Chapter 22.
After their night of camaraderie, Gorral and Evelodie prepared to make their way back to Stormwind. Evelodie still felt a lingering heaviness in her head, a mix of exhaustion and the aftermath of dwarven ale, but she felt ready. It was time to get back to the heart of the Alliance, where there were plans to be made, preparations for whatever lay ahead. Gorral, by her side, looked weary but resolute, his gaze focused on their mission.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice low as they approached the exit of the tavern.
Evelodie nodded, adjusting her robes. "As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, her voice still a little hoarse.
With a final wave to Lysander, who remained at their table, they turned and left the warm confines of the tavern, stepping back into the chilly, stone-lined halls of Ironforge. The noise of the bustling tavern was replaced by the echo of their footsteps, and the seriousness of their task seemed to settle back in place.
Lysander watched them leave, his eyes lingering on his brother, Malakar, who still had that cold, calculating expression. When the tavern door closed behind Gorral and Evelodie, he turned his attention fully to his brother, his brow furrowed.
Malakar noticed his gaze and raised an eyebrow, his lips twisting into a smirk. "Something on your mind, brother?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of challenge, as if expecting some kind of confrontation.
Lysander sighed, shaking his head slightly. "You know, you can drop the bravado for just a moment, Malakar," he said, his tone not unkind. "I just want to know if there's anything more you haven't told us."
Malakar leaned back in his chair, his icy eyes narrowing. "More?" he echoed, his voice filled with mock innocence. "I've told you everything I know."
Lysander gave him a knowing look, his expression both skeptical and earnest. "Come on, Malakar. I know you better than that. You've always been a step ahead—always gathering information, seeing things others miss. I've seen how you observe, how you move through this chaos like it's a game of chess."
Malakar didn't respond immediately, his gaze shifting toward the hearth in the center of the tavern. The firelight reflected off his pale features, giving his expression an almost haunted look. He was silent for a moment, as if considering whether to answer truthfully.
"You're not wrong," he said at last, his voice quieter, more serious. "There's more going on than what we saw in Stormwind. The Old Gods are moving their pieces—preparing for something bigger. Deathwing is just the beginning."
Lysander leaned forward, his eyes filled with concern. "And how do you know this?" he asked. "What have you seen?"
Malakar's lips twitched into a faint, enigmatic smile. "Let's just say I have my methods," he replied. "Not everyone is as forthcoming as the Alliance, brother. There are whispers, dark corners in this world where secrets are exchanged—places where my presence is less conspicuous."
Lysander's eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of suspicion and reluctant admiration. "You're still spying, aren't you?" he asked, his tone half-accusing but not without a hint of begrudging respect.
Malakar shrugged, his demeanor slipping back into his typical arrogance. "Spying is such a crude term," he said with feigned distaste. "I prefer 'gathering information'—and I do it quite well."
Lysander sighed, shaking his head. "You've always been like this—always operating in the shadows."
Malakar's gaze turned sharp, his eyes meeting Lysander's with an intensity that seemed to cut through the arrogance. "The shadows are where the truth lies, brother," he said quietly. "And if we're going to survive what's coming, we need that truth—even if it's ugly, even if it means doing things others might condemn."
Lysander studied his brother for a long moment, the fire crackling softly between them. He saw something in Malakar's eyes—a glimmer of sincerity beneath the icy exterior. He nodded slowly, accepting the answer, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"All right," he said finally, his voice filled with both resolve and a trace of sadness. "Just promise me one thing, Malakar. Promise me you're not going to lose yourself again—not like in Northrend."
Malakar's expression softened, the cold edge of his gaze giving way to something almost human—almost vulnerable. He looked away, his eyes once again focusing on the flickering fire. "I'm not the same as I was then, Lysander," he said quietly. "But I'll do what needs to be done. And if I do lose myself, well… just make sure you're there to put an end to it."
Lysander clenched his jaw, the weight of his brother's words settling heavily on him. "I will," he said firmly. "But I'd rather not have to."
Malakar offered a faint, almost sad smile. "We'll see," he murmured.
For a moment, the two brothers sat in silence, the warmth of the tavern offering a temporary reprieve from the cold reality of what lay ahead. Despite their differences, despite the shadows that still lingered between them, there was an understanding—a bond that had not been entirely broken, even after everything they had faced.
And in that small, fleeting moment, they allowed themselves to be brothers again—if only for a little while longer.
