“And thus, by obtaining a sample of plague that is three-fourths pure and combining it with a mixture of vile hound blood and crushed bone marrow, one can remove the impurities—”

 

“Lady Ashblossom! The Knights of the Ebon Blade have breached our defenses. The Reliquary is being overrun!”

 

“Impossible,” Mori turned to the wounded messenger in the doorway, placing the textbook down, “there were supposed to be fifty sentinels and twenty abominations guarding the entrance.”

 

“All but some have been cut down, my lady. I am fortunate to have escaped to tell you.”

 

“And what of Jin’rokh?”

 

“At my departure, he yet lived as he battled the invaders,” the skeletal soldier replied, “but I’m afraid he may be overwhelmed against so many a powerful warrior.”

 

“Very well,” Mori stood up, “I see I must take matters into my own hands.”

 

“But, Lady Ashblossom, with all due respect—”

 

“I will be fine, soldier. Thank you for relaying the information to me. Make sure the other faculty are informed, then tend to your wounds – that is your order.”

 

“Yes, my lady.” The sentinel gracefully bowed and exited Mori’s quarters. The master necromancer pulled her hood and mask over her face and placed her scythe on her back.

​

The Knights of the Ebon Blade, eh? Perhaps it is time...

 

When Mori arrived at the Reliquary, she found a bloodied Jin’rokh had been victorious over three death knights but struggled against four more. Lightning pulsed from the gargantuan dire troll’s arms and legs as he thrashed at the invaders with his sharp claws.

 

“It appears you are in need of assistance, Jin’rokh,” Mori pointed at him, “this should help you get rid of those pests.” A bolt of green and black magic shot out from her finger and into her pet. The dire troll roared as the lightning from his body intensified and his attacks grew frenzied. One by one, the death knights fell to his augmented strength until one remained. The lone survivor thrust his great runeblade into Jin’rokh’s chest and placed his massive opponent in a magic-induced choke hold, the frost circulating around him biting at the other’s bare skin.

 

“Impressive, death knight,” Mori peered at him, “you have come very close to defeating my prized minion. However, I cannot allow that to happen.” She began streaming life essence into Jin’rokh with her left hand as she motioned at the fallen corpses of the three death knights with her right, curling her slim fingers into a fist. “Now, see if you can hold your ground against your own kind.” The master necromancer gracefully walked over to her instructor’s chair and sat down, placing one leg over the other. She stroked her masked chin as she watched the three ghoulish death knights rise from their open graves and run towards their former ally. How awkwardly they lumbered forward, like small children to their father.

 

“You are a coward, necromancer,” the lone death knight yelled, “come fight me yourself if you want to defeat me. These risen corpses are nothing more than fodder!”

 

Mori lowered her hand and leaned forward. “You are mistaken, death knight,” she chuckled, “I have no intention of fighting you myself. I am afraid it would be too one-sided. This is merely a test of your skill.”

 

The death knight finished cutting down the first of his risen comrades and chained the second in place before unleashing a flurry of frost onto the third. “A test?” the invader raised an eyebrow, “What sort of twisted scheme do you hope to use me for?”

 

“I do not hope,” Mori replied sharply, “I know. And it does not matter; you will not be around to witness it yourself.” The master necromancer leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands excitedly as her green eyes glowed with anticipation, a grin spreading across her masked face. This death knight would make the perfect vessel, she was certain.

 

The fighting continued and the lone death knight had already triumphed over his risen allies, but his stamina was beginning to falter. Mori had re-raised the fallen death knights each time he had struck them down, and by this point, he had lost track of how many times he had killed them. Each successive swing of his rune-studded sword took increased effort and each blow landed more weakly. Catching his final opponent in chains of ice, he stepped back for a moment of respite and glared at Mori. The master necromancer had stopped raising the corpses and simply appeared to be staring at – or perhaps studying – him.

 

“Is this…” he began, motioning at the remains of the corpses, “is this all just…some kind of entertainment for you?”

 

“Entertainment?” Mori sat up straight, “Hardly, death knight. In fact, I am more than disappointed that you are not half as powerful as he was. I was hoping for a better show.”

 

“He? Who is this ‘he’?” She did not answer. “You heartless fiend,” the death knight spat, “I regret that I had to strike down those who were my friends. Do you have no sympathy? No! What am I thinking? I am sure you are unfamiliar with the concept of ‘friends’.”

