He stood there. He watched from afar. Watched as her body was split apart by that monster, the memory striking him with the same merciless clarity every time it returned. It was never distant, never faded—it came alive before him as if it had only just happened. The sound, the motion, the sheer brutality of it all carved itself again into his mind. For a moment back then, he had not understood what he was seeing. His thoughts had stalled, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and the world around him had gone quiet in the most horrifying way. Then it all came rushing back at once. Rage. Fear. Despair. He had lost all reason in that instant and charged, blind to anything but the need to strike back, to undo what could not be undone.
"Thorwin," a soft voice murmured into his ears, careful and gentle, yet enough to pull him from the grip of that memory.
Not that again…
He bit down on his lip, hard enough to sting, grounding himself in the present as the remnants of that nightmare clung stubbornly to his thoughts. His breathing had quickened without him noticing, and it took effort—real effort—to steady himself before he let it show too much.
His eyes turned toward the source of the voice.
Jaina.
He murmured her name under his breath, almost instinctively. There was something about her that unsettled him in ways he could not fully explain. At times, she reminded him of his mother—something in her gaze, in the softness of her features, in the quiet concern that lingered in her eyes whenever she looked at him like this. And she was looking at him like that now. Concerned. Searching. As if she could see through the mask he so desperately tried to maintain.
It was becoming far too frequent.
The more time they spent together, the more she seemed to notice. It was alarming, not because of her, but because it meant he was losing control over how well he hid it. There was something wrong with him, he knew that much. He had tried to understand it, to find answers, to rid himself of it. He had spoken to his father, to the tidesages, to anyone who might have knowledge of such things. Yet none could give him certainty. Some claimed it was of the mind, a wound deeper than flesh could ever show, trauma, they called it. Others whispered of darker things, of curses that clung to the soul and refused to let go.
None of it mattered.
None of it helped.
His father had tried everything regardless—rituals, prayers, ancient rites passed down through the Stormsages. Nothing worked. The visions remained. The memories returned. And Thorwin was left to endure them, again and again, with no remedy in sight.
"Sorry," he said at last, forcing a faint smile upon his lips, one that did not quite reach his eyes. "I was just thinking of something."
It was a poor lie.
And his body betrayed him easily.
His hands had already curled into fists at his sides, his fingers pressing hard into his palms as if trying to suppress something within him. The tension was obvious, the stiffness in his posture impossible to fully conceal no matter how calm his voice tried to sound.
Jaina noticed.
She always did.
Without a word, she reached out and placed her hands over his. The gesture was gentle, almost hesitant at first, as if giving him the chance to pull away. But when he did not, her hold settled, firm enough to ground him, soft enough not to overwhelm.
She said nothing.
There were no questions, no demands, no attempts to force him to speak of what clearly haunted him.
She simply stayed.
Her hands rested over his, warm against his cold skin, a quiet reassurance that he was not alone in that moment. It reminded her of her father in ways she could not ignore; of the nights he would stand by the sea, staring into the horizon with that same distant look in his eyes. She had never known what he saw in those moments, only that silence had always been better than words.
"It's almost two years now," Thorwin spoke at last, his voice breaking the silence that had settled so heavily between them. The words came slower than usual, as if each one had to be forced past something lodged deep in his chest. His gaze drifted somewhere distant, no longer seeing the place before him but something far beyond it. "I've always wondered…" he continued quietly, "…what would have happened if Mother and I had not left for Stormwind."
He paused, his lips parting slightly as though the next words resisted him. For a moment, it seemed he might stop there, that he might retreat once more into silence. But then he exhaled softly, and his voice returned—quieter, more uncertain, yet heavier with meaning. "Maybe they would have reconciled by now," he said, almost to himself. "Maybe things would have been different." His fingers shifted faintly beneath hers, no longer tense, but not at ease either. "Maybe you and I…" he hesitated again, a faint, almost bitter smile touching his lips for the briefest moment, "…might have spent every summer together. Here in Brennadam… and in Boralus."
The thought lingered between them, fragile and impossible.
"Maybe…" his voice faltered, softer now, "she wouldn't have died there."
The words seemed to change something.
Slowly, his hands slipped from Jaina's grasp, but only for a heartbeat. Then, in a motion that surprised even himself, he turned and took her hands into his own. The gesture was sudden, almost desperate, and it startled her enough to draw her eyes sharply to his face.
What she saw made her breath still.
There were no tears.
No trembling sorrow.
No quiet grief as before.
What stared back at her now was something else entirely.
Something far more dangerous.
His face had hardened, the softness gone, replaced by an expression she had never seen so clearly upon him until this moment. His jaw tightened, his lips quivered faintly—not with sadness, but with something burning beneath the surface. His eyes… they no longer looked distant.
They burned.
"I hate them," he whispered, his voice low, strained, as though the words themselves were clawing their way out of him. "I hate those monsters, Jaina." His grip on her hands tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to reveal the storm within him. "I hate all of them."
The words lingered, heavy and sharp.
Jaina did not recoil.
She did not pull her hands away, nor did she look at him with fear or disgust. There was no judgment in her eyes, no rejection of what he had just revealed. If anything, her expression softened; not out of pity, but out of understanding. She saw the pain beneath the anger, the grief that had twisted itself into something fiercer, something harder to carry.
"Thorwin," she murmured gently.
