Morrowspear

### Chapter One: The Garden Party

It was a busy day at Lord Nightbinder’s residence, for they were mere hours from the start of his famous annual Summer Fete-- an event that would count most of Silvermoon’s nobility among its attendees. The gardens had been scrupulously manicured, with fragrant flowers of exotic species from across Azeroth bursting from every corner, pot and decorative vase. Chairs and tables were being laid out in the sunniest spots of the expansive patio, carefully positioned to give the guests the greatest view of the grounds as they wined and dined.

At the head of the operation were Lothrin’s house-servants-- all young, attractive and characterful orphans the city had forgotten, and that Lothrin, in his infinite generosity, had given a home, a job, and perhaps someday a place once more in society. Impeccably dressed, trained and dutiful by nature, Lothrin was the recipient of much praise from his peers for his surprising choice to take an interest in these youths. He would humbly accept their compliments, while passing on his own to those who worked for him.

Lothrin’s core house staff was made up of four such elves. Solarrin Cindervale, the eldest of the four, was mute since birth and kind and attentive of demeanour. He had a mane of scarlet curls that seemed to need cutting every week, and warm, intelligent green eyes. Almost never seen without him was Feyanna Sunfold, sharp of wit and tongue. Feyanna had the darkest history of them all, carrying the scars of her past on her face and body. She made no effort to hide them, wearing them as proudly as she did the glimmering clips that held her short brown hair out of her face as she worked. There was Deina Goldwing, a talented seamstress often called in to see to sudden wardrobe malfunctions. She took great pride in her appearance, and the appearance of those around her. Her hair colour would change constantly-- today it was a pale blonde and worn in an intricate bun.

The youngest and newest recruit, Gauril Morrowspear, had a penchant for the dramatic. He wrote plays, designed characters, and sewed costumes whenever a spare moment found him. He was smaller than the rest and held a childlike mischief that cemented him as the baby of the group. His eyes were large and expressive, his hair black and a little shaggy, and his mouth always quirked into a presumptuous smirk.

Today, Deina had taken charge of the proceedings. She called orders across the garden and readjusted the doilies and tablecloths a dozen times before moving on. Solarrin swept silently through the staging area to lay out plates, glasses, and at least seven sets of cutlery, while Feyanna and Gauril raced in and out of the downstairs kitchen to place fresh-baked bread, olives and apéritifs wherever there was space. Lord Nightbinder oversaw it all, nodding in approval at his underlings as they scurried to fulfil their tasks.

   “Remember-- smiles tonight,” he advised, running a finger across the rim of a glass, making the crystal hum. “Maintaining a positive, friendly atmosphere will be imperative to impressing Lady Sunspell-- Deina, you’re clear on your tasks, yes?”

Deina’s bun bounced as she nodded, smiling brightly. “Of course, Lord Nightbinder. Lady Sunspell is fond of fair-haired women-- so I must pay extra attention to her tonight. Light flirting where appropriate, but no more.”

   “Excellent, Deina,” Lothrin replied. He moved to address the others. “Solarrin and Feyanna, I would like you both to pay extra attention to the Brightmourns tonight-- particularly Lord Eriten. Ensure his hands stay to himself.”

The two elves nodded in understanding, with Feyanna’s upper lip curling in mild disgust. Lord Eriten Brightmourn was perhaps Silvermoon’s most notorious lech-- and if he could cop a feel, he would. No amount of sharp slaps to the face seemed to fix that problem.

Gauril hesitantly raised a hand to catch Lothrin’s attention, speaking when he was noticed. “Um, is there anything specific I should do, Lord Nightbinder?”

Lothrin paused a moment to think. “Hm... entertain, I suppose. I’ll leave much of that to your own discretion. However, I will at some point come to fetch you from your tasks-- so avoid anything too time-consuming or strenuous.”

Gauril nodded eagerly, fighting back against the blush rising in his cheeks. So it was his turn to be “called away” today, was it? That was *always*a good thing.

The first guests arrived as the final places were being set, and Lothrin and his servants greeted each one warmly as they entered. Deina almost instantly attached herself to Lady Sunspell’s side, fetching the noblewoman’s lacy coat to hang away safely. Solarrin and Feyanna held back until the Brightmourns arrived-- Lord Eriten was accompanied by his sour-faced wife, Silrah Redsinger, along with their son and two daughters.

    “Eriten, you old dog,” Lothrin greeted, thumping a fist into the man’s shoulder amicably. “Who let you in here?”

Eriten beamed, his perfect white teeth flashing in an almost predatory fashion. “I assure you, Lothrin, as per usual my arrival came with no resistance to speak of.”

Lothrin forced a laugh and handed the Brightmourns off to Solarrin and Feyanna, patting them both encouragingly on the back as he did so. “Well, Eriten, you and your family will be in the capable hands of Cindervale and Sunfold tonight. Do try not to cause too much trouble, would you?”

Eriten’s grin grew, and he eyed Feyanna nastily. “Ah, lovely Miss Sunfold, we meet again.”

   “No trouble, alright?” Lothrin pressed, and left the Brightmourns be for now.

Gauril manned the door with Lothrin for a time, before his boss left for the gardens with a gaunt, anxious young noblewoman of the Silverheart family who seemed to regret her decision to come to such a large social function. Gauril was not worried for her though-- Lothrin was wonderful at setting a person at ease. He, and the rest of the house-servants, were intimately familiar with that fact.