 

Mori immediately stood up and approached him rapidly. “Watch your tongue, death knight; you know nothing about me.” She accumulated a small orb of necrotic energy and thrust it at the invader. He shivered and coughed as the magic coursed throughout his body. “I have neither a heart nor any sympathy for my enemy,” she continued, “to feel any remorse for my actions would be a sign of weakness.”

 

The death knight stepped forward and laughed. “Foolish necromancer,” he spoke with what was surely a triumphant smug spread on his helmed face, “your pride is your undoing. You took the bait, and now I have you exactly where I need you to be.” He thrust his right hand out at Mori and began to curl his fingers into a fist. “I should have done this sooner! Come here, little—AUGH!”

 

A blast of shadow magic from Mori sent the death knight flying backwards and slamming into the stone walls of the Reliquary. The master necromancer stood still, her hands clasped behind her back, waiting for him to move.

 

“Did you really think I would be so naïve as to step in range of your abilities unprepared, death knight? Did you think I learned nothing from watching him in battle all those years? No,” she stepped closer to her opponent, “I know your weaknesses, but you do not know mine.”

 

With a loud battle cry, the death knight leapt to his feet and lunged at Mori with his runed greatsword. The master necromancer had anticipated such a reaction and lunged backwards, pulling out her scythe and meeting the sword mid-swing. She gritted her teeth as she held the staff in place against the immense weight of the death knight’s weapon and pushed him away.

 

“You are stronger than you look,” he taunted, “perhaps you might pose a little bit of a challenge, after all.” Mori did not waste her breath on a reply. She waved her hand over the blade of the scythe, infusing it with an unholy aura, and silently beckoned the death knight to approach her.

 

“Do you mock me, necromancer? I will teach you a lesson!” The death knight brazenly rushed forward and jabbed at Mori with his blade, the latter successfully parrying each attack he brought down on her. As her opponent’s attacks grew frenzied, she found the right moment to catch him off-guard and, with one powerful swing of her scythe, swept him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground. With another sweeping motion, Mori knocked the runeblade out of his faltering grip.

 

“What did I tell you, death knight?” the master necromancer peered down at him through her mask, “That it would be one-sided.” She sheathed her scythe and held both arms out at him as magical green tendrils spawned from her fingers and wrapped themselves around her defeated opponent. Their short battle was over.

 

“Jin’rokh,” Mori motioned at the reanimated death knight who was still struggling to break free of the chains, “finish it.”

 

In an almost comedic manner, Jin’rokh took one large step to reach his target and smashed its body with one strong blow from his fist. The bones scattered like marbles spilled onto the floor.

 

“Excellent,” Mori praised him, “I have no further use for that puppet. I have seen all I needed to. Now,” she pointed at the fallen death knight, “bring our guest to my chamber.”

 

* * * * *

 

The master necromancer’s chamber was a cozy room filled with trinkets from all across Azeroth, bits and pieces of memories from her younger days. Mori’s personal library spanned one of the walls, and she often spent her time outside of instructing students lying on the rug and flipping through the pages of one of the many volumes it housed. On this visit, however, she had another, far more important matter to attend to.

 

“Now, let’s see, where was it…” Mori muttered to herself as she browsed the titles on the rightmost shelf, “I use this entrance so infrequently I hardly remember where the trigger is anymore…ah, here we are!” She pulled out a green textbook entitled The Jade Forest, and shelf rotated ninety degrees to reveal a hidden passageway. Scholomance was a covert institution to begin with, but Mori had her own little secrets, too.

 

Jin’rokh lowered his head as he followed his master into the uncomfortably narrow passageway, carrying the death knight in his arms. “Where are you taking me? Release me at once!” the man yelled, furiously pounding his gloved fists on the dire troll’s massive hands.

 

“Silence,” Mori raised her hand without so much as looking back, and a short burst of necrotic magic rendered the death knight speechless, “I would rather my secret chamber remain a secret.”

 

The winding stairs led to a small circular room dimly lit with candles. At the center of the room stood a simple table - around which were engraved circles and runes - and next to it, a wooden chest. The master necromancer withdrew its key from a pocket in her robe and pulled out several yards of rope. “Hold our guest in place, Jin’rokh,” she ordered, tying the death knight’s arm down, “and do not try to resist,” she addressed the unwilling prisoner, “it will only make the process more painful for you.”

