In the hours just before dawn, when the night was coldest and the sun's rays had barely begun to peek over the horizon, Illidan crept through the underbrush of the forest. The scent of nature filled his senses: the dewy undertone of the moisture in the air from the dispersing rainstorm mellowed out the strong note of dirt and foliage. If it wasn't for that, the scent would have been sharp in his nostrils. His boots pressed lightly down on the fallen leaves beneath his feet, with nary a sound. He may have been a sorcerer, but he was equally as adept at stealth, unlike what most elves believed.
Like a shadow, he flitted from tree to tree, hiding at the base of each colossal trunk until it was safe to slide into the next patch of darkness. Thankfully, at this hour, the camp was nearly silent; an occasional soldier on patrol would circle a tent nearby, before disappearing from sight once again. The low concentration of bodies milling about made it significantly easier to slip away unnoticed, as much as it pained him to do so.
He had left her there, alone in the clearing, like some vagrant or criminal who was ashamed of what he'd done. He wasn't, but it was two entirely different things to say that to himself, and to actually believe it. There was a small, lingering sense of guilt in him, and the voice in his mind reminded him that, even if he'd been honest with her about his reasons for leaving, she likely wouldn't have understood. Would she have judged him like he knew Tyrande would have? After a moment of hesitation, he decided . . . no, she wouldn't have—not Eliana. But judge him or not, she wouldn't have understood, and that was, ultimately, the crux of it all.
Still, once she'd fallen asleep, it was all he could do to tear his gaze away from her face. Never before had he seen her look so . . . serene, so at peace. It pained him to know that the war was such a burden on her; she felt everything so deeply, took everything at such a personal level, that if there were any way that he could take that weight off of her shoulders, he would. In fact, he was.
Wasn't that why he was leaving in the first place?
Sidling up to the tree closest to him, Illidan crouched down to wait for the guard across the way to move. Back and forth the soldier paced, until he finally meandered down the path, weaving between the canvas tents until he was out of sight. Off to the side, the large herd of sabers congregated. They ruffled their manes, shifting their weight over and over as they restlessly waited for their handlers to arrive.
Maintaining his crouch, he quickly scampered over to the sabers, searching the pack for the mount he'd been using since the war had started. When he finally found it, he approached slowly, so as not to startle the rest of the group. Soft, murmured words had the frostsaber purring into his palm, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Without another sound, he secured his small pack to the side of the saddle and climbed atop the mount.
With only a single glance back to the section of the forest that he'd left Eliana in, he left the Night Elven encampment and headed for Zin-Azshari.
Three hours later
The forests surrounding Zin-Azshari were eerily quiet. A sickly green fog permeated the air, rolling across the path like vaporized poison. Normally, the chatter of wildlife and insects filled the air, backed by the hum of activity from the capital. Hearing the landscape so utterly silent threw even Illidan off, and he was nowhere near as in tune with nature as his twin.
When the spires of the city were visible above the treeline, Illidan halted his mount. With a shake of its fur, and a huff, it obeyed, coming to a stop in the middle of the path. A quick scan of the road ahead revealed that it was as abandoned as it seemed, but he knew that things were often not the way they appeared—especially when it came to the Burning Legion. He directed his mount off the path, guiding it to a patch of shade underneath the twisted skeleton of a tree.
Quickly, he dismounted, patting the saber on the head when it shuffled uneasily. He didn't blame the beast; though he'd never been a passionate advocate for his own people, even he could admit that the atmosphere felt . . . unsettling, here. However, that discomfort was overshadowed with the veins of power he could feel running through the ground below. Whatever they were doing in Zin-Azshari, it required high concentrations of energy, of magic. His own veins hummed in response, and he fought to control the urge to sprint towards the city.
He had always been enticed by the prospect of more—more power, more control, more abilities. Still, despite that thirst that existed within him, he had seen firsthand what the Legion could do. It was appalling, the things fel energy did to whatever it touched . . . but it was also powerful beyond belief. If he could find a way to harness that energy, but without the negative side effects, he could be an even greater sorcerer. He could be the one to end this war.
