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Chapter Text

Only the final embers of Vol’jin’s funeral pyre remained, but Rommath found himself still staring into the faint glow. Night had fallen in Durotar, and the sticky heat had given way to a breeze that was almost comfortable. Almost. He leaned against a cragged rock as he watched the sparks crackle and flicker, unable to tear his eyes away.

It wasn’t that he’d been particularly close to the former Warchief; a stranger’s flame could have been dying in the moonlight and he would still have found his eyes fixed on it. No, it was the sight of the pyre itself that bothered him.

King Anasterian’s body had been burnt the same way in the aftermath of the Scourge’s attack on Quel’Thalas. It wasn’t a funeral, at least not in any traditional Thalassian sense of the word, but an attempt to prevent the indignity of his rising in undeath. And it was the best anyone could manage under the circumstances.

The corpse had been set alight before an exhausted crowd, who then turned to Kael’thas for guidance and for hope. In his grief, in his fear, the prince had remained silent.

Rommath’s fist clenched involuntarily.

Time hadn’t rendered the memory any less vivid, or any less painful. In that moment, Kael’thas wasn’t the crown prince. He was just a man; forlorn, alone and forced to burn his father’s body under the most difficult of circumstances. Rommath had been too blinded by love and grief to see the situation clearly. It was only in hindsight that it looked to be the first sign that Kael’thas might buckle under the pressures of leadership.

Rommath shook his head as if trying to clear the memory from his thoughts. It did no good to ruminate, and there was little other than the fire to remind him of that day.

Lady Sylvanas—no, the warchief, he corrected himself—seemed to share none of the doubt in accepting leadership that had plagued Kael’thas. Or if she did, she didn’t show it. Her speech as she set the pyre alight had been powerful and resolute, if not a little proud and terse. Well, until it was interrupted by the Illidari.

Rommath had assumed he would find Halduron and Lor’themar speaking to her now that her address had concluded and the demon threat was in hand. But as he dragged his eyes from the remnants of the fire and scanned the area, he instead found her deep in conversation with one of her dark rangers.

He never quite knew what to make of Lor’themar and Halduron’s relationship with Sylvanas. The three of them had been friends and close colleagues for years as Farstriders, but they only ever met on official business these days. It wasn’t as though they were regularly inviting her round for drinks at the Sunfury Spire.

But perhaps that wasn’t entirely a mystery. There were elves who, in their undeath, had returned to Quel’Thalas. Once their home, always their home. And there were elves who now thought of themselves as Forsaken above all. Sylvanas was a perfect figurehead for the latter group. Though Rommath couldn’t ever be sure whether her avoidance was of a lack of attachment to her former homeland, or a conscious awareness of how any action might be scrutinised. He had some sympathy if that was the case. He too knew how it felt to have every move dissected, as if others were waiting for him to slip.

Her eyes caught his as he watched, and she offered a brief, respectful nod, which he returned. He’d never been close to her the same way Lor’themar or Halduron had, but it didn’t matter. He knew enough of her reputation in life to know that she could be a strong and capable leader. And he knew enough of her reputation in undeath to know to keep a careful eye on her.

But, for now, it would look odd to stare any longer. A metaphorical eye would have to suffice. He turned instead toward Orgrimmar and caught a glint of golden pauldrons in the moonlight.

Lor’themar had, thankfully, grown to accept the need for him to dress the part of a proper regent lord. Gone were the days of Farstrider greens; now he wore armour more befitting of his status. It had been an uphill struggle, but one that had finally paid off as it caught Rommath’s attention in the Durotar twilight.

He couldn’t clearly see who the other two figures beside him were, though it was safe to assume one would be Halduron. It was only as he drew nearer and saw the horns that he realised the other was one of the remaining Illidari. Though interrupting a funeral as they had seemed a little improper, he supposed he couldn’t fault them. Demons lying in wait took precedence over propriety.

That they stayed behind while knowing what a spectacle they’d caused was less forgivable. But he wouldn’t say that. Not while they were still armed.

She eyed him warily as he came to a stop beside Halduron, or he assumed she did from beneath the blindfold. Lor’themar offered a nonchalant gesture as if to assure her Rommath was no threat.

Had they been in stasis so long that she still believed he was an ally of Kael’thas? The thought both amused and unsettled him.

“Allari was telling us of the true scale of the current threat,” Lor’themar said, forgoing any sort of greeting. “I fear the situation is far graver than any of us had realised.”

“When is it not?” Rommath asked dryly.

His humour wasn’t appreciated by Lor’themar, who flashed him a brief look of disapproval, or by the demon hunter, whose scowl deepened. Halduron, at least, bore a slightly strained expressed as he tried to suppress a laugh.

“The Legion is more organised than ever.” Allari’s voice was almost a hiss. “This is hardly something to joke about. Your former warchief paid the ultimate price, as did the Alliance’s king.”

“So it evens out, really,” Rommath said in a deadpan manner.

Lor’themar shut his eyes and raised a frustrated hand to his forehead, as if holding back his next words. Whatever his thoughts may be in private, and he’d expressed them boldly enough in the past when only Halduron and Rommath would hear, he was skilled at playing the diplomat in public. He took a long breath before he spoke.

“Is that entirely appropriate, Rommath?” There was a practiced sharpness in his tone. He truly sounded every bit a leader these days, even if he still swore it was something he’d never have chosen. Clearly the role chose you, Rommath often liked to retort when he repeated the line.

Rommath decided not to answer and instead turned back to the Illidari. “Continue, would you?”

“As I was saying, we’ve rarely seen the Legion as organised as it is right now. With the tomb breached, it is of the utmost importance that we have full cooperation from every part of both the Horde and the Alliance.”

“Quite right,” Lor’themar said. “Though I can’t speak for all, I can at least promise that Quel’Thalas will offer its cooperation.”

As she turned to leave, the demon hunter gave a strange salute, neither quel’dorei nor sin’dorei in manner, and Rommath assumed it must have been something particular to the Illidari. It looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he’d seen it on one of his visits to Kael’thas in the Outland so many years ago. He tried to recall, but before anything came to mind, he was interrupted.

Aethas Sunreaver rounded on them almost as soon as Allari had left, and Rommath couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been watching and waiting for his moment.

“Regent lord, ranger general,” he said with a respectful nod. He paused slightly, and there was a nervous, almost tentative edge to his voice before he finally greeted Rommath. “Grand magister.”

Though Rommath and Aethas had never quite seen eye to eye, things had improved between them of late. It helped that Rommath had saved his life in Dalaran not too long ago. If he hesitated, it meant he feared the reaction to whatever he had to say, and so Rommath steeled himself slightly before Aethas spoke again.

“Regent lord, I wondered if I might discuss with you again what I mentioned inside the hold. Before Warchief Vol’jin…” he trailed off.

Rommath and Halduron exchanged a brief look. Neither of them had been present in Grommash Hold when Vol’jin died, and clearly Lor’themar had told neither of them what had been said. Naturally, Rommath assumed that meant it was something one of them didn’t want to hear. Given Aethas’ nerves, Rommath assumed himself.

“I would rather we take this discussion back to Silvermoon, if possible,” Lor’themar said with a firmness in his tone that said it would be possible, and he would hear no arguments otherwise.

“I’ll do the honours, shall I?” Aethas asked, stepping back before he received any sort of answer and murmuring an incantation under his breath. Moments later, a shimmering portal to Silvermoon hovered above the dust.

He’d had the foresight, at least, to summon it directly into Lor’themar’s office. The cool room with its aggressively practical furniture, soft carpet underfoot and the faint, sweet scent of violets and lilies was a welcome contrast to the heat.

Rommath stepped through and claimed his usual seat, then set a glare on the portal to ensure Aethas would be met by it when he arrived. Which he was, until he averted his gaze before he sealed the portal shut behind him.

“Out with it, then,” Rommath said, his own eyes not once leaving Aethas.

Still he avoided returning his glare. Instead, Aethas cleared his throat and threw a tentative glance toward Lor’themar. The regent lord gave the slightest nod, barely perceptible, as if to signal for Aethas to speak.

“I have the great pleasure of announcing that The Council of Six is considering welcoming the Horde back into Dalaran. In light of recent events, and in the spirit of cooperation, of course.” Despite his words, it was clear from the way Aethas looked anywhere except at Rommath that he knew the news would be received as anything but a great pleasure. “They wish to work together in order to address the Legion threat. Including the Sunreavers, Silver Covenant, wider Kirin Tor, Alliance and Horde.”

He’d barely finished speaking before Rommath found a single short, sharp word escaping his lips.

“No.”

“Archmage Khadgar has conceded that what happened was a terrible misjudgement—” Aethas began, before Rommath cut him off.

“A misjudgement?” Rommath repeated with a scoff. “A misjudgement is wearing a woollen robe in Orgrimmar. It is not turning a blind eye while Jaina’s lackeys impose martial law in order to imprison and attempt to kill our people.”

“Rommath, I—” Aethas began.

“No, I will not hear it.” Rommath stood and walked toward Aethas. Though he was shorter than Aethas, he’d learnt well from Kael’thas how to make his presence felt. He stood ever so slightly too close for both of their comfort, and didn’t miss Aethas’ nervous swallow. “If you happen to have forgotten, may I remind you that they imprisoned you and it fell to me to save you. And now you’re rolling over and showing your belly to them like some subservient dog?”

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but there was a sting to Aethas’ request. After all Rommath had risked to save him, he was now willingly walking right back into their midst. It hurt. He would never tell him that, but it did. The least he could do was wound Aethas’ pride in return.

Lor’themar politely cleared his throat and spoke with gentle warning. “Rommath—”

Rommath stepped back, but whipped his head around and glared at Lor’themar.

“No. I cannot and will not send my magisters to be at the mercy of the Kirin Tor’s whims.” He paused, nostrils flaring. “Twice now I have seen our people imprisoned in Dalaran. Twice. No sin’dorei should be forced to set foot in that damnable city ever again.”

“Rommath,” Lor’themar said again. This time, however, there was no gentleness, and his tone calcified to a stern command. Rommath had overstepped a line.

All eyes in the room turned to Lor’themar and his impossibly calm expression. He managed that well these days, but Rommath could clearly remember the last time he’d seen him lose his temper in public. It was after the purge of Dalaran. He hoped Lor’themar remembered that much.

“Aethas, have you received assurances for our people’s safety if I send our forces to the Kirin Tor’s aid? While I would remind the grand magister that he does not have the authority to issue such a statement on my behalf, at least while I am standing here, I do share his concerns.”

There it was. Rommath could always tell Lor’themar was angry with him when he switched to using his title. Still, his anger was with the manner in which Rommath had conducted himself and not the content of his words, otherwise he’d have argued with him instead of turning his concerns to Aethas. That came as a relief. Lor’themar still had some sense in the matter, at least.

Aethas hesitated slightly and fixed his eyes on the ground. “The council has not yet convened to take a vote. I hoped to take some representatives with me to state our case on the matter.”

Rommath let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “What a surprise! They haven’t even agreed to take us back, and they’re already sending you out as dogsbody. Well, I can assure you I will not be offering my magisters for your cause.”

“I recall you took willing Sunreavers into magisterial ranks after…” Aethas trailed off, though Rommath knew what he was about to say. The reluctance with which Aethas spoke of the purge frustrated Rommath no end. They’d taken him prisoner. He, more than anyone, had a right to speak of it plainly. When Aethas continued, he met Rommath’s glare with a calm, determined look. “After they were driven from the city. But they are my forces, working with you only temporarily. I can call them back if I so wish.”

He was right, though Rommath loathed to admit it. And if his own magisters saw him taking a heavier hand with them than Aethas did with his recalled Sunreavers, it could blow back on him.

Rommath fought to keep the annoyance from deepening his scowl too much further, but he couldn’t prevent it from turning his words into an angry hiss.

“It’s like that, is it? Fine. Recall your Sunreavers. I will advise my magisters on the strongest terms that aiding any pleas to Dalaran would be an unwise course of action, but I will not forbid them. I would hope they would be wise enough to see the danger for themselves.”

Aethas nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned to Lor’themar, who then looked toward Halduron. The ranger general had been watching the proceedings in silence while lounging back in his chair. Now, noting the attention on him, he sat up.

“Will you be sending any Farstriders to aid Aethas?” Lor’themar asked in a measured tone.

“I will not force them,” Halduron answered evenly. “But I will not prevent them if they feel strongly. Aethas, feel free to state your case at the square or any of the outposts, and if any of my rangers feel compelled to do so, I won’t stop them.”

Aethas nodded. “Thank you, Halduron.” He then turned and looked expectantly at Lor’themar. “And of the wider populace of Silvermoon?”

Rommath slammed a hand down on the table. “Really? The average citizen on the street? It’s one thing to ask—“

Lor’themar’s sharp glare cut Rommath off. He raised a hand to his temple and massaged it with his index finger for a moment. Rommath knew this to mean Lor’themar’s temper had been stretched to its limits, but he was trying to maintain his composure. What worried Rommath for a moment was that he couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to his outburst, or to Aethas’ request. Until Lor’themar spoke, anyway.

“If any are known to you personally, then of course you may ask. But I echo Rommath’s sentiments. It would not be appropriate to do anything more than that. If things turn unpleasant, a ranger at least knows how to handle himself. I would not expect the same from a baker.” He then shot a reproachful glance at Rommath. “Though I would like to remind the grand magister, once again, that he does not have the authority to issue such statements on my behalf.”

“Thank you,” Aethas said. There was a wobble in his voice, and Rommath couldn’t tell whether it was gratitude or relief. Aethas kept his eyes carefully fixed on Lor’themar, avoiding meeting Rommath’s studying glare. “With your leave, I will gather my Sunreavers first and then I shall call on the Farstriders. Unless there are any objections.”

Rommath had plenty of objections, but he knew if he were to air them now he would be arguing for the sake of it. They’d reached something close to a compromise, as unhappy as he was with it, and so he would have to voice his concerns elsewhere.

Aethas’ goodbyes were hurried. If nothing else, he was at least aware of when he’d outstayed his welcome, and he was gone almost as quickly as he’d arrived.

As soon as the three of them were alone again, Rommath let out a frustrated groan. “Is his memory so short?”

Lor’themar let out a tired sigh and slumped into his chair. “It’s in his nature to find hope in a situation. Just as it is in yours to see the worst. If the two of you saw eye to eye more often, you might occasionally come to an astute conclusion between you.”

Rommath bristled for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or claim offence at Lor’themar’s wry comment. He didn’t have time to decide before Halduron chipped in with his own quip.

“Now now, I think we ought to congratulate Rommath on his restraint,” he said with a sardonic grin. “He didn’t punch Aethas, at least. And I saw the look on his face, I know how much control that took him.”

“But clearly not enough to hold his tongue,” Lor’themar said, admonishing.

“I think you’ll find I exercised considerable restraint in not saying more than I did. I could have said far, far more. Naive fool.”

Lor’themar didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he stood and walked to the window. From this room he could see over the Court of the Sun, and to the bustle in the city. He paused for a moment, watching the scene below in silence.

