baron-sablemane

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 35)

Sabellian challenges Wrathion to a Trial of Wills.

Wrathion stared, wide-eyed, at the dragon before him.

I killed you!

Sabellian stepped down the archway like a giant, coiled cat. His eyes never left Wrathion’s, full of a controlled malice that sent a chill deep in the Prince’s gut and knees. He felt locked in place. Left grabbed at his elbow, but he didn’t move.

“How are you alive?” His voice came out as a gasp. Sabellian smiled grimly.

“It takes more than a single dagger wound to kill me, boy,” he said.

His thoughts weren’t like a hurricane, whirling with confusion and wildness. No - instead they were frozen, pinpointed in place on one thought, one image, one choke as a dagger hit the gut.

I killed you.

Smoke enveloped Sabellian’s form. It shrank down and dispersed, and he stood before the Prince as a human. His eyes were ringed with circles, he had an obvious limp - but still that smug malice remained, trained ever on Wrathion, never moving, hardly blinking. His heart hammered.

“A Trial of Strength?” Wrathion repeated, unbelieving. “You’ll crush me under your paw!”

“You misunderstand, Black Prince,” Xuen interrupted. The tiger stalked into view with his usual grace. His glowing eyes were trained on Wrathion. “This is a trial of strength, but there shall be no combat.”

Wrathion glanced from Xuen, to Sabellian, then back again. He glared, thought, then, not knowing what to say, struck out his hands in a waving motion to bid Xuen to continue. He was acutely aware of the mortal crowd watching him.

“It has not been some time that trials have been conducted here,” Xuen rumbled. His voice now echoed forward, obviously not just for Wrathion to hear - he spoke to the mortals and all those surrounded, too. “But millennia ago, when this island was not yet lost in time, they were sported with earnest. Challengers would either fight, or depend on their strength of will to guide them.” He nodded to the other Celestials who remained at each of their respective corners. “Each challenger asked a Celestial to champion them in such trials.”

Wrathion did not yet understand. “And?” he asked, his voice hinging on exasperation and panic. Sabellian was still watching him, but he dared not meet the alchemist’s eyes. His heart remained beating wildly at the dragon’s appearance. I killed him! I killed him!

“This shall be a trial of wills,” Xuen said. “It is of my own design: a trial of Strength. Your will and judgement shall guide your thoughts, and will either deny you what you seek or not.”

Before Wrathion could further ask what the Tiger was saying, Xuen lifted his massive paw and stretched out his claws. From each wicked white talon, a glow emitted and spread forth. Like curls of smoke, the energy twisted outward, then coalesced into a white sphere that looked to be made of cloud. It was about the size of Wrathion’s torso, and hovered idly in the air.

“Each of you will give your case,” Xuen rumbled. He nodded toward Sabellian. “Sabellian believes that you are wrong in trying to kill both him and his family. He thinks you to be a murderer, a child, and naive.”

Wrathion hissed. But again Xuen spoke before he could.

“And you, Black Prince, believe Sabellian and his family’s deaths to be necessary to the safety of this world.” Xuen looked back at him. “That they are beyond true redemption and, like the others of your family you have set free, they must fall, too, lest they harm others.”

Wrathion hesitated. How did Xuen know that? He cast a suspicious look toward Sabellian.

“The challenger with the most conviction and the least amount of doubt will win,” the tiger explained. “You must be able to stand at the side of your cause without wavering - for when doubt clouds the soul, strength is swallowed in its shadow… and the cause is poisoned by the ensuing confusion.”

Now Wrathion understood. He had to show with all his soul that he knew his way was right. That he had the stronger will.

Easy, he thought in a shaking voice. He felt like he was on the edge of a great pit - one he had come close to falling before after his “murder” of Sabellian, and one he had only narrowly avoided by boxing himself up with stone and hardening himself to all emotion. Now, though? Knowing the alchemist still lived? Knowing he had failed even in killing the dragon? The pit threatened to swallow him.

“I have chosen to champion Sabellian,” Xuen said with a ring of finality. Wrathion startled and looked back at the Tiger.

“Champion him? How could you possibly come to such a conclusion? He’s -”

But Xuen did not let him finish. “Who shall champion the Black Prince?”

Wrathion stilled. He recalled then that Xuen had said the “duelers” would choose a Celestial to champion them in some way. He looked back at the other Celestials, who watched him as one.

To his surprise, Niuzao stepped forward.

“I will,” the Black Ox rumbled. Wrathion stared blankly at him. “The Black Prince has shown a fortitude to both himself and to his tasks, and so I will champion him.”

Xuen glanced at Wrathion. “Do you agree to this?”

Somewhat stunned, Wrathion nodded quickly.

“Very well.” The tiger looked between the two dragons. “Now we must give terms.”

“Terms,” Wrathion repeated dully. Things were moving too quickly for him.

“If you are proven right in your case, you will be given something,” Xuen explained. “Whether it be peace, or justice, or an item.” He nodded to Sabellian. “Speak.”

Sabellian watched Wrathion. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes, and instead had the same smug calculation as before.

“If I am proven right,” Sabellian drawled, “... and I will be… you must leave my family alone. You will not harm nor kill them, and neither will you spy on them or stalk them with your little lackeys.”

“Is that all?” Wrathion asked sarcastically. As if he would agree -

“No.” Sabellian’s amusement flickered on his face. “When I win this trial, you are going to strip yourself of your false title, and you will go to Blade’s Edge to face not me, but my children, no matter what avenues you must take to do so.”

Wrathion thought it a joke. But Sabellian, and even Xuen, were watching him seriously. He laughed.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his laughter was a mix of anger and disbelief, now.

“You can ask Sabellian of anything if you champion through the trial, Black Prince,” Xuen reminded.

Wrathion paused.

“Anything?” he repeated. He smiled to himself.

“Then he should be executed,” Wrathion drawled, looking at Sabellian. “And the rest of the black dragons underneath him will be free to be slaughtered as they should have been long ago.”

He expected Sabellian to disagree. But the elder dragon nodded. That gave Wrathion pause. Sabellian couldn’t possibly be that confident, could he?

Xuen rose to his feet. “Very well,” he said again. “Do both agree to the terms?”

There was no way Sabellian could win. Wrathion’s case was the stronger one. Sabellian’s hinged on personal love and affection; the Prince’s on logic and reasoning and planning. If this was a Trial to see who had the least amount of doubts, then Wrathion could simply point out to Sabellian how he’d come so close to succumbing to the Old Gods after the battle at Sik’vess. How he was still a monster under all that false control. He had to sew hesitation.

“I agree,” Wrathion said.

“A moment.”

This was a new voice, but one Wrathion knew. He turned to stare at Kairoz as the Bronze dragon descended into the Celestial Court. In one hand, he held the hourglass he so treasured.

“I believe this can help,” the Bronze said, looking at Xuen. “It is a personal project of mine. It may not be finished, but it has properties that such a trial could use.”

“You never showed me what it does,” Wrathion hissed off to his side. Kairoz glanced at him, then looked back at Xuen.

“It allows one to get visions from the past,” Kairoz said, but spoke to the Tiger and not to the Prince. Wrathion prickled with irritation. “I can try my best to attune the Hourglass to a specific event, so all may see it.” He hesitated. “It may disfunction, at times, but only in minor instances.”

Xuen considered this. Then he nodded. “Very well. I agree to such an object if the duelers wish to use it.”

Sabellian was looking at Kairoz now with a mix of annoyance and interest. Wrathion frowned at the Bronze suspiciously, thinking he understood what Kairoz meant, but not completely.

“You mean to say,” Wrathion began slowly, “that if we give you some - scene to show this audience that happened in the past, the Hourglass will show a vision of it?”

Kairoz nodded. His smile was sly but proud. “I told you: the epoch stones, and the magic of this island, allow so much. If you wish to show the audience something that helps your case…” He let the sentence trail off, and he raised his eyebrows at Wrathion expectantly.

This - this was perfect! Wrathion’s annoyance at the Bronze immediately vanished into excitement. He could show everyone the suffering Sabellian had inflicted on him and others - especially the mortals he had no doubt terrorized when corrupted on Azeroth. Then they would see his death, and the death of all the other Black Dragons, were necessary! He whirled to Xuen and grinned.

“I agree,” he announced.

“As do I,” Sabellian rumbled. He remained staring at the hourglass. Wrathion’s excitement fizzled. What would Sabellian recall from those sands?

Xuen nodded. “We will have a moment’s reprieve for the challengers to discuss,” he said.

The moment the tiger said that, Wrathion whirled away to the opposite side of the Court. Left and Anduin followed.

“I have dozens of spies,” he growled, “and not one knew he was alive?”

Left frowned. Her face was creased with frustration. “I can’t explain it,” she said. Anduin came up beside her. He studied Wrathion.

“Are you alright?”

“No.” The Black Prince glanced back at the elder dragon. He spoke with a woman that looked a little older than Wrathion, and he realized she’d been one of the drakes who had come with Sabellian in the beginning. He scowled.

“I’m sure you could always back out of the challenge,” Anduin suggested warily.

“I already accepted it,” he said. “And it’s not the challenge I’m worried about. It’s how he survived.” Wrathion swept off his turban and ruffled his hair, a nervous habit. He’d felt the blade pierce muscle and gut in Sik’vess. Such a wound would have made the dragon bleed out quickly.

“We could attack without the need for this trial,” Left said.

“And be struck down,” came a voice from above them. Wrathion looked up. Standing before them was a giant orc - a mountain of an orc, really. His face was hidden by a wolf mask. Left froze.

“You are with the dragon?”

“Yes.” The orc glanced at Wrathion. His distaste wasn’t hidden in his gaze.

“Rexxar,” Wrathion realized. The Champion of the Horde. Bewilderment struck him. “What do you have to do with Sabellian?”

“An old friend,” he said. He did not take his eyes off of him. Wrathion tried not to squirm under such a predatory gaze.

He did look away, though, and shook his head. He looked at Left, expecting her to know the answer. She shrugged.

That story would have to wait.

“We won’t attack,” Wrathion drawled, glancing back to the beastmaster. “Reach not for your axes.”

Rexxar grunted.

The idea, though, was tempting. Wrathion had a decent number of spies on the island,

and coupled with the mortals who would no doubt want to attack a black dragon elder, they might stand a chance against Sabellian and his own forces.

But was that even needed? Wrathion frowned in thought. No. No it wasn’t. This was a strength of will, he reminded himself. He knew he had conviction. He knew he owned up to his cause.

He would win.

Kairoz waltzed over.

“So,” he said. “What visions would you like?”

Wrathion glanced at the Hourglass, where it now hovered by Kairoz’s shoulder.

“What of Sabellian’s corruption?”

“Oh. Yes.”

Wrathion brightened. “Excellent.” That was the one thing he had to work on. A trial of wills - he had to seed Sabellian with self-doubt… and if he showed the elder dragon the monster he’d been right in front of his face? Yes. That would do well to make Wrathion’s own case. It’d be over quickly.

“Then I want something to shown what he really is,” he said. “Anything, or all of it. Something to make him shake.”

But surely Sabellian would expect that. Again he wondered what Sabellian would bring forth from the Hourglass.

“I have some ideas,” Kairoz said. “Don’t worry, my friend. I will win this for you.”

Wrathion smiled. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. Sabellian might be alive by some miraculous feat, but this gave the Black Prince a chance to cement to the mortals and to all others his stance on being the last - and why he had to do certain things, like kill his family.

“No doubt he will ask me to summon what you have done to his family,” Kairoz said.

He shrugged. “It won’t matter when we show my reasoning behind it,” Wrathion said. “Ah, Kairoz… you can’t tweak the visions in my favor, can you?”

The Bronze gave him a guilty smile. “No. The Tiger spoke with me before I came to you. I must be neutral.”

“Fine, fine.” He glanced over to the Courtyard. Sabellian spoke with the Tiger now. He bristled, feeling oddly betrayed by Xuen, who had given him his blessing only recently. “Well! I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Anduin said. “Maybe you need some more visions…?”

“No. I’ll just keep showing a corrupted Sabellian. Enough to make my uncle start to doubt himself.”

Anduin frowned, but he said nothing.

“Worry not, Prince Anduin. I have this - easy.”

Anduin stared at him. A flicker of doubt passed through the prince’s eyes, but again he said nothing.

Wrathion felt strangely annoyed by that. He turned to Left. “Tell the Tiger I’m ready.”

---

Moments later, they returned to the Courtyard, and Wrathion had a new flare of confidence.

“The time of the Trial has come,” the tiger said. “Place your hands on the orb. You must link your chi with it, so it may measure your doubts and fears. The Trial when end when it glows with its full energy - in the color of the winner.”

Sabellian swept forward with the prepared movements of someone who had expected the order. Wrathion frowned as the dragon placed his hand on the orb. He had the suspicion that he and Xuen had planned too much of this Trial beforehand, and he wondered what else his uncle had in store.

No matter, though. He took a deep breath and walked forward. No doubt. The most conviction. A trial of mental will. He could do that, and he would.

He put his hand on the orb.

Light enveloped both of them. Something warm grabbed at his heart and mind. Wrathion gave an involuntary gasp. His hand seeped a purple glow that sank into the sphere. Sabellian’s, in turn, gave the sphere orange energy.

Sabellian looked down at him. His expression was passive in its angry sort of way, and his eyes dark.

“I am going to destroy all you have done here,” he said in a low voice for only Wrathion to hear. “And you will suffer for it.” He smiled, grim. “It is more comforting to me than a quick death.”

Something in Sabellian’s tone made Wrathion nearly shudder. This was not the growling, maddened Sabellian from before, bent on violence and early revenge. This Sabellian had such a calculation about him, such a decisiveness, that Wrathion almost found himself believing the elder dragon.

“Well. Good luck,” he growled back.

“No, Black Prince,” Sabellian said. He backed away. “I am not the one who needs luck.”

Wrathion scowled and backed off to take his place on the Court.

“The Trial begins,” Xuen boomed. “The challenger shall be the first to present his case.”

“Show me the deaths of my children by the whelp’s hand,” Sabellian said without hesitation. “And all else he has done to make my family suffer.”

Kairoz nodded. He paused, then, raising one hand, he curled his fingers into a fist. A glow of gold and blue energy began to coalesce between the cracks of his fingers. It reached out to touch the Hourglass. As it did, the curled dragons about the item opened their eyes. A small murmur of interest rose in the crowd of mortals. The dragons uncurled themselves so the whole of the Hourglass’s pearly exterior revealed itself. The sands began to run not down, but up, defying gravity.

Kairoz grimaced. His pale face was aglow with the neons of his own magic.

With a sudden burst of energy, the Hourglass rippled and from it shot forward a slim beam of light. The light began to widen, and widen, and widen, until a great panorama stretched before them. It was so large the sides of it nearly touched the opposite edges of the Celestial Court.

The white glow diminished, but as it faded, other colors swirled into existence: black, reds, dull tans and browns. Some sharpened into spikes, and mountains, and - dragons.

Blade’s Edge Mountains shimmered into existence before them. The vision showed a scene in one of the lower but widest valleys, bordered by the sharpened rocks and cliffs that gave the region its name. The sky above startled Wrathion, so bright and red were the streams of nether and space.

In the valley, next to the large opening of a cave nestled in the mountains, stood three dragons. They were drakes, in truth, all seeming to be of the same age. Perhaps they were even of the same clutch. One sat close to the entrance.

“I don’t know why Father keeps it alive,” one of the drakes said in a husky voice. She was slim with a bright orange belly, and paced back and forth before the drake who seemed to be standing guard at the cave entrance. “Should it not die? It tried to kill us.”

The guard fluffed her wings. “Father wants more information from it,” she explained. “It tried to kill Talsian.”

“Yes. I know that.” The orange-bellied drake stopped and turned to face her sister. “It’s probably some treasure hunter, wanting our hides for glory.”

“It said it worked for someone, though,” the guard pointed out. “Don’t you think -?”

The orange-bellied drake interrupted her with a loud grunt. “I doubt the mortal will say much,” she said. “I hunt. I will bring you back something, Ryxia.” And with little else, the drake turned and jumped into the air, and soon she was a speck in the mountains.

Ryxia. Did not Wrathion know that name? He glanced at the drake and frowned in thought.

A noise, small but only just perceptible, came from the cave. Ryxia glanced back. The vision’s point of view shifted so it looked where Ryxia did: inside the cave. It was dark and stank of meat - how could he smell it, when watching something? - but within there was a faded red glow, no bigger than the size of a pebble.

Then he saw the shape: a crumped blood elf lay against the wall deep in the cave. It was his Blacktalon - the very first he had sent to scout Outland for search of information not about any dragons or hidden relatives, but to see if there was Legion activity and to collect information about demons in the various energies.

Wrathion realized what was about to happen. For whatever reason, he found himself tensing up.

Ryxia raised her smaller fins curiously. The Blood Elf was speaking, but lowly. Even in the vision he was not understandable. But Wrathion knew what he was saying, and who he was speaking to.

The small drake crept closer. The Blood Elf shook. His shattered hand, by some miracle, was able to grab the hidden dagger behind his back. His eyes glowed a dull red, but the gem glowed far brighter, signaling Wrathion’s control of him, even a world away.

Ryxia stepped closer still, until she was nearly looming over the elf. “Who were you talking to?” she asked again, a small hint of both curiosity and wariness in her words and eyes.

The Blood Elf lunged.

The drake did not see the dagger until it was too late. The blade struck her in the belly, and she shrieked in pain and fear. She scrambled to get away, but the Blood Elf hooked the dagger upward, and Ryxia’s scramble only made a further gash in her belly. She shrieked again in panic, but more-so now in agony.

And then, at once, she collapsed. Wrathion caught a glimpse of her intestines coiling out from the open wound. She fell atop the Blood Elf, which only sealed her fate further.

She went still.

The vision did not change immediately. It hovered on the corpse for a moment longer. Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek. He dared not look at Sabellian, but he wished he could look away.

This was the death that had begun it all. He remembered his own panic when the blood elf had shown him the drake, and how it had lit him into a frantic and sudden action, how he needed to see the drake dead for his own peace of mind and satisfaction… for she had been a sign that he had failed in the only task he had thought he had done with accuracy, and Wrathion was not one who liked his plans going very wrong.

What would have happened, he found himself thinking, if he had calmed enough to stop the elf - and himself, by extension - from killing this drake? He could have probably dealt with the situation more quietly - more acutely - without invoking Sabellian’s wrath. A foolish mistake. His first foolish mistake.

The vision shifted suddenly. It showed another cave, but this was dark and cold and blue. Stalagmites hung from the ceiling as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.

He knew immediately where he was. His still-healing left arm began to ache.

It was the cave Sabellian had brought him to after the elder dragon had attacked him at the Tavern - and where he had tortured him about information about his lack of corruption.

But the vision, to his relief, did not show his bleeding and bruised body. Instead, it showed the maddened drake Left and Anduin had unleashed from the deeper recesses of the cavern to serve to distract Sabellian. It lay on its side; deep gashes riddled its scaled hide. The sickly white Sha energies Wrathion knew too well radiated at the fallen drake’s eyes, horns, and paws, pulsating with each struggling breath of the drake’s.

Above it loomed Sabellian. He was sitting on the outcrop of the cave, as his full form could not quite fit inside. He had lowered his head above the quivering, possessed drake, and watched it quietly. The other drake, the one who had helped with the torture - Nasandria? - stood on the opposite side of her father. Her uneasy glance passed back and for from her elder, to her brother, then back again.

“M-my blood… hungers…” the possessed drake hissed in a voice that had Wrathion’s heart clench with fear. It was not the drake’s voice.

But then he realized who this drake really was: the second drake to come with his father to help destroy the Tavern, and Wrathion, in turn. Right had wounded it greatly. It was no wonder he had so easily succumbed to the Sha, weakened as he had been by such vicious wounds.

The drake looked at Sabellian, and for the slimmest of moments, a clearness came to him. His gaze lost its hunger and anger and became pleading. Desperate.

“Pain… exquisite… pain…” he continued.

It was not a moment after Sabellian placed his massive paw on his son’s side. But what Wrathion thought to be a comforting motion instead turned out far more gruesome: Sabellian leaned down, took the lost drake’s head in his mouth, and snapped his neck with a practiced movement.

The body fell still. Sabellian let go of the head, and it felt with a clanging of its great horns to the floor. Nasandria was frozen in shock.

“We could have -”

“We could have done nothing, Nasandria. He couldn’t be helped.”

The vision shifted again. For the second time it showed Blade’s Edge, but in one of its surprisingly fertile forests. A glimpse of an abandoned Cenarion Expedition building was visible through the clumped trees to the south, but it was a narrow river that the image instead focused on. Large lumps of dark rock lay about it. Again, even if he was not there, Wrathion could actually smell the scene.

It smelled of rot and chemicals.

He wrinkled his nose - and then realized the shapes he had taken for rock at first glance were bodies. It was a macabre assortment of twisted corpses: lynxes, raptors, and wolves all lay in pained positions about the grass.

“The river - poisoned,” breathed a voice. The point of view of the vision shifted to the left. A smaller drake, slim-bodied like one of the spotted big cats of the Barrens, stood panting before Samia in her dragon form.

“What?” Samia’s fin rose in anger and surprise. “They poisoned the water?” Samia snarled. “What – where did you hear this? Where are Rexxar and the others?”

“We found their camp,” the drake panted. “it took hours, but the bear found them. We overheard them speaking. They’d poisoned the river with the same herb that poisoned Neltharaku.”

The vision shifted again. Instead of the forest, it showed the sharp valleys. And - Wrathion held his breath. There were so many of his kind here. Whelps that he knew immediately were around his true age were curled up near the opening of a great cave, and perhaps half a dozen drakes slumbered near another smaller opening. Two adult dragons stood guard, and among them, three nether-drakes. The slim anomalous dragons looked so out of place among their brethren.

But while Wrathion began to wonder why the Hourglass was showing such a normal scene, but began to see oddities. Every dragon he saw moved little, or sluggishly. With some, he saw the beginning curve of ribs shine against taut muscle and scale. Eyes were dull and tired. They were starving, he realized. Even he, who had not spent much time around other dragons, realized such signs in their draconic body language.

A dragon and two nether-drakes alighted close by the whelp cave. In their paws they held three rock flayers and a motley talbuk. The vision zoomed in, and Wrathion scrunched his nose. The corpses were old. Their fur and skin sagged with setting-in decay, and the blood, he knew, was already dry.

One of the black dragons who had been standing guard sniffed. “Is that all?”

The dragon who had brought the old feast grunted. She let go of the corpses, and the nether-drakes with her did the same. “We came back as fast as we could,” she explained. “But we can only go so far before the meat starts to take.”

The male dragon grunted. “Damn this poison,” he said. “Let us hope it will run its course into Zangarmarsh.”

“And that every lynx and raptor wasn’t condemned,” the female grumbled.

It seemed the poison thrown into the river by his Blacktalon’s had not only killed many of the dragons’ prey, but it had also decimated much of the prey among Blade’s Edge. Was the river the only source of water? Wrathion watched in silence as the dragons began their grim task of dealing out the meat to all, and did not blame the whelps’ lack of enthusiasm as they poked at the meat with the end of their snouts. No wonder they were hungry; no viable prey seemed to be showing itself in the mountains.

The vision dimmed - and Wrathion, who had prepared himself for another image of death and suffering, blinked in surprise when it faded entirely, leaving only the Celestial Court.

He dared a glance at Sabellian. The elder dragon looked to hardly be in control of his anger: his fists were clenched, his jaw locked, and small puffs of smoke escaped his nose with each breath.

“Do you wish to give your case?” Xuen’s voice rang, and broke the spell over both dragons. Wrathion ducked his head and looked at the audience. To his annoyance, all were staring at him. Far away, he couldn’t tell what the expression was on most of their faces.

Sabellian breathed in deep. His outward anger diminished, and he turned to the mortals - but not before looking at Wrathion. Though his outward anger had gone, there was such a deep-seated hatred in his look that the Black Prince found himself leaning back.

But then Sabellian looked away.

“I understand your distrust of me,” Sabellian said. “My kind has made this would suffer. But I am not like that anymore. My time on Outland has - alleviated me of such madness.”

A lie, Wrathion thought.

“We did nothing to invoke this boy’s crusade of death,” the elder dragon continued. “You saw how his rogue attacked my child unhindered - and how it killed another. And for what purpose?” The more he spoke the angrier and louder Sabellian became. “So he could be the last? So he could think his charged duty truly finished?” He spat the words. “My children harmed no one. No mortal suffered by their doing. And even in their innocence, this boy decided to murder them all. To make them die for something they did not do.”

“You’re corrupt!” Wrathion interjected. “Outland may have given you some relief, but you all remain cursed! If you were to come to Azeroth permanently -”

“Did we give any indication that we would be coming back to Azeroth?” Sabellian roared in a sudden outburst. Wrathion flinched. “Or did you see a black dragon and panic?”

Wrathion’s face grew hot with anger and shame. The audience began to murmur among themselves. He knew that they were already distrustful of them after Sabellian had spread the information that he had been double-crossing both factions. This was not helping his case.

“I hardly panicked -”

“You are a child. A boy. You threw a tantrum and now try to fix your mistake.”

The orb began to pulse orange.

Wrathion scowled. “My turn,” he said. “Show me Sabellian as he truly is, Kairoz.”

Sabellian’s face fell - but only for a moment.

The Hourglass rotated to a horizontal position. Still the sand ran back and forth with no need for gravity. A second time, the energy expanded, and a second time the scene before them came to life.

The mortal town was aflame. Great gusts of smoke billowed from collapsed roofs and piles of wood and rubble which were once buildings. Huge slabs of timber, broken pieces of rock, and bodies of both humans and horses littered the wide cobbled road. Wrathion was not sure if it was night, or if the smoke was so thick it had consumed the light of the sun.

And the screams were deafening.

He watched, transfixed, as people fled past his vantage point, disappearing to the side as if they had traveled out of his line of vision and back into the past. A woman on a horse cantered through the road, a great harpoon held in her right hand, and shouted orders indistinct above the din of chaos. More soldiers arrived in the street, spilling out from a side alley, some on horseback but most on foot. They wore the armor of Lordaeron, Wrathion noticed. Not Stormwind.

“Prepare yourselves!” the woman yelled. “It comes again!”

The mortals looked up and held their weapons. Wrathion followed their gaze. High above, the smoke billowed and stretched. A near roar thundered forth from the wake, and at once the smoke-clouds burst apart.

A giant black dragon soared out from their cover. Its great mouth was open wide, its teeth and gullet stained with blood, and its eyes were alit with such a beastial fury it seemed more the gaze of a proto-dragon than a dragon’s of actual intellect.

Sabellian roared again and dived toward the soldiers.

The commander’s horse reared as the hulking behemoth came upon them. Wrathion knew immediately that the humans were outmatched against such a foe, but he found himself transfixed upon Sabellian, both out of fear and awe. The elder dragon did not slow his descent as he careened to the band of soldiers. Harpoons from unseen workers flew suddenly at his sides, but he spun. They sailed over him.

Sabellian opened his maw wide and exhaled. Flame burst forth from his gullet, and though the humans had expected this, a quarter of them were too slow for the sudden attack. The fire cooked them alive in their suits of armor.

But the other survivors did not remain lucky. Sabellian clamped his jaws closed and roared back with a sudden bank of his wings. His throat contracted. He opened his mouth again. But from it did not spill flame - instead a torrent of dark purple liquid shot from his gullet. It spilled upon more than half of the defenders. From where it had struck, sudden steam billowed. Metal corroded, and with it, skin and flesh. Those stricken screamed in agony as the poison burned away at their muscle down to the bone. Even though he was watching a vision, Wrathion could smell the chemical burning of flesh.

Panic now scattered the remaining forces, and like the citizens from before, they turned to flee. Sabellian roared in what Wrathion thought as amusement. The dragon turned around to the forces as he had before, but no poison or flame exited his jaws. This time, he dove, and plucked up two humans in his mouth. They hardly had time to scream before he crunched down on them with his great teeth and then swallowed the battered bodies whole, and soared back off into the clouds.

The vision shifted, and when it stilled, Wrathion saw that a little time had passed, but enough where the town was far more destroyed than before. On one of the still standing buildings, Sabellian perched, and he roared with such great force the air around Wrathion seemed to shake. His point of view backed up as if he were watching through a fleeing citizen’s gaze, and when it did so, Wrathion saw more of a panorama of the destruction: an entire town, perhaps the size of Redridge, lay desolate, burning, and broken. Dozens of bodies littered the road, of all ages and sizes - and those were the only ones he could see.

Wrathion realized he was holding his breath. While his Tavern had not suffered such desolation, the scene reminded him of when Sabellian had first attacked him - and then he remembered that he was watching a vision, not interacting with it. He was not within it, as much as it seemed so. He glanced to the side, and startled as he saw the brightness of the Celestial Court to his side - and there at his side stood Sabellian, as he had been before.

The elder dragon’s face was taut and ashen. It was the only indication of any grief or regret on his face. Wrathion could not tell what the dragon was thinking; even as the vision began to fade, Sabellian remained transfixed on the image of his past-self with a distant but hardened look. How could this be the same monster in the vision? Even during the Tavern, and even during the battle of Sik’vess, Sabellian had not shown such beastial fury or such bloodlust as he did in the flashback…

But that did not help his case. Wrathion shook himself out. That Sabellian was Sabellian. It had only been the brief time when Sabellian had gone to Outland that he had been given respite, but the corruption still lurked, and with it, the same dangerous beast that still roared and laughed mightily in the vision.

Finally, the giant image before them faded. A silence spread among the Court. Not even the audience, who had been so animated before, spoke much. Wrathion turned to face them, and saw most if not all staring at Sabellian, who still had not looked away where the vision had been.

The orb grew an ugly mix of orange and a light lavender, swirling together and overlapping, each energy trying to take over the other.

“So,” Wrathion said. “That creature is what I’m trying to stop from happening. That was you, Sabellian. Do remind me: how long ago did you enter the Dark Portal? And how old are you?”

The dragon scowled at him.

“Oh, nevermind! I’ve just remembered. Thirty years ago, perhaps? That’s when you were… ‘clear’ of mind. And you’re ten thousand years old.” He counted on his hands in mocking fashion. “A mere … .3 percent of your life.” He smiled.

The lavender began to eat at the orange.

Oh, I have you now, uncle.

“And here you are, proclaiming yourself of sane mind and body, when you’ve hardly lived as much for any time at all in comparison to your vast span of years,” Wrathion continued. “How could you begin to know if you still won’t catch madness in Outland? The Old Gods may still reach out to you there - being interdimensional void beings, of course. That’s right: you don’t know. You’re a time bomb, waiting to explode.”

Sabellian’s glower became murderous. The orb pulsed purple.

Sew the doubt.

“You’re right,” Sabellian said at last. “I don’t know.” He scowled. “But you act as if I want to return to that enslaved life.” He glanced at the Hourglass, where it spun like a glob at Kairoz’s side. Silence stretched among them.

“Bronze,” he said at last. “Show me the end of Obsidia’s Wrymcult.”

Kairoz hesitated. His eyes grew distant - but he was quick to nod. He turned and swept out his hands, and as before a curtain of energy rocketed from the artifact. It swirled through the air like a screen,  billowing and rippling with grit and golden sand.

It parted. Before them stretched Blade’s Edge, hot and unending in its sprawl of spikes and gorges.

A flash of onyx and red swept past them. The vision followed it. It was a black dragon, lithe of body and flying fast toward a cave below. It was no one Wrathion recognized - but did he not know the name Obsidia?

The dragon landed in front of the cave.

“Sabellian!”

The roared name echoed down the gorge, its challenge tangible in the snarl.

Shadows shifted from within the cave mouth, and from them stepped the alchemist in his true and gigantic form. His eyes were dark and quiet as he stared at the smaller dragon before him.

“Obsidia,” he greeted with no lacking distaste.

“A mortal band has just killed Maxnar - and half of my wrymcult in Coven,” she growled. Movement smeared off to the top of the gorge. Another dragon sailed into view, then landed behind the female. Then another. Then another. Three adult dragons stood before Sabellian, each wildly different in appearance and design.

They were not of Sabellian’s clutch. They had no double-horns, no brown-gold tinge to the underbelly. Wrathion stared at them. There had been more dragons in Blade’s Edge that were not of Sabellian’s brood? And yes, he knew the name Obsidia - it came to him while he stared at the leading female. She’d been a broodmother during the Cataclysm, and had been destroyed. But why was she here?

“Your dragonspawn lair?” Sabellian didn’t look at the newcomers. “A shame.”

“I know it was your doing,” Obsidia bit out. “I know your daughter commanded them.”

“Did you see her lead them into the Coven?” Sabellian flicked his eyes at last to the other dragons. The air was palpable with challenge - and anger. But the elder dragon didn’t seem bothered, as if he could fight back the three with a quick swat of his claw.

“Blackscale has seen her working with the Expedition,” Obsidia said. “Giving out baubles and gold… and stealing my whelps from their assigned hunters -”

“Assigned hunters?” For the first time, Sabellian flickered with the anger and impatience Wrathion was used to. “You give them to the mortals as gifts. As pets. Only so you may stay in power over them. So they can continue their… worship of you, worm. The children are better off with Samia.”

“They are mine,” Obsidia snarled. “And you admit to meddling!” She whipped her tail back and forth. “The Wyrmcult is of my own design. I will not have you tear down what I have -”

“I will tear down what I will, Obsidia,” Sabellian snarled. “Deathwing left me as commander, and you as me underling. Do not test me, broodmother.”

“Deathwing would loathe to see his commander now,” she spat. Sabellian growled. Even though it was just a vision, Wrathion felt the sound in his chest. “Already as soft as a dove when he has nothing to guide him.”

“Soft?” Sabellian huffed smoke, a hint of amusement in his face. “Idiot. Is that what you call the Old Gods? Guides? They’re our enslavers!” Each word grew in volume until the last was roared. Whatever was happening here had been in motion for a long time; they were witnessing the boiling point. “You call me weak? Weak is the fool who can’t even cope with the idea of freedom. Weak is trying to recreate a way of life known only to a slave. Weak is doing only what they know rather than trying to do better - and weak is handing over their own children to power-hungry mortals to keep that lifestyle in check!” Sabellian bared his teeth, his orange eyes aglow. “You call ME weak, broodmother?”

“I am doing what I must!” Obsidia snarled. “At each turn you stop me… and you? You do nothing to help us! Do you think I want some flimsy domestic life that you’ve settled in so comfortably? I want the life that was stolen from me by this world! How can so you easily turn away from everything you’ve known? This Wrymcult is my refuge. You cannot take it from me!”

“I can,” Sabellian growled. “And I will. Your cult is an abomination.” He glanced over the others, eyes studying. One of them did not look at him, instead staring at the ground in shame. “All of you are involved. Clearly.”

“Obsidia is right,” said one dragon. “We wish for our old life. It… it’s been difficult in trying to adjust. I find myself empty, without purpose…”

“Then find purpose, Rivendark,” Sabellian spat.

“You may be our commander, but you can’t choose what we want,” said another, the one standing next to the dragon who hadn’t yet looked up from the ground. “Sabellian, even you must find it hard. You are older than all of us. Do you not feel -?”

“Do I feel as if I wish to return to enslavement?” Sabellian scoffed. “No. I’m not so enamored with the idea, Insidion.”

Insidion frowned, but said nothing. To Wrathion, it looked like he had little conviction in the subject. The words had sounded strangely rehearsed. He eyed Obsidia. She was their leader, not Sabellian, he realized. And it looked like Sabellian knew that too.

Rivendark stepped forward. “Then what should we do? None of us want this life - and you!  Turning away from your father. When the Portal reopened, we wanted to return, and you forced us to stay - coward!”

Sabellian flexed his claws. Any amusement fled from his face, and Wrathion felt fear in his own heart as the elder dragon took on a countenance of simmering rage and power. He turned the gaze to the challenging dragon.

Rivendark took a nervous step backward. All fight fled from his face.

“Learn your place, or I will force you into it,” Sabellian said.

“Enough.” Obsidia’s word was crisp and like a bite of air. “You all nothing of our only life, here. You will doom us to suffer - and this world has limited time before it devours itself. You would doom us to its demise, as well?”

“If you cannot live freely, then yes. You will suffer, but not because of me. Because of your own weakness.” He huffed. “And as for Outland’s destruction… that is far in coming.”

“Then,” she said, “we will leave.”

Silence.

“Leave,” Sabellian repeated. The word fell from his tongue like honey, slowly and drawn out. “Deathwing has not released us from this station.”

Obsidia snorted. “That’s what you said when you didn’t let us go through the Portal. We all know Deathwing thinks us dead. He can’t release us if he doesn’t know we live.”

“And our charge is completed,” cut in Rivendark. “We protected his eggs. It wasn’t our fault they came out… wrong.”

The Netherwing.

Sabellian glanced at them. It was becoming clear he hadn’t expected such a turn of events. But if they were at such odds, why did he not embrace  the idea?

“Furywing,” he said, looking at the other female. “You agree?”

She bowed her head lower and said nothing.

Sabellian bared his teeth. “All of your children would march to their death. Those whelps have never heard the whispers. Look at me! Do you want to see them grow mad?”

Furywing flinched, but did not raise her head.

Obsidia looked smug. “They will return to their rightful legacy,” she said. “And be raised as conquerors - unlike your whelps, Sabellian, simply bait for the Gronn.”

Sabellian hissed. The hateful sound was like a spell, freezing them all in place. He opened his mouth to show off his teeth, and his fangs elongated unnaturally, like a snake’s. Wrathion had caught a glimpse of those in the earlier vision, but thought it a fluke. Now, looking at them, they caught the sun in a metallic way. Metal implants?

Obsidia rumbled and took a step back.

But a moment later, Sabellian seemed to change his mind. He closed his mouth. The dragons relaxed.

“You want to leave?” the elder dragon said. “Then leave. Go enslave yourselves and your children. I am done with you.”

Obsidia smiled, pleased, then raised her wings. “We should have done this a long time ago,” she mused. “Good luck with the Gronn, commander.”

She flapped her wings and was off. Rivendark quickly followed.

He needed them for protection. Gruul must still be alive, then. Of course Sabellian hadn’t wanted them to leave. That was too much of an open position. If the father of Gronn wanted more dragon trophies, all that would stand before him would be a single dragon, not four.

Furywing turned as if to leave, but rumbled and went up to Sabellian. The dragon hadn’t moved.

“Sabellian,” she said. “You could come with us. I know it’s been difficult for you too, like it was for Kesia. If you come back…”

“No.” Sabellian didn’t speak with the same venom as before. A deep exhaustion settled into his voice. “That life is a ghost to me. I can’t go back to it, no matter how the weaker parts of my mind call to it.” He glanced toward where Obsidia and Rivendark had gone. “I can understand their wish to return. But you and Insidion? You just had a clutch.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known -”

“As it was for me,” Sabellian snapped. Furywing hunched her shoulders. “But I can see when a challenge is a gift. And now you will sacrifice your children so you can be comfortable in servitude.” He scowled. “Get out of my sight.”

“Sabellian -”

“Get out. And do not come back.”

Furywing looked hurt. As Sabellian turned away, the vision faded.

Again, the suddenness of reality had Wrathion dizzy. He blinked hard for a couple moments as he adjusted.

And when he did, he knew at once he was beginning to lose. He looked at Sabellian, who stared at him with a smug look.

The orb pulsed. Its light lavender tilt began to shift - into a deep orange.

Everyone watched him. Wrathion’s brown broke out in a cold sweat. How could he deny what he’d just seen?

Sabellian hadn’t wanted to go back to Azeroth. His vehemence had been touchable. He’d never been a danger to the world. With panic, Wrathion realized his own doubt, and he tried to grab it, to turn it and squash it in his hands. He couldn’t lose. No. He had to kill the dragons. He had to!

Something Obsidia said struck him.

“So what if you didn’t want to come back?” Wrathion said at last in the silence. A strength of wills. No doubt. A strange warmth suffused him, and he recognized it to when he’d received Niuzao’s blessing in Steppes. Niuzao had championed him. Fortitude. He took the blessing with desperate claws now. “Outland will fall eventually, and you and your brood will be forced to come here, as Obsidia and the others did. You’ll still become a danger to us. I’ve done what I’ve done so I can stop that before it begins. We all saw what destruction you by yourself could unleash - and as I said, you don’t know if you’ll not grow mad in Blade’s Edge!”

“My brood will never submit  to the Old Gods again,” Sabellian drawled. He looked unaffected. Wrathion bared his teeth. The orb continued its orange pulse.

He was losing.

“Oh,” the Black Prince said, “and how will you do that? Some wonderful elixir of yours?”

“I’ll kill myself.” The words struck Wrathion like a blow. He stared, wide-eyed. “But now before releasing my children of their own coming misery.”

“You’ll… you’ll kill your own children?”

“As I said,” Sabellian rumbled, “none of us will be slaves again.”

Never once did the orb shake in its color. Sabellian had no doubts about such a path. Killing his own children did not quiver at his strength? Wrathion blanched. Titans, he had never known this.

He had to put doubts in that path, then. He had to make Sabellian question.

“So you can kill your own?” Wrathion scowled. “Why fight me over something that is inevitable? Come, uncle, surely you see the stupidity in all this! You hate me because I’m beating you to the punch, as they say, is that it?”

“I hate you because you’re a threat,” Sabellian snarled. “You would steal all the years that have yet to live because of your own fear and impatience. I want them to live all the life they can. I want their lives to be free of horror. I want their last moments to be those of peave and family.” Sabellian scowled. “I want them to know love. Do you think I want them to know fear at the end of an assassin’s blade in their final heartbeats? Skewered by a mortal because of a paranoid cousin?”

The orb pulsed a brighter orange.

“You can try to shake me,” Sabellian said. “I see you trying. But you cannot.”

“No! I will not lose this!” Wrathion balled his hands into fists. “You are Deathwing’s son! His first clutch! You can’t walk free, even in a world with no threat to Azeroth - and I already killed you! I can kill you again!”

The hourglass shuddered.

It exploded with energy, and before Wrathion could blink, he was swallowed by it.

Wrathion found himself in a dark cave. It was shallow, the end rounding off to his left in a hollowed wall laced with sharp points and cracks. A dry smell permeated the air. It reminded him dimly of his time in the egg – of the Badlands.

He looked the other way toward the light, and startled. Sabellian stood there, looking at the entrance of the sizable cavern, where it opened up into a crowded scene of more dusty-colored rocks and natural walls. A mountain range, perhaps.

“How did we get here?” Wrathion asked in bewilderment. Had the Hourglass somehow transported them? But Sabellian gave no indication of hearing him. Wrathion glared. It was not the first time the elder dragon had ignored him, and so, reaching his hand out, the Prince waved it in front of Sabellian's face.

Nothing. The elder dragon only exhaled.

Wrathion scowled and smacked Sabellian's snake pauldron -

Only for his hand to go through Sabellian.

He paused in alarm. It was as if Sabellian was an apparition. Again Wrathion struck his hand out, and again it passed through the dragon. But unlike normal apparitions or holograms, Sabellian's image did not waver or disperse in the movement of Wrathion's hand. Instead he remained undisturbed, solid as he had appeared before.

And then, studying Sabellian, Wrathion realized there were details in this image that he had not caught before. Sabellian was wearing an altered outfit than the one he was accustomed to seeing the elder dragon wear. While the snake shoulders remained, the robes were less colorful and less voluminous. Instead they reminded Wrathion of the Kirin Tor battlemage armor: half robe, half mail, and cut slim to the body. The colors were a deep orange, black, and crimson.

But the outfit was ripped in savage places, and what Wrathion thought to be blood stained more than one unfortunate patch of cloth or mail. Sabellian himself was injured: his left arm was limp at his side and quickly bandaged, and one of his eyes was a deep blue bruise. Other scratches and bruises littered the dragon's visible skin. He slouched as if his back ached. And to Wrathion he looked almost... younger. Not by much, but perhaps enough to be obvious. The angry creases in his eyes were slighter, and his face a little smoother if not for the bruises.

This was a vision, he decided. It could be nothing else. But unlike the other visions, Wrathion seemed to be a part of this phantasm, living in it like a ghost. But what was it showing him? He suspected this was again a corrupted Sabellian because of the shift of age and clothing, but why -?

A sudden shadow crossed over the light of the entrance. Sabellian straightened and bowed his head. Wrathion looked over.

He stiffened. Sweat immediately broke out on his brow.

Deathwing stood before him.

Wrathion had seen Deathwing before in his trials that the Celestials had given him. That image had been nightmarish enough with its detailed likeness, and had been enough to send him into fits of fear, even in front of his champion. But this – this was the true Deathwing in the flesh.

He was massive. There was no other words to describe the fallen Aspect. Every piece of him was jagged and raw and large: from his claw-pauldron shoulders, to the great pieces of dried lava that acted as his chestplate, to his actual height. He exuded both power and cunning, and Wrathion could feel the unnatural heat roll off of the dragon's mortal guise even from where he stood. On instinct he slouched back as if to cower against the wall. But he went no further, finding himself frozen in fear.

“Father,” Sabellian greeted hoarsely, and the submission in his tone was just enough to make Wrathion break free from his thrall. Never before had he heard Sabellian speak so low and quivering. “Good news?”

“Enough news to make a decision.” Deathwing's voice was like the first grumblings of an earthquake, and held a cold malice in it that made Wrathion shudder. The Aspect walked into the cave, and his shadow stretched before him, contorting against the far end of the inner walls.

Sabellian did not move as Deathwing approached him, but he kept a submissive posture: his head bowed lower, his eyes looking not at Deathwing's face, but at his chest. “And?”

“The mortals have moved on,” Deathwing said. “The skull is lost.”

Sabellian glanced up to the Aspect's face. “Allow me to send my faster scouts after them. I can -”

“No.” The reply was swift and decisive, and Sabellian fell silent. “We must move on to other avenues.”

What time period was this? Wrathion wracked his brain for clues as to what they were speaking of. Deathwing was still among Azeroth; he had not yet fled to the recesses of Deepholm. The Battle of Grim Batol had not yet taken place, and Wrathion admitted he knew little about Sabellian's personal history enough to pinpoint when he and Deathwing might have been together on some mayhem concerning mortals, or a skull.

A skull? He backtracked. That sounded familiar...

“The eggs will remain in Blade’s Edge,” Deathwing continued. He looked Sabellian up and down with a slow rake of his eyes, as if only just seeing his son’s injuries. Close together, now, Wrathion saw their obvious resemblances. Their faces had the same shape, and near the same slope of nose and cunning eyes. There was no mistaking Sabellian as to whose clutch he had come from.

Blade’s Edge. Only a moment later did that register. They were in Blade’s Edge!

“Remain here?” Sabellian repeated. He frowned. “Father…. if I may. I think the best course may be to move them to Nagrand -”

“And let the orcs trample them? Let the cooler winds freeze them in the shell?” Deathwing scoffed. “No. This place will be the best for my clutch.”

Sabellian nodded after a moment, but there remained an unsureness to his eyes.

“You and those below you will stay here and guard them,” Deathwing continued.

For the first time in the conversation, a flare of confidence lit in Sabellian’s eyes, reminding Wrathion finally of the Sabellian he knew. “Guard them? The mortals may have moved on, but the gronn remain. We’ll be slaughtered. Even you could not hold back that Gruul creature.”

The last sentence was a mistake. Deathwing whirled back to Sabellian with a swiftness that belied his hulking form, and the alchemist flinched, expecting a blow. But none came. Deathwing only loomed above his less-favorite son and emit a sudden heat and power about him that again Wrathion, despite being a ghost in this vision, felt himself freeze in fear.

“You will stay here.” Deathwing’s words were slow, punctuated, as if he was speaking to a whelp that had gone dangerously out of line. “You will guard my eggs at any cost.” He gave Sabellian a long look. “At any cost. If you should die, so be it. As long as my eggs remain.”

A long pause stretched before father and son. Wrathion himself did not breathe, but slowly, he realized what he was seeing: Deathwing’s abandonment of Sabellian on Draenor with the eggs that would eventually become the first Netherwing.

“I am… your lieutenant,” Sabellian finally said in a clipped, frustrated voice. But there was a hint of the same unsureness there from before. “Surely I would be better suited with you? Another could -”

“And you have done well as my lieutenant,” Deathwing interrupted smoothly, giving Wrathion a glimpse of perhaps the Daval Prestor he had pretended to be. “But now you will be here, making sure my new children are safe.” He turned away. “Nefarian takes Blackrock. Onyxia, Stormwind. And to you, this task is given.” He glanced back at his son, who stood staring blankly at him. “Your brother and sister accepted their tasks gracefully. Why don’t you?”

Sabellian locked his jaw. He bowed his head. “I will protect your clutch,” he said.

And then the world around him spun. Wrathion clutched his head as vertigo claimed him. He fell to his knees. When the sensation fled, he opened his eyes - and again found himself inside the Court.

Sabellian looked similarly bewildered - and pale in the face. Had he, too, been swallowed by the vision?

“I didn’t ask for that vision!” the Prince snarled at Kairoz, who looked alarmed.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I didn’t know it would react so much to your emotions.” He cringed. “I told you it wasn’t complete.”

“An appropriate vision, no doubt,” Sabellian spit out. He rubbed his face and eyed Wrathion. “As you see,” he drawled, bitterness in his voice, “my father hated me. Even if I was his son. Even if I was his first clutch. Do you honestly think that makes a difference in this?”

In that moment, he loathed Kairoz. He scowled at the Bronze and his hourglass. That vision had been almost perfect in dismantling Wrathion’s point further. Had Kairoz done that on purpose?

Why?

He felt the control seep from him, and though he tried to grab it, it was like trying to grab steam. It curled through his fingers, taunting him, as he stared at them all - and stared at the orb.

Orange. Bright orange.

Seeing Deathwing in the flesh - somewhat - had only infused him with a further dread that now he could not shake. And though the vision had been accidental, Sabellian remained smug and thoughtful, his eyes on Wrathion.

And in that moment, the Black Prince realized he’d walked into a trap.

“Ah. My last vision, I think.” He glanced at the orb. “The last one I’ll need. Show me Wrathion’s betrayal at Sik’vess.”

No!

Wrathion tried to look away as the vision unfolded. But he found his eyes pinned to the scene.

His heart grew cold as he saw the dark cavern of the three; the three Paragons; the cursed sculptures of Y’shaarj’s living body.

And then Left burst from the shadows. The fight seemed so much quicker than it had at that moment. Then, Wrathion had nearly been possessed. Then, Wrathion had tasted real fear.

He turned away when he saw himself grab the extra dagger from Left’s belt - but he could not block the sound of Sabellian’s wet choked gasp as he was stabbed. He glanced up, bile threatening his throat, as he saw his past self pull the weapon from the other dragon’s gut.

I killed him. The thought was numb on his tongue. The feelings of confliction and confusion that had followed him in those next days returned to him now as past-Sabellian spit out the words:

“Truly a black dragon.”

He hissed and closed his eyes. He saved my life and I still slaughtered him when he couldn’t fight back. The shame he had bottled up, the doubt at such a kill, now felt like poison in his veins. He hated Sabellian. But seeing the “murder” again, hearing the words - he knew what Sabellian had meant by them. The betrayal had set him into the legacy Obsidia had wanted to return to. Of manipulation, of death, of backstabbing. A black dragon indeed. A black dragon who had wanted to separate himself from that legacy and had only succeeded in embracing it without conscious effort.

Seeing Sabellian maddened in the prior vision had only made it more obvious to Wrathion that his uncle would not become that any time soon. Seeing Deathwing hate Sabellian cemented within him an awful kinship with the alchemist that he loathed.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t need to look at the orb to know he’d lost. All his doubts flooded into him now, unleashed, breathed out by the dark pit he teetered on.

But look at the orb he did, with slow, dead eyes. It swirled like a globe, a bright fire-orange and spinning with chi symbols.

“The challenge is done,” Xuen boomed. “Sabellian wins the Strength of Wills.”

#wrathion #sabellian #anduin wrynn #my hand bursts from the grave.... i have returned

[baron-sablemane]

Can't log onto my main account

However

Neltharion's Lair? TELL ME MORE.

[ also confused why there was no mention of Wrathion but w/e ]

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 34)

Wrathion and Anduin speak with one another while Sabellian comes to a decision concerning the fate of the Black Prince.

“You are sure about this?” Rexxar asked.

They'd been speaking in the cave since Sabellian had come back with news that Wrathion was coming to the island. He didn't know how long it had been. Hours? A day? It was difficult to tell in this place.

“Yes,” Sabellian said. “If I was not, I wouldn't have suggested the idea.”

Over his usual attire, he'd thrown on a dark brown, ratty cloak to hide the bright orange and reds of his robe – as well as to hide his face. Though he didn't yet pull the hood over his head, he didn't want any knowing eyes recognizing him when he went to the Celestial Court.

Rexxar grunted. Arms crossed over his chest, he gave a slow nod. “Misha and I will wait by the borders, then,” he said with some reluctance. At the back of the cave, Nasandria watched. It had taken some time for her to agree to this plan of action, and though she had, she was still sullen.

“We'll meet there,” Sabellian said. He pulled the hood on and blinked his eyes, and the orange flushed into the dark hazel of his disguise. “Don't be seen, half-orc. You're more recognizable than I.”

Rexxar grunted again.

No time to waste. They all knew what to do. Sabellian turned and left the cave, squinting as he met the sunlight.

He knew the way to the Court, and quickly began over. He ignored the giant pink cranes watching him from the shadows of the trees. Stupid birds. Sabellian must have eaten a dozen during his time here, and they still didn't know a better place to hide than the trees.

Soon, the Court fuzzed into view. Sabellian scowled as he saw the large crowd of mortals lingering. So many had come in such a short amount of time. He doubted it was only because of the Vale, and had to do more with the amount of shiny baubles mortals were so obsessed with.

And then he saw the Celestials.

He immediately picked out Xuen, but noted the three others: a green cloud serpent, a red crane, and a giant ox. Sabellian had learned their names from Rexxar, of all people; the half-orc was somehow learned in the animal ancients here, though the dragon hadn't pressed him on how. He guessed it had something to do with Misha. The bear was a spirit beast, and she and Rexxar had an odd understanding of one another.

He'd learned that the Celestials had come to the island when he had been on his way to tell Rexxar and Nasandria of Wrathion's impending arrival. It'd frustrated him, at first, but their appearance had later sparked the plan he'd set into motion.

Sabellian shifted his hood a little as he neared the Court. The smell of cooking food, spice, and magic permeated the air. That, and the stench of mortals. He wrinkled his noise as he joined the fray. At least there was enough room around the Court where the crowd wasn't bunched up together; he had ample room to himself to walk.

Odd, that the Celestials were sitting right in the middle of the arena. Though he'd known they had come, he did not know why. They didn't speak; they  only watched the crowd with casual, calm glances.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled harshly. One favor to ask of them.

Sabellian did not like asking for favors.

To the north, he saw stairs leading down to the arena. He made his way there, trying not to force himself through lingering mortals, lest he draw attention to himself. Who knew if the boy already had a dozen agents watching?

He paused before the stairs. Was he allowed to go into the arena? He drew back and waited. It took a moment, but a couple of mortals descended the stairs and headed over to Chi-ji. Sabellian watched them with narrowed eyes.

They were speaking to the crane. The dragon couldn't hear their words, but it almost looked as if the Celestial was giving advice.

Good, then. This was a normal occurrence.

He glanced at Xuen. The tiger was watching the mortals who had gone to Chi-ji.

Sabellian drew himself up and went down the stairs. He made his way to the White Tiger.

“Son of Earth,” greeted Xuen as the dragon grew close. Sabellian flinched. He glanced up behind the cowl of his hood. The Tiger remained staring forward. “What do you want of me?”

Sabellian shifted his weight and looked down. He made a furtive glance around, but no one was paying them any heed. Just like he'd hoped.

“I've come for a favor.”

One of Xuen's ears twitched. Was that a smile on the tiger's blackened lips, or was that just the normal curve of his mouth? “I know,” Xuen rumbled. He spoke quietly, but even then his voice was like a quiet thunder in Sabellian's chest. “I ask again: what do you want of me?”

Easier than he expected. Too easy, perhaps. He eyed the Tiger, who had not yet even spared him a glance. The crowd buzzed. “Wrathion has come to the island.”

“Yes.”

Sabellian paused. He had not rehearsed the words, but they came naturally. “I no longer wish to play games,” he explained. “Nor do I have the time for them. My children are in a more immediate danger than the whelp.”

“I see.”

Short responses but thoughtful in tone. Sabellian found it annoying. Must the Tiger be so arrogant in his all-knowing glow? “You said before that the boy didn't understand your lesson,” he said. “You gave him a trial.”

“Yes.” Xuen swished his tail.

“What constitutes the – giving of such trials?”

Xuen looked at him. The eyes of the Tiger were ancient, timeless, older than Sabellian himself. And that hardly happened often.

