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Chapter Text

“Terrible news again, my liege! The tower is once more under siege!”

Slamming his hand down on the royal dinner table, Arthas groans loudly. “Again? GUARDS! TO THE GATES! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! When are we not under attack? GET OUT THERE, NOW! AND DON'T COME BACK UNLESS YOU'RE BRINGING ME THE MONSTER'S HEAD ON A STICK! Falric, go and get the-”

He stops dead. Wait one Light-damned moment- “That was another poem, wasn't it, Falric? At a time like this? WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT NO MORE POEMS?”

“You like my poems, sir,” Falric says, blank-faced, and steps out of the way of a crowd of armoured soldiers barrelling through the royal dinner hall. “Since but a child you were.”

“Well, I'm not a child any more, am I?” Arthas bangs his goblet down and scrubs his hand across his mouth as yet more of his Royal Guard skid past, grabbing weapons on their way to the great double doors. “On second thought, don't answer that. This damn beast. I'll see its head above my hearth by day's end for daring to take our royal guest!”

“But gave her back whole, it did,” Falric adds. “Before it ran quickly and hid.”

“I care nothing for the semantics, Falric! Sylvanas is MY potential wi- guest and I should have been the one to gallantly rescue her! Damsels aren't supposed to rescue themselves!” Arthas pushes his plate away with a snarl, gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled. “And I told you, I hate poetry. It's all soppy and silly and lovey-dovey and girly. And the Crown Prince of Lordaeron is not a silly, sissy, whiny girl-”

The Crown Prince of Lordaeron squeaks and jolts upright as the edge of a blade is pressed to his throat.

“Hello,” a voice says behind Arthas. “I'm the silly, sissy, whiny girl you summoned to sort out your monster problem, and I'm holding a sword to your neck.”

“Hello,” Arthas wheezes back.

The sword is withdrawn and Jaina Proudmoore, the Blade of Kul Tiras, saunters round to the front of the table and spears a honey cake on the tip of it. “I understand from the general panic at the front gates that you're being besieged by a monster,” she says, lifting the honey cake to her mouth and taking a bite. “A big monshter,” she adds through her mouthful. “Exshtremely big.”

“The size matters not, 'tis the claws that we fear,” Falric says from his spot to Arthas' right. “When we see the claws coming, we all disappear!”

“Right.” Jaina glances back to Arthas. “So it's a big, clawed monster. You were a little light on the details in my summons, Prince Arthas- have you sent someone to hunt it before?”

Arthas' mouth twists. “I went personally to hunt the beast and protect the people of Lordaeron.”

“And how did that go?”

Silently, gritting his teeth all the while, Arthas reaches down and hefts up what's left of his shield.

Jaina's lip curls up.

“Understood,” she says, and takes another bite, swallowing with relish. “Mine's better, anyway. Made of sterner stuff, you see.”

Arthas glowers.

Throwing an innocent smile in his direction, Jaina turns and marches out through the double doors, munching on the honey cake as she goes. “This shouldn't be difficult,” she calls back, nonchalantly. “Tides be with you, Crown Prince. I'll see you later today with the beast's head!”

And the great double doors slam shut behind her.

The guards tiptoe back into position, eyeing Arthas warily.

Snarling at the empty space before him, Arthas flops back down into his chair and snatches his goblet back up. Why must I always be outdone by these WOMEN? “Go and check on Sylvanas, Falric,” he hisses towards the corner. “And no, I don't want to hear what incredible feat of archery she invented today. And- stop with the Light-damned rhymes!”

“The Lady Sylvanas should be asleep,” he hears faintly as Falric's footsteps disappear down the hallway. “But if she is not, her company I'll keep.”

“FALRIC!”

“Goodnight, Prince Arthas.”

-0-0-

“MAKE WAY! IMPATIENT HORSE COMING THROUGH!”

The crowds part like butter before Basilah as she clatters down the grand plaza and towards the city gates, Jaina atop her in gleaming armour, pulling frantically to the side. “Basilah, slow now woah now- woah now Basilah! Stop, stop Bas STOP-”

The guards at the gate shriek and dive to the sides as Basilah skids to a halt inches from the engraved wood.

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the scrape of Basilah's hooves and Jaina's heavy breathing beneath her helmet.

