#chapter summary for 2nd Temple lit

[asinglesock]

Translating in 1 Corinthians today <3

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

They're Mates - with Y/N Pt 3

Summary - Y/N decides she wants to learn to fly again.

Warnings/Other Notes - This one is in 2nd person pov because the first two chapters were looking at Y/N and Az’s relationship from a source not within their relationship. 2k word chapter- Again, some of these lines/plot points are inspired by, or directly quoted from, ACOMAF. This chapter takes place prior to the first two chapters.

Injury mentioned, though not super graphically. Reader relives/remembers having her wings cut.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Masterlist

✨💫

You could feel the blade cutting into your wings. Tears spilled down your face as you screamed in pain, begging the Mother to make it stop. You were never going to fly again. The one thing that brought you unending joy, your only source of freedom, was being taken away.

“Y/N?”

The edges of your memories blurred. That voice, you recognized that voice.

“Y/N?!”

That sweet, honey-like voice called you. Something in you warmed and the pain lessened. Like you were basking in the sun.

“Y/N!”

You shot up in bed, your legs tangled in the sheets. A cold sweat dripped down your face and that same smooth voice kept saying something, but your mind was still catching up and couldn’t process them, not right now. Your chest rose and fell rapidly and then there were hands cupping your face. Not those smooth hands in the romance novels, but hands with bravery and adventure etched into them. Hands that felt like home. Your eyes shot up to meet a pair of hazel ones. Azriel.

“You’re safe. I’m here, your safe. Your father can’t touch you anymore,” the shadowsinger whispered to you. 

You nodded and leaned forward to wrap your arms around him. He reciprocated. You chased away the nightmare, remembering where you were. I’m here with Azriel. With Cassian, and Rhysand. With Rhys’s mother. Az saved you. Your arms tightened slightly around the shadowsinger, burrying your face into his muscular shoulder. His shadows curled around the both of you. His scent felt like home. The same scent that you had become familiar with every time you fell asleep, the one still lingering in the bedding when you woke up and he was gone off to train, with a promise to come back in time for dinner.

Sharing a bed with the Illyrian didn’t start right away, not on purpose. It just happened one night. Azriel never made it back to his own bed, instead he fell asleep comforting you from the same nightmare. Then it became purposeful, falling asleep and not returning to his own chambers. And one night the shadowsinger didn’t even bother finding his way into his own bed, Az just went straight to yours. You certainly didn’t mind and Rhys’s mother never said anything.

“Azriel?” You asked against his shoulder.

He placed the gentlest kiss to your temple. One that reminded you of a waltz you heard one day in Velaris. “Yes?”

You lifted your eyes to look at Az’s face. “What if I never fly again?” Your chest started heaving again. You broke away from the shadowsinger and looked away. It felt like someone had lit a fire inside you. Not one that someone makes to keep you warm on an incredibly chilly night, but a fire started out of malice, one to kill and destroy.

Azriel’s features became softer, contemplative if that was at all possible. “Impossible…because I’ll teach you.” 

Your eyes shot up to his face. “Are you…certain? Do you not need to train? I don’t—”

“I would spend the rest of my life in that damned cell for you again, Y/N.” He paused. “Don’t think I wouldn’t teach you to fly. Unlike Cass and Rhys I remember learning. Both of them would tell you to just flap your wings. I understand the fears and mental blocks of being older.”

You let out the softest laugh, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead. “Thank you, Azriel.”

He nodded in his silence, considering something a moment. Az stood from the bed, his pants sitting low on his hips as he disappeared into the washroom and reappeared a few moments later with a damp cloth. “May I?”

You nodded and he gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead, making the sweat disappear as if it had never happened. His shadows flitted through your hair. Whispering to you. Care. Care. Care.

The shadowsinger tried to call them back, but they had a mind of their own, especially around you. You chuckled lightly. Silly little guys, acting like a bunch of toddlers. When Az decided he had done a sufficient job of wiping your face he pressed another kiss to your forehead before hanging the cloth to dry and returned. 

