Lathinal: A Flame Snuffed Out

(A/N: Please note that the following short story is still in the editing stages.)

The pedestrian affair at hand was one that heralded little excitement for Adrynar. Year after year his friends had been called out in the name of duty to defend his homeland, and every time someone he wished he had known better wouldn’t come home. His father spoke of dying in battle with the greatest respect and honour, but to the son, it was only a sad reality he felt they could avoid.

The endless trundle of their small force was one that had lulled him into a relaxed stupor; footfalls of hawkstriders dutifully carrying their charges overpowered the otherwise serene sounds of the landscape around them. The noble beasts themselves were much quieter and faster than horses, but even they were not silent, and Adrynar yearned for the peace and quiet of eternal forests of Quel’Thalas. The path before them, paved with cobblestoned, rose and fell with the gentle hills that the southern forests were known for.

The night sky overhead was filled with the full brilliance of the Great Dark Beyond; endless stars twinkling majestically like eternal beacons for soldiers and adventurers alike. It was easy to forget, he found, that all peoples of Azeroth, looked up at the same sky with the same wonder that he did. His azure eyes, lost in the beauty above him, softened as he marvelled its perfection. The daytime was truly the best time of day, though the night too held a certain brilliance that his people often ignored.

“Keep your eyes skyward and you’ll run into a tree,” a peaceful, if amused, voice sounded next to him. Adrynar’s attention diverted from stargazing to the man riding at his side. Garbed in simple white robes accented with crimson, a cowl-donning magister’s only visible feature was his mouth which was currently upturned in a smirk.  

Unlike his counterpart, Adrynar wore light mail armour which glowed dully in the moonlight. With a scimitar was strapped to his side and a bow on his back, it seemed as though he ought to feel like a powerful knight, but the reality was far from such. Little more than a teenager in his people’s eyes, he felt akin to a boy playing war. He had only trained with his weapons and never truly used them in battle. “You know, as one of my father’s magistrates, isn’t it your job to make sure nothing bad happens to me?”

He offered the magister a chuckle, though his counterpart only shrugged. The hooded man in truth was only a few years his senior, but given his impressive talents, had been entrusted as one of the esteemed Lord Highcrest’s magistrates. Few in number, they helped him deal with his father’s numerous political and military stations, along with the duties that went along with being one of the few elven aristocrats; those who held lands in both their own name and that of the High King. Once more, the smooth, lyrical voice of the magister sounded, “My lord Adrynar, where’s your sense of adventure?” Ever amused, Adrynar’s counterpart looked forward once more.

The young heir knew that his father’s youngest magistrate was possibly his closest friend; it was not by accident that a mage who did not specialise in offensive spells was so often at his side. “Tal’theran,” he began, addressing the mage by name and receiving a hidden quirked brow in response, “Do you know why father sent me on this scouting run?” Worrying his bottom lip, he eyed the dark forests around them, “I’m more of a liability than anything here.”

The path before them curbed to the southeast as they travelled on. At the head of their column of outriders, Norval Brightflame, a Ranger-Captain of the Farstriders, signalled to hold with a fist held in the air. Both Tal’theran and Adrynar focused their attention ahead. Kaldorei or Quel’dorei, elves have incredibly sharp ears, and so it was all nine mounted men and women that drew their weapons.

Captain Brightflame, long swords in hand, spun them slowly as he looked around the dim woods. The rustling of leaves was quickly followed by the Farstriders of their group notching arrows. Adrynar too held his bow, eyeing the azure leaved trees around them. The uncommon colouration of the foliage was a product of the endless kind of druidism that Quel’Thalas prided itself on, however now it only served to annoy those gathered. Their enemy was one that could hide easily in them, and those devious tactics had led to countless slaughtered elves.

Kathal, an experienced Ranger, twitched her head in the direction of one tree, and the column directed their attention to it. The wind having started to die down, was replaced by a deafening silence. It was a silence that overpowered all. Adrynar could feel his heart beating in his ears; Trolls were nearby. Would he get hurt? Would Laythan before him, the smart mouthed magister whom Norval had requested from the Magisterium to accompany them, run away? Maybe Kathal would die or Fenuran behind him would be poisoned.

The possibilities thundered in his mind as he eyed the trees, almost wishing for the enemy to reveal themselves and end the suspense, but apparently his wish would not be granted as the tension stretched on. Norval looked back down the column and signalled to the two rangers at the back of the column. Following his gaze, Adrynar saw the two Farstriders turn their mounts around, bows still drawn and readied to fire. Tal’theran and Laythan, staves held in hands, were then looked to by their captain.

The young lightly armoured knight’s anxiety didn’t abate as his mage friend and Laythan shut their eyes and began muttering, though he did relax as he felt Arcane encompass them. It was by no means a protective shield, but as it expanded out, Adrynar realised that the field was meant to give them a split second advantage. Even still, no one knew how many foes they were going to face, and even if the numbers were in their favour, Trolls were known to employ dark magic.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to the young elf, Tal’theran’s eyes shot open: “Captain!” He shouted. Either having foreseen the Trolls’ actions or having startled them with how loud he had suddenly been, ten figures dropped from four trees all around them. Armed with axes and one with a long, wicked looking staff topped with what Adrynar worried was an elven skull, they wasted no time.

Captain Norval Brightflame, a veteran of many battles, wasted no time: “Farstriders, fire!” He commanded sternly, his black hair flipping to the side as he guided his mount with his legs, wasting no time in charging the nearest Troll. However the noble youth found himself frozen. The bow in hand trembled as one of the many attackers launched itself at him.

Tall, lanky and with dark blue skin, the Troll let forth a guttural cry as he brought his axes upward to kill Adrynar. Finally releasing the arrow he had loaded so long ago, the Troll marauder simply ducked out of the way. ‘No!’ His mind screamed as he pulled his mount back, only to feel the large bird below him bump into a similar beast behind it. Looking back, the panicking youth found the ranger who had once been behind him firing arrow after arrow at a charging Troll. The thock of arrows embedding in flesh sounded in front of them as Kathal shouted her victory: “One down! Lay, Tal, get on some suppression!” She shouted back to them.

Norval was already off his hawkstrider, “Farstriders, to arms! Don’t let any of them live!” Swords clashed with axes as he forced a Troll over a foot taller than him back before diving forward as the bestial being fell backward. The sickening smell of gore was already in the air and only had a few seconds passed by. The grizzled Ranger-Captain placed a boot on the impaled Troll, kicking himself back and hacking at another Troll. “Adrynar, fight!” He commanded the young man who held an undrawn bow in both hands.

‘Your father is a war hero and you can’t fight one troll!?’ Adrynar’s mind condemned him cruelly as his right hand went to his scimitar, drawing it from its scabbard. The troll before him was so close now that he could smell its foul breath, and even still he couldn’t bring himself to even swing at it. “Adrynar!” Tal’theran’s voice sounded from nearby. The high pitched ring of magic in the air appeared before him and before he could even move away, a pillar of fire erupted around the offending Amani foe.

“It burns, mon!” The Troll screamed as it swung at the mage, knocking the slim figure off his mount. Without even quite realising what he was doing, Adrynar had kicked his mount into a frenzy, the hawkstrider charging blindly into the conflagrating Troll. The imperious voice of his father sounded in his mind, instructing him on what he had to do.

As the lanky individual reeled from being struck so bluntly, he thrust forward on his mount, driving his finely hewn bade into the Troll’s chest. Ribs slowed his sword’s advance, he felt his arm jarringly stop before the dying male swiped a massive hand at his head. The three fingered hand felt like a rock being struck against his head. Crashing to the ground, the wind was knocked out of him, and his head rung painfully. The troll collapsed next to him and he could see the harried footfalls of elves as they were forced backward.

Tal’theran, bleeding from the forehead, stumbled back to his feet, though Adrynar could still not find his balance as he tried to stand but only fell to a knee, holding his swaying head. Fenuran, long sword in hand, struck wildly against two Trolls that pounded down against his weapon. Adrynar could see that the ranger was becoming overwhelmed as he became more and more defensive, “Help…” He grunted as he fell to his knees, still parrying those who hacked at him madly.

Forcing himself to stand, the lightly armoured elf fumbled for his bow, readying an arrow, he fired it. “Fenuran! Get back!” Adrynar called out, though it was too late. The sound of his sword, beaten beyond ever being usable again, shattered in his grasp, sending metal shards flying. A trollish axe was buried in his shoulder before another was delivered so thoroughly into his forehead that the elf merely slumped backward, his eyes blankly staring out with a mouth contorted in horror.

The young elf took a quick look around; three Trolls had fallen, but one of their own was dead and another, the ranger who had been behind Fenuran, was incapacitated. “Ranger-Captain!” He called out as he hurried toward the aforementioned ranger at the rear of the column, “We need to fall back!” Norval looked back at him, the captain bleeding heavily from his left forearm and only holding one sword now. He nodded once before returning his attention to supporting Kathal who was also being overwhelmed. “Laythan, slow them down!” He called out, though the mage in question was panting heavily, and with dark bags under his eyes, it was clear he had overexerted himself. “Tal’theran!” Adrynar called out.

The magistrate of the Highcrests didn’t even seem to be remotely fatigued as he raised his staff into the air, his lyrical, smooth voice echoing as he summoned magic down with arcane words of power from an old dialect of Thalassian that Adrynar did not recognise. The hum of magic was practically a screech as fire rained down from the sky in wide swaths. The witchdoctor which had accompanied them was already uttering his own incantations, but the elves were already retreating north.

As Adrynar hurried into the thick woods of southern Quel’Thalas, he found Captain Brightflame at his side, carrying the corpse of Fenuran. Passing by the lagging form of the ranger whose name he did not know, he grabbed the woman by the shoulder and slung her over his shoulders, nearly tripping as he did. With his lungs burning fiercely, the only thing the youth could think of was escaping the Trolls that were already on the move.

