It had been three days since Sylvanas had left Jaina on top of the mountain. Her wife had maintained her insistence on whatever it was she was planning, and Sylvanas trusted her. Damn her, but she trusted her.

Thus far, the Scourge invasion had not manifested itself. Sylvanas didn't entirely trust that so she remained paranoid, sending her Rangers and Champions to every location outside of Northrend that had a Scourge presence, and beefing up the growing siege outside of Icecrown with additional forces.

If Jaina was wrong, they would be ready. It might be a battle for the ages, the sort the Orcs might sing about for years afterwards. Not that such song would ever reach the dead.

Sylvanas leaned her chin on her fist, ignoring the bickering of her advisors, studying Cromush instead. He was about as bored of the bickering as she was, but hid it better, standing at ease and leaning on his axe.

Briefly, Sylvanas fantasized about the Orc cutting all of their heads off and bellowing some nonsense about honor as their blood soaked the floor. It was, at least, far more entertaining than listening to them.

Standing, she gestured at Cromush. "Walk with me, General." She started for the exit, paused a moment, then glanced back at her advisors with a reproachful look. "You're all dismissed. Permanently."

"You go through more advisors than you do arrows, Warchief." Cromush fell into step beside her as they entered Orgrimmar's night. The stars were coming into view, though with the torches and bonfires they'd never be as bright as they might be farther into Durotar.

"You are probably wondering at the reasons as to why I recalled you from Northrend."

"Something about a promotion," He quipped.

"Granda is dead. Your people need a leader." The sky disappeared as they walked into the Drag, beneath numerous awnings and canopies.

"Dead?"

"The Shaman who found her thought it was suicide. She had indicated she might choose that option, rather than die in her sleep, as is a warrior's right."

"From the tone of your voice, I'd say you're skeptical."

"I asked Minuial for a second opinion." Sylvanas stopped suddenly, holding up her hand. Slowly, she tilted her head, listening.

A single, nearly silent footfall on stone was the only sign before an arrow ripped through the air and embedded itself deep in Sylvanas's throat.

She tore it from her neck and rolled out of the way of another series of arrows, narrowly staying ahead of each. Whoever they were, they were good. Maybe not Windrunner good, but good enough to earn a little respect.

Magic sparked between each of the arrows, the fletching unfamiliar to Sylvanas. Too late she realized the game they were playing as the spell gripped her body and dragged her to the ground.

Movement drew her eyes to a figure above her, the assassin falling from the roof above and dropping with his blade like a guillotine, the—-

—- design wasn't too bad, but Mekkatorque really should go to bed, he thought, as he inspected his work. He was pretty sure it was also breakfast time but not entirely sure he'd had dinner. But that infernal ticking was driving him—-

—-madness, this was all madness. Blades clashed in the streets of Stromgarde as Vereesa weaved her way through alleyways, bow gripped tightly in her hand and the other protective over her stomach. She heard her wife scream but didn't dare look back. The sun gleamed off of a steel blade—-

—-light flared, bright enough to blind. The man screamed, covering his eyes before Velen calmly lifted his staff and knocked—-

—-on Lor'themar's door. It swung open a crack and the servant peered inside to see a figure dangling from a beam, spinning—-

—-slowly, Talanji approached the smoldering body of the man who dared to think he could infiltrate her city. Zandalar would not—-

—-live to see the dawn. Rokhan stumbled across the sandy beach, lifting his hand to see the—-

—-Blood pooled on the ground beneath Tandred Proudmoore as the world swam around him. He barely brought his cutlass up in time to keep his head—-

—Magic such as this was not enough to hold Sylvanas. It was an insult that it had even worked at all. Her shriek pierced the night and she exploded. The man attempting to kill her turned into a mist of blood and shattered bone, but Sylvanas paid little heed. He was not alone, and she wanted that archer.

Cromush was occupied with a pair of assassins. They lacked his strength but moved as one, forever dancing out of range whenever he got close.

For a moment, Sylvanas considered assisting him. But he could handle himself, and they needed at least one of their prey alive.