“A trial is given when I deem it right,” Xuen said. “A test of strength.”

“You could give it again?”

Xuen studied him. It felt as if those molten eyes were laying bare to his own soul, unraveling it, reading it like a crinkled map.

“You have thought of what I told you,” Xuen finally said.

“I had nothing else to do on this blasted island.”

Yes – there was a smile from the Tiger.

“Tell me,” Xuen began, “what you plan with the Prince. Will it be justice, or vengeance?”

Ryxia's body splayed against the prey cave, the coil of intestines spilling from her gut.

Talsian's raving. How easily his neck had snapped underneath Sabellian's own bite.

The harpoons in his side. The electricity popping. The itch of whispers.

Blade's Edge poisoned, his brood attacked in their own home. Threats, smug glances.

The dagger in his gut.

I am better than that.

“Killing him would be too simple,” Sabellian said quietly. When he had heard Wrathion was coming to the island, he'd given himself time to think - and let himself realize what he'd been mulling over and pushing away when on his flights around the island.

He understood. Begrudgingly, bitterly, but he did.

“Taking his life would do nothing but give me some bloody satisfaction. Like before.” Burning buildings, screaming mortals, the rush of corrupted adrenaline at their cries. “I... I am not like that anymore.”

He had killed the Gronn. Slaughtered them. But that had been different, hadn't it? They had been there, been killing his children, made them shiver in their caves when they stomped and sloughed through the valley. Made them suffer.

Wrathion had made them suffer too. But he wasn't an animal; he wasn't as stupid as a Gronn. He had killed the Gronn to protect his family, for it was needed. There had been no other way. The Gronn were ruthless. They wouldn't learn. They would never know guilt or peace or justice. Just blood and death.

But Wrathion could live and realize his mistakes, if Sabellian was lucky. Live, and suffer. And if he did not learn of his failings - he was a beacon for the mortals, and Sabellian would cut their trust of him down in front of them all on a grander scale than before.

Sabellian would ruin him.

“I will not be the killer I was,” he said. “I will not be like the boy.” He took a breath. “But he will pay. Not with his life, but with everything else he has to give. It will be justice. And he will have to live with what he has done for the rest of his life.”

He looked up at Xuen when no more words came to him.

The Tiger did nothing for a long moment. The air grew still around him.

And then, finally, blessedly, Xuen nodded.

“And so you become Strength,” the Tiger said. He rumbled. “Long ago, I spoke to one like you. Full of anger. It blinded him and made him weak. He learned what his anger could wrought, and so set it aside and made his Power into Strength.”

Attacking the Temple. Innocents slaughtered. Sabellian had tried not to think of it much.

“Yes. I see the same in you,” Xuen said. He nodded. “You have my blessing. Now. Tell me what you wish to do.”

And Sabellian did.

---

The island was a wonder.

Anduin had thought that Pandaria had shown him all of its marvels, but not quite, it seemed. He relaxed at the sole stone table at the Celestial Court, finishing a cup of lavender tea given to him free of charge from one of the merchants.

It was true, what they'd said: time didn't move here, and he had yet to see the sun even shift an inch. Anduin was both amazed by it, and unnerved, the latter no doubt caused by his inner clock. Unnatural, but beautiful. And the whole island was like that.

The oxen, for example, were the size of mushan. The cranes, brilliant pink but as massive as even the largest tallstrider. Then there were the Yaungol ruins he'd seen, but had not approached, knowing that the Tauren-ancestors were excessively violent. He'd heard of hidden treasures, too, scattered around the island, lost in time.

The wonder had at least distracted him from thinking of the Vale, though he knew that many of the champions here had come to escape that suffering. Even now, Anduin caught slips of conversations about the catastrophe, as much as he tried to block them out. There was a tangible tension in the crowd, but he could see they, too, were trying to become distracted by the island. All of them knew that the siege was looming, and all worried what Garrosh had done with the heart of an Old God.

He sighed and drank the last bit of his tea, catching the loose leaves on his tongue and crunching them between his teeth. His two guards, Melissa and John, stood behind him. They'd been surprisingly casual with him as he'd explored – perhaps orders from his father.

Anduin scanned the crowd. Admiral Taylor had gone to get food, and -

Anduin's good mood faded.

Wrathion was coming toward him.

The Black Prince walked stiffly, his arms held flat at his sides, his shoulders set strictly. Anduin had noticed that about the dragon before, when he'd first seen him at the Celestial Court. Wrathion's air of casual omnipotence had been overlaid with a hardened anxiety. It may not have been obvious to all, but Anduin knew the Black Prince well enough to realize something was wrong.

But something was always wrong. Anduin darkened further still. Maybe this was still the same Wrathion who had spoken so coldly to him, who had shut him away, who had all but called him a coward and a fool.

“Prince Anduin,” Wrathion greeted when he was close. His voice was strained. Anduin hesitated. No coldness there. Just anxiousness. “How are you enjoying the island?”

“It's incredible,” Anduin said, deciding on honesty. “I've never seen anything like it.”

Wrathion relaxed. It was minimal, but Anduin saw it in the loosening of his shoulders and the low breath of air he exhaled. “I don't think anyone ever has, my – ah, Prince Anduin. Or only the Bronze.”

“Yes. I've seen a couple of them,” Anduin said. One had been Chromie, who had greeted him with excited smiles. “I believe the High Elf you've been with is one, too?”

Wrathon hesitated, then smiled almost nervously. “Kairoz? Yes. He's very obvious about it, isn't he? I suppose there's no harm in it.”

Anduin thought Kairoz seemed well-meaning. He'd only seen the dragon once, but the Bronze had only given him a passing look, as he'd been too enraptured with a large hourglass. He wanted to ask what that was about. Maybe later.

Wrathion stared at him. Anduin raised an eyebrow.

“Did you need something?”

Wrathion started. Behind him, Left shook her head. “Oh! Well. Now that you've seen the island, I was wondering if, ah, we might speak in private?”

Anduin smiled. “Private meaning you, me, and Left.”

“That's very private!”

“And what about my guards?”

Wrathion tilted his head. “Why would you ever need guards?”

“The same reason you need them,” Anduin said, but sighed. Honestly, it'd be nicer if he didn't have guards, but that was beside the point. “Okay. We can talk.”

“I knew you'd come around.” Wrathion glanced back at the Stormwind guards, then back at Anduin. Very discrete. Anduin sighed and glanced to his left, where Melissa stood at attention.

“Please allow us a moment,” he said quietly. “I'm sure we won't stray far, and it won't be long.”

Melissa hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish, Prince Anduin.”

He'd expected that to be more difficult. Maybe they did have those orders from Father. That, or Wrathion wasn't considered dangerous. Which Anduin would find hard to believe. He turned back to Wrathion, expectant and wary.

Wrathion grinned, his pointed teeth flush again his lips. “Good. Follow me.”

---

They ended up going much farther from the Court than Anduin had initially thought.

Wrathion led him up the upper plateau. Anduin knew that the yaungol were often seen in these higher reaches, but the lowest part of the plateau, a scattering of low-built ruins that overlooked the sea to the right and the forest to the left, was empty of them today. A ritual was happening up on the highest reaches, Wrathion had said, at the smoky peninsula to the north of the island. Anduin looked toward it. The smog was as thick as a stormcloud there. It must not see much sunlight.

“Why don't we stand here?” Wrathion said. Anduin looked over. Wrathion had stopped near the left side of the plateau. Beyond it, three top tall pillars built from the forest floor made a sort of make-way path. If Anduin's leg was better, the jump would have been easy to the first pillar.

“As long as you're not planning to push me off,” Anduin said.

Wrathion raised his eyebrows, but stilled to a stop near the drop-off. Anduin joined him. It was perhaps a fifteen foot fall. Below, small blue sprites danced around a tree. Large lumps of blue crystal grew from the trunk. Anduin watched them.

“You were there,” Wrathion said.  The Black Prince wasn't looking at him. ”At the Vale, when it happened?”

Anduin nodded and fought to keep his face passive. Any mention of the Vale forced a dull ache in his chest and stomach – a weighty darkness. “Yes,” he said. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Might I ask only one question, then?”

Anduin sighed. “Alright.”

“Did you see the heart?”

Anduin looked at him. Wrathion still refused to meet his eyes; the dragon stared up at the higher peninsula.

Of course. Y'sharaaj. He should have known Wrathion would have been worried about the Old God. Briefly, he remembered the Prince's panic during his corruption from the Sha – how he'd heard voices.

“I did,” Anduin said quietly. “I saw Garrosh push it into the pools.” He shuddered, thinking of the pulsating mass of flesh, purple and gray and impossibly large. “That's what destroyed the Vale. It – it sent this scourge across the valley. It killed everything.”

Wrathion frowned. He did not answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was low, thoughtful. “It was feeding off of it.”

Anduin nodded. “That's what I thought too... it must have been taking all the life from the Vale into itself.” He sighed and rubbed one side of his face. “Garrosh took it back to Orgrimmar.”

“So I heard.” Wrathion looked at him. “I'm surprised you are here, Anduin. I had expected you to follow your father to the siege.”

Anduin shrugged. “He thought I should be here until the siege actually begins,” he said.

“Ah. Giving you some freedom?”

“Somewhat.”

Silence stretched between them. Anduin watched the dragon sidelong.

“Wrathion,” Anduin began, “why did you really bring me up here?”

He looked at the other prince. Wrathion set his jaw, his eyes growing thoughtful, calculated.

“I don't know how we should proceed,” he said.

“Proceed?”

“I admit, our last meeting was... unfortunate.” The dragon glanced at him. Anduin wasn't sure what to make of his expression. It seemed to him to be made of stone.

But Anduin found himself glaring back.

“Unfortunate,” he repeated. “I think that's being generous.”

“It is, however, a correct way of describing it.” Wrathion turned and gestured openly to the stretch of land around them. “Admirable, isn't it?”

“Very.” He watched the dragon, frowning. He should have seen that the dragon would have tip-toed around the subject. “And...?”

Wrathion crossed his arms over his chest. He paused. “What are we, Anduin Wrynn?”

He was taken aback by the blatant question. Anduin shifted his grip on his cane. He was acutely aware of Left watching him; he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck.

“I don't know.”

Wrathion glanced sidelong at him with a look that expected him to continue.

Anduin sighed roughly. “Wrathion, we're just - we're too much alike,” he said. Wrathion narrowed his eyes, his mouth a sudden frown.

“I didn't think you would -”

“No. Let me finish.” Anduin took in a slow breath. The air felt green in his chest. “We're too much alike, Wrathion. I think... I mean, I know we have some understanding of one another. We both want the same things, but -” he rubbed at his face. “We're also too different. Even if we want the same thing, how we want to go on doing it is like black and white. I think it'd almost be easier if we wanted a different outcome for this world.”

Wrathion studied him.

“Destruction or peace,” the dragon supplied. Anduin nodded.

Then he laughed. It was a weak sound, a rough sound, and it faded quickly. “Knowing we both want the same thing makes it worse when we disagree,” he explained. How difficult it was to put his frustration to words. “Because I know if we – if we just agreed, we could...” he sighed. “I don't know, Wrathion. I don't know what we are.” He hesitated, knowing the truth of his next words. “With what we believe in know, though – I don't think we can continue on like this. We'll keep arguing. We'll keep getting angrier at one another.” Like the war on the Alliance and Horde, it would be a vicious cycle: peace, anger, peace, anger.

It took a moment for Wrathion to respond. He looked over at the dragon.

“'Like this,'” Wrathion repeated, and spoke slowly, as if he were tasting the words in his mouth. “And yet that's what I asked you. What is like this, Prince Wrynn?”

Anduin grit his teeth. “I told you,” he said. “I don't know.”

Wrathion stared at him. Anduin stared back. There was a moment of vague understanding between them, some reflection of memory of these past violent weeks: the Sha, sudden kisses, bloodied wounds, hands on wrists. But anger too. A shattered glass, hot glares, yelled arguments, the simmer of frustration.

Like this. Enemy and ally.

Finally, Wrathion nodded. He looked away, eyes lidded, expression distant but guarded.

“A blank slate,” he said.

“What?”

“We just begin again,” Wrathion said. He didn't look at Anduin. “Fresh. A blank slate. Deb duraz, as the dwarves say. What good does it do to linger so on the past?”

“The past can teach us things,” Anduin muttered. The dragon's mouth twitched into a small smile.

“Reflective as always, Prince Wrynn.”

Anduin thought a moment, then turned to face Wrathion. He gave a bow: a bow to an equal. Another prince.

The dragon hesitated, watching him, then bowed back.

They straightened. Wrathion nodded once, sharply, at him. He understood. Royalty to royalty was what they were, now. Cool allies, but no closer.

This is for the best, Anduin thought, but some part of him felt the loss – but also the peace of mind. It was done with.

“And how much have you explored the island?” Wrathion asked. Anduin was relieved for the change of subject, how fluid it was, and how surprisingly natural. Don't linger on the past.

“A good amount,” the prince said, relaxing. Even if they had this sudden understanding, it didn't mean they had to awkwardly stand there and clear their throats in silence. “I haven't been up here, however, nor the higher reaches.”

Wrathion nodded. “I -”

A distant scream tore from the Celestial Court. Anduin startled. Even far away, there was a visceral feel to it that clutched at his lungs. He looked toward the direction of the Court, but couldn't see it through the tangle of forest and cliff-rock.

“Oh, those sound every hour, at least!” Wrathion said. “A tiger must have wandered too close to the perimeter.”

Anduin frowned, then shrugged. “They did seem bigger than normal,” he said.

“Larger than horses,” the dragon said. “You should speak with Kairoz about the phenomenon. It's very interesting.”

“I think I will.”

There was another scream, this one from someone different. Anduin glanced again in the direction of the Court.

“He's been working on something,” Wrathion continued, unnerved by the scream. “I'll have to introduce you to one another.”

Left straightened, and the movement was sudden enough that he found himself glancing back at her. Wrathion did too. The orc's eyes were distant, her tusked mouth a frown. She nodded, and her gaze came back to the present.

She looked troubled. Her eyes found the Black Prince's.

“An Agent is asking you to come to the Court immediately,” she said. Wrathion raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“She did not say. The connection cut out.”

The dragon tilted his head. By the look on his face, Anduin guessed that did not happen often.

“Fine, fine. This had better not be a waste of my time.” Wrathion sighed and turned, but glanced over at the prince with a raised eyebrow. “Joining me?”

Anduin opened his mouth to quip back: no, I thought I'd wait for the yaungol to return, but he closed his mouth and only nodded. He was suddenly too tired for jokes.

---

When they came down from the plateau, at first glance, it looked as if the Celestial Court had been abandoned by all but the Celestials. The merchants were gone. The paths around the arena, deserted.

But it was a trick of perspective. As they grew closer, the crowd appeared beyond the curve of the cliffs as Wrathion, Anduin, and Left passed the turn.

The mortals were all clumped together, facing the northern end of the arena where the stairs were. A dull roar of conversation eddied and swayed. He caught excitement, annoyance, anger, confusion. Confusion like what Wrathion felt now.

“Left?” he muttered, and glanced sidelong at the orc. She watched the crowd and shook her head. For once, the agent didn't know the answers.

Was there a fight to be had in the arena? But he saw no challenger of the Celestials in their midst.

They arrived at last, feet hitting the pavement – and like a gong was struck, the crowd realized they had come, and Wrathion froze as a hundred eyes turned to look at him.

He recovered, but not quickly enough to seem smooth for it. The crowd spoke louder. Now he caught pieces of conversation: trial, dragon, traitor.

Bewildered, Wrathion spoke. “Ah... might I help any of you?”

Anduin shook his head, frowned, then turned to look behind them. The prince looked around, as if trying to catch some hint beyond in the forests.

In front of him, Xuen rose to his feet. Wisps of ice rolled off of him, and he paced forward before turning to face Wrathion.

“The Black Prince Wrathion.” His voice was a boom, and it quieted the crowd in an instant. Silence rolled over the court. Wrathion was suddenly aware of how hard his heart was beating. “You have been challenged to a Trial of Strength.”

“What?! That's ridiculous! By who?”

Beside him, Anduin widened his eyes.

A low crunching sound, like that of cracking rock, ground behind him. People in the crowd began to scream as they had before when he and Anduin had been on the plateau.

Wrathion whirled around, pulling the hidden dagger from his belt.

He dropped it with a choked gasp.

Perched upon the yaungolian archway was Sabellian, neck arched and head high, his tail curled about one of the pillars. His eyes were smoldering pits of anger.

“I, Sabellian, Son of Deathwing, do challenge you,” he rumbled, smoke gushing from his mouth. His maw twisted in a satisfied smile, but the anger did not leave his face. “Did you expect any other?”

#wrathion #anduin #sabellian #rexxar #it's short sorry :S

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 33)

Anduin learns of the Vale’s fate, and Wrathion travels to the Timeless Isle.

The cave was dark; the opening was narrow enough that Rexxar had had some trouble getting inside with his broad shoulder span, and the light was blocked by Misha's massive form. The bear sat at the entrance, a gruff ruffle of fur and muscle.

The glowing orbs in Sabellian's snake spaulders lit up the dragon's face. Shadows flickered and shifted along the craggy walls as he paced back and forth. Already a small line of worn-away sand from his repeated back-and-forth was shorn into the soft dirt ground.

“Stupid, foolish girl,” he growled. “I told her to protect the brood. A single task!” He turned when he got to the opposite wall and walked back the way he'd come. Nasandria, curled in her dragon form, watched him from the back of the shallow cave, and so did Rexxar, though the hunter leaned against the western wall.

“Wrathion's rogues attacked,” Rexxar said. “We were told you were going to be killed. Samia had no choice -”

“She had every choice!” Sabellian snapped. He shot a glare at the hunter, but didn't stop his pacing. “I told her to protect the brood, not me. If you were told I would die, then so be it. Now look what's been done!”

After Rexxar had arrived, the hunter had sat Sabellian down at the Celestial Court and had explained all that had happened, both in Blade's Edge and in Azeroth: the ambush from Wrathion's rogues, the poisoned water, the Netherwing, the meeting with Wrathion, and finally the Dragonmaw. Sabellian had gone back to the cave in a flurry of fury, too irate to stay at the Celestial Court or to even stay still.

“Are you not part of the brood?” Rexxar asked. “You're the broodfather.”

“Don't get smart with me, Beastmaster,” Sabellian said. “Protecting her siblings is what I wanted her to do. My fate was irrelevant.”

Rexxar sighed. “If you were dead, Wrathion was still a threat, dragon. Samia and the rest wanted to finish your task. Wrathion would come for them if you were gone. Is killing the Prince not protecting the brood?”

Sabellian growled. “Shut up.” He stopped his pacing with a sudden halt and stood there, chest heaving. “Do you know where they are? The Dragonmaw?” He turned to stare at Rexxar. The Beasmaster looked uncomfortable in the cave: his shoulders were hunched, and even then his head almost hit the ceiling.

Rexxar hesitated. “No,” he said, and Sabellian threw up his hands in the air then began pacing again, a low, angry rumble now thundering in his chest. “I was injured. If I had tracked them, I would not have been able to free them. My animals are strong, but against the legion of proto-drakes, we are little.” Sabellian saw the hunter watching him. “I made a choice, Baron.”

“The wrong one,” Sabellian snapped, but he huffed and went quiet. His boots made soft scuffing noises against the dirt. He knew Rexxar was right, but what could he do? “The Dragonmaw could be in the Eastern Kingdoms by now,” he said. “And I cannot leave this island without falling into madness in only a handful of days.” His hip began to ache. It hadn't healed much, and he did not want Rexxar to see his limp. He stopped his pacing again and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “How can I help my children if I turn against you?”

Rexxar sighed. “Hadn't thought of that,” he admitted. “But we can think of something. Samia and the others cannot just remain in chains.”

“Obviously not, you ingrate!”

Nasandria raised her head from her front paw. “What about Pyria? You said she wasn't captured.”

Rexxar shook his head, and the tassels of the wolf helm swayed. “I don't know,” he said. “She escaped with the netherdrakes during the battle. If the Dragonmaw tracked them down, I have not heard of it.”

The fins along Nasandria's forehead crowned back, and she put her head back down.

Sabellian took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm him down. “I'm going for a walk,” he said, then turned and stalked to the entrance. Misha perked her ears up as he came up to her, but Sabellian managed to skirt past the spirit bear before she could block him in or snuffle his pockets for food.

He winced slightly at the sun. How he missed the night. At least the cave remained a shadowy place. A duo of the giant albatrosses circled above, but careened away at the sight of him. He'd plucked more than one from the sky for meals in these past days, and they knew him in both human and dragon form, now.

Grass stuck to his boots as he walked. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to get some air. Do something. He rubbed at his face and shook his head, and made his way through a large path between two of the massive hills that dotted the island. It smelled of dirt and marsh-salt.

“Foolish, stupid hatchling,” Sabellian grumbled. “Idiot.” What had Samia been thinking? But then again she was always pushing against his ideas, always. She'd never been one to completely obey. She always had to add some complication. It'd been at her insistence that she be the one to investigate Obsidia's Wyrmcult, and her idea to steal the whelps back from the cultists. He sighed roughly. He was closer to the shore, now.

He was at a loss. He'd been truthful when he'd said he'd lose himself in a couple of days if he left the island. How could he find Samia and his other children? Vaxian and Pyria... his blood curled as he thought of orcs on their backs, as he thought of his children being used as machines of war, animals of war. He would have to do something. Have to. He would devour Zaela himself before he allowed his hatchlings to be servants again, especially in the hands of mortals.

But then there was the subject of Wrathion to consider.

He shook his head. No, his children in the hands of the Dragonmaw came first now. They were in the most danger; Wrathion would move more slowly to attack the brood at Blade's Edge, Sabellian was sure. The boy was cocky, smug. He'd think he would have time.

He moved past the haunted village and then a smaller green mound, and the grass led into sand which sunk heavily under his feet.

He stopped.

On the beach, in the very camp where he and Nasandria had first arrived, were a host of mortals. There must have been perhaps twenty of all Horde races. A Tauren and a Pandaren Timewalker busied themselves with throwing a red cloth over the tent near the kite master. Others talked and milled with one another; some had brought mounts. But even from afar Sabellian felt a tension among them, a rippling grit to their faraway words.

What were they doing here? He'd seen a couple of mortals beyond the Timewalkers, but only about three, and they'd seemed very lost. These mortals, however, looked to be exactly where they'd wanted to be.

He went over. The hem of his robe dragged a little on the sand. As he neared, the closest Horde turned to stare at him; some outright glared, particularly an orc who grabbed for the hilt of his axe at his belt. Sabellian resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Sabellian asked, gruff.

“This isle isn't just for the Alliance, dog,” the orc said. Sabellian glanced at him, then looked the others.

“Don't make me repeat the question,” he said.

The Horde glanced at each other, but Sabellian noticed how their shoulders were sagging, how their heads were lowered, how they didn't grip their weapons. They were exhausted. Out of it. Too tired to fight, it seemed – save for the orc.

“Thought we'd explore this place a bit,” the goblin said. “Better here than on the mainland, yeah?”

“The mainland's interesting enough,” Sabellian said. “I don't see much wrong with it.” Just his luck. He'd gotten used to his free-flights around the isle without having to worry about mortals. He should have known more would flock here.

The goblin stared at him. “Talkin' about the Vale, moron.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. “The Vale?”

“Yes,” a blood elf said. A frazzled-looking pink crane bobbed at her side. “It's been destroyed.”

Sabellian paused. Destroyed was a harsh term. It'd been a golden and beautiful place, warm on the scales and pleasing to the eye. He'd gotten the binding waters there for his sleeping elixir.

And he'd remembered the voices in the water.

“Destroyed,” Sabellian repeated. “By what?”

The group glanced at each other again in dark, nervous looks. The orc averted his eyes.

“Garrosh dragged up an Old God's heart and dumped it into the pools,” the undead of the party, an unsavory looking fellow with a worm dangling at his left ear, finally said. “Sucked up all the water. Didn't see it myself, but I heard the Vale got burnt up like a parchment in flame. Whoosh. Gone.”

Sabellian felt a sudden rush in his head. The last half of the undead's sentence fell dim. “An Old God's heart?”

“That's what I heard,” the undead said. The silence of the other Horde told Sabellian the truth of it. The shame of their own Warchief felt touchable. “Why we're all here. We don't want to deal with that.”

“Brave of you,” Sabellian said, more as an after-thought. The blood elf glared at him.

He thought.

Yes, something had felt off about the pools. The voice had been enough of an indication, but – a physical manifestation of an Old God was far more powerful than their whispers.

He glanced idly at the sand at his feet. He hadn't felt anything, no hint that the Gods were grabbing a hold of him. He just hoped this new, unearthed power wouldn't be enough to wiggle through the time-barriers here.

Samia. His children.

They were in Pandaria.

“How much did this corruption spread?” Sabellian asked. Titans! Samia and the others hadn't been here half as long as he had been, so they wouldn't fall corrupted so quickly.

But if there was an Old God brought up from the shadows -

“Don't know,” the goblin said. “Got a big ol' smoke smog that busted up over the mountains, but think it was just contained to the Vale. I think, anywho.” He shrugged. “I'm here, y'know, just to be safe.”

Maybe it would be best if the Dragonmaw were in the Eastern Kingdoms. Anywhere but here. The sense of anger and urgency rose in his chest. He needed to go back and inform the others. Servants of mortals was one thing. Servants of their old masters? No. No, he could not let that happen. Never again.

“You're welcome,” the goblin grumbled as Sabellian began walking away.

Up until he heard the last fragment of another group's conversation.

“- I'm telling ya, mon, I saw him. Headed right this way. Tell me, who else is gonna be a little purple dragon? Prince Wrathion!”

Sabellian stopped.

He turned back and headed over to the troll, standing with a small, black-furred tauren. They watched him come.

“What did you say?” he demanded of the troll. The troll blinked.

“'Bout what?”

“The prince!”

“Oh! Yeah, mon, saw him sailing this way on a couple of kites. Overtook him pretty fast on mah' bat, yknow, but sure as Har'koa it was him.” She shot a grin to her tauren friend, who huffed quietly.

“I don't think it's him,” the tauren said. “I heard he was in Townlong Steppes, Bahga.”

“Nah. That was long time ago. I'm telling you. It was a black dragon whelp. And there were those rogues.” Bahga looked at Sabellian and nodded. “You a champion of his? Me too.”

“Not quite.” Sabellian glanced at the sea. It was calm except for perhaps a couple yards off, where a line of the ocean began violently choppy, topped with white-caps. The wind barrier, clearly. “How far off was he?”

“Mm. Dunno. An hour or two, might be,” the troll said. “Figure he wants a piece of this place's power like some of us. Not surprisin' me.”

Or he's running.

Sabellian watched the sea. He flexed and unflexed his hands.

“My thanks,” he rumbled to the two, and he headed back to the cave.

He had some planning to do.

---

It was dark and warm in the room when Anduin woke.

He stared at the ceiling. He knew he was in his room; he could see the end-feathers of the Chi-ji mural out of the corner of his eye, painted on the western wall. The paint was specter-like in the darkness.

It took a moment for Anduin to feel anything, and when he did, he felt only a tired ache. As he stirred, he grimaced. Even the tips of his fingers had a distinct, painful tingling.

Someone else was in the room. Anduin could hear them breathing. Who –

Fear. Sudden and bright.

The Vale.

A rush of images: Garrosh. The chest. Taran Zhu, speared upon Gorehowl. The font of blackness, the destruction, the curdling metal.

The Vale.

He sat up. Too quickly, it seemed – the room spun. He didn't care. He needed to see the Vale.

Anduin grabbed the covers. The windows to the right of the room were closed off with red curtains. Only a sliver of light managed to struggle through the slip at the center.

Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Anduin tensed and turned. It was his father. The king sat at his bedside in an armchair he seemed to have dragged up close to Anduin's bed. He was not wearing his armor. In its place were casual clothes: nothing more than a wrinkled tunic and dark blue pants. His eyes were worn with blackened circles.

“Take it slow, Anduin,” he said. “You've been in bed for two days.”

Anduin glanced at the windows again.

“Father. The Vale.”

No, a bad dream, he -

Varian sighed, and his shoulder fell. And Anduin knew.

“There was nothing we could do,” Varian said. His voice had the hesitant quality of rehearsed words. “It spread too quickly.”

“No.” It came out as a croak. “No, no.”

“Anduin, son, I'm sorry.”

“Let me see it.”

Varian hesitated, but then he let go of Anduin's shoulder, stood, and offered his hand. Anduin ignored it. He swung his legs to the side, braced his feet on the floor, then stood, withholding a grimace. The covers sloughed off.

Varian dropped his hand. Anduin moved past him. His limp was pronounced, but he ignored it like he'd ignored his father. The Vale. The Vale was all he wanted to see. His heart beat hard as he neared the silent windows.

And then he was before them. He took a deep breath and grabbed each curtains with both of his hands, curling the fabric in-between his fingers.

Another deep breath.

He yanked open the curtains. Light flooded into the room.

The light was not the golden light of the Vale – it was instead a graying, crystalline light that reminded him of the metal on the warships.

And where the Vale once stood was now a smoldering burn with a suffering like the Dead Scar.

The plains had been burned of their golden grass and now roiled with an endless scorch-mark of black and gray, and the trees were warped, twisted husks. The pools were pits; no glimmer of the blessed water remained. Even the very pagoda that Garrosh had tossed the Heart through was demolished. In its stead floated a collection of massive Sha-crystals, milky-white and glowing.

Anduin stared at it all.

And then he cried out and punched the window.

It didn't shatter. His fist only thunked solidly upon the glass, and Anduin hardly felt the pain in his knuckles, for the sudden ice in his chest, in his gut, in his heart, was all-consuming. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the window pane, and the glass was cool against his skin.

He felt Varian grab his shoulder again, and received no comfort from his father's grip.

“This should never have happened,” Anduin croaked. “I promised Xuen – I promised...”

He'd said peace was possible between the Horde and the Alliance. That they could be responsible when given a blessing like the Vale. Light, he'd tried so hard for the Vale to be opened, and now – now this.

“This is all my fault.”

Varian squeezed his shoulder. Anduin scrunched his eyes up tighter and felt angry tears burn at their corners.

“Son, the Celestials knew what risks they were taking when they opened the Vale,” Varian said, voice gruff. “This isn't your fault. This is Garrosh's fault.”

“But I should have never – I never should have gone to Xuen! They knew what they were doing – they had it closed because something like this could happen!” Anduin straightened and opened his eyes, and the two lonely tears fell down his cheeks. He glared at the devastation and gripped hard onto the curtains, still balled up in his right hand. Selfish – so selfish. He'd wanted so badly to see what was inside like a child. He'd wanted so badly to study the pools. He'd wanted so many things and now here he saw the consequences of his actions: an ancient paradise burnt to a crater.

“Anduin, listen to me. If you hadn't convinced the Celestials to open this place, someone else would have. Or someone would have forced it open. I don't hold that against Garrosh. If he wanted to get into this place, there wouldn't have been a lot stopping him.” He pulled Anduin back, and Anduin, too dazed and angry and upset to move from his father's hold, let himself be moved. Varian turned him so he was facing him. “I know how important this place was to you. But you can't blame yourself for what someone else did.”

Anduin hesitated. He let go of the curtains and rubbed angrily at his face. Maybe his father was right. He huffed. Yes, speaking of selfishness! The Vale was gone, and all he could so was put pity on himself by blaming himself...

“How many are dead?” he asked, trying to change the subject to something else he needed answered. This time, Varian was the one to hesitate.

“We don't have exact numbers,” he said. “We haven't been able to get many people down to the Vale to retrieve bodies. There's Sha energies everywhere; a couple people were corrupted when they tried to go into the remains of the valley.” The king sighed. “But most of the Golden Lotus is gone. I'm sorry, Anduin.”

Anduin sucked in a breath. He felt like he'd known that – he'd seen the statue fall atop their pagoda, seen the scourge sweep over their lines of defense – but hearing it was different. They were his good friends, ones he'd made when he'd first got into the Vale, far before the Alliance fleet landed on Pandaria. They'd studied the pools together, they'd...

He tried not to cry. He was the prince, and he'd already cried once; he shouldn't cry again.

But it was hard.

Varian must have seen it in his face, for the king pulled him in for a hug and Anduin let him. He made a low noise – a withheld sob, stuttering in his throat – and leaned his forehead against his father's chest.

Varian said nothing. He didn't have to. Anduin was grateful for the silence. If his father had started speaking, he might cry for sure.

After a moment, Anduin pulled away. The anger was a dull, sad ache in his chest now. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. It was difficult to stem the the pain; the destruction of the Vale now felt like a brand upon his inner-eye, dark and leeching.

But he must. He must stem it. He was the Prince; his feelings came last. He had to focus on what was to come with a steady heart.

“What happened after I blacked out?” Anduin asked.

Varian sighed. “Garrosh pulled up the heart from the pools,” he explained, voice grim and low and angry. “He's retreated back into Orgrimmar. The mantid followed him.”

Anduin stared at him. His father's words felt as if they were coming in punched increments, only half-understood.

“The mantid?” Anduin repeated. Varian nodded.

“They swarmed over the Wall during the explosion.” Varian shook his head. “The Shado-pan were overrun by the chaos. They couldn't stop them.”

The mantid... of course. He'd heard they were followers of the Old Gods. Who had told him that? Anduin looked out at the window and at the darkness.

“You saved a lot of lives, Anduin,” Varian said. Anduin looked back at him, uncomprehending. He'd done nothing. He couldn't even walk down the stairs during the battle. “When you shielded the balcony. A dozen people lived through that.”

Anduin frowned. He could have done a lot more if he'd been stronger.

He looked at the Vale again. He felt cold and dull, now. Even the pain was growing weaker. He was going into shock but couldn't bring himself to tell his father.

“When will the siege begin?”

Varian shrugged. “Two weeks, I'd guess. We have to transport the troops.”

Anduin glanced at the Big Blossom Dig and felt the stirring of anger.

“I want to be there,” he said, and his voice was a growl.

---

Wrathion dug his claws into the fabric of the kite.

The coast of the Jade Forest grew hazy behind them, and below and stretching miles ahead rippled the Great Sea. They had not been flying for very long, but salt had already begun to collect along Wrathion's scales and at the corners of his eyes. He squinted through the breeze.

“We'll be there soon, my Prince,” Left said. The orc was guiding the kite. Two other kites flew behind them, manned by other Blacktalon agents. Most had stayed behind.

He crouched closer to the taut fabric of the vehicle. After he had decided to leave the Tavern, preparations had been promptly handled: the kites were prepared, the agents given their tasks, and the most trustworthy of them had been chosen to accompany the Prince himself. Left had also received news about the Vale from the only agent stationed there that had survived. The agent had been half-delusional, but Left had managed to get information from her. Garrosh, she'd said, had pulled Y'Shaarj's still-beating heart from the Big Blossom Dig and had dumped it into the pools. It'd resulted in a massive, blackened explosion like the one Wrathion had seen in his vision. The Vale now stood as a smoking epicenter.

“How do you know it's His heart?” Left had asked.

“It speaks.” And the rogue had disconnected.

Wrathion had been withdrawn and distracted when Left had delivered the information; he felt as if he knew it before she'd told him. Now, he just wanted to get to the isle as fast as possible. Separate himself from the mainland – and from It – until this all blew over.

Wrathion was trying to doze on the kite – something not easily down with the buoying of the wind – when he saw through the slit of his eyes a foggy coastline appear from the line of the horizon. He opened his eyes and squinted through the salty air.

“The island?” he asked. Left shrugged.

“I would think so, my Prince.”

They glided closer. It began to look like a hunk of the Jade Forest: green, bright, soft with foliage and hilled with tall, thin mounds of verdant rock and cliff.

“Hold on,” Left said. Wrathion grunted; he already was.

And then the wind rocked and writhed around them. The kite bounced like a bucking horse. Wrathion gripped on so hard that his claws punctured through the fabric and his wings flapped up and down with the wild swaying.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. Wrathion opened one eye, not realizing he'd closed them during the sudden typhoon. The Timeless Isle spread before them, a map of green and overgrown ivy and stone.

“The wind barrier,” he muttered. He remembered his agents mentioning something about it in their sprawling report. He relaxed, but found his claws were stuck to the kite. He tried to discreetly pull them out as Left began to glide them to the sandy coast for a landing, but they didn't budge.

Landing a kite was more difficult than landing a gryphon or wyvern; kites didn't have minds of their own and couldn't simply stop flying and flutter down with grace. Maybe it was good that his claws were stuck for the landing so he wouldn't careen off the blasted thing when they fell.

Left crouched as the sand swept up to them, then pulled back sharply on the horn at the front of the kite. The kite bucked back and slowed, and at the last possible moment, the orc jumped from it and landed on her feet, hand still on the horn. She braced her feet in the sand and then managed to turn and pull the vehicle with her, and it slid to the ground with only a couple of bumps.

Wrathion, hunkered down against the kite, straightened up once it'd stilled. “Excellent landing, Left,” he muttered, then, baring his teeth, pulled his claws back. They popped out of the fabric, though pieces of red string remained tangled around some of his talons. He huffed, hopped off the kite, then, frowning at how he sank into the sand, shifted into his human form. He brushed himself off. The other two kites landed behind them.

He looked around and rubbed his hands together. Lush, green, and decidedly humid, the Timeless Isle looked like an extension of the Jade Forest, as if it were a shard that had split off from the coast in some quake. But despite the familiar scents of earthy rain and foliage, there was another, wispy but striking. It reminded Wrathion of stepping into an old building: must and sand and rusting metal.

A couple of large green turtles, forests of algae growing their backs, languished near the rocky part of the shore a little farther up. They glanced dully at the newcomers and the sand was kicked up with strangers' footsteps. Echoing bird calls cried from far above, and Wrathion looked up. Enormous albatrosses circled at the tops of the hills that towered around them.

“It doesn't seem very – magical,” Wrathion said. It looked like a regular island. Except for that odd smell, nothing seemed... off. He glanced behind his shoulder. Left and the four other agents were tying the kites up. They'd brought some camping supplies, but Wrathion figured they would be worthless; Kairoz and the Timewalkers were said to be here. Surely they had a camp.

“Leave them,” Wrathion said. “Let's make our way, yes?”

He turned and walked through the sand. His feet sank into the sand as he headed to the end of the beach, where the beach gave way to short, rocky dunes and then grass.

He didn't get three feet until a flurry of wings curved around the bend of the closest hill, and a giant bronze dragon sailed into view.

Wrathion stopped. He heard Left and the others grab their weapons, metal clinking. The dragon hovered, wings beating back and forth; a whirl of sand scattered around each flurry of air.

It landed before Wrathion atop the rock-dunes and folded its wings. Three horns flanked each side of its head, and its eyes were a distinct blood-blue.

It shifted. The smoke cleared, and there stood Kairoz, robes bright white and shining in the sun.

Wrathion straightened in surprise. “And here I was just thinking about you,” he said. “I didn't think Bronze Dragons could read minds.”

Kairoz chuckled. “No. Not quite,” he said, then bowed his head in greeting. “I saw your kites descend; there's not many that wear such a similar array of clothing as you and your agents do, Prince Wrathion.”

“No. I guess not,” Wrathion said. “So, ah -?”

“I'm pleased you finally made it, at least,” Kairoz interrupted smoothly. “I had heard what happened at the Vale.” He shook his head. “I suspect many others will be following your lead.”

“I wasn't running, if that's what you're implying.”

“No, no. I meant no disrespect.” Kairoz nodded back to the Isle. “But people will hear. They will come, rather than stay and see their failures.” He looked back at Wrathion with a sudden, intent expression that caught the prince off-guard. “I can show you around the island.”

“Yes. That'd be … welcome,” Wrathion replied. He wondered. He hadn't seen Kairoz flying during their descent on the kites, and yet the bronze had said he'd seen them during his own flight. Curious. He shrugged it off. Coincidence, nothing more.

---

Kairoz showed them the most important parts of the island: they visited shrines, an abandoned town, a raised peninsula to the west where a small section of yaungol prayed and Wrathion learned of their fire god, Ordos.

“He is on the island?” Wrathion asked. They were headed to the Celestial Court, which Kairoz had said was the center of activity at the island, and somewhere he had an item he wanted to show Wrathion.

“Yes, but he appears sporadically,” Kairoz said. “He does not appear often; we believe he is summoned by the yaungol, but he cannot stay in the physical plane for long.”

Wrathion glanced up at the shadowy peninsula. “Have you seen him?”

“Once.” Kairoz glanced at him sidelong. “Larger than a dragon, set ablaze with smoldering flesh and coat.” He turned away. Wrathion followed his gaze. The overgrown path was thinning beneath their feet, revealing worn, sliced rock. It snaked through the taller grass and led toward a yaungolian arch far-off. “The Celestials are bothered by his presence, but they have not taken action yet.”

Wrathion stuttered in his step. “The Celestials?”

Kairoz smiled. “It is called the Celestial Court for a reason, young prince,” he said. “But they have just arrived as you have.”

They passed through the arch and into an open arena, the center of which was sunken a few feet into the ground. Mortals milled around, talking in constrained conversations. Vendors had set up shop around the outer ring. The smell of cooking food hooked at Wrathion's attention, but it was quickly overshadowed when he saw the Celestials.

He slowed his walk. At each corner, standing in front of a column with their respective visages, were the great spirits of Pandaria. Closest to him were Chi-ji, to the left, and Xuen, to the right. Yu'lon and Niuzao were at the other far sides.

Wrathion made a low noise. He hadn't seen the Celestials since his trials, and had left them with a bad taste in his mouth. Xuen and Yu'lon had both blindfolded him and let his champions beat on him – and Niuzao and Chi-ji had sent a vision of his own father against him.

He was still bitter.

“Why are they here?” Wrathion asked. Kairoz slowed to a stop. Some mortals close by glanced at them, but they were not his champions, so Wrathion ignored their vaguely hostile looks.

“To challenge,” Kairoz said.

“Challenge who?”

“Anyone who wishes to test themselves.” Wrathion flinched; Xuen had spoken, and the great White Tiger turned to look at him. His white eyes glowed like molten iron. “I had hoped to see you here, young prince.”

“Did you.” Wrathion rolled his shoulders back. “Well, here I am.” He forced a smile.

One of Xuen's ears twitched.

“You have healed,” Niuzao said. The low voice of the Black Ox felt like a vibration in his chest, even with the Celestial on the other side of the arena.

Wrathion stared at him, unsure if the Celestial was making a weak joke. He still had his arm in a sling and his nose was vaguely purple from where Samia had cracked him in the face.

“From my trials, yes,” Wrathion said slowly, and Niuzao grunted and shook out his shaggy head. He said nothing more, and Chi-ji and Yu'lon only gave Wratihon sympathetic glances and remained quiet, much to his thanks.

He glanced again at Kairoz. The bronze was fiddling with something shiny, black, and oval in his hand, but at Wrathion's look, the little piece vanished in his grip. “Well? What was this item you were talking about?”

“Ah. Yes.” Kairoz turned and walked to a low-standing stone table to their left. Wrathion followed.

In the center of the table stood a large hourglass. It was empty of sand and the glass was so shined that it seemed to glow as it reflected the unmoving sun's light, and curled around it were two bronze dragons, eyes made of rubies.

“I call it the Vision of Time,” Kairoz said, and placed his hand atop the hourglass.

“Fascinating,” Wrathion said, blandly. “And it's empty.”

Kairoz smiled. He looked at Wrathion. “For now,” he said. “With the mortals finally arriving, I'll be able to collect far more Epoch Stones to fuel the Hourglass.”

“Epoch Stones.”

“Yes. Very curious objects. They are rare in the Caverns of Time, but here? They are rather plentiful. Think of them as growths, or tumors – the concentrated deposit of magic in this place. They manifest in the ground, the animals, the plants... and once crushed, they act as the sand for the Hourglass. I have tried it once. The Stones are powerful, but burn up with each activation. I'll need many of them to sustain the Glass.”

Wrathion glanced at the bronze dragons of the hourglass. “And what does it do, exactly?”

Kairoz took his hand off the top. “Once I have enough Stones, I'll show you.”

Wrathion huffed, but he remained staring at the Vision of Time for a moment more with a hungry look. Perhaps he could use these Epoch Stones for his champions' cloaks? Yes, that might do them well.

“Thank you for the tour,” Wrathion drawled. “I need to think. Plan, if you will.”

Kairoz bowed his head. His long blond hair fell around his face. “I'll leave you be, Prince Wrathion,” he said, and straightened. “If you need any more assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.”

---

Two days passed.

Anduin stood at the archway that led out to the patio of the Shrine of Seven Stars – the one that overlooked the Vale. The remaining Golden Lotus, aided by the Shado-pan, had forbade anyone from going outside. The Sha energies Varian had mentioned remained, and no one wanted a repeat of when the Alliance had brought in the Sha-claw and it had infested people inside the Shrine.

Today, it was deemed that the energies had dulled to a safe level. They were allowed outside. Anduin, who hadn't slept, was one of the first to stand at the archway and be let through. He'd tried to leave, yesterday, but the Golden Lotus had denied even him.

He was only one of a handful of people waiting to be let out. There must have only been ten or so, mingling quietly near the archway. They gave him a wide berth, even though Anduin had dismissed his guards. He'd wanted to be alone for this.

The Golden Lotus guard at the front of the archway, blocking the way with his great girth, looked behind his shoulder, nodded at someone unseen, then moved away. He looked at Anduin, then, and Anduin looked at him. The pandaren flicked his ears and frowned.

He nodded.

Anduin braced himself.

He walked outside.

It was colder, dreary. He felt no sun on his face. He looked up and saw it struggling to shine through the coalesced gray clouds.

He'd watched the Vale outside of the windows for hours, only pulled away from it when he was called for food. His father had been watching him like a hawk. Anduin knew he was waiting for him to snap, or to try to run away, or leave, or something.

But Anduin hadn't. He'd felt a dullness that hadn't lifted as the days had gone by. He'd cried himself to sleep the first night, yes, but the second night, he'd stared blankly at the ceiling until the sun had come up.

The loss of the Vale was a pit in his chest and in his spirit, until even his anger at Garrosh felt like a hollow pinging.

Some greater emotion rose again in his chest as he looked at the Vale now. It had seemed like some enchanted vision, some false image, when he'd been looking through the window. Like he could think it was fake. But now, among the cold sun and clouds, among the silence, he saw the truth of it. Felt it. There was a heaviness to the air that pushed on his shoulders – the Sha.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He imprinted the darkness upon his mind. He had to remember this. Remember the pain of losing.

“Damn shame.”

Anduin opened his eyes and turned. Admiral Taylor came to stand at his side, arms crossed. He was looking at the Vale.

“Yeah.” He looked out at the destruction again. “It is.”

They stood in a comfortable silence for a time. Not many others joined them outside. Then again, not many remained in the Shrine to begin with. Those that hadn't stayed behind for relief efforts had gone to the Barrens to help with the siege, or to some new, strange island Anduin had only heard a bit about: the Timeless Isle.

“I didn't know you were here, Admiral,” Anduin said. Taylor glanced at him sidelong.

“Just arrived from Lion's Landing yesterday,” he said. He rolled his shoulders back and his pauldrons clinked noisily. “Waiting for the king's orders.”

Anduin nodded. “You'll be taking part in the siege, then?”

“Mhm. I'm the Admiral of the Lion's Fleet, prince.”

Anduin snorted softly. “I know. Forgive me, I'd forgotten.”

“Glad to hear you'll be there,” the Admiral said, and Anduin frowned at him. “Your father told me. Surprised me, really. Didn't think he'd let you go.”

“You're glad I'll be there?” Anduin repeated. “It... seems like you'd be the opposite.”

Taylor huffed. “Boy, I chased you around an uncharted continent for months. But you found this place. Helped a lot of people. Now Garrosh has done – this.” He looked at Anduin with his perpetual scowl, but he softened for an almost imperceptible moment. “You deserve to be at the siege more than any of us, I'd think.”

Anduin smiled slightly. “Thanks, Taylor.” He paused. “I'm sorry for what I put you through, all those months ago.”

Taylor snorted. “So am I, boy,” he said. “But we got a good adventure out of it, didn't we? Sailors love to hear all about it.” He spoke blandly, like he was trying to find some good that came out of it. Anduin felt a little guilty, but at least they'd both survived – as had all of the SI:7 that had come to find him.

Two adventurers, a human and a dwarf, passed by them. The human nodded to Anduin, and he smiled back. He watched them disappear down the stairs.

“The Golden Lotus will be doing some relief efforts near the western river,” Anduin said. Thankfully, the scourge that had rippled across the Vale had lost steam after the destruction of the statues, and hadn't devoured the enitre Vale; it'd stopped near the river-banks leading up to Mistfall Village. “I was planning on going down there and helping until it's time to leave.”

“About that.”

Anduin glanced at Taylor. The man shifted his weight from side to side. His cloak swayed.

“You hear about the Timeless Isle?” Taylor asked. Anduin shrugged.

“A little. I know a lot of adventurers had headed over there. It's near the Jade Forest?”

“Yeah. Right off the coast,” Taylor said. “Some strange time anomaly's there. It just appeared from the mists, they say. And time just doesn't move.”

“So it's – frozen?”

“No. I mean time doesn't move. Sun doesn't shift. Other magical stuff there, but I'll be damned if I understand any of it.” Taylor shrugged largely, then scratched at the side of his nose. “We sent a couple of our agents there, but haven't gotten a lot of information back on the subject.”

Anduin frowned. Had it been before the Vale's destruction, he would have been asking so many more questions, been far too invested in learning about this new place. Now he just felt a dull interest in comparison. He still wasn't “over” what had happened, here; he knew it would take a long time for him to heal. Maybe as long as it took the Vale to.

But he stared at Taylor, and his frown deepened.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. Taylor wasn't the sort to bring up things randomly. The man was tactful and to-the-point. Everything had a reason for being said.

Taylor sighed. It sounded like a low groan coming from his mouth. “Your father wants you to go there.”

Anduin stared.

“What?”

Taylor turned to him. “He wants you to explore it. A little. In safe increments.”

“My father wants me to explore a new, strange place,” Anduin said, bluntly. He furrowed his brows, thought that over, then said: “I'm going to the siege.”

“I know. You'll be there. It's just the king wants you to be – ugh – not here.” Taylor threw up his hands in the air in a frustrated swing. “He just doesn't want you to be around the Vale right now. Light knows what's really down there,” he said, then gestured to the valley. “Sha are crawling everywhere, and -”

“I purged the Sha of Despair from the Temple of the Red Crane,” Anduin interrupted. “I can handle Sha. And I can help with the corruption here until the siege!”

Taylor huffed. A low thrumming sounded from the valley and echoed off. It reminded him of the groaning of a ship's wood. They glanced down, but nothing moved save for small, wiggling splots of black Anduin knew were lesser Sha.

“Your father wants you safe until the siege,” Taylor said, turning again to Anduin. “No meddling with Sha, or any of this business. Can't blame him. I'm surprised he isn't shipping you off to Stormwind.”

Anduin set his lips in a thin line and glared out at the Vale, unseeing. He'd been waiting these past two days to go out and help, and he was immediately being ushered away! He shook his head. He should have known that his father's agreement that he could come to the siege would come with a price.

But, as Taylor had said, he wasn't being packed off to Stormwind...

“I'll be coming with you,” Taylor said.

“What? Really?”

Taylor grunted. “The king thought it'd be appropriate,” he said.

Anduin had to smile at that. Poetic, he thought. Taylor and he had started all of this, hadn't they? It felt like so long ago they'd crashed on the shore...

But his smile left too quickly. He glanced out at the statues, at where the upper half of the left mogu had fallen and crushed the pagoda. Maybe if he was in a better mood he could argue this. Or just go down to the Village himself on his gryphon, like he'd done when he'd snuck out to Right's funeral.

He could do a lot of things. But he just didn't have the energy or spirit.

He lowered his shoulders. Maybe it'd be best if he walked away for a while.

“Fine,” he sighed. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” Taylor said, and he looked vaguely relieved. Surely he expected Anduin to argue, too. “Get some supplies ready.”

---

Wrathion wasn't sure how much time had passed.

It might have been a day, or two, or twelve. The information he'd picked up from Kairoz, and from his agents, seemed to all prove true: the island had no aspect of time. The sun didn't move. The temperature stayed the same. Even the shoreline remained stagnant; the current and tide never changed.

At least news from beyond the island was quick to filter in as more mortals had come to the island. Wrathion, of course, had his connection to his agents that had remained on the mainland, but nothing was quite like getting rumors from the wyvern's mouth, as it were.

He both did and did not want to hear about Y'shaarj, or what was suspected to be Y'shaarj. One part of him wanted to know. He was the Black Prince, and needed to remain informed. The other part was Wrathion, who didn't want to remember – or think about – the voice he'd heard when the Vale had imploded, or when he'd been consumed by the Sha, which seemed like so long ago.

His professionalism won against his cowardice, in the end. Some of his champions who had been at the Vale told him about the heart. They also told him about the mantid, and the Klaxxi. One particular human delivered the latter news with a drawn, dark expression, and Wrathion realized this mortal must have been one of the few to befriend the mantid in the Dread Wastes. What did the human expect to happen, making friends with Old God servants?

He'd also decided to put the Dragonmaw on “the back-burner,” as mortals would say. The Vale business, and the upcoming siege, came first, and he hadn't yet heard anything about how the Dragonmaw – or the black dragons they had – had fared during the implosion. If Samia and Vaxian were in the epicenter of Old God corruption... well. Wrathion could only guess what could have happened to them.

But he'd find out soon enough once things settled down.

He'd gotten his hands on a couple of Epoch Stones, too. With Kairoz's suggestion, he crushed the rocks and played around with the magic within them. He was surprised by their potency; he thought the Bronze had been trying to impress him, but Kairoz had not been exaggerating.

He was busy trying to figure out how to use his earth magic to push the crushed sand of the Epoch Stones into fabric when Left, standing behind him as always, made a low noise to catch his attention.

Wrathion looked up from the test fabric. He was sitting at the same stone table, but the Vision of Time had since been moved and Kairoz was busy taking a fly-over of the upper yaungol terrace. The crowd had since doubled in population at the Celestial Court, and more merchants had set up. Conversation bubbled. Most gave the stone table a wide berth – mostly because of Left's scalding glances whenever they grew too close.

“What, Left?” Wrathion glanced back at her, and the orc, staring intently ahead, nodded forward. He followed her gaze and squinted through the crowd.

Oh.

Coming toward him were two Alliance guardsmen; the crowd parted for them. At the side was Admiral Taylor, his face in a scowl, and he saw Wrathion at nearly the same moment Wrathion saw him. The admiral's scowl deepened, but he glanced to the side at someone behind the guards.

The guards' formation split enough at the middle for just a moment, but a moment long enough that Wrathion saw Anduin Wrynn walking behind them – and Anduin saw him. The Prince of Stormwind's face hardened as their eyes met, and then the guards' walked closer together again and blocked the prince from view.

Even still, they approached the table, and when the group grew close, the guards split away and positioned themselves at Anduin's sides. Admiral Taylor's scowl had magnified to intense levels, and he didn't take his eyes off of Wrathion.

The Black Prince ignored him.

He stared at Anduin. Anduin stared at him.

The blond prince looked pale. His eyes were drawn, his hair brittle. He even looked thinner. Despite his frail appearance, his eyes had the impassive anger of a far-off storm.

“I didn't expect you to be here, Prince Anduin,” Wrathion said. He surprised himself with how smooth his voice sounded. Oh, he remembered too well how they had left each other, the last time they'd been together – and it looked like Anduin did, too.

“I didn't expect to be here, either,” Anduin said with a little coldness.

Silence. They stared at each other.

Wrathion swallowed and stood from his seat at the table. “Can I offer you a seat? I'm sure -”

“I'm fine,” Anduin said. The Prince of Stormwind watched him with that same impassive anger. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, well, I was rather interested in studying the properties of this island,” Wrathion said, trying not to trip over his words as Anduin stared at him. And it wasn't quite a lie. He nodded to the test fabric, sprinkled over with the glinting silver dust. “It's so fascinating, my Prince -”

“Don't call me that.”

Wrathion hesitated. “My apologies,” he said. He needed to get a hold of himself. “Prince Anduin.”

Anduin nodded slightly, but the blond prince frowned and looked Wrathion up and down. Surely he saw the healing, broken nose, or how Left favored her right side behind him. He was perceptive like that.

The blond softened a little.

“How are you?” Anduin asked, then, and Wrathion relaxed.

“Fine,” Wrathion said. “And I suppose you're – doing well?”

“You heard about the Vale, didn't you?”

“Yes. I did,” Wrathion said. He cleared his throat. No wonder Anduin looked like a walking wreck. Of course the Vale's destruction would hit him so hard. “It's... a great tragedy.”

Anduin sighed.

Silence descended on them again. Wrathion felt as if they were in their own little bubble, separated from the bustle of the crowd around. Even the merchant cries sounded vague and indistinct.