“Good morrow, Lady Proudmoore,” one of the guards says faintly.

Straightening up, Jaina attempts a salute in his direction. “Good morrow, sir.” And, to her horse: “Were you seriously going to try and jump the gate, Bas?”

Basilah stamps her front hoof and brays proudly.

Jaina sighs. “Wonderful. Alright!” She turns, draping her legs round to sit side-saddle, armour gleaming in the thready sun. “Talk to me, good people! Have you seen it? The beast that besieges you?”

“It's big, Lady Proudmoore,” a stout, muscular lady calls from the crowd. “Very big.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement.

“Well, that's good. I was starting to worry the Prince had called me here for something amateur, given the letter only said big monster, come quick, handsome reward.” Jaina leans down, patting Basilah's neck. “Talk to me. Could you see it clearly?”

“Oh aye, we could. It's 'orrible. Big an' hairy an' claw-y. The first time it attacked, it climbed up the tower and took the Lady Sylvanas from 'er bed at the stroke of midnight, and stole 'er away into the night!” The woman glances round at her fellow citizens, nodding solemnly along with her. “The next morning, they found 'er in the forest, all scratched up an' bloodied, an' now the Prince won't let 'er out of 'er chambers no more- but it comes an' batters at the gates every night, bayin' for blood!”

Jaina nods, slowly. “Are there any previous records of such a monster?”

“None. Lordaeron's been peaceful ever since the ettins settled up in the foothills.” A young man, face pale and daunted at the sight of Jaina in full regalia. “The archivists were ordered to scour the records, but they found n-nothing, your Ladyship.”

“Your Ladyship is my mother. Jaina is just fine.” Could the beast be attracted by elven magic? “And the Lady Sylvanas- a mage, presumably, a great and talented one, to be offered housing and tutelage by a human prince?”

“N-no, your L- your Highne- Lady Proud-”

“Jaina,” Jaina corrects, with a gentle smile. “Not a mage?”

“N-no, she is the second-born child of the R-Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas,” the young man stammers. “Her skill with a bow is second t-to none, her aim immaculate. I have been honoured with the privilege of seeing her in action- truly the most impressive sight I have ever seen! No human archer can hold a candle to she who was born with a bow in her hand.”

Jaina nods again, staring down at Basilah's gleaming neck. I must meet this creature. A kindred spirit, raised alongside battle, albeit likely one suffocated by Arthas and his stuffy court. Perhaps she might consider a counter-offer and shadow the Blade of Kul Tiras instead? “Thank you. I appreciate your information, both of you.”

The young man leans in, right in, eyes darting from side to side. “If you- if you need anything, Lady P- Jaina, uh, l-let me know,” he says, almost too softly for Jaina to hear, and reaches out towards Basilah with a trembling hand only to snatch it back an inch from her coat. “I work in the archives- I can ask for anything you need. B-but please don't tell the Prince! I'm not meant to be there, you see, it was my punishment for stealing bread for my family, but I just, I stayed, the archivists have been so-”

“Tell me your name,” Jaina murmurs back, “and don't worry. I break four laws before breakfast. My lips are sealed.”

The young man's face brightens. “My name is Nathanos,” he says, and straightens up, beaming at her. “Thank you, my Lady!”

“A pleasure to meet you, Nathanos,” Jaina says. “Or, if Arthas asks, not-Nathanos.”

And she turns Basilah back towards the gates, raising her voice. “Guards! Open the gates, and allow me to follow this creature!” She hefts her sword, voice echoing across the great plaza. “The Blade of Kul Tiras will not be defeated! FOR SHE RIDES TODAY, BATHED IN THE GLORY OF KUL TIRAS!”

Silence.

The guards glance at one another.

“Now,” Jaina prompts.

“I'm- I'm afraid we can't do that, Lady Jaina,” the left guard says.

“We couldn't possibly let a gentle lady follow such an abominable creature into the darkness,” the guard on the right adds, and bangs his halberd into the ground. “T'would be a dereliction of our duties!”

“Yes! It goes against everything in the Guards' Code!”

“It does, you know!”

“That's right! Everything!” The left guard nods decisively. “We may as well hand in our helmets if we were to let you o-”

They shriek and dive to the side as the gates are blasted off their hinges by an enormous pyroblast.

