Chapter Text
Eilbert knew, the very moment the tip of his jousting spear struck the shield that he was lacking speed. He spurred his horse a bit too late, the mare dodged on the side and he lost his balance, the haysack hitting him hard on the shoulder. The young man tried to get a hold one, his fingers tangling in the mane but his pelvis keep slidding on the soft leather, the pommel hit him hard on the inside of his thigh and he finally bit the dust.
He rolled over with a sigh, removed his paddled leather helmet and watched his mare prancing to the stables nearby, tail high and snorting.
"We'll pratice weapons after lunch with the other squires. Take her back to the stables and groom her."
He half-turned and nodded solemnly toward his knight. She gazed at him, smiling, arms crossed, leaning on the ring. Her gray eyes shone with barely contained mischief. He rose quickly, helmet in hand and went to retrieve his practice spear, lying in the dirt beside the quintain.
"Just so you know, I didn't hurt myself, Light be blessed.
- Oh, I was not worried, Eilbert. You're used to it."
Her squire barked a laugh and bow towards her. "Your kindness does you credit, Lady Hastings."
Eliane watched him leave, eyeing her squire thoughtfully. Over these past months, he had grown taller, his face beginning to lose the softness of childhood. His voice still cracked at times, a faint down dusted his cheeks and his body was like one of a awkward colt. But strength was slowly filling out his lanky frame and his character grew more assertive with each passing day.
A call interrupted her reverie—a soldier approached, offering her a sealed parchment scroll.
"Hight Crusader, you’ve received a message alongside the guard’s dispatch."
She acknowledged the man with a nod and waited for him to leave before breaking the seal of the roll adressed to her. Skimming the lines, she folded the parchments and tucked it into her tunic, then made her way to the officer's mess.
The bell tolled just as she finished her meal and she returned to the training grounds, spending the afternoon drilling the recruits. Wooden swords, maces, shields, spears. She paid no mind to anything—least of all the whimpers and pleas of the younglings—focusing every ounce of her attention on correcting the slightest misstep of the twenty squires laboring under her iron rule.
Rigor and discipline might one day save their lives and she showed no mercy.
When the vesper bell tolled, she scowled at the sighs of relief from the boys and the girls before her. Still, she took a grim satisfaction in seeing every last one of them limping away. She wiped her sweat-drenched brow with the sleeve of her tunic, her hair plastered to her neck and her leather breeches clinging uncomfortably.
Once the training ground was cleared, she hastened to the washrooms to freshen up before making her way to the chapel for prayer.
The day slipped in a blur and she was relieved when Eilbert did not return with an unexpected summon to another meeting.
After supper, she stopped by the kitchens as usual, thanked the cook and the commis then poured herself a steaming cup of terrestrine tea before climbing the stairs to the dungeon’s battlements. She walked until she reached the tall bullwark, which overlooked the training grounds and the siege engines below. Leaning her hips against a low parapet, sheltered by the roofline, her gaze drifted over the stronghold and the town hall—both built from the same grey hewn stone—before settling on the keep.
Massive, circular and austere.
She sipped her sweetened drink, letting the honey coat her palate. Comforted, she finally turned her eyes towards the statue.
Tirion Fordring.
His back was turned to her, the silver shield of the Silver Crusade gleaming behind him, framing his broad shoulders and shielding his neck. In his right fist was Ashbringer, the legendary weapon.
From where she stood, Eliane could not see his proud, stern face—the statue’s gaze was fixed on the distant tower, barely visible through the forest. Perhaps one of the greatest champion of the Light Azeroth had ever known. A second father, a second one to fall in battle. And a mentor she had failed to honor.
Grief seized her anew, sweet and ruthless.
Months had passed since the Broken Shore, during the Great Invasion but the sight of his body ravaged by fel still haunted her.
Tirion had been a father figure to her.
They had grown close, then bound themselves in unshakable loyalty forged in the mourning of Taelan and the quiet certainty that neither would ever stray far from the other.
Her greatest mistake had been believing him to be immortal. The excommunicated paladin, the hero of the assault on Icecrown, the last bastion of Light against Arthas. He had stood once more against the Burning Crusade.
But the Light had abandoned him and he had fallen.
And suddenly, she saw it all again—her vision blurred with burning tears. Suspended in the void at this demon’s mercy, shrouded in a shield of Light. She remembered her fear of seeing him wounded, the gnawing dread that often gripped her in those days, the dread of watching him age and weaken. But his faith in the Light had been unshakable.
