Day eight of the Plunderstorm arrived with a cacophony of thunderclaps and cannon fire as the chaotic skies over Azeroth refused to quiet down. Gearwhistle, unshaken by the past week of madness, stood at the helm of the Weather Wobbler, her goggles gleaming with determination. “Today’s the day, Grumbol!” she announced, her voice brimming with excitement. “The day we claim the ultimate treasure of the Plunderstorm: the Sky Sapphire!” Grumbol, as usual, was less enthused. He squinted at the stormy horizon, his hands gripping his mug of morning ale. “Lass, ye’ve said that fer the last three days. What makes ye think today’ll be any different?” “Because today,” Gearwhistle said, pulling a tarp off her latest invention, “we have the Shock-o-Matic Thunder Harpoon!” The contraption was an amalgamation of cables, coils, and what appeared to be a repurposed toaster. It crackled with electric energy, sending sparks flying every time the ship hit a bump. “That thing looks more likely to fry us than the pirates,” Grumbol muttered, edging away from the sparking monstrosity. “Nonsense!” Gearwhistle said, waving off his concerns. “This beauty will let us harness the power of the storm itself! With it, we’ll zap our way to victory and snatch that sapphire before anyone else knows what hit them!” Their target lay deep within the heart of the Plunderstorm, guarded by a fleet of rival airships and floating fortresses. Legend had it the Sky Sapphire could amplify weather control devices tenfold-or at least make a really nice paperweight. Either way, Gearwhistle was determined to have it. As the Weather Wobbler approached the storm’s epicenter, enemy ships came into view. Goblin zeppelins, troll sky-barges, and even a rogue Alliance frigate were all vying for the prize. The air was thick with cannon smoke, lightning bolts, and the occasional scream of a very unlucky pirate. “This is it!” Gearwhistle shouted, strapping herself into the Shock-o-Matic’s control chair. “Grumbol, man the cannons! Captain Squawkbeard, prepare for evasive maneuvers!” The parrot squawked indignantly, clearly unimpressed with its new promotion. Grumbol grumbled but complied, loading a cannon with what appeared to be a mix of bolts, gears, and stale biscuits. The battle began in earnest. The Weather Wobbler darted and weaved through the fray, dodging cannonballs and stray lightning bolts. Gearwhistle aimed the Shock-o-Matic at a nearby troll sky-barge and flipped a series of switches. The harpoon fired with a deafening crack, sending a bolt of electricity arcing through the air. It struck the barge’s balloon, which promptly deflated with a comical squeal, sending the vessel spiraling downward. “Ha! Direct hit!” Gearwhistle cheered. “Aye, but now they’re all aiming at us!” Grumbol shouted, pointing to the swarm of ships converging on their position. Gearwhistle’s grin widened. “Perfect! Time to test the Thunder Spin Maneuver!” “The what now?” Grumbol yelled, but it was too late. Gearwhistle yanked a lever, and the Weather Wobbler’s turbines roared to life. The ship began spinning wildly, creating a vortex of wind and lightning that sent nearby ships careening into one another. Grumbol clung to the railing for dear life, his ale sloshing everywhere. “Lass, yer madder than a leper gnome in a scrapyard!” he bellowed. “Thank you!” Gearwhistle replied, taking it as a compliment. As the chaos unfolded, the Sky Sapphire came into view, floating atop a pedestal on a massive, armored goblin dreadnought. Gearwhistle’s eyes lit up. “There it is! The treasure of treasures! Grumbol, cover me! I’m going in!” “Ye what?!” Grumbol exclaimed, but Gearwhistle was already strapping on a jetpack she’d cobbled together from spare parts. With a salute to Captain Squawkbeard, she launched herself into the air, dodging bullets, rockets, and what appeared to be a flying fish. Landing on the dreadnought’s deck, Gearwhistle was immediately surrounded by goblin guards. She grinned, pulling out a pair of electrified spanners. “Who wants a piece of this?” What followed was a blur of chaos. Gearwhistle darted and spun, her spanners zapping goblins left and right as she made her way to the sapphire. Alarms blared, goblins shouted, and the dreadnought’s captain, a particularly angry goblin named Kaptain Krizzle, tried to rally his crew. “Don’t let her take it, you fools!” Krizzle screamed, shaking his oversized hat. But it was too late. Gearwhistle reached the pedestal, snatched the Sky Sapphire, and activated her jetpack just as the dreadnought’s cannons turned to fire. She rocketed back toward the Weather Wobbler, clutching the glowing gemstone triumphantly. “I’ve got it!” she yelled as she landed back on the ship. “Victory is ours!” The goblin dreadnought, in its haste to pursue them, collided with a troll sky-barge, triggering a chain reaction of explosions that lit up the stormy skies like a holiday festival. The Weather Wobbler, battered but victorious, sped away from the chaos. Grumbol slumped against the railing, shaking his head. “Lass, if I survive this, I’m retiring to a nice, quiet cave. No storms, no pirates, and definitely no gnomes.” Gearwhistle laughed, holding up the Sky Sapphire. “Oh, come on, Grumbol. Where’s your sense of adventure?” As the Weather Wobbler disappeared into the horizon, leaving a trail of smoke and glitter, the Plunderstorm raged on, ready for whatever absurdity the next day would bring.

In the verdant cradle of Shadowglen, Hamagora, a young night elf druid, emerged from the tranquil embrace of the Aldrassil tree. The air was thick with the whispers of ancient spirits, and beams of moonlight filtered through the towering branches of Teldrassil, casting an ethereal glow on the moss-covered ground. On this hardcore server, where one life was all he had, every choice carried the weight of finality. Failure meant oblivion. The First Steps Hamagora stretched his limbs, clad in simple, tattered robes that offered little protection. As a druid, his connection to nature was his greatest strength and his sharpest weapon. Yet, in these early moments, he was vulnerable. An elder of Shadowglen, Conservator Ilthalaine, awaited him nearby, her voice a gentle reminder of his purpose. “Welcome, Hamagora,” she said, her expression serene but grave. “The balance of nature is fragile. Even here, in our sacred glade, corruption stirs. Begin your journey by culling the young night sabers that roam too close to Aldrassil. Their growing numbers threaten the harmony of the forest.” With trepidation, Hamagora accepted his first quest. He ventured into the thickets, his staff in hand, and spotted a young nightsaber prowling near a cluster of glowing mushrooms. The creature’s sleek, black coat shimmered in the moonlight, but its eyes betrayed a feral hunger. Hamagora steadied his breath and whispered a prayer to Elune before lunging forward. The First Battle The nightsaber snarled, its claws raking the air as Hamagora swung his staff in a wide arc. The strike landed true, but the beast was relentless. It lunged, and Hamagora narrowly avoided its claws, his heart pounding in his chest. Summoning his druidic powers, he cast Wrath, channeling the energy of the natural world into a burst of light that struck the nightsaber squarely. The creature yelped and staggered before collapsing to the ground. Victory, but at a cost-a deep scratch marked Hamagora’s arm, a sobering reminder of the stakes. Returning to Ilthalaine, Hamagora received her praise and a pair of sturdy gloves as a reward. The elder then directed him to Dirania Silvershine, a sentinel in need of aid. The Webwood Threat Dirania’s plight was dire. “The Webwood spiders have grown bold, creeping ever closer to Aldrassil. Their venom is potent, and their numbers are overwhelming. We need their venom sacs to study this infestation.” With a mixture of dread and resolve, Hamagora ventured deeper into the forest. The air grew heavier, and the trees twisted unnaturally as he approached the spiders’ lair. The ground was littered with sticky webs that clung to his boots, slowing his progress. His first encounter was with a Webwood lurker, its many eyes glinting in the dim light. It skittered toward him, fangs glistening with venom. Hamagora fought cautiously, striking with his staff and using his limited healing abilities to mend his wounds. Each spider he slew was a small victory, but the venom sapped his strength, and his supplies of healing herbs dwindled. When he finally collected the required venom sacs, his hands trembled from fatigue. Returning to Dirania, he handed over the venom sacs, earning her gratitude and a small pouch of herbs. Yet, the encounter left him shaken. These woods, once his sanctuary, were now a battleground. Aiding the Wounded Further into the glade, Hamagora found Porthannius, a courier who had been ambushed by gnarlpine furbolgs. “They took my satchel,” Porthannius groaned, clutching a wounded leg. “It contains supplies for the wounded in Aldrassil. Please, retrieve it.” The furbolg camp was a chaotic scene. Small but vicious, the creatures chattered and snarled as they guarded their spoils. Hamagora crept through the underbrush, relying on stealth and patience. He spotted the satchel near a campfire, surrounded by furbolgs. Summoning his courage, he launched a surprise attack, casting Entangling Roots to immobilize the nearest furbolg while he fought the others. The battle was fierce, but his strategy paid off. Grabbing the satchel, he fled before reinforcements could arrive. Porthannius’s relief was palpable when Hamagora returned the satchel. The courier pressed a small pendant into his hands as thanks. “May this protect you in the trials ahead.” The Corruption Within As Hamagora gained confidence and strength, Ilthalaine summoned him once more. “There is a deeper corruption at work here, Hamagora. The grellkin, twisted by dark forces, have begun to defile our sacred glade. Seek out their leader, Felrock, and end his influence.” This task was the most dangerous yet. The grellkin’s den was a dark hollow, filled with foul stench and sinister laughter. Hamagora’s heart raced as he descended into the cavern, his every sense heightened. The grellkin attacked in frenzied packs, their claws tearing at his robes. He used every skill at his disposal, weaving between strikes and calling upon the natural world to bolster his strength. When he finally faced Felrock, the corrupted grellkin loomed larger and more menacing than the others. The battle was a whirlwind of strikes, spells, and desperate dodges. Hamagora’s final Wrath spell struck Felrock down, and the cavern seemed to exhale, its oppressive aura lifting. A New Dawn Hamagora emerged from the cavern, battered but victorious. Returning to Aldrassil, he was greeted with reverence. Ilthalaine placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have done well, Hamagora. Your actions have preserved the balance of Shadowglen, but this is only the beginning. Beyond these woods, greater trials await.” With his newfound experience, a sturdy staff, and a heart steeled by the dangers he had faced, Hamagora prepared to leave Shadowglen. He gazed once more at the towering trees and glowing flora, knowing he might never return. The world beyond was vast and treacherous, but he was ready to face it-one step, one life, at a time.

