To the Most Handsome Troll There Ever Was,

I left things rather miserably last time we spoke. I wasn't in a good place—I know you're used to that—but please know that I am doing better now. I'm feeling better, now, thanks in large part to those you are so suspicious of.

You were both right and wrong about the kyrian, by the way. They do want me back, but they are in no rush to reclaim me. Vesiphone, Paragon of Purity, is working on mending my soul so that they may remove my curse before I return to Azeroth. They do not want me here before my time, even if the time I have now is borrowed or stolen.

Their intent is to heal me and remove my curse and let me live my life, with you and our children.

For the first time in what feels like ever, I am excited. I had not realized how much my curse and all the inner aches that come with it had weighed me down until I can feel them fade. It is no longer a struggle just to get up in the morning.

I am healing.

I am healing, and I am coming home.

It will be a while yet. Right now, we are working on saving people from Helya. You remember her. The goddess who, despite never seeming to win a fight, is still enough of a pain to warrant our attention, again.

I will let you know how that goes.

You should know—you probably already do—that Zen'taki came out here to ask for my blessing in courting you.

I wish you had talked to me about him before. When I saw the two of you together, I thought that you were hiding him from me, that for whatever reason, you thought I could not handle if you found happiness.

He says that my timing was such that I walked in on the two of you the only time you were ever together.

That is a shame. He is a good catch, and you'd better act before some handsome fellow catches his attention. Of course he will never find anyone as wonderful as you, but if he thinks he's going to have to settle, he may do just that. So snap him up before it's too late!

And talk to me (or write to me). I want to see you happy. You deserve it after all that you have been through.

We both do.

I have found my own Zen'taki, if you will. You may have met him—I'm not sure how far Henry got into the Shadowlands, though I've heard a few stories. Kleia says you are wonderful, as she should. Apparently there are things called soulmates in this crazy world. Souls that are destined to be together, no matter what worlds they are from or what times they are born into. I've done some digging, and apparently you can meet them in life (I like to think Sham and Gore were soulmates. Are, wherever they are out here), but many people do not find them until after they have died, after they have gone to whatever afterlife is their destiny.

That is where mine is. His name is Adrestes, and he is a defender of his people just as Zen'taki is. It would figure that with all the chaos we herald, both of us would fall for military men. Adrestes is the voice of the Archon, her polemarch, and he's one of the most noble souls I've ever met.

I'm sure you don't believe me, considering my taste in partners in the past has never been…well, good.

However, the universe seems to have chosen this one for me, and I think it did a good job. Adrestes is supportive and gentle and kind. He is a bit serious, but I find it endearing, truthfully. And we fit together quite nicely, in every way.

I want you to come out and meet him—and not be too much of a terror. I imagine once we have both passed, I will be sneaking you into Bastion with enough frequency that it would be better to not have the man in charge of the security of the realm scowling every time he finds you here.

Because you will be visiting. And I shall visit you as well.

You may worry, considering that everyone who has been to the Shadowlands knows what the kyrian must give up to gain their wings. But know this, things are changing and there is talk that all may not need to be forgotten.

And even if I do have to forget, I will let time take my memories of you, rather than give them away.

And before you worry! Know that I only have to forget up until my death. Which means by the time I have forgotten how we met, we will have snuck you into Bastion so many times that you will still be a most permanent fixture in my life. While some of the details may end up vague as time goes on, I will not forget you, ever.

You are my most beloved friend, and I know that without you, my life would be utterly empty.

I've missed you terribly these last few months—it has been months and months for me, though I know you have only missed me for several weeks.

I have wanted to call for you every day, to ask you to join me in my adventures out here, but I do not because I know how important it is that our little ones have stability.

I should not have slipped away behind your back, and for that I am sorry. I hope that you can forgive me. If not right away, perhaps in the years that are to come. Because we will have them.

In the meantime, I hope the children are not keeping you too busy.

Tell Mei'ji and Jihni to keep the garden until I get back. I have a few seedlings I'd like to try in that patch that gets too much shade, and I think they will like them. I know Jo'shi will. Tell Hezzak and Chi'rhi that Thales and Kalisthene say 'hello', but hope they do not see them again for a few eons.

I've included a few recipes that I think Pa'mo and Aluh will like. There is a steward here who records recipes from the mortal worlds from the aspirants, before they forget, and some of them are from Azeroth! These are very old, but I recognize the spices listed, and I bet the boys will have fun trying to recreate them.

I'm sending some cloth as well, since Ma'si wanted to try her hand at weaving with 'death's silk'. I will gladly get more trinkets for the others, just let me know who wants what. Are Vohit and Bonsu still interested in gems? There are some very pretty ones out here I could send their way.

Lastly, let Nuli and Su'ya know that I have talked with some of the locals out here, and they do not think it would be wise for me to try to bring them a pet from the Shadowlands. I know they want to see what is out here, but I think they will need to settle for pictures. I would not want to bring something to the Realm of the Living and have it wither away because we cannot feed it the anima it needs to survive.

Or, with our luck, have some do-gooder druid would come along and release it into the wild like they did with our Helheim jellyfish. I still wonder if there are going to be any repercussions for that. I hope Angel Hair is doing well in whatever reef he has settled into.

When I have time, I will send a proper care package, so look forward to it!

I love every single one of you, unconditionally, and I will be home before you know it.

May your chaos bring you much joy and little grief,

Your Pretty and Indestructible Liila Ting

The letter lies near Haa'aji's feet where he sits curled up in a as small a ball as he can manage, leaning against the side of Liila's bed, the door to her room locked so that the little ones will not hear his sobs.

Pieces of another letter are scattered across the floor, and Haa'aji kicks at one when he lifts his head far enough to see it.

To the Family of Liila Dragonlily, High Priestess and Champi—

It is with deepest regrets that I must inform y—

He jerks forward and snatches the scrap up, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces until there is not a phrase left together that can make any sense. He throws the bits of paper from him and they flutter lifelessly to the ground.

He would have thought it was a sick joke, if not for the look Mitchell had given him when he had offered the letter.

If not for what he had said as he handed him that useless, wicked scrap of parchment.

Haa'aji's shoulders shudder as sobs wrack him anew, and he curls back up, resting his head against the fresh bedsheets. He's been sure to remake Liila's bed every couple days, so that she will have clean sheets to come back to.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

How is he going to…

Their children will need to know. He cannot keep this from them. Nuli and several of the others spent days not knowing the fates of their parents, and Haa'aji has promised that they will never be left in that limbo again. He will not string them along with lies or half-truths, even if such things come as naturally as breathing to him.

Mitchell offered to stay with him, with them, but Haa'aji had shooed him away, told him he probably had a lot of others to see.

Liila's list of connections, of friends and fellow adventurers is a long one, after all.

