Chapter Text
An arcane lamp flickered in the corner of the room, its blue glow reflecting off the edge of scrolls strewn across Jaina’s desk. The rented room at the Legerdemain Lounge was barely larger than her dormitory chamber she had in Dalaran long ago, with a narrow bed, a desk pushed beneath a small stained-glass window, and a bookshelf that bowed slightly under the weight of heavy tomes.
The scent of lingering cinnamon drifted up from the inn’s kitchen. Jaina hadn’t eaten since morning. She sat hunched, her blonde hair messily on top of her head, in a loose, oversized sweater. A half-sipped cup of cold coffee sat at her elbow.
She stared at the document in front of her, an advanced breakdown of ley line instability around Crystalsong Forest, its shimmering glyphs surging with magical notations. She’d read the same paragraph four times. Still, none of it stuck.
Jaina leaned back in the creaky desk chair, pressing her fingers to her temples.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional laughter from the lounge downstairs and the sound of a portal flickering open and closed in the hallway. But inside her chest, there was a chaos no spell could silence.
Today marked a month since the divorce was finalized.
For nearly two years, she had tried to make it work with Arthas. The golden boy of Lordaeron, Prince of the city, both literally and in every social sense. And she had loved him once. Or maybe she had loved the idea of what they were supposed to be.
Now she was here, alone by choice. In a city of magic where everything hummed with power, but none of it could fix the weight she carried.
Rhonin, ever the thoughtful friend, had offered her a position before the ink on the divorce papers had even dried. She hadn't hesitated. She couldn’t have stayed in Lordaeron among the gilded streets, among the memories.
Arthas had taken everything in the split. The house. The savings. The silence he gave her for months was followed by this sudden barrage of desperate messages.
Focus, Jaina. Focus or fall apart.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed against her desk.
She glanced at it.
Unknown Number: I still love you. I miss you. We were good together. I will still take you back, despite everything
Jaina exhaled through her nose.
Block. Delete, just like the others.
She’d changed her number once already, but somehow they kept finding her. Maybe Arthas was using magic. Maybe it was his friends in high places. Maybe… maybe he was just that persistent.
Her stomach churned.
This wasn’t love. It was guilt and control, or a need he’d denied her until now. She didn’t need this, not when she was barely hanging on.
She got up from the desk slowly, stretching the ache in her back. Her eyes flicked toward the small pile of keepsakes by the bedside: an old framed photo of her with Rhonin on their graduation day with Vereesa between them smiling, a carved Kirin Tor sigil from her mentor Antonidas, and a pressed lily from the gardens of Boralus, one her mother had given her long ago, before they stopped seeing eye to eye.
No, she wasn’t going back to Kul Tiras either. Her mother had said to endure. To pray to the tides. To be patient.
“Marriages are difficult, Jaina. You think I was happy the first five years?”
Jaina shook the memory away like a cobweb as she took off her clothes, replacing them with a loose tank and cotton shorts. She moved to the small mirror by the bedside, wiping the smudged eyeliner from beneath her eyes with a practiced swipe.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to her reflection. “You’ll talk to someone about getting another new number. You’ll check on your application that you put in for quarters in the Mage Tower. You’ll be okay… eventually.”
As she slipped into bed, the familiar cold of solitude pressed in. But it was quieter than being married to someone who had already left her long before the divorce.
And for now, that was quiet enough.
With a tired flick of her fingers, the arcane lamp faded to nothing. The room went dim, lit only by the faint glow of the moon through the colored glass window, its light fractured into ribbons across the bedsheets.
Jaina placed her phone on the nightstand, the cord threading from the outlet to its port with an ungraceful tug. She could see the screen flash one last time, thankfully with no new messages, before she turned it face down.
She eased deeper into the bed, letting the worn quilt wrap around her like a cocoon. Her fingers absently traced the edge of the spine of the book resting on her lap: The Arcane Patterns of Temporal Threads, Volume II. Something dense and familiar.
