She watched as he scaled the palm tree, his hands and feet slipping occasionally. "Be careful! You're going to fall down!"

The long fronds rustled as several monkeys were scared from their hiding spots by the climbing child. The tree curved at the top, allowing him to sit down on it and scoot forward on his butt. The melons were knocked slightly loose.

"Oh! Oh! Don't let it fall!" she cried. Her bright orange hair was a mess, yet still as radiant as the setting sun when he looked down at her. Neither of them had a crush on the other, but there was something about having a girl as a best friend that felt even nicer than when he was hanging out with the other boys.

Just then, he slipped momentarily, eliciting a yip from them both.

"I'm ok!"

"No, that's enough! Just come down for now!"

"I'm ok!"

Regaining his balance, he scooted up to the top of the angled palm tree and secured his footing. Leaning far forward, he was able to pluck off one of the melons. Its weight dragged his arm down and she gasped again, only for him to tuck it safely underneath one arm. Scooting backward, he slid down the rest of the trunk at a snail's pace, cradling the melon under his arm. Once back with his feet in the sand, she rushed over to him to carry the fruit.

"You almost fell!"

"Well," he answered, "we only need to do this one time, right?"

He brushed his scarlet locks out of his face as he started to look for their new spot. She led the way, having picked it out. The two children walked, chatting inanely about which adults in the village smelled the worst. Although she was two years older, he was still able to look her in the eye being the awkwardly tall youth he was, and was able to dodge her attempts to flick his long ear as they made their way to the large, flat rock protected from the elements by an earthy ridge.

Within a few minutes, they had found the place they had earlier staked out by following their own literal breadcrumbs. He set the melon down and they had to spend a minute or so balancing it such that it wouldn't roll off the rock. Once that task was done, they sat down and picked up some pieces of flint.

"Yours are always sharper," she whined as she furiously tried to sharpen her piece of flint against a rock.

He looked to her sympathetically, seeming to understand her frustration. "Here, do it like this."

"I already am!"

"No, no. Feel the weakness in the flint, and then press down into it with the densest part of your rock." He tried cupping his hand over her eyes, only for her to lean back and shoot him an envious look. "You don't need to see it, a blind person could do a good job. You need to feel it. Close your eyes."

"That's stupid."

"It's not! Close your eyes."

Sighing in defeat, she closed her eyes and began thumbing her piece of flint. Her face contorted deep in concentration, her thumbnail clicked against a small ridge on her piece of flint, and underneath her eyelids her eyes seemed to grow wide. Reaching for her rock, she began pressing. It was light at first, but once she was sure of the weak point, she was able to press harder and angle her rock until an entire sheet of the flint chipped off.

Her triumph was evident despite her closed eyes. It made her reaction all the funnier when he reached out and flicked her ear.

"Hey!" she shouted as she slapped his shoulder with an indignant look. "I'm trying to concentr-"

"You did a good job!"

"Wh…I did?"

"Yeah, look at it," he said as he took her new flint knifeblade from her hand. "You removed the right amount to form a fine angle. I think it might be sharper than mine."

She looked from her blade to him and back again as her little cheeks flushed, though she seemed unaware. "Do you really think it's that good?" she asked with a measure of uncertainty. "Like, it could slice through the melon?"

"Only one way to find out," he beamed as he dropped his own blade in the sand and held the large fruit in his lap. "Don't cut my hands, yeah?"

Her eyes grew wide, ironically punctuated by the bigheaded gecko that slipped from a branch while gawking at the melon. "Your hands?" she stuttered nervously. "Maybe you should do it!" Gripping her blade between her thumb and finger, she tried to pass it to him like it was a rotten banana peel.

He laughed as he took her blade and handed her the melon, gripping it several different ways before he decided on the safest place to use as a hilt. Before he could even glance back, she was already airing her second thoughts.

"Wait! Maybe you should hold the melon."

"What?" he snickered as he almost fell backward.

"Don't laugh!" she pleaded. "I don't want you to cut my hands!"

"I would never hurt you or your hands," he said with a sincere look once his laughing fit had passed. "I promise." He tried to pinch her nose but missed as she saw him coming and leaned back.

"I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready NO WAIT I'M NOT READY-"

"There we are!"

He slashed a short cut into the top of the melon before she even had time to react. None of the contents spilled out, but it was large enough to reach the pungent, acidic juice they were after. The two of them had already rose to see the big flat rock before they spoke again.