The last guests to arrive were the Sunbringer family, who brought a new meaning to the term “fashionably late”. Lady Yssiel -- or Commander Sunbringer, as she preferred to be called from her service to the Horde on Draenor-- was accompanied by her partner Rashika, a relaxed orcish woman whose very existence had plunged the Sunbringer family into yet another heated scandal. Yssiel was accompanied by her aunt, Lady Lyda Sunbringer, and her cousin Lord Eriael. Lyda sneered at Gauril as she passed, but it didn’t bother him. He knew which nobles were good to staff and which were not-- and Lyda was simply one of the latter.

Yssiel and Eriael, however, were often very pleasant-- even though Yssiel had clearly had a fair few pre-drinks before making her way to the party. She stumbled off with Rashika to find her table, and so Gauril led Eriael to his place alone.

   “Wow, Lord Nightbinder has really done the place up beautifully for this!” Eriael murmured, surveying the grounds.

Gauril could not help smiling at that-- much of the work that had gone into the garden was his own. “Lord Nightbinder would spare no expense when it comes to a party,” he replied. “Ah-- here’s the tag with your name on it. This will be your seat!”

Eriael moved to sit down but stopped halfway, teetering awkwardly over his chair. He indicated the other nametags marking where the other nobles would be sitting. “Um... am I really supposed to be between Lord Eriten’s daughters?”

Gauril snapped his head around, spotting Lyda Sunbringer rearranging the tags he and the others had spent hours deciding the placement of. Eriael saw her too and sighed.

   “Oh great, she’s trying to meddle again. Should I just find where Yssiel’s gone and sit near her?” he said.

   “A wise idea, Lord Sunbringer,” Gauril agreed, smiling despite his sheer panic over such a tiny failing of tonight’s plans. “I believe you were at least on the same table as her to begin with.”

He escorted Eriael to the correct table, heading off quickly to find Deina when he was done. In hushed tones he informed her of Lyda Sunbringer’s meddling-- something Deina was surprisingly calm about.

   “I’ll handle it, don’t worry,” she said, smiling and bending to ruffle Gauril’s hair. He gave a half-hearted grumble, but thanked her all the same and left her to her task. She conversed easily with Lady Sunspell, and Gauril watched them for a moment as he thought over his next move.

Lady Lanestra Sunspell, a recent widow and heiress to a family fortune that had followed the Sunspell family from the day their Highborne ancestors were expelled from kaldorei society so impossibly long ago. She had no children, and very little interest in the husband she had married for political advantage. It was quite common knowledge that the noblewoman had never had interest in any men for that matter, and would have been far happier had her first girlfriend not been slain by the Scourge.

Lady Sunspell  was no real friend of Lothrin’s, though, which made her presence and importance at this party somewhat curious. Gauril theorised that Lothrin meant to introduce her to the Nightbinder family and estate, and would perhaps push for a union between her and his own sister, Erel. But if that were the case, then surely Erel would be seated beside her instead of her current placement between Lothrin himself and the soft-spoken Lady Nysiris Palesworn. Lothrin could work in mysterious ways, sometimes.

A tap on his shoulder caught his attention and he turned with a start, relaxing when he saw Lothrin standing there. That too was curious, really-- for Lothrin was to an elf what a vrykul was to a human. A goliath in comparison to most others, especially the below-average Gauril.

He smiled at his boss. “Lord Nightbinder. Can I assist you with something?”

Lothrin’s voice was hushed when he spoke. “Meet me in my chambers in a quarter-hour. I... need to...” he cut off, and made a vague motion with his hand.

Gauril understood it perfectly. He nodded, smiling, and turned back to the party without another word as he knew was expected of him. Lord Nightbinder insisted on great secrecy on matters regarding his... unfortunate condition. He was ashamed of it, and rightly so-- for what elf in Silvermoon would be pleased to know a blood-drinking san’layn lived in their midst? Gauril felt nothing but sympathy for his boss, who was so generous and patient with him.

He busied himself for the next fifteen minutes, breezing between tables to refill drinks, remove empty plates and flatter the guests. He spotted Eriten Brightmourn unashamedly eyeing his behind, and in a sudden lapse of judgement offered the noble a cheeky wink in response. Eriten’s returning glance was dark with a scary sort of lust, and Gauril immediately regretted his action.

The minutes just could not fly by fast enough, and when the time finally came Gauril practically raced through the manor, up several flights of stairs and through the gilt, elegant corridors of Lothrin’s manor. The chamber door was ajar, as he knew it would be, and he silently slipped into the room, closing the way behind him.

Lothrin sat easily on an expensively-upholstered sofa, the illusion that gave him the appearance of a living elf fallen away. His skin was pale and blotched, dark and bruised around eyes that glowed a livid, dangerous red. His fangs-- devilishly long and sharp-- were faintly visible as they pressed against the insides of his mouth.

   “I trust you were not followed?” Lothrin asked. His words were a little clumsy-- it would be the fangs doing that, Gauril knew.

He nodded in reply, and Lothrin gestured for him to approach.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Gauril seated himself beside the san’layn and unbuttoned the collar of his smart shirt. No matter how many times he’d done this before, a chill would always pick its way across the bare flesh of his neck like a cold little spider. And, as always, he brushed the sensation away.

