Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, or its setting. I merely own most of the characters in this story.
Warnings: Infrequent use of strong language, violence/gore in later chapters, politics. Reviews are very much appreciated since this story means a lot to me as a writer, and I wish to do anything I can to improve it.

Savonyth drew the flimsy blade from the makeshift sheath at his hip, glancing behind him nervously. It was impossible to shake the feeling of uneasiness that lingered in the air, clinging to his insides as he crossed the path of blackened earth beneath his feet that cut through the woods like a river of decay. The array of withered plants rotted in their blood-soaked soil, littered with remnants of charred bones, splintered shields and the occasional scrap of colour torn from a battlemage's robe, offering a mocking contrast to the lush green forest that surrounded this dead scar.

Savonyth's long, slender ears twitched as he heard the far-off shout of a ranger further down the path of wreckage. He shuddered involuntarily as the images of endless waves of undead horrors ravaging through his homeland flooded his mind. For every one that fell, two more arose in its place, and the bodies of their once honoured dead were risen again to be twisted into a wicked weapon of hate. He was unable to shake the biting sense of guilt that his scrawny, untrained form had been virtually useless in pushing back the lines of undead that stretched all the way from Silvermoon's west gate down to the rising smoke of the burning Ghostlands. He had blundered about the battlefield, brandishing his flimsy blade as the city gates fell, and the Scourge pushed onwards towards the Sunwell- the very key to the Quel'Dorei's existence, or so he had been told.

He picked his way through the rubble of the destroyed half of the city until he reached a familiar clearing near Silvermoon's very outermost wall. The spot was little looked upon and mercifully sheltered by the dense foliage of two oak trees. A broken ranger's training dummy rested lazily against the thick trunk of one of the trees, unable to stand alone. Savonyth let the worn leather pack that was slung across his shoulders drop to the grassy floor, and pointed the feeble blade in his hand purposefully at the "throat" of the dummy, swiping his arm in an ostensibly graceful, but to the trained eye, uncontrolled slicing motion. It was then that he lost himself to a pattern of unnamed movements, his glowing blue eyes fixed as if glued to his target. His head started to spin, and he paused, mid-strike, driving the fairly blunt tip of his blade into the grass and using it to support himself while taking in shaky deep breaths. Since the Sunwell was destroyed by Arthas' taint-soaked resurrection of Kel'Thuzad, Savonyth, like many others of his race often found himself overcome by moments of debilitating weakness, and even at times, pain. With each passing day, he found himself growing more unquenchably empty, the feeling of hollowness inside him fuelling an even more unsettling restlessness.

Worst of all, he was angry. Filled to the brim with rage and hate and a primal, venomous spite for his own people. He loathed the way the nobles looked at him, the fact that they were the reason for his futility against the Scourge. For what noble soldier would take the fatherless son of a Murder Row Courtesan into his house? What Mage would take on an apprentice who couldn't even light a candle with a snap of his fingers? The Quel'Dorei prided themselves on their magical ability, of which Savonyth had none. Perhaps the reason for this was his lack of mental discipline that was common among those not formally educated, or perhaps he was just born entirely backwards. He would, for the rest of his life or so it seemed, be a servant crushed under the steely attitude of the ruling elite that he loathed with such fire. What right did they have to deny him all that he dreamed of?

He snarled in annoyance, dropping onto his front, supporting himself with his wiry arms, his frustration fuelling his determination as he began his daily routine of two hundred press ups, an exercise that appeared to do him little good, as he still found himself incapable of fully lifting the two handed claymore he'd been attempting to steal from the Blacksmith's anvil for weeks. As he lifted himself shakily from the floor, he was unable to hear little other than the sound of his elbow joints creaking unsettlingly, mixed with his own laboured breathing, rendering him completely unable to notice the sound of soft-soled leather boots crunching through the grass towards him. The man stopped a few feet away from him, leaning his back against the tree opposite the training dummy, and smirked.

" Straighten your back. It'll make it more difficult to lift yourself, but will be far more beneficial in the long run. You have good shoulders, but your elbows need work". His tone was commanding, and his voice well spoken, his tongue sliding smoothly over the soft Thalassian words.

Savonyth scrambled to his feet with a startled cry, grabbing his blade from the grass beside him and eyeing the newcomer frantically up and down. He was clad from head to foot in snug, well-stitched black leather armour, a fine pelt cloak flowing down to his heels. The similarly black cloth hood of the cloak shrouded the man's face mostly from view in the light filtering shadily down from the branches of the trees, meaning that Savonyth could make out little more than the other Quel'Dorei's intense azure eyes illuminating the pallid complexion around them, which he found somewhat unsettling. The lower half of the man's face appeared darker somehow, and locks of limp white-blond hair were splayed upon either side of his chest. Savonyth's eyes fixed warily on the man's waist, where a sturdy leather belt supported two sheathed daggers at each hip, as well as a small velvet pouch from which the handles of what were presumably a set of throwing knives protruded threateningly. He took an instinctive step back, raising his chin defiantly, his knuckles white around the hilt of his blade.

"You want something?" He tried to keep his tone as unwavering as possible

" Nothing at all. I was merely attempting to offer some advice". The hooded man shrugged nonchalantly, his tone unreadable.

"Oh." Savonyth blinked, relaxing slightly but still refusing to lower his blade. The man chuckled softly.

" I assure you, there is no need to raise your weapons, not that your blade would do much harm. I am merely waiting for a friend". He extended a hand to flick the tip of the sword with a contemptuous, lopsided grin, causing the thin steel to wobble precariously. Savonyth scowled.

"Well, in that case, you can piss off". The red-headed boy growled from between clenched teeth, eliciting a burst of laughter from the other male. There seemed to be nothing mocking about the laughter; it was genuine and good natured, but it irritated Savonyth nonetheless.

