The Bastard of Andorhal

The Bastard of Andorhal

A tale of the Silver Hand

Written by Catiz4Fite

Edited with OpenAI & ClaudeAI

©2026

Chapter 1 - Discovery

Rain hammered the outskirts of Andorhal, the sky an angry orange as smoke spiraled skyward. The purge of Stratholme had begun in earnest. Uther, stripped of command for refusing the order, withdrew the Knights of the Silver Hand back toward Lordaeron.

Among Uther’s ranks marched Garrick Vane, a grizzled veteran who’d long since stopped counting campaigns. His armor bore the scuffs and dents of countless battles, each mark a silent testament to a life spent on the front lines. He looked forward to mustering out and returning to his farm. His wife had died eight years prior; the military was all he had left. As he marched, the sour stench of death stung his nostrils.

A metallic clang and the treble of marching boots set the rhythm for the column of Silver Hand Paladins. Yet it was a soft, mournful cry that cut through the cadence, sending a chill down his spine. As the column proceeded, Garrick scanned the surroundings—and there, half-hidden in the mud, lay the wreckage of a small cart.

“Sir!” Garrick called out.

“I hear it too. Go investigate but be on your guard,” Uther said, his eyes scanning the wreckage.

Garrick broke ranks and held his hammer at the ready. As he approached, he stopped short. The overturned cart was crafted from light wood and adorned with elven ornamentation. Nearby, a cartwheel spun idly on a broken axle, squeaking unnervingly—the bearing grease long gone.

Silk linens, gold pieces, decanters, and flasks still scented with elven incense lay strewn about. The gold caught his attention first—then the crying. A tiny bundle of dirt-stained silk lay beneath the cart near the axle.

Garrick knelt, his heavy plate groaning. He expected a human babe, perhaps a survivor from the local farms, but instead, piercing blue eyes stared back—lucid, aware. Tapering ears.

“By the… Light,” Garrick whispered.

He scanned for any sign of the parents. As Garrick reached for the bundle, he caught sight of a locket that lay close by. Inside was a picture of a beautiful high elf woman, with a name inscribed on the back in Thalassian script, barely visible in the waning light. He could not read the flowing script, but the care taken in its carving told him it was meant to last. A name that mattered enough to be etched into silver.

The gold drew his attention again. A tidy sum—enough seed for a spring planting, enough grain to see a household through winter. Garrick hesitated only a moment—long enough to know what this meant. His hand hovered over the coins, then clenched into a fist—before gathering the coins one by one, his thumb brushing an unfamiliar stamp. Food, clothes, a roof. The future had weight, but nothing compared to the small life he scooped into the crook of his armored arm.

“Find anything, Vane?” Uther’s voice called.

“A survivor,” he shouted back, his voice gruff to hide the lump in his throat. “Just a survivor.” Garrick shielded the bundle from the biting rain as he stepped back onto the road. Paladins in blood-soaked surcoats and plate armor circled around him, their breath misting in the cold air.

“A survivor?” Knight-Captain Edard Halbrecht took in the cherub-like face, then the pointed ears. His eyes narrowed. “Vane, you simpleton—you aren’t on a farm anymore. This is war. People live and people die. We can’t afford to take in every open-handed beggar and stray. Especially not a half-breed.”

Garrick’s jaw tightened, and he instinctively shifted his stance, pulling the bundle closer. “And what would you have us do—leave her there to the wolves? Let carrion and scavenger birds pick her clean? What right do any of us have to judge who lives and who dies?” Garrick took a step forward. “I would think a knight would remember that. Otherwise, we are no better than Arthas.”

“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK THAT NAME!” Edard shouted, swinging a fist hard toward Garrick. “I HAD FAMILY THERE IN STRATHOLME!”

Edard’s gauntleted fist whistled through the rain—but it never connected. A heavy golden-clad arm caught his wrist mid-swing with the force of a closing portcullis.

“Enough,” a voice commanded.

Uther the Lightbringer stood between them, his presence pushing back the gloom of the storm. His attention settled—not on Garrick, but on the child. The baby had stopped crying. Her piercing, lucid blue eyes stared up at the legendary paladin. Her chubby fingers reached out, grasping at the salt-and-pepper beard on his chin.

A small smile softened Uther’s stern weathered face. “We have lost our prince and two cities,” he said quietly. “We needn’t lose our humanity as well.”

Edard withdrew his arm, his face still red with anger. “It’s a mongrel, Lord Uther. The elves will think we are stealing it. We already have our own to feed, and the king has enough mouths to worry about. And that plagued grain in Andorhal—it turned the people there into undead before we could stop it.”

“Then she will not be a burden to the King,” Garrick said, stepping forward, the mud squelching beneath his armored boots. “She will be mine. My farm, my food, my name—and whatever name the Light first gave her. If the Silver Hand has no room for her, I will make room for her.”

Uther regarded Garrick for a long moment, warmth softening his eyes. “Very well. She shall be your responsibility, Vane. The child stays.” He looked once more at the infant. “May the Light guide her as it does us all—regardless of one’s birth.”

That night, the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air. The knights had made camp in a rocky outcrop. Garrick sat in his tent upon an upturned crate, holding the child in his arms. Even in sleep, the delicate curve of her pointed ears was visible beneath the damp silk of her swaddling. She slept soundly, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the muddy field where she had been found. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with his own.

He reached into his pouch. His fingers brushed past the gold coins and found the locket. He pulled it out and opened it. “Is this your mother? You have her eyes.” He turned the locket over, studying the script. With the aid of firelight, he recognized enough. “Fandra?” The name lingered on his lips.

“I must be crazy…” he said softly as he leaned back against the outcropping.

For him, his days of service to crowns and kings were over. His service now would be spent as a father to a ghost.

Chapter 2 - Life Anew

When Garrick returned home, he found nothing left. The barn’s timbers were scorched black; the house, reduced to ash by Defias bandits. Only the grave where he had buried his wife remained untouched.

He had fashioned a carrier for his new charge, keeping her close at all times. In Stormwind, the gold proved worth far more than he had imagined, its unfamiliar stamp drawing the banker’s quiet notice.

Using only what was needed to rebuild—lumber, stone, and time—he set the rest aside, untouched, for a future that was never meant to be his.

Some neighbors thought him touched in the head for raising a half-breed. Though not his own, he cared for her as if she were.

***

With the nourishment of hard farm life, Fandra grew fast. At fourteen, she stood taller than some boys her age, her footsteps carrying an easy, elven grace in the woods. While other girls learned to sew, Fandra threw hay bales and delivered calves.

School was different. The stares, the whispers, the pulled ears—‘Man-dra’—followed her home. One boy left missing a tooth before she learned that anger could end a moment without fixing anything. The resentment had nowhere to go.

***

One day, she stormed home and straight to her room. Garrick followed, knocking softly. “Everything alright?”

“No. I don’t belong anywhere. I am a freak.”

Garrick pushed her door open and walked in, sitting beside her on the bed he had built for her. “You are not a freak, Fandra. People hate what they don’t understand. You can’t just knock the teeth out of everyone that does you wrong. I have seen firsthand where that road leads. You belong in this world. You just need to find your place in it. And when you do,” he added quietly, “make sure it’s a place worth standing in.” He paused. “No one knows where life will take them. I certainly didn’t.”

Fandra let out a long, weary sigh, staring at her hands. “I’m just tired of being… me. Whatever I am.”

Garrick placed his hand on her shoulder. “That’s for you to decide—not just what you are, but who you are.”

“Thanks Pa.”

***

Fandra’s mind, however, was not so easily put to rest. The nagging question of who she was grew louder each day. One day, while Garrick was out in the pasture, Fandra slipped into his room. She hadn’t set foot in it since childhood, when she’d hidden there from monsters in the dark. The room was spartan—a bed, a chair, a dresser and a bedside stand. The bare essentials of a soldier’s life.

As she crossed the room, a floorboard groaned and sagged beneath her foot. She tested it gently with her toe before kneeling. The dagger on Garrick’s bedside stand caught her eye. She took it in hand—then hesitated.

She pried at the floorboard until it finally gave way. Beneath it lay a footlocker, secured with a lock. No key was in sight. Turning the dagger over, she struck the lock sharply with its pommel. The lock dropped away. She lifted the lid—and her breath caught in her throat.

Inside lay a bloodied Silver Hand surcoat, a pouch of gold, and the locket. She picked up the locket, though she couldn’t read Thalassian. Inside was a young woman with blue eyes and long, tapering ears. The resemblance was uncanny.

“Who are you, and who am I?” she whispered. She put everything back exactly where she’d found it and went to the kitchen.

***

Garrick’s steps sounded on the porch as he entered the house. Fandra sat at the kitchen table, the locket in her hands. Her eyes met his. For a long moment, neither spoke.

“I am not your daughter, am I?” she asked directly.

Garrick studied her face, then took a seat across from her. “Not by birth,” Garrick said quietly. “But you are my daughter.”

She held the locket up, her hand shaking. “And who is she? Were you ever going to tell me?”

Garrick looked down. “I didn’t know how to begin.”

“So, tell me! Stop hiding. You think I can hide my ears? I saw the bloodied surcoat—who are you?”

He nodded softly. “I was in the Knights of the Silver Hand. We were ordered to Stratholme, under Arthas.” He stopped. His jaw tightened. “I… found you beneath a broken carriage. After what I saw in Stratholme—what Arthas did—how could anyone ignore the innocent cries? Even among my own comrades? There were those who felt I was wrong to take you in. You were alive, found in the mud outside Andorhal.” He swallowed. “I gave you my name, raised you as my own—so you wouldn’t become a ward of the state. Or a curiosity for a mage.”

Fandra’s hands clenched as Garrick relayed the story. “You should have told me! I’ve been living a lie all this time,” she snapped. She picked up the locket again, studying the elven woman’s face. “They call me a freak. They pull my ears. They tell me I don’t belong. And all this time… you had the proof they were right.” Her voice cracked.

He nodded softly. “You’re right, I should have told you. After all you have endured...” He shifted his weight in the chair. Garrick shook his head, placing his hand on hers.

“Fandra, listen to me. You aren’t a lie. The people who say you don’t belong don’t see what I do. You are not a mistake, lord knows I made my fair share. Pulling you from the mud wasn’t one of them. You deserved a chance to decide who you would be.”

She seemed to settle slightly. “And Fandra…my name? Is that what is written on the back of the locket?”

He nodded. “Yes, that is all I found—no sign of your…parents. I see so much of you in the woman in the locket. If she is your mother, her name is yours. Just as the locket and the gold are yours. I used only enough to put a roof over your head.”

“I don’t want to become another Arthas,” she whispered.

Garrick shook his head. “You don’t walk that road by accident. Arthas grew up with all he could ever want. His desire to do good was twisted and perverted by his pride. That’s why I tried to give you this—a humble home.”

Fandra looked at the surcoat and slipped it over her head. “You found me in the mud, gave me a home, a life, a father. I am going to make sure it all amounts to something. I want you to train me. So that I may protect the countless others who have been forgotten in the mud. I want to protect them and be their shield as you have for me.”

Garrick gave a warm smile and stood up, moving to a wall where he slid a panel to the side that Fandra had never noticed. He withdrew an object wrapped in cloth. “This was mine…” he said placing it on the table.

As she unwrapped it, its gold filigree glinted—a war hammer that had borne witness to tragedy and triumph. She stared at the war hammer as Garrick placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I will train you, but I want you to finish school. Promise me this, and I will train you.”

Fandra looked down at the war hammer. The gold filigree was scratched and dented, much like the man who held it, but the weight of it felt right in her hands. It didn’t feel like a tool for the farm; it felt like something she’d been missing. “I promise, Pa,” she said, her voice steadying as she looked from the weapon to the man who had pulled her from the mud.

***

Garrick kept his word. Each day after school, they trained. The old veteran lacked her speed, but his experience countered youthful eagerness.

“Again.”

She lunged. He stepped inside and drove his shoulder into her chest, sending her skidding through dirt.

“Too wide. You show your ribs, lose your balance, give your enemy your weight.”

They reset. Again. And again.

With time, she learned to move before she struck.

***

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months stretched into years.

Fandra kept her promise—school finished, lessons learned—while Garrick’s strength slowly betrayed him.

He lay in bed, looking up at the young woman he had called his own. “My dear Fandra,” he said softly. “I don’t think I have much time left. I have nothing more to teach you—only a final request.” He swallowed, then went on. “Lay me to rest beside my wife.” He met her eyes, steady even now. “It is your life to lead now, my daughter.”

***

Fandra placed the last stone upon the small, humble grave. The wooden cross at its head mirrored the one beside it—Garrick’s wife. She stood there, breath heavy, a tear tracing her cheek. For a long while, she said nothing at all.

Everything she was—everything she knew—had been given to her by the man beneath the earth. Now he was gone, and the path ahead belonged to her alone. She set the war hammer Garrick had given her at the foot of the cross, careful and reverent. Its worn haft darkened by rain and age, the war hammer had been his burden, not hers. Now it served as a token of all that he had given her, a gift that could not be buried.

“I’ll be all right, Father,” she whispered. “Rest now.”

She hesitated, then added, “Thank you—for everything.”

***

Chapter 3 - Steps to a future

Fandra sat at the kitchen table. The silence was deafening. Where she had once heard her father’s hammer at the anvil, there was now only stillness. Time became a blur as she grappled with her first true loss, unsure how to process the grief.

Rising, she went to the footlocker and took the gold coins inside. She would go to the city—sell the livestock—and take the first steps toward her future.

***

In the city, she moved with purpose through the market, arranging the sale and transport of her remaining livestock. Muttered insults accompanied her passage through the throng, shoulders brushing her own, but Fandra pressed on.

“Calling all able-bodied men and women, the Argent Crusade needs you!” a town crier shouted.

Fandra followed the voice to the city square, where a long line had formed—soldiers, farmers, veterans, and youths standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Answer the call to breach the Wrathgate!”

Fandra stepped forward. The man with the enlistment form looked up. “Name?”

Fandra straightened. “Fandra Vane.”

The recruiter studied her—the pointed ears, the threadbare cloak—before asking about her military training.

She shook her head. “I was trained by a Knight of the Silver Hand—my father.”

His eyes narrowed. “Very well. Harbor—last dock to the right. Give this pass to the petty officer. They’ll see you aboard. Once in Northrend—if you survive—make your way to Wintergarde Keep and report to the major there.”

She shouldered her rucksack and made her way to the harbor. Her boots struck the old, worn planks as the bright white stone of Stormwind’s walls glinted above her.

Making her way through the docks meant dodging bustling dock hands at every turn. Burly dwarves loaded ammunition into crates while large siege engines crafted by the finest gnome engineering hummed with life. Her grip tightened on her rucksack as she handed the petty officer her assignment.

At first, she only smelled iron and rot. Then she spotted the stretchers, and the world tilted.

A night elf lay motionless beneath a blood-soaked bandage, one eye hidden, the other staring at nothing. Beside him, a dwarf groaned softly, his leg ending in a dark, wrapped stump. The world reeled. This was the part Garrick could never teach her.

“Outta the way, elf,” a human dock hand snapped, shouldering past her as he bore the front end of another stretcher. “Haven’t you seen a wounded man before?”

She stepped aside. Sticky, dark blood clung to her boots. “Sorry, no. I haven’t.”

As the dock hand moved past, he huffed. “Ye’ll see a mite bit more than that, I reckon”

She was going to war.

***

Chapter 4 - Baptism By Fire

The ship cut through the freezing waves, sails straining against the gale. The violent motion sent her stomach into backflips, sickness rising with the dread of what lay ahead. She wrapped her cloak tightly against the bone-chilling mix of spray and wind. On the horizon, Northrend’s jagged, icy silhouette finally appeared.

Cutting hard to starboard, the ship docked at Valiance Keep. The keep was abuzz with activity under a Nerubian assault. Soldiers disembarked while wounded were loaded onto the ship to be returned to Stormwind. The chaos pressed in from all sides—shouts, screams, the clash of steel. The other fresh-faced recruits around her looked like fodder for a meat grinder; many would never return.

“Valiance Expedition to the left! Argent Crusade to the right!” called an officer.

As each line proceeded, the truth became clear. They were replacements. Battered weapons—scavenged and redistributed—were shoved into their hands. The blade and shield thrust into her grip were covered in the blood of those who had wielded them before.

“Quickly, quickly! Into line!” shouted a Captain as the others beside her were funneled into a defensive line. Across from them loomed encroaching Nerubians, six-legged horrors that skittered toward the walls. Their multiple eyes glinted under torchlight, mandibles clicking as they lunged.

“HOLD! HOLD!” came the order. Fandra tensed as the Nerubian forces drew closer. A few Nerubians opened their mouths, spitting webs to try to bring down gryphon riders that were fending off Nerubian flyers. Screams rent the air next to her as fliers lifted a few of the recruits into the sky, letting them drop with a sickening crunch.

