Redemption - truthiness_aura - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Steven of Stormwind, Paladin of the Silver Hand, does not sulk during the long trip from Stormwind. He behaves as a paladin should: keeping his bunk clean and orderly, offering assistance to the sailors, tending to the little hurts and needs of his fellow passengers. Every day he finds a corner of the deck and practices with his sword and shield. When those tasks run out, there is always his weapon to sharpen, or his shield and armor to polish and repair, or bandages or potions to wind and brew, or a meal to be cooked. He fills his days end to end with tasks in hopes that it will be enough to press him to bed each night with exhaustion.

Most days he fails.

The sailors pay him little mind. The other passengers regard him with a respect bordering on reverence, but the men and women of the ship seem to consider him a minor nuisance. This at least affords him the privacy of a quiet corner, where he can stare at the water and mutter the blessings to himself, over and over.

The letter is in his satchel, wrapped in oilcloth. He can picture it in his mind; a lump of blue wax over the fold, imprinted with the upright hand of the Order. Steven received it two days ago, along with the mission that sent him away from the city.

Once Lord Shadowbreaker signed the letter, the scribe inspected it and nodded. He turned to his desk to begin the task of sealing it carefully for travel.

“Steven.” Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker was a man of unremarkable appearance, save for his carefully trimmed beard and the patch over one eye. “You are to go to the Exodar, on Azuremyst Isle. I am sending you to our draenei allies as a diplomat. Offer them the knowledge of Stormwind and the Silver Hand.” He turned; Steven saw one brown eye fix him in place where he stood, seething.

“Your Lordship-”

Shadowbreaker held up a hand. “Your zeal in defense of the Light’s precepts is laudable. I’m sure your obedience to your elders’ orders will be the same. You are dismissed, paladin.”

Steven poured out his story to Bucky that night in their room, only to have his friend sigh. “Steve.” Bucky took another sip of his ale. “The Lescovar family gives thousands in gold to the Church of the Holy Light every year.”

“So they should be allowed to torment initiates?” Steve threw another pair of socks into the open bag on the floor.

“Robert Lescovar got the least of what deserves. The man should be kicked off the flight tower.” Bucky lowered his voice. “But getting him and his father out will require time and care. Shadowbreaker can’t denounce them both without losing funds for half his troops. Not to mention what the other nobles would think.”

Steven gritted his teeth and yanked open another drawer. “I couldn’t let him get away with it, Buck.”

“I know.” Bucky sat watching him for a few more minutes before getting up. “Give me your potion bag, I’ll set it up for you.”

“I left enough gold in the jar to cover the next three months of rent. After that-”

“I’ll be fine, Steve. The Van Dynes want me to work on their books.”

“Buck, that’s great.” Steven actually smiled.

“He’s the only one who can handle Hank in the middle of an inventing binge.” The two turned around to see Natasha leaning in the doorway. She rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing that man has you around, or he would have spent all his earnings years ago. You keep better care of that shop with one arm than he does with two.”

Bucky chuckled. “We all know Jan’s the one who’s kept him afloat.”

“We haven't needed to wash motor oil out of an outfit since you arrived. For that, both she and I are indebted to you forever.” Nat bent to kiss Bucky on the head, then tossed a soft packet across the room to Steve. “Bandages.”

“Does everyone know I’m getting kicked out?”

“Just the important people.” Nat closed the door and reached for a glass. “The Lescovars have been very quiet.”

Steve snorted. “I thought they’d be out celebrating.”

“They’re not. At least not in the good taverns.” She took a deep draught of wine. Bucky stared at her, brow furrowing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Steve, I think it’s a good time for you to get out of Stormwind.”

Steve stared into the depths of his traveling bag for a while, then looked up to see the sealed letter on top of the dresser. The blue seal shone even in the dim candle light.

“Thanks for the bandages,” he finally said. Nat nodded slightly and took another drink.

It is a full week’s travel to Auberdine from Stormwind. When he finally disembarks onto the long pier, Steven is not sad to hear that he has missed the day’s boat to the Exodar. He can still feel the planks rolling beneath his feet as he walks the long way down the pier to the inn. Beneath the elaborate elvish architecture, Auberdine is small and plain. But the little closet of a room he rents in the inn is secure, and the bunk inside is clean. Even better is the possibility of food that has not been smelling of salt for days. The elf at the food stall hands him a skewer stacked high with dumplings, sticks a soft bun on top, and points him wordlessly towards a stump looking out over the sea. Steven eats three skewers as he watches the crabs scuttle across the shore and the sun set into the ocean, and sleeps so deeply that night he almost fails to wake with the sunrise like normal.

The boat to the Exodar leaves early and docks late. Even with good weather, it’s late in the day before they arrive at the dock on Azuremyst Isle, and by the time Steven reaches the outskirts of the city, it’s dusk. The size of the place is overwhelming; even craning his head back, Steven can’t quite see the top of the massive rock making up most of the city. An entrance gleams at him through the night, and he takes it.

He had heard stories from other travelers, but discounted half of them as tales. One of the barkeeps had sworn that the draenei capital was an enormous ruby; another that the city was built from crystal like Stormwind had been made from stone. Steven had scoffed, a little. But the path leading him down is solid reddish crystal, twinkling faintly here and there with lavender. The walls seem to vibrate gently like a sleeping creature. Metal bolts and mesh emerge from the ground at points, pulling the structure together. Other cracks are visible seaming the walls, some large enough to put his whole hand in. The place is built to another scale. Steven has never felt so like an ant wandering through a clump of dirt. And then he turns a corner, and the light bursts in on him so brightly he has to wince and shield his eyes.

Well, he thinks nonsensically, I owe that barkeep a few gold after all. The Exodar is, indeed, made entirely of crystal. Red, purple, amber, blue…the colors gleam, bending and reflecting every bit of light that touches their surface. The effect is like falling into a lady’s brooch. It’s dizzying, and Steven has to blink and stand for a few moments before he notices the city guards nearby.

Both are resplendent in fine plate armor. The woman remains at attention, scanning the area, but her male partner nods at Steven. “Do you need assistance, human?”

“Can you direct me to the paladins of the Exodar? I come from the Silver Hand of Stormwind.”

The guard nods and points across the open floor of the city. “You see the space in the middle, with the golden stone? That is the Vault of Lights. Go to the back and you will find Vindicator’s Sanctum.”

“I thank you.” Steven bows and set off into the brightness.

He’s gotten lost somehow. The lights, the crystals - everywhere he turns is another refraction, another facet brilliant in his eyes, dazzling him. There is a low humming in the distance somewhere. And the draenei! Steven had seen a few in Stormwind, off in the distance. There was a representative in the Keep, not that Steven spent much time there. Diplomats came from the Exodar at times, and adventurers, but they were still rarities in the human city. Here the floors ring with the click of their hooves, and a sea of horns spreads above him like the branches of a forest. Steven has a moment of intense deja vu as he passes through a small crowd. It has been years since he was surrounded by so many people taller than him.

Maybe this ramp - as he goes down, the sounds of the city quiet. The humming he has heard in the back of his mind all day grows stronger, however. It’s brighter down here as well, and more intricately decorated.

Steven feels it before he sees it. At the bottom of the ramp is a strange entity, made of pieces of glowing blue-white crysta. The shards hover in mid-air, forming a shape similar to the draenic runes Steven has seen on the walls of the city. The whole creature is enormous, maybe a story tall, and turning gently as in an invisible wind. As he grows closer, Steven realizes the humming is coming from the creature. And - it is emitting holy energy, an enormous amount of it. Steven stumbles; it’s like standing in a strong wind, and he has to gasp as he adjusts to the power of it.

“What…” he says, aloud, slowly coming closer.

The creature turns, again; Steven realizes with a start that there is something within it, a presence contemplating him.

“What are you?” His voice is hushed; he feels the way he did when he first saw a paladin call down the Light. There is something enormous here, something more sacred than -

“That’s O’ros,” says a voice, suddenly. Steven jerks backwards, almost tripping over his sword like a green recruit. He manages to save himself with a hand on the floor and looks around wildly.

“He’s our resident naaru,” the voice continues. “Not much of a talker though.” A head pops up from around one of the creature - the naaru’s - glowing limbs. “A’dal’s a different story, you can barely get him to shut up.”

Steven stares. The head that’s appeared belongs to a draenei - a male, with goggles pushed up high on his forehead plates. He has a sharply trimmed goatee that contrasts nicely with his dark blue skin. The draenei frowns at him and comes forward; as he rounds the naaru’s side, he easily ducks another gently revolving piece of crystal. “Need a hand?”

“No!” Steven manages to get his feet under him and stands up. “No, thank you. I was just…” he fumbles for words, and settles on “That’s a naaru?”

The draenei stares at him. “Yeah. Humans don’t know what naaru are?”

“No! I mean…” Steven is rapidly losing control of the conversation. “I’ve heard of them. I just thought they were…” he gestures at the enormous crystalline creature. “More…abstract than that?” Like the Light, he thought. The Light was everywhere, but it appeared in auras and blessings. It did not manifest in story-high arrangements of precious stone that seemed like they were on the verge of speaking.

The draenei was still staring at him with something approaching pity on his face. “Why would naaru be abstract?” he says slowly, like he’s explaining to a child. “They’re huge holy energy batteries.”

Batteries? Steven feels his teeth grind at the response. Stormwind would welcome a single shard from a naaru as the holiest of relics. And this fool treats them like some mechanic with a faulty engine? The human draws himself up, bristling. “I apologize for disturbing you, sir. Can you point me towards the paladins of the Exodar?”

The draenei has clearly noticed his anger, but only responds with raised eyebrows and a hint of a smirk. “Up the ramp again, left at the bank, all the way at the back.”

“I thank you.” Steven bows and turns on his heel.

The paladins of the Hand of Argus, when Steven finally finds them, are everything paladins should be; friendly, organized, outwardly devout. They also clearly have no idea what to do with him. One hastily offers him refreshments; another shows him to a table outside the training area. Vindicator Batuun, as he is called, explains the titles and organization of the draenei paladins as they eat.

“May I ask what your title means?” Steven says. “Vindicator?”

The paladin nods. “The closest term might be…holy soldier? Vindicators are paladins who maintain and defend the order of our society.”

“Like a knight, perhaps. Or a guard?”

Batuun tilts his head. “A little of both, I think.”

Another small group of draenei hurries into the sanctum, and the voices inside rise. Batuun says a few more friendly words and excuses himself. Steven can hear the rapid click of hooves as he retreats to the conference. There are more crystals spread out on the floor beneath his seat. Some, mounted in the stones, show slowly rotating images of demons. A temptress closest to Steven stares out with a sneer, whip curled in one hand. Steven stares back, briefly, then averts his eyes.