Blightmaul and the Axe of the Ebon Fang The palace of Nerub-ar loomed like a corpse in the icy wastes, its spires jagged and broken, reaching skyward as if clawing at the heavens for vengeance. Once a stronghold of the nerubians, it was now a festering hive of undeath and corruption, a monument to the Scourge’s relentless dominion. To Blightmaul, it was yet another battlefield, yet another chapter in his unending struggle to reconcile the darkness within him. The Horde’s warbands had gathered at the icy cliffs below, their banners whipping in the frigid wind. Orcs, trolls, tauren, and Forsaken stood together in uneasy alliance, their common goal binding them against the horrors within. At the forefront of this grim host stood Blightmaul, his dull eyes reflecting the faint light of torches and frost. The Mission The warlord leading the assault-a hulking orc named Grulmak-grunted as he unrolled a crude map of the palace interior. “Our scouts report the Scourge is rallying in the palace’s heart,” he growled, his tusks gleaming in the torchlight. “Their leader, an ancient nerubian deathlord called Ankarath the Bleak, is amassing forces. We will cut through the palace, destroy him, and cripple their presence here.” Blightmaul’s gaze fell to the map. “Ankarath,” he murmured. “A deathlord of Nerub-ar. His destruction will be no small feat.” Grulmak sneered. “You’ve faced worse, haven’t you, deadman? Or have your bones grown brittle?” Blightmaul ignored the jibe, his focus already on the task ahead. “What of the weapons he wields?” The orc hesitated before answering. “He carries the Ebon Fang, a relic of his kind. Said to drink the strength of its victims and twist it into dark power.” Blightmaul’s gauntleted fingers tightened around his plain blade. “Then we’ll see whose strength it drinks.” The Invasion The assault began at dawn, the Horde’s warcry echoing through the frozen wastes as they surged toward the palace. Nerubian sentinels spilled from hidden tunnels, their chittering voices rising in unison as they met the invaders head-on. Blightmaul fought at the vanguard, his movements precise and unyielding. His blade carved through carapace and sinew, his strikes imbued with a brutal efficiency honed through years of undeath. Yet even as he fought, he felt the weight of the shadows lingering at the edges of his mind. The Horde pushed forward, their losses mounting with each step deeper into the palace. The interior was a twisted labyrinth, its walls pulsating with the sickly glow of necromantic energy. Blightmaul could feel the air grow colder as they neared the heart of the palace, the presence of Ankarath pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. The Deathlord’s Arena They entered a massive chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its center stood Ankarath the Bleak, his towering form draped in decayed chitin and necromantic runes. In his clawed hands, he held the Ebon Fang-a massive one-handed axe forged of black steel and etched with glowing red veins. “You dare trespass in my domain?” Ankarath’s voice was a venomous hiss, echoing off the chamber walls. “You will join the others in servitude.” Grulmak barked an order, and the Horde surged forward. But the deathlord was no ordinary foe. With a single swing of the Ebon Fang, he unleashed a wave of necrotic energy that ripped through their ranks, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in its wake. Blightmaul barely managed to deflect the energy with his blade, the force driving him back several paces. He watched as Grulmak was impaled by one of Ankarath’s claws, the orc’s lifeless body cast aside like a broken toy. The Forsaken warrior stepped forward, his voice cold and steady. “You wield death as a weapon, Ankarath. Let us see how it fares against one who knows it well.” The Duel Blightmaul and Ankarath clashed in a whirlwind of steel and shadow. The deathlord’s movements were swift and brutal, his strikes imbued with the corrupting power of the Ebon Fang. But Blightmaul was relentless, his undead body impervious to pain and his mind hardened by years of battle. As the duel raged, the chamber seemed to warp around them, the necrotic energy of the axe clashing with Blightmaul’s will. The deathlord’s voice echoed in his mind, a chorus of whispers promising power, revenge, and freedom from the pain of undeath. “Take the axe, warrior,” the whispers urged. “Claim its strength as your own.” Blightmaul gritted his teeth, his grip on his blade tightening. “I do not need your power,” he growled. But even as he spoke, he felt the shadows within him stir, drawn to the axe’s dark energy. He knew he could not destroy Ankarath without risking everything. The Ebon Fang The fight reached its climax as Ankarath raised the Ebon Fang for a killing blow. In that moment, Blightmaul lunged, driving his blade into the deathlord’s chest. The force of the strike shattered the runes on Ankarath’s body, and the deathlord let out a deafening screech as his form disintegrated into a cloud of ash and shadow. The Ebon Fang fell to the ground, its crimson glow dimming. Blightmaul stared at it, his chest heaving from the effort of the fight. The whispers in his mind grew louder, urging him to take it. He hesitated, his thoughts a storm of conflict. Finally, he reached down and gripped the axe. The moment his hand touched its hilt, a surge of energy coursed through him, filling the hollow void left by Shadowrend. The Horde warriors who had survived watched in silence as Blightmaul stood, the Ebon Fang glowing faintly in his grasp. A New Path As the Horde regrouped outside the palace, Blightmaul lingered in the shadows. The axe felt alive in his hand, its power both intoxicating and dangerous. He knew the cost of wielding such a weapon, yet he could not bring himself to cast it aside. The darkness within him had found a new vessel, and Blightmaul knew his path was far from over. Turning toward the horizon, he fixed his gaze on the distant mountains. Khaz Algar held many secrets, and the Ebon Fang would be his key to unlocking them. For better or worse, he would wield the axe-and carve his own destiny into the bones of the world.

Shadows in the Light Blightmaul emerged from the Ringing Deeps into a world both familiar and alien. The light of Azeroth’s sun cast stark shadows across the jagged cliffs of Khaz Algar, and the air carried the sharp tang of salt and metal. He paused at the cave’s mouth, staring down at the distant shore where the forges of the dwarves still burned brightly. The whispers were gone, but an ache remained-a hollow space within him where the shadows had once dwelled. He was free, or so he thought. The Cost of Freedom As Blightmaul descended into the valley, he felt the weight of his choices bearing down on him. The mark of the Cartographers was gone, but the world still bore the scars of his deeds. The ruined city of Dornogal came to his mind unbidden, its spires shattered, its streets drowned in blood and shadow. He had been an instrument of destruction, and no severed tether could erase the memories of what he had wrought. When he reached a shallow stream at the valley’s base, he removed his helm and stared into the water. His reflection looked back at him-gaunt and hollow-eyed, his features carved with the weariness of undeath. The scar where the mark had been was a stark reminder of his struggle, yet his gaze was drawn to the plain blade strapped to his side. It was a weapon like any other, yet its silence unnerved him. The whispers of Shadowrend had been maddening, but they had given him purpose. Now, the stillness felt like a void. The First Encounter Blightmaul’s introspection was interrupted by the sound of clashing steel and guttural cries. He turned toward the noise, his instincts sharpening. Following the echoes, he crept through the underbrush until he came upon a clearing where a group of dwarves in battle-scarred armor fought desperately against towering stone constructs. The constructs were hulking monstrosities, their forms roughly hewn and glowing faintly with runic light. Each swing of their massive limbs sent dwarves scattering, their shields splintering under the onslaught. Blightmaul stepped forward, his blade sliding free of its scabbard. The plain steel felt unfamiliar in his grip, but his muscles remembered the rhythm of battle. Without a word, he charged, his movements a blur of precision. The first construct turned, its massive arm swinging down to crush him, but Blightmaul sidestepped with ease. His blade struck true, slicing into the glowing rune at its core. The construct shuddered and collapsed, its body crumbling into lifeless rubble. The dwarves stared in disbelief as Blightmaul dispatched another construct with brutal efficiency. When the last of the creatures fell, they lowered their weapons cautiously, their eyes wary. “Who are ye?” one of them demanded, his voice thick with suspicion. Blightmaul sheathed his blade and met the dwarf’s gaze. “No one of consequence,” he said. “Just a warrior looking for purpose.” The Dwarves of Khaz Algar The dwarves led Blightmaul to their encampment, a makeshift fortress built into the side of a cliff. There, he learned of their plight. The constructs were ancient guardians awakened by seismic shifts in the region. Once protectors of Khaz Algar’s deepest secrets, they now saw all intruders as threats. The dwarves sought to reclaim the forge-temples buried beneath the mountains-sacred halls said to house relics of unimaginable power. But their efforts had been met with relentless resistance from the constructs, and their numbers dwindled with each passing day. Blightmaul listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When they finished, he spoke. “I will help you.” The dwarves exchanged uncertain glances. “And what’s yer price?” one of them asked. Blightmaul hesitated, the weight of his past heavy on his shoulders. “Redemption,” he said finally. The Descent into the Forge-Temple Blightmaul joined the next expedition into the mountains. The journey was treacherous, the narrow paths littered with crumbling rock and the corpses of those who had come before. As they delved deeper, the air grew heavy with the metallic tang of ancient magic, and the faint hum of the forge-temples resonated through the stone. The first chamber they entered was vast, its walls etched with runes that glowed faintly in the darkness. At its center stood an anvil of black iron, surrounded by shattered tools and long-dead forgemasters. Blightmaul approached the anvil, his steps cautious. The air around it seemed to shimmer, and he felt a familiar pull-the same oppressive weight he had felt in the presence of the Cartographers. “Careful,” one of the dwarves warned. “This place has a mind of its own.” As if in response, the chamber shuddered, and the constructs emerged from hidden alcoves. Their glowing eyes fixed on the intruders, and they moved as one, their steps shaking the ground. The Battle of the Anvil Blightmaul and the dwarves fought with desperation, the air thick with the clang of steel and the hum of ancient magic. Blightmaul’s blade cut through the constructs with brutal precision, but for every one that fell, another seemed to rise. As the battle raged, Blightmaul felt the shadows stir within him-not the whispers of Shadowrend, but a deeper, older presence. The scar on his arm burned faintly, and his vision blurred. For a moment, he saw the Cartographers, their hooded forms watching from the edges of his mind. “You cannot escape the flow,” they whispered. “You are a thread in the tapestry, and it will unravel without you.” Blightmaul roared, the sound cutting through the chaos. He drove his blade into the nearest construct, shattering its core. “I will forge my own path,” he growled, his voice steady despite the storm within. A Flicker of Hope When the last construct fell, the chamber grew silent once more. The dwarves stared at Blightmaul, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. One of them approached hesitantly, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. “Ye saved us,” he said. “But there’s somethin’ in ye, lad. Somethin’ dark.” Blightmaul nodded, his gaze fixed on the anvil. “The darkness is part of me,” he admitted. “But it does not define me.” He turned away from the anvil and toward the dwarves. “Let’s finish what we came here to do.” As they began to explore the forge-temple, Blightmaul felt a faint flicker of something he hadn’t known in years: hope. It was fragile, like the stillness after a storm, but it was enough. For now.

Into the Ringing Deeps The Ringing Deeps were a labyrinth of caverns far beneath the surface of Khaz Algar, named for the ceaseless hum that echoed through their endless tunnels. It was said the sound came from veins of metal beneath the stone, singing as the world itself shifted. To Blightmaul, it was a torment-a constant reminder that the earth was alive, moving, and he was its unwelcome guest. He sought refuge here, far from the Cartographers’ reach, far from the ever-present whispers of Shadowrend. Yet the shadows clung to him as if bound by chains. The Wound of Shadows Blightmaul staggered deeper into the caves, his gauntleted hand dragging along the jagged walls. The mark on his arm burned, a pulsing reminder of his servitude. The blade at his side hung heavy, its whispers reduced to a faint murmur, yet still persistent. “You cannot flee us, shadowed one,” it hissed. “You are what we made you.” He struck the cavern wall in frustration, shards of stone scattering at his feet. “Leave me!” he roared, his voice echoing endlessly in the hollow depths. “Let me be!” But the shadows only deepened, the air around him growing colder. He felt their weight pressing against his back, a formless entity that watched him with eyes he could not see. The Guardian’s Voice As he pressed onward, the humming grew louder, resonating through his bones. In a vast chamber illuminated by veins of glowing silver ore, he encountered a figure. At first glance, it seemed to be a construct of stone and metal, its body etched with ancient runes that pulsed in time with the cavern’s song. The figure turned to him, and its voice was like the grinding of ancient gears. “You carry the wound of shadows, Forsaken. Why have you come to this sacred place?” Blightmaul fell to his knees, his armor scraping against the rocky floor. “I seek peace,” he rasped. “I seek to rid myself of this curse, this... darkness that binds me.” The figure stepped closer, its glowing eyes narrowing. “Peace cannot be found while the shadows pursue you. They are drawn to you as the tide is to the moon. To sever their hold is to sever yourself.” “Then teach me how!” Blightmaul begged, his voice breaking. “I will do whatever it takes.” The Test of Resonance The guardian extended a hand, its runes flaring brighter. “If you would seek freedom, you must face the darkness that clings to you. Enter the heart of the Ringing Deeps and let the song of the earth strip away the shadows.” Blightmaul hesitated, but the weight of his curse left him no choice. He nodded, rising unsteadily to his feet. The guardian gestured toward a narrow tunnel, its entrance framed by jagged crystals that pulsed faintly in the dim light. “The song will grow louder as you descend,” the guardian said. “It will reveal what lies within you. Face it, or be consumed.” The Descent The tunnel twisted and narrowed as Blightmaul pressed deeper into the earth. The hum grew into a cacophony, a chorus of dissonant notes that reverberated in his skull. He gripped his head, his vision swimming as the walls around him seemed to close in. The shadows within him stirred, their whispers rising to a fever pitch. “You cannot escape us. You are ours.” When he emerged into a vast cavern, he saw the source of the sound: a massive crystal formation at the chamber’s center, its surface vibrating with an otherworldly energy. The shadows recoiled from its light, but Blightmaul felt his entire being pulled toward it. The whispers in his mind became screams, a thousand voices begging him to turn back. “Do not touch it! It will destroy you!” But Blightmaul stepped forward, his hand outstretched. The Confrontation As his fingers brushed the crystal, a wave of energy surged through him. The chamber darkened, and he found himself standing in a void, face-to-face with a shadowed figure that mirrored his own form. Its eyes glowed green, and Shadowrend was clutched in its hands. “You think you can escape me?” the shadow sneered. “You are me. Every swing of your blade, every soul you’ve taken-you are a vessel for the void, nothing more.” Blightmaul drew his own blade, his hands trembling. “I am more than what you’ve made me.” The shadow lunged, and their clash sent shockwaves through the void. Blightmaul fought with a desperation he hadn’t known he possessed, each strike driving the shadow back. But with every blow, he felt the darkness clawing at him, trying to pull him under. “Accept it!” the shadow roared. “You are the void! You are the shadow!” Blightmaul’s grip on Shadowrend tightened. “I am Blightmaul,” he growled. With a final, desperate strike, he shattered the shadow, its form dissolving into the void. The Song of the Deeps When Blightmaul awoke, he was lying at the foot of the crystal. The cavern was silent, the hum now a gentle vibration that resonated in his chest. The mark on his arm was gone, leaving only a faint scar. The blade at his side was no longer Shadowrend. It was plain and unadorned, its whispers silenced. The guardian stood over him, its glowing eyes unreadable. “You have severed the tether,” it said. “The shadows will no longer control you. But the void leaves scars that time cannot heal.” Blightmaul rose unsteadily, his gaze fixed on the blade. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the voices in his mind were silent. The peace he had sought was fragile, but it was his. As he turned to leave the Ringing Deeps, the song followed him-a reminder that even in the darkest places, the light of the earth endures.