Fandra’s first encounter came without warning. One massive Nerubian dropped from the shadows, two of its six barbed legs lunging at her. She raised her shield, the impact knocking her backward. She swung her sword, its unfamiliar weight dragging at her arm as she countered the Nerubian’s strikes. The Nerubian’s legs struck her shield repeatedly, each swipe making a dull thud.

Silk webs quickly snaked around her ankles, dragging her toward the Nerubian’s snapping mandibles. Its eight glossy eyes loomed larger as she desperately struggled to extricate herself.

“No, you don’t!” she yelled, swinging her blade. Green blood sprayed across her face and armor as she cleaved one of the Nerubian’s forward legs.

Her shield grew heavy and slipped from her grasp; silk bound her from the waist down. She grunted, searching for an opening. Its remaining legs violently raked at her body.

One leg punctured her side through her chainmail, while the others scraped and cut her face. Fandra cried in agony as the barbs tore into her flesh. Blood oozed from the wound as she fought the creeping blackness of unconsciousness.

The limbs tore at her sword, but then—an overextended opening. She swung, cleaving its head from its body. The corpse collapsed atop her, pinning her to the ground. Panting, she flinched at the stench, grunting as she pushed one last time before darkness claimed her.

***

The morning sun glinted off the snow and blood, revealing the full carnage. A recovery party scoured the field: horses pulled wagons of the dead, night elves hauled bloodied weapons through the snow. “I… I found a live one,” a night elf said, his voice shaking. The recovery party carefully lifted the corpse off her. Bound in silk, she breathed shakily. Pale sunlight reflected off the snow and blood around her. The nightmare of her first battle clung to her still, even as the recovery party moved on.

***

Sleep didn’t come easily for Fandra. The moans of the other wounded surrounded her, each one a mystery of pain. Sparring and training were one thing. To see those beside you cut down was something else entirely. The powerlessness—the inability to change anything—pressed down on her.

Priests tended the wounded, their hands and eyes glowing as they tried to mend flesh and bone. But some wounds would never heal—not even by the Light.

An orderly approached. “Do you need anything?”

Fandra shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m a bit battered, but I’ll manage.” She held her bandaged side and glanced to the bed beside her. “They need care more than I.”

Noon brought chaos again—a Crypt Lord tearing from the earth, cannons thundering, the infirmary timbers shaking. Inside, fresh cries rose from the wounded.

The young man beside her looked no older than eighteen. His breath came ragged. “Mother…” he gasped.

Fandra held her bandaged abdomen as she shifted out of bed moved to his side, taking his hand. “I…I’m here…rest easy.” The words came unbidden—comfort for a boy she barely knew.

As the battle died down outside, the boy’s skin paled, his hand slipped from hers, but a look of calm and peace was on his face. She let it lie, sitting quietly as the distant battle dulled. A priest with golden-blond hair, long ears, and tired blue eyes approached, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sometimes…being there is enough. Day after day, I fear I will become numb to all of this.” The priest paused.

“He called to his mother. Everyone has someone… and yet I envy him. I never knew my mother.”

The priest wiped his brow and sat beside her. “My name is Aelarion, but you had someone, surely.”

Fandra nodded, “Fandra Vane. Yes, I had my…father. Though not by birth, I was found alone, in the mud.”

Aelarion nodded softly. “Then he gave you comfort. Reassurance. The same comfort you gave this boy.”

Fandra thought for a moment. “Your eyes, you used… magic?”

The priest smiled faintly. “You are wondering why we cannot heal everyone? The Light doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid.”

“The Light?” Fandra asked, her brow arching.

Leaning back, Aelarion gave a weary smile. “Listen to me, Fandra. There is a great deal about the Light we do not know—even the most skilled wielders do not know all its intricacies.”

“Wield it? Like a weapon?” Fandra asked taken aback.

“The Light can be a weapon,” he said softly. “Used for good or ill, corrupted or shackled—as many blood elves learned. But it is also a force, Fandra. Something… alive.”

Fandra seemed to let his words marinate before replying. “So, if all the priests just spoke the words? Why then could they not prevent all the death?”

Aelarion smiled. “As I said, it’s complex and matters of life and death are perhaps best left to a druid. Just because one speaks the words does not mean that the Light will answer—or that it should.”

The orderly returned, breaking the quiet of the ward. “Orders for Fandra Vane,” the orderly said, handing her a piece of parchment. She was being reassigned to the forward base of the Argent Crusade.

She rose carefully, wincing as her ribs protested, each step a reminder of the battle she had survived.

“Look out for yourself…and others out there, Fandra… and may the Light be with you,” Aelarion said as she left him to care for returning the boy’s body to his family.

Fandra nodded, glancing back. The words stayed with her as she left. The boy she could not save stayed with her too.

***

Chapter 5 - Intersection

The following morning, Fandra rode with the battered survivors toward Dragonblight. In the distance, Wyrmrest Temple could be seen and hovering farther to the east, loomed the floating necropolis of Naxxramas.

Two days of riding brought them to Wintergarde Keep. In the central courtyard, she walked past a group of seated men wearing the Crusade’s tabard. Among them, an older man with graying hair watched her pass.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, face twisted into a grimace. “Half-breed.”

She tried to ignore him, continuing to walk.

“Yeah, you! I’m talking to you. Halt! I am a superior officer!” he barked. “What’s your name, half-breed?”

“Fandra Vane, sir.”

His eyes widened with recognition; the name stirred a memory. “Vane, you say. I once knew a Vane… Garrick Vane. A bit of an old fool. Took in a half-breed girl. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Fandra’s fist clenched, her jaw set.

“Ah… but you do. Don’t tell me you’re the runt he pulled from the mud? It really is a small world. Mercy is selective. Some of us had to watch our loved ones burn.” He leaned back slightly, a cruel smile twisting his face.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“No, and you will address me as Major Halbrecht.”

Fandra’s eyebrows lifted. Edard…a memory from her father—this was the man who had once been content to leave her to die as an infant. Her eyes narrowed.

Major Halbrecht sneered, stepping closer. “You want to test me, half-breed?”

“How did you ever get promoted… sir?” Her voice steady, laced with contempt. She was no longer that frightened child.

His face flushed crimson. “How dare you speak to me that way, you filthy half-breed?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” Fandra replied evenly. “It means little coming from a man content to let a child die.”

His hand flew to his sword.

“That does it,” he snarled. “I will teach you some manners—here and now. Defend yourself, whelp.”

Major Halbrecht drew his sword and lunged. The strike came so fast she barely reacted, arching backward and nearly losing her footing. Scrambling, she drew her own blade, raising it just in time as steel clashed with steel, ringing sharply as she blocked his follow-up swing.

He pressed the advantage. Each heavy blow drove her back, her boots slipping in the churned mud as she struggled to regain her balance. She stumbled, then dropped low, scooting backward on one knee, holding her blade out in front of her with one hand.

Every impact sent a jolt up her arm. Pain flared white-hot through her side, where the Nerubian had pierced her, each movement tearing at the wound. Her teeth ground together as she fought to stay upright.

Desperate, she grabbed a handful of dirt and snow, flinging it into his eyes. Halbrecht staggered, blinking, spitting mud. Fandra lunged, steel flashing, knocking his blade aside and forcing him back a step.

For a moment—just a moment—she had him.

Then he recovered.

His sword snapped back up, faster now, heavier. He battered her guard aside and slammed into her, driving her to the ground. Pain tore through her side as her blade skidded from her grasp.

He planted a boot on her wrist, pressing her arm into the mud, sword raised. “Enough,” he growled. “Right back where you belong...in the dirt.”

She coughed up blood, her side freshly bleeding again. “Then maybe you should join me… Sir.”

The Major’s eyes flashed dangerously, his grip tightening on his sword. “ENOUGH!”

Voices shouted. Boots thundered. Steel rang as blades were drawn around them. Halbrecht hesitated, then stepped back, his smile thin and satisfied as he watched her on the ground.

The bystanders parted as Tirion Fordring stepped forward. “What in the hell is going on here!? Who started this!?” Tirion’s eyes bore into Major Edard who knew he had overdone it.

Before Major Halbrecht could protest, Fandra spoke first. “I... I did.”

Tirion seemed taken aback. He regarded Fandra with interest before his eyes returned to Major Halbrecht. “We are few enough as it is. The last thing we need is infighting. We need every able body for the assault on the Wrathgate—and we cannot be distracted by petty squabbles. Isn’t that right, Major?”

Major Halbrecht nodded quickly, stammering, “Y-yes… absolutely, sir.” He straightened his posture.

Tirion gestured sharply to Fandra. “You’re with me.”

Clutching her side, Fandra winced and walked past Major Halbrecht. For once, he had no words—only a thin, frustrated silence as she moved on.

Inside Tirion’s tent, the sparse interior was still in mild disarray. He turned to face her and motioned to a chair. “Sit.”

She obeyed, wincing slightly.

“I know you took the blame for the fight,” Tirion said, calm but firm. “What I want to know is… why?”

Fandra hesitated, unsure. “I… I don’t really know, sir.” She shifted, wondering if she’d done the right thing.

Tirion studied her for a moment. “Fandra—that’s your name, right?” He handed her the report from Valiance Keep. It detailed how she had been found beneath a slain Nerubian. “The Church of Stormwind can teach you scripture, ritual, history. The Light…” he paused “…is more than words. It is lived—through mercy, courage, sacrifice. In standing when the world tells you to kneel.” He paused again, letting the weight of his words sink in “It is a force, a presence. Sometimes it seems to choose its champions rather than the other way around.”

“So… it’s not just about learning spells or healing?”

“No,” Tirion said, his gaze softening. “Those are tools. You already took a first step today, Fandra. You chose to act, to claim responsibility, to protect even when it cost you pain, doubt, and blood. That is how the Light finds its way into someone’s heart.”

Fandra swallowed, weighing his words. “I… I never thought of it that way, sir. And what of Arthas? How could one shaped by the light, fall as he did?”

Tirion nodded. “Few understand it at first, fewer still grasp it fully. Arthas was human—perfection does not exist in an imperfect world. He was a victim of his desire to do good and his refusal to question the cost.”

He set down her report. “The recruits you arrived with are assigned to Edard Halbrecht’s company, under Bolvar Fordragon.”

Fandra stiffened. “Permission to speak freely sir?”

“Granted,” Tirion said.

“Sir, how is Halbrecht part of the crusade if he acts as he does?”

Tirion leaned back a bit, stroking his beard. “Not all those in the crusade can call upon or serve the Light. But they serve a cause greater than themselves. From the cook to the stable hand. I suspect… Major Halbrecht has his role to play as well. For now, our focus is the Wrathgate. Go get that wound looked at—and some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day…”

***

Chapter 6 - Wrathgate

A few days later, Bolvar assembled the forces. “Look to your posts. Today, Alliance and Horde march together on Icecrown. You are a detachment sent to support this united effort—not for glory, but for resolve. Remember that war exacts a heavy toll. Blood has already been spilled. More will follow before this war ends. Let that truth temper your blades and steady your hearts. This is the first step in taking the fight to Arthas and the Scourge. May the Light watch over you all.”

Bolvar raised his sword aloft. “Ready…MARCH!”

Hours later, the obsidian walls of the Wrathgate rose before them. The rhythm of boots against snow and the clang of armor blurred into a single pulse. The ground shaking as Alliance siege engines rumbled past.

Fandra shouldered her shield, a knot tightening in her chest from the weight of what waited ahead. She focused on the rise and fall of the shoulders ahead. Shoulders that were soon side by side with crude and rugged armor of Horde forces. Horde and Alliance pressed forward together. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the metallic tang of blood.

Fandra struck where her training guided her, but these were no sparring dummies; limbs bent impossibly, bodies refused to stay down. One geist leapt from the snow, claws scraping her shield, rattling the pain in her side where the Nerubian had struck days before. She didn’t look back.

Amid the surge of undead and smoke, Halbrecht’s gaze found hers. He swung his blade—not with the usual sneer, but with a taut, unsettled focus. For a heartbeat, he didn’t shout. Didn’t sneer. Then the chaos swallowed him.

A towering orc moved beside Fandra, axe swinging with brutal precision. His armor was scarred and smeared with old blood; some she doubted had ever belonged to the Scourge. He shouted in a tongue she didn’t understand, and instinct screamed at her to recoil—but when a ghoul lunged, his shoulder collided with it first, sending the creature skidding across the snow. Fandra barely had time to steady herself, chest heaving, fingers tightening on her sword as she tried to process ally and enemy alike.

The fighting thinned, and the screams faded into a tense quiet. Fandra’s shield rim was notched, her sword dark with green ichor that steamed faintly in the cold. She planted her feet firmly, scanning every shadow for the next threat.

The tall obsidian-black walls of the Wrathgate loomed large before them. Even from a distance, they radiated menace. A hush fell over the assembled troops, the wind carrying only a low, uneasy moan across the ranks.

The banners snapped sharply in the wind, but even their vibrant white and silver could not pierce the shadow the gate cast. Every instinct screamed that something far worse than the shambling Scourge waited beyond. Somewhere to her left, the orc beside her stopped shouting.

The tension spread like a ripple, freezing even the bravest of voices. Soldiers shifted uneasily. The snow beneath armored boots squeaked in the cold, every sound amplified against the expectant silence.

Fandra swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how exposed they were. The faint murmur of prayers, the tightening of sword handles, and the shallow breaths of those standing near her—all of it pressed in. Around her, soldiers exchanged wary glances, weapons still raised. No one celebrated. No one lowered their guard.

It was too convenient. Too quiet. A whisper of dread ran down her spine. Fandra braced herself, shield raised, muscles coiled, heart thundering, ready for whatever horror emerged.

Bolvar stood before the assembled forces. “ARTHAS! The blood of your father, your people, demands justice!”

Then, the gate’s jaws lifted. And through its gaping maw, strode a hulking figure garbed in armor of blackest night and emblazoned with spikes and skulls. A long black cloak trailed behind him. The jagged spires of the Helm of Domination atop his head and the glowing rune blade in his hand caused her blood to turn cold. His empty soulless eyes glowed a macabre blue and his voice cut through them with a menacing timbre.

“You speak of Justice, of cowardice—I will show you the justice of the grave and the true meaning of fear.” Skeletons and ghouls began to rise from the ground surrounding the dark figure.

Dranosh Saurfang roared as he charged. “Enough talk—let it be finished!”

His axe rose high, but the rune blade met it with a sound like breaking ice. The weapon shattered, and in the same breath Frostmourne cleaved through its wielder. Dranosh fell—his soul torn free and drawn screaming into the blade—one more offering to its endless hunger.

Fandra froze. The Scourge surged forward. Corpses she had seen fall—men she had marched beside—jerked and clawed their way back to their feet. Former comrades, now empty husks, lurched toward the living with dead eyes and slack jaws.

“You will pay for all the lives you’ve stolen, traitor!” Bolvar shouted, his voice raw with fury.

Arthas regarded him coldly. “Boldly stated,” he said, almost bored. “But there is nothing you can—”

The world turned green.

A noxious cloud rolled over the assembled forces, thick and choking. Fandra gasped as the fumes burned her lungs. Around her, soldiers clawed at their throats and armor. Formations dissolved. Shouts dissolved into coughing, commands into panicked screams.

She staggered. Above, on the ridge—

There—silhouetted against the sickly haze—stood catapults launching plague-filled barrels into the mass below. A tall, thin figure in dark robes stepped forward, arms raised in triumph.

“Did you think we had forgotten?” the voice rang out, sharp and venomous.

“Did you think that we had forgiven?”

The figure laughed, the sound carrying easily over the dying soldiers below.

“Death to the Scourge… and death to the living!”

Fandra scrambled, desperate to escape the death raining down upon them. Gasping she reached for a nearby soldier, trying to pull him to safety. His flesh sloughed away, melting against his armor, sealing around him like a coffin.

Through burning eyes, she glimpsed Arthas retreating, his back already turned as he vanished beyond the gate.

The battlefield collapsed into utter chaos. Horde and Alliance both fell to the plague, screams rising and cutting short in equal measure. Even the Scourge were not spared. Undead bodies twitched and dissolved as the green cloud consumed everything in its path.

Fandra stumbled backward, chest heaving, smoke stinging her eyes. Major Halbrecht staggered beside her, swaying, face pale, blood flowing from his lips.

Then shadows swept across the battlefield—massive, living darkness that blotted out the sky. Crimson dragons, scales gleaming like molten rubies, descended in a storm of wings. At their lead, Alexstrasza the Lifebinder glided gracefully, her presence radiant even through the smoke. They did not roar in malice, but in cleansing fury. Flames erupted from their jaws, searing the plague from the ground, incinerating corruption and disease alike. The stench of burning rot mixed with smoke, and the heat pressed against her armor, forcing her to shield her face.

