CHAPTER 33: Shadows of Madness
"Who are you?" Zuluhed growled in halting Common, his voice a guttural rasp that mangled the words. His massive warhammer never wavered in his grip, poised for another strike. Shamans like him weren't fragile spellweavers hiding behind incantations—they were frontline brutes, channeling the elements through raw, hammer-swinging fury. The weapon in his hand crackled with latent lightning, a testament to his dual role as warrior and conduit of the spirits.
"I'm your father!" Arthas retorted with a savage grin, his tone laced with mockery. He unleashed a barrage of Holy Hammers, each radiant projectile building his divine power like stacking kindling for a bonfire. As the energy peaked, a brilliant beam erupted from his shield—the Shield of Righteousness—slamming into Zuluhed with the force of a divine verdict.
Bang! The chieftain was hurled from his perch atop the red drake, crashing to the blood-soaked earth in a heap of green muscle and dented armor. Arthas wasted no time, leaning close to the drake that was feigning disorientation. "Aid us in freeing your queen," he whispered urgently, his eyes locking onto the beast's slitted pupils. "Pretend you're still stunned—play along until the moment is right."
The red drake's eyelids lifted just enough to convey understanding, a flicker of ancient intelligence shining through. Then, it slumped dramatically, eyes fluttering shut as its massive body swayed like a tree in a storm. If Arthas hadn't known better, he'd have been fooled entirely. Dragons, it seemed, were consummate performers when their survival—or that of their kin—hung in the balance. This one played the part of a dazed mount to perfection, buying the team precious seconds.
"Damn you, whelp! Burn him to ashes with your flames!" Zuluhed bellowed, scrambling to his feet and swinging his hammer in a wide arc. Rage contorted his tusked face; he yearned to rend this human intruder limb from limb, to crush him under the weight of orcish vengeance.
But Arthas was already in motion. He hurled a consecrated shield of holy light, the Avenger's Shield ricocheting among the charging orc grunts like a blessed pinball. They staggered, off-balance and blinded by the radiance. Seizing the opening, Arthas lunged forward, his longsword flashing in a precise arc. The blade sliced deep into one orc's neck, severing the carotid artery in a spray of arterial blood. The greenskin didn't drop immediately—clutching his throat in futile panic—but without a shaman to invoke healing spirits, death was inevitable. Labored gasps turned to wheezes as blood loss sapped his strength, his knees buckling in the mud.
Arthas had tasted battle before, but this felt different—primal, intoxicating. He moved with lethal efficiency, reaping lives like a farmer scything wheat. A strange euphoria built with each kill, as if some ethereal essence from the fallen orcs seeped into him, fueling a growing madness. It whispered promises of power, urging him onward. He parried a dual-axe assault with his shield, deflecting the blows sideways to unbalance his foes. A swift kick to one's groin doubled him over, and Arthas drove his sword upward, piercing the skull with a wet crunch. Twisting the blade, he pulverized the brain matter, ensuring instant oblivion.
"You all die here! Haha!" Arthas laughed maniacally, raising his sword aloft. Holy light poured from him, sanctifying the ground in a glowing Consecration that seared any enemy standing upon it. Arrows whistled from afar, orc archers loosing volleys that punched through chinks in his plate armor, drawing rivulets of blood. Pain flared, but in the consecrated earth, regenerative energy flowed back into him, mending flesh and staunching wounds. A surge of Glory Holy Word descended like a benevolent rain, restoring him to full vigor.
He fought with fluid grace, blocking strikes and countering with ranged holy assaults—Avenger's Shields and Holy Hammers felling distant threats. Scars multiplied across his body, jagged lines of red against his paling skin, but his fervor only intensified. The madness took hold, a berserker's gleam in his eyes that unnerved even the battle-hardened orcs. One desperate greenskin lunged, wrapping Arthas in a bear hug to pin him. In response, Arthas snapped forward like a feral beast, sinking his teeth into the orc's ear and tearing it free in a spray of blood and cartilage. He kicked the assailant away, tumbling backward himself from the force.
Yet, in the next heartbeat, Arthas rose, blood dripping from his chin, a holy aura descending to knit his injuries. He charged again, strides thunderous, voice booming with unhinged glee. "Haha, come on! Keep coming—this is your graveyard!"
From her vantage, Onyxia—disguised as the human mage Katrana Prestor—watched with a furrowed brow. This frenzy bordered on demonic possession, a shadow of corruption twisting the prince's noble features. She waved her staff, conjuring massive fireballs that streaked through the air like comets. Simultaneously, she reached out mentally to her father, Deathwing, relaying the chaotic scene.
