Archbishop Benedictus stood adorned in his finest robes and trinkets, representing the pride of Stormwind’s culture for the great day at hand. Next to him stood a small and grimy man carrying a large bundle of wrinkled scrolls.

Benedictus looked up eagerly as Varian emerged from his private quarters. “Light bless you, King Varian.” He smiled as Varian descended the stairs.

“And you, Father,” Varian said. “You look dressed to meet your maker.”

Benedictus waved his staff in a well-rehearsed and solemn gesture. “In such times as these, we must all stand ready to join the Light at any moment.”

At the archbishop’s side, the rumpled and nervous-looking fellow fidgeted with his overloaded bundle of papers and city diagrams. Varian suddenly realized it was Baros Alexston, the city architect. He was barely recognizable with all the mud covering his face and clothes.

Varian motioned for them to continue following him down the stairs. “How go the city repairs, Baros?”

“As well as can be expected, Highness.” Baros nodded, trying to keep from dropping his scrolls. Benedictus reached over and patted the architect on the back. “He is being entirely too modest, Your Majesty. Baros here has pulled off miracles getting much of Stormwind back in order, even making some notable improvements to the city.”

Varian felt a sense of relief. It was good to see some optimism returning to his advisors. “So what is most pressing?”

The architect nodded and went to nervously unroll one of his many scrolls as he walked, causing at least three others to slip from his grasp and tumble to the ground.

“My apologies, sire… yes, here it is.” Baros pointed to a place on the map, his dirty fingers leaving earthy smudge marks behind. “We’ve investigated the damage to the two main towers at the entrance to the city.” He shook his head and blew out with a whistle. “That black dragon must be even heavier than his massive size would suggest—likely the beast’s dark elementium armor. We’ve tunneled down, and the damage to the tower foundations is quite severe.”

His son lay still. He had died weeks ago, but only now was he at rest.

I am afraid for him.

Do not be, Saurfang had said, so long ago.

He knelt on the cold, unyielding stone floor of Icecrown Citadel and gathered his boy in his arms.

They are changing our children. They have changed you.

The warlocks gave me a gift. I was once powerful. Now, I am the whirlwind, he had said. I am war

itself. I shall bring glory to my people until my dying day.

How strange those words seemed now. How tainted.

He lifted his son’s body and carried him from the citadel. The eyes of dozens of champions lay upon

him. Both Horde and Alliance soldiers stood aside. Some offered silent salutes, honoring him in his grief.

Our son must not follow your path.

Keep him on our world, my love. He will be safe. Untouched.

Icecrown Citadel vanished. The dry chill of Northrend was replaced with the warm sun and humid air of Nagrand. He laid his son upon an unlit pyre near the final  resting places of his family. His son was now dressed in simple garments from Garadar, the place he had known as a boy.

Before you go, what will you name him?

He is my heart. He is the heart of my whole world, he had said.

He touched a burning torch to the pyre. Orange flames began to spread, first in the kindling, then in the chopped wooden logs. Shimmers of blue and white danced among the flames as the fire grew hotter. He made himself watch the flames consume his son. It was his boy’s final honor—he would not turn away. He watched skin give way to muscle, to bone, and finally, to ash.

Everything that is, is alive. The words had become a mantra in his mind, a constant reinforcement of his newfound understanding. More importantly they were an epiphany, the key to unlocking a whole new universe of knowledge. And the epiphany was why he was here.

Nobundo took comfort in the words as he slowly negotiated Zangarmarsh’s forest of colossal mushrooms, their spores glowing green and red in the early morning mist. He traversed the creaky wooden bridges that stretched over the shallow marshland waters. In just a few moments he found himself at his destination, gazing up at the radiant underbelly of a mushroom that dwarfed all others. There atop its cap, the draenei settlement of Telredor awaited him.

He progressed with trepidation, leaning heavily on his walking stick and cursing the pain in his joints as he stepped onto the platform that would carry him to the top. He was worried, for he was still unsure how the others would react. There had been a time when his kind had not even been allowed to enter the settlements of the unaffected.

They are just going to laugh at me.

He took a deep breath of the cool, misty marsh air and asked it to give him courage for the challenge to come.

Once the platform came to a stop, Nobundo carefully shuffled through the arched entryway, down several shallow steps, and out onto the landing overlooking the settlement’s small plaza, where the assembly had already gathered.

He gazed down at the hard-set faces of the various draenei, whose disdainful, superior eyes stared up at him.

He was, after all, Krokul: “Broken”.

To be Broken was to be outcast and vilified. It was not right or just, but it was the reality he had been forced to accept. Many of his unaffected brothers and sisters could not understand how the decline of the Krokul could have occurred, and especially, as in Nobundo’s case, how one who had been so gifted and so favored by the Light could have fallen so far.

Though Nobundo himself did not know exactly how it happened, he did know when. He recollected with startling clarity the exact moment that marked the beginning of his own personal descent.