Halbrecht caught her eye, blood pouring from a sword lodged deep in his gut. His body trembled with each ragged breath, yet with the last of his strength, he shoved her out of the path of the roaring flames.

“Your… father was a good man,” he gasped, choking on blood.

“Wait—!” Fandra reached for him, fingers scraping uselessly through smoke and heat as the fire surged between them. She could do nothing but watch, heart hammering, as the cleansing blaze engulfed him. His form vanished, swallowed by fire, yet the echo of his sacrifice lingered in the heat and ash around her.

The flames spread across the battlefield, consuming Bolvar and countless corpses, leaving only charred scars in the snow. Fandra fell to her knees, coughing and shaking, the roar of wings and crackle of fire filling her ears. The world seemed to stretch and twist, reduced to heat, light, and shadow.

When the fire receded, the green haze of death was gone, the plague burned away. The field lay eerily silent, the devastation absolute. Around her, soldiers emerged from the haze—coughing, dazed, but alive. Fandra’s hands shook as she gripped her sword and shield. Grief weighed on her chest; awe caught in her throat; the cost of survival pressed down like a storm she could not escape.

She had been one of the few lucky ones, but thousands lay fallen. For what, she wondered, and what meaning could be found in survival alone? The towering walls of the Wrathgate, loomed large before her. Cold and unyielding, as if mocking the scale of loss. Around her, the Horde and Alliance tended their wounded, grim-faced and weary.

Her gaze fell where Halbrecht had stood. Compelled forward, each step felt leaden with uncertainty. He lay face down, skin blackened and torn by dragon fire. Fandra knelt beside him, breath shallow, and reached toward him, fingertips brushing the scorched earth where he had fallen—not with malice or fear, but in a final act that had spared her. A faint warmth brushed her chest, a whisper of calm amidst the chaos. The air itself seemed to hold a quiet weight, a stillness that made the blood and smoke recede into distance.

Fandra’s fingers traced the scorched earth, feeling the weight of his choice. Anger, confusion, and sorrow mingled with an unfamiliar, fragile respect. Perhaps this was the courage of one life given for another, the selflessness Tirion had spoken of. She did not yet understand, but something had shifted: the recognition that even in darkness, one could choose light.

Her breath caught as she looked to the heavens. Perhaps the Light was not something to grasp or command, but something to recognize—and honor. For now, she could only kneel in the snow, mourning the fallen, and carry forward the memory of the man who had, in his final act, shown her a flicker of it.

***

The fires of the dragon flame lingered, reduced to smoldering embers. Across the field, the shattered remnants of the Argent Crusade, Alliance, and Horde sifted through what remained, each step heavy with loss.

Back at a hastily erected camp, Fandra sank onto the broken remains of a cart axle. Her hair hung in matted strands; face streaked with blood and ash. She stared toward the horizon, haunted. Guilt gnawed at her stomach. Smoke burned her nostrils as a burial detail carried the dead on stretchers.

A rider approached bringing his horse to a stop among the shattered forces that huddled, licking their wounds.

“Where is Commander Fordragon?”

Uneasy quiet fell over the few nearby soldiers. A young private swallowed hard.

“Fordragon is… gone.”

The rider hesitated. “And Major Halbrecht?”

Fandra’s jaw tightened. “Also gone.”

The rider’s composure faltered, gaze drifting past the camp toward the scorched field beyond.

“I… I have orders,” he said finally. “Tirion Fordring is recalling those who remain of the detachment.”

They had just endured hell—or as close as mortals could get to it. Now, they were to move again.

Fandra closed her eyes as the dead passed by on stretchers.

***

Chapter 7 - Friendship Found

A few days later, Fandra stood at the Argent Vanguard—a smaller outpost nestled at the foot of the Storm Peaks. To the west, Icecrown’s spires clawed at the sky.

The Wrathgate survivors milled among tents, faces drawn, eyes hollow. No one spoke of who was in command. It didn’t matter anymore. Within days, they were back on the line.

Fandra stood in formation, sword leaning against the sharpened bulwark. Other soldiers sneezed and coughed against the cold. Then dark figures loomed in the distance.

“Here they come! Steady!” Shouted a gruff dwarf from the watchtower above.

Shields were raised along the line as the shapes drew closer and resolved into horror. Skittering Nerubians—like the ones Fandra had faced before—raced ahead with alarming speed, their chitinous limbs clattering on the frozen ground. Thick webs spat forward, threatening to ensnare defenders or any aerial support foolish enough to fly too low.

Behind them came the abominations.

They shambled forward in grotesque silence—monstrous constructs stitched together from stolen flesh and animated by dark magic. Rib bones jutted outward from rotten flesh, exposed gelatinous organs wobbling behind them in an unsettling display. Chains wrapped around their torsos, their many arms wielding cleavers and meat hooks—tools meant to drag the living closer.

Fandra lifted her sword, steadied her stance, and waited for the enemy to close.

Above, dwarven riflemen opened fire, the sharp crack of gunshots rolling across the field. The trebuchet groaned as it swung into motion, an incendiary pot—oil, tar, and pitch packed together—launched high over the walls. Shattering amid the advancing Scourge, flames bloomed outward, fire spreading through their ranks.

Nerubians and abominations alike were set ablaze. Yet they did not falter. They marched on regardless. Burning silhouettes, flaming effigies torn straight from some vision of the abyss.

The sight gave the defenders a fleeting surge of hope—and then despair—as the enemy continued forward through the inferno. Now within range, archers joined the riflemen. Arrows and shot fell in a relentless hail, tearing into bodies that refused to die.

Fandra adjusted her grip on her sword, bracing herself. Fire from above would soon give way to brutal struggle below.

***

They hit like a sledgehammer. The Nerubians barreled forward, some impaling themselves on the sharpened stakes of the bulwarks. Even as the life ebbed from their arachnid bodies, their limbs still lashed outward over the defensive fortifications.

Abominations hacked at the defenders with giant cleavers. Blood sprayed in torrential sheets, painting the snow red. One defender hurtled backward into a stone tower, his skull cracking on impact.

Fandra raised her sword as a Nerubian slashed at her. She swung wildly. The blade connected, severing writhing appendages; green ichor mingled with red blood in the snow—a macabre swirl of color.

The line buckled as abominations tore into it. The hulking creatures sent defenders flying. A meat hook sailed past Fandra, sinking into a soldier’s armor. He screamed as the abomination hauled him from the line, dragging him across the ground, blood pouring from the wound and leaving a red trail behind him.

“No!” Fandra shouted.

She wasn’t sure why she broke ranks for a stranger. Maybe it was the sheer brutality of it. Maybe something else. She ran forward, sword raised.

The abomination swung its cleaver, aiming to finish the wounded man. Fandra met the blow.

A low resonant hum, unlike anything she’d ever heard, filled the air. The impact rattled her shoulders, nearly knocking her back, but she held. The cleaver stopped inches from her face, slick with blood.

The soldier groaned behind her, the meat hook still buried deep in his chest.

The abomination’s bulbous eyes turned toward her. Bile and rot stung her nostrils, rising from its distended abdomen. It raised its cleaver again.

Fandra rolled aside as the blade came down, then swung low, her sword biting into its stubby leg.

The creature stumbled and fell backward. It thrashed, still trying to lift its weapon, until Fandra stepped in and cleaved its head from its stitched body.

The abomination collapsed, its massive form shuddering once before going still.

Fandra didn’t hesitate. She brought her sword down again, severing the arm that held the chain taut. The meat hook tore free and clattered into the snow as the limb fell away.

The soldier cried out, the meat hook still embedded in his armor. Fandra caught him as he sagged, throwing his arm over her shoulder.

“Move,” she said through clenched teeth, half-carrying him back toward the line. “Just move.”

Back at the line, the man was handed off and carried to the rear on a stretcher. Fandra rejoined the defenders, blood and gore smeared across her armor. The soldiers on either side of her blanched at the stench that clung to her.

She leaned back against the wall of the slit trench. As the battle ebbed, the last remnants of the Scourge forces withdrew into the snow-choked distance. Darkness crept in, slow and inevitable. The weight of exhaustion pulled at her eyes. She pulled her cloak tighter, drifting into a shallow, uneasy sleep, waiting for a counterattack that might never come.

***

The cold wind howled through the trenches, mingling with the wounded’s moans and making sleep elusive. Fandra stirred fitfully until the sun broke over the jagged spires of Icecrown Citadel in the distance.

A voice rang out down the line, cutting through the cold. “Soldiers on the line are hereby relieved!”

Fandra groaned, urging stiff limbs to move. The cold had set in deep. Frost rimed the ends of her hair and eyebrows, clinging from her own breath.

She pulled herself out of the trench and numbly shuffled toward the outpost’s fires. Approaching a campfire, she saw flames illuminate huddled forms of defenders seeking warmth.

Glances turned her way as she approached, stirring the familiar uncertainty of her background. Then a large man with a bushy mustache and beard held out a bottle. “You look like you could use a drink, soldier.”

Someone shifted to make space. Fandra walked into the ring of defenders and lowered herself beside them, heat prickling against numb hands as the bottle passed to her. For a few moments, only the crackle of fire and the distant groans of the wounded filled the silence.

She lifted the bottle, drank, coughed at the burn, then felt the warmth spread through her chest and limbs.

The mustached soldier smiled as he took the bottle back. “Hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

He jerked his chin toward the others. “That’s Bren,” Corin said, nodding to the stout dwarf warming his hands. “Won’t shut up once he warms up.” He then gestured to the night elf beside him. “Talla. Sharpest eyes on the wall.” He paused, then nodded at her. “And you are?”

“Fandra.”

“Well, Fandra,” he said. “Seems we traded one hell for another. Though I’d take some of Hell’s heat about now.”

“Yeah,” Fandra muttered, pulling her cloak tighter. “I would too, truth be told.”

Talla sat nearby, methodically cleaning her rifle. Moonlight caught the pale hue of her skin and the markings on her face; her long ears sharply contrasted with Fandra’s shorter ones.

“Seen enough of this war yet, Fandra?” Talla asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Fandra said after a beat. “I reckon I have. More than enough death, too.”

Talla nodded. “Everyone expects death in war. I don’t think anyone expects… this.” She hesitated. “Unfortunately, a lot more will die before it’s over. Each one bolsters the ranks of—”

“Ach,” Bren cut in, waving a hand. “Read the room, lass. We dinnae need sermons right now. Leave that to priests and paladins, eh?” A wry grin peeked out from his beard. “You just keep shootin’ the nasty beasties, cover me while I give me axe a workout. Miss Fandra here doesn’t need doom an’ gloom tonight… not after today…”

Corin took another long pull from the bottle, then held it out toward her again.

Fandra shook her head softly.

“We should get some sleep,” Corin said with a sigh. “Tomorrow won’t be any easier.”

Fandra stood. “Thanks… for sharing your fire.”

“Course, lass,” Bren said, watching as she walked away until she was swallowed by the darkness.

***

Fandra walked past the row of tents until she reached her own. Her hand closed around the tent flap—but she paused.

A chorus of pained cries rose nearby, impossible to ignore. She let the flap fall shut and turned, drawn toward the sounds of the medical tent.

Lying outside the tent in the courtyard were countless litters—far too many to fit beneath the canvas roof. The wounded lay upon them, many still waiting to be tended, their breaths blooming as wispy puffs in the frigid air.

She continued to walk among the wounded. A few lay unnaturally still, as though they had already succumbed to the cold. Fandra’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before she looked away.

“Out of the way,” a corpsman barked, bearing a stretcher as he pushed past.

Fandra watched him in stunned disbelief.

“Excuse me?” she said, following him.

He kept moving, not slowing for her, “now what—look, lady, you’ve got your job and—”

Fandra stepped into his path and fixed him with a hard stare. “You have your job, yes. But surely, we can do better than this? Leaving the wounded to suffer out here in the elements?”

The corpsman exhaled sharply. “It’s war. Some make it. Some don’t. Sides, its standin room only.” He adjusted his grip on the stretcher. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He moved past the tent—the figure on the stretcher unmoving beneath a frost-stiffened blanket. Fandra’s eyes followed it until it disappeared into the snowy darkness. She turned to the tent and stepped inside. The surgeons worked feverishly, buckets of blood-soaked rags dotted the floor, and their white smocks were streaked red. Their eyes flicked up, appraising her.

“Can—Can I help?”

One surgeon motioned. “Here. I’ve got a bad one. I need an extra set of hands—apply pressure.”

Fandra removed her gauntlets and pressed both hands firmly over the wound.

“Keep the pressure on. Hold it tight,” the surgeon instructed, his eyes never leaving the wound.

Fandra hastened to do as instructed, her gloves squelching and darkening as the blood soaked through them. The bleeding slowed. Not gradually—unnaturally, as if a valve had been turned. The soldier’s pained groan eased, his breathing evening out.

Fandra looked up. The surgeon had gone still, staring at her hands, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

A soft golden light flared around her fingers—fleeting, but undeniable. Her eyes glimmered in answer, reacting before she fully understood why.

Fandra recoiled, shaking her hands, glancing around as if someone might have seen. The surgeon stood frozen, speechless. The soldier gasped, drawing a fuller steadier breath, trying to sit up. Fandra snatched her gauntlets and backed away. She turned and fled the tent.

“Wait!” The surgeon called after her.

***

Back in her tent, Fandra stared at her blood-soaked gloves. The memory of how her ears had always marked her as different came rushing back. What was happening to her—and why was it happening now?

The glow stirred memories of Valiance Keep—but instead of comfort, it filled her with unease. Was this the Light Tirion had spoken of? Could she wield it after all she had seen? Was it meant to heal… or merely to endure?

She lay down on her bedroll; eyes fixed on the canvas above as questions churned. At last, exhaustion claimed her, and sleep crept in despite the uncertainty clinging to her thoughts.

***

Chapter 8 - A Hero Awakens

Morning trumpets blared. Fandra joined the mess line, spotting Talla, Bren, and Corin.

“Sleep well there, Fandra?” Talla asked.

Fandra stifled a yawn. “Not at all… too much on my mind.”

Bren trundled alongside them as the line crept forward. “Ah, weel. Ye be havin’ enough ta think about on the battlefield.”

Corin placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You stick with us, Fandra. We’ll watch your back. And you can watch ours, eh?"

Talla snorted. “Feels like I’m eating my last meal.”

The meal passed in somber silence, but their presence was enough for now.

***

Trumpets sounded assembly. Before them, Crusade Commander Entari surveyed the troops.

“Where the Alliance and Horde failed, the Argent Crusade will surely succeed.”

Bren snorted under his breath. “Bold words, fer a man who weren’t there himself.”

Talla didn’t look at him. “He got promoted.”

Corin cut them both a sharp glance. “Save it for the enemy.”

Fandra stood quietly, thoughts racing.

Corin glanced at her. “Copper for your thoughts?”

Fandra shook her head, a sense of unease falling over her. “Just—men like that don’t hesitate to spend other people’s lives like loose coin.”

“ARGENT CRUSADE! MARCH!” shouted Entari as he rode forward before them.

The column pressed into the Valley of Echoes, flanked by cliffs. The ambush site from days before lay beneath fresh snow—corpses half-buried, the abomination she’d slain now unrecognizable.

Fandra scanned the jagged rocks above. The feeling of being watched settled over her. Deeper they went, the valley narrowing, until Scourge ziggurats loomed ahead, green crystals pulsing with unholy magic.

Bren lumbered doggedly on alongside his companions, the snow rising higher on his stout figure, almost to his knees. He panted heavily, the frosty mist of his breath crystallizing on his beard. “Oi, I be used to da snows of Ironforge, but this be a bit much—Phew.”

Talla nodded glumly. “Times like these, I wish I had shorter ears like Fandra. How ‘bout it, Fandra? Want to trade?”

Fandra allowed a small, weary smile at Talla’s attempt at levity. For a moment, her ears were viewed with envy rather than scorn.

Corin looked sideways. “Quiet—both of you.”

Bren gave a wry grin. “Sorry, if I don’t keep me mouth movin’ it’ll freeze shut.”

As they advanced, an uneasy quiet fell over the armored column. Even the wind seemed to still. All around them, the snow began to shift like an undulating worm. From its fine powder, the wretched remains of the dead burst forth from the ground where they had fallen. The trap was sprung, and all around them the crusaders became aware of the shambling corpses that had risen.

Ghouls rose with blood-curdling growls, their shriveled heads and plaits of hair the only hint of the humanity that had once been found within. Rotted flesh and bone shambled toward them, clawed hands outstretched.

Zombies with slack skin hanging off their bones shuffled forward, arrows, swords, and other weapons embedded in their undead bodies adding to the grisly sight.

Skeletons with the remnants of Alliance colors and armor, hanging loosely from their bone bodies, rattled as they advanced, still holding weapons they had fallen with. Other skeletons rose with tattered robes, their gloves emitting an aura as they prepared spells, as if the knowledge they had in life followed them into death. Before them, and surrounding them, were Abominations too.

