Pelturas Whitemoon sat in the wooden chair beside his daughter's bed, staring at her pale face. Relara looked so peaceful when she slept with her white hair spread across the pillow like moonlight on water.
Two hundred and fifty years.
That's how long it had been since Relara was born. Pelturas could still remember holding her as a baby, how she would grab at his fingers with those tiny hands. His wife Selenare had laughed at how protective he was, always checking on their daughter in the middle of the night.
Selenare. Even thinking her name hurt.
Pelturas bit hard on his lips and closed his eyes, remembering better times. Selenare teaching Relara to string her first bow. The three of them sharing meals under the great trees of Ashenvale. His wife's laughter as she told stories of her patrol adventures, carefully leaving out the dangerous parts for their daughter's ears.
Those days felt like a lifetime ago.
The patrol had been routine, or so Selenare had said when she kissed him goodbye that morning. Just a sweep of the southern borders with three other Sentinels, checking for any signs of orc activity.
She had promised to be back before nightfall.
That was the last time Pelturas saw his wife.
The lone survivor, Sentinel Darkriver, had stumbled back to Astranaar three days later, badly wounded and barely coherent. Through her tears and pain, she managed to tell them what happened. The Warsong orcs had been waiting in ambush, far more organized than anyone expected. The battle had been fierce, but the orcs had overwhelmed them through sheer numbers.
Selenare and two others had been taken prisoner while Darkriver escaped only by falling into a ravine and playing dead.
Nobody knew what happened to the captured Sentinels after that.
The rescue parties found nothing but cold campsites and dead ends. But Pelturas knew. Everyone knew, even if they wouldn't say it out loud. The Warsong clan didn't take prisoners to trade or ransom.
The savages had killed her.
She was dead. Had been dead for eight months now.
Relara had taken the news worse than anyone. She had screamed, she had cried, and then she had gone silent for three days. When she finally spoke again, her voice was cold as winter ice.
"I'm going to kill them all, father. Every last orc!"
From that day forward, Relara threw herself into training with a fury that terrified Pelturas. She practiced archery until her fingers bled. She spoke constantly of joining the Sentinels, of making them pay for what they had done...
She was going to get herself killed, just like her mother.
Pelturas couldn't lose her too. He couldn't bury another member of his family, couldn't stand over another grave and wonder if he could have done something different. So he had made a choice that still haunted his dreams.
The herbs had been easy enough to obtain. A sleeping draught, he had told the herbalist. For his own insomnia after his wife's death. Nobody questioned a grieving widower's need for rest. The first dose had simply made Relara drowsy during her training. The second had put her to sleep for a full day. By the third, she had slipped into the deep coma that held her now.
But how much longer could he keep this up?
And the herbs... they were becoming harder to find excuses for.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his dark thoughts. Pelturas took one last look at his daughter's peaceful face, then stood and walked to the entrance. He knew who it would be before he opened the door.
"Ishnu-alah, Avalin," he said, greeting the night elf woman who stood on his doorstep.
Avalin Moonwhisper was something of a legend in Astranaar. The adventurer had arrived in town several months ago and quickly made a name for herself by helping anyone who asked. She had cleared out dangerous wildlife, retrieved lost items, and even helped the local merchants with their supply problems. When word spread about Relara's mysterious illness, Avalin had immediately volunteered to help find a cure.
Of course, he had lied to her about what kind of help he needed.
"The stone, Avalin... did you get it? The oracle didn't.." Pelturas quietly asked.
Avalin nodded seriously. "The Shadethicket was true to its name, but Elune guided my hand. The stone is yours." She reached into her pack and pulled out a smooth, dark stone that seemed to absorb the light around it. "I hope this helps your daughter."
Pelturas took the moonstone with trembling hands.
This would indeed help Relara, just not in the way Avalin believed…
"Oh, Avalin, you have saved my daughter!" he exclaimed, clutching the stone tightly. "I know the power of the moonstone will give back my daughter her strength!"
The adventurer smiled, clearly pleased to have helped. Pelturas felt a stab of guilt at her obvious joy, but he pushed it aside.
This was necessary. This was protecting Relara.
"I can never repay you fully for the aid you have given me," Pelturas continued, "but... please, take this. Other than Relara, it is my most dear possession."
He walked to a chest in the corner and retrieved a well-crafted leather chestplate. It had belonged to Thessarian, though he didn't mention that detail. The armor was beautifully made and would serve Avalin well in her adventures.
She blinked in surprise but accepted the gift graciously. "Thank you, Pelturas. This is too generous."
"Nonsense," he replied, already turning toward his daughter's bed. "Nothing is too much for the one who saved Relara."
He walked to the small table beside Relara's bed and began crushing the moonstone into a cup of tea he had prepared earlier. The powder dissolved into the liquid, turning it a faint gray color.
