Drimmari doubts he will survive the night.
It is the nature of a society etched from the raw flesh wounds of a broken nation to foster enmity. A decade spent quite literally carving a name for himself and for his Order rendered a fair number of Silvermoon’s Magistrate scorned; each back crushed underfoot climbing-- clawing-- his way to his position in the Order earned him a strike on the Magistry’s blacklist. He suspects their profile of him is comprehensive enough to warrant an arranged death by trial under the guise of impending promotion.
He fears not, for fear weakens the mind and trembles the swordhand. Fear is a blindfold; fear is the insidious whispering that maddens princes and fells generals.
Belorai huffs and bristles under him mid-stride, bringing her snout around. Drimmari follows her gaze and his gauntlet finds its way to the pommel of the bastard sword at his hip; with his other he tugs at the reins, and Belorai halts at once.
“Were I to know that my arrival would warrant animosity, Champion Dra’zar, I’d have brought a bigger staff.” The young Magister Dawnstar wears his characteristic toothy smile, one that broadcasts petty superiority in true silver-spoon fashion. Boyish features and high cheekbones starkly contrast the mane of silver hair cascading to his waist; an open eye, painted in violet ink on his collarbone, throbs with his laughter.
Flanking him, also on horseback, are two familiar faces: Champion Sunblaze and Magister Sunhawk.
Bile climbs into Drimmari’s throat. The Magistry had sunken to bringing his closest friend in the Order to witness his demise.
Words find their way onto his tongue, spat in his carrying baritone. “Your judgment is impeccable, Magister. No telling what I’d have done without a vanguard to accompany me. Perhaps I would have gotten lost.”
The trio falls in beside Drimmari on the wide cobble path; the steady sound of hoofbeats fills the chilled night air. “Whatever would we do if you’d have opted out of the trial last-minute, Champion?” Dawnstar’s high lilt is flecked with condescension, and Drimmari chokes on his retort. “No, best to keep you company.”
Street lamps cast azure hues across the road as sun gives way to stars. The scents of polished steel, trodden pine and cured leather mingle on the breeze; abruptly in his mind’s eye, snowcapped obelisks frame a hulking citadel, and a madman’s laughter chatters his teeth.
Magister Dawnstar speaks into the pregnant silence once Falconwing Square is at their backs. “Preparations are in order for your regiment, then, in the event that tonight takes a bloody turn?” After an artificial silence, he adds, “Forgive the pun.”
“Yes.” Drimmari’s response is distracted.
Grassy hillocks give way to the blood knight pavilion, set far enough off the main road that a wayward glance is unlikely to sight it. Clad in ceremonial crimson plate and armed with halberds, two young blood knights stand watch; bowing low at the waist, they part to allow the company through.
Drimmari stands tall at the torchlit pavilion’s centre; bare feet sink into crimson silk carpet. Clad only in a loose-fitting pair of breeches, the Champion braces himself against the brisk night air.
Directly across from him stands Magister Dawnstar. Forming a loose semicircle matching the pavilion’s broad architectural arc are an assortment of priests and priestesses, faces cast in shadow from white hoods drawn forth. At Drimmari’s back, Mourne and Denar watch silently.
Drawing a scroll from the folds of his robes, Dawnstar speaks with the air of a man who rehearses sales pitches before a mirror every morning. “Drimmari Dra’zar of House Dawnglory, Champion of the Blood Knight Order, this convocation has been called for the purpose of testing both fealty to the Order and worthiness of promotion to the rank of Knight-Lord, by joint will of the Order and the Magistry.” Beady, bespectacled eyes break only momentarily from the scroll to flick in Drimmari’s direction. “Failure, if not by death and subsequent burning upon a funeral pyre, will result in immediate suspension from the Order and potentially exile from the Kingdom.”
“Do you accept these terms, Champion?”
The scroll promptly erupts in turquoise flame. “Excellent!” Nothing short of chipper, the Magister gestures at the priestess closest to him, a tall and wiry woman whose crimson curls peak out from under her cowl. “Isanna, you may begin.”
