Chapter Text
Hundreds of years.
Thousands.
Millions even.
She lost track of how long she had been in the Maw. All she knew was the weight of guilt and the unending mission. Her time in the Maw stretched into an endless expanse where she spoke little and remembered even less. The only company she had was a snowy white owl, a silent witness to her ceaseless task.
She gathered souls wrongfully condemned to the Maw’s hellish embrace and escorted them to the Arbiter for true judgment. The reasons for her duty had faded from her memory. All she knew was that she had to continue. Tens of thousands of souls had passed through her care, and she was responsible for each one. Some thanked her for rescuing them from eternal torment, while others hurled curses and blamed her for their suffering. Most followed her in silence. It didn’t matter as long as they followed.
The Maw, a plane of the Shadowlands, was the afterlife realm for souls of Azeroth, where only the most vile and wretched were cast. It was a realm of unending torment, chains, darkness, and nightmares—a place where many of these souls should never have been sent. Sometimes, she wondered what it said about her that she felt a strange sense of belonging in such a foul place. Enduring her duty here for so long without succumbing to madness was a testament to the strength of her will—or perhaps, it meant she was already mad. She couldn’t recall her own name, nor could she remember comfort, rest, or anything beyond the dark rock under her boots, the bow she wielded for protection, or the silent, watchful owl.
Occasionally, she glimpsed fragments of a past life—vague memories of a golden city bathed in sunlight and of dark, subterranean chambers filled with the dead. These fleeting visions were mere blips in her long existence, overshadowed by the vast span of time she had spent in the Maw. But none of that mattered now. Only her duty remained. Each soul she saved was a small reprieve from the suffocating guilt that bound her chest. She no longer remembered what had caused this guilt—it had been lost to time. Yet it was this very guilt that drove her to tirelessly perform her task, searching for redemption she could not fully comprehend.
The Maw Walker held the hand of a child’s soul, a little boy far too young and innocent to belong in this place. The child wept quietly, clutching her hand as they navigated through the oppressive darkness. At times, he would cower as she defended them from vengeful souls not under her charge—those who were rightfully condemned to eternal suffering. The journey was long and fraught with danger, the Maw stretching endlessly around them. Yet, eventually, she guided him to the shores of Gorgoa, the River of Souls. She recalled a time when the river was teeming with stygian souls flowing through the realm of the damned, but now it was merely a trickle, with only a single soul passing by every few hours.
For as long as she could remember, this was where she brought her charges—the place where they would be judged and sent to their true afterlife. It was a process she had followed for countless ages, one that she knew was not meant for her.
But today, something felt different.
As she neared Gorgoa, two brilliant sparks of light appeared, racing along the river towards them. Their radiance cast even deeper shadows across the Maw, making the darkness seem far more oppressive. As the lights drew closer to the shore where she intended to send the child on his way, they took shape, materializing into two humanoid figures. Their skin was a striking teal, and they were adorned with massive golden spectral wings that nearly blinded her.
This was unprecedented.
She had seen such beings in the past—servants of the Arbiter—but she had never witnessed them descending into the Maw. The child gazed at the figures with wonder, then looked up at her. “Are they here for me?” he asked softly. The Maw Walker shook her head, her long lifeless flaxen hair falling like a curtain across her face. A chill of dread settled in her stomach, an emotion she couldn’t quite place but knew was linked to something from her distant past—a past she had long since forgotten.
“It is time,” the taller, powerfully built female figure intoned with authority.
“Come with us,” the smaller but equally imposing male figure added.
Together, they guided the child and the Maw Walker into the river. The world around them transformed into a dazzling spectacle of light and color. Even though she had no eyes, she felt a profound sense of beauty as vibrant hues and radiant lights enveloped her. A realm of colors and sensations, forgotten yet vaguely familiar, surrounded her as she materialized in a massive golden chamber, leaving the pit of the Maw behind.
The room was overwhelming—colors she had long forgotten the names of, scents and sounds that seemed both alien and oddly reminiscent filled her senses. It was a place she had been to before, a long time ago. The pit in her stomach tightened as she noticed an audience. Apart from the two winged beings, the room was filled with souls—thousands of them. They watched her with a mix of emotions: some with anger and hatred, others with pity and sadness. And in many of their eyes, she saw the haunting glow of a burning tree.
An instinctive realization struck her: she was responsible for these souls. She had condemned them to the Maw without judgment and had spent her existence retrieving them, guiding them to their true afterlife.