But since the divorce, the words didn’t stick anymore.
They scattered like birds at the edge of her focus, impossible to gather.
With a sigh, she closed the book and set it gently in her lap. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, which she was still not used to, the pale dome enchanted to echo the night sky above the city. Stars drifted there like dust in water.
She was still getting used to so many sounds.
The occasional chime of a leyline stabilizer down the street. The gentle hum of enchanted brooms from the tavern below, cleaning long after closing hours. Laughter from Dalaran University students stumbling home from the bar down the block. Not quite raucous. But not quite the silence she was used to.
In Lordaeron, her nights had been filled with quiet, with courtyard fountains, the shuffle of workers finally able to go home, the rustle of leaves in the restored library gardens.
She’d poured herself into that library project, her passion made real. Shelves of ancient scrolls revived. Tomes re-inked and rebounded.
Young apprentices were guided through the corridors to study magical theory again. Her dream was to shape Lordaeron into a haven where mages from every corner of the world could study freely, without coin or constraint.
Once, she had belonged there even if it had been a fantasy.
When Arthas’ father was alive, Jaina had been free. She was a respected scholar allowed to chase her ambitions as long as she dressed the part and smiled at the galas. She could study, rebuild, dream.
But then the old king died.
And Arthas inherited more than a throne. He took on the business, the legacy, and the cold ambition that had always simmered beneath his surface charm. Her kind, careless prince had calcified into someone she had barely recognized.
She remembered the arguments.
“You don’t need to work,” he’d said once, offering her a second home, a new car, a new circle of friends. “Why can’t you just be happy?”
And she had tried even when he started making decisions without her, even when he missed their dinners. Even when she found out what he’d done with the money set aside for the restoration fund, the one they had built together.
The betrayal had cut too deep, not just what he did. But how easily he thought money could fix it.
Stay quiet. Look pretty. Take the title. Bear the weight of his legacy.
She had stood in their kitchen with tears streaming down her face, as he tried to hand her a check with six figures and a hollow apology.
No amount of gold could undo that kind of hurt.
And still, a part of her missed the dream they shared. The children they had talked about. The home they nearly built.
She blinked, hard.
Her chest tightened, and for a moment she thought the sob would rise, choke her. But she clenched her jaw, breathing in slowly, deeply. The tears burned but didn’t fall.
Not tonight.
She turned her head toward the window and whispered to herself, “You left for a reason. Don’t forget.”
The wind caught the crystal chimes outside and made them sing. A soft, eerie melody that felt older than the city itself.
Jaina placed the book on the nightstand. Her hands lingered there for a beat, fingertips against the wood, grounding herself. She pulled the quilt higher and tried to quiet her thoughts.
Tomorrow would come early. Rhonin was gone until the end of the week, visiting Vereesa’s family, and the entire office was running lean. She’d volunteered to take over his schedule, a full slate of enchantment audits and one-on-one mentorships with young mages barely out of their first semester.
Busy was good. Busy meant silence. Busy meant no time to think about him.
Jaina closed her eyes.
The stillness had just started to take her, muscles loose beneath the blankets, the hum of Dalaran soft in the distance, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.
Jaina groaned into her pillow, the sudden noise like a pinprick against her fraying nerves. She rolled over, already expecting to see Unknown Number flashing across the screen. Her body tensed in anticipation.
But when she grabbed the phone and blinked the screen awake, her heart eased.
Vereesa: Sorry it’s so late. Can’t sleep. Just wanted to see if you’re awake. Things are busy here with my family.
Jaina sighed, her body relaxing as she sank deeper into the mattress. She turned onto her side, thumb hovering over the keyboard, lips curling into a genuine, if tired, smile.
She still remembered the first few nights after the split, curled on Vereesa’s overstuffed couch while the twins screamed down the hall. Rhonin had been all apologies, and Vereesa had fussed over her like a sister, bringing her tea and dragging her into the garden when she refused to leave the guest room.
