Aram’s hand shot out and with it, a blast of golden light, as bright and brilliant as the sun itself, a solar flare that sparkled with heat.
“What in the—”
Aram watched in disbelief. The spell—for he knew it could only be magic—streamed across the carnage and the chaos, colliding with the blade of Malus’s sword just before it cut into his father.
The flower in his pocket, Drella’s gift, began pulsing light, then it flew out of his pocket of its own volition, hovering in front of him. He could swear he heard Drella’s sweet voice in his mind as the ever-blooming flower burst into a shower of sparks, bathing him in its pink-and-green radiance.
We are bonded. That bond will never die. Go. Protect the Light. Protect our friends.
Aram released the spell, the beam of solar light vanishing. It left behind a slight glare in his eyes. There was no time to question it. The shock of the spell had staggered Malus, but he was rallying.
“Together!”
He heard Makasa through the din, the clash of claws on swords, the magical shadow bolts ricocheting throughout the room. At last, he would fight by his sister’s side once more. Aram ran toward her, dodging stones and swords and fists, ignoring the pain of his imprisonment, the scars and burns it had left on his body. All that mattered was reaching his family.
They were so close now, so close—
“Impossible.” Malus snarled, kicking Aram’s father hard in the chest, knocking him to the ground with a groan. He didn’t go for Greydon again, however; instead he set his sights on Makasa and the Diamond Blade.
“Murky, Hackle!” Aram shouted, then pointed to where Ssarbik and Ssavra cackled and attempted to ensnare Makasa with their shadow magics. Galena and Telagos worked together to fend off the threat from the sky, Telagos freezing the demons in place for Galena to snipe with a carefully timed bolt of moonfire. Aram wondered if he could use that same power Drella had gifted him again, and he aimed for one of the frozen demons, evaporating it with a shock of solar energy. Each time the beam left his hand, he felt a jolt of power run through his entire body.
Throgg and Karrga were busy playing their own game, trying to bat as many demons out of the sky as they could, laughing and joking together, oblivious to everything else around them.
“That six! Me got six! Throgg big loser!” Karrga shrieked and slammed her sword into another demon. Aram ignored them, trying to reach Makasa, but Malus had already engaged her, slamming his sword down again and again on the blade of her glowing harpoon. He pinned Makasa back against a piece of fallen stone, and she tripped over it, but regained her balance quickly.
“Not so invincible, are you?” Malus taunted. “All alone. All afraid.”
A dagger materialized from out of nowhere, or so Aramar thought. It hit Malus in the chest, burying itself just shy of his heart. But it was enough to distract him, and he glanced up from his prey, Reigol Valdread already flicking another throwing knife into his hands as he stood atop a tumbled stone. “Get away from my daughter, you filth!”
“Errack?” Ssarbik froze, giving another one of his hideous laughs, his noise of confusion earning him Valdread’s quick attention. He swiveled at the waist, releasing the throwing knife with a simple flick of the wrist, elegant and precise. It landed true, better than true, doing to Ssarbik what it had failed to do to Malus. It sank deep, directly into the arakkoa’s heart.
“And that’s enough out of you,” Valdread spat. “By the Lady, that felt good.”
Aram would have time to figure out what Valdread meant, and why in the world he seemed convinced he was Makasa’s father. Ah well, stranger things had certainly happened. And there was no time to waste. A trio of winged demons dove toward Valdread, and Aram let his power fly again, concentrating hard, thinking of Drella, opening his palms while a blinding solar beam seared through the sky, knocking the demons off course and into the ground.
Malus plucked the dagger out of his chest and tossed it away. But he was well and truly outnumbered then, with only a pitiful number of demons circling above, and no loyal minions left but Ssavra, who soon realized that, too, and fled. Galena froze her in place at the door, roots growing through the floor, tangling Ssavra up as surely as Ssarbik’s magic had entangled them so many times.
“It’s over,” Makasa said, standing, bringing the Diamond Blade to bear.
Malus was trapped, backing up rapidly, swinging his sword out in front of him in desperation.
