A/N: y'all gave me some great ideas for these short stories :3 eventually, I will get to writing all of them!


I. A Long Year - In which Kel'Thuzad loses everything he worked for and builds something new.

Song: A Long Year by Miracle of Sound

Content warning: stitching/very mild medical gore


Kel'Thuzad hovered above the blackened ground and studied the drifts of ash and scattered bone fragments. Most of the bones he found were bright white and smooth as porcelain, their mineral structure crystallized under intense, prolonged heat. Some were blueish, some blackened, and showed him where the fire had burned with less ferocity.

He reached down, sifted through the ash, and found a handful of what looked like white, odd-shaped marbles. They were the small bones of a human wrist. Among them, blackened but intact, was a silver bracelet. Kel'Thuzad plucked it from the ashes.

That's the last of them, then.

He straightened up and looked out over the devastation. It was most of a small town, razed to its foundations, wiped from the map with no survivors.

There was a soft creak of chitin armour behind him and a shadow fell over the ruins. Jaina told him she could feel Anu'Shukhet's steps when she approached; Kel'Thuzad had no physical contact with the ground and therefore the Nerubian could sneak up on him were he not actively paying attention.

"I suppose you're here to say 'I told you so'."

Anu'Shukhet fluttered her hindwings. "I am here to tell you that Jaina caught her."

"Jaina won't deal her what she deserves."

"Jaina executed her."

"She did?"

"The woman killed her dog. Jaina deemed that a crime worthy of execution."

He hissed. "It is. Though whatever Jaina did, I'm certain she didn't do it slowly enough."

"She never does. And she left the body to be buried. That was too much care for a hated enemy."

"And thus you did… what?"

Anu'Shukhet rubbed her mandibles together, producing a raspy purr that would've made his hair stand on end were he a living man. Kel'Thuzad interpreted it for what it was: a satisfied chuckle.

"Ah. Anything left of her?"

"I saved her right hand. Vostok tells me she was wearing rings that did not belong to her. He thought you might recognize them."

Kel'Thuzad made a noncommittal noise.

Anu'Shukhet huffed a jet of steam into the parched air. "If Jaina chooses to treat with any more traitors from the Black Dragonflight, I do not care what intelligence they may be able to provide. I will not give my opinion. I will eat them without hesitation."

"Good." There was nothing to be gained by staring at the remains of the town. He tossed the bracelet into the ashes. "Show me those rings."


Among the rings was what he expected to find: a silver band in a similar style to the bracelet; two halves of a wedding pair. With their wearers dead, so too was the Cult of the Damned. Two people of middling consequence. Not a significant loss at any other time.

Their deaths marked the last of Kel'Thuzad's hand-picked and trained Cultists. They had been with him when Arthas rose to claim the Helm, fought and survived the final battle of Naxxramas, hid themselves and returned to his side when he called, pledged allegiance to Jaina when Kel'Thuzad bid them, and now, burned to bone by the Black Dragonflight.

For the first time in many years, Kel'Thuzad was the commander of no one.

Technically he could command the lesser vassals of the Scourge, but they were mindless husks. There was no prestige in that. He had no personal retinue, no loyal attendants- and that posed a real and present problem, beyond the ringing blow to his pride.

Kel'Thuzad required disciples to resurrect him. Six of them, at a minimum. And he had zero.

He closed the doors of the laboratory behind himself and, after a moment of consideration, locked them.

For some time, he ignored the Helm of Domination on its pedestal near the desk. He read through the rituals of resurrection, familiarizing himself once again with the intricacies. His resurrection was no different from that of any other Scourge lich. Only his initial rebirth, when Arthas plunged Kel'Thuzad's mortal remains into the Sunwell and bound his loyal soul to the Helm, was unique.

He swept to and fro across the room, pacing, book in hand, considering the spells, rolling possibilities around in his mind.

He needed disciples. And how was he to acquire them? Some of the Nerubians were interested in necromancy. Their interest was twofold: half to better understand their enemies, and half because they knew power when they saw it. Kel'Thuzad approved of both reasons. It would take some time to find those among them with real potential and months to train them. There was a language barrier to consider. And that was assuming any of them were worthy.

Assuming Jaina would allow it in the first place.

He snarled and left the book open on the desk to peruse the bookcase instead.

The Nerubians would never be utterly loyal to him, anyway. The Nerubians were, first and always, loyal to their empire.

He hovered, staring through the shelves. No. It had taken years to source the right people and cultivate their devotion. It wasn't a task that could be hurried, but Kel'Thuzad was a patient man. He had eternity, if he was careful, to rebuild a retinue.

And that brought him back to the issue at hand. He could be killed and would now stay in the helpless fugue between undeath and true death. Although he had no empirical evidence, Kel'Thuzad suspected that too much time spent in that condition led to madness. His experiences with the state were brief, limited by the quick action of those lost disciples.

That contemplation sparked an adjacent memory- Silithus, the year before, unravelling his physical form into pure magic to create a portal so the Warchief of the Horde could reach Jaina as she fought Ner'Zhul. A ghost. Not the same as lich-death, but still incorporeal. Jaina had been able to see him, as had the shaman Warchief, and she spoke to him via their psychic link.

He tapped his teeth with one clawed finger.

The immediate problem is resurrection. Kel'Thuzad didn't have time to lament the loss of his Cultists.

Jaina was more than powerful enough to complete the rites by herself. Although she stubbornly refused to learn anything about raising the dead beyond theory, he could convince her to learn this.

And what if there is a future where Jaina is unavailable?

He tossed the thought aside but not before it spawned a radical prospect: could he resurrect himself?

"Hmm."

Now that was a question he could tackle immediately.

He turned to the Helm.


"Manifesting a physical form from pure magic takes immense power."

Kel'Thuzad leaned over Jaina's shoulder and watched her trace out a line of runes along the curve of a spellmap.

"You're looming."

He withdrew. "The form is written into the spells. Still, it takes a practised hand to execute them precisely."

"Practised? How am I to practise this?"

"A turn of phrase, not a direction."

"But still a relevant question." She looked up at him. "Tell me you're not planning some adventure that might kill you."

"No. But in the event of my death, I trust you will be capable of enacting the spells successfully, with study and care."

He circled the desk where Jaina sat, paused at the Helm, and turned away.

"I appreciate your confidence." She continued to copy the runes. "I see how it's been partitioned for multiple casters but…"

"But?"

"Theoretically one person can manage it. Theoretically me. But if I'm capable of it, then what about you? Is it possible to resurrect yourself?"

Kel'Thuzad folded his hands behind his back. "I had the same thought."

"And?"

"As I said, it takes immense power to craft a body and when I'm dead, I'm unable to manipulate magic to the degree I can while undead. I would not have the necessary strength."

Jaina stopped writing and flipped back a page in her notebook, then another. "Creating your physical form is only one of the steps. What if you skipped it? What if you already prepared a physical form? Like you had when I first met you, when you were Kazimir. The specifics of re-binding your soul to a new physical form take place after that form is created."

"That was only a temporary body. And rather uncomfortable. A similar form would have the same limitations-"

"No, not a random corpse. What if you created this body, the one described in the spells? The one you have right now? This form can withstand the scope of your powers."