Since then, she and Vereesa had become inseparable. Quiet lunches. Wine-soaked evenings. Tearful confessions shared over candlelight. They were both healing, both navigating the jagged wreckage of their lives, Jaina from betrayal, Vereesa from grief.
Jaina: I’m awake. How’s Quel’Thalas?
Vereesa: Exhausting. But the boys are having fun. Rhonin keeps sneaking off to talk to the magisters. Typical 🙄
Jaina let out a soft laugh under her breath, fingers tapping quickly across the screen.
Jaina: Sounds delightful 😆 I’m glad you’re getting some family time.
Vereesa: So… we have decided to stay through the holidays. My sister thought it was a good way to cheer Mom up since it's her first Winter Veil without Dad.
Jaina’s smile faltered. Her mind ticked over the date. Winter Veil was next week.
She hadn’t allowed herself to think about it.
She had told herself she’d spend it quietly this year alone. A roast from the tavern downstairs, a borrowed novel tucked beneath her blanket, a night without ceremony or judgment.
Just quiet.
She could almost taste it. The fire in the lounge, the scent of cloves and roasted meats, the murmur of strangers celebrating in the streets below, while she curled into her solitude.
Better that than going to Kul Tiras.
She had ignored the unread string of messages from her mother, stretching back for days.
Mother: Come home. The house feels empty without you.
Mother: It would mean so much to your father.
Mother: Don’t be stubborn. Family is everything.
And one from her father, short and careful, the kind he only ever sent when pressed into it.
Papa: We miss you. Please consider coming home.
She still heard her mother’s voice, sharp and cold, when she had first called to explain the separation.
“You weren’t fulfilling his needs. All men stray, dear, but a good wife endures.”
Her throat tightened at the memory. As though betrayal was just an inconvenience. As though Arthas’ cruelty should have been endured for the sake of appearances.
That was the day Jaina had stopped telling her mother anything.
Now, when the messages came about admirers in Kul Tiras, about promising sons of naval families, Jaina simply ignored them. Sometimes she would excuse herself with a half-hearted 'I'm busy with work' reply. But mostly she let them pile up unread because nothing was waiting for her back home.
And yet as she reread Vereesa’s message, she felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of her surrounded by family, the warmth of tradition, the love of her children’s laughter filling a home. It reminded her too sharply of the Winter Veils she had once shared with Arthas the glittering promise of a future that never came to be.
She picked up her phone again, the screen lighting with the soft glow. Her fingers moved without fully thinking.
Jaina: How nice that you’ll be spending the holidays with your family. I’m glad your mom won’t be alone. Do you need me to check on the house?
Vereesa: Already taken care of! Modera is keeping an eye on it for us. But thank you for offering!
Then, another message popped up before she could reply.
Vereesa: Are you heading home for Winter Veil?
Jaina stared at the question. A simple one, but somehow heavier than it had any right to be.
Her thumb hovered. She bit her lip.
She didn’t want to lie. But she also didn’t want to admit the truth.
Eventually, she settled for a half-truth.
Jaina: Nothing planned. Just a quiet night.
Vereesa: That’s why I’m inviting you to come stay with us. Mom and I already talked about it. We’d love to have you for Winter Veil. Please say yes 🥺
Jaina blinked at the screen.
She had never been to the high elven lands of Quel’Thalas. Not even during her days of study. The idea of spending Winter Veil there beneath the ancient trees, amidst the glowing spires and arcane songbirds, was almost surreal.
Her fingers hesitated again as she typed.
Jaina: I don’t want to impose…
Vereesa: I’m the one who invited you! You helped me survive this year. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten through losing my dad. This is my Winter Veil gift to you.
Jaina felt her throat tighten. She pressed her phone to her chest, a new kind of warmth blooming inside her, one of friendship.
Jaina: Okay! Yes! I’d love to come.
Vereesa: Yay 🤗🎉 I’m so glad! I’ll text you later this week with the travel plans. Sleep now, you have work early in the morning!
