As far as anyone had really known, the Firstborn were dead and gone, erased with the passage of time. Sure, some of their legacies remained - Corvus was just a taste of their grand architecture - but none of them had lived long past the Sin War. Sometimes Tyrael thought it was a shame none of them were here now. They had been powerful indeed, and protective of their home. But alas, they were no more.
This, it turned out, was false.
Tyrael only discovered it was false when he came face-to-face with one of the ancients. And Rathma did not look happy to see him, not in the slightest.
Perhaps calling the old Nephalem 'alive' was a stretch. He glowed with a deathly aura that clued just about anybody in on why he'd chosen now to make his presence known. Of course the King of Necromancy would step in during something as apocalyptic as an attack on Sanctuary from the Angel of Death. And of course, he was furious about it.
Some of the fury had been directed at Tyrael, and he shuddered to think what Rathma would do when he finally found Malthael.
At least the Neo-Nephalem were enjoying his presence. Having someone around that could explain what they were slowly becoming seemed to take a lot of their minds. Tyrael frequently found himself watching the Nephalem, both old and new, interact with each other. It fascinated him for some odd reason.
Perhaps it was just nice to see his friends have someone to look to for guidance. Perhaps...perhaps he was slightly jealous about how easily they all fit together.
Strange that this stranger slotted in so easily with the other mortals, where Tyrael had struggled so much. Strange that he (at best) overlooked Tyrael, who, by all accounts, was of direct relation to him.
Tyrael decided he didn't want to think about how much of his brother he kept seeing in Rathma. Bringing it up would not end well anyway.