The entry is in the shimmer-black ink, in Thalassian.

Business kept me late tonight, and it was not until after ten that I finally arrived in Redridge for the weekly story circle. Mallesta accompanied me, bearing with pride her badge of office which I gave her last night. My gaze swept the circle, and there directly opposite did I find two of our waywards. I nodded at Naiama; gave her the hint of a smile. She has no hold over me anymore. I wonder what she thought of my selection of Mallesta to replace her? Was she saddened? Angered? ....jealous? What did she think of my smile, if she saw it?

It was night and day from when I passed her in the tavern two weeks ago. When I called out and was ignored. Tonight, it was a smile of triumph. I can gaze upon her now, walk past her, pass her in the street, without my heart twisting into knots at her presence. Does she have any clue how much that triumph means to me? That I have clawed my way back from the depths of despair into which I was plunged by her departure? When I was a girl the keep's groundsman showed me how to prune a tree. When the extraneous branch is cut away, there is a soft, vulnerable place is left behind... a wound of sorts. Yet, this wound is soon in the course of nature covered over by fresh bark, and the tree is overall stronger and healthier for it. That is how I feel. The wound is still there; there is still the hole in my heart. I am not yet again ready to love. But the bark has covered over where my love was torn away, and I am stronger for it.

Mallesta herself has performed admirably. With pride in her tasks such as I have never seen. She has thrown herself into the position she initially sought, ironically, out of admiration for Naiama. And it has become her. Last night I proposed to her the same ritual of binding I had intended to enact with Naiama... Naiama was afraid, afraid I would abuse the abilities granted me by the ritual, the control it could give me over her.  Did she waver even then? Should I have seen the warning signs, what seems so long ago? Did she ever fully trust me?

That is something, I suppose, I will never know. Perhaps someday I will have the chance to ask her, but I am not holding my breath. What I do know, however, is that Mallesta does not fear me, does not question me. She and I are one, and she has devoted herself to the Stewardship with a fervor to her oaths that would have made Vyrella blush before she, too, turned. She is all for the ritual, at whatever time I choose. I am lucky to have her.

Tonight she spotted Jarvillian skulking in the bushes, cloaked in black, watching me. The dwarf telling the story admonished Mallesta for questioning Jarvillian out loud, and Naiama grinned. In former times, she might have done so as a compliment to her attentions to her duty. Now, I think that would perhaps give her too much credit. Perhaps being so quickly replaced, at least professionally, upset her after all.

An addendum, written shortly thereafter.

Is Naiama going mad? Her and Mallesta are staring each other down, have been for a good while. Sizing each other up, I must wonder. Diedrich did a charade which consisted solely of going, "Doom! Doooom doomy doom!" and the answer was Veras. When this was revealed, Naiama let out a guffaw so loud, I can only think it was forced. After that, there was much mad grinning, and toying with a dagger. Is he getting to her, too? Or is she just trying to throw me or Mallesta off balance?

Yet another addendum.

It is settled; she is mad. At the Circle's conclusion she rose and made as if to throw a dagger at me. Mallesta got in front, and Naiama did not let fly... but instead there was that grin, and then she ran off before anyone could respond. It was near a year ago when Vyrella left the House... she likewise terrorized me - and Naiama! - for some time. She would creep about and whisper and laugh in the shadows. She manipulated Rheyann into setting fire to my house. She attended a ball Naiama was guarding me at, and then sent a complex critique of all the times she could have killed me if she had seen fit to. I did not sleep with full comfort until we found Vyrella's battered corpse in Ashenvale, robbed of all of value. At that time, we gave her a proper burial... Kurse mocked the proceedings. It seemed right, however, as once she was a valued servant and later a worthy adversary.

When Naiama left I was reminded of Vyrella, and I pushed it from my mind. Now I am reminded of Vyrella again... Naiama was a valued servant, as well as my love. Will she thus become a 'worthy adversary'? Has she changed so completely? My answer: it matters not. I will not allow Naiama to terrorize me. I will not.

Written in Draconic (!), perhaps as additional security. The script is hurried, as if excited.