The Shadow of Dornogal Dornogal, the last bastion of light on the Isle of Dorn, was a place of strange defiance. Its towering spires of pale stone gleamed despite the perpetual storms that lashed the island. The city’s defenders-elves, humans, and even a handful of stalwart dwarves-had carved out this haven against the darkness that sought to consume the land. But on this day, Dornogal’s walls would tremble. The shadows had come. The Warcaller Blightmaul stood atop a jagged hill overlooking Dornogal. The mark on his arm burned like a fresh wound, its glow pulsing in time with the rhythmic chants of the creatures that surrounded him. They were his army-shattered beings bound by shadow, their forms twisted by the magic of the obelisk. Hulking abominations of fused bone and shadow loomed alongside smaller, skittering horrors that darted restlessly at his feet. The Cartographers’ voices echoed in his mind, cold and distant. “Dornogal must fall. Its light disrupts the balance. Lead our children to cleanse the city.” Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, the blade’s whispers coiling through his thoughts. It thirsted for the battle to come, for the souls that would soon be drawn into its endless hunger. “Go,” he rasped, his voice a dry echo. “Show them the cost of defiance.” The creatures surged forward, their movements a chaotic flood of darkness. They poured down the hillside and toward the city’s gates, their roars and screeches blending into a single, deafening cry. Blightmaul followed, his steps measured and deliberate. The Breach Dornogal’s defenders were ready. Archers lined the walls, their bows singing as arrows rained down on the advancing horde. Mages chanted spells, their hands glowing with light as they hurled searing bolts of energy into the shadows below. The ground shook as dwarven engineers fired heavy ballistae, their massive bolts impaling abominations and pinning them to the ground. But the shadows were relentless. The smaller horrors scrambled up the walls, their claws finding purchase in the smooth stone. The abominations slammed against the gates, their massive fists cracking the reinforced wood. Blightmaul reached the gates as they began to splinter. With a single swing of Shadowrend, the wood shattered, the shadows surging through the breach like a flood. He stepped into the chaos of the city, his blade carving through defenders with ease. Each soul claimed by Shadowrend strengthened him, their screams fueling the whispers in his mind. The Lightbearer Near the heart of Dornogal, a human paladin clad in gleaming silver armor stood amidst the fray. His hammer glowed with radiant light, each swing banishing the shadows around him. His voice was strong and steady as he shouted commands, rallying the city’s defenders. Blightmaul felt the mark on his arm burn hotter as he approached the paladin. This was no ordinary foe-this was a Lightbearer, a champion whose very existence was anathema to the shadows. The paladin turned to face him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the twisted figure before him. “Forsaken,” he spat. “Do you even remember what you were before this madness? Or have you given yourself fully to the dark?” Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, its edge dripping with shadow. “What I was doesn’t matter,” he growled. “What I am is death.” Their clash was a storm of light and shadow. The paladin’s hammer struck with blinding radiance, each blow sending waves of pain through Blightmaul’s corrupted form. But the shadows were unyielding, wrapping around the hammer and dulling its light. Shadowrend lashed out, cutting deep into the paladin’s armor. With a final, desperate strike, Blightmaul drove the blade into the paladin’s chest, the light in his eyes flickering and fading. As the man fell, the shadows surged, consuming his form and silencing his voice forever. The Fall of Dornogal With the Lightbearer gone, the defenders’ morale crumbled. The shadows swept through the city, extinguishing its light piece by piece. Buildings burned, their flames casting eerie green light against the stormy sky. The streets ran slick with blood and shadow, the cries of the dying lost in the roar of the storm. Blightmaul stood at the city’s center, the shattered remnants of its great spire at his feet. The mark on his arm pulsed with satisfaction, the voices of the Cartographers rising in a hymn of triumph. “You have done well, shadowed one,” they said. “Dornogal is no more. The balance is restored.” But as Blightmaul looked out over the ruins, he felt no triumph. The whispers in his mind were louder than ever, their words sharp and biting. “You are nothing but a tool,” they hissed. “A shadow wielded by shadows.” For the first time, doubt crept into Blightmaul’s thoughts. He clenched his fists, his glowing eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the burning city. If Dornogal was only the beginning, what horrors would the shadows demand next?

The Shadow War on the Isle of Dorn The Isle of Dorn was a desolation on the edge of existence, a crag of black stone surrounded by seas of perpetual storms. Few in Azeroth spoke of it, and fewer still dared approach its cursed shores. But Blightmaul, the Forsaken warrior, was not deterred. Guided by whispers from Shadowrend and the dark promises of power, he sought the island with grim determination. The waves that battered his stolen vessel were not of water but of shadow-coiling tendrils that clawed at the hull, seeking to drag it into the abyss. When his boots finally touched the jagged shore, the storm subsided, as if the island itself had been waiting for him. The Black Obelisk The heart of the Isle of Dorn was dominated by a towering obelisk of obsidian, its surface etched with runes that pulsed with faint green light. The air around it was heavy, saturated with the weight of ancient magic. As Blightmaul approached, the ground beneath him trembled, and the whispers in his mind became a cacophony. “They see you,” Shadowrend hissed. “They welcome you.” Dark figures emerged from the shadows of the obelisk. They were shrouded in cloaks that seemed woven from the night itself, their faces hidden beneath hoods that revealed only glimmers of piercing light. They moved in unison, their steps silent and deliberate, as if the world bent to their will. One stepped forward, its voice a low, resonant echo. “Blightmaul, shadow of the Forsaken, bearer of the blade. You have come.” Blightmaul tightened his grip on Shadowrend. “Who are you?” The figure tilted its head, the motion inhuman. “We are the Cartographers of the Veil, architects of Azeroth’s unseen currents. We do not rule, but we guide. We do not command, but we shape. And you, broken one, are a ripple in the flow.” A Test of Shadows Blightmaul stepped closer, his armor scraping against the jagged rocks. “If you shape the world, then you know what I seek. Power. Purpose. What lies beyond the shadow.” The figure extended a hand, long and skeletal, its flesh clinging to the bone like tattered parchment. “Power is not given, but earned. Purpose is not found, but forged. If you would claim these things, you must prove you are more than the hollow husk we see before us.” The obelisk flared to life, its runes glowing brighter as the air filled with a sound like the wailing of countless souls. The ground split open, and from the chasm rose creatures of pure darkness-faceless beings with jagged claws and glowing cores of green fire. Blightmaul did not hesitate. With a guttural roar, he charged, Shadowrend cutting through the air like a streak of black lightning. The first creature fell in a single strike, its form dissolving into ash, but the others were relentless, their claws raking against his armor and tearing into the flesh beneath. The blade pulsed in his hands, guiding his strikes. Each swing of Shadowrend was more than an attack; it was a siphon, drawing the essence of the fallen into its hungry depths. The whispers grew louder, praising him, urging him on. But the fight was not without cost. As the last creature fell, Blightmaul collapsed to one knee, his body trembling. The green fire of their cores burned in his veins, and his vision blurred. The Pact The dark figure stepped forward again, its glowing eyes fixed on Blightmaul. “You fight well, shadowed one. But power is a curse as much as a gift. Do you understand this?” Blightmaul forced himself to stand, his breathing ragged. “I don’t care. I’ll take whatever curse comes with it, so long as I have the strength to carve my path.” The figure’s hood shifted, as if it were smiling. “So be it.” The obelisk pulsed again, and a tendril of shadow extended from its surface, wrapping around Blightmaul’s arm. He felt a searing pain as the tendril burned itself into his flesh, leaving behind a mark that glowed faintly with green light. “This is your tether,” the figure said. “Through it, the ebb and flow of Azeroth will touch you. You will see the currents we shape, feel the weight of the tides we guide. But know this: you are no master. You are a fragment of the greater design, and you will serve it, whether you will it or not.” Blightmaul looked down at the mark, his expression unreadable. The whispers in his mind had grown quieter, but their presence was stronger than ever, a constant pressure that promised both power and torment. The Veil Unseen As Blightmaul left the Isle of Dorn, the storm began to rise again, the waves of shadow crashing against the shore. He stood at the prow of his vessel, the mark on his arm glowing faintly in the darkness. In the distance, the storm parted for a brief moment, revealing the distant outline of Azeroth’s shores. For the first time, he saw the world not as it was, but as the Cartographers did-a web of interwoven shadows and light, every thread connected, every moment guided by unseen hands. He gripped Shadowrend tightly, the blade pulsing in response. He was no longer merely Forsaken, no longer merely a warrior. He was a fragment of the shadow, a pawn in a game he could barely comprehend. And yet, as the storm closed around him, a faint smile crossed his cracked lips. For the first time in a long while, he felt alive.

The Shadow That Walks Blightmaul no longer remembered his name. The echoes of his past-his human life, his Forsaken purpose-had dissolved into the endless void of shadow that now defined him. He was not a man, not even an undead warrior. He had become something else, something far worse. The land around him mirrored his transformation. The jagged cliffs of Khaz Algar seemed to bow in his presence, their sharp edges weeping rivers of liquid shadow that pooled around his feet. The storms above him churned endlessly, green lightning flashing like the heartbeat of a dying god. He was alone, but not lonely. The blade, now fused with his very essence, whispered to him in a language only he could understand. It did not guide him-it commanded him. And he obeyed. The Hollow King Blightmaul had no need for food or rest. His body, warped and hollow, was sustained entirely by the dark power that coursed through him. His armor had fused with his flesh, jagged spikes of blackened steel jutting from his shoulders and arms. His face was a ruin of cracked bone and shadow, his eyes glowing with the sickly green light of his unholy purpose. He walked through a valley of petrified trees, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. The air was thick with ash and silence, broken only by the sound of his footsteps. Creatures that should not exist emerged from the darkness to challenge him-monstrous things made of shadow and bone. They fell before him, one by one. His blade moved like a living thing, slicing through their forms as if cutting through smoke. But each time they fell, their essence was drawn into him, their screams merging with the chorus of whispers in his mind. “You are the shadow,” the voices chanted. “You are the end.” The Gathering of the Broken As Blightmaul pressed deeper into Khaz Algar, he began to attract followers-creatures that had once been mortal, their bodies twisted and broken by the land’s corrupting influence. They crawled from the shadows, their eyes filled with a strange reverence, and fell to their knees before him. They called him “the Hollow King.” Blightmaul did not speak to them. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to command them. They followed him through the desolate lands, their forms shifting and writhing like living shadows. One of them, a figure that might have once been an orc, dared to approach him. Its voice was a rasp, barely audible. “Will you lead us to salvation?” Blightmaul turned, his glowing eyes fixing on the creature. For a moment, he considered the question, the echoes of his lost humanity stirring somewhere deep within him. But then the blade pulsed in his hand, its shadows curling around his arm. “There is no salvation,” he said, his voice a hollow echo. “Only the shadow.” The orc-thing fell silent, bowing its head. The Monolith’s Will At last, Blightmaul came to the great monolith that stood at the heart of Khaz Algar. Its surface rippled like liquid shadow, and its towering form seemed to hum with a deep, resonant energy. The air around it was alive with whispers, countless voices calling to him, urging him forward. He approached the monolith, his blade raised. The shadows that surrounded him surged toward it, merging with its form until he could no longer tell where the monolith ended and the void began. “You are ready,” the voices said. “Become.” Blightmaul stepped into the monolith. The shadows consumed him, pulling him into a realm of absolute darkness. His body dissolved, his essence unraveling, until there was nothing left but the blade and the whispers. The Shadow Unbound When Blightmaul emerged, he was no longer a being of flesh and bone. He was shadow incarnate, a formless entity that moved like smoke and struck like a storm. His blade had fused with his essence, its edge slicing through reality itself. The land trembled beneath him, its corrupted creatures falling to their knees in worship or fleeing in terror. The storms above parted, revealing a sky that burned with green fire, as if the very fabric of the world was reacting to his presence. Blightmaul had no thoughts of conquest or revenge. He had no purpose beyond the will of the blade, the whispers that had shaped him into this monstrosity. He was the shadow that walked, the end that came for all things. And as he looked out over the broken expanse of Khaz Algar, he felt nothing. Nothing but the endless hunger of the void.

