DISCLAIMER:

I don't own either World of Warcraft and subsequent IP or any of G.R.R. Martin's works.

The chill was the first thing he noticed.

It seeped into his flesh, gnawed at his bones, and clung to him like an unwanted embrace. John Taruk groaned, his breath misting before him in soft puffs, the icy air biting at his exposed skin. He lay still, his body pressed against a ground so cold it felt as though the frost itself sought to claim him. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to move, to push himself upright, but his muscles refused to comply.

Where was he? Why was it so cold?

Opening his eyes was an act of willpower. The world around him was blurred at first, an expanse of white and gray, broken only by the skeletal forms of snow-laden trees. The sky above was a steel canvas, heavy with the promise of more snow. He blinked, his breath catching as he realized that the cold wasn't just external but within him. It was as though his very blood had turned to ice.

He forced himself to sit up, his movements sluggish and stiff. His hands pressed into the snow-covered ground, and he flinched at the sharp cold even through his gloves. Glancing down, his eyes widened.

Gloves. Heavy gauntlets of dark metal adorned his hands, etched with intricate runes that shimmered faintly with blue light. His breath hitched as his gaze traveled over the rest of him. He was encased in armor, blackened steel that seemed to absorb the dim light, accented with plates of eerie, frost-covered silver. A ragged cloak hung from his shoulders, its tattered edges trailing in the snow.

"What... what the hell?" His voice sounded strange—higher, smoother.

The words lingered in the frozen air, and he froze. His hands—delicate, slim, too small. They weren't his hands. This wasn't his body.

"No. No, no, no." Panic gripped him as he clambered to his feet, the weight of the armor surprisingly manageable despite its imposing bulk. He stumbled to the edge of a frozen stream nearby, its icy surface fractured and reflective. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the face looking back at him.

It was her face.

Joan Thawe.

Her piercing blue eyes gazed back at him, framed by pale skin and strands of raven-black hair that cascaded down her back like liquid night. Her features were sharp, almost regal, with a beauty that felt cold and unapproachable. It was his in-game avatar, but the sight of her rendered him mute.

"This isn't real," he whispered, his voice trembling. He reached up to touch his face, and the reflection mirrored him perfectly. The gauntlets brushed against his cheek, sending a shiver through him—not from the cold, but from the undeniable sensation of flesh beneath metal. It's real.

John—no, Joan—staggered back from the stream, her breath quickening.

The ground tilted beneath her, the world spinning as a torrent of images and sensations assaulted her mind. A city of spires and magic—Dalaran. The crackle of frost magic in her veins. A laugh, light and free, belonging to a woman who had once been full of ambition and joy. Then darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness. A chill far deeper than any winter. The clang of blades. The screams of the dying. A voice that promised power and demanded servitude. The weight of a rune blade in her hand, its hunger insatiable.

"Stop it," she gasped, clutching her head. The memories weren't just visuals—they were emotions, physical sensations, entire lifetimes compressed into moments. She was Joan Thawe, ice mage of Dalaran, prodigy of the Kirin Tor. She was Joan Thawe, champion of the Scourge, servant of the Lich King. She was Joan Thawe, death knight.

But she was also John Taruk, a man from a world of glass towers and endless screens. A man who had spent his life dreaming of being someone else, anyone else. A man who had found solace in the guise of a digital character, never imagining he'd become her.

"I'm not her!" The scream tore from her throat, raw and filled with desperation. She fell to her knees, her hands gripping her hair as the memories threatened to consume her. They pressed against her mind, a relentless tide threatening to drown the identity she clung to.

And then, like a thread in the storm, came a voice.

"Poor little mortal," the voice purred, smooth as silk and as cold as the air around her. "Overwhelmed already?"

The words slithered into Joan's ears, a sound that was both intimate and mocking, like a predator toying with prey. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as the eerie voice reverberated in her mind.

"No... no, no, no," she whispered, shaking her head. "You're not real."

A chuckle, low and full of disdain, echoed through the icy forest. "Oh, but I am real, my dear Joan. Far more real than you care to admit. You've felt me before, haven't you? My whispers, my guidance, my gift. And now, here I am... here we are."

Joan whipped her head around, searching for the source of the voice. Her eyes fell on a small figure perched on a jagged rock nearby. It was a doll, no taller than her hand, made of dark porcelain that gleamed faintly under the pale light. Its design was elegant, with intricate details carved into its surface. Rven hair spilled down its back, framing a face with sharp, feminine, high-elven features. The doll's eyes glimmered like polished amethysts, and its tiny lips curved into a sly smile.

Joan stumbled back, her boots crunching against the snow. "You..." Her voice faltered. She knew that face, that presence. "Xal'atath?"

