I have no idea what's going on anymore. How many people are living in my head? How many have VIP access to my thoughts? Seriously, I'm losing it—losing my mind, my marbles, the cheese has slipped off my checker… but hey, at least I've still got chess.

Yep, chess. I've been playing it with myself (because what's weirder than that?) and even a few games with some Tortollan folks. You know, the turtle people. And get this: I'm winning. Like, really fast too. Alexandros's games with Renault are just there in my brain, all his strategies, every move burned into my memory. It's wild. When I play, I can practically see Renault getting all frustrated, just like back in the day. And then there's me, nodding and shaking my head at the Tortollan like I'm some chess grandmaster. No pressure, right?

But here's the kicker—I'm actually able to move my right hand when I play. Like, little twitches. And I'm thinking, maybe this is the start of my recovery? Or maybe… maybe I'm just handing over more control to Alexandros. And honestly? That terrifies me. I don't want to lose myself in all this.

This is my life. Not Alexandros's. I don't want to die, and I know he doesn't want me to either, but still—why am I even playing these chess games? What's the point? The expectations on me don't make sense anymore. I made a promise to only use the Ashbringer to protect people, right? But if I can't even protect myself without Alexandros taking over, what's the point of any of this? It's not fair.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm still that selfish brat who used to kill small animals and ruin people's lives just for attention. Or maybe I'm still trying to follow in my mother's footsteps, marry into power, and get my father's approval. Honestly, at this point, I don't even know who I am anymore.

I had another life—one filled with duty, honor, and the hope that I could be more than just a soldier. I was a husband, once. I was a father. But in one moment, all of that fell apart, and I realized I had failed at all three. Renault, my firstborn, lost his mother when he was just a boy of four. I could feel his resentment growing like a shadow, but I was consumed with tending to Darion, an infant who needed me just as much. The weight of my duties at the frontlines, the endless battles, and my own grief... they drained me. I stopped being the father I needed to be. I should have remarried. I should have sold our house and moved somewhere full of life—somewhere bustling, where Renault could have had friends, laughter, and light. But no. I selfishly clung to my own exile, hiding in the shadows of my pride, thinking I could be both mother and father to him. And in doing so, I lost both sons—one to my neglect, and the other... to the blade I forged in my own righteousness.

Even now, I hold onto that guilt. I let Renault slip away, blinded by my belief that I could handle it all alone. My arrogance, my failure, led to his betrayal. And Darion... Darion paid the price too, for my blind dedication to a world I thought I could save.

Why am I still hanging onto this guilt? I mean, seriously, that wasn't me! But here I am, stuck, writing "I" and "me" when it should be "him" and "he." It's like I'm living Alexandros's life, and it's messing with my head. I have to stay being me. I need to keep writing this stuff down, remind myself I'm still Perfectia Dawnlight. Yeah, there's a part of me that needs to be someone else—a spy again, back in that sneaky life. But honestly, the lines are blurring. I feel like I'm losing myself.

Being a High Elf? Oh, that was easy. It felt normal for the longest time, you know? But being a Blood Elf? That... never really clicked. I wasn't there for all that horror—Illidan's campaign, escaping from prisons, running from demons. The whole "devolution" of our culture? I just kind of ignored it, pretended it wasn't happening. It was easier that way. Being with the Silver Covenant... it felt like coming back home. I even went by a different name: Melfina. Ha! Just writing it down makes me smile. There's "elf" right there in the middle of the name, and it fits perfectly.

But "Perfectia"? I think of my mother when I hear that name. And I wonder... am I a disappointment? Maybe she gave me that name out of vanity. Or maybe she expected me to live up to impossible standards. I don't know. I wish I could've learned more from her. I wish my last thoughts of her weren't filled with anger and resentment. Maybe... maybe if I had been different, she wouldn't have had to sacrifice herself.

Then there's this whole Void Elf thing. My friend, she talked about these voices she heard before she transformed. I wonder, is that what Alleria deals with too? How strong is Lu'ra, that Void Naaru? But this... this isn't just about hearing voices. It's more like my ideas are getting tangled. My foundation, my mindset—it's blending with Alexandros Mograine's. What I want to do, where I want to go... it's all swirling around like a storm, and I'm scared. The result? Unclear. Completely.

Am I even in control anymore? No wonder Anduin broke up with me. There's that other part of me that wanted to kill him. Yeah. I'm that messed up.

But I have to go back to Stormwind. Do I really see King Anduin Wrynn as a tool for my ambitions? Could I actually tame him? Turn him into my puppet, have his armies marching to my drum, crushing my enemies in the process? Maybe... but let's be real. I couldn't resist him. Not with that smile, those eyes. I could try to be the queen pulling the strings, but every time he's close, I feel like I'd just melt. I know I'd be clay in his hands, and, honestly? I don't think I'd want it any other way.

There's just so much going on inside my head—emotions, memories, all clashing into one giant mess. My grandfather, Kel'Magnus, he was trying to do this for so long—keep the legacy alive. But the original Dawnstar nobles, the ones who actually built the Sunwell's defenses, they've all but disappeared into obscurity. And me? I keep telling myself I don't want Anduin's crown. I've told him that I just want him. But can I even trust my own mind anymore? It's all over the place—confusion, resentment, jealousy... and love. Yeah, love. It's a twisted jumble. And what if I feel nothing for him now? He's the enemy, right? He wanted me to join the Alliance—maybe to protect me, or maybe even to use me. (fingers crossed :) ) And Sylvanas, well, she's whispered enough poison in my ear about him that I can't tell what's real anymore.