The moonstone wasn't really a cure, of course. None of the items he had sent Avalin to collect were cures in the traditional sense. But they were preparing Relara's body for what was to come. Each ingredient served a purpose that the helpful adventurer could never guess.
Bathran's Hair to soften the spirit's walls.
The processed Tear of Elune to scour her resistance.
And now, the Fallen Moonstone... to make the vessel ready.
This knowledge hadn't come from any druid or herbalist in Astranaar. No, he had found it in much darker places, learned from voices that whispered to him in the shadows.
Voices that promised safety for his daughter, if only he was willing to listen.
He lifted his daughter's head. "Here you are, Relara," he whispered, pouring the gray liquid past her lips. "Drink this. Be safe."
A moment passed. Then, her eyelids fluttered.
"Mmh... father?" she mumbled.
His heart seized. It was happening too fast. "Relara... you're awake?"
Relara struggled to respond, her amber eyes blinking open and closed. She looked so much like her mother in that moment. The same determined expression, even when barely conscious.
The same stubborn refusal to give up.
That stubbornness is exactly what will get her killed.
Just like it got Selenare killed.
"Rest now, my daughter," Pelturas said, forcing his voice to remain calm.
He looked at Avalin, who was watching the scene with obvious delight, and felt tears begin to run down his cheeks. The adventurer probably thought they were tears of pure joy.
If only she knew the truth.
"Relara is saved, Avalin. Thank you," Pelturas whispered.
"I'm so glad," Avalin smiled radiantly. "May she have a long and happy life."
Happy. The word was a fang. He guided the adventurer to the door. "Thank you again. I... we need time."
He closed the door on her, the sound of her footsteps fading into the sounds of a world he was leaving behind. He returned to the bedside. Relara was trying to push herself up.
"Father?" she rasped. "What happened? My body... it feels like a nightsaber lay on me all night."
Pelturas gently pushed her back down, stroking her hair. "You've been sick, my love. Terribly sick. But you're getting better now. Just rest."
..
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Relara had been sick before, but her body didn't feel like her own anymore. When she tried to move her fingers, they responded slowly, as if they belonged to someone else.
How long have I been asleep?
Relara wanted to demand answers about why she felt so weak, but sleep was already pulling her under again.
Her eyes drifted shut despite her efforts to stay awake.
The next time consciousness found her, she could feel herself being carried. Through half-open eyes, she caught glimpses of tree branches passing overhead.
Where are we going?
She tried to speak, but only managed a soft groan.
"It's alright, Relara," her father's voice whispered, close to her ear. "We're almost there. Everything will be better soon."
Better where? She struggled to make sense of what was happening. If she was sick, shouldn't they be going to see a healer in Astranaar? But the sounds around them suggested they were heading much deeper into the forest, not toward town.
Why did she feel a wrongness in the air that seemed to grow stronger with each step…?
Sleep claimed her again before she could identify what was bothering her.
When Relara next woke, the wrongness had become overwhelming. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel it pressing against her. The very air tasted bitter, and there was a smell that reminded her of sulfur and brimstone.
Fel magic.
Every night elf learned to recognize the signs of demonic corruption, and the stories her mother used to tell her about the War of the Ancients always emphasized how fel magic felt wrong on a fundamental level, how it made the natural world recoil in disgust.
But why would they be anywhere near fel magic?
Relara forced her eyes open and immediately wished she hadn't. They were in a clearing surrounded by twisted trees whose bark had turned black and whose leaves hung limp and colorless.
And standing in the center of the clearing were creatures that made her blood freeze.
Satyrs.
Relara's heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the corrupted beings before her. There were five of them, their goat-like legs ending in cloven hooves that had left deep gouges in the blackened earth. Their muscular torsos were covered in coarse fur, and curved horns jutted from their skulls from where their eyes blazed with fel fire.
She recognized the markings on their bodies. Felmusk satyrs. The same clan that had been terrorizing the borders of Ashenvale for countless years, corrupting the forest wherever they went.
What is father doing here? Why aren't we running?
Relara tried to call out a warning, but her body still felt like it was wrapped in thick blankets. The herbs, whatever her father had been giving her, were still affecting her ability to do anything.
The largest of the satyrs stepped forward. His horns were decorated with rings of tarnished silver, and scars crisscrossed his chest like a map of old battles.
"Pelturas Whitemoon," the satyr chief rumbled. "You have seen the wisdom of our path."
What path? Father, what is he talking about?
Her father stepped into view, and Relara felt her world tilt sideways. Pelturas looked different from what she remembered. His usually neat hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes that made him appear almost hollow. But worse than his appearance was the way he held himself… hunched over, submissive, nothing like the proud night elf who had raised her.
"Chief Lorax," Pelturas whispered. "I... I've brought her, as we discussed."