 

Needless to say, the death knight did attempt to resist, but his strength was no match for the iron grip of the undead dire troll. In several minutes’ time, Mori had finished securing his arms and legs to the table, and she now reached for his helm. “Finally,” her green eyes sparkled as she pulled the piece of armor from the death knight’s head, “we get to see what the vessel looks like.”

 

The master necromancer studied her prisoner's appearance closely. He had pallid blue skin with a scar running across his cheeks and nose, and pristine white hair that was parted at the front and tied in a long ponytail at the back. She prodded at the death knight’s arms, legs, and ribs, checking for the firmness of muscle and any injuries that had carried over to undeath.

 

“You know, you look nothing like him,” Mori chuckled, the subsequent grin on her face hidden behind her mask, “but you do have quite the similar build. And, I dare say, this body may even be an improvement! He always did complain about his knees. But I digress!” She allowed herself to laugh at a silly memory before her face grew stone cold.

 

“It is time, death knight,” Mori placed her left hand on his breastplate and leaned in, “Are you ready?” It was a cruel question; he could never be ready for the pain that was about to come.

 

The death knight glared at his captor with burning blue eyes. “What are you going to do to me?”

 

“I shall tear your soul from your body, and your flesh will serve as his vessel!”

 

“You monster! ‘His’ vessel? Who is this ‘he’ you keep speaking of? I demand an answer!”

 

“If you insist…,” Mori leaned in further and lowered her mask, revealing a sinister grin spread across her delicate features, “Does the name…‘Sahtra’… mean anything to you?”

 

“I…I know this name!” the death knight trembled violently, his eyes widening with fear, “It was the name of…of the fiercest of the Lich King’s death knights! His mere…presence would chill you to your very core. I can still hear his terrible laugh among the screams of his countless victims in my waking thoughts!” Mori watched him with a satisfied smirk as he gaped in horror at an imaginary figure in the distance, inhaling and exhaling heavily.

 

“But…but how can this be?” the death knight’s breathing had slowed, and whatever image that had been haunting him ceased to exist as his eyes drifted back to Mori, “Sahtra is dead! He was lost at Light’s Hope long ago! What sort of trick is this?”

 

Mori said nothing but smiled, lifting the mask once again over her face.

 

“Answer me, necromancer! What happened to Sahtra? Where is—”

 

Mori placed a slim index finger over the death knight’s cold lips; he would not receive the answer he sought so desperately. Keeping her left hand on his chest, she raised her right hand to eye level and began siphoning the soul from her prisoner as he writhed in pain on the table. Groans of discomfort turned into screams of agony as the master necromancer diligently accelerated its extraction, but she was too far absorbed in the spell to pay any attention to the man’s desperate pleas to put him out of his misery. She had to meticulously wring out every last drop, she knew, or the ritual would not work, and neither did she want to cause unnecessary injury to the body after finding one in such peak condition.

 

The extraction was complete. “Now,” the master necromancer raised the glowing white orb above her head, rapidly pouring mana into it, “begone!” With a bright explosion, the soul of the death knight burst into millions of fragments and simultaneously ceased to exist. The irony of the death knight being eliminated the same way in which Mori’s father had made his exit had not been lost on her.

 

Mori lowered her right hand and turned away from the table to catch her breath, lowering her hood and taking off her mask. “I do not need this now,” she placed the object on the table, “I have no reason to hide my face from him.”

 

The master necromancer sat in her chair and removed her pet rock – her phylactery and the temporary home for his soul – from her robe, caressing it gently. “Many a year have I spent training for this moment,” she spoke to it quietly, “I will see you soon. I will not fail.” But first, there was one task that needed to be done.

 

“Jin’rokh,” she called to the undead dire troll, “fetch his armor and sword.”

 

Her minion momentarily left and returned with the desired items. Piece by piece, Mori replaced the shoulders, gauntlets, chest and leg plates, and boots on the death knight’s armor to prepare the vessel for its new inhabitant. She placed the skeletal helm and the various trinkets and mementos he had carried with him on its right, and the beautiful runeblade on its left. Mori took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

 

It was time to begin.

