Warcraft 1. Chapter 1

His first conscious thought was a desire for the pain to end. He had not had time to formulate a sense of self, to guess where or what he was, or to wonder why he found himself in such misery. There was only blinding, searing pain, as if parts of his very being were being ripped and twisted apart.

Although he had only just become aware, he wanted to lose consciousness again-but the opposite was happening. As the pain built to a crescendo, all his senses grew sharper, and the world seemed to expand.

He had a body-four limbs, two wings, one head, one tail-and was curled up in a ball. He tried to move but could barely stretch out without being blocked in all directions by something hard.

Whatever was causing the overwhelming pain ceased, but echoes of agony reverberated through him. At first the only sound was the thudding of his panicked heart in his chest. Then, a muffled voice from somewhere beyond the walls...

"Viable subject compiled. No anomalies detected."

He understood every word, a fact which he somehow knew was remarkable.

"User-objective protocol complete. Stasis protocol re-enabled."

The voice wasn't speaking to him. That meant there were other beings around.

He opened his eyes but saw only diffuse light.

"D... did you see that? Incredible!" came a squeaky voice that was different from the one before. "My Titan thing idea worked! With your help, of course."

So there were two others out there.

"We'll want to get these back to Rhea. She's not at Lethlor Ravine any more; it sounds like she blew her cover pretty well when she transformed into her true form in front of all those whelps. She's now in the west, staying at an Alliance camp called Dragon's Mouth. She'll be waiting for you. And that egg."

A sudden flash of awareness made him realize that _he_ was "that egg." Or, at least, that's what he found himself inside.

As the pain ebbed his thinking grew clearer. Yes, of course. He was a dragon. One of the black flight. He was still in his egg. That's why he couldn't move or see.

He felt a sense of movement, but cushioned by the yolk he felt no discomfort as he was jostled back and forth. Whoever the voices outside belonged to must be taking him to Rhea-whoever that was-at this camp called Dragon's Mouth-wherever that was.

In his current situation all he could do was think, so he tried to sort out what he knew. He found his memory contained a staggering amount of information about the world of Azeroth and the designs of the Titans who shaped it. It was all there: Eonar, Khaz'goroth, Norgannon, Aman'thul and the others. The Burning Legion. The Old Gods. Uldaman, Ulduar and Uldum. The Aspects.

Yet, sifting through the enormous amounts of knowledge in his mind, the tiny dragon was dismayed to find important things missing: his parents, his name, his siblings, his location. Who was he? Where was he? How old was he, and why did he have no memory of anything before this painful awakening? Why was he being taken to another place by these non-draconic beings? Were they the ones who had caused that intense agony? What was going on?

Panic welled up in his throat but he could make no sound of protest. He was utterly at the mercy of the person carrying his egg.

As time passed, the gentle rocking of travel dulled his anxiety, and he found himself escaping the only way he could: sleep.

* * *

The movement stopped, waking the baby dragon. A new, female voice reached him through the eggshell. "I'll take that egg out of your hands now."

He felt himself being handed from one person to another, and realized that he had reached his destination. The voice presumably belonged to that "Rhea" person.

"We need to get this egg incubated...and hidden, quickly. There are lots of angry dragons looking for this," she said.

Angry dragons... His family? Were his parents looking for him?

Rhea was still speaking to the person who had borne his egg. "It's good to see you again, by the way."

He tried to push outward with his mind to sense something, anything about his surroundings. It was a muddled whirl of energy, but after a moment of straining he managed to identify the individual holding his egg. Rhea was a red dragon.

Red, not black. So did that make her an enemy, or a friend?

An overload of information came crashing out of his brain, everything about the red flight's original mission, their Aspect, their customs... He scrunched his eyes even more tightly shut, trying to pluck out the pertinent information from the deluge. The red and black flights had been allies, once. He got the impression that had changed, but before he could sort out the details he heard Rhea say something else significant.

"In my haste to escape from Lethlor Ravine, I forgot to tie up one loose end: Nyxondra. She's free, and she's sounded the alarm among the black dragonflight. Half the flight is here in the western Badlands, combing for this egg."

So it _was_ his own flight who was searching for him. And he was in the western Badlands. He briefly wondered exactly where that was, but his mind unleashed a torrent of geographical detail that seemed to contradict itself.

Regardless, if his own flight was trying to find him, and Rhea was trying to hide him, that meant the reds were an enemy. This realization made panic blossom anew, and he squirmed slightly.

"I'll take care of hiding the egg," Rhea said. "You're going to take care of some of the more troublesome dragons."

Rhea's accomplice departed after receiving instructions to meet with some dwarves, and after a minute of silence the newborn dragon felt a strange sinking, floating sensation that he quickly realized meant he was flying. Or, rather, Rhea was, and bringing his egg along.

"Hello, little one," she said, her voice softer and more gentle than it had been when speaking to her mortal assistant. "I'm so sorry to put you through all this. I'm sure you're confused and frightened."

He most certainly was both of those things, but he had no way to communicate with her.

"Know this much: I'm trying to give your dragonflight a future. I don't know what kind of knowledge the Titan artifact implanted in your mind, but the black flight is nearly extinct, and those who remain are corrupted by the Old Gods."

A chill ran through his curled body.

"But you, dear baby," she said, patting his eggshell, "are different. You are purified. You are free from the taint of the Old Gods, just as the first black dragons were in ancient times. You have a great destiny ahead of you. Azeroth needs you_._"

The whelpling trembled. A great destiny? How was that possible, when he couldn't even stretch his limbs without hitting eggshell? Surely no one expected anything significant from him. He was just a baby!

"My flight will take care of you and protect you. I promise."

She sounded so earnest that he found himself believing her. Or perhaps he just wanted to be comforted so badly that he was throwing logic away to blindly accept what she said. Either way, the warm, draconic energy that radiated through his shell was calming.

He once more found himself surrendering to sleep, lulled by the regular flap of Rhea's wings.

* * *

The whelpling had no real sense of time, but it didn't seem like all that long before he awoke to yet another strange voice.

"Is that it? You really got one?"

"Yes," came Rhea's voice.

Stirring back to full consciousness, the whelp realized he was no longer moving. He sensed that the new voice belonged to another female red dragon.

"And it's really uncorrupted?"

"Absolutely. We uncovered a Titan artifact that took several eggs and whelps and distilled them to their original essence, making one new egg out of them."

_What?_ He was some unnatural abomination cobbled together from multiple whelps? He suddenly felt sick. Was that why he didn't remember anything prior to that horrible episode of pain? No, it couldn't be. The red dragonflight was dedicated to protecting and nurturing life. Surely they would never resort to such unnatural measures!

The stranger made a disapproving noise. "It's a nasty business. Honestly, I'm shocked the Dragonqueen allowed you to proceed with this crazy scheme. How is your treatment of Nyxondra different from what the orcs did to the Life Binder in Grim Batol?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Corastrasza," Rhea said. "I don't like it, either. Still, it really is for the greater good of Azeroth. The black dragonflight _must_ survive."

Corastrasza snorted. "I obey my queen. She told me to bring this egg safely to the Vermillion Redoubt, and so I shall. But the entire affair leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"I understand. And thank you," Rhea said. "Be sure to keep it warm. The blacks incubate at higher temperatures than our flight."

"I know," Cora said impatiently.

There was a pause, and Rhea's voice came to him from just outside his shell, soft and affectionate. "Good-bye, little one. I'm so sorry your life had to start like this, but I know you will accomplish great things someday. The world needs you. Be strong. Be happy. Be safe."

His egg tipped and shook as the other dragon picked him up. "When can we expect you back at the Redoubt?"

Silence.

"Rhea?"

"I doubt that we will see each other again," she said quietly. "I will do whatever it takes to keep Deathwing from getting his claws on that egg. If my plan works you will have nothing to worry about."

"What are you...?"

"Trust me."

"Rhea-" Cora started in a scolding tone.

"That egg is more important than you or me, or any of my own children. If the Aspect of Death believes he has destroyed the egg, he will no longer search for it."

"You're not saying-"

"I do what I must for the greater good."

After a few moments, Corastrasza spoke again, her voice subdued. "As do we all. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

"Thank you. Now go, before the blacks spot you."

Again there came the pull against gravity, and he found himself airborne again, presumably in Corastrasza's grasp.

The whelpling's mind was awhirl. Was he really that important, that a fully-grown red wyrm would lay down her life to protect him? In his brief life, Rheastrasza was the only one who had spoken kindly to him, or even spoken directly to him at all. He already found himself missing her.

And who was this "Aspect of Death" she mentioned? The Aspect of the black dragonflight was Neltharion the Earth Warder, and none of the leaders of the other flights were the sort to earn that dread title. Unless something significant had changed...

The whelpling scrunched his eyes closed and tried to think as hard as he could. The Titan artifact had downloaded an enormous amount of information into his brain, but there were gaps where he got the impression that things had changed and the device had simply omitted certain details rather than give him incorrect information.

The Aspects... The Old Gods... There was a connection there. One had done something significant to the other. But what?

"You'd better be worth all this fuss," Corastrasza's voice interrupted his concentration. "Although I don't know what the Life Binder expects one whelp to do. You may be uncorrupted now, but when you hatch the Old Gods will start to chip away at your sanity until you end up no better than the Earth Warder did. Then again, you'll be a lot easier to put down than Deathwing..."

No, no, no! His life had just started! It couldn't end so soon!

Wait. What did she say about the Earth Warder? The pieces finally clicked into place. Deathwing, the Aspect of Death, and Neltharion the Earth Warder were all the same dragon. The black flight's Aspect had been corrupted by the Old Gods. Azeroth needed a new guardian. In its quest to preserve life, the red flight would certainly want the planet stable and defended, and without an Earth Warder...

The whelpling twitched. They expected him to protect an entire_ planet_? He hadn't even hatched yet! How could he possibly take on that kind of responsibility? And he wasn't an Aspect. Surely the blessings of the Titans were needed for such a monumental task. He didn't have any power over the element of earth.

Did he?

He pushed his senses outward and down, probing for the solid ground far beneath.

There was a sudden blip of recognition, as if the earth itself was familiar with his mental touch. For one dizzying instant he was aware of the planet stretching out in all directions, a chaotic jumble of mountains, rivers, canyons, mesas and plains.

Fearful and surprised, he broke the connection immediately, drawing his senses back into the confines of his eggshell.

Azeroth was reeling from some traumatic event, and the elements were crying out in agony.

Tears stung his eyes and he curled into an even tighter ball. He couldn't fix all that! It was impossible! But if they were counting on him to save the planet, and he couldn't do it, did that mean he was about to hatch into a doomed world?

Overcome by misery, the tiny dragon tried to keep his mind blank and focus on the sound of Corastrasza's wings flapping. Rhea had said her flight would protect him and take care of him. Surely they wouldn't force him into anything he couldn't handle. He just had to be patient, and see what happened when they reached their destination.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he awoke, the whelpling sensed he was once again on the ground, and after a moment he realized there were several red dragons around his egg.

"Such a fragile thing," one mused. "To think so much depends on this one egg."

"It had better hatch, after all this," griped another.

"Oh, don't be such a worrywart, Vordrastrasz," said a third voice. "Can't you feel the life energy within? It's a strong male whelpling. No reason to suppose he won't hatch nice and healthy."

Vordrastrasz muttered something that the whelpling did not quite catch, but it included the words "abomination" and "risk."

The ground shook with the weight of another full-grown dragon approaching. "It has arrived, then? Excellent."

"Yes, my prince," said Corastrasza. "Is the nest ready?"

The whelpling sensed a flare of magic as the newcomer and Cora shapeshifted into smaller, humanoid forms.

"Yes, everything is prepared for our...guest," said the male. His tone was one of amusement, but there was a dark undercurrent that made the whelpling squirm uneasily.

Cora picked up his egg and carried him uphill for a short distance, then into a more enclosed space. The temperature immediately rose, and he sighed in relief. He hasn't even realized how chilly he felt until now.

"Mother will be pleased," said the male. "I know Rheastrasza's experiments disturbed her, but her wish to salvage something of the Earth Warder's flight was strong enough to overcome her hesitation."

Cora called this one a "prince" and he spoke of his mother with such respect that this must be the direct son and heir of the Dragonqueen herself. Interesting.

Cora made a soft sound of disgust. "Rhea was a strange one. I'm still surprised the Life Binder allowed her to do all this."

"You speak of her in the past tense. Did something happen to her?"

"If it hasn't already, it soon will." Cora sighed. "I am sorry, Caelestrasz. The black dragonflight was alerted to Rhea's actions, and scoured the Badlands in search of this egg. With Nyxondra no longer in custody, there would be no second chances, so Rhea decided that the safest course of action would be to make the blacks think they had destroyed the uncorrupted egg. She used one of her own eggs as a decoy and planned to defend it to the death to fool Deathwing's forces."

The male was silent for some time, and when he spoke his voice was hushed with emotion. "A noble sacrifice. She will be remembered with honor."

"I just hope it's worth it."

There was a flurry of movement and rustling as Corastrasza set down his egg and nestled it carefully in a mound of dirt and loose plants. The proximity to earth soothed some deep, primal part of his brain.

Caelestrasz composed himself quickly. "The egg is to be guarded closely around the clock. Hopefully Rhea's ploy will keep away all of Deathwing's minions, but we cannot be too careful."

The whelpling was comforted to hear such concern for his welfare.

"And when it hatches?" Cora asked.

"The same. That whelp cannot leave our sight for an instant," Caelestrasz said sternly. "He must be watched closely to ensure that he develops properly and remains an ally to our flight. He is far too valuable to take any risks."

_What?_ Didn't he have any choice in the matter? What if he didn't _want_ to be raised here with the red flight?

"And if he shows signs of his forefathers' corruption?" Corastrasza asked.

"There is no reason to believe he will. But if that happens...we will do what we must."

The whelpling shivered despite the warmth of the nest. Twice now he had heard a red dragon vow to kill him if he did not behave the way they thought he was supposed to. The instinct to flee coursed through his veins, but he was still firmly ensconced in his egg, and would be for many weeks. Even when he hatched, he'd be helpless at first, and surrounded by what seemed like a large number of fully-grown red dragons. His own flight thought him destroyed, and even if they were to find him, he would be corrupted by the Old Gods. He had no hope of escape.

He scratched feebly at the eggshell with undeveloped claws. No, no, no, no, no! He didn't want to be here. He had to be free!

The two red dragons walked away, oblivious to his distress.

His panic swelled to a peak, and in a fit of despair he released a single, intense thought into the earth around him: _Help me!_

Exhausted and overwhelmed, he curled into a ball and passed out of consciousness.

* * *

Days blurred into each other until the whelpling was no longer sure how long he had been at the Vermillion Redoubt. Every few hours someone would turn his egg and make sure it was snugly packed into the nest. Often this was done without a word being spoken to him. Once in a while the red dragon tending to him would say something meaningless like, "There you go, little one. Keep on growing, now!" As if he had a choice.

And as if it mattered. From what he overheard, they were preparing a living space for him where he would be guarded constantly. He would be protected from outside enemies, yes, but for all intents and purposes he would be a prisoner.

Presently Corastrasza was on egg-turning duty, and he recognized her energy as soon as she entered the underground chamber where his nest was. At first she said nothing, merely brushing away the leaves and soil from his eggshell as she prepared to turn him.

"Ow! Damn spikes," she muttered.

The whelpling smirked. He knew his egg had developed defensive spines, making it a delicate endeavor to move it.

Slowly, with a few more curses under her breath, Corastrasza managed to roll his egg over onto the other side. "There. Good enough. How are you doing in there?"

With a jolt of surprise, he realized she was speaking to him. He struggled to turn over within the cramped, fluid-filled egg, having been left nearly upside-down when the rolling stopped. He could not speak, of course, but perhaps if he _thought_ hard enough...

_Help me! I don't want to be a prisoner! I want to be free! Please, help!_

"You're certainly getting bigger," she said, seemingly unaware of his attempt to communicate. "I'm not sure how long black eggs take to hatch, but you probably have a few weeks to go yet."

_Don't keep me locked away in this place! I'm not a red dragon. Help me! Please!_

"It'll be interesting to see if you really are uncorrupted," Cora mused, still oblivious to his messages. "I don't sense any of the Old Gods' taint in you yet, but we'll see... Some of the others can't wait to test you, to see what you're capable of."

_I don't want to be tested! I want to be free to go my own way!_

The red dragon was talking to herself, now, more than him. "I guess only time will tell. I hope all this wasn't wasted effort." She departed, leaving him alone in his misery.

He sulked, tapping his front claws against the shell. Not only was he frightened, but he was terribly bored. There was nothing to do but think. Fortunately, he had a wealth of knowledge to draw from. He had learned to better control the flow of data in his brain so that he could ponder certain questions without the answers being lost in a flood of information.

