Anduin had a love hate relationship with sleep, as so many teenagers his age did. In a way, it was comforting to know that he finally found a similar concept he could relate to his fellow agemates with. If he ever became acquainted or friends with anyone else his age. The closest he'd ever had to a friend not decades his senior was Wrathion, who was ironically less than five years old in human years but mentally and physically at the prince's level.

But one thing was certain; sleep was a vice and virtue for the priest, taking great enjoyment in catching up on much needed rest and yet dodging it during the day in exchange for reading or attending to other matters. Sleep was a necessary evil but an evil all the same; a very inefficient evil.

The smell of burning lamp oil, smoldering wood, and his father's whiptail soaps from Uldum slowly dragged him out from a deep sleep that left him disoriented and dazed. The soft sateen pillow beneath his cheek and the plush fur blankets tucked in around his body were almost enough to convince him to go back to sleep, but an empty hollowness in his stomach craving food refused to heed the temptations. Anduin let loose a low litany of groans as he rolled his body to his back and slowly pawed at his heavy lids, exhaustion stubbornly lifting from his form like a slow curtain.

He stared up in confusion at the ceiling above his bed. The rafters in the telltale Kal'dorei fashion reminded him he was in the Lodge in Winterspring, but what didn't make sense was how dark the ceiling was. How long had he been asleep?

Blinking rapidly, he fought to collate his memories; Thrall had seen him that morning, his father had returned at midday with lunch, Wyll had brought him afternoon tea and broth, and then he'd been unable to fight off his tiredness and thought a nap before supper would be fitting. It'd been only mid-afternoon when he finally bowed in defeat to the flood of exhaustion that overtook him like a tidal wave, so intense he could barely manage to keep his eyes open. Maybe he'd been pushing himself too much. Maybe his father was right.

But it was only supposed to be a nap.

The sound of a quill scratching across fine vellum paper almost as smooth as glass made Anduin blink. Pushing himself up to his elbows and letting the fur blankets fall into a collapsed heap at his lap, he looked around the room in confusion. It was basked in a clouding darkness brought on from the gloomy night resting outside their bedroom window. The fire in the hearth whistled and crackled with a melodic, steady tune that fell into harmonious tempo with the dancing quill making a jig across the parchment. His pale blue eyes that twinged with residual sleep landed on the partially slumped over figure at the desk, the owner of the quill, who's broad back was turned away from him and seemed unknowing of his recent wakefulness. The King's hair was still tied up in its messy ponytail and his wore the same regal outfit sans his plate armor from hours prior.

"How long have I been asleep? It feels like ages." He winced at the scratchiness and disuse sound of his voice.

The quill immediately stopped. "A few hours, so not entirely far from," Varian grinned weakly and angled himself more fully towards the boy, turning his back on his work proverbially and physically. His stormy beryl eyes ran up and down the prince's figure a few times, as though looking for any discernible issues that'd be present for him to take note of.

It was a look that Anduin found himself loathing and loving in the same breath, for while it was undeniably overprotective, it was the same look his father used to give him before his personalities splintered and the father he knew was suddenly gone. Or who he thought was gone. That look reminded him that he wasn't. "I think I overslept," he mumbled miserably and looked over towards the window and the blustery blizzard night landscape. "Don't tell me I missed supper."

"I can lie to you if it makes the reality any easier. But truly, you missed nothing more than a room full of posturing and pathetic attempts of forced camaraderie over heavily herbed food."

Anduin blinked away from the window and looked back at his father with a creased frown. "You went?"

The question gave the King a pause. "I did," he answered slowly with a notable cautious step in his voice. Beside him was a new bottle of wine - another Darnassian reserve that the prince was positive wasn't his father's first or second choice. While the elder Wrynn would enjoy a bold red during suppers at the Keep, he was more partial to the full-bodied Menethil harvests as opposed to the fragrant Kal'dorei variety. "When I came here to change before the meal, you were exhausted and barely moved." Anduin narrowed his eyes on his sire when Varian uncharacteristically looked away to grab at his goblet and steal a sip. "Clearly, you've been taking too many liberties with your health and will need to put better focus on getting better. Dinner parties with the Horde can wait. And before you even think to accuse me of 'letting' you oversleep, it was at Thrall's advising that I ensure you get enough rest."

