Jaegar felt the shift in the air around him.
Someone was approaching with purpose. Someone who had singled him out specifically.
He turned just as Wi'thas emerged from the mess of the main battlefield.
The blood elf was exactly as Jaegar remembered from their encounter at the academy—tall, impossibly tall, standing over two meters with a frame that seemed too thin to support such height. His pale skin had that characteristic luminescence that marked his race, and his hair fell in silver-white cascades past his shoulders.
But it was his eyes that Jaegar remembered most vividly. They held a kind of fractured madness, a brilliant intelligence that had been shattered into pieces and reassembled incorrectly.
Wi'thas smiled, and the expression was wrong in ways that made Jaegar's instincts scream warnings.
"Little spark," Wi'thas said, his voice carrying an accent that belonged to no region Jaegar knew. "You've grown since our last meeting. How delightful."