Jaina: Fine! Goodnight. Sweet dreams!
She set the phone down slowly, the screen fading to black beside her. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, nestled into the warmth.
The nervous flutter in her chest was impossible to ignore, but beneath it was something else, something she hadn’t felt in weeks.
Excitement.
Her first Winter Veil in Quel’Thalas. A place she had never been. And for a fleeting moment, it offered her something, a pause from the tangled mess of her life.
Jaina pulled the quilt tight, closed her eyes, and let the thought carry her toward sleep.
The portal shimmered, crackling softly as Jaina stepped through and into Windrunner Village. A soft crunch met her boots, the result of fresh snowfall. The scent of pine and something sweet baking in the distance wrapped around her like a familiar spell.
Windrunner Village was smaller than she imagined. Quaint, nestled in the gold-touched arms of Quel’Thalas, where even winter felt curated. Elven lanterns lined the cobblestone paths, flickering with silver light even in the daylight, and a wreath hung from every door. The air carried faint chimes, no doubt part of some early Winter Veil enchantment cast by magister hands.
Jaina pulled her coat tighter and glanced at her phone. Thankfully, no new messages. Just the last one from Vereesa that morning.
Vereesa: Sylvanas will be picking you up after her shift. Don’t be late 😏
She arched a brow at that text.
Jaina tucked the phone into her coat pocket and exhaled, watching her breath swirl in the cold. She hadn’t seen Sylvanas since the twins’ chaotic birthday last year. Cupcakes everywhere, a magician pulling small critters out of hats for children, and Sylvanas in the back of the room, sipping soda with a party hat on.
And the brunette-haired woman who came in with Sylvanas. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, holding the party hat by the string, barely paying attention. She had been thumbing her phone like it was a weapon. Jaina had tried not to stare.
Still, it had been Sylvanas who drew her attention most. Cool, reserved, but not unkind. They had stood near the fireplace, talking in murmurs over the chaos, mostly about their respective work and how the kids were louder than arcane missiles. Jaina remembered the way Sylvanas had laughed. Her voice had a particular rasp to it.
Jaina adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and wheeled her suitcase along the snow-brushed stone. The wind whispered faintly through the trees, carrying with it the high, delicate chime of elven wards in the treetops.
She spotted her almost immediately. A tall figure near the edge of the square, half-shadowed beneath the bare boughs of a tree.
Sylvanas Windrunner stood there in full uniform, deep forest green and bronze, accented with the crisp insignia of the Farstriders Game Wardens. Her long coat was regulation but worn with a casual defiance. Collar popped slightly, belt loose at her hips, gloves tucked into one pocket. Her bow and weathered quiver were slung across her back. The blonde in her hair caught the light. She wasn’t glaring exactly, more like calculating whether to stay still or pace.
When her eyes met Jaina’s, something shifted. Sylvanas smiled awkwardly.
“Hey,” she said, lifting a hand in a soft half-wave as she stepped closer. Her breath clouded briefly between them. “I hope you didn’t wait long.”
“Not at all,” Jaina replied with a smile. “Nice uniform.”
Sylvanas glanced down at herself like she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “Yeah. Had a shift earlier. Had to tag a stubborn stag that keeps going into a campsite. He’s made off with three space heaters.”
Jaina chuckled. “Sounds like a local legend in the making.”
“Let me take that for you,” Sylvanas offered, reaching for the rolling suitcase. Jaina handed it over gladly, relieved not to haul it through the snow-covered path.
Then Sylvanas offered a smirk, nodding toward the path that wound deeper into the trees. “Come on. The Spire is this way. Vereesa’s caught at home, wrangling the twins. Apparently, our mom thought cookies and candy were an appropriate meal.”
They laughed, and some of the stiffness cracked between them like ice underfoot.
Their boots crunched over the path, the snow thinning in patches where magic wards warmed the earth. The village unfolded around them. Elven homes shaped like spires that reached the sky with quiet elegance, and pale birds watching them from rooftops.