The Crusaders watched the oncoming swarm of undead racing towards them. Fandra felt the earth shudder beneath the heavy steps of the animated enemy. She gritted her teeth bracing for the impact.

“Circle! Close Ranks and Lock Shields!”

By the time the order was given, the dead were among them on every side. They weren’t facing an enemy; they were inside it. The circle was not fully formed before it was broken. The Scourge poured into the breach. Abominations hacked at the defenders viciously. Geists and ghouls shambled, piling on the crusaders with ravenous abandon. Skeletal mages cast frigid bolts of frost that slowed the crusaders. The screams and blood-soaked snow became a chaotic slurry.

The four companions stood back-to-back as the circle dwindled and grew smaller. Their fallen comrades lying strewn about at grotesque angles.

“Lookin’ a wee bit grim, eh” Bren remarked, axe held before him at the ready.

Talla stood with her carbine loaded. “I’m always grim,” she remarked, a wry smile on her face. Corin and Fandra stood back-to-back with Talla and Bren, swords and shields ready. As the Scourge descended upon them, the four fought desperately. Bren’s axe swung in furious arcs, cutting a zombie down at the knees. Talla’s gun boomed with a loud report as she blasted the masked, one-eyed head off a geist scurrying toward her.

Corin and Fandra swung their swords in unison, cutting down zombies and skeletons between them. Each fallen undead rose again, hauled upright by skeletal casters, the flood relentless. Numbers thinned. Arms grew heavy under unyielding pressure. It looked bleak—facing a force without end.

An Abomination barreled towards the four defenders; its massive bulk knocked them aside. Fandra lost her footing in the slick snow and fell, her sword skidding from her grasp. She rolled onto her back; a misty cloud of white snow being kicked up. She reached for her sword as the Abomination loomed over her, its large sinister meat cleaver poised to fall and end her. Her fingers stretched desperately for the hilt of her sword as she crawled backwards. The cleaver swung, falling toward her.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Then—nothing.

When she opened them, the abomination’s cleaver was buried in Corin’s chest. He stood unmoving between her and the creature. Behind him, Bren’s axe dripped with green ichor and bile—the beast’s head lying in the snow.

A silent pall fell over the group. Corin’s eyes dimmed as they struggled to focus on her. He gave a weak smile. “See… told ya we… had your back…”

Corin’s body slumped forward as he fell to his knees.

Fandra knelt by his side, eyes wide. “CORIN!!!! No, no, no…not you too...”

Withdrawing the cleaver from Corin’s chest Fandra placed her hand over the wound. Nothing happened. Only the familiarity of blood darkening her leather gloves. “Dammit all! Come on…n-now of all times you don’t answer?” Her desperate plea for the Light was unheard. To a casual observer, it looked as though she had cracked. Her hands felt none of the familiar soft energy she had known in the medical tent. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she struggled in vain.

The enemy continued to close around them. Talla and Bren stood by her side. “Oi, Lass, get yer head in the game,” Bren said.

Talla snapped another round into her carbine again. “I’m running low on ammo… but I have enough to take a few of the bastards with us!”

The scattered forces of the Crusade—those that remained—were now fighting for survival. Fandra stood stiffly, picking up her sword, blood and gore coating her armor. She wiped her face and stepped between her two remaining comrades. “That’s more like it. We fight together and we die together,” Talla said giving her an encouraging nod.

Fandra steeled herself. Sword in hand she nodded with renewed determination. “Together.”

This was to be their last stand. As they faced the oncoming onslaught, a thunderous groan and a rushing whirlwind cut through the air. A large shadow darkened the battlefield. Looking up, the defenders saw the massive silhouette of an aerial gunship.

The Skybreaker was the pride of the Alliance and the newest warship in its fleet. The product of Gnomish and Dwarven engineering, its powerful propeller engines carried it aloft as its steel eagle-head bow cut the skies. More than twenty broadside cannons lined its upper and lower decks. Her arsenal was complemented by a large battery of guns fore and aft, and a full detachment of marines on board.

From their position on the ground, they saw the cannons open fire. Great plumes of smoke erupted from its sides as its guns were brought to bear. The canon fire and that of the gun batteries mixed into a cacophony. The gun smoke created a dense fog that hung heavy. The smell of gunpowder singed the defender’s nostrils. Time seemed to stand still and then the battlefield lit up with explosions. Snow, dirt, shrapnel and the limbs of the undead burst in a macabre fireworks display.

The enemy was torn asunder by the raking gunfire of the Skybreaker. Yet they seemed without end as they continued to press in on the dwindling number of crusaders. The companions, now one less in number, stood back-to-back, the enemy beginning to encircle them. Talla’s gun fired with a concussive report while Bren’s axe whistled as it decapitated any undead that got too close.

Fandra gritted her teeth as she swung her sword, cutting the encroaching undead down. A distinct golden glow began to emanate from its blade, accompanied by an audible hum. It was as if her blade was pulsing. Its light a brief, startling warmth against the frigid wastes. Some swings sent jagged flashes of gold tearing outward, burning back the nearest undead. Her eyes widened as Talla and Bren noticed the glow that had enveloped her in warm, radiating light. Her blue eyes glimmered gold as well. The Light clung close—around her, Talla, and Bren—just enough to keep the dead at bay.

Despite the Light’s brilliance, the Scourge pressed forward, drawn to it like moths to flame. Fandra groaned, every swing draining her as the Light took its toll.

A shallow amber dome formed around them, guttering like a flame struggling to stay lit. Fire rippled through her veins; she cried out as the shield flickered, scorching the undead that shattered themselves against it.

“Fandra, no!” Talla shouted, rushing forward, fear flooding her eyes as she watched her buckle and collapse into the snow.

The Skybreaker loomed above—a steel eagle slicing through the sky. Its cannons roared, continuing to rake the battlefield with fire. Even from that height, they could see the golden beacon below, flickering but refusing to die.

“MARINES—JUMP! GO, GO, GO!”

The marines leapt from the gunship, parachutes snapping open as they descended into the chaos. They hit the ground running, weapons raised. Together, they and the remaining crusaders swept back what remained of the Scourge.

Hours later, a tenuous foothold had been established.

Fandra lay still on the field where she had collapsed; Talla and Bren standing over her. “Come on up with ye.” Bren said his face etched with worry.

Talla stood quietly. “Stupid girl...brave...but...stupid. You had to be the hero.”

Fandra groaned softly.

“Oi, ye...yer alive! Ye gave us a fright, lass.” Bren said.

Marines approached. “We are ready to evacuate wounded,” said a captain, motioning for the litter bearers. “Can you walk soldier?” He asked Fandra.

“I can…but he can’t,” she said, looking at where Corin had fallen. She tried to sit up but fell backward.

“Right, get her to the infirmary, boys.” Two marines lifted Fandra onto a stretcher. A tear slid down her cheek as she watched Corin’s body carried away, growing smaller in the smoke and snow. Exhaustion claimed her before the sounds of battle fully faded, Talla and Bren following closely behind.

***

Chapter 9 - Departures

The next morning, Fandra woke up in an infirmary bed at the Argent Vanguard. Bren and Talla sat by her bedside. “Awake, I see,” Talla said softly, putting her book down.

“I didn’t know you read,” Fandra said through gritted teeth as she sat up.

“And I didn’t know you...could do that. Whatever...that...was. You were holding out on us,” Talla said.

Bren elbowed Talla in the side.

Fandra frowned. “Look, I... I’m sorry I couldn’t...”

Talla shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know if you could have, you would have done the same to save Corin—which is what troubles me. If you had kept going, you would have torn yourself apart. I know you were protecting us… just as Corin would have.”

Fandra listened quietly.

Bren spoke up. “What she be meanin’ to say is thank ye. But that she doesn’t want anyone else ta die on account of her… or me.”

Talla sighed softly. “I want you to seek out someone who can train you to control this...this Light.”

Fandra closed her eyes for a moment, saying nothing. “I know...I’ve...known for some time. I didn’t tell anyone this because I didn’t know what to think at first. When I left you at the fire that night to go to my tent. I heard the moans of the wounded. I offered to help the surgeon and the Light unbidden healed this man’s wound before my eyes. It frightened me. I grew up always being told by others how I was different. I heard it so much, I guess I grew numb to it or maybe I believed it. Each time I saw the wounded at Valiance Keep, or here, or out there in the Valley of Echoes? I saw that pain, suffering, and especially Death…don’t discriminate. When the Light refused to answer me, when I wanted to save Corin? I felt like...”

Talla eyed her sharply. “Fandra, stop that. You think Corin would have gave his life for you, for us...if he didn’t think you were worth it? Don’t dishonor his memory now by second guessing or doubting yourself. Corin made a choice. Perhaps the Light respected that choice. Just as you made a choice to save us. You don’t have to pretend you are something you aren’t. We know who you are. A comrade...and..”

Bren spoke for Talla, “a friend, and that be a rare thing ta find these days eh?”

Talla nodded. “Aye. A friend.” Her eyes drifted to the wall, unsure if she could find the words. “We’re laying Corin to rest this afternoon. Thought you’d want to be there.” Talla stood quickly, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and exited the infirmary.

Bren nodded softly, following her. “I’m sure Corin would want ye ta be there.”

***

Fandra stepped out of the infirmary her body aching as she balanced on the crutch for support. The lingering gunpowder from the battle hung in the air, even this distant from the battlefield. The smell of burning corpses filled the air. The brisk wind whipped across her face. She hobbled gingerly along toward the assembly area where Bren and Talla stood waiting.

“Told ye she’d make it.” Bren said sniffling a bit the gravity of the task before them settling in.

Talla nodded. “Right then…off we go. Picked out a spot just up the rise overlooking the Vanguard. Figured he could keep watch over… everyone from there…”

The three made it up the rise where Corin’s pinewood coffin lay. There was no exchange between them as they stood before their fallen comrade. Fandra wiped her eyes, Talla looking sideways at her and gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder. The battle had left little time to grieve and now it hit them all at once.

After a heavy silence, Bren spoke. “Someone ought ta say somethin’, I’ll just be a blubbering mess if I try. You wanna give it a shot Fan?”

Fandra’s eyes widened as she sniffed. “M… me?”

Talla nodded, holding her tighter. “Mm-hm… go on.”

Fandra choked slightly, a lump rising in her throat as she searched for words. “I don’t think I will ever forget…that night. You invited me to join you all by the fire.”

She paused, steadying herself. “That warmth…was something I never felt before, save for my father. And even now, with… this Light… it feels as though I am carrying that warmth with me. Forever a reminder of what you were to all of us. I will try my best to be worthy of it.”

Talla and Bren both wiped their eyes, tears streaking their cheeks. “That was beautiful, Fan,” Talla said softly. Bren nodded as he dried his eyes with his beard.

The three silently closed the lid on the coffin. Talla and Bren lowered it gently into the earth. Fandra tried to assist them the best she could despite her physical exhaustion and crutch. Talla and Bren shook their heads softly. “We can handle it Fan. You being here is enough.” Talla said.

Fandra seeing that she was only getting in the way stepped back as her friends placed the last stone on Corrin’s grave which had already been lightly covered by a fine powder of snow.

Fandra stood quietly with her friends looking down at where their comrade now rested. Talla wrapped her arm around Fandra. “Come on, don’t need you catching pneumonia out here. Let’s get you back to the infirmary.”

***

A few days later saw Fandra up on her feet with a limp in her step. Her body moved with a heavy weight beyond that of her armor. Standing in the mess line with Talla and Bren, her demeanor was quiet and reserved as she sat down across from her friends. Fandra barely touched her food pushing it around on her plate instead. Talla eyed her with interest over the rim of her cup. Bren looked between them. “Oi, why the long faces?”

Talla sighed. “Because it’s obvious Bren—she’s leaving”

Bren’s spoon paused halfway to his beard. “Leavin’?” He stared at Fandra. “After all that? After everything we just—”

Fandra lowered her gaze. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she closed her blue eyes and let out a quiet breath.

“I need… control,” she said at last.

She looked up again, meeting their eyes. “When I was younger, I told my pa—before he died—that I wanted to be a shield. Something solid. Something others could stand behind.” Her voice wavered, just slightly. “But a shield that shatters doesn’t protect anyone.”

Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.

“I can’t protect others,” she said quietly, “if I can’t even protect myself. I put in for a transfer—to Light’s Hope Chapel.”

Silence fell between them.

Bren’s jaw tightened. “So that’s it?” he said, his voice rough. “After all we fought ta’gether fer—you just walk away?”

His hand clenched around his spoon. “First Corin goes and gets himself killed for ya…” His voice cracked, “and now this? You said ye’d have our backs.”

Fandra flinched as if struck. “You know that’s not why,” she said, her voice barely holding. “That I would—” She swallowed. “I just… I have to go.” She stood abruptly and walked out of the mess tent before either of them could stop her.

Talla shot Bren a sharp look. “Now look at what you did. You think this is easy for her?”

He looked away, breathing hard, shame creeping into his expression. “That weren’t fair,” he muttered. “I know it weren’t.”

Back at her tent, Fandra began packing what few personal effects she had. She had thought she would be happier to leave the frigid wastes behind her. Though she was leaving behind what she had fought and bled for, a part of her had died all the same. The weight of leaving settled heavily upon her shoulders.

Exiting her tent, she headed for the entrance to the outpost—the same path she had walked through only weeks before. As she drew closer, two familiar figures stepped into view.

Bren looked at her with remorse in his eyes. “Ye’ll be needin’ an axe to keep the beasties at bay.”

Talla gave her a small, weary smile, taking her rucksack and securing it to one of three waiting horses. “We can go with you as far as Wyrmrest Temple.”

The three companions mounted the waiting horses and set out for Wyrmrest Temple. There was little conversation between them. Only the sound of hooves as they pressed on.

***

Later that evening, they stopped to rest about halfway between the Vanguard and Wyrmrest. Pitching camp was an exercise in military efficiency. The fire was small, more for habit than warmth.

Bren fed it sparingly, as if afraid it might draw attention even out here. Beyond the glow, Dragonblight stretched quiet and cold, the distant silhouette of Wyrmrest Temple barely visible against the stars. The three of them ate in silence… as memories of how they first met seemed to dance in the flames.

She stared into the coals. No one was shouting orders. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing to do but sit. The exhaustion hit her all at once.

“About earlier,” he said gruffly. “What I said.”

Fandra didn’t look up. “Forget about it. I know...”

He shook his head. “No—please. Lemme finish. That weren’t fair,” he went on. “I knew it even as it came out me mouth.” He poked at the fire with a stick, sparks lifting briefly before dying. “Lashin’ out don’t bring folk back. Never has.”

He swallowed. “Corin chose. Same as you’re choosin’ now.”

Silence stretched.

“I don’t like it,” he added. “But...I understand it.”

Talla, who had been sharpening her blade, spoke without looking up. “Light’s Hope will try to tell you what and who you are,” she said. “Don’t let them define you.” She rummaged through her pack, pulling out a bottle. “Ah...Corin’s favorite. One last drink?”

She took a drink from the bottle. “To Fandra,” she said, passing it to Bren.

“Fandra, best shield and friend ye could ask fer.” He passed it to Fandra.

Fandra raised the bottle, “To Corin—who brought us together… and now sees us part,” she said taking a deep drink.

The fire burned low as the three sat in silence, until they retired and sleep finally claimed them.

***

At dawn, they broke camp quickly. No hesitation. Just the sound of straps tightening and packs settling. Fandra paused, shouldering her pack.

Talla gave a soft smile. “I’m afraid a simple goodbye just won’t do, Fan.” She pulled Fandra inward into a tight hug. “Remember—where there is a meeting, a parting is sure to follow. It needn’t be forever, you hear?”

She reached into her pouch and withdrew a small whetstone. “Here, I want you to have this. A way to remember me when you keep your blade sharp.”

Fandra nodded as they parted, her grip lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Bren gave a crooked smile. “Just don’t take so long we get bored.” He hesitated, gaze dropping, then reached into his belt. “Oh… almost forgot. First—I want ye to have this.”

He placed a dagger in her hands; its sheath worked with intricate dwarven ornamentation. “Made it me self, a while back.”

Then, more quietly, he drew out a ring—simple, worn. The sigil of the Crusade marked its face. Corin’s name was etched inside the band. “And… Corin would want ye to have this too.”

Fandra closed her fingers around the tokens, the cool weight of the ring grounding her as she wiped her eyes and managed a small grateful smile.

“You will always be with me,” she said softly. “Wherever I go.”

She mounted her horse, meeting their eyes once more. “I’ll come back,” she added—not as a promise, but a hope.

The three parted quietly, riding in opposite directions.

Fandra turned toward the road leading south.

She didn’t look back until the campfire was gone.

