Syra pouted to herself as she took up position on the docks at the northern tip of Silvermoon.

The last five days of her marriage were the most spectacular days of her life.

Finally free from her mother's controlling grasp, for the first time in 88 years, Syra had made a choice of her own.

Under her mother's tutelage, Syra had been trained how to wield every weapon imaginable, and excelled at combat like none other.

Ever since she learned to walk, Syra had been chasing her mother's favor, but it was never good enough.

When Syra learnt the cloaking magic unique to all rogues at the age of 10, Faedra didn't so much as crack a smile.

When Syra performed her first kill, and eliminated an entire Troll scouting party at the age of 11, Faedra told her to stay in the forests until she claimed a hundred tusks, and a shamans totem.

An entire year. It took her an entire year to find the proper time and place to ambush that many Forest Trolls. During that time, she learned their language, learned how to hunt by observing their trappers, and almost died several times. She never spoke a word that entire time. Her only companions were a simple, unenchanted dagger, and a rain resistant cloak. That event marked her for the rest of her life, it was there she came to appreciate silence, and rarely if ever spoke if she could help it. Silence meant survival to that little girl, and silence was her only comfort for most of her life.

When she returned a year later at the age of 12, she found out she wasn't special. That Faedra had been training another child to take her place.

That’s when Syra found her love for gardening. During her exploration in the depths of the monster infested forests, Syra formed a deep knowledge of poison, and other useful herbs.

Particularly, she found she had quite the touch in pruning flowers.

One day, when her replacement was training before Faedra, the little boy suddenly seized, falling to his demise.

Syra was beside herself with glee, and had pressed a flower into her journal to commemorate the occasion.

Expecting anger or disappointment from her mother, Syra had prepared to run away. She had lived in the forest before, she could do so again.

However something strange occurred. She saw an odd expression on her mothers face.

A smile.

In all of Syra’s memory, that was the first time she had seen Faedra direct such an expression at her.

Furthermore, her mother took her into her embrace for the first time, and cooed into her ear.

At that moment, Syra, a girl of 12 experienced parental love for the first time.

Her will to prove herself to her mother blossomed like never before.

And so she learnt the ways of the Light, and even some Arcane arts, all to please her mother.

When the Orc War happened, Faedra eagerly sent Syra to the front lines where she learned from the Humans the ability to merge the Light with a warriors abilities.

The stronger her belief in herself, the more powerful her Light magic. Others fought for their morality, Syra fought for herself.

Her thirst to prove herself as the best pushed her to train like nothing before, and master this newfound ability. Orcs fled at the sight of her, and she became the face of Elven grace and elegance.

She became unstoppable.

The Humans chased after her, unceasing in their naked lust. Syra was amused at their crazed attention, and even found herself surrounded by a small core of High Elven admirers who followed her every command. It was sort of fun to lead that bunch of bloodthirsty Elves on the hunt, Syra reminisced.

For a time, she relished in the slaughter. Syra had trained her whole life to be a weapon, a tool in her mother’s palm to be used wherever she pointed. And she was content.

But when the war ended, Syra returned to Silvermoon having learnt everything her mother had to teach her with nowhere to put these skills to use. The Amani were always an option, but her mother had expressly commanded her not to engage them. Claiming she had some plot underway to undermine them from the inside, and that prematurely culling their numbers would be a waste.

Dissatisfied and with nowhere to go, Syra felt empty inside as her mother had fewer and fewer roles for her in peace time.

Syra had suggested she go out and cull some Orcs who had been lurking across the continent. She heard the Warsong Clan was causing trouble, and wanted to clash with them once more after her duel with their chieftain had ended in a draw the last time they fought.

However, her mother had denied her requests at every turn.

Syra was a tool with no use.

Without work, what was her purpose?

Unwilling to spend an eternity locked in her mother’s estate, Syra, at the age of 40, finally acted upon her younger self's desire, and ran from home.

It was while she explored the city of Silvermoon that she truly interacted with the people of her race.

They disgusted her.

Double speaking at every turn, and braggarts like no other. Highborn always went on and on about how they were related to so-and-so, or slept in bed with a member of the Royal Guard.

Gossip and rumor spilled out of every Elven mouth like water from a faucet.

