Silence. The long, protracted silence without cognate. The pregnant silence of the infinite void, drowning everything else, remained. Lyria's own acknowledgement of her part, of her instigation, lanced through me. It was akin to a searing blade -- saturated in the venom of betrayal -- carving my very essence.

"Is this what you planned? For us?" I whispered, barely audible. My mind grasped, desperately, for answers, for truths.

"Rils," Lyria's response was subdued, dolorous and dark, tinged with regret. "I don't know how long we have been separated from each other. Craved each other's presence."

"I could say the same for myself." The dearth of apology from her only forced the veneer of derision to darken.

She gazed at me intently, with her bright silver-grey eyes. "I had to." Her face turned grim. A solemnity seized her expression. "I had to do what must be done."

I stared at her lips, -- those lips that I so loved to caress, to taste, -- now spilling poisonous excuses.

"What must be done..." I spat out, furiously. My pulse raced and my heart hammered, indignation flowed through my veins. "...is to protect every soul in High-Crag Hold. And you robbed me of the only chance I had to do it."

"We have a chance, Rils." Lyria reached up to touch my cheek as if her thorny bramble touch would soothe what I felt within. "We all have the chance."

I slapped her traitorous hands from reaching me. "A chance for what?!" I shrieked back.

Something within me tore me apart. To my disbelief, it became apparent that she felt a similar, if not identical, shredding.

"We can win. You have seen Talus. My son..." She held my gaze. I saw something break free inside her. "...our son is invulnerable. When the horde reaches, I will personally challenge Lyllantharas."

"This is not an honour-bound arena dual like Urganza and the Stormlord. This is war!" I responded, enflamed by rage. "You do not slaughter the enemy at your gates. You slaughter them before they arrive at your gates."

Her sharp eyes snapped at mine. "Are you so short-sighted, Rils? Don't you see what you have done? What you were up to do?" She stood tall, casting a heavy shadow, and held back nothing.

Every nerve strained to comprehend the betrayal-laced murk that assaulted my being. That audacity -- to point the lance of blame on me -- turned the blood gushing through my veins to liquid fire. My resolve grew ever stronger with her accusatory tone. If she hoped to soften my resistance, she failed.

"What I was about to do, was to save the lives of my soldiers and my mercenaries." I looked at her steely frame without flinching. Dearth of pity twined my words. "Those men and women put their lives, daily, to fight the advancing horde. You bore first-hand witness to what his necromancers did to the orcs. You have doomed my people to a fate worse than death."

Her lips gave into a contemptuous snarl. "Do you even know the origin of the plague?"

"I wield a sword to slay my enemies, but rarely do I ponder to question the source of its ore."

"You do not care that I only sought to stop the plague?" Her lower lip quivered. "No. All you see is your precious army, and how you must ensure their survival. That is all that matters."

"Lyria, I care little for your opinions on morality. But at least have the decency to admit to the wrong that you have committed against me." With seething rage, I added, "Against my mercenaries."

With a swiftness impossible to ignore, Lyria's callous hands grabbed my shoulders in a steely vice grip. Her claws dug deeper. Through the layer of leather and fabric. Her fingers, the touch -- that I so craved, savoured, willingly lurched to feel -- now felt like the infestation of a million vermin wriggling beneath. An invasion of the host released by Zor'Amoth of the Scourge Warren would have felt less disgusting.

"Let go of me," I ordered icily, removing my shoulders from her bruising grasp, my fists balled. I met her cruel gaze with firm resolve. "Get off me. Now."

"My lovely Rils," she said, with a voice dangerously soft, imbued with dangerous deceptions. "Did T'orrac ever reveal how Maugrym's household was infected?"

I clenched my jaw tight.

"Do you know who fabricated the plague?" Her voice -- like a seductive hiss of a serpent -- cut across my senses. "Did you know that wood elves were the unfortunate victims? A test bed for the real decimation?"

"Lyria, plague and pestilence are natural events. Unavoidable, just like death and taxes."

I drew myself away, but her iron grip only tightened further, fingers sinking deeper.

"Release me," I growled.

"Did T'orrac reveal the extent of his association with your father?" Lyria leaned closer, continuing her barrage of questions, relentlessly. "Why Vangere denied? I guess not. T'orrac hid a lot from you."

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Were it not for T'orrac's casual reference and enquiry about Altonarrak's whereabouts, it would have been easy to dismiss Lyria's claims.

My head tilted back, refusing to meet Lyria's gaze. "T'orrac lied to me. When he asked my opinion on Maugrym's tale, he was actually gauging my knowledge." My blood went cold. I recoiled, struggling to draw a break away from her. Shock, denial and repulsion flooded my mind but Lyria held firm.

"That is why T'orrac sought your help. A daughter to complete what her father abandoned." There was utter clarity in her voice, enmeshed with caution.

Lyria carried a measure of power in her magnificence. A compulsion beyond any I encountered so far. The enigma of her revelation unsettled me, clouding my judgement. In confusion, I struggled to unravel the veil draping the truths.

"T'orrac used you," she continued softly, seeing me reorient.

Despite my attempts to extricate myself, I found it impossible to free myself. It was hard to deny the strength of her hold or the intensity of her gaze.

"Why?"

"I suspect T'orrac hardly knew what he was getting into." Her fingertips grazed my chin, lightly. Those uninvited brushes sent waves of heat flowing through me. Yet, even as I gasped, repelled, her iron hold upon me grew stronger.