He found himself fluent in many tongues: draconic, titanic, kalimag, dwarven, and common. His mental map of the world made more sense now that he had sorted out what information pre-dated the Sundering and which was modern. Diligently eavesdropping on as many conversations as he could here at the Redoubt had filled in some of the blanks and updated him on much of the current world situation with Deathwing, the Horde, and the Alliance.

_Child? Where are you?_

His eyes snapped open and he bumped his head on the top of his eggshell. What was that? The voice was inside his mind, faint and distant.

_Child, are you all right? I heard you crying for help. What's the matter? Where are you?_

The whelpling trembled in excitement. Someone had heard him! Frantic to reply, he projected the first thoughts he had without any attempt to organize his words properly. _Yes, I'm here, help me, oh please, get me out of here, I haven't even hatched yet but I'm being held prisoner by the red dragonflight at the Vermillion Redoubt, and I need help! I'm under a big tree in a nest, and they're going to keep me here forever, but I want to be free, help me, please, whoever you are!_

He waited for a response, feeling a bit foolish for his rambling, stream-of-consciousness message.

_Who are you? _came the reply a moment later, sounding slightly amused.

_I don't have a name yet. I'm a black dragon. My mother's name is Nyxondra. Please, help me!_

There was only silence for so long that he was afraid the mysterious voice had disappeared. Then, at last... _I will get you out of there, son of Nyxondra. I promise. Do not be afraid._

His heart leapt in relief. _Oh, thank you! Thank you, whoever you are!_

_I am a friend. Don't worry, child, everything will be all right soon._ The voice was deep and scratchy, reminding him somehow of boulders grinding together deep beneath the ground. There was a confident strength behind it that the whelpling found reassuring.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you,_ he sent out.

_Hush now, little one. It may take some time, but I will come for you. Rest and grow._

_Thank you. I will._

No more messages came into his mind, and he eventually drifted off to sleep with a hopeful smile on his face.

* * *

A week passed with no sign of his mysterious rescuer. The whelpling tried to pass the time thinking of a name for himself. The knowledge implanted in his brain by the Titan artifact told him that most male black dragons had names ending in "ion", but beyond that he had little guidance to go on.

He laid on his back, trying in vain to get comfortable. The egg had grown somewhat as he developed, but it was still getting quite cramped inside. He felt his mouth for the fiftieth time that day, hoping for some sign of his egg tooth breaking through. There was a tender bump there, but nothing sharp yet. Drat.

Giving up on finding a comfortable position to rest, he turned his attention back to names. He had already considered and rejected the most obvious ones, like Blackion, Ebonion, Earthion, Stonion, and the like. Those had no doubt been done a hundred times over, and he wanted something unique. He was, after all, the only uncorrupted black dragon around. He was special.

Besides, he wanted a name that would inspire respect, even fear, in those he met. He was fed up with feeling helpless.

Approaching footsteps broke his concentration, and he frowned at the interruption. Time to turn his egg already?

A voice he recognized as the one called Aquinastrasz said, "All right, spawn of Deathwing. Let's get this over with."

The whelpling scowled at the red dragon's tone. He hadn't done anything to earn the scorn of these sanctimonious reds, so why did some insist on talking to him that way?

The dragon in elf form grunted with effort as he rolled the egg over. "You must be getting fat in there. Should be about time for you to hatch...for better or worse." Aquinastrasz departed, leaving him to once more try to get comfortable in the increasingly-tight confines of his egg.

He wallowed in self-pity for a moment, then kicked one of his back limbs in frustration. The sooner he got rescued, the better. _Are you out there?_ he called mentally. _Are you coming soon? You haven't forgotten me, have you?_

It took a minute for the gravelly voice to reply. _Yes, child, I'm here. Don't be frightened._

_I'm not afraid,_ he lied. _When are you coming to get me?_

_Soon, little one. Soon,_ soothed the voice. _Be patient._

_My egg tooth is going to come in any day now._

_Try to stay in your egg until we come for you. It will be easier that way._

_But it's so cramped in here! _he whined.

_I know. It'll be all right. Just a little longer. Are you hungry?_

_No. Why?_

_Then your egg is still giving you all the nourishment you need. You won't hatch for awhile yet._

_There are a lot of red dragons around. How are you going to get to me?_

_Don't worry about that. I have a plan; it just will take a little while longer to get everything ready. I want to be certain you'll be safe before we try._

The whelpling's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked, _Why do you care? Who are you?_

The voice was silent for a moment, and he worried that perhaps he had said something he shouldn't have. At last, it replied, _I am known as Fahrad. And I know who you are._

_Who...I am? What do you mean?_

_You are the only hope for the future of the black dragonflight. That alone makes you worth saving._ His tone implied there were other reasons to save him, but his presence receded from the tiny dragon's mind before he could ask any further questions.

* * *

Judging by the slight drop in temperature and the recent decrease in activity outside, it was evening. The whelpling heard raised voices coming from above the egg burrow. He recognized them as belonging to Lirastrasza and Corastrasza.

"You said yourself we'd probably end up destroying him," Lirastrasza said loudly, clearly frustrated.

"I said we _might_ have to. Give him a chance!" Corastrasza said.

The whelpling realized they were talking about him, and perked up to listen more closely.

Lira sounded irate. "The Life Binder is gravely wounded. Deathwing is as strong as ever. That alone should tell us that the black dragonflight is a liability we cannot afford!"

The Life Binder? Wounded? How? Why?

"That's the entire point, Lira," Corastrasza said. "The black dragonflight as we know it _needs_ to be destroyed, but if there's a chance we can restore any of them as the planet's protectors-"

"Azeroth has been without its earth warders for ten thousand years," Lira snapped.

"Yes, and look what dire straits the world is in! If this egg hatches into a new guardian, perhaps he can help us."

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't, but it should be his own decision. He had no plans to assist anyone who locked him up and forced him to do their bidding.

"Help to undo all the damage his kind has already done, you mean? And then what? I can never trust another black dragon. I don't care how purified he supposedly is. We'd be better off crushing him now, before he can harm anyone, and letting the Earthen Ring continue to do damage control."

The whelpling recoiled in horror. No, please, no!

"Lira!" Cora gasped. "Are you seriously suggesting we kill a defenseless hatchling?"

"I'm saying we should get it over with before he becomes a threat. What's to stop the Old Gods from brainwashing him just like they did the rest?"

"Us."

"If we could prevent the Old Gods twisting the black flight, we would have done it long ago. This whelp will be no different."

Cora groaned in frustration. "Listen, Lira, I don't want to argue about this anymore. I don't even disagree with most of what you're saying, but it's not for us to decide. The Dragonqueen-"

"-was nearly killed today when she confronted Deathwing!" Lira finished for her.

"But she lives," Cora said calmly. "And she wants this black egg to remain safe. It is not our place to overrule her wishes. I'm not optimistic about the whelp's future, either, but... We owe it to Rheastrasza to give him a chance."

When Lira responded, her voice was softer, and he had to strain to hear what she said. "It's just...so many have already been lost. More are dying as we speak. All because of the black dragonflight."

"I know. But destroying that egg won't bring them back."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Lira. We've been through a lot recently. Besides, even after he hatches, he's going to be guarded so closely that we'll know the instant something starts to go wrong."

"True. And it will be centuries before he's strong enough to overpower one of us. He won't be escaping any time soon."

The two female voices faded into the distance as they walked away. The whelp slumped in relief. He knew Corastrasza wasn't exactly enthusiastic about his presence, so he was both surprised and grateful to hear her defend him. He knew he was far from safe, though. Not yet.

_Fahrad? Are you there?_ he called out, trying to keep any trace of fear out of his voice. _How much longer do I have to wait?_

The reply came more quickly than it had in the past. _Not much longer now, child. _His voice must not have sounded as brave as he hoped, because Fahrad asked, _Are you all right?_

_Yes,_ he answered. _For now. I just heard some of the reds arguing about whether or not to let me hatch, if it would be safer to...to kill me now. Please hurry! I don't want to die!_

_Hang on, little one. I won't let anybody hurt you. I promise. Be brave._

_I'm trying, _he said, squeezing his eyes shut. _But it's not easy. I'm so helpless in here, and there's still so much I don't understand._

_You will. Soon, child. Don't be afraid._

The strong, comforting presence faded, and the whelpling laid awake for hours, listening for the sound of hostile footsteps. At any moment Lirastrasza or one of the others could return and smash him to a pulp, and there would be absolutely nothing he could do about it.

* * *

Very little sunlight penetrated into the underground burrow where his egg rested, making it doubly hard to gauge the passage of time. It had been at least three days since he last talked to Fahrad. Maybe four.

To distract himself from thoughts of imminent demise or a future as a captive, he returned to the dilemma of a name. As anger at his predicament simmered inside him, he began to think of more and more fearsome monikers. Annihilation. Furyon. Vengeancion. Hatredion. Murderion. Slayerion. Not-your-prisonerion. Go-away-and-leave-me-the-hell-aloneion. How-dare-you-treat-me-like-thision.

He smirked at himself. This was getting him no closer to a real name, but at least it was an entertaining way to pass a little time. Even his Titan-enhanced vocabulary was running out of words relating to the color black, the element of earth, and fearsome qualities, however.

Fahrad had told him to be brave. Bravion? No, he didn't like that, either.

He was apparently unique in his purified state. Purificion? Blah. No.

He ran his tongue over the sliver of egg tooth that was now poking through his gums. Toothion? Ha! Fangion? Ugh.

Why was this so hard? He must have thought up and rejected a hundred names by now. Perhaps the trouble was that everything, including himself, was still so new. He didn't know himself well enough yet to choose an appropriate name.

What did he want? To live. To get out of this damn egg. To be in control of his own life, not a prisoner of the reds or anyone else.

Most of all, though, he wanted to feel safe. In the few weeks he had been alive, only the short time spent in Rhea's arms had felt secure. Ever since, he had been half-expecting destruction to come at any moment. Some of the reds were kind, true, but most regarded him with suspicion, fear or disdain.

Whatever name he decided to use, it would have to be one that let everyone know he was not to be trifled with. He was strong and clever, and if anyone dared to cross him he would make them regret it...somehow.

He flexed his paws, inspecting the nubs growing in where his claws would be. They weren't sharp enough to dent the eggshell yet, but soon... He couldn't attempt any kind of magic in this confined space, although his mind was host to a number of intriguing spells he was eager to try. There was power within him, waiting to be unleashed. The unusual circumstances of his creation made him suspect that he had abilities beyond those of normal dragons, as well. He would not be helpless forever. Someday he would be strong enough that no one would dream of risking his wrath.

Now there was a word he hadn't considered. Wrath. Wrath...ion. Wrathion?

Hmm. Not bad.

He decided to sleep on it.

* * *

"Are you sure this is it?"

"Do you see any _other_ black eggs around here? Watch those spikes!"

At first the whelpling thought he was dreaming, but when his egg began to sway and tilt he realized that the whispered voices were indeed real. And they did not belong to dragons. What in the world...?

"Hurry," hissed someone very closeby.

"I'm trying not to break it," said a female voice. "Unless you want to explain to the Grand Master why we're bringing him a cracked egg."

His little world tipped completely upside down, and he squirmed to right himself in the cramped space. He got the feeling his egg had been wrapped in cloth and placed in some kind of bag.

"Don't even joke about that. He threatened to strangle us with our own entrails if we messed this up."

"Go go go," whispered a third voice. "Patrol's coming."

He felt himself being hefted off the ground, then bounced around rather violently as whomever was carrying him sprinted away.

Now fully awake, he realized he was being stolen by some kind of humanoids. Was this a good thing? He didn't want to stay with the red dragonflight, and these people did seem concerned with keeping him in one piece, but still...

He gathered his mental concentration and sent out a worried message. _Fahrad! Fahrad, I'm being taken away by some mortals! Should I be worried?_

The reply was immediate. _No, child. I sent them. They're bringing you to me. Just relax and enjoy the ride._

_Not much chance of that,_ he quipped as he was shaken in five different directions.

Fahrad's presence faded from his mind, and he tried not to let the rough transport overshadow the fact that he was finally being rescued. But could these people really sneak past the red dragonflight?

"Stop, mortals!" came a booming voice from behind.

"Stick to the plan," muttered the human carrying his egg.

He heard one set of footsteps head back in the direction they had come, and another set veer to the left, while he came to a sudden stop. His carrier stood perfectly still for several minutes, barely breathing. He wondered if perhaps the human had been killed somehow, but then she began moving again, so slowly and smoothly that she made not a sound.

Shouting dragons and the sound of brief combat reached him from some distance away, growing marginally softer with each minute as the human made her way further from the central tree of the Vermillion Redoubt.

Eventually the only sounds were the human's light footfalls and the chirping of insects that some obscure corner of his brain informed him were nocturnal. There was no more rough jostling, just a steady, light rocking. Normally such motion would have sent him back to sleep, but now the excitement of freedom made him completely alert.

A trilling hoot came from right outside his egg, and he twitched in surprise. What...?

A similar call came from a short distance away, and he realized his carrier had made the owl call to communicate with an accomplice. How many people did Fahrad have helping him, anyway?

They came to a stop. "Plan B?" whispered a male voice.

"Yeah."

"Damn. I'd hoped you'd all come back."

"They knew the risks. I think Myrokos got away, though, in the other direction."

"This must be one hell of an important egg."

"No kidding."

"Well, hand it over. Smudge is waiting at the Greenwarden's Grove."

"Right. See you back at the Manor."

There was a swinging sensation followed by a thump, and then the flap of wings that made him briefly panic, thinking they had been caught by one of the reds. A quiet squawk soon allayed that fear, however. His mental catalog included that sound, too: he was atop a hippogryff!

The pleasant feeling of flying overtook him, and using his inherent connection to the earth he could tell they were flying quite low to the ground. No doubt his rescuers were trying to avoid being seen by any red patrols overhead.

Less than an hour passed before his ride ended, coming to a smooth landing somewhere that felt...damp. And far colder than he would have liked.

"That it?" came a dwarven voice.

"Yep," said the voice of the hippogryff rider. "Careful, now. For every crack in that thing, the Grand Master will make six in your skull."

The dwarf laughed. "Aye, I unnerstan'. Off with ye."

This time, as near as the whelpling could tell, the sack containing his egg was plopped into a cart of some kind. He heard the grunt of a ram as they began to move. Wet-sounding cobbles bumped along beneath the squeaky wheels.

After the ram had settled into a steady pace, the dwarf reached back and patted the egg. "Hullo in there, little fella. Big night, eh?"

He could not respond, but was pleased to have someone address him directly.

"I dinnae know exactly what your story is. The boss doesn't share that kind o' information, but he went through a lot o' trouble to get ye out from under those red dragons' noses, so ye must be pretty important. Now sit tight an' relax. It's a long ride to the Span, so ye might as well catch some shuteye. Sorry 'bout the squeaky wheel."

The whelpling smiled and settled down to rest. It wasn't that feeling of complete safety he yearned for, but for the moment he felt comfortable enough to get some sleep. If red dragons came screaming out of the night to incinerate him or steal him back, there wasn't anything he could do about it, anyway. Not yet. Someday...

He nodded off, swaying with the movement of the cart, and dreamed of the day when he would be full-grown and too powerful to fear anything or anyone.

* * *

"You made good time."

"Aye, didn't see so much as one raptor or orc along the way."

The whelpling stirred and quickly became aware of two things: the cart had stopped, and it was daylight. He tried to stretch a bit as he awoke, but was blocked by eggshell. That was really getting on his nerves...

He recognized the voice of the dwarf from the night before, but the other voice was high-pitched and must belong to a gnome.

Footsteps approached and he felt the sack containing his egg move as someone picked it up. "Well, this is where we part ways for now, ye wee beastie," the dwarf said. "Fates willin', I'll see ye back at the Manor afore too long."

"The Grand Master is certainly not taking any chances with this egg," the gnome said. "How many handoffs does this make?"

"Search me. I picked it up at the Greenwarden's place, and I'm passin' it on to you. We're not supposed to know the whole plan, o' course."

"Of course. Untraceable, undetectable, shadowy, secretive, like leaves in the wind-"

"Shut yer yap and get movin'."

"Right," the gnome said with a sheepish cough.

"An' be careful wi' that cargo!"

"Of course, of course. I'll handle it as if it were a thermodynamic hyperenergy booster socket array with thorium widget adapters!"

"Uh...right."

The whelpling's teeth clacked together painfully as the gnome swung the sack over his shoulder and started walking. Was their destination so close that his carrier needed no mount?

They stopped after just a minute, however, and he heard a strange, sputtering, roaring sound unlike anything he'd ever encountered. What sort of animal or device would make such a racket?

An unpleasant, smoky odor seeped through the shell, mixing with the salty tinge that hinted at a nearby ocean. He covered his nose with one paw. Yuck!

"All right," the gnome said, setting him down somewhere that seemed metallic and hollow. "Let's ride!"

