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The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 22)

Anduin Wrynn meets with the clever Madam Goya and Wrathion finally return home to the destruction he left behind at the Veiled Stair.

It was cold in the small prayer room. Even with the dozens of lit candles, they were hardly capable of creating the heat Nasandria so desperately craved. She sat on her bed of soft linens, warmed now only by her own body heat, and leaned back against the stone walls.

Cold radiated at her back, and she grimaced. It must have been growing dark outside; the chill in the room had only become sharper, deeper, as Nasandria spent her time in this lonely room glaring at the closed archway on the opposite side of the room.

She could only guess, though. It wasn't as if she could actually see outside.

Licking her lips idly, Nasandria readjusted her shoulders against the stone-brick wall behind her, which was already beginning to warm from her own internal heat. The monk that had brought her food and had tended to her, smiling and gentle, had left an hour before, having returned to tend to her after Kalecgos had left. Nasandria had been wary of the pandaren, though he'd seemed genuine. He asked no questions save for those concerning her health, and even then Nasandria was guarded, giving off snips of “yes,” “no's,” and “fine's.”

She sighed and went to cross her arms – and stopped herself before she made the same mistake she'd made again and again. Arm, she reminded herself, slowly dropping her hands – hand – down to her lap. The drake cast a baleful glance at her left elbow, now set with thick white gauze to hide the precise cauterization underneath.

Damn thing. Nasandria scowled and looked away, brushing back curling wisps of her black hair away from tickling at her eyelashes. Her usually-tight bun, held fast with a dragon-claw clasp inset with a bright ruby, was in a disarray behind her, more of a fan of hair than anything collected.

She would have fixed it, but she didn't know how to do it with one hand.

A sour feeling grew at the top of her palate. Nasandria swallowed it before it could fully manifest. She was fine, she told herself, taking a breath and holding her chin high, though the strands of hair fell back in front of her face. An arm was nothing – she hadn't even lost the whole thing! Nasandria bit the inside of her cheek. And the sickness was gone; her strength was returning. The huge feast of food she'd practically inhaled hours before had helped her energy rise in leagues... though even still there was an exhaustion in her bones, and a sleepiness in her strained muscles.

The sickness might be gone, surely, but her fast-paced, labored trip across the unforgiving sea had taken its toll on her. Every bit of her ached.

Nasandria looked around at the room. In her day here (had it only been a day, she thought? It felt like a week), she'd already memorized the artwork on the bamboo panels lining the walls and the scars of age chipping at the stone statues of the four animals. She had little else to do, and Nasandria decided she liked the large black Ox the best. The animal was enormous, a mass of rippling muscle, horns both as shined as a pearl but as sharp as a sword; it charged across its panel with an unstoppable, ferocious grace that reminded Nasandria of her mother as she had been in life. She may not know what the animals meant, but they were obviously important.

Nasandria tensed. Thinking of her mother reminded her of her father. She glanced down at the archway again. The last time they had spoke was... she frowned. When was the last time they'd spoke? Nasandria remembered collapsing on one of the many islands dotting the sea, the cold fever icing her throat, and contacting him in her haze, afraid and alone and in need of a comforting voice.

He'd said he had both of the princes, then, that he was staying low, unnerved by the possibility of another dragon following him. That he would contact her later, as soon as he could, and that he would see her soon.

But when was that? Was that a day ago, two, three? Nasandria glared, frustrated at herself.

Whatever the answer, Nasandria wanted to let him know she was fine, and where she was. Maybe he would be as bewildered as she was that the old Aspect of Magic and, if she'd understood Kalecgos right, the Life-binder had helped her.

Now, where was -

Nasandria scowled, forgetting. Kalecgos had taken her satchel. The Eye of the Watchers was inside, of course, but so was the mechanical whelp. She'd need it to contact Sabellian.

She rose, wincing as her knees protested against her weight, and with a slow hiss sank back down to the bed again. Kalecgos had said she was no prisoner here; the monk had same the same before he'd left to tend to some listed chore Nasandria hadn't cared to listen to. She could leave if she wanted.

Even still, Nasandria wasn't an idiot. She was a black dragon; the color of her true form's hide, the yellow of her eyes, the strength of the earth and the lava beneath, marked her as an enemy, a target, even if the Old Gods weren't whispering to her. The unfairness made her angry. How could she know if they hadn't posted armed guards at the archway?

Fueled by her aggravation she stood, wincing again as her muscles ached. Nasandria swayed forward once, caught herself on the Ox statue to her right, and, taking a breath – the room was spinning – she cleared her head. All she had to do was find Kalecgos, she reassured herself. Wherever he was.

Though maybe she could send for someone-...?

Nasandria snorted and dismissed the thought immediately. She didn't need a servant to do her things for her. She wasn't that weak.

She stood from her lean against the statue and started down the room, turning towards the closed archway. It wasn't covered by a door at all, but a small bamboo-slot panel. Nasandria paused, turning her head to sense for a heartbeat, a breath, on the other side, but heard none – and both satisfied and slightly surprised there really wasn't any guard, she pushed back the woody curtain and stepped through, leaving the thickly-incensed and candled room behind as she slowly walked down a short, curved hallway.

Nasandria heard the strange pock and poffing sounds she'd heard from her room in intervals that had come and gone every other hour. It sounded like wood smacking against wood, the crack and snap muffled beyond the stone into what she heard now. It grew louder as she walked in the cold, unlit hallway, and it was beginning to bother her.

The end of the hallway grew bright with a cold, but dying white light. She paused. From what Nasandria could see, it led out into a large-looking room, and it seemed to be circular. The sounds were coming from it. She inched forward and glanced around the open archway, squinting suspiciously.

It was a large room, and it was, vaguely, circular. Tall, thick columns of dusty pearl encircled the place, rising into an elaborately decorated ceiling of gold swirls. The floor was of rough stone, and another circular design of washed teal and blue stone snaked around the center.

From here was the source of the noise. Nasandria eyed the dozens of warriors, all of different races – though pandaren seemed the dominant – sparring with one another, holding long sticks of carved wood. The group was a whirl of activity, of good-natured snarls and edging but friendly taunts, compliments warbled by the clangs of their weapons.

And watching them, to the north, was an enormous tiger. He stood meters tall, and even without his great size he would have emitted the sheer presence of awesome strength and power that literally glowed off of his blue form in wisps of ghost-like azure. She recognized him instantly with his blue fur and great stripes – he was the tiger who had been painted on the murals in her room, and surely the same tiger who had been frozen in mid-leap, forever etched into the stone statue.

Well. Nasandria didn't really expect them to be real. She caught herself staring at the great beast but found she could not look away.

“Oh, my. Are you alright? You should still be resting.”

Nasandria jumped, winced as her body jolted, and turned to the voice. The very same pandaren monk who had tended to her was now at her side, looking at her with a troubled expression. His long black braid was frayed at the end, and his belted white and blue robe was dotted with what looked like dried blood. She frowned, annoyed. Where had he come from?

As if seeing her question on her face, the monk bowed his head slightly and smiled, gesturing out to the large Tiger and the sparring warriors. “I am a side-by medic to those who are injured during lessons,” the monk explained. “Things sometimes become heated when testing the power of Strength.”

Nasandria wrinkled her nose, then shivered as a raw, cold gust of wind cut at her side. She glanced over and blinked; the room led out by way of an enormous arch and looked out over snowy mountains and other smaller buildings. She frowned; she hated the cold.

Nasandria looked back to the monk. “I'm looking for Kalecgos. Where is he?”

“Kalecgos?” The pandaren frowned. “He is in the rest shrines. The visitors and disciples make their temporary homes there.” He gestured to the opposite end of the large arena. Nasandria didn't see it at first, but she noticed after a moment's inspection that an archway, like the one she had just come out of, was halfway hidden behind one of the great pillars. It was much larger than the one that led to her room, and much more decorated, patterned with the same silver swirls that curled up on the ceiling. “He is on the second floor, I believe.”

Nasandria went to nod her slight thanks when there came a large, rumbling voice.

“Harness your Anger,” it ordered, and Nasandria looked back at the sparring warriors. It was the Tiger who was speaking. No longer did he sit, but now he paced back and forth to the north of the room, prowling like his smaller cousins. “Do not let it cloud your judgment.”

Nasandria stared. Even his voice was like power inherit. It rumbled against the walls with the strength of the earthquake without its malevolence, though strangely enough the floor did not seem to vibrate from his footfalls, as if he were made of a cloud.

“That is Xuen, the White Tiger of Strength,” the monk said suddenly, and Nasandria nodded, mute.

“Okay. Well. Thanks.”

The pandaren nodded. Nasandria swept by him and, keeping along the edge of the room and far away from the eyes of the concentrated fighters, made her way to the archway, the sound of the Tiger's growling orders and the smack of wood on wood nearly shaking her teeth.

She was nearly to the archway when she had the acute sense of being watched, the back of her neck tingling in warning. Nasandria glanced back, squinting – and saw the Tiger staring at her.

Nasandria stopped mid-step, startled, then looked behind her shoulder to make sure he was not staring at someone else. But no one was behind her save for the cold wall, and she looked back at the beast – Xuen, she recalled quickly – and found him still staring. Not staring, really – but studying. His eyes were a white-blue and held such an ancientness to them that Nasandria was momentarily transfixed before she forced herself to look away and hurry through the archway, leaving behind the Tiger and the warriors.

Nasandria realized she was holding her breath and, annoyed, let it loose. She passed many rooms, all closed, and could hear the mortals inside of them. Nasandria ignored them.

A slow-paced flight up the spiraling stairs later, she was on the second floor, her body aching.

Okay. She was on the second floor. Nasandria frowned and paused. This had more or less the same rooms, but seemed less occupied; many of the doors were open and the cots inside empty. Kalecgos had to be here somewhere.

Slowly she inched down the hallway, peering into rooms, and quickly grew annoyed by the fourth and still there was no sign or hint of the blue dragon having been there. She began to scowl when a faint voice caught her attention, and one that sounded familiar. Nasandria cocked her head, listened for the direction, and found it coming from the far end of the hallway. She went over, but slowed before the room where the voice came from. She could easily tell it was Kalecgos's, now.

“No, she left,” he was saying. He sounded both exhausted and frustrated. “I don't know where, and unfortunately, I don't know why.”

There was another voice, though it was difficult to hear, as if coming through a thin funnel.

“That might be.” Kalecgos sighed. Nasandria took the moment to peer around the slightly open crack in the door, careful to keep herself hidden. She could see from her limited view that the room, like the others, was small and square, made of the same cold grey-blue stone as that of the rest of the temple. The hearth near the small but plush bed was unlit, and in an effort to make the seem more lively, slim tapestries, the same bamboo as those in Nasandria's own room, were laid flat against the walls. They depicted mountains, which Nasandria thought was a bit repetitive, as why would you need more pictures of mountains if there were mountains right outside?

Sitting at a small desk, sparse of parchment and books, was Kalecgos. He was to the side of her, and slouched forward, arms crossed on the desk, as he stared into a lit mirror a bit larger than his head propped up against the wall. He may have looked charismatic and kind when he had spoken to her, but now he looked as tired as his voice suggested: dark circles rimmed his otherwise bright eyes.

