Everything went wrong. The people in the West weren't meant to be found by an enemy. Blackfist wasn't supposed to be alive. The people from Sint's past shouldn't have been involved. And Aerick Dagon was alive.
It didn't take a genius to take a look at Sint Dagon, body wreathed with white hatred, to know that this was one of the more dire outcomes of the day. Even though she had torn open the sky above, revealing the black moon, all eyes were focused on a different divinity. Elune manifested herself above them, yet the kaldorei could not whisper her name. The orcs dared not seek the comfort of the ancestors. The trolls could hardly recall their oaths to their Gods. Even the solitary soul on the field who yearned for the Light's radiance could not beg for its warmth, as his eyes were dead set on something more real. More terrible. More tangible.
They had all heard the stories. They all knew her name. Even the two wraiths of the Black Legion stood back. One dropped to a knee, the other clapped its hands. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous. Since the day you were born I knew you were meant for something greater than humanity! Look at her, all of you! We live in the age of gods!" Malad's voice was thick with pride. "I am proud of you, my daughter."
Sint did not look at him, her head still downturned. She was oddly still for someone covered with divine heat. The fires around her danced in a festival dedicated to her. Much of the armor she marched with, that mortal black and red, had been scorched and seared away. What remained was the lowest layer of that steel, which had been urged to glow a bright silver as it grew hotter and hotter. Hands once shrouded by claws were now uncovered, Sint's dark skin a contrast to the blinding fury around her. They clenched into fists, her body slowly returning to motion. She trembled.
"Is that what you see, abomination? Pride? Were you proud when you cast my sister aside like refuse? Was it pride that put me in a gilded cage, isolated from the world until it was undone? Your pride was the thing that killed mother? If it was pride that forced your hand, then I curse pride. I curse hope. I curse the divine and I curse you." It was not fear or grief that caused her body to shake. To hear one's father speak again might have driven them to joy, but as all who were present to witness War's awakening saw… This hatred was not pointed at the Darkness that had swallowed Aerick Dagon. It was pointed at him, at the thing that Aerick became. It sent a shiver down Aranor's spine to hear someone he respected speak to her father the way she did. Tarro Stardew did not expect her first meeting with Sint to go this way, fearing that perhaps it was a grave error to allow her to find them. And Ora-Ur clutched Ludrasa's hand, terrified. The elf wordlessly looked back at her, fear in her eyes. Ko'hea stood as she always did, proud of her duty, but she offered a silent prayer to whatever might be listening.
Malad stepped back, with Yama hesitantly following him. The First Blade wasn't expecting this answer. "...Is this what you thought of me? After everything I did for you? You, a meek little blind girl, you had no route to success! I gave you everything, you ungrateful child. The world had nothing to offer you, as you had nothing to offer it. There is nothing you are now that isn't because of me!" He lifted his right hand upwards.
"And you never thought to ask me what I wanted." Her breathing was all wrong, her lungs sounding as if they were ready to pop. "Never once did it matter what your family wanted. It was all about your glory and your gain." With a horrible first step, the ground shuddered. Azeroth herself felt terrified by War's awakening. "Power was all that you sought, each and every day you woke. That which the world offered you was not enough, so you took. And you took." She scaled the crater, each step leaving a searing mark in the stone. "I ask you. Do you truly believe that I had no potential? Or was that an excuse for the life you stole from me, father?" That word, father, was spoken as if it were a curse. Weighty and filled with untold venom, it was almost swung as if it were a weapon. To the point that Malad went to defend himself, his blade appearing in his extended hand. He stood, hoping himself prepared for the onslaught he had brought to this place.
"I ask you this. Did you even love her? Or was mother just another pawn in your pathetic little game?" War did not look at him yet, her head still turned downwards.
"Of course I loved her. I loved you, too." Malad lowered his guard for a second. "I fought for your future because I believed in you, Sint. Your name, it is the name of a hero." The wraith honestly seemed to forget that he was meant to be the enforcer of a Dark Lord. His stance softened. "So, it seems I did something wrong. Would you give me a chance to try again?"