"In due time," he muttered to himself. At the sound of his voice, the mount glanced in his direction. "Yes, you are right: your time is now."
He unclasped his pack from the saddle, setting it down beside him on the dirt. From a hidden sheath on his boot, he pulled out a dagger, twirling it in his hand as he stared into the mount's eyes. This time, when the beast shuffled, it moved away from him.
"Calm yourself," Illidan scoffed. "I'm not going to hurt you. But I do need you to do something for me . . ." He trailed off, taking the dagger and slicing into the opposite palm. Blood welled in the curve of his hand, and he let it pool a decent amount before walking towards the mount.
The saber shimmied away again, and he had to grasp the reins to keep it from running too far. "Stay still," he scolded as he ran his palm down the beast's side.
A smear of red followed the path of his hand, staining the saber's snow-white fur crimson. Clearly unnerved with the sensation of fresh, wet blood on its fur, the beast let out a rumble, deep in its chest. He murmured comforts to it, trying to get it to settle as he waited for more blood to collect in his palm. After grasping the pommel of the saddle and leaving a well-placed bloody handprint, he marked errant spots on the saber's body, making it appear as if he had been injured and attempted to mount the saber in his haste to escape—that, or he'd been dragged off his mount.
When the scene was adequately set, he stepped back. The saber looked up at him with shrewd eyes, and he patted its rump. "Go on, then. Return to camp."
Though he knew the saber understood him, the beast hesitated, seemingly confused as to why Illidan would send him off without riding atop him. Again, he tried to nudge the beast in the direction they'd come, and again, the saber did not leave. Knowing he had no choice but to force the beast, he clenched his fist and channeled energy into his palm, aiming a small spell at the ground beside the saber.
Flames ignited at the saber's feet, and the beast jumped back with a growl. Another spell had the saber finally sprinting off in the direction of the Night Elven encampment, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.
Illidan watched the beast scamper away, and the briefest flare of unsurety burned through him. Now that the mount was gone, he was fully committed to his plan: infiltrate Zin-Azshari and the Burning Legion, and turn the tide in favor of his people, or die trying and be branded a traitor. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he clenched his jaw and looked back in the direction of the capital.
"I've come this far . . ." He trailed off, his fingers curling into his palm as he stared at the gilded spires ahead. "I cannot fail now."
With his eyes trained on the city ahead, he rummaged through his pack for the cloak he'd packed earlier. After wrapping it around his shoulders and pulling the hood up, he stared up at the capital, his expression impassive. Finally, after a beat passed, he began moving towards Zin-Azshari.
Though the surrounding area was deserted, he knew that the closer he got to the city proper, the likelier it was that he'd come across a demon. Exactly according to plan, he thought with a grin.
Palming the dagger he'd used earlier, he shifted into a crouch and slunk into the trees—or at least, what was left of them. Using the underbrush as cover was no stranger to him, and he peered through the sapped, broken branches as he moved. There were bound to be patrols circling the city perimeter, and he scanned the fields for any semblance of movement.
When the grandiose city gates were finally in view, the first demons made an appearance: a pair of colossal, horned warriors paced along the path in front of the gates, flanked by a matching pair of Felhounds. The twisted, demonic creatures tossed their manes, grinding their excessively sharp teeth in preparation for meeting Night Elven flesh. Drool trickled from their mouths, and the spines that lined their skulls in place of eyes twitched in haunting ways—much like the tentacles that sprouted from their bodies.
At the sight of the beasts, the magic thrumming through Illidan's body tingled; he knew what damage those tentacles could do, had seen it firsthand. His grip on the dagger tightened, and he watched the demons move back and forth, noting their pattern.
It was then that he noticed . . . these warriors seemed more adept than most of the Legion's lackeys. While the vast majority of them simply followed orders, lumbering their way through the battlefield and beyond, these seemed actively aware of their surroundings. One of the demons had what looked like a whip wound around its beefy hand. Occasionally, it unfurled the whip to snap at one of the hounds, bringing the creature back to its place beside the demon.
