In Her Family's Shadow

[Ansha]

It was dawn in Silvermoon, the sun just creeping over the treetops and beginning to snake its way up marble walls that glistened golden as they were kissed by the sun's rays. Watch Captain Elthyran Amankiir had just arrived on post at the city's gate as the sun rose over the slowly-rebuilding city. The quartet of guards already there saluted him, a gesture he returned as he called for a report by the outgoing officer of the watch, a young sergeant.

"Good morning, sir," the young elf said.

"Good morning, sergeant," came Elthyran's reply. "I trust all is quiet on the watch?"

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. "It seems the Farstriders' efforts are paying off. This marks a week since the last time Scourge were able to near the city's walls."

Elthyran nodded. "Good, good. I relieve you as officer of the watch."

The sergeant saluted again, and marched off into the city as soon as the salute was returned--whether to find food or sleep, Elthyran wasn't sure.

He was pleased by the lack of Scourge attacks of late. After the desolation of the invasion, it was good to see the first signs of rebuilding in the ruined city. Magical brooms swept the streets again, and arcane guardians patrolled again--repaired by the Magisters of the city. A section of the city had been cleared and rebuilt, and the marble walls that had been brought low rose high again.

Few gaps in the walls remained, though the city still bore its fair share of scars.


A patrol of Farstriders returned from the Eversong Woods. Another patrol left a few hours later. The sun rose in its arc, the morning passing slowly. Around noon, a cloaked elf-like figure approached the gate from the forest. The figure seemed unsteady on its feet, swaying erratically as it neared the guards. There was something off about it, and Elthyran wondered if perhaps it wasn't an undead minion of the Scourge.

Elthyran motioned silently, and his soldiers drew up, preparing to interdict the figure.

Still several yards away, the figure stumbled and fell, long strands of platinum-blond hair spilling from the confines of the cloak's hood. The figure lifted its head weakly, revealing shining sapphire eyes and hints of a delicate, feminine face hidden among the shadows cast by her hood.

"Magic," she said, a piercing whisper as she reached out with one trembling hand. "Manaaaaa..."

With a sound almost like a sigh, the elf-woman passed out, her head falling to the cobblestones.

[Ansha]

Her mind was a whirl of images. Her father. He was dressed in cerulean robes. Her mother, statuesque in a sheer gown. They were looking at her, mouths moving silently as they stood in the family manor's foyer. She knew this scene. They were sending her off to Dalaran to teach magic. Suddenly, she was staring at the tall minarets of a city--Dalaran. The gates opened for her. And she was in a classroom, lecturing shorter elf-like figures with short, rounded ears.

Humans.

The pain returned. It felt like a knife had been thrust into her stomach. She doubled over, a ragged sob escaping her throat, but none of her students noticed. She straightened, determined to finish the lesson. Her students were gone. In their place were jewel-encrusted goblets, each filled with azure liquid. She knew the liquid in the goblets would end the pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to indulge the thirst.


She opened her eyes. She was back in Silvermoon at a banquet, elven wine flowing freely. She was seated at the place of honor.

"To my daughter, the Magistrix," her father said, raising a goblet in toast to her from his position at her side. Her cheeks burned--whether from the alcohol or from the praise, she couldn't tell.

A cold-blue blade sprouted from her father's chest, and the party faded to black. Only her father remained, blood flowing out of his mouth freely. He looked at her, love in his pale features.

"Live on, Ansha," he rasped as the life faded from his sapphire eyes. "You are all that's left of House Saeralyan. Make me proud."

She sobbed, the pain--the agonizing hunger--in her stomach growing more pronounced at the movement. "I...I can't...I can't bear it, Father," she whispered, clutching her stomach as she doubled over again. A yawning pit opened beneath her feet, a black abyss. Oblivion enveloped her as she tumbled in.

[Ansha]

She awoke with a start, eyes wide open. Her body tensed as the question flitted through her mind: Where am I? She was staring at a ceiling--reassuring marble, with crystal chandeliers providing soft lighting. She stretched. She was in a bed.

"How are you feeling?"

Ansha inclined her head to the sound of the voice. An elven woman was seated at her bedside, eyes exuding a toxic-green glow. She smiled kindly.

Ansha gasped in surprise. She tossed the sheets back and leapt out of bed, away from the elf.

"Who are you?!" she exclaimed, eyeing her warily.

"Relax," the elf-woman said in reply, her voice soothing. "You've had a harrowing journey. You're still not recovered, mistress."

