Death

"Ah!"

Maiev cried out, then collapsed to the ground. Tichondrius returned to his original form and staggered to a stop beside her. The countless wounds covering his body showed that he hadn't come away unscathed against Maiev—but, unfortunately, she had lost by a hair.

Tichondrius turned to look at the sky after finishing her off. A chill brushed his neck: Illidan's Warglaives of Azzinoth were already resting against it.

"Ohohoho! What's the matter, Illidan? Why not strike? Go on, do it! Aren't you supposed to hate the Burning Legion? Didn't you do all this to break into our ranks? But as long as I'm alive, every one of your schemes will fail! They'll all fail!"

Tichondrius was genuinely on the verge of madness, but beneath that frenzied facade lay a dreadlord's exquisite grasp of the human heart. Yes, he was trying to provoke Illidan, but he knew that the more he did, the calmer Illidan would become. Only if Tichondrius seemed utterly deranged would Illidan believe he was at the end of his rope. And though that was indeed the case, Tichondrius had to make Illidan understand it. Only someone with nothing left to lose would seize even the faintest hope—and only then would Tichondrius have room to bargain.

"Hss..."

Illidan said nothing. He only nudged the Warglaive of Azzinoth forward, and blood immediately welled from beneath Tichondrius's pale skin. But Tichondrius wasn't afraid. He drew an exaggerated breath, then leaned forward instead of backing away, forcing Illidan to pull the blade back a little.

"Ohohoho! Illidan, you don't dare kill me. Look, this beautiful woman is curled up in agony. She's so strong that she hasn't even let out a single cry. Why is that?

"Oh! Perhaps she's afraid her cries of pain might distract you. Am I right,