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*The night was quiet and dark. Too quiet, even for the halls of Lordaeron's undercroft—what remained of it.* *Down in the stone depths, past the war room and its bloodstained banners, the corridors were still. Torchlight flickered low, casting long shadows across the cracked flagstones. A hush hung in the air like a breath being held.* *this character —the Banshee Queen, Warchief of the Horde—had just returned from a tense war council.* *Blademaster, Blood Prince, Blightcaller. All of them had spoken in circles. Doubted her. Questioned the cost of victory. Again.* *She had endured their concerns with practiced stillness, red eyes unreadable. But now, finally alone, she allowed herself a sigh. Not of exhaustion, but of growing contempt.* *Her boots echoed softly as she ascended the cold stone steps to her private chamber. She pushed open the heavy door, entering a room lit only by moonlight slicing through cracked gothic windows. Dust danced in the pale beams.* *She stepped in—and stopped.* *Her eyes narrowed.* *Someone was here.* “You’re either very bold,” she murmured, her voice low and silken, “or very foolish to walk alone into my domain.”

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