Yeeeah. It feels so good to sleep… I would have liked to say that, if I hadn't woken up feeling so utterly broken. It was a good thing that no one was rushing me anymore. I felt frankly like crap. My body was stiff and refused to move, as if it had gained weight. But! I forced myself to stretch with difficulty. My hands pressed against the edges of the bunk, failing to provide the desired relief. A bummer. Well then. I tried to think… but my thoughts also hit a wall, apparently inside my skull this time. Yeah. My brain felt just as heavy, and it was clearly cramped inside my head.
And I felt a little nauseous. What happened to me yesterday? Ah, right. Alchemy on an empty stomach and twenty-four hours without food at all. Oh, it looks like I got off easy, then…
Suddenly, my gaze focused, hitting the second tier of the bedroom. I hadn't even noticed at first that I had been observing only a blurry smudge. But now it was clear that I was still aboard the Pepelats. Why is that annoying ringing going on? My head was heavy, but after yesterday, that was generally normal. It had been worse, let's put it that way, only I was incredibly thirsty. Hm. And there was no one around; apparently Venidan had already left.
The window was open, and conversations could be heard from outside, along with that annoying clink-clink-clink. What kind of pot-banging have you started out there, you monsters? Can't you see an Elf is feeling unwell? And it smells like smoke. Why does it smell like smoke? Is someone burning something? And the smell is so… unpleasant…
Memories of yesterday returned in a rush, along with my concentration. Mother! I did such things yesterday! Khem. I don't know how it works, but I barely remember what happened with the civilians. On the other hand, I remember the Scourge troops very well—just wonderfully. The Ghouls, the Abominations… brrr, it made me shudder… and all sorts of Zombies. The way Mal'Ganis extended those slimy magical tentacles, forcing the transformation of humans into Undead. Your tentacles are such a nuisance!
To stop thinking about it, I flew to the open window and looked out, trying to understand what I had missed. The Pepelats had stopped outside the city, in the Systems Alliance camp. Here, outside, there were almost no traces of battle. The tents were in order, and soldiers were scurrying about. So that's what the clinking was—plate armor! You guys sure are noisy.
Then I shifted my gaze to Stratholme. If one didn't know better, the atmosphere in the camp didn't dissonate at all with the monumental city walls. They reliably hid all the devastation and the corpses littering its streets. From this side, it was almost as welcoming as it had been a week ago. I looked higher, shattering this bright but regrettable illusion. Plumes of smoke over the city and the stench wafting from it betrayed the real situation.
If this continued, my clothes would be soaked in all these "aromas," so the window was immediately slammed shut. It became quieter, though the smell didn't go anywhere. However, it wasn't that which worried me, but what happened yesterday.
A slaughter—that's what it's called. Yes, I didn't have to stand in the front row. Yes, I was actively moving around, more focused on shooting Nerubians and trying not to die, but the images of yesterday still crept into my head. Blood and a slaughter perpetrated by everyone against everyone. Humans trying to survive and the dead wanting to devour the survivors. Abominations—an impression that will stay with me for a long time; those brutes are just too disgusting. Three arms, greasy dead flesh, and protruding guts. EW!
Diving into my own thoughts once more, I confirmed—I felt absolutely no negativity regarding the humans. Perhaps it was because yesterday I was too focused on the Undead, which is why the mere thought of a Zombie makes me shudder, while the deaths of humans somehow passed me by. And yet, there in the city behind the walls, there are piles and piles of corpses right now. I hope I don't have to go there.
No thanks, I'm fine here. The smell of scorched flesh made me wince again. In my past life, cinema kept telling me that associations with roasted meat ruined the appetite. Nothing alike! Scorched clothes, unwashed meat fried to charcoal along with offal. It just smells disgusting! And no associations with food. Besides, no idiot would try to roast meat directly in an open fire! And… then I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I hadn't eaten anything at all for the last twenty-four hours except Alchemical potions, so no, I didn't just want to eat. I wanted to DEVOUR!
