Varian
Varian's evening meal had arrived only a few minutes after Auriana had left, but he wasn't much in the mood for eating. He had grabbed a hunk of bread as a small concession his rumbling stomach, but he had been unable to sit still. He had instead paced back and forth for over half an hour, hawkishly watching the entrance of the tent the entire time… until he had heard the distant boom of an explosion followed soon after by a thunderous crack.
Varian had learned a long time ago that if there was an explosion, Auriana was sure to be somewhere nearby. Sometimes he wished that she didn't have quite such a knack for trouble, but of course such thoughts mattered very little when she was in immediate danger. To that end, he had paused only to throw on his boots before he sprinted from the tent, all but shoving his guards out of the way in his haste to reach the arena.
What followed after was now something of a haze. Varian had not been the only person who had heard the explosion, nor the only one who had raced towards the sound, though he had barely given anyone else a second thought. He had sprinted through the arena tunnels with a frantic urgency, and it was only thanks to the quick thinking of an Argent guard that he hadn't plunged headlong out onto the rapidly destabilising arena floor to reach his wife.
The sight of Auriana facedown and unmoving had sent icy shivers down Varian's spine. He had feared for her life before, but there was something different this time; something that chilled him to the bone. He had actually stopped breathing the moment he had first seen her; fear gripping him so tightly that it was almost paralysing.
Varian's terror had eased slightly the moment he had seen one of Auriana's fingers twitch, at least enough that he could move his feet. Of course, stepping onto the fragile, ruined floor would have likely spelled doom for the both of them, and so he was forced to settle for attempting to rouse her with his voice alone.
He had soon been joined by several others who had heard the explosion and had come to offer their assistance; Jaina the most important among them. Varian's heart had leapt at her arrival, hoping that rescuing Auriana would be a simple matter of lowering the anti-magic wards and teleporting her to safety… but it was not to be.
Jaina had paled at the sight of the damage to the arena, and had refused to even attempt to lower the wards. Varian had been incensed by her refusal, though no matter how he had yelled, she had steadfastly refused. She had done her best to explain why, something about damage to the runes and corrupted lines of energy, though Varian had found it difficult to follow. He cared little for technical explanations of magic, especially when Auriana's life quite literally hung in the balance, but in the end he had begrudgingly conceded to Jaina's desperate argument.
That was when he had called for the ropes.
The Argent guards had been quick to comply with his order, and had grabbed whatever rope they could find. Varian had redoubled his efforts to wake Auriana, and after about twenty minutes of shouting, he had finally been rewarded when she opened her eyes. She had been groggy, certainly, and probably injured, but she had been alive, and he had held out hope that she could be saved… right up until the moment the floor had finally collapsed and sent her falling into the abyss.
Varian had been ready to dive down into the pit the moment Auriana had disappeared, but had once again allowed himself to be dissuaded by Jaina's cooler head. As she had rightly pointed out, barrelling into the fragile pit with no equipment or plan was likely to cause more harm than good, especially without the aid of magic. Even in his blind panic, Varian knew it was unwise to risk the total collapse of the arena with a hasty, ill-conceived rescue attempt, and so he had reluctantly stalked out of the arena to regroup at the Argent Crusade command tent.
Word of the bombing spread through the camp like wildfire. The full leadership of the Alliance rallied immediately at Varian's command, along with both Jaina and Anduin. Varian had no intention of letting his son out of his sight with a mad bomber on the loose, and he had breathed a short sigh of relief when Anduin was safely delivered to the command tent by no less than six royal guards.
The Horde, too, had quickly summoned their own leaders, including Varok Saurfang and a weary-eyed Thrall. In truth, everyone appeared unusually informal; all clearly having been roused from their evening meals with little time to don their more typical robes or armour. Lor'themar Theron, for example, was almost unrecognisable in a plush dressing gown, with his normally immaculately coiffed hair left loose and wavy over his shoulders. Saurfang was noticeably wearing mismatched boots, while Genn Greymane looked a bit like a wet dog with his freshly washed hair and moustaches still dripping water.
At any other time, Varian might have found it mildly amusing to see his contemporaries in their casual dress, but right then, he could not have cared less. His mind was filled with images of Auriana, grievously injured and lying at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, and he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He had seen real, raw fear in her eyes the moment the floor had collapsed beneath her, and he hated himself for not having reached the arena faster.
He had little time to dwell, however, no matter how preoccupied he may have been. The apparent loss of the Horde Warchief and the Queen of Stormwind was more than enough to set the entire camp on edge, and it seemed that neither the leaders of the Alliance nor the Horde were immune to the effects. Everywhere Varian looked he saw naught but outrage and suspicion - though he could hardly blame anyone else for their anger or wariness when he was feeling much the same himself.
"What were the Queen and the Warchief doing in the arena?"
Tyrande Whisperwind was the first to speak, her imperious voice echoing in the space with a sharpness that could cut glass.
"Is this some kind of trick?"
"No trick," Varian growled, his voice low. "The Warchief invited Auriana to take a turn about the grounds. He had a few questions regarding our match, and thought it was a good opportunity to demonstrate some… interfactional cooperation. Auriana agreed."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He was furious, and more than that, afraid, but he wasn't about to start a war without any tangible proof of Horde treachery. If nothing else, it seemed unlikely that Vol'jin would have set off a bomb where he was also in the direct line of fire.
Unfortunately, Varian's explanation did very little to ease the heavy, palpable tension within the tent. The Tournament had been successful thus far, but a few days of goodwill was not enough to overcome years of mistrust - especially when there was a good chance that the bombing had claimed the lives of a Queen, a Warchief, or both. It also didn't help that the command space was rather cramped, and that there was barely enough room for one to breathe without bumping someone else's elbows or stepping on their toes.
"Can anyone else verify that story?" Jastor Gallywix piped up, his heavy chins wobbling as he glanced about the room. "I certainly didn't hear nothin' about the Warchief taking off on some kind of… walking tour."
"Surely you're not suggesting that the High King of the Alliance is a liar?" Genn snarled. "Or that Queen Auriana is responsible for the bombing?"
He was not in his worgen form, but the echo of the wolf gave bite to his words nonetheless.
"Well, someone is," Gallywix retorted, shrugging.
The Trade Prince's tone was nonchalant, almost bored, but his words were enough to ignite the powder keg that was the Argent command tent. Within seconds, the Alliance and the Horde were swept up in a bitter feud; each equally determined to place blame upon the other. The more temperate personalities present - Velen and Baine Bloodhoof chief among them - did their best to keep the situation calm, but their words fell upon deaf ears as the argument soon raged out of control.
"The Alliance would never stoop to such cowardly methods!"
"And the Horde would?"
"You have before!"
"What could we possibly have to gain from bombing our own Warchief?"
"Treachery! You lured us here under false pretenses! For all we know, this entire Tournament is a ruse!"
