Once more in her home of Murder Row, Faedra gently tapped her well manicured nails on the arms of her chair with one hand, while the other hand gently stroked a fluffy black cat.

In a room with 8 other individuals, it was the only audible noise as all sounds coming in and out of the room were muffled.

Darkness crept around the edges of the meeting chamber, the only light illuminating the room were dozens of pale projections, as well as a map in the middle of the room that depicted Silvermoon.

Faedra's dark robes ate at the shadows, practically making her invisible in the low light environment. The only thing visible to the others were her cold, pale magically infused blue eyes.

Orbs were placed all over the place, displaying events from all around the world.

A blonde boy no older than 8 was holding court. Behind him stood two advisors. One was a bodacious black haired woman,the other was a muscular, plate armored man.

Another display showed images of Dalaran as it was overrun by Undead. The city of magic was toppling over as flames consumed it. Corpses were strewn everywhere as citizens attempted to flee.

One image showed the savage Orcs working together with both a tribe of Trolls, and the Tauren in a brutal fight to the death with a herd of Centaur.

Faedra drank this information in, and more in an instant.

Plans and pieces to be moved flashed in her mind, yet for all the current events, one screen held her attention above all else.

It was a recording of Silvermoon losing its barrier, and the Scourge entering unopposed.

Completely taken off guard, the entire population of Silvermoon were like lambs to the slaughter.

She must’ve watched this moment a dozen times. Rewinding, fast forwarding, pausing, she was fascinated.

The more she did so, the more uncomfortable her compatriots became.

‘Good. Let them squirm.’ Faedra scoffed to herself.

Their failure at ascertaining the traitor’s identity had brought this upon all of them.

The one day she was away from her lair, the one and only day of her precious daughter’s marriage, this happens.

She had been in the game for quite some time, and had foiled countless plots to destroy her nation.

Faedra had spied for both the Convocation and the Monarchy for thousands of years, switching sides whenever convenient.

Unworthy royals that sought the throne no matter the cost had died at Sunstrider's command.

Dirt was dug up on those who hated Vandercross, and were socially exiled.

The two men interchangeably transitioned between friend, and enemy as the centuries dragged on. After much of her plotting, they had finally settled on a healthy rivalry built upon mutual respect. They would never like each other, no, but when someone fights another for so long, they become accustomed to how they think, how they operate. The balance of power was set, and neither was willing to off the other in fear of introducing an unknown element. That was how Faedra brokered peace, and earned their begrudging acceptance despite her reputation.

Free from the burdens of the state, she had free reign to eliminate their political rivals.

None were safe from her inquiry.

A delicate tightrope of lies, deceit and murder held Quel'Thalas together by the thickness of a spider's thread. All it would take would be one accidental death here and there, and civil war between the Monarchists and the Convocationists would ensue.

The Highborn would destroy five thousand years of peace because of petty politics, and a desire to rule. It was hilarious, really. How many pompous royals confided in her, plotting to kill their own father, only for her to toss them off a cliff? Or how many would-be assassins thought highly of themselves, and came to her Murder Row with the express purpose of killing Vandercross? It truly was laughable at how fragile their illusion of stability truly was.

And no one would believe that she, the so-called Mistress of Murder had done the most to keep it all from falling apart.

She plotted for centuries to seduce King Anasterian and conceive his child. Killed his royal usurpers, and guided that daughter into the family of Anasterian's largest political rival.

It was her that orchestrated Prince Kael’Thas’ targeted bullying. It was her that spread rumors of Varrus’ inadequacy in magic, leading him into delinquency.

Highlord Vandercross, for all his sterm and bluster, genuinely loved his son, and wanted him to be happy in his acting career. Whereas King Anasterian similarly loved his son.

Their love was their weakness, and Faedra's key to peace.

United by bonds of friendship and marriage, the largest rift between the Convocation and the Monarchy would be mended.

The Quel'Dorei, united behind one political will, would finally emerge from the shadow of the destruction of the Well of Eternity, and become a leading player in the world.

At least, that was Faedra's long term plan before the Scourge attacked.

The Scourge, a ragtag mob of mindless Undead comprised primarily of peasants and bottom feeders. The Scourge, who’s military leadership consisted of mages unknowing of tactics or strategy. This force of plague and rot had somehow gotten the better of them.

Arrogance was the only answer to their downfall. So sure of the powers of the Sunwell, so sure in their own strength-Faedra included-they had all ignored the Ranger General’s warnings, and decided to hide behind the great citywide barrier like always.

In their arrogance, they all but invited this catastrophe upon themselves.

Millions, perhaps tens of millions had laid siege to Silvermoon. Anasterian was impressive in his defense. He was truly deserving of the title: Greatest King of the High Elves. He personally combusted hundreds of thousands Undead before his death. Ultimately however, his sacrifice proved fruitless as the vast ice magics available to the damned Prince were mighty in turn.

