Act 3: Blight's Cruel Mirror
Plaguewood's miasma clung to everything, a toxic shroud over a land scarred by undeath. Lexick staggered into an abandoned house, its warped beams groaning under the weight of neglect. The moons glowed faintly through broken shutters, their angle suggesting dawn's approach, though time had lost meaning in her fevered haze. Hours had passed since Thassarian's camp, each step a battle against the plague as it gnawed at her body. She pressed into the shadows, breath shallow, every sense tuned for pursuit.
The house was a husk—splintered chairs, mold-eaten rugs—but Lexick searched it with a soldier's focus. She found only scraps: a bent fork, a shredded blanket. Pausing by a cracked mirror, she caught her reflection and froze. Her skin was ashen, a deathly pallor swallowing her gnomish flush. Her blue eyes, once bright like her mother's, shimmered with an unnatural sheen—not yet those of a zombie or ghoul, but getting dangerously close. Her stomach churned.
I'm running out of time!
The plague's spread was too fast. Lexick's gnomish mind, still sharp despite her panic, traced the cause: relentless stress, adrenaline, her body pushed beyond its limits. They were fueling the infection within her blood, hastening her doom. Her gaze dropped to one of her short swords, its edge still keen.
One stroke, she thought, and I'm free.
But Thassarian's command haunted her: "Bring her before our master." If the Scourge found her corpse, the Lich King could raise her as a thrall. The image of herself as a death knight—mindless, butchering—clawed at her worse than the pain.
She sank to the floor, curling tight, and the dam broke. Tears streamed down her face, hot against her chilling skin. At 39, she was young for a gnome, her life barely begun. She'd dreamed of sailing to Darnassus, walking its violet-lit streets, of rebuilding Gnomeregan's halls, of seeing Bilbi master her magic. "I wanted more," she choked out, voice raw. "I wasn't ready…"
A clatter outside silenced her sobs—the guttural rasp of death knights, their voices like frost on bone. "Search the house," one snarled. Lexick scrambled up, fear sharpening her instincts. She slipped through a back door, heart pounding, only to nearly collide with a towering figure. A female night elf death knight, her saronite armor glinting, stood in her path, runeblade raised. Surprise flickered in the elf's glowing eyes.
Lexick erupted. Fury, born of despair and defiance, surged through her. She attacked with a ferocity she hadn't known she possessed, her small frame a blur of steel. Her swords struck true, exploiting gaps in the elf's armor. The knight staggered under the onslaught, unprepared for a gnome's wrath, and collapsed, her weapon clanging uselessly.
Panting, Lexick spun as shouts echoed. Two more death knights—a human male and a dwarf male—charged from the house, runeblades gleaming. She danced between their strikes, her size and speed her only edge. Each parry drained her, her left arm burning as the plague sapped her strength. The dwarf's blow shattered one of her swords, the steel snapping like her endurance. Lexick stumbled, dropping to a knee.
"Pathetic," the human scoffed, shoving her over with his boot. She hit the ground hard, vision blurring. The knights loomed, studying her pale skin and icy eyes. "She's plague-touched," the dwarf grunted. "No threat. Just some dying fool."
"Let her rot," the human added, smirking. "Thassarian's wasting his time."
Lexick's world faded, her body failing. Through the fog, she glimpsed a figure approaching—cloaked in tattered brown, hood low, gripping an old, battered mace. He moved silently, striking with lethal precision. The mace crushed the dwarf's skull, then felled the human in a single arc, their bodies collapsing like discarded puppets.
The stranger knelt, lifting Lexick gently. Her lips parted to speak, to ask his name, but exhaustion claimed her. Her eyes fluttered shut, the last thing she saw the glint of his mace in the moonlight.