Kel'Thuzad raised a finger, prepared to contradict her, paused, lowered his finger, and cocked his head. "That… could work."


Four days later, they had fabricated an exact replica of Kel'Thuzad's body. He circled his doppelganger, inspecting their work.

"This is weird." Jaina looked back and forth between them. "Don't you find this weird?"

"A little," he admitted. He touched one of the doppelganger's tusks. "Hmm."

"What are you thinking?"

"Entropy. A body like this will decay over time without my soul- my consciousness- present to support it. It would need constant attention."

"I've seen you heal- or repair- yourself. Could you do the same for this body?"

He chewed on that thought for a while.

"Possibly." It wasn't a perfect solution but it was something.

Jaina returned to the desk and flipped through the rituals. "Could you design a spell to lessen the decay and attach it to the one that creates your body?"

"I thought the same. So far, I've found no success trying to change, add, or remove parts of the spells."

She sat down and propped her chin on her fist, frowning at the book. "It…" She continued to read for a minute. "This is incomplete- it's missing something."

"Yes." He turned to the Helm on its pedestal. "This ritual was part of the Lich King's gifts to me, given before I died. The missing parts of the spell are governed by the underlying influence of the Lich King. I was told this kept others from stealing the rituals and using them without our approval, but it's also a form of control; I have life only so long as my King permits."

Jaina met his gaze for a moment, then shifted her contemplation to the Helm. "I never noticed when you were resurrected. Why didn't I notice?"

He hesitated. "I believe you did, but it is one of those things that you must understand in order to recognize. You were already overwhelmed; it was one more flash of strange magic among the clamour of the Scourge. As I said, it relies on your underlying influence and even in the beginning, you were permissive."

"Perhaps I can permit you to change the spell, then." She reached across the desk for the Helm. "If the missing parts are within my power, they must be written here somewhere." She furrowed her brow. "Sometimes… sometimes pieces of spellwork appear to me when I wear the Helm or when I dream."

That gave him a little tremor of excitement. "You're not just feeling the magic anymore. You're seeing the mechanics of it?"

She nodded. "I've copied down the parts I can remember. There are so many. And many of them are massive." She settled the Helm on her head and reached out a hand to him. "Come and see."

He closed his skeletal fingers around her hand. There was a moment of confusion, of giddy union, and then the brilliant figure of her in his mind's eye. Around them, visible in misty lines, were the runes and struts and junctions of enormous spells.

See?

He followed her intent. I see.

It would take years to understand all of this… He felt her excitement, then shame at that excitement, then a yearning for something he couldn't describe. A past? A future? A place? He didn't understand.

Concentrate on exactly what we're seeking. We don't need all of it right now.

It took some moments for Kel'Thuzad and Jaina to coordinate their intentions. In combat it was easier to work together; they had the same goal, or similar enough that one would join the other. Like this, with two inquisitive minds wandering through so much information, it was more difficult. Eventually, Jaina let him lead the search and followed with minimal distraction.

They stood in silence for an uncountable length of time.

I'm hungry.

Yes, of course.

They parted and Jaina removed the Helm. "Did you see it?"

"Not what we were looking for."

"I mean the- the vastness of it." Her eyes brimmed with light.

"We've only just scratched the surface."


Kel'Thuzad circled the doppelganger, studying it from every angle.

He had not touched it since its creation over a month ago. The rate of magical decay was faster than he expected. Because it's empty. This body was meant to be inhabited; it couldn't sustain itself without a conscious soul attached to it. He could maintain it from the outside but as he watched it slowly decompose, he realized that if it were not in perfect condition when he needed it, it would be no better than the corpse of the dead mage he had tolerated while posing as Kazimir Frostblood.

That disguise had been too fragile to channel Kel'Thuzad's power- it slowly disintegrated the more he used magic- and the doppelganger would end up the same way if it was anything less than perfect upon his entry. He could force his true form to manifest once the decay turned his temporary form unusable, as he had done with Kazimir, but the idea of an intermediate body disgusted him. He was a lich, an exceptionally powerful and brilliant mage, and he wasn't going to wear anything except his glorious true form upon resurrection.

Kel'Thuzad fought the urge to fling everything off his desk in a fit of frustration.


Kagra was a good patient. She was never late, never complained about Kel'Thuzad's methods, and never whined. They'd had their differences in the past but Kel'Thuzad didn't care what she thought of him and Kagra didn't hold grudges. He was useful to her and fixing her injuries kept his skills sharp.

She sat on top of the workbench, cradling one forearm with the other while he studied her back.

"A shattered scapula? You don't see that everyday. How did this happen?"

"Got pushed off a cliff."

"Bounced a few times on the way down, did we?"

She grunted. "It was a good hundred metre drop. Not completely vertical."

Along with the broken shoulder blade, she had six cracked ribs and several vertebrae with fractured zygapophyses where she had impacted something at high speed. (Also an unusual injury. Kel'Thuzad paused to sketch the damage.) Kagra, given the choice, preferred hardened leather armour over platemail. The leather afforded her more speed and agility, but less protection from bludgeoning force. Kagra, however, was both an orc and a Death Knight; she was tough. Kel'Thuzad suspected she would be just as stoic dealing with her injuries were she still a living being.

"Who pushed you?"

"Some Amani troll. Guess they're not big fans of undead unless they've raised them themselves."

Kel'Thuzad rumbled a noncommittal sound.

The zygapophyses were easy enough. One of the neural spines was snapped off and stuck in the wound. He removed the bone chip with forceps. The neural spine wasn't integral to the function of her vertebrae; he filed down the sharp edge to keep it from breaking the skin again and stitched up the gash. Then he turned his attention to repairing the parts of her spine which anchored the magical weaves that assisted or replaced dead muscles. He did a first pass, made her turn, stretch, flex her back and shoulders, then went in to sort out details.

While he did so, he inspected previous injuries. Undead didn't heal; old wounds became problems again if they weren't kept up. Kagra was conscientious about her physical care and readily sought out Kel'Thuzad or another capable necromancer if she felt something was wrong.

"Who did this work on your elbow?"

"Some guy in Silverpine."

"Not half bad."

"High praise."

It wasn't until Kagra had gone and Kel'Thuzad was preparing for yet another evening of grinding frustration over the resurrection spell that he realized part of the answer had been sitting right in front of him-

Death Knights. Of course!

They were a perfect blend of magic and matter: spells enhanced their bones and muscles, gave their body shape, kept the physical parts intact, and in doing so those spells were active enough to negate entropy, even without a soul. Kel'Thuzad had left enough soon-to-be Death Knight corpses un-resurrected for long enough to be certain. (Leaving a person dead for some time was an excellent means of disorienting them upon reanimation.) And a Death Knight's body was designed to channel magic, often magic more powerful than the person commanded in life, as well as withstand other powers used against them.

Kel'Thuzad could build a body to his own taste and keep it almost indefinitely.


Jaina squinted into the distance. Beneath them, Admiral Whitehoof's flagship rocked gently at anchor. At the bow stood an orc shaman, her hands spread as she controlled the mist that (hopefully) clouded them from view of the circling proto-drakes.

