The Regent Lord of Silvermoon has his own portable kitchen, of course he does, not simply for reasons of comfort and familiarity. The food is cold, too, which is a surprise: its presentation is unlike anything Ana’s seen or indeed tasted.

Steak so tender it melted in her mouth, but prepared as part of a salad. There were the thinnest slivers of root vegetables, the jewelled seeds of a plant she still can’t recognise but taste of Moonberry, and a bread accompaniment that could almost have been cake.

Her request for water was met with a conjured jug in which the liquid moves without agitation, and it is hard still not to fixate on it as she engages the cook and her two attendants in conversation as they clear away elegant, crescent-shaped bowls.

Lor’themar does not talk directly to her in this scenario, as should be the way. Her presence is obviously secondary to Shaw’s, whose return was a welcome relief. It appears the Docks excuse was indeed only that.

The Regent Lord is here at the behest of Thrall, who it appears has finally tracked the King of Stormwind to Silithus. Jaina Proudmoore has confirmed several sightings but has advised caution, something both Human and Blood Elf find surprising. Shaw looks to Ana for an opinion, but she is still not sure it is her place to respond.

‘I have placed great store in your counsel previously, Huntmistress. Why would you think that this would change?’

‘Because… I have never felt comfortable in opining on the lives of Azeroth’s true heroes… and I now wonder if I have been remiss… in being honest with you.’

‘How so?’

‘What you referred to over dinner as the Radiant Song, is that the vision that you and I shared earlier in the Dwarven District…?’

‘I did not see anything as such. There was a pain, a voice called my name… is that not what you experienced?’

Lor’themar is looking at her keenly now, and motions for his cook and staff to retire. Whatever this is has something to do with his costume. Shaw referred to it as much as dinner was served, then several moments of unspoken affinity between the two of them took place during the meal, and suddenly there is concern that this is not something she should be sharing at all…

‘I hope you do not think me inappropriate, Huntmistress, but I watched you from the door for some time earlier before entering. You were oblivious to my presence. What was it that you were writing?’

‘I do not, my Lord… and it is a shopping list, in all honesty, with things to ask for and research whilst I am here in Stormwind.’

‘You write everything like this, with the stick of burnt wood?’

‘My mother taught me to write, against the better judgement of my father.’

‘It is not simply lists or notes, I fancy, hidden in this folio.’

‘No. There are stories, and verses… and songs.’

‘Did you hear a song when I saw nothing, Ana?’

Shaw is not reacting to Weaver’s revelation, but to something else. In years of being in tents, on boats, in the sky or underground, in foreign lands and familiar climbs with limited information, there would always be a moment when her ability to see and feel beyond the normal and the mundane would prepare her for the unexpected.

Often it was a conversation, or maybe an artifact that began an adventure. Increasingly of late, it had been both. Lor’themar reaches across his side of the table to an impeccable red leather satchel, from which he pulls a particularly battered roll of parchment.

It is released with a simple spell, before being handed to her.

‘Are these the words of the song you heard, Huntmistress Weaver?’

Ana doesn’t know how she can read what is in front of her. Nobody has ever taught her the language of the Blood Elves, it’s impossible that this can make any kind of sense… and then her hands are shaking, in a way that only ever happened when emotion was a step away from overwhelming everything. The reaction of the men to this is not displeasure or unhappiness. Both look at her calmly, kindly, and with a comprehension that makes everything else quietly fade away.

Finally, after what seems like an age, Ana takes the folio that lives close to her heart, opens it to the page where the song she’s been hearing for a week has been transcribed, and hands it not to the man who she works for but the Blood Elf who marks the beginning of her next quest. Lor’themar smiles as he reads, as he sees every word in her book matching the ones on his scroll, two languages but the same words… before handing it to Shaw. His surprise is both refreshing and unexpected.

‘I… I owe you an apology, Regent Lord.’

‘None is necessary, now you know why discretion remains an imperative. This song is older than the moment we find ourselves within. It was predicted and delivered to me for safe keeping, with the instruction that I would know when and who to show it to… and it is the final confirmation I require to ask Huntmistress Weaver to travel to Kalimdor, on a mission of considerable importance…’

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