He cocked his head to the side. “There are others, but we know our place and so don’t speak unwisely.”

Watching him carefully, Tyrande decided that it was time to press deeper. “But your loyalty to the queen is without question.”

The tall figure looked affronted. “Of course!” Then, growing more subdued, he added, “Though we fear her judgments not as it has been. She listens not to us, who understand the Well and its power so thoroughly, but rather to the outsiders. All our work has been cast aside simply for the task of bringing into the world the lord of the Legion! There was so much we strove to attain, I — ”

He clamped his mouth shut, finally realizing the tone of the words spilling from it. With grim determination, Dath’Remar silently fed her. Tyrande said nothing, but she had seen enough. The Highborne had come here more for himself than her. Dath’Remar had sought a confession of sorts so that he could relieve himself of some of the turmoil going on in his mind.

Before she knew it, the bowl was empty. Dath’Remar started to put the container back, but the priestess, seeking a few more moments, quickly asked, “Might I also have some water?”

A small sack had been brought in with the meal, but, like the food, Tyrande had never touched its contents. With an eagerness that hinted of his own desire to not yet put an end to their encounter, Dath’Remar quickly grabbed the sack. Opening the end, he brought it toward her, only to have the barrier keep the sack from her lips.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I had forgotten.”

The Highborne poured some of the water into the bowl, then, as he had with her meal, fed her a spoonful. Tyrande took a second before daring to speak again.

“It must be strange working beside the satyrs, who were once as us. I must confess to being a bit unsettled by them.”

“They are the fortunates who have been elevated by the power of Sargeras, the better to serve him.” The answer came so automatically that the priestess could not help feeling that Dath’Remar had repeated it many times… perhaps, including, to himself.

“And you were not chosen?”

His eyes hardened. “I declined, though the offer was… seductive. My service is to the queen and the throne first and foremost. I’ve no desire to be one of those th — one of them.”

Without warning, he put away the bowl and spoon. Tyrande bit her lip, wondering if she had guessed wrong about him. Still, she had little else with which to work. Dath’Remar Sunstrider represented her only chance.

“I must leave now,” the robed figure declared. “I’ve already stayed too long.”

“I look forward to our next visit.”

He vehemently shook his head. “I’ll not be returning. No. I’ll not.”

Dath’Remar spun from her, but before he could depart, the priestess uttered, “I am the ear of Elune, Dath’Remar. If there’s ever anything you’d like to say, it is my role to hear. Nothing goes beyond me. Your words will be known to no other afterward.”

The sorcerer looked back at her, and although at first he said nothing, Tyrande could see that she had affected him. Finally, after much hesitation, Dath’Remar answered, “I will see what I can do about bringing you something more palatable next time, Mistress Tyrande.”

“May the blessings of the Mother Moon be upon you, Dath’Remar Sunstrider.”

The other night elf dipped his head, then departed. Tyrande listened to his footsteps fade away. She waited then for the guards to check on her, but when they returned, they simply took up their positions, as usual.

And at that point, for the first time since her captivity, Tyrande Whisperwind permitted herself a brief smile.

T o an orc, blood was the ultimate tie. It bound oaths, commanded allegiances, and marked the true warrior in combat. To taint a blood bond was one of the worse crimes imaginable.

And now the druid’s brother had done just that.

Brox eyed Illidan Stormrage with a loathing he had granted few other creatures. Even the demons he respected more, for they were but true to their nature, however perverse and evil it was. Yet, here was one who had fought beside Brox and the others, who was twin to Malfurion and, therefore, should have shared his love and concern for his comrades. Illidan, however, lived only for power and nothing, not even his closest kin, could change that.

Had his arms not been tightly bound, the orc would have gladly sacrificed himself tackling the sorcerer and snapping his neck. Whatever faults he considered himself to have, the orc would have never willingly betrayed others.

As for Malfurion, the druid stumbled alongside the graying warrior. Their arms tied behind their backs and ropes around their waists tugging them after the night sabers, the pair could barely keep up. Illidan’s brother had an even worse disadvantage, for the treacherous twin had not yet removed the spell of blindness. Eyes covered by small black shadows that no light could pierce, Malfurion continued to flounder and fall, scraping and cutting himself constantly and even once nearly smashing his head on a rock.

From the blindfolded sorcerer, there came no sign of regret. Each time Malfurion tripped, Illidan merely tugged on the rope until the druid managed to right himself. Then, the guards behind the prisoners would prod them forward and the trek would continue.

Brox eyed his ax, now hanging from the cat ridden by the scarred officer. The orc had already marked this Captain Varo’then as the other prime target, should circumstance enable Malfurion and him to free themselves. The demon warriors were dangerous, true, but they lacked the devious cunning Brox saw in the other night elf. Even Illidan was second in some regards. Still, if the spirits blessed him, Brox would slay them both.

Then, if it was at all possible, something would have to be done about the Demon Soul.

Curiously, it was not Illidan who carried it now. But moments after the sorcerer had retrieved it from his brother, the captain had walked up to the treacherous twin, stretched out a gauntleted hand, and demanded Illidan give it over. Even more curious, Malfurion’s brother had complied without so much as a word of protest.

But such mysteries could not concern the green-skinned fighter. He only knew that he had to slay the pair, then take the Demon Soul from Varo’then’s body. Of course, to do that, all the orc had to do first was break free of his bonds and likely battle his way through the demons.

Brox snorted in self-derision. The heroes in the epics always managed to accomplish such things, but it was doubtful that he would. Captain Varo’then had a clear talent for tying rope. He had secured his prisoners all too well.

On and on they trudged, leaving the lair of the black dragon further behind. However, Brox did not travel with the confidence of Illidan and the captain. He was certain that Deathwing would find them. It was a puzzle that the giant had not appeared already. Had something distracted him?

Eyes widening, he suddenly grunted at his own ignorance. Yes, the orc finally realized. Something had. Something… or, rather, someone. Krasus.

Brox understood well the sacrifice the mage might be making. Elder one, I wish you well. I will sing of you… for what little time I still live.

“Ungh!”

Brox looked just in time to see Malfurion fall again. This time, though, the druid managed to twist. Instead of landing on his face, he did so on his side. The action saved him from a bloody nose, although clearly Malfurion had still shaken every bone in his body.

Try as he might, the orc could do nothing to aid the fallen night elf. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Illidan. “Give him his sight! He’ll walk better, then!”

The sorcerer adjusted the scarf over his own eyes. Brox had seen just enough to know that something terrible had happened to them.