“Even still I think it's... troublesome, Jaina. It's been a good deal of time since Deathwing's defeat. I would have thought they were taking it... easier than I was, but I suppose I was wrong.”

The other voice came again. Nasandria could understand it a little better this time, but not enough to make out words.

“Oh, no. I hadn't heard that. I've been so busy with this that I'm afraid all of my messages are... delayed. Are you sure?”

The voice replied.

“Alright. I'll try to look into it.” He smiled tiredly at the mirror. “Give Anduin my best regards when you see him, Jaina. And please be careful.”

A last reply, a broadened smile from Kalecgos, and the mirror grew suddenly dim.

The blue dragon's smile fell. He sighed deeply and moved a hand back at his hair, pushing it back at his scalp.

Nasandria cleared her throat loudly. Kalecgos jumped and icy steam puffed from his mouth. He relaxed as he looked up and saw her.

“Oh,” Kalecgos began, and rolled his broad shoulders back, relaxing even still, “Nasandria. Hello.”

“Hello,” she greeted tersely. Her gaze drifted to the mirror, which was now dim and cold.

“I was speaking to my -... friend,” Kalecgos explained, taking her silent look as one of curiosity. Nasandria did not miss his slight tongue-twist. “It's a communication device.”

“Okay. I need my satchel.”

Kalecgos paused and looked at her more sharply. He hesitated.

“I don't want or need the – orb right now,” Nasandria said, carefully emitting the artifact's name... this time. “Just the automaton.”

“Oh! Of course.” Kalecgos smiled and his tension fell away from the crease in his eyes, and he turned in his seat. Oh – there was the satchel, partially hidden by his body, hanging from the side of his wooden chair. He unlatched the top, reached inside and took out the whelp. Kalecgos turned back, and handed it to her gingerly. The automaton creaked. Its dull red-gem eyes stared back at her lifelessly.

Well, that was that. At least the whelp didn't look harmed from her fall at the beach. Nasandria turned it over in her hand, metal cool at her fingertips.

She turned to leave before pausing. Something was still bothering her, but would she look weak and foolish to ask it? Scowling faintly, Nasandria turned back on her heel and gave Kalecgos a suspicious glint that made him frown in confusion.

“You didn't keep me under guard.”

Kalecgos relaxed considerably. “No,” he agreed. He gave her a warm smile that contradicted the chill radiating off of his body. Nasandria didn't like it. “There's no need for me to.”

Pursing her lips, Nasandria studied the dragon. She looked for some trap, some poisonous word, but found none.

She had been able to leave her room easily, she supposed...

“But I'm a black dragon,” Nasandria insisted after a moment's silence.

“Yes.”

“You should think of me as an enemy.”

Kalecgos tilted his head and studied her. His eyes held no awkward hesitance as they had the last time they had spoke, but instead a pointed thoughtfulness that belied, perhaps, the lurking power beneath.

“Should I?” The former Aspect of Magic asked, and now Nasandria was the one to hesitate.

“No,” she conceded, finally. She shifted her grip on the whelp, and it creaked loud in the silence. “My father just always said that everyone hated us. It's why we never left Blade's Edge to find better food. Even -” Nasandria stopped, scowling inwardly at her rambling. It was true, though. Sabellian had always insisted they stay in the dry wasteland that was the spiked mountains and turn away thoughts of the bountiful prey in Nagrand to the south. Samia had always thought him paranoid, too nervous, but Nasandria had no reason to disbelieve him. Father was always right.

Kalecgos paused. He looked at her for a heartbeat before breaking his gaze and staring at the dim mirror.

“I'll admit,” Kalecgos began cautiously, “that we mostly... don't like... black dragons.”

Nasandria wrinkled her nose.

“But,” Kalecgos continued strongly, turning his head to stare at her, “'mostly' does not mean we dislike them all.” He paused and frowned, brows scrunching, as if he was considering how to word his answer. Nasandria watched him impatiently. “It was always thought that the Old Gods' dominion over your kin was irreversible. Alexstrasza tried very hard to keep the purge back as long as she could when her Flight tried to search for some cure, you see.” He smiled, but it was not a happy one. “Wrathion came from that, but he wasn't a cure for the rest of his Flight. So the purge happened. It had to be done. It wasn't done out of hate, but necessity.”

Nasandria stared at him. It sounded like he was trying to cushion his words for her.

Hate was hate, she thought. Whether if it was necessary or not was irrelevant.

“Okay. So?”

“Well, here's where my 'mostly' comes in,” Kalecgos said, smiling as if he'd just made a joke. “Wrathion was the first known black dragon to be free of corruption, and that amazed... and, well, aggravated some... everyone. But here you are, too, and your family, I'm sure. You are all testaments to a thing not even the great Life-binder thought possible.”

“And?”

“It's... refreshing?”

“Refreshing.”

Kalecgos laughed but it died quickly. “Maybe that was the wrong word.” He smiled apologetically at her. “I just mean that I think it's astounding to see black dragons without the taint. No one really knew what they were like as a whole without it, except the Aspects, really.”

Not fully without it, Nasandria thought. She struggled to keep her face even as she recalled the oozing spasms and hoarse whispers of Talsian and the muffled snap of his neck when Father put him out of his maddened misery. A curl of nausea twisted faintly at her stomach.

“I don't know about that,” Nasandria said, and Kalecgos frowned at her. Why was he so interested in what black dragons were like without the corruption, anyway? She looked around the room cautiously but did not see the Eye. Maybe it was still in the satchel. Nasandria brushed her hair away from her face. Perhaps it was the same reason he was interested in that artifact: curiosity.

She paused. No, they weren't fully without it, but Wrathion was, and the Eye was the cause for it – even if it had just taken her arm and made her sick.

But – Talsian had succumbed to the Old Gods by slashes, and though they were deep and terrible wounds, wouldn't losing an arm and extracting a terrible illness do the same harm to her as it had done to her brother?

She remembered her father's guess – injury weakened them physically, obviously, but it would surely take their mental defenses down.

So why wasn't she foaming at the mouth as Talsian was?

Briefly a flash of the ancient cavern came back to her. There was her severed arm, covered in black, living ooze...

The nausea at her stomach heightened. Nasandria forced the memory away.

“Are you alright?” Kalecgos asked, and Nasandria shot him a pointed look.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“That's a communication device too, isn't it?” Kalecgos looked at her and it seemed he wasn't trying to smile at her startled expression. “I only -”

“Okay. Well, thanks. Bye.”

She turned and left the room before he could extract any more information from her than he already had, though it had just been the Eye's name and that alone had been her fault. He didn't seem to be following, though her tense shoulders refused to drop.

Maybe he was genuine. Maybe he really was interested.

Either way, Nasandria didn't care. She just wanted to speak to her father and be done with this place.

---

Anduin was readjusting his golden silk sash for the third time, displeased with his look in the mirror, when a single heavy knock clunked from his door.

He turned, frowning. His hand paused at his sash. Anduin waited for his guards to announce who or what it was, but the only thing that spoke was silence.

Anduin's frown deepened.

He was in his room, back at the Shrine of Seven Stars. Hours before, he had trekked back from the dig site, his heart heavy and his latent injuries burning, to reunite with a very flustered Johnathan and an unsurprised Melissa. He'd been escorted back to his room and had, more or less, been barricaded inside by the two bodyguards; Johnathan in particular seemed paranoid enough to believe that King Wrynn would swoop upon them like the steel eagle on his shoulder and realize his son had slipped by them again... especially since Melissa had indeed carried out Anduin's hurriedly given request that she seek out his father and request for them to meet. That ended up being planned for tomorrow, Melissa had told him as they'd walked back to his room. His father was busy preparing for... something, though Melissa hadn't been told what.

Tonight, however, was the meeting with Madam Goya.

Anduin had nearly forgotten about it. He'd stayed in his room since being ushered inside, and though he had been a bit annoyed at practically being barred in his room like some unruly child (honestly, he thought, his father had been officially crowned king at his age!) he hadn't really minded, in truth. It let him be alone and relax. The strain of walking to the dig site and back had not only flared a sharp, heavy cramp in his leg, but it had also twanged at the taut burns at his back (freshly applied with the cool green salve Ella had left him) and his slashed arm – but Anduin had a guess that those weren't effected by the walk. He supposed it must have been from the slough of negativity that had nearly knocked his feet out from underneath him, something he hadn't dwelt on, too unnerved by the memory to – for now, of course.

It was when he'd looked up from a retelling of the Burdens of Shaohao, hours later, nestled in a swath of blankets on his bed, and saw the creeping purple shadows slanting from his windows did he realize that it was dusk, and remember the Black Market guard who had sent Madam Goya's request for a meeting. Tonight.

Anduin had wondered if he'd simply remembered wrong – the whole charade with the sneak to the dig site had been a blur – but he knew he hadn't. He wouldn't let something sly like that slip by his attention so easily.

So Anduin had sighed, closed his book, and refreshed himself, unhappy not with his outfit as his obsessive readjusting of his sash might suggest but instead with all of his bruises and bumps, all his bandages and gauze, that glared back at him in the full length mirror propped up near the mahogany armoire. His yellow sleeve covered his bandaged arm and his tabard the ginger burns, but there was a mottled bruise near his chin and another at his temple, and a slim cut peeked out from the top of his right ear. The dig site, too, seemed to have left a dustiness to his fair hair that refused to go away with both his fingers and a brush, and Anduin had realized, frustrated, that it would probably not come out without soap and a bath, and one he didn't have time for.

His looks shouldn't have bothered him, he knew, but Anduin was learned in the art of presentation from growing up at court. The more collected you were, the more refined, the more respected you were. There was a look to everyone. His father's was sharp and brutal; his armor and countenance exuded strength and authority, and any blood or dirt that he forgot to wipe off only added to the look. The nobles at Stormwind wore all their finest clothes and jewels to flaunt their wealth and prosperity, and Anduin – well, he thought his outfits were handsome and comfortable enough, but as the Prince of Stormwind and a skilled priest, he should have at least looked... well, not injured, which would show weakness, and he needed to look... clean. The opposite of what he looked like right now.

And after his first talk with Madam Goya, Anduin was more than aware that he needed to play the game of presentation in front of her sharp eyes. He needed to look worthy of his title as prince, and remind her that he wasn't about to be manipulated. With how easily she'd done it last time – how easily she'd gotten him to extract information he wasn't even aware of what he was giving – Anduin would have to be careful, too. He knew this was no friendly meeting.

He might not have been as physically strong as his father, but he knew how to play the game.

Anduin stared at the door for a moment more. He'd thought he might have enough time to heal the bruises on his face, but apparently not. It was quickly growing dark outside, he saw, while he waited for his guards – if they were, at all – to speak, and the window to his left began to glow dimly as the lanterns outside were lit. Faintly, he could hear the thinning crowd outside on the patio, which his room overlooked. But in his room, the silence was as sharp as ice.

Steeling himself, Anduin grabbed his cane and went to the door. Just as he got there another knock rattled.

“Yes?” Anduin called out politely. When again there was no answer Anduin sighed and opened the door.

His guards were gone, no longer flanking the side of the doorway. The hall, usually lit day and night with the red-glass lanterns, was dim, the lights snuffed out. Anduin would have thought the dramatics funny if Madam Goya's personal bodyguard wasn't standing there, his hulking mass nearly taking up the entire height of the doorway.