“Prince Anduin, perhaps we could talk?” Wrathion eyed Taylor. “Alone.”

Taylor glared at him.

“Boy,” Taylor said, “I don't think -”

“It's okay, Admiral,” Anduin said. “Not right now, Wrathion. Later. I'd like to look around first.”

“Oh. Of course! It's quite a spectacle,” Wrathion said.

Anduin glanced sidelong at the Celestials, and his gaze lingered on Chi-ji. The Crane must have sensed the boy's gaze, for he looked over and bowed his head to the prince. Anduin smiled – a real smile – in response, then nodded and looked away.

“I can see that,” Anduin said, and he watched Wrathion for a moment more before he backed away from the table. “If you'll excuse us.”

“Uh – yes.”

Anduin nodded, and again his face became flat and impassive. He and his entourage walked past the table, though Taylor gave Wrathion a lingering, warning glare before they disappeared into the crowd.

Wrathion put a hand on his face and groaned.

#wrathion #anduin wrynn #sabellian #varian wrynn

[baron-sablemane]

I just caught up on your story, and it's amazing!! I would have to stop and take breathers cause I was so blown away! A story has never made me hate a character and then love them again immediately (Wrathion). I'm so excited to read the upcoming chapters.

Hey, thanks so much!

And, haha - I'm pleased to hear that about Wrathion, too. He's been really fun to write, and your reactions are pretty much what I was going for with his story/actions!

#samusaran221

[baron-sablemane]

I've finally gotten part 32 out, so I can share a bit of the editing process I've been working on.

I've gone ahead and split the story into two parts. Parts 1 through 16 encompass the first storyline. Part 17 to Part 32 encompass the second, and has come to an end. Think of them like two different books in a series.

While I'll be working on the third part, I'll also be going back and editing Part 1. Once this is complete, I will reupload the edited version in some other digital form on the blog. I'm still trying to work out how I can do this. An online PDF, maybe.

One hope of mine is that this edited version will accurately portray chapters as they're meant to be read - not as the huge "parts," but where each PoV is a chapter. I don't have any sort of release date for it yet. Soon™. Part 2 will be edited after.

As always, thank y'all so much for the support, for your amazing feedback, and for the follows. I cannot thank you ENOUGH. You guys are the best.

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 32)

Garrosh arrives at the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, and with him brings a threat to Pandaria's greatest sanctuary.

Four days ago

Things had happened too fast, and then happened all at once.

Rexxar had seen Pyria safely get into the Auction House. Afterward, he had waited with the nether-drakes near the rise to the caves. It had been a short wait, but a tense one. The drakes kept sparking off with nether energy. Ozaku, the big warrior, kept insisting they charge in.

Then Vaxian had arrived.

Telkazu the Onyx had been the first to see the massive dragon sail in from the mountains. The nether-drake had only a moment to point of the dragon before Vaxian, his group of nether-drakes flying behind him, had descended upon the Auction House and set it aflame.

In the single instant, the plan was gone. Pyria and the others were still in the Auction House, but with Vaxian's appearance, the odds had evened.

Ozaku got his charge.

“Go,” Rexxar snarled, and the nether-drakes needed no other prompting.

Putting aside his earlier wariness, the half-orc lifted from his hiding place and charged into battle.

The nether-drakes shifted into their true forms and bound beside him and then past him, hides flashing by in blue and black and green, so bright their shining bodies looked as if they were made of the rawest, purest colors.

Dragonmaw fled the inside of the Auction House. Others from the side, near the chained proto-drakes both dominated and the new ones bought, came around the front to see Vaxian sail in for another barrage of flame.

The orcs did not see the nether-drakes until the drakes outran Rexxar and leaped into the nearest group of Dragonmaw, teeth flashing in anger.

Vaxian and the group of drakes swooped above them and banked suddenly to the side. A quick glance, and Rexxar saw they were headed toward where other Dragonmaw were quickly mounting on their proto-drakes.

Chaos. Rexxar joined the fray, Leokk at his side. The wyvern leaped on one of the orcs and began to maul the orc from the back. Rexxar smashed the butt of his axe into another Dragonmaw, who'd been about to skewer Shellak's side.

Some of the orcs noticed him, but most were focused on getting the proto-drakes at the side of the Auction House ready for flight. They stared dumbly at him. Did they recognize him? Rexxar didn't care. He cut some of them down to give the drakes breathing room.

“We must open a line for Samia and the others to escape,” Rexxar said to Telkazu. The drake nodded.

“Provided they escape the fire,” she said, then leaped off to attack another orc.

A flurry of scales to the left. Rexxar looked over. The mounted proto-drakes rose into the air – and then he saw them. Samia and the others had appeared at the side of the Auction House. They must have charged through the wall.

But Samia and the others did not make a beeline to escape. Instead they rose and began to attack the proto-drakes above.

Vaxian is too engaged, Rexxar realized. He looked up to see the large black dragon battling the equally as enormous red proto-drake Rexxar had seen before. Vaxian could not easily escape, not yet. They would have to get them all out and away, and disable the proto-drakes that could catch up to them.

Rexxar looked to the side of the Auction House. The black proto-drakes that the Dragonmaw had purchased remained. They strained against their bonds, cried and gurgled at the fighting. Only one orc remained guarding them, and even this was a youth, frenzy-eyed as he watched the battle.

Rexxar had an idea, looking at them. A distraction.

Rexxar charged toward them. Leokk began to lope at his side, but Rexxar waved him away.

“Go, Leokk,” Rexxar said. He didn't want to risk his companion in this new gambit.

Leokk grumbled. But he was not as willful or stubborn as Misha, and with a bunching of muscles he jumped up and spun away into the rising smoke.

Leokk gone, Rexxar raised his axes to his sides, a defense to replace the wyvern's protection. It was a paltry comparison. It would have to do.

The youth looked up as Rexxar approached. He gawked and gave him a once-over with wide eyes.

“Go, boy,” Rexxar said. “I do not want to have to make you.”

The young orc raised his weapon, a slim polearm. He brandished it as one would a long stick and waved it at Rexxar in the same manner.

And then above came a horrible wailing, so full of innate and primal pain Rexxar felt as it forced his attention. He looked up. Aerial combat had stilled to one smoky pinpoint high above the Auction House: both Samia and Vaxian had converged upon the big red proto-drake and were trying to rip it to pieces.

Rexxar turned away. The boy had stared too, and remained staring. Rexxar grabbed a hold of him by his mail tunic and threw him off to the side. The youth landed, grimaced, and at Rexxar's looming form above, went pale and fled.

Immediately, Rexxar turned his attention to the drakes. They continued to pull against their bindings. Rexxar looked at the chains. They'd been bound to thick spikes wedged into the earth and locked with a clamping mechanism the size of his chest; these chains circled both their feet and neck. But the chains were taut as the drakes pulled back on them in their frenzy. Rexxar held aloft his right axe and crashed it down on where the chains met the lock.

Sparks flew at the metallic impact. He struck again and again and again. Each blow grew more difficult than the last as the edge of his axe dulled, buffed against the chain.

The drakes paid him no mind and he was on the other side of the Auction House, away from the sight of the orcs. The smoke from the Auction House fires grew so thick that soon Rexxar felt as if he had plunged into a choking stormcloud, and he coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. Sweat beaded his skin. Clank. Bang. Clank. Bang.

And then finally the links fell apart in a sliding hiss. The proto-drake was not aware of its freedom until it made another one of its jerks forward and stumbled away.

Ignoring it, Rexxar began to work on the second drake. The heat was bad now, searing against his skin. Clank. Bang. Clank. Bang. The freed proto-drake paced in front of him, chattering, hunched over. Rexxar grunted quietly to himself, forgoing a curse. Once he freed this second one, he hoped the beasts' freedom might distract the orcs. Then the black dragons and the nether-drakes might be able to escape.

The second chain split. The proto-drake shrieked and thundered away, dragging chains behind it in a clamor of metal. It rounded around the side of the Auction House.

Rexxar froze. He meant to use the drakes as a distraction, not as some sort of sacrifice. He didn't want them to be harmed. He assumed they would have flown up and away.

But the drake came back, shrieking, bounding up and down like a bouncing bird. Its mate had not followed it, and upon seeing the disappeared drake return, it roared and raised its wings. Rexxar relaxed as it flapped once, then twice, and took off into the air; the beat of its thick wings set the black-grey smoke to swirling about it like the currents of water.

The second proto-drake joined it in the sky.

Shouts of alarm raised from the other side of the Auction House near the Tavern. Rexxar gripped his axes. They were dulled from breaking apart the chains but they could still kill.

Five orcs rounded the side of the Auction House. One held a large, thick pike which glistened wet in the reflections of the flames. They had their eyes set on the escaped drakes, and the pike-master began to aim her tranquilizer.

One of the orcs noticed Rexxar standing there among the ruins of the chains. He gawked and shoved the Dragonmaw at his right. Soon they were all staring at him as if he was some specter, emerged from the smoke.

The pike-master recovered first. She scoffed and began to aim again – the proto-drakes were high in the air but not high enough to escape a shot – and Rexxar charged. He'd hoped the escaped proto-drakes would make more of a distraction than the attention of five orcs. But how many orcs were there? A dozen? Perhaps he should join the fray again, and bring the orcs' attention elsewhere if he could.

A cheer rang up at the main area of battle, and Rexxar saw a black dragon sail into view for only a moment before it disappeared into another layer of smoke, Samia in its claws. It wasn't anyone he knew from the group.

He had no time to think about it. If more reinforcements had arrived, then he would have to make up some new plan. At his charge, the group of Dragonmaw stumbled back save the pike-master. They quickly came to their senses and charged back at him, though as they came close Rexxar saw their wide and confused eyes at his countenance. They recognized him.

He clashed his axes into the single axe of the first orc and shoved him out of the way, then turned and punched the hilt of an axe into another's chest. The two stumbled away. Rexxar began to more closely engage the third when a red shadow passed over him. He glanced up as he cut through the shoulder of the orc he fought: it was the red proto-drake Samia and Vaxian had tried to kill in the air. Entire swathes of scale were missing from its thick hide and loose flesh undulated like cloth in the air. It landed.

“Fools! Get the drakes!” The Red's rider screamed. The orc hopped off of the proto-drake and hoisted a long, wicked black polearm from a strap at her back. Her red eyes were wide and wet with anger until she noticed Rexxar. She paused.

The Dragonmaw that Rexxar had attacked suddenly drew back. Whether it was Zaela's noticing of Rexxar or her screamed command, Rexxar had no idea.

“What is this?” Zaela looked Rexxar up and down and squinted. She yelled, but only because it would be hard to hear her over the roaring of the battling dragons on the other side of the Veiled Stair. “Rexxar, the Beasmaster? Hah!”

“Warlord Zaela.” Rexxar tightened his grip on the axes. “I had hoped not to see your clan again.”

Zaela hesitated. Then she stalked closer to him, her polearm tight in her hand. She watched him with a curious, hungry glint, predatory in both her look and stance.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

“So did many others.”

Zaela stopped in front of him. The Dragonmaw Rexxar had been fighting lingered to the side, frozen, watching their warlord and the beastmaster.

Zaela glanced at where the proto-drakes had been chained. She smiled, an ugly twisting on her face, then looked back at Rexxar.

“You're not helping us.”

Rexxar grunted. He felt the static between them, a fine line ready to snap. The energy before battle.

“I would not help orcs like you,” he said, and Zaela's eyes grew dark and angry.

“You dare insult the Dragonmaw?”

“I would dare do more than insult, Warlord.”

Zaela growled. “A Horde hero, threatening the Horde itself?”

“You are not the Horde,” Rexxar said. He gestured to the sky, where one of the dominated proto-drakes flew. “The Horde I helped would not fall to this.”

Zaela snarled. Suddenly she rushed him, polearm raised, and Rexxar was ready. He met her attack with his axes, and blocked the vicious strike of the Warlord. They spun away from each other.

The battle began.

Zaela and he circled. Above, the dragons screamed. The flames eating the Auction House scorched the wind so fiercely the churned breeze scalded at his skin.

“You helped make the Horde,” Zaela shouted. Her hoarse voice remained difficult to hear over the rumbling of battle. “You were there at the founding of Orgrimmar! We fight for the same thing!”

Rexxar snarled and charged. He swung his axe. Zaela ducked, and the edge of his weapon sliced above her head with a high whistle of air.

“We don't want the same thing,” Rexxar growled. He brought up his second axe to block Zaela as she swung her pike at him. The burst of metal against metal sent sparks alighting between them. “I was a part of a Horde that wanted nothing but domination, once – and I will not let the Horde I left behind become that again, with beasts like you as leaders.” He swung at her. She twirled away.

Zaela snarled. She jerked her pike away and swung again at him. He blocked it. Again and again they traded blows, so strongly swung each block sent his arms to shuddering.

“Beasts like me. Hah!” Zaela nicked him at the shoulder with the tip of her pike. “I am an orc. I control those beasts. You think domination is to be sneered at? Turned away from? What is an orc without smoothing to fight? Something to rule? Something to conquer!?” The longer she spoke the more snarled and slurred and loud her voice became; Zaela's eyes grew wide and feral, and her movements jerky, frenzied. She landed a second and deeper blow at his thigh, and the pain was a sharp hiss.

Rexxar backed up. He raised his axes into a defensive cross and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

“No – I see nothing has changed when I left you all behind,” Rexxar said. “Focused on war and conquest. Waste.”

Zaela charged him. Their weapons clanged against one another, again and again. “You would know nothing of it,” Zaela snarled at him. “Half-blood! Pah. No wonder you turned away from what your heritage offers you!”

“If my ogre's blood gives me reason, then all the better for it.”

Rexxar swung. In her frenzy Zaela had become clumsy, and the weapon slashed against her shoulder. It split the tough leather and left a line of deep, welling red in its wake. The Dragonmaw Warlord growled.

Behind her, the Auction House shook. Rexxar had caught a glimpse of pairs of wings flailing, red upon orange. Zaela took a cursory glance over her shoulder before she again pursued Rexxar in their deadly struggle.

Around them, the Dragonmaw that had come before Zalea watched. Rexxar felt as if he was in a gladiator ring. The fire had gone out but the air was still hot. His leather harness was sticky with sweat and his wolf mask stuck to his face.

He did not know how long they were fighting when Zaela spoke again. Long enough for his whole body to ache. He had not fought this fiercely in years.

“You lack bite without your beasts,” Zaela said. “Where are they? You abandoned the Horde for a pack of animals. I would think they would be with you, too. Or did you abandon them as well?”

Rexxar growled. He charged forward and his axes came close to cutting Zaela's head off – but she ducked, and the edges of his weapons sliced a bundle of her tied hair off instead.

Zaela looked behind his shoulder and jerked her head in a sort of half-nod.

Only too late to Rexxar feel the weighty shift of air behind him, a great presence of something looming high above.

A massive head descended on him. Pain exploded through his unarmored shoulder as Zaela's red proto-drake caught him in its grip, shovel-like maw digging bloody grooves into his flesh. Rexxar gasped. His knees buckled but he dare not fall or twist away. The drake had enough force and more to pull his arm clean off it it wished. A dull snap sounded from within his torso as the Red increased the pressure of its massive bite and broke his collarbone in two.

A pinpoint of pressure and then pain poked at his throat. Rexxar refocused. In his dazed and sudden pain he'd dropped one of his axes and lost sight of the field of battle. He looked up - when had he begun to kneel? - to see Zaela had put the point of her polearm at his throat.

The smoke of the Auction House bloomed behind her, a slow gushing of black curtain. The breath of the proto-drake blew hot and stinking at the side of Rexxar's face. Its beady yellow eye on the side facing Rexxar stared not at him but at its frowning master.

“But I have my beasts,” Zaela said, a guttural threat that was given too late. “Behold the products of domination and conquest, the birthright of the orcs.” She looked away from him to gaze at Galakras: not with fondness but a voracious, devouring gaze, and the hunger for power in them disturbed Rexxar beyond his pained dimness.

Zaela looked back at him. The dragons remained screaming and fighting on the other side of the Auction House. The ground shook below Rexxar's feet in a curious ripple of unnatural movement.

“I'm disappointed,” she said. “A hero of the Horde... pah. A relic! A wash-up. You may have created in the Horde, but you obviously have no place in what it's become.” The tip of her polearm sunk deeper into his skin until it broke through and a bead of warm blood trailed down the curve of his throat. Zaela stopped. “Half-blood filth.”

“But I won't kill you,” Zaela said. The Dragonmaw around them relaxed, though some growled in contest until the Warlord silenced them with a glare. “Because you did help the Horde – once. For that, I'll spare you.”

“I do not need mercy from you,” Rexxar said, and his voice was a growl, one fueled by pain and anger.

Zaela snorted. She looked away from him, up at the waiting drake. “One favor,” she said. “For the Horde.”

“Galakras!” Zaela raised her arm in a point and waved her hand.

The proto-drake – as if Rexxar were some doll, some toy – raised the beastmaster into the air and flung him over the side of the cliffs.

---

Rexxar woke to a warmth breath on his cheek.

He blinked. He lay on his back, and the whole of the sky stretched before him, glossy blue-black and lit by countless stars.

How much time had passed? Rexxar closed his eyes and heaved himself up so he could sit; his back ached as he moved. He could feel the bruises there without looking at it, warm and swelling even now.

That pain was nothing to the sharp heat on his left shoulder. Once he'd sat up, he looked at the wound. Rexxar did not wear a shoulder-plate there, unlike on his right, and so Galakras had bit straight through the flesh and snapped his collarbone. The proto-drake's mighty grip had left bloody tears and puncture-wounds all across his shoulder, and these bled even still, though in small leaking rivulets. The light tan of his flesh had disappeared beyond the layer of blackish, dried blood, and the break of his collarbone popped up like a cracked piece of wood.

He was at least thankful the bone had not broken the skin, but he would have to set it soon.

A grunt to his right. Rexxar looked over and smiled, though even the vague gesture left his bruised face feeling worn.

“Thank you for waking me, Misha.”

The bear sat lay at his side, but she was so large that even laying down as she was, her head was level with Rexxar's sitting down. The beastmaster placed a bloody hand on the bear's head and scratched at her ear.

Behind her paced Leokk. The wyvern was agitated, barbed tail twitching back and forth, head hunched and swaying.

Misha grunted again. Rexxar dropped his hand and scrunched his eyes closed. He had landed on a larger outcrop of the cliff-face that led up to the Veiled Stair. It had saved him from falling farther and breaking his back upon the level Valley of the Four Winds a yard or so below.

He sat up a bit more and leaned back against the rock wall behind him, the stones cool on his bare, hot skin – too hot. Rexxar rubbed at the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. He could not well catch some infection now.

The silence of the cliff and the mountain above told him everything. He opened his eyes and looked out at the dark Valley stretched before him, the rolling, dark green plains so far they melted into the black horizon, as if endless in their stretch.

The Dragonmaw were gone, presumably with Samia and Vaxian and the others in tow. Had the black dragons gotten away, they would have found him.

Rexxar glared at the Valley. Misha watched him in silence; Leokk stopped pacing.

“Fool,” he muttered. He should have done more. He was rusty at this. Too unpracticed. Too much time spent alone with his beasts. Rexxar sighed, and relaxed. His right hand uncurled from its tight fist. He hadn't realized he had tensed so badly.

The odds had been too great, he knew. Simple logic told him that. They'd simply been too outnumbered, and the appearance of the black dragon, the stranger, had tipped the odds. Even still, it tore at him in a pain as great as his wounds.

He looked at Misha and blinked. The bear stared at him.

“You are back,” Rexxar said with a start, and saw Misha as if for the first time. “Misha! What did you find?”

Bitterness at his failure grew overwhelmed by an anxiousness in his stomach. Misha flicked an ear.

“Is the Baron dead?”

Misha shook her great head back and forth.

Rexxar breathed out hard. The sourness of his gut lifted. “Where is he? In the Mountains?”

Misha stood. She jerked her head to the Valley. Rexxar frowned. It was not where the Agent had said Sabellian had been – at least, off to the south. He glanced at Misha but trusted her. She had never been wrong in her hunts.

But what now?

Rexxar was alone, save for his beasts. That was not cause for concern, usually, but if he tracked down Samia and the others, could he help them with the limited strength he had? In all of his grand adventures, he had had help: Thrall, Vol'jin, even Chen Stormstout, the pandaren, among others.

No. This failure had shown him he could not do that alone. Rexxar's frown deepened. Had they all been captured? If not, perhaps he could track some of them down...

No, even then, they would not be able to. They had tried to. They had failed. They'd need more strength. A Son of Deathwing would be enough.

The choice grew obvious. Grimacing, he stood. Misha got to her feet. Rexxar placed a hand on his collarbone and with a push, snapped the bone back in place. The pain had him snarling, but he silenced himself.

“Lead us to the Baron,” Rexxar said. “We will go as quickly as we can.”

---

Present-day

The council room was stiff and quiet.

Anduin stood at the large table in the middle of the room. Before it, the usual map of Pandaria had been replaced by a map of the Vale, intricately detailed. Even Anduin didn't recognize some of the smaller landmarks noted in the scrawled lettering on the map, like the small mound near Mistfall Village simply noted “haunted.”

Around the table stood others of the Alliance. His father stood at the front of the table, arms crossed over his chest, head down, eyes intent on the map. Behind him, against the walls, was a line of five Stormwind guards, two of which were Anduin's usual guards, Jonathan and Melissa.

On either side of the table were Tyrande and Moira. The two women were the only Alliance leaders – besides Varian – who were readily available at the Vale. Jaina had gone to the Barrens soon after her arrival, and the others, too, were otherwise engaged with the revolution. The last report that had come in – just hours ago – had noted Vol'jin's revolutionaries, and the Alliance forces aiding them, had accumulated enough resources to begin a readied assault on Orgrimmar, which in itself was shoving out more and more of the Horde that weren't orcs everyday, and building up defensive turrets, lines, and Kor'kron.

But this meeting had not been called to discuss the siege. It'd been called to discuss the Vale.

“An' when is this Shado-pan supposed ta show up?” asked Moira. Behind her, a small entourage of Dark Iron Dwarves stood at the ready, flanked in a loose triangular formation. She and Anduin hadn't looked at one another since she'd arrived from her top chambers. Anduin knew that Moira and her father had come to terms with what had happened in Ironforge, but she and Anduin... not so. Anduin hoped to possibly mend their awkward relationship with one another after this business with the Vale, and Garrosh, was done.

Varian shrugged. He did not look up from the map. “Soon,” he said. He glanced up then, to eye Moira and Tyrande. “We can't continue to pause this for him. Tyrande, what were you saying?”

The meeting had begun some half hour ago. Or an hour ago. Anduin couldn't tell how much time had passed. Varian had called it immediately after Anduin and he had spoken up in the king's room. They'd been discussing strategies for protecting the Vale while waiting for the pandaren representative, Sun, to arrive. She wasn't actually a Shado-pan, but a Golden Lotus. Anduin had gotten to know her well after his time in the Vale.

The plan so far was flimsy. Anduin knew that much. Each time Tyrande, Moira, or Varian suggested something, one of the other leaders would interject and point out some flaw. Not enough soldiers. Not enough time. The Kor'kron had too many defensive weapons.

“We can send the Sentinels down in a Cenarion flank,” Tyrande said. The Night Elf leader hadn't spoken much, compared to Varian and Moira. She'd remained pensive, quiet, but intent, glowing eyes sharp with attention. Behind her, two night elf rangers stood. “It is a luring technique,” she said, seeing Varian and Moira's blank expressions. “Their nightsabers can draw off the worg, and the hippogryphs can pull back the Dragonmaw. I cannot easily explain without showing you.”

Moira grunted. “Draw 'em off, and then what? We surge down into tha' dig?I thought yer Sentinels dropped when they got too close.”

Tyrande stared at the dwarf. “Yes.”

“With the sickness,” Varian muttered. He glanced at Anduin, frowned, then looked back at the map. Anduin didn't know what to make of the look.

“I think it's got something to do with the Sha,” Anduin said. Like Tyrande, he hadn't said much. He didn't know enough about battle tactics to really give anything of use. “What's there at the dig, I mean. It's the only thing that makes sense.” That, and he'd felt what the dig had given off when he'd snuck down there. What else could it be?

Moira snorted. “I wouldn't be surprised. Everythin' seems to be about this Sha here.”

“It is too strong,” Tyrande murmured. “It is like nothing my night elves had seen before, and many had seen the Sha of Anger in Kun-lai.” She nodded at Moira. “You are right, though I do not like to admit it. We will have to battle both the Kor'kron and this... sickness at the dig.”

“Whatever it is, it isn't good for us,” Varian said. “And I can only imagine what Garrosh wants with – whatever it is. If it's some sort of weapon like last time... he's been taking enough to fortify Orgrimmar, damnit. Some super-weapon won't surprise me!”

Anduin had heard all about Garrosh's growing collection. Reports of a scorpion the size of a zeppelin, a feral devilsaur, and boxes upon boxes of unearthed artifacts had come in last night, too.

Varian looked back at the map. He began to nod to himself. “What if we let him take this weapon out?”

“Out of the dig?” Anduin asked. Varian nodded. Moira shook her head.

“An' then what? Let him drag it to Orgrimmar? If it's as bad as we think it is, why should we let him get it out in the first place? It could spread and fester, fer all we know!”

“But if he takes it out, he will be in the open,” Tyrande said. “We do not know how deep in this find is, and my sentinels could not get far inside to see. If he were to take it out -”

“We could strike him without worrying about the concentration – the build-up – of the dig,” Varian said. They all begin to speak with less wariness and more strength, like a growing realization in their voices alone.

Tyrande nodded. She looked at the map, then pointed at the center of the plains, to the south of the Mogu guardian statues. “The Shado-pan are collected here. Let us say we do allow Garrosh to bring up his find.” She moved her finger to the dig, which had been recently added via dark ink. Anduin could still see the wisps of the illustrated pool that had once been where the dig was, now underneath the newer ink.

Slowly, Tyrande trailed her finger from the dig to the center. “We allow Garrosh here. The Shado-pan can set up a defensive line near this pagoda.” She tapped the Golden Lotus structure, set underneath the statues. “Our forces can come in from the south.” She trailed her finger now from the Shrine, up to the southern edges of the plains, a bit in front of the Mogu'shan Palace. “That will leave the east and the west open. There is not enough time to ask the Horde for assistance, if they would even give any.” The Night Elf frowned, a sour look, but she soon recovered herself. “I can order the Sentinels to these areas with the Cenarion flank. It will be less numbers there, loosely strung, but their mounts and tactics will make up for the loss.”

Silence. Tyrande looked up. Anduin remained staring at the map. So did Moira and Varian.

The plan made sense. Anduin was a bit uncomfortable with letting Garrosh take the find out, but what other choice did they have? The dig was far too protected to hurl themselves against, and even if their forces did manage to maneuver through the gate of weapons, worg, and proto-drakes, they still had to struggle through the tunnels, sick with the black taint – and that hadn't worked with the scouts Tyrande had sent.

“What if he takes it out, then portals off with it?” Anduin asked.

“No. He will not do that,” Tyrande said. She looked at him. Her eyes were ageless; Anduin had trouble looking at her directly. “I think you, out of all of us, know that Garrosh is one to flaunt his findings, Prince Anduin. He will make a spectacle of this – not run away with it.”

Anduin nodded.

“Then we should stop him from making a spectacle in the first place,” Varian grunted. He straightened, and his hands fell to his sides. “There's a host of Stormwind gryphon riders above. I can send them with your hippogryphs, Tyrande -”

A rush of footsteps from the entrance hall interrupted the king. Everyone looked up as a human ran around the curve of the hall and into sight: a scout, dressed in loose Stormwind leathers. He skidded to a halt at the entrance, gave a hasty salute, then blurted:

“Garrosh has gone into the dig.”

Anduin went cold.

The scout wobbled, then set his hands on his knees. His red hair was slick with sweat. “Shado-pan have engaged. Your Majesty,” he hastily added, then slumped against the archway.

The room grew still. Then Varian slammed his hand down on the table and exploded: “What?”

“The Sentinels -” the scout gasped for air. “Have gone down into a defensive line. Worg riders. Dragonmaw protecting the dig. Champions – not enough, everyone is at the Barrens. There's too many Kor'kron...”

Varian cursed. He pushed away from the table, and as he opened his mouth, Tyrande interrupted him. “I will direct the Sentinels,” she said in a clipped voice. Her face was a smooth mask, collected, calm, and without further instruction, the Night Elf swept from the room, the two rangers hurrying behind her.

Tyrande's quick action and exit seemed to energize the room. The shock of the news grew now into a static, and everyone fidgeted, hands going to weapons at belts or eyes glancing at the door of the room.

“It's going to be a massacre,” growled Varian. He slammed his hand down again, then turned to the scout. “Get the riders out!”

The scout, having collected himself, saluted and bolted back down the hallway. Varian turned to Moira. “Moria, try to help Tyrande with the heroes we have here. If you can, try to get your Dark Irons down to the dig. Damn the plan. Just get as many people as you can down there, and try not to let them get slaughtered. I'll join you shortly.”

Moira waved her hand dismissively. “We'll try our best, yer majesty.”

With a hurried stride, Moira left the room, and her entourage followed.

Anduin began to follow, head down, heart racing. He cringed when someone grabbed his shoulder and stopped him in place.

“Anduin, no,” Varian said, simply but firmly. “You can't just -”

“I protected the Vale before, Father,” Anduin said, and he turned to look at the king, looming above him. “I will do it again.”

“That was before you were injured!” snapped Varian. The Stormwind guards lining the walls moved away and began down the hall. Varian rubbed his face and sighed roughly. “I can't let you go down there.”

Anduin shrugged his shoulder, and Varian let go. The prince and the king stared at one another.

Then Anduin set his lips in a thin line, turned, and bolted down the hallway.

“Anduin. Anduin!”

Anduin ran. He nearly tripped with the first steps he took, but caught himself with his cane. His limp made his sprint a clumsy hop. The pain shot to his hip upon his fourth bound. But he kept running, slipping around the corner of the hallway, through archways, past the startled Stormwind guards, past Moira and her dwarves, and ignored his father yelling for him to come back.

He made it past the ethereals' corner and through the portal hall. The imposing, gilded stairs curled to his right and the balcony that overlooked the lowest level was at his left. Where there should have been people, there were none. The bustling Shrine was dead of activity. Frozen.

And then he heard the yells.

They were muffled from distance – outside, beyond the walls. Anduin began to run again just as he heard armor clanking from where he had bolted from. He ignored it and swept down the flight of stairs, each step sending a wince of new agony to his hip, numbed only slightly by his adrenaline – and fear. Only the sweat beading his forehead and the steeled set of his eyes and thinned lips was any hint of his troubles.

He got to the first floor. The yells were louder now. Anduin turned to the right and headed out of the archway that led to the outside of the Shrine.

The burst of activity outside made him flinch. Sentinels on nightsabers and on foot stood at the right side of the large balcony in a hurried congregation of some order. Tyrande had made it outside, and she stood before them, her blue silk dress like shined gemstone in the warm Vale sun. She spoke and made a sweeping motion with her hand, and the Sentinels saluted before charging down the stairway and disappearing beyond the curve. Tyrande mounted an unmanned white tiger and thundered after them.

Two Sentinels remained. They were both injured. Anduin recognized Commander Lyalia, her dark teal hair, usually in a ponytail, now swept in a frazzled mess along her shoulders, one of which was missing its shoulderpad. She had one arm in a sling.

Lyalia began to shout, but the din was far too loud; her voice became just another incoherent sound among the chaos.

To the left, the assembly was far more chaotic than even the sloppy line of the Sentinels had been. Heroes hurried to mount their animals, some on horses, some on rams or elekks, and one on a blue drake, who took off and sped into the air. Other heroes didn't bother with mounts. A group of five of them sped down the left stairway. Two on the horses followed them. Moira finally appeared with her dwarves, and she and the others descended down the stairs to join the battle.

This was not the initial charge. This was the fringes of the group. Even as Anduin watched, the balcony emptied, save for civilians and injured, most of whom were collected at the balconies, eyes on the Vale below.

Anduin limped to the balcony. He could no longer run; the pain was too great. Even still, as he maneuvered his way through the remaining crowd and found a spot at the balcony's edge, he made no sign of his agony. The two heroes he sandwiched himself in-between at the balcony stiffened at his presence and scooted away so as to make room for him.

Anduin hardly noticed. He gripped the balcony with one hand. Spread before him lay the Vale, and dotted over it, a host of black, red, and brown, a swarming collection of Horde forces both at the Big Blossom Dig and from the north, nearer to the Horde shrine. Three proto-drakes hovered above the blackened pit. A team of wolf-riders stood at attention near the entrance of the dig, and, squinting, Anduin noted two kodo nearer to the Mogu guardian statues, hauling something tall and dark. It was too far away, too hazy with distance, for him to see what it was.

The soldiers clashed. Blood had already begun to stain the grass. The shouting, the screams of the wounded, and the clangor of steel on steel echoed up to the Shrine like a distant war cry all its own. Those champions Anduin had seen running down the stairs after he had exited the Shrine now joined the battle as he watched, a stream of gilded metal plate and decorative armor

The Kor'kron made a defensive line in front of the Dig; the Shado-pan and Alliance pushed against it, and the aggression in their assault told Anduin everything. Even from where he stood, the deadly precision of Pandaria's fighting force, the sweep of their fists, the whistling of their polearms and the smoke of their attacks was something otherwordly. The more reckless fighting style of the Kor'kron was outmatched by the monks' prowess. Where four orcs fell, only one pandaren did.

But the more the defensive line buckled inward, and the closer the Shado-pan and Alliance got to the dig, the more Anduin realized just how outnumbered the Vale defenders were. There might have been more Kor'kron falling, but to every one Alliance or pandaren, there seemed to be five orcs.

Anduin pulled away from the balcony. If he could get down there, he could help with a large-scale shield or a multitude of smaller ones to help against the onslaught. He'd done the same when the Mogu had invaded the Vale, and it was the very least he could help with now.

He rushed to the stairway. Above, a flurry of wings sailed from the top of the Shrine: the gryphon and hippogryph riders. As the dervish of blue, gold, and purple sped down to the plains, Anduin nearly reached the stairs -

Until his right knee gave way underneath him. Pain shot up his hip, and Anduin stifled a cry only by biting his lip as he fell hard onto his knee. The fall sent another shudder of agony through him. He gripped the side of the bannister of the balcony – above him, now – and panted.

He tried to get up. Again his leg shook, and he slumped back down. Sweat misted at his brow. The pain was acute, sharp, a barbed grip on his hip and knee.

His whole body went slack against it. Anduin grit his teeth.

He couldn't get up.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. Anduin flinched.

“Prince Anduin, are you alright?”

Anduin looked behind his shoulder. Commander Lyalia watched him. “Do you need help?”

“I'm fine,” Anduin said through clenched teeth. He looked back down at the Vale. The Vale defenders were too outnumbered. There was no strategy. Just a zerg of forces. He had to get down there, and soon. His shields could help. Sucking in a breath, Anduin set his weight to his left leg and tried to pull himself up by his grip on the bannister. He made it upright, but when he put a little weight on his right leg, it shook. Anduin hissed and leaned hard against the bannister. He realized only vaguely he was close to where he had spent so much time at the Vale, near the Sentinel's side of the balcony, the red trees curling over to shade them.

Lyalia was watching him. “Maybe we should -”

“No, I'm fine. Just let me get down there.”

Anduin tried to take a step down the stairs. Lyalia grabbed him by the back of the tabard.

“You're going to fall again. You can't -”

“I have to!” Anduin said, twisting from Lyalia's grasp and almost tripping over himself in the process. He got his balance on the banister again. You can't. You can't. Anduin was tired of hearing that. “I won't let them die down there!”

Lyalia glared. “We're outnumbered and taken by surprise, yes, but we can hold our own. A priest, even a princely one, won't help much. You'll only get yourself killed.”

One of Anduin's guards came jogging up to Lyalia. Jonathan. The man had lost his Stormwind helmet and his curly black hair was frizzy with sweat. Wild-eyed, he yelled: “Prince Anduin!”

“Has my Father joined the fight?” Anduin asked before Jonathan could say anything else. The guard shook his head.

“No, not yet. He went up top to see the riders off, Your Highness,” the guard said. It was getting harder to hear one another; the din of battle was only escalating, an almost touchable roar around them. “Please, you have to come inside. His Majesty will kill both of us if we're out here when he gets down!”

Anduin pursed his lips and looked back at the Vale. He tried weight on his right leg again and winced.

He wouldn't be able to walk. Anduin locked his jaw. Levitate, maybe, but he'd be snatched easily.

The rush of adrenaline from before became like a sudden weight in his stomach. Anduin couldn't help.

He had looked for this place, pleaded to Xuen the “outsiders'” case, and gotten the Vale opened to all. But he could not protect it this second time.

Anduin slouched hard against the balcony. A sour ball formed at the back of his throat. He looked at the Vale, the fighting. The hindrance of his leg had never hit him as hard as it did now, and tears of frustration threatened to prickle at his eyes.

“Prince Anduin?” Jonathan asked, tentatively. Then Anduin heard Varian's voice from above, at the top of the Shrine.

The aggressive push at the Kor'kron line suddenly surged with energy. The line began to buckle inward as more orcs began to fall.

And then Anduin saw why.

Standing atop the edge of the dig, Garrosh watched the battle before him. Anduin's frustration at himself vanished, replaced with overwhelming dread. The warchief was hazy in distance, but Anduin saw the curve of Mannoroth's tusks and the black tattoos. He hadn't seen Garrosh since the Bell.

Garrosh raised Gorehowl, and the bronze edge of the legendary weapon caught the sun and glinted. He pointed it toward the Shado-pan and Alliance. The worg riders at the dig began to charge, and the beasts leaped over the Kor'kron and began to maul the Vale's defenders. Distant but horrific screaming swelled from the battlefield.

Garrosh began to walk. Two other orcs appeared over the curved edge of the dig's precipice. Between them, they pulled an enormous chest, and struggled to keep up with the Warchief.

The gryphon riders spotted Garrosh. Four of them circled, then dove.

The Dragonmaw above the pit were faster. A proto-drake nearest to the Warchief banked, then flew toward the diving gryphons, mouth agape. A gush of flame whirled from its jaws, and one of the gryphons caught aflame and spiraled down. The three others engaged the drake.

The worg riders were pushing back the Shado-pan and Alliance. Though the Vale defenders fought with the same aggression, the numbers simply weren't there. As the Kor'kron surged forward again, the Alliance and Shado-pan began to buckle and fall apart. More and more fell.

Soon, the defensive and offensive lines disintegrated. The sloppy battle suddenly became no push and pull of forces, but more of a scattering of duels along the bloody plains. Gryphons and hippogryphs and proto-drakes were a whirl of feathers and scales in the sky. A proto-drake fell and, watching it crash, Anduin saw the team of kodo from before approach.

He could see what they were towing behind them now: a bridge, erected up high. A siege bridge. Anduin shook his head, mouth agape. What did Garrosh want with that?

Anduin immediately thought of the Shrine of Seven Stars. It was an Alliance base, and though it was lacking with Alliance heroes, it now hosted the High King and the leaders of the Night Elves and Dark Iron Dwarves.

But watching the kodo, they didn't lumber to the Shrine. They were towing the bridge in the direction of Mogu'shan Palace.

“What are they doing? Garrosh is right there!” Lyalia waved her hands in frustration.

Anduin looked back at Garrosh. The Warchief had made it halfway across the plains. A team of worg riders protected him now, and a Dragonmaw atop a black proto-drake hovered high above him. Most of the gryphons were dead, smoking or bleeding out on the grass.

“What is he doing?” Anduin said under his breath. Like the kodo, Garrosh headed toward the Palace.

Some surviving Alliance and Shado-pan rushed him and his entourage. The worg riders fended all of them off, charge after charge. Garrosh didn't even look at his attackers. His eyes were on the central pagoda in front of Mogu'shan Palace.

The kodo team reached the bridge. Kor'kron hopped off of the beasts and began to unravel mechanisms and ropes at the bottom of the bridge.

Then, slowly, the bridge began to shudder and fall forward.

Horrified, Anduin watched as the bridge collapsed. It crushed the forward section of the balcony. Debris tumbled into the pool. The bridge trembled once, then went still, a dark line against the water.

I could have stopped that, Anduin thought, feeling sick. Only months ago he'd stood at the center of that pagoda, beckoning a shield to ward away the Mogu.

Garrosh, with the chest still rumbling behind him, walked unchallenged onto the bridge. What was he doing? Anduin glanced at the chest.

Garrosh wasn't trying to extract it so he could just run away with it.

He will make a spectacle of this.

Tyrande was right. Watching Garrosh walk over the glimmering pools, Anduin was filled with a sense of dread. Garrosh was going to do something here – at the Vale itself.

At the far end of the bridge, a ball of smoke coalesced into existence – and stepping from it, Taran Zhu. It could have been no one else.

The lord of the Shado-pan faced Garrosh and his entourage alone.

Beside Anduin, Lyalia stiffened. She'd seen Taran Zhu, too.

Anduin didn't move, and neither did Lyalia. It felt as if the roar and clanging of the plains around the pagoda grew dull and far away, and all the energy refocused on the two leaders on the bridge.

Taran Zhu spoke; Garrosh replied. Anduin was too far away to hear what they were saying – but then Garrosh screamed, and Anduin heard that, the warrior's bellow that'd given the Warchief his family name.

Garrosh charged Taran Zhu.

The two fought like something out of legend. Anduin had seen duels before, but never something quite like the distant fight on the bridge. Taran Zhu fought with the grace and strength of a tiger, his punches and swings with his barbed polearm controlled but backed with power. Garrosh matched the pandaren's prowess, making up for his own lack of control in his movements with the sheer strength of his attacks. Each blow the two warriors traded was one inch away from the other's death, blocked and rebuffed.

“Damnit! Is that all we have?”

Anduin started. He looked behind his shoulder, and saw his father stalking over to them, eyes wild and angry, but focused, dangerously so. The king didn't look at him, but over him, at the Vale. Shalamayne swung at his waist, and it looked like the glowing orb at the curve of the sword radiated the smallest bit brighter.

“Yes, sir,” said Lyalia. “We're losing. Tyrande and Moira only have so much.”

She spoke without much emotion, but Anduin knew she was right.

Varian bristled. He took a hold of Shalamayne's hilt and hefted the enormous weapon. He glanced at Anduin and opened his mouth -

Jonathan gasped. It was a sharp enough sound that it drew the Wrynn's attention. Anduin looked at where Jonathan stared.

Anduin gasped; his heart dropped. Garrosh had impaled Taran Zhu with Gorehowl. The weapon was imbedded into the pandaren's gut. Varian cursed behind him.

Garrosh flung Taran Zhu down. The two were at the center of the pagoda now, rounded by golden balcony. The pandaren collapsed and held onto the risen structure in the center of the pagoda: a bannister that opened and led into the pools.

Beyond shock, Anduin registered his father moving past him a beat later than he should have. Unthinking, eyes still on the wounded Shado-pan lord, Anduin grabbed his father by the arm.

“Anduin -”

“Father, look!”

Garrosh gloated over Taran Zhu, words unheard in their distance. But it wasn't Garrosh's strutting that had Anduin filled with a sudden fear. It was the chest. The Kor'kron had pushed it all the way to the drop at the pools.

Garrosh turned. He struck the front of the chest with Gorehowl. The lid opened.

Smoke curled out, black and sha-white. It rippled. Underneath it, something moved, and as the smoke curled away, Anduin saw it: dark purple and beating and fleshy. A giant heart. He saw the valves, the veins, bulging against the sickly bruised flesh of the organ. Even staring at it made Anduin sick, made him want to curl over and give up.

Garrosh leaned and took a hold of the side of the chest.

And then the Warchief pushed the chest up and over.

The heart fell into the center of the pagoda, down the shaft that led straight into the pools.

“No!” Anduin yelled, and pulled forward. He let go of his father. Dimly, he heard Varian shouting something.

The earth quaked. It was a sudden, shifting movement, like they were standing on the back of some waking beast. Anduin wobbled, and grabbed a hold of the balcony as the whole Shrine rumbled. Again his right leg gave out. Anduin slumped. He tightened his grip on the railing and, gritting his teeth, pulled himself back up, eyes on the pools.

The shaking stopped.

The pool around the pagoda began to churn and boil.

Everything happened at once.

A geyser, a font of black matter, swirling and thick, both smoke and like grime, erupted from the center of the pagoda. It swirled up, and up, and up, unthinkable in its climb, a column of horrific darkness. As it swirled high and higher, the pools below began to darken until their shores grew black.

The blackness suddenly surged outward across the plains. Underneath its burn, the golden plains disintegrated. The stretching path of destruction left a trail of black and white-glow char. The golden trees withered and died as soon as the darkness reached them. The smaller pools churned and began to evaporate. Kor'kron, Shado-pan, and Alliance alike writhed and screamed as the plague washed over them.

Above, the geyser stopped its upward spiral. The darkness, like below, began to spread out and over like a fountain. It darkened the skies, swallowed the clouds, the sun.

The Vale began to be eaten away.

It all happened in seconds.

Anduin felt very far away. A ringing, dull, too dull, honed in his ears. Someone was yelling at him. The black plague swept to the statues. The skies grew pitch black, as if they were in some shadow realm.

The stink hit him. Anduin gagged and pulled back. Rotting. Sweet, disgusting. Fleshy.

The scourge rolled toward the Shrine, a quick-moving, flat burn, wholly unstoppable.

Tyrande and Moira are down there.

And then the darkness was on them.

Anduin had no time to think. He felt someone grab him, a protective grip, but then the blackness swept over the bannisters, curdled away the gilded metal, -

Thoughtless, wordless, Anduin brought up his arm to block his face. In the same moment, a radiating burst of warmth blazed in his chest, and it shot out and around his body – a protective shield. It swelled outward, a golden barrier, glowing and rippling, and under its shielding, protected not only Anduin but all of those to the left of the Shrine balcony.

The plague smashed into the barrier. Anduin flinched and closed his eyes and focused. He could feel the taint pushing against the barrier, then go up and over it to spread out behind its protection. The force of it sent Anduin to his knees. But he kept the shield up.

He could hear people screaming above the roar of the taint. Distant explosions boomed. Anduin, shaking with effort, opened his eyes. Beyond the barrier, he saw that already half of the Vale had been eaten away. Where once was vibrant life, burned char remained, a host of unthinkable destruction.

The rushing plague had reached the Mogu statues. It swept up them, eating away the stone, leaving behind a trail of darkened debris.

Then Anduin heard it: a dull crack that reverberated in his chest.

The shoulder and head of the left statue slowly began to slide off of the body.

All at once, the broken piece fell. It smashed the Golden Lotus pagoda with such a force that Anduin felt his teeth shaking at the impact.

Still the plague spread. On and on and on. No more than thirty seconds had passed since the heart had fallen into the pools.

Anduin grew light-headed. The shield flickered. He clenched his teeth and forced the Light onward, but his head began to loll and the pain of his leg began to flare. He'd exerted too much energy too quickly.

He dropped his hand. The barrier fell.

Anduin collapsed.

---

Wrathion sat at his bench.

It was quiet. Still. He sat tense and alert, Left at her usual spot to his left. Other Blacktalons – only three – stood at attention in the silent tavern.

They were waiting.

He glanced down at the papers on the table, spread out before him like a fan. The thick inked symbol of the Blacktalons, the four fingered claw mark, lay dark on the tops of each and next to the symbol written names and places, all in different handwriting.

The Timeless Isle. Big Blossom Dig. Stormwind. Varian Wrynn. Garrosh. Dragonmaw.

Wrathion scanned them. He grabbed his cup of coffee – too strong for his tastes, some Mogu drink, but he was in no mood for tea today – and held it warm in his hand. The Agents he'd sent to the Timeless Isle had come back with their report two days prior. Wrathion had been delighted in their skimmed research; Pandaria never ceased in its endless treasures, and Kairoz had not been lying. An entire island had appeared from the mists that had once protected Pandaria, timeless and untouched, brimming with strange energy and mystery. His Agents could not get too close. There was an odd wind current surrounded the island, they'd said, forcing them away on their flying mounts, but they'd discerned as much as they could.

The scrawling info, all hastily written in great sloppy handwriting blotched with careless ink, as if written en route to the Tavern, paled to those on the factions and their leaders. On all of these parchments, the script remained crowded, hounded for space and cramped as each Agent had tried to fit all available facts on a single sheet. The Isle wholly intrigued Wrathion but it was these other papers that he had been pouring over. The past four days, he had pined over them, during the fogged mornings and during his sleepless nights.

Last night, Wrathion had come to his conclusion. It was not out of some final contentment, some peace of mind, but out of necessity. Things moved quickly in the Vale and he could not linger on any more decisions.

And so Wrathion had dropped his favor of the Horde.

Every report had said the same thing. The Horde was shattering. Breaking. Coming apart at every seam, ripping like worn fabric. It'd started with the rebellion in the Barrens and had only picked up in its spiral downhill. Garrosh had even tried to have Vol'jin assassinated, and now the Warchief proclaimed that his Horde was some “True Horde,” which Wrathion found a quaint but unamusing name. It was only composed solely of orcs, it seemed.

With this, Wrathion had no doubt that the siege planned to take place against Orgrimmar would be successful; the Horde itself would be raiding its capitol city, the very one it had been kicked out of by Kor'kron and killers, with the Alliance backing them up. With their capitol burning, the idea that the Horde would be able to turn around and crush and absorb the Alliance into itself was laughable, at best.

It was a shame. Wrathion initially chose the Horde because of their strength, their war capabilities – and their close-knit bond of bands didn't hurt. They were all loyal in their differences. Once, at least. Before Garrosh had this True Horde business.

It wasn't to say Wrathion had ever thought the Alliance as opposite. Far from it. If anything, his Alliance champions and his research into the faction showed Wrathion the Alliance's sheer strength and ingenuity, all very on par with the Horde's.

But it was the Alliance's way of thinking that had Wrathion turning away from them. They were quick to defend and inspire, a wonderful set of traits for a Burning Legion invasion, but they always seemed to choose only righteous paths of action, whereas the Horde took what it needed and did what they had to. That was what Wrathion had wanted. That was what he had felt closer to. He didn't want to be confined to the Alliance's more rigid set of guidelines.

Yet the Horde was too weak now, too shattered. They simply wouldn't do. Wrathion could work around the Alliance's rigidness, despite his unhappiness with it. Surely King Varian would be happy to crush the Horde once Orgrimmar burned. Whether the High King took the Horde's strength into its own remained to be seen, but Wrathion could move some pieces around. If the Alliance occupied Horde cities, well, that was certainly a good start.

His decision had come not a moment too soon. He had woken from his vague sleep to find that Garrosh had arrived at the Vale and that he had begun orders to pull up something from the Big Blossom Dig. “Something.” Even this late his Agents at the Vale could not get close enough, and it was a wonder that the goblins and orcs at the dig hadn't dropped dead from it. It was thought that their long term exposure had somehow steeled them against the odd sickness that plagued the dig. Whatever it was, it bode not well, and the reports he'd received today told of the Golden Lotus and Shado-pan near to engaging Garrosh to stop him from bringing whatever they'd found up.

Wrathion didn't quite care what Garrosh had found. He remembered the assault of negativity that had rolled through Anduin Wrynn's body and had thus inflicted on Wrathion's, miles away via the bloodgem, but what did it matter, really? It was some Sha-like weapon, no doubt, just like the Divine Bell. Another piece to Garrosh's growing power. Power that would not be enough, surely – or so Wrathion hoped. If the find gave Garrosh an upper hand on both Horde and Alliance alike... Wrathion frowned down at the parchment labeled “Garrosh.” Well, Wrathion had changed from Horde to Alliance. He supposed he could change again if Garrosh ended up winning.

So many loose ends, and Wrathion could do nothing about them but sit here and wait for the battle to end. How he felt like a turned up weapon, loaded with sprung energy unable to go anywhere. At the very least, this struggle allowed him to think only briefly on the dragons. Madam Goya, true to her word – surprisingly – had shared with Wrathion the base of the Dragonmaw's operations, so he might send assassins when he could to get rid of the dragons: Grim Batol. That had shocked him. It seemed too... obvious. Nevertheless, with that information in hand, he'd be proper and ready to send killers there once the Pandaren campaign was over, and then he could send the rest to Blade's Edge, and then have another sweep of Azeroth, for any straggles like the dragon Ashmaw.

He still hadn't heard back from his favorite rogue. The large dragon Vaxian, whom he'd sent the rogue to kill, had lived. That worried -

The ground shook beneath his feet. Wrathion paused. It'd been an idle tremor, but every inch of his body became alight at its quivering.

“Anyone feel that?” said the worgen Blacktalon at Wrathion's right, whom he'd taken to calling Yellow, thanks to the color of her teeth.

He flicked his hand for quiet, surprised into action at the shift – but then the ground moved again in one faint lurch, enough that Wrathion's parchments slid forward. His concentration slipped.

The shake came and then was gone. Wrathion prodded mentally at the earth, lest it move again and confuse him, but he felt no moving plate or shifting mud. Stillness, immovability. Nothing else.

“That was not an earthquake,” Wrathion said, and frowned. “A – fall or collision?”

“That would be a big fall,” Left mumbled. They glanced at each other in a sudden silence and Wrathion knew they thought the same thing.

The Vale?

Wrathion turned away from her and focused inward to his store of blood magic. He sought out the multiple points of the Agents he had stationed in the Vale – close to a dozen – and picked one dim red light.

What happened, there? What is happening?

He had asked his Agents to update him on the goings of the battle as quickly as events happened. Their last report had been a half hour ago, when the Shado-pan had engaged.

He received no answer, only a static black humming. Wrathion frowned and tried to look through the blood gem – but only darkness greeted him. If the Agent was dead, he wouldn't have been able to have connected to the gem at all.

He tried another. And another. None answered. A growing sense of unease welled in him.

Someone yelled outside. The abruptness of the noise made Wrathion pull away from his blood magic. He leaped to his feet. The Exchange Guards near the Tavern, whom Wrathion could see through the open archway, looked up and gaped. They abandoned their posts and rushed out of view.

Wrathion went outside, and tried not to bound his way there.

Walking onto the patio of the Tavern, he watched a crowd of his Blacktalons, Exchange Guards, and even two or three adventurers gathered in the courtyard near the kite stand. They all looked up.

Wrathion frowned and peered skyward.

Beyond the mists of the Veiled Stair, the edges of a black fog high, high in the atmosphere crept out above the mountains bordering the Vale. The fog was thick and dark and ugly and rolling, and as he stared Wrathion realized he heard nothing, only the awed buzz of silence as the mass rolled above them like a coming stormcloud.

A smell wafted down, faint but one that caught at the back of the throat: a rot, sweet and cloying. One of his Agents gagged.

“The Vale,” whispered a Pandaren Exchange Guard, and her voice was the only sound, fearful and quiet, “what happened in the Vale?”

Garrosh. It could be nothing else. What could have possibly created such an expulsion? The earthquake -

A sharp, peeling note wailed. Wrathion clutched at his head. The world fell away. The fog was forgotten and the Vale unremembered.

The sound was all he heard. It was all his world. He dropped to his knees. Only dimly was he aware of his Agents looking down at him, and dimmer still did he realize he was the only one who could hear the wailing tone.

He yelled in an attempt to drown out the noise with his own, but he could not even hear his voice. The tune droned on. He closed his eyes so tight he saw the red of his lids and spots and not darkness.

Muffled voices. Someone gripping his shoulder. Wrathion couldn't move. He felt a dull pressure at his scalp.

And then the noise peeled off into a finer note. It sounded as if it was being fine-tuned, dialed to some other frequency, up and down and up and down - disturbingly familiar in its looping.

Images flashed before him in indistinct and dim colors. The Vale – or what was left of it – blackened, burning as some great black and white tide of energy sucked outward and bled the landscape of color and beauty. A building exploding, chains aflame, orange wings rising from the wooden debris. Countless of mantid swarming over the Wall into the blackening Vale. An empty chest.

Wrathion felt himself leave the ground. Someone was carrying him.

The images stopped. The sound stopped. Everything stopped. Wrathion opened his eyes and gasped, the sudden clarity like a slap, all the colors of even the inside of the Tavern – when had he come back inside? – honey brown and hazel and golden yellow.

“Sit him down here,” Left said. Wrathion found himself sitting on his bench again, the table to his back. He leaned back hard against it; his body felt like jelly, all weak-limbed and immobile. “My Prince? Prince Wrathion?”

“I'm fine,” Wrathion wheezed.

He promptly turned and vomited onto the floor. Left cursed.

Wrathion leaned back up and coughed. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Cold sweat beaded his brow but quickly turned hot at the heat of his skin. He groaned.

