World of Warcraft®

The nights in Gilneas seemed to stretch, smothering time itself and strangling the life out of each second before it moved onto the next. Finnaeus had no inkling as to how long he sat on his deck, letting his mind wander without losing his focus. He peered into the darkness, deep as the ocean’s waters, his hands clutched around his musket to anchor him from getting lost. There was once a time when he was incredibly clumsy with the musket. It wasn’t until his father set him down, two weeks before he set out with his brother to fight in the Second War, and taught him how to shoot. His father would impress upon him not to embarrass Gilneas in front of the other nations, and Finnaues would not allow himself to disappoint his father, or his country. His brother was the one that always rebelled against him. Finnaeus was the loyal one. More a farmer than fighter, skilled with crops and not the sword, Finnaeus trained until the very last day before he traveled to the ravaged human kingdoms to push back the Horde. Inwardly he chafed against fighting, but he quelled his own protests in the face of his duty.

Finnaeus was glad when Gilneas walled itself in when the rest of the world succumbed to death and disease. It made sense to remove the sick to protect the healthy. He would rather his young girl grow in a world protected from undead horrors that rumbled outside of the walls, from green-skinned monstrosities that reveled in death and bloodshed. Gilneas severed those parts of the world from itself, and thusly allowed itself to survive. The famine threatened that life, the recent appearance of worgen even more so, and it was up to Gilneans to perform their duty and fight back these threats. He loved his father, and Finnaeus wished that his father had not gone out hunting and come back with a bite that he never explained to his son, a bite that did not respond to any healing or treatment. But the past could not be changed. His father had turned into a monster. He had to be put down.

The silence broke with the sound of padded footsteps on the grass. Tentative steps. Finnaeus stood, cloaked in shadow, his musket aimed out onto the field. His eyes scanned the inky blackness, trying to catch any sign of movement. While his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could barely see. He did not want to move; to make a sound would give away his position. The seconds dragged. Finally the sound of snapping metal rang out, and a howl of surprise. It came from Finnaeus’s left, and he whipped his musket around. In a few quick strides he was off the porch, stepping into the darkness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, aware that his back was to the house in a vulnerable position. But he knew his trap worked. He slowed, the fog swirling, and he reached the trap.

It was empty.

Finnaeus stared at it, wondering what had happened. But he did not have time to ponder the mystery; a loud crash echoed behind him, followed by a series of screams.

The beast had tricked him.

Horrified, he turned, running without thought. He launched onto the porch; the front door had been smashed through. Finnaeus jumped over the debris of the door.

The worgen stood tall in the living room, haunched over, blood dripping from the huge claws on its hands. To his right Finnaeus saw his wife, slumped against the wall, her body crashed through the desk that lay against the wall. He could not tell if she was breathing; he could only notice the crimson stains of gushing blood blossoming on her dress, and oozing down her face. Three savage claw marks ran down her face. Further back he saw his daughter Lydia, herself screaming in terror. Finnaeus could not tell if her face was covered with her blood, or the blood of her mother. The creature roared, stomping forward to claim Lydia. Finnaeus raised the musket and shot. The gunshot echoed in his ears, and the bullet struck the beast in its shoulder. His shot was off. He had panicked.

The worgen howled in pain and turned. Finnaeus stared into the creature’s wild eyes and saw nothing but primal madness. A thin scar ran above and below the worgen’s eye, the same scar that surrounded his father’s paternal but stern eye as he taught his boys to fight and to live with dignity. The worgen moved quickly, covering the small distance between the two. Finnaeus made for another shot, but the beast smacked the gun out of his hand in one motion and then slammed into him. Finnaeus went flying, the smell of death and matted fur in his face. He landed hard on the ground, shocked and stunned. The worgen pressed forward, lowering its fangs to clench around his throat. Desperate, Finnaeus reached into his pocket, removed his knife, and jabbed upwards. The knife pierced the worgen’s chin, sliding through the beast until he had plunged the blade up to the hilt. The worgen let out a whine, and then crashed over to the side. Finnaeus lay there, completely shocked, waiting for the worgen to rise. It never did.

Finnaeus stood, his heart racing. The house was a mess. Lydia was still screaming. He ran over to Claire. Her eyes stared upwards, alive but barely, blood gushing from her. Panicking, he placed his hands over the slashes on her face, and he muttered. His hands glowed green; it was a spell to maintain the health of crops. It had to work, why wouldn’t it? The words flowed out, non-stop, the green swirling around his hands. The bleeding stopped – thank the Light – but the vicious gashes remained. His daughter rushed towards him, and he embraced her with as much emotion as he could muster. He hugged her to his body, thankful that she was alive. He held her close, so close that he could see the gash on her back, the blood trickling out of her little body. It was at that moment Finnaeus buried his face into his daughter’s hair, stroking her back to comfort her, and he started to cry.

***

In the days that followed, Finnaeus straightened up the house. He fixed the door and removed the debris from the living room. No one who called to visit or passed his land could tell that a vicious animal had penetrated his defenses and ravaged his home. He tended to Claire and Lydia, keeping them comfortable as they rested, and in his spare time he tended the crops. Every other day he would venture to town, selling some produce at a reasonable price. The townsfolk would ask about the family, and he would politely tell them that everything was fine, truly, and that they were getting on very well. When pressed for details, he would simply tell them that they were a bit under the weather, and were not up for a trip. That appeased most, and for the rest of the conversation they would talk about the state of affairs, gossip about the political climate, wonder aloud about the world outside their walls, curious enough to talk about it but not interested enough to care. Finnaeus would nod.

On the seventh day since he was forced to put down his father, Finnaeus returned from his normal trip to town. He entered the house, quiet and serene. After setting his parcels on the floor, he ascended the stairs and entered his bedchambers. Claire slept, the scars still red and raw across her face. He approached her, careful to stay quiet lest he wake her. He watched her breath, and memories of happier times floated through his mind. It was easy to remember her face before the scars, effortless to recall how she smelled when they embraced, before the odd stench from her wounds clogged his nostrils and almost gagged him. It was not easy, though, to see that the wounds would not heal fully, that her hair had grown longer in seven days than it had in seven weeks, and that her fingers started to elongate, her nails sharpening. The worst was that look in her eyes, that stare when the eyes looked empty and yet wild, when the Claire he knew got lost in darkness.

Finnaeus lay a hand on her cheek, and Claire grumbled, almost growled, before turning. There were no tears in Finnaeus’s eyes – there would be plenty of time for that later. He could only allow himself room to fulfill his duty. He took the knife out of his pocket, gleaming as if it hadn’t been coated with a worgen’s blood a week before, and he plunged it directly through Claire’s heart. With a sigh he pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling any sound of a scream, and he watched as the panic in her face faded into something fixed, unmoving. Dead.

With an ease belying the horror spilling over him, he removed the knife and then left the bedchamber. He opened the door opposite his, and there on her bed lay Lydia. Sweet Lydia. Her blond hair fell across her face, the face once so angelic that the townsfolk swore she was born of Light itself. Now it looked pale, ragged, with dark circles under her eyes. Her feet twitched in her sleep, and the gash on the back of her neck had grown red and irritated. She would go any day now – her young body could not handle the curse that spread through her body. He clenched his knife, and he felt his willpower starting to fail him. With a gasp he staggered into the wall, his hand clenched on the handle of the blade, wondering if he had it in him to slay his dear, sweet Lydia. Claire would understand – she knew what she would turn into, the beast she would become – but how could a child understand that the balance must be preserved, even if it meant she must die? No child could fathom that. Even he sometimes could not fathom it.

Collecting himself, he strode towards the bed. He could not touch her. It would be wrong, somehow. A sob escaped him, a reaction totally primal, and he thrust the dagger through his daughter’s chest. Her eyes flew open, but she could not utter a single word. Lydia’s cherubic face opened in a silent scream, her eyes flitting wildly in her sockets, until finally they settled, bright blue but yet so dim. Finnaeus could not remove the knife from her. He no longer wanted to touch the damnable thing. With a look of pure horror he staggered out of the room, down the stairs, his own thoughts spiralling madly out of control. He got to the porch, the air offering him no ease of breath. His eyes went to his hands, covered in the blood of his family. Logically he knew he did the right thing - Gilnean law had been satisfied, and there were two less potential Worgen roaming the lands. But the blood was on his hands, warm and sticky, and the images of his daughter and wife burned into his mind. His body shuddered from the effort of containing the grief threatening to overtake him.

He looked to his right and saw the apple tree. The gnarled branch he attempted to mend a few days prior had been removed, but now other branches were turning brown, brittle. The apples fell from the tree not with a thud, but with a wet splatter. Inside they had grown rotten. He would have to remove more of its branches, that much was sure. But as he collapsed on the porch, the overwhelming power of grief and despair clenching his heart, he wondered how many more branches he could afford to cut before the entire tree came down.