She looked up, finally. The gold in her eyes was a fearsome silvery glow, almost blending in with the whites of her eyes. That glare alone was enough to stagger Malad. "Listen to yourself." A voice that once had traces of song, places where joy could one day return to, had changed. War did not speak with Sint's voice, though it was clear they were once the same person. Clenched, a fist lifted up. "A man such as you has no right to beg. You held your head so high, so high that even the Kings of this world did not matter to you. A life lived in such disregard for power does not belong in the place you find yourself now. A lapdog to an orc. I am embarrassed to be related to you, scum. Do us all a favor and stand still." Her clenched fist unfurled, her sword ripped from the ground with an unseen and tremendous force. Rebellion landed in her unclenched hand, soon finding itself embraced by a fist again. The silver Light she had imbued it with before return, replacing the weapon with a shimmering javelin.
Nobody expected another voice to join this familial dispute. "Sint, wait! That thing is your father? You can't kill him!" It was mundane Aranor who spoke, a man untouched by divinity or magic. Perhaps he was now proven to be the bravest, or most foolish, of the people assembled today. "Perhaps he deserves death, but I can't let you live with this! Don't you think you've had enough sorrow?"
"Family does not mean anything to me. They are all dead, all of them. I am doing my late father a favor by destroying this mockery of his name. This power… this strength…" She leaned forward, her arms went limp. For a moment the fire died down, the person Sint became almost seemingly curled up in pain. When her other fist tightened, Aranor could only pray for Sint's safety as this new being struck out. As if the presence of Malad was an outrage to the heavens, she launched herself with the strength of the world. Before she reached it, however, it called out to the Black Legion.
"What are you standing around for?! She's going to kill me! At least win this battle!" Then, with all the strength invested to it by Blackfist, he met his daughter's blade before it could bisect Malad. It brought its sword down to its side just barely before she struck, the lash of her blade impacting hard against accursed steel. The force of such a strike would have likely shattered most weaponry and most men, but luckily, Malad no longer was a man. It slid multiple meters before it stopped, a searing mark left in the First Blade's weapon. Malad knew it could not take another strike like that head on.
Then it looked behind itself, boggling at the sight. Divinity compelled into that slash had been unbidden by its defense, a deep blazing gash in the ground behind it. It would have wept if it still had a face. To be granted such power after so much hard work, only for one of the few in all of creation capable enough to stop it appeared before it. Unsteady, Malad took one step back. Fire lapped at the blacksteel boots it wore, and it could feel the holy pressure threatening to bite through that accursed metal. None of Blackfist's measures had prepared for this, at least, not enough for his minions to stand up against it.
Was this why the Dark Lord had spent so much time studying Sint, after his death at her hands?
Was it because he had seen this war, once before? As if to answer Malad, time slowed to a stop, the sky growing dark again. This was something all servants of the Dark Lord had grown used to. The Dark Lord's realm. Shrouded in shadow, Stonetalon faded to black, before a line of crimson candles lit the way to a throne wrought of ichorous earth.
Before the Dark Lord, Malad was rendered merely as Aerick again. Such ascendent strength was nothing to his master. He knelt. "...My Lord. I don't understand."
A fog covered the throne, but Aerick could see the colossal form of his master move. His all-consuming voice ripped through the relatively peaceable dark, conquering the shadow and Aerick's thoughts of safety. His voice alone was a reminder that Aerick's life and strength were all dependent on his master, and there was no future away from his master's path. "Aerick Dagon. You had a question."
"I meant no disrespect, but I never could understand why you spent so much time on my daughter." Aerick was free to speak plainly to his master, duplicity was never necessary with a being of such power. "I never saw anything but disappointment in the girl, so to see her again, so unlike what she was before… To think that she was the War you were so focused on, it boggles the mind."
"That is the problem with mortals. Such limited perspective." The Dark Lord seemed to rest his chin against his fist, heavy armor rattling as he moved. "Where you saw the limits of her physical being, you never saw what she was. It is why you appealed to me. Why any mortal appeals to a God."