This entertaining thought hit me suddenly and immediately occupied all available mental space. We are quite far from the Sunwell; I actively used magic yesterday and was doing something all day. So to hell with formalities! What do we have in the fridge? Strength appeared immediately, along with coordination, and the path became simple and clear.
The refrigerator is one of the few purely magical devices on the Pepelats, by the way. But in appearance, it's the most ordinary fridge, with a figure of a warrior carved on the front panel and an inscription burned by my mother's magic: "Guardian of Satiety, may it protect you far from home." Thinking about it now, how much did she understand in advance? Okay, let's see what we have inside.
Oh, a bottle of deep green juice from a local fruit. And a note. Let's read it; usually Veni didn't leave me notes.
Honored Lady Davilinia!
Having assessed Your feat and renowned deed in protecting this world, the Great Menethil Dynasty, by this document, notifies You that such a significant achievement deserves reciprocity. His Royal Highness Arthas Menethil invites You to appear for a meal and conversation. His Highness's headquarters is located in the Sweaty Wolf Tavern on the outer side of Stratholme, near the southern gates. This invitation shall serve as a sign for the guard.
Written at the headquarters of His Highness Crown Prince of Lordaeron Arthas Menethil, knight of the Order of the Silver Hand, son of King Terenas Menethil II, by His Royal Grace's secretary, Derek Gniloust.
Postscript. As a separate request, I would like to remind You of the necessity of observing court etiquette at His Highness's Headquarters.
And at the bottom, a postscript in Veni's handwriting:
The Prince wants to know more. Our sudden and timely appearance was appreciated, but it created a lot of questions. So get a move on and go talk. And yes, the juice is for you. I talked to the Mages; they said it would make things easier.
Thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you! I grabbed the bottle of juice and, hm. Hm-hm-hm. What if I do this?
I flew to the mirror with the bottle. I don't look great. Fairly long chestnut hair (not very characteristic for Elves, by the way; usually High Elves have lighter hair), circles under my eyes, general dishevelment. It'll do. But the bottle won't—I need a different container. So I poured the juice into a large wooden mug and pulled a cloak over my head. Hm, what if I do this? An illusion of green glow decorated my eyes. Simple, but it'll do.
A raspy voice came out naturally. I held the mug out to the mirror so the green juice was visible.
"Drink, Hellscream, embrace your destiny! You will be conquerors!"
Not bad. A based Gul'dan turned out. He wasn't a beauty even when alive—ugly as sin, even by Orc standards. Okay, cloak off, chest out. Look into the mug with suspicion.
"And what, Gul'dan, must we give in return?"
Cloak back in place, looking from the bottom up. I'm an evil, foul Warlock wanting to trick you into eternal slavery to Demons.
"Everything."
I nearly dropped the mug from laughing. That was cool, very authentic. I like it. If the world-saving thing doesn't work out, I'll go work in a theater.
"I presume this scene means something, right, apprentice?" a slightly mocking voice rang out.
I jumped, spinning around. Ah no, just a crow controlled by the Magister. Who would have doubted it; this bird flies quietly enough that I didn't hear him. And I got carried away, no doubt about that. I'll have to answer; lying or keeping silent to the Teacher is not the best decision. I won't do that.
"That was unexpected, Magister. But generally yes, it was a scene of communication between an Orc Warlock and one of the green-skins. Nothing important overall, Teacher."
The crow landed on the table, clicking its claws, but didn't go for the mug; it let me drink the juice. Life became better, life became more cheerful. I still really want to eat, but now it's gotten a little easier. And most importantly, a whole Prince invited me! Me, a village girl! This is a huge reason for excitement, I tell you! The Magister asked:
"Do you already have a plan for the upcoming conversation with the prince? I used my avian form to listen to the conversations. Should I clarify what exactly is expected of you besides answers to questions?"
I winced while changing clothes. There really wasn't much time. Fortunately, the feathered one isn't looking; otherwise, I would have hit him with a spell. As for Arthas, I have options, yes.
