The thunderstorm hadn't let up for hours and, judging by its howling cry, had no intention of doing so for the remainder of the night. But it wasn't the storm brewing and festering outside the Keep that woke Varian. No, it was a barely audible knock in the vicinity of his bedroom door, so quiet that he almost missed it among the storm's rancorous cacophony.
His bedroom - the royal chambers - was basked in flooding darkness interrupted by the occasional crash of lightning shocking the sleepy interior with a blinding radiance that lasted only a second. The King turned over in bed, rolling on his back in the middle of the sprawling mattress despairingly too large for just one person. Though he could've stretched out to comfortably claim the entire bed for himself, he still couldn't bring himself to do it. A widower for five years, not a day went by that he didn't loathe the symbolic solitude of the cold side of the bed. No matter how many times his arms would stretch across the blankets towards the opposite side, hoping the impossible to feel the warmth of his beloved wife and queen, he knew he was only torturing himself. Tiffin was gone. Stolen from him far too early than he was ready, and only mere months after the highly anticipated birth of their son and crown prince.
Grief was a strange thing, clinging to him with the intensity of a jealous mistress and refusing to let the King escape its melancholic wrath. Depression stalked his waking hours and visions of her death consumed his dreams. Never would he forget the scarlet mess clumping her gilted hair together, wet from spilling out her life essence. Benevolent and so tenderhearted, his Queen had insisted on trying a diplomatic hand with the rioting crowds, begging him not to turn to a violent course to end them. How irony had taunted him and his family that day. How much of a fool he was proven. His wife's heart was blinded by her good tidings; such selflessness was a rarity not shared by his own people who'd murdered her. In the fragile moment of a few seconds, his entire world had shattered. His wife and Queen was taken from him and he was left a single-father to an infant son.
Varian massaged the bridge of his nose as a rumble of thunder rang out above the din of turbulent rains. And just as he was about to disregard the miniscule knock as an accidental bump from the guards stationed outside the bedroom, a much louder, more purposeful rap on the door - plated fingers meeting wood - echoed through his chambers. And in the seconds that followed, the sleep that lingered in the young monarch's body was hastily chased away by a surge of duty and authority. The guards rarely bothered him at night, let alone when he was in the personal recluse of his private chambers. For them to seek his audience must have meant something incredibly pressing for their relatively new re-birthed realm still finding her legs. Stormwind was still suffering the growing pains any adolescent did, and Varian silently wondered when the Keep would stop feeling brand new to him. Padding barefoot across the room towards the door, the plush rug pile squished between his toes with the same lushness it had on the first night he spent in the Keep. It felt as untouched and new as it did that night, alien and yet home in the same breath. Despite being born in Stormwind, in the old Keep that was no longer, Varian fought to acquaint himself with his kingdom and home.
Lordaeron would always be his second home.
His fingers hooked through his long chestnut hair that hung freely down his shoulders, working through the renegade snarls that managed to grip the tresses in the heat of the night. If he was needed in the throne room or petitioner's chambers or war room, he'd likely retreat back into his rooms to make himself more presentable for the impromptu meeting. But his heart begged that whatever news his guards had on the other side of the door wouldn't be bad. Though he'd once listened - mostly through brotherly humoring - to Arthas drone on and on about the sanctity and grace of the Light and the power of prayer, Varian had long stopped turning to faith when it unfairly took his wife from him. And yet as his hand lingered inches above the doorknob, he sent a quick prayer to the Light that the news wouldn't be devastating to their new kingdom.
Yanking the door open, Varian blinked at the awkward-looking guard that stood on patrol. He wasn't looking at the king, but rather downwards. Curiosity hiking up, he followed the stare southernly and stopped as it landed on a mop of messy blonde hair and big, tearfilled blue eyes.
That explained who the first quiet knock was from.
"Anduin! What are you-" The King turned from the five-year old clutching a stuffed murloc towards the guard still eyeing the young prince in awkwardness, not sure if he was meant to return to his post or wait to be dismissed. "What is my son doing here? Is everything well?"
Plate clanked and clinked together as the guard immediately shifted to regard his sire with a dutiful expression. "The Prince has demanded your audience, Your Majesty. He… it sounded… urgent."
Varian frowned. In front of him, the boy's bottom lip began to quiver. "Urgent? Is he ok? Has something happened to his rooms? Have you patrolled them?"
