"No."
Melchisedech's voice was firm, tight with worry, but Atropos barely heard him. She knelt reverently on the floor of the great chamber and stared at the frigid shade of the Lich with hollow eyes that could once again see. Through chattering teeth the warlock whispered the incantations which would destroy the enemies of her Masters, but she was not in battle, nor would she ever raise her hand against her Teacher. She felt his chill like a clammy embrace, felt his power buoying her as she spoke the words over and over.
The priest stood over her, his worry hammering at the doors of her mind, but she was close to her Gods and paid him no heed. She worshipped every word of power that floated from her lips, every book that lined the shelves of the school, every new creature she learned to summon, every tortured and twisted body lying on the floor at her feet. As much as they were her tools, she was their slave, and the young warlock bowed her head willingly in submission. Only by learning how each had power over her would she truly learn to master them in turn.
The curses and spells were stacked in her memory, and she went over each one until she could invoke them effortlessly, and then continued to study them beyond that. Atropos was as meticulous in her studies now as she had always been. There was always more to learn, always new power to discover, always something her Teacher could show her that she had never before seen. She knew they would take her to Kel'Thuzad soon because she was one of the best. The Lich would peel her eyes back and pluck them from her head, as he would with the other twelve, using arcane magics to bind them irrevocably to his will and to the Nether. They would not be separated, and her Masters would be victorious. She and her companions would travel at the Prince's side to the gates of Lordaeron where she would rain down fire and shadow on the pestilence that dwelt within the city walls and behind the gates which her demons would smash to the ground...
...And from there on to Quel'thelas, to bring Kel'Thuzad back. She would serve.
Atropos did not pause in her studying as she saw her Teacher falter under the attack. Anaie was moving like lightning, though the Lich was using his chilling energies to slow her movements and her blades. The destruction of his human body was inevitable, Atropos knew this. She would not raise her hand against a Grim any more than she would against her Mentor. His spirit would live on in the haunted halls of Scholomance, and Atropos would continue to study as any good student would.
She felt the quick sucking of a kiss on her clammy lips as Ras Frostwhisper screamed forth from his human shell and Anaie bent to sever the head from the body. The icy touch was enough to disrupt her concentration, and she ceased her monotonous repetition of the spells as the Lich whispered in her ear.
"Do not worry. I will always be here, should you seek me again, and there will always be a place at my side for you, for you are the last of them all..."
"Acherontia!"
The warlock stood at the door of the school, lingering for a long moment after her companions had emerged from its depths into the ruins of Caer Darrow. In her gloved hand, Acherontia held a spray of red and green - a red rose Anaie had pressed into her hand while they were deep in the cavernous halls of Scholomance. Where the rogue had found it, she knew not, but the warlock felt that Anaie was speaking to her in a language only the two of them knew. The Forsaken woman had practically dragged Acherontia from the halls, but she had paused on the threshold and stared at the rose through her hollowed-out eyes that were still filled with a fel green light. She felt a pang, a longing for Melchisedech and a desperation to be anywhere but there. Gripping the fingertips of her gloves between her teeth, she pulled one of her hands free and reached to touch the life in the rose, aching for the softness of the petals against her hand.
The instant her fingers touched the flower, it shuddered almost imperceptibly and dried under her trembling hand. The petals blackened and grew brittle, and as Acherontia gave a tiny cry of surprise, the very sound seemed to shake the rose into dust which blew away on the stale air. Her breath caught in her throat - an old instinct she had not managed to shed with her humanity - but her thoughts caught up to her a second later and she knew in her heart that she hadn't expected anything else. Not really. She was still Theirs.
Her captured breath steamed in the chilly air as she released it and brusquely replaced her glove. Turning away from the staircase that would lead her back down into Scholomance, she ignored the haunted moans that filled her ears and walked through the heavy door, emerging into the misty twilight of Caer Darrow.