"My Lord?" Dagon looked up at his master, perplexed.
"Weakness. You were a weak little creature, scraping and fighting for tiny pieces of power. You had no knowledge. You had nothing but your duplicity." The Dark Lord pointed at Aerick. "Then you began to serve our master. And then, me." There was a slight note of disdain in the Dark Lord's voice. "You were nothing, and then became powerful. Why is it a stretch that your blood could do the same?"
"She's surpassed me, my Lord. I stand no chance! It's preposterous, but ultimately true. How? What let this happen?" Not unlike War, Aerick was outraged.
"The answer is simple. You discarded things that you regarded as weaknesses, whilst she never possessed those weaknesses. Sniveling, conniving, arrogant. You are a common stereotype that managed just slightly to break the mold by bending the knee to your betters, with dignity." Blackfist stood, his glowing blue eyes never looking away from Aerick. "She is better. She is more than your blood, far more. Do you not see, foolish man? You forced the world to make her into what she is. War is a product of your arrogance."
Aerick shook his head. He stood with balled fists, fury evident on his spectral face. "...Impossible!"
"Do not make a fool of yourself. Calm yourself, man." Blackfist grabbed his helmet from where it rested on his throne, the Dark Lord now descending from his seat. "Your battle is not yet lost. After all, I expected her to fall to this. You were bait."
The dark world broke away and once again, Malad was whole. Shaken, yet whole. It- no… he. He saw the clouds begin to blaze with the same ferocity his daughter was displaying. It took less than a second for the wraith to return to his plan of battle, to hold War off as long as he could before his Black Legion escort won the battle. He expected to see his superior forces running down the remnants of the Horde squadron, only to be surprised to see that his forces were being pushed into a standstill. A few elven glaives were caught in the mud, opening the wraith's eyes to the fact that the Black Moon finally reached the Dark Lord's land. Blackfist would be displeased.
Another swipe of War's blade shook Malad to his senses, forcing the wraith to prepare for another heavy impact. Summoning a dark barrier this time, he just barely saved his sword from being bent in twain by the weapon of the wrathful. The dark was easily broken, like taking a sledge to glass. This could not be kept up for much longer, until Malad looked upon his compatriot. Yama-O was clearly damaged from her fight against the Horde and the human ranger, but she had fight left in her. The only thing was, she did not rush to his aid. It looked to Malad that Yama was waiting for War to kill him, to give her a one on one battle with War.
"You idiot! Stop gawking at me and help me defeat the Dark Lord's enemy! If we win today, we will be afforded great glory!" Malad called to her, and it almost seemed in vain. The younger wraith rolled her head back and forth, groaning and moaning in thought. Then, something must have clicked in her bellicose head.
"Right. If she can kill you, then she could cream me." She curled her hands into claw-like shapes. "Not that being killed by her isn't a dream, but I'm not out to die today."
"I'm not going to ask what fantasies are in your head, Yama. Just… Keep it reigned in." Malad lifted his sword, tracking the slowly advancing War. "I want to last beyond this day, as I have strived much too long for power to die by this petulant child's hand."
"Whatever you say. I'm just amped to fight someone this strong." Yama sounded excited, much to Malad's intense displeasure. He could never understand how Yama-O could be so eager to fight powers that dwarfed her own. "Think she puts up as good a fight as master does?"
"If she does, then we will die." Malad brought his blade in front of him, lifting it up just slightly. He gripped the hilt of it with his other hand, bringing the sword down into a short guard. "Such a thing cannot be the truth."
"You say a lot of things aren't possible. But you thought it was impossible she could even be this tough, and then she is." The younger wraith probably would have sneered at her if this form had a face.
He steadied himself. "Well. The truth is a fickle mistress. Today, I hope it is on my side, for once in my bloody life."