“Here, here. Drink something.” Yellow shoved a cup of water at him. Wrathion pushed it away and sat up and put his head in his hands.

There was a shuffle of movement in front of him. Wrathion ground his teeth and looked between the gaps of his fingers. Left knelt before him now.

“What happened?” She asked, voice low.

“I'm fine,” Wrathion repeated, but his heartbeat began to quicken to a bursting rapidness and his breath came in shallow huffs. “Get people to the Vale. Now! Now!”

Left pulled away from him and began to bark orders at the Blacktalons gathered outside. Wrathion leaned back against the bench and rubbed his face. He tried to calm himself down with deep breaths, but that wail had smashed through all sensory barriers: now everything was too sharp, too bright, an overload of feelings from his growing panic and awareness at the situation.

That tide of darkness he'd seen sweeping over the Vale – the cold fury of it was unfathomable. It couldn't possibly have destroyed the Vale. A hallucination, surely...

It is true we were not there. We did not see the Old One, with his wrath and terror and rage. But we sense Him. We see through the sonar.

The Old Ones rise again.

Wrathion felt sick again, recalling the mantids' voices. He hadn't had vivid dreams like the ones from Sik'vess and the ones that had haunted him for weeks afterward in the past handful of days.

But that sound was unmistakable. That expulsion – it had made the images come back, made him fall. The Sha. Y'shaarj. Linked, forever.

He began to breath so quickly he felt light-headed. The Vale was only miles away. Miles away. What had Garrosh unleashed?

Left came back inside and stared at him strangely. “My Prince?”

“The sound at Sik'vess,” Wrathion murmured. “Images like those the mantid gave me. That is what happened.” He shuddered and hated himself for the unwilled motion. “I believe I – saw what Garrosh unleashed: a wave of some Sha energy. The Vale is destroyed.”

Left said nothing, but she frowned. As always she remained unreadable in her dark expression.

“Perhaps we should move you,” Left said after a moment.

“Move me?”

“Away from the Vale. You can't risk -”

“I know what I cannot risk, Left!” Wrathion hissed through his clenched teeth and ran a hand down his face. He took off his turban to run the same hand through his hair, and noticed his fingers came away with something lukewarm and wet: blood. He must have dug his fingernails into his scalp outside when he'd first fallen.

“I cannot run away again,” Wrathion growled. “I have done enough running. Nothing happened at Sik'vess when they used that sonar -”

“Because Sabellian stopped it.”

Wrathion glared at her. “Why must you be so difficult, Left?”

“Why must you, My Prince?” She swept her arm out to gesture outside. “If what you saw is true – the Vale is too close, Prince Wrathion. You've had nightmares for weeks. Another Sha-scare would be a disaster.”

What she was not mentioning hovered heavy between them. They both knew what the Sha was really about, at least for him. Monstrous as it was, it was its link to the Old God that made it such a threat.

Wrathion turned away from her and looked around the Tavern. Yellow was the only other Blacktalon inside. Outside, the crowd that had gathered to watch the fog had spread out, from what he could see through the open portal of the Tavern. The adventurers he'd seen were in the process of mounting their cloud serpents and gryphon, their eyes wide, movements clumsy in their frantic quickness – probably going to the Vale. The Exchange Guards he could see remained staring up. The rot stench lingered.

The bright azure of the cloud serpents' scales and the dull yellow of the Exchange Guard's uniforms became too difficult to look at, and Wrathion closed his eyes.

It was then the ground shook again, but this was the lightest tremor of them all, and the stillness that followed felt like a strange and horrible finality.

With the suddenness of breaking glass, the sound returned. Wrathion jerked back so hard that the back of the table that bruises were sure to form.

I – have...

The sound stopped and released Wrathion. He gasped and shot up to his feet. The voice. That had not been his voice. Some other voice, ancient and rumbling, a voice from nightmares and things repressed. His gut churned and he felt as if he was about to vomit again.

“I need to -” Wrathion stopped himself. I need to leave, he'd been about to say. But no, no, how could he now? Everything had been going well. His plan had been laid out and clearly the battle had come to some climatic peak. This was what he'd been waiting for! He was supposed to effect the next events to come – not be affected by them.

Distant screaming. Wrathion flinched at the slight sound.

“A voice – oh, Left, it was a voice,” he moaned. Left narrowed her eyes at him and he collapsed back into the bench. “What did those mantid do to me?” He looked around the room wildly. The blood rushed in his ears. Everything felt like an echo. “I need to get out of here.”

No - damn this place, damn his plans! Anything to not hear that voice again, to get away from its source.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here!”

Left nodded. His sudden change in opinion didn't seem to confuse her. If anything, she looked more determined, her tusked mouth set in a grim line.

“We can get you to the Eastern Kingdoms -”

“No! I am not running that far away.” He rose again to his feet. “No. I must stay in Pandaria. Simply... far away from the Vale!”

“My Prince. The Sha infests all of Pandaria. We have no idea what Garrosh has done, if it was him who did anything at all. What if it is some – large-scale catastrophe beyond the Vale? That fog is right above us!”

Wrathion paced. “That wasn't the Sha,” he muttered. “An aftermath of sorts, like smoke from a flame. I am sure of it.” He paused and looked at his parchments on the table. “I will have to get as far away from the Vale, of course... but no, I will not leave Pandaria. My champions, everything I have planned... yes! Aha! I know. This is it, Left!” Wrathion snatched one of his parchments up. The clumsy slope of the handwriting, the blotched ink, his temporary savior. “The Timeless Isle! It's far off the coast. That will be perfect.” Wrathion grinned, and it looked desperate on his strained expression, all taut lines.

Left paused. Then she nodded. “We'll get a kite prepared immediately.”

Wrathion gripped the parchment. It wrinkled underneath the pressure of his touch. This was only another bump in the road.

His heart was beating too fast. He closed his eyes.

He would get past this like everything else in his life. It was a simple hurdle. He'd leap over it with one quick bound.

---

Sabellian circled high over the Timeless Isle.

He'd learned, since he'd arrived (he had no idea how long ago that'd been; the sun never moved and gave no indication of time) how high the vicious wind barrier was, and so he glided right below it. For extra security, he used the highest tip of his top fin to test where the barrier was, like dipping a claw in water to test the temperature.

He was too close to the barrier for comfort, and so he dipped his wings and glided a little farther down. Sabellian passed over the yaungols' fiery terrace far below. Cloying ash dirtied the air so completely the whole of the terrace was dim of light and remained a greyish red even in the highest reaches of air. The large burning kilns dotting the terrace churned even more smoke and the dozens that were lit glowed in the fog. None of the dots of yaungol looked up at him; Sabellian blended in with the smoke.

He paid as little attention to them as they did to him. Sabellian had explored the entirety of the Timeless Isle and no longer found interest in the yaungol or their settlement. He'd already surveyed their sprawling territory.

He left the terrace and breathed in the clearer air. Sabellian winced. He could not yet breathe in a full inhaled without pain. His stomach wound grew uncomfortably taut with the action and his timeless days here had shown that his wounds had begun to heal even slower than they had on the mainland, an unfortunate side-effect of this place. He may be away from the Old Gods, but he remained weak in body.

Sabellian turned to the Celestial Court. From his altitude, the ancient stone field looked like a small, long box, its white-grey stone an interruption of the endless green of the Isle. He dived closer. The Court grew more distinct and all the more regal. The small box became a grand courtyard made of thick and ancient blocks, worn by time. The center - an arena of sorts – was sunken a few feet into the earth, and ringing this idle pit was another paved area, acting like a thick frame to the field like the gold filigree of a pendant. In many of the cracks of the stone, vines snaked from the edges of the open wilds, and even dipped down into the arena to pool in clusters at the base of corners.

An archway, curled at the top in an architecture Sabellian had come to recognize as Yaungol in nature, stood to the south of the courtyard. Sabellian slowed down and landed atop the archway. He only just fit.

Carefully, he folded his legs and lay down. He'd done this maneuver once or twice. The first time, he'd almost knocked down the archway. The second time went easier. This time, he was practiced.

His left back leg couldn't fold properly, the one which had been harpooned. It ached far too much. He let it hang off the side.

From this high, he could see the whole of the Celestial Court. He felt like one of the Celestial's statues, placed towering around the plaza, one for each corner, all sculpted in elegant design.

He let his front paws dangle off the front of his perch. The silence here was definite. Every sound seemed a sharper and realer thing for it: the breeze, the calls of the birds high above. Even his very breathing remained a rumbling echo among the stillness. Timeless, indeed. He snorted.

Sabellian lay there for a time. It was more comfortable upon the archway, out in the unmoving sun, than it was in the cave, too cramped for his liking and inhabited by another irritated dragon, besides. Nasandria had become increasingly agitated as the days had passed.

“When are we going home?”

“What is taking so long?”

Chromie had held true to her promise and had shared the portal schedules in the Vale with him. They were erratically spread. Portals, even in a gifted mage's hand, were difficult to master. Portals to an entirely different planet called for even further refinement. For this, portals to Shattrath were rare in scheduling and Chromie warned him that the Vale was having “issues” and to expect the schedule to suddenly drop. That had been... three days ago. Maybe.

Sabellian had taken this news as a goading push for his planning. Flights around the Isle were for stretches and exploration, but mostly allowed him to think. But with each flight, each circle around the island, he found no easy solution to Wrathion. Luring him to the island was a stupid idea. Sabellian had no means of contacting the whelp. He wasn't going to send a strongly worded letter. But he could not leave the island, for fear of the Old Gods, and he would not send Nasandria to be some messenger dog. Sabellian idly pined for a nether-drake he could send instead. At the very least, his “death” would give him the element of surprise over the Black Prince.

On his flights, he found himself, unwillingly, thinking of the White Tiger when he could not think of a solution to the boy. For a mere moment, a breath, a blink, he'd considered on each flight leaving Wrathion be, and returning to Blade's Edge to protect his children against any others Wrathion would no doubt send – but each time he brushed the thought away. He was no coward, and would not limp home when he had already suffered so at the hands of a child and his lackeys. The depths of his pride would not allow it. Could not allow it. He had been a lieutenant of Deathwing and had killed thousands; the lieutenant had never quaked, and Sabellian would not quake now in the face of a whelp.

But he was not that lieutenant anymore. Sabellian stretched his claws and breathed deep the green air. He had been terrible, loathed, and feared, once. He exhaled, and remembered. Repressed memories of burning towers and cities, screaming mortals and dying dragons, grew muddy in his mind's eye. The smell of burning flesh, the taste of it, his jaws ripping the head off of a dueling Red. The crunch and grind of a building as he smashed it with his barbed tail. Killing. So much killing. Countless.

And now here he sat, exiled again to some forgotten place, hiding from voices and without regard of what to do about the prince. The lieutenant would have leaped off this wretched isle and found Wrathion at that blasted inn, and crushed him underneath his paws, without care as to such recklessness. Sabellian swished his tail and snorted softly. Had that not been his first idea, when he had come to that Tavern? But then he had heard of Wrathion's purified state, and he had to know, fixated upon that beacon of salvation not only for him but for his children, all that he had in the world.

No – that thought of saving himself and his children, of sparing Wrathion for that information, had not come from the lieutenant but from him, from what he had become when the Old Gods left him. Some other unnamed entity born in Blade's Edge. Baron Sablemane, maybe. Was this entity a coward? Had he become one, with the blind viciousness gone? He considered following through with the idea of simply flying off of the island to Wrathion, right then – but he did not move, nor even stretch a wing. Go off the island and he would go mad within a handful of days. He could not do that. Could not risk it.

Perhaps he was a coward.

Sabellian grunted low in his throat and shifted his position on the archway. He tucked his limp back leg up closer to his body. Enough thought of this.

He looked out over the Celestial Court and wondered as to its use. The arcane, wind-whipped sand smell of the Bronze remained thick here, and he wrinkled his nose. He'd seen some mortals on the beach some time ago. He would have to be more careful of these open layabouts.

But after a while of his relaxation, Sabellian smelled musk, and of a familiar quality – not like the tigers or yaks that inhabited this place. Sabellian identified it immediately and snorted, but did not look down.

“Misha,” he called out, “I don't know how you crossed an island, but you need to go back home to your orc.”

The bear roared. Sabellian twitched his fins and ignored her. He stared out at the Court and hoped she would go away.

“What if her orc is already here?”

Sabellian dug his claws into the stone.

His stomach suddenly became like a tangled net. He looked down, frozen.

Below, standing next to the archway, stood Rexxar. Next to him sat Misha. The half-orc looked out of place, standing there among the ancient stone. He was a thing of rough wilderness, misplaced even in the aged glimpse of civilization around them. Fading bruises covered his loosely armored chest, and bandages were wrapped around his unarmored shoulder and around his neck, concealing his collarbone.

The beastmaster watched him, his face shadowed in the high, unmoving sun thanks to his wolf mask.

Sabellian didn't move. The sight of the half-orc sent a sour coldness in him. Rexxar seemed half an illusion. The dragon came to, and quickly looked away.

“Then I suppose she's lucky to have found you,” Sabellian said, and his voice, in comparison to its usual strong drawl, remained somewhat of a stutter.

Silence followed. Below, Rexxar sighed. “It is good to see you alive, Sablemane.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. He dared not look down at the half-orc, now. How Rexxar know it was him? It was impossible. Rexxar had never known his true form.

“I don't know the name,” Sabellian said, and flicked his tail.

“My apologies. Should I be calling you Sabellian instead?”

Sabellian looked at Rexxar again, nostrils flared.

“And how do you know that name?”

“Come – does it matter? I know who you are. Your voice is hard to misplace, no matter what form speaks it.”

Sabellian swished his tail. He stared at Rexxar in silence for a long moment, and then, sighing roughly, he let his fins got a bit flat across his head and neck.

“I had wondered as to why Misha was following me,” he said begrudgingly. There was no denying his identity now. “Why are you here? And how do you know -”

“I am here for you, among other things.”

“For me? Touching.”

“Come down from your perch, Baron. You are avoiding my eyes.”

Sabellian exhaled. He slid from the archway like an oversized cat and then jumped down to earth. He landed and the ground shuddered underneath his weight. No sooner did his paws hit the ground did they become hands and feet, and Sabellian straightened and turned to Rexxar in his mortal guise.

Sabellian sighed. Misha nudged at one of his feet with her nose. Rexxar regarded him in an unreadable silence.

“Let us have it, then,” Sabellian said.

“Have what?”

“You cannot possibly be unfazed by this,” Sabellian snapped.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Sabellian glowered up at the half-orc, who was at least four feet taller than he was. “I hid what I was from you,” he began, voice already heated in an argument that had yet to start. “I lied to you throughout all of these years I have known you, you foolish orc. I am a black dragon, hated by most sane denizens of Azeroth. This does not phase you?”

Sabellian wasn't sure where the anger was coming from, but as he stared up at Rexxar, the half-orc's face shadowed and unreadable in that damned wolf mask, he realized it was from sort of... fear. Not something from fright, or something that would keep him up at night; nothing like what the voices made him feel. An anxiousness, he thought, but something a bit... more than that. Rexxar was the only thing that was close to a “friend” that he had. The orc had to be angry with him for such treachery, and there went that single comrade.

Rexxar stared at him. Then the half-orc breathed out, his deep chest flattening as all the air rushed out of him. “I don't want to insult you,” he began slowly, “but your true identity wasn't very difficult to surmise.”

“It what?”

“Have you ever realized what you're wearing?”

Sabellian leaned away from Rexxar, glaring. The idea alone that Rexxar had somehow guessed that Sabellian was a dragon was, indeed, insulting, and his worries about Rexxar's reaction lessened somewhat in his annoyance. His disguise was immaculate! “What I'm wearing? Yes, I have full realization as to my articles of clothing.”

“Blade's Edge Mountains is the hottest place in Outland.”

“And?”

“I never – not once – saw you sweat or pant or gasp for air in the heat, not even when the sun was highest.”

Sabellian frowned. He glanced down at himself: at all the many layers of thick, heavily-dyed robes, at the white turtleneck undershirt, at his thick boots and gloves. He never felt too hot, being a dragon. Thinking of it, any mortals who had dared Blade's Edge had always been sweating in heavy armor or robes of their own... it simply hadn't occurred to him that his outfit and coolness in the high heat would be odd.

“Ah,” Sabellian said, lamely. He then huffed and shot another glare at Rexxar. “But that hardly explains how you knew I was a dragon.”

“I had a guess; I didn't know.”

“It was a deep enough guess that the truth of it doesn't rattle you, Rexxar.”

Rexxar grunted. “I can give more examples. You had contained dragonflame, rare, available at all times. The only place you could have slept were the caves abandoned by the ogres; your disdain for the Cenarion Expedition was made plain, so I knew you did not stay with them in the forest. You kept whelps as messengers. You didn't have a first name -”

“Fine. Yes. I get the point.” Sabellian huffed, and then rubbed at the back of his neck. To think his impeccable disguise would be given away by mannerisms was embarrassing. He considered this new realization in silence.

“You said nothing about this keen-eyed guess of yours,” Sabellian finally said, in an accusatory tone.

Rexxar shrugged, but the casual motion of his huge shoulders made him suddenly flinch, and Sabellian frowned. The beastmaster continued as it hadn't occurred. “It was your secret to have, not mine. I thought to allow you to tell me on your own time. And it was only a guess, old friend. What if I was wrong? No, I could not simply tell you what I thought.”

Sabellian studied him. “You have good diplomacy for an orc.” And with this, the anger left him, and Sabellian sighed roughly. “And your lack of anger is genuine?”

“I don't see why it wouldn't be.” One side of Rexxar's lips twitched, as if the half-orc was bordering on some inane sense of amusement.

“And I am no simpering Red. I am a Black Dragon. This does not bother you?” Sabellian's voice hinged on great suspicion, and he squinted at the orc.

Here Rexxar hesitated, and the well of anxiousness from before reappeared in Sabellian's chest.

“I have no qualms with what you are,” Rexxar said, and his words were more slowly said than usual, as if he had put deep thought into them during his moment of silence. “Heritage and finished history means nothing to me, and you have given me no hints of a monstrous nature.”

Sabellian stared at the half-orc. He relaxed, the anxious curl gone. Unsure of what else to do or say, he cleared his throat and grabbed for words. “You are a strange orc,” he muttered.

“I have heard that often,” Rexxar replied, but he had a curious and faraway glint to his eye as he spoke.

Sabellian felt at a loss. He had, at fleeting times, thought to share with Rexxar the truth of what he was. Every time, he had dismissed the notion, wary of the beastmaster's reaction. He'd expected disgust, anger, even hatred. Sabellian had seen the half-orc's eyes grow hot with rage when they had spoken of the gronn, and this anger Sabellian always thought to one day be directed at him.

And here Rexxar was, casual about the affair like it was a simple shift in the breeze. Sabellian wasn't sure how to react.

But something else occurred to him. The dragon studied Rexxar. “You knew my true name,” he said. “How did you know that?” More questions rose. “Why were you trying to find me?”

“Samia shared with me your true name,” Rexxar said, and the casualness of his face shifted, and deep lines appeared in concentrated edges on his masked face.

“Samia?” Sabellian straightened. “Why would – she would not give that away,” he said. “What happened in the Mountains?” And here Rexxar became a beacon of sudden knowledge to him, a link to the home he'd left behind.

Rexxar nodded to the stone table that sat a little to the left of the archway and overlooked the Celestial Court. Though it had no chairs, Rexxar said, “Sit. I have – many things to tell you.”

#sabellian #anduin wrynn #wrathion #rexxar #sorry for the long wait #(had to reupload - weird formatting issues on blog)

[baron-sablemane]

I've very recently discovered your blog, thank you so much for restoring my faith in fanfics. ;^; I have greatly enjoyed reading it! I'll make sure to sketch you something as a proper thank you when I've got the chance!

Ahhhh thanks you so much! I loved the drawing!

#erwil

[baron-sablemane]

Hello there. I'm sure you get plenty of these messages but I just wanted to pass on my own words. :) I was on a few year hiatus of WoW but this story caused me to log back in for the first time in years. I wanted to go back and see these places and events you've referenced. I thought a lot of the events/items/people here were of your own creation. I was amazed to see you masterfully pulled in 'real' examples. It's a wonderfully woven story. Keep up the awesome work, I look forward to it!

Wow. That is awesome! Thanks so so much. It's been really fun to try to pull in a lot of canon stuff, and I'm glad it paid off! Thanks again for the kind words!

#amaranthi

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 31)

Samia and Vaxian battle off Dragonmaw to escape. Neltharaku and the Prince Mordenaku discuss their history, and Anduin Wrynn answers to his Father's summons.

There was little mistaking the new dragon: it was Serinar. The sudden shock of his appearance had Samia stalling, hovering in midair even as Serinar dove towards her.

But the flash of Okrut's black-steel armor catching the light of the fires broke her from her wide-eyed stare. She sucked her wings close to her body and dropped like a stone. Serinar swept at the air above her.

Her body clenched in protest as she spread her wings again. Serinar's earlier attack had dealt a terrible wound on her shoulder, right where her left wing met her back. She chanced a glance back as she rose into the fog. The hard-packed scales there were shredded, and the muscles raw and red against her black hide.

Even a single flap of her wings brought awash new pain that stung tears into her eyes. The pain in her broken foreleg was nothing to this.

A snarl from behind had her turning. The fog parted for Serinar as he flew up at her. His golden chain and red eyes glowed in the smog, a beacon.

Samia used her upper-hand of height and dove down at him as he came up at her. He was far larger than she was, but the added acceleration from her dive gave her a new weight and force. She pummeled into the rising dragon with a roar.

The impact rattled her. Dimly she was aware of claws scrabbling at her scales and teeth trying to find purchase at her neck. Samia ignored it. She focused on keeping the worst pains out of mind and on keeping a hold on the other dragon as they tumbled, interlocked, to the ground.

The fog dissolved around them. Samia opened her eyes, squinted through the various gaps as Serinar whipped his sinuous neck back and forth. She kicked her hind legs into the dragon's belly.

A heady huff of breath escaped Serinar and he let go in surprise; Samia unlocked her claws and rose away. She smashed her tail down against the falling dragon.

She had hoped the force of their dive and the tail strike might have him, and his rider, shoved into the ground. Instead Serinar managed to right himself just before he could crash in a deft maneuver of swinging wings and tail.

As before, he shot back up at her. The grounded Dragonmaw cheered a guttural cheer.

Another sound rose from the cheer – but far more bestial. The red proto-drake that Samia had been ripped from appeared before her and took up the scope of her vision, a wall of red and gold. Its ripped muscles waved like banners in the air.

Samia jerked back. The attack did not come. The Red instead turned away from her, honed towards a secondary target. Samia had forgotten about Vaxian in the shock of Serinar's appearance.

Vaxian hovered some yards away. He had not been able to hold onto the Red without Samia's assistance; he hosted a new gash across his chest from where the Red seemed to have torn free of him. It bled freely, smoking in the cooler air.

Just as Serinar was upon her again, the Red collided with Vaxian. The two grappled. The Red was in a frenzy now, crazed from pain and its rider's screamed orders.

Serinar dug his talons into Samia's shoulder as she heard a loud snap come from the Red and Vaxian. The Red teetered – but it was Vaxian who fell, one wing skewered at an unnatural angle.

Samia screeched. She smashed a paw into the side of Serinar's head as his maw descended. The other dragon grunted and pulled away. His gaze remained blank, impassive, the glassy eyes of some automaton come to life.

She cracked the side of his head again and again and again in a frenzy of blind movement. A fine crack splintered in his spiraling horn as she wailed on him.

But her eyes were not for her work but for Vaxian: he had crashed, hard, and struggled to rise. Grounded Dragonmaw began to surround him.

A hateful bloodlust swelled within her. Samia screamed, a sound that was half-roar, half-screech, and pummeled her paw into Serinar's head one last time with such force one of his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He let go and his wings folded. He collapsed into one of the trees and went still.

Samia dived down to Vaxian, trailing ribbons of blood.

Her brother was fighting off as well as he could, striking out with maw and paw. His right wing spread uselessly at his side.

As Samia neared, frenzied, hateful, she did what she saw she could only do: she pulled at the ever-present hum in her chest and willed it up and out. It traveled to her talons and then shot towards the earth. The hum within her expanded as it took in the earth's own. Latent, but there.

She took a mental hold of the hum in the earth and pulled.

The earth surrounded Vaxian crushed upwards at her call, raw and wet. It encircled him, a natural wall too high for Dragonmaw to climb but small enough for Vaxian to leap over. Orcs caught atop the jutted rocks flew. Some struck the Auction House in a crunch of wood.

Samia landed from her dive atop the new wall, and her claws slipped on the dirt that remained clinging to the manipulated stone of the slope. She spread her one good wing over Vaxian and crouched and watched the Dragonmaw recollect themselves. Her elemental attack had a desirable side-effect: a stillness settled among the mountain. Even the grounded proto-drakes, who had begun to lope forward, now began to inch away, nervous and chattering.

It smelled like fresh earth and smoke and blood and Samia's ears were ringing. A headache began to itch at her skull. She would have to be careful of how much she would use the earth; she was on Azeroth, not Outland. Things lurked beneath her feet she did not wish to bring up.

“Samia, you have to go,” Vaxian said. His sonorous voice was raspy with his own blood as it leaked from his throat from some inner wound Samia did not care to think about. “I cannot fly.”

“We can jump off the cliff-side,” Samia said. The Dragonmaw were beginning to get their wits about them again. The Red swooshed above them, and Samia snarled, but the orc rider atop it landed it on the other side of the Auction House, far away from them. Samia frowned at that.

“They'll catch up to us. Two of the proto-drakes can still fly. Please, Samia, go; I will not have you captured with me.”

“Can you stop with the fatalistic approach, Vaxian?”

She stopped and tensed. The Dragonmaw began to pull the grounded proto-drakes towards them, and the beasts shook their heads and hissed. Their chains rattled. When had there been so many orcs? Had Serinar brought more atop his back?

Samia pulled at the earth again. In great chunks, rocks burst from the ground, a natural catapult of force. Each hovering sphere of crude rock remained a pinpoint of energy, alive and humming in her consciousness. Hers to control.

She threw them from the air without physical touch. The boulders whipped forward. Silent. Passive all until they crunched into groups of Dragonmaw and the approaching proto-drakes. Bones splintered. One orc flattened beneath a boulder. Another boulder cracked the leg of one of the proto-drakes, which fell with a shriek.

For a mere instant a haze of satisfaction spread within her.

Samia shook her head and turned to the group of orcs from behind her. Vaxian's mouth was moving but Samia didn't know what he was saying. The Dragonmaw there were shouting at one another; they ripped the loaded pikes they had shot up at the sky from before and began to turn them towards her. Odd, that they were now pulling away the proto-drakes to where the Red had gone.

Samia plucked up more rough rock from the ground. The orcs shot their wicked pikes.

She hurdled the new boulders toward the projectiles; the wooden weapons exploded into hundreds of splinters. The orcs dodged the boulders as they came crashing down, the boulders trailing wood still whipped away from their surfaces like a comet's trail.

“You cannot keep them off forever!” Vaxian cried, his voice punching through Samia's focus. “Serinar is coming back. You have to go.”

Samia looked up. Indeed Serinar had struggled to his feet and was beginning to lope towards them in powerful, bull-like strides. Branches and vines had entangled in his wings, trapping them to his sides.

“They're protecting the proto-drakes,” Samia rasped. When had she run out of breath? “They're going to shoot at us from afar than risk their animals dying outright. It's only the orcs. I can hold off Serinar.”

“Samia -”

Serinar was upon them. He collected himself, muscles bunching, and leaped.

Samia snarled. She thrust out a claw and the ground in front of Serinar plunged forward in a spike.

Okrut cried out and the golden chain on Serinar's neck glowed. The dragon jerked away in a disturbing, unnatural motion, as if he had been yanked back and to the side by some invisible hand. The spike did not gut him as it would have but instead scored him on his left side.

He landed inches from the outer rock wall. Samia flicked her still-raised claw and the rocks closest to Serinar smashed into his face. The dragon snarled and lurched back. Two of his front teeth fell out of his mouth.

Samia's head began to ache and hum. She knew she was pushing too much of her elemental stores. But she had no choice. She continued on.

Serinar tried to come at her again and Samia pelted him with smaller rocks, arrow-head like in shape and size. The other dragon roared in frustration as he was forced to back up; he held his head high to shield Okrut from the assault.

Then Serinar roared again. Flames flickered in the depths of his maw. He shoved his head down to the ground and scooped up a heap of the fallen projectiles and swallowed them. Samia managed to strike Okrut across the face with a larger rock as Serinar moved his protective head away, and the orc gasped in pain as blood rain down his face.

Angry that he had been struck, Okrut whipped Serinar. The dragon flailed his trapped wings and shook off the entangled branches.

He leaped into the air.

Samia raised a chunk of stone so large that the force of keeping it aloft set all her limbs to shaking.

She threw it. If it hit it would surely shatter Serinar's rib-cage.

Serinar opened his mouth, yellowed teeth a grim flash, and spat a smoking wad of lava from his gullet.

It tore through the boulder like a flame through paper. Molten bits of rock showered downwards; Serinar shot through the burning debris, a blur of black and red and metal.

He crashed into her. They went tumbling. Samia felt her back strike the opposite end of the rock wall and then disappear underneath her.

Her head smashed noisily into wood. They had fallen into the side of the Auction House. The fire had gone out but the thick killing smoke remained, though Samia breathed through the filtered valve in her nostrils and did not begin to suffocate.

They came to a halt there against the side, a hole punctured through the burnt building. Serinar had landed atop her: a dangerous position.

Serinar sank his teeth into her shoulder. For a terrible moment Samia found she didn't have the strength to raise her good foreleg to defend herself. Her muscles felt like fuzz, unmoving. Then she heard Vaxian roar and a great whoosh of flames followed, and a new, tired energy surged back into her, the last stores of adrenaline.

She scrambled her hing legs and found purchase on Serinar's soft belly. Her talons raked against leather straps and metal buckles. With a snarl she pushed, her legs shaking with effort, and Serinar's hold on her neck loosened as he tried to reposition himself in his crouch. Samia took the chance of the slackened hold and writhed away in a violent twist. She broke more off the outer wall and sent wood whisking off.

When she stood she nearly collapsed again; multiple splinters, long as her claw, had caught into her shoulder wound. The fresh pain remained a clenching hold. She stumbled.

But the splinters presented an idea, and as Serinar righted himself, his scales coated with soot, Samia tore away a freer piece of wood with a sharpened edge and plunged it into the other dragon's shoulder.

It sunk to the bone. Serinar shrieked.

And for the briefest of moments his eyes reflected a lucidity Samia had not seen there before.

“Serinar, it's Samia,” she said. “The orcs are controlling you.” Why else would he fight, and look so dead in gaze? Now that she was near-to-collapse, the only thing Samia could do was appeal to him.

Serinar whipped his head back and forth and shrieked again. She wasn't sure if he heard her through the pain. Okrut was yelling something unimportant and began to raise his whip again.

Serinar stopped, snorted, and looked at her – pointedly. He snorted again and narrowed his eyes, and then the whip came down and the chain glowed, and the blankness in his gaze returned and he loped forward.

Samia backed up. She chanced a glance behind Serinar as he advanced. Vaxian was holding off the grounded Dragonmaw by spitting churned clouds of flame, but he could not attack from all sides. Two pikes were already embedded into his right flank, and Samia could not be sure when the next might be drugged.

She glanced back at Serinar. He was limping as bad as she was.

He lowered his head and charged.

Samia did not meet him in the charge but stayed still. She used the last pools of her energy to will the earth to hold her in place, and as Serinar rushed into her, she moved not. The pain was immense as she took all the brunt force of the tackle; it shook her to the palms but she did not sway, immovable like stone.

It had the effect she'd hoped for: Serinar lurched back as the force redoubled back into him.

Samia lunged forward at his off-balanced stance and crushed him to the ground. Now she was the one atop.

Okrut had jumped off to avoid being crushed. She didn't care. She dug her good foreleg's talons into the thrashing dragon's neck and her back legs' onto his belly. Only now did she feel on her chest where Serinar's tusks, attached to his helm, had dug in when he'd rammed into her.

A spark of neon from where Vaxian was holding off the other Dragonmaw had her hesitating, and she looked up. Azorka and Okelaka had come back. Azorka zipped through the orcs and pushed down their pikes and Okelaka fluttered around Vaxian. Samia hoped the others had gotten away.

But even with their assistance the Dragonmaw kept creeping closer. They had mounted hooks now. Barbed. Like the drugged poles in the Auction House.

Desperation fueled her anger. Samia looked back at Serinar, still writing underneath her.

Whatever was controlling Serinar hardly mattered. Serinar hardly mattered. All that mattered was getting away with Vaxian in tow.

Samia struck. Her jaws enclosed around the dragon's bobbing jugular. She began to rip back.

And then she couldn't move.

Samia blinked. She could feel Serinar squirming, his claws ripping desperately at her hide, but she remained still, frozen. It was not the feeling of before, when sheer exhaustion had forced her muscles into a stand-still, but something like a suspension in space, crippled.

A black haze began to emanate from her body. Fear struck her as she thought of the Old Gods and all their dark magic, but then Serinar managed to twist his neck away and his soft flesh came out of her jaws. He pushed her off and got to his feet, and only then, jostled by the other dragon, did Samia see Wrathion off to her left, his hand raised. From it shot the same dark haze that now surrounded her. He had bound her with some sort of curse. She glowered and snarled; Wrathion stared at her, his face a mask of emotion. Collected, calm.

Beyond her she could see Vaxian falling, hides barbed with the pikes, and Okelaka crashing to earth in a silent tumble. Azorka had been brought down, snared in a wheel of rope; no thrashing freed her.

Samia could not move to help. The slope stilted into silence. They'd lost.

---

The past half hour had been a misery.

Not because Wrathion was in any physical pain, of course. He had stayed back during much of the fighting, though some of the wind had blown loose soot from the fires into his face and had stained his tabard.

Staying back wasn't out of cowardice, in his own opinion. Wrathion simply hadn't wanted to be out in the open. If one of the black dragons had seen him, he'd been swiped at and there would be the end of his young life.

So he had stayed and watched. He had seen dragons fighting before, when Sabellian and Alexstrasza had traded blows. But then he had been right in the middle of it, and it had been nighttime, and he had gone through the smoke and flames while held in a claw. This time he'd seen the full scope of the great scuffle, though he was unsure if a proto-drake really counted in a dragon-on-dragon dogfight.

Then there had been the other dragon to consider: the large one from the mountains, trailed by nether-drakes. The one Wrathion had sent his favorite assassin to kill. That dragon's appearance had rankled him, and he questioned the assassin's whereabouts. He'd hoped they hadn't died.

But Wrathion's annoyance for the male dragon's appearance was but a vague outline in comparison to his disbelief when the largest of the dragons arrived over the mountains, decked in all Dragonmaw garb and very much under Dragonmaw control. One look at this stranger had told Wrathion that this was no son of Sabellian: the horns were wrong and the body shape too lithe, and he was far too old.

That was someone out of the brood.

Wrathion had gawked. Later, he was glad everyone else was too busy watching the fight and putting out the fires and had not seen the look on his face; he must've looked the fool, wide-eyed and confused and enraged all in one great sweep across his face.

The stranger's fight with Samia, at least, had been a true dragon fight. Had he not been so angry and bewildered at the stranger's appearance he might have found it as enthralling as he'd found the proto-drake battle.

But then Samia had opened herself up to attack. She had been close enough – and so Wrathion had taken his chance. He hadn't any hesitation about it; it was simply something that had to be done, and it gave Madam Goya, in a wordless signal, that he'd accepted her offer: he would cooperate with both her and the Dragonmaw and deliver the dragons. Had he let her go, she may have escaped. And that wouldn't have sat well with him.

It was not his wordless acceptance nor his interruption of Samia's kill-strike, nor the fact he had ushered Samia and the others into chains, that bothered him now and prodded him into a misery. No – it was the stranger, the dragon he did not know. As the Dragonmaw had drugged Samia and her brother and the two foolish nether-drakes who had returned to help – why had they done such a thing to such a lost cause? - and chained them, Wrathion had watched the newcomer.

He was about as large as Sabellian had been, Wrathion supposed, and weighed down by saddle and metal plate and a helmet with tusk. He even sported Dragonmaw glyphs in red paint as bright as his wing and fin webs, which bothered Wrathion in some strange way he couldn't place.

Stranger still was how the Dragonmaw hadn't chained the dragon, when they had already re-chained the proto-drakes, even the red Galakras, after their wounds had been hurriedly patched by orcs whose hands were now covered in red-black proto blood up to their elbows. These drakes now lined up near the Auction House and shifted and grunted and growled.

The strange dragon only stood there, staring off at the opposite end of the slope. He did not make a sound as two Dragonmaw heaved out the four foot long plank from his shoulder and Okrut, the rider, did not hold onto the dragon's reins.

Was it trust in the dragon that let him be so flippant in control? No – it couldn't have been. No dragon, not even a mad Black Dragon, would agree to follow a Dragonmaw orc.

Wrathion eyed the dragon's face. Who was this? He had already sent an orc agent into the throng to investigate. How could – how had – his head felt like tangled wire. Every new thought, whirling, piled further anxiety and anger in his mind. Worse still there was a steady and unyielding hum in his mind, daring to drive him to snap at all but himself.

Wrathion forced himself to look away and glance over the rest of the slope. Zaela had been right; the devastation of dragons was something to behold. The Auction House remained smoldering, and even from his distance Wrathion could smell its burn and crushed wood. The ever-present fog above looked dim and dark with the coalesced smoke that had risen to join it , and the ground was littered with upturned boulders. A chunk of the Veiled Stair's landscape had become one of smoothed bumps and rolls to one of hard crag and jutted rock, sprayed with darkening red of dragon blood and black of dragon flame.

His very own little battlefield in his backyard. Charming.

Wrathion spotted Warlord Zaela as he scanned the slope. She walked away from Samia's brother and had begun to inspect Samia's bindings. The dragon lay still, far too drugged and weak to even move her head.

Anger swelled in his chest as Wrathion watched the Warlord. He walked forward, direct in his stride, and two agents followed.

“Who is that?” Wrathion demanded once he had come within yelling distance to Warlord Zaela. The orc glanced at him, followed his gaze, and snorted.

“That is Ashmaw.”

“What a stupid name.”

Zaela grunted. “You can complain to Okrut. He named the beast.”

This was cause for alarm. “Ashmaw was not their name? What was – is it?”

“I don't know and I don't care, hatchling.” Zaela jerked her head to the direction of the Auction House. “Leave us to our business.”

Wrathion drew himself up. “I helped you and I am cooperating. This is my business, Warlord.” He looked at “Ashmaw” again. The dragon hadn't moved. Wrathion wondered if he even blinked. “And why is he here, then?”

“What?”

“No dragon would willingly serve you,” Wrathion said, and did nothing to hide his distaste. “So why is he here?”

Zaela studied him. Behind her, the orcs began to run long metal cables between Samia and Vaxian; the ends of these were clamped onto the dragons' neck braces. They were, as he understood it, preparing to take them to none other than the Vale of Eternal Blossoms by way of flight. “Ashmaw” would be the lead flier; he had only come to the mountains to help transport the new acquisitions in the first place.

“I am sure from where you cowered you saw Okrut use the whip,” Zaela said.

Wrathion ignored the insult. “Yes. But he isn't chained. A dragon that size would hardly feel the pain of a whip, let alone one flicked by a single orc's hand. I'm not so dull as to believe that's the only thing keeping him here.”

Zaela rolled her eyes. “You are a pest. Fine. I told you before that there are other ways to control dragons besides the whip; Ashmaw obeys because of the Demon Chain.”

Wrathion frowned. He eyed the still dragon. The name did not sound familiar.

“It's the last remnant of the Dragon Soul,” Zaela offered, and she smiled, smug, as Wrathion widened his eyes. He caught himself and resumed his vacantly curious stare.

“Ah,” he said, lamely. The Chain was obvious now: thick-linked and gold, it circled the base of Serinar's neck, and connected to the horn of the saddle by way of an iron clamp looped through one of the links. The clamp looked crude and ugly in comparison to the smooth craftsmanship of the Chain.

Wrathion had never heard of the artifact. The concept of it was so remarkably disturbing to him he began to wish he had not asked Zaela at all. That a simple chain, one once connected to the Dragon Soul or no, might force a dragon to obey... he suppressed a shudder. It was unnatural, and reminded him too much of the servitude of the Old Gods.

“You will use it on Samia and her brother, then, I imagine?”

“Who?”

“The girl. The girl dragon?”

Zaela shrugged.

Wrathion glanced at his cousin. The drugs had made her gaze clouded and indistinct, though their edges were creased in barely-suppressed pain. She did not look at him but at her brother as they added a brace to his broken wing.

Wrathion turned away before he could think too much on it. He had made his choice when he'd bound Samia and nothing more; if the Dragonmaw used the Chain, fine. The dragons would be dead in no more than a week, anyway.

“Do you want something else?” The gruffness of Zaela's voice suggested that he not need something else for his health's sake.

“Yes. Where did you get Ashmaw?”

Zaela stared at him. “Do you take me for an idiot? I see what you're asking, kin-killer. Go away.”

Wrathion grit his teeth. He'd thought the question innocuous.

For whoever this Ashmaw was, he had come from somewhere, and not from Outland (or so Wrathion assumed). Wrathion rubbed at the side of his face and felt loose soot from the Auction House fire come off, cloyingly soft, onto his fingers.

He dreaded. Ashmaw's simple act of being presented an ugly idea: if Wrathion had not known of his existence, would there be more black dragons in Azeroth? Wrathion had hardly entertained such an idea when Sabellian had come. Sabellian's brood was in Outland; the fact that a brood remained stars away was an oversight, as stupid and unfortunate as it was, and the mistake would soon be swept under the rug.

But Ashmaw – Ashmaw's appearance felt more insulting. Wrathion thought he'd taken care of Azeroth. He'd searched everywhere, even sending rogues to scour places he could not mentally reach. The failure of not checking Outland had turned out badly; the realization of his failure even to Azeroth was a sour clench of his gut, ugly and one he did not wish to face, but would have to.

Zaela walked away from him. His silence seemed to signal to her that their conversation was over. Wrathion remained staring off into space, his jaw clenched and his mood worsening with each unhappy thought that grabbed at him. Discovering that very first drake in Blade's Edge had been like shearing away a curtain – and suddenly he could see the scope of his mistakes as they presented themselves in the new light, a rippling domino.

“Prince Wrathion -”

Anger at himself burst outward, transformed into anger at everyone else. “What?” He snapped.

He had hardly seen the agent, the brown-skinned, tall human that had delivered his messages some days ago, appear at his side. The rogue winced.

“I – well, there is an urgent report for you.”

Wrathion stuck out his hand and gestured wildly to the smoking scene before him, out at all the dragons and orcs and char. “Do you think I have time for regular reports? I'm busy.”

“Yes, sir, but this is straight from the Vale.”

Wrathion hesitated. Activity in the Vale had escalated to a sort of frantic activity; it was sure to soon explode. Sighing, Wrathion nodded. “Alright. What is it?”

The Agent pulled out a scroll from an odd, slim pocket that was strapped tight to his chest-piece. He unrolled it, looked it over, and cleared his throat. “The goblins seem to be getting close to whatever they are looking for, though my reports show that they are having some difficulties in continuing.”

“That sickness?”

The Agent nodded. “Nonetheless they do continue, but at a slower pace,” he said. The rogue glanced further down the page. “Garrosh Hellscream is set to arrive in three days time.”

Wrathion frowned. If Garrosh was coming to the Vale, it meant a promised violence. The Warchief cursed everywhere he walked with a touch of carnage. “There's no reports of what they're looking for?”

“No, my Prince.”

Wrathion wiped the soot from his fingers. He glanced at the dragons. The orcs had finished binding Vaxian's wing, and they had staunched the worst of the wounds on both siblings, and on Ashmaw.

And then, in a clarifying suddenness, the tangle of wire in his thoughts unraveled. The news of the Vale had allowed a single point of concentration, and Wrathion held onto it. He knew what had to be done.

“Thank you,” he said to the agent, and in such an enthusiastic voice the agent winced in surprise.

“Left!” Wrathion called. Behind him, the orc drew to attention. She had been barred by order to stay in the Tavern, whose patio she now perched on; the orc had come rushing down the moment the fires had started, though Wrathion had bid her not to leave the inn.

Wrathion turned to her. “I'm going inside to think things through. Pray set up some guards here,” he said.

The orc nodded, though she remained frowning.

The agent guarding his right, the female worgen that had been with him on the Secret Aerie, voiced her own confusion. “You are going to leave the dragons?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I see. Well, alright.”

Wrathion began to walk. When he was close to the Tavern, Left gave him a curious look and spoke in a lowered voice. “How many guards would you like on the Dragonmaw, my Prince?”

“Minimal. Enough to know what is going on. Send all the rest we have to the Vale and to Orgrimmar. Some to Stormwind, too.”

Left frowned.

“I think it is time I'm done with being distracted by dragons, don't you, Left?” Wrathion murmured to her as he stepped up on the patio. “This news about the Vale – that is what's truly important. What will happen there and with the Horde and Alliance will shape this world's destiny! Stray dragons will not.” He nodded to himself. Ashmaw was something to consider. There was no denying that. But the War was what was truly important now. He had to remember that; he had set out with a goal in the very beginning of this campaign, and he had to see it through. Distractions of dragons thought dead could not pull him away now, when this Pandaren story was coming to a close.

Left stared at him – and then she gave him a rare smile, a wisp of a gesture on her face.

“It's about time,” she said.

---

Shadowmoon Valley had more tolerable weather than Blade's Edge Mountains. Mordenaku shuffled his wings closer to his body. This dry heat was near unbearable, and unwavering in its intensity. At least Shadowmoon had some vague humidity. Here, it felt as if his skin was beginning to crack.

Perhaps it was because he had lived in Shadowmoon all his life that he found this place so intolerable. Many called Shadowmoon a hell-hole, which Mordenaku found a misplaced insult. Yes, there were demons and fel-flame, but where was there not on Outland?

He shook his head. Perspective, perspective. He should not complain so much, even to his own mind.

Mordenaku had arrived days before when Neltharaku had bid him come. He hadn't seen any of the Black Dragons since Sabellian and his eldest daughter, Samia, had come to Shadowmoon to speak of alliances. Seeing other dragons, different but in a way, so like him, grated him as odd but appealing.

But the black dragons were not healthy. He remembered the shine of Samia's scales and the lean form of her muscles. She'd been well fed. The dragons Sabellian had left behind were not.

Barthamus had not been exaggerating his tales. Mordenaku had arrived on a day when the group tasked with bringing food from Zangarmarsh had come back, and had seen the paltry servings and the exhaustion of the workers. The food was half rotten, and stank of fungus and decay. The water from Zangarmarsh, at least, remained untarnished, though was more difficult to transport than the food.

The pickings had already shaved off some pounds from the dragons at Blade's Edge. Their heads and wings drooped. The whelps played minimally. A dragon lived for fresh blood. Picking at three-day-old carcasses was begging for malnourishment.

Mordenaku watched them now as he sat atop one of the more clean-shaven cliff-faces, one, miraculously, free of the Mountains' wicked spikes. Food had arrived not from Zangarmarsh, but from Netherstorm, in the form of warpstalkers and even two plated rock flayers. Mordenaku had taken little, but his gut churned.

Someone approached him from the side. Mordenaku looked over. He bowed his head. His father, the dragon Neltharaku, came limping up towards him, favoring one foreleg.

“Father,” Mordenaku greeted. He raised his head, and the crystals growing loose from his spiral horns chimed in their rustling. “I hope you had your fill of food.”

“I had but a taste,” Neltharaku said as he sat next to his eldest son. “I'm afraid both species do not agree with me.”

“Yes. I concur.” The two watched the black dragons below pick at their food. “I do not care for this weather.”

“It is certainly something one must get used to.”

Mordenaku shifted. He always had trouble wondering when to get into the meat of a conversation. Had he said enough polite, idle talk? “I suppose we should not be complaining about the food selection, though, when those have been working far harder than us.”

“Very.” Neltharaku's eyes were narrowing. That was usually a sign that Mordenaku should change the subject.

“Father, I must confess I remain confused as to my coming here. Everything seems well under control.” It would be his turn next to go hunting for food, as groups rotated, but there was already so many here helping. “I am not complaining, of course.”

“No. I doubt you would ever do that.” Neltharaku extended his left wing in an idle stretch. “I suppose we could have done without you... though I find that a secondary authority figure helps keep the more unruly drakes in line.”

Mordenaku frowned. “Father, forgive me, but you are the high-broodfather of the Netherwing. I doubt my presence here shocks them into action no more than yours does.”

“Does mine, truly? I wonder, these days.”

“Father?”

Neltharaku looked at his son. His eyes shown like pearls in their sockets, pupiless. “You and I are the only nether dragons here. Yes. The work load can be done without you. But your presence is a reminder for them.”

Mordenaku blinked, then nodded. He understood. With both the high-broodfather and the heir to the title there, overseeing those helping the black dragons, the nether drakes there would remember who was in charge. Once, that was unquestioned. Now, with how voiced Barthamus grew, the Netherwing teetered. It was a vague shift, like little fractures in ice, but with enough cracks, that ice could shatter.

“Did my uncle try to stir trouble here?”

Neltharaku hesitated. “It was the usual slander he spoke. Ideas of taking Blade's Edge, Nagrand. Idle anger.” The great nether dragon breathed out, and a glow of nether, white like ice, curled from his nostrils. “I still didn't want him here. I thought he might have tempered his moods in this crisis, but he did the opposite.”

“I find it off his opinions are reached with willing ears.”

“I don't.”

Mordenaku started. “What?”

“If I am to think that all of the Netherwing follow me without question, I would be a poor leader indeed.”

Mordenaku frowned. “I don't know about such a way of thinking. That seems pessimistic.” What leader didn't believe all of one's subjects followed? Yes, Barthamus was trying to make others agree with him with his ideas of uprooting – among other things – from Shadowmoon, but Mordenaku doubted that those that readily listened to him truly gave his uncle credence.

“Did you not just say that there were those willing to listen to Barthamus?”

“Yes, but I didn't mean -”

“Regardless of what you meant, the truth of it is that there are those who agree with Barthamus in all respects.” Neltharaku glanced down at the eating black dragons meaningfully.

“Perhaps you should make some sort of statement, Father, against Barthamus.”

Neltharaku chuckled. “A statement? I think you may have been listening to mortal royal customs too much, Mordenaku.”

Mordenaku ducked his head in embarrassment. He often made a habit of asking mortals who visited Shadowmoon – too few, these days – about the workings of their nobility or leadership, as he had no books to learn such from. Mordenaku was supposed to be a prince, and what sort of prince did not know how to act like one?

“But you should not worry over a 'statement.' My sending of Barthamus back was all the 'statement' the Netherwing needed to see my disapproval of him.”

“You sent him back to Shadowmoon, though. There are far more dragons there he can stir trouble with.”

“In a way, yes. But by sending him away, the drakes here will realize I will not tolerate such opinions, and the drakes at Shadowmoon, too, will realize such when they see Barthamus return. It will remind them of who leads, truly – which cycles back to why I brought you here.” Neltharaku shook his head. “When Barthamus was here, drakes chattered over why they had to help the black dragons. They complained. Pointed out our history with them. Now? There is silence.”

“Oh.”

Neltharaku nodded. They watched the mountains.

“I don't really understand why any agree with Barthamus at all,” Mordenaku admitted after a while. “I do enjoy Shadowmoon Valley, despite its faults, and I hardly see why moving to other lands would help. We do splendidly.” He glanced at the black dragons and frowned. “And our alliance with the Black Dragonflight is doing well. For them, yes, but when we need help, we will have it.” He looked at his father. Mortals had told him, once, that the nether dragon profiles resembled those of a creature called a “shark,” sharp and precise. “Is it all idle annoyances, that they agree so easily?”

Neltharaku considered in silence. Finally, he frowned. “I would be a fool to forget my hatching,” he said, and Mordenaku stared at him. What did that have to do with anything? Neltharaku looked out to the south, far down the barbed valley, toward some of the black dragons' caves. “I hatched here, in Blade's Edge,” he continued. His voice had grown low, almost reverent, as he recalled the past. “As did we all.”

“I know this, Father. I don't -”

“Allow me to finish,” Neltharaku cut in. Mordenaku bowed his head. His father nodded, content with the submission, before he continued. “The first thing I smelled was the dry winds of this valley, my son. And the first thing I saw was Sabellian's disgusted look as I emerged from the shell.”

Mordenaku shifted awkwardly.

“He only stared. He did not speak, even when the rest of us hatched. We clamored for food and he did not move. It was finally his mate Kesia that tended to us, briskly as she did.”

Neltharaku fell silent. Mordenaku raised his eyes from their submissive stare at the floor. He had heard parts of this story before, but never all of it. Despite his curiosity, he still wondered as to its relevance.

“Despite my age, I knew we were different,” Neltharaku continued after a time. “I knew he was not my broodfather; he had black scales and we lacked scales at all. We glowed and shined in bright colors. It was later, when we could easily understand, that Sabellian told us what we were. Or had been.” He paused, thoughtful in his frown. “Some were the sons and daughters of Deathwing; others, various relatives from the Black Flight. We learned all about our dark heritage... and yet, we were not the same.”

“And then he cast you out,” Mordenaku supplied. “When you were old enough, he told you to leave.” That had not been long after the nether dragons had hatched, he knew. Thanks to their warping through nether, nether dragons had ended up growing at an alarming rate; they were never whelps for long.

“Yes.” Neltharaku glanced at the black dragons below again – not with malice. Just with curiosity. “We weren't wanted there. Many of the black dragons wanted nothing to do with us. So we left.”

“To the Crystal Spine and the Vortex Summit.” Mordenaku grew tired of this story. He knew it. When would his father get to the point?

Neltharaku was either ignorant of his son's impatience, or didn't care. He continued in his slow, echoing voice. “Our crystals blossomed. Never before had we seen them grow, but there, along the dusty outskirts, our energy sprouted before us in physical manifestations. The landscape transformed at our presence. We thrived with them, as we do in Shadowmoon.” Neltharaku glanced towards where the Crystal Spine was, far, far to the west, behind the arakkoa's dense forestry, unseeable. “We grew with them, and lived, until the black dragons again took notice of us.”

“Obsidia,” Mordenaku said, and Neltharaku nodded.

“I do not know what happened to cause the other dragon mates to separate from Sabellian's brood. When I was a hatchling, I saw Sabellian fight the largest of them: Hemathion. But for what cause? I am unsure, even now. But I do know that such festering tension burst, years after Sabellian bid us to leave. And those dragons came to inhabitable lands: ours.”

Mordenaku said nothing. All of the nether dragons might not know the exact story of their Flight's hatching in so intimate detail as Mordenaku now did, but all knew the history of the Summit and the Spine.

“Obsidia and Hemathion took over the Vortex Summit, and Furywing and Insidion, the Crystal Spine. They ignored us, at first. They had their broods there. We stayed out of their way. And then they became violent.”

“How beautiful our crystals had grown; in the two years that the black dragons stationed themselves in our lands, the fields blossomed into colossal stages as some of us neared dragonhood. Yes, later, we learned Obsidia had pushed for our removal so they might have the Fields to themselves. But when the couples began to push us out, hateful in their earnest attacks, we were lost in their reasoning. But we fled all the same. Scattered. Exiled from our hatching place.”

Most had fled to Shadowmoon, where none could find them, Mordenaku knew - where they might be left alone to thrive. Some had gone elsewhere, but most, now, had accumulated in Shadowmoon, united in their sameness.

“And when the Dragonmaw came, Sabellian and the other Black Dragons ignored our plight. They turned a blind eye.” Neltharaku sighed. “Even my mother was a menace to us, stealing our eggs, letting us remain in servitude.”

That had been a dark lesson, so many years ago. No one had quite realized who the black dragon had been, the one who had visited the Dragonmaw camps and had been given Nether Dragon eggs. But one drake had heard her name: Sintharia. Sintharia. It'd been repeated in hateful whispers before it had finally reached one of those who had learned of their heritage from Sabellian, and had realized it was Deathwing's consort. They had never told the black dragons in Blade's Edge about her visit.

“The point of this, Mordenaku, is that I understand Barthamus and those that agree with him so easily. Truly, I do. I understand their wishes and hatreds. How could I forgive the Black Flight for their disgust? Their violence against us? It festers inside of those nether dragons at how easily I forgave. Getting Sabellian to agree to an alliance was a difficult task; getting Barthamus and those that agreed with him to follow through with it, even more so. Barthamus wishes to break it now solely for his anger.”

“But I knew that, united, we were stronger. Alone, we could be overrun. Together...” Neltharaku looked up at the red sky. “Why, think of the mortals. We could not break out of our chains with the Dragonmaw. But with help, we overcame. I learned, then, facing the world alone does not make one strong in their singularity. It makes one weak when greater threats come.”