The Light would protect them from evil, he said and they would triumph once more. Yet the Light had faltered and his body had plummeted dozens of meters into Gul’dan’s claws.
He had survived, just enough to be tortured by the Legion for days. Soldiers of the Horde had found him trapped within a corrupted crystal, a grave that had shattered both his body and mind. Parts of his armor had fused into his flesh, shards of metal embedded in his sides and chest and his left hand had been severed. Eliane remembered falling to her knees at the sight, stammering. When he recognized her, a whimper had escaped from his lips and he had tried to drag himself towards her. He was weeping, burning with fever, his voice hoarsed. All she could do was hold his remaining hand as he raved in delirium.
Finally, when the Light enveloped him and the pain began to fade, his frantic gaze softened and he smiled.
He entrusted her with the leadership of the Silver Crusade and his legendary weapon, Ashbringer, with the remaining Crusaders and Maxwell as witnesses. Gasps rippled through their ranks, sparking the sedition that now festered within the Crusade.
The lords and barons had never supported him but for a time, they had bowed to him. Regaining control of the Plaguelands, forging trade and diplomatic ties with all factions, recruitment, patronage, the Silver Tournament in the Ice Crown and finally the defeat of the Lich King.
Tirion Fordring, the Ashbringer—an indefatigable and charismatic paladin who could rally the masses and address the mighty as equals.
Under his aegis, the whispers had quieted. But the old paladin was declining, weakened by his open collaboration with the Ebon Blade, the Death Knights led by Darion Mograine and the final call was soon to sound for him.
It was common knowledge that Eliane Hastings, once a rough-edged war orphan, had been taken in by Fordring after the death of Taelan. Rumors swirled in the halls but they all circled around the same theme: Eliane was the Fordrings’ bitch—first the son, executed for high treason and then the aging, grieving father who must have taken pity on her. Now, whispers followed her through the corridors of the Chapel of Light’s Hope and in the end, she had settled in Hearthglen.
Lost in thought, she was jolted back to reality by a soft noice in the night. The quiet sound of leather soles on slate tiles.
She sniffed loudly, unabashed, as the lean figure of the spy materialized on the battlements. The Sin'dorei revealed himself, feline and fluid, pushing back his hood to expose his gleaming brown hair and golden eyes.
"You’ve been crying."
Quite the spy. Paelis Courtetoise, scout of the Silver Crusade. With a velvet tongue and an athletic frame, his coppery skin seemed to glow like gold in the afternoon light. His arched eyebrows—characteristic of his kind—extended far beyond his beautiful face, defying gravity. His pointed ears, however, were not as long as one might expect. Some said he was sired by a human father and Paelis, as ever the charming bastard, never denied it. Known in the boudoirs of every country under a other identity, he moved with unmatched grace, his reputation built as much on his expertise in carnal pleasures as on his claim to speak fluent Murloc—a skill no one truly could verify. She didn’t waste time lying.
"Yes. I was thinking about them."
He nodded briefly, studying her.
"Paelis...
- I can take your mind elsewhere, if you’d like."
She smiled, amused.
"Maybe later. Aessa is resting."
He shrugged and smirked.
"We both know she doesn't mind."
She sighed. He settled beside her, resting the tip of his backside elegantly against the wall. Eliane, though dressed in comfortable clothes, felt—as always—out of place beside him. Too bulky, too clumsy. Paelis was elf-perfect, noble, untarnished by any flaw. Already, his fingers were attempting to slip into the fold of her pelvis, beneath the heavy fabric of her Crusader colors. But she shifted away and he let her reposition herself across from him, arms crossed.
He’d try again later.
"A letter arrived for you. From Chromie."
He watched her straighten up, her brows furrowing—a brooding Crusader with an iron gaze. He wanted her. Powerful women always drove him wild and he briefly thinks of kicking the surly night elf out of Hastings’ bed so they could have some fun.
But then he noticed her outstretched hand. He slipped the letter into it and observed her as she read. Her gray eyes were focused, her auburn hair—streaked with blond threads—glinting in the sunlight. She wore it in a loose braid and he could already imagine running his fingers through it. But judging by her irritated expression, that would sadly have to wait.
He fell into step behind her as she left the walkway.
Her quarters were in the west tower, overlooking the pine forest and the foothills cradling Hearthglen.
The location was ideal for Paelis and Aessa, offering a perfect launch without needing to go through the main gates.