Lothrin took Gauril by the shoulders and bent his head, his lifeless breath sending more chills racing through Gauril’s body. He ruminated, searching for the perfect spot, and sank his fangs through the skin as easily as a finger through snow. There was no pain-- only a cold that turned suddenly to warmth, spreading a feeling of delicious tension. Gauril’s blood welled around the teeth, and he quivered as Lothrin’s tongue swept back and forth to lap up anything that threatened to spill. He felt weak, and dizzy, and wonderful. Lothrin’s secure hold meant he needn’t worry about falling, though he soon rested his head against the san’layn’s chest. One of Lothrin’s hands gripped him carefully by the hair to allow himself better access, his grip painless and powerful, so unlike anything Gauril had experienced before.

It was over far too soon for Gauril’s liking, truth be told. Lothrin drew back, catching a crimson bead at the corner of his mouth with his tongue. The hand in Gauril’s hair caressed him now, soothing.

   “Good boy,” Lothrin said lowly. “Very good. You’ve done well.”

Gauril smiled faintly, his eyes closed as he allowed himself to enjoy a moment of feeling safe and satisfied. There was a sense of pride in it, too-- it was his blood sustaining Lothrin today. Without him and the other servants, Lothrin would starve. In a way, Gauril mused, Lothrin needed them as much as they did him.

Lothrin allowed Gauril to rest until his energy returned, and when he was able to stand again he was sent straight to the kitchen to drink something warm and sugary. The party was still underway, after all, and he would need some life in him to fulfil his duties. Lothrin returned to the guests as well, his illusion once more seamlessly in place.

Solarrin and Feyanna were washing dishes when Gauril arrived to the kitchen, and both gave him warm smiles.

   “Feeling alright?” Feyanna asked, tipping a few spoonfuls of sugar in a cup of tea. She blew steam from it and handed it over to Gauril.

Gauril thanked her and sipped from it gratefully. It was sweet and rich, with just the right amount of milk. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m great.” He smiled.

Solarrin smirked at him, nudging Feyanna and gesturing to Gauril’s face. Feyanna laughed, shaking her head. “Well, that blush speaks for itself I think. Has someone got a crush on Lord Nightbinder?”

Gauril almost choked on his tea. “W-What? No! I mean, he’s... he’s my boss, and he’s a noble, and I’m just-- you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

   “Heh, just a little bit. And hey, there’s no shame in it, you know-- Lord Nightbinder is very attractive. Sol’s got a thing for him too,” Feyanna said, earning herself a huff from the mute elf.

That wasn’t exactly a surprise to Gauril-- what Solarrin could not say was more than adequately communicated by  the shy glances and little jumps whenever the san’layn spoke to him. And then, with a terrible realisation, Gauril worried that he too was probably just as conspicuous in his attraction.

After a little more of Feyanna’s taunting, Gauril was ushered back out to entertain the guests. The sky was darkening, and the outdoor lights made the garden glow comfortably. Gauril found himself examining a raised section of the patio-- it could easily be used as a small stage, bordered by two pillars supporting a balcony. And it wasn’t as if he lacked material-- Gauril had a good twenty finished plays he was dying to perform. Perhaps tonight would be the perfect opportunity!

He flagged down Lothrin as soon as he could, rising to his tiptoes to whisper his suggestion. Lothrin was surprised at his energy-- he HAD just lost quite a lot of blood, after all-- but acquiesced and sent Gauril off to gather his set pieces and costumes.

While Gauril busied himself with that, Lothrin motioned for Solarrin to come to him. “I need you to teleport to the Undercity and perform a quick favour for me. The play Morrowspear is planning on showing comprises of a song he is, well, not vocally suited for. See if that songstress is available.”

Solarrin nodded as Lothrin placed a considerable pouch of gold in his palm. He excused himself to a quiet part of the garden to cast his spell, blinking away in a shimmer of arcane glitter.

--

Gauril had endured many surprises in his life, yet nothing could have prepared him for Solarrin appearing in his room with the bearer of one of Azeroth’s most beautiful voices. He was startled at first, only to squeal in delight as he recognised the shock of teal hair and calm, golden eyes of Alphonsine Gallows. In her own words, she was an apothecary by day, and a musician by night. Her haunting songs, oft accompanied by the gentle plucking of her harp, would drift through the ruins of Lordaeron to the delight of the dead that called them home. And on very, very rare occasions, she would travel to Silvermoon to perform.

   “Do you have a script? And lyrics?” Alphonsine asked, once she had explained the situation to a starstruck Gauril. He nodded, still speechless, and rummaged around to find what she asked for. She looked them over, leafing through the pages, a small smile curving her cracked lips.

   “This will be fun,” she said. “Now, Morrowspear, I believe costumes are in order?”

--

There was a hushed murmur of wonder as the garden lights dimmed, patrons whispering amongst themselves as Solarrin, Feyanna and Deina laid out candles across the patio step.

   “Huh? Izzit time to-- hic!-- leave already?” slurred Yssiel Sunbringer, practically lying against Rashika for support.

Eriael craned his neck to see. “I don’t think so. Looks like they might be setting up for a show!”

Silence descended as Lothrin stepped forward then, waiting for all eyes to come his way before clearing his throat and speaking. “My honoured guests. It is with pride and anticipation that I welcome you to an impromptu showing of an original play composed by one of my house-guests-- the young Gauril Morrowspear, with whom many of you are familiar.”