 

With a rhythmic twirling of her fingers, the master necromancer beckoned the soul out of the stone, taking great care not to break the thin white thread as she collected it in the palm of her hand. The movement was similar to spinning a ball of yarn, albeit an ethereal one. She kept her breathing slow and steady, at pace with the siphoning.

 

At last she was done. Mori studied the ball of essence she held in her hand. It pulsed with white light and struggled to break free of her grasp, pressing itself against the space between her fingers and striking against the invisible cage. The master necromancer smirked. She had other plans for this soul in mind; it would not receive the freedom it instinctively sought.

 

“Soul of my guardian, my father,” she chanted, “the time has come for you to be reborn.”

 

Mori thrust her right hand over the death knight’s chest, starting the rapid flow of the white essence into the vessel. The body on the table consumed the soul, or perhaps, it was the soul that consumed the body with such vigor. The master necromancer channeled the flow until there was not a drop of her father’s essence left between her fingers. She stepped back and held her hands out over the runes and circles marked on the floor.

 

“Arise, Sahtra!” Mori commanded, sending a powerful burst of mana into the sigil, “Arise, and claim your new form!”

 

The engraved circles began to glow, at first dimly, but then, more brightly as she poured increasing volumes of mana into them. She had gathered and saved all her energy for this moment – the part of the ritual that demanded every fiber of power in her being. The master necromancer began to breathe heavily as sweat broke out on her forehead, but she continued feeding raw magical energy into the sigil.

 

The runes on the floor now began to pulse with pale blue light. Mori did not dare smile at the sign of progress and break her concentration; the dangerous combination of mana and fel she had been pouring into the ritual had become taxing on her body. One small twitch here, an abrupt change in the flow of mana there, would be enough to send her body spiraling out of control and the arcane energies trapped in the sigil running loose. Despite the throbbing pain in her head and sides, the master necromancer steadfastly held out her arms and continued her work.

 

Suddenly, the runes and circles all burst with bright blue light and released a powerful aura of energy that sent Mori reeling backwards into the stone walls of her secret chamber. There was nothing more she could do now, no amount of interference would be able to change it from its course, whether it was to succeed or fail. The sigil had been activated.

 

Mori groaned. She lay with her back against the wall, her body aching from the blow it had suffered. The master necromancer opened her eyes and blinked away her blurred vision. Had the ritual worked?

 

There would only be one way to find out. As it was too painful to stand up just yet, Mori began crawling over to the wooden table. She noted the stone below had been broken, destroying the sigil and erasing the runes that had been engraved onto it. The body on the table lay still, and Mori held her breath, fearing that despite all the mana she had poured into the ritual, it had not been enough to bind the death knight's powerful soul to its body.

 

The master necromancer had crawled to two yards’ distance when she noticed the temperature in the room abruptly drop. She stopped advancing and watched nervously as frost formed and circled around the body, swelling in speed until – with a sharp inhale – the corpse opened its glowing blue eyes and regained life for the third time.

 

The fixture shook violently as the man secured to the table curled his fists and broke free of his bindings - first his hands, then his feet - and jumped onto the floor. His back turned to Mori, he first touched his face, feeling his cheeks, his bare upper lip and chin, and the scar across his nose. He ran his hand through his long white hair, tossing it and letting it settle on his shoulders and back. Finally, he stretched, extending his armored limbs and testing the bend in his legs. He had not moved for four years, after all.

 

A shaking voice called out to him. “Sahtra? Is that you?” The man immediately looked over his shoulder and glared at Mori, causing her to shrink in fear. Had something gone wrong? Had she damaged his soul in the process? She stared anxiously back at him as she ran through all the errors that might have occurred. What if this man – her father – did not recognize her?

 

“Sahtra…,” the man repeated, “yes, I am Sahtra.” The death knight turned around and walked over to her. He studied her, without emotion at first, but his lips curled into a warm smile as he knelt down and clasped her upper arms.

 

“You are Mori,” he added gently, the familiar facial expression softening his unfamiliar facial features, “and you’re all grown up. I can see that perfectly with these eyes.”

 

The master necromancer grinned as tears of relief welled up in her green eyes. “It…it worked! I did it!” Mori wrapped her arms around Sahtra’s torso and pressed her head against his chest. “I missed you, Sahtra. I’m so happy you’re back!”

 

“As am I,” he chuckled as he ruffled her silver hair fondly, “but you must remember I never truly left.”