“Look now. Do you believe the Black Dragonflight here would be able to sustain themselves during this hardship, had it not been for us?”

“I... no, Father.”

“And when the demons come, will we be able to fight them off ourselves?”

“Father?” Mordenaku frowned. Indeed, the increasing demon number had been one thing to push the Netherwing's alliance with Sabellian's Flight in the first place, but his father's chosen words seemed to suggest a more ominous threat.

Neltharaku sighed. He had still not fully recovered from the poisoning, and it showed in how his gel-like skin sagged against his body. “Barthamus may believe he is right. But he is not. I know what I have done is the best choice.”

“Even staying in Shadowmoon?” Mordenaku asked. He lowered his head. It was not spoken in contest, but in curiosity; even still, showing submission was a careful out.

“Yes. Our crystals grow massively in Blade's Edge, that is true; I see why Barthamus wishes to put broods here. And there is more plentiful food in Nagrand and in Terokkar. But why move when Shadowmoon is already a plethora of our life, our home? The Netherwing Fields grow larger even than the Crystal Spine. To move, to separate – it would be foolish. What would it accomplish? Nothing. Only more land we don't need; Barthamus only wants more to have more. We thrive where we are. You must trust me.”

“I do.”

“Let us hope the majority of the Netherwing feel the same way,” Neltharaku murmured.

---

The last four days had passed by in fuzzy, dark sequences.

Even now, beginning to stir into sharper consciousness, Samia struggled to remember past details. She recalled, at least, their departure and arrival. They had only given Samia, her brother and the nether-drakes enough tranquilizers to subdue them. They could still fly – and fly they did. Connected by chains and cables of metal, they were led by Serinar and hoisted up by proto-drake from below in a series of interlocking collars. Samia hardly had to fly at all; the proto-drakes did the brunt of the work. She'd tried squirming out of her hold, once, but she didn't have the energy to continue. She hadn't been so exhausted, so crippled, since Gruul had come in his second wave.

Serinar and the Dragonmaw had flown them to the north of the Veiled Stair, up and through the mountains. Once through the ridge, they'd glided into an entirely new landscape. The small band of mountains they'd crossed dipped down into shining efflorescence, as if they flew over a jeweled bowl. Golden grass grew and stretched and rolled over a shining vale, bumping over undulating hills and encircling incandescent lakes, so bright it reflected the warm sun. Alabaster trees, thick of yellow leaves, dotted the fields and sheltered elegant cranes hunting the dancing water skimmers on the lake surfaces, and the architecture, gold and curling and ornamental, grand and ancient in design, nestled to the east, north, and south. Colossal statues of untold race stood guard in the center of this bliss, shadowing a pagoda, minute under their august height, from the sun.

The beauty and sheer scope of the vale in comparison to the dredges and ash of the Veiled Stair had shocked her. It felt as if she were flying into some sort of dream, untouchable, unreal. Even the very wind was warm and soothing along her aching wings and bleeding sides.

But instead of leading them to one of those welcome shrines or shaded spots, they led them to the only imperfection in the vale: an ugly, mile-long pit of blackened earth and wafting dust, a scar among the shine.

The Horde was there, though most were just goblins and orcs, the latter a prominent distinction in the working crowd. The Dragonmaw hadn't allowed the group of dragons much time to scan the area, or realize what was going on there – perhaps some sort of archaeological dig, which prompted Samia to wonder as to why they had been taken to such a place – for they were soon herded into one of the buildings once they had unclasped their chains from Serinar's guiding one.

They'd been hooded like falcons and separated. When they had taken the blindfold off, after much grumbling and snapped orders from the orcs' part, Samia had found herself inside and in darkness, chained in an enclosure like a horse in its stall. The stable smelled of bitter timber and dust and metal. It was newly built.

Administering further tranquilizers had seemed like overkill with the amount of bindings they'd placed on her. The orcs had done it anyway.

And so there'd she lay, dizzy with drugs and waking little. She remembered eating, once, but didn't remember what the meal had been. She remembered orcs coming to stare at her, but recalled not what they'd said. She remembered someone sewing up her wounds, but she hadn't felt pain.

Today was the first time in four days she'd gained enough clarity to think critically instead of in shapeless impressions. They must've not re-administered the tranquilizers. She forced an eye open.

The same darkness she'd recalled from the past days greeted her. Feeble ribbons of light streamed through cracks in the wood and through the exit doors of the stable, far off to the right, barely seen through her metal cage. They didn't light much; they only served as a reminder of the outside sun.

At least there were torches, hooked into crude iron holds, but even they lit the dimness only vaguely. They did allow her to see the full of the stable in fuzzy red impressions. She noted that Vaxian and the other nether-drakes were not in the other stalls, but instead proto-drakes, their glowing eyes like embers in a dying hearth as they stared at her from their dark corners.

A shift in the darkness, shadows sliding against shadows, had her looking to her right. The enclosure next to her, once empty, held Serinar.

Orcs milled around him. They were busy tying chains, each smooth link as thick as their wrists, around the dragon's every available limb. They'd already succeeded in binding his wings close to his body. The appendages resembled a collapsed bundle of a kite against his side, folded and limp.

A yoke like that of an ox's was clamped behind the base of Serinar's skull. Two ropes led from both sides of the yoke and tied to the wall, keeping him in place.

Serinar himself remained still. His eyes were closed. The Demon Chain remained clasped on his neck. It glowed faintly.

“Keep it slow,” barked one Dragonmaw outside of Serinar's cage, his chunky arms crossed over his chest. It was Okrut, Serinar's rider. The red torch light revealed only the edges of his face. He was as muscled as the rest of them, but shorter and with a rounder face. “Kloth, tighten that tail clamp!”

Samia watched. By that point, the numbing effects of the drug were gone. She felt alert, though pain began to take numbness's place. She glanced down at her broken foreleg. The Dragonmaw had bound it and splinted it. The other stitched wounds remained stinging.

“The other one's awake,” said one orc. Samia looked up as just as Okrut glanced at her.

“Leave her. Let's take care of him first,” Okrut said, and turned away.

The Dragonmaw continued their work on binding Serinar.

Escape! Who knew when she might get a chance like this again? They might tranquilize her when they were done with the other dragon.

Idly, Samia pulled her good claw back to test the strength of her shackles. The metal resisted admirably. She smelled it: reinforced iron with an outer layer of forged adamantite. These would be difficult to melt.

Escape, escape. Samia eyed the orcs. But how could she escape? There were about eight or nine Dragonmaw. The moment she tried to jerk out of the chains – if she could, at all – they'd surge at her. And if she escaped, what of Vaxian and the others? She wouldn't leave them here – and Vaxian's wing was mangled. He wouldn't be able to fly off to safety.

The only option was to wait and listen. Plot. Plan. She had more than enough of such experience, like with the Wyrmcult, all those years ago.

It did not make the situation any less frustrating. If only she'd moved a bit quicker, drawn her sword earlier, Wrathion would have lost his head on the Aerie and they might have escaped that old pandaren's trap.

The clanks and clunks of the chains and bolts stopped. The orcs murmured. In this new silence, Samia could hear work beyond the stable, muffled through the dingy walls: distant shouts, tramping metal, grinding and digging of rock.

“Alright. Lets get this off,” Okrut said, drawing her attention back to Serinar.

The other Dragonmaw nodded and took to positions on each of Serinar's sides. They took a hold of loose chains, the others ends wrapped around various parts of the dragon's body: foreleg, back leg, wing, even horn. The orcs pulled back. The ropes went taut.

Okrut went into the open stall. He rounded around Serinar's head and took a hold of the Demon Chain – Samia had heard all about it when Wrathion had demanded that Warlord's opinion.

Okrut unclasped it. As he pulled away, the golden links rattling, the orcs stationed at Serinar's sides tensed, and the ropes they held grew tauter with the orcs' tightened grip.

Serinar opened his eyes.

The glow from the Demon Chain vanished. Now only the red glow of the torches lit the dark stable, where it reflected liquid-like red light on Serinar's onyx scales and on the black skin of the Dragonmaw's bare arms. It gave the dragon and his handlers a vague bloodied outline.

But Samia could see Serinar's eyes in that darkness. Red like the flame, he blinked them once, slowly. The vacant look began to slide away. Fresh realization sharpened his gaze.

His pupils dilated into slits. The dragon flared his nostrils.

“Steady!” Okrut ordered. “Hold him!”

Serinar snarled. The terrible sound made the whole of his chained body quiver until he began to thrash. The ropes and chains and yoke binding him held him fast, though the orcs growled their strain in keeping the bindings in check.

Still, Serinar continued to writhe. He was an enormous dragon, nearly as big as Sabellian, but less muscular and more angled. Where Sabellian was the ram, Serinar remained the talbuk, lean bodied.

Samia watched in silence. Even with his excessive mass, Serinar could not get away. The bindings were too great. She wondered as to why they didn't outright drug him as they had her and the others. Why go through such trouble if they had the means to subdue him? Were they trying to flaunt some sense of dominance, rather than take the easiest route?

Whi-crack! A whip, held by Okrut, came down and struck Serinar against his shoulder. The scales buffed out the first blow; when Okrut whipped again, the whip managed to strike underneath them, sending blood and looser scales flying.

Serinar rumbled angrily. His eyes flashed, and he looked back at Okrut with undisguised hatred. His claws flexed and pulled against their bindings.

“Your choice, dragon! It is either this -” Crack!” “ - or the Chain!”

Serinar did not stop his thrashing. He grew more violent, a quaking mass of muscle bound in a small space. The orcs holding him snarled. Sweat, red in the torch-light, dripped down their faces.

The whip came down again and again. The iron-charcoal smell of dragon blood grew thick; the proto-drakes on the other side of the stable began to hiss at its scent and shift around uneasily.

It was only when Okrut raised up the Demon Chain when Serinar began to stall his frenzy. He locked his eyes on it while the blood leaked down his neck and side.

Finally, he stilled.

Okrut nodded to the other orcs, though he never took his eyes off of Serinar. The other Dragonmaw tied the ropes and chains they held to reinforced hooks on the wall of Serinar's enclosure and backed out.

Okrut took a step back. He kept his grip on both Chain and whip as he closed the cage. Two Dragonmaw locked it, then set a metal bar as thick as their chests along the middle. Inside, Samia thought Serinar looked like a tied hog.

“Guard the doors,” Okrut said. The other Dragonmaw, still panting, saluted and left the stable. Okrut snorted at Serinar. The dragon glared at him in silence.

Then Okrut turned, walked down the aisle, and left. The heavy doors opened for just an instant, allowing golden light to illuminate the stable before the doors shut and left them again in red darkness.

Samia glanced at Serinar. The dragon had closed his eyes. His sides heaved. With the dim light, she could only just see the criss-cross of bloody markings from the whip. He hadn't lost many scales. Had the pain been that great? It seemed that the threat of the Chain had forced him into silence, not the whip.

Samia looked away. At least they were alone now. She closed her eyes to think. She remembered that the two orcs guarding them at the Black Market House had spoken of the Demon Chain – how they might use it on one of the other black dragons. Okrut had not turned to Samia. Would -?

“Out of all I could have guessed to live, you, Samia, would fall last on my list.”

Samia started. She glanced over at Serinar to find the massive dragon staring at her with a lidded gaze.

“Unless, of course, this is some new hallucination,” Serinar continued. “But I would think this too specific a vision, and one I doubt my mind would give me.” His voice remained strained, a hiss; the bindings around his maw forced him to speak with clipped motions.

It was like talking to a memory. Something from a past life. Samia stared at him. She had known Serinar decently; he'd even tried to court her, once, and briefly. Samia had found him too dull for her tastes. Even then, their acquaintance extended. Serinar had been in Sabellian's issue of command for some time. They'd seen battle together. To actually hear the dragon speak was more startling than seeing him.

Realizing she hadn't spoke, Samia said: “Do you have hallucinations often, then?”

“Ones that do not often speak back,” Serinar said. He eyed her in silence; the red of his eyes reflected a cool intelligence, a far cry from the dullness the servitude from the chain had given him. “And how are you alive, then?”

The question was asked blankly and lacked curiosity.

“I should ask the same thing of you,” Samia said. “I thought -”

“The whelp?”

“Well. Yes.”

Serinar snorted. “You will speak first, for I asked first. I will speak after, and only then.”

Samia stifled her annoyance. “We were on Draenor. The -”

“Yes, I know that. You survived the breaking and those gronn creatures? How interesting. We thought you all had perished.”

“Clearly not,” Samia snapped. And none of you came to find out if we lived, she thought. Not even the one that left us there.

She brushed such bitter memories aside. What had happened on Draenor had ultimately been to their benefit. Somewhat. “No one came to us during the Cataclysm, so we remained living in Blade's Edge,” Samia continued.

Serinar's curving fins twitched. The ribs of them splayed out like a hand stretching its fingers. “We? Do not tell me your broodparents still live.”

Does my broodfather? “Sabellian is alive, but Kesia is dead,” Samia said, masking her hesitance. “A lot of us do – at least, from his brood.”

“I see. A shame about Kesia. I supposed we shouldn't have assumed -” He snorted. “It doesn't matter. Living or dead, your contribution to the Cataclysm would have not won the war.”

“Alright,” Samia said. She didn't want Serinar asking questions about why they didn't “contribute” to the Cataclysm on their own accord. “I told you how I'm alive. How are you alive?”

Serinar tilted his head, though the chains allowed minimal movement. “I just stayed where I was.”

“Dragonblight? You mean the place the Deathwing assaulted? And somehow you lived.”

“Stop the venom. I'm only telling you what happened. Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dragonblight. I had some business with our Dragonshrine, and remained there for some years after. When Deathwing returned, I did my fair share of battle.” He nodded to his tail. There was an indent into the flesh there, as if something had taken a chunk out of it. Scales and skin had since grown over the wound. “But the Assault on the temple quickly turned catastrophic for us when they charged the Dragon Soul. And so I simply... bowed out.”

“You fled, you mean.”

“I won't take insults from you,” Serinar grumbled. He gave her a grim look. “One who hid on Draenor.” He continued. “I confess, I did regret missing the rest of the slaughter up until Deathwing's death. Mortals are easy pickings when clumped together; a quick flame burst, and the whole group goes up in smoke.”

Samia grunted. Serinar was exactly as she had remembered him. He hadn't ever been clever. Smart, perhaps, but he'd used brute force rather than tactical planning, and Samia never remembered any sort of scheme he had done. He killed and maimed; that had been the extent of his talents.

“So? What then?”

“I went back to the Obsidian Dragonshrine and waited out the fighting. I am glad I made the choice I did. After Deathwing died, the rest of us were honed down and picked off in droves – at least, those that remained to fight a fight they'd already lost.”

“Those that managed to escape tried to hide. Thankfully, I'd put a ward in front of the Dragonshrine and blocked the entrance. One black dragon hiding there was enough. Why give myself away?” He shrugged – or at least tried to. Serinar winced as a chain shifted with his movement and pressed into his raw flesh from the whips. “Those that could not hide in time or picked stupid places were hunted down. I knew a purge was coming, so I stayed where I was; I knew, too, that others that had not been in the assault would be hiding. Nalice, for one.”

Ah – Nalice. Samia remembered her vividly. A cold but strangely funny dragon.

“When people came looking for me, I picked the most obvious place to hide in the Shrine: behind the bones. A quick leap into the lava and me pressing up against the skeletons hid my scent and look to all intruders.”

Samia stared at him. “That's it?”

“That's it. Remarkable, isn't it? Sometimes the simplest way is the best way.” Serinar's vague amusement disappeared. “I did the same when Wrathion's rogues came looking. I thought them regular bounty hunters at first – some had come, before – but they smelled like black dragon. Curious, but ignored it. Only later when I heard of Nalice's unfortunate demise by the same rogues did I learn of this 'Wrathion.'”

“I thought it was funny, the idea of a whelp sending assassins. But I didn't leave. If he'd killed Nalice, I wasn't going to be the idiot to think he would not be able to kill me. So I stayed and tried to wait it all out.” He snorted. “Did Wrathion truly believe he'd be able to find all of us? A whelp's honing senses are so dull in comparison.”

“And you somehow managed to end up here.”

Serinar huffed. “Yes, well. There's that part, too.” He glanced over towards the doors. “I had to eat, you see, so I did have to leave the Dragonshrine. The orcs must have seen me hunting – I don't know. All I know is that a handful of months ago when I crept from the Shrine, I was ambushed. And in such a cowardly way! They attacked with tranquilizers and those revolting proto-dragons.”

“So here I lay, whipped like a dog and controlled by that – Chain.” Serinar hissed. “It is hard to battle against its entrapment. Every command given, I must obey. This is the first time they have taken it off in two months. I'm almost thankful for your arrival; no doubt they plan to swap it to you or a sibling for the time being.”

Samia glared. “You haven't tried to escape?” She said, trying to change the subject.

“Of course not. I enjoy being a mere mount for mortals.” Serinar grunted. “I've tried. But these mortals are surprisingly bright when it comes to keeping us down. And then there is the command of the Chain. The whips are not so terrible, though I like to make them think it hurts more than it does. However, I dearly thank you for the multiple wounds you gave me. Those hurt. Stabbing me with a plank of wood?”

“You were trying to kill me!”

Serinar shrugged.

Samia snorted. It didn't surprise Samia that Serinar hadn't escaped. Why would he make a clever plan for the first time in his life? He'd probably just tried to fight his way out, the fool.

“But I think now, things will change,” Serinar said. “I know they will.”

“How, exactly?”

Serinar stared at her. He frowned. “Did they not tell you?”

“What? Who?”

Serinar began to narrow his eyes.

“Below us.”

“Serinar, if you're going to try to talk in riddles, at least make them semi-coherent.”

“I'm not talking in riddles!” Serinar tapped one paw on the ground. “The tide will soon turn in our favor. We'll hardly be mounts in a day or so. Didn't you hear it? How could you not?” His tone became accusatory.

Suddenly, Samia realized what he was referring to: the voices. Serinar was no sane dragon. He had no idea that she hadn't heard anything in near-thirty years. She shifted uneasily as he continued to stare at her.

“I didn't hear anything,” Samia said, choosing her words carefully. “I don't hear anything. None of my family does.”

“That's impossible.”

“It isn't. The Old Gods can't reach over a span of light-years, believe it or not.”

Serinar rumbled. The chains wrapped around his belly shook. “You're a liar.”

“I'm not lying.”

Serinar snorted smoke. “You cannot simply escape Them, Samia. I recall you being smarter.”

“And I recall you minding your own business,” Samia threw back at him.

Serinar flexed his claws. His eyes grew a little unfocused. “But you are not on Outland, now. You should hear them here.”

“Well, I don't,” Samia said, growing uneasy. How long until her resistance fell away? She didn't want to think about it. The fact was, if she didn't get out of here swiftly and accomplish what she'd set out to do, she might as well succumb.

“Nothing?” Serinar said. He squinted, disbelieving. “How can you stand it?”

“Easily. I don't like being a servant, and you get used to the silence.”

Serinar's eyes flashed. It had almost been taboo with some Black Dragons to speak of being servants; they were simply too proud to admit it aloud. They thought the voices as a helpful consciousness, not a master. “I am no servant.”

“Come to Outland. Then you won't be.” She eyed his chains. “If you can stop being a mount for mortals, of course.”

Serinar growled and turned his head away from her, though the yoke stifled much movement. He glowered at the proto-drakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Silence.

“Serinar, what did you mean?”

Silence.

Samia huffed. “What, now you're not going to talk to me? You wouldn't stop talking, before.”

“I meant exactly what I said,” Serinar rumbled. “In a day or so, we will not be in chains. He told me.”

“What, is an Old God going to break us out of servitude? Doesn't that seem a bit ironic to you?”

“I am not a servant!” Serinar roared. The sound shuddered his chains. Samia set her fins down low to her neck as she watched Serinar's eyes grow fuzzy. “Y'shaarj ga zyqtahg iilth! Ilith qi'uothk shn'ma yeh'glu Shath'Yar!”

The doors of the stable opened. Serinar began to struggle in his binds again. Samia watched in silence, her heart in her throat. Black dragons hadn't often ranted in Faceless, the tongue of the Old Gods, and if they did, it was rare or a sign of a dragon who had given themselves fully to the masters. Even corrupted to evil, many, if not most, had had some sense of individuality. Serinar had never been one to rant and rave. Why was he now?

The Dragonmaw couldn't get Serinar under control. He no longer sprouted words but only snarled and growled, ferocious. Only when Okrut, running into the stable, gave the order for tranquilizers did Serinar grow silent and his head fall to the ground as the drug was stabbed into his fresher wounds.

Okrut glanced at her suspiciously.

“Guards, stay in here. Watch these two closely,” he ordered.

Samia hardly heard. As the Dragonmaw relocated, standing guard in front of their enclosures, she looked at Serinar. His uncharacteristic outburst had disturbed her.

What disturbed her further was that she understood what he'd said.

The will of Y'shaarj corrupts you! You will drown in the blood of the Old Gods!

---

It was noon when Anduin received word that his father wished to speak with him.

He'd been taking lunch alone in his room when a servant had delivered the king's message. Anduin quickly finished his meal, a spicy course of noodles, dried fish, and fried rolls, and ran a brush through his hair before he exited the room, cane in hand. Melissa and Jonathan, his usual guards, attended him as he made his way down the third floor hallway to his father's suite.

Anduin had spent the better part of the last week accumulating as much information as he could about the situation in the Barrens and in Orgrimmar, as well as attending as many meetings that discussed plans against Garrosh's Horde as his health permitted. His leg had proven ever the obstacle, and under his father's hawk like gaze, any expression of discomfort on Anduin's part had Varian sending him down to rest, despite Anduin's protests.

Thus Anduin was pleasantly surprised at Varian's outright summoning. He finally made his way to the end of the hallway. His father's door had an engraving of Xuen on the frame, lovingly crafted in blues and silvers. Anduin smiled at the royal guards standing watch over the door, and they allowed him inside.

Varian's suite was larger than Anduin's own by perhaps half. As king, Varian had been given the biggest room in the entire Shrine. Varian had protested the idea – even this long as king, he remained uncomfortable with pushed propriety and splendor on his part – but the pandaren had insisted.

Anduin glanced around, noting the unmade queen bed, the flurry of parchment on the desk and its chair, and the flung change of dinner clothes heaped near the over-sized dresser at the side of the room. It was a big room for only one man – though the man was rather big himself.

Directly in front of Anduin, the double-doors to the outside balcony were open. The warm, sweet breeze flooded into the room. Varian Wrynn himself stood hunched over the bannister of the spacious balcony outside, his back to Anduin and the guards.

Anduin walked over to stand at the edge where the room met the balcony.

“You asked for me, Father?”

Varian immediately straightened and glanced back. He nodded at his son. He usually saved his rare smiles for Anduin, but his face remained grim, his eyes hard and his lips in a thin line. It was all Anduin needed to see for him to realize this would be no pleasant meeting.

“Anduin. Join me up here.” Varian raised his eyes, stern blue, to Jonathan and Melissa and nodded. They bowed and exited the balcony, and closed the doors behind them.

Anduin walked up to stand by his father's side.

Below sprawled the Vale. Though he had seen it many times, Anduin caught his breath at the beauty. With the sun high, the light hit every rolling hill, golden grass, lake and blooming tree. The Shrine of Two Moons, far to the north, and Mogu'shan Palace glinted in the light. It was as if the Vale had been shined like a fine piece of jewelry.

All, save, for the pit. Anduin looked to the left and set his lips in a thin line. Where the rest of the Vale hosted its shine and grandeur, the pit remained a black and brown tarnish. It had grown since Anduin had snuck down to investigate; more goblin and orcish machines had arrived by way of proto-drake and kodo. The cliff-face that had once been below the lake, now drained, had become black in coloration – or had been overtaken by some sort of build-up, which looked thickest around the entrance of the mine.

Even from this high up, Anduin could see orcs and goblins milling down in the dig. Where they walked, plumes of dark dust wafted; the effect was like that of a smog centered around the dig. Proto-drakes, chained, lined the upper levels of the pit for what Anduin assumed was for further guard, and spiked walls had been placed around the rim in front of the beasts. The hastily-built buildings to host the barracks and what looked to be a stables for the work animals were coated with dirt, though the two or three orcish war machines placed near the entrance of the mine were polished.

A sour feeling curled in his gut. Anduin looked to the right at the Golden Lotus pagoda in-between the great Mogu statues. Shaded by the gargantuan polearms high above, the pagoda was out of the warm sun and did not reflect its golden light.

Golden Lotus and Shado-pan alike prepared there. The distinction was easily recognized: where the Lotus wore shades of gold and white, so like the Vale they protected, the Shado-pan's black armor and hidden faces stuck out among the crowd. Anduin noticed most of the defenders were Shado-pan.

Anduin had a sinking suspicion why. When he had spent time with the Golden Lotus before the whole force of the Alliance had arrived in Pandaria, he'd learned much of how the organization worked. Their methods were strong – strong enough to push back the Mogu invasion – but they were guardians first, and fighters second. The Shado-pan had more of a militaristic approach in comparison. Considering the militarism shown in Garrosh's dig, the Shado-pan's fierce fighting tactics and careful discipline were needed more than the Golden Lotus's guardianship.

Anduin had been horrified enough when the Mogu had invaded the Vale. They'd pushed them back, but at some amount of cost and destruction. Fighting in the Vale – it didn't seem right. He'd thought the worst was over. How could he have imagined that Garrosh would turn his sights to the Vale after the Divine Bell?

And how much more destruction would Garrosh cause?

“Garrosh arrived earlier today,” Varian said. The king's voice was strained and low, a near-growl.

Anduin started. If Garrosh himself had arrived – it was only a matter of time before fighting began. “Do you know what he's planning to do?”

“No.” Varian stood up straighter, though he remained gripping the balcony.

Silence. Anduin shifted. He was thankful his leg hadn't acted up – yet – today. “Father. Why did you ask me to find you?”

“I want your advice, son,” Varian said as he glared down at the dig, like his very gaze might uproot the offending place. “You spent time with the Golden Lotus here. You know this place and this culture.” Varian looked at Anduin, his thick eyebrows creased together. “You gave me your advice when the Horde invaded Chi-Ji's temple. How can I -” He huffed and then growled. “- help without causing too much damage?”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek. He looked away and at the dig again. It drew the eye; he could not help himself but to keep looking at it. “Honestly,” he began, “I'm not sure, Father. The Shado-pan are here. I don't think we can really avoid fighting.”

Varian nodded in an impatient jerk of his head. He was not often so agitated when directly talking to Anduin. “I know. I just -” He sighed and stood up straighter. “I know, Anduin,” he repeated in a calmer voice. “I've sent for back up from Lion's Landing, but we don't have enough. Moving the whole force would take days. By then, Garrosh would have already made his move.” Varian sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a great huff as he glared down at the dig site. “I would have moved them far before now, but if I rushed in too soon -”

“Garrosh would react badly,” Anduin supplied. “He'd take it as a challenge.”

Varian gave his son a grim but appreciative look at Anduin's understanding. “And now it's too late. Anduin, if I send our troops stationed here to the pit, they'll be massacred. If they get close, the Dragonmaw will pluck them from the ground. The survivors would be rammed with war machines and worgs.” He cursed under his breath. “I was an idiot to stall. Garrosh has made himself a defending line – and I still don't know what they've found down there.”

Again, Anduin found himself looking to the pit. “Damned if you did, damned if you didn't, I guess,” he said, mirroring his father's grim tone. Fighting was inevitable. “I don't know, Father. I... I think if we kept them close to the dig, we could avoid further loss?”

Varian said nothing. Anduin shifted. It seemed the most obvious answer to him; surely Varian had thought of it?

“I think it's better that you didn't rush in, at least,” Anduin added quickly as he looked back to his father and saw Varian's dull look. “More people might have died.”

Varian grunted. He let go of the bannister. “But I've given Garrosh more time.”

“But the Golden Lotus and Shado-pan are here in full force, now.” He paused, then brightened. “If we gave soldiers to them, we can turn away Garrosh easily.”

Varian locked his jaw. He looked at the pagoda from the corner of his eye. “I've considered that. I think it's the only thing that makes sense. Even still, we've even gotten reports that they have black dragons, now, damnit -”

“What?” Anduin started. “Black dragons?”

Varian only threw up a hand in exasperation as reply. The king was still sour over Sabellian, and Anduin wondered if Varian regretted not killing the dragon now that the medics had announced that Anduin's leg was set back months in its recovery thanks to the Sabellian's work.

Anduin shook the thought from his mind.

Heartened, at least, about the pandaren forces, he continued. “I don't think that the Shado-pan and Golden Lotus want Garrosh to bring up – whatever they've found down there. I'm positive that with our added strength, we can stop him before he does.”

Varian rubbed at his chin. He regarded the Lotus' pagoda in silence. “I know.” He sighed, and it sounded like the whole of the world's exhaustion exhaled through him.

Anduin frowned. Varian had thought about this option before. He should have already gone ahead and sounded the orders. Anduin's “advice” was a mere echo of what Varian had been thinking. Did the king simply need the reassurance? “Father?”

“I don't want something else like the Divine Bell from happening,” Varian admitted, avoiding his son's look. “Garrosh is trying to find anything that can make him stronger. Our scouts couldn't even get close to that light-forsaken dig without dropping in sickness. If it's worse than the Bell...”

Anduin set his lips in a thin line as he recalled the assault of feeling he'd had at the dig. Such negativity... gripping, poisonous. He knew in his heart that, whatever was down there, was worse than the Divine Bell. The Bell had to be activated; this... this was something loose, something already actively dangerous.

But he wouldn't tell his Father that. He saw, now, why the king hesitated. Maybe even Varian knew it would be a worse situation at the dig in comparison to the thing that had almost crushed Anduin's life.

“If it is, we can handle it.”

Varian looked at him. He smiled, though it was a small, meager thing on his face. “So we will,” he said. “Thank you, Anduin.”

Anduin didn't think he'd done very much, but he nodded anyway. The grimness on his father's face from before had gone; he looked more resolved.

“I'll send word to Tyrande and Moira and send out the orders,” Varian continued. He turned away from the Vale with an air of finality. He smiled at Anduin. “Come on.”

Anduin relaxed. They could do this. As long as they contained Garrosh's Horde to the dig, no further harm to the Vale could be done.

#wrathion #anduin wrynn #varian wrynn #neltharaku #zaela #mordenaku #*wos

[baron-sablemane]

Recovered a pass for my long-forgotten tumblr account just to say how awesome it is to have a whole freaking ongoing book. And not just any book, but about the game I play for years. To check your page every few weeks and almost always find there a new (and pretty huge one) chapter of one of my favorite stories. ^_^ You're doing a great job, please keep it up :)

Ahhhh, thank you so much! ;w;

#lone-irbis

[baron-sablemane]

I just wanted to say...you are my favorite person. You should write for Blizzard. Seriously, I've spent the last two weeks reading your fan fiction, and it is definitely the best I have ever read. I am so glad the Warcraft fandom has someone as talented as you. Keep up the awesome work!

Hey, wow, thanks so much! It means a lot. (8 I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

#lokavinr

[baron-sablemane]

Hi! I was wondering if you'd read the Shadow Wing manga and if you'd ever include Tyri and Jorad Mace in with the nether dragons in Outland? (If you visit Outland again in WoS, anyway.) Dunno how you'd fit them in, but it'd be cool to see those characters used outside of the manga. I don't see a lot about them except for their short questline in-game.

I actually haven’t read the manga, but! There’s still a lot of Outland story I haven’t gotten a chance to explore yet, so they may just pop up. (‘:

#sebebeb #asks

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 30)

Rexxar and Pyria try to rescue Samia and the nether-drakes from the Dragonmaw.

Samia awoke to the sound of chains rattling.

She opened one eye. Darkness greeted her as she adjusted to it – yet the only thing she saw when her slit pupil went wide to take in the meager light was a black wall in front of her and some warm light source from above. She went to turn her head up, groggy, to see if it was some lantern or the sun streaming in through some opening.

Something stopped her from doing so – a tug at her neck barred further movement. Samia could hardly lift her head a foot off the ground. What was this? Craning her head at an awkward angle, Samia looked down at her bending neck.

A thick iron collar was clamped around the middle of her neck. Chains as thick as her talons ran from two rings on either side of the thick band and led to the floor, where they had been bolted. She was chained like a beast! How had -?

All at once, Samia remembered the Secret Aerie. They had been – she struggled to recall everything through the haze in her head, which she suspected was at fault for drugs – ambushed by... pandaren? One of Wrathion's agents had gotten him by the throat. She couldn't remember the name he'd yelled out. She'd fallen unconscious, and been put here – wherever “here” was. How had they managed to get her into her true form?

Furious, Samia snarled and whipped her head back and forth as much as the chains would allow. Their rattling deafened her ears. She went to spit flame, but found even her maw had been bound tight with a similar band as the one on her neck.

That just made her angrier. But she could not lash out with tail or claw either, no matter how much she began to struggle. It seemed she had been bound at nearly every loose joint. Even her wings were weighed down.

“She's woken up!” Cried a rough voice. If only she could move her head!

It turned out that she didn't need to. A moment later, an orc, grey in skin and tattooed in heavy red circles, jumped in front of her, brandishing a barbed pole. Samia strained to smash her head into his side, but the chains stopped her. She snorted smoke and snarled again.

The orc raised the pole and struck it at the side of her neck, right behind her horns – a particularly sensitive spot. The force and location of the blow left her momentarily stunned, but out of instinct she tried to jerk back clumsily.

“Idiot, get – there.”

A sharp pain pierced her in the soft flesh between her talons. Almost immediately her foot went numb, and then her whole body began to dull in feeling. Her head drooped almost serenely back to the floor while anger was replaced by drowsiness.

“Quicker with that next time,” chided the orc who had struck her with the pole. Samia rolled her left eye to look at the other mortal: another grey-skinned orc. With her newly-dulled vision, Samia couldn't make out what she hung back up on the wall. Everything had a fuzzy and indistinct outline.

“Startled me, was all,” the orc grunted. She had a ponytail that reached even past her waist, which swung as she eyed Samia. “She's still awake. Give her more?”

“No. We'll be moving them soon. A drugged dragon can't be led well.”

They were Dragonmaw. What else could they be? Samia knew of two grey-skinned orc clans: the Dragonmaw and the Blackrock. She knew that her uncle, Nefarian, had ended up with control of the Blackrock orcs after she and her family had been in Draenor, but she doubted these were them. Blackrock orcs had been... coerced allies of the Black Dragonflight, from what she'd been told. Dragonmaw had more or less started out the same way when Deathwing had given them the Demon Soul, but the dragons on the other side of the Portal heard rumors that their riding of dragons had shifted from Red to Black – and that included former Black Dragons in the Netherwing, whom the Dragonmaw had enslaved in Outland. But they didn't need rumors for that. They'd seen it with their own eyes – and Sabellian had told them to stay away.

Thinking of the Netherwing, Samia rolled her eye away from the female orc to search for them in the room. Their neon coloration made searching for them easy, though she could only see half of them thanks to her limited field of vision. Malfas and Azorka, both in their true forms, were on the opposite side of the large, low-ceilinged room, chained in a similar fashion that she was. They looked to still be unconscious. She wasn't surprised to not see the Black Prince anywhere.

Well. What luck. They had come from another planet and toiled on some unknown continent to get snatched up by the Dragonmaw, of all things.

Samia wanted to scream, but she only managed a small snort of smoke. They hadn't even found -

Her father – who Wrathion claimed was dead. Samia remembered that.

She refused to believe it. A dagger, and certainly not Wrathion, could not kill her father. But Wrathion had sounded so sure. A hollowness settled in her chest. What if -?

But she couldn't dwell on that now. She could dwell on the truth of Wrathion's words when she was out of here.

She would have to wait off this drug, first, before she made another – and more coherent – move. Samia redirected her attention to the two orcs again.

“ -on't think they'll bring them there,” said the tattooed orc. “Too far away from Orgrimmar.”

The other orc shrugged. “I don't see why not. We can't bring untamed dragons to either the Vale or directly to Orgrimmar. It'd be a fool's trip. I say that Zaela has them brought to base. They need to be fit and broken in.” She glanced at Samia, who was careful to turn her eye away. “I still think she's too big.”

“Mm. A drake would be better, but for a mature female she's smaller than most. Ashmaw is larger than she is, and he's tamed... decently.”

“Hah! It doesn't matter how big the brute is. That chain could be used on the hatchling upstairs or on the old Broodmother herself, if she were alive, and would still work either way.” She paused thoughtfully. “Think they'll use it on this one?”

“No. Mm... well, maybe. Might have to do it the traditional way. Do you remember when they took it off Ashmaw for Galakras's training? Devoured two and burned half of his harness off before they got him under control.” Now he, too, looked at Samia. “But she's a dragon and'll give us trouble too – more than Galakras did. Up to the Warlord.”

“It'd be stupid not to use it. Okrut will just have to deal with a more unruly mount for a time.”

“Pah. Okrut will be hard-pressed to give up the chain unless the Warlord herself spoke to him. Greedy blighter.”

The other orc snorted in agreement.

They began to talk about their proto-drakes and the argument of a beef versus pork diet for fatty flames. Samia tuned them out. Any idiot would know that a healthy dose of obsidian and the occasional ruby cluster, if one wanted to be flashy, would make a dragon's firepower more boisterous in quality.

Idly, she wondered who this Ashmaw was. Probably some poor Red still under Dragonmaw control.

“They should be here soon to lead them off,” said the tattooed orc, drawing her attention. “Should be interesting with the dragon.”

“They've done it before.”

“With proto-drakes.”

The orc didn't argue the point.

So they were being moved soon. Had they said that before? Samia hardly remembered. How foggy her head was! She grunted low in her throat and closed her eyes. At least the Dragonmaw thought they were going to be moved soon. Though it was slow-going, the sludge-like dullness in her body from whatever drug they had given her was inching away. A half-hour more, and she could try another strike.

As she waited, Samia looked around the room with her other eye. To her surprise, there were others – but not dragons. A miserable ivory hawkstrider stared at her from between the bars of its cage in one end of the room while in another enclosure paced a duo of green raptors, each one going a different direction and hissing at one another when one tried to change course. In a third cage was chained a white and pink hippogryph.

What was this place? Samia understood it must have been some sort of basement, because she could feel rather than see the earth all around her rather than just below.

A bright flash of green lit the dark room. Samia whipped – rather, lolled – her head around to see the nether-lightning strike the tattooed orc. The whole of his body jerked, then he crumpled to the ground with a sputtered curse.

Another green bolt struck out. Thanks to her limited view, Samia couldn't see which of the nether-drakes it was, though the veridian color of the energy had her guessing it as Zoya the Green and not the azure Feraku.

The other orc nimbly jumped out of the way of the strike. The lightning hissed as it hit the wall. With coiled speed, the mortal snatched what she had hung up on the wall before: a long pole like her comrades' but topped with some sort of loaded, thick-tubed needle.

The orc practically danced her way over to Zoya as she dodged multiple lightning strikes. Samia pushed against her bonds. If she was of a clearer mind she could use this underground element of the room to her advantage.

She tried anyway. Better to have Zoya awake and causing mayhem and she herself be weak with drugs than be more clear-headed and alone. Either way, she would remain bound.

Samia mentally reached out towards the earth. It reacted too slowly, and instead of the rugged wave of broken rock lifting from the stone floor came a softly-rolling, four inch high “wall” from the floor. It caught the attention of the fallen orc, though, who finally managed to make it onto his feet.

He grabbed his pole and ran at her. Samia, ready for the short charge, twisted her head to the right and, just as the polearm connected at her neck, managed to strike out to the left with the coiled force of her neck and open her mouth just enough to grab a hold of the weapon. She jerked head head back as much as the chains would allow and the orc was flung forward towards her.

She let go of the polearm and traded it with the orc's ill-timed hand in front of her face. The mortal's blood burst hot in her mouth as she bit down through flesh and bone.

He yelled out in pain and beat wildly at her snout. Samia began to bring forth her fire to burn his hand off, but a spot of pain at her soft belly-flesh had the flame catching in her throat. She rolled her eye over and saw that the other orc had returned, the point of the drugged spear contraption dug into her flesh.

“Damn what I said before. Use it all!” Snarled the orc whose hand was still in Samia's mouth. In response, Samia bit off two of his fingers. He howled.

The fog of the drug swept up her body. She held onto the orc's hand for as long as the muscles in her jaw would allow until finally her vision grew black and she swept back down into a senseless unconsciousness.

---

The sun was an hour from rising when Leokk came trotting along with Pyria and the four nether-drakes that had accompanied her in tow.

Rexxar had since moved from his position near the Auction House and had taken up watch near the path to the northern cave. It was far enough to stay away from trouble but close enough where he could still watch the slope's activities.

Pyria, of medium height and build, looked no worse for the wear of her southern trip, save for red welts on her dark arms that Rexxar guessed to be bug bites and sand caked onto her naturally-brown leather armor. She had a round face and a flat noise which only seemed to make her hazel eyes bigger than they already were.

It was not three seconds after Leokk, whom Rexxar had had stationed to walk along the cliff waiting for the drakes, had led the group to Rexxar that Pyria blurted: “Where's my sister?”

“In the Auction House down the -”

“And the nether-drakes, too,” interrupted a burly draenei-disguised-drake in golden plate armor. Ozaku, Rexxar remembered.

Rexxar harrumphed at the interruption. “The Auction House,” he repeated gruffly.

Pyria looked down the road which led to both Tavern and Black Market. She squinted, then shook her head. “I can't believe it. The Dragonmaw! It's like a bad joke.”

“And she knows bad jokes,” rumbled Ozaku. Pyria shot him a look before she glanced down at the road again.

“What are we waiting for? Let's storm the building!” Cried the pale-skinned “draenei” Brightwing next to one of the females. He had a nervous quality about him, as if he was only just containing the lightning-like nether energy his true form possessed. Rexxar had wondered as to his name; it followed none of the regular naming conventions dragons meticulously tended to have. Perhaps it had some cultural significance he was ignorant to.

“There are three proto-drakes below,” Rexxar explained, already aggravated and remembering why he liked to hunt and be alone, “and the Dragonmaw are skilled in fighting dragons. Charging in like some wounded boar would kill us all.”

“Oh. I've never seen a proto-drake.” Pyria tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “I can sure smell them, though. They almost have the scent of the raptors in Blade's Edge. I bet they taste worse than them, though.”

“What! You would eat another dragon?” Asked Brightwing.

“Proto-drakes aren't really dragons. If I was starving, I'd take a chomp.”

“That's disgusting.”

“You're disgusting.”

The conversation struck Rexxar as childish, but the two silent nether-drake females snorted in amusement. He'd forgotten he was with the teenage equivalent of dragonkind.

Despite her wide smirk, Pyria soon sobered. “So, what are we working with here?”

Rexxar shared all he knew: the number of the Dragonmaw (from what he had seen), the pandaren guards, the size of the proto-drakes and how many riders they could hold, and the entrances of the Black Market House, including the secret side-doors. Pyria asked about Wrathion.

“Uninvolved,” Rexxar grunted. “He only seems to be angry about being ambushed.”

“Huh.”

“If he's here, we can take him and the Dragonmaw out in one swing of our wings.” Ozaku stomped his foot.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Asked a soft-spoken female, a veridian named Shellak.

“I can chomp 'em with my teeth,” Pyria said in an imitation of Ozaku so accurate that if Rexxar had not been looking he would have thought it had come from the male himself.

Ozaku snorted in annoyance.

“It seems that we won't be able to do any sort of raid,” said Shellak, now that Ozaku had quieted.

“No.”

“If only Vaxian was here. He's a dragon, not a drake. Oh well.” Pyria sighed. She suddenly brightened and turned to Rexxar. “Do you think the Dragonmaw have my father? Not here, at least. I don't smell him.”

Rexxar hesitated. He alone knew what the cornered rogue had said.

“I don't think so,” he decided to say. Upsetting the drake about news of her father's death – if it was true – would only compromise missions to save Samia and the others.

Pyria shrugged, then turned to stare down the path again.

Pyria bit her bottom lip. She chewed at it idly before she side-eyed Rexxar. “Well, there is something I can do that might work. Maybe.”

“What is it?”

Pyria sat up straighter in her crouch and grinned. “It's a special trick of mine.”

Ozaku startled. “A trick? It's an annoyance!”

“Shut up,” Pyria said, though it sounded as if it were an afterthought and she did not take her eyes off of Rexxar's hooded ones. “Here. Watch!”

The girl-disguised-drake closed her eyes. Smoke began to seep off of the pores of her skin, and Rexxar feared she was shifting into her true form – something too large to not be a distraction. He opened his mouth to stop her.

But then he noticed that no black scales, no fins, and no slit eyes were appearing. Pyria remained humanoid, but her face – her body – shifted into an entirely different persona, hazy underneath the rising smoke.

“This isn't my best one,” she said in her same voice as the smoke stopped its growth and began to dissipate. “But hopefully, you'll recognize me.”

The smoke disappeared fully. Rexxar, for all of his calm and collected demeanor, jerked back in surprise. Taking Pyria's place next to him was Sabellian, smiling expectantly at him.

“Well? It's pretty good, isn't it?”

“I – yes,” Rexxar grumbled. He blinked and looked Pyria up and down. Seeing the drake's enthusiastic personality on the face of Sabellian was unnerving and alien. The high-pitched voice coming from the alchemist's mouth didn't help. “How can you do this?”

“Father says I got it from my Aunt, Onyxia,” Pyria explained. She shifted, looking wholly unaffected by the weightier spaulders now hoisted on her shoulders. Were they real? Or was it all just an illusion? “You know her, don't you? Of course you do. Anyway, I'm good at taking other forms. Obviously.”

Rexxar began to see why Pyria had said that this wasn't her “best one.” The shock of seeing Sabellian right in front of his face had worn off, and the hunter began to see the drake's mistakes in the replication of her father. The hair was too short and the nose too thin, and the eyes a bit too big. But it was, other than that, a well-done imitation.

“Yeah, I know I don't look exactly like him, but he hates when I make myself look like him. I never get to practice.” She grinned. “I can get exact copies, sometimes. It just takes a lot of practice.” She nodded her head back at Ozaku and winked at Rexxar. “I got him down pretty well.”

“It's annoying!”

“How will this help?” Asked Rexxar before the two could begin to talk further.

In a rush of smoke, Pyria transformed into her regular guise.

“Well, if we can't force our way in, we can sneak our way in. Can't we?” Pyria sat back on her heels. “I don't think I can shift into a pandaren so easily, but... maybe I could try one of the orcs. I've only ever tried human, night elf, and dwarf before. Orcs don't look too hard, though.”

Rexxar paused. “You would disguise yourself and get past the others to find Samia.”

“And the nether-drakes,” added in Shellak.

“That's the plan,” said Pyria. “It can't be too hard. “

“There's going to be guards,” Telkazu, the since-silent onyx drake, said.

“So?”

“They're probably going to be kept in some sort of cage, or in chains,” Rexxar noted. “The proto-drakes the Dragonmaw bought were bound securely. It will be difficult to get them untied, especially if there are guards.” He began to doubt the strength of this plan. Too many things could go wrong.

Pyria paused. She squinted down the road. “Well, uh. Maybe I can be really quick about it. I can melt the chains, maybe.”

“I say we take one of the Dragonmaw for Pyria to copy,” Telkazu suggested. She had a light and lilting voice that strangely reminded Rexxar of draenei wind-chimes. “I believe I have an idea.”

---

Wrathion watched the pandaren mistweaver change Left's bandage and wondered as to how to best punish the Blacktalon Agents that had betrayed him.

They might have already run, of course. That, or thoroughly disguised themselves. It was all of little consequence to Wrathion. He'd find them, eventually, and when that time came they'd be cursing themselves at their choice of greed versus loyalty.

Left's sudden grimace interrupted his dark musings. The Prince glared at the monk, who was now putting on the new bandage on the orc's side to hide the hole in her flesh.

“You might want to invest in training to have a steadier hand,” Wrathion snapped.

“I'm fine,” Left grumbled.

Nonetheless, Wrathion remained staring at the monk, as if daring him to make another “mistake.” The mortal was either too fearful to meet his eyes and reply or simply too engrossed in his task to do either.

Hours had passed since Wrathion had left the Auction House. Since then, the dragon, with much scowling, huffing, and pacing, had done little else but think of the situation Goya had plopped him in the middle of.

No matter how much he thought, Wrathion could think of no solution to get himself free of Goya's paws. Any idea had negatives that far surpassed the positives.

Sending his Agents to sneak into the Actuion House and kill Samia would only anger both Goya and the Dragonmaw. Sending champions to do the same thing would risk the same problems. In any scenario, if he was aggressive towards Goya, she would counteract by leaking out unfortunate information about him, but Wrathion feared she would do worse things than spread words. He might be able to smooth down things spoken, but he could not do the same with things destroyed via bodily harm.

Like Left. Goya'd had her shot simply because the orc had been the biggest threat on Wrathion's side in the Aerie.

“The pain will linger for some time,” the mistweaver said as he rose. He'd finished tying the bandage as Wrathion had simmered in his seat. “Rest for the next two weeks, or you risk reopening the wound.”

Left nodded. Wrathion eyed the pandaren. “Thank you for your services,” he bit out. “The Agents downstairs will deal with your payment.”

The monk bowed his head. He exited the room, one of the free lodgings in the upstairs of the Tavern, and disappeared down the short hallway.

Left began to sit up – she was already well-propped by a small mountain of accumulated pillows behind her – when Wrathion redirected his glare to her, instead.

“And what do you think you're doing? Stay there, Left, and don't move.”

“I'm fine.”

“A hole in your side is not what I'd constitute as 'fine,' Left,” Wrathion countered, more viciously than he'd intended. He stood from the chair, shoved in the corner of the room, and began to pace in front of her bed.

“You don't have to stay here.” Left's voice rang flat. Was it a comment for his own sake or did she simply want him to leave? Wrathion decided not to think too hard about it.

“I'd rather be up here than down there. I might as well have run a rut through the floor, I've walked back and forth so many times. If I hear any more of Tong's clanging in the kitchens or those proto-drakes calling outside – augh! At least it's quiet in here!”

Left snorted. “And what about Goya?”

“Nothing. Unless you've thought of something while you've been up here?”

“No.”

Wrathion halfway grimaced. Of course not. He stopped his pacing and turned to Left. As he'd been obsessing over Madam Goya's deal for the past handful of hours, he'd gone over what had happened at the Secret Aerie too many times. The conversation with Samia had been nothing short of a disaster – not like he expected anything more than that – but something had been itching at him.

“Left. What did Samia mean when she said the water was poisoned?” Wrathion asked. “I had no idea what she was referring to.”

Left sat up, ignoring Wrathion's returning glare. “The rogues that were sent to Blade's Edge used poison in the water supply to try to kill the brood after their failure of simple assassination. I don't know if it worked. I received no message. They're all dead, I take it.”

“Oh.” Wrathion frowned. “An extreme method, but if it did any good... just as well.”

Left said nothing. Wrathion actually found himself wishing she would pipe up with some snide comment, something she had lacked to do since they had returned from Sik'vess. Maybe he should say something? He fidgeted and averted his eyes, settling his gaze on some random point on the far wall.

“Left,” Wrathion began, and though he strained to keep his tone aloft, professional, the very word halted awkwardly on his tongue. “I am... ah... sorry for how I have acted. Not that it was my fault, of course,” he added hastily. “But I do hope we might return to our familiarity.”

How odd, he thought, that he found himself caring for her voice. When he had first set out from Ravenholdt, he'd wanted rogues who would work for him and guard him; he hadn't been looking for any true sort of friend.

But here Left was. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Left eyed him, her blue eyes dark before her knitted brow.

After a time, she relaxed. “Yes, my Prince.”

“Now that that's out of the way, I'd like your advice on this Madam Goya deal. A fresh opinion other than my own might make it all the more clear to me.”

“Take it.” Her answer was so abrupt Wrathion thought he'd misunderstood her, at first. He blinked and cocked his head to one side. Left sighed heavily. “It's better to side with her than remain her enemy, my prince, and sooner or later she will found out about the rest of the Black Dragons with or without you. You might as well side with her, unless you have some other idea as to how to go against her.” She shrugged. “The dragons will die either way, and you'll have more gold.”

“But selling them to the Dragonmaw? Even I am not so... inconsiderate.” The thought of being put in chains and under someone else's control, bent to their will and wishes, made his skin crawl. He wanted to kill his family, not make them suffer more than need be. At least not really. Wrathion knew the necessity of cruelty, loved tales of war, but senseless cruelty was not only distasteful, but a waste of time.

“They'll be killed before they could be of any use,” Left said, misunderstanding him. “You would remain neutral. This would not count towards aiding the Horde.”

“That, too.” Wrathion itched at his chin and frowned. “I suppose I should agree. I don't really see what other options I have.” He hissed under his breath. “I should have seen this coming. But. No matter! As long as this deal stays between Madam Goya and I, I can focus on more important things.”

“That would be best, my Prince,” Left said.

“I'll get it over with, then.” Wrathion stood. “Don't die when I'm away.”

Left snorted. Wrathion flashed her a smile, then sobered and paused thoughtfully.

“And Left. If you would please have some Agents find those who betrayed me, I'd be very thankful. Perhaps taking off a hand or two might make them think twice about double-crossing whoever they serve next.” He eyed her. “And if they were to.... oh, simply disappear, that might be even better for all of us.”

Left nodded. Glad she understood, Wrathion headed downstairs.

The Tavern was blessedly empty of customers, a stark contrast from the bustling night from before. Whether it was Goya's doing or just a lack of traffic, Wrathion did not know or care, but the first floor was as empty as he'd left it – save for one. Kairoz, the earnest Bronze dragon from the last night, sat at one of the smaller tables, reading a yellowed scroll.

The dragon looked up at Wrathion's descending footsteps and nodded in greeting. Wrathion responded only with an appraising look.

The Bronze, admittedly, had been a delight to speak to. They had spoken of many things: the Cataclysm, the Aspects, the mysteries of Pandaria and even a bit about the Horde and Alliance war. Kairoz had attempted to strike up a conversation about their respective Flights, but Wrathion had turned all questions about the Black Dragonflight to ones about the Bronze. If Kairoz thought anything strange about it, he didn't let on; and if he did, no doubt he would understand why the last of his kind (well – almost) wouldn't want to talk about it.

Overall Kairoz had spoken so surely, in such learned and sincere answers, that Wrathion's admiration for the older dragon had grown throughout the night. Odd, though. Wrathion had thought the Bronze had left after Wrathion had turned in for the night (not like he'd slept much). It seemed he'd stayed a day.

“Good morning, Prince Wrathion,” Kairoz greeted. “I hope you slept well.”

“Oh, very.” He wished. Wrathion stood in front of Kairoz's table. If Kairoz had spent the night, how much did he know of what had happened, Wrathion wondered? Had he simply slept through it? “I didn't know you stayed.”

Kairoz rolled up the scroll. “Ah, well, I thought I might rest before I journeyed back to my duties.” He tilted his head. “Did your Agents have time to find what I spoke of?”

“No. Not yet.” He'd forgotten about Kairoz's talk about something opportunistic about to come their way.

Kairoz nodded. “It's only been half a day, but I'm sure they'll come across it soon. It's a bit hard to miss. Nonetheless, when you do learn of it, I'm sure you'd like to visit. You seem as interested in mysteries as I am.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Right.”

Kairoz slipped the scroll in a small leather bag at his golden belt. “I heard that the Dragonmaw have arrived. Have you seen them?”

“Have they? No, I wasn't even aware. That must be what the screeching and growling must be.”

“Those creatures do make a lot of noise. I wonder at the orcs' presence, though I suppose the Black Market Auction House has something to do with it – I doubt you do.”

“Thankfully not. I'd rather not be around dragon-slavers. Have you had any experience with them?”

“No, not I. I believe I was investigating Infinite corruption in... oh, what was it... the Well of Eternity, if I remember correctly, when the Dragonmaw were at their true peak in wars before.”

Wrathion hummed in amusement, thinking it a joke, but stopped when Kairoz stared serenely at him. To visit the Well of Eternity from... what was it, ten thousand years ago?... seemed unreal, but this was a Bronze dragon. Envy lit in Wrathion's chest.

“A lucky miss, then,” Wrathion said. Kairoz nodded.

“Agreed, though I suppose one might admire their well of determination.”

Wrathion grunted, stopping harsher words from escaping.

“I have business to attend to, Kairoz,” Wrathion said instead. He nodded his head to two of the Blacktalon Agents standing in the opposite doorway; he would not be outside with Goya's goons alone. “I hope we meet again soon.”

“As do I, Black Prince. Good luck in your endeavors.”

Wrathion nodded, and went out the portal.

Dawn. Pink and yellows lit the sky, though became diluted in the ever-present mists. Wrathion ignore the rising sun coming up from the eastern side of the cliffs and headed out to the Black Market House.