“I remember you. From the birthday party last year,” Sylvanas said.
Jaina smiled, glancing sideways at her. “I remember you, too. You were the only one who wasn’t covered in icing. Weren’t you playing magician’s assistant?”
Sylvanas made a face. “I nearly set the drapes on fire trying to vanish a balloon animal. Vereesa almost killed me.”
“And you brought someone,” Jaina added, her voice gentle. “The woman in the corner. Brunette. I never caught her name.”
Sylvanas’ pace slowed just a little, the silence creeping in before her reply.
“Lana’thel…” she said eventually. Her voice was quieter now, edged with something sharp beneath the calm. “We aren’t together anymore.”
Jaina hesitated, touched her scarf. “I’m sorry.”
Sylvanas shrugged. “Don’t be. It was… overdue.”
The bitterness flickered and passed like a shadow overhead.
Jaina was quiet for a beat, then offered gently. “Still, endings are never easy.”
Sylvanas looked at her with a faint smile and said nothing more.
They walked in silence for a few moments more. Then the Windrunner Spire rose before them, proud, elegant, and weather-worn in a way only ancient elven architecture could be. Ruby-colored stone stretched upward between high arches and narrow balconies, and golden ivy curled along the edges. Smoke rose from one of the upper chimneys. The scent of cedar drifted faintly on the cold wind.
Sylvanas glanced up at it and gave a dry laugh, eyes catching one of the frost-rimmed windows.
“The house is already a madhouse. Vereesa’s chasing the boys, our mom’s trying to decorate the halls, and someone dropped an entire tray of honey bread this morning.”
Jaina smiled. “Sounds like Winter Veil came early.”
Sylvanas rolled her eyes, but there was a softness in it. “It’s chaos. But… my mom is happy having everyone here.” She paused. “She hasn’t had the house full in a long time.”
“How is she doing?”
Sylvanas’ steps slowed as they reached the entrance. The great ironwood doors were just ahead, slightly ajar, voices faint inside.
“She has her good days,” Sylvanas said, glancing away. “And bad days. She hates being retired,” she laughed. “She wants to be out in the field again, protecting the land, yelling at cadets, telling politicians they aren’t doing enough.”
Jaina smiled softly, but something nudged at her. “And how are you doing?”
Sylvanas stopped. Just short of the door.
Her expression didn’t shift immediately. There was a flicker of something behind her eyes, but it passed quickly, controlled and icy.
“You’re the first one who’s asked,” she said, voice low, but not cold.
Jaina blinked. “Really?”
Sylvanas gave a short nod. “Everyone else’s too busy trying not to say the wrong thing.” She met Jaina’s gaze, unreadable. “I’m fine.”
There was a long breath between them. Snow fell again, brushing her shoulders.
“I’m busy with work. Taking care of my mom. Helping Arator with homework and figure out his trick shot to make the hockey team. Those are the things that matter. My feelings?” She gave a small shrug. “Not a priority right now.”
Jaina looked at her, surprised, not just at the words, but the steadiness behind them. There was no tremble, no anger. Just a quiet refusal to dwell.
“You don’t think they should be?” Jaina asked, carefully.
Sylvanas looked down at the snow, then back up at the door. “What would be the point?”
Jaina didn’t respond right away. Something in her chest ached, not pity, but a kind of recognition. She, too, had told herself versions of that. But hearing it from Sylvanas, this composed, razor-sharp woman with pain pressed deep beneath the surface, made it feel heavier.
She reached out, briefly touching Sylvanas’ sleeve to comfort.
Sylvanas didn’t move for a beat.
“Let’s get inside,” she said.
And with that, she pushed open the door. The Windrunner Spire hit them like a wave of color, sound, and motion.
The grand foyer, with its polished marble floors, high-vaulted ceilings, and ancestral portraits, had been thoroughly overtaken by the festive chaos of small children and holiday preparations. Garland trailed from the banisters in barely-coordinated loops, glittering lights blinked rhythmically, and then…
“Aunt Sylvanas!” Two blur-speed shapes barreled down the stairs.