Varian's gaze found Anduin across the room, and he saw his son's face fall in dismay as he watched all their peacekeeping efforts begin to unravel. Anduin was an optimistic person, often to the point of naïvete, but there was little optimism in his expression as he watched the two factions bicker. He attempted to interject several times, but much like Velen and Baine, he could not get a word in edgewise.
For his part, Varian initially remained quiet, struggling to control his violently shaking hands and to ignore the sick, churning feeling in his stomach. Both the Alliance and the Horde needed him to act as a King, he knew, to take charge of the situation and turn the raging argument into something more productive, but he feared that if he opened his mouth, all his pent up rage and terror would come bursting out in an uncontrollable torrent that would do absolutely nothing to improve the situation at hand. He had more to lose than anyone else in the room, and it seemed terribly unfair that he was once again expected to be a king first, and a man second. He could feel several eyes upon him, including Anduin's; all full of demand and expectation - and absolutely no regard for the fact that Auriana was not merely an ally or a fellow ruler.
She was his entire world.
Oddly, it was something that Baine said that finally broke him. Varian had been listening to the argument with only half an ear, so focused was he on trying to remain calm, but there was one short phrase that carried to him above all the rest.
"That's our Warchief down there!"
The tauren Chieftain had spoken with passion, not anger, and yet something about his words stoked the barely contained fire burning within Varian's heart. Vol'jin was highly respected and valued by his people as both a leader and a friend, but it was not the same thing. None of them loved Vol'jin, not the way he loved Auriana; none of them were facing the possibility of losing someone they loved beyond all measure and reason...
"And that's my wife!" he roared, breaking his long silence with a mighty shout that made even some of his allies jump.
Anduin shot him a warning look, but Varian ignored him. His patience had been sorely tested, and while he knew he was not behaving in a strictly kingly fashion, he was finding it very difficult to care.
"Yes… you seem to bear an unhappy curse, Your Majesty," Sylvanas Windrunner drawled, speaking up for the first time.
Her eerie, echoing voice was quiet, but it nonetheless carried over the arguing as surely as if she had screamed. Her reddened eyes widened in an unnaturally innocent expression that didn't at all suit her face, while the faintest hint of a coy smirk turned her bloodless lips. In a single sentence, she managed to succeed where others had failed: her rasping voice alone enough to plunge the space into swift and uneasy silence as all eyes turned towards Varian.
"A… a curse?" he repeated, bewildered.
Sylvanas cocked her head to one side.
"You appear to have something of a knack for losing wives. How long has it been since your most recent wedding? A month? Two?"
An audible gasp rippled through the room and for a moment, Varian quite literally blacked out as a wave of pure, white-hot rage surged within him. Any lingering thoughts of propriety or kingliness were burned away in a second, and he was utterly consumed by a singular desire to rip Sylvanas's oh-so-clever tongue from her mouth.
Varian gnashed his teeth with an animalistic snarl, and hurled himself blindly at the Dark Lady. He had no weapon on his person, as per Tournament rules, but it wasn't as if he needed one. He was far stronger than any single man had a right to be, and even more so when his fury was roused. He was certainly strong enough to crush the brittle bones and long-dead flesh of a treacherous banshee witch, and that was exactly what he intended to do. Sylvanas's first death at the hands of Arthas Menethil may have now become the stuff of legend, but her last death by Varian Wrynn would be by far the more memorable event...
Varian grunted as he felt several pairs of hands impact his shoulders. It took him a few moments to realise what was happening, so blinded was he by the haze of red that had descended upon his vision, but it seemed that Baine, Malfurion and Saurfang had banded together to restrain him. Even between the three of them, however, they had their hands full against Varian's heedless fury. His fingers closed barely an inch in front of Sylvanas' throat by the time they were able to push him back, and he knew that if they had been a half-second slower, he would have snapped her neck.
"Sylvanas!" Thrall roared. "Enough!"
His voice cracked through the air like a whip, though Varian barely registered the words over the sound of his own heavy breathing and the thunder of his heart. His fingers twitched open and shut as he strained to reach his prey, his mind entirely blank save for the driving need to teach Sylvanas a lesson she would never forget…
Which he would have done, if not for the three enormous warriors holding him back. Varian was uncommonly strong, but not strong enough to overcome a tauren, a night elf, and an orc working together. They were having a hard time of it, admittedly, but Sylvanas remained tauntingly just out of reach, her red eyes gleaming with a hint of cold satisfaction as she watched Varian struggle.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," she purred, all of a sudden the picture of contrition. "Merely a… sympathetic observation. I intended no offense."
Varian didn't believe her display for even a second, and he doubted Thrall did either. The orc very deliberately moved to stand between them, standing up to his full height and staring down at Sylvanas with a cold and implacable gravity.
"Given the sensitivity of the situation, Sylvanas, you may wish to keep any future observations to yourself," he said, frowning. "I am sure there is concern and confusion amongst our people - perhaps it might be best if you assisted the Argents in securing the Horde camp. A panic will help no-one."
It was outwardly phrased as a polite, diplomatic suggestion, but there was no missing the hard, threatening gleam in Thrall's eyes. He had no real authority over the Horde, not anymore, but it was clear that while he was no longer the Warchief, the memory of what he had once been still lingered in the minds of his allies. Even Sylvanas was not quite so bold as to risk angering him further, and she demurred for only a moment before sweeping haughtily from the tent without a backwards glance.
Varian let out a ragged sigh as the Banshee Queen disappeared, and roughly shrugged himself free of the hands holding him. Fortunately, for their sake, Baine, Malfurion and Saurfang were quick to let go now that Sylvanas was no longer within reach, and they stepped back warily as Varian shook the tension from his shoulders. It was almost physically painful to release so much surging fury from his body, but he had little choice. Now that the immediate surge of anger had passed, he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was standing in the very centre of the tent, and that - deserved or not - he had just tried to outright murder one of the Horde leaders.
The red haze lifted fully, and Varian all of a sudden felt both incredibly restricted and incredibly exposed; like a fearsome beast locked away in a too-small cage for the amusement of the public. His ears burned hot with embarrassment at having been so thoroughly baited, and despite the fact that not a single person present dared to meet his gaze, he felt as if a thousand eyes were boring into him all at once. Part of him was sorely tempted to snap at all of them, to demand to know whether they were enjoying the show - the savage Lo'Gosh revealed at last - though the more rational part of his mind was still cognizant enough to realise that doing so would not help the situation in the slightest. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, until he was no longer quite so ready to rip someone apart with his bare hands.
"You have our deepest apologies, Majesty," Thrall said wearily, glancing briefly at the other Horde representatives. "It is a trying time for all of us - you most of all - and even though you would have every right, I hope you would not judge us too harshly for words spoken out of stress and fear and anger."
He gnashed his tusks, and gave a short, rueful shake of his head.