The Shattering The journey deeper into Khaz Algar became a descent into something far worse than madness. It was not simply the loss of sanity-Blightmaul could feel his very being unraveling. The land around him mirrored his inner collapse: jagged cliffs crumbled into endless voids, rivers of molten shadow carved through the ground like wounds that refused to heal, and the air itself pulsed with a strange, rhythmic beat that set his hollow chest trembling. Blightmaul found himself speaking aloud, his voice a rasp that echoed unnaturally. “Am I still Blightmaul?” “You are more,” came the reply, not from the whispers of Shadowrend, but from something deeper-something that spoke with his own voice. He stopped walking, his boots sinking into the black, yielding earth. He looked down and saw his reflection in a puddle of shimmering liquid shadow. At first, it was just his face, gaunt and lifeless as it always had been. But then the image shifted. The face in the puddle smiled. It was a cruel, mocking grin, its teeth blackened and sharp. “Blightmaul?” it asked, tilting its head. “There is no Blightmaul. There is only us.” He stepped back, shaking his head. “No… I am Forsaken. I am-” The puddle erupted, its liquid forming a dark, writhing mass that clung to him, crawling up his armor like a living thing. He clawed at it, trying to tear it away, but it seeped into his flesh, merging with the shadows already coiled around him. “You cannot fight what you are becoming,” the whispers said. “*You are not meant to fight. You are meant to surrender.” The Ghosts Within The memories began to surface in fragments, like shards of a broken mirror. They came unbidden and jagged, cutting into his mind. He saw himself standing among the Forsaken in Brill, his armor still unbroken, his purpose clear. Sylvanas’ voice echoed in his ears, distant but commanding. “You are a weapon, Blightmaul. Nothing more. Nothing less.” But then the image twisted. The figures in Brill turned to face him, their hollow eyes glowing with a faint, accusing light. “You abandoned us,” they said in unison, their voices a chorus of betrayal. “I didn’t,” he growled, but his voice was drowned out by the blade’s laughter. Another memory came-a battle against the Scarlet Crusade. He remembered the rage, the satisfaction of cutting them down. But now the faces of the Crusaders shifted, becoming familiar. They were not enemies. They were comrades. Brothers. Sisters. He saw their blood on his hands, felt the weight of their lives extinguished. “They deserved it,” the whispers said. “They always deserved it.” “Stop,” Blightmaul snarled, clutching his head. “Get out of my mind!” But it was no longer his mind to command. The Black Veins His body began to change. At first, it was subtle-dark veins of shadow creeping beneath his skin, his armor warping to accommodate them. But soon, the changes grew grotesque. His fingers elongated, their tips sharp and claw-like. His eyes burned with a sickly green light, and his voice, when he spoke, carried the undertone of something ancient and other. He found himself unable to sleep-not that the undead truly needed rest, but the absence of even the illusion of peace was maddening. When he closed his eyes, he saw the blade. Always the blade. Its surface rippled with shadows, its edges dripping with a darkness that seemed to flow endlessly. “You are perfect,” the whispers said, and for a fleeting moment, he felt pride. But it was a hollow emotion, one that left him colder than before. The Breach of Self Blightmaul reached a cavern at the heart of Khaz Algar, its entrance jagged and raw as if the earth itself had been torn apart. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay and sulfur, the walls pulsating with veins of molten black ore. At the center of the cavern stood a monolith, taller than any he had encountered. Its surface was smooth and reflective, but the images it showed were not of the cavern. They were of him. He saw himself standing on a battlefield, the corpses of Forsaken and Horde alike strewn around him. His blade glowed with dark power, its whispers rising into a deafening crescendo. He saw his reflection laughing, the sound manic and broken. “No,” he growled, stepping closer to the monolith. “This isn’t real.” The reflection grinned. “It will be. You know it. You want it.” He swung Shadowrend at the monolith, but the blade stopped inches from its surface, held in place by an unseen force. The reflection leaned closer, its face twisting into something monstrous, its hollow eyes burning like twin stars. “You are already lost, Blightmaul. Why fight it?” The Final Steps When he left the cavern, he no longer felt like himself. His mind was fractured, each piece of it carrying a different voice, a different hunger. The whispers of Shadowrend were no longer distinct-they had become part of him, inseparable from his thoughts. The land around him seemed to mock his descent. The rivers of molten shadow mirrored his warped reflection, their currents pulling at his legs as if inviting him to sink. The petrified trees whispered his name, their voices faint but familiar. Blightmaul stood on a ridge overlooking the expanse of Khaz Algar, the storms raging endlessly above. He raised the blade, its shadows curling around his arm, and for the first time, he did not resist. He was becoming what the land demanded, what the blade promised. His mind no longer mattered. His memories were ash. Ahead, the land awaited. The shadows welcomed him, and Blightmaul stepped forward, letting them take him.

The Shadow’s Embrace Blightmaul pressed deeper into the heart of Khaz Algar, each step dragging him further into a landscape that seemed to breathe with its own malignant will. The petrified forests gave way to valleys of jagged stone, where pools of molten silver hissed and spat like wounded beasts. Above him, the skies churned in ceaseless storms, the air alive with the crackle of energy that felt older than the Titans themselves. The whispers from Shadowrend grew bolder, no longer hiding in the recesses of his thoughts. They crowded his mind, their voices weaving a tapestry of deceit, temptation, and raw, aching truth. “They will betray you.” “This land calls to you as it has called to no other.” “You are more shadow than flesh.” At first, Blightmaul argued with the voices, his rasping growl breaking the silence of the land. But the further he walked, the less he resisted. The Shardbound’s Warning It was on the seventh day that he encountered one of the Shardbound. The creature emerged from a fissure in the earth, its form towering and ancient. It was made of black stone, veined with green and violet light, its surface etched with glowing runes. “You carry the blade,” it said, its voice a deep, resonant boom that seemed to vibrate the very ground. “You carry the doom of Khaz Algar.” Blightmaul gripped Shadowrend, its whispers roaring in his ears. “Speak plainly,” he spat. The Shardbound tilted its massive head, its eyes burning with something between pity and disdain. “There is no plainness in shadow,” it said. “Only endless hunger. The blade will unmake you, as it has unmade so many before.” Blightmaul stepped forward, the blade humming with anticipation. “If it unmade you, why are you still standing?” The Shardbound recoiled as if struck. “We are not whole. We are fragments, like the shards themselves. We linger only to warn-and to die.” Before Blightmaul could question further, the blade surged in his hand, driving him into combat. The whispers screamed, “Strike! Consume!” The fight was brutal and swift. The blade moved as though it had a mind of its own, carving through the Shardbound’s stone flesh with ease. When the creature finally fell, its body crumbled into ash, leaving behind a single fragment of glowing crystal. Blightmaul picked it up, the shard’s energy coursing through him. For a moment, the whispers fell silent. But then they returned, louder and more insistent, praising his victory and urging him onward. The Veil of Memory Days blurred together as Blightmaul wandered deeper into the land. He no longer felt the need to eat or rest, his undead body sustained by the blade’s insidious power. The landscapes grew stranger-forests of jagged crystal, rivers of liquid shadow, and caves that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of their own. The memories of his past began to slip away. The face of the human he once was faded into obscurity, and even the Forsaken-the comrades he had fought beside-seemed like distant figures in a dream. All that remained was the blade and the shadows that surrounded it. One night, he found himself staring into a pool of molten silver, his reflection distorted by its shifting surface. The figure that looked back at him was barely recognizable. His armor was cracked and blackened, veins of shadow pulsating beneath the plates. His eyes burned with faint green light, and his gauntleted hands seemed longer, sharper, as if they had been reshaped by the blade’s influence. “You are becoming,” the whispers said. “Becoming what?” Blightmaul growled. “What you were meant to be.” The Abyss Beckons The turning point came when he stumbled upon a great chasm, its edges jagged and raw, as though the land itself had been torn apart. At its center, a massive structure rose-a monolith of obsidian and shadow, its surface rippling like black water. Blightmaul felt the pull immediately. The whispers screamed, urging him forward, promising answers and power. As he approached the edge, he saw the shadows within the chasm move. They rose in tendrils, curling and writhing like living things. The closer he got, the more the world seemed to blur and fade, until all that remained was the blade and the abyss. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and indistinct, its form shifting like smoke. It had no face, only a void where its features should have been. “Do you know what you are, Blightmaul?” it asked, its voice a chorus of whispers. “I am Forsaken,” he said, though the words felt hollow. The figure laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “You are a vessel. A tool. The blade chose you because you were empty. And soon, you will be full.” Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, the blade trembling in his grasp. “I am no one’s tool.” The figure stepped closer, its void-like face inches from his own. “You already are.” The New World Awaits Blightmaul stood at the edge of the chasm, the shadows below writhing in anticipation. The whispers of the blade and the land had merged into one, a symphony of madness that filled his mind. Ahead, the monolith loomed, its surface alive with dark energy. Beyond it, the storm-laden skies of Khaz Algar stretched endlessly, the land promising nothing but despair and destruction. He tightened his grip on the blade, its shadows curling around his arm like chains. For the first time, he wondered if he would ever be free. But freedom no longer mattered. Only the journey ahead did. Without a word, Blightmaul stepped forward, into the abyss.

The Birth of Revanok In the final days before the plague swept through Lordaeron, Varon Drayce was a simple man of unyielding resolve. A humble blacksmith in the town of Harrensvale, he spent his days forging plowshares and horseshoes for the farmers who called the valley home. Though his craft was plain, his devotion to his family was boundless. His wife, Elira, and their young son, Caelan, were his world. They lived modestly, yet happily, untouched by the whispers of war and death creeping ever closer from the north. But peace is a fragile thing. The first signs of the plague came not with corpses but with desperation. Refugees streamed south, their eyes hollow and their stories chilling. Entire villages were consumed overnight, they said, their dead rising to slaughter the living. Varon dismissed the tales as exaggerated panic. "Let the soldiers handle it," he told Elira one night as they sat by the fire. "We've got our own work to do." But when the plague finally came to Harrensvale, it arrived not as a slow wave but as an unrelenting storm. The Fall of Harrensvale It began with the grain. Farmers who ate from the tainted harvest grew feverish and pale, their bodies wracked with spasms before death claimed them. Then, in the dead of night, they rose again. Varon woke to screams outside his home. Grabbing his hammer, he rushed into the streets to find chaos. Neighbors he had known all his life were now shambling horrors, their lifeless eyes devoid of humanity. They tore through the town, their claws and teeth rending flesh as the living fled in terror. Varon fought valiantly, his hammer crushing skulls and breaking bones, but it was a futile effort. The undead were relentless, their numbers growing with each passing moment. By the time he returned to his home, it was already too late. The door was splintered, and inside he found Elira and Caelan cornered by a ghoul. Elira had armed herself with a kitchen knife, her trembling hands slick with blood, but the creature’s strength was overwhelming. Varon roared as he charged forward, driving his hammer into the ghoul’s head. It fell with a sickening crunch, but not before its claws had raked across Elira’s chest. She collapsed into his arms, her blood soaking into his tunic. “Save him,” she whispered, her voice weak. Her gaze flicked to Caelan, who stood frozen, tears streaming down his cheeks. Varon held her until her breathing stopped. There was no time to grieve. He grabbed Caelan and fled into the night, the screams of his neighbors echoing behind him. The Betrayal of Hope For weeks, Varon and Caelan wandered the wilderness, evading roving bands of undead and searching for sanctuary. Their bond deepened as they relied on each other for survival. Varon’s hands, once calloused from the forge, became bloodied from countless fights. Yet, despite his efforts, the world around them grew darker. News of Arthas Menethil’s betrayal and the fall of Lordaeron spread like wildfire. Hope was a fading ember. When they finally stumbled upon a group of survivors, Varon dared to believe they had found safety. The group welcomed them into their camp, sharing food and stories. For the first time in weeks, Caelan laughed, a small but precious sound that filled Varon’s heart with warmth. But safety was an illusion. One of the survivors, desperate and paranoid, had been hiding an infected wound. The plague took him in the night, and by morning the camp was a slaughterhouse. Varon woke to Caelan’s screams as the boy was dragged from their tent by the reanimated corpses of their newfound allies. He fought with all his strength, his hammer breaking bodies and bones, but he was outnumbered. The last thing he saw was his son’s terrified face before a blade pierced his chest. The Call of the Lich King Death was not the end. Varon awoke in darkness. His body, broken and lifeless, was no longer his own. The chill of Frostmourne’s will coursed through him, silencing his grief and hardening his soul. The whispers of the Lich King filled his mind, promising power and vengeance. He remembered his pain-the loss of Elira, the terror in Caelan’s eyes-and he clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood. “Serve me,” the voice commanded, “and I will give you the strength to avenge them.” Varon Drayce died that day, his soul bound to the frozen will of the Scourge. In his place rose Revanok, a Death Knight clad in dark plate and wielding a runeblade etched with the runes of despair. His memories, twisted and incomplete, fueled his hatred for the living and the undead alike. He became a weapon of the Lich King, his humanity buried beneath layers of frost and blood. Yet, in the cold recesses of his mind, a faint ember remained-a flicker of the man who once fought to save his family. It whispered to him, a quiet reminder of who he had been. Revanok ignored it, for the pain was too great. And so, he marched into the endless night, a harbinger of death and destruction, his heart frozen but never truly silent.