He paused, watching heads nod in recognition. Gauril was peeping out past a corner, buzzing with excitement. Lothrin caught his eye and smiled, then turned back to the crowd. “This piece is called *‘The Banshee That Sang Sweetly’*, and will feature Miss Alphonsine Gallows as the banshee.”

There was a round of enthused clapping at that.

   “And now, without further ado, I hand you to tonight’s narrator.” Lothrin bowed deeply and left the stage. Gauril took a breath to steady himself, adjusted the colourful plumed hat that was crucial to his costume, and pranced out to perform.

###

### Chapter Two: The Grand Magister's Visit

Lord Nightbinder’s condition as an undead creature reliant on the blood of the living to survive was kept strictly secret from most of Silvermoon. Only a privileged few outside of those who directly lived with and worked for Lothrin were allowed access to the information-- and among them were the three leaders of the elven city themselves. On occasion the Regent Lord or the Ranger General would visit the Nightbinder estate in the interest of “checking up” on their resident san’layn-- though everyone knew they were really looking for evidence of illicit activities. Unauthorised killings in the interest of feeding, ties to Scourge remnants-- that sort of thing.

At this point Lothrin was comfortable and familiar with the visits, and experience had taught him just how to put his guests at ease under his roof. These techniques usually involved his house-servants. If the Regent Lord were to visit, Lothrin would ensure the servants brought him plenty of wine and dressed revealingly. If the Ranger General came in his stead, they were all to be chatty and friendly with him and discuss (completely fabricated) outdoorsy activities. As simple as these adjustments were, they always succeeded-- both elves responded favourably to Lothrin’s assurances that he only targeted Alliance members on the rare occasions he could not feed from his staff, and had not once demanded proof. It was easy, with no unknowns, and no surprises.

Until one day, when an arranged visit received an unexpected change.

   “Damn it all!” cried Deina Sunwing as she loped through the manor to the staff lounge. Her loud voice had already caught the attention of the others, and they stood outside anxiously as they awaited her. She skidded to a halt, doubling over as she caught her breath, and snapped up straight, her face red and harried.

   “The Regent Lord’s not coming!” she said between gasps for air. “He and the Ranger General have a thing, I don’t know what, but they’re sending Grand Magister Rommath instead! He’s so unpleasant, I don’t know how we’re expected to appeal to *him*of all people!”

Solarrin made an exasperated gesture and huffed quietly, expressing similar disquiet with the situation. Gauril blinked uncomprehendingly, and Feyanna hummed as she thought. Deina seemed no closer to calming down.

Feyanna tapped a finger against her chin. “Okay, well, what do we know about the Grand Magister? He’s an indoor person, I believe. So the Ranger General tactics should be discarded-- hm?”

She turned as Solarrin nudged her, signing a message with his hands. She nodded and turned to the others. “Sol says compared to the other two he’s deeply unsociable. So flirting would be off the table too. By the Light, what would this man like?!”

Gauril was frowning as he thought along too. He didn’t know an enormous amount about the Grand Magister-- he was the only one of the three leaders he had not yet had the chance to meet. But he knew the rumours, and that could be enough. “He’s the Kael’thas loyalist, right?”

   “*Former*loyalist, he alleges,” Feyanna corrected. “Though I think we all know that’s not quite true. Hm... do you think if we reminded him enough of the Prince somehow, he would be distracted by his own grief and cut the boss the corners he needs?”

Deina nodded, grinning. “Oh, now that’s a good idea. If we wore the red uniforms and accessorised well enough-- with phoenix brooches, plenty of gold and emeralds-- we could at least create an allusion to him.”

Solarrin gestured again, and they waited for Feyanna to translate.

   “He says it would work better if one of us could find a way to properly resemble the Prince, with a wig or something,” she said, glancing at Deina.

The seamstress’ eyes were on Gauril, and his returned the same devious twinkle as hers. “You have that long blond one, don’t you? If you wore that, I could do your makeup-- you’d be like a little miniature Sunstrider!”

Gauril nodded, grinning. “It would need some styling, but between us we could make that work. To the dressing room!”

--

The hour of the visit drew near. The house-servants, who had briefed Lothrin on their plan, were dressed regally in red and gold, with Gauril sporting a weighty blond wig and a face full of makeup. He had hardly recognised himself in the mirror-- Deina had done a marvellous job, as usual. Though no amount of preparation would change how his heart thundered in his chest out of nervousness. He had heard all sorts of unsavoury comments made about the Grand Magister-- he was supposedly grumpy, stubborn and hot-headed. Three traits that would not relent easily no matter how much charm Lord Nightbinder threw at them.

Another of Lothrin’s servants, an undead woman named Casma, now led a dour Grand Magister through the manor, where he sniffed and frowned at the flashy decor. He had given her a number of foul looks too-- perhaps he was offended at being given a living corpse to lead him to a second, more important corpse. She rapped a knuckle that was mostly bone against the door, bowed her head, and led the mage in. His verdant gaze was cold and serious, raking across the room like a blade. It moved through Solarrin, Feyanna, Lord Nightbinder and then Deina before finally settling on Gauril, on whom he did a small double-take.

   “Good afternoon, Grand Magister,” Lothrin said then, rising from his seat to shake the man’s hand.

Grand Magister Rommath practically flinched as his attention was caught, and after a moment’s hesitation he shook the hand offered to him. “Lord Nightbinder”, he said bluntly.

