Illidan's Private Journal - The Taste of Being Chosen
(Journal fragment, penned in Illidan's hand.)
She said yes. Not to Malfurion. Not to the Temple. Not to duty. To me.
I asked poorly—clumsy words, too sharp, too bare. For a moment I thought she would laugh, or turn aside. But she did not. She looked at me, steady as moonlight, and said, "Just you."
We sat over tea and honeyed bread. I poured her cup first. I thought if I ruined anything, I would at least manage that.
She spoke of magic as if it were only a tool. Unlike Malfurion, she did not warn me away. She said perhaps I was in the right place. With the right person.
Her hand fit mine when we left. Small. Warm. Unafraid. The raven croaked its approval as if sealing some vow.
I have been passed over before. By teachers. By elders. By fate itself. Always second. Always the shadow beside the root.
But today, I was not second.
Today, I was chosen.