As the sea of souls parted, the Arbiter came into view. The massive being that was responsible for the judgment of all the dead souls that flowed through here stared impassively on in the distance as the souls arched around and through him…it. The mounting horror of her situation became clear. Her exile to the Maw was over, and she was about to face the consequences of actions she could no longer remember taking.
“Step forward, Maw Walker,” commanded a smaller figure hovering beside the colossal Arbiter. The being floated a few inches off the ground, its glowing blue mask obscuring its features. It was an odd and enigmatic presence.
The spectral beings released her from their grips, and she shuffled forward, struggling against the urge to flee back into the Maw. As harsh and violent as the Maw was, it was still a form of existence, unlike the non-existence she feared awaited her. The crimes she had committed felt so grave that non-existence seemed a plausible punishment.
Afterall, she already thought the Maw as her home. The only punishment that could be worse than that is non-existence.
Beside the Arbiter stood a figure bathed in pale, moonlit rage. Tall and athletic, she exuded a sense of violence and divine fury. Her eyes, blazing with moonlit fire, embodied the wrath of a fallen deity. The sight of her filled the Maw Walker with a profound, gut-wrenching shame.
The snowy white owl, her constant companion for millennia, ghosted over and perched on the shoulders of the moonlit warrior. Its familiar gaze was unblinking and impassive as the Maw Walker faced her fate.
On the Arbiter’s other side was a being of golden warmth, and inscrutable strength. The figure appeared almost childlike, with eyes that were glowing gold and unreadable, as if perceiving something beyond the grasp of those present.
“You have done well, Maw Walker,” the Voice of the Arbiter spoke, resonating through her mind like a searing flame. “You have rectified a grave injustice in the Shadowlands, restoring our Great Purpose and returning many souls who were unjustly punished.”
“Souls that she condemned here in the first place,” the moonlit warrior spat with palpable disdain.
“Indeed,” the Voice responded gravely. “And, as with every soul that passes through the Shadowlands, she has been judged. Our decision has been made. Her crimes and the suffering she endured have been considered. Your anger, no matter how righteous, holds no sway here.”
The Night Warrior’s silence was thunderous, her expression a mask of glittering fury.
“Why am I here?” the Maw Walker croaked, her voice hoarse from disuse. “If my fate is the Maw, perhaps I should have remained there.”
“The Maw is not your fate, Maw Walker,” the Voice of the Arbiter said, its swirling mask expressionless yet strangely compassionate. “With the Arbiter’s sanction, your penance will be both an opportunity, and a chance for you to make different choices in your life. Your past will soon become your future.”
As the Voice spoke, the Night Warrior stepped closer, and instinctively, the Maw Walker braced herself for the sting of a blade. Instead, the warrior stood beside her, towering over her with a tense readiness, as if she too was itching to part the Maw Walker from her head. The Night Warrior moved with a grace that was both mesmerizing and intimidating. Her lean, angular face, softened by full lips and elegant pointed ears, combined beauty with a fierce, violent edge. She was as one, beautiful and terrifying.
“When you leave this place, your memories of it will be taken from you,” The Voice continued, its masked visage emotionless. “The knowledge of the Shadowlands will be removed as a condition of your ‘parole.’ If you succeed in your mission, no one should ever know of what awaits them after their deaths. The Purpose will continue as it always has, without the interruption of mortals.”
The Maw Walker flinched. She had been in the Maw for what felt like millennia. Although, intrinsically, she knew she was originally from Azeroth, but the Maw had been her home for so long that she could barely recall her past—or even who she was. If all that time was to be wiped away, who would she become?
Looking at the Night Warrior, she asked, “What happened? Why me?”
The Night Warrior swallowed hard, her face etched with loss and grief, turned away. “The Void came, and we were unprepared. We were so weakened from fighting among ourselves that we did not see it coming. We fought, but their numbers were endless, and their power overwhelming. The Aspects and a few of our strongest allies made a final stand at the very heart of Azeroth. Lady Proudmoore, realizing all was already lost, made a final gamble and sent Chronormu and I here as everything around us was consumed. I watched her vanish into the void as the portal closed behind us,” she said, her lips cut into a hard line. “She must have intended to send more of us, but events unfolded too swiftly.” The glittering warrior turned her hard expression upon her, rage warring with necessity written deep in her expression. She knew that if she wasn’t absolutely needed, the Night Warrior would tear her apart as soon as look at her. “So, my selection of ‘allies’ is rather slim at this moment.”
“She sent you to the one place the Void cannot touch,” the Maw Walker concluded.
The power of a goddess’s wrath radiated from the warrior, and fear held the Maw Walker in her place. “I do not think even this place will remain safe from the Void for long,” the Night Warrior said, her voice trembling with rage and loss.