"Okay now you hold the melon!" she commanded with a sudden confidence that had been absent before.

Laughing as he took it, he ignored her punch to his arm and tilted the fruit at an angle that would allow her to catch the juice on her fingers without losing too much to the ground. Working her magic, she began running her fingers across the stone, the two of them fighting to ignore the awful stench of the juice so strong that it could permanently stain solid rock.

After a few minutes, she stood back to allow them both a better view of her handiwork. For the first time, a wave of awkwardness passed over them as neither child quite knew what to say despite having planned their fruit juice graffiti since they had discoveted the unnaturally smooth stone.

He broke the silence first, though she busted right through the awkwardness.

"So how will you wash your finge - grow up!" His question was cut off as she pretended to look at a coconut while wiping the smelly juice on his back.

She soared down the beach, not even looking back to see if he was following as she tried to make it to the salty water first. Stumbling over some driftwood, he made it to the shoreline in time to fling seaweed at her, igniting a war that would likely rage for minutes and minutes.

Overlooking the ocean on Darkspear Isle, an unnaturally smooth stone sat underneath an earthy awning, protected from the elements. An old stain the same shade of orange as her hair remained long after the tribe had left, a reminder to no one of something that was once so pure and innocent ripped to shreds by the hand of fate in one of its less sympathetic moments.

THAWA & GROTY

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER

The cave stank of sulphur and deadly nightshade. Darkness was not usually a problem for his eyes, but whatever they had shot him with caused a haze to cloud over his vision. Khujand was entirely lucid and aware of what had happened up until he lost consciousness on the mountain trail. He could recall the conversations the thugs had engaged in while dragging his chemically paralyzed body in a net and the screeching of the raptors as they were prodded forth. And though he had never been to this place before, he was sure of his location.

As he had suspected once the first of the twelve darts pierced his hide, the mob of thugs had intended to take him prisoner rather than kill him. He could still remember the look in Cecilia's eyes as they shoved her off that cliff. It was a helpless look he would hate to see in such an experienced, capable warrior even if she wasn't also married to him. He knew that she had been through far worse skirmishes than that - she had even survived the single battlefield loss her sentinel regiment suffered during the thousands and thousands of years of the Long Vigil - and her armor would certainly have protected her body as she tumbled to the river below. And once she resurfaced, she would begin to formulate a logical escape plan - he knew she would.

There was surprisingly little fear for her or his safety; they were both accomplished fighters who had seen situations even more dire. The fear he was experiencing, though, was far more nerve-racking.

The holding area he was restrained in could almost be described as open air. It had clearly been cut into the rock by sentient if unprofessional hands, and in addition to the high 'doorway,' there was also a large 'window' carved into the cave mouth next to it that would have been large enough for him to squeeze through had it not been covered with sheets of plywood. Light shone through the cracks in the wooden doorway, and the mountain path could be seen outside; there were in just one alcove of what was likely a mostly open-air base.

His armor was stripped but his loincloth, shoes and gloves had been left, and aside from the poison in his veins supressing his senses, strength and mana, he was unharmed. Normally, he could tear right out of the thorium chain linking him to the wall - although it would be difficult, he had managed to pull apart thorium chains before - but the drugs had sapped his vigor.

Well, the drugs. And the last comment the thugs had said about a woman expected at the drug lab with two children.

"Mommy, the man is still alive," a little boy whispered in Zandali before being shushed.

A familiar voice - painfully familiar - reassured the boy who was unfamiliar yet also familiar. "He's chained, don't worry," Zulwatha said nervously. The sound of her voice hit the dazed Shadow Hunter like a freight train of emotion, causing him to reel as he realized that, after more than a decade, he was really hearing her voice.

Trying to avoid scaring them, Khujand merely looked at the three figures slumped against the wall from his peripheral vision. They were silent again as they huddled together, and after a minute or so his vision began to clear enough for him to realize that they weren't even restrained like he was. One minute more and he could tell the reason why: they were literally quaking with fear, too scared to attempt an escape.

His conflicting emotions mixed with his fear as his vision gradually cleared up as much as his sense of smell had. Was it his fault? Had his choices a decade ago doomed them to end up there? Was it solely Garot'jin's doing, with Khujand's choices being a separate flicker in the cosmos? Was it her fault for being foolish enough to think she could have brought her children there and then left with them safely?