The bizarre growling sound grew louder, and the world began to vibrate. What in the world...?

A sudden acceleration sent the whelpling tumbling backward against one side of his egg. He flailed his limbs as best he could in the confined space, trying to find his balance. He found himself pressed back as their speed increased, and stopped even trying to sit up.

No living animal could move so quickly. This fact, combined with the unusual noises, made him conclude that this was some kind of mechanical transport. His knowledge bank told him that gnomes were infamous for their inventions, so this made sense.

He didn't have to like it, though. By the time the vehicle came to a stop a few hours later, he was trembling all over with frayed nerves, and his stomach felt like it was still moving. If he never rode such an invention again, it would suit him just fine. He wished he could voice his displeasure, but had no choice but to stew silently, thinking very unkind thoughts about gnomes.

He heard a male human laughing nearby. "I can't believe the Grand Master trusted that contrapion not to blow up with the egg on board."

The mortals kept mentioning this "Grand Master." Was that Fahrad? Hmm.

The gnome sniffed indignantly. "I'll have you know there hasn't been a serious explosion involving one of my inventions for three whole months."

"Define 'serious.'"

"Never mind that. The egg's here in one piece. We're not supposed to keep it in one place for any longer than necessary."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

The whelpling felt movement just outside his shell and the light filtering through became brighter. Someone must have opened the bag to peek at his egg.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be," the human mused.

"Have you ever seen a dragon egg before?" the gnome asked.

"Can't say that I have, no."

"Nor had I. I wonder if the Grand Master would let me have some of the shell after it's hatched. I bet it would make a fantastic heat shield for the soldering mask I'm working on."

He once more felt his egg being picked up, and the light dimmed as the bag closed around him again. "I sure wouldn't want to ask him, but go ahead," the human said. "Catch you later."

He endured more shaking and jostling, then a jolt followed by the sound of hoofbeats on dirt. Aha, the human had a good, old-fashioned horse to ride. That was a relief. The whelpling relaxed a bit as the regular rocking of the horse's gait soothed his nerves. He settled in to get as comfortable as he could, which wasn't easy.

"Fahrad tells me you can hear me in there," the human said in a casual tone. "So hello. I've never talked to a dragon before. I've killed quite a few, but I hope you won't hold that against me. Grand Master Fahrad is making sure it's worth my time to get you to Ravenholdt safely."

Aha, so Fahrad _was_ this "Grand Master" who kept popping up in conversation. Interesting.

"When this job is over I'll be able to afford passage all the way to Booty Bay. I guess you probably don't know anything about that kind of business, but it's a smuggler's paradise. You never know what will turn up at the auction house down there." He chuckled. "I could sell you to some rich goblin trade prince, but the instant Fahrad got wind of it I'd be deader than a kobold in a cave-in. So don't worry, little guy. You'll get to Ravenholdt in one piece. After that, whatever the Grand Master wants to do with you is his business. I'll be down south with a glass of wine in one hand and a serving wench in the other." The human laughed again.

At least he's amused at his own jokes, the whelpling thought. The man's vacation plans were of little interest to him, but the tidbits of information threaded into his monologue were intriguing.

What was this Ravenholdt place they spoke of? Where was it? Through his connection with the earth he could sense he had been traveling in a generally northward direction, but he had only the vaguest idea where they were on the continent. The couriers who had helped him on his journey so far all seemed to both respect and fear Grand Master Fahrad. This one, at least, seemed motivated by the pay he would receive. So what, exactly, was Fahrad grand master _of_? He still didn't even know what kind of being he was. A human? Elf? Dwarf?

The human was rambling on about how much he was looking forward to seeing Booty Bay, and seemed unlikely to divulge anything else interesting. Still feeling unsettled from the hectic ride on the gnome's machine, the whelpling curled up for another nap.

* * *

They rode through the afternoon and evening. By the time the whelpling awoke, the human had run out of things to talk to himself about. The rhythmic pounding of the horse's hooves was not loud enough to drown out the sound of crickets and other nocturnal insects as they emerged.

The dragon felt better after his snooze, but was getting impatient. How much longer would he be dragged around the countryside?

He tested his eggtooth against the shell in front of his face but it barely left a mark. Not sharp enough yet, alas. Not that it would be a good idea to burst out of his egg on the back of a galloping horse, he thought with a crooked grin.

_Child, are you well?_

He perked up at the voice in his mind. _Fahrad! I'm all right, but how much longer until I reach you? I've been banged around and shaken and tipped over, and I'm getting sick of all this moving around!_

Fahrad gave a short laugh. _Getting a bit cranky, are we?_

He pouted. _You would be, too, if you'd been jostled around for an entire day without stopping!_

_I apologize for the inconvenience, _Fahrad said with just a hint of mocking. _I cannot risk you being followed or discovered. I've taken great care in making sure the red dragonflight cannot track you. It's for your own safety, child. What sort of person has you right now, and how are you traveling?_

_It's a male human on a horse. We've been riding since this afternoon._

_Excellent. That fool gnome actually did something right for once. Normally it would have taken three times as long to traverse the Arathi Highlands. You should arrive at my doorstep by noon._

The whelpling tried not to be disappointed. He had hoped for an even sooner end to his journey.

Sensing this, Fahrad said, _Not much longer now, little one. I cannot wait to meet you._

_What are you?_ the whelpling blurted. _A human, elf, goblin, what?_

_Ah, you'll know soon enough, child._

His mind cleared of the other's presence, and he slouched in frustration. He just wanted to be still and finally get some answers. He knew he was taking a risk by trusting this mysterious Grand Master Fahrad, but he sensed nothing but genuine concern from him. Whatever motives might be driving him to rescue a wayward black dragon egg, the whelpling could not afford to turn down his assistance. If the price turned out to be too high to pay, he would deal with that when the time came.

* * *

_Notes:_  
_All named characters in this chapter are actual NPCs in WoW, either at the Vermillion Redoubt or Ravenholdt Manor._  
_The incident where Alexstrasza is injured in a confrontation with Deathwing that Lira and Corastrasza talk about is part of the questline in the Twilight Highlands._  
_The couriers who help move Wrathion s egg are not based on anyone in particular (although the dwarf is a Ravenholdt NPC), and are just meant to be his first glimpse of the champions he will find so useful later in life. I realize they re all Alliance races but it just turned out that way and no faction bias is intended._


	3. Chapter 3

Warm light coming through the eggshell told him it was morning. The human rider was talking again, giving the whelpling a running commentary on landmarks as they travelled: "Yeah, Durnholde's seen better days" and "Good thing we're not going any further west, or we might have to deal with those damned Forsaken." Such comments ranged from meaningless to intriguing, but for the most part the whelpling's mind was focused on their destination.

He had no idea where this "Ravenholdt" place was, but Fahrad expected him to arrive by noon, and the sun had been up for several hours, now, so it couldn't be long. He felt a change in elevation, and their pace slowed as the horse navigated some steep inclines.

"Well, we're almost there," the human said cheerfully. "I'll kind of miss talking to you, little guy. Maybe I should get a parrot when I'm down in Stranglethorn." Once again, he laughed at himself, and the dragon found himself pitying that parrot.

He sent out a mental message. _Fahrad, we're almost there!_

_Excellent,_ came the immediate reply. _All is ready for you._

His heart pounded in excitement, and he dug his blunt claws into the eggshell. They still weren't sharp enough to break through, but they did leave shallow scratches.

A few minutes later, a different male, human voice rang out. "Identify yourself!"

"Delivery for Grand Master Fahrad," the rider called.

"He's expecting you."

They continued without incident for a short distance, then came to a stop. The rider dismounted, and the whelpling felt himself being taken out of a saddlebag.

"You made good time."

He perked up. That was Fahrad's voice, only now spoken normally instead of echoing inside his head.

"Didn't run into any trouble," the rider said. "Not so much as a bear or a panther."

"Excellent. And I trust your cargo is in one piece?"

"I wouldn't dare show my face here if it wasn't," the human said with a nervous snicker.

The whelpling found himself held securely in someone's arms. "Carlo has your payment," Fahrad's gravelly voice rumbled from inches away. He must be holding the bag containing the egg. Try as he might, however, the whelpling could not sense what kind of being he was. It was easy to sense the identity of the humans, orcs, gnomes and other races, but Fahrad was...different.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

"As always."

There was more movement, and the sunlight dimmed as Fahrad's footsteps went from stone to wood: they were inside a building.

His rescuer said nothing as they crossed a room and descended a set of stairs. The whelpling felt the temperature rise with each step, and smiled appreciatively.

When they reached the bottom, Fahrad took his egg out of the bag and finally spoke to him. "Welcome home, little one."

_Where is 'home'? _he asked.

"Ravenholdt Manor, in the Hillsbrad foothills. It's a den of thieves, rogues and assassins, but it's the safest place for you." He set down the egg in a nest of straw, and the temperature rose even higher.

_So nice and warm,_ he said.

"I've had gnomish heat lamps glaring down here for hours. Any hotter and the straw might combust, but for now it should keep you comfortable."

_Quite. Thank you...for everything!_

"You're welcome, child. It's my honor to serve you, the only purified black dragon in the world." Fahrad patted the top of his egg.

He tried in vain once again to determine his species. _And...what are you?_

"You can't tell?"

_No. You seem...kind of human, and kind of not._

Fahrad chuckled, a low rumbling sound that somehow reminded him of a rockslide. "Close enough. All you need to know is that I am here to protect you. You are safe, now. Take all the time you need to grow and hatch."

The whelpling could detect no duplicity, no hint that Fahrad spoke anything but the truth. _I think I'll be able to hatch soon. My eggtooth is almost big enough and my claws are getting sharper every day._

"Good, good," Fahrad said, sounding oddly proud. "And have you chosen a name for yourself?"

He hesitated. With the excitement of being whisked away from the red dragonflight, he had put brainstorming on hold. The last name he had thought of came to mind again, and it still resonated. _Wrathion,_ he said. _My name is Wrathion._

* * *

Unlike at the Vermillion Redoubt, where the red dragons took turns tending to his egg and most seemed to regard it as a chore to be gotten over with, at Ravenholdt Manor the whelpling was doted on around the clock. A few of the most trusted rogues would check on him when the Grand Master himself could not be there, but the vast majority of the time it was Fahrad who tended to him. He made sure the heat lamps were working properly and kept turning the egg at regular intervals. The reds had usually rolled him over without regard to his comfort, but Fahrad would turn him slowly and carefully, giving him time to adjust.

"How's that?" he asked after one such repositioning.

_Good. Thank you._

Fahrad returned to the writing desk he had set up nearby, where he had a number of parchments, maps and books arranged.

_Fahrad?_

"Yes, Wrathion?"

The whelpling smiled a little at the sound of his name. He liked it. _How long have I been here?_

"Five days."

_You said when I started to get hungry it would mean I was close to hatching._

"Yeah."

_I'm getting hungry. And I think I've started to make a dent in my shell with my claws._

Fahrad left the desk and sat down by his egg. He carefully ran his hands over the surface, avoiding the spikes. "It could be time," he said quietly.

_Do you think it would be safe to try?_ He tried not to sound nervous. Even as much as he yearned to be out of his egg where he could stretch out and be free, the thought of exposure to the great big world was still a bit scary.

"Safe? Certainly. If you're strong enough to break through, you're strong enough to be out."

_Then I'm going to keep working on it._

"Take your time. It's not a fast process."

_All right._

"Good luck." Fahrad patted the egg and returned to his paperwork.

Wrathion dug his claws into the eggshell, scraping fresh scratches. He clawed for what seemed like at least a half hour, occasionally using his eggtooth to slice a bit deeper. By then his front limbs burned with exertion and his jaw throbbed painfully. He slumped back with a grimace to rest. There was a noticeable dent in the shell, even some tears in the inner membrane, but nothing close to a real hole.

_This is hard_, he whined.

"I warned you it would take time," Fahrad said sympathetically. "At least it's something you only have to do once."

_Thank goodness._ Wrathion curled himself into a ball, cradling his sore paws close to his body. He should be doing this alongside his clutchbrothers and -sisters, under their mother's watchful gaze. Instead he was in the cellar of an assassin's guild hall with someone who might be human, half-human, or something else entirely. Suddenly feeling very lonely, he asked, _Fahrad, do you think my parents are still looking for me?_

He heard the rogue drop his pen on his desk. "I...don't know."

_I guess one of the reds used her own egg as a decoy to make Deathwing think he'd destroyed me, but I know my mother was looking for me, too. What if she's still searching? What about my brothers and sisters?_

Fahrad once more rose from his chair and sat down in the straw beside his egg. "Wrathion, I'm sorry." He placed both hands on the egg. "I don't know what happened to them. I tried to contact your mother and got no response. It's possible the reds captured her again, or worse. I just don't know."

_You know my mother?_

"We've had dealings in the past," he said hesitantly. "I was actually trying to contact her when I heard you calling for help."

Wrathion tried to process this information and was left befuddled. _What is she like?_ he asked at last.

"Strong. Clever. Fiercely protective of her brood. Nyxondra really was a...magnificent creature." Fahrad sighed.

_I hope she's all right._

Fahrad said nothing, merely stroking the top of his egg in a fond, protective manner. His silence spoke volumes about what he thought of the possibility of Nyxondra surviving.

* * *

Over the next day, Wrathion alternated between sleeping and working feverishly to break through his eggshell. Fahrad slept for short periods on a cot nearby, staying close to encourage him and monitor his progress.

_I think I'm close!_ the whelpling said with glee. He felt his eggtooth pierce the outer layer of leathery shell, and redoubled his efforts to tear an opening.

"I see it!" Fahrad said. "You've got it, keep going!"

Wrathion ignored the aches in his paws and mouth. He had gotten a whiff of dry, fresh air through the tiny gap, and his only thought was to get more. Using his claws, he managed to tear the slit a fraction wider. He thrust his snout through, widening the hole even further. Slowly, he worked forward until his entire head was outside. Only then did he open his eyes, blinking back slime in an attempt to clear his vision.

"Welcome to the world, little one," Fahrad said, voice hushed with emotion.

The tiny dragon looked up and saw a human man with reddish-blond hair grinning at him.

Wrathion opened his mouth to say something but only a squeaky croak came out.

Fahrad gingerly slipped his hands into the gap on either side of his head and pulled back the membrane. There was an audible crack as the front side of the egg buckled. Wrathion scrambled forward on all fours, eager to disentangle himself. His claws sliced through the last scrap of shell holding him inside, and he tumbled onto the dusty straw with a gurgling trill.

"You made it!" Fahrad cheered.

Wrathion coughed and sputtered, trying to clear his mouth of the slimy fluid that covered him from head to toe. He was trembling all over, disoriented and exhausted.

Before he quite knew what was happening, human hands scooped him up and dunked him in a large bucket of steaming water. Fahrad quickly rinsed off most of the sticky yolk that clung to him, then wrapped him in a fluffy towel. "You're all right, my boy," he muttered, wiping slime out of his eyes. "You're all right. You made it. You're safe."

For so long he had yearned to be out of his egg, to see the world beyond. Now that he was finally here, however, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and rest. He had never been so _tired_.

He stopped shivering after a few minutes, lying limp in Fahrad's arms. The human was warmer than he had guessed his kind would be, and his energy seemed...familiar, somehow.

"Rest, little one," Fahrad's deep voice rumbled against him. "It's all right now." He wound the towel once more around the newborn whelp and sat down.

Wrathion exhaled slowly and stopped fighting to stay alert. Within minutes, he was snoring softly against Fahrad's leather vest.

* * *

The next time Wrathion awoke, he had plenty of energy and was eager to explore his surroundings. He found himself nestled into a shallow box full of blankets, in the corner of the cellar under the heat lamps. He stretched and yawned, pawing away the blankets to free his limbs.

"Good morning."

He turned to see Fahrad approaching from the direction of his writing desk. He wore leather armor of a purplish-gray color and had his long hair tied back in a tail. His mustache and small beard were neatly trimmed. Visually, he was completely human. There was just something odd about him that Wrathion could not quite place. Elven grandparents, perhaps?

"I'm sure you're hungry," Fahrad said.

He was. Very.

The human opened a burlap sack and pulled out a raw venison flank.

Wrathion's stomach twisted in hunger and his mouth watered. Fahrad set the meat down on the ground in front of the box of blankets, and the whelpling scrambled over to begin eating. His jaw was still a bit tender from the effort of breaking through the eggshell, but it didn't slow him down in the slightest. The fresh, bloody meat fufilled a craving he hadn't even been aware of, and was the most heavenly taste he could imagine.

Fahrad watched him with a fond smile as he devoured every scrap of venison and then gnawed on the bone before flopping back against the side of the box with a contented groan.

"I trust it was to your liking," the human said.

Wrathion opened his mouth to affirm this, but only a rippling belch came out. He covered his mouth and gave an embarrassed giggle.