The Man Walker ached to reach out and comfort her, but the warrior’s tense posture and grip on her blades made it clear that any such gesture would be the last thing she ever did.
“Chronormu and I agreed that, as the last surviving souls from Azeroth, this timeline—”
“Sucks!” interrupted the small golden figure near the Arbiter. Her voice was high-pitched and abrasive, and she manipulated golden, glowing sand around her in streams with gentle, intricate motions. “As a member of the Bronze Dragonflight I hereby voted that we should fix it!” Her voice sounded surprisingly childlike and small. “With the concurrence of the only surviving bronze dragons – me, myself and I – and with the Arbiter’s help, we can change everything and make it better than last time!”
The Voice continued, “we have agreed to cast your souls back through the time portal created by this one, merging them with your past selves.”
“How will sending our souls back in time change anything?” the Maw Walker asked, her voice tinged with apprehension. “Will we not simply make the same decisions that led us to this point?”
Whatever they may have been… she thought.
Chronormu, the small figure beside the Arbiter, replied cheerfully, “I’ll bind your memories to your past selves as you travel through. However, Tal-Inara,” she nodded to The Voice, “and the other attendants will erase your memories as you go, so you’ll remember everything right up to the point you got here. With a few other edits that relate to the Shadowlands throughout your lives as well.”
The Maw Walker felt a chill run down her spine at the thought of losing thousands of years of her life in an instant. Returning to a version of herself she no longer recognized was a daunting prospect. Would the Maw’s torment end up being preferable to a life where she had forgotten everything? Yet, a profound sense of responsibility tugged at her heart. She felt a deep connection to Azeroth and its people, much like she felt responsible for the souls she rescued from the Maw. It was as though her path was irrevocably tied to this mission.
“How do we stop the Void?” she asked, trying to steady her resolve for the daunting task ahead.
The Night Warrior, her expression still stern and uncompromising, turned to face her. “Leave that to me. I do not trust you to act in anything but your own interest. When we arrive in Azeroth, find your allies, build alliances, and for once, try to think beyond yourself,” she said harshly.
Chronormu continued, seemingly ignoring the Night Warrior’s stern words. “I’ve examined all possible timelines—places where choices led to better or worse outcomes.” Energy cascaded from her fingers, enveloping both the Maw Walker and the Night Warrior. “The point in time I’m sending you to offers the best chance to save Azeroth.” For a brief moment, her eyes flickered with mortal warmth, emerald green and slightly mischievous. “But remember, a lot of it will depend on you two working together!”
Chronormu’s warning lingered between them, but it seemed to have little impact on the Night Warrior. “If you go back to your old ways, I will end you,” the Night Warrior growled as golden sand—or magic?—began to swirl around them, completely obscuring Oribos from view.
Strangely though, The Maw Walker was able to glimpse fleeting flashes of other places through the storm. Places that were both familiar and completely alien to her.
The wind roared around them, pulling the Maw Walkers hood down and loosening her brittle flaxen hair. Her eyes stung as sand battered her, and even the imposing Night Warrior was barely visible through the swirling storm.
“I grieve for you…” a faint voice echoed through the tempest, yanking at a buried memory, one she had tried to suppress long ago. “You’ve made life your enemy. And that is a war you’ll never win. You can kill us, but you cannot kill hope.” The voice was frail, as if the speaker teetered on the edge of death.
The Maw Walker’s voice echoed, surprising herself with how harsh and ruthless she sounded, scarcely even recognizing it as her own. “Can’t I?” It took her a moment to realize the words came from her own lips. “Burn it,” she ordered to someone out of sight. When she detected hesitation she yelled more forcefully, rage and grief echoing through the order. “Burn it!” Heat surged as she saw a brief flash of a great burning tree through the sand before it vanished.
Tears streamed down her face as she confronted the cruelty in her soul—an aspect of herself she had long buried. Her heart ached as memories collided with her present self.
A new voice, also weak with death, fought against the storm. “Da Loa spirits say death will claim me soon.”
“In the end, death claims us all,” she responded, another memory forcing its way to the surface. “But the Horde will live on.”
“I have never trusted you,” the voice continued, strained but resolute. “Nor would I have ever imagined that you would be da one to save us. Da spirits have granted me clarity. Dey whisper a name. Many would not unda’stand, but you must step out of da shadows and lead.” The voice faltered, ending in a deathly whisper. “You must be Warchief.”
The Maw Walker scanned the thick sandstorm, searching for the Night Warrior. She reached out blindly, moving towards a shadow in the storm, hoping to find her companion. As she drew closer, two figures emerged from the sand: a hulking, red-skinned orc with great tusks and eyes burning with hate, and a handsome blood elf with a golden eyepatch.