Whatever his thoughts were, they were entirely unreadable. Rommath would never say it to him, but it was a trait he shared with Kael’thas. With the prince, he’d assumed it to be an affectation born of princely arrogance; inscrutability intended to make it difficult for anyone to view Kael’thas as a knowable thing. Lor’themar, however, didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. Rommath had come to realise it was a defence mechanism they’d both learnt, however subconsciously, to make their positions easier.

“Well,” Lor’themar finally continued, once more taking a seat. “Kirin Tor allegiance or no, it seems we will be required to send reinforcements to the Broken Isles to aid efforts against the Legion. Allari made that much clear. Halduron, how are you for numbers?”

“We should be able to spare a generous cadre of rangers while still keeping enough on hand to defend the forests. I will accompany them to oversee their command.” It always surprised Rommath how quickly Halduron could shift to speak seriously.

Lor’themar nodded, then turned to Rommath. “And as for magisters?”

“I’m sure I’ll have a few who would be clamouring to visit the Isles for recon, or pure intellectual curiosity. Ancient magical strongholds are quite a carrot to dangle before certain magisters. And I believe I can spare some spellbreakers.” He raised a warning finger toward Lor’themar. “But this is with the understanding they are not to be sent to Dalaran or forced to work alongside the Kirin Tor unless they request it themselves.”

“Of course,” Lor’themar said. “And what do we know of Tae’thelan and Liadrin’s likely readiness?”

“The Blood Knights will doubtless be ready, but I can drop in on Liadrin tonight,” Halduron said. “I know where she drinks, and I could use one myself after today.”

Lor’themar nodded, then turned to Rommath.

“So it falls to me to be Tae’thelan’s keeper, does it? I would be surprised if the Reliquary hadn’t swarmed the island already and picked it dry of artefacts, but I can check in on him.”

“Good.” Lor’themar stood in the manner that usually implied discussions were now over for the day, so Rommath and Halduron followed suit. Before they left, he cleared his throat.

“Whatever is to come, I ask that neither of you jeopardise efforts for the sake of grudges. I too have my reservations, but we must see past them.”

Rommath felt both their eyes settle on him, but neither said anything further as they left to go their separate ways.

Rommath found himself yawning as he approached Tae’thelan’s home: a substantial townhouse that would have been handsome if it weren’t for the strange array of trinkets and knick-knacks that lined every window and were visible from the outside. It had been a long day, but if he got this out of the way sooner rather than later, it was one less thing he needed to worry about.

Almost as soon as he’d rapped on the front door, it swung open. He was taken aback to see a young woman waiting on the other side. Judging by the way her mouth fell open, she was just as surprised to see him.

“Grand magister,” she said, then shuffled quickly to the side to usher him in, and directed him toward a somewhat cluttered sitting room. “Please do make yourself at home. I’ll let my father know you’re here. I don’t think he was expecting company.”

He assumed the father she spoke of was Tae’thelan. The high examiner had never mentioned he had a daughter, but then they’d never shared much of their private lives over the time they’d known one another.

“He wasn’t,” Rommath said. “Give him my apologies, would you?”

She nodded and hurried away. Rommath settled himself into an ornate armchair beside one of the many stacks of books that littered every surface of the room. They were mostly archaeological in nature, but the closest volume appeared to have been a timely pick: Lost Artifacts of the Kaldorei Empire. It seemed Tae’thelan might have anticipated what would be asked of him.

“Grand magister, apologies. If I had known you were coming, I would have been sure to greet you myself.” Tae’thelan had arrived with such quiet footsteps that Rommath hadn’t heard him until he spoke, and he jumped slightly.

“No matter. Your daughter?” It wasn’t that Rommath cared, but more that Lor’themar kept drilling into him the importance of not driving away allies with rudeness. And he found Tae’thelan was marginally less annoying than most he was forced to work with, so it didn’t hurt to make an effort.

“Why yes,” he said with a smile as he took the seat opposite. “Isn’t she a darling? She hopes to follow in my footsteps, so I have been preparing some reading material for her. But I’m sure you didn’t visit to talk about her, and given the timing, I think I know what this is about.”

Rommath’s eyes drifted once more to the volume closest to him. “Yes, it appears you’ve been preparing some reading for yourself as well. The regent lord would like to know your readiness to have the Reliquary sent out to the Broken Isles.”

Tae’thelan grinned. “With the lure of all that ancient knowledge just waiting to be unearthed? I’m sure a good number of them would be ready within an hour if I asked. Please assure Regent Lord Theron that the Reliquary is ready. And eager.”

“I shall.” Rommath paused to look around the room. “I suppose I should begin my own reading on the isles as well. Anything you’d recommend? More on the history than anything strictly archeological, if possible.”

Tae’thelan barely needed time to think before darting to a specific shelf in his heaving bookcase and selecting one specific tome. It was bound in a carefully tooled leather that had been treated to an iridescent finish. It glimmered in the candlelight and looked painfully expensive.

“Suramar Before the Sundering,” Rommath read aloud.

“It’s quite a comprehensive piece, though its focus is more on the architecture and material culture of the land, rather than its people or traditions. Still, an excellent starting point.”

Rommath offered his thanks and then made his polite excuses to leave. He liked Tae’thelan, but he liked the idea of getting home and spending the rest of the evening in silence more.

Several weeks later.

Rommath had a habit of pacing when he was anxious. Back and forth, back and forth, it was as if the movement helped his mind focus. Now, weeks on and with both Horde and Alliance forces establishing a foothold on the Broken Isles, he found himself pacing once more.

‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet if you’re not careful.’ Belo’vir’s voice in his mind repeated the words he had always said whenever Rommath ended up like this. Back and forth, back and forth.

Several letters lay discarded on his desk: the excited ramblings of Esara Verrinde, who seemed to be taking her role as Seeker of Wisdom a touch too seriously, accounts of Highmountain from Halduron, sent on to him by Lor’themar, and continued petitions from Aethas hoping to change Rommath’s mind all accompanied the usual business. None of them seemed as pressing as the letter he clutched in his hand.

On the surface, it was simply a detailed account of every noteworthy find as yet uncovered by the Reliquary, alongside a vague mention of the Kirin Tor’s interest in their latest discoveries. But Rommath knew exactly why Tae’thelan had sent it through.

Though the Reliquary, as a rule, was not an order opposed to allegiance with the Kirin Tor, that didn’t mean Tae’thelan wasn’t painfully aware of where Rommath stood on the matter. And though they were led by the high examiner, they still ultimately answered to the grand magister. His letter had been a carefully worded warning intended for Rommath only: either the grand magister oversees their findings first, or they end up in Dalaran.

He didn’t want to visit the Broken Isles and, from what he’d heard, have the looming spectre of Dalaran above him at all times. But neither did he want to let the Kirin Tor take credit for sin’dorei finds. He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply, giving him just enough time to consider whether he truly wanted to do this, then seated himself at his writing desk.

The letter he penned was short and to the point, much like all of his correspondence:

Dear High Examiner Tae’thelan,

Good to hear progress is being made. I will be visiting the isles shortly to personally review. Would you kindly send details of your location so that I may teleport to your current camp?

Yours, Grand Magister Rommath

And it was dropped off with his secretary as he left to give Lor’themar the news. Whether Rommath liked it or not, he was going to the Broken Isles

Chapter Text

The pen in Oculeth’s hand slipped his grasp, but he caught it again before any ink spilled onto the page. Weakened grip strength. That was a new one. He summoned all his might to make a note of it before he became distracted again. 

His formerly elegant handwriting was a chicken scratch on the page as he concentrated on recording this latest symptom. And then his hand spasmed, dropping the pen and spattering ink upon the cracked stone of the ruin in which he’d taken refuge. 

It took a moment for the shaking to stop and his vision to refocus. Ah. It was clear he’d pushed himself slightly too far this time. So hungry. 

He was struggling to remember now how long he’d been this way. Days? Weeks? His entire life, for all he knew. Nightfallen. That’s how those afflicted had taken to referring to their misfortune. No longer nightborne, not quite withered. A disquieting liminal space between. 

Still, reprieve sat within the pouch he’d tied to his belt: a mana crystal. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been rationing them in such a way, especially since he couldn’t know quite how close he was to withering at any moment, but research was research. If he knew exactly how each phase of arcane withdrawal affected him, he could make sure he always had enough mana crystals on hand to stave off any further descent. Yes, of course there was an element of risk to it, but what man of science wouldn’t relish the chance to test the limits of his own endurance?

That’s what he told himself anyway, as he clutched the crystal close and let the warming rush of arcane energy flood through his veins. 

And he liked having a sense of control over something. 

But the issue was that mana crystals were neither an abundant resource nor the easiest to find. He’d built himself up a small stash that would keep him going for a few days, but it definitely couldn’t keep him going forever. 

Forever. What did that even mean now? 

If he ever had to confront his own mortality, he had hoped would be in a more theoretical sense. It made for a lively discussion over a drink or two, after all. Instead, it stared him in the face each time he caught his reflection in a still puddle. If he managed to avoid withering, he was still beyond the Nightwell’s protection now. Who knew what that meant. 

He sighed as the last of the crystal’s energy flowed into him, and then crushed the thing for good measure. When drained, it was brittle, and ground down to a fine powder with even the lightest touch. He swallowed it, screwing his face up momentarily at the bitterness upon his tongue. It wasn’t a fine arcwine, but it kept him alive. Barely.

His head was a little clearer now. Clear enough, at least, to think further ahead than simply finding new crystals. 

The workshop.

The workshop! That was where he had been heading before his bout of arcane hunger had, instead, sidetracked him entirely. He would have supplies there, and whatever research he’d been working on when he abandoned it ten millennia ago. He’d surely find something that would be of use to other exiles if he encountered them. If he didn’t, then he’d at least have something to keep his thoughts occupied. In either case, it was the most useful place he could be. 

He took a moment to reorient himself. In his addled, mana-starved state, he’d somehow strayed from his route only to end up wandering aimlessly in the woods. With the city in the distance acting as his marker for southeast, he set off once more. 

The woodlands now were much changed from the city outskirts they’d once been. Wildlife and russet leaves had reclaimed old villages, and once grand stonework was marred by decay. Well, at least he was not alone in that, he thought as he looked down at his half withered body. Only days before, perhaps weeks now, he’d been as hale as ever. Now he was struggling even with the short walk he undertook. 

Of all the workshops Oculeth had made use of over the years, the Suramar workshop was his favourite. It had taken a long time to perfect: several levels spread across the mountains, and a deep subterranean layer well hidden from prying eyes. The teleportation beacons that allowed access were a complex web of false starts and misdirection to dissuade intruders. And the view was incredible. 

He hoped it hadn’t been too damaged in its years abandoned, and let out a sigh of relief when he approached to find the pillars still standing in a mostly familiar formation. But that didn’t mean it was untouched. Voices from ahead told him he’d been beaten in his arrival. 

From a quick glance it was obvious the ground level teleportation beacons weren’t functioning correctly, so he could take comfort in the knowledge any intruders would have needed to scale the mountain to reach the different levels of his workshop, which would not only slow their progress significantly enough to make it unlikely they’d be able to find anything and bring it back to ground level with anything approximating speed, it would also be incredibly frustrating. 

After a slightly more careful survey of the area to confirm he was currently alone, he darted into the nearest ruins to take a moment’s rest. It was within sight of his workshop, but just beyond its boundaries. It seemed safer to first plan how he might proceed, as there was every chance they’d rigged his workshop to alert them to his arrival. 

But first, traps. It was no great draw on his meagre arcane stores to place a containment rune at the doorway to the ruin, and it gave him just enough peace of mind to slump against the remains of a stone bench, and think through his next moves. 

He flexed his hand, balling it into a fist to test his strength. The mana crystal earlier had returned enough energy to him for some arcane engineering, and the teleporter could be fixed with no great effort. It was something he’d done so many times he was certain he could do it in his sleep. Hells, he was even certain he could do it if he withered entirely. The intruders, however, were another matter. He wasn’t sure how many there were, and he could easily find himself overwhelmed if he wasn’t careful. 

Were he his usual self, it wouldn’t have been a worry. A slight warping of space where they stood, and he could have them falling through the mountain and leaving an unpleasant mess for whoever found them below. Or arriving in the depths of the Great Sea with no hope of escape. It was something he could once cast without a second thought. In his current state? He might manage five such spells before exhausting himself entirely. If the intruders were clustered together, it could work. If they had made it onto multiple levels, then he had little hope. 

But his time for planning was cut short by the sound of footsteps nearby. He hid behind a pillar in the ruins and waited. His traps were in place, but they would only suspend intruders. He’d need to despatch them himself. He held his breath as he waited. 

To his surprise, instead of Elisande’s Duskwatch lackeys, something else appeared at the doorway. A small woman, somewhat garishly dressed and, most disconcertingly, apparently dead. The trap activated almost immediately, throwing her up into the air and suspending her in a shimmering orb of arcane energy. 

Oculeth sprang to his feet. He’d known there was an outside chance that he might come across an outlander—the floating city that had appeared over the sea promised that much—but he hadn’t presumed he’d be lucky enough to cross one in the woods of Suramar. The anticipatory tingle of curiosity quickened his step as he approached, but he forced himself to slow down. For all he knew, she was as much of a threat as the Duskwatch. 

He cleared his throat and tried to sound at least a little intimidating as he called out. “That is quite far enough.”

Up close, he could see she was definitely dead. Her skin was mottled, and her eye sockets hollowed holes in her skull, but she grinned. A disconcertingly toothy grin, but not the sort one offers when they intend harm. 

“Well, you’re no demon, and nor are you from the palace. Identify yourself, or I will teleport you into the Great Sea,” he said. He was fairly sure he had enough energy in him to make good on the threat, but hoped he wouldn’t need to. 

The woman said nothing, but fumbled for something in her pocket. When she held it out, it appeared to be a coin. Oculeth stepped closer to see what was on it, then immediately stepped backward again in surprise. 

“The First Arcanist’s seal,” he said, trying to temper his excitement and failing entirely. “Is Thalyssra well?”

She pursed her thin lips and stared at him, eyes narrowed as if thinking how to word whatever she meant to say. “About as well as you are. But she’s found somewhere safe. A cave in Meredil.”

So Thalyssra was nightfallen too. The news was no comfort, but if the woman spoke the truth, then at least she was alive. If.

“And how am I to know this isn’t a trap? Perhaps you’re some sort of fiend who killed Thalyssra and stole this in order to gain my trust?” It wasn’t that Oculeth believed that scenario to be likely, but he couldn’t be too careful under the circumstances. The woman’s reaction would tell him all he needed. 

She shrugged. A slightly difficult motion while suspended in a mana trap, but her bony shoulders still managed. “If I’d killed her, how would I know to find you here? And I don’t know the names of your villages. She told me it was called Meredil. Anyway, if I’d had it in me to kill her, I’d also have it in me to break free of this thing.”

Her answer seemed genuine enough, and Oculeth allowed himself a small chuckle, satisfied she was no threat. 

“That is a fair point. Well, if she is still alive there is still hope. Come along, we have work to do.”

Oculeth made to leave, only to be stopped by a grunting noise. He turned to see the woman still floating in his trap, struggling helplessly in an attempt to free herself. 

“Ah, of course. N'eth ana!” The trap popped, freeing the woman. Just before she fell, he sent out a spell to slow her fall. Though it was simple enough to require little effort on his part, he was still wary of unnecessarily exerting himself. One more spell now was one less spell later. 