There was darkness, a long, blank darkness. He could feel the guilt, the horror, the torment, all fresh again. He wanted to sob, to scream, to let out the pain before it consumed him. But before he could even recover, he heard it again.

“Father, have you seen Barkley?”

Araneon strode through the tunnels under the Gilnean Mountains, shrouding himself in the kind of darkness that even he could only barely see through. He was alone, as far as he could tell, and the torches that once lit the winding tunnels to the laboratory had long since been extinguished. He ran a hand along the wall, his fingers caressing the stone, feeling the cold dryness to it. There was no room for his brain for any other sensory input, because it was bent on the task of determining his next move.

It was critical to be careful. In his days as the Spider, he would calculating, meticulous. He had to be, to avoid the authorities of Silvermoon descending on his den of pleasure and finding out that he was the one that haunted the dreams of young, elven magi. It was important to shoot out the strand of an idea, see where it landed, and trace along the path places where things can get complicated. If the foundation of the idea is firm, then you can build the next strand, and the next, until the plan is complete. But if there was a weakness in one place, it would stress anything built atop it.

The chance to cut and run was in front of him. He could leave now, chalk the entire scenario up as a loss, and then be free from the entire ordeal. But that possibility was unsatisfying to him. He wanted the tattoo removed, and while it was secondary, he would not say no to the heaping pile of gold that was owed to him. The fresh start was the real prize, and he needed them to give it to him. Running now would deprive him of what he was owed. What he deserved.

But the alternative was to hang around while Malthaes and Aloyseus played body swappers. He found himself surprised at how squeamish the concept made him. He was obviously no stranger to the darker side of life, what with his own rather disturbing past. Perhaps it was a tribute to how much he had changed since then, that he was revolted by the idea of sticking the souls of the Forsaken in the bodies of others. And what point would it stop? Maybe it wouldn’t?

As he made his way through the tunnel, imagining things in the darkness, always keeping his hand to the wall to keep from losing his way. He thought of his sister, wondering what she would say. She’d probably lecture him for a good hour on why he deserved to be in his current predicament, and that he should have known better. It’d be some derivation of the same speech she had given him countless times before. But once she ploughed through her actual anger, she might have given him some solid advice. She never stayed angry. Or if she did, she managed to table it to help him out.

But he wasn’t sure she’d help him out this time. If she knew that he had run into Malthaes Shadowbough and not immediately twisted his head off of his shoulders, she would be irate. He pushed that thought away, letting it scatter into the darkness. His heart could not carry any more guilt. Instead, he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He emerged from the dark tunnel and entered the laboratory.

It was completely empty, save for the floating body of Shan’Daon, glowing with the blue magic of the runes that imprisoned him. To the corner he saw the acid green rune in Finnaeus’s prison. He wove through the lab tables and approached the prison. In the corner was the troll, curled up in a ball, his entire body shaking as if he was freezing. His eyes were open, but they were smothered in darkness. He trembled, muttering something inaudible, his entire body shaking. Araneon squinted and then wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“He’ll not be available for questions today,” Malthaes said from behind him. Araneon turned and saw the elf standing there with that grin on his face. It was as if he materialized from the shadows – Araneon had no idea he was there.

“What have you done to him?”

“I’m always the first to be accused for horrible things,” Malthaes said, pouting. “This isn’t my work.”

“Aloyseus?”

“The one and only,” Malthaes said, stepping beside Araneon to gaze at Finnaeus. He had an eager glint in his eye, and the elf licked his lips. Araneon suppressed a shudder.

“What has he done?”

“Our mutual friend here has been, as he always is, less than helpful. So he’s being punished in the hopes that it convinces him otherwise.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I don’t know him as well as his brother claims to,” Malthaes said. “But what I do know is that he’s stubborn and interfering. It would be just like him to drag his three-toed feet.”

“I don’t blame him,” Araneon offered. Malthaes turned to look at him, a sly look spreading on his face.

“Cold feet as well Spider?”

“Don’t call-”

“I’m going to presume to call you what you truly are,” Malthaes interrupted, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “Araneon Sunwhisper is an alias, and you know it. The cravings and desires you experienced when you named yourself the Spider, those were the real you. The rest is just window dressing that your sister put on you so that she could have the brother she wants as opposed to the brother she had.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Araneon said.

“You’ve said that so many times in the past few days, I’m starting to think you actually believe it,” Malthaes said. “You’re still the Spider, still the same elf that had that tattoo seared onto his arm. You’re chasing a different identity, perhaps, but let’s not argue semantics. I will call you the Spider, and you’ll answer to it until you prove otherwise that you’re just plain old Araneon Sunwhisper.”

“My sister was right about you,” Araneon sneered. “You’re a monster.”

“And you’re trite and cliché,” Malthaes responded, shrugging. “What does that even mean, calling me a monster? Because I’m monstrous? That I’ve done monstrous things? According to whom? You? I’m sure you could be a monster considering the things that you’ve done. Who sets this standard that I should be a monster and they should not?”

Araneon had no response. Instead he glared moodily at Malthaes, folding his arms in front of his chest. He was ill-equipped to have this kind of banter. He could seduce, he could banter, he could conduct superficial conversations. But he was a creature of instinct, action – he had no interest in philosophical questions and didactic debate. It was of no use to him. He was sure that Malthaes could spin a pretty web of words and ideas, but none of it was of any substance. He killed, and he enjoyed it. That was enough to be repulsive.

“No answer?” Malthaes asked.

“I’m not going to debate with you,” Araneon said. “I’m sure you can make anything sound great. It doesn’t change who you are.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Malthaes said. “But I’m not the one hiding who I am.”

“I’m not the Spider,” Araneon snapped. “Why do you think I’m even here? You’re going to remove this tattoo and I can leave this all behind.”

“And replace it with what?” Malthaes laughed. “What is this grand life you’ve got envisioned for yourself that a small mark on your arm is holding you back from claiming?”

“I don’t know that yet,” Araneon said. “But it sure as hell won’t be stealing bodies from other people.”

Malthaes smirked, his eyes glittering as cold as the darkness around them.

“You’ve grown soft,” Malthaes responded. He circled to Araneon’s other side. “I truly cannot express the disappointment of meeting such a fierce some creature so defanged.”

“How it must sting to be so defanged.”

“I’m just changed,” Araneon said, his mind flashing back to the Draenei who seared the spider brand into his arm.

“Weakened,” Malthaes emphasized. “You were powerful, you were strong. Now you cow to your sister’s morality. It makes you subservient. It makes you weak. You could be so much more than that.”

“I’m not weak.”

“How can you ask me to believe you? Here you are, begging at the hem of a Forsaken priest to remove a tattoo from your arm so that you can have a second chance at life. Under the rules and regulations that someone else has thrust upon you. That is weakness.”

Araneon glared, his heart thudding in his chest. He was angry, insulted, and yet the words to rebut him would not come. There was no way he could go back to being the same person that murdered, that used and killed. Too much had happened since then, too much effort to get back on the right path. How could the throw that away now? He wanted the tattoo gone, he wanted The Spider gone. Going back to it wasn’t an option.

“You’re one to talk,” Araneon snapped finally. “You’re getting help from Aloyseus just the same as I am.”

“Not quite,” Malthaes said. “We have an agreement, with neither one of us having leverage over the other. You are completely at his beck and call. You cannot remove that tattoo yourself. He could decide tomorrow to never do it and you would have no recourse.”

“I could kill him.”

“You could try,” Malthaes said. “But even if you managed to do so, that brand would still be there. You are not negotiating from a position of strength, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” Araneon said.

“You could be. I can give you the leverage you need so that your history can never be held over your head again. I can give you such power that anyone who wishes to bring you to justice would be foolish enough to try. That is true freedom. Burying your past is only asking for it to rise, again. Do you honestly think that without a brand on your arm, that no one could tie you to your crimes? Are you that naïve?”

“Without the tattoo, no one could prove it was me,” Araneon insisted. “They could accuse me but it would never stick.”

“Your guilt would betray you,” Malthaes said, sighing. The exhale sent a waft of the fel into Araneon’s nostrils, and it made his stomach turn. “Your sister has you so wrapped up in repentance and guilt that your crimes are always at the forefront of your mind. Anyone with any magical skill would be able to tell you are the Spider.”

That gave Araneon pause. He never considered that before. This entire time he suspected Aloyseus of reading his mind, and yet here was Malthaes implying that very thing. The thought gave him a sudden surge of anger, but what use was that now? He had fallen straight into the trap.

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re caught in someone else’s web, when you could be the one doing the catching,” Malthaes said, putting an arm around Araneon’s shoulder. It made his skin crawl. “Where I plan on taking us, we would be making the rules.”