"Of course, Sire. We've found nothing amiss with his chambers. He approached us claiming to want to-"
"-Can I sleep with you tonight, Father?"
The meek, little voice cut like a knife, though it was almost entirely engulfed by the clattering thunder that clapped through the air, making the young prince jump slightly and inch closer towards his father. But Varian didn't budge; not from the roaring storm or his son's fearful expression and tiny voice. The surge of authority that gripped his nerves moments ago suddenly recoiled like a tide returning back to sea, making him feel leagues older than he was and so much more exhausted.
"Anduin…"
"Please!" The boy's small arm tightened around the stuffed murloc, its boggly eyes comically watching the King in waiting for the verdict. "I… I don't want to sleep alone. The storm is scary. It'll only be for one night!"
Varian sighed and ran his hand over his face. It wasn't an easy answer. Not for him. If he were anyone else, if Anduin was anyone else's son except for the King of Stormwind's, there'd be no hesitation in ushering the child in to reassure him through one stormy night. But Varian and Anduin's dynamic wasn't so simple. He wasn't just a father rearing a son - he was a father raising a king. One day, admittedly in the very distant future, Anduin would be expected to assume the mantle of ruling and raise up to the full potential of his birthright, taking the throne and crown as per his duty. Feeble matters of storms and lightning would be the least of his worries when that fated day came. No, the true nightmares and atrocities were bodily and real, were able to look you straight in the eye on the battlefield and claim everything you knew. One day, Anduin would have to learn that storms were nothing compared to the true threats that pursued them.
And yet, Anduin was still so young.
Dropping his hand from his face, Varian looked back down at his son. With hair the color of Westfall's summer wheat and eyes as blue as the reflective waters from Stone Cairn Lake in Elwynn, Anduin had inherited so much from his mother and showcased the finer features of their kingdom at the same time. Though he was small and slender, even for his frail years, his face still had the familiar curves of a Wrynn. There was no doubt at all whose son he was. And while the king wanted desperately to enforce a heavyhand when it came to his child, he simply couldn't. Not in this. A cold bed and lone solitude taunted him from the room.
Sighing defeatedly, Varian shoved the door open wider, inviting the boy in. "One night," he sternly commanded in a tone not dissimilar from the one he used in court. "You're back in your own room tomorrow. Understood?"
A boyish smile shattered the depressed, fearful expression on Anduin's face as he perked up. "Understood!" But the smile was smothered with worry as he lifted his stuffed murloc. Its gangly arms jiggled at the motion. "Can Pickle come with?"
The King looked down at the cross-eyed Murloc with another sigh. Out of the corner of his gaze, he saw the guard stationed beside the door crack a smile. "Pickle can come, too."
With a cheerful glee that rivaled the intensity of the storm outside, Anduin darted forward, rushing past Varian through the door and into the bedroom's collapsing darkness. The soft pitter-patter of his barefeet grew more distant before they eventually disappeared entirely as he presumably vaulted himself onto the immense bed. Glancing into the room to spot the pajama-clad child making himself comfortable in the sea of pillows and blankets, the fear of the storm long forgotten in his victory, the King lingered to address his guards. "Return to your stations."
After closing the door behind him and making the trek back to the oversized bed, Varian flopped back down in his spot that still had some residual warmth. As large as the bed was and as small as Anduin was, the two could've shared the sleeping arrangement harmoniously without noticing the other. And yet his son had decided not to get comfortable in the spot that was once reserved for his departed mother, but rather right in the dead center of the bed, tucked rather close to him.
The rain pelted angrily against the large balcony resting beyond the set of closed doors, the torrential downpour occasionally drowned out from the choir of thunder. A bolt of lightning struck particularly close and made the boy clutch Pickle - Varian didn't know where he got the name from - tighter and burrow his face against the King, somehow thinking in his childish logic that his father was strong and capable enough to take on the brunt of the storm.
And while Varian was tempted to chide his child for the juvenile, ridiculous reaction to weather, hoping to instill courage early on, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The boy was on the eve of his sixth birthday, and though he'd only seen the white-washed stonework of Stormwind and the rolling hills of Elwynn Forest, Anduin looked at the world with an unjaded perspective graced to him with an uncynical eye. He wasn't hardened by the selfishness of the world. Despite never having left the Kingdom, the prince saw the world more clearly and unadulterated compared to his sire. Armed with the naivety of any child, it also served him well as a suit of armor, protecting him from the callousness of Azeroth's true colors.