***

She rode until Wyrmrest Temple rose before her—a towering spire reaching toward the heavens. Red dragons circled its summit, their wings beating slow and deliberate, while crimson dragonkin stood watch at the perimeter entrances, polearms held in disciplined stillness.

Fandra slowed and reined in her mount, raising her hands in a clear, disarming gesture. After a brief, measuring look, the guards motioned her forward.

Inside, she found a portal shimmering with a familiar image—Stormwind. She hadn’t imagined she would ever see it again.

Chapter 10 - Pilgrimage

The road stretched on for weeks. Green forests gave way to red stone and dust. Hills rose, then fell behind her, replaced by ash and scorched earth where nothing grew. She passed beneath the shadow of Blackrock Mountain without stopping, its presence pressing down on the road like a warning.

Beyond it, the world grew quieter. Stone gorges. Empty valleys. Long days without seeing another soul. And it was during those cold nights when she made camp—far from the horror of Northrend—that the quiet gave her no peace at all.

Her thoughts turned inward to Talla and Bren. Were they still standing without her at their side?

By the time she crossed the great span into the northern lands, Fandra had stopped marking time by dawn and dusk. She rode when the light allowed it. She slept when exhaustion demanded it.

The further north she went, the heavier the air became—until even the land itself seemed reluctant to remember what it once was.

She rode on until the road narrowed and a small camp came into view. Pale banners stirred in the cold air—those of the Argent Dawn, now borne by the Argent Crusade. The sight brought her a quieting comfort she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

“Halt.”

The voice was deep and steady. A Draenei stepped forward, towering and broad-shouldered, his armor marked with the familiar sigil of the Argent Dawn, now adopted by the Crusade. His cool blue eyes studied her with practiced calm, neither hostile nor welcoming—only watchful.

She reined in her horse, her heart giving a short, sharp thud against her ribs. Her armor was battered, scarred, and still dark with drying blood. Her shield, emblazoned with the Crusade’s mark, hung at her steed’s side. The guard approached, taking the reins and giving the horse a steadying pat.

“That shield,” he said. “Is it yours?”

Fandra nodded, the movement small. “Yes.”

“You are wounded? You look like hell… Miss?”

“Fandra,” she said. “And I’ve seen—and been through—hell.”

He studied her a moment longer. “Your destination?”

“Transfer,” she said. “Light’s Hope.”

“Only fools and those with a death wish venture into the Eastern Plaguelands. I advise you to turn back.” He shook his head. “Andorhal is overrun with undead.”

“Andorhal?” Her eyes widened.

The Draenei nodded. “Yes. The Scarlet Crusade held it once. Now? Even they won’t go back. The only things you will find there are ghosts—and the forgotten.”

Fandra’s jaw tightened. “I was once forgotten,” she said quietly. “I suppose I’ll be in good company.”

The Draenei closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well, it’s your funeral.” He said stepping aside to let her pass.

She rode on, feeling the eyes of the camp upon her…as if they already knew she would not be coming back.

***

The road stretched before her uninviting. The stench of death and decay lingered heavily on the air. The only sound was the measured rhythm of her horse’s hooves.

The hollow husk of the town loomed larger before her. The further she went the deafening silence overwhelmed her. Burnt timbers and the skeletal remnants of the buildings mirrored its long-dead denizens.

Fandra guided her steed along the cobblestone paths, weaving through the shattered remains of what had once been a living place. Bones lay scattered where people had fallen—inside doorways, beneath collapsed beams, in streets where no footsteps would ever pass again.

Amid the ruins, something small drew her attention.

She dismounted, hesitating at the threshold of what had once been a home. Kneeling, she brushed aside ash to reveal a child’s doll—its cloth face blackened, one glass eye missing.

A remnant of innocence.

Left behind—just as she had been.

She turned the doll over in her hands. A hollow ache tightened in her chest. Had her parents lived here? Would this have been her fate? Would she have grown up in these streets, played with something like this?

A sound broke the silence.

Soft. Wet. Wrong.

Fandra stiffened, hand going to her sword as she scanned the ruins. At first, nothing—then movement at the edge of the square. Shapes pulling themselves upright. Heads turned, as if scenting something long denied them.

A low moan rolled through the streets. Another answered it. Then another.

The town was waking.

The doll slipped from her fingers. She backed away, vaulting into the saddle and spurred her horse into a desperate flight as shambling figures spilled from doorways and alleys behind her. Skeletal forms and ghouls lurched into pursuit, drawn by her presence alone.

She didn’t look back again.

***

She didn’t slow until she crossed into the Eastern Plaguelands. If Andorhal had been foreboding, this land was oppressive. Blackened soil lay beneath choking orange mists, warped vegetation clawing at the air. Twisted, misshapen trees leaned inward, as though the land itself cried out in anguish.

Fandra pulled on the reins, her horse halting with a cautious snort. Ruined towers and shattered buildings loomed in the distance. Dilapidated fences sagged along the road like broken ribs. In the woods beyond, winged plague bats circled, their eyes glowing an unnatural green. On the ground, hulking abominations wandered aimlessly, dragging their bulk through the corruption.

She urged her mount forward once more. Even the frigid wastes of Northrend seemed warmer.

The deathly silence was her only companion. She rode deeper into the Plaguelands, grip tightening on the reins, eyes darting from side to side. Each twisted tree could hide some horror, ready to end her.

To her left stood the squat Crown Guard Tower. As she rode past, she saw Argent Crusader soldiers conversing as they moved wounded.

“Damned Scarlet cowards, even in retreat, they are driven by zealotry.”

“Aye, I hear they fled north…to Northrend”

The soldiers briefly glanced at her before carrying on without a second thought.

To her right was the town of Darrowshire. She pressed on, following the long road to a fork, the worn sign fallen to the earth. Another tower rose to the left. Ahead, a figure leaned against a rock. A Scarlet Crusader—red tabard, wounded, wary. His eyes blinked and focused on her.

His eyes blinked, focusing on her. “A half-breed?” he said coughing blood. “Just what I need. A freak to finish me.”

Her grip on her blade tightened. “That’s right—a freak. But I’ve seen worse in Northrend. That’s where your friends are headed, aren’t they?”

The wounded Scarlet glared at her coughing up blood. “Go on… finish me. I’m done.”

The familiar ache rose in her chest. The instinct to reach. To beg. To try.

Her fingers twitched… then stilled.

Fandra knelt, the knowledge that she couldn’t save him a heavy weight. “You don’t have long. I am not without mercy and can stay with you until the end.”

The Scarlet looked at her through his dimming eyes. “Mercy gets people killed.”

Fandra met his gaze, her expression firm. “It’s also saved me. Think your friends will find that same mercy in Northrend?”

His final rattling breath left him, eyes glazing over as his body slumped forward. The coppery stench of blood and decay clung to the wind, thick and cloying.

She stood, taking a step back, looking at him a moment longer then climbed into the saddle again. Her gaze fixed on the road ahead, and in the distance—Light’s Hope Chapel.

The Chapel itself was smaller than she had imagined, its scale unassuming. Encircling the chapel was a defensive stone wall with towers. The stone archway led into the heart of the complex. The stone headstones of the fallen dotted the courtyard. Hallowed ground. A comforting calm enveloped the surroundings, a contradiction to the blight beyond the walls.

Fandra slowed her horse as she neared the posted guards. Seeing the Argent sigil on her tabard, they waved her through. Passing through the entrance, a comforting warmth seemed to envelop her. The sensation was familiar and she welcomed it. Her heart felt lighter with renewed purpose. She guided her horse to a nearby stable, a stable boy taking the reins. She nodded in thanks before setting off for the chapel. The other crusaders merely nodded in acknowledgment as she passed.

The Chapel’s steps and entrance were unassuming, its interior and trappings equally reserved. The humble appearance belied what lay below in the bowels of its crypt. Further inside lay the sanctuary, and behind its altar, the sacristy. Two men stood before her in deep conversation, their gaze shifting to her.

“I had a feeling the light would guide you here, Fandra,” said Tirion warmly.

Fandra’s eyes widened in surprise that he remembered her name—out of all the crusade.

“I see you two know each other?” said the other man. He had a tousled brown mane of hair, a stern jaw framed by a thick beard and mustache. A steel gaze met her own from one good eye, the other hidden beneath an eyepatch.

Tirion smiled. “We briefly met at Wintergarde. Hard to forget a face like hers. Fandra—this is Lord Maxwell Tyrosus,” he said introducing the man with the eyepatch.

Tyrosus extended his hand “Welcome to Light’s Hope, Fandra,” he said firmly shaking her hand.

Tirion nodded. “Tyrosus if you would, I would like a moment to speak with Fandra.”

“Of course sire,” Tyrosus replied, inclining his head as he stepped away.

Tirion turned back to her. “How was your journey?”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Long,” she said quietly. “And painful.”

Tirion inclined his head. “Many of the roads worth taking are. Would you speak of it?”

Fandra looked down at her hands. They were steady now—but she remembered when they hadn’t been. “I...felt something,” she said at last. “At first, I thought it was fear. Then I thought it was hope.”

Tirion studied her, searching her face. “A presence?”

She nodded. “Yes. I tried to reach for it when I needed it most—and it did not answer. And when it finally did...”

She swallowed.

“I nearly lost myself.”

Tirion was silent for a time.

“And still,” he said quietly, “you reached for it.”

Fandra frowned faintly. “I don’t know if that means anything.”

Tirion’s gaze shifted toward the Chapel walls.

“Not long before you arrived, this place saw another battle. Even the Knights of the Ebon Blade broke free here.” He paused for a moment. “Follow me.” He led Fandra deeper into the sanctuary and pressed a hidden switch. Stone ground against stone as a slab in the floor shifted, retracting to reveal a staircase descending into shadow. “Arthas ran from this Chapel,” he said quietly. “You ran to it. A person without that conviction would not have requested a transfer here.” The words hung there—an observation, not a verdict. Then they descended together, into the darkness.

***

Chapter 11 - Discipline

Tirion and Fandra entered a large crypt with a vaulted ceiling. The crypt, despite the many entombed dead, was warm and inviting. The area was brightly lit with the gentle glow of candles, the wax melting down over the iron candelabras.

“This is where I must leave you now.” Tirion said looking at her with a smile. “Tyrosus will be along shortly to...oh here he is now.” Tirion said placing his hand on her shoulder before departing and disappearing back into the stone stairwell.

Tyrosus stepped forward having followed them down to the crypt carrying a torch. “Right, let’s get you settled, my adjutant is otherwise preoccupied so I will see you to your quarters.”

“The central sanctuary lies directly across from us. To the left of that is the mess.” Tyrosus led her along a cloister to an adjacent hallway. “At the end of that hallway is the library,” It quickly became apparent that this was the real chapel. A vast labyrinth complex that sprawled in each direction.

“A person could get lost down here.” Fandra remarked.

He nodded quietly. “This will be your home for the duration of your training.” He turned, his face and smile illuminated by the glow of the torch. “You found your way here on your own. I’m sure you’ll find your way around here before long.”

Rounding the corner, they proceeded down the hallway to before taking another right to a set of doors at the end.

“The women’s barracks are on the right. Men on the left. Breakfast is at six. Reveille is at seven.” He nodded softly before departing, heavy footsteps receding into the distance. Fandra’s hand tentatively tested the doorknob before opening it.

***

Fandra pushed open the barracks door, stopping just inside the threshold. Inside, several women glanced up at her entrance—some pulling on shifts, others tending gear or washing at basins. The air was warm, heavy with the sweet fragrance of soap and lamp oil.

She’d slept on the line, and froze with men on campaign. That was familiar. This warmth and communal living wasn’t.

Her cheeks burned. “I...sorry, I didn’t know if I should—” She gripped the doorframe. “Tyrosus said this was the women’s barracks, but I—”

They looked at her then—not her ears, not the battered armor or the grime still worked into its seams, but the hollow stillness she carried, the way her shoulders hadn’t quite remembered how to lower themselves.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then a dark-skinned woman stepped closer, drawing a towel around herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her voice was calm, unhurried. “This is where you belong,” she said gently, taking Fandra’s arm and pulling her inside. “You can remove your armor, make yourself comfortable. What’s your name?”

“Fandra, Fandra Vane.”

Fandra hesitated—then nodded. She tried to reach the straps and buckles on her armor, wincing. Talla would have told her to suck it up. Survival didn’t allow for respite. “You look like you’ve been through the Wrathgate,” said a young woman stepping forward. Her hair was blonde, tied in a long plait that hung over her shoulder.

“I was…” Fandra said softly.

The room went still. No one asked for details. They didn’t need to. The blonde-haired woman hesitated, her fingers hovering over Fandra’s armor.

“My name is Elara. That’s Mira,” she said gesturing toward the dark-skinned woman. Her slender fingers eased the buckles loose with practiced efficiency.

The armor peeled away, taking dried blood and fabric with it. Fandra hissed through her teeth. Beneath, her tunic was stiff with sweat and gore. Her arms were a map of bruises—purple, yellow, green—layered like strata in stone.

It felt wrong to let it go so easily, as though she were setting aside something vital. When the cuirass finally lifted free, she drew a sharp breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Elara guided her, hands on Fandra’s bare shoulders. She was led to a stool in an alcove in the corner of the barracks. In its floor was a depression.

Mira set a basin near the wall and poured hot water into it. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of soap.

“Here. You don’t have to do it yourself.”

Uncertainty tugged at Fandra’s chest. On the line, with Talla and Bren, she took care of herself. Showed she could handle it. Slowly, she let herself sink onto the stool. Let Elara press the warm cloth to her face, wiping away dirt and blood. Let Mira check the wound at her side, murmuring that it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

Her hair took the longest. Mira and Elara’s fingers worked patiently through the knots, loosening what weeks of sweat and ash had matted together. The water ran dark as it poured over her shoulders.

No one commented on the bruises blooming along her ribs, or the scar at her side.

“You’ve carried enough,” Mira said quietly.

No one told her to toughen up. No one expected her to be ready for the next fight. They just… helped.

“We’ve got spare linens in the chest,” Mira said, nodding toward the corner. “And someone left bread and cheese from dinner if you’re hungry.”

When Fandra dressed again, it was without weight. Without metal. Without the need to brace herself against the world.

She had worn armor for so long she had forgotten what it meant to feel warm. Fandra’s throat tightened. She’d had Talla—fierce, sharp, unflinching. Talla would have handed her a bottle and told her to drink through it. Would have sharpened her blade alongside her in silence, presence enough.

Fandra missed that. The grim solidarity. The unspoken understanding. But this—this quiet tenderness—was something Talla had never offered. Maybe couldn’t. The front lines didn’t allow for it. Here, she didn’t have to be a soldier. Not tonight.

“Thank you,” Fandra whispered.

Elara smiled faintly. “We take care of our own here.”

A mirror was held before her. The woman looking back at her was familiar, though not in the way she expected. It reminded her of the woman in the locket she still carried.

Fandra’s head sank into the soft pillow, a marked difference from the cold bedroll. And for the first time in months, she slept peacefully.

***

The next morning the women quickly dressed in practiced routine. Fandra found a fresh change of clothes laid by her bedside for her. Mira smiled. “I took the liberty of having them brought for you. I had to guess your size.”

Fandra offered a small smile. “Thank you”

When dressed the women filed in joining the men in formation before heading to the mess hall.

The mess was loud with conversation—Veterans trading stories, new arrivals asking questions. Fandra sat with Elara and a few others, grateful for familiar faces. She felt eyes on her.

A tall man with black hair and a mustache and goatee stood across the hall, arms crossed, watching. He wore the Crusade’s colors, but his bearing was different—harder. His scarred face was impassive, but his gaze was appraising. Calculating.

Elara followed her line of sight. “That’s Crusade Commander Korfax,” she said quietly. “Brotherhood of Light. Just returned from Zul’Drak.”

“He’s staring at me.”

“He stares at everyone.” Elara’s voice dropped. “The Brotherhood... they’re different. Effective, but...” She trailed off, choosing her words carefully. “They believe discipline is everything. Emotion is weakness.”

Fandra looked back. Korfax still watched, expression unreadable. Then he turned and left. The weight of his gaze lingered even after he was gone.

***

The days at Light’s Hope fell into rhythm. Morning assembly, training in the crypts below, study in the library, evening prayers. Fandra learned the layout of the labyrinth—the sanctuary, the barracks, the archives..

And she learned that the Light, for all its warmth, did not answer her easily.

***

The training grounds lay beneath Light’s Hope Chapel—a wide stone hall lit by braziers and the occasional flicker of summoned Light. Other aspirants practiced at the far end, their voices echoing off vaulted ceilings.

Fandra stood in the center, breathing hard. Sweat dampened her collar despite the coolness of the crypt. Before her, Lord Tyrosus circled slowly, his single eye sharp and assessing.

“Again,” he said.

She closed her eyes, reaching inward. The warmth was there—faint, distant. She drew on it carefully, coaxing rather than grasping. Light bloomed around her hands, golden and soft.