~*~

The restless rustling of a long sword in its sheath, the busy footfalls that clacked noisily on the marble flooring, the movement of fine silken fabrics against one another were deafening as Vynlarion hurried down the main staircase to the entry hall to his manor. The stairs led up to a perpendicular intersection where both catwalks opened into the wide wings of the estate while the main reception hall was below.

The varying hues of gold, blue and red shimmered on the tapestries that hung from the high peaked ceiling from the bright sunlight outside that flooded in through the tall, narrow windows on either side of the entry. The floor reflected off both the pleasant warmth of the season and the brightness that was so typical of their kingdom and, had the news not been so dire, the lightly armed man would have felt peaceful and at ease in his home.

Today, however, a flurry of panic, worry and anger robbed him of his sorely desired serenity and as he reached the base of the stairs, he released his hand from its place on the hilt of his ceremonial sword and swiped it through the air: “Open the gates!” His deep voice boomed with a grandeur not known to younger generations of elves.

Blond hair that reached the small of his back fluttered behind him like a scarf of molten gold and his bright azure eyes shone with a frightening intensity. The two men who stood guard at the doors outside heard his command and the doors abruptly parted, seeing even more sunlight flood the hall. Outside, the world fell away down a steep hill.

Mountains not quite tall enough to cease growing trees at their peaks surrounded the distant edges of the valley he was in and in the lowlands below he could see the two townships and the large farms and vineyards separating them. The mountain valley was known as the Sin’Redar Province, and though not the largest sect of land owned by an elven lord, it was by far one of the wealthiest. The gentle peaks around him were filled with precious metals and rare gems, however Vynlarion did not expect their existence to be mere luck. The Sunwell itself blessed the land, giving to it great bounty available to all.

However even the affluence of his highly respected province could not abate the roiling tempest within as a column of six hawkstriders slowed to a walk as they approached in. All of them offered him respectful bows, save one near the back. Focusing on the man at the head of the pack, the golden haired lord spoke with concern in his authoritative voice: “Hail, Ranger-Captain. Your trek has been a long and difficult one. My home is open to you and yours: drink and eat your fill, then rest. We will discuss your mission afterward.”

The grizzled looking captain’s eyes were wide with surprise, for he had evidently suspected Vynlarion to have snapped at him, but the aging lord was in no mood for an emotional outburst. “My lord, I am honoured by your generosity. Quel’Thalas is a better place thanks to people like you,” he said humbly as he dismounted.

He had always liked Norval; the captain was respectful and skilled. Though the latter was a commonality among the Farstriders, Vynlarion often found himself at odds with his more nature-seeking folk and so to see one who so readily acknowledged his gesture of good will was heartening, and served to relax him slightly. “Anu belore dela’na,” the elder man spoke as he passed the ranger’s hawkstrider.

Vynlarion could see the person in interest already, and worse yet he could see that he was injured. Fresh cuts marred a smooth, youthful complexion while deep bruises covered his exposed bicep and shoulder. He walked with a limp and his hair was matted with blood. “By the Sunwell, Adrynar! What happened here?” Both concern and outrage were in his voice, and his son shrank away from the booming nature of his tonalities. Absentmindedly covering his arm so that his father could not see what was obviously a broken bone, he shook his head.

“It’s not so bad father, really. We lost three others, I’m just grateful to be alive,” The young Highcrest’s words struck a deep blow in the elder who finally noticed the last hawkstrider, burdened by three bodies wrapped in cloth blankets. Adrynar followed his gaze and spoke softly, “They fought so bravely; to protect their family and friends… To the very end. If only I wasn’t such-“

The boy was cut off by a robed individual a few years his senior placing a slender hand on his uninjured shoulder, “Do not put these heavy sorrows on your heart, Lord Adrynar.” Vynlarion turned his attention to the mage who seemed completely unscathed, save a dirtying of his robes. ‘Tal’theran Vi Felo’aran. You are my son’s elder by two years; close enough to be twins when you think about it, but where does your strength come from?’ He studied the young mage ever closer, his mind scrutinising him, ‘What Gods gifted you with this magical prowess?’

“Tal’theran, take Adrynar inside. Make sure he bathes, has his wounds cleaned and dressed. While you’re at it, make sure the same is done for the other Farstriders. I won’t have it said I play favourites,” with that, the mage nodded and without any special pomp and circumstance, his son and magistrate disappeared in a flurry of magic, leaving only a sprinkling of arcane dust on the ground. Turning back to where the column of Farstriders had been, Vynlarion found only their mounts being led into the nearby stables.

Pressing the issue of what happened might only traumatise Adrynar, and so the elven lord turned forward to look over the lush valley, and in the distance the verdant forests of the rest of Quel’Thalas. His own lands felt so small in comparison to the rest of the kingdom, but he was fiercely proud of them. “Sin’Redar – Blood River. A glib name,” a soothing, feminine voice sounded behind him, “Then again, we cannot forget the tales: your ancestor, Vynlarion the First, came upon this valley and slayed so many Trolls the river ran red with their blood.”

Vynlarion turned to face the source of the heavenly voice. Dressed in a flowing white gown that left very little to the imagination, the woman’s porcelain skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, as though she absorbed the perfection of belore itself. Truly, Lord Highcrest, could not find anything to be false with his sentiment. A slender form stood before him with slight curves at the hips and a healthy bosom tastefully hidden behind golden lace. Fiery hair fell down in perfect curly tresses, falling down to the lumbar of her back and flitted back and forth with each elegant step.

A tiara adorned with diamonds and sapphires kept her vibrant hair in place; a precious gift he had given her upon her ascension in the Magisterium, and it glittered magnificently in the noonday sun. “My beloved, I know that look in your eyes. What wounds you so?” Her voice, soft and kind, yet with the fiery passion that was her lifeblood in battle ever present in her glowing cobalt eyes. She reached out, delicately taking his own calloused hand in her own, smoothing her thumb over the scars and cuts.

The elven lord relaxed visibly with her motions, and a small smile came to play on her lips as she saw him deflate. “It’s Adrynar, he worries me. When I was his age, I could already do battle with innumerable weapons; I was already making a name for myself in the prestigious Knights of the Realm as a squire. Yet he lingers, seeming to me to be so unsure of his future.” Meeting her gaze, he could not help but return her smile with his own, though his was morose where hers was serene, “I worry for our boy, my love.”

If he was an elven lord, surely she was an elven lady. Her long, proud ears that stuck up through her curled hair twinkled with the tasteful jewelry that had been adorned upon their smooth surfaces, and she held her husband’s hand in both of hers. A melodic, happy laugh escaped her scarlet lips as she considered his words. “My dear husband, you worry unduly. Adrynar has a great heart; one as large as all outdoors, I’d dare say if I were a ranger. Perhaps his future does not lie in greatswords and armour?”

The thought had occurred to Vynlarion many times, but he had tried not to think of it. A Highcrest lord that was not a knight? “It has never been so that the lord of this valley does not adorn himself in armour and fight in the vanguard. It goes against six millennia of tradition,” he tried to explain, but only received another amused look from her. “Lathinal, my love, you cannot discount family tradition with a mere chuckle with your heavenly voice,” he placed a hand on the small of her back, brushing away a few strands of crimson hair.

Her face flushed and she frowned ever so slightly, small lines creasing her otherwise angular and smooth face, “You flatter me, Lord Highcrest,” she cooed at him, her voice turning slightly devious as he released his other hand and laid it on his strong chest, “But I did just discount six millennia of history. Our boy has an amazing talent to empathise and, instead of being a pillar of justice, a paragon of mercy and kindness.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of his long, blond hair, “I think we ought to introduce him to High Priest Vandellor when we see him next at the Convocation’s next meeting.”

His visage grew thoughtful; he had worried Adrynar would sit in his palace giving orders but never being seen. However, were he to become a priest, he might do more good than Vynlarion himself could ever do. “He could become High Priest himself…” The lord mused, his tone inflecting positively. Lathinal offered him a hopeful look, however it was still a jarring change to how their family had functioned in the past. Their specialisation in heavy arms was almost unseen in Quel’Thalas, and it was they who perfected those arts and spread them.

Separating from her, he motioned to the stables, “This day is far too grand to be spent indoors, wouldn’t you say?” Vynlarion inquired, a devious tone overtaking his otherwise innocent connotations. She cocked a crimson brow, studying him skeptically, though he only grinned. “Care to take a leisurely ride into Eversong? The lynxes have fully molted, and I know how much you love seeing the wild dragonhawks.”

She let forth a light, lyrical laugh, “My dear Vynlarion, you are too much.” Looking back to their expansive abode, she raised a hand, “I will certainly not deny your offer, my love, but first I would like to check in with Adrynar. Ready the hawkstriders, I shan’t be long.” With that, she gave a slight wave of her hand, and disappeared into nothingness.

The familiar scent of lilac was all that was left, and the aging man only chuckled as he smoothed his long locks, “Oh to live with other normal people who have to walk everywhere…” Shaking his head in amusement, he moved toward the stables, calling out: “Tytel, my dear girl! The lady and I will be taking a trip into the forests. Ready our hawkstriders, pease!” Though never seeing the spritely youth of a girl, he heard the footfalls of her bare feet as she went to saddle the large birds.

~*~

“My lord, really, you should have called for me when that Troll caught up to you,” Tal’theran chastised him gently from behind his back. The young mage had his back turned to Adrynar as the latter disrobed to enter a steaming bath that had simply appeared at the hooded youth’s command in the hot spring. The young lord bit back a scathing reply, not wishing to insult his friend out of his own frustration, but nevertheless still felt a crushing sense of being ineffectual.