No, it is best their children hear what has happened from him.

He just…can't bring himself to say those words yet. He can't—

For now, it is all he can do to hold himself together, and he does not know how he is going to find the strength for all of them.

As he lets out another sob, one thing keeps repeating in his mind, over and over and over.

He should never have let her go back.


Margerie Bishop is up early as she is every morning, before the birds have even begun their songs. She must get Bishop's Bakery ready for business. However, when she comes downstairs, mind already a whir with what treats she wants to make for the day, she finds her son, Carroll, sitting alone at a small table in the back of her kitchen, near the table where she kneads bread. He is writing by the light of a conjured wisp, with a stack of letters beside him already.

Margerie steps up to him and gives him a chance to lift his quill before wrapping him in a hug and peppering the crown of his head with kisses. "Has the day been saved?"

"No, Ma," Carroll says, and there is a heaviness to his voice that gives her pause. As grouchy as her son can be, he is rarely so somber, and from past experience, she knows that something truly awful has come to pass.

The last time he was this way was years ago, when his guild had been caught off guard on their way to the Outlands and almost a dozen of them had fallen in battle.

She pulls up a spare chair across from him and settles in. "What's happened?"

After a pause that leaves her worrying about his guild and friends, Carroll says, "You know how we got that anonymous sponsor for the bakery?"

"Of course."

"Well, if you look at the records, it says that some obscure noble was our sponsor, but—"

"By the Light, but you're not worried about that, are you?" she exclaims.

"There's a lot more to it than you know."

"I doubt that." Margerie reaches out and cups her son's face when he looks skeptiical. "I already know all about it. I've talked with Mr. Shaw. He told me the truth of it."

Carroll stares at her, eyes widening as he pales. "Shaw knows? Mathias Shaw? The leader of SI:7?"

"The king's spymaster," Margerie says, and smiles when Carroll gives her an incredulous look. "Don't be so surprised. Your Ma knows a thing or two about who's who." She pats her son's knee. "But yes, that Shaw. When we first received the sponsor, I was concerned someone might be trying to get us into money laundering or something equally shady, so I went and got it sorted out."

Carroll stares at her, hard. "Then…did he tell you who our real sponsor is?"

"A whole gaggle of people," Margerie says, puffing up proudly. "Heroes and dedicated workers. People around the world who have a love of my and your father's cooking."

Carroll grimaces. "That's not quite—"

"Alliance and Horde alike."

Carroll stills again. Then he shakes his head, peers at her carefully even as she meets his concern with a warm gaze. "You—you're not worried? About the Horde patrons?"

"Mr. Shaw joked our bakery is the reason they'll never raid the city again." Margerie smiles. "The man has a dry humor, but it's there, if you watch for it." She cannot help the relief that floods through her that this seems to be what has her son fretting so. "I know not to be that arrogant, but if nothing else, their coins to our shop are coins that don't go into making their war machines. And anyway, I hear we have King Wrynn's approval, so there's nothing to worry about. I've sent cakes and cupcakes to the castle thrice now. Even got a letter of praise form the young king himself."

Carroll does not seem to know how to respond to that. His gaze flits about, as though he is putting pieces of a puzzle into place and seeing if they really fit. Finally, his gaze lowers to the table and alights on the letter his has been writing.

Rather than look relieved, his face twists with a myriad of emotions that shift too fasts for Margerie to follow, though she's certain none are good. He shoves the letter he's been writing away from himself, as he leans his elbows against the table and cradles his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?"

"You know that high elf who comes by every so often?"

"Miss Dragonlily?"

Carroll moves his head just enough that he can peer up at his mother over the tips of his fingers. "She told you her actual name?"

"Not to be used in public," Margerie says, nodding. "She helped facilitate saving our shop, you know."

Carroll starts laughing then, though it sounds more hysterical than joyous. It only takes a few seconds for his shrill laugh to shift into sobs. Margerie darts up from where she's seated and grips him tightly, holding him to her. He clings to her, a broken confession falling from his lips between sobs.

"I…hated her! I felt like she indentured us to her. To the Horde! I thought if someone found out, you would be hanged! You and Dad both! I—"

Margerie strokes his hair. "I wish you had said something sooner, darling. I could have saved you a lot of heartache."

He doesn't respond, instead clinging to her tighter. It reminds her of when he was a little boy, of the few time the world had been too big and scary for her slender little one.

It has been a long, long time since he needed her thus.

"I was always mean to her."

"Well, it's never too late for an apology," Margerie offers, patting his back. She does not finish her sentence before he whispers.

"She's dead."

Margerie stills.

"And it's my—"

"Don't," Margerie says, instinctively, as she hugs him closer.

"She was trying to help King Wrynn and…"

She doesn't really hear what he says next.

Instead, Margerie's mind takes her back, to a time years ago, when she came out of the back of the bakery to see an unusually scrawny little elf hiding near the large shop window and peeking out at the street. Margerie remembers seeing the burly man through the window, looking most untrustworthy and dangerous. When he had started toward the shop door, the elf had flinched.

By the time her pursuer made it into the shop, however, Margerie had pulled the little elf behind the counter. She didn't know either of them, but she knew someone in distress when she saw them—still does—and she had never been one to turn away those in need.

After a heated argument where her husband had to come in and threaten the man with getting the guard, their unwanted guest finally stalked off. Her husband took over the front while Margerie ushered the little elf back to somewhere where she could calm her nerves. She had been so very thin.

Margerie has done her best to fatten the little creature up over the years.

Because she has come back, again and again, each time with a slightly larger list of orders, to the point where Margerie teased her that someone better be paying her for her delivery service.

The longest time between visits had been five months, and when Miss Dragonlily had gotten back, her hair had been red instead of white blonde. All she would say of that was that there had been "an incident" in an alternate reality Draenor. Margerie had been surprised that such a fragile looking creature was heading off into such dangerous adventures, but not wanting to insult her, she had instead asked if the little elf might look after her son. That way she'd have eyes on both of them.

That was when Miss Dragonlily had admitted that she was Horde, and that more than that, she knew Carroll, and doubted he would appreciate her coming to his rescue.

Margerie had suspected as much, especially when she couldn't find information on the elf. At the time, there had been so few elves in Storwmind, and when she had asked around after her patron's health, no one had ever known who she was talking about.

The day she had learned her elven friend was Horde was the day they had been properly introduced.

Liila Dragonlily.

After she'd had a proper name to use to snoop around with, the stories never seemed to cease. And Carroll had had stories, too. They didn't get along, but in a pinch, Carroll had admitted that he could count on her to help him. She might be Horde, but she still helped anyone, if they were against the greater evil.

Carroll hadn't said much more than that, but it had confirmed another thing that Margerie knew: Miss Dragonlily was a good soul.

Margerie sits back down, watching her son as he keeps talking, eyes rimmed red.

