Milana nodded vigorously.
The motion was stiff, yet filled with the most genuine joy a soul could express.
"Happy."
Allen let out a long breath.
Four questions remained.
A month ago, when he and Varian had first come to this graveyard, they had awakened another maid—Emily Buck.
With two questions, they had identified the true culprit. As for the remaining three, Allen had asked trivial things before sending her back to rest.
Now, he recalled those three questions.
By Milana's coffin, under the moonlight, within the quiet graveyard, he sat down.
Then, he took out something delicate from his chest.
A small music box.
"Emily said," his voice was soft, "that you would often stare at Miss Tilloa's music box in a daze. So…"
He wound the spring.
"I went and bought one. Do you like music boxes?"
Milana froze.
Her hollow eye sockets stared at the tiny music box, as if she were, for the first time, beginning to think about the question: what do I like?
After a long while—
She nodded.
"I do."
Allen wound the spring fully and gently placed the music box before her.
A clear melody began to flow.
Simple, graceful—like sunlight filtering through leaves, like a brook running softly, like a breeze brushing over a field of wheat.
Allen then took out a flower.
A daffodil.
Its white petals glowed faintly under the moonlight, its slender stem trembling slightly between his fingers.
"Emily said you often planted daffodils yourself and took good care of them." He held it out to her. "Do you like daffodils?"
Milana nodded hard.
So hard it was as if she wanted to pour all the affirmation of her life into that single motion.
"I do."
Hearing that answer, a faint smile appeared at the corner of Allen's lips.
He reached out and gently placed the daffodil into her hands.
"Emily also told me."
Allen looked at her, his gaze gentle.
"She said you would sometimes secretly listen to the history lessons the teacher gave to Tilloa."
He paused.
"Milana… do you really have no wish of your own?"
Milana, who had been relatively calm until now, froze at that question.
Then her body began to tremble violently.
"I'm sorry…"
Her voice shattered.
"I'm sorry, I lied, I'm sorry…"
She sobbed like a child who had done something wrong.
"My wish… my wish isn't to fulfill Miss's wish… I have my own wish…"
"I want Miss's music box… I want to listen to it every night before I sleep…"
"I want to study… I want to become a mage apprentice like Miss… to change my own future…"
"I want a better life… I want the daffodils I plant to never wither…"
"…I also want… to keep living…"
"Waaah—!"
The crying of the dead echoed beneath the moonlight.
"I'm sorry, I lied to you… I just wanted to look more like a proper maid… I'm sorry… sob… sob…"
Allen fell silent.
He looked at this crying soul—at the desires she had suppressed all her life, at the truth she only dared to speak after death.
Then, he reached out and removed the medal from his chest.
The medal of the Royal Arcane Advisor.
A silver badge engraved with the lion of Stormwind, gleaming coldly under the moonlight.
He gently placed the medal into Milana's hands.
"Don't cry, Milana."
His voice was soft, yet firm.
"Take this. This is the symbol of a great mage."
Milana's crying gradually subsided.
"When you return to the world after death, you can confidently tell everyone—" Allen looked at her, his gaze sincere, "that it was you who saved the greatest mage Azeroth has ever known."
He paused.
"And that greatest mage… will one day save Azeroth."
"Everyone will be proud of you."
The music box wound down.
The final note drifted into the night wind and faded into silence.
Milana lowered her head, looking at the medal in her hands.
After a long while, she lifted her head.
"Thank you… you… Allen Prestor… thank you…"
Allen looked at her.
One last question remained.
He was silent for a moment, then slowly spoke: "I'm sorry, Milana."
Milana tilted her head.
"I deceived you too."
Allen's voice was calm, carrying a trace of apology.
"Allen Prestor… is not my real name."
Tonight, he had deliberately left Xal'atath in his room. The dagger was not with him—no whispers, no spying, no third party watching.
Only him and Milana.
Only the moonlight and the graveyard.
He leaned close to her ear.
The night wind brushed softly past, carrying his whisper—and taking those syllables away with it.
The sound was so light it seemed unwilling to be heard by anyone, as if one secret were being entrusted to another.
The wind swallowed the name.
Only Milana heard it.
Only the moon bore witness.
Allen stepped back and looked at her.
"So, I lied to you, Milana. Will you forgive me?"
Milana's body trembled.
She nodded forcefully.
As if pouring all her emotions into that single motion.
"I will…"
Her voice grew softer and softer.
"Thank you… tha…"
The sound faded, growing weaker and more distant. Her bones slowly lay back down, returning to that crude coffin, returning to eternal rest.
Allen gently placed the three items beside her hands—the music box, the daffodil, and the medal.
He closed the coffin and began to fill the earth.
One shovelful, then another, then another.
The movements remained gentle, slow, as if he were protecting something.
When the last layer of soil covered it, the mound returned to its original form.
Allen sat by the grave for a while.
Moonlight poured down silently. The graveyard was utterly still.
In the distance, a night bird cried once or twice. Nearby, only the rustling of grass in the wind could be heard.
He was guarding something.
Guarding the secret just spoken, guarding the soul's final rest, guarding this fleeting moment of quiet.
Under the moonlight, he lowered his head.
Then he froze.
On his left wrist, three wavy marks had appeared at some unknown moment.
They were faint—like birthmarks, yet also like some kind of imprint.
Three waves.
What was this?
Allen stared at them. Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind—
In the tavern at Darkshire, Khadgar had grabbed his wrist, urgently turning it over, as if searching for something.
Were these two things connected?
He shook his head, suppressing the doubt for now.
He stood up and cast one last glance at the grave.
"Good night, Milana."
He turned and left, his black robe merging into the night.
...
Stormwind Keep.
Allen silently returned to his residence using Dimension Door.
The corridor was empty, only the dim yellow light of wall lamps flickering.
He turned the last corner—
And stopped.
In the garden, a figure sat on a stone bench, leaning against a pillar, looking up at the moon.
Wren.
He hadn't slept.
Dressed in light casual clothes.
Hearing the footsteps, he turned his head.
Their gazes met.
He spoke coldly: "Where did you go this late?"
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