Their arranged (read: forced) marriage was something he still refused to accept responsibility for. He had as little choice in the matter as she, and she never denied that. The customs of the Darkspear tribe before and immediately after their membership in the Horde had been uncompromising about marriage rituals, especially from the perspective of the prospective wife. When Khujand - still legally bearing the name Garot'jin at the time, years before the identity swap - left to fight the Burning Legion during the Third War, tongues began wagging.

It wasn't normal for a young female and male to be so close to one another, the villagers said. Clearly there must be something more there. Clearly, there must be something illicit going on, the elders whispered. By the time Khujand (still Garot'jin) had returned from the Battle of Mount Hyjal, a wedding date had already been set up without his knowledge or her permission, their futures being decided by their families over cups of stew without their own hopes and dreams being considered.

The entire society dictated that once their parents had set a date, the matter was finished and personal choice would not enter the minds of anybody involved. She always held it against him that he, as the male partner, hadn't tried to fight the whole ordeal harder. He always held it against her that she, having been the single soul in the whole universe who trusted him fully, refused to understand both his inability to fight an entire culture and his attempts to make their joke of a marriage livable for them both. Their friendship was shattered, her future seriously darkened and his private life outside of work became a bleak, unenviable time. Their divorce had been a godsend to them both despite the protests of the elders at Sen'jin, and his eventual arrest and supposed execution - after the identity swap - likely caused her and their children a great deal of embarrassment. Their culture, their backward culture which he resented so much, severed the connection to his best friend, but his own choices ruined the reputations and prospects of a normal life for his ex-wife and two children.

And here they were. In front of him after ten years of legal separation.

Her bright orange hair came into view first, always contrasting so strongly with her light blue hide. The years had only added to the beauty the other tribeswomen had always envied, and though their friendship had always been platonic before that was torn away from them, he realized now, after having been divorced from her for so long, how attractive she really was. The light cotton shirt she wore rose and fell with her breathing, and her knee-length skirt was muddied. Her hide was still smooth, though, and he remembered her habit of obsessively rubbing lotion into her legs even when she didn't need any.

Ten years on and it was still his childhood partner in crime. She was still Zulwatha.

For whatever reason, Khujand's psyche had reminded him of the victims he tortured in his nightmares for many, many years, but had blocked out the image of his daughter's appearance during both his waking and sleeping moments. As the girl slumped on the wall next to her mother, though, her identity was undeniable. Even newring the age of twelve, she still had those chubby cheeks he remembered commenting on (though couldn't remember seeing) the day she was born, one of the few occasions he got to see her before the divorce. Zulwatha had always refused to reveal the girl's name to him - she and her mother had chosen it, and he visited home so infrequently due to the tension that he managed to interact with his infant daughter those two times without speaking to her - but her visage was suddenly recognizeable. Her blood orange mane matched her eyes, and was somewhere between the sunset orange of her mother and vibrant scarlet of her father.

Curled up in Zulwatha's lap was a slightly younger boy, perhaps ten years old, still shorter than the girl. As the haze cleared away fully, more than the light blue hide and blood orange mane came into view. The round, supple cheekbones and square fingernails were definitely Zulwatha's, but the heavy bone structure, gapless teeth and slight electric glow to the boy's eyes signifying an aptitude for voodoo…they were all Khujand's. He had never met his son before; he and Zulwatha had divorced while she was still pregnant, and his arrest came soon after. Under such unfortunate circumstances, he was finally able to view his second child for the first time. Lorthiras had told Khujand of how Zulwatha had married a civilian - an engineer, mostly working on projects for civil development - and was providing for them better than he ever could. Khujand's children no longer needed him and were better off not knowing him, but to see them in the flesh - at long last - touched him in an instinctual, natural way as he was able to see the fruit of his loins alive and breathing in front of him.

For now.

At some point the feeling had returned to his limbs if not the full power, and he had crooked his neck over to view the family. The girl had taken notice and looked to her mother for guidance.

"Mother, will he help us?" she asked pitifully in Zandali.

Zulwatha's eyes bore the pain of a mother unable to care for her own children, and Khujand still knew her well enough to know it was killing her inside. Rasping to her in Orcish - the children were likely too young to speak it fluently if they had grown up surrounded by other trolls - he gave them all a jump as he tried his best to soothe them.

"Tell them...tell them I'm gonna help get ya all get outta here." His voice was low, and Zulwatha seemed as afraid of him as she was of their surroundings. "I'm not with them," he reassured her, again in Orcish. "I came here ta put a stop ta this. More people are coming ta help."