After Lysander left, Malakar took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he turned his attention back to the task at hand. It was time to gather more information, to delve into the shadows once again. He moved through the bustling tavern, slipping away unnoticed, his dark cloak blending with the dim corners of the room. Eventually, he found a secluded alcove—a place where the noise of the tavern faded, where the shadows were deep enough to afford him some privacy.
Malakar seated himself in the darkness, closing his eyes as he drew on the dark energy within himself. He called upon the magic of the Void, the sinister, whispering power that had always fascinated him long before he had become a death knight. He had learned to walk the razor's edge between communion and corruption, and tonight was no different.
The whispers of the Old Gods reached him almost immediately, a cacophony of fragmented thoughts and broken images. Malakar did not fully enter their realm—he knew well the danger that came with it. The Old Gods had a way of consuming those who strayed too close, of twisting minds to their own dark purposes. Instead, he listened at the edges, like an eavesdropper at a door left slightly ajar.
Flashes of visions flickered across his mind—chaos, destruction, the world unraveling under the weight of the Old Gods' influence. These were visions similar to what Evelodie had described, but clearer, more precise. He had learned to interpret them, to see through the madness to the truth that lay hidden within.
But tonight, as he delved into the Void's whispers, he found nothing new—only the same dark promises, the same whispers of coming destruction. He scowled in frustration, his lips pulling back in a sneer. He had hoped for something more, a piece of information that would give him an edge, but it seemed the Old Gods were not feeling particularly generous tonight.
Slowly, carefully, Malakar began to break the connection, retreating from the edge of the dark abyss. He moved as one would close a door quietly, ensuring that he left no trace of his presence. But just as he was about to sever the link completely, he felt something—a presence that caught his attention, like an annoying fly buzzing around him.
It was faint, but unmistakable—Fel energy. Malakar's eyes snapped open in surprise, his attention refocusing. He knew that energy. It was a signature he had sensed before, had even seen in action. He pushed his focus deeper, searching through the shadows, directing his gaze toward the source of the Fel.
The energy became more pronounced, more distinct, and then—there it was. Recognition flashed through his mind, followed by an incredulous smirk.
"That crazy son of a bitch…" he whispered to himself, a mix of awe and amusement coloring his tone.
Haverty, or as he had been known to his enemies, The Maw of Sargeras. Malakar had always respected the old warlock's power—power that, in its raw form, had once rivaled even that of Gul'dan himself. During his time under the control of the Lich King, Malakar had witnessed Haverty unleash the full might of his Fel magic, melting the armor of the strongest death knights, reducing them to pools of blood and viscera. It was a display of sheer destructive capability that Malakar had never forgotten.
Despite his own dark nature, Malakar had found himself respecting Haverty. They had even met on neutral ground a few times, sharing an ale or two as the warlock regaled him with stories—wild, fantastical tales that Malakar often wondered if even Haverty himself believed.
But now, in this moment, Malakar could sense Haverty's presence—faint, but there, somewhere in the ruins of Gilneas. He saw flashes of the ruined city, as if Haverty was trying to show him something. The vision shifted, revealing darkened streets and shattered buildings—something hidden among the ruins, a place of significance. Malakar frowned, his mind racing with questions. Why Gilneas? What was Haverty looking for there?
The visions continued, revealing fleeting glimpses of trinkets and artifacts, objects of power that Haverty had always been fascinated with. Malakar couldn't see clearly what they were, but the warlock's intent was obvious—there was something important in Gilneas, something worth retrieving.
Malakar sighed in annoyance, the smirk fading from his lips. Of course Haverty would be after something dangerous and unpredictable. The old warlock had always had a penchant for seeking out items that should have been left alone.
With an irritated shake of his head, Malakar made his decision. He had to know what Haverty was up to—if there was something of significance in Gilneas, it could prove crucial in the fight to come. He opened his eyes, the dark energy of the Void dissipating as he released his focus.
"Time to pay a visit to an old friend," he muttered to himself, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and anticipation.
With a swift motion, Malakar raised his hand, dark runes glowing along his gauntlet as he summoned the energy to create a wrath gate. The swirling portal formed before him, a gateway of shadow and frost that led to the ruins of Gilneas. He took one last glance around the darkened alcove of the tavern, ensuring no one had noticed him, and then stepped into the gate.
The familiar sensation of cold darkness enveloped him, and in an instant, he was gone—the portal closing behind him with a soft rush of air, leaving no trace that he had ever been there.