The priest slowly shook his head and dragged his fingers through his blonde hair, working the digits between the short strands. "No, I don't blame you. I… I guess I have been rather reckless with my recovery," he lamely replied. "I would've liked to attend but I understand your reasoning. I would like to attend at least one meal at the hall before we go home, though. Even if it's just to make an appearance at your side. It's important that we show solidarity and strength and not… hiding me away in some room."

"Recovering isn't hiding. Would you tell your patients to hide in the infirmary or remain there to recover?"

"I've never had a crown prince as my patient so I don't feel equipped to answer that question honestly."

"A diplomatic weave. You've been spending too much time with the Nobles." Reaching for the bottle, the King sloshed the maroon liquid into the glass for a hearty refill. "Unfortunately, I have a meeting scheduled soon but I'll send Wyll to the kitchens to get you a late supper. You should eat something more than a liquid diet. I'm not liking how little you've been having."

Mentally shoving away his father's pecking concern over such inconsequential matters as his food, Anduin threw back the blankets and stood up on wobbly feet. It felt good to stretch his limbs, though his muscles had a lamentation of complaints to lodge, each one croaking and squealing in protest from their dormant neglect. Maybe that spar with his father would be a welcomed change of pace. "A meeting? At this time?"

"It wasn't my first choice but a logical one to avoid any interference from others. I'm dreading it enough that I don't need Tyrande or Jaina using it as a personal platform to stage their own agendas."

"Who's the meeting with?"

He watched his father watch him with a cloudy, hesitant expression over the rim of his goblet as he took a liberal chug of it. Whatever the meeting was, it was bad enough to push the King to indulging to take the edge off. Not that his father would ever resort to becoming intoxicated before a state-mandated affair, but the soothing essence of alcohol did have the habit of silencing Lo'Gosh. "You're not coming."

Anduin blinked. "How can I invite myself if I don't even know who the meeting is with or what the purpose is?"

"I know you. And you'll invite yourself. So let's cut out the middle and get right to the end of the argument. You're not coming."

Walking around the two beds, the prince paused in the doorway to the bathroom to regard his father with a guarded, quizzical look. Armed with a deadly dose of self-righteousness as sharp as Shalamayne and filled with a desire to do whatever measures were necessary to bring good to the world, the prince was rarely ever deterred from a path once his mind was set to it. He was accumulating an impressive knack of obstinately doing what he felt was needed and right in the moment, even if it meant acting defiant to his father and king's word. It was a hard concept, juggling the two identities. While a son might rebel against their father, a prince defying a king's order could be considered grounds for an official reprimand. He couldn't ever imagine his father resorting to tossing him in the Stockades, but he'd been locked in his rooms at the Keep more times than he cared to admit.

The stubbornness was a Wrynn trait. His father was the only one to blame.

"Are you meeting with Thrall?"

"No."

"Then you're meeting with Sylvanas."

"Stop asking."

"It's Vol'jin, isn't it?"

"And you're not coming, Anduin!" The goblet was slammed down on the desk with such force the sanguine liquid listed carelessly over the rim and splashed on the reports scattered over the desk. "Do not argue with me on this. I am your father and you will listen to me. My word is final."

The last four words made the boy stiffen in unease, his jaw tightening in disquiet as he debated the intensity of their purpose. But he bashed into any fortifying walls of autocracy and oppression his father intended to exact on him with a dogged lift of his chin, his words careening in a fluid rhythm leeking of challenge. "Then I'm not going as your son but as the crown prince who intends to discuss comeuppance from an attack made against me."

Varian leaned forward slowly and hardened his stare on the teen. "If you want to play that card, then as your king I order you to stay here. My patience is already thin. Do not test it."

"I'm the only one who was there during the attack," he began in a rush of words, the obstinate order staining the air and crackling it with jarring intensity. He'd gone against orders before. "It's only fitting that I be there to talk about the requital process. Even in Stormwind, we try to honor a victim's request when their perpetrator is sentenced."

"Then it's a good thing we're not in Stormwind."

