworks, both sides using the long mound of compacted dirt as cover, neither willing to commit to a charge, lest they be met with deadly resistance on the other side. 

"Find anything of interest?" Jaina asked when Sylvanas rode back to the reserve troops. 

Yanking on her reins and wheeling her horse around, Sylvanas shook her head. "Not yet. I still don't like our numbers. We need to find an advantage. Preferably more than one." 

In front of them, a surge of red-coated troops washed over the earthworks on their left with a battlecry for Kul Tiras. They scrambled atop the mound of dirt and shot down upon the Horde and Drust flank. Flashes of flame spouted from the muzzles of their muskets as the gunmen made space for infantry with pikes to push their advantage. The Ashvane pikemen shoved against their left flank like a wall of living spears, while the Forsaken chopped at the pikes with hooks and axes, or otherwise stabbed at exposed feet in an attempt to break the sudden counterpush. 

When the Horde and Drust flank began to cave slightly into a fish hook shape, Sylvanas tensed. She drew her bow from her back, hands steady and expression grim. Before she could fire a single shot however, a druid on the front lines of the left flank was stabbed in the shoulder with a spear. He flung back his head with a bellowing roar that shuddered the air. His body bristled and grew massive, and he swiped at the wall of spears mid-transformation into an enormous bear. Thunder careened from his paw, shattering a huge gap into the pikemen. He lunged through, his massive jaws closing around the throat of an Ashvane pikeman and shaking like a dog with a rat. Forsaken poured after him, using the space he created to push back the counterattack. Swords flashed, and the Ashvane pikemen trying to retreat back over the earthworks slipped in pools of their own blood. Forsaken soldiers fell upon them like wolves, hacking them to pieces before scrambling to pursue the rest over the artificial hillock. 

Slowly Sylvanas lowered her bow. "That was a welcome development, at least." 

Beside her, Jaina hummed in agreement. "The break between Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane is more serious than we thought." 

Sylvanas frowned at her. "What do you mean?" 

The skull turned and Jaina's voice was positively gleeful. "You didn't notice? That magic wasn't counteracted. They don't have Tidesages. Or if they do, they're certainly not here." 

Sylvanas' eyes widened in understanding. She wheeled her horse around to start giving commands, but Jaina beat her to it. 

"Concentrate what druids we have onto the front," Jaina snapped to an officer standing nearby. "Have them break up the enemy line. Tell them to expect only physical resistance." 

"What about those we've reserved as Healers?" the officer asked. 

"They can stay where they are," Jaina said. 

Immediately, the officer raised a hand to her temple in a salute, then rushed off to do as she was told. She took a group of the reserve troops to escort her across the river and relay the orders. Meanwhile, Jaina rounded on what remained of the reserve units. 

"The rest of you," she said, lifting her voice. They all straightened, their faces eager and steely beneath their helms. "Push hard into their right flank! I want that church taken as a foothold in the next hour! Go!" 

What remained of the officers began relaying orders to start the march. Soon, the reserve troops were crossing the river to support their forces on the left, where the fight was raging the thickest. The Ashvane forces were faltering, giving ground slowly but steadily. Word of the new orders must have reached the front lines, for lightning careened down from the sky with a deafening crack. It struck the church, where a group of Ashvane musketmen had been raining down shots onto the approaching Horde and Drust. Those that weren't struck dead, were left reeling, fumbling for cover as another blast of lightning rained down upon them. 

Sylvanas had slung her bow back over her shoulder, but her fingers itched for the weapon. Where she had seen no chaos to take advantage of before, she now saw it everywhere. Every hard-earned instinct and years of experience were telling her to leap into the fray, embolden the troops, take the victory for herself, as she knew she could. She was tightening her hand on the reins, preparing to do just that, when Jaina spoke beside her. 

"Sylvanas, I want you to come with me to the western banks." 

Her head jerked around, her long ears slanting back in a mixture of surprise and aversion. "What?" she asked. Rising up in her stirrups, she looked to the west, but saw nothing of interest. The Ashvane line was faltering directly to their left, but to their right, the enemy was still holding strong. "Why on earth would we go there?" 

"I mean to overrun them." 

"With what troops?" Sylvanas waved towards their left, where the reserve troops were starting to fight tooth and nail over the church, even as they repelled an attempted counterflank from a platoon of bold Ashvane musketmen hoping to catch them in enfilade fire. 

“Leave that to me.” 