“Where are my guards?” Anduin demanded instantly upon taking in the situation. It was the flash of worry for them and not for himself that lit his already-fueled frustration.

“Unharmed,” the bodyguard answered in a voice like gravel and in the deepest tone Anduin had ever heard come out of a pandaren's mouth.

Anduin pursed his lips. He leaned out of his room and glanced from side to side. Well, he saw no blood stains or signs of trouble, and he doubted Madam Goya would make such an act of aggression against Alliance-based forces so openly.

“Come,” the guard ordered. Without waiting for Anduin he turned and began down the hall. Anduin half-expected the ground to shake underneath the pandaren's feet.

“I'd like to know what Madam Goya would like,” Anduin asked. The bodyguard, to his frustration, did not stop walking; he didn't even look back.

“To speak and dine,” the pandaren answered gruffly. Anduin had the sneaking suspicion that the guard had been instructed on his answers beforehand.

Hesitating, Anduin considered quickly. The guard was nearly at the end of the hallway. The prince scrunched up his brows. Could he simply ignore Madam Goya's request? He dismissed the thought immediately. No – she would take a denial as an insult, and she would no doubt keep asking for him until he had no choice but to concede. It was better to get this over with... such was the duty of a prince.

Anduin went to follow the bodyguard before he paused and remembered Wrathion's gem. He took it out of his pocket, where it had remained since coming back from the dig site, the surface as cold now as it had been then, and placed it on the counter in his room. He hadn't heard back from the Black Prince since his unceremonious cut off.

But he wasn't about to allowed Wrathion to eavesdrop, now.

That done, Anduin followed after the guard. His limp was heavier than he would have liked and the clack of his cane was loud against the dark stone, but he caught up to the pandaren swiftly all the same.

It might have grown dark outside, but the Shrine was no less active, Anduin saw – and heard, and smelled. As the guard began to lead the way, taking him through some less popular hallways to skirt around the main crowd, Anduin smelled the heady burn of preparing dinners and had to smile at the loud, cheerful music chiming in from the main chamber. His stomach growled. When was the last time he'd eaten?

Anduin was so focused on his sudden hunger that he nearly ran into the pandaren's back; the bodyguard had stopped abruptly and Anduin halted. He looked around. They were in a wide hallway that led to the bank area, he knew, but why the pandaren had stopped he wasn't sure.

“Is this-?”

The pandaren turned and faced a large quilen statue that was halfway embedded into the wall. The dog-faced creature snarled its stone scowl at Anduin. It was a bit crude in comparison to the beautiful stone serpents that were usually around the Shrine, and Anduin frowned at it.

Silently the bodyguard placed a paw the size of Anduin's head on the center of the quilen. He pushed, and something inside creaked, before he slid his hand to the side near the curled stone mane. Again he pushed, and the creak, this time, was louder, deeper.

The quilen began to split at the middle. Anduin was vaguely disturbed as the dog-like creature became two snarling halves that opened up into a hidden passageway. The scuff of stone grew quiet and again without waiting for Anduin the pandaren went inside; the resulting archway was taller even than the bodyguard was, and Anduin slipped inside easily, though was more than wary. A secret passage behind the bank? That seemed... less than distasteful, but he wasn't surprised. The Shrine had been built by the sometimes paranoid and traitorous mogu, and even in Stormwind's castle there was a dozen passageways curled around the main rooms, and surely more that Anduin still hadn't discovered.

The stone slid back behind them as Anduin entered the passage. He glanced back, and a kernel of worry at being... trapped in this place built at his throat. But he swallowed it and turned back, and his worry was almost instantly replaced by a confused wonder when he took in the room he was in.

It was of bright gold, as shiny as a coin. The walls were made of the same swirling designs as the banking area was: large organic curves that were slightly floral and vine-like in their design. It was rectangular in shape, and large metal chests lined the eastern wall while to the east were circular, closed-off chambers that jut out into the room. Were those the backs of the vaults in the bank?

Anduin looked away, concerned with that, and focused on the center of the room. Absurdly, ill-fittingly, there was a long table lined with a silver silk tablecloth and magnificent china filled with steaming food. Braised beef, roasted noodles, a small mountain of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, honey carrots, and an apple pie were laid nearly across the length. Anduin stared at it. It smelled as wonderful as it looked. His stomach made an inappropriate grumble.

It took him a moment to realize that there were people at the table. A half dozen patrons, mostly pandaren, were seated and already eating and speaking. Two jinyu and, strangely, a ratty-looking worgen and a dark iron dwarf accompanied them. Anduin didn't miss the lining of Black Market guards, their faces hid with hats, dotted around the room. Soft music was playing, but Anduin couldn't tell where it was coming from, or even if it was coming from inside the room at all, though the clank and snorts and laughs of the diners remained the loudest orchestra in the hidden room.

Anduin spotted Madam Goya at the end of the table. She was looking at him, and smiled as he caught her eye. Wearing the same outfit as he'd last seen her in - the simple dark purple robe sewn with silver thread – she looked simple, less flashy, than the other diners were. Less... pronounced. Her graying hair was tied back in a silver-clasp bun, today.

“Oh, it's good to see you, Prince Anduin,” Madam Goya said. None of the other patrons even turned to look at him. They all seemed to be too engrossed in their own conversations to care. “Please, take a seat.”

“Good evening, Madam Goya,” Anduin greeted politely. Madam Goya's bodyguard led him to the table with an aggressively fast pace, struck out the chair opposite of his employer, then once again took his usual place by Goya's side. She was dwarfed in his shadow.

Anduin gingerly took his seat.

“I trust Mister Chu was kind to you?” Goya asked. She pat the bodyguard's paw without looking away from Anduin. “He can be quite the brute, sometimes, but he does his job well.”

Mister Chu grunted.

“Oh... yes,” Anduin said. He shifted in his seat as he leaned his cane up against the table. Goya didn't waver her eyes from his. She may look simple, but the sharpness in her gaze was on the same level as it had been the other night, and it unnerved him.

Cautious. He had to be cautious with her, and with his words, this time.

“What is this place?” Anduin asked, deciding to play the role of the inquisitive outsider, first. At least he really was interested.

Goya smiled. It looked genuine.

“Why, I'm sure you know the fearsome mogu created many of the Vale's buildings,” Goya explained. Anduin noticed her plate was bare. “Terrible brutes, but somehow they built such wonderful foundations – like the dear Shrine. This was once one of the Warlord's secret caches. Mmm... Subetai the Swift, if I recall correctly.” She winked at him almost conspiratorially, like some sort of coy grandmother. “A hidden secret. Please keep it safe when you leave, dear – though I have no belief you'll babble your mouth. Hm?”

“Yes, of course,” Anduin said. Keeping his face even, he continued, “but I really hope you're not delving into the Alliance heroes' banks.”

The jinyu sitting to Anduin's right gave him a lingering look of disbelief, but Goya didn't look phased. She smiled.

“Of course not. That would be most unsavory.”

Unsavory like the Black Market? Anduin thought idly.

“Oh, forgive me. I'm being rude.” Goya gestured to the table and began pointing at each individual. “The gentlemen to your right are the Yu Brothers... 'sailors' along the Jade Forest.” She smiled as if she'd made a joke. The jinyu she was referencing nodded vaguely before continuing their talk with the pandaren opposite of them. “Then there is Jin from Krasarang. Do be sure to ask him about his newest dig. Then Mei of Kun-lai. Shui -...”

She continued to list the dinner guests, and Anduin tried his best to remember them. He wondered why they were here, but could only guess that they were somehow tied in with the underground market, though he questioned the dwarf and worgen.

Anduin had little time to thank her for the introductions, because she started speaking again as quickly as she'd stopped.

“Enough chatter. Please. You look rattled. Do eat; there's plenty.” Madam Goya motioned behind Anduin, and a guard – or, well, Anduin supposed he was supposed to be a servant tonight, dressed in a silkier looking garb of black and purple, but he still had the bulk of the rest of the guards lining the walls – swept up and began piling Anduin's plate with food. The servant moved back as quickly as he'd moved forward, leaving Anduin with much too high a hill of food steaming on his plate. He stared at it in an almost stunned disbelief.

“We have an excellent brew,” Goya was saying, and he looked up, blinking, just in time to see a second servant try to fill his empty gold goblet with beer. He swiftly cut his hand up and blocked it off with his palm, and the servant made a surprised grunt.

“I'm sorry, but please – I'd like to pass on the alcohol,” Anduin explained apologetically, both at Goya and the servant. The pandaren moved back, but only after Goya had flicked her hand dismissively.

“It's considered rude to deny a host's drink.” Goya didn't sound malevolent, but only a bit peeved. Anduin lowered his hand from the goblet.

“My apologies, Madam Goya... but I wouldn't want my father to find I was sneaking out and drinking.”

It wasn't a lie, not really, but the comment was made to be a light-hearted statement. He heard the ratty worgen snort, at least. Surely he didn't want to run into Varian on the way back, but the truth was he wanted to keep his mind sharp. Alcohol would dull it – and Goya knew that.

“No?” Goya inquired, daintily plucking an orange from a basket of fruit in front of her and peeling it with her claws.

Anduin nodded. He noted Goya's own dry glass. “I'm afraid he's not as welcoming about his son drinking as pandaren are.”

Actually, he didn't know about that. Varian would probably be more surprised than upset if he ever found Anduin downing a beer or two, Anduin suspected.

Goya made an amused hum in the back of her throat before setting down the sheared curls of orange, where they rested starkly against the prim white of her plate.

“Pity,” the Black Market leader said. She went on to peel the orange into four clean slices. Anduin took the pause to grab his fork and start on the food. Denying drink was one thing, but denying food was another. He couldn't do both without insulting her further, and at least, with food, he wouldn't lose his wits.

And he was glad for it, because it was delicious. Anduin had to hold himself back from devouring it.

“I suspect,” Anduin said after a moment, as he'd waited for Goya to swallow the chunk of orange in her mouth and he himself had just gulped down the sweet potatoes, “that this wasn't always a dining area?”

“Oh, goodness. No.” Goya wiped her claws on her napkin. “A mere treasure store. I couldn't imagine the filth inside if the mogu had eaten here, as well.” One of the pandaren – Mei, he remembered - sitting to Goya's left chuckled at that, but Goya ignored her, and she went on to talking to the stoic dark iron dwarf who'd hardly spoken or moved since Anduin had first seen her. “I saw my opportunity, however.” She chittered, and Anduin realized late that it was a laugh. “The table was horrendously difficult to get inside.”

“I can imagine.” Anduin glanced around. Yes, he saw the opportunity in here, too. Surrounded by riches that were untouched but could be easily grabbed; the vastness of wealth in the gold circles, the mahogany table, the china, the food; the secret of it all. If one wanted to flaunt one's power, this was a good place to do so. Was there another like this in the Shrine of Two Moons?

Anduin shook his curiosity away. Food was eaten, and idle chatter done with. He thought it safe to continue.

“Madam Goya,” he started, lifting his shoulders slightly, broadening them. “This was very kind of you to invite me, but I'm sure there's something you'd like to talk to me about.”