Stepping into the hot water, his cramped leg muscles had already begun to relax as the rest of his body slid in before taking a seat. Propping his arms up on the edges of the rocky ledge, he leaned his head back, looking up into the sky. Thankfully, the hot springs were mercifully in the shade of the large estate and thus useable during the day, but it still felt a bit strange to be bathing so early. The heat of the water lulled his body calmer and calmer, but his mind continued to race. “I don’t need you babysitting me, Tal,” he told the magister tersely, “I wasn’t about to let you save me twice in the same day.”

Tal’theran turned to face him, his expression unknown. Unlike Adrynar, the magistrate seemed perfectly well and showed no signs of fatigue, and the former could not imagine how that was possible. Certainly he was more active than his father’s aide, but at the same time the other’s personal magical well seemed inexhaustible. However now he seemed tense and uncomfortable, and the young knight could see him fiddling with the hem of the wide sleeve of his robes. “It’s not that I don’t…” He shook his head, “Forgive me, my lord. Don’t pay my ramblings any heed.”

Sitting more upright, the smooth rock behind him felt hot to the touch, though the young Highcrest ignored it for the time being. Narrowing his gaze in frustration at the mage’s cryptic ways, he too shook his head in defiance of that infuriating secrecy: “It’s alright, Tal. Speak your mind; you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me.” Offering Tal’theran a reassuring and warm smile, the mage relaxed until Adrynar’s next words were uttered: “We’re friends, after all.”

The prodigal youth gripped his sleeve tightly, his mouth curling in. Was he displeased with the notion of being Adrynar’s friend? The latter hoped not; he was likely the youth’s best friend given how much time they spent together and to have his feelings not reciprocated was an undesired pain. “I didn’t think that kind of relationship was appropriate between a magistrate and his lord’s son,” the mage began awkwardly, though found himself abruptly cut off by the other’s laughter.

“You spend too much time around my father, Tal,” the future lord’s laughter died down to a chuckle. Eyeing the hooded magister, he smiled once more, “I don’t care what is supposed to be an appropriate relationship between the two of us. You’re my friend and that’s all that matters to me.” Looking away, Adrynar shifted awkwardly, suddenly quite aware of the intimacy of the conversation and the fact that the only thing obscuring his nether regions was the innate opaque nature of the water. “I hope that I’m your friend too,” the young lord mumbled, hoping Tal’theran wouldn’t hear his need for validation.

It was a rarity, but not a first for Adrynar to see the mage’s face. Almost always hidden under the veil of his cowl, it was easy to forget that the powerful magister was in reality only two years older than the Highcrest heir. Though not as dark as his mother’s crimson locks, Tal’theran’s short hair was a shade of orange going on red, and where many with hair like his were burdened with blotchy skin or other marks, as an elf, his complexion was flawless and his youthful face bright.

His eyes glowed powerfully, though were still dwarfed by both lord and lady of the House Highcrest in their illuminating properties. It was a sign of magical propensity and for someone so young to even show his level of power was almost unheard of. “Come now, o’ mighty magistrate, take a load off and relax with me,” though Adrynar raised a finger, grinning wryly, “And before you try to say no, that’s an order as your future lord.”

Offering an amused roll of his eyes, Tal’theran disappeared and instantly reappeared across from him in the hot spring. Given that they were meant for four people it was by no means crowded, but given the weight of their previous conversation, Adrynar could not help but feel tense. However, from what he could see, his counterpart did not seem to notice the nervousness that plagued him. With his head resting against the rocky ground and his arms sprawled outward, the mage let forth a relaxed sigh. “My lord –“ Tal’theran abruptly corrected himself; “Adrynar, I will not be able to see you for about a month come a fortnight,” he announced.

Leaning forward, the young knight curled his arms around his knees, suddenly very concerned. He searched the mage’s impassive face, though found the same distracting sensations in his stomach that often plagued him when Tal’theran did not hide his face. “What’s going on? Is father sending you to Stormwind again? You’re too young to be travelling on your own, Tal. You might get attacked!” The image of his friend’s battered and bloodied body floating in a Stormwind canal filled his mind, and he shook it away.

The sunny haired magister kept his composure, though sat up and placed a hand gently on Adrynar’s injured arm, “My lord, you shouldn’t worry about me like that, it’s unbecoming.” Even with his words, Tal’theran smiled sadly, and it only led to more concern in the young knight’s mind, “I will be fine. The Magisterium has decided to give me the same rune matrix they gave to Magister Belo’vir – you know him, he’s the one who’s vying to be the next Grand Magister.” His gaze grew distant as he explained further, “It’ll take some time to do, so I won’t be able to watch over you.”

Frowning at his final comment, Adrynar shifted back, his visage an obstinately stubborn one, “I don’t need protecting, Tal’theran.” Looking away for a moment, his resolve faltered as he thought of the running process. Everyone knew that only powerful mages needed runes, but they were immensely painful to have inscribed into one’s skin. “It’s a great honour for someone so young, truly, but isn’t it supposed to be incredibly painful?”

Tal’theran only shrugged, looking away awkwardly, “Your mother is looking for you,” he said suddenly, “You should go see her.” His posture was passive as he leaned back in the hot spring, though his face was a wash of displeasure and concern. Adrynar couldn’t quite discern what he was so worried about, but he assumed it was his upcoming ritual. Deciding merely to play along with his games, he nodded.

Once more, at the whims of magic, Adrynar found himself feeling abruptly queasy as the world turned violet and azure hues before finding himself dressed and standing next to the hotsprings. Tal’theran, too, was dressed and standing before him, though his hood remained down. Taking a few steps forward, he embraced the more slender magister, holding him tightly. “You’ll be okay, Tal,” he assured him, placing a hand on the back of his head before pulling back.

There was a confused look in the magister’s face as he regarded his lord’s son, and the tension that had once abated existed once more between them. Adrynar wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he leaned forward, pressing his lips against those of the mage for a long moment, “I’ll be okay, too, so stop worrying?” For the first time since they had met, Adrynar found Tal’theran flushed in the face and looking entirely flustered. His eyes had become somewhat lidded in the intimate moment, and the young lord decided that, should something go wrong, that was the face he would remember his best friend with.

Before Tal’theran could respond, Adrynar was once more whisked away by arcane magic. For many, the constant teleportations would become nauseating and aggravating, but given he had grown up with it, he found it to only be a minor irritation. The world around him once more came into view, and he found himself in his own room. A large bed was built into a grand, curving wooden structure built to look like a leaf mid fall. The slight curve of the bed helped keep the warmth in during the winter, he found, but other than that it was purely aesthetic. Wardrobes and chests lined the far wall, and on the wall perpendicular to the entrance there was a mannequin made up with his ceremonial armour, and another with his dress robes.

A gentle rapping sounded upon his door and his mother’s voice sounded: “Adrynar, it’s your mother.” He paced to the doors, opening one and found his mother standing before the other. Mild surprise marked her face before she smirked amusedly at him, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? I swear, teenagers are just rebellious for the point of being rebellious.” He stepped to the side to allow her entry, and she looked over his room disapprovingly, “Such a mess! You really are your father’s son; he does the same thing.”

Lathinal placed herself daintily on the edge of his bed, folding one leg over the other and folding her hands and placing them in her lap. “I hope you didn’t come just to critique my room,” he smirked wryly, “The Lady Highcrest has much better things to do with her time. Like make Farstriders and magisters alike swoon for a taken woman.” She scoffed regally, waving a bejeweled hand at him.

“When you find someone you love as much as I love your father, you’ll find that no matter how many suitors try to steal you away, you’ll only feel pity for them: pity they’ve fallen for someone whose heart is already claimed,” she explained as Adrynar moved about his room, tidying up the strewn clothing. In all likelihood the servants would clean it before he did, but given the situation he wished to show his mother that he was not a pampered child. Both she and his father had, and continued to, fight valiantly in the skirmishes against the Amani. “I wanted to ask you about your scout trip,” she said after a long pause.

Ceasing his cleaning, the young knight only stood there, his mind conjuring up the memory of Tal’theran lying face down in a pool of blood that seeped from his head. Where his injuries had gone was unknown, but Adrynar assumed it was merely part of a magister’s bag of tricks to heal wounds with the arcane. ‘Why did I kiss him?’ the question finally rose in his mind, but he could not offer his confused inner voice an answer: he did it because it felt like the right thing to do. “… Adrynar, dear?” His mother leaned forward.

He flushed slightly, looking back to his mother, “Sorry, minn’da,” he used the formal pronunciation of mom without realising it, “Just some things on my mind, that scouting trip one of them!” He chuckled, “It was terrifying, to be honest…” The sobering reality of his fear the night they had been ambushed rushed back. His breath felt short as he spoke and his palms felt cold with sweat, “The Trolls just… appeared out of the trees and started attacking! We were just crossing down the path toward Goldenmist Village and they attacked. But I just… froze up.”

Lathinal’s brows furrowed in contemplation as she regarded what she heard, for though she was a mother, she remained a member of the Magisterium of Quel’Thalas, and to hear that Trolls had come so far into their territory was a worrying fact. “They were that close to Elrendar River? Cocky blue skinned savages…” Rising to her feet, she placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, “Fear strikes us all in battle: you, me, Tal’theran, Captain Norval, your father – everyone.”

Adrynar stepped away, feeling patronised and feeling like all the people she had named didn’t feel like him. “You can’t expect me to believe that! You all fight without fear, but I just stood there. Tal got hurt because I was a coward,” looking away from Lathinal’s concerned gaze. Deciding to simply let it out, he looked back at her, his voice cracking with misery: “I know I’m not a fighter – I’m not like father at all… I’m weak.”

