Chapter 1

In Lordaeron's Cathedral of Light...

The cloaked stranger stepped gingerly into the restored narthex of the ancient cathedral, a heavy dark blue cowl hiding his face in its shadow. The sun had gone down some hours before, but he found the old church still lit cheerfully and welcoming in a way he had not seen it for many, many years. He had been wary upon learning of the drastic changes which had befallen the city which had formerly been his home; wary of the response of its current queen to his presence, and wary of revealing his true form to its current population. In a city now filled with the living, he was not certain how an undead man would be received even if, not a few months before, it too had been entirely populated by those just as dead as his own flesh was.

He had not been present on Azeroth when the "new dawn" had occurred. Indeed, he had been serving at the Netherlight Temple as he had done since the Legion War and had only just learned of the events surrounding the man named Jeshua leading up to the "new dawn" which had occurred: the worldwide restoration and healing which had taken place upon the man's death, burial, and, if it was to be believed, his self-resurrection. Why he himself had not been told when it was happening of the man who for months had been curing the plague of undeath, or the other "miracles" he had performed he couldn't understand, and there was a trace of bitterness towards the other members of his order who had failed to tell him of all people. Even Saurfang, the Supreme Commander of the Orcs, knew long before he had. News within the Priestly Conclave, it seemed, did not travel as fast as in other Orders; especially when it concerned subjects that were squarely within its domain. Or perhaps, it simply did not travel to him as fast as to others.

He had first learned of the young human teacher a week after the new dawn had occurred. When he was told, he thought the cleric who informed him was either lying to him or trying to be funny. How had either he or Calia not heard of it sooner? But all those of his Order who had known had not returned to Netherlight themselves for some time when it was happening, instead they had been engaged trying to deal with it here on Azeroth. Alonsus Faol, the former Archibishop of Lordaeron had been forgotten it seemed.

He had traveled first by way of the permanent portal to the floating Mage's city of Dalaran which still hung over the Broken Isles, and then from there he discreetly used the portal that had permanently linked that city to the magic user's quarter in the Undercity. It had not been his first foray into the former sewers of Lordaeron, but things seemed much changed regardless. There was much he did not recognize, especially the silence and emptiness. Things were darker and felt much colder and lifeless than usual. Upon his previous trips, the underground city of the undead had been as much a bustling metropolis as it had on the surface during its more... lively days. But when he had arrived earlier that evening, there was virtually no one to be seen anywhere.

It was only when he had followed the circuitous route to the surface through the old sewers and mausoleum that the real surprise had been sprung on him. Everything he had heard about the former undead capital was true. As he quietly moved through the old throne room, now lit with sconces and watched by living human guards it was like stepping into the past decades ago. The chamber, though unoccupied at the moment by the current "Queen", had been cleaned and restored to its former stateliness. Out into the original city proper he was greeted with new stone work, the smells (as much as his undead nostrils could smell) of newly cut timbers, home cooked meals, and fireplaces. And then there was the new emblem that the Forsaken Queen Sylvanas, it seemed, had chosen for the newly restored people. It greeted him on every soldier's tabard he passed.

All of the tabards and hanging standards bore the same image, so far different from the old banshee's face imposed on a purple background. What greeted him now was a snow white field, against which was imposed the image of a golden door with what looked like a halo of light around it. And against the image of the door was imposed the blood red form of a human man with arms stretched out in a "T" shape. If it was to be believed, it was an image of how the supposed "miracle worker" had died, beaten and murdered by Worgen, hung up on the main entry door to Lordaeron's own throne room in a botched attempt to make it look like Sylvanas had ordered it instead.

It looked as though Sylvanas had upended this intention, using the image instead to rally her people around their newest savior. This renegade Priest Jeshua had made quite the impression on the Warchief of the Horde and former Banshee Queen to say the least.

The doors to the old cathedral in Lordaeron looked as though they had been scrubbed clean and freshly painted a bright shade of royal blue as he brushed his carefully gloved hand across the face of one. He patted it before moving on, almost as if greeting an old friend for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. As he stepped through the entryway and into the foyer, he received the distinct sense that his old friend was not only greeting him back, but was happy to see him too.