"The problem now rests in the spell that targets the body for resurrection. The body described in the spell is very specific. The shape is important. This-" He gestured to himself, "-is what I look like. This shape. And I cannot build this exact form out of spare parts and mageweave. I must find a way to change the description of the form that the spell targets for resurrection."

"Are you sure you can't build that form using magic and physical parts?"

"Yes. I've tried."

She cocked her head up at him. "Where did you put it?"

"In my chambers."

"And I thought the doppelganger was weird… I suppose-"

"INCOMING!"

They turned as one and focused their attention on the diving proto-drakes.


"Are you sleeping?"

Jaina prodded Kel'Thuzad's shoulder.

"No," he growled into the scattered papers and books on the desktop. He raised his head and turned a half-hearted glare on her. It wasn't often that he was at her eye level. "I'm doing research."

Jaina was trying to contain a smile. "Have you found anything?"

He straightened up to his full height and began to help her organize the haphazard pages into neat piles.

"Yes and no. Everything I need is in the Helm. It's all there; I can feel it. I've found the edges but it's wrapped up in other spells."

Jaina reached for the Helm. "Show me."

It took more than an hour to find the spell again.

Oh. I see the problem.

Yes.

This is so strange! Triangular spellmaps? Fascinating...

Kel'Thuzad's mental shields were strong enough to keep Jaina from noticing when his memory jumped from the Helm to the Book of Medivh. No sense in advertising its location.

This is what I've managed to discern so far.

It's a lot though.

Suddenly her attention shifted and for a moment he saw through her eyes- or rather the eyes of a sentry posted on the southern shore of the Borean Tundra. A portal bloomed then closed and shapes in the familiar armour of the Twilight's Hammer arranged themselves in lines. The sentry turned and he saw the blue and gold banner of the Alliance advancing from the other direction.

They're back.

Well, let's go give them a cold welcome.


Kel'Thuzad stared down at the lines of runes and spellways on the paper. The attachment points were hazy but the clear parts exactly matched the attachment points in the lichdom rituals; he could infer the rest. He had drawn and re-drawn the shapes, erased tiny corners that didn't match his internal vision, traced them again, checked and re-checked.

This was it.

This spell targeted his very specific lich-form and bound it to his soul. The spellmap was complete.

Now he only had to remove the description of his lich-form and create a new description, in excruciating, minute detail. Removing the previous description would be the easy part; the spell seemed to be- no, it was- designed so that the description could be removed and replaced.

Interesting.

Well, he couldn't describe what didn't exist. He would have to build the body first.

He got up and paced around the lab. The only shape he knew as well as his lich-form was a human body. A human body was much easier to procure than bits and pieces to fit a twelve foot tall tusked, horned, taloned, skeletal apparition.

The only problem was… Kel'Thuzad didn't want a human body. There would be no instant recognition- not just that he was a lich but that he was Kel'Thuzad. His lich-form was similar to other Scourge liches but different enough to stand out. There was only one Kel'Thuzad and this was his appearance.

He considered other shapes that he was fairly comfortable describing: elven? No, elves expressed age and wisdom but weren't terribly intimidating. Troll? He did like the tusks, but he hadn't worked on nearly as many trolls as humans or elves. None of the other common species appealed to him. None of them were tall enough.

His pacing expanded to include most of the Citadel and he watched the reactions of every person he came across. Fear, respect, deference. And recognition.

Jaina was in the lab when he returned during his fifth lap. She didn't notice him for a few seconds. All her focus was on the spellmaps he left on the desk.

"This is… I've never seen something like this. Look at the detail..." She followed spellways that depicted the weave of his clothing. "It's like looking at things with a jewellers loupe. All of these tiny details I've never thought about, all written out in magic. It's beautiful." She looked up. "There's really no way to rebuild your form with-" she wrinkled her nose, "-spare parts?"

"No. I suppose that's the downside to having a singular appearance."

She cocked her head. "If you built a human form, would you- well, what sort of 'extras' would you give yourself?"

"'Extras'?"

"The claws, horns, those aspects."

He stopped pacing. "Certainly claws." He ran his six inch talons along a bookshelf. They made a satisfying hiss. "Fangs." They wouldn't be on constant display in a human body but he was warming up to the idea of baring his teeth in a menacing way.

Horns? No. When history thought of imposing horns on humanoids, they thought of the demon hunter, Illidan Stormrage. (Kel'Thuzad allowed a bit of envy to colour that thought.)

Tusks defined trolls.

He tapped his teeth with one claw. "It might be better to test the spells with a completely mundane shape. Something familiar."

He crossed the room and began packing away an assortment of items on the workbench. "Well, that's settled then. Gather your tools and anatomy books. I'll see about procuring the necessary parts."

Jaina's eyes widened. "Wait- you want me to- to assist you?"

"Of course. It's time to put all of your theoretical knowledge to use on a thoroughly willing subject."

Kel'Thuzad suddenly wished he could give a smile that was all teeth and no room for argument.


Jaina soon overcame her reservations about the process. Kel'Thuzad tasked her with sections of basic spellwork only. He chose the components- Jaina wanted no part in that- and would do the more complex aspects, such as weaving entire parts of the body out of pure magic, as well as adding small details.

And all of the needlework, apparently.

"Sewing wasn't something I ever needed to learn," Jaina said with chagrin. "I never thought of sewing as a necromancer's skill either."

Stitching something much smaller than himself was a difficult task, nevermind doing it with a quality befitting himself. I suppose it would be easier to work on this scale with human hands. He was quite adept with his talons but it was nowhere near the dexterity of human fingers. The positive aspects of a human form were growing in number and it was very annoying.

"It is a necromancer's skill-" He leaned down and clipped the thread with his teeth. "-and one held in high esteem." He turned to her. "It's useful for stitching up the living as well."

She winced. "I don't think I could do that."


Kel'Thuzad went over every centimetre of his future body, capturing even the smallest details with the targeting spell. With the body described, there was one more hurdle: a way to activate resurrection while dead.

He was pacing the whole Citadel again. Some of the regulars- they had long-term guests now- had become accustomed to this and moved aside without comment. There was still recognition and no small amount of fear, but some of the cheeky ones had started greeting him.

The rest of the spells would do the real work; he just needed a way to trigger them. He swung by the lab.

Jaina was at the workbench, notebook open, inspecting one of the weaves he built into the body's arm.

She looked up. "Your cat left a rat in my slipper this morning."

"She likes you."

"It wasn't dead."

"Ah, so she brought you a toy."

When Jaina put some effort into it, she had a respectable glare.

"...I don't suppose you kept it?"

"The rat?"

"Yes."

"No! I shooed it into the hallway and let kitty deal with it."

"...hmm."

"Do I want to know what you're thinking?"

"You've given me an idea."

"Oh dear."

He crossed to the desk. "Mr Bigglesworth is an excellent hunter. Any space I release her into is cleared of all things small enough for her to kill within a couple of weeks. So, I began making playthings for her." He traced a claw over the lines of the original lichdom ritual that described the act of resurrection once the vessel had been targeted. "She would bring me something dead and I would reanimate it."

