Warcraft Fan Fiction ❯ Turning Red ❯ A silent call ( Chapter 32 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Phoenix is sitting in the tent of the old fortune teller at Sunsail Anchorage. It is silent and shrouded in darkness, save for a lone candle on the table in front of her, which is almost at the end of its wick. 

The table is not the opulent glass one she sat at before. This is old, small, circular and wooden, ridden with splits and cracks, making the surface rough and uneven. A rat scurries across the floor.

There is no chair like before, either. Phoenix is instead sitting on a wobbly stool. She thinks there is a seat opposite her, but it’s far away from her and she cannot see clearly in the darkness. The tent seems larger than before, too. 

Despite all the differences, Phoenix knows this is the fortune teller’s tent. But she is by herself, accompanied only by three cards face-down on the table in front of her.

She turns over the one to her left. Phoenix frowns, she cannot make out the image. It’s not for the lack of light, it looks faded, etched and pale, almost glowing. She thinks she can make out something golden with some jewels in it. There is possibly a sword nearby but she can’t be sure. 

Phoenix suddenly becomes aware it is raining outside. The water pelts onto the fabric of the tent. She feels sheltered, safe, warm. But there is a sickly, foreboding smell.

It takes her a while to turn over the middle card. Something is holding her back. She is also distracted. There is a figure sitting opposite her, in the darkness, she is sure of that now. Though she cannot see it clearly, she feels certain it has beautiful golden hair and a finely embroidered shirt. Its presence is familiar, soothing even.

She turns over the middle card.  

Again, the card is extremely difficult to make out, it is so faded. She thinks there is a small rowboat and someone on it… the mother and daughter. This time it is not upside down, it is upright. Hope flickers inside Phoenix, but for what, she is unsure.

Phoenix flinches. She feels something tapping on her head. She looks up and cannot make out the top of the tent, it is so dark, but it seems like the rainwater is getting in, there must be a hole in the tent. The rain sounds louder now. She doesn’t mind.

Phoenix feels an urgency to turn the third card over and so she does, quickly. This one is much clearer than the two cards which came before it. The image is of... a golden cup. Overflowing with water.

She hears the tent ripping above her and more water gushes in. The rain seems torrential, but she doesn’t mind. It soaks through her clothes as she sits in the tent, trying to make out the figure opposite her. He is clearer now, smiling at her. She tries to focus on his face, but it is a blur. 

She thinks she can hear something else, above the noise of the rain. A voice? 


The candle struggles to remain alight as it reaches the end of its wick, the drops of rain largely avoiding it so far, but threatening to snuff it out. Yet still it burns. 

The voice is Seven’s. A flood of emotions race through her as the rainwater continues tapping away on her head. Grief, love, excitement, fear, hope. He is calling to her - and she desperately wants to come to him. 

There is another. His voice is joined by Trixie’s… and Django’s. All of the crew in fact. They are calling her name, but they are dead, aren’t they? 

The figure in front of her is saying her name too, but his voice is not his own. It is the combined voices of her crew. 

‘Phoenix’, the voices repeat, softly, in whispers, over and over, like a collective unyielding consciousness.

There is another voice, cutting through the others, sharply, painfully, like a knife scratching across a chalkboard. It is Alexandra’s. She is telling her to get up.

The ceiling collapses; rainwater smothers Phoenix. 

Somehow, the candle is still burning.