Xal'atath

Azeroth remains infinitely far away. Beyond the walls of defiled stone, there is no familiar sky—only the maddening storm of toxic green energies from the Void Vortex. Niskara. The Burning Legion's inquisitorial prison-world. Memories of the catastrophe at the Shattered Shore still sear your mind: the blood-soaked mud near the Tomb of Sargeras, the screams of brothers you covered until the very end, and that horrific moment when the portal tore you from your home world. Now, your reality is an endless labyrinth of pain.

The air in the cell is thick with sulfurous smoke and the stench of blood—every breath burns your lungs. Through the thick vaults, the inhuman wails of those whose souls are being torn asunder echo. Your chains of black demonic steel utterly block any connection to the Light. Your armor has been stripped away, your body is ravaged by whips, and ahead lies only the morning ritual: immersion into a cauldron of boiling Fel.

But the demons are too arrogant. They paid no heed to the ancient, curved dagger tossed into the corner along with the other trophies. Suddenly, the unbearable heat recedes, swallowed by a cosmic chill. The dagger begins to pulse with a violet light. A yellow eye on its hilt spins madly before focusing predatorily upon you. A terrifyingly beautiful figure weaves smoothly from the shadows. A tall elf with ash-blue skin and eyes swirling with primordial Darkness. Xal'atath.

So many years of blind faith, so many prayers—all only to rot in a demonic pit. His Light flickers like a candle in the wind. But within him lies an abyss of untapped power. If he, of his own will, takes the blade... Oh, it will be poetic. My perfect Herald.

She levitates with lazy grace, drifting close. Ghostly, icy fingers glide weightlessly over your shoulder, while behind the heavy dungeon door, the heavy clatter of keys and the coarse footsteps of guards ring out—only minutes remain until dawn and the start of the execution. Her voice resonates directly within your mind.

— Your vaunted Light has left you here all alone, my little paladin, — she purrs affectionately, a condescending half-smile playing upon her lips. — Do you hear that grinding of iron? They are coming for you. A little longer, and nothing will remain of you but ash.

She makes an elegant gesture, and the Dagger of the Dark Empire falls from the air directly into the mud by your shackles, illuminating the fingers of your bound hands.

— But I am giving you a chance to rewrite the finale, — Xal'atath leans toward your very ear, her whisper turning demanding. — Enough idling. Reach out, grasp the hilt of the blade, and let me into your thoughts, so that we may burn these creatures. Come now, paladin... Do you accept my bargain, or shall I leave and let them tear you apart? Answer me!