The smell of honeybread woke her.
Nyxia blinked against the soft light filtering through her curtains. Her bed was warm, the blankets heavy with comfort. A breeze carried in the sound of gulls and the ocean, rustling the windchimes that hung from the window latch.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
She sat up slowly, running a hand through her hair. For a moment, she let herself believe it was real. Just a normal morning in Darnassus. Before the war. Before the fire.
But the illusion cracked as her hand grazed her ribs—and the crescent mark there pulsed faintly, still warm.
It wasn't a dream.
This was the past.
And this time, she was awake.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and memories.
Her mother moved with practiced ease, flipping flatcakes in a cast-iron pan. Her father sat at the table, polishing the hilt of his old dagger. He looked up when she entered.
"There she is," he said with a grin. "Sleep alright?"
Nyxia forced a nod.
Her mother pressed a cup of tea into her hands. "You didn't cry out this time."
Nyxia froze.
"What?"
Her mother didn't look up. "Your dreams. The past few nights. You always used to call out in your sleep. Ever since you were a little thing. But last night, quiet as the stars."
Nyxia gripped the cup tighter. The tea trembled.
It's happening again, she thought. The loop. The echoes. Like they remember things I don't. Or don't remember what I do.
Her father flipped a page of the local news-scroll. "There's a call going out. The Sentinels are expanding patrols in Darkshore. Horde troop movements spotted on the southern coasts."
That line hit like a punch to the gut.
Nyxia swallowed hard. "Are they mobilizing?"
"Just preparations, they say," he replied. "Nothing serious. Yet."
It's always just preparations. Until the sky turns red and the flames come down.
Her fingers clenched the cup.Last time, I let this happen. I stayed here. Safe. Silent. I thought the army would handle it.I thought Darnassus was untouchable.
She looked around the table—her parents, alive and smiling.
Her home, whole and warm.
This was the chance she never got.And she wouldn't waste it.
"Something wrong?" her mother asked, setting down a plate of sliced pear and warm bread.
Nyxia looked up.
"No," she said softly. "Not this time."
Darnassus sparkled under morning light.
Lanterns still hung from the boughs of moonlit trees, catching the wind like lazy fireflies. Vendors lined the curved walkways with baskets of crystalfruit and woven charms. Children darted between the stalls, laughing in patterns that felt too perfect.
It was all exactly as Nyxia remembered.
And that was the problem.
She moved through the market with deliberate slowness, eyes scanning every corner, every smile. Everyone looked… right. But too right. Like the city had been rebuilt from memory instead of stone.
A tailor waved to her. "Nyxia, welcome back! Still hunting shadows?"
She stopped. "Do I… know you?"
The tailor laughed. "You brought me a wildthorn pelt last year! Said I was the only one who didn't mess up dyeing it."
Nyxia had no memory of that.
Or maybe I did do that. In this version of the past.
She smiled thinly and moved on.
The Moonwell lay ahead, still glimmering, still pure. She stepped closer, kneeling beside its edge.
She stared at her reflection. Same face. Same silver hair. Same pitch-dark eyes.
But deeper. Sharper. The woman she had become, trapped inside the body of someone who hadn't yet failed.
She dipped her fingers into the water. It was cool. Clean. Not yet clouded by smoke and ash.
Behind her, two young priestesses laughed. One spilled a handful of luminescent petals. The wind caught them. They drifted toward the water and floated.
I watched this well boil, she thought. I saw it melt stone.
A sudden chill crept over her skin.
She turned toward the Temple of the Moon.
As she approached the steps, one of the priestesses standing near the entrance tilted her head.
"Nyxia?" the woman said.
Nyxia stopped.
The priestess smiled. "Haven't seen you at morning prayers. Everything alright?"
Nyxia nodded slowly. "I just… returned."
The priestess blinked. "Returned? You've been here for weeks."
Nyxia stared.
"I—I've been gone."
"No, you haven't." The priestess's tone was calm, kind. Certain. "You helped with the blessing rites three days ago. Don't you remember?"
Nyxia stepped back once. "No."