“Send the bill to my mother,” Jaina yells back over her shoulder as she and Basilah thunder away into the darkness.

-0-0-

The monster has left no trail.

Jaina Proudmoore, the Blade of Kul Tiras, has hunted monsters and beasts across every land upon the surface of Azeroth. She has hunted forest spirits in Quel'Thalas, great land sharks in Stranglethorn Vale, skeletons risen from the grave in Northrend and slithering sirens upon the rolling shores of Kul Tiras. No creature has bested her in combat; no monster has drawn her blood and lived to tell the tale.

But all of them left a trail.

Glaring down at the ground, Jaina rubs up and down Basilah's neck as she nibbles at a fern. “Nothing,” she says to her, eyes roving the mud. “The only tracks are ours. How is that possible? There must be something, there's always something to follow, right?”

Is this creature corporeal? It must have been to snatch Sylvanas. She's corporeal, after all. The elves I've met were definitely corporeal. Lovely smooth curves under fine silk robes- “Do you think they're exaggerating? Or is this some sort of ruse, to waste my time or make me look foolish?”

Basilah has no answer, but eats another frond.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Jaina dismounts and crouches down to examine the soil. “Maybe I'm looking in the wrong place. Either the monster changed course, or perhaps Sylvanas was about to get free, maybe, and stopped it from going any further? In my experience, elves are rather bitey.”

Basilah shakes her mane out in agreement.

“A curious choice, to send Sylvanas to Lordaeron.” Jaina rocks back on her heels, staring at the tree trunk in front of her. “I suppose Arthas might have harboured delusions about dating her- you'd think he would want a nice human bride, to give him nice human children? He seems very much the vanilla pudding type to me- and a Windrunner just seems too... independent, for him.”

Rubs the bark with two fingers, frowning at it. “Arthas Menethil likes to be in control. Has to be in control! Hates feeling inferior to anyone or anything. So why would he give up his superiority, just for a bride who can scale a tree in five sec...”

Basilah's head jerks up.

Slowly, eyes narrowing, Jaina tilts her head upwards, and stares up at the canopy of the tree.

And the trail of disturbed leaves leading out into the forest.

“Come on, Bas,” Jaina says quickly, and grabs her reins to haul herself back into the saddle. “Onward!”

-0-0-

They screech to a halt at the edge of the forest.

“Ah,” Jaina says, a little awkwardly. “I. Didn't think about what would happen when we ran out of forest.”

Basilah snorts.

“Yes, yes, I know. And you knew best, as you always do. Silly Jaina doing silly Jaina things again.” Jaina sits back, staring round, gnawing on her lower lip beneath the plumed helmet. “Maybe we should go back and see what Nathanos can find in the archives-”

Basilah stiffens beneath her, nostrils flaring.

Carefully, Jaina cranes forwards, rubbing her neck. “What is it, Bas? Are you thirsty? Do you need to rest-”

A great roar rends the air and enormous claws flash in the half-second before Jaina is knocked out of the saddle and onto her shiny arse.

“OI!” She leaps to her feet and yanks her sword from its scabbard and runs after the creature-

It turns, eyes widening, slashing upwards just in time to parry another swipe and the sheer power shunts Jaina back, boots skidding in the dirt. “MONSTER!” she shrieks, and pulls her shield from her back. “YOU DIE TODAY!”

The creature rears up, red eyes gleaming with murderous intent, and charges.

Jaina dives in and catches it in the ribs and the creature hollers, slashing wildly at her; Jaina leaps back, dodging and ducking, forced further and further out into the open by the barrage of claws and Basilah dodges and dives in to try and pull its attention from her but the creature bats her away like a fly-

One giant right hand opens just far enough that Jaina can jump to the side and slash the creature's palm and it shrieks, cringing backwards .

For a moment, Jaina is frozen in horror, staring at the tears building in those red eyes.

Tears.

What sort of creature is this?

What sort of monster CRIES with pain- oh Tides take me what am I doing-

Jaina drops her sword and rushes forwards, in the same second that Basilah neighs desperately and surges towards the monster.

They are met with nothing but the rustling of branches as the creature disappears back into the forest.

“I'm sorry!” Jaina calls hopelessly after it. Basilah whinnies hopelessly. “Please! I can help you! I have bandages! … Big ones!”

