World of Warcraft®

Finnaeus flew through the Gilnean sky, hoping to catch a favorable wind and make up ground on his brother. The air was thick and full of energy; dark grey clouds swirled above him, blocking the sun and portending the coming of a storm. The winds were strong, but chaotic – he could coast at high speeds one second and be fighting against powerful gusts the next. He kept the land below him beneath him, following the rocky paths down from the mountains. Aloyseus and his troops would have had to take the passes, and their progress would be slow. He hoped he had time to catch them.

He raced against time, against panic, keeping just ahead of thoughts of what would happen if he could not catch his brother or his worgen imposters. They were making their way to Sir Jarrett’s makeshift camp and army. He pictured the motley crew in his mind’s eye, recalling how inept and tired they looked when he saw them. It seemed forever ago, that brief period that he visited Gilneas before returning to follow Aloyseus and Araneon through Tirisfal and Silverpine. Before he had come to learn just how far gone Aloyseus had come from where he used to be as an individual. Before he abandoned his moral judgment in place of self-preservation.

A trait I mastered long ago, Finnaeus thought to himself. But now was not the time for self-doubt. It was true that he had put himself and his family above ethical considerations for his entire life. But hadn’t he paid for that arrogance, time and again? Even as recently as Pandaria he had killed to preserve his own life. He struggled with it, over and over, making the same mistakes and paying an ever increasing cost. But that meant that stopping his brother from stealing the bodies and lives of others more important than ever. The cycle of victimizing others had to stop.

He circled lower, trying to avoid the ever increasing gusts of wind. The mountain pass he was following started levelling out. His heart beat quicker – if they reached open terrain, it would be impossible to be sure where they were going. If he had his bearings he could possibly find Sir Jarrett’s camp. But he was unconscious when they took him to the mountain lab, and he was not as familiar as he once was with the Gilnean mountains. If he could not find them, then everything was for naught, and Araneon would have made an enormous sacrifice for nothing.

Finnaeus flapped his wings, spurred on by an ever increasing sense of urgency. They couldn’t have moved this fast. He circled lower, his eyes scanning the terrain for any signs of a passing army. Not all that Aloyseus was travelling with were worgen – those soldiers still in their Forsaken bodies must be travelling via steed or some other mode of transportation. Or even just full on marching.

A mile ahead Finnaeus finally spotted two large, subjugated mountain ettins pulling large, rickety wooden carts. They were accompanied by a troop of five Forsaken soldiers, moving at a slow place. Determined, Finnaeus flattened his wings and dove, letting gravity increase his speed. He closed the distance, and at the last second he shifted into his cat form and vanished into the shadows. He kept low, moving quickly through the blighted grass, his body indistinguishable by the naked eye. As he approached he felt the thundering stomps of the mountain ettin. He snaked through the grass, a predator stalking his prey. He caught up to the group.

“These ettin are slow,” said the leader, a Forsaken woman dressed in high ranking Deathstalker garb. “Master Peverley needs us to move quicker than this.

“Then Master Peverley should have escorted them to make sure they moved at a quicker pace,” said another Deathstalker, scowling. “The dumb brutes aren’t budging.”

“It was a mistake to keep them in Gilneas this entire time,” the leader responded. “They’ve been subject to the plague for too long. They’ve grown sick and lethargic.”

“How unfortunate,” one of the soldiers said dryly. “We should have been on the front. I’ve been yearning to kill something for days.”

“You’ll get your chance,” the leader snapped. “But until then, we make sure the carts get to the right location. We need to take all the bodies back to the lab.”

“What body do you think you’ll get?” a fourth soldier chimed in.

“Just as long as it’s not a gnome,” said one.

“You’ll get whatever is deemed appropriate and follow your orders accordingly,” the leader snapped.

“I would just appreciate my second chance at a living body not be something small and insignificant,” the soldier replied.

“I know gnomes that would tear you apart with their hands,” the leader responded. “They’re vicious little creatures when you give them a chance. And that’s all beside the point. This opportunity presented by Master Peverley is not some excursion. The living bodies are tools for the Forsaken cause, not vacation vessels to do with what you will.”

Finnaeus kept low, keeping up with them. He wanted them desperately to reveal their location, but he could be waiting hours for their conversation to naturally turn to what he wanted to hear. He watched the leader and spotted a canvas map hanging out of her pocket. There was a strong possibility that the map would not reveal their destination, but he had to risk it. Time was a commodity he did not have much of, and if it turned out that the map had no information, he would be in the same predicament they were in now.

He peeled off from the group but still kept pace, keeping an eye on the ettin that pulled the carriages. They carried all the signs of plague infection – irritated skin, lethargic demeanor, a nasty pallor that belied an increasing sickness. They would have to be the diversion that Finnaeus needed. He twisted into his troll form, and he curled his hands. Green magic flowed between his fingertips. Below him he could feel the Gilnean land, still reeling from shock and trauma. The land had suffered much between the Cataclysm and the Forsaken romp through the area. Not to mention the previous hardships of famine from the days when the Wall still stood. It took more power than usual to fight through those wounds and summon life, but with some perseverance several tendrils of roots burst from the soil and wrapped themselves around one of the ettin’s feet. The giant groaned, taken by surprise – it lost its balance and stumbled, shouldering into the second ettin before ripping the roots out of the ground.

The second ettin let out a surprised bellow, and staggered from the impact of the first ettin colliding into it. It shuffled to the left, barely missing trampling two of the soldiers, before it bellowed furiously at the first. The second ettin dropped the cart, raised its fist, and then smashed it into the side of the first ettin’s face. The blow sent the first off balance, and it teetered precariously and started to fall. Finnaeus shifted into his cat form as he watched the ettin fall into the first cart. The wooden cart stood no chance – it shattered into splinters the ettin fell to the ground in a thundering smash.

The Forsaken soldiers were shouting – the leader had withdrawn her sword and was shouting orders at the other Forsaken. But chaos reigned – the second ettin stomped over, crushing one of the Forsaken soldiers underneath its feet as it reached the first. The first bellowed with rage, pushed itself up, and the two giant creatures locked fists and began to leverage against one another. Giant feet thundered as they jockeyed for position, their massive frames moving frantically with and with great impact. The Forsaken could not get them under control. Finnaeus slipped into the fray, taking advantage of their confusion – he pounced on the first Forsaken he came across. His weight brought the corpse down, and with one swift swipe of his claws the head came clean off the shoulders. He vanished into the shadows again, barely missing the stomping feet of the ettin, and set his sights on his next target.

“Get them under control!” the leader screamed, but it was too late. The remaining soldiers were struggling with their equipment, and two more were sent flying when one of the ettin made a low swipe at the other in an attempt to take out its feet. Finnaeus leapt forward, careful to avoid the fighting ettin, and then swiped out at another Forsaken’s feet. The corpse fell backwards into the grass, and he jabbed his claws into the Forsaken’s throat, and ripped. Green ichor oozed from the wound, and boney, scabbed fingers reached up to stem the flow. He swiped again, severing the decaying flesh all the way to the bone, before seeing a large shadow pass over them. One of the ettin was falling – he pounced forward, barely avoiding the crashing body of the ettin landing just where he was.

“YOU!” screamed the leader. Finnaeus whirled around and saw the Forsaken leader had spotted him. “I’ll kill you for this!” She screamed and charged forward, her sword in her hand. The two remaining Forsaken soldiers had already fled for their lives – she was the last one remaining. Finnaeus shifted into his troll form, curling his hands. Roots exploded from the ground and wrapped around her legs. The momentum of her charge took her forward while her leg remained in the roots – with a horrible crunch her leg snapped at the knee and she went tumbling to the ground. She looked up with a furious intent on her face, and she wrenched her leg so fiercely that the bottom of her leg ripped free from her upper. Ichor poured from the wound, and somehow, unfathomably, she managed to push herself upright on one leg.

“You’ll have to try harder to kill a Forsaken,” she snarled, hopping forward on one leg, still clutching her sword.

“With pleasure,” Finnaeus said. He shifted into his cat form, and with a roar he took two steps and then pounced. She swung her sword, but she missed her angle – the blade soared below him as he landed on top of her. He lowered his jaws and bit at the neck, all the way through. Horrid flesh and ichor filled his mouth while the bones underneath snapped and crunched. He jumped off of her, the foul mess pouring from his jaws. His stomach turned, and he watched as she gurgled, her head now bent at an odd angle. He watched as she clutched at her throat, before the light in her eyes vanished, and she remained still.