“Why me?”

“Because I sense a great possibility in you,” Malthaes responded. “And I’m not one to throw away opportunities.”

So many thoughts rifled through his mind, so many strands of possibility. All of them led back to the possibility of being free from the burden of his past. He knew all the warnings about Malthaes that his sister had drilled into his head, and yet here he was, offering him another solution that didn’t involve suffering, involve the constant doubt and regret.

“I don’t know,” Araneon said, shrugging off his arm.

“Your sister has certainly filled your mind with things about me,” Malthaes said, nodding with a face arranged to look like sympathy. It came off as cold. “And I admit, we were at great odds with one another. But it was strictly philosophical. I wanted to take the Sunwell away from her, and she was too afraid of change to allow me to do so. I never intended for her to die. In fact, when I tried to change the Sunwell, I had her trapped so that she could live to see the great potential of my work.”

Araneon raised an eyebrow.

“She said she ran you through with a sword to stop you.”

“That she did,” Malthaes nodded. “It would have killed me. Except when they destroyed the Voidspark that I wanted to use to birth my Voidwell, a piece planted itself right here.” Malthaes parted the top of his robes, and there, at the center of his chest, was the swirling energy of an infinite darkness. The skin around it had grown blackened, as if it were burned, and his veins around the area looked as if they were filled with the darkest of inks. “It kept me alive, you see. And gave me extraordinary power.”

He turned and pointed at Shan’Daon.

“That Mogu would tear anyone apart. But with this small piece of a Voidspark, I had the power I needed to subdue him. Of course, I required a few others to accomplish the deed, but without it we would all be dead. Aloyseus needed my power to conquer Shan’Daon, and I in turn need his project to be funded so that I can proceed with my own work. Equal leverage – neither of us succeeds if the other fails. If I were truly monstrous, I would have seized Shan’Daon for myself. And I would have killed Aloyseus’s brother a thousand times over for vengeance. But I am not unreasonable.”

Araneon gave him a dubious look, but before he could interject, Malthaes continued.

“You must understand where I’m coming from. Perhaps you, like your sister, have grown accustomed to the comforts that the Light gives you. Warmth, a reprieve from addiction, a moral satisfaction that you’re ‘on the right path’. But these things are illusions. Illusions to keep you complacent. Illusions slid right over your eyes by Draenei, members of the same Alliance that have done monstrous things to the Sin’Dorei. The same Draenei that seared a brand into your arm to inflict their own ideas of justice on you. Arrogance in its finest. Illusions, Araneon, smoke and mirrors convincing you of your comfort while they dull your swords and remove your fangs. You are no longer a threat, when you operate within their moral code. They can predict you, anticipate your movements, and therefore control you. And our leadership allows it. The Regent Lord subjects us to membership of the Horde, subservient to lumbering oafs. Or brainless savages, like Vol’jin. Gone are the days when Quel’thalas could stand on its own. And they allow our people to quiver at the boots of orcs and trolls and Forsaken to protect us from our enemies, when we could have all the tools we need to protect ourselves.”

Araneon lowered his gaze to Finnaeus, watching the troll quiver and shake. He wondered what was going through his mind, what he was seeing. And he wondered what he would say if he could hear Malthaes espousing his believes. Not that Araneon trusted Finnaeus, but he found himself curious as to what the druid would have to say. But there was no one to give him advice, no one to counsel him, no one to bounce ideas off of. And it felt a lot like freefalling, like walking in the darkness with no wall to guide him.

“Change is difficult,” Malthaes said. “But the change I’m pushing for means standing on our own two feet as a people. Our Regent Lord and his band of sycophants have had their time to rebuild the prosperity of our people. I’m not satisfied with their results. No proud Sin’Dorei should be. It’s time that someone with a more bold vision for our people got a shot at leadership. This project is our means to do it.”

“You’re talking about a coup,” Araneon responded.

“Not quite,” Malthaes said, licking his lips with eagerness. “If it’s Lor’Themar Theron still in charge, then the status quo remains. At least to everyone else.”

Araneon said nothing to that, staring at the shuddering troll in front of him. He had no aspirations to power, but he could not deny how tantalizing the choice was that Malthaes was offering him. It was more than just freedom from his past, it was freedom for his future. And while he could hear the screams of protest from his sister that Malthaes wasn’t to be trusted, that he was evil, he also knew that Anya could never understand how tough it was to deal with such a heavy past. She had always stuck to the right path, and therefore did not have to deal with a lifetime of regrets. Her past was clean.

“I’ll leave you to consider it,” Malthaes said. “You have so much to think about, and so little time. If it helps, take a good long look at someone so preoccupied with the right thing that he’s torturing himself with it.”

Araneon watched as Malthaes disappeared into the shadows, chuckling until he entirely disappeared. When he returned his gaze to Finnaeus, he could feel a creeping dread steal over his heart. No matter what he chose to do now, he’s be in danger. He wondered again what the druid would say about all of this. But Finnaeus was lost in his own head the shadow covering his eyes.

He took a cautious look over his shoulder, to make sure that Malthaes had disappeared. Satisfied that he was alone, he held his hand aloft. The Light glowed in his palm, and then a brief flash illuminated Finnaeus’s face. The shadow slid from his eyes, and for a moment Araneon saw a horrible sadness in the troll’s eyes. But his eyes stayed open only for a moment, because his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell unconscious to the floor.

Disappointed, Araneon closed his palm and let the Light in his hand fade out. He turned, walking through the darkened lab. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen, but he was hoping to at least get a few words with Finnaeus. But he was once again alone, and he plunged back into the tunnels, his hand reaching out for the wall to guide him.

“Are you awake?”

The question came tentatively, in a hushed whisper. Of course Finnaeus was awake – sleep never came easy for him. But in the last few days, sitting slumped against the corner of his cell, sleep became an impossibility. His brother’s intrusion of his mind had left him shaky, rattled, uncertain of his faculties. Since the spell had lifted, he thought he could feel the warm blood of his family on his hands, and no amount of staring at them shook the sensation from his fingers. His wife and daughter hovered in his eye sight, their shocked and pained faces seared into his mind, and sometimes in the quiet of night he thought he could hear Lydia laugh. The remnants were fading, but they haunted him, ghostly memories that inflicted tactile sensations, making them all the more real.

“Unfortunately,” Finnaeus responded, opening his eyes. Araneon stood on the other end, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His voice sounded hoarse, and he wondered if, in the middle of the non-stop memories, he had screamed. But he didn’t care, not really.

“You look terrible,” Araneon offered.

“I’m a troll,” Finnaeus said. “The chances of that were good regardless of being kept in a cell.”

“Fair point,” Araneon responded. Finnaeus raised an eyebrow at him.

“How come you lifted the spell?”

“I don’t know,” Araneon said, shrugging. “Thought you could use a break.”

“Astute observation,” Finnaeus said.

Finnaeus gazed at the Blood Elf and sighed. He no longer saw this elf has his means to freedom. He was too motivated by self-interest, and it would take a miracle for someone like Araneon to risk his own life for something as vague and abstract as it being “the right thing to do”. Not that Finnaeus blamed him. Morals and ideals often clashed with reality, and the reward for freeing Finnaeus and defying folks as powerful as Malthaes or Aloyseus would likely be a painful death.

But he also felt strongly that Araneon was a step away from being trapped forever in a cycle of terrible deeds, one that would never give him the fresh start that he truly deserved. The elf was powerful, smart – he had the opportunity to do something better with himself. But he, like Finnaeus, was trapped by his past. And there was nothing Finnaeus could do to save him from his path.

“So what are you going to do?” Araneon asked.

“What do you mean?” Finnaeus asked. “All I really can do is sit in the corner of my cell here.”

“I mean about the body switch,” Araneon said. “Are you going to go back to your old body?”

“I think you already know the answer to that question,” Finnaeus said.

“They’ll kill you if you don’t,” Araneon responded.

“A price I’m ready to pay,” Finnaeus said. “I’ve done a lot of things to live and fight another day. I’m not going to compromise anyone else for my own safety. Not anymore.”

“They’ll torture you first,” Araneon said, almost angry.

“What’s your point?”

“You’re giving up is my point.”

“I’m out of options,” Finnaeus said. “I’ve interfered with too many of Malthaes’s grand plans for him to leave anything to chance. This one is out of my hands.”

“But it’s not,” Araneon said. “You could go along with it and then escape later.”

“To what purpose?” Finnaeus asked.

“To live,” Araneon said.

“Living is easy,” Finnaeus responded. “Living well is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. Making the right choices sometimes means choosing between two terrible options. I could do what you’re saying. I could let them put me in my old body, and hope that there are no hidden strings, no complications. I could even pretend to go along with their schemes for my own benefit. And maybe I could sneak away, and live to fight another day. What happens after that, Araneon? What happens when I’m going about my day, knowing always that these people are working to victimize others for their own selfish agendas? How could I live knowing that I profited from their schemes, and didn’t stop them?”