"I cannot say I would be as collected as you were it my wife currently missing," he added softly.
Varian blinked, surprised by the sincerity in the orc's words. He had expected censure for his actions, not sympathy, and yet now that he looked around properly, it seemed that Thrall was not the only one who felt for him. The Alliance and the Horde may not have seen eye to eye on many things, but apparently, they could all agree that Sylvanas's comment had been beyond the pale.
"Perhaps… perhaps it would be best if we were to… move on," Varian muttered gruffly, trying to ignore the dull pounding behind his left temple. "I am… that is to say… we are… everyone is on edge..."
He raked a hand through his unruly hair, and glanced sideways at Genn. Unlike the others, the Gilnean king had not made any move to stop him when he had charged Sylvanas, and Varian vaguely wondered if he had secretly hoped that Varian would succeed. There was no love lost between Genn and Sylvanas, and while Genn had behaved admirably throughout the Tournament thus far, it was still abundantly clear that he hated her with a furious passion. Even now, he was staring at the tent's exit with his top lip curled in a grim snarl, looking for all the world like a frustrated dog who had been denied the opportunity to chase its prey.
Varian cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders in an attempt to project at least some measure of dignity and control.
"Genn… Thrall is right. People will panic, once word starts to spread. The last thing we need is a riot. The Alliance - they could use your guidance."
What he did not say out loud, however, was that he also wanted Genn outside to keep a watchful eye on Sylvanas, and he silently hoped that the older king would catch his meaning. Between her threats to Auriana and her earlier comments, Varian trusted the Dark Lady even less than he usually did, and he certainly had not ruled her out as a suspect in the bombing. Such explosive methods were not typically her style, it was true, but that didn't preclude the possibility of her involvement. Varian would not go to war on suspicion or personal dislike alone, but until the situation was resolved, he intended to watch Sylvanas as closely as possible.
"As you wish, King Varian," Genn said formally; offering Varian a darkly significant look and a nod of understanding, before he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent into the chill night air.
A minute of awkward silence followed his departure, before Anduin took advantage of the sudden quiet to finally speak up and be heard.
"We need to focus on rescue efforts. There's no point sitting here and exchanging insults or arguing blame. What matters is getting both of them home safely," he suggested earnestly.
Once again, it appeared that Sylvanas's actions had inadvertently worked to unify the two factions, even though Varian strongly doubted that had been her intention. The atmosphere in the tent remained tense, but the brief scuffle seemed to have brought everyone to their senses, and neither the Alliance nor the Horde looked quite so ready to go for each other's throats. A round of nodding and quiet murmurs of agreement followed Anduin's words, and those who had taken on combative stances when Varian had leapt for Sylvanas slowly began to relax.
"Prince Anduin is right," Baine agreed, shaking his horns. "The rescue attempt should be our highest priority. We all came to this Tournament because we believe in the possibility of peace. Let us not ruin the opportunity by bickering when we should be working together to rescue our own."
"Are we missing something obvious, here? The Queen is a mage," Lor'themar reasoned, his good eye narrowing thoughtfully as he turned the conversation to more practical matters. "Surely the solution is as simple as lowering the ward and allowing her to open a portal. Assuming she is conscious, of course."
Lor'themar had not been among those who had immediately raced to the arena, and as such, was not yet aware of the problem with the anti-magic field - not that Varian really understood the issue, himself.
"Unfortunately, Regent-Lord, that isn't an option. At least, not an immediate option."
Jaina stepped forward into the centre of the room, and all eyes turned towards her. She had not participated in the earlier argument, nor the altercation with Sylvanas, instead watching from the back with a tense, weary expression, though it seemed that her expertise was now required. She was dressed in a dark grey woollen dress that was plainer than anything Varian had ever seen on her, and he could see the toes of a pair of soft slippers poking out from beneath her hem.
"What do you mean?"
"I briefly mentioned this to King Wrynn back in the arena, but I'm unable to lower the anti-magic field," Jaina explained, pursing her lips. "The explosion did significant damage to the runework inscribing the wards. If I try to take it down now, without first repairing the physical component of the spell, the whole thing is likely to explode - and that explosion will be a whole lot worse that the one you've just seen."
Lor'themar blanched.
"Define worse."
"Enough to vaporise anything within a ten mile radius - us included," Jaina said flatly.
"Why would it do that? Not ta question ya expertise, Lady Proudmoore, but that seems ta be a wee bit of an oversight," Moira Thaurissan observed.
Jaina acknowledged the dwarven queen's question with a short nod, and tilted her head to the side in the way she always did when contemplating a particularly difficult magical conundrum.
"Actually, for the most part, the ward is working as intended. It was designed to be tamper proof, so that if someone tried to take it down by force, it would still hold."
She frowned.
"What I didn't count on was such severe damage to the physical structure of the spell. I won't bore you with the details, suffice to say that runic magic is… finicky. Runes can hold and channel a great deal of magical energy, especially when used to create a spell as complex as an anti-magic ward, but that also makes them dangerous. If the rune forms are damaged or corrupted in some way, that energy is at risk of escaping. Frankly, we're lucky it hasn't happened already."
She mimed an explosion by forcefully pulling apart her fingertips, and her frown deepened.
"What if they could get around it somehow?" Lor'themar asked. "The field is not infinite, surely."
Jaina seemed reluctantly impressed by the Regent-Lord's consideration, and she gave him a long, thoughtful look.
"They could simply walk outside the field, much as any of us could, though they would have to go a fair way," she mused. "The field is very large, to ensure that we are protected from all directions. It encompasses the Tournament grounds themselves, as well as some of the space above and below us."
"Would they know that?"
"Auriana would, at the very least," Jaina confirmed. "She would also be able to sense the boundary of the field were she to get close enough; any magic user could."
"That is assuming that they are alive, or conscious," Saurfang rumbled, his words echoing Varian's own grim thoughts.
Anduin shot Varian a sympathetic look, which Varian pointedly ignored. He didn't want anyone's pity, not even his son's, and he certainly didn't want to appear pitiable in front of the entire combined leadership of the Alliance and the Horde. It was taking almost all of his focus to remain calm, and he could not afford to be distracted.
"All that aside, how long will it take to fix the ward?" Tyrande asked, ever practical.
"I have a dozen Kirin Tor mages on hand, as well as Kalecgos," Jaina said slowly, turning over the calculations in her head. "I would estimate that it will take us… at least two days to stablise the runes, perhaps three… at which point I will be able to deactivate the ward."
"Two days? Jaina..."
Varian had not intended to speak, but the words burst from his lips faster than rational thought. As much as he hated to admit it, Sylvanas's biting comments had struck a nerve, and he felt altogether useless; standing around debating while Auriana's life hung in the balance. Logically, he knew they needed a plan, but such thoughts did little to quell his desperate, primal need to have his wife back in his arms.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. It's very delicate work, and not at all the sort of thing you want to rush - especially given that we can't actually use magic ourselves," Jaina winced, her voice firm but regretful. "All the rune work has to be corrected and redrawn by hand. It took us over a week to construct the ward in the first place, fixing it in two days with limited resources would actually be quite an accomplishment."
