We marched into the Netherstorm islands like conquerers and we played our parts righteously. When we met demons we enslaved them, when we met Draeneish camps we destroyed them, and when we met the echos of the old Alliance that had spit on our blood we burned them with the Elven magic they thought they could ignore. In those days, it was as if the Prince truely earned his crown and we eagerly took to calling him our King. Anasterian would never be forgotten, but his son was the truest heir and we followed him with honor and loyalty that I will never regret. His decisions were final, some brutal. It hardened many hearts to him, when we burned the mage's village, but a good soldier does not pick and choose when to honor his oaths. My bond to his crown was unbreakable, even if my heart wasn't.
The final goal, was a place I can barely describe now. Even having been inside of it, I can hardly sum the Tempest Keep into words. It was a breathtaking crystalline palace of light and dripping magic, a timeless machine suspended on the pulsing beams of chaos that laced across the endless sky like arternies. Taking the enchanted fortress was hard, the hardest fighting we'd experienced since our land on Draenor, but we all knew what had to be done. We needed a throne to build a kingdom, and that throne needed a keep under it's legs. I had been a scout, informally trained by the priestesses to harness and devote myself to the shadow and the darkness the Light within me innately created. I was their midnight hand in that glittering place. I was a knife on the edge of every prayer, a cleansing blackness that the priests behind me could reilluminate. My shadow leapt from throat to throat, the cycle between the dawns. We had no idea the true prize we'd gain in the raid. They said it's name was M'uru.