CHAPTER 44: Forging Unlikely Alliances
"That's nonsense."
The Blue Dragon Aspect, Malygos, fixed Arthas with a gaze that teetered on the edge of madness. His eyes, swirling with arcane storms, betrayed the fractures in his once-brilliant mind, shattered by ancient betrayals. Yet, he held back, his massive form coiled like a spring under the weight of reluctant restraint. The air around him crackled with suppressed energy, as if the slightest provocation could unleash a torrent of frost and fury.
Beside him, the Red Dragon Queen, Alexstrasza, and the Green Dragon Queen, Ysera, exchanged a subtle glance. Neither spoke in approval or dissent; their expressions were those of detached observers, as though they were witnessing a drama they had scripted themselves. Alexstrasza's scales gleamed like polished rubies under the dim light filtering through the fortress's shadowed halls, while Ysera's emerald form seemed to blend with the dreamlike haze that always accompanied her, her eyes half-lidded in perpetual somnolence.
"No, Malygos," came a voice like shifting sands, carried on a sudden gust of wind. "The little prince has a point."
The air shimmered, and grains of yellow sand coalesced into the form of a high elf—or what appeared to be one. It was Nozdormu, the Bronze Dragon Aspect, guardian of time's infinite threads. His arrival stirred the dust on the ancient stone floor, and Alleria Windrunner, standing nearby with her bow slung over her shoulder, widened her eyes in shock. As a ranger of unparalleled skill, she sensed the anomaly immediately—the way the sands whispered of epochs long past and futures yet unwritten. Turning her gaze to Arthas, her confusion deepened. What game was the Prince of Lordaeron playing here, amid these titanic beings?
"Your Highness Arthas," Nozdormu intoned, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. His voice echoed with the weight of eternity. "I cannot predict your future."
As the Aspect of Time, Nozdormu traversed the rivers of past, present, and possibility with ease. He had glimpsed Arthas in those streams—a fallen prince, slayer of kin and mentor, architect of an undead plague that would crown him as the Lich King. Such a figure demanded attention. Yet now, Arthas's actions deviated wildly from those foreseen paths, a ripple turning into a maelstrom. Nozdormu had dispatched Chromie, his diminutive agent, to observe discreetly, but the threads were tangling beyond even his comprehension. Was this deviation a salvation or a deeper doom?
"Future? Humph," Arthas scoffed, his lips curling into a wry smile. "If one can truly predict the future, then they're nothing but a liar. You know, I once met a warlock in Lordaeron who claimed he could foresee everything. Guess what I told him?"
The prince paused for dramatic effect, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief amid the tension. "I said, 'I can predict your future too—you're about to have a bloody disaster!' And then I slapped him across the face. He hit the ground, spitting blood. See? My prediction was spot on!"
A ripple of laughter escaped the two queens. Alexstrasza's chuckle was warm, like a hearth fire, while Ysera's was softer, dream-touched, her eyes fully opening for the first time to regard Arthas with genuine curiosity. She had known little of him before—merely a mortal thread in the Dream's vast tapestry—but now, his audacity painted him in vivid strokes.
Nozdormu's sandy features twitched at the corners, a rare flicker of exasperation crossing his timeless face. Malygos's expression twisted oddly, caught between a suppressed laugh and the pain of holding it in, his madness momentarily eclipsed by the absurdity.
"Enough, Your Highness," Nozdormu said, regaining his composure. "We can discuss your... peculiarities later. For now, Deathwing demands our focus. This is his daughter." He gestured toward Onyxia, who lingered in the shadows, her humanoid form cloaked in deceptive elegance. "She represents an unstable element. You know what must be done—eliminate the risk before the battle escalates."
Arthas stepped forward without hesitation, positioning himself between the Aspects and the black dragon princess. "I vouch for her. She poses no threat to you. Deathwing is gone, and his legacy needs an heir. Onyxia is the ideal choice. She's no more than a shrewd opportunist, obsessed with gold and schemes that harm no one but the foolish. I stake my honor as Prince of Lordaeron on this—if she falters, I'll share her fate."
Onyxia's dark eyes widened, a flicker of genuine emotion piercing her guarded facade. In her long life, marked by deceit and exile, no one had ever stood for her like this. Humans reviled black dragons as vermin, symbols of treachery and ruin. She had dreamed of walking in the light, free from the shadows of her birthright, but fate had decreed otherwise. Until now. Arthas's words stirred something unfamiliar—gratitude, perhaps even loyalty.