   “Please, have a seat,” said Lothrin, settling back into his own chair behind an exquisite darkwood desk as he spoke. Rommath did the same, resting his tattooed elbows rudely on the table.

   “I assume you understand why I’m here,” Rommath said, appearing to regain some of his composure. His eyes flicked momentarily to Gauril again, and Gauril gave him a little smile. The Grand Magister took a deep breath and resumed his business. “Ordinarily Lor’themar or Halduron would do this, and frankly, I think we would all prefer it had they not been busy.”

Lothrin smiled at that. “It hardly matters to me. I’m honoured to have any one of you visit my estate. Now, before we get into the details, can I offer you a drink? Morrowspear, fetch the Grand Magister a glass of our finest.”

Gauril tipped his head obediently and moved to do just that, brushing ever so gently against the Grand Magister as he walked past him, as planned. He fetched the drinks as quickly as he could, wary of the awkward silence that would now be growing in the room he’d left with every second he was gone. He hopped up onto a counter to reach the high shelf where a bottle of finely-aged manawine cooled and retrieved a tray of immaculate crystal glasses, balancing them carefully. Gear collected, Gauril hurried back to Lothrin’s meeting room, smiling brightly as he edged around the door with his tray.

   “Here we are, Lord Nightbinder!” he said, setting the tray on the desk. There were six glasses in all, one for each of them. He poured Rommath’s first, partially leaning over the Grand Magister to do so. Rommath watched him, the visible half of his face taut with emotion. The plan was working.

Gauril’s hand brushed Rommath’s as he passed the wine to him. The mage mumbled a thanks, but the moment Gauril’s hand left the glass, Rommath dropped it. Wine spattered them both, soaking Gauril’s pretty red shirt and dripping rivulets down Rommath’s marked arms. Gauril squeaked in surprise, working quickly to compose himself as Rommath insistently offered apologies.

   “Ugh, how embarrassing,” he grumbled, stooping to retrieve the now-empty glass from the floor. “My apologies. I, ah, had been training new Magisters before coming here. I’m... tired, you see.”

Though he directed his words at Gauril, it was Lothrin who answered. “No harm done, Grand Magister. We all slip up from time to time. Morrowspear, go change into a dry uniform, and fetch Casma to deal with the mess here. I’ll handle the rest.”

   “Of course, Lord Nightbinder,” Gauril replied, offering Rommath a sympathetic smile as he left.

Lothrin leaned forward, nudging the tray of glasses aside. He rested his chin on his linked fingers as he calmly regarded the Grand Magister. “Now, in the interest of not taking up too much more of your valuable time, I think we should get the business out of the way now. As you’re aware, I satiate my cravings primarily through my house-staff-- three of whom are standing with me now, while the fourth finds something dry to wear.”

Rommath sighed at that. He said nothing, but his shame was apparent. And it was just what Lothrin wanted.

   “And,” Lothrin continued. “On very, VERY rare occasions, I will have the body of a recently-deceased member of the Alliance brought to me to feed from. Once drained, they are returned to their home cities in order for their remains to be dealt with respectfully. I keep records of which Alliance members this has happened to so far.”

On cue, Solarrin retrieved a hefty folder from the bookshelf behind him and let it thud on the desk in from of Rommath. The Grand Magister eyed the enormous stack of paper warily.

   “These are all people you’ve killed?” he asked.

Lothrin chuckled. “Don’t let the size deceive you. One person equates to about fifty papers, you see.”

It was a lie that only Lothrin knew. The Grand Magister took another look at the folder and huffed, shoving it across the table to Lothrin. “I don’t think I need to see all that. In fact, I believe I’ll be taking my leave.”

   “So soon?” Lothrin said, rising to his feet as Rommath did. “Well, it was a pleasure having you here. Next time I think I’ll hold back on the wine.” He laughed-- Rommath didn’t.

Casma arrived in time to lead Rommath back to the entrance, clacking her shoes against the hardwood as she walked so her usually-silent footsteps could be heard. Gauril, recognising the signal, trotted up to find her.

   “Casma!” he called, running over. He was shirtless now, but still wore his wig. “Casma! Do you know where my shirts are-- oh! Grand Magister, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there!”

Rommath turned silently and regarded the topless elf offering him polite apologies-- this friendly, small version of Prince Kael’thas-- who he’d spilled wine on, no less! He imagined the shame had he actually done the same to the real Prince, the surprised glare as he flicked wine-soaked locks of pure gold from sodden robes that clung to his perfect form--

He shook his head, willing the thought away as a surge of misery threatened to engulf him. Even now, those thoughts were too painful. He could not look at the little house-servant as he addressed him.

   “Its fine,” he said. “Its fine. I-- need to leave.”

Led by Casma, the Grand Magister hurried away. When he heard the front doors close behind them, Gauril tugged his wig off and ran back to the meeting room, where Feyanna high-fived him and Deina ruffled his hair.

   “Seamless! Utterly seamless!” Deina said.

Lord Nightbinder smirked and reclined in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “One of your best performances yet, Morrowspear. Very good.”

Gauril grinned, ducking his face as Lothrin praised him in a futile attempt to hide his flushing cheeks. Feyanna laughed at him again and led him away to properly clean all the wine off. Deina and Solarrin bowed respectfully to Lothrin and followed, leaving their undead employer alone with his thoughts. His smile persisted, and he chuckled darkly to himself.