Their children huddled closer to her as he spoke, unaware that they were only a few feet away from the father they had heard so many bad things about. Even for Zulwatha, he might not be recognizeable; before leaving Draenor and even once at the port of Ratchet for a rummage sale, he had bumped into people from his past life who didn't realize who he was. He always shaved before - even his scalp - and had pierced ears, wore the war paint on his face rather than his body, and lacked the impressive muscle mass he currently had. He was no longer the gangly boy she had grown up with and later been forced to marry.

As she turned to her children, Zulwatha merely gave Khujand a nod to acknowledge what he had said. She truly didn't recognize him and could only regard his words as the uncertain promise of a sellsword she was sharing a cell with. Right then and there, her presence began to make sense. If she was really under the impression that this drug dealer calling himself Garot'jin was him - the boy she had grown up with, the father of her children - and she was so far from Sen'jin Village, she must have come willingly. The thugs had said something about expecting a woman to come with children. Garot'jin had threatened to pay her a visit in his letter to Khujand. So…he must have contacted her too, then. Perhaps threatened her as well, to force her to bring her kids there without her current husband. Zulwatha was brilliant despite her lack of formal education; tricking her was not easy. If she made such a dangerous decision, she was either legitimately afraid or believed there would be positive results from this. Khujand could only wonder; had Garot'jin promised to leave them alone if she brought the kids for a visit? Or did he threaten her new life if she didn't grant him a visitation? Was it all a ruse to lure Khujand there?

The conflict was slowly driving him mad. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, yet his shame for what he had put them through silenced him. Their friendship was forever ruined by their divorce, and for sure his children had been picked on for being the progeny of a war criminal turned drug dealer. Her new husband took care of them, but that only served as further reasoning for Khujand to leave them alone.

What use would it be to explain to her who he was? That he had been given a second chance and repented for his sins? How would that benefit her at all? No, he thought to himself. He would save them now and see that the seeds he had sewn would grow into healthy, happy adults, but they could not be allowed to know who he was. As far as they were concerned, he would just be a heroic adventurer who had fumbled while trying to stop their worthless, monstrous father but would be joined by allies soon. Every pain he felt when signing the legal papers in Lorthiras' office during the identity swap returned to him as he watched what was once his family, but he had to bear it for them. No matter how much it hurt, he would have to suffice with only watching them from afar, the truth going with him to his grave.

The voice from outside the door broke his silence, his former family's temporary respite and his masochistic plans.

"So dis be da one dat I heard so much about," a harsh, raspy voice said in Orcish with the heavy accent of a Darkspear tribesman who knew little of the modern world. It was grating and unpleasant to listen to, as though a chain smoker had caught a throat infection while chugging firewater.

The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the wooden planks over the window was blocked out as something - or someone - very large even by troll standards stood outside. The children clung even more tightly to Zulwatha in silence, and the three of them buried their heads into each other as even Khujand's usually confident, outspoken ex-wife cowered in the corner. He gave the thorium chains binding him a slight tug only to realize that while his vision and hearing had returned to him, his strength still had not.

"I hope ya like what we done wit' da place," the uneducated gurgle spoke again. Heavy, methodical footsteps made their way to the door as though the speaker were in no hurry.

The simple rope holding it shut was untied, and the mortified trembling of his two children and his ex-wife informed the Shadow Hunter of who this was. After so many years, the two monsters would finally meet. The torturer born as Garot'jin now living as Khujand slumped against the wall in his chains, while the highway robber born as Khujand and now living as Garot'jin ducked under the high doorway as he left the door hanging open behind him.

Lorthiras had mentioned a physical resemblance as one reason that the identity swap would work out, though their features weren't an exact match. The wagon fire the highway robber had lived through - the main reason for the cover up and identity swap, as the prison wagon officer needed a way to shift the blame - had scarred Garot'jin deeply, as had his outlaw lifestyle.

What Khujand saw standing in front of the entrance was nothing short of a nightmare version of himself.

A jungle troll's hide typically fell in a range from a light blue to dark purple complexion, usually unmarred by injuries due to their regeneration. Some still bore the coming-of-age scars which were incredibly difficult to create, but other than that they were usually unblemished; even damage to their livers and eyeballs could heal naturally.

