Chapter 34

Evelodie's footsteps echoed softly up the narrow wooden staircase as she ascended toward her room. The exhaustion weighed on her like a leaden cloak, every muscle aching from the turmoil of the day. She could feel the events replaying in her mind, scattered memories fragmented by fatigue and fear. In the dimly lit hall, she paused, pressing her fingers to her temple as a headache pulsed at her brow, sharp and relentless.

Why can't I remember? she wondered, the question gnawing at her. She'd seen the guard and sergeant lying lifeless, but the details of what had happened felt hazy, slipping from her mind like water through her fingers.

As she reached her room and slipped inside, she let the door click shut behind her, sealing her away from the whispers of the inn below. Her legs felt weak, and she let herself collapse onto the bed, closing her eyes as the chill of the linen seeped into her skin. In that quiet, she allowed herself to long for Gorral's comforting presence, to imagine him there, strong and steady, his arm draped protectively around her.

But that peace shattered as a whisper snaked through her mind—a voice, low and sibilant, its words curling in her ears like smoke.

You were defending yourself.

She stiffened, her heart quickening as the voice grew clearer, more insistent.

The guards—they were going to kill you after what happened at the tavern. But you saw him for what he was. He couldn't face the truth.

The voice felt strangely familiar, both soothing and unsettling. She could see flashes in her mind—bits and pieces of what had transpired, fragments surfacing like jagged shards from beneath dark water. In these glimpses, she remembered a feeling of fear, a rush of power, and the horror on the guards' faces as they lay defeated.

We saved you, the voice whispered, its tone gentle, yet insidious.

Images danced behind her closed eyelids: the twisted expressions of the guards as they fell, the brief, piercing clarity of realizing they had intended to silence her. She clutched the edge of the pillow, trying to ground herself, to understand if these memories were real or illusions. The voice's words settled like seeds of doubt within her, rooting deeper with each breath.

You are still in danger, it continued, its cadence smooth, coaxing. Even now, they plot against you.

Her pulse raced, a chill creeping through her veins as she whispered aloud, "Who?"

Gorral and Malakar, came the reply, dark and certain.

A shiver rippled through her, and she shook her head, pressing her hands against her temples. "No… that's a lie. They… they're trying to help me. We're here to defeat Deathwing. They wouldn't—"

They are afraid of your power, the voice interrupted, relentless. They see what you could become. They fear it. They would rather see you perish than wield what is rightfully yours.

Her heart hammered painfully, and as she tried to push the voice away, flashes of Gorral's face surfaced in her mind—his fierce expression, the intensity in his eyes. She remembered their confrontation, but the details were murky, as if shrouded in mist. Had he said he feared her power? Had Malakar?

The voice was patient, its tone darkly sympathetic. You are destined to kill her, he said, it whispered, and Eve felt a cold pang of terror.

"No…" she whispered, shaking her head as tears gathered in her eyes. "You're lying."

We have been with you since the day that mage died, the voice reminded her, its tone softer now, almost soothing. We gave you the strength to survive, the power to destroy the Scourge. Do you remember?

The voice's words stirred something deep within her, pulling her mind back through years of buried memories. She felt herself slipping into a vision, her surroundings blurring and dissolving as the room gave way to the streets of Stormwind, chaotic and dark.

She was a child again, small and scrappy, her clothes worn and her stomach often empty. As an orphan in Stormwind, Evelodie had learned early to fight for survival, relying on quick wit and swift feet. Sometimes she would beg, other times she would steal, using her knack for talking her way out of trouble to escape the clutches of shopkeepers and guards.

In those days, she had occasionally sought refuge in the Church of the Holy Light, where the priests and healers would tend to her scrapes and bruises without question. She would gaze up at the stained-glass windows, watching as the sunlight filtered through them in hues of crimson and gold, illuminating the halls in a glow that felt almost magical. Despite her hardships, she had been drawn to this sanctuary, a place that whispered of a power she could scarcely understand.