"That's… a lucky cat."

"She had favourites though. Ones that she played with more than others. I bespelled them to 'play dead' as it were, then reanimate spontaneously."

"You made undead cat toys."

"It was endlessly entertaining."

"Are there such toys currently running around the Citadel?"

"Have you not found them?"

"No, but I haven't specifically been looking for undead rats to possess."

"I feel they would make excellent spies."

She considered for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. "You're right. I think they would. So this spontaneous reanimation might work when you're incorporeal?"

"I have to modify it somewhat, but yes, I believe it will do the job."

Jaina was quiet for a moment. "How would you test that?"

"Well, first I have to die."


The last thing Kel'Thuzad remembered was the sound of Deathwing's tail sheering the airship in half. Part of him marvelled at the ease of it, the weight and strength crashing through sturdy timber and iron without losing momentum. Then a split second of silence as the dragon opened his mouth.

After that, his memories grew muddy and incoherent until he prodded them. Slowly, he recalled the sensation of Jaina's living terror flooding through him and the inescapable feeling of command. He knew in that instant that she had never placed her will on him before, not consciously, not unconsciously, and that she did so then unintentionally. She was scared and she reached for power- and him.

He responded, shielded her as best he could, though it was ultimately useless as Deathwing obliterated his physical form.

Wait- was it useless?

He forced himself to concentrate. He was dead. He needed-

Right. No disciples. He was still dead.

No Jaina? That thought galvanized his intent.

Find the body. Trigger the spell. And if it doesn't work… Who commands me now? I have to know. Find the spell!

No... no... no. Spell, spell, spell. Rats. Rats, the animal. A rat in her slipper. My cat brought it to her.

There- there- yes!

He triggered the spell.

It wasn't at all like appearing within a circle of attendants. He was always weak upon resurrection but this was downright disrespectful. He felt small. He was small. He was human, more or less.

For a long time, he lay on the table in his chamber and stared up at the ceiling, acclimating to sensations he hadn't felt in a long time. It hadn't been like this as Kazimir. That body was not so intricate, so intimate, so permanent. Well, not really permanent.

He raised one hand unsteadily, extended his arm, spread his fingers.

Hmph. No claws. Next time.

After a lot of time spent stretching and investigating himself, he swung his legs over the edge of the table and promptly lost his balance. Ah. The floor was unforgiving.

More time sitting on the floor, then he dared to stand, leaned on the edge of the table. He let go and wavered on his feet but didn't fall. He might be small but he was strong. The weaves that completed him were dense and reinforced; he was much stronger than he looked.

What did he look like? He knew what this body looked like inanimate on a table but with him inhabiting it- no, that was not the right sentiment. With this body claimed- still not quite right-

No. It wasn't a separate thing anymore; this was him.

Kel'Thuzad studied his appearance in the small mirror he kept more for reading and writing spells in reflected script than for personal inspection. This was him now.

Jaina? Can you hear me?

Kel'Thuzad! It worked? Her presence felt thin and pale, but her voice was strong as ever.

It did.

That was a hell of a test!

Indeed. Where are you?

In my chambers.

May I intrude upon you?

Yes, of course.


Jaina knew what he looked like but when Kel'Thuzad entered her room, there was a moment of uncertainty before her expression relaxed into recognition. She looked him up and down, studying his clothing, his new silhouette, re-learning Kel'Thuzad. Her attention settled on his face.

He realized he was staring.

She pulled the blankets around her shoulders, up to her chin, and looked away.

"The healers say the scars will fade in time. Most of them." Jaina raised a hand to her face, fingers hovering just shy of touching the long red gouges down her cheeks. "These will never heal."

She didn't need to tell him why or what had marked her so deeply. One of the scars was a little wider than the other; it cut through her eyebrow and continued up her forehead.

The skin of her shoulders, arms, and neck was matted with shiny, new tissue, red welts, and bandaged sores. Her hair- oh, her hair. Someone with skill had trimmed it and now it brushed her cheeks, an inch above her jawline. Before, it had hung halfway down her back. Of course. Her hair had been loose. For some reason the thought of her burning hair bothered him.

She met his eyes. "I know what I look like."

He smiled. He couldn't help it; it just happened, muscles moving to match an emotion before he felt it. "You look like someone who fought a dragon and survived."

It made her smile and that shifted the scars. She was cast anew, just as he was.

He picked up the chair at her desk and moved it to the side of her bed. She was propped up against a heap of pillows but there was a notebook and open texts arrayed on her blankets. They lapsed into silence again, watching each other.

"You look like... yourself," she said.

Kel'Thuzad raised his eyebrows- that was a thing he could do now. "How do you mean?"

"Like you were years ago in Dalaran. Younger, maybe." She cocked her head. "It's interesting. I didn't see it in the- in the body, but now- you're you."

"Hmm." He couldn't tear his eyes away from the scars. Her hands- her hands were shaking a little, the one holding the blankets against her chest, and the other now settled in her lap. They were both half-fisted and she didn't seem able to open them fully. "Healers-" He didn't know what to say. "Said you'll recover?"

"Yes." She was studying the embroidery around his collar. "A very kind troll gentleman has agreed to stay here for another two weeks to finish the process."

A troll. Some stranger. Some unknown person tending to her while he was unable to watch them. At least if it's a troll it can't be a paladin. Kel'Thuzad wasn't fast enough to stifle the next thought- the last time Jaina had been gravely injured and Imuruk was the first healer at her side. I trusted him. For a moment, Kel'Thuzad couldn't fight the memory into a corner and stood at Jaina's bedside, paralyzed by pain he wouldn't name.

She touched her hair. "I know it's… it's vain but I want him to fix this."

"There's nothing wrong with a little vanity. I spent a rather absurd amount of time fussing with my hair."

"It looks nice."

That provoked another unexpected pain, different from the other.

"It was time well spent, then." He turned and openly looked over her wounds. "Are you comfortable?"

"Mostly. It's more annoying than painful now." She let go of the blankets and reached for her notebook. It lay just beyond her half-closed fingertips. He leaned across her and retrieved it and the blanket shifted off her shoulders. She didn't pull it up again.

"Is there anything you need? Tea, perhaps? Something to eat?"

"Tea would be nice. Thank you."

Nobody recognized Kel'Thuzad when he entered the mess hall. He was some acolyte of the Scourge, obviously a necromancer, but nothing more, and a part of him filled with unexpected glee. Oh, the fun he could have with this! I think a visit to Dalaran is in order…

He returned to Jaina's room and watched her sip the tea. When she turned to put the mug on her bedside table, her hand shuddered and Kel'Thuzad caught the cup before it fell from her grasp.

"Dammit!" She clenched her fist. "I'll be glad when I'm rid of this weakness."

"Weakness?"

"I can barely get out of bed on my own. I hate it."

He paused a moment before speaking. "My K- Jaina. I saw you thrust your will through Deathwing, into his heart and lungs, into his muscles, and ravage him from the inside. Withered his flesh, poisoned his blood, upset the rhythm of his heart! Azeroth finished him off but you doomed him." He touched her shoulder and when she didn't move away, he gave a gentle squeeze. "You're injured but you will never be weak."