Araneon said nothing, merely huffing in frustration. The elf had never been easier to read. He was frustrated, because he too had the same moral quandary. Finnaeus knew the elf was warring between self-preservation and that voice in his head that was telling him the right thing to do.

“I can’t make a choice for what you should do,” Finnaeus said. “You get to make that decision for yourself, because you decide what you can live with and what you can’t. I’ve simply made mine. Self-preservation runs strong in me. But I’m not about to chase that instinct at the expense of others.”

“You’re an idiot,” Araneon said.

“I never claimed to be otherwise,” Finnaeus said.

“I can’t stop them.”

“I never asked you to.”

“Then I hope you’ll understand then when I don’t try,” Araneon said.

“You don’t need my approval or understanding,” Finnaeus said. “Only your own.”

Araneon made to respond, but the doors to the lab opened and a crowd of Forsaken entered. In the middle of the corpses was Malthaes Shadowbough, escorted by Aloyseus and a group of high ranking Forsaken officials. The torches lit on the sides of the walls, illuminating the lab. Araneon backed away from the cell, and Finnaeus sank as far as he could against the wall. His heart beat faster. His moment was coming.

A group of robed Forsaken took to their lab stations, flicking through parchments and analyzing the runes that contained Shan’Daon. Malthaes and Aloyseus parted from the Forsaken officials and strode over to his cell. They greeted Araneon, and then approached the bars. Malthaes had the smug look of victory on his face, while Aloyseus remained as inscrutable as always.

“You’re awake,” Aloyseus said. “I’m surprised my spell wore off.”

“Maybe it wasn’t as strong as you thought,” Finnaeus interjected, before they could turn their suspicions to Araneon. His body vibrated with fury. If he was to meet his end, he would not go quietly or peacefully. Death may be inevitable, but he would not make it easy for them. Or pleasant.

“Perhaps,” Aloyseus responded. “I should hope that you have learned your lesson? Have you been reacquainted with doing what needs to be done?”

“Not quite,” Finnaeus said, hoisting himself to his feet. His anger gave him strength, and he shuffled towards the bars.

“What a surprise,” Malthaes said.

“So your mind is unchanged?” Aloyseus said, sniffing angrily.

“Did you think that those memories were going to change me somehow?” Finnaeus asked. “The things that I’ve done are never far from my mind, Aloyseus. You’re a fool, and your plan is just as foolish. I’m not going to live a life as a slave to your political agenda, and I will not subject anyone else to losing their lives so that you can continue yours.”

“I told you he would not go along with this,” Malthaes said, the smile widening on his face.

“You will die for nothing,” Aloyseus said. “No one will know that you died for this cause that you’ve become so attached to. What cause are you advancing? What purpose? This is madness, Finnaeus. You are wasting potential to die on the sword of morality. It will award you, and this world, nothing to die like this.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Finnaeus said. “The living, breathing, feeling part of you died in Stratholme. I am sorry for what was done to you, and I regret what you’ve become. But if my death means nothing except that I have not joined you in your madness, then that is good enough for me.”

Aloyseus snorted with disgust, and then turned and walked away. Araneon could not meet him in the eye.

“Give us a moment,” Malthaes said to him. “I wish to have a private word with him.”

Araneon hesitated, and then walked away, his hands in his pockets. Malthaes turned his gaze to Finnaeus.

“Brave,” Malthaes said.

“Not really,” Finnaeus said. “There’s no other option.”

“Of course you’d see it that way,” he responded. “You’re so predictable, you people. You’ll die for good, convinced of your own righteousness, and it won’t make a bit of difference.”

“What do you care?” Finnaeus said. “You’ve wanted me dead from the beginning.”

“Of course,” Malthaes said with delight. “I make no secret that I’m glad your miserable existence is coming to an end. The things I’m going to do to you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Finnaeus said. “You’ll get no fear here.”

“But that doesn’t matter to me,” Malthaes said. “I don’t need you to be anything. You can put on your false bravado as you become a martyr, but it makes no difference to me if you die stubbornly or die soiling yourself. Just so long as you die.”

“Then do it already,” Finnaeus said.

“Everything in its time,” Malthaes responded. “I have work to do, and I will not rush the moment that I’ve been looking forward to ever since you let Anyanara stick a sword through my chest.”

“It’s too bad she didn’t take your head off when she had the chance.”

“Indeed,” Malthaes said, his eyes glittering in a way that twisted Finnaeus’s stomach. “I’m sure she would regret not taking the opportunity as well, if she could.”

Finnaeus’s stomach dropped.

“You killed her.”

“Such an unfounded accusation,” Malthaes protested, though the widening smile betrayed the truth. “Why would I do such a thing, to the woman I once loved? That would be just so immoral. So wrong.”

Finnaeus looked behind him, to see if Araneon could hear. But he was gone, disappeared into the crowd.

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

“Sssh,” Malthaes said, pressing his index finger to his lips. “Let’s not let out secrets before their time. That would ruin the surprise.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how broken you are,” Finnaeus said.

“Broken? Me?” Malthaes said. He parted the top of his robes, revealing a Void Spark embedded in his chest. It made Finnaeus’s skin go cold. “I am more intact than ever before. And it’s thanks to you, and Anyanara, really. You destroyed my spark, and a part of it landed right here. It’s made me that much more powerful.”

“So powerful that you’re begging the Forsaken for a bit of help.”

“Begging,” Malthaes laughed. “They begged me. You think they could subdue that Mogu there without my help? They need me. I am what makes this plan go, Finnaeus. I am going to power the body swaps. I’m the one that invested in an expedition by Alliance forces to rebuild your cesspit of a nation. You Alliance are so easy to manipulate. So many dwarves and humans eager to help reclaim what is a glorified garbage pit. And they’ll do it ‘For the Light!’ They’ll cry for it as they charge into battle, and they’ll pray to it when they are on the ground, bleeding into the plagued Gilnean soil. And then I’ll take their bodies and do what I want with them.”

Finnaeus flashed back to his visit to Gilneas before he decided to follow Aloyseus. Sir Jarrett the Argent Crusade knight was leading a group of rag tags through Gilneas to rebuild. At the time he was inspired by their resolve. But now he knew the truth – they were manipulated to come, so that they could be used to host Forsaken.

“You’re disgusting,” Finnaeus said.

“I’m smart,” Malthaes corrected him. “I sponsored their precious ship from Stormwind to reinforce them. More bodies that I’ll swap for them, so that we have a whole army of scouts and spies in your precious Alliance. And then I’ll turn my attention to the Horde.”

“To what end?” Finnaeus asked. “What could you possibly stand to gain from all of this chaos?”

“The old order must fade for the new one to rise,” Malthaes said. “My order, where I reign supreme.”

“Anyanara was right about you,” Finnaeus said. “You live in so much fear.”

The smile flickered on Malthaes’s face.

“I have no fear.”

“Yes you do,” Finnaeus said, narrowing his eyes. “She told me about you. How you were once on the verge of death, once, and that you prayed to the Light to save you. And how you’ve been chasing power ever since. You’re just a scared nothing, scared that the world will crush you and you’ll be powerless to stop it. You’re victimizing the world because you, Malthaes, are a perpetual victim. Anyanara was right to try and kill you. She would have saved you from your own cowardice.”

Malthaes remained still. And then, with one swift, violent jerk of his arm, Finnaeus was blasted against the wall so hard that his vision went black. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs were squeezed so tight that he thought he would pop. But then he came to, his vision blurry.

“Anyanara was a simpering wretch. And you know what I did? I stuck my sword so far into her chest that pieces of her heart covered the hilt. When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you got such a quick death. We’ll see how snappy you are when I rip your tongue out.”

Finnaeus got close enough to the bars that he could smell the fel coming from his breath.

“Do your worst.”

Malthaes narrowed his eyes.

“I will.”

Malthaes reached for his sword, but then he could hear Aloyseus calling from the crowd.

“Master Shadowbough, we are ready.”

Malthaes’s cold face melded back into that look of glee.

“Show time,” Malthaes said. “I’ll see you soon.” He turned and strutted away, leaving Finnaeus with his face against the bars, his body shaking with anger. He thought he was ready to die, but he wanted so badly to make sure that Malthaes was gone from the world before he did.