"I'll take that as a yes," Fahrad said with a chuckle.

The whelpling got to his feet and extended his wings. "I want to see what's upstairs, and outside, and...just everything!" He flapped his wings slowly at first, then faster, until he lifted off the ground and hovered at eye level with Fahrad.

"I'm surprised you're not too full to fly," the man teased gently.

In response the whelpling landed on his shoulder, digging his back claws into his leather shoulderpads. "Give me the grand tour, Grand Master."

"As you wish." Fahrad climbed the stairs out of the cellar, and immediately several other rogues dropped what they were doing and came to see their new guest. "Everyone, this is Wrathion," Fahrad announced. "He is the only _pure_ black dragon Azeroth has seen in thousands of years. I expect you all to protect him with your lives."

Orc, elf, gnome, dwarf, undead and troll faces all stared at him, and Wrathion straightened his spine, trying to appear dignified.

A human woman beamed at him, hands clasped over her breast. "He's so _cute!_"

A gnome with green pigtails stood on tiptoe to get a better look at him. "Aww! What a precious little thing!"

Even a male troll was regarding him with the sort of smile usually reserved for puppies and kittens.

Wrathion felt a flash of panic. He had to be respected and feared, not squealed over. He drew himself up to his full height, spreading his wings to make himself seem as large as possible, and bared his teeth.

"Look at his tiny teeth!" the human cooed.

Irritated, he tried to roar. The result sounded more like a cough mixed with a cry of pain.

"Aww," chorused the female rogues.

Fahrad glared at them until they composed themselves and slouched meekly. "The Black Prince demands respect," he said sharply.

Wrathion tried not to look surprised by the title.

"You're looking at the son of Deathwing the Destroyer," Fahrad continued.

He nearly fell off the rogue's shoulder. _What?_

The others looked suitably impressed, no longer fawning over his cuteness.

"He may have some growing to do, but this dragon will have powers you lot can only dream about. Moreover, his presence here is a secret. He _must_ be protected at all costs. The future of Azeroth may depend on it."

There was a mumbled chorus of "yes, sir" and "understood, Grand Master" before the rogues dispersed to their own tasks.

Fahrad continued out the front door of the manor. Wrathion blinked heavily in the bright sunlight, raising one wing to shield his eyes. When they were out of earshot of the sentries by the door, he turned to the human with a horrified expression. "Why did you say that about Deathwing being my father? That's not possible...is it?"

Fahrad reached up to place a comforting hand on his back. "Sorry to spring it on you like that, but yes. You are the son of the Black Aspect."

"How can you be sure?"

"Deathwing is the only adult male dragon known to have been in the Badlands recently."

Wrathion frowned. Somehow he knew Fahrad wasn't telling him the whole truth. He wasn't lying, exactly, but the whelp could tell there was definitely more to the tale. "The only _known_ dragon. There could be others."

"Who would be foolish enough to challenge the Aspect's right to any female he chooses?"

Wrathion narrowed his eyes, trying to guess what Fahrad wasn't saying. "But if my father is Deathwing..."

"You are a prince."

Having such a title was a welcome thought, and would certainly help him gain the respect he craved. But to be the son of the World Breaker... He suppressed a shudder. It was not a connection he relished.

"Do not be afraid. Deathwing believes your egg to be destroyed. You are free to choose your own path."

"I'm not afraid," the whelp said unconvincingly.

Fahrad seemed lost in his own thoughts for a time, simply walking around the outside of Ravenholdt Manor with Wrathion perched on his shoulder. When they came around to the door again, he headed back inside and returned the whelp to his bed under the heat lamps.

"Rest, my prince," he said quietly, tucking the blankets around him with surprising gentleness. "You're safe here."

Wrathion said nothing. When he closed his eyes he saw a whirl of lava and broken black scales. All that time selecting a name for himself, only to have it followed by "_Son of the Destroyer._.. " He shuddered.


	4. Chapter 4

The world outside his egg was certainly a bit different than Wrathion had guessed. For one thing, he was considerably smaller than any of the other people in Ravenholdt, even the gnomes. This simply would not do. He wanted others' first impression of him to be one of respect and fear, not a squealing fit over how "cute" he was. Thus he resolved to learn shapeshifting as soon as he possibly could. It was an innate ability in all Titan-enhanced dragons, but it did take some practice.

He pored over the books in the manor's library, trying to decide how he wanted to present himself. He could always change his mind later, but it was much more convenient to find a favored guise and stick to it. So far he had decided he wanted to look human, and it was certainly easiest to leave his skin and eyes the same color.

The first few times he tried to shift, he forgot to hide either his wings or tail-much to Fahrad's amusement. After a day or so of practice he got the hang of it, though. Unlike dragons, however, it seemed mandatory for humans to have clothes, and there he ran into difficulty.

One afternoon he sat in the library in his new human form, wearing a leather outfit that looked suspiciously like Fahrad's. Lazy, perhaps, but it would do until he had settled on something more...impressive. On the sturdy oak table in front of him was a sizable tome called "Cultures of Kalimdor." Fortunately, the ability to read was something else the Titans had implanted in all their guardians. It was the pictures, more than the words, that concerned him at the moment, however.

The section on Tauren culture didn't strike his fancy, so he kept flipping pages. Quillboar. Ugh. Definitely not. Furbolgs. Also not an option. Why, they barely wore clothes at all!

He swung his feet idly as he browsed. They didn't quite reach the floor, an oversight he would have to correct at some point. He had chosen to appear as an adolescent human for now, trying to match his mental age. He estimated his own development was approximately equivalent to a ten-year-old human's. Poor mortals, needing to study and struggle for a decade to attain the maturity he already had!

Wrathion flipped past the section on harpies, as they were all female and thus useless for his purposes. Sand trolls were next, and although he found them interesting from an academic standpoint, he could hardly imagine himself dressing like them.

"Your Highness, lunch is served."

He looked up to see Fahrad in the doorway with a raw slab of bear meat on a platter.

"Ah, excellent," he said, quickly shifting back into his true body.

Fahrad set the food on the table, and the whelp hungrily tore into the meal in a blur of teeth and claws. He was already growing, and his appetite kept the rogues of Ravenholdt on a constant, rotating hunting duty. He preferred deer, bear, rabbit or mountain lion, but wolf, turtle and crab were acceptable, too.

"Any luck finding an outfit?" Fahrad asked, glancing at the large book lying open on the table.

"Not yet," Wrathion said through a mouth full of bloody meat.

Fahrad let him eat in silence for a few minutes, then commented, "I've received intelligence from Gilneas. It seems a black drakonid calling himself Creed has been amassing followers from the human refugees there."

"Why?"

"Power, of course. The black dragonflight is in disarray. When Deathwing returned, most of the flight rallied to his side, but others went into hiding."

"Why?" Wrathion found himself using that word a lot, but there was so much he wanted to understand. Fortunately Fahrad was patient with his endless questions.

"Self-preservation. The entire black dragonflight may be corrupted by the Old Gods, but some are saner than others. There are those who hear the Old Gods' whispers but retain enough self-control to see Deathwing's madness for what it is. Onyxia, Nefarian and so many others have died following the Destroyer's wishes. Supporting him is suicidal."

Wrathion gnawed on a small bone, listening carefully despite his enthusiasm for eating. "But they still are tainted by the Old Gods, regardless of whether they support Deathwing or not."

Fahrad nodded grimly.

"And there's no way to undo that."

"Correct."

Wrathion swallowed a bite of meat and looked up at him with a troubled expression. "They all need to die, don't they? The entire black dragonflight. They can't be purified. They'll always be a conduit for the Old Gods."

Fahrad neither confirmed nor denied this, merely dropping his eyes to the floor with an uncomfortable grimace.

"Even if my mother is still alive somewhere..."

"She's not," Fahrad said quietly.

Wrathion gave a start. "What? How do you know?"

Fahrad crossed his arms on his chest and took a deep, slow breath before answering. "I sent operatives to the Badlands to investigate. This morning I received word that they found the remains of a large, female black dragon. From their description, it can only be Nyxondra."

The whelp sat back, eyes wide with distress. Gradually, his expression shifted to one of grim acceptance. "I had hoped to meet her someday, but I knew the chances were...not the best."

Fahrad sat down in the nearest chair. "You have her snout."

"I do?"

Fahrad's mouth curved into a smile but his eyes remained mournful. "Yeah, I can see the resemblance." He reached out and dabbed blood off the whelp's nose with a napkin.

"What about my father?"

"What about him?"

"Do I look like Deathwing?" Wrathion's expression made it clear that he was hoping for a negative answer.

Fahrad studied him with a distant cast to his eyes, then gave a small shrug. "I haven't seen the Destroyer in a very, very long time. I don't think so, though."

Wrathion nodded, looking relieved. He resumed eating the bear meat with less enthusiasm than before. "How did you meet my mother? And why didn't she kill you on sight? You said she was protective of her...children." He found it difficult to think of himself as one of them. He wasn't like the others.

Fahrad took a dagger off his belt and helped him slice through a stubborn patch of gristle. "I'm a rogue. I pop up in all kinds of strange places on one mission or another. I was in the Badlands trying to track down a goblin with a sizable bounty on his head. Nyxondra and I crossed paths, and it turned out that the same goblin I was looking for had been stealing some of her eggs to sell on the black market. Some mortals will pay a fortune in gold for a dragon whelp."

"Why?"

"To keep as pets, mostly. Though the scales are popular with leatherworkers."

Wrathion shuddered. "That's horrible!"

Fahrad nodded, frowning. "We made that goblin pay dearly, trust me. And we worked well together, Nyxondra and me. I made sure to pay her a visit any time I was in the area. I wish I had been there when...all this happened." He studied his clasped hands, leaning forward in his chair with his head bowed.

The whelp nudged away the plate, having eaten most of the meat. He wasn't exactly sure how to process all the things he was feeling. All the other black dragons were corrupted and needed to be exterminated to protect Azeroth; intellectually, he knew this. Yet thinking about how he would never meet his mother or siblings made a hollow, shaky feeling overtake him. "I suppose-" he started, but then his throat closed with emotion. "I mean, I guess it doesn't matter now, but I wish I could have..." His voice trailed off, and he felt the unfamiliar sensation of tears pooling in his eyes.

Fahrad looked up from his own reverie. "Oh, my prince, don't cry. What's done is done. All we can do is move forward. If I ever get the opportunity to avenge Nyxondra's death, know that I will pursue it with all my might."

Wrathion fumbled for something profound to say, but the tears in his eyes overflowed and he hurried to wipe them away with the back of his paw.

"Aw, c'mere," Fahrad said gruffly, reaching out to draw the small dragon into his arms. "It's all right."

Snug in his embrace, head tucked under his bearded chin, Wrathion wept in self-pity. He wept for the mother he would never know, and for all his siblings whose lives ended before they even began. He wept for the inevitable fate of his entire family. And he wept as he realized that it would be _his_ responsibility to eradicate the rest of his kind from the world, while simultaneously trying to act as surrogate Earth Warder.

"Ssh," Fahrad soothed, patting his back. "It's all right, little prince. You're not alone. I'll protect you. I'm your...friend." That last word seemed to be a last minute substitution, but the whelp was too upset to ponder what he had originally wanted to say.

Wrathion dug his claws into the rogue's leather jerkin, eyes tightly shut. He had to be brave. No one would respect a dragon who blubbered for his mother like a baby. As a fresh sob broke free, however, he realized he _was_ still a baby. His head might be crammed with a library's worth of information, but he had been out of his egg for less than a week, and everything was so overwhelming...

Fahrad began to rock slowly back and forth in his chair, holding the trembling hatchling close to his chest. "There, there," he murmured, deep voice vibrating beneath the whelp. "It's all right. I'm going to miss your mother a lot, too. I'm sorry you won't get to know her. But I know she would want you to be strong. I'll keep you safe, little prince. Don't worry."

Wrathion sniffled, tears slowly subsiding as the rogue stroked his back through his tiny wings. He curled into the comforting heat of his body and allowed himself to believe that everything _would_ be all right. Somehow.

* * *

Orange light danced and flickered across the walls of Fahrad's bedroom. The rogue laid in bed with his back to the fireplace, but it wasn't the light keeping him awake.

"Fahrad?" came a small voice. Wrathion's red eyes matched the flames behind him as the whelp peeked over the edge of his makeshift bed. The shallow wooden crate full of blankets sat directly in front of the fireplace, where he could be comfortably warm.

"Yes?" Fahrad said sleepily.

"Are you sure you're not too hot with the fire roaring like this?"

"I'm fine. Go to sleep."

A silent moment passed before the whelp spoke again. "Fahrad? Why did fel energy make orcs turn green all over, but Blood Elves only had their eyes change color?"

"I don't know," Fahrad mumbled. "You'd have to ask a mage."

Five minutes later, just as the rogue was dropping off to sleep...

"Fahrad? How many kinds of elves are there?"

"What?"

"I mean, I know about Night Elves, High Elves and Blood Elves, but do the few Highborne Night Elves count as a different kind of elf? What about naga or satyrs? And some of the Forsaken were High Elves once, so do they have a special label?"

"Uh...depends on who you ask, I guess," Fahrad said. "I'll get you a book on elves sometime. Now just go to sleep, my prince."

"I'm trying."

"So am I," Fahrad said under his breath. He rolled over and tried to find a better sleeping position.

Just when he got comfortable...

"Fahrad?"

The rogue groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. "Go to sleep, Wrathion."

"I was just wondering, I mean, the Horde keeps antagonizing the Alliance by harvesting lumber from Ashenvale, correct?"

Fahrad made a vague noise of agreement.

"Have they tried cutting down trees in Lordaeron and shipping them to Durotar? I know it's not quite as efficient, but surely it would be worth it to avoid hostilities. Unless the wood itself carries the plague, somehow."

"Go. To. Sleep," Fahrad ground out between clenched teeth.

"Sorry." Wrathion rested his chin on the rim of the box and stared into the fire for quite awhile before sleep finally found him.

* * *

Fahrad moved silently through the forest, slipping from tree to tree like a shadow. His attempts at stealth were futile, however, thanks to his companion.

"Do you think we'll see a bear?" Wrathion asked, flying in circles around Fahrad until the rogue felt dizzy. "I read a book about hunting bears, and it sounded exciting!"

"We might." Fahrad whispered as a hint for the whelp to do so, as well.

Heedless, Wrathion kept chattering. "Have you ever killed a bear, Fahrad?"

The rogue grunted in the affirmative.

"Tell me about it! Was it around here? Did you have to fight for your life? How big a bear was it?"

"Another time, my prince," Fahrad said. "Right now we need to be quiet so we don't scare away all the game."

"Oh, right!" the whelp said. "I guess I got carried away." He followed along in silence for several minutes, watching Fahrad's every move with interest.

Fahrad stopped suddenly, causing the little dragon to smack face-first into his back. To his credit, Wrathion made only a small noise of discomfort.

Without a sound, Fahrad had his crossbow loaded and in his hands, aiming through the trees at a deer grazing in a nearby clearing. It was a young buck, and, although its rack wasn't worthy of mounting as a trophy, it was plump enough to feed the growing whelp for at least two or three days.

Wrathion hovered just behind Fahrad, enrapt with anticipation. The rogue aimed with practiced ease and let the arrow fly. With a zip and a thunk, it hit true. The first shaft struck the deer near the shoulder, and it bolted in panic. Second and third arrows followed quickly, and the animal collapsed into the fallen leaves.

"You're good," Wrathion said, eyes shining in admiration.

"I've had a very long time to practice." His tone was dismissive but he smiled at the flattery. He led the way over to where the deer lay dying. "Now, this is your chance to practice. Finish it off."

Wrathion tried not to look nervous as he approached the animal. The smell of fresh blood flooded his senses, and hunger dulled his anxiety. Still, he hesitated, flapping around to study his prey from all angles.

"Go for the throat," Fahrad suggested. "One good rip there and it'll die immediately."

The whelp darted downward but zipped back at the last second as the dying deer thrashed.

Fahrad gave an amused snort.

Wrathion felt his cheeks burn with humiliation. He would get it this time, for sure. After a deep breath, he dived for the deer's neck. This time he did not flinch away. He chomped down with his razor-sharp teeth, and a geyser of warm blood sprayed out. The animal went limp.

"I did it!" he sputtered, blinking blood from his eyes.

"Bravo!" Fahrad grinned proudly at him. "Well done."

Wrathion was well aware that he could never have brought the deer down without the rogue's help. But for the moment he was more than happy to take any credit Fahrad was willing to give him. He deployed all four sets of claws as well as his teeth as he tore into his lunch.

Fahrad sat down on a fallen log to watch him enjoy his meal. "When you're trying to kill something-or someone-you have to commit to it. Any hesitation or second-guessing and _you_ could end up as the dead one. It's all or nothing. Understand?"

Wrathion nodded and pulled a stringy piece of meat off the carcass.

