The story of Silverbolt, Warrior of the Alliance

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The blades came down again. Putrid boiling ichor splashed across the faceplate of his armor.

“Silver, stop it!” A voice, very small compared to the roaring in his head. He ignored it and continued slashing, bringing both blades down in a crashing arc that bisected the thing’s body. It fell in three pieces at his feet and that awful green waste it used for blood pooled out around it. Only then did he step back and take a long breath, his limbs shuddering from the effort.

“Very well.” He turned to look at Aeia, felt a rush as healing magic rolled over his skin.

“Did you have to cut it in half?”

“I didn’t. I cut it into thirds.” All around them demons lay dead or dying. He could see Hiznor out of the corner of his eye setting one demon afire while freezing another in place, showing off as Humans were wont to do. He shook his head at the foolishness. “What’s up?”

“The company’s finished. We’re to pull out of Suramar as soon as possible.” Aeia’s face was set into a deep frown. Truth be told, Silverbolt (the only name he answered to anymore, the name his parents used for him long since consigned to memories) admired Aeia, who had managed to keep a perspective he no longer possessed. At the moment it seemed to be a struggle.

“Oh?  And why’s that?” He looked around Felsoul Hold. He and the other Soulbound had spent months killing the demons there when they weren’t making trips to Argus to take part in the war against the Legion on its home ground. Lately, killing demons was almost all Silverbolt did. He had to admit he enjoyed it.

“We’ve… the Nightborne. They’ve…”

“What Aeia is trying to say is that the motherless mana addicts have decided all your work freeing them from their bloody addiction was a waste a’your time.” Arauial walked up the hill, coming up behind Aeia, his staff in his hands. His hands still glowed with the light of Elune, which he’d been using to close some of Tensen’s wounds. He frowned at Aeia. “What?”

“I was telling him.”

“You were taking too long.” Arauial always seemed to shimmer with Elune’s light, even in the day. Silverbolt’s parents had thought he, too, marked by Elune for service, but no call from the Goddess ever came, and so all their hopes had become the nickname his long-dead brothers had given him. “Those sponging bastards took all your help and now they’ve joined the Horde. I told you they were no good parasites.”

“They were our people once.” Aeia said almost primly.

“So were the motherless Highborne, and look at what their little pink grandbabies get up to. Magic is nothing but trouble. Hell, look at Hiznor, he’s completely insane.”

“I knew you cared!” The Mage smiled while dropping waves of ice down on a few straggling demons.

“Enough.” Silver turned to whistle, saw Tensen lift his head. “Do we have a company meeting yet?”

“We literally just stopped fighting.”

“So get us one. We need to get our kit and get out of here before our… hosts… decide to turn us over to their Warchief.” He saw the look on Tensen’s face and shared a brief, bitter laugh with him, then watched him head off to assemble the company. “I’ll go make sure we have a path out of here.”

He waited for the other two Elves to depart before flicking the blood off of the swords and sheathing them. He wanted to feel angry at the betrayal, but instead he felt foreboding. The Nightborne joining the Horde put them ever closer to recreating the errors of the ancient Highborne, a war and a time Silver had lived through. He’d fought the demons under Ravencrest then, and when others had turned to the Druid arts and sought to sleep the years away, he’d decided there wasn’t much in Night Elf society for him. Not much use for a scarred old war dog, not one of the shiny new Sentinels Shandris was creating.

But then came the Satyr. He’d learned a hard lesson there — perhaps he’d outlived his world, and the Night Elves he saw in Ashenvale and Feralas and Darkshore were very little akin to the ones he’d grown up with — the world his mother and father and siblings had inhabited — but they still had need of a sword or two, used in hands that knew how. There would always be a role for him.

But the years spent as a solitary, wandering fighter for his people felt like a dream now. Watching as the Soulbound, the company he’d joined years ago, gathered up their things and prepared for a meeting to discuss the latest news, he thought back to the whirlwind of it all — the coming of the Legion to Kalimdor, the desperate battle atop Hyjal to stop them, the Warsong attacks on Ashenvale. His people had joined the Alliance as the least bad of two bad options, and now he suddenly had friends, Humans and Dwarves and Draenei and even Worgen and Pandaren and Gnomes. People he could scarcely have imagined just two decades earlier. It felt as if life was speeding up. There had been thousands of years between the first and second invasion of demons, and now here they were, fighting off a third that happened within twenty years of the second!

His swords felt heavy on his back. He felt heavier, his armor ringing as he moved, walking up the hill to where his friends and allies would stage up before leaving this place. Perhaps for the last time. He’d hoped that killing all the demons would be enough, for a while. But he’d been an old war dog since before Kalimdor ripped itself apart, and he could smell it in the air.

It was coming.

He would be waiting for it.

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