"I shouldn't have let her…I could have…" Carroll stares straight ahead, unseeing. "If only I hadn't given him a portal, maybe—"

"Don't you dare blame yourself, Carroll Benjamin Bishop," Margerie snaps. Her words come out a bit harsher than she means them to, but she reaches out and grips his hands tightly. "You have always done what you thought was right. You didn't kill her."

"I didn't save her, either." He shakes his head. "It was so easy for him. She was always the one you had to watch for, the one who couldn't be brought down, the one who worried people about if she ever decided to turn her skills against the Alliance. And he just…" He trails off when his hand bumps into his stack of papers. He stares at them blankly for a long, quiet minute. "I promised I would help deliver the news." His fingers brush over his latest letter. "She knows so many people in the Alliance for someone so proudly Horde."

Margerie sits quietly, remembering the last time she saw Miss Dragonlily. She had asked for cupcakes to celebrate a little one's birthday. She had laughed as she leaned against the counter, going over the order with Margerie as she spoke about her adopted son with such adoration. "He fancies himself a great warrior, but was near tears when Haa'aji said Bishop's cupcakes might be a stretch to get, considering all that's happened lately."

She tries to remember the child's name.

Pa'mo, she thinks.

Yes, because they debated having her write it out in frosting, but decided against it in the end, as Margerie wasn't confident in her skills with making foreign letters look legible.

"Do her little ones know?"

"What?" Carroll blinks out of his thoughts and then shakes his head. "There are others spreading the news Horde side. Friends."

Margerie stares at the large stack of letters her son has written, not really seeing them. "If I make something for her family, can you get it to them?"

Carroll blinks, confused a second. He starts to reiterate that they are Horde, but when Margerie simply nods, he mirrors her action. "…Yeah. Yeah, I can figure something out." He lets out a dry laugh. "She once told me that with all the portals set up, it was a twenty-minute walk from her front door to our shop." His shoulders shake a little as he laughs weakly. "At the time, I was so horrified. I went to the mages in Dalaran—that's where she'd go to get a portal to Stormwind—and she was buying them off with your cinnamon pinwheels."

With a laugh, Margerie shakes her head. "I've wondered who all got what. There've been so many times that strangers have marched in the shop and asked if we were the ones with this or that…they were always vague about how they got to try our sweets, but…"

Carroll presses his lips together as he nods, letting out a half laugh. "She was very good for business, I suppose."

"Very good," Margerie agrees. Her smile wavers. "I think I'll get to work then. I imagine their neighbors will make more substantial meals, so… Maybe some…muffins?"

As she feeds the ovens to start the day—she is running late now—she decides that today will be a day for remembering. She douses all but two of the fires she's started an leaves them just long enough to set a few black drapes in the window to let anyone coming by know that they are closed.

After all, one of her best customers and a dear friend is gone.

She will need time to mourn.


Millie walks into the little room in Oribos with a stack of papers in her arms and heads over to the table where Wren, Topher, Veena, and Howl all sit silently. She sets the papers down and begins to separate them into dockets. "Alright, so. I've been looking into locations and logistics for a proper funeral, and I think if we go—"

Her hand shakes a little, and she drops the papers she is trying to hand to Howl. They slide across the table, a few falling off the edge and fluttering to the ground.

No one moves.

Millie takes in a few deep breaths and then drops to her knees, picking them up. "I mean, we… Liila never was one for fanfare, so I imagine one funeral will be better than tw,o and we'll need everyone to go to one place, and we'll need it to be somewhere everyone can go and—"

Howl's hand rests on her shoulder, and she stops talking, gaze flitting up to him. He opens his mouth to say something and then just shakes his head. She stands back up, setting her papers down. "I've got everything organized, so it will be easy to get things underway once we—"

"Liila didn't want a funeral," Howl murmurs. His common is gruff, and Millie thinks this is the first time she's heard the orc actually speak in the human tongue.

Wren lets out a half laugh, staring blankly at the table, his hand resting next to his docket. "She once told me that if she ever managed to actually die, she wanted her corpse dropped in some ditch in an undisclosed location to make sure no one tried to contact her via summoning her spirit at her grave."

"By the Light, we do bother our dead incessantly, don't we?" Topher asks, slouching down in his chair.

"Haa'aji and Liila were banned from contacting ancestors or spirits." Howl closes his eyes, shakes his head. "They would always call them back the second after they left, over and over, to ask increasingly banal questions until the spirits grew so agitated they stopped coming. They pissed off so many shaman and witch doctors and…"

Millie stares down at her docket, at the notes she has spent the last two sleepless nights preparing because if she stops working, she thinks too much. She thinks about Liila and all the ones she has lost before her. She thinks of every friend and loved one she has let down, of the march to the grave, of the inevitability that they will all reach their end at some point.

Because so many have already been lost, if not to one calamity, to another.

Liila had been a damned windfall. A hero who couldn't die.

Well, she had died all the time—her words.

But she had always come back.

She was a surety. That was why Millie had pushed so hard for her to be the high priestess. Liila might fall, but she would always be there.

She would always be… a beacon of hope to those around her.

Bright and infallible, even if Liila didn't see it herself.

Brushing tears from her cheeks, Millie furrows her brow as she focuses on the papers in front of her. "It doesn't really matter if she wanted to be left in a ditch or put to rest in a cathedral. Funerals are for the living."

Silence meets her defiance.

Finally, Howl shifts in his seat, moving forward so that he can scan the documents before him.

"How about a feast of remembrance, then?" he suggests. "She died a warrior's death, so it should be something to honor her final sacrifice."

Topher nods. "Gonna be hard to get everyone together, but I think…well, maybe we can get warlocks to summon?"

"The forsaken coven liked her well enough," Howl says. "And I think the gnomish one. Though I never understood how that happened."

"We'll reach out, see what we can do," Millie says. Slowly, the others become more involved, discussing what can be done, what should be said, what will be appropriate. They settle on a speech or two, but nothing too over the top. Wren says he doubts she'd want any elven songs sung, but maybe something in Zandali. Or taur-ahe. Even gutterspeak would be acceptable.

The make a list of who to contact about what sort of songs would be best and who might be willing to sing them in tribute.

Wren suggests a statue then. "She'll piece herself back together just to come yell at us."

Howl laughs, though it falls a little flat. "Especially if it's an accurate statue."

Snorting, Topher shakes his head. "She once told me, if there has to be a statue of her ever made—for any reason—she wants it to be a silithid." That earns faint laughs from the others. Wren rolls his eyes. "And we're all to just act like that's what she looked like. And not just statues. Pictures drawn, or anything like that depicting her heroic feats, all silithid. Everyone else should be accurate, but not her. She said she wanted there to be some mystery about her."