Finnaeus crouched, his fingers wrapped around the bars. He tested them again, but he knew it was impossible to break them. The action around Shan’Daon grabbed his attention. The lab workers were laying out the worgen bodies along the floor. Each one had its wounds mended – Finnaeus could spot Frenzy’s body among them. He wondered where his own body was. Idly he thought to the golden locket that hung around his neck. Used to, he corrected himself. He would never get to find out what was in the locket. It would open just as Aloyseus’s did – it would open as he died, and he would never see what his parents had hidden for him. In a way he felt like that was appropriate. He would be the last of his family, and he had failed in both of his promises to his parents. Why should he get to see the gift his parents had given him?

His eyes were drawn to Malthaes. The Blood Elf waved his hands, drawing an elaborate pattern on the ground that glowed with dark, black magic. The pattern formed on the ground, purple smoke floating into the air as the lines curved and snaked through the ground. After a few moments, the rune was complete. He stood in the center of the rune, and it blazed with a purple light. His entire body went rigid, and when he turned Finnaeus could see that his normally green eyes had gone entirely black. His body seemed to get darker, and the torch fires in the room flickered.

“Many of the secrets of this process are still unknown to us,” Aloyseus boomed over the magic, instructing the military officers in the crowd. “Part of why we need extensive funding to research the process. Shan’Daon has in his possession an ancient gem. Its origins, and its composition, are both mysteries to us. But, its function in the process is both necessary and unexplained. Further, the magic that Shan’Daon uses to manipulate this gem to move souls around to other bodies is also poorly understood. We can manipulate the Mogu to perform the spell for us, but the process is inefficient, and very dangerous. Master Shadowbough here, with some unique gifts of his own, has the power to do so. If the process is not done properly, the soul to body bond can be fragile, breakable, and very temporary. As we explained to you, the challenge with Subject Prime was bonding his soul to a body when both the soul and body protested the bond.”

Finnaeus squirmed as heads turned to look at him in the cell. He thought back to those days in Krasarang, that odd feeling of his soul trying to split from the body. Turango managed to soothe the process with a totem. When the totem broke, it took a week of pain and torment before the process completed and his soul rested in the troll body. There were many times when he wished that it wouldn’t. He often wondered why the bond didn’t happen easily, but now he knew – when he fought Shan’Daon the first time, he had cracked that soul gem. It had disrupted the spell, and so the bond to the troll body was therefore disrupted. He got an answer that he never particularly cared to have.

“It is therefore prudent, in the long term, to conduct rigorous study both of the mogu’s mind and of his tools. Our laboratory here in the Gilnean mountains should afford us considerable anonymity, as the area surrounding has been extremely blighted. With constant Alliance incursions to reclaim the area, we will be in no short supply of test bodies to experiment with the process. But for now, we will demonstrate that this process can be done, and can be started, so that there is no question that this will be the way forward.”

A line of Forsaken soldiers formed in front of the worgen bodies. Aloyseus looked to them.

“Are you ready?” They all saluted, and Aloyseus nodded. “You can begin, Master Shadowbough.”

“Get ready to be impressed,” he said to the crowd, his voice lower and more inhuman. He raised a hand, and a dark beam of shadow erupted from his fingertips. It crackled as it passed through the blue magic from the containment runes, and then it struck Shan’Daon in his temple. The Mogu’s body stiffened, and then slowly his arm raised, as if pulled by an invisible string. Shan’Daon’s other arm raised, a large gem resting in his palm.

Malthaes splayed his fingers, and in response the gem in Shan’Daon’s hand began to glow. As quick as lightning, purple beams arced from the gem and struck the Forsaken. The Forsaken bodies slumped to the ground, and then the purple beams changed direction, and struck the worgen bodies on the ground. A few moments of silence passed, and Finnaeus was hoping it didn’t work. But he watched in horror as the worgen rose, tentatively, as if they had never stood before. They looked down at their hands, felt their bodies.

“Success,” Aloyseus shouted. Malthaes lowered his hands – Shan’Daon’s hands followed suit. He stepped off the robes, ostentatiously brushing the front of his robes.

“Easy,” Malthaes responded.

Finnaeus leaned his head against the bars, defeat and dread creeping over him. He was right – they were far too late to stop the process. The Forsaken officers were chattering excitedly, and the lab workers were applauding the efforts. Nearly twenty worgen stood in front of Shan’Daon, a small army that would rip through anyone that did not suspect that they were enemies.

“By day’s end, this group will have nearly tripled in size. When we seize the bodies from the reclamation mission that Master Shadowbough has arranged, we will have plenty of spies that will be centered in the heart of Stormwind, and can then disseminate into the rest of the Alliance. There they will cultivate more recruits, and we can expand our network. But it will take a massive investment, and that is where we need your help. You will have to be our voices to those in the bureaucracy. This is a massive opportunity that we must seize upon, and quickly.”

Like puppets, each officer was nodding, taking notes on parchment. Aloyseus seemed satisfied, and after exchanging a few swift words with Malthaes, he turned to the worgen.

“Come with me.”

And they marched, following Aloyseus through the doors of the lab, a small army that would lead to a vast, untraceable network of spies and agents in the Alliance. And there was no one to stop them. He hoped Aloyseus would gaze in his direction, but his brother never looked over.

Malthaes strode confidently over to the Forsaken officers.

“A cheer and salute, my friends, to our mutual success.”

The Forsaken cheered, and as the laughs and shouts grew louder, Finnaeus backed away from the bars of his cell and put his back to the wall. He slid, the sounds of their voices breaking over him. There was no sign of Araneon, and when he spotted Malthaes looking over, that malevolent glee in his eyes, he knew that this was the moment of his defeat.

Araneon turned away from the cheers. He wanted no part of the celebrations. Instead he turned his attention to the row of worgen bodies that were not used for body swapping. Idly he wondered why these were left out, and how certain bodies were chosen over others. But his curiosity was not strong enough to compel him to find the answer. The chances of that knowledge turning his stomach further were too strong for him to even consider it.

As he passed them, taking in their eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, he wondered what it would be like to die. What would happen to his body when his time finally ran out? It was not a notion he regularly entertained, and it sent a cold shiver up his spine. He was used to seeing that dead look in the eyes of others – after all, he killed quite a few in his time. But he never once imagined himself in that position. It would have implied a weakness, a vulnerability that he never allowed himself to feel. But now, passing over the worgen bodies, pausing at each one to look at their eyes as empty as glass, he couldn’t help but wonder. And if and when that time finally came, that his body would be on display for those privileged enough to still live, would there be anyone standing over his body and wondering the same thing? Or mourning his loss? Anya would, Araneon thought to himself. But then he wasn’t so sure. If she knew what he had a hand in, would she truly mourn him? Or would she cast him off as another lost cause, the same way she did with Malthaes?

A cold slid over him that had nothing to do with the temperature. These were the questions he always avoided, because he never had the answer. He turned instead to the physical, because it was more real. Why worry about death and life when he could hold a pretty elf in his arms and kiss her lips, feel her skin in her hands and hear her moans of pleasure? These things were too immediate, and too real, for him to turn them aside for more philosophical questions. But here in the mountains of Gilneas, these questions could not be turned aside. And when he needed someone the most, someone to help guide him, he had no one.

He paused at the last one. This one was Finnaeus’s old worgen body, he was sure of it. The gold and white Presidium tabard hung from his body, with splotches of blood dried and faded on the front and back. Araneon crouched, taking a closer look. Of course Finnaeus was not dead – he was in that troll body stuck in the cell on the other side of the lab. The blood surely came from his battle with Shan’Daon. He could not help but be impressed that the druid held his own against the sorcerer. When he saw Shan’Daon imprisoned in this very lab, Araneon could not help but contain that sense of dread that came with wonder. Undoubtedly Shan’Daon grew in power in his time with the Thunder King, but he was still formidable all the same. That Finnaeus survived the encounter was testament to his will to live.

A will he no longer has, Araneon said, shaking his head. The druid seemed defeated, resigned to his fate to join the rest of his family in death. In part he could not blame him. The druid had no options for escape, and Malthaes was bound to make sure that he would not slip through his fingers again. But if he had just gone along with them for a little bit, deceived them and took advantage of Aloyseus’s willingness to give him his old body back, he could possibly have escaped. Why wouldn’t he take it? Why would he choose the certainty of death over the possibilities that life could offer him? He could still oppose them. It was a risk that Araneon would take, over and over again, if it meant he had more time to make a better decision, to live and fight another day.