But why does he have to be so... so him? Attractive, graceful, bold, kind, generous. Every time I think of him, it's like my brain short-circuits. Even if Sylvanas is right about him—saying he's manipulative, self-serving—I can't help but imagine what he'd be like in bed. How perfectly in control he'd be, how he'd ravage me, owning every part of me. And that's frustrating. Because I know I'm teetering on the edge of screwing things up. Could I really betray Sylvanas for just one night with him? Ugh, how could I mess everything up like this?

And Sylvanas... she sees Alexandros. What does that make me? The way I think about life and death—am I even me anymore, or just some puppet influenced by Alexandros? Sylvanas said I'm unstable, said I can't control this thing inside me. Maybe she's right. But that doesn't mean I'm not still me.

She said something that's been gnawing at me: "Make peace happen as quickly as you can." She mentioned Anduin when she said that. Does that mean she wants peace? Maybe she wants me to seduce him. She never said I couldn't... and I really, really want to.

There's this ridiculous thought in my head—walking down the aisle with Sylvanas on one side, Lirath on the other. Some members of the Alliance and the Horde there, watching me marry Anduin. I laugh at the thought because, well, it's absurd. But peace... peace is starting to feel sweeter, more real. Before, peace just meant the end of war. Now? It feels like a future, something better.

I shouldn't get ahead of myself, though. I mean, we're still broken up. But what Anduin said before, "I'll have too much blood on my hands for you to love me..." Maybe that doesn't have to come true.

But then, like a dark cloud raining over my fantasy, I picture something else. It's a wedding—mine—and suddenly the skies open up. First rain, then snow. A blizzard freezes everyone solid—except me, standing there in my dress, helpless. I look up and she's there. She, with her icy vengeance, destroying all my dreams of peace. She walks up to Anduin, frozen solid, and whispers, "You betrayed me, little Anduin." Her touch crumbles him into pieces, and I run to catch him, but he shatters in my arms. "Not again... please, not again," I whisper, holding his broken form.

And then she laughs. She looks down at me like I'm some pitiful thing. "You just can't seem to keep the men you love alive, can you?" she taunts.

"THEY DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!" I scream, but my voice is swallowed by the cold.

Writing this... thinking about it... it's strange, but I can move my right hand again. It feels stronger. And I know exactly what I'm going to say to Jaina Proudmoore if I see her while I'm in disguise.

—-

I ended up sleeping longer than I usually do—no big surprise there, considering how tired I've been lately. Levitius showed up with Kel'Magnus, my lion, and wow... he's huge now. His mane isn't fully grown in yet, but even without it, he's absolutely stunning. It took him a little while to warm up to me again. I mean, I promised him I wouldn't cage him, but... well, we both ended up in Stormwind Stockades for a while. I guess maybe he bonded with Levitius more than I thought during that time. Not too surprising—she's been a beast master hunter as long as I've known her.

I feel like it'll be easier for us now, though. He's eating meat again, so I can just feed him whatever extra meat I get from the beasts I kill. Definitely different from taking care of Lucy—she only needed hay and wheatgrass. Oh, speaking of strange advice, Levitius told me, "If you want to keep him sedated, give him beer. It has enough calories to sustain him for weeks as long as he doesn't move much." Only in Azeroth would that sound like reasonable advice.

Levitius didn't come alone either—she brought two dark rangers with her to Light's Hope, and then we rode to Marris Stead. That's where they started prepping me for the mission, and they had a whole plan to make me look like a Night Elf again. I thought it'd just be some makeup—simple, right? Yeah, not at all.

First, they stretched my face with tape and string. Painfully, I might add. Then, more makeup than I've ever seen in my life, topped off with a green wig. Even though the skin tone was spot-on, they kept saying things like, "This is the elf that the boy king fell for. He can't recognize her." I mean, it was working, but... I'm pretty sure I looked like some sort of painted streetwalker or a green-haired drag queen with the way they had me done up. It didn't help when Levitius put on the glasses that were supposed to change my eye color from gold to silver. I could feel the makeup slowly dripping into my eyes. "It's really uncomfortable," I complained, obviously.

Espesa and Velonara—the dark rangers—started rifling through their bags, and one of them pulled out this flimsy piece of rubber. "Let's try latex," she said. Great. So, they soaked my hair down, tied it back, and slapped that latex piece on my nose. More makeup blending followed, but at least it felt better this time. When Levitius added the glasses again, it wasn't as bad. Finally, Espesa tilted her head like an artist evaluating their work and said, "Okay. I think that finishes it."

And here I was, transformed again.

Velonara stared at me, her face a mixture of horror and amusement. "Did you ever wear makeup when you were alive? Because she looks... awful."

I glanced at the mirror they'd set up behind me and winced. "I look like I was crossbred with a goblin," I groaned.

Espensa crossed her arms, unfazed. "What matters is that you look different. Besides, you look elderly. Don't Night Elves age like humans now?"

"None of them look this old," I shot back, still horrified by the reflection.

Espensa rolled her eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. "It's a work in progress. You could always claim you were actually crossbred with a goblin. You wouldn't even need platform shoes for that."

"Anduin knows how tall I am!" I protested. "That excuse will never fly, and I refuse to look this... ugly."

She chuckled. "Honestly, it's not that much of a downgrade."

I scowled. "Oh, screw you."

Levitius stepped in, always the problem solver, and pulled out something from her bag. "I've got just the thing to fix your height problem." She held up a pair of gleaming blue and yellow shoes, the yellow bits glowing with some kind of energy, and the heels were... well, dangerous-looking spikes.

"Jet boots," she said with a grin. "The heels should give you the height you need."

I took them, impressed despite myself. They were surprisingly heavy, almost like plate boots. "This is some intense equipment, Levitius. I bet it'd really hurt if I kicked someone with these. May I?"