You were lying down in the bed when he returned. He climbed in next to you before pulling you against him. You both fell asleep and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

The following day you went into Velaris with Rhysand’s mother to run a few errands. Her skills as a seamstress were impressive and she used it as an opportunity to occupy a portion of her time. You stopped at your favorite bakery to pick up a few things for dinner that evening. You also found a used book on diplomacy that was on sale. Rhys’s mother kindly bought it for you; well maybe more for Azriel’s shadow who seemed desperately intrigued with it. When you returned home, to your surprise, Trouble, More Trouble, and Too Much Trouble, were already there. (Nicknames you had aptly given to Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian.)

Too Much Trouble grinned when he saw you and clapped his brother on the back. “This one here got us kicked out early today for starting not one, not two, but three fights. I mean he looked like death coming to collect souls for the next life. Don’t insult, Y/N!!”

“Shut up, Cassian,” Rhys said, giving a pointed look.

“You weren’t any use, Cassian,” Azriel growled back while shoving his brother’s hand away from his shoulder. Az had a black eye and dried blood along his cheek bone. He didn’t meet your gaze but his shadows happily slithered over to you. Protect, Protect, Protect, they whispered to you. Then you understood the shadows’ need to be near you, hovering. The reason why you had a shadow over your shoulder since Az saved you from your father. A form of protection, something to keep you safe, something to report back to the shadowsinger if you were in danger. 

And that’s exactly what Azriel had done earlier that day. Defended you without remorse. 

You glanced at Cassian who had a bruise on his jaw and then to Rhys who also had a black eye. Rhys’s mother looked far from pleased. “Cassian. Rhysand. Upstairs! Clean yourselves up.” Her gaze turned to the shadowsinger. “Azriel. Sit .” She announced as she put the bags down from your earlier trip to Velaris. 

For all her softness, Rhys’s mother certainly had a sharpness to her not often seen. Rhys and Cass’s wings hung ever so slightly and only for a moment before they shifted again and they disappeared up the stairs. You followed them.

When you got to your room, you opened the book bought earlier that day and began reading on the bed. The sheets still smelled of him, of both of you. The shadow rested on your shoulder, appearing deeply engrossed in the words too. About fifteen minutes later you could hear the shadowsinger coming up the stairs. You knew it was him for the sole reason of his footsteps. You had learned how Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian walked. The heaviness of their feet, the pace.

You could hear Az and Rhys out in the hall. “Your mom wants you,” is all you heard before Rhys is walking downstairs and the shadowsinger is walking into your room. You closed your book to look up at him.

“C’mon.” The shadowsinger stepped towards the small balcony and opened the doors. “You can’t learn to fly in here.”

“What,” you asked him, confused.

“You think I started the third fight for the fun of it?” Azriel asked, offering his hand out to you.

You only gave him a confused look, remaining on the bed.

He walked back towards the bed where you sat reaching for your boots. He knelt down on his knees. “Sure, the moron had it coming. That doesn’t change the fact that fighting with him for a third time got me the afternoon off to teach someone how to fly.”

Your mouth fell agape. “Azriel,” you admonished and a smile came over the shadowsinger’s lips before pulling on your boots. “I am perfectly capable of putting on my shoes, Az.”

He only offered you a hand after he tied them up. You took it before he swept you into his arms. You craved his embrace, more than so many other things. Azriel walked back towards the balcony and shot into the sky.

You never imagined how some people hate this, because Gods this felt good, felt like freedom. It reminded you of your childhood when you flew whenever you could, as if flying up into the sky might take you away from all of your problems. You just hoped the next time you flew it would be on your own wings.

Azriel landed in a clearing, gently placing you down on the ground carefully, to make sure you didn’t fall. “I want you to be careful. If anything hurts too—”

“I promise I’ll tell you,” you said to him with a nod. 

“Is it…is it okay…okay if I touch your wings? For correction I mean? Should it be… necessary?” The shadowsinger asked from behind you, almost nervously. For good reason. The concept of touching someone’s wings without permission, in particular females, was beyond inappropriate. 

You nodded, you could sense the shadowsinger behind you, observing your wings carefully. You could feel his eyes scanning up and down. “Azriel?” You asked quietly.

“I can’t say I am a healer and know the anatomy well, but perhaps we start at the beginning. Test the muscles, the ligaments.”

You nod, something feeling oddly intimate about the moment. You turn to face the shadowsinger whose face had contemplating written all over it.

“Try spreading them and tucking them in,” he said as you faced each other. 