Ansha noticed then that there was an abominable draft in the room. Looking down, she noticed with a start that she was naked. Redfaced, she snatched the sheets off of the bed, covering herself with them just in time for a wave of dizziness to wash over her. Her legs gave out as her vision dimmed.

She collapsed onto the bed, more by luck than by conscious direction, unconscious again.

"I warned you," the nurse sighed.



Gnawing hunger greeted Ansha. The knife had returned. Groaning softly, she opened her eyes. It took several long moments before she could recall where she was. She was in bed again, head resting upon a soft pillow. This time, the sheets were noticeably against bare skin. Looking slowly to her left, where the nurse had been seated, she saw that the chair was empty. She sat up slowly. Her head throbbed, and her eyes felt as if someone had rubbed sandpaper over them. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyelids, willing the pain away. As expected, it didn't comply.

She looked around the room. It was a small room, simple and plain in decor. There was a single window, and by the light streaming through it, Ansha could see that it was after noon. A small nightstand stood next to her bed, and Ansha was relieved to see her spectacles on it.

"Awake again, I see," the nurse said as she reentered the room. She placed a tray of food upon the nightstand, then sat in her chair.

Ansha looked at the elf warily, and said nothing.

"Are you alright? Captain Elthyran said that you collapsed in front of the gate this morning." The nurse smiled.

The blonde elf winced. The magic-lust was returning again, and with it all the feelings of withdrawal. Her head hurt, and the nurse's voice hurt her ears even as soft as it was. She put her fingers to her forehead, trying to massage the pain out as she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Our people have suffered much," the nurse sighed. "Not least of which the pains we have all felt since the Sunwell's destruction."

She slowly placed a hand on Ansha's leg, giving the other elf a sympathetic look. "I know what ails you. I recognize the symptoms. It has affected all of us left in Silvermoon, to one extent or another."

Ansha looked up, tensing at the touch on her leg. The nurse slowly removed the offending limb, then gestured to herself. "I'm Malthariel. You should eat something, if you are able. And rest. You must be exhausted."

"Ansha," the blonde elf said, too low for Maltharia to hear clearly.

"Pardon?" Malthariel asked, leaning closer.

"Ansha. My name is Ansha."

"Rest then, Ansha. I will be back to check on you in a while," Malthariel said. She stood and walked out of the room, leaving Ansha alone with her thoughts.

"How do you do it?" Ansha asked as Malthariel reached the door. The nurse stopped.

"How do I do what?"

"How do you survive this agony?"

Malthariel smiled. "Rest for now. We'll discuss that when I come back from a few errands."

[Ansha]

Malthariel returned with another elf in tow. Tall and dark-haired, the elf wore the red embroidered robes of a magister. He looked Ansha over, once, then nodded and murmured to himself as Malthariel spoke.

"Ansha? This is Magister Orimandar Azuredawn," the nurse said.

Ansha tilted her head to look at him, wincing at even that slight movement.

"Ansha, I understand what you're going through--we've all been through it. But the magister here has a solution."

The magister sat down in the chair next to the bed. He looked Ansha in the eyes silently, his jade eyes boring into her sapphire eyes unblinkingly. At length, he spoke. "Our people have suffered for years. First, the Scourge. Then, the Sunwell. And with the loss of the Sunwell, many of our people fell ill. Withdrawal, they called it. We were so long dependent on the Sunwell that we had become unable to live without it. Many of our people were driven mad by the lack of arcane energy from the Sunwell. They have become what we call the Wretched."

He pulled a small gem from within his robes. Instantly, Ansha's eyes locked on to the gem. It was made of pure arcane energy. Oh, how she wanted that gem! The magister smiled knowingly, holding the gem up to the light. "It seems you are well on your way to that state. But I have a solution. You must still exercise self-control, just as our brethren who have managed to survive beyond the bounds of Quel'Thalas, but it will heal the withdrawal. Are you willing to learn?"

Ansha's eyes remained on the mana gem. Orimandar slipped the gem back within his robes. She flushed, embarrassed he had caught her coveting the gem, and looked up into the magister's eyes. "What must I do?"

The magister snapped his fingers, and a small eel-like creature in a bird-cage, hovering and snapping angrily, was brought into the room by a servant.

"Let me show you."



"No!"

Ansha ran out of the house into the city streets covered in only her bedsheets, which she was pressing to her chest with one hand. The other hand was holding on to her spectacles. She halted when she nearly collided with a passerby, scanning the street hurriedly. She noticed with a flush of embarrassment that the street was somewhat crowded, and that she was drawing much of their attention.

"Wait!" came Malthariel's voice.

The blonde elf whirled about just as the nurse rushed out of the door of her home. Forcing herself to ignore the spectators to the scene she was causing, Ansha fixed her most fearsome glare at Malthariel.