Nausea overcame him – he could never forget the taste of undeath in his mouth. His body shuddered violently. He shifted into his troll form, fighting hard to not vomit. To his right one of the ettin was now dead, most of its face completely destroyed by the relentless pummeling from the other. The victor stood over him, roaring in superiority. But Finnaeus felt no such bravado. He only felt sicker, and more tired, than ever before. But now was not the time to reflect on that. There was still a job to do.

He crouched next to the corpse of the Forsaken leader and took out the map. He unrolled it, and he saw several markings on the map. It took a few moments before he identified their general location in the mountains. There were several markings on the open country that Finnaeus felt could be locations of Sir Jarrett’s camp. He thought back to when he visited them, trying to remember any landmarks or odd natural formations that would indicate where they were. But he didn’t remember any, not that he looked – at the time he was too preoccupied with wither or not to help his brother to really take in what he was seeing.

The only thing that kept coming back to him was that Sir Jarrett was leading a ragtag group of volunteers, and they were expecting reinforcements from Stormwind via ship. Of course that ship of reinforcements was merely a set up for Malthaes and Aloyseus to procure more Alliance bodies, with Sir Jarrett’s mission being the bait for that ship. But Sir Jarrett thought it was a genuine attempt at reclaiming Gilneas, and so he would obviously set up camp in such a way that such reinforcements would be convenient. Which meant that he probably would have camped in an area accessible via the sea.

Finnaeus closed his eyes, trying to recall. They were making an impromptu gravesite for the corpses they came across. But they weren’t on a beach; that much he could remember. And they were definitely a good distance away from the city proper. Were weren’t many trees – the one that he hid in to eavesdrop on the Alliance was one of the only few places he could have hid in at all. His mind’s eye tried to recall every detail, but it was coming up short. He had spent all of his energy on the Alliance themselves, and the hope that they carried that they would be able to reclaim Gilneas
Finnaeus swore at himself and turned his attention back to the map. He saw an X on the map to the south of the mountains, closer to where the Cataclysm had sunk a significant portion of the Gilnean countryside under the water. It did not look like a beach because it wasn’t, once. Finnaeus wasn’t sure this was the location, but his instinct told him it was his best guess. He rolled up the map, stuck it in his pocket, and then shifted into his bat form. With urgency he increased his speed, his mind’s eye envisioning a slaughter if the worgen were to reach Sir Jarrett. He had to get their first and warn them.

The conditions, however, conspired against him. The storm above him grew in intensity – the clouds had grown darker, and thin bands of lighting streaked overhead, jumping from cloud to cloud. A light rain began to fall, stinging cold and coming in slanted with the force of the wind. Finnaeus fought against the wind, trying to move with as much speed as he could muster. Ever second passed with the slowness of an hour, and despair crept up in his heart. He would never be able to reach them in time in the air. He would have to travel on the ground.

He sank to the ground and shifted into his stag form. At ground level he traversed the countryside, running and leaping as fast as he could, avoiding the rocks jutting from the earth or the gnarled branches of dead bushes that lingered like skeletons. The rain fell on his face and back, and above him a roll of thunder heralded that the storm was about to arrive. The rain fell quicker, turning the ground into a thick sludge. On he pressed, moving as fast as he could while maintaining his footing – one wrong leap or if he caught a rock at the wrong angle, and he could fall and snap his neck. But he did not have time to be too careful. A flash of lightning slashed through the air, and almost immediately a deafening pound of thunder followed. The storm was almost here.

Finnaeus leaned forward, the rain coming down in a steady pour. He could feel his muscles tiring, but he could not stop, not for a second. In the distance he could see the makeshift tents and rudimentary wall surrounding the camp – Sir Jarrett and his people. The Alliance flag that they carried was flying high on a flag post, whipping in the wind so fiercely that Finnaeus was surprised that it was still hanging on. Spurred on by how close he was, he moved faster, got a little bit more burst. He reached the entrance to the camp, spotting two guards, a human man and a dwarf woman, holding post. He shifted into his troll form, and immediately they reached for their arms.

“A bloody druid,” the dwarf said.

“Don’t shoot,” Finnaeus said, holding up his hands.

“Like hell we won’t,” the human said, pointing his rifle.

“I need to speak to Sir Jarrett,” Finnaeus said. “It’s of vital importance that –”

“How do you know Sir Jarrett?” asked the human, furrowing his brow.

“I’m trying to help you. If you do not let me help you, you’re all going to die.”

“He don’t talk like no troll I ever heard,” the human said. “What do you mean we’re all going to die.”

“It’s just a wee bit o’ nonsense before he kills us,” the dwarf woman said. “Or tries to.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Finnaeus said. “There are worgen coming that are not your friends. They are going to kill you and –”

“Gonna have to have a better story than that,” the dwarf said with a cruel smile. “The worgen are a part o’ the Alliance.”

“He’s a Horde troll,” the human said. “Trying to pit us against each other.”

“Just let me speak to Sir Jarrett,” Finnaeus said. “I can explain everything to him. There’s not much time.”

“So you can kill him when you get close?” the human guard said. “Ain’t buying it. Sorry that you came out in this bad weather for nothing, but you best get on now before we open fire.”

“I’ll give ya ‘til the count o’ three,” the dwarf said. “Before I blow your bloody head clean off. Gilneas is for the Alliance.”

Finnaeus scowled with frustration. He didn’t have time for such nonsense.

“They are going to pretend to be your allies, but they will kill you without hesitation. They’re going to use your bodies and then take your ship that has reinforcements.”

The human guard lowered his weapon at that, quirking an eyebrow.

“He sure knows a lot,” he said.

“One,” the dwarf woman responded, raising the musket so that the butt was against her shoulder.

“You’re making a horrible mistake,” Finnaeus shouted. “Listen to sense! They’re going to kill you. I’m trying to help!”

“I dunno about this,” the human said. “Maybe we should hear what he has to say.”

“He’s a dirty troll, a piece o’ garbage from the no good Horde. He’ll say whatever he has to.”

“We don’t have much time, please –”

“Two,” the dwarf said, taking aim. Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, his heart pounding. He had to convince them. He had to.

“I’m begging you, reconsider what I’m –”

A deafening gunshot exploded through the wind. Finnaeus didn’t feel anything – his entire body was still numb from the shock of the gunshot. He saw the dwarf reloading, and the human was yelling at her. Above them lightning cracked and thunder exploded. The dwarf was already readying her second shot. Finnaeus turned, shifted into his cat form, and then sprinted away. His heart was pounding, but instinct told him to flee further and get out of range. He couldn’t tell how long he was running – five minutes? Ten minutes? He was sure that he was at a safe distance away when he could see coast, the large waves crashing against the shore because of the stormy winds. There he could see the Stormwind ship moored offshore, rocking and rolling on the angry seas. And all along the cost were wooden rowboats for landing. It was then that the real horror of his situation came over him.

The boats were surrounded by dead Alliance. Most of them were humans, dwarves, and gnomes, all likely conscripts from Alliance. He spotted a few Draenei and Night Elves mixed among them. Further down was Aloyseus and his fraudulent worgen army, gathering the bodies together in neat piles so that they could place them in the carts they were expecting from the ettin. They of course would never come.

Finnaeus stood there, tired from the travel and exhausted, still reeling from the shock of Sir Jarrett’s guards firing on him. But before he could think of a plan to take on Aloyseus, he tasted something odd in his mouth. He reached up and felt something warm and sticky trickling from his mouth. Blood.

It was a curious feeling to know that he was bleeding and couldn’t feel it. He looked down and saw blood blossoming from his torso. How did he not feel the shot? It was almost as if he couldn’t feel anything at all, but then as his senses were recovering he realized what had happened. The pain started then, as if it was activated by seeing the wound, and he knew without really knowing that the bullet had shattered inside of him. He coughed, and he could feel the blood sliding up his throat and bursting from his mouth.

He staggered forward, his hands glowing with green magic, but it made him tired. He fell to his knees, his hands still swirling with magic. A long time ago he had become an adept healer, but something was wrong. His body wasn’t responding as it should have, wasn’t healing like it was supposed to. It was almost as if he was poisoned, and –

The Forsaken. He knew when he tasted that foul taste of undeath in his mouth that something awful had happened. They were probably coated in the plague, having been stationed in Gilneas for so long. But the realization did nothing to help, because the more he tried to channel his magic to healing his stomach, the more he felt as if he was losing consciousness. He slumped forward, his head resting against the ground, the rain beating down all around him.

Finnaeus’s cold logical brain started to take over. He had been shot in the torso. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough to heal the wound. And if he couldn’t find a way to heal it, he was going to die.

The rain fell in cold slashes, turning the ground underneath him into thick, slimy mud. His field of vision was level with the ground, and he could see each rain drop hit the ground, splashing cold water and sludge up and then down. He moved his hands, his fingers sliding, and he tried to heave himself up. Strong as Finnaeus was, he found himself incredibly weak.

