Chapter 40
After several rounds of Gilnean ale, Malakar leaned back, clearly a bit looser than usual, his usual stoic expression softened by the warmth of good spirits and good company. He gave a lopsided grin, his eyes glinting with a rare hint of humor.
"Before I go," he slurred slightly, "let me tell you one last tale of Old Man Haverty… just to remind you all of the mad legend he was."
Captain Dunst and the others leaned in, eager for one last story.
"This one time," Malakar began, "I was scouting in Dragonblight, middle of a snowstorm. Barely made it to a small abandoned outpost for shelter. And who do I find, roasting a whole tundra wolf on a spit, with fire magic out of nowhere? Old Man Haverty."
Everyone chuckled, already knowing the absurdity that was bound to follow.
"But here's the thing," Malakar continued, grinning, "a Frost Wyrm—a real, undead Frost Wyrm—descends on us out of nowhere, and Haverty doesn't even flinch. He stumbles up, drunk as a skunk, and starts yelling at this beast like it was a stray dog."
He waved his hand as if mimicking Haverty. "'Shoo, you overgrown lizard! Shoo! This is my campsite!' And as he's waving his bottle around, somehow… he manages to knock that wyrm out of the sky with a fireball spell! Still in his robes, bottle in one hand, cleaver in the other."
The table erupted in laughter, imagining the absurdity. Captain Dunst wiped a tear from her eye, shaking her head. "By the Light, that man had no sense of fear, did he?"
Malakar chuckled. "Or maybe too much sense. Either way, that wyrm looked about as confused as we were. And Haverty? He just muttered something about 'snow lizards' stealing his firewood and went back to his roast."
They raised their mugs one last time in a final toast to Haverty, the mad butcher, and all his bizarre yet heroic exploits. With a sigh and a grin, Malakar drained his drink, setting it down with finality. "Good night, Captain. This was… better than expected."
He offered a nod to the others and headed out into the cool night, the echoes of laughter trailing behind him. As he walked away from the makeshift bar, his senses began to sharpen again, the edge of the ale's warmth fading as he adjusted to the quiet camp. But then, something cold and unsettling brushed against his awareness—a faint, whispering presence that seemed to hide in the shadows around him.
Malakar stopped, narrowing his eyes, reaching out with his senses. It was there, lingering just at the edge of perception, like a shadow avoiding light. The familiar pull of the void, a sensation he knew well, but faint, concealed… as if hiding.
A realization struck him. They had a spy within the resistance, someone cloaked in the dark energies of the Twilight's Hammer.
His eyes scanned the camp, his relaxed demeanor replaced by razor-sharp focus. Evelodie and Gorral were out here somewhere, unaware of the danger lurking within their own ranks. He needed to find them before whoever it was could make a move. Quietly, but with urgency, he slipped deeper into the shadows of the camp, his senses locked onto that faint pulse of void magic as he moved swiftly, hoping he wasn't already too late
Gorral and Evelodie continued their quiet walk through the camp, passing various makeshift workstations and nodding at familiar faces. As they neared the far side of camp, Gorral spotted a rugged figure by the forge, working with practiced ease, despite the humble setup. The blacksmith turned, and their eyes met, each recognizing the other instantly.
"Gorral!" the blacksmith said, a grin breaking across his weathered face. It was Calen Thorne, the man who had once run the blacksmith shop in Gilneas and had employed Herald Jr. for years. Gorral moved forward, and they embraced warmly, the memories of a life before the fall of Gilneas flooding back.
"You've grown," Calen said, stepping back and looking Gorral over. "Not the quiet, wide-eyed lad I remember."
Gorral smiled softly, though his expression held a touch of sadness. "Life has a way of changing us, doesn't it?"
They talked for a while, reminiscing about old times and fallen friends, and the conversation soon turned to Herald Sr. and his son, Herald Jr., who had been like a brother to Gorral. Calen's face grew somber, a sadness lingering in his eyes.
"Herald Jr. was one of my best apprentices," Calen said quietly. "He was skilled, dedicated… and he loved deeply. Athana… she was his world."
Gorral's gaze dropped, and he took a steadying breath. "They were both so strong… stronger than I ever realized."