He flipped the folder in front of him open and lifted the one real page from the pile. It was the profile of a fair-haired human woman he’d killed years ago, and the only one of its kind. Every other page was completely blank.

### Chapter Three: The Midnight Escape

Some days, Lord Nightbinder’s lavish mansion was packed full with noble guests, the air electric with conversation and festive energy-- and on other days its halls were quiet, eerily silent save for the shuffling footsteps of the staff going about their duties.

Gauril Morrowspear walked the corridors, a cleaning cloth in hand as he paused to pat off the barest layer of dust on the paintings that lined the walls. On occasion he would pass a door, open it, and take the cloth to the contents of the room beyond. He had more or less full access to each room in the building, and so his work progressed unhindered-- but here and there would be rooms that were barred to him, and physically locked, more often that not. He knew better than to ask for a key.

One such door came up now-- made of dark metal and with a sturdy latch fastening the thing closed, it stood out like a sore thumb against the delicate wood-and-glass doors Lord Nightbinder favoured. Worse still, a foul smell seeped from the thing today. Gauril wrinkled his nose and went to give the door a little shove, wondering if it was open a crack. This must be some sort of food waste-room, if the stench was any indication. It was like rotting meat, metallic and heady. He really had no intention of discovering the source of the odour but was given no choice-- as the door slipped open under his firm push. It had not been locked after all.

He gagged and a hand flew to his nose, pinching the nostrils shut. The smell was so strong in here, it made his eyes water. He blinked, straining to see through the discomfort. He could make out shelves, with blurred, round items mounted on them. At the rear of the room was a large crate piled high with something-- and that seemed to be where the stink came from. He squeezed his eyes closed, counted to twenty, and tore them open once more.

He found himself gagging again immediately, though not from the smell this time.

The peculiar round objects were heads. Elven heads, severed and immaculately preserved, their necks bloody stumps sealed with magic, their cold faces set in expressions of pure terror. Gauril staggered backwards, willing himself not to scream. Though the heads were protected by careful spellwork, the bodies they had once sat upon were not offered such treatment-- they were left to rot in the crate, desiccated limbs sticking out over the sides, skin discoloured and flaking off in patches.

One head in particular caught Gauril’s attention, as he realised with a shudder that he recognised the man it once belonged to. It was Lord Zanarrin Brightmourn, younger brother of Lord Eriten, with his curly copper hair and big blue eyes that once shone with mischief, now dull and glassy. He had heard rumour of the nobleman’s disappearance, but never in his greatest nightmares could he imagine something like this could happen. And not just to him; there must be a good eighty heads in the room.

But what were they here for? Why were they here, in a locked room in Lord Nightbinder’s home? And why were they kept preserved as grisly trophies?

Gauril’s stomach roiled. There was no time to ponder this further. Holding his breath, he whipped out a pen and drawing pad from his pockets and began to sketch furiously, committing the likenesses of the fallen to paper should he fail to access their unwitting tomb again. He stashed them away the moment he finished and fled the room, letting the metal door close itself behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his head felt light. He needed to tell someone about this, warn them-- but what would he say? What was even happening here? Could it really be possible that Lord Nightbinder was behind what he had just seen?

...Surely not, right?

Gauril had to admit he was doubtful. It made too much sense that a san’layn, a former weapon of the Scourge, would perhaps retain his innate urge to kill and butcher. And if that was the case, he was in grave danger indeed. The others as well-- Feyanna, Deina, Solarrin-- they were all at risk.

His mind raced as his feet flew to carry him *somewhere*, somewhere away from here. In his harried state he completely missed a staircase, and went tumbling down it, rolling and bumping almost comically until his head met the banister with a crack and the world went dark.

   “--third time this month, haven’t I said before we need to keep him on baby reins?”

   “Oh, come off it, Fey. He was probably just-- wait, I saw a twitch! Gauril? Can you hear me?”

A warm hand pressed against his cheek, soft and perfumed. It patted him, and slowly Gauril’s awareness returned to him. His head pounded painfully, and he felt the scratch of linen bandages around his forehead. He cracked one eye open, his surroundings swimming hazily back into view. Deina’s green gaze watched him fretfully, and behind her he could make out the blurred forms of Feyanna and Solarrin. Feyanna had her arms crossed unhappily, while Solarrin was impassive and unreadable, like always.

   “Mhhuh...?” Gauril mumbled, grimacing as white-hot pain flashed through his head.

Deina smiled kindly. “You had another fall on the stairs, Gauril, bumped your head a bit. It looks painful, but not too bad. And you got off without any broken bones this time, so really, this is a victory.”

Gauril nodded, though didn’t really understand what she had said. His mind was elsewhere, on something bad. Something that stunk. Like meat---

   “Heads!” Gauril cried, jolting upright. He looked around at his friends, all watching him with confusion now. “Severed heads,” he clarified, fumbling for his sketchpad. He flipped to his drawing and held it out to them without thinking. “I-I... I went into one of the locked rooms-- the one with the metal door, and I saw this...”

The three studied his sketch in silence, dread furrowing their brows. At last, it was Feyanna who spoke up. She eyed Gauril warily.

   “You’re sure this is what you saw?” she said. Gauril got the impression she was hoping for an answer different to the one he had to give.

He nodded, swallowing against his dry throat. “Certain. The door is probably still unlocked if you want to see for yourself.”

Feyanna said nothing, but Solarrin stepped forward, signing quickly. He was asking whether Lothrin was behind this.