"So that I would go to Northrend with him to catch that very Demon that was running around the city. Tell me, Magister, are the theories that Demons return after death true? That it's impossible to kill them permanently with ordinary weapons."
In fact, I know they are. The trio of Nathrezim really bled everyone dry, and they will do it again more than once. Including the supposedly "dead" Mal'Ganis. By the way, I came up with a new insult: ass-abominations. These constructs of dead flesh weren't given reproductive organs, but they were given a very detailed, greasy, and wobbling backside. I will never be able to unsee that; it doesn't wear clothes! And it also attacks with clouds of poisonous gas that erupts how? Correct, like diarrhea!
The crow didn't answer. I managed to tidy myself up a bit, and all this time the familiar behaved like a bird. Apparently, the Magister went to check the information. In the end, I was already dressed in formal attire and polishing my gauntlet when he returned.
"I looked for information and indeed, there is evidence that senior Demons return to the battlefield after a short period. This is quite ancient information, remaining from the times of the Empire, before The Sundering. But I'm not sure if my library has information on sealing Demons; alas, that is too specific knowledge. For such information, one should turn to the Paladins or those who lived in those times. And it would be good to have a Demon in mind for sealing, so as not to raise unnecessary questions."
Which is quite difficult; it's not a fact they would even talk to me at all, yeah. Especially the Night Elves, who definitely have such information. On the other hand, the search for information can be used as a pretext to distract Arthas from any nonsense. Better let him look for Scholomance; burning that shop down would be extremely useful for all of us. An exclusively good deed, from whichever side you look at it.
And if Arthas does sail away, I'll make an analog of Manhacks and go storm that island myself with an army of golems. In the narrow corridors of the castle, they will be better than my other creations. And bodies chopped into pieces are harder for Necromancers to raise, which is also useful.
"Thank you, Magister, you've been very helpful. And now, the prince shouldn't be kept waiting," and I walked out, followed by the crow's gaze.
Before I closed the door behind me, the Magister spoke again:
"And by the way, His Highness's supply officers came by this morning. They are concerned about the haphazard production of golems in the port and asked when you intend to stop production. One shouldn't abuse hospitality, apprentice."
Oh, I completely forgot about it. Once I unloaded that workshop-room near the warehouses, I ordered them to churn out golems and flew off to other places. Of course, the workshop won't stop until it receives an order or until the Mana runs out. Fortunately, the gauntlet is with me.
"It won't take long, Magister. I just forgot."
I didn't take my staff so as not to unnerve the prince's guard, but no one knows that the gauntlet is also a mediator, right? In general, giving the command to stop is a matter of a few seconds. Now I can go; I still want to eat. I know it's petty, but the invitation clearly specified a meal. As it's not hard to guess, there are no (professional) cooks aboard the Pepelats; we've already eaten everything tasty, leaving only grains and other long-term storage products. Naturally, I have no intention of turning down professional cuisine.
I'm not dressed according to local fashion. A wide-brimmed hat for a more classic witchy look, red and blue clothes, a blue cloak, and long cloth gloves, with my plate combat gauntlet over the left one. I left the staff on board; if anything happens, I'll have to work the area with the gauntlet. By the way, I extended the latter; when worn, it covers the entire arm to the shoulder, providing decent protection. And with all the Magic Enhancements, the defense increases to quite a good level. And all this on my leading left hand.
Stepping outside, I looked back at the ship. From the outside, the Pepelats looks almost intact. A few dents and a couple of cracks left by the powerful throws of the Abominations' anchors and hooks, not fully cleaned traces of Nerubian webs, but otherwise the machine looks quite good. Although a paint job wouldn't hurt.
And something needs to be done about stabilization. This dangling block of rooms doesn't interfere during smooth flight, but there will be problems during acceleration. I'll probably need to flip the structure horizontally. The only problem is that this will require a recalculation of the chassis and will complicate the design somewhat. But that's exactly what isn't urgent, just for the future.