When he was far enough away from the Tavern, someone called out to him.

“Hatchling! Stop. Let me look at you, boy.”

The grating voice startled Wrathion so badly he stopped out of instinct and looked. Warlord Zaela and two of her Dragonmaw were coming up from the path to the Auction House.

“Let's talk,” she said, and Wrathion glared.

---

“So? How do I look?”

The appraising group, nether-drakes and Rexxar alike, looked Pyria over. To the side, a Dragonmaw lay unconscious and tied, where he continued to bleed from a heavy blow to the head caused from the end of Rexxar's axes.

“Like an orc,” Rexxar said. Pyria beamed. The hunter shook his head. “Don't smile like that. It throws the illusion off.”

Pyria stopped smiling.

It had taken some time to copy the Dragonmaw's appearance. When Rexxar had gone off – by himself, he'd sullenly insisted – to snatch an orc, Pyria had thought she could do it quickly because of the delicate time they had left. But when Rexxar had come back, the orc slung across Leokk's loping shoulders, Pyria'd taken one look at the heavy, boxy mortal and wavered.

The ashen skin had been easy enough, but Pyria had no idea how long it'd taken for her to perfect every other aspect of the mortal's appearance. Long enough where Ozaku, for all of his huffing blunder, had begun to doze, slumped up against one of the boulders leading to the lizard-smelling cave.

But she'd done it. Finally.

“I think it works well,” Telkazu said. The nether-drake, a slim thing with wide shoulders but a waist which didn't seem to be able to support the rest of her body, had been the one to silently but sharply shake her head when Pyria had messed up the disguise in some form or fashion: a tattoo the wrong color, the hair too long, the eyes too small.

“Thanks.” Pyria rubbed her now-large hands together. She felt mountain-like. Even her drake form had more grace than this clunking body. She'd changed her voice, as well; no longer did she speak with the higher pitch but instead with a low, graveling tone which Rexxar was the one to judge. The half-orc had been the only one to hear how the orc, an unfortunate Dragonmaw named Tuklar, had sounded before the hunter had knocked him out. The voice had been the hardest to get down; she'd only been able to use cues from the hunter. At least she didn't think to talk much.

“Are you ready?” Rexxar asked.

“Well, sure. Why not? Let's do it.”

“You don't seem very nervous,” pointed out Shellak.

“Oh, I'll be fine. I got this. Can I go now?”

“Hold. Ozaku, get up. Does everyone recall what to do?” Rexxar said.

They went over their plan one, then two times, as Ozaku was still groggy from his nap and didn't quite get it the first time.

It was sound enough, Pyria thought. Sure. Hundreds of things could do wrong. When she slipped into the Auction House and went inside, she could find multiple guards. They might not believe her story she'd prepared. Even then, if Samia and the others were tied too extensively, Pyria could fail.

And then there were the secret doors. She had to figure out how to open those, as well, from the inside, so that she could hand over the rescued dragons to the waiting Ozaku and Shellak. Rexxar would stand guard and be ready to swoop in if anything went wrong; poised with him were both of his animals, Leokk and Spirit. Odd that the bear wasn't here, but Pyria was too consumed with her disguise to ask about her.

Come to think of it, it was an awful plan, Pyria decided.

At least the back-up plan might help. If anything did go wrong, the nether-drakes and Rexxar would storm the building, and hopefully give her enough time to get Samia and the others out.

The task finalized, the group looked at each other. An expectant, tense energy ran through them all – and they all redirected it at her as they stared. Pyria sucked in a breath and then let it out in one big rush of air.

“Alright. I'm going.” She found herself pleasantly relaxed. It'd been the first time she'd done something vaguely important, unless herding raptors in Blade Edge from ogre lands counted. And it wouldn't do well to be nervous if her sister was in trouble. That could make her sloppy.

“Good luck,” Rexxar said.

The half-orc shadowed her as Pyria turned and headed down to the Auction House. The sun was up, but the light on the slope remained dim.

When she was within a yard of the odd building, Rexxar disappeared.

Now on her own, Pyria sharpened her awareness. For each entrance into the Auction House, two pandaren guards had been stationed. To the left of the building were tied the proto-drakes. Pyria faltered in her step as she glanced the beasts over. The two saddled black proto-drakes were hulking, clunky animals, but Pyria could see how she could descend from one: the heavy plates running down their head and back and the thick brown-black scales were similar to her own, though the odd little arms which seemed to do nothing but claw about in the air uselessly and the gigantic head were definitely not like hers.

The biggest one was the red. It was easily the size of Samia, if not bigger. Pyria decided to keep a wide berth; they might be able to smell her true scent and Titans help her if that big beast came after her.

None of the pandaren guards paid her any heed as she walked into the Auction House.

“Tuklar! There you are. Where we you?”

A Dragonmaw in front of the entrance into the back room nodded to her. Pyria froze but soon recovered.

“Relieving myself. You want me to do it in front of the drakes next time?”

“You were shitting for two hours?”

Pyria snorted and came up to the Dragonmaw. She was taller than he was. “Let me go in.”

“For what?”

“For the dragons in there. Supposed to check up on things.”

“The Warlord already put Pokra and Raz in there.”

“Then you wanna tell the Warlord why you won't let me in when she ordered me to go?”

The orc rumbled. He moved out of the way. “Fine. Go. And tell me if those nether dragons have scales when you come back up. Regra doesn't believe me when I said they don't. Hah! Let's hope I don't get one of those salamanders.”

Pyria snorted again and swept into the room. Well – one step done!

The first panic she had was when she walked into the building and saw nothing she was looking for.

Barrels, boxes, crates and cages lined every available surface, lit by warm lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The shiny hilts of various weapons and armor winked at her in the light, and a handful of the cages housed creatures of all sizes: an owl stared at her as she appeared, and what looked to be a giant rat easily as big as her head, if not bigger, scurried into the back of its cage, among other things.

But Samia and the others were nowhere to be seen.

Pyria swallowed and walked the length of the room, sweating hands clenched. Rexxar had said they'd been taken in here. So where could they be?

She paused and sniffed. A faint dragon scent had caught her attention. She followed it to the side of the room – and it was there she found the secret doors.

They were near-seamless with the wall. Had she not been looking for something conspicuous, she wouldn't have seen them. It was the smallest of creases in the wood that caught her attention and the lever at the side, cleverly hidden behind a rack of weapons to dissuade prodding hands.

The find hardly mattered if Pyria couldn't find Samia and the nether-drakes. She wrinkled her nose and tried to see if the scent-trail led anywhere else. The caged owl hooted at her as she passed.

The trail stopped at the far end of the room. Pyria turned around in a circle. What in the -?

The wood creaked below as she took a step back. Pyria cocked her head to one side. She knelt and knocked. The wood rang hollowly, as if something yawned beneath it rather than something solid to absorb the sound.

Another secret door. Pyria grinned and searched for its opening.

After much fumbling and splinters in her wide hands, Pyria found the opening. Like the side door, the crease in the wood was what gave it away, hardly a centimeter across. But this door lacked any sort of lever.

Pyria pushed down on the middle of the crease and felt the wood spring down at her touch. The wood groaned and a click came from both sides of the hidden entrance. She backed up as the doors in the floor rose up and out like a bird stretching its wings.

The entrance revealed an opening into a dark basement by way of stairs large enough for a mature drake to fit through.

Dragon scent, both Black and Nether, wafted up from the dark room.

Pyria wiped the sudden grin on her face and descended down the stone stairs.

Two Dragonmaw – only two! - stared at her as she reached the bottom.

“What?” The tattooed orc barked. Pyria glanced at him briefly. What she focused on the most was her sister bound in all manner of chains, sprawled on the floor with drool and blood around her tied mouth. The hulk of her form took up half of the large basement; one wing was more loosely tied and spread out in a half-stretch along the ceiling.

The nether-drakes were in the same position, though had less chains pinning them in place.

“Tuklar, speak or get out. What are you goggling at?”

Pyria startled and cleared her throat as she looked at the looming Dragonmaw. Willing her prepared speech to memory, she spoke.

“The Warlord wants you to get your mounts ready for departure. Now,” she added, more forcefully, pleased at the gritty effect she attained with her voice.

The female mortal with the long ponytail snorted. “Aren't you in charge of tacking them? Trying to shirk off your duties?”

“Uh... the Warlord wants me to, uh...” The Dragonmaw were beginning to stare at her strangely. She puffed herself up. “She wants you to do it. The beast's bridle was loose and they could have escaped their bindings because of your negligence. I may get the tack on, but you do all the final cinching. Do you want to anger the Warlord more by refusing her order?”

She hoped what she'd said had even been half-right. How the hell should she know how the Dragonmaw prepared their mounts?

Whether she was right or not, the Dragonmaw began to look hesitant. They glanced at one another.

Pyria nearly grinned. She may not know anything about how the Dragonmaw worked, but she did know that threatening mortals with fear of a commander's wrath would do more than was needed. Plus, trying to emulate her father's anger – she'd been yelled at a dozen times before, she remembered his tone easily – would make anyone quake.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“You'll be alone with the dragons,” the tattooed orc said. One of his hands was wrapped with a ragged cloth. He smelled of blood.

“I'll manage. Go, go! We're leaving soon.”

“What, Okrut is here?”

“Uhm – no. But they will be soon.”

“Pah. Fine. We'll come back down when he gets here. Good luck with these beasts.”

The two orcs went up the stairs, and the wood groaned as they shut the secret entrance again.

Pyria gaped. It'd worked! Who knew her silly skill, which she mostly used for mischief and joke, would have actually been useful. Well, she supposed Aunt Onyxia had gotten the right idea: pretend you were one of the mortals' own, and they trusted you easily.

Pyria clapped her hands once and rubbed them together.

Her mini-celebration done, she ran over to Samia's side, dropping the Dragonmaw disguise as she did so.

Kneeling near her, Pyria took a hold of one of Samia's curling horns and shook her head back and forth as much as she could, though the weight of Samia's skull alone made Pyria puff in exertion.

“Samia! Samia. Samia. Wake up.”

Samia groaned. She opened one eye and her blurry gaze focused half-way on Pyria. The dragon snorted once; her pupil dilated.

“Hi. I'm going to get you guys out of here. Just stay still.”

Samia's eye rolled back and forth.

“They're gone.” Pyria tugged at the band around Samia's mouth and, finding it was too tight, began to super-heat her palms. The iron was double-enforced and as thick as her wrist, but metal could only handle so much heat. It began to melt, dribbling down Samia's snout in molten rivulets. “Good thing we're immune to heat, eh?”

Samia snorted. She shifted around and the other chains rattled.

Soon, the band on Samia's snout was a melted puddle on the floor. The dragon lifted her head as much as the band around her neck would allow and opened her mouth in a raspy yawn.

“Pyria, how in the world did you get in here?”

“Gee, thanks for the tone of confidence.” She began to work on the collar. “I used one of my disguises. Aunt Onyxia would be so proud.”

Samia grunted. The fine scales and skin underneath her eyes sagged, and each word she spoke was heavily slurred. “Good job. Hurry as much as you can. The Dragonmaw carry sedatives. If they come back down here -”

“OK, I got it. I'm hurrying.”

The collar came off. Samia stretched her neck up and her bones popped as they realigned themselves.

“I can burn away the rest, Pyria. Help the nether-drakes.”

Pyria saluted lazily and went to the drakes. Two of them were awake: Feraku and Azorka.

She worked on Azorka, first. Getting the chains and clamps off of the nether-drakes proved more difficult; they were not immune to heat like the Black Dragons were, despite their heritage, and Pyria had to melt the bands and chains slowly, just enough where the iron could be loosened and slipped off. Even still, little scorch marks were left on Azorka and Feraku's jelly-like skin where Azorka had pried the metal off.

Pyria couldn't say how long freeing them all took. After getting them all out of the chains, Pyria went to help Samia, still working on getting out of her complicated bindings with her flame breath, when Feraku bound forward and pinned Pyria underneath him.

“Stay still!” He said, and for a moment Pyria thought the Dragonmaw had come back. She looked up at the stairs and saw nothing.

“Feraku, what are you doing?” Zoya asked in her sluggish, drugged voice.

“Just stay still!” He snapped at Pyria, who hadn't moved. He glanced back and forth, eyes wide and nervous. Samia stared at him. The dragon's fins began to rise as she growled.

“Get off of Pyria.”

“No! I'm not going to let the Dragonmaw get us again, but they can get you!”

Zoya gawked. “Feraku, are you mad? What's gotten into you? Get off!”

In one rush of air, Feraku spoke. “Barthamus wants Blade's Edge clear so we can have it and the open pass to Zangarmash and Nagrand. If the Black Dragons are gone, it'll be easy. We'll have food, water, and three times as much territory,” he explained. The finicky drake gulped in air and hunched his back, and his voice carried a tone which suggested he'd practiced them many times before. “You must understand that Sabellian would not let us into Blade's Edge by himself, and Sabellian is gone. If the rest are, too, we can take back the Crystal Spine he kicked us out from!”

“You're bringing your annoyances up now, Feraku?” Azorka asked in a tone that suggested she thought Feraku as overwhelmingly stupid.

Samia hissed. “Furywing and Insidion evicted the Netherwing from the Crystal Spine. It wasn't our brood's fault.”

Pyria tried to wiggle herself away from Feraku as he looked up at Samia, but the nether-drake saw and shoved more of his weight down on her shoulders.

“I have to do it now, Azorka. There's no other time.” He glanced at Samia. “And Sabellian hardly helped when it happened, though,” Feraku countered. “He turned a blind eye to our suffering. As always! Cast my father out the moment he hatched, as well as the rest of us! And my father was stupid enough to seek him out for an alliance. Now here the Netherwing are, suffering for dragons who weren't even there to help us even when the Dragonmaw came to Shadowmoon to slave us.” The nether around his body crackled. “What has the Black Dragonflight done for us? The only time Sabellian paid attention is when he could use us, like my brother and cousin he sent to Wrathion instead of sending his own children to slaughter.” He huffed. “Ultimately, the Black Dragonflight and the Netherwing tied by blood but nothing else. If you all were gone, the Netherwing – we would thrive throughout Outland. Our crystal forests already bloom in the Crystal Spine; if they grew throughout the rock, our energy would duplicate – triple! The demons would not be a threat, then.”

“None of you ever approached my father about retaking the Crystal Spine,” spat Samia. “Furywing and Insidion left Outland long ago. None of us roost there.”

“Because the Netherwing listen to my broodfather, who's grown too soft since the Dragonmaw left. He's too nervous about upsetting Sabellian to ask any sort of territory.”

“So I'm guessing Barthamus sent you to upset us here, huh?” Pyria asked. Feraku glanced at her.

“I say nothing more.”

Pyria glanced at the other nether-drakes. They all stared at Feraku in confusion – even the usually flat-faced Azorka. Pyria did remember something or other about a small split in the Netherwing, but didn't know the details. Were others who shared Feraku's sentiments in her group, or in Vaxian's?

“Samia, I don't want to kill your sister. Stop untying your chains. The others and I will be off.”

“I'm not going to come with you, Feraku,” Zoya said. Malfas bobbed his head in agreement. “This is – disgusting.”

Feraku sucked in a breath. “Nothing short of what the Black Dragonflight has done and has not done for us. If you stay with them, you're bound to die.”

“You killed the rogues in the arakkoa's forest with Rexxar,” Malfas said.

“Vengeance for my killed kin, and nothing else. I know how to put on an act as well as any Black Dragon. I'm doing this for the Netherwing. Please, you have to understand.”

A rock slab shot up from the ground in front of Feraku and struck him across the face. He lurched back onto his hind legs, and Pyria scrambled to her feet.

Samia surged past her. She'd finished getting out of the last of her chains – maybe when Feraku had been talking. Before Feraku could get back up, Samia grabbed a hold of his neck and shoved him back to the floor.

“I should kill you!”

Feraku opened his mouth when the building shook. Dust and dirt fell on them from the ceiling. The dragons looked up.

“What was that?” Malfas asked. Pyria thought it a stupid question.

A roar thundered from above, muffled through the wood.

“That isn't a proto-drake,” muttered Zoya, as smoke began to seep into the room.

----

The “easy flight” to the Jade Forest had instead been an agony.

The cold winds in Kun-lai had been kind enough to make the ache in Sabellian's multiple wounds dull. He hadn't minded the shearing winds, despite Chromie and Nasandria alike shivering slightly in the cold.

The flight grew worse when they left the cold.

The pleasant warmth of the Jade Forest did not dull Sabellian's wounds. With each beat of his wings, his agonies had grown sharper. Even old wounds from years before flared.

It had been a pain in itself to keep the strain of flying from his face, but Nasandria must have seen it, for she feigned sudden fatigue and they landed on one of the high, green hills that dotted the forest. Chromie had, either by accident or by intention, taken the longer flight around the Veiled Stair. Sabellian had meant to make her bank away, anyway, but was glad when the Bronze did it on her own accord.

They'd rested on the mound until Sabellian had caught his breath and his wounds became a dull throb again, and then they were off a second time.

The moment they took off the pain returned. His body called for a longer rest. He ignored it as they passed the coast and flew off across the sea.

After hours of flying, they reached the island.

Sabellian thought it was one of the “regular” islands that dotted the coast until Chromie lifted her head and called: “Here we are!”

This was it? Sabellian squinted. They were coming upon it quickly. The island was as green as the Jade Forest and as hilly. Nothing about it looked even vaguely spectacular, at least from this distance.

Chromie banked to the left as they approached, turning for the sandy beach rather than the abandoned and overgrown pandaren village they'd been flying towards.

Mortals milled along the coast. They stopped when the dragons approached and gathered at the very edge of the beach, though some stayed behind. Even from the distance in altitude, Sabellian saw their hands go to their belts – and to the hilts of their weapons.

“How do they know not to attack, exactly?” Nasandria asked, seeing the same.

“They know who I am, and they don't see that I'm in any sort of trouble. But I don't think that'll stop them from being overly cautious. Let me talk to them after we land.” She looked behind at them. “And be careful! There's a sort of barrier around the island that makes flying difficult. Steel yourself.”

And with that, she dove. For a single moment her large body wavered, but then she straightened out and landed lightly on the white-sanded beach.

Sabellian followed. If the mortals decided to attack or if there was some trap, better for him to land first and take the brunt of the blows than for his smaller daughter to.

He did not dive as fast as Chromie had. He regretted it when he hit the winds the Bronze had spoken of. As if he had passed through a sort of barrier, the calmer breezes from the ocean were replaced by a screaming torrent that jerked the whole of his body to the side. Sabellian snorted and righted himself.

He flapped his wings and passed by the winds. The sand made his landing sloppy; he had to bat his wings a second time so he might settle to a stop and not fall over onto his chest.

Chromie had already shifted when Nasandria landed beside her father. Sabellian watched the “gnome” - how did such a powerful dragon cope in such a fragile body? - walk towards the waiting mortals. They all wore the same tabard as Chromie did: white and gold and inlaid with the eternity symbol. But whether they were Night Elf, human, orc or tauren, all were rigid-backed and alert; some had the decency to try not to outright stare at him while others did.

“Don't you think we should shift into our mortal forms?” Asked Nasandria. An enormous white sea bird circled above them.

“Until Chromie says we are welcome, I will stay in this form,” Sabellian grumbled. He jerked his head up to spook away the lingering bird. It cawed at him and moved away.

Chromie returned after much hand waving and quiet murmuring. The mortals drifted back to their original posts, but some continued to give the two black dragons sideways glances.

“Everything is taken care of,” Chromie said once she came within earshot. “They'll just have to get used to seeing a Black Dragon.”

With all that staring, they'd get used to it quickly.

“Very well.” Sabellian shifted into his mortal form. The sand began to cling not to his paws but now to the ends of his long robe. A bad choice of wardrobe for a beach. His skin prickled in agitation, but he held off questions as to where they might move so logistics might be asked first. “What did you tell them?”

“I didn't tell them who you were, and I'm unsure if any of them recognized you – the older elves, at least. I just said you needed some sort of temporary asylum.”

Beside him, Nasandria shifted into her own human form. “And they can be trusted?”

“Of course. The Timewalkers are a very open and intellectual group. Like I said, they'll need some time to adjust with your presence, but they'll warm up eventually. And besides, the Timeless Isle truly is a sanctuary, albeit a... dangerous one, in some areas. To turn you away would be forsaking what this place is about, and I doubt our pandaren guides would like that very much.”

Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring how terribly his body ached with each movement, and looked around. Now on ground level – and on a shorter level – he eyed the island with a new perspective. He understood that the hills from the sky looked high, but now on the island they looked massive, towering up into the clouds where they were circled by more of the same white birds. The beach led up to the greener flats, peppered with low-hanging trees of thick bark and spread foliage like those found in the Jade Forest. If he squinted, he could just make out some higher-leveled part of the island to the north, but it was too hazy even for his eyes to make out what sort of landmark it was, whether it was some cliff or a squatter series of hills.

“I trust that they will only keep their mouths shut and stay away from us,” Sabellian said as he turned back to Chromie. “Where is a place we might stay?”

Chromie paused to consider. She looked around at the island as the waves lapped against the beach's edge. Some locust peeled off in a noisy buzzing song. “You might try to the north of the island. There's some caves some of my Timewalkers have found, but – well, for your true form, I'm not sure if you would fit.” She pointed towards the northeast. “Off to the other side of the island, though, is a settlement of yaungol. They are very similar to the tauren in appearance, if you're unfamiliar with them. A vicious race, however. I would stay away from there, though their fires and black rock might look appealing to you.”

It already sounded appealing. Anything would be welcome beside this green and lush and wet place. He missed the dry heat and rock faces of Blade's Edge. “Fine.”

“Father, um – are you feeling well?”

“Well enough,” Sabellian answered in clipped tones. Nasandria remained staring at him with shielded eyes; he realized she wasn't asking about his various wounds and bruises. “I hear nothing, if that alone calms you.”

Honestly, he felt the same as he had when he'd first landed on the island: exhausted, in pain, and in a foul mood with the slight itch in the back of his head. The only indication that they'd landed on something different than the run-of-the-mill island was the wind-barrier, but Sabellian had not expected much from this place. As Chromie had put it, it did not heal, but it halted. Why would he ever feel better?

“I'll let the other Bronze dragons know you're here,” Chromie said. “Most of them are of the good sort, but others might be sore with your presence. The Cataclysm left scars on many memories. I apologize if any are outwardly aggressive in advance.”

“We will be used to such aggression. There is no need for a preemptive apology.”

Chromie smiled, then frowned. “I'd introduce you to one of the other leading Bronze here, but he seems to have gone off the island. Just when I had to show him something! Oh well. I'm sure he'll be back soon. But as of now, you're free to roam the island.”

“Thank you, Chromie.” Finally, someone that was worthy of even some of his respect. He nodded his head and the Bronze did the same. “Come, Nasandria. I tire of this beach.”

Sabellian shifted into his true form again, and had to stop the snort that threatened to escape him as he saw some of the mortals lurch back, despite his distance from their camp.

As quickly as they had arrived, the two dragons were off again. Sabellian turned northward.

They flew around the jutting hills around the coast to soar over the green flats, passing a handful of rock shrines free of overgrowth, the wide canopied trees, and monstrous cranes that might have reached Nasandria's shoulder had the drake been grounded. Now that they were past the guardian hills dotting the coast, the island's topography, spread out before them from their air-view, became more apparent.

There were multiple levels of the island. From above, it almost resembled a wide spiraling staircase, where the bottom of the stairs began to slope up at the southeastern part of the island and rose around the circumference of the coast until it reached the “top” at the farthest, northern end of the island. That highest level seemed to be the most obvious place to stay, but Chromie had noted the yaungol, and Sabellian decided he was too weak to fit off “vicious tauren” that the Bronze seemed wary enough of to even warn about.

After they had little luck finding a cave on the second level of the eastern island, they settled on one on the first. It wasn't large enough to hold his dragon form, but it was nestled into the higher level's rocky wall, providing a sense of stability and natural warmth, and faced sideways to the sea, so that the salty, sharp air would not shear into the little hideaway.

A small ledge had been carved at the very back of the cave. What it had once held on it, Sabellian couldn't say, but it made for a nice resting spot for the pink crane he'd killed before they had found the cave.

Sabellian offered the first bit of the bird to Nasandria. She gave him an odd look, hesitated, then pulled off one of the juicy haunches.

“What do we do now?” She asked after swallowing the webbed foot, the last of the morsel.

“I am going to rest,” Sabellian said. He would have to check on his bandages. His wounds had sealed, but the flight had risked them reopening. “You would do well to do the same.”

“It's not really what I expected,” Nasandria said. “The island. When will we head for the portals?”

Sabellian had not been alone with Nasandria long enough for him to tell her anything beyond the later use of the portals. He opened his mouth to explain that the idea was to lure Wrathion himself here – no agent, no champion, but Wrathion, in some form or fashion – when he realized Nasandria's reaction may easily end up negative. He might have been weak in body but not in observation; Nasandria was eager-eyed and impatient. She'd remained that way since he'd told her of the portals. It might be better for him to keep this skeletal idea to himself – not for Nasandria's sake but for his own. If he had one more person critique and question him, he might just go mad on his own, Old Gods or no.

“I understand that Chromie must find the portals' various schedules,” said Sabellian. “Once that is done, and we are all well rested, we shall choose the best course of action.”

Nasandria bobbed her head once. She sighed wistfully. “I'm so ready to go home, Father.”

“As am I,” Sabellian replied. He did not have to lie about that.

---

Warlord Zaela, Wrathion decided, was easily one of the most intimidating mortals he'd had the “pleasure” to meet.

It wasn't her armor, an ashen-black only a bit darker than her skin, or the two Dragonmaw behind her who watched Wrathion as one might a prized horse so much as it was the way she held herself. Wrathion had seen his fair share of mortals who liked to throw their strength around to impress, whether through shouts or swung weapons or picking fights, but Zaela had no need for any of those dramatics. The way she stood – straight, tall, and open-shouldered – and the sneer on her face made the strength of her body all the more palpable to him.

He wondered if her reputation as dragon-slaver and dragon-rider helped him come to such a conclusion, too.

“How nice to see you, Warlord Zaela,” Wrathion said. He mentally waved off his agents, who had both stiffened at the orc's greeting. “I'm sorry we couldn't speak at the Black Market, but I was a bit engaged. What do you need from me?”

Zaela snorted. She looked him up and down. Wrathion felt his skin prickle in his uneasiness at her look. “I came to see you up close with my eyes, whelp,” she said. Did she not remember she had glared at him in the Auction House only hours before? “In private.” Oh.

She looked him over again. What a look! It was as if her very eyes were trying to skin him where he stood. “You're more pathetic in person than your reputation suggests. I should have hunted you down when I had the chance.”

“His hide would've hardly made a single boot,” said one of the Dragonmaw, a male missing his left eye. The other Dragonmaw, a female missing half of the fingers on her right hand, snickered. Did they gain such injuries from battle, or from unruly dragons? Wrathion hoped it was the latter.

“Ah.” Wrathion surprised himself with his calmness. “I see now. I understand you're probably... unhappy with my task in the Cataclysm, to give me such animosity?”

Any amusement the Dragonmaw had on their faces fled. Their glares bored into him. Zaela, who hadn't even humored a smile before, eyed him darkly.

“Enough of our dragons died with the Wildhammer,” Zaela rumbled. Her voice was so hoarse. Did she scream at her other orcs and dragons all day to get a voice like that? “And the Alliance. We didn't need a hatchling to kill the rest.”

And then she spat at his feet.

Wrathion hissed under his breath. He dared not take a step back, in fear of looking submissive. “While I will happily take the blame for many of my family's death, you may want to redirect your anger to other sources. I wasn't the only one to kill them, you know. Surely you realize the Red Dragonflight and other mortals killed many of 'your' dragons? I only helped hasten along extinction.”

Extinction except for him, of course.

The Blade's Edge dragons didn't count.

“Pah! Extinction.” Zaela's eyes shined oddly – maybe in some vague sort of amusement? Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of it, though he assumed she was thinking of the dragons Madam Goya had promised. “You killed enough to, at least, make an enemy of me.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” In a way, he was. It didn't bode well to make enemies, especially in his position. “But I'm sure we can mend our relationship once this is all over, Warlord Zaela – if you'll allow it, of course.”

“I don't have any need for the friendliness of a dragon,” Zaela answered. “Especially you. But know if you attempt to stop us from having these new dragons, I will come after you, hatchling.”

“You know,” Wrathion began carefully, “I would think the proto-drakes serve you far better than an intelligent dragon ever would. They are savage enough to turn battles but stupid enough to easily tame, I suspect. Why burden yourself with my kin, who are more likely to actively hate and go against you?”

Zaela snorted. “There isn't much difference between dragons and proto-drakes. They both bend to the whip when beaten enough, and there are always other methods for obedience. Galakras is my prize, but I would choose a dragon over these other beasts easily.”

“Why? Do you enjoy the conversation?”

“No. Because of the fury and mayhem they can unleash. The sight of a proto-drake might instill fear as a pack of worgs might, and they are ferocious beasts, no doubt. But nothing can beat the look of your enemies as you descend with true dragons. The fear – the panic! To make them know we can break even dragons shows our strength, and a dragon's destruction is a sight to behold. Proto-drakes are no comparison.”

He couldn't argue that point.

“Well. Rest assured, I won't be hindering your acquisition of the dragons,” Wrathion said. And truly, he wasn't. He'd be killing them after the acquisition. “Now, do you need anything else?”

Zaela stepped closer. Wrathion stiffened. “If you -”

A roar, dull in distance but lacking no ferocity, boomed across the mountain-side. Wrathion and Dragonmaw alike snapped their heads over towards the direction of the sound.

An orc, metal armor clanging, bolted up the path towards Zaela.

“A black dragon, Warlord!” She said. “It was spotted coming down from the mountain. It arrives as I speak!”

Another roar, closer, and then a great whoosh! Cries of alarm sounded. Wrathion, from above the tips of the small-hanging trees, saw fire and smoke alight farther down the slope – near the Auction House.

“Hah! Drawn towards its captured kin! Go, Dragonmaw. Let us bring down our own prize. Goya will not have this one.” The two orcs behind Zaela saluted and sprinted towards the Auction House.

Wrathion forgotten, Zaela pursued, and the Black Prince watched as a black dragon wheeled in his direction then snapped back towards the Auction House, his maw opening for another fiery explosion upon the building.

---

Everything had been going well before the smoke reached them.

Samia looked around, but she tightened the grip on Feraku's neck so he would not get away. Whatever had attacked the building had done so with fire, and she guessed something on the second floor had collapsed inward to wedge a hole in the doors Pyria had noted, allowing smoke to seep through.

It already hung thick. Malfas coughed. Black Dragons filtered the choking hazards of smoke easily, but nether-drakes, not so. If they did not get out of the basement soon, all of them would asphyxiate.

“Pyria, get those doors open!”

Pyria bolted up the steps.

Samia turned back to Feraku. “Try anything else, and I'll tear your head off. Or, I'll leave you down here to choke. Either one.”

Feraku stared at her and lay still.

“They're jammed close!” Called Pyria from above, her voice muffled by a sudden quake that shook the building and sent the wood and stone to groaning.

Samia growled. She took another look around the room. “Pyria, get down here. We're going to just go up.”

She let go of Feraku, lifted on her hind legs and crashed her head through the ceiling.

Wood fell on her face and down onto the scaleless nether-drakes below. She used Feraku's thick neck to leverage her hind leg so she might shove her head in farther and make a larger hole by shaking her neck back and forth. Fire burned at one side of her face, and she chanced a quick look before she pulled her head back down to the basement. The second floor was on fire, or at least half of it was; crates smoked and the flames inched closer towards the exit.

“Climb up on my back and get up there,” Samia commanded. Another roar from outside sounded, and a proto-drake answered back in its monstrous call.

Malfas clambered up her first, his crystal talons gripping onto her scales as he bound up and over into the hole.

Azorka and Zoya followed. Zoya, like Samia, remained somewhat drugged, and had to have help from Pyria to get over the edge of the hole.

“Don't leave me down here,” Feraku pleaded.

Samia snorted, took a hold on him by the base of his neck, and with a grunt and much straining, shoved him up through the hole. She wasn't about to allow some agent of Barthamus die with any other plans the elder Nether Dragon had.

“Go, Pyria,” Samia ordered, and her sister joined the nether-drakes on the second floor.

Samia flapped her wings, cramped in the basement, and rose just enough so she could hop and drag herself out of the entrance she'd made.

She was greeted by two pandaren guards, perhaps drawn towards the fires, raising polearms to strike Malfas, the closest drake to them.

The nether-drake flattened himself to the floor. Samia whipped her tail around and sent the mortals flying.

Uncaring of all the valuable items and their neat arrangements, Samia leaped over the other drakes and crashed their way to freedom through the wall, secret doors be damned.

She startled three Dragonmaw who'd been in the process of getting on their black proto-drake. The beast screamed at her, but Samia only used her increased momentum from the charge through the door and redirected it to the drake.

Her lowered head collided at the point where its wing met its hunched body, throwing the drake off balance. It fell back – it, and the three orcs who'd been strapped onto its elaborate four-seated saddle. One orc was squashed under the proto-drake's wing-tip as the beast desperately tried to get back to its feet.

The drakes poured out of the Auction House.

“What in the world is going on?” Zoya asked. The top of the Auction House and the back half of it blazed with fire, and another team of Dragonmaw had begun to mount their proto-drake. They lifted into the sky with a war cry. Other Dragonmaw hauled out huge poles half as thick as their waists and planted them into the ground at an angle, the barbs aimed at upward.

Above, a black shadow zoomed across. Three darts of various neon colors followed.

“It's Vaxian!” Pyria cried. “That idiot, where's he been!”

“The dragons have escaped! Dragonmaw, get them under control!” A female orc with spike-like hair atop her head cried as she mounted the enormous red proto-drake. Smoke mixed in with the fog of the slope. “Go! Go!”

The red beast shot into the sky.

The red proto-drake that had begun to go after the wheeling Vaxian turned back towards Samia and the others. The other mount Samia had knocked over had finally gotten to its feet, riders in place on the saddle.

“Split up. They're so big we can smash them back into one another.” Samia leaped into the air and the world spun briefly as she gained altitude. The drug was still within her. At least getting her blood pumping would dilute it more quickly.

She turned and saw Malfas and Azorka were following her. Zoya followed Pyria, who had gone in the opposite direction.

Feraku was shooting off towards the mountains.

Samia snarled. She couldn't go after him now. The Dragonmaw were the bigger threat.

The proto-drake already in the air came after her. It extended its back legs as if to grab onto her neck.

Despite her size, Samia was quicker than the other animal. She dove down and, as she felt the tip of her back fins brush up against the proto-drake, lashed her tail out. The barb at the end cracked against the drake's armored face.

Crek-woosh! A black object shot up towards her. Samia lurched to the side in time for the shot polearm launched from below to zoom past her.

“Watch out for those!” She yelled back at the nether-drakes. Not like they needed telling.

Her dodge of the polearm had let the proto-drake get the upper hand. The beast grabbed a hold of her right foreleg with its mangled teeth and twisted its head. She heard, rather than felt, a bone snap. The pain came after. She roared and dug her mouth into the back of the mount's head.

They circled around one another, interlocked. Tiny pains lit up her hide as the Dragonmaw shot arrows into her flank.

Azorka appeared like a flashing shadow. One moment she was there, and then she was not. In her wake, two of the Dragonmaw fell with a cry, ripped off of the saddle by Azorka's attack. They fell and hit the earth with a dull crack of bones.

Malfas was less dramatic, but no less helpful. He landed himself on top of the proto-drake's neck, regardless of the Dragonmaw behind him, and began to claw into the proto-drake's flesh. He lacked precise strikes and instead fought through fear; his eyes were wide as he sent blood flying.

The proto-drake finally cried out and let go of Samia's leg. As it banked to the side, the remaining Dragonmaw riders raised a harpoon-like contraption trailing a flattened net and shot it.

Samia dodged the harpoon, clumsily shot, but the net wrapped around her other forearm. The weight of the harpoon might have dragged down a drake, but Samia was too large for it to make an impact.

Azorka appeared again to rip away the netting.

“They're carrying the sedatives,” she said as last of the net fell away. “Careful.” She shot off.

The bleeding proto-drake swept back around. It managed to get side-to-side, so close their wings were nearly touching. An orc leaped from her saddle and, either through madness or ingenuity, ran across the proto-drake's thick wing webbings and catapulted herself onto Samia's back.

Samia immediately rolled so her belly was up. The Dragonmaw did not fall off. Instead, a dull pain welled at the back of Samia's neck. It wasn't any drugged weapon; the sleepiness did not come. Samia snorted and began to buck up and down, upside down in the air. Malfas had since dropped off the proto-drake, his blue hide prickled so with arrows that on one side he resembled a porcupine, and hovered above Samia's exposed belly to keep the proto-drake from descending on her.

Samia twirled upright, then took the momentum to keep her roll. When she began to bank her body to the side, the Dragonmaw finally lost her grip and fell. Samia glanced back. A hook had been lodged at the base of her neck, trailing a long leather strap, as if the Dragonmaw hoped to take a hold of her by it.

One of the orcs yelled. The proto-drake swooped back into action. Malfas shrieked and shot out of the way, and the mount managed to snap onto the leather strap, obviously trained to do so. It pulled back, beating its wings backwards, and yanked Samia along with it towards the ground.

The pain had her head spinning. Knowing the agony would only be greater if she tried to outweigh the proto-drake, she flew along with them – and ended up outflying them. The leather grew slack and the pain along with it. It gave Azorka time to appear and shear through it with the point of her shark-like mouth.

Samia flapped away from the proto-drake. The orcs snarled in frustration. Above, Vaxian and the large red proto-drake were trading vicious blows. Black and crimson scale alike fluttered down like fallen leaves from each of their impacts.

“Samia! Get out of the way!” Malfas yelled. The proto-drake she'd been fighting came after her. She folded her wings and dropped.

A fleshy collision sounded above her. She looked up as she opened her wings again to glide along the fog. The proto-drake that had gone after Pyria had smashed itself into Samia's. Pyria gracefully twirled away from her handiwork.

“Nice one!” Samia yelled up at her. Pyria grinned at her as the proto-drakes crashed to earth. “Take the nether-drakes out of here. Vaxian and I will finish off the Red.”

“But -”

“Linger longer and there's a higher chance they'll get you out of the sky. Go!”

Samia flapped her wings hard as she went off to aid Vaxian. She trusted Pyria – or any of the nether-drakes that had listened – to get away while they could.

Vaxian and the Red were grappling with one another in mid-air. The Red had his back legs scrabbling at Vaxian's, and the black dragon had latched his forelegs onto the beast's shoulders. The force of their combined wing-beats sent the fog and smoke swirling around their bodies in waves.

Vaxian had one of the shot polearms embedded in his hindquarters.

Samia shot up towards them. If she could get underneath the Red's belly, the fight would end the moment she gutted him.

Whether the Red saw her as he tried to get a hold on Vaxian's own belly or if the rider did, Samia wasn't certain. Either way, as she flew towards his exposed stomach, talons extended, he suddenly jerked away from Vaxian's bloody embrace and bent his huge head towards her charge, flattening himself out like a wall.

She pummeled into his head. The bulk of his body lurched backwards at the blow, but since he had flattened himself out, the plates on his head and neck took the brunt of the force. Samia's head rung with the impact.

Sharp pain sliced across her shoulder. Black scales fluttered down. The Red had slashed the barb at the end of his wing tips along her.

Samia snarled, turned, and managed to strike her claw across the proto-drake's face, just below where the plates protected most of his skull. The beast hardly flinched. He opened his crocodile-like mouth and breathed a great gush of flame at her.

It swept over her harmlessly.

Vaxian swept down on the Red. He grabbed a hold of the thick tail with his maw and began to dive in an attempt to drag the mount with him.

The Red screeched and writhed as the two began to plummet. With their combined weight, they dropped like a stone.

But the Red snapped out as he passed by Samia. His teeth closed around her own tail and he, like Vaxian, began to drag her down with them, as if they were a manner of links.

Below, Vaxian snarled with the added weight. He was forced to let go. The Red began to rise as his frantically beating wings gained quick altitude with the new lack of weight.

“Vaxian! Above and below!” Samia called. Two more shot polearms sailed past them; they were moving far too fast to be hit.

Samia shot up. Vaxian angled himself so he was underneath the Red's belly.

With a roar, Samia dove down, and Vaxian spiraled up.

The Red tried to get out of the way through a dive. His rider was screaming obscenities at him, seeing Vaxian coming up and Samia coming down.

As the proto-drake moved down, Vaxian smashed into him with such force that the Red's head jerked back; Samia thought Vaxian had broken the beast's neck until it roared in fury.

Samia cut the roar short by tackling the Red by the hindquarters.

The rider nearly fell off. She managed to hold on by one of the decorative spikes on the harness. Samia ignored the mortal and began to sink her teeth into the Red's hide in quick strikes, pulling away scale, then skin, then flesh.

The proto-drake screamed and writhed. His wings buckled. Samia grunted and strained her wings to keep them upright; the strain lifted when Vaxian helped to lift the Red up, to keep him sandwiched between them so the two Black dragons could rip him apart.

Talons from above sunk into Samia's shoulders and ripped her off of the Red.

She roared in anger and tried to move away. The grip was too tight. Even with her wings beating in the opposite direction, her assailant swept away from the Red with her in tow.

Bracing herself for the pain, Samia whipped herself to the left with the whole of her body. The talons upon her shoulders raked through flesh and coiled muscle with the movement. They let go.

Blood spraying from her wounds, Samia twirled back up.

The black dragon to attack her turned back around to face her.

Samia nearly dropped out of the air in shock. The dragon was almost as big as her father and armored with silver and red plate that ran down his neck, tail, and limbs; a helmet of similar color protected his face, with curved elephant-like tusks attached to each side. His body was painted in sharp red designs. A thick golden chain hung from his neck.

He stared at her blankly as he hovered in mid-air, the harsh red webbings of his wings lit by Vaxian's fires atop the Auction House.

A roaring cheer rang up from the downed Dragonmaw.

“Okrut! Okrut! Okrut!”

Samia backed up. She recognized the dragon. His red fins curved oddly on themselves, as if the were a half a rack of ribs down his neck. He had always been vain about them.

The orc Okrut atop the dragon, looking for all the world a speck on the mount's great back, whipped him, and Serinar, former guardian of the Obsidian Dragonshrine, dived at her.

#wrathion #sabellian #rexxar #chromie #zaela #*wos

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 29)

An unexpected dragon offers a get-away for Sabellian and Nasandria, and Wrathion and Madam Goya exchange pleasantries.

Kalecgos received a visitor, and one he hadn't been expecting.

Sitting in his room, high up in the Temple, the curtains open so he could watch the falling snow and the hearth unlit, the Blue had been racking his mind for some sort of fix for Sabellian. He scribbled down ideas, but crossed them out in frustration when he realized they wouldn't work only a moment after. He mumbled about Sabellian's stubbornness and cursed the useless Eye. If only Sabellian wasn't so focused on killing the Prince...

There was a knock at the door. Kalecgos looked over. A monk bobbed her head at him.

“There's a visitor for you, Kalec,” she said.

“Oh – send them in,” Kalecgos replied with a small frown. He doubted it was Nasandria; she never really asked to visit him, and just came when she wanted to.

The monk nodded and left. Lalecgos returned to his ideas.

Moments later he heard footsteps. Kalecgos looked up. The monk returned, and with her a gnome, clothed in a golden robe with her hair braided and set into buns on the side of her face.

“Chromie!” Kalecgos rose from his seat, half-startled, and nodded at the Bronze dragon. Chromie smiled back at him in good-natured greeting. “It's been a while.”

Chromie thanked the monk. The pandaren nodded to them and left, and Chromie swept into the room.

“Hello, Kalecgos!” She greeted. “It has been a while. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” Chromie took a seat in the small wooden chair near the small table in the room, though she turned it so she faced Kalecgos. “How does the Bronze Dragonflight fare?”

“Decently,” quipped Chromie. “Though I would think its' struggles are nearly the same as the rest of the Dragonflights.”

Kalecgos nodded. He doubted any of the Dragonflights would recover from the after-effects of the Cataclysm any time soon, especially from what he'd seen from Alexstrasza.

“I heard Nozdormu left the Caverns?” Kalecgos asked, repeating what Alexstrasza had told him. Chromie gave a half-hearted nod.

“More or less. It isn't something we aren't used to,” joked the Bronze. “Soridormi and Anachronos are taking care of the Caverns, now.”

Kalecgos nodded. He wondered how much had changed at the Caverns themselves, since the Bronze had lost much of their powers. They clearly hadn't abandoned their responsibilities like the Blues had, but it must have been difficult.

“Well. That's good.” Kalecgos looked at her tabard. “And is this new? I'm afraid I don't recognize the symbol belonging to any organization.”

“It's the Timewalkers tabard,” Chromie explained. She plucked at the infinity symbol off-handedly. “Pretty neat, isn't it? I'm rather fond of the colors.”

“I haven't heard of such a faction.” Kalecgos leaned forward in his seat and cocked his head to one side, studying the infinity symbol. It glittered. “What -?”

“Oh! Well, it's relatively new,” Chromie chimed in. “We made it a – oh, I don't know. Maybe a year after Deathwing was defeated and our powers were lessened. It was a bit difficult for some of the more uppity Bronze to warm up to the idea of asking mortals for help, but, really, they've all been a great boost.”

“Boost to what?”

“Watching the Timeways, of course,” Chromie said. “It's a little embarrassing to admit us Bronze aren't – uhm – 'all there' for guarding them anymore, but... you understand.”

Kalecgos understood. The shock of his lessened powers had rocked him, among many others. It didn't surprise him that the Bronze Flight felt the same.

“At least the mortals can help,” Kalecgos said. “They're not given as much credit as they should by our kind.”

“Oh, I agree.” Chromie smiled at him. “They're so useful! I enjoy them. I'm glad we've both always agreed on that.” She looked around the room with a hum. “But the Timewalkers are actually the reason I'm here. I'd like your advice with something.”

Kalecgos hesitated. The abysmal failure with the Eye had him doubting that he could give good advice, but... “Well, go for it. I'll try my best to help.”

Chromie looked back at him. “We've only had a few members in Pandaria. Most of us have been at the Caverns of Time, trying to stabilize everything. But one of our members alerted us to something – and it's incredible! It's an entire island off the coast of the Jade Forest.”

Kalecgos frowned. He pulled up the map of the Forest in his head and came up blank as to where the island could have been. “You mean the cloud serpent island?”

“Oh, no no, this is something completely new. It actually only appeared – I think two days ago?”

“Appeared?”

“Yes! Just like Pandaria out of the Mists. We wouldn't have thought anything of it if Kairoz hadn't been so close when it shifted into our timeline. He picked up on its time-shifted elements and – well, it was such an enigma the Time Keepers all wanted to look to check it out.”

“I – what? What do you mean?” Kalecgos leaned forward in his seat. “It shifted into our timeline?”

“Well – sort of. At least, we think so... that, or out of some pocket of our own timeline. We're still not very sure.”

Kalecgos paused. He frowned. “So an entire island... appeared out of time off the Jade Forest?”

“Mhm. It sounds incredible, and it's even more incredible when you're on it. There's so many lost artifacts, architecture – and the animals are enormous, like they've been fueled by some sort of energy.”

Kalecgos began to think of just why Chromie was here when she said artifacts. That was apparently his slowly-growing specialty, it seemed... “That sounds very interesting. I'm somewhat surprised it showed up -” He paused. Hadn't Jaina said something about portals refusing to stabilize on the coast of the Jade Forest for the past week or so? Perhaps that and this strange island were linked. It would make sense.

Kalecgos cleared his throat. “Perhaps I'm not so surprised. Pandaria becomes more and more mysterious as it's been explored, rather than the opposite.”

Chromie grinned. “So I've heard! Anyway, here's what I wanted help with.” She reached into her small bag and withdrew a fist-sized pink crystal and a gold coin. The end of Kalecgos fingers twitched, and he glanced down at them with a small frown before he reached forward to grab the offered items. Immediately upon taking them, his fingers twitched again. The crystal and the gold were magical – clearly.

“They're from the island,” Chromie said as Kalecgos brought both the crystal and coin closer to inspect them. “Kairoz thinks they're infused with some sort of time-essence, but I wasn't really sure, so I wanted a second opinion.”

“Well, they're definitely infused with something.” Kalecgos ran the pad of his thumb down the crystal. Little sparks of energy reacted to his touch, invisible but easily felt, like tiny static shocks. “Who is Kairoz?” He asked as he began to look over the coin.

“One of us Bronze. Decent dragon.” Chromie arched her head up in an attempt to see what Kalecgos was doing with the crystal and coin, held high above her high level. “So, what do you think?”

“I'm not sure.” Kalecgos frowned and lowered his hands. “Give me a moment.”

He closed his eyes and retreated his energy inward. As he had done with the Eye, he pushed his energy through his fingertips and into his palm, seeking to identify the power of both crystal and coin. The static shocks grew more intense. Kalecgos ignored them in favor of focusing on two new feelings pressing up against his own energy – one light and the other behind it, heavy. “Well, perhaps your Kairoz is right,” Kalecgos said as he goaded the two sources of energy back into the crystal. “I'm not a Bronze, but I believe that there's some essence here I haven't run into... which would be Time, of course.” That must have been the light one, wispy and fleeting. The heavy... “There's a bit of arcane, here, as well, as if it's the backbone of this stranger energy, but it feels a bit odd – at least it's nothing like my arcane.” He paused, searching for the right way to describe the energy pushing up against his palm. “I suppose like Green dragons' life energy.” Kalecgos opened his eyes. “Why bring this to me? I would think a Bronze might be better at discerning this than I.”

Chromie hesitated. She outstretched her hand and Kalecgos gave her back both crystal and coin. “Well... I figured Kairoz was right. He's always had a knack for that sort of thing. I'm afraid my senses for checking Time are a bit worse, and most of the other Timewalkers are just regular mortals.” She shrugged and turned the crystal in her hand. “I figured you would know, anyway – and I'm glad I did! That life-energy bit explains some things.” Chromie slipped the gold piece into her bag and looked back up at Kalecgos. “See, the Timeless Isle – that's what everyone's calling it – used to be some shrine for the pandaren. There's enormous statues of all the Celestials, and other things besides. But it's like... well, as if nothing's changed, ever. Not even the sun moves! We've never seen anything like it. One of our druids didn't even detect any sort of new growth in the foliage, meaning the plants that grow there now are the same ones that have been there since – well, who knows when.”

Kalecgos frowned. “So it's frozen in time.”

Chromie nodded, but her brows were bunched together and she frowned, perplexed. “Yes, and that's amazing in itself, but – we've never seen living things prosper as they do on the Isle. Time itself can freeze, sure – the sun doesn't move, the seasons don't change... but for an organism to prosper in that sort of environment, to never age or grow sick or weaken? That's odd.”

“But if the Time there is frozen, I don't understand why the animals would grow at all. What's the enigma, then, there?”

Chromie stared at him. She smiled suddenly. “Oh! You know, I don't think you've ever been to the Caverns.” Kalecgos shook his head. Chromie hummed. “Well, that's it, then. In the Caverns you see little pockets of frozen Time. They mostly lead up to the protected Timeways. There's some animals going down those frozen Hallways – and they're frozen too. See?”

Kalecgos shifted in his seat. “So... usually, the animals freeze in place when Time freezes?”

“Yes! But on the Isle, they don't. They live and move. We think the only way they're able to grow is through the Time essence that you felt in that crystal. They're honestly a bit scary.”

Kalecgos had to smile at that. Chromie had chosen an unassuming mortal form, but she was one of the most respected members of the Bronze Dragonflight. For her to think of these animals as scary was a little amusing.

“So that other energy you picked up must be why the Isle is so different,” Chromie continued. She eyed the rock. “I wonder what it is.”

“I wish I could help,” Kalecgos said. “But I don't know what it is, either.”

“Oh, you've helped a lot.” Chromie put the rock in her bag. Kalecgos wondered if she was being sarcastic, but the Bronze dragon had a pleased look on her face. “Maybe we don't know what the energy is, but I knew something had to be different than just regular Time essence. It didn't make sense otherwise. Kairoz will be so annoyed with me with proving him wrong! Hah.”

“Well, it seems like an amazing find, Chromie,” Kalecgos said. “I can't imagine what it's like.”

“You should visit sometime,” Chromie responded. “I'm sure you'd love it.”

Kalecgos smiled. “Maybe when I have – pardon the pun – but time. An Isle where one could never get sick sounds -”

Kalecgos paused. He did not even close his mouth. Chromie raised an eyebrow at him.

“Kalec?”

“Chromie – you're sure Time is completely frozen there? That nothing can change at all?”

“Uhm... yes? Barring the animals getting bigger from the energy, but... no, nothing can really fluctuate.”

“What if someone was sick?”

Chromie paused thoughtfully. “From what we've seen so briefly from the Isle, they wouldn't get better, but they wouldn't get worse, either, I don't think.”

Kalecgos hesitated, then smiled. “How would you like to meet someone?”

---

“Here. Take it, you blasted thing.”

Sabellian tossed down the last of the cooked deer the pandaren had given him a half hour before onto the floor. Misha, who had been staring at him the entire time he'd eaten the large meal and making rumbling noises, leaped up and snatched the meat. With a great crunch she bit through the bone, and muscle and seared skin shredded beneath her teeth. Sabellian made a face, wrapped his hands around his now-cold tea (honestly – how did the pandaren keep anything warm for long in this frigid climate?) and took a sip as he watched the bear eat.

He hadn't gotten closer to figuring out why she was here. She gave no clues – being a bear – and the half-ogre hadn't shown his face. The only thing that made sense was that he was in Pandaria. But then again, that didn't even make sense in itself. And quite honestly, he hoped it wasn't the case. Allowing Rexxar to see him like this – and showing him what he was – would be disastrous... nor did he want the half-ogre to see him lose his mind, either.

His ramblings were interrupted when he heard footsteps.

Sabellian looked up. Standing in the doorway was Kalecgos. Sabellian frowned, annoyed, and stood up from the table.

“What do you want?”

“I have a visitor,” Kalecgos announced. Sabellian drew himself up, and before he could speak Kalecgos strode into the room. The dragon moved off to the side to reveal a follower: a blonde-haired gnome in a gold robe.

Sabellian stared. He and the gnome made eye contact. The gnome startled.

“Chronormu,” Sabellian drawled, a small, annoyed growl bubbling in his voice. He eyed the Bronze dragon and then glared at Kalecgos. “I thought you were smart enough to realize I wanted to stay hidden and not share my appearance with other dragons.”

Kalecgos looked between them. “You know her?”

“Oh, sure, we know each other,” Chromie piped up. She had not taken her eyes off of Sabellian. “I think it was at Dragonblight, after that blizzard? Or was it – wait, no. That's later. I think.” Chromie's eyes went hazy before she shrugged and went back to staring at him. “Wow! I thought you were dead.”

“So did many others,” Sabellian snapped, redirecting his glare to Kalecgos. “Is there any more surprise visitors, Kalecgos?”

“No.” Kalecgos darted his gaze between the two again before settling it on Chromie. “I believe Chromie has something that might help you.”

“Am I to assume it's some other magical artifact?”

“It's an island,” Chromie said. She took a couple steps into the room and looked at Sabellian's leaning stance, favoring his good leg, the fading bruises on his face and the thick bandages peeking out from his shoulder from underneath his shirt. She raised an eyebrow, looking more curious about the wounds than amused, and her lack of comment on them was relieving. “It... might help with your situation. I thought Kalecgos meant some other type of sickness when he suggested it, but I guess Old Gods are some sort of sickness.”

Sabellian eyed Kalecgos. The Blue should have at least asked him before telling Chromie everything. He looked at Chromie again. “An island.”

“Yes. But it's not a regular island. I was just telling Kalecgos about it.” Chromie looked up as Misha crunched noisily on one of the bones, blinked, then continued. “It's an island where Time is basically frozen, but the animals and other living things there can move and live. It's nothing not even us Bronze dragons have seen before... and we've seen a lot.”

“Incredible,” Sabellian said dryly. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Well, the animals that are there are the same ones that were there however many years ago,” Chromie explained. “It's the same thing with the plants. They don't get sick or weaken.” She stared at Sabellian expectantly. “If my guess is correct, any mortal – or dragon – who would go on the island would have the same effects. Their sicknesses would freeze... and so would everything else, really.”

Sabellian understood, but he snorted. “This island is still a part of Azeroth. The Old Gods would still find me there.”

Chromie hesitated. She glanced at Kalecgos in a way that suggested she had run that by him beforehand before she shrugged. “It is on Azeroth, but – well, I'm not totally sure if they could make you any worse on the island. Like I said, biology just... freezes, more or less. Kalec here helped identify some sort of life-energy that might be the key to that strange puzzle.”