“No,” the word was emphatic and powerful. The clack of his mother’s heels sounded on the wooden floor as she approached him. Bending down to meet his gaze once more, her flaring azure orbs glowing fiercely, “Vynlarion Adrynar Highcrest you are not weak.” Her words struck him firmly; she almost never raised her voice with him, “I wasn’t going to tell you this until I returned, but I was going to have you meet High Priest Vandellor. I know you have a great potential with the Light; I can see it through the arcane.”

Her words stunned Adrynar; ‘I could be a priest?’ The notion was daunting, but at the same time, the image of himself healing and helping, “I…” he stuttered, looking into his mother’s unwavering eyes. How could she know? She was a magister, not a priest, so how was it possible she could sense the Light? Moreover, who was to say that potential could even amount to any substantive power, “Are you sure? I’ve never felt the Light... ever.”

“Though I may be no magical man,” a low, grand tone boomed from the doorway, “What your mother speaks of is the truth.” Turning to face the door, both Adrynar and his mother found his father standing in the doorway. Donning his primary armour, he was garbed like a king readying for battle. Thick gold and white plate covered his entire form, though the brutal edges of human blacksmithing was not evident in his armour.

Instead, one plate of armour smoothly fit over the other and was tapered down to provide a refined, layered look. Intricate designs were moulded into the breastplate, depicting the Royal Guard’s insignia over top of the coiled phoenix, looking upward triumphantly. His pauldrons looked to be the wings of phoenixes spread forward and upward and while emblazoned in gold, their metallic visages were fierce and proud. A cloak made of overlapping, thin plates of thorium was covered by white silk and flowed slowly with his movements as he approached his son.

The massive sword strapped across his back was in stark contrast to the bright demeanor of his armour. A dark, foreboding weapon, it’s blade length was so long that even his incredibly tall father found the blade merely inches above the floor at even the shallowest of angles. The blade itself was red like blood and covered in ancient Thalassian runes of power while the hilt was wrapped in black leather and the pommel a multicoloured gem mined from the mountains of the Sin’Redar Province.   

Placing a gauntleted hand on his head as though he were a small child, the golden haired man gave Adrynar a confident look of support. “You are my son, Adrynar, whether you think so or not. Even if you never lift a sword again in your life, your mother and I will do what we can – which is quite a bit – to support you in your endeavours,” The words were heartfelt, though it was difficult to tell that his father was being kind through his grandiose tones.

Removing his hand, he looked to his wife and nodded: “It’s time, my love.” She took a long look at her son before casting a long glance at the elder Highcrest male.

“The Magisterium has asked me to travel to Alterac to investigate an arcane anomaly in the mountains,” she explained to her son, sounding somewhat frustrated. Moving toward the exit of his room, she turned her attention to Adrynar, “Adrynar, when I return, we’ll visit the Priesthood and they’ll see what you can do.” Placing a hand on the doorframe, she eyed her son. ‘If the Light was with me that night, maybe Fenuran and the others wouldn’t have died,’ the haunting thought went through his mind.

“It’s easy enough for you two to say; you already found your calling. What if the priests say I don’t have any abilities? What then?” His question hung heavy in the air as his magister mother and knight-lord father eyed him worriedly. Frustration built up in him as he looked at them, ‘Stop looking down at me,’ he hissed to himself as his fists clench at his sides. His imperious father quirked a golden brow at his silence, ‘Stop treating me like a baby!’ His mind continued to scream.

“Stop it!” He shouted. The air become incredibly tense as the two elders stared at the so rarely angry youth, “Just stop this!” His father went to question him, but he was interrupted by the explanation he likely did not truly wish to hear: “Stop looking down at me, stop treating me like a baby! Maybe I don’t want to fight, maybe I don’t want to spend my life murdering! Did that ever cross either of your minds!?” His accusations rang out with a fervor not often heard from Adrynar.

Somewhere in his heart he knew his parents meant well, and he could practically hear Tal’theran’s calm voice telling him he shouldn’t be haranguing his parents and that they just wanted to protect him. ‘I’m through being protected, Tal! I won’t let anyone else sacrifice another minute saving me from anything!’ He swore the oath to himself solemnly, but already he knew he was contradicting himself.

His mother was the one to break the silence, however: “Adrynar,” she spoke softly, “We – I, don’t mean to be condescending. I just want to see you happy…” She sounded hurt, and her voice stabbed at the youth’s heart painfully. With that, she pushed back a few long strands of fiery hair, “Until I return, my dear boy,” she spoke, her voice oddly soft.

Stepping out of the room Lathinal left Adrynar and his father standing there. The elder simply stared at his son while the latter stubbornly avoided his piercing gaze. The silence stretched on, for either the elder of the two wanted a response for hurting his beloved, or simply desired to clear the air between them all. “I’ll see your mother out,” he said with a sigh, and stepped out of the room, his heavy, plate footfalls noisily clopping down the hall.

Slumping into a seated position on the corner of his bed, Adrynar could not help but feel like there was a horrible finality to his conversation with his mother.

~*~

Her goodbyes had not been ideal, but Lathinal was not concerned. She had made countless trips across Azeroth in the name of magical control. Though two millennia old, Dalaran still could not be trusted to take of their magical woes, and so it fell to the nigh immortal elves of Quel’Thalas to tend to some of the more subtle problems. “It’s nothing very major,” she assured a displeased looking Vynlarion, “Merely an anomaly in the Alterac Mountains. Likely some overzealous human playing with magicks beyond his control.” She spoke of these dangers lightheartedly, offering husband an easy smile.

His armoured figure did not relax, however, as he studied her, “I still do not see why I cannot accompany you, or at least one of the House guards or even some of the Farstriders.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand, dismissing the idea, “Yes, yes, I know. You don’t wish to be slowed down by having to actually travel. Gods forbid you and the magistrates learn the drudgery that is moving your bodies around.” Though his words were bitter, his tone was wry and he offered her a sly smirk.Placing his hand on the small of her back, he placed a chaste kiss on her lips, “Be swift, my love. I will await your return in a fortnight.”

“So many years have passed since we met and yet you’re still quite the charmer, Sir Highcrest,” she jeered lightly, addressing him by the title she had met him with. Scoffing at the title, she slid her long, narrow fingers down the side of his jaw, “Your beard is becoming white on the sides,” she commented, her voice concerned. “The Dragon of Quel’Thalas finally shows his age! I look forward to being old with you in, oh… millennia?” With that, she removed her hand and raised it into the air, channeling her teleportation. Moving from point to point in the Valley was easy enough, but travelling to another kingdom, one farther from the Sunwell, was more complex, and so it took time. “Goodbye, my Dragon,” she offered her husband with a serene tone of unfaltering love.

He bowed deeply to her; a gesture none had seen the great Dragon of Quel’Thalas offer anyone, save the High King to whom he knelt, before placing a kiss on her pale hand. “And to you, flame of my heart,” with that, she disappeared, her eyes never leaving Vynlarion.

Gravity was upended as she ceased to exist in that spot. Once more, hues of purple and blue encompassed her and were her as she travelled through space and time to her destination. It felt as though she was being tossed around in a powerful tempest, but an experienced magister like herself did not succumb to any fear: this was a magister’s faithful steed, their best means of travel, magic.

After roughly a minute, the cold of a foreign land bit at her exposed extremities, and as her vision came to, she found herself knee deep in a snowdrift. Her light crimson robes were ill fitting for such a climate, but having specialised in fire magicks long ago, she simply breathed warmth into her own person as she might into a spell. With the wintry climate of Alterac abated, she looked around to assess her surroundings.

She had indeed arrived where she intended, though, much to her dismay, the paths that crisscrossed the jagged peaks and barren valleys were lost in the torrent of snow. The frozen precipitate fell in flurries around her, limiting her vision greatly, but she did not need it to know where she was going. A cave was her target, and the great magic being channeled from within it her point of interest within. All around her was white, and even the tall mountains she knew to be all around her were lost, and so she extended her mind outward.

She sought out that powerful vortex of arcane; an anomaly so strong, yet so cleverly masked, it had not yet been detected by Dalaran. ‘Good,’ she thought to herself, ‘Let the humans tinker with magic like children with a new toy, I will deal with this.’ Some time had passed, but eventually she did locate the cave. It was roughly ten kilometers to the north, and she groaned at the thought of walking there, however to teleport any closer would alert the magus inside of her presence. Stealth would be her weapon and her crutch, it seemed.

Once more, she allowed the arcane to flow to her feet, gently levitating her above the heavy snow she knew she was too weak to walk through. Floating forward, she gently set her feet down on the snow; she would walk, but she would not fully carry her own weight. It was a common trick parlayed by magisters who donned heavier armour in Quel’Thalas and she intended to use it to her advantage.

Setting off, her footfalls were silent and all that was left in her wake were tiny depressions of snow left by the heels of her shoes as she floated along. With one foot in front of the other, she moved swiftly over the snow, her mind drifting as she went. ‘I do hope Adrynar and I can speak when I return. He was so upset over my worries,’ she let out a soft, sad sigh of a dejected mother, ‘My dear boy, can you not see I only wish you to be happy?’

Even if he never fought again and instead ruled like most of the aristocracy of the Quel’dorei did, she would be proud of him. It was her happy duty to support her son, though secretly her desire that he find fulfillment in the Light. Though she had never had any affinity to the holy arts, she had met with those who had. High Priest Vandellor had a look of utter serenity all the time, he walked with not regality, but with the humble stride of a man who knew exactly what he was and was content with that. She wished that bliss upon her gentle hearted son.