"NO! I won't become some sort of mana vampire! Not to save my own hide!"

The magister stepped out of the house, fixing Ansha with a superior smirk. "If you do not, I wish you all the luck in the world. You will become one of the Wretched within weeks, and when you do, and you injure someone in your madness...we'll have to put you down."

Orimandar walked off without another word, his attendant in tow with the caged mana wyrmling.

Malthariel walked up to Ansha, staring daggers at several people who had taken to admiring the view of Ansha's naked backside--what was visible past her long, flowing hair. She wrapped the sheets around the other elf with a sigh. "He is trying to help. The Grand Magister himself returned from Outland to teach us this new way of living, at the orders of Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider."

The nurse started to escort Ansha back inside. "I hope you will change your mind. Do you have any family?"

Ansha stared straight ahead as she let the nurse lead her. After a moment, she replied, "I don't know. My family stayed behind and sent me off to Dalaran again when the Scourge invaded the city."

"What were their names?"

"Saeralyan."

"That name sounds familiar...I will look into it. You should rest."

[Ansha]

Days passed in that bed. Ansha Saeralyan recovered--as much as she could, anyway--from her long journey. Her nurse and caregiver, Malthariel, said that she had been fortunate she had arrived in Silvermoon when she did. The blonde elf-mage had been on the verge of starvation.

After that first day where she had run from the house--where she had apparently been powered by outrage and adrenaline--she had fainted every time she had tried to rise from her bed. Her dreams were filled with madness--twisted, diabolical images ripped from the Twisting Nether itself, it seemed. She woke up in a cold sweat more than once, a fel-spawned demon fading slowly from her terror-awakened mind. Each time, Malthariel had been there at her side when she awoke, worrying and holding her hand.

The terrors slipped into her waking moments on the morning of the fifth day. One minute she had been talking to the nurse, who was planning on checking the records of the dead with the Magister assigned the task later that afternoon. The next, before her very eyes, Malthariel grew larger, her body darkening to a hell-fire red and filling the room as horns jutted from her head and a black, forked tongue snaked out from her mouth. Ansha yelped in terror as the monster that had been Malthariel reached one gigantic taloned hand for her, and tumbled out of the bed with an audible thud. She scrambled away from the monster, diving out of the open window and running down the street. Her faintness was gone, terror giving her body a fleetness she had not known in decades.

The monster roared, smashing through the wall of Malthariel's domicile and chasing after the naked elf, her hair flying behind her like a pennant as she ran. "Help! Help! Monster!" Ansha cried. The streets were almost empty--it was only shortly after dawn--but Ansha found a cloaked pedestrian as she ran around the corner of a block. Grasping him by the shoulders, she yelled frantically into the face of an elf with blood-red eyes all over his cheeks and a pair of prominent fangs protruding from his mouth. "MONSTER! CALLTHECITYGUARD!"

Ansha gasped in horror as the elf's features registered in her addled mind, and she shoved the fanged elf away.

"You're one of them!" she accused, looking behind her at the monster that had been her nurse. It approached quickly, its huge bulk covering the distance in huge bounds.

The elf-mage scrambled to get away, dashing through Murder Row into the newly-rebuilt Court of the Sun. A creature oozed out of a wall as she ran by, forming into a blob of iridescent brown, bubbling madly. A hand reached out from the tiles of the Court itself, seeking to trip her up, but she leapt over it and ran up to the gate of Sunfury Spire. Surely the royal guards would take the threat seriously when they saw it, she thought.

Ansha stumbled to a halt as she saw the vast demonic army infront of the gleaming stone of the Spire, gibbering and howling as they turned to look at her. The monster that had been Malthariel roared again, and the demonic army surged forth. Running to the side, Ansha managed to keep the demons out from behind her long enough to place her back to the cold stone of a wall.

Cold. The sensation brought some order to Ansha's fevered mind, and incanting quickly, she formed a second skin of glittering magical ice over her nude form. Steeling herself for the coming demonic onslaught, she started to call forth a stream of frost-energy. A squat demon--a ball of tentacles and a slavering mouth, really--came forth from the demonic host and thrust its mind into the midst of her arcane workings. The spell shattered, leaving the elf-mage voiceless as the monster that had been Malthariel closed in.

"No...No..." Ansha whispered as her voice came back, denying her coming doom even as it neared. She pressed herself into the towering wall, wishing she could melt into the edifice. The hulking monster's huge paw closed around her head and the elf was engulfed in darkness.

[Ansha]

Hell smelled like cinnamon.