You nodded, spreading your wings as best you could. Mother above you hadn’t actually tried to do this in a while. You grimaced but managed to spread them, pushing them to your full extent, spreading your feet to offer you more balance.

A small smile of pride was clear on Azriel’s face. “Now fold inward.”

You did, slowly, afraid to tear or rip something in your wings. You couldn’t stop the smile when you folded inward with success. 

“Good,” he said with a mild amusement in his eyes. “Try again.”

You spread your wings again, your muscles ached, but that was good. That meant they were there, that meant you had a chance. 

Azriel’s eyes followed the movements, and cauldron boil him if your form wasn’t the most stunning thing he had ever seen. The shadowsinger had to put more concentration into not letting his knees buckle under him than he would like to admit. Beautiful. Stunning. Lovely. Beautiful, stunning. Lovely, his shadows whispered in his ear.

You pulled your wings shut rather than slowly closing them which caused you to lose your balance slightly, falling forward. Azriel reached out to catch you before you could land on the ground with a light amusement in his eyes before he suddenly realized how close in proximity you were to him. 

You’d been this close before. By the Gods, you shared a bed every night, but something felt different. You gently rest your hands against the shadowsinger’s chest in silence. 

“Y/N?” He asked quietly, hands shifting to cup either side of your face.

You looked up to see his face leaning down slightly. “Azriel.”

You don’t know who leaned in first, maybe Azriel, maybe you. It didn’t matter, because moments later the shadowsinger’s lips were on yours. They were sweet, and salty, and soft and warm. Like a warm biscuit on a cold night. Your fingers wound up in his hair before he pulled away. “Was that okay?”

His response was pulling your lips to his again, harder, more desperately like he had lived in a dry desert for centuries and you were a tiny pool of water in the middle of it all.

You returned to opening and closing your wings, building the muscle until it was as easy as walking, though it certainly felt like the cauldron was burning you alive when you woke up the following morning. But you couldn’t be bothered, you were going to fly again.

Taglist: @5onedirection5

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

I Drink Wine (Jake Seresin, Chapter 3)

Summary: Gwendolyn Benjamin did everything she could to run away from her past. From the pain and heartbreak to come to California and live near her Aunt & Godmother, Penny. A hardened soul, she meets Jake Seresin who ends up turning everything she thought she swore off into a frenzy.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Female! Reader (OC: Gwendolyn Benjamin)

Warnings: Cursing, Angst

Tropes: Slow burn, Enemies to Lovers, Sunshine & Rainstorm

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: Finally felt like I could start writing this from 2nd person :D Hope you like it!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER / next chapter

Tension began to grow heavy in your brow, a soreness in the lower portion of the small of your back. Whimpers left your dried, cracked lips when you would rise too quickly, and a wave of dizzy spouts hit you in crashing waves – tugging you beneath the unwavering waters until Fanboy is there to drag you back safely. As your semester of teaching ended and the sweltering heat of San Diego’s sun began to intensify, you were going to more and more doctor’s visits.

Your worst nightmare, mixed with poor timing found you back on medication you hadn’t been on since your Undergraduate degree. The increased pressure of your chronic illness so intense in your skull that they were worried for your vision, worried for the earth-shattering headaches that rolled around your temples. The medication made you hollow, Mickey becoming your crutch as you tried to adjust to a new lifestyle. You were slower, more hesitant with your words as your brain fogged over too easily.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I murmur as Mickey slides a new pair of fuzzy socks over my numb toes, tugging me closer after pressing play on a movie. His hands are steady, the hands of a WSO – you can only imagine how precise he is when in the air under attack. “You’re never going to get married if you keep fusing over me.”

Mickey only laughs, his bright smile beaming in the dimly lit living room. “You and I both know I’m not finding myself a woman or man for that matter while I’m actively in deployments any way. And you’re way too stubborn to take care of yourself properly.”

Your chin tucks into your chest at his words, warmth rising your chest and settling into your cheeks pressed against his side. He notices your lack of response, feels the quiver in your back before pulling away slightly to stare down at him.

“Gwennie,” Mickey murmurs, wiping away your tears. “You’re going to beat this thing. You’re going to beat this thing every single time you fall out of remission. You might be too stubborn to deal with it, but you’re also too stubborn to let it win.” He tugs you closer as gentle sobs roll through you, echoing in the safety of your home and away from prying eyes.