But that peace was fleeting. After a run-in with a local thug—a member of the Black Sail Buccaneers—Eve's life took a darker turn. She had worked for him as a courier, carrying packages and acting as a lookout, earning enough to feed herself and find shelter from Stormwind's cold streets. It was the only job that paid in gold rather than coppers, and for a time, it gave her a taste of security.

Yet the orphanage had been a different kind of battleground. The other children picked on her for her defiance, her resourcefulness, and her fierce independence. She'd sneak out at night, wandering the city, dreaming of a life beyond the orphanage's walls. She would watch adventurers of every race passing through the busy square, their armor glinting under the sun, their weapons heavy with the marks of battles fought. They were everything she aspired to be—strong, powerful, and free.

On some nights, she would find her way to the Mage Quarter, captivated by the apprentices practicing spells, their hands alive with arcane energy. She watched the high mages as they moved with grace and authority, wielding their powers with effortless precision. She had often lingered in the shadows, imagining herself among them, a mage with knowledge and power like Jaina Proudmoore herself.

But one day, her dreams had collided with nightmare.

It was during the Campaign to Defeat the Scourge. She remembered the panic that had gripped Stormwind as the undead poured in, tainted food turning citizens into mindless thralls. The city had been plunged into chaos, its walls no longer a safe haven. The orphanage, left unguarded, had become a beacon for the Scourge. Eve had taken it upon herself to protect the other children, corralling them into the basement, locking the doors to shield them from the horrors outside.

Yet, even then, she had felt the pull to do more. She had ventured out into the streets, her heart racing, determined to help in any way she could. That was when she saw her—Sylvia Frostfire, a mage standing alone against a horde of undead, her hands wreathed in flames as she fought to hold the line.

Sylvia's power was unlike anything Eve had seen, but the undead were relentless. In a moment of distraction, Sylvia had been overwhelmed, her body falling beneath the weight of the ghouls. Eve had run to her without thinking, throwing herself into the fray, grabbing hold of Sylvia's arm as the mage's life slipped away. And in that instant, something had awakened within her. She felt a surge of energy, an unfamiliar power that coursed through her veins. She blinked, and in a flash, they were both inside the orphanage.

But the ghouls followed, pouring into the building, and she felt a rush of anger, of fear—and suddenly, her hands were alive with fire, a blazing power she couldn't control. She hurled a fireball into the throng of undead, their bodies reduced to ash before her. But it was too late for Sylvia. She had died, her final breaths a whisper of gratitude that still lingered in Eve's heart.

It was after that attack that the guards found her, standing among the ashes, her face streaked with tears and soot. And it was then that Jaina Proudmoore herself had come, her gaze assessing but kind, offering Eve a place among the magi.

Eve jolted back to the present, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks as she clutched the pillow, her body trembling with the weight of the memory. The voice was quiet now, as if waiting for her response, its presence lingering at the edge of her consciousness.

"You were there?" she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

But there was no answer. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, as the reality of her situation settled over her. She was alone, caught between two worlds—the life she'd fought to create for herself and the shadow of a darkness that had been with her since that day.

Burying her face in the pillow, she let the tears come, her sobs muffled but fierce. She could still see the faces of the guards she had killed, the look of horror frozen in their eyes. She had no idea who to trust, what to believe. Was the voice right? Was she truly alone in this, with no one to protect her but the darkness that whispered in her ear?

The weight of doubt bore down on her, fracturing her thoughts, leaving her suspended in a fog of uncertainty and fear. She didn't know if she could trust Gorral, if she could trust Malakar. Perhaps the voice was right—perhaps they feared her power, saw her as a threat rather than an ally.

You are stronger than they know, the voice whispered one final time, its tone a balm against her doubts. And when the time comes, you will stand alone, but not without us.

The silence settled once more, heavy and unyielding, as Eve lay on the bed, her body curled around her sorrow, her heart torn between the past she had survived and the uncertain future that awaited her.

In that room, in the quiet depths of night, she lay awake, adrift in the shadows of her memories, questioning everything and trusting no one—not even herself