Ansha opened her eyes, expecting to see fire and brimstone. Instead, she saw that same plain ceiling that she had stared at for nearly the past week. She blinked slowly. Where were the demons? The ball of tentacles that had counterspelled her just before death had claimed her?

Malthariel walked in with a tray full of cinnamon-dusted pastries, steam wafting from each one. "Good morning, Ansha."

The elf-mage did a double-take. "You're...you're not a monster!"

The nurse smiled as she placed the pastry tray down on the nightstand next to Ansha's bed. "No, I'm not. How are you feeling today?"

"I've--I'm okay, I guess," she stammered. She looked around the room as if she had never seen it in her life.

"This isn't hell, is it?" she blurted.

Malthariel laughed. "No, my dear. You are still alive."

Ansha reached out and pinched the nurse, eliciting a startled "ouch!" from her.

"What was that for?" Malthariel asked, rubbing her arm where the elf-mage had pinched her.

Ansha shrugged. "So you're not a demon."

"No. You never saw any demons, Ansha. Except the ones in your head. They got to you yesterday. You accosted a merchant and nearly attacked a troop of royal guards before Magister Azuredawn silenced you and you passed out." The nurse laid a hand on Ansha's leg. "You are going mad, my dear. This magic-lust is driving you to it. Please, reconsider the Magister's proposal."

Ansha huffed. "I--It seemed so real." She lowered her gaze to the floor, averting her eyes from Malthariel. She looked up again, her voice quavering. "I almost injured someone?"

Malthariel nodded. Ansha looked pained. "I...guess it's no longer about saving my own hide."

She sighed heavily. "Send him in," she whispered, deflated.

Malthariel went to get the Magister, leaving Ansha alone with her tray of pastries. The elf-mage took a bite of one and waited.

[Ansha]

The Magister arrived with his manservant again, the caged mana wyrmling in hand. "I am glad to see you have changed your mind," Orimandar Azuredawn smirked. The impulse to slap the smirk off his face crossed Ansha's mind, but she was too lost in self-loathing to indulge it.

"You are already familiar with magic, so this should be a simple process," he said. "We'll test it on this mana wyrmling. Then, the real thing."

She listened to his instructions studiously, how to reach out with her mind and leech the life from the subject. There was something disquieting about it, but she supposed it was no different from eating meat. The Magister explained the principle a little, how it was like "tapping" a keg of wine or a maple tree.

"Tap the wyrmling," he said.

The cage was brought closer to her bed, and the elf-mage reached out hesitantly with a cupped hand. She closed her eyes, opening herself up to the flows of the Nether. She felt the presence of the wyrmling, and pulled with her mind. A tug at first, to show herself it could be done. And then, she pulled harder. She felt the wyrmling's resistance, felt its life energy draw into her, and when she opened her eyes, the wyrmling was gone.

"Excellent. You are a quick learner, madam!" Orimandar said. "Now...The real thing."

Orimandar moved for the door, stopping just short of it. "Get dressed, and come out here."

Malthariel slipped past the Magister, a neatly-folded bundle of clothing in her arms. She placed the bundle--a simple embroidered dress dyed a light blue--on Ansha's bed, and followed the Magister out the door, closing it behind her.

Ansha slid out of the covers with a sigh. She threw the dress on, making a note to enspell a brush to comb out her hair later, and approached the door. She heard chanting on the other side, and the door handle radiated heat several inches away. Opening the door cautiously, she stepped into the main hall of the residence.

An unnatural wind blew through the room, and it seemed much too hot for the magically-cooled residence. Ansha cautiously entered, the words to a powerful shielding spell on her lips.

Magister Azuredawn had drawn out a scintillating circle of power on the floor near the back of the room, chanting lowly in a tongue that grated harshly to Ansha's ear. The elf-mage recognized it almost at once--she had heard that language spoken from beyond the city walls just before Dalaran fell to the Burning Legion's commander, Archimonde.

[Ansha]

The infernal noise and winds seemed to move in time with the Magister's voice, picking up as his incantation reached its culmination. With a soft pop and a puff of acrid smoke, the incantion ceased. The smoke cleared, and in the circle drawn upon the ground stood a warped abomination. Corded muscles were barely concealed by taut skin on the creature's hulking frame. A mouth full of fangs dripped acidic saliva upon the ground. It glared with baleful green eyes at Ansha, taking a step forward toward her.

Its foot stopped at the edge of the circle upon the ground as surely as if it had been a wall. The beast roared, lashing its draconic tail in anger.