Garot'jin, however, was changed by the wagon fire. What had once been a light azure the color of the sky had turned to ash grey. His entire body was the color of cooled down embers from a campfire, and it was peeling and cracking everywhere. The hide was soft around the joints, but everywhere else it was even tougher than the normal leathery texture of their race, and all the smoothness was gone; it was as though surviving the fire - the one weakness of troll regeneration - had strengthened his hide to the point of natural body armor. Deep cracks on his feet and hands were black with soot, and his nails were yellowed with black stains underneath.

All trolls are tall - even jungle troll males tend to be a bit taller than the average tauren male if they stop slouching. By the standards of their people, Khujand was above average though not by much; he had been able to look the titanic Baine Bloodhoof in the eye the one time they met. Yet impossibly, Garot'jin was even taller. The fact that he still ducked under the door even when slouching would have intimidated even an orc raider or night elf sentry, and his movements were jerky and uneven such that his intent was unreadable. The top of his back scraped against the low ceiling and his knuckles dragged in the dirt, adding to the image of the kind of person who would be considered too savage even for the Bloodscalp.

Garot'jin's two tusks hadn't been clipped like Khujand's, but they were unevenly curved and imbalanced in size. The bases were as dirtied as his teeth, and his lips were as chapped and cracked as his gnarled hide. One eye was a typical burgundy color, but the other was glassy and blue - very rare in their kind. His jawline jutted like Khujand's at an angle that was similar but not exactly the same, and one ear was lower on the head than the other. He was entirely hairless just as Khujand had been during his youth, though in Garot'jin's case it was likely due to the burns.

The two of them wore matching loincloths, and Khujand noticed his own combat knife stolen and sheathed on Garot'jin's belt. The drug dealer grinned wide at the incapacitated Shadow Hunter in front of him, as though he was also taking in the appearance of his counterpart.

"I heard so much about ya," Garot'jin laughingly hissed, the rumble in his lungs normal for trolls broken and uneven from experimenting with his own concoctions. "It took meh years ta build up dis small empire out heyeah, and I almost gave up on lookin' for ya. But I knew dat good for nuttin' lawyer ya got would warn ya. A good workin' agreement da two of ya got theyea, yeah. I couldna followed ya ta Draenor, but I knew from odder peoples returnin' dat ya had gone neutral, and was in wit' da non-factional cartels runnin' Ratchet. Pretty stupid, right? Runnin' around wit' dat elfie bitch ya done shacked up wit', wavin' ya weddin' bands round in front of Horde an' Alliance alike. News about da two of ya wadn't hard ta miss."

The children continued clinging to their mother, still too frightened to run out the door. Zulwatha's long ears pricked up, however, spying their Orcish conversation.

"So now, heyea we be. Jest ya and da fall guy ya lawyer tried ta send ta da gallows for ya crimes. Justice long in comin', yeah?"

Despite his own shady past, Khujand found himself unable to accept shaming from an unrepentant death merchant who abducted young people, including his own children. His contempt overrode his guilt as his groggy, uncoordinated face forced a defiant glare.

"Tha circumstances that led ta us switchin' rap sheets and names was outta my control and ya's," he responded weakly in his less accented Orcish. "Ya mad? Yeah, ya gotta right ta be. But ya was screwed over by a corrupt system, not me personally. At that point in time, I was prepared ta accept my fate."

"Oh, don't get meh wrong!" Garot'jin chortled hoarsely. "Since ya done stole meh identity, I been havin' a grand ol' time. Befo' I jest be stealin' food an' spare change from saps on da Gold Road. After I had da rep of a war criminal, I got da followers ta make da biggest drug operation outside af Booty Bay! Ya two timin' helped meh in a way."

Before Khujand could try to reason with the son of a bitch again, he had already knelt down to look his captive in the eye. Zulwatha's gaze was flicking between their faces and Khujand began to panic despite his drug-induced stupor. Even if it had been a long time, she had grown up with him. She knew his gait, his eyes, his voice; a mixture of confusion and rejection of what she was witnessing spread scross her face as she seemed to realize that the drug-dealing "Garot'jin" in front of her was not really her ex-husband.

"An' now, it be time ta repent fo ya sins fully. See, ya gonna help me replace all da men ya and ya elfie bitch done kilt."

Garot'jin began fiddling through his belt pouch with shaky hands, though Khujand knew better than to shift his gaze down. His strength and speed were sapped and he had to think fast to formulate a plan. He felt lost without Cecilia there to direct him.

