#*wos

Wrathion slouched back on his bed. He knew that anyone walking into his room would see him as the pinnacle of relaxation: he'd propped himself up with all of his pillows, a novel rested closed on his lap, and his legs sprawled out in front of him.

This was, of course, the desired effect.

In reality, Wrathion felt like a coiled but rusted spring, too tense to relax but too worn to jolt.

He still hadn't slept, a day and a half later. The nightmares had continued their onslaught. Deep circles had grown heavy underneath his eyes, and he could see his skull when he looked in the mirror, his face was so sunken. Worse still, some of his hair was falling out – and though hurriedly regrown with a hint of magic, he'd almost vomited when he'd seen the clump of black hair in his hand.

When that had happened, Wrathion realized this was not anything “normal.”

Oh, he'd figured that the nightmares had been after-effects of his long and tiresome ideal, recycled ill-feelings, like sticking slime, recurring to haunt him. It'd happened before after he'd finished his business at Ravenholdt, but it had cleared soon enough, and he'd been left with a clear conscious and a readiness for Pandaria.

This was not that – and when he'd lain awake last night, he'd pinpointed what else it could have been: the sonar the mantid had given him.

He'd been a fool not to realize it before. No, he couldn't remember what he'd seen when under that spell, listening to the high pitch he'd been forced to tune into, but it was clearly what was making him like this.

“My Prince?”

“Come in, Left,” Wrathion called out, hating how his voice croaked.

The door shuddered – it had a bad hinge, and required some force to push it open – and Left came into the room. Her eyes were hard and her face, set. She regarded Wrathion with little to no expression, and in her arms she held a bundle of various scrolls.

“The information you asked for, my Prince,” Left announced. Wrathion nodded his head to his bedstand, and the orc set the papers down, which whistled and rustled as they shifted.

“Excellent.” Wrathion reached over and plucked up the scroll on top of the pile. Left had fetched these quickly. What would he do without her?

“They're from varying sources,” Left explained, keeping her distance from his bedside. Wrathion ran his fingers across the scroll's red mahogany base. The ends of his fingers shook. “From the dynasty of the Thunder King until the last Swarm.”

Wrathion hummed his approval. Mantid sonar was a subject he knew little about; the race was so alien that it was difficult to discern much from their guarded culture, even though he had heard some mortals had been able to befriend the Klaxxi. How in the Titans' name had they managed to do such a thing? He shook his head and looked over the scroll in his hands. Emblazoned along the curve was the proud, black inked name Fulmin.

As he unfurled the scroll, Wrathion thought back to the event.

Both will have to do it! They won’t see the truth otherwise, Kil’ruk. You said it yourself.

A “truth” he didn't even remember or understand. A stupid plan for stupid creatures. Honestly.

But as much as he tried to calm himself – the Klaxxi had not given him such a transfusion until after Wrathion had denied Y'shaarj.

That wasn't the best omen.

“Do you require anything else, my Prince?”

“No, Left.” Wrathion paused, then hastily added: “Thank you.”

But Left said nothing, and as Wrathion slid open the scroll to its full length, the door creaked and then shut with the gentlest of clicks.

Wrathion looked up, set his lips in a thin line, and returned his attention back to the scroll. For a terrible moment the scrawled lettering was blurred beyond the most basic comprehension. He shook his head and blinked hard. Gods, he was tired. Finally, after he strained enough, the words sharpened so he could read them.

And he read. And read. Most of the writing was useless: how many warriors the mogu had lost that week, what defense they'd gained on the Wall, and estimates for the longevity of the Swarm. Wrathion scanned it all. Useless, useles... he paused. The writer, Fulmin, had mentioned a mechanism they'd unearthed and judging from the sudden sloppiness of their writing, they were excited about it. Whatever it was, it had somehow disconnected the swarmborn from the Empress.

Wrathion frowned. It was interesting but not quite what he was looking for; he was connected to no sonar, not anymore. He just had bad dreams. He read on, but Fulmin only wrote of the swarmborn's aimlessness and easy targets for it.

Useless. Wrathion set aside and began on the other scrolls.

He didn't know how long he read; with the curtains drawn, he couldn't be certain. But the information he consumed were things he already knew: the kypari trees were sacred, that the amber allowed the mantids' communication to sound over different frequencies and across miles of land, and so on and so on. The only thing that might have been relevant was the sonar being used as a weapon, and how it left terrible headaches to those who had survived – but there was nothing of a mortal (or dragon) listening to the frequencies and understanding them, as Wrathion had.

It was when he was reading through the last scroll, beginning to nod off and knowing too well what would happen if he did, when a knock came from the door. Wrathion looked up. “What?”

“Sir, I have your daily report.”

A Blacktalon that was not Left. Wrathion sat up straighter in his bed and neatened the pile of scrolls on his bed. “Come in.”

The agent who appeared was a slim human, tall with dark skin and pale eyes. He held only one piece of parchment in his hands, and gave a nod and a smile as he closed the door behind him.

Wrathion waved a hand for him to continue.

The agent cleared his throat before he spoke. “Reports show that the revolution in the Barrens is reaching its peak of activity. Vol'jin seems to be the orchestrator – or at least, the leader. I have a list of troops, supplies, and siege plans.”

“Leave it near my table. No, not that one. That one. There. Good. Continue.”

“Alliance forces have also been aiding the Horde with the task.”

“Oh? Interesting.”

“Yes. Our agent in the SI:7 reports that – for the moment – the two are working together.”

Wrathion paused to consider that. The Alliance and the Horde working together was not something unheard of – but it always ended in disaster. Usually. He thought of the Icecrown Citadel, how even then, battling the Lich King, the Horde and the Alliance had fought across the sky. Utter stupidity. Better to have one faction than two bickering ones: less strife and less complications, then. With a flick of his hand, he beckoned the agent to go on.

“The digging in the Vale has halted. We were unable to bypass the guards; there is some kind of magic at work.” The agent paused. “The Blacktalons reported an odd feeling upon getting close to the dig site. Many of the workers were exhausted and somewhat grey in complexion.”

Sha-like. The small thought of the demonic force gave him enough energy to glare his Watcher down. “My best agent defended herself against two paragons. I think my other workers can handle themselves against magic.”

“I know, sir, but -”

“Fix it. I cannot plan if I don't know all the pieces.” Even if he had some guess. Coincidences on Azeroth were few and far between. The mantid readying for their God and the unnatural feeling in the Vale... but he needed to know for sure. Assumptions were for the foolish. “Anything else?”

“Well, there's been sightings of a rogue bear on the Path. Some of the travelers refuse to come up with such rumors.”

Wrathion snorted. “A bear? Likely a hunter's pet. Ignore it. Now. Is there anything else of importance?”

“The list of those asking about the dragons.”

Wrathion sat back in his throne of pillows. “I can look at them myself. You're dismissed.”

With a puff of smoke, the agent vanished.

Wrathion slouched. His head pounded. Even such a small conversation had left him without the energy he didn't have in the first place.

Might as well distract himself with this next task. As he ran his hand over his sunken face, Wrathion closed his eyes and tuned to his store of blood magic with some amount of difficulty; where usually such magic flowed and shifted like the matter the magic drew its strength from, now it was sticky, like the blood had dried up. But he managed it, and the images his Blacktalons had sent back to him of those they'd heard talking of black dragons appeared to him.

Wrathion shifted through the visions. They all ranged in clarity, depending on how focused the Blacktalon who had “taken” them had been; some were blurred beyond recognition while others were as sharp as if he himself was standing there.

He knew some of the faces, which annoyed him: his champions. Half of them looked confused and the other half either looked angry or amused. Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of that. Surely they didn't think he meant to lie about being the last black dragon? He'd thought he'd been telling the truth! Honestly. Mortals were so sensitive.

There, thankfully, was not as many faces as there had been in the recent week. With the Blacktalons tasked to... persuade both Horde and Alliance alike to stop their chatter about the dragons, the reports came less and less. It was a task that had to be done, but one Wrathion did not necessarily like; no brute force was used, of course, against those asking around, but to intimidate his own champions was a bit unfortunate. They'd come to trust him, after all.

Well. At least they'd be reminded on who had the power here and who was giving them it.

Human, human, paladin, hunter, night elf, orc, tauren... the faces blurred together, but Wrathion tried to remember them, something that should have been easy if he was not so tired. It was important information to know who was suspicious of all the rumors so he'd know how to deal with them later, if they came back to the Tavern and if they were his champions at all.

Blood elf, human, worgen, draenei, draenei, draenei -

Wrathion paused at that image. Four draenei and a human. How odd. He recognized none of them, so they were obviously not any of his little sparks. The human, a short woman, was looking at him – of course, the Blacktalon at the time – and smiling, but immediately Wrathion saw a maliciousness there.

Such maliciousness seemed... somewhat familiar. Wrathion frowned and stared at her. Strange. He didn't know her, but he felt like he'd seen such a face, such an expression, from somewhere. But where? He never forgot a face. With a slight whisk of mental concentration he bid the image to play, though with the blood magic, the recorded image was even more warped as it moved, and his mind's eye smeared with red in wake of each slight motion of the figures, like a ghost-trail of vapor.

There was no sound. But the short woman was talking and she kept smiling. Wrathion focused harder. Was he simply losing his mind from his lack of sleep, or did this stranger seem very familiar to him in a way he couldn't place? He looked at her oval-shaped face, her dark eyes, her black, chopped hair with bangs which fell hard over her hidden brows. Her skin was lighter than his, but her gear was darker, black on black with silver trimmings to match her large, elaborate necklace.

A face he did and did not recognize.

The moving image ended as the rogue evaporated off. He made it begin again and stared. This was going to drive him insane. Where did he know her from?

Maybe it was in her eyes. That undertone of malicious intent. An attitude. It was what struck him at first, anyway. Wrathion bit the inside of his cheek and replayed it a third time. He wished this magic was more reliable so he might see the moving images more sharply.

It was only after he replayed it a fourth time did he realize a sort of dread had begun to curl in his stomach. He knew her face but he had never met her.

Something was wrong here.

Wrathion stopped the image and, in an instant, connected to the agent's gem that had confronted the group. His mind's eye warped into a swirling, bloody pinpoint until it expanded into a new scene: a dark, cramped inn lit only by a sparse spattering of oily lanterns and the enchanted glow of the drinkers' weapons, strapped to their backs or set on the table.

Before the Blood Elf could greet him, Wrathion spoke. “What was that human with the draenei asking about?”

The dragons, sir, came her wary reply. Silkmaster -

“I don't care about the Silkmaster. What was she asking about specifically?”

The Blood Elf paused. He could sense her growing anxiety through the gem, like a wave of sour air. He scared her. I didn't catch the full conversation. I'm sorry, my Prince. She only seemed excited about Sabellian and Alexstrasza.

“She knew their names?”

No. No, I mean, the silk-makers were talking about them, but without their names. She still seemed excited, because the group left the moment they heard it, which is what made me suspicious.

Wrathion scrunched his eyebrows together as he thought that over. He brought up the woman's face again.

Where...

Something in his head clicked – and suddenly Wrathion found himself in the cave underneath Sik'vess.

And there was Sabellian, sitting across from him, his orange eyes aglow and the fire from his shoulderpads lighting his face in sharp shadows.

And there it was: the casual maliciousness, the very same the woman had had on her face, as the alchemist stared at him.

Wrathion pulled away. Reality warped back and he inhaled sharply. He saw the relation in an instant: the curve of her cheekbones, the slope of her brows, the hard angles of her jaw. The similarity was obvious once realized; Wrathion had spent enough loathsome hours with Sabellian to forever remember his damned face. And this woman had his face– one of his children he had so dearly cared for.

Prince Wrathion?Came the mutter from his agent.

“Get as many Blacktalons as you can, and be as quiet as you can. Do not give yourself away. Not to mortals, and not to this woman. Find her and bring her here.”

What of the draenei?

“I don't care what you do with them. I want her. Go! Now!”

Wrathion cut off the connection, and in the same beat, yelled: “Left!”

The door jammed open, and Left was there.

“Get my favorite assassin here.”

“I already sent -”

“Then send for them again!” Wrathion sat up in his bed and grinned wildly, his frustration becoming an actual happiness, thrumming in his otherwise numb body. “Those imbeciles came to Pandaria, Left! Sabellian's children, right here! How easy I can end this! If there is one, there must be more.”

Left took in the news with a flat expression. “They cannot all be here, my Prince. How do you know it is one of his?”

“Oh, please. She looks exactly like him! Look in the blood stores, if you'd like.” He waved a dismissive hand; there was absolutely no way he was wrong. This woman – dragon – looked too much alike to Sabellian for it to be a coincidence. And if it was? Well. He'd simply send her on her way with a bit of gold for her troubles. “And no. Clearly not all of them can be here! But I doubt this daughter would come alone.” His grinned widened, and he rubbed his hands together. “Either way, my assassin will do well with this! Once they take care of the nuisance here, then I will send them to Blade's Edge, just as I planned. Perhaps my foolish agents couldn't finish them off, but my little rogue will.” Wrathion hesitated, then laughed darkly. “And we would not want the Dragonmaw to stumble upon them!”

He felt no panic – nothing like he had when he first saw the drake there in Blade's Edge. They had simply made it so much easier for him by splitting themselves up, even if this dragon, this relative, ended up being the only one here. But why be here? To find her father? What a lovely surprise she would have, then!

As Left went away, Wrathion grinned and closed his eyes, the sonar forgotten.

---

Sabellian was losing his mind in this room.

He knew he was truly losing his mind to the Old Gods. That was undeniable. Even without the Eye of the Watchers telling him his “corruption levels,” Sabellian could physically feel it creeping up on him like a sludge, weighing every inch of him down in a feeling so familiar it made him ill.

Going stir-crazy from staying in bed wasn't helping, either. Sabellian was never one to loll around, even when injured. Being confined to cushions and covers for near a week was weighing hard on his sanity, no matter how much pain he was still in.

Nasandria, meanwhile, was on the other side of the room. She had not left, much, after she'd returned when Kalecgos had gone, save to eat or get fresh air. Now, she sat curled up on the singular chair in the room, the book she'd been reading half-finished.

He drummed his fingers at his sides. What he needed was a walk. A fly would be preferable, but he doubted he could strain himself as much.

Anything to get out of this damned bed and to distract him from what was happening was preferable.

Sabellian leaned over and snatched his folded red undershirt, the only article of his regular clothing he'd gotten back, from the bedside table. He tried to put it on: a task more difficult than he thought it would be. Moving his arms up made not only the harpoon wound in his shoulder ache, but also the stab wound burn as his abdomen lengthened. He hissed and went about it gingerly, sliding one arm after the other.

“Father? What are you doing?”

“I am getting out of this room.”

One moment Nasandria was sitting on the opposite end of the room, and then she was right in front of him – blocking him from getting up. Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“You should stay in bed,” Nasandria suggested. “They said they'd healed the majority of your wounds – so you won't die – but you're still very wea – still very sick.”

Weak. Sabellian ground his teeth and slipped on the rest of his shirt, forcing down a flinch as his stab wound tensed again. “I have spent enough time in this bed. Now move.” Looking away, he busied himself with tearing off the plush silk blankets and slowly turning to sit at the side of his bed as every muscle protested with fresh pings of pain. He ignored it, and set his bare feet on the stone cold floor. He had no idea where even his boots were. What could they have done with his damned boots? Eaten them?

Nasandria didn't budge. She bit her lip.

“Move, girl!”

“They said you shouldn't get up,” Nasandria insisted, glancing back behind her shoulder as if looking for the pandaren monks. Seeing none, she sighed and turned to him. “It might make you worse.”

“Staying in this bed will make me worse.”

“But your hip -”

“Is fine. They may have been slow, but at least the healers were marginally efficient. Now, again – move.”

Nasandria hesitated. She looked him up and down.

“I don't think -”

“Move!” Sabellian snarled as a sudden wave of anger rolled through his body. He could feel his teeth sharpen into points. Nasandria jerked back.

With the added distance between them, Sabellian lurched to his feet until the pain flared in his hip along his stitched wound; he snatched onto the bedpost to keep his balance, and it was the fresh agony that dulled the anger, made him realize it was even there.

Sabellian rubbed at his eyes as he felt him come back to himself. The heavy feeling in his body throbbed: a reminder. “Listen to me, next time, and I will not snap.”

When Nasandria did not respond, he dropped his hand from his face and looked up. She was a yard away from him, now, and staring; she almost looked afraid. “Was that was that was?” Nasandria asked, then huffed in disbelief. “Are you -? No. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, take your walk. They left a crutch for you.”

Sabellian opened his mouth to respond, but Nasandria hurried from the room with her head bent and her eyes closed, and she was gone.