"You're being unreasonable!" The prince exploded in a slightly loud voice as he felt the floor falling out from under him. Though leagues softer than his father's screams, it was much louder than what he normally used. "And you're going to keep being unreasonable during these talks with Vol'jin. You're going to… going to…"

"Going to what?" The High King slowly pushed himself to stand to his full-height, the movement triggered from the teen's raised tone. "Going to act as a ruler should when their heir has been nearly killed at a peace summit? Going to show strength when and where it needs to be done? I'll tell you what I'm not going to do." Anduin tensed but didn't move as his father crossed the gap that rested between them in a few quick strides. "I'm not going to allow my child to beg for his attacker's mercy. Not anymore. Not again. Garrosh's trial was enough. And to think that I was willing to see your way of things, to consider a route of clemency. You're damned lucky that Thrall put you on travel restriction, because had he not, I would've sent you back to Stormwind the second you were awake. And I've half a mind to take a chance and do it anyways. Do not push me, Anduin."

It was the stilling stiffness to his father's tense tone, feral and low, that first gave Anduin warning that he was nearing the end of the man's fortitude. The despairingly small gap between them was the second. He was easily in arms reach now. And while his father hadn't laid hands on him since the last summit they attended in Darnassus, he could still feel the iron grip that fractured his arm. The phantom pain almost made him shrink back under the bellowing tones that were carried with an accosting baritone tremor. And Anduin was faced yet again with the lifelong conundrum of trying to determine if he was a son talking to his father or a prince addressing his king. It was a debacle he fought with for his entire life, his existence in the world coming about for one purpose and one purpose only. But where Varian could've kept his heir at an arm's distance, shying away from any and all traces of paternal endearment, he didn't. As brute as he was, his father's tenderness for him had its own unique flavor, seasoned exotically from his splintered personalities.

Looking over the creased lines mingling with the scars that fragmented his face, Anduin took note of his father's seasoned features. They were features of a warrior before a king, and he knew that the man longed for the heat of battle over the cacophony of the petitioner's chamber. But while he'd always seen his father as a pillar of strength and fortitude, he couldn't ignore the age that was stalking him. The High King had just celebrated his fortieth birthday. His body was still chiseled from his martial affinity and mastery with his swordsmanship, but the lines of tiredness were looking more pronounced to the prince.

He hadn't been kind to his father in the past. He'd defied him for months in Pandaria. And now he was pushing his agenda to do it again. As devout and disciplined as he was in the Light, he had neglected his role as a son.

Blinking rapidly at the realization, the teen lowered his head and dropped his eyes submissively down to the floor. "Then at least let me tell you my part of it before you meet with Vol'jin." He glanced up at the king through the blonde bangs spilling down over his forehead. "If you'll allow me that much."

The sudden relenting from his son made Varian sigh - expelling his building tension with the air that passed from his lungs - and he nodded slowly. "That's fine." He met the boy's offered olive branch with one of his own. "I'll likely get back too late to discuss the outcome tonight - I expect you to be asleep by the time I return. But I give you my word I'll brief you tomorrow morning."

Grabbing at the lip of the bathroom door to steady himself, trying to downplay the weakness that still clawed at his body, Anduin forced himself to make eye contact with his father. "The attack was my fault," his words came out bolded, making the High King flinch slightly and frown. "I-I don't remember all of it. For some reason, my memories of the day are filled with holes. Kind of like I was intoxicated or something."

"We'll talk about how you know what that's like some other time." Varian rubbed the bridge of his nose. "From what you do remember, how do you know it was your fault? That's a lofty measure of guilt you're willing to shoulder, son, and it's going to have consequences."

While part of what he was saying was true, Anduin allowed his mind to fill in the gaps that he couldn't remember. But he knew that his father would undoubtedly approach the situation with a thirst for blood. "I know," he took a deep breath. "I saw Sylvanas and Nathanos talking just beyond the treeline, but I didn't realize it was them until I got closer. I was… I was curious who it was and why they were out there so far from the Lodge. I thought maybe they needed help and I should check on them." He shook his head remorsefully and almost buckled under his father's quiet stare. "That's where my memories start to fade. I kind of remember them yelling at me when I got close enough and I saw who it was. I don't remember much after that. Running… hearing a bow string… and then waking up to you."

Varian said nothing for a spell as he considered the boy, searching his face for any sign of deception. Priest or not, he didn't put it past the prince to stretch the truth - or flat out lie - for what he considered a benevolent cause. But he knew Anduin better than Anduin knew himself. He could read him like an open book, and his child was never good at lying. "That complicates things," he grumbled, eyes not leaving his son's. "The fact that you were nearly killed gains us a foothold above theirs. Rules of engagement for the summit were explicitly stated that hostile force can't be used outside of defending oneself. And even then, it'll have to be deemed necessary and reasonable for the circumstance. He'll argue you made the first attack and her response was appropriate for whatever was being discussed. I assume you don't remember?"