 

“You’re right, yes,” she replied quietly, “and I do not have the words to describe how...honored I am that you chose to stay with me this entire time, but it simply wasn’t the same. Whenever I was sad or scared, I couldn’t search for your strong embrace and feel safe. I haven’t given anyone a hug in four years, anyone!” The blood elf began to sniffle. “But before I sound ungrateful, Sahtra,” she continued, “I want you to know that I would rather have you as a spirit than not at all. I don’t know what I would have done without you. It hurt…it hurt so much, when I thought you were really gone.” The death knight held her tightly as she sobbed, rubbing her back to comfort her.

 

Mori removed her arms from around her father and hurriedly stood up. “I mustn't forget! Come, Sahtra!” she took his hand and took a giant step towards the pile of his belongings that she had assembled, “You must take your—oh…”

 

She put her hand to her head, suddenly feeling faint; she had moved too quickly in her exhausted state. “Dammit…,” she whispered, and passed out. The death knight caught her before she hit the ground. Again? He lifted her with ease and placed her on the very same table to which she had fastened him. Mori was soundly knocked out but still breathing, her youthful grin plastered on her sleeping face. Some things never change, the death knight thought to himself with a chuckle, as he recalled the night she had bound her soul to her phylactery. Had that really been seven years ago? The nineteen-year-old necromancer bore the same expression now as she did then, and, for a moment, the death knight saw her as the little girl he had met so long ago.

 

Sahtra found his dark cloak neatly folded and placed on the table next to his other belongings. “Rest, little one,” he spoke as he draped it over her, “you just performed the ritual of a lifetime.” He patted her head before turning his attention to the items Mori had gathered for him.

 

First was his Scourgestone, a pitch-black item that served as the only remaining reminder of his military leadership. Once thrumming with power, it had long been silent.

 

Second, the insignia of the Knights of the Ebon Blade. A disguise within a disguise, it served as absolute proof that the wielder bore allegiance only to Darion Mograine and now, the other Horsemen, that they rejected the will of the Lich King. Sahtra had stolen it from another death knight ten years earlier, its sole purpose to prevent undesired confrontations with those who suspected his true identity.

 

The death knight reached for the third item with outstretched longing fingers, his hands shaking as he adjusted the memento. It was a photograph of his daughters, their smiles from one moment preserved for eternity. A frozen tear welled up in Sahtra’s eye; there was nothing he had missed more dearly – for in truth he had missed very little – than seeing their bright faces. They each resembled him in some way, and they had been the light of his life before their untimely deaths had topped the list of his many self-deemed failures. He brushed a gloved finger over the photo, noticing a glossy sheen that wasn’t there before. In his absence, Mori had applied an extra coating so that the image would not deteriorate further when faced with either time or the elements, and for that, he was grateful.

 

Sahtra carefully placed the photograph in its special pocket and turned to the last of his belongings – his skeletal helm. The piece of armor forged under the command of the Lich King himself was truly fit for the most powerful harbingers of death that walked Azeroth. The death knight lifted the helm and placed it over his head, his new silky white hair flowing out from underneath. The armor clicked into place, and Sahtra let out a quiet sigh. He always felt safer in there.

 

The death knight now noticed a small flask filled with a bright red liquid that had previously been hidden behind the helm. The flask was topped with a stopper and wrapped in coarse thread, to which was attached a small card bearing a note. He picked it up and read:

 

“Dear Sahtra, I’m sorry I passed out again. If you are willing, please pour several spoons’ worth of this liquid into my mouth. It is an emergency mana reserve concoction I put together for such an occasion.”

 

He squinted at the fine print at the bottom of the note:

 

“If you are reading this and you are not Sahtra, then do not bother because I am almost certainly dead. Or at least, not here. How dare you find my secret chamber!”

 

Sahtra chuckled. Standing over Mori, he parted her lips with his fingers and poured the instructed amount of the mystery liquid in. He lifted her head with one hand and waited for the potion to take effect. A few moments later, her cheeks began to regain their color and her breathing quickened.

 

“Mmm, mmph,” Mori struggled to produce coherent sounds as she returned to consciousness, “Sah…tra…” The master necromancer blinked several times to focus, then her eyes widened as she registered the icy touch of the death knight’s hand on the back of her head and looked up at his skeletal helm.