Well done; he'd upset her. Normally such a thing was nothing too great – he had yelled at his children many times, in the past – but the way he had upset her worried him. For that briefest of moments he had lost control. He was getting worse. What had his levels been? 86%, or close to it? Again Sabellian ran a hand across his sunken face and squeezed his pointer finger and thumb along his eyes as he remained leaning against the bed post, the entirety of his left side throbbing with pain.

Finally, Sabellian took a deep breath and dropped his hand from his face. Yes. A walk would help. It might even clear his head, as slim as that chance was. He looked around the room, remembering Nasandria had mentioned a crutch, and saw it propped up against the wardrobe his shirt had been folded on.

It looked more like a cane than a crutch, Sabellian thought sourly as he glared at the slim brown, sanded stick down. He doubted he needed a cane – he was not that weak - but he reached out and grabbed it, anyway. The rounded top was padded with smooth leather and fit comfortably in his palm. He glared at it. No – he wouldn't need this. Disgusted, he set it on the side of the wall. Sabellian, son of Deathwing and rightful heir to the Black Dragonflight, did not need a cane to walk.

But Sabellian was wary when he let go of the bed post. Slowly, he took one step forward – and immediately his injured side went slack, and with it, his left leg. Sabellian grabbed a hold of the side of the wall as his knee buckled underneath him, and ended up leaning hard up against it, instead. His waist pulsed with new pain, and even his closed stab wound grew taut against his skin as he caught his balance. Sabellian hissed and closed his eyes.

He stayed in the position until he could feel his body beyond the pain – and then, begrudgingly, reached blindly for the cane. As he grabbed it, fitting it into his hand, Sabellian mulled over getting back into the bed. He dismissed the thought. It wouldn't help.

With the cane in his hand, Sabellian opened his eyes and straightened from the wall, leaning the weight his left side refused to hold onto the crutch. It worked. Sabellian scowled. At least no one was here to see him struggle.

He stared at his feet – and the end of the cane – as he tried to walk again. He felt his left side grow slack a second time, but the cane continued to hold up his weight, there, and his lack of strength. Sabellian's scowl deepened at such weakness. At least, he thought, as he took a third step, Wrathion would be worse than him once he was done maiming and then killing the “prince.”

The thought perked him up just enough to walk with a bit more assurance.

Sabellian, growing used to the awkwardness of the crutch, made his way out of the room and through the hallway, lined with its blue torches, curiously devoid of heat. This entire damned temple was cold. At least his body radiated heat.

He saw no one until he reached the end of the hallway, startling two pandaren who had been guarding on either side.

“I am taking a walk,” Sabellian snapped. “Do not reach for your weapons or panic.”

The guard on the left began to protest, but Sabellian gave him a dark look, and the pandaren nearly sunk back into the wall, and Sabellian went on with his walk.

After that, Sabellian met little resistance. The hallway led out into a great domed room, yards long and decorated with simple but elegant designs of blue-grey rock, silver, and bronze along the thick pillars lining the wall and the stoned floor beneath his bare feet. Colder, here, than in his room, the monks that sparred lightly in the arena before him seemed undeterred by the chill that led in from the archway open to the sprawling temple grounds outside.

Many of the practicing monks stared as he walked, but were quick to look away. Out of fear, he presumed. He'd destroyed their buildings and killed some of them. At least Sabellian was glad for their ignoring of him; he hugged close to the wall as he rounded around the room. Every step was pain, and if he lurched or tripped, he did not want any of these mortals to see.

The fighting of the monks was doing nothing to help clear his head; if anything, the clanks and clonks of the wood staves clashing against one another made him even more frazzled. He considered ending his painful walk and turning back when he realized he was nearly at the entrance; cold air might slap some sense into him.

As if weather could slap back Y'shaarj. Sabellian huffed in a bitter sort of amusement but continued on all the same until he reached the great opened arch.

The cold hit him instantly. He flinched at the chill until the heat of his body accustomed and warmed him.

The frigid air woke him up, a bit. Sabellian blinked hard and looked down at the temple grounds as he leaned up against the side of the archway. It was a cloudy day; he had little idea as to what time it was. But he saw the damage, even in the dim light. The damage he had left, though it looked in the middle of repair. The smaller temple across the bridge, right in front of him, had its western wall crumbled, though even as he watched, mortals were helping to patch it up. Some rolled barrels of newly cut stone while others situated the blocks in the pagoda's missing wall. To the west, the pagoda he'd utterly destroyed when he'd tossed Kalecgos into it was swept away. Now there was a steady framework; harder work than the other open building, but the work that had been done was impressive for such a short time. Sometimes, mortals were resourceful.

“Already up, I see.”

Sabellian glanced down. Walking from the far eastern temple was Xuen, and a trail of icy vapor followed him in his wake – and though the tiger was not looking at him, but at the Temple's opening where Sabellian leaned, Sabellian could feel the intense focus of the Celestial shift onto him, like a weight upon his head.

“You have sharp eyes,” Sabellian said, glaring. He remembered too well being beat down by this animal.

Xuen chuckled, a deep and rumbling sound in his chest, and raised his head as he began up the steps, forcing Sabellian to look away as the cold emanating from the tiger's body stung at his eyes and nose. His draconic heat was quick to mask the minor, but annoying, chill.

“Indeed,” Xuen rumbled from behind him. Still the Celestial's focus was upon him. Some part of Sabellian grew uneasy from it. “And with them, I see you grow sick.”

Sabellian glowered out at the temple grounds. Even the talking tiger knew he was growing worse. He ran a hand over his face, felt the deep etches underneath his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones, before turning to look at Xuen. The Celestial loomed in the entranceway to the Temple, the entirety of his presence taking up the passage. Now that he did not walk, his vapor curled around his form, whispering around him like breath in freezing air.

“Sick,” Sabellian repeated, and stopped himself from scowling at the croak in his voice. He tried to clear his throat but even then he could still feel it stick and scratch. “And you know with what, I assume?”

“Your father's sickness.”

Sabellian paused. “You know of that?”

Xuen hummed. He sat – promptly blocking Sabellian from going back into the Temple. “Pandaria was shrouded, yet never blind.”

What was Xuen, then, Sabellian wondered? He eyed the beast silently. An Ancient of some sort?

“Then you know there is nothing to stop it.”

It was Xuen's turn to pause and study him. His striped tail flicked back and forth. “Yes.”

What wonderful help. Sabellian squinted, then looked away, back at the Temple. He wondered if the tiger was upset with him over the killing of the monks. Probably.

“You are doing little to help yourself.”

Sabellian glanced back, his glower returning. Xuen remained where he was, sitting casually at the entrance. Despite Sabellian's guess, the tiger had no air of anger or did not speak with a teasing, malicious tone. He simply stared at him.

“What?”

“You are doing little to help yourself,” the Celestial repeated.

“There is not much I can do,” Sabellian growled. A headache was beginning to pound behind his eyes. “I will hope the stupid Blue will find the key in the artifact, and try to keep up my defenses as I have while I wait.” A gust of cold wind blew against his face, as sharp as a slap, and he turned away from the open air, mood darkening into an even deeper pit. “No potion nor spellwork will halt this corruption.”

Xuen cocked his head, his two fluffed ears perking. “Do you recall the advice I gave you, there in the snow? Power and strength is as different -”

“As sun and moon. I wasn't deaf. That has little to do with anything.”

“It is what might help you.”

Sabellian was tiring of all this cryptic nonsense. In a snap, he said: “Then explain, White Tiger.”

“You hold on to your anger and hatred,” Xuen rumbled, sliding to the ground to lay on his belly. Even in the open, relaxed position, he continued to emanate strength and grace, his head held high and his tail curled around his hind legs. “It rolls off of you like the lightning of a stormcloud.”

“I am not corrupted by the Sha any longer.”

“No. Perhaps not.” Xuen paused to study him before continuing, and again Sabellian felt the push of the Celestial's focus on his mind, almost physical. “But you cling to the emotions which gave rise to it inside your heart.”

Sabellian raised a brow. If anything, he felt annoyed and tired, not angry or hateful. “I think you're mistaken.”

“No. I am not.” Xuen flexed his claws and looked behind his broad shoulders. He was too tall, even laying down, for Sabellian to see beyond, into the Temple, and what the tiger stared at. But whatever it was, Xuen gave a satisfied rumble and turned again to Sabellian. “The most dangerous emotions are those which lurk deep.”

More cryptic words. Sabellian was beginning to wonder if he could somehow round around the tiger to get back to his room; his waist had begun to pain beyond a bearable level.

“If you wish to truly help yourself, you must let go of your anger,” Xuen continued when Sabellian said nothing.

“And by stop myself from being angry, it will somehow halt losing my mind?” He asked, unsure if he was supposed to be incredulous or amused by the thought. 

Xuen flicked his ear. Sabellian's headache was getting worse.

“It will not halt it, but it will stall it. Such emotions are poisoning you.”

Sabellian ground his teeth. This annoyance was quickly becoming aggravation. To think he could be lectured was something short of stupidity.

“I have every right to be angry.” He went to cross his arms, but paused when the tight flesh along his wounded shoulder grew tauter. His hands fell to his sides.

“Because of the young prince,” Xuen rumbled. Something passed along the tiger's eyes, some strange emotion, but it was gone before Sabellian had time to discern what Xuen was thinking. “I know of such transgressions.”

Was this Celestial omniscient? He could not know what had happened at Sik'vess – or why Sabellian was even here, in Azeroth. Did he speak generally of Wrathion?

“He has killed my children,” Sabellian finally said, doing nothing to hide his disdain. “I believe that calls for anger, despite whatever 'transgressions' he has done, besides.”

Xuen paused. He gave a deep sigh. “I see, though I am unsurprised. Wrathion had many difficulties when he spoke with me. He humored me, as you do, but I thought my blessing might have swayed him onto another path.” The tiger's tail slid back and forth, sweeping away the falling snow gathering along the entranceway. “It is difficult to change the nature of a thing.”

So Wrathion had met this Celestial. Before Sabellian had time to reply, Xuen stopped moving his tail and cocked his head at him. “But what of you? You, too, are a black dragon. You protect home and family. Noble causes, and just. But do you do so out of vengeance, or to guard your children?”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. The newly falling snow it melted a foot away from him, so he was not covered in dripping chill; the result was a circle of water on the floor around him, like some sort of demonic circle. How fitting, he thought, given the grim circumstances. “Killing him would satisfy my vengeance and ensure the protection of my family,” he answered. Xuen smiled.

“Ah – but you have avoided my question. What is it you truly want, son of the Earthwarder? To exact such vengeance, or to protect your family?”

Sabellian stared. Had he not just answered the question? Both causes were the same.

“I am protecting my family,” Sabellian said slowly, squinting up at the tiger.

“I do not argue that – and nor do I argue that anger is not necessary. Controlled, anger can be a fuel to strength, as long as there is cause for it.”

“There is a cause for it!” Sabellian snarled, anger flaring in his chest so readily it was like a match to oil, as it had with Nasandria.

“Tell me: why has Wrathion killed your children?”

Sabellian deflated as quickly as he had erupted. He hesitated, unsure about the change of topic. “He kills because of our corruption,” he explained gruffly, “though it does not manifest on Outland. We did nothing; our only crime was living, and proving him wrong. If you call me hateful, then be sure to call the 'prince' the same.”

Xuen hummed, a sound low in his throat. “So the Prince, too, has a cause, as you do.” Sabellian began to bristle, but Xuen continued. “I know of his familicide. I understand he did so to protect this world from those who could not have been saved.” He nodded to Sabellian. “Such as your father.”

“My family had no need for saving on Outland,” Sabellian lied – for did they not? Was not that the point of keeping Wrathion alive, there at the Tavern, so he could try to return with his brood safely to Azeroth, away from the drifting chunks of a broken planet? - trying not to scowl as again the readied anger crept up in his chest. “We did nothing. It is out of blind hatred and cowardice the boy killed my children, and hoped to kill me.”

Xuen nodded. “Indeed, his cause has been... misguided, as you say, by hatred, and perhaps fear of the unknown.” The tiger frowned and folded his bulky forelegs closer together. “As so many causes often are. Fear and hatred together... mm. A deadly and dark combination. I fear the Black Prince, despite my test, never understood that such things could make him blind to his own cause, no matter how well-intentioned it is.” He glanced back at Sabellian. “But it is a cause. Tell me, then: are you not like him, in this way?”

“I am nothing like that brat.”

“But are you not? You both have causes. You kill to protect. But you, too, hate, as he does, though Wrathion does so out of fear. You hope to kill him, and to make him suffer – as he made you suffer. Do not hide your wishes – I can see them upon your face, and in your heart. Did I not say it rolls off of you so readily?”

Sabellian snarled. “I am killing for my children! If I can make the boy suffer, then all the better for it!” How easily he remembered those dark thoughts as he lifted from Sik'vess: to blind, maim, and torture Wrathion would bring him not only vengeance served but great pleasure. The suddenness of the thoughts made him jerk back, and his head began to pound worse than it had been. Xuen stared at him, and for the briefest of moments, Sabellian thought he heard the tiger begin to growl.

“And so you kill to gain power over your enemy! Strength is pausing to understand your foe before coming to a just resolution, and doing what is right, no matter the personal repercussions. Power – power is killing savagely, without thought, for revenge, no matter how great the initial cause. Which one are you?”

“Do you stupidly suggest I stop trying to kill Wrathion? He will destroy us if I do nothing.”

Xuen relaxed; Sabellian had not realized the tiger had been taut around his shoulders. “No. Why killing is the greatest price, sometimes, it is needed – as it was needed with your father, and relatives. I advise you to think over the Black Prince's reasons for his own actions, and then yours. Collect yourself, and understand the mind of your foe.” He rumbled. “If not, you will sink deeper in your obsession with revenge. Such a thing is what pushed you off the edge, made you lose yourself to the Sha, and what is inviting the Old Ones into your heart. It sparks controlled anger into hatred, sparks strength into unthinking power.” Xuen paused to look out at the temple grounds, and Sabellian thought of the buildings he had destroyed in such rage. The tiger looked back at him. “As I told the Black Prince: strength used in the service of others is twice as powerful as strength spent on our foes. Perhaps he did not take my advice to heart, but you might.” Xuen stretched out his forelegs, then slid up to his feet in one swift movement. “If you realize the priority is your children, not watching the boy die by your hand... then you will have true strength - greater strength - to slow your corruption and face again your enemy. Not to crush him – but to protect those who you hold dear.”

Sabellian said nothing, but he found he could not longer keep eye contact with the Celestial. He looked to the temple grounds as Xuen had. The snow had stopped falling. Was he not protecting his children? Of course he was. He'd said as much. It was why he had come here.

But it was undeniable he wanted Wrathion to suffer, as he'd wanted Gruul's children to suffer as his own had; watching them fall, bleeding and gutted and missing chunks of flesh was a wonderful memory.

Watching them die had been the end goal in that act of vengeance. Was watching Wrathion die the ultimate goal here, too? But was not having the boy die the same as protecting his children? If they were different, as Xuen suggested, what was the priority: revenge or his family? Sabellian grimly realized he wasn't sure – for to him, they were the same. He ran a hand over his face and sighed hard; he was tired.

“I will give you my blessing,” Xuen rumbled, and Sabellian looked to the tiger. Xuen remained in the same position. “It will shield you, but for only so much time. I cannot save you. You must save yourself.” And before Sabellian could find a suitable reply the Celestial opened his toothed mouth and breathed, and a gust of blue, iced air swept over the whole of Sabellian's body. He flinched as a sudden pain tensed in his mind, as if something was pulling back while his body remained still, but it stopped as quickly as it had began to be replaced by a calmness Sabellian had not felt since coming to Azeroth. His body, too, felt steeled, and his wounds ached less. He breathed out lowly and relaxed.

Xuen watched him. Sabellian cleared his throat. “I am going to lay down,” he grumbled, and Xuen nodded. Sabellian would have glared at the flash of amusement in the tiger's eyes had his mood not been lifted by the blessing.

“Indeed. I wish you luck.” Xuen moved to the side as Sabellian trudged past him. "And remember this - the boy is good. This, I know. You see one side, as he sees one side of you. Keep such a thing in mind as you reach your balance."

Sabellian shook his head and ignored that advice. As for luck? Yes. He would need every inch of luck in the world.

---

Finally – finally – Kalecgos had gotten the Eye to work.

It had taken a day, but after much frustration and even more insistence, the Eye had stopped shutting down for him.

He'd been spurned by the urgency of the situation, he knew; in truth, Sabellian's bullying had affected him little, and had only made him aggravated. Honestly, he had not retorted back, wary such an argument would flare Sabellian's ramping corruption.