The whistling of the wind in the boughs is her only answer.

-0-0-

“I can't help but notice,” Arthas says, lounging back in his gilded chair, “that whilst my guards may not have brought me the abomination's head, you also didn't find my monster, Lady Proudmoore.”

He slathers a freshly-baked bread roll in butter, smug smile spread over his face.

Jaina sighs. “No. I didn't. I made contact with the monster, but it threatened Basilah's life, and so I retreated.” Arthas Menethil is a creature of limited imagination, and so Jaina has made the conscious decision to be selective about how much she tells him; no doubt he would consider a monster with higher intellect a boon to the Lordaeronian army, and send capture squads out to bring it back to his Palace in chains, subdued and terrified.

And Jaina won't let that happen. For every creature Jaina Proudmoore has defeated, another has been found, judged to be no danger, and released unscathed.

A poor Blade she would be, if retribution were dispensed at the expense of justice.

That and it frees up her evening for a nice rum on the rocks at the Salty Kraken.

“She's not even a thoroughbred,” Arthas says, voice thick with barely-disguised contempt. Jaina stiffens. “You could have bought a hundred horses with the bounty I am offering-”

“And none of them would be Basilah,” Jaina snaps, and tears her own bread roll clean in half.

Arthas wisely falls silent.

The doors open and a pair of armoured guards stride in, holding the entryway open for a small elven figure, resplendent in fine leathers and a richly-dyed backless purple shirt.

Jaina turns-

And her jaw drops, for the creature before her is a goddess.

She glides over the palace floor, each movement as smooth as a symphony of music, her footsteps inaudible. Muscles ripple in her exposed back. Long platinum-blonde hair is neatly tied high atop her head, in a ponytail that exposes the shaved nape of her neck; Jaina's teeth ache to bite into that buttercream skin, mark it as her own.

It takes Jaina a moment to realise she's dropped her bread roll on her foot.

The elven figure strides to the table, pulling the far chair out and sliding into it, the epitome of elven grace. “Good morning, Prince Arthas,” she says, voice melodic, and turns her glowing gaze to Jaina, the very corner of her lip curling up. “And good morning, Lady Jaina, Blade of Kul Tiras. Tales of your heroics have been sung far and wide.”

She leans closer. The corner of her bow-shaped lips curls upward. “And yet, from what I hear of last night, they hardly do you justice.”

Jaina remembers how to breathe, and sucks in oxygen.

“Lady Sylvanas Windrunner,” she manages, and swallows, tongue thick in her mouth. “I'm aware you are pure magic with a bow, but nobody told me you were quite so disarmingly enchanting.”

Sylvanas' eyes gleam. “I have quick fingers.”

“You can show me later,” Jaina returns, before she realises what she's just said and slams her mouth shut.

Sylvanas chuckles, smooth and rich, and reaches out to take Jaina's hand in her own and bring it to her lips.

“Light preserve me,” Arthas mutters, somewhere unimportant, somewhere that isn't Sylvanas so Jaina ignores it.

“What brings you to Lordaeron, Lady Proudmoore?” Releasing Jaina's hand- a touch reluctantly, perhaps?- Sylvanas reaches for the assortment of cheeses on the table. The movement exposes her biceps, toned and honed; Jaina swallows, hard. “As much as I wish it were the case, I doubt my presence alone would lure you all this way.”

“Well, it wasn't the weather,” Jaina says, trying not to watch too hard as Sylvanas slices a delicate mound of cheese. “Though next time, from the looks of it, I must bring a selection of my homeland's dairy products for you to try.”

Sylvanas' eyes glitter as she speaks. “You do know how to please a woman, Lady Proudmoore.”

“Get a room,” Arthas snaps, and stands so abruptly his chair falls backwards with a clang.

Rolling her eyes, Jaina turns to apologise to Sylvanas on his behalf-

Her words falter on their way to her mouth, at the sight of a neat mageweave bandage, tied tightly around Sylvanas' right hand.

An angled cut. Clean, precise. From the tip of a well-sharpened sword.