Varian dearly wanted to tell Jaina where she could stick her accomplishments, but he narrowly managed to bite his tongue. She did not deserve his churlishness, especially when she was trying her best to help. None of them did, save for perhaps Sylvanas, and yet he was barely able to hold himself back from venting his fury on the entire room.
"Varian… you know I will do everything in my power to save Auriana," Jaina added, her voice softening, "But not at the cost of hundreds of other lives. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to be patient."
She glanced briefly at Thrall, who met her gaze for only a second before he looked away.
"I believe it would be best to suspend Tournament activities, at least for now," Baine suggested. "Lady Proudmoore needs time to repair the wards, and I doubt our champions will suffer for a few extra days of rest."
Much like Anduin, the tauren chief had a way of speaking that eased tensions and soothed tempers. He did not radiate the same ageless tranquility as someone like Velen, but rather a quiet, genuine earnestness that was not quite the same, though still effective in its own way. The mood in the tent continued to grow more cooperative the longer they debated, though Varian himself was still wound tighter than a coiled spring.
"Not like we can hold a Tournament with the arena destroyed, in any case," Gallywix chimed in, his enormous mouth turning upwards in a decidedly irritating smirk. "What are we gonna do, eh, float our champions over the pit with anti-gravity tech and have them fight in midair?"
Strangely, he did not seem perturbed by the possibility. If anything, his expression suggested quite the opposite.
"None of this matters if we don't get them back," Varian growled heatedly. "I'm not sitting around applauding some damn arena match if my wife is still missing..."
He clenched his fists at his sides; digging his nails into his palms so hard that he almost drew blood. Gallywix was an odious little creature at the best of times, but in Varian's current mood, he was downright infuriating.
"And nor should you have to," Thrall said swiftly, quelling the goblin with a stern look. "The High Chieftain is correct. We will suspend all Tournament activities until such time as our Warchief and your Queen are found. We will turn our resources to the recovery effort, while Lady Proudmoore will attempt to fix the wards."
As much as Thrall clearly no longer desired to be Warchief, leadership was in his blood, and when he spoke, people listened.
"There are a number of my Farstriders here at the Tournament. They're fast, lightweight, and have experience in these kinds of delicate operations. I would gladly volunteer their services to begin the rescue effort immediately," Lor'themar said seriously.
"We should also summon some of our bomb specialists from Stormwind and Ironforge," Gelbin Mekkatorque piped up. "If we can learn more about the device, we may be able to figure out who set it."
"I will double the Tournament guard, and will have them thoroughly search the grounds for any further sabotage," Fordring added. "I will not allow another bomb to explode on my watch."
He spoke coolly enough, though there was a faint hint of anger beneath his words. Not at anyone in the tent, but rather at whoever had set off the bomb. Fordring clearly felt responsible, and frankly, Varian agreed. He had no intention of saying say out loud, but the simple fact was that the Argent Crusaders had been responsible for Tournament security… and they had failed.
"I will call some more of my mages from Dalaran. The sooner we can repair the ward, the sooner we can use magic to assist with the recovery effort," Jaina concluded, giving Fordring a small but encouraging smile. "Between us, I am sure we will soon have the Queen and the Warchief back safely."
Another time, Varian might have admired the way she was able to put her own personal feelings aside in order to cooperate with the Horde for the greater good. She had approached the Tournament warily and with great skepticism - not that Varian blamed her - and yet she had once again proven that she would capably do her job, regardless of the circumstances. She was still a naturally hopeful personality, despite everything she had suffered, and had Varian not been so hopelessly distracted by his own troubles, he might have offered her something more than stony silence.
As it was, Varian tuned out as the group continued to finalise their plans for stabilising the arena and finding Auriana and Vol'jin. He appreciated their efforts, and he supposed that it was better than arguing, but he had just about had his fill of talking for one night. His hands would not stop shaking, despite his best efforts to remain in control, and he bade a swift exit from the tent the very second it was appropriate to do so.
A light snow had begun to fall outside in the time the Alliance and Horde had been arguing. It was not a proper storm, though certainly enough to dust Varian's dark hair with a layer of crisp white snowflakes. The chill air was bracing, and Varian belatedly realised that in his haste to find Auriana, he hadn't grabbed a warm cloak. He shook his head in irritation, in much the same way a dog might shake the water from its fur, before turning and stomping off towards the arena.
"Father, where are you going?"
Varian glanced back over his shoulder, and saw Anduin jogging slowly through the snow towards him; his personal guards following at a close but respectful distance. Anduin had filled out a lot in the past year or two, but there was still a slight lanky awkwardness to the way he loped through the snow on feet that were ever so slightly too big for his body. He even slipped a little on the icy ground, kicking up a spray of snow and only just barely managed to right himself before plowing headlong into his father.
"Where do you think I'm going?" Varian grumbled, brushing a few stray ice crystals from his trousers. "I'm going to find my wife."
"What can you do that's not already being done?" Anduin asked, gesturing off towards the arena. "The Argents are already working to clear the debris, look."
He was correct. About a dozen Argent soldiers were now filing into the arena, several of them carrying an assortment of hammers and other large tools. Varian snorted dismissively.
"It's not the same."
"From what I understand, the damage to the arena floor was extensive. We cannot send climbers down until the worst of it is cleared, correct?" Anduin said patiently. "For all your many talents, Father, you're neither a builder nor an engineer. I'm sure the last thing you want to do is to risk crushing Auriana in a secondary collapse."
Varian let out a low, warning growl, though even he could admit that his son had a point. The arena may have been stable for now, but it would only take one hasty miscalculation to make things much, much worse.
"The Argents aren't going to work any faster with you huffing about and glowering at them, either."
"You don't understand. Not a damn one of you understands!" Varian snapped, thrusting a finger violently in the direction of the command tent.
The movement was enough to force Anduin to take a step backward, though he remained steadfastly standing at Varian's side as the snow continued to fall all around them.
"I… I'm not saying these things because I don't care, Father. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have told you this before, and I really wish you would listen: I don't love Auri the same way you do, but I do love her."
He looked down at his feet, and his voice became so soft that it was almost a whisper.
"Do you really think I want to lose another mother? Because that's what she is, you know. Not by blood, and not… a… a replacement… but... she's my family just as much as she is yours."
Varian had no answer for that. He closed his eyes, and for a moment father and son simply stood in silence; save for the whistle of the wind and the distant chatter of people in the surrounding camps. The cold nipped fiercely at his cheeks, but in a way Varian found the sensation oddly comforting. If nothing else, the feel of the biting cold on his skin gave him something to focus on that wasn't his anger. It soothed away some of the fire still raging in his veins, and after a few minutes his heartbeat finally slowed to a normal rate for the first time since he had heard the explosion.
