The next morning was just as hot and sunny as the last, and Azalel woke up smiling. Her smile faded. Here she was, in her bed at Shakuras. Was last night a mere dream? Quickly she got up and dressed. She would know in a moment.

Trotting out into the hallway, she knocked tentatively on the door to the adjacent quarters and waited. A moment passed, and her heart sank—but then the door opened and there stood her father, fully rested and the psionic waves around him roiling like they usually did, dressed in only his elaborate loincloth.

Azalel was just as happy to see him as she was the other night. She threw herself into his arms again, laughing. "Oh, Father! I thought it was just a dream!"

Indeed, he said, amused, holding her once more. And you would dream of me?

"Every night," she said seriously as they went into his quarters. "I dream we're in our house and you're there—well, it's a figure of what I know of you. Except for it's not a dream, Father, it's real. Your figure told me it's a construct of my psi; something the Protoss don't need to have because you're completely comfortable there."

Perhaps it was a mistake giving you this, Xarral mused, touching the wire-wrapped Khaydarin crystal. He traced the wires to the bracer. Show me a psi-blade.

She straightened her arm and concentrated; nowadays it did not require any special strength or focus. The glowing blue sword with flecks of gold sprang from her wrist, standing a good two feet past her hand. Xarral delicately picked up her arm, holding a hand over the blade. Intriguing, he said. It is mostly High Templar energy, but it is mixed with your own thoughts and power, thus the lacing gold.

"Oh, so that's what it is. I wondered."

Yes. He waved a hand. Deactivate it. She did. Now, I want you to go to this place you told me of. Can you do that awake?

"Of course."

Do it. He held her hand. Hold onto me.

Obediently she sank deep into her mind, stepping over the threshold of their home and pulling her father with her.

Automatically Xarral shut the door behind him, his eyes roving over the living room. The Xarral-figure stood and bowed as his eyes came to rest on it. En Taro Adun, namesake, it said warmly.

En Taro Adun, Xarral replied. He glanced at Azalel, who shrugged and grinned, then searched the house. Everything was as they had left it, to his surprise; every little detail was perfect. This is remarkable.

"Thanks."

It does make sense. The first lesson of the Khala is to distance one's mind from the outside world so one could observe without caught in it, especially when fighting. There, there is an inner core of our being where we manipulate and organize our power. His figure glanced up, absorbing the new information.

"Oh. So this is my 'inner core'?"

Yes.

"Neat."

Xarral chuckled, then became serious. Tell me of your parents. What happened?

She told him, her walls echoing her sentiments and showing her memories. Xarral did not so much listen to the story as take part of it: the scenery changed with every narrative word, and when she was done, he was silent for a long moment. That is unfortunate, he said finally.

Azalel hung her head. "I'm sorry, Father."

No, it is nothing you have done. I was referring to the Terrans. He reached over and placed a hand on her head, gently massaging her skull. Even in the dreamlike house it felt wonderful. She leaned against him, eyes closing. This was where she belonged. "Father?"

Yes, my daughter.

"I love you. I'm so happy you're here."

I love you, Xarral replied, his thoughts cascading her with a tidal wave of the emotion. His arms tightened around her as he continued to massage her scalp. They stayed that way for a long time.

At the same time both of their heads snapped up, listening. A warning had gone out; almost musical and ringing through Azalel's mind and thus the house. Both knew what it was: the Zerg were attacking. They separated immediately and, on mutual consent, leapt out of the door.

Back in Xarral's quarters Xarral dressed quickly, throwing on his High Templar robe. He looked down at Azalel. A battle, he said, as if testing what her reaction might be.

"Let them come," she replied, hands curling into fists. "Let them come."

I want you to stay here.

"Out of the question," she said flatly. "I've had my share of battles, too, and I'm not sitting this one out just because you showed up. If you make me stay here I'll just join when you're not paying attention." She glared at him, acutely aware that this was the first time she had ever contradicted him.

Xarral stooped to stare at her and she stared determinedly back. Finally he straightened and murmured, My daughter. You have grown up. Then he turned and raced out of the quarters, Azalel hot on his heels.