Orimandar took a step back, surveying his conjuration. With a satisfied smile, he looked at Ansha. "You will find that this demon is captive, utterly harmless within that circle. The Sunwell is gone. But as our great Prince has shown us by the Grand Magister, there is another way. We cannot draw power from the Sunwell, but these demons have a power of their own. And we can draw it from them--weakening our enemies even as we strengthen ourselves."

Ansha gave the slavering demon a wary look, not quite sure that she trusted the small magical circle to protect her. She glanced to her right. Malthariel gave her a reassuring look, while the Magister motioned to the beast with one hand. "Go on. Claim the brute's power as your own."

The elf-mage took a deep breath, then stepped toward the demon. She closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind as well as her hand. The captive demon's life energy shone a sickly green to her magesight--a similar shade to Malthariel's and Orimandar's eyes. She tugged, and found a small stream of the demonstuff drift toward her. She drew it into herself.

She gasped as euphoria engulfed her senses. Her body seemed suffused by the energy, covering over any pains and infirmities with an intoxicating feeling like drinking entirely too much of her favorite brandy. It was over all too quickly, the demon's lifeblood only tantalizing her. More. She needed more.

She tore off chunks of it now, the demonstuff, gulped it down hastily. She thought she heard a giggle--more a cackle, really--escape her lips.

And then the demonstuff stopped flowing. The demon had vanished--no doubt the Magister had dismissed it. She wobbled on her feet, then fell to her knees.

"And now, you re-learn self-control, madam," came Orimandar's haughty voice.

Ansha opened her eyes. Malthariel's hands helped her to her feet. "You should rest a while, my dear. At least til the fel--that's what the Magisters call this demon-energy--fades a bit."

Ansha nodded, still in a deliriously-ecstatic haze, and Malthariel led her back toward her room. A mirror on the wall caught her eye as she was escorted back to her room. What stared back out at her was almost unrecognizable. She seemed healthy; healthier than she had been since she left Dalaran, really. But her eyes, always green, now exuded that sickly-green radiance too. And with a leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she couldn't go back to Dalaran now. The feeling didn't last long--a moment later, her fel-induced ecstasy melted even that moment of clarity away.

[Ansha]

Ansha awoke with the dawn the next day. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut against the rays of sunshine that streamed in through the window onto her face. She didn't want to get up. Her mind drifted to last night: the magister, the demon--those fel-green eyes in the mirror. Had that been a dream?

Her eyes flew open, and she tossed her sheets aside. Standing, she noted that she wasn't wobbling on her feet--for the first time in months. She crossed over to the small mirror in the room and looked herself in the eye.

Soft green energy radiated from her eyes, replacing the blue that had once spilled out from them. That leaden feeling in her stomach was back.

Ansha stumbled back over to her bed, sitting down heavily. The elves of Silvermoon had cut ties with the Alliance and with Dalaran. By taking these elves'--the Blood Elves'--solution, she had turned her back on Dalaran. Surely, all the High Elves still in Dalaran would see it that way.

She was homeless.

"Good morning," Malthariel said as she stepped into the doorway. She was carrying a mug of steaming-hot tea and a croissant.

Ansha grabbed a loose robe from a nearby coat-rack and threw it over her shoulders quickly, smiling at the nurse. She thrust her thoughts of Dalaran aside. "Good morning."

"Breakfast is in the kitchen, if you're hungry," the nurse said, seating herself at the foot of the bed. "So, how are you feeling?"

"I'm...still not sure. Physically, I feel better than I have in months. But..." Ansha cinched her robe shut as she trailed off. "I guess I'll be okay. But so much has changed these past few months. I don't think I've gotten used to all the changes in my life since then. But...."

She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. "I'll be okay."

Malthariel smiled, then stood again and headed for the door. She stopped in the doorway and looked over her shoulder. "Oh, and a city official is coming to see you later this morning--interview you, verify your identity, take your name off the list of the dead, that sort of thing."

Ansha watched as Malthariel left the room. Her stomach rumbled. Breakfast first, then cleaning up, she decided as she walked out after the nurse.


The city official arrived mid-morning to find Ansha in an embroidered red robe cinched together with a blue silk sash and her platinum-blond hair hanging in a loose ponytail.
"Good morning," he said as Malthariel opened the door for him. "So this Ansha Saeralyan, is she present?"

Malthariel gestured to the mage, seated in a simple chair in an adjacent room, reading a book she had found.

The official walked over and seated himself at a chair opposite the mage, Malthariel in tow. "So, you claim to be Ansha Saeralyan, yes?"

The mage nodded, not bothering to look up from her book.