Anduin shook his head.

"Good. If you do, pretend you never did." Looking towards the wall for a moment, the king was quiet for a few seconds, the storm in his gaze churning with thoughts that were afforded a respectful silence from the boy. Anduin knew that look, and knew when to stay quiet. "If it's determined you were at fault for breaking laws of engagement, you'll be reprimanded by the Crown." Him. "You understand that, right?"

"I do."

"I don't intend on letting this matter get to that point. He's already acknowledged wrongdoing by having his leaders treat you." Crossing back to his desk, Varian rifled through his ledgers and books until he found a particularly thick collection of rough parchment bound together by a stiff spiraled edge. It was the determined laws of engagement signed into authority for the summit by both sides, a feat that took a week's worth of back and forth negotiations. "Put it out of your mind and focus on resting. You'll hear the outcome in the morning."

And as his father's booming presence left the room, rest was the last thing that Anduin would be finding in his harrowing solitude.

"Even if she's claiming self-defense to neutralize an intent of force - non-hostile force, I'll add - she failed to adhere to proportionality. We have two eye witnesses, Thrall and yourself, who saw the three of them arguing. The de-escalation was already in motion then. Anduin claims he was running away from them when the shot was fired. At that point, the prince was already attempting to withdraw."

Vol'jin looked from the High King down to the collection of decrees and regulations outlining the summit laws they enacted for the week. It was filled with distinguishing rules that fought to ensure peace was sustained during their monumental meeting, and the allowance of force should one side have the need to use it. "She bi sayin' he was spying on har an' di Blightcaller when dem be havin' ah private conversation away from di lodge. Now, me an' Thrall saw dem arguing. Dat was it. If you bi talkin' about rule ah engagement, di prince was di first tuh act wid intent of non-hostile force."

Taking a deep, heavy sigh, Varian shifted in his chair and looked across the council room towards the windows. In a two handfuls of hours, the vacant chairs in the room would be occupied once again by the leaders and their trusted advisors, the discussions for the war reprimands back into full swing. But this session was off the books so to speak, held at surreptitious hours to avoid detention and any outside influence on both sides, Horde and Alliance alike. Just Vol'jin and Varian sat at the woefully large conference table, though the room didn't seem large enough for their sharp attitudes. Not even their guards were afforded admittance; they were left outside the closed-door session, each set straining to hear for the slightest sounds of unease to spring into action.

"The prince was spying? That's what she's saying?" Varian countered with a glowering arch of his brow. "That's ridiculous. Why would I send a child to do a job that agents better taught can manage? The accusation is ludicrous and obviously fabricated. Anduin isn't trained to spy."

"But he is trained."

The King frowned. He didn't like where the conversation was headed. "My son's training and the extent of it has nothing to do with him being attacked at a peace summit." He slammed a fist down on the papers scattered in front of him. "We both agreed on these laws for a ceasefire. Both sides were in agreement that no force, hostile or not, was to be undertaken with the exception of proportional self-defense." His clasped fist pounded down on the very doctrine caught under his fury with a few of the words, trying to smash their importance into the troll. "She completely ignored his attempts of de-escalation according to his account. He said he was running from her when she shot at him. That makes her in violation."

"Spies aren't protected parties undah di laws," one of Vol'jin's thick fingers traced a line on a ledger. "So de-escalation is nuh needed."

The reserve of rage that Varian promised himself he wouldn't let bubble up, heated by the raised hackles of Lo'Gosh, began to do just that. "A spy? No, Anduin is a priest by discipline and a prince by birth. And if you want to strike out the completely irrefutable fact that she ignored any de-escalation efforts, then so be it. She violated the other mandate restricting an assassination attempt on a civilian head of state. Anduin may be a child by age but he's still Stormwind's heir apparent and Crown Prince."

"If yuh be tellin' mi he's de head ah state, den he's part ah your military leadership. I know how Stormwind works and is structured. If he's nuh one, den he's nuh di odda. And assassination on military leadership for reprisal is allowed."