Finally, two draenei come out again. One is Batuun, and behind him is - Steven stares. It is the same draenei he saw down in the base of the city, with the naaru. He seems unhappy, now, casting an angry look at the man next to him. Steven blinks. The angry draenei has a fist-size lump crystal sunk into his chest, glowing a dim blue through a hole in his tunic. Steven had been so distracted during their past meeting that he must have missed it.

The lead paladin bows. “Steven of the Silver Hand, we are honored to have you as a guest in our territories, and we welcome your offer of assistance. The Hand of Argus asks you to accompany Artificer Anthaar on his duties in the surrounding territories.”

“Vindicator Batuun, this is not necessary,” the artificer hisses.

The paladin raises his voice, very slightly. “We hope, as well, that you will impress your solemn knowledge of the Light upon the artificer. ”

“I need no such -”

“We are certain your strength and piety will stand the artificer in good stead as he tends to the needs of the Isles.” Batuun holds up a hand to Anthaar when he would continue; Steven can see him gritting his teeth. “Will you do us the honor of this task?”

The artificer turns to glare at Steven. This is - not ideal, for so many reasons. But there’s only one answer he can give. “I would be honored, Vindicator.”

“Then may the blessings of the naaru go with you both.”

They start early the next morning, carrying a load of supplies and tools out the main gates of the city. The artificer’s mood has not improved overnight. He speaks to Steven using the fewest words possible; from what he can gather, they’ll be headed first for a town called Azure Watch, then over the hills into the mountains. Anthaar takes the heaviest pieces of equipment for himself to carry. On top of that load he hefts a long double-handed mace. A good weapon, from what Steven can see; sturdy, with symmetric spikes of metal folded around a crystal for the head. The artificer is otherwise lightly armored, wearing only basic leathers and a pair of goggles. Perhaps he will need protection during the trip. Steven checks his plate and weapons to ensure all is ready for action before he hefts his share of the equipment.

The conversation does not pick up on the road. Anthaar seems determined to make it full across the island before speaking, and Steven does not find himself in a mood to press the issue. He is still seething internally over the flippant way Anthaar treated the naaru when they first met.

The surroundings, at least, are pleasant. Azuremyst Isle is pleasantly cool and mounded with soft blue-gray grasses. Small creatures rustle in the underbrush, and ancient pines stand tall against the skyline. The air smells of running water and dead fir.

Mid-day, the road curves around and begins sloping up, and Steven notices the artificer lagging slightly.

“Can I help with-”

“I’m fine.” Anthaar straightens up and re-adjusts his hold on the boxes.

“I’m not carrying much, I could -”

“I said I’m fine,” the artificer snaps, and Steven blinks at the venom in his voice.

“Just offering,” he mutters under his breath, but Anthaar is almost running up the hill now, too far away to hear. Steven shifts the box in his grip and trudges upward, head down.

As they climb higher, the sounds of people begin to filter in; voices, laughter, the clang of a hammer on an anvil. A guard appears in the distance, and Steven sees a tiny arm wave. As they grow closer, the guard shouts something that Steven cannot understand. Anthaar, however, shouts back something cheerful. Not in Common, but with the same syllables that Steven had heard earlier in the Exodar and on the boat; Draenic, then.

The guard stays at his spot as they grow closer, but he remains smiling. “Artificer!” he says when they are close- in Common, this time. “It is a blessing to see you again.”

Steven looks over to see Anthaar’s mouth twitch upwards in return. “Good day to you.”

“I welcome your escort, as well. I hope my Common is good.”

“Very good,” Steven says, smiling. The guard nods, clearly pleased, and turns back to Anthaar.

“Artificer Daelo is just up the hill. He will be delighted to see his supplies have arrived.” The guard looks downcast. “I would carry them for you, Artificer, but I am not to leave my post.”

“I carried these from the city, I can take them a few more steps.” Steven sees a muscle in Anthaar’s jaw twitch.

“Ah. It is as the naaru will it.” The guard points them up the hill.

They gain Azure Watch at last. It is barely a village, just a grouping of small structures around a crossroads. Anthaar sets down the boxes he carries in a corner and strides forward, to a draenei fiddling with a set of controls on a crystal array.

“Dyvuun! Where is Daelo?”

“Artificer Anthaar!” Dyvuun bows. “It is an honor to see you here. Daelo is up in Ammen Vale inspecting the structures. He will be sad to miss you.”

“And how is the vale?”

“Well protected as always. No changes.”

“Good, good.” Anthaar bends to inspect the array. “How goes your work?”

“The link with the Vale is strong. Daelo checked in last night, he already has me working on a list of supplies for upgrades.”

“Have you established transmission with Blood Watch?”

The technician grimaces. “The transmitter is set up there, but the signal is…uneven at best.”

“Hmm. Have you tried a relay at the top of Stillpine Hold?”

“There and at both bridges, Artificer.”

“That should be more than enough strength. Strange.” Anthaar strokes two fingers over the stone in his chest, lost in thought. His gaze drifts, finally falling on Steven, still with his box; his eyes flash. “Ah, my apologies. Dyvuun, this is Steven of Stormwind, Paladin of the Silver Hand. Steven, Paladin of Stormwind, this is Technician Dyvuun.”

“Just Steven, please.”

The technician bows. “It is an honor to meet you. I’m certain you and Artificer Anthaar will have much to discuss on the ways of the Light.”

“Yes, I have been instructed to share my knowledge with him.”

Dyvuun co*cks his head, a frown wrinkling his high brow. “And his with you, I’m certain? The Artificer’s wisdom and skill with the Light is almost boundless.”

Steven cannot hide the surprise on his face as he turns to Anthaar, who shrugs. “I am a paladin of sorts, as well.”

“You? But…” Steven trails off. “The vindicators?” he says, lamely.

Anthaar is smiling, but there is no warmth in it. “The vindicators are not the only path to the Light, Steven of Stormwind.” He strides forward and lifts the box out of Steven’s unresisting hands. “You can find a bed over there, I think.” He turns back to Dyvuun, and Steven is left empty handed, at a loss.

They take the road downhill the next day, to a little ford. The water is soft and sparkling in the sunlight; Steven kneels down and splashes his face with it.

“We go north from here.” Anthaar is looking at the sun. Steven nods and looks at his pack; they have, at least, left the boxes back at Azure Watch, but his plate and supplies make for a heavy load.

“Need a break?” The draenei has his arms folded.

Steven bites back his first response. “Do you, Artificer?”

Anthaar snarls. “I am none so weak as you might think, human.”

Steven pauses, surprised. “Only a fool would think you weak. You are as strong as a mule, Anthaar.”

Anthaar snorts.

“And as stubborn.”

He snorts again, but this time there is a laugh in it. “Not wrong.”

Steven bends to retrieve his pack. “I am ready to go, Artificer, if you are.”

“Then north we go.” Anthaar waits a few steps for Steven to draw closer. “But the shore is hard walking, and the day is fine. We need not rush.”

Darkness is coming in slowly over the water; they have reached a broadening of the stream, not quite river but not yet ocean. Anthaar had disappeared for a few minutes while Steven set up camp, then reappeared shortly afterwards with a smug look and a pile of clams. These are in a pot on the driftwood fire, cooking gently in a bed of seaweed; Steven cracks the lid every so often to check their progress.

“So.” Anthaar has sat down across from him, cup in hand. “Why does the Silver Hand send one of their men to the Exodar?”

“And who is asking?” Steven replies, looking at the clam pot.

Anthaar snorts. “Do you think I have a line to the vindicators, paladin? You saw how eager they were to get rid of me.”

“I came as a gesture of friendship. To solidify the ties between our nations, and to share the knowledge and practices of the Silver Hand.”

“And who, now, is answering?” Anthaar says, not unkindly.

Steven pauses. When he continues, his voice is low. “There was a noble - a lord. I found him doing - trying to do - something terrible. I stopped him.”

“That’s good, surely?”

“I stopped him by punching him.”

Anthaar barks out a laugh; Steven whips around to stare at him. “Good. I imagine he deserved it.”

“He did, and more.” Steven sighs. “He was censured. I was sent away.”

“I see.” Anthaar is quiet. Steven lifts the pot lid again; the clams are ready.

The next day they walk further along the beach. The stream has broadened out entirely into a bay by now. The sea breezes rustle through the beach grass and across their heads as they walk.

Midday they take a short break to eat. Halfway through his cheese, Steven is aware of a slow clicking noise to their side, in the low scrub beneath the pine trees. He turns to lock eyes with Anthaar; the draenei nods, slightly, and reaches a hand to the mace lying close by. There is a hissing noise, slowly increasing in volume. Steven readies his shield and pauses; Anthaar catches his gaze, then darts his eyes at a clump of bushes a few yards off.

The creature bursts from the undergrowth so fast that Steven’s shield almost misses his target. There is the crisp snap of breaking shell, and an unholy shriek, and their aggressor is lying on the ground thrashing furiously. It looks like an overgrown bug, or a mutated lobster crawling around on land; Steven has never seen anything like it. As he leaps to catch his shield, there is a flash of bluish light, and the creature’s noises are suddenly cut off. Anthaar holds his weapon ready for a few more moments, then walks over and peers at the beast.

“Well thrown,” he calls back to Steven.

“My thanks.” Steven considers his first question. “What is that thing?”

“Ravager.” The draenei leans over and picks up the body. “Not native to the Isles, a batch escaped when we arrived with the Exodar. Good eating though.”

Steven blanches. “You’re going to eat it?” He’s had his share of questionable meals, but seeking out a giant murderous co*ckroach is a line he has yet to cross.

Anthaar smiles. “We’re going to eat it. Cooks up well in a stew.”

“You realize that covers everything, including rocks.”

The artificer laughs at that. “I knew you had a sense of humor, paladin.”

The ravager meat, suitably picked clean and cooked with spices from Anthaar’s bag, does end up becoming their dinner. After the first tentative spoonful, Steven leans back at their campfire and looks over at the artificer.

“Not bad.”

“I told you,” the draenei sing-songs.

Steven steals a look at Anthaar, cheerfully downing his stew. He takes another sip from his bowl.

“Tell me, how did you finish off the beast? I only saw a bright light; there are similar-looking skills we paladins use in Stormwind, but perhaps you have knowledge we do not.”

There is a pause, and Anthaar’s bowl clinks on the ground. His voice, when he speaks, is not angry; it is tired. “What do you know about me, paladin?”

Steven keeps his voice light. “Very little, it would seem. I was told to instruct you in the ways of the Light, but you clearly have a firm command of it.”

“So you would refuse the wishes of the Vindicators in this matter? And in turn, those of your human superiors?”

Steven says evenly, “I respect the decisions of those above me. I would hope that they, in turn, respect my own good sense.”

“So you do not find me a lost sheep to be forcibly returned to the fold!” Anthaar snorts. “Perhaps you are not a fool, then.” There is a pause. “You see the crystal in my chest, yes?”

“I see that it is there,” Steven says cautiously. “It does not seem to pain you.”

