In was a cool, partly cloudy day outside, and Syra was happily cultivating the land in the garden behind their estate.

Hands covered in dirt, she loosely spread some bloodthistle seeds, then watered them with an enchanted pale that contained a seemingly endless spring of water.

Humming a cheerful tune to herself, Syra was all too happy to spend her free time alone in this massive botanical enclosure.

Having spent the majority of her youth alone, and surrounded by nature, there was no environment more comfortable to the Lady Vandercross.

Syra wriggled her toes across some moss, and giggled as it tickled the bottom of her foot.

Within this garden: flowers, trees, streams, waterfalls, glass houses, and even a cave were spread throughout a couple of miles, creating an idyllic environment.

It was amongst the greenery that Syra felt most free, and able to express herself.

Amongst other Highborn, she had to maintain her guard, but here, at her home-and what a fantastic thing that was to say!-at her home, she knew Varrus was out front, and that she could for the first time in her life, truly relax.

However, that didn't mean that she was remaining idle.

While her husband was hard at work, Syra was doing her part as well.

Primarily adept at identifying and cultivating poisons or magical leaves that could be turned into ink for inscriptions, Syra busied herself by identifying these herbs, and collecting them for use.

Already, she had a sack full of dangerous plants, such as bruiseweed, kingsblood, blisterwort, and imp stool.

When mixed together, blisterwort and kingsblood created a frenzy effect. Syra had used such a potion to great effect against the Trolls.

By spiking a pot of communal stew, she caused one tribe to turn on themselves, and watched in satisfaction as they imploded in civil war.

This frenzy potion could be used against her husband's detractors. Make those who disagreed with him appear to be the madmen that they were.

Or, when once all four were mixed together, they made an excellent ink for inscribing cursed items.

Syra had spent so much time near Troll lands that she had observed shaministic magic in great detail. Asking Elementals for their power intrigued her, however, it was the power of Voodoo, the power over shadows that held her interest.

As a practitioner of the Light, she had felt this cold, cloying power at the edge of her senses often. Whenever she took life whilst wielding the Light, there would be a nagging feeling that there was another power available. That if she wanted to, she could tap into it, and drain the life from her foes.

Syra never acted upon this impulse, because she recognized it as a foreign influence attempting to influence her mind.

Raised on extreme discipline, Syra would never allow herself to fall for any vice.

However, that didn't mean she wasn't curious.

With her ability to speak and read the Troll language, Syra had interrogated countless shamans, and eventually teased out the secrets of Voodoo magic from them.

She learnt that many a shaman would go stark raving mad if they channeled too much of the shadow at once. That strange whispers could assault the mind, and only by praying to the Loa would they keep their sanity.

Syra, of course, was not going to pray to some animal for spiritual guidance.

Instead, she held strong to her inner light to guide her through this madness. She clung to the only thing that mattered in this world. Her one and only obsession: Varrus Vandercross.

So long as she thought of him, her belief, and strength in the Light outclassed any other Elf she had come across. With that same belief acting as an anchor, Syra initiated herself into the ways of Shadow magic.

Every time a whisper, or hint of despair entered her mind, she would go watch a play. Every time thoughts of self harm popped into her mind, she would watch him dine from a table away.

Eventually, her inner light conquered the darkness in her heart, and she gained control of this new magic.

For the first time in her life, Syra had learnt something that had absolutely nothing to do with her mother's machinations, and it had her hungering for more.

Eventually, Syra picked up on inscription as a means to channel her newfound magic.

The ancient Troll texts she had pilfered detailed many methods to curse their enemies, and Syra took to the knowledge like a duck to water.

Every rival Varrus met on the drama stage met terrible accidents. Crippled legs, sudden hematomas, bad falls, mana sickness, as Syra's knowledge grew, eventually, none rose to challenge his skills as an actor.

Gently stroking a stalk of nightshade that was growing within the shadow of a cave, Syra looked forward to the kinds of torture this plant could mete out on Varrus’ would be assassin.