“Perceptive of you, dear,” Goya murmured. She ate the last bit of her orange before crisply folding her paws in front of her.

“Is this about Wrathion?”

Goya tilted her head and studied him for a brief heartbeat before she gently unfolded her paws and grabbed her tea cup. It looked to be the same from last night, with the feathers of a golden crane encircling its entirety. “Mm. Why do you ask that?”

“Well,” Anduin started carefully, “you spoke about him last night. I only thought...”

He was cut off as Goya dismissively waved her hand. She took a sip of her tea before speaking.

“Yes,” Goya agreed. “Yet you seemed ready to drop, yesterday evening. I considered my words wasted until you were a bit more energized.” She glanced him up and down, and Anduin felt all of his bruises, injuries, and dirt clinging to his hair practically glow and announce themselves underneath her shearing gaze. He swallowed his frustration. “I consider myself gracious. You look... marginally more rested.”

Marginally. Anduin said nothing. He wasn't a fool enough to ignore the subtle demeaning words.

Goya made an amused but thoughtful hum. “And yet, to have come from the claws of a dragon, I would be worried if you did not look so harrowed.”

Again Anduin stayed silent, though he watched her carefully. It had only been a day ago, but he wasn't about to believe that no one outside of the Alliance party that had rescued him knew about Sabellian's existence; the dragon was huge and alien to this place. He'd been seen over the Valley of the Four Winds, had set aflame the farmland near the Wall in his scuffle with Alexstrasza... but at the same time, Anduin wasn't sure if people knew that Anduin himself had been involved in the fiasco. He hoped not. The thought alone that people might laugh about how he had been kidnapped by a black dragon for the second time was more than humiliating.

So he stayed quiet and didn't confirm nor deny whatever rumors Goya may have heard, as he had last night, accidentally, with Wrathion's Sha corruption.

Goya, however, did not seem perturbed by his closed mouth. “It seems that Wrathion is free of his unfortunate ordeal,” the Black Market caretaker continued, gently shifting the subject. “I trust you remember the looting of my possessions?”

“Yes.”

Goya nodded curtly. “It would be most helpful if your dragon could assist in their recovery. His Agents would be appreciated.” She lifted a spoonful of sugar and twirled it into her tea. The spoon clanked daintily against the china – until the table shook once, and the spoon gave a rough clank and a spot of the black drink tipped from the side, and Goya pursed her lips and glanced over to the offender – the worgen, who had smacked down his hand on the table and now whispered in harsh tones to the Yu Brothers to Anduin's right.

Slowly, Goya looked back at Anduin.

“I thought you said that you were handling that.”

It came out sharper than he intended. Goya stared at him with an unreadable expression.

“A little assistance is never something one should turn away,” the pandaren said, finally. She picked up her tea again and repositioned her claws on the cup. “Especially when such assistance is given from the individual who caused such an unfortunate loss.”

“It wasn't Wrathion's fault,” Anduin argued. “He didn't want this to happen.”

“All the same, dear,” Goya continued smoothly, “I'm sure you can understand that it would be fair of the Black Prince to share his resources with the Black Market.”

Anduin shifted in his seat.

“I guess so,” he conceded after a moment.

Goya smiled brilliantly, though he noted it did not quite reach her masked eyes. “Good.”

She said nothing else and only returned to sipping her steaming black tea. Anduin stared at her, waiting for the pandaren to continue.

A full minute passed in silence, save for the conversations of the other guests and the clank of silverware and the muffled hum of the hidden music.

Was that it?

Busying himself in their lull by pushing around the remaining food on his plate – he was no longer hungry – Anduin mulled in silence to himself. No – that couldn't be it. To have invited him here in the night like some thief, to have shown him this secret, powerful place... just to ask for a bit of help from Wrathion? It didn't make any amount of sense, unless, like the nobles of Stormwind, Goya had just wanted to put on a show with her wealth.

It must have been a good ten minutes before Goya spoke again.

“Now, assistance with retrieving my stolen goods is one thing,” Goya began, “but there is something else I'd like to propose.”

Here it was. Anduin straightened more in his seat.

“I am most interested in these remaining black dragons,” Goya said, shooing away a servant that came to refill her tea, which was hardly half-full. “As are others.”

“Others?”

“Mm. I have... interested parties scattered in every faction. These Horde are preparing for war, it seems, with how they've destroyed some of the Vale.” Goya's expression changed, suddenly; there was a sudden shift of anger, but it quickly fell away. Anduin wondered if he'd imagined it. “My knowledge of these 'dragonflights' is woefully limited, but I know black dragons are a rarity, with our Black Prince flaunting to be the last.” She tittered. “Oh, how much a price he would have fetched me on the Market had I clasped him in chains! The last of one's kind is an advertisement that would have sent me so many bidders. He would have given me more gold than a dozen phoenixes and undead pegasi.”

Anduin stared, quietly horrified, and wondered if she was making a very poor joke.

“You've gone paler in the face,” Goya noted. “Do breathe, dear, and do not worry. I held back on my instinct.” She sighed. “I have sold black dragon oddities in the past, however, and still sold them for a high price – even if they were not living. It's very odd how much people are willing to buy horns and scales and talons, but I do not question the demand.”

Probably to wear the prizes as necklaces, or hang them as trophies, Anduin thought. To point them out to friends and make false claims they'd helped kill the beast.

Anduin frowned. At one time, he would have probably only sighed at the thought but would find no huge qualms except a vague annoyance with lies like that or hosting such death like a trophy. Now it made him strangely uncomfortable, having met black dragons who were not like Onyxia, not like Deathwing, not anything like the rest of the world remembered them.

Anduin refocused on the topic before his mind drifted too far. “I'm guessing you want the black dragons Wrathion's found.”

“Did you know that our highest profit is from mounts and companions?” Goya smiled winningly. “The interested parties I spoke of are from the... mm... ah, the 'Dragonmaw' clan. Brutish looking creatures. They are offering entire stores of wealth for genuine black dragon mounts.”

Anduin had to force back a laugh. She couldn't be serious, could she?

“Madam Goya, I... don't think you understand,” Anduin explained. “Wrathion... he probably won't leave any of his family alive.” The truth of his statement made Anduin's chest ache, but he knew it was right. Wrathion had looked masked and steeled when Anduin had last seen him. His choice had been made.

It didn't stop Anduin from hoping, though.

“And even then,” Anduin continued, “that's... the Dragonmaw were known to be cruel to their dragons. They enslaved them.”

Goya looked nonplussed.

“It is no concern of mine what my buyers do with their purchases.”

“But dragons aren't beasts like the rest of the mounts you sell,” Anduin argued. He felt his voice rising but found he couldn't hold it back. “They're like you and me. It's cruel to sell them like cattle.”

Goya was staring at him. Anduin realized it was nearly about to stand up in his seat, and he forced himself to slump back.

“Either way, Anduin Wrynn,” Goya said, “alive or dead, these remaining black dragons will give me great profit. I would like them alive, but if the Prince is so intent on killing them...” She sighed. “A shame, and a waste of money.” The pandaren gave Anduin a sharp look. “Please share this with my first proposal, then, dear: I would like all remains given to my stores. All scales, all horns, wings, bones. And if he keeps any alive, they will be mine to sell.”

“You can't be serious.” The words had left Anduin's mouth before he'd registered them. Mister Chu, who had stayed relatively stoic behind Goya, grew taut around his shoulders, and Anduin realized his mistake.

But Goya was unperturbed, and she shooed Chu's aggressive stance away. She did not break eye contact with Anduin, and he dared not look away from her. There was a tension between them like a taut string, and he feared it would snap at any moment.

So much for caution, he thought.

Goya began to open her mouth when she was promptly interrupted by the table shaking again, this time more aggressively. Anduin looked over as she did, only to see the same worgen get to his feet and point an accusatory finger at the Yu Brothers whose hands, Anduin realized with some growing discomfort, were beginning to slide down to their belts where Anduin had little to no doubt they would find the hilts of their weapons.

“That's an unfair deal,” the worgen said in a gnarly, thick accent that was hardly understandable in both inflection and in his apparent slurring drunkenness. “I ain't gonna be cheated by some damn tuna-lookin' pirates and you can kiss my ass before I agree to that, or take a hook in your slimy lips.”

The Yu brother closest to Anduin made a frightening sound that sounded like a mix of a hissing cat and a shrieking dolphin. Madam Goya only sighed and made a cursory flick of her wrist, and two of the guards positioned against the wall reacted instantly. They grabbed the worgen by both arms, and though he yelped and began to flail and snarl wildly, spurting curses and threats, the Exchange Guards escorted him out of the chamber. Anduin heard the groan and grind of the splitting quilen, and then a muffled crack of bone on bone. It went quiet, and, as if nothing had occurred, the Yu Brothers released their holds on their weapons and went back to speaking with the other dinner guests.

Anduin stared, alarmed, as the guards came back without the worgen.

“Unsavory,” Goya murmured. She looked back at Anduin, and he bit his cheek. The pandaren hardly looked phased by the ordeal except for a slight, annoyed crinkling at her eyes, like she'd just seen a spider scuttle along the plates. “As I was about to say,” Goya began again, “I am very serious. I know an opportunity when I see it; it is why my Market is as flourished as it is.”

“Wrathion won't let you take all of that profit for yourself.” He probably would want to burn all the evidence of Sabellian's brood ever existing, honestly.

“I understand that the Black Prince can be difficult. His reputation proceeds it.” She paused. “I am sure, dear, he will cooperate, but if he does live up to his... stubbornness, and refuses my fair request, do remind him that I can take his built reputation away. It'd be unfortunate for more rumors to spread.”

Anduin hesitated. He remembered all too well what Goya had said last night. She'd heard about the Sha corruption near the Tavern, had heard about Sabellian and Alexstrasza's dog-fight along the Wall, and Anduin himself had accidentally confirmed he'd returned back to the Tavern, which suggested he'd gone to cleanse Wrathion. He was more than well aware that people were now alert to Wrathion's hypocrisy, how he'd played both sides – a thing that still frustrated Anduin, if he was honest with himself – and that it was angering them, obviously, but... what could the rest of the rumors do to harm? They would show Wrathion wasn't the last black dragon, but other than that...

He withheld a sigh. He was missing something, but that wasn't all of it: Madam Goya wasn't just requesting. She was blackmailing.

“Madam Goya,” Anduin started slowly, “I'm sure Wrathion will be more than happy to help you with your endeavor with finding your lost items.” Well, probably not, he thought, but padding words always helped.

Not with the black dragon supply, though.

Anduin paused; now he had to choose his next words carefully. “And what you said last night – I mean no disrespect, but those were just rumors.”

Goya studied him. Her eyes no longer held their false friendliness but instead a shrewd sharpness that for a very disorienting moment reminded Anduin of Katrana Prestor. He swallowed the sudden swell of discomfort balling up at his throat.

Finally, she smiled, slow and terse.

“Even if they are... 'rumors,'” she began with a knowing flicker of her dark blue eyes, “I can assure you that they can still harm.”

“Forgive me, but I fail to see what harm they can do.”

He was being snappy, but he found himself uncaring. This was getting ridiculous.

“I'm sure you know that many of his former champions have heard of his two-sided allegiances?”