Jaina started off towards the west without another word. Swearing, Sylvanas turned to Anya and said, "You stay here. Help Nathanos hold the line." 

Anya shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvanas cut her off. "That's not a question, Anya. You will do this." 

With a glower at her queen, Anya looked like she was going to fight against the order still, but eventually she turned back to the remaining small cluster of officers and began issuing commands. Satisfied, Sylvanas wheeled her skeletal horse around and followed Jaina. 

No troops followed them. Not even a handful of guards. Sylvanas kept a careful watch on the enemy through the gaps of buildings, but nobody was paying any attention to two people slipping away from the thick of the fight. They might as well have been deserters fleeing the battle. When they reached the swamp, Jaina dismounted and continued on foot, leaving her stag behind. Sylvanas jerked at her own reins and called after her, "What the hell are we doing out here?"

Jaina did not turn around. She continued picking her way through the bog. "You said you wanted another advantage? I’m getting us reinforcements."

"What reinforcements?"

"Just come along already."

Grinding her teeth, Sylvanas slipped from the saddle and trudged after her. The bog was a mess. There was very little hard ground upon which to stand. Tall tussock grass masqueraded as safety, only for Sylvanas' foot to plunge into hip deep water and mud. She had to claw her way out, cursing all the while. By the time Jaina stopped, the hems of her robes were drenched, and Sylvanas' armour would need a thorough cleaning all around. 

In Barrowknoll, the fighting continued. From here, Sylvanas could not see the Waycrest troops further east. She tried rising up on her toes, but only sank a few more inches into a bit of mud. 

"I am beginning to lose patience," Sylvanas hissed. 

Jaina ignored her. She was kneeling on the ground at the edge of a deep pool of water. She held out her hand towards Sylvanas. "Your knife. Give it to me."

"No." Sylvanas crossed her arms. "Explain first. Knife later."

"Really?" Jaina glanced at her in exasperation. When Sylvanas refused to budge, Jaina rolled her eyes. She gestured all around them. "You wanted to know what was so special about this place? Bogs are sacred burial sites for Drust. This one in particular was used for generations to inhume the Drust dead. Now, give me your knife."

With a frown, Sylvanas begrudgingly handed over the silver hunting knife. Jaina took it, and then pulled out a very familiar looking singed wicker man from a pocket of her cloak. She placed both before her, and then fumbled around in a pouch for another reagent. When she withdrew a stag's black and shrivelled heart, she placed it over the wicker man's chest. A quick flash of the blade over the back of her arm drew a bright line of blood along her skin, and then Jaina plunged the knife through the heart and the wicker man, staking them together. 

She began to mumble in an ancient tongue. The sound echoed from the depths of the skull mask, growing louder as though joined by a chorus, chanting the words back to her. The air around her writhed, and the wicker man caught alight. It began to burn beneath her hands, but the fire did not consume the wicker man the way it should, as though the mass of twigs were still resisting the touch of flame. 

And from the depths of the bog, a hand reached up. Sylvanas watched as more followed, and corpses began to drag themselves from the water and mud. Their bodies were preserved as though mummified, shrunken and wet, dyed dark from the peat. Bits of bone jutted from shoulders and arms, knees and spines. Jaina's droning chant reached its zenith, and an army of the dead rose to answer her call. 

Sylvanas stared. An undead nearest her waited blankly for a command, as did all the others. There was no sentience left within them. They were empty vessels. Ghouls animated by a greater will. 

Before her, Jaina rose to her feet. Through the dark sockets of the mask, her eyes blazed with pale fire. Leaving the wicker effigy burning upon the ground, she turned to Sylvanas. "Now, we can go." 

"How long will this spell last?"

"Until the fire burns out. We have only a few hours." Jaina stepped over the wicker man, looking towards Barrowknoll. "You will get your knife back, then."

Warily, Sylvanas followed as Jaina began to stride from the bog and towards the town. Thousands of ghouls shambled blindly after them. As they drew nearer fording the eastern side of the river, Ashvane troops began pointing furiously in their direction. An alarm was raised, a frantic horn blaring a single note over and over again as the red-coated soldiers attempted to rearrange themselves in time.