"You must understand," Alexstrasza interjected, her tone grave, "her father is Deathwing, the Destroyer. Do you truly believe her allegiance lies with you over blood?"
The Red Queen's eyes burned with the wisdom of ages, her optimism for Arthas tempered by pragmatism. She admired his boldness, but blind faith could unravel alliances in an instant.
"I do," Arthas replied firmly, his voice unwavering. "Not all black dragons are irredeemable, and I need her aid. My plans require allies beyond the ordinary—partners to build something greater." He didn't elaborate, but his mind raced with visions of a reformed Azeroth: territories expanded, threats neutralized, and a network of unlikely confederates. Onyxia, with her cunning and resources, was a key piece in that puzzle.
"Hmph," Malygos snarled, his patience fraying. "Human, if she betrays us, you'll perish alongside her! Now, Deathwing—show yourself!"
With a thunderous roar, Malygos launched into the air, his wings unfurling like azure banners. A blast of arctic breath surged toward a distant hillside, freezing the air in its path.
A deafening bang echoed as a shield of molten lava materialized, shattering the frost. Deathwing shed his concealment, emerging in his colossal true form. His obsidian scales, cracked and weeping magma, pulsed with infernal heat. A massive adamantine jaw, forged to contain his unraveling body, gleamed menacingly—earning him the moniker "Iron Chin" among those who dared whisper his name.
"Haha, Malygos! Long time no see," Deathwing bellowed, his voice a seismic rumble that shook the earth.
"I see your bloated head, you abomination—now die!" Malygos retorted, unleashing a barrage of arcane fury. The sky plummeted in temperature, birthing a storm of ice spears, each as thick as a man's arm. They hurtled like artillery, capable of skewering armored knights or rending stone fortifications. It was a magical onslaught akin to a relentless siege engine.
"You must depart," Alexstrasza urged Arthas and his companions, weaving a spell that enveloped them in crimson light. "This battle is no place for mortals. Prince, I pray your judgment proves sound."
As she transformed into her draconic majesty—a scarlet behemoth of grace and power—the group vanished in a swirl of magic, reappearing at the fortress gates.
The scene outside was chaos incarnate. Orcs of the Dragonmaw Clan, once enslavers of the red dragonflight through the cursed Demon Soul, now fled in terror. Enraged red dragons pursued them relentlessly, breathing gouts of flame that incinerated the bold and tore apart the fleeing. Screams mingled with roars as the dragons exacted vengeance. For too long, they had endured the indignity of being ridden like beasts, their queen's captivity a chain binding them all. Now free, they washed away the shame in blood and fire. No orc would escape unscathed; this was retribution, pure and primal.
Arthas watched the carnage with a detached calm, his mind already plotting ahead. The gap between him and the Aspects was vast, like a fledgling sparrow eyeing eagles in flight. Yet, time was his ally—he could bridge it, grow stronger, wiser. For now, survival meant evasion. "When gods clash," he murmured to Alleria and Onyxia, "mortals endure. But from the ashes, opportunities arise."
Onyxia nodded, her expression softening. "You've given me a chance, Prince. I won't squander it."
Alleria, still wary, gripped her bow tighter. "Let's hope so. The world's fractures run deep— one wrong step, and we all fall."
In the distance, the battle raged on. Mountains crumbled under draconic might, rivers boiled away, and the land scarred anew. Explosions of magic lit the horizon like false dawns, reshaping the terrain into craters that would one day cradle lakes born of storm rains. The Aspects' fury was a force of nature, untamed and absolute.
Arthas turned away, leading his group toward safer horizons. His path was fraught with peril, but in defending Onyxia, he had sown seeds of alliance. Wealth and fortune, as the old saying went, lurked amid danger. And Arthas Menethil intended to claim them all.
As they vanished into the wilderness, the prince's thoughts turned inward. Deathwing's fall would reshape the world, but so would his own rise. With Onyxia at his side, the black dragonflight could be redeemed—or at least redirected. Lordaeron awaited his return, and with it, ambitions that stretched beyond thrones and crowns. The future Nozdormu couldn't predict? Arthas would forge it himself, one calculated risk at a time.