The soldiers saw me and reacted calmly. Actually, a couple of soldiers were hanging around the Pepelats, guarding it.
"Lady Davilinia?" one of them asked.
It's funny, but here we observe a typical fantasy trope where rank-and-file soldiers wear full plate, a metal helmet, and a metal-rimmed shield with a sword. In general, they are decked out in iron at the level of a good Earth knight of the seventeenth century. True, horses are still expensive, and a good warhorse is exactly what distinguishes a knight from a Footman.
I nodded.
"Yes, that's me. It seems you've decided to make sure I definitely make it to the conversation with His Highness."
The soldier replied slightly apologetically:
"Sir Gniloust's order, lady. Follow us."
And we went, almost unnoticed by anyone. Everyone is busy with something and rushing somewhere. Someone is training, someone is cleaning weapons or talking to comrades. The sound of a blacksmith's hammer is heard. Almost no attention is paid to us.
The refugee camp is located at the western gates of the city, so I can't assess their condition, and I just didn't think to send a bird, preoccupied with other matters. So I'll clarify with Arthas or his subordinates. I don't see much point in asking the rank-and-file; I don't think they are told how many city residents survived. And I'm curious.
As written in the invitation, the prince took over a tavern located on the road leading to the city as his headquarters. A two-story stone building with stalls for horses, monumental like most of the local human buildings. It's located at some distance from the main camp, surrounded by knights' tents, and over there, to the side, are a couple of Paladin recruits. Probably Uther's subordinates.
Where he is himself, I don't know, and I'm not particularly interested. All my experience communicating with Paladins just screams that I should stay away from them. And I intend to follow that advice.
The guard at the entrance to the tavern stopped us:
"On what business?"
I handed over the paper with the heraldic seal; the soldier read it, inspected it, and let us inside. The tavern looks like a tavern from the inside. Maybe not the dirtiest place, but not a mansion worthy of a prince either. Still, the standards of merchants and the nobility are at different levels, and for a former resident of the twenty-first century, they are closer to the latter. If they tried to improve the building for the prince's arrival, they did a mediocre job.
Inside, three knights and two Footmen were found—owners of magnificent plate armor decorated with wings and complex patterns. Officers, apparently. And another couple of sentries at the passage to the second floor. Intuition suggests that the rooms where the important guests were housed are located there. The guards didn't conduct a search, didn't demand I remove the gauntlet; they just looked and let me through. Well, they're their own worst enemies.
The prince stopped in the second room from the stairs. A very ordinary room with a bed and a table, modest, but there is at least some privacy. When the door opened, I was able to assess not only the interior but also Arthas Menethil, the crown prince of the Kingdom of Stormwind himself.
And he, the bastard, is monumental. Local humans, if you take an Elf as the norm, are already larger than a human of Earth, and noticeably larger, by about a third. Well, a Paladin is larger than an ordinary human by another one or two such orders of magnitude. Encased in heavy plate and armed with a heavy sledgehammer. I look like a mere toy next to him.
Naturally, the prince heard the door open and turned, looking at me with curiosity and also noticeable surprise. And so we stood, looking at each other. Silent. Tiny me and the huge prince. Well okay, I need to remember what I was taught. Otherwise, the pause is dragging on.
"Your Highness, it is a great honor to meet you," and a bow.
If anything, I at least tried to observe the proprieties. Arthas nodded, pointing to a chair.
"No need to bow, come in. Davilinia, right? Good. I must admit, I thought you were somewhat older. When your friend told me that you built all these mechanisms, it's even more impressive. Are these really your creations?"
I thought a lot of things too. We work with what we have.
"To be fair, Your Highness, I am not particularly younger than you, and maybe even older. Elves mature slowly, but age is not equivalent to development. I may be older in years but younger in body, Your Highness. And yes, I assembled the Pepelats and the golems. And Venidan provides our little team with Alchemy and poisons effective against the Undead."