The High King felt his already woefully low reserve of patience begin to dissolve considerably. It was already late, the hour likely nearing midnight, and he was slated to be up early in the morning for another round of sessions. "You are conveniently and stupidly ignoring the fact that he did not use any hostile force. We're in neutral territory, so the prince is free to walk wherever he wants. It's Sylvanas's own negligence that she chose to have a 'private conversation' out in the open wilderness instead of using logic." Threading his fingers together, Varian leaned forward on the table. Even without the bulk of his plate armor, his naturally imposing stature granted him an inkling of intimidation. "What leg are you standing on, Vol'jin? You obviously damned her acts before if you abided by my earlier ultimatum."

The troll lips curled around the heavy tusks protruding from them. His demeanor remained unchanged and impressively unphased, which served to annoy Varian to no end. If anything, the Warchief seemed inconvenienced with the whole situation. "We didn't know di full story den. Now we do. And it's nuh so black and white."

"Then let me make this more black and white for you. The Horde can barely afford to pay reparations - Lor'themar made that clear earlier today during our sessions. So tell me, are you willing to throw the Horde into a war over the Banshee?"

Vol'jin laughed dryly. "Are yuh willing tuh throw your Alliance inna war ovuh a boy?"

And just like that, all of Varian's composure - what little he had - and poise was thrown out the window to join the cold elements in the blizzard. Maybe it was the late hour. Or maybe it was because his teenage child had already drained the remaining patience before the meeting. "That boy is my son and Stormwind's ruler-in-waiting. And we arranged this summit out of courtesy for you. I had the chance to dismantle your pathetic faction but I didn't. I had another chance to make these reprimands in the comforts of my home but I didn't. I've gone out of my way for you, against all the advising and suggestions. And where has that gotten me, Warchief?" He didn't realize he was yelling until he paused for breath, his lungs suddenly aching for air.

"My son was attacked - and don't insult me by suggesting a fifteen year old is a spy. A fifteen year old who you saw, Thrall saw, and Sylvanas and Nathanos clearly saw. He made no effort to conceal his presence because he wasn't spying! You have five minutes to convince me not to storm that disgusting capital of yours. I did it before, Vol'jin, and it's fresh in my mind. You best believe I will do it again."

A profound, heavy silence fell on the table in the aftermath of the High King's reverberating words. Though simply put, they carried immense impact for both sides still recovering from the expense and treachery of a war. Orgrimmar and Pandaria weren't far in their past. "We nuh lookin' tuh start a fourth war," the troll began in a quiet tone neither filled with malice or anger. It was calculating and shrewd, as if he put weight into each word before selecting it. For that much, Varian found himself developing a small amount of respect for the warchief. Unlike the Wrynn dynasty that inherited the throne, raised with the knowledge and skills to prepare them for the crown, the Horde warchief was appointed. And Vol'jin was handed pieces of a shattered faction left in shambles in the aftermath of a tyranny. "Wah is it yuh be askin' for, Wrynn?"

That was a good question, and one the High King had been repeatedly asking himself for the last few days. "What I want you can't give me. The price of my son's life, even an attempt on it, is incalculable and the retribution should be appropriately commiserating to the act. If I asked for Sylvanas's life in return, would you give me that satisfaction?"

Vol'jin canted a brow and spoke dryly. "Yuh boy still breathes. Dis nuh be ah place for yuh to take out yuh rage."

The answer didn't strike the human with any surprise; compared to his predecessor, the Warchief embraced an unexpected measure of pragmatism and poise. And while Varian clashed with that mindset with his brusque approach better favored for the ruthless battlefields, he could accept it nonetheless. "Then what is it you're able to give? Clearly, resource and monetary retribution are already limited from the war reprimands."

The troll grinned wryly. "Dun tell me di High King dun have ah price in mind. Yuh know exactly wuh yuh want, Wrynn."

White-knuckled fingers gripped each digit together tighter at the Darkspear's words; it was true, Varian rarely approach a conference table - war or political - without an idea of what his preferred outcome was. But still a Wrynn and raised in a shared household of several Nobles mixed of different kingdoms and dynasties, he was well versed in the art of tense negotiations, when he did choose to entertain it. Diplomacy was a fancy word for poised lying, and that was one notion Lo'Gosh refused to heed. But negotiations could be approached like a battle, where he'd consider his adversary with a critical eye, and making the first move was rarely a preferred route. No, in negotiations, it was about making the counterparty set the starting point to learn how malleable and willing they were able to go. Or not go.

But Varian was never patient when it came to dialectic warfare. Especially where his son was a concern. Patience be damned.