Calen nodded, and after a moment of quiet, he went to a corner of his workbench and returned, carrying a beautifully crafted claymore. It was a masterpiece, etched with the initials "H. Blackwood" and "A. Evershade" on the blade—Herald Jr.'s and Athana's full names, forever bound by the weapon they'd fought alongside. "This was the last piece Herald worked on," Calen said, his voice soft. "He meant to give it to Athana. They made a good team, those two."
Gorral took the claymore in his hands, tracing the initials with a shaking finger. A realization struck him, overwhelming and undeniable. He loved Athana—not just as a friend or a comrade but deeply, profoundly. And now, both she and Herald were gone, leaving only memories and a beautiful but unfinished life they would never live.
A tear slipped down Gorral's face, and he quickly wiped it away, his chest tight. Evelodie stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She didn't speak, simply offering her silent presence as he grappled with the weight of loss and unspoken love.
As Gorral held the claymore, tracing the initials of Herald Jr. and Athana with his fingers, a familiar voice stirred within him—the voice of the Light, quiet yet insistent.
"Gorral,"it whispered, filling his mind with both comfort and sorrow,"your path and Evelodie's cannot be entwined. We walk together in the Light, but your love for her will not last. You will destroy her to prevent the arrival of the Old Gods."
A shiver ran through Gorral, his heart heavy as the words sank in. He understood that this prophecy wasn't just a warning—it was a reminder of his fate, an inescapable bond tied to his duty. The Light, which he had always seen as his guiding force, was telling him he would one day be forced to end Evelodie's life to save countless others from the shadow of the Old Gods. Yet, as she stood beside him now, steady and supportive, he couldn't imagine fulfilling such a fate.
He felt Evelodie's hand on his shoulder, grounding him, her touch a quiet reassurance amidst his inner turmoil. She watched him with concern, sensing his struggle but unaware of the true depth of his burden.
"Gorral," she said softly, her voice breaking through the haunting words of the Light, "they'd be proud of you. I'm sure of it."
Gorral forced a small, grateful smile, though his heart ached with the knowledge of what might lie ahead. He turned his gaze back to the claymore, feeling the weight of his lost friends and unfulfilled love. But his gaze also drifted to Evelodie, her presence beside him both a comfort and a painful reminder of what he was destined to do.
The voice of the Light had left him with a warning and an unspoken choice. For now, he decided he would hold onto this moment with her, carrying the memories of Herald and Athana with a renewed strength, even if it meant resisting his fate—if only for a little while longer.
With a final, steadying breath, Gorral lifted the claymore with new reverence. "I'll honor them," he murmured. "And I'll honor you too, Evelodie… for as long as I can."
The two stood together in silence, a fragile moment of peace amid the looming shadows of destiny.
Malakar lingered in the shadows near the makeshift blacksmith shop, watching Gorral and Calen Thorne share an embrace, both men weighed down by memories of those they'd lost. The scene felt charged, almost sacred, with Gorral reverently holding the claymore etched with the names of his friends. Malakar observed the melancholy moment, noting the claymore with a flicker of interest—a mental note to ask Gorral about it later, when things were less charged with emotion.
He pulled back further into the shadows, sharpening his senses, waiting for any sign of the spy he'd suspected lurking within the camp. His mind reached out, brushing against the faint magical trails that often lingered on those bound to dark forces. Just as he was focusing, his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, vivid flash—an image of the Scourge Buster, the dwarven blunderbuss they'd been searching for. In his vision, it was being carried by a young resistance fighter. Malakar tried to focus on the youth's face, but the image wavered, slipping away like mist. Just as he strained to recapture it, a scream shattered his concentration.
The sound jolted him back to the present, and he swore at himself for being distracted. Turning toward the source, he froze, the scene before him feeling like a bitter twist of fate, undoing all he had fought for.
Gorral lay crumpled on the ground, barely moving, a dagger buried deep in his chest. The blade pulsed with dark energy, shadow magic, void magic—a signature unmistakable to Malakar. Evelodie knelt beside Gorral, her face stricken, her screams piercing as she called for help, her hands futilely pressing against the wound in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.