But the black dragon's words had struck a cord in him. Kalecgos was never one to sit back and let things pass as they would, no matter the inevitability of the outcome. The death of a Flight was a feeling he knew well: the hopelessness, the despair. The loneliness. Sabellian was no friend to him – his wounds still ached, mending a week after he'd been thrown about by the black dragon – but he did feel for the Dragonflight as a whole. He had not been bluffing when he had spoken to Nasandria of the interest in a purified black dragon brood. An entire culture, washed away by the whispers of the Old Gods, reborn planets away! It had been both from an intellectual and empathetic standpoint he had labored over the Eye. If Wrathion could be made, could not others?

He'd had little else to do, at any rate. Abandoning his post at the Wall had been unsightly, but news had been slow – at least from the pandaren factions. The energy had shifted from Pandaria to Kalimdor, from what Jaina had told him a week prior.

But now, Kalecgos could put his work to good use. It was time to turn on the Eye and make it tell him what it could do.

He sat in his chilly room, the fireplace and lanterns unlit – as cold as he liked it. The curtains were loosely drawn; through the slips, the window shone, ice cracking along its surface despite the climbing sun, obscured by clouds. Dark, yes, but Kalecgos found he could focus more with little light. He was used to sunless days in Coldarra, when the winds would scream and the snows would fall.

“Alright,” Kalecgos murmured, scooting his chair up close to his desk. The Eye was rolled up against his pile of parchment, filled with his notes and missives. It glinted at him. “Let's try this out.”

He grabbed it and held it aloft. Spending so much time on it, he found the on button with ease rather than grope around for it, and as he clicked it, the Eye spun to life. As it had so many times before, it sprung up and activated, until its golden sheen bounced off the gritty walls of the room.

It began to scan, its thin light beaming from its core, when Kalecgos spoke in a clear, demanding tone, all in the Titan's lilting language.

“Override initial system boot-up.”

Simple as that, the Eye whirled – and then the stream of light changed. The tip of the beam expanded and warped and curved to become a three-dimensional, shining projection that looked as if it was made of stardust: the slowly spinning globe of Azeroth.

It did nothing else. Kalecgos hesitated to think over his next move. Say the wrong thing, and he risked the Eye shutting off. It had done so, before, the last time he had tried some two hours before, and had refused to turn on again until now. Obviously a fail-safe against unidentified users. Still annoying.

But what to ask? Kalecgos ran a hand through his hair and eyed the globe. How could he reorginate a reorigination machine? The thought was ludicrous, but he had to try.

“Show options,” he tried. Last time, he'd brazenly asked it what to do about corruption, and the question had frazzled it.

“LOADING..... OPTIONS loaded.”

The globe of Azeroth glowed and little sparks like stars began to rotate outwards like the planet's moons. But these sparks stopped to hover in mid-air, and began to transform until a list of runes of the Titan language. Kalecgos skimmed and translated them instantly.

Experimental Reorigination Projects. Stability. Contact. Archive.

Well, it was best to start at the beginning. “Experimental Reorigination Projects, please.”

The Eye gave a cheery beep, and the runes dissolved. The globe spun until the craggy outline of the Eastern Kingdoms was closest to him.

“PROJECTS.... loaded.”

The sparks which had become the runes unfolded from the surface of the Eastern Kingdoms. Kalecgos watched them rise and warp. To his astonishment, the balls of light were beginning to form into holographs of creatures, big and small alike; some had to merge together to create the larger animals.

Where was once only the globe was now a host of animals when the sparks had finished forming. Some were common: a large buzzard flapped in mid-air and a wild boar with a mane of quills pawed as it hovered and circled on its base. Some were not so common. There was a hunchbacked trogg whose back was full of spikes, an Earthen, and – a dragon.

Kalecgos stared at the dragon. Like the others, the hologram rotated around like it was being showcased, and even if the only colors in the three-dimensional creatures were the white-blue of the sparks, Kalecgos knew it was a Black Dragon: its large, proud horns were curved like a ram's, and curved fins sprouted from its forehead and slid all the way down its spine to end at the barbed tail. Of course Black Dragons could look different, but the curved horns were almost always a sign of Neltharion's brood.

But Kalecgos didn't recognize this dragon. He studied it as the Eye hummed before recalling that Sabellian had told him this artifact had created Wrathion from the bodies of three corpses. This couldn't be...?

“I'd like some information on the dragon, please.”

The Eye beeped, and the other creatures disappeared until only the dragon remained. The sparks which had made up the other beings merged in with the remaining hologram until the wyrm tripled in size and in detail. There wasn't much life to it; its eyes were two pinpoints of stars.

“Species: BLACK DRAGON. Bloodline: NELTHARION, empowered by KHAZ'GOROTH.”

More mini-stars split up from the globe and formed into a miniature of Deathwing next to the larger model of the unnamed Black Dragon. But with only a quick glance, Kalecgos realized it was not Deathwing, but Neltharion: his scales were intact, his body no longer covered by heavy plate, and he stood tall and straight and very, very proud. Kalecgos grew uneasy and looked away. He'd seen Neltharion as a proto-drake, the beast before the protector before the monster, but seeing the fallen Aspect as his true former self made Kalecgos... uncomfortable. It made him think about what could have been; more than once he'd woken in the night after dreams of the writhing, molten mass in the Maelstrom, more element than dragon.

“PROCESSING......... information loaded. Subject reoriginated from multiple subjects expunged of Azerothian OLD GOD corruption.”

So this was Wrathion. Just.... the adult version. Interesting. Maybe he could use the information here to try to pry what he could do for Nasandria's family, if anything...

“More information, please.”

The miniature of Neltharion split to form a proto-drake, large and bulky.

“DRAGONS originated from PROTO-DRAKES. Proto-drakes evolved into dragons after Necessary Intervention. Proto-drakes -”

“Wait, no, I know this. Stop. I meant more information about the reorigination of Wrathion.”

“Subject unknown.”

“The dragon.”

“NELTHARION, Aspect of the Earth, tasked with the protection of Azeroth. The -”

“No, no. I mean the – the subject.”

Pause. “Query?”

“Would he have been able to have been... reoriginated without separate bodies?”

A longer pause, and then the Eye gave a beep. As far as Kalecgos was concerned, it sounded displeased. “Rearrange question. Query?”

“Would Azerothian Old God corruption be able to be purged any other way?”

“Negative.”

Kalecgos's shoulders slouched. It hadn't even hesitated. “There's no other options available?”

“OPTIONS: reorigination or extermination.”

“Would reorigination be viable even without... separate organic material?” Kalecgos asked, remembering Nasandria's missing arm and already knowing the answer.

“Negative. This reorigination would result in the malfunction of the organism.”

Kalecgos leaned back in his seat and folded his hands over his stomach. He set his lips in a thin line as he stared the hologram of the adult Wrathion down. What else could he ask?

“Would this organic material need to be the same as the subject's matieral?”

“Correct.”

Well. Perhaps this thing had borders where Nefarian had had none. He supposed this machine wouldn't combine human with dragon to create drakonid monstrosities. That was... good.

But it didn't bode well for Nasandria's family. He'd thought, maybe, if there'd been no other way to purge the corruption but reorigination, they might use other flesh from things not from their dead kin... seeming as there was no other black dragons around but their own brood. And Wrathion. Perhaps a crocolisk could have worked...

Even then – reorigination was a subject even Kalecgos knew little about. For example: was Wrathion at all like the three dragons he'd been made out of? Were all three individuals' traits and strengths and weaknesses meshed together when the Eye had pulled them apart and stitched them back together again? Or had they become an entirely separate entity, disappearing in the new consciousness? The risk this Eye poised... even if they were able to use organic material, would they be the same dragon, after?

“Why is there no other options besides the two?”

“Fetching information.....” It beeped. “Azerothian Old Gods known for binding to the FLESH of organic material. Major difficulties in extracting the corruption besides forcible separation or full extermination.”

That made sense. The Old Gods had an affinity for cursing flesh – or creating it.

The information didn't help him, though. It was what he had thought: the Titans had to have had this as a last resort, to be so gruesome. Kalecgos wouldn't be able to rewire it; nothing he did would work, if what the Eye said was true. And he had no doubts it was true. Had not the Dragonflights tried everything to cure the Black Dragonflight of their sickness? The purge hadn't come easy (though admittedly, many dragons, at that point, were eager to slaughter their corrupted kin). And Wrathion had been made by this process and this process alone...

It was hopeless. The only option the Black Dragons had was to stay away from Azeroth. But how long would the chunks of Outland remain? What then?

Kalecgos huffed. Would he give up so easily? But what else could he do? He lurched in his chair and touched the hologram of Wrathion, only for it to shine and twist. From different parts of the dragon's body split separate sparks, and suddenly there was not one but four dragons in front of him, all very different. Oh – the dragons who had made him. Kalecgos waved them away, unnerved by the thought.

“Take me to the main menu,” the Blue grumbled, leaning again in his chair as he ran a hand over his face. You've done harder things, he thought to himself as the hologram of Wrathion and Neltharion merged back into the globe and the runes returned to float around its side.

But he realized he had not. He'd failed and succeeded, half and half; he'd lost Aveena to the Sunwell and Tarecgosa to his assassins, but had been chosen as Aspect and had... somewhat... used the artifact to see the beginnings of the Aspects.

Somewhat. Not like he'd want to do it again. He still had headaches of shifting into Malygos's past consciousness with his own.

Trying to purge an entire race of their ten-thousand year corruption, something no one else had been able to do, was not going to work. And he knew it.

“Power off,” Kalecgos said. The Eye snapped close and its iridescent glow faded within a blink, and it floated to land on his desk. He'd been interested in the “Contact” section, but he supposed he'd check it once he was in a better mood.

He glanced at the mirror, leaning against his desk. It was around the size of his head and looked pearly in the dimly-lit room. Jaina wouldn't know, either. And she probably wouldn't want to be asked; she had enough on her schedule. The times Kalecgos actually got to speak with her, she was tense, tired, and very frustrated. Best to leave her alone on this.

That reminded him – she'd said something about strange anomalies on the coasts of the Jade Forest. Something about reports of portals there going haywire and refusing to stabilize. He'd told her those days before he had not heard anything of it, and he had planned to research... but. Here he was. With a confusing artifact. Again.

“You're not going to be able to do it, are you?”

Kalecgos jumped. He turned, pupils narrowed to slits, until he realized the person in his doorway was only Nasandria, and he relaxed.

Up until he realized what she had said, at least. He rubbed the back of his neck. Nasandria had her eyes lidded, and dark stains circled her eyes. She leaned against the door frame, but her otherwise casual air was broken with the way she was looking at him: disbelieving and not at all hopeful.

She'd see right through him if he lied; there was no point in lying, anyway. “No. I won't be able to.” Kalecgos sat up straighter in his seat and turned to face her fully. “With what little it has told me... I think staying on Outland is your only option.”

Nasandria stared at him. For the briefest of moments she frowned, and a twinge of hopelessness creased at her eyes. She bit her lip. “And what about my father?”

Oh. Yes. Sabellian was in the worst position of them all, right now. How long would it be until the corruption set in? Soon, he supposed... Kalecgos regretted taking off the collar.

“Well, I'm not sure. I -”

“I know he's losing it,” Nasandria interrupted. She swallowed hard. “He won't tell me, but I knew when he used the earth he was done for. And he can't sleep. I'm used to him yelling but he really snapped at me today.”

“What? What do you mean about the earth?”

“He never uses it,” Nasandria explained. She was no longer looking at him but at the opposite wall, and her hand gripped hard onto her remaining left upper arm. “I know that the 'Sha' was corrupting him, or whatever, but he never uses it.”

Kalecgos paused. Be truthful. “The Sha is from the Old God that came from this continent.” He continued despite Nasandria's face falling. “I think what would be best for you all is to go to Outland. There's nothing this Eye can do for you – but I think you know that.”

Nasandria scowled. “Don't you think I've thought about going home? I've wanted to go home since my brother died!” She dropped her hand from her other arm and it clenched into a fist. “And do you somehow think my father can make the nearly week long trip over the sea to get to the Black Portal? He's too weak and I knowhe doesn't have that much time left until he goes mad.” She made a frustrated growl deep in her chest and hurriedly rubbed at her eyes as she looked away. “He'd never make it. And he won't leave.”

Kalecgos hadn't thought about how long the trip would be. How could he miss such a glaring thing? He rubbed his hands together as he thought, the chill of his thick gloves warming between his palms.

“I'll try to figure something out,” he said, and glanced over at his desk where the two halves of the enchanted link remained. Kalecgos would have to get it back on Sabellian.

“Maybe if you went and killed Wrathion for us, my father would want to leave in the first place.”

“I don't think that's the best option.”

“It was a joke,” Nasandria admitted flatly. Again she ran her hand over her eyes, and then she laughed, a choked, unhappy sound. “Wrathion killed my sister and we came to kill him. And now my brother is dead, my family was attacked at home, and my father is going crazy.” She glanced at her missing arm and hastily looked away, to glare right into Kalecgos's eyes, her glower searching, angry. “Tell me how that's fair?”

Kalecgos shifted. “It does not sound fair.”

Nasandria snorted. She shifted in her lean against the doorway, shuffling her weight from foot to foot. “I know things aren't ever fair, I guess. But I thought we'd be fine, this time. We'd suffered enough, you know?” She glanced at the Eye. “The best part, though, is that I got that thing for nothing. My arm is gone for nothing.” She rubbed at her remaining upper arm. “If my father had just killed the brat at the inn, none of this would have happened.”

“Why didn't he?” Kalecgos asked. He knew little background on this entire struggle, if anything. All he knew was that Sabellian wanted Wrathion dead and vice versa, which had somehow culminated to now.

“My father got the bright idea that Wrathion could tell us how to fix our corruption,” Nasandria grumbled. “Well, there it is.” She gestured to the Eye, sitting on Kalecgos's desk. “Hacking off our limbs.”

Kalecgos frowned. Something about this talk of corruption was bothering him, and, after a moment of silence, he spoke. “Nasandria,” he began carefully, “have you felt any pull of the Old Ones, yourself?”

Nasandria shifted again. “No. Why?”

“It's simply curious, to me,” Kalecgos admitted. Outside, the wind began to howl. Another blizzard stirring, perhaps. “I would think with such prolonged exposure, you might be feeling... effects.”

Nasandria stared at him. For a moment, Kalecgos thought he may have overstepped his boundaries, but then she sighed.

“When the artifact,” Nasandria began, turning her eyes to the Eye again, “took my arm, a sort of...” She took a breath; the drake was growing paler in the face. Kalecgos feared she would be sick, but then Nasandria breathed again and continued. “My arm began to ooze with this black gunk.”

Odd, but then Kalecgos remembered what the Eye had said – how the Old Gods bound their corruption to the flesh. It made sense. He began to wonder, then – surely an Old God could not bind itself to a soul, the spirit of a thing? The brain was organic, indeed, but the soul... well, he was getting ahead of himself. A soul could be smothered by corruption, and could be released only in death. He was reminded of the mogu, how they bound unwilling souls to their war golems. Not quite useful to the conversation.

“Well, that's it, then. It must have taken out some of your corruption. I'm sure it's given you a bit more leeway to guarding yourself. Honestly, I'm surprised your father lasted so long, especially as Deathwing's true son. I suppose the Sha corruption must have been the final piece.”

Nasandria did not look taken aback by his guess; if anything, she looked flat-faced, like she'd already known.

“It doesn't matter about me, though,” Nasandria rumbled. “It's my father who's in trouble.” She looked at him, and her yellowed eyes grew sharp. “Maybe the Eye can't do it, but you can think of something. You killed my grandfather. You were the Aspect of Magic. You can do something, can't you?” The longer she spoke the more insistent her words had become, and again there was the desperation, the crinkling of hopelessness in her face.

Kalecgos hesitated. No, I cannot do anything, he thought, but did not say. It was clear, with what the Eye had said, that there was little he could do... perhaps he could try to stall Sabellian's corruption? He might be able to manage that.

“I'll try. But I can make no promises.”

Nasandria nodded, and then she was gone.

---

When the blizzard had ended and Vaxian and the nether-drakes had crept out of the cave, the whole of the mountains had disappeared beneath the snow. Any landmark that would have existed was now swept away in the white sheen which spread out in all directions, shiny, almost blinding, in the late-morning sun.

They hadn't waited for anything to thaw off; they didn't have the time for that, and Vaxian had doubted it would thaw anytime soon in these chilly winds.

But it was not the lack of landmark that worried Vaxian as they flew into their second hour of flying; it was the fact that Sabellian's scent had been lost.

It had been faint enough to begin with, when they'd passed the side of the first mountain in the range and Vaxian had caught it along the rock. It had been the first clue, and thus the one he had leaped on the quickest – but here, in the cold range, battered by shearing winds and blizzards, Vaxian was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. Had the scent led to the east, away from the range, and not into the range? If only he had some heat to warm his scales, rather than this cold; maybe then he could think straight. The sun from before was now dim, hidden by clouds. He would have taken the blinding snow rather than the colder air.