Feebly he managed to extend his arms, and prop himself up to his knees. That took a large portion of his remaining strength, and immediately his dirty hands went to the bleeding wound in his stomach. His head swam, unsteady, and with a mumbled chant he conjured magic again, trying to heal the wound. His body responded and resisted at the same time, the sickness of plague interfering with his body’s natural inclination to heal. The struggle was powerful, and when he his body seized from the effort and hot blood shot from his mouth, he knew he was losing. The warm, metallic taste of blood covered his mouth, dripped down. The pain built in his abdomen, a searing, unrelenting pain. He took a moment, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to control the spinning in his head. After a few moments, he once again tried to summon a healing spell. The green light of his magic glowed through his enclosed eyelids, but it left him feeling more tired, and weak. His body seized again, and this time he could not hold himself upright. He collapsed into the ground with a mighty thud, mud splashing over him.

Idly he watched his own blood mix with the mud. He breathed, in and out, feeling each intake of air mix with a horrible pain, and each exhale made his head swim and his vision blur. He was fighting, but with each moment that passed he could feel inevitability pressing down on him. His arms felt heavy, weighted down by fatigue and cold rain. He needed to rest, to gather more strength, before he tried again.

This was what it was like, he thought to himself. Aloyseus had told him the story of how he had been savaged by a ghoul in Stratholme, lying on the ground, drowning in his own blood, knowing that he was dying and just waiting for that moment. This was that feeling, that disconnect between a mind coming to the logical conclusion, and a body fighting desperately to forestall that end. His heart beat, his lungs puffed, his eyes fought to stay awake. But with each moment the conscious part of himself knew it, truly knew, that these were his last moments. How many he had he did not know, but each one passed with the uncertainty of another in its stead.

With a grunt he reached up and clasped the locket that hung around his neck. In this moment he was infinitely grateful that Araneon had rescued it from his worgen body before Malthaes lit it on fire. This was the only heirloom left of his family. It was a Peverley tradition, passing these lockets down through the generations. Each one was said to contain something that was of vital importance, and the locket stayed shut until the moment of absolute necessity. Or at least that’s what his father told him when he handed a locket to Finn and Aloyseus before they departed to fight the Horde in the Second War. Gifted with magic, their father told them that it was a special enchantment that sealed the lockets, and that in time he would teach them how to do it.

Aloyseus never got that lesson, since he abandoned Gilneas to join the Grand Alliance of Lordaeron. Finnaeus returned and received his father’s wisdom. But through all of his trials, through all of his struggles and hardships, his locket never opened. Not when he had to kill his family, not when he nearly died at the hands of Malthaes Shadowbough when they fought over the Sunwell, and not when Shan’Daon removed him from his body. Ever the locket stayed closed, its secrets held from him.

He raised to his eyes, looking at the thing. It gleamed golden as if not a drop of mud could stay on it. On the outside, the engraving of the hammer and rose intertwined stood out prominently. The symbol of the Peverley family, a great lineage that had, through circumstance, withered until only Finnaeus and Aloyseus remained. One lost in a troll body, the other a Forsaken priest that had become a twisted version of himself. He was sure his father, wherever he was in the afterlife, would be frowning in disappointment when he thought his sons showed such promise.

Perhaps he’ll tell me when I get there, Finnaeus thought, tracing the engraving with one of his fingers. The thought amused him. But from it came another thought that nearly stopped his beating heart. Maybe, at long last, he would finally be reunited with his family.

So many things came over him then, flooding his dying body with emotions it was too tired to fully handle. A great happiness came to him then, the swooping, bottomless feeling of the kind of love that was great, powerful, and terrible all at once. Would he get to hug his daughter close? Kiss his wife? Would they even want him to, after what he did to them, what he did after?

Do I even deserve to, Finnaeus thought, and with that thought the great fear of uncertainty came over him. Perhaps he would be punished for his misdeeds, for all of the blood that was on his hands. One by one they flashed in his mind, all of the people he had killed, or failed to save. After all, who could say what happens when one dies? He heard stories, of course. Plenty came back from near death, or even death itself, with stories of paradise, or of an infinite darkness that stretched forever and tormented for always. Who to believe? Perhaps they had not experienced death as it truly was. Perhaps they did. But regardless of the stories, none could foretell one’s own fate. They did not live as he lived, act as he acted, or kill as he killed. His own ledger of debts unpaid, crimes unpunished, and good deeds performed would have to be tallied. Or perhaps everyone just faded into some existential nothing, where his spirit would disappear forever and his body become one with the mud, the grass, the plagued earth underneath him.

It was too much. Too much for a body struggling to stay alive. Anxiety wracked him so badly that he began to shake. He clenched his fingers around the locket, staring at it so intently. He needed it to open. Somehow he felt that if it opened, and opened now, all of his fears would be eased. But when his fingers traced the hinges, the thing would not open. In that moment he felt despair. It would be fitting to die like his brother, unable to see what his father had meant for them to have when the time came. It would be such a perfect, ignominous end to the family line, for the family heirlooms to be unavailable to the two sons responsible for its downfall. They did not deserve them.

Finnaeus let the locket go, letting it fall into the mud, the gold chain around his neck going limp. All that he was, all that he wasn’t, would soon not matter. He cast a sideways gaze at Aloyseus and his small army of worgen, still going through the supplies and bodies of the reinforcements from Stormwind. They would rampage through Sir Jarrett’s camp, and then they would disseminate through the world. The Forsaken agenda, one of corruption and self-preservation, decay and stagnation, would spread and take hold. All that the Alliance stood for, and the true spirit of the Horde, for that matter, would be bent on keeping a kingdom of corpses preserved and, under their inaction and blindness, prospering.

The sting of failure proved too much. Every heartbeat seemed to pound against his chest, as if it knew that it only had a few beats left. He would not pass from this world reflecting on the worst of it. He would do as he always did, in times of turmoil. He would reach out to the land for solace, to escape from his own overactive mind, to achieve some piece. If this was Moonglade he would extend his consciousness into the land. With a pang that reminded him of Narya, steadfast and always there. He would miss her, if there was such an emotion for where he would go.

With a breath, he took one last gaze at his locket, and then closed his eyes. He let his consciousness slide out of his own body, and into the land below him. It came surprisingly easy for him, gliding through the earth, passing by stone and dirt and sensing the roots of the nearby trees extending beneath them. The tree, of course, was as sick as he was, and he could feel its pain, its shock, as he passed through. On his mind passed, by insects struggling to survive the plague infected soil, to small animals buried deep in the earth, in dens and networks underneath, hiding from corpses, wolves, and carrion birds. Life was hiding in the soil, struggling to survive against the turmoil on the surface.

Onwards he passed his mind, further than he ever got in Moonglade. It came so easy to him, perhaps because this was the land where he was born, where he learned and lived and grew. He had connected with this land every day as a farmer, though he did not know it at the time. The soil, the rock, the plants, the air, they were one with him, part of his past, part of the best and worst parts of his life. He knew the feel of the roots, the temperaments of the trees and plants, the elusive moods of the wilderness. Before the Night Elves it was all intuition, learned experiences, before Narya and the others taught him to harness his powers. The land accepted him, because he shared the same pains of shock, grief, and torment. They were one, because they were both of Gilneas.

He thought he would spread his mind too thin – he could barely sense his own body. Perhaps he should pull back, before he lost himself. But then, what was there to go back to? Death, panic, regret and loss? It would be better for him to fade while he was in his homeland, one last time. At least that way he could say he was home. Aloyseus didn’t have that luxury when he died in Stratholme, and the trauma of death warped him forever. That wouldn’t be the case with Finnaeus. He would die with Gilneas. He stretched further, until –

Suddenly he could feel a great pull on his consciousness. He tried to resist, but then with an unfathomable power he could feel himself getting pulled deep into the earth. Something dragged him deeper, below the roots, below the rocks. He could no longer feel his body. This is death, he thought, letting go of his resistance and letting himself be pulled. It was beyond his control anyhow, all he was abandoning was the illusion that he had any control.

But then he was surrounded by a vision of lush, verdant green, and then he found he had eyes, and a body. He looked down and saw hands – but his hands, human hands. He stared in wonder, holding them up, his eyes following the tanned human skin from his five fingers to his wrists, to his elbows. In wonderment he reached his hands up to his face, feeling a human nose, his normal, worn face, his shortly cropped dark hair. He was himself.

And then he noticed the fragrant smell of pollen, the pleasant aromas of flowers blooming in the rolling fields. The sky above him was a tranquil blue, with white puffs of clouds floating lazily on a breeze. He could sense the seeds in the air, let go in a spring bloom and drifting idly until they would land, somewhere, and perhaps sprout.