Her voice is sharp and biting; were knives to have vocal chords, they might speak with half the edge in her cadence. “First, Champion, your loyalty to the Sunwell will be tested. Steel yourself.” No sooner do the words escape her lips than does her arm raise; silk cuffs peel back from her wrist to reveal a hand calloused and veined heavily from a lifetime’s labor.
As though awaiting her signal, the remaining priests match the gesture.
“Only the worthy may ascend these sacred steps,” Isanna intones. Unified, her acolytes repeat the statement. Their fingertips light up with brilliant holy flame.
Tongues of fire lash out, dousing Drimmari’s exposed flesh, welts rising and skin blistering almost immediately. Unadulterated agony throttles his senses, and he staggers against the onslaught.
Over the roar of blood throbbing in his ears, Drimmari makes out Dawnstar’s voice: “Champion Dra’zar, are you worthy of the restored Sunwell’s benevolence?”
Bright spots dance in his vision. Flames engulf, sear away his detached exterior like petals of a flower, beckon the howl of pain from his dry throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, and a rush of visions-- crunched together and jumbled-- play forward. Spanning from his initiation to his Adept trial (he remembers the look in his fellow Initiate’s eyes when Drimmari’s blade plunged into his throat) until his Champion ceremony in the beginning of the Breaking, Drimmari’s history with the Order plays through his vision; every day spent siphoning Light from M’uru is there, brought to the forefront of it all.
A floodgate opens in Drimmari’s mind as his own link to the Sunwell washes through him. Eyes bursting open, smoke rising from peeling skin, he allows the flames into himself, guiding them into brilliant rays of pure Light that render bubbling skin prismatic.
Abruptly the flames are gone; sparks dance in his peripheral. Vision clearing, he blinks twice. Isanna sweeps into a deep bow at the waist.
“You have proven yourself worthy of the Sunwell, Champion Dra’zar.”
Her acolytes mirror the gesture, magic rising from pooling robes like a morning fog at sunrise.
To Drimmari’s right, from the winding river, a crimson haired lad with a leather eyepatch and half of a left ear steps into the pavilion. “Announcing Knight-Champion Alastor Loth’albelore, immediately following success in his own first trial.”
Drimmari hears the second half of that statement from the end of an echo chamber. Icicles bog down his heart, freezing the blood that only moments before burned with righteous fire.
Alastor is a handsome man, every daydreaming adolescent’s fantasy of a chivalrous, windswept knight. Standing every bit as tall as Drimmari, his golden hair is tied into a topknot; dark semicircles drag at his eyelids, and high cheekbones fight to hold the playful smirk plastered onto his cracked lips. Like Drimmari, he is dressed minimally-- ink vines creep their way up his abdomen and into his shoulders, etched with carefully detailed Thalassian runes. Drimmari does not need proximity to remember what they say.
“Evenin’, Drim.” His voice, the only sound besides the river’s calming rumble, rings hoarsely throughout the pavilion; its singsong cadence, stripped of its depth, is a dry December wind. “Fuckers must’ve mistook me for a demon.” White smoke rises from his shoulders, and-- after taking his place at the center of the pavilion-- Drimmari sees cracks and blisters on Alastor’s skin.
They actually think I’m going to fight him. Incredulity is the crack that finally shatters floodgates of retribution in Drimmari’s mind.
“Evening, Al,” he says quietly. Unlike Alastor’s voice-- always the herald of his deepest inner thoughts-- Drimmari’s is tempered steel, a carefully contained fire.
Magister Dawnstar clears his throat. “Gentlemen, if I may command your attention for a few more moments.” He is a sea breeze at the eye of a hurricane. “As two of our more seasoned and renowned Champions, the Magistry wishes to remind you both of your time on the Isle of Tribulations, as initiates.”
“Your joint candidacy for the role of Knight-Lord demands that you prove yourself the foremost among your peers. As such, your final trial is an honor duel…” Dawnstar’s voice takes a gentle, lilting tone. “...to the death.”
“Bullshit,” Alastor sputters. Drimmari remains silent, viridescent orbs deadlocked on Dawnstar. “You’re going to make us kill each other? After Sunfall, after Icecrown, the Breaking--”
Dawnstar’s eyes flare violet, and his voice rings through the chamber. “If there are words you wish to speak, let them be known now.”