 

“Sahtra!” Mori reached out and touched the piece of saronite armor, grinning as she ran her fingers along the bends above the cheeks and the plates that closed around his neck. What a wonderful sight it was to wake up to, she thought to herself as she lowered her hand, her father had a new unfamiliar body but his armor was still the same. The armor was as much a part of him as his old body had been, if not more. Most of Mori’s strongest and fondest memories of Sahtra had him hidden behind his mask of death. “You’re really back,” she added weakly, and clutched his free hand with her own.

 

“Yes, I’m back.” The death knight lowered his daughter’s head to the table. “Is this not uncomfortable for you?” he asked, his deep voice lined with concern.

 

“That’s the least of my worries right now,” she laughed despite the pain, “I’m far too excited about you being alive again.” Mori attempted to get up but found herself unable to summon the necessary strength. “Oh dear,” she continued, bringing her palm to her eyes, “I must have expended more mana than I had anticipated. Sahtra, can you hand me the flask, please?”

 

The death knight silently handed it to her and watched her down more of its contents, lifting her head once more to make it easier for her to swallow.

 

“Man, this is disgusting,” Mori frowned, “but I don’t have any other choice.” She sealed the flask and placed it next to her, already looking healthier than she had been just moments ago.

 

“What’s in it?” Sahtra asked.

 

“A combination of several things,” she answered, “there are four types of crushed high-energy flowers and fruits to stabilize my body, but the primary ingredient is the purified blood of an Archmage.”

 

“An Archmage…you must have procured the body yourself.”

 

Mori grinned sinisterly. “Wanna hear about it?”

 

* * * * *

 

“…and this is the Reliquary! Normally, I give the lecture and demonstrations from the center there, and during study periods my students all go to their respective tables.” Mori gestured across the room. “But you know, Sahtra, sometimes I just really like coming here and sitting in my chair – it almost looks like a throne, don’t you think?” She sat down in the stone seat, placing one leg over the other and gripping the edge of the arms. Her robe parted down the middle, revealing knee-high boots topped with skulls and strung with thin chains. “You have come to my domain now, intruders!” Mori pointed to an imaginary hostile crowd, “I have all the power here! AHAHA—”

 

“Ashblossom! Where the hell have you been? I ordered a meeting to discuss the damage and repairs across the school grounds as a result of today’s invasion.”

 

“Eek!” The master necromancer’s face turned deep red behind her mask. The Knights of the Ebon Blade had attacked, yes, had that really only transpired earlier today? “Dark!—Ahem, Darkmaster Gandling, my apologies,” she replied sheepishly, “I was…um…doing something.”

 

The Headmaster of Scholomance finally noticed the death knight standing next to the instructor, and looked back and forth between them. His dark blue skeletal armor and the way he confidently stood were unmistakable, and he also carried the same sword he had seen strapped to Mori's back when she had first arrived atht the academy. “Ahh, Scourgelord, you have returned,” Gandling scowled, “how…unfortunate. I had come to really enjoy the peace and quiet,” he frowned, “but I don’t recall you having long hair.”

 

Sahtra bowed insincerely. “Bodies are merely temporary mortal shells, Darkmaster,” he replied, “and I don’t recall seeing what little of yours that is left so hideously decomposed. How many times is that now, four? Five? Perhaps you should have taught your students how to raise creatures that don’t look like a walking ass dressed in robes.”

 

“How…dare you!” Gandling fumed, his ghastly purple eyes glowing brightly, “Do you remember who you requested this girl study with?” He held a bandaged index finger out at Mori, who was still silently seated in her chair. “You are starting to make me regret ever doing you this favor!”

 

“Come now, Darkmaster,” the death knight sneered, “you secretly admit you were doing yourself the largest favor. My daughter’s prowess in the necromantic arts and command over dark knowledge are second to none at her age, and I know you recognized this. Would you have been able to rebuild Scholomance without her aid?” Gandling remained silent. “You should really be thanking me, you know.”

​

The master necromancer suddenly felt very small despite her age and status as she watched the two men argue. It was like watching Sahtra and Vel’rosh all over again, except there seemed to be no deep-rooted cultural hatred here – simply that the Scourgelord and Darkmaster could not stand one another. Mori wasn’t sure if she liked Gandling much herself, but as her academic superior, she had learned to impress him and get along as best she could.

