It was bitterly cold upon the water: the surface of it smooth as glass, rippling only along the edges of the boat. Lor’themar Theron had insisted on coming by the sea, by the old way. He wanted to absorb it all, not teleported instantly to the gates of Suramar City but seeing it as it was meant to be seen. And there it was, shimmering domes unfolding slowly above a still, blue lake, the tall crystalline towers looming like mountains sculpted by ancient gods. Gods, he mused, with a delicate touch and graceful sensibility—for though Suramar City had stood for ten thousand years and more, it looked fragile enough to shatter at a mere tremor.
They passed the imposing central hub of Astravar Harbor, floating toward the Moonlit Landing where lush purple ferns unfurled like welcome banners and pale violet flowers bobbed beneath a canopy of blossoming sapphire branches. The boat cut across the looming shadow of the Nighthold on toward the empty docks below the landing.
First Arcanist Thalyssra had invited him to come, the invitation so long-standing he had simply run out of excuses to forestall the visit. It was not lack of want that kept him away, but the endless demands made upon his time. As leader of the sin’dorei and member of the newly formed Horde council, his time was split between the concerns of Silvermoon City and pressing requests from Orgrimmar. Lor’themar felt split in two, and neither half his own. This visit—this indulgence—did not belong to either half, but rather floated somewhere in the middle, in the corner of his heart where his own interests lay withered and all but forgotten. Though he occasionally took the liberty of a quiet afternoon to read, those moments brought precious little rest. He often found himself abandoning his book in favor of his journal, poems and snatches of verse springing to mind, many of them returning to the same topic again and again: his potently beautiful dusk lily.
It felt suddenly ridiculous, to be gliding along in that little boat, a single nightborne oarsman rowing them toward the foot of the great city—he did not belong there. This time did not belong to him; it belonged to his people, and to the Horde.
Lor’themar glanced over his shoulder, back the way they had come. A fog had closed in as if to trap him, as if to say: Too late, your path is chosen. The oarsman shot him a questioning glance, but Lor’themar said nothing, gazing over the elf’s white hair at the quaint silver lanterns glowing on the docks. He was not going into battle, yet his chest ached with a familiar tension—he knew well that anticipation and fear were kin, sometimes impossible to tell apart. Like that tricky duo, he carried only two things on his person: his sword on his belt, hanging at his left side, and a small, worn leather-bound journal in his right hand. That heady mixture of anticipation and fear had made his hands grow slick, and now the pages beneath the leather had gone clammy with his nervousness.
He shivered, pulling the thick, crimson cloak embroidered with gold suns closer about his shoulders, watching his breath puff across the closing distance between bow and landing. Then the boat slowed, gliding past a pair of elegant cranes that watched them go by without a ruffled feather, impervious to the cold and to the intrusion.
“Steady yourself,” the oarsman warned, and then the boat nosed against the dock. The nightborne reached for the nearest post, holding them in place while Lor’themar disembarked.
“Thank you for safe passage,” Lor’themar told him, and the oarsman inclined his head once, smiling, and then pushed away, slicing back into the perfect, lily-dusted waters.
“At last you have arrived.”
Lor’themar whirled, caught off-guard, finding First Arcanist Thalyssra had not sent a page to escort him but rather had come herself. She stood observing him from the stairs leading up to the Moonlit Landing. Her voice carried easily across the water as she stood as still and perfect and lavender as the birds bathing calmly behind him.
He bowed slightly at the waist and then strode the short distance from the end of the dock to the dizzying set of steps leading up to the Gilded Market, its bustle slowed with night coming on. The tightness in his chest had not eased, and it only increased as he closed the gap between them.
Thalyssra’s smile widened at his approach, a slender purple hand appearing from inside her rune-etched cape. No longer wearing her more warlike robes of state, she had dressed for the chill in the air in sumptuous, touchable velvet—no doubt imbued with a warmth spell—a simple crystal diadem atop her crown of silvery-white braids.
When Lor’themar accepted her hand, it was cool and dry, the light shifting of her cloak sending a hint of her lilac perfume to torment him.
“I hardly believe my eyes,” she said with a light laugh as Lor’themar tucked her hand under his smoothly and took her arm. They turned toward the city together and began the ascent. “You might have given me longer to prepare, Regent Lord. I had to call back six disgruntled poets from their expeditions. They harangued me for hours. Fortunately, not in verse.”
“My apologies,” he replied in his deep baritone. “As you might imagine, it was not easy to escape my responsibilities in Silvermoon, particularly on business of such a . . . personal nature.”
Thalyssra waved him off. There were those damned lilacs again. It was going to make him dizzy. “Do not apologize, please. A bit of strife is good for them; they need something to write poems about, after all. And how is Quel’Thalas? If I close my eyes, I can still picture the winding paths through the red and gold wood, the leaves swirling against my feet on a wood smoke wind . . .”
“Such poetry already, my lady, I have come ill-prepared for our contest,” Lor’themar chuckled. Yet he appreciated every word. Even the thought of Silvermoon City and its golden spires gave him a pang. “My absence will be felt and resented, I am sure, but when I left there were no fires in urgent need of extinguishing.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Both Halduron Brightwing and Rommath had taken an unusual interest in his journey to Suramar. The words, “Go, you love-addled buffoon, or I will strangle you myself” might even have left Rommath’s lips before Lor’themar departed.
They took the stairs one by one, the lowland chill of the harbor dropping away slightly as they climbed. Pearlescent railings outlined the path to the city proper, where well-armed and armored nightborne patrolled the emptying markets.
“Resent? Nonsense.” Thalyssra nudged him and Lor’themar clung to his journal more tightly. “You are staying but two days!”
“A rare luxury for me. The demands from Orgrimmar alone are—”
“Lor’themar . . .” She squeezed his forearm through his cloak, and perhaps felt the tension that gripped him from head to foot. “This is not how I mean to go on.” The nightborne stopped and stepped back, facing him. Her diamond-bright eyes glittered in the early evening gloom, even more arresting in the dark. Lor’themar struggled to meet her gaze, wary that a lecture might be coming on. But she held his hand gently and did not let him look away. “Let your worries drop away, if only for these two days. This . . . This is but a moment, a moment out of time. The sorrows and concerns that fill your head? Let them be stones and drop them in the water. You may scoop them up as you glide away, but for these precious days they reside buried in the sand, yes?”