Galadin and Giramar, the twin terrors, red-headed and fueled by equal parts sugar and inherited Windrunner intensity, launched themselves onto Sylvanas’ legs before she could dodge. She barely flinched.
“I see the sugar hasn’t worn off,” Sylvanas said dryly, balancing herself as the boys clung to her like barnacles.
“Did you kill a lynx today?” one of them yelled.
The other shouted. “Or a bear?”
Sylvanas’ eyes grew wide. “I did see a huge stag the size of this room.”
The twins’ eyes grew wide as they took in her tale. Jaina smiled at her, listening to the small fib. As if she noticed, Sylvanas looked up and winked at Jaina.
Behind them came a lanky teenage figure in a hoodie with too many patches, who gave them both a bored wave while texting one-handed. “Hey, Aunt Sylv,” he said without looking up. “Hi, uh—Jaina, right?”
“Arator?” Jaina asked warmly with a nod.
She had never met Vereesa’s nephew in person, but she had seen the photos of him around her home as if he were her own. Arator was the son of Vereesa’s estranged eldest sister. A sister Vereesa never talked about. All Jaina knew was that Arator was being raised by his grandma.
Then, from the hallway, a blur of silver hair and a blue sweater.
Vereesa.
“There you are!” she called, practically glowing with cheer and exhaustion. She swept Jaina into a tight hug. “Anar'alah belore, I’m so happy to see you. You made it through the twins’ warzone alive.”
Jaina laughed, hugging her back. “Just barely.”
Vereesa pulled back to look at her, hands still on Jaina’s shoulders. “You look great.”
Behind them, Giramir had begun telling Sylvanas a story, something involving a sled, a mud puddle, and what sounded like an attempted experiment. Sylvanas listened with patience and a vague look of horror, while Galadin clung to her arm.
Vereesa nudged Jaina’s elbow and jerked her head slightly towards Sylvanas. “So,” she whispered, “did you two have a nice chat on the walk over?”
Jaina turned to look at her, raising a brow. “It was…fine.”
“Mhm.” Vereesa’s smile curved into something mischievous. “She didn’t give a lecture about forest conservation?”
“No,” Jaina said with a small laugh. “We mostly talked about your mom, and… a little about her ex.”
Vereesa’s eyes widened slightly. “Interesting…”
“You’re meddling.”
“Me meddle? Never.”
As Vereesa tugged Jaina down the corridor, escaping the sugar-fueled children, her gaze wandered. The Spire was beautiful in a timeless way, stone and wood entwined with magic, every archway etched with faint ancestral runes, glowing softly under enchantments. But something else had begun to take root here.
Here and there, ribbons of green and red were woven into bannisters. Icicle charms floated lazily in the corners of high ceilings, shimmering softly with illusion spells. Enchanted candles drifted midair in one hall, casting little warmth-motes over portraits of generations of Windrunners. Mistletoe in a chandelier, though half of it dangled haphazardly.
But what truly caught Jaina’s eye was the tree.
Set just off the grand foyer in a living room, it stood easily fifteen feet tall. It’s needles deep emerald, dusted with frost from an open skylight above, and its branches spread like arms ready to hold a hundred ornaments, but it was bare. Not a single bauble or ribbon adorned it. No lights. No star.
“Is it meant to be like that?” Jaina asked.
Vereesa glanced over and smiled. “We high elves don’t decorate our trees until the winter solstice.”
“Shortest day of the year,” came a rich, measured voice behind them.
Jaina turned to see Lireesa Windrunner, matriarch and former Ranger General of the Farstriders.
She moved with grace, tall and sure in a long sweater the color of wine. Her hair, bound in a silver clasp, fell over one shoulder. Her eyes sharp, so clearly the origin of Sylvanas’, studied Jaina with unmistakable interest.
Jaina inclined her head. “Lireesa, it’s nice to meet you, finally.”