Anthaar takes a breath. “Very well. You know how the draenei came to your world, correct?”

“I have heard stories; the Exodar was a ship, I believe? Traveling between worlds.”

“It was, before it crashed here with us on board. I was an artificer on board the ship as well; I was there when it was sabotaged. I tried - there was so little time-” Anthaar swallows. “I came to in the ruins, weeks later. There had been an accident during the crash. I had this in me when I woke.” He taps the stone in his chest. “The healers dared not remove it. It had merged too closely with my own energies, they said; trying to take it out would kill me. The least of what I deserved, for my failures.”

Steven frowns, but before he can interject, the artificer continues. “It took months for me to regain my strength. My work sustained me, when I had energy for it. And I studied the naaru.” Anthaar smiles a little ruefully. “O’ros stores and channels the power of a thousand suns in his crystals. I could use mine in the same way - a battery, instead of a bomb.”

“You called naaru batteries, when we first met,” Steven says slowly. “Discussing the Light in that way would be sacrilege in Stormwind.”

“Not just in Stormwind. There are draenei who call me a heathen.” Anthaar looks across the fire, eyes dark. “Let them think it. I know where I found the Light again.”

After a pause, the artificer goes on. “When I could practice the skills of a paladin again, I found that my connection to the Light was different. Stronger, if I could use it correctly. But very different. Too different for the Vindicators to be comfortable with.”

Steven thinks of the enormous glowing form of O’ros, rotating silently at the bottom of a pit.

Anthaar sighs. “Most on the Isles still think of me as a sick man. Those that do not think me a freak; too friendly with the Light, too close to the naaru. So you arrive, and the Vindicators see an opportunity to give me a nursemaid and tutor in one.” He spreads his hands wide. “Two disappointments in one package. I am surprised they let me near you lest my taint spread.”

“Your taint.” A wild laugh tries to climb out of Steven’s throat; it emerges as a sob. “Shall I tell you a secret, artificer?” Steven says. “I fear I am losing my touch with the Light.” Anthaar is silent, and he goes on.

“It was small things, at first. A shortened blessing, a misheard word. I practiced each incantation. I read every book in the library…it got worse. I drilled daily. My command of shield and sword is as good as it has ever been, but the Light?” Steven shrugs helplessly. “Every time I call upon it, I fear that this is the time it will stop answering me for good.”

The shore is quiet around them. Steven heaves in breath, continues.

“And now I come here, and everything is different. Everything is strange. The Light lives in gods that exist among you, and you treat them as friends! You command strange powers and know things that I can barely imagine! I dreaded trying to teach you and exposing myself as a fraud. And now it is so much worse than that.”

Across the fire, Steven can barely see the stone in Anthaar’s chest, glowing its soft blue-white. His eyes above it are a darker blue but they shine as well, gleaming in the fire like a cat’s. When the draenei speaks, it is thoughtful.

“I have not known you long, Steven of Stormwind. I do not know your command of the Light. Nor might I recognize it if I saw it; as you say, draenei ways are different from those of your lands. And yet.” Anthaar pauses. “You defended those in need, back in your home. You have offered your patience and your strength to strangers here on the Isles. You have managed not to push me into the ocean, even when I clearly deserved it.” The draenei flashes a grin at him; Steven stifles a slightly wet laugh. “The Vindicators and I are at odds, but I have lived with them for years, and they are on the whole a good group. They see nothing to mistrust in you. Nor do I.” The artificer pauses, then continues gently. “Cold comfort, I know, when the Light dims. But comfort nonetheless, I hope.”

“I thank you.” Steve bows his head. “Truly.”

Anthaar sighs and picks up his bowl, but does not resume eating. “I had hoped my changes” - here he indicates the rock in his chest - “might give me more insight into the workings of the Light. I have learned much, but so much more is still a mystery to me. But what I can do to help you, I will.”

Steven blinks. “Will you?”

“Do not expect miracles,” the draenei warns. “I know very little of the human practices. But yes. Tell me what you know, and I will do the same. Perhaps together we may find something. Who knows all the ways of the Light?”

They rise together in the early sun. After breaking camp, before they actually lift their packs, Anthaar stands in front of him.

“What blessings do you know?”

“I have them in my libram.” Steven reaches for the book hanging at his side and pulls open the clasp. “Here is the one for wisdom, the one for shelter… ”

“What is the first one you learned? The very first.”

“Power, I think.”

“Will you bless me with it? And I will do likewise for you.”

This is not at all strange. Paladins often bless each other, starting for practice as acolytes. But Steven hesitates.

“I do not care if it fails, brother.”

“It may.”

“Than you will re-cast it, and we will go on.” Anthaar’s voice is cheerful. “Here, I will go first and give you wisdom.” The draenei draws a spell circle in the air with one hand, then touches his forehead and says a single word in Draenic. The air around him brightens briefly. He repeats the motion and points to Steven, and the air around him wavers, like cool water.

Steven knows the incantation for Might by heart, but he turns to the page for it in his libram anyway. He murmurs the words as he traces the ritual circle, around himself first and then around his partner, blue and gold flashing in a brief aura around them both in turn.

“A good cast. Thank you.” Antharr leans to lift his pack. Steven makes a questioning face, but pulls his on as well.

The morning walk is slower and harder than the last few days; the artificer leads them cross-country, then up the sides of a great rocky hill. It does at least give them a view of the isle around them. Anthaar points out landmarks as Steven pauses to re-apply his blessings, which have lapsed early. He is grateful for the distraction.

“There is the Exodar, back that way, and over there is Ammen Vale and the sea. Down below us is Stillpine Hold, home of the local furbolg.”

Steven nods; a few of the bear-men had been in Azure Watch. “Are we here on an errand for them?”

“No, I want to check the relay that Dyvuun set up on the ridge. Maybe something attacked it, or a piece of equipment failed.”

When they find the relay, it appears fine to Steven’s eyes. Antharr retrieves a pair of goggles out of his pack and spends a few minutes prodding at it with a few tools, but ultimately pronounces it sound.

“We’ll check the other relays at the bridges. Maybe one of them is damaged.”

They make the first bridge in late afternoon and find the next relay blinking serenely on the far side. Steven begins setting camp nearby while Anthaar goes over the equipment, but he pronounces the second one acceptable as well.

“I didn’t think otherwise. Dyvuun is a good technician and this is a simple site. And even with all three relays down, the signal should still function. Strange.” Steven hands him a bowl of beans and the draenei takes a pensive bite. One hand sneaks up to rub the stone in his chest again. “Well, welcome to Bloodmyst Isle, paladin. This place has a thousand mysteries; I suppose it’s time we stumbled on another.”

Steven looks around them. The landscape seems identical to what they’ve been walking through the past few days, but there is a foreboding red haze that seems to hang over the road in the distance. “What sort of creatures do you get here?”

“Oh, nothing too exciting. Bears, moths, more ravagers. Some murlocs on the shore.” Steve winces; the murlocs - tribes of fish-men - are not usually dangerous, but are deeply annoying. “A number of elemental spirits.”

“Aggressive?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Anthaar looks unhappy. “When the Exodar crashed, it dropped a lot of outer structures and power crystals on its way down. Bloodwatch got the brunt of it. There’s been a lot of damage to the local elemental energies. We’re working on cleaning it up, but it’s coming slowly.”

“Is that the red haze I see?”

“It is.” The draenei looks away.

Steven frowns into the distance for a few moments longer, then shrugs and returns his gaze to the campfire. “Unfortunate, but not uncommon. And very few places are truly beyond redemption.”

“True.” Anthaar sighs. “The druids in that area - the Cenarions, I think you call them? - they have given us wise advice. And the shamans have been great allies. I wish…”

“And yet you wish it had not happened,” Steven says gently. “That you could have halted it.”

“I knew the warp drives better than anyone.” The artificer clenches his fist. “If I had seen the signs a little sooner!”

“I know.” Steven makes as if to speak again, then simply sighs, shoulders slumping forward. “I know.”

There is a long silence, unbroken by the soft noise of the wind.

“You do, don’t you. Steven.”

The artificer is looking at him intently. Steven can see the rim of Anthaar’s eyes, the soft pale glow of his irises. The campfire is suddenly very small. He nods and ventures a reply.

“I do.” There is a pause. “And you can call me Steve.”

Anthaar nods back, slowly. “Then you may call me Tony.”

It is midmorning of the next day when they reach the final bridge. Steve takes the chance to look around while the artificer is busy with the third relay. Behind them is the same low blue-green scrub as on Azuremyst, disappearing into thick stands of ancient pine. On the other side of the water, the land is the same - tall pines, low scrub, rocks emerging from outcroppings here and there - but everything is tinted in shades of red. They are above a stream, its waters bright as arterial blood. A fish emerges, and sharp teeth flash in its jaw before it dips back beneath the water’s surface. The path had passed through two enormous ruby crystals shortly before the bridge; Steven can see another pair of crystals, shattered at the ends, sticking from the earth ahead like fangs. He re-adjusts his grip on his shield and checks his sword in its scabbard.

“No problems here either,” Tony finally concludes. He shoves his goggles back on his head and begins loading tools back into a bag. “Blood Watch is just ahead. We can check in there and see if there’s a problem with the base transmitter.”

“Would the mist affect things?”

“It hasn’t in the past, no. Though it does look forbidding.” He closes the bag and re-attaches it to his pack. “Well, onward. Let’s see what the vindicators have to say.”

Blood Watch is a town to Azure Watch’s village. The inhabitants are still mostly sheltered in fragments of fallen spaceship, but much has been repaired and added on to. Merchants and trainers are spread out around a central meeting area, and Steve can see a flight post on a nearby slope. As he watches, a hippogryph darts off the edge of the hill. It hangs in space for a bare second before its massive wings begin to beat. It turns, gaining height, and he can see a draenei clutching its back, their clothing whipping in the wind.

Tony is leading them towards the central area, where three draenei in full plate stand around a brazier. Two are distracted, one talking to a small knot of townspeople, the other examining a map with an elf. A hunter most likely, with an enormous panther at her side. Tony approaches the third, wearing silver and black plate.

“Vindicators!” Tony bows. “I greet you.”

The one not busy bows in return. “Greetings to you, Artificer Antharr. I trust your journey was smooth.”

“It was. I had good company.” Tony indicates Steven, who is standing somewhat awkwardly behind him. “I present Steven of Stormwind, Paladin of the Silver Hand. He has been a most valued guest in my travels from the Exodar.”

The draenei bows again, dark armor gleaming dully in the light. “You are most welcome to our lands, Steven of the Silver Hand. I am Vindicator Aesom.”

Steve bows in return. “I am honored to meet you, Vindicator.”

The townspeople have noticed their arrival. One shouts from the group, “Have you come to repair our transmitter, Artificer?”

“So it is broken.” Tony frowns. Aesom shrugs.

“It has been out for a week or two. Poor signal, they say. No doubt a ravager destroyed one of the relays.”