Even if there never was another warrior at the head of the Highcrest household, she knew it would endure. Though she was not born into their line, she knew of them well: they were the bulwark of Quel’Thalas, the family that lived next to the Amani Empire. Only fifty kilometers south of their valley was Zul’aman, the home of the defeated Amani Trolls who, even after having been bested in a brutal war two thousand years ago, still made small skirmishes against them. The Highcrests, ever watchful, were the king’s first line of defense. It was partly why they were on such good terms with the Kingdom of Strom. The seat of human society, Strom, was led by a family known for their hatred of Trolls, and few elves loathed the creatures more than Highcrests

There would be a place in that world for Adrynar, she assured herself. He may not be able to participate in that battle, but that was not a limitation as her husband saw it. Instead, she looked upon it as a benign fact of life, one that her beloved Vynlarion, she assumed, would accept in time. Their son was still so young and needed to find himself before he would realise the truth. Nevertheless, she was more concerned with the future Lord Highcrest’s feelings on his place in it all. He had grown up around great warriors such as his great-uncle Varinal and the impressive military career of his own father. ‘All of these proud elven knights must wear down his confidence,’ she mused sadly, ‘He must feel very alone.’

It was then that the image of the cowl wearing boy magister came to mind. Tal’theran Vi Felo’aran, a ward of the family they had taken in a few years after their son had been born. The boy was orphaned in the valley when his parents were presumed to be killed by a Troll raiding party, however no bodies had ever been found. He was a curious lad, she found, for he was quiet and cool, but kind and warm with her son, and while so few had seen his face, she knew Adrynar had been most privy to it.

Tal’theran looked up to her, that much she could discern without her own ego polluting it. He too had a fondness for fire based magicks in offense, though he specialised in mirror imagery and illusion more than she. Though unsure, Lathinal felt as though what was between the young mage and her son was more than mere friendship. She was unsurprised when she had started noticing it; they were the only people they knew in their age group. Everyone else in the family was vastly older than them, or mere infants. Truly, she did wish to give Adrynar a sibling, but she knew Vynlarion would be hesitant: the looming shadow of his father still haunted him, and he feared becoming the monster he himself had slain.

“You are not your father!” She had assured him as he sat slumped against their bed. She had just learned that he and his younger sister Lorynthia had assassinated their father with poison. The look on his face, one of dread and terror, was one that Lathinal could never forget from that day. “You will not be like him! This was an ugly, terrible thing, and yet it will improve all. Your mother is free, Xan’lor is free. You are free! Everyone is free from that cruel man.”

He shook his head, his eyes bloodshot, “I sunk to his level to kill him, Lathinal… Poison! We assassinated him. I could have bested him in a duel and exiled him, or deposed him, or –“ he was cut off as she wrapped her arms around his trembling form. Slumping into her, his muffled sobs sounded in her shoulder, “I am terrified to become him. To be the monster he was as my father to our own children. I cannot do that to our unborn child!”

On and on he had lamented and worried over becoming his father, and though the potential was there, Lathinal was confident he would not fall to Vornelius’ darkness. Regardless of what darkness took his heart, he was his own man who had already pledged his life to the child that she nurtured in her womb. Nine long months of worry and stress for both of them for entirely different reasons had abruptly ended when she held Vynlarion Adrynar Highcrest the Seventh in her arms.

They had named him after her husband’s departed friend, someone who had a position not entirely dissimilar to Tal’theran in Adrynar’s life. The servant whom the elder Vynlarion had befriended had accidentally marred a painting of his liege lord, and in a violent outburst of rage and cruelty, Vornelius the Third cut the man down. It was Alenyia, his secretive mother, who decreed a noble’s send off for the murdered man, and it was also she who, in a rare display of love and kindness, consoled her guilt-filled son.

Lathinal preferred to think that, instead of opening an old wound whenever he spoke the name, that naming Adrynar so had helped her husband heal and move on. Instead of remembering a lost friend, he now honoured them through the love he held for his boy. “He has your eyes and my hair,” Vynlarion had commented when he held his son for the first time, wonder and love in his voice.

Forced out of her memories by the sudden halt in her travels, she felt a grave disturbance ahead. The cave still felt far too far away, and this abnormality was not trying to hide itself. The snowstorm about her refused to cease, and so she was unable to see what was coming her way, but in no way could she have been even remotely prepared for the danger that loomed.

Raising her defenses, she summoned her staff and held it out defensively. Tendrils of invisible arcane snaked out in all directions and it was directly before her that the disturbance was felt. A massive creature, much larger than she, and charged with old magic, barrelled toward her from on high. Just as the sky above her darkened, she teleported to ten feet to the side, but found herself immediately covered in snow as a deafening boom sounded and the world trembled against a sudden impact.

Static magic arced off in every direction, and a roiling mass of scales and wings could be seen unfurling itself from where it had attempted to simply crush her. “A dragon, here?!” She deadpanned aloud, though found her own voice silent in comparison to the ear splitting roar that was let off by the great leviathan before her. A fully matured member of the Azure Dragonflight stood before her, its head held high as I trumpeted a bellowing war cry.

Lowering its massive bost, the serpentine beast spread its wings and let forth a shower of icy shards the flew toward her at a rate that even her teleporting was too slow to avoid. A stabbing pain shot into her thigh and shoulder as two of the small, frozen lances met their mark. Blood trickled down her exposed limb and stained her now summoned robes, but she ignored it, too riled up by a rush of adrenaline to care. “What quarrel do you seek with me, child of Malygos?” She called out, her voice amplified by her magic.

The beast offered no intelligible response and instead let a freezing breath fire from its gaping mouth. However, this time, Lathinal was ready. She extended her staff and fired off her own fiery breath, this one of powerful, melting flames that met the wyrm’s assault and created a blinding cloud of steam. “Tell me, dragon!” She implored the beast, knowing that even a powerful magister was no match for an angered, fully grown Blue Dragon.

Finally, she received a response, but it was not one that she had hoped to fear: “You puny elves! You began the cycle of abuse!” The beast roared, speaking in a Thalassian contorted by its largely immobile mouth, “You brought madness upon my lord and death to Sindragosa with your lust for power!” Her eyes widened in surprise: the dragon blamed her for the Highborne’s folly? “Your ruined corpse will be testament to why the mortal races are not worthy of Norgannon’s gift!”

With that, the she knew there would be no escape. ‘I must win or I will die,’ she resolved herself coolly, ‘By the Sunwell, I will not let you strike me down so easily, Dragon.’ Images of Vynlarion and Adrynar flashed into her mind as she extended her staff out, her mouth moving with immortal speed as she chanted a powerful spell. The dialect was a kind of Thalassian reserved only for spell casting; every word empowered the arcane to take shape and though taxing, this was the magic she had studied all her life. Now shouting, a massive, ornate spell matrix appeared above the dragon and was quickly mirrored by one below. Runes twisting and reformed into others while some flitted in and out of existence with a speed that they looked to merely be a blur, “You will not best me, dragon! Magic is a gift unto all!” She shouted as she slammed her staff into her hand, clapping its metal length against her hand.

The high pitched screech of magic was so strong that she flinched from it, though the sky that the dragon encompassed was shortly filled with white hot flames that melted snow fifty feet below in the rolling drifts that served as their battleground. An shockwave of wind exploded outward from her mighty spell, and as she channelled it, Lathinal felt her head become light and her body trembled with the immense power the spell required.

Continuing to summon more magic, regardless of her growing fatigue, she was thrown off her feet by her own spell’s concussive wind and tossed into the snow. Finally, as the spell ceased, the beast roared with agony careening madly around the air. Once brilliant blue scales that shimmered majestically fell in heaps of molten flesh to the ground and wings bereft of sinew were unable to keep the great beast aloft. As the dragon cried out in agony, it crashed into the side of a nearby mountain before tumbling into a still beast at the base of the rocky outcropping.

Its scaled body was charred beyond recognition, and even through its nigh impenetrable body was one that could withstand extreme conditions, surely, Lathinal assured herself, that spell must have bested it. The beast lay still on the ground as she shakily approached it, staff still held at the ready. Her body continued to tremble with magical exhaustion, and a powerful nausea was coming into fruition as she continued to over exert herself and smell the the burnt flesh that permeated the air. Taxed beyond normal limits, she soldiered onward.

As she approached the beast, it lurched upward, attempting to simply consume her, though she teleported back, “You must think me a –“ her sentence was abruptly cut off as she realised the err in her ways. The beast had never intended to eat her. Instead, it forced her back to be caught by its still fully functional and impossibly sharp claws.

The massive claws dug deep into her exposed side and she screamed in pain as she was thrown into the distant snowbanks that had not yet been melted. The pain in her side was blinding and she merely sat there, writhing in agony as blood oozed from her at an alarming rate. Spasms wracked her body as she failed to summon the arcane to cauterise her wounds, and panic was quickly setting in. “I can’t… die… no…” She murmured as she felt the ground beneath her tremble and a great shadow loom over her.

“Pitiful witch,” the dragon above her rumbled. She felt herself being rolled onto her back and stared up at the gruesome sight of the beast. Its scales fell regularly from its body, and where a mighty, majestic maw had once been was now a half melted cacophony of exposed flesh, bone, and scales. One of its eyes was missing and in the other all she could see was madness. Lathinal had heard the death of Sindragosa had driven Malygos mad, but his flight, too? That was a thought not worth entertaining. “Die, now…” The beast grumbled as one of its forelegs crumpled forward with a sickening crunch of bone.

Magic came to bear before its malformed maw, and all around its now non-functional wings small shards of ice were forming. She tried to lift her staff, but failed, finding the instrument too heavy for her failing body. Murmuring to herself, she tried to raise a hand and summon any spell, but again she failed. The dragon above her let forth a sickening laugh as it watched her struggle: “What is it, whelp? Begging for your life? Spare me, I will give you no mercies.”

