The Point of no Return

The night had fallen and the camp was silent. Everyone was sleeping, even those who had been previously tasked to take guard, sent into their bedrolls by no one else but their leader himself, who was longing for his long lost solitude. No fire was burning in the embrace of the pale, marble ruins since they couldn’t afford to attract unwanted attention. Despite the presence of several wards in the surrounding area placed by the Custodian and his colleagues, and the invisible reality distortion he just finished casting, the Inquisitor knew that precaution was never enough, especially when leading a group of less than twenty elves against an empire. The wind was blowing mildly, the autumnal leaves of the forest canopy docilely sailing its invisible waves, which carried scents so close to those every Child of the Blood could enjoy in Quel’Thalas, it left even someone like him lost in bittersweet thoughts while looking up to the sky. There, as if shying away from everyone’s sight, the silvery moon was shining bright, smiling alone in its solitude amongst thousands and thousands of stars. In the distance, the waterfalls were crashing on the smooth pebbles and rocks below and small animals were slowly crawling in the undergrowth, taking advantage of the shadows to live, fearing a little less the threat of their natural predators. What others considered silence was a soft and pleasant music to the Inquisitor’s ears, one of the few sounds he was still able to enjoy. Down the cliff, Merendil Ruins were hugging the gorgeous purple and amber hills as white bones of an old animal, ready to return to nature after a life spent in the struggle of survival.

A good part of his armor such as shoulderpads and gloves was resting inside of the command tent, giving the muscles of his back and neck some respite after the last days of physical effort. One could wonder how someone of his age endured such a pressure, but the reality was far less clear and clean than how it looked. Without a doubt, a wise and careful usage of the arcane had been an asset to conceal what there was no need to reveal to those less trusted.

Everyone or almost, at that point.

He lifted his head and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of flowers and grass of the forest surrounding Suramar, an empire long forgotten and one he finally had the chance to see with his own eyes. The thought that his  ancestors once strode along those streets and probably lived under the sky of that arcane-soaked region was causing a veiled, unpleasant feeling of distant nostalgia inside the chest of the elf who was trying so hard to forget  he was the last man standing of a fading bloodline. The guilt was real.

A puff of wind toyed with his long hair, offering a soft and silken caress to his left cheek and neck, yet it was not the gentle touch of such contact that suddenly attracted the attention of the Archmage. An ethereal tingle rung into the arcane layers sheltering the camp as one of Thallandor’s wards became triggered by a presence that didn’t carry the enchanted insignia of the Blade.

Now wary, the Sin’dorei parted his right shoulder from the broken column against which he was resting and regally stood on his feet. His senses communed with the energies flowing under the resonating arcane dome in the attempt to find the intruder. No matter if he or she was cloaked in the shadows, away from common sight: the elves with his proficiency in the Divination School were not many. Yet Mor’denath didn’t have to search for long since the infiltrator was doing nothing to conceal his presence and pass unnoticed, despite no sound was caused by his steps.

The leader of the Eclipsion Blade took a deep breath and relaxed once again, or as much as someone could be when sharing his own personal space with a cunning, deadly predator.

“I thought you were busy in Val’sharah,” he said and glanced over the left shoulder at the dark armored Sin’dorei, whose chest was desecrated by deep green demonic markings whilst what remained of his eyes was hidden behind a black netherweave blindfold. That was the last person he expected to see, in particular after the accident at Faronaar.

Athalnarei approached what once had been his closest friend, before the Fall of Quel’thalas struck the high elven empire and brought it to its knees. The exposed skin of his body was scarred by way too many old wounds which were still visible despite the fel corruption  rooted inside him to deform the once alabaster skin, turning it into a natural armor of deep gray, hardened scales.

“And I still am. I came to check the movements of the Legion in this region when I sensed the distortion field atop of these ruins, and recognized the print of its creator.” The vile, tainted voice of the Demon Hunter caused a chill along Mor’Denath’s spine: no matter the time spent fighting side by side, the house Lord would never be able to adapt to what  a former captain of the Silvermoon Guards had become.

A frown appeared on the otherwise regal visage of the arcane user. He spent a long moment staring right in front of him at the abandoned square of Merendil village, annoyed by the ability of the Illidari to see through his deceptive creations as good as a master Divinist could. Even if he could leave his life in the hands of that elf (quite an amusing thought, considering his common and public mistrust when it came to warlocks and the like), the idea that the Legion mastered such abilities was troubling the Sin’dorei from deep within. “And you thought that it was better to check that I was not going to do anything stupid.”

“Exactly.”

