Chapter 54: The Greatest Mage in All of Azeroth! |
Milana nodded vigorously.
The movement was stiff, yet filled with a soul’s most genuine joy.
“Happy.”
Allen let out a long breath.
Four more questions.
A month ago, when he first came to this cemetery with Varian and the others, they had awakened another maid—Emily Barker.
They had used two questions to lock onto the true culprit, and with the remaining three, Allen had asked about trivial matters before sending her back to her peaceful slumber.
Now, he recalled those three questions.
By Milana’s coffin, under the moonlight, in the silent cemetery, he sat down.
A small music box.
“Emily said,” his voice was very soft, “that you often stare at Miss Tiroia’s music box and space out. So…”
He wound the spring.
“I bought one for you. Do you like music boxes?”
Milana was stunned.
Her hollow eye sockets stared at the small music box, as if for the first time she began to ponder the question, “What do I like?”
A long moment passed.
She nodded.
“I like it.”
Allen wound the spring again and gently placed the music box before her.
A crisp melody flowed out.
Simple, melodious, carrying the dappled sunlight filtering through leaves, the crisp chill of a babbling brook, and the gentle touch of a breeze across wheat fields.
Allen took another item from his chest.
A daffodil.
Its pure white petals shimmered with a faint halo under the moonlight, and its slender stem trembled slightly between his fingertips.
“Emily said you used to grow daffodils yourself and take care of them.” He held the flower out to Milana. “Do you like daffodils?”
Milana nodded forcefully.
So forcefully, it was as if she was using up all the affirmations of her lifetime.
“I like them.”
Hearing that affirmative answer, a faint smile tugged at the corners of Allen’s mouth.
He reached out and gently placed the daffodil into Milana’s hands.
“Emily also told me,” Allen looked at her, his gaze soft.
“She said you would occasionally eavesdrop on the history lessons the teacher gave to Miss Tiroia.”
He paused.
“Milana… do you really have no wish of your own?”
Milana, who had been relatively calm until now, froze at this question.
Then, her body began to tremble violently.
“I’m sorry…”
Her voice cracked.
“I’m sorry, I lied, I’m sorry…”
She sobbed, like a child who had done something wrong.
“My wish… my wish wasn’t to fulfill my lady’s wishes… I have my own wish…”
“I wanted my lady’s music box… I wanted to listen to it every night before I fell asleep…”
“I wanted to read… I wanted to be a mage apprentice, just like my lady… to be able to change my future…”
“I wanted a better life… I wanted the daffodils I planted to never wither…”
“…I also wanted… to live…”
“Wahhhh—”
Her wails as the deceased echoed under the moonlight.
“I’m sorry, I lied to you… I just wanted to look more like a qualified maid… I’m sorry… sob sob sob sob sob…”
Allen was silent.
He looked at this weeping soul, at the desires she had suppressed her whole life, at the truth she dared not speak until after death.
Then, he reached out and removed the badge from his chest.
The Royal Magic Advisor’s badge.
A silver emblem engraved with patterns of Arcane, Fire, and Frost, gleaming with a cold light under the moon.
He gently placed the badge into Milana’s palms as well.
“Don’t cry, Milana.”
His voice was soft, yet firm.
“Take this. It’s a symbol of a great mage.”
Milana’s sobs gradually quieted.
“When you return to the afterlife, you can proudly tell everyone—” Allen looked at her, his gaze sincere, “that you saved the greatest mage in Azeroth’s history.”
He paused.
“And that greatest mage will, in turn, save Azeroth one day.”
“Everyone will be proud of you.”
The music box’s spring had run out.
The last note scattered in the night breeze, fading into silence.
Milana lowered her head, staring at the badge in her palms.
A long moment passed.
She looked up.
“Thank you… Allen… Prestor… thank you…”
Allen looked at her.
One last question remained.
He was silent for a moment, then slowly spoke:
“I’m sorry, Milana.”
Milana tilted her head.
“I lied to you too.”
Allen’s voice was calm, yet carried a hint of remorse.
“Allen Prestor is not my name.”
Tonight, he had purposely left Xal’atath in his room. That dagger was not by his side—no whispers, no prying eyes, no gaze of any third party.
Only him and Milana.
Only the moonlight and the cemetery.
He leaned close to Milana’s ear.
The night breeze gently brushed past, carrying his whisper and sweeping away those few syllables.
His voice was so soft it seemed unwilling to be heard by anyone, as soft as a secret entrusted to another secret.
The wind drowned out that name.
Only Milana heard it.
Only the moonlight bore witness.
Allen stepped back, looking at her.
“So, I lied to you, Milana. Will you forgive me?”
Milana’s body trembled.
She nodded forcefully.
So forcefully, it was as if she poured all her emotions into that one motion.
“I will…”
Her voice grew fainter and fainter.
“Thank you… thank…”
Her voice grew weaker and weaker, more and more distant. Her bones slowly lay back down, returning to the simple coffin, returning to that eternal slumber.
Allen gently placed the three items by her hands—the music box, the daffodil, and the badge.
He closed the coffin and began to fill the grave with earth.
One shovel, another shovel, and another.
His movements were still very gentle, very slow, as if guarding something.
When the last clump of soil covered it, the grave mound looked just as it had before.
Allen sat for a while in front of the grave.
The moonlight fell silently, and the cemetery was utterly still.
Occasionally, the cry of a night bird came from afar, and nearby, only the rustling of wind through wild grass could be heard.
He was guarding something.
Guarding the secret he had just spoken, guarding the final rest of that soul, guarding this fleeting moment of peace.
Under the moonlight, he lowered his head.
Then, he froze.
On his left wrist, at some unknown time, three wavy lines had appeared.
The lines were very shallow, like a birthmark, or some kind of mark.
Three waves.
What is this?
Allen stared at the three lines, and a scene suddenly flashed through his mind—
In the tavern of Darkshire, Khadgar had grabbed his wrist, anxiously turning it over, as if searching for some trace.
Could these two things be connected?
He shook his head, temporarily suppressing the doubt in his heart.
He stood up, taking one last look at the grave mound.
“Goodnight, Milana.”
He turned and left, his black robe melting into the night.
---
Stormwind Keep.
Allen silently used the Anywhere Door to return to his residential quarters.
The corridor was empty, only the dim light of wall lamps flickering.
He turned the last corner—
Then stopped in his tracks.
In the garden, a figure was sitting on a stone bench, leaning against a pillar, gazing up at the moon.
Wen Lei.
He hadn’t slept.
Right now, he was dressed in light casual clothes.
Hearing footsteps, he turned his head.
Their eyes met.
He spoke coldly:
“So late, where did you go?”