Chapter Text
Shattrath, Year 26
Voren’thal’s Private Quarters at the Scryer’s Tier
Voren’thal the Seer sat surrounded by dusty old tomes, several of which he had yet to transcribe into simple runestones. It was, he had often boasted, his finest experiment yet, the one project of his life’s work that would succeed at trading in illusion for reality, deceptions for the truth and the truth alone. He took pride in not only instructing his fellow Scryers in the practice, but also placed a good deal of faith in the naaru, for it was through them that he discovered the ultimate truth: the blood elves would find salvation.
And that they did. He wouldn’t trade his faith for anything else.
Or anyone else.
He smiled at his visitor, the Lady Liadrin, who sat on the edge of a satin chaise across from where he sat at his desk. Ah, the infamous Matriarch of the Blood Knights, he thought as he leaned against his chair. She appeared to be keeping some of her wits about her in this strange place. She had been here a mere few days compared to his several months. For how humid the air got, he wondered how she could sit still in full plate armor, although she did tug at a few strands in her auburn hair, which she kept tied back and pinned. She wore a tabard, black draped over the front with the golden design of a helmet that reflected the efforts of the Shattered Sun in Quel’Danas. A great sword, secured in its hilt, rested at her side, and a bird-like shield at her back. Gone were the staves and religious tomes she carried to prayer services and pilgrimages to the Sunwell. She had clearly been well-equipped, minus the blood, to fighting the blasted demons. It had clearly been several years since they last met, when Liadrin bore the clerical robes of her order and was named High Priestess.
His smirk widened into a grin as he watched Liadrin pay attention to a miniscule eruption outside his chambers, and then came the descendance of a green meteor falling like a comet in the sky. She reached for her glass of wine and remained on the edge of the chaise.
“I do hope the Twisting Nether does not unsettle you, my good lady,” he said, chuckling. “It troubles me enough that you came all this way from Silvermoon to inform us of the victory on Quel’Danas. Do let me refill your beverage.” With the snap of his fingers, the seer enchanted the wine bottle inside his drawer and levitated it to move towards her, promptly refilling her glass of red.
“Silvermoon Port. What a pleasant secret you keep around,” she said, ignoring his initial comment. She pressed her lips to her glass, savoring the taste of the wine. “Does the seer contain any more secrets, or has he become an open book?”
“Why, no. It is no more the same regard in that my followers maintain a replica of Quel’Thalas. Home is far away, you understand, but a part of it shall always remind us of its glory.” He flicked his wrist again, corking the wine bottle, and levitating it back towards him to rest in his drawer. As he shut the drawer, he felt a sudden flash of pain rush to his head, having made the mistake of gazing down at a box filled with rings. A shudder burst through as he made out the crimson shine of the seal that once belonged to the forces of Kael’thas Sunstrider.
The young son of Anasterian, and their sole leader, disturbed his mind whenever he walked out onto the tier. He would scour over the books in his library, remembering the prince’s early fascination for tomes, scrolls, and the like. The seer’s own followers all would wear determined but stoic masks, whispering throughout this entire war over Kael’thas this and Kael’thas that. As leader of the Scryers, Voren’thal had a right to know what the madman was up to and how best to reveal his activities in Netherstorm. Sometimes, he retreated into his quarters, weary of hearing such rabble. But if he knew of one truth, it was that everyone felt hurt, betrayed by Kael’thas’s actions, and people like Liadrin back in Quel’Thalas were no different. Peering into his crystals even after the prince’s death only served to remind the seer of his apparent value in divination magic, of which the prince would once humbly request in times of distress.
“With all due respect, great seer,” she spoke up, snapping him thankfully out of his trance. “Silvermoon understands the importance of your duties to the naaru, and we humbly thank the Scryers for their contributions against the Legion. If not for your timely findings, Azeroth would have been doomed—and the Sunwell would not have been restored.”
Did she hesitate there?
“We own but a slice of the victory. Your forces were a testament of good faith.” He smiled conspiratorially. “One does not need eyes to see the powers of the Sunwell, for I have sensed its energies awakening within me from here.”
“It has certainly reignited my faith in the Light.”
“As much as we’ve both had faith in the workings of fate. I sometimes wonder if it was of our accord, or if it was truly destiny that the Legion invaded only to be decimated at the hands of our renewed strength.”
“Of course. Why would it be anything else?”
“It is my understanding that the prince was recently buried on our sacred soil.”
He watched her shift a bit and placed her wine glass on the table in front of her, sighing. “If you wish to know, it was with the approval of the people that the prince,”—she said with some hesitation—“be buried in Quel’Danas.”
“And they may do as they wish.” Voren’thal leaned on his desk, his elbows resting on the surface as he steepled his fingers. Somehow, he wanted to know more. He was forming his next question with caution. “And where is he buried?”
“At Sun’s Reach Sanctum,” she replied with a sigh. “Our architects are constructing a fairly large site to properly bury the dead. As is customary, the prince was the first to be embalmed followed by several of our fallen kin, some of whom were my knights.”
He nodded, leaned back in his chair, and raised his glass. “Then we shall drink to those who sacrificed much so that we may bask in the resurrection of our homeland once more.”
That night, Voren’thal disposed of his second glass of wine. It was not like him to drink more than half of one, considering his old age and frail health. That night, he tried to will away the conversation of Kael’thas, tried to lose himself in the conversion of his arcane tomes into runestones. Adjusted the astrolabe. Pored through books. Enchanted the dusters and brooms to clean his rooms. In frustration, he pushed away from the desk and rose from his seat. He winced at the ache in his knees and retreated into his bedroom.