The archer was fleeing now, leaping from rooftop to rooftop almost quicker than the eye could see. But Sylvanas had hunted far more elusive prey. She caught her before she could get much farther, grabbing the archer by the hair and yanking hard.

The woman, a human, crunched on something and started to convulse. Sylvanas reached into a pouch at the woman's hip, and pulled out the woman's runestone. She smiled and threw it aside. The woman's eyes were wild with defiant fear, but Sylvanas found it an oddly beautiful sight. "Death will not save you from me, child."

Gradually the spasms stopped. Sylvanas shouldered the body, and took off the way she'd come.

"General? I do hope you're done playing with them, I have some resurrections to do."

She hopped down from the roof, and scowled. Cromush lay still, a half dozen daggers and swords sticking out of him. To his credit, he hadn't gone down easy, or alone. Sylvanas approached him, and nudged him with his boot.

He lifted his head, and spit out blood. "These fuckers cheat."

"You will die before a healer arrives. Would you like a chance to find out what the hell just happened, and get some revenge?"

"Sure, why not." He chuckled, which quickly turned into a series of wracking coughs.

"That's a relief. I was not looking forward to finding another replacement."

Blood soaked through Moira's nightgown, and dribbled out from a hundred cuts on her legs and hands. A nasty gash ran down her side, but she needed to conserve her power. She limped out of the council chambers, bare feet on glass, and grabbed for the nearest guard. "We need healers in the council chambers an' guards tae the royal chambers!"

Tomorrow, tomorrow the Council of Three Hammers would have been disbanded at last, her son fully ready to rule on his own.

Today, Muradin Bronzebeard was dead and Falstad might not be long behind him without a healer.

"Get movin'!" She shoved the guard off, and picked up her pace, ignoring the pain in her feet. She had to find her son, she had to find the King. Moira didn't know if he was alive or dead, or how hurt he might be, but it was obvious to her that he would be a target too. Faster, she had to move faster.

"Ye, paladin!" She pointed at a woman riding by on a ram. "I need tae get tae the royal chambers."

"Y'look like ye might need a healer yourself, your majesty." Despite her words, she reached down to help Moira up. Moira felt a tingle of Light go through her, dulling the pain and stopping the worst of the bleeding.

"Thank ye. Now ride!"

At a window in the Keep, gloved hands carefully and silently worked at the locking mechanism, the only sound calm, even breaths and the faint scratching of metal on metal. It only took a few minutes, and the lock clicked faintly. Smiling behind his mask, the goblin pushed the window open and climbed nimbly inside, pulling the window shut behind him. He waited, counting to one hundred, until he was assured he had entered unnoticed.

There were six pairs of guards on this floor, between himself and his target. He knew their patrol routes better than they did, he knew that the junior guard nearest this window was often hungover or drunk. Problems at home, he'd discovered. Not that he had much sympathy when those 'problems' involved bloody knuckles.

It was the guard that patrolled with him that was the greater concern. She was a senior guard, well seasoned and strict on the rules. She kept the young man in line, and would be the greater threat.

Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a vial with fine powder and dumped some on his hands. Then, silent as a mouse, he slipped around the corner and blew the dust at the guards. They were unconscious before they hit the floor.

After stowing them and leaving the younger with an extra smile, the man repeated his trick with the other ten guards, hiding them in nooks and crannies and a service elevator.

Even killers had standards.

To maximize his success, he barricaded the doors to the two stairwells; should an alarm be raised it would give him the time he needed to escape.

A whoosh of air was the only warning he had and he twisted out of the way as a knife grazed his cheek and impaled an unfortunate statue of King Varian between the legs. His assailant followed up with an immediate attack, reverse wielding a pair of thin blades as long as his arm.

He barely got his own daggers out in time to parry, sparks flying as the blades skidded across each other.

Took her long enough.

The woman was tall, built for this kind of fight and distractingly attractive in the tight leathers she was wearing. Was this the infamous Valeera Sanguinar? She was supposed to still be in Northrend. His brothers were to take care of the eldest Windrunner and hopefully that traitor elf while they were at it.