She made a little sigh, then she smiled and laid her hand on his. "We've sure been through some sh- some stuff- haven't we?"

"We have."

Her skin was warm. He'd felt a ghost of warmth from her in his true form, but this was more palpable, more present.

"But we're still here."

"We're still here." Kel'Thuzad settled back in his chair. "And I have no intention of going anywhere."


II. Indestructible - In which Roxie delivers a letter and Nathanos Blightcaller has a bad day.

Song: Indestructible by Disturbed

Content warning: mild gore


Roxie had no idea who Koltira Deathweaver was. His name prompted reactions ranging from immediate withdrawal from the conversation, to smirks and innuendos about events that Roxie wasn't in on, to 'good luck with that' in varying tones of sarcasm. Everyone in Undercity seemed to know something she didn't. But she had a letter and therefore, she had a duty to see it delivered.

"Can you at least describe him to me?" The letter was the only one remaining in her mailbag. It had been two days of asking questions and getting less than answers. Roxie was frustrated. "Gimme a general idea of the person I'm looking for. Height? Hair colour? Species?"

"Oh, he's a blood elf," snickered the Forsaken man on the stool to her right. "You know how they are."

Roxie knew many blood elves so she had an idea that the man probably meant 'vain, dismissive, and full of themselves', but that only covered about 75% of them and not all the time.

"Nice hair?" she guessed, "Nice clothes, possibly a cape, jewellry- red or green gemstones-"

"Not gonna be wearing that kind of jewelry," chortled the orc man on the stool to her left.

"Bet he's got bracelets on though."

They both cackled.

"Bracelets, eh? So he's in jail. Where?"

The two looked at each other over Roxie's head.

"Here. In Undercity."

"You seem like a nice gal. Best if you stop asking questions."

"It's just one letter." Roxie leaned her elbows on the bar and signalled for her bill. "Can't hurt to deliver it."

"It could hurt a lot," said the orc.

"You're right. It's just one letter," said the Forsaken. "But maybe you should be careless and let the thing slip out of the mailbag."

"Happens. Nobody's perfect."

Roxie considered the situation. Then she shrugged. "You're right. Everyone makes mistakes."

Both the orc and Forsaken nodded.

Roxie paid her tab, bid the pair a good night, and went off to find a city guard.

Fifteen minutes of loitering around one of the bridges over Undercity's ubiquitous slime river brought a guard out of the shadows. The woman looked more bored than annoyed.

"What's your business here?"

"Looking for one of y'all, actually." Roxie approached and kept her voice down while tugging on the Azeroth Post patch on her jacket. "I got a letter for a guy named Koltira Deathweaver. Heard he's in jail?"

The guard hissed through her teeth. "Jail's a friendly term. He's in the dungeon. And not getting out any time soon." She shook her head in what might have been genuine disappointment. "You'd expect a Death Knight to have more sense."

Roxie ignored the gossip. "Great. Can you take me to the dungeon?"

"That's the first time I've heard someone say that!" The woman laughed.

"People in prison get letters all the time."

"Not people in Undercity's dungeon."

Roxie pursed her lips. "You're right. I've never had a letter for a prisoner in Undercity." I'm guessing there's a nasty reason for that. "Well, first time for everything. Which way?"

"It's a bad idea to ask about the Dark Lady's prisoners."

Oh.

Roxie considered her options. "I know. But it's my job. I have to at least try to deliver it."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," replied the guard and covertly pointed east along the slime river. "Apothecary's Quarter. Black door guarded by two abominations."

"Thanks for the warning."

Nobody else took notice of her as Roxie threaded her way through the daily life of Undercity's residents. It was late evening (which Roxie only knew because the dinner rush had just started when she left the tavern) and merchants were closing up shop for the night. People were heading home or perhaps out with friends, and adventurers started wending their way to inns in dusty armour, with weapons sheathed. All the normal goings-on of a city preparing to slumber.

The only thing about Undercity that Roxie found unnerving was the lack of kids.

Every other city had infants in their parents arms, toddlers poking their fingers in places they oughtn't be, schoolkids whining about homework (whether that was maths or metallurgy or magic), teenagers on awkward dates or brooding on rooftops- but there were very few young undead. And it wasn't because the plague or the Scourge had any sort of honour that excluded children from resurrection. It was just that kids were fragile and war was not.

Goblin cities were teeming with children- quadruplets, quintuplets, even more if their parents were lucky- all learning the family trade. Roxie's friends had been dishwashers and servers in their parents restaurants, cashiers in their stores, file clerks, transcriptionists, gofers- all the nitty gritty details that gave them a solid education in the basics of a business.

Roxie had been keeping her dad's books since she could count, learning how to cover up lucrative embezzlement, and how to suss out a cover up. During her childhood, Roxie dreamed in numbers.

Icecrown Citadel had the same vibe but it had never been an actual, living city so Roxie didn't feel the weirdness quite as intensely. The youngest person in the Citadel was probably Roxie herself. (Though age was relative among different species; Roxie was physically younger than Kinndy but much more worldly and mature. Same as Soffriel- he was probably older than Jaina in years but he'd died before he could grow a beard. In fact-)

Roxie's finely tuned situational awareness pulled her out of this contemplation.

There were footsteps approaching her from behind. About a hundred metres behind. Five people, probably Forsaken from the way they walked- (they weighed less than the living so while their strides might be the same length as a living person, their footsteps were lighter)- with the shuffle of light armour similar to that of the city guard she had spoken to. One of them had new leather boots, not quite broken in yet; they creaked softly with every step.

She turned around and found four city guards and an undead human man with glowing red eyes and a dark beard coming toward her. He had the new boots and matching fine leather armour. Roxie tucked her thumb under the strap on her mail bag and smiled at them.

"Hey! You look like you might be able to help me."

The finely-armoured man stopped much too close to Roxie and smiled in an unkind way. His closeness meant she had to crane her neck to make eye contact. Rude.

"Are you the one looking for Koltira Deathweaver?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Come with me."

...uh oh.

"Yessir." Every one of Roxie's senses screamed in alarm. "Roxie Rocketsocks, Azeroth Post. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

The smile vanished, replaced by a frown, then a faint sneer. "Nathanos Blightcaller."

"I know that name- I do- I just- lotta names, y'know? Lotta letters, lotta people- wait, it'll come to me-"

"Champion of the Dark Lady."

Oh shit.

"It's an absolute honour."

"This way." He had the audacity to nudge Roxie with his toe.

She had no choice but to accompany them. Blightcaller had a fancy bow and the guards all had swords and polearms; if she tried to run, Roxie had no doubt they would use them without restraint. After a minute of walking and passing through several heavy doors with iron bolts, Roxie sighed.

"I probably should have seen this coming, shouldn't I."

"I understand why the Post goes through so many carriers." Blightcaller sounded amused. "If they're all as foolhardy as you."

"Well, you know what they say about good deeds."

They entered a long mezzanine with wrought iron rails above some kind of gladiator pit. The walls were criss-crossed with reddish smears, gouges, scratches, and char marks.