She nodded, and I slipped them on. Immediately, I found myself balancing more on the balls of my feet, making it impossible to put weight on my heels. Still, they did the trick—I was as tall as I'd been in Vereesa's platform shoes. But then, I heard Velonara and Espensa snickering.

"What's so funny?" I asked, frowning.

Velonara giggled. "Oh, nothing. Just... you could definitely stack some extra supplies there is you wanted to."

I blinked, not getting the joke.

Levitius, always ready to defend her work, chimed in. "I think she looks great. You should try a pair."

Velonara raised an eyebrow and smirked. "High heels were never meant to be worn by women, you know. They were all the rage with judges and nobles in Silvermoon for a while. For... obvious reasons."

I glanced at myself in the mirror again. My legs did look longer, and with my feet angled down, there wasn't an obvious platform. "Well," I said, straightening up, "I think they look fine."

"Look at yourself from the side, Perfectia," Espensa instructed.

I turned, glancing in the mirror. "Oh Light, my rear." I stared at my reflection—my bottom was sticking out more than it ever had.

Espensa chuckled. "Levitius has been drooling since you put those boots on. I guess customs are different in Draenor?"

Levitius rolled her eyes. "Dey are. We wear dem for ceremonies and special occasions. But Perfectia," she gave me a serious look, "Me tinks dis be a bad idea. Even if we make you look like a Night Elf, yous hips are too wide."

I bristled. "I never thought a friend would call me fat to my face."

Levitius shook her head. "Me didn't say fat. If you lived in Draenor, men would tink you beautiful. Most elves look skinny, like dey starvin'. Not you."

I was still annoyed, but the compliment softened it. "Thanks… I guess?"

"But me also tink you should do something 'bout yous scent."

I sniffed my armpit. "Do I smell bad?"

Levitius shook her head, but Espensa and Velonara both said, "Yes."

"You smell like a candy factory. It's a bit... overwhelming," Espensa added.

Levitius disagreed. "More like sand and coconut."

I thought back to Anduin and how he used to inhale deeply when he was near me. I shrugged. "Thanks, but I think they're right."

Espensa gave a relieved sigh. "Thank goodness. We'll find something more earthy—like whiskey or tobacco."

"Mahogany and cigars?" I suggested.

"You'll smell like a man, but sure."

I looked at myself again, considering Tyrande's comment that Anduin might've been attracted to me for this exact reason. "I'll look and smell different now. That's what matters, right?"

Espensa shook her head. "You can't be serious. You look like a mule."

I smirked. "Well, I guess it's not much of a downgrade, then. If I wear a heavy jacket and cloak, I should be fine."

Velonara shrugged. "We might have something we can customize, but the problem is, you'll look like one of us. A dark ranger."

I half-smiled. "As long as I don't look like myself, that's all that matters."

They tried one more time with the drag makeup, the wig, and a few more pieces of latex. I looked in the mirror, and honestly, it was a bit of an upgrade. My cheekbones actually had some fullness, and my face looked more rounded. For a moment, I thought, Huh, not bad. I looked back at Velonara and Espensa, "It looks perfect."

But the looks on their faces were strange—like they were nauseous.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Velonara glanced at me, "Well, maybe if she doesn't move her face, she'll be fine."

Espensa added, "This is Perfectia we're talking about. This drama queen can't control her emotions, better yet have none."

I frowned at them. "I'm standing right in front of you, you know."

I looked back in the mirror, questioning my expression. I tried flexing my cheek muscles, which felt stiff, and opened my mouth, "La, la, la, la, la," and oh Light, it looked ridiculous. Actually, no—it looked disturbing. No, this isn't going to work.

I turned back to them. "Why are we even doing makeup to begin with? Alleria caught me by just throwing water on me."

"It's waterproof," Velonara said, trying to sound convincing. "But you're right. We might need to make a mask from scratch."

Espensa groaned, "That's going to take forever."

"But we have our mission from the Dark Lady."

"If Vellcinda were still here, we could've taken skin straight from the source and made a mask in no time."

"Excuse me, who?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Velonara muttered, "No one." But Espensa, always the blunt one, said, "A traitor."

I crossed my arms and stared at them both. "Traitor? Do tell."

"She used to make upgrades for Forsaken limbs," Espensa explained. "Almost artistically. She worked on the Dark Lady, on us. But she died when the Alliance attacked Lordaeron."

A slight grin tugged at my lips. "Then why call her a traitor?"

"Well, she—"

"She died in the Arathi Highlands, didn't she?" I interrupted, recalling that part of Anduin's letter to Sylvanas.

They exchanged glances and shrugged. Espensa finally said, "I know we should feel bad for her, but we don't. There's no doubt we lost something valuable. Not all of us asked for this curse."

I rolled my eyes, lifting my eyebrows. "You don't feel bad because you shouldn't. If the Lich King's sister hadn't shown up, those people would still be alive. And really, you two don't have to worry about going Wretched. Plus, no more menstrual cycles once you're undead. Silver linings, right?"

They both said, "That's true," at the same time, and I just shook my head.

"You should count the blessings you do have. Honestly, I envy you," I admitted with a sigh. "If I were like you, maybe I wouldn't be such a drama queen."

Velonara glanced away and shrugged. "But you fell in love."

"And it hurts," I murmured, looking off into the distance, memories flooding back. "And I wish it didn't."

They told me they needed more supplies. Of course. Always something. It was getting pretty close to sunset, but I went back to the supply trader in Light's Hope anyway, figuring I'd get it out of the way. The guy had a list of things for me, like some kind of errand girl. He even gave me a "go for" task—as if I don't have better things to do—and then I had to explain if he needed any blacksmithing done.