Approaching slowly, War's slow march was greatly intimidating. Akin to a prowling predator, it was impossible to tell when she was going to pounce. The shadow she cast was long and great, as if she were a colossus amongst them all. Her brother had stood a colossus of war, but she was not something belonging to war. She was not the Shadow of War. That name was a lie. It was simply wrong. Beholding what stood before him now was simply done, now. There was no theory. There was no need to think about what his daughter became.
Blackfist was right to do all he did in preparation. If it even mattered now.
War, not the Shadow of War nor Sint Dagon, stood against him here. And it was a result of his own hubris. With nothing else to blame but his own deeds, he steeled himself for the consequences. It did not take long for them to hit. As she neared, he lunged, his blade thrusting forward with quite a bit of might. If he could take her off-guard, Yama could capitalize and send War on the backfoot. Alas, it seemed she was truly inexorable. His blade was easily caught by War's bare hand, knocked to the side as if it were a child's plaything.
Yama did her best to try to protect her superior, a flurry of lightning-fast jabs flung into War's side. And it left her mostly unphased, a snarl on her face. She spun her fist into Yama's head, sending the wraith spiraling into the dirt. Ora-Ur audibly cursed. "You're kidding! It took three of us to land a good hit on her!"
"And she still would've killed us." Ko'hea added, dryly.
"I knew it was smart to wait." Aranor added with a triumphant note, although his confidence quickly wavered. He seemed to doubt the success of his plan 'to wait for Sint'.
Malad stood, trying to regain his poise. The wraith danced backwards. Using as much noble footwork he could, he tried to maintain the posture of a fencer now, using his sword more as a thrusting weapon than a slashing weapon. To be fair, his blade was slim and simple, much unlike the more gaudy weapons many of the other wraiths used. Only Yama could claim to have something more mundane, as her fists were her only weapon. As War swung her sword in an unruly arc, Malad began to see that this threat was not as grave as he first believed. Although she could kill him with ease, she was flailing like a rampaging beast. Each strike was fast, but the speed was not something he could not adjust to. Blackfist made him his First Blade for a reason, for Malad carried an uncanny trait to understand a person by looking at them.
Sure it took him a moment to read his own daughter, but to be fair, she did startle him by still even drawing breath. So what if he saw her before and disregarded his suspicion due to his doubts? He second guessed himself. A rare thing, but it happened. He would clean this mess up, as it was his duty. After years of burying rivals and rising through the social structure of gloomy, paranoid Gilneas, it was only right that he was able to size someone up and dispatch them. Just usually, he didn't have to do it personally. Usually that miscreant, Lord Gyre, would do the dirty work for him.
Karth was a continent away, doing whatever the bidding of one of his master's "allies". He could not rely on the Malevolent here. He pranced around his daughter's raging blows, each strike boiling stone and scarring the earth. It was true that he did not wish to be on the receiving end of any of them, as they continued to grow stronger and stronger. Yama watched, waited. It was good that that ruffian could understand when to wait for her superior's signal. Malad deflected a strike that got too close for comfort, casting a quick shadowstep to get him behind Yama. War was practically frothing as she looked around for him, likely only seeing red. "My my, Sint. You've gotten quite proficient with your craft! To think you'd excel at the trade I wanted you to bother with the least. It's as if you did everything you could to spit on your own father's hard work." He gave a curt chuckle. "It's a shame, however, that you fight like that mongrel. I should have had Dengarl killed, not allowed to taint you nor Santo. But he did, and here I am, suffering the consequences."
"Uh… boss?" Yama stepped back a few paces, nearly bumping into Malad. There was a clear hesitation in her voice.
"What is it? Do not waste my time." Malad was in the midst of declaring victory. What could this buffoon have to say- then Malad started to follow the direction Yama was looking. The fiery gash wrought in the earth started to glow brighter as furious blazing walls of fire spouted up. Like the talons of a phoenix, they cast darkness away like a father would his belligerent son. Malad didn't quite understand until he looked back to War, who stood eerily still near the most recently cut scar.