“How did you-”

“Well, some of us have to start our day, Lady Proudmoore,” Arthas snaps, and grabs Sylvanas by the arm, yanking her up out of her chair. “And I believe you're overdue for a change of bandage, Lady Windrunner. Such an unfortunate accident you must have had last night. Woken by the Lady Proudmoore clattering about next door, no doubt. What a good thing the finest healers on Azeroth are right here in my Palace, eh? Better not keep them waiting! Let me know when you've caught the beast, Lady Jaina, bye-bye!”

Jaina shoves the heavy, unwieldy wooden chair back-

But by the time the Blade of Kul Tiras has struggled up out of her seat, Arthas is already storming out of the royal dining hall, dragging a grimacing Sylvanas along behind him.

Chapter Text

“Have you ever been in love, Basilah?”

Basilah, ever the pragmatist, ignores Jaina in favour of her one true love: the fresh hay in her feeding bag.

Jaina snorts. “Thought that might be your answer. Do you think elves are beautiful? One in particular? I think I do.”

Somewhere outside the stables, boot-clad feet clomp past. The tail end of laughter hangs in the air.

Gazing out after them, Jaina sighs. “I think I may be smitten, in fact. She is as beguiling as a siren, and as regal as the Tidemother herself... I have never beheld a creature so perfect, and yet known so little about her.”

Another mouthful of hay disappears into the velvety gob.

“In fact, Basilah,” Jaina says, staring sightlessly down at the sad cheese sandwich in her hand that constitutes her lunch, “I think my heart, weak and feeble as it is, was entreated to one glimpse of an elf made of starlight, and is now irretrievably lost.”

Her cheese sandwich is gently snaffled out of her hand.

Jaina stares morosely down at her empty fingers. “The life of a horse must be so simple,” she says, leaning back and stares round at the stables, stark and pragmatic; the rustic walls are flushed a warming shade of orange by the magelight hovering above her. “You eat, you trot, you sleep. You eat, you get saddled up, you trot, you sleep. You eat, you refuse to go out in the pen because you're a stubborn bastard and you don't feel like exercising today, you sleep. There are great scholars in Dalaran who yearn for such a relaxed, uncomplicated lifestyle.”

“Bet they don't get ridden half as much, though,” says a voice behind her.

Jaina whips round-

The magelight floods the doorway to reveal Nathanos, frozen halfway back to his horse, clutching a book-shaped parcel like a shield. “I b-beg your pardon, Lady Proudmoore,” he stammers, wide-eyed. “I- it's- by the Light, I've spent far too much time with the Lady Windrunner, it's what she'd say, y'know, and it- it just came out, mind you that's not an excuse, my mother would tan my hide, such language in the presence of a- I apologise unreservedly, my lady, I'll go-”

“What if I tell you it was rather funny, and also, tragically, very true?” Jaina stands, stretching her shoulders with a groan. “No tanning of hides required. We have leatherworkers for that. What did you find for me, Nathanos?”

Tentatively, Nathanos extends the book-shaped package. “It's, erm. It's all wrapped up. It's actually a book in there. Could you tell?”

“Well, I didn't think it was a merry-go-round.”

“Bloody 'ell, you mages are good.” Nathanos stares at the package, wide-eyed. “I thought I'd hidden it really well!”

“... Absolutely. Great job. Now then, Nathanos! I'd like to have a look at it, if that's alright.” Gently, smiling indulgently all the while, Jaina reaches out and levitates the book towards her, sending it spiralling through the air and into her hands with a flourish. Nathanos gapes. “Oh, none of that. Not for a child's simple telekinetic cantrip. Do you know many magi, Nathanos?”

“One.”

“Oh? Who's that?”

“You.”

“Oh! Well. I'm honoured.”

“N-no, my Lady, that's definitely me.” Nathanos beams nervously, fiddling with his gloves. “We don't get many visitors at all, you see, much less interesting ones like yourself and the Lady-”

The neat wrapping falls away to reveal a thick tome, yellowed with age, the title in elegant Thalassian script above a delicate illustration of an elf fighting a great hairy monster.

A children's book.

They sent me a book of fairy stories.

Jaina jerks back up. “The archivists told you to give me, the Blade of Kul Tiras, Warrior of the Kirin Tor and the Heir to the Proudmoore Admiralty a book of Thalassian fairy tales?”