The beast, either mad by birth or by invention of its lord, did not seem to even notice the severity of its wounds, and when it went to unleash its lethal assault of icy lances that would impale her many times over, she countered, her voice defiant, if weak, and her spell work masterful: “I will not leave my son motherless and my husband alone, you vile wretch!” A spear of arcane, phantasmal in appearance, was summoned above her and launched upward, driving itself through the dragon’s exposed flesh and through the side of its skull.

Its own spell failed, the great beast roared in agony, shaking its head as dark blood oozed from the large wound. Collapsing sideways, it rolled completely over before struggling to stand again, still wailing from its injuries, “How dare you!” It roared madly, “You will die a thousand deaths, you witch!” However Lathinal was already struggling to her feet.

One hand pressed to her side, she summoned agonisingly painful fire into the wound, cauterising it, and though she collapsed to her side with her own screams of misery and pain, she did not relent as she sealed the wound. “Tal’theran,” she whispered, her spirit connecting with the Sunwell and sending the message to the young mage, “Alert my beloved…”

Having sent her last ditch message, she pulled herself to her feet once more, leaning heavily on her staff only to find the dragon she faced also back on its feet. “Stubborn wyrm…” she groaned before moving her free hand forward, “Felo’dandun!” The words echoed and she sent a flurry of fireballs at the beast, pelting it in the face with a steady repetition. The beast slumped backward, its disfigured features once more hidden by smoke.

However the beasts reprieve was not a long lived one, and in the draconic tongue, it uttered “Mel andlar borun miranol!” With its unknown words, a hailstorm of ice cascaded down upon Lathinal, slicing through her robes and delving deep into her flesh. She was quick to respond, summoning a ring of fire that collapsed in upon itself, engulfing the beast in a searing, volcanic heat before simply collapsing backward into the snow as she watched the dragon, too, fall forward, its half missing tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Her heart beat loudly in her chest as her breath came out in small puffs before her face. ‘I’ve lost so much blood,’ she thought to herself as her eyes began to feel heavy, ‘I must stay awake, they will come…’ However, try as she might, through both exhaustion and blood loss, her eyelids felt simply too heavy and she succumbed to slumber, the cold of the snow leeching her body’s warmth away with every second passed.

~*~

The screams had not abated, and it was becoming difficult to keep all the servants away from the farthest room in the west wing of the estate. Vynlarion was unhappy about what had to be done, but even more concerned that word might get out and be misconstrued. If the people were to find out that the Magisterium were giving such powerful runes to a boy, they would be irate; due process was being thrown aside and safety for a child was too being ignored. “Make it stop!” The distant voice hollered brokenly, pleading in vain for mercy, “I can’t bear it, please, stop!”

Vynlarion struggled to focus on the letter in hand as Tal’theran was practically tortured in the other room. His other magistrates had insisted he stay away, but the aging lord was resolute in his support of his youngest aide: the boy would know he was nearby, even if he could not stop what had begun. Half completed runes would only exasperate the pain in the long term, and without them he would be unable to control his own abilities. “Is there nothing you can do?” A voice spoke from across the large desk he sat at.

Seated there was his younger sister, Lorynthia Highcrest. Unlike he, her hair was as black as the deepest night and she wore a simple leather riding tunic, slacks and knee high boots. He had always tried to advise her to dress more the part of a proper lady, but she was as stubborn as he was, and so the conversations had never gone far. He did not respond to her question immediately, intent on reading the final sentence, “It would appear the High King is considering a child,” he remarked lightly, eyeing the signature of the Grand Magister with a bored expression. It was surprising to see that the vaunted man had written Vynlarion a letter in person, but more so intriguing was the content. The king had held off on children for over two thousand years, and only now did he consider it? ‘He must be feeling his years,’ the elven lord mused.

Lorynthia tossed her black ponytail over her shoulder and rose to leave, adamant upon either receiving an answer or seeing to the problem at hand herself. Placing the letter on the cluttered desk before him, he extended a hand, ushering her to stay seated. “Lorynthia, you know as well as I do that this is necessary. It pains me to hear Tal’theran in such pain, but if this is not done, his innate abilities will overwhelm and kill him,” his words were exasperated, though he kept his tone as gentle as possible. Their relationship had been greatly strained by their concerted assassination of their father, and it had only become worse afterward.

Their intent had been to free the Highcrest family and all of Quel’Thalas of a man so cruel and evil that he would put his servants to the sword for slights, but in reality they replaced a demon with a spectre. The fear of becoming his father plagued Vynlarion daily, for he saw so much of the accursed man in himself. “Still, could he not be sedated while they do that to him? It’s awful,” her words were pained and it was a strange thing to hear his sister, normally so assured and collected, instead flitting between sympathy and fear. Her eyes met his as he stared at her for a moment as they both listened to the all too constant screams of the youth in the nearby room abruptly cease. “… Vynlarion,” she began, looking to him.

Whether it was because they were siblings or through mere coincidence, he was already on his feet, “I know, I’ll take a look.” Moving toward the door, the floor creaked under his armoured girth, and he quickly found himself joined by his sister who was quickly outpacing him out the door. “Stay here, Lory,” he said sternly, deciding to use her nickname for emphasis, though she only shook her head, her slender form slipping between the doorframe and his person easily.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Vyn,” she said lightly, her voice devious and cheeky as she moved toward the far set of doors. Two guards, donning tabards adorned with the coiled phoenix insignia of the Highcrest house, eyed the approaching lord and lady and quickly parted. Deciding not to embarrass her by treating her like a child in front of his guards, Vynlarion allowed her to accompany him and motioned for the doors to be opened. “We wish to see Tal’theran,” Lorynthia spoke in an authoritative tone as she squared her shoulders and straightened her back.

With her hands folded before her and her stance regal and stiff, the elder Highcrest sibling could not help but see so much of their mother in Lorynthia. Alenia Highcrest, née Duskwhisper, had not been seen for months, and though no one dared to think her dead, Vynlarion shuddered to think what the shadowy woman was doing. ‘Gods only know what kind of dark machinations she has found herself after her husband’s death,’ he thought glibly, however the only real situation he could imagine her in was one he did not wish to see.

In his mind’s eye he saw their mother, seated on the ruined parapets of a once mighty elven home, looking over the forest around the destroyed home. Violet standards waved slowly in the breeze, joined by those of Quel’Thalas. Her black hair, streaked with white, waving with the forgotten house sigil and her equally dark dress shimmering like the night sky, including all the stars that went with it sewn into her gown.‘She’s probably still mourning what that monster did to her own family,’ Vynlarion admitted to himself, a burning point of guilt for chastising his mother for being inclined to shadow magic appearing in his heart.

He was, however, abruptly brought out of his reverie and into a new reality he too did not desire to see. The doors parted, he and his younger sister we granted access into the arcanist’s lounge. The room was barely used, and only now did it have a central table and three masked magisters standing around the writhing form of Tal’theran. Lorynthia covered her mouth at the gruesome display, and even Vynlarion’s brows furrowed at what he saw.

No more than eighteen years old, the boy laid naked upon the ceremonial slab of granite. Up and down his legs, over his hips, up his chest, down his arms and snaking up to his temples were intricate runes that had been burned into his body. Nevertheless, the grooves of the runic table were filled with his blood, and the room smelt strongly of gore.

Tal’theran’s hair was matted to his forehead and sticky with blood elsewhere as it awkwardly clung to his exposed body. The very flesh that had been runically augmented smoked thin streaks of violet smoke and as Vynlarion approached, he could see the veins protruding from the mage’s forehead clearly. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, but upon seeing the elven lord, the magister reached out, “My… lord…” He murmured, his voice hoarse and dry from his hours of torture.

Vynlarion found an odd sense of fatherly protectionism step in then, and he moved to the mage’s side, placing a gauntleted hand on his slender shoulder, “Be strong, Tal’theran, they appear to be done.” Looking up to the mages who stood nearby for confirmation of this fact, they shook their heads, their expression inscrutable behind their masks. The armoured lord frowned, but spoke nothing of the continued pain that the youth below him would have to endure.

“No, please…” The mage groaned as he tried to speak further, though was shushed by the man he wished to speak to. Lorynthia stood next to her brother, her eyes wide with horror as she looked over the carnage that was embedding runes into a person. The mage locked eyes with the roguish woman and she slowly touched her forehead with the hand that previously covered her mouth.

Turning, she grasped Vynlarion by the forearm, stopping him in his place as he went to leave. Surprised, he turned to face her and as he went to speak, he saw the words his sister spoke mouthed by the mutilated boy: “You have to listen, there’s not much time: Lathinal is dying.” Even the thought saw the regal man’s composure crack as he took one long step to the boy’s bedside, leaning over.

Blond hair tumbled forward as he was started listlessly upward, “What are you saying, Tal’theran?” He urged him quickly. Under the ever-present glow of his eyes, cool blue irises dilated inward, “Speak, damn you!” He demanded of the boy, though he could only groan weakly, before looking over to Lorynthia, who nodded again.

“She contacted me an hour ago through the Sunwell… She’s in danger…” The words came out of Lorynthia’s mouth, and between her and the fallen magister, it was enough to send Vynlarion into a state of emergency. Placing a hand on the boy shoulder, he squeezed it lightly, an earnest expression not often seen from one of his station.

Though his eyes were plain with the worry etched into them, a small, grateful smile appeared on his lips: “Thank you, Tal’theran. Your strength in delivering this message to me under such dire circumstances is admirable,” with that, he stood up and motioned for Lorynthia, already on the move to the doors. “I need you to contact the Farstriders, tell them we have an enemy in Alterac. Have them find out who did this!” Wordlessly the younger sibling sprinted off silently, her task at hand of the utmost importance to them both.