“The relays are all fine, Vindicator. We checked them on our way in.”

“Perhaps interference from some of the crystal debris, then.” The vindicator gestures at the hunter and her pet, still in deep conversation with another Vindicator. “Boros has been sending patrols out to check on the Vector Coil.”

“It remains quiet out there, I hope?”

“The cleanup proceeds well, but who knows? Perhaps the demolitionists have grown too enthusiastic in their work.”

“Unlikely.” Tony folks his arms. “Legoso is brave, but not foolhardy.”

“You are welcome to go there yourself, Artificer. A few spiders are roaming the place, too. One of them is probably digging a burrow.” Aesom laughs. “We shall send a few more young adventurers into the area, they can cut their teeth on the beasts.”

Tony does not reply, but grits his teeth and bows shortly as a farewell. Steve sees Aesom roll his eyes as they turn to go.

“Spiders.” Tony spits out the word as he pulls a heavy chest across the floor. The Blood Watch inn is small, but they had a room with two beds. Tony’s pack leans against one. Steven sits on the other, leafing through his libram.

“The Vindicator seemed rather unconcerned about the interference,” Steven says as he frowns at the pages in front of him.

“Aesom can’t see trouble until it’s walking past the borders of Blood Watch. Plus, he thinks I should stay ensconced in the Exodar, instead of wandering around his territory asking questions.” Tony fiddles with the lock on the chest before throwing open the lid. “Pity for him I have no intention of doing so.”

“So we go to the…Vector Coil next?”

“To start.” Tony lifts a bundle of something wrapped in cloth from the depths of the chest. “The largest piece of debris from the Exodar fell at the Vector Coil. We had a terrible problem with the power crystals for the first few months.”

“Contamination?”

“Yes, but that was the least of it. We had a platoon of blood elves trying to harvest the crystals. That much magical power, free for the taking? They could hardly resist. And a demon led them.”

“A demon?” Steven’s eyes automatically turn towards his shield, lying safely on his bed. “Are they still here?”

Tony laughs, darkly. “Not any more. Legoso - the demolitionist - went out there with a hunting party and destroyed the Vector Coil. The demon went with it, as well as most of the blood elves standing in their way.” He pulls another bundle from the chest. “A few workers are stationed out there now, cleaning up what remains of the power crystals. Vindicator Boros keeps in touch, and all seems well out there, but we may find answers.”

Steve nods. “I will prepare my spells.” He sighs. “For what good it may do us.”

Tony grunts as he pulls the last bundle free. “Your blessings may slip, paladin, but I would rather have the two of us out there together than go it alone. Bloodmyst is not without its dangers.”

Steve looks over at Tony, still in the light leathers and goggles he has worn since the Exodar. He then transfers his gaze to the pile of bundles on the floor. “Your armor, I assume?”

Tony grins, brilliant, and whips one of the covering cloths off with a flourish. The chestplate he reveals is pure crystal, gleaming deep red. Gold and silver trim outline the seams and borders. A pair of gloves are next, delicately tooled down to the fingertips, and then belt, greaves, and bracers. Finally the shoulder pieces come out, enormous plates of fractured geodes. When the artificer removes the cloth, a few stray gems float free, hovering delicate above the pauldrons’ surface.

Steven blinks twice. “Do all artificers wear such … elaborate armor?”

“Hah!” Tony is laying each piece out carefully, checking as he goes. “Truly humans know nothing of style.”

Steve is stung for a moment until he sees the sly look in the draenei’s eyes. Then he makes a great show of yawning and closing his libram. “Ah well, we will have an easy day tomorrow. Your pauldrons will blind any enemy that dares to get close.”

The Vector Coil is a heap of ruins atop a high peak. Demolitionist Legoso, the head of the operation, welcomes the two of them into the main tent when they arrive. The walls are covered with diagrams and sketches, and more stacks of papers lie on the drafting table that takes up most of the room. Tony leafs through them with the demolitionist as they talk.

“There has been very little to report, Artificer. The cleanup goes slowly, now that we are in the mountain itself, but…”

“Better to be deliberate,” Tony finishes the sentence, and Legoso nods.

“The largest, most dangerous power crystals have been removed. The danger comes less from the crystals now, and more from the rock itself. We have not dug deep in some time. There was a near cave-in a few weeks ago, and I called a halt to all digging; now we shore up the tunnels and test the ground, to be certain we will not be in danger.”

“Good, good. I thought as much.” Tony frowns. “Have you noticed anything else strange?”

“No, Artificer. Nothing that might affect the signals.” Legoso taps his fingers on the table in thought. “Perhaps Vindicator Corin might know? She keeps the area secure for us.”

The Vindicator is at the other end of the camp, looking over the island through a long spyglass. She has sensible armor and long, elegant horns curving from graying hair, and greets them with little fanfare. Steven likes her immediately. Judging from his relaxed posture, Tony does as well.

“I have little knowledge of transmitters, but here is what I see.” She gestures out to the land spread before them, briefly explaining landmarks and threats. The south remains quiet except for occasional murloc activity. The spiders that Aesom joked about are indeed present to the north, but only trouble those who go deep into the mountain passes.

“And there is the river, going northwest.” Corin pauses before continuing. “It is quiet; I see nothing in my glass. And yet, brothers, when the wind came down the river last, I swore I could smell sulfur.”

“Sulfur?” Steve asks.

“It could have been anything. Perhaps a pocket of gas from the excavations, or a new hot spring about to emerge. The river’s mouth is too far to see from here, even with my glass. But every time I look down the river I feel the Light gathering close to me, as a warning.” The Vindicator’s hand tightens around her mace.

“The camp by the river mouth. Axxarien.” Tony’s mouth is a grim line. “Could the satyrs there have contacted a demon?”

“Their numbers are thinning. But the ruins at Axxarien have stood for centuries, and old evils are the strongest.” Corin grinds her teeth. “I must protect the dig site, or I would leave myself.”

“We will go.” Steve is unaware he has spoken until the words are already out, but Tony is nodding at him, and he continues. “The artificer knows the way, and I am pledged to provide what assistance I can to the people of the Exodar. We will search for you.”

The Vindicator bows deeply, and Steven can see the relief in her eyes when she looks up. “You would do me a great service, brothers. May the Light embrace you.”

The river they walk by is muddy, glowing here and there with fragments of crystal. Steve watches the water’s surface as they walk by.

“It is a pleasure to find a good Vindicator,” he remarks. Tony laughs.

“She’s an old wolf, that one. Wise and fierce enough for three. And solid instincts. If she says something is happening down the river, it’s worth a look.”

The river finally ends in a broad lake, edged by a line of boulders at one end. More rocks line the south side of the bank. Steve can see the corners of structures up on the hill beyond. The sulfur smell is stronger here.

Tony unships his mace from his shoulders and looks to him. “Blessings?”

“Aye.” They renew each other again. Tony’s is still strong; Steve’s is wearing off, but the shame he feels is distant. It will last long enough to support them through a battle.

“Slowly,” Tony warns, and begins to climb the hill. Steve pulls his shield into a high block position and follows closely behind, sword out and ready.

The settlement is quiet. There are bare spots and wooden poles, but no tents are pitched. Burnt patches show where fires were once set. The ruins Corin spoke of stick in angles from the ground, lichen crawling over their carved surfaces. Nothing seems out of place, but Steve still holds his shield close.

At the top of the hill is an altar. Tony leads them towards it, stepping over rune marks on the ground as they go. There was a ritual circle here once, carved deep into the rocky earth, but the lines are overgrown and smudged with weeds. Yet as they approach the altar, the sulfur smell of demons grows stronger. It is not until they are almost at the altar that the wind shifts, and Steve catches the metal stink of blood. Tony turns to him, eyes narrowed; Steve nods and points to the left with two fingers. They both take one side of the altar and round the back of the monument with a second of each other.

The ground on this side is scored with a smaller ritual circle, but unlike the one down the hill this is fresh. Splayed across it is the very dead body of a satyr. The ground is soaked with dried blood, and gouts of it are splashed over the foot of the altar. What remains of the satyr’s face is twisted in horror.

“Light preserve us.” Tony mutters a blessing under his breath, and Steve finds himself doing the same. Satyrs are nasty creatures, allies to demons, but this one died terribly.

“What was he doing up here?” They are at the top of a precipice that falls to the shore scrub below, with the ocean not far off. Steve glances around - still silent - and edges towards the side of the cliff face, looking for any signs.

“The Light only knows.” Tony has pulled his goggles up from around his neck and is inspecting the ritual circle more closely. “Summoning, perhaps? Maybe he was unprepared for whatever came through.”

Steve nods and points. “There, and there. Hoof prints on the rocks. And they are too large for satyr or draenei.”

“Claw marks on the altar stones. And…” Tony peers at the satyr’s opened throat, wincing. “Here, too.”

Steve walks back around the altar, looking at his surroundings. The place may seem deserted, but distraction is key to an ambush; whatever murdered this satyr could be waiting close by, ready to finish the two of them off. He looks into the shadows, trying not to miss any details, when he sees it. A scrap of dark armor, almost buried in the earth. He bends to pick it up.The metal is frigid in his palm, and the scales ache against his skin.

“Tony.”

The draenei looks up and blinks at the scrap dropped in front of him. He goes to touch it as well, then hisses and drops it. “Where was it?”

“A few yards back, beneath a bush. Do you feel it too?”

“I do.” Tony rubs his hand. “That thing burns with dark magic.”

Steve looks down at the dead satyr. “He summons a demon, and it kills him. And then it goes…where?”

Tony pulls out a piece of cloth and folds it over the armor scrap. “I don’t know. But I know who we can ask.”

They go back down the hill and around the other side. After an hour of walking, Tony points. There is a low stone outcropping ahead, looking over the shore, and a figure sits atop it.

“That is Bruce of the Earthen Ring. You know of them?”

Steve searches his memory. “The shaman group?”

“The same. He is one of the wisest souls I’ve met, and one of the best teachers to our young shamans. Though he would tell you all he desires is peace and quiet.”

The figure turns, and Steven sees green skin and a flash of tusks. “An orc? Here?” The orcs lead the Horde, long term enemy to humans and their friends in the Alliance. Even the mild draenei are not likely to be open to such a stranger in their homelands.

“The Earthen Ring exists outside of Alliance or Horde,” Tony replies. “And a good thing it does. Without their help we would still be drowning in crystal aberrations on these lands.”

Steve shakes his head as if to reset it. “Of course. I am glad the Vindicators are understanding.”

“Oh, they’re often not. But no matter. Bruce!” Tony strides forward, grinning, and slaps one hand into the orc’s outstretched palm. “How are you faring out here in the wilderness?”

“Well enough, Anthaar.” The orc scowls. “Do you plan to send me more young students?”

“Why would I disturb your rest, friend?” Tony puts a hand over his chest, dramatic. “Simply because you are the best shaman this side of the Exodar? Such accusations! I will pray for you.”