Not being a Protoss, Azalel could not keep up with the naturally quick aliens. She was one of the last to arrive, though she was before the Reavers, she noticed with a certain wry relief. Zealots were first, being that they were the mass of the army, and Dragoons were right behind them. Dark Templar arrived with the Zealots and High Templar were placed strategically around the massing Zerg to catch as many as possible in their deadly psionic storms.

The Judicators almost did not allow Xarral to partake in the battle, as he was almost as old as the Matriarch herself. But, ignoring them, and with the support of the Dark Templar he fought his way to a summit in order to watch and wait.

His eyes searched for Azalel. She stood out like a sore thumb in the midst of the battle, her small body moving sinuously in with the Zealots and invisible Dark Templar. She dodged a spine blast from a Hydralisk, then gutted it as a Zealot distracted it by leaping onto its back. Girl and Protoss stood back-to-back, killing the circling Zerglings, then leapt apart when a Mutalisk spit deadly acid at them. No words were exchanged, no glances crossed, but they acted as if they knew the action and practiced it hundreds of times over.

Xarral felt pride swell his chest; at the same time, relief. She acted as a true warrior would; for that he was delighted—and she wouldn't stupidly get herself killed. He didn't have to watch her every second. It didn't mean he would not watch her, just not all the time.

He turned to the battle at hand. It was indeed a fine force, but the army of Protoss was larger and fiercer. Plus, they were fighting to save their second homeland, their first one destroyed by these same Zerg.

Raising his hands, he directed his psi at a Dragoon, creating two identical clones that glowed blue in his sight, but no one else's. The built-up psionic power in his mind left a feeling of respite from all the stored energy he kept hidden for almost two centuries.

But he needed to release more. More! The rest of his power begged to be freed. It throbbed in his mind, burning with his adrenaline and his passion of battle. A Guardian swept by, intent on destroying a few pylons, and he lifted an arm, the psi-blade sweeping out from his wrist like a sword. It tore the Guardian from head to tail, showering him with blood and ichor. A Hydralisk reared up to his right, and he stabbed it in its heart. Two Zerglings ran by, and he crushed their skulls. He created at least twenty-six copies of other Protoss, and was beginning to feel drained.

Glancing up, he saw that the Zerg were massing just beyond a cliff. He looked around—he was the only one close enough to unleash the pride of the High Templar. Reaching for his pendant, he panicked when he realized it wasn't there—then remembered that he had given it to his daughter.

There was a feather-soft touch on his arm, and he whirled, blade at the ready, to cut the Zerg in half. But it was Azalel, who, expecting this reaction, ducked just in time. Xarral froze.

Do not do that again, he snapped, horrified at what he might have done. But Azalel didn't answer; she just yanked the crystal away from the bracer cords, which fell limp, and handed it to him. She had read his mind; quite literally: such was the bond between them. She then reached up to kiss his cheek, then ran down to join the battle once again, retreating to the safety of a Protoss building as she no longer had the power to a psi-blade. He saw her pick up a few tools and begin to help the Khalai fix a psi disruptor.

She was really Protoss under all of that Terran physicality. Her courage and strength shone through her eyes; her passion for life burned in her heart. She really was an aza lel.

Clutching the stone in his hand, Xarral gazed across the plain to the enormous mass of Zerg, calling power from its depths. He felt it burn through his body, calling that ancient fire in his blood, throbbing to the pulse of his spirit. He let it build to monumental levels until his head pounded and his body vibrated with power. Sensing the build Protoss scattered the area, leaping away from the savage massing aliens, and Azalel, feeling it along with them, gazed up to the summit where her father was standing. "Oh, Father, don't please," she whispered, gripping the tool she held until her fingernails bit into her palm. He was too old, too old; he wouldn't survive it!

Azalel, the Khalai said. She turned back to the task at hand, flinging the useless bracer cords over her shoulder. Her gaze met his own; he gripped her shoulder. The High Templar will be all right.

She bit her lip and nodded, bending over the jammed firing mechanism just as Xarral released the whirlwind of power.

It wasn't the first time she had seen a psionic storm, but she would never forget this one. Xarral had directed the might of it at the mass groupings of Zerg near a random cliff, where they were regrouping. Nearly three hundred creatures screamed as they died their carapaces and flesh burning with the physical brunt of the psychic force. As the pressure built their blood vessels burst; they screamed as they died, exploding with audible crunching noises. Strips of flesh and ivory bones littered the ground for hundreds of square feet, soaking slowly into the ground.