He felt that same flash of pain rushing to his head. If he had made the mistake of peering down at those vile rings of Kael’thas’s loyalists, then he had made an even greater mistake of keeping them around when he should have given them to one of his own magi. Bah, where exactly Magistrix Fyalenn was mattered little; the Alliance and the Horde kept everyone especially busy anyway. Voren’thal did not feel a drop of remorse for the killing of those loyal to the traitor prince. The story of the blood elves’ salvation had come full circle. So why did the seer feel such a dilemma?
He would have words with the naaru, A’dal.
Voren’thal placed his magister’s robe on the coat rack and slipped into a night robe. With a flick of his finger, he set a small flame to the incense bottle resting on his end table. Filling the room was a wafting scent of peacebloom, an herb commonly known to bring calm, clarity, and revitalization. In the misty calm, he let down his long, white mane, placed the hair tie on the end table, and blew out the candle. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep.
The seer entered the dreamscape. Lucid dreaming provided a safer, more convenient means of contacting his source than if he were to show in public, especially with the Aldor walking about. As his body materialized, the Light shone all around him, and peace washed over him in the form of celestial chimes. Still and idle in his form, the naaru A’dal recognized and greeted the elf, blessing his presence.
The naaru spoke, its voice light and soothing. “I know that something troubles you, Seer. You are seeking clarity of the future now that this war against the Legion is won.”
“My Scryers and the Shattered Sun vanquished the remainder of those vile traitors, and yet I feel a troubling sense of loss. Is it true, great naaru? Have we seen the last of them?”
“You have seen the last of them, but not of the Legion. This war is won for now. As for your kin…”
“What of my kin? What beholds them, great one?”
“Mistrust,” A’dal said simply.
Mistrust? Who among them? Before he could ask, A’dal disappeared, and the vision shifted. The elder found himself climbing atop the Sunfury Spire, now panting as if in a hurry. The image of Lor'themar manifested in the throne room, and he gave the regent lord a nod of acknowledgement. He, too, regarded Halduron Brightwing and Grand Magister Rommath. Liadrin off to the side gave him that same smile as if nothing had changed. Why should he be concerned? Everything certainly looked normal.
“Elu’meniel mal alann, Voren’thal.”
His ears hurt at the sound of a familiar voice, dread forming a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. As if to prevent any further damage, he turned his head slowly to identify the owner of that voice. He prayed he was wrong.
And how sorely he was.
“Kae… Kael’thas?”
The elf did not budge, did not leave his sight, but kept his gaze on him. The most resplendent gold shone in his eyes—and wounds, bleeding from his neck and chest, brought the elderly elf to tears. All at once, Voren’thal’s chest boiled with rage. He wanted so badly to curse the him, to tell the wretched princeling he deserved the pain and whatever torment the demons wrought upon him—but the Light’s presence stopped him. A soft wind brushed against his back and pushed him forward. He gulped. He noticed red circles where his fingers had folded into a tight fist. He began to make his way, awkwardly and shaken. Voren’thal was no stranger to specters, had seen thousands in his visions. Seen the ghosts of many of his fallen kin. Had seen the future and held fast to its truths, to restoration. But in the presence of this being, he was beside himself, perplexed and lost.
“You…” He was almost breathless with his anger, but still the Light flowed through him, guiding him to speak. He forced out the words as if each one hurt his throat. “I once held you in high regard, traitor! I trusted you as you once trusted me. How dare you show your face around here. You failed us! Why?”
But the prince did not respond. Could he not hear him? Voren’thal drew near the elf and reached out to see... if he was even real. As he did so, the word “fate” echoed in his head, growing louder with each reiteration. More shockingly, Kael’thas began to mouth the word.
“The hour draws near, and so is your fate to DIE,” spoke a booming, disembodied voice.
Voren’thal awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. He placed a hand over his sweaty forehead, trying to quell the echo of the demon who had just spoken in the vision.
Or was it a vision? Merely a ghost of his past. Ordinary people did not quite remember their dreams so vividly, but a seer did, and in ways they could never imagine. The images replayed in his mind. Questions that now wracked his brain begged for answers. The sound of portals blared in the distance. Liadrin had gone back home just before sunrise, not staying long enough for him to ask her anything more about Kael’thas—he would have if she didn’t seem to dread talking about him.
Kael’thas had often relied on his divine counsel as a close advisor. Somehow, he thought he should feel guilty for defecting from the prince in the first place, but Kael’thas had dug his own grave. In the moment of silent reverie, the seer now gathered some runestones and separated them out in their own “slots.” He then dropped to the floor and drew symbols on the ground. Closing his eyes, he whispered an ancient Thalassian incantation to begin the ritual.
Slowly, he took a breath, seeking to stabilize the dream in his mind’s eye. Relief washed over him with the distant yet strong power of the Sunwell—he could not help but brush his fingers against the blade of a metaphorical double-edged sword:
Know that the light of the Sunwell dwells... in all of them.
“In all of whom?” he whispered. Every image—the people with golden eyes, scarred wounds of the fallen prince in their presence, the demon… what did it all mean?
Voren’thal shut his eyes tighter now, trying not to break the ritual with such images. A mixture of emotions—shock, anger, and finally, bittersweet—welled up in his chest as the seer sought to cast it away.
And then the ritual was broken. The runestones ceased their shine, refusing to give him more information. Voren’thal panted, muttering a curse in his native tongue. He stood up and reached for a cloth on the table, patting his forehead. It was all he could do that night. In recent times, with his ailing health, the seer could not do as much as his body would allow. As he dismissed the vision, he felt a frustrating sense of loss. At what, he did not know.
Like the damned that rotted beneath the ground, so did the vision fade.