People placed more importance on clout and celebrity. Than for the safety of their land.

They acted like the Orc War was just another blip in their long lives.

“The King will handle it.” The rumor mill confidently said.

People rumored to have fought in the war, however, walked the streets festooned with badges and medals proudly pinned to their chests.

Syra fought in the only unit of Elves to have engaged the Orcs. She never saw any of these so-called soldiers take part in any combat.

That's what taught Syra how fake her people were. That the appearance of victory was more important than victory itself.

Syra had traded blows with the Doomhammer, taken on near lethal energies from the warlock Gul'dan. Slain an ogre chieftain, and was in part responsible for ending an entire tribe of Orcs.

The Orc War was brutal, and opened Syra's eyes to the dangers of the world.

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Yet her efforts were trivialized by some pompous peacock with a chest full of medals? That same buffoon received applause wherever he went. Men and women tried to woo him, and gain his favor.

That man was Highlord Vandercross, the slimiest politician to have walked the streets of Silvermoon.

Following him in a rage, Syra never would've imagined that it would be to a theater where a young, up and coming Varrus was performing.

When she saw him up on stage for the first time, Syra was enraptured by his magnetic voice, his silky blonde hair, and overall presentation.

By the end of the show, Syra found herself the only one clapping in a room full of stone faced Elves.

Syra didn't care. What were these vapid, phony fakers opinions worth?

And so for the next two decades in between training and the occasional test from her mother, Syra attended every concert, every musical, every play, any and all productions performed by Varrus Vandercross.

During these heady days when Syra would follow Varrus invisibly, or catch him smiling at her while she sat in the audience, Faedra came to her with a mission.

To woo a powerful politician's son.

A list was prepared containing acceptable targets, but there was only one name that mattered to her.

Varrus Vandercross.

Although she never spoke a word to him, she felt a strong bond with Varrus.

In him, Syra saw a youth who had undergone a challenging upbringing, just like her. She knew he must be hurting, and while he wasn't the best actor, his failings made him genuine in her eyes.

She had to have him.

Informing her mother, Faedra responded to Syra's decision with smug satisfaction, much to Syra’s displeasure. Yet her mother was good to her word, and approached the elder Vandercross with the intention of an arranged marriage. The rest was history.

For the last five days, Syra had become acquainted with the real Varrus.

He wasn't the flamboyant party boy he projected to the public, nor was he truly the charismatic character he attempted to portray on the stage.

Syra saw him for the damaged young man she had made him out to be. Yet for all his doubts, worries and hurt, Syra would be there for him.

And for all she gave, Varrus gave back fivefold.

He was her best friend, and a fantastic lover.

These five days of hectic love and mayhem had been more exciting, and more liberating than any other point in her life. It was magical, it was amazing, it was love!

She couldn't help but want to make children with him, to break the curse of their terrible parents, and bring good into the world.

Syra could happily admit to herself she loved Varrus to death, and wouldn't let anything get in the way of their happiness. Already, several of his recent admirers had been scarred by Syra’s poison, and had magically induced acne all over their oh so perfect faces. Too ugly to show their face, they swiftly dropped their pursuit of her man.

As much as it hurt her to leave his side for even a moment, the space only made her realize how much she loved, missed, and thought about him. She knew he must be thinking about her just as much, or more right now as well.

But she had to do it, for the good of their children. When she took this position, she knew Sanguinar and his close friend, Thaladred would insist on following along.

Their male pride would never allow themselves to be outdone by a woman under 100 years old!

They played right into Syra’s hands.

As soon as she eliminated the Trolls, Syra would be adding a new flower to her collection.

Syra beamed her smile out into the open ocean, and oncoming Troll warships.

What flower color should she choose this time? Syra wondered.

It made her squirm with joy when her husband showed interest in her flower collection.

‘Maybe he would like purple with gold? Or blue and pink?’ Syra giddily thought to herself, barely paying any attention to the rapidly closing Troll canoes.

“Ahem, Lady Greathollow-” One of her former subordinates during the Orc War began to speak, but was swiftly cut off by a swing of Syra's sword.

The subordinate found himself on his back, with Syra's buster sword impaled into the ground a centimeter from his neck. If they hadn’t had so much fun together in the past, Syra would’ve decapitated him right then and there for brokering this transgression.

