Once she had emptied the watcrskins, she sat down with a soft grunt and peered into the luminous depths. Durotan emulated her. She knew the angle at which she could see her reflection and made sure they were both positioned correctly. At first, all she could see was her own face and that of Durotan. Their features looked spectral themselves, reflected in a white pool rather than a dark one.

Then a third figure joined them, as if Grandfather Tal'kraa were standing right beside her shoulder, his reflection as clear as theirs. Their eyes met, and Kashur smiled.

She craned her neck to look up at him, but Durotan continued to gaze into the water as if searching for the answers there. Kashur's heart sank a little, but immediately she reprimanded herself. If Durotan was not of the shamanic path, then he was not of the shamanic path. Surely his destiny would be an honorable one regardless, born to lead his clan as he had been.

"My many times great granddaughter," Tal'kraa said with more gentleness than Kashur had ever heard from him before. "You have brought him, as I asked." Leaning heavily on a staff as insubstantial as he, the spirit of the Grandfather moved in a slow circle around Durotan as the young orc continued to look into the water. Kashur watched both Frostwolf males closely. Durotan shivered and looked about, no doubt wondering where the sudden chill came from. Kashur smiled to herself. He could not see his ancestor's spirit, but he knew, somehow, that Tal'kraa was there.

"You cannot see him," she said a bit sadly,

Durotan's head came up and his nostrils flared. Swiftly, he got to his feet. In the eerie light, his tusks looked blue and his skin had a green cast to it.

"No, Mother. I cannot. But ... is an ancestor present?"

"Indeed he is," Kashur said. She turned her attention to the ghost. "I did bring him here, as you requested. How do you find him?"

Durotan swallowed hard, but remained standing straight and tall as the spirit circled him thoughtfully.

"I sensed . . . something," Tal'kraa said. "I had thought he would be a shaman, but if he cannot see me now, then he never will. But although he will not see spirits or summon the elements, he is born to a great destiny. He will be an important asset to the Frostwolf clan ... indeed, to all his people."

"He will be ... a hero?" Kashur asked, her breath catching. All ores strove to uphold a code of courage and honor, but only a few were powerful enough to have their names engraved upon the memory of their

descendants. At her words Durotan inhaled swiftly, and she could see the wanting on his face.

"I cannot tell," said Tal'kraa, frowning a little. "Teach him well, Kashur, for one thing is certain: From his line will come salvation."

In a gesture of tenderness the likes of which Kashur had never seen, Tal'kraa reached out and brushed an insubstantial finger across Durotan's check, Durotan's eyes went wide and Kashur could see he had to fight the natural instinct to draw back, but Durotan did not quail beneath the spectral caress.

Then, like mist on a hot day, Tal'kraa was gone. Kashur stumbled a little; she always forgot how the energy of the spirits fed her. Durotan stepped forward quickly to catch her arm, and she was grateful for his youthful strength.

"Mother, are you all right?" he asked. She gripped his arm and nodded. His first concern was for her, not for what the ancestor might or might not have said about him. Even as she pondered the words, she decided not to tell Durotan of them. Level-headed and great-hearted though he was, such a prophecy could corrupt even the truest of orcish hearts.

From his line will come salvation.

"I am all right," she reassured him, "But these bones are no longer young, and the energy of the spirits is powerful,"

"I wish I could have seen him," Durotan said a bit wistfully. "But. .. but I know I felt him." "You did, and that is more than most are honored with." Kashur said.

"Mother . . . can you tell me what he said? About— about me being a hero?"

He was trying to act calm and mature, but a note of pleading crept in. She did not blame him. All wanted to live on in glorious memory, through tales told of their adventures. He would not be an orc if he did not share that desire.

"Grandfather Tal'kraa said it was uncertain," she said bluntly. He nodded and hid his disappointment well. That much was all she had planned to say, but something moved her to add, "You have a destiny to fulfill, Durotan, son of Garad. Be not a fool in battle and die before you can fulfill it."

He chuckled then. "A fool docs not serve his clan well, and that is what I wish to do."

"Then, future chieftain," said Kashur, chuckling also, "you had best be about finding a mate."

And she laughed out loud as, for the first time on their journey together, Durotan looked completely unnerved.

Upon reflection, so Drek'Tliar tells me, this time in our history was as a perfect day in early summer. We ores had everything we truly needed: a hospitable world, the ancestors to guide us, the elements to aid us as they saw fit. Food was plentiful, our enemies were fierce but not invincible, and we were rich with blessings. If the draenei were not necessarily our allies, neither were they foe. They shared their knowledge and their bounty whenever they were asked; it was we, the orcs,who always held back. And it is we, the orcs,who would unwittingly be twisted to serve another's end.

Hate is powerful. Hate can be eternal. Hate can be manipulated.

And hate can be created.

In the darkness visible, ageless, timeless, Kil’jaeden dwelt. The power surged and throbbed through him, better than blood now, more nourishing than meat or drink, heady and calming at the same time. He was not omnipotent, not yet, or else worlds would fall before him with a thought rather than through battle and destruction, and on the whole, he was content with this.

But they yet lived, die exiles. Kil’jaeden could sense them, though centuries had passed according to those to whom time still mattered. They were lying low, Velen and die rest of the fools. Too cowardly to face him and Archimonde, who had worked as his friend and ally through the . . . changes ... as he had when they were simple beings.

He, Archimonde, and the others no longer thought of themselves as "credar." Velen would call them "man'ari," but they called themselves the Burning Legion. Sargeras's army. The chosen ones.

He extended a scarlet hand, long and elegant and clawed, into the nothingness that was everything and felt it ripple beneath his inquiry. Scouts had been dispatched the moment the enemy had escaped, scouts who reported nothing but failure. Archimonde wanted them to die for their lack of success, but Kil’jaeden opted otherwise. Those who feared, fled, he had good cause to know. Those who sniffed reward and their lord's approval stayed, hungering for it. So while Kil’jaeden made his disapproval known, those who had failed him usually got a second chance. Or third, if he believed them to be doing all they could and not simply coasting on his goodwill.

Archimonde disagreed on this obsession that occupied Kil’jaeden.

"There are worlds aplenty to conquer and devour, in service to our master Sargeras," Archimonde rumbled. The blackness glowed around them as his voice pierced it. "Let the fool go. We would sense it if he used his talents on any level that would pose a threat. Let him rot on some world, bereft of everything that mattered to him."

Kil’jaeden slowly turned his massive head to regard the other demon lord.

"It is not about rendering him powerless," Kil’jaeden hissed. "It is about destroying him and those foolish enough to have followed him. It is about crushing him for his lack of faith. For his stubbornness. For his refusal to think about what was best for all of us."