She brushed herself off, then stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Conjurer Geirrid, of the Tirisgarde,” she said, as if that ought to mean anything to him. She then once more adopted a wide, toothy grin. 

“Chief Telemancer Oculeth.” He thought better than to marvel over how equally bony their handshakes were. He didn’t know if that might be considered in poor taste. “Now, how do you think you’d fare against a gaggle of highly skilled Duskwatch looters?”

Her technique was somewhat rudimentary and not quite as refined as a nightborne spell weaver, but Oculeth wouldn’t have expected as much from an outlander. Still, he was glad to have an ally who could handle herself. Though he couldn’t see her, she kept him updated as she moved through the workshop with ease, retrieving equipment in his stead.

“Warpsleeve obtained. I think.” Her voice crackled over the teleporter’s communication device. “It’s a little cracked, but it’s in one piece. Wide metallic thing. Glass portion on the outer cylinder?”

“That sounds like it, thank goodness,” Oculeth said in reply. “And the telemancy beacon?”

“Still looking. They’ve ransacked this place entirely, but it doesn’t look like they know what they’re looking for. Everything’s smashed and broken up, but there’s no actual logic to it. Like, I can’t see a search pattern. But some of this damage looks a lot older as well.”

Oculeth let out a disapproving murmur. “Yes, drastic action with little thought or reason behind it seems to be a speciality of the Duskwatch. But some of the damage may well just be age. I had to abandon this workshop some time ago.”

It was quiet for a moment, then the beacons flared with a subtle arcane pulse. She was leaving the warp lab, and the direction of the pulse suggested she was now entering the fountain.

Oculeth’s hand twitched slightly as it sat upon the teleporter. Most of all the levels of his workshop, he hoped the fountain had best weathered any damage. Many an evening had been spent staring out over the vistas of Suramar with the gentle bubbling of fountains at his back and the city spreading out below, a glittering jewel beneath the sunset. He could almost smell the violets that bloomed there. 

Her voice crackled over the communicator. “Nice view.”

“Is it still?”

There was a pause, and Oculeth had a feeling it would be accompanied by an intake of breath if Geirrid had any.

“When you say it’s been abandoned for some time…” she said. “Exactly how long do you mean?”

“Ten thousand years.”

Another pause. She didn’t shut off the communicator, which meant he could hear the click of her bony feet against stone tiles. Eventually, when she spoke, her voice was quiet. “Good grief.”

 She spent a moment longer by the fountain, then the beacons flared once more and the light pattern indicated she was entering the Telemetry Lab. 

“I believe this is the one,” Oculeth said. “I left a lot of equipment there.”

“Yeah, they’re swarming up here,” she whispered back. “I think they know you had something hidden on this level. But I don’t think they know exactly what they’re looking for.”

“Good, then that gives you an advantage because you do.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, a sudden worry sank like a stone in his stomach. “You do know what a telemancy beacon looks like, yes?”

“Nope,” she said. But before he had a chance to interject, she spoke again. “I can give it a bloody good guess though. Wish me luck.”

Silence followed. If he didn’t know what was going on up above, Oculeth could almost believe the woodlands were peaceful. He settled himself against one of the teleporter beacons, resting his head on the cool stone. Birds flew overhead, and a solitary cloud crossed the sky. Thousands of years beneath the dome, and he’d not yet taken the time to appreciate the feeling of sunlight on his skin and a light breeze rippling through his robes now he was free. But banishment didn’t feel like freedom, and he’d been too preoccupied. 

He was too preoccupied still. The peace of the forest only made the silence from Geirrid more concerning. He couldn’t hear anything. Not even the faint sounds of skirmishes from above. 

Oculeth tapped his nails against the stone cobbles. She’d handled herself well enough until now, but he’d seen the brute skill of enforcers in the city when the rebellions first sprung up. To face a swarm of them? Well, it would cause even the most skilled arcanist some consternation. Once he’d have been able to handle such a feat with little problem. But he was no ordinary case. A growing knot of guilt in his stomach whispered that he may well have sent a young woman to her death. Or second death. 

His shoulders relaxed and his jaw unclenched itself when the communicator crackled once more. “Found it. Swiped a few flasks of something from the enforcers too. I noticed they all had some round their belts and assumed it was probably important.”

“And you’re unharmed?” Oculeth found himself asking. 

The noise Geirrid made and the dismissive tone of her voice gave him the distinct impression she would be shrugging if he could see her. “I’ve fought worse.”

“I daren’t ask! But in that case, make your way back here posthaste. Do you remember the route?”

“More or less. But don’t tell me, or there’s no fun in it.”

The communicator fell quiet, and once more the beacons lit up in a specific pattern. The correct pattern. She was moving with some speed back through the workshop, and before he knew it, she was once more materialising before him. 

Her bony arms struggled to hold all she’d taken from the workshop, and the telemancy beacon fell from her arms almost the moment she stepped out from the teleporter. Had his reflexes been quicker, Oculeth would have caught it. Instead, he was slowed by his condition, and the beacon tumbled into the grass. 

They exchanged a quick glance before Oculeth knelt down to inspect it. The fall seemed to be the least of their worries: it was dented, caked in dust and bearing all the signs of having been stored poorly in an abandoned workshop for millennia. Still, with any luck, the damage might be merely surface and cosmetic. He infused it with a small arcane charge just to check, and couldn’t hold back his triumphant grin when it lit up and sprang to life as it ought to. 

“Perfect. A little scruffy, but it’s still working. Now—” He paused, suddenly lightheaded and gripped once more by the gnawing hunger that had set in far quicker than he’d realised. Between the arcane change he’d just expended and his work on the teleporter, he’d used far more energy than he’d intended. 

Geirrid thrust one of the flasks she’d swiped from the enforcers out toward him, and he tipped its contents into his mouth, spilling a little as he did so. Arcwine directly from the city. More reliable than the crystals he’d been subsisting on, and in a quantity to bring him clarity of mind for longer than he’d become used to of late. It wasn’t a fine vintage, but that was the least of his worries at that moment. The warming fizz of arcane energy flooded through his belly and into his limbs. 

“You have my immense gratitude,” he said, managing to stand a little straighter. “Now, I must lock this entire place down to prevent such an incursion from happening again. I do not want to know what would happen if some of the secrets I have hidden in deeper levels fell into the wrong hands. Now, just a moment while I redirect this.”

He flipped open a small panel on one beacon, and adjusted the flow of energy within. Geirrid watched with interest. He didn’t mind. He knew the precise moments and careful calibration would be difficult even for a trained telemancer to mimic. And there was no harm in genuine curiosity. 

The glow above the beacon flared slightly, letting Oculeth know his adjustments had worked. 

“This will take us to my test chamber beneath the mountain. Within we will find a number of arcane coils. If we overcharge them to a point, it will trigger a lockdown procedure that should prevent anyone else from using them.” He gestured for her to step onto the teleporter pad. “After you, I’ll follow behind.” 

It had been a long time since Oculeth had last taken this specific teleporter, but there was something comfortingly familiar about the hum it emitted, and the particular frequency of the vibrations it sent through his skin. Each teleporter had its own fingerprint, so to speak, an arcane signature that was immediately recognisable once one knew how to find it, and this one felt like an old friend. 

Or it did until he arrived in his test chamber to find something amiss. He knew the arcway was in ruins these days, especially the portions that extended beyond the city proper and especially especially unsanctioned extensions he’d built himself, but it was something else that got his hackles up. The air was not still, and where the arcane energies within ought to have been dormant, and perhaps even a little stagnant, they were instead whipping up a fierce storm.

“Do you feel that?” he said, turning to Geirrid. 

She cocked her head to the side. “It’s like someone’s already down here.”

He didn’t say as much aloud, but he had his suspicions of who it might be. Of all his students, apprentices and assistants over the years, few were as reckless with their methods in warping space than Thwen. The way the air shifted and bent in the tunnels as they stalked through toward the central chamber bore her particular brand of carelessness. 

It was confirmed when they arrived to find her standing in the central chamber, barking commands to a huddle of warp casters who fiddled with the arcane coils with all the finesse of hurried amateurs. None of whom noticed their approach. 

Oculeth placed a hand on Geirrid’s shoulder, staying her a moment before she walked into view. It was bonier than he’d expected beneath his hand, and it only made him worry what his own must feel like. 

“I said if we overcharge them to a point it will trigger a lockdown. If we continue past that, it will cause an explosion. You’ll know when the coils begin ticking out of sync. Are you willing to set that in motion?” Oculeth whispered. “I’ll keep Thwen distracted, and the ensuing ejection of arcane energy should take care of this little intrusion.”

Geirrid threw him a thumbs up, then slinked her way toward the outer wall of the chamber. The shadowed edges of the brickwork kept her concealed, at least until she reached the first coil. Oculeth had no need for stealth. Instead, he strode into the centre of the chamber, and fixed a withering look on Thwen. 

“You’re looking gaunt, honoured teacher,” she said. There was no surprise in her voice, as if she’d been expecting him. Instead, it was a nauseatingly saccharine drawl. “I do worry. Have you been eating properly?”

“You know, your particularly oafish brand of meddling is quite recognisable to those who know its signature,” Oculeth said, casting a judgemental eye over the work taking place around them. 

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her laugh that followed had all the warmth of an iceberg. “You should be pleased that your handiwork will benefit the Grand Magistrix. At least you’ll have been of some benefit before you wither.”

At that, she launched herself into the air; yet another unnecessary display of arcane meddling. Her hands moved as if to form a blast of energy, so Oculeth met it with his own. There was a spark and crack as two arcane orbs collided and then imploded upon one another. He’d taught her, so he could read whatever she planned with ease and counter it without a second thought.

Under usual circumstances, anyway. At that moment, he also had to consider how much flinging arcane energy about drained the reserves the arcwine had blessed him with. 

Each counter that met her blows brought that familiar hunger back to his mind as a whisper. He could ignore it for now, but not forever. Worse, each strike not meant as a counter met a shield of warped space she’d shrouded herself in. It would take far more power than he could summon to break it, maybe even more than would be unleashed when the arcane coils exploded. Unless…

He shot a glance toward Geirrid, who was frantically charging the final coil to breaking point. A whip crack burst of energy shot from it, and the ground thrummed as the instability grew too great to contain, signalling her task complete. 

Oculeth mustered everything he had to teleport the three of them out from the chamber, and followed the flow of the ley lines until one broke and splintered, and dumped them out. 

The Drift was less a where than a how. An unstable patch of space-time formed by breakdowns in the unmonitored portions of the teleportation network that lay beyond the city. He once made a note to take Thalyssra there if she ever complained about essential portal maintenance work—not that she ever had, but just in case. 

Rocks floated where they shouldn’t, worms devoured crystalline shards of energy, and Thwen seemed to be floundering. 

“What did you do to my field?” she screamed, failing to hide the panic that crept into her words. 

“One cannot bend space that has broken away from the natural laws that govern it,” he said, simply. For a good student, that would have been enough of an explanation. But Thwen had never been a good student. 

She scoffed and motioned as if to draw arcane energy toward herself to once more strike at him, but the surrounding air distorted and shifted with furious sparks of light that then backfired against her, tore through her body and threw her skyward. She was dead before she even hit the ground. 

Geirrid looked awkwardly between the corpse, which had just landed with a thud, and Oculeth, who now lay upon the ground. He’d tried to maintain a composed demeanour before Thwen so that she would be ignorant of how much his teleportation spell had drained from him, but he had no such need with Geirrid. He panted for breath between the shooting, gripping hunger pangs that now gnawed at him, and beckoned her over. 

“You said Thalyssra had taken refuge in Meredil, yes?”

She nodded. Oculeth said nothing more, but gripped her hand tightly as he concentrated on another teleportation spell. It was possible this would be the last one he could manage, but the energies in the Drift were unstable enough that danger grew every moment they lingered. And the complexity of teleporting with such interference was something he wouldn’t trust to anyone else. 

At least if he ported them both to Thalyssra’s refuge, he would be among friends when he faded. If they could not offer salvation, they could at least offer comfort as he withered, and mercy in exterminating him. 

He concentrated all he had on teleporting them from the Drift and toward Meredil. But something hitched as he did so, and they hurtled off in separate directions. 

It was a thudding that woke him. Low but loud, and closer than he’d like. He opened eyes he hadn’t realised had been shut, only to find himself staring at leaves the colour of sunset and a still lake.

He wasn’t in Meredil. He had vague memories of the village, but they were enough to know that wherever he’d landed was somewhere else. His thoughts swam when he tried to think back to his portalling mishap. If he knew where it had gone wrong, he could work out where he’d landed. No such luck. It was all an angry blur. His body ached so thoroughly with hunger that he couldn’t bring himself to stand and take stock of where he was. 

Worry set in when he realised he couldn’t even manage to take the crystal from the pouch upon his belt. Instead, his fingers fumbled weakly at the clasp and then fell limp. If only he’d remembered it sooner. What a cruel fate: help was literally within his grasp, and he lacked the strength to reach it. 

Well. This was it. He’d had a good run. 13,000 years of a life mostly well spent. He couldn’t complain. 

Well, he could. But there would be no point. And no one to listen to him. 

Hunger. Such hunger. 

He concentrated on the sound of the water gently lapping at the lakeshore. Ebbing, like his consciousness. 

Gnawing. Need mana…arcane…

And then footsteps. He heard footsteps. 

Nightwell, please…

A steady rhythm: not one of his withered kin, too light to be an ettin, and in a pattern that suggested something bipedal rather than a woodland beast. 

So…hungry. 

With his luck at that moment, it would be one of the Duskwatch, come to eliminate him entirely. 

“Someone isn’t looking so good,” a voice said. Oculeth didn’t know it, nor did he know the accent. It wasn’t of Suramar. 

“Pouch,” he said weakly. “Please.”

He realised now he couldn’t even see what was happening. His vision was a haze of fog as a pair of hands rummaged in the pouch upon his belt. A slight change in weight suggested that whoever stood above him had found the mana crystal. He twitched his hand in a manner that he hoped indicated he would like the crystal to be passed to him, and a coolness in his palm suggested he’d been understood. 

Mana…

He tried to close his fingers around it, but they were too weak. As if noticing this, the figure pressed his hand closed for him and held it shut. 

So…

The fizz of coalesced mana flowed out from the crystal and into his body. Warmth, strength, and a softening of the shooting pains that had been coursing through him. 

His vision returned, revealing what looked to be a fellow elf, though smaller than he was used to, with an unusual beige-pink tint to his skin and his face half obscured by a high collar. An outlander. And this time, one who wasn’t dead.

“Thank you,” Oculeth said, feebly. The crystal had contained enough to bring him from the edge of withering, but he was still weakened. 

The outlander patted one hand on a pack that had been slung across his shoulder, though shrouded by some magical means that had apparently rendered it invisible until he needed it. His other hand hung limply, half hidden by the now visible pack, but any curiosity Oculeth had about that was quickly smothered as the elf produced four further mana crystals. Two of an average size, one slightly small, and one so fat as to be almost the size and shape of a fist. 

“I had been intending to study the composition of these, but I can get my hands on more. It appears as though you may need them more than I do, anyway.” 

Oculeth reached for the larger crystal, then hesitated slightly. “You’re quite sure?”