Clambering up onto the opposite shore, Jaina pointed at the line of red-coated soldiers and shouted a gutteral word in that ancient tongue. Behind her, the ghouls shrieked in response, an unearthly wail that Sylvanas had heard all too many times, before they rushed forward on all fours. Shots fired out from the lines of gunmen among the Ashvane ranks, but before they could get off even a second volley, the ghouls were upon them. No amount of shot could stop their charge. Musket balls embedded themselves in rotting flesh, accomplishing little. Rows of pikemen lowered their spears and tried to shove them back. Others still drew swords and began hacking at the undead masses. Impaled ghouls continued clawing their way down the spears, and severed arms twitched along the ground. 

Jaina herself waded into the thick of the fight. She towered over the shambling army of undead, bloodied, crowned in antlers, eyes blazing like twin points of flame. When she swept her hand, broad blades of frost sliced through the air, cutting through swathes of enemy soldiers. When she clenched her hand into a fist, a clump of Ashvane troops were encased in ice, frozen in rictus agony. 

A platoon aimed down their sights towards Jaina, and Sylvanas drew back an arrow. Whispers of death magic darkened its tip, and the arrow exploded with the echo of a banshee’s wail upon its destination. The musketmen dropped their weapons to clasp their hands over their ears, crying out in pain. She managed to shoot a few more arrows before the ghouls overwhelmed them, claiming that platoon for the dead.

Sylvanas tried to regain her bearings in the chaos. In a few lithe motions she had climbed atop the shattered roof of a house to get better ground, her bow half-drawn and ready to fire. In the centre of the town, the Horde and Drust soldiers were beginning to renew their attack, emboldened by the sudden presence of reinforcements from the east. The Ashvanes were suddenly the ones on the back foot, forced to hold their ground as an onslaught came now from two sides. 

A platoon of Ashvane musketmen noticed her position. They fired a volley of shots at her position. Sylvanas ducked. Chips of stone flew around her as the gun fire missed and hit the stone walls of the building. In the time it took for them to reload, she had made most of them pincushions; they fell to the ground grasping at black-fletched arrows that stuck from their throats and chests, gurgling on pools of their own blood. 

Below her, a group of Ashvane troops managed to hold their ground against the oncoming ghouls by funneling the undead into a spear wall and shooting over the pikemen. One of the soldiers saw Jaina advancing past their position, and in a fit of bravery near madness he threw down his musket, drew his sword and charged for her. She turned just as he slashed his blade in an upward strike, narrowly missing but managing to knock her mask loose. 

She stumbled back a step. The skull went careening onto the ground, one of the points of the antlers breaking off in the scuffle as ghouls continued to press past her. When she straightened once more, her eyes blazed. She loomed over the soldier. He swung his sword down like a cleaver, but Jaina grabbed his wrist, halting the blow. Sylvanas had an arrow drawn to shoot him, but stopped. With her other hand, Jaina was lifting the soldier by the scruff of his neck until his toes dangled above the ground. He dropped the sword. It clattered at her feet. Grasping at her forearm, he opened his mouth to scream but instead veins of black crawled across the skin of his face. As Jaina drained the life from him, vines burst from the ground, curling around the other soldiers and dragging them down into the earth. 

When Jaina tossed his lifeless corpse aside as though he were a ragdoll, Sylvanas leapt easily down from the building, landing beside her. "I didn't know Druids were in the habit of practising necromancy."

"You didn't ask." Jaina nodded towards the rooftop. "What's the situation?"

Casually, Sylvanas lifted her bow and fired an arrow at an Ashvane soldier as she answered. "I don't know how Katherine and Lucille are doing, but our forces in the town are gaining the upper hand." 

"Then we should press on and finish this quickly." 

"Agreed." 

Jaina smiled down at her. "Is this unconventional enough for you?"

An army of ghouls, summoned by the will of a powerful mage with an aura of icy menace was far too familiar, in fact. But Sylvanas merely said, "It will suffice. Shall we?"

Nodding, Jaina rounded on the next line of soldiers already being set upon by the undead. 

Within the next few hours, they had managed to push the Ashvane army back, capturing the town and sending red-coated soldiers fleeing north east for Fallhaven. Barrowknoll was a ruin of its former self. Some of the buildings burned, their thatched roofs caved inwards in a shower of sparks and ash. Drust infantry had begun rounding up prisoners. Whenever the Forsaken drew too close, the Ashvane soldiers would panic and draw their blades or raise their pistols or otherwise cower or try to run away, thinking that all of the Undead were ghouls like those Jaina had summoned from the bog. The ghouls themselves were slowly trudging back south. Some crawled their torsos across the ground. Others had been chopped to pieces, and the twitching life animating them was beginning to ease. 