Aram felt a presence with him then. Drella. He heard her giggling somewhere in the distance, and that warmth he had felt from her, and from her gift, filled him again. It was the same warmth he felt when he wielded her powers, the glow that flew from his hands and felt, strangely, natural.
Murky soared by, riding a demon he had managed to snare in his net. He crashed the demon into the altar, then rolled away, a little dazed. Wobbly, he found his spear and jabbed it at Malus, flanking him.
The crew assembled, a smile tugged at Makasa’s lips. Demon blood, dirt, and scratches covered her face, but she was glowing. With that, she looked up slowly, taking a single step toward Malus. “It’s over, Malus. Surrender. You don’t have to live like this—this thing.”
“Never. Never!” He tumbled back again, eyes wide and panicked. Over and over, he jabbed at them, but he was surrounded and roundly defeated. Broken. “I will never surrender. You’re fools if you think anything can defeat the might of the Burning Legion! I will never, never—”
His eyes burned, furious, and for a moment he seemed almost calm. Almost like he might change his mind and truly surrender. But then he drew in a long breath and his eyes settled on Makasa. He seemed to summon one last burst of strength, hurling his sword at her, the blade flying true. But Aram was swift, ready, and a bright beam of sunlight flashed from his hand, sending the sword end over end until it clattered, useless, to the floor.
Makasa did not wait, did not even hesitate. She saw her opening and took it, leaping forward toward Malus, the Diamond Harpoon glinting in her hand, her stroke sure and steady as she brought the sharp end down, cutting through Malus’s scream before it could even begin.
The demons in the sky, sensing their master’s destruction, dispersed, vanishing in every direction, nothing remaining but the distant sound of their beating wings. The starved and thwarted Darkstorm—for surely that was what the roiling black vortex was—raged for an instant longer, its energies churning, shrieking, before it dissipated, its strange voices quieting until it was nothing more than a hushed whisper. Its darkness ebbed, no trace of it or the sad souls it had consumed remaining.
The battle was over. Throgg and Karrga groaned, all of their fun at an end.
“You good at whack-a-bat,” Karrga said, slinging one meaty arm over Throgg’s shoulder. “Maybe you good at other thing, too. Like kiss. Like hug.”
They lumbered away together, arm in arm, not even staying long enough to appreciate Malus’s demise.
“We get them?” Hackle asked, nodding to the two ogres.
On the way out, Throgg whacked Ssavra a good one, and she shrieked, clawing at the thorny roots holding her fast.
“No … they’re all right,” Makasa said with a smirk.
Galena walked up next to Aramar’s side, no longer in her moonkin form, but back to the bashful, braided tauren he remembered. He smiled at her, at all of his friends, most of them still standing there in stunned silence.
It was over. It was over.
Malus was defeated, the Diamond Blade safe and reforged. The naaru’s power preserved. There would be no Darkstorm that day.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say.” Valdread dusted off his hands, cocking his hip to the side as he collected one of his fallen throwing knives and slid it back into the holster across his chest. “Fitting, really. Now he and his beloved Xaraax have shared the same fate. I hope they end up together somehow and drive each other absolutely mad.”
“That’s a given,” Aram said with a snort.
&nb
sp; “How did you do that?” Makasa had turned to him, nodding toward his hands and the golden solar magic that still encased them. “Since when are you a mage?”
“Not a mage,” he whispered sadly. He wished Drella could be there to share in their win, but maybe, he thought, squeezing his fingers, she was. “A druid. It’s Drella’s magic. She passed it to me through our bond before she died.”
“I felt her here,” Galena said. “That bond … I think it flows through all of us.”
“Seven must become One,” Aram murmured. “And so we did.” He gazed around at each of them in turn, amazed that they had come so far and stuck together. To be one of the seven was an honor, but it required Makasa, of course, who was steady and stubborn in all things. And it needed Valdread, the most unlikely addition. Telagos, too, only slightly less unlikely. Hackle, Murky, and Galena had done their part, too, valiant in battle, and stalwart in their friendship. It was truly miraculous, that so many strange companions could put aside their differences and beat back such a terrible threat.
