Sunset.
Violet on the horizon. The chill of night settling in, mingling with the wisps of icy fog writhing around the necropolis. “Mograine.” The cold didn’t touch him. Cold could only bother the living. “Highlord Mograine, what happened?”
Through the fog surrounding the floating fortress of Acherus, Darion Mograine could see the Broken Isles stretching out before him. The soothing lights of Suramar. The dead silhouette of the Tomb of Sargeras, its fel glow extinguished. The distant peak of Highmountain, snowcaps gleaming orange from the last rays of the sun. Still. Quiet. As it had been since the Legion’s defeat. “Mograine, are you still with us?” A blade pressed firmly into the back of his neck. A flick of a wrist, and his troubles would end.
Darion Mograine turned his head and met the gaze of the woman holding the sword. “For the moment,” he answered. “How can I be sure?” asked Sally Whitemane, her glowing eyes unblinking beneath her snow-white hair. An orc and a human were beside her. They made no move to intervene. Wise of them. “Because,” Mograine said, “I am about to ask you to help me kill Bolvar Fordragon.”
The Presence in Mograine’s mind didn’t so much as twitch. That surprised him. But the reactions of the other three interested him more. Thoras Trollbane grimaced and looked at the ground. Nazgrim muttered an orcish curse and spat on the floor. Whitemane just smiled and lowered her weapon. “Excellent. I wanted nothing more in life than to kill the Lich King,” she said. “Droll as ever, Whitemane,” said Trollbane. Mograine looked away.
His gaze fell on the islands, and he granted himself one last look at a peaceful land. One last moment of serenity. Then he turned back, shutting it out of his mind, hardening the remnants of his soul against it. Serenity would not serve him now. “We need to speak. We Four Horsemen, alone,” Mograine said. He turned to the orc. “Nazgrim, if you please.”