"Second part of the lesson: don't sit and eat at the site of the kill unless you know you're completely safe there. The smell of blood attracts other predators. When you're full grown you won't have to worry about it, but right now you'd be fair game for any wolf, bear or mortal hunter who came upon you."

The whelp considered this and nodded again. His mouth was too full of fresh venison to answer verbally.

"And finally, don't eat so fast. You'll get a stomachache."

"But it's so good!" He had his entire head inside the deer carcass now, helping himself to the choicest bits.

Fahrad chuckled and pulled the whelp out by the tail, then began bundling up their kill to carry it back to Ravenholdt.

Wrathion licked blood off his paws. "That was fun! Can we go hunting again tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow, but soon." Fahrad picked up the carcass and started walking back the way they came. Wrathion followed, but as they travelled the blood dried on his scales and wings, and he found it diffficult to stay aloft.

"Fahrad?"

"Yes?"

"I'm all sticky. It's hard to fly like this."

Fahrad glanced back at him and smirked. "Trying to disguise yourself as a red dragon?"

"Not funny!" He pouted. "Get it off!"

The rogue grinned and veered to the west until they came upon a small river. "Wash up, then."

Wrathion gratefully dived into the water, a red cloud billowing off him as he submerged. After a few seconds he resurfaced, wings beating the water's surface like a reptilian swan. "Ah, much better!" he sighed. He dunked himself once more for good measure, then floated on his back with a contented smile.

Fahrad watched him with quiet amusement.

Wrathion was enjoying himself so much that he didn't notice at first that the currrent had begun to pull him downstream. When he looked up and didn't see the human, a jolt of panic made him flip over. "Fahrad?"

"Over here."

He looked back and saw the rogue standing on the riverbank a short distance upstream.

The whelp splashed frantically until his wings finally lifted him free of the water, and he flew back toward his guardian as quickly as he could.

Fahrad chose not to comment, beyond a simple, "Ready to go home?"

Dripping and panting, Wrathion nodded emphatically.

They struck off into the forest again. Fahrad kept a close eye on the sun to make sure they were headed north by north-east. He kept an even closer eye on the young dragon, who was beginning to lag behind.

"How much further?" Wrathion huffed.

"It'll be awhile yet. Getting tired?"

"A little." More than a little, truth be told.

"You can perch on my shoulder if you want to rest your wings."

He hesitated out of pride, but soon gave in and landed on the shoulder opposite of the arm Fahrad was using to carry the deer carcass. The rogue's comforting warmth seeped into him, and he leaned against his neck. The steady swaying of the human's gait lulled him into silence. He found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. At some point they must have stayed shut, because the next thing he knew he was waking up to Fahrad saying, "We're home now, my prince."

Wrathion opened his eyes and discovered that he was tucked snugly in the crook of Fahrad's arm, and Ravenholdt Manor was just ahead across the lawn. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and nudged free of the human's grasp to fly toward the building. Fahrad followed and took the deer carcass straight to the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

"Grand Master?"

Fahrad looked up from his book to see Ravenholdt's resident blacksmith in the doorway. "Yes?"

The gray-bearded orc shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I don't want to complain, sir, but-"

"Spit it out."

"The, er, 'prince' has been using my forge since this morning, and I really do need to get some work done. Some of the crew are setting out on a mission tomorrow, and they're counting on me to make some new throwing knives."

Fahrad lowered an eyebrow and set down his book. What in the world was the boy up to now?

He found Wrathion in his human form, happily banging away at a piece of red-hot metal.

"My prince?"

The boy turned from the anvil to greet him with a wide smile. "Fahrad! Come look at what I can do!"

The rogue was about to scold him for not wearing any gloves or other protective gear, but of course a dragon was perfectly safe from the heat and sparks. Instead he merely watched in silence as Wrathion turned a plain scrap of metal into a keen dagger that would have looked at home on the belt of a nobleman. He barely used tools at all, shaping the material with sheer will. Fiery magic curled around the blade, carving elaborate patterns in the steel.

"There!" he said proudly, holding up the finished weapon. It still needed a proper handle, but otherwise he had accomplished in minutes what would have taken days, if not weeks, for a mortal smith.

Fahrad stared in astonishment for so long that Wrathion's smile faded to a frown. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, my prince," he said quickly. "It's only...no black dragon has used their powers over the earth element like that in a very, very long time."

Wrathion looked confused. "It just came naturally to me when I tried. I didn't think..."

"No, my prince. It's wonderful. Truly." Fahrad surprised them both by seizing the boy in a rough embrace. "I'm so proud of you."

Wrathion grinned happily.

* * *

The young dragon soon discovered that his natural talents extended to jewelcrafting, as well. He entertained himself for hours tinkering with any gems he could get his hands on. At first the rogues were reluctant to let him meddle with their riches, but he soon proved his skill by turning any gem he touched into a perfect, magically-imbued cut of far greater value.

One female night elf sat across from him, elbows on the table and hands under her chin, watching him with rapt attention as he enhanced the gems on her dagger. The boy scrunched up his face in concentration. and the dagger took on a warm, orange glow. The stones embedded in the handle pulsed with energy, subtly changing their shapes.

At last Wrathion relaxed and the magic aura faded away. "There," he said with a proud smirk. "Perfectly balanced and enhanced with draconic magic to optimize your agility in battle."

"Thank you very much," the night elf said, rising from her chair. She reclaimed her weapon, flipping it expertly in the air before sliding it back into the shealth on her thigh. "I can already tell the difference."

"Good."

The elf bent over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, cutie."

He sat in stunned silence as the rogue ruffled his black hair and walked away. "Cute" was the last adjective he wanted applied to himself. A mixture of embarrassment, frustration and anger washed over him. He was the Black Prince. The only purified black dragon in the world. Guardian of Azeroth. Son of Deathwing the Destroyer. He had proven his intelligence and skills. He should be feared and respected. So why, oh _why_ did mortals keep treating him like a child?

Granted, he _was_ only a few weeks old, but still... This would not do at all.

Wrathion rose from the table and stomped upstairs to the manor's library, slamming the door behind him.

His instinct was to simply to mope in a comfortable chair and stew in his bad mood for awhile, but a stack of parchment on the table caught his attention. That was new. The top sheet bore the name of one of the rogues who had passed through recently, and the title "Report from Uldum."

Intrigued, he grabbed the papers and sat down to read. He knew Uldum was an ancient land that had been hidden by Titan cloaking devices for eons, only to be revealed by the upheaval of Deathwing's cataclysmic return.

The reminder of his infamous father did nothing to improve Wrathion's mood, and he slouched.

The report included interesting information about the inhabitants of Uldum, including the schism between the different tribes of tolvir. This, too, included talk of Deathwing, as the Destroyer had won the support of some of the tolvir, while others fought against him.

Wrathion furrowed his brow and skimmed past that part. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of his terrible sire. Fortunately, the report contained other things, as well. Agriculture, topography, architecture, natural resources, flora and fauna... The rogue who had written it was thorough, and had even included sketches of many of the subjects.

He flipped through the pages, enjoying the drawings of such an exotic and faraway place. When he was older perhaps he would travel and see it all for himself.

Then, unexpectedly, there it was. _That_ was the look he wanted for his mortal form! He sat up straighter and studied the images on the paper with a growing smile.

The artist had included depictions of the air elementals and djinn, clad in intricate silks and curving armor. Elegant, regal, impressive... It was exactly what he had been looking for.

Rejuvenated, Wrathion stood up and tried to clear his mind of distractions. He closed his red eyes and imagined himself taller, more mature...not an adult human yet, that would be an exaggeration, but not a little boy, either... Shifting into a brand-new form was a painstaking process, and he took his time, extending his limbs, broadening his chest, and narrowing the roundness of his face. A small patch of beard would make him look older, too...

When he felt confident enough in the stability of his body, he paused for a moment to get used to the feeling. A mortal observer would judge him to be around seventeen years of age: a young man, not a child. Better.

Now for the finishing touches. So far he had presented himself in the same leather armor as Fahrad wore. It was the example he was most familiar with, and the rogue had not complained. He had never intended it to be a long-term solution, however. Now, inspired by the aesthetic of the airy spirits of Uldum, he let his imagination take over.

He did not merely copy the drawings. That would have been just as lazy as mimicking Fahrad. No, he improved upon them, adding his own flourishes and draconic touches.

Slippers with curved toes, yes, he liked that in the pictures. Pantaloons with that swirling design. Carry the same design up onto the coat sleeves, yes, good... Perhaps a hint of the military around the shoulders? Yes, fringed epaulets would look very commanding.

He was the Black Prince, and he had no intention of hiding the fact that he was a dragon. That, as much as laziness, was why he hadn't bothered to change the color of his body and eyes. To continue the theme, he added black scales to adorn his gloves, collar and lower half of his coat...yes, yes, that felt right.

A couple finishing touches next: a red sash around his waist, maybe with some more gold swirls... Oh! A gemstone! A ruby, to match his eyes, right on his sternum. Ah, yes, that was just what it needed.

Wrathion paused to inspect himself. Very nice indeed. He looked-and, more importantly, _felt_-more like a prince already. It was a rather detailed costume to remember, but once he had it committed to memory he should have no trouble shifting back and forth between this form and his true body.

He suddenly remembered that he had done nothing about his head. Hmm. A crown would be fitting, he supposed. Nothing too ostentatious, just a circlet, perhaps... He shuffled through the parchments again for inspiration. There were no crowns anywhere, but the djinn wore an interesting wrap of cloth around their heads, piled high with ornamentation. That had potential...

He experimented with a few different designs, finally settling on a turban of the same light fabric that ran down the middle of his coat, wrapped with a red band that matched his sash. Add a gold hoop earring and few rubies for good measure-he really did like rubies-and it was finished.

Wearing such a thing on his head forced him to straighten his posture and hold his chin up, and just by doing so he felt more imposing. Excellent.

No one would dare look at him now with a cloying smile and call him a cute baby. He was a _prince_. A smug grin twisted his features. At last, he was beginning to feel in control of his own destiny.

* * *

Fahrad bolted to his feet and had daggers in his hands faster than Wrathion could blink, but after just a moment he recognized the individual standing in the doorway. "Wrathion?" the rogue said, jaw hanging open in surprise.

"The same," he said with a small bow. "I've made some...improvements."

"So I see."

"What do you think?" He spread his arms in a grand gesture and turned around slowly to show off his outfit.

"You found the report from Uldum."

"Well, yes," Wrathion said, impatient for the praise he felt he deserved.

"Very nice," Fahrad said with a nod. "Very regal."

"I thought so." Wrathion preened the scales on his coat, looking very pleased with himself.

"I'm glad you didn't choose something reminiscent of Deathwing."

Wrathion's red eyes narrowed and his smile faded to a scowl. "I am nothing like my father."

Fahrad raised his eyebrows and studied him with a thoughtful look. "No," he said at last. "You're going to be far better."

Placated, Wrathion nodded and strutted off to see how the rest of Ravenholdt's residents reacted to his change.

* * *

Wrathion's appearance was not the only thing that had changed. He still devoured every book he could get his hands on, and spent hours at the forge refining his crafting skills, but he began to feel a sense of urgency. If he was the future of the black dragonflight, the sooner the corrupted dregs of the flight were eradicated, the better. It wouldn't get any easier as time went by.

There were texts in the Ravenholdt library about raising and training horses, and they included information on humanely ending the lives of animals who were too sick or injured to recover. One book advised, "No matter how valuable or cherished an animal may be, there may come a time when the kindest course of action is to end its life and spare it from unnecessary suffering." Wrathion ran a gloved finger across the words, mulling them over.

"Fahrad?"

The rogue had moved his writing desk from the incubation area in the cellar back to its usual spot near the library's window. "Yes, my prince?" he said, looking up from his correspondence.

"Do the corrupted members of my flight suffer? Does the touch of the Old Gods cause them pain and distress?"

Fahrad regarded him with an uneasy look before lowering his eyes to his papers again. "I would say so, yes."

Wrathion waited for him to elaborate.

Fahrad sighed. "Not physical pain, perhaps, but the stress of resisting their will does wear on a dragon after a few centuries. Constant murmurs in the background, urging you to chaos and destruction..." He shook his head and hesitated before adding quietly, "It makes you afraid to get close to anyone, lest you snap under the pressure and hurt them."

Wrathion stared at him, contemplating this.

The rogue did not look up from his desk, aimlessly twisting the cap of his ink well. "Some are better at filtering out the whispers than others. And everyone has a different method of coping, some more effective than others."

"You speak as if you have experienced such a thing."

"That's very perceptive of you, my prince," Fahrad said with a sad smile. He did not offer any more information, however.

"It sounds terrible."

"You don't hear them, do you?" There was a wistful tinge to his voice.

"The only voice I've ever heard in my head is yours, Fahrad," Wrathion said with a fond smile.

The rogue nodded slowly. "As it should be." He opened his ink well again, dipped his quill, and resumed writing.

Wrathion watched him for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. The mystery of Fahrad's true identity-and species-remained. The whelp had his suspicions, though. The rogue knew an awful lot about how dragon eggs hatched, the proper way to hunt, what powers black dragons were supposed to have, and how the Old Gods affected them. He was on friendly terms with Nyxondra, and could communicate with her over half a continent.

Many signs pointed to Fahrad being a dragon himself, yet try as he might Wrathion was unable to sense the truth. Fahrad gave off an aura that was both human and not-human, but whatever the latter was remained completely masked. Wrathion had seen the rogue melt into the shadows, camouflaged and unseen by any mortal eyes. Somehow he kept his true self obscured in the same way.

"You're not a red dragon, are you?" he suddenly blurted.

Fahrad smeared ink in surprise. "What?" He met the whelp's eyes with a startled look, then amusement. "Why would a red dragon steal you away from other red dragons?"

"To make me think I was free so I wouldn't keep trying to escape."

Fahrad chuckled, his deep, scratchy voice making the sound slightly sinister. "You've got quite an imagination, my prince. But no, I can assure you I am not a red dragon, nor an ally to their flight."

Wrathion noted that his response was specifically worded to deny being a _red_ dragon, not another color. What if...? He opened his mouth to ask his next question, but the implications of a positive answer made his stomach flip over, and he remained silent. He didn't want to know. Not now. Not yet.

Fahrad had been nothing but kind and nurturing toward him from the very beginning. He had gone to great lengths to rescue him from the red dragonflight, see that he hatched safely, and teach him the ways of the world. There was no reason to doubt his loyalty.

Yet, in the end, loyalty would not be enough, if Fahrad was one of _them_.

Wrathion dropped his eyes to his book once more. Again, the words stood out on the page: "No matter how valuable or cherished an animal may be, there may come a time when the kindest course of action is to end its life and spare it from unnecessary suffering."

The young prince stood up. "I'm going to get some fresh air," he announced.

"Very well, Your Highness."

Wrathion hurried from the library, heart racing.


	6. Chapter 6

Warm summer sun baked down on Ravenholdt Manor, with nary a cloud to interrupt the glare. Many of the rogues were down in the cellar, drinking and swapping stories in the coolest spot around. As a dragon, Wrathion found the heat quite pleasant, and had taken the opportunity to go outside and practice his weapon skills on the training dummies without an audience. His own draconic powers were-or would someday be, he allowed with a frown-formidable, but it only made sense to educate himself on all the options for self-defense.

He held a long, curved dagger of his own design. His name was etched into the surface in draconic runes alongside abstract designs of wavy lines. He was far more skilled at creating such blades than he was in using them, however. Fahrad had shown him how to properly hold it, but he lacked the finesse of the master rogues he saw sparring every day.

Reminding himself that he was still only a month old, Wrathion nevertheless grew frustrated. His movements were not as fluid and confident as the other rogues', and he stumbled on his curved shoes more than once.

Fortunately, the only witness to his clumsiness was the resident cat, Salome. She was sprawled on the bleacher seats that bordered the practice ring, stretched out to bask on her stomach. She looked decidedly unimpressed by the prince's efforts, but then he had found cats were that way about everything that didn't involve food.

Wrathion glared at Salome, then at the practice dummy. Hand-to-hand combat was not his forte, it seemed. He stamped his foot in frustration and blew a mouthful of flame at the straw-filled dummy, which immediately burst into an inferno. Salome hissed in alarm and bolted into the garden.

"That's not how that's supposed to work," came an amused, scratchy voice from the direction of the manor.

Wrathion whirled around to see Fahrad leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest. How long had he been watching?

"I- I was-" the prince stammered. The heat from the sun and the fire had not bothered him, but now he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I am the Black Prince! I can fight in whatever manner I choose! I don't have to rely on silly daggers to thwart my foes!"

"If you want lessons with a blade, you need only ask, my prince," Fahrad said.

"I..." He looked over his shoulder with a guilty slouch as the dummy continued to be eaten by hungry flames. "Perhaps another day."

"As you wish," Fahrad said amiably.

