Introducing the Highborne sorcerer Syrana Starweave and her sister (!), Shalasyr! Aaaaand one of my best sketches of Syrana! (on its version on AO3)
Special thanks to the ones rooting for this story. Hope you enjoy this one :D
Darnassian:
Rath-domaas: Arcane spell.
Val'sharah: The name of a small village; the place where Malfurion and Illidan Stormrage were born.
Highborne: Kaldorei of noble birth.
Stormrage
One week later.
His way home is more relaxing than Illidan would have expected at first, with the Moon already resting and allowing the pale orange rays coming from the sunrise to illuminate his path.
The sun's light doesn't feel as soothing and warming on his dark skin as the reflection of Elune upon them at night time, but the male welcomes the feeling anyway, basking in the landscape that adorned his way home.
With the sun rising over the horizon, the grass and cerulean trees that decorate the outskirts of Suramar City began to shift into shades of bright green, dark brown trunks from oak trees turning almost beige within each minute passing. It was the very nature announcing the impending coming of the day and, therefore, the resting time for the kaldorei population.
However, with one of the sun's rays almost blinding him, he started to be aware that—and probably after two thousand and five hundred years of growing accustomed to the scenery—those days, he wasn't admiring the view of the green forest the way he used to, back in the day. But his causes didn't actually relate to his preferences of color or his lack of attachment to the silent forest and nature that surrounded the streets of his home.
It was more because, as of lately, the gentle forest and its bright green leaves only remind him of his brother.
And how ironic was the forest to him when, at night time, right on his way out and to the Stronghold, those very same oak trees and its cerulean leaves did nothing but remind him of Tyrande Whisperwind.
A rough grunt takes its way out of Illidan's lips at the thought, sharply taking his eyes away from the landscape, the sound of his own voice disturbing the silent streets and quieting the whispers of the morning wind.
Although, way down on the depths of his conscience, the male realizes that it's more of a sick joke that the forest, the very damned forest, is the one to force him to understand the reality of his distress, instead of the Moon and wise Goddess they revered and worshiped every night.
Something twists and clenches inside of his chest with the sudden revelation, his arcane energies going out of control and making his dark skin glow, purplish-blue magic flaring wildly in an attempt to escape from its prison inside his body.
The small hairs on his body rise up as if electrified by his own magic, making him quicken his steps and walk directly to the backyard of his house.
Jumping over the fence with practiced ease, he goes straight to the homemade wooden training dummy—strategically placed far away from the back door—and allows his magic to take control of him, his fists glowing in bright purple as he places a punch over its midsection.
The dummy bounces uncontrollably with the force of his punch, but a single blow isn't enough to soothe Illidan's anger, and he doesn't wait for the dummy to stop moving to hit it again. And again, and again.
I have been so stupid. A hard punch. So blind to what was in front of my eyes. An arcane lash. All this time making such a fool of myself. Another arcane lash.
Enraged tears prickle his golden eyes but he doesn't let them out, preferring to focus on destroying his homemade dummy with his bare fists. He doesn't mind about the noise or disturbing his neighbors and—way deep down on his conscience—Illidan couldn't help but hope that his brother may be listening to him. After all, only a cobbled street and a couple of trees are between his place and Malfurion's home.
Hours go through, with the male unleashing all his frustration onto the homemade piece of cotton, wool, and wood that adorns his backyard, letting out years and years of doubts and suspicions through each hit. But even when he tries with all his might, his knuckles don't bleed and not a single tear falls from his eyes.
Cold sweat gather between his thick cobalt brows and the male wipes his head with a forearm, his mouth contorting in a disgusted sneer. When his golden eyes flutter close, his mind floods with memories of a woman he once thought of his friend, with her long navy hair waving in the air, her pale skin kissed by the moonlight.
With the picture of her so clear in his head, his whole body flares wildly once more, his claws burying in his palms, attempting to draw some blood out of him and, maybe, some of that intense pain he feels crawling inside his chest, threatening to tear him apart.
Because now he is conscious that it's only in his thoughts and dreams when Tyrande smiles at him, and only him. And because now he's aware that he will never be the one who makes her heart race as she did with him, for more than millennia.
And Illidan doesn't know in which thing he had been foolish enough; for thinking that he would have won her heart if he worked hard for it, or for falling in love with a kaldorei who always had her eyes set on his brother.
It is when his eyes drift open again that the picture of a bright green mane flashes though his golden orbs. And his anguish and anger make their way out through his throat while he draws a sharp arc in the air with a fist. "Rath-domaas!" Illidan roars, chopping off the wooden head of his homemade dummy with the force of his spell.