Not far away, hidden in the craggy peaks of the Twilight Highlands, Deathwing observed through arcane scrying. The battle was trivial to him—a mere skirmish he could end with a single claw swipe or breath of shadowflame. These orcs were insects, crushable beneath his titanic form. Yet, Arthas captivated him. The prince's escalating madness mirrored Deathwing's own torments—the way battle amplified insidious whispers in the mind, driving one to irrational extremes.
As the Aspect of Earth, Deathwing had once been Neltharion, a noble guardian among the dragonflights. But his subterranean lair abutted the prison of N'Zoth, the Old God of corruption, sealed deep beneath Azeroth. For ten thousand years, he endured the entity's ceaseless murmurs—promises of power, visions of apocalypse—that no barrier could fully silence. It was a miracle he hadn't shattered entirely. Compounding this were the planet's own anguished cries, echoing from its core like an unborn child wracked by parasitic invaders. Azeroth suffered, and so did its warden.
Arthas's descent into battle-madness resonated deeply, evoking sympathy in the black dragon's fractured psyche. It explained his unusual mercy toward this mortal prince, his willingness to ally with such a fragile being. When Arthas had hinted at a "solution" to such afflictions, Deathwing's curiosity ignited. Could this human truly devise a cure? Would it work on a being as ancient and tormented as himself? He yearned to find out.
In the unaltered timeline, Deathwing would suffer near-fatal wounds, retreating underground to heal while N'Zoth's influence deepened into total enslavement—an irreversible fall into cataclysmic villainy. But here, in this branching path, he maintained a tenuous independence. His pact with the Old God was one of mutual exploitation, not outright domination. For now.
"Assist him," Deathwing commanded through their bond, his voice a seismic rumble in Onyxia's mind. "But remember our true goal: the dragon eggs. Secure them without fail. Do not compromise the plan."
Deathwing's priorities lay elsewhere. Arthas was a curiosity, a potential tool, but the red dragon eggs were the key to resurgence. He intended to plunder them from Grim Batol, smuggling the clutch to Draenor—a shattered world beyond Azeroth's reach. There, away from the vigilant eyes of the other flights and mortal heroes, he could hatch and raise a new black dragon army. On Azeroth, his kind were pariahs—hunted on sight, reviled by all. The few survivors who surrendered languished under surveillance at Wyrmrest Temple, their freedom forfeit. Draenor offered sanctuary, a fresh start for domination.
"Yes, Father," Onyxia replied, her draconic loyalty unwavering. She reassessed Arthas with newfound intrigue. Initially, her alliance stemmed from greed—gold coins to hoard, a diversion from the tedium of immortality. Eternal life demanded amusements, lest boredom consume the soul. But now, seeing echoes of her father's struggles in this human, her commitment deepened.
As both dragon and archmage, Onyxia's spellcraft eclipsed mortal capabilities. Human mages conjured fist-sized fireballs; hers were colossal, millstone-grinding orbs of superheated plasma, dense with destructive potential.
Boom! She unleashed a volley, the explosions scattering Dragonmaw orcs like leaves in a gale. Bodies flew, armor melting, as Arthas waded in to finish the survivors. His orc-slaying zeal bordered on obsession, each kill feeding his dark euphoria.
With the drakes subdued, Alleria turned her bow on the archers, arrows thunking into distant targets and pinning them to tree trunks like macabre decorations. Glancing at Arthas's unhinged state, worry creased her elegant features. Perhaps it was their recent physical intimacy—a fleeting connection born of stress and proximity—that stirred this anxiety. Skin-deep bonds could run deeper than expected.
The carnage concluded in a haze of blood and smoke. Only a handful of Dragonmaw orcs fled into the hills; the rest littered the ground, lifeless husks. Zuluhed lay defeated beneath Arthas's boot, his face a pulped mess—nose shattered, cheeks swollen, tusks snapped at the root. Blood bubbled from his ruined maw, giving him the pitiful air of a cornered wolf. In stark contrast, Arthas loomed above, drenched in gore, his aura pulsating with murderous intent. He was the bear, the indomitable hero; Zuluhed, the broken prey.
But as the adrenaline faded, Arthas felt the whispers recede, leaving a hollow ache. Had he truly been himself in that frenzy? Or was something darker taking root? The rescue of the Red Dragon Queen loomed ahead, but shadows of madness clung to his soul, a tragic undercurrent to their victory.
The hill dwarves, battered but grateful, gathered around. "Ye saved our hides, stranger," their leader grunted, clasping Muradin's arm in kinship. "The Dragonmaw've been raidin' our supplies for weeks. Grim Batol's their lair—ye aimin' to strike there?"
Arthas nodded, wiping blood from his blade. "We are. And with your help, we'll end this enslavement once and for all."
As they pressed on, the weight of corruption lingered, a silent promise of trials yet to come.
--- END OF CHAPTER 33 ---