Her voice was steady, quiet, and warm, not to correct him, nor to silence him, but simply to reach him. Her hands remained in his, unwavering, her presence firm in the face of his storm. It was not fear that guided her, nor hesitation. It was a choice. A quiet, unspoken promise that she would not turn away from him, no matter what darkness tried to take hold.
For a few moments, they remained seated side by side, their shoulders nearly brushing, their hands still loosely intertwined. The vast library of Stormsong Manor stood quiet around them, its towering shelves casting long shadows as the last light of the afternoon filtered through the tall windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden glow, and the only sound that filled the space was the soft rhythm of their breathing—uneven at first, then slowly steadying as the storm within him began to settle. The tension that had gripped Thorwin's body gradually loosened, his shoulders sinking just slightly, as though the weight pressing upon him had, for once, relented. Then, without a word, he pulled away—not abruptly, not coldly—but enough to break what little closeness they could scarcely call an embrace.
The change was immediate.
That contorted face, twisted by anger and grief only moments ago, was gone. In its place was something far quieter. Far more unsettling. A calmness that did not belong to a boy his age. His expression smoothed into something unreadable, almost distant, as though he had carefully tucked everything away where no one could reach it. And for a brief moment, Jaina simply stared at him. Her cheeks had taken on a soft rosy hue, one she did not quite realize nor attempt to hide, though the dimming sunlight spilling through the windows did well enough to conceal it.
"I forgot to congratulate you, Jaina."
Her thoughts stumbled at the sudden shift.
"For what?" she asked, her brows knitting together in confusion as she turned fully toward him.
"You've finally convinced your mum to allow you to study in Dalaran."
"Oh—well…" she stammered, caught off guard by how casually he said it, as though nothing had happened just moments before. Her fingers fidgeted slightly in her lap, and she bit her tongue lightly, her blush deepening just a shade. "I… I showed her I could lift things using a spell… from one of the books I read here in your library."
I guess… it's partly because of you… she murmured under her breath, so quietly it almost disappeared into the stillness of the room.
"Did you really?!" His voice rose at once, the calm breaking—not into anger, but into something far brighter. There was genuine amazement in his eyes now, curiosity sparking to life as he leaned forward slightly. "You're amazing!" he added without hesitation, the words leaving him with an ease that made them feel entirely sincere. For a moment, it was as if the boy consumed by rage had never been there at all.
"Thank you," she replied, her voice soft but earnest, clearly pleased despite herself. There was a pause after, a small hesitation as her gaze lowered briefly before she looked back at him. "And… you're more amazing than me, Thorwin," she continued, her tone gaining a touch more certainty. "Mother said you'll be going with us soon. A paladin will be taking you as his squire."
That caught him.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, the words settling in.
"Father's sending me away," he said quietly. There was no anger in his voice this time—only something softer, something tinged with sadness. His gaze drifted again, though not as far as before. "I… couldn't cast any elemental magic anymore after returning here." His fingers curled slightly, almost unconsciously. "They said it comes with the… trauma."
The word lingered between them, heavy and unwelcome.
"But…" he added after a moment, as though grasping for something to hold onto, "the archbishop from Lordaeron, when he visited my grandfather's grave, he saw me cast holy magic. I healed a wounded rabbit."
Slowly, he lifted his hand, palm open.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then there was— Light.
It began as a faint glow at the center of his palm, barely more than a shimmer. But it grew quickly, swelling into something far brighter, far purer. In mere moments, his hand was engulfed in radiant brilliance, the Light pouring from it in soft, pulsing waves that illuminated the space around them. It was not harsh, not blinding in pain—but it was intense enough that Jaina instinctively shut her eyes, raising a hand slightly to shield her face.
The library, once dim, now flickered with gold.
"Amazing…" she gasped, her voice filled with awe as she slowly lowered her hand, her eyes still adjusting to the glow.
"It truly is wonderful," he said, the glow of the Light still dancing faintly along his fingers before it slowly dimmed into nothing. His voice carried a quiet steadiness, almost admiration—but beneath it, something else lingered, something far less pure. Jaina could not quite name it at first, but it brushed against her senses all the same. Disgust. Not loud, not open, but buried deep enough that only the slightest crack in his tone revealed it. "The priest said I am blessed immensely by the Light," he continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I almost believed he was trying to trick me into joining their order."
He let out a soft chuckle, though it did not quite reach his eyes. The memory of the archbishop's words lingered in his mind, but so did the irony of it all. Blessed. That was what they called it. A gift. A miracle. Yet he remembered the cave. He remembered the power surging through him, remembered how it felt like salvation in his grasp… and how it had still not been enough. It had not saved her. It had not healed her. And no matter how brightly it shone in his hands now, it never would.
Jaina laughed quietly with him, the sound soft and warm, filling the space between them like a fragile thread holding the moment together. This was the side of him she had come to know; one moment burdened by something far too heavy, the next brushing it aside with a jest as though it were nothing. It unsettled her sometimes, how quickly he could shift, how easily he could hide what weighed on him. But she did not question it. Not now.
"I'm just grateful you'll be near me, Thorwin," she whispered, her voice softer this time, almost lost in the stillness of the room. There was something sincere in the way she said it, something unguarded, as though she had not meant for it to sound so earnest.
He looked at her then, properly this time.
"I am as well," he replied, just as quietly.
And for that brief moment, the storm within him stilled.