Another half hour passed. Vaxian smelled nothing. He could feel the tiring of the nether-drakes' behind him; the flight in the blizzard had been difficult, and had sapped their strength. Even Vaxian ached.

Vaxian was about to suggest a stop when the wind shifted, and he caught a faint scent: dragon.

He hovered in mid-air, startling those behind him, as he looked around, trying desperately to hold onto the scent.

“What is it?” Kathas asked.

“Black dragon,” Vaxian responded hastily. There it was – coming from the western wind. He folded his wings and dove. The air whistled around him; the world became a smear of grey and white. When he was about to hit the side of a mountain, Vaxian snapped out his wings and tore away. The scent was closer, but still far.

Trusting the drakes to follow, Vaxian quickened his flight. It wasn't the smell of his father, but it was, undeniably, Black Dragon. The smell of deep fire in these mountains was like a beacon.

It had to be one of his siblings, then, if it was not Sabellian. But why be separate?

After many twists and turns, dodging cliffs hidden underneath snow and jumping over and under outcrops, Vaxian nearly passed the cave.

Just as he was about to fly past, with the scent as close as it was going to be, he saw a flash of dark grey and black: a large opening, halfway hidden by the snow. A cavern. He halted and turned back. This was it – the scent came from here. He landed hard on a cliff that led to the outcrop of the cave, panting, and the drakes landed behind him.

The cave had a large, yawning opening; fresh icicles dripped from the top, toothed like Vaxian's own maw. Snow from the blizzard had piled up along the outcrop leading into the opening, and was so high it reached to the middle of Vaxian's forelegs as he trudged along.

The smell of dragon grew as he walked. But it was not fresh, not burning of smoke and deep earth – instead Vaxian smelled burning and char, a smell he, with much regret, knew well.

But still Vaxian walked, mindful of his pace as the netherdrakes slogged behind him in the snow, melting from his scales – and when he rounded the entrance, Vaxian saw the skeleton.

It was deeper into the cave mouth, and its charred bones glinted in the light that managed to reach into the bowels of the large cavern. Laying on its side, one of its wings, fragile in appearance in death, was tucked close to its body while the other sprawled along the icy floor. Immediately Vaxian saw the snapped neck, how the drake's head was skewered at an awkward angle.

The netherdrakes murmured their alarm behind him as they saw it. Vaxian sighed hard through his nostrils, quivering from the chill. He looked the corpse over. It was not Nasandria; the body was too small and the double-horns too big. Talsian, then: his clutch-brother.

“Oh,” Lathas murmured, nosing his way closer into the cave, but keeping his distance from Vaxian. “That's one of yours?”

Vaxian nodded. Again he sighed and made his way to his sibling, his great claws clinking against the glistening black floor. The wind began to howl.

“My brother, Talsian,” Vaxian announced, his rumbling voice rebounding off the cave's sides. He grew close enough to loom above the skull. The hollow sockets stared through him. A coldness had collected in Vaxian's chest, colder than the winds of the blizzard.

“I'm sorry,” Okelaka called from behind him.

A strange phrase. It was not her fault, or any of theirs. Vaxian looked the skeleton over, noting the charred bones, blackened and gritty. Talsian had been burned properly, at least, and the knowledge his clutch-sibling had been given rest through the ritual flame was enough to make Vaxian relax, if only somewhat. But by who? His father, no doubt. He eyed the snapped neck. It took great force to twist a dragon's throat; the neck was heavily muscled and the scales hard. The Prince was a child, was he not? Vaxian frowned. That did not add up.

Talsian's death did not bode well, either. He recalled what Samia had said the agent they'd killed in the arakkoa's forest report; how his father had little, if any, time left. Vaxian had thought it a well-said bluff, used to spurn them. He knew such a guess was unlikely, now, staring into his dead brother's face. If something – someone – had managed to kill Talsian, who was nearly a grown dragon like himself... he worried for Nasandria. The mortal had said nothing of his clutch-sister. They had obviously underestimated this Black Prince. But how? What could a child do?

Vaxian shook his head. It was disrespectful to think such things in front of his brother's rest. He moved away, giving himself ample room, and exhaled smoke from his nose; in the same moment, he arched his back and bowed low to the ground until his snout touched the cold floor. He waited until the ground had warmed fully from his heat to rise again.

His respects given, he turned to the netherdrakes.

“Let's look around the cavern, and see if we might be able to find what happened here,” Vaxian said. Though the wind was picking up, the cave was angled just so, allowing it to shear across the face of the entrance without entering; Vaxian did not have to raise his voice above it.

“It reeks of mortal,” Okelaka murmured.

“It smells faint to me,” Kathas chirped, trotting forward to delve deeper into the cave, though she made a large loop and slowed around the skeleton. She disappeared around the curve, the ribbons of her nether fading behind her trail.

“I'll stand guard,” Ralfas said. Vaxian nodded and glanced at Okelaka, who had not moved and was frowning out at the cave entrance.

“Is there something wrong?”

Okelaka shook her head, but the movement looked unsure, unconvincing. “Nothing.” She turned back smiled at him, her white eyes glinting with the snow, and Vaxian cleared his throat and hurriedly looked away.

“Your imagination, I'm sure,” rumbled Lathas, sniggering. “Ralfas, do you remember when she mistook our own crystals for a void terror?”

“You looked at the wrong time,” Okelaka insisted, fluffing her wings out, flustered.

“Shut up, Lathas. Go do something useful,” Ralfas grunted, never looking away from the entrance of the cave.

Vaxian slid back. The other netherdrakes fanned out, save for Ralfas, and their investigation began.

Indeed, Vaxian could smell mortal as Okelaka had, but faint, very faint, frozen here because of the lack of wind to wash it away. He paused as Lathas moved past him, who slunk through one of the two passageways in the back of the cave that led off into the deeper recesses, to scent at the ground. Something there along the wall had caught his attention.

The scent of mortal – human, he discerned, barely – and the iron, charred smell of dragon blood remained up along this small section of the wall. Perhaps one of the Black Prince's agents and Talsian? But it was not Talsian's scent, here. Maybe the Black Prince himself?

“Look! I found these.”

Vaxian glanced up. Kathas bound up to him, her veridian glow striking against the otherwise gloomy rock walls; she lit up like a firefly. In one claw she held two articles: gloves. Carefully, the netherdrake extended them out to Vaxian. “They were where you're standing.”

They were halfway frozen, the fine leather cracked and splintered, and lined with deep purple scales and tipped with black claws. Dark blood stained one of them. Vaxian snuffled at them, then snorted. The same smell as the one near the wall. These were not his siblings'; they must have been the Prince's.

It certainly confirmed that both the Prince and his family had been here.

“Keep searching,” Vaxian insisted gruffly. “Keep them.”

Kathas went away, trotting down the other sloped passageway opposite the one her twin had slid through.

Vaxian had begun to walk to the main end of the cavern when a chill like mist brushed up near his side. He tensed - until he realized it was only the rolling energies of a Okelaka as she came up to him.

“You are taking your brother's death well,” she murmured as Vaxian began to walk, and she followed.

Vaxian shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am used to death.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

The true sincerity in her voice startled him. Vaxian paused and looked at her. How unused he was for those other than family treating him with kindness, and no derision. “I will be fine,” Vaxian assured her. “There is nothing I can do for him, now, save to find his killers. There is no use crying over something I cannot fix.”

“Well, no. But I think it's natural, to cry. I would.”

Vaxian breathed out hard, a huff of a laugh. “I guess it is,” he admitted, and as she turned to look at him, he looked away.

“I'm guessing you're not a crier? And that was a very sad little laugh. You are very serious.” Okelaka reached out and nudged the end of her snout into his neck, and here Vaxian actually laughed, and the mood instantly lightened between them, like a curtain drawn up.

Quick footsteps from one of the passageways made Vaxian look up. He saw the glow of one of the twin's green bodies striking against the wall until Kathas appeared. “There's two chambers, but there was nothing in this one. One smells of orc.”

“But there's something in this one!” Lathas bound from the darkness of his passageway. “Chains! They smell of the skeleton. Another black dragon scent, as well.”

Chains for Talsian? Vaxian frowned. The other scent must have been Nasandria. Why would there be chains for his brother but not for Wrathion, who had been set along the wall? He could discern no other scents; only his family's, the two mortals, and Wrathion.

Then Okelaka glanced up.

She trained her eyes on the entrance as the pearly crystals crusted along her spiraling horns began to glow. Vaxian was not learned in nether-dragon language, but he understood immediately that she was alerting to something.

Vaxian smelled them before he saw them: the musked tang of mortal, fresh and close.

The Blacktalon appeared from smoke, right before his face.

Vaxian ducked, dodging the blow that would have slit his throat. The human, cloaked in black and wielding two steel swords, came at him again as the cave erupted with the alarmed snarls of the drakes as more rogues appeared.

As Vaxian moved away from the second blow, he scanned the cave: six mortals, in total. He snarled and whipped his tail around, smashing it into the second rogue who had tried to sneak up to his side. The orc went sprawling.

Where had they come from? Vaxian spun away from the first rogue to pounce on the orc, though this one was too fast to recover; she jumped away from his claws as he smashed them down where she had lain. Around them, the cave seemed to bounce with the whirling neon lights of the netherdrakes' bodies as they fought off their own assailants. And why had Ralfas not warned them?

The two mortals, human and orc, kept at him. The cave was too cramped, too small for his form; each time he pulled away or struck out with maw and claw, he would meet rock. His tail grew sore from smacking back into the wall.

“Move away!” Okelaka cried, unseen. Vaxian ducked, and a Blacktalon went sailing over his head, electrified by silver nether energy which exploded along his form once he smashed into the curve of the cavern. He moaned and went still.

The discharge startled the two rogues, giving Vaxian enough time to shift into his human form. He towered above them, black plate clanking, and as he drew his crimson greatsword, they moved away, bounding like rabbits.

Vaxian raised the weapon. Nearly as long as he stood tall, he pointed it level, and waited, grounding himself through the earth as the chaos of the other drakes fighting resounded around him.

The rogues glanced at each other, then at him.

One disappeared. Vaxian saw it coming. He waited until he felt the smoke tickle at the back of his curled hair to swing around forcefully. The Blacktalon who'd appeared behind him dodged from being cut in half, but only just; the end of the shining sword slashed across their tunic, and red blood bloomed along the leather. The human cried out and dropped as Vaxian moved away to block the orc's front attack.

Their swords clashed. The orc strained, but Vaxian overpowered her, and as she let her grip slack, he pushed down. Foolishly the rogue had tried to fumble for the hilt of her weapon, and it cost her a cracked wrist as the force of Vaxian's push slammed down against her sword.

He moved away as she, too, dropped. After a quick survey of the cavern, Vaxian saw four rogues remained. Lathas bled silvery-green blood from his right eye, and Kathas, behind him, hosted a long slash along her shoulder. Okelaka was fine, at least from what he could see; two rogues fought her while the others separated themselves to attack the twins.

The rogue near Kathas had his back turned. Vaxian regathered his strength and, with a roar, exploded it outwards. A line of lava erupted before him and crashed the troll in the back. The troll's yell quickly died off, and the stink of burning flesh clouded the cavern. Lathas, too, narrowly missed the flame. Vaxian had to remind himself these drakes were not his family; they could not handle a hit of flame.

Three taken care of – somewhat. Vaxian felt the shift behind him and moved away just as the orc swept out her dagger.

He whirled to face her. The orc's wrist was mangled, but she fought on, and again they traded blows: Vaxian waiting for her to make a move, then swinging with all of his might as she came close to swipe, repeated on and on. The dragon commended her strength, even when he feigned and then ducked to pummel her hard into the wall, where she didn't rise again.

Now there were three down.

Vaxian joined the drakes to finish the remaining three off. Both Okelaka and Lathas had shifted into their mortal forms: Okelaka swung with a pearl-tipped staff and Lathas with a dark green mace. Realizing Kathas, who remained in drake form and fought off one of the Blacktalons herself, was fine, Vaxian joined the former to beat off the rogue.

But this rogue was skilled. Even as he joined Okelaka and Lathas, his added power did nothing to come close to killing the sandy-haired human. Each swipe, each bolt of nether-magic and flame, he danced around.

The Blacktalon feinted at Vaxian, then at Okelaka – and then landed a blow on Lathas's shoulder, in the small opening underneath his mail shoulderpads. The veridian-disguised-draenei cried out and jerked back.

Too late the rogue realized his mistake, as he went to swipe the killing blow at Lathas's throat, too quick for Vaxian, with all of his heavy plate, to stop: the human had turned his back. A furious scream knocked off the cave walls, and like lightning, a crazed, bouncing strike of nether-energy shot forth and pierced the rogue through the back. Smoke plumed; the rogue yelled and pulled away. Vaxian shoved him hard, and Kathas – who had sent the bolt – leaped behind and grabbed the Blacktalon by the chest. With a mighty lurch she threw him at the cave wall, and Vaxian turned away as he heard the mortal's spine crunch.

But as Vaxian raised his greatsword, he saw no more leaping rogues – only stillness, save for the hard, heaving sides of the drakes. He scanned the cave warily, keeping his sword poised, just in case he'd missed something, someone. But the bodies didn't move. The sudden silence unnerved him.

“We've got them,” Kathas announced, sinking into a bowing position and setting the top of her head on the cold stone floor in exhaustion.

“Where did they come from?!” Lathas slid down to sit cross-legged, holding a hand to his bleeding wound. Through the cracks of his fingers leaked his silver blood. Kathas looked up at him, saw his wound, then hopped over to nudge gently at it. Her twin hissed and shoved her away.

“I apologize, Okelaka. You sensed them, before,” Vaxian rumbled, slowly lowered his greatsword. There was no denying it; all of the rogues were dead. He could relax. “Where is Ralfas?”

“Oh, don't worry about me,” Ralfas called from the entrance of the cave. “I'm only bleeding out, here.”

Vaxian sheathed his sword across his back and hurried around the curve of the cave, his plate clanking. Looking over Talsian's skeleton, he saw Ralfas, his black-blue body gleaming, crumpled on his side. A long, precise gash opened up at his throat. The rogues had narrowly missed slicing his jugular.

“Kathas, can you not heal?” Vaxian asked. Kathas was ahead of him; even as he asked she swept by, now in her draenei's form, and after skirting around Talsian's undisturbed skeleton, bent down to Ralfas's throat.

“Don't worry. I have it,” she said, and her hands glowed with a sparking green energy. She set them onto the other drake's neck and murmured something under her lips as Ralfas jerked away then relaxed.

Vaxian did not understand how such healing worked. Kathas had tried to speak of it during their first day of flying when he had asked what their strengths were, but it confused him. Such nether-healing was, as he remembered, only possible towards nether-creatures. Those skilled in harnessing the nether could literally grab a hold of the nether in their kin's bodies and recombine it, similar to stitching flesh. Vaxian had no idea about the limits of it, but Kathas did not seem worried over Ralfas's gaping wound.

At least it was taken care of. Vaxian sighed roughly and scanned the cave. He would have to get rid of the bodies; he didn't want to disturb his brother's resting place with the bones of his enemies'. Quietly, he shifted into dragon form and began to collect the rogues. Okelaka understood what he was doing, and helped him drag them out to the entrance of the cave.

“Toss them over the side?” Okelaka suggested. Vaxian hesitated, tempted by the idea, but shook his head then nodded to the side of the outcrop they'd first landed on.

“No. There. Bury them in snow,” he replied, and Okelaka nodded.

It was a quick job. The snow grew red where the bodies were dragged, but Vaxian and Okelaka covered the stains with more snow, though Vaxian found that the nether-drake had to do more of the work, as the snow grew into slush with his heat.

“I'll never understand it,” Kathas said, finished with healing. She raised from her kneel by Ralfas's puckered neck and shifted back into her veridian drake form. “How did they think they could take us on?”

“Foolhardiness,” Vaxian rumbled. That, or instilled thoughts of invincibility that so many mortals seemed to have... or it may have been loyalty to their Prince. Either way, they were dead, their plan failed.

Lathas ambled up to them in his own drake form. His wound still bled. Kathas frowned at him and looked away.

“Was there not six rogues?” Okelaka asked suddenly. “I only counted five that we buried.”

Vaxian snapped his head around. What?

Something rustled on the other side of the outcrop– and then a dark, furred form shot off from the cliff. Kathas screamed and snapped out, but her teeth missed the barbed tail of the wyvern as it took into the air.

Vaxian began to leap, to blow flame – but the wyvern with its black-leathered rider shot down in a vertical dive then caught the next wind, and careened with such speed around the mountain its brown form blurred.