When they entered the bedroom, the night elf was sprawled naked across the bed and didn’t even bother opening her eyes.
Eliane knew she had recognized their footsteps minutes ago and tossed the quilt over her companion before sitting at her desk.
A muffled grunt came from beneath the thick fabric, turning into a furious growl as Paelis flopped onto the bed, likely sitting on the hunter’s feet.
Eliane noticed the muddy footprints trailing from the open window to the bed and scowled. Aessa finally sat up with a sigh, kicking the other elf—who only smirked in response—before turning to the paladin, annoyed.
"T'was raining last night.
- That doesn’t excuse you from wiping your feet on the carpet. You've made a mess on the sheets."
Paelis opened his mouth to retort, but she silenced him with a sharp glance. That didn’t stop him from raising his eyebrows knowingly as Aessa rose and stretched like a cat. A very naked one.
"Why bother ? You’re not even the one who cleans it up."
Eliane frowned as she watched Aessa struggle into her boiled leather armor—still half-damp and it had stained the fabric of an armchair. She had a silent satisfaction in seeing Aessa grunt and curse as she tried to get into it. Paelis, his legs apart and propped on his elbows, didn’t miss a single detail.
Giving up on the sparring, Eliane broke the seal and read the letter, her focus unwavering. Aessa joined her, reading over her shoulder, presenting the right side of her face—the side still unscarred.
The burning of Teldrassil was months ago but her face would forever bear the scars—horribly disfigured. Her left eye was gone, the cornea burned away, now an opaque bloodshot poor excuse of an eye. Her ear had been severed at the base near the skull, the fire had devoured the flesh beyond any hope of salvation, just as the skin of her face seemed to have melted. The cheekbone had shattered when a section of the woodroof collapsed, nearly killing her.
She would have preferred it.
In the inferno, she had lost everything: her city, her faith and her hunting companion. She had watched the flames engulf his feathers, had seen him spiral into the scorching blaze. His piercing shriek had torn her heart apart. He had died trying to reach her and she had been unable to recover his body, to give him one last tribute before his long hunt at the side of her goddess. She had felt her own end coming, choked by smoke, crucified by pain, stuck under the burning roof.
But then she had appeared, wreathed in light, her eyes blazing like a sun through a portal conjured by Stormwind’s mages. She had hoisted Aessa onto her shoulder and carried her throught the portal, casting swift healing spells before rushing back to rescue trapped civilians, tirelessly.
Aessa had blacked out soon after but the missing pieces of the story had been filled by healers in the days that followed. Aid had poured in from every faction, in a desperate to save Teldrassil and Darnassus. Alliance and what remained of the uncorrupted Horde, the Kirin Tor, the Cenarion Circle, the Guardians of Hyjal, and the Silver Crusaders—all had hurled themselves through portals, trying to extinguish the flames and evacuate civilians.
Alas, more than half of the Darnassus population had burned. The survivors were scattered across continents, weakened and maimed, consumed by the infernal fire and an unquenchable hatred for Windrunner and her minions.
Aessa turned away as Eliane set Chromie’s letter on fire in the hearth.
The massive fireplace had remained empty and cold most of the time since then. She could no longer bear the sight of the smallest flame, no longer endure the faintest whiff of smoke without feeling the urge to hurl herself through the nearest window.
Every day, she rested in the sheets of her mate, only to leave again at night to roam the Plaguelands. She found comfort in exhausting herself each night, hunting the corrupted wildlife and slaughtering every undead she encountered—Horde members, too. She didn’t dare attack their camps, Eliane’s orders, but Horde travelers were often found their throats slit. The only undeads she spared were the knights of the Ebon Blade.
She knew of Eliane’s complicated relationship with their High Commander, High Lord Darion Mograine. So she let them live and continued to hunt relentlessly.
"I’m leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow. Chromie is probably already waiting for me there. I’ll go alone."
Aessa spun around and glared at her, but Eliane pressed on.
"I need you both in the field. Aessa, I want you to find Mirel and Opta. They’ll handle giving the word to the others if it comes to that. As for you, Paelis, I need you to keep your ears to the ground here—listen to what’s being said about the Crusade."
The two elves stayed silent. They knew her well enough to recognize she wasn’t done.
"I want you to meet them in person because the postal routes aren’t safe anymore. Not since Talons is gone."
A beat of silence—just long enough for Aessa’s throat to tighten at the thought of her lost greatowl. She hated Eliane for reminding her of her loss and turned away to gather her things.