"Who was your father?" Ansha felt a wash of truth-compelling magic wash over her, but didn’t resist. She had expected this, and she had nothing to hide.

"Elroth Saeralyan, son of Athanarion Saeralyan."

"Mother?”

“Elizaera Saeralyan, daughter of Mairathador Hawksong.”

“Siblings?”

“None.”

“Where have you been for the past six years?”

“Dalaran.”

The last answer elicited a long pause from the city official.

“Interesting,” he said at length. “It would seem you are telling the truth, miss—no, Lady—Saeralyan. You had been marked as missing and presumed dead in our census records. Your parents and your family, though, are all accounted for…amongst the dead.”

Malthariel gave Ansha a hard look. “I thought I recognized that surname from somewhere. Lady Saeralyan, hm?”

The official stood and headed for the door, writing as he went. He called back to them as he left, “I will get this entered into our records. Welcome home, Lady Saeralyan. You’ll find your estate exactly where you left it…right at the edge of the Dead Scar.”

[Ansha]

"Ansh--Lady Saeralyan! You have a visitor," Malthariel called.

Ansha stepped out of her room as she heard Malthariel invite the visitor in and close the door behind her.

A platinum-haired blood elf woman, not much older than Ansha herself, stood stiffly in the living room, staring uncomfortably at a painting of the Magister's Terrace on the Isle of Quel'Danas. She was dressed simply enough, in a functional yet unornamented doublet and pants, but she seemed to hold herself with an almost military bearing.

"Good day. Was there something you wished to see me about?" Ansha called, replacing her spectacles over her nose.

The elf-woman turned and gave Ansha an appraising look. There was something familiar about her, Ansha thought--the severe beauty, the stiff bearing, the detached demeanor.

"So it is true. You have returned, Lady Saeralyan," the elf-woman stated. She dropped to one knee and lowered her head. "Welcome home. We had despaired of ever serving your House again."

"I, um, uh, I am delighted to be home," Ansha stammered, taken aback. Where did she know this woman from?

The woman looked up. "Do you not remember me, my lady? I am Lyruil Arcamenel. Your former handmaiden."

Ansha gasped in surprise, holding up a hand to her mouth. She pulled the other woman up to embrace her in a hug. "Lyruil!"

At length, Ansha let go of the other elf. "You're alive! I had never expected to see you again!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, my lady. I survived. One of the few to survive." Lyruil gave Ansha a distant look. "After your parents saw you through the portal to Dalaran, they took their places alongside King Anastarian. We did not expect the battle to find us as well...but the Scourge invasion passed perilously close to the manor. We tried to defend it, but in the end even the small groups of undead that came our way was too much. Leyathil died to protect me as we fled."

Ansha winced in sympathy. She recalled how close Leyathil, one of the other servants, and Lyruil had been.

"I am sorry to hear about Leyathil. He was a good man," Ansha consoled, ushering Lyruil to a nearby chair and then joining her in an adjacent one. "Does the manor still stand, then? Is it within the Dead Scar?"

"No, Lady. It is close...but it was not directly in the path of the Scourge advance. And so it still stands."

"Take me there, Lyruil. Take me home."

[Ansha]

Tears welled up involuntarily in the elf's green eyes. She had expected the devastation before her now, but the expectation hadn't prepared her for the reality that now greeted her eyes.

Blinking away her unbidden tears, the elf surveyed the devastated ruins of what had once been her childhood home. Marble and granite blasted and scorched with fel sorceries and scored by sharp claws testified to the mansion's suffering during the undead Scourge's advance through Silvermoon to the Sunwell.

“Mistress,” a melodic voice said with an edge of steel. “You are in danger here. Please, let us return to the city at once.”

The elf turned to a second elf behind her. She was young, with a pretty face framed by short platinum hair worn in a ponytail and lips set in a grave frown. The elf's own platinum hair, worn past her shoulders, might have marked the two as siblings, but where the other elf had an athletic physique and wore the discipline of a servant and soldier as easily as she wore her heavy armor, the elf she had called “mistress” had the refined hauteur of a noble and the soft—though still slim—physique of one unused to manual labor.

“Lyruil, we are almost there. I must recover House Saeralyan's library. It was one of the most extensive in Quel'Thalas, and if not for the arcane knowledge found in the library's tomes, then the literary value alone should be sufficient reason. I won't let good literature languish in so macabre a grave!” the elf said.

“Yes, Lady Ansha,” Lyruil replied, her eyes—almond orbs that exuded a sickly green glow—flashing with something Ansha placed as a mixture of exasperation and resignation.