Howl nods. "I can't remember who said it, but someone told her that her memory would be immortal. That generations were going to whisper the tales of the Dragonlily for centuries to come. She said that, if it has to go that way, she wanted the stories to conflict and confuse. She wanted people to wonder if she ever really existed at all. To be some wild legend that contradicts itself at every turn."

As they talk on, Millie struggles to keep her mind in the moment, in the present. But no matter how hard she tries, she cannot keep it from wandering to one question, over and over and over.

If the Jailer can take the legendary Liila Dragonlily from them with such ease, what chance do the rest of them really have?


Bolvar Fordragon stands in a small, backroom tucked away in a quiet corner of Oribos, staring down at what is left of a body laid out on a long stone slab. "This is it?"

"Apparently," says one of the necromancers. "When the curse unraveled, it tore her to pieces." She taps a severed forearm that is marred with familiar black scars and part of it crumbles to dust. "It started with her soul and when there wasn't enough of that left…" She motions to the fragmented body.

Even as Bolvar frowns, the door to the room slams open. Blood storms in, blade drawn. Shadow and Whisper are on his heels, and they fill into the room, making a most impressive wall of heavy armor and righteous fury.

"Tell me you're not planning what I think you're planning."

"Calm down, knight," Bolvar says, sticking his chin toward the table. "I just wanted to see our options."

"Options?" Shadow bellows, and he takes a menacing step toward Bolvar, though the highlord is unimpressed. "Even if her body was intact, her soul was torn to shreds! What do you think—"

"It would help morale if the Dragonlily came back as she is so well known to do," Bolvar pauses, grimacing down at the bits and pieces laid out on display before him. "Most wouldn't know it wasn't her. All you would have to do is keep your mouth sh—"

When Shadow swings at him, Bolvar lifts a hand, and the death knight goes rigid. With a shove that touches air and still somehow forces Shadow back, Bolvar releases him. "If you cannot control your rage, I suggest you go to Korthia where it can at least be useful." He shakes his head. "I am sorry you lost your friend, but this is war. We all knew there would be casualties."

"So you'll finally call her that?" Whisper asks. When Bolvar narrows his eyes at her, she scowls. "She's been a casualty. So many times. But you all would never count her. She gets back up, so what did it matter if she died a few times… it messed with her, you know? To know how little you bastards thought of her."

"I thought highly of the Dragonlily."

"The void you did," Blood spits.

Bolvar stands a little straighter. "Think what you will, but do it elsewhere."

"Not a chance," Whisper snaps. When Bolvar gives her an incredulous look, she motions to the table. "We're here to take Liila home. Whatever's left of her. She wouldn't want you messing with her like this."

The necromancer looks like she might protest, but Bolvar merely waves his hand. "Let them do what they want. We've no use for scraps."


Adrestes stands on the ramparts that encompass Sinfall's top layer, staring out in to the Ember Ward, back to the band of souls that are playing a haunting melody.

He's not in the mood for dancing.

He's not in the mood to be here at all, but Chyrus insisted. He said this would be good for him. A way to get his mind off things.

A way to get his mind off the fact that Liila's funeral will be held tomorrow, in Azeroth. Apparently, people are going to meet in a mage city, as it is one of the most accessible places in their world, with creatures from all factions typically knowing the spells to get there.

He has heard bits of conversations and preparations for what is to come and cannot help but feel guilty. So many are coming together to grieve for her. Thanikos has mused about going to the funeral himself, watching from their side of the Veil. Quite a few have, actually.

A few may, though Adrestes will not count among them.

There is far too much to do in the Shadowlands, and he is not going to let things pile up just so he can waste his time in mourning with strangers he does not know.

Better to work through his grief and his guilt than to give it time to fester.

After all, whenever he thinks of her, he thinks of how she had begun to talk of her future, of how she had begun to plan for it. He thinks of her telling him about different milestones she wanted to see her children reach, and how pivotal each one was.

That little bit of life that Vesiphone had been so carefully shaping had been blossoming into such beautiful hope when…

Coming here was a foolish endeavor.

He has too much time to think and not enough to do.

A hand holding a teacup extends into his peripheral vision, and Adrestes' frown deepens before he finally takes it, if only with the hopes that accepting the drink will make his host leave.

Prince Renathal does not.

"You have my condolences, my friend. I have heard of the Maw Walker's fate," he begins.

"If you have heard," Adrestes growls, "then there is nothing to talk about, is there?"

Prince Renathal appraises him quietly before saying, "There is much to talk about, if you have a mind for it."

"I do not—" Adrestes starts to say, but pauses when he looks to the Dark Prince and sees the sincerity on the venthyr's features. He swallows then and looks away. "What topic did you have in mind?"

"Bringing the fight to the Jailer, of course," the prince says. "We in Revendreth are preparing to assault the Maw itself. With the way to Korthia open, we can come and go as we please. Perhaps our forces can go in together. Or perhaps we can harry them at different points, strike strategically."

"I am not the one to speak to about such things," Adrestes murmurs, but holds out a hand when Prince Renathal turns to leave, "but I know Xandria would be most interested. Tell me what you hope to do and I will see that a proper correspondence can begin."


Hero's Rest has been reopened.

Pelagos has been told that, now that the Jailer has the covenant's sigil, there will not be any further threat of attack on the realm itself. Now, his focus will be elsewhere, and as dangerous as that is, it affords the kyrian some much needed rest.

If only Pelagos could find solace in the quiet.

But he finds now that it is too quiet.

Pelagos stands quietly before the three chaises set up in their corner, the Maw Walker's corner. As he moves through it and goes to sit on the one that is unofficially his, he cannot keep his gaze from Liila's and wonder how long this corner's title will stick.

He hopes for forever, that at least this little piece of her may live on, but only the march of eons to come will tell for sure.

Assuming the Jailer does not unmake everything before then.

The wayward god is frighteningly powerful, and Pelagos cannot help but wonder that perhaps the Shadowlands learned of his plots too late to actually stop them.

After all, the Jailer was not even actually in Bastion, and he was able to do so much damage. He was able to sever all of Liila's soulbinds with almost no effort at all.

Pelagos had been carrying a few crates around, helping Nikolon and Kosmas at Courage when everything had happened.

One moment, it had been a typical day, with Nikolon and Kosmas happily experimenting with their latest bells. The next, it was like the realm itself was wailing. The air had grown thin, and the entire platform that their arena was on had dropped several feet. One of the smaller ones in the distance had kept falling, into the emptiness below, lost to swirling clouds.

They would later learn that such incidents happened across the entirety of the realm, but at the time, they had worried that there was about to be another attack on Courage. Even as they had gathered their more important notes and prototypes, thinking to head back to the mainland and somewhere more stable, Pelagos' bond to Liila was broken.