“No, but you’ve caught me in a rare moment of generosity. Now, take it before I change my mind.”

Oculeth knew better than to look a gift horse, or a gift-outlander, in the mouth. He took the crystal and clasped it close as he absorbed everything he could from it. The edge of his hunger abated until not a trace of it remained, and his mind sharpened and quickened once more. When no more mana could be drained, he crushed the crystal as best he could manage and swallowed the chunks and powder. 

The outlander had seemed little phased until then, but something about the sight of Oculeth consuming the crystal itself seemed to have disconcerted him, for the sliver of face visible beneath his high collar had furrowed in concern. 

“One cannot be precious in times of hunger,” Oculeth said, standing and brushing off the dirt he’d collected between the Drift and crash landing wherever he was now. “But where are my manners? You may call me Chief Telemancer Oculeth, and to whom may I give my thanks?”

“Rommath,” he said. “Grand Magister Rommath.”

Chapter Text

“Preparations have been made, grand magister. High Examiner Tae’thelan will be opening a portal for you mid-morning. Before you complain, yes, I told him you’d prefer coordinates and to make your own way there. No, he wouldn’t listen. Oh, and Regent Lord Theron sends his best wishes for your journey.”

Rommath let out an annoyed tut, to which his secretary, Essian, responded with a sympathetic roll of her eyes. He had intended to leave as early as possible, rather than wait around for an escort.

Every outstanding piece of paperwork, magical writ or correspondence had been finished in a flurry of activity over the past few days, and his office looked the tidiest he’d seen it in months. The gilded wood of his desk gleamed now that it was no longer hidden by parchments and stacks of paperwork, but it meant he had nothing to distract himself with until Tae’thelan was ready. 

He’d read over the briefings sent by Halduron’s scouts so many times that he could recount their contents by heart: druidic unrest in Val’sharah, potential allies in Highmountain, exiled nightborne in the woodlands of Suramar, restless spirits of scholars in the Nar’thalas Academy in Aszuna. He’d made a note to investigate the latter, should he have time. But it meant he had no need to review the reports again.

He didn’t even have anything more to pack. Everything he’d been told he would need for the journey already sat in a neat pile in his office: his travelling cloak, maps prepared by Halduron’s scouts, a pair of empty notebooks and an enchanted self-constructing, self-collapsing tent all sat in his pack. Even that had been magically shielded to be invisible to others, so he didn’t even have any final enchantments to consider. He stared at it all and huffed. 

“I did impress upon him that you dislike being ferried anywhere, or working to the schedules of others,” Essian continued. “But he claims it’s ‘for the safety of their findings’ that the Reliquary camp moves often and without advertising their location.”

“Does he fear I’ll steal their artefacts?” Rommath asked with a scoff. Though he understood Tae’thelan’s caution, it still grated. 

“I believe he’s simply being…prudent.”

“You mean paranoid.”

“I wouldn’t presume to say as much about the high examiner. Not out loud, at least, grand magister,” she said. 

Her careful wording provoked a sly grin from Rommath, though it was hidden beneath his high collar. “Of course. Now fetch Astalor, would you?”

Essian nodded and made to hurry out of the door, but Rommath spoke again. “Is he at the Hall of Blood or in the spire this morning?”

“At the Hall of Blood, grand magister.”

“Then tell him to portal back here instead of taking the scenic route. I know what he’s like, and I’m in no mood to have my patience tested any further today.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him as much,” she said, letting the door close with a soft click behind her. 

As soon as he was alone, Rommath let out a sharp breath. He was still questioning his decision to leave for the isles, and this was proving to be an inauspicious start. Not that he put stock in anything like that, but it meant he’d be leaving in a worse mood than usual. It was a 30-minute walk to the Hall of Blood, which meant he’d have about 25 minutes before Essian arrived there with the speed she walked, and then another 10 minutes of her trying to convince Astalor to pry himself from whatever he was doing at that moment. 

He decided against sitting in his chair. He knew he’d only find something to work on in the meantime, and it would spiral into something that would require delaying his travels for another day. Instead, he took to the window. 

Silvermoon stretched out, shimmering beneath the early morning sun. He never enjoyed leaving the city for very long. Not these days. His fingers drummed absentmindedly on the windowsill as he watched tiny figures down below going about their day. Though still quieter than it had been before the scourge attacked, Silvermoon was rebuilding. Slowly. It should have been a stirring sight, but instead it caused a nagging gnaw of guilt deep in his stomach. Was he putting that at risk with his refusal to ally with the Kirin Tor? With his own stubbornness? 

He shook his head as if to clear the thought from his mind. No, he was being pragmatic. The Kirin Tor had already proven themselves a very real threat to his people. Nothing could convince him to let them prove it again. 

He let his mind drift to less fraught places as he continued to watch the scene below. For a while, his thoughts wandered; long enough that he jumped slightly as the arcane crackle of a portal pulled him from them. 

“You’re early, Astalor,” Rommath said, eyeing his pocket watch. “I wasn’t expecting you for another five minutes.”

“Your secretary was very persuasive, as ever, grand magister. I told her I needed to conclude my golem maintenance, and she said you’d have my head if I didn’t make haste. And on a pike, to boot. So, what’s this all about?”

“I’m to leave for the isles this morning; I was just wondering how much Liadrin had told you of the state of things there.”

Astalor raised a brow and slunk into the armchair beside the window. “As little as she can manage for fear of interception, but enough for me to be quite aware of the current situation.”

“And?”

“Has the ranger general not been sending through briefings?” 

Halduron had, of course, but not a single one contained the information Rommath most wanted to know. He waved a dismissive hand. “Written for a ranger’s mind. You know how he is. When he’s not being tactical or reporting on threats, he’s waxing lyrical about the forests. It’s hardly what I’m interested in.”

“What you’re…” Astalor shifted to sit upright in his chair and a dawning look of realisation settled in over his face. “Oh, I see. As I hear it, Kirin Tor presence is undeniable, but not unavoidable. You won’t be rubbing shoulders with them. Unless you want to, of course.”

He then grinned in a way that said he knew Rommath wouldn’t choose to do so, and that was why he needed to know. 

“Good,” Rommath nodded as he spoke, tapping his fingers on the windowsill again. “And you? Will you be joining Liadrin?”

“If I’m needed,” Astalor said in a noncommittal way. 

Rommath was about to ask more when a hum and then a crackle of arcane energy beyond the closed door caught both their attentions. They exchanged a baffled glance. 

“I think that’s Tae’thelan now,” Rommath said, expecting to hear a knock a moment later. 

“Why didn’t he portal directly into your office?” 

Rommath shrugged, and they both kept their eyes fixed on the door. Soon enough, the reason for the delay became clear as angry, hushed whispers grew to a volume only just audible from his office. 

”…took three weeks to organise, and now they’re all over the floor! All thanks to that ill-placed portal of yours! No, I rather think you should just make your way through. Really, high examiner. Grand Magister Rommath has had his patience stretched to breaking point once already today. I dare say delaying any further will just risk his ire more.”

Astalor grimaced. “I believe Tae’thelan has made himself an enemy of your secretary.”

“Shame,” Rommath said, crossing the room and taking a seat at his desk. “I rather liked him.”

The knock at the door a moment later was met by a sharp come in. High Examiner Tae’thelan stepped through into the office with a slightly flustered expression he was failing to hide. 

“Good morning, grand magister.” His eyes then drifted toward Astalor. “And Magister Astalor. Apologies, am I interrupting?”

“Oh, no.” Astalor offered a smile that looked entirely insincere. “Don’t mind me.”

Tae’thelan’s stare lingered a moment longer on Astalor, then he turned to face Rommath. “Well then, we’ve prepared a tent for you at the current camp, and all briefings received by the Kirin Tor have been collected for your review so you can get to work as soon as we arrive. Your secretary made quite clear that you dislike being delayed.” 

“Good,” Rommath said as he gathered his supplies.

“Shall we depart? The portal is just outside your office.”

“Lead the way. And Astalor,” Rommath said, throwing a knowing glare over his shoulder. “I expect you to leave and let Essian lock up the moment I’m gone. Don’t use it as another excuse to rifle.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astalor said in a voice that gave no illusion about the fact he was lying. 

The Reliquary camp was much as Rommath had expected: tents of fine fabrics thrown up hastily in the shadow of a crumbling ruin. Archaeologists and researchers scurried about between the main camp and an excavation site just beyond its borders, carrying all manner of strange archaeological paraphernalia and half-excavated artefacts still covered in soil. 

Tae’thelan led him through to the large, central tent where a desk had been prepared with a stack of letters and a carefully catalogued guide of findings made to date. A bevy of cataloguers shot up from the central table to incline their heads, and a murmur of good morning, grand magister followed Rommath. 

It took several hours to sort through the pile of Kirin Tor correspondence. Each letter bore the usual, self important tone he loathed, and his annoyance grew with each that he read. Eventually, when he’d finished cross-referencing their claims of ownership to finds within the catalogue and identifying rebuttals to each, he let out a relieved sigh. 

“You,” he gestured toward one of the nearby researchers. “Fetch the high examiner, would you?”

She nodded and hurried off wordlessly. Rommath barely had time to lean back in his chair before she reappeared with Tae’thelan in tow. He must have been lurking nearby, and he stared at Rommath with his eyes wide in expectation. 

“Your thoughts, grand magister?”

“Their arguments are sound,” he said, tapping at the stack of letters. “But that doesn’t mean they’re impenetrable.”

The Kirin Tor had been arguing that the Reliquary ought to hand their finds over to a neutral third party—clearly implying themselves without saying so directly—rather than allowing them to remain in sin’dorei hands. Apparently, it wasn’t proper and constituted a risk. While Rommath would have argued the same if it had been the Explorers’ League holding the artefacts, he couldn’t agree with the Kirin Tor’s assessment of themselves as a ‘neutral third party’.

“And what would you suggest?”

“That we agree to the premise of their request, but not the specifics. We tell them we will hand over the finds to their rightful nightborne custodians once the Legion threat is in hand. Until then, clean, catalogue and glean every last bit of information you can about what you’re unearthing. Especially anything beneficial to us. Hold on to it until such time that we can hand it over. Or that the Kirin Tor has forgotten about it entirely.”

Tae’thelan grinned a co-conspirator’s grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Very good, grand magister. And if anything is beneficial, I assume we are to produce detailed diagrams and schematics to construct our own approximations of the technology?”

“Well, it would only be sensible.”

A moment of quiet understanding passed between the two, the difficulty now smoothed over for the moment. It was a clean enough solution, and one that wouldn’t have Lor’themar accusing him of meddling unnecessarily. But it was so simply solved that he knew it couldn’t be all that Tae’thelan had invited him out for. And he definitely wouldn’t have told him to prepare for a several-day stay. 

“If that’s all…” Rommath said, baiting Tae’thelan into elaborating further. 

“There is one more thing, actually. If you follow me, grand magister.”

The next tent Tae’thelan led Rommath to was much smaller and tucked away from prying eyes. Within were a single researcher, a map spread across a small table, and a handful of scattered pages. 

“No updates yet, high examiner,” the researcher said before standing and excusing himself. 

Rommath cast an eye over the scene. “How very clandestine.”

“We thought better than to draw attention to this particular find,” Tae’thelan said quietly enough that it might as well have been under his breath. “How much have you been briefed on the situation here in Suramar? Particularly regarding the withered.”

“A little. According to Halduron’s scouts, they’ve posed a threat to those passing through the woodlands. As I hear it, they bear more than just a passing resemblance to the wretched we dealt with back home, and they are ever growing in number.”

Tae’thelan nodded solemnly, then tapped at a spot on the map labelled Ambervale. “We found a cache of papers in an abandoned village. One of their exiles, an Arcanist Kel’danath, was conducting some sort of experiment. It’s currently incomplete, however. We’ve been trying to locate the rest.”

Rommath said nothing as he leafed through the documents. The work was fascinating, but concerning. It seemed to suggest the withered could be subdued and influenced, but it was as good as useless without the rest. Should the full thing fall into the wrong hands, however… he shuddered slightly as he thought about it. The woodlands held a potential army. He understood now why Tae’thelan had been so cautious. 

“And how does the search fare?”

Though Tae’thelan’s grimace spoke for him, he still chose to elaborate. “The area is beset by ettins and feral withered. It is growing ever more difficult to find those willing to make the journey in small enough numbers to ensure they remain undetected.”

“And how far is Ambervale from here?”

“Really, Rommath, I wouldn’t ask you to—“

“And you didn’t,” Rommath cut in. “Now, how far is Ambervale from here?”

“An hour and a half’s worth of a walk, but I’d allow yourself two for distractions.”

It hadn’t taken Rommath long to understand what Tae’thelan had meant by ‘distractions’. 

Ancient ruins littered the woodlands, holding all manner of old carvings and long since abandoned magical trinkets: books, scrolls, runic inscriptions, and a number of small, crystalline gems that appeared to be a form of coalesced mana. He pocketed a few, hoping to study the composition compared to the arcane and fel crystals he’d once been so dependent on. 

They gave off a low hum, and an electric warmth in his hand that was at once familiar and revolting. An unpleasant reminder of his days reliant on similar methods to stave off arcane withdrawal. 

He tried not to think about it as he continued his walk. If his map was correct, the ruins he could now see should be the outskirts of Ambervale. It must have been pleasant once. The tumbledown structures appeared to have formerly been handsome stone dwellings that nestled themselves around a cobbled pathway. The path wound itself beneath the trees and toward a lake, flanked by statues that still appeared delicate despite their decay. 

A detailed etching on a fallen statue briefly caught Rommath’s attention, and he paused long enough to notice something. A familiar arcane tang to the air and a quiet whooshing noise suggested someone had teleported nearby. He tore his eyes from the etching just long enough to see his distraction had blinded him to an approaching ettin. 

“Marvellous,” he said under his breath. “Just what I need.”

It wouldn’t be a threat, just an annoyance. He flung a few carefully placed fireballs that slowed the beast, then backed up to create enough distance to send something larger its way. 

And then he fell. 

His foot had caught on the broken arm of the statue that lay at its base, twisting his ankle as he tried to step backwards. It pulled him down, and he landed with a soft thud in the grass. He hadn’t seen it with his eyes fixed on the ettin, but now his concentration was broken. The ettin noticed and used this moment to charge.

Rommath summoned his barrier a moment too late. A massive club collided with his arm, jerking it in a direction it shouldn’t have swung. He hoped the crunch that followed was splintering wood and not bone as he narrowed his eyes on the beast. He wouldn’t have time to put any more distance between them now, so instead he put his focus into maintaining his shield as he summoned a pillar of fire. It was lucky that such a spell required no precision, as it was his casting arm that had been injured. Flames engulfed the ettin, plus any plant life in the vicinity, and within moments only ash remained. 

He groaned as he flopped backward onto the grass, then winced when the movement sent a shooting pain through his already throbbing arm. He couldn’t quite tell the extent of the injury, but the sticky damp he could feel seeping into his cloak suggested the ettin had broken the skin. 

With some effort, he forced himself to his feet and made for the lake he’d spotted earlier. If he was lucky, the water would be still enough for him to get a better look at the injury, and maybe clean enough to wash it. If not, he could at least plunge his face in and cool off. 