“Yes. We did, but Hackle do best job. Many clubbings, more than Sivet and Jaggal combine!” The gnoll sidled up to them, cleaning off his war club on the leathery straps of his trousers.
“Murky mggla drrdaagar!” Murky insisted.
“You count wrong! No way you fight more than Hackle!” Hackle fired back.
Greydon Thorne stood, with help, of course, from Aram. He didn’t seem amused by the bickering, only aloof. And sad. He stared at Malus’s crumpled form for a long time, his eyes hooded, his lower lip trembling.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t save him,” Aram said softly, touching his father’s shoulder.
“Me too, Aramar, me too.” Greydon took one last lingering look at his fallen brother, then drank in the sight of his son, and his daughter, and all of the strange and wonderful travelers that they had befriended along the way. Down in the valley, triumphant horns sounded. The rest of their allies were celebrating. The day was won.
“Some men cannot be swayed back to the Light,” Greydon concluded, brushing off his tunic and straightening his shoulders. “Silverlaine Thorne chose his path, just as you did, Aramar, and this is what you chose: these friends. This family.”
“Best choice I’ve ever made,” Aram said, accepting a tight hug from Makasa, who nearly bowled him over. He was glad to see her again, too.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Greydon Thorne said, his eyes softening as he embraced both his son and his adopted daughter, Makasa.
“You’ve come so far,” he said, leaning back. He took a moment to just look at her. “To make it here, to build an army, to wield the Diamond Blade … I knew you were something special on the Wavestrider. I should have known you could do whatever you put your mind to.”
“Couldn’t let you two rot out here,” she said with a shrug.
“I told you,” Aram added. “I told you she would come for us.”
Greydon nodded, giving a warm, relieved chuckle. “I was a fool to doubt.” It was then that he noticed Telagos off to the side, his shining scale mail spattered with demon bits. “Incredible. I had not thought to see Telagos again, but here he is, aiding the Order of the Seven Suns once more.”
Hearing him, Telagos merely gave a short, elegant bow.
“Well,” Greydon said with a sigh, gazing around at the motley assortment of allies that had come to defeat the Darkstorm. “It appears there are many introductions to be made. Friends and allies to meet …” With that, Greydon turned his eyes to the door, and to the path back down. “Now, let’s go home.”
Aram shifted from foot to foot under the cooling shade of the tree. It had been almost a year since Malus had fallen and the Hidden thwarted, and his days traveling with his unlikely band of friends—now heroes—felt a lifetime away. His leg still ached sometimes when the weather was wet, and even though Drella’s gift had healed the worst of his infected wound, he would walk with a slight limp for the rest of his days.
Drella.
Even though he could still feel her presence when he closed his eyes and conjured his nature magic, he missed her. Sometimes, when he stared out the window in his room in Lakeshire, dreaming wistfully of adventures yet to come, he could hear her whisper to him, reminding him to be grateful, reminding him to appreciate the family he had there in the cottage.
Things had changed for them, too. Ceya and Robb were going to have another child, and Robertson and Selya didn’t just look up to him as a big brother now, but as a warrior. His younger siblings asked constantly about Murky and Hackle, asking when they would see their frog and puppy friends again.
“I don’t know!” Aram had shouted at them the last time they pressed him on it. He couldn’t help but lose his temper; he didn’t even know when he would see his friends again.
After the battle in Outland, Aram was relieved to return to his quiet, safe life in Lakeshire. Greydon escorted him there, of course, but then he and Makasa left shortly after for Stormwind. The king needed to know about the Hidden plot, and the lengths Aram and his friends had gone to stop the Burning Legion’s latest attempt to destroy Azeroth.
A month later, Aram received the fanciest document he had ever laid eyes on—a scroll stamped with the royal seal of King Varian Wrynn. The king, in his own hand, thanked Aram for his service, for his sacrifice, and for his dedication to all things just and honorable. The messenger delivering the scroll bowed after giving Aram the message, and handed the boy a finely wrought dagger of folded steel, chased with gold filigree and real inset sapphires. A lion’s head roared from the crossbar.