A figure in the crowd began to retreat, slipping away with practiced stealth. Malakar's eyes narrowed, focusing, feeling the same subtle trace of void magic that had eluded him earlier. With deadly silence, he moved after the figure, slipping through the crowd without even brushing against anyone—no small feat for a fully armored death knight.
As he drew closer, the figure came into view, and Malakar's heart darkened with grim recognition.
It was Sir Alaric Vayne.
"Why am I not surprised," Malakar muttered to himself, his tone deadly calm. He watched Alaric move with calculated purpose, his once-holy aura now tainted with the void, the faint mark of the Twilight's Hammer barely visible under the collar of his armor. Rage kindled within Malakar's chest, his normally cold exterior cracking to reveal the simmering anger beneath. This wasn't just a betrayal—it was personal.
Malakar's eyes narrowed, a gleam of vengeance burning within them. Alaric would pay for this, for bringing the void's corruption into their midst, for striking down Gorral, and for hiding under the guise of righteousness. Every step he took was silent, predatory, as he closed the distance between them. He could already envision the satisfaction of cutting Alaric down, piece by piece, savoring every moment of his enemy's suffering.
In the dark recesses of his mind, he allowed himself the indulgence of wrath. Alaric would know pain. He would know fear. And Malakar would relish every second of it.
Evelodie's heart pounded as she knelt beside Gorral's crumpled form, her hands trembling as she tried to recall any healing spells from her training. Her mind, trained so thoroughly in the arcane, felt like a tangled mess, fragments of forgotten incantations slipping away as she struggled to focus.
"What happened?" someone in the crowd demanded, voices rising around her. People gathered, anxious and alarmed, trying to make sense of the scene before them.
"Medic!" a guard screamed, scanning the crowd desperately.
"No! He needs a healer," another voice shouted, eyeing the shadowy aura around the dagger lodged in Gorral's chest. "Look at the blade—it's shadow magic!"
"By the Light!" someone gasped, crossing themselves instinctively.
Evelodie's hands clenched, unwilling to let go, but suddenly, she felt herself being pulled back from Gorral's body. She tried to resist, twisting against the hold, but a gentle voice spoke, soft yet commanding.
"You're only in the way, dearie. Let them help him."
Evelodie turned, blinking through her blurred vision to see an older woman—a priestess, though there was something different about her. The priest's presence was serene yet powerful, and Evelodie sensed a depth to her, an understanding that somehow felt familiar.
"There's a druid here now," the priestess said, gesturing toward a figure who was kneeling by Gorral's side, already weaving a spell. "Calm yourself. Let them work. I'll take you to him once he's stable."
Evelodie hesitated, torn between the desperate urge to stay by Gorral's side and the quiet, grounding presence of the priestess beside her. As she tried to process what had happened, her mind reeled. She had been holding him, and then… suddenly, he had collapsed, a dagger buried in his chest. How could she have missed it?
As her emotions surged, something dark stirred within her, voices whispering from the depths of her mind, chilling and relentless.
"Let him die,"one voice hissed.
"Finish the job; he will kill you,"said another, its tone venomous.
"Malakar will finish what he started with you."
"Run,"another urged, its voice laced with fear.
Evelodie clenched her fists, trying to silence the cacophony, but the voices only grew louder, echoing through her mind.
The priestess placed a gentle hand on Evelodie's shoulder. "Ignore the voices, child," she said calmly. "They will only corrupt you."
Evelodie turned to her, eyes wide. "You… you can hear them?"
The priestess smiled, a soft, knowing look in her eyes. "More than I care to admit," she replied. "Come now, let's get you cleaned up. We'll talk more later."
Evelodie glanced down, seeing her mage's robes soaked in Gorral's blood, the deep red staining the blue fabric, a stark reminder of how close she had come to losing him. She felt herself weaken, her emotions swirling between shock and helplessness. The priestess gently led her away, urging her to leave Gorral to the druid and other healers who had gathered around him.
"Please," the priestess coaxed, her tone soothing. "Come with me, child."
Reluctantly, Evelodie released her grip on Gorral, allowing herself to be guided away as soldiers carefully lifted Gorral's body. She cast one last, desperate look back as the druid placed hands over Gorral's wound, beginning to channel healing energies.