"The last I heard of, she was in Dalaran. Opta should be with Veqez in Stranglethorn. Go to the mage first—you’ll move much faster with her teleportation portals."
Aessa gave a sharp nod before sitting down against the massive chest at the back of the room, the one holding their belongings. Eliane watched her for a moment, studying her closed-off expression, before turning to Paelis.
"My position here is as uncomfortable as possible. Turalyon hasn’t given up on undermining me and setting Arichers in my place. He has the nobles ones on his side and many of my supporters are dragging their feet. That bastard Grand Exarch’s influence is too strong for them to risk indecision and he has Benedictus backing him."
Paelis grimaced. The Archbishop of the Light was respected and charismatic enough to keep his ranks tightly closed. If the situation was as bad as Eliane described, then his friend was in treacherous flows. But he knew she always saw things in the darkest possible ways.
"Cheer up, ladies! You’ll get to tend gardens sooner than expected!"
He was met with two dark glares in response and chuckled delightedly before sobering again.
"I’ll go. I’ll sing your praises and deeds, High Crusader! I’ll fuck away your enemies so thoroughly they’ll fall at your beautiful feet, radiant warrior of light."
- Yeah, exactly what I need. I already have the reputation of a whore."
Paelis flashed her a dazzling smile. Even Aessa cracked a smile.
"Humans are so narrow minded…"
Paelis snapped his fingers and nodded at Aessa.
"You live only a handful of years and yet you manage to poison the sad little time you have left with ridiculous dogmas."
Eliane opted for a long sigh and let it go. She knew this speech by heart. She stood and began putting on her pauldrons.
"I’ll keep you updated. I’m riding out tomorrow."
Paelis rose, blew a kiss to Eliane and leapt out the window— but not before slapping Aessa’s rump, earning himself a song of colorful curses from the night elf. Eliane couldn’t stifle a laugh, which only grew at the hunter’s outraged expression. She crossed the room and pulled Aessa into her arms. The elf melted like snow in the sun, resting her chin atop Eliane’s head in the quiet comfort of their chamber.
Aessa had only spent part of the night with her and was gone by the time Eliane woke at dawn.
The morning passed without any incident—until she went to announce her departure to Eilbert.
The young squire let out an exclamation, only to be immediately silenced by his knight who ordered him to stand at attention. She studied him for several minutes, this young man who changed day after day. Gone were the times when he was just an awkward child. The years had flown by and though she was proud of his progress, she refused to let him grow compliant.
Sudden regret washed over her when she realized he refused to meet her eyes. She knew the other squires were whispering behind her back, a campaign that had begun years ago by the formers Scarlet Crusade loyalists. They had never forgiven Fordring for taking in an upstart of low birth, just as they had never forgiven him for aiding and opening the Silver Crusade's doors to all who sought redemption.
She sighed heavily, failing to find the right words. The rift between them kept growing, irreparably but she couldn’t take him with her. It was too risky, too secret, too not Crusader-like.
"You’ll stay under Maxwell’s care. I won’t be gone long. Keep up the good work—you’re doing well, kiddo."
He didn’t blink, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the pines, his jaw set. She fought the urge to lash out but forced her anger to subside. He was still just a child and a rebuke would be cruel. But sometimes, she wanted to shake him really hard. He, too, was a war orphan— and that was why she had taken him as her squire in the first place. Instead, she decided to save this conversation for her return. She shook her head and dismissed him.
From a distance, she saw the other human squires smirking, cheerings as Eilbert stomped away. There was no point in causing a scene by thrashing the apprentices before she left. Light's Hope Chapel awaited her, and that was going to be an entirely different battle.
"Opposing what you may believe, Hastings, you are no longer in charge of the Crusade."
It had taken only a few minutes for the Exarch to get under her skin. Turalyon might have been a great hero, a veteran of the Second War, but being a complete bastard wasn’t a requirement.
Once again, she called upon the Light for patience—a reed in a stream. But she caught the glance Turalyon shot at Arichers, when the Lightforged had rolled his eyes. Anger flared in her again and she squared her shoulders, almost hissing.
"The position isn’t yours to take, pretender."
Then the insults began to fly, until Maxwell had enough. The interim High Commander of the Silver Covenant slammed his fist on the table once. Eliane immediately stepped back and forced herself to breathe deeply.