“If this is death,” Finnaeus said aloud, wondering again at his own voice coming forth, “I will gladly take it.”

It is not death, a voice boomed. Deep was not the word to describe it. It trembled from below the ground, echoed in the air above. It was all around him, in him, through him. It quaked him to the core, and it filled him with an awe and dread that belied the tranquility of his surroundings.

Finnaeus wanted to respond, but he found himself unable to. The wind picked up around him, kicking up dirt from the ground. It swirled, five feet in front of him, and then the earth began to quake. He shuddered to the ground, falling to his hands and knees, and when he looked up the swirling dissipated and then, in front of him, was a vision of his father. Thaddeus Peverley stood ten feet tall, his skin a putrid green and sickly, his frame gaunt and skeletal. Still he could see the scar above and below his eye, and his eyes looked haunted and imperious. He looked down at Finnaeus.

You are not dead, because I am not done with you.

The figure’s mouth did not move, and yet there was no doubt that it was the source of the voice.

“Who are you?”

You know, the voice trembled.

“Where am I?”

That you know as well.

Finnaeus looked around at the glade. He had never been in such a place before, and he had a long memory for the places he had visited. Nowhere did he see such a pristine, perfect stretch of land.

“The Emerald Dream.”

Yes.

He was in the Dream. Which was strange – he was never aware of any sort of connection between the Emerald Dream and the land of Gilneas. But then he was being a fool there as well – the Emerald Dream was all lands of Azeroth, untouched by corruption. With the exception of the Nightmare. And this tainted thing towering in front of him. Plagued and corrupted, thin and dying.

“I am sorry,” Finnaeus said. “You look like my father, and yet I do not know who I am.”

I am the rock that supported you, the earth that sustained you. I am the force that nurtured your people and sheltered them from harm. Are you so unfamiliar with me, now that you have grown so distant?

Finnaeus stared up in wonderment. He knew as a druid that there were spirits of the land, that the earth had a voice that you could hear if only you knew how to listen. But he had never seen an embodiment of the land before, never experienced it as if it were its own person. And of course it would look like his father, for wasn’t his father everything that Finnaeus associated with Gilneas? He had stretched his mind so far that he had contacted the spirit of Gilneas.

You know, the voice spoke, the image of a sickly Thaddeus Peverley growing taller as it stepped forward. Where its foot touched the ground the grass withered and died. It was sad to see, this plagued spirit, stepping forth in a place of such perfection. You have seen it with your own eyes, the diseased and foul things that have happened to this land. The death and decay that haunts the surface like a disease, wiping out all things living before they have a chance to heal, and renew.

“I have seen it,” Finnaeus said, nodding.

And you have ignored our suffering, the voice boomed, growing taller, louder. You have seen, but done nothing. You fled, and though you visit you have done nothing to regrow, restore. Instead you mourn, and you grieve.

“What is there to be done?” Finnaeus asked, looking up. “I tried to stop my brother, and his army. I did the best that I could.”

No one believes that, Thaddeus responded with the force of thunder. Efforts and attempts, and still blood and pestilence runs through the soil. Corpses tread upon the land, defiling my spirit. A cataclysm has split my bones, drowned my land in water. The land cries out for help, to relieve the pain, for solace. And only Death answers.

“I am sorry,” Finnaeus said.

That is true, Thaddeus cracked. But it is not enough. The call must be answered. The voices of Gilneas must be heard, and vengeance must be fulfilled. The sick and dead must be purged away, so that new life can grow. I am tired of being tired, sick of being sick.

“What would you have me do?” Finnaeus asked. “I am just one man.”

You will be my voice, Thaddeus said, and the wind suddenly gusted all around him. The land shook, the blades of grass whipping and bending madly. The sky above him darkened, and when Finnaeus looked up at the giant, booming figure the face had changed. The sick had morphed into a furious, frightening version of himself, in his troll body, towering above him so tall that he had to crane his neck to see.

You, Finnaeus Peverley, formerly of Gilneas, will be my vengeance. You, who knows our pain, feels our torment, will channel our rage, our anguish, and our power. You will be the instrument of our fury, and only after you have wiped away this disease will you know the peace that Death can bring.

Finnaeus could not respond. The towering, gigantic image of himself exploded outwards, in a shower of green sparks, and all Finnaeus could do was brace himself against such power. It surrounded him, scalding his skin and body, and as it flowed through him he began to scream. It would destroy him, he knew it, and then –

He opened his eyes. He was once again in the mud, staring at the golden locket that rested in the rain. Lightning flashed, and the sound of thunder boomed overhead. The storm had arrived.

Finnaeus took a tentative breath, and he found the pain was gone. Wary, he hoisted himself to his knees. He looked down and saw that the front of his tabard was caked in blood and mud. But when he held his hands to his abdomen, he found that the wounds had healed. And it was then that he could hear it, just faintly on the storming winds –

Gilneas demands vengeance.

Finnaeus looked up and saw Aloyseus and his army of worgen, assembling on the beach ahead. Finnaeus hoisted himself to his feet. His hands, his feet, his entire body tingled with power.

He narrowed his eyes. His days of killing were not over yet.

Araneon slid across the floor of the lab, bumping over the shattered debris of the lab equipment and coming straight towards Anyanara. The dark magic in her eyes seemed to pulse. His hands clutched at his throat as she pulled him with magic – he could not breathe, and when he started to see spots in his eyes he thought he would lose consciousness. He was so close to her, and she had her sword ready. His head banged against the toes of her boots, and with a horrifying screech she swung her sword down in a wide arc. He summoned the Light, hoping he was fast enough.

A brilliant shield of Light surrounded him. The sword crashed against it as if it struck rock, the metal of the blade screaming as it slid across his shield. Araneon gulped in air, savoring the every breath. But the shield wouldn’t last forever. He stood, the brilliance of the Light forcing Anya backwards.

“You must fight this, Anya,” he pleaded, but that look of intense hatred in her eyes drove away any hope he had of reaching her. Her mind was lost in the darkness, shrouded by Malthaes’s overpowering spell work. Araneon stood, the Light still surrounding him. Anya eyed him hungrily, as if she knew that the shield would fall at any second. The sword hung in her hands, waiting.

Araneon readied himself. Using his last moments of reprieve, he cast a glance around the now shattered remnants of the lab. The possessed worgen still battled the lab workers and the Forsaken soldiers. The walls and floor were scorched and scarred from the errant magic. And still at the center of the chaos was Malthaes and Shan’Daon, sending bolts of crackling magic at each other with no intentions of relenting. At this point the duel seemed more about supremacy than any sort of instinct towards survival, and if they kept up their escalation in power, they would all be lucky to even survive.

But that was only one thing stopping Araneon from surviving the day. He retrained his eyes on his sister. He tightened his grip on his sword. Her magically enhanced strength meant that he couldn’t last in a straight up fight. She would tire him out. Instead, he would have to try something else entirely. The thought occurred to him that he could call upon the Light, but if he used too much he might kill her. And he could not bring himself to do that. The goal was to disarm, make her less of a threat. Then he could take on the problem of the two psychotic magic wielders intent on destroying everything.

“Ok Anya,” Araneon said, readying his sword. Anya sensed the shield coming down, like a predator sensing weakness in its prey. Her nostrils flared and her mouth opened in anticipation. Shadow magic seeped out of her mouth. The shield fell, and she charged.

She swung in one powerful arc – the swords smashed together, and for one wild moment Araneon thought that the handle would rip from his hands. He absorbed the blow, spinning the blade so that it could rebuff the next attack. Anya swung with power, and great coordination, and it took all of the strength that he had to rebuff her. Each attack came swiftly and violently, the sword moving effortlessly in her arms. She took a wide arc and he jumped backwards. She advanced on him, with a methodical cruelty, and she let out a screech as she swung her sword. The Light glowed from Araneon’s blade as the swords collided. Before she could strike again, Araneon curled his hands and sent a bolt of Light at his sister. It struck her square in the chest. She staggered backwards, growling in pain, before she looked up at him with sheer malevolence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll drive the magic out of you if you won’t do it for yourself.”

She made no indication that she understood. Instead, she snarled and charged forward again. He curled his fingers, summoning the Light, but then she swiped her hand out and his head snapped back as if something had struck him in the face. He stumbled backwards just in time to see her sword swinging down at him. He dodged, but just barely – the blade sliced the edge of his shoulder, the wound blazing with pain and the feel of warm blood coming down his arm. He rolled, getting some distance, and then summoned the Light again. The wound began to heal, but he did not have time to heal it properly – she was already advancing again.