I have it. I have it... yes. This will work. I pour this out here, and nowhere else. None will know save those that need to, not even the target of my schemings. It is too perfect.

I have laid something of a trap for Alkan... yet that is not the entirety of the plan. It has other layers that rest upon it - he will be delivered from the trap, by my own hand, without realizing it was I that placed him there. By such he shall be indebted to me. So too shall the innocents of the Crossroads be granted their vengeance for a time, and by such the Horde shall be indebted to me as well. It will draw him away from his little vessel in Ratchet, that I might place a glyph there for the Eye of Night. And seven hundred gold marks? Irrelevant to me by most measures, yet free gold is free gold. There are wheels here, and wheels within wheels.

My heart pounds, my body shakes with excitement as it always does when a die is cast. I have found an artifact, a sort of arcane font, in Azshara; it rests now in Darnassus, in my pavilion there. I shall invite Alkan to evaluate it, and there shall he be ambushed. Knocked out, simple as that! From there, carried incognito to the Crossroads. By my carriage through the Darnassian streets, over the sea aboard Litany of Fury, and carriage again to the Crossroads gates. None shall see his face. None save those who shall receive him.

Sergra Darkthorn shall receive him and exact her justice; I shall receive my reward, go back to the ship, and wait out the night. Then deliverance comes. Deliverance comes in the form of goblin artillery, that will shower incendiary shells upon the walls of the Crossroads. The great thing about mortars, you see, is their high arc of fire. They can be precisely targeted, but in the target area it is nearly impossible to determine from which direction the attack is coming. The guards, will be drawn off... and then the target becomes the very town itself, this time for arcane bombs. This will destabilize Sergra's wards long enough for my old fel knowledge to see the light of day once more, and for Alkan to be summoned free of her clutches. Sergra Darkthorn, like Alkan, will never see nor know the identity of her assailant. And if Alkan asks...? Mercenaries after the prize on his head. He will have no evidence otherwise. The pavilion is secluded; the artifact is real. His precipitously rising bounty has drawn increasing attention. And the passage of carriage to ship is easily explained; I would realize quickly what happened, and go after him.

A conspiracy this is, yes. A conspiracy of two, and this book. Mallesta is the only other that knows. She will aid me in this; it is as much as anything else a test of her resolve.

I can feel the wheels turning. It is always nice when the wheels are turning.

Shimmering, careful Thalassian script flows across the page. The characters are level, deliberate, as if a turning point has been reached.

I have given it another chance. One last chance.

I went to the Jester tonight... Naiama was leaving as I entered. I called out to her, hopeful for a moment; my hopes were dashed in a moment. She did not utter but a word, did not even glance back.

Dejected I sat at my usual table. Mallesta was with me, and Rheyann, and a couple friends not part of the House. I mused aloud about disbanding the Stewards. And why not? There was but one Steward left, and I do not see him that often. The heart was torn from the order by Naiama leaving. I have lost almost every Steward I have ever had. Some have made a fuss of leaving, others simply drifted off. And what is an oath, really? It's a promise. And as I have learned of late... promises are more often than not broken. And I have become so invested in these inevitably-broken promises that I am wounded deeply when the inevitable finally happens.

Well, Mallesta spoke up. She told me she had long wished to be a Steward, and that if I spared the order she would step up to fill the void. I was very harsh with her; I told her that I would take her oaths with a grain of salt, because so many have broken their oaths to me before. That I could not fully trust now. That she would have to prove herself to me. I told her my expectations of her would be impossibly high, that she was, essentially, taking into her own hands my faith in the Stewards' will and ability to deliver what they had promised. Beyond that, my very faith in oaths, my faith in duty, and honor, my faith in people. She would have to fill very big shoes.

She was adamant. I acquiesced at last, and we went out to the moonwell. Lacking a proper High Steward, I administered the ritual Naiama created myself. When I asked for her personal oath, it certainly seemed as heartfelt as an oath can be. I reproduce it here, from the best of my memory:

The handwriting is pressed into the page here; very important stuff for the Lady.