   “I don’t know for sure,” Gauril replied. “But I think so. I can’t think of any other reason for there to be a room full of corpses on his estate.”

Deina sighed, shaking, close to tears. “What are we going to do? I... I always thought there was something wrong-- that there was no way to really rehabilitate a san’layn...”

   “We have to get out of here,” Feyanna said, the firmness in her voice inviting no argument. She took a breath, squaring her shoulders in what Gauril knew was her commanding stance. “We leave tonight. There can be no delay. Go about your days as usual, and pack what you need, pack only what you can carry. We will meet at midnight, by the garden arch.”

She did not wait for any agreement, and simply smoothed down her shirt and walked out into the hallway, back to whatever task she had been assigned today. Solarrin patted Gauril on the shoulder and left too, leaving him to ponder with Deina. She was trembling still, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Gauril reached out to her, putting his hand on her arm. “Deina, are you alright?”

She sniffled, but nodded all the same, giving Gauril the bravest smile she could muster. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Worry about that head of yours instead, hm?”

She mussed his hair and stood, taking his hand to help pull him to his feet.

   “You’d best get back to dusting,” she said. “Keep your chin up, and don’t think about what you saw. I’ll see you tonight.”

The day dragged on as if deliberately stalling for time. Gauril couldn’t help but stop and stare at the faces of every clock he passed-- and there were plenty. He counted two seconds for each tick. Or was it two beats of the heart? It was difficult to tell. He almost fainted when he passed Lord Nightbinder in the foyer. The san’layn noticed his pallor and stopped him.

   “Are you feeling well, Morrowspear?” he had asked him, his silken voice laced with such convincing concern. Gauril could almost believe Lothrin truly worried for his wellbeing.

Gauril had forced a smile, and patted the bandage on his head. “I had another disagreement with the stairs, Lord Nightbinder.”

Lothrin had laughed at that, a melodious, pleasant sound, and sent Gauril on his way with a simple “mind your step.” The interaction left Gauril more terrified than before. It had all felt too normal-- no wonder he had fallen for his act before.

Finally, midnight arrived. Gauril stood in the gardens below the twisted wrought-iron arch, his breath misting in the cool evening air. Feyanna had arrived first, and Deina was just now trotting up the path, her satchel clinking as her makeup rattled.

   “No Solarrin yet?” she asked, looking around. “Odd. It’s not like him to be late.”

Feyanna shook her head. “He said he needed a moment to say goodbye to the place. I told him to be quick, but you know how he is.”

   “Yeah,” Deina said, frowning. “I do know. And I know he was never one for sentiment.”

Feyanna shrugged. “Well, this is hardly a normal situation. Stress brings out strange sides in people.” She turned then to Gauril, eyeing a colourful strip of fabric poking out form his bag. “By the Light, Morrowspear, you didn’t bring your costumes, did you?!”

Gauril held his bag to his chest protectively. “Just the one Alphonsine wore at the party. It’s special.”

The older elf rolled her eyes and went back to watching the mansion doors for any sign of Solarrin. She didn’t need to wait long, as the air beneath the arched fizzed and shimmered, a portal opening mere moments later. Solarrin stepped out, regarding them grimly.

Gauril noticed two things immediately; first, Solarrin was not carrying a bag. And second, he had not closed the portal behind him.

Feyanna was approaching him, apparently ready to leave, and Gauril was too late to cry out to her that something was wrong.

Solarrin Cindervale stepped aside as Lothrin walked through the portal. His red eyes shone like torches in the evening light, and they swept over the group like a hunter choosing its prey.

   “Good evening,” he said. He smiled, but there wasn’t a trace of joviality in his voice. He sounded *furious*.

   “Cindervale here was good enough to alert me of your little escape plan,” he continued, placing a large hand on Solarrin’s shoulder. “I had hoped this day would not come-- truly, I had wanted you all to live in comfort and happiness. You wanted for nothing, and this is how you choose to repay me? Such a pity...”

Feyanna rounded on him, tugging a knife from her sleeve and brandishing it. “Drop the act, Nightbinder. The heads in the vault-- I went to see them myself. My *mother*was in there, you monster!”

Lothrin rolled his eyes. “Your mother was a treacherous sow. If anything I’ve done you--and Azeroth itself-- quite the favour.”

Feyanna cried out in rage and charged at the san’layn, dagger at the ready. With swiftness not of this world, Lothrin gripped Solarrin’s neck and moved him into Feyanna’s path, barely moving as the woman drove her bade through the ribs of her former friend. Solarrin choked and gasped, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Feyanna gasped and dropped her blade, stepping back in horror.

   “Sol, no! I-I didn’t mean--!”

Lothrin’s hand closed around the sputtering elf’s throat and twisted hard, cracking Solarrin’s neck as though it were made of glass. Feyanna screamed, and knelt by Solarrin’s side when Lothrin dropped him.

Deina, who had been shocked to stillness until now, wasted no time and grabbed Gauril’s hand, pulling him along as she tried to run into the darkness. Behind them, they heard the sounds of blows hitting flesh, of Feyanna screaming, begging-- and then silence.

Deina’s breath was ragged as she ran, and Gauril was struggling to keep up with her.

   “Where-- where are we going?” he called breathlessly.