“Well, yes.”

“And how dreadfully angry most of them are.” Goya clucked her tongue once. “Whispers have now become snarls in the span of a day. Unfortunate for the boy, but the fault is his.”

Anduin pursed his lips and said nothing. He didn't know why she was talking about this again and how it related to his comment.

“All it would take for some of them is a bit more fuel to their fire to cause harm to our Black Prince,” Goya continued slowly, her words crisp. “Do you know the origins of the Sha, Anduin?” She asked suddenly, and Anduin almost jumped at the change in conversation. He stared at her before catching his wits. She hadn't used his title.

“Of course,” Anduin said. “They're birthed from negative energy. They only began unearthing themselves because of the Alliance and Horde's -”

“Yes, yes, that is common knowledge,” Goya interrupted. Anduin frowned at her. What did she mean by origins, then? “Come now. Do you have no guesses?”

Anduin watched her, cautious. Origins of the Sha-...

A sudden, heavy feeling of deja vu swept over him: he was standing in a ruined hallway, streaked with the glow of Sha energy, his two guards crumpled, with Left standing in front of him, and she was speaking.

“Yes, alright, negative emotions. But the Sha’s origins are from an Old God. Yshaarj. They’re the very whispers of an Old God. I wonder how much worse they affect black dragons?”

Anduin stared at Goya. She stared back.

“They're the whispers of Y'shaarj,” Anduin murmured. His blood felt as if had stilled, and a tightening had curled in the pit of his chest. He suddenly understood.

Goya smiled.

“Yes,” she said in a voice as quiet as Anduin's had become. “The God of Seven Heads, dead and buried. Mm. A terrible story.”

Anduin took a small breath. “How do you know about that?”

He knew it wasn't common knowledge; even he hadn't known before Wrathion's possession, and he'd assumed only Left had known because Wrathion had figured it out, with all of his scattered, scheming, researching Agents digging into every possible trove of information about the landscape.

Goya tittered.

“I am the leader of the largest underground market in Pandaria, child,” Goya explained with an amused tone that didn't seem appropriate for the conversation. “The Market does not operate on ignorance; to know its items I must know Pandaria's history. Why, how stupid would I look if I was selling a sonic amber rifle and knew little of its meaning, what the amber was, how ancient its mechanism and how blessed the art of amber-shaping?” She laughed her quiet laugh again. “Do not think your Black Prince is the only one to be interested in Pandaria's secrets.”

Anduin nodded sharply.

“Even still – what does that have to do with the rumors about Wrathion?” Anduin asked, but at this point, he knew. He knew the moment the word Y'shaarj had left his lips.

He just needed for her to confirm it.

“As I was saying, it would only take the slightest push to begin a flame that would no doubt chase Wrathion to wits end,” Goya said. “It would be most unfortunate if the rumor of his Sha corruption, for example, was to spread.” She paused for effect, then brushed her graying bangs back from her face. “I know the story of his race. Corruption is a tense subject. It would be disastrous still if this rumor would include some ghastly thing about him having heard Y'shaarj himself, seeming how the Sha were born from Him... that perhaps this 'neutral' party is as terrible as his predecessors. I think, perhaps, that would be more than enough of a spark to spur on those already angry with his terrible lies. I would hate for his head to end up in chains like so many others.”

Anduin stared; his mouth went dry. It took every ounce of concentration to keep his face even and his face to stop its slow reddening of defensive anger.

Madam Goya knew how to threaten; she'd even added a small reference to his tormentor Onyxia, and Anduin didn't want to even think about where she'd heard about the broodmother's head hanging in chains along the arch of Stormwind.

But she didn't know that what she was going to lie about in these “rumors” was right. Anduin could already see Wrathion looking at him, the black smoke rolling from his body, his icy eyes filled with a teary panic.

I can... hear them.

Anduin looked away. He clasped his hands out in front of him, turned his attention to them, and rolled his knuckles against his palm.

“I see,” he said, finally, his voice tense. Anduin took a moment to pause before he continued. “That's... relying on a lot of things, Madam Goya. Even if you do spread that rumor, people may not react to it. People have been overtaken by the Sha before – even Taran Zhu. Wrathion succumbing isn't any different.”

But he knew it was, and she knew it was, and it was just because of Y'shaarj. Anduin wasn't foolish enough to believe that people weren't distrustful of Wrathion, even before the word of his hypocrisy had gotten out.

“No, no. I suppose you're right.” Goya looked at him and crossed her hands over her empty plate, full only of the peeled orange slices which were beginning to quickly brown. “But it is outstanding how easily people will look for excuses to hurt what they think is an enemy. I am sure you're aware of that, however, my dear. Is that not what your... strange little war is based upon?”

Anduin locked his jaw. He decided to comment not on that, but something else that was bothering him about this entire rotten conversation.

“I would think a Blacktalon Agent would be more suited to speak to about this.” Anduin looked at Goya firmly, and straightened out his shoulders. “Wrathion may be my friend, but I am not his messenger.”

“And yet you are the Black Prince's... 'friend.'” Anduin felt his stomach grow taut at her inflection of the word, and her eyes held a shine that made him wary. “Greater ties mean greater... leverage. You, I hear, have a voice that can sway even the stubborn King of Stormwind. Certainly the same can be used to speak to the Prince on my behalf.”

Anduin's eyes grew hard. Now he understood. She was using Wrathion and his friendship to her advantage; she was playing on his compassion and protection over his companion as her own leverage, knowing he would not turn a blind eye to this obvious, malicious blackmail, and knew that Wrathion would listen to him more than a simple Agent.

Anduin grit his teeth. He hadn't counted on being manipulated, but here he was, caught between not wanting to help Goya, and wanting to help Wrathion out of this mess. Just as she'd wanted.

“I don't know when Wrathion will be back,” Anduin murmured, in a last-ditch effort to weasel himself out. “He's... taking care of something, right now, and I don't -”

“Oh, no need to worry. I have a report he is flying in by kite tonight.”

“I – what?”

Anduin blinked, taken aback. He was flying back to the Tavern already? His stomach twisted. Had he already dealt with Sabellian? That quickly? Or was he bringing the dragon back to the Tavern, for whatever reason? Maybe he'd decided to keep him alive...?

His mind whirred with the sudden news, but he forced it to still.

“So. Do we have an understanding, my dear?”

Anduin stared hard at her. Every ounce of him was telling him to stand up right then and there and walk out of this place, to forget he ever found this secret, to erase Goya's smiles and threats against one of the only living friends out of his head.

But she had him. And she knew it.

And so did he.

With a heavy sigh, Anduin nodded, but he let a small glint of a hidden glare pass through as he locked her in a straight, open gaze. She may have had him, but he wasn't going to slink down like a beaten dog.

His walk back to his room, soon after, was a lonely one.

----

Wrathion hated kites.

He had started out the trip in his human form, his legs folded awkwardly underneath him after he'd hopped onto the large blue and red kite of the Shado-pan. The pandaren had graciously lent three of them, though after a quick realization that the “all-knowing” Blacktalon Agents had no idea how to fly the kites, three pandaren had been assigned to guiding them back to the Veiled Stair.

It had only been a half hour since Left's talk when the Shado-pan had asked if they would like transportation back. Wrathion may have still be tired, but he knew that their request was just the pandaren wanting them to leave. He'd seen many of the Shado-pan give him sidelong glances as he'd left the tent, flanked by Left and Alexia, and had dutifully ignored them.

“You should have listened to me,” Fei Li had said as she'd watched her Shado-pan prepare the kites. She had a long bandage stuck to her face and her pink nose was bruised. “I told you the mantid would be angry.”

Wrathion had given her a silent glare. She'd expressed her confusion, however, as to why they had been captured rather than killed, and had asked what he had seen down there.

“Amber,” Wrathion had quipped, and Fei Li had looked annoyed.

He was glad when the kites and their guides were ready. Wrathion hadn't looked back at the smoking ruins of Sik'vess as they'd lifted onto the winds, the sturdy cloth whipping beneath his knees and the air cold against his face. He wasn't about to rip apart the blanketed numbness he'd pleasantly settled over his torn mind by looking back at the dying kypari tree where he had seen things he'd already forgotten and had done a deed he was both proud and terrified of.

It was better to mask his shock, to push it back and forget, he'd come to realize. Left had been right, anyway: what was done was done, and there was no use shaking like a leaf in the wind about it. His inner doubts and despair had terrified him into corruption with the Sha; they had weakened him after Sabellian's capture into spilling his guts to Anduin Wrynn. Wrathion had steeled himself before but had let his mask fall after the mantid had captured them – after that entire-...

No. Wrathion would not let his composure slip again – and so he had blessedly blanked the events away, smoothed them back like they were smears upon a spotless piece of armor, but there was a vacant feel to his thoughts, like he was still drugged.

Wrathion had handled an hour in human form before the loathsome rocking of the kite had gotten to him; he'd gripped onto the wooden beam so tight with his claws that he'd scarred through the sanded smoothness, and the pandaren guiding the kite had given him a nasty look at the damage. Annoyed and airsick with the unnatural sway Wrathion had shifted into whelp form and promptly curled himself around Left's shoulders. At least the orc didn't seem to mind the lurching of the kite as it whistled through the chilly northern wind. Then again, she never really seemed to mind anything.

The flight had been a long one. They'd left in the late afternoon, but now as the great mountain of the Stair rose in front of them, the stars lit up against the night sky like a thousand winking eyes. Wrathion watched them lazily, picking out all of the dozens of constellations he'd learned: there was the great Bear, and the Serpent, and then the Warlock's Eye. There was the Worg, too, chasing the Deer in an eternal pursuit against the sky.

It was better watching the stars then watch as they ascended the stairs by kite, the wind here much more warm, and come upon the destruction of the Tavern. He knew what he would see when he looked ahead, and though try as he might to swallow his growing discomfort there was an unmovable knot in the pit of his chest, like he had swallowed rock. The last time he had been here was –... when he had fallen into his Despair, and he didn't want to linger on such tainted memories. Better to forget they had happened, to force them away, and never bring them up again as he had in his moment of sheer weakness with Anduin Wrynn. Just as he was doing with the event at the kypari tree, so would he do again with the Sha. Easy.

“We're here, My Prince,” Left murmured, and Wrathion sighed and forced his eyes from the stars as he leveled his gaze back down. Indeed they had quickly scaled the Path of a Hundred Steps – cheating, perhaps, with the kites – and the leveled plain of the Veiled Stair spread out in front of them.

The landscape was nearly like they'd left it: many of the tree husks were black and ashen grey, fully sheared of their leaves, and through the mists, which were wholly thick tonight, so thick Wrathion had to squint to see through, he could just make out the fuzzy outlines of burnt grass beneath, a circle of death that outstretched across the slope.

It was as if they were landing in a cloud as the Shado-pan led them down to a surprisingly smooth landing, striking out their feet to halt the kite from bouncing at the ground. Wrathion hopped off of Left's shoulder and the kite instantly. The grass crunched, brittle, beneath his feet, and he looked around after shaking off his numbness from the tiresome ride. The mists clung to the gnarled limbs of the dead trees like a spider-weave cape draped along a frail woman's outstretched hands, and for a disorienting moment he felt as if he was about to be snatched up by their twisted branches. He shifted into his human form and wiped imaginary dust off of his pauldrons as if to shake off his paranoia, and frowned. The wind smelled of burning, but blessedly warm.