“Drim,” Alastor says at once. “Fuck them. Fuck this.” His hand tightens on the pommel of his sword, a cutlass with a featherweight enchantment. “We can’t--”
“Alastor.” Drimmari draws his blade.
“Touching,” Dawnstar purrs. “I trust I needn’t remind you, Champion Loth’albelore, of your stake in this battle?”
The flushed, blistered skin of his face drains of colour. “Bastard mage,” he growls.
“Excellent.” Dawnstar’s smile is almost genuine. “Steel and magic both are permitted for this fight.” As though on cue, Isanna and her acolytes file out into the grass around the pavilion; the one-eyed lad ushers Mourne and Denar outside. “Thank you both for your service to the Kingdom. Tal anu’men no Sin’dorei.”
Several things happen at once: Turning on the spot, Dawnstar disappears with a flourish of his cloak; a rigid violet barrier erupts at the edges of the pavilion, sealing Drimmari and Alastor in; and finally, Alastor draws his own blade, ears drooping.
“We’re really doing this, brother?” Slowly Alastor settles into a defensive stance, instinctively deferential-- they both knew their strengths.
“Have we any choice?” Centering himself, summoning the mental void needed for proper swordplay, Drimmari inhales.
“Remember our deal?” Alastor begins pacing the edge of the pavilion; Drimmari matches the movement.
Drimmari nods. Alastor swallows.
Pillars of flame spring to life around the pavilion, immediately blocking Drimmari’s view of Alastor; carving his blade through the air, Drimmari forces a section of clearance for himself, barreling through and hitting the ground instinctively as a spear of Light streaks over his head. Cursing, he rights himself and weaves a shield, searching, always moving.
While Drimmari was undoubtedly the superior swordsman, Alastor had a true gift for magic. Once a high-ranking priest of the Church, he never truly lost faith: his stake in the Order was one of appeasing his late father’s wishes, nothing more. His grasp on the Light surpassed even Drimmari’s.
Drimmari knows his one true hope is to close in and torrent Alastor’s magic, striking while the blond giant is vulnerable; of course, as the lashes of fire swirling around Drimmari’s head might indicate, that is easier said than done.
The trick is to locate the source of the flames, to snuff them out. Containing Alastor is no easy feat in any facet of life.
There. Recognizing the head of one of the whips, Drimmari immediately rips a dangerous volume of magic from the Sunwell; fingertips searing, he hurls the wall of Light in that direction and follows closely behind it.
He’s on his back before he can gather his bearings: the violet hues of Dawnstar’s barrier glare down at him, silently mocking his folly. Drimmari does not doubt that his death approaches swiftly: Alastor is ever the tricky opponent.
Ash burns his eyes. Smoke sears his throat, throttles attempts to draw a full breath.
One heartbeat. Two. A searing pain ignites in Drimmari’s arms and legs, creeping into his torso; forcing his eyes open, he looks up at Alastor, whose eyes brim with tears, and a calming peace seeps into Drimmari’s soul-- one that fiercely counteracts the agony screaming in his limbs.
Instinct takes over. Howling, Drimmari rips as much magic as he can from the Sunwell: the floors buckle and groan with protest; the Arcane barriers at the room’s edges spiderweb with flaming cracks. Just as suddenly, he severs his own link to the Sunwell, and the magical backlash is enough to break several of his ribs.
The desperado tactic rendered Alastor near immobile. Groaning, Alastor rolls from his stomach to his back, fighting to right himself.
If Alastor is a priest and a scholar, Drimmari is a blood knight. Springing to his feet despite the pleas from his ribs, he pulls the bastard sword into a blistered hand and limps over to Alastor’s side, falling to his knees.
The force of their combined spells has rendered Alastor blind. In place of the lingering Fel corruption, his eyes are a swirling, milky white; his mouth works, unable to push words past the blood pooling in his throat. Crimson lips plead.
Drimmari plunges the blade into his friend’s heart. The roaring flames cackle their triumph, sucking what little oxygen remains in the room from the air.
Drimmari does not see the barriers come down. He does not hear people calling his name, congratulating him; the explosion has rendered him temporarily deaf.
Only darkness remains. So it once was, so will it always be.