The drakes began to jump, but Vaxian lurched his body, blocking them. “Hold. We won't be able to catch them,” Vaxian panted, the wind shearing at his eyes, causing tears. He watched the dot of the Blacktalon and their beast disappear beyond the distance.

“We just let him report back to the Prince?” Lathas asked, incredulous.

“Yes.”

They all stared at him.

“I said we won't be able to catch them – their mount is too quick. I didn't say we would not follow them.”

“He'll lead us right to the prince!” Lathas jumped twice, his shark-tail swinging. “Excellent!”

“What about your father, Vaxian?” Okelaka asked.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “He is not here. The scent must have come from this cave, and there is nothing here that will help any longer.”

“You picked up the scent miles before! That's quite a long way for a scent to travel,” Okelaka countered.

Vaxian thought the same way. After all, he had lost it for hours... his f

ather couldn't be in the mountains, but he could possibly be in this golden, cold landscape outside the range. He spread his wings and made his decision. “Perhaps my father is here, somewhere, but this mortal will lead us to the prince. And then, Wrathion will be able to tell us where my father is.” They were wasting time; the Blacktalon would be long gone if they did not go soon. “Ralfas – can you fly?”

“Yes,” the cobalt drake grunted as he lifted to his feet. “I'll be fine.”

Vaxian unfurled the full of his wings, and without order, jumped from the outcrop and into the next wind, and the rest were quick to follow. He picked up the trail of the wyvern instantly.

“Be quick,” he commanded from behind his shoulder, and their speed tripled with the mountain winds.

Sleep was not coming easy for Anduin Wrynn.

Not like it ever did, at the best of times; too often Anduin would find himself staring into the darkness of his room, plagued by thoughts that refused to die with sleep and that kept him awake despite the heavy exhaustion drooping at his eyelids. Tonight was no different.

Quiet, tight-lipped and brows knit, Anduin busied himself by staring up at the patterned marble ceiling; there was little else to do but lay here, now he was well aware nothing he would do would make him fall asleep. He'd even tried to him one of his favorite hymns to himself, and that hadn't worked.

Even a full half hour of his meditation had, almost miraculously, not calmed his anger at Madam Goya, an anger and frustration that still remained curling inside his chest even hours after the trap of a dinner. Anduin sighed and pushed his head deeper into the plush pillow, which he found too warm underneath his head though he was too tired to flip it. He'd hoped hopping into his bed immediately after the disastrous ordeal and sleeping it off would have cast his aggravation away – but apparently not. Anduin wrinkled his nose. He should of known better to think that, though he was unnerved how his meditation hadn't helped. It nearly always did, and having this anger still brimming bothered him on a level he couldn't quite understand.

Maybe that was keeping him awake, too.

He sighed again.

Slowly, Anduin traced with his eyes the circles on the ceiling, looped and swirling in their design like the curl of a wave. He no longer heard the noise of a crowd outside the patio from his closed window; it was too late even for the ever-busy champions of the Alliance and Golden Lotus to be awake, and replacing their noisy wake was a cricket-chirping peacefulness that only made Anduin's eyes more tired – but his mind, not so. Of course.

Well. Sleep wasn't coming. Anduin gave up on it with a frown, and glanced sidelong at his dresser. He could just make out the dark, liquid glint of Wrathion's gem resting there on the counter, unmoved since Anduin had left it before going to see Goya.

Anduin stared at it. He wondered if Wrathion was back at the Tavern yet; the thought made him strangely worried, though mostly for what his quick return could mean... but then again, what had Anduin expected, really? That Wrathion would stay in Townlong for days upon days?

With a muffled groan, his body in a numb protest, Anduin sat up and, clumsily, nearly falling off the side of the bed, grabbed the gem with his burns stretching painfully taut on his back and his arm straining to reach. Grabbing it, he eased himself back into bed and curled back up in the covers, and held the gem in front of his face; it was cool and smooth against his fingers.

If only he knew how to use it, Anduin thought. He turned it around in his fingers, recalling Wrathion's insistence the gem be some sort of game. Anduin still didn't know what that meant, and was honestly wary to know. Having the Black Prince pop into his head at will and read his mind like some sort of red-eyed wizard like he had at the dig site was more than worrisome, even if Anduin did trust the dragon... more or less.

He wasn't going to be able to go to sleep. Anduin knew that much. And memorizing the ceiling patterns seemed a bit too mundane; maybe he could try to figure out the gem's puzzle. It was worth a try, and what else did he have to do? If he could contact Wrathion, he could see if he was back, and -... well, not inform him about Goya's blackmail. That would be done better face to face, Anduin was sure.

Again Anduin turned the cold gem around in his fingers. It hadn't seemed to have lit up again since Wrathion had spoken to him at the dig site, remaining cool after the Black Prince's cutoff. He nibbled idly on his bottom lip and balled the gem into the palm of his fist.

Wrathion had sounded scared when they'd spoken. Anduin knew that much -... though, well, he supposed scared was pushing it. Anxious, maybe, but Anduin wasn't sure why. Had it been the dig site, or whatever was going on at the Black Prince's own camp?-

Anduin paused. Did he imagine it, or was the gem growing warmer in his hand?

He opened his fist and squinted at it. It did seem a little brighter.

Hmm. Anduin idly rolled his wrist. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Wrathion had -

No, wait. The gem grew brighter. Why? Anduin frowned. All he'd thought about was Wrathion -...

… That was it? Anduin sat up a bit more in his bed. Alright, he thought. Let's think of Wrathion.

He closed his eyes and focused. He imagined he was back at the Tavern – without its awful destruction – and sitting across from Wrathion as they played their board game. Wrathion had said something subtly insulting, and Anduin had only flung a retort back that made the Black Prince's grin drop and his body language bristle.

The gem was getting warmer. Anduin grinned. It was working! No wonder Wrathion hadn't given him any hints to how the gem worked; it was surprisingly easy.

Anduin kept thinking. Wrathion in whelp form was perched on his shoulder and slapped him with the club of his tail when Anduin made some snide comment. Then he was back in the tent in Townlong, and Wrathion's hot fingers were curled around his wrist.

The gem's warmth grew to a heat that prickled and poked at his palm – and promptly a great lurching pulled at Anduin's forehead and chest, as if he was being tugged by an invisible string. He startled and nearly lost his concentration, but the feeling soon fell away and he sagged back against the pillows. A red flash shined against his eyes once, like a winking light; it didn't come back.

Anduin paused, wary. Had it worked? He didn't see anything in his mind's eye but his initial surroundings, and closing his eyes he only saw the inky-red of his eyelids. Maybe, he thought, only Wrathion could see through someone else's eyes.

But the gem was unmistakably warm; it had to active. Cautiously, barring all thoughts save for those initially focused on contacting Wrathion, Anduin mentally called out: “Wrathion?”

The effect was instantaneous. A warbled mix of tired confusion and the syrupy sourness of fear, slugged over with exhaustion, bounced against Anduin's own feelings, as if a rubber ball had been thrown at them. A slur of mumbles and curses followed, and Anduin bit his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Whuah?”

Wrathion's fear left, but the confused annoyance didn't.

“Wrathion, it's Anduin.”

There was a long pause – and then a sudden, cold wall of mental force cut between them, and any indication of Wrathion's presence disappeared to be replaced by a hard silence.

Anduin had to hold back a flinch; this mental slab felt almost physical, touchable in its strength, like someone had speared a disc into his forehead and separated his head in two. It was not only this that unnerved him, but it was the chilliness, the feel like steel and rock, that this barrier radiated.

Well, that didn't bode well. Wrathion didn't like to be woken up (Anduin had tried it, once, trying to poke the whelp into wakefulness and getting his fingers bitten instead by a half-asleep dragon) but this felt a bit different than simple annoyance.

Wrathion's next comment only solidified Anduin's suspicion. “How did you figure out my gem, Anduin Wrynn?” The Black Prince snapped, his tone a sneer.

“It was fairly easy,” Anduin quipped lightly, speaking aloud and forgetting there was no need to. He tried to focus his thoughts inward, to speak mentally. “I'm sorry for ruining your game – and for waking you up, it seems.”

He was half tempted to ask Wrathion if he'd woken the dragon from nightmares. Anduin doubted Wrathion would feel fear at someone contacting him through a gem, and Anduin himself knew well the exhausted fear he'd felt spring against him; he wasn't a stranger to bad dreams. But he kept the question back.

“You didn't ruin my game,” Wrathion answered, finally. “You were just unaware it was going on, prince.”

Anduin paused. That didn't sound good either. He gave the gem a critical look but bit back the retort that welled in his throat.

“I see.” Anduin sighed. “Do I want to know what that means, or not?”

At first, nothing answered but that closed-off coldness. Anduin was becoming increasingly aware he'd probably made a bad mistake with contacting Wrathion. Whatever was wrong, he had done it at a really bad time.

“No. What do you want, Anduin Wrynn? You did interrupt my sleep.”

“I'm sorry. I just should have thought of that.” Anduin turned the gem again in his hand; it looked like he held a burning ember against his palm, the glow seeping through the cracks in his fingers. “I was having trouble sleeping, and I thought I could distract myself by -”

“Figuring out my gem. Yes, yes, alright. But do you need anything, or are you just going to chatter at me uselessly?”

Now this was taking it a bit too far. Anduin glared at the gem, about to snap some equally nasty, angry retort before catching himself; he frowned, pausing. His chest felt like it was vibrating, goaded on by what was surely the residual anger from Madam Goya that had kept him awake for all this time.

That... didn't feel right. Arguing was one thing, but this anger felt poisonous.

“I wanted to check up on you, too,” Anduin said, pushing past the discomfort. Gingerly, he shielded away all thoughts of Goya again, making sure Wrathion heard or saw nothing about the Black Market leader, and how it had been the pandaren that had said he would be returning to the Tavern tonight. “How are you doing in Townlong?”

Again there was a long pause; Anduin would have thought Wrathion had simply fallen asleep, save for the gem's lit iridescence still shining.

“I'm no longer in Townlong.” Another pause. “Did you honestly think 'checking up on me' was a good idea at – oh, what is it? Three in the morning?”

Anduin ignored that. “You're not in Townlong?” He asked, feigning surprise. “Where are you?

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes. You've caught me. I'm afraid I'm spying on you and relaying all your words to my father.” Anduin rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He took a deep breath. “I'm just curious, Wrathion. Do you really have any reason to be suspicious of me?”

“Mm.” Wrathion sighed, which sounded like a funneled sound through Anduin's head, high and reedy. “Well. I am not in Townlong any longer.” He paused for the utmost time; Anduin couldn't recall a point when Wrathion had been so hesitant with his words... except their talk in the tent, when Wrathion had begrudgingly opened up to him.

But this was a different sort of hesitance – this was calculated, as cold as Wrathion's mental barrier.

“I am at the Veiled Stair,” came the Black Prince's reply.

So Madam Goya had been right.

Now came the question Anduin was wary to ask. “You brought Sabellian back to the Tavern?”

He felt his body tense as he dreaded the answer, like a weight had settled down on him. Something in the back of his head – something that was not Wrathion's voice – was telling him he knew what the answer already was, but he ignored it. Please, Wrathion, Anduin thought, deep in the recesses of his mind, away from the Black Prince's presence, I hope you did the right thing.

But this time, Wrathion didn't hesitate in answering.

“Sabellian is dead, Prince Wrynn.”

Anduin closed his eyes. For a brief moment he felt as if he'd fallen from a great height, his body slack, but soon the weight settled to lag against his chest, pulling against the center of his heart.

“How?” Anduin demanded. He nearly asked 'why.'

“Don't sound so angry,” Wrathion admonished. “I'm sure you remember Sabellian's signs of madness in Townlong? You even pointed it out to me, I believe.”

Anduin pursed his lips. Yes, he remembered: Sabellian's broken eyes, the flicker of deep-set anger and the sudden look of fear as the dragon had recollected himself, all in that brief instant Anduin had said his goodbyes. He'd thought, then, perhaps, it'd been just because of being so close to to the death-grounds of the Sha of Hate... Anduin hadn't wanted to think it could be the Old Gods, so he hadn't, as if his own mind rejected the possibility and simply blocked it out. A coldness grew at the back of his throat.

“Yes,” Anduin admitted. “What of it?”

“Unfortunately,” Wrathion said, but he didn't sound as if he felt like it was an unfortunate thing, “the old dragon succumbed to it on the plains soon after your leave. Have you ever seen a rabid dog, Anduin Wrynn? Though, well – I suppose you knew the madness of his sister. I'm sure it was comparable, though I don't recall stories of dear Onyxia nearly foaming at the mouth.”

Anduin said nothing. He was too busy trying to wrap his head around that Sabellian had lost his mind. He'd been so sure that the black dragon could have resisted it... Sabellian hadn't looked mad in the Kun-lai Cave, or mad at Lion's Landing, or in Sik'vess, even when he'd split Anduin's arm open. He'd just looked angry, not insane. What had caused him to snap? The Sha, like Anduin had earlier suspected had been affecting him?

“He killed – what, oh, all but three of my Blacktalons? No, worry not, Prince, Left is fine,” Wrathion added, obviously sensing Anduin's alarm. “But. I was incredibly lucky to have killed him when I did. A madness like that would have caused insurmountable damage if unleashed.”

“You killed him?”

Wrathion's mental wall, which had since lost some of its terrible, unwelcoming chill as he'd spoken, began to grow steely and cold again.

“Yes,” Wrathion snapped. “What, does that surprise you?”

“No, I -” Anduin stopped himself and sighed. “Alright. Maybe it does.” He tried to picture Wrathion somehow killing a dragon the size of a house with a small blade and came up blank. “Either way – nothing could have saved him?”

“No.”

Anduin supposed it didn't matter. Saveable or not, Sabellian was dead, and that was that. Anduin just wasn't sure what to feel.

On one hand, he was happy Wrathion was truly and finally safe, away from another threat that could cause him harm – that this whole situation was, more or less, over. On the other, Anduin felt honestly sorry for Sabellian. The dragon hadn't seemed bad, not really.

To lose his sanity like that, put down like some “rabid dog” when he'd just wanted to help his family...

“You should hardly feel sorry for him,” Wrathion huffed, and Anduin jumped. He'd forgotten to shield his thoughts. “I told you this might happen, didn't I? That he would... succumb to what he truly was.”

“Yes,” Anduin conceded. “I only hoped it wouldn't happen. If he'd been at Outland -”

“He wasn't at Outland, though, was he?” Wrathion was becoming increasingly agitated. Every word was a lash. “He was here. Trying to kill me. And he lost himself. Not every story has a happy ending, Prince Anduin. I did what I had to do, and what's done is very much done.”

Curiously Wrathion had adopted a defensive snap which Anduin was unsure what to make of. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe the Black Prince's bad mood had something to do with Sabellian's death, but Anduin wasn't about to ask.

He would have been at Outland if you'd negotiated with him, Anduin thought to himself. There was a chance of that. But you were too stubborn.

He was surprised by his bitterness. Why was this affecting him as much as it was? He rubbed at the soft of his throat.

“Now, can you please leave me alone? A small round of applause for solving my gem on your own, but I really do need to sleep, you know,” Wrathion complained. “I have somewhere to be in the morning.”

“Where?”

Wrathion made an aggravated noise, but through their mental connection it only sounded like meshed static. The gem began to grow dull.

“Wait! Wrathion, wait. I need to talk to you.”

The gem grew the smallest bit brighter.

“We are talking.”

“No – face to face.”

“Why?” Wrathion sounded both unenthusiastic and... suspicious, almost wary. Anduin frowned at the gem. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Anduin hesitated. “It's important,” he said, lamely, then wanted to kick himself for such a vague explanation. He should have thought of a better one before – but then again, he hadn't really thought he'd be able to work out the gem.

Wrathion sighed. “Fine.” Anduin's head bubbled with the dragon's incoherent mumbles. “I will be at the Stair, but at an... event. Thankfully Right's body was found. Left wanted a funeral. So here we are.”

Anduin felt like he'd been slapped. His chest already felt heavy with Sabellian's death, but it grew even heavier, a sheer weight on his body.

“They found her?” Anduin repeated. For a moment he was back at the Tavern, watching the smoke rise as Left and he searched for Right and the others. That felt like a lifetime ago.

“I know you're not deaf, Anduin – actually, no. I take that back. You're awfully stubborn when -”

“I'd like to be there,” Anduin interrupted. He sat up in his bed and gripped the gem tighter. He hadn't known Right very well; she'd been as silent as Left had been before Anduin had gotten to know the orc. But Right had sometimes smiled at him when he'd visited the Tavern, or when he'd come down from his room in the morning, during his first long stay there during the events of the Thunder King. Even without words she'd seemed friendly, and she clearly meant something to Wrathion and, of course, Left. The Black Price might have said only the orc had wanted a funeral, but Anduin was sure Wrathion more than agreed to the idea; after all, Right had been one of the ones he'd lamented during his possession of the Sha, and Anduin didn't forget that.