It felt like someone gouged something out of him, out of his very soul. He had tried to cry out in pain, but it had been too great. Before the sound could leave his throat, he had passed out. Nikolon had been in an utter panic, and when Pelagos finally came to, it had been in his soulmate's arms as Kosmas worked to mend his wounded soul.

He is still raw from the severance, but he is healing, slowly.

The worst of it was when he woke up, really. His connection to Liila had been gone, replaced with what felt like an empty void where her usual spinning wheel of emotions had been tucked away in the corner of his mind. And coupled with that void, had been unimaginable horror and pain from Kleia.

He had gone to Elysian Hold, even as others tried to tell him to sit back and rest, and had been quick to find soulbind and mentor. He had cast several healing spells over her before anyone could intervene and comment that he was looking ragged as well, and he wasn't even there for the assault.

That is when he had looked around and noticed the damage to the Hold.

That was when he had heard whispers of what had happened.

Of who had fallen.

"Where is Liila?" The words had felt heavy on his tongue.

And suddenly there had been sympathy in the eyes of every single person who looked his way.

Kleia had started crying.

Kleia never cries.

Since Liila's death, Kleia has been anxious. She frets over Pelagos when they are together, as though she thinks that he is going to fall next, and as much as she assures him that she is confident in him, he can feel that terror coiling in her, ready to strike, and it scratches at his own doubts that he already struggles with.

It is like now that Liila is dead, Kleia is certain that he will be next.

And he can't take it.

He needs room to breathe, but when they are together, she is so worried. He has seen her memory a dozen times, as it plays again and again, as she tries to figure out what she could have done differently. He sees, through her eyes, as she locates Liila across the way and feels Liila's terror, knows that something is very wrong. He sees as she shoots toward her, path straight and true.

And he feels an echo of the feeling that made her fall from the sky when her own binding to Liila was torn to pieces.

She wonders if she should have taken a less direct route, if there is a way she could have bought Liila more time, a way she could have figured out to alert Xandria quicker.

Anything she could have done differently.

Pelagos has tried to assure her that she did nothing wrong. That she did all she could.

But it is not enough.

His words are not enough.

Pelagos has barely sat down on his chaise, willing himself to focus on what can be done now rather than what went wrong before, when an insect-like creature lands beside Kleia's seat. Their head tilts one way and then the other, sharply. Surely this is a creature from Azeroth—unless there are more breaches in the veil now—but they are unlike anything he has ever seen.

The creature steps up to him, folding their arms almost as though it is praying. Or do their arms just bend that way?

"You smell of the Dragonlily."

Pelagos sits up, confused. "What?"

The creature takes a step forward, toward him, a soft chittering hum escaping it before it speaks again. "The scent of her essence lingers around you." They take another step forward and then wander past to inspect the chaise that was unofficially Liila's. For a second, Pelagos is struck with the strange fear that they will sit there, and he is not ready for that. He is not ready to see her place taken so soon.

Instead, the creature looks back at him. "You were a friend to the Dragonlily?"

"I was," he replies. "I am Pelagos. I was her soulbind. One of them, anyway."

"Bound souls," the creature murmurs and then nods. "That must be why you feel of her. I am Ambersmith Zikk. Dragonlily was a friend. We were sad to hear of her loss."

"Sad?" Comes another voice. Pelagos turns in time to see a pandaren charging over to their corner to confront the creature who is already there. "You lot damn near killed her yourselves! Following that monster you call a god!"

"Dragonlily was warned what would happen when our masters rose up," Ambersmith Zikk objects, seemingly genuinely surprised. "There were no hard feelings between us."

"And just what do the klaxxi want here in the afterlives?" the pandaren spits. "Do you even come here when you die?"

"We do," the ambersmith tilts their head again, sharply. "We are just as mortal as you."

The pandaren glowers angrily, but before she can say more, Pelagos steps between them, looking from one to the other and letting his gaze rest on the pandaren. "It sounds like you were a friend of Liila's, too?"

She looks ready to snap something and then deflates a little. "We were guildmates for a time, before my path led me elsewhere." She is quiet a moment before abruptly remembering her manners and bowing. "I am Cho-sung. Forgive my rudeness."

"Consider it forgotten," says Ambersmith Zikk.

Cho-sung looks ready to argue that she was not talking to the creature, the klaxxi, but instead she nods her head. "I…I cannot believe she is really gone."

Pelagos flinches at her words. "It is hard for us all." He hesitates and then looks from one to the other. "Any friends of Liila's are friends of mine, so tell me, how may I serve? What brings you to Bastion?"

Ambersmith Zikk's wings whir a second before they tuck them against their back again. "I do not seek your service, but rather come to offer my own. Someone must replace the Dragonlily. A void will be left, otherwise."

Though she again seems ready to argue, Cho-sung takes in a slow breath and then lets it out with equal measure. "I suppose it is the same for me, more or less." She is quiet a moment and shakes her head. "Liila will have big shoes to fill, but I am sure I can do my part." She motions around them. "So what needs to be done?"

Over the next week, Pelagos has similar conversations, again and again. He practically lives in Hero's Rest because every time he thinks he will head over to see how Courage is faring or check in on Adrestes or Kleia, another group has shown up, speaking of the times their paths intersected with Liila's.

Sometimes, they tell of a fierce fighter who defended them during dire straits. They paint the picture of a magnificent healer or a fearsome shadowpriest.

Other tell of a mischievous creature who pulled pranks and left those in command pulling their hair out, of how she made the daunting cataclysms and world ending threats feel a little less overwhelming with her distractions and side projects.

Still others talk of her as an enemy who was formidable but fair, whose current cause is just enough that they will take up the banner, despite a great dislike for the one who has dropped it.

It is fascinating.

Four murlocs tells of the great Dragonlily who freed their clan from mindcontrol in Northrend and saved them as hatchlings from a terrible fate. They are grown now and wish to honor her memory.

A dark-haired man with a tawny complexion and black scales growing along his cheekbones and the backs of his hands tells of how she was a devious little thing that tricked him into some of that 'do-gooder nonsense'.

A kaldorei tells of how he almost lost his hand to one of the Dragonlily's many pranks, and how he never did get a chance to repay the mischief.

There are too many to count.

They do not all stay in Bastion, but every one of them comes to Hero's Rest. And not a single one sits on her chaise. It is as though they know, somehow, that that is hers.

Even in death.

It stirs something in Pelagos, to see the army against the Jailer swelling in rank, and that gives him much needed hope because even if the Jailer has planned out all of his plots and schemes, Pelagos has a feeling he didn't plan for the hornet's nest his has struck.

Liila is not replaceable, of course, but it feels like half of Azeroth is willing try.


Korthia must have been beautiful once. It still is, to some degree, but it is fading a little more with each passing second as it succumbs to the hunger of the Maw.

