So cold. I drifted in and out of consciousness as we trekked across the frozen wastes.
Hellscream has fallen. Why continue?
Starving, starving, starving. The scream of the dead echo within my own head. It is my soul that they want next.
Sithrial, dear one, am I dead yet? Can I not be with you?
Darkness and torment. Hammer clashes with Stars in the Dragonlands. I am not there. They cannot hear me screaming.
Why are you here, Sorlain? Why have you not given up? We forgive you. Just come back.
A hundred brothers and sisters fall in the night. And their blood becomes the earth. And the earth becomes angry at us. So angry. I can feel it beneath my feet, beneath the cold, cold snow. The earth is cold too. But its anger is warmth.
And death heaps upon death? Why? What is there to gain? We have already sacrificed the new world of peace thrice-over to feed our children. Still they starve, silent, in the streets, and the Magisters paint their windows and fill their rooms with concubines so that they may ignore it.
A thousand swords cut down ten-thousand lives, and the Jarathi take up knitting with the remains. For there are no cotton plants in Quel’thalas. And winter grows closer, as we cut our own race to pieces, now, to make blankets with which to rock ourselves to sleep.
I can see the light in your eyes, Khairan, and it goes out faster than Feytan’s. For he has only had a taste of what you have known all your life. Oblivion. And you can see it approaching, and you are scared. And only now do I hear you, as it calls to me.
False titles, false houses, false powers of a false age. The truth is coming. And no one is ready in Silvermoon.
More death, but I do not understand why. The war is over.
More death, but I do not understand why. Let us live. Let us go home.
More death. But now by my hand. And I do not understand how. Am I angry? Am I vengeful? Am I defending myself?
No. I have become a machine.
I must fight. I must fight the fighting. I must cease fighting.
So much death for so little reason and you have played me like a puppet, Talanore.
But I hear you. I can hear everything now. I can hear the earth. And the earth is tired. Tired of anger. It wishes to sleep.
And I wish to sleep. But I cannot. So I shall stop the fighting.
No more, Sorlain. No more. You will stand helpless as your soldiers desert and your palaces of blood collapse around you, and we shall stop listening to the world that you do not deserve to have at your whim as it dismantles itself. Long live Hellscream. In a cage as Vol’jin forces him to learn the true path of honour.
Long live Jarath. As he is forced to make right every crime against every innocent troll he made soldiers commit.
Long live Khairan, for he has realised his crime but he shall never stop punishing himself more than any torture, any execution, any cry of a dead mother can.
Long life to you, Sorlain, for I shall sit outside your cell every sunrise and every sunset, forcing you to watch a world that exists without you, until you understand what it means to be a part of it.
This, I vow. For all those that are dead, as only now do I understand their deaths.