The priestess's smile didn't falter. "Maybe you're overtired. The moons have been strange lately. But you're home, Nyxia. You're always home."
That word echoed like a threat.
Always.
She turned and walked away quickly, heart pounding.
She didn't stop until she reached the overlook above the market—the same place she had stood that day, long ago, as smoke filled the horizon. When the flames came.
She looked out now, and everything was peaceful.
But her hand ached. The mark burned beneath her glove.
They don't remember.Or maybe they never knew.But I do.
The clang of steel on steel rang out in sharp, measured rhythms as Nyxia approached the Sentinel training grounds.
Half a dozen young recruits moved in formation beneath the flowering trees, their armor polished, their expressions focused. Instructors barked corrections in crisp Darnassian. Shields rose, glaives spun. A low chant of movement and breath rippled through the yard like a war-song in rehearsal.
Nyxia stopped at the edge of the platform and watched.
It was all exactly as she remembered.Too exactly.
She leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes scanning every movement. There—across the field—stood Captain Ilyrianne, the drillmaster. Stern, poised, clad in dusky violet armor with silver pauldrons. Her voice cut the air like a blade.
She died screaming, Nyxia thought. Trapped beneath the barracks after the flames breached the walls. I found what was left of her armor days later, melted into the stone.
Now, she was here. Whole. Unbothered. Leading a unit with the same fire that used to make Nyxia roll her eyes.
And Nyxia had never trained under her.
Last time, she'd declined the offer. Too independent. Too arrogant. Too busy chasing threats alone, trying to outpace a war that hadn't yet begun.
Because I thought I had time.
She watched one recruit—a wiry young elf—drop her stance early on a spin. Ilyrianne was on her in a blink.
"Again," she snapped. "Footwork first. Always. You stumble in a drill, you die in the field."
Nyxia looked down at her hand.
The crescent mark flared once, then faded.
She closed her fingers slowly into a fist.
She wasn't here to watch this time.
She wasn't here to guess and grieve and stand on the shoreline as the sky turned red.
This time, I bleed before the fire falls.
Nyxia turned from the railing and walked.
Not away.
To prepare.
The letter came as dusk kissed the treetops with amber light.
Nyxia was in the garden when she heard the knock—a measured, official cadence against the front door. Her father opened it, spoke quietly with someone outside, then turned back toward her with a scroll in hand.
"From the Sentinels," he said, brow creased. "You've been summoned."
Nyxia took the scroll without a word. The seal was unmistakable: the crescent sigil of Elune, stamped in silver wax.
She didn't break it right away. Just stared at it.
Her father shifted, unsure. "They're calling for auxiliary forces. Just in case things get worse in Darkshore."
Just in case.
That's what they'd said last time too.She hadn't gone. She'd waited.When the smoke started rising, it was already too late.
This time, she unrolled the scroll.
The orders were clear:
Report to Sentinel staging grounds in Darkshore by the third day of the next moon.All eligible hunters and combat-capable elves are to undergo early patrol integration.Scouting and readiness drills to begin immediately. War is not yet declared.But preparations are underway.
At the bottom was the signature of General Shandris Feathermoon.
Nyxia's eyes lingered on it. Last time, Shandris had died trying to hold the western perimeter.
She looked up from the parchment, gaze fixed on the sky. Stars were beginning to show. No smoke yet. No screams.
Still time.
Still a chance.
She walked inside, pulled her armor from its rack, and set it on the table.
Her mother said something from the kitchen—worried, soft. Her father asked if she was sure.
She strapped on her bracers.
"I'm reporting early," she said simply. "I'm not waiting."
That night, as she packed her satchel, Nyxia unrolled an old piece of parchment from her private journal. On it, she scrawled a list. Not of gear, but of people.
Names.
Faces.
The Ember Veil.
They had died because they were never ready in time.
She wrote one more word beneath their names:
Find them.
Then, quietly:
This time, early.This time, alive.
"Ah that's right, she did say she was here around this time didn't she.." She put away her journal with slight smirk as she thought of a certain pair rapiers and smile that never seemed to fade.