himself not with the glory of Azshara, but with other matters. Varo’then, whatever his loyalty to the lord of the Legion, was ever first and foremost his queen’s servant.
“The ever-efficient captain. Of course I find you stalking the halls even when not on duty.”
The officer jumped, then silently cursed himself for reacting so.
As if pouring out of the shadows themselves, Xavius stepped out in front of the night elf. His hooves clattered on the marble floor and he breathed in snorts as he moved. Archimonde had called Xavius a satyr, one of Sargeras’s blessed servants. The unnatural eyes that the noble had himself put in place of his own stared out from under the deep brow ridge. They snared the captain’s own, drawing him inexorably into some unsettling place.
“Sargeras sees much promise in you, Captain Varo’then. He sees one whose status could be great among those who serve him. He sees you as a commander of his host, set up there along with Mannoroth—nay—Archimonde, even!”
Varo’then saw himself at the head of a horde of demons, his sword thrust out before him as they poured over their foes. He felt the pride and love of Sargeras as he rode down those who would defy the Great One.
“I am honored to serve,” the soldier murmured.
Xavius smiled. “As are we all … and we would serve in any way we could, if it would make the dream come true sooner, is that not so?”
“Of course.”
The hooved figure leaned close, his face nearly touching the soldier’s own. The eyes continued to pull Varo’then in, both tantalizing and unnerving him at the same time. “You could serve in a manner better suited for you, in a role that will lead you sooner to the command you desire …”
Excitement coursed through the officer. He again pictured himself leading armies in the name of his queen and Sargeras. He imagined his conquest of their enemies, the blood of the foe flowing so much it created rivers.
But when Captain Varo’then tried to imagine himself doing all this, he could not see his own form distinctly. He tried to draw forth an image of himself as a warrior, an armored and armed commander such as in the old epics … but another shape persistently pushed itself on him.
A shape much like that worn by Lord Xavius.
That, at last, enabled him to pull free of the advisor’s gaze. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must be about my duties.”
The artificial eyes flared briefly. Then Xavius nodded ever so politely and with a sweep of his hand bid the soldier to move on. “But of course, Captain Varo’then, but of course.”
At a quicker pace than he would have preferred to display before the horned figure, Varo’then marched away. He did not look back. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword as if about to draw it. The night elf did not slow until he was certain that Lord Xavius had been left far behind.
But even then he could still hear the beguiling words of the satyr … and Varo’then knew that where he had managed to deny them, others would not.
As night fell upon Lord Ravencrest’s forces, the Sisters of Elune spread out among the night elves to give their blessings. Even clad like warrior maidens, the priestesses brought peace and comfort to the soldiers. Elune offered the night elves strength and confidence, for she was always there in the heavens, watching down on her favored children.
Although her expression did not reveal it, Tyrande Whisperwind felt none of the peace or strength she passed on to her people. The high priestess seemed to think that she especially had been touched by the Mother Moon, but Tyrande sensed no great presence within herself. If the Mother Moon had chosen her for something, she had failed to inform Tyrande.
The last bit of daylight fled beneath the horizon. Tyrande hurried, knowing that soon the horns would sound and the host would move on toward Zin-Azshari. She touched the heart of one more soldier, then strode to her waiting panther.
But before she reached it, another night elf confronted her. Out of reflex, Tyrande put a hand to his chest—only to have him take her hand by the wrist.
The priestess looked up and her own heart at first leapt with joy. Then she noted the dark uniform and the hair bound back in a tail.
Most of all, Tyrande noticed the amber eyes.
“Illidan …”
“I’m grateful for your blessing, of course,” he responded with a wry grin. “But I’m comforted more by your near presence.”
Her cheeks flushed, though not for the reason he thought. Still gently holding her wrist, Malfurion’s twin leaned close.
“Surely this is fate, Tyrande! I’ve been looking for you. We’re entering fast-moving times. Decisions must be made without hesitation.”
With sudden anxiety, she understood what he intended to ask—nay, tell her. Without meaning to, Tyrande pulled back her hand.
Illidan’s face immediately grew stony. He had missed neither her reaction nor the meaning behind it.
“It’s too soon,” she managed, trying to assuage his feelings.
“Or too late?” The wry grin returned, but to her it now appeared to be slightly hollow, more of a mask. After a moment, though, Illidan’s face relaxed. “I’ve been too impetuous. This isn’t the right time. You’ve been trying to comfort too many. I’ll speak with you again, when the moment is more appropriate.”
Without another word, he headed toward where a mounted guard in the garb of Ravencrest’s clan awaited with the sorcerer’s own night saber. Illidan did not look back as he and his escort rode off.
More troubled than ever, Tyrande sought her own panther. Yet, even as she mounted, another came to interrupt her thoughts. This time, however, it proved to be a more welcome soul.
“Shaman, forgive this intrusion.”
With a gentle smile, she greeted the orc. “You are always welcome, Broxigar.”
Only she was allowed to call him by his full name. To all others, even Lord Ravencrest, he was merely Brox. The massive orc stood a good head shorter than her, but made up for it with a girth three times her own and nearly all of that muscle. She had seen him wade into enemies with the ferocity of one of the huge cats, but around her he acted with more respect than many of those who asked for her blessing.
Thinking that a blessing was what the orc had come for, Tyrande reached down to touch his chest. Brox looked startled, then welcomed the touch.
“May the Mother Moon guide your spirit, may she grant you her silent strength …” She continued on for a few seconds more, giving the orc a full blessing. Most of the other priestesses found him as abhorrent as the rest of the night elves did, but in Tyrande’s eyes, he was no less one of Elune’s creatures than herself.
When she had finished, Brox dipped his head in gratitude, then muttered, “I am not worthy of this blessing, shaman, for that is not why I’ve come to you.”
“It isn’t?”
The tusked, squat face twisted into what Tyrande recognized as