When the head rolls over the grass the kaldorei finally stays still, his magic drained and receding within the confines of his body once more. But, no matter how much he blinks, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze apart from his destroyed dummy.
We were wrong on leaving Val'sharah, he thinks, staring at the headless dummy that—if only for a moment—he imagined to be his green-haired brother. We should have stayed there, in our small house, spending the rest of our lives hunting and climbing up the oak trees.
His limbs feel heavy and Illidan drops to the floor, uncaring of his expensive robes, barely making an effort of untying his long ponytail. But I am the only one to blame. If I would not have insisted on coming here, our lives would have been so different. We would be following your lifestyle, brother, probably living a better life that the one I had planned for my own…
With the sunlight caressing his battered knuckles, his mind drifts to the memories of his childhood on Val'sharah, the small village where they were born and grew up. It was a quiet village, the perfect place for one to be surrounded by nature and spend their nights only listening to the soothing whispers of the wind, or the gentle streams of the rivers.
His cobalt mane gets tangled and messy when the midday wind rises up from behind the clouds to play with it. I should have listened, should have prayed to the Goddess for guidance, and followed the advice of the Moon Priestess. We would have… we would be having…
But it is when the bright sun hides behind the clouds that a voice whispers in his ear; a female voice, but not from the one that haunts his memories and dreams. This one is soothing and gentle, just as comforting as the moonlight's warm caress on his skin at night.
"Illidan..." The voice calls for him and the kaldorei flutters his eyes close, marveling at the sound of his own name coming from that beautiful voice of hers. "… Malfurion is known to be quite the boring twin in the Stormrage family."
A tired sigh escapes from the male's dark lips at the reminder, but he allows his mind to recreate the picture of her playful smirk. "You are looking too much into it." The voice insists, her silver gaze never wavering.
The memory of the violet-haired woman washes over him like cleansing water, his heart missing a beat when he remembers the ghost touch of her lilac lips on his cheek, those warm, delicate lips which, only a week ago, smiled at him and only him.
And oh, he's not afraid to admit it: He would do a lot to only get the chance to see that smile of hers once more.
When he opens his eyes the glimpse of the bright green mane of his brother is no more, the image fading to show him the results of his unleashed frustration. And there's no kaldorei before him, only a headless, wasted and destroyed training dummy.
"You are looking too much into it," The ghost of Mylenne repeats to him. Illidan's mind takes refuge in her soothing voice, sheltering his battered heart with the warmth of her memory, savoring everything he can before she also takes her leave, disappearing into the depths of his conscience.
When what's left of his energy returns to his body, the male abandons the garden, using the backdoor to get into his house and heading to a small wooden cabinet conveniently placed under the rounded window of his living room.
After removing some strands of his long cobalt hair out of his face, he takes a couple of small candles from one of the drawers, carefully placing it close to a silver statue of the Goddess Elune which adorns the top of his furniture; another of the meaningless gifts that Tyrande has given to him.
With a click of his fingers, the candles ignite. This time, it takes only a low snort to keep his resentment well-guarded in the back of his mind, his thoughts preferring to focus on things that matter.
On things that don't make him feel weak and vulnerable.
The image of a violet-haired kaldorei flickers to life before his eyes with the fire's reflection and Illidan gets on his knees, joining his palms and savoring the perfect picture of the woman in his mind, so beautiful, almost godlike, with the moonlight caressing her pale lavender skin.
"Mother Moon, I beg you, hear my plea…" Illidan starts to pray for the very first time in five hundred years, with the flames of the candles and the woman's shy smile over him inside his mind as his witnesses.
Only a few hours are left before the beginning of the Moon Festival, and while Illidan is quite aware of that, he also finds himself unable to stop his nightly training.
It's a routine, a meaningless activity, to be—once more—punching another training dummy to dust, and that is the main reason of why he spends the entirety of his work hours on the practicing yard, with his shadow as his only companion.
And it's much better to focus on damaging his knuckles until they bleed than to think in his already damaged heart.
Regardless of his foul mood, a part of him is conscious that there are always prying eyes around the Stronghold, so he can't help with the small satisfaction he gets at showing off his evident talents for sorcery to whoever could be watching him.
It's a lesser reward, to allow his self-pride to fill his chest and numb his senses, but in that moment, it's the only thing he can take to find some shelter against the troubled feelings that had been haunting him for so long ago.