The empty body gave no answers. A golden locket hanging around the worgen’s neck drew his attention. He picked it up with one hand, and it felt warm on his skin. It gleamed as if it had never felt the touch of dirt in its lifetime. He could sense magic within the locket, an enchantment of some kind. But he wasn’t skilled enough with the arcane to determine what kind of enchantment it was. On the outside was an engraving of a hammer intertwined with a rose. He traced the pattern with his thumb, and he indulged his blossoming curiosity and slid his fingers against the edge. But the locket would not open. He turned the trinket over in his hands, trying to find the locking mechanism. But there was none. He tried again to pry it open, but the hinges would not budge. Part of the enchantment must have ensured that it remained locked.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that Malthaes was not watching. He slid the locket over Finnaeus’s neck and held it in his hand. The trinket was worth something. How much he did not know, but it was valuable enough that he wanted to pocket it rather than anyone else. It felt wrong to let the Forsaken claim it and melt it down into something else. He considered asking Finnaeus about it, but he didn’t think that he would get any more alone time with the druid. When he spotted the hungry looks that Malthaes had cast at Finnaeus when Aloyseus marched his troops out of the lab, he knew that the druid’s time left was in hours and not days.

The cheering died down, and Araneon stood and stepped aside, his eyes still drawn to the line of worgen bodies. Again he wondered where they were now, if they were not in their bodies. Where did their souls go? And were they happy? Or were they trapped in some infinite blackness, or something worse, where they could be tortured for all of the bad things they had done? Araneon thought back to his own past, and with a horrible cringe he thought that if there was a better place after this life, he would not deserve it. It surprised him, that revelation, and worse still was that the conclusion came to him not in the voice of Anyanara, as it normally would have. It was his own voice. He had done monstrous things, terrible things, and aside from a single brand and some sneaking around, he had evaded the consequences of his actions. Anya always chided him that every action had a consequence. But she was wrong, because he had faced none. She was wrong because Malthaes, an elf more horrible than Araneon could ever dream of being, not only had not only escaped punishment for his past, but he had grown in power since then. And he and Aloyseus were on the verge of executing a plan that would increase their sphere of influence over the two major powers of Azeroth.

Not on the verge. They had done it. And Araneon let them do it.

Not let them do it, he thought savagely. What was he supposed to do? What could he do against so many, against such power? Even along the way he had only played a bit part. And he never knew the scope and ambition of Aloyseus’s grand plan. He knew of the captured Mogu, he knew that Aloyseus had designs on his brother. But he did not know that they were going to use this mogu to supplant the powers in the Alliance and Horde. And though he had no immediate loyalty to the druid, he did not know that drawing Finnaeus in would lead to his death. These were things that he did not know. How could he then be held accountable for the fallout?

You didn’t know because you never wanted to know. The thought came, and it struck with all the power of a thunderbolt. This was true too. But so was everything else. He did what he did to get his fresh start, to get the brand removed from his arm and enough gold to start his new life. He could do wonderful things with that life. He could dedicate his life to great things, and wouldn’t that balance everything out? What would it matter what he did or didn’t do here, when he could do great things later? He would have to get his hands a little dirtier in order for them to be clean later. Life to fight another day, wasn’t that what he advocated for Finnaeus? Why wasn’t that good enough for himself?

He turned away from the bodies and looked up at Finnaeus. It was time for him to be paid, and then to go. The longer he remained, the more he would torture himself. He strode over to the cell, passing the crowd and ignoring them. He spotted the troll against the wall of his cell, and he tossed the locket through the bars of the cell. The trinket hit the druid in his chest.

“If you’re going to die, you might as well die with this,” Araneon said. Finnaeus looked down at the locket, and then up at Araneon.

“Thanks,” he said. “Where will you go now?”

“Anywhere but here,” Araneon said, irritated with himself and with the druid for asking questions. “I can’t stay any longer. The more I do, the sicker I get.”

“Understandable,” Finnaeus said. “You have to do what’s right for you.”

Araneon scowled.

“I’ve had just enough about right and wrong,” he hissed. “I just want my life back.”

“I hear you,” Finnaeus said, slipping the chain over his head, his three troll fingers clasping the golden locket. “I hope you can get it. Not many people do.”

Finnaeus had a sadness in his eyes, and Araneon could tell there was something the druid was on the verge of telling him. But he had no further use for manipulations. Araneon narrowed his eyes, and he turned away before the druid could say any more. He only got three steps before Malthaes appeared before him.

“Saying good-bye to our furry friend?” Malthaes asked.

“He’s not my friend,” Araneon said. The knot his stomach twisted further, and the Spider brand on his arm twinged and hissed.

“Then you’ll have no qualms with watching me kill him,” Malthaes said.

“I’d prefer to get my payment and leave,” Araneon said, sniffing. “I’ve done my part. And your offer, while generous, is not something I can accept. I need to get back to my life.”

“A life of subservience and groveling for forgiveness,” Malthaes said. “A life of weakness.”

“Such as it is,” Araneon said. “If that’s in store, I’ll take it.”

“You are settling for so very little,” Malthaes said. “You could have such power.”

“I’m not interested in power,” Araneon said.

“You were, once.”

“Not anymore.”

“A shame, really,” Malthaes said, and he nodded to a group of Forsaken behind them. Araneon watched them pick up Finnaeus’s worgen body and drag it over. “Opportunities like these rarely happen, and it would be a great shame for you to waste it because you’re feeling a little hesitant. Which I understand, truly. I was once strung up on the tangles of right and wrong, Light and Darkness. It nearly killed me.”

“I’m just not interested,” Araneon said, raising his voice. He held out his arm, and showed the Spider brand on his arm. “Forget the gold, I don’t even care about it. Remove the brand.”

“So testy and impatient,” Malthaes said, as Finnaeus’s worgen body was slumped at their feet. Araneon spotted Finnaeus wrapping his fingers around the bars. “I’ll remove the damned brand as soon as you listen to my last sales pitch.”

Araneon practically growled.

“No.”

“No,” Malthaes repeated, licking his lips. He furrowed his brow into a quizzical look, walking over to the nearby wall. He placed his hand into the fire of the wall-bound torch, his fingers dancing in the flame. Incredibly his flesh remained unburnt. “Not many people tell me no.”

“I’m not many people,” Araneon said, his nostrils flaring. “I want what I came for.”

“And you’ll get it, as soon as I –”

“Now, Malthaes,” Araneon said, pointing at him. “Not in two minutes, not in three. Now.”

Malthaes smiled, but his eyes glittered with malice. He took his hand from the fire, and he smoothed his robes.

“You’re being incredibly rude, despite my generosity. I don’t like your tone. And, quite frankly, I don’t like you. I’m of a mind to completely refuse to pay you, just to show you what it’s like to be powerless.”

Araneon made to speak, but then Malthaes held up his hand.

“But I won’t. Instead, I’ll show you this.”

Malthaes kept his eyes on Araneon, and then snapped his fingers. Instantly Finnaeus’s worgen body burst into flames.

“NO!” Finnaeus shouted, but then Malthaes turned and waved a hand.

“No comments from the peanut gallery,” he said, and Finnaeus’s hands went to his throat. He could no longer speak.

“What’s the point of this,” Araneon said, trying his best to ignore the sound of Finnaeus’s flesh sizzling and popping from the heat, and the horrible stench of burning flesh now filling the lab.

“To show you what happens when you chase down the right thing. The Light has not saved him. It did not protect his body. Those are fel flames that are devouring his flesh. They will eat through every hair, every inch of skin, down to his bones, until all that is left is ash. The same thing will happen to his troll body. No protection for being right. No shield from this great power to protect him from the big, bad fel. From the void. What you and your sister fail to understand, Araneon, is that the Light is only a form of power, but a power with restrictions and limitations. And they will get you killed at the hands of people like me, who refuse to be bound by your rules. I do not wish for you to one day be a corpse devoured by the flames of someone stronger than you.”

Araneon turned his gaze to Finnaeus. He saw the flames dancing in his eyes, and the unmistakable level of hatred and malice in his face. But there was nothing that the druid could do. He was powerless to resist.

“I’ve killed many with the Light myself,” Araneon said, and he held his palm to the ceiling. A glow of the Light began in his palm, until it encompassed his hand. He held it there, feeling its warmth, staring directly into its brilliance.

“Imagine how many more would fall to your hands with a more powerful source,” Malthaes said.

Araneon stared at the Light, letting it dance in his fingers. He let his mind’s eye turn it to a dark void, an orb of Shadow, and he wondered what that would feel like. Would it be as cold as the Light was warm? He turned to Malthaes, who eyed him hungrily.

“If I join you,” he began, feeling the sting of his brand intensify on his arm. He wanted it gone so badly. It was the Light that seared that brand into his arm. It inflicted upon him guilt, remorse, and regret. These things weighed him down, confused him, tormented him. “You have to promise not to harm my sister.”

Malthaes turned to look at Finnaeus, the look on his face one of triumph. Then he turned back to Araneon.

“I give you my solemn vow that from this day forward, I will not harm your sister.”

Araneon nodded, twisting the Light in his hand.

“But the Light is stronger than Fel magic, no?” Araneon asked, turning the Light in his hands. “Stronger than the Shadow? Wouldn’t someone strong in the Light be able to strip me of my power?”

