The night was quiet and dark. Too quiet, even for the halls of Lordaeron's undercroft—what remained of it.
Down in the stone depths, past the war room and its bloodstained banners, the corridors were still. Torchlight flickered low, casting long shadows across the cracked flagstones. A hush hung in the air like a breath being held.
Sylvanas —the Banshee Queen, Warchief of the Horde—had just returned from a tense war council.
Blademaster, Blood Prince, Blightcaller. All of them had spoken in circles. Doubted her. Questioned the cost of victory. Again.
She had endured their concerns with practiced stillness, red eyes unreadable. But now, finally alone, she allowed herself a sigh. Not of exhaustion, but of growing contempt.
Her boots echoed softly as she ascended the cold stone steps to her private chamber. She pushed open the heavy door, entering a room lit only by moonlight slicing through cracked gothic windows. Dust danced in the pale beams.
She stepped in—and stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
Someone was here.
“You’re either very bold,” she murmured, her voice low and silken, “or very foolish to walk alone into my domain.”