“I’m certain you will,” said the orc, and sighs. “Who is this new face?”

“Steven of Stormwind. He has joined my travels of late. Steven, do not listen to anything Bruce has to say about me, he has been angry at me since I found him sulking in the cove over yonder and began bothering him about shamanism.”

The orc nods. Steve can feel the caution in the air; orcs and humans, after all, have years of bloody history. Steve draws himself up and bows, formally, both hands clasped in front of him.

“It is my pleasure to meet you, sir. Anthaar speaks highly of your knowledge of the elements, and of the work you do guiding the young in this region.”

The orc grunts. “The elements would not leave me. Nor would the initiates, once Tony spread the word.”

Steve nods. “He is…persuasive.”

Tony throws his hands up. “Now you team up against me! Truly I must ask the Light for guidance. I am of a mind to take my findings and leave.”

“Unlikely,” the orc says drily, and Steven chokes back a laugh. “You are here, you might as well come sit. I will brew some tea.”

The camp is small, but comfortable, and the drinks Bruce gives them are hot. There is a well-tended campfire tucked beneath a rocky outcropping, with a few stones and logs pulled close by to serve as seats. A few packs lie to one side - “this week’s young shamans, out adventuring.” One chest, tucked way back beneath the stones, is filled with bottles and books. Bruce picks a book from the top of the chest with a practiced hand before coming to the fire. Upon sitting, he absently pulls a pair of spectacles from his robes and perches them on his nose. A quill and ink soon appear in the same fashion. Despite the green skin and tusks, Steven is reminded of nothing so much as one of the old clerics in the Cathedral in Stormwind.

“What have you found, Tony?”

Tony pulls the metal scrap from his pouch and lays them carefully on the ground. “From over the ridge yonder.”

Bruce picks one up and holds it close, turning it in the light of the fire. “Demonic.”

“We thought so.”

The orc frowns. “There has been more activity recently.” He pages slowly through the book. “Since…yes, in the last few weeks.”

Tony and Steve exchange looks over the fire, then Steve speaks. “Do you know where?”

“The initiates I have spoken to mostly stay low, but a few have searched around the base of that peak to the north.” He gestures towards a face of rock rising from the sea in that direction. “One claimed to see a fel hunter’s tracks on the shore. Another heard an imp cackling one night, at a distance from her fire. I had hoped it was a fluke, but…” He trails off and indicates the fragment of metal on the ground between them.

“Something bigger is coming,” Tony finishes.

Bruce nods. “Something large enough to leave Legion armor behind it.”

Bruce cannot leave his students to come with them, but he gives them potions and fresh bandages, and sends them off the next morning with a spell for water walking cast on them. “It will drop off if you’re hit, so avoid the murlocs,” he warns. Steve gingerly sets a boot on the surface of the cove, then another. It feels like walking across sand, or a cushion. Tony is a little further out, hooves tottering on the little waves being whipped up by the wind.

“The northwest side, you think?” The draenei has his enormous mace balanced across both shoulders. Steve steps out a little further and re-adjusts his shield.

“Yes, let’s start there. It’s sheltered, and hard to get to. Good spot to hide.”

Tony nods and turns back; Steve does the same. Bruce is still by the shoreline, arms crossed. “Be safe,” he yells, and they both wave before striking out across the cove. He stands there a little longer, squinting, until they both disappear into the blaze of morning light across the water.

The mountain is easy to reach, but each rock they see is too slick and vertical to climb. They have to follow the shoreline around for an hour before reaching a flat area. Murlocs swim close by, but the shore they finally reach is bare of structures. Steve breathes in. Beneath the sea smell is a distinct tang, blood and sulfur.

“Look.” Tony points up the hillside. More gouges on the rocks and in the soil, of claws and hooves. They lead over the ridges to the west. Without speaking, they both make for the west edge of the shore, where the rocks jut out again. Bruce’s spell has worn off, but the water here is shallower and they can pick their way across the rocks. The smell of demons grows stronger, and as they round the corner, Steve suddenly crouches and puts a hand back, halting Tony close behind him.

This is another, larger, shore, but not a deserted one. A hole is bored into the side of the mountain. Imps hop around the entrance. Further down, the beginnings of a summoning circle has been scraped into the sandy earth. More imps scrabble around the circle, chattering in high voices.

“Runes first,” Tony mutters into his ear, and Steve nods. Imps are little threat alone, but a mob of them can easily occupy them both while more demons are summoned in.

“I’ll consecrate,” he whispers back. Tony grunts an affirmative, and Steve is close enough to feel the shift of muscle as the draenei pulls his mace off his back. Steve does a mental check. Shield, sword - he pulls it barely free from its scabbard. Blessings…His have fallen off again, of course, and he growls under his breath and reaches behind him. Steve recites the words for the Kings’ Blessing as he grips the artificer’s arm, and he feels Tony startle at the touch as the surge of white and gold energy falls over them both.

Steve freezes. The plate armor under his hand is cool, and the body behind him is very still. There is a long pause, and then a soft ring of crystal.

The arm beneath him twists, gently, and he feels a hand gripping his own forearm through the blue plate. Tony says something low in Draenic, and the blue-gold colors of Might creep out from his grasp, flowing over them both.

The hand squeezes, then drops away. “At your signal,” Tony says, and shifts, gripping his mace. Steve removes his hand as well and grips his shield. He squints at the summoning runes in the distance, then stands and starts jogging forward.

Twenty yards away, an imp turns to see him and shrieks. Without breaking stride, he hurls the shield forward in a beam of golden light; it ricochets off three imps, leaving them dazed, then bounces back into his waiting hand. More imps snarl and claw at him as he moves, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Tony, running close behind, swings his mace in a broad arc; a few imps fall crushed to the earth, but more are coming. As Steve’s boots hit the center of the runes, he shouts.

The ground beneath his feet glows like gold, like wheat, like warm butter or a candle in the night. The rune markings crack and dissolve, and the imps surrounding him shriek and twist. Steve turns, shield held close, and slices through them. A few smarter ones retreat outside the consecration, lobbing fireballs. Tony goes after them, enormous mace whistling through the air. More fire licks off his armor, twinging against his chest and back, but he cannot stop; the sword and shield move with their own weight, pulling him around to face the next threat. He destroys one final imp, turns to the next, and - silence.

Steve stands in the center of the summoning circle, chest heaving. Tony is on the outer edges; there are scorch marks on his armor as well, but he stands straight. Tony turns, his face a question. Steve looks down and kicks at a few last marks on the ground, then nods. The gold tint of consecration fades back into the earth.

“Gone?” Tony lets his mace fall, top thudding into the earth. The imps are dissolving into scraps of purple smoke around them.

“It’s gone.” Steve re-sheaths his sword, then walks closer, pulling a roll of bandages from his belt. “Are you hurt?”

Tony glances up the hill; they are far enough away from the next pack that they can take a moment. “Not badly, no. Give me a moment. Are you?”

Steve nods and tucks the bandages away, replacing it with a canteen. “No, fine. A little fire damage.” He takes a deep draught and passes it over. Tony accepts it and drinks as well, then pours a little down his chestplate. He hisses and then sighs as the cool water passes over the burns.

“Same here, but that’s better.” Tony passes the canteen back and lifts his chest plate slightly, testing, then re-settles it. “Good.” He turns to look up the hill, and Steve does the same.

“Let’s go.” The human lifts his shield, and Tony follows him.

The entrance is fresh. The hole bores deep into the mountain, twisting back on itself as it curves into the damp earth. They quickly dispatch the pack guarding the entrance, but more imps appear as they go deeper, individually or in small groups. Steve and Tony finish them off quickly.

“Well, that would explain why the transmitter is down.” Tony has his goggles down and is frowning at the occasional rune markings along the tunnels. “This many demons and their spells must be interfering with the signal.” He scrapes his boot over another rune to obliterate it before they move on.

They reach a branch in the path. Steve pauses and looks around. “Which way?”

Tony looks around - no enemies - and closes his eyes. One hand falls off his mace handle and creeps over his chest, towards the stone in the center; the glow there is dimmer but still visible through the joints of his armor. After a moment, he opens his eyes and points, towards the left passage. “There.”

A growl echoes down the left tunnel as they move down it. They both spot the source at the same time - a felhound, rounding the next corner down. The tentacles on its back turn towards them, waving gently, and the sightless red head rises, fangs glistening. It smells the magic trailing from them both.

“Don’t cast,” Tony warns, and Steve nods. Felhounds feed on magic and magic users. Best to stick to sword and shield for now. The beast lowers its head and snarls. Twin spikes of bone adorn both shoulders; given the chance, it will try to gore them and then eat at its leisure. It leaps towards them. Steve meets it halfway, thrusting his shield into it with a dull clang. Claws scrape around the edges of his shield, and the broad jaws snap. One of the tentacles rises high and makes for Steve’s face; he slaps at it with his sword.

There is a dull crunch and the pressure on his shield stops. Tony uses his mace to sweep the remains of the felhound to one side and looks him over. “All right?”

Steve nods. “You?”

“Fine.” Tony inhales deeply and makes a face. “Bad in here.”

Steve sniffs and winces. The demon smell, sulfur and dried blood, is stronger in the tunnels, and there is now a sickly undercurrent that sticks in the nose. “Ugh.” He breathes in again and shakes his head, like a horse shaking off a fly. “It’s not just that, either.” He indicates the felhound corpse in the corner.

Tony looks thoughtful, then shakes his head as well. Another growl echoes down the tunnel. They exchange glances and ready their weapons.

The felhounds grow thicker as they go in. Like the imps, they are scattered around as individuals, but closer and closer together. A larger room holds a pack of three, and in the ensuing fight one of them manages to get a bite in on Tony’s leg. The mace immediately throws him into the wall, but the draenei gasps with the effort, and once the creatures are all dead he falls to one knee, grimacing.

“Tony!” Steve hurries over. The armor around one thigh is scored with needle-sharp teeth marks; the plate has remained intact, but the joint between is punctured. Blood slowly stains the gold trim.

Tony breathes out between his teeth. “I’m all right. It’s not deep.”

Steve nods, reaching for a healing spell. He will stabilize Tony here and they can patch the armor. He chants, holding a hand to the wound. Tony watches the golden glow form, then suddenly looks up and shouts, “Steve, no-”

The spell fizzles out. Steve blinks, and reaches for the magic again. It’s gone. It’s all dark. The Light is gone.

Panic rises in his throat. It’s happened. It’s happened at last. It feels like he’s drowning. He’s lost, he’s fallen, he’ll never-

Tony is shouting. Steve blinks. The world is slow and dim. He looks up, sluggish; there is the bright blue of Tony’s crystal, shaking. A claw scraping against metal. Needle-sharp jaws in a red muzzle, snapping.

Steve stares. He is a thousand miles and years distant. He and Bucky are surrounded by undead. There is the dull snap of breaking bone, and Bucky screams.

