A blur.

An echo.

A beat.

Shafts of light broke through great and immovable shadows, as if the world of dark had been reborn as a world of light. Sleep, so simple and easy, broken away back to a cruel world of duality. Perhaps it would have been nice to remain in an easy place such as that, a cold yet comforting place, far away from the heat of hatred.

But this sleeping soul could feel the harshness of the real world on their skin, could see the light of one hateful star through cracked lids, and could smell death in the air. These things were free from the depths of a dreamless slumber.

Hands gripped uselessly at the ground as the soul stirred, rising in a haze. What felt like a raging fire burned through their head. The pain was all that kept the soul from returning to oblivion, their mind catching up. They were Sint Dagon. She, only what felt like a second ago, was clutching her head as Dragonfire whipped up into a fury around her. Now she was on her back, body wracked in a similar pain that filled her consciousness when the fires began to take over. The smell of brimstone and burnt flesh wafted through the air, which is what woke her. Groggy, she rose from the makeshift bed she laid on. It was more a bedroll, her head propped up just barely by a log and a pillow.

There was no time to wonder how she got here, what was going on, or even if her war was still ongoing. She was not a prisoner here, at least, things didn't seem to be near reinforced enough to hold her. Lifting as slowly as she could to avoid any further pains, her vision was able to refocus and pay attention to the details of the room she was in. Surprisingly, it was a room. At first, she thought it was a hollowed out tree, but then caught herself as she knew well enough the signs of treeweaving. Grown by song and kindness, a small brush of trees would be molded into any shape, as a mutual trade between a druid and the ecosystem around them. Then it was likely she was still in the custody of the night elves, but… She shook her head. She slapped her hands against her face to psyche herself awake, jumping as she did. That got the blood flowing, a little.

She reached for a weapon, but didn't find one. So, she'd have to improvise. Looking around the room for any furniture, she came up empty of anything she could use. That was until she looked back to the bedroll propped against that log. Crude, but it'd suffice. Lacking armor and dressed in the little underneath her battlegear, Sint wrapped a blanket around her neck. She swung the log through the air a few times, testing its heft. Everything was prepared by the time Sint peered through the ajar doorway. Senses still fuzzy and head still throbbing, she could barely make out what she saw through the blinding sunlight. Had she really slept through the morning?

Two fighters stood nearby, both pointy enough to probably be elves. She spoke. "Sold-" Then she caught herself in surprise, her voice notably much deeper than usual. Had she slept that deeply? "Ahem. Soldiers. What's the situation?"

Taller than her, the first sentry looked down with obvious surprise. The night elf, touched by the Night Warrior, was stained with soot and blood. Auburn eyebrows furrowed. "The healer told the truth…"

The other elf, a high elf, nodded slowly. Calmer than his partner, he spoke evenly. "Lady Dagon, shouldn't you be resting? Your last battle took a lot out of you." Betraying the look on his face and the candor of his voice, he started to white-knuckle his sword's grip.

"I restate the question, though this time, I demand to know what is going on." She didn't like the tone of her own voice, but it seemed to convince the night elf to speak. He was clearly more rattled than his partner.

"You don't remember? Well, let me catch you up. You're in Halicanaar, a settlement my people had to abandon during the start of the War." He did his best to ignore the glare he got from his partner. Anxious, he gulped. "The Silver Battalion's been using it for a moment as a sort of garrison. Though, it looks like we're going to have to abandon it."

"Abandon it?" Sint shook her head. "I will not flee from this foe. Give me your sword."

The high elf's calm expression broke. The nerves were evident in his stuttering tone. "H-he can't do that, ma'am."

"Are you denying me, soldier?" Despite her height, the elf felt as if she were looking down at him. "On whose orders?"

"Someone with good interest in keeping us all alive, including you." The high elf stepped back, his sky-blue eyes narrowing at her. "You clearly don't know what's going on. Do you even remember the Scouring of the Whitebloom fields, or was that all done in a fit of blind anger?"