He parried everything he could, the blows coming fiercer and more violently than before. Twice she nearly struck the sword of his hands, and at one point he nearly tripped on a broken lab table as she forced him backwards. There was no ebb and flow to the battle – instead, she advanced on him constantly, and he retreated backwards in an effort to absorb the blows. He was growing tired – he could not keep this up forever. And with the crackling magic of Malthaes and Shan’Daon exploding around them, he knew that none of them would last if he didn’t end this somehow.

Araneon took a great leap backwards, landing uncertainly on a pile of rubble and stone. He lowered his sword, glancing at her.

“Anya, I do not wish to fight you. Please, put down the sword!”

She made no response. With magic she swept a broken table out of her way, and advanced on him.

“You leave me no choice,” Araneon said. He curled the fingers of both hands, the Light glowing brightly in his palms. It surrounded him, flowing through his body, that warm reassuring feeling almost like hope, if there was hope to be had. Anya screamed, charging forward. Araneon dropped his sword, trusting to his instincts, trusting to the Light to guide him. He had no margin for error.

She closed the distance, and like always she swung the sword in a wide arc, looking for the kill in a single blow. Araneon jumped, his feet barely clearing the blade, and when he landed he saw her winding up for another strike. He reached forward, his hands blazing with the Light, and he grabbed her hands. Instantly he could hear her scream in pain, the sound filling him with sorrow and terror. But instead of letting go, he tightened his grip.

“I’m not letting go,” Araneon yelled. “Drop the sword!”

But Anya would not do so. She screamed and she screamed, the Light surrounding the two of them. Her arms and body thrashed, and it took all of Araneon’s focus to keep hold. If he let go, he had no sword to defend himself. The warm glow of the Light radiating from his hands, singing and scalding her body. He watched as Shadow magic streamed out of her. It was working, but then she jerked her body wildly. He lost his footing underneath him, and he felt himself sliding. A sick, swooping panic came over him then, and he barely hung on as he toppled backwards. He kept his grip on his sister, and the two of them started to fall. But then they locked eyes, and the darkness streamed out of her eyes and mouth and covered his face.

Terror reigned – he could see nothing. All he could do was feel his sister’s wrists and the weightlessness of himself falling. He could feel the darkness as opposed to just seeing it – the crushing weight of uncertainty, of despair, of malevolence. They crashed into the ground, his vision entirely obscured, and his body coiled in horror when he felt his sister’s hands wrench free from his own. Scrambling, he crawled on the floor, still blind – he had to get away – but then all of the sudden the darkness lifted and he could see. He flipped to his back, to look behind him, and he saw his sister on the ground, immobile, the sword on the ground out of her hands.

There was no time for relief – he had to know if she was ok. He ran over to her, but then he heard a thundering shout from Shan’Daon, and his attention diverted. Shan’Daon and Malthaes were surrounded by swirls of dark magic, two beams of magic connecting and sending out sparks everywhere. Shan’Daon seemed to losing, the beams closer to him than to Malthaes.

Shan'Daon's feet sank into the stone underneath him as he struggled for purchase. Malthaes, however, looked cool but focused, that smug smile permanently etched upon his face.

“Come now, you’re a god, remember?” Malthaes said, waving his hands and sending bolts of Shadow at the Mogu. “Let’s see your immense power in all of its glory. Or is this all that the Thunder King deigned to give you?”

Shan’Daon roared, his ego slighted, but it was no use. Malthaes was wielding too much power – the Void Spark embedded in his chest swirled with dark energy, and he stood upon an acid green Demonic rune that imbued him with more power. Shan’Daon looked down haughtily at the elf.

“You are stronger than most of your kind,” Shan’Daon said. “But ultimately you are still nothing. You want the wrath of my power? You shall have it.” He struck out his hand that held his gem, the very gem that caused all of the soul-stealing, body-swapping madness to begin with, and he uttered a dark curse. Purple tendrils of magic snaked out of the gem and struck the possessed worgen and Forsaken all at once. They all seized, as if paralyzed, and then Araneon watched as their souls streamed out of their bodies, dragged from their shells. All of the bodies went limp, and the gem sucked in their souls and then gave off a deadly, dark hue. Shan’Daon’s eyes went dark, and he issued such a powerful blast of magic that rippled through the air and made Araneon’s body seize. Malthaes summoned a magical shield, his hands held to the air. The blast struck the shield, a viciously unpleasant sound filled the air from the magic broaching more magic. Despite his power Malthaes sank to his knees, his shield collapsing on him.

“Kill him,” Araneon said, kneeling next to Anya and then grabbing her hands. They were cold. “Kill him,” he repeated. Perhaps when Malthaes finally perished, his sister would be returned from her current state.

The shield wavered, but the blast dissipated. Malthaes stood, triumphant, but then Shan’Daon took two steps forward and struck the warlock with the back of his hand. Malthaes was lifted off of his feet and flew in the air, striking the stone wall and then slumping to the ground.

“Insect,” Shan’Daon hissed. “Now you must see that you cannot stand against me. But you have proven yourself worth to join my collection. Your soul will give me the power to buckle the knees of the world.”

Shan’daon did not smile in triumph. Instead he looked down haughtily as Malthaes struggled to his feet.

“There is but one flaw in your plan, mighty one,” Malthaes said, his eyes alight with the cold fury.

“And what is that, whelp?” Shan’Daon said, his gem wreathed in power.

“I have no soul to steal,” he hissed. He flashed his hand out, and a blast of shadow magic flew from his fingertips. Shan’Daon was not prepared – the bolt struck the Mogu’s gem, wrenching it from his fingertips. The Mogu bellowed as the gem flew through the air and then struck the ground. It smashed into pieces, and all of the magical glow disappeared at once. Thousands of souls, imprisoned in the gem for however long, streamed out of the dust. Shan’Daon watched them go, apoplectic with rage.

“YOU FOOL! You will NEVER get what you want without that gem!”

“On the contrary,” Malthaes said, only rage on his cold, unsympathetic face. “You know how to procure another one. And once I’ve subdued you again, I’ll pillage your brain for the knowledge and make another one. You are no god, Shan’Daon. You are my tool, my instrument, and my plaything.”

“I will never stoop so low,” Shan’Daon said. “Mogu power will never be in such undeserving hands. You are not worthy, you are too small, you are –”

“Tired of your insane ramblings,” Malthaes hissed, flicking his hands and sending a magic blast at Shan’Daon. He tried to deflect the blow, but despite his own natural skill at magic, the gem was the true source of his power. Shan’Daon stumbled backwards.

“Kneel,” Malthaes said cruelly. “Kneel, and I shall spare you the pain of being conscious while I ravage your mind.”

“No,” Shan’Daon boomed. “Never.”

“Never say never,” Malthaes said. “Especially in the face of your superior.”

Shan’Daon’s eyes went wide with an insane fervor. “I would rather die than be in your service.” The Mogu stood, and he reached his hands to the sky. A thundering blast came from his hands and struck the ceiling of the lab.

“NO!” Malthaes yelled, but it was too late. The stone above Shan’Daon began to crack and break. Araneon pulled Anya close to him, her limp body in his lap, once again summoning the Light.

“Please,” he managed to utter, forming a barrier of Light around him. He could hear the Mogu’s booming, insane laugh as chunks of stone began to fall from above, threatening to bury them all. In the next moments all he could hear was the resounding crash of the stone, and then all he could see was darkness.

Finnaeus approached Aloyseus and his army of worgen with no fear. It was dark – the storm clouds above them had grown an angry shade of black, and the time between the flashes of lightning and the sounds of thunder shortened with every step. The rain came in sheets, and he was soaked to the bone. He would not be deterred, however, and he could not be turned aside from his mission.

“ALOYSEUS!” he bellowed, his voice carrying on the winds. He saw all of the worgen heads turn to find the source of the voice. His brother sat atop a skeletal steed, his face arranged in that same, dispassionate look that masked whatever emotion lay underneath. Finnaeus narrowed his eyes as his brother held up his hand to his army, and then approached alone atop the steed.

Aloyseus paused feet from his brother, his luxurious robes clinging in a damp clump against his thin, skeletal frame. Finnaeus thought he saw a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. The lightning flashed overhead, and neither steed nor rider flinched at it.

“So,” he said. “Malthaes did not kill you.”

“No,” Finnaeus agreed. “He did not.”

“You are every bit as frustrating as he said you would be,” Aloyseus said. “I respect and admire it truly.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” Aloyseus said. “Survival in the face of perilous odds – how can I not? After all, everything that I do is for my own survival.”

“It ends tonight,” Finnaeus said. “Your plans will go no further.”

Aloyseus sniffed, his eyes trained on his brother as if appraising him once again, recalculating.

“And you’ve come to tell me this, why?”