The other part of him—the emotional one, the very intangible part that makes him who he really is—also knows that if he doesn't get to wear his mask of arrogance and overconfidence, he will probably lose everything he had been working so hard to achieve.
And if he doesn't keep punching that shielded dummy, he will probably explode before getting out some of the stress he's been holding.
He's not aware of the hour, but the Moon is close to reaching her highest peak when one of his fellow trainees decides to give him some company. However, Illidan doesn't falter on his punches when the newcomer approaches him, their steps short yet secure over the dirt floor they walk upon.
The cobalt-haired man easily unleashes a powerful arcane spell with the tip of his fingertips, not bothering to look behind his shoulder and glance at the newcomer. Might as well let them watch the show.
And then, one of his long pointy ears twitches when he recognizes the female voice even without seeing her face. "Do you want me to place a face on that dummy, Stormrage?" The female says, pure amusement decorating her tones. "That should work as an excuse for Latosius when you get to accomplish your task of destroying his favorite toys…"
A snort takes way through his lips. "And you should know better that Latosius prefers to practice with those ones," Illidan remarks, pointing in the direction of a pair of less shielded training dummies with a nod of his head. And while he's not in the mood for teasing, he can't help with dropping his voice low, and add, "Lady Syrana."
He feels more than sees how the female kaldorei crosses her arms over her chest behind him. "You are not letting that one down, are you?" Syrana Starweave complaints, half annoyed and half amused.
"Never," Illidan admits, a satisfied smirk running through his lips for the first time in the night. After feeling convinced that her company would distract him enough, he turns around and faces the woman, imitating her posture and crossing his muscled arms over his bare chest. "Well, you needed me for something or just wanted my pleasurable company?"
"Oh, and here I thought that I was doing you the favor of giving you some company. You wound me, Lid." Syrana whines, placing a hand over her chest in mock hurt.
"I live to serve." The male answers, bowing down in an exaggerated gesture, if only to keep teasing the woman in front of him—and in attempts to get some payback for the use of that awful nickname of his.
He gets rewarded with a snort and a roll of her golden eyes, a low chuckle escaping his lips at the sight. "I thought you were on your way to the Festival. Have you lost sight of Lothrius again?" Illidan banters, leaning his back on the dummy he was punching only moments ago.
"That's the main reason of why I am here for: Loth is already closing the gates," Syrana informs him, her golden eyes pointing in the direction of the front gates of the Stronghold.
Her comment earns a deep frown from the male's thick cobalt eyebrows, his smug smirk disappearing from his face in sudden surprise. Realization starts to dawn on him when his golden eyes travel to the sky, noticing the bright Moon almost reaching its peak.
"Guess that I have lost track of time," Illidan murmurs to the sky, his teasing attitude suddenly forgotten.
With the moonlight washing over his face, a sharp tang of anxiety starts to run over his body, the small hairs of his body rising up and blood rushing faster through his veins. "Thanks for letting me know, Syra." It's the only thing Illidan could voice, his mind already drifting away with the amount of things he needs to get done before heading out the Stronghold.
He wants to punch himself for getting distracted, mostly for doing so on that particular night he had been waiting for over a month. So much for praying for guidance, Illidan thinks to himself, trying to focus on what he must get done before leaving the Stronghold. I can only hope that she is not already waiting for me.
It's only when he gets moving that the male gets aware of his company, now joining him on his way out of the practicing yard. "My pleasure, handsome," Syrana says, a knowing smirk plastered on her dark lips. "Now go, change into something more respectable," She adds, lightly pushing him to one of the doors that lead to the halls of the building. "You certainly do not want your partner to be shocked at seeing you with those cheap training clothes, would you?"
The male obliges, although he can't help but look behind his shoulder, a cobalt brow rising in interest. "And why do you seem to believe that I have a partner, anyways?"
That gets a laugh from the female sorcerer. "Because I can smell your nervousness from here, dear Lid," She explains as if it's obvious, adjusting her silver hood and turning her back on him. "Now, go ahead, I will be waiting for you on the plaza. I cannot wait to hear about her."
It's close to midnight when the Stormrage sorcerer finally heads for the main plaza. With his hard chin lifted up and his long, famous ponytail well-adjusted on the back of his head, Illidan shifts into his confident façade once more, taking his leave from the Moon Guard Stronghold with elegant strides.
His lips contort into a sly smirk when he notices more than a couple of heads turning to him in his way to the plaza, but that doesn't stop him from his current destination, already recognizing the navy-haired woman waiting for him in one of the street's stone benches.