It didn't look or feel like they had arrived at what was once a quiet place of rest, but instead at a graveyard. Wrathion tried to numb the feeling at having returned. He wasn't sure what to feel. Elation? Relief that this ordeal was over?

Wrathion just felt tired and a bit confused, and the need for a good nap and a day-long soak in the hot spring.

“I don't remember the Veiled Stair looking this glum,” grumbled one of the Shado-pan, the one who had guided Alexia's kite. Wrathion could hardly see him through the thick mist, though he was only a handful of feet away.

Wrathion wrinkled his nose and ignored the comment. Left had already gotten off her kite and was at his side.

“Well, we're here. Good,” Wrathion murmured lamely. Now what?

Oh, yes – of course. Wrathion blinked hard and started towards where he thought the Tavern was; he could hardly see it through the fog, and nearly ran into a tree before catching himself. It wasn't long before he heard footsteps crunching towards him and he stopped, his good hand instinctually going to the hilt of his dagger before he saw it was not some enemy but instead one of his Agents, another orc.

“Hello, Prince,” the orc greeted gruffly, his voice like rumbling rocks. “I trust the ride was smooth.”

Wrathion sniffed and swept past the orc, in no mood for idle, wasteful chatter. “Report. Now. I don't have all the time in the world.”

The orc followed Wrathion and Left. Wrathion could hear the pandaren having trouble tying the kites, as the kite stand had long since burned down; he vacantly covered the memory of who had cast the inferno away. One of his fingers twitched.

“The Black Market House is still abandoned, Your Majesty,” the orc explained as Wrathion swerved past yet another tree and withheld the urge to simply kick at it in his frustration. He wished they'd all just burned down fully instead of him nearly knocking his head into all of them because of the damn fog. “We've seen some glimpses of the Exhange Guards, but they've disappeared as quickly as they were spotted.”

Wrathion raised a brow but did not comment. He cared little of the ongoings of the snake-like Madam Goya.

“And?” Wrathion prodded. He stopped, recognizing where he stood. Around him was the small, bare courtyard leading up to the Tavern, which was -...

Right in front of him, but not as destroyed as he remembered.

Wrathion stared, confused. Was it the mists playing tricks on him? It was still a disaster – the roof caved in, a hole in the wall where he'd been thrown through, and scorch marks dotted and smeared the thick wood like the dappled hide of a leopard – but it seemed to him like it had gone through a bit of repair, mostly because of the different shades of quickly-hacked wood that now lay embedded in some of the smaller outer walls of the Tavern.

The orc grumbled, perhaps sensing his confusion. “Tong is here. Came yesterday, as we were transporting Right. Old bear is trying to repair the place with some other pandaren of his.”

Tong? Wrathion blinked, surprised. He hadn't thought about Tong. Wrathion had thought him dead, honestly.

Well! What good news. Maybe Wrahtion's Tavern might be halfway destroyed, but at least he had his waiter.

“And where is Right?” Wrathion asked.

“Put her in there. Tong's been a bit helpful.”

“Mm. Well. Lead the way.”

The orc nodded and went up the small set of still-broken stairs and into the Tavern. Wrathion paused to glance back at Left, but the orc had no change of expression on her face. For a moment he had the urge to say something cooing and comforting, but stopped himself with a small scowl and swept after the other agent, careful not to fall through the missing steps. Ugh. He wasn't Anduin Wrynn, he chided himself, and Left wouldn't want such coddling words, anyway.

Wrathion tucked his cast arm closer to his chest as he went inside. If it was difficult walking up the destroyed stairs, it was near-impossible for him to try to navigate through the inner destruction. Entire beams from the second floor and the roof were slanted haphazardly into the first floor like they had been shucked in like harpoons from the sky. The table he used to sit at was crunched inward slightly from when he had been tossed through the wall and slid back into the bench, and shards of broken pottery were scattered throughout the floor, mixed in with other pieces of wood charred, broken, or both.

The stillness of the place, though – that must have been the thing that unnerved Wrathion the most. He had been used to the silence of the Veiled Stair – had enjoyed it, honestly, as it'd let him actually relax, once and a while, and focus – but this was something else entirely. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. There were no voices from visiting champions or the sizzle of cooking food from the kitchens, and no distant sounds of tired travelers laboring up the Stairs – just a silence that seemed almost eerier than the wholesome devastation to the place Wrathion had made his temporary home.

“Up here. Mind the steps. They cave in at the middle,” the orc said. Wrathion watched, bewildered, as the Agent carefully began up the stairs that led to the second floor of the Tavern. They creaked dangerously underneath him.

“Up there?” Wrathion looked the stairs up and down.

“The foundation is secure enough.” The orc disappeared beyond.

Wrathion pursed his lips. Disbelieving the orc, he shifted into whelp form and twirled up onto the second floor by flight, and trusted Left, at least, to be light-footed enough to be safe when going up the steps.

He landed gingerly on the bannister that overlooked the first floor. It was surprisingly still in tact, and Wrathion was pleased to note the small area that Anduin and he had often spent their time playing that silly pandaren board game was relatively unharmed, as well, though the pieces were woefully scattered in stark black and white marks against the wood floor. He had no doubt many were lost.

The orc agent – Wrathion didn't know his name, and didn't care enough to – nodded over to the hallway that stretched from the western side of the room and looped out to the bedrooms. Wrathion shifted back into human form and followed, and Left was already at his side again when he followed the orc through the doorway.

Right was in the first room. Wrathion startled when he saw Tong speaking to another Agent, a female blood elf with her blonde hair tied back in a braid. The innkeeper stopped mid-sentence and glanced at him; Tong may have looked old before, but he looked even older, now; thick bags circled his eyes and his fur looked frayed at the edges.

“Tong!” Wrathion greeted with a false cheerfulness. The innkeeper's ears went flat against his head. “How good to see you alive.”

“Yes,” the pandaren agreed in his rumbling voice. Beside him, laid out on the bed, was a full, bumpy white sheet, and Wrathion tried not to look at it. The blood elf was standing guard beside it. “You as well, Prince Wrathion.”

“I am deeply sorry about the Tavern,” Wrathion apologized. He really was. It'd been the only place on Pandaria that had some sense of home for him since Ravenholdt.

Why did it always seem his house was always set on fire by angry dragons? He brushed the thought away. “But I assure you, rebuilding it will be a task that is next on my list.”

Tong stared at him. The innkeeper looked unsure as if to believe him or not.

Well, whether he did or not was irrelevant, and it wasn't his fault that the Tavern had nearly burned down, anyway. Wrathion turned away and finally forced himself to look at the white sheet. “Is that – ah...?”

“Yes,” the blood elf confirmed. She glanced at Left, who had said nothing and had moved little since getting into the room. Her stoic face was unreadable but her eyes were trained on the bed.

Tong bowed his head quietly and moved from the room, no doubt to give the Agents and their leader their space. Wrathion thought it a good touch.

“Lift it,” Left grumbled suddenly, and the blood elf complied. Wrathion stayed quiet and, vacantly, watched the Agent take away the front of the sheet and pull it back; his stomach clenched. It was Right – Right's body, he reminded himself, as he studied her face.

She looked the same as he had last seen her before Sabellian had swept her from the cliff, though there was a paleness to her cheeks that marked her in death: the three claw marks from the drake's talons were torn at her face, and a terrible brown bruise had mottled one of her eyes, which were, thankfully, closed. Wrathion found himself unsure if he could handle them being open.

He felt Left stiffen next to him. Wrathion dared not look at her.

“As I reported, she fell in the river from the Vale.” The blood elf paused a moment more before gently laying back the sheet, and Wrathion released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and relaxed his stiffened shoulders. “It's preserved her, but I would suggest a quick funeral.”

The blood elf wasn't looking at Wrathion as she spoke; she was looking at Left. This would have, under different circumstances, thoroughly annoyed him, but it didn't, this time.

Left said nothing. Wrathion finally looked at her. The orc's blue eyes were hardened and her tusked lips twisted in a silent, pained scowl; she'd forced herself to look away from the covered body, but now, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. Wrathion wasn't sure whether to try to awkwardly comfort her or stay quiet like he was. He decided to pick the latter, lest he make a fool out of himself. He wasn't sure what to say, anyway – for once.

“Near sunrise, then.” Left shifted her weight and glanced at Right's hidden body again before making eye contact with the elf. “Fine?” Her voice as a snap, a challenge, and the elf nodded quickly.

Left hesitated. Her hands tensed into fists before falling flat at her sides, and for a flash, a second, a heartbeat, she looked unsure of what to do.

She turned to Wrathion.

“Your orders?” Left asked gruffly, and Wrathion stared at her, trying to mask his alarm. She was looking at him with a strange, intense gaze that was beginning to unnerve him. Slowly, he glanced back at Right's covered body before catching eye contact with Left.

“You,” Wrathion began quietly, quiet enough where the words were for her and her alone, “are going to stay here.”

Left locked her jaw. “My Prince -”

“No. These two agents will be my guards for a spell.” The blood elf and orc he indicated nodded their acceptance at his order. “Unless, of course, you do not want to stay here. Honestly, you can do whatever you'd like, Left, I don't care either way. But I believe you need some...” Wrathion grappled for the right words. “Time... off? Time alone? Yes. There. Time alone.”

Left stared at him.

Wrathion felt his sudden confidence waver. “Unless you'd like to be around me,” he said quickly. Oh, Gods, this was difficult. He should have never said anything. How was he supposed to know what to do? He'd never been in a situation like this!

Left frowned. Her tusks went lopsided against her face. Wrathion watched her warily and decided to stop talking.

“I will... guard her,” Left murmured finally. “Until sunrise.”

Wrathion relaxed. He was, at that moment, so tired that he felt ready to collapse and curl up right there on the floor – but even still he smiled at Left with a genuine grin that he hoped, at least, did not betray his exhaustion.

“Very good.” Wrathion nodded, and glanced at Right for the last time before eying the blood elf and male orc. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come here and guard me.”

The Black Prince gave Left one more look, but she wasn't looking at him anymore, but instead the sheet. The two agents quickly hopped to attention and followed him out of the room.

Wrathion forced his shoulders upright as they threatened to sag. Seeing Right left the vacant blankness in his head stinging, left his shielded mask warped. He licked his lips idly as he once again shifted into his true form and fluttered down to the first floor, landing on the bruised and battered metal oven which was, unfortunately, not running. He'd have to ask Tong about that.

Right now, though – Wrathion wanted to just sleep. He jumped over to the table and after brushing off some of the remaining debris, curled up into a tight ball, folding his wings snugly around his body and tucking his broken leg close to his chest. It smelled of fire and burned wood in here, Wrathion thought, as he closed his eyes. Like a fireplace. It was strangely comforting.

His eyes met darkness. For a moment it was as comforting as the smell – and then his mind's eye shifted, and there was something slithering, something creeping forward, an image that was pulled and torn and over-inked, splotched, and formless. But something about it made Wrathion seize with fear. His breath caught – but as soon as he grew afraid the image fell back into darkness.