"The scouring?" Lady Dagon stood back, a colorful glare now cutting through her features.

The elf trembled in anger. Though he stood before such a force of destruction, he did not fear to speak his mind. "You leapt from the sky and defied everything right in the world. It still burns. Those fields still burn!" With that, he grit his teeth, and ran off to defend what remained of the camp. The night elf looked to the side, his abyss stained eyes betraying the internal struggle he was going through.

If Sint's gut feeling was right, she lost control. Dragonfire finally overwhelmed her senses and turned her rabid. A pit formed in her gut as she felt a sinking feeling hit. It wasn't the enemy that had these people scared. Nor was it the Black Legion's fault that she woke up in unfamiliar territory. It was entirely her fault, her problem. It wasn't as if she didn't know she was losing control. The hot flashes. The anger that wasn't her own. Pain in her heart. The spirits of her ancestors. Some divine force had hijacked the soul of her family, and was burning her from the inside. She knew this. But she didn't know how to stop it, or how bad it got. Something disgusting brewed inside of her. She could feel it. Worse than the black volcano in the Redridge. Worse than the malefic rage of a mad dragon, far worse than the righteous fury that powered the armies of the Light. No. This was not a mundane anger. This was not a divine anger. Though compelled by both mortality and immortality, the thing within Sint was nothing short of world-ending.

And she needed it. These people, this army… they needed it. This horrendous thing that coiled around her heart, that ripped away her sanity. People needed it for the battles ahead.

Her brother came to peace with the fire within, but it was perhaps because he never needed to call upon its truth in combat. Fire was something he was known for, that was a certainty, but he never once invoked the thing that was turning Sint to ash. She cursed. "Damnit… if only he were alive…"

"Milady?" The elf fiddled nervously with the hilt of one of two sheathed blades. "Did you say something?"

"No. Perhaps it's best that I leave the fighting to the defenders of Halicanaar." An unsettling burst of energy started to rip away the fatigue that once seeped into her bones. Like a winter chill chased away by the warmth of a much too early summer. Such energy was hard to hide from her voice, which lacked the immediate sensations of someone stirred suddenly from a long and deep sleep. "If what I suspect is true, then I cannot act with a good conscience. Madness has no use on the field."

"If I may, Lady Dagon?" He seemed to be slowly gathering his resolve.

"You are clearly not under my command. Speak your mind." She casually gestured for him to speak, certain he'd have little of importance to add. That was because she failed to remember the similar state of the night elves, their patron Goddess' wrath quite literally painted across their faces.

"Usually, faced with great power, I find myself unshaken. I am witness to so many spectacular things, some that you may even find unimaginable. The time of the Ancients, when the land was filled with endless splendor and magic, freed from the grime of this modern age. Suramar is the last remnant of that which was, and you know of its glory." The elf drew one of his weapons. "There were those who even made your Guardians look small."

"But I frighten you?" Sint did not expect to hear this from the elf.

"Is that so shocking?" The kaldorei shook his head, his eyes closed. "Yes. You horrify me, young one. You reflect something that the High Priestess faces, madness at the end of a necessary power." He then looked at her, his sight both scrutinizing yet horrified. "What haunts me is the voices of the people I have seen lost to great power, but none have ever been as great as yours or the Night Warrior's. I don't know where your's came from, Lady Dagon, but I already hear the dead screaming your name."

That sent a shiver down Sint's spine.

"Hail to a new God." He knelt, offering his sword. "I feel you do not need this, but it is a gift nonetheless. Anta'dorini Talah."

Let your will be known. She held the elf's blade as he left, drawing his other to join his comrades in battle. Sint did not urge to join him, speechless, frozen where she stood. It was no secret to the world that the Children of the Stars were the most devout souls in the world. Faith was not something debated within night elvish society, it was an easy fact. Elune, and all things ascribed to Elune, were true. They needed no interpretation. They needed no guidance based on Elune's word. If there was a night elf that existed who did not believe in Elune, Sint had never met or heard of the sort. Nor had she seen many kaldorei's faiths shaken. Even the Burning of Teldrassil proved to strengthen their faith in their goddess, even as she failed to protect them in their hour of greatest need. They stood, black-eyed and grey-skinned, paragons of a wrathful deity.