Then it flickered.

Her breath hitched. The glow pulsed erratically, bright then dim, like a candle in a draft. She gritted her teeth, trying to steady it—

It flared hot.

Pain lanced through her chest. She gasped, and the Light snuffed out. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on one hand, panting.

“You’re forcing it,” Tyrosus said, his tone firm but not unkind. “The Light doesn’t respond to desperation. You know this.”

Fandra pushed herself upright, jaw tight. “I know, I know that. I wasn’t desperate. I was trying to control it.”

“Control isn’t domination.” He stepped closer. “Let it flow. Guide it, don’t command it.”

Frustration coiled in her chest. She’d been trying to ‘guide’ it for weeks. Every time she thought she had it, the Light slipped away—or worse, surged out of control.

“Once more,” Tyrosus said. “Slowly. Focus on your breathing first.”

Fandra inhaled deeply, centering herself. She reached again—

“Interesting technique.”

The voice cut across the hall, low and measured. Fandra’s concentration shattered. The Light vanished before it even formed.

She turned. Korfax stood near the archway, arms crossed, watching. How long had he been there?

Tyrosus’s expression hardened. “Commander. I’m in the middle of training.”

Korfax stepped forward, his boots echoing on stone. “So I see.” His gaze settled on Fandra, cool and appraising. “Does the Argent Crusade now accept those who can’t control themselves?”

Heat flushed Fandra’s cheeks—not from the Light, but from shame and anger. She opened her mouth—

Tyrosus cut in. “She’s learning. As all aspirants do.”

“Learning.” Korfax’s tone was flat. “And how many have you trained who nearly immolated themselves in the field?”

Silence hung heavy in the hall. Fandra’s fists clenched. He knew. Of course he knew. Everyone at Light’s Hope probably knew about the Valley of Echoes.

Tyrosus’s voice dropped, dangerous and quiet. “Every paladin here has stumbled before they walked, Commander. You included.”

Korfax didn’t flinch. “Stumbling in training is one thing. Losing control on a battlefield is another. People die when emotion overrides discipline.”

His gaze never left Fandra. “I’ve seen it too many times.”

Tyrosus stepped between them, blocking Korfax’s line of sight. “If you have concerns about my trainees, bring them to me privately. Not here.”

For a long moment, Korfax said nothing. Then he inclined his head—barely. “Of course, Lord Tyrosus.” He turned to leave, then paused at the archway. “Just remember—standards exist for a reason.”

He disappeared into the shadows.

Fandra’s hands shook. She tried to hide it, tucking them behind her back.

Tyrosus let out a slow breath. “Ignore him.”

“He’s not wrong.” The words came out before she could stop them.

Tyrosus turned. “About what?”

“I did lose control. In the Valley of Echoes. I almost—” She swallowed hard. “I almost killed myself. And if I had, Talla and Bren would’ve died too.”

Tyrosus studied her for a moment, his scarred face unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice measured. “You reached for the Light to protect your companions. That’s not weakness. But you’re right—you lacked control. That’s why you’re here.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, heavy and grounding. “Korfax has seen horrors you and I can only imagine. His way has kept him alive. But it’s not the only way.”

Fandra looked down. “What if he’s right? What if compassion is a liability?”

“Then every paladin who’s ever stood for something beyond themselves is a fool.” Tyrosus’s voice hardened. “Uther. Tirion. Your father, Garrick Vane.”

Her head snapped up. “You knew him?”

“I knew of him. A man who chose mercy when others chose pragmatism.” His eye held hers. “The Light answered him for that choice.”

He stepped back. “Now. Again. And this time, don’t think about Korfax. Don’t think about failure. Think about why you’re here.”

Fandra nodded, closing her eyes, breathing deep.

This time, when she reached for the Light, she thought of Garrick. Of Corin’s smile. Of Talla and Bren standing back-to-back with her in the snow.

The warmth answered—steady, gentle. It bloomed around her hands and held.

“Good,” Tyrosus said quietly. “That’s it. Hold it there.”

The Light didn’t flicker. It didn’t surge. It simply... was. Even as she held it, Korfax’s words echoed in her mind. People die when emotion overrides discipline.

Her hands trembled. The Light wavered.

“Steady,” Tyrosus murmured.

She fought to hold it, but the doubt crept in. What if he was right?

The Light dimmed, then faded.

Fandra lowered her hands, exhausted and frustrated.

Tyrosus said nothing for a moment. Then: “Enough for today. Rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

She nodded, too tired to argue.

As she walked toward the barracks, she couldn’t shake the weight of Korfax’s gaze—or the gnawing fear that he might be right.

***

The following afternoon, Fandra returned to the training hall early. Her muscles ached from the morning session, but sitting idle in the barracks only gave her time to replay Korfax’s words.

People die when emotion overrides discipline.

She needed to practice. Needed to prove—to herself, if no one else—that she could control the Light.

The hall was quieter now, only a handful of aspirants scattered across the stone floor. At the far end, a young man knelt alone, head bowed, shoulders trembling.

Fandra hesitated, then walked closer.

He was younger than her—maybe seventeen, eighteen at most. His hands were pressed to the floor, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white. A faint shimmer of Light flickered around his palms, then died. He gasped, trying again. The Light bloomed brighter this time—too bright. He cried out, jerking his hands back as if burned.

“Easy,” Fandra said, kneeling beside him. “You’re pushing too hard.”

He looked up, eyes red-rimmed and wet. “I can’t—I can’t do it. Every time I try, it hurts or it just… stops.”

She recognized the desperation in his voice. The fear that he wasn’t good enough. That he didn’t belong.

“What’s your name?” she asked gently.

“Davin.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’ve been here two months. Everyone else can hold it steady, but I—” His voice cracked. “Maybe I’m not meant for this.”

Fandra sat back on her heels. “I’ve been here three weeks, and I can’t hold it steady either.”

He blinked at her. “But you fought at the Wrathgate. You’re a veteran. You—”

“I nearly killed myself in the Valley of Echoes trying to use the Light,” she said bluntly. “Lost control completely. So trust me—you’re not alone in this.”

Davin’s shoulders sagged, some of the tension leaving him. “Then why do you keep trying? When it feels like you’ll never get it right?”

Fandra thought for a moment seeing herself in his eyes. “Because, I try for the people at the Wrathgate that couldn’t. The ones that never will. I try for those still to come.” She paused. Tyrosus’s words echoed back: Guide it, don’t command it.

“Stop thinking of it as something you have to force,” she said. “The Light isn’t a tool you pick up. It’s… it responds when you stand for something. When you choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Why you are here. That is for you to answer.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Close your eyes. Don’t reach for the Light—just think about why you came to Light’s Hope in the first place.”

Davin closed his eyes, breathing unsteadily. “My sister. She… she died at Hearthglen. Scourge attack. I couldn’t protect her. I wasn’t strong enough.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Fandra’s throat tightened. “Then don’t try to be strong. Just… remember her. Hold onto why she mattered.”

Davin was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, Light bloomed around his hands—soft, steady, warm. His eyes flew open in shock.

“I—I’m doing it.”

“You are,” Fandra said, smiling. “Now hold it. Don’t force it. Just let it be.”

The Light held for several heartbeats—longer than before. Then it faded gently, like a candle burning down. Davin stared at his hands, wonder replacing despair.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Fandra squeezed his shoulder. “Keep practicing. You’ll get there.”

She stood, turning to leave—

And froze.

Korfax stood in the archway, watching. How long had he been there?

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were cold. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just looked at her—assessing, judging.

Then he turned and walked away.

Fandra’s stomach knotted. She told herself it didn’t matter what he thought. Yet she’d helped Davin find his center—why couldn’t she find her own?

The look in his eyes stayed with her after he was gone.

***

That evening, Fandra sat in the mess with Elara and Mira. The hall buzzed with conversation she barely heard.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Mira observed, slicing bread. “Training go poorly?”

“No, I—” Fandra hesitated. “I helped another aspirant today. Davin. He was struggling, and I just… I showed him how to center himself.”

Elara smiled. “That was kind of you.”

“And yet I can’t center myself. Korfax saw.”

The smile faded. “Ah.”

“What does that mean—’ah’?”

Mira exchanged a glance with Elara, then sighed. “The Brotherhood doesn’t exactly encourage… mentorship. Or compassion, really.”

“I heard him talking to one of his men earlier,” Elara said quietly. “In the corridor outside the library. I don’t think he knew I was there.”

Fandra’s pulse quickened. “What did he say?”

Elara bit her lip. “He said you were soft. That helping others when you haven’t mastered the Light yourself is… reckless. That you’ll get someone killed.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

Fandra set down her fork, appetite gone. “Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not,” Mira said firmly. “You helped that boy today. That matters.”

“Does it? If I can’t control the Light, what good is kindness?”

“Kindness is why we fight,” Mira said. “Without it, we’re just…” She gestured vaguely. “Weapons. And weapons don’t choose who they protect.”

Fandra wanted to believe that. But Korfax’s voice was louder in her mind.

Soft. Reckless. She’ll get someone killed.

She excused herself early, retreating to the barracks. Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

***

Chapter 12 - Surrender

Training fell into routine over the following weeks. Fandra learned the rhythms of Light’s Hope—the hours of practice, the ache in her muscles, the quiet discipline expected of those who trained beneath the Chapel.

She was on her way to the archives when she saw Korfax waiting in the corridor ahead.

He didn’t block her path. He didn’t raise his voice.

“Vane,” he said. “Come with me.”

She hesitated. “Sir?”

He turned, walking away without looking back. “Now.”

She followed.

They descended deeper into the crypts, past the training halls and into a quieter passage where the air was cool and still. The torchlight thinned, shadows stretching long across the stone. At last, Korfax stopped before a series of alcoves carved into the walls—names etched into marble, symbols of the Light worn smooth by time.

Fandra slowed.

“These are paladins,” she said quietly.

“Some of them,” Korfax replied. “Others thought themselves paladins.”

He turned to face her then, his expression unreadable.

“You helped the boy.”

Fandra didn’t deny it. “Yes.”

“You taught him to reach for the Light through memory. Through feeling.”

She nodded once. “He was breaking.”

“So you intervened.” Korfax gestured toward the tombs. “Do you know how many of these did the same?”

Her throat tightened. “No.”

“Neither do I,” he said calmly. “Because no one records hesitation. They only record the dead.”

Silence settled between them.

“You believe compassion is strength,” he continued. “That it steadies the Light. That it gives purpose.”

“I believe people matter,” Fandra said.

Korfax studied her for a moment. “People always matter. Though some are more like feral animals when you see them treat others no better than a dead dog. That’s not the question though.” He turned back to the memorial. “The question is how many you’re willing to lose for that belief.”

She followed his gaze. Names. Dates. Some grouped close together.

“I’ve watched good men freeze because they remembered someone,” he said. “I’ve watched healers hesitate because they hoped. And I’ve buried them afterward.”

His voice never rose.

“The Light is not offended by cruelty,” he went on. “It doesn’t recoil from precision. It responds to clarity. To control.” He looked back at her. “Emotion introduces variables. Variables get people killed.”

Fandra clenched her hands. “So what would you have done? With Davin?”

“I would have let him fail,” Korfax said without hesitation. “If he cannot hold the Light under pressure, he should not wield it at all.”

“And if he breaks?”

“Then he breaks here,” Korfax replied. “Not in the field. Not with others depending on him.”

She shook her head faintly. “You’re asking people to become weapons.”

“No,” he said. “I’m asking them to stop pretending they’re something else.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice—not threatening, but firm.

“You nearly killed yourself in the Valley of Echoes,” he said. “Not because you lacked heart—but because you had no discipline. That is not a flaw I can afford to overlook.”

Her chest tightened. He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.

“You’re here because Tyrosus believes you can learn control,” Korfax continued. “So do I. But if you continue teaching others to rely on feeling—on instinct—you will get someone killed.”

He paused.

“And when that happens,” he said quietly, “their blood will not be on the Scourge’s hands alone.”

The words settled like dust.

“I won’t order you to stop,” Korfax said at last. “That’s not my place.”

He turned away.

“But understand this, Vane: conviction does not protect you from consequence.”

Her hand clenched as she called after him. “You think my hands are clean?”

Her voice broke. “After all I’ve seen, all I’ve done. You think I don’t know consequence!?”

There was no reply. He left her standing among the dead.

***

Fandra stood just inside the threshold, the cold from the deep crypts clinging to her armor like a shroud. She avoided their eyes, her gaze fixed on the empty cot across the room.

Elara looked up from mending a tear in her tunic, her needle pausing mid-stitch. Mira, who was braiding her hair for sleep, caught Elara’s gaze and then turned to Fandra, her expression softening with concern.

“Fandra? You’re back late,” Elara said gently. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. The word was flat, stripped of its usual inflection. “Just tired.”

She moved to her bunk, her movements stiff and economical. She began unbuckling her greaves, her fingers working with a cold precision that was new.

“Here, let me help with that,” Mira offered, rising from her stool.

“I’ve got it,” Fandra replied, not looking up. The dismissal was polite, but it was a dismissal all the same. The finality in her tone was as effective as a slammed door.

A small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese sat on the crate beside her bed, left by Elara. Fandra glanced at it, then away. She continued her task, the scrape of metal on leather the only sound in the sudden quiet.

Elara and Mira exchanged a worried look over her head. The warmth of the room, which had felt so welcoming days before, now felt like an intrusion. Fandra was building a wall around herself, brick by painful brick, and they could only watch as she sealed herself inside.

***

Several days later the last of the aspirants had left an hour ago, their laughter and chatter fading up the stone stairwell. But Fandra remained. She stood in the center of the hall, her breathing slow and even, her eyes closed. She was no longer picturing Garrick’s smile or Corin’s sacrifice. She was counting her breaths. One. Two. Three. Four.

When she reached for the Light, it was not a plea or a prayer. It was a command. A mental lever thrown.

Light. Now.

Golden energy bloomed around her hands, tighter and more focused than ever before. It wasn’t the wild, pulsing warmth she once knew. It was a contained, brilliant beam, like sunlight focused through a lens. It responded instantly, cleanly. There was no pain. No emotional surge. Just… power.

She held it for a full minute, her expression a mask of concentration. Then, just as cleanly, she let it go. The light vanished.

From the archway, Tyrosus watched, his brow furrowed. He had seen her struggle for weeks, her emotions a storm that the Light answered in kind. Now, there was no storm. There was only a machine, executing a function. It was effective. It was disciplined. And it chilled him to the bone. He had wanted her to find control, but this looked like something else entirely. This looked like surrender.

***

In the mess hall, a young aspirant fumbled his tray, sending stew and bread clattering across the floor. He flushed with embarrassment, scrambling to clean it up. In the past, Fandra would have been the first to kneel and help him gather the pieces. Today, she simply stepped around the mess, her tray held steady, and continued to her table without a word. She felt a pang of something—old habit, she told herself—and forced her eyes forward, jaw tight.

Later, in the training hall, she saw Davin struggling again. He knelt on the stone floor, his face a mask of frustration, a weak, sputtering light dying in his palms. He looked up, his eyes catching hers, a desperate plea for the guidance she’d given him before.

Fandra met his gaze. For a moment, she saw Corin’s face in her mind. She felt the old ache of failure. Then Korfax’s voice cut through the memory like ice. You will get someone killed.

She walked over, her boots echoing in the quiet hall. She didn’t kneel. She didn’t offer a kind word.

“Focus,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Stop reaching. Count your breaths. Find the center and command it. Don’t ask for it.”

Davin stared at her, his hope crumbling into confusion. “But… you said—”

“I said what worked then” she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned and walked away, leaving him kneeling in the silence, more alone than before.

She told herself it was discipline. That she was teaching him a lesson that would one day save his life. But as she walked away, the Light within her felt a little colder, a little heavier. A little less hers.

***

The scenario was simple: defend a 'fallen' comrade from a wave of attackers. The 'comrade' was a weighted training dummy, and the 'attackers' were senior paladins using blunt, padded weapons. Fandra stood over the dummy, her shield raised. She was calm. Her focus was absolute. She was a wall.

The first paladin rushed her. She didn’t meet him with emotion or anger. She met him with procedure. A perfect parry, a precise sidestep, a shield bash that sent him stumbling back exactly as the drill dictated. She was flawless. Mechanical.

A second paladin attacked from the flank. She pivoted, her movements clean and efficient, intercepting him without breaking her guard over the dummy. She was a model of Korfax’s ideal warrior. No wasted motion. No emotional hesitation. Just control.

Then came the third. He feinted left, then spun right, aiming not for Fandra, but for the 'wounded' dummy at her feet. It was a trick, a test of her priorities. According to her new doctrine, the primary threat was the paladin. The dummy was secondary. She should engage the attacker, neutralize the threat, and then protect the objective.