He hoped his son would never lose that, even when he'd inherit the crown one day.
Turning onto his side to face the small figure nestled against him, the King welcomed the crashing thunder and blinding lightning. Because of it, he wasn't alone anymore. "Good night, Anduin."
"Father! Father!"
The memory-ladened dream slowly dissolved as wakefulness was rudely shoved onto Varian in the form of his son's voice - now much deeper and masculine than the small voice from his memory - and hands shaking him. Exhaustion created fractured spiderwebs through his thoughts, making chasms and fissures that stubbornly refused to allow logic to reign right away. Groaning a little as he forced his eyes open, the King ran a heavy hand over his haggard face, digits pressing along the raised scars zigzagging through the skin. "What is it, Anduin?" He grumbled in a tired voice, looking from the teen - still sickly pale with gaunted features and glassy eyes - towards the early morning sun reflecting off the snowscape outside their window.
The priest shifted his weight uneasily, apparently made uncomfortable by his father's response. "A messenger came. The guards knocked but you didn't wake so I answered. They said you'd… um… you weren't at the breakfast session this morning."
Shoving himself to his elbows, Varian took a better look out the windows, spotting the sun's hanging placement in the sky and judging it to be an hour or two past dawn. "So I wasn't," came his flat words. "Overslept apparently. They should be more than capable without me - we're in the drafting stages anyways. My presence isn't pressing."
"You don't have to justify yourself to me," the prince smiled weakly and sat on the edge of his bed. "You got in late last night. I tried staying up to hear how the meeting with Vo'jin went but… I guess I needed the sleep."
Varian threw the blankets back and rubbed his hands over his jawline, frowning at the stubble that was already sprouting in the region. He was already late; he could take his time shaving. At the boy's question, he was partially tempted to keep Anduin in the dark; he really wanted his child to have no further dealings with Sylvanas, even in the aftermath of the Blight. But he'd made a promise to him the night prior and he'd set no good example by breaking it. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up, he stretched his muscles and limbs and eyed the teen over quietly.
The prince had grown so much since boyhood, emerging into adolescence with the same unjaded perspective he had as a young child. And yet, fate was fickle. The same unjadedness Varian used to pine and hope the boy would maintain served Anduin in the worst of ways. He clung to it and sped off away from his guards, seeing only as far as his benevolent intentions guided him. But even the best of intentions had poor outcomes. Garrosh's trial was evidence enough of that. Anduin was a pivotal pawn in that trial, having been one of the only victims alive and able to give his voice to how he'd like to see his attacker dealt with. Tyrande had been expecting the boy who had every single bone in his body shattered to want to exact a similar pain on the Mag'har. Her rage had been poorly concealed when the priest was near opposite of her assumptions, claiming to not only want to see Garrosh live but be changed.
People like Garrosh couldn't change. They were, strangely enough, as naive as the prince, though naive through their own choosing. They shrouded and blinded themselves with their faith and decrees, feeling that no other way was right if it wasn't their own. Someday Anduin would be forced to change and see the world for the darkness that it was.
Varian shoved the thoughts from his mind and made a line for the bathroom. "The meeting went longer than I'd hoped but the resolution is… well, it's not what I originally wanted but the outcome is profitable for the Alliance and us."
The teen lifted his brows. "'Us'?"
"Sylvanas has to pay our House directly as a personal retribution to what was done to you. I'm sure the Nobles will try to take portions of it, coming up with some ridiculous reasoning that you're an entity of the State and so they're entitled to it." Varian lingered in the bathroom's doorway, running his gaze over the boy watching him, clearly waiting for more information. Apparently his curiosity wasn't sated enough. "As for the Alliance, I'll be sending recon to periodically run inspections on her apothecaries for three months. The Blight won't be incubated. I'll personally stage an assault on the Undercity if it means stopping another Lich."
"I'm surprised Vol'jin was agreeable to that." The prince tilted his head and hummed thoughtfully to himself. "I would've liked to see the negotiation process, though. Especially if you were able to get the Warchief and Sylvanas to agree to that."
The King mindfully didn't mention he'd been wanting to walk away with a claim to Sylvanas's life. But it was too early in the day for one of Anduin's self-righteous lectures that greatly exceeded his years. "There'll be other opportunities for you to learn from. Ones that aren't so... difficult."