"The ability to say exactly what one feels is a rare trait these days. A trait that appeals particularly to me. " The hooded man inclined his head to the side, as if musing on something. "What is your name, boy?".

Savonyth hesitated, before internally shrugging. "Savonyth Tel'Nithe. Yours?"

"Selthiras Highvale, but you may call me Serrar. Well met, Savonyth." He extended a gloved hand, but the boy before him did nothing but stare at it blankly. Selthiras lowered his hand and held the boy's unwavering, cautious gaze for a few seconds. He noticed that his face was typically Elven, with sharp and angular features that the awkward stage between boyhood and manhood had not yet allowed him to grow into. His dark red hair was a mess not dissimilar to that of a mop; unkempt, falling into his eyes, and cut with what was evidently not a particularly sharp pair of scissors. His frame was what could be described as gangly; tall and stretched out, with his wirily thin arms and legs contrasting to his noticeably broad shoulders. Judging by his scruffy cloth attire and scuffed boots, he was most definitely not of anything near noble birth.

Savonyth broke the man's gaze and turned away, idly slashing at the target dummy once more, embarrassed about having been discovered here. Selthiras silently watched for a few moments, either unaware or uncaring that his presence unsettled the boy.

"Do you always train here?"
Savonyth nodded curtly, his lips pressed together in a look of concentration, as he tried his best to distract himself from Selthiras' presence, his blade movements becoming increasingly erratic.

"And your master does not mind it? I would most certainly not allow any student of mine to train with such poor equipment". He said, gesturing to the training dummy with a wave of his hand. There seemed to be something loaded about that question, although Savonyth had yet to figure out what it was. The man was suspicious indeed.

"Ain't got a master, so stop nosin' about". Savonyth's bluntness once again made Selthiras chuckle darkly. It was a somewhat husky, deep, but not all too unpleasant sound.

"Ah. Self-trained, I see. An admirable feat, but I fear that you will not get very far unless you get yourself some experience, and more importantly a decent weapon. Prancing around a dummy is hardly akin to being in the field of battle, you know". He grinned, lips pulling back in his usual lopsided manner, baring typically sharp, white Elven teeth. However, it was evident that the comment was not entirely as tongue in cheek as it seemed, and Savonyth wondered if perhaps the man was hinting at something, and felt a pang of rage as he was apparently insulted. He scowled yet again, and expression that seemed to frequent the young man's sharp face regularly.

"I know. I fought the Scourge with the rest of 'em. " He spoke indignantly as he stopped, and turned to face Selthiras, whose grin had dissipated into blankness; the sort of blankness that leads one to think that there is something lurking beneath it. He nodded.

"Determination by the bucketload. Another valuable trait. Tell me, Savonyth, where is it you come from? I wish to know where this remarkable determination is rooted." He straightened up from leaning against the tree, to join his hands behind his back as he eyed Savonyth searchingly. He seemed to sense something within the boy, something that was not all too dissimilar from himself, a most similar sort of unchained anguish.

"Murder Row, but what's it to you?" Savonyth returned the same searching expression, but a spark of hope had already ignited itself within his chest.

"Just curious". The spark fizzled out before Selthiras could speak again. "Do you have a current occupation?"

"I work for Baelrynn, the tavern master, doing whatever sort of Felshite he asks me to. But again, what's it to you?"

"Ah" Selthiras chose to skim over the question, instead pressing on with questions of his own. "But what is a young man who should be in training for service in the Thalassian military doing working in a Murder Row inn?"

"Mind your own bleedin' business" was the curt reply.
Selthiras smirked. He was an intelligent man, and needed no more information to work out the boy's current predicament, He seemed to have a particular talent for striking just the right nerves to succeed in what he referred to as 'swaying people around to the right way of thinking". Many had often called him manipulative.

"I am going to be honest with you, Savonyth. I know what it is that you want, and I can provide you with that. " Savonyth opened his mouth to speak, but Selthiras raised a hand, motioning for him to silence.

"I am Commander Serrar Highvale of the Azure Syndicate. I know that most likely does not mean anything to you at present, but believe me, whether or not you chose to join us, it will. We are an Order consist of a group of individuals who are... concerned about the current state of Quel'Thalas and the way things are run. We are most certainly not a Government organisation and very rarely accept those of noble birth into our ranks. Do you follow?" Selthiras spoke matter of factly as he looked to Savonyth with a knowing smirk. The boy nodded, taken aback at Selthiras' perceptiveness, and waited in poorly concealed awe for him to continue.

" I can offer you military training of the most thorough and rigorous kind, provided that you swear allegiance to me and my Order. What say you?"
Savonyth was, for a moment, completely dumbstruck. All that he ever wanted had just been handed to him by this strange man, and yet a part of him wanted to resist. He did not trust Selthiras, but that was irrelevant. He took a deep breath before looking Selthiras straight in the eyes and said:

"I accept". Selthiras nodded sharply, resting a hand on the hilt of one of the daggers at his hip, making Savonyth yet more uneasy.

" Very well. The Syndicate is very much a brotherhood of honour and allegiance to one's comrades, and so you will swear by your blood to remain loyal until the end, come victory or defeat. You will follow any order given to you by your superiors, and any sort of treachery will be dealt with severely. You will be ready to defend the Order's principles, purpose and above all, those who you call your comrades. Do you swear allegiance?"
Savonyth was now grinning from ear to ear. He nodded solemnly, his blue eyes alight with possibility.

"By my blood, I swear".

"Then if you would follow me. I don't believe this ...friend of mine is going to turn up after all". With another chuckle he turned, cloak swishing and daggers rattling, with Savonyth striding eagerly behind him.