The next night, he decides you need to get out for a little while for some fresh air and human interaction. It’s been a few weeks since you have seen the rest of the crew and you were beginning to miss even Rooster’s mustache if it were possible. Penny messaged earlier in the day, promising a spot in the office the minute the bar became overwhelming and that she would have the cook make an order of fried pickles for you, your favorite.

So, at 5 o'clock, you’re surprised when the doorbell rings. Freshly out of the shower, you’re still towel drying your damp hair when you check the window to see familiar brown eyes and a twisted bun. “Nat,” you greet as you tug the door open in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“A little bird told me you’ll be joining us for a night out tonight,” she slings a heavy duffle bag over her shoulder while her other hand cradles a large bottle of iced tea. “I wanted to try to cash in on that girl’s night that we’ve talked about before.” You stare at her inviting face, her glowing cheeks and gentle gaze before stepping aside.

Nat had been good to you in the months you had been living in the area. She was a confidant, a feminine energy with a calming center. So sure of herself and what came next…you envied that about her. With all that went down over the last two years and with the break-up, you felt like your world had been thrown on its axis and you with it. You tumbled into the abyss, never knowing when the darkness would end and never knowing if you would ever feel comfortable getting close to another person again. It all just felt like too much. But for Nat, you try. So, you usher her inside your warm and beachy home and watch as she kicks off her sandals.

“It’s not the biggest house in Miramar but Penny did a great job renovating it for me,” you share, showing her your cozy living room with the large bay windows all cracked open to allow the breeze to dance through the white sheer curtains. The sun has already begun to climb down from the sky, so light catches on the worn oak of the floorboards that squeak as you move into the kitchen.

It’s your favorite place, with your beloved coffee maker and original stove. Mav insisted on a lightweight butcher’s board countertop which made prepping meals and kneading bread a delight. The sink was large, vintage and curved to remind you of your grandparents’ cabin out on the lake when you were younger. Fresh flowers sat in an amber glass at the makeshift table out on the patio in the back. When you round the corner, you show her the bathroom and then open the door to your bedroom.

The comforter is a mess, still tossed off the mattress from your nap earlier and your dirty clothes litter the floor. But it’s painted a vibrant green and your brown furniture makes perfectly. There’s a large vanity along with a writer’s desk in front of a big round window.

“This place is beautiful,” Nat gushes, glancing around before jumping to land on your bed. The bobbing makes you giggle as you run and join her, tumbling a top of your soft sheets next to her side.

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper after the laughter dies down, your smile pressed tightly as you take a few deep breaths. “I don’t know if Mick told you -,”

“He hasn’t said a word,” Nat informs you, holding her hands up before you can finish. “I just, I’ve figured something must be going on and I really want us to be friends Gwen, I’ve waited forever for a fun and sassy female around here to share the burden of these men.” Female friendships were never your forte in high school, and you were too focused on studies in college to even try hard enough so her words pull at your chest, wrapping you in a hug.

“Can you help me decide what to wear tonight?” you ask finally, a nervous smile cracking as you sit up and adjust your bracelet on your wrist.

“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she walks toward the closet. Deciding on a simple billowing top and some pink wide legged trousers that sway as you move – you were feeling good about where the night was heading. A light bit of natural and glowy makeup and twist your hair into a braid, so it was off your neck with the heat of the summer rolling in.

By the time you ended up at The Hard Deck, the bar was in full swing with patrons and pilots alike. The smell of sea salt mixed with beer wafts through the air as Nat leads up through the crowd, bumping into bodies as we go. The sandals make it hard to keep up with her, but you push forward and finally find yourself in front of a grinning Penny.

“Look at my gorgeous niece,” she shouts out, sliding a small glass of wine your way which you take with a pouty kiss in return. She pulls the basket of fried pickles from behind the counter and places them down, onto the sticky bar surface. You grab them with glee as Nat clutches your wrist, helping you navigate over to the booth where all the guys are crowded around. They’re all dressed casually this evening, having had time to change from the day of work up in the sky.

“There they are,” Coyote calls, spotting you first as he drags over a chair to offer his spot in the booth for the two of you to slide in. You press your glass down at the counter and greet the pilots, glancing between Mick and Bob with a giant grin before your eyes landing on emeralds. 