“Because I am not without mercy,” Finnaeus said. “Turn from this path and you can walk away.”

“How generous of you,” Aloyseus said, grinning. A crack of thunder boomed overhead. “I suppose your pardon extends to my army?”

All of his worgen army were on all fours, ready. Their fur was matted from the rain, and their eyes glowed in the darkness, their teeth bared and ready. Finnaeus shifted his glance from them to his brother.

“They are monstrosities, and must be destroyed,” Finnaeus said.

“And what of you, dearest brother?” Aloyseus hissed. “Your hypocrisy knows no ends. You would deny them a chance at another life, while you strut around in that troll body of yours.”

“I did not choose this,” Finnaeus said softly. “And I have no intention of victimizing those in turn. Surely you can see the difference.”

“I see nothing that does not exist,” Aloyseus said. “Life is precious, you said so yourself. I’m simply giving my people another crack at it.”

“At the expense of those already living.”

“Everything has a price,” Aloyseus said, straightening in the saddle. “You were a fool to come here, but I recognize your charity with some of my own. Leave here, now, and my army will not tear you to pieces.”

Finnaeus closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.

“I do not want to kill you,” Finnaeus said. “I’m giving you this one last chance.”

“You always were a fool,” Aloyseus said, jerking the reins of the steed. “I will mourn the wasted potential when I find your ravaged body among the dead.” He turned his steed, and galloped back to his army.

Finnaeus watched him go, not surprised or disappointed. His brother could not be swayed from his path. His army had to be killed, of that he had no doubt. As if on cue, Aloyseus’s voice was carried on the winds, at the head of his host of worgen.

“Brothers! We stand on the threshold of victory. With one swift stroke against the Alliance camp only a few miles from here, we will claim enough bodies for us to begin our future towards another life. To security.”

There were cheers then, the whooping, savage cheers of Forsaken souls in worgen bodies. Thunder roared over them in response, the rain falling faster now. Finnaeus could feel his body tensing, as more power came through him. It was nearly time.

“Go forth, and leave none alive!”

Lightning flashed, and the worgen charged forward. Finnaeus did not hesitate. He twisted, assuming the form of a stag, and he ran forward. His body moved smoothly on the ground, as if the terrain underneath him firmed for every step. Gilneas was on his side, of that he was sure. Forward he moved, never panicking, his eyes on his next step. He needed to get the high ground, higher up away from the beachhead. That would give him a better view of the battlefield.

He could hear the snarls of the worgen behind him. They were fast, but not as fast as a natural worgen would be. They were still growing accustomed to their bodies. Finnaeus pressed forward, moving faster than them, cutting against the wind and the rain by sheer will and focus. The ground began to slope upwards. His body did not tire, and when he reached the top of the slope he could Sir Jarrett’s camp come into view. He did not want to get too close – he could not risk getting shot again. Instead, he shifted into troll body, and then spun.

The worgen were approaching the bottom of the hill. He did not see Aloyseus, but he could not afford to spare any thought towards finding him. Instead, he closed his eyes, reaching his consciousness into the soil below him.

“I am ready,” he said.

In that moment, a jolt of power flowed into him. It coursed through his body, and several sensations came over him at once. He could feel a warm spring air on his skin, and the scent of blooming flowers filled his nostrils. This was the smell and feel of a Gilnean spring, from a time before the land was ravaged over and over again. But that was only the first wave, for then the wrath, and anger, and grief, and despair of the land filled him. But it was not just that of the land. Every ounce of anger that he had for his own, anger at himself, powerful grief for what he had, and what he lost – everything mixed with that of the land. They united in their loss, their desire for vengeance, their need for catharsis. He became a conduit for the land and its power.

As the magic rippled through him, it unlocked every horrible thought he once contained, every terrible memory. His family ravaged by the worgen curse, his homeland sunken under water from the Cataclysm. The horrible sight of the barrels of blight exploding and poisoning his beloved homeland as he fled with the Night Elves to safety. Mingled with those memories were those alien to them, experienced by the land. He could see and feel the pain as the chained wheels of Orcish catapults dragged across the ground. He felt the trauma of zeppelins crashing into the ground with violent explosions. The sorrow of Gilnean creatures and people screaming in pain as they became casualties of a territorial war that they tried so emphatically to avoid. And he felt the violent crunch as the Cataclysm wrecked much of the land and sent it spiraling into the water. All of it came to him, the magic growing stronger, whipping him into a frenzy.

He looked down and saw that a green aura surrounded his body and pulsed outwards. The grass grew greener at his feet, bright and alive, and the air around him was stripped of the cold and filled with warmth. Above him the storm clouds spiraled, a single beam of light shining through it and surrounding him. He was at the eye of the storm.

Finnaeus turned his gaze to the worgen at the base of the slope. He watched as the worgen began their ascent of the slope. It was time.

He curled his fingers, and immediately gnarled roots exploded from the ground underneath them. A thorny overgrowth ensnared the lead worgen’s front leg – his momentum carried him forward, and even over the howl of the wind he could hear the leg snap at the joint. With a whine the worgen fell to the ground. More roots exploded from the earth, whipping around the worgens’ hands and feet. He could hear them snarling, fighting against them as they slowed.

But it is only beginning, Finnaeus thought, waving his hands, conducting the magic that flowed from the earth into his feet, through his body. The green aura grew warmer, brighter, and it was then that he could see the wind intensifying, the rain falling in slashing sheets. The worgen that did not get ensnared by roots had slowed down as they climbed the hills, the winds screaming in their face. A deafening explosion of thunder hit, and the hurricane opened in full force.

The winds shrieked and howled, whirling all around them. A smaller worgen lost her footing and was swept into the air, whining as her body spun helplessly in the air. Many of the worgen extricated themselves from the grappling roots, only to find more bursting from the soil, trying to coil around their limbs, snaking up around their necks. The first wave managed to break through, nearly halfway up the slope. Finnaeus spotted them bearing down on him.

He splayed his fingers, and a vicious bolt of lightning struck from the hurricane, dragging across the front row of worgen. There were screams of pain, and then silence – he could only see the scorched clumps of fur lying on the ground. There was a panic, then, as small vortexes of spinning, churning wind touched on the ground from the monstrous hurricane, the cyclones lifting worgen bodily from the ground and then sending them crashing violently into the earth. Finnaeus heard the screams, the whines of pain, but he would not relent. Vengeance was vicious, cruel, and unrelenting.

The entire army of worgen had bottlenecked on the slope – several were trying to flee. But as more roots jutted out of the ground and ensnared them, escape became impossible. Lighting struck sporadically from the storm clouds, singeing and searing the entrapped worgen. The aura surrounding Finnaeus changed, going from a radiant green to a spectral, ghostly blue. He reached his hands to the sky, and he saw that the flesh of his body had dissolved and became one with the magic that he wielded. He did not question it, did not doubt this – instead, he embraced the feeling that the magic gave him, the release as he poured all of emotions into the spells that he cast. The storm cloud glowed, and then pure white balls of light as brilliant as the stars formed within the hurricane before streaking towards the ground. They came down in a flurry, striking the worgen. Finnaeus watched as stars and lighting struck, the roots crunching the very bones that they ensnared. The worgen had no chance against such power.

Finnaeus’s body seized as more magic flowed through him and into the air. The stars fell in increasing power, the winds screamed and the lightning flashed and boomed with an unrivaled ferocity. Beams of silver light flashed and boomed, striking the ground and causing the earth to shake. His eyes seared from the brilliant luminance, and he closed his eyes to protect himself. His entire being shook, the hurricane reaching its apex, and then –

It was over.

The power stopped flowing in him, and all of the warmth and anger and rage flooded out of him. He slumped, barely able to stay on his feet. The storm clouds above them stopped spinning, and broke apart. A thin, weak band of sunlight broke through the scattered remnants, and the rain ceased to fall.

The worgen were all destroyed. Finnaeus crouched, his legs and arms as heavy as stones, and he looked upon the devastation. It was not enough that they were dead. The price that the land demanded was high – their bodies were utterly broken, and as the roots withdrew into the soil they dragged the bodies underneath with them. Finnaeus watched, too tired to feel any real emotion except for fatigue. Before these worgen were occupied by Forsaken souls, they were once Gilneans fighting for their homeland. Perhaps the land was taking them back before they could be used for more nefarious purposes. It pinged him with an aching sadness.

For a long while he stared, watching as the land absorbed the dead, until the slope was entirely clear of any sign of bloodshed. It was as if none of it had happened. He reached down and touched his fingers to the soil. He did not have to reach far into his consciousness to know that the spirit of the land was appeased. It was, perhaps, a small victory. There would be many claims and battles over Gilneas in the future, and this was but one. But, for once, the land was given an outlet for its grief and pain, and it could feel, for a time, sated.

