“Vinemaster Suntouched; he works out of Silvermoon’s inn, go there, get forty - fifty - bottles of the Suntouched Special Reserve. You’ll recognize it by a twinkle in the bottle; it’s a little sprinkle of the arcane that makes it catch the light and dazzle. Make sure it does so. If it doesn’t, pour it out right in front of him and demand the real thing. Say it’s for me, he’ll know not to play any games.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You - yes, you - contact Zalene Firstlight. Farstrider Retreat, you know it? Good. Go quickly. Cooked Springpaw, he’ll know, say it’s got to be fresh right the moment the sun begins to set over house Starscryer. He’ll know too, just say it and let it be done. The cost is irrelevant, just get it and get plenty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You. You! Halis Dawnstrider over at Fairbreeze. Going to need as many colours as we can for the fireworks display. Tell him not to go light. Tell him I’ll know, I’ll know, and no amount of Suntouched is going to make me forget it… no matter what he thinks. Simple. Yes? And… make sure you don’t trip, those things are certainly volatile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and one of you - I don’t care who - you! Fetch some dragonhawks. How, by what means, by what price I don’t care, but get them here and get them leashed for viewing. We’re bringing a special guest from the military in and we must make sure to have some show of force lest we look quite the soft-hearted fools. Can’t have that, now can we?”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Voyantus Starscryer finally allowed himself a chance to breathe. This party - this celebration, this soiree, this monumental occasion - was to be the singular event of the year for all Eversong Woods. For all of Silvermoon as well, for that matter, as he was the one to throw it. To maintain his rightful, hard-earned reputation, and to yet top it on every subsequent event, had proved to be the greatest struggle of his young life. Yet there was so much to plan still. He needed an entrance, a musical arrangement, a-

“Lord Starscryer,” came a dry, sedated voice from his chief advisor. Lanril Daysworn. Behind his back, Voyantus would refer to him simply as ‘the husk’, since his appearance had truly placed him halfway there to the magic-addled, destitute former elves that haunted Eversong. He would joke that where the withered were bereft of magic for too long, Lanril was bereft of joy. “Lord Starcryer,” the advisor said again, no more or less forcefully.

“Yes, I heard you,” Voyantus responded with an exaggerated sigh.

“The military woman that’s joining us today - may you be so kind as to enlighten upon me what battles she had fought in?”

Ah, Lanril. All the excitement of a historical tome, and all of the charm to boot. “What battle? What battle, how can I know that? She fought orcs, or trolls, or some such muscly monster meaning to mangle, and she came out alright for it, so I hope she’s willing to drink and be merry with the rest of us.” With that, he tipped his head back and poured enough wine down his throat to make the average elf ill. “If she can do that, she’s good in my books.”

If Lanril was bothered, he showed none of it. “I believe if you’re addressing a woman that has fought as one of Silvermoon’s finest, it would be wise to treat her with some measure of… decorum, wouldn’t you think?”

“Decorum? Decorum.” He raised his arms to the many servants placing exquisite serving spoons on fine cloth, resting expensive bottles in the centre of each, lighting candles and making elaborate displays of flowers from faraway lands. “What more could one ask for? Really,” he repeated with a deep breath. “What more could one ask for?”

“A slower pace, perhaps. She’s been travelling and undoubtedly tired from the trials of war, she-”

“A slower pace,” Voyantus said with a snap of his fingers. “Thank you. Thank you! That will be my entrance. A spell to slow my descent as I slowly drift from the balconies above to land right in the centre of the festivities. They’ll be speaking of it for months. Ah, and the fireworks! I’ll enhance them as well, making them fire off and explode at the same pace as myself. Truly magnificent, no?”

Lanril shook his head, the slightest frown crossing his face. “And what will that do? Will that please him, then?” he asked. He turned to leave.

Voyantus, however, was not about to let him. A simple spell of freezing, locking his advisor’s feet in place. Not painful as the spell could be, but just one to prevent his movements, not even enough to draw the attention of his servants or other advisors. He leaned in close, just so Lanril could hear. “I do not have any intent or wish to please my father. He was the one who left. He is the one who cannot show his face here. He stayed with the Alliance traitors when the scourge came, and left us alone here. He can rot for all I care.”

“Not him, Lord Starscryer. That’s not who I had in mind.”

“Don’t. Don’t bring my mother into this, you pitiful little… To bring her up that way, knowing I can’t very well make peace with the dead, that’s… Shame on you! I should cast you out of this very house!”

Lanril waited, expressionless again. He knew it was the wine speaking, and the best path forward would be to wait for Voyantus to grow bored of the conversation and unfreeze him. This time, however, it felt a touch different. There was something in his eyes he had never witnessed before. “Perhaps you should leave the rest of the bottle until nighttime, Lord Starscryer,” he suggested.

He hadn’t realised the bottle was still in his grasp. Without responding, Voyantus lost himself in the ever-bubbling, sparkling wine. He marvelled at it, the way the magically enhanced liquid would shift and change in near perpetuity, always mystified by the many uses of the arcane. It would change colours on a whim, shine more brightly if he wished, all at his beck and call.

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No matter. With a snap of his fingers he ended the spell, brought himself out of his daydreaming and in a heartbeat was back on track. He yelled out instructions for the tablecloths, demanded the dancers begin to practice their performances, and personally checked each and every instrument to ensure they’d play at the right time, in the right manner. There were no musicians; each one had been enchanted to play the songs he wished and when he wished them. Great was the strain on him from having so many spells sapping his energy, but great was his ability. It was like there were three of him at any one time.

It was in that moment he realised the final, missing piece to make his entrance truly memorable.