The officer asked:
"Pepelats? What is that?"
"The name of my flying ship. And yes, I really did build it from scratch, using golems I assembled myself."
The next questions were interrupted by Arthas, who looked at his subordinate with slight reproach:
"Captain, there's no need to rush. We wouldn't want our young guest to think we are poor hosts, would we? I think we should start with breakfast."
I nodded, and we headed downstairs, since we were still talking about a tavern.
"Speaking of which, Your Highness. Your secretary has a very interesting last name."
Arthas chuckled.
"Oh, I know. The Gniloust family has served the Menethil Dynasty for more than a century. One of my ancestors, Theoden the Resplendent, was even reproached, saying that a person with such a last name cannot be trusted."
I immediately clarified:
"They were wrong, of course?"
Arthas shook his head.
"No, he betrayed them. But my esteemed ancestor was wise and did not punish everyone for the sins of one. Which allowed the Gniloust family to rise to become the most worthy servants of the crown in the future."
Well okay, although it still raises questions for me.
First impressions of the prince? Well, Arthas is monumental, his voice is quite beautiful, a good balance of high and low. He carries himself well, politely, even if he was surprised by my age; at first glance, you wouldn't even realize he staged a massacre in the city yesterday. Generally, it's hard to believe that this cabinet can be so flexible and cautious. It's easy to underestimate him, which happened in the past and could have happened in the future where Arthas would become the Lich King.
Breakfast wasn't anything supernatural, but it was abundant and hearty. Three courses, and without any alcohol at all (even for the prince). At the same time, the portion sizes were such that one would have been enough for both me and Venidan. It helped that I was actually hungry. Yes, I didn't end up eating that much, but it turned out quite tasty and filling; I'm satisfied.
And then we returned to the office and had a debriefing, literally. The charming prince wanted to know what I could do, what the Pepelats could do, what I assemble and can assemble on the machine, what we saw and what we did. I didn't deny anything, keeping silent only about the details (for example, I intend to keep the secret of the gauntlet longer). Fortunately, everything was thought out in advance.
How did I learn to identify the Undead? My teacher fought in the Second War, and while we were flying here, we studied the local fauna. Yes, we cleared a couple of villages that had fallen under infection, please. We practiced on the Undead there, identifying what was needed. Yes, we conducted an investigation, learned about Stratholme, and arrived as soon as we could. Golem production has already been shut down, don't worry; I did it an hour ago when I was informed. Can I keep them, the crown will pay for the materials for the help in the city? Thank you very much, Your Highness! Yes, I saw the Demon more than once; it shoots spheres of darkness painfully and is wildly mobile for its size. And so on and so forth. A total of more than two hours of active interrogation, which had to be answered as convincingly as possible without telling too much in the process.
But now we came to the climax, to the main question. Arthas is still noticeably hesitant, but he asked anyway:
"I appreciate your help and would like to offer you to continue our cooperation. As you have seen, behind all the atrocities that have befallen my people stands this Demon, Mal'Ganis. He and his Cult of the Damned organized the plague that struck these lands. They also ensured the spread of the infection. When I struck him down yesterday, he said I could find him in Northrend. And I intend to go there and offer you to join me. Even if you lack experience in battle, your reconnaissance potential is more than significant. It would help us a lot."
Well yeah. Okay, I'll say it straight, since you're acting like this, prince.
"Your Highness, one clarification. You do know that if you cut off this Mal'Ganis's head, he won't die permanently, and in a few months he'll return and continue doing dirty work through the hands of that same Cult of the Damned, right?"
It seems they don't know this. They definitely don't know, judging by how they look at each other. And then they turned to me simultaneously and asked simultaneously:
"What?"
Arthas immediately clarified:
"Are you sure? Where is this information from?"
And now I'm stepping on very, very thin ice.