Just for fun, I ended up making him a spare wagon wheel. I even secured the wood myself. I'll admit, I actually enjoyed carving it. For a moment, it was peaceful, just me and the wheel. I even thought about adding some decorative curves to the metal, but there wasn't enough daylight left. Maybe less than two hours, and the shadows were already getting longer.

So now I'm sitting here, writing, thinking that maybe I'll look into some poetry. I mean, why not? I could use a distraction from… everything. Maybe there's some solace to be found in words that rhyme, at least for a little while.
—-

The rocky shores of Fenris Isle were as bleak as Sylvanas remembered—cold, desolate, with fog clinging to the jagged rocks like a second skin. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the keep, sending an eerie, constant whisper through the air. The Isle, long abandoned, was the perfect setting for a conversation that would almost certainly be a confrontation.

She stood alone, crimson eyes scanning the horizon where the mist met the water. Sylvanas had sent the message days ago, specifically to Genn Graymane. Despite their hatred, she knew he would come. How could he resist? Here, where nothing lived but the wind, the past could breathe between them.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Genn Graymane's broad form emerged from the fog like a specter. His hulking silhouette was unmistakable, and Sylvanas could feel the storm of rage and grief radiating from him. Each step he took was loaded with the weight of loss, the memories of his son hanging over him like a blade.

Sylvanas waited, unmoved, her lips curling into a faint smirk as his figure fully emerged. Genn's eyes blazed with fury, his fists already clenched.

"I guess you're wondering why I called you here," Sylvanas said, her voice cold and sharp as the wind.

"To surrender?" Genn's response was laden with sarcasm, but his smile was bitter, barely masking his anger.

Sylvanas chuckled darkly. "No, Genn. If I intended to surrender, I wouldn't have chosen you. Out of all the Alliance leaders, you're the one I dislike the most. And I'm sure you feel the same."

Genn's eyes flared. His hand trembled as it curled into a fist, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. "Dislike? You killed my son. You betrayed my king. 'Dislike' doesn't even begin to cover what I feel toward you, Banshee Queen."

Sylvanas met his rage with an unnerving calm. She touched her fingers to her nose, exhaling softly as if dismissing his outburst. "I respected Varian," she began, her voice almost soft. "I was at a loss when he died. He kept you on a short leash. And as for your son... it wasn't personal."

Genn's body trembled, barely containing his fury. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. "Not personal? Then what was it?" His voice was strained, barely keeping his grief in check. The loss of his son was a wound that still bled fresh in his heart, and hearing her speak of it with such cold detachment made him want to tear her apart.

Sylvanas tilted her head, eyes narrowing in thought before she continued. "Infection. Mutation. Outbreak. Containment. Quarantine." She spoke each word deliberately, her gaze unflinching as she looked directly into Genn's eyes. "Do these words mean anything to you, Genn?"

Genn blinked, momentarily thrown off by the clinical terminology. He looked away, his mind racing. "There are protocols for dealing with disease. I'm familiar—I was a king, you know."

Sylvanas's eyes sharpened. "For six years, I've been cleaning up the mess you've made. Your curse—your people—infected mine. You sat in your doghouse, a benign tumor that kept growing. I dealt with that cancer before it could spread any further, but I could never cut it out at the source. The curse that runs in your blood spread to my people before you ever left your city walls." Sylvanas's voice grew colder. "Arugal. He was one of yours, wasn't he? A servant who spread the curse to my people, turning them into mindless beasts under his control. I had to put them down—personally."

The weight of her words hit Genn hard. His shoulders slumped, and he fought to keep the snarl off his face. He could feel his claws digging into his palms as memories of his son flashed before his eyes. "Undead can't be infected by the worgen curse," he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I wasn't referring to the undead," Sylvanas corrected, her voice biting. "I meant the living. Sin'dorei. My people. The curse ravaged them, sure it was potent among humans but it infected dozens of elves. Arugal turned them into slaves—puppets. I had to destroy them. You think I wanted that?"

Sylvanas crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. "Grand Apothecary Putress suggested we experiment with the virus. The curse."

Genn's lip curled. "That name supposed to mean something?"

She shook her head. "Not anymore. He's long dead. But his ideas—dangerous as they were—could have reshaped everything. I could have turned the curse into a weapon, maybe even found ways to infect other races. But I didn't."

Genn narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because I actually care about my people," she said, her voice low, each word cutting like ice. "The curse was contained. It wasn't a threat. And at the time, Kil'Jaeden loomed over us all from the Sunwell. I didn't have the luxury to focus on hypothetical threats."

Genn's fists tightened, his claws scratching the leather of his gloves. "We thought the same. Thought the curse wasn't a problem. We got complacent. Some of us even told our children it was nothing more than a bedtime story."

Sylvanas gave a bitter laugh. "And how wrong you were. How wrong we both were. But you—" She turned her gaze sharply to him. "You kept your worgen alive."

"They were still citizens of Gilneas. And the night elves—druids—gave us a potion. It helped us retain our humanity."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "A dozen of my blood elves were infected. I had to put them down myself before the curse spread. And you call me filth? Tell me, Genn, what does that make you?"

Genn's face contorted with rage. "You attacked us as soon as our walls fell!"

Sylvanas stepped closer, her voice rising with sharp fury. "Do you know what a benign tumor does when it bursts? It spreads. My scouts heard the howls of your kind echo over your gates before the Cataclysm broke them down. I sent ships to investigate, and I don't know who attacked first. But we both had our reasons. You thought we were mindless Scourge. We thought you were savage Worgen."