“It could help,” Kalecgos interjected earnestly. “The Old Gods, like Chromie said, may not be able to make you worse there... and the Eye said that the corruption was based in the flesh, not the mind, so it is some type of physical sickness first and foremost.”

“This seems to hinge too much on conjecture for my tastes,” Sabellian said.

“Still, what have you got to lose?” Chromie gave him a quick smile. “I could take you there myself.”

Sabellian paused. He looked between both dragons and frowned. “And where is this island?”

“Off the coast of the Jade Forest,” Chromie answered. “It's not too long a flight.”

Sabellian wondered if he was strong enough to fly at all. He looked, idly, at Misha, who was finishing the last of the deer bones. “It would be a temporary fix,” Sabellian rumbled. “If the island were to stop my corruption, it would do nothing for me once I left.”

Kalecgos shifted his weight. Perhaps he'd thought the same thing. “Yes, it's a temporary fix, I agree – if it works at all. But you will get no better in this temple.”

“I think I know that, fool,” snapped Sabellian. He took a deep breath and snorted smoke. “Fine. I will try it. I tire of this room, and a change of scenery would be welcome.”

“Good! We can leave whenever you'd like,” Chromie said. “I'm due to return by the end of the day, though, so... between now and then.”

“I will have to get my daughter,” Sabellian said. And his robe and pauldrons. The monks would have to give him his articles if he was leaving for good, now. Thankfully. “Then we can leave.” He snorted again. “A temporary fix is better than no fix at all.”

“Why can't you just fly back to the Dark Portal? With how big I remember you being, that wouldn't be too long of a trip.”

Sabellian prickled, a small itch growing at the back of his head, but he took a deep breath and forced it down. “As I explained to Kalecgos, I am too weak to make the trip, and too far in my corruption. I am sure I would succumb once I arrived at the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Chromie blinked. “Hm. That makes sense. But there's always the portals.”

“What?”

Chromie looked at Kalecgos, then looked at Sabellian again. She gave the two a strange look. “The portals at the Vale of Eternal Blossoms.”

Kalecgos widened his eyes. “Oh, I'm a fool.”

Sabellian hissed under his breath. “Are you going to fill me in?”

Kalecgos looked at him apologetically. “At the Vale, the Alliance and Horde use two of the shrines there for their bases in Pandaria – other than the military bases at Krasarang, of course. At least in the Shrine of Seven Stars – the Alliance's shrine – I know that there's a room of arcane energy they use to make portals. I've been there before to watch the process when I was visiting – ah, well, I've seen the process. They have a schedule, you see. Mages create portals to different cities, all over Azeroth, so that the Alliance heroes can use them.” He paused. “They have one to Stormwind, which is closest to the Dark Portal, but they even have one to Shattrath.”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “And you failed to bring this up before, how?”

“Honestly, it never even occurred to me,” Kalecgos mumbled. “I never use the portals, and only saw them once.”

“They make them twice a day,” Chromie said. “Sometimes the schedules change, but I can find out the ones coming up for you.”

“How do you know all this, Chromie?” Asked Kalecgos.

“Well, we had to figure out some easy way for the Timewalkers to get back to the Caverns for report,” Chromie said. “The portals sure are convenient.”

Sabellian said nothing. A portal straight to Shattrath, and right in the Vale! He wished someone had brought that up far earlier. Perhaps he did not have to die anymore. He smoothed down his beard with his forefinger and thumb and glared off at nothing in particular. While home may have been a small flight's-trip away, he still had to take care of Wrathion. As he had told Kalecgos, he was not about to limp home like a kicked dog with a maimed child and a dead one without having completed his task. As long as Wrathion was alive, his family was in danger.

A plan began to form in his head – one that looked much more promising than his earlier one, where it ended in his death. “Then I will go to the island,” Sabellian said. Chromie frowned at him – surely she expected him to want to go to the portals first, but he was not going to tell her about Wrathion – and nodded. “And there I will wait until I know the schedules of these portals.”

“I'm sure I can find out quicker than that,” Chromie said, “but if you want to go to the island first, then I'll take you there.”

“Safety measures should be taken,” Sabellian rumbled, glad she had decided not to ask questions. “I do not want to lose myself while I wait for your dawdling.”

Chromie nodded. “Whenever you're ready.”

“Give me two hours. Then we shall go.”

---

Three hours later, Nasandria stood outside the temple, accompanied by Sabellian, Chromie, Kalecgos, and three monks to send them off.

At least, send Chromie, Nasandria, and Sabellian off. Kalecgos would be staying at the Temple of the White Tiger for a couple more days, and had come out to see the others leave.

Nasandria hugged her arm around herself. It was snowing lightly. She missed the dry heat of Blade's Edge... something she might be seeing sooner than she'd hoped, with what her father had told her since the Bronze dragon had arrived at the temple.

She eyed Chromie. The unassuming gnome was chatting with Kalecgos. Sabellian seemed to trust the dragon, for whatever reason – or at least, trust as much as he was able. Nasandria had a suspicion that he only did because this island seemed like their only route as of now.

That, and the portals. Nasandria couldn't believe Kalecgos had forgotten they'd existed. A portal to Shattrath, which wasn't too terribly far away from Blade's Edge, right in the Vale... Nasandria hugged herself tighter. The quicker they went home, the better.

She watched her father. Sabellian now wore his regular outfit again. The plate-snakes shimmered coldly in the snow, and their lit flames glittered. The robe had been patched and cleaned with expert hands, but it had been the searching of the outfit that had delayed their leaving by another hour. Apparently the monks had lost track of it, resulting in Sabellian losing his temper... but not enough to cause any damage.

At least they'd found it. Sabellian looked all the more better for wearing it. The frail, broken human Nasandria had watched in that closed-off room, with all of his bandages, bruises, and sunken features, was masked below the familiar clothes. It was comforting to see her father's intimidating stance and flare again, though Nasandria tried to ignore how he stood very still and how his shoulders sagged. She knew that if he moved, his limp would be heavier than even that little blond prince's.

“Nasandria?”

She jumped and looked over. While she was watching Sabellian, Kalecgos had somehow sneaked up to her without her realizing. “What?”

“I'd just like to wish you good luck,” the Blue said. Snowflakes were in his hair. “I don't know if we'll see each other again.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.” She looked back out over the Temple grounds. “What do you know about the island, anyway?”

“Honestly,” Kalecgos began, “not very much. But I trust Chromie. I'm sure you'll all have a better chance there.”

“My father will, at least,” Nasandria corrected with a flat voice. “I'm not the one going crazy.”

“Yes... I suppose you're right.”

They fell silent, and watched the grounds sprawled out below, bustling with monks. Out of the corner of her eye, Nasandria saw that one of them was trying to speak with Sabellian. She also noted that the open pagoda across the bridge was nearly completed, though the one far to the left that Kalecgos had crashed into was still a framework, but a heavy one.

“I was wondered what you wanted me to do with this,” Kalecgos finally said, and he swung off the satchel hanging from his shoulder that Nasandria hadn't noticed he'd been carrying. “I want to give your bag back, of course, and the little automaton, but...”

The bag was rounded and full. Nasandria didn't have to ask what was inside. She glanced over at Sabellian, still talking to the monk. Shouldn't he decide? He'd probably make the best choice. He always took care of things...

Then again, a small part of her thought, she'd been the one to get it, to struggle over the sea with it, and suffer from it. For once, Nasandria realized she found herself confident enough to make a decision without her father's guidance or criticism.

“Keep it,” she decided. “Do whatever you want with it. I don't think we need that thing anymore.”

Kalecgos nodded. Gingerly, he reached into the bag and scooped out the Eye. It glittered in the cold.

Kalecgos handed her the bag and Nasandria slung it over her shoulder. She hesitated. “Thanks for trying, at least,” she said.

“I only wish I could have actually done something worthwhile,” admitted Kalecgos with a small shrug. He tucked the Eye of the Watchers in the crook of one of his shoulders. “I'll keep it safe, should any of you ever need it for... any sort of reason.”

“I doubt -” Nasandria paused. Xuen had come out of the main Temple behind them and sat at the entrance. Sabellian, too, glanced at the Tiger, but then abruptly looked away. He eyed the Temple grounds, then looked at Nasandria.

“It's time to go, girl,” he called, and Nasandria glanced back at Kalecgos.

“Well. Thanks,” she said, and then hurried off to join Sabellian.

Another came up to Sabellian, but this one was decidedly less quick in stride. Misha lumbered up and sat down next to the elder dragon, her thick coat bristled with snow. Nasandria eyed her. As she had been avoiding Sabellian for the past couple of days, it was only an hour ago that she learned of the bear's odd appearance.

Chromie smiled good-naturedly as Nasandria joined them. “So. Is everyone ready to go? We'll head out directly east. The flight isn't a terrible one, but we might meet some more buoyant winds over the sea.”

“I believe we can all fly,” Sabellian said dryly.

Chromie glanced at him, then backed up. Smoke enveloped along her small form and elongated, and with a gentle crackle of magic she transformed into her true form. Her bronze scales glittered. Where Nasandria had four horns, two stretching from each side of her head, Chromie had six – or perhaps more, as there was a fine, silky hair sprouting from behind the horns and around her cheeks and hid everything underneath them. She was a bit larger than Xuen.

Nasandria shifted. She grunted in relief as she stood in her natural form. The mortal disguise had its practicalities, but being cooped up in it for too long was suffocating. She snorted and stretched out.

Sabellian, however, had not shifted yet. He'd scrunched his brows up and glared at the mountains. Nasandria sat and watched him. He shot her a glare, and she looked away.

“Whenever you're ready,” said Chromie, and Sabellian grit his teeth. When he finally did begin to shift, the smoke came slowly, starting up from his feet. His chest heaved. If he was trying to show he was not in pain, he was failing at it.

It was a moment after the cloud of dark, ashen smoke evaporated and Sabellian, too, stood in his true form. His head hung low, at first, but he was quick to pull it up, though Nasandria saw his eyes scrunch up with the effort. She glanced at his patched up wounds. The two deep harpoon wounds had left the onyx scales where they'd buried into bent and broken, and in some areas the dark skin beneath flashed a deep pink of scar tissue. Where Chromie's hide shone, Sabellian's hide was scuffed, dull, and nearly sickly in appearance. Nasandria wondered just how “easy” this flight would be.

“Go,” grumbled Sabellian to Chromie, and the Bronze raised her sandy wings.

“Goodbye, Kalecgos,” Chromie called, and Kalecgos bowed his head. She glanced at Xuen and bowed her own, and the Tiger nodded at her, though his icy eyes quickly found Sabellian's. The two stared at one another until the proud fins along Sabellian's neck fell nearly flat, and he looked away again.

“Remember my blessing, son of Deathwing,” Xuen said, “and the advice I have given.” And then, much to her surprise, the great Tiger looked at her and smiled. “And you, Nasandria – continue to persevere as greatly as you have. You are stronger than you realize.”

Too startled to say anything, Nasandria only bobbed her head in an awkward bow.

“Let's be off,” Chromie said, and raised her wings higher. She leaped into the sky and circled, and Nasandria followed. She heard Misha rumble beneath them, and turned to see the bear trying to weigh down Sabellian's paw with her entire weight – though the elder dragon snorted in annoyance and pushed her off to the side before he, too, joined them in the sky.

---

Throat scabbed and temper flared, Wrathion pushed past the two Black Market bodyguards standing at one of the entrances and stomped into the Auction House itself.

“Goya, if you really thought I would simply allow this to pass, you do not know me at all.”

Madam Goya stood perched on top of the counter at the back of the room, which ran from one side of the building to the other. The Black Market leader didn't look up, but Mister Chu did. Wrathion noted that the blood trail he'd left behind when Sabellian had attacked was gone.

He also noted the Dragonmaw. They were hard to miss. Standing in front of Goya was a tall female orc clad in sturdy black plate armor, and she was flanked by two other muscled orcs who openly stared at him. Wrathion ignored their predatory looks in favor of glaring at the two pandaren.

Goya was too busy writing on a hard-backed scroll to notice his glowers.

“How is your rogue faring?” Goya asked as she wrote.

“She'll live,” snapped Wrathion. And with no thanks to you. The archer who had shot the orc had apparently aimed not to kill, but to stun. The arrow had missed vital organs, but despite Left's insistence that she was fine, the sweat beading her brow suggested otherwise, and Wrathion had left her to recover.

Which had only been a moment ago. Only now had he been “allowed” to leave the Tavern. Thinking about it made him bristle. After they had been ambushed, the Black Market guards – and the handful of turncoat rogues – had forcibly escorted him back to the Tavern, but only after he had asked his Agents to stand down. There, he'd been kept under guard. Under guard, in his own pseudo-home! As if being ambushed wasn't terrible enough, they had to shoot his best guard and place him under apparent house-arrest which was only insult to injury.

“I am happy to hear she is alright,” Goya said off-handedly. “Now, I'm afraid I'm in the middle of a transaction. Would you mind coming back later?”

“Yes, I would,” Wrathion hissed. Ignoring the staring Dragonmaw, he swept up closer to the counter. Two of his agents followed behind him. “Where are they?”

“Where are who?”

Wrathion grit his teeth. “The dragons I was about to take care of!”

“It was a joke, dear.” Goya had not yet looked up from the paper. “But worry not. Our friends the Dragonmaw will take care of them for you now.” Goya finally looked up and gestured with her pen to the paper. “At least when compensation is paid in full.”

“I am not about to allow them to harness black dragons,” Wrathion protested, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn't intimidating in comparison to the looming orcs to his left. “They would be better off if they were dead. Azeroth would only benefit from that outcome.”

“Watch your tongue, whelp,” growled one of the Dragonmaw. “The Dragonmaw won't tolerate death threats from the likes of you.”

Wrathion rolled his eyes, then shot the orc a scathing look. “I didn't mean the Dragonmaw. I meant the dragons. I don't care about you.”

It didn't look like the orc was assuaged by the words. Wrathion didn't have the energy to care. He looked back at Goya, who watched the exchange with a surprisingly dull look.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Black Prince,” the Black Market leader said. “You agreed to help me locate the black dragons, and here we are with the first.”

“You ambushed me!”

Goya smiled. “Let us be honest with one another, Black Prince. Do you think I was fool enough to believe you would comply so easily?”

“No.” Wrathion glared. “I believe that is why you blackmailed me, Madam Goya – and yet you go a further step than that and break any sort of agreement we had.”

Goya returned her attention back to the scroll. She wrote something at the bottom with a flourish of her quill. “I merely took it a step further, but our... agreement still stands.” She motioned to Mister Chu in a wave of her hand, and the bodyguard nodded before he walked off of the counter and into the back room. “Come, Prince Wrathion. Let us talk privately.” Before he had time to reply, she handed the scroll to the lead Dragonmaw. “Look over the terms, Warlord Zaela. We shall be in the back awaiting your approval and gold.”

Wrathion looked at the leader more sharply. The Warlord Zaela? The orc saw him looking at her, for she glared over at him. Wrathion huffed under his breath.

“Well, come, come,” Goya insisted. She waved her hand in a small motion and, without waiting for Wrathion, went into the back room.

Wrathion hesitated. Goya had let him go at the Aerie. He wasn't a target like the others. Frowning, he followed Goya into the back room, the footsteps of his following Agents clanking on the wood paneling behind him.

Wrathion was prepared for darkness in the backroom. Instead, lanterns hanging from the roof lit the entire room in a warm and suspiciously inviting glow. Where there had been emptiness before, every valuable bit plucked and plundered, now was wealth. Vases as tall as he was and far more colorful stood stacked in one corner of the room; large chests, engraved in gold and silver decorations, were shoved into what seemed like every available space. Two steel cages that nearly reached the roof in height sat in one end of the room. Even from where he was standing, Wrathion could smell the meat left in them. He wrinkled his nose.

Goya was sitting in the center of her goods, on a small crate. Perched and delicate-looking as she looked, the choice of seating amused Wrathion. He went over, and tried to ignore the last time he had been in here – though a ghost feeling wisped over his skin as his body remembered the cold. At least, he thought, as if secretly to his own body, it had not yet remembered the reason he'd ended up here.

Wrathion looked around. “Where is -?”

“Now is not the time for those types of questions,” Goya said. She motioned to another crate. “Sit.”

Wrathion sat across from her on a similar crate. “Well, Goya? What could you possibly wish to talk about?”

“I would advise you to remember the Madam in my name, Black Prince,” Goya said. Wrathion thought she looked smaller without her looming bodyguard behind her – though hadn't Mister Chu come into the back before she had? “I am polite enough to call you your own name; I would hope a prince has the kindness to do the same for mine.”

“Very well,” Wrathion grumbled. “But I doubt you had politeness in mind with me an hour ago.”

“That is another matter.” Goya folded her hands in front of her and watched Wrathion with a calm expression that Wrathion thought deceiving. “Sometimes business comes before manners.”

Wrathion bristled. He struggled to take even a short, deep breath to calm his temper. “That seems to be the recurring theme, here,” he snapped. “And especially with you. As I said, you broke our agreement -”

“Did I?” Goya interrupted. “I'm afraid I have broken nothing. Indeed you lead the dragons to the Veiled Stair, and here they are with me, as I liked. What part of the agreement has been broken, Prince Wrathion?”

“You took the dragons by force!”

“Yes. As I said, prince, I am not a fool. You led them here to kill them – such a waste – and I intervened to uphold our agreement. Wouldn't you say it is you who broke it? I know how difficult it would be for you if those rumors spread, especially with many of your champions already angry with you – oh, do not look so surprised, I know these things – and I realize you wanted to bypass such things and get your way.” She shrugged, a gentle slope of her shoulders.

“I am not about to let my family be loosed on Azeroth because of my fear of rumors and superstition,” Wrathion snapped.

“Yes. And so you tried to break our little agreement. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it?”

“No!” Wrathion grit his teeth and tried not to snort smoke. “You shot my best rogue and made some of my own Agents double-cross me!”

“Rogues are an interesting group,” Goya said, unfazed at Wrathion's growing irritation. “Did you realize the three to betray you were some of those you sent to help me retrieve my stolen goods?” She waved her hand around, indicating the items returned. “Some may be loyal, but others can be bought with twice the price you pay them.”

Wrathion stared. Growing understanding welled up in him, and he ground his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. Through clenched teeth, he said: “You did not need my rogues at all. You simply wanted the excuse to buy them so you could – spy on me.” He knew that something was odd with her asking for their help, when she had so many of her own lackeys to help her!

Goya smiled. “You are, perhaps, a little paranoid,” she said. “Your rogues did help me, of course, but I agree... it was an excellent way to get familiar with them, was it not?”

Wrathion glared. “A mistake, Madam Goya. I won't forget that.”

“No, I suppose you won't.” Goya waved her hand dismissively. “But that is all water under the bridge for now. I assume you wish to prattle on about the dragons?”

Wrathion huffed. “I'm not going to prattle. I am going to warn. The Dragonmaw can have all the proto-drakes they'd like, but -”

“That's all well and good, Prince Wrathion, but I have a better idea for a conversation than you're ranting. I am about to be very generous, Black Prince,” Madam Goya said. “I shall be as frank as I have continued to be – I know you'll still be difficult in the acquisition of these rarities, and I do know more are out there. I do not want you getting in the way of it all, and I worry you are too intelligent to be ambushed a second time and blackmail may not be enough. And I respect you, Black Prince. I do not want us to be enemies, truly. So I propose a new agreement, for both of our sanities.”

Wrathion wondered if she'd used the last word on purpose. “And what would this new agreement be?” Prepared to strike whatever deal Goya offered down, Wrathion sat up straighter in his seat. How could she possibly think he would be even vaguely cooperative after what she'd done?

“The Dragonmaw are desperate to have black dragons, as you and I both know. Much of their hoarded wealth will soon be mine. If I am honest with you, Black Prince, I find it so silly they are fixated on buying such a specific and rare color, but when one's reputation is on the line -” She shrugged. “But I do not care. Money is money – money I may be willing to share with you.”

Wrathion paused in his simmering. He frowned. Out of all the things Goya might have said, that he hadn't counted on. “I hardly need -”

“I wasn't done talking,” Goya interrupted. “Out of the wealth the Dragonmaw will give me, I will give you five percent. Don't look quite so offended, dear. I pay even less of a finder's fee to my usual workers.”

“I don't want your money,” Wrathion replied, voice edging on curtness, each word ended with a small snap. “What I want are those dragons dead.”

Goya sighed. “So many times, things cycle back to upholding reputation. It's such a loss.” She shot him a critical look. “I am sure you could continue being the 'Black Prince' even if you are not the last, hm?”

Wrathion felt a headache coming on. Ignoring the dull throb in his temple, he said: “It isn't about reputation than it is about doing what needs to be done. The task I started two years ago must be completed for the well-being of Azeroth.”

Goya smiled. “You truly tout yourself as a stalwart defender, Prince Wrathion,” she said with a tone Wrathion wasn't sure was sarcastic or not. “I am sure it is a weight on your shoulders? I have heard about the Burning Legion. It is such a shame we do not have an Emperor or two to blow themselves into mists again to save us. I imagine your job would be much simpler then. But what was I saying? Oh, yes. The dragons.” Goya paused thoughtfully. “Let us approach this from a different angle. The dragons will die soon anyway in this upcoming siege I hear so much about. Don't you agree?”

“No,” Wrathion said. “There are no guarantees. Even the worst grunt can return home thanks to sheer luck; dragons will be harder to bring down than a mortal, luck or no.”

“You're right,” Goya replied, so quickly she had probably expected Wrathion's answer. “But what if they were killed after, or even before?”

Wrathion squinted at the pandaren. “And what are you implying?”

Goya leaned forward in her seat. “I do not like the Dragonmaw, Prince Wrathion,” she said. “They are some of my greatest buyers – it is so easy to barter with them when they don't know how to barter, and their fixation on rare goods gives me much wealth – but that hardly means I must enjoy their company or their plans. They are reckless, stupid. Whatever they do with the health and longevity of my purchases is of no concern to me, but how they use them is... unfavorable to my opinions. If you were to cut off their wings, I would be most pleased.”

Wrathion raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I am sure you've heard of what the Horde have been doing to the Vale?” She asked, sitting up straighter in her seat. “I am always a neutral party, as you can imagine. Business goes better if you can sell to more sides than one.” Goya smoothed back her graying bangs from her face. “But I do not like what the Horde is doing to the Vale,” she said, and her eyes shone differently, and they sparked with a deep-seated anger. “War is stupid but profitable, of course, but to destroy the Vale is something even I shall not tolerate.”

“I would think you would be interested in what they found,” Wrathion said. “For 'business.'”

Goya hummed. “Vaguely.” She eyed Wrathion and paused again, longer than before. She smiled curtly. “But I know much of the wealth of the Vale already. When I was young, I was part of the Golden Lotus. Not many people know that.” She shrugged. “So I have little curiosity in what they're finding; I only want them to stop – or suffer for the intrusion.”

“So! The mysterious Madam Goya does have a small moral compass.”

Goya smiled slightly. “Have you ever seen an individual without one? Even you, I suspect, have the same. But I am getting off track.” She linked her small fingers together and set her hands in her lap. “As I said, I care little for what they do with my purchases, as long as their gold has been given to me. What happens to them later is irrelevant. If the dragons were to die, I would not care... though I suspect you would. So, Black Prince. Here is my offer. You shall find the remaining dragons for me, I shall sell them to the Dragonmaw, and then you'll be allowed to kill them as you please. This will, of course, make the Horde suffer for the Vale and satisfy me well enough. And you shall get the five percent profit, of course.”

“Kill them as I please?” Repeated Wrathion. “I'm sure that's easy for you to say, Madam Goya, but I would rather destroy them before the Dragonmaw get them. It's much simpler that way. I don't have to get past mortals trained in killing dragons, and gain another enemy for it.”

“I am sure you could do it easily if you knew where the Dragonmaw were,” said Goya. “I have delivered... previous purchases to them before. I know their base of operations. I do remember that you use rogues for your assassinations? Would it not be easy for them to slip in and out?”

Wrathion hesitated. “I suppose that could be doable,” he conceded unhappily. “But I can still do this all on my own, Madam Goya, without entrusting everything to you.”

“Oh, my information against your sanity would still stand,” she said. “And your rogues were eager to share more information. I hear Sik'vess was bad for your health. How well have you been sleeping?”

Wrathion grit his teeth. The rogues who had betrayed them, he thought, would pay dearly. “You could have brought this agreement up before you forcibly ambushed me. Why would I ever be in a position, now, to go into a deal with someone I cannot trust?”

“Well, your choices are rather limited, now, aren't they?” Goya pointed out. “My ambush of the dragons gave me the upper hand on you, I'm afraid. I already have one of the black dragons in my possession, and some other oddities, to sell, and have offers to give. What offers or threats can you give me in your position now?”

I could burn your Auction House to the ground, he thought sourly. But as he sat staring at her, Wrathion realized Goya was painfully right. By making the first move and capturing Samia and the nether-drakes, she did have the upper hand on him... and of course, there was the fact she'd swayed a handful of his Agents to get even more information.

He cursed his foolishness. He'd been so focused on getting back the loyalty of his champions and trying to get better health-wise he'd brushed Goya's threats off to the side, when the entire time she'd been steadily getting her claws into him.

Wrathion hated being outsmarted.

“So. What is your answer?” Asked Goya. “Do you accept my agreement?”

“If I agree,” Wrathion began slowly, “and if you were to tell me the actual base of operations of the Dragonmaw... if I go in there and destroy the dragons, they will know something has run afoul. They aren't idiots. They would suspect it was me.”

“Perhaps,” Goya said. “But you're clever, Black Prince. I am sure you could think of something to cover yourself up, hm? Why, I could even give you pointers.”

Wrathion huffed. He hardly needed pointers from an old pandaren.

“Be wise, Prince Wrathion. With the money you inherit from this deal, imagine what you could buy. The loyalest of Agents and excellent weapons for your champions. Perhaps you might even buy a better place of operations rather than Tong's old tavern.” She smiled, as if enjoying some private joke. “And you will be killing the dragons, too. There is no downside, here. But if you deny my agreement... I'm afraid it will end badly.”

Of course it would. Wrathion flexed one of his hands and a slow curl of smoke escaped the corner of his lips.

“Allow me time to think it over,” Wrathion growled as he stood. Goya looked up at him, the lantern-light of the backroom reflecting in her eyes.

“Very well,” she replied, and rose as well. “I shall give you until the end of the day, for the Dragonmaw shall leave at the same time.” Goya stared at him and smiled. “Good luck in your decision, Black Prince. I will eagerly await your answer.”

---

Rexxar thought over his options.

Perched one of the highest trees, the one of the few remaining along the slope that wasn't a burned husk, he watched the Auction House. The activity of the past hour had since died down, though more guards were posted along the entrances – nearly double the amount.

He continued to grumble about his lack of foresight. After he had eavesdropped on the Dragonmaw, he had managed to find Samia by Leokk. The wyvern had come trotting up at his low whistle and had been the one to lead them to the dragons himself; he must have seen them being brought in, for the wyvern had been hunting along the slopes.

Getting past the rogues stationed around the Aerie was difficult, but nothing that Rexxar had not been able to handle. Half-running, half-flying past their stations – and only knocking out two rogues – they'd arrived at the edge of the basin. It was there he'd seen Samia and the nether-drakes, and had gotten his first look at the Black Prince, who was otherwise an unassuming thing.

But getting past the rogues without being detected had consumed too much time – and when Rexxar had begun to grab his axes to help, the Black Market had ambushed and the dragons had been captured, all too quickly. While Rexxar knew he was a great warrior, he lacked the hubris to dive into a situation where he was outnumbered and get him and Leokk killed.

Frustrated, he and Leokk had followed the procession as they'd half-led, half-dragged the dragons to the Black Market Auction House. None of the pandaren guards spoke. The nether-drakes looked to be drugged and Samia remained unconscious, as she was the known largest threat.

Had there been two or three less guards, Rexxar would chance it. But there was simply too many, and the guards took the dragons into the Auction House through the secret doors. When the dragons had grown close, the Dragonmaw's lingering proto-drakes had screamed and snorted, and had only silenced when the orcs had threatened them with a raised whip.

The most curious thing about the situation was that it'd become clear Wrathion was not in league with Madam Goya, as Rexxar had thought before. From his position, Rexxar had watched from farther north as the other guards had herded Wrathion and his remaining rogues into the Tavern.

At least it took the Prince out of this puzzle, for now. But Rexxar had no way of dealing with the Dragonmaw by himself. The same risks were poised about getting the dragons out of the Auction House as they were trying to stop them from getting in: he was outnumbered, easily five to one. But it had to be dealt with.

What was worse that, while Vaxian was only a bit to the north in the mountains, making him the best target for necessary back-up, the Prince had sent his assassin to kill him. This entire situation with the Dragonmaw had uprooted any plan to go warn the black dragon.

And so there he sat, thinking it over. Had Misha been here with Leokk, they might stand a chance. The bear was a terrible force of nature, even in the face of multiple enemies.

But she was not here. And Rexxar rumbled to himself.

Ten minutes later, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He glanced down to watch the Black Prince storming up to the Auction House with two of his Agents and push his way through. The slope went quiet again, and Wrathion did not come out for some time.

It was during this wait that Rexxar heard a bird's cry above – and realized he recognized it. He glanced up and saw a white hawk circling, and though Rexxar was well-hidden in the foliage, Spirit stared right at him.

The half-ogre raised his arm, and the hawk dived down to land on it. Tied to both of his scaled feet were two notes: one crumpled and white and the other a mustard yellow and crisp.

“Hello, my friend,” Rexxar grumbled as he took off the yellow one and read it as Spirit preened one of his wings. Spirit chortled quietly in response. The bird was never one for vocalization.

The yellow note was, coincidentally enough, from Samia. It detailed what she'd found in the Valley of the Four Winds. Old news. Rexxar grabbed the other note.

Hello, to whichever one of you is reading this!

My group and I didn't find anything down south – only bugs the size of my face, cannonballs, and humidity. We saw an Alliance fort but steered clear. I don't think Dad would be hanging around there.

Anyway, we're heading back up to the Jade Forest. Maybe we'll find Vaxian again. North seems more hopeful than south, anyway!

And Samia, maybe you shouldn't take away the other messages? Because I dunno what Rexxar said in his, now. Unless the bird doesn't like having so much stuff tied to him. He seemed a bit persnickety when he landed near us.

Pyria

Rexxar reread the letter. If Pyria had begun to go back up north, she must be the closest dragon to the Stair – minus Vaxian. The half-ogre looked out to his right, where the mountains crept upward.

He faced a choice. Go find Vaxian and help him and his group from the assassin the Prince had sent, and risk leaving behind the Dragonmaw with Samia and the drakes, who might leave far before he even got to Vaxian at all.

The second choice was to send a message to Pyria, urging her to the Veiled Stair, and then send Spirit off to Vaxian after. With her group, he would have enough to get into the Auction House.

Rexxar rumbled, and reached into the small bag at his waist. He withdrew a nubby piece of charcoal and a piece of jerky, which he tossed to Spirit. The bird gnawed on the morsel while Rexxar wrote on the back of Pyria's note. He explained what had happened, and to come as quickly as possible.

He tied it to Spirit's talon and stroked the bird. “Return when you give them their message,” he said, “and I will send you to Vaxian. Go.”

The bird raised his wings and dove, shrieking once before he disappeared into the mists.

---

Sra'vess rumbled with activity.

In every part of the healthy kypari tree, mantid crawled. Laborers collected amber, blademasters trained the masses, and the amber-shapers, deep below, coiled the gathered mineral into various and deadly weapons.

In the lowest recesses, set aside for the most revered, a chamber yawned beneath the roots of the tree. In the center hovered a sonar crystal twice the size of a mantid, and it hummed.

Kil'ruk sat on one of the outstretching roots as he polished his amber polearm. Across the room, Rik'kal paced and Xaril tinkered with a small crystal object in his secondary set of hands. Korven the Prime, who had just arrived from the Seat of the Empress, stood at the entrance like a guard. There wasn't any need for one; no one would dare disturb the Paragons in their chamber.

“I tire of waiting,” complained Rik'kal. “We should strike now, before the pandaren do!”

“No. We agreed to wait for the Old One,” Korven said in his deep voice.

“He still needs His strength,” Xaril said to Rik'kal. “You imbecile.”

Rik'kal hissed and whirled on the Poisoned Mind. “Had your potions actually worked, He would have already fed from two hosts! We would not need to stall so and wait for the lesser races to finish our duty.”

“My potion did work,” Xaril snapped.

“Had it, the little one would have already been drawn as a Host,” Rik'kal, with no lack of smugness, pointed out.

Xaril bristled. “It is not my fault he – partially resisted. And it is not my fault the big one got away!”

“And do you think that was my fault?”

Kil'ruk raised his head. The two scientists had been at each other's throats since the mayhem of Sik'vess, and he tired of the chatter. “Enough. The fault in allowing the large one to go is allowed to no one.” For it had been him to stop the other mantid soldiers from attacking the dragon when it had climbed up from the ground. He had seen the hatred and anger, and realized that there was no need for Xaril's potion and sonar-tuning – at least with that one. The Old One already had a grip on the dragon's mind. Though Kil'ruk had heard nothing from their God about the dragons again, he could feel the slowly-growing strength of His voice. He was feeding on his prize. It was only a shame that the other beast had resisted as he had, though Xaril insisted that the little one could still hear the sonar, wherever he might be, and could be weakened by it until all of his guard was down. Only then would the Old One have another soul to feast on and another soldier in His army, as he had wanted from the dragons before.

Kil'ruk was not so sure about that happening. It had been too long, and the little one hadn't come to them again. He doubted he would – but the loss of one host wasn't too great of a blow. The Old One had said He would be getting another – and had generously shared his identity with the Paragons, so that they might seek him out once he had been dug out of His prison to give aid.

“We have no need to rush into the Usurper's sanctuary,” Kil'ruk continued as he slid his polearm behind his back, and latched it in place. “The lesser beings are doing the worst of the work for us. Should we show our faces before the Old One was risen, the pandaren would rush in too soon, and may see the truth of what the new host is digging. We have been over this, Rik'kal. Quiet.”

Rik'kal chittered to himself. Xaril looked pleased.

“I worry for this new host,” said Korven. “It is a fleshy thing.”

“Worry, then,” Kil'ruk snapped. “But we must trust the Old One. Let him feed off of an 'orc' or a 'dragon' and let him grow strong again. Let him use this 'Warchief ' as his new body. We shall wait. It will not be long, anymore.”

#wrathion #sabellian #rexxar #chromie #madam goya #kil'ruk #*wos

[baron-sablemane]

Preparations

“You don't know how to dance?”

Onyxia paused in clasping her ruby necklace to stare at him through the mirror. Her eyes, undisguised, shown yellow in the clear crystal. Sabellian shrugged.

“No. Why?”

His sister scowled and, clicking the necklace in place, rose from her seat at the vanity. The two siblings were in a large room nestled deep in the Lordaeron castle, furnished with the blues and silvers of the mortal city. The curtains were drawn to hide the darkening dusk sky, and incense burned to mask the scent of mortal.

“Mortals must know how to dance,” Onyxia said, staring at him as if he'd just declared he was going to jump out of the window. “And especially at a gala, where dancing is the main activity, Sabellian.”

The mere mention of the gala had Sabellian frowning. It was still some hours off, but he dreaded it. A place packed with chattering, dim-witted mortals, stinking of their gross scent, was a place he was used to burning down with them all inside – not eagerly going into to converse and mingle with the little creatures as he was about to be forced to do.

“I had planned to stand off to the side,” Sabellian rumbled. Why had he ever agreed to this?

“Here,” Onyxia offered, stretching out her hand, “I can teach you.”

Sabellian eyed the hand. Onyxia rolled her eyes.

“I'm not going to gouge you with my nails, Sabellian. Just take it.”

“I thought a spell to my eyes, not a gouging,” Sabellian replied. “I am unsure which is worse, now.”

His sister made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “If you wish to disguise yourself flawlessly among the mortals, you need to know how to dance. What foolish Noble wouldn't know how to dance?”

“It all seems very superfluous to me,” Sabellian countered. Onyxia had not dropped her outstretched hand. “Dancing. What is the point of twirling about so stupidly?”

“Socializing,” Onyxia answered immediately. She curled her fingers back and forth in a beckoning motion. Sabellian only stared at her. “Mortals love to socialize, and dancing allows them to do so. I thought you were smart enough to know that.”

Sabellian bristled, but did not rise to the argument Onyxia was baiting, as she so loved to do. “I know they love to chatter and mingle. I didn't say I didn't know. I only think it superfluous, the dancing. I thought you weren't deaf,” he added, throwing her last insult back at her in his own words. Onyxia frowned at him.

“It doesn't matter what you think,” Onyxia said. “You have to think like a mortal if you want to act like a mortal, and a mortal thinks that he likes to dance.”

“I am sure not all mortals like dancing.”

“But most know how to, in the first place,” Onyxia countered. “Which is why I am going to be so generous as to teach you. I don't want people questioning me about how the other Prestor can't dance. Less questions means less attention.”

“I thought you favored attention, sister.”

Onyxia gave him a sharp look. “Not the sort of attention that draws questions we don't need, even something as small as a brother not knowing how to dance. Now stop being so ridiculous and take my hand.”

Sabellian grit his teeth but finally took the other dragon's hand. “Very well,” he grumbled, as Onyxia tightened her grip. “Father will not be there, I trust?”

“No,” Onyxia said as she took Sabellian's other hand and put it on her waist. Sabellian frowned in distaste, which his sister ignored. “Daval Prestor is attending to some small allies in Alterac. King Terenas is displeased with his small departure, but be sure to remember that little story.”

The allies in question were a group of black dragons in the mountains of Alterac their Father had stationed a year earlier. Perhaps Deathwing was checking on their progress of terrorizing the area. Sabellian didn't know about it. His station was more to the south, past Lordaeron and more towards Ironforge and the ruins of Stormwind.

“This is your first foray into mortal disguise?” Onyxia asked as she began to, slowly, move, taking the lead of their snail-pace dance. Sabellian was forced to follow in the side-step. He frowned at her.

“No. I am standing in a mortal disguise right now.”

“For all of your vague intelligence, sometimes you are really rather thick,” Onyxia said. She moved them to the other side in a bit of a quicker pace to her small steps, and Sabellian tried not to step on her feet. “I meant disguising yourself as a Noble amongst the mortals.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I see.” Onyxia went silent, and they moved back and forth in their small stepping dance. Sabellian felt like an idiot. How did mortals think this play amusing? “Well, it's really too bad Nefarian couldn't be here instead of you. He has done this once, at least. That's much more experience than you have.”

For once, Sabellian agreed that Nefarian taking his place would be for the best. “Yes.” Onyxia's favor of Nefarian wasn't a secret. “What is he doing?”

“Oh, I don't know. Something foolish, I'm sure,” Onyxia grumbled. “And what is your name going to be?”

The change of subject caught Sabellian off guard, and he hesitated. The small lull in his movements was nothing to Onyxia, who merely yanked him along in the dance. Soon he caught his wits and followed her again. “What is wrong with Baron Prestor?”

Onyxia made a face. “That's a title, and then a last name. It does not even flow well. What is your first name?”

“How many names do mortals have?”

“Oh, usually three or four,” Onyxia replied. “Sometimes more. For example, I am Lady Ilania Prestor.”

“I thought it 'Katrana?'”

“I am Katrana now,” Onyxia said, and suddenly she changed. Her light skin darkened and her black hair became a lighter shade, almost purple in coloration. “This is Ilania.”

Sabellian had always been secretly impressed with his sister's abilities in disguise and sorcery, but he'd never say it to her face. “Why even take different forms?”

“Oh, I do favor the name Katrana, but unfortunately mortals age,” Onyxia said. “And I don't want to age Katrana so quickly. Mortals will find it odd that a Noble doesn't seem to grey, and they grey so very rapidly – and so Iliana will be the first to come and go. You have the advantage of not having to plan different identities; I doubt you'll be mingling again after this.” She changed the subject. “But you must choose a good first name.”

“I will think of one,” Sabellian lied, grumbling. Baron Prestor sounded fine to him, and he didn't count on talking to many mortals at this gala, anyway, who might ask him his first name. First name. How stupid.

“And Kesia cannot join us?”

“No,” Sabellian replied. “She's dealing with the humans at Redridge.” Lucky her, he thought sourly. They had been tasked with eliminating the human settlements leading up to the pass to the Searing Gorge when Onyxia had sent word she needed another Prestor at the Lordaeron gala. Kesia had told him to “dance pretty.” Right.

“Oh, that is too bad. I had hoped she would have had time to come,” Onyxia said. Where Onyxia disliked him, she enjoyed Kesia's presence, and Kesia her's. Why, Sabellian didn't know.

“She wouldn't have liked it.”

“I don't understand what is so terrible about it,” Onyxia countered. She smiled a little bit maliciously, then turned them in a circle. “It's fun for me, curling the mortals around my fingers. Sometimes it's a little too easy... but other times it's worth it. It is much more amusing than burning them alive. The latter ends the fun so quickly, whereas the manipulation draws it out.”

“It's fun for you because you are good at it, Onyxia.”

Onyxia smiled again. “I am,” she agreed. “But the fun is the art of it. Father says I am better at manipulation than he ever was.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow at that. Father was hardly ever one to compliment, but then again, Onyxia was his golden daughter – and the compliment wasn't unwarranted.

“Now, let's see.” Onyxia turned them in another circle. She hummed thoughtfully. “You know most of the Nobles there, already. King Terenas will be there, and young Princess Calia and Prince Arthas. I believe the Greymanes will be joining us tonight, as well. I'd ignore King Greymane. He's a sour man like you, and the conversation wouldn't go over well.” Before Sabellian had time to reply, Onyxia continued. “Oh, and the little King Varian of Stormwind will be there as well.”

“I thought the prince was dead.”

“No, and he's a King, now. It might have been easier if he was dead, however,” Onyxia said with a thoughtful frown. “But – a boy on the throne does make for an easier target, if Stormwind is ever rebuilt.”

Sabellian said nothing. The talk about kings and other royalty bored him. Onyxia might find it all very fascinating but he found it very droll. He was a lieutenant of armies, not some dragon playing mortal.

“Are we done dancing?”

Onyxia sighed roughly. “Fine. You're terrible, but at least you have some idea of pace.” She abruptly let go and then crossed back to the vanity to sit again in front of it. Sabellian rolled his eyes, which reflected back in the mirror, letting Onyxia see. She growled at him, plucked up a small tube of purple powedery substance, and began to smear it above her eyelids.

“You can roll your eyes as you please, but at least I will look beautiful at the gala,” Onyxia said as she finished smearing the dark purple over one eyelid then began to paint the other. The deep shade made her eyes brighter. “Oh, how the mortals are so eager to be swayed by beauty, of all things. A simple idea for simple minds.” She shot him a look through the mirror. “Now, go get ready. And don't come out wearing that loathsome snake outfit. The Nobles will surely talk about you, then, dancing or not!”

#sabellian #onyxia #*other

[baron-sablemane]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 28)

The Veiled Stair welcomes unwanted visitors as Samia arrives by gryphon and Sabellian learns the fate of the Eye of the Watchers.

Something brushed up against his face. Coarse and coldly wet, it nudged at his cheek before withdrawing. Sabellian scrunched his eyes and waved his hand, swatting away whatever it was.

It came again, with a bit more force to the nudge. Sabellian grit his teeth and rubbed at his face to get off the wet before waving his hand a bit more insistently. He grumbled, incoherent, and tried to go back to sleep as he put his hand back down.

Then a third nudge came and went. Sabellian could feel whoever it was hovering right by his face, now. With a hiss, he squinted his eyes open and glared -

Right into the huge, brown furred face hovering in front of him.

Sabellian snarled and jerked back; his head smacked against the headrest, and he threw a clumsy punch. His fist smashed into the face. The thing grunted and pulled away.

It was only after he pulled himself upright, raising his hand to hit it again, when he calmed enough to realize it wasn't some sort of monstrous thing at all. It was just a big, brown bear who was sitting on its haunches at the side of his bed and glaring at him. The beast made no move to attack.

Sabellian squinted and lowered his hand. He looked the bear over. What – how had a bear gotten into his room? He glanced up, but did not see Nasandria nor any of the monks standing guard near his open doorway, and, frowning, he looked back at the beast. It continued to stare at him. It looked very familiar, he realized. Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

“Misha?”

The bear rumbled.

“What are you doing here?!” Sabellian looked around the room, pulling himself up, but they were the only ones in the room. No sign of a hulking half-orc hunter. He turned to Misha suspiciously, and, out of habit, disguised his eyes from the orange to an almond brown; he'd done it around Rexxar, and Misha was practically an extension of the orc.

Which raised the question as to why she was here and he was not. Sabellian slouched his shoulders and stared at the bear. Misha grunted. Apparently satisfied he'd woken, she pulled away from the bed and loped to the opposite side of the room. She paused at the small stone table the pandaren had pulled in for a place for Nasandria to sit. The bear grunted, then raised her paw and set the massive thing flat on the table. Sabellian stared, bewildered, until he realized she was trying to get the large stone jug of water set in the center of the table. Just when Misha began to push her weight onto her paw, making the table – and the jug of water – lean over precariously, Sabellian gave a quick, sharp snarl.

“Stop, you damned – Misha!” Sabellian was not about to have the bear topple over the table, breaking it, the large jug of water, and his dwindling sense of peace. The bear hesitated. Sabellian got to his feet, wincing only a little as he put weight on his injured side, and, limping heavily, went over to the bear. She eyed him expectantly. Only when Sabellian sat heavily in one of the chairs did he snatch the jug and set it down for the beast, who immediately stuck her snout in the large opening and lapped up the cool water noisily.

Sabellian stared at her. The bear was too busy drinking to pay him any mind. At least her distraction gave him time to think about why she was here in the first place.

Rexxar and Misha were nigh-inseparable. At least usually. Wherever the beast was, the hunter was almost a step behind; the opposite held true, too.

“Why are you here?” Sabellian asked, feeling foolish. He was talking to a bear.

But Misha glanced up at him, her jowls streaming water. She grunted, then jerked her head towards him.

“What?”

The bear got to her feet, edged closer, then did the same motion – though this time, she touched her nose to Sabellian's hand before she plopped back down to the ground in an audible puff of fur.

Ugh. Sabellian frowned at the wetness of her nose, wiped off the clinging nose slime off on the chair cushion and, satisfied it was off, eyed the beast, who eyed him right back.

“You came for me, then,” he drawled. “A long journey for a simple visit.”

Misha rumbled. She put the jug of water in both paws and tried to empty it, but only drops of water dripped onto her muzzle. She snorted and let go of it, and the jug clanged to the stone floor, frigid beneath Sabellian's bare feet.

Growing impatient, Sabellian tried again. “Do you have any reason to come to me?”

Misha glanced up at him while she licked the excess water off of her paw, but she made no move to extrapolate through action as she had before.

How did Rexxar manage to communicate with the bear so easily? Whenever Sabellian had seen Rexxar with this beasts – which meant almost constantly – Rexxar always seemed to know what they were thinking. For a brief moment Sabellian wished he had the same talent, before he realized it was better, quieter, to not be able to understand common beasts. He already thought the mortals as stupid in their senseless chattering.

But this was going to be annoying. And it was going to itch at him. Misha didn't look like she was going to leave. What did Rexxar want with him?

“Am I interrupting something?” Came a new voice from the hallway. Sabellian glanced over and drew himself up.

It was only Kalecgos. The blue was staring at Misha rather than him. He looked... better. A little. Rather than plum-purple and black, the bruises on the side of his face were yellow and deep red. If he had healed anywhere else from when Sabellian had hurt him, he had no idea where. The dragon wore concealing clothing.

“We were just having a talk,” Sabellian said, blankly. “What do you want?”

Kalecgos glanced at him. Misha rumbled and spread out her great paws, but the other dragon ignored her in favor of entering the room.

“I only wanted to tell you what I -” He paused. “May I ask why there is a bear here, first?”

“You and I have the same question.” Sabellian sighed roughly. “She's an – acquaintance. Ignore her and she'll ignore you.”

Kalecgos glanced between them. He nodded slowly. “Alright.” Suddenly his eyes grew nervous. Too preoccupied with the mystery of Misha, Sabellian forgot why Kalecgos even had a reason to come here at all. He drew himself up.

“I assume with that expression of yours, you don't have good news for me,” Sabellian said. Kalecgos set his lips in a thin line, paused for a good handful of seconds, and nodded curtly.

“I'm afraid not,” said the blue. “I have tried everything I could with the Eye – like you asked. But there's nothing it can do for you or your family.”

Sabellian curled a set of fingers into a loose fist before forcing himself to relax. He leaned back against the chair. “Sit down.”

Kalecgos paused. The only other chair was the one opposite of Sabellian, behind Misha. Despite the bear's proximity, the blue walked over and, stepping gingerly over the bear, who watched him with a low rumble in her throat, sat down. Misha stopped her grumbles and set her head on the floor.

“Why?” Sabellian snapped, and Kalecogs linked his fingers together. He sat stiffly in the chair.

“Any attempt to rewire it would end in failure,” Kalecgos began, using a slow, deliberate tone. “I did manage to extract some information, but... not the kind you wanted. It told me why I couldn't rework the system to work in your favor.”

Sabellian stared at him. He was aware of the glare slowly manifesting on his face, and his silence was enough to prompt Kalecgos to continue.

“What the Eye does – it is the only thing it can possibly do. It explained that the nature of Old God corruption is bound to the flesh.” Kalecgos eyed him warily. “It's why the Eye rips off flesh and strings it back together again. What it must have done with Wrathion was to pool the corruption into the exteriors and then... cauterized those off. Then it stitched the purified pieces together.” Kalecgos frowned. “And what it probably began to do with Nasandria,” he added.

“I know that,” Sabellian growled, feeling an itch grow at the back of his neck. “Is that not why I asked you to change that outcome?”

Kalecgos shifted in his chair. “Yes,” he said, “but that is just the problem. The Eye cannot take your corruption in any other sense, so I can't change the outcome. Either way, it would literally rip off your muscles, Sabellian. It would rip you apart.” Sabellian didn't remember Kalecgos ever using his name besides then. “It's like – hm.” The blue paused thoughtfully; his eyes grew unfocused. “Like a kind of tar, I suppose. You can get it off, but it's going to take some of whatever it's stuck to with it.” Kalecgos looked at him again, with a clearer gaze. “In short, the process would kill you.” He frowned. “Any process would, if the information is correct.”

“So it's a useless hunk of bronze.”

“For you... I suppose so.”

Sabellian plucked one of the cups on the table. “How unsurprising,” he said, his voice feigning a calmness that masked the sudden and fierce anger that had sprung in his body. He released it through his hand, and the thick rock cup shattered underneath his grip. With a scowl he tossed the chunks off to the side where they burst against the wall and separated into smaller bits. “Utterly unsurprising,” he repeated in a slight growl, and then he leaned back in the chair until his legs stretched out in front of him, and rubbed his eyes.

Kalecgos had gone very still. When Sabellian dropped his hand and glanced at the blue, the other dragon frowned at him.

“Nothing clever to say?” Sabellian said, uncaring for the growl in his voice. Kalecgos opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Sabellian spoke again. He could do without Kalecgos's naturally friendly voice right now. “The Titans always seem to fail when their creations need them most, don't they?” He said as he plucked a piece of the broken cup that had flung back onto the table and ran his pointer finger over the jagged edge, pressing hard. Sabellian hardly felt the pain through his rumbling, subdued anger. “They can create ugly, scaled bat-beasts into dragons and yet they seem to fail their creations in all other respects.”

Kalecgos stared at him. Sabellian pinched the piece of rock between his forefinger and thumb and crushed it into two smaller pieces.

“I suppose you're right,” Kalecgos said slowly. Sabellian glanced up at him with a dark look. The blue ran a hand through his long hair and sighed, and suddenly he did not look so chipper anymore. “I enjoy studying their technology, but – they are not the greatest beings, I suppose.”

Not the greatest beings? What a muted way to insult. Sabellian would have snorted had his mood not been foul.

“But still,” Kalecgos continued, unintentionally cutting Sabellian off, “their technology is incredible. I don't think they meant for the Eye not to work for you. It just serves a different purpose.”

“It certainly worked for the Black Prince, though, didn't it?” Sabellian growled, hating the title. The Black Prince. A name that was testament to the whelp's self-importance. A beat of hatred pulsed in the back of his head, and Sabellian took a deep breath in a shoddy attempt to calm himself. “You would think the fools would have returned to Azeroth to deal with the Old Gods again,” he said suddenly, redirecting his anger.

“They nearly did.”

Sabellian frowned in surprise.

Kalecgos nodded. “At Ulduar. There was a – Watcher of sorts sent there to see the stability of the planet. As you can imagine, such... stability wasn't very forthcoming.” He smiled, strained in the gesture. “He nearly had the planet wiped out of life because of the Old God corruption he found.”

“And why didn't he?”

“I – what?”

“You're not deaf.”

Kalecgos raised an eyebrow. “Some heroes ended up swaying him into a different frame of mind,” he said. “They're the reason we're sitting here alive and speaking.”

“You, at least,” Sabellian corrected in an annoyed snap. “I live in Outland. I would have lived. A shame,” he grumbled, “I would have enjoyed coming back to an Azeroth for only my family and I.”

Kalecgos stared at him. It was clear the blue was unsure if he was serious or not. Sabellian decided not to enlighten him.

“... Well, the Old Gods would have most likely still been here,” Kalecgos said. “You may not have been as free as you might think.”

Sabellian gave a noncommittal grunt and then smoothed down one side of his goatee. “And so ultimately the Titans are useless, one way or another,” he concluded. “As I said. It is odd they are given so much credit.”

“They did create most life on Azeroth.”

“Life that they cannot even help without shearing them apart or killing them, apparently,” he snapped. “So what is the point of creating something if you can do nothing for its longevity?” Here, Sabellian ran a hand over his face, took a breath, then dropped his hand to the chair of the arm. It was beginning to sink in to him that, with the news that Kalecgos had brought, he, nor his children, might never be free. He was surprised he was less surprised about the news than he was.

But he was not surprised that the corruption bound itself to flesh. Part of him had known that already; after all, as the days passed, a weight had begun to settle in him like a growing muscle. He recalled on Draenor, too, when he had begun to have withdrawal from the Old Gods; he'd vomited black gunk for days. It was not a pleasant memory.

And the brain was really only another organ. Doomed to corruption, to malfunction, like the rest of the body.

“I suppose even the Titans can't do everything,” Kalecgos said quietly. Sabellian said nothing.

Silence stretched between them. The only sound was Misha's gentle snoring beneath Sabellian's feet. He wondered how far the spirit bear had traveled, and how hard, for her to fall asleep so quickly.

“I knew the blasted thing would not work,” Sabellian grumbled after a while.

“You sent your daughter halfway across the planet for it,” Kalecgos responded immediately. Sabellian glared at him. “If you knew it wasn't going to work, why send her?”

It wasn't often anyone tried to directly counter Sabellian. Samia was one of the usual contenders; Wrathion had been – was – the other. Sabellian took a deep breath and was suddenly glad that the Tiger had given him the blessing. He was sure that without it, he would have abruptly lost it, leaned across the table, and tried to rip the blue's throat out as he had tried out in the snow.

“So I did,” Sabellian said. It was difficult to force the growl from his voice, though he could not help the strain in it. He shifted in his seat so he could lean back more comfortably and to also stall in replying. “Let me rephrase,” he continued. “I should have known it was not going to work.”

“Why?”

“Have you been even halfway listening to our entire conversation, you idiot?” Sabellian asked with a sneer. “The Titans are useless when it comes to helping things without wreaking havoc. I should have seen that this Eye would have been no different. I should have known that. There has never been anything to cure us and I doubt there ever will be. It is only foolish, optimistic thinking.” He paused. He felt the anger sliding out of him, like an engine running out of steam. Again he ran his hand over his face in the new silence. “And such forms of thinking are not fit for a doomed race, are they? It only causes disappointment,” he added bitterly. Even as he spoke, he felt the faraway ideas of one day returning to Azeroth fall through his fingers. By the Titans – how stupid he had been to daydream such things.

“I am sure it sounded like an excellent way to help your family,” Kalecgos said. Sabellian huffed.

“Indeed.” Sabellian paused. “I did not believe it when they told me Wrathion was free of the Old Gods,” he said, thinking back to the nether-drakes reporting to him when he was still in Blade's Edge. How long ago that seemed. “I went to kill the brat, but I was curious if he was truly uncorrupted,” he admitted. “I wanted to see if it was true, you see. I baited Wrathion into fighting me, and I tormented him around that stupid Tavern to test him. I could have easily snapped his neck or crushed him into pieces within a minute of meeting him.”