“I’m really liking this outfit Gwen,” Rooster admits as he adjusts the collar of his button down before taking a sip of his beer.

“Thank you, Bradley,” you say, eyes flittering back to your wine as you await conversation to pick up. And it does, the boys going back to arguing about who did the most pushups today on the tarmac during training or who was the worst of the latest bunch of recruits for the Top Gun program that they were instructors for. You sip your wine slowly, with intention as you listen contently to their stories.

As the night goes on, you all spread from the confines of the booth and take over the pool table area. You’ve scarfed down the fried pickles with Bob’s help before Bradley asks you to select some music from the jukebox with him. “Anything but Slow Ride,” he begs and so you settle on Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. The bar has thinned out at this point, just the regulars and a few too drunk recruits making idiots of themselves so you’re unabashed when Rooster offers a hand.

He's got you laughing as he sings out the lyrics, twirling you around the small space as if you’re in a swing dance competition but you’re enjoying the moment, so you let him spin you around and around until you’re slightly dizzy. When the song ends and he turns to pick another one, your eyes settle on those green orbs again. Hangman is staring, tucked behind his tequila soda as Coyote talks to him from the side.

His gaze is heavy, his jawline so sharp that you must look away. You turn back to the palm trees of Bradley’s button up shirt as he tries to find another song to dance too. “Nat says you play piano?” He glances over at you, aviators swinging from their shelve on the neck of his white tank top. His bushy eyebrows are raised in surprise before an amused smile glosses over his tanned face.

“I dabble in many things, Gwen,” he leans against the jukebox with his arms crossed and I notice the subtle flex in his muscles. “I can show you sometime, maybe after the rest of the gang heads home?” Bradley is attractive and warm, like a golden retriever but messy commitment issues can recognize messy commitment issues and this thread of gold twining between you two feels too familiar. Bile rises in your throat, and you stammer slightly, eyes wide as you glance around.

“Maybe another time,” you offer earnestly, not wanting to send him soaring to the pavement. You note the availability of the pool table as everyone collects their newest refreshment and a perfect out. “How about a game of pool?”

Bradley seems unphased as you don’t await his response, simply swiveling on your heel and returning to more populated area to grab a pool stick. “You can’t tell me you’re going to play pool?” the thick accent rings out and you close your eyes for a moment, fingertips digging into the wood. “You’ll never win.”

“And what makes you the all-knowing, Bagman?” your tone is fresh for the first time all night and inside you’re screaming for him to stand down. To let you have this, to let you have one good night with a good of seemingly good people.

“You’re too fuckin’ short,” Hangman quips back, bringing his glass to his lips and taking a swig before placing it back onto the high-top to your right. “You’ll never reach the angles you’d need to make a shot.”

“You seem so sure,” you question as Reuben and Nat return to the table, Bradley too with his hands shoved in the pockets of his cutoff jean shorts. They watch the interaction intently before Bradley tries to step in.

“Good thing she’s playing me,” Bradley steps forward to grab the pool stick from Hangman to no avail. He’s like a toddler trying to be funny, holding the stick out of reach with an amused grin on his face. His nose glistens in the light of the overheads and the simple grey shirt he’s thrown on stretches across his torso a little too tightly. You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Jake,” Bradley’s tone is stiff, “Cut the shit.”

“C’mon man,” Hangman responses, glancing at you over Bradley’s tall frame with a pointed look. “A little healthy ass-kicking is good for everyone.”

“Bradley, you can play him,” you grumble, tossing the pool stick his way and turning to Nat.

“I knew it,” Hangman’s words cut through the air, sucking the air from your lungs. “I knew you were a quitter.” You could hear the protests rolling off Mickey’s tongue as he approached the group and heard the blond’s words, but he hit below the belt, sucker punched you without a second glance. And you were hook, line, and sinker now as you turn back around to grab the whiskey from Reuben’s hand to take a large gulp. You clutch the stick from Bradley’s loose grip, eyes ablaze as you turn to the man defending you with a fierce expression.

“Bradley, rack ‘em.”

It was a tense twenty minutes, without much of a noise from the remainder of the group crowded around the table. They watch intently as Jake tries to egg you on, throwing comments of all kinds your way. But your brow is creased, and you’ve been chomping away at the inside of your cheek since the game began so Mickey was certain you weren’t even here at the bar.