–

The party was in full swing. The clinking of glasses, elegant gowns and brilliant robes, exquisite food, the instruments playing flawlessly and drawing both attention and admiration. It was all coming together. The dancers were lively, the appetisers delectable. All of it, every piece, was according to plan - but the guest of honour had not yet arrived to witness it.

At least not fully.

Voyantus had been floating in and out of conversations, testing, checking, ensuring everything was perfect, all while having cast a spell of invisibility on himself. Yes, it strained him further, but it was necessary. That, and it allowed him to look once more at his newest guest without drawing too much attention, an act he kept committing even though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Velora Dawnsinger, soldier, hero of Silvermoon, had arrived and taken her place. She was, without a doubt, the least attractive blood elf he had ever witnessed. Her form was covered in scars and marks, the lasting memories of battles fought and won. She was square-shouldered, tough and brutal in demeanour and tone. Her robe, while clean and tasteful, was clearly of a lower quality than the others that strutted past her as if they instead were the conquering heroes. She ate alone, not speaking to a soul, yet in some strange manner did not seem at all to be lonely.

Voyantus couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It wasn’t how she looked, certainly not through any romantic desire. Instead, there was an aura about her that drew him in, leaving him wanting to know more, admiring her deeply. She sat a distance, her on the ground floor and he above in the balconies, but she still managed to find a way to feel as if she were looking down at him just the same. But alas, now was not the time to pursue this confounding interest.

Now was the time to have the rest pursue him.

He walked confidently into the centre of the hall, slowly allowing the other guests to realise his presence. A few claps, scattered applause, the partygoers realising he was there and showing the due respect. And yet, the applause came from the other side just as strongly, and the crowd slowly came to recognize that the host was there as well. Then, a third, and a fourth vision of Voyantus made his way in. The intrigue reached higher, the gasps of astonishment causing everyone in the hall to take note.

He had them. He set the fireworks, drawing their attention upwards, to see his true form on the balcony. “Ah, but do not forget - there is only one Voyantus Starscryer!” And with that, the first bursts of colour and fury exploded behind him through the windows, and he stepped from the balcony to float effortlessly down amongst the crowd, arms outstretched in an effort to welcome all and allow them to bask in his very presence.

The crowd roared. The entrance was flawless. Another night conquered.

–

As the wine emptied, the food was devoured, and the dancers began packing up their things, he noticed that he had spoken to everyone who had come. Everyone, that is, save for one. The warrior, sitting still, stoic, alone, he had not worked up the courage to speak with. Fortunately, wine had a way of making the coward into a hero in their own mind, even if the rest of the world saw them otherwise.

He sat down beside her, turning the chair towards her only to have her keep hers towards the table. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked politely.

“I’m afraid this is not my idea of a good time, no,” she said. Her voice was strong. Commanding. He knew it could carry across a distance even when she was speaking softly.

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry for that. If it’s not to your liking, could I ask why you came?”

“Your mother, out of respect to her. I fought alongside her long ago.”

“Oh. My mother, yes. She was-”

“The apple falls not far from the tree, as they say. At least in some respects.”

It should have been a tremendous compliment, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t. It was biting, but he was not sure yet as to how. So, he sat, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. He pushed further.

“My mother, yes. She was-”

“I saw her fight and die. Cut down by the scourge, buried in the scar now. She was a brilliant mage. I had never seen someone fight until that level of exhaustion. Complete emptiness of spirit and form. Every ounce of strength she had was given to defending Quel’thalas. Spent her last bit of energy ensuring the spell she cast on you to keep you hidden was still secure.” Finally, she took a drink. The first time he had seen her do so. “Tremendous woman,” she muttered in finality.

He nodded solemnly. “She was. But… I can’t say I see myself in her image. As much as I wish I could say that I can.”

“Well, all this…” she waved her hand around, at the instruments, the fireworks still exploding in slow motion in the distance, the entrance still earning him pats on the back as guests began to leave for the night. “The effort it took you. You’re clearly powerful indeed. You’ve spent yourself tonight, I can tell. Your eyes, they’re weary now. Your breathing is laboured even as you’re sitting. You’re running on nothing left. Same as she did, in a way.”

He couldn’t deny it. Exhaustion was creeping in, and it was just the wine in his belly that fueled him. “Well, I suppose I’ve put the effort in, but with this many guests… it’s the necessity of a good party...” He trailed off. They sat for a time in silence.

Eventually, he was whisked away for a final dance, one last drink, something, somewhere. He kept looking back at her, finding her sitting in quiet dignity, alone, until she too left without his knowing.

–

He awoke the next morning feeling as if his skull had been cleaved in two. The Starscryer hall appeared as if a great battle had been fought in it, the wine the colour of blood staining the pretty tablecloths, the chairs knocked about, the food trays picked clean as if by vultures. Rave reviews, high society telling stories of it for ages.

He sat at the table where he spoke with the warrior. He cursed himself for having forgotten her name. He cursed himself again for not having asked what battles she fought in.

Picking up a half-empty bottle of Suntouched, he took a swig and threw it spiralling into the air. From his fingertips came three blasts of arcane magic in rapid succession, turning the bottle into a mist of sprinkling glass, landing softly upon the tables and empty chairs. Such power, and for this. What has he done? What could he do?

The power was still there. Even weary from the previous night, it was brimming within him. The Starscryer name was known as well as it was before, but was it known for a reason to be proud of? He reached for another bottle of Suntouched.

What could he do? What has he done?

He found himself sitting at the warrior's table. There was a letter there, addressed to him in simple script. Underneath his name was a single sentence. If he had doubts on the sender, they vanished quickly. "The apple fell not far."

Inside were a small stack of forms. Enlistment papers for Silvermoon's military. He felt the power brimming within him again.