Still, all that truly mattered was that the creature was dead and the disk would be his again. He simply had to be patient. The Soul was surely near him, buried under the magma and awaiting reunion with him.

But then… a nagging little thought disturbed his reverie. Neltharion considered the guileful ways of his quarry and how he and his companions had managed to steal away the disk in the first place.

The dragon dropped lower, trying to sense his beloved creation through the chaotic energies only just beginning to die down. He could still not sense the disk, but it had to be somewhere in there. It had to be…

Krasus materialized some distance away, the overbearing heat of Deathwing’s attack still with him. He sprawled on the ground, aware that once again he had not gotten as far away as he would have liked.

It was his hope that the black thought him dead now, the Demon Soul buried with him. As a dragon himself, Krasus was aware of the energies each of his kind emitted during attacks and believed that Deathwing’s would delay the Aspect from searching for the night elf and orc. Each precious minute would further the pair’s chances of success.

As for Krasus himself, now that his foe thought him no more, he could rest long enough to gather the strength to transport himself to his companions. The mage gave thanks that his plan had worked, for he doubted that he would have had the ability to do much else if Deathwing had discovered the ruse. In fact, Krasus suspected that, at the moment, he would have been fortunate if he even retained the power to light a candle, much less defend himself against an insane Aspect.

Depleted, the robed figure lay stretched out against the rocky soil. The first rays of light stretched up over what little of the horizon he could see. In this benighted place, they would do little but mark the vague differentiation between eve and day. Yet, Krasus welcomed them, for as one of the red flight, he was a being of Life and Life flourished best in the sun’s light. As his eyes adjusted to the new illumination, the mage finally allowed himself to relax, at least for a moment.

And that was when the deep voice from above rumbled triumphantly, “Ah! I have found you after all!”

Hunger began to gnaw at Tyrande’s stomach, not a good sign at all. The Mother Moon had sustained her for a long time, but there was so much need for Elune throughout Kalimdor that she could not concentrate so much on a mere priestess. Priestesses expected always to make the sacrifice first, should the need arise.

Tyrande felt no betrayal. She thanked Elune for all that the deity had done. Now it would be up to too-fragile mortal flesh, but the training of the sisterhood would help her.

Each eve, at the time when the sun set, one of the Highborne would bring a bowl of food. That bowl and its contents — some gruel that Tyrande suspected was the old leftovers from her captors’ own meals — sat untouched on the floor near the sphere. All Tyrande had to do was tell one of her captors that she was hungry and the sphere would magically descend. It would then allow the ivory spoon always accompanying the bowl to pass with its contents through the barrier.

Considering that the Lady Vashj wanted her dead, Tyrande was doubly grateful that she had not eaten anything so far. Now, however, the cold, congealing substance in the bowl looked very appetizing. A single bite was all that the priestess would have needed to maintain her strength for another day; the full bowl would have aided her for a week, maybe more.

But she could not eat without another’s assistance and she had no intention of asking. That would be a sign of weakness the demons would surely exploit.

Someone unlocked the door. Tyrande quickly glanced away from the food, not wanting to give away any hint of her deteriorating state.

With a grim expression, a guard swung open the door. Through it came a Highborne whom the captive had not met before. His gaudy robes were resplendent and he clearly was aware of his handsome features. Unlike many of his caste, he had a rather athletic build. Most arresting, though, were his pale, violet skin and, especially, his hair — auburn with streaks of gold in it, something Tyrande had never seen. Like all Highborne, however, he wore a look of complete disdain, most prominently when addressing the guard.

“Leave us.”

The soldier was only too willing to depart the sorcerer’s presence. He locked the door behind him, then marched off.

“Holy priestess,” the Highborne greeted, with only a hint of the condescension he had granted the guard. “You could make this situation much less uncomfortable for yourself.”

“I have the Mother Moon to comfort me. I need and desire nothing else.”

His expression shifted subtilely, but in it Tyrande caught a glimpse of something that she almost thought remorse. It was all that she could do keep from being startled by this. She had assumed that the Highborne had all become slave-like minions of the demon lord and Azshara, but her companion revealed that this might not be so.

“Priestess — ” he began.

“You may call me Tyrande,” she interjected, trying to open him up. “Tyrande Whisperwind.”

“Mistress Tyrande, I am Dath’Remar Sunstrider,” the Highborne returned, not with a little pride. “Twentieth generation to serve the throne…”

“A most illustrious lineage. You’ve reason to be proud of it.”

“As I am.” Yet, as Dath’Remar said this, a shadow momentarily crossed his face. “As I should be,” he added.

Tyrande saw her opening. Dath’Remar clearly wanted something. “The Highborne have always been the worthy keepers of the realm, watching over both the people and the Well. I’m sure that your ancestors would find no fault in your efforts.”

Again, the shadow came and went. Dath’Remar suddenly looked around. “I came to see if I could urge you to eat something, holy priestess.” He picked up the bowl. “I’d offer more, but this is all they permit.”

“Thank you, Dath’Remar, but I’m not hungry.”

“Despite what some may desire, there is no poison nor any drug in here, Mistress Tyrande. I can assure you of that.” The well-groomed Highborne brought the tip of the spoon up to his mouth and ate a little of the brown substance. Immediately, he made a face. “What I can’t assure you of is the taste…and for that I apologize. You deserve better.”

She considered for a moment, then, deciding to take a desperate chance, said, “Very well. I’ll eat.”

Reacting to her words, the sphere descended. Dath’Remar watched, his eyes never leaving the priestess. Had her heart not been elsewhere, Tyrande would have found the Highborne very attractive. He had little of the foppishness that she had seen in so many others of his caste.

Scooping up a spoonful, Dath’Remar brought the food toward Tyrande. The utensil and its contents shimmered slightly as they pierced the green veil surrounding her.

“You must lean forward a bit,” he instructed her. “The sphere will not permit my hand to pass through.”

The priestess did as requested. Dath’Remar had spoken true when he had said that the food lacked much in taste, but Tyrande was nonetheless secretly happy to have it. Suddenly her hunger seemed to grow tenfold, but she was careful to hide this from her captor. The Highborne might be sympathetic to her situation, but he still served the demon lord and Azshara.

After the second mouthful, he dared speak again. “If you would only cease resisting, it would go so much easier. Otherwise, they’ll eventually tire of having you around. If that should happen, mistress, I fear your fate would not be a pleasant one.”

“I must follow as I believe the Mother Moon intends me to, but I thank you for your heartfelt concern, Dath’Remar. It is warming to find such in the palace.”