“It is Lady Vandercross from now on.” Syra stated coldly.

“Of course, I meant no disrespect.” The man said as he gulped.

Syra's hair covered her face. As she hovered over the man, her hand twitched, and she retrieved the blade.

On account of their shared bloodshed, Syra would spare him, this time.

But if there were any future mistakes, then Syra couldn't be blamed for any future outcomes.

“Come now, Lady Vandercross, save the brutality for the enemy.” Sanguinar said as he emerged from the rank of his personal force of 100 Elites.

Syra remained mute, gave him the cold shoulder, and started to walk away. She didn't like to talk much to begin with, much less with someone she considered as a walking corpse.

“Boy, join us on the winning side! The Crimson Guard could use an Elf like you!” Thaladred loudly exclaimed with a friendly laugh toward Syra’s subordinate.

“Ha, ha, a jest, a jest! It is safest by Lady Syra’s side!” The man laughed, and waved off Thaladred, much to the older man’s seeming displeasure.

Syra rolled her eyes at their two-faced exchange, and continued to move towards a less dense spot in the Elven line. Whether the man sided with Thaladred or with her, it made no difference. Despite fighting for a few years together and acting as this group of veteran soldiers de facto leader, she never bothered learning their names. She suspected that they were plants, and stooges of her mother, and was not interested in speaking when she did not have to.

In her mind, they were, what did her husband call them? Yes, they were the Illidari Council. A silly name, yes. but her husband was a silly man.

Nodding her head like she had solved a great mystery, Syra was thankful once again for Varrus’ addition to her life. He made her smile and laugh with his innocent antics where everyone else wanted something from her.

“I see the product of Faedra's training is exactly what I would expect.” Sanguinar slow clapped, halting Syra in her steps. “Yes, a killing blade completely bereft of tactical knowledge or strategy. Truly a work built upon a mountain of the corpses of our enemies. How proud she must be to have you defending Silvermoon in our time of need..”

Turning around to meet Sanguinar's eye, Syra saw the elder statesman wear a look of honesty and humility.

It disgusted her.

Besides, what hurt most were how true his words were. All she knew how to do was kill. Advanced maneuvers or advanced plans were not a part of her curriculum. She was no leader.

How she wished her man was here so he could do all the troublesome talking.

Syra closed her eyes, and the image of Varrus smiling at her appeared in her mind's eye.

“Oh, you’re unfair.” Syra whispered to herself as she knew he would want her to choose humility over violence at that moment.

Turning to Sanguinar, Syra barely mustered up the willpower to address the soon-to-be dead man.

“What would you have me do?” Syra all but bit out, each word slipping out of her mouth felt like she was chewing on glass.

“Think, girl, think.” Sangunar said as he tapped the side of his head. “You have brought with you more than a thousand Elves, yet you have them milling about, doing nothing. This dock is a ruin after the Undead passed through. All this burnt wood and debris would make for excellent cover, no?”

“Perhaps Lord Sanguinar, perhaps, but what will this wood do to stop that?” Syra pointed into the ocean as a monumental totem ship crashed into the broken docks, breaking them even further.

Cresting alongside the totem ship were hundreds of man sized water elementals sweeping towards the Elf line as they spoke.

“Damnation! Girl, you’d better survive this battle because I’ll see you never lead a command for the rest of your life!” Sanguinar cursed as he slammed his helmet on, then rejoined the Crimson Guards ranks.

Syra slowly chuckled to herself as she held her weapon free. The enchantments of protection and increased speed flowed around her body, empowering her like never before.

In this state, she knew Varrus was always with her. With him watching over her, she was undefeated!

Light energies and light rays began to be pulled through the aether, and coalesce around her as her belief in her family skyrocketed.

Syra smiled. This was it. This was the feeling. Everything she did, everything she sacrificed and devoted to over her life led to this marriage. She had never been happier to take the battlefield than these last few days.

Mages and rangers began their first volley, tossing out skills in a haphazard, uncoordinated mess. Without her husband, they were rusty, and their short time training showed it.

She however, wouldn't deliver any speeches, or rally the army toward a specific enemy, she would do what she was made to do.

Kill.