The Weight of Shadows (Continued) Blightmaul stood at the edge of the Bulwark, the poisoned air of the Plaguelands heavy in his hollow chest. The whispers of Shadowrend had quieted for now, retreating like a predator biding its time. He could feel its hunger though, a gnawing presence that matched the emptiness within him. For weeks, he had wandered the borders of his former life, seeking purpose and answers in the ruined strongholds of the Forsaken. He found neither. His comrades viewed him with suspicion, his presence thick with unnatural shadows. Even Nathanos had avoided meeting his gaze, as if Shadowrend’s presence was an affront too great for the once-proud champion of the Banshee Queen. In the silence of the night, Blightmaul had made his decision. The whispers spoke of a world beyond, of a land called Khaz Algar. The name slithered through his thoughts like oil, filling him with dread and longing in equal measure. He had seen it in dreams, a jagged continent rising from endless seas, wreathed in storms and shadow. Its peaks pierced the sky like broken teeth, and its valleys writhed with primordial life. “Go,” the blade hissed. “It awaits you.” The whispers promised no redemption, no salvation. Only answers, buried in the dark heart of a world untouched by the living and dead alike. A Journey into the Unknown The journey to Khaz Algar was as perilous as it was inevitable. Blightmaul boarded a Horde ship at the edge of Orgrimmar, its hull blackened by years of war. The crew-a ragged assembly of Forsaken, Orcs, and Trolls-did not speak to him. They knew better. The ship’s course cut through seas roiling with unnatural energy. Storms gathered quickly, their thunderous voices drowning out even the whispers of the blade. Blightmaul stood at the prow, his form a stark silhouette against the lightning-streaked sky. He felt the blade’s pull stronger with each passing league, an invisible tether dragging him toward something ancient and unknowable. One night, the sea grew unnaturally calm. The crew huddled below deck, whispering of curses and old gods. Blightmaul remained above, staring into the black water. He saw shapes moving beneath the surface-massive, serpentine forms that glowed faintly with bioluminescent light. The whispers laughed in his mind. “Even the sea fears what lies ahead.” When the coastline of Khaz Algar finally appeared, it was as he had seen in his dreams. Towering cliffs of jagged stone jutted from the ocean, their surfaces slick with rain and streaked with veins of shimmering black ore. The skies above churned with perpetual storms, the clouds lit from within by flashes of green and violet lightning. The First Steps Blightmaul disembarked onto a shore of black sand, his boots sinking into the ground as if the land itself resisted his presence. The air was thick with the stench of ozone and decay. Waves crashed against the rocks, their foam tinted an unnatural, iridescent hue. The blade’s whispers were silent now, but its presence was suffocating. Blightmaul could feel it pulsing on his back, its shadows seeping into his armor like creeping vines. Ahead, the land stretched out in grim majesty. Forests of petrified trees loomed on the horizon, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. Rivers of molten silver cut through the landscape, their surfaces hissing and bubbling as they met the cold rain. The shadows moved here. Not in the way they danced at the edge of torchlight, but with purpose. They slithered and coiled across the ground, retreating into crevices and cracks as Blightmaul approached. “You are home,” the whispers finally said. A World of Shadows Blightmaul’s first night on Khaz Algar was restless. He made camp at the base of a jagged hill, his back to the cold stone. The petrified trees swayed in a wind he could not feel, their creaks and groans sounding like distant screams. Sleep brought no respite. In his dreams, the shadows of Khaz Algar revealed themselves fully-tall, indistinct figures with burning eyes and mouths that gaped wide enough to devour stars. They spoke without sound, their movements rippling like water. When he woke, he found Shadowrend buried in the earth beside him, its hilt protruding like a fang. The shadows it cast danced unnaturally, defying the dawn’s pale light. Blightmaul rose, his gauntleted hand trembling as he grasped the weapon. The whispers surged back, stronger than ever. “The answers you seek lie ahead,” they said. “Deeper.” He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the land rose in jagged peaks that pierced the stormy skies. Khaz Algar stretched before him, a world of impossible beauty and unrelenting horror. The shadows welcomed him, and the whispers promised that the path would only grow darker. Blightmaul tightened his grip on Shadowrend. For the first time since his undeath, he felt something akin to fear-and he welcomed it. With a final glance at the turbulent sea behind him, he set off into the unknown. Ahead, the storm-laden skies of Khaz Algar waited.

The Weight of Shadows Blightmaul trudged through the twisting corridors of the Undercity, the weight of Shadowrend strapped to his back. It felt heavier than any blade he had carried before, though its metal was unnaturally light. The shadows it cast danced on the walls as if alive, twisting and writhing with malevolent purpose. The whispers were constant now, no longer content to haunt his dreams. They seeped into his waking thoughts, a cacophony of voices speaking in fragmented languages. Some were soft and seductive, promising power beyond imagination. Others were cruel and mocking, their words clawing at his resolve. By the time he reached the ruined streets above the Undercity, his mind felt frayed, like an old tapestry unraveling at the edges. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and heavy. The stench of rot lingered, a reminder of Tirisfal Glades’ decay. He sat on the edge of a crumbling fountain, staring into the dark waters pooled within. His reflection looked back at him-gaunt, hollow-eyed, and faintly wrong. The blade’s influence had begun to change him, its energy seeping into his very being. “You cannot resist,” one of the whispers cooed. Blightmaul clenched his fists, his skeletal fingers digging into the stone. “I’ve resisted worse,” he growled, though he wasn’t sure if it was true. The first time he drew the blade, it was in defense. A pack of worgen had ambushed him on the road to Brill, their howls echoing through the mist. He had fought them before-quick, brutal encounters where steel and skill determined survival. But this time was different. When he unsheathed Shadowrend, the air around him seemed to grow colder. The blade pulsed in his hand, eager, hungry. As he struck the first worgen, the weapon’s true nature revealed itself. The creature didn’t bleed. It screamed, its voice a horrible blend of pain and terror, as its body began to dissolve. The shadows clinging to the blade surged forward, wrapping around the worgen like vines. Within moments, nothing remained but ash. The other worgen hesitated, their feral instincts overcome by fear. Blightmaul took no pleasure in what happened next. The blade moved almost on its own, guiding his strikes with unnatural precision. Each swing brought more destruction, the shadows consuming his foes until the road was littered with smoldering remains. When the last worgen fell, Blightmaul stood in the silence, the whispers deafening in his ears. The blade trembled in his grasp, as though alive, and for a moment he thought it might turn against him. He dropped it, his hands shaking. The whispers subsided, but the blade’s presence lingered like a sickness in his mind. In the days that followed, the weapon’s influence grew stronger. It demanded to be used, its whispers turning into commands. Draw me. Strike. Kill. Blightmaul found himself drawn to the blade despite his fear. Each time he resisted, it lashed out in subtle ways. His thoughts grew clouded, memories of his life before undeath slipping away like sand through his fingers. His companions noticed the change. “You’ve been quiet, mon,” Zillik said one evening as they camped near the edge of Silverpine Forest. The Troll’s tone was casual, but his eyes were wary. “Too quiet.” Blightmaul didn’t respond. “Dat blade,” Zillik continued, gesturing toward the weapon. “It’s doin’ somethin’ to ya. I can feel it. Like a bad spirit hangin’ in da air.” Dhrazka nodded from across the fire. “He’s right. The shadows around you aren’t natural. You need to let it go before it consumes you.” Blightmaul looked at them both, his voice cold. “It’s not that simple.” The truth was, he had tried. He had left the blade buried in the mud outside Brill, but by morning it had reappeared at his side. He had thrown it into a lake, only to wake and find it resting against his bedroll. The whispers laughed at his attempts, mocking his desperation. One night, the blade showed him what it truly wanted. In his dreams, he stood once more in the shadowy field, the sky above him fractured and bleeding light. The blade was there, embedded in the ground, its surface rippling with dark energy. Around him, figures began to emerge from the shadows. They were distorted, their forms ever-shifting, but their eyes burned with unmistakable hatred. “You are the key,” the voices said in unison. Blightmaul stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The shadows surged forward, enveloping him. He awoke with a start, his breath ragged despite the absence of lungs. The blade lay beside him, its surface shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He picked it up, his hands trembling. The whispers were louder now, more insistent. “You belong to me,” they hissed. By the time he reached the Forsaken stronghold at the Bulwark, Blightmaul knew he could not carry Shadowrend much longer. Its hunger was insatiable, and every time he wielded it, he felt himself slipping further into the void. He sought out the apothecaries, desperate for answers, but they offered only grim smiles and cryptic words. “The Dark Lady chose you for a reason,” one said, his voice dripping with malice. “You cannot unmake what you have become.” Even Nathanos was of little help. “You’re not the first to break under the weight of duty,” he said. “And you won’t be the last.” Blightmaul left the Bulwark that night, the whispers driving him toward some unknown destination. He no longer knew if he was running from the blade-or toward it. All he knew was that the shadows would not let him go.

The Forge of Shadows Deep within the bowels of the Undercity, the apothecaries prepared for the forging of the shard into a weapon. The laboratory reeked of death and alchemy, a foul combination that even the Forsaken found oppressive. At the center of the chamber stood a massive forge, its flames an eerie green, fueled by corrupted felwood and the ichor of slain aberrations. Sylvanas herself oversaw the operation, her crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. Behind her stood Nathanos and Blightmaul, their faces obscured by the flickering shadows. “This is no mere forging,” Sylvanas began, her voice like a blade slicing through the heavy air. “This is a rebirth. A weapon of destruction, yes-but also of control. It will cut not just flesh, but the very will of our enemies.” The apothecaries worked in silence, their movements precise and unnatural. One carried the shards, wrapped in thick chains of enchanted iron to subdue their malevolence. Another poured viscous, dark liquid into the forge-a mixture of plague essence, fel energy, and void-infused oils harvested from creatures slain in the Shadowlands. When the chains were removed, the shards throbbed with life, their dark energy spilling into the room. Whispers filled the chamber, ancient and incomprehensible, clawing at the minds of all present. “Begin,” Sylvanas commanded. The shards were lowered into the forge, and the room erupted in chaos. The flames roared to life, their green hue deepening into a sickly black. The whispers grew louder, forming twisted words that echoed in the minds of the apothecaries. One of them screamed, clutching his head. He collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing as black veins spread across his skin. Within moments, he was dead, his hollowed-out corpse still twitching. “Leave him,” Sylvanas said coldly. “The weak are unworthy to witness this creation.” The others continued their work, their faces pale but resolute. A massive mold was brought forth, shaped like a jagged, wicked blade. The shards melted slowly, their essence pooling in the bottom of the mold like liquid night. As the process continued, Sylvanas raised her hands, chanting in a language few in the room recognized. It was the tongue of the Banshees, a chilling, otherworldly dialect that carried the weight of death and despair. The liquid within the mold responded, writhing and bubbling as if alive. The whispers grew louder, more coherent. They spoke of destruction, domination, and endless suffering. Blightmaul felt their pull deep within his chest, as if the shards were trying to draw him into the forge itself. Then came the blood. Sylvanas gestured to Nathanos, who stepped forward with a ceremonial dagger. Without hesitation, he sliced his palm and let his blackened blood drip into the molten shards. The liquid hissed and roared, its surface erupting in violent waves. Blightmaul watched in horror as the blood was absorbed into the blade’s forming structure, its essence twisting and warping. Nathanos stepped back, his expression stoic despite the growing unease in the room. Sylvanas turned her gaze to Blightmaul. “You carried the shards. You felt their call. The blade will not be complete without you.” He hesitated, the whispers now deafening. But there was no refusing her command. He stepped forward, taking the dagger from Nathanos. As the blade drank his blood, Blightmaul felt an icy pain unlike any he had known. It wasn’t physical; it was as if the weapon was feeding on his very soul, siphoning fragments of his identity into its dark core. He staggered back, his vision blurring as the whispers turned into a scream. The apothecaries chanted furiously, their voices blending with Sylvanas’ as they invoked powers that should have remained buried. When the chanting ceased, the room fell silent. The blade was complete. Sylvanas stepped forward, her hand closing around the weapon’s hilt. As she lifted it, the air grew heavier, the shadows darker. The blade seemed to absorb light, its surface rippling with an unnatural energy. “Shadowrend,” she whispered, her voice reverent. The apothecaries fell to their knees, their faces etched with a mixture of awe and terror. Nathanos remained standing, his jaw tight. Blightmaul swayed on his feet, his strength sapped by the forging. Sylvanas turned to him, the blade resting easily in her grip. “You have done well, Blightmaul. Few could endure what you have.” But he didn’t feel pride. The blade’s presence was overwhelming, its hunger insatiable. He could feel it probing at his mind, a predator searching for weakness. As Sylvanas tested the blade, slicing it through the air, its power became clear. Each swing left a trail of shadow, the very fabric of reality bending in its wake. When she struck the stone wall, it didn’t shatter-it dissolved, crumbling into ash. The apothecaries began cleaning the forge, their movements slow and deliberate. One of them approached the mold, but as he touched its surface, the residue from the shards consumed him. He screamed as his body disintegrated, leaving only a smear of blackened flesh behind. Sylvanas observed this without emotion. “A necessary sacrifice,” she said. Blightmaul turned to leave, but Sylvanas’ voice stopped him. “Do not think your role is finished, Blightmaul. You are bound to this weapon now. Its power comes with a price, and you will pay it in full.” He didn’t respond. The whispers had returned, louder than ever, and he knew they would never leave him. As he stumbled out of the laboratory, the shadows seemed to cling to him, their weight growing heavier with each step. He glanced back once, catching a final glimpse of Sylvanas holding Shadowrend. Her expression was triumphant, but there was something else-something darker, deeper, and far more dangerous. Blightmaul realized then that the blade was not just a weapon. It was a promise. A herald of the darkness yet to come.