Genn bared his teeth, stepping closer, his voice trembling with anger. "Why would you think that?"

Sylvanas turned, her cloak billowing slightly in the wind, a cold smile playing on her lips. "Arthas brought Archmage Arugal back. His spirit spread the curse again, making Worgen loyal to the Lich King. Worgen, just as obedient as the Scourge." She tilted her head, her voice laced with cruel amusement. "I guess we're not so different after all."

Genn snarled, his whole body trembling with barely-contained rage. "Don't you dare compare us to you."

Sylvanas's laughter was cold, humorless. "You're right. That was beneath me. At least we broke free from the Lich King through sheer will. For you, it took a potion." She turned back to face him, her voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "But if I were to strip that potion away, I wonder… would your people still be so civilized? Or would they become just as savage as the Worgen my people have fought for years?"

Genn's face twisted in a mixture of confusion, anger, and dawning horror as he realized he had revealed too much. "Is this why you called me here? To scare me?"

Sylvanas shook her head, her laughter cold and brief. "No, Genn, I called you here because I need to act quickly—make peace, or..."

"Make peace?!" Genn interrupted, forcing out a bitter laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Rumor has it, you snuck into Anduin's bedroom and jumped his bones." His mocking smile widened. "Did you take his purity? When I got your message, I half-expected you were planning to jump mine next."

Sylvanas smirked, her crimson eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, the rumors are true. I did try." She gave a short laugh, enjoying the look of shock on Genn's face. "He's actually the first man who ever proposed marriage to me."

"You're lying," Genn snarled, his fists tightening.

She shrugged, unfazed. "He's still in love with Perfectia. And would you be surprised to know that she's my niece?"

Genn scoffed. "You don't look anything like her."

"She takes after her father," Sylvanas replied, rolling her eyes. "And I turned down Anduin's proposal, despite what your face would look like if I'd said yes." She chuckled at his outrage. "But don't worry, Genn, I wouldn't jump your bones. I'm sure they're all buried by now."

Her cruel laughter echoed through the mist, and Genn's face darkened, his claws digging into the palms of his hands as he tried to hold back his rage.

"GENN!" Sylvanas snapped, her tone sharp and commanding.

He blinked, refocusing on her.

"Joking aside," she began, her voice lower and colder, "we started fighting because we didn't understand what enemies we were. I thought you were like a pack of wild dogs—animals that needed putting down. I thought it was as simple as finding an archmagi pulling your strings. Then, it would have been a matter of hunting down some beasts." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "But you were different. Sentient. That made things more dangerous. When I dropped the plague on your city, it wasn't out of hatred, but necessity. Containment wasn't an option anymore. Quarantine was the only answer. And yes, the Alliance saved you. But I thought your people would spread the infection—infect Stormwind, infect their guards—go savage." She sighed and crossed her arms. "But you didn't. None of your kind have infected anyone in all these battles since."

Genn stared at her, his emotions a storm beneath the surface. "So, what you're telling me is... this was all a misunderstanding?"

Sylvanas didn't look away, her expression unflinching. "Basically."

—

The sun was dipping below the horizon as Sylvanas and Lirath approached Marris Stead, the once-abandoned farmhouse that now served as Nathanos Blightcaller's stronghold. The air was thick with the acrid stench of rot, and the moans of the restless dead echoed faintly through the decaying fields. As they drew nearer, Lirath noticed the place was heavily guarded by skeletal warriors and Forsaken rangers, all standing vigil like statues of death.

Nathanos was waiting for them, his stoic demeanor masking the concern in his eyes. But as soon as he saw Sylvanas's battered state—bruises forming on her face, dried blood smeared across her armor—his expression tightened into a fierce scowl. He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, and bowed deeply, though his eyes never left Sylvanas.

"My lady," Nathanos said, his voice edged with a mixture of anger and worry. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

Sylvanas waved him off, but there was no disguising her fatigue. "It was nothing, Nathanos. Just an… encounter that didn't go as planned."

Nathanos's eyes darkened, his usual calm now laced with barely contained rage. "You shouldn't be out there alone like this," he snapped, his voice trembling slightly. "If I had been there—"

"I'm fine," Sylvanas cut him off, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "This is Lirath, my brother." She gestured toward Lirath, whose eyes were quietly assessing the place.

Nathanos turned his gaze to Lirath, sizing him up immediately. His eyes narrowed as he took in Lirath's scars and the hardened look of a man who had seen far too much. There was a tense silence, a mixture of suspicion and reluctant acceptance.

"I didn't know you had any family left," Nathanos said coldly, his tone guarded.

Lirath met Nathanos's glare with a slight, wry smile. "There's a lot of things people don't know about me. I've been away for a long time."

As he spoke, Nathanos's eyes flickered with an unspoken barrage of questions: Who is this man? Where has he been? Why is he here now? The unrelenting questions swarmed through his mind, probing at Lirath with silent suspicion.

Suddenly, Lirath winced, rubbing his temple as a sharp ache formed behind his eyes. Nathanos's inner voice was like an aggressive swarm buzzing in his head—his distrust, his need to know, everything Nathanos wasn't saying out loud struck Lirath's mind like arrows being fired in rapid succession. He clenched his jaw, fighting to regain his composure as the mental onslaught continued.

The volley of unspoken suspicions made Lirath's head throb, but he forced himself to smile despite the pain. "I've been away," he repeated, his voice steady even though his skull felt like it might split open. This isn't the time to answer all of Nathanos's questions, Lirath thought to himself. The answers Nathanos craved would remain buried for now.