Deina hissed at him to be quiet, suddenly hurling them both into a bush. Gauril was about to protest when Deina’s hand clamped over his mouth and nose, the other over her own. It took a moment for him to understand what she was doing, but it soon dawned that she was trying to muffle the sound of their breathing. A rustle of grass nearby told him why-- Lothrin was in pursuit, as silent as a shadow.

His heart beat hard enough to hurt as he clung to Deina for dear life, the other elf just as terrified as he. There was the unmistakable scent of blood in the air-- Feyanna’s, probably-- and though the night was cold already it felt as though the temperature had started to plummet. *The chill of the grave*, Gauril thought.

   “Now, now...” Lothrin growled, so terribly close. His footsteps fell lightly as he paced, searching. “You both know I’m a busy man who has no time for games like these.”

A pallid hand thrust through the leaves, groping about for Deina and Gauril. The hand Deina pressed into Gauril’s face was nearly suffocating now, and a bead of blood trickled down Deina’s chin. In her fear, she had bitten through her lip.

Lothrin took a deep breath, catching the smell of blood instantly. The hand lashed forward and grabbed Deina’s throat, and his other came through to grab Gauril too. Struggling and gasping, they fought his grasp, but were lifted helplessly from their hiding place. Lothrin looked between them both, bemused.

   “If you had kept running, perhaps you would have made it,” he drawled with mock-sympathy. “Well, Goldwing, perhaps. Morrowspear, you’ve always been a bit on the slow side, haven’t you?”

His hand tightened around Gauril’s neck, choking him. He coughed and kicked about, fighting for breath though certain death stared him in the face.

Lothrin moved his attention to Deina, who wept freely now, her makeup running down her face in streaks. “P-Please...” she begged. “I... I don’t want to die...!”

The san’layn tilted his head, loosening his grip on Deina slightly while tightening Gauril’s. “Is that so? Hm... perhaps I could see to sparing you if you answered some of my questions. How does that sound?”

Deina nodded desperately, clutching at the hand that squeezed her throat. “Yes! Anything, I’ll answer anything!”

   “Good girl,” said Lothrin. He dropped her and waited for her to get back to her feet before speaking again. “So, Deina, let’s start off with an easy one. Are you afraid of me?”

Deina wrung her hands, wary of trick questions. Lothrin prompted her, and she nodded. “Y-Yes, Lord Nightbinder. Terrified.”

   “I see. Next question: do you believe you are in danger here?”

Again, Deina nodded. “Yes, Lord Nightbinder. After... after seeing the room, with the heads...”

Lothrin’s lip curled into a sneer at that. “Interesting. And, lastly, who’s idea was this little escape attempt?”

Deina hesitated. She hung her head, ashamed, and lifted a trembling finger to point at Gauril, whose struggles in Lothrin’s grip were weakening by the second.

Lothrin smiled-- a kind, almost warm expression. “Thank you, Deina. Now, let’s head back inside and have a proper discussion about this. Perhaps I can put your mind at ease, somewhat.”

Wordlessly, Deina nodded, and walked ahead to open the doors. Lothrin slung Gauril over his shoulder face-up, so his head dangled upside-down against Lothrin’s chest. It was a painful position, not least because of his earlier fall. Blood rushed to his head, and he had to suppress the urge to vomit.

Deina pushed the doors open and held them there for Lothrin, who followed a few paces back. He frowned as he stepped in, and gestured to the doorframe.

   “Goldwing, does the paint look chipped to you?” he asked.

Deina, puzzled by the question, went to look. Her brows knitted together. “No, it looks fi--”

Lothrin grabbed her by the hair, and with one smooth motion, dashed her skull against the frame. Gauril screamed, watching helplessly as his friend-- his last friend-- slipped lifelessly to the floor, her head cracked open. Lothrin nudged her aside with his toe and grumbled: “Hm, well now it really IS chipped.”

With no more fight left in him, Gauril was carried sobbing through the manor, up stairs and through halls. He passed his room, he passed his friends’ rooms, and he passed the big metal door. Lothrin paused at what seemed to be a blank wall and pressed his hand onto part of the patterned wallpaper, triggering some sort of mechanism to slide the wall-panel back, revealing a hidden passageway. It was dark and smelled of damp and rust, plunging into pitch-black when the door slid shut behind them. The only light was the red reflection of Lothrin’s eyes, glinting over rusted bars and chains suspended from the ceiling.

Lothrin stopped once more, and Gauril heard the jingling of keys. Then, of something unlocking, and the squeal of ancient metal on even older metal. Without warning, he was lifted from Lothrin’s shoulder and thrown to the ground-- stone ground, cracked and cold. It hurt, but he had no energy to cry out.

   “Welcome to your new home, Morrowspear,” Lothrin practically jeered. “Sorry for the long walk. I admit I got lost once or twice finding this place...I could use a drink.”

Gauril knew better to resist when Lothrin grabbed him by the hair to lift him. He slipped his eyes closed, almost relieved-- at least being fed from felt nice. Perhaps Lothrin would drain him completely, and he could die peacefully, pleasantly...

Lothrin’s teeth punched through the skin of his neck, and the pain was like fire in his blood. The san’layn bit and tore, sucking blood with savage ferocity. It was excruciating-- there was none of the sweet dizziness, none of the gentle warmth-- this was agony. Gauril wept bitterly until Lothrin had drunk his fill, and the world spun. When darkness claimed him this time, it was cold and unwelcome, haunted with the memories of the friends that lived mere hours ago but now were dead-- because of him.