Turalyon had discovered that gnomes were fiercely if eccentrically intelligent, and he was willing to believe it if this… contraption that Mekkatorque proposed did even part of what he claimed it would do. He re­membered their first conversation.

"How safe will it be?" he had asked.

"Er… well, we are on the cutting edge technologi­cally with it, you must understand," Mekkatorque had said, running a hand along his muttonchop whiskers. "But I'm willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever!"

Something in the sound of his voice had warned Tu­ralyon that that might not be particularly safe at all. But he wasn't a builder, or an engineer. Still, it was coming along.

Until this rat problem.

"I understand that rats are proportionately much larger, and therefore much more threatening to your people than to mine," Turalyon said as diplomatically as he could, although he wondered why Bronzebeard hadn't handled the problem on the Ironforge end. 'And we can't have them chewing through the wiring. I'll send some of my men back to Ironforge with you. They'll, er… hunt the vermin down and help you effect repairs."

Turalyon might have been Greatfather Winter him­self the way Mekkatorque reacted. "Thank you, thank you! This is excellent. It will be back on track in a jiffy. And then we can finally tackle that pesky underwater problem." The gnome slipped off the chair and reached up a small hand to Turalyon, then pumped it vigorously.

"Go speak to Aramil," Turalyon said, referring to a former guard at the keep who now served as Turalyon's assistant in all things nonmilitary. "He'll take care of the arrangements."

Turalyon watched the gnome depart, and turned back to his correspondence. Dozens of letters, from so many people, all wanting something from him. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and sighed. A walk would do him good.

The air was clean and clear as he stepped outside, al­though clouds lowered. He walked up to the canal, gazing briefly at his reflection in the now-cleared water. Turalyon had never been to Stormwind until the day he and his men had entered the city two years ago, and so he had not had the additional horror of knowing what the city had been like before it fell. It was horrific enough as it was. These famous canals had been clogged — with stones and lumber, with dirt… with defiled corpses. The dead had been respectfully buried, the rubble cleared. Now the canals ran freely again, connecting the various parts of the city. Turalyon lifted his gaze to the white stone, gray now in the dimming light, and the red roofs. The Dwarven District housed many of Bronzebeard's hardworking men, sent along with Mekkatorque, and nestled next to that area was the cathedral.

Thunder rumbled as he approached. He fixed his eyes on the glorious building, one of the first to be completed in its entirety The orcs had damaged it badly, but even then it was a place of safety — the enemy had not realized that the cathedral had vast rooms and catacombs beneath it. Dozens had huddled there, sheltered by its stone while terror raged above them. It was one of the few buildings large enough to house the refugees in the initial stages of reconstruc­tion, and even now, people flocked to it when they were ill, or injured, or even just in need of a little re­minder of the Light.

Like Turalyon.

'Oof!" He stumbled forward, so lost in thought that he hadn't seen the pair of children until they'd slammed into him.

"Sorry, mister!"' the boy cried. The girl gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes. Turalyon smiled and pat­ted her hair as he spoke to the boy.

"With an attack like that you'll make a fine soldier one day," he said.

"Oh yes, sir, I hope so, sir! You think all the orcs will be dead before I'm old enough to kill them?"

Turalyon's smile faltered. "I'm sure you'll be able to serve the Alliance well,"' he said, evading the question. Revenge. The fiery need and anger it kindled in the heart had cost Turalyon someone he loved. He would say nothing to foster racial hatred in a child. Keeping his hand on the girl's head, he murmured a soft prayer. Light glowed around his hand and for a brief moment, the child was enveloped in radiance. Turalyon lifted his other hand and blessed the boy as well. Awe shone in both pairs of eyes that regarded him.

"Light bless you both. Now, you two had best be getting home. Looks like rain."

The boy nodded and grabbed his sister's hand. "Thanks, Mister Paladin!" The two ran toward their home. It was not far; Turalyon realized they lived in the building adjacent to the cathedral. The orphanage.

So many orphans. So many lives lost.

Thunder rumbled again, and the heavens let loose. Rain began pouring down in sheets. Turalyon sighed, pulling his cape around himself and running lightly up the steps to the cathedral, getting soaked even in that short distance. The smell of incense and the soft, barely audible sound of chanting coming from somewhere in the building soothed him at once. He had become used to giving orders, to fighting battles, to emerging from them covered in his own blood or that of the orсs. It was good to come back to the church, and to remember his origins as a simple priest.

A soft smile curved his lips as he beheld his brethren, his fellow Knights of the Silver Hand, doing their duties here as surely as they had on the battle­field. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had created the order three years ago, and it was by his decree that the pal­adins now served humbly in the communities that had been so devastated by the war. Even as he looked around, Turalyon saw his old friend Uther, whom he himself had given the title "Lightbringer." Turalyon was used to seeing the powerfully built man in full armor, swinging his weapon, his ocean-colored eyes afire with zeal as the Light came to him in the form of powerful attacks. But Uther now was clad in simple robes. He was attending to a woman who looked ex­hausted and drained, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and cradling something in his free hand.

As Turalyon drew closer, he saw that the bundle Uther held so gently was a newborn, its skin still mot­tled from birth. The new mother smiled tiredly but happily and reached for her child. Its lusty, healthy wail was the sharp, sweet song of hope. Uther rested his hand on the woman and blessed her and her child, as Turalyon had done with the orphans earlier. Turalyon realized that although Uther was obviously at home on the battlefield, using the Light to take the lives of those who would slay him and those he served, he was equally at home here in the cathedral, bringing a new little life into the world. Such was the dichotomy of paladins; they were warriors and healers both. Uther glanced up and smiled, rising to greet his friend.

"Turalyon," he said in his deep, gruff voice. The two paladins clasped hands. "Good to see you. About time you found your way down here." Uther cuffed the younger man playfully.

"You're right," Turalyon agreed, chuckling. "It's good to be here. It's too easy to get caught up in all the things that need to be done but can never quite be fin­ished. Like a rat problem."

"Eh?"

"I'll tell you later. For now, how can I help?" This was what mattered, he thought. Not staying holed up in the keep pushing paper.

Uther's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over Turalyon's shoulder. "1 think you've got some of that un­finished business right here," he said.

"Oh?" Turalyon said casually, turning around.

It was like seeing a ghost, a moment wrenched out of its proper place in space and time and incongruously reenacted. She stood before him, face and hair and clothing wet, emerald eyes fixed with his eyes. She had gotten caught in the rain, looking almost as she had that night nearly two years ago, coming to him now as she had come to —