"When I'm king I won't be able to pick and choose, difficult or not."
Varian sighed. "Is this how we're going to start the day, Anduin?"
The bright blue eyes broke from the stormy ones as the priest lowered his gaze submissively to the floor. But Varian wasn't so easily disillusioned. Had Anduin not been recovering, he had no doubt in his mind that his very stubborn, highly spirited child would have argued his point until nightfall. He took the small victory for what it was.
"I just mean to say that I would've liked to see how you handled it. You're… not well known for your… approachableness, father," Anduin spoke slowly, handpicking his words. Leaning forward from his perched spot on the bed, the teen glanced up with a small smile that chased away any doubts Varian had over his son's brazenness. "I'm proud of you. I mean, I'm always proud of you but in this… I expected you to- you know, for you to…"
Yes, Varian did know but he didn't say it. No, he'd make the boy string together his thoughts. Placing a hand against the doorframe, continuing to linger beneath it, he looked blankly back at him.
"I… I expected you to treat it like you did the meeting in Darnassus with the Gilneans. And you didn't. You didn't lose your temper or order the advancement of units on Horde territory. You used diplomacy and stomached negotiations." The priest suddenly paled worse than he was with a worried thought. "Wait, you did negotiate, right? You didn't-"
"-Yes, I negotiated. I didn't force any of it." Varian lifted a silencing hand before the boy could veer off into rampant concerned litanies. "I won't break down the minutiae of it, but the outcome was decent. We've signed and sealed it. Vol'jin seemed confident enough to not even want Sylvanas's input. When and how he chooses to tell her is his own doing." His fingers curled around the doorframe, the woods a sanded grain imported from the Kal'dorei homelands and smooth against his calloused skin. "Thrall should be arriving soon to check in on you. I'm looking forward to getting you back to the Keep and under the care of the healers there. This has all been more than I ever wanted for this summit."
Anduin blinked patiently. "Please don't use this as an excuse to shutter me in more."
"Since when do I need an excuse?"
The teen sighed theatrically back to his father's equally jesting words. "Even the High King needs to be kept in check time and again, you know. His power can't be unchallenged, especially when locking away children in towers for undetermined amounts of time."
"Your attempts of seeking leniency fall on deaf ears, son," Varian groused with a small grin, failing to hold his impassive visage in the face of their lighthearted mirth. "And I'll add that you are the royal needing to be kept in check. A runaway prince skirting his obligations to his kingdom is a foul one at that."
The jest drained marginally from the boy's face, making his eyes look duller. "I wasn't-" But Varian hardened his own resolve at the teen's undoubtedly argumentative tone, doing the trick to shove it back to the well of reserve it was called from. "Well, all humor aside, I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own bed and resting there, having the familiarity of the Keep to… get better, I suppose."
Varian narrowed his gaze on the boy conspiraciously. "Willingly wanting to go home? You? Maybe you're not recovering as fast as I'd hoped." But in truth, the High King had long ago lost his appetite for the summit's purpose and Winterspring's naturally alluring snowscape. He also hungered for the familiarity of his map room and home. And the peace of mind that his son was far, far away from the Horde that nearly took his life. It'd take him some time to agree to bring the prince on another royal appointment beyond their kingdom. "I'll ask Thrall again if you're fit for travel. I can finish the meetings up sooner than originally planned, or leave the drafting to them."
As expected, as if on clockwork, Anduin sharply shook his head. "Only after that ride through Winterspring you promised. And if you're still wanting of it, the spar. Seriously, father, cabin fever is about to become more of a threat to me than recovering from the Blight."
As much as Varian wanted to see his son's affinity and strength in shadow, he had to quiet his own selfish desires for the boy's welfare. Maybe before Pandaria and the priest's strong armed insistence of seeking tutelage under Velen, leaving his father and people for his craft, the High King would've forced the issue. But after his son's so many close calls that flirted with death, what was truly important became shoved into perspective for him.
Even as he looked at Anduin, his paternal instincts immediately finding all of the physical attributes the boy inherited from him, he felt he was looking at the impossible. It was only days ago that he wrestled with the possibility of his death from disease, and several months ago by Garrosh's hand. Varian had suffered the worst of battle wounds either through campaigns or his time of enslavement in the ring, collected an impressive canvas of scars, but the real torture came from imagining burying his child. It was a nightmare no parent should have to live through.
Anduin was his world, and he'd almost been taken from him.