Wrathion stalked past him and into the manor, holding his head high in an attempt to regain his dignity. He was halfway to the stairs leading to the second story when he stopped in his tracks as if turned to stone. A rushing sensation swept from his toes to his head, and he reeled dizzily.

"My prince!" Fahrad said in alarm, rushing toward him.

Before the rogue reached him, Wrathion found himself in a different location entirely. He stood atop a jagged outcropping of rock, overlooking a whirlpool so massive that he could barely see the far edge through the spray. He spun around in panic, a million questions coursing through his brain. What happened? How did he get here? What was this place? Was this a dream? It felt like a dream, but he was awake just a moment ago...

The loudest sound he had ever heard split the air, and he covered his ears. Was that a dragon's roar? He whirled around and looked back toward the whirlpool. The sky above had held only clouds the first time he looked, but now the heavens were filled with dragons. _Black_ dragons. Whelps, drakes, and full-grown wyrms flapped in a broad circle that mirrored the swirling water below.

Wrathion barely noticed the smaller ones, however, for his eyes were riveted on the largest dragon of them all, a monster the size of a mountain who hovered in the middle of the horrific tableau. Metal plates bound his hide together where seams of lava threatened to split his body apart. A huge metal wedge served as a chin. Primal energy crackled around him, molten rock dripped from a rift in his chest and fire smoldered in his maw. All this was a clear indicator of the giant's identity, but if there was any doubt remaining, the intensity of the madness in his fiery eyes confirmed it.

This was Deathwing the Destroyer. The Worldbreaker. The Aspect of Death. The fallen Earth Warder. His father.

Wrathion was paralyzed with terror, unable to move any of his limbs no matter how much he wanted to. Yet even if he could run, where would he go? He was stranded on a rocky island in the middle of the ocean.

Deathwing's insane gaze was fixed upon him, and the young prince could do nothing but stare back and await the attack that would surely end his life.

Then, without willing it to happen, Wrathion felt himself raise his arm to point at his father. Involuntarily, a word burst from his lips. "Begone!"

Immediately, the swarms of black dragons circling around their Aspect dived downward, disappearing one by one into the swirling maelstrom.

Wrathion watched in horror as what he somehow knew was the _entire_ black dragonflight perished at his command.

Deathwing laughed, a cruel, humorless sound that turned Wrathion's stomach. "Worthless!" he roared. "Failures! There is no place in my new world for such weak fools!"

Again without meaning to, Wrathion found himself shouting. "No!"

"You wish to kill me, hatchling?" Deathwing said with a snort of disdain. "You'll never do it alone. And you are alone. You have no one to trust. No one to rely on. You are the only one of your kind, and always will be."

Wrathion glanced around at the sky and sea stretching out in all directions. It was true. Only he and the Destroyer remained. A feeling of profound loneliness washed over him, and he dropped to his knees. Yet somehow he felt utterly convinced at that moment that this crushing emptiness was absolutely necessary. The world would never be safe until every corrupted black dragon was gone.

Deathwing gave a mocking laugh. "You seek to save this wretched world? So did I, once. The burden is too great for one dragon alone. And you are alone," he repeated.

Anger began to override his fear, and Wrathion yelled, "I _will_ save Azeroth! I will save it from _you_ and whatever else comes along! I will do what you could not!"

Deathwing glowed brighter until the primordial heat coming from him was uncomfortable even to another dragon. The light grew unbearably bright, and Wrathion shielded his eyes with his forearm.

A familar voice reached him over the sound of the churning ocean. "Wrathion! Wake up! Say something!"

"F-Fahrad?" he said hesitantly, but blinded by the glow he could not hope to see where the rogue was.

"This can't be. No, no, not my boy," Fahrad said from somewhere very closeby. Wrathion could not recall ever hearing such panic and fear in his voice.

There was a teeth-jarring pulse of energy, as if Deathwing had exploded. Wrathion was thrown onto his back, and as his head struck the rocky ground everything went black.

"Wrathion!" Fahrad said again. "Wake up! What's the matter?"

The prince forced his eyes open and found himself sprawled on the floor near the foot of the stairs at Ravenholdt Manor. The room was spinning, and he blinked several times in an unsuccessful attempt to make his eyes work properly again. His turban lay several feet away. Fahrad was kneeling right beside him, supporting his head and shoulders with his arms.

As soon as his eyes focused enough to look at the rogue, he croaked, "Fahrad? Wh-what happened?"

Fahrad gave a shuddering gasp of relief and drew him closer, cradling his head against his chest as if the prince were still in the form of a young child. "Wrathion! Oh thank Khaz'goroth you're all right!"

Wrathion could not prevent a frightened quaver in his voice. "What happened? All of a sudden I was somewhere by the ocean, and there were so many black dragons, but they all died, and my father was there, and it all felt like a dream but also not like a dream, and I was so scared," he rambled. "And I'm so dizzy now! I feel sick. What's happening, Fahrad?"

The rogue put one hand under his knees and kept the other arm around his back. Wrathion was dead weight in his arms as he stood and carried him upstairs to his own room. Fahrad kicked the door shut behind him and hurried to lay the prince down on his bed. Only when he stopped moving did Wrathion dare open his eyes, still fighting vertigo. The look of terrified concern on Fahrad's face did little to calm his nerves.

"What happened?" he asked again. He reached out a shaky hand to grasp Fahrad's arm as the man sat on the edge of the bed, but everything was spinning and blurry so he missed and got a handful of blanket instead. Fahrad leaned over and stroked back a lock of sweaty black hair from the prince's forehead.

"I don't know," the rogue said quietly. "But I think you may have had a vision of some kind."

"A vision? You mean it wasn't real? I didn't really get teleported to some strange island?"

"No, you were right here in my arms the whole time." Nevertheless, Fahrad kept running his hands over the prince's shoulders and neck as if reassuring himself that Wrathion was indeed there and real. "But your eyes were wide open and seeing things that I definitely didn't."

"Why?" Wrathion asked, gripping the hem of Fahrad's tunic as if trying to anchor himself.

"I don't know," the rogue said. "The gift of prophecy is a strange thing and only a few ever receive it."

"Some 'gift,'" Wrathion said with a nauseated grimace. "I feel horrible."

"Rest, my prince," Fahrad soothed, his scratchy voice barely above a whisper. "You're all right now. I won't let anything happen to you."

Wrathion shut his eyes with a soft moan and was soon deep in a blessedly dreamless sleep.

* * *

Fahrad watched the prince's breathing fall into the steady rhythm of slumber, finally allowing himself to relax a little. Whatever strange fit had struck him down seemed to be over. Still, the image of Wrathion collapsing, senseless, on the floor was going to haunt him for some time.

Assured that he was sleeping soundly enough not to wake at his touch, Fahrad reached over and stroked the messy, loose curls on the boy's head. Wrathion made a small whimper and turned his head into the warmth of his hand.

"My precious boy," Fahrad murmured. "I already lost your mother. I can't lose you."

_But it would be so easy,_ the whispers far in the recesses of his mind chimed in. _One flick of your dagger across his throat and he would die._

Fahrad snatched his hand away and stood up. "No," he growled. "I will never hurt him."

_We can use him. Deathwing's powers are almost spent. If he fails to bring about the Hour of Twilight we can start anew with your little 'prince'..._ The voices chuckled coldly.

Fahrad clenched his eyes shut and held onto his head. _Shut up,_ he told the whispers. _Just shut the hell up. You don't control me. I'll never let you hurt my boy._

_Ah,_ _but he's not yours, is he?_ the Old Gods chattered. _At least, that's what you tell him. We know the truth. We know. We see everything._

Fahrad went to the window and stood with his head bowed and palms pressed down on the sill. _It's safer for him this way. As the prince of the dragonflight he'll have respect and authority._

_He's going to kill you, and all the others. So much delicious blood will be shed, oh yes,_ the voices chorused gleefully.

_I don't care,_ Fahrad said stubbornly. _He's the only hope the black dragonflight has of getting rid of _you_ once and for all! If it means I have to join Nyxondra on the other side of the sky where you monsters can't hurt me anymore, well, I can think of far worse things._

_You still have hope, after all this time? _The Old Gods screeched with derisive laughter. _Fool!_

Fahrad stepped back from the window and looked over at Wrathion peacefully sleeping in his bed. _Hope? Damn right I have hope-more than I've had in a very long time, thanks to that whelp. But you parasites don't understand hope, do you? You're all about despair, anger, bloodlust..._

_Yes, yes! Kill, destroy, defile, slaughter, betray!_

The surge of chaotic thoughts made Fahrad grit his teeth. It was an itch he refused to scratch. _Enough!_ he snarled to the voices. _You're not going to win. Not this time. You made me kill my brothers. You're not going to get me to harm a scale on my son's head. Never! I'm stronger now. I know how you slimy pests operate. It's not going to work again._

_You sound very confident_, the Old Gods teased. _If you're so certain we will never win control over you again, why didn't you stay with your beloved Nyxondra? Why only visit a few times a year? You don't trust yourself. _

Fahrad drew his daggers, despite having no physical target to attack. _You gutless insects! How dare you-?_

The whispers taunted relentlessly. _We are patient. We are timeless. We are death. There is no point in resisting. You will fall, like all the rest..._

Fahrad straightened his back defiantly. _That may be, but Wrathion will remain beyond your grasp. _He sheathed his daggers and left the bedroom, locking the door behind him.

* * *

Wrathion awoke slowly, rubbing his eyes and trying to remember how he ended up in Fahrad's bed. The memories of his collapse and strange vision seeped back, and he had to go over them several times before he was certain they had happened in reality and not a dream.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched. The angle of the fading sun coming through the window told him it was near sunset. That meant he had slept for at least five or six hours.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head. Apparently in addition to knowing staggering amounts of information about the Titans, their works, the dragonflights, geography, languages, metallurgy, blacksmithing, jewelcrafting and magic, he had also been given the power of prophecy. As if it all wasn't overwhelming enough to deal with. Lovely.

He shrank and shifted back into his true form, snorting a puff of smoke. Still feeling groggy, he fluttered over to the wash basin on the bureau and dived in. It wasn't quite deep enough to submerge himself, but by rolling around he could get clean.

Wrathion exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain away into the water along with the dirt. He knew without a doubt what he had to do. There was no point in resisting or procrastinating. He had a mission to carry out, and the safety of the entire world depended on his success.

* * *

An array of jars, vials and bottles spread out on the table in front of the Grand Master as he brewed poisons with expert skill. Alert as always, Fahrad noticed the instant Wrathion's footsteps hit the stairs. He looked up to greet him with a relieved smile as the Black Prince reached the ground floor of the manor.

"Ah, my prince," he said. "Good to see you up and about. Feeling better, I trust?"

"Yes," he said, although his expression remained solemn. "And we have work to do."

"Oh?"

Wrathion came to a stop in front of Fahrad and looked him straight in the eye. "The rest of the black dragonflight must die," he said simply.

Fahrad slowly set down the poison vials in his hands and met the prince's gaze without flinching. "I know."

"Come, then. We need a plan." Without waiting for confirmation, Wrathion turned on his heel and marched back up the stairs.

Fahrad followed him immediately.

* * *

"I can sense them," Wrathion said without prelude as he sat down at the head of the study table.

Fahrad took the nearest chair and waited for him to elaborate.

"Before I hatched I tested to see if I had the special connection to the earth that the red dragonflight expected I would have. I did, but I only dared explore my abilities for a few moments because the sheer size and chaos of the world was too much to absorb at the time. Since I hatched, however, I have been practicing, and I have learned to sort out the torrent of information in order to focus on specific tasks. Quite by accident, I discovered that I can sense the location of other members of the black dragonflight. I first detected the drakonid Creed that you mentioned in Gilneas. I also discovered a drake living in the mountains between the Arathi Highlands and the Hinterlands."

Fahrad nodded, looking impressed.

"I have tried to push my senses further, and I found several black dragons still inhabiting the Burning Steppes and the Redridge Mountains."

"Did any of them notice you, in return?" Fahrad asked with a worried frown.

"I was not foolish enough to attempt contact," Wrathion said, raising his nose. "I only noted their presence and moved on."

"Good."

"There are a few others, even more far-flung, but for now...we must see to it that these corrupted members of my flight are destroyed before they can cause any more damage." His voice was steady and matter-of-fact. The time for doubts and denial was over.

"And how should we go about doing that, my prince?" Fahrad asked. "You're still far too young to go into battle."

Wrathion straightened his spine defensively, tapping one gloved finger against the oak table. "I am well aware of that, Fahrad. Fortunately, there is no need for me to get my claws bloody. You are the Grand Master of a league of assassins, are you not?"

Fahrad raised his eyebrows. "My men and women are trained to assassinate mortals, not dragons."

"Dragons are not immune to cold steel or the proper poisons," Wrathion said grimly. "Give your agents additional training if you must-you do seem to be somewhat of an expert on dragons-but they are the best available resource to see to the culling of my flight."

Fahrad regarded him for a few moments with a look of deep concentration. "You're sure about this, my prince?"

Wrathion met his gaze without hesitation. "Yes. You said yourself that there is no way to purge their corruption, and that they are suffering. If I could magically cure them all, I would. But since that is not an option...we do what we must to protect Azeroth."

Fahrad's expression was grim but he regarded the prince with a kind of grudging pride. "The right decisions are seldom the easy ones." He stood. "I will gather a team of my best rogues and begin preparations. What is our first target?"

"If this Creed fellow is gathering mortal supporters, he is more of a threat than the others. He may be only a drakonid, not a true dragon, but he carries the same corruption as the others. Take him out first."

"As you wish, Your Majesty." Fahrad bowed and exited the library.

* * *

Days turned to weeks until an entire month had elapsed without any sign of the elite team Fahrad had dispatched to Gilneas. Wrathion sat in his true form, picking at his breakfast of rabbit and brooding about their failure. Fahrad had tried to encourage him to be patient, but after so much time it was clear the mission had failed.

"It doesn't necessarily mean that Creed's forces took them out," the rogue said. "That area is crawling with Forsaken."

"I don't care if they tripped on their own bootlaces and drowned in a puddle," Wrathion growled. "They failed." He gnawed on the rabbit's thigh bone, working out his frustrations while he ate. "We are right back where we started, minus some of your best men."

Fahrad leaned back in his chair, arms folded on his chest, and scowled. "True enough. But there are more where they came from. Next time will be better."

Wrathion crunched a bone, slurping marrow with relish. "Perhaps we'll try an easier target this time, and leave Creed to his own devices for a bit. There is a drake living in the mountains of northern Arathi: a female, too young to breed, from what I can sense. Surely your world-class assassins can manage to take her down."

"Absolutely. I'll send as many dwarves as I can find; they're the best in mountainous terrain."

"Excellent." Wrathion ate in silence for a few minutes.

Fahrad watched him with a distant look, brow furrowed in thought. "My prince?"

"Yes?"

"I was just thinking...if you kill every other black dragon in the world, you'll be left without a mate when you reach adulthood."

Wrathion did not look up from his meal. "I'm quite well aware of that."

"The flight will become extinct."

"I know. I have considered all possible outcomes, and this is the only way." He swallowed the last bite of meat and sat back. "If there were a way to purify more eggs like my own was, I would jump at the chance to lead a restored flight. However, as we haven't the slightest idea how I was created, or even if such a feat is repeatable...all I can do is ensure that my kind cannot cause any more harm. If I must be the last black dragon to fly the skies of Azeroth...so be it."

Fahrad rose to his feet, looking as if he wanted to comfort him, but Wrathion shifted back into a human and did not seem particularly upset.

"Gather a team to head to Arathi. I'll try to zero in on the drake's location to give them directions. They should leave as soon as possible." His tone was matter-of-fact, and he left the room with his head held high.


	7. Chapter 7

"They've returned," came Fahrad's voice from the doorway of the library.

Wrathion set down the tome of elven history he had been reading and immediately got to his feet.

The carefully-selected team of five dwarf rogues milled about in the manor's courtyard, looking none the worse for wear after their mission.

Fahrad stood back and let Wrathion take charge of the situation.

The prince noted this and did his best to appear regal and authoritative. "Welcome back. I trust you achieved your objective?"

The eldest dwarf bowed to him, the gray braids of his beard brushing the ground as he did so. "Aye, we got 'er, Yer Majesty." He opened a sack and tossed something dark onto the ground at Wrathion's feet.

It took the prince a moment to identify the object, and when he did it took all his self-control not to flinch. The front paw of a black dragon, easily ten times larger but otherwise identical to his own, lay on the cobblestones. The claws gleamed, razor-sharp, in the sunlight. Dark blood had congealed around the place where it had been severed from the limb, with just a hint of bone protruding.

"Excellent," Wrathion said airily. "You are to be commended for your bravery and..." He swallowed and searched for the right word. "...efficiency." He spun on his heel and headed back into the manor. "Fahrad, I trust you will see to their reward?"

