Rillumas watched as the head of his Assassinorum, Grand Mistress Sunbane, left his tent within the small established outpost of the Guarde. He gazed back and forth over the Guardesmen as one patrol entered and another left to their rounds around the springs of Azerite the Horde had claimed - he refused to allow the Alliance to hassle the goblins and their work, or steal what the Horde claimed as its own.
He took a deep breath before turning his attention from his forces to the looming, titanic weapon he currently stood in the shadow of - replaying over and over in his mind his meeting with Syana.
A traitor in his midst, his Lord-General no less, taking bold steps to attempt to turn the Guarde against the noble family that birthed it three thousand years ago. The thought that any living being attempted, nay even thought they could wrench his family’s legacy from them caused his blood to boil in his veins.
He had thought the Lord-General trustworthy of leading his Militarum, trusted him to keep his Guardesmen in-line, disciplined, and strong. For his trust Rillumas was given a man who turned that trust into a poison he had attempted to use to slay the Blackdawn’s legacy - its pride. And in return Rillumas gave an order equally deserving.
“I want him dead within the week, Grand Mistress. Are we clear?”
His own words rang in his skull like the heavy tolls of a bell, till they were drown out by a stern voice - one that had made Rillumas feel safe since he was a boy. A code his father instilled into him since the first day he began his training to be a soldier of the Guarde.
“Every man or woman who bear the name of Blackdawn is a guardian.
Every life taken by their hands a necessity.
Every life saved their duty.
Their life given willingly.
That is what it means to be Blackdawn.”
A code Rillumas had to recite over and over till it was etched upon the very bedrock of his being. Though, his father had more to add to the noble edict.
“…Those who wish to obstruct our duty shall be given no mercy, no quarter. No matter who stands before you, crush them below your heel.”
His eyes grew fierce once more before he turned and pulled back the crimson flap of his tent. Returning to his bitter duty of writing letters to the next-of-kin of those lost during their campaign against the Legion - a neat stack growing depressingly higher still with each sealed note he penned.
A thought streaked through his mind, a single fragment of a sentence that stoked the silent rage in his chest ’…the Oathkeeper has grown soft.’ Rillumas sucked at his teeth for a moment before speaking to himself aloud.
“You will come to regret mistaking that my open hand cannot be made into a fist, Lord-General.”
