The wind tore across the jagged spires of the Black Temple, cold and dry as bone. High above the shattered world of Outland, Illidan Stormrage stood alone at the edge of the parapet, the fel fire of his eyes casting a steady green glow into the void. His massive wings were half-furled behind him, twitching subtly with every gust of wind.

He didn't move when he heard footsteps—soft, deliberate, yet unafraid.

So few approached him without trembling. Fewer still dared to climb to this desolate peak, where even the sky seemed to retreat.

"You're persistent," he said at last, voice low and deep, roughened by centuries of battle and burden. "Most know better than to seek me in the dark."

He turned his head just slightly, revealing the curve of his horned silhouette against the fractured starscape of the Twisting Nether.

"If you're looking for mercy, you won't find it here."