Too Close

Evening fell over Stormwind, the din of the city softening to a gentle hum. Lights winked out from windows as curtains and shutters were drawn. The servants of the Nightbinder mansion went dutifully about their task of locking the grand house down, for no measure of safety could be overlooked, as two elven guards escorted the lady of the house, Syralda, and her son to their chambers. In light of recent attacks by the Gilded Fist, the remaining Nightbinders of Stormwind would go nowhere unaccompanied.

   “Phew. I’m thankful today was quiet,” one of the guards said as they walked, readjusting her helmet with a yawn. “Bring on the weekend, eh?”

Lady Syralda smiled, suppressing the urge to yawn herself. “You’ve worked hard this week, Meriel. Take some time to rest on your days off.”

The guard-- Meriel-- nodded earnestly, flashing Syralda a lopsided grin. She then looked to her colleague, a stern-faced elf named An’thas. “Have you got anything fun planned?”

An’thas answered her with a grunt, his azure gaze pointed forward. Meriel’s laughter bubbled, and she whispered to Syralda that he’d been in a strop since visiting family near Quel’thalas. Syralda nodded politely at her, though couldn’t help but wish she would stop talking and get them to their quarters already. Solath was dead on his feet at this point, blinking blearily as he trailed behind them. The poor thing needed sleep, and soon.

They turned the corner to the family chambers, with Meriel trotting forward to unlock the door to Solath’s room. Once inside, she and An’thas began the somewhat arduous task of checking every lock, shutter and charm protecting the room from would-be intruders. Meriel flitted about like a moth at a lamp, while An’thas was meticulous, lingering a while in places. Syralda had no issue with him taking a little more time, but an exhausted Solath had far less capacity for patience.

   “Can’t you hurry up?” he whined, practically slumping against the doorway. “I’m tireddddd...”

An’thas ignored his complaints, instead frowning at a latch on a window. “Curious. Meriel, is the lock on the far window holding firm?”

The other guard arched a brow, but went to check. She puffed her cheeks out as she twisted it this way and that. “Yeah. Why?”

   “Get Lady Syralda to have a look, would you?” An’thas said, not bothering to answer her question. “Lord Nightbinder, cast your eye over this one, if you please.”

Solath groaned, having to drag himself over to the guard. Syralda was halfway across the room to Meriel when the chill sting of doubt tore through her chest, freezing her in her tracks. She turned on her heel, a warning on her lips already. “Solath, don’t leave my si--”

There was a flash of silver, followed by an explosion of red and a strangled scream from Solath. He staggered back, an angry gash streaming blood down his chest. An’thas watched the young noble, his expression stony. He clutched a delicate blade in his hand-- the sort one would conceal beneath a sleeve or a bracer.

Meriel reacted almost instantly and drew her rapier, charging at An’thas with a shout of fury. She grappled with him, sticking her weapon through a gap in his armour with surprisingly little resistance. She hooted in victory and moved to rip the blade from its living sheath, only for An’thas to grab her thin wrist in an iron grip. She frowned, puzzled, and looked up just in time to witness the calm blue of An’thas’ eyes give way to a ferocious red. He snarled at her-- his teeth suddenly far too big, far too sharp-- and bit through the side of her neck with a sickening squelch. He snapped his jaw and ripped a chunk of her clean out, spitting the steaming red meat to the ground. Meriel’s wound bubbled and spurted, her eyes rolling back as she collapsed to bleed out on Syralda’s expensive carpet.

An’thas’ tongue-- now grey and maggot-like-- lapped at the blood that dripped from his chin. His eyes fixed on Syralda, who had moved to Solath’s side and thrown up a protective barrier of sorcerous ice. The little fragments gleamed as they swirled around mother and son, like the orbiting rings of a faraway world.

   “You move fast for an old woman, Syralda,” An’thas drawled. His voice rasped and hissed now, utterly changed. He laughed at her. The sound was like pebbles hitting glass. He spread his arms wide and indicated his body. “Well, what do you think? Had I fooled you? I must say, this form is an unexpectedly snug fit.”

Syralda’s blood ran as cold as her magic. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “...Lothrin.”

The elf inhabiting the body of another elf smirked, and he gave an exaggerated bow. “What did you think of my performance? I fear I went a little overboard with his standoffishness. You must forgive me-- I only had the chance to learn from his behaviour in captivity. It is not always an accurate representation.”

Syralda said nothing, silently forcing more power into her shield. Lothrin was as unpredictable as he was loathsome. She could not afford to let him distract her-- Solath’s life would hang in the balance.

Lothrin drew the blade used to cut Solath to his lips, smearing the blood onto his tongue and groaning in inflated pleasure. “Ohh. So sweet. Hm, he reminds me a little of Aldoriel. He was your eldest, no? It feels like only yesterday his head took pride of place at the centre of my dining table.”

Another distraction. Syralda felt grief threaten to cloud her mind, but she would not let it. Lothrin had killed three of her children-- she would not let him claim her fourth. *Never*.

With one hand maintaining the shield, she raised another to summon forth a deadly spike of ice and launch it at Lothrin. He dodged it deftly, where it shattered to a thousand pieces against a wall-- taking a fair amount of the brickwork behind with it. The explosion was loud-- surely loud enough to alert Stormwind’s authorities.

   “Nightguard!” Syralda shouted, her voice carrying through the corridors. “Nightguard! To me, NOW!”

Lothrin titled his head, features creased in disappointment. “Oh Syralda, you really are no fun. I poke my head in to say hello, and you’re calling your elite guards to see me out? Truly rude.” He tutted and glanced at Solath. He was crumpled at his mother’s feet, still bleeding and completely unconscious. The boy had inherited an unfortunate trait from his father-- he would near-instantly faint when injured. By all accounts that should make him Lothrin’s easiest target, but Syralda had invested heavily in his security.

   “We’ll meet again, Syralda,” Lothrin said, tucking his knife away. “Perhaps at the boy’s funeral. But don’t fret-- once I’ve made you bury the last of your children, I’ll make *sure*you join them.”

And with that, he was gone. Vanished into thin air, back to whatever elaborate crypt he’d crawled out from. Syralda dropped her shield as her Nightguard reached her, and she cradled Solath in her arms with a cry of anguish. All the emotion she’d held back before coursed through her freely now. That had been close. Too close. Solath’s breath was ragged-- but he breathed still.

The Nightguard formed a protective circle around the Nightbinders, shields up, though it was unnecessary now. Syralda tearfully gave the order to a guard-captain to deal with Meriel's corpse and secure the manor. Every lock, every door, every corner and every shadow must be checked thoroughly. She would not sleep tonight for worry for her son. She would stay here, surrounded by her guards, and hold her child until the sun came up. Her medics saw to his wound-- millimetres too shallow to be grievous, they said. That was, perhaps, worse. Lothrin cut with purpose, such definite intent. Had he meant to kill Solath tonight, they would now be huddled in the Cathedral, screaming at the priests until they could stabilise him.

So what was this, then? A message? A show of power?

...

Syralda decided she knew what Lothrin meant: this was a reminder.