CHAPTER 42: Shadows of Vengeance
Alexstrasza, the majestic Life-Binder and Queen of the Red Dragons, extended her hand toward Arthas Menethil, the young Prince of Lordaeron. In her palm glowed five orbs of radiant light, each pulsing with an ethereal energy that seemed to hum with the essence of eternity itself. "These are five portions of the Blessing of Life," she intoned, her voice like a warm breeze through ancient forests. "They grant eternal life to those who absorb them. You may bestow them upon whomever you deem worthy."
Arthas accepted the orbs reverently, feeling their warmth seep into his skin as they merged with his being. The system's notification flashed in his mind: Blessing of Life: Use to gain eternal life. He nodded, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. "Thank you, Alexstrasza. But are there any... side effects I should know about?"
A faint smile played on her lips, wise and knowing. "Indeed, there is one caveat. If applied near the genitals, it will suppress sexual desire for about a month. Beyond that, there are no other drawbacks. It is a small price for immortality, wouldn't you agree?"
Without hesitation, Arthas extended one of the orbs back to her. As their fingers brushed, a spark of something indefinable passed between them—her skin was like warm silk, smooth and inviting, stirring an unexpected thrill in him. Was it the power of life itself that drew him, or something more primal? He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the moment. "This one is for you. You've suffered enough under the orcs' yoke."
Alexstrasza accepted it gracefully, her golden eyes shimmering with appreciation. In a swirl of crimson light, her form shifted, shrinking from her draconic majesty to a petite, humanoid figure—utterly naked, her body a masterpiece of curves and vitality. Her skin glowed with an inner luminescence, flawless and ageless. She held the orb delicately, then pressed it against her most intimate area, the essence sinking into her flesh with a soft, glowing absorption. Her pussy, plump and inviting, retained a youthful pink tenderness despite her ancient lineage and the children she had borne. It was a testament to her dominion over life—regeneration in its purest form.
As the orb dissolved, Alexstrasza arched her back, tilting her head skyward. Her snow-white neck stretched elegantly, and her toes, adorned with vibrant red nail polish, curled upward in ecstasy. A soft moan escaped her lips: "Ah... such power!" Waves of energy coursed through her, revitalizing every cell, mending the scars of her captivity.
After what felt like an eternity but was mere moments, she composed herself. With a flicker of magic, she conjured a revealing red bikini armor that hugged her form like a second skin, accentuating her allure without compromising her regal poise. Noticing Arthas's lingering gaze, she parted her crimson lips in a knowing smile. "You freed me from the Dragonmaw Clan's chains, sparing me the endless torment of forced egg-laying. For that, I am eternally grateful. Your gift is potent, young prince—do not be alarmed by my candor. This is for you." She handed him a shimmering red dragon scale, warm to the touch. "Use it to summon me in times of need. Now, I must reunite with my kin—my brothers and sisters await, and old wounds demand reckoning."
Arthas pocketed the scale, sensing the weight of her words. The "old friends" she mentioned likely included Deathwing, the betrayer whose actions had fractured the dragonflights. Her composure throughout was unshakeable; even in nudity, she exuded an aura of untouchable dignity, her eyes calm as still waters. With a wave of her hand, she wove a teleportation spell, and the fortress's grim walls dissolved around them, replaced by the crisp air of the outside world.
Meanwhile, beyond the fortress's shadowed ramparts, chaos reigned in the dense woods of the Hinterlands. Alleria Windrunner, the elven ranger, darted through the underbrush like a shadow, her lithe form evading the relentless pursuit of orc warriors. Axes whistled through the air, embedding in tree trunks mere inches from her. She nocked arrows with blinding speed, picking off stragglers, but the horde was endless—grunting, green-skinned brutes fueled by bloodlust.
Not far behind, Muradin Bronzebeard charged through the foliage, his dwarven axe gleaming. As a stout warrior, he preferred the clash of steel in open battle, not this hit-and-run skirmish. Sweat beaded on his brow as he cleaved an orc in two, but more poured in. "We've held 'em off fer two bloody hours!" he bellowed to Alleria. "D'ye think Arthas has done it? Freed the dragon queen?"
Alleria loosed another arrow, piercing an orc's throat. "He must have. We just need to buy a little more time."