It breaks Kleia's heart to see it thus, and her heart is already heavy enough.

She adjusts her wings, almost expecting one of them to ache with sharp pain, though they never do.

She had seen Liila, felt her terror. She had tried to come to her aid when it was like something snapped off a piece of herself. A piece of her soul.

The pain had been so incredible that she had fallen from the air, and at the speed she was going, she had hit hard.

However, the anima weavers of Bastion are well versed in wing injuries, and it only took a day or so before it was like hers had never happened.

It is jarring, to have so clear a memory of so terrible a thing, but not even a phantom pain to prove it was real. Kosmas has suggested she forget that memory, as it is causing her anxiety, especially when she thinks about Pelagos coming here, into the Maw.

She is trying not to fret over him or be too overbearing, but at the same time, she cannot help but wonder about whether any of the Jailer's share his ability to damage bindings.

Before the Jailer undid Liila's curse, he severed her soulbindings. If they had still been bound to her, perhaps…

Perhaps things would have ended differently.

But Kleia cannot alter time. All she can do is guard her remaining soulbind, keep him safe. She makes sure not to stray too far from him, so that if he needs her aid, she will be able to reach him in time. However, she can feel her actions fraying his nerves, try as he might to pretend otherwise.

They seem to be at a stalemate, with both of them reacting to their lost soulbind differently, and while they both understand each other's reactions on some level, it does not quite fit in with their own reactions and it is leading to a split that makes Kleia feel like the ground is crumbling beneath her.

Pelagos' doubts whisper that she thinks him incompetent, that that is why she must watch over him so closely, but he does not seem to understand that Liila was very competent, and she still succumbed. Pelagos is a worthy fighter, but even the best would crumble against the Jailer.

Their Archon fell to him. Their Eternal god still bears the wound inflicted by the Jailer's puppet, though she seems to wear it as a remembrance now. If it hurts her, she does not show the pain, and if it shames her, she does not show that either.

Bastion does, though.

The Jailer's damage echoed out into the entirety of the realm. Platforms collapsing here and there, cliffs giving out. There is a new hole in the realm, gaping and hungry, similar to the inner cliffs beneath Hero's Rest. Given time, perhaps it will look as serene as those cliff faces, but for now, it is an ugly wound, a reminder of the attack they could not stop, despite preparing for it for almost two months.

It feels like every time the realm begins to heal, they are hit with something new. Another blow, another loss.

Kleia does not know how the mortals have managed, going through so many ordeals in such a short time. She is overwhelmed with just this one.

She gives the ascended who have come with her their orders to play support to their allies and then looks around for Pelagos. She wishes he would not come here so often, but he is here in Korthia about as frequently as she is.

She finds him now, standing off a ways, speaking quietly with Howl and Inaar.

It has been three weeks since Bastion lost its sigil. In that time, the mortals have been as busy as ever.

Mostly, their focus is on establishing a foothold in Korthia so that they can strike at the heart of the Maw.

At Torghast.

So far, they have done quite a bit.

They have disabled the Jailer's eye—apparently it was stolen from another god of their world. Howl and Lash had taken the lead on that. Without it, the Jailer cannot keep up with all of their movements throughout his realm and it has enabled several assaults on different locations throughout the Maw to take place.

The Jailer's attacks seem less potent now, his retaliations slow.

Kleia cannot help but wonder if it is a ruse or not.

After all, the Jailer has been planning this for a very long time.

But perhaps…

Kleia wants to hope that this will be enough, that they are finally turning the tides.

But it feels like the Jailer's forces are unending, and she does not know how much longer Korthia will last.

At least the mortals can get the inhabitants out of the Maw. Most of those who can be evacuated have been, and now the only people who remain are here to fight.

Kleia steels herself to take a trip through the nearby areas and look for anyone who may need aid.

However, before she can, she hears the soft footfalls of someone landing beside her. Thinking it may be one of those she has sent away already reporting back with news of some new enemy movement, she glances to her side.

And stills when she sees who has joined her.

Lysonia.

It should not strike her so. There are many forsworn working within Death's Advance here in the Maw. She can keep her cool around most of them, but when it comes to Lysonia…

Kleia tries not to feel intimidated by the former Hand, but the way Lysonia watches her reminds her of how larion sometimes stalk their prey. Kleia's feathers fluff up a little without her meaning them to. Even as she schools her feathers, hoping against hope that Lysonia somehow missed her reaction, the forsworn leader simply looks out from their post, toward the rest of Korthia.

"If you have anyone to spare, Xandria would appreciate them sent her way."

"She is having trouble in the Cauldron?"

Lysonia slowly turns her head toward Kleia, and she feels herself fluff up again. "I'm told Vesiphone will be arriving shortly, with the night fae. The goal is to assault Desmotaeron directly and relinquish the last of Helya's hold over our people."

As far as she knows, all who rejected Helya's boon have been freed from the repercussions now, so the only ones still afflicted are the goddess's Helsworn. With the night fae's fine tuning, it seems about a third of them recover after being freed. Half of them die, and what is left go mad or try to return to Helya.

It is a mess.

But at least some of them can be saved.

And even when they can't, it is one less soldier for the Jailer. His winged forces grow fewer by the hour.

Kleia frowns. "I just sent everyone out on assignments. I suppose I can call them back." As she hops into the air, she cannot help that notice that it is not until she is hovering a few feet above the ground that she is eye level with the fallen Hand.

Even as Kleia turns to go, Lysonia catches her gaze and holds it. "Why don't we split the task?"

"Well, some areas will need to keep their air support—"

"I think I can figure out who is needed where," Lysonia replies, and there is a faint note of humor in her voice, as though she thinks it cute that Kleia is so serious.

However, even as Kleia nods and offers that she can take the south and east, she feels it.

The swelling approach of an immense presence, something ancient and impossibly powerful.

And very, very angry.

Lysonia's spear is in hand, but she puts herself between the advancing aura and Kleia, as though to protect her. She reaches back and rests her hand against Kleia's arm, as though to keep her calm.

Perhaps it is odd that Lysonia's reassurance actually works—Kleia can still remember fighting through enemies to fight her at Purity—but it does.

Even as Kleia pushes back the memories of fights past and considers that perhaps she should let some of them go, like Kosmas has suggested, an unfamiliar figure storms down the road toward Keeper's Respite.

He is like nothing Kleia has ever seen.

At a glance, one might think him a bent and broken old man, for the length of his wiry white beard and the hunch of his shoulders. His staff leaves deep gouges in the road as he thrusts it down with each step, propelling himself forward with a haste that does not match his gnarled form. Massive horns twist away from his head and into the air, and even from where she is, she can see an intelligence in the creature's eyes that makes her shiver.

As the creature approaches, a hush falls over Keeper's Respite, and that makes it all the easier to hear him as he comes up the road to join them.