She hesitated. For a fraction of a second, her old instincts screamed at her to shield the dummy. But her new training, her fear, overrode it. She turned to face the attacker, her shield coming up to intercept him.

It was the 'right' move. The disciplined move.

But the feint was a double-bluff. The paladin’s spin was a distraction. In the instant she turned, a fourth paladin, hidden behind a pillar, lunged forward. His padded hammer slammed into the training dummy’s head with a loud thwack.

“Objective down!” the training master shouted.

The exercise was over. They had 'lost.'

Fandra stood frozen, her shield still raised against an already-retreated foe. She had done everything 'right.' She had suppressed her instinct, her empathy, her very nature. And because she had chosen control over compassion, she had failed. The cost wasn’t a wild surge of power or a painful backlash. The cost was a quiet, devastating failure.

She looked at her hands, then at the fallen dummy. The realization hit her not like a lightning bolt, but like a slow, creeping chill: Discipline without conviction was just as dangerous as emotion without control. And in trying to remove the risk of caring, she had guaranteed failure.

***

The barracks door creaked open, and Fandra stepped inside. The usual murmur of conversation quieted as several pairs of eyes turned to her. She didn’t see them. She moved to her bunk, her armor feeling heavier than it ever had in battle, each piece a reminder of her failure. She sat, not with the rigid posture she’d adopted for weeks, but with a defeated slump that made her seem smaller.

Her self-imposed exile had blown up in her face. She had built a fortress of discipline, only to find it was a prison with no food, no water, and no way out.

Mira was the first to move. She crossed the room with a quiet grace, her expression not of pity, but of concern. She sat on the edge of the bunk, the mattress dipping slightly, and gently wrapped an arm around Fandra’s shoulders.

“Fandra... what’s going on?” she asked softly.

Fandra flinched at the touch, then seemed to collapse into it. The wall she had so carefully built finally crumbled. A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the grime on her cheek.

“I..can’t...” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I can’t do it. I can’t be disciplined at the expense of others.”

Elara came to stand by the bunk, her arms crossed but her face open. “What happened in training?”

“I did everything right,” Fandra said, her voice thick with a frustration so deep it bordered on despair. “I was calm. I was controlled. I followed procedure. And because I did...” her voice trailed off. “It was a dummy, but I made a choice that had it been real...”

She shook her head, staring at her gauntleted hands. “I tried to be what they wanted. What he wanted. I tried to stop feeling.”

Her breath hitched, and a memory surfaced, sharp and clear as the day it was spoken. Talla’s voice, a warning against the very walls of this place. “Light’s Hope will try to tell you what and who you are... Don’t let them define you.”

Fandra looked up, her eyes meeting Mira’s, then Elara’s. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow.

“Talla told me,” she said, the name a ghost in the quiet room. “Before I left. She told me they would try to change me. That I shouldn’t let them...and I let them. I helped.” She let out a short, bitter laugh that was half a sob.

She buried her face in her hands, the armor on her gauntlets cold against her skin. “I tried to kill the part of me that cares, and all I did was make myself useless. I can’t be the weapon Korfax wants. And I’m terrified I can’t be the shield I promised my father I would be.”

Mira tightened her arm around her, pulling her closer. “You don’t have to be a weapon, Fandra,” she said, her voice firm and steady. “And you don’t have to be a shield. You just have to be you. That’s enough.”

For the first time in weeks, Fandra didn’t pull away. She just leaned into the comfort, letting the truth of Mira’s words settle over her. It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t an answer. But in the suffocating silence of her failure, it was air.

***

Chapter 13 - Conviction

The library beneath Light’s Hope was quiet, lit by oil lamps that cast warm pools of light across ancient texts. Fandra sat at a long table, a libram open before her—On the Nature of the Light by Archbishop Alonsus Faol.

She’d read the same passage three times and couldn’t remember a word.

Her mind kept returning to the training hall. To Davin’s face when she’d walked away. The confusion. The hurt.

“But… you said—”

“I said what worked then.”

She closed the book with a soft thud, pressing her palms against her eyes. She’d been trying to find answers in these pages—about discipline, about control, about what the Light demanded. But every line blurred under the weight of what she’d done.

She couldn’t study her way out of guilt.

She stood, leaving the libram on the table.

***

Fandra found Davin in the training hall, practicing alone. His Light flickered weakly around his hands—struggling, just as he had been weeks ago. He didn’t notice her approach until her shadow fell across the floor.

He looked up, and his expression shuttered. Guarded.

“Davin,” she said quietly. “Can I… can we talk?”

He let the Light fade, standing slowly. “I’m busy.”

“I know. I just—” She took a breath. “I owe you an apology.”

He didn’t respond, just watched her with wary eyes.

Fandra stepped closer, not reaching for him, just… present. “A few days ago, when you were struggling, I told you to stop reaching. To command the Light instead of asking for it.”

Davin’s jaw tightened. “You did.”

“That was wrong.” The words came easier than she’d expected. “Not just the advice—though that was wrong too. But the way I said it. The way I treated you.”

She looked down at her hands. “You trusted me. You asked for help. And I was cold because I was… afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That someone was right about me. That compassion makes me weak. That caring gets people killed.” She met his eyes. “So I tried to stop caring. And all I did was hurt you.”

Davin was quiet for a long moment. “You helped me before,” he said finally. “When I thought I couldn’t do it. You showed me how.”

“I know. And I should have heeded my own advice.”

“So what changed?”

Fandra exhaled slowly. “I let someone convince me that helping you was a mistake. That I should have let you fail on your own. And I believed him.”

She shook her head. “But I was wrong. Helping you wasn’t a mistake. Walking away from you was.”

Davin studied her face, searching for something. “Do you still believe that? That I should command the Light?”

“No.” The answer was immediate. “The Light may answer commands. But commanding the Light means little if it means hurting those you are meant to protect. You know why you’re here—your sister. Hold onto that. That’s what matters.”

He nodded slowly, some of the guardedness easing. “I’ve been trying to do what you said. It doesn’t work.”

“I know. I’m sorry. A friend told me to not let myself be changed. And I failed to remember that.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Davin let out a breath, his shoulders dropping. “Apology accepted.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t do it again,” he added, a faint hint of humor in his voice.

Fandra managed a small smile. “I won’t. I promise.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “Davin? The Light answered you when you remembered your sister. Don’t let any-one—including me—tell you that’s wrong.”

He nodded. “I won’t.”

As she walked away, the weight on her chest had lifted—not entirely, but enough to breathe. The Light felt warmer, not stronger...a comforting reassurance.

***

Fandra returned to the library, the guilt no longer clouding her thoughts. She sat at the table, opening the libram again.

This time, the words came into focus.

“The Light is not a force to be commanded, but a pres-ence to be invited. It responds to conviction—to the clarity of purpose that comes when one chooses to stand, even in dark-ness.”

She thought of Garrick, pulling her from the mud. He hadn’t commanded the Light to bless his choice. He’d simply made it, and the Light had answered.

She thought of Corin, stepping between her and the cleaver. No hesitation. No calculation. Just choice.

She thought of Halbrecht, pushing her from the dragonfire. Mercy offered when hatred would have been easier.

And she thought of Davin, just now, accepting her apology. Choosing to trust again. Fandra pulled out parchment and began to write—not to study, but to clarify. To articulate what she’d learned through failure and blood and the kindness of others.

Discipline without compassion is just precision. It can strike, but it cannot protect. It can destroy, but it cannot save.

Compassion without discipline is reckless. It can wound as easily as it heals. It can endanger those it seeks to protect.

But together—discipline AND compassion—they be-come something greater. A shield that stands not because it must, but because it chooses to.

She set down the quill, reading what she’d written.

This was her answer.

***

A few days later Fandra was shaken awake. Mira, Elara and the other women were already getting dressed. “Come on, you don’t want to be late for the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” Fandra asked.

Mira laid Fandra’s clothes and armor out for her. “Yes. Aspirants are tested and formally recognized today.”

“Oh. Right.” Fandra nodded sitting up. “I...guess I have had a lot on my mind.” In truth, she did not expect to be among them. Not after her mistakes. Not when these women had trained here far longer than she had.

The women she had lived with filed out of the bar-racks. Fandra lingered quietly. Mira looked over her shoulder.

“Something wrong?”

Fandra shook her head before giving a small smile. “No, everything is ok”

“Well, come on then.” Mira grasped Fandra’s hand, pulling her along as the women filed toward the assembly hall.

***

The assembly hall was larger than Fandra had imagined—a vaulted chamber deep within the crypts, its walls lined with banners of the Silver Hand and the Argent Crusade. Braziers burned at intervals, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Paladins filled the hall—veterans in scarred armor, aspirants in polished steel, priests and trainers standing along the edges. At the far end, Lord Tyrosus stood on a raised platform, his single eye scanning the assembled crowd.

Beside him, Tirion Fordring watched quietly, his arms crossed, expression calm.

Fandra filed in with the other women, finding a place near the middle of the gathered aspirants. Her heart was steady. She was here to support them—Mira, Elara, the others who had trained for months. They deserved this.

She didn’t.

“Aspirants,” Tyrosus’s voice rang out, silencing the murmurs. “Today, we recognize those among you who have demonstrated not only skill, but conviction. The Light does not answer ability alone. It answers purpose.”

He gestured to a young man at the front. “Step forward, Brennan of Stormwind.”

Brennan approached, kneeling before Tyrosus. The hall fell silent.

“Brennan,” Tyrosus said, placing a hand on his shoul-der. “Why do you seek to wield the Light?”

“To defend those who cannot defend themselves, my lord.” His voice was steady.

“Then show us.”

Brennan closed his eyes. A moment passed—then golden light bloomed around his hands, steady and warm. It wasn’t bright or dramatic. It simply… was. The hall remained quiet as the Light held, then gently faded.

Tyrosus nodded. “Rise, Paladin of the Silver Hand.”

Brennan stood, eyes wet, and stepped aside to murmured congratulations.

***

One by one, aspirants were called. Each knelt. Each was asked why. Each summoned the Light.

Fandra watched, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. Pride, maybe. Or longing.

“Mira of Stormwind.”

Fandra’s breath caught. Mira stepped forward, calm and graceful. When the Light bloomed around her, it was soft and steady—exactly like her. Fandra smiled despite herself.

“Elara of Westfall.”

Elara’s Light flickered at first, then strengthened. She held it longer than Brennan had, her face serene.

Fandra clapped softly with the others, her throat tight. They deserved this. All of them.

The ceremony continued. Names called. Lights kin-dled. Each one a small flame against the darkness.

Fandra shifted her weight, glancing toward the exit. She could slip out now. No one would notice. She’d done what she came to do—support her friends. She didn’t need to—

“Fandra Vane of Westfall”

Her stomach dropped.

The hall went quiet. Heads turned.

She stood frozen, certain she’d misheard. But Tyrosus was looking directly at her, his expression unreadable.

“Step forward, Fandra Vane.”

Fandra caught the gaze of Davin. It wasn’t fair, he had trained longer than she had. Yet, a smile of encouragement was etched upon his face as he gave a subtle nod.

Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She walked through the parted crowd, every eye on her.

Mira gave her an encouraging nod. Elara smiled.

But Fandra’s heart hammered. This was wrong. She wasn’t ready. She’d failed.

She reached the platform and knelt, her hands shaking.

Tyrosus looked down at her, his single eye sharp but not unkind. “Fandra Vane,” he said, his voice carrying across the hall. “Why do you seek to—”

Tyrosus’s words were interrupted abruptly.

“A moment, Lord Tyrosus.” Korfax’s voice cut across the hall. He stepped forward from the assembled paladins, his expres-sion grave. “I must speak.”

Murmurs rippled through the gathering. Tyrosus’s jaw tightened. “Crusade Commander Korfax. You have something to say?”

Korfax turned to face the assembly, not Fandra. “I do. The oaths we take as paladins are sacred. They demand discipline, sacrifice, and unwavering conviction. I question whether this woman possesses those qualities.”

“I do not question her courage. She fought at the Wrathgate. She survived the Valley of Echoes. But survival is not the same as worthiness.”

He gestured toward Fandra. “In the Valley of Echoes, she nearly destroyed herself attempting to shield her companions. A noble sentiment—but reckless. She lost control. She gave in to emotion, to desperation. And in doing so, she nearly killed herself and left those she sought to protect defenseless.”

Fandra swallowed as her hands clenched.

He paused, letting his words settle. “The Light is a responsibility. One that demands discipline and control.”

Korfax turned back to Tyrosus. “A Paladin who falls saves no one. I have seen too many fall because they placed compassion above duty. Mercy above necessity. If we continue to accept those who cannot master their emotions, we will fail. And we cannot afford to fail.”

Tyrosus looked at Korfax and then to Fandra. “Have you anything to say in response Aspirant Vane?”

“I do.” Fandra said spreading her arms in an open gesture. “He’s right. I did nearly destroy myself trying to protect my friends.”

“Commander Korfax says compassion is weakness—that mercy gets people killed.” She spread her arms. “If that is true, then I stand here because of weakness. Because Garrick Vane chose mercy when others would have left me to die.”

Her voice dropped, but somehow carried further. “I have learned discipline, control. But I will not learn indifference.” She paused, her gaze finding Davin in the crowd. “I learned where that road leads.”

She met Korfax’s eyes then. “You’ve seen more battles than I ever will. You’ve lost more than I can imagine. And your strength has kept people alive. I honor that.”

Her voice firmed. “But I will not compromise who I am. And if that makes me unworthy in your eyes—” She turned back to Tyrosus. “—then let the Light itself decide.”

Fandra knelt before them all. Her eyes closed and a hush fell over the chamber. She said nothing. Her mind recalled all those that had brought her to this moment. Her father and namesake. Halbrecht. Corin. Talla. Bren. Mira. Elara. Davin. All had shaped her into the woman that now kneeled.

Korfax, Tirion and Tyrosus fixed her with intense gazes. Their eyes searching for a potential spark.

Fandra’s body seemed to shimmer. It was faint at first. Her body felt the familiar warmth she had come to recognize. It enveloped her like a warm blanket, then began to expand.

Korfax’s eyes narrowed, his hand tensing as it gripped the hilt of his sword.

Tyrosus looked at Korfax quietly shaking his head before looking back to Fandra.

Tirion meanwhile rubbed his chin with interest.

The energy continued to swell bathing the chamber in radiant light. Warmth spread to every corner, touching everyone assembled. She felt them—not as weight, but as connection.

Fandra stood up opening her eyes. Her once blue hues now glowing with an amber hue. The light that shone within them was steady. Clear. The energy was not consuming her, it was embracing her. Where once she had buckled, she now stood firm, mind and body at peace.

She closed her eyes, hands over her chest. The light receded as softly as it had risen. Measured. Calm. Korfax’s hand lowered from his sword.

Fandra’s eyes opened, the soft golden glow receding, giving way to her blue eyes.

No one moved.

Then, slowly, armor shifted. A whisper broke the stillness.

Tyrosus looked again to Korfax who inclined his head once. Tyrosus let the silence linger before speaking. “Commander Korfax speaks truth. Power without control is danger. But control without mercy is not the Light. Balance is the wisdom we are sworn to seek.” Tyrosus turned to Korfax.

“Would you disagree?”

Korfax paused inclining his head slightly.

Tyrosus turned to Tirion Fordring who nodded before continuing. “Aspirant, Fandra Vane,” he said at last, “stand as a Paladin of the Silver Hand.”

***

The assembly began to disperse. Fandra caught Korfax’s eye across the hall.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head—not in approval, but in acknowledgment.

She returned the gesture.

Without a word, he turned and walked from the hall.

Mira and Elara were the first to reach her, wrapping her in embraces. Davin grinned from across the hall, relief clear on his face.

Fandra looked down at her hands—still hers, still steady. The warmth lingered, but it was calm now. Certain.

She had found her answer. The Light had answered in return.

***

A few days later... Fandra was packing her belongings in the barracks. Mira smiled pulling her into a hug before stepping back. “I wish you could stay”

Fandra smiled softly. “A friend told me...where there is a meeting, a parting is sure to follow. That parting needn’t be forever.” She closed her eyes. “I will return someday.”

Elara in turn also gave Fandra a hug. “You have been like a sister to us. Go find your friends. Bring them along when you return.”

Fandra smiled. “I will do that.”

Elara stepped back with Mira who now held a wrapped package. “From us,” Mira said holding the package out.

Fandra blinked, a bit taken aback, as she opened the wrap. Her breath caught. It was the small, polished mirror they had used when they cleaned her hair.

Mira smiled. “When you see yourself in the mirror, we hope you remember the girl you came to us as. See the woman you’ve become. And remember us.”

Fandra’s thumb traced the cool, smooth edge of the mirror. She looked from her own reflection to the faces of her friends, her vision blurring slightly. “I will,” She whispered pulling them both back into a warm embrace. “I always will.”

She exited the barracks wiping her eyes and rounding the corner when she heard Davin, “Fan—I mean...Lady Vane!”