The orc, Garrosh Hellscream, dominated the moment, seeming to be speaking to a larger audience she could not see through the sand. His bloodlust pervaded the atmosphere, igniting a deep-seated fear not for herself but for her people. “Warchief!” her voice erupted unexpectedly, the need to challenge the orc’s decision finally boiling over. “The Alliance may indeed not send reinforcements. Not at once, at least. immediately. They will turn and vent their wrath instead upon those of us in the Eastern Kingdoms—my people, and the sin’dorei.” She turned her gaze to the elf, Lor’themar Theron, who regarded her with impassive eyes. “Varian will march on my borders and destroy us!” she declared.
Garrosh Hellscream’s glare was unwavering as he addressed the unseen audience. “This is the will of your warchief. This is the plan. First Northwatch Hold, then Theramore, then we drive the night elves before us and take for our own what was theirs. As for any Alliance protests,” he said, sparing a brief glance at her, “rest assured, they will be dealt with swiftly. I am grateful for your obedience in these matters, but I expected nothing less from the great Horde. Return now to your homes and prepare. You will hear from me again soon. For the Horde!”
The cheer that erupted around them was lost in the storm’s fury as the Maw Walker turned away. Her gaze locked with the tauren Chieftain Baine Bloodhoof, whose apprehension mirrored her own. They had barely recovered from the devastation wrought by the Cataclysm and this fool orc would plunge us into yet another war? Baine was close to Jaina Proudmoore, however. Something told her that Jaina would not be surprised by a sudden Horde attack.
The sand engulfed her once more as her heart shattered. The world teetered on the brink of war, and her people were once again caught in the crosshairs of a madman’s thirst for power and bloodshed. Her tears mingled with the sand on her face as she continued to blindly navigate the storm. The resurfacing memories, buried for millennia, began to piece together her identity and the reasons for her damnation to the Maw.
She crawled through the sand until her fingers brushed against the cold, unyielding surface of saronite steel. The sand gave way to snow, and she found herself atop Icecrown Citadel once more, where the new Lich King, Tirion Fordring, kept his eternal vigil. Arthas, the destroyer of her people—the one who had murdered her and bound her to this cursed existence—was dead. He had been smote upon his throne, and his nightmare sword shattered. Her life’s purpose was over. She should have felt relief, gratitude to the adventurers who had ended his reign. But instead, she felt...
Nothing.
“No,” the Maw Walker murmured. She recognized this moment—it was one of her darkest. With a Herculean effort, she turned away from the edge of the citadel, where she had leapt to her second death so many years ago, and dove back into the storm. Even suicide had not freed her from the path of damnation she had trod.
When the sandstorm cleared once more, she was in her Throne Room in the Undercity. A forsaken hunter, clad in the armor of her Death Guard, stood before her, holding a silver pendant.
“What is it you have there, Dieter?” she asked, her voice betraying a trace of curiosity.
He silently held out the necklace in his hand, so abused by the string of the bow that the flesh had completely rotted away, leaving only fingers of bone.
“You say you found this on one of the Scourge at Windrunner Spire, and that there’s an inscription on it? Let me see!”
She recognized the pendant instantly. It was one of three, a gift from her sister Alleria to herself and their youngest sister, Vereesa, before she vanished. Grief. Grief so powerful it threatened to consume her and destroy everything in a piercing banshee's wail burned in her unbeating heart. Grief for her missing Alleria who turned her back on Quel'Thalas and left its defense, and fate to her. Grief for the life she had when the three of them were inseparable troublemakers that had the run of the forests. And grief for her youngest sister. So full of life she could not even stand the sight of her.
“It can’t be! After all this time, I thought it was lost forever,” she said, her sepulchral tone echoing through the room. She hated the quiver of pain in her voice, the weakness it revealed. Rage bubbled within her, and the forsaken hunter, unfortunate enough to be in her path, became the target for her wrath.
“You thought this would amuse me?” she snapped. The hunter recoiled, as if struck. “Do you think I long for a time before I was queen of the forsaken? Like you, it means nothing to me.”
She hurled the pendant across the stone floor, taking twisted satisfaction in the sound of silver scraping against stone. Turning back, she glared at the hunter with the promise of ferocity burning in her eyes.
“And Alleria Windrunner is a long, dead memory!”
The hunter’s face was etched with horror. To the undead, nostalgia was a physical emotion. To see her cast aside a relic of her past was madness to him.
“Remove yourself from my sight, hunter.”