"What did you say? Kill Dengarl?" Her voice was light, but it was not kind. Unlike the ominous and heavy-handed speech before, Sint seemed as far away as the stars. "My brother. The one who saved my life, time and time again. The one who helped me see the light that never was given to me? The one who died so that I could live?" But Malad had to remember that this warrior was Sint no longer. As her grip tightened on her blade, she turned to face him, both hands now wrapped around its hilt. She looked up, tears in her eyes. "Everyone is dead because of you. I considered that you were just a phantom using my father's voice… but even a phantom wouldn't remember my brother's name."
Malad could feel Yama tense. She fought like a wild animal, that one, but she also had the senses of one. For a moment, he swore the flames transformed themselves into a skull or a scythe of some sort, though he was wise enough to know it was his mind playing tricks on him. For in truth, he saw what happened. The wall of flame now encircled the three of them. No escape. Either he worked out how to kill War, or both he and Yama would be turned into dust and thrown into the wind.
"You didn't believe that Aerick was capable of these things? That revered Lord Dagon could not commit such deeds? The world is not a clean place, Sint. Our bloodline is tainted! Look at yourself now, controlled by the very magic planted into the first of our lineage! Why would you come here, other than to serve the whims of the beasts who control this world? Blackfist gave me a chance to break our chains!" He put one foot forward, his fist brought up. "This world is a prison!"
War did not give a response, only lifting her blade into a proper stance. It was clear that this deity was prepared to take his head for his words. Never had he expected to fight in a ring of white flames, a black moon looming over head, battling to the death with a divinity. In truth, Aerick did not expect many things that happened to him over the years. If you asked any of the people present for the battle today if they expected any of this to happen, they would have probably turned you down and called you insane for even suggesting the notion. Yet there they were. Malad prepared to return to his dance, the duelist's posture returned.
Then, Malad found himself face to face with the warring divinity, her blade coming to take his head. He pushed Yama into the path of the blade. "Malad?!" And then, one moment Yama was there, the next the echo of her screams were all that remained. Malad watched Yama get obliterated from this world, and a deep terror filled him. Something unlike he'd ever felt, even when he died and when he first faced his master. He hadn't even felt this terror at the thoughts of failing the Dark Lord.
It wasn't his smartest choice to leap through the molten firewall, but what choice else did he have? War would crush him with ease. The least he could do is attempt to flee. All of his confidence in his power, all of his confidence in his talent, it went to waste. Malad came to this battle unprepared, and was about to die for it. But War did not chase him. As he lay on the ground, forced to discard much of his binding armor due to it being melted together, he had expected to meet the same fate as Yama-O. Yet he didn't. That fearsome glowing blade did not pierce his chest, that ferocious glare did not burn him. He only found that he was in the company of a few of the Black Legion who remained, who were quickly being pushed back. They had the Horde, they did! This day was supposed to end with the birth of a new Wraith Knight, with the Horde squadron crushed. Instead, Yama-O was vanquished and her entire escort was in shambles. And he nearly faced his true death.
He swallowed what remained of his ascendent pride, feeling very human in the face of the true divine. The power of the Dark Lord may have been his own, but he could not claim to hold a candle to either War or Conquest.
A shout belted from the fire, before it burst. Many of the Black Legion were vaporized by the blast wave, but so too were many of the Horde. Malad looked on, perplexed. He then watched his salvation, and perhaps the true reason the Dark Lord sent him here this day. Both to humble him and to witness his enemy's downfall. Blindly, War started to swing at the Horde soldiers, and even a few sentinels who had leapt into the fray. He watched as the sentinel leader, a nightborne, and the three who battled Yama-O rushed to stop their ally.
War was untamed. War was unbidden. War came like a true inferno, to burn all the world to ash. Such was her hatred. Such was her fury. And thus, it was her greatest weakness. Sint Dagon was being driven mad by the fire within her, by the War she had become.
"This is Goth'gor's victory. My lord… I am sorry to have ever doubted you!" And with the death that now seeped into the environment, Malad was able to use it to turn himself into a cloud of misty magic. The First Blade was eager to see his reward for providing his master with victory.
He saw death in that fire.
The death of Azeroth.
The Banished One's victory.
Blackfist's victory.