He needed to clear the way to the gates, but how to do it without calling the attention of the entire patrol?
Perhaps if I simply . . .
Illidan rose to his feet, keeping his hood up to conceal his face, but migrating closer to the path. With an outstretched palm, he concentrated the energy within him to the centermost point of his hand. Instead of throwing it towards the demons like he'd done earlier to distract the frostsaber, he wove the threads of energy, twining them together until they resembled a vine. Now, he snuck the magical sprig closer to the Fel Guard, though he kept it just out of their purview.
As planned, one of the felhounds sensed the magical energy in the air. Even with its lack of eyes, it turned in the direction of Illidan's vine. The heads of its tentacles swiveled around, opening up like blossoming petals in the springtime. If only it were that pure, he thought with a twisted grimace.
As the hound moved closer, the Fel Guard finally noticed that its charge was wandering away. It tried to crack its whip and summon the hound back, but the call of magic and the prospect of feeding upon its source was far too great for the creature. Seemingly frustrated, the demon growled something at its counterpart before stomping after the beast.
When the felhound was close enough, Illidan dissipated the glowing vine. If he thought the beast was capable of feeling emotions, he might've wondered whether it was confused; the tilt of its head seemed almost saber-like in its inherent curiosity.
He took the opportunity to surprise the demonic creature, springing up from the underbrush with his dagger drawn and channeled energy in the palm of his other hand. Reeling back, the felhound "stared" up at him as the bony bristles atop its head raised. Neither one of them wasted a moment; Illidan leapt over the tumble of branches between them, throwing the collected energy towards the felhound as it launched itself towards him, maws wide open. The spell hit its target, nestling in the demonic creature's mouth. Tendrils of energy spawned from the point of contact, wrapping the beast in glittering tentacles. It froze in mid-air before crashing back down to the ground.
With his goal achieved, he could now focus on getting rid of the excess distractions.
The Fel Guard that had tried to call back its beast now charged towards Illidan, ebony ax raised high in the air. With a guttural roar, it slid its hooves through the dirt and swung its weapon in a wide arc. If he hadn't been ready for it, predictable as the Legion's lackeys were, he would've been cleaved in half. Thankfully, a well-timed spell had him behind the demon as it finished its swing.
Deftly, he slid the dagger up and under the demon's ribs while simultaneously throwing another spell at it. Once the spell made contact, Illidan leapt away, giving the Fel Guard some space—and for good reason. As soon as his boots touched the dirt again, inky black tentacles erupted from the ground and wrapped around the Fel Guard. It cried out in pain—an extended shriek at full volume that made Illidan cringe.
The demon's pained cry cut off abruptly, and its corpse toppled over onto the ground. As Illidan rose to his feet, the second Fel Guard and its accompanying hound circled around their comrade's body, beelining straight for him. Twirling his dagger, he channeled energy into his other palm again, watching the demons approach with a neutral, almost bored expression.
This is the best of their defenses? he thought with a scoff. Pathetic.
Once the Fel Guard and its hound were in range, Illidan curled his fingers around the energy in his palm before slamming his fist into the dirt. At first, nothing happened. The Fel Guard let out a resonating, mocking laugh, obviously thinking that Illidan's spell hadn't worked. When it took another step towards him, a rumble from deep within the ground began, growing progressively louder until the dirt around them vibrated with unseen energy. Without warning, onyx spikes launched from the ground, impaling both the bipedal demon and its hound. They didn't even get a chance to scream, unlike the first.
When their corpses fell, Illidan absentmindedly twirled his dagger again as he meandered over to the frozen felhound. Sometime during the fight, his hood had fallen. A quick adjustment of the cape, and a flick of his wrist, and his face was hidden once more.
With the first security wave taken care of, the plains were silent. Still, that was no reason to dawdle. He knelt beside the hound and laid his hand against its side, easing the motion spell off. As the magic weaned, he filtered a new spell down through his fingertips to keep the felhound sedated. He needed it for his purposes, and couldn't afford to let it panic and lash out at the wrong moment.