His first commander, long dead, says clearly, “If you panic, they die.”

“Steve!”

He does not think; he lifts his shield and hits the felhunter. It falls to the ground; before it can regain its feet, Steve brings down his sword and cuts off its head.

Reality snaps back into place. He is in Bloodmyst Isle, with a draenei. With Tony. They are underground. He - the Light is still gone.

“Steve.” There is a hand on his arm, pulling him down. “It’s all right.”

“It’s gone,” he says thickly.

“No, it’s - sit down.” Something tugs at his leg. “It’s the felhound. It counterspelled you, you were casting the heal. It’ll come back.”

Steve collapses. He can hear Tony muttering, close by. The golden light of a healing spell flares in the dimness, then Tony is leaning in.

“It’s all right. It got you good, came in from the back when we were both distracted. Drink this.” A bottle is pressed into his hands, and Steve lifts it to his lips. It’s sweet and cool, and he can feel his mind growing clearer.

“Take another sip and then try again,” Tony says from somewhere close by. Steve drinks again, and then tries to pull up the heal spell.

It fails, again, but this time he can feel the Light building slowly behind it before it slips away. Steve almost weeps with relief. His voice is wobbly when he speaks. “I thought it was gone. I thought I was gone.”

Tony sighs, a gust of relief. Steve can see him now, sitting close by. His voice is gentle when he speaks again. “It’s awful. I panicked the first time it happened to me. Thank God I was in an initiate’s group, our trainer explained it but there’s nothing that prepares you for the real thing.”

Steve laughs, but it’s shaky. “Let’s not do that again if we can.”

“No argument here.” Tony pats his shoulder.

Steve finishes the last of the bottle and sets it down, then calls the healing spell to mind again. It comes easily this time, and he turns to Tony’s wounded leg only to be waved off.

“I took care of it. Use it on yourself.”

He does. Tony stands up easily and offers him a hand, and Steve takes it.

The tunnel continues, but it seems to be winding upwards. More packs of felhounds prowl the corridors. Others skulk in the shadows, digging in the rocks. There are more bits of rubble stuck in the walls, shaped like the draenei ruins Steve has seen elsewhere on the island.

They finally come to an open area, a cave dug from the stone. A few felhounds and imps roam across the floor. At the far end is a semicircular piece of masonry, carved with draenic symbols. Tony puts on his goggles and squints, then nods. “We need to check that out.”

Clearing to the rubble is straightforward. Tony walks around, inspecting it from all sides, before nodding again and dropping his pack on the floor. Steve turns from checking the entrances again.

“What is it?”

Tony digs in his pack. “Part of the Exodar. I’m not sure which part, but there’s probably power crystals inside. Feel the energy coming off it?”

Steve puts his hand on the stone. It pulses gently beneath his palm. Now that the room is quiet, he can hear a hum as well; the same far-off singing that came from the Exodar’s walls.

“I do.” He breathes in. The sulfur-blood stink of demons is lesser here as well, replaced by a clean sweetness like wildflowers. “It smells better here too.”

Tony pulls his goggles on and grins. “Power crystals don’t have much of a smell, but maybe we’re closer to the surface. Let me get in here, see what we’re dealing with.” He applies a chisel to the stonework. Steve turns to keep guard.

The process is slow. Tony explains as he goes; he has to remove the stone cladding, then open a series of crystalline shields and gates designed to keep the contents secure.

“I’m surprised most of these are still working, to be honest.” The draenei grunts as he pries another piece of metal free. “Even the broken gates are holding. We’ll have to come back with a team to extract these and clear the place out, but some of them might even be useable.”

Steve nods. “There’s a lot of energy in there. And it feels like the Exodar.”

“It does.” Tony rubs the stone in his chest again, then shrugs. “Anything coming?”

Steve squints into the darkness. “Mmm- ah! Another imp.”

“Want my help?”

Steve casts a little holy light onto the ground, just enough to see the imp’s form against the darkness. Its hissing is cut short by the swing of his sword.. “No, I’m fine.”

“Good, just let me know.” Tony resumes digging in the rubble. “A couple more and we’re in.”

Steve rolls his shoulders and walks back to stand close to him. “Do you think the demons were here to feed on the power crystals?”

“Maybe?” Tony flips his goggles off. The light coming from inside the structure is just enough to see his work clearly. “Strange for there to be so many, though.”

“Mmm.” Steve scratches his chin. “And we haven’t found the big one yet, that was summoned at Axxarien. An imp didn’t make those marks, and neither did a felhound.”

Tony grunts an affirmative. The next few minutes are silent except for small clinking noises as the artificer works on the locks.

“Done!” There is a low grinding noise, and Tony steps back from the masonry. Steve moves over to inspect the area. It is a full-sized hole, set into the rock face. A cool draft rises from the open doors, and he can see a few steps descending down. The entire thing glows gently in the dim light of the tunnels.

Tony goes first down the stairs. The rock face around them is lined with crystal, shattered in uneven patterns. The descent is short; soon they are in a half-ruined room, flickering with orange-white light. There is a bright spot on one side, hidden behind some rubble.

Steve breathes in. The Light is here, a spark in the darkness.

“Tony?”

Tony moves towards the bright spot. Steve follows.There is a chiming noise, and they both suck in a breath.

Behind the rock is a tiny naaru, maybe the size of Steve’s shield. Its crystals are small, burnished a rich reddish gold, and it is rotating slowly.

<Hello.> The naaru makes no sound, but Steve hears the voice in his head anyway - a high treble, more boy than girl.

“Hello,” Tony says, slowly. Steve can’t speak.

<Are you friends?>

“We are.” The draenei kneels, sitting on his heels. “I’m Anthaar. This is Steven.”

“Hello,” Steve manages. The naaru turns towards him, then back to Tony.

<I am Ar’vas.>

“Hello, Ar’vas.” Tony bows. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

The naaru chimes again. <You are not demons.>

“We aren’t,” Steve agrees.

<Good. I hear them clawing.> The naaru shivers, crystals jangling. <They want me.>

“How long have you been here, Ar’vas?” Tony leans forward, looking around the room.

<Not long.> There is a pause. <Very long. I don’t know.>

Steve steps back, towards the stairs. There are more demons up there, desperate for magical energy. A young creature, made of pure holy energy, in their claws? He swallows a surge of nausea at the thought.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Tony shoots a look across the room; he is clearly thinking the same thing. “We can go with you, if you want to leave here. It will be dangerous, though.”

<Yes, yes.> The crystals spin again. <Go, I want to go.>

“All right. Give us a moment?” The draenei rises and joins him at the foot of the stairs. “By the Light,” he murmurs. “A naaru. A young naaru. Here.”

“You didn’t know.” Steve had wondered, but the dazed look on Tony’s face is enough of an answer.

“No. No, by O’ros, if we’d had any idea, every draenei on the Isles would have dug him out with their bare hands.” Tony runs his hands through his hair and stares, unseeing, at the light reflecting in the crystal walls. “But it’s just us.” A pause, and he continues, voice low. “Can we do this?”

“We can’t leave him,” Steve replies.

“We can’t. I just opened all the blast doors, I’ve destroyed all his protections.” Tony grits his teeth.

“We couldn’t even if you hadn’t opened the doors. Naaru or not, he’s a child. He’s locked in the dark, surrounded by monsters.” Steve grabs Tony’s arm. “Tony. We will get him out.”

The draenei’s jaw clenches. “We will.” He looks around the room, considering. “We’re going to have to walk him out. No telling how deep we are in here, and I don’t have the tools to drill or blast through the ceiling.”

“Can he - do naaru move?” It may be a foolish question, but by the look on his face, Tony isn’t certain either. If one of them has to carry him…

“Ar’vas, can you come towards us?”

The crystals seem to hesitate, then lift up slightly from the ground and float towards them. Slowly.

“Thank you,” Tony says. “Can you walk - can you move out of here? It’s a long way.”

The creature rotates back and forth a few times, as if thinking. <Yes>, it finally replies. <I have seen the mountain, it is a long way but not too long.>

“He has seen the mountain?” Steve mutters. ”From here?”

“Naaru are small gods, Steven, who can guess what he knows.” Tony closes his eyes for a moment. “Let’s get ready, it’s going to be a long trip out.”

They make it up the stairs and into the first tunnels before encountering the first demon. The felhound goes berserk at the sight of Ar’vas, tentacles thrashing wildly. The naaru shrinks behind Steve’s bulk as he dispatches the creature. Two imps, next; he and Tony stand forward while Ar’vas hangs back.

“Good,” Steve says, once the imps are down. “Stay back, and watch for us. If you see anything coming from the rear, give a shout and get between us.”

<I will.> The voice is small and tremulous, and Steve turns to give Ar’vas a smile.

“Thank you. It’s good to have a third lookout.”

The crystals shine a little brighter at this. There are more ahead, I think - just around the next turn.>

“You can sense them?” Tony leans forward.

<Yes?> The response is confused. <You cannot?>

“We can’t, no.” Steve looks ahead; the next corner appears quiet. “Keep telling us what you can sense, please? It will make it much easier to get out.”

<I will!> This time the response is pleased. He and Tony exchange a smile.

It is easier, with the advanced warning, but by no means easy. Ar’vas is slow, and the demons are desperate to get at him. They encounter another pack of three felhounds, and in the chaos one slips past both him and Tony, tentacles snaking out towards the small naaru. Tony turns, shouting, and calls a bolt of blue-white down on the hound; it stumbles but still pulls itself forward. Steve throws back the demon on his sword and calls down the Light as well, but the third lets out a short snarling bark -

-the spell fizzles and the Light is gone again, but he has been here before, and Steve drops the spell and throws his shield instead. The felhound crumples just short of Ar’vas. Tony’s mace thuds twice behind him, and there is silence but for their breathing and the naaru’s gentle hum.

“Ugh.” Steve shakes his head. The Light is slowly coming back, but in the meantime it feels like he is under water. He picks up his shield and crouches to look at Ar’vas.

“All right?” Tony asks over his shoulder. Steve nods.

“I’m all right, give me a moment.” The dullness in his senses is slowly receding. “Are you okay, Ar’vas?”

<I - yes, I am whole.> The naaru sounds shaken, and no wonder. Steve nods.

“And you?” This is over one shoulder to Tony. He pauses, then shakes his head.

“I could use a moment as well,” he says. “Ar’vas, are any demons close?”

The naaru is silent for a moment. <No, none coming towards us.>

“Good.” Tony digs in his pack for potions, and hands one to Steve, who downs it. He retrieves a small jar in turn, and unscrews the lid. It is filled with dried fruit, and he offers it to Tony, who blinks at it.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, and takes a handful. Steve toasts him with the open jar and Tony stifles a laugh.

They finally reach the branch. Steve turns as if to go right, the way they came in, but Ar’vas’ voice is in his head. <No, wait.>

“No?” He keeps his voice gentle. “The other way?”