Syrana whistles in approval as he approaches her seat. "Looking good, Stormrage." The female sorcerer smiles, ogling him shamelessly and moving to one corner of the bench.
A low chuckle escapes the male's lips while he takes the offered seat, not really falling for her charm. "Glad to know that I made an impression, milady." He jests, relaxing in his spot and stretching his bare arms over the back of the bench.
"You always do. And don't act like you are not aware of it." The woman says with a knowing stare, eliciting another chuckle out of him. "So, are you going to tell me about the lucky one?"
Illidan couldn't figure the female sorcerer's sudden interest in his partner, even more so when she was quite known for not meddling in his business—one of the main reasons of why the male was fond of her. "Why should I?" He has to ask, glancing at her through the corner of his eye. "In any case, it's not like you know her: Unlike you, she is not a Highborne."
But Syrana doesn't back up. In any case, her smile widens as she leans closer to him, lowering her voice for only Illidan to hear it. "Mmh, so… she's a lowborn and—surprisingly—not your favorite priestess. Now I am more curious than ever."
Her seductive voice provokes a tickle in one of his sensitive ears, the sensation slowly expanding through the side of his neck and shoulders at her proximity. Still, Illidan knows better than to fall into her trap; very much so when he had used those very same tactics against her to get what he wanted, many years ago.
But despite it all, his ears don't miss the mention of Tyrande. "Syra…" He warns his friend with his lips curling into a sneer. "Please refrain from ruining my good mood."
"Alright, alright!" Syrana concedes with a tired sigh. "But I will once you stop calling me 'Lady'. You know that I hate to be called by my status." She adds with a pout of her dark lips.
With that comment, the male cranes his neck and faces her, a cobalt brow rising up. "That never stopped you from using it to your advantage." Illidan reminds her with a sly smirk.
A smirk that the woman quickly returns to him. "Just as you take advantage of your handsomeness, I should remark." She adds, leaning her side in one of his bare arms.
As the female sorcerer starts to toy with some cobalt strands of his hair—lazily curling it over her nimble fingers—Illidan takes a moment to stare at her and her ministrations, marveling at how relaxed and comfortable they both are with the other, even with their closeness and their seemingly innocent touches on the other's skin.
Illidan knows that a good part of it comes with their familiarity and knowledge of each other's bodies; and his mind can't help but drift away to the past, to those nights when Syrana Starweave wasn't one of his fellow sorcerer initiates but, instead, one of his bed partners.
The cobalt-haired male contains a laugh from escaping his lips at remembering Malfurion's comments on her, more than three decades ago; his mind picturing Syrana's shocked face when his brother once suggested to them the idea of becoming mates. Your brother seems to be completely crazy, Lid. Please, spare me from meeting him again, his then lover had said to him that early morning, curled up next to him in his bed, half of her face hidden in the crook of his arm.
Regardless, he would be lying to himself about not considering the idea of claiming Syrana as his lifemate, for they always got along wonderfully well, both in and out of his bed. But, unfortunately—and despite their obvious physical attraction—they were always aware that they could never get past their meaningless relationship, only created with the intentions of relieving stress together and helping each other on their initiation into the Moon Guard order.
For their hearts always belonged to someone else; hers to Lothrius Mooncaller and his, to Tyrande Whisperwind. And despite that times have changed for Illidan—as for slowly taking his infatuation with Tyrande with it—he still knows that Syrana's feelings remain to be the same.
That's probably why he doesn't consider his relationship with Syrana as another of his many failures: They were never meant to be more than bed partners in the past and good friends in the present. And Illidan knows better to accept some things as they are.
A small brush of her nimble fingers over his arm is what takes the male out of his reverie. "Now, how about you indulge me and tell me about this mysterious woman. Is she another priestess?" Syrana asks, still toying with his hair.
The thought of the violet-haired kaldorei he is now waiting provokes a small smile over his lips. "Well, not yet. She seems to be only an initiate…" He explains, taking his hand away from his friend's bare knee and glancing at the street before him.
"An initiate?" Syrana's ministrations on his hair stop, if only for a moment. "Illidan, you are not daring to court my sister, are you?"
At her comment, the male returns his gaze to her, wide-eyed. "Shalasyr? When did she come to the city?" He wonders, surprised for the late news. "I have not seen her for decades."
"Oh, she only came a month ago. And here I thought that you had seen her by now, given that you're a recurrent visitor of the Temple of Elune…" The woman explains, half-mocking at his usual activities.