What he hadn’t expected was to find was a gaunt nightborne lying upon the ground, shivering. Rommath seen enough of his own people in the throes of magical withdrawal after the fall of the Sunwell to recognise that same affliction anywhere. Judging by the frailty of his limbs and the blankness of his stare, the figure on the ground had either succumbed to his addiction and had withered, or was not too far from doing so. 

“Someone isn’t looking so good,” Rommath said, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction from the nightborne that would tell him whether he was too far gone. One hint of a snarl and he’d put him out of his misery. 

Instead, the nightborne gasped weakly. “Pouch, please.”

He had little with him in the way of belongings, so it didn’t take long to spot what he meant. A small pouch hung from his belt. The only things Rommath found within were mana crystals, smooth and hot to touch. 

The nightborne’s hand twitched as if he was grasping for something. The crystal, presumably. Though it seemed he didn’t even have the strength in him to reach for it. Worse still, when Rommath took pity on him and pressed the crystal into his hand, his fingers couldn't close around it. He closed them for him, holding his fingers shut around the stone. 

When he recounted his journey to Lor’themar, he would leave this out. He didn’t like to make a habit of helping those he came across during his travels, more often than not it resulted in him becoming embroiled in situations he’d rather not be, and he’d hate for anyone to think he was riddled with needless compassion. But the sight of the nightborne reminded him so painfully of the suffering he’d seen in Quel’Thalas that he couldn’t simply pass by. He might not have been soft, but that didn’t mean he was entirely lacking a conscience. 

As he waited, the nightborne’s breaths grew stronger, less ragged. He turned to Rommath for the first time, gratitude etched on his face. 

“Thank you,” he said, though there was still a hoarseness to his voice. 

Rommath knew mana withdrawal well enough to know that if the nightborne had been that close to losing himself, a single crystal wouldn’t be enough. 

With some difficulty, Rommath pulled his pack over his injured arm and broke the shrouding enchantment. He winced, but pushed past the pain to find the crystals he’d stashed away earlier. It was in his interest to ensure the nightborne didn’t wither before him. He was in no state to fight him if he did, so he didn’t mind sparing a crystal or two. 

“I had been intending to study the composition of these, but I can get my hands on more,” Rommath said. "It appears as though you may need them more than I do, anyway."

One crystal was larger than the rest, and it didn’t surprise Rommath to see the nightborne reach for that one. Then he hesitated. “You’re quite sure?”

“No, but you’ve caught me in a rare moment of generosity. Now take it before I change my mind.”

Long fingers closed around the crystal, and the nightborne held it close to his chest, absorbing from it all that he could. As it depleted, his back straightened and his posture grew steadier. A minute or so passed in silence, but was then broken by an almighty crunch as he used all of his strength to break the crystal apart into tiny pieces. As if used to this routine, he tipped them into his mouth without a moment’s hesitation, then swallowed.

Rommath watched, fascinated. He’d seen arcane energy siphoned from all manner of things in Silvermoon back then, but he’d never seen anyone eat a crystal. Astalor had joked about it once, but never acted on it, and he’d seen those who ground arcane crystals into a powder to be snorted or mixed into a potion… but ingesting the chunks? Surely it must have scratched his throat. 

The nightborne stood, then brushed dirt and leaves from his tattered robe.

“One cannot be precious in times of hunger,” he said, as if noticing Rommath’s surprise. “But where are my manners? You may call me Chief Telemancer Oculeth. So, to whom may give my thanks?”

“Rommath,” he said. “Grand Magister Rommath.”

He extended a hand by habit, then immediately regretted it as shooting pains once more gripped his arm. Any hope that he’d disguised his discomfort was quashed by Oculeth’s narrowed eyes. 

“You’re injured.”

“Hardly,” Rommath said brusquely. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nonsense. You helped me, and I have allies a short way from here who I am sure would be willing to help you in return.” Oculeth’s voice had taken on a decisive tone as the effects of arcane withdrawal subsided. Rommath wanted to argue—he wasn’t keen on finding himself indebted to a group of exiles—but stopped himself as a thought occurred to him. 

“Really, I’m fine. But these allies of yours don’t happen to include an arcanist by the name of Kel’danath, do they?” 

Oculeth pulled back slightly, brow furrowed. “I couldn’t say. But I can take you to someone who knows him well. First Arcanist Thalyssra. She was a friend of his before his banishment. Though I wonder how you’ve come across that name.”

Rommath’s hand over the pack twitched slightly. He’d brought the other sheets with him so he could compile the full thing if he found the rest, but he didn’t know if he trusted Oculeth enough yet to make him privy to their find. 

“One of our researchers in the area came across his name, that’s all.”

Though Oculeth’s slight scowl gave Rommath the impression he knew he was holding something back, he didn’t press. 

“Well then,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I think I have it in me to portal us both to Meredil.”

The village in which the portal spat them out looked much like the one they’d just left. Stone ruins, all but abandoned and with only frogs or the occasional wandering withered in the distance passing for signs of life. Only less pleasant, because they’d landed in a small stream. Rommath had to stop himself from cursing as the water soaked into his hem and up his robes. 

“I thought you said you had allies here. I see no sign of them.” Rommath didn’t bother to mask his frustration, but it came out more accusatory than annoyed. 

“I believed I did,” Oculeth said. “Knowing Thalyssra, she will have found somewhere well hidden and easily defended. Perhaps a cave or…”

His eyes settled on a rocky outcrop on the distant edge of the village. It was hardly noteworthy and mostly grown over with ivy and moss, but it had caught Oculeth’s attention. He gestured for Rommath to follow and charged on ahead. Rommath managed to keep up despite the throbbing in his arm. It was growing worse, and each movement sent a spike of pain through the bone, but if he held his shoulder in a specific position, he could ignore it for now. 

As they approached, Rommath saw what Oculeth had noticed. There was a crevice in the rock, barely perceptible from a distance and well hidden behind a canopy of leaves. If not for Oculeth’s reaction, he would have assumed it to be an abandoned cave. Spiderwebs lined the cragged walls that led inward, and a thick coating of dust lay upon the broken pillars and cracked masonry that littered the floor. 

But then it opened into something unusual. An enormous structure, perhaps a focus or beacon of some kind, stood centrally in a great chamber, surrounded on either side by staircases that led to another chamber below. The structure had ceased functioning, but a faint tang of arcane energy still buzzed about its surface.

Rommath found himself so distracted by the sight that, for a moment, he didn’t notice they weren’t alone. It was only when he heard shuffling feet that he dragged his attention away. 

Two other nightborne had appeared at the top of the staircase. One wore a hood and an imperious expression, and the other wore her hair loose and long, and regarded Rommath as though he was an encroaching insect. Both looked just as frail and tainted by arcane withdrawal as Oculeth. Rommath assumed one must be Thalyssra, but he couldn’t guess which. 

“Oculeth!” The hooded nightborne rushed forward and placed her hands on Oculeth’s shoulders. Almost instantly, her demeanor melted into relief. “I had assumed the worst.”

“Ah well, you know me, Thalyssra. It would take far more than a little portal mishap.” He laughed as he said it, and Rommath thought better than to mention how far from the truth that had almost been. 

“Of course.” She then turned to Rommath, and her eyes hardened slightly. Just enough for him to notice, but not enough to be obvious. “Though I didn’t expect you’d be bringing guests.”

“Oh, right, yes,” Oculeth said as he turned. There was a look of mild surprise on his face, as if he’d forgotten Rommath was there at all. “This is Grand Magister Rommath. Quite trustworthy, as far as I can tell. He has a question for you regarding Kel’danath. And Grand Magister Rommath, this is First Arcanist Thalyssra.”

What followed was a nearly imperceptible twitch on Thalyssra’s features—an almost furrow in her brow, the merest hint of a downturn on her lips. It was as though she was used to appearing inscrutable, but her face was no longer obeying. Rommath wondered if it was a result of her almost withered state.  

When she spoke, however, her voice was calm. “Does he now? Well, welcome to our humble hideout, Grand Magister Rommath.”

Rommath made as if to extend his hand for a handshake, but remembered too late that such a movement would trigger his injury. He grunted and snapped his arm back, then tried to pass it off as merely adjusting his stance. “Thank you, First Arcanist Thalyssra. Though I don’t mean to stay long and merely wanted to ask where I might find Arcanist Kel’danath.”

Before Thalyssra could answer, Oculeth cleared his throat. “Oh, and as much as he is trying to pretend otherwise, he appears to be injured.”

“And you didn’t help?” Thalyssra asked. 

“And do what? I have two mana crystals and a notebook on my person. Did you expect me to wrap his arm in parchment?”

“A time-reversal spell on the wound?” Thalyssra said it as if it was the most obvious solution. 

Oculeth let out a tch. “You know quite well how I feel about temporal magic, Thalyssra. And you know how often that sort of thing rejects. Would you have an explosion of bone shards in the woods?”

Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand and let out a frustrated snort of breath. He’d only meant to find the missing pieces of Kel’danath’s research. Not to be pulled into…whatever this was. 

The gesture seemed to goad the other nightborne into speaking finally. “We appear to be boring the grand magister. Though I assume he could have performed the spell himself given such a title, if he was in such pain.”

“Valtrois.” Thalyssra threw her a glare of disapproval. 

Rommath wasn’t going to bother correcting Valtrois that it was his casting arm that had been damaged, and that he wouldn’t dare risk any form of chronomancy in such a state. But then Oculeth spoke for him. 

“I believe it is his dominant arm, based on my observations.”

“I can speak for myself.” Rommath didn’t mean to say it so curtly, but his irritation at the situation had grown to such a point that it had come forth all of its own. “Now, if you all wouldn’t mind not talking about me as if I’m not in the room. My camp has perfectly adequate healers. I’d merely like to know the whereabouts of Arcanist Kel’danath, and then I will be on my way.”

“Do not insult the first arcanist’s hospitality, outlander,” Valtrois said. “And she isn’t doing this out of the kindness of her heart. Do consider how it would look for us if we sent one of your people—one with such an illustrious title—back into the woods injured, and then asked for help with our own situation immediately afterward.”

“Valtrois—” Thalyssra said again. Her voice held a warning in it, and Rommath found himself reminded of the tone Lor’themar often took with him. 

But the reveal of her true intentions relieved him. There was no such thing as a kind gesture for its own sake, but now the terms had been stated clearly: their hospitality was in return for a promise of alliance in the future. He could work on a quid pro quo basis. 

“Answer my question about Kel’danath, then patch me up if you must, and then I’ll be on my way, and I’ll be sure to only speak of you in glowing terms when I return to camp.”

Rommath thought he caught a glimpse of amusement on Oculeth’s face, but it was quickly erased when Thalyssra next spoke. 

“I’m afraid Kel’danath is dead.”

That wasn’t what Rommath had hoped to hear. His shoulders sagged, and the movement jogged his arm, causing him to wince and take a sharp inhale of breath. It was noticeable enough that Thalyssra let out a weary sigh. 

“Allow me to fix that first, and then we’ll talk. I can hardly explain the situation to someone who makes agonised sounds every two minutes. It’s distracting.”

He remained still as she approached and placed two bony hands on his arm. He flinched slightly, and she offered an apology. Likely she had mistaken it for pain rather than the discomfort of her proximity. 

She muttered an incantation under her breath. It was slightly different to the temporal spells Rommath was used to, and he didn’t recognise everything she said, but it worked. There was a strange squeezing sensation, a sound like twigs cracking in reverse and then…nothing. No pain, no throbbing, no sticky dampness in his sleeve or ache in his bones. His arm felt as it should. No more, no less. He rotated it in its socket for a moment, then nodded. 

“So we talk, then I leave,” Rommath said, then remembered himself and added a quick, “Oh, and my thanks. For the arm.”

“We talk,” Thalyssra said firmly. “And then you remain here for twenty-four hours until the threat of temporal rejection has passed, and then you leave.”

Rommath considered for a moment. He knew the risks with healing injuries this way. The timeways were fickle, and the reversal could backfire. The last thing he wanted was for his arm to shatter again, more violently this time as often happened, while he was alone in the woods. Reluctantly, he agreed. 

“Now,” Thalyssra said, settling herself onto a nearby bench. “Tell me why you want to know about Kel’danath.”

Chapter Text

Oculeth didn’t know whether Thalyssra had intended for her conversation with Rommath to be a private one, but he also didn’t care. He leaned against a pillar next to where they sat, then decided he wasn’t comfortable and settled himself on the floor instead with his legs crossed and his back against the wall. 

He was sure Thalyssra wouldn’t mind his listening. As for Rommath, he couldn’t say. At least he didn’t complain if he did. 

Thalyssra spoke first. Every syllable sharpened by distrust. “Tell me why you want to know about Kel’danath.”

With so much of his face obscured, it was difficult to tell exactly how Rommath was feeling, but Oculeth swore he could detect a hint of discomfort on his furrowed brow. 

“It’s simply a name my people have come across.”

“I’m sure you’ll forgive my suspicion, but you must understand this all looks a little…unusual. My request for help had already been answered by another, but now you appear to have conveniently fallen out of the sky. And with questions about a man who, by all accounts, you should know nothing about.” 

Oculeth could hear Thalyssra’s exhaustion. The way her words seemed to come with a sigh built in and her voice didn’t hold the conviction he was so used to. He hoped Rommath wouldn’t mistake it for rudeness. While the previous few weeks had been hard on them all, they seemed to weigh especially heavily on Thalyssra. 

But, to Oculeth’s surprise, Rommath’s attention had been captured by something else entirely. His posture stiffened, and his voice took on a wary tone. 

“Already answered?” he asked. 

“Yes. By a polite young dead woman. But that’s—” Thalyssra couldn’t finish her sentence before Rommath cut her off. 

“She didn’t mention the Kirin Tor at any point, did she?”

“No,” Oculeth answered for Thalyssra. As far as he could tell he’d spent more time with Geirrid, and though his mind had been on other things at the time, and his memory in his nightfallen state wasn’t what it had once been, he at least knew that to be a word he’d never heard before. “She mentioned another name though. Tiris… tiris something.”

“Tirisfal Glades?” Rommath exhaled as he spoke, whatever had concerned him apparently dissipating as he sank back against the stone wall behind him. “Then that’s no—”

Oculeth was about to say no, he recalled it being more like the Tirisgarde, when Thalyssra sharply cleared her throat. “If we could return to the matter at hand. Kel’danath?”

A weighty silence followed, but then Rommath sighed, and reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. From it he pulled a roll of protectively wrapped documents. He didn’t hand them to Thalyssra yet, but held the roll aloft as he spoke. 

“My people have an excavation camp a short way from here. They found his research scattered around Ambervale and sought to collect it before it could fall into the wrong hands. Your friend made some rather impressive breakthroughs.”

Thalyssra made to reach for the documents, but Rommath snatched his hand away. 

“Not so quick. You were rather alarmed at my mentioning Kel’danath, so it would surprise me if you were ignorant of what these papers hold. Which leads me to assume you’ve found the rest already.” Rommath’s eyes glinted. “You seem to be a woman who understands the price of information, so perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

Thalyssra’s hand twitched. It was a subtle gesture, but one Oculeth recognised. She was growing frustrated. 

“Out with your terms.”