"The spar can wait till we get home," the older Wrynn quietly mumbled as he took in the half-mooned dark circles under the prince's eyes. "As for the ride… only if you're feeling up to it. I know Thrall suggested it for your recovery but to hell with him if you're not feeling strong enough to face the cold. There's always just going to dinner if you really need to walk around."
"So… the ride and the dinner?"
"Is that a question or a statement?"
Anduin looked hopeful. "Are you giving me a choice?"
"Absolutely not but I thought to give you the benefit of the doubt to ask." Varian fought back a smile at the despair on the boy's face. "I've already missed the breakfast sessions - the rest of the morning appointments can suffer my absence. If Thrall gives the approval, we'll take that ride this morning. There's a trail through the forests that's short but will suffice. Or..." He sighed heavily, knowing just what the adventure-craving teen would want. "An ice cave isn't far from here. I've never been but I hear the caverns are well worth the trip to explore. Something about the ice being so clear it looks like crystals."
Hope and energy were a curious thing on anyone but on his bright-eyed son, they were emotions that came almost as second nature as his benevolence and compassion. The cocktail of elations, when mixed harmoniously together, created a moving strength that almost chased away the remnants of exhaustion continuing to plague him from the Blight. The brilliance and light were ushered to Anduin's features by the preamble of his radiant smile. "I'd love that!" He exclaimed, his mind likely already imagining climbing and exploring an ice-filled cavern. "Today? We can go today?" He coughed dryly. "I mean, if Thrall agrees that I'm strong enough for it."
Varian tapped the door a few times and allowed a heavy silence torture the boy as he chewed over the situation. Instincts told him to board up the room and make his son rest until his deathday but a nagging voice in his head - maybe that was his conscience? - guided him to logic. Anduin was a teenager, nearly on the eve of being a young adult. He needed freedom to grow and become his own person, and that couldn't happen if Varian was constantly smothering him back at every turn. One day, hopefully not soon, Anduin would be forced to take the crown and couldn't spare being coddled.
That day would also mean the prince's spontaneous adventures would need to come to a halting end. He wouldn't be able to galavant about Azeroth on his whimsical desires. No, his duty would chain him.
"Yes, I'll take you today."
Lor'themar missed Silvermoon. He hated the snow. Hated the cold. And truly had no love for any Kal'dorei aesthetics. The longer the negotiation sessions went on, the more his palate craved the sweet release a bottle of Sunkissed Wine could promise. But Silvermoon was a continent away, separated by a sprawling sea and miles apart. Political dexterity was already rather limited for the Regent Lord who kept his State position very much at an arm's length. While he could be cordial, emotionally detached, and pragmatic in the sessions, his tolerance for them was becoming expired.
Hearing Sylvanas and Vol'jin argue for the past hour over the conflict regarding Wrynn's boy wasn't making it any easier for the Sin'dorei.
"We can always excuse ourselves, Lor'themar. There's better ways to spend our time than listening to her hysterics."
The Regent-Lord smiled thinly at the Thalassian whispered words. Seated beside him in the conference room dedicated to a small group of Horde leaders was Hauldron Brightwing, his closest friend and most trusted advisor. He could at least take heart that he wasn't forced to suffer being an observer of the argument alone.
When Vol'jin had called the Horde meeting after the breakfast session - which Lor'themar noted Wrynn was curiously absent from - he could feel something was wrong. In truth, he was impressed the High King had made an applauding effort to go to all of the meetings even with his son's life lingering in limbo. Had it been him, had the fruit of his loins been recovering from near death, he'd had already called the meetings off and attended to his child.
Then again, humans were very fickle when it came to their offspring. Much more than Sin'dorei. Maybe it was a result of their short lifespans and childhood, and their penchant for reproducing at speed rivaling rabbits. The life of a child was beyond priceless to the Elves, who spend majority of their existence in adulthood in a protracted lifespan. Seeing a child was a rare gift that'd end as their childhood did.
"I am not paying that foolish buffoon any gold from my city, Vol'jin! I won't pay for your failure to stand up to Wrynn's argument."
"Yuh bi payin' for attacking at uh peace summit. And a boy at dat. Dat's an orduh."