Ansha and Lyruil headed inside the mansion. It was quiet, empty. There were signs of inhabitation--discarded scraps of clothing and food--but neither elf could say how long ago that was--and there was no sign of any current inhabitant.

Ansha made straight for the warded door that marked the entrance to the Saeralyan library, her embroidered red robes sweeping over the shattered marble floors soundlessly. Lyruil followed dutifully behind her mistress, stepping before her to open the door even as Ansha deactivated the wards upon it.

With a tug, she succeeded in forcing the door open, stepping aside to allow her lady passage. Ansha hesitated a moment, then stepped through the door and descended the steep stairs beyond with Lyruil close behind. The stairs seemed to go on forever, the only illumination provided by intermittent orbs of light bobbing at eye level. But at length, the stairs opened on an expansive chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling.

An awed gasp escaped Ansha's lips as she peered about the cavernous expanse. Light filtered down from an unknown source near the top of the vaulted dome, suffusing the contents of the room with a soft ambiance perfect for reading. The walls were lined with thousands of books, stretching from the floor beyond the limits of sight toward the ceiling. More bookshelves, each packed with musty old tomes covered in a sheen of dust, littered the room—though “littered” implies disorder, and there was nothing disorderly about this room.

Ansha drifted into the room as if in a daze, her index finger running gently along the spines of several books as they rested on a nearby shelf. She lifted her finger, rubbing the dust off between her finger and thumb slowly, a contemplative look on her face.

The contemplative look turned to one of confusion and then of alarm as the ethereal head of an elderly high elf poked through the book in front of her.

“Hello,” it said.

With a shriek, Ansha backpedaled into another bookcase and unceremoniously fell on her rump.

A book wobbled precariously on the top shelf for a long moment before crashing down upon Ansha's head. It was followed a moment later by several more, which caused the elflady to let out a plaintive cry as she clutched her head.

“Ow!”

“Really, now. You act as though you've never seen a ghost,” the spectre grinned wryly.

[Ansha]

At that moment, Lyruil came rushing up, her sword bared. She halted in her tracks and paled noticeably as she spotted the ghost, who stepped out of the bookcase to appraise the second elf. He nodded approvingly as his gaze swept over the two of them.

“To what do I owe the unmistakable pleasure of the company of two fine young women, such as yourselves?” the ghost asked genteelly, smiling politely under thick eyebrows.

Ansha slowly rose to her feet, studying the ghost closely. After a long moment, she motioned to Lyruil, who resheathed her blade and took up a position at her lady's side.

“Who are—were—you?” Ansha asked.

The ghost's thick eyebrows furrowed, as if contemplating the question.

“Why, I am Lord Athanarion Saeralyan!” the ghost said, as if the answer was obvious to all. He peered at Ansha's face closely as a look of recognition crossed her face. “Although, I don't think we've been properly introduced. What did you say your names were, again?”

Ansha drew herself up proudly. “I am Lady Ansha Saeralyan.” She paused, then added with a touch of reverence, “Hello, Grandfather.”

Athanarion let out a surprised laugh. “Ansha! Why, I haven't seen you in ages! Not since you were a young woman off to train in Dalaran.”

The elflady gave the ghost a sad smile. “I was crushed to learn that you had died while I was away, Grandfather....I never did get to say 'goodbye.'”

“We don't all get to say 'goodbye,' I'm afraid. Where is your father, anyway?”

Ansha winced at the mention of her father. “Well, like you said, we don't all get to say 'goodbye.'”

Athanarion sighed. “How did it happen?”

Ansha turned away. “You died years ago, Grandfather, and much has happened since then. A human prince named Arthas returned a few years ago from an expedition overseas as a death knight at the head of an army of undead many took to calling the Scourge. After murdering his father, the mad prince turned his attention on Quel'Thalas and the Sunwell.

"We fought to the last, but every battle made us weaker and them stronger. They pushed us back to the very gates of Silvermoon. We lost Ranger-General Sylvanas during a sortie, but we fought on still. Lyruil tells me that the Ranger-General reappeared at our last stand at the Sunwell—she had been raised up as a banshee by Arthas. Father died to her arrows and Arthas' runeblade, defending King Anastarian."

Athanarion looked ashen, his ghostly pallor even more pale than before. Long moments passed in silence. Finally, Athanarion spoke.

“Why the Sunwell?”

“Because the specter of a dead necromancer named Kel'Thuzad was whispering in Arthas' ear that to restore him as a lich as their masters wished, he had to immerse Kel'Thuzad's remains in the sacred waters,” Ansha said. She pursed her lips as she contemplated something.

“Grandfather, why are you here? I mean, as a ghost,” Ansha asked after a few seconds of silence.