After some more twists and turns, they passed through one final heavy door and came to a square room with a blood-stained metal table in the centre. Racks of all the standard torture equipment and various weapons occupied two walls. The weapons were a mishmash of unadorned utilitarian types and the flashy unique things adventurers carried. Souvenirs.

On the wall to the right of the entrance there were three thick wooden doors with tiny barred windows. One of the cells had a plank of wood nailed across the little window and handprints in dried blood on the door.

The room reeked of decomposition. Roxie pulled her shirt up over her nose. "Phew!"

Blightcaller halted. "I'll take the mailbag."

Reluctantly, Roxie handed it over, but not before she withdrew the letter that got her into this mess. "I guess I'm going to hand deliver this?"

"I guess you are. After I read it."

"You know it's illegal to read someone else's mail, right?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't care." He held out his hand for the letter and studied it for a moment before he opened it. Then he snorted a laugh. "Of course it's from Thassarian. These two…"

Hold up. Roxie recognized that name. She remembered Jaina muttering to herself- Thassarian: human Death Knight. Thaurissan: dwarven Queen-Regent.

"Thassarian? Lotta names- lotta people- isn't that the Queen-Regent of Ironforge?"

Blightcaller glanced down at her. "You're a nosy little thing."

Roxie gestured to the room around them. "Why not be nosy? I can already see the worst you'll do. Come on, what's the dwarf Queen got to say to this Deathweaver guy?"

"Mind your own business."

One of the guards gave her a poke with their polearm. "Shush, you."

Blightcaller re-folded the letter and handed it back to Roxie. "Search her."

The guards made her doff her jacket, turn out her pockets, take off her shoes, and gave her a thorough pat-down.

"Nothing?"

"Everything worth anything is in the mailbag," she said. "Can I at least have my jacket and shoes back?"

"No. Now, how about you hand deliver that letter..."

Two of the guards shoved open the cell door closest to them- not the one with the bloody handprints- and Roxie got a quick preview before Blightcaller picked her up by the back of her shirt and tossed her inside.

The door slammed shut.

"Thank you!" Roxie hollered at the barred window.

"Glad to be of service!" Blightcaller replied.

Roxie waited until she heard all five of them leave and shut the outer door behind them.

Then she turned around.

The elf wasn't even restrained. He was slumped against the far wall, barefoot and naked to the waist, head hung so low his chin touched his collarbone. What do you have to do to a Death Knight to make him look this bad? Nevermind. I don't want to know.

"Koltira Deathweaver?"

He rasped a Thalassian curse.

Roxie crouched down in front of him. "Nice tattoos."

He raised his head enough to glare at her. "Who are you?"

"Roxie Rocketsocks. I'm a mail carrier." She held out the letter. "Here. It's from somebody named Thassarian."

He made a wheeze that might have been a laugh.

"He's a fool."

"Out of the three of us, Thassarian is the only one not in prison so he's the least foolish." She stood up and dropped the letter into his lap. "How often do they check the cells?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to stick around. What kind of time frame am I working with here?"

"You cannot seriously believe you can escape this place." Deathweaver hissed in amusement.

"Undercity is technically Lordaeron. When humans build places, they only think of humans. They don't think of goblins or gnomes. Or tauren… Anything bigger or smaller than themselves. So yes, I think there is a probability that a non-human can escape this prison." She chewed her lower lip. "Maybe some beefed up spells though… Let's see what we can see."

She spent almost an hour examining their cell. Then she took a running start and leapt up to grab the bars on the little window set in the door. She hung on, shook them experimentally, and peered around the entry room. She could just barely see the handles on the other doors. Different handles than our door. Hmm. Different hinges too.

Blightcaller had left her shoes and jacket on the metal table. So close and yet so far.

Roxie dropped back to the floor.

"This'll be harder than I thought."

Deathweaver watched all this with little interest.

Roxie dusted her hands together. "Okay. Here we go." She pointed to the door's thick metal hinges. "Hinges. On the inside. The door opens inwards. This room was supposed to be a closet or something, not a cell. The other two cells have wider doors that open outwards, with the hinges on the outside. Is there anyone in those other two cells?"

"Beasts of some kind. One stopped making noise some time ago."

Bet that's where the smell is coming from.

"That makes sense. I saw a gladiator or pit fighting arena thing on the way in." She sat down beside Deathweaver. "Let me think."

The Death Knight made a wispy snort.

Roxie considered her (frighteningly few) options.

"All right. This's the best I got."

She ran a finger along the metal bar pierced diagonally through the upper part of her left ear. It was a thicker gauge than a human or elf might wear; she'd had it done by an orc. She took a long breath, let it out, and began to unscrew the silver ball that anchored one end. It was on tight; she hadn't loosened it in months. A careful minute later, Roxie eased the bar out of her ear with a grimace. Then she unscrewed the ball at the other end and held it up to show Deathweaver.

"A goblin is never without tools."

The end of the bar, past the threads where the ball screwed on, tapered into a tiny flathead screwdriver; the other end was a cross. Blightcaller had taken her shoes, which would have made a better hammer, but he hadn't taken the simple steel rings on her thumbs and pinky fingers. They were too small for humans to wear and a common, non-magical metal so why bother confiscating them?

Roxie leapt back up to grab the window bars.

"Now comes the hard part."

She hung onto the bars with her left hand. With the right, she reached over to the hinge at the top of the door.

It was a simple, common model: a cylindrical barrel made from two interlocking halves, one part screwed to the door and one part screwed to the jamb. A metal pin was inserted into the barrel from the top, bringing the two halves together and allowing the door to swing open and closed.

Roxie knew that if she could pull the pin out of the cylinder, the two halves of the barrel would come apart and the door could be pulled away from the jamb.

She wedged the thin edge of the flathead screwdriver under the edge of the hinge pin and began the agonizingly slow process of pushing it up and out of the cylindrical barrel with tiny wiggles and taps using her thumb ring.

She kept going until her left arm was numb. Then she dropped to the floor and held out the tool and one thumb ring to Deathweaver.

"Your turn."

"...why not."

Deathweaver was tall enough to reach the top hinge without hanging off the window bars, which was good because the man could barely stand. He leaned hard on the door as he worked. Roxie curled up in a corner to nurse the ache in her arm and drifted off to sleep to the steady tink tink tink of her cellmate inching them towards freedom.

Roxie was jarred awake by shouted commands.

"-move the damn thing! Remember what happened last time? Don't let it happen again! Be vigilant!"

Deathweaver scooted back to his place against the wall. Roxie's tools disappeared into his closed palm.

Roxie leaned close to him and whispered. "What's going on?"

"They're taking the beast somewhere."

"Stand back! You, there. You, here. Guns ready- don't point it at me, you idiot!"

Roxie took another running leap and grabbed onto the window bars for a look.

There were six Forsaken: all of them in black robes, one more elegant and five with leather armour over top. Two of the armoured ones held bolt-action rifles and one had a shotgun- all good, sturdy, dwarven-made weapons. The one with nice robes had a wand. The two without weapons stood gripping the handle of the cell door with the bloody hand-prints on it, prepared to pull it open. The one with the shotgun lowered her weapon and approached the door with a key.