“Y-yes, my Lady,” Nathanos stammers, edging back towards his horse, who stomps anxiously, nudging his arm with her nose. “They said- they said it had everything you would need in it- please, my Lady, I'm sorry, I'll do whatever you say please don't hurt me-”

It takes the blast of heat over her forearms for Jaina to realise that she's subconsciously summoned magefire. “Oh- I'm so sorry, Nathanos. That was completely unintentional.” She quickly extinguishes it, checking the floor for embers that could ignite the piles of hay. “I do apologise.”

“That's alright, my Lady,” Nathanos says faintly. “It was really cool.”

“Somehow I don't think Prince Arthas would share that view if I set his stables alight.” Jaina looks back down at the tome in her lap. “I'm sorry for my reaction- you see, I have a bit of a problem.”

Multiple, if the archivists take me for a fool. But what comes out is: “I don't speak or read any Thalassian.”

“Oh! Oh.” Nathanos chews on his lip. “I, erm, me neither. Just the few words Lady Windrunner has taught me.”

“Hmm. What about any of the...”

Jaina stops.

Her eyes widen.

“Oh, Jaina,” she murmurs, and snatches the book up off the floor. “How brilliant!”

“I'm sure you are, my Lady! … So, erm, why are you brilliant, my Lady?”

“Nathanos,” Jaina bursts out, and rounds on him, grinning. “Can you inform the Lady Windrunner that a guest of Lordaeron requires her services?”

-0-0-

The rooms Jaina is led into are smaller than she expected, with paint peeling from the walls, a broken chair dumped beside the door, and an elf cross-legged on the small bed, idly fletching away.

“These are the state rooms?” she says out loud, as the door closes behind her. “More like look at the state of them rooms.”

“I said much the same thing,” comes from the bed, “but in Thalassian.”

Sylvanas' eyes are sparkling when Jaina meets them, and the Blade of Kul Tiras' lungs feel oddly heavy in her chest until she remembers how to breathe again.

“Well,” Jaina manages to get out, almost normally, and salutes in the traditional Kul Tiran manner, legs wide and shoulders back. “You've found the crux of my problem, Lady Windrunner. As swift as one of those arrows.”

Sylvanas smiles back at her. Her hair is loose now, flowing over her shoulders like molten silk, and Jaina yearns to run her fingers through it, to grab it near the roots and tilt Sylvanas' head backwards to suckle on her neck and not the time Jaina-

“How may I help you, Lady Proudmoore?”

“Please,” Jaina starts, and has to pause to breathe again. “Call me Jaina. Lady Proudmoore is my mother.”

“Then, Jaina,” Sylvanas purrs, and a fire lights between Jaina's legs. “Perhaps you can satisfy me first?”

“Three times before lunch,” Jaina blurts out, and clamps her mouth shut.

Sylvanas chuckles, a surprisingly rough sound. The laugh of someone who has shared that laugh with fellow soldiers around the campfire. Interesting. “Why hold your stance so wide when you salute? The soldiers in Lordaeron stand as narrow as possible.”

“Ah! We're usually saluting on the deck of a ship at sea. You stand with your feet together, you lose your balance pretty damn quick.” Jaina plants her feet at shoulder width and wobbles back and forth a bit to demonstrate. “Come and give me a good hard shove.”

“Are you sure? Archers have considerable upper body strength.”

“Absolutely!”

Elegantly, as though she were made of liquid, Sylvanas unfurls herself from the bed and slides across the floor, eyes trained on Jaina. “Where?”

“Where would you normally shove someone?”

“Well, I suppose-”

The shove delivered straight to Jaina's diaphragm has enough force behind it to empty the air from Jaina's lungs, but her feet stay solid, thick leather boots not budging an inch.

“Impressive,” Sylvanas says, tilting her head. “As though you were made of steel. I had no idea Kul Tiran women had such stamina.”

“Completely unaffected,” Jaina wheezes.

Throwing Jaina a perfect elven smile, Sylvanas' eyes flick downwards. “Is there an elven child in Lordaeron, or why else would you have The Compendium of Thalassian Folklore tucked into your pouch?”

“Ah- yes that- Tidemother's tits you're strong- yes that was- nice biceps- the point of- coming- here!” Summoning two chairs with a flick of her wrist, Jaina plops down into one, breathing heavily. “I- need a translator.”

“For elven bedtime stories,” Sylvanas says.

