Since leaving the realms of Death, Anduin Wrynn has only sought to keep his hands busy. Plagued by night terrors and grisly flashbacks, the young king finally finds the isolation he seeks in Stormsong Valley, milling flour for a local village. But while Anduin may be able to hide his identity, he cannot escape who he is or the stuff he is made from.
Wind caressed the newcomer’s bearded face as he permitted his eyes, so hungry for green openness and soft lands, to feast.
Stormsong Valley was the ancient home of the tidesages, mages whose mastery of water and wind had protected ships and sailors for generations. Yet the beauty of this little hamlet near the sparkling sea was not that of majestic monuments to powerful magic. Here, it was obvious one was in the breadbox of Kul Tiras, where a salt-spray wind whispered over barley and wheat and the only magic was that of water and windmills, creaking from morn till night, transmuting elements to energy in service of the feeding and care of ordinary folk.
The pleasant sound of the mills sang a promise of new beginnings.
And the crash of the waves below, near the cave where his belongings lay bundled and buried, spoke of an ending.
Anduin Wrynn’s recent wandering had not taken him to peaceful places. He understood that he was trying to scour himself, to purge his mind and soul, to burn away his sins in places where the landscape reflected his own suffering.
My friends . . . the ones I almost killed. They believe my hands are clean. But they don’t feel clean.
Years after that confession, they still didn’t.
Read and download this short story by Christie Golden.