And to hear the duo who are following him, scurrying to match his giant strides.

"Enough!" His voice is like the Archon's, with weight behind the word, a command that cannot be ignored.

Or at least, it shouldn't be.

Heirmir falls silent behind him as she hurries along, looking most destitute, her gaze never straying from the creature she shadows.

Mitchell, on the other hand, seems to be immune to the order. "We're just saying that it's not like anyone else deals with this memory magic business—"

The giant whirls on them then and bellows, "All of Bastion deals with memory magic!" He glances toward the respite and then points a large, clawed finger toward Lysonia and Kleia. "The Ascended are made specifically to be able to peer into memories! To gather and remove them! Could you not have taken the sigil to the Archon?"

Mitchell is ready to protest again, but instead he stops, one hand held up in front of him, index finger extended and pointed toward the sky. He curls it down slowly as his mind works, eyes narrowing at his own thoughts. "I didn't think of that."

"You didn't think at all!" the giant bellows. Then he looks down at Heirmir. "I can almost excuse a mortal's ignorance—" he ignores as Mitchell let's out an indignant 'hey!' and focuses on the maldraxxi beside him, "but you…"

"My Primus, I cannot apologize enough—"

"No, you can't," the Primus snaps. "Zovaal has the fourth sigil because of your unbelievable stupidity!"

Kleia's wings stop mid flap, and she drops back to the ground, eyes wide. There are a few gasps from those around them, as well. Lysonia curses under her breath.

The Primus turns to the rest of them. "Report back to your realms! Inform them that Oribos must be protected at all costs! The Jailer must not get the final sigil! Reality depends on it!"

Lysonia's large hand comes down on Kleia's shoulder, and she snaps her attention up at the fallen Hand. Lysonia nods her chin in the direction the Primus came from. "How's this. I'll gather who I can out here, and you can inform the Archon of her brother's return?"

With a short nod, Kleia takes back to the air.


The Maw is a bleak place. Adrestes has heard tales about how terrible it truly is, listened to the stories that Liila and others wove of their misadventures here, and yet somehow none of them ever did this place justice. No matter what direction he looks in, all he sees is suffering. Wails fill his ears and there is a metallic taste in the air that makes his tongue itch.

The very aura of this place is oppressive and dark, and it does nothing for the morale of those here. Instead, it worms its way into the mind and fills one with a sense of dread that cannot be shaken. More than that, the Maw is angry. He can feel it in the way the air clings to his feathers, like a viscous fluid trying to strip him of the freedom flying affords him. It knows that it is supposed to be impenetrable, and the fact that so many come and go now Is a defiance it strives not brook.

The more people come and go, the more the realm's Purpose is rejected, and the more dangerous it becomes. It is a cycle, and the Maw is powerful enough that it wears those who seek to flout its authority down quickly.

There is not an ascended present who cannot feel that rage.

There is not an ascended present who does not feel shame for knowing that they helped to make this place as strong as it now is with every soul delivered carelessly to the sleeping Arbiter.

The Jailer's strength is their own fault.

However, hope springs in the most unlikely of places.

As they prepare to attack, a band of souls comes forward willing to offer their aid in exchange for the freedom of others they have come to protect. These souls are heroes from countless worlds, heroes who have banded together within the Maw and have fought against all odds to protect those who do not belong here.

One of these souls is named Ben Howell.

The fact that there are souls able to form defiant bands at all out here should be an impressive feat, and yet…

It feels like it still falls short of what is needed.

Perhaps if Adrestes had not been there for the attack on the Hold, had not seen what a mere shade of the Jailer was capable of, he would feel reassured and still hold out hope that they can win. However, as it is now, he is not sure that they can do more than inconvenience the Jailer in the long run. He wants to believe they can stop him, and he will fight until the end of reality, but…

General Draven says it best. Hope is not a requirement for duty.

Time will tell.

Xandria has already started her assault on the cauldron. It is a smokescreen for both Vesiphone's plan and the mortals'. While Xandria distracts the forces who might come to the aid of the helsworn, Vesiphone leads the attack on Desmotaeron with Lady Moonberry and Baroness Draka. Adrestes serves as her right hand.

He and Nikolon are here to help try to win over any of the mawsworn and hellsworn who may remain reachable.

Their goal is to strip the Jailer of his winged forces altogether. It is ambitious, but one that will hopefully slow down the monster's assault. It is all the more critical now that the Jailer has four of the sigils. Helsworn will be vital on any assault on Oribos.

And while Vesiphone whittles away the helsworn and Xandria distracts the smiths and sentries in the open Maw, the mortals assault Torghast.

The fighting, at least in Desmotaeron, is brutal. Every time it seems like they are making headway, more mawsworn rush to the side of their enemies. They truly seem to be unending.

In addition to them, the traitorous maldraxxi have taken up residence with the helsworn, having fled their own realm when they realized the tides there were turning against them.

That, at least, is a mistake on their part that helps Vesiphone's forces. Many of the ascended here have lost friends and loved ones to the assault on Courage. To see the traitors here and to know that they have a chance at retribution against those who supported the ruthless attack is all that they need. They fight harder than they have ever fought before to bring justice to their fallen brethren.

And when the Primus shows up, well.

For once things go their way. For once they are able to push back the Jailer's forces in his own realm and leave them broken and his fortress empty by the time they finally fall back to Bastion.

It is a small victory, a stepping stone that—with luck—will herald more. By the end of the battle, even Adrestes wrestles with a small smidgen of hope. However, it bothers him that, through the entire assault, the Jailer never once makes an appearance.

It makes him wonder what the ruler of the realm is up to. Has he shown up in the Cauldron against Xandria? Or perhaps he is fending off mortals in Torghast?

Or does he even care about the blows they are striking?

Does the Maw even matter to him anymore?

It does not take long for an answer to Adrestes' question to arrive. Word reaches them that Oribos has been assaulted. While they have struck a blow within the Maw, the Jailer has continued with his plans outside of it, unfettered.

Once again, they are miles behind.

It is with mixed feelings that Adrestes returns to Bastion. On the one hand they have freed nearly all of his brethren from the Jailer's grasp, and Helya has been cast out of the Maw by the Primus himself. Adrestes neither knows nor cares where the wayward goddess has ended up, so long as she can no longer reach his people.

On the other hand, Adrestes is not even sure that what has been accomplished today matters because the Jailer has reached Zereth Mortis.


"Looks like you lost your mother's soul," Emma Burlaste says as she sits on the edge of her husband's desk, her bags from their recent trip dropped beside her, all but forgotten.

Timmons drops his own luggage near the door as he rushes in and moves so that he can see past her, his gaze quickly assessing the perfect sphere that he keeps on a small pillow on the corner of his desk. He grows still as death when he realizes that it has split down the middle into almost even halves.