She released her hold and swiftly raced to the door. Her eyes did a scrutinizing sweep, ensuring our undisturbed privacy. With a powerful thrust, she slammed the door shut before turning her attention back.

"Rils, you should sit. This would take a bit of effort." I ignored. But could not do anything except watch raptly as she reached me.

Lyria let out a sly chuckle while tilting my chin upward. The cup of her fingertips traced my lower lip. Her actions were mechanical, deliberate, because -- she really did want to touch me.

"Do not try to manipulate me," I uttered despite abhorrence choking my throat. Spittle flew, spattering Lyria's cheeks.

"Oh, Rils." She traced her index finger along my collarbone, and around to rest against the curve of my neck. Finally, sensing my opposition, she dropped her hand down, staring into my eyes. "The truth is there is a lot we need to talk about."

"Speak then."

"The obsession of the High Elves with their apotheosis drew the attention of The Circle Princes. The plague was their measure to cull the herd." She beckoned me with one hand and placed the other upon my hip. Warmth pulsated through my chest, further establishing our connection.

But no physical bond could easily overcome the betrayal sense surging in me. As tender as her touch felt, it only strengthened my conviction.

"Altonarrak, and by extension, T'orrac were their mortal instruments,” completed Lyria.

"Impossible. Alton hated angels and demons, in equal measure. He would never work for the inner circle of demon monarchs."

"He never worked for them." Lyria tugged me closer. Her hand, on my hip, pulled with gentle authority. Only a few layers of leather and fabrics stood between us. "He worked with them. Their goals temporarily aligned."

With baleful eyes, I watched Lyria continue.

"Altonarrak approached Vangere initially, but the High Alchemist refused, so he was forced to draw the aid of Druid T'orrac. When Vangere heard about the initial success of the plague, he forced Altonarrak to abandon it. In fact, Altonarrak was forced to destroy the research. T'orrac had no access to the samples until you provided him."

I swallowed a gag and managed to speak, almost choking. "What priorities forced Alton to work with those Circle Princes, and how did Vangere managed to force Alton?"

"To answer that, you need to understand the nature of the plague," Lyria replied in an earnest manner. "More importantly, about your own father."

My face crinkled at the mention of his name. At the way, she referred to Alton.

"Before I explain, I am aware of your own reservation, but this is important information," Lyria began. "It might sway you, change your decision regarding him. You may not be aware, but his name invokes terror."

I stared at Lyria in pensive silence.

"Remember Rakshasas. Their own realm Narraka. Filled with gleaming riches, cities covered in extravagant wealth. Domes of gold, studded with diamonds. Their mages could bend the samsaran cycle. A single asura would decimate an army of Prime Demons and the Maha Asur could wipe any Demon Sovereign."

"Fancy tales that everyone heard." I shook my head with a hard squint. "If they were so mighty, what happened to them?"

"Altonarrak happened." Her reply was quick. "He had multiple titles, The Commander of Sanctum Templars, the wraith of the tempest brigade, that none save him knew his name. It is the moniker given by the demons; Altonarrak."

A shudder trickled down my spine. Every bone and fibre in my body tingled as I contemplated her meaning.

"Altonarrak," she repeated, emphasizing every syllable, each word. "The Sunderer of Narraka."

Lyria slowly rose onto her toes, her scent slowly blanketing me. Her voice went quiet, gentle, falling soft on my ears. "The fact is, your father is an unfathomable being filled with boundless intrigue. His motivations are always shrouded in mystery."

Lyria ran her hand along my shoulders, reaching the point where muscle tapered down into the flesh. Her touch, slowly, sapped my resistance.

Her voice softened still more, thoughts slipped from her lips, unfiltered. "As for the nature of the plague, it was designed to infect High-elves, but there is more. The plague itself is more akin to a hive, possessing a singular thought to eradicate a particular bloodline. High-elves are, simply, a medium of propagation."

I gaped at her. Even amidst my stormy thoughts, her disclosure only fanned my apprehension. The involvement of Circle Princes -- beings who Demon Monarchs own fealty to -- triggered a cascade of potent fear and repulsion.

"Vangere forced Altonarrak...," Lyria stopped short, in mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing, seeking. "...by manoeuvring him into an unwinnable situation with the Bloodline."

"How?" Even as the word left, I knew the answer.

Delyn!

"Lyria, this involved my daughter. I had every right to know."

Lyria gazed at the vengeful expression in my eyes. She lowered her head in silent acknowledgement.

"Besides, your judgement was flawed. Delyn is safely residing away. I could have unleashed the plague, scattered the Cambion Warlord's forces. Then, raze and reduced all beyond High-Crag Pass to cinders, eradicating the plague."

Lyria only offered an apologetic smile. But she did not retract her stance.

"You had no right to make that decision. Not for my soldiers. Not for my daughter."

Lyria stood her stance, in silence. Her gaze, steely. Her arms, stiff. It did not look like I could get a resolution.

"Lyria, you should have communicated this with me, first."

"Rils, would you have listened?" Her silver-grey eyes blazed as if possessing their own light source.

"We could have worked things through."

"Rils." Her voice rose. With steeled resolve, she asked, again. "Would you have listened?"

"We could have devised an alternate and better strategy."

"Would you have listened to me?" Lyria growled, finally. The roar of a hundred mountain lions issued from her throat.

I wanted to respond, but it felt futile to my soul.

Lyria acted that way, because -- I forced her to.