Sylvanas noticed the tension but said nothing, watching as the silent war between Nathanos and Lirath played out in the background of her own exhaustion. Nathanos, still seething with suspicion, finally broke the moment with a curt nod, but his distrust lingered like a shadow.

Nathanos nodded, still clearly upset but trying to mask it. "I hope you're here to stay. The Dark Lady could use all the help she can get." His words were pointed, tinged with a mix of loyalty and frustration. It was clear he didn't fully trust Lirath, but the concern for Sylvanas overrode his usual caution.

Sylvanas took a seat on a nearby broken stone wall, her movements slow and pained, and Nathanos moved closer, his brow furrowing deeper as he inspected her injuries. "This was Genn, wasn't it?" he asked, his voice low and seething. "I can smell his stench all over you."

Sylvanas nodded slowly, her face blank but her eyes burning with a hidden fury. "I extended him an olive branch," she said bitterly. "He answered with claws."

Nathanos's expression twisted in a mixture of anger and anguish. "If you had let me deal with him—"

"I needed to do this myself, Nathanos!" Sylvanas snapped, her voice momentarily regaining its sharpness. "I needed him to hear my side, to see if there was any chance—" She cut herself off, frustration bubbling up. "It doesn't matter now."

Lirath watched the exchange with quiet intensity. He could see Nathanos's devotion and the pain it caused him to see Sylvanas in this state. It reminded him of his own failures, of the times he had been too far away to protect those he loved. But there was something else in Nathanos's eyes—something darker, a simmering fury that Lirath recognized all too well.

"We'll make him pay," Nathanos said, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. "He won't get away with this."

Sylvanas looked up at Nathanos, and for a brief moment, Lirath saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the weariness that only Nathanos seemed to understand. "We don't have time for vendettas," Sylvanas said, though her tone lacked conviction. "There's too much at stake."

Lirath stepped forward, breaking the tense silence. "Nathanos, was it? I appreciate your loyalty to my sister, but we need to think bigger than just one Worgen. He'll get what's coming to him, but now's not the time."

Nathanos glared at Lirath, his protective instincts flaring. "And who are you to decide that? You've been gone—"

Sylvanas raised a hand, silencing Nathanos with a firm look. "He's right, Nathanos. We can't let this derail us. There are greater battles ahead."

Nathanos backed down, though the anger didn't leave his eyes. He took a deep breath and turned to Sylvanas. "You should rest, my lady. We'll fortify this place. No one will touch you here."

Sylvanas nodded, grateful but too proud to show it openly. She looked at Lirath and then back at Nathanos. "Lirath will be staying with us. Treat him as you would treat me."

Nathanos's expression softened, if only slightly. He nodded curtly. "Of course, my lady." He looked at Lirath again, this time with a touch less hostility. "If you're here to help her, then you're welcome."

Lirath nodded, appreciating the subtle shift. "I am. And I'll do whatever it takes."

As Sylvanas retired into the dim shadows of Marris Stead, Lirath and Nathanos stood in silence, two men bound by their loyalty to the same woman, yet wary of each other's presence. They both knew this was only the beginning. The scars Sylvanas bore were more than just physical wounds; they were reminders of the war that raged on, both outside and within.

Nathanos watched as Lirath helped Sylvanas inside, his expression a mix of anger and concern. Once Sylvanas was out of sight, Nathanos turned to Lirath, his voice laced with frustration and an undercurrent of protectiveness that bordered on rage.

"Why did she do this? Why did she think it was safe to encounter that dog, Genn?" Nathanos demanded, his eyes narrowing. He couldn't understand why Sylvanas would take such a risk, especially alone.

Lirath paused, taking a deep breath. He could feel Nathanos's burning gaze on him, but his mind drifted back to the conversation he'd had with Sylvanas and Perfectia, an interaction that felt heavy with unspoken truths and complicated emotions.

"They talked for a long time," Lirath began, his voice distant as he recalled the tense exchange.

Nathanos's brow furrowed, suspicion creeping into his features. "Who?" He stared at Lirath, studying his face intently. Something was gnawing at him, a recognition he couldn't quite place. There was something hauntingly familiar about the man before him, a reflection of features he'd seen before. "No… I know you from somewhere."

Lirath rolled his eyes, trying to deflect the suspicion. "I've been living in exile since the day I was raised, long before you came into the picture, Nathanos."

Nathanos's expression darkened, but he wasn't buying it. "How would you know anything about that?" Nathanos's voice was tense, and he looked closer at Lirath. The square jawline, the sharp angles of his face, the shape of his eyes—there was something unmistakably familiar about him, something he couldn't ignore. Then, it struck him, like a bitter revelation.

Nathanos's eyes widened, realization dawning on him. "I meant… the way you look… your face. It's… it's—"

Lirath let out a resigned sigh, knowing Nathanos was piecing it together. The truth was written in the lines of his face, the unspoken history that had brought him back to this place. He looked away, uncomfortable under Nathanos's scrutiny.

"He's Perfectia's father," Sylvanas's voice cut through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She stepped back into the room, her presence a cold, commanding force. "I didn't think it was going to come out like this, but it was bound to eventually. We thought if-"

"She talked you into this didn't she?"

"Watch your tone Nathanos it was my decision to arrange the meeting." Sylvanas snapped.

She took a sit on Nathanos bed and laided down. "Send the surgeons to restore my damages limbs, Vellcinda B-... Oh right. She's dead." The name Vellcinda or Elsie Benton one of the leaders of Desolate Council that died in the Gathering dawned on her. She was the one that restored her body from the tighten black robes she wore to the flawless figure that she had, but she was gone. There was no one that could bring her back to her glory. "Do we have another forsaken surgeon that is as skilled as Vellcinda Benton."

