5th August 2026

Part 4 of the Veilstrike series

He tried Northrend early, before he was ready, and Icecrown handed him exactly the lesson it hands everyone who tries it early. He retreated, embarrassed more than hurt, and told himself he’d go back once he’d built the strength the first attempt had shown him he was missing — gold, contacts, a longer reach with a blade. Officially, if anyone asked, he was simply another adventurer with designs on the Lich King, same as half of Tirisfal. Privately the ambition ran differently. He didn’t want to defeat the Scourge. He wanted to understand it, and he suspected, uncomfortably, that some part of him wanted rather more than understanding.

Grizzly Hills, when his travels eventually took him there, offered him nothing but proof of how far the pull had taken him. The forests were alive in every direction, breathing, thick with the kind of vitality that made his skin — what was left of it — crawl. The Taunka held the place with a stubbornness he found himself irrationally resentful of. He left for Silverpine within the week, and told himself it was the climate. It wasn’t. He missed the stillness. He missed places where nothing grew, in the specific way a man misses a room he’s only ever felt comfortable in once the lights are off.

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More in the Veilstrike series

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