CHAPTER 40: The Liberated Queen
Deathwing hovered in the shadowed crags outside Grim Batol, his massive black wings casting an ominous pall over the rugged terrain. The air hummed with tension as he prepared to strike, his molten eyes fixed on the cavernous depths where the dragon eggs lay vulnerable. The black dragon aspect, twisted by ancient madness and the corrupting whispers of the Old Gods, had long coveted the power of his kin. But even he, the Earth-Warder turned destroyer, felt a ripple of unease pierce his armored hide. For within the mountain fortress, something ancient and unfathomable stirred—a force that echoed the primordial might of the Titans themselves.
The Titans, those colossal architects of worlds, were beings born from the awakening consciousness of planets. Their essence was tied inexorably to the cosmic order, granting them immortality as long as their world endured. To slay a Titan was no mere feat of strength; it required betrayal on a scale that shattered the stars. Sargeras, once the mightiest among them, had proven this in his fall to darkness. He hadn't overpowered the Pantheon through raw power alone—Titans were equals in battle, their clashes capable of reshaping realities without decisive victory. No, Sargeras's annihilation of his brethren came from treachery. They were like eternal colleagues in a vast cosmic bureaucracy, bound by eons of shared purpose. Disagreements arose, but none anticipated the day he would erupt into violence, striking down his kin before they could muster a defense. It was a massacre born of surprise, not supremacy, leaving the universe forever scarred.
Inside the depths of Grim Batol, Arthas Menethil stood amidst the flickering torchlight of the orcish lair, his hand still gripping the hilt of his runeblade. The air was thick with the acrid scent of fel magic and dragonfire, remnants of the battles that had raged here. He had infiltrated this forsaken stronghold under the guise of alliance with Deathwing, but his true motives ran deeper—seeking artifacts of power to bolster his growing dominion. Now, an unexpected presence invaded his mind: a gentle, ethereal voice that resonated like the hum of creation itself.
"Well, where is this?" the voice murmured, echoing through his thoughts with a disoriented haze.
"Azeroth," Arthas replied instinctively, his voice steady despite the surreal intrusion. "I am a child of Azeroth." To his astonishment, he comprehended her words perfectly—they were in the ancient tongue of the Titans, a language he had no right to know, yet it unfolded in his mind like a forgotten memory.
"Azeroth? Ugh, my head hurts... You're... having a headache?" The voice faltered, weak and fragmented, as if emerging from a millennium-long slumber. It belonged to a woman, or something far greater—primordial, vast, yet fragile in this moment.
Arthas's mind raced. This was no ordinary spirit; the energy pulsing through him suggested a Titan's soul, perhaps one long dormant or severed from its form. In the lore whispered among scholars and mages, the Titans had left guardians and relics across Azeroth, but to commune with one directly? It was unprecedented. Seizing the opportunity, he drew upon a hidden reserve: two orbs of golden-green light, the distilled essence of life harvested from his intimate union with Alleria Windrunner. These were no mere trinkets; they brimmed with restorative vitality, capable of mending souls and bodies alike.
With a focused intent, he channeled the essence toward the ethereal presence. "[System UI] Use Life Essence on Titan Eonar."
"[System UI] It was used successfully."
The orbs dissolved into shimmering motes, sinking into the void where the soul resided. "Eonar. Race: Titan. Status: Extremely weak. Soul bound: Host."
A profound silence stretched for two heartbeats, broken by a mental cough that reverberated like distant thunder. "Your name is Arthas, right? This is Azeroth?"
"Yes," he confirmed, his pulse quickening with anticipation. "What energy do you need to stay awake?"
"To find the ruins I left behind," she replied, her voice gaining a faint clarity. "I need to fall into a deep sleep. Waking up will consume my strength." Her presence began to fade, retreating into dormancy.
"Wait," Arthas interjected urgently. "You have to give me something. Otherwise, I can't access your legacies—I'll be barred by the guardians." He refused to walk away empty-handed. This encounter had cost him a priceless artifact; to gain nothing would reduce him to a simpering fool, chasing favors without reciprocity. In his world of conquest and survival, such weakness was fatal.
A soft chuckle echoed in his mind, warm yet weary. "I have left my aura in you, and my creations will recognize you. If you still have the energy from before, give it to me. Little guy, I will repay you. If you have nothing else, I will rest first."
With that, Eonar slipped into hibernation. Her soul, severed from its Titanic form, clung to existence by a thread. Titans could reincarnate, drawing upon the world's essence, but the timeline was vast—spanning eons, measured in the slow grind of geological ages or the infinite expanse of light-years. Survival was not guaranteed; oblivion loomed if her essence dissipated.
"[System UI] You have gained the Breath of the Titan. You will not be attacked when visiting Titan facilities, you can use Titan facilities, and you can let Titan creatures help you within their authority."