To Jake’s amusement, you were holding your own. Something he would never admit out loud that he expected from the moment you leaned down to break at the beginning of the game. You knew your angles, knew some trick shots too so when you sunk the eight ball perfectly on your final shot – he couldn’t hold back the small smile climbing through his cocky exterior. But you miss the gentle gesture.

The pilots all cheer, finally bursting in delight as Reuben comes over to lift you off the floor in victory. They all sing praise, calling you Champ while doing a celebratory lap around the bar. Coyote’s offering a round of shots and Bob is claiming you as his permanent table partner as a wave of laughter bubbles through you. When Reuben finally puts you down on the ground, Nat is collecting you in her arms and squealing about how proud she is.

It feels good, a celebration raging on around you as the boys race out onto the beach to start the bonfire for the evening. You yawn slightly as the crowd breaks and you notice Jake leaning against the pool table on his forearms, a hand wiping over his face with an unreadable expression. That heat returns, the rage in your chest as you stalk across the span of the floor. You hover above him, tucked in front of one of the lights so that a shadow casts onto the green felt of the table.

“Good game Teach,” he says, his tone flat as he clears his throat and finishes his drink. The ice clinches in the glass as he swirls it around and you scoff. The noise makes him jump.

“Don’t ever, and I mean ever,” you seeth, planting your foot, “call me a quitter – you understand me?” Jake’s taken aback by your tone, at a loss for words from your visceral reaction. He blinks a few times before trying to speak again. “Don’t speak, Seresin. I fuckin’ mean it.”

And before he can process, you’re gone from his view, disappearing back to the bar where you get some leftovers from Penny. He watches you press a kiss to Mickey’s cheek, then a hug to Reuben, to Bob and to Bradshaw before you link arms with Nat. Within seconds, your presence is erased from the bar and Jake’s trying to shake the tremble in your voice from his head.

[ivorytowerblr]

NaNoWriMo 2021: Nov 25th

I thought this was going to be a bit shorter but apparently I shot past my chapter length. Oops.

Title: Warcraft: Invasion (Vol 1 of Reborn AU) Word Count: 31771 (of 50000) Includes: Violence, mature sexual content, strong language. Summary: It was a dark and stormy night when the rift opened. From it spilled warriors of an alien culture bent on finding and destroying the cause of a sickness that plagued their world, all unknowing that the true cause was right under their noses all along.

Five years after the birth of his son, Llane Wrynn, Crown Prince of Stormwind, would learn of a terrible threat to his people, his nation, and his very world. The only natural thing to do is send his son to the protective walls of Northshire Abbey and, all unknowing, to the protection of a great hero, the prodigy-knight Mara Fordragon.

When sickness ravages your very world, you have no choice but to do whatever it takes to cure it, even if it means traveling to another world by means of the foulest of dark sorceries. It means standing at the side of a butcher, a monster, an abuser, a warrior, a chieftain, a hero to your clan. It means putting aside what is right to do what you must.

All these threads and more weave together to bring about a war like any other; two worlds will never be the same again.

Previous: 1st . 2nd . 3rd . 4th . 5th . 6th . 7th . 8th. . 9th . 10th . 11th . 12th . 13th . 14th . 15th . 16th . 17th . 18th . 19th . 20th . 21st . 22nd . 23rd . 24th . 

“I don’t know if it’s possible for something to be in so many bizarre states,” Garona said after a while. “Are you sure that this snow is real at all? It could be fake, a conspiracy dictated by northerners to deceive their southern neighbours and discourage invasion.”

Duncan paused, and Garona nearly ran into his shoulder as he half-turned. “Snow’s real, an’ from the stories, the thing that discourages people from invading Lordaeron is all their knights and priests, ready for war.”

Interesting, if we ever need to fight them, Garona thought. “I’m sorry, my mistake.”

Duncan shrugged, and kept walking. At the top of the stairway there was a corridor, this one better lit, and Duncan placed the candle in a small outcropping and began to walk faster. “The Master’s rooms are up at the top of the tower but I think he’s waiting for you in one of the libraries.”

“I appreciate not needing to climb an entire tower after riding for so long,” Garona said dryly. “What’s a library?”

“It’s... a room. With books.” Duncan paused again, thinking. “Do you know what a book is?”

“Yes,” Garona replied defensively. “Why don’t you just call it a book room?”

