The Prologue for Book of the Fallen can be found here.

The first grave was marked with stone, as there had been no real remains of Alon, only ashes. Tharion placed his gloved hand on the smooth rock upon which was painted an ancient character representing Alon’s family name of Bladewhisper. The ink was nearly faded now after so many years.

“The first to fall,” Tharion spoke into the stillness of the twilight. “The precedent.”

Tharion straightened his back and slipped quickly into his meditation. “Eraelan’s ‘example.’ Eraelan’s mistake.”

The Greyseer remembered.

* * *

The parchment was thick and roughly made, a concession that Eraelan Netherbane had allowed his students. They were forbidden from entering the more populated villages and towns, and so had to make much of their day-to-day supplies on their own. Paper has become necessary to transcribe the details of the various rituals, but was slow to make when one considered the number of rituals that needed transcribing. Eraelan himself kept the bulk of it. A few sheets, however, were given to the students as a luxury.

The words written across this piece were smeared with tears, but the male night elf’s face did not contort in grief. Instead he wore the stoic expression expected of all students of the Netherbane. This was not a luxury, but a necessity.

I miss you, Celina. More, perhaps, than you realize. Whatever my crime, I pray every night to Elune that you will ultimately forgive me. I know not why you have chosen to strike me from your life. But I’ll honor your wishes.

I no longer see you, but I still hear your name: “Celina Stillmoon, most promising of the Sentinels.” I see your influence, and I hear others lavishing their praise upon you and your skills. You will be the best of the them—the most vigilant protector of kaldorei lands.

But I know you no longer see me, either.  Your eyes—eyes which I once believed looked upon me with respect, eyes which honored the nature of my intent—no longer look at me. Your eyes only look through me now.

I no longer exist to you, and the reason still eludes me. Was my crime that great? Were my actions so wrong? My heart was always faithful to you. My words meant only to honor you.  But I cannot look upon your smile any longer. I cannot hope that my words will bolster your spirit. I cannot even speak a truth I feel so deeply, because anything I say will sour to your ears. Anything I do will sour to your eyes.

But I am not even a villain to you, am I? I merely do not exist. I have vanished from these lands, and it was by your choice. I am nothing. I could stand next to you, and not a word would be spoken, not a glance would be given.

It is useless now. You have your desire. I am gone, and you will never see me again.

Live your life, Celina. As my final gift to you, I free you from the burden that I have somehow become. Be safe. Be skilled. Be glorious.

At some point in the future I could have said I loved you. Today, however, I am not allowed that freedom.

“You are done purging your weakness, Alon? You are done wallowing in your misery?” The questions held no sense of compassion, only derision. Eraelan Netherbane was rarely one for the former. The elder demon hunter’s exposed skin was darker than most; a deep hued purple that almost matched the night sky. Eraelan’s hair was nearly as dark as his skin, despite being the same color. He kept it long and loose, the only binding for a small topknot at upon his scalp. From his waist hung a series of small chains, each linked to slender hooks and resting against the baggy pants he wore. Few had seen the hooks used, and only the ignorant asked.

Eraelan’s blindfold was black. As were all the blindfolds of his students.

Taking one last look at the rough handwriting on the withered page, Alon nodded his head. “Yes, shan’do. I am.”

“Good,” began Eraelan, reaching his hand out. “Give it to me and we can conclude this nonsense.”

Alon nodded again and handed the page over. Eraelan took the parchment, rolled it up without reading, and tucked it into his belt. He then reached for a long curved single-edged blade stuck into the ground nearby, forged from the ancient methods, and took the weapon by its handle.

The demon hunter-in-training straightened his back. He, too, wore the traditional garb of a demon hunter. Bare-chested, but with a loose fitting kilt wrapped around his kneeling legs, Alon was dressed far more simply than his mentor. His deep green hair hung loosely around his shoulders.

“Alon Bladestrider,” Eraelan’s voice carried, even though it was just the two of them at the edge of the camp. “You are charged with allowing your weakness to take control of you during the hunt. You are accused of allowing a fellow demon hunter to become injured. Your weakness. Your folly. Your consequence.  Do you still accept that which you agreed upon when you first joined us?”

Alon swallowed and nodded his head slightly. “I do, Shan’do. I accept.”

The ancient blade came down swiftly, severing Alon’s head from his torso. In a flash, Eraelan spoke a single word of power and the remains of his former student burst into felfire.

It was now that a few students stopped to see what was happening. They would be told of Alon’s weakness during tomorrow’s lesson. They would be told how he hesitated to defend his fellow students from a patrolling group of Sentinels, and how his hesitation at the sight of one of them allowed the Sentinels to wound two of the younger students from the camp.

They would not, however, be told the unread contents of the rolled up letter which Alon had just written. Indeed, Eraelan tossed the parchment onto the burning body. No one would be told.

“A waste…” Eraelan Netherbane strode away from the conflagration, the ancient blade in his hands still coated with a streak of kaldorei blood. The few students who had stopped stepped aside for their master, their eyes—some blinded and some natural—still locked on the felfire bonfire that was once Alon Bladewhisper.

* * *

Tharion removed his hand from the stone, the memory fading into his mind. He inhaled deeply of the clear night air, the phantom stench of a burning body fading once again to history. Glancing at his gloved palm as if he still held some fragment of the memory, Tharion Greyseer whispered.

“Alon Bladewhisper. You are remembered.”

* * *