"I heard ya be some powerful Shadow Huntah an' shit, and da way ya kilt forty-three of meh men…well, dat obviously means ya powerful enough ta replace dem. I usually keep da oddah Darkspear up here at da lab wit' me, ya know, coz our regeneration be lettin' us deal wit' more powerful shit. Da control needed ta turn people inta mindslaves needs ta be amped up. Da poison meh men shot ya wit' be a test. One is enough ta kill a centaur or tauren, four is enough ta enslave most trolls. Our regeneration just flushes everytin' outta our systems. Ya done took twelve an' jest...went ta sleep. It gonna take some more doses ta break ya, but it be meh hope dat da effort be wort' it - DAG!"

With unsteady hands and loose muscles, Khujand grabbed a hold of one of Garot'jin's brittle tusks. The drug dealer grabbed his arm with his free hands and fell forward, surprised by the vigor of the Shadow Hunter's grip after all the drugs pumped into his system.

"Shiiiiit, get in heyea!" Garot'jin gargled, choking on his own foul saliva as he failed to yell loud enough to alert his remaining mindslaves. "Where ya numbskulls be at?!"

The children screamed as Zulwatha hugged them closer, trying in vain to shield them from any more violence. Khujand grabbed Garot'jin's right tusk with both hands and yanked.

::SNAP::

"Mothafukkkkkaaaaa!" Garot'jin groaned as his right tusk splintered and broke in half, freeing him from the grip of his captive but also giving the down-but-not-out fighter a weapon.

Before Khujand could stab him with his own tusk, Garot'jin finally found what he was looking for in his belt pouch. With a dexterity conflicting with his hand tremors, he wielded a syringe full of the poisonous drug from the darts and plunged it directly into Khujand's chest. A burning, stinging pain ripped through the flesh of his hide as the needle bored a hole through the meat, deftly avoided the ribs and hit its mark. The sharp delivery pierced his heart tissue as the chemicals were pumped in, and he dropped the broken tusk before he had even completed the death blow aimed for Garot'jin's head. Khujand's vision and hearing began to slip from him again as Garot'jin rose and slammed his broken tusk against the wall.

"Dat's right...let ya heart pump wild," Garot'jin gloated while rubbing the quickly swelling socket bearing only half a tusk. "Fast or slow, it be doin' da job."

Khujand reeled, fighting to remain conscious as the hole torn by the needle already closed up and scabbed, a testament to how hard his body was resisting. Yet there was something wrong: he was in control of his thoughts, but felt his body sitting up without him wanting to do so.

Garot'jin raised his left hand in the air. "Like dis. Raise ya left, doggie."

An unseen force seemed to pull at Khujand's left arm until he realized there was nothing compelling him to raise it. He imagined reaching out to grab Garot'jin's leg and trip him, then trying to wrestle him into an ankle lock, but his left arm wouldn't move forward. He felt an invisible wall on both sides and underneath, giving him only the option of moving it upward.

"Fight all ya want," Garot'jin taunted. "It ain't gonna work. Now...raise ya left hand."

Every muscle in his left arm felt like is was tearing as Khujand tried in vain to yank it down, realizing how futile it was as his hand lifted into the air without his permission to mirror that of his captor. He tried to shout every obscenity he knew, yet his jaw only slacked open numbly.

"Fall."

Adhering to Garot'jin's directions, Khujand slammed himself into the floor hard, holding his position despite the fall not having been enough to normally hurt him. Consciousness slipping from him due to the high of the injection, he fought to look at something other than the floor, unsure of whether he was dying or truly becoming a zombified mind slave.

Cursing and cackling at the same time, Garot'jin's madness shone through the haze. "Yeah, dere it is," he wheezed. "Da monster done came outta da cage. Wheddah ya like it or not, da final test of da control over ya be comin'. Ya elfie gonna try ta save ya, and ya gonna watch helplessly as ya own arms reach forward an' crush her skull between ya hands at meh command. An' den, when ya come ta understand dat ya ain't got no more choice in da matter, I be feedin' ya da livers of ya own children while meh new lady heyea watches."

Garot'jin slammed the door behind him as he left, eliciting shrieks from the sobbing children. The last thing Khujand could remember before he shifted into a dreamless sleep was Zulwatha staring at him, hints of recognition breaking through in her expression. The kingpin's voice echoed through the wooden door as he walked away, reaching Khujand's ears after his vision left him but just before his hearing did.

"Ya belong ta me, now..."