"What would you have me do?" he asked finally.
"Rest," Anduin said simply. "You're clearly upset - not that I or anyone else would have any right to blame you. What Sylvanas said was cruel, and unfair - and most certainly untrue. And the bickering… well, I don't think I don't think anyone was their best self in that tent tonight."
Varian heard the soft crunch of snow as Anduin shifted his weight from foot to foot, though he did not move any closer.
"Auri's tough. The toughest person I've ever met, certainly," he added, his voice warm with pride and affection. "I have no doubt that she can protect herself and Vol'jin long enough for us to mount a rescue… but that's not going to happen unless you let other people do what they do best. Without interference."
Varian let out a low, noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement, and opened his eyes to see Anduin staring back at him with a wide-eyed, earnest expression. He sighed. Anduin's hopeful optimism was evidently irrepressible, and while in his darker moments, Varian occasionally found it a touch irritating, it was also one of the things he loved and appreciated most about his only son.
"Very well," he murmured, placing a broad palm firmly on Anduin's shoulder. "Let us return to the Alliance camp. We'll request further aid from Stormwind… and I will, as you said, leave people alone."
He tightened his grip, drawing on Anduin's own quiet strength as he stared at the long line of workers still streaming into the arena.
"Well, for tonight, at least," he amended. "If she's not returned to me by tomorrow… then I will tear this entire glacier apart until I find her…"
Varian dreamed.
He was standing alone in the middle of his bedchamber in Stormwind; the stone floor smooth and cool beneath his bare feet. It was dark outside, but his chamber was well lit by a half dozen bright, flickering torches. His bed had been immaculately made, though the furs had been pulled back invitingly, as if suggesting he ought to lay down and sleep. Everything was warm, comfortable, and familiar, and yet he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was undeniably, irrevocably wrong.
A soft sound at the door drew his attention, and Varian turned. He expected to see Auriana, or perhaps Anduin - there was no one else who had permission to roam freely about his chambers at this time of night - and yet the person standing in the doorway was neither his new wife nor his son. In fact, it was just about the last person on Azeroth Varian expected to see.
Largely because she was dead.
Tiffin appeared to him exactly as she had a hundred times before; perfectly recreated from the soft shine of her golden hair to the exact lace pattern on her favourite nightgown. If Varian hadn't known any better, he could have sworn she had just returned from settling an infant Anduin in the nursery, ready to brush out her long, shining locks before slipping into bed at his side...
"Tiffin? I… this is impossible…"
Varian took a step forward despite himself, what remained of his rational mind protesting the entire while. He had hoped that the illusion would shatter as he grew closer; that there would be some mistake or imperfection that would remind him of what was real, and save him from treading down the well-worn path of memory and misery - but he was not so lucky.
If anything, Tiffin was even more flawless up close. The tiny beauty spot below the corner of her left eye was exactly as Varian remembered, as was the subtle blush of her cheeks and the remarkable cornflower blue of her eyes. The likeness was so uncanny that he almost forgot that he was dreaming, and it was only with great effort that he kept himself from drowning in her gaze.
"No. You're not real," he said flatly, shaking his head as he backed away.
"I was," she answered.
Tiffin's voice was quiet and musical, but it cut through Varian like a knife.
"I was very real. I was warm, and soft, and so alive… until the day you killed me."
Her eyes darkened, and her face contorted in a cold, ugly expression that she had surely never worn in life.
"It… it wasn't my fault," Varian whispered, his chest growing uncomfortably tight as an all too familiar feeling of guilt and despair washed over him. "I didn't kill you, I loved you, I would never…"
"Are you so sure?" Tiffin whispered, her words cutting deeper than any knife. "You didn't throw the rock, but you may as well have. I died not through any flaw or failing of my own, but because I was your wife. I died because you failed your people… because you failed me."
As she spoke, a dark, ugly wound blossomed on her left temple. Blood trickled slowly down the side of her face, and Varian felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He had never been the kind to be upset by the sight of blood or gore, but he now recalled all too well the sick, panicky feeling that had consumed his heart the moment he had seen that cursed rock hit her head.
"No…"
Varian reached for Tiffin's face with trembling hands, wanting to do something, anything to save her… to fix what had been broken so long ago… but the moment his fingers found her skin, cracks blossomed across every inch of her golden skin. The cracks grew rapidly, like fissures in the quaking earth, and in less than a minute, everything that had once been Tiffin had crumbled to dust in Varian's hands.
"No!"
An anguished scream tore from his throat as he stumbled forward, desperately trying to catch the falling dust - as if it might have made any difference. She was gone, gone again, and he was drowning; his chest constricting as if seized by an invisible vice...
"Why didn't you save her?"
A quiet voice broke the crushing silence. Varian whirled, his heartbeat pounding wildly in his ears, only to see Auriana staring back at him with eyes that burned and chilled him all at once. She was dressed almost as Tiffin had been, in a pale, opalescent nightgown with the long waves of her dark hair tumbling free. She was beautiful, radiant, even, and yet her appearance brought Varian little comfort.
"It all happened so fast… I couldn't… there was nothing I could do… you have to believe me..."
His wretched entreaty fell on deaf ears. Auriana looked as if she had been carved from stone for all the emotion in her eyes; like a cold and implacable goddess staring down upon him from a great height. Varian may have been the taller of the two in reality, but in that moment he simply felt small.
"Why didn't you save me?"
Auriana stepped closer, and reached up to snag Varian by the neck. Her nails dug into the soft flesh below his jugular, but the pain of her grip was nothing compared to the pain within his heart. As dispassionate as she appeared from a distance, up close he could see a terrible rage burning deep within her blue eyes. She blazed with fire and fight and fury… and all of it was directed squarely at him.
"I… I tried… the floor collapsed… but you're not dead… there's still time…" he choked.
"You failed me," Auriana scoffed, releasing his throat with a disdainful twist of her wrist. "Like you failed her."
She scuffed the floor with her bare foot, dragging her toes through the dust and ashes that was all that remained of Tiffin.
"No, Auri… please…"
"It's all your fault!" she hissed. "You abandoned me! You condemned me!"
Auriana's eyes suddenly came alive with terrible magic, burning so brightly that it hurt to look at her. For all she was one of the most powerful people on Azeroth, Varian had never once been afraid of her… until now. His kind, brilliant wife was entirely gone, replaced by a force of nature that seemed to want nothing more than his complete and utter destruction.
"No, Auri, I'll find you, I promise…"
Varian had never been the kind to beg, but he was filled with an inexorable sense of dread that was eating him alive from the inside out. He grabbed Auriana desperately by the shoulders, hoping to find any hint or sign that the woman he loved was still in there somewhere… only for her to flinch away from him as if stung. Her lips twisted into a savage snarl, and she stared up at him with a look of utmost contempt.