Sylvanas' quiver had long since run out of arrows, and she had been forced to steal a sword from the body of a dead Ashvane soldier. Its blade was caked with dried blood. She herself was still covered in mud and gore. While she may not have sweat any longer, she was still looking forward to the day being over so she could have a bath. 

Jaina was issuing commands to a group of Drust soldiers and assorted druids, who nodded and rushed off to do her bidding. She still had not donned the skull mask since it had been knocked from her head during the fight. She looked haggard from holding onto the spell for so long, though she hid the raw weariness in her bones. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid and now stuck to the side of her neck and cheek. She swept them aside irritably as she approached Sylvanas, but that only sent a swipe of coagulated blood across her jaw from her bloodied hands. Her eyes still blazed with pale fire, though it was fading as the spell began to slowly wane. 

Sylvanas tossed aside the sword she had stolen. "Any news from the Waycrest line?"

"In retreat," Jaina answered wearily. "It was a stalemate. Thanks to our push here, the Ashvanes are all pulling back." 

Inclining her head, Sylvanas said, "Congratulations are in order, then."

"Are they?" Jaina asked. She looked around at the destruction of Barrowknoll. The wounded were being grouped up and triaged. Makeshift bandages were tied around limbs and faces. The worst of the lot were being carried away on stretchers back towards the healers tents, where more Druids would see to their injuries in due course. "I don't feel very victorious at the moment."

"Give it time." 

"My Queen," said a familiar voice behind her. 

Sylvanas turned to find Nathanos striding towards her. He wove his way through a group of prisoners, most of whom shied away from his presence. His twin axes were sheathed at his belt, and his own quiver of arrows was as empty as her own. 

He bowed and stopped before her. "Forgive me, but I didn’t recognise you beneath all the mud. Otherwise, I would have come sooner.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas sighed.

“Lady Waycrest and the Lord Admiral have crossed the river. They will be here momentarily."

"Very well." Sylvanas turned back towards Jaina then paused. 

Jaina had gone white as a sheet. She reached up to touch her own face as if only just now realising that she no longer wore the mask. Her fingers trembled. 

"Shit," Jaina hissed, frantically looking around her.

"This way," Sylvanas said, and began to walk towards the position they had been in where Jaina had lost it.

Jaina was hot on her heels. She kept her head ducked, as though afraid her mother would round every corner and come face to face with her. When they came upon the site however, the mask was nowhere to be seen. With a frown, Sylvanas swept her gaze over the area. She eventually found it behind some wooden rubble that had fallen loose from the barricades during the fight. 

Picking it up off the ground, Sylvanas brushed it free of as much mud as she could. However, Jaina was already reaching out for it. The flames of her eyes had dwindled nearly to normal by this point, and her expression was agitated. Their hands brushed as Sylvanas handed it to her. Jaina shot her one last grateful glance before pulling the mask over her head and covering her face once more. 

The sound of horse hooves and the jangle of tack announced the arrival of what remained of the Waycrest cavalry accompanying Katherine and Lucille. The two of them rode up looking unscathed. Behind them Captain Hayles sported a sabre cut on his upper arm. He handled his reins with his good hand. Jaina checked her mask for a second time as if to reassure herself that it was actually there before turning to face them. 

Katherine pulled back on the reins. “Glad to see you’re both still alive,” she said by way of greeting, then glanced apologetically at Sylvanas. “Mostly.” 

"How many dead?" Lucille asked.

Sylvanas looked to Nathanos for an answer, and he said, "About four hundred casualties."

"Which brings the total to seven hundred and fifty," Katherine said. "Not bad, all things considered. It could have been much worse." 

"Better than the Ashvanes," Jaina replied. She sounded far more calm than she had looked just moments ago. 

Katherine grinned down at her. "Oh, yes. They'll be feeling the sting of this for a while. We ought to consider our next move before they have too much time to regroup." 

With a nod, Sylvanas said, "We'll meet you back at camp this evening to discuss it. For now, let us tend to the wounded and prisoners. If we're lucky, we captured someone worth ransoming." 

"That would be nice," Lucille sighed wistfully.

"Until later, then." Inclining her head, Katherine wheeled her white Kul Tiran charger about and headed back across the river towards camp. Lucille and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry followed. 

The moment her mother was out of sight, Jaina's shoulders relaxed slightly. Sylvanas could have sworn she heard her breathe a sigh of relief behind that skull mask. 