The Dark Lady’s Design In the cavernous depths of Undercity, the shards of the black crystal were laid bare on an obsidian altar. The room was cold, the air thick with the acrid tang of undeath and alchemical fumes. Torches sputtered weakly, their light casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls. At the room’s center, Sylvanas Windrunner stood, her expression a mask of calculated intensity. The shards pulsed faintly, their malevolence palpable even to the Banshee Queen. She extended a gloved hand, her fingers brushing the largest fragment. For a moment, her crimson eyes flared with unearthly light, and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “This power is ancient,” she murmured, her voice a chilling whisper. “Unyielding. Perfect.” Behind her, a cadre of apothecaries and dark rangers observed in reverent silence. Among them stood Nathanos Blightcaller, his perpetual scowl deepened by unease. “My Queen,” he said, his tone cautious, “are we certain this… thing is worth the risk? Its corruption is unlike anything we’ve encountered.” Sylvanas turned, her gaze piercing. “Risk is the currency of war, Nathanos. And we are bankrupt. The Horde falters, the Alliance grows bolder. If we are to ensure our survival, we must embrace the tools others fear to wield.” The experiments began in earnest. The shards were subjected to alchemical processes and infused with the dark magics of the Forsaken. The apothecaries worked tirelessly, their grotesque contraptions hissing and steaming as they sought to unravel the crystal’s secrets. Blightmaul, still haunted by the shard’s whispers, was summoned to the depths of the Undercity. He stood before Sylvanas, her presence an oppressive force that seemed to magnify the shard’s lingering grip on his mind. “You brought this to me,” she said, her voice low and measured. “You have seen its potential, felt its power. Tell me, Blightmaul, do you fear it?” He hesitated, the weight of her gaze bearing down on him. “Fear is for the living,” he said at last, though the words felt hollow. “But it is dangerous. It corrupts all who come near.” Sylvanas smiled, a thin, predatory curve of her lips. “Good. Danger is a weapon, Blightmaul. Corruption is a tool. Both can be wielded with precision-if one has the will.” As the weeks passed, the shards’ influence began to spread. Soldiers stationed near the laboratory reported vivid nightmares and fits of rage. Strange growths appeared in the walls of the chamber, dark tendrils creeping outward like veins of rot. One apothecary, overcome by the shard’s whispers, threw himself into a vat of plague. His screams echoed through the halls, lingering long after his body had dissolved. Blightmaul’s visions grew more intense. The shadowy field returned, but now the figures in the distance had form-hulking, featureless shapes with glowing eyes. They stood silently, watching him, their presence a suffocating weight. In the waking world, he found himself drawn to the laboratory, unable to stay away. One night, he stood outside the chamber, his hollow eyes fixed on the faint glow emanating from within. Sylvanas emerged, her crimson gaze locking onto his. “You feel it, don’t you?” she said, her voice a blend of curiosity and amusement. Blightmaul nodded slowly. “It calls to me.” Sylvanas stepped closer, her tone soft but commanding. “It calls to all of us. The weak succumb, but the strong… the strong harness its power. You are strong, Blightmaul. Prove it.” The culmination of Sylvanas’ plans came with the forging of a new weapon. The shards were melted down, their essence infused into a blade blacker than the void. The weapon thrummed with energy, its surface shifting like liquid shadow. Sylvanas named it Shadowrend. The first test was conducted in the Undercity’s training grounds. A captive Alliance soldier-a night elf paladin-was brought forth, his defiance unwavering despite his chains. Sylvanas handed the blade to Blightmaul, her gaze daring him to refuse. “Strike him down,” she commanded. Blightmaul hesitated. The shard’s whispers surged in his mind, a cacophony of voices urging him forward. He tightened his grip on the blade, its weight unnatural, almost alive. The paladin stared at him, his expression a mixture of pity and contempt. “You’ve already lost,” he said. Blightmaul swung the blade. The moment it struck, the chamber was engulfed in darkness. The paladin’s scream was swallowed by the void, his body disintegrating into ash. When the darkness receded, nothing remained but the faint hum of the blade. The soldiers watching recoiled, their undead forms trembling with unease. Sylvanas, however, looked pleased. “This is the future of war,” she said, her voice cold and final. But the blade’s creation had not gone unnoticed. Across Azeroth, faint echoes of its forging rippled through the ley lines, drawing the attention of ancient powers. In Stormwind, the High Priestess of Elune awoke from a dream of shadow and fire. In Orgrimmar, Thrall felt a shiver of unease despite the blazing heat of the desert. And in the shadowy recesses of the void, the watchers stirred. Blightmaul felt none of this. As he stood in the Undercity, the blade still in his hand, he realized that the whispers had ceased. But the silence was not a relief. It was the calm before a storm. Sylvanas’ gaze lingered on him, her smile inscrutable. “You’ve done well, Blightmaul. But this is only the beginning.” He looked down at the blade, its surface shifting like a living thing. For the first time since his undeath, he felt something resembling fear.

Echoes of the Broken Shard The rain followed them into Tarren Mill, a cold and relentless downpour that turned the streets to rivers of mud. The shard’s fragments, wrapped in a tattered cloth, pulsed faintly even in their broken state, their malevolence an ever-present weight in Blightmaul’s satchel. As they entered the town, the apothecary was waiting. His grin faltered when he saw their grim expressions and the cloth bundle. “What is this?” he hissed, snatching the shards with skeletal hands. “Your artifact,” Goruk rumbled, his massive frame tense. “Broken. And cursed.” The apothecary’s eye sockets flared with faint light. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” Blightmaul stepped forward, his voice like gravel. “We survived. The knight who guarded it didn’t. Whatever power this holds isn’t worth the price.” The apothecary’s grin returned, a ghastly twist of his bony face. “Survived, yes. But at what cost? You’ve set events into motion that cannot be undone.” That night, Blightmaul found no rest. The Horde encampment was alive with the sounds of preparations for war-blacksmiths hammering weapons into shape, apothecaries brewing plagues, soldiers drilling in the rain. But it was the shard’s presence that gnawed at him, even from the other side of the camp. His dreams were plagued with visions. He stood in a field of ash, the sky above him split by jagged streaks of violet light. Shadows writhed at the edge of his vision, whispering in a language he couldn’t understand. At the field’s center stood the shattered shard, its pieces slowly knitting themselves back together. As it reformed, the shadows surged toward him, and he awoke with a start. The campfire beside him had burned low, casting flickering shadows on the trees. Dhrazka sat across from him, her gaze fixed on the flames. “The shard calls to you, doesn’t it?” Blightmaul nodded slowly. “It’s more than a weapon. It wants something. I don’t know what.” The shaman’s expression was grave. “Artifacts like that are never destroyed, not truly. Their power lingers, waiting for a new host.” The following day, the consequences of their actions began to unfold. Scouts arrived with reports of strange occurrences near the ruins-lights in the sky, unnatural storms, and whispers that drove men to madness. The apothecary was unusually quiet, his glee replaced with a grim intensity as he worked in his laboratory. Zillik was the first to notice the changes in Blightmaul. “Hey, mon,” the Troll said one morning, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Ya don’t look so good. What’s goin’ on in dat undead head o’ yours?” Blightmaul shook his head, unwilling to share the visions that had begun to haunt his waking hours. The shard’s pull was growing stronger, a constant pressure at the edge of his mind. It wasn’t long before the first attack came. A night elf assassin, her face painted with shadowy runes, slipped into the camp under cover of darkness. Her blade found the apothecary before she was brought down by the guards. As she bled out on the muddy ground, she locked eyes with Blightmaul and whispered, “The shard… must not… return.” The Horde commanders were furious. The attack was a clear sign that the Alliance knew of the shard’s existence and its fragmented state. Plans were hastily drawn up to transport the pieces to Undercity, where Sylvanas herself would decide their fate. Blightmaul’s companions were less convinced. “We’re bringin’ trouble straight to da Banshee Queen,” Zillik muttered, his raptor growling beside him. “I don’t like it.” Dhrazka nodded. “The artifact’s power will corrupt anyone who seeks to use it. Sylvanas is no exception.” Goruk remained silent, his jaw tight. Finally, he turned to Blightmaul. “What do you think? You’ve carried the shards this far.” Blightmaul stared into the distance, his thoughts a whirlwind. The shard had brought nothing but death and madness. Yet, could they simply abandon it, knowing the devastation it could unleash in the wrong hands? “The Dark Lady will decide,” he said at last, though the words rang hollow even to him. The journey to Undercity was fraught with peril. Alliance forces, emboldened by knowledge of the shard, harried them at every turn. Ambushes and skirmishes left their ranks dwindling, and the shards’ influence grew stronger with each passing day. By the time they reached the outskirts of Tirisfal Glades, Blightmaul was barely holding on. His dreams had become waking nightmares, the whispers louder, more insistent. His companions watched him warily, their trust eroding with every mile. At the gates of Undercity, Sylvanas’ Dark Rangers awaited them. They took the shards without a word, disappearing into the depths of the city. Blightmaul felt a strange emptiness as the weight lifted from his satchel, but the whispers remained. That night, as he sat alone in the ruins above the city, Dhrazka approached. “It’s not over, you know,” she said softly. Blightmaul nodded, his hollow gaze fixed on the horizon. “It never is.” The shards’ fate now rested in Sylvanas’ hands, but their dark legacy was far from over. For Blightmaul, the journey had only just begun. The shadows would follow him wherever he went, and the weight of his choices would shape the battles yet to come.