Her followers, the Illidari Council, had been sent out to find any leads. She didn't have much hope in them, but once things settled down, she would personally stalk every single Hero that participated in the Troll War, and determine their guilt.

Any who dared harm her precious Varrus deserved the worst. She didn't know what she would do if he died!

Because married life was more magical than Syra had ever imagined. For so long, everything was so dull. She had nothing to look forward to. The Orc War was over, and despite being less than 100 years old, had felt that immortality was wasted on her.

She was but a discarded tool in her mother's plots. Once she had proved her capabilities slaying countless Orcs, and surviving in the woods, she was left to gather dust until Faedra had need of her again.

With no goal or purpose in life, the only guiding light in those times of constant study and struggle was Varrus, and his silly, yet true to heart plays.

Now, for the first time in her life, she had someone to hold on to. Someone to rely upon. Someone to protect.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Syra had been so worried when that arrow had pierced his shoulder.

From her perspective, she had stood triumphant over her foe's arm.

They were moments away from achieving total victory, and Syra had turned back to look for Varrus’ praise and approval. No one had damaged the monster like she had.

It was then, at the height of their victory that it happened. The Arcane Arrow pierced his shoulder, and exploded.

For one terrifying second, blinding light obscured her vision, and she was uncertain as to her beloved's fate.

Syra all but teleported to his side, and held him in her arms, unknowing of what to do.

Varrus had introduced so many firsts into her life, and crying over his body was something she never wanted to experience again.

His back was scorched black, and it was a miracle he could move at all. The mana in the attack was something spectacular. Something only the very strongest of their kind could produce.

Syra, despite her talent for Light magic, was weakest when it came to healing others.

Her repertoire primarily consisted of shields, and imbuing her weapons and body with Holy Light. The most she had learnt in the healing arts, was to cleanse poisons, and purify the mind to resist corruption.

When he forced himself to finish the spell that killed the ancient monster, Syra wanted to pummel the brave idiot for ensuring victory. The Prince could have handled the clean up.

It reminded her of their first battle. She had wanted to chain him to the bed, and keep him safe from harm.

But her husband was headstrong. He was brave, loving, and oh so naive. The fact that he trusted in his fellow Elves to all work together during this time of crisis was endearing.

If it were not for Syra’s efforts to clean up the branches blocking their path, things would be much different now. She very much doubted he could so publicly get away with admonishing a Hero, and member of the wise as he did the night before.

The Vandercross name carried with it fear, respect, and a great loathing.

As much as he wanted to be loved, the people would see any attempts to win them over for the power plays that they were.

Syra wasn't that old, and if even she could see his naked attempts at manipulation, then those veterans would have her husband analyzed and worked out.

But this naivety. It was precious, and his innocence must be protected at all costs.

Syra regretted that she revealed the details of Sanguinar's demise to him. She had been in such shock at the emergence of Kith'ix, that she had grown guilty that she had not been there to fight by his side from the very beginning.

The fact that the people had gone along with a youth’s lead was stunning to Syra. She knew how two-faced Elves were. It could only be chalked up to their desperation for a stable source of mana, and to keep up pretense.

Blood Elves as a group were slow to change. In fact, fighting with the Light as a paladin does had been known to their race for eons. It wasn't until their so-called interiors, the Humans proved themselves to be better warriors than the average Blood Elf that their pride crumpled, and paladins became mainstream amongst her kind.

It was this weakness, this sloth-like adaptation of new ideas that benefitted her husband more than anything else. Blood Elves enjoyed continuity more than anything else, and Syra would do everything in her power to support Varrus.

Already, she had begun cultivating her seedlings amongst the House Guard. Varrus had his 5 Elites that he inherited from his father, distinguishing them from the rest by calling them his Crossguard.