Faol had not returned to Lordaeron's Cathedral of Light for decades since the Twilight's Hammer had claimed his life before the Scourge, who then did not allow him peace in death. In life, he had been the author of the Paladin orders, consecrating their first noble warriors to the Light himself in Stratholme. It was he who had collected the money to rebuild the Abbey at Northshire and the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind after the Orcish Horde's deprivations during the first and second wars. His entire life had been spent in bringing healing, faith, and reconciliation to the Light wherever possible. But all that seemed to count for nothing after he woke from his murder. Not only was he cast out from the people he had spent his life in service to, but, in spite of his previous life spent in service to the Light, he too struggled in its presence in his undeath. It burned him when he approached, though it had not stopped either him or his faith in the primal force of all creation. It simply made his relationship with the Light more challenging than it had been.

Of necessity, there became more shades of gray in his understanding of things as opposed to the black and white he had seen the world in before his death. While he had never truly subscribed to the views of the Shadow denomination of Azeroth's priesthood, he had come to understand them better and with a more compassionate eye than during his lifetime. After all, it was Shadow magic which maintained the bond between his soul and his corpse, and though it was the cause of it, it also prevented his own damnation to the abyss because of his current state.

The sanctuary was awash with light as he stepped into it, and his first instinct had been to shrink back in self-preservation, pulling the cowl around his face even tighter. After a few seconds of hesitation, however, he realized that the light around himself was not painful regardless of its brightness. Somehow, it did not burn like it should have, or would have previously at any rate. He then drew back the cowl just a bit to observe his surroundings a little better.

The old wooden pews which ringed the circular sanctuary looked freshly restored and polished. There was not a trace of dust anywhere that he could see. There was no scent of decay to be had anywhere unless it was from his own rotting body. The blue carpeted walk from the foyer up to the altar in the center of the large chamber looked clean and new as though it had been freshly woven and laid. Candles shone with a gentle but bright light around the perimeter leading up to the central altar candles which, amazingly, appeared to burn fiercely, but without melting the wax they were made of.

As he observed the sanctuary he then noticed something which was not as obvious. He couldn't see any shadows anywhere. He didn't know how that was possible. Light always casts a shadow when something obstructs it, doesn't it? Even when he had celebrated services here in the name of the Holy Light, there had always been some small shadows cast by the natural lighting. But then, as he looked he realized there was nothing natural about the lighting here at all. It was as though the Holy Light itself had returned and refused to share space with the shadows at all, banishing them from its presence altogether.

The sanctuary was empty as far as he could see. What worshippers and clerics he reasoned there must now be had all left before he had arrived. All except one lone figure. Towards the center of the sanctuary, in a pew in front of the altar sat an older human man with short graying hair. If the Priest was to guess, he was easily past middle age and not far from the age Alonsus Faol himself had been before he died. He wore an unadorned woolen robe and similar cloak across his shoulders, though that was all he could see from where he was. He could have been either a priestly initiate, a vagabond, or perhaps one of the newly cured of Faol's own Forsaken people. Other than this, the sanctuary appeared empty.

Just then the man turned his head and shoulders to look behind him as though he had heard something, though Faol was certain he was careful to not make any sound. The undead Priest had become fairly adept at moving unnoticed when he wanted to.

The man's features were tanned and weathered with wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. His chin and cheeks sported what looked like a few weeks worth of beard growth. His eyes had the look of someone who had led a hard and unsettled life who had finally found peace.

"Hello, friend!" The man called out with a generous smile, rising to fully turn and face him.

The older human man wore undyed linen pants tied with a simple leather belt, and shirt under his woolen robes which appeared now more utilitarian than any indication of class discipline or station. Strangely, his feet were bare with what appeared to be new callouses forming as though he had only chosen to go unshod within the last few months.

Faol returned the greeting uncertainly, "Greetings." His raspy unnatural voice surely giving him away. "It has been some time since I returned home. It is much... changed since last I saw it."

The human then walked towards him down the aisle between the pews. He extended his hand and said, "Jim Jacobson," introducing himself.

Faol stared at the man's hand as he came to stand in front of him as though it were an alien thing. Instead of taking it, he then drew back his cowl to reveal bluish, dead skin and faded blond and gray hair. Wisps of a similarly colored beard graced the dead man's chin and upper lip. Dead corpse's eyes looked upon the human, waiting to gauge his reaction.