A low hiss escaped the felhound, before transforming into a growl. Under his breath, Illidan murmured to it, waiting for the sedation spell to take full effect. Eventually, the felhound staggered to its feet, head swiveling around in confusion. Unwilling to waste any more time, he latched onto one of the beast's tentacles and hoisted himself atop the creature.
There was no saddle for comfort—the demons who commanded the felhounds were far too large to ride them like mounts—and he shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he settled, figuring this was the best it was going to get. Besides, he wasn't going far.
When Illidan squeezed the beast's sides with his inner thighs, despite letting out a disgruntled snarl, it moved forward. Slowly, they approached the gates of Zin-Azshari, left open and accessible now that he'd dealt with the "guard". To his surprise, as they approached, he noticed that Elven guards lined the walls above. Their weapons were at their sides, but they looked vigilant nonetheless; he could feel their eyes on him as he moved closer to the gate.
So it is true, he mused. There had been no end to the rumors that Queen Azshara and the Highborne were well aware of what was going on outside of the city—that they were involved, even. To see the queen's personal guard protecting the city's walls . . . could only mean that the rumors were, undeniably, true.
It also did not surprise him in the least that they had done nothing to help the demons fight against him. Though it was obvious—at least to him—that more powerful demons, higher in the hierarchy, were making the decisions out of sight, the Highborne in Azshara's circle likely thought they were the ones in power. They were the ones subjugating their fellow elven brethren; they were the ones putting all of Azeroth at risk.
He kept his gaze focused on the gates before him, but his fingers clenched around his makeshift reins, the felhound's tentacle. Someone needs to fix this, fix their mistakes. If no one else will step up, then I've really no other choice . . .
When he finally approached the once-gilded gates, close enough to see the sneers on his fellow Elven brethren that were guarding the walls, he pulled back on the Felhound's tentacle. Gingerly avoiding the splines atop the creature's head, he dismounted.
He cleared his throat, and then bellowed, "I come to offer my services! To my queen, and to the lord of the Legion!"
Once he finished speaking, he could hear the echoes of his voice bouncing back to him from the walls. None of the guards moved, they simply stared down at him, their stares calculating and indiscernible from the ground. The tension in the air swam around him, enveloping him in its constricting embrace as he waited for a response—any response, even if it was a fireball hurled at him from a sorcerer hidden in the capital's depths.
Finally, the gates opened. Hinges, rusted far sooner than they should have, creaked in protest, the sound grating at his nerves as he held himself back from visibly cringing. Once the way was clear, Illidan hoisted himself atop his makeshift mount once more, and ambled through the gates.
The noxious fog continued through the city, permeating every inch of air above the ground, and seeping into every alcove. Though the fog was unappealing enough to be avoided based on appearance alone, it was laced with the pulsing power of the Well of Eternity; he had never been this close to the Well, save a few scant trips to the capital as a young lad. His power had been significantly less prominent in his younger years, than it was now, and he could feel the threads, the ribbons of power, caressing him, begging for entrance.
As he rode through the once-illustrious plazas and courtyards of the capital with his hand wrapped tightly around the felhound's tentacle, he witnessed other hounds sniffing through the wreckage, likely looking for a worthy meal. Their handlers were roaming nearby, occasionally cracking a whip when one of their beasts strayed from their purpose.
To his surprise, they didn't react to his presence. A few would glance his way as he rode past, but none paid him any heed aside from that. It was . . . bizarre. To see the change in reaction from outside the walls to in . . . it made him wonder exactly what was going on at the palace. Had his words truly reached those in charge? Reached the queen?
It seemed like he wouldn't have to wait long to discover the truth.
The location of the hounds and their masters marked a very clear path for Illidan to take, one that led straight to the still-glorious spires of the palace. Gilded towers that reached ever-higher into the now-darkened sky rose above the ruins of the city that surrounded it. The disparity was simultaneously jarring and a relief. Even if the queen was at fault, even if her followers were in cohorts with the Legion, if one piece of their culture survived this atrocious war . . .