Onyxia, the black dragon in her disguised human form, lingered at the rear, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She hurled fireballs sporadically, igniting patches of forest and watching the orcs writhe in agony. Flames danced across their skin, blistering and charring, sapping their strength with unrelenting pain. To her, this was sport—a diversion from the tedium of her father's schemes. But even she grew wary as the orcs closed in.
Suddenly, a hum of arcane energy crackled through the air. An invisible force enveloped Alleria, Muradin, and Onyxia, binding them in place with unbreakable bonds. The magic was pure, overwhelming—far beyond any archmage's capabilities. Onyxia struggled, her draconic senses reeling; this was no mortal spell.
A frigid gale swept through the woods, freezing everything in its path. Trees crystallized into glittering sculptures, flowers shattered like glass. The pursuing orcs halted mid-stride, their faces frozen in expressions of triumph, terror, and fury—lifelike statues of ice. With a casual flick, the source of the magic shattered them into fragments of flesh and frost, scattering gore across the frozen ground.
In one devastating display, the battlefield was cleared. Alleria stared in awe; she could have fought for hours without achieving such decimation. Mages, with their command over elements, often outshone warriors in sheer efficiency—and commanded higher rewards for it.
From the sky descended a middle-aged man with flowing blue hair, clad in robes that shimmered like starlit waves. His eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned the trio before locking onto Onyxia. Infinite rage boiled within them. "Black Dragon!" he snarled, his voice echoing with arcane thunder.
Onyxia felt a chill deeper than any winter—her true form exposed in an instant. This was no ordinary wizard; it was Malygos, the Spell-Weaver, Aspect of the Blue Dragonflight and guardian of magic. The disparity in power was suffocating; resistance was futile.
Memories flooded her: the War of the Ancients, where her father, Deathwing, had wielded the Dragon Soul to slaughter the blue dragons. Malygos's consort and offspring perished in agony, his kin nearly eradicated. With dragons' already low fertility, the black dragonflight's betrayal had sealed a genocide. Hatred for Deathwing—and all black dragons—consumed him. Any of her kind in his sight was doomed.
Onyxia's teeth chattered uncontrollably, fear gripping her like iron chains. Death loomed, and in her desperation, she wished for her father's intervention. Deathwing lurked nearby, scheming in the shadows, yet he remained silent, indifferent to her fate. Would he watch her torn asunder?
"Spare her life," a voice interjected, calm yet commanding.
Onyxia whipped her head around—Arthas stood there, flanked by Alexstrasza in her restored glory.
Malygos snorted, his magic flaring dangerously. "Why should I, mortal? This whelp bears the stench of betrayal!"
"Wait, Malygos," Alexstrasza urged, her presence a soothing counter to his fury. "Hear him out."
The Blue Aspect's eyes narrowed, madness flickering in their depths—the ancient wounds had fractured his mind, leaving him teetering on schizophrenia's edge. He restrained his power, but barely. "Speak, human! If your words fail to satisfy, you and your kingdom will pay dearly. Lordaeron will crumble under my wrath!"
Arthas stepped forward, unflinching despite the terror. "Onyxia aided us in freeing Alexstrasza. Without her, the Dragonmaw orcs would have overwhelmed us. She's not her father—give her a chance to prove her loyalty."
Malygos laughed bitterly, frost crackling around him. "Loyalty? From a black dragon? Deathwing's spawn knows only deceit!"
Alexstrasza placed a hand on his arm. "The world changes, brother. The Aspects must unite against greater threats—the Burning Legion stirs again. Vengeance blinds you; let life prevail over death."
Onyxia held her breath, her fate hanging by a thread. Muradin and Alleria exchanged tense glances, weapons ready but useless against such power. The air thickened with arcane tension, the forest still frozen in eerie silence.
Malygos's gaze bored into Onyxia, weighing her soul. "One chance," he growled finally, his voice a reluctant thunder. "Betray us, and no force in Azeroth will save you." With that, he vanished in a swirl of blue light, leaving the group in stunned relief.
Arthas exhaled, turning to Onyxia. "You owe me one."
She nodded, masking her turmoil with a sly smile. "Perhaps, prince. But alliances shift like shadows."
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the thawing woods, the unlikely allies pondered their next move. The dragonflights' fractures ran deep, but for now, a fragile peace held—forged in the fires of crisis and the chill of vengeance.