He didn't forget Left's hesitance about abandoning the search for Right before going to save Wrathion, either. Anduin hoped the steely orc was doing alright.

“Color me surprised,” Wrathion drawled vacantly.

“I won't be long. I'm in the Shrine. The Veiled Stair is just beyond the mountains.”

“Well. Be quick, then.” The gem was already growing dull again. “And so help me, Anduin Wrynn, if you wake me up when you arrive you'll lose all of your fingers.”

Anduin smiled as he got out of his bed. “I get the hint.”

The gem grew cold, and Wrathion was gone.

Well, Anduin thought as he grabbed his shed clothes, which were hanging at the edge of the bed, this was better than staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to rise.

----

Sneaking out was far easier than Anduin suspected it was going to be.

Upon getting changed, he'd written a quick note to his father, telling the King where he'd gone off to. He supposed Varian would at least be happy about knowing his son's whereabouts, if not annoyed Anduin had snuck out for the utmost time.

Oh well. There wasn't much else Anduin could have done.

After he'd gotten changed, he'd walked out to see his guards returned – but sleeping, propped up against the wall, limp, like puppets who'd had their strings cut. He checked for vital signs, worried Goya's goons had done something worse than simply knock them out, but they were fine, and Anduin slipped past them.

As it had been the other night, the Shrine was dead in the deep evening, save for the casual adventurer or two. Getting to the stables, which was on the top floor overlooking the Vale, was easy, and tacking his white gryphon, who'd been wary to see him (he could basically see her question in her dark, inky eyes: “what now?”), had gone quickly, if not a bit clumsily with all of his injuries.

Off he'd flown, circling the Shrine of Seven Stars a single time before heading off to the southern mountains, where through the jagged pass was the Veiled Stair.

The farther he'd flown from the Vale, the lighter his chest felt, as if a great weight was lifting. The gnarled knot of frustration that began with Goya and continued with Wrathion's iciness fell away, and Anduin started to feel... well, normal. He hadn't realized how off he'd felt before flying through the mountains. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he had other things to worry about.

Like finding where the Tavern was.

Anduin squinted through the mists that stretched far below him. He knew the Tavern – or the remains of it – was down there somewhere. He'd flown past the pass, and he'd done this before; he knew where it was supposed to be, but the fog, as thick as a storm cloud, blanketed the mountainside, and the darkness wasn't really helping.

“Alright, girl,” Anduin murmured. “Let's go down.”

He dug his heels into the gryphon's side and leaned forward, and the animal complied; she tucked in her wings and dove.

They burst into the fog. It tickled Anduin's cheeks in a cold, wet wisp and clung to his hair.

The ground swept up in front of them.

Anduin hardly had time to yelp, let alone pull up on the reins. But thankfully his gryphon was quick and she tore up before they were able to crash; Anduin's face smashed into the mount's feathered neck from the rebound, and he groaned before pulling himself up.

Real graceful, Wrynn, he thought. His gryphon huffed and hovered.

Anduin shook off the daze so he could look around. The fog was still thick, but he could see through it. Just ahead he could make out the skeletal remains of a tree, and then another, and another. They looked like emaciated figures, standing there in the mists – like risen ghouls, waiting for him. Anduin wrinkled his nose and gently prodded his gryphon to land.

They had to be the burned trees from Sabellian's flame. The Tavern had to be here somewhere, right?

He led his gryphon forward. He felt like he was trying to navigate a maze as he swept by the trees and other things that jut out suddenly from the mist – a fallen branch, a bench, a fence – and he was sure he was going in circles when the outline of the destroyed Tavern grew hazy in the distance. Anduin smiled. Finally.

He spurred his mount forward until the Tavern was right in front of him, and, gingerly, jumped off. Did he imagine it, or did the inn look... well, less destroyed? As he grabbed his cane, Anduin eyed the building. It did seem a bit less... burnt. He noted that one of the holes in the walls was beginning to be patched up. He doubted that was Wrathion's doing.

As if sensing his cue, a grizzled voice called out: “Welcome back, Prince Anduin.”

Anduin turned – and smiled wide. Tong was standing at the entrance of the Tavern, a steaming cup of tea wrapped in his great paws. Anduin leashed the reins of his gryphon to the destroyed kite stand, pat her flank, and – cautiously – bound up the stairs.

“Tong,” Anduin exclaimed, smiling wider, “I'm glad to see you're alright!”

The old innkeeper returned the smile. He looked weathered, tired; his fur was curled and unkempt and his eyes were dark, as if he had not slept in days.

“Thank you.” He motioned inside the Tavern. “Please, come in. There is a chill in the air I do not like.”

Anduin nodded his thanks and slipped by the pandaren. Tong followed.

Quietly, the prince took in the devastation inside. The main room was dark and dank, lit by only a handful of the surviving yellow lanterns. They cast a warm gloom upon the place, like they were in the belly of a firefly.

Glaring at him, on the opposite sides of the room, were two Blacktalon agents: a blood elf and an orc. Anduin didn't recognize them. He nodded politely and nearly jumped when he realized that they were flanking Wrathion's table and bench, partially destroyed – where on it slept Wrathion himself, curled into a small ball of black and purple scales.

Well, Wrathion looked alright, Anduin supposed – but it was difficult to tell in whelp form if he'd sustained any more injuries when Sabellian had gone mad. He eyed the Black Prince a moment more before turning to Tong who stood behind him, and, remembering Wrathion's warning, lowered his voice in turn.

“I heard you escaped with Madam Goya,” Anduin whispered. He leaned harshly on his cane as his left leg began to suddenly cramp. Tong must have seen his discomfort, for he moved away and slid the single surviving chair out from near the wall and motioned for Anduin to sit.

The prince did so, murmuring a slightly embarrassed thanks. The sooner this leg healed, the better. He placed a hand, warm with Light, against his aching thigh and began to rub in the gentle comfort.

“Yes,” Tong said, after Anduin had sat. He took a sip of his tea then must have realized Anduin was without a drink, for he motioned to his cup as if asking if Anduin wanted any of the same. Anduin shook his head. “Madam Goya was helpful,” Tong continued. “But she is an -... assertive individual. I was glad to leave her, to come back to this place.” The innkeeper looked around; Anduin couldn't read his expression. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Tong was never one to speak much. Any conversation they'd ever had had been in passing, or in small doses. The pandaren was a presence in the Tavern, but always a guarded, dutiful one. He did what he was asked, and that was all.

Anduin had to respect him, though. He couldn't imagine being Wrathion's waiter and putting up with it quietly.

And now his inn was destroyed. Anduin ran a hand through his hair, wet slightly from the fog. Light, this whole Sabellian fiasco had definitely affected others besides Wrathion. It was like a domino line falling.

“I'm sorry about your Tavern,” Anduin murmured. He glanced at Wrathion and looked back at Tong. “Is he going to help?”

“He said he would,” Tong replied. Wait, there was something – a slight twinge of... annoyance, maybe?

“Well, he will. I'll make sure of it.”

Tong gave him an undecipherable but keen look.

Anduin stood. “Do you know where they're keeping Right?”

“Upstairs.” Tong nodded to the stairs. “Be wary of the steps. I've yet to fix them.”

“Thank you.” Anduin took a last glance at the sleeping Black Prince and headed up to the second floor.

Tong hadn't been lying about the stairs. Going up was difficult enough with his leg, but every other step seemed to be missing. He had to hop up like the mountain goats which jumped up the rocks outside, and nearly fell once, but he made it, huffing and puffing,

At least it wasn't hard to find where Right was. Anduin snaked through the room where Wrathion and he played their game, careful not to step on any of the scattered pieces, and noticed the first room was the only room lit, if only by a small glass lantern placed on the floor near the door; the wax pooled around its delicate base.

The door was open. Anduin took a breath. He should have probably waited to see her until her actual funeral, but he felt like it couldn't wait. There was an insistence tugging at his temple, and he followed it without much question. He went in the room – and almost jumped three feet in the air. In the dark he hadn't noticed Left standing guard on the opposite end of the room, until he saw the eyes glowering at him like some ill-tempered ghost's.

“Left,” Anduin breathed, composing himself. “I didn't seen you.”

She looked as if she was made of shadow, and the pinpoints of her blue eyes, as sharp as frost, were the only things even hardly visible.

“What are you doing here?” Left demanded. She crossed her arms over her chest; Anduin was surprised to see her without her crossbow. Her eyes grew colder.

He was almost tempted to ask the same thing, had he not looked over and seen the white sheet, pale as a moon, draped over the single bed in the room. Anduin didn't have to ask what it was.

“I came for Right's funeral.” Anduin locked his eyes back with Left.

The orc made a low grumble in her chest.

“Then get out. It won't be for hours.”

Now came the hard part. Anduin looked away from Left. He'd thought about this on the flight over, but standing with Left, with Right there, he felt a bit ridiculous – like he wasn't sure what he was doing here.

But something was telling him he had to be here. He had to help, somehow.

“I was... actually wondering if I could bless her,” Anduin said quietly. “I've never done it before, formally, but I know what to do.”

He'd sent prayers, of course; he'd done in the privacy of his own mind or sometimes out to the public, praying for those souls lost in war after war to find the Light in their darkness.

But blessing an actual body... well, that was much different.

Left stayed silent. Anduin wasn't sure what her reaction was – she was as guarded as ever – but he saw her thinking behind that serious face.

“She's a human,” Anduin reminded, as if that wasn't obvious, “I can try to do it right by her race, if you'll allow me.”

Left made another growling grumble, but Anduin could see her swaying in her resistance: how her shoulders loosened, her grip on her arms growing limp.

“Fine,” the orc grunted after a tense period of silence. “But I am going to stay here.”

And watch if you make any mistakes. Anduin got the message. He took a steadying breath.

Despite his exhaustion from his insomnia, the Light was quick to warm his chest. He focused on that buoyed feeling of comfort and peace, and as he went to the side of the bed, he spread it through his body until it tingled at his fingers and the soles of his feet.

The Light felt stronger within him tonight. Maybe, Anduin mulled, it realized what he had to do. He let it guide him.

But as he went to pull back the sheet, he faltered. Anduin had seen bodies before. He wasn't a stranger to death – far from it.

Was he really qualified to do this? Anduin grabbed a hold of the sheet and swallowed his doubts, which melted down like the wax of the candle outside.

He pulled back the cover.

Anduin sighed. Right was pale in death, her honey-colored hair pooled around her shoulders with a surprising radiance that Anduin wasn't sure was possible for an older body. He looked the guard over and held back the well of sadness tickling at his throat; her face was scarred and bruised, and her blue and gold outfit was bristled with spots of mud. Without thinking Anduin reached out and brushed some of the dirt off. Left growled.

“Now what?” The orc demanded.

Anduin frowned. The Light was progressively growing hotter in his chest, like the beginnings of a Holy Fire.

“What do orcs do for their dead?” Anduin asked. He raised a hand and hovered it over Right's chest; his fingers were glowing faintly.

The question must have caught Left off-guard, because she didn't answer immediately. Anduin began to center himself, to pull all of his focus inward, as the orc stayed silent; when Left spoke, her voice was reserved, wary.

“We burn their bodies,” Left murmured. “In the flame they go through the elements. The spirits. It steels their souls so they are strong enough to find the afterlife with our ancestors.”

Anduin focused on Right's face. Centered, he pulled upon the memory of her good-natured smiles and kept it in his mind's eye. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“I didn't know that,” Anduin said quietly. He knew the orcs burned their dead, of course, but not the reasoning behind it. “I think it's similar to ours, in a way.” Even though his eyes were closed he knew the glow in his hand was growing, as the heat, the Light, there was shifting up, becoming more powerful. “We ask the Light to help those who have moved on be strong enough to find the other side – like the elements and spirits help.” Anduin heard his voice falter. His focus wobbled, but he quickly drew it back into its pinpoint at his chest.

Had his mother found the afterlife easily, he wondered? Had Bolvar? Had Aerin? Anduin scrunched his eyes so tight that little sparks popped against his eyelids. The Light pulsed once against his temple, like a reminder, and Anduin relaxed again, though his mouth was dry.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. His entire arm was aglow with a heavenly, gold-white sheen; he looked as if his arm was made of molten metal, hot to the touch, like the tempered swords in the smiths of Ironforge.

He might not have been able to personally bless the bodies of those he'd lost, to help them find their way out of the darkness but with his own private prayers, but now, he could help Right.

Anduin splayed his hand and twisted it so his palm was facing down at Right's chest. His head became pleasantly numb, but remained centered; Anduin began to feel as if nothing existed but this place in this time, with this darkness of the room and the glow of the Light possessing him.

When his fingers stretched out fully, tendrils of Light curled from their tips – and like growing vines they sluiced downwards in curving rivulets to make a pool of liquid-like iridescence at the curve of Right's throat. It lit her face until her skin looked as if it glowed again with life, as if the Light wanted to mask this look of death and sorrow.

When Anduin opened his mouth, the words flowed through him as naturally as any other, as if he had done this many times before.

“Let her pass unharmed through the gates of death,” he murmured, though his voice was as strong as the very force of Creation and Life itself strumming in his body. “Allow her find the strength to push through the Darkness.” He moved his hand in a gently twirling motion, and the golden pool of Light against Right's chest began to spread in all directions across her body: it spread down to her cloaked legs, it flowed over the slope of her shoulders, it swept up against the curve of her face. Within moments the terrible slash marks were gone, and the bruises healed, as the Light poured over her.

“Accept her into safe-keeping and eternal rest,” Anduin continued, “and let perpetual light shine upon her. Grant her Respect, give her Tenacity, and bless her with Compassion.”

Gently, the Light seeped into Right's body to disappear beneath her skin. She glowed for a moment, faintly, before growing dark.

It was over. Anduin exhaled, and the shine in his own body dulled and the warmth of the Light inside of him cooled. The room grew dark, and Anduin lowered his hand.

He blinked. He felt like he'd just woken up from a deep sleep, though he did not feel tired.

With that sort of fog in his head, he was only dimly aware of Left standing next to him as he began to come to. He didn't remember when she'd moved, but now that she was close to him, away from the shadows, he could see she'd recently been injured; a bruise struck her temple and there was a long scratch mark against her tunic, thick enough where he supposed she'd been slashed underneath.

“You healed her face,” Left murmured. Anduin nodded. He hadn't known he could do that.

“Usually there's... candles.” Anduin bit the inside of his cheek and the stupidity of his own statement. He gestured vaguely around the room; suddenly, he wasn't sure if he'd done enough, remembering the grandness of Bolvar's own “funeral,” though his had been without a body, of course. “And incense... sometimes more prayer -”

“Stop wringing your hands like that,” Left snapped, though Anduin wasn't actually wringing his hands. “Right liked simplicity. I'm sure she was fine with what you gave her.” She paused, then added: “It was beautiful. Thank you.”

Anduin looked at her. He felt his throat close and sour, but not with sadness or fear. Left sounded like she meant it, and she was looking at him so intensely that even if she grabbed him and shook him there wouldn't be any more action than there was in her look at that moment. Anduin swallowed and bowed his head.

“I'm glad I could help,” he said. He gave Left a wobbly smile. “Thank you for allowing me, Left.”

The orc nodded her head at him.

Their honest moment broke when Left looked away and her eyes grew hard again. It was like watching a paladin don her armor, and Anduin was suddenly reminded of an older human funeral rite, where the strongest of the household would stand guard over the body until the funeral, taking no drink or eating no food. In theory they were supposed to guard the spirit as it made its way to the Light from all sorts of forces of darkness; Anduin wondered why Left was doing it, and if there was some orcish equivalent. He decided not to ask, too aware that prying during a hard time like this was more than rude.

“Why did you do it? You hardly knew her.”

Anduin shrugged. He looked away and, gently, placed the sheet back over Right's body. He sent another quick prayer for her, more of a pulse of good will to her than any actual words.

“I know. And I wish I did know her more,” Anduin admitted. He ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn't mean she deserved less – and she's important to Wrathion and you. I know that. If I could have helped in any way, this was it.”

“She liked you.” Left seemed surprised she'd spoken and wrinkled her nose, her tusks going lopsided. “More than I did, before Sabellian came. I thought you were an annoying pest, how much you aggravated and softened his Majesty, but she thought you were good. For him, too.”

Anduin had to smile, touched.

“So, Right liked simplicity?” Anduin asked. Left squinted at him.

“Yes.”

“I'm sure she must have found it hard working for Wrathion, then.”