In response, Syra had made note of the most devoted, or those who had lost everything, and had nowhere to go. In them, she began testing their loyalty. It started with small things, such as seeing who was weak to bribery or willing to concede seemingly trivial information for an extra Mana Stone. Once those who would so easily speak out were identified, Syra excluded them from her list. Then, she escalated the tension placed upon them, and used her Shadow magic to probe their unconscious minds as they slept.

Syra had eliminated all but 6 from her list of recruits. These 6 had become the core for her own personal group. She called them the Vanderguard.

Subordinated to her four long term followers, the Illidari Council served as the Captains to this new force.

They served as her eyes and ears within the House Guard, and acted as an internal police of sorts.

Syra admired Rho'dan's seeming loyalty, but that did not mean she fully trusted the man.

Rho'dan should have died protecting his Lord, Varrus’ father. The fact that he remained alive left Syra with suspicion.

So for now, she would leave external security under his purview, while she dealt with any unsavory elements attempting to poison her new House.

Already, dissidents from other, minor families, or those who blatantly hated the Vandercross name had made overtures against their House.

One saboteur had been caught in the act of poisoning their food supply. Specifically, they were feeding plagued grain to a hawkstrider, with the intent of contaminating their eggs.

Syra had him quietly drowned in the hawkstriders dung pit, making it look like an accident.

Another belligerent had been leaving politically charged notes around the estate, calling for the workers to rise up. That now, with the death of the old government, was the time for change.

Privately, Syra had no strong opinions on Elven leadership. She had been a tool bred to kill. To interrogate, maim, and hurt the enemies of Quel'Thalas such that talk of armed conflict against the Elves was nothing more than a hushed whisper. In essence, she did not care who ruled Quel'Thalas, so long as it was Elven minds doing the ruling.

However, what she took exception with was the threat to her husband, and her husband’s dreams. Syra didn't wish for much, but the success of her husband, and their shared love was for the good of Quel'Thalas.

So thanks to her Vanderguard, she discovered where this belligerent was holding his meeting. Early this morning, while Varrus was busy training and inspecting his reconstruction efforts, Syra had done some pruning.

Just inside the cave, three Blood Elves had been mulched, and fed to the bleeding crown mushrooms.

She was aware of two other plots within her domain, but had yet to apprehend the mischief makers. Whispers of Varrus’ children were running rampant, and Syra did not know who the culprit was.

As someone who never had a childhood, the innocence of those kids who lost their parents struck a chord with her. She cheered them up and looked after them as practice for the day she became a mother.

Somehow or another, this surfaced rumors of Varrus’ ‘playboy’ past, and made him out to be an unfaithful husband. Syra didn't know if she should feel enraged or ashamed at Varrus for his reputation. So instead, she would settle on both, and direct those feelings at whomever was trying to tear them apart.

Another plot that had remained unsolved was a pair of murders within their premises. Perishing under mysterious circumstances, a couple of those employed as crafters had been found deceased. The wounds on both bodies indicated the same murder weapon was used in both cases.

Syra determined these headaches need not reach her husband’s ears. Varrus had so much to take care of, if she could ease his burden, even if just a little bit, then she would be satisfied.

The less he saw the ugly side of their people, the longer she could preserve his precious innocence. The way he looked so hopeful, how energetic he was towards rebuilding their country, his goal to take it to grander heights.

It was beautiful.

And Syra would go through Hell and high water to make his dreams a reality, even if she had to keep her hands dirty to achieve those goals.

She had been raised as a tool by a heartless, conniving mother, but now she was free. Free to love to her heart's content.

Syra smiled when she saw Varrus wander into the garden calling her name.

“Syraaa!”

“Syra, are you there, it’s almost time to go!” Varrus cupped his hands, and shouted as he advanced.

Syra came out of some bushes, and stalked him from behind.

She got within a step of him, then rushed him in the back, and glomped him in a tight embrace.

“Woah! Easy girl, I’m not going anywhere!” Varrus raised his arms in shock, as he first flinched, then turned into her hug.

Syra wordlessly rubbed her face into his shoulders.

His naivety was so cute, ah, she could hold him like this forever.