He sighed roughly. He was not usually one for bouts of self-loathing, but speaking aloud his misgivings made the feeling stir. Had he killed Wrathion there at the Veiled Stair, Talsian would not have died, Nasandria would not have been maimed, Wrathion would not have sent more Agents to the mountains, and he himself would not have fallen into a steady decline of corruption. He would be back home with his growing hatchlings and drakes, if only vaguely content with his doomed life, outcast on the spiked slopes of Blade's Edge.

“And once I realized it was true,” Sabellian continued, his voice a bit more gruff, “I grew intent on finding out how he did it, and so I kept him alive. And thus the Eye. The useless, stupid Eye.” He ground his teeth. “Yes – I think a part of me knew it would not work,” he admitted. “That only strengthened when Nasandria told me what had happened to her, and what she had found. But the blasted thing was our last option. What else could I do but blindly put my hope into it?”

Kalecgos tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Sabellian had no idea why he was telling the stupid blue all of this. He should shut up and tell Kalecgos to mind his own business, though Kalecgos seemed to think that apparently impossible to do with his well-intentioned meddling. Perhaps it was the blue's quiet listening that was drawing Sabellian to speak and admit these things; perhaps it was the sudden blow of the Eye's true nature and failure to ever help his family that made the words spill from his mouth.

Either way, Sabellian continued to speak, and he found himself suddenly uncaring if Kalecgos knew or not. “I'm unsure how long Outland has before it breaks apart,” Sabellian rumbled. “But it is only a matter of time until it does. Such a thing will send my remaining family spiraling into the Twisting Nether.” Outland was hardly a planet so much as it was a strung-together assortment of floating earth. It could never hold itself together forever. “And we could never return to Azeroth if we were not free from the Old Gods. I would not subject my children to hearing them; some have not ever been subject to such whispers.”

“Ah,” said Kalecgos, lamely.

“So you see my options are limited,” Sabellian grumbled. “We either die in the second breaking of Draenor or I kill ourselves before we go mad on Azeroth.”

Kalecgos started. “You don't mean to kill your children...?”

“If were on Azeroth to avoid dying on Outland?” Sabellian asked. “Yes. I would kill them before they went mad. Certainly it might be hours, days, months before they succumbed, and at least they would see, however briefly, the world they're so curious about with clear eyes before they died.”

“That's horrible.” Kalecgos did nothing to hide the shock in his voice, nor the disturbed look on his face. Sabellian moved his shoulders in a vacant shrug.

“I have done it before,” Sabellian said as he remembered the senseless babbling of Talsian in the Kun-lai cave before Sabellian had broken his neck. “I would do it three-hundred times over if it meant sparing my children from madness. Even then, I doubt I will have to do such a thing. Staying in Blade's Edge until the second breaking of Draenor seems like a less emotional ending.”

Kalecgos went silent. When he spoke again, he used slow, deliberate words. “That seems to be a harsh ultimatum,” he said.

A flare of anger lit in Sabellian's chest, ignited by Kalecgos's continued ignorance. “Hardly,” he snapped. “It is better to die than to become a monster.”

“Even still -”

“You have little idea what it's like,” Sabellian interrupted. “For nearly my entire life, I was subject to madness. Do not think just because I live in Outland I have forgotten what it felt like to be a beast.” He eyed Kalecgos sharply, then scowled. “Do you know how long I have lived in Outland?”

“I haven't a clue.”

“Twenty-seven years.”

“Oh.” Kalecgos blinked, a bit of comprehension dawning on his face.

“Oh,” Sabellian mocked. He locked his jaw, the muscles there growing so tight they began to ache before he spoke again. “More than nine thousand years of my life I was subject to the Old Gods, and only twenty-seven years have I been free of them. Yes. I remember vividly what madness is like. And no. I will not subject my children to the same, as long as I draw breath.” He glared at Kalecgos. “So I will not sit here and be questioned for the choices I make for my children, and not by the likes of you, you pathetic wretch.”

Kalecgos glared at him. For a brief moment it looked as if the blue was going to leave, and Sabellian was glad that that seemed to be the case; but after a moment, the former Aspect of Magic drew in a deep breath and his stiff shoulders relaxed.

“I am sorry,” he said, though his voice, too, was now strained. “It's simply a – hard circumstance to understand.”

“Obviously.”

Kalecgos pursed his lips, but continued. “I was controlled, once,” he said in a quieter voice, and Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

Kalecgos shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Yes, but never by the Old Gods. By a dreadord by the name of Sathrovarr the Corruptor, at the Sunwell.” A strange emotion passed over his face. It disappeared soon after. “I was freed, eventually, but it was a terrible experience, not being able to control myself while someone else pulled the strings.”

Sabellian had never heard of this story. He believed the machinations of the reborn Sunwell had occurred when he had still been dealing with the Gronn, and so he hadn't quite cared about it.

“I see,” he said. Well. Perhaps Kalecgos had a little bit of understanding, he admitted, but hardly enough, even still. “You were aware that what you were doing was wrong, then? And you cared that you were?”

“Well, yes. Of course.”

Sabellian huffed quietly. “There is our difference in corruption, then. When you are under the Old God influence, you don't quite understand why you're doing what you're doing. Perhaps you did not like doing horrible things under this dreadlord, and you understood you were being controlled, but I did not understand as much when the Old Ones controlled me.” He had hardly ever spoken about this to anyone; Sabellian was unsure if it made him feel any better or not. Not really.

“The Black Dragonflight always loved to pride themselves on their intelligence,” he continued, voice laced with undisguised derision. “Like my brother and sister. Nefarian thought himself his own master, the ruler of Blackrock, and Onyxia though herself as a queen. It is ironic, then, that their whole lives were guided by a puppet-master, isn't it? And yet, we thought we had free will – or perhaps we thought that was what free will was.” Sabellian rubbed at his eyes before he continued. “The voices were with us our entire lives. We thought them as normal. They were apart of us – a second consciousness. A guide. We never quite thought of ourselves being controlled.”

“You cannot ever comprehend the level of silence in Blade's Edge when my kin and I could no longer hear them. Nor can you ever comprehend the horror when you realize your entire identity and outlook on life was something made up by monsters.” Sabellian glanced at Kalecgos. When he had been speaking, his eyes had grown unfocused, and now he refocused on the silent but attentive blue. “You're going to do me a favor.”

“I -”

“When I succumb to the Old Gods – not if, but when, I am not an idiot enough to believe a talking tiger's blessing will stave them off forever – I will not suddenly begin foaming at the mouth,” Sabellian drawled. “It will be abrupt and forceful, and I will have little knowledge of it happening because I will have conformed immediately to it. I will think I am normal, when really I am not.” He sighed roughly, suddenly very tired. “Our corruption is too deep. It is different for random mortals affected. They babble and scream. No - I will not do that. I will act as if nothing has happened; it will be as if another dragon has reawakened in my body. Similar, but with an edge to him that you will feel – slightly, at first, but you will know something is off. And once I begin acting like that, you are going to kill me quickly before I kill you and everyone around me.”

Kalecgos frowned. “There's still time for you to escape to Outland,” he argued.

“I have a week or two, at best,” Sabellian said. “With my injuries, I would make it to the Dark Portal in a week and a half. Shall I gamble and try the trip, further weakening myself and thus opening up to a quicker corruption, then be free to wreak havoc on the Eastern Kingdoms? Or should I stay here where I might be watched and killed when the right moment comes?” He grit his teeth. “I had thought the Eye might buy me more time, but apparently not.”

Sabellian remembered what Xuen had said, too, but such advice was difficult to follow through with.

Kalecgos hesitated. Sabellian could see the wheels turning in the blue's eyes as other dragon desperately tried to think of some other way. But Sabellian knew he would not think of one. He had stayed awake at night shifting through his options; there was as little for him as there was for his family. It seemed the universe wanted the Black Dragonflight to exhaust itself into extinction, in one way or another.

“What about Wrathion?”

“That will be taken care of,” Sabellian replied immediately. “The boy thinks I am dead. If I lured him out to me, then I will hardly have to leave this place. Once I have crushed his skull, I will either attempt to fly back to Outland – which will prove to be no doubt impossible - or I will wait to die.”

Kalecgos sighed, an aggravated sound.

“That seems very stubborn,” the blue said. “You should give up the hunt for the Black Prince so you can go back to your family. It might save you a couple of days -”

“I would like nothing more to return to my family,” Sabellian snapped. “But I would like to know that the little monster who forced me here, who has killed my children, is dead before I go back. I would like to know my hatchlings and drakes are safe when I return. Otherwise this would have all been for naught. If I must die because of stalling in my foolish attempts to fully purify ourselves, fine. But I will kill Wrathion first to protect my family in the last way that I can.”

“So you are giving up.”

Sabellian snarled. It woke Misha, who looked at Kalecgos with a growl of her own. The blue looked wholly unaffected, and stared at Sabellian with a subtle look of defiance.

“Giving up?” Sabellian spat. “I would never do anything of the sort!”

“But... you are,” Kalecgos argued. “You're not even trying to think of any other way.”

Sabellian had to force himself not to launch himself at Kalecgos. He gripped onto the arms of the chair so hard he dug ridges in the stone. “There is no other way!” He growled. “Are you truly deaf, or simply as moronic as I had initially thought? Have you not listened at all to me? Every option ends in my eventual corruption!”

Kalecgos sighed. Apparently growing tired of arguing, he dropped the line of conversation and shifted it to their earlier one.“I will... follow through with your favor, if it arises, but I still don't understand how I will know you've gone mad. You say you will act... normal?”

Sabellian only slightly relaxed. “Yes. Have you ever met a black dragon besides me?”

“Of course.”

“I do not mean my Father. His madness was some other creature altogether.”

“Yes, I have met other black dragons besides Deathwing.”

“Then you have felt their strangeness?”

Kalecgos paused to consider that. Finally, he frowned, then gave a curt nod. “I... suppose I know what you mean. Like a broken sort of gaze. It was unnerving.”

Sabellian nodded. “There you are, then. I assure you, you will be able to tell.”

“At least allow me a few days to think of some other option,” Kalecgos hurried. “There must be some way this can end without you succumbing.”

Sabellian stared at him. “Why do you care?” He asked. This time, unlike with the Eye, he had not tried to bully Kalecgos into trying to help him. The blue looked like he simply... wanted to give aid. Did Kalecgos want something from him?

Kalecgos blinked. Then he frowned again, and paused. “I – well, I simply wish to help,” he said slowly, linking his hands together. “I, uhm, know what it's like to have little options left. I don't know,” he said suddenly, deflating. “I simply wish to help. As I told Nasandria -”

“You've been speaking to my daughter?”

“Ah – briefly,” Kalecgos hurried, sensing the sudden growl of protectiveness. “Anyway, I had told her I think it's quite fascinating to see black dragons as they truly were before Neltharion lost himself. I only wish to help you survive so you can keep on this new – ah, old, I suppose - legacy.”

“As some sort of social experiment, then, if I have heard correctly?”

“That is not -!”

Deciding to humor the blue, he said: “Fine. You can help, then. Or try to. I cannot catch Wrathion's attention when I can hardly get out my bed, yet.” He growled. “When I can walk without much pain, then I will lure him close. That is all the time you have to find some magical fix. Now get out.”

And soon Kalecgos was gone, brimming with annoyance, and Sabellian was alone with Misha. The bear looked up at him with gold eyes as Sabellian rose to slump back into the bed, ignoring her presence, a reminder of home.

---

They arrived at their destination quickly than Samia thought possible.

That, or she'd grossly underestimated how close the Black Prince was. When the gryphons had calmed enough to take flight, they did not continue west, as Samia thought they would, but instead the Blacktalons had turned their mounts to the east, backtracking on all of Samia's travel progress; what took roughly two days to travel on foot took only hours to sweep past by air. She would have been bitter at that, had they not been going directly to Wrathion.

- Something that she was already a bit bitter about, but nothing could be done. Fight and transform into her true form, and she would give them away, and alert everyone to their presence. Samia had played with the idea of jumping off the gryphon and shifting, then, to pluck the mounts and their mortal riders from the sky in a blaze of flame, but then the Prince would be wondering where so many of his rogues had gone, and Samia would be without a lead of where said-Prince was.

So she stayed, her hands gripped to the feathered sides of the jittery brown gryphon, as they swooped over the Valley of the Four Winds. The night air had been damp, promising rain, against her face.

Maybe Samia wouldn't use reckless force, as her lineage might suggest, but she'd use the other part of the Black Dragonflight's renown talents: manipulation.

By the time they had arrived on the edges of the Valley, where a sloped mountain rose in front of them, Samia had decided on a vague plan of action.

They'd begun to scale up the mountain, cloaked by mist so thick Samia could hardly see two feet in front of her, when the Night Elf leading her gryphon shot up in alarm. Samia sucked in a breath, expecting some attack from in front of them – but nothing came. The Night Elf only yanked back on the reins of his gryphon so that they hovered in mid-air. The other gryphons and riders followed suit; the animals' wings swirled the mist with each beat of their wings.

“Is there something wrong?” Samia asked. The Night Elf ignored her. He cocked his head to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. The other rogues, concealed by the fog, watched him; Samia could only vaguely see their faces turned to him, at any rate, like specters in the fog.

Finally, the rogue relaxed in his seat. Whatever had come over him had passed, and he turned to nod at the other gryphon riders around them. As if something unspoken passed between them, the others spread kicked their heels into their mounts and sped off – but in an entirely different direction. Rather than continue right up the mountain, they swerved to the south, as if to come up from the other side. The Night Elf spurred on their own gryphon in a pursuit. Their pace was quicker than before, and the rogue's shoulders had gone stiff with surprised tension.

“Well?” Samia pushed, feeling her heartbeat quicken at her wrists. She had not yet recovered from the sudden halt and expectation of attack, and she did not think the sudden veering off-course boded well, either.

“It is nothing,” the elf called back behind his shoulder. His voice came louder than he probably intended, and he immediately went silent and hunched his shoulders in a clear show of coldness. Samia decided not to ask further. She supposed she would find out soon enough, and the rush of sudden adrenaline in her body had, at least, woken her up from her unconscious dozing on the dull gryphon ride.

They did what Samia had expected, and went around the side of the mountain but did not scale up further. For a moment she thought she saw what looked like rugged stairs below her, but the fog continued to conceal the ground and she thought she had imagined it.

The detour took them another ten minutes of flight. No one spoke. Samia did not even hear bird calls, or feel the wind any longer. It was as if they had entered some dead, grey space, floating and going nowhere. She could faintly smell ash, and burned wood.

They must have rounded to the other side of the mountain. Samia had some inkling of it, anyway; she had not tried to tune in too much to the earth, wary, despite her using of it on Draenor, of her father's warnings of it. But she could feel the girth of the mountain rather than see it, and vaguely knew where they were relative to it.

Now they began to climb in altitude again. The fog began to thin. With the thick mist gone, Samia could see more clearly: they had risen over higher mounds of grass-tipped hills that bordered the more rocky mountain, and had begun to level over a small pond beneath them, shining in a strange pearly glow. Trees with toughened bark and shrub-like tops sprouted out from small cliffs jutting out from the higher levels of the hideaway in the mountains. For that's what it was – a hideaway, a naturally chiseled-out group of land that had some manner of livability, for there were mortal-made structures below them, up farther from the pond. There were not many – only a couple of bridges linking some of the more precarious cliffs and two tiny Pandaren huts nestled near the rock.

Samia wondered if this was where Wrathion lived. If so, she was rather disappointed. With his many dramatics, and the dramatics of his rogues, she had expected something more... grand. At least, something a bit more foreboding than a peaceful, tucked away placed in the mountains.

The rogues guided the gryphons down in a lazy spiral, and landed near the pond. The Blacktalon Agents jumped off, and Samia and the nether-drakes followed suit. They seemed to be the only ones up here. Odd. Samia, too, had expected some unhappy “welcoming” party, but the stillness suggested otherwise. She looked around and crossed her arms.

“So...?”

“I apologize for the change of course,” the Night Elf said, looking quite put-off as he frowned in a vacant sort of confusion. “There has been – complications at the Veiled Stair.”

“Oh. Like?”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you.”

Surprising. Samia smoothed down her stiff bangs and then worried at her lower lip as she looked around more closely. Was this some trap? It did not seem to be, she thought. But these were rogues; the same lot had managed to poison the most powerful nether-dragon alive without hardly touching him. She would be so stupid as to keep her guard down around them.

“This is what they called the Secret Aerie,” the rogue explained.

Samia said nothing. One of the rogues was staring out at a small cave entrance that the pool's water drained in from. She glanced into it and saw, thanks to her excellent night vision, it led into a tunnel. She filed that information away. Perhaps if they could not escape by air, they could escape by foot.

If they had to escape at all. She glanced at the nether-drakes. Their smooth, bright hair was now ruffled by the windy ride. Malfas was tense with a clear, sour worry and Azorka the opposite; Feraku did not look at her and Zoya was surveying the Secret Aerie as Samia had been a moment before.

“So the Prince will meet us here?” Samia asked.

The rogue nodded. “Yes. Give him time. He will be here shortly.”

And so they waited.

---

Wrathion hurriedly looked himself over in the mirror.

His face was drawn. The skin below his cheekbones had sunken in, so it'd looked like he'd aged years over the course of nearly two weeks. He already knew what his hair looked like – dry and brittle at the touch. Wrathion had hurriedly stuffed most of it underneath his turban. Not even his bangs showed.

Gods, he thought. He looked awful. Even his eyes drooped. Such was the price of sleeping for what seemed like an hour a night, day after day after day.

“They're ready for you, my Prince,” Left said from his right. Wrathion said nothing. He tried to stand taller than he already was, but the rigid-backed effect did little to erase any of the exhaustion on his face. Not even trying to shift certain parts of his skull would work; even in dragon form, he looked sickly. There was only so much you could hide in a disguise.

“At the Aerie, then?” Wrathion asked distractedly as he pulled away from the mirror then tugged at his fine leather sash. The Tavern was dark, lit only by a couple of oily lanterns on the wiped-down tables. They lit his Agents' faces in a muted golden glow, as if only the higher edges of their faces had been painted over in yellow while the rest remained in a dark shadow. Skull-like.

“Yes, my Prince,” said Left.

Wrathion glanced to the doorway. It was too dark outside to see anything. He grabbed the dagger on top of his bench, a long-bladed weapon with a curve like a scimitar, and tucked it into his belt.

“Out of all days,” Wrathion complained as he gave himself one last miserable look in the mirror, “and they come today.”

“The Dragonmaw have yet to arrive,” one of his other Agents said, a short human with closely cropped black hair. “We can take care of -”

“I know what we can take care of in time,” Wrathion snapped. Left glanced at him. Wrathion ignored her. He was in no mood to be eyed, and not be Left, who'd been eying him the whole week as his patience had drawn thin with lack of sleep. His mood had certainly been boosted when his champions had come back, but not enough to return to a semblance of normalcy.

And now the Dragonmaw were coming – right when Wrathion was about to have his little family gathering. He'd caught wind of the orcs' arrival thanks to his Watchers stationed in the southeast part of the Valley. They'd seen the riders swoop up from Krasarang – possibly from Domination Point – and had immediately sent word back to Wrathion when they'd seen them heading to the Veiled Stair.

And that had been when the agents he'd sent to get the suspected dragons had contacted him, reporting they had gone into air with the targets.

This had induced another nightmarish situation which Wrathion honestly wanted no part of.

Honestly. What had been the chances? He'd thought he'd assuaged Madam Goya enough, but the viper always seemed a step ahead of him. Wrathion had quickly ordered his agents to take the dragons – somewhere else. Anywhere but the Veiled Stair. They had landed at the Secret Aerie, which was fine enough. A bit too close to the slope than he had in mind, but fine. It was a quiet place, secluded, and Wrathion would deal with the situation with a bit more quickness than he'd initially anticipated.

“You know your orders,” Wrathion said dismissively to the Agents in the room. There were eight of them; half would hide in the shadows as back-up while the others would directly accompany Wrathion. “Go.”

“Uhm – should I go, my prince?”

Wrathion glanced to the side. The agent that had fought the other dragons at Kun-lai, the ones that Wrathion had sent his assassin to kill, was slumped in one of the chairs. The slash on his chest had been patched up, but the human's face was heavily bruised. The idiot had said he'd somehow fallen down the Path of a Hundred Steps after he'd sent the assassin off.

“No. Stay here,” Wrathion said. An agent that looked as bad as the human did wouldn't instil much fear in anyone, let alone another dragon. He looked away and out to the door again.

He knew he was hesitating. Dragonmaw and Madam Goya aside, Wrathion didn't want another meeting with a family member to happen like it had last time on this mountain. His cast arm, which he'd draped a sash over to hide the bandages, twitched in ghost pain, remembering Sabellian's grip.

But it would be different this time. Wrathion wouldn't be taken by surprise.

It might turn out that this woman wasn't a dragon at all. That he'd made a mistake.

But he really doubted that.

Again, Wrathion glanced at the mirror. But it was not the only reason, the vague fear of meeting again his family. He had been so gung-ho when he had first seen the dragon in the blood images – her being here made it so much more easier! - but now that she was here... a pang of sudden doubt had gripped him as his rogue had reported in. He had killed Sabellian because he had hated Sabellian, he realized, suddenly, staring at himself in the mirror, a skeletal version of himself. For no other real reason besides that.

Perhaps he could let his rogues alone deal with the party. He could stay here. Separate. Unattached. Perhaps he could some other solution. It was no longer personal; this dragon had not tortured and tormented him, nor had she killed any friend.

The sudden thought made him scowl and he looked away. What was he, a coward? This dragon – this black dragon – was a lingering taint of a race that should have been wiped out save for him. Killing her – killing them all - would be his duty to Azeroth. And to his own legacy.

“Well? Go!”

The rogues that would flank the outward posts evaporated. Then it was only Wrathion and four others.

He glanced at Left. She watched him.

“Let's get this over with,” he said, shifted into his dragon form, then swept out of the open door and into the cool air, headed towards the eastern Aerie.

---

It had been the shaking of the building, the squatter one down the slope, that had first caught Rexxar's attention. He had been cleaning his axes when he heard a muffled crash, and upon looking up he had seen short building quake. A pandaren had stumbled from one of the building's open side-entrances, clutching a bleeding hand.

And again the building had shaken. Though the front of it was shaped like a roofed hallway, the latter half, jutting from the back, was a housed square with no seeable entrances. Apparently the only way in was through the first part of the building. Rexxar wondered if that was wise – for whatever was inside that room wanted to get out, and the multiple pandaren trying to keep it in, like the one with the bleeding hand, could only escape whatever it was through one entrance.

He watched with a vague interest. The struggles of the pandaren were more entertaining than anything else on the inactive slope, at least, which had quieted when night had fallen. That was odd. It was often the opposite for taverns, though Rexxar was not fool enough to believe that the building father north was anything but a regular tavern.

The building shook a third time. Something screamed from within, muffled through the wall. It was nothing human. Rexxar stood straighter in his crouch. Had Misha been here – or even Spirit – he would have sent them closer to investigate out of small curiosity. Clearly, some animal was inside the back room.

Another pandaren exited down the side of the roofed hallway. She was accompanied by a mountain of a pandaren, easily twice the size she was, who she was speaking to. Wearing a light purple robe, she looked otherwise unassuming save for the self-satisfied smile on her face.

The wind shifted, like a breeze against his skin. Rexxar paused, cocked his head, then looked up – to see a great shadow fall above him.

It passed him by. Rexxar crouched lower behind the small mound as he watched the flier. Easily a quarter the size of the building, the creature landed with a resounding crunch only yards away, and even in the darkness Rexxar saw what it was: a red proto-drake, decorated with aggressive, blocky symbols in black paint.

Its rider dismounted as the beast fell flat on its wings. No – not one rider, but three. Their ashen skin, the color of rough slate, blurred their bodies in the nighttime darkness.

Grey-skinned orcs riding a dragon? Dragonmaw. They could be nothing else. Rexxar had dealt with them briefly, once – and once was enough for his tastes. He had instantly disliked them. Where he used mutual respect and companionship to gain the friendliness of his beasts, the Dragonmaw used beatings and vicious tasks of obedience to bend creatures to their will. It had left a angry twisting in his gut, and he had been glad to leave them.

Another shadow passed ahead, and then a third. Two other proto-drakes landed near the first; one of them was so large it must have been twice the size of its brethren, though only one rider dismounted the red and gold-striped beast.

Rexxar counted six orcs. They saluted the solo rider, a female orc whose hair was shaved save for down the center of her head, where the remaining locks were bound in sparse bundles like a row of spikes down her scalp.

Rexxar edged closer. He was close enough where he could hear them speak. The elderly pandaren had stopped talking to her large companion when the first proto-drake had landed, and she watched the now-approaching party of Dragonmaw. She clasped her furred hands in front of her.

The pandaren opened her mouth, but the leader of the orcs was quicker.

“Where are they?” She asked in a voice like grating rock.

“A warm welcome to you as well, Warlord Zaela,” the pandaren said. She had her mouth set in a firm line but the rest of her face feigned a vacant sort of politeness. “I'm glad you have come so quickly.”

Warlord Zaela? Rexxar believed he'd heard the name before, but he knew little of her.

Warlord Zaela grunted. Behind her, three of the Dragonmaw held the reins of the three beasts. The proto-drakes, which Rexxar knew had a reputation for viciousness, were surprisingly calm.

“Better for the Dragonmaw to have them than any other buyer,” Zaela grumbled, then repeated, more insistently: “Where are they?”

As if in answer the building rumbled, more viciously than it had before. Zaela and the orcs looked up, but the two pandaren didn't flinch, though the floor must have shifted beneath their feet.

“Mister Chu, please have them show the items out,” the elderly pandaren said, and the heavy-set bodyguard – what else could he have been? - bowed his head in a deep respect before he withdrew, disappearing into the side of the building.

“Two, you said,” Zaela commented when Chu disappeared.

“Two. Wonderful specimens. They were difficult to transport, but I am sure you can manage.”

Zaela said nothing. She glanced over to the back-half of the building, where the shaking originated. Rexxar followed her gaze. Oh – odd. It seemed like a secret doorway was opening from the side of the backroom; he had not even noticed the seams in the wood paneling. Excellent craftsmanship, then, for his hunter's eye to not catch them.

The secret door swung open at the middle into two doors. It was a large entrance, coming up to the full height of the side of the building. Rexxar quickly saw why. Three pandaren in their heavily brimmed hats walked backwards out of it, each holding a set of thick rope. They strained and pulled. One's shoulder was bleeding. Something within roared, a bone-shaking sound now that the walls could no longer muffle it – and then emerged a proto-drake, its scales a deep brown-black and the coarse hair at the sides of its plated head an obsidian. It pulled back and yanked in a desperate attempt to free itself as the three heavily-set pandaren led it out of the back-room. Its crawling walk was strained.

Once out of the room the beast attempted to lift its wings, as if in an attempt to fly away, but Rexxar saw that heavy weights had been tied by leather onto the proto-drake's more delicate wing-webbings. No wonder the creature struggled to even walk. It could hardly even lift its wings to lope forward, let alone fly, and it soon gave up and tried to pull away again.

They led that one off to the side. The Dragonmaw proto-drakes watched the newcomer with a dulled sort of interest, though one of them paid little mind as it groomed the barbed tip of one of its wings. The largest proto-drake – the gold-striped one – rumbled.

Another proto-drake was led from the room. This one struggled less than the other one had, even though it was larger. Its maw was tied, but this one had a blindfold wrapped around its blocky head. The two pandaren to lead it set it near the other still-struggling drake.

“Two black proto-drakes, directly from Northrend,” the elderly pandaren announced. “A young but healthy pair.”

Zaela walked forward towards the beasts. Rexxar itched to grab his axes. The clear pain both the drakes were in was evident; a creeping sort of anger curled in his gut.

“They'll do,” Zaela said dismissively, though if she was trying to come off that way fully, she failed at it. Her dark eyes were lit with an aggressive sense of enthusiasm as she looked the black proto-drakes over.

“I have six eggs for sale, as well,” the elderly pandaren said. Zaela glanced back at her, wrinkled her nose, then eyes the wild drakes again. “Sixty thousand a piece.”

“Fine. And for these?”

“A black proto-drake is exceptionally rare. They usually sell for -oh, eight hundred thousand a piece? But for my returning buyers, and for two, I'll settle for five hundred thousand for one.”

“Make if four hundred thousand.”

The pandaren smiled. “I'm afraid I'll go no lower than five hundred. There are too many buyers who would easily buy one for nine hundred... I feel I am already being gracious with my offer.”

Zaela ground her teeth. Though she was not looking at the pandaren, even from where he was, Rexxar could feel her aggravation directed to the elder. Finally, after a long period of silence, the Warlord nodded, then turned to the merchant. “Fine. We'll take them and the eggs.”

“Excellent. Mister Chu, please have the items prepared for transport. Please, my dear, come inside so we might speak of your immediate payment.”

“Do you have any leads on the others?” Asked Zaela. “You said -”

“I know what I said, my dear,” interrupted the merchant. “And your timing is truly remarkable. But let us speak in private.”

Zaela walked back to her group of silent Dragonmaw. “Give me a moment, Goya,” she snapped, and the pandaren – Goya, apparently – nodded, though there was an annoyed flash in her eyes as she retreated into the now-still building.

“Five hundred thousand a piece,” growled one of the Dragonmaw once Goya was out of sight and earshot. “A million gold for two drakes? And not even dragons.” The orc spat. “But proto-drakes. Where are the dragons she promised?”

“They'll make up for the gold,” Zaela said. “A breeding pair will do that and more. With the six eggs we can easily have enough drakes ready for the Warchief when the time comes.”

Another Dragonmaw grunted. “We should be able to catch the drakes ourselves.”

Zaela gave the orc a vicious look. He glanced away, down at his feet. “Do you wish to hunt dragons or serve the Warchief, Lokrak?”

“Serve the Warchief, Warlord.”

“And would you rather complain about the price of gold or have weapons ready for war?”

“Have weapons ready for war, Warlord.”

Zaela snorted. She drew herself up, glanced at their new purchases, now being harnessed with further bindings, then nodded. “Gold is meant to be used. The Warchief will be pleased with his new additions.”

“The idiot Blackfuse paid that and more for his scorpion monstrosity,” one of the orcs added. The other Dragonmaw shifted, as if insulted by the very reminder.

“We will serve the Warchief greater than the goblin and his machines will,” Zaela said. “Tuklar, help the pandaren with our new beasts.”

The orc in question saluted, then went off to the proto-drakes.

“Let's get on with it,” grumbled Zaela. She motioned for half of the orcs to stay with their tamed drakes while she and the rest headed up into the building.

One of the orcs glanced at their new mounts. She snorted.

“At least these animals are dull. The dragon Okrut captured would do well if he wasn't so smart.”

Another orc grunted in agreement while another shook her head.

“You've never ridden a real dragon. It's good to ride a smart animal. You only have to tame them to obey you, first. Then their intelligence is yours.”

The first orc to speak laughed, a harsh and quick sound. “Yes! And that is going so well with him.”

Zaela glanced behind at them. They fell silent, and then the group went into the building.

Rexxar paused. The night again went quiet, save for the grumbles of the tamed proto-drakes and the snarls of the bought ones. The hunter touched the edge of one of his axes, hanging at his side.

Should he follow them? He did not like the Dragonmaw being here. If the Black Prince was somehow in league with this “Goya,” the results could be disastrous. Could it be why he was bringing the western group of dragons to the Stair? Why else? Rexxar supposed Wrathion would simply kill Samia and the others immediately, but if he hoped to make a profit...

No. Rexxar did not like it. Better to see what Goya and Zaela would speak of than to be blind-sided by some unforseen threat in the black dragons' plans.

Rexxar moved forward. Though his skin was pale in comparison to the Dragonmaw, he knew how to move when he didn't want to be seen. He grabbed a hold of his axes to stop them from swinging and causing noise and began around the mound he'd been hiding behind, making a loop behind the Dragonmaw waiting outside and then around to the opposite side of the building.

The tavern to the north was dim. Rexxar ignored it. He inched closer, thankful for the small hill that jut out near the building's other entrance. It gave him a place to hide, and it was closer to the building than he had been before.

Zaela and Goya had already begun to talk. Rexxar could see them fine; a row of small, circular oil lanterns hung across the back wall. Now Rexxar saw the opening into the back room, to the left of where Goya, Zaela, and the Dragonmaw stood.

The large pandaren, Mister Chu, had returned to stand behind Goya. Zaela stood with her arms crossed.

“They are here?” Zaela was asking.

“Yes,” said Goya. “I believe I added that with my message, dear.”

“Then where are they?”

Goya linked her fingers together and placed her hands in front of her. “Unfortunately, I've yet to have them, but worry not for that. They'll be yours soon enough.”

Zaela grit her teeth. “Tell us where, and we'll get them ourselves.”

Goya smiled. “Patience, my dear. I have worked very hard to get you your grand prizes. Black proto-drakes are nothing in comparison to the rarity a black dragon would bring, am I correct?”

Zaela said nothing. The two stared at one another. No doubt, Rexxar thought, that Zaela wanted to get the dragons for herself so she wouldn't have to pay Goya even more gold, but Goya was certainly not about to give the information up.

But this confirmed Rexxar's suspicions: somehow this Goya had learned of the dragons being brought up on the mountain. It had to be Wrathion's doing. Who else would know?

And if they were here already – he cursed himself. Had Samia arrived while he had been distracted by this charade? Goya seemed to hint at that. Rexxar began to draw back – he had to find them – when Goya spoke again, catching his attention.

“The whelp won't give them up,” said Zaela. “Let us force him to.”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about that,” assured Goya. “I have done all the necessary dealings with the Prince. He'll be quick to work with us. And if not – well.” She smiled. It was a warm smile, odd and disorienting on her face when her eyes were dark in their sockets. “I am sure he can come to some agreement.”

“And how do you know they're even here?” Asked Zaela in a more aggressive tone than she'd been using before. “If this is some trick -”

“No. No trick. I'm afraid I am not that conniving.” Goya waved her hand. “Our self-appointed Prince has a spy or two in his ranks. He may give gems, but I can pay double. Rogues are a wily group.” She smiled again, and it was not warm. “I know where the dragons are. We pandaren value patience. Please, dear, let us speak of the first payment in the backroom while I have your prizes delivered. It would be such a waste for you to ambush them when I already am.”

Zaela hesitated. She glanced to the side, and for a moment, the orc seemed to be looking right at Rexxar – but her eyes were unfocused. Finally she ground her teeth, the muscles at her carved jaw clenching, and, without a word, swept into the backroom. The other Dragonmaw followed.

Goya paused. She eyed the entrance to the back room, then glanced back at Mister Chu, stoic behind her.

“Well?”

“Half an hour, Madam Goya.”

“Oh, good, good.” She sighed as she began towards the door. The next time she spoke, Rexxar strained to hear her, as she'd lowered her voice to a dull murmur. “Let us be so lucky to have the dragons devour them before they go back to the Vale, hm?” She cocked her head to one side. “But only after we have been paid in full.”

---

Samia heard the beating of wings far before anyone made their appearance.

True to the Night Elf's word, they had not waited long. Maybe ten minutes, she guessed, as she rubbed her gloved hands together and looked up at the wing beats. Seeing no one, she frowned, though she turned to look around as the many rogues that had escorted them to the Secret Aerie began to fan out into premeditated positions, making a sort of encased square around them.

Ten minutes, at least, had allowed Samia to go over her plan of action. She hurriedly went over it again as she waited for the Black Prince to make his appearance.

She would act calm, allowing Wrathion to get lulled into security, before asking about Sabellian. Outright attacking him would be no good; they were outnumbered three to one, as it was already, and Samia did not know if Wrathion would bring other fighters with him. It was better to manipulate the information out of him.

After that? That would be largely dependent on Wrathion's answer, because Samia was not about to be killed here by a whelp and some hired mortals.

Movement up near the closest bridge to their left caught her eye. Samia stiffened, then drew herself up.

Flanked by two rogues, the boy walking down the bridge to reach their pond was no doubt Wrathion – and he was almost everything Samia expected.

He looked short in comparison to the two women at his sides, an orc and a worgen, and his clothes were fantastically decorated. Samia eyed the gold-embellished purple pants, the coiled turban, the half-tabard of black scales with its red gem at the center. Samia almost had to smile at the open, burning red of the other dragon's eyes. Obviously Wrathion wanted everyone to know what he was.

But as he grew closer, taking clipped steps, Samia saw the sunken features on his young face. She had not counted on him to look so sickly.

Wrathion stopped some feet away. The entire time he'd been walking, his eyes hadn't left hers. Wrathion had not even given the nether-drakes, standing at Samia's sides, a passing glance.

And so this was the child that had tormented her family so: a dramatically dressed, sickly boy. A whelp by the age of two, surrounded by hired bodyguards and brimming with an undisguised self-importance. Maybe Samia had expected something like Wrathion truly was, but – to see him in the flesh was something altogether. Where Wrathion had been a word, spat by her father before he had left and growled by the rest of her brood, he now stood real, looking less demonic as his actions suggested and just a whelp who'd managed to shift into a human form so early in life. Maybe this would be easier than she had initially thought – but then she remembered the physical power of the rogues again, and Samia reminded herself not to go easy, or put her guard down. Wrathion did look unassuming, at least to her, but it'd be stupid to act leisurely. There had to be a reason he had so much apparent power.

Wrathion stared at her for a moment more. Then he smiled, drew himself up, then tilted his head to one side, oddly bird-like.

“I'm truly sorry we had to drag you out all this way,” he said in a silky voice. The undertone of smugness had Samia immediately wanting to throttle him. “I am sure my friends treated you nicely?”

“If you call being intimidated into flying all the way out here nice,” Samia replied, careful to keep her voice flat.

Wrathion hummed as if in agreement, but he never looked away from her, and his eyes didn't lose their intensity.

“It was all very necessary,” the Black Prince said.

Silence. Samia and Wrathion stared at one another. She tried not to put her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Was he going to make a move, or just stare at her like a beast in a zoo that he wanted to shoot inbetween the bars? Wrathion had to have picked up on her scent, which Samia hadn't even bothered to hide. Any doubts to her identity had been erased.

Wrathion broke eye contact. Samia relaxed.

He looked at the “draenei” in surprise, as if seeing them for the first time. Malfas fidgeted. Zoya glanced at Samia, who gave the nether-drake a small shake of her head. Wait.

“You know,” Wrathion said, “ I have seen many draenei, but never quite with some of your... interesting colors.” He looked at Zoya. The veridian thinned her lips. The Black Prince was slender, and looked like he had seen better days, but he was, Samia realized, demandingly intimidating in a way Samia couldn't quite place. It may have been how he held himself, or it may have been in the look in his eyes – the undercurrent of either mischief or maliciousness. It reminded her of Sabellian, in a way.

“Though, it's odd,” Wrathion continued. “A draenei with green splotches?” He said, still staring at Zoya, who had had trouble first shifting into her new form thanks to her bright green coloration versus the blue skinned draenei. “Or a draenei who is as thin-boned as you are,” he added, glancing at Feraku.

And then, Samia understood what Wrathion was doing.

The whelp knew exactly what they all were. He was just playing with them.

Samia grit her teeth. Of course Wrathion was. He thought them trapped and already taken care of, so he could afford to be smug.

“If you're done making fun of my friends,” Samia interrupted, “I'd like to go to this Tavern I've been hearing about. We're all very tired from this impromptu visit, and I'd like some rest.”

Wrathion looked almost taken aback that she had decided to play along. He grinned wryly, almost excitedly. Was this truly a game to him? Samia frowned at the smile. It reminded her a bit of Alacian. That disturbed her.

But Wrathion soon dropped it from his face and adopted a morose expression. “We can't,” he said, and he sounded honestly upset by it. “There are some visitors there that neither you nor I want to see.”

“Either way, this is all very inhospitable for a make-believe Prince.”

Wrathion started as if she had struck him. He stared, a bit wide-eyed, and then glared. His amusement in their “game” was gone.

“Princes do what need to be done – no matter the cost,” he said with more hostility. “Your comforts don't matter.”

“Do they?” Samia felt her calm mask sliding. “I'm sure actual princes think more about the consequences of their actions. Mistreating their guests is something a prince might second-guess.”

“What would happen at the Tavern is the same thing that will happen here,” Wrathion snapped. “It hardly matters! I am just hurrying the process along before something worse happens. It is not quite my fault.”

“Not your fault!” Samia exclaimed. She stared at Wrathion with a mix of utter disbelief and revulsion. “This entire fiasco is your fault!”

Wrathion frowned. “Like I said. I am doing what needs to be done. Any action I take is guided solely by my duty to do so. You can't really blame me.”

Samia almost grabbed her sword. Almost. She flexed her hands instead, and took a deep breath. Wrathion watched her sharply.

The game was over. Samia was already tired of talking through a veiled argument. Both she and Wrathion knew very well their words weren't about the Tavern at all.

“Yes,” she said, calmly, “and I'm sure attempting to kill innocents isn't to blame, either?”

Not attempting, she thought. Ryxia was dead, and four nether-drakes.

Wrathion frowned again. He hesitated, surprising Samia, but when he spoke his voice held no doubt and remained self-assured. “I'm afraid I know the task is grizzly,” he said, “but it simply needs to be done.”

“You really mean it, don't you?” Samia asked as she stared at Wrathion. Her plan fell away. She hadn't expected for Wrathion to infuriate her so quickly with his easy answers. She grit her teeth, glared, and spoke again. “And you really want it, huh? Couldn't do it with a whole band of assassins, so you poison the entire water supply at Blade's Edge?”

Wrathion furrowed his brows. He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a cursory, confused glance over his shoulder at the orc bodyguard before he looked at Samia again.

“Uh – yes,” he said. Wrathion collected himself and the sudden, lost look on his face was gone. “Yes, I do mean it. The Black Dragonflight can only remain with me as its sole member. I can't have my corrupted family members flitting about.”

Samia stared at him. “What?”

Wrathion blinked. It seemed like he thought she ought to know that already. “I'm killing you to assure the safety of Azeroth,” he said. “It's really nothing personal. At least not anymore.”

“Nothing personal?” Before Wrathion had time to reply, Samia took two steps closer, and this time she did put her hand on her sword. The orc and worgen raised a crossbow and readied a dagger, but Wrathion waved them off. “You're killing my family because we're corrupted?”

“Yes. You -”

“We were never going to return to Azeroth!” Samia shouted. “We are fine in Outland! Why would we ever come back here, if we knew we'd fall mad again within – who knows how long?”

Wrathion looked unfazed – as if he'd heard this before. “You're still a lingering threat,” he said. “I think it's safe to eliminate threats, even idle ones, don't you?”

“Like the one right in front of me?”

And Wrathion gave her a strange smile. “I suppose so, in your case.”

This had caught Samia completely off-guard. It wasn't a secret that she and her brood had been confused as to why another family member was killing them, and Samia had thought that he had wanted power – for if he was, truly, the last, then he himself would be the sole leader of the Black Dragonflight and carry on its dark legacy and strength.

But this – this was something completely different. To kill Sabellian's brood because they were corrupted... to eliminate them because they carried the Old God taint, despite them having done nothing wrong in the twenty-five or so years they had been in Blade's Edge? Despite the fact that Sabellian had, in his own way, treated mortals with even the slightest amount of fairness and Samia, the same?

Her head reeled in confusion and anger. Samia glared at this smug prince, this hateful child. What would a hatchling do with being the last, really? Did he not want the company of others like him?

Apparently not, if he killed them. “We're innocent,” Samia reiterated.

“Are you really, though? I am sure you have many stories about your time on Azeroth!” And before Samia could retort, he added: “Your father wasn't very innocent.”

Samia's breath hitched. Wasn't. She had not missed that. She relaxed and eyed Wrathion closely.

“Once, he was lieutenant of Deathwing's armies,” she said slowly. “So once, he wasn't innocent. None of us were. And neither are you.” This was her chance. “And you've met my father?”

Something in Wrathion's face changed, but before Samia could discern the look in his eyes, Wrathion blinked and it was gone. “Sabellian? Oh, of course. I could never forget him.”

The whelp's voice had grown strained. Angry.

“But who are you? His daughter, clearly.”

“I'm Samia,” she said, annoyed Wrathion had spoken before she had. Her name had him pull back a bit in surprise, as if he recognized it.

“Well, Samia -”

“And where is my father?” Samia interrupted.

“Oh,” Wrathion said, and here he waved his hand, dismissively. “He's dead.”

Before she knew what she was doing, Samia shot out her hand and her fist collided with a crunch against Wrathion's face.

The Black Prince reeled backwards. Blood streamed from his nose. His two guards lifted their weapons for a kill. Samia grabbed the hilt of her sword with a snarl and -

“No! Stop!”

It was not one of the drakes, not one of the rogues, but Wrathion. The orc shot him a disbelieving look as he stumbled to a stop, clutching his bleeding nose. The sash that had been draped over his arm had fallen to reveal a slim cast down his forearm. His hand holding his face already was dripping blood.

“My Prince -”

“Shut up!” Wrathion straightened. He dropped his hand and wiped the steady stream of blood trickling from his nose, dark red and already bruising from the harsh punch. Samia hoped she'd broken it.

Wrathion opened his mouth, curled back in a snarl, to speak. Samia was faster.

“You're lying.”

Absurdly, Wrathion laughed, a quick, high-pitched, disbelieving sound. “Everyone is always so quick to think that I lie. I actually lie very little, and only when it serves me the best.” His voice was a bit nasally with the blood no doubt pouring down his throat from his nose. “Do you think I would really lie about killing your Father? What good would that do me, Samia? I told you the truth, something that should be commended, and this is what I get for it!” He gestured wildly to his bleeding nose, which he rubbed again.

Wrathion glanced at the blood at his hand when he pulled away and glared up at her. “I would not be standing here wasting my precious time with you if your Father was still rampaging across Pandaria!”

Samia was only dimly aware of her quickened breath, and how her knuckles on the hilt of her sword went white. It had to be a lie. Wrathion, this... this child, could never kill her father.

“You're lying,” she repeated with a hissing hostility. “My father wouldn't allow himself to be killed by you.”

“Wouldn't allow himself?” Wrathion repeated. “Obviously not! But the dagger slid in easily enough.”

The edges of her vision with white-hot with wrath. She began to draw her sword, uncaring for the raised crossbow of the orc, the trigger a second away from shooting her, and the unsheathed daggers of the worgen. All she cared about was the bleeding prince between them, and ripping his head off of his body.

Wrathion looked alarmed. “Wait, I must explain -”

“Explain what?” She snarled. She felt the energy of the nether-drakes light up behind her. “How, somehow, a little hatchling no older than my youngest brothers and sisters killed my father for no other purpose than to feel better about himself?!”

Wrathion snarled. Gone was the collected coolness, the smugness, from his face. Whatever he was going to say evaporated in his mouth.

“I had to kill him!” Wrathion had risen his voice to a hoarse shout. There was a wild anger and desperation and hatred all intermingled in his rising voice, and pebbles around his feet began to vibrate. “I had to kill him, and I must kill you! It is my duty! And I must see it through until the end, no matter what I do to get there!”

A rogue behind Wrathion, not one of the bodyguards, drew his dagger. The orc holding the crossbow had been about to fire right at Samia's chest– but then she whipped her head back to stare at the rogue with narrowed, questioning eyes.

Another rogue, off to the side, drew her own sword. Her comrades around her shot her as baffled looks as the orc had to the first. Samia didn't care as to why, and nor did she see the third rogue, hidden on the cliff side, aim his bow. They were brave to draw their weapons first before their still comrades, Samia thought, but -

Three things happened at once.

First, the orc toppled over, an arrow lodged firmly in her side.

The rogue to draw the dagger jumped up just as Wrathion turned with a start and a look of horrified alarm at his fallen bodyguard. The blood elf set his knife against the Black Prince's neck so tightly that it drew blood, and snapped something low at his once-Prince so that Wrathion went very still but snarled in outrage.

The rogue with the sword leaped at Samia. Samia whirled away, but she was clumsy in surprise and was nearly cut across her arm, save for a small nick where the blade had just managed to touch her skin.

The nether-drakes shifted behind her, and at nearly the same moment mettle great nets, as if from nowhere, descended over top of them. A terrible scream of electricity shot through the binds and the struggling nether-drakes went still and moaned in intense pain.

“Oh, my dear,” called a voice from above, and Samia whirled back around. The rogue with the sword danced away and went to face her former comrades, only now drawing arms. The entire thing could not have lasted more than ten seconds. “It seems you've delivered just what I wanted.”

Wrathion cried out in anger. “Madam Goya, I will -!”

“You are outnumbered five to one, Black Prince,” the smooth, elderly voice continued in her raised voice, and only then did Samia see the pandaren walking down on of the higher bridges. Samia looked around. Encircling the entire Secret Aerie were a line of other pandaren in heavy brimmed hats, or other mortals in the same garb. They had been ambushed, crept up on when Samia and Wrathion had nearly come to blows! “And your best rogue has an arrow in her side. What you will do is tell your other rogues to put down their weapons. I am only here for a few trifles, not for you.”

Wrathion glanced at Samia. His throat bobbed beneath the rogue's dagger, and his face was pained with some sort of inner struggle.

And then he mouthed run.

Samia let go of her sword. She did not need to be told twice. She had an idea what these trifles were, and the world around her was growing dizzy with realization -

She paused as she stumbled back, trying to focus on shifting. The world was growing dizzier. This was never her normal reaction to something. Samia glanced down at where the rogue's blade had just touched her, and saw that the gentle little scratch was green.

She had been poisoned.

Samia snarled, and even that sounded weak already. Wrathion watched her up until the elderly pandaren was on the last rocky platform that led down to the pond, and the other black dragon turned his head to glare. Goya made no move to walk down.

“I am so sorry to have had to intervene,” Goya said, “but I was afraid you would not work for me as well as I had hoped. Now – let us all calm ourselves...”

If she said anything else, Samia didn't hear; she dropped to her knees as her eyes went dark, and fell into a deep unconsciousness.

---

Ke'zol, Overseer of the Big Blossom Excavation, watched the right hand of his Warchief descend into the dig.

It was not a good wait, and so it felt like a long one, as he watched Malkorok advance. Flanked by two Kor'kron, the warrior had decided to wear his full plate mail, which gleamed with a pearly sheen from the moon's glow. His face was twisted in a disapproving sneer.

Ke'zol straightened and saluted sharply when Malkorok was a yard away. Malkorok returned the salute, but with less grandeur. He stopped some feet away. Ke'zol always prided himself on his own impressive height, but Malkorok made him look fragile in comparison.

“Greetings, Malkorok,” Overseer Ke'zol said. His throat stuck together with the words, and he forced himself not to cough. The dust and dirt from the dig had long since dried his voice and eyes. He swallowed. His tongue felt like a wad of sand rolled in his mouth. “We're ready for your inspection.”

“Good.” The other orc looked around the dig site, his head held high. “You have come far.”

Ke'zol straightened up with the praise. It was not often Malkorok said a kind word to anyone, and in response, Ke'zol saluted again. “For the Warchief,” he said, and Malkorok glanced back at him.

“Show me, then,” Malkorok ordered.

Ke'zol was quick to turn and begin to lead the Blackrock orc through the digsite. Goblin shredders, claws caked with dirt, stalled in their stomping to let the group of orcs pass. Ke'zol had since given the goblin workers strict orders to let them be; it wasn't a secret the level of animosity Malkorok had for members of the Horde that weren't orcs, and the overseer did not want the Blackrock orc to be distracted by meddling goblins.

Ke'zol led Malkorok to one corner of the Big Blossom Excavation. There, the workers had set a pile of all the various artifacts they had found in the still-lengthening tunnel they had dug into the slope. Its contents were random. There were ancient scrolls, brittle with age, they'd found in an unearthed metal chest. Life-sized, golden mogu statues stood at attention with stiff polearms at the wall's edge. There was stranger things, too: broken pieces of thick yellow tablets written in a language no one could understand, and globules of clear glass that, when struck, sparked with random color.

Ke'zol stopped in front of it. He looked the objects over and felt a small knot of worry in his gut. He knew – they all knew – that what they had found was not what Malkorok, nor Garrosh, wanted to see. They wanted weapons. Powerful objects that could sway the war, like the unearthed Divine Bell. But Ke'zol and the goblins had found nothing of the sort, and he worried for Malkorok's reaction.

He turned and nodded to the Blackrock orc. Malkorok walked past him to more closely inspect the artifacts; Ke'zol felt a bead of cold sweat slide down the back of his neck as he watched his superior walk down the line.

“There is more inside of the tunnel,” hurried Ke'zol as Malkorok remained silent and stone-faced.

“And is it more useless junk?” At once Malkorok kicked one of the glass spheres. It shattered in a small burst of color, lighting up the orc's dark armor for a mere instant. With a speed that did not seem possible for his girth, Malkorok whirled on Ke'zol. “Well?”

It took harsh willpower not to avert his eyes. “We haven't yet reached the main objective,” Ke'zol said, hurrying to defend himself as Malkorok took a step forward so that he loomed above. “The goblins detected a wall -”

“And how far and how long will it take you to reach this wall?”

Another bead of sweat rolled down Ke'zol's neck. “The goblins -”

“The goblins,” Malkorok repeated with a snort. “And what did your goblins say?”

Ke'zol shifted his weight. “That we'll reach the wall in a week,” the overseer explained. But the reply only worsened the scowl on Malkorok's face, and Ke'zol again tried to defend himself. “The digging conditions are difficult. They refuse to dig faster. A strange presence -”

“Do you think the Warchief has time to worry about the fear of gobins?”

“No, Malkorok.”

“Then push the goblins harder.”

“We do. We are,” Ke'zol said gruffly. “But -”

“Then you will reach this wall in less than a week,” Malkorok replied smoothly.

Ke'zol hesitated – but upon seeing the sharpening of Malkorok's gaze, he gave his third and sloppiest salute. “Yes, Malkorok.”

But the question that had been boiling at him since he was assigned to the excavation rose. Ke'zol knew it was his chance to ask it, but he was careful to frame it as a comment; doubting the decisions and actions of the Warchief in front of Malkorok himself would be license for some form of punishment, if not death.

“I don't know what we'll find when we break through the wall,” he said. “Or if it's going to be the same junk we've been finding.”

Because how could have Garrosh known the exact location of where to dig? He'd clearly instructed the Cartel to drain the small, sacred lake and dig underneath it until – something was found. The chances that they would find anything in this random spot were minimal. But they had found these artifacts... and the yet-to-be-reached wall. Ke'zol had thought it a testament to his Warchief's skill but with the uselessness of the items they'd since uncovered, he had begun to doubt that the wall the goblins had seen through the dirt with their complicated and explosive technology hid anything of value to Garrosh's war plans. Ke'zol guessed it was only some forgotten Pandaren or Mogu artifact vault like Mogu'shan, minus the magical technology.

Malkorok surprised Ke'zol by thoughtfully pausing to consider the comment. Finally, he huffed and drew himself up.

“I will tell you something,” he said. “Between us.” To punctuate his meaning he cast a suddenly bitter look around to the milling goblins, who were doing their best to stay as far away from the party of orcs as possible. Ke'zol understood Malkorok's meaning; their words were between only the orcs.

“You will find something here,” Malkorok promised, dropping his voice so that the words were nearly a growl. “The Warchief was led here by fate. By destiny. There is something down there the Horde is meant to have. Our Horde.”

Ke'zol nodded. It was the best answer he was going to get, so he may as well go along with it. Garrosh had automatically known where to dig, he reminded himself. If he had been led here by some intuition, some semblance of fate, than so be it. His doubts quelled, Ke'zol said: “For the Horde.”

Malkorok looked satisfied with the answer. He moved away so he could glance at the open cave entrance to their right. Lit on either side with ugly torches, the warm light from the fire and the cold from the full moon high above did little to illuminate the darkness within the tunnel.

Ke'zol didn't even like looking at the thing. He hadn't been lying when he had told the Blackrock orc that the goblins feared what was inside of it – though he'd left out even he had grown warier by the day the more they dug deeper. It felt like a weight upon his chest whenever he grew close. A wrongness that he couldn't quite place. He wondered if Malkorok felt it.

But Malkorok gave no indication of it. He nodded to himself. “We will reach the wall in four days,” he said.

“We?”

Malkorok looked at him. “Do you think the Warchief sent me all this way to inspect?” He asked. “No. I will come with you when you break down the wall.”

Ke'zol nodded sharply. That was unexpected but not entirely unwarranted. Malkorok would help spur the goblin workers better than Ke'zol and the other orc overseers ever could. Perhaps they would get there before the week was up.

“The Golden Lotus,” Ke'zol suddenly remembered. “Taran Zhu plans to attack when the season is over. That's in two weeks.”

And then Malkorok smiled. Or at least, Ke'zol thought it was a smile. It looked more like a sneer on his face.

“Good,” he said. “But we will draw him here far earlier than that, Overseer Ke'zol. Far earlier than that.”

#wrathion #sabellian #samia #rexxar #kalecgos #*wos