“One.” Rommath raised a finger. “If you successfully subdue the withered, allow me to watch your method and record my observations.”

“After you made such a fuss about wanting to leave? You do realise you’ll need to stay to observe such a thing,” Thalyssra said.

“A gambit on my part, I admit. But I’m willing to wager the parts of his research already in your possession have let you prepare most of what you need to subdue one of them. I’ve read through the parts we found. They were enough to tell me what he planned, but it constitutes little more than details and refinements. My assumption would be that you have the bulk of the method already, and you’ll be ready within twenty-four hours.”

Thalyssra didn’t argue; instead, she crossed her arms and stared hard at Rommath. “Anything else?”

“Two.” Rommath raised a second finger. “Swear you will not raise any withered armies you amass against my people. You wanted allies. Prove it.”

It was old technology; Oculeth could tell that much. He toed one of the dormant teleporters, then crouched down to get a better look. It would take a heavy infusion of arcane energy to get each one working, and there was little chance of him powering the full thing wholesale. 

Once, perhaps, when he’d been at his full strength and he hadn’t needed to worry about the cost of each spell. Now? Well, piecemeal restoration would be better than nothing. And it all still required fixing first. 

Thalyssra had taken him aside after asking Valtrois to give Rommath a tour of the cave, which she’d referred to as Shal’aran, and had led him to a nook filled with outdated telemancy equipment. In amongst it all, he was relieved to see the telemancy beacon and warp shield he’d retrieved with Geirrid. 

“I thought if there was anyone who might make something of it…” Thalyssra had said, trailing off as they stared at the pile of angular metallic offcuts and exposed crystal casings. “The teleporters were here already. The rest are things we’ve found. I’ll give you a few moments to assess.”

He pulled the top from the nearest teleporter, though it took more effort than he was used to. The metal had started to weld itself shut through years of disuse and uncontrolled arcane discharge. For a moment he was relieved that was the cause, and not his own frailty, but then he groaned upon seeing the extent of the damage within. He could fix it. He’d developed a series of beacon maintenance enchantments precisely for such scenarios, but it wouldn’t be quick. 

He didn’t have long to decide how to break the news to Thalyssra before she returned. 

“Do you think we can get it operational?” she asked. “I was hoping we could have it working in a day or so.”

“Working, yes. A day or so? Unlikely.” He pointed inside the teleporter, and from Thalyssra’s sharp intake of breath he could tell she’d understood the scale of the damage. 

“Is that even salvageable?”

“Oh yes! It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I have a diagnostic enchantment that even a telemancy apprentice could apply once they’ve been taught. But it needs time to work, and then whatever it finds must be fixed, and then there’s the matter of powering it all.” He didn’t need to elaborate on that part. He knew Thalyssra would be feeling the same strain with each spell. The same easy exhaustion. Powering a teleporter was the sort of draining spellwork that was best avoided in their current state. “And then we must establish connections with teleporters in the city or around the woodlands if we want to actually go anywhere. That’s not something we can do remotely, but it is something that can come later, at least. First, it must all be fixed.”

“Perhaps we can put your guest to work while I’ve forbidden him from leaving, though I’m sure he’ll protest. He’s complained about everything else so far.” Thalyssra rolled her eyes as she spoke. “You couldn’t have found someone mild-mannered to save your life?”

“I find him rather entertaining, in an acerbic way,” Oculeth said. “Like a stray cat.”

“Then he can be your responsibility once Valtrois has concluded her tour.” Thalyssra said nothing more before she disappeared around a corner, leaving Oculeth to manage his pile of ageing technology. 

He sat on the stone floor and positioned himself before one of the teleporters. It had been too long since he’d had the time to simply sit and work without the fear of discovery by the Duskwatch, disturbance by a withered, or even demonic intrusion.

Sparks burst from his fingertips as he etched his enchantment into the metal. It was a simple enough pattern, and something he’d devised himself. It would send a fresh arcane charge through the machinery to clear out any stagnant energy that had pooled in the wiring, and would help him find any mechanical failures in the workings. 

He was deep in concentration, tracing a blockage in the warp casing of one teleporter, when footsteps disturbed his train of thought. Thalyssra and Valtrois both knew better than to disturb him while he was working, so he didn’t need to lift his head to know it was Rommath. 

“Ah! Perfect timing! Thalyssra managed to strong-arm you into assisting me then?”

“Well, it was that or continue to have the other one glare at me,” Rommath said. 

“Valtrois? She’s…well, I believe recent events have made her slightly more distrustful than usual. I’m sure you’ll forgive her that much. Now if you’ll excuse me one moment…”

Oculeth trailed off as he fixed his attention back onto the arcane blockage, which was proving quite difficult to source. It took a further minute to locate, and then a few seconds to clear. Once he was satisfied that the teleporter was back to working order, he turned to Rommath. Then let out a little “Oh.”

He hadn’t expected to see that Rommath had changed robes. He now wore an ostentatious crimson and golden affair that still obscured his face, but exposed his arms, showing off a web of runic tattoos across each. Oculeth assumed the more practical robe had been for travelling. He thought better than to ask if this one was for occasions where his neck got cold before his extremities. 

But for how loud this new robe was, Rommath seemed displeased that Oculeth had reacted. “The hem of my other robe was soaked through. That’s all.”

“Ah. I wondered if you were just making yourself more at home,” Oculeth said, then watched carefully, trying to discern any shift in the small sliver of Rommath’s face that was visible. 

“Too little in the way of good wine and too many cobwebs for me to consider that. And with that withered downstairs?” Though his face remained still, there was a faint trace of dry wit in his tone. 

“Withered?” Oculeth repeated. 

“The one I assume your first arcanist is intending to use as her test subject for Kel’danath’s research.”

Oculeth didn’t want to admit that he didn’t have the first clue about what Rommath meant, so he kept quiet. Thalyssra had clearly been busy, and he was sure she’d tell him all about it when she was ready. Luckily he didn’t need to find a way to deflect, for Rommath let out a little impatient huff and then continued. 

“Anyway, what have I been coerced into?”

Oculeth nodded toward the teleporter he was working on. Its rune shimmered with arcane energy and occasionally pulsed in a brilliant flash of violet-pink. The explanation he launched into was long-winded, overly complicated, and as he reached the fifth minute of explaining every intricacy of how the enchantment worked, he realised he was getting carried away. 

He expected to look up and see Rommath bored, or at least distracted. Instead, he still seemed to be listening intently. 

“So essentially, it’s just part energy scouring and part arcane diagnostic,” he said as Oculeth paused. “Which you could have said, if you had wanted to be succinct about it.”

“I have been accused of being many things during my life, but succinct was never one of them. No reason to start now.” He took no offence at the comment, though he assumed Rommath had meant it as a barb. “But you’re precisely right. It’s a simple enough formation; I assume you’ll be able to recreate it without issue. Place it centrally on the teleporter, infuse it with energy, then leave it.”

“For…?”

“For as long as is needed.” Oculeth pushed himself to stand on legs that were less steady than he’d realised—he would need to remember to consume another mana crystal soon—and crossed the nook to where one teleporter sat quietly buzzing away to itself. “This one has been going for an hour, and shows no sign of nearing its end yet. Others are done in less than half that time. It all depends on the extent of the damage and how long it has been dormant.” 

They worked in silence for a time. Between the hum of arcane energy, the metallic clinking of telemancy equipment and Thalyssra’s voice in the distance, Oculeth could almost pretend he was back in some semblance of normality. With a wistful sigh he glanced up, only to have his momentary calm broken by the sight of Rommath’s tattoos pulsing with arcane energy. He stared for a moment, trying to make sense of the runes etched into his arms, and then realised how unsubtle his gaze had been as Rommath frowned at him. 

“What?” 

“The lines,” Oculeth said. “There’s an unusual quality to them.”

“I did it myself. Something I experimented with when I was a younger man. It’s… a long story.” Rommath looked down to the tattoos, then looked back over toward Oculeth. His voice was strained, as if he would rather talk about anything else. “And your own? I don’t recognise some of the sigils.”

Oculeth glanced at the network etched across his body. His tattered robes exposed much of his chest, and all of his arms. Intricate designs connected in an angular web across every part of his exposed skin. They’d darkened in his current state and presented as thick, blackberry lines rather than the subtle, arcane shimmer they’d once been. 

“They’re quite common among our people. Part vanity, part arcane conduit.” He tried not to sound too bitter as he spoke. “They usually take on a rather different appearance, but being cut off from the Nightwell has left its mark in more ways than the obvious.”

A brief wrinkle crossed Rommath’s brow. Not a scowl or a furrow, but something that almost seemed sympathetic. It disappeared so quickly Oculeth could almost believe he’d never seen it at all. 

“May I?” Rommath didn’t wait for an answer before inching toward Oculeth and studying the marks. Though he looked at him with all the detachment of a scholar, Oculeth found himself self-conscious. No one had been quite so close to him in his nightfallen state, and his stomach tightened when he thought how frail and useless he must look at that sort of proximity. 

“I see, now that you mention it. Hidden under the decorative elements are ancient Kaldorei runes for the purpose of arcane amplification.” Rommath lifted Oculeth’s arm to get a better view of the markings on his side as he spoke, then immediately dropped it. Oculeth felt a little like a museum artefact. “Apologies. I’ve just not seen anything using this specific script for this purpose before. I assume this must have been done quite some time ago?”

“Well I had the first of them done as a young man, shortly after I left my workshop in Zin-Azshari.”

Rommath scoffed. “Right. Zin-Azshari? You expect me to buy that?”

Oculeth stared blankly back at him. “Is that so difficult to believe? It was only 11,000 years ago. Or thereabouts. I know I don’t quite look my age, but—”

Rommath cut him off. “Oh, you’re being serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” It had seemed such a perfectly ordinary statement to Oculeth that Rommath’s scepticism had him baffled. It was like doubting heavy winds had once damaged his workshop roof. Something so mundane as to be completely unremarkable. 

Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose in an unsubtle gesture of frustration. “I assume this Nightwell of yours conferred on your people the same sort of immortality the Kaldorei once had? And that your isolation has made you somewhat ignorant?”

Oculeth frowned. While he was aware that being trapped beneath a dome for ten thousand years meant his knowledge of events beyond city limits was slightly outdated, he’d hardly consider himself ignorant. He said as much, though was painfully aware his voice was growing indignant in a way he hadn’t intended. 

“No, I just mean to say that my people aren’t quite so long lived as that. We tend to count our year in centuries rather than millennia,” Rommath said in a voice half frustrated huff and half conciliatory. “Your tattoos alone predate the founding of my homeland. That’s all.”

Now it was Oculeth’s turn to be surprised, and his eyes widened. There was so much about the outlanders he had yet to learn, and so many questions he hoped Rommath would be able to answer. “Oh. I see. Do you—” 

But before he could ask any more, Rommath cut him off again. “If we could return to the teleporters?”

They once more took to working in silence, and Oculeth decided he would try again another time.

Even before the constant gnaw of arcane hunger, Oculeth had always been a light sleeper. It was even worse now. He’d hardly had a full night of rest since his banishment, and he didn’t expect that to change in Shal’aran. Every sound echoed from the cavern walls, and where the hum of telemancy equipment might ordinarily have soothed him, it now seemed to scream. 

He threw aside the covers of his borrowed bedroll and sat up. A moment of foresight hours earlier had led to him placing a mana crystal just within reach, should he feel the itch during the night. He reached for it and clutched it to himself, taking in his strange surroundings as he let the warmth of pure arcane energy rush into him. 

It was dark, as would be expected in a cave, but some sort of residual wild magic energy prevented it from being plunged into pitch blackness. For a moment he wondered if Shal’aran had been built upon a ley line confluence and how long it might take to measure such a thing, but then decided to instead to ask Valtrois the following morning. It was more her area of expertise, after all.

As his eyes drifted over the area, they settled on another bedroll a small distance away. Rommath had set up his own nearby for no other reason than he’d spent most of his time around the teleporter nook so far. He’d said as much, as if he was intent on making sure Oculeth was left with no illusions of friendship. The stray cat comparison seemed ever more apt. But as Oculeth’s eyes lingered a moment, he felt a stab of jealousy at the sight of such peaceful sleep. Not that it was Rommath’s fault, of course, but it didn’t make his own predicament any easier. 

He decided a lap around the chamber might help. After all, he hadn’t yet familiarised himself with all Shal’aran held within its strange, half-ruined walls and the cool stone felt good beneath his feet. But just as he found himself following a strange pattern in the tilework, Thalyssra’s voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“Can’t sleep either?” She was leaning against the balcony that looked over the lower chamber. With her hood down, Oculeth could see just how gaunt she had become. His own weakness he could stomach. To see it on her forced him to confront just how dire their straits were. 

But he swallowed all that down to offer a resigned half-smile. “Not a wink.”

She gestured for him to join her, and he did so without question. Though the spiralling metalwork of the balcony looked delicate, it was surprisingly sturdy and took their weight without so much as a wobble as they both leaned against it. 

“I assume our guest mentioned Theryn to you,” she said.  

“Is that the withered downstairs? If so, he did, but he didn’t elaborate. I’m afraid that one will have to be on you.”

She was quiet for a moment. Her eyes lingered on something in the lower level, but in the semi-gloom Oculeth couldn’t quite tell what it was. 

“It’s probably easier to show you.” Without saying any more, she led him down the spiral staircase and toward an alcove in the stonework. 

There sat one of the withered, clutching a spellstone in spindle fingers and sleeping as peacefully as he could between the shakes and shivers that racked his body. Any fear Oculeth might have felt for the creature was overshadowed by the intense pity that welled in his chest. Each withered had been one of their own once, and this one was no different. Broken, and without any fight left in him.

“Kel’danath’s spellstone,” Thalyssra said, nodding toward the stone Theryn held. “It was brought back here after being discovered on his corpse, and this one saw fit to follow. We know the stone calms him, but not how. I had hoped the final parts of the research would make the mechanism clear, but it remains a mystery.”

“And so you’ve formed a plan,” Oculeth said. It was a statement, not a question. If he knew Thalyssra, then he knew she’d already thought through every outcome, and her reactions to each, long before she’d even thought of discussing it with him. 

“Arcane communion with the spellstone as a conduit. It should shake loose a few memories.” 

Oculeth furrowed his brow. “In your condition? That’s taxing magic at the best of times.”

“I don’t see that I have any other choice. I’ll allow your guest to observe as well. Those were his terms, after all. Let him know when he wakes, would you?”

Sparks of energy gave the air a sour tang as Thalyssra forced an arcane connection with Theryn. Valtrois watched with mild disgust, Rommath made extensive notes in a little leather-bound journal, and Oculeth set his eyes on Thalyssra, observing for any signs of fatigue should she push herself too far. If she withered, it was over for them. 

Theryn, to his credit, did very little. The withered was awake now, and he stood on shaky legs, his eyes never leaving the spellstone. He didn’t snarl or attack, not like the withered Oculeth had grown used to seeing in the woods. 

With a whip-crack sound and a flash of light, the connection was established. Shimmering pink memories scattered themselves across the floor, but just as Thalyssra was about to search through for her answer, a noise upstairs disturbed them. 

“Hello?” 

Everyone gathered froze, except for Theryn who sniffed the air and tried to look for the source of the sound. 

Again. “Hello? Anyone here?”