Nathanos sighed and shook her head, "We don't. Since the majority of Forsaken have moved to Orgrimmar they been more focused on trying to keep themselves from drying out."

"I can't be seen as weak." Sylvanas said.

"They won't… We will find someone to restore you Dark Lady."

Lirath was picking up on his thought process but he wasn't sure if he should tell Nathanos about his little head trick. He was thinking about finding Perfectia.

Sylvanas's voice cut through the tension, sharp and unflinching. "He's Perfectia's father," she revealed, stepping back into the room with an air of command that sent a chill through the air. "I didn't think it was going to come out like this, but it was bound to eventually. We thought if—"

Nathanos's eyes flared with anger and frustration. "She talked you into this, didn't she?"

Sylvanas's expression darkened. "Watch your tone, Nathanos. It was my decision to arrange the meeting," she snapped, her voice as cold as ice.

Sylvanas walked over and took a seat on Nathanos's bed, laying back with a weariness she seldom allowed herself to show. "Send the surgeons to restore my damaged limbs. Vellcinda B—" She caught herself, the realization hitting her hard. "Oh, right. She's dead." The name Vellcinda Benton, one of the leaders of the Desolate Council who had died during the Gathering, was a bitter reminder of her losses. Vellcinda had been the one to restore Sylvanas's body after countless battles, bringing back her flawless, fearsome appearance. But now, there was no one with the same skill to return her to her former glory.

"Do we have another Forsaken surgeon as skilled as Vellcinda Benton?" Sylvanas asked, her voice tinged with frustration and something bordering on despair.

Nathanos sighed, shaking his head slowly. "We don't. Since most of the Forsaken have moved to Orgrimmar, they've been more focused on trying to keep themselves from drying out. We've lost most of our skilled hands."

Sylvanas clenched her teeth, her expression twisting with anger. "I can't be seen as weak," she insisted, her pride refusing to allow her to show any sign of vulnerability.

"They won't…" Nathanos said, trying to reassure her even as he grappled with his own doubts. "We will find someone to restore you, Dark Lady."

Lirath watched the exchange, feeling the weight of Nathanos's frustration and Sylvanas's determination. He knew what Nathanos was thinking—searching for Perfectia, the one person who might still have the resources to help. Lirath hesitated, wondering if he should reveal his own ability to read minds, a trick that had kept him alive and hidden for so long. But trusting Nathanos with that information felt like a risk, especially now.

"I've seen Perfectia's skill firsthand," Lirath finally spoke up, his voice careful and measured. "She might know of someone. Or… if she's willing, she might be able to help directly. She's resourceful, and she's been through a lot of her own restorations."

Nathanos looked at Lirath skeptically, his eyes narrowing. "You think she'd help? After all this?"

Lirath nodded. "She cares about Sylvanas more than you know. And if she sees her in this state…" He glanced at Sylvanas, who was trying to mask her pain behind a stoic facade. "She won't hesitate."

Sylvanas remained silent, staring at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts. She hated the idea of relying on anyone, especially Perfectia, but she couldn't deny the truth of Lirath's words. Perfectia had always idolized her, even when their paths diverged. And perhaps, just perhaps, that loyalty could be called upon once more.

Nathanos crossed his arms, still clearly agitated but not entirely dismissive of the idea. "I don't like it," he muttered, "but we're running out of options."

Sylvanas closed her eyes, feeling the weight of her injuries and the cost of her decisions pressing down on her. "Do what you must. I can't afford to appear weak. Not now."

Lirath gave a slight nod, already thinking of how to find Perfectia and convince her to help. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he also knew that Perfectia's loyalty to Sylvanas ran deeper than most would ever understand. As he turned to leave, he glanced back at Nathanos, who was still watching him warily.

"If you go to her, you'll need to be careful," Nathanos warned. "Perfectia isn't the same as she once was. None of us are."

Lirath smirked, the weight of his own secrets lingering unspoken. "I'm not worried. I'll bring her back, and together, we'll make sure Sylvanas stands tall again."

As he left the room, Lirath couldn't help but feel the pull of his own conflicted emotions. Protecting Sylvanas, reuniting with his daughter, and navigating the tangled web of loyalties that bound them all—it was a heavy burden, but one he was willing to bear. And as Nathanos watched him go, he made a silent vow of his own: he would never let Sylvanas fall, not while he still drew breath.

Lirath gave a slight nod, already contemplating how to find Perfectia and convince her to help. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but Perfectia's loyalty to Sylvanas ran deeper than most understood. As he turned to leave, he glanced back at Nathanos, who stood silently but warily watching him.

"If you go to her, you'll need to be careful," Nathanos warned. "Perfectia isn't the same as she once was. None of us are."

Lirath smirked, the weight of his own secrets lingering just beneath the surface. "I'm not worried. I'll bring her back, and together, we'll make sure Sylvanas stands tall again."

Lirath left the room, but Nathanos remained still, his brow furrowed in frustration and concern. His protective instincts flared, but his loyalty to Sylvanas was unwavering. He wouldn't fail her—not again.

Meanwhile, Sylvanas remained seated, her posture tense, her mind racing with thoughts of what had to come next. The bruises on her face and the cuts on her body were not enough. They would fade soon. But she needed something more. Something that would drive the point home for Perfectia—something that would shake her to her core.

She glanced around the room, eyes landing on a heavy sledgehammer leaning against the wall. Her cold expression didn't waver as she slowly turned toward Nathanos.

"Nathanos," Sylvanas began, her voice eerily calm.

"Yes, my lady?" he replied, instinctively moving closer to her.

Her red eyes locked onto his. "Grab that sledgehammer."