Heartened, warriors raced to meet the remaining Zerg halfway. They clashed, the Protoss slowly beating the others back.

Azalel should have been delighted. But she stared, as the small figure up upon the summit swayed dangerously near the edge. Dropping her tools, she bolted for the cliff.

A young High Templar, battle-hardened already, had heard of the girl and the Protoss she had called "Father." The old one was about to fall, and there was a Zergling climbing the cliff with its strong claws. A Terran also climbed, though on the gentler side. He ran for them too, hoping to help both of them.

Dazed and nearly stripped of his powers, the old High Templar closed his eyes, taking deep, slow breaths.

Everything had fallen into place. He had been here before. He remembered now. He stood on this very summit five hundred eleven years ago, gazing down at a young Terran female bent over an old High Templar warrior.

A sharp chittering sounded to his left. He glanced over, coming face-to-face with a Zergling. He was too weak to fight even the small creature, and the Overmind knew it. He knew it too.

As if in slow motion, the Zergling pulled back its spine claws and snapped them forward.

Azalel screamed as both back claws punctured Xarral's chest, emerging on the other side, then snapped back again to cut him once more. By that time she had reached them, and viciously kicked the Zergling, which stumbled back a few feet. Then it shook its head and lunged at the High Templar. Azalel leapt in front of him, throwing up her arms. The Zergling crashed into her, who in turn staggered into Xarral, who was already unbalanced. They all began to fall.

Strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her from the cliff walls as they plummeted towards the ground. They slammed, rolled, and freefell all the way down—and crashed into the earth. The air was knocked out of her, but all in all she was unhurt. Shaking her dazed skull to clear it, she slowly sat up.

She was sitting on a bloody Protoss. Quickly she rolled off and stared at the broken body of her father in a stunned trance. "Father," she whispered.

Then she snapped out of it, and lunged to his side. "Father, Father!" she cried, shaking him. "Father wake up oh please wake up wake up wake up wake up!"

A rattled breath eased out of him, and one glowing eye opened—the other had a thin rock four inches long sticking out of it. Azalel, he said thickly, his mind-voice slow and confused.

"Father!"

It is time for me to go…

"No! Please!"

Azalel…

"No!" She grabbed his head, one hand on either side of his face. "Father! Don't leave me alone!" She levered his face up so he stared at her. Her voice sank to a whisper. "Not again. Don't leave me alone again. Please. I can't stand it." Tears ran down her face but she didn't notice. "I couldn't stand it. I can't. Please don't…"

My beautiful daughter. His voice strengthened slightly, and the unbroken arm reached up to stroke her cheek. My aza lel. Do not make this harder. It is time for me to go.

"No," she begged.

Look… look there… he turned his eyes upward; she followed his gaze and saw a High Templar standing there on the summit they had just fallen off of. Do you… see?

"Yes…"

In five hundred years… that man will adopt a young Terran girl as his daughter… and raise her as his own. Azalel's mouth opened and she looked at her father. I remember now… I remember standing there… on that cliff… five hundred eleven years and thirty seconds ago. He laughed, a painful sound. This is how I wish to die, my daughter. As a warrior. As a Templar.

"But this isn't how I want you to die!"

…I admit… there is another reason… a shudder went through his body and his voice strained even more. She sensed he was only a few seconds from death. Another reason… more selfish than the first. I didn't want to see you die… I didn't want to see you grow up and die before me. A parent should never have to… bury his child…

Something pressed into her palm. Azalel looked down and saw he was placing the crystal into her hand. Dimly she closed her fingers around it. Take this, my Terran Templar.

No, she wanted to scream again; No!

Take her away, Xarral begged to someone, and she felt hands grab her, pulling her away. Power had begun to build again, and his eyes began to glow violently blue.

Come, Terran Azalel, said a voice in her mind, but it was her father, her father, and she fought with all the remaining strength she had in her bruised body. The Zealot behind her turned her away, twisting so that his body was between her and the sight of the mangled Protoss.

There was a flash of blue flame, lighting up the golden armor of the Zealot and Azalel cried out. The Zealot's grip slipped and she ran around him—and there was nothing, nothing save a scorch mark on the ground—her father was gone. Her father was gone.

Above them, a young High Templar watched.