The satyr chief's burning eyes fixed on her father with what might have been approval. "Good. You have finally seen the wisdom in our offer, night elf. Your daughter will be safe with us. Safer than she could ever be among your kind."
"She must be safe," Pelturas insisted. "And she must... understand. In time."
Chief Lorax smirked. "Understand? Oh, she will do more than understand. Child, when we're finished, she'll have forgotten there was ever anywhere else to go. The Felmusk Clan… it will be her entire world. "
She had heard whispers about what satyrs did to their prisoners, though the adults always stopped talking when 'children' came near. But the fragments she had caught over the years made it clear that their fel magic changed people into things that were no longer themselves.
No. No, this can't be happening. Father would never...
But even as she tried to deny it, pieces began falling into place. The mysterious illness that had kept her bedridden for so long. The strange herbs her father had been giving her…
He's been planning this. All this time, he's been planning to give me to the satyrs.
"Come closer, Pelturas Whitemoon," Chief Lorax rumbled. "It is time for you to join us properly. Your daughter needs a father who can protect her in her new home."
"The… the pain. Will there be pain?" he asked quietly, stepping forward.
Lorax's smile was devoid of all warmth. "Pain is the shell of your mortality cracking open. It is the price of power. It is how you know you are truly leaving your weakness behind. You will feel it, yes. And you will be grateful for it."
The satyr raised his clawed hands, and fel energy began to whirl around them like green fire. The air itself seemed to recoil from the magic, and Relara felt sick just looking at it. This was the power that had corrupted the satyrs themselves, the taint of the Burning Legion that turned everything it touched into a mockery of its former self.
"No," Relara choked out. "Father, please, no!"
Lorax pressed his hands to her father's chest.
Pelturas screamed.
The sound tore through the clearing, a cry of agony that made every bird in the trees fall silent. Relara had never heard her father make a noise like that… not even when the news of her mother's death had reached them.
This was more primal, as if the sound was being ripped from his very soul.
The fel energy continued to pour into him like poison into a wound. Relara could see it spreading under his skin, turning his veins a sickly green that pulsed with each heartbeat.
His back arched as his body began to change, bones cracking and reforming with wet sounds.
"Stop!" Relara tried to shout, but her voice came out as barely a whisper.
Not that there was anything she could do against five satyrs in this state.
Pelturas's legs were changing first. His feet broke and reshaped themselves into cloven hooves. Coarse brown fur began sprouting from his skin, covering his legs as they bent backward in the wrong direction. His spine curved as his torso grew broader and more muscular.
Next, his ears shrank slightly, while small horns pushed through the skin of his forehead. His eyes... Elune preserve her, his eyes were turning the same burning green as the satyrs around him.
"The transformation is proceeding well," Chief Lorax said, sounding pleased. "Your father will make a fine addition to our clan, young one."
Relara tensed when she realized the satyr chief was talking to her.
She had been so focused on watching her father's corruption that she hadn't noticed the other satyrs walking closer.
"Gorthak," the chief called to one of his followers. "Take the girl to the holding chambers. We will begin her own transformation once her father has fully joined us."
They were going to turn her into a demon too, weren't they…?
The satyr called Gorthak stepped forward.
He had dark fur covering his goat-like legs and muscular torso. Curved horns jutted from his skull, and his eyes burned with the same fel fire that corrupted all of his kind.
"Come, little elf," Gorthak rumbled, reaching for her with clawed hands. "Your new life awaits."
"No! I won't go with you!" Relara managed to force out through gritted teeth.
Gorthak laughed. "The preparations your father gave you will wear off eventually, but not for several days yet. Until then, you are helpless."
He bent down and scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing. His claws were careful not to pierce her skin, but she could feel their sharp points through her clothes. The smell of sulfur and brimstone was overwhelming this close to him, and the wrongness of fel magic made her skin crawl.
Relara had always known that losing her mother had changed Pelturas.
But never would she have imagined that he would make a deal with Felmusk Satyrs…
The sound of her father's screaming had stopped. She craned her neck to look back at him, and her heart nearly stopped. The transformation was almost complete. Where Pelturas Whitemoon had stood moments before, there was now a creature with goat legs, curved horns, and burning green eyes.
He looked at her with those blazing eyes, and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of the father she remembered. But then Chief Lorax placed a clawed hand on his shoulder, and any trace of the night elf he was seemed to fade away.
"Welcome to the Felmusk clan, brother," the chief rumbled. "Your daughter will be safe with us."
Her father nodded slowly. "Yes. She'll be safe."
Gorthak began walking toward the edge of the clearing, ignoring her weak struggles in his arms. Relara tried to call out to her father one more time, but the satyr clamped his massive clawed hand over her mouth before she could make a sound.
"Quiet, night elf," he growled.