The doll inclined its head in mock acknowledgment. "In the flesh, or rather, what remains of it." Her words flowed like honeyed poison, her tone rich with amusement.

Joan clenched her fists, her gauntlets creaking under the strain. "You did this! You dragged me here!"

Xal'atath laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. "Oh, Joan. Always so quick to place blame. It's adorable, really. But let us not forget—you chose this path. You accepted my offer, did you not? You embraced my power, my whispers. This is the culmination of your choices, your desires. Are you unhappy with the results?"

Joan's breath quickened, her pulse hammering in her ears. "Send me back," she demanded, though the words lacked conviction. "Undo this!"

The doll tilted her head, as if considering the request. "Send you back? To what, I wonder? To a world where you were nothing? A man hiding behind a screen, living a life of mediocrity and regret? No, Joan. This is your reality now. This is who you are."

Her words struck like a hammer, and Joan flinched. She staggered back, her mind reeling. This isn't real. This can't be real.

Xal'atath's amethyst eyes glinted with malice and something darker—something predatory. "Struggling, are we?" she said, her voice softening, taking on a mockery of compassion. "Poor thing. All those memories, all that power, and yet your fragile mortal mind cannot handle it. Shall I help you?"

Joan's lips parted, but no words came out. The storm of memories still churned within her, threatening to overwhelm her completely. She sank to her knees, her hands trembling as they gripped her head. "I... I didn't ask for this," she whispered.

The doll's smile widened, a cruel edge to her amusement. "Didn't you? You always wished to escape, to become someone else. And now you have. But I see it, even now—the cracks in your identity. The part of you that clings to that pitiful, boring man, John Taruk."

Joan's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "Don't say his name," she hissed, her voice laced with a mixture of anger and fear.

"Why not?" Xal'atath's tone turned mocking again. "Does it hurt, hearing the truth? You are John, and you are Joan. A contradiction. A fractured soul, caught between two identities. It's pitiful, really. But don't worry, my dear. I can make you whole."

Joan stared at the doll, her body rigid with tension. "What do you mean?"

Xal'atath's voice softened, dripping with false sincerity. "You're struggling because you are torn. The memories of your past life and the life you've inherited—they cannot coexist. But I can help you. I can make the storm in your mind stop. All I ask is your trust."

Joan hesitated, her breath hitching. She didn't trust Xal'atath—how could she? But the pain in her head was unbearable, the memories tearing her apart. She was drowning, and Xal'atath was the only hand extended to her.

"What's the catch?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Xal'atath chuckled, her tone almost darkly affectionate. "For now? Only your trust. Let me prove my worth to you."

Joan's hands trembled as she wrestled with the decision. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, but the relentless pressure in her mind was too much. Finally, she closed her eyes, her voice trembling as she said, "Fine. Do it."

"Good girl," Xal'atath purred, her voice sending a shiver down Joan's spine.

Joan felt a strange warmth spread through her mind—a sharp contrast to the cold around her. It was as though invisible hands were soothing the storm within, untangling the memories and emotions that had threatened to overwhelm her. She gasped, her body shuddering as the chaos began to subside.

The memories didn't disappear. Instead, they settled, like sediment sinking to the bottom of a turbulent stream. They were still there, but now they were manageable, coherent. She could feel them integrating into her consciousness, not as a foreign intrusion but as a natural part of herself.

When it was over, she opened her eyes, and for the first time, they glowed faintly with an icy blue light.

"Better, isn't it?" Xal'atath's voice was smug, dripping with satisfaction.

Joan rose to her feet, her stance steady, her mind clear. She looked at the doll, her expression wary but composed. "I'm still me," she said, her voice firm.

Xal'atath laughed, the sound light and lilting. "Of course you are, my dear. And now, you are more than you ever were."

Joan's jaw tightened. "I don't trust you," she said bluntly.

The doll's smile didn't falter. "That is wise. But trust is not something I require immediately. For now, let us say we have a... partnership."

Joan stared at the doll for a long moment before nodding. "Partnership," she repeated, though the word tasted bitter on her tongue.

As Joan turned away, Xal'atath's amethyst eyes gleamed with something dark and triumphant. Yes, my dear Joan, she thought to herself—a partnership—for now.

Another chapter... :)

Was awake for the whole night, now I gotta go to pretend to my employer that I'm not a zombie yet.

Yeah, and I forgot to add in the last chapter.

English is not my first, nor second language. There will be mistakes - be it in pacing, words, whole sentences et., I'm still trying to learn after all.

So, please be patient with me.

Please enjoy,

Soari

PS: Do you want longer chapters or shorter? This style (around 2k words) is alright, but I can adapt :)