But that one, that defender of Halicanaar, just offered tribute to her as a goddess. He spoke in undeniable heresies to her, even as he wore the battle-garb of his goddess.

"Do you know what Halicanaar was, before it fell?" A spectral voice rose from behind her, gruff and familiar. Sint did not need to turn to know it was Svenrir who spoke. "Now, before we get ahead of ourselves, yes. I didn't stop your rampage."

"You were even aware? I flailed like a berserk devilsaur, chewing up everything in my path." Sint finally let the log in her hand drop, now swinging her new weapon. "Surprising that you kept your awareness through all of that."

"The power you hold is your's. What you do with it has little effect on us, at least, not in a way that could harm us." The man walked to where Sint could see him, standing to her side. He was notably clearer than the last time she spoke to him, his body not made of pure golden energy. It was like looking at a man through a piece of colored glass, now, and if that man was mildly translucent. "In fact, that rampage empowered us. I doubt the Black Legion could threaten Giant's Landing now, if the Gift-Giver was juiced up just like the rest of us."

"So then, why? Why did you stand back?" Sint didn't dare to yet look him in the eye, rage bubbling in her chest.

"To be honest, there was nothing I could've done about that." Svenrir was brutally honest. "I am a spirit. You were outputting enough firepower to outpace a Legion ship. The hell am I supposed to do? Swing my not real axe at you?"

"Fair point." Sint grimaced. "But you didn't even say a thing."

The ghostly warrior knew she'd say that, even though his face showed a bit of surprise. Even expected, it wasn't something he wanted to answer. He drew in a hesitant breath, also surprised that a ghost could do such a thing. He sat in a chair manifested from golden light. "You know how it is."

Sint narrowed her eyes. "Do I?"

He rubbed his great black beard, grumbling in thought. "You do. Talking about these things, it's never been easy. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone in your bloodline. We're not open people. We don't talk to anyone about our… troubles." Svenrir sighed. "It always shocked me that I never met your father. Did I observe him? Of course. He had the gift. He knew he had the gift. But he never reached out. He always attempted to find it in such… faulty ways. Dengarl found it at the depths of despair, as the sole light remaining in his life. You found it after facing a great trauma, the strength of your will ushering in power. Artessa found it through her unbreakable faith. I found it because of a sheer act of bravery, something no other man would've done. Every Dagon who has touched the power of the Gift did something great to deserve it. Each of us stood strong through the tides of darkness before we could carry this torch, because we needed to prove ourselves."

Sint remained silent. Sven paused to allow her to speak, as she tended to have questions for these sorts of things. But Sint's curiosity was nowhere to be seen. Just silence. The first Dagon chose to keep going. "Your father never did these things. He always tried to cheat it, and he hurt so many to reach it. You. Dengarl. Koda. Even Santo, the boy he doted on."

"...Brother." Sint then gave her forefather an urgent look. "Even him?"

"It wasn't a true father's devotion. I treated my boys fairly and with a sturdy hand, but never in the way Aerick did. Aerick saw Santo as the way to finally achieve the power he thought was destined to be his." The spirit shook his head. "You are right to say you have no father, Sint. Even thinking that Aerick is related to me makes me wish I could possess bodies to chase him down and end him with my own hands."

Sint closed her eyes. "I feel awful for putting so much faith on the shoulders of Dengarl, while Santo died protecting us all. I hope he died without knowledge of this fire… This horrible thing within me."

"I doubt Santo begrudges you much for loving Dengarl more than you loved him. Perhaps the realization stung at the time, but his heart was in a good place when he died." Svenrir stood, that magical seat evaporating into gilded mist. "His heart was full of love when he gave his life. Love for his family, for his wife, for his son. For you. For Dengarl. Even for Geneva, a girl his father always insisted was lowly trash."