Finnaeus, on the other hand, did not know how to feel about any of it. He was simply tired, his body exhausted. He reached a hand up and clenched his family locket, still hanging from his neck. It gave him some measure of comfort. He stood, letting the locket fall from his hand and hang around his neck. There would be time to reflect later. Now was the time to –

He heard screaming.

He wheeled around, and his eyes immediately locked on the Sir Jarrett’s camp. It looked as if smoke was billowing from the camp.

“Aloyseus,” Finnaeus muttered, his stomach swooping with horror. His brother wasn’t amid the worgen. He shifted into his stag form again, and he raced towards the camp. The screaming came to a stop, but that did nothing but stir the increasing fear in his heart. As he got closer, he saw that it wasn’t smoke that was rising from the camp. It was Shadow magic.

Finnaeus shifted into his cat form and took to stealth. He crept towards the camp, moving quietly but urgently, his body low to the ground. As he reached the entrance, he had to stop.

Bodies were strewn all across the camp. He approached the first one, a dwarven woman. Her face was frozen in a look of horror, and shadow magic oozed from her eyes and mouth as if the shadow had consumed her from the inside. In a trance he gazed out at the whole camp and saw body after body, each one contorted in odd angles, wreathed in shadow magic. The Alliance flag that flew over the camp had been reduced to tatters – only bits of cloth hung from the flag post.

Aloyseus, Finnaeus thought, his feline eyes observing the devastation. What have you done?

Araneon opened his eyes, and he sighed.

I’m alive, he thought. He looked around, surrounded by the glow of the Light. Several boulders rested their weight upon the shield of Light surrounding him and his sister. He pressed upwards with his arm, and the Light shifted the boulders. They rolled off of them and to the side, crumbling as they went. Araneon unclenched his fist, and the shield of Light disappeared.

The lab was destroyed. Rain poured into the large, gaping hole in the ceiling. Araneon’s eyes ranged over the destruction. Very little sunlight penetrated the storm clouds above them, but it was enough to replace the now extinguished fires of the torches that once illuminated the room. He scanned the room, making note of the many bodies that were crushed underneath the debris. Many of them were probably dead before the ceiling collapsed, however. In the center of the room was Shan’Daon, only his head visible from under the pile of rocks. His eyes were rolled into the back of his head, and blood pooled from a gaping wound at the top of his skull. The Mogu Sorcerer was dead. Araneon glanced around to see if there was a sign of Malthaes, but that entire area was buried under stone.

He looked down at his sister, and he pressed a palm to her face. Her skin was still so very cold, even though all of the Shadow magic had left her body.

“Anya?” he asked uncertainly, crouching down and pulling her so that she was in his lap. She did not respond, and he shook her a little. “Anya?”

He summoned the Light. It glowed in his hands, warm and vibrant, and he pressed it to her face. He closed his eyes, hoping and praying, channeling the Light from him to her, willing it work. She needed its warmth, the healing – it would bring her back from whatever dark place that Malthaes had sent her. He rocked a little bit, muttering under his breath, trying to layer calm over a building layer of panic.

“Anya?” Araneon opened his eyes, and he saw that still his sister would not stir. He looked her over, wondering why she wasn’t responding. With trepidation he put two fingers just below her chin, right on her neck, and he searched for any sign of a pulse. There was nothing to find, however, and he shook his head.

“No,” he shouted, protesting against a swell of grief. He channeled the Light again, furious that it wasn’t working, angry that his sister wasn’t waking. Her heart would beat again, it had to, it had no choice. Both of his hands covered her chest, and he channeled the Light into her as much as he could. But then he felt something odd, something weirdly misshapen under her tunic. And when the Light didn’t get her to respond again, he took a shuddering gasp.

“No,” he hissed, pressing the grief back. He unlaced the top of her tunic, and when he peeled back shirt he saw the beginnings of a gaping wound in her chest that had obviously been there for quite some time.

The power of his sadness came over him before he could say ‘no’ to it again. He pulled her close to him, sobbing into her blonde hair. His entire body shook, his face scalded with tears hot with grief and guilt. His dear sister, the one person he had in this world, had been taken from him. And for something that had nothing to do with her, nothing at all. She warned him to stay way, pleaded with him to take a different path.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg to whatever power there was to bring her back. But there was not enough breath in his lungs for words, not when his chest heaved with wracking sobs. His fingers curled around her hair, her arms, and he heaved out an aimless, plaintive “please” before burrowing his forehead against hers. He imagined her coming back, wrapping her arms around him, and giving him a reassuring hug. But the cruel reality destroyed the illusion, because she hung lifeless and heavy in his arms. Anya, the one who tried to guide him, love him, and better him, would not come back.

And then he heard it, over the sound of his grief. It was clear and cutting, carrying over his sobs. It was the sound of laughter.

“What a misfortune.”

Araneon turned his gaze upwards. Through the blur of the tears in his eyes, he saw Malthaes Shadowbough standing atop a pile of rubble. His robes were in tatters, and he was sporting a nasty cut on the side of his face. Araneon’s eyes drifted to the Void Spark still embedded in Malthaes’s chest, and the dark lines on his skin that came from the corruption.

“You.” It was all Araneon could muster. He was filled with hot, poisonous loathing, so strong that it quelled his grief. He placed Anya to the ground, and then he stood, grabbing his sword.

“Me,” Malthaes agreed. He smirked, but it did not match the icy malevolence in his eyes. “Such a tragedy what happened to your dear sister. There was once a time when I would have spared her life. But then she stuck a sword in my chest.” He glanced at her, his smirk turning into a sneer. “I repay my debts, Master Sunwhisper.”

“How could you kill her?” he asked.

“With my sword, aren’t you listening?” Malthaes asked.

“She loved you,” Araneon said. “She thought you could be better.”

“Ah yes,” Malthaes said. “Redemption is such a core tenant of the paladin philosophy, isn’t it? She hitched her horse to the wrong cart, it appears. Love and the Light didn’t save her.”

“You must have surprised her,” Araneon said. “She would never have lost to you outright.”

“But that’s meaningless, Spider,” Malthaes said, regaining his grin. “The how doesn’t matter when she’s still a lifeless corpse.”

Araneon snarled, and he charged. When he reached Malthaes, he swung his sword to kill him one swoop. He dissolved into Shadow, and then appeared behind him.

“But if you must know, I did surprise her. Struck her right from behind,” Malthaes said, his eyes alight. “Right through her back, straight into her heart. She bled quite a bit, I can assure you. And she suffered, of that I’m sure. It’s a painful death. All of that bleeding out. And when her legs gave out and her body caught on my blade. I had a hard time wedging the thing out without doing more damage, you know?”

Araneon shook with fury, tears streaming down his face. He charged again, bellowing with rage, but the warlock simply disappeared and reappeared twenty feet away.

“I told her so many times that her faith in people would get her killed.”

“It wasn’t her faith in people that killed her,” Araneon said. “It was you.”

“I’m not sure you believe that,” Malthaes said. “After all, Spider, it was her faith in you and her persistence in keeping you from the wrong path that got her involved in our affairs in the first place. She wouldn’t have been involved at all if she didn’t feel like meddling and trying to save you from yourself.”

Araneon gripped his sword. Malthaes’s words cut him inside, empowered the guilt that festered inside of him.

“You still didn’t have to kill her,” Araneon said.

“But it made things so much simpler, didn’t it?” Malthaes responded. “No authorities got involved. It made smuggling our project that much easier.”

“Your project is ruined,” Araneon sneered. “It’s finished.”

“Yes, that is true,” Malthaes said, his smile flickering. “I am very displeased with you, obviously. And a little surprised. What did the druid fool say to you that ultimately changed your mind, eh Spider? What could he have possibly have said that would have led you to such a precarious position? Tell me, I’m fascinated. It must have been good for you to do something so self-damaging.”

“I told you,” Araneon said. “I’m not the Spider anymore.”

Malthaes laughed, and waved his hand.

“You’re fooling no one. You’re still the same selfish, craven monster you’ve always been. It just so happens that you’ve turned to the Light and it has made you a coward too. You still have all the temptations towards using beautiful women for their bodies and their mana. You’ve got the same primal urges. You’re a monster, Araneon, warped to the very core. Anya was a fool for even trying to put you on the right path. Given enough time away from her, you would have turned back to what you’ve known.”

“You know nothing about me,” Araneon said, stepping forward. Malthaes responded with a laugh, entirely unconcerned.