As Vynlarion entered the foyer entryway, he called out with the full extent of his impressive voice: “I need a magistrate in the entry hall immediately! Summon the house guard and prepare them for battle! Send word to my son that I will be leaving!” His voice echoed through the entire large mansion, for it had been emboldened by the arcane that came so naturally to all children of the Sunwell. The room about him became a flurry of commotion as the guards left their stations to do as he had asked.

Impatience had already peaked in him when he was still in the foyer five minutes later, house guards still assembling their armour. Looking to his Chief Magistrate, a sagely elf known as Reylan Frostguard, the elven lord spoke again: “I have no time for this! Send me alone and the others when they are ready.” The old magistrate’s eyes widened, though he simply bowed wordlessly and stepped to the side to prepare the portal.

As one of the last remnants of his father’s brutal regime, the man was used to having commands barked at him by his liege lord, however the urgency in Vynlarion’s voice surprised the Chief Magistrate. “At once, my lord,” he spoke, his tone a simpering one. The very fabric of space and time seemed to curve in upon itself, a portal sized area darkening before him. Arcs of magic shot off in either direction as the scene before him brightened into what he saw as a snowy mountain pass.

When the portal stabalised, Vynlarion wasted no words as he stepped through it. Teleportation was one means of transport, but stepping into a portal was an entirely different scenario, he found. Where one was an involuntary movement of one’s body by another source, the act of stepping into a portal required much more gusto the first few times. The world fell away before him as he moved into the portal’s event horizon, and once he was completely through, his body simply ceased to be a physical form and was whisked away toward the intended location where it would rematerialize.

He also passively noted that every magister’s portals and teleportation held a subtly different, if similar, colour scheme: his wife’s were more dominated by fire magicks during the transport, whereas Tal’theran’s were mostly violet with the arcane, and Reylan’s a frigid azure colouration of his frost magicks. After what felt like an eternity of disembodied falling, he reappeared in knee deep snow. The world around him was blindly bright and very cold, and instantly his eyes were forced to a squint. “Lathinal!?” He called out, his voice so loud that it echoed off the nearby mountains.

Trudging forward in no particular direction, he looked around for any sign of the battle, though quickly realised that her footsteps, as unlikely as it was that she had deigned to walk through the snow, would have been covered, “Lathinal!” His voice echoed once more, sounding more desperate. It was then that the elf, covered in plate armour and hefting a massive broadsword across his back, broke out into a sprint through the snow.

Wide swaths of the loosely packed frozen precipitate were kicked up around him in a flurry of motion and every step felt like being stabbed in the lungs, but he did not relent. Fatigue ignored and the lack of warmth in his extremities forsaken, the only thought in his mind was that of his beloved and saving her from whatever fate she had been witness to.

~*~

When he happened upon the mountain pass he had intended to travel to, it was not the great, snow covered beast she had battled that he noticed first. Instead, it was the ruination that they had wrought. A large section of a nearby mountain-side had been carved out and laid in a pile of rubble below while, nearby, a one hundred foot circle of snow had seemingly been flash melted and a perfect, thick layer of ice had formed where it had collected. Various spots in the ground steamed with fiery debris while others contained unsightly mounds of melted flesh and scales.

Vynlarion looked in disgust over the dragon that lay still in a heap of itself. The intelligent beast stared lifelessly outward, its single eye glazed over. However he did not care if it was alive or dead; a dragon could be bested in its shape easily; half of its face was missing, its wings ruined, its forepaws snapped and so much of its flesh had been seared away vital organs spilt outward. Nearby, a still form laid in the snow with vibrant crimson tresses splayed out.

Fury built up in his person; righteous, undignified, chaotic rage. His hands shook as he grasped his sword, uncaring of the dangers that he was putting himself in. With no grand battle cry and instead merely a guttural roar, he charged the beast, blade held outward like a lance. ‘She’s so still,´ the realisation came to him as he charged the beast and he slowed to a stop midway, “La… Lathinal?” He said, his voice small.

Dropping his blade in the snow, he stumbled toward her, fear stealing his balance from him. Upon arriving at the still form of his beloved, his heart sank and he simply fell to his knees at her side. Blood matted the side of her face and he saw a deep wound that had cracked her skull. A large hole was present in her shoulder which too had been clogged by frozen blood and another in her thigh. However, of most worry to Vynlarion was the three huge wounds that marred her side. Looking as though they had rent flesh, bone and sinew in one fell swoop, three gruesome, uneven and agonisingly painful indentations were left in her side.

Her robes had been burnt away around the wound, and he realised that she had cauterised the fatal wound to continue fighting: “Oh, gods…” He said, removing his gauntlet and placing a hand on the seared wound. The skin was cool and rough, however much to his shock, it just barely rose and fell unevenly under his hand. ‘This wound must have been horrific, and yet she cauterised it and fought on?’ Slipping a hand between the packed snow and under her back, he hefted her up across his lap. Her head fell backward limply, and he quickly readjusted his hand, supporting: “Lathinal, wake up,” he leaned toward, her, “You’ve got to wake up!” Vynlarion’s voice cracked with untold misery.

His very heart felt as though it was breaking under the immense strain of seeing his beautiful wife so disfigured and wounded, and with how faintly her lungs expanded, she would not live much longer. However, much to his unrestrained glee, her eyes fluttered open, the once vibrant azure glow to them dim and uneven. “Vyn… my love,” she said weakly, her voice barely above her whisper. Her words were hoarse and weak as she spoke, and blood oozed from her ear and nostril as she looked at him.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes as his face fell into a look of pure desolation, “Lathinal, please! Tell me what I must do, tell me how I can save you! We can dress your wounds and keep you warm until –“ he felt cool, shaky fingers cover his mouth. They were streaked with blood and he quickly realised that there were more wounds he had not yet seen. The elven lady cupped his cheek for a moment before letting her hand go limp and be caught by Vynlarion, “Lath…” He begged her.

“I’m so glad…” She whispered, tears brimming in her own eyes, “So glad that you… with me, now…” Her words were being indistinguishable as she faded into death in his arms, “… my dragon…” With that, her lungs expelled their terminal breath, and she fell still in his arms, her head becoming limp against his hand.

Tears fell freely from his eyes as he lifted his head to the sky, letting forth a broken cry of supreme despair. His heart hammered against his chest, but to him it felt still. His hands shook and stung from the cold, but to Vynlarion they may have been useless stumps. Crumpling over her corpse, he held her dearly, “You cannot…” He murmured, “You cannot leave me alone in this world, without you, the flame of my heart is…” He choked back wracking sobs, his head pounding from the horrors of a life without her flashing before him

“… gone.”

~*~

When Adrynar spoke with his mother next, it was not as he had hoped. Still beautiful, she lay still on a bed of roses, tulips, lilacs, and various other flowers. She was adorned in her finest dress; a fiery gown that began with a single, wide strap donned loosely as a collar and that led down to cover her chest in two separate pieces before joining the rest of the dress. The smooth, silken fabrics that shimmered with an unknown material were separated by a section of perfectly formed pleats of a skirt that rested beneath. Upon her forearms were the twin bracelets she had been given by her father on her wedding day; white gold serpents coiling upward and bejeweled with rubies. A tiara, grander than the one she hard often been seen in, was similarily decorated, however between the intricate designs one could see the formation of two twin phoenixes facing outward and also encrusted with rubies and diamonds. Her hair, once matted with blood and filthy, had been cleaned and dressed. Half her hair was resting over her breast and the other resting behind her back.

Seated at her side, the late woman’s child could only stare. She was so peaceful, so quiet; something that he had rarely seen, and it felt unnatural. “I’m sorry I yelled,” he murmured, his voice quiet, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I loved you before I was too late…” His voice wavered, and he removed his sight from the still form of his mother whom he had spurned. ‘Just tell me you forgive me,’ he begged her body silently, slumping forward in his seat.

The room was silent as he sat there, completely devoid of life, save himself. It quickly became suffocating, engrossing him as Adrynar kept his eyes shut, refusing to cry. He couldn’t be weak anymore; it had been his weakness that had seen their last conversation end so coldly when all she wanted to do was show him that she cared. “Why couldn’t I have just said ‘thank you’!?” He blurted out, his shoulder shuddering as tears fell from his eyes.

He wanted so badly for his father to be there, to forgive him, to tell him that he was there, but the elusive man had not been seen since he had walked home, his wife’s body in his arms. ‘He looked so dead,’ the youth recalled. His father’s face, devoid of emotion, and merely laid his beloved wife down upon the table which had been readied and left without a word to his son.

To his surprise, the doors opened to the simple room and from them stepped in a hobbling figure. His robes were hung loose around his shoulder, exposing his newly scarred chest, and his face was made visible as he removed his cowl. Tal’theran, so often full of clever quips and kindness, looked both exhausted, in pain, and heartbroken. Adrynar eyed his friend, unable to stand. ‘He came to say goodbye in his condition?’ He looked between the body of Lady Lathinal and her grieving son, “I… wanted to see her, and…” He grunted, clutching his arm for a moment, “You too, of course.”

Momentarily pulled out of his reverie, Adrynar pushed himself to a stand, finding he had been seated for so long his back cracked and his legs felt weakened when he moved. Offering his seat to the mage, the injured youth hesitated before silently moving toward it and lowering himself down with a great deal of effort.

Moving to his mother’s side, he placed a hand on her cold shoulder, the feeling of her skin so unnatural to a woman so fiery in all aspects of her life. “I just feel awful, Tal…” He offered as his friend looked to him imploringly, “You know what the last thing I said to her was? I told her to quit looking down on me.” His words were flat and cold as he spoke them. Pausing for a moment, he offered a cold chuckle, “I’m an awful person, I shouted at my mother for worrying about me and now she’s…” He trailed off, removing his hand from her body, “Now she’s gone.”

