The Mantle of Command

He took years to leave his former life behind and the taste of the price he had to pay for his own loyalty was still far too bitter to be forgotten. While the dim light of the candle was creating illusionary shadows all around his former office, his mind couldn't help but dig in the past.

He saw his former wife, Rei'ann, sleeping in his bed, completely unaware that that night was going to be the last one she spent with the man she loved. No matter how distant that day was, he could still listen to her slow paced breath. For once, no nightmeres were troubling her sleep. He had to disappear from her life, for her own safety and for the one of the child she bared. However, before doing such, he calculated everything and left to the woman a huge portion of his family belongings, whilst erasing every single trace or hint that could have eventually lead her back to him.

The sense of bitterness grew stronger at those memories, enforced by the knowledge that at the end, she held his memory so dear to give the surname of another man to his only surviving male heir .

Without a doubt, it took her not long to forget him.

He casted aside that conclusion.

Mor'denath was now standing in front of the desk of his private quarters, located in the core of an estate he secretely built before his departure from the political and military scene of the Thalassian kingdom. Its location remained unknown to everyone but a single person, who unfortunately met his death on Draenor. He ran his fingertips on the ebony surface of the desk and collected some of the dust accumulated on it since the moment of his departure, some months after the Siege of Orgrimmar. All around him, the office was enveloped in complete darkness: the windows were closed and every single room of that secluded place had been sealed with intricated spells hailing from the Abjuration School, so tight that even the air was unable to pierce their matrix. If anyone would have taken the risk to infiltrate those halls, the spells had been programmed to lock the intruder inside the structure and turn it into an unexpected tomb. Despite the deadly protections strangulating what was left of his old “empire”, the Sin’dorei ran the emerald eyes through the room and inspected every single book stored on the shelves of his library, noticing with both pleasure and relief how a very thin layer of arcane was still preserving those pages from aging; some of those tomes, after all, were written long before the date of his birth.

While conflicting emotions were trying to scratch the surface, the elf approached the wardrobe room. Yet, his hand hesitated on the pommel for a long moment: inside that wardrobe was his former attire, the one he wore when he was still “someone” in Silvermoon, but he knew that it wasn’t the old armor the thing that was holding him back. Into the depths of the chamber there were more than enchanted robes and field equipment. When he retired, inside that chamber he locked his hope, his future, his honor and duties, but also a part of his own identity. Despite all else, he never expected to be able to walk that path again. He preserved those memories dearly, but now that the moment to walk another time on that questionable stage came, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was ready to wear the umpteenth mask once more.

Mor’denath scowled himself for his own doubts and selfishness. Was that the man he had become?

He strode through the door and reached the mannequin that bore his old service attire. The light of the single candle was slowly melting away over the chandelabra. It barely managed to enlighten its details. Ember runes were glowing lazily on the precious fabric made of netherweave and emberlisk, releasing a latent arcane residue, while the reinforcements made of refined black dragon scales held an ancient scent of smoked leather and brimstone. It was not the most alluring smell, but the archmage lost the count on how many times that fire-proof armour saved his hide from unhealeable scars or worse. Six orbs that once had been used as proper mana storages were socketed on the horned shoulderpads and were now deprived of any spark of power. Last, but not least, the attention of the child of blood fell on the large mantle made of the flexible yet resistant wing leather of the same dragon from which all the other scales hailed from. The fight in the Twilight Highlands to take down the One who slew his Master had been a thought and costy one, but at least he obtained more than mere vengeance out of that bloodshed. Mor’denath removed that cloak from the mankin and rubbed its smooth leather between his fingertips in a thoughtful and conflicted manner, before he finally wrapped it around his shoulders and turned on the spot to look at the closest mirror.

This time, he would have allowed Magister Thallandor Dawnflame to expose himself at his place in front of everyone eyes, leaving to that cunning elf the task to redirect the attention of the masses away from him. The priceless Thallandor would have to become the bright side of the moon and allow the Archmage to pull the threads away from everyone’s eyes.

He had to be free to decide, move and act without being constantly in the line of fire.

A necessary choice of action.