Dozens of thoughts flooded Oculeth’s mind. Discovery, above all, was his fear. Was this one of Elisande’s enforcers? Should they flee? Fight? But despite it all, there was something else. He couldn’t shake the feeling he knew the voice. And then it hit him. He let out a long, slow exhale. Florimond.

“I believe our visitor may be a former colleague,” Oculeth said. “Continue here. I’ll deal with him.”

“And a friend, I hope.” Thalyssra’s voice was calm, but the concern in her words was undeniable. ‘Former colleague’ for either of them implied someone who had dealings at the palace, and all the associated threats that brought. 

Oculeth fought to find a way to phrase what he had to say in a diplomatic manner. “We shall see. Though I would be surprised if we had anything to be worried about. He isn’t quite the type to be a threat.”

As he climbed the spiral stairs, Oculeth tried to remember the last time he’d seen Florimond. He’d been a telemancer for a while, senior enough for Oculeth to recognise his voice with relative ease, but not cut out for the role. He’d transferred out several centuries ago to another position. He wasn’t someone who might rock the boat by openly rebelling, but nor was he the sort anyone would send out to issue threats, or to make good on them. It made determining why he was there all the more difficult. 

Florimond was dressed as finely as ever, and where he may have looked at home in the Nighthold, he now seemed almost ludicrously out of place. He fidgeted on the spot, but appeared robust and healthy enough for Oculeth to doubt such movements were because of any sort of impending withering. Instead, it simply seemed to be nerves. There was something else that worried him, though. A faint acrid tang about him, not entirely unlike fel. 

“Chief telemancer. I… I think I may have had a lapse,” he said before Oculeth could ask. His eyes were wide and wild as he spoke, as if he didn’t quite know what he was saying. “I told Etraeus I felt unwell and needed some air. And then I just kept walking. And walking. And then I found a very polite dead girl and — oh, I believe I’ve made a mistake.”

“Start from the beginning, Florimond,” Oculeth said in as calming a voice as he could manage. He was just as easily flustered as he remembered him. 

Florimond took a deep breath and then did as commanded. Between the continuing commotion downstairs and the concerning story, Oculeth found his head beginning to swim. Conditions in the city had worsened since Thalyssra’s rebellion. Nightborne went hungry, demons roamed the streets and Florimond, as a conjuror, had been quickly redeployed. 

“By redeployed,” Oculeth asked, well aware of how Florimond favoured a euphemism when he was uncomfortable, “What exactly do you mean?”

Florimond laughed. A high pitched, nervous sound. “I had to train as a summoner. And it’s—well, I’m not sure I’m entirely cut out for that. So I just left.”

“And by summoner…” 

Florimond averted his eyes but nodded, confirming Oculeth’s suspicions. Demons. 

“I was told I either comply, or they strip my title from me. And you know how hard I’ve worked for that.” Florimond’s awkward expression as he spoke suggested even he knew what a weak excuse it was. “I never wanted this, chief telemancer.”

Oculeth had half a mind to turn him away from Shal’aran altogether, but he didn’t. Florimond had taken pains to leave, and to be honest with him. To send him to the woods alone would be certain death, and there was no need to condemn him for a single mistake. Still, that didn’t mean he ought to get off lightly. 

“None of us wanted any of this, Florimond. At least everyone else here had a spine, which is more than I can say for you at this moment.”

Florimond stared hard at the ground. “Yes, chief telemancer.”

“I will vouch for you if Thalyssra asks, but only on the condition that there is to be none of your summoning nonsense within these walls.” Oculeth could hear the sounds below growing quieter and assumed the arcane communion was concluding. He needed his answer from Florimond quickly, before Thalyssra joined them, and so his voice was a little more forceful than he’d intended when next spoke. “Are we agreed?”

“Of course, chief telemancer,” Florimond said. 

Footsteps up the stairs heralded Thalyssra’s impending arrival. She settled herself next to Oculeth and set an appraising stare on Florimond. 

“Well, exile or spy?” Friend or foe?

“Neither, as I hear it,” Oculeth said. “Florimond is a runaway.”

Thalyssra’s expression shifted, just slightly. Oculeth couldn’t read what it meant. “Is he trustworthy?”

“I believe so.”

She turned her attention on Florimond, who had been sitting somewhat awkwardly as they discussed him. 

“Did anyone see you leave?” she asked. 

“As far as I know, no,” Florimond answered. 

“And you’ve done nothing to arouse any suspicion or ire within the city? Among those still loyal to Elisande, I mean.”

“Hardly. I’ve been taking great pains to do the opposite. Silgryn will know I’m missing because I was due to meet him tonight and update him on goings on within the hold, but other than that…”

Thalyssra took a breath and turned her head upward. The ceiling of Shal’aran was barely visible under its canopy of cobwebs, dust and vines, but she must have found whatever she was looking for. Her features had taken on a determined expression when she turned back to Oculeth.

“Have you given any thought to how we might establish teleporter connections within the city?” she asked. 

“No. I had set that aside as a bridge we would need to cross when we came to it.”

“Perhaps it need not be.” She turned from Oculeth to Florimond. “Would you be willing to return to the city?”

With eyes growing ever wider, he shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m sorry to refuse an order, first arcanist, but I simply cannot.”

“Well, as long as you make yourself useful here, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Undeterred, she turned back to Oculeth. “How about that guest of yours? The grand magister insisted on staying until he could witness the method by which we can subdue further withered, but that looks to require a little more time. Any chance we could convince him to visit the city in the meantime?”

Oculeth put a hand to his forehead. “Do you not think he might stand out? I mean, he doesn’t quite look like—”

“No,” Thalyssra interrupted before he could continue. “I didn’t mean to send him in as he is. If Florimond remains here, then no one will question someone with his appearance walking around the city. It’s quite a simple glamour to perform.”

“Ah.” Oculeth flushed plum, realising her intentions probably should have been obvious. “But that’s assuming he would agree to it in the first place. And he doesn’t seem to be the most agreeable sort.”

“Then I trust you to convince him.” Thalyssra gave Oculeth the sort of wide smile that invited no argument. He would have to find a way to convince Rommath to infiltrate Suramar, and that was that.

Chapter Text

Arcane communion was a form of magic Rommath was entirely unfamiliar with, though he didn’t want to admit it. He’d already embarrassed himself enough the previous evening with his naive surprise at the Oculeth’s age. If he’d spent even a few moments thinking logically, he’d have realised how closely related to the kaldorei these nightborne must still be. Even if their nightfallen state made them appear frail, a lifespan of such a length was only logical. After sounding so foolish with his scepticism, he didn’t want to risk it again by admitting to being ignorant of something else already.

Oculeth had seemed more concerned with Thalyssra’s wellbeing than the spell itself, and Valtrois had spent the morning complaining about wasting valuable mana crystals on the beast, as she called Theryn, in order to prepare. He couldn’t criticise her, as he knew he’d have made the same complaints to Lor’themar if their situations were switched. But it meant he could draw two conclusions: the first being that the spell must be taxing for the caster, the second being that it must also be taxing for the recipient.

He recorded everything he could. The incantation, the sharp, arcane tang that filled the air, and the hazy blur of energy that erupted from Theryn’s head, then shimmered and scattered about the room. What settled at first as a pink mist soon took form. A nightborne, tall and proud but entirely incorporeal, was surrounded by other ghostly nightborne, armed and jeering. Then the energy pulsed and reformed itself into the same nightborne running as he was pursued by a lynx. He looked frailer, almost ill. And then it shifted again to a familiar figure, and Rommath realised they were watching Theryn’s memories.

Such a spell was gold in the hands of an ally, but perilous wielded by an enemy. Hopefully, his notes were enough to reproduce its effects. As soon as possible he would send the method home to Silvermoon to have his magisters analyse it, study the finer details and—

His train of thought was broken by a voice on the upper levels of the cave. Rommath stayed out of the discussion that followed. It wasn’t his place, nor did he particularly care. While Oculeth slipped away to deal with whatever was happening above, Thalyssra continued the spell.

The screams from both Thalyssra and Theryn as she placed her hands on the memories echoed around the cavernous walls, sounding more like a wounded animals than anything else. Sharp and pained. Rommath could do nothing more than continue to watch with fascinated horror.

An arcane tang remained in the air long past the conclusion of the spell. Rommath stayed on the lower level of Shal’aran, with only Theryn for company. The withered didn’t seem to mind Rommath watching him. He twitched and shuddered and moved in sudden, shaky jerks. But he didn’t lash out. Not like the wretched Rommath had grown used to back in Quel’Thalas, and not like the withered he’d been warned about in the woodlands.

“You can hear me, can’t you?” Rommath said.

Theryn turned and cocked his head, but didn’t respond. He couldn’t, as far as Rommath could tell. The hazy glow of the conjured memories had faded now, leaving the lower level of Shal’aran in a semi-gloom. He ought to have looked monstrous in the low light, but he simply looked pitiable.

“Would you be glad they’re making use of you, or would you prefer to have been put down?”

Theryn blinked, then stared blankly ahead. Rommath had never once wavered in striking down the wretched back in Quel’Thalas. They were no longer elves, but beasts who knew little else than hunger and malice. Liadrin’s old friend—Galell, if Rommath remembered correctly—was proof enough of that. And as long as they were feral and unreasonable, a blade through the neck was the cleanest way to deal with them. But if they’d been like Theryn?

As his thoughts lingered on the wretched back home, a familiar, grim knot grew in Rommath’s stomach. The same he’d felt when he’d heard of Belo’vir’s death, the same he’d felt when he’d seen how their people suffered without the Sunwell, the same he’d felt when he accepted how Kael’thas must be dealt with. Something nagging, gnawing and wholly restless. An itch that would never be scratched. The feeling that he could have done something differently. Though what exactly that was, he couldn’t say.

He’d been bluffing when he made his gamble with Thalyssra the previous day, but his initial satisfaction at knowing he’d been correct in his assumptions about how they meant to use Kel’danath’s research had faded into a faint unease. This creature, blank and helpless, was destined to become a weapon. Still, if he were in the nightfallen’s position, he too would have tried to build an army with whatever resources he had. Sentimentality was a luxury in times of hardship. He knew that well enough. Better that Theryn was put to use.

He had no more time to linger on the thought before Oculeth appeared at the base of the staircase.

“Your arm is holding up then?”

Rommath glanced down. His arm had healed so well he’d almost forgotten about the time reversal spell.

“Seems so.”

Oculeth nodded, but made no attempt to hide the wrinkle of his nose. He’d made his disapproval of temporal magic quite clear, so it was no mystery what caused his distaste. But Rommath’s arm hadn’t rejected in a mess of blood and splintered bone, and so his concerns had been misplaced.

“So,” Rommath said, rolling his arm in its socket now that he was once more conscious of it. “I assume I’m free to leave soon enough? Once your first arcanist has fine-tuned the method for subduing these things?”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. If the arm were all we were concerned about, then of course. But Thalyssra isn’t quite ready to confirm the exact mechanism by which Kel’danath’s research works and suspects it will require a few days longer yet. So if you wanted to see the outcome of the research…” Oculeth trailed off. “Well, Thalyssra says you’re quite welcome to remain until she has what she needs.”

Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. More than anything, he wanted to get out. He’d wasted enough time already, and couldn’t afford to waste any more. But if he did leave, he’d never see the exact method by which the withered could be controlled. To return to Tae’thelan having handed over the reliquary’s finds would be one thing. To have nothing at all to show for it would be something else entirely. And in any case, he was curious now. He could hardly leave until he was satisfied with the answers.

But something didn’t sit right with him.

“She’d choose to continue suffering my presence?” Rommath asked.

“Sorry?” Oculeth’s brow furrowed in a manner that looked genuinely confused.

“No secret has been made of the fact I’m not exactly welcome here, so I’m quite sure it isn’t for the pleasure of my company that she extends my invitation. She would be more than within her rights to consider our deal null, considering we’d agreed on twenty-four hours. And your little refuge is hardly brimming with supplies—another person for several days would stretch that even further.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s in it for you? Or for her, should I say?”

Oculeth smiled, somehow managing to look both impressed and exhausted all at once, and when he spoke there was a strangled quality to his voice, as if he realised quite how absurd his ask was as he said it. “Oh, nothing too major. She simply asks that you infiltrate the city to scout out a number of teleporters to help kick start the network.”

“Has it not occurred to her that I may stand out?”

“Yes, I said quite the same thing, and so she has suggested a glamour.”

“But—“ Rommath was about to question how, exactly. Such a spell would require borrowing the appearance of another, but those in Shal’aran had all been banished from the city. Surely he’d look just as out of place if he stole one of their appearances as if he walked in undisguised. He remembered well how heightened tensions were in Silvermoon after the fall of the Sunwell. Arcane hunger leads to paranoia, and he hardly wanted to put himself at risk while deep in a city going through such a thing.

But Oculeth seemed to have expected his question, for he interrupted before Rommath could even speak. “We have a runaway. Florimond. A former telemancer with no suspicion on him, and easy access to wherever you’ll need to go.”

“No,” Rommath said flatly.

“I assume an appeal to your good nature or generosity would do little to convince you, so perhaps consider this: Suramar holds books older than your entire homeland. Magic that no one beyond Suramar’s limits will have seen in millennia.”

Rommath’s ears twitched. It was as if Oculeth had known exactly what to say to pique his interest. Still, that wasn’t why he was here, and the longer he remained, the more time he wasted.

“No,” he said again.

“If you help us, Thalyssra will allow you to watch whatever ritual follows for controlling the withered.”

Now Rommath was growing frustrated. “She was already allowing me that anyway, as per our deal!”

“Think on it,” Oculeth said. “You’re a few hours away from the risk of your arm imploding in on itself being entirely negligible. Don’t give me your answer until the full twenty-four hours have passed.”

Meredil must have been idyllic once. A village tucked away in the depths of the woodlands, with a glittering stream that cut beneath the overhanging leaves and meadows of wildflowers. Now, with the feral withered and the ruins, not so much.

Still, Rommath had needed a change of scenery, and so he stalked along the riverbank, as if hoping the rush of water might give some sort of clarity to his thoughts.

It didn’t, but it did remind him that he had suffered through the dirt of the reliquary excavation camp and the dust of Shal’aran without a chance to bathe yet. And that the hem of his travelling robe was still caked with mud, leaving him wearing a formal robe in a situation that absolutely did not call for it.

It didn’t take long to find a slow moving stretch of water and a shaded spot on its banks, free of any withered or peeping nightborne. He searched through his pack to find his robe, then allowed it to soak a moment. Removing the mud from it was a quick enough process, helped along by an enchantment embroidered into the fabric that prevented anything sticking to its surface for too long once submerged in water. Once that was taken care of, he could shed his clothing slip into the water himself.

It was cold, and a school of small, unfamiliar fish nipped at his feet, but it was better than the alternative. Which, in this case, was nothing. His hands brushed over old scar tissue across his shoulders and his torso as he washed himself. It was the only remaining evidence of a blood ritual that had taken place many, many years ago. A tattoo carefully inked into his own skin and its perfectly matched counterpart on Kael’thas. He’d had to burn it from himself when…he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to scour the image from his mind and force his thoughts elsewhere.