Her eyes widened a bit as she stopped. “Lady?”

He nodded “Yes, it’s your title now is it not?”

Fandra laughed. “Oh Davin, Stop. You make me feel old. Fandra will do fine alright? I hope we are a bit closer than titles?”

Davin gave a small grin. “Aye, forgive me...Fandra. I just wanted to thank—”

She held up a hand. “You don’t need to thank me. Just...remember what I said. Be true to yourself.”

“I will” He said with a nod, shaking her hand.

Ascending the stone stairway, she exited the chapel to the grounds above once more.

As Fandra walked across the courtyard, her pack slung over her shoulder, she saw him. Lord Tyrosus stood by the main gate, looking out at the scarred landscape of the Plaguelands. He didn’t turn as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her. “It’s a grim view,” she said, stopping beside him.

“It is,” Tyrosus agreed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “And a grim world, but it is not without its bright spots.” He said turning towards her. His single eye clear and sharp. “Someone has to be willing to walk away from it, to build something better in the places it has already touched. And protect those it hasn’t.”

Fandra met his gaze. “I’m going home.”

“Good,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “A fortress needs walls, but a home needs a heart. You have a good one.” He looked past her, toward the chapel entrance. “There is a time for the sword, but it takes a heart to wield it.” He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrosus,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Tyrosus,” he corrected her gently, his hand squeezing her shoulder once before letting go. “Go on. The road is waiting.”

He gave her a final, respectful nod, then turned back to his vigil on the wall.

Fandra headed toward the stable and mounted her horse taking a deep breath. Riding through the great stone gate, she left the sanctuary of Light’s Hope behind. She paused and looked back. The chapel stood as a silent beacon in the wastes. She lifted the small mirror from her pack. Her own face—clear, determined, and whole—was framed against the bleak, gray sky. Against the desolate sky, the reflection seemed brighter than the world itself.

***

Chapter 14 - Homecoming

Weeks had passed on the road as she retraced her steps that had taken her to Light’s Hope. She guided her horse through Elwynn back to Westfall.

Approaching her home, it looked forlorn, abandoned. She stopped outside tying her horse to the fence. The door to the house hung off its hinges. It had been looted. Scanning the interior there was little left of the furnishings that had once made it home. Her footsteps were heavy as she moved to the backyard where her father rested. His warhammer had been left where she had placed it. She kneeled quietly closing her eyes as if telling her father she was home.

She stood after a moment and made her way back to her horse, but paused when she saw people heading towards Sentinel Hill. They looked forlorn, unkempt and disheveled.

Fandra grabbed her horse by the reins and walked a short distance to the road. “Excuse me...what’s going on?”

An older man looked at her. “What do you care in your shining armor? Where were you when we needed you?”

Fandra looked down. The accusation hurt. How could they know. How could anyone. She steeled herself and tried again. “I grew up here. That was my home.” She said indicating the forlorn house.

The old man eyed her warily. “The Vane place?” His brow furrowed. “Thought the girl ran off or…” his voiced trailed off. His gaze drifted to her ears.

“Yes...that’s me. Fandra Vane.” The old man seemed to relax a bit. “Damn shame.” He looked at her armor again. “Silver Hand…?”

She nodded. “Please tell me what happened.”

The old man shook his head. “Argh, many of these folks have been displaced by the war in Northrend. Takes money to fight a war. Taxes have bled them dry. Can’t pay, you lose your home… go hungry.”

She had seen corpses burned by dragonfire. She had not seen empty cupboards. The war reached well beyond the icy shores of Northrend.

“Picked a poor time to return home, eh?” he muttered, shouldering his bundle and trudging toward Sentinel Hill.

As she turned to mount her horse, she noticed a young boy watching her.

She paused and pulled her rucksack from her saddle. The boy shrank back as she approached.

Fandra knelt so they were eye level. She found a piece of bread and held it out.

The boy glanced around nervously before snatching it and clutching it to his chest.

Fandra smiled softly. “My name is Fandra Vane. What’s yours, little one?”

The boy swallowed his mouthful before answering. “Tomas.”

“Where are your parents, Tomas?”

He hesitated, eyes drifting toward the road. “Ma’s in Sentinel Hill. Pa…” His voice trailed off. “Pa went north.”

Fandra didn’t press further. She knew what 'north' meant. Her eyes closed briefly. She rose slowly and extended her hand. “Come Tomas. I’ll escort you to your Mother.”

The boy looked at her armor again, at the crest of the Silver Hand etched into steel. Then he placed his small hand in hers. She lifted him and put him in her saddle and took the reins of her horse and walked alongside.

The wind moved through the dry fields, bending the tall grass in waves. Refugees passed them, giving her wary glances, then softer ones when they saw the child in her saddle.

Sentinel Hill rose ahead, its tower silhouetted against the evening sky. Fandra guided her horse through the growing crowd, Tomas still perched above her.

At the edge of the refugee camp, a woman’s voice cut through the murmur—sharp with fear, then breaking with relief.

“Tomas!”

The boy twisted in the saddle. “Ma!”

Fandra helped him down. He ran to his mother, who dropped to her knees and pulled him into a fierce embrace. The woman looked up at Fandra, eyes red-rimmed, face hollow with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Fandra nodded, throat tight. She wanted to promise protection. But the words wouldn’t come. Not yet.

She turned back toward the road, scanning the faces of the displaced. So many. Too many for one person.

But not for three.

Talla had told her to find them when she returned. Bren had made her promise.

Fandra mounted her horse, adjusting her pack. Stormwind wasn’t far. And somewhere in that city, some clue as to her friends’ whereabouts.

***

Chapter 15- Reunion

Stormwind rose before her, its white towers cutting sharp against the evening sky. The city hummed with life—merchants calling their wares, guards changing shifts, refugees streaming through the gates alongside her.

The tall spires of the Cathedral resonated with the tolling of bells. “The Lich King is dead!” shouted a town crier as she passed.

Cheers erupted from the square.

Fandra did not join them. She had imagined this moment a hundred times in Northrend. It felt smaller than she expected.

As she moved through the narrow streets, she saw notices being hammered to shop doors, announcing the death of Arthas. She paused before turning her attention back to the Cathedral. A woman wept openly beside the fountain — whether from relief or grief, Fandra could not tell.

Fandra dismounted at the stables near the Trade District, paying the boy who took her horse’s reins. She adjusted her pack, scanning the crowd.

Where to start?

The Argent Crusade maintained an embassy near the Cathedral District. The same embassy that had recruited her. Military records. Discharge papers. Someone would know where soldiers from the Vanguard had been sent.

Or she could try the taverns. Soldiers always found their way to taverns.

She decided to start her search at the embassy.

She entered the Cathedral district. A small group of children ran past her almost running into her. She gave a small smile before passing the Orphanage and behind it the Argent Embassy.

The guards nodded in respect to her.

“Head on in my lady,” said one of the guards.

Arthas was dead.

The dead would not celebrate.

She nodded in thanks walking inside. Her eyes scanned the orderly interior. Banners hanging from its walls. Shelves lined with books, and scrolls of records and reports.

“Evening Lady..?”

Fandra was tempted to ask if she looked like a lady, but refrained. “Vane, Fandra Vane.”

“How may I help you Lady Vane?”

“I am looking for two soldiers. They were stationed with me at the Argent Vanguard.”

His eyes widened. “The Argent Vanguard? You were there during...” He trailed off, glancing at her armor, the Silver Hand crest. “Of course. My apologies, Lady Vane. Who are you looking for?”

“A dwarf named Bren Ironhammer, and a night elf, Talla Nightwhisper. They served in the Valley of Echoes campaign.”

The clerk nodded, moving to a filing cabinet. “Let me check the discharge records.” He rifled through papers, muttering names under his breath.

“Bren Brassbellow, deceased.”

Fandra’s breath caught.

He continued searching.

“Ironhammer—Bren Ironhammer, Dwarf Warrior, Argent Vanguard.” He pulled the file and searched a bit more. “And Nightwhisper—Talla, Scout. Argent Vanguard, forward reconnaissance.” He scanned the documents, then frowned.

“Problem?” Fandra asked.

“No discharge record for either of them. They’re still listed as active.” He looked up. “Could just be the records haven’t come in yet. Or they could have—”

Fandra’s stomach dropped. “Don’t say it.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. Even with portals and magic, record keeping takes time. Have faith. Jus’ because they aren’t listed here doesn’t mean they haven’t mustered out. The ship could have even arrived before the record reaches me.”

“I know, sorry. I’ve come too far to think otherwise. If you see them, could you tell them Fandra Vane is looking for them?”

“I will do that my lady. Oh! you might try the taverns about. Lots of soldiers passing through stop in for a drink. Might be worth a shot?”

“Where is the closest tavern?” She asked.

“Ah, that’d be the Pig N’ Whistle. Finest Dwarven stout in Stormwind. You should try the Thunderbrew. Or if you are feeling real adventurous, the Sulfuron Slammer.”

Fandra smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, where can I find the Pig N’ Whistle?”

“Trade District. Can’t miss it.” The clerk smiled. “Go find your friends, Lady Vane.”

***

The Pig N’ Whistle was loud and warm, thick with the smell of ale and roasted meat. Fandra pushed through the crowd, her armor drawing a few glances. Her eyes scanned every face—dwarves, humans, even a few night elves in the corner.

None of them were Bren or Talla.

She made her way to the bar, catching the innkeeper’s eye. He was a broad-shouldered man with a stained apron and tired eyes.

“Evening, miss—er, my lady.” He corrected himself when he saw her armor. “What can I get you?”

“I’m looking for two soldiers. A dwarf named Bren Ironhammer and a night elf, Talla Nightwhisper. Do you know them?”

Recognition flickered across his face. “Aye, I know ‘em. The dwarf’s hard to miss—loud as a thunderstorm, that one. And the night elf’s quiet as a shadow.” He glanced around the crowded room. “Haven’t seen ‘em since yesterday.”

Fandra’s heart sank. “Do you know where I can find them?”

“Not off the top of my head. They come in most evenings, but—” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “Wait. Hold on.” He disappeared into the back room.

Fandra waited, hands gripping the edge of the bar.

The barkeep returned with a folded piece of parchment. “They left this. Few days ago. Said if a half-elf paladin came looking for them, to give her this.” He held it out. “That’d be you, I’m guessing?”

Fandra took it with unsteady hands. “Thank you.”

She moved to a quieter corner and unfolded the note. The handwriting was rough but clear:

Fan—

If yer readin’ this, then by the Light ye made it. Heard rumors about a half-elf at Light’s Hope. Figured it had ta be you. We’re stayin’ at the Gilded Rose, Trade District. Room 3, upstairs. If we’re not there, we’re likely at the Pig N’ Whistle again, or wanderin’ the square like fools. Don’t make us wait too long, lass.

—B

P.S. - Talla says to tell ye she knew ye’d come back. I told her she was bein’ sentimental. She hit me.

Fandra’s vision blurred. She pressed the note to her chest, throat tight.

They were alive. They were here. They’d been waiting for her. She folded the note carefully, tucking it into her pack, and headed for the door.

***

Fandra walked back the way she had come to the Trade District. She entered the Gilded Rose where Innkeeper Allison greeted all travelers, never seeming to age. “Evening, can I help you?”

Fandra nodded. “Room 3?”

“Up the stairs 2nd door on the right.”

Fandra’s heavy boots thumped upon the steps as she climbed them to the floor above. Approaching the door she raised her fist—hesitating. She took a breath before knocking .

She could hear footsteps inside and animated shouting. A gruff Dwarven voice. “If that’s the innkeep again—.” Bren’s voice grumbled.

The door opened and there stood Talla, her eyes widening in recognition. Silence fell.

Bren, behind her, said “Tell ‘em we’ll pay in the mornin’—” Looking over his shoulder he fell silent before stepping into view—and stopped.

Bren found his voice. “...By the Light.”

Talla choked up a bit. “Told you she would return.”

Bren crossed the room in two strides. “Its good ta’ see ye, lass!”

Talla smiled holding Fandra by the shoulders. “Let me get a look at you!” She looked her up and down. “You cleaned up well. I almost didn’t recognize you without the mud.”

“I had some help.” Fandra replied with a smile. “And I remembered what you told me.”

Talla smiled softly. “You’re different. I don’t see the timid girl that left us.”

Bren pulled Fandra into a fierce embrace, before being joined by Talla.

Fandra laughed — and then her vision blurred. She tightened her grip around them.

“I’m home,” she whispered.

“That’s cause fer a celebration!” Bren said pulling both of them along. “And a Drink...or two!”

***

The three friends had made their way to the Pig N’ Whistle and found a corner table.

Talla studied her face her lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “You became what you said you would.”

Bren wiped his eyes with his beard. “Ach, look at us, blubberin’ like wee bairns. Sit down, lass! Drinks! We need drinks!”

“So,” Bren said, leaning back. “Paladin, eh? Silver Hand an’ all?”

Fandra nodded. “Light’s Hope. It’s... a long story.”

“We got time,” Talla said quietly.

So Fandra told them. Not everything—that would take all night—but the important parts. The journey south. Andorhal. Light’s Hope. The training. Korfax. The ceremony.

When she finished, Bren whistled low. “Ach, lass. Ye did it. Ye actually did it.”

“What about you two?” Fandra asked. “What happened after I left?”

Talla’s expression darkened slightly. “We stayed at the Vanguard for another month. More skirmishes. Nothing like the Valley.” She paused. “Our enlistment came up. We... didn’t re-up.”

Bren nodded. “Figured we’d done our bit. Time ta let someone else hold the line.”

“And then?” Fandra asked.

“Came here,” Bren said with a shrug. “Been tryin’ ta figure out what comes next. Heard rumors about a half-elf paladin at Light’s Hope. Thought... maybe...”

“It was worth hoping,” Talla finished.

Fandra’s chest tightened. “I’m glad you waited.”

“So what brings ye back?” Bren asked. “Thought ye’d be at Light’s Hope, all official-like.”

Fandra’s expression sobered. “I went home. Westfall.” She told them about the refugees, the displacement, Tomas and his mother. “There’s too much to do. Too many people who need help. I can’t do it alone.”

She looked between them. “I need you. Both of you.”

Bren and Talla exchanged a glance.

Then Bren grinned. “Thought ye’d never ask, lass.”

Talla’s lips curved. “When do we leave?”

Fandra nodded. “First Light.”

***

Epilogue

The fields of Westfall did not change overnight. The wind still carried dust. The earth still bore the scars of neglect. But where weeds had once claimed the furrows, new rows had been turned. Where fences had fallen, fresh posts stood upright against the sky.

Bren wiped his brow with the back of his arm, squinting at the crooked line of planks he’d just nailed into place.

“Ye call that straight?” He barked at no one in particular.

Talla, crouched nearby with a brace of rabbits at her side, didn’t look up. “It will hold.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Bren muttered, though the corner of his beard twitched.

Beyond them, smoke curled gently from the farmhouse chimney.

Fandra stood at the edge of the field, gloved hands resting on her hips, watching a pair of displaced farmers work beside Tomas and two other children. The boy laughed as he struggled to carry a bucket too large for him, water sloshing over the rim.

Weeks ago, she had carried him to Sentinel Hill.

Now he ran through her father’s fields as if they had always been his.

The farm had become more than home. Wagons came and went daily — bringing lumber, tools, seed. Talla hunted in the mornings and taught the older children how to track in the afternoons. Bren had traded his axe for a hammer, declaring himself master of 'structural integrity.'

And Fandra—

Fandra worked.

Not as a commander. Not as a symbol.

As hands in soil. As shoulders beneath beams. As shield between weary farmers and the occasional band of desperate thieves who thought the farm an easy mark.

The Light did not blaze here as it had in the chapel.

It lingered quieter.

In shared bread.

In mended walls.

In laughter that did not sound forced.

As the sun dipped lower, casting Sentinel Hill in amber light, Fandra walked to the back of the house.

Garrick’s grave remained untouched.

The warhammer still stood where she had left it months ago, its head weathered but steadfast.

She knelt.

Not in grief this time.

Just in acknowledgment.

“We’re rebuilding,” she said softly. “Not just the house.”

Footsteps approached behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who they were.

Bren cleared his throat. “Lass, if ye kneel much longer I’ll assume ye’re prayin’ for straighter fence posts.”

Talla’s hand rested briefly on Fandra’s shoulder.

Warm. Steady.

Fandra rose.

The three of them stood together, looking out over the fields as lanterns flickered to life one by one.

The land was still scarred, but it was no longer empty.

Fandra rested her hand on the worn haft of the hammer, not to lift it. Not yet.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

For now, there was work.

There was food on the table. There were voices in the house behind her that had long been silent.

There was family.

The wind moved through the growing wheat in soft waves.

For the first time in a long while, Fandra did not feel as though she was chasing the Light.

She felt it standing beside her.

***