"Nathanos," Sylvanas said. "Find Anya and get everything cleaned up."

"And where are you going?" he asked.

She had already turned and begun striding off towards the bog. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "To retrieve something of mine. I'll not be long." 

He did not trail after her. She could hear him begin exchanging words with Jaina, but Sylvanas did not linger to hear what they were discussing. 

Most of the ghouls had made it back into the bog, clambering to their final resting place. A few were still struggling to crawl the last stretch of distance. Sylvanas might have felt more pity for them had they any sort of sentience left. As it was, she strode through their ranks unaffected. They paid her no heed. They hungered only for the flesh of the living. To them, she might as well have not existed. 

Seeing them at all brought back unpleasant memories of her days shackled to the Scourge. If the spell binding them had been indefinite, she might have had strong words with Jaina. As it was, Sylvanas pursed her lips and continued striding through the bog. And all the while, that unpleasant feeling remained, as if something was wrong that she just had not yet discovered, as though all these carefully laid plans were about to be unraveled by one loose thread. 

She found the wicker man still smouldering. The heart pinned to its chest was black and shrivelled and flaking away into hard clumps of ash. When she reached down and pulled her blade free, the wicker man seemed to give a little wail, though that may have been the wind rustling through the bog. She wiped the silver blade clean on a ragged corner of her cloak -- it would need a proper cleaning later -- and sheathed it in her boot. 

Turning to head back towards the camp to the east, Sylvanas paused with a frown. Not far off across the bog, a Forsaken soldier was waving at her with a cheerful dessicated hand. Their face was obscured by a helmet. They approached her with a bounce in their step, clattering like bones in a tin can. It took them a while to reach her across the mud. 

"Can I help you?" Sylvanas asked in Gutterspeak.

A familiar voice reverberated from inside the helm. "Woah. I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded awesome. Can you say it again?"

Face screwing up in bewilderment, she said, "Arthur?"

Arthur flipped up the visor of his helm, revealing his rotting face. "Hullo!"

Sylvanas stared at him. The skin of his lower jaw looked like it had been peeled away from the bone by claws. He appeared partially mummified, as though the moisture had begun to leech from his body when he had died, leaving him brittle and brownish, like the last leaf clinging bravely to a tree in autumn. 

Finally she said in a flat tone, "You're Undead."

He smiled a ghastly smile. "Yeah! Of course! I thought you knew that?"

"I did not." Sylvanas pursed her lips. "How long have you been like this?"

He shrugged. "Since Thros. So, you know, a few years. Seven, maybe? I can’t remember very well, to be honest."

"Ah." Realisation dawned on her then. "Gorak Tul raised you."

But Arthur shook his head. "Oh! No, no! Jaina did!"

Sylvanas tensed. Her eyes widened. "She -- what?"

"Arthur."

Their heads snapped round at the sound of Jaina's sharp voice. She stood alone near the edge of the river. Her skull mask was tucked beneath one arm, and her face was pale. She jerked her free hand in a gesture for Arthur to approach her. He trotted over to her without question, clanking and squelching through the mud all the way.

"Go help Tavery and the others tend the wounded," Jaina ordered. 

Arthur blinked in surprise at her brusque tone. His smile slipped. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

As he turned to leave however, Jaina stopped him. She cupped his withered face with one hand, and her expression softened. With a sad smile, she gently patted his desiccated cheek. "Off with you, now. Don't cause too much trouble."

And with a parting grin, Arthur transformed into a raven and took wing back towards the town. Jaina watched him leave, waiting until he was well and truly gone before turning to face Sylvanas.

"What," Sylvanas said in a voice that was far too calm. "is going on?"

Jaina did not answer. She walked over, cradling the skull mask as though it were a shield between them. 

Mindless ghouls were one thing. But this was something else entirely.

Lifting her hand, Sylvanas pointed towards the direction where Arthur had flown. "You raised him from the grave?"

Jaina's jaw was squared bullishly, but her eyes were guilty. She stopped only a pace away. "Yes,” she said.

"Why?" Sylvanas hissed.

“It’s not what you think,” Jaina insisted.

“Why?” Sylvanas repeated, taking a step forward and glowering up at her.

"Because," Jaina said, but stopped to draw a deep breath. "Because I’m the reason he died. And I would have hated myself for not trying."