“Yes.” Gulping in air and massaging her belly, Jaina pulls the book out of her pouch with her free hand. “Well, you see, this monster problem that Arthas has- the archivists believe that the information I need to capture it lies in here somewhere. Which seems a bit far-fetched to me, but it's the only lead I have as of yet, so here we are- I'll hold the book for you, so you may rest your hand, and... well, I would be much obliged if you would simply read it in Common for me.” She eyes Sylvanas' hand as she takes a seat beside her. “Do you mind me asking what happened?”

“A foolish accident with my fletching knife.”

Jaina glances to the wonky cabinet beside the bed, and the immaculate fletching set perched neatly on top of it. “In here? You did a good job cleaning up. I'd never be able to tell.”

“The royal household staff are extremely quick with cleaning materials, and extremely underpaid for mopping up after foolish elves. I'm amazed the Prince has any left.”

“Yes, Arthas does seem to think winning hearts and minds is achieved with blunt force trauma.” Jaina flips the book open, glancing back up to Sylvanas, who leans closer, eyes trained on the pages. “Have you read this before?”

“Many times, to my younger brother and sister.” Suddenly, Sylvanas' gaze is elsewhere, drifting off to another time that Jaina cannot see. “My sister Vereesa would ask, time and time again, for The Bear and the Lady Fair. A simple tale, whereby a young elf is cursed before their birth to become a monster every night when the moon rises, and falls in love with a beautiful maiden, to break the curse with true love's kiss.”

Her gaze falls. “And, as with every child's tale, it ends happily ever after.”

Jaina chuckles. “If only real life were so easy.”

“Yes,” Sylvanas says, softly. “If only.”

Jaina claps her hands, and brings a pair of footrests shooting over, rattling to a stop obligingly before them. “Much better.” Another clap, and Sylvanas squawks somewhere off to her left as a pair of blankets fall straight on top of them. “Sorry! My aim isn't that great. Right then.” And, struggling back out of the blanket, she opens the book and plops it down in Sylvanas' lap. “Hit me with it.”

There's a pause.

Brows pursing, Sylvanas reaches hesitantly for the book.

“No! Please, no, I meant read the book out to me. Unlike Arthas, I do not believe love can only be found in blunt force trauma.”

Sylvanas eyes her. “Love?”

There's a pause.

Jaina's whole body flushes cold with horror.

Shit! “I- I meant, erm, I think, I was thinking along the lines of, erm, I'm not sure actually. Ha! How silly of me! Do you ever say a word and it's completely unrelated to what you thought? Or meant to think? Or might have been thinking? I'm not sure where this sentence is going, erm, there must have been a reason and I've completely forgotten it and I definitely didn't mean love and anyway shall we read the book?”

There's a strange look in Sylvanas' eye, as she scoots closer, but Jaina is too busy dying internally to dwell any further on it.

“The Compendium of Thalassian Folklore, vols. 1 and 2,” she begins, and a delicate elven fingertip turns the page. Her nails are painted forest green. “Our tales begin in Eversong Nook, where our little elfling her first breaths took...”

-0-0-

“You are back far earlier than I expected, General.”

Muddied and breathless, Talanas Windrunner staggers into the hut, scrubbing at his face with both hands. Tregla glares down at him. “He would not listen. None of them would! They are too stunned by their delusions of what we used to be- the masters of Kalimdor, as though we are anything more than jumped-up exiles- NONE of them would hear me when I told them the truth. Do we not have enough land? A great font of magic that ensures our immortality- but the House of Sunstrider still desires MORE!”

Tregla watches him, this elven waif, standing lost and alone in his hut. “Your king has threatened Tor'watha many times, but never have you come to me with such urgency,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Have you come to warn me that you will lay siege to my home?”

“Not me.” The strength in Talanas' voice has Tregla jerking up. “I wanted no part in this. They told me to bring them your head, or they will depose me as Ranger-General-”

“-and kill you,” Tregla finishes for him.

“And I was a fool. And I defied them.” The desperation in Talanas' voice has Tregla leaning closer. “Anasterian- he has one amongst his court, a Drathir, who practises with fel magic.”

Tregla snorts in panic. “Fel magic? The corrupted elf must die-!”