"On the count of three: turn- pull- and be ready to fire if she doesn't go down with the first spell. One- two- three!"

A lot of things happened in rapid succession.

First, the key turned in the lock.

Second, the cell door slammed open and crushed the two weaponless Forsaken and the one with the shotgun against the wall.

Third, the spell from the wand zinged over the head of something that surged out of the cell.

Fourth, the something slapped one of the rifle-bearers to the floor.

Fifth, the one with the wand fired again and missed again, as the thing yanked the fallen rifle-bearer into the cell.

There was panicked shrieking.

"Dammit, what did I tell you! Vigilance!"

"Help! Help me! Help m-"

Amid the sound of breaking bone, the Forsaken with the wand managed to grab the hand of his hapless companion, and pulled him partway out of the cell. The other rifle-bearer scrambled to help.

"Shoot her! Shoot her!"

He fired and there was a bellow of pain. He took a split second to reload- and it was enough time for the thing in the cell to rush forward and grab him too. Roxie caught a flash of enormous pointed teeth snap closed around his skull, instantly decapitating him. The action knocked the one with the wand flat on his face. Before he could rise, he was hauled inside the cell with his unlucky comrades.

The three who had been caught behind the door were frantically pushing past each other.

"Shut the door-!"

"Jasper's in there!"

"Jasper's dead!"

"We can still-"

"No, we can't! Shut the door!"

"Shut the damn door!"

One of the weaponless Forsaken rammed the door closed with his shoulder and wrestled the key into the lock with a click. Then he slid down with his back against the door, shaking.

There was screaming and thrashing from the cell.

"Damn," whispered Roxie. She looked over her shoulder at Deathweaver. "Whatever that was just killed three guys."

"Heh. That makes six now."

The remaining three Forsaken collected themselves enough to leave. There was whimpering from the beast's cell, pleading, more screaming, lots of ripping and crunching, and then silence.

Roxie dropped to the floor. "If they want to move that thing, they might be back for round two soon. We have to work quickly."

But they didn't return.

Roxie worked until her fingers shook. She was starting to feel hungry. It's been at least eight hours. Past midnight now.

She and Deathweaver worked in turns- she until she couldn't hang onto the bars and he until he couldn't stand. Roxie gave up estimating the hours. She counted time by the progress of the hinge pin slowly pushing up out of the barrel. She went from slightly hungry, to painfully hungry and thirsty. Twenty-four hours, at least.

The pin hit the floor with the tiniest clink! and nothing had ever sounded more beautiful. Roxie let go of the bars and lay flat on her back.

Deathweaver leaned over her. "I underestimated you, goblin."

"Roxie." She held out her hand.

"Koltira. If you get us out of here, I will owe you a great debt."

She sat up to begin work on the bottom hinge. "I do love a good debt."

Roxie guessed from her increasing thirst and decreasing strength that it took them another day to get the bottom pin to move at all. One of them had to do their best to hold the door straight so the weight wasn't pushing the pin at an angle, while the other continued to work it upward out of the barrel. Now neither of them could rest.

Roxie pushed everything but the hinge out of her mind. More than two days now.

There were many advantages to being a goblin: eating just about anything, being smaller and sneakier than most species, innate creativity and problem-solving skills, and spatial awareness that bordered on eerie. But there were also drawbacks and one of them was that a smaller body needed food and water more often than a larger one. Roxie was approaching the point of dangerously dehydrated.

Another day or so passed.

The bottom pin was so, so close when the Forsaken returned. This time there were eight of them. Roxie was too weary to peer through the bars, but Koltira stood on tip-toe and watched whatever lived in the blood-stained cell wreck two more people. The group managed to get the door closed before it grabbed anymore.

"That's it. Blightcaller said if we lost anyone else the thing dies. Get up there and shoot it through the window."

She heard the squeak of wood as they pried off the board over the window, and then the beast slamming itself against the door, huffing and snarling.

Roxie tapped Koltira's leg. "Here we go."

He squared his shoulders.

"The bottom pin is almost out but if you really reef on the door, it should either break the rest or twist the door enough for me to get out."

"Then I will give you that much, at least."

There was a gunshot, followed by a furious roar.

"Okay. You said if you get your sword, you can give us some kind of magical shield?"

"I can give us that and more."

There was another gunshot and a thunderous slam.

"Okay." Roxie gave the bottom hinge pin one final nudge and it wiggled up but didn't fall. Adrenaline rushed through her. "Wait til they're all focused on shooting that thing. Wait for it…"

"Waiting…" For several breathless moments, nothing happened.

Then another shot, which apparently missed, judging by the swearing.

"Now!" Roxie hissed.

Koltira seized the window bars and yanked backward with whatever remained of his undead strength. He managed to break the last milimetres of the bottom hinge pin, and fell, along with the door. Roxie dashed out before they hit the ground. One of the Forsaken was just beginning to turn away from the other cell when Roxie reached Koltira's sword. It was gaudy, huge, and brimming with eager dark magic.

Roxie sprinted back to the cell and flung herself aside as the Forsaken recognized they had suddenly developed a second problem and blasted some magic towards her.

The magic rebounded off Koltira's blade.

And smacked right into the handle of the beast's door.

The mechanism blew apart in a shower of metal splinters and the thing that lived inside didn't wait for an invitation.

Having his sword in hand seemed to strengthen Koltira, which was good because Roxie had used up what remained of her own strength regaining the weapon. She was too tired to get up. Koltira pulled her to her feet and half-dragged her toward the door. True to his word, he was able to hold a shield of rippling yellow magic from his sword between them and the utter pandemonium unfolding across the room. Finally they got a good look at the beast as it charged out of the cell, teeth and claws reaching for anything within swiping distance.

"It's a bear," said Koltira.

Roxie pointed. "It's a druid!"

Although the bear's ears were cut back to stumps, it still had a gold earring in one, beads woven into it's blue-grey fur, and swirling vines of healing power bathed its bloodied face in a familiar green glow.

"Yo! Bear! Get over here! We can protect you! Koltira, get us closer. I need my jacket."

The Death Knight obliged. The bear appeared either not to hear Roxie or not to care.

Koltira handed her the jacket and Roxie pried off the top button.

"Oh no…"

"What?"

"This room has a barrier- not your shield, another magical barrier." She held up the button: the back was stamped with a simplified version of the Post crest. "It's a Hearthpenny. It'll take me and anyone I'm touching to the Dalaran Central Processing Office but it's not strong enough to work through this barrier. We have to get out and find somewhere less shielded. It's pretty powerful so-"

"On it." Koltira backed them toward the door. One of the Forsaken decided the Death Knight was the softer of two targets and came at them with a short sword. Koltira cut her in two with one swing.

"That beast has quite some skill at dispatching the undead." Koltira sounded uneasy.

It didn't just dispatch the Forsaken, it was eating them too, in messy bites and gulps.

"Yeah, that's, uh- that's gross. Hey! Bear! Save some room for dessert! We've got a way out, if you're friendly."

