Still in Orgrimmar . . .

The wine was sweet, an Eversong vintage that he didn’t bother to identify as it slid down his throat. All that mattered was it tasted like home, like sun filtered through the trees, like a soft ocean breeze, like forest wildflowers. Home . . .

Home was gone, he reminded himself. The home of his youth was ash and rubble, the room where he hid under blankets at night afraid of trolls was filled with webs and the offal of crypt stalkers. Even his second home, Dalaran, where he spent his school days, was a floating city in the north, almost destroyed by the same people who had fought to defend it. Then the home of his adulthood, still standing in Fairbreeze, but taken from him when he was exiled.

So he had bought the tower in Orgrimmar with money earned on the battlefields when he had decided to get himself killed after losing his wife and home. He’d taken his shattered life and built something of it, with a library, a laboratory, even a housekeeper. He spent thousands shipping real elven furniture and silks across the ocean to make the tower remind him more of home. Every single thing about the tower screamed Quel’thalas, everything but the smoky view over the Valley of Strength from the top floor.

The exile was over, so why not return to Quel’thalas? He took another gulp of wine. After so much time exploring strange new lands and fighting the enemies of Silvermoon, home seemed almost bland. Orgrimmer was a frontier city, in a land still untamed by civilization.

He took another sip of wine. It was sweet, warm, and tasted like home. It made him smile as he remembered where he came from. It wouldn’t have tasted as good if he was still there.

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