“Absolutely not,” Malthaes said. Araneon raised an eyebrow.

“You’re certain of this?”

“I have no doubt in my mind,” Malthaes responded.

“That’s interesting,” Araneon said, narrowing his eyes. He closed his fist, and then smirked. “Because a just a little bit of it just removed your Fel Rune.”

Malthaes’s eyes widened, and he turned just in time to see a large, fierce some bear crash through the bars as if they were made of paper.

“No,” he breathed, and his hands curled with green flames. But Araneon was quicker – with one flick of his hands a bolt of light struck Malthaes in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground. Finnaeus shifted into his troll form, as the group of Forsaken behind him noticed the action.

“You get your brother,” Araneon called.

Finnaeus’s hands glowed green, and the silencing spell on him lifted.

“Araneon –”

“Save it,” he yelled back, reaching for his sword and racing through the desks. “You get your brother and stop him.”

Finnaeus hesitated, but a burst of fire in his direction sent him spinning to the ground to avoid it. Malthaes snarled.

“Bring them to me now!” Malthaes snarled. Finnaeus shifted into his cat form, dashing wildly between the desks. He reached the containment runes that held Shan’Daon’s body, and then he twisted into his troll form.

“Good luck,” Finnaeus called, and his hands were wreathed in green magic. Araneon nodded, stabbing the point of his sword into the ground and kneeling next to it. His hands clasped around the hilt, and a golden light surrounded him. Malthaes’s eyes went wide with horror.

“DON’T YOU FOOL!” he screamed.

But it was too late. Finnaeus jutted his hands forward, and a swirl of magic dashed across the blue rune that was engraved across the ceiling. A deafening explosion rent the air, and despite the golden bubble of Light Araneon felt himself sliding across the ground, his sword carving through the stone underneath him as the blast forced him backwards. Debris from the desks and lab equipment went flying, and he could see bodies from the Forsaken carried with the energy from the rune then slamming into the wall. A cloud of dust and filled the room so that he couldn’t see.

Araneon’s heart was beating fast in his chest. There was an odd silence. The blast had punctured a hole in the cavern, and a dim beam of sunlight streamed through. He saw a bat flutter through the hole, and he knew that was Finnaeus. That part was done.

The dust cloud settled, and he saw Malthaes standing, his face full with unrestrained fury. His eyes were trained on Araneon.

“You miserable wretch,” he called. All around him the Forsaken were stumbling to their feet. “I will flay every inch of flesh from your bones, and –”

He never got to finish his threat. An odd tension filled the air that Araneon was quite sure was magical. There was a rumbling from the center of the room. There, in the middle of the debris of the lab, stood Shan’Daon. The blue rune underneath him had disappeared completely. The body stood there, unmoving, still as a massive, imposing statue. But then his mouth curled into a snarl, and his eyes opened. Sparks of purple lightning lit his eyes and crackled. The air tightened again, and he stepped forward.

Shan’Daon had awakened.

The entire lab descended into chaos.

Lab workers scuttled out of the way, their hands held over their heads, as the mogu stepped forward. Lightning sparked in his eyes, and he turned his head, surveying the lab, before his mouth twisted into a cruel sneer.

“Ants,” he said, his voice deep and booming. “I will crush you all like ants.”

He clenched his hands, purple lightning crackling between his fingers, and then with a lazy flick of his hand a giant purple bolt exploded from his palm. It struck a group of lab workers, a deafening explosion filling the air. They did not get a chance to scream – their bodies were vaporized on impact. Araneon shivered with horror.

We've unleashed a monster, he thought to himself.

Shan’Daon roared, stomping forward. Balls of lightning surrounded his body, and then launched themselves at nearby clumps of people. Explosions rocked the lab, the stone walls and floors shuddering from the impact. In the craters of the explosions emerged creatures of pure lightning, hovering and forming into monstrous shapes. They issued electric screams and rushed at nearby Forsaken.

Malthaes stood in the center of the chaos, standing with a smug look on his face. He waved his hand, and all around him small bursts of fel fire popped around him. A swarm of fel imps emerged from the fire.

“You know what to do,” he said, and the imps obliged. They moved forwards, sending bolts of fel fire into the creatures of lightning. Araneon watched, transfixed, the scent and tingle of magic thick in the air. Several bodies lay on the ground, smoking from the contact with lightning. Several Forsaken were trying to corral the lightning creatures, while Shan’Daon laughed over the madness, sending bolts of lightning careening into groups of soldiers and lab workers.

“Flee like the pathetic creatures you are,” he shouted, exulting in the death and destruction. Malthaes turned to face him, his lips curled into a smirk.

“Forward!” he called over the din. “We must restrain him!”

Casters rushed forward, incanting spells. Several beams of blue magic struck Shan’Daon, twisting around his body. He bellowed, struggling against the magic. Bursts of magic came from the sorcerer, throttled by the restraining spells and going wide of their marks. The blasts hit randomly in the lab, exploding chunks of stone from the walls and blasting the debris of the lab equipment. Araneon held up his hands to protect from debris, his eyes scanning for an exit. He saw the tunnel exit from the lab, but it was filled with Forsaken. Perhaps he could escape unnoticed.

He turned away from Shan’Daon, walking at an aggressive pace, before a burst of shadow appeared before him. The shadow dissipated, and there stood Malthaes, a look of cold fury on his face.

“Leaving so soon?” Malthaes snarled. “Why not stay and observe your handiwork?”

“I didn’t do this,” Araneon said. “Finnaeus did.”

“And you let him out of his cage.”

“You should have paid me earlier then,” Araneon said.

“And you should have restrained that foolish streak of yours,” Malthaes responded. Green flames surrounded his hands. “But don’t worry. I’ll burn it out of you.”

“Not a chance,” Araneon said, and he jumped to the side and rolled just as a burst of fire shot in his direction. He could feel the intensity of the flames, like a furnace roaring to life, and he looked up in time to see Malthaes beginning to cast another one. Araneon kept low, using debris as shields from the warlock’s view. Instinct spurred him on – he could not afford to linger too long in one spot. And just in time to reinforce the view, he rolled out of the way again as the pieces of wood he hid behind exploded into splinters.

“You cannot hide forever,” Malthaes said.

True, Araneon said, diving behind a stack of crates as another blast of green fire incinerated the spot where he once stood. He looked up and saw Shan’Daon struggling against the Forsaken casters, and he realized his diversion was going to be short lived. He could dodge Malthaes all day if he was lucky, but they had numbers on their side. If they managed to subdue Shan’Daon, he was out of time.

He fixed his gaze on the nearest caster, and he got up at full sprint. In three steps he closed the distance, and with one quick motion he used his sword to sever the caster’s head from his neck. The Forsaken’s body slumped to the ground, and the blue beam that connected to Shan’Daon dissipated.

Araneon turned to aim at the next one, but Malthaes appeared again in front of him, in a burst of shadow.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” he snarled.

“You can focus on me,” Araneon said. “Or you can let him kill the entirety of your network.”

Malthaes turned and saw Shan’Daon getting the upper hand. He stomped one of his feet, and the cracks in the ground erupted with purple energy. Two casters were caught in the blast, and their bodies disintegrated. Two more blue bands of magic disappeared, and Shan’Daon laughed.

“Insignificant,” he boomed. “You are all insignificant.”

“Your point is well taken, Spider,” Malthaes said. “But if you think I will tolerate this treachery, you are sorely mistaken. Come, Anya, let us show your brother what we do with people who can’t behave themselves.”

Araneon’s skin went ice cold at the sound of Anyanara’s name. He saw Malthaes flick his wrists, and then he heard the sound of a crate opening behind him. Slowly he turned, seeing the crate that he had hidden behind opening up to reveal his sister. Instantly he knew that everything about her was wrong. She stood jagged, loose, like a puppet hoisted up by strings. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, and her head hung down on her neck in an odd angle. Her left foot turned inward, awkwardly. Araneon heard Malthaes cackling, and he uttered a spell. Araneon watched as Anya’s eyes opened. He could see nothing but darkness – tendrils of shadow magic streamed out of her eyes as if it was smoke. She opened her mouth, and the same shadow streamed out. A guttural sound came from her throat as if she was trying to speak. Her right hand slid over her back, and she withdrew a giant sword that she improbably carried with one hand.

“What have you done to her?” Araneon asked in horror.

“Improved her,” Malthaes sneered. “The darkness will do her well, and she’s done significantly less complaining.” Pure malice came over Araneon like a wave. Every inch of him screamed to destroy Malthaes where he stood. But the warlock was not afraid – instead, he smiled. “Anya dear. Please ensure your brother is not living when I’m done with our mogu problem.”