Arthas's eyes gleamed with triumph. The Titans represented the pinnacle of known power in the cosmos. Their creations—forged from starstuff and divine will—had shaped Azeroth's history. Even the Dragon Aspects, immortal guardians like Alexstrasza and Neltharion (before his fall to Deathwing), owed their might to mere fragments of Titanic power. In antiquity, these constructs had imprisoned the parasitic Old Gods, erecting seals that endured through cataclysms. They had built labyrinthine laboratories and vaults, stocked with artifacts of unimaginable potency. With Eonar's blessing, Arthas could claim these treasures, tipping the scales in his favor against the encroaching threats of the Horde, the Scourge, and beyond.
"No problem," he murmured to himself, a predatory smile curling his lips. "I'll do it."
Emboldened, Arthas pressed onward through the winding tunnels of Grim Batol. The sounds of battle echoed from afar—clashing steel, orcish war cries, and the roars of dragons. He had concealed his approach earlier, but now he revealed himself, cutting down stray orc guards with precise strikes of holy light and blade. His companions—Alleria, perhaps others from his retinue—fought valiantly outside, buying him time. Finally, he breached the front hall, where the air shimmered with arcane bindings.
There, ensnared in a pulsating magic circle, lay the Red Dragon Queen, Alexstrasza. The ritual array, woven by orc warlocks under Nekros Skullcrusher's command, sapped her strength, rendering her colossal form immobile. The Demon Soul—an artifact of betrayal forged by Deathwing—amplified her captivity, forcing her to breed clutches of eggs for the Horde's war machine. Her scales gleamed like rubies under the dim light, but her eyes burned with unquenchable fury and despair.
"Is it Alexstrasza?" Arthas called out, stepping into view.
The dragon's massive head swiveled toward him, her pupils narrowing to slits. "Mortal, what are you doing here?" Her voice rumbled like an earthquake, laced with suspicion.
"I am Arthas Menethil, Prince of Lordaeron," he declared, his tone composed and authoritative. "I slew the demon Nekros and shattered the Demon Soul. Deathwing approached me with an offer to ally and steal your eggs, but I refused him. You are free now—take me with you as you escape. My allies battle the orcs outside; we must hasten."
To substantiate his claim, Arthas dragged forth Nekros's lifeless body, its green skin marred by wounds crusted with blood. His own armor bore the marks of combat, lending credence to his tale. In truth, his infiltration had been more calculated—using stealth and holy magic to overwhelm the warlock—but the narrative served his purpose.
"Deathwing! Is that beast here too?" Alexstrasza snarled, her form convulsing with rage. With a surge of power, her claw shattered the circle's nexus, unraveling the bindings in a cascade of sparks. In a swirl of crimson light, she transformed, shrinking into the guise of a tall, elegant high elf woman. Her skin was flawless, radiating an inner vitality. She wore a form-fitting medieval evening gown of deep scarlet silk, cinched tightly to accentuate her curvaceous figure. The skirt ended fifteen centimeters above her knees, revealing long, toned legs adorned with bright red nail polish that caught the light like embers. Her arms folded across her chest, emphasizing her ample bosom, which strained against the fabric—subtly revealing she wore no undergarments beneath. Her fiery red hair cascaded in waves, framing a face of ethereal beauty: high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that held the wisdom of ages.
"I don't know his exact position," Arthas admitted, his gaze lingering despite himself. "But he covets your clutch fiercely."
Alexstrasza approached with graceful, predatory steps, her presence intoxicating—a blend of life-affirming warmth and draconic intensity. She placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently to gauge his strength. "You are not mighty in body, yet you penetrated this stronghold. Tell me, how did you fell this wretch?" She shot a venomous glare at Nekros's corpse, her claws itching to rend it further.
Arthas felt his heart race, a subtle fragrance of blooming flowers and ancient forests enveloping him. Despite her multiple consorts among the dragons, her allure was undeniable—noble, commanding, evoking a goddess's untouchable grace that stirred primal desires. "I overwhelmed him with bursts of holy light, bound him with enchanted ropes, gagged him to silence his spells. Then, I drove my blade through his heart. He perished swiftly."
She laughed softly, a sound like wind through autumn leaves—gentle, yet laced with seductive undertones. As the Life-Binder, her aura naturally drew the living toward her, an innate magnetism born of her domain over vitality. "Hehe, the Holy Light favors you indeed, to grant such prowess." Her eyes softened, appraising him anew. "You carry a familiar scent... one of ancient life. What reward do you seek for this liberation?"
Arthas met her gaze, his ambitions churning. Freedom for the Dragon Queen was but a step; alliances with dragons and Titans could forge an empire unbreakable. "Knowledge, perhaps. Or power to protect Azeroth from greater threats." Internally, he plotted: with her gratitude and Eonar's gift, the ruins awaited—vaults of artifacts that could elevate him beyond mortal kingship.
Outside, Deathwing's roar shattered the night, signaling his impatience. Time was short; alliances would be tested in fire.