Arthas was known to Faedra as a once in a generation talent. His power in the Light was greater than even her pride and joy, Syra. It irked her that a 20 year old Human could wield power greater than her own flesh and blood, but the facts remained. Returning to Lordaeron as a Death Knight, his powers had more than doubled since the last time she had seen him.

Poor Anasterian had fallen to the boy, and proved unable to defeat their greatest enemy since the Legion. The only solace of his death was that he incinerated his own body in one big bang attack so the enemy would not benefit from his power, and his expertise.

Oh, how Faedra wished to tear her hair out, and cut the throat of every subordinate here at their monumental failure!

Tapping her finger on the chair, Faedra ceased any movement, and finally graced her subordinates' with a look of utter contempt.

Dressed like circus performers, Faedra cursed their unprofessionalism. Black should be the standard color for all her operatives, yet corralling thousand year olds to do spywork took concessions. Concessions that were trying her patience.

Every century they would change their theme, and make a game of not getting caught. Honestly, they were no better than children playing at mummery, but she had little choice in the talent willing to work for her.

For a race immune to disease and death, there was little impetus to leave Silvermoon, much less put your life on the line by spying or assassinating the enemy.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

So she had looked the other way at their many, many antics.

Faedra considered herself a fair leader, providing her operatives with enough leeway to complete the mission.

But this? This was just…just.

“Sloppy. Unprofessional. Despicable.” Every word Faedra spat out seemed to make each operative flinch in their seats, inflicting emotional damage.

Good.

Sweeping back her raven black hair, Faedra's face was stone cold, yet a cruel smile slowly began to curl toward the corner of her mouth.

“It seems the Trolls find us easy targets.” Faedra slowly drawled as some flashing lights on the map of Silvermoon drew her attention.

The map depicted tiny pin pricks of light. Each dot of light constituted one individual. The map detected people based on the type of magic they emitted, then from there determined what species they were. Based upon this, a color corresponding to the magic type, and a symbol for depicting the species appeared on the grid.

Arcane was blue, Holy yellow, Void purple, Fel green, Shamanistic white, Druidic green, etc.

Each dot signifying a Troll had a little squat, tusked face the size of a pinkies fingernail.

Swiping at an orb, the display screen changed frequencies, and depicted the edges of Silvermoon where the map pinged the Trolls.

However, the street was completely bereft of any sight of them.

“As expected, the asset has informed us about this unit ahead of time.” Faedra spoke curtly, and handed out a manilla folder to each operative present.

“Woah! Akandii! I've heard about this guy. Absolutely brutal. In fact, he even killed one of our own.” An operative said chillingly.

Faedra knew her subordinate was attempting drama, but she wasn't having any of it. “Intelligence reports indicate their objective is to cause mass panic. They are each armed with a totem, however, the asset could not determine their function, be advised.”

“Only 51? Please, Mom, allow us to handle this small matter!” An Elf dressed as a jester stood from his chair, and bowed over dramatically. His cap, festooned with bells, jangled loudly in the eerily quiet room.

“Yes, please let us make this up to you!” A petite lady no taller than 4’8 dressed in a maid outfit, and carrying a pair of daggers begged.

“The cards say sure fire success!” A man dressed as a carny clairvoyant said as he shuffled a deck.

Seeing all their pleading gazes, Faedra couldn't help but want to scrunch her eyebrows, then toss them all into a cell to reflect upon themselves.

They were stupid, but they were her stupid.

“Oh very well, let the games begin, but do be kind to little Akandii, he is one of my operatives.” Faedra sighed as she tiredly waved then away with one hand, then rested her face in the palm of her other hand

The operatives cheered, and left the dark room of shadow, displaying flamboyantly colored outfits as they entered the light.

“Yay! I bet I can get one to kill his friend!”

“So what? I'll get one to kill himself…with words alone!”

“Let's go!”

“See you Mom~, wait for our good news!”

When everyone left, Faedra let herself have a small smile at their antics. She knew they were only trying to cheer her up.

Each and every one of them had been orphans she raised herself. Perhaps she treated them as tools at first, but spending a thousand years together didn't make using them as such any easier. Not one of them was disposable in her heart.

A beat later, and Faedra deflated. The loss this time almost made her want to throw in the towel, and give it all up. Her failure to root out the traitor, and her failure to assassinate Prince Arthas had contributed toward Silvermoon's downfall. Retirement was looking better everyday.

But seeing her plan almost come to fruition after so many years kept her going. It lit a fire in her to keep on going. To out last her rivals in the quest for power would be her greatest reward.

After all, their demise was somewhat poetic.

The entire Convocation slain, betrayed by an egoist of the highest order. They personally safeguarded the very font of High Elf power, yet fell to their own arrogance. Anasterian was the first to deny the Humans aid in the face of this plague, yet his demise was at hand by those same victims.

Faedra found it ironic that the most snakelike politicians in all of Quel'Thalas would die to a dagger in the back, and that the King most beloved for his fairness and kindness met his demise due to a cold shoulder to former friends.