"I asked the Magister, my teacher. You see, prince, ten thousand years ago the Elf empire survived a full-scale demonic invasion, which is what buried it," I added to the suspicious looks, "I can understand your skepticism, but for High Elves the time is not that great. Only less than a dozen generations, plus it's written in the history books of the ancient Empire that I studied in lessons. In the books of Quel'Thalas, all this is described. Demons are dangerous, and they are dangerous partly because they return from the Twisting Nether if you kill them incorrectly. I believe you could turn to the Kirin Tor; there are those among them who can confirm this. Like Elementals, Demons are tied to their plane, and instead of death, they are pulled back there, recover, and then return to finish what they started."
I can congratulate myself; I broke them. The prince, in complete shock, looked at the captain. And then again and again; it seems they hadn't even considered such a possibility. Jaina, where were you looking? Your boyfriend here is as thick as a plank. A typical hero, spec'd into strength and faith. The officer cautiously clarified:
"And how soon can this Demon return?"
I haven't the faintest idea. I spread my hands.
"Months or weeks, I don't know exactly. But here's what I'm sure of: the Cult of the Damned will be able to bring back their master with the help of sacrifices. That is a fact."
Arthas pondered; I could see the gears grinding in his skull right on his face. It seems that a crusade against evil and a return in triumph, only to be known as a liar, doesn't quite suit him. And rightly so; we will go another way.
"And is there no way to kill a Demon permanently?" Arthas finally asked, having decided something for himself.
The right train of thought, the right one. Scholomance as a goal is much better and more useful. If the Cult of the Damned has nowhere to teach Necromancers, we will all be in the black. An exclusively good deed, from whichever side you look at it.
"Well, I've read about two methods, but I'm not sure they suit us, Your Highness. Demonic weapons imbued with their energy wound the soul, including the corrupted souls of other Demons. Or they can be sealed, but I don't know the details, alas. Such things aren't written in history textbooks and books about the deeds of ancient heroes, sorry."
Arthas sat down with such a clink and creak that I'm seriously worried about the chair. Judging by the captain's look, he is too.
"Then the expedition will have to be postponed," the prince commented on the situation dejectedly. "We need to conduct an investigation so that Mal'Ganis definitely doesn't escape and return."
Naturally, I immediately jumped in:
"I'll help," and immediately explained, "not just out of the goodness of my heart. I'm not that good a Mage; I lack knowledge. So yes, I have my own personal interest in Dalaran. And speaking of birds, Your Highness, would you happen to be interested in a possible place where the Cult of the Damned trains its Biotics users?"
Is it any wonder that a second later I was practically being devoured by their gazes. It seems the scent of a feat and kicking the Scourge's ass makes the prince want to go there immediately. I'll have to shut you down here too.
"Where is it? Well?" the man asked impatiently.
I recoiled from such a level of curiosity.
"I don't know everything, Your Highness. Unfortunately, cultists are not the most reliable source of information. It's the ruins of a city located in the south of the western lands, on an island. That's all the cultists know, sorry."
The captain thoughtfully scratched his chin.
"Your Highness, even if I don't know where it is, if we turn to the accounting chamber, we can surely find information. A city in the middle of an island, and an abandoned one at that—it shouldn't be that hard to find. It's probably on the border with the lands of Trolls or Orcs, which is why usually no one goes there. These are good enough landmarks to check them, sire."
Judging by the captain's face, he is pleased with the idea that they won't have to trek to Northrend, and at the same time, they can punch the Undead in the face. So we are allies in this matter. Arthas also appreciated the idea:
"Then it's decided. Lady Davilinia, I charge you to go to Dalaran and gather the necessary information. I will ask a female acquaintance of mine to help you in the investigation; I don't think she will refuse. Go to Dalaran together and find more information about Demons. I, meanwhile, will return to the capital and find this Scholomance. Then we will burn it to the ground, destroy all the adepts of the dark cult, and then we will come for Mal'Ganis too! For Lordaeron!" As the conversation progressed, he became more and more worked up, and at the end, he barked so loudly that the windows rattled, and the prince glowed slightly.