But it seemed that the break had forced the dam of forgetfulness in Wrathion's head to crack. Suddenly he had the dagger in his hand and it was plunged deep into Sabellian's gut, and he felt the blood on his hands. He heard the dragon choke. It seemed so real -

Wrathion forced his eyes opened and sucked in a breath. The feeling was gone. He whipped his head around, then glanced at his talons. There wasn't any blood. He wasn't in the kypari tree. Sabellian wasn't here.

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Came the worried inquiry of the blood elf. The two agents he'd assigned to guarding were just now coming down the stairs, and Wrathion stared at her blankly. Had the sudden ordeal been that quick to come and go? Wrathion set his head flat against the table and curled up again, hiding his face but not quite closing his eyes again.

“Fine,” he muttered vaguely. Wrathion glared at his scales and hurriedly patched the hole in his defenses again.

Forget about the Sha. Forget about Sabellian. Forget about Right's body, about the destruction of the Tavern. Forget and mask and steel. He couldn't be weak. Wouldn't be weak. The quicker things got to normal, the better.

Even still, as Wrathion repeated the mantra to himself, as he tried hard to ramp up his mental strength, he dared not close his eyes for the second time. It was only when sleep forced itself upon him hours later that he fell into a blessedly dreamless slumber, free of the nightmares the sonar had given him and he had forgotten.

---

Alacian was starving.

He lay flat on his belly outside the still broodcave as he grimly watched his clutch-brothers and sisters play tag. It was hot out, like he liked it; a burning against his scales that would have made him roll against the ground and scratch his back against the warmed rock in comforted glee if he wasn't pouting. Nythia had tagged him in the game, and he'd insisted she'd cheated. No one had believed him – so he'd sat himself out in protest, and just got annoyed when no one seemed to mind.

Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on his hunger resurfacing when he'd stopped playing. He shifted, grumbling, the stone bumpy underneath his belly, and glanced sidelong at the prey cave, adjacent to the brood's. The last of the stores had been eaten after Samia had left; they usually didn't hoard food until the rainy season, when the acid rain killed much of the animals caught outside.

This was not the rainy season. Even Alacian knew that.

It didn't mean he was less hungry. He turned away and tapped his claws on the ground, trying to entertain himself with the puff of grainy smoke he was kicking up with his paws. From above his claws he could still see his brothers and sisters, but he could also make out the glowing forms of the nether-drakes. Alacian thought they looked funny, but he hadn't said anything. He'd just kind of stared until the nearest one had glared at him. They looked like salamanders.

There weren't many around, though. After the stores had been split up evenly, Ylaria had gone off with some of them to search for prey. She'd hurriedly assigned the other drakes to keep searching for the dead animals that might still litter the Mountains, and even now Alacian could smell the smoke, far-off, from the burned bodies. He sneezed.

It felt empty without Samia. Alacian stretched out his small but growing wings and stood, shaking out his tail and then his head. It had been lonely without Father, but with Samia gone, too, it was worse. Four of his older siblings were gone, too, and Alacian didn't like it. He hoped they were okay. Samia had looked so worried. She never looked like that. But why would she be worried for Father? He was practically the size of a whole mountain, he was so big! Nothing could ever hurt him.

Thinking about it made a strange syrupy feeling pool at his chest, and Alacian whined. He turned his attention back to his playing siblings and thoroughly put-out, went to rejoin them when a flash of red caught his eye.

He glanced over and went still. A small horned lizard was scuttling across the rocks, about the size of his paw. It didn't seem to notice him, and continued waddling around the curve of the cave.

Alacian smacked his maw. The lizards were a tasty treat - if you could catch them. Samia and the others had said not to eat anything here, but it was only a little lizard, and he was hungry.

Slowly he got to his feet and crouched, and, after making sure Thalarian, who was supposed to be watching them but instead dozing off as he usually did, wasn't looking, he crept after the small meal, belly rumbling. It disappeared beyond the curve of the brood cave but Alacian was quick to follow, though he inwardly grumbled each time his paws slid and snapped on the hot gravel beneath his paws. Father said good hunters were either very quiet or very quick. Or both. Alacian was quick, but he wasn't the former.

The lizard didn't seem to realize that, though. Alacian was pleased when he turned around the cave and saw it making a lazy scamper towards the higher rocks, unaware it was being followed. He crouched lower to the ground until the rock brushed up against his stomach and toddled forward.

The lizard stopped. Alacian halted in turn and pressed his fins flat as the small animal slid a tongue out of its horned head and hesitated before continuing on its tiny trek again over rock and pebble, and Alacian followed once more. At one point he nearly lost the lizard in a patch of redder stone, and had nearly squealed in frustration, until the reptile had popped out around a larger clump of rock.

This continued for a tense ten minutes. Alacian was beginning to get frustrated. Every time he got close, the lizard would stop and scent, and then quickly lurch forward before going back to its slow pace, and Alacian would fall behind. His aching stomach wanted him to just leap at it, already, but he'd done that in the past and he'd only ended up with a raised eyebrow from Father when he'd come waddling back with a bruised snout after jumping, missing his little morsel, and smacking his muzzle into a hard piece of rock that had made him well up in frustrated, pained tears.

Well, okay – that had happened more than once. Maybe twice. Or three times. Or six.

But this time, he was very hungry, and he wasn't going to let his little prize get away.

Alacian's fins rose in alarm as the lizard rounded a corner. They were near the sharp cliffs, now, a sizable distance away from the brood – but Alacian was more focused on his dismay than his location when the lizard disappeared into a small outcrop of rock.

“Hey!” Alacian whispered, and bounded up to where the lizard had slipped into, all slyness cast aside. “That's not fair!”

He glared at the small, dark opening until he realized that he just might be able to fit himself inside. The dark cave he saw was at least a little bigger than he was, he thought, and he doubted the lizard could slip past him if he got in there with it. And he wasn't going to have come all this way and let it get away so easily!

Alacian shoved his head in and grumbled as his horns hit the sides of the opening. He went to shift his snout at a different angle so he might be more comfortable, but found he couldn't; his horns were blocking the way. A rush of fear gripped his chest and he squeaked, trying to pull out of the the small rocky cave, but each time he pulled his horns clacked against the side of the stone. He was stuck.

Alacian whined louder again. He became very much aware that he wasn't close to his brothers and sisters and that Father wasn't here to pull him out, either.

Maybe he could try to slip inside and try it the other way. Alacian huffed and breathed and forced his body through the opening; he plopped down on his belly on the cool floor and sighed with relief. Okay. At least his head wasn't stuck anymore, he thought. And the cave was a little bit than twice the size he was.

Something smacked into his head and he hissed in surprise. Little claws latched onto his fins and vaulted past him, and he realized too late that it was the lizard. Alacian screeched and scurried around, talons flailing, and tried to snap onto the morsel as it scampered from the cave, but his teeth met the air in a sharp snap and the lizard bolted through the opening.

Alacian glared. He was thoroughly put-out, now.

Well, maybe he could try leaving the cave, at least, even though the lizard was long gone. He went to carefully nuzzle his muzzle through when he heard a sudden snarl, and he whipped his head back in alarm.

Alacian paused, seeing and hearing nothing else. He looked around his small, entrapped space. Had he imagined it? Idly he began to remember the stories of the “banshees” his Father had told them, of malevolent spirits of the elves he loved to hear about so much. It'd be silly to think of them here, though. Those were on Azeroth.

Still...

“You're being obscene,” growled a voice in the same tone as the snarl had been, and Alacian stared through the opening. He lay his fins flat on his neck and peered around the rock.

Well. At least they weren't banshees.

They looked a little ghost-like, though, with the swathes of curling energy coming off of their forms. Two nether-dragons were walking past his hideaway – or at least, one of them was. The other, a cobalt, his scaleless skin a dark, midnight blue, dotted with encrusted black gems and lined with lighter patches of stripes, was pacing back and forth in front of the other, larger aqua one, whose head was adorned with a crown of crystals. Alacian recognized that one. That was Neltharaku. The leader of the Netherwing was watching his kin with a false look of attention as he stopped his walk and sat, just a bit out of Alacian's field of view. The whelp had to crane his head to see him fully.

The other one, though – the other one kept moving, kept pacing back and forth. His shark-like head was hunched and electricity sparked off of his skin with a fluid but aggressive grace like the red nether-streams above. He looked older and bigger than the other nether-drakes Alacian had seen; he was a nether-dragon, not a drake.

Alacian thought him scary with his jerky, violent movements and his powerfully built body. A very scary salamander.

“I am not being obscene,” Neltharaku said in his strong but patient voice. Alacian gave up on trying to look at his face; he was too tall and Alacian's angle was bad, and his neck was beginning to hurt. “You are the one causing trouble where there is none, Barthamus.”

The cobalt dragon, Barthamus, snorted. He stopped pacing, but only so he could look at Neltharaku in the face.

“I am not the one who has split our forces in two, brother.”

“It was necessary. And it was not in two; you over-exaggerate to make a false point, hatchling. A quarter -”

“Necessary,” Barthamus interrupted with an aggravated sneer. His voice sounded like the vibrations before a storm, like an unleashed energy rattling sharply behind a glass, sharp and snapping. “The demons encroach ever-closer to our territory, and you somehow find it necessary to throw thirty of our brood into these monsters' lot.”

A deep rumble came from Neltharaku. Without seeing his face, Alacian could only guess the dragon's expression; in his mind's eye he thought a snarl.

“The alliance I made with Sabellian was not some promise to the wind,” Neltharaku said slowly, tersely. “It was for events such as this it was made.”

“It was if the demons came that it was made,” Barthamus argued. “And here they are! And yet here is Sabellian conveniently gone and we are stuck protecting his brood while ours watches the Legion encroach.”

“Do you think an alliance some one-sided agreement?” Neltharaku shifted, moving his ankle, which Alacian knew his injured one, to tuck up closer to his chest. “And even still you conveniently ignore the threat of this Black Prince. Four of my children dead, and no doubt more will follow.” He flexed his great claw. It was bigger than Alacian himself. “The demons grow, but their attacks have not killed. Do you not think it better to annihilate this threat on Azeroth first before dealing with the threat of the Legion later?”

Barthamus replied with silence. He began pacing again, and each time he came in the direction of Alacian's hideaway, Alacian would duck his head back, afraid he would be spotted in the small darkness.

“When, or if, Sabellian returns, he will have to uphold the end of his own promise. We helped his brood, and so he will help ours.”

Barthamus snorted. “This is built on many ifs. If Sabellian is alive. If he will help. Black dragons are never known for their loyalty.”

“You know little of what black dragons are like, you hateful child,” Neltharaku snapped with a growl to his tone that made, for a brief moment, Barthamus aggressive, dominant stride stutter. “To blindly distrust is a weakness. These are our kin, whether you enjoy it or not. You, as well as I, were them in the egg. Do not think we are so different.”

Barthamus grumbled. His shark-finned tail swished aggravatingly.

“If Sabellian is alive, I will make sure he upholds his other end of our alliance,” Neltharaku continued. “The demons will take some time to push back, but it will be quicker with both Flights than just our own.” He huffed a deep huff that rattled in his thick chest. “That is the strength of alliances, Barthamus. On our own we are weaker than united.”