Backpedaling into the light of a lantern, he got a better look at his opponent. Long ears, violet hair and the midnight eyes of a Night Warrior. This wasn't much better than Sanguinar if he was perfectly honest with himself.

Trying to keep the nerves out of his voice, he asked, "Shadowblade Ravenwing, stand aside okay?"

"How does it go again?" Yukalee said, unmoving, her blades at the ready. "'The slayers of kings, the downfall of empires, the unseen blades that write the true history of this world?' That never sat well with me."

"The Uncrowned do what needs to be done, kid. Did Sanguinar fill your head with ideals? Or are ya having buyer's remorse. Ya joined us willingly, remember? So we could fight the Legion. We ain't that different."

"My head has always been full of ideals." She leapt forward, slashing her blades down in an upside down vee motion.

He barely rolled out of the way, getting to his feet as he was put on the defensive. If he could just get to one of his concoctions he could put an end to this little sparring match. "Ideals ain't the kinda thing that's useful in this profession."

"I gave you so much money for your elixirs too," she complained, jumping onto a table and kicking off of the wall, her weapons like drill bits as she descended towards him. At the last moment, he dodged left, only for her foot to find his face. He crashed into the wall, minus a tooth, and picked himself up.

"Hey, I never did thank you proper like for helping with all of that. But I did give ya a discount, babe."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure you upcharged me, Noggenfogger."

Noggenfogger grinned, blood leaking onto his chin from his missing tooth. "Ah yeah, that's right." He held up his hands, grin only widening. "Guess I surrender, eh?"

Yukale frowned at him, then gestured with one of her blades. "First things first. You're going to disarm yourself. And then we're taking a little trip to the Stockades."

Dagran lay face down in the hallway outside his bedroom, his assassin crumbled nearby, the Forsaken's face and skull crushed. Anguished, Moira rushed to his side, dropping to her knees next to her son and searching for a pulse. It was there, faint and fluttering, but it was there.

Carefully, she rolled him onto his back, wincing at the wound in his stomach. "Aye, that's bad."

"Let me help, your majesty."

"Thank ye, Broadstone." Moira steadied her breathing, reaching for the Light both within and without. "I just need ye tae keep him stable, ye got a kit? I'll do the heavy liftin."

Broadstone nodded, pulling out a first aid kit. Moira nodded. It seemed like a simple thing, but her son would need to be bandaged and his wounds cleaned. The Light couldn't cure all.

"Good. Keep him floatin', get him bandaged, an'..." And she'd drain herself to death if she had to.

Her hands started to glow, and she started to talk, needing to fill the silence. "A few years ago, a bunch a us got taegether. Me an' King Wrynn. Horde, Alliance, everyone in between. Priests an' paladins. Even a few Druids. We wanted tae compare notes, learn from each other."

Moira chewed on her lip, expression stern. "We discovered a few things 'bout different kinda healin'. Did ye know Druid healin' is less effective against burns than usin' the Light? Somethin' 'bout that kinda healin' rejuvinatin' the life force an' burns destoryin' tissue in a way that makes that harder. Shaman have a better time of it. That whole water thing I think. Didn't have too many Monks, always meant tae ask one about it…

Her head snapped up. "Do ye know of any Druid healers in the city?"

"There might be a few." Broadstone pressed a bandage against the wound in the King's gut. "But I'd worry about leaving him like this tae find one."

"We're goin tae need at least one more dedicated healer if my son has any hopes of livin'," Moira admitted. "I can keep him stable long enough an' I think a Druid can knit this wound together better than me."

Without another word, the paladin rose to her feet and quickly left the building.

The woman seemed dependable and steady, and Moira could remember a few reports from her postings over the years. "Just hold on. We'll get ye through this my boy, I promise."

Anduin's chambers were dark, the candles having long ago gone out while he slept. The only movement was the curtains on the bed flapping from a breeze from the window and a shadow that approached on silent feet.

A flash of silver and the poisoned blade slipped home, the figure beneath velvet sheets not even twitching.