Nathanos hesitated, confused but obedient. He retrieved the hammer, its weight making a soft thud as he gripped it tightly.

Sylvanas stood slowly, favoring her bruised side. "Break my leg," she ordered, her voice void of emotion.

Nathanos froze, staring at her as if he hadn't heard her correctly. "What?"

"You heard me," she said coldly, her gaze unwavering. "If Perfectia is going to see me like this, bruises won't be enough to send the message. She needs to feel the shock, the reality of what Genn did. She needs to understand how dire this is, how much I've risked."

"My lady, you don't need to—" Nathanos's voice shook with disbelief, a rare glimpse of his fear for her.

"I do need to," Sylvanas interrupted sharply, her voice like ice. "I need her to be fully invested. If she sees me in this state, she'll be pushed to act. Do it. Now."

Nathanos's face hardened, a war of emotions playing across it. His devotion to her was unquestionable, but this was something else entirely. He hesitated, gripping the sledgehammer tighter, as if trying to summon the strength to strike her.

"I've trusted you with worse, Nathanos," Sylvanas added, her voice softening just slightly. "This is necessary."

Nathanos swallowed hard, his grip white-knuckled on the hammer's handle. "As you command," he whispered, the words heavy with sorrow.

Without another word, Nathanos raised the sledgehammer high, his heart pounding. He brought it down with brutal force, shattering Sylvanas's leg with a sickening crack.

Sylvanas collapsed to the ground, her face twisting in pain, but she didn't scream. She clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose as the shock of the injury rippled through her body. Her broken leg lay at an unnatural angle, and the agony was evident, though she refused to show weakness.

Nathanos dropped the hammer, his hands trembling as he knelt beside her. "Sylvanas…" His voice was thick with regret.

Sylvanas's gaze met his, still sharp despite the searing pain. "Good. Now she'll see what's at stake. Help me up. We need to be ready for her."

Nathanos nodded, his heart heavy as he lifted her carefully, supporting her weight. Even through the pain, Sylvanas's mind remained focused. Perfectia's reaction to seeing her in this state would ignite the fire she needed to move forward. Sylvanas's sacrifice was not just of flesh, but of trust in those closest to her—trust that they would see the plan through, no matter the cost.

—

Genn's breathing was heavy, labored, as he worked the knife Lirath had left in his palm. Each tug against the rope only tightened the knot around his neck, but he wasn't in a rush to break free. The carnage around him felt suffocating—Worgen bodies littered the ground, heads severed, blood soaking into the earth. His men were gone, and he had been left with nothing but the weight of his own thoughts.

Finally, the rope loosened enough, and he collapsed to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers. He could have gotten up. He could have walked away. But instead, Genn stayed where he was, feeling the cool air settle against his skin, the distant cries of scavengers echoing from the trees. The silence wasn't comforting—it was oppressive, thick with the unspoken questions Lirath had left behind.

Perfectia's father. Sylvanas's brother.

The realization hit him harder than he'd expected. He hadn't gotten a good look at Lirath before, but now his mind pieced together the resemblance—that sharp jawline, the same defiant spark in his eyes, the way he moved with purpose. It was all too familiar. Genn had seen that same fire in Perfectia. The same unwavering loyalty, though to different causes.

Why did Lirath let me live? The question gnawed at him. Lirath had him pinned, the perfect way to crucify him, it would have been slow and humiliating. But he hadn't. Was it because of Perfectia? Was it some twisted sense of familial loyalty? He knew that he let Perfectia go when he was suppose to capture or kill her… How?

Genn clenched his fists in the dirt, growling lowly under his breath. The answers weren't clear. They never were with the Forsaken, or their allies. His thoughts drifted back to Sylvanas, the bitter exchange they'd had just moments before Lirath had arrived. You killed my son. The memory of his own words echoed in his mind, sharp and raw. He had been ready to rip her apart for what she did, for taking Liam from him.

And yet, in that moment, when she'd offered to bring Liam back, something had stopped him. The darkness in her words, the twisted promise of resurrection—it was a fate worse than death. He had felt a flicker of something else then. Fear, yes, but also something darker—resentment, confusion. Would I have taken her offer? Could I have?

The knot in his chest tightened as he imagined Liam walking again, undead, a hollow shell of the son he once knew. No, that wasn't the answer. But it didn't change the pain. It didn't make the questions go away.

Lirath's face swam in his thoughts again. Perfectia's father. Was this what she had been running from? Was this the kind of family she was trying to distance herself from? Or had she known all along and simply chosen her own path?

Genn's thoughts spiraled deeper. Anduin. What was his role in all of this? Perfectia had been close to him, and rumors about Anduin and Sylvanas had only added to the confusion. The boy had been king for so long, but Genn could see the cracks, the pressure weighing down on him. How much of this tangled web was pulling Anduin in?

Was it all just manipulation? Genn questioned, his hands shaking as he pulled the last of the ropes free from his wrists. Or was there something more?

Even without the rope, Genn felt bound, trapped by the weight of the choices he had to make. Walking away from this place wouldn't free him—not from the questions, not from the doubts. Lirath had let him live, but at what cost? Was it an act of mercy, or was it a challenge? Genn couldn't tell anymore.

He looked at the battlefield again, the bodies of his fallen men lying lifeless in the moonlight. It should have driven him to move, to fight, to retaliate. But instead, all he could do was sit in the carnage, staring at the blood-stained earth beneath him, feeling the gravity of everything pressing down on him.

He wasn't bound by the rope anymore.

But the questions Lirath and Sylvanas had left him with—they bound him better than any noose ever could.

What comes next?

Genn didn't know.

And that terrified him more than anything.