Mor’denath closed his eyes and released a slow breath, following it with a brief scoff soon after. “I’m not planning to strike Felsoul Hold, do not fear.” He knew that there was no way a division like his own could cause a great amount of damage to the main strategic outpost of the Legion within the region: the Eclipsion Blade counted on too many elves to successfully infiltrate those demonic ranks as they once did in Felwood, and at the same time had not enough soldiers to properly stand their ground against the full might of the atrocities pestering that canyon. “Suramar is hammered between the Tomb of Sargeras and Felsoul Hold. It is better for us to cause unrest, instead of exposing ourselves too much.” He half closed his eyes, the memory sailing back to the discussion he had with the Custodian the night before. “The time to fight, to spill the blood of our kind and die, will come soon enough.”

The Demon Hunter shook his head and turned around to look at the camp whilst his eyes, unhindered by the physical obstacles, scanned those who were sleeping. No one had been awakened by their hushed talk. “Do know that the Kaldorei in Val’sharah are slowly vanquishing the remnants of the Nightmare while the demons at Faronaar are having a hard time. Many have been the orders hailing from both factions who dealt damage to their plans. Soon, very soon, if Gul’dan is not as mad as those Light worshippers like to paint him, Suramar will be a boiling cauldron, and you will risk to drown in it. You, and all the ones you lead.”

“Interesting warning when it comes from the lips of someone of your kind, Demon Hunter.” The archmage knew the truth in his interlocutor’s words far too well. “And you also already know my answer.”

A fanged smile broke on Athalnarei’s darkened lips, the greenish light behind his blindfold abruptly ignited as he exploited the deepest layers of power of his spectral sight on him. The Inquisitor’s visage suddenly hardened and his eyes fixated upon his former comrade; this time there was no warming light inside them, nothing but a cold warning. The silence that fell immediately after and the deep stare crossing the eyes of the Inquisitor told him more than a thousand words. The two remained close to that column as if something between them had suddenly been broken without reason, eyeing each other like dangerous but cautious animals ready to leap on each other as soon as a wrong move was made. The tension was high and the mild temperatures of the forest got disrupted by a sudden cold blast of wind, which captured the wide and concealing cloak of the arcanist in its grip, swelling it akin to an ancient creature’s wings.

“I see that you crossed that line already.” Athalnarei broke the silence, his tone deprived of aggressiveness, but it couldn’t be more serious.

Mor’Denath didn’t part his gaze from the deformed elf standing right in front of him, his voice as calm and formal as he could master. “I do what I must, for the sake of the High Kingdom and for the one of my men. - You -, of all people, are no one to judge.” He turned around, ceasing that display of warning and hostility before it could degenerate and attract unwanted attention. The last thing he desired to deal with was senseless drama and sharp comments. The Demon Hunter remained in silence by his side, so he took the chance to add: “You should leave before Magister Dawnflame awakes. If your aid will be needed, I will call for you.”

Athalnarei took a step back and it was quite clear that he intended to leave, yet before doing such he said, and plainly so: “Pay attention now, Dawnlight. Those who fed upon your name during your absence are more likely to turn against you now that you decided to take the reins of command as your own.”

The elven Lord knew it far too well, yet he stared at the predator with a deep scowl on his face for the not so hidden offence directed towards his Custodian. Despite knowing the dangers and having noticed the more frequent snaps coming from his advisor, he wanted to believe that elf to be not only suitable for his current position, but also smarter and more loyal to his cause (and to him and the Spire as extension) than the ones who came before him. How many after all, before Thallandor, had shown a smile upon their faces just to feed only their own interests behind his back? The answer was quite obvious and this time the Inquisitor was not oblivious to possible betrayals.

Yet he wanted to believe for the last time in his life, and have faith.

“I wish you a good evening, Demon Hunter.” There was no room for further discussion in his cold voice and so the guest left the encampment, as silent as he came.

Once again alone with his own thoughts and still annoyed by that remark, the finely armored archmage led his attention towards the tents, his eyes lingering a moment longer on the one where the Custodian was resting; tensing his jaw, Mor’Denath found respite by leaning the shoulders against the closest column, leaving his usual regal and dignified posture behind in the attempt to relax his sore muscles and prepare them for the mission of the next day. Despite the lack of sleep, he didn’t feel the urge to close his eyes and give in to rest, but that was another consequence of the point of no return he crossed and not without gnawing regret.

A soft whisper abandoned his thin lips whilst his eyes stopped on Lord Sin’orel’s tent. The talk with the head of the Sin’orel noble family brought back long forgotten feelings, yet before trusting that elf, he needed to keep an eye on him, understand him, study him and, of course, check how much that elf was going to value his alliance.

In time, maybe...

All the pieces were slowly falling into place.