The ghost eyed Lyruil warily. Ansha realized that he didn't recognize her handmaiden.

"This is Lyruil Arcamenel, grandfather. Surely you recall how her house has served ours for generations. She is trustworthy," Ansha said.

A long moment passed before the elder Saeralyan nodded. "I don't suppose you were told how I died?"

[Ansha]

Ansha nodded. "I was told it was a hunting accident. The details never did seem to add up to me, though."

"As well they should not, my dear granddaughter. As the archmage of the House, I was responsible for safeguarding Saeral's Grimoire, the artifact that our House's founder crafted while at Queen Azshara's court. You would think that there would be few outside our House who still knew the Grimoire existed. But mages are inquisitive by nature, and such it was that the Grimoire's existence was discovered by an unscrupulous Magister named Admitrius." The specter sighed.

"I should have seen it coming, in hindsight. But Admitrius befriended me, and I let my guard down. He tried to get the Grimoire's location from me while we were on a hunting trip, and when I wouldn't tell him, he arranged for me to have a little 'accident.' I'm not sure what it accomplished, really, other than he had guessed that I was the Grimoire's guardian and had successfully eliminated me."

Ansha's eyebrows furrowed, a question written on her face. "How is it that you came to be here, in the vault, then, Grandfather?"

"The arcane has strange effects on spirits, Ansha, and when I died, my duty to guard Saeral's Grimoire bound me to it as a guardian. Not that it has needed one. This library is visited so infrequently. Why, it hasn't seen a visitor since I've been here but for you!" The ghost chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "I imagine Admitrius moved on when he couldn't find it."

"You would be wrong, old friend." The voice rang out in the cavernous expanse, a deep, rasping baritone, sinister and self-assured.

[Ansha]

Ansha looked up with a start, her attention drawn to the source of the voice--at the entrance to the stairs up to the surface.

An elf, dressed in ragged robes that would once have marked him as a Magister, stepped out of the shadows of the doorway into the warm light cast by the library's enchanted lights. He looked haggard, gaunt, and in many ways as ragged as the robes he wore. A drawn face and sunken, dull blue eyes glowered at Ansha. The blonde mage shrank away from his gaze. Instinctively, she knew--this was one of the Wretched.

"It is amazing what perseverance and a little luck can do for you, no?" the Wretched said.

He padded closer as Athanarion gave him the sort of disapproving glare one might give a child caught misbehaving.

"I have been searching ever since that day. After the Sunwell's destruction, I thought how appropriately ironic it would be to inhabit the ruins of your estate while I searched. Never once did I suspect that I had been sleeping above the very object of my desire!" Admitrius tsk-tsked. "Fortunately, your dear grand-daughter here was not very subtle. We watched her in the shadows from the time she approached until she was in the very midst of us. Glad to see that it paid off."

He clapped his hands twice. A dozen or so more elves--gaunt, dull-eyed Wretched like their leader--stepped out of the shadows in the stairway's entrance.

"And now, your usefulness is at an end."

[Ansha]

Ansha saw Lyruil tense, her hand closing around the pommel of her longsword. She felt the air in the vault-like library crackle with arcane power as the Wretched wove his hands in arcane gestures. A crackling ball of flame came to life in the space between the two parties, and Ansha's eyes widened in horror. The library!

"No! Not here!" Ansha cried, starting to incant a counterspell.

She needn't have worried, as the ball of flame sputtered out of existence. Her grandfather's spectral visage snickered as he capered through a bookcase.

"Foolish boy! Do you truly expect a library such as this not to have wards against flames?" His cackles echoed through the vaulted room as he faded from sight, leaving Ansha and Lyruil alone to face the Wretched and his cronies.

Admitrius growled and waved a gnarled hand at the pair of elven women. "Kill them!"

The gang rushed forward, and Lyruil drew her sword with the soft hiss of metal on leather as the first approached, cutting him down in a single strike. The rest of his fellows drew up short, giving the unarmored elf-woman a respectful distance.

Admitrius glowered and muttered another incantion. "Must I do everything myself?"

A bolt of arcane energy erupted from the Wretched's hands, streaking towards Lyruil before dissipating against a translucent spell-shield Ansha hastily threw over the blond handmaiden. Another exasperated hiss, and Admitrius turned his attention on Ansha, who stood ready with her magestaff in hand to defend herself.

As the Wretched mage incanted another spell, Lyruil probed the defenses of the mage's minions. Ansha caught the frostbolt on a magical ward and returned it with a volley of arcane missiles as Lyruil waded into the Wretched's minions, and battle was joined once again.