The Blood-Stained Path The road south led Blightmaul and his companions into the heart of Horde territory. Silverpine’s skeletal woods gave way to the rolling hills of Hillsbrad, but the Forsaken presence was no less oppressive. Everywhere, the mark of the Dark Lady’s will could be seen-black banners fluttering over hastily constructed encampments, alchemical contraptions spewing green vapors into the sky. The Tauren warrior, Goruk, eyed the scene with unease. “This place stinks of desperation,” he rumbled, his hand resting on the haft of his axe. The Orc shaman, Dhrazka, nodded grimly. “The Forsaken push deeper into contested lands. But it is not the warfront we seek.” She turned to Blightmaul, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve heard the rumors, yes? Of what lies beyond the Alterac foothills?” Blightmaul adjusted the shield strapped to his arm, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “The rumors don’t matter. Only what we find when we get there.” The Troll, Zillik, snorted, his raptor padding silently beside him. “Dis one always so serious? Relax, mon. We got plenty o’ time to die later.” Their path led them to the town of Tarren Mill, a bleak outpost on the edge of Forsaken expansion. The streets were lined with alchemical cauldrons, their noxious fumes drifting lazily over the town. Undead soldiers moved with purpose, their hollow eyes betraying no emotion as they prepared for battle. At the town’s center, an apothecary in dark robes greeted them, his skeletal grin unnerving even to Blightmaul. “Ah, fresh arrivals,” he crooned, his bony fingers steepled. “You must be the ones who quelled the disturbances in Silverpine.” Goruk’s expression darkened. “Disturbances? What we fought was an abomination.” The apothecary chuckled, the sound dry and rasping. “Semantics, my friend. Regardless, your skills are needed again. There is… a situation in the Arathi Highlands.” Dhrazka frowned. “Arathi? The Highlands are far from Horde control. What draws our attention there?” The apothecary’s grin widened, an unsettling sight. “An artifact, recently unearthed by our rivals. We believe it possesses the power to sway the tide of war. Naturally, we cannot allow it to remain in their hands.” The journey to Arathi was grueling. The lush fields of Hillsbrad gave way to rugged terrain, the hills dotted with the ruins of a bygone kingdom. Storm clouds gathered overhead, the wind carrying the faint scent of rain. The group traveled in uneasy silence, each member lost in their thoughts. As they neared their destination, Zillik broke the quiet. “So, what’s dis artifact, anyway? Some big shiny thing dat makes ya feel all warm inside?” Blightmaul’s voice was low, almost a growl. “Warmth is the last thing it will bring. If the Forsaken want it, it’s for a reason.” Dhrazka glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You speak as one who has seen such things before.” Blightmaul didn’t reply. They arrived at the ruins of an ancient stronghold, its stone walls crumbled and overgrown. The artifact was said to be hidden within, guarded by Alliance forces and mercenaries. The first skirmish came swiftly. Human soldiers in gleaming armor emerged from the rubble, their battle cries piercing the stormy air. Goruk roared, his massive axe cleaving through their ranks with brutal efficiency. Dhrazka called upon the elements, summoning bolts of lightning that left scorch marks on the ground. Blightmaul fought methodically, his shield absorbing blow after blow as his sword cut through flesh and steel. The Troll’s arrows whistled through the air, each one finding its mark. The enemy was relentless, but the Horde adventurers pressed on, their determination outweighing their fatigue. As the last soldier fell, the ruins fell silent once more, save for the sound of their labored breathing. The artifact lay in the depths of a crumbling tower, its glow faint but unmistakable. It was a shard of black crystal, jagged and pulsing with dark energy. Blightmaul approached cautiously, his undead senses recoiling at the malevolence emanating from it. “Dat thing ain’t natural,” Zillik muttered, his hand resting uneasily on his bow. Dhrazka’s voice was calm but firm. “It’s a weapon, and one we cannot allow to fall into Alliance hands. But its power… it is not something to wield lightly.” Goruk nodded. “The apothecaries will want this for their plague machines. Are we sure that’s wise?” Blightmaul studied the crystal, his hollow eyes reflecting its dark glow. “Wisdom has little place in war,” he said. “Only results.” As he reached for the shard, a low growl echoed through the chamber. The group turned as a massive figure emerged from the shadows-a human knight clad in dark plate armor, his eyes glowing faintly with the same malevolence as the crystal. “You will not take it,” the knight intoned, his voice like thunder. “This place will be your grave.” Blightmaul raised his shield, his sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Then you’ll join us in death.” The battle that followed was ferocious. The knight’s strength was monstrous, his strikes shaking the very walls of the chamber. Goruk matched him blow for blow, his axe carving deep into the knight’s armor. Dhrazka summoned flames to engulf their foe, but the knight seemed impervious, his blade cutting through her spells. Zillik’s arrows rained down, each strike met with a grim determination from the knight. Blightmaul was the first to notice the connection between the knight and the shard. As the knight struck, the crystal pulsed, its glow intensifying. “It feeds him!” Blightmaul shouted. “Break the shard!” Goruk hesitated, his gaze flickering to the artifact. “Destroying it may destroy us all!” Blightmaul didn’t wait. He drove his sword into the crystal, its surface cracking with a deafening screech. The knight faltered, his movements slowing as the shard shattered into fragments. The knight collapsed, his armor falling away to reveal a withered husk. The chamber fell silent, the oppressive energy dissipating. As they emerged from the ruins, rain began to fall, washing the blood and ash from their armor. Dhrazka looked to Blightmaul, her expression somber. “You’ve made an enemy of something far worse than the Alliance this day.” Blightmaul met her gaze, unflinching. “I was already an enemy of the living. What’s one more?” They moved on, the path ahead shrouded in darkness.

The Shadow in the Depths The camaraderie forged in the Scarlet Monastery was short-lived. The Horde adventurers had no time for celebration; their next task loomed like a stormcloud. Word reached them in Brill of strange disappearances near a decrepit keep on the edge of Silverpine Forest. Locals whispered of shadowy figures luring travelers into the depths, never to be seen again. It was no ordinary threat-the darkness here had teeth. Blightmaul and his companions set out at dusk. The road to Silverpine was a twisting trail through ancient woods, the skeletal trees casting long, jagged shadows under the waning moon. A cold mist clung to the ground, muffling their footsteps. Even the Troll hunter’s raptor growled uneasily, its amber eyes darting between the trees. The keep emerged from the gloom like a specter. Its crumbling walls were overgrown with ivy, and its towers jutted into the night like broken fangs. The air was thick with the stench of rot and damp stone. Blightmaul’s grip on his sword tightened as they approached the iron gate, which hung ajar, creaking faintly in the wind. Inside, the keep was a labyrinth of decayed grandeur. Faded tapestries hung limply from the walls, their images of noble triumphs reduced to ghostly smears. The adventurers moved cautiously, their weapons at the ready. It didn’t take long for the darkness to stir. The first attack came without warning-a humanoid figure, its flesh pale and twisted, lunged from the shadows with a guttural snarl. The Tauren warrior intercepted it with his axe, cleaving the creature in two, but the noise echoed through the halls like a death knell. More emerged, shambling from doorways and cracks in the walls. They were Forsaken, or what was left of them-mindless, feral, their glowing eyes filled with primal rage. Their flesh hung in tatters, and their nails had grown into claws. Blightmaul fought with grim efficiency, his sword and shield moving in tandem. He blocked a wild swing with his shield before driving his blade into an attacker’s chest. The shaman’s lightning illuminated the carnage, searing the creatures as they advanced. The Troll’s arrows flew true, but the numbers seemed endless. “We’re bein’ herded,” the Troll hissed, his raptor snapping at a creature’s neck. “Dis ain’t random.” The shaman growled in agreement. “Something drives them. Something… worse.” The adventurers pressed deeper, the air growing colder with each step. The walls were damp now, slick with an unidentifiable black ichor. The faint sound of chanting reached their ears, a guttural rhythm that set Blightmaul’s teeth on edge. They entered a vast chamber, its vaulted ceiling lost to darkness. At its center stood a Forsaken figure clad in tattered robes, his skeletal hands clutching a jagged staff. Around him, bodies hung from chains, their lifeless forms twitching as if caught in a grotesque dance. “Welcome,” the figure rasped, his voice a hollow echo. “You’ve arrived just in time to witness the culmination of my work.” “What madness is this?” the Tauren demanded, his voice a rumble of controlled fury. The figure’s skull-like face twisted into a semblance of a grin. “The Dark Lady abandoned us. I offer my brethren something greater-a return to true power.” He slammed the staff into the ground, and the chanting intensified. The hanging bodies convulsed violently, their forms twisting as shadowy tendrils burst from their chests. The room filled with an ear-splitting screech as the tendrils coalesced into a massive, writhing abomination of darkness. The battle began immediately. The abomination lashed out with shadowy limbs, its blows shattering stone and sending the Tauren sprawling. Blightmaul charged, his shield raised, and deflected one strike, but the sheer force drove him to his knees. The Troll’s arrows pierced the creature’s form, but the wounds closed almost instantly. “Dis ain’t no normal foe!” the Troll shouted, nocking another arrow. “It’s feedin’ on somethin’!” The shaman’s voice rose above the chaos. “The staff! It’s the source!” Blightmaul turned his focus to the robed figure. The necromancer cackled, his staff glowing with malevolent energy as he directed the abomination’s movements. Blightmaul fought his way toward him, his sword slicing through the shambling remnants that rose to defend their master. The necromancer raised his staff to strike, but Blightmaul was faster. His shield slammed into the figure, knocking him off balance. With a single, powerful swing, he severed the staff in two. The reaction was immediate. The abomination let out a final, deafening screech as it began to dissolve, its form unraveling into tendrils of smoke. The necromancer staggered, his hollow eyes wide with disbelief. “No! My work-” Blightmaul silenced him with a thrust of his sword. The necromancer collapsed, his body crumpling into a heap of bones and tattered robes. When the dust settled, the chamber was silent save for the adventurers’ labored breathing. The Tauren clapped Blightmaul on the back, his strength returning. “You fight with the resolve of one who has nothing to lose,” he said. “Good. We need that.” The shaman knelt beside the shattered staff, her fingers brushing the fragments. “This magic… it’s ancient. And dangerous. We’ve only scratched the surface.” The Troll grinned, baring his tusks. “Still alive, eh? Guess dat’s somethin’. But dis ain’t da end of it, not by a long shot.” Blightmaul said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ichor-stained ground. He could still hear the echoes of the necromancer’s words, a grim reminder of the Forsaken’s precarious existence. As they emerged from the keep, the first light of dawn broke over Silverpine Forest. The darkness they had confronted lingered, but for now, they had prevailed. Blightmaul adjusted his shield and stepped forward, ready for whatever grim fate awaited them next.

Can i ask you where u r from? /_ /

Into the Scarlet Monastery The Scarlet Monastery loomed like a specter from another age. Its grand stone spires and intricately carved facades were once a testament to the faith of Lordaeron, but now they stood as a fortress for zealotry. Blightmaul approached cautiously, the sounds of hymns and marching boots echoing from within. The heavy air carried the faint metallic tang of blood, mingling with the bitter scent of burning incense. The outer courtyard was heavily guarded. Crusaders in gleaming armor patrolled the grounds, their banners snapping in the wind. Blightmaul observed from the shadows, noting their movements before slipping past the gates, silent as the grave. His tattered armor blended with the decay of the surrounding ruins, a predator stalking its prey. Inside, the halls were an oppressive mix of light and shadow, illuminated by flickering torches. Statues of long-forgotten saints watched over the corridors, their stone faces cracked and weathered. Blightmaul tightened his grip on his greatsword as he moved deeper into the monastery, his senses keen. He found the armory by chance, hidden behind a barricaded door. The room was filled with racks of weapons, most unused and covered in a fine layer of dust. One display, however, caught his eye: a gleaming sword and shield mounted prominently on the wall. The sword’s hilt was intricately engraved with symbols of the Light, its blade shining with an unnatural brilliance. The shield bore similar markings, its surface unmarred by age or battle. Blightmaul hesitated, the weapons radiating a faint warmth that was almost repellent to his undead nature. And yet, he reached for them. His hand closed around the sword’s hilt, its weight perfectly balanced despite its size. The shield followed, its sturdy grip fitting snugly against his forearm. For a moment, he felt… whole. He dismissed the thought and turned back to the corridor. Blightmaul didn’t get far before he encountered others-a trio of Horde adventurers. The first was a hulking Tauren warrior, his massive axe slung over one shoulder. His fur was dark, his horns adorned with iron bands etched with tribal runes. Beside him stood an Orc shaman, her green skin marked with ritualistic paint. Lightning crackled faintly around her hands as she adjusted the totems strapped to her back. The last was a Troll hunter, his wiry frame leaning casually against the wall, a jagged bow resting in his hand. A sleek raptor crouched beside him, its amber eyes fixed on Blightmaul. The Tauren stepped forward, his deep voice resonating in the confined space. “Forsaken. You tread dangerously close to Scarlet territory. State your purpose.” Blightmaul raised his newly acquired shield slightly, his tone calm but firm. “I’ve come to cut down their ranks. Nothing more.” The shaman studied him carefully, her sharp eyes lingering on the sword in his hand. “That blade… it doesn’t belong to the likes of us. Yet you wield it. Curious.” The Troll chuckled, his tusks glinting in the torchlight. “He’s got guts, dis one. Maybe even skill. We could use ‘im.” The Tauren nodded, his gaze steady. “If your goal is to destroy the Crusade, then our paths align. We aim to strike at the leaders entrenched within these walls. The question is, can you keep up?” Blightmaul met his gaze without flinching. “Try me.” The group moved deeper into the monastery, their steps synchronized despite their differing origins. They encountered resistance quickly: Crusaders surged from the side halls, their battle cries echoing off the stone walls. The Tauren charged headlong into their ranks, his axe carving a brutal path. The Troll’s arrows flew with deadly precision, each shot finding its mark. Blightmaul fought alongside them, his newfound sword slicing through armor and flesh with ease. The shield proved invaluable, deflecting blows that would have otherwise ended him. The Orc shaman called upon the elements, bolts of lightning and bursts of flame scattering their enemies. Together, they pressed forward, their synergy growing with each encounter. At last, they reached a grand chapel at the heart of the monastery. The room was vast, its vaulted ceiling adorned with faded frescoes. At the far end stood a figure in ornate crimson robes, his features sharp and severe. A massive tome rested in his hands, its pages glowing faintly. “Heretics!” he bellowed, his voice filled with righteous fury. “You defile this holy ground with your presence. The Light will burn you to ash!” The Tauren growled. “The Light abandoned you long ago.” The battle that followed was fierce. The Crusader wielded magic as well as steel, summoning radiant barriers and hurling searing bolts of energy. Blightmaul’s shield absorbed the brunt of the attacks, his steady advance forcing the zealot back. The shaman called forth a storm, her elemental fury tearing through the barriers. The Troll’s raptor leapt at the Crusader, claws raking against his armor as arrows rained down. In the chaos, Blightmaul saw an opening. He drove the blade into the Crusader’s chest, the light in the man’s eyes flickering before fading entirely. Silence fell over the chapel, broken only by the adventurers’ labored breathing. The Tauren clapped a hand on Blightmaul’s shoulder, his grip heavy but approving. “You fought well, Forsaken. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.” The shaman nodded, a faint smile playing at her lips. “The sword suits you, even if it shouldn’t. A curious thing, indeed.” Blightmaul glanced at the blade, its brilliance now subdued. “It’s just a tool,” he said. “Like me.” The Troll laughed. “A dark one, eh? I like dis guy.” As they left the monastery, the sun began to rise, its light piercing the ever-present gloom of Tirisfal Glades. For the first time since his rebirth, Blightmaul felt something akin to belonging. The path ahead remained uncertain, but he wasn’t walking it alone anymore.