"You weak, pathetic, impotent man. You never deserved me."
Auriana lifted her chin imperiously, almost as if she were issuing him a challenge, and the magical glow about her eyes blazed even brighter.
"Everything you love is destroyed, and it's all because of you. Your father. Stormwind. Tiffin. Me. Your love is a curse. Your touch is a death sentence."
As if Auriana's words were prophetic, her pale skin began to char and burn beneath Varian's hands - and only beneath Varian's hands. He pulled away, horrified, but it seemed the damage had already been done. The char began to spread, first from her shoulders to her arms, and then slowly but inevitably to the rest of her body.
"Auri!"
Varian sat bolt upright as the scream tore violently from his throat, and he instinctively reached out towards the opposite side of the bed. Instead of warm, silky softness of his wife's skin, however, he found only coldness and emptiness. No comfort, no love… only silence.
He let out a long, shaky sigh in a futile attempt to slow his racing heart, and buried his face in his hands. It had been a long time since he had experienced such a horrific nightmare. His sleep had once been rife with them, especially in the months since Tiffin died, but over time had grown more restful and less fraught with terror. Auriana had helped a great deal in that regard, even if she didn't know it, and Varian abruptly realised just how much he had come to cherish and rely upon her steadfast presence at his side.
Your touch is a death sentence.
He shuddered. He absolutely hated to admit it, but Sylvanas's harsh words back in the command tent had bothered him more than he had ever thought possible… in large part because he feared that she was right. He never wanted Auriana to look at him with the kind of burning scorn she had shown him in his dream… but if her failed her, if she came to harm because of him, then he knew she would have every right.
Everything you love is destroyed.
"Your Majesty?"
A quiet, worried voice called out from somewhere outside, though no one dared to stick their head into the tent. Evidently, Varian had screamed loud enough to attract the attention of his guards.
"I'm… I'm fine," he muttered hoarsely, then added, more loudly, "Stay at your post. Just a dream."
"As you wish, Majesty."
He lay back against the pillows with a throaty grunt, trying and largely failing to get the image of a charred and smouldering Auriana out of his mind. He could picture her in his mind's eye as clearly as if she had been standing next to him, and as for Tiffin… seeing her so clearly in his dream had brought on a fresh wave of pain and grief, and he knew that if he allowed himself to wallow, he would never get out of the damn bed.
Instead, Varian ruthlessly pushed down his churning emotions to one side as he sat up and reached for the closest shirt he could find. There would be time for sadness later. Right now, he needed to act. Tiffin had been buried long ago, but Auriana… Auriana was still alive, and she needed him.
The shirt that Varian chose may or may not have been dirty, and in truth, he didn't really care. He stumbled around the tent grabbing whatever pieces of clothing were closest, with little regard for whether they matched or were even clean. He doubted that anyone really cared what he looked like, save for perhaps his chamberlain, though he did pause long enough to splash a palmful of water over his face. He finished by tying his loose hair into a messy high tail, before grabbing his coat and sweeping from the tent.
Somewhat to his surprise, Jaina was waiting for him just outside, her pale blue eyes narrowed in an expression of deep concern. She appeared troubled, though still as quietly confident and composed as she always was. Varian certainly did not miss the way her gaze lingered on his rumpled shirt and untidy hair, but fortunately for both of them, she declined to comment.
"Morning," he said gruffly.
"Good morning," Jaina replied, falling into step beside him as he immediately turned and strode off towards the arena. "I take it you didn't sleep."
It was a statement, not a question. Varian shrugged.
"Not really."
Jaina had to take two steps to keep up with every one of his, but Varian did not slow. Any other time, he would have made an effort to accommodate her, but today he was too anxious to reach the arena to care.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Varian closed his eyes, and for a brief second he was back in the grips of his nightmare, watching Auriana burn. He shook his head.
"Not really."
Mercifully, Jaina respected his wishes, and together they walked in silence across the Tournament grounds. Varian hadn't looked at the clock in his tent before he had left, but from pale golden light streaming over the horizon the he guessed it was not yet an hour past dawn. It had continued to storm overnight, and the ground was now completely covered in a good half a foot of crisp white snow.
Despite the early hour, the arena was already a hubbub of activity. Varian had sent word to Mathias Shaw at SI:7 the moment he had returned to his tent the previous evening, and it seemed that the Spymaster had wasted no time in making his way to Northrend with a group of SI:7 agents and 7th Legion soldiers to assist. Workers carrying ropes and tools and buttresses scurried back and forth, and he could distantly hear the sound of hammering and shouted commands.
Varian made to step into the tunnel to inspect their progress further, but Jaina stopped him with a gentle hand upon his arm, and steered him towards the steps that lead into the stands.
"You can get a better view of the situation from up here. Come on."
Varian was a tad reluctant, though he nonetheless followed Jaina as she led him up to one of the large private boxes with the best view of the arena floor - or rather, what was left of it. To his surprise, he found that Thrall, Baine and Tirion Fordring were already there waiting, talking quietly amongst themselves as they observed the flurry of activity down in the pit. They looked up as one as Varian and Jaina approached, and respectfully stepped aside to create room.
"Any word?" Varian asked, not bothering with any pleasantries.
"Unfortunately, no," Fordring said wearily. "Despite our best efforts, it appears that the explosion triggered a secondary collapse down in the pit. There is a great deal of rubble and debris to be cleared, and thus far we have found no sign of either the Queen or the Warchief."
It wasn't often that the Highlord showed his age, but in that moment he appeared as old as Varian had ever seen him - though not nearly as old as Varian felt. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night… which, Varian realised, was probably true.
"There's so much damage…" Baine murmured, carefully bracing himself against the balustrade as he leaned forward to look down into the darkness below.
As Jaina had promised, things were clearer from above. From his own vantage point, Varian could just make out a dozen or so dark shapes clinging to the sheer rock walls of the pit. As promised, Lor'themar Theron had volunteered a number of lithe, agile Farstrider rangers to assist in the rescue and recovery attempt, while the Alliance had provided one of their own elite scouting units from the 7th Legion battalion. Both sides had deliberately selected experienced, lightweight climbers so as to minimise the risk of any further damage while the rescue was attempted.
"Reconstructing the floor after the first collapse was a difficult task," Fordring admitted, following Baine's line of sight. "It was strong enough to meet the requirements of the Tournament, but not enough to withstand an explosion."
Varian remained silent as Fordring spoke, his gaze never leaving the pit. Aside from the search and rescue teams, he could also see a small group of Kirin Tor mages standing in what remained of the western gate entrance. Every now and then their faces were illuminated by a bright flash of blue, and he belatedly realised that they must have been attempting to fix the anti-magic wards.
"Jaina… I may be showing my ignorance here," he said slowly, "But why didn't the dampening field contain the explosion?"