Healers had done a good job of taking care of his injuries back then, to the point they now couldn’t be seen by the naked eye, but he could still feel areas of toughened, raised flesh that remained. The only testament to what had happened. No else knew.

Well, other than Astalor, who had somehow managed to guess.

Rommath let out a sigh. He hadn’t handled anything related to Kael’thas as he ought to have done. Too blinded by love and devotion and loyalty and everything else that went along with it. He couldn’t deny he was partially to blame for how difficult things had become for their people. But he’d thought he was helping. For so long he’d thought Kael’thas had their best interests at heart.

But now he could help. The nightborne weren’t his people, but their suffering was similar enough that there could be some sort of atonement in acting now how he ought to have acted before. He couldn’t tell Oculeth or Thalyssra as much, though. It would require too much explanation of a difficult past.

For the briefest moment he considered showing them, allowing them to reach into his mind as they had Theryn’s, but the risk was too great. They may not understand the choices he’d had to make. It could easily blow back.

Still, if he learned the technique for arcane communion before he left, he could pull such visions from his own mind. Analyse them. See what he could have done differently. Or else return to a past that was once far simpler.

He exhaled and dunked his head under the water. If he had been cold above, he was now downright freezing and miserable. When he emerged shivering and dripping wet, he realised a hot bath would, at least, be another draw to infiltrating the city.

Almost as soon as Rommath was back inside Shal’aran, he was set upon by Oculeth. He seemed twitchier than usual, and Rommath couldn’t tell whether it was a result of his arcane withdrawal, or nerves over the potential answer to his next question.

“Well, have you reconsidered?”

Rommath exhaled. Long, slow, weary. “I have a request first.”

“Ah, easier than I expected.”

“You haven’t heard my request yet.”

“No, but I did expect you’d have some terms if you agreed. That’s coming to be something of a theme,” Oculeth said. “Well, whatever they are, we ought to inform Thalyssra.”

Oculeth marched off across the cave, and Rommath hurried along behind. They took a turning down a half-collapsed corridor that Rommath had taken for blocked earlier, and found Thalyssra crouched in the rubble at the end, sending sparks of arcane energy out into a section of crumbling brickwork.

“Doesn’t seem to be connected,” she called to Oculeth without looking up. “There’s a second collapse further down. We’re entirely cut off.”

“Marvellous! Then that’s two pieces of good news,” Oculeth said with a grin. “Elisande can’t send anyone through the arcway, and Grand Magister Rommath has agreed to be our man on the inside. Though he has his terms, of course.”

“Such as?”

“If I’m to be impersonating this Florimond, then perform arcane communion with him as you did Theryn so I have a better understanding of his memories.”

Thalyssra let out a small hum while considering, then nodded. “If Florimond agrees to it, then I see no reason why not. Though you are welcome to perform it yourself. I have no objection to that.”

Rommath hesitated. He’d been so careful earlier not to reveal his ignorance of the spell, but now every excuse that might explain why he’d need their assistance failed him. If anything, given how pained Thalyssra had seemed that morning, insisting for no good reason would seem needlessly callous.

“It’s not something I’m familiar with. I’d never seen it before this morning.”

He waited a moment for any hint of scorn or derision. None came.

“Ah, of course. I suppose ten millennia of isolation leads to some differences in spell techniques. Later this afternoon I’ll be happy to—“ Thalyssra began, until Oculeth interrupted.

“It may be better if I handle this one,” he said. “Once was taxing enough, and we can’t have you keeling over. And Florimond will be more comfortable if I take the reins, I think.”

Thalyssra raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and returned to inspecting the rubble as Oculeth and Rommath exited the tunnel.

It didn’t take long to find Florimond. He was standing beside Valtrois, peering at a map and a subtly glowing crystal. Where the others were frail and slight in their nightfallen state, he still looked healthy. Tall, imposing, and close enough to night elven that Rommath briefly recoiled, believing an alliance incursion to the cave. It was only when Oculeth called his name and he offered an awkward wave that Rommath realised the truth.

“I’d like to introduce you to Grand Magister Rommath. He’ll be our you.”

A dozen emotions flickered across Florimond’s face, each as poorly disguised as the last. Confusion turned to trepidation turned to fear turned to something that might have been disgust and then eventually settled on forced politeness. “A pleasure, grand magister.”

Rommath didn’t bother to force a smile; it would have been hidden behind the high collar of his robe anyway. Instead, he gave a curt but polite nod.

It was quick enough for Oculeth to get Florimond to agree to arcane communion. All he’d needed to say was that having Rommath in the city in his place would make it imperative that Florimond stayed away, and this was a necessary precursor. After that, he didn’t hesitate to agree.

They set themselves up on the lower level of Shal’aran in a now familiar arrangement. Oculeth positioned himself opposite Florimond and placed both hands on his shoulders.

Instead of launching into the incantation as Thalyssra had, he gave a brief explanation of the mechanism behind the spell. Rommath transcribed the entire thing. Whether Oculeth genuinely enjoyed sharing his knowledge in such a way, or if he just enjoyed hearing himself speak, Rommath couldn’t be sure. Either way, he was grateful for the extra information.

“And is it possible to cast on yourself?” Rommath asked once the explanation drew to a close.

“Definitely not! There are all sorts of risks in its overwriting or duplicating of memories. And even if there weren’t, that sort of thing encourages the caster to become lost in their own past. One might as well be opening a temporal portal and getting lost in it.” There was a rehearsed aspect to his words, as if he’d given this warning countless times to reckless apprentices in the past. He gave Rommath no time to offer rebuttals or ask further questions. “Now, are we ready to begin?”

With a surge of arcane energy and a fizz in the air, a scatter of memories burst forth around them. It was no less impressive to see a second time. If anything, having a full understanding of the spell only made it more so.

Some memories appeared fairly recent, and Florimond looked much the same as he did now. Others were far older, showing a young, eager scholar with a textbook clutched to his chest and a robe stained by ink. Rommath stopped by one of these and realised he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Thalyssra’s efforts to absorb Theryn’s memories sounded like they had caused her great pain, and he’d been too distracted by her screams to note exactly what she’d done.

Oculeth, as if noticing his hesitation, cleared his throat. “Place your hands upon the memories to dispel them, and you will take their content within you.”

He braced himself, then placed his hands upon the memory. It gave way beneath his touch and dissipated into a glimmering mist. There was no pain as it did so, not even mild discomfort, just an overwhelming nervous feeling as an image flooded into his mind. Florimond, little more than a youth, stepped into a grand workshop.

Another nightborne directed him toward a device that whirred and rattled, and, as he spoke, Rommath realised it was Oculeth. He was younger too, but not young. And he looked entirely different from his present self. Handsome, almost. Though Rommath resolved himself to not mention it. After all, it was hardly a kindness to say he’d been handsome once, knowing that he was only a shadow of his former self now. He’d shown him enough hospitality to earn a shred of empathy at least.

Instead, he had a question.

“Why am I not screaming in pain as Thalyssra was?”

“That pain was not inherent to the spell. It came from Theryn. Unless Florimond remembers breaking a leg or similar, you shouldn’t experience anything like that.”

A heavy, and slightly awkward, silence followed for a moment or two in which no one wanted to acknowledge aloud quite what that meant. It was broken only when Rommath approached the next memory.

Each unfolded in the same way. Rommath was flooded by whatever emotion Florimond had felt at the time, and he saw each as vividly as if he was remembering his own life. Awkward mishaps, great excitement, first loves, second loves, a string of beautiful noble men and women for whom he felt nothing at all, moments of pride and moments of fear. The latter intensified the closer he grew to the present, and the more he saw of the riskier and riskier forms of magic Florimond had been forced to experiment with before leaving Suramar. He wondered if Oculeth knew, but it was for Florimond’s truth to tell. Not his.

Eventually, one single memory remained, and it appeared the most recent. A tall nightborne in decorative armour leaned against a wall, deep in conversation with Florimond. As Rommath stepped inside the memory, he was overwhelmed by grief, yearning and deep, heavy shame. The nightborne, Silgryn, had asked Florimond just days before to meet him and update him on developments within the palace. Though Florimond had promised to do so, he’d fled the city instead. More than anything, Florimond regretted this. He loved Silgryn, that much was clear, even if it appeared unrequited, but that wasn’t why. Florimond felt as though he’d failed him.

Rommath threw a glance over to where Oculeth and Florimond stood. Oculeth, not privy to the memories, looked on with mild curiosity while Florimond flushed a deep plum.

“I’ll avoid this Silgryn then.”

“If you would, please.” Florimond said. “He’d know you weren’t me.”

Rommath nodded, leaving Oculeth none the wiser of what had just happened. It also wasn’t his place to say, so he wouldn’t.

As the last memory dissipated, Oculeth became unsteady on his feet. Rommath had expected this after his fuss over Thalyssra that morning, so had grabbed a few crystals before heading down for the ritual. If the spell was so draining and Oculeth had already been twitchy earlier in the day, it could well push him over the edge. As, apparently, it was close to doing. He held the crystals out toward Oculeth, who took them with an expression of wary gratitude.

“I just assumed,” Rommath said with a shrug, hoping the explanation wouldn’t invite further questions. “Given your concern earlier.”

He wasn’t so lucky.

“You’ve seemed remarkably unsurprised by any of…this.” Oculeth gestured broadly about himself, and then over toward Theryn, who was now asleep in a nook on the lower level. “It’s as if you’ve seen this condition before.”

“Something similar,” Rommath said. His stomach tightened. He didn’t want to elaborate. Not yet.

“Your own people?”

It was an obvious enough question, but there was a tinge of sympathy in his voice that rankled Rommath. He couldn’t say why.

“What concern is that of yours?” It came out as a snap. Sharp, peevish. Rommath sometimes envied Lor’themar’s ability to speak firmly but calmly, and to be commanding in a way that implied no frustration or anger. When his own temper flared, it was a spiky thing that made itself known.

“No, of course. What concern of mine could that possibly be?” Oculeth’s sarcasm was unexpected. He didn’t need to elaborate, his meaning was clear without it. Of course a similar event would be of his concern: had their positions been reversed, Rommath would be forcing every last piece of information from him. But Oculeth merely took a breath. “Well, I’ll be by the teleporters.”

The teleporters hummed and droned. The enchantments had worked away overnight and into the day, and most now flashed and pulsed with arcane energy in a pattern that Oculeth seemed to be able to read quite clearly. He flitted between them, murmuring to himself and making notes. When he noticed Rommath’s presence, he didn’t pause, instead, he continued along the line but called out comments on the status of each.

“A day to fix this one, I’d assume. It’s in quite a poor state. Whereas this one ought to need no more than a five minute tinker to have it back to working order. I could use a hand with some of the more damaged ones.”

Rommath sat himself before one teleporter, studying the pattern in which it blinked and pulsed to try to understand where it had malfunctioned. It was only when he’d identified the issue and was deep into fixing it that he finally spoke.

“My people did experience something very similar. It’s not something I enjoy speaking freely of with those I barely know. And I lost the two people I was closest to around that time.” He chose not to tell Oculeth that neither of them had been lost as a result of the Sunwell’s fall, or that he’d had his own hand in Kael’thas’ death and had been absent when the scourge had torn Belo’vir limb from limb.

Oculeth said nothing for a moment, his attention was instead unbroken on a tangle of arcane wiring. When he did speak, he didn’t lift his head or look at Rommath directly, and Rommath couldn’t help but think that it was intended as a kindness. Oculeth was not scrutinising him. If anything, the opposite.

“There appears to be very little you enjoy speaking freely of,” Oculeth said. It was phrased as an observation, not a judgement.

“The modification of arcane constructs. And wine.”

Though Rommath had simply been speaking truthfully, it prompted a laugh from Oculeth. “Ah, well, then we share that at least. If your hunt for the other ends of the teleporters takes you toward the twilight vineyard, tell them I sent you and ask for the silver jasmine special reserve I put aside. You’ll get an arcwine bottle of a particularly fine vintage that I, sadly, never managed to pick up.”

“I’ll be sure to do so. Anything else I ought to know?” Rommath fumbled about for his pack and pulled from it the book Tae’thelan had given him a few weeks ago, ‘Suramar Before the Sundering’ “This has been my only reference so far.”

Oculeth took the book and leafed through it. The more he read, the more he frowned. Occasionally he let out a scoff. “Quite laughably outdated. If you go by this, you’ll stand out for all the wrong reasons, though given its title I can understand why. I suppose a crash course in Shalassian culture is in order before you leave. Where shall I begin?”

“You mentioned something about an arcway earlier? When that first arcanist of yours was inspecting the tunnel.”

“So I did,” he said, turning from one of the teleporter pads and fixing his gaze on Rommath finally.

What followed was a long and meandering explanation about the web of tunnels that had run beneath the entirety of Suramar, but had been abandoned in gradual stages. Rommath listened as he rewired a damaged section of the teleporter. It wasn’t too dissimilar to the work he’d done on Arcanis Mechanica, so didn’t require an enormous amount of concentration.

When Oculeth had finished his detailed description of the arcway, he moved onto the city proper. Its districts, its customs, what he ought to expect from the Nighthold. He spoke with a sort of fond detachment, as if it was too painful to allow himself to become too close to the city even in his words. Rommath understood the feeling, and the need to distance oneself from what had been lost in order to not miss it too much.

Several hours passed in a deluge of information. Rommath was quite certain he wouldn’t remember everything Oculeth had said, but he was at least grateful to not be stepping into Suramar entirely ignorant.

When Oculeth finally stopped talking it was as if he’d left a trance and had surprised himself by how much time had passed. He stood and brushed off his robes, then gathered his tools. “I’d better not detain you any longer. It will be an early start tomorrow!”

To take the appearance of another wasn’t overly complex—it was something Rommath had done to Halduron countless times during a slow day at the spire. But usually it was flimsy magic that broke easily and rarely held up to scrutiny. He had a few solutions of his own for the longevity of such a spell, but Oculeth had immediately rejected them.

“Your arcane signature is wholly alien and would be detected almost immediately,” Oculeth said, as he sketched careful chalk runes in the flagstones.

The resulting sigil wasn’t too different from one option Rommath would have suggested, prompting him to scowl. Mage peacocking at its finest. Though he didn’t say anything, well aware he’d have probably done the same if their positions were reversed.

“Well, in you go.” Oculeth gestured toward the circle with a flourish. “Thalyssra has a slightly different technique for this, I lied once and said mine was actually a rudimentary form of telemancy that transports one’s appearance elsewhere, so I’ll need to destroy the evidence when we’re done. Now, this will tingle.”

Tingle wasn’t quite the word Rommath would have chosen. Rather, it was as if every inch of Rommath’s skin was boiling from him. He closed his eyes, half expecting that if he watched, he’d see his flesh sloughing from his bones. When the feeling abated, he looked down. Though he didn’t feel any different in himself, his limbs were now elongated and a deep shade of lilac.

Florimond blinked at him, studying every inch of his features. His own features on another.

“Now,” Oculeth said, taking on a serious tone. “That illusion is fairly resilient but still requires reapplication once every twenty four hours. I’ll provide you with the incantation for that part. Five reapplications will stretch it to its limits, so no more than that.”

Rommath scoffed. “I would hope I don’t need to be in the city for that long.”

“Who could possibly say. So let’s get you teleported in, shall we?”