"I want her and her disgusting faction entirely out of the Horde. The next words out of your mouth will be speaking for the Horde, Warchief. She laid hands on my son, nearly claimed his life and intended on raising him as a Forsaken as an insult to me!" A fisted hand slammed down on the table, upsetting a few papers. "So tell me, do you allow attacks on innocent children and necromancy? I've led a successful campaign against one Lich master - I'll not set Azeroth on a path where my son will have to lead another campaign when he assumes the crown. If you don't condemn her acts, then you - and the rest of the Horde - condone them. Will you stand behind what she has done?"

Time slowed down to a near halt as Vol'jin quietly considered the High King, his gaze calculating. "Di Horde had spoken and we dun stand wid har in dis."

"Then you agree to my terms."

"Removin' an entire people from our faction wen we be rebuildin'," Vol'jin's words came out in a slow, hesitant tenor, skepticism and doubt leaking from his voice, "is nuh a smart move. Di Forsaken fought wid us at di Siege, Wrynn. Uh can't throw dem out from one act. Nuh a whole nation." Either sensing or seeing the argument and aggression begin to front on the High King's face, the Warchief sighed heavily and lifted a hand to signal he wasn't done yet. "As a father of sons, uh undastand di rage yuh have. Uh wud feel di same. But as uh leader, uh know when tuh ignore dat rage, even if means swallowin' muh pride." He shook his head slowly. "Uh can nuh remove di Forsaken wen we be needin' dem now more den evuh."

For a few seconds, Varian almost forgot to breathe. If the chairs beside them were occupied with Alliance and Horde leaders and advisors, if the meeting room wasn't barren save for the two most prominent leaders in all of Azeroth, the High King would've embraced his anger at the emotional empathy the troll tried playing. He was immune to matters of the heart, or so he claimed. And maybe if the troll spoke longer on his own personal life with his children, Varian would steel his resolve and turn cold at the conversation. But Vol'jin didn't. And neither did the High King bristle and burn at the empathy.

His stormy blue eyes dropped down to the parchment on the table. "Ten million gold from the Undercity paid directly to House Wrynn. As Anduin is still a child, that's a personal retribution I'm demanding as his father. As the High King, retribution will come from ensuring prosperity and safety for Azeroth, using my son's near brush with death as the springboard for the campaign. I'll be sending periodic agents to the Undercity to inspect her apothecaries and seize anything involving the Blight. Her other projects will remain her own and untouched by the Alliance. But the Blight is too dangerous a toxin to go unchecked."

"Jus di Blight? Yuh nah be touchin' anyting else?"

Varian shook his head slowly. "Nothing else. The inspections will go on for three months, during which all production of anything pertaining to the Blight is be brought to an end. If you won't expatriate the Forsaken from the Horde, then you'll allow the Alliance to limit her projects."

"And afta di three months? Wah den?"

"After that, the Alliance inspections will end," Varian leaned back against his chair, eyes roaming the troll's visage. "But hear this - if I get word that she's resumed harvesting the Blight, or any similar strands, the Alliance will get involved again through force and war, if need be. So I suggest to you, Warchief, that you enforce order."

Vol'jin slowly nodded his head, though Varian wasn't sure if it was more a gesture of contemplation or affirmation that he agreed. But his wondering was put to bed by the troll's words. "Der won't bi anodder Lich for our children tuh inherit, uh promise yuh dat." The troll pressed himself to stand to his full height, an act that was immediately mirrored by the High King, and extended a hand across the table that separated them. "Now wi agree on di terms, King Wrynn. Yuh have muh apology for wuh happened. Uh hear from Thrall dat di boy is recoverin' well."

Looking from the troll's outstretched, offered hand - the first step to solidifying the retribution efforts he was due from the assault - to Vol'jin's earnest expression, Varian didn't hesitate. The gold would be welcomed and the House of Nobles would try to gobble up what they could of it without success. But the true prize was enforcing part of his control on the Forsaken, namely Sylvanas. While he didn't hunger for more power, he naturally sought to take unbalanced, chaotic lands shaken by travesty to bring into deserved salvation. The Horde had their zones and nations, many of them fractured and scrambling to redefine themselves after a brutal shattering, and he embraced the opportunity to ensure their rebuilding was done in a manner that he approved of.

His hand reached across the table and gripped Vol'jin's in a tight clasp.