“They hardly have any numbers,” Barthamus argued. “Only a bit more than a quarter of ours, if that at all. They can hardly help! We are wasting time here – time and resources.” He paused his pacing, as if he was considering something. His neck lifted, and Alacian could no longer see his face beyond the outcrop of rock. “Would it not be better to drive the black dragons from this place and take it for our own? Shadowmoon is being overrun. Do not lie, I can see the truth on your face. Every day the demons there grow in numbers from places even we do not know. If our territory was to fall -”

“And you believe that forcibly taking territory from our cousins for a simple safe-spot is something to be considered?” Neltharaku snarled. Alacian hunched down. The Netherwing leader always seemed so kind and gentile, but now he was something else entirely. “To break everything I've built with them? Do you remember how difficult it was to even make Sabellian consider an allegiance?”

“Sabellian is no doubt dead by now. This would be an excellent second base, if Shadowmoon was to fully fall -”

“Yes,” Neltharaku interrupted with a snap. “A place of poisoned water and half the prey dead. Are you daft, or are you so blinded by hatred you seek any means to tear them apart?” When Barthamus did not answer immediately, Neltharaku continued. “Terokkar would be our second -”

“Yes, if the forces of Shattrath allow it.”

“They -”

“If the Aldor and Scryers turn a simple blind eye to some of our kin's outward aggressions towards mortals. If the sleezy market in the Lower City doesn't find our crystals as high a price as they would like.”

Neltharaku grunted. “You are a pessimist.”

“And you are an optimist.” Barthamus huffed. “If, if, if. The Netherwing should be run by nows, whens. Not weak ifs.”

Neltharaku went quiet. When he spoke again, his words were slow and calculated.

“You are so intent to be unlike our Father that you are becoming him, Barthamus,” Neltharaku growled. Barthamus stopped walking. “Hatred against what you were, once, is only going to blind you to logic. Do you understand that?”

Barthamus snarled, low and angry. Alacian could see his face now, lowered down to his view – it was warped in an angry sneer that made him look part-demon himself, and the electricity coursing off of him popped and sizzled with a dangerous hiss. He opened his toothed maw to speak when a faraway roar interrupted him. The two nether-dragons looked towards the source.

Alacian recognized the roar. His fins stood up. It was Ylaria. She was back already? His stomach went to rumble but he quickly rolled himself in a tight ball, afraid the small noise would alert the two he'd accidentally eavesdropped on.

“I only ask that you yourself consider other opens, Neltharaku,” Barthamus growled. “Nothing else.”

The cobalt dragon lifted his smooth, flat wings and lifted, turning towards the broodcave.

Neltharaku stayed for a moment longer. He sighed heavily and was slow to follow the other.

Alacian waited even longer before he unrolled himself from his clumsy ball and peeked out of the hole. The nether-dragons were long gone, he was glad to see, and he was safe to leave. He twisted his head and grunted as his horns caught against the sides again, but bracing his paws against the rock, he forced himself through with a squeeze and a huff and smacked his face on the rock, wings going askew and a undignified peep escaping him.

Ylaria roared again in the distance. Alacian sighed, shook out of his wings, and began his half-run, half-flight back to the cave, and wondered about how weird the nether-dragons were.

---

Nasandria stared hard at the mechanical whelp in her hands.

The four statues of the animals looked down at her placidly as she tinkered with the automaton. She was back in the prayer room, having nowhere else to go, and sitting back on the thick cot at the end of the wall. A quiet fire flickered at her left, in an encased metal burner; she'd been delighted to see it upon her return, burning and smoking and melting away the icy heat the slim candles could do break away, to harm the room tenfold. Nasandria had little idea of who had brought it, but guessed the kind monk. Either way, she rested her bare feet against its smooth metal to feel the sharp heat beneath her soles, a comfort in her otherwise frustrated state.

The whelp wasn't working. It hadn't been working for the past half hour. Upon lifting its scaled head to tap the scale below its jaw, the scale that would form the connection with Sabellian's own whelp to allow communication, she'd noted with dismay that it was jammed, shoved sideways and locked. No doubt it had sustained the injury from her fall, and for that she grew even more frustrated. This was her fault.

And no matter how hard she pulled at the damn scale, how much she tried to slide it forward and slide it sideways and back, it refused to budge.

So here she was, glaring, the tips of her fingers throbbing, and trying not to go forth with the impulse to shatter the thing against the wall.

But that would do no good. Nasandria growled low in her throat and shook the damn thing. It rattled and squeaked, and its head flopped about lifelessly.

“Come on,” she muttered. Nasandria sat it down on one of her crossed knees and snatched onto the bouncing head, forcing its ruby eyes to stare at her. One of them was shattered. “Work for me.”

For what seemed the thousandth time she gently moved her hand underneath its jaw and tried to grab a hold of the coined-sized scale mechanism. It was slippery underneath her fingers, and she felt as if she was trying to snatch onto a piece of cloud. It was harder still because with each push of her hand, the whelp would lost its balance and threaten to topple; she didn't have the added bonus of keeping it still with another hand she didn't have.

The thought of using her claws resurfaced, as it had since she'd been trying to pry the thing in place again. But Nasandria had been too wary her talons would break the inner lock inside with their sharpness and strength and completely destroy the latch.

But she wasn't going to get any farther with her weak mortal-guised hand. That much she knew when again her fingers slipped against the smooth metal. Nasandria snarled.

“Fine.” Nasandria swiftly reverted her hand into a half-claw. Black talons sprouted from beneath her fingertips, coiled and curved. “If you break, it's your own fault.”

Slowly – agonizingly slow – she slipped two of her claws against the scale. Her heart leaped as she felt the curved tips get leverage. Now she just needed to pull the scale back in place as gently as she could without giving into the accidental strength of her hidden form.

Easier said than done. She pulled, and the scale shuddered. Well, at least it was moving. Nasandria took a breath and tried again, slower this time. With a creak and a whine the scale slowly moved back in place until it promptly gave a sharp pop and latched itself down. Nasandria pulled her claws away with a grin.

Finally, she thought. She should have done that before.

With a tap of her hand, still a claw, she pushed in the scale. It sank into the whelp's throat, and the automaton opened its mouth in a creak. Its eyes sparked with life, and it gave a gnarled rumble of harsh static before twitching against her knee; she reverted her hand back to its human simplicity and held the whelp still.

“Father?” Nasandria called, bending her neck so her face was closer to the little machine so that her voice would be louder, afraid there was more inner damage inside the whelp and that her voice may sound warped or weak because of it.

The whelp stared at her, mouth open, but all that answered was the steady stream of static.

Nasandria pursed her lips. She waited a moment more before trying again.

“It's Nasandria.” Well, of course it was, she thought. Nasandria shifted her weight and waited for him to reply with the very same comment, but still there was only static.

She must have waited a solid three minutes of silence before asking again. “Father.” But still there was nothing.

Maybe he had left his satchel somewhere, she thought. Nasandria tilted her head at the whelp and tried to ignore the steady thrumming of her heart that felt like it was quickening, slowly, but very surely. He had had the two princes when he had last spoke to her, and Nasandria had no doubt that would be a handful. Maybe he was distracted, or he couldn't hear her.

But he had to hear her right now. How could she know if the whelp would suddenly die on her? If she hadn't noticed the lodged scale on its jaw at first, could there be worse damage inside? If it died, she would have no way of telling her father where she was and that she was alright, and no way of knowing where he was and if he was alright.

Nasandria swallowed a growing sourness that itched at the back of her throat in tandem with the quickening of her heart. Slowly, she reached for a sound deep in her chest, and opened her mouth; a sharp, growling sort of whine rumbled forth from between her teeth. It was a sound of distress. She normally wouldn't have used it – it was a whelp's sound, usually – but...

Nasandria cut it short. If anything, that would make him pick up the damn whelp and talk to her.

“It's Nasandria,” she repeated.

Static. The whelp stared at her with its bright eyes, its shattered one looking off in all different directions.

A minute passed. Then two. Then three. Then four, then five. Nasandria bit her bottom lip. Her glare began to melt; now her face held a slant of worry. Could he be that distracted? Whenever the whelps made that sound he always snapped to attention, and if a drake like her had made it – that was asking for attention.

But her father's voice didn't come. Maybe there was something wrong with the connection, she thought – but the notion was steadily being overrun with harrowed ideas. He wouldn't ignore a sound like that, Nasandria repeated to herself. No matter how busy he was, or how distracted; sometimes he was huffy and grumbly, but he was an attentive father.

Nasandria made the sound again, louder, this time – more genuine, as now a true distress was beginning to lodge in her throat and hitch her tone.

Again five minutes passed in silence.

Nasandria began to breathe hard. Her hand began to sweat cold against the whelp. For a brief, terrible moment she saw the great monster Gruul tearing her mother's head off, saw it hanging in chains, and Nasandria quickly and forcefully beat the memories back. Now she was really being paranoid, she thought at herself. She was being stupid. She was being over-dramatic.

But still, after another five minutes came and went and the only sound that the whelp made was its insufferable shhhhttttttthh of static, Nasandria's panic had grown tenfold and there was a steady ringing in her ears.

No. No. There had to be something wrong with the connection. The whelp was probably broken. There was absolutely no way he would ignore two calls like that.

Or there was something wrong, something hissed at her, the overwhelmingly growing panicking part of her.

Nasandria took a deep breath.

“Maybe you're busy,” Nasandria started quickly, stumbling over her words and ashamed at the shake in her voice but unable to stop it. “But I just wanted to let you know I'm not sick anymore.”

Shhhhhhtttttthhhh. Static.

“I think Alexstrasza the Life-binder healed me.” She repositioned her hand against the whelp and almost dropped it, her hand was so slick with a cold, panicked sweat welling at her open palm. “And Kalecgos is here, too. I'm either very lucky or in a very strange place.”

Shhhhthhhhhh.

Nasandria bit her lip so hard she felt blood run down her chin. It plopped against her leather pants, and she ignored it.

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

Shhhhthhhhhh.

Nasandria swallowed. Please, she just wanted him to answer.

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

Shhhhthhhhhh.

She took a trembling breath. “Well,” Nasandria said, “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.”

Again the flicker of memory of Gruul's great hand encircling her mother's throat flashed at the corner of Nasandria's eye.

Mother had been untouchable too, once.

Nasandria swallowed hard. She was being over-dramatic, Nasandria repeated to herself. Nothing was wrong -

Shhhhthhhhhh.

Shhhhthh -

Nasandria scowled and snapped the whelp's mouth closed with a snap. It fell back in her lap. She again almost threw it as she had before, but instead of her hand latching onto it, it instead pressed up against her face; her palm covered her eyes, and she leaned forward onto her knee, arching her back. The sheer weight of loneliness built at her shoulders, rang at her head and ached at her chest. A sob racked her. She always thought herself not as brave or dependable as Samia, not as fierce as her younger sister Ylaria, not as strong as her brother Vaxian or as crafty as Pyria. Here she was, she thought, crying over a stupid whelp and a stupid scream of silent static and with the fear of that silence clutching at her throat, a silence that shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have answered instead of her father's voice.

Nasandria tried to take a breath but found she could do nothing but cry. She wanted her dead brother and sister Ryxia and Talsian. She wanted her father. And she wanted to go home.

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