"I swear myself to you, the House, and your will. I swear to restore the pride and honor of Stewardship. I swear to care for your wellbeing, the wellbeing of the House, and the wellbeing of those the House employ. My life is now lain before you, and my will is yours. I swear these things under Elune, and in the name of my people. I will not fail you. I will not leave you. I am now in your hands, as you are in mine." ~Mallesta Forani

I named her Steward, and I have never seen anyone so proud. Perhaps she will not disappoint. I take this plunge one last time; I hope I will not be disappointed, and to me of late it seems as if I might as well hope the sun will not rise tomorrow.

Mallesta, I pray you do not disappoint.

Scribbled in Common. Tearstains again, even more than last time.

I returned home to Stormwind last night. Naiama's journal sits in my bag, still unopened... I returned to find yet another empty bedroom. This one was Tiathi's...

I neglected her, too. I did not make enough time for her and now she is dying, dying of the Thirst of all things! I warned her of it... but I let her be, and she advanced too quickly. Took steps she should not have; learned too much without the control to discipline herself. Now she is dying, and it is my fault.

What is left for me? I have failed, in everything. As a lover? As a leader? As a companion? As a teacher? As a mother? What is left for me? Will there come a time when I am alone, when I will come home to a house containing none but myself, and those servants too afraid of my mad rages to leave? Should I cast it all aside? Liindryn is the only Steward now... shall I disband the order? What's the point of an order of one? Hell, what point is there to my cause, if this is my leadership? I cannot even keep my House in order, and I expect to run an empire, to be a global hegemon? It is to laugh. Nay... I have a lot of money. I could shut myself up in the library with my books and piss away my inheritance on wine and whores. It's looking pretty good right now... compared to this constant struggle, and these constant setbacks.

Fuck it. I'm going out; I need a drink. Perhaps my sorrows can be drowned.

An addendum to the previous entry. Written slowly, as if deep in thought, in Thalassian.

I was right. Alkan left me tonight.

Naiama came by. I had hope... precious hope! for the briefest moment... but instead she pushed into my hands her journal. It's a small black leather tome with brown parchment pages. I clutched it in my hands tightly enough that the blood fled my fingers, as she told me that... that it was time for her second life to begin.

I suppose this meant that her first life... her life with me... is ended forever. I suppose all the times Alkan tried to practically beat it into me that Naiama was dead, he was right.... Was it I, then, that killed her? Is the woman I loved dead, now? Gone forever? Is there any trace remaining?

After she departed I left the journal on a table and went for a long walk, which took me all the way into Astranaar and back. It hurt to look at it, and hurt more to even think about opening it.

I still haven't.

Thalassian, again. Back to the shimmer-black ink.

Alkan, a Vizier? He is not even trying anymore... he has turned from me as surely as has Naiama... he tells me nothing new. Nothing I did not already know. He demands I bare my soul to him, that he may better advise me... and then gives me no new advice! But no matter... he wants out. He's "reached his limit" or something... I have learned some things these last couple days, hard lessons neither Naiama nor Alkan, I am sure, had any deliberate intention of teaching.

1. Oaths are useless. Nobody holds to them any longer than convenient.
2. There is no love for me. Perhaps I am incapable of love.
3. Sooner or later, I lose everyone I care about.

I don't understand... he says she still loves me... but she would not listen, not to a single word...

The entry is in Common. The script is less disciplined, almost hurried, and written in cheap, blotchy matte-black ink, as if she simply grabbed the first ink-bottle she found. Tearstains mark the page.

Naiama... why?

How pompous, how pretentious. I open this book for the first time in months... it was, perhaps, a waste of gold. The entire entry... a lie? And yet so much more true than I care to admit. Even in a book meant for my eyes alone, which none will see until I am too dead to care... and I write with an eye to politics. Am I a failure? Am I a lie? Half a year since I touched this book. I suppose I knew, subconsciously; perhaps that is why I have written nothing beyond that first page. Well, enough. Enough with the pretentions, here at least.

Naiama is gone.