Maxwell Tyrosus knew her situation and her way of being and she was fortunate to have him as her greatest ally. He had been Tirion Fordring’s best friend and had watched her grow within the Silver Dawn and then the Silver Crusade. A tireless defender of the Chapel, his aura rivaled even Turalyon’s.
So she let him take over, though she couldn’t help but offer to her opponents a smug smile. She earned an annoyed look from Maxwell and several pairs of eyes throwing daggers at her. Oops.
"Very well. High Crusader, could you please outline your request once more?"
- Thank you, High Commander. I was contacted by letter from a member of the Bronze Flight, Chronormu. She is an emissary I’ve worked with on several occasions. She has alerted me to an urgent matter in the Hinterlands and requested that I join her as soon as possible. Therefore, I am informing you of my absence for the duration of this mission."
- The Bronze Flight, huh?"
The Exarch. Again. He was really starting to get on her nerves. The man doubted the truth of her words, even though he had reappeared as if by magic after being presumed lost for decades. In another world, no less.
"Yes, the Bronze Flight."
- And how did they contact you? You were in the courtyard, training."
- By letter, after yesterday's late supper.
- A dragon dropped it off before flying away ? And where is this letter now ?
- I burned it as soon as I read it."
- How convenient."
Oh, that what is. But Maxwell raised a hand, urging his colleague to show some courtesy. The human apologized at once, avoiding Eliane’s gaze. She barely stopped herself from sighing in satisfaction. Just barely.
"Yesterday, late in the morning, I was training my squire when one of our guards brought me a note. My informant would meet me at sunset to deliver an urgent missive. I set up this meeting with Archivist Colin the moment I realized I’d have to depart.
- Who is your informant? One of your elves?
- I don’t see how that’s relevant, but yes.
- I suspected as much.
- Keep your primitive racism to yourself, Grand Exarch.
- My wife is an elf—who are you calling a racist ?!"
This time, Tyrosus nearly split the heavy wooden council table in half. He struck it hard enough to make it jump on all four legs and silence fell. The migraine slicing through his head wasn’t helped by the childish behavior of the two paladins.
The crystalline chime of the dinner bell echoed through the halls and he seized the opportunity to cut things short.
"Very well, High Crusader. We acknowledge your mission departure. You are relieved of your usual duties and will act as an emissary of the Silver Crusade. I would appreciate regular updates to keep us informed of the duration of your absence. Dismissed."
The council began to disperse, not without a few grumbles. Tyrosus stopped Eliane before she could cross the threshold.
"Hastings, a word."
He waited until the room had fully emptied before leaning against the table, mustache and eyepatch included.
"You’re not making things easy for me, Eliane. For the sake of the organization, I’d like you to show some restraint. Turalyon isn’t an easy man but your position requires more diplomacy."
She took a deep breath and crossed her arms. He watched her frown and lift her chin, offended. Thirty years and still so childish at times.
"Diplomacy ? Am I supposed to respond to insults with a bow ?"
- I’m not asking you to stand down. Just not to give him ammunition."
- No matter what I do, he hates me. I’m one of the last thing between him and command of the Silver Crusade and he knows it. I won’t go down without a fight."
He stifled a smile—it would only encourage her. A brilliant paladin but her temperament leaned more toward that of a battle-hardened warrior, quick to anger.
"Calm down. Please. I’m not asking you to stop fighting. I’m asking you to stop acting like a child."
- I’m-not-acting-like-a-child."
And there she was again. Eliane had once been an common girl —timid and pious, no different from the other war orphans of her time, all destined for careers as guards or perhaps stewards. Only children issued from nobility or knighthood could aspire to a path like hers.
But the girl had defied fate, changed the rules and brought Ashbringer back to the Silver Dawn after infiltrating the Scarlet Crusade.
After his son was killed before their eyes, Tirion had taken Eliane under his wing.
She became his shadow, his spiritual daughter, his protégé. Fordring had sent her into every battle, every conflict, accompanied by Aessa Bearmantle, the night elf hunter.
The two women had scoured the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor, forging strong diplomatic ties and the forgotten orphan girl had become the banner of the Silver Crusade.
Wrinkles had begun to form at the corners of her eyes but that sulky expression and steely gaze still belonged to Cadet Hastings. He tried not to show it but he must have smiled, because she deflated like a soufflé and sighed—once again.
"I’ll keep you updated. Paelis will be our liaison. Aessa will leave in the dead of night to alert our reinforcements, if we need them."
- Good. Be careful."
Their handshake was firm and he watched her leave the room, lost in thought.