For a moment, Emma thinks he has forgotten to breathe.

Abruptly, he drops into his chair, only to rise again as he sucks in a sharp breath, all but oblivious to her. He reaches for the stone, gathering the pieces into his hands—there are a few tiny shards around the main ones, and falls back into his seat.

The soulstone is empty.

He weighs the pieces of it in his palm, expression impossible to read.

Emma watches him with care, curious. Her husband has had this soulstone for longer than she's known him, and no matter what she offers—sex, souls, power, vengeance—she has never been able to get him to tell her whose it was.

She has never been able to get him to tell her whose soul he guards so fiercely.

For he does.

Most warlocks will only take considerable care of a soulstone in their possession if it is their own soul protected in that fragile glass. If it is another's, they tend to let the stones deteriorate naturally, lasting little more than ten or so minutes.

But this one…

This one has sat on Timmons' desk for years.

It was a good soul, if the shining light inside it was any indication. A bit damaged, but it always shone brightly from within its dark prison.

Emma had enjoyed watching it flicker from time to time. The first few instances, she had thought it was going to break and release the soul back to its owner, wherever and whoever they might be.

But unlike most soulstones, this one hung on to the soul, not immediately sending it forth.

Something else would always resurrect its owner instead, and Timmons' favorite toy would always remain intact.

In recent years, the light had begun to dim, getting weaker, more fragmented. Emma had caught Timmons trying to figure out how to repair it from within the soulstone on more than one occasion, but he had never explained why this soul mattered so much to him, or why its slow degradation bothered him as it did.

Now, however, it is gone.

Timmons dips into his connection to darkness and conjures the fuel he will need for another soulstone, reaching out through some invisible path for the soul that has been released.

Emma watches with idle curiosity, wondering how long this new stone will sit on his desk before it is consumed.

His magic curls and whispers.

And stalls.

A new stone does not form.

That…is odd.

Timmons does not fail when he casts. It is one of the may things that makes her fond of him. For him to be unable to call the soul means that something must have happened to it. Perhaps the soul itself was destroyed.

Perhaps it is merely beyond the boundaries of Azeroth and the Twisting Nether, though Emma is not sure such a place exists. Emma didn't think anything was out of Timmons' reach. Another part of why she married him. Power recognizes power. And he has much coiled inside of him.

Timmons tries twice more before slumping back in his seat and staring hard at the fragmented pieces of glass before him.

He cannot call the missing soul back.

Abruptly, Timmons rises from his seat, strides across the room, and drops the pieces of the stone into the trash. "It wasn't my mother's soul."

Emma tilts her head. This is more than she's ever gotten from him about it. "Then whose?"

"A dear friend."

"You don't have friends, love."

Timmons walks back to his desk and stares at the empty corner on the desk. "I have one."

Emma slowly pushes herself off of his desk and sets to gathering her bags from where she has dropped them so that she can put her things away. She considers the likelihood that Timmons has failed versus the odds that the soul he was protecting has simply fallen apart, and then shrugs. "Not anymore."


Inaar is trying to enjoy the stories that Lash and Mitchell are telling as they all sit around the Maw Walker's corner, passing the time until someone can find a way to follow after the Jailer. It is miserable having to twiddle their thumbs like this, but at least the company is good.

And the stories are great. At the moment, like most of the ones that Mitchell has been telling lately, the story is about Liila Dragonlily and their guild. The old one. Impervious.

Inaar wishes she could have seen them in their glory days, before so many grew bitter or depressed. They are all good people, to be sure, but they have a resilience in these past stories that seems to have been lost somewhere along the way.

And if she's honest, it hurts to talk about Liila. It hurts to hear her past, to learn of all the wonderful little memories she made and to know that there will be no more like it.

That the legend of the Dragonlily has come to an end. And such an abrupt one at that.

It makes Inaar question her own mortality, and it makes her heart hurt for Liila.

She deserved a better fate than to be torn to shreds as she was. She deserved to live happily, to be here, with all the people she loved, and all the friends she made. Inaar wishes she could have known her better.

She can see how, as they talk, the pain in her fellow mortals' eyes seems to lessen, if only a little, and she wishes she had stories of her own to tell that would make it hurt even less.

Pelagos, Ikaros, and Stanikos sit quietly with them, too, though they do not seem to comment on the stories, either.

Perhaps it is because the latter two had just gotten back a lost friend, only for this to happen again.

Pelagos, on the other hand, seems like there is something he wants to say, but twice when asked, he has awkwardly changed the subject. Inaar is a tad suspicious to know what he's hiding.

Mitchell is seemingly oblivious as he talks, standing between two of the chaises—he has not been able to stay sitting at all since what happened with the Primus' sigil.

Since he brought the damned thing into the Jailer's domain and practically handed it to him.

He's been avoiding Maldraxxus as much as possible, or so it would seem, and if Inaar had to guess, it would be that he fears what the Primus will do to him.

Or perhaps it stems from the guilt that if he had not brought the sigil to Torghast, the Jailer would not have sought and gathered the Arbiter's sigil yet.

As it is, the Jailer has won.

Perhaps not the war—surely not the war.

But he has won this battle, and the Jailer is exactly where he wants to be.

Beyond any covenant's reach.

At least Sylvanas has been captured, not that Inaar knows if any good will actually come from that. She tries to believe, but it is hard, when things are going so very wrong.

Mitchell paces a little and then stops in his tracks, moving his hands animatedly. "So we were facing down, this weird plant-infested orc, right? When all of a sudden—"

"Ohara!" barks a familiar voice, "Dazar'alor, now!"

As Mitchell unthinkingly casts a portal spell while still explaining how the plant-orc had been trying to infect them with some sort of seeds, a vaguely familiar aspirant hurries toward them, teal hair falling freely over her shoulders and fluttering as she marches pointedly, straight for the portal.

She is so strikingly familiar, even though Inaar is sure she's never seen her before, that she does not realize what she is doing right away.

Another familiar voice calls out, "Don't you touch that portal!"

Thales is power walking after the aspirant, almost on her heels. He half trips once, unable to see a small rise in the floor, but that doesn't even slow him down as he tries to catch the aspirant he is chasing.

The familiar aspirant reaches the portal. "Hi, Mitch. Bye, Mitch."

"Hey, Liiila," Mitchell says instinctively, before swapping back to his story without missing a beat, "So Haa'aji gets the idea to—"

The aspirant touches the portal just as Thales grips the back of her robes to stop her, and they both disappear.

Pelagos and Ikaros shoot from their seats, eyes wide.

Lash and Stanikos dart toward the portal and then hesitate.

Mitchell takes another moment before abruptly turning to stare at the portal. Then, his gaze snaps from face to face, stopping on Pelagos. "What the fuck was that? Was that Liila?"