I was in Dalaran, transporting goods from the Undercity, when the Burning Legion attacked.
I watched the citizens scatter, running for cover, and I watched Dalaran's defenders – both Alliance and Horde – rush to its aid. Above all, I watched as the powerful mages of the Council of Six prepared their spell to teleport the entire city to a place of safety.
When it was over, when we were floating serenely over the Broken Isles, I turned to a guard nearby. "The mage who directed the spell…who is he?" I asked. My eyes had been drawn to him from the first moment he spoke.
The guard looked at me as if he suspected that my brain was as rotted as my flesh. "That was Archmage Khadgar. You know, the man who's helped save Azeroth more times than anyone can count." At my noncomprehending look, he continued. "As an apprentice he defeated the corrupted Guardian Medivh, the one who brought the orcs to our world, and since then he's been one of Azeroth's greatest protectors." He shook his head. "You must not get out much."
I shrugged noncommittally then and walked away, losing myself in the crowd. But I was surprised to have heard that name again. It was out of the past, not spoken – never spoken, as if to bring it up would be shameful – or even thought of in many years. Erased, just as the boy with that name had been erased from my life in Lordaeron, after we gave him up to the Kirin Tor.
My youngest son. Still alive.
Unfortunately, I am not.