“I can't! I can't get close to him. I've tried.” Tears trailing down his cheeks, Talanas falls to his knees. “I received a flower in my morning post. An adder's tongue from Northrend. In our elven language of flowers, an adder's tongue is a dire warning, a portent of evil magic directed at-”

His voice breaks.

“At an innocent.”

Even the air in the hut feels too heavy in the wake of his admission.

Tregla swallows, hard. His heart is thumping unpleasantly. “Such disgusting evil, to harbour amongst your ranks. But you are hardly innocent, Talanas.” His lips thin. “The blood of trollish people has stained your hands for hundreds of years.”

“You are right,” Talanas chokes. “It would not be me.”

“Then who? A troll? Are you warning me that my people have been cursed?” Tregla turns towards the door behind which his wife is sleeping. “My wife is wise in the ways of magic, and healing. She knows what harm the voodoo can do in the wrong hands. Perhaps I should-”

“My daughter is pregnant.”

Silence.

Tregla stops dead.

Talanas crumples, as though crushed beneath a great weight. His sobs fill the firelit hut. “M-my daughter,” he cries, fisting the rug in both hands. “Her s-second child. A girl. A baby girl, we only- we only found out yesterday, it...”

He jerks back up, staring at Tregla with desperation in his eyes. “There was a ribbon in the envelope. T-tied around the stem of the adder's tongue.” The tears drip off his nose and chin. “It was embroidered. 'Sylvanas'. That... that's the name they've chosen. For the baby. Only I and the father know- nobody else, not even her sister- only we have ever, EVER, heard it uttered... that her- that her name will be Sylvanas.”

Outside, the clouds break open, and rain hammers down on the dust and mud of Tor'watha.

Tregla stands on unsteady legs. “I've readily offered my people's help. But the best way to break such a curse is to kill the caster. Only that will destroy such foul magic for good... and prevent it ever coming back-”

“Y-yes,” Talanas sniffles, and rises, wiping at his face with shaking hands. “I must kill an unkillable warlock, with power unknown, protected by the most powerful dynasty in Quel'Thalas.”

“Every warlock has moments of weakness. Even those with unspeakable power. Do you know where you might find him vulnerable-”

“Or I must fulfil my duty.”

Tregla freezes.

“What does that mean, elf?”

Talanas' tear-streaked face is set in grim determination. His newly-unsheathed sword gleams in the firelight. “They told me to bring them your head.”

“You wouldn't-”

Tregla barely brings his shield up in time to meet the sword arcing straight at his jugular.

-0-0-

“... hope you have enjoyed your rest, Lady Proudmoore?”

Jaina snorts awake. “I-! Hello! What month is it?”

“That depends what calendar you use in Kul Tiras, but in Quel'Thalas, it is the second month of autumn. The leaves are falling. It is a beautiful time of year.” Smooth fingers tuck Jaina's hair back behind her year. “I am surrounded by beauty at this time of year, it seems,” Sylvanas murmurs, as though to herself. “What luck I must have.”

“Are you flirting with- oh Tidemother's tits did I fall asleep on your shoulder?”

“You were very comfortable,” Sylvanas says, with a lop-sided smile. “I finished the book, by the way.”

She lifts it up with her good hand. “I don't know how much you took in. You started snoring during The Folly of Wilfred Fizzlebang, and you said something about buttered crumpets at the end of The Boy who Cried Lynx, so I assumed you were hungry and called for dinner to be prepared.”

“Oh?”

Sylvanas points at the cold plate of toast on the cabinet.

“... I see.”

“Prince Arthas did not give the chef money to go to market today,” Sylvanas says, somewhat morosely. “I suspect our dinner will be... rather limited.” She rises from her chair, draping her blanket neatly over the foot of her bed. “Fear not, Lady Proudmoore, you will not starve on my watch. Perhaps I should go and hunt-”

“I have some Kul Tiran cheeses in an enchanted pouch in my saddlebag.”

“Marry me,” Sylvanas murmurs.

“What?”

“I- what I meant to say was, it sounded like you were having some very interesting dreams,” Sylvanas stammers. “Do you remember any of them?”

Jaina stares at her, at her stormy grey eyes, at that beautiful face that, just for a second, distorts into that of a tear-stained elven man before she blinks and it's gone again.

“Do you know,” she says softly, “I don't. Let's go and find those cheeses, before we wither away.”