"Are you certain you wish to shake my hand now, human?" He asked.

The human appeared completely unfazed as he responded, "Absolutely, friend. The Light welcomes everyone, no matter who they are."

"That has not always been my experience." Faol replied. "The welcome has not always been so accepting of my condition at the least."

"I can't speak to that, friend, though I believe you." Jim responded. "All I know is that Jeshua never turned away anyone, and he's as close to the Holy Light as I've ever gotten. He made me one of his emissaries, and I sure as hell ain't going to turn you away either."

Surprised, the undead Priest found his own right hand raising to meet the human's grasp as he responded, "Alonsus Faol. I was the Archibishop here once upon a time."

It was only then that surprise entered the man's eyes even as he shook Faol's hand warmly. "You're very welcome here then, your grace." He responded. "Or maybe I should say, 'Welcome home.'"

Faol then withdrew his hand. "I appear to have missed many things in my absence." He remarked. "I regret not being here for recent events. I was... elsewhere."

Jim remained silent, paying his full attention to the undead man with a compassionate look in his eyes.

"I seem to have missed out on the cure which was offered." Faol told him, a sadness in his voice. "Either from Jeshua himself, or the "new dawn" which had occurred. Somehow, someone failed to mention these things to me."

A look of sorrow crossed Jim's face as his heart went out to the cleric. "You still wanna be cured, your grace?" Jim then asked him.

"If it were only possible. But as I understand it, one way or the other, the man who could do it is no longer among us." He responded. "I suppose I have only come to pay my respects."

Jim shook his head in disagreement. "The Captain's always here because the Holy Light's always here, your grace, and he's in every one of us who followed him. Before he left, he made sure the rest of us could carry on what he started. Truth is, I didn't expect anyone to be left with the undeath, but I guess I ain't never figured on there being other worlds out there either, though I heard there were. I suppose I should've, but there it is. So, now I'm askin' again. You want to be cured?" Sincerity was etched in every inch of his face.

Alonsus Faol considered his words. In another time he might have considered them heresy or even blasphemy against the Light, but the proof was all around him. "I... In truth, I have missed being here. I have missed feeling at home with the Holy Light. I have felt somewhat lost since my death. I don't know this Jeshua or Captain you speak of, but if there is still power here to cure me, I would be grateful to him if he would."

Then Jim stretched out his right hand and placed it on the undead man's shoulder and told him, "Archbishop Alonsus Faol, be cleansed and made alive in the name of Jeshua Lightborn."

Light, pure Holy Light then filled and exploded outwards from the undead man's body. Tears and rips in the skin of his face mended and healed. The bluish color of his dead skin became pink as blood began to flow through capillaries within it once more. The milky whiteness of his eyes enlivened to an emerald green on white orbs. The dull, dead color of his hair and whiskers took on a new luster. His system in shock he drew in a breath reflexively and a newly beating heart began to race. Within seconds, the light around him began to fade but it left a living, breathing elderly human man in its place.

He then dropped to both of his knees as the shock subsided. Jim then knelt down on one knee next to him. He said nothing at first, but allowed the man time to adjust to his new condition.

Surprise followed by tears filled his eyes as he took several more breaths. He looked down at his gloved hands and pulled off the dark blue material to reveal aged but living human hands with a fine dusting of gray and blond hairs across the backs. There was no decay or decomposition to them as there had been earlier in the day along with exposed bone.

"Welcome home, Archbishop." Jim then gently told him for a second time.

The man didn't answer immediately as he still looked at his hands, pressing them to his robed chest to feel it rise and fall and the beat of the heart beneath it. "Thank you." He finally managed to say. "I..." He then stopped himself before he finished his sentence, and appeared to be considering something that he hadn't before.

"Tell me more about Jeshua, Jim Jacobson. Please." Alonsus Faol told the man. "I want to know everything about this man and who he was. I want to know more about the man who saved me from the abyss."

"Absolutely." Jim replied.

In Stormwind's Cathedral of Light...