Lor'themar fought back an undignified sigh. The troll and Forsaken had been arguing in circles around each other for the last hour, talking past one another, refusing to see reason. Though sound reason dictated that Syvlanas kneel and heed the Warchief's order. But a streak of Sin'dorei pride and stubbornness that didn't die with the rest of her body kept her arguing. Had it been him - which it wouldn't because he would never make allowance for the attack on a child, even the son of a king - he'd have counted his blessings and simply paid the monetary punishment. Really, considering Wrynn's legendary anger that once drove him to assault his own allied faction's city, Ironforge, to pluck his son from a kidnapping attempt, they were lucky the High King didn't declare war on them. The Horde was still weak and recovering from Garrosh's tyranny; another war on their lands would be devastating.
"And if I don't?"
The Regent-Lord looked curiously at Vol'jin, interested in the answer.
"Den de Horde will have tuh pay and di Forsaken will have tuh make up di cost by nuh gettin' all di aid for reconstruction." The troll's voice took on a hard edge, his patience clearly finding its limit. "And duh think dat you're avoiding di inspections. Even if Wrynn duh destroy di blight, di Horde will. Wi nuh be allowin' dat anymore."
Lor'themar knew Sylvanas through different periods of her life and death, had watched her transform from the honored ranger she once was in Quel'thalas to the cursed thing she became. And he knew her well enough to know that the narrowing of her crimson eyes and tensing of her jaw were telltale signs of her anger bordering on menacial.
"Fine," her tense words were barely audible. "And here I thought the Horde was being handed off to a strong warchief. From a tyrant to a weakling that bows to Wrynn."
The room was silent as the Banshee whipped around and stomped soundlessly from the room, putting her back on the Horde and leaving her words to whip them cruelly.
"I'd say that went well," Brightwing shattered the silence once her figure disappeared from view and the door slammed shut behind her.
Shoving himself to his feet, Lor'themar stretched his limbs that were becoming cramped from sitting for too long. The entire week was feeling too long. What was meant to be a mere summit to discuss war reparations had quickly become a headache inducing catastrophe. And all because the Forsaken queen couldn't hold back temptations to…
Lor'themar paused. To what? She'd been wanting to not only kill Wrynn's child but turn him to one of her own. A sickened, hollow feeling carved itself in the Regent-Lord's belly at the memories of the Scourge marching through their streets, ripping children and adults apart, stealing their youth before they had a chance to live. Some of them had been raised, though they amounted to little in the Lich army. Merely children, they served better as ghouls and cannon fodder than someone trained.
Still, it was an ache that Lor'themar didn't want to revisit, a slander on what was natural. It was true that he once owed Sylvanas some loyalty when she arranged their aid in the wake of the Sunwell's destruction, but that loyalty had long ago been repaid. Now he could pass judgment on her nightmarish amalgamations and ambitions with a clear conscience. As much as he detested Jaina for her interrupting his and Wrynn's meeting to rejoin the Alliance, he'd be hardpressed to remain in the Horde much longer if the High King did choose to push war on them because of his son. The Sin'dorei's ties to the Horde were, even then, tenuous at best.
"I'm not sure if I'm surprised or impressed by your agreeing to Wrynn's inspections on her apothecaries, Warchief," Lor'themar began in a measured tone as he eyed Baine's concerned gaze staring unfocused at the door. The Tauren had been silent throughout the entire meeting, though his disappointment and disapproval had grown steadier the more the argument progressed. "Though I commend your negotiation efforts to avoid further conflict. We can't afford a war, either through resources or martial strength."
Vol'jin merely nodded at the compliment. "How bi di boy?"
The Sin'dorei shrugged indifferently. "I haven't seen him since I first offered the antidote, but from what Thrall has been gracious enough to pass on, the boy is strong and on his way to becoming healthy again. I have no doubt in my mind Wrynn would've sent him back to Stormwind had he been able, so I presume he's still on the mend." Arching a brow over his eyepatch, he nodded towards the door at no one is particular. "Do you trust she's let go of the issue?"
It was Baine that responded, his stare unmoving from the door. "Do you?"
"Not for second," Lor'themar replied lightly in his trademark cursory tone. "I suggest you assign your own retinue of inspections to keep a close eye on her. Perhaps even for the remainder of the summit."
Vol'jin nodded slowly. "Uh will. But if she bi plannin' on doing someting, uh dun think Wrynn would bi lenient anymore."
That went without saying. It was surprising the High King with a fractured personality, one part gladiator and the other a monarch, didn't declare war on them already. Lor'themar shared a grim look with Brightwing. "Then neither will we."