Lireesa had been absent from the twins’ birthday last year as she was taking care of her ailing husband.
“Jaina,” she smiled, kindly. “It’s good to meet you, too. But to answer your question, we don’t decorate our tree until the solstice. It’s an old elven custom. The tree is a symbol of endurance. We wait for the darkest day before we give it light. A quiet promise to the season that we’ll outlast it.”
“That’s beautiful,” Jaina said softly.
“It’s an old tradition that goes back to generations,” Lireesa replied. Then her gaze turned slightly playful. “Vereesa’s mentioned you quite a bit. Sylvanas spoke of you as well.”
Jaina glanced toward the hall, where Vereesa had already vanished down, likely chasing a sugar-filled child, judging by the high-pitched laughter.
“She has?” Jaina asked.
Lireesa tilted her head, an odd little smile, one that said she knew more than she let on. “Apparently, you were the highlight of the twins’ birthday party last year.”
Jaina stumbled, unsure what to say. Before she could try, Lireesa turned and called out.
“Lirath!”
A young voice echoed above. “Coming!”
A moment later, footsteps descended from a curved staircase, and a tall young elf appeared, his golden hair tied, smelling faintly of spilled ink.
“Yes, Mom?” he said politely, then glanced at Jaina. “Oh— Jaina, right? Vereesa told us you were coming.”
“That’s me,” Jaina said, offering her hand. “Lirath? You are studying music, right?”
He shook it, his fingers slightly ink-stained with a smile. “Well… sound illusion, but I sneak into bard classes.”
“He's home from university in Silvermoon,” Lireesa said proudly. “Lirath, take Jaina’s things to the guest room.”
“Of course,” he said, grabbing her suitcase with a practiced flick of strength and spell.
Vereesa reappeared at the hallway’s edge, cheeks pink from warmth or chasing, likely both. “We’ve got warm mulled cider steeping in the kitchen. Come down once you’ve settled in. I’ll save you a mug before my children claim the entire pot.”
Jaina smiled at her. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Then she followed Lirath up the gently curving staircase, her footsteps softened by the thick runner beneath them. The stone walls around them hummed faintly with stored heat, old magic keeping the chill from creeping in. She carried only her bag now, watching as Lirath maneuvered her suitcase up each step with a flick of his wrist.
“So,” Jaina said, her voice low but warm, “music in Silvermoon. Have you learned anything interesting?”
Lirath glanced over his shoulder, and his face lit up. “I’m focusing on harmonic manipulation and resonance theory this semester. Basically, how music interacts with emotion and perception through spellcraft.”
“That sounds fascinating,” Jaina said sincerely. “Silvermoon always did have the most refined approach to magic.”
Lirath beamed. “Professor Salonar says we’re ‘chasing the music’s soul.’ A little pretentious but… it kind of fits. Before I left for break, we were discussing the songs of the Tidesages in Kul Tiras.”
Jaina paused on the step behind him, smiling. “I’m from Kul Tiras.”
Lirath turned halfway, blinking. “You’re from Kul Tiras?
“I was born in Boralus,” she said with a fond nod.
“Really?” he said, genuine wonder in his voice. “I’ve never even left Quel’Thalas. Silvermoon is the farthest I’ve gone. I would love to visit one day.”
“You’d like Kul Tiras,” Jaina said as they reached the landing. “Although I can’t speak much of the Tidesage songs, as they are a little stuffy for my taste. But there is a lot of music there. Sea shanties, old lute bars, even symphonies.”
Lirath’s smile faltered. “I’d like to travel one day,” he said, pushing open a door to a warmly lit hallway. “Play my music for people who’ve never heard elven ballads. Maybe busk in Dalaran or on the docks in Kul Tiras. Just… not yet.”
“Well, if you ever decide to visit Dalaran, let me know. I’d be happy to give you a tour. I know Vereesa would love to have you there,” Jaina smiled.
“I’d like that,” he said softly as they stopped in front of an arched door. “Thank you.”
