Daughter of Azeroth

20 | LOVE AFTER WAR

Two months passed before word came from the party sent to capture a troll. The mission had failed. All but one of the party had been killed, and he didn't last much longer than the time it took him to return to Moonbrook and deliver the bad news. Fourteen men, lost.

The night he arrived, Myra, VanCleef and Idira were taking their evening meal in the big dining room. He came in, his injuries wrapped in stiff, blood-stained linens, reeking of infection. He pulled off his grimy red bandana and mopped his face, his hand shaking as he told them how their party had been taken by surprise almost as soon as they entered the vine-infested jungle of Stranglethorn Vale. It had been a massacre. The machete wielding trolls had made quick work of the others, their hunting tigers growling as they fed on the fallen, oblivious to the agonised screams of those still living. He had managed to survive by throwing himself into a deep, rocky ravine before the tigers got to him. The trolls had left him for dead.

VanCleef said nothing, but Idira could tell he was very angry. He put his wine glass down with great care, got up and walked out of the room, leaving his unfinished dinner behind; his silver cutlery askew on his plate, a piece of meat still speared on his fork. He went up the stairs, his booted feet hard against the wooden steps. A heartbeat later a door slammed.

Waiting at the dining room's arched doorway, their arms crossed over their chests, Myra's guards eyed each other, their thoughts difficult to read, but it didn't look like they approved of VanCleef's plan to capture a troll. No gold in it, Idira had heard one of his men mutter earlier that day when she was in the kitchen collecting apples for the horses.

She put down her fork, her appetite gone. Even if they were bad men, they had died because of her. It was her fault. Before she could stop herself, she imagined them being eaten by tigers. She looked at Myra, hoping for reassurance.

Her sister returned to her food, unconcerned. 'Fourteen less of them,' she said, smug. Only a little of the country dialect still clung to her words, softening the sharpest edges of her now unmistakably noble accent. She looked up at Idira, her eyes cold. 'That's a good girl.'

Despite her hatefulness, Myra sounded terribly elegant, like a real lady. At first, Idira thought Myra looked even prettier when she spoke with her new accent, it was like her words finally matched the rest of her. But as the number of days until the six month deadline shortened, and her hopes of being reunited with Benny dwindled, Myra changed.

Her beautiful words became weapons, used to inflict injury. She changed from melancholic and withdrawn to angry and bitter, prone to temper tantrums. She ordered gowns by the dozen from Stormwind, wearing them once before tossing them into her fireplace to watch them burn. Idira couldn't bear it. She would cry as Myra paced the sumptuous bedroom, barefoot, a glass of wine in her hand, wearing nothing more than her corset and knickers, laughing, vindictive, as the poor gown succumbed to the hungry flames.

Her dinner finished, Myra stood up. She raised her glass to her mouth, her gaze drifting down her guards' bodies, lingering on their crotches. She sipped her wine and licked her lips, slow and seductive. 'Perhaps you shall be chosen next for this fool's errand of his. If I was a tiger, I would eat you.' She laughed, brittle, amused by her little joke. Her guards glared at back her, their hatred tangible. Ignoring them, she poured herself another glass of wine and sank down onto VanCleef's chair, gesturing to the waiting manservant to serve her dessert there.

Idira pushed her chair back and left. Myra was getting drunk again, things would only get worse from now on. When she passed out, VanCleef would have to carry her to bed. He didn't want anyone else to touch her. Although lately, almost every night went the same: after a drunken dinner filled with Myra's angry words and accusations, VanCleef would drag her from her chair up to her room, his face black like a thundercloud before the storm. Even with her hands over her ears, Idira could still hear the sounds of their fighting; the crash of porcelain against the walls, the heavy thuds of furniture toppling over. It was just like living with Papa again, only this time Myra was Papa.