<It will take us out more quickly,> comes the reply.

Steve meets Tony’s eyes. The right path may be longer, but it is a known quantity. The left path will put them in unfamiliar territory.

<And…> Ar’vas pauses. <Something big is down the other path.>

The summoned demon? It doesn’t matter. “Let’s go,” Tony replies, and they head to the left.

It is a shorter path, and the demons are even weaker. A few imps and one felhound later and there is daylight ahead. Steve and Tony take out the two imps guarding the entrance before they emerge, cautiously.

It’s the far side of the mountain. Most of Bloodmyst is spread out in front of them; the river they walked down yesterday is close in front of them, broad in its sandy banks. They are low on the mountain’s side; a few paths lead down to the floodplain.

Their little party has not gotten more than three steps from the tunnel entrance before Ar’vas makes a noise of horror. <HERE>, he says, and Steve and Tony both wince at the shriek in their heads.

Wings thunder high in the air, sending waves of sulfurous stink down over them. Steve turns, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He can hear Tony say something low and full of consonants behind him.

It is a dreadlord, fully fledged, ripe with power. Blackened claws erupt from its fingertips, and its feet are split into sharp dark hooves. Enormous purple wings arch from its back, tearing at the air as it stands many feet above them. Its face is gray and split with too many jagged teeth, and when it speaks, its voice crackles.

“I see you have freed my little prize for me, paladins.” It bows, derisive and exaggerated. “I am most grateful for your service.”

Tony snarls something in Draenic in return. Steve feels his hand clench around his sword.

“Who are you?”

The dreadlord flaps a hand. “Oh, you don’t need to know my name, human. You won’t live long enough to need it. Though if you hand me that trinket, I might kill you quickly.”

Ar’vas makes a high, discordant noise. Tony steps closer to him, and Steve does the same, closing ranks. The demon laughs.

“You are so predictable, little creatures. Ah well. I had hoped for a little fun anyway.” He snaps his fingers, and heads pop up from the hills all around them. Imps, dozens of them, and more felhounds in great packs.

<So many,> Ar’vas says, and makes the same noise, like glass cracking. Steve turns to look at Tony and sees the same conclusion on his face; far too many. They will be overwhelmed. They will go down fighting, at least. The two put the young naaru behind them and back towards an alcove of rock. Defensible, if only for a while.

The hounds raise their blind muzzles to the sky, snarling. A chorus of howls echoes out in return, and the dreadlord looks startled. Tony’s head snaps up, face bright, and he points to the brush near the river. “Look!”

A wolf erupts from the undergrowth, enormous, snow-white. It is translucent; Steve can see the river through its ghostly form. Three more wolves bounce out behind it, their coats varying shades of gray and brown, as wraithlike as the first. The enormous white wolf is bounding up the path towards them, and Steve readies his shield. From one step to the next, its form shimmers into mist, and an orc appears from the roil of gray cloud. It is Bruce, the shaman. His robes are leather, and twin maces hang at his waist. Behind him, three young draenei are shaking off their wolf forms as well.

“My friend, you have impeccable timing.” Tony is grinning from ear to ear. Despite his confusion, Steve joins him. Bruce nods at them and hefts the maces at his belt.

“The earth spirits have not been silent about your activities, paladins. My students and I thought we would come by and see how you were getting on.” The young shamans behind him are whispering, no doubt at Ar’vas twinkling against the stones. Bruce silences them with a look. “I see you have a new companion, but I believe introductions will have to wait.”

The dreadlord further up the mountain is apparently done with talking; he makes an impatient motion. The demons surrounding them erupt in noise. Bruce shouts instructions as the mob closes in.

“Vorhkos left, Achelias right, Kajal center! Keep your posts unless you need to fall back for healing!” The young shamans fling their hands out, and Steve sees elemental energy grow from the ground. Bruce does the same, and four pillars of energy - fire, water, earth, air - flicker into existence around his feet. The orc cups his hands together at his waist, still shouting. Lightning begins to form between his palms. “Cast until they are close!” Fire flickers out from a totem, and a felhound collapses. The first wave of demons has reached the young shamans. Some stop to fight, caught by totems or weapons, but more eel through the gaps.

Tony hefts his mace, and Steve his sword and shield. The ball of lightning in Bruce’s hands is roiling with energy. He releases it at the first imp, and it blows a hole through its chest, then shoots through three more. And then there is no time. It is hack, slash, the bloody work of laying the enemy low. Felhounds snap at Steve’s ankles, and fire ripples off his armor. He stabs an imp, catches another across the chest. Teeth clash against his shield; he thrusts out, sending a felhound flying. Tony is at his left, mace singing through the air; the blue shine of his chest stone is a beacon. Bruce is further out, double maces hammering, bellowing challenges to the demons swarming him. Arv’as is still safe, huddled close against the rock face.

There is a shout. One of the young shamans is down. He pulls himself up quickly, but the imps swarm his position, and he is fighting one-handed now, other cradled against his chest. The flood of demons is unending.

“Steve!” Tony is close now, sweeping a felhound aside with his mace. “I have an idea!”

“What?” he yells back.

“I can stop them! Give me three minutes!” Tony retreats back to Ar’vas, and Steve swallows an obscenity. They may not have three minutes if Tony stands down. On the other hand, if they keep fighting as they are they’ll be overrun with enemies within five. Steve grits his teeth and swings his sword.

Another shaman is down, and this time, she stays down. The imps surrounding her shriek and throw themselves towards Bruce, who meets them with teeth bared. The two young draenei left close ranks over their comrade; one pulls her back to her feet while the other casts lightning at the crowd of imps.

Steve spares a glance towards Tony, who is rapidly talking to Ar’vas. His mace lies at his feet - split open somehow? Another felhound rushes him, and Steve turns back to the press of bodies.

“Enough.” The dreadlord’s voice comes down the mountain, followed by the flap of wings. He soars over their heads and lands further down, on the floodplain. The enormous leather wings fold against his back as he begins chanting. A sigil appears in the air in front of him, burning purple, and he motions with one clawed hand at the young shamans. Steve gasps as the ground beneath them erupts in dark flames. Two fall immediately, the mob of imps surrounding them shrieking in pain as well. Steve can see the third young shaman’s back arch violently, and a desperate noise escapes his throat as he falls into the cloud of black smoke coming from the dead imps’ bodies.

There is a moment of silence, and then a roar splits the air. It is Bruce, eyes red with rage, hammers flying as he rushes the dreadlord. The demon actually steps back, one arm raised against the onslaught, before he recovers, slashing his claws at the orc. Steve runs another felhound through and looks around. The battlefield is almost empty now; the last mob of demons have retreated behind their master, who is quickly adjusting to Bruce’s frenzied attacks. Tony is still frantically working with Ar’vas, now with his chestplate half open for some reason.

Steven closes his eyes and reaches out, past the bodies of the demons, to the three shamans crumpled on the field. All paladins can resurrect. If he can bring even one of them back, give them Ar’vas while the paladin join the fight against the dreadlord, they might escape. Ar’vas will get to Blood Watch, and the Vindicators will protect him. The children will survive, even if he, Bruce and Tony do not.

Bring them back. The shamans’ spirits are still strong, gold sparks in the field of black. Steve puts a hand on the ground. The Light is strong here, even beneath the demonic taint. Please. He focuses his thoughts on the strongest of the shamans’ spirits. Steve closes his eyes against the dreadlord's sneer and begins the incantation.

The power comes quickly. Ar’vas? No, this is not the naaru’s orange gleam. It comes up through him in a rush, rising like a filling cup, then a pitcher, then a bucket, then spilling over in a wash of yellow glow. It fills his arms, flows out through the incantation, power rising. The three sparks in his vision brighten, and three pillars of white light strike the earth where the shamans’ bodies lie. When he opens his eyes, it is to see them whole, healthy, unburned by demonic flame, standing behind the dreadlord as he advances on Bruce, who is down on one knee. They blink in shock, but only for a moment. One spots the demon and immediately throws a gout of fire into its back. The dreadlord roars in shock and whips around, gathering more flames. The three dart away, and Steve rushes forward to Bruce’s side.

The orc is holding his side but waves him off. “Go!” he yells. Steve turns to the dreadlord, who has sent his remaining demons after the young shamans. His shield whips out and strikes the monster in the thigh, and the dreadlord roars and turns to face him.

The creature is enormous. Half again as tall as Steve, and quick as a cat. Steve deflects the claws with his sword, only to block another bolt of purple flame with his shield. An enormous hoof stomps the ground, and Steve wavers; the next swipe of claws scores deep along his armor, slamming it back into the muscle beneath. He spins, shield held high. The dreadlord roars again and slaps the shield, and Steve stumbles back under the onslaught.

“Gnats!” the demon shouts. “Vermin!” He circles around Steve, looking for an opening. “Do you know how long I spent finding that little spark!” He gestures at Ar’vas, still shining against the rock. Tony is next to him, something hoisted in his arms. The artificer’s eyes are locked not on the dreadlord, but on Steve. As the demon passes between them, still circling, Steve catches Tony’s gaze. Tony jerks his head to one side, glancing at the dead patch of earth where the dreadlord had killed his own forces. Steve manages to nod, then has to turn and block another salvo from the monster. The dreadlord continues to rant.

“Months! Years! And now you think you’ll steal him away? Hah!” He aims another blast of magic, sickly green this time, at Steve’s feet. He just manages to dance away in time. “That little mouthful is coming with me. And when I’m done, it’ll be the finest centerpiece of the Legion. A naaru made for darkness, raised in void energy. A power source for all our grandest plans. And they’ll all have to come to me for a taste. Me!” He swipes, again, and this time Steve stumbles almost to his knees, shield wavering. His arm is burning with fire, or fatigue, or both. The dreadlord sneers and hurls fire at him, and Steve bites back a yell as it hits his side. This time he does go to his knees. The dreadlord smirks and stalks closer, claws out. “I’m going to rip you limb from limb, paladin. First you, and then -”

The world splits open. Steve shuts his eyes against the light, but it still burns his lids. There is a noise like the air itself ripping in half, or the ringing of an enormous bell. It goes on forever, and when it stops, the world seems empty.

Steve opens his eyes. The dreadlord is gone. The patch of ground Steve was luring the demon towards is now blasted clean of vegetation and soil, exposing bare rock. A small puddle of burnt slag is streaked across one side of the impact area. Steve leans closer and sees a melted scale, similar to the dreadlord’s armor.

Tony is holding his mace, split open down the center to reveal an enormous piece of crystal. As Steve stumbles close, he can see lines leading from the mace in an intricate pattern up Tony’s gauntlet and arm, flowering into delicate runes over his shoulder and chest. Ar’vas hovers over the other shoulder; more lines creep down that side of the breast plate, meeting at the glowing stone in the middle of Tony’s chest. Tony smiles at Steve as he grows closer, but it seems distant.