“There is in fact a difference between a ‘room with books in it’ and a library, but those are largely semantic,” said a voice, and the pair of them startled. Before them stood Medivh, the human wearing a yellow-green, loose, simple shirt and brown trousers not unlike Duncan’s. His hair was shoulder length, brown with hints of grey, and a mustache and short beard. “Welcome, Garona, to Karazhan. I have been waiting for you.”

“Master Medivh,” Garona said, saluting by balling her right hand into a fist and crossing her arm over her chest to touch it against her left shoulder. and cursing Gul’dan silently. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course.” Medivh nodded, and shifted his gaze. “That will be all, Duncan. Thank you.”

“Sir!” Duncan said, and brought his right hand up to touch against his temple, elbow extended. Medivh nodded to him and the human departed, whistling softly.

“What was that?” Garona asked. “The thing he did.”

“That is how humans salute, with varying degrees of sarcasm involved,” Medivh said. “Come, my dear, and tell me why you’ve come.”

“Don’t you already know why I’m here?” Garona asked, and started at the bluntness of her tone. She forced herself to continue. “You knew I was coming, you know my name. We’ve only met once. I never said what my name was then.”

“I have communed with your father, yes,” Medivh said. Garona flinched. “From his mind I plucked out your name, your arrival, and your purpose, but I would prefer to hear the reason why you are here from you. It’s more polite that way.”

“He’s not my father,” Garona said, tone flat. Her skin felt cold, clammy despite having left the rain behind hours before. “Does he know that you can do that?”

“He is, in fact,” Medivh said lightly. “Just as he can pull information from my own mind, such as where my tower is, how many people live here, and how many floors that my tower possesses. He also thinks I’m hiding something from him.”

“Are you?”

“I am,” Medivh agreed. “Just as he is hiding things from me. I can sense that much. We are neither of us subtle creatures, which is why we are forced to use young people such as yourself as a proxy for our passive-aggressive conflict.”

“He wants to know where the reinforcements are that you promised him,” Garona said. “I was going to look and see what forces you were hiding here. You don’t... I’m not sure where you’re hiding an army, but it isn’t in a gloomy canyon, or a coach house, or a dark mud room, or underneath all these stairs. So, did you lie to Gul’dan when you said you would help him?”

“Ah, I see.” Medivh smiled. “Come with me, then, and I will answer your question, though I have a few of my own for you.”

“...because it’s more polite to ask me questions than it is to get the answers from Gul’dan?” Garona asked.

Medivh chuckled, and turned, snapping his fingers. All along the corridor, candles sprang to life with sparks of flame. Garona’s eyes widened. Along the walls were several large, hanging clothes, their weave tight and their colours vibrant, depicting various scenes of primarily humans but other beings as well.

“What are these?” Garona asked, her voice hushed. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“They’re tapestries,” Medivh said. “They’re like paintings in a way, and they depict significant events in the history of the Guardians of Tirisfal.”

“...what’s that?”

“Me,” Medivh said. “Or at least, I am the latest of them. I have not been the Guardian for very long compared to the previous one, who was generally considered to be an institution.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Garona admitted. “But I would guess it means they were an honoured elder.”

“Something like that,” Medivh said. “Now, I have my own questions for you. What is your profession? Your caste, I suppose.”

“They’re different things,” Garona said, and let her gaze wander over the tapestries. “I have no caste because I am halforcen. My blood is polluted with that of another race, so I am not as an orc should be. My people hate those who aren’t orcs. They would never lower themselves to touching one who wasn’t without hatred or violence.”

“Which is what happened to your mother, wasn’t it?” Medivh asked, his tone gentle. “Which was it?”

“Both,” Garona said bitterly. “She was a prize of conquest when Gul’dan took the Temple of Karabor, and he kept her until he had no use for her any more. After I was born. I was young, then, but I still remember her. I still remember her eyes and her voice.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Zaratha,” Garona said. “Zaratha of Argus, which is the world she was from long ago. Student of Velen the Prophet.”

“I see,” Medivh said. “Do you know where Velen is?”

“No, I’ve never met him,” Garona said. “She told me stories of him, of how he and his followers fled from Argus before it fell, but no more than that. She wasn’t even sure if he was still alive.”