​

“BAH!” the Headmaster crossed his arms and turned away from the two, “I expect to see you in one hour to discuss the Reliquary, Instructor Ashblossom. And come alone.”

 

“Yes, Darkmaster.” The master necromancer held her breath as she watched Gandling exit the hall then let out a long sigh as she rested her masked face in her hands.

 

Sahtra laughed as he placed a hand on his daughter’s back. “I know you always get nervous when I argue with someone, but don’t worry. I’ll behave myself. For now.” Mori frowned, unsure if his statement was supposed to be reassuring or a promise that he would act on his whims at a later time. “You have one hour, little one,” he continued, “show me what else you do here.”

 

* * * * *

 

The death knight had been quiet for several days now. There was a presence, he had said, something that had always been faint but still there, watching, and now it was gone.

 

“It’s the Lich King,” Sahtra realized, “his power has waned. He no longer has control over any of the undead, whether it be us death knights, the lowly ghouls, or the ethereal beings that shift back and forth between the shadow and living realms. Now, they can all roam free.”

 

Mori closed the book she was reading and glanced at him. Just prior to his return, scores of stray undead had started mindlessly roaming the Plaguelands, and despite efforts by the local factions to cull them, their numbers had persisted. “So that’s why the Ebon Blade attacked,” she thought aloud, “they must have thought Scholomance was behind the resurgence. But Sahtra, what does all this mean?”

 

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “Darion and the other Horsemen moved Acherus to the Frozen Throne to investigate, but they have been very secretive about their findings. I will probably head over there myself shortly.”

 

Just then, they heard a knock on the door to Mori’s private chamber. “That’s strange,” she frowned, “I’m not expecting anyone.” She raised her voice. “Come in.”

 

The door creaked open to reveal a hooded figure who quickly approached Sahtra. “I was told I would find you here, Scourgelord,” it spoke, “I come bearing an urgent message.”

 

The death knight stood up cautiously. It had been years since anyone had contacted him in this manner, not since the fall of his Lich King had he exchanged words with a Scourge messenger.

 

“Proceed.” The hooded figure removed a sealed letter and handed it to Sahtra before bowing and exiting the chamber.

 

Mori watched intently as her father opened the letter and read through its contents. His eyes widened immediately, and on his face broke out an eager grin of the likes she had never seen before.

 

“Sahtra?” she asked, curious as to what sort of news could have evoked that sort of reaction, “Sahtra, what does it say—”

 

“THEY FOUND HIM!” The death knight’s abrupt increase in volume startled her. “HE’S BEING HELD PRISONER BY THE JAILER!”

 

“The…Jailer? Who’s the Jailer? And who’s being held—”

 

“ARTHAS! MY KING!” It was time for Mori’s eyes to widen. “The helm of the Lich King has been shattered, Mori, and with it, the gateway between life and death has been opened. There are new worlds for us out there, child, ones never seen before by mortal eyes.” Sahtra kept reading the letter, and she looked at him in amazement. Despite how long Mori had known Sahtra, she could not recall ever seeing him this excited about anything.

 

“Arthas is being held in the Maw, a hellish landscape where souls are tormented, and we never believed us mortals could set foot there." He handed the letter to her. "The message also speaks of the realm of Maldraxxus – you would enjoy it there. It is the birthplace of necromancy, and it is filled with numerous tomes containing millennia of research and knowledge on its origins and principles.”

 

The master necromancer’s green eyes lit up as a giant smile spread across her face. “Really?! That sounds amazing!”

 

“Already there are adventurers traversing the Maw, rescuing the many undeserving souls held captive there, and I intend to join them and seek out my King. I will find him and save him, no matter who I have to face and what obstacles lie in my path.” Sahtra placed his skeletal helm on his head and held out a gloved hand to his daughter. “Are you coming with me?”

 

“Yes! Of course!” Mori nearly jumped out of her seat, pulling her mask over her face and grabbing her scythe before taking his hand. “Let’s go!”

 

The death knight and the master necromancer ran out the academy – there was not a moment to lose! Sahtra called down his gargantuan dracolich and mounted it behind Mori, holding her in place as he reached around her and clasped the undead dragon’s reins.

 

“Fly, Ormr,” he ordered, “we go to Icecrown, and to the Shadowlands!”

​

Mori and Sahtra were to embark on the journey of their lives once more.