Gods, why? Why has she been taken from me? Killed by satyr... returned to me by Alkan... only to leave me anew. I was unfaithful. Would it be better if she had remained dead? At least if she were still dead I could blame the satyr for my loss. No, no... it wasn't the satyr. The list is too long for that; I drive people away. The problem is me. Ananna, Diante, Syrinne, Vyrella, Ferrah, Koryander, Kurse, Creel, Plum, Syranelle, Naiama, Alkan (oh, yes, he's still here, but for how long? I see him wavering) - the list is too long. Such disparate people... I am their only common link. I lose people. I lose everyone. Everyone who cares about me, who I care about... they leave me, or are taken from me.

I'm in Ashenvale. I wanted to get out of Stormwind... to put as much distance between myself and that stone cesspit of hypocrites as possible. I will have to go back at some point, I suppose, but what will greet me? An empty manor? What's the point anymore?

The journal is a black, leatherbound tome, no less impressive than the greatest of spellbooks, appropriate to its owner. Mithril scrollwork and inlaid gemstones adorn its cover, and considerable magical wards guard it against unwelcome readers. The pages are of parchment, the words written in a shimmer-black ink that catches the light. The handwriting is sleek, elegant, flourishing, no matter the language used, penned by a graceful and disciplined hand.

The first entry is written in Thalassian, with perfect form, as if careful thought had gone into each and every word.

History is a fascinating thing. In hindsight we look back upon ages past, at events that have passed into history, into myth, into legend. Like the dwarven archaeologists delving into the ruins of their racial birth, we peer at shards of knowledge, attempting to fit the disparate pieces together in some way that makes sense to us. We ask ourselves what these men and women of antiquity were thinking, what motivated them, what reasons they had for what they did. We interpolate, extrapolate, infer, estimate, even guess. It is likely as not that, as often as not, we are entirely mistaken in our hypotheses.

It is with this thought in mind that I keep this record, having set into motion plans that will end in total restorations of the glory of my people, or send me down into utter ruin. Either way, I keep it for posterity, that future generations might know and understand the words I have said and will say, and the actions I have taken and will take. In this record I shall pour out the secrets I keep from most or even all others. And once I am long dead and gone, the wards upon this volume and any that follow it shall be released, such that students of history that come long after I am dust, shall have the entire puzzle.

I am Sirithil Finlaurë Silmariel Nightstone the First, daughter to Lady Silmariel of Quel'thalas and Lord Karnitol Nightstone, Margrave of Lakeshire. The line of my father extends back unbroken to the Empire of Strom; that of my mother, likewise unbroken - though certainly not directly - to Azshara herself. And, as far as I know, I am the last Quel'dorei noble uncorrupted by the Thirst, our racial addiction to magic, that has bound so many of my people to Illidan Stormrage the Deceiver and his accursed lords in the Burning Legion. Even this fortunate happenstance I owe entirely to the mixed nature of my birth, the blood of both humanity and elvenkind.

What do I seek? Those who manage to read this without being exploded completely dead will already know. I seek to rebuild what was lost. To right what was wronged. As I sit writing this now, ruins and towers loom over lands the world over, echoes of peace and glory ten thousand years past. It was not magic that brought down the Kaldorei Empire of old, any more than a sword can kill when laying on a table. For the sword to kill, someone must draw it and thrust it into an enemy; likewise, it was reckless use of magic that destroyed Azshara's realm. It was the choices its wielders made, even when warned of the consequences... even when the consequences came to them... that brought it down. Azshara and her Highborne were fools. This is not in dispute. Yet their successors succeeded for nine thousand years in living in peace and prosperity, having learned from their forefathers' mistakes. Yet they too made mistakes... mistakes from which I have learned. If all goes well... nine thousand years will be but an eyeblink to the ages that will pass before what I build is destroyed.

Yet I ramble. All of this will be revealed in time, in far greater detail than I can spare tonight.

And so, dear student of history, in the decades and centuries and the pages and books to follow, will unfold my tale, unvarnished, as it happened, that you might understand how the consequences of my actions, whatever they might be, have come to pass.

I am Sirithil Nightstone the First. I am Azshara's heir.

~Lady Sirithil Nightstone