Left snorted, but her lips wobbled like she was trying to hold back a smile. Anduin wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the orc actually smile before.

“Go away. You've done what you wanted. Now let me resume my guard,” Left said after a moment, but her tone held no malice.

Anduin nodded. “If you need anything -”

“Go away, Anduin. I still think you're a pest.”

The prince smiled and left.

---

Wrathion thought he'd only imagined the tugging at his wings, but as he'd groggily woken and squinted his eyes open, he quickly became aware of someone sitting in front of him with a light grip on one of his wings as they extended it up and down in mock flight.

Wrathion jumped and hissed. He readied a fireball in his throat before his vision grew sharp and he realized who it was.

“Anduin Wrynn!” He went to snap at the prince's hand, but Anduin was quicker, and seemed to expect the reaction; he pulled away and Wrathion's mouth met air. Much to Wrathion's chagrin, Anduin was smiling about it.

“Good morning,” Anduin said pleasantly. He folded his hands in front of him. Wrathion glared and grunted. His head felt weighed down like he was wearing a helmet, fogged with sleep and quickly forgotten dreams – or nightmares, he wasn't really sure which. Judging by the ball of discomfort lodged in his chest, though, he guessed the latter.

Wrathion tucked the offended wing close to his body. “Don't do that.”

“Don't say good morning?”

Wrathion glared. Anduin smiled.

“You know what I mean.”

Ignoring the other prince, Wrathion yawned and looked around, shaking himself out to try to get the numbness of sleep off of him. Well, Anduin wasn't lying – it was morning, at least an early one. Replacing the gloomy smokiness of the Veiled Stair's evening darkness was now a warm, though dull, light. The sun hadn't fully risen yet.

Wrathion flexed his claws and sat up. That didn't stop the light from illuminating the room more than the lanterns from last night had. Now the devastation was shown in full force: every splinter of burnt wood, every hole in the wall, every shattered piece of china, grew evident... though without the shadows, it all seemed less eerie, less hopeless, like a ghost shown only to be an actor with a mask.

“Where are my guards?” Wrathion asked, once he noted the blood elf and orc were gone at the sides of the table.

Anduin nodded his head to the circular entrance of the inn. “They're outside helping Left.”

Oh. Now Wrathion knew why Anduin had woken him up.

He jumped off the table and shifted into human form.

“They left me unguarded?”

“Well, I was here.”

“Mm.” Wrathion scratched at the back of his hair and yawned again, all his sharp teeth peeking from his dark lips. He smacked his mouth closed and hummed, then looked at the entrance.

“I suppose they're... ah -... getting it ready?” Wrathion turned to face Anduin and found the blond prince staring at him. He had an openly questioning look on his face, like he was listening to Wrathion speak another language and was trying to figure out what the hell he was saying while he stayed politely silent.

Wrathion glared. “What?”

Anduin dropped the look – mostly. His eyebrows remained only slightly tilted, like he was halfway concentrated on some problem, and Wrathion recognized the look from when they'd played their board game. Anduin always had it on his face when he knew his pieces were in trouble, but he wasn't trying to let Wrathion know. Wrathion had teased him about it, once, but it seemed Anduin hadn't improved his poker face.

That only reminded Wrathion to put on his. He placed it on silently as he looked down at Anduin.

“Nothing,” Anduin said.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. He looked away and around again. It was hard to actually believe he was back here, like nothing had happ -... well, alright, he supposed the mayhem of the Tavern was evidence enough something “had happened.”

Which made Anduin Wrynn being here worse. Of course Wrathion been surprised the prince had figured out the gem, but he was mostly aggravated that Anduin was contacting him again so early. Anduin had the terrible habit of making Wrathion's guard drop. How he did it, Wrathion had no idea, but he did it. But Wrathion wanted to simply forget what had happened, and with what happened at Sik'vess, Wrathion didn't want the dear, kind-hearted Anduin Wrynn to get nosy.

That look of his made Wrathion wary – but he was prepared to shut out Wrynn's questions and prodding, if Anduin decided something was amiss. It'd gone well during their talk over the gem – Wrathion hadn't let any feelings through, had enjoyed the mental block, how much power he'd felt over the situation – finally! - and he'd only continue it as long as Wrynn was around him.

As it should have always been, anyway. The damn golden prince. The sooner he was gone, the better.

“But yes, they're getting it ready,” Anduin continued. He rubbed at one of his eyes and glanced at the entrance. Wrathion wondered when he'd got here. He didn't ask.

Wrathion stretched. “Where is Tong when I need him? I'm parched.”

Anduin stared at him with disbelief. “Can't you give Tong a break? He looked exhausted. I don't think he wants to be your waiter right now.”

“I'm paying him, aren't I?” Wrathion gave Anduin a sharp look. He wasn't in the mood for this. “And I am generously helping with the Tavern's rebuilding. That's more than enough. The least he could do is fetch me a drink, don't you think?”

Anduin sighed but, surprisingly, didn't argue.

It was steadily growing lighter in the room as the minutes clocked by and the sun slowly rose. Wrathion, tired of standing, sat next to the other prince, but faced outwards at the entrance: his usual position.

Doubtful any champions would be walking through those doors anytime soon, though.

“It must be nice to be back here,” Anduin said. Wrathion hummed noncommittally. “Honestly, I thought we weren't going to see each other for a while.”

If only. Wrathion smoothed down his leather sash.

“Well. It's certainly better than where I was,” he answered.

Anduin nodded. He hesitated before speaking again. “I saw Left's injuries.”

Oh. Wrathion stiffened. He hadn't thought to wire his cover-up over Sabellian's death to Left; he hoped she hadn't said anything to give him away.

“Did you get hurt anymore when Sabellian...?”

“No.”

Anduin pursed his lips. The prince didn't believe him. Wrathion bit back a scowl.

Physically, you are, some voice whispered. But how is that mind of yours? Is it breaking again, or hardening into stone?

Wrathion beat the thought back, annoyed at himself.

“Your cast looks terrible, though.” Wrathion looked over to see Anduin swiveling in his seat and extend one of his hands – but he didn't go to grab Wrathion. Instead he kept his arm hovering, waiting for the Black Prince's permission, and Wrathion nodded. Gingerly, Anduin held Wrathion's arm in both hands and plucked at the stringy, stretched ends of the gauze. “I'll have to recast this.”

“You should heal it,” Wrathion argued, ignoring the question. Anduin glanced up at him. “Fully.”

“It depends on how it's doing, and... well, usually you're supposed to rest it, but with all the stress you've -”

Wrathion pulled his arm away. Anduin blinked with alarm and dropped his hands.

“Fine, yes, alright.” He ignored the curious look Anduin was giving him and turned away again.

They said nothing for a long time. Birds were beginning to cry in lilting calls. Farther off, he could just make out the distant cry of a hawk and the crunch of grass underfoot outside.

The prince's silent was both tense and awkward. Wrathion had to force back the tempting notion of speaking again to break it as he normally did, but each word he spoke kindly to Anduin would only break his shield. Who knew what weak foolishness he would say around Anduin? He hardly trusted his own voice.

“Wrathion?”

“What?”

“You did the right thing – with Sabellian.” Anduin wasn't looking at him. “You were right. You said he could go mad.” He turned to look at Wrathion straight in the eye and, absurdly, a pang of guilt tapped at Wrathion's chest. “I'm glad no one else got hurt.”

And then Anduin smiled and put his hands up defensively. “And that's all I'm going to say about it. I promise.”

Wrathion stared. He studied the blond's face for signs of a lie, for that sloping brow, for a frown – but there was none. Anduin was genuine.

What a surprise.

Wrathion cleared his throat.

“I know,” he said. “You don't need to tell me that.”

Anduin shrugged. A small smile tugged at the sides of his pale lips. “I know,” he repeated. “But it's always nice to have someone to confirm what you feel – at least, I think so.”

“Touching, Prince.” Wrathion scratched idly at his goatee. “Why are you here, again?”

Anduin's smile fell. Now there was a look on conflict on his face that Wrathion wasn't sure what to make of.

“I wanted to be here for Right,” he said slowly. “But I wanted to be here for Left and you, too.” He paused, and his eyes flickered, and Wrathion saw him thinking behind those blue eyes of his. “I'm sorry she's gone. I know that sounds empty, but I am sorry.”

Wrathion shrugged.

“She was just a guard,” he mumbled, vacantly. “I've lost dozens of Blacktalons.”

“Did they get funerals?”

Wrathion glared, though Anduin hadn't said it with snark.

Smoke drifting from between his grit teeth, Wrathion looked away.

“What else do you want? You said you had something important to speak to me about, didn't you? If that's gushing about your feelings, you may as well leave. I have business to attend to after this is over.”

Anduin locked his jaw and his eyes grew hard. In the single instant his face transformed from kindness to frustration. “We can talk about that afterward.”

“You're being very vague.”

“I must sound very familiar, then.”

Wrathion huffed. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

They lapsed into an angry silence.

Well, Wrathion thought bitterly. At least this seemed to be normal.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, Wrathion stood. “Well! I'm going outside. Join me if you'd like, prince, if that leg of yours doesn't stop you.”

Not waiting for Anduin's reply, he left the Tavern, the wood creaking underneath his feet.

It was actually darker outside then he'd thought it would be. Though it'd been light in the Tavern, spread out, the light was thin and weak out on the mountain side; long, sharp shadows stretched from the burnt trees. From the eastern wind of the Jade Forest came a warm current that smelled of flowers and wet grass – an unfitting smell of life in this destroyed place. Wrathion thought it distasteful. He liked the earth well enough, but sometimes it was cruel in its own private ways.

The thick fog from last night was gone, at least, replaced by the Stair's usual mists – so Wrathion could easily spot the large pile of wood near the the left edge of the mountain, which overlooked the Jade Forest.

Some of his Blacktalons milled around it. The orc who was supposed to be guarding Wrathion was busy chopping small pieces of wood from cut-down burnt trees that lay in a dwindling pile next to him.

Wrathion spotted Left. She was arranging the cut pieces of wood around the base; they looked like the finishing touches. In a way, the stacked wood was strangely beautiful, like a solid spider's web, interlaced and locked with great care.

The grass behind him crunched.

“The mountain doesn't have any yielding soil,” Anduin said as he came up to Wrathion's side. He smelled like parchment and soap. “Left had them look, but the only place close enough for a burial is the Jade Forest. She didn't want to risk carrying her down so far.”

Wrathion eyed the wood pile.

“A pyre, then?” Wrathion hummed. His own inner flame (Gods, how much he cherished the warmth there; he'd hope to never lose it again) flickered at his chest. “Hmm. I like it.”

“Why's that?”

“I like fire. And, besides! It's much more fitting to burn a body than putting a body in the ground.”

Anduin stared at him.

“How is that 'fitting?'” Anduin asked, confused.

“What's the point of being put in the ground in a single place when a part of you can sail on the wind?”

Anduin shifted his weight back and forth. “That's certainly one way of looking at it.”

Wrathion turned his attention back to the wood pile. Left was standing straight now, rubbing the dirt from her gloves onto her thighs.

And with the sun rising steadily, casting even longer shadows and brighter colors of gold and purple against the edge of the cliff, Wrathion could now see the small bundle on top of the unlit pyre. He stared at it.

The knot of discomfort from his forgotten nightmares, which he'd thought he'd tucked away, resurfaced. He blinked hard and scowled.

Trying to distract himself, he said: “Does Father Wolf know you're here?”

“Father Wo -...? Oh. No. But I suppose he will soon.” Anduin sighed. “I feel like some sort of criminal, sneaking out at night again and again.” He shrugged, and his mood seemed to lighten as his eyes softened. “Maybe he'll realize one day he shouldn't have to coop me up.”

Wrathion smiled in amusement. “How lucky I must be to be free of that sort of situation, prince. I couldn't possibly imagine being barred up like that.”

Anduin squinted at him. “I guess so. I know he does it for my safety, but -”

“All the same, parental figures seem so...” Wrathion twirled his hand, searching for the word. “Aggravating.”

Anduin shrugged again. “Sometimes, but... they mean well. My father does.”

Wrathion sifted his fingers at the back of his hair. He was watching Left. The orc was barking orders to the other Blacktalons and making aggressive movements with her hands, pointing them into two flanks on each side of the pyre, left and right. When that was done, she locked eyes with him. When had she noticed he'd come outside? Her back had been to him the entire time.

Better not to question her talents.

Wrathion nodded at her. She returned the gesture, then turned her back to him again.

Wrathion thought the orc was only bowing to Right until Left struck out a hand to grip onto the pyre as she bent over and knelt her head, her long ponytail swaying behind her shoulders. She remained like that, unmoving.

What in the world was she doing? Wrathion tilted his entire body, putting almost the entirety of his weight on one foot so he could lean harshly to the side, and tried to crane his head to see over Left's shoulder. He noticed Anduin give him a look of alarm and... warning? but he ignored it.

Left's eyes were closed. It looked like she was praying. Wrathion couldn't hear what she was saying from this far off, but he was actually glad he couldn't. It was a private conversation and one he had no wish, for once, to eavesdrop on.

He suddenly understood why Anduin had given him the look: the prince had known what Left was doing.

Slowly, Wrathion swayed back into his default position and looked away from Left, giving her a moment.

“Have you been to a funeral before?” Anduin asked. Wrathion shook his head, but he was relieved Anduin had spoken.

“No. I suppose I was never invited to one, was I?”

Anduin laughed quietly.

No - he'd never been to a funeral. Or a burial. Or a pyre, or what-have-you. He'd never seen what his champions had done to the bodies of those he'd asked to slay, if they did anything at all with them.

Of course he'd read about it. He'd heard about it. When he'd researched the Alliance and Horde leaders from the comforts of his Tavern he'd been honestly impressed with all the different methods... how the night elves returned their bodies to the earth, how the tauren mummified or burned their dead, how the humans were buried or put away into stone vaults like idols.

And then he'd shied away when reading about how black dragons seemed to simply throw their fallen kins' bodies into a boiling vat of lava to smolder forever in the Obsidian Dragonshrine, and that had been the end of his research.

He was glad when Left stood straight and turned back to him. Wrathion realized it was time to start the whole event.

He made his way over.

Wrathion glanced at the Blacktalons who'd made the two walls at the sides of the pyre. There were – what, only six rogues here, in total? Wrathion scoffed. He'd lost too many, and at this point, he wasn't counting on those he'd sent to finish the job at Blade's Edge to come back, which was another blow to his numbers. He'd need to hire more.

“Excellent work, Left,” Wrathion said. Close up, the pyre was taller than he thought it was; it came up to his chest. Replacing the plainer sheet that had covered Right's body was now a more elaborate piece of full, black silk, embroidered at the ends with interlaced red serpents of Pandaren design. Wrathion wondered where it'd come from, but decided not to ask.

Left grunted in way of response. Her hands were clasped behind her back and her elbows locked so tightly she looked like she would snap at a single touch.

It took a moment for Wrathion to realize she wasn't even looking at him. She was looking at Anduin.

“Are yo u sure this will do?” Left asked suspiciously. Wrathion looked between the two, confused.

Anduin nodded. “It's fine. Humans do this sometimes, too.”

Wrathion squinted. Do what sometimes? He was suddenly beginning to regret being asleep and missing out.

Left ground her teeth. She looked like she didn't quite believe Anduin, but finally she sighed hard through her nose and relaxed just the slightest bit. “Fine. Good.”

“Excuse me.” Wrathion waved his hand impatiently to the two, and they both looked over. “What is this about?”

Anduin glanced at Left. The orc ground her teeth again so hard Wrathion could have sworn he heard her jaw popping.

“I was unsure if a fire would be fitting for a human,” Left grumbled. “Many of the Horde – the orcs – practice pyres.”

“What does it matter? Right wasn't part of the Alliance or the Horde.” Wrathion smiled brilliantly. “She was a Blacktalon! Practically part dragon. I think a pyre is fitting for that.”

Left relaxed even more.

“So. It's all ready, then?” Wrathion continued, and Left nodded silently.

He paused. Wrathion could feel his cold front beginning to slip. He allowed it – for a moment.

“And are you ready, Left?”

“Yes.” She glanced one last time at the silk before looking away and nodding.

Wrathion nodded sharply. He gazed over at the black silk and took a step forward.

If he'd never been to a funeral, he'd never known how to act in one. Respectful, of course, but -...should he say something? Wrathion rubbed at his upper arm and bit his bottom lip.

Low enough where Left or Anduin couldn't hear, he murmured: “Ah... thank you for your service.”

That didn't feel like enough; he frowned largely. He'd rather speak to Right herself than speak to a hidden body.

Which Wrathion couldn't do. The finality of her death hit him; he paused before he continued.