It made her think about how she would die. By her daughter's hand most likely, Faedra mused.

Ah, how sweet would that be? To die by the product of her own hand, it was almost tempting.

She had plotted the courtship of House Vandercross and Sunstrider for centuries, all towards the goal of unifying their peoples political future onto one road.

‘Perhaps it was a dream worth dying for.’ Faedra found herself musing.

It was a dream that continued to raise her blood pressure.

The Vandercross lad, afterall, was quite the surprise. In all her calculations, the brat was nothing more than a mouthpiece fed lines of dialogue Faedra knew would inspire Syra the most.

She had psychoanalyzed the boy once, and written him off as a dandy man. One who spoke big, relying solely on his father’s intimidating name.

But no, he was something else. Something Faedra had yet to understand herself.

Was he truly acting all along? If so, was he aware of Faedra's manipulation, and played along?

Or was Varrus perhaps particularly skilled at magic, but weak in other areas?

His magical ability 5 days ago seemed passing for a novice apprentice. The spells were somewhat novel, being one's she had never seen before. However, the magic’s strength wasn't anything like what an Elite or Hero could output.

Yet 5 days later, and Varrus had earned himself a spot amongst the Heroes of Quel'Thalas by his personal strength alone.

His abilities were by literal definition: immeasurable.

And it confused her whether he was deliberately looking weak or not. She didn't know what his game was, and it made her uncomfortable like his father did when he was still alive.

However, Varrus was a walking contradiction. Because based on his speaking performance, Faedra wasn't particularly impressed with his communication abilities.

The boy had ample opportunities to play the leader of Quel'Thalas's dragonhawk knights right into his hands, yet he was seemingly saved from civil war due to the son, Koren’s sudden betrayal.

That sudden stab into Tou'vor's neck even startled Faedra. She didn't know if it was Varrus's plan all along, or if his personal charisma was that much.

Surely he had something going for him if he could rally a somewhat cohesive army to combat the Undead. Because at that point in time, no matter how synonymous the name Vandercross was with leadership in Elven society, there wasn't a single Elf above the age of 500 that would willingly follow a green behind the ears, milk drinking, sissy haired, soft spoken, kitten faced youth under a century old.

Faedra hadn't seen such levels of charisma since the old Vandercross won the Quel'Dorei over with Mana Stones during their exile to these lands.

She was worried that with his growing power-both political and magical-he would grow arrogant like his father, and come to loggerheads with the crown.

As for Prince Kael’Thas, she didn't see much confidence in him. The boy was not taking well to the weight of responsibility. Heavy indeed, was the crown. She would have to observe him further, and possibly directly intervene if he needed her help. The fact he had held off on naming himself King was quite the concern.

However, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Vandercross and Anasterian were not so impressive until they came virtually out of nowhere, seizing leadership like a tyrant taking his first concubine. Faedra couldn't help but chuckle at the similarities between the older generation, and the youth of today.

Would Varrus and Kael’Thas become their fathers, or would they forge a new path? Would her own daughter usurp her as the Mistress of Murder Row? Only time would tell.

While she was musing, she heard a hurried crash, and watched as one of her operatives frantically ran through a supply closet in the room, then ran away just as fast, all without saying a word.

Faedra had seen such an occurrence enough times, she wasn't surprised. She was exasperated.

“Idiots probably forgot their stealth detection potions again.” Faedra muttered to herself, closed her eyes, and gently banged the back of her head against the backrest of her chair.

She had better things to do than worry about those insufferable clowns.

Flicking an orb, the image changed and displayed the main battle. It was one of her greatest blunders. As an immortal bent on rekindling Quel’Thalas’ supremacy, she had raised entire generations of families in other kingdoms loyal exclusively to her.

The spies she had planted within the Amani occupied influential positions, and with that influence, she had directed them to wage war against Quel’Thalas, hoping that they would mutually destroy the Scourge and the Amani, leaving the Highborn time to recover.

It was a genius plan, pitting their greatest enemies against one another. Only, she did not account for Varrus Vandercross, and Kael’Thgas Sunstrider destroying the bulk of the Undead within Silvermoon as swiftly as they did. There was hope for her people with leaders like them, it was an oversight she was only all too pleased with.

As threatening as the Amani were, and as much of a blunder as she had made, Faedra was unconcerned. Her agent was high up the totem among Amani society, and she was confident in the strength of both her daughter, Quel’Thalas’ two new champions.

Zooming in on Varrus’ face with her scrying orb, Faedra allowed a smirk.

Stupid and oafish he may appear on the surface, but Faedra could see the appeal. Ah, to be young again!

In the same screen, one of her old flings, Lor’Themar showed up, and she reminisced upon old flames.

Summoning a goblet of wine, Faedra curled up in her seat, and began to enjoy the show.

“Enjoy him while you can, Syra my dear, you must cherish every second of it!” Faedra said to herself, holding the goblet aloft.