Note to the Reader: This is set between WCIII and WoW because I have never played the latter. Accordingly, it may disregard some things in WoW that I don't know about. And, since the games never explain certain things – like the fate of the old death knights from #II, or what it feels like to be Undead - I've felt free to embroider between the lines. Anything not explicitly stated in the games is fair game.

Started in the humor category, but it doesn't seem to strike folks as funny, so it's now a romantic action adventure. More or less.

Chapter I

Winter had come to Lordaeron. Drifts of snow covered the jagged remnants of what had once been a great city, now a graveyard of ice and stone. More snow wafted down from the leaden sky, softening the edges of the world in every direction. It settled in gutters and on the roofs of empty buildings, lying along the dark windowsills. It overlay everything, and the rank weeds of the city's once-verdant garden spots made a surreal topography under its forgiving mantle.

There ought to be bones. There were not. The cold streets were surreal in their emptiness, clean of life in the season when small things sleep.

All the same, shadows moved here and there in the doorless entries and broken archways. Every great city has its ghosts. Lordaeron had more than the usual. There was no telling what they had been in life. Now they were all the same, sharp-faced and diaphanous as they drifted through what had once been their home. The snow fell through them unimpeded as they went about their mournful business.

Except one.

One shape slid from doorway to doorway, a darkness indistinguishable from the shadows of a winter afternoon. Snowflakes fell on the hood of a dark cloak and lay on the fabric without melting, for it was already crusted with flaking ice. They fell likewise on the shaft of a longbow, blackened to give no reflection even in the blinding snow.

A ghost wafted down from a broken rafter into the inside of the house. Without voice or body, it was still not without the power to harm, and it did not look kindly on this invasion of its space. It knew its own kind, and knew the thing in the doorway did not belong.

It stopped short as it found itself looking at the head of a black arrow.

"Men's arrows may not pierce you," said a voice. "These will."

The arrow head hissed faintly as a snowflake touched it. The faint waft of steam was distinctly greenish in color. The ghost did not retreat, but neither did it move closer.

Sylvanas Windrunner shrugged, eased her pull on the bow, and padded on to the next doorway. She was pleased to observe that she left no footprints in the snow. Elves and banshees had that much in common, at least, she thought bitterly.

All things considered, she should not be here. Varimathras had warned her over and over against venturing out of the Undercity's Royal Quarter. He would undoubtedly grumble if he learned where she had been.

Sylvanas saw that as unlikely, given that no one knew the route she had taken to reach the surface. She had taken care to insure no one would stumble on it by accident. And even if they did…

An undead, fearful of dissolution, would balk at the portions which required swimming. A living mortal, should they find it from the outside, would never make it through her carefully arranged series of traps.

She'd been a strong swimmer in life. Even the horror of undeath could not change that. Besides, the venomous will that kept her soul in this too-solid flesh would never let her melt. Not in water. Not in acid. Not even in the black blood of her enemies, though one day she hoped to try it.

Meanwhile, the Undercity was safe in Varimathras' capable clawed hands. No doubt the old demon just wants me where he can keep an eye on me. I wonder if he worries that I will replace him with someone else, now that the Undercity is established.

At the moment, she had no such intention. Varimathras was an excellent majordomo. The Dreadlord was careful, devious, and unexpectedly meticulous, and he had shown an impressive capacity for administrating a city of the Forsaken.

It's just as well to let him think I might, Sylvanas thought. It will keep him honest. It certainly has so far.

Her system of spies had found no trace of dishonesty in him. He seemed to have well and truly turned his back on the past and all possibility of returning to the Nathrezim.

Which was strange, Sylvanas thought, shaking her long dark braid. Bits of ice cracked and slid from her skin, tiny shards falling to lose themselves in the snow.

Killing his own brother couldn't be that bad, for a demon. She understood little and cared less about the inner workings of Nathrezim society, but she suspected it was sufficiently ruthless to permit anything to one who was strong enough.

Perhaps that's it. Perhaps he's afraid of his own weakness. He'd given in to her awfully quickly, and she'd thought so at the time. He may not be able to hold his own against the other Dreadlords. Who knows? Perhaps Balnazzar was already planning to kill him when I came along. He didn't seem very reluctant to kill his own brother.

Sylvanas quashed a rising memory of her own sister. There was no knowing where Alleria was now, but she hoped it was far, far away from the unrestful corpse of her sibling. That life was over. Any contact with it could only destroy what remained.

She did not imagine there was much filial feeling among Dreadlords, Sylvanas thought, dragging herself back to the other train of thought. Varimathras would probably kill his own mother, or whatever progenitor demons have, if he thought it would buy him a shred of advantage.

She was close to her destination now. The high walls of the palace loomed above the remains of other buildings up ahead.

Except for the one whose house she had entered, the ghosts gave her a wide berth. They seemed to know that she belonged to the same grim fraternity as they did. I wonder why they all look the same? Sylvanas thought.

She paused for a second to listen. Once upon a time, she would have held her breath to listen for the sound of other heartbeats.

That was no longer necessary. She did not breathe, except to speak, and a good number of her enemies did not have beating hearts.