For the next hour, they engage in a conversation about Shalasyr Starweave and her initiation on the Sisterhood, something rather surprising for both of them considering that the mentioned woman never was much of a devoted to the Goddess. Although Illidan could never guess with noble people as the Highborne, always so free to choose their lifestyle as they please.
With the case of Shalasyr, the male wonders once more why it is that some of the Highborne choose to live a humble life—a life apart from their wealth and their easy access to magic—instead of embracing their nobility and, therefore, their inherent positions of power given by their heritage.
It was odd for Illidan, to say the least, for one to consider aspiring to something lower instead of higher on the kaldorei society. His own efforts of proving himself to the officers of the Moon Guard and almost a decade spent by only trying to gain his worthy place inside the order—and, with enough luck, a place among the Highborne—can't be anything but expected for a lowborn like him.
And he can't help but remember his conversation with Mylenne, his mind drifting to that night when she stumbled with Latosius, after Illidan had caught her eyes on him. He was not that far away from his Officer to not hear him insulting the woman, calling her a lowborn before taking his leave.
But what he couldn't forget about that night—besides her stunning beauty, not even diminishing for an inch with her stained robes and tousled hair—was her denial of her magical talents.
Perhaps it was because, after spending two thousand years working hard for it, Illidan couldn't possibly understand how people would reject, refuse and deny their wealth and power when they only had it at hand's reach.
Regardless, his confused thoughts on the matter don't last for long, as plain irritation starts to show on his face. Because—and judging by the absence of people on the streets and the plaza—he realizes that the Moon Festival must have already began, and the woman he had been waiting for more than an hour had never shown up.
Something tugs and clenches inside his chest, frustration boiling up his throat. For—and to everyone that knows anything about him—it's known that Illidan Stormrage does not deal well with rejection.
Fortunately, his companion sends him a knowing look when a grunt escapes Illidan's lips, and the navy-haired female mercifully attempts for comfort, dismissing their previous conversation. "Oh, my sweet Lid, don't give up just yet!" Syrana tries to soothe him, patting his shoulder. "Maybe you are looking too much into it, again. She must have probably been busy working with the Sisters to spare some time and coming to see you, I'm sure."
Despite knowing that his friend is only being nice, a part of him prefers to believe that he probably had expected too much from Mylenne, hoped too much. And that is why he only rolls his eyes in response, not making an effort of voicing his real thoughts on the subject.
But Syrana is insistent and when she doesn't get an answer, she gets up from her seat, tugging at his expensive robes. "Alright, that's it. I am not spending the night in this bench to only hear you whining and pouting." The woman decides, her face completely resolute. "Get up, Stormrage. We are going together."
"I… I am not sure of that, Syra. What about Lothrius?" Illidan says, not quite convinced and attempting for an excuse.
"Forget Lothrius, he's on his shift tonight," She dismisses his comment with a wave of her hand. "But we are not, and I am craving for some moonberry wine. So, come on, get up! You would not want a lady to show up on such remarkable event all by herself, would you?"
That earns a loud cackle from the male's lips, reluctantly accepting her offered hand. "You are a devious woman, do you know that?" But Illidan has to admit, as he interlocks his arm with hers and joins her on their walk, that her offer is much more preferable than to return to his home, even more so at that early hour of the night. "Lead the way… milady."
At the sight of the Evermoon Commons thick with dozens of kaldorei, Illidan starts to wonder how much time had really passed, first gazing upon the many couples of Highborne and lowborn alike that are now passing by the street and the Evermoon Bazaar.
With the Commons filled with colored booths and pleasant music in the air, the attractive female beside him doesn't hesitate to take a better hold of his arm and guide him through the thick crowd, probably heading first for some nice and expensive drinks to start warming up for the night.
Despite his pleasant company, the male sorcerer finds himself getting easily distracted by looking around them within each step they take, searching for a known face among the multitude of kaldorei that surrounds them. It gets to be an easy task, thanks to his height, finding copious amounts of purple, silver and blue booths on their way, as well as the contagious laughter from the many couples who had decided to come to celebrate.
However, it is after Syrana returns to his side with her new purchases—two expensive bottles of moonberry wine—that Illidan finds a flash of a bright-green mane through the corner of his eye. And it seems to be the perfect moment for his heart to drop to his stomach and his shoulders to fall down in utter disappointment, for then he finds them.
Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind, holding hands, with a dear smile on their faces as they danced together to the soft, melodious music, uncaring of anybody who could be seeing them.