The world blurred, her senses fraying, until everything went black
Alaric stumbled through the thick forest, his steps heavy, his mind reeling with the weight of what he had done. The dagger he had driven into Gorral's chest was still smeared with blood, its shadow magic humming faintly, a sick reminder of his betrayal. But he clung to the one hope that had driven him to such darkness: that this final act would free his family, held captive in the twisted, blackened halls of Grim Batol. His only remaining ties in this world, the reason he had fallen so far from the Light.
He found a small clearing beneath the twisted boughs of ancient trees, where the pale moonlight barely filtered through. Placing a shaking hand on the tattoo at the nape of his neck, he focused, feeling the dark energy flare, connecting him to the one who had orchestrated his descent. He took a trembling breath as the connection opened, and a familiar, sinister voice seeped into his mind—Cho'gall, the twisted ogre mage and prophet of the Twilight's Hammer.
"The deed is done," Alaric whispered, his voice hollow, stripped of any joy or relief.
A chuckle, deep and mocking, rumbled through the connection, filling Alaric's mind with an oppressive weight. "Good," Cho'gall's voice sneered, like the grinding of stone. "With this, the Old Gods' hold will tighten, and this world will know true despair."
Alaric's fingers tightened against the cold bark of a nearby tree, grounding himself against the swell of dread in his chest. "Now my family. Release them, as you promised," he demanded, his voice filled with a desperation that slipped through his crumbling resolve.
Cho'gall's laughter deepened, laced with a cruel mirth that made Alaric's skin crawl. "Oh, you needn't worry about your family, Alaric," he purred, voice soaked in venom. "You'll be reunited with them… very soon."
The words hit Alaric like a physical blow, his stomach twisting as realization dawned, dark and terrible. "What… what do you mean?" he stammered, dread seeping into his voice.
"The worgen has a powerful ally, a hunter who will find you soon enough," Cho'gall continued, his tone mocking. "And when he does, he will send you to your family… or rather, to where they were."
The world seemed to fall away beneath Alaric's feet. He barely managed to choke out, "They're dead, aren't they?"
"Indeed," Cho'gall replied, his words dripping with delight. "They fell to the first wave of the worgen's fury. Torn apart… a fitting end, wouldn't you say?"
A strangled cry rose in Alaric's throat, his heart splintering as the last thread of hope frayed and snapped. "You vile, treacherous filth!" he spat, his voice filled with rage and despair. His betrayal, his sacrifice, all for nothing.
But the connection faded, leaving only silence. Alaric fell to his knees, his mind a blur of grief and rage, the forest around him pressing in like a cold, living thing. He closed his eyes, waiting for whatever consequence would come. He was beyond fighting now.
A soft sound broke the silence, a slow, steady rhythm in the darkness—footsteps, deliberate and unhurried. Alaric's heart hammered in his chest as he felt the presence behind him, cold and suffocating, a void that consumed even the faint warmth of moonlight.
A voice drifted to him, low and smooth, like the whisper of steel drawn from a scabbard. "Nice night for a stroll, isn't it?"
Alaric's breath caught, his blood turning to ice. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. Malakar's presence loomed, cold and unyielding, his aura pulsing with barely restrained malice.
Alaric tried to speak, to form words, but his voice faltered. Every step he had taken, every choice he had made to save his family, had brought him to this one, inevitable moment. Malakar's figure grew closer, his movements slow, deliberate, each step a silent promise.
The death knight stopped behind him, a shadow that blocked the light, casting Alaric in darkness. The world seemed to narrow, the only sound his own breath, shallow and quick, and the cold silence that followed, as if the forest itself held its breath.
Alaric's body tensed as he sensed Malakar's hand reaching forward, cold as death, brushing the back of his neck, where the tattoo pulsed. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and Alaric knew he wouldn't need to wait long. The agony wouldn't come from the blade but from the slow, terrifying grip of Malakar's magic, draining the life from him piece by piece.
A faint tremor ran through Alaric's body as he tried to pull away, but he was rooted in place, the darkness pressing in as Malakar leaned closer, his breath barely a whisper against Alaric's ear.
The forest filled with the sound of Alaric's scream, sharp and broken, echoing through the trees and vanishing into the night, swallowed by the shadows that cloaked them both.