"The ward only prevents the casting of new spells, it doesn't interfere with existing magics," she explained, her pale brow furrowed. "I would assume the bomb was constructed outside the ward… perhaps even triggered there, with a long countdown timer…"
"Actually, I believe the answer to be even simpler than that," a small, high-pitched voice interjected. "The explosion was chemical, not magical."
Varian, Jaina, and the others turned in unison to see a female gnome walking across the stands to join them, her pink pigtails bouncing with each diminutive step. One of her cheeks was stained with grease, and she carried with her what appeared to be a badly dented hourglass. Varian had specifically requested a bomb expert when he had called on SI:7 for help, though he had not expected that they would have results for him quite so soon.
"Your Majesty," she said primly, raising her spare hand in a crisp salute.
"Agent Swiftfizzle," Varian replied, recognising her as the bomb technician who had assisted in the investigation of the assassin's bombs that had nearly killed Anduin and Auriana the previous year. "Thank you for coming."
The little gnome's bushy eyebrows quirked in surprise at his greeting, though she quickly regained her air of confident formality. Clearly, she had not expected him to remember her name.
"I am pleased to report that I have managed to successfully recover a majority of the bomb fragments and make a fair reconstruction of the device," she announced, gesturing to the dented metal object in her hands.
Up close, Varian could see the dozens of faint lines where the bomb had fractured and been stuck back together. It was an impressive piece of work, made even more so by the fact that it had been completed in such a limited amount of time. He certainly would not have had the patience for such a task, even had he not been in such an irritable and impatient mood.
"Fortunately, the placement of the bomb within the arena wall structure insulated some of the blast, and made it easier to locate the fragments," Swiftfizzle added.
"That's insulated?" Varian snorted, glancing back towards the gaping black hole that was all that remained of the arena floor.
Jaina gave him a look. It was, unfortunately, a look that she had given him many times before, and one that clearly said: you're not helping.
"Agent Swiftfizzle, you said that the explosion was chemical, not magical," she said smoothly. "Could you explain what you mean?"
"Of course, Archmage. It's actually one of the simplest kinds of bombs you can make. You fill the bottom chamber with a reactive compound, and then you fill the top chamber with some kind of catalyst. The catalyst - in this case, mana-enriched liquid truesilver - flows from the top chamber to the bottom, and once a critical amount of the catalyst has mixed with the reagent in the bottom chamber, it explodes."
She made a rather violent gesture with her free hand, and the small action was enough to make Varian wince. Auriana had not appeared visibly injured, nor had she indicated as such in their brief conversation before her fall, but that did not preclude the possibility of internal damage. She had quite clearly been concussed, and he feared that her befuddlement may have hidden something far more sinister...
"There are far more potent and reliable methods of bomb making, though if you need to create a small explosion in a hurry, and you have the right materials, it'll do the job."
Varian shook himself slightly as Agent Swiftfizzle's continued commentary pulled him out of his troubled thoughts. What she was saying was important, no matter how frustrated he might have been, and he knew that his inattention would not help Auriana in the slightest. Discovering the truth of the bomb's origins was also likely to be the key to preventing an all out war between the Alliance and the Horde. Varian had certainly not been responsible for the attack, and nor did he believe that Vol'jin had any part in it, but that did not preclude the possibility of a rogue factional element or a third party.
Before Varian could make any further inquiries, however, they were interrupted for a second time by the arrival of a stocky, snub-nosed goblin in a stained pair of coveralls. Where Agent Swiftfizzle was the picture of professionalism in her neatly pressed uniform - save perhaps for her grease-stained cheek - the goblin looked as if he had just crawled out of a junkpile.
"Yes?" Varian asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"This is our bomb expert, Frozz Fusebreaker," Thrall explained quickly, giving the goblin a welcoming nod. "A second pair of eyes never hurts."
Varian grit his teeth, but said nothing. He knew that Thrall had not summoned his own bomb expert with the intent to cause offense, but it was also clear that the Horde would not accept the Alliance findings at face value. All the goodwill that had been built up throughout the Tournament so far had been destroyed just as surely as the arena floor, and he found it difficult to ignore the nagging sense of futility that had settled in the back of his mind.
"Quite right, Warchief!" Fusebreaker said eagerly. "Er… ex-Warchief. Mister Thrall?"
Hia forehead creased in mild confusion, though he was soon distracted by the presence of the gnome at Varian's side.
"Ginnie Swiftfizzle! Hey, how you doin', smarty?"
His broad mouth pulled back into a wide, beaming grin, but Agent Swiftfizzle looked about as enthusiastic as if she'd just found cow dung on her shoes.
"Fusebreaker," she said flatly.
"You've met?" Varian asked, looking between them.
"Agent Swiftfizzle here published a research paper for Tinkering Today on the relative merits of gnomish versus goblin methods of constructing hi-explosive bombs," the goblin engineer smirked. "I disagreed with some of her conclusions, and we... exchanged correspondence."
"You implied that I was 'three cogs short of a mechanohog'," Agent Swiftfizzle grumbled.
"Hey, that's not fair!" Fusebreaker protested. "I implied nothing."
He coughed.
"... I stated it outright."
Swiftfizzle's nostrils flared as she prepared to unleash a furious response, only to be immediately quelled by Varian's stern gaze.
"Ah… perhaps we would be better served by focusing on the task at hand. Don't you agree, Engineer Fusebreaker?" she amended quickly.
"Always happy to follow your lead, Agent Swiftfizzle."
Switfizzle scowled, but otherwise ignored the goblin as she carefully raised the reconstructed bomb so that everyone could see.
"In truth, Your Majesty, it's a very strange device," she continued, pointing to various aspects of the bomb's construction as she spoke. "It was crudely made, as if it were either constructed very quickly, or by someone who didn't really know what they were doing - probably both. On the other hand, the materials used are of very high quality. The silver casing here, for example, is jewellery quality."
"I concur," Fusebreaker agreed, his big ears flapping as he leaned into to study the device more closely. "Though it seems odd that an amateur bomb-maker would have access to such high-grade materials. I mean, why bother to spend that kind of coin if you've just going to do a slap job anyway?"
"A very good question," Swiftfizzle admitted. "What also puzzles me is the damage to the funnel between the chambers. You see here? The funnel bows inwards, reducing the size of the aperture. Based on the way it's moulded, I don't believe that occurred during the explosion; it appears to have been an error in construction..."
Despite her apparent dislike of Fusebreaker, it seemed that Swiftfizzle was still more interested in analysing the bomb than anything else. She had a demonstrable passion for explosives, and while Varian did not really understand such a passion, he appreciated her dedication and her expertise nonetheless.
"Ah, yes, I see what you mean," Fusebreaker said, nodding. "I would estimate that it would have restricted the catalyst flow rate by approximately… half?"