“Oh but of course,” Malthaes sneered. “I don’t know anything about the women you’ve bedded and murdered, branded with that obnoxious tattoo of yours to claim your conquests. I don’t know anything about how your sister had to warn all the women in Quel’Danas that you were coming, just in case your appetite got too powerful to resist. I know nothing about how you couldn’t control the wracking pain of mana withdrawal long enough without feeding off of a fellow Sin’Dorei.”

“I’m not that person anymore,” Araneon said.

“Ah, but you are. Because you’ve done nothing since. You’ve just been hiding who you are, not changing. But you know this. Tell me what the druid said to you.”

“What do you care?” Araneon asked.

“Because I am very curious to know what could turn someone away from the kind of power I offered you,” Malthaes said. “It must have been very convincing. Tell me.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Araneon said. “I changed my mind on my own.”

Malthaes cackled.

“Come now, there’s no reason to lie. Let me guess, you needed to ‘do the right thing’? You were trying to be a better person? You expect me to believe that?”

“What you were doing was wrong,” Araneon said.

“You’re a puppet,” Malthaes said, his eyes growing dark. “A parrot, even. You open your mouth and your sister comes out. These aren’t your views. Your views are that if they have a nice body and some skill with magic, they’re a night’s meal and tomorrow’s problem. Enough of the lies, Spider. Tell me what Finnaeus said to you.”

“No,” Araneon said. He saw Malthaes getting frustrated, and that was his only solace. The warlock would not let him near enough to kill. It was the only pain he could inflict.

“I’ll just take it from your mind, then,” Malthaes snarled, and he flicked his hands. A beam of shadow struck Araneon before he could react. He could feel that weird sensation of something else in his mind, poking around, shifting through memories and feelings. Araneon pushed him out of his mind.

“You can’t have it,” Araneon said.

“Come now,” Malthaes said, his hands glowing with Shadow. “I’m going to have what I want whether you want to give it or not.”

“You’ve taken enough,” Araneon said. “And you’ve talked enough. Let’s duel, and if you defeat me you can have whatever you want.”

“You want me to duel you?” Malthaes said, his eyes wide with amusement. “I could have killed you already if I wanted.”

“I’m sure,” Araneon said, holding his sword up. He pointed it at the Void Spark in Malthaes’s chest. “I saw what you did to Shan’Daon. I have no illusions about your power. But if you’re so sure that you’re superior, that I’ve been defanged, then prove it. Duel me. Just swords. You know how to use one, since you killed my sister with one. You should be fine, no?”

“Ah, I see,” Malthaes said, pulling the sword from his side. “You are going to antagonize my hubris so that I’ll submit to your gamble. That would even the scales between us, and you, being the superior sword fighter, will prevail and slay me. And I will lay bleeding upon the ground, felled by my arrogance.”

“Don’t be a coward,” Araneon said.

“I am not a coward,” Malthaes said. “Nor am I fool.”

He splayed his fingers, but this time Araneon was ready. He held up his hand, and the blast of Shadow was met with a shield of Light.

“Very quick,” Malthaes said. Araneon did not respond – he charged forward, the Light surrounding him. He reached Malthaes and swung his sword. The warlock raised his own blade, and they metal crashed against one another. Araneon swung, quickly and fiercely. He found strength in his grief and rage, but he had to be careful. If he was too reckless he would leave himself exposed.

He channeled the Light into his blade, and he moved deliberately, carefully. To his credit Malthaes moved adeptly with a sword. Twice he counterstruck so swiftly that the blade nearly severed him in half. But Araneon pressed him backward, waiting for him to stumble over rubble.

“You are strong with the Light,” Malthaes grumbled. “But the Shadow is powerful too.”

He flicked his wrist, and tendrils of shadow struck out from the rubble and grabbed Araneon around the ankles. But Araneon was prepared – his hands flashed with the Light, and he extricated himself from the dark tendrils before they could take a proper hold. He advanced again, striking out methodically, pushing the warlock backwards. Malthaes disappeared in a puff of shadow, and then reappeared ten feet away.

“I do not fight alone,” he said. A burst of flame appeared, and his imp Piztal appeared. The little demon cackled and swung firebolts at Araneon. He dodged them with ease, and then he waved his hand. Instantly the demon clenched his head and screamed with pain, chattering incomprehensibly and hopping away.

“You can’t stand against the Light for long, Malthaes,” Araneon said. He closed the gap, and he swung his sword. Malthaes grew increasingly desperate. His hands were wreathed with Shadow, but the Light came strongly from Araneon now, blazing and giving him warmth. He pushed Malthaes back so hard with his sword that the warlock tripped backwards, barely keeping his balance. Araneon curled his hands, and a hammer of Light appeared. He swung it, and it streaked towards Malthaes and struck him square in the face. He bellowed, dropping his sword, and fell backwards into the rubble.

Araneon sensed victory. He summoned the Light in its full fury – wings of golden Light erupted from his back. His sword glowed so brightly that it seemed to be made of the Light itself. He charged forward, and then leapt forward to close the distance. Malthaes looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear. He made a move to conjure magic, but it was too late. Araneon crashed down on him, and his sword pierced the warlock right in the stomach. He screamed in pain – Araneon watched with pleasure as black blood streamed out of the wound.

“It’s a painful way to die,” Araneon hissed. He pressed his finger to Malthaes’s forehead and watched as a black brand of the Spider burned into the warlock’s forehead. He watched in satisfaction as the warlock struggled against the sword, savoring every moment as life drained out of the warlock’s face. Araneon met Malthaes’s gaze. Malthaes’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his eyelids closed. Araneon made to pull the sword from his body, but then the body completely disappeared.

He stood, surprised – he had seen Malthaes dissolve into shadow before, but never completely disappear. But then the room started to shift and dissolve, and he heard it again, that cold laughter, cutting above everything.

“Did you enjoy it?’

Araneon blinked. He was crouched again, with Anya still in his arms. But that wasn’t possible – he was standing over there, over the corpse of Malthaes Shadowbough. He had killed him, stabbed him with his sword.

Araneon looked around for his sword, but could not find it. Malthaes’s laughter was echoing in his ears, all around him. He stood, panicked, not understanding what was happening.

“But he’s dead,” Araneon said.

“But I’m not,” the voice said. A burst of shadow appeared before him. Malthaes emerged from the shadow with a cruel smile on his face. Araneon made to run, but then was a blinding pain in his chest. He looked down, incredulous, and he saw that Malthaes had stuck him with his own sword – only the hilt was visible. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing – that was his blood running over Malthaes’s hands, over the hilt of his sword.

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” Malthaes hissed. “A fantasy, a ruse. Did you think I would honestly let you engage me in a sword fight? I’m no fool, Spider. It entertained me to think that you thought you had a chance against me.” Malthaes pulled the sword out and then rammed it into Araneon again. He gasped, his mouth filling with blood. “You’re a nothing, Araneon, a two-bit hustler that got the best of unsuspecting women. You’re nothing, your sister was a nothing, and I take such great satisfaction in knowing I blotted out the whole, Light-loving lot of you. You’ve destroyed everything that I’ve worked for, and now I’m going to destroy you.”

Malthaes snarled again, twisting the blade inside of him. Araneon instinctively grabbed for the hilt of the sword, but Malthaes pressed it further inside of him. There was nothing he could do. His head swam, grew light-headed. He would die here, just like his sister did. There was no way he could defeat Malthaes.

With all the strength he could muster, he pled to the Light. He invoked it for forgiveness, for mercy – he did not know what happened in death, but he did not want to die the monster that Malthaes accused him of being, the monster that he had been in life. He tried to be better, didn’t he?

He could feel the Light responding to his thoughts. The pain ebbed away, and when he looked down he could see the Light dancing in his fingers.

“Summon whatever Light you like,” Malthaes hissed. “You’re going to die.”

“I know,” Araneon croaked out. He reached up with one hand and grabbed the hilt of the sword. With his free hand, the one blazing with the light, he grabbed the Void Spark at the center of Malthaes’s chest.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, panicking.

“Giving you the gift of mercy, as someone once did for me,” Araneon said. He could feel the Light streaming from him, through his hands, out of his fingertips, and into the Void Spark. Malthaes tried to pull away, but Araneon kept his grip on Malthaes, holding him tight. Malthaes was yelling, the Light surrounding them growing brighter. Araneon knew he did not have much longer, now, but he had given up on saving himself.

The Light was warm, it was comforting, and he could hear the sounds of some distant music that was entirely soothing. He watched as the Light streamed into Malthaes’s Void Spark, and he could hear the warlock screaming, trying to wrench himself away. And then Araneon noticed that the Spider brand that had haunted him for so long had completely disappeared.

“I’m coming Anya,” he muttered. It was the last thing he would ever say, he knew, and he gave himself to the Light.