Sint lowered her sword in a fluid movement, lifting her chin up and opening her eyes. Where one may have expected a joyous sadness, there was only resolve. "Thank you, Svenrir. I think I know what Halicanaar is. It's a tomb, and these guardians stand to defend the honor of the dead. What use does the Black Legion have coming here, other than to take me?"

"I can't say. While you were out, I tried to do my best to keep an ear open. But travel's a little restricted when the fire is dim." He jabs a thumb towards the direction of the fighting. "What is somewhat telling, though, is that they attacked the defenders first. They didn't come for you, at all. Nor did they go for the tombs. Now, you've got to get back into the fight. We've done our best to renew your strength, now use it."

Halicanaar wasn't completely abandoned, Sint could see it. As she ran forward to leave the small encampment that was built around the woven home she was sequestered in, she could see the signs that people still lived here. It had been mostly left to ruin, however, and she could see the scars of recent warfare evident. Buildings were punctured by artillery fire. A temple lay shattered and scattered not far from her, atop a central hill. But, what was most striking, were the remains of the great tomb. She wasn't aware that the Kaldorei kept crypts like Halicanaar's great tomb, but it dwarfed even the temple complex of Darnassus in scale. It was built into a mountain, akin to many ancient fortresses of the Highborne, even hewn of the same black stone. Was it possible Halicanaar was one of the few remaining Highborne cities left on Azeroth?

Sigils of the old dynasty were prevalent across the stonework that she could see, though she was certain the tomb went much further and became more ornate the further in she went. Some entrances were buried by sediment or by crumbling stone. It was clear, however, that great pains had been taken to make sure the structure was maintained. Then it hit her that the statues she swore she saw were elves. At least thirty of them stood still, each at a post, well armed and covered in armor.

It gave her the message that the tomb was extremely sacred to these people. Their city lay under siege and over half abandoned, yet they didn't leave the side of their duty. She gave a nod to them, even if they didn't see her, to promise that she would break this siege eventually. The bloodied night elf didn't stand too far away from where Sint had run, surrounded by dead orcs. He was breathing heavily, his sword stained with black blood. "War has come at last. Do you fight this day, to turn this land to ash, or do you come to spare it?"

"I wish to leave this place to its defenders. To fight a war, I require valuable allies, and this place is not their hold." War observed, seeing how limited the defenses of Halicanaar were. "This is an outpost, a place to keep me far away from the heart of it all."

"They feared a wrathful awakening. If it is your desire to meet with the coalition, then I shall take you to them." The elf wiped the blood from his blade by passing it through the crook of his elbow. "I will warn that those within the Coalition do not wish to see you. Their hearts have been hardened to your path, as your wrath harmed many of them."

"I care not for their hearts. I only care that they are useful and willing to fight." Sint was frightened by her own voice. The role of a goddess was not one she wished to take, but it felt like it was natural for her to possess the role. "If they cannot fight, then I will fight without them. Conquest does not stand opposed only by them."

"The path is clear for now, Great War. Let us away from Halicanaar, before the spirits of the old dynasty are roused any further." The elvish soldier pointed through a line of hanging ivy, where a clear draft was blowing through. "That path shall take us to the Land of the Goddess, where the Black Legion does not dare chase yet. Whitebloom serves as a reminder of what happens if they dare cross over, even if Whitebloom was your doing."

Sint quirked a cut eyebrow. "They believe Elune is responsible for something I did?"

"Yes. Otherwise, they would have to admit you are alive." The elf cracked a small smile. "Admitting that you are a true warring divinity would be an admittance of defeat. Thus, they choose to think that you perished in white flames that still yet rage. You hold the advantage."

War smiled. Sint was uneasy. Either way, the march had to continue. What happened at the "Scouring of Whitebloom" was far from Sint still, and she needed to learn. She needed to remember, she needed to win. The Dark Lord would not conquer her victory that easily.