With a wave around at the bog, at the mindless dead still settling themselves back into their watery graves, Sylvanas asked, “Did you even give him the choice?”

Jaina opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. She shut it with a click of teeth.

Sylvanas could feel her own lip curl in disgust. “Of course, you didn’t.”

“He -!” Jaina started to say, and paused to collect herself before continuing. “He didn’t deserve that end. He deserved a chance to -” 

Sylvanas did not give her the opportunity to finish. She bared her teeth, eyes blazing. “Don’t lie to yourself. You did it because you are selfish.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaina spat. 

At that, Sylvanas laughed and it was an ugly sound. 

Jaina’s expression was stricken. She held her mask so tightly her fingers trembled. “Stop it,” she said, her voice growing louder as Sylvanas continued to laugh. “Stop! You weren’t there! You don’t know what happened!”

Sylvanas stopped laughing, but her lips were still pulled into a savage smile. “I can guess well enough. It doesn’t take a leap of genius to see that your irreparable hero complex and that boy’s fate are linked.”

“That’s not -! It wasn’t -! I did it because it wasn’t fair!”

“What? Dying? Nothing is more fair than death,” Sylvanas sneered, and she parroted back the words Jaina had used against her during their first encounter. “Everybody dies. I didn’t think I would need to lecture a druid on that topic.”

Jaina flung her skull mask onto the ground. “It’s not fair that I got to come back, but he didn’t!”

Sylvanas’ head jerked back as though she had been physically struck. “What?” 

“I told you. Back when you first came to Gol Inath. You said everyone thought that I had been killed during the Drust incursion. Well,” Jaina gestured to herself. “I was. I died.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes. I did.”

“No,” Sylvanas growled. “You didn’t.”

“Sylvanas -”

“If you had died, you wouldn’t be -” she pointed to Jaina, “- like this.”

Jaina gave a helpless little shrug. With only the two of them there, the bog was eerily quiet. Sounds of the military in the nearby town seemed muted across the stretch of water and mud. Or perhaps it was something else about this place that made it feel liminal, like visiting a tomb. 

“All Druidism is about balance. The cycle of things. The Drust understand that better than anyone. Ulfar brought me back. A life for a life. I thought I could do the same with Arthur, but I was -” she swallowed past an obstruction, and then choked out a bitter laugh, “- a rare exception to the rule.” 

Those words had been spoken before. Sylvanas could remember them clearly, when Jaina had jokingly said she couldn’t recommend a ‘cure’ for Undeath. Eyes narrowing, Sylvanas asked, “How?”

Jaina would not meet her gaze. She wrung her hands together and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Gorak Tul dragged Arthur into Thros as bait. I knew it was a trap, but I was so confident I could -” Jaina had to stop to clear her throat. “I followed them. And when I got there, I fought Gorak Tul. I thought I could win. He blinded me, stabbed me, drowned me, and then hung me from a tree.”

With trembling fingers, Jaina tugged at the front of her robes. She slowly pulled the layers of fabric down just enough to reveal the scars. They were looped around her neck, and gouged into her chest just beneath her left collarbone. Ragged mortal wounds that had been healed over with livid pink scar tissue. Sylvanas could see the pulse leap at her throat, bold and bright and very much alive. 

Jaina pulled her robes back into place. “We call it the Threefold Death. Among the Drust, it’s reserved for heroes, gods, and kings. It was given to me as a mockery. A reminder of my pride. Punishment for being foolish enough to think I was the hero foretold to bring about Gorak Tul’s downfall.” Her hand lingered at her throat. She stroked her fingers over the scarring left by whatever rope had strung her up in the air. “I don’t know how long I hung there until Ulfar found me. I remember being cut down, but the rest is...hazy.” 

Sylvanas shook her head. “If you remember it, then you weren’t dead.”

“Thros is not like here. Life and death are intertwined there. But trust me. I was very dead.” She lowered her hand, clenching it into a fist at her side. “Prophecies tend to find a way to have some sort of self-fulfilling irony. And by killing me that way as a show of his contempt, Gorak Tul devised his own ruin. He made me that hero destined to defy death and be his downfall. And so, I was. I came back, and I was proclaimed High Thornspeaker for my deeds. Though I did not deserve it.” 

It was like the last piece in a puzzle clicking into place, completing a picture. Katherine receiving news of her daughter's death. Lucille murmuring unsettling words about how different Jaina seemed after she emerged from the Crimson Forest. The ripped out pages of an old book on thrice-killed heroes and horned god-kings.