Illidan shook his head so fiercely, the ends of his high ponytail whipped around to snap against his cheek. No, if anything were to survive, it should be the people—his people. Those who followed the queen were no longer considered as such. If he was to successfully fool them, however, he would need to cloak those emotions from those who would see into his mind.
It was too dangerous to reveal the truth. If the Legion were to discover his true agenda, this would all be for naught. He would have left Eliana for naught, left the safety of the encampment for naught. While it was true that his own safety was rarely his chief concern, Eliana was a different story. She had lost too much, as they all had, but to throw one more loss on top of an ever-growing list would simply be cruel.
No, he would carry out his plan, and carry it out successfully. He simply needed to play the part.
When he reached the bridge leading up to the palace's main doors, he hesitated, staring up at the grandeur before him. Guards milled about the ramparts high above, their posts intersected by banners that flowed in the breeze. It was almost disgusting, witnessing the fact that the Highborne were still flaunting their opulence despite the fact that the ruins of their people sat just across the way. He gripped the felhound's tentacle tightly in his hand, barely hearing the squeal of pain the beast let out.
After a moment, he dismounted, finally allowing his makeshift mount to scurry off into the fog behind him. Just like the gates to the city proper, the arched doors ahead of him parted to let him through, all without a servant or elf in sight.
Wary of an ambush, he proceeded at a leisurely pace, looking for all the world as if he felt at peace within the palace walls. When the echo of an armored footstep clanged throughout the expansive hall, Illidan came to a halt, his shoulders tensing in anticipation.
An elf emerged from the shadows between pillars, a hand resting on the hilt of the great sword strapped to his waist. He was pale, noticeably so: instead of lavender or deep plum as his skin tone, he was almost . . . peach-colored, instead; a pale wash of color that resembled the shades of the coming day, as opposed to the sky during the moonrise. It was a characteristic that immediately set him apart as a Highborne, not a Night Elf.
His armor, a deep green that rivaled the depths of the forest, glittered in the flickering firelight. Behind him, a cape of molten gold fluttered with every step; it matched the sunburst pattern that lined his breastplate with a decidedly purposeful design, one that was meant to leave the viewer in awe of his station.
Though Illidan was not crippled with awe, he would be a blind fool not to notice that this elf was of some importance. If the armor and the cape hadn't clued him in, it would've been the lines of soldiers that quietly lined the perimeter of the room, almost immediately after the elf had made his appearance. That, and the scar that marred the elf's features was evidence that he had seen his fair share of violence.
Straightening his shoulders, Illidan faced the stranger head-on, holding his gaze as the elf came to a stop immediately before him.
In a voice that rivaled the late Commander Ravencrest, the soldier spoke. "I hear you wish to serve the Light of all Lights, our unrivaled Queen Azshara?"
It was all Illidan could do not to quirk his brow in sarcastic defiance. "That is what I said at the gates, yes."
The soldier's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone, boy. The Queen will have little patience for your quips, and I must admit that I, too, have very minimal tolerance for disrespect."
Illidan inclined his head ever-so-slightly. "My apologies, I did not mean to offend. I was simply stating that I had already declared my desires at the gates, and such, I thought you were aware of them. If you would so allow me to serve our queen, and the Legion, then yes, that is what I wish."
Though the apology stung his pride, he knew he had to bite his tongue—if only to convince those in charge that he was truly here to serve. If that is what it took, then by Elune, he would do it.
Apparently, it seemed his words, though empty in their true nature, had worked. The soldier nodded, his expression less terse than it had been when he'd first approached. With a dramatic swish of his cape, he turned, speaking to Illidan over his shoulder. "I am Captain Varo'then, leader of our queen's forces. Until I am convinced that you are to be trusted, I will oversee your work. When the time comes that you have proven your worth," he gestured for Illidan to follow him as he led the way out of the great hall, "then I will introduce you to our Light of Lights."
Again, Illidan offered a nod. "As you wish, Captain."
Captain Varo'then was a man of considerable pride, it would seem. With Illidan's assurance that he would defect to Varo'then's direction, he straightened his shoulders, enjoying every moment that he had in the spotlight, as the man in charge.