"Of course, my prince," the rogue said, bowing.

* * *

Fahrad saw Myrokos trying to get his attention from the doorway, but he took his time handing out pouches of gold coins to the dwarves before seeing what the blood elf wanted. "Stay close, I should have another mission for you soon," he told the lead dwarf.

"Much obliged."

Fahrad glanced at the severed dragon paw on the ground. "And feel free to either dispose of that or keep it as a trophy. I don't want it lying around attracting flies."

"O' course," the dwarf said with a laugh.

Fahrad strolled back to the doorway and finally gave Myrokos his attention.

"Grand Master, perhaps it's none of my business-"

"In our line of work, we make everything our business," Fahrad said with a smirk.

"True, true." The blood elf glanced over his shoulder into the manor. "But I thought you should know the prince is sick."

"Oh?"

"I heard him just a minute ago. He ran into the basement, and..." Myrokos made a gesture from his mouth to the floor.

Fahrad shook his head but was unsurprised. "I'll handle it."

The basement had sat empty since Wrathion hatched. The heat lamps sat dark, and what remained of his eggshell still lay among the straw.

Fahrad descended the stairs at a casual pace. "My prince?"

There was no response.

The rogue stepped over the remains of the whelp's breakfast and looked around. "Wrathion?"

"I'm fine. Go away."

Fahrad turned toward the sound of his voice and saw Wrathion in his true body, curled up among the cobwebs underneath the staircase.

"My prince, if you're ill-"

"I'm fine," he said again, turning so that his head was buried in the corner under the lowest step.

Fahrad stooped down and put a hand on the whelp's back. "Wrathion, it's all right. I know it's not easy the first time you see...something like that...belonging to your own species. It's not the same as hunting."

"I just wasn't expecting it," Wrathion said defensively, still not turning around.

Fahrad sat down cross-legged on the dusty ground and slowly rubbed the tiny dragon's back. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Happens to the best of us sometimes."

"It looked so...real," Wrathion said quietly. "And yet not. I mean, it looked just like mine, but bigger, and...dead."

"Mmm hmm."

"And it was my fault. I sent them to kill her. I don't even know her name."

"You said yourself, it's necessary to protect Azeroth."

Wrathion finally turned around to look at him. In the shadows, the red glow from his eyes reflected on the tears drying on his cheeks. He was no longer crying, but the haunted look on his face made Fahrad instinctively reach out and scoop him up in his arms.

"There, there," the rogue soothed, holding the whelp close to his chest. "The first is the hardest. It gets easier."

"I'm sorry," he said, glancing toward the mess on the floor.

Fahrad gave a dismissive shake of his head. "I'll pick someone who's pissed me off lately and make them clean it up."

That produced a weak laugh from the young dragon.

Fahrad leaned back against the wall, still cradling Wrathion snugly in his arms. "Let me tell you a story."

Wrathion looked up at him with a curious expression.

The rogue's deep, scratchy voice took on a formal tone. "Once upon a time, there was a black drake who lived in a cave with two of his clutchbrothers. Most days they got along really well, hunting and playing and having adventures together. But, being brothers, some days they fought. Everyone gets angry sometimes, of course, but because these were _black_ dragons, any negative emotion was fuel for the Old Gods' whispers. They would get angrier and angrier until they were lost in a blind rage. At that point it didn't matter what started the fight. All that mattered was obeying the whispers that told them to kill, maim, destroy, and make the others _hurt_."

Wrathion's frowned. "That's awful."

Fahrad gave a sad smile. "It gets worse."

"Oh."

"For years the three drakes lived together, always aware of the whispers in their heads. When one would start to lose control, the other two would talk him back from the brink. Once in awhile one would injure his brother in a scuffle, but as long as only one weakened at the time, he was outnumbered, so nothing serious happened."

"Until...?" Wrathion guessed.

Fahrad closed his eyes. "Until one day, the largest and strongest of the three brothers was in a very bad mood. It had been raining for two days straight, making it hard to fly anywhere, and hunting had been poor. The smallest brother was sick, and being cooped up in the cave with his sneezing and moaning was really getting on the largest brother's nerves.

"The whispers reminded him that killing his brother would make him be quiet. But he loved his brother and told the voices to shut up. The voices pointed out that the sick one might infect the other two. He told them he didn't care. The Old Gods were persistent, though, more than they had ever been before.

"The sick brother was weak, they said. He deserved to die. He was competition for food and mates. Wouldn't it be easier without him? The largest brother was hungry. Wouldn't it be wonderful to taste blood? It would be so easy. He's sick, he won't be able to fight back very well. Just attack him. You're bigger and stronger. Prove yourself worthy!"

Wrathion looked up at Fahrad uneasily, beginning to sense that this tale was not entirely fictional.

The rogue continued, his gaze distant and unfocused. "So the largest brother snapped. He lost himself in a haze of bloodlust, and pounced on his brother. The sick one was taken by surprise and wasn't well enough to defend himself. He died quickly, his life ending in a spray that painted the cavern walls red."

"Wh-what about the other brother?" Wrathion asked timidly.

"He came roaring into the cave in a panic, thinking the others had been attacked by an enemy. When he saw his brother tearing apart the corpse of the other drake, he knew immediately what had happened. Consumed by rage and grief, he attacked. They were evenly matched under normal circumstances, but the madness coursing through the largest brother gave him an advantage. He wasn't feeling any pain or fear. Only the overwhelming desire to kill."

Fahrad paused to swallow and take a steadying breath. Wrathion merely listened, hardly daring to move.

"The middle brother managed to wound the berserker in several places, but he didn't have a chance. With his dying effort, he raked his claws against his brother's throat, slicing deep but not deep enough to kill him. It was over. The largest drake stood victorious over his slain clutchbrothers, laughing maniacally as if he had conquered the world. But then, slowly, he realized: the laughter wasn't his. His throat was injured too badly for that. The laughter was inside his head. The Old Gods had won."

At last Fahrad lowered his eyes to look at the whelp in his arms. "You may have lost your stomach over seeing the severed paw of a stranger. Imagine coming to your senses and finding that you had slaughtered your own brothers."

Wrathion was speechless.

The rogue fondly stroked a finger across the whelp's forehead. "Thank all the gods you will never have to experience anything like that," he murmured.

"What happened next?" Wrathion asked hesitantly.

Fahrad shifted his weight and bit his lower lip for a moment before continuing. "The drake slipped into another kind of madness: one of grief and guilt and horror. He wanted very much to die, but did not even have the presence of mind to kill himself. All he could think of to do was to get far, far away from the carnage he had wrought. He fled from the cave and flew as fast as he could in a random direction. The rain washed away the blood of his brothers, but he would never feel truly clean again. When he could fly no further, he crashed into the side of a mountain and laid there in a stupor for days.

"At last hunger brought him back to his senses. He could lie there on the mountain and let himself starve to death, or he could get up, dust himself off, and go on living. It wasn't an easy decision." Fahrad closed his eyes before continuing. "But the urge to live is strong, and he decided that letting himself die would accomplish nothing but handing the Old Gods another victory. So he flew away to start a new life somewhere else. His wounds healed eventually, even the gash to his throat. But he would never trust himself to get close to anyone again, for fear the whispers might take him a second time."

Fahrad fell silent, staring into space with a solemn expression.

Wrathion looked up at him. From where he was cradled in the rogue's arms, he had a clear view of the ragged scar that ran from under his beard, across his throat, and down to his collarbone.

"Did he ever find happiness?" Wrathion asked at length.

Fahrad refocused on the whelp, and the ghost of a smile passed over his face for a brief moment. "From time to time." His face hardened again. "But as long as the Old Gods taint the black dragonflight, there will always be danger, and doubt."

Wrathion broke eye contact. "Then we are doing the right thing," he said quietly.

Fahrad patted his back and squeezed him tighter. "Yes. We are."

* * *

One by one, the rogues of Ravenholdt struck down the black dragons of the Eastern Kingdom. They were unwittingly helped by the red dragonflight, who was also doing its best to eradicate every black dragon they could find. The Highlands above Loch Modan, where the Twilight Cult had built its headquarters, was the heart of the conflict. Wrathion decided to bide his time and let the reds do his dirty work for him. The enemy of his enemy was not always his friend, after all. Let the meddling reds try to kill his corrupted brethren. Good riddance to the loser, and he would deal with the victor later if necessary.

Meanwhile, mortals conveniently disposed of Darkblaze, a full-grown black wyrm who had overseen Nefarian's operations in the Redridge Mountains.

There were still scattered members of the flight who were lying low, attempting to stay out of the current war, however. It was these who were the focus of Wrathion's assassins for the moment. Not all the agents he sent returned alive, but none refused the missions. Fahrad paid them far too well and commanded far too much respect in the rogue community for that.

The latest strike force was due back any day from taking out a black drake in the Wetlands, so when Fahrad woke him with an excited tone to his voice Wrathion assumed that was why.

The whelp grunted and burrowed deeper into the box of blankets in front of the fireplace. It was cold and he was in no hurry to get up. He could already sense that there was one less black dragon out there. Although he was pleased when the assassins returned, he did not need to hear confirmation of the drake's death.

"My prince," Fahrad said from the doorway. "You really should see this." He crossed the room and opened the curtain.

Wrathion rubbed his eyes. Why was the light so much brighter than usual? "What's going on?" he mumbled.

"Something you've never seen before."

His natural curiosity piqued, Wrathion stretched his wings and fluttered over to the window. Overnight the world had been transformed into a dazzling vision of white. Trees that had lost their leaves many weeks before now sagged under a coat of snow, and an unbroken expanse of white had buried everything in sight.

"Your first snow," Fahrad said with a smile.

"Oh my," Wrathion breathed, grinning in wonder. "I didn't realize it would happen so quickly!"

"It doesn't always, but that was quite a storm that blew through last night."

"I know. The wind woke me up a few times. But this...this is amazing!" Wrathion turned from the window and flew out the door.

The residents of Ravenholdt had already begun clearing a walkway around the front of the manor, but the heavy, wet snow made it a slow, wearying task. Myrokos and Smudge Thunderwood looked up in surprise as a small black blur shot past them.

Wrathion flew several laps around the manor's grounds before returning to Fahrad. The rogue had been leaning on the door with his arms folded on his chest for warmth, watching him explore with an amused grin.

"Look at this!" the whelp exclaimed. "It's fascinating! Is all this really just water?"

"Try to melt some and find out," Fahrad suggested.

Wrathion took a deep breath and blew a torrent of flame at the pile of snow the others had cleared from the path. The snow melted immediately, steam billowing into the cold air. The whelp laughed in delight. "It is water! How interesting!"

Myrokos saw what he was doing and beckoned him over. "Here, little prince, come melt some of this over here." The blood elf stood back and leaned on his shovel as Wrathion happily zoomed over and bathed the area in fire. The snow hissed and steamed as it melted away, exposing the cobblestones beneath.

Wrathion was having too much fun to scold the elf for calling him "_little_ prince." He cleared nearly a quarter of the courtyard before he ran out of breath and landed, gasping, on a hitching post.

The shovelers gave him a round of applause. "Thanks, Yer Majesty," Smudge said. "Ye just saved us a hour's work!"

He raised his snout proudly, basking in the attention.

Fahrad's footsteps crunched on the wet stones as he approached. "He is not some novelty to entertain you louts," he growled.

"We meant no disrepect, Grand Master," Myrokos said quickly. "Quite the opposite."

"It's all right, Fahrad. It was fun," Wrathion said, still trying to catch his breath.

Fahrad made a visible attempt to regain his patience. "Come on, my prince. Breakfast is waiting."

Wrathion flapped his wings and landed on the rogue's shoulder. "Carry on, then," he said, waving to the shovelers. Once they were back inside the manor, he flew ahead to the kitchen. "Is there any of that wolf meat left?"

Fahrad looked into the larder. "Enough for you, yes."

"Excellent." He perched on the back of a chair while the rogue got out a plate and set a slab of raw meat in front of him. He dived in with gusto, tearing into his meal with teeth and claws. When he had satisfied the edge of his hunger, he looked to Fahrad, who had taken a chair nearby. "You didn't have to intervene out there. I was enjoying myself."

Fahrad took a drink of steaming coffee before answering. "Nevertheless, my prince, you have a reputation to maintain. If the men want fire-based snow removal, they can ask that fool gnome Zan to invent something."

Wrathion shrugged and tore off another chunk of wolf meat. "Nothing wrong with helping others. Their gratitude might prove useful in the future, after all."

"Besides, it would be all too easy for you to catch a chill. You're especially susceptible to cold at your age." Fahrad breathed in the steam from his drink.

"Oh." Wrathion chewed thoughtfully. "It _was_ rather cold out there before I used all that fire."

"Indeed."

"Do you think the snow will slow down the team returning from the Wetlands?"

"Possibly. Depends on how much there is. We get more up here in the foothills than they do further south."

Wrathion gnawed on a rib for a minute. "Fahrad?"

"Yes."

"I've tried reaching out my senses, and the only member of my flight I can feel now who is north of the Thandol Span is that drakonid in Gilneas."

The rogue nodded but did not make eye contact. "Good."

"We should make another attempt to remove him."

"Best wait until spring, my prince. We learned the hard way that absolute stealth is necessary for that mission, and with snow on the ground..." Fahrad shook his head.

"Oh." Wrathion chewed and swallowed, still thinking. "I hesitate to send anyone to the Burning Steppes or the Searing Gorge. If the reports about Nefarian's return are true-"

"They are."

"It would be a suicide mission."

"Let's bide our time a little longer. The Alliance won't stand by and let Blackrock rise as a threat again. They can't afford to have an enemy's seat of power between Stormwind and Ironforge. I expect they'll mount an offensive very soon, if they haven't already. We can mop up any stragglers after they've done the bulk of the work."

Wrathion nodded and sat back, leaving only a few scraps of bone on his plate. "A sound plan." He shivered suddenly. "It's cold in here."

Fahrad gave a thin smile as if to say "I told you so." He stood and cleared away the plate from the table. "Why don't you go back to my room and sit by the fireplace? I'll bring you some books from the library, as long as you promise not to get so close to the fire that you burn any of them up."

"I would never!" Wrathion said, aghast.

The rogue chuckled and followed him upstairs.

* * *

The Black Prince spent most of his first winter basking close to Fahrad's fireplace-sometimes even inside it, on particularly cold days. The weather made it more difficult to travel, but the assassination missions carried on in the milder, southern regions. A pocket of black dragons in the Blasted Lands proved especially tenacious, forcing the Grand Master to send reinforcements. Casualties were heavy on both sides, but in the end the dragons lay rotting among the barren red rocks, and a half dozen rogues returned to Ravenholdt to collect their reward.

As soon as the spring sun had melted the snows and brought real warmth to the Hillsbrad foothills, Fahrad began teaching the prince how to use various weapons. They stood in front of the training dummies in the yard, including the replacement for the one Wrathion had burnt the previous summer.

Wrathion held a polearm awkwardly, unsure where to put his hands.

"Like this," Fahrad said patiently, guiding his hands to the correct positions. "See, that balances the shaft so you have more control."

Wrathion studied the weapon with a frown. "When would I ever use such an unwieldy thing? I have flame breath, claws, teeth, and other magic."

"You never know what may happen, my prince," Fahrad said. "You may be in a position where you're unable to shapeshift, or you must turn an enemy's weapon against them. It never hurts to have options."

"I suppose," Wrathion said reluctantly.

"Try it out."

His brow creased uncertainly, but pride spurred him on. He swung the polearm in a wide arc and slammed it into the training dummy, sending a puff of sawdust into the air.

"No, no, no," Fahrad said, taking the weapon from him. "It's not a hammer. Watch." He lunged at the dummy with a confident thrust, piercing it in the gut with the point of the polearm and then ripping a gash that would have eviscerated a living opponent.

Wrathion watched sawdust pour from the dummy's abdomen onto the dirt, trying very hard not to look as discouraged as he felt. "Oh."

Fahrad clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, my prince. You're passable with a dagger, sword and mace now. This will come in time. It takes years to gain true proficiency with a weapon."

Placated, Wrathion drew himself up with a disdainful air. "Pity the Titans didn't implant _this_ knowledge in my head along with all the other trivia."

Fahrad smirked. "Guess you'll have to do this the hard way. I have confidence in you, though. You'll get it eventually."

Wrathion nodded curtly. "Of course I will. I am the Black Prince. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a new bag of gems to tinker with."

"Ah yes, I saw that troll deliver them this morning."

"Fresh from a mine in Stranglethorn." Wrathion flashed an eager grin. "I can't wait to try a new technique on the star rubies. I do love rubies, you know, and-"

Fahrad froze in place, held up a hand and shushed him.

Normally Wrathion would have bristled at such treatment, but the intensity of the rogue's sudden change in demeanor made him swallow back his words.

"Get inside," Fahrad said quietly in a tone that allowed no discussion.

