Ikkath Shadowcall carelessly tossed the hearthstone onto her cot, unheeding as it bounced off and clattered to the floor. She exuberantly began a song about the taming of Kalimdor as she went through the motions of tidying her quarters. She had not heard the huntsmen or the cook today to tell of her victories, so she had to settle with gloating over her newly-enslaved voidwalker and singing the most heroic songs she could think of. After all, wouldn't she be in one soon enough? Worn from her travels to the crossroads and spent from her excitement, it was not long before the trainee realized that even warlocks powerful enough to bend voidwalkers to their will needed sleep.

The Crossroads were calm that night; no Alliance ruffians came to harry the post, no marauding centaurs or quillboar rose from their dens. Yet the shadows on the floor of the inn seemed to rise and swirl, only to vanish at second glance. This was lost upon the sleeping warlock. Strange dreams passed through her mind, something about enslaving an army of pit lords and retaking all Draenor for the Horde. As she raised her fists to the cheering crowds, the skies darkened and faded, leaving only a blank void.

IIkkath's eyes sprang open. Nigh-tangible darkness pressed in on all sides, swelling, suffocating. She slowly sat up to look around. Nothing seemed changed that could be seen. The orc was about to dismiss the feeling as a pointless and childish fear when suddenly icy hands clasped around her throat in a crushing grip. The warlock clawed at them, gagging for breath, trying to force her burning throat to cry out to no avail.

Hello, mistress, a hollow voice whispered at her ear. Is something wrong?

Fury rose in the orc as she recognized the voice of her newly-enslaved voidwalker. One hand darted out to seize the ceremonial dagger laying beside her cot, but the demon effortlessly caught her hand in a crushing grip and twisted the dagger away. With a echoing rumble like some twisted laughter the voidwalker plunged the dagger deep into Ikkath's leg. All she could let out was a choked grunt. Whiteness was beginning to flicker at the edge of her vision, and she could feel hot blood running freely from the dagger-wound.

Eternal vigilance? To fail so soon...

Ikkath's fading mind latched onto the demon's taunts; she tried frantically to search her memory for the teaching of the trainer who guided her in the binding of the voidwalker just hours before. The runes, the spells, the warnings...

With sputtering breath, the Ikkath spat out the chant. The demon evaporated into a fine mist that gathered around the orc like an embrace. She did not relax, though, until her eyes fell on the demon-shackles lying on the floor by the cot. She spat upon them, then yanked the dagger from her leg and weakly tossed it at the bindings. As she limped towards her pack to find bandages for the wound, the voice spoke again. It was fainter, as if from a great distance, but no less chilling:

I will always be watching, mistress. Will it be worth it when you go mad from terror, or are crushed into the void?

The warlock had no response.