But then his gaze dropped a little. “I can’t leave my mom. Not now. Not after Dad.”
The hallway here was quieter, the warm light and holiday decorations giving way to the gentler glow of natural light filtering through high, narrow windows.
He pushed the door open with a faint grunt and stepped inside first.
Jaina followed him in and paused at the threshold.
The room was still and cool, not cold, just untouched. The air was faintly scented of burnt incense. A light layer of dust clung to the surfaces, not neglected but undisturbed. Someone had once loved this room, but that love had long since quieted.
It was beautiful, in its own way. The tall windows looked out over the woods, catching the last slants of daylight. A faded elven tapestry hung on one wall, depicting a hunting lynx beneath the stars. The writing desk was simple and elegant, its chair slightly askew as if someone had left in a hurry. On the shelf beside the bed were a few worn books, titles both in Thalassian and Common, and a delicate wooden carving of a phoenix, its wings outstretched.
Despite a few other signs of a person who once lived here, there were no scattered belongings. No photographs. No clothing left behind, not even a forgotten scarf.
What lingered instead was nature. The bedframe was draped in fake ivy vines. A small wind chime shaped like leaves hung near the window. Even the color palette, greens, golds, and soft browns, felt like someone who loved the outside world more than this room.
As Lirath set her bag on the edge of the bed, Jaina spoke quietly.
“Whose room is this?” she glanced around.
Lirath’s hands paused on the handle of her suitcase.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he straightened slowly, not meeting her eyes.
“It’s my sister’s,” he murmured
Jaina tilted her head. “Sylvanas?”
Lirath shook his head, not sharply, but with a kind of restraint. “No, not Sylvanas.”
There was a pause. His next words came with careful weight.
“Alleria. Our eldest sister.”
Jaina blinked. The name hadn’t been spoken once since she had known Vereesa. But now that it had, she was connecting the dots in her head.
The photo on the mantle in Vereesa’s living room, taken around Lirath’s birth, showed all three Windrunner sisters, standing close. Sylvanas had been the one on the far left, smiling softly. A quiet strength in her stance, arm draped protectively around a much-younger Vereesa. Then there was the eldest sister, with sun-colored hair, standing behind, expressionless.
But in all her conversations with Vereesa, not once had Jaina heard that name. Alleria. Vereesa always lit up when she spoke of Sylvanas, sometimes teasing but fierce and loving, and she adored Lirath, her baby brother.
But Alleria? Nothing. Not even a whisper.
Jaina studied the room again, something hollow in her chest. The stillness here weighted it, a kind of reverence or regret.
She didn’t ask more. The name itself felt like it had stretched the air thin.
“Thank you,” she said instead, turning toward Lirath with a small smile. “For bringing up my things,”
He gave a short nod, polite, but more subdued than before. “If you need anything, just ask.”
Then he slipped out the door, closing it gently behind him.
Jaina stood in the center of the room for a moment longer, listening to the silence. Then slowly, she moved to the bed and unzipped her bag, beginning to unpack her clothes and toiletries into the wardrobe.
Her hands moved without thought. Her mind, however, lingered, not on the silence of Alleria’s name, but on the woman she had spent time with, briefly.
Sylvanas.
According to Lireesa, Sylvanas had remarked that Jaina was the highlight of the twins’ birthday party last year.
The comment struck Jaina as odd. After all, she and Sylvanas had only just met at that party, though they had ended up talking for most of the evening. She could recall Lana’thel’s envious gaze from across the room. Maybe that’s what Lireesa had meant.
As she unpacked her shoes and set them by the door, her thoughts lingered more and more on Sylvanas.
The woman was quiet but sharp with a dry humor tucked just beneath her cool veneer. There was something about her. Jaina had sensed the pull even back at the hectic party.
And now here… it was clearer. Sylvanas was still grieving, still carrying burdens she didn’t speak aloud, but there was warmth buried there. A flicker of something unspoken between the sarcasm and silence.