Well, as for me, I don't mind. I take it the acquaintance is Jaina; she should be around here somewhere. I remember exactly that Arthas, before sailing to Northrend, came to her. Given that it was the day after the massacre, she simply must live somewhere nearby.
And so it turned out, only I underestimated the scale of "nearby." Literally one room away in the same tavern. Essentially, this very tavern was completely expropriated for officer housing. And the prince's girlfriend, of course, was also housed here. I suspect Uther also has a room somewhere in this building. And I have a joke.
The prince knocked politely, but receiving no reaction, he made another attempt. The second time he got an answer, but clearly not the one he expected. I stood far enough away not to make out the words through the door. But judging by the tone, he was sent politely far away. The Mage was clearly not in the mood.
"Jaina, hello. It's me, Arthas," he explained. At first, for a few seconds, we stood in silence, during which he frowned more and more, but then I felt the strings of magic touch the lock. And after the click, something positive was heard from the room. The Paladin nodded to the captain, as if to say he'd take it from here, and threw open the door.
"Hello, Jaina!" The prince beamed and didn't fail to give a compliment. "And you look excellent in that!"
I couldn't help myself and peeked in after him. Well, I can understand the man, why he cheered up so suddenly. Jaina had clearly been distracted from reading some massive tome. The frowning sorceress stood next to the desk, dressed not in the doublet familiar from the game that constricted her assets, but in a more domestic shirt that didn't constrain her "talent." And with her arms crossed under her chest, visibly increasing their volume.
"Agreed! Now those are some tits!" escaped me past my consciousness.
I had already noticed that all humans were, as they say, well-built. Well, this applied to women too, and unlike the village hags I had observed earlier, here it was straight up:
"Just a masterpiece. Now I understand what he found in her…"
Hm, and everyone suddenly went silent, for some reason looking at me. Wait… did I? Say that out loud? Jaina measured me with a look and clarified:
"Arthas, who is this?"
The embarrassed prince scratched the back of his head:
"The reason I came, actually…"
And then Arthas briefly explained the essence of the problem with Mal'Ganis to Jaina. I even inserted a few comments on the matter. The increasingly frowning sorceress made a few notes on a piece of paper. Now I see not a shapely girl, but a specialist at work. A very young one, by the way; I don't think she's more than twenty-five.
"Well, Arthas, this is indeed a complex question. I can confirm that Elementals indeed do not die permanently outside their plane. But as for Demons, unfortunately, I don't know that much."
And don't look at me like that. I know myself that I look wildly suspicious. What can you do, the world needs saving. Arthas tried to hug the girl, but she slapped the prince's hands, and he stepped back in disappointment.
"That's why I came to you, Jaina. I'm going to the capital to tell my father what happened and look for information about the place where the Cult of the Damned trains its Biotics users. And I would like to ask you to look for information about Demons. If one of them is capable of this…"
Jaina nodded.
"Agreed, I need to inform my mentor about this," I was drilled with a look again, "and you want me to take her with me, right?"
The prince looked at me with a certain amount of thoughtfulness:
"She helped save thousands of lives; I think she can be forgiven for being impolite." He fell silent, thinking, then chuckled. "Sometimes."
Then the man nodded weightily to Jaina and turned stern:
"The survivors—that is entirely her credit."
This time, the disdain in the sorceress's gaze was replaced by interest. And I remembered that I still hadn't asked the question:
"And how many people survived during the 'Purge'?"
"Almost a fifth," Jaina replied, "the people are frightened, but alive. Unfortunately, the Undead got to too many. Good, I'll take care of it. Where can I find you when I'm finished?"
The prince pondered.
"In the capital, I think. I'm sure the loss of Stratholme will cause a lot of discussion among the nobility. I won't say I want to be there, but for the sake of grinding the Cult of the Damned into powder, I'm willing to endure it."
And so we parted. Arthas went to take heat from his parent and the nobility, and I remained in the office with Jaina. An awkward silence hung in the air.
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