“Clever of him, hiding even from his most loyal,” Medivh murmured. Garona made a curious noise, and he raised a hand dismissively. “Never mind. So, what of your profession? What is it that you do?”

“I am a scout and a messenger,” Garona said carefully. “I gather intelligence.”

“You are a spy,” Medivh said. “I am not angry, as I had discerned what Gul’dan was doing quite easily. “That isn’t all that you are, is it?”

“...no,” Garona said softly. Her fingers curled into fists. “I’m not.”

“Well, then?”

“I am a shadow-killer,” Garona said, keeping her voice steady. “I murder Gul’dan’s enemies as he orders me to. I am not the only one, but I am the best of them.”

“On our world, we use the word ‘assassin’,” Medivh said. “If you kill people for political reason, it’s assassination. If you kill people for money, you’re a bounty hunter. If you kill many people due to anger or madness, you’re a serial killer. If you slay another in anger or for personal reasons, you’re a murderer.”

“So many words for the same thing,” Garona whispered. “I didn’t even consider that there were shades to the act.”

“Sometimes, it doesn’t actually matter,” Medivh said. “Are you here to kill me?”

“No,” Garona said. “I have no orders to. He just wants to know when you’ll support him.”

“You are a very honest assassin, my dear,” Medivh said. “Come, I will show you what you need to see, and Gul’dan will have his answer. Follow me.”

Garona nodded, and Medivh led her down the corridor, pausing at the end of it where another tapestry hung, this one of a figure in robes stood before a mighty winged creature, its scales blue and white. The figure was reaching out a hand and was surrounded by purple-white light. Garona drank in the sight even as Medivh put his hand on the wall and it shifted slightly.

“What... what is that on the tapestry?” Garona asked. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It is the beginning of the end,” Medivh said, and pushed on the wall more firmly. “This way.”

I wonder why he keeps it here if he doesn’t like it? Garona mused, and followed him behind the wall. It was dark and dusty within, cobwebs hanging from the beams that braced the narrow corridor. The passage closed behind her and she started.

“It’s one way,” Medivh said. “You won’t be leaving that way.”

“Will I be leaving at all?” Garona asked. “Or have you lured me here to kill me?”

“Like a serial killer? No, no,” Medivh said. “When you spend more time here, you will see that there are many places open to all - my libraries, my laboratories, the kitchen and dining room, and various guest rooms. There are other places that are not open to anyone but those I choose to bring there. This is one of the latter.”

“Very well, show me,” Garona said, then added, “please.”

Medivh chuckled, and led Garona down the oppressively dark and narrow passageway. With each step, Garona waited for something to jump out at her, to grasp her from the waiting darkness. She looked down and blinked.

There is no dust... that’s odd. If the rest of this place is so dirty, why clean the floor? As she walked, a light pulsed under her feet. Startled, she looked around and found that the cobwebs had disappeared, replaced by runes.

“I hate dusting,” Medivh said lightly. “Magic is very convenient when you hate doing chores.”

“No doubt,” Garona said. “Gul’dan has runes on his tent and on his robes sometimes. They are painful to look at.”

“These ones do no such thing,” Medivh said. “They only create light and banish dirt. You need not fear them. Besides, we’re nearly there.”

Garona nodded, and followed him until the passageway ended, leading down a spiral staircase. This area too was lit by runes, though these ones pulsed not calming white-gold light, but a red the colour of talbuk blood. Garona shivered, and did not ask if these runes were so benign.

Finally, at the bottom of the staircase, there was a doorway and a pair of green runes. Medivh waved his hand over one, then the other, and stepped through. “Come through, they will not harm you while you are with me.”

“...which would indicate they will harm me if I am not.” Garona took a breath and stepped past them. The hair at the back of her neck prickled, but she said nothing. As Medivh walked further into the room, lights sprang up again, and Garona stared in wonder and horror both.

Within the chamber were circles pulsing with the same green light that guarded the doorway. Inside each was a creature the likes of which she had never seen before: they had twisted faces with glowing green eyes, and twisted fingers with long, curving claws. Their bodies varied in size and shape, but uniformly, they exuded an aura of menace.

“Here they are,” Medivh said, waving towards the cages. Garona looked towards him and saw that his eyes reflected the terrible green glow. She gasped sharply. “Tell Gul’dan that whenever he is ready for the final strike that his demons are waiting.”