“A gift from His Majesty,” the messenger said, doffing his feathered cap. “A replacement, he says, for the blade you fought so hard to reforge.”
The Diamond Blade. The naaru had been restored, its prophecy fulfilled, and now it could rest. Before parting, his sister Makasa broke apart the blade and gave each of their party one of the shards to hold. Their crew agreed that no one person—no one side—should wield the weapon. Makasa was the one to take the largest shard, the hilt, to Stormwind, where she told the king that the blade had been shattered beyond repair in the battle against Malus.
“Hide your piece somewhere safe,” Greydon told them all solemnly. He had chosen to stay in Stormwind, as an advisor to the king. Something he called “useful retirement.” “Hide it. Somewhere only you would know. Guard the secret with your life.”
After a tearful good-bye, Hackle and Murky had set off together to return to Kalimdor with the gnoll and yeti army. Galena and Telagos would accompany them as far as the edge of Feralas, then veer north to begin their long journey to the Moonglade. Galena had much to report to the Cenarion Circle, and she seemed more confident in her druidic abilities, having fought so bravely against the Hidden. Traveling with a dragon didn’t hurt, either.
Aram glanced at the sun, painfully aware of how much time had passed since he reached the Northwatch Expedition Base. Gazlowe had agreed to take him from Lakeshire back to Kalimdor, and this time, the goblin actually got paid in diamonds, a gift from the Stormwind treasury for his part in thwarting the Darkstorm threat. The outpost teemed with Alliance soldiers, but Aram’s stomach had still twisted with fear as he approached on foot, remembering the ambush that had greeted him last time. The soldiers offered him water and food, and a place to stay, but Aram didn’t linger, venturing back down the hill to sit beneath the vivid pink tree and wait. And wait.
He reached out and touched the soft, pale bark. An electric feeling shivered through him. A family of birds had taken up residence in the branches above, and they chirped down at him cheerfully as he looked down at his fingers.
“The soldiers say you bloom year-round,” he said quietly. “They call you the Forever Tree, but I know your real name. I miss you.”
“Urum!”
Aram glanced up, searching the shrubs along the road until he spotted Murky there, bright green as ever, his back laden with a loaded traveler’s pack, his trusty net hanging there, his spear
in hand. As soon as the murloc caught sight of him, he broke into a run. Hackle followed not far behind, grinning lopsidedly, his war club resting on one shoulder.
“You came!” Aram called, kneeling and accepting a warm, slimy hug from the murloc. “Have you seen any sign of the others?”
“Hackle no see and no smell.” The gnoll embraced Aram with a side hug, then gazed up at the beautiful, flowering branches. “Hackle glad to see tree still here.”
“Murky glal,” the murloc said with a nod. “Murky hgla verrrooga goloa gogler.”
“He say he have much to tell you,” Hackle translated with a grin. “Many adventure. Murky known by all murloc now, big hero.”
“And the Woodpaw?” Aram asked. “They must respect you even more now.”
The gnoll puffed out his chest, gazing into the horizon. “Hackle known to all gnolls, all yetis. Most respected brute in all forest.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You both deserve it.” He put a hand over the gift from King Wrynn, the dagger tucked into his belt. It wasn’t the same, perhaps, as being known all throughout the Eastern Kingdoms as a savior of Azeroth, but it was enough.
“Why fur so short?” Hackle barked at him, noticing that Aram had cut off his long locks, choosing to flop his brown hair back over his forehead. “You shed summer coat?”
“No, Hackle, I just wanted a change,” Aram said. “What do you think?”
“Short fur is better. Long fur too hot, too stinky.”
“Murky lglgl!”
“Murky like, too.”
Aram didn’t know if the opinion of a gnoll and murloc would help him much with the village girls back in Lakeshire, but it couldn’t hurt. They passed the time trading stories, Aram letting them know they were very missed by his family, and that soon they would have a new Glade to impress. Murky and Hackle were delighted at the news, and told Aram all about life back at their homes.
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