As the forsaken left, she stared at the cracked gemstone, her reflection desecrated by undeath glimmered within. She looked so much like her sisters Alleria and Vireesa. Her rage subsided, but her grief still sought solace. For the first time since her death, she began to sing...
Her reflection shifted, transforming into the healthy, tanned skin, flowing flaxen hair, and glowing sapphire eyes she once possessed in life. But the image was no longer held within the gem but upon the edge of a glowing runeblade.
She rolled to the side, evading the deadly arc of the blade as it sliced through the air, her heart pounding with the adrenaline of battle. The blade missed her by inches. However, her movement was hindered when she slipped on something solid and slick. She found herself sprawled over a body. Ranger Alina lay unmoving, her eyes staring lifelessly at the sky, her throat slashed open, blood soaking her emerald green and gold leathers. The Maw Walker’s gaze swept across the clearing. More bodies—her rangers—scattered in the grass. Ranger Velonara slumped against a tree, still clutching her disemboweled entrails. Ranger Captain Ariel had been cleaved from neck to navel. So many dead. So many of her rangers, fallen.
For what? Why?
A crash reverberated through the woods, pulling her attention from her impending doom. She turned just in time to see the gates of Quel'Thalas break open, unleashing a tide of the dead into her city where they would slaughter every man, woman, and child in their path.
The sound of hooves thundering toward her drew her attention. A dark spectre fell upon her as the leader of this undead army finally cornered her. She had nowhere left to run so she glared up at the rider steeling herself for her final moments. He was human, mostly,—if death had not already claimed him. The stench of decay clung to him like a shroud. His sunken, cruel eyes met hers, filled with nothing but pitiless darkness.
Death itself had come just for her.
Her heart pounded in her chest. Fear gripped her soul.
“Finish it!” she panted, her voice hoarse. “I deserve…a clean death.”
“After all you've put me through, woman,” he sneered, “the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death.”
A chill ran down her spine. “No! You wouldn't dare—”
Before she could react, the blade plunged into her chest, piercing her heart and driving out through her back. The pain was indescribable. She felt her soul being cleaved from her body and bound to the weapon that had killed her. Her scream of anguish and fury echoed across the battlefield and throughout the history of Azeroth as the Banshee Queen was born.
When her eyes opened again, she was standing in Falconwing Square, listening to Prince Kael'thas speak at a young human woman. The memories of thousands of years had been yanked from her mind, leaving everything—from her childhood to the moment atop Icecrown Citadel with the Helm of Domination—vivid and fresh.
Though why she remembered trying to split the helm…she had no idea.
Thump thump.
The beat of her heart.
A sound she had not heard in decades, maybe centuries. She looked down at herself. Her skin was bronzed from a lifetime in the sun, no longer pale with the pallor of undeath. She was armored in the cropped the emerald and gold-trimmed leathers of the Farstriders of Quel'Thalas.
Thump thump.
Her vision darkened at the edges as she inspected her hands—long, calloused fingers, worn from wielding her bow. The heavy, feathered mantle of the Ranger-General rested on her shoulders. Her mother’s cloak.
Her head throbbed as all her memories, her senses, and the vivid sensations of her living elven body came together, reminding her of who she was—and what her mission had become:
“Find your allies, build alliances, and for once, try to think beyond yourself,” Tyrande Whisperwind’s instructions echoed through her mind.
Thump thump.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to massage the headache away. Her eyes drifted to the young human woman beside Kael’thas. At first, she didn’t recognize the tall figure clad in the cream and magenta robes of a Dalaran mage. But when the woman glanced her way, eyes just a little too wide and begging for a social rescue, she recognized her.
Jaina Proudmoore.
Though the sight of Jaina sent memories flooding back—memories of their rivalry, the thrill and vexation that defined their enmity during the war—this Jaina was not her Jaina. She was younger, far too young to be the powerful Archmage who had once threatened to level Orgrimmar single-handedly. Her hair was not yet bleached white by the mana bomb that destroyed Theramore, and still carried the golden hue of youth.
This was a different Jaina. A version of her untouched by the trials of their shared future.
And Kael'thas—damn him—was leering at someone who was far too young by even human standards to be treated as a piece of meat.
Thump thump.
Sylvanas opened her mouth to speak, to tell him where he could affix his eyes, but her whole world tilted. The headache grew even worse, pounding as if a goblin engineer was hammering at the inside her skull.
Consciousness fled her where she was standing, mercifully abandoning her just before she hit the ground. The only thing she heard before it deserted her completely was the panicked cry of Jaina Proudmoore:
Thump thump.
“Sylvanas!”