Most of all, uncaring if he could see them.
Something breaks inside his chest at the sight, making him conscious—more than ever before—that there was no turning back from that, no possible way for mend that wound that now burns inside of him.
At first, he feels only plain disappointment and frustration, quickly shifting into sheer anger and numbing his senses. But then its regret, complete remorsefulness for accepting to come to that Festival in the first place, for having to see what he had seen, for being there with a woman which was not the one he had been looking forward to seeing.
And unable to keep seeing the spectacle displayed before him, Illidan does the only thing he can do: He strides away from the Commons.
He's unaware of Syrana worryingly following his steps, walking away from that scene with quick strides and heading to the Bazaar, with clenched teeth and a hand gripping his bottle of moonberry wine so tight that threatens to explode.
The only thing he wants is to return from when they came from, forget about everything that may relate to that stupid annual Festival and head right to the safety of his home, when he can—somehow—restart the night and go back to his activities as if anything had already happened, as if he hadn't been feel rejected and refused twice in a single night, as if he hadn't been wanting to punch his own brother barely moments ago, as if…
This time, a flash of a very long, bright violet mane appears on his sights, and time stops for Illidan, his whole body suddenly going still.
And there she is: Sister Mylenne. The only female on Suramar City with a beauty only compared to the Goddess herself. Mylenne…
But to Illidan's disappointment—which now he can only feel as a sick joke—the woman doesn't notice his presence among the thick crowd or even the unwavering stare he's unconsciously directing at her; instead, the cobalt-haired man can only watch as she quickly crosses the street, heading in the direction of another man which is seemingly calling her over.
"Lid… Lid? Illidan!" One of his pointy ears twitches at Syrana calling his name, but her voice sounds muffled and distant and he can't turn around and look for his fellow sorcerer, for all his senses are completely fixed on the woman on the other side of the street.
He's not aware of his own fuming when his gaze captures a silver-haired male with black and scarlet battle robes closing his distance with Mylenne, leaning to whisper something over one of her elegant lavender ears.
Is this some kind of punishment from the Goddess? Because I haven't prayed and asked for her guidance all these years? It's all that Illidan can wonder, a sharp tang of jealousy tugging his chest at the male's closeness and familiarity with the violet-haired woman he had been looking forward to meeting.
The unknown male is the first one to notice his presence, looking behind Mylenne's shoulder and meeting Illidan's golden eyes, sending him a sharp frown of his silver brows when Illidan directs a death glare in return, his eyes speaking for him when his mouth cannot.
"Uhm, Lid?" Syrana keeps talking, but he yanks away from her when the woman tries to get him on the move. "Lid, you are blocking the way and the Black Rook guards are coming…" She insists in an alarming tone, clutching at his arm and attempting to pull him without really succeeding.
But in that moment Illidan's ears appear to shut close, seemingly blocking any sound coming to him and only echoing the noise of his own heartbeat, when the violet-haired woman he had been staring—for only the Goddess knows how much—turns around, bright silver eyes meeting golden.
His face softens and his muscles start to relax at the sight of the woman facing him, now noticing a translucent dusk lily adorning one of her lavender ears. And when a shy smile appears on her lips, next to a blush that starts to creep up her elegant neck, he can't do anything but to return her smile, his mind already forgiving her for everything she had been—if unintentionally—forcing him to tolerate on that awful night.
But Mylenne's smile disappears from her lips as quickly as it came, her eyes widening and lavender skin turning pale when something else captures her attention, over his side of the street. Illidan couldn't possibly know what she had noticed, but whatever that could be it shouldn't be good at all, for in the next second the woman starts to fidget in her spot, her feet slowly walking backward; her face, the perfect picture of dread and sheer horror.
"Mylenne…" Illidan mutters, aware that his voice can't reach her ears, his heart hammering inside his chest in apprehension, but he doesn't succeed in regaining her attention.
Instead, the violet-haired woman does almost the very same thing he did, only minutes ago: She turns away from him and runs away from the Evermoon Bazaar, heading right to one of the small streets in a seeming attempt to get lost in the thick crowd.
Adrenaline starts to rush through his veins, his feet eager to get on the move. "I am sorry, Syra, but I should go." It's the only thing that Illidan voices to his friend and companion, barely glancing behind his shoulder.
And after hoping—only for a bare moment—that Syrana can forgive him for abandoning her, Illidan starts to run in Mylenne's direction, barely making an effort of not pushing too many people on his way to the female kaldorei.