“And I do need to thank you for sacrificing yourself for me,” Wrathion added. She'd distracted Sabellian with the crossbow and gave time for Wrathion to shift into whelp form and escape – and she'd given him the idea to hide in the Auction House with all of its assorted weapons, which had delayed his capture. He was loathe to think of what else would have happened if Right hadn't been able to intervene.

Wrathion hesitated, but slowly, he reached out and touched the end of the black silk. It was cold underneath his fingers.

“I'm not any good at this, am I?” Wrathion grumbled. “I have no idea if you can hear me, wherever you are – if anywhere – but I'm sure you can at least see that.” He glanced up and saw the sun beginning to peek up along the tall, slim hills of the Jade Forest.

No elaborate words came to him. Wrathion closed his eyes and took a breath before he turned his attention back to Right.

“You were a good rogue and a good friend. Apologies that I was a regrettably bad one. I suppose I'll have to work on that.” He pat the small handful of cloth and let go. “Goodbye, Right.”

Wrathion stepped away. Something instinct told him to bow - so he did, bowing his head in a show of respect, and when he stood straight, he pulled at the flame in his chest. Wrathion put a hand up and, palm straight, swept a fire across his hand to set the pyre into flames.

It began to smoke instantly. Wrathion's red flame ate into the side of the wood and spread quickly, dancing back and forth across the interlaced pattern of the pyre. Though the sudden wave of heat that gusted outwards from the growing inferno didn't bother him, Wrathion stepped back until he was at Left's side.

With the heat, Left was standing a yard away from the flames – Anduin Wrynn, however, was much farther back, sweat beading his forehead. Whether Left could withstand the burning better or if she refused to leave Right's side any father despite the discomfort, Wrathion didn't know.

It didn't matter. Wrathion stood by her and watched the flames rise until they finally engulfed the entire frame of wood in a roar of fire and heat. The flame must have reached three yards high, spinning and waving and hissing in a powerful show that captivated him.

A good way for a brave woman to go, he thought.

Neither he or Left looked away from the smoldering flames as the sun rose behind them in a kaleidoscope of red, orange, gold and purple.

How long they stood there, Wrathion didn't know. When the flames finally began to die, the sun had risen and his knees ached. Where the pyre had been was now a small dusting of black ash that already was beginning to be swept away by the Jade Forest's western, warm wind, along with the risen smoke. Wrathion watched it drift away.

Finally, after another long period of silence, he took a deep breath. It was done.

Wrathion glanced sidelong at Left. She was staring at where the wood had been; her eyes were shadowed but unmistakably sad, but the rest of her face was hard and cross, as if she was a statue only halfway come to life.

“I think she would have liked it,” Wrathion murmured.

Left's eyes flickered and sharpened, like she'd just woken up from a trance. She rubbed at them in a swift movement with the back of her hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

“It was good,” she agreed, her voice slightly hoarser than usual. “Powerful.”

Wrathion nodded. He took another last look at the place the pyre had been and sighed loudly.

“When you're ready, come inside. We have business to take care of.”

Left looked relieved for the change of topic. She nodded sharply.

Wrathion turned away and, holding himself high, swept back to the Tavern, ignoring Anduin's following gaze.

Right was given her rest. Good. The final shreds of Sabellian's destruction were beginning to fade.

Now Wrathion needed to focus – make up for lost time, shape new plans, send new Blacktalons to learn the status of the war and the pit in the Vale. It was nice to go back to normal thoughts like those, rather than be plagued by ones surrounding stupid, aggravating alchemists and his children.

Wrathion practically hopped into the Tavern.

Ah – yes. Sabellian was dead, but that left the rest.

Wrathion supposed he'd take care of that next.

---

Of all the ways Sabellian thought he would die, dying alone in a cavern deep underground wasn't one of them.

He was honestly a bit disappointed. And angry. He'd always assumed he'd die fighting or, if he was lucky, going peacefully. This fate, though – this was underwhelming, but no less painful.

No – actually, he took underwhelming back. This death was hell. Each breath was pain and each movement, however slight, was agony.

And worst of all, the earth pressed on him on all sides, immobilizing Sabellian into an inescapable trap. He could hardly breathe. The rocks dug up against his scales, and the four pillars in the center of the tall room pressed into the thick membranes of his wings and threatened to cut off all blood circulation there. They felt cold. He felt cold.

But he couldn't move, and he couldn't shift back into his mortal form.

The minutes that had led up to his fate felt like mere blurs of memory. He'd been too weak to fight the mantid, the wounds from the harpoons finally beginning to sap the scraps of strength he had left, and when Wrathion had turned towards him – well, he'd certainly been too slow. The dagger had pierced him and then the chaos was gone, and Sabellian was alone in the room, bleeding out so quickly he could feel his own life slipping away.

When he'd seen the blood on his hand, he almost couldn't believe it. After ten thousand years, he was going to die. He was going to drift away and never wake up.

He was never quite sure of whether to believe in an afterlife or not, but he hadn't been keen on finding out so soon.

Some instinct had overtaken him. Unthinking, too weak of strength for coherent thoughts, he'd shifted into dragon form. The room had exploded around him in a cacophony of sound that seemed to rattle the entire kypari tree.

Sabellian had gotten himself trapped, then. His form was too large for the room, as he'd thought. The walls, the pillars, the rock – they'd all pressed against him and crushed up against his harpoon wounds in a burst of fresh agony. And the earth surrounding him so closely, gripping against his sides, sucking the breath from his lungs -... he'd begun to panic, thrashing wildly in what little room he'd had until he'd realized he was only making it worse when half of the left side of the room collapsed down on his back and suffocated him further into claustrophobia and misery.

So he'd gone still. At the time, he took comfort in that he'd delayed his death, his form bigger and the wound, in turn, smaller – though it was internal, now, deep inside his gut, and he knew he'd still die anyway in this dark, dank place that smelled of dirt and his own blood.

He was going to die. The finality hit him hard, and he was dazed by it. Nothing he could do could stop the bleeding; it was too deep a wound and, ironically, he'd sealed his fate when shifting into dragon form to postpone his death, as now he was too weak even to shift back into human form where the injury could possibly, desperately, be staunched. He'd doomed himself.

“You stupid fool,” he'd murmured.

Then he'd tried to get up.

The rocks were too heavy and he could not move them with physical force. He tried to fight. His claws had screamed and scratched against the earth in screeching rumbles. He'd tried to force himself through the pain, through the growing weakness in his movements, through the gradual haziness that his mind was beginning to succumb to as his wound bled inside.

Sabellian had stopped when the agony became too much. It was hopeless. He would die down here, alone, and there was nothing he could do.

Defeated, he'd laid down his head and simply waited to die.

He may have found comfort earlier in delaying his fate, but that was then. Now Sabellian wished for death to come quickly. The suffering, the agony of each heartbeat, was not worth a few more precious minutes of life. He took comfort in a grim sort of way how much weaker his breath came as the minutes passed.

Sabellian should have been angrier. Even he knew that. He should have been angrier at Wrathion, angrier at the mantid, angrier at everyone but his own self and his own family. He should have still been fighting to escape this fate.

He'd lost too much blood to care; he was too weak and too far gone to feel, to even muster the slightest bit of aggravation. It wasn't exactly a sense of peace that inhabited him, but just -... a sense of nothingness, a blankness, where all he felt was a wish to die.

Sabellian wasn't sure what to expect when he died. Nothing? Hell? Somewhere in-between? He wasn't afraid, had never been, but he was morbidly curious. A nice long sleep would do him well, he thought. He deserved that much, at least.

As he mulled to himself, he stared at the rocks crushed up against his head and wished he could see the stars; at least that would be a good last thing to see. Even the red nether-streams of Blade's Edge sounded nice. At least he would be with his family, had he been there.

His family -... for a moment something flickered hot in his chest and he tried to pull himself up, but he collapsed back down not a second later.

Wrathion would go for them next, now that Sabellian would soon be gone.

Again Sabellian tried to stand up, and again he fell down, his knees buckling underneath him and the earth, the very thing he hated and feared, pushing back down against him.

He couldn't do it. Not even for his children.

A faint sense of shame and anger at himself bristled the back of his softening consciousness. Get up, it was screaming at him, but from a distance far, far away.

Sabellian tried to listen. He tried to move his legs but found he could not even do that anymore.

Samia would protect them now, he thought vacantly. He could not any longer.

At least he might be with those he had lost soon, if there was a place beyond death. The thought of seeing Kesia again only spurred his wish to die tenfold.

Sabellian paused. Had he heard a voice?... No, voices, muffled beyond the rock.

For a horrifying moment Sabellian thought they were the whispers of the Old Gods returned, but as he focused, he realized they were coming from the entrance of the room, which had been blocked off, he knew, when the left wall had fallen in his desperation. His tail, too, was crushed up against it, mixed in with the rubble.

Though muffled, this hissing clicks of the mantid were unmistakable. In his haze, Sabellian didn't know what they were saying. No doubt they were wondering how to get back in. Hah. He took some satisfaction in knowing it was impossible, and even if they did, he'd be long dead by the time they got their claws on him. At least he wouldn't succumb to the Old Gods with that foul sonar of theirs. He would have laughed at them, had he the strength to.

As the pain went on, and he began to slip away farther and farther, the noises, too, drifted off.

Sabellian wasn't sure when he finally closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. It could have been minutes or hours, but it mattered little - he could feel the blood pooling into his throat, foreign, and he knew death was close. The sense of relief of finally being free of this pain felt almost physical.

He drifted off into darkness.

---

Sabellian was awake.

Was he dead? He remembered closing his eyes and falling away... but his body still hurt.

Wary, Sabellian opened his eyes.

Well, it was certainly dark.

Maybe he was in hell. Sabellian wasn't sure if he really deserved that -... but, well, maybe he did. Most of his life he'd been a corrupt monster who'd destroyed thousands of lives.

Thinking about how many families he'd probably murdered in his madness made him sad. He missed his own.

No - this wasn't hell, though it felt like it. He was still alive.

But something had woken him up. Sabellian heard a curious buzzing noise that sounded faintly familiar and very annoying. He'd been ripped away from his relief for that? -

A low keening whine echoed off the rocks. Sabellian stiffened. That was one of his children's cries. He was a good enough father to know which one it was: Nasandria.

For a disorienting second he thought she might be here in the room with him, but he realized where it was coming from: the mechanical whelp. Of course. That was the buzzing sound, coming from his side where his satchel had been hanging at his waist. He tried desperately to turn, to try to grab it, but he forgot he was trapped, stuck, and too weak to move.

“Maybe you’re busy, but I just wanted to let you know I’m not sick anymore.”

There was her voice. Sabellian mentally gripped onto it like a lifeline, and for the briefest of moments he felt some will within him stir.

Nasandria was alive, and healed. The relief was stronger than the relief he'd felt before he'd drifted off into unconsciousness to escape his own pain.

“I think Alexstrasza the Life-binder healed me.” Pause. “And Kalecgos is here, too. I’m either very lucky or in a very strange place.”

Where are you? He wanted to ask. Again he tried to twist himself in an attempt to grab the whelp but the rock was too strong. Sabellian snarled weakly in frustration. Where are you?

“I still don’t have my arm, though. It’s hard to get used to.”

Sabellian stared at the wall.

“Are you okay? If you’re not, I can come find you. I’m okay, now. Like I – like I said.”

“Well, if you’re busy, I can try again later. But please be okay. I know that’s stupid, but – I mean, you can’t get hurt that badly.”

This was some cruel joke. Sabellian growled. That flicker in his chest from before grew brighter until it burned like a flame in his throat. His daughter was alone and waiting to find him and here he was, dying, unable to answer or help her.

The buzzing stopped. Sabellian snarled again in frustration. This was true helplessness, he thought.

That was when Sabellian finally started to get angry.

Nasandria's voice, his beautiful daughter's voice, had stirred something back to life in him.

What had he done to deserve this? He'd done terrible things, but they had never been a conscious choice of his. Did that not matter? Was he doomed anyway, cursed to carry the burden of his race even in death, to be punished for sins he'd never have done if he had the ability to deny them? Had Gruul not been a terrible enough blight upon him?

He should have never helped Wrathion. That's why he was dying down here. He'd assisted the damn whelp not once, but twice – and where had that gotten him? Dying alone and bleeding to death in the dark. Outstanding.

Sabellian cursed the Black Prince with every swear, hex, and spell he knew. He hoped Wrathion would suffer like Sabellian had and currently was. He wished for the dragon to go blind, to have his wings ripped off, to have his throat slit.

Why had he ever ripped Wrathion from the trance the Klaxxi had put upon him? A moment more and Wrathion would have surely fallen to Y'shaarj, with how much of the Sha smoke had surrounded the young dragon's form. At the time, Sabellian hadn't even wished his enemy to go through the hell that he'd spent the majority of his life living, being a slave to the Old Ones -... but now? How wonderful it would be for the Black Prince to go insane. Sabellian wished for that, too. He even wished for Wrathion to maybe even kill the golden prince in that madness, to watch his single friend die. Yes. That would be good.

Replacing the haze of death was now a sheer pit of anger and hate so harsh and so terrible he felt as if his entire body was being consumed by it. He had been a coward and a fool to give up so easily before, and the shame that he, Sabellian, son of Deathwing, giving up like a weakling because his wounds simply hurt him was enough to make the anger rise even further until he saw red and smoke drifted in pluming puffs from his snarling mouth.

He was not going to die down here and abandon his family. That was no longer an option.

Some small bit of his mind was warning him of this strong sense of hate and malice, but he ignored it.

Willingly, he handed himself over to his own wrath.

It was as if some monster had awakened inside of him. Where he could not stand before, he could now, pushing himself up against the ceiling with a thunderous roar that shook the earth around him.

The ceiling began to collapse. Sabellian pushed himself up against the side of the left wall and focused on the earth in the one way he'd dared not done in years, but now, with his anger, his hate, there was no fear for the Old Gods underneath. He connected to the earth in an instant, felt the rock come to life around him, felt the spread of Azeroth beneath his claws. With hardly a thought he commanded the rocks to stop collapsing against him, and they obeyed. The earth trembled as if in fear of him.

Another flick of a claw, and suddenly the entire ceiling imploded in on itself, bursting backwards, higher and higher. It tore through roots, ripped through higher hallways and rooms, and opened itself large enough where even in his massive dragon form Sabellian could move inside. A shower of earth and amber crashed down on him, but Sabellian felt nothing, not even the pain of his own wounds that were killing him, anymore.

Sabellian gripped onto the sides of the tunnel and ascended.

The tunnel he'd created finally reached the top level. The fresh air swept down into his face as he climbed, and he only quickened his pace.

His claw met the edge of the opening. Sabellian dug his talons into the grass and pulled himself out of the ground before collapsing to the plains, heaving in deep gulps of the cold air.

He was noticed fairly shortly afterwards.

Sabellian glanced up when through his red haze he heard the buzzing of wings – and saw behind him the great shadow of Sik'vess highlighted beyond it by a distant cloud of darkness that at first he thought was a cloud but quickly realizing it was thousands of mantid fliers.

Those closer near to Sik'vess had noticed him. Two dozen began his way. He recognized the helmeted form of Kil'ruk at the side.

Sabellian's anger was quick to erupt again. He stood up and his pain was forgotten for the second time as the mantid descended.

They did not stand a chance. Sabellian cut them down with a white-blue, smoking flame and set half of them on fire. Kil'ruk was yelling: “Leave him! Fools, leave him!” but when the others tried to escape, he swatted them out of the air and crunched down on their flimsy bodies, reveling in their pained cries as they died in his teeth and claws.

Soon the soldiers were dead, but Kil'ruk had gone. Sabellian didn't care. They'd only been a nuisance.

He shifted into human form and stumbled, forgetting in his haste and anger the wound that was still draining him of life, regardless of his rage. Swiftly, like an after-thought, Sabellian pressed his hand to the bleeding wound as he undid the satchel at his waist and brought out the mechanical whelp. It was slightly crushed from his escape, but workable. Unthinking, on auto-pilot, he tapped into its location device, the very same they'd use to find the one Wrathion had had from the nether-drakes.

First, Sabellian would find Nasandria. He would kill anyone who might be keeping her wherever she was, even if that one was Alexstrasza or Kalecgos, or both. The odds didn't matter. He'd make them suffer.

Sabellian coughed, and blood dripped down his mouth. He ignored it.

Quickly he shifted into dragon form, the whelp in a claw, and from its mouth came faint beeping noises. He raised his wings and jumped into the air.

And then – then after he had found Nasandria, he would track down the Black Prince again. And this time there would be no mercy, no second thoughts, and no small, fleeting thoughts of empathy.

The thought of Wrathion suffering in ways so unimaginably painful and cruel was enough to make Sabellian fly the smallest bit faster, leaving behind a trail of blood below.