The scent of treated leather and alchemical dye lingered through Ravenholdt Manor as the Legion invasion raged across Azeroth.

The stronghold bustled with restless urgency—rogues of Horde and Alliance moving through shadowed halls, preparing for battles that left little room for faction pride.

Mariel Thorne worked quietly in a dim side chamber, reinforcing enchanted seams in stealth leathers. Once, she had sewn wedding garments in Lordaeron. Now she stitched armor meant to keep the living alive. The soft scrape of her metal jaw shifted as she adjusted her thread.

Sudden murmurs stirred the corridor.

“He’s returned. The Dreadblades… he survived.”

Mariel paused, needle hovering mid-air. Curiosity drew her toward the hall where rogues gathered near the entrance.

The doors opened.

A battle-worn man stepped inside, twin artifact blades resting at his sides, fel scorch marks trailing across his armor. He moved with steady command, acknowledging greetings as operatives surrounded him.

Mariel froze.

Her gaze traced familiar shoulders, silver threading through hair she once touched, the unmistakable cadence of his voice as he spoke. Alive. Older, yet preserved by power and war.

Her husband.

The needle slipped from her fingers, clicking softly against the stone floor.

Instinct forced her back into the shadows, one gloved hand rising to cover the jagged metal of her missing jaw. He laughed faintly at a rogue’s remark, the sound cutting deeper than any blade.

She stared at the warmth of his living breath, at the life she had lost, terror coiling through her hollow chest.

If he saw her now…

Mariel pressed against the cold wall, unseen among the gathered rogues, watching the man she had mourned—afraid that even in undeath, her heart had not forgotten how to break.