Araneon gripped his sword, and for a second she stood there, doing nothing. But then her head snapped towards him, and as she let out a horrifying screech, she charged at her brother. She moved jerkily, unnaturally, and with frightening speed. Araneon raised his sword just in time to deflect the powerful blow that sent him staggering backwards.

“Don’t be gentle,” Malthaes said, turning away. “I want him pieces.”

She advanced on him with relentless fury. Around them Forsaken casters and soldiers rushed towards Shan’Daon, ignoring their duel. Araneon wavered on the verge of panic, just barely able to deflect Anya’s powerful swings of her sword. It was jarring, the way she moved, unnatural, the way she fought, and it was all he could do to keep her from chopping him in half. She brought two hands to the hilt and swung the sword in a wide arc. Araneon put all of himself into his sword to deflect the blow, and the metal sang and shook so mightily that it was a wonder the metal did not shatter. She recovered and aimed another strong strike, and he had dodge out of the way. The metal struck the ground, cracking the stone. She growled.

“Anya, you have to fight this,” he said.

But she made no response. Only darkness came from her eyes, and she moved forward on him with no suggestion that she would ever stop. He deflected another blow, and another, each time feeling his strength tested to its limits. Her sword came in another wide arc, and he side stepped out of the way and made to counterstrike quickly to disarm her. But she was unnaturally agile, and she jumped backwards only to charge forwards with a frightening, jerky speed. She ploughed into him with her shoulder, sending him crashing into the ground. With a horrible scream she leapt, both hands clenching the hilt in the hopes of driving the sword into his heart. He rolled out of the way, and looked up at her pressing down on him.

“Anya stop,” he pleaded, and when she swung the sword again he tried to dodge. The edge of the sword caught him on the shoulder, and the strike drew blood. He gasped at the sharp bite of pain, but he did not have time to recover. She was already pressing on him again.

He could not keep up with her. She was aiming to kill, and he could not bring himself to fight her to the death. And even if he tried, he wasn’t sure he could be successful. In desperation, he balled his free hand and sent a bolt of Light at his sister. It caught her in the face, and she screamed in pain. The sound repulsed him, but she dropped her sword.

You could kill her, Araneon thought to himself. But that thought disgusted him too. If he killed Malthaes, then the spell on her would lift, and he could save her. He could not bring himself to kill his sister. It wasn’t her fault she was in this mess. It was his. And he would have to fix it.

He looked up and saw Malthaes standing atop a purple rune. Shadow magic swirled around him, and a giant beam of magic connected his hand to Shan’Daon. The Mogu could not resist, especially with the rest of the casters still trying to contain him. Araneon ran forward, his sister still recoiling in pain, and with two quick slashes he felled two of the Forsaken casters. But it did nothing to stop the process, and when he saw that his sister was looking for her sword, he realized he did not have much time left. He had to take out Malthaes.

Araneon sniffed, and then narrowed his eyes. He would not be able to close the distance fast enough before Malthaes saw him. Instead, he channeled the Light with his free hand, and he sent a blast in Malthaes’s direction. The Light struck him in the chest, and with a howl he was blasted backwards off of his rune. The beam of restriction disappeared, and Shan’Daon let out a mighty roar.

“Let me show you real magic,” he bellowed, and he raised the gem in his hand. A fork of purple magic erupted from the stone, and it struck the remaining worgen bodies that were laying on the ground. Araneon watched in horror as the worgen all rose from the ground, one by one. Their snarls filled the lab.

“YOU IDIOT!” Malthaes yelled. Araneon smirked, but did not have time to savor his victory. Anya had found her sword, and she was now looking for him. Around him Forsaken soldiers were clashing with worgen. One of them engaged Anya, distracting her. He put some distance between them, confident that she would handle herself. He only had room for Malthaes.

The Blood Elf warlock stood alone, facing Shan’Daon.

“You surprised me once before, whelp,” Shan’Doan said. “You will not do so again.”

“Good thing I don’t need surprise,” Malthaes said. He took a deep breath, and everything around him grew darker. Araneon watched in horror as his body dissolved into shadow, something horrible, the light from the torches bending around him and disappearing altogether.

He’s drawing from the Void Spark, Araneon thought. Malthaes cackled, his regular voice distorted so much from the Shadow that he wielded. He sounded like a monster.

“Let’s play, Shan’Daon. Let’s see who of us is truly insignificant,” he snarled, and he flicked his hand at Shan’Daon. A burst of Shadow emanated from his hand and streaked towards the sorcerer.

“You will lose,” Shan’Daon bellowed, and his own blast of purple magic met that of Malthaes. The two beams of magic collided, and he could feel the whole room shake underneath them. They were fighting with high levels of magic, unnatural levels of power. The very air vibrated with the energies passing through it.

Araneon heard a snarl behind him, and he turned just in time to see a worgen charging at him. He swung his sword, slashing the beast across the midsection. It howled, regrouped, and charged forward again. Araneon dodged and ducked the beast. It swung wildly with its razor sharp claws, but Araneon was quicker, more disciplined. He kept his focus, dodging and counterstriking with the sword to keep the worgen from overwhelming him. Above them stray bolts of magic struck the ceiling and walls, sending shards of stone showering down on the melee. The worgen charged forward again, but it put too much behind the blow. Araneon sidestepped, and with one clean swing he lopped the beast’s head clean from its neck.

He turned his attention back towards Malthaes. The warlock’s Void Spark evened the duel, and with the rune augmenting his power underneath him Shan’Daon was overmatched. The two beams of magic shuddered against each other, sending bolts of magic blasting into the walls, the floors. Several Forsaken and possessed worgen were caught in the crossfire, vaporized by the energies wielded by the two casters. Araneon spotted Anyanara handily fighting two worgen. She was safe, for now, but as soon as the worgen were killed they would all be back on Shan’Daon.

“Hope you’re doing you’re thing, Finnaeus, because we’re almost out of time here,” Araneon said to himself. All of Malthaes’s focus was on Shan’Daon. Araneon curled his hands with the Light, uttering an incantation. He kept his eyes locked on the rune, and the Light glowed underneath Malthaes’s feet. The rune blazed, and then disappeared from underneath Malthaes.

Instantly the warlock knew something was amiss. Shan’Daon seized the advantage, he stomped his foot, sending another ripple of purple lightning through the ground at Malthaes. An orb of shadow surrounded the warlock, and when the purple lightning struck the shadow, a deafening explosion rocked the lab. Waves of energy released from the blast, knocking Araneon off of his feet. He landed on his back, and for a wild moment he lost his grip on his sword. He scrambled to his hands and knees, searching for his sword in the fresh round of dust that had kicked in the lab.

Shan’Daon stood triumphant. Araneon saw no sign of Malthaes.

He vaporized him, Araneon thought, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Such is the fate of those who stand before me,” Shan’Daon yelled. There was still fighting around them – worgen clawing against the Forsaken troops. He looked over them, surveying them with disdainful eyes. He would kill them all, and they were powerless to stop him.

But then a cloud of shadow appeared from behind the sorcerer. Malthaes Shadowbough stood, fury incarnate, his hands curled with fel magic.

“You’ve shown your minions,” he said. “Now let me show you mine.”

A burst of fire appeared in the middle of the air, and through it hurtled a green, smoldering rock. It struck Shan’Daon directly in the back. The mogu screamed, his skin burning from the fel flames, and he fell to the ground. The giant landed with a resounding smash, and atop his body the green flames reassembled to form a giant infernal. Shan’Daon’s body crackled with lightning, blasting the infernal back. He stood to his feet, energy pulsing from his body. He stood just taller than the infernal.

“You think your demons intimidate me?” Shan’Daon yelled. “I AM A GOD!”

The mogu curled his fist, crackling with electric energy, and then swung with all of his might. He struck the infernal in the chest, and then inexplicably the infernal dissolved into fel fire. Shan’Daon was sucking the magic from it, and then with his free hand he released it in a blast towards Malthaes. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, and in his place the fire blasted and left another crater. The warlock appeared in a spot five feet away, already casting again. He waved his hand, and a block of shadow appeared over the Mogu’s face. Shan’daon’s hands immediately went to his head, trying to clear the shadow magic. The diversion was working – Malthaes was already forming another rune underneath him. Araneon knew what he had to do. He gripped his sword, watching the blade illuminate and burn with the Light.

“One strike is all I need,” he said to himself. He tensed, and then began to sprint. He was feet away, and he reared the sword back and –

Something hooked around his neck and jerked him back. He felt himself slam to the ground, a vice gripping his neck and preventing him from breathing. His hands went immediately to his throat, gripping at something invisible crushing down on his windpipe. And then he was being pulled backwards, away from the warlock. He turned his head and saw his sister, curling her fingers, summoning him away from Malthaes. And in her free hand was her sword, dripping with the blood of her enemies, waiting to add her own brother’s blood to the blade.