He made to gently take the device from Swiftfizzle's hands, and somewhat surprisingly, she complied.
"I'd have to measure the funnel mouth to be sure, but yes, I believe half to be a reasonable estimate," she concurred.
"What does that mean, exactly?" Varian asked, thoroughly lost.
He considered himself to be an intelligent man, but he was damned if he knew anything about catalysts and flow rates and the like. He took some small comfort from the fact that Jaina and the others looked about as confused as he felt, though he hoped that Agent Swiftfizzle would continue in plainer language.
"We don't think this bomb exploded when intended," she said slowly, a deep furrow forming between her bright pink brows.
"And what makes you say that?" Thrall asked, folding his arms across his massive chest.
"Well, from what I've been told, it seems like it was a coincidence that the Warchief and the little mage Queen were here when the bomb exploded," Fusebreaker reasoned. "If that's the case, then it stands to reason that the bomber had a different target in mind. After all, what's the point of setting off an explosion in an empty arena?"
He waved a hand at the huge, empty space around them, and shrugged.
"If the bomber was hoping to start trouble between the Alliance and the Horde, it does seem a little counterproductive to set off an explosion hours after everyone had left," Jaina agreed.
"Unless they had a different motivation," Thrall countered.
Jaina arched a pale brow.
"What other motivation could there possibly be?"
Her voice was soft, and she met Thrall's gaze evenly, but Varian was not blind to the heavy tension between them. He was not the only one who had noticed, either, judging from the way Baine uncomfortably shuffled his feet and dipped his horns. Jaina and Thrall had been friends, once, but there had been a long time and a great deal of history since.
Fortunately for all of them, Agent Swiftfizzle was quick to break the silence.
"Ahem. As I said earlier," she continued smoothly, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, "The construction of the device suggests that our bomber is inexperienced. We believe they made a fairly critical error in the construction of the chamber funnel, here."
"That's an understatement," Fusebreaker scoffed. "I'd say whoever made that thing is about as useful as a one legged Blingtron in an arse kicking contest..."
He barked out a loud, honking laugh, only to almost choke a second later as he caught sight of the thunderous expression on Thrall's face.
"Er, if you'll pardon the language, my lords and… and lady," he added, with an awkward half-bow in Jaina's direction.
Evidently, in taking the time to become an expert in his craft, he had missed out on a few important lessons in social skills.
"Skilled or not, whoever made this bomb still managed to do plenty of damage," Varian growled, biting back a fresh wave of irritation. "Agent Switfizzle - please continue."
"Have a look here," she replied, with a withering glance in Fuesbreaker's direction. "In a device like this, the size of the funnel acts as a crude timing mechanism - the larger the opening, the faster the flow rate of the catalyst, the sooner the bomb will explode. Does that make sense?"
Varian leaned forward so that he could better see what she was describing, and nodded.
"Well, the bomber didn't do a very good job of moulding the funnel. The base here is bowed, instead of being all nice and circular, like you'd expect."
"The imperfection slowed down the rate at which the catalyst mixed with the reagent," Varian said slowly.
"You've got it, Your Majesty," Fusebreaker confirmed. "Now, we'd have to do some calculations if you were interested in an exact figure, but otherwise I'd wager that this bomb probably took twice as long to explode as our bomber intended."
"And how does that help us?" Baine asked.
"Well, what time did the bomb detonate?"
Varian thought back to the events of the previous evening. He had lost track of time the moment he had heard that damned explosion, but he could distinctly recall that it had been dark enough to have lit the braziers within his tent.
"Just after sundown. Around six o'clock, I'd guess?"
He looked to Jaina for confirmation, and she nodded once to indicate her agreement.
"If we can calculate the full rate at which the catalyst should have flowed into the lower chamber, we can then determine the approximate time it was placed in the arena, as well as when it was meant to explode, based on when it actually did," Swiftfizzle explained.
Fusebreaker pulled a tattered notebook and a pencil from his coveralls as she spoke and began to jot down a few notes on a blank page. He muttered under his breath the entire while; scrawling figures and calculations faster than Varian could follow. The goblin may have lacked tact, or any sort of social awareness, but when it came to engineering, at least, it seemed the Horde's trust in him was well deserved.
Even then, Varian fought back the urge to clench and unclench his fists as Fusebreaker worked. He knew that there was little to be gained by forcing the goblin to rush, but he was also keenly aware of the fact that every second he spent here was a second he was not doing something to directly help Auriana. She had already been missing for half a day, and without the flow of conversation to distract him, he couldn't help but to imagine all sorts of various and horrible fates that might have befallen her.
After what seemed to Varian like an age, Fusebreaker finished his scribbling, and turned his notebook over to Agent Swiftfizzle for checking. She appeared reluctantly impressed by the quality of Fusebreaker's calculations, if her pursed lips and thoughtful expression were anything to go by, and after a few moments of silent consideration, she returned the notebook back to its owner with a short nod of approval.
"Assuming Engineer Fusebreaker's calculations are correct - and I believe they are - the bomb was intended to have roughly a six hour fuse, though the error in funnel construction would have increased that time to twelve hours."
"That suggests that the bomb was placed at approximately six in the morning, with an expected detonation at around midday," Fusebreaker added, tucking his notebook back into the pocket of his coveralls with a confident flourish.
"If one were to place a bomb, the early morning would be the best time to do it," Fordring said worriedly. "The arena is guarded overnight, but it doesn't become busy again until perhaps seven each morning. And even then, the first match doesn't start until nine."
He cast an eye out over the destruction of the arena floor, and sighed.
"I trust my men, but no one is infallible. I'm not so proud that I can't admit that it's at least possible that someone slipped past our defenses."
Varian stood in silence as he reflected on this new information, trying to ignore the dull, painful throbbing behind his left temple. In some ways, it was comforting to know that Auriana had not once again found herself the target of assassins, though in other ways, it was worse. It was one thing to be a target, but another thing to simply be unlucky. Sylvanas's words came back to him, unbidden, and once again, he couldn't help but to wonder if she was right. Perhaps he was cursed...
"Are gate allocations randomised?" Jaina asked thoughtfully, her soft voice cutting through Varian's rambling thoughts. "By which I mean, can we determine whether the bomber might have been targeting a specific champion?"
"No, they're posted well in advance. Anyone with access to the arena tunnels can see the match schedule, it's relatively public information," Fordring answered.
"So whoever was due to enter the arena by the northern gate during the midday match was the target," Baine rumbled. "I don't suppose anyone has a copy of the match schedule handy?"
Midday…
A strange sinking feeling stirred in Varian's gut at the tauren Chieftain's words. It was not fear, precisely, but more a gnawing wariness mixed with genuine surprise.
"No need," he muttered. "I know who it was."
All eyes turned towards him, though it was Jaina who was the first to speak.
"Who?"
Varian cleared his throat.
"Me," he said flatly. "The bomb was meant for me."