“All I hear is a tale of arrogance,” Sylvanas snapped. “You tell yourself the Drust understand ‘balance’ as if that means anything. You’re no better than a Lich.”

Jaina drew herself up to her full height and her expression grew stony, guarded. “I may have fallen to my pride once before, but I will not make that mistake again. I accepted your help, didn't I?"

“So, that’s why you changed your mind about this war? Because you think I’m like Arthur?” Sylvanas bared her fangs. “I am not some helpless young pup in need of a saviour.”

“I know that. And that’s not what I meant.” 

“Isn’t it? Look around. You have clearly learned nothing.” Sylvanas flung a hand up in disgust and angled herself away so that she looked across the fields towards the camp miles eastward. “You should have left the dead well alone.”

“I had to do something.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Sylvanas was giving every indication that she would not be swayed by any argument. Her ears were slanted back. Her arms were crossed. Her glower could strip the paint from the hull of a ship. 

And yet, Jaina ignored all those signs. She stepped around so that she stood before Sylvanas, and she said, “Didn’t you tell me you wished you were still alive?”

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas growled, “That’s different. I wasn’t given a choice. If I had been given it, I would never would have chosen to be raised in the first place.” 

“But what about now?”

Sylvanas’ brows drew down sharply. She faltered for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying: What if I gave you the choice now?”

It was then that she realised exactly what Jaina was offering. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. As if sensing this hesitation like a hound scenting blood in the air, Jaina drew closer.

“You already told me you died three times. But you never did tell me exactly how you died.” Jaina began to circle around her, as though eyeing up a prime cut of meat at the market. “Were you wounded? Drowned? Poisoned, perhaps? Did you fall from a great height? Was your death inevitable, as if foretold? A cruel irony of fate?”

Sylvanas sucked in a sharp breath; it was a gut reaction, something she could not stop herself from doing. She remembered the long drop from Icecrown Citadel with savage clarity. Her lungs were still clogged with golden blossoms, the broad scar on her abdomen evidence of Frostmourne’s cold edge. And they never had retrieved the bullet lodged in her chest by Lord Godfrey; the iron pellet was rusting away somewhere between her vertebrae like a poisoned pellet. 

When she was standing behind her, Jaina leaned forward to murmur in Sylvanas’ ear. “If I’m right, you might also be a rare exception to the rule.”

Sylvanas jerked her head away. She whirled about, taking a step back to put distance between them. Her eyes seared crimson. “Now, who is the liar?” she spat.

“I’m not lying.” 

Ice plunged deep into Sylvanas’ chest. It felt like an all too familiar blade. Worse. It felt like hope. Her lips pulled back in a wordless snarl. Suddenly, Sylvanas wished she had arrows left in her quiver. The urge to nock her bow was strong enough that her hand nearly reached over her shoulder for it. 

Jaina eyed her warily. “You would attack me and ruin this alliance you’ve fought so hard for?”

“I am seriously considering it.”

Jaina’s face screwed up in confusion. “I don’t understand. I’m offering you the choice that was never given to you. You should be pleased.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this lunacy right now.” Sylvanas turned and began to stalk off through the bog in the direction of Barrowknoll. 

“Sylvanas, wait -” 

She felt the warmth of a hand brush against her arm. Immediately Sylvanas wrenched her arm away. In a single fluid motion, she drew her knife and whirled around. She had the blade pressed up against Jaina’s throat before Jaina could even blink. 

“Don’t touch me,” Sylvanas hissed. “Not unless you want to die a fourth time.”

The edge of the blade whispered against the ragged edge of scar tissue. Sylvanas’ hand was white-knuckled around the hilt, her fist closed so tightly that veins of black magic bled into the silver handle, coiling at Jaina’s throat. Jaina gazed steadily down at her. There wasn’t the faintest flicker of fear in her eyes. “At least consider my offer. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Slowly Sylvanas pulled the knife away; they stood close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of Jaina’s chest against her own. She stepped back. “I won’t.”

Without another word, she left. And this time, Jaina did not try to stop her or even follow. 

--

NOTES:

-for those of you who like maps, here’s one I prepared earlier:

-the fifth chapter I’ve added to the list is, predictably, going to be an epilogue from Jaina’s POV

-and for you Nine Years’ War aficionados, you’ll recognise the Battle of Barrowknoll as the Battle of the Boyne 2 this time with more zombies