The high cleric hadn't hesitated when he had heard the loud crash of stone striking stone hard in the Cathedral that afternoon. Everyone who had been present in the mostly empty sanctuary immediately turned towards the horrendous, echoing sound which had been followed by a cry of extreme pain. Bishop Marcus had rushed towards that sound even as his eyes had turned to see a man, a commoner in blue work overalls and brown shirt lying on the stone floor of the church.

Workers had been in the Cathedral's sanctuary all day inspecting and repairing cracks in the sacred building's support arches which had developed over the years. They had been moving their equipment carefully from support to support. It was a routine maintenance that was carried out once a year and paid for by the royal treasury as one of the crown's personal contributions to the church's upkeep.

Not more than a week or two had passed since the inexplicable "dawn event" had transformed Azeroth, healing and restoring it in ways that no one with any legitimate experience or credibility within the Church of Light could explain the why or how. There had been some ludicrous story fomented by the Banshee Queen in the north that it had happened because of the heretic preacher Jeshua Davidson, but of course that was nonsense. He knew the man for what he truly had been, a charlatan and a necromancer skilled with glamour spells. Extraordinary, perhaps, but certainly not empowered by the Holy Light.

Reaching the man on the stone floor, Marcus could see that he wasn't moving except that his chest was still rising and falling, but with ragged breathing. His eyes were closed in unconsciousness. The most pressing feature however was the badly discolored and bleeding wound to his head, and a corresponding piece of broken white stonework which lay not far from it with blood splattered against it. The man's two co-workers knelt next to him with both concern and hope in their expressions as the Bishop began to call on the Light to heal the man's injuries.

Marcus began to say the prayer of healing to the Light that he had memorized long ago during his time as an acolyte as he placed his right hand on the man's head, directly over the serious wound. Within he humbly called on the divine radiance to be merciful and heal the man, expecting to be answered with the Light's own presence flowing through him as he had come to expect.

He finished the words of his prayer, and... nothing.

Not understanding, he prayed again, more fervently and more seriously.

Nothing. There was no response.

The workers who knelt next to their comrade looked from their friend to the priest and back again, not understanding what was happening.

"Please, your grace, help him!" One of the workers begged him.

Marcus prayed again and again, but the Light would not respond to him. It would not answer with either its healing power, or the peace which accompanies its decline for its own reasons. It simply refused to hear him at all.

Behind him, an elder woman in the robes of the high clergy knelt down beside the man, "What's wrong?" She asked as she began to lend her own prayers to the man. "The injury is serious, but nothing the Light cannot heal." She said.

Marcus withdrew his own hand to make room for High Priestess Laurena's ministrations to the injured worker. Slowly, a weak golden glow formed around her own slender, feminine hand and the man's wound began to close. She continued to pray for him for what felt like an eternity, and much longer than it should have taken they both knew from either of their many years of experience in service to the Holy Light.

Confusion and embarrassment filled Bishop Marcus' features as he watched, unable to assist in any way except to try and hold the unconscious man's hand in some gesture of comfort to him and his companions.

When Laurena heard the man's breathing ease, and the bleeding wound had been reduced to a serious bruise, she too withdrew her hand. Though she looked visibly exhausted and confused herself.

"He is only sleeping now." She told the other workers. "We can move him to a safer and more comfortable place, but he will recover."

They nodded their thanks to her, picking their friend up and removing him from the sanctuary. She and the Bishop rose from where they had knelt and called acolytes to assist them with him.

When the men were gone, she turned to Bishop Marcus privately and said, "That was far more difficult than it should have been. The Light felt very... hesitant to answer me in any way. If I didn't know better, I would have said the Holy Light only healed the man at all out of a mercy to him, and not through any command I have with it."

Bishop Marcus was silent for several seconds trying to comprehend his own experience. When he spoke, there was a tinge of fear in his voice. "High Priestess, the Light refused me completely. It has never done that before. It felt like there was this impenetrable wall which would not allow the Light to come when I called. It was as though I had lost all connection to the Holy Light, and I don't know why."

Light's Hope Chapel in the Eastern Plaguelands...

Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker emerged from the mage's portal that afternoon to a green and growing landscape much, much different than the one he last had seen during his previous visit to the sacred Paladin site. He surveyed it with his good, left eye and instinctively stroked his goatee with his hand. The old chapel for which the fortified encampment was named appeared to have received a fresh coat of white paint. The shingles on the roof looked to be in good repair, and the building itself smelled and felt oddly fresh. The sun in the sky reflected off of the shining warhammer strapped to his back and his gilded Paladin's plate armor cheerily. The sky was clear and blue and scents from fragrant trees growing in the distance intermingled with campfires and the smells of a military camp.

In his mind he wondered at the powerful dark magic that had duped his senses so to the plague infested nightmare that he knew the land around Light's Hope Chapel to be. It couldn't have been anything else, he knew. The clergy in Stormwind that had seen then charlatan's "miracles" had assured him.

Not far of, and to his disgust, soldiers wearing the tabard of the Argent Crusade collaborated with men wearing the new, blasphemous emblem of the Forsaken in loading pack animals and carts with supplies. He knew they would be sent somewhere to one of the newly "resurrected" settlements or villages within the plaguelands, wasting good supplies on magically concealed monsters.

Shadowbreaker shook the close cropped, dark hair of his head at the obvious deception being foisted on his Paladin brothers, but they were too blind to see the truth about the man who had been at the center of it all. Of course, he could do nothing to convince them of this truth. The lord of Stormwind's Paladins had tried a month ago, before things had gone beyond the control of the Paladin order. He had tried to open their eyes to the truth about these so-called "curings" and "resurrections." Bishop Marcus, a holy man he had respected and admired, had been there at the supposed "raising" of Darrowshire, and had told him the true version of what he had seen.

He turned from the sight to approach the chapel. Once more, on behalf of Stormwind's clergy and Paladins, he would attempt to convince the Highlord and the rest of the council of reason. These were good men and women, devoted to the truth and justice of the Holy Light. Soon enough, he believed,the truth would reveal itself eventually and the Light would be vindicated against the charlatan and heretic, Jeshua "Lightborn". The Light defended and redeemed its own. All of these things he knew in his heart and held them close to his breast.

He entered the Cathedral and proceeded to the center of the small, empty sanctuary. The Argent Crusade guards near the doors eyed him, but said nothing either in the way of greeting or recognition. Otherwise, the chapel's facade sanctuary was mostly empty.

Shadowbreaker knelt down, placing the palm of his right hand on the sliding false floor. He reached out to the Light with the prayer he knew would open the way to the hidden, true sanctuary of Light's Hope, the Sanctum of Light, and the de facto headquarters of the Order of the Silver Hand.

Nothing.

The hidden door into the Sanctum remained closed to him. Shadowbreaker prayed again, but there was no movement at all.

What is this? He asked himself, alarmed.

A kind of panic beginning to rise within him, he called out within himself to the Holy Light, reaching deep inside. He knew from Highlord Fordring's experience that the Light never truly abandoned anyone. In his armor, he humbly dropped to both knees on the floor, his right hand outstretched against the false floor, and prayed internally and silently to the Light, beseeching it to come to his call.

The guards at the door had turned their heads when they heard the man's armor hit against the wood of the floorboards for the second time. "My lord, are you alright?" One of them called out in concern.

But Shadowbreaker did not hear him. He heard nothing else around him for the deafening silence within. It was as if a wall had grown up within him between the Light and himself, and he could not explain it as he searched for the divine presence, reaching out intently. Finally, after several minutes of this awkward, impromptu meditation, the face of a man came to him. He was a younger man that Shadowbreaker did not recognize, with strawberry blond hair and beard and sea green eyes. The expression on his face was saddened with disappointment as the man appeared to shake his head at him.

Grayson Shadowbreaker had never seen the man before and didn't know who he was or what he had to do with anything, but one thing was painfully clear to him as a fear arose. A deep grief formed within him and a realization struck him hard in a way that few things did. He felt lost and confused.

The Light would not come when he called to it.

"My lord, are you alright?" The guard asked again, moving from his position to stand uncertainly over the respected Paladin lord, the concern rising in his voice. He knelt down and placed a hand on the prostrate man's shoulder.

Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, Paladin veteran of Northrend and the Legion war, mentor and trainer of Stormwind's Paladins, and devoted servant of the Holy Light opened his one good eye and found himself sobbing like a little lost child who couldn't find his parent.