Tal’theran cocked his head, and as his ginger hair fell away from his face, Adrynar saw part of the extent of his runes: they trailed up the sides of his neck, meeting at the back before splitting again and ending at the temples. The skin was raw, frail, and many places seeped little trails of blood. “Gods, Tal… Why did you have that done to yourself?” The bereaved young man asked hopelessly, reaching forward before lowering his hand, not wishing to press any boundaries the magistrate might have.

A heavy silence fell over them as the magister refused to speak, only staring up at his future liege lord’s bloodshot eyes before sighing and looking away. “I didn’t want to tell you because you’d worry. It’s selfish of me, but I prefer you smiling and being happy, and for you to know would only cause you pain,” his explanation came out gently, but the emotionally raw Adrynar’s brow twitching gave Tal’theran cause to elaborate, “Like a few elves, I take in too much arcane without thinking. Without tempering, it could overload and kill me. So, to combat that, I had these runes put on my body: they help me control the arcane more precisely.”

The explanation was one Adrynar had suspected, however even the thought of losing someone he considered his best friend and his mother was one that forced a lump to grow in his throat. Looking at the seated mage, he shook his head, his short blond hair tossing from side to side, “You can’t die, okay?” He said miserably, “I can’t lose you too. Mother’s gone, father’s losing himself to grief and I’m not strong enough to save him… You’re the last person that’s close to me.”

At his words, Tal’theran stood quickly, the process causing him an agonising amount of pain as delicate flesh was torn across his body, however he ignored it as he moved forward, embracing the grief stricken Adrynar. Holding the young knight close, he spoke firmly: “You won’t lose me, I promise.” At his words, the blond elf seemed to remember all the pain that he had put aside for a moment and clutched at the mage’s robes desperately, sobbing anew into his shoulder.

“I hate this so much!” He whined between hacking sobs, “I wish this pain would go away… I miss her so much!” Tal’theran did not speak, and instead merely held him as he let out the seemingly unending pain that came with so brutally losing a parent.  “Why did I have to be so cruel?! Why were my last words to my own mother so cold?” His rhetorical questions went unanswered; the mage knew well that he did not mean to speak, his actions alone provided what little support her could give.

After a long few minutes of the young lord continuing to weep into his friend’s robes, he separated himself, wiping at his eyes and nose, “Thank you, Tal… I believe you. I hope – no, I know you’ll be here for me…” Placing a hand on the mage’s neck with the utmost gentle touch, he smiled a small smile, and even through his heartbreak, Tal’theran found, he had not lost his kind heart, “I’ll be here for you, too, okay?” The mage’s eyes widened and he simply nodded, at a loss for words, “You don’t have to face this alone anymore.”

“Thank you, Adrynar…” The words were quiet, but as his friend spoke them, Adrynar could have sworn he saw his mother’s smiling face, encouraging him, in his mind’s eye. Looking back to her body, he offered a prayer: ‘Mother, I know I’ll never forget your smile, your hug, your lilac perfume or the way you always believed in me. Thank you for everything you ever did; I’ll never forget you.’ The thought brought more tears to his eyes, but in that moment, his love for his departed mother was stronger than his misery.

~*~

It had been two weeks since Lathinal died and Vynlarion had barely eaten, barely slept, not shaven or bathed. All the mirrors in their – in his chambers – had been destroyed during various fits of rage, though he was still sane enough to know he looked awful. He felt skinny, sick and dirty, but somehow the elven lord felt comforted by these facts. It was as though he was slowly dying, and he relished in that idea. ‘Let me join you, Lathinal. Let this hollowness be filled again by the flame that is you,’ he begged her invisible spectre silently, however no response came from that which was never there.

Currently seated in the office that was adjoined to his bedroom, he continued writing the same lengthy letter to his departed love that he had begun the first day. It had become a protracted piece of misery and madness that, when read, flitted from emotion to emotion without any rhyme or reason. However, he continued to write, for Vynlarion found solace in the idea that somewhere, somehow, Lathinal could read what he had written.

He had gone through seven quills and was on his last one, which worried him; he would have to send for more, and he had not left his room in weeks. Many people had come to the door in that time too, all of them being sent away: Xan’lor, his elder brother, had come from Silvermoon City to comfort him, only to be turned away by a lack of response. The meek mage had been passed over to succeed their tyrannical father for Vynlarion, a reality that the latter knew was due to their dread similarities. ‘Would you be this broken had mother died, father?’ He asked the air silently, scoffing at the reality that he would have likely revelled in Alenyia’s death. Unfortunately for him, the suddenly old feeling lord mused, she had outlived him and seemed genuinely happy.

She too had come to his door, something that had surprised him greatly. Thankfully, neither she, nor her eldest son, had used their varying magicks to force their way in; a courtesy he both appreciated and dreaded. Instead, she had opted to simply speak through the door: ‘I understand your pain better than most, my son. When your father wiped out my house, I lost all hope; the world lost its colour and happiness was merely a cruel myth to me. You are strong, Vynlarion, stronger than myself and stronger than your father. Do not lose yourself to you pain, my beloved son.’ Her words were heartening, but still not enough to bring him out of his reverie.

Varinal, his uncle who had trained him in combat, had also come to the door, and in a strangely serious voice he spoke of the day he lost his own lover and how it had driven him to a grief so terrible he had been imprisoned for the crimes he wrought in his madness. Again, Varinal too had emphasised that he was not on his own. ‘I am utterly alone, you fools!’ His hand tensed around the quill he helt as his thoughts turned bitter, ‘I am the Dragon of Quel’Thalas: my duty is to my people. I am more symbol than man, and yet my beloved was able to stir my heart and bring joy to my life that none others could even come close to.’ The only ones he had not heard from in his immediate circle of close family members were his sister and son; two people that he had expected to be the first.

Vynlarion dreaded what he was doing to his son; ‘Adrynar, Gods give you the strength I lack to get through this. Let someone keep you close as you grieve, for I am too weak to aid you…’ His thoughts trailed off as he imagined his son, his loving and kind son sobbing on the still corpse of his mother, and he felt his heart grow ever colder, if such were even possible at that point. Looking up from his protracted and highly unhealthy letter, he found the sun to be rising over the mountains outside. “Even the sunrise looks pale and dead without you here,” he whispered to the air, finding his own voice weak and pathetic.

As he went to comment on the pathetic sunrise before him in the letter, he heard a series of knocks at his door. Not even bothering to rise from his chair, he heard them sound again shortly after before hearing a distinct voice: “Brother? It’s me, Lorynthia,” the feminine voice sounded muffled, and even though he sat far away, his sharp ears could easily make out what she said. However, the content of what she had to say was surprising enough that he ceased writing to listen: “I know you’re feeling dead inside, and I know I can’t relate, but there’s someone else you need to be speaking to right now. Someone else than the ghost of Lathinal.”

Turning in his seat, he stared at the double doors that opened to his room, “Adrynar is planning her funeral as we speak. Why are you making your son, who’s only a child, do that?” Her question was accusatory, and he felt a pang of guilt ring through his hollow chest, “How can you subject that sweet boy to this, Vynlarion? He spends his days preparing to say goodbye to his mother when it should be you who’s doing this!” Slowly standing, he felt a foreign sensation build in his person: anger. ‘Why should I be subjected to that? She was my wife! The flame of my heart! She was only his…’ His thought trailed off as he felt hollowed out anew.

‘… She was his mother,’ the impact of the words feeling so powerful in is mind he clutched his chest, the rank bedclothes he had been wearing feeling dirty against his fingers. “Have I become so selfish?” He asked the air, “Lathinal, what have I done to our boy?” He slumped against the entrance to his study, long blond hair tangled and dirty falling over his face. Lorynthia was still speaking at the door, but a deafening white nose in his mind shut it all out. In his mind’s eye he saw his son, eyes bloodshot and hollow, drudging through their large manor as he prepared to give his mother a proper goodbye alone.

Forcing himself to stand, he hurried to the doors of his chambers, fumbling with the lock before merely tearing it off the door and tossing it to the side. Throwing open the doors, the brightly lit hall outside forced him to squint. Before him stood his sister, her slight frame adorned in a black, sleeveless dress. Her hair was loose and sat around her shoulders, and though beyond her wearing of a dress, the horrified look in her eyes was what gave him pause. “Vynlarion, you…” she trailed off, looking him up and down.

Vynlarion had seen his reflection in the shards of mirrors around his bedroom, he knew how he looked. Streaks of grey had appeared in his blond mane, his beard was spotty with the same silvery tones, and his face was slightly gaunter. Though, of greatest note, were his eyes: gone was the look of a proud man, fierce and true. Replacing them were listless orbs that stared dully forward, their countenance forever marked by a loss he could never recover from.

Standing a short distance away from Lorynthia was his son, and next to him Tal’theran. Adrynar’s gaze was one of dismay and heartbreak as he looked upon his father. The man he loved and respected above all else, the man no one seemed to be able to conquer in battle, best in politicking, or outmanoeuver in strategy had been ruined by his own heart. The young Highcrest turned away from his father, only to feel a large hand be placed on his shoulder, and a cold mockery of his father’s voice sound: “Your training in swordsmanship will begin anew with Varinal in a fortnight.”

The statement seemed bizarre to those gathered, save the future lord of the house, who knew the dread implications. The father who had welcomed his council in his own life had, too, left and was replaced by one that dictated, not discerned what was best for his son. Adrynar felt tears spring anew in the corners of his eyes as his father turned his back on him and returned to his room, “I will be downstairs momentarily for the funeral.”

As the double doors to Vynlarion’s chambers closed once more, Adrynar felt his legs buckle beneath him as he stared at the space that his father had once occupied. He faintly registered Tal’theran’s grasp on his shoulder and his aunt’s pleading for him to stand, but in truth the only thing he could register was the reality that, though it had been his mother who had died, he had lost both his parents.