Trapped between Koltira's shield, blade, and the furious bear, the remaining Forsaken didn't stand much of a chance.

Silence descended. The bear sat down with a thump. It was panting hard and drooling blood despite the healing magic.

"Are you friendly?"

The bear nodded and staggered to its feet.

"Cool. Let's get moving."

Koltira gripped the blade with one hand and continued to half-drag Roxie with the other. They crept out the door and down the hall.

"All we need to do is find one spot where the barrier is weak."

They made it down three more corridors before the reinforcements found them. Koltira shoved Roxie behind a door, expanded the magical shield to include the bear, and charged. The encounter lasted about twenty seconds.

"The shield is getting weaker. That way!"

They emerged from the labyrinth onto a stone walkway.

At the far end, Nathanos Blightcaller strung his bow.

"Nice to see you again, Roxie."

"Go screw yourself."

"Come now, I thought we were getting alo-"

The bear stood up.

Roxie had seen a lot of people in her travels and she could say with absolute certainty that this was the biggest night elf she'd ever laid eyes on. Soffriel was tall for a night elf but even he would be half a head shorter than this massive woman. Not just tall: she had shoulders like a tauren and thighs thicker than Blightcaller's waist.

And she didn't shift completely; her fingers were tipped with six inch claws, she had curly blueish fur covering her shoulders and arms, and when she smiled at the Dark Lady's Champion her lower lip curled down to reveal teeth she had difficulty speaking around.

She pointed at him and said one word: "Dessert."

He fired twice before the bear was on him. The first arrow struck her shoulder and stuck, but she didn't acknowledge it or slow her charge. The second hit close to the first- had to give him credit for consistency- and Roxie thought she heard the bear grunt.

Nevertheless, she plowed into Blightcaller like, well, like a 600lb bear running full force into a human man of above average durability. She knocked him to the ground and opened her jaws, grabbing for his head. His bow went spinning down the walkway as he threw his arms up to ward her off and she grabbed his left elbow instead of his face.

Roxie saw a flash of silver in his right hand and Blightcaller made a flurry of stabs. He hit her in the neck repeatedly and this time she bellowed in pain and backed off, fur soaked with blood. Roxie could hear the breath rattling in her throat. Blightcaller stumbled to his feet and made it half a step backward before she lunged again.

This time she caught his right bicep. He was still holding the dagger but he couldn't use it with enough force to do more than make superficial slashes at the bear's cheek.

Then she whirled and whipped Blightcaller off his feet. He slammed into the wall beside them with a muffled crunch and the bear kept going- she thrashed him down against the floor, back into the wall, to the floor- then stopped beating him against things and just shook him, snapping her head side to side as though he weighed as much as a handkerchief. He grabbed onto her face with his left hand in an attempt to either mitigate the violence of each swing or maybe go for her eye. Roxie couldn't tell. The floor and wall were splattered with the bear's blood.

He snarled insults at first, then just hung on until she slammed him flat on the floor. She planted one front paw on his chest to hold him in place and gave a couple more shakes. Roxie heard fabric rip- actually, it probably wasn't fabric, given his screech. Then she reared up to her full height- something like nine feet- with Blightcaller dangling by his mangled right arm (kudos to him, he was still gripping the dagger), and ground her jaws together until the limb succumbed to relentless crushing force. Blightcaller landed on his butt and stared at the mauled remains of his right shoulder.

The dagger fell from his dismembered hand.

The bear chomped twice while making direct eye contact with Blightcaller, and swallowed, sleeve, glove, and all.

For a few moments, none of them moved or spoke.

Then there were shouts and the sound of running feet, and Blightcaller scrambled back from the distracted bear.

"That way!" Roxie pointed.

The bear loped back to Roxie and Koltira, and tossed her head in the universal druid gesture for 'get on my back'. Koltira shoved Roxie aboard, jumped up behind her and hung on since the bear had never actually stopped to allow them to mount.

Though the bear was badly injured, she nevertheless galloped full speed as Roxie gave directions and tried to stay conscious.

"Stop! Stop, we're good here! Guys, take my hands-"

Roxie squeezed the Hearthpenny and everything went black for a second.

Then they were standing in the pinkish glow of the Dalaran Central Processing Arrivals Room.

"It worked!" Koltira sank to his knees, leaning on the sword. "Sunwell bless you, Roxie."

"No problem." She knew she was about to faint. "Let's get you a shirt. And me a glass of water. And you…" Roxie pointed a shaky finger at the bear. There were two entire arrows sticking out of her shoulder and her neck was pulsing blood faster than she could heal it.

"MEDIC!"

Medical assistance was frequently required at the Arrivals Room and soon each of them had a healer fretting over their injuries. That lasted all of twenty minutes before they were excused to make room for a battered and sun-burned orc, dragging an unconscious companion.

So they sat together on a bench in the hallway outside.

Someone found Koltira a simple black tunic and boots.

Roxie was on her third cup of water and fourth sandwich.

The bear was patched and bandaged.

"So," said Roxie. She held out her hand. "Roxie Rocketsocks."

"Koltira Deathweaver."

"Areyana Bonecrusher."

"Roxie, if you hadn't come, I fear we would both be dead now."

"Thank your buddy Thassarian for sending a letter." Roxie looked from Koltira to Areyana. "I wouldn't've got out without your help, guys. You saved my ass."

"If they hadn't left my sword there-"

"If those hinges hadn't been on the inside-"

"If, if, if! We are alive!" Areyana, sitting between Roxie and Koltira, flung her arms around their shoulders and squeezed them- not too hard- against her sides. "Alive and free!"

"I feel like we should send Blightcaller a fruit basket or something. He's the reason we ended up together."

Koltira gave a sniff of disdain. Areyana rumbled.

"Perhaps best not to remind him of our existence. I am already condemned by the Dark Lady."

"Yeah, and I'm about to blacklist him with the Post so no more Undercity for me I guess."

Suddenly Areyana pointed to a billboard across the hall and gasped: it was covered with posters and pamphlets, advertising everything from concerts to wanted criminals, but the poster Areyana pointed to had Jaina's picture on it. (It was a good likeness, though a bit stern.)

"Proclamation of Sanctuary: hereby Icecrown Citadel and surrounding territory is deemed neutral by Her Ladyship, Lich King Jaina Proudmoore. There shall be no hostilities carried out within this territory against people based on allegiance, species, faith, or history by any party. Offenders will be banished. Repeat offenders will face harsher punishment." Koltira read. "'Harsher punishment'."

"She's pretty!"

"What?"

Areyana was still fixated on the poster. "In all his letters, my brother never once said she was so beautiful!"

Roxie turned too quickly and spilled her water. "Hey, uh- I don't suppose you address those letters from Sa'reya Snowwarden?"

"How do you know that name?"

"I deliver your letters."

"Ah! Of course!" Areyana furrowed her brow. "He does not deserve to know my chosen name. Not yet."

Koltira leaned into the conversation. "What did he do to earn such disfavour?"

Roxie and Areyana looked at each other.

Roxie raised her empty cup. "I'm gonna go get a refill and I'll be back whenever the swearing stops."