Illidan wondered how the Captain acted when in the presence of Queen Azshara. It was well rumored that many elves were often so in awe of the queen's beauty, that they were hardly capable of forming coherent thoughts. If the Captain was so pleased to be the one giving orders, Illidan doubted that he acted as such when there were those above him—especially royalty.
They turned down a side hall, dark, and seemingly abandoned. Though the rest of the city was understandably deserted—what with the Legion having destroyed every quarter that wasn't home to the Highborne—Illidan was surprised to see the palace so . . . empty.
"Captain, if I may," Illidan began, waiting for the higher-ranking elf to respond. He didn't want to risk offending the elf again by speaking out of line.
The Captain offered a curt nod, and Illidan cleared his throat before speaking once more. "I'd heard that the queen's forces were considerable in size. Aside from the soldiers who accompanied you in the main hall, the palace seems . . . quite barren."
"You're observant. That's good." Varo'then paused, swiveling to look at Illidan. "A good number of my men are up on the ramparts, patrolling the palace's perimeter and ensuring we have no . . . surprise guests, such as yourself. Aside from that, the remainder are still in the barracks, on the other end of the grounds. Queen Azshara is . . . delicate. She has no desire to see the atrocities of war, and the sight of soldiers filling her grand halls is a constant reminder of such."
"I see." The idea that the queen did not wish to lay eyes on armed soldiers was preposterous. If she were to look out of her balcony window, she would see much more than unused weapons, and suits of armor milling about. The plains surrounding the capital were riddled with decay, with the pungent evidence of so many deaths. Could she truly somehow be oblivious to the war going on outside of Zin-Azshari?
"You would do well to remember that. When you are introduced to the queen, speak little of the war outside our walls. If you can manage it, leave it out of the conversation entirely unless she asks you specific questions. If you are to answer her questions, do not ever mention the gruesome details," Varo'then added as he finally continued down the hall.
"Understood," Illidan replied, trailing after the captain with little notice of their surroundings.
It wasn't until they came to a stop before a large, wooden door that Illidan realized the scenery had changed. The door ran floor-to-ceiling, coming to a peak at the top of the extremely tall wall. At about shoulder height, two metal rings protruded from the door, serving as handles that led to wherever their final destination was.
Considering the air had grown noticeably cooler, and the decorated walls of the great hall had given way to simple stone blocks, Illidan guessed they were heading somewhere that most elves rarely saw—that is, unless they were in a great deal of trouble.
"Your first task, sorcerer—You are a sorcerer, are you not?" Varo'then looked Illidan up and down with narrowed, calculating eyes.
"I am." Illidan was surprised that Varo'then could tell. Most elves who were not magically inclined rarely noticed those that were, unless there was some dramatic display of said abilities. There were always exceptions to that rule, such as Priestesses of Elune or those who were trained to recognize anomalies in others.
"I can practically smell the energy on you; after all the sorcerers we've had around here, I would have to be blind not to notice," the Captain offered by way of an explanation.
Illidan wasn't sure what the Captain expected as a response, so all he could offer was a nod. With Illidan's apparent consent, Varo'then continued. "Anyway, your first task is to prove your worth to us. We've plenty of sorcerers about, we hardly are in dire need of one more. Come."
Without waiting for a reply this time, Varo'then pushed open the massive door with a resounding creak. Illidan slipped through the open doorway, and once he was standing beside Varo'then on the opposite side, the Captain let go of the door. It slammed shut with an ominous boom, and Illidan had to hold himself back from visibly cringing.
Is he always this . . . dramatic? Are all of the Highborne like this? Illidan wondered with a mental sigh of annoyance. Perhaps this is going to be much more taxing than I anticipated.
Again, Varo'then stalked off without so much as waiting for Illidan.
Once Illidan caught up, he glanced about his surroundings, taking note of the room. Off in the distance, he could hear the sound of water dropping, slow and steady, with a clear plop that echoed throughout the halls. Vines of ivy climbed up the stone walls, disappearing through cracks that led to other parts of the palace. Here, less opulent torches lit their path down the narrow hallway, and the flames cast long, flickering shadows across the walls and floor.