The Crusaders’ Last Stand Blightmaul strode eastward from Brill, his armor patched and his greatsword sharpened after the previous night’s hunt. The trees of Tirisfal Glades grew darker here, their skeletal branches intertwined above like a canopy of death. The air smelled of damp earth and something acrid-ash, faint but unmistakable. He followed it, his steps steady and deliberate, until the flickering light of campfires appeared ahead. The Scarlet Crusade had claimed a ruined watchtower as their stronghold. Their banners hung defiantly, crimson streaks against the gloom, and the sound of prayers carried on the wind. Blightmaul crouched in the shadow of a broken wall, watching as robed acolytes scurried between tents while armored Crusaders stood guard. Their voices were filled with zeal, but he saw the strain in their movements-the Forsaken were wearing them down. His orders had been clear: disrupt their operations and recover what he could from their cache of supplies. He gripped his greatsword, the weight of the weapon familiar, almost comforting. This was his purpose now, and he would see it fulfilled. He struck just before dawn. The first Crusader never saw him coming, his blade cleaving through chainmail with a sickening crunch. The man fell without a cry, but his comrades quickly rallied. Shouts rang out as Crusaders drew their weapons and charged. Blightmaul met them head-on, his greatsword sweeping in wide arcs that forced them back. The clash of steel echoed through the ruins, punctuated by the cries of the dying. A mace caught his shoulder, the impact jarring but not debilitating. He turned, slamming his pommel into the attacker’s jaw before driving his blade through their chest. As the skirmish wore on, the Crusaders’ numbers began to dwindle. Those who survived fought with a desperation born of faith, their prayers mixing with curses as they threw themselves at him. Blightmaul moved with brutal efficiency, his strikes calculated and merciless. When the last of them fell, he stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady despite the toll. In the aftermath, he began searching the camp. Crates of supplies lay stacked near the ruined tower, their contents a mix of mundane provisions and alchemical vials marked with the Crusade’s emblem. As he rummaged through them, a faint sound caught his attention-a muffled cry, faint but unmistakable. He followed it to the base of the tower, where a trapdoor lay hidden beneath a tangle of debris. Lifting it revealed a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The cries grew louder as he descended, mingled with the scrape of chains. His grip tightened on his sword. At the bottom, he found a grim scene: several Forsaken prisoners, chained to the walls of a crude dungeon. Their hollow eyes glimmered faintly in the torchlight, desperation giving way to recognition as they saw him. “You’ve come…” one rasped, his voice weak. “We thought we were forgotten.” Blightmaul knelt, inspecting the locks. They were simple, hastily made, and he broke them easily with a few strikes. “You’re free,” he said. “Gather yourselves. We leave now.” Before they could respond, the sound of boots echoed down the staircase. Crusaders, alerted by the noise. Blightmaul positioned himself between the prisoners and the approaching footsteps, his greatsword raised. The first Crusader burst into the room, sword raised, only to fall as Blightmaul’s blade caught him mid-charge. The narrow space worked to Blightmaul’s advantage, forcing the attackers to come at him one by one. He fought with ferocity, each strike fueled by a grim determination. The final Crusader, a grizzled veteran clad in ornate armor, sneered as he entered. “You’ll find no salvation here, abomination,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. Blightmaul said nothing, his focus unwavering. Their blades met with a deafening clash, sparks flying as they traded blows. The veteran fought with the precision of a seasoned warrior, but Blightmaul’s relentlessness proved too much. A feint, a sidestep, and then a decisive strike sent the man crumpling to the floor. The prisoners followed him out of the dungeon, their steps unsteady but eager. By the time they reached the surface, dawn was breaking, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the mist. The ruins were silent now, save for the faint crackle of dying fires. Blightmaul turned to the freed Forsaken. “Return to Brill. Tell Magistrate Sevren what you’ve seen here. I’ll ensure the Crusaders don’t regroup.” One of the prisoners hesitated, his gaze lingering on Blightmaul. “You fight like you still have something to prove. Why?” Blightmaul’s expression was unreadable. “Because this war isn’t over.” He watched them disappear into the mist before turning back toward the watchtower. There were whispers among the Forsaken of a place deeper within Tirisfal Glades-a labyrinthine monastery where the Scarlet Crusade’s strongest gathered. If this was to be his path, then he would see it through to the end. With his greatsword resting on his shoulder, Blightmaul strode into the fog, ready for whatever came next.

The dim light of a waning moon pierced through the decaying rafters of Deathknell's chapel. Blightmaul stirred, his senses groggy and foreign, as though pulled from the grasp of a thousand-year slumber. He rose from the cold, splintered table where the undead apothecary had assembled him, his gaunt, pallid hands curling into fists. Memory teased him like a distant echo, but his name-Blightmaul-remained etched into his fractured soul. "Rise, warrior," rasped Executor Arren, his voice like the grinding of bone against stone. "The Dark Lady demands strength, and you have been chosen." Blightmaul straightened, his ruined armor creaking with the motion. The tattered remnants of a once-proud tabard clung to his chest, its sigil now unrecognizable beneath the stains of rot. A rusted greatsword lay nearby, its edge jagged and pitted like his memories. He grasped it instinctively. It felt familiar, as if it had once sung in his hands. "What am I to do?" Blightmaul's voice croaked like a dry wind through a dead forest. Arren smirked, his hollow eyes gleaming. "You are to prove yourself. The Scarlet Crusade still festers in Tirisfal Glades. Their fanatics butcher our kind, clinging to their delusions of purity. Go now, and show them what remains of humanity's might." Blightmaul stumbled into the twilight, the desolate village of Deathknell his first taste of the Forsaken's world. Rotting houses sagged beneath the weight of despair, their windows like empty sockets staring into nothingness. Forsaken citizens meandered through the streets, their movements jerky and deliberate, but their gazes steady with grim resolve. He felt out of place among his kind. A warrior’s spirit burned within him, defiant against the decay. Memories surfaced in fleeting flashes-a battlefield bathed in crimson, the warmth of sunlight on his face, a banner he could no longer recognize. That was the past. Now, only the cold certainty of undeath remained. His first encounter with the Scarlet Crusade came at dawn, when the rising sun did little to pierce the mists of the glades. A lone Crusader patrolled the edge of their camp, muttering prayers and gripping his mace with white-knuckled determination. Blightmaul watched from the shadows, his grip tightening on his greatsword. He stepped into the light. The Crusader froze, his face contorting in a mix of horror and fury. "Abomination!" the man spat. "I shall cleanse you in the Light's name!" Blightmaul said nothing. Words felt empty in the face of the rage that swelled within him. He swung his blade, its rusted edge cutting through the silence and the Crusader's hastily raised shield. Sparks flew, and the man staggered back, his faith wavering as Blightmaul pressed forward with relentless strikes. The final blow came with a sickening crunch, the Crusader’s prayer dying on his lips. Blightmaul stood over the lifeless body, his chest heaving with exertion. For the first time, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. Not joy, not pride, but the faintest sense of purpose. When he returned to Deathknell, Executor Arren greeted him with a nod. "You have done well, Blightmaul. The Dark Lady shall hear of your deeds." Blightmaul looked at his bloodied blade and the grim faces of the Forsaken around him. They were not heroes. They were not champions. They were survivors, bound together by the curse of undeath and the will of their queen. And yet, for the first time, Blightmaul felt a kinship with these broken souls. "I will serve," he said, his voice steadier now. "Not for the Dark Lady, but for what we can become." Executor Arren’s smirk widened. "Then you may yet find your place among us." Blightmaul turned toward the horizon, where the sprawling ruins of Lordaeron waited beneath a darkened sky. His journey had begun, and he would carve his place in this shattered world-not as a man, but as a Forsaken warrior.

Blightmaul’s journey from Deathknell to Brill was a lonely march through the desolation of Tirisfal Glades. The landscape matched his own state: broken, decayed, but clinging stubbornly to existence. Gnarled trees loomed overhead, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision-whether the restless dead or his own fractured memories, he could not tell. The road twisted through patches of blighted farmland. Here, fields once rich with harvest lay fallow, dotted with the remnants of scarecrows now grotesquely animated by dark magic. Blightmaul dispatched two with a sweep of his greatsword, their straw-stuffed bodies collapsing into heaps of rotted cloth and ash. It was a grim reminder of the world he had awoken to: nothing remained untouched by death’s grasp. By the time he reached Brill, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the small town in the eerie glow of lanterns. The settlement sprawled around a central inn, its stone walls and moss-covered roofs worn but steadfast. Forsaken citizens moved with purpose, repairing defenses or carrying supplies to and from the apothecary’s workshop. The air reeked of alchemy and decay. A Forsaken officer, clad in black plate with silver accents, approached him. Her gaunt features were as sharp as the twin daggers strapped to her belt. “Another fresh recruit,” she said, her tone both bemused and appraising. “You’ve made it farther than most. What’s your name?” “Blightmaul,” he replied, his voice steady. “Executor Arren sent me.” The officer arched an eyebrow. “Blightmaul, is it? Fitting. I am Magistrate Sevren, and Brill is my charge. If you’re here, then you’re expected to prove yourself again. The Crusaders’ presence grows stronger to the east, and the wolves have become more aggressive. Take care of both.” Blightmaul nodded, his grip tightening on his blade. “Where do I begin?” Sevren gestured toward the inn. “Speak with Apothecary Johaan. His work requires ingredients the wolves have been… reluctant to surrender. Start there, and we’ll see if you’re worthy of the Dark Lady’s cause.” Inside the inn, the scent of decay mingled with sharp, acrid fumes. Johaan, a hunched figure in tattered robes, worked feverishly at a table laden with vials and bubbling concoctions. He glanced up as Blightmaul entered, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing. “Ah, a new pair of hands. Good. These villagers don’t appreciate the importance of my work. You, however, look desperate enough to listen.” He shoved a worn parchment into Blightmaul’s hands, the scribbled list nearly illegible. “Wolf hearts. Their blood carries a potency I require for my latest elixir. There’s a pack northeast of here. Don’t return empty-handed.” Blightmaul said nothing, merely nodding before turning to leave. Outside, the chill night air greeted him as he followed the dirt path winding through the woods. The howls of wolves echoed in the distance, their cries mournful yet menacing. The pack found him before he found them. Three wolves, their matted fur streaked with blood and blight, emerged from the shadows. Their glowing eyes locked onto him, and a low growl rumbled from the lead beast’s throat. Blightmaul tightened his grip on his greatsword, stepping into a defensive stance. The first wolf lunged, its jaws snapping for his throat. He sidestepped, bringing his blade down in a brutal arc that split the beast’s skull. The second came at his flank, claws raking across his rusted armor. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but he turned with the momentum, driving the pommel of his sword into the wolf’s ribs. It yelped and fell back, only for a follow-up strike to silence it. The third circled warily, blood dripping from its fangs. Blightmaul waited, his breaths steady despite the ache in his side. When the wolf finally pounced, he met it head-on, his blade slicing through fur and sinew. The creature collapsed at his feet, its lifeless eyes reflecting the faint glow of lantern light filtering through the trees. Blightmaul returned to Brill, his armor stained with blood, the required hearts wrapped in burlap. Johaan greeted him with a satisfied sneer. “Efficient. You might yet survive this wretched existence. Leave me; I have work to do.” As Blightmaul stepped outside, Magistrate Sevren approached, her expression less disdainful than before. “You’ve done well, Blightmaul. But don’t mistake this for the end. The challenges ahead will make tonight’s hunt seem like child’s play. The Scarlet Crusade marches closer every day.” Blightmaul nodded, his gaze drifting eastward. The ruins of Lordaeron loomed in the distance, a reminder of what had been lost and what remained to be reclaimed. “I am ready,” he said simply. Sevren’s lips curled into a faint smile. “We shall see.” For now, he had proven himself. But the path before him promised no peace, only endless war-and he would meet it with blade in hand.

Bro, why u quit?