“Since the Sunfury returned to us,” Lor’themar began, “and our position in the Ghostlands is more…secure…the Farstriders are finding themselves stretched a bit less. They—I—would send you regular supplies.”
Lor’themar had become accustomed to the mockery of those he could not please, but he had not fully anticipated the pointed sting that Renthar’s laugh elicited. Even Aurora’s face, normally so controlled and serene, the face of a priestess, colored deeply with undisguised contempt.
“Six years we rot here, thrown out of our homes at your behest because we refuse to suck magic from living things like so many vampires.” Renthar began to rise from his seat, leaning across the table, truly shaking with rage. “And now you want to offer aid? After all we have been through you come now? After what the Horde did to us in the name of that bastard human who called himself ranger? How blind do you think I am, Lor’themar? I should kill you. I should kill you and send your head to Sylvanas myself!”
Even through the ringing in his ears, a small, rational part of Lor’themar latched onto a word of Renthar’s and held fast. Ranger, he had said, and not just any—a human ranger. As far as Lor’themar knew, there had only ever been one.
“I thought,” he began slowly, “that Nathanos Marris died to the Scourge.”
Both Aurora and Renthar turned slowly to look at him, faces carved and cold like ivory dolls. For the first time since he had arrived for this confrontation, Lor’themar heard his heart hammering in his own ears, the lump in his throat making it difficult to swallow.