Pooling around their feet was a mysterious, thick fog, though less sinister in nature than the sickly, green fog that littered the landscape around the city. These tendrils of cloudy moisture were a pale, waxen shade, similar to a shaft of moonlight. With every step they took, the fog parted, curling around their ankles before forming together again in their wake. This fog was not tainted with fel energy, something Illidan noticed almost immediately.
"Where exactly are we going, Captain?" Illidan questioned in a quiet voice. Despite the low volume he spoke at, his words still seemed to bounce back at them with a hollow tone.
Though Varo'then looked miffed that Illidan had questioned him, he replied nonetheless. "We've had a prisoner in our hold for quite some time, one that has proved surprisingly resilient. Many of our soldiers have tried to interrogate her, to no avail. Even when some of our sorcerers gave their best attempts, they, too, proved unsuccessful in their endeavors."
"And you wish for me to . . . ?" Illidan trailed off, staring at the back of Varo'then's head.
"I wish for you to try."
Illidan's mouth snapped shut. He may be a sorcerer of great ability—or so he considered himself—but he hadn't interrogated a prisoner before. Instead, Ravencrest had kept him up at the front lines during the war's greatest battles. Destruction and offense, he could do. The intricacies of mind play weren't necessarily something he shied away from, but he'd had little practice. In truth, Malfurion was the only one he'd even attempted to interrogate, and that didn't end nearly as well as it could have.
Still, I cannot fail. Not if proving my worth is what I need to do in order to gain their trust.
As they continued down the winding hallway, the stone walls eventually gave way to bars of iron that ran from the ceiling, down through the floor they walked upon. They passed a few empty cells, and Illidan could have sworn there were a couple that housed skeletons in the far, dark recesses of the square spaces.
Finally, they came to a stop in front of a cell on their right, and Varo'then gestured to the bars. "If you please, sorcerer."
Illidan hesitated, his gaze shifting slightly as he fought to control his expression. After taking a deep breath, he nodded, stepping up to the bars to look inside the cell.
His blood ran cold, feeling more like sharpened shards that grated against the interior of his veins than the liquid that kept his heart beating. Sweat burst from his palms, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides, hoping that Varo'then did not pick up on his unease. Hope that had all but disappeared weeks ago suddenly flooded into him again, traitorous as it was to Eliana.
He couldn't help his reaction, couldn't help the stutter that nearly stopped his heart.
She looked up at him, now-grungy waves of navy and silver parting around her upturned face, and he bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut. Her eyes widened, her shock rivaling his own, and he hoped that she wouldn't call out his name, ruining everything that he had planned.
Tyrande.
A/N:
I liiiiive.
Okay, first things first: I scoured my copy of WotA, and could not find the first mention of Varo'then. Knaak's favorite descriptor for him is "scarred captain" - okay, but where is this scar? The image of him on the Wiki wasn't helpful, either, since he didn't even appear to have a scar. So I tried to go with a little bit of creative liberty here.
Speaking of creative liberty, this is basically a scene that didn't happen in the novel. It was my hope that I could bridge the gap that Knaak left; we don't get to see much of Illidan's early days after he defects, and I thought this might be kind of fun to explore. Also, for those who pay really close attention, you'll notice that I tweaked things a bit. In the novel, Tyrande feels Illidan's presence, after his initial arrival. Of course, it makes for great angst if I make Tyrande Illidan's first test. So that was a bit of creative liberty as well.
I don't think I've mentioned this before, but EotB is now over 100 followers and I am SO FLOORED. I can't believe so many of you are, first of all, filled with endless amounts of patience, but mostly, that you care enough about this story and the characters enough to stick around, waiting for more chapters. I appreciate each and every single one of you, and would absolutely love to hear your thoughts in reviews! There are a few of you who are always kind and leave reviews, but I've gotten so many new followers in the past few months that I've never heard from! I don't bite, I promise : 3
As always, thanks to Arenoptara for beta-reading on such short notice all the time.