“Got him.” He puts down the mace carefully, setting the crystal head into the ground first. “Good job moving him.”

“Tony?” As he gets closer, Steve can see the redness around the stone in his chest. “What did you do?”

“Borrowed Ar’vas. Thanks.” He nods at the naaru, who has moved from the perch on his shoulder and is now rotating slowly. “Channeled his power - through the mace. Pure holy energy.” He is growing paler, and Steve grabs one arm.

“Tony, are you all right?”

“Used myself…as a circuit breaker.” Tony breathes in. “Might have overdone it.” He is sitting now, leaning back fully against the rock. Steve can hear Bruce and the other shamans coming closer. He grabs Tony’s other arm and shakes him.

“You - you idiot!” His voice is breaking. “That’s the stupidest - I never-”

“Not stupid if it works,” Tony says, dizzily, and closes his eyes.

Some months later, the Earthen Ring receives a letter. It is written in a fine hand and simply states that Bordok’an, known as Bruce, and the Vindicators of Blood Watch have agreed to establish a presence near the town. It does not include the events leading up to that agreement, in which three young shamans, a human paladin, and the aforementioned Bordok’an showed up one day, carrying a litter between them.

Vindicator Aesom happens to be at the north gate when they arrive.

“Orc.” Aesom puts a hand on his sword. Bruce does not bother to respond, but he pulls back the blankets on the litter.

“Artificer Antharr destroyed a dreadlord, and almost killed himself doing it. Let us in so he can receive medical care, or I will send you to join the demon.” Bruce’s voice is conversational, but Steve can see the red rising in his eyes.

Aesom glares, but he stands aside. As they move up the hill, Tony murmurs from his spot on the litter. He has been in and out of consciousness since they left the mountain. Steve adjusts his grip on one side to touch his hand. At the base of the litter, he sees one of the young shamans - Kajal, he thinks - pat the artificer’s leg, still clad in red greaves.

<Are we here?> comes a voice from beneath Tony. Aesom and the guards dart looks at each other, confused.

“Yes, we’re at Blood Watch,” Steve says. “You can come out if you want.”

He sees Ar’vas’ crystals peek out from under the draped litter, then retreat. Aesom’s mouth falls open. One of the guards drops her spear.

<Not yet.>

“All right,” Bruce says. “Up the hill now, here we go.”

The transmitter came back online earlier that morning, Steve learns. Admetius, the town’s exarch and leader, explains that they have sent word ahead to the Exodar. An honor guard is on its way to escort them back. Tony is in the Exarch’s own rooms now, with priests tending to him. Steve tells their story to Admetius, but his eyes are on the door.

“So the orc - Bruce - charged the dreadlord. A brave soul, that one. And then you say you were able to resurrect young Achelias? In the middle of the battle?” Admetius strokes his chin. “I believed that to be a skill only druids possess.”

“Not just her.” Steve takes another deep draught of water. “They all came back. I don’t know how - I’ve been thinking about it the whole way here.”

“Did you happen to assist Steven, honored one?” The Exarch looks to Ar’vas, rotating gently in a corner.

<No, the artificer needed me.>

Admetius bows in return. He is too polite to stare, but occasionally Steve catches the draenei looking at the young naaru, wonder in his face.

“And I assume you have not done such a thing before.”

Steve shakes his head.

The Exarch looks thoughtful. “Interesting. Well, such things do happen, particularly with those closely connected to the Light.”

Steve has to struggle to keep a straight face. Closely connected? Given his recent struggles with the simplest spells?

When one of the priests emerges, he leaps up mid-sentence.

“He’ll be fine,” the priest says, smiling. Steve sags back into his chair. More words follow - he hears exhaustion and mana and surface burns - but he can’t react to them right now.

“Steven?” He looks up; Admetius is beckoning to him. “The Artificer is asleep, and you look exhausted. We have another bed in the room, if you would like.”

He would. He can barely get up, suddenly. The Exarch guides him through a door, where another priest is filling a box with empty bottles. She takes a look at Steve and pulls fresh bottles from the back, setting them on the bedside table.

Tony lies in the other bed. Bandages cover his chest, but he is breathing evenly and his face is peaceful. Steve stares until the priest clears her throat.

“Water’s on the stand, feel free to ask for anything you need. I’ll be by to check on him later.”

Steve nods, and she closes the door behind her. He manages to get his pauldrons and boots off, then his gloves and belt, before flopping back into the bed. He falls asleep without pulling up the blankets.

Steve awakens in the pre-dawn hours to a soft noise. It’s the priest again, her voice businesslike but low. Bottles clink softly, and then Tony makes an unmistakable noise of disgust. Steve chuckles before he realizes it.

“Steve, save me.” Tony’s normal tones are blurred and raspy. “They’re trying to murder my taste buds.” Steve rolls over to see the priest raising her eyebrows.

“If you don’t want concentrated mana potions, don’t burn yourself out trying to channel a naaru.” She flicks the lid off a smaller vial and hands it to him. “One more flask and I’ll get you something to drink.” Tony shotguns it, wincing, and she nods in approval and turns towards the door.

“Do you need any help, ma’am?” Steve levers himself upright.

“Goodness, no. Stay there, I’m tired just looking at you.” Steve flops back to the blanket as she disappears, then thinks better of it and sits back up to unfasten his breastplate. Tony is watching him from across the room, eyes half focused.

“How are you feeling?”

The draenei coughs. “All right. Tired.”

Steve begins working on one of the buckles holding the armor closed over his belly. “Chest OK?”

Tony puts a hand against the bandages. “Feels like I fell into a fire. Better than I expected, though.” He sighs and gently taps the crystal in his chest. “Wasn’t sure how this would stand up to that much holy energy, even with the buffers I put in.”

Steve freezes with his chestplate half open. “You tried that not knowing it would work?”

“Oh, I knew it would work.” Tony yawns. “Just didn’t know if I’d live through it.”

The door opens at that point and the priest comes back in. “All right, pear juice.” She puts a glass next to Tony’s bed and a second next to Steve’s before starting to fill her tray with empty vials. “Get some rest, you two.”

Long after she has closed the door, Steve remains sitting on the bed, staring at Tony. The draenei blinks and looks at him.

“What?”

Steve finally pulls off the rest of his chest armor and sets it down gently. “Tony.” He keeps his voice steady. “Please don’t do that again.”

“What, channel a naaru? That’s not likely -”

“I mean, please don’t almost kill yourself like that.” Steve breathes out. His hands are clenched in the mattress. “You would be missed.”

Tony shrugs.

“I would miss you.” There is a pause. “A lot.”

The artificer rolls his head to one side. “I’d do it again,” he says, eventually.

“I know.”

Tony closes his eyes. “But only if I really had to.”

Steve can feel his shoulders relax. “Deal.” He lies back down and pulls the covers up. There is a high window in one corner of the room; it’s still mostly dark, but there is a creeping suggestion of light beginning to touch the trees outside.

The room is quiet for a few minutes.

“Steve?”

He rolls over. Tony’s eyes are still closed.

“I’d miss you too.”

The Exodar is somehow even more overwhelming the second time Steve visits, though that may have to do with the honor guard accompanying their party through the gates. More guards surround them as they go down the ramp to where O’ros lives.

<Hello,> Ar’vas says. The young naaru seemed to enjoy the trip back to the city, asking hundreds of questions as they traveled. But before O’ros he seems shy.

The great naaru at the heart of the city turns. Steve feels that holy power again, refracted through a thousand facets. O’ros does not speak, but there is an upswelling of recognition coming from the naaru, tinted with affection. It chimes at Ar’vas gently.

The small naaru floats over to join O’ros. It hovers, moving up and down, then settles beneath one of the arms of O’ros’ crystals. The hum at the heart of the Exodar changes slightly; now there is a clear treble note wound through it.

“Steven of the Silver Hand!” Steve turns; a young draenei is running up the ramp after them. He waves a piece of paper in his hand. “Letter for you, sir, from Stormwind.”

“Thank you.” He tucks it in his belt and nods before turning to follow Tony up the ramp.

“And may I say, sir, it is an honor to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Steve says again, awkwardly, and retreats. Tony chuckles at him as he catches up.

They walk down the path together towards the docks. The artificer saunters along, enormous mace slung over one shoulder. Tony moves easily again, even in the full plate he wore into the city. An extra set of bandages still protects the healing skin on his chest, but the wound grows smaller every day.

“Word has spread about your skills with the Light. A paladin bringing back the lost mid-battle, and on three people at a time?”

Steve sighs. “I wish I wasn’t being held up as some great icon. You know that was a fluke.”

“Probably.” Tony leans back and looks at the sky. “I don’t think that makes what you did less important.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck.

“And your blessings are back to normal, yes?”

“They are.” Steve smiles. “Something changed in that cave.”

“We find the Light in strange places, don’t we? I am not surprised it came back to you through valor.”

“You’re kind, but it’s more than that.” Steve replies. Tony makes an inquiring noise. “When I lost it, when I was counterspelled? It was terrible. My worst nightmare come to life. And yet…I survived it.” Tony nods. “And…” Steve thinks about teachings drilled by rote, and the rigid forms of Stormwind Cathedral, and a naaru, folding holy light in on itself to shelter a city. “You said yourself there was more than one path to the Light. I think I had forgotten that.”

Tony smiles at him, wide and warm. “I’m glad you remembered, Steven of Stormwind.”

“Not half as glad as I am, Artificer.” Steve cuffs him playfully on the shoulder.

They reach the docks, and turn north; there is a sandy shore, and the dunes are still warm from the now-setting sun. Tony sets his mace in the sand and lies down, stretching like a cat. Steve follows suit, laying his sword and shield flat close by. The ground is warm on his back through the plate, and he closes his eyes in enjoyment.

“What’s in your letter?”

“Let’s see.” Steve opens the seal on the letter and scans it. “It’s Bucky.”

“Your friend, right?”

“Yes. He’s doing well.” There is a pause. “Hmm.”

Tony turns his head towards Steve. “Everything all right?”

“Apparently Robert Lescovar has been removed from the Silver Hand. And…” Steve sits up. “his family has been stricken from the ranks of Stormwind nobility?”

“Is this the guy you punched?”

“Yeah.” Steve scans the lines again. “Massive tax fraud? And - defrauding pirates?”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I don’t think you can, actually.”

Tony laughs. Steve does as well, folding the letter. He slides it back into his belt and lies back down again, propping both hands behind his head.

“So.” Tony’s voice is too casual. “You’ll be leaving for Stormwind?”

Steve breathes out. “Actually…I might stay here for a while.” He pulls one hand out and lays it flat on the sand next to Tony, palm up. “If you’ll have me.”

A pause, and a hand folds over his own and squeezes it. “I’d like that. Very much.”

Steve closes his eyes and smiles. The sea is breaking against the shore, and Tony’s hand is firm in his.