"What's-" Wrathion started.

"Get in the basement and do _not_ come out until I tell you to."

Shaken, he hurried into the manor without protest.


	8. Chapter 8

[Notes: Since I have not been through the rogue legendary quest line personally, I ve relied on the recap video that Blizzard put out after ___Cataclysm _and texts on and WoWHead. I ve made the player rogue a male human because that s what s shown in the official video, but I ve tried to make him as generic as possible so if you want to imagine it as your own character or a guildie s, feel free.]

* * *

Wrathion paced back and forth along the length of the basement, hands folded behind his back. It had been at least ten minutes since Fahrad shooed him inside. He strained his ears to hear anything unusual coming from above, but all was quiet. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. It was probably nothing. Just because the usually unflappable Fahrad was all worked up over a mysterious...something...didn't mean it was actually anything dangerous. Right?

Finally, he shifted into his true form and swooped up to perch in the rafters. No mortal descending the stairs would see him up there. This made him feel a bit safer, and he closed his eyes to concentrate. He stretched his senses outward, through the earth that surrounded the cellar, until he felt a new presence on the manor's grounds. It was a human male, but not one Wrathion had ever encountered before. Newcomers to Ravenholdt weren't uncommon, however. He kept looking for anything unusual, tracing a spiraling path out from the manor until he sensed something else new. It wasn't a human. No, this was-

Wrathion nearly fell off the rafter and had to dig in his back claws to stay in place.

There was a red dragon nearby.

No! They were coming to take him prisoner again, or worse! Why couldn't they give up and leave him in peace? He would never be their pawn. Never!

The intruder was a full-grown red wyrm. If all the rogues on the premises banded together they could probably take him down, but if it came to a one-on-one confrontation Wrathion knew he had no chance of defeating such a behemoth.

He hunched down under his wings and drew back further into the shadows of the basement's ceiling. He was the Black Prince. He wouldn't be afraid. Besides, Fahrad would protect him.

His heart thudded in his chest so loudly that he worried anyone coming downstairs would hear it. A flash of concern for Fahrad made him fidget nervously. Surely the rogue would be fine. He was... Well, Wrathion wasn't ready to admit even to himself exactly _what_ he believed Fahrad's true identity to be. But regardless, he was no mere human and more than capable of defending himself.

Another ten minutes passed, and Wrathion was growing impatient. There was still only silence from above, which seemed more ominous as time went on.

Then, footsteps on the stairs. At first he hoped it was Fahrad, but no...this individual's scent was different. Human, but with a tinge of red dragon. Wrathion froze, holding his breath. Had the reds employed the help of mortals?

The intruder descended with careful, smooth strides that made only the faintest whisper of sound on the stairs. A rogue, then, and a good one. Wrathion's enhanced draconic senses could follow him, but to another mortal he might as well have been invisible.

Still not daring to move a muscle, Wrathion watched from the rafters as the mysterious rogue slunk around the basement, obviously looking for something specific. When he saw the remnants of Wrathion's egg among the straw beneath the now-dormant heat lamps, he paused uncertainly.

_That's right,_ Wrathion thought smugly. _If you expected to snatch a defenseless egg, you'll be sorely disappointed._

The scent of red dragons on the human, combined with his apparent interest in the black egg, told Wrathion all he needed to know. This man had been hired by the red dragonflight to recover his egg. Failing that, he no doubt had instructions to kidnap or kill the uncooperative whelp.

Wrathion probed outward with his senses once more and felt Fahrad's presence on the far end of the manor's grounds, near the red dragon. No alarms had been sounded, and there was still no hint of excitement from upstairs. Whoever this strange man was, he had infiltrated Ravenholdt without being detected by the finest rogues in the world. He moved around the basement with lithe, predatory grace, not even disturbing a stray bit of straw on the ground.

_Hmm..._ Wrathion watched the stranger with a critical eye. _This one is highly trained, very talented at his art. A master assassin if ever I saw one. He could be very useful indeed, if I could sway him to my side._ The whelp gave a thin smile. He had spent his entire life around rogues; he knew what motivated them. A real challenge and a rich reward could make even the most stubborn mortals rethink their allegiances.

Confident in his ability to talk his way out of any situation, Wrathion silently dropped out of the rafters and landed near the foot of the stairs, shifting into human form before his feet even touched the floor.

The rogue whirled to see who was there, and went stone-still with a look of wary confusion. His skin and hair were completely covered by leather armor, making it difficult to guess at his age, but even with his turban Wrathion did not quite match him in height. Clever green eyes regarded him from behind a dark red hood, narrowing in suspicion. The rogue glanced from the egg to the regal figure before him, seeming to make the connection.

Wrathion puffed himself up proudly and looked down his nose at the intruder. "That's right, mortal. The prize you seek no longer sleeps within a shell. Here I am, in the flesh. I'm not some trophy for a red dragon's mantelpiece, and I'm _never_ going back."

The stranger did not immediately attack him, which was a good sign. He merely cocked his head to the side in a silent question. Perhaps he had expected the whelp to be grateful for being rescued.

Wrathion smirked. "Don't look so surprised. We dragons are conscious even within our shells. As I grew, I could hear the plotting and scheming. I was to be born a prisoner. But I'm one of a kind: a black dragon raised free from the taint of my father's corruption. And that's how I intend to stay: _free_."

He was encouraged by the stranger's respectful silence. There were no attempts to counter him with red dragonflight propaganda, no moves to take him by force, and no indication that the rogue was particularly loyal to the reds. He still said nothing, but Wrathion could tell he had his full attention.

"Somehow you managed to elude all of my guards. You slipped in here like a ghost. That makes you...valuable to me. Let's talk."

The human at last opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden noise from the stairs made both of them jump and turn to see the cause.

A balding man in crimson armor tumbled uncontrollably down the stairs and landed in an undignified heap at the bottom. Wrathion tensed, recognizing the scent of a red dragon. This was no human.

Before he could even register a sense of danger, however, Fahrad strode confidently down the stairs and gave the red a kick for good measure. "Your Highness, we caught this...beast...snooping around the caves just outside the compound."

The red raised his fists despite his battered state. "I'm not afraid of you!" he told Fahrad, then finally noticed Wrathion standing there in all his desert-inspired finery. "Wait...who are you?"

Wrathion recognized his voice. This was a red wyrm named Mostrasz, one of those who had vocally doubted whether it was worth the time to let him hatch.

The Black Prince stalked over and glared down at him. "You don't recognize your former prisoner?"

Mostrasz stared blankly, not immediately making the connection between the dark-skinned teenager in front of him and the black dragon whelp he had expected.

Impatient with his lack of respect, Fahrad punched the red in the stomach, forcing him to kneel. "Shall we execute him, my prince?"

Wrathion considered. Hatred for the red dragonflight curdled inside him, yet he did not want to be a bloodthirsty monster like his father. It would be all too easy to have this dragon slain, but hadn't Fahrad told him that the right decisions were rarely the easiest ones? "No," he said at last. "I want him to deliver a message to the red dragonflight. Tell them that I am free of my father's madness, and I will be free of _them_ as well. I am to be left alone. This will be my first and only warning."

Mostrasz looked up at him with desperate confusion. "But-but Deathwing's minions may have you killed!"

Wrathion narrowed his eyes and turned his back on him. "Deathwing's minions should be afraid of _me_! Get him out of here!"

Fahrad roughly kicked and dragged Mostrasz back toward the stairs, then picked him up with surprising strength and threw him up the stairs. There was a pained cry as the battered red hit the floor above.

Wrathion smirked, remembering how Mostrasz and the others had carelessly rolled over his egg, heedless of his discomfort, while openly discussing the probability of someday killing him. Perhaps he had been a bit too lenient. "And, Fahrad?

"Yes, sir?"

"Break his legs."

Fahrad grinned proudly at him and gave a thumbs-up. He sprinted up the stairs, and moments later there was an audible series of cracking noises and a scream of agony.

Wrathion nodded with grim satisfaction. Now _that_ was a message.

Throughout all this, the mysterious rogue had stood back in the shadows, watching silently.

Wrathion returned his attention to him, confident that the display of power had been suitably impressive. "Now, then, my new friend. We have much to talk about."

The human nodded.

"As you know, black dragons frequently disguise themselves as humanoids in order to tamper with mortal affairs." He began walking up the stairs, confident that by now Fahrad had removed the crippled red dragon. The strange rogue followed him at a respectful distance. "While the house of my mad father collapses around him, the few remaining black dragons have gone into hiding. But, I can still...sense them." He turned at the top of the stairs and headed for the table in the middle of the manor's common room.

Fahrad stood at the near end of the table, suspicous eyes trained on the man following the prince.

"My cowardly brothers and sisters will cause untold suffering if we allow them to stay in the shadows. Moreover, they are a threat to _me_." Wrathion walked past Fahrad and positioned himself at the other end of the table. "That is where you come in. Help us to slay them all, and I will reward you handsomely."

Greed glittered in the rogue's green eyes. Wrathion smiled smugly. Mortals were so predictable.

Fahrad looked uneasy but did not question the prince's decision. He pointed to a spot on the globe in the middle of the table. "Your first target is here, in the ruins of Gilneas. I've lost some of my best men already. Let's see if _you_ can fare any better." It was clear from his tone that he doubted the rogue's abilities, but the stranger did not take the bait.

He merely nodded and listened as Wrathion and Fahrad explained the situation with Creed, the drakonid who had been amassing a force of human and worgen followers after the fall of Gilneas.

When he had received his full instructions, the rogue finally spoke. His voice was calm and unremarkable, with an accent which spoke of origins in the Westfall region, or perhaps Elwynn Forest. "And the reward?"

Wrathion had the perfect answer ready. "Two of the finest dragon-crafted daggers you will ever have the privilege of holding."

The stranger bowed his head just once and disappeared out the front door as silently as he had arrived.

Fahrad watched him go with a troubled frown. When they were alone again, he turned to the young dragon. "Are you sure about this, my prince?"

"What have we to lose? Either he kills Creed-something that your assassins have been unable to accomplish thus far, I must remind you-or he gets killed himself and the red dragonflight has one less pawn."

Fahrad scowled and crossed his arms on his chest. "Very well. I..." He looked up at Wrathion and his expression softened. "I'm just glad you're all right. When I sensed that red approaching I imagined the worst."

He preened the scales on his coat. "Your concern is appreciated, as always. I believe I handled things quite well, however."

A faint smile crossed Fahrad's face. "You're growing up so fast..."

Wrathion straightened his posture and practically strutted to the stairs. "I'll be in the library until supper. See if there's anything besides deer to eat, if you would. I've had nothing but venison for days and it's getting tiresome."

Fahrad shook his head fondly and stifled a laugh. "Yes, Your Highness." When the prince was gone, he brushed his fingers across the part of the globe showing the Badlands. "He reminds me of you so much it hurts sometimes," he murmured. "Oh, Nyx, I hope I'm doing the right thing." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then headed to the larder to check the meat reserves.

* * *

Cool air and moonlight streamed in Fahrad's bedroom window, making the white curtains float outward like ghosts. Coals glowed faintly in the fireplace to offset the spring chill. Wrathion was sound asleep in his box of blankets when he was jolted awake by a loud cry.

"No, no, stop!"

The whelp sprang up and looked around wildly for any danger. The door was locked and the only person there was Fahrad, lying on his back under a woolen blanket.

"You can't!" the rogue said suddenly, flailing one arm in the air.

Having had more than his share of nightmares in his short lifetime, Wrathion recognized the signs immediately. He flew up and hovered over the bed. "Fahrad! Wake up!"

The rogue made a terrified noise halfway between a whine and a growl and kicked with both legs against the tangled blanket.

"Fahrad, you're having a nightmare!" Wrathion tried again, more loudly this time.

"_No, don't go, please!_ _You don't understand!_" he mumbled...in draconic.

Wrathion felt his heart jump into his throat. He knew what Fahrad was, of course, and had known for quite some time, but every bit of fresh evidence added to the burden in his mind.

The rogue reached out his hands, grasping at nothing, apparently trying to grab someone in his dream. "_You can't go! It's not safe!_" Fahrad said, voice slurred but easily understandable. Then, switching from draconic back to Common, he added, "Please! Stop!"

Wrathion dared to touch him, landing on his pillow and prodding the side of his head with one foot. "Fahrad! Wake up!"

"No!" he cried, jerking forward so suddenly that Wrathion bolted into the air again. Fahrad scrambled to free himself from the blanket, gasping in ragged breaths as if he had just run a mile. By the time he was sitting up on the edge of the bed he was fully awake, eyes wide with panic as he wiped sweat off his forehead. "Oh gods," he sighed. "Just a dream."

Wrathion was hesitant to come too close after seeing the rogue lash out at invisible opponents so violently, but now he landed beside him. "Are you all right?" he asked meekly.

Fahrad looked over and down, as if only now realizing the whelp was there. "Wrathion. I'm sorry. Yes, I'm...fine." He vigorously rubbed his eyes and face to chase away the last touches of the nightmare. "It was just a bad dream."

Wrathion put one paw on his leg. "It sounded like a _very_ bad dream. I know what those are like."

Fahrad gave him a sympathetic look. "I know. I'm sorry for waking you, my prince."

"What was it about?"

Fahrad blinked several times, remembering but apparently reluctant to share. "I was trying to save someone important. It...wasn't going well."

"So I gathered."

"I couldn't save her in reality. I guess maybe my brain was trying to make up for it in a dream, but...it wasn't meant to be." He rubbed his eyes again, frowning deeply. "Stupid," he grumbled.

"It's not stupid to want to save those you care about." Wrathion crawled into his lap like a cat and nuzzled against his stomach.

"Sometimes you can't," Fahrad said distantly.

Wrathion looked up at him with a troubled expression. "I know."

The rogue shivered and slid back under the blanket, scooping the whelp up with one arm as he did so. He laid back with Wrathion sitting on his chest. "Go back to sleep, my prince. I'm all right."

Wrathion hesitated. "When I wake up with bad dreams I crawl into bed with you."

One corner of Fahrad's mouth twitched into a smile. "Yeah."

"You wouldn't fit in my bed," he said, glancing back at his box of blankets by the fireplace. "But I can stay with you, if you want."

Fahrad opened his mouth to refuse, but thought better of it after a second look at the whelp's worried face. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

Wrathion brightened immediately and burrowed under the blanket. He soon made himself comfortable with his body tucked in the rogue's armpit and his head on his shoulder. "You're really warm," he said happily.

Fahrad said nothing, but Wrathion could feel how quickly his heart was beating. He snuggled closer, trying to pay back a bit of all the times Fahrad had comforted him after a night terror.

The rogue reached up and laid one hand on top of him, his human hand covering the whelp from his neck to his back feet. He patted him almost as if Wrathion had been the one having a nightmare. Slowly, he dropped his chin to rest against the back of Wrathion's head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Wrathion made a questioning noise.

"I wish I could help you more. Some of the hardest things you'll have to face...I won't be able to be there. I've tried to prepare you the best I can, but there's so much I just...can't."

Wrathion swallowed the lump in his throat and drew back a little to make eye contact. "Fahrad...I know."

The rogue stared back.

It wasn't a simple, sympathetic "I know you're upset." It was an admission that all the hints had worked. Fahrad's true species wasn't a secret anymore.

Wrathion forced a weak smile. "I'm going to be all right. You've taught me so much... I'm strong. I'm the Black Prince. I'll be all right...when the time comes. And the time won't come until it absolutely has to. Right?"

The breath caught in Fahrad's throat when he tried to speak, so he simply nodded.

Wrathion laid down again, digging his claws into the rough fabric of the rogue's nightshirt. "Good night."

Fahrad managed a raspy "Night," holding him close under his chin.

The whelp was almost sleeping a few minutes later when a drop of moisture hit him on the back. He felt Fahrad's chest rise and fall twice in quick succession underneath him, and heard him sniff quietly.

Wrathion kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. Someday they would be last two black dragons in the world, and they both knew how that day had to end. Until then, they would have to make the most of the time they had.

* * *

The next afternoon found Wrathion at a table in the common area of the manor, an array of priceless gemstones spread out before him. He lifted an emerald up to a shaft of sunlight coming in the window, and squinted at it critically. "Hmm, not the best specimen," he mumbled, setting it aside. He inspected another, nodding slowly. "Perhaps..."

Footsteps approached and he looked up to see Fahrad heading toward him with a serious expression. "My prince, may I have a moment?"

"Of course. I was merely sorting through my collection, weeding out any gems that don't meet my standards."

"I just received word from my contacts in Northrend. Wyrmrest Temple is under attack."

Wrathion sat up straighter in his chair. "What? By whom?"

"The Twilight's Hammer."

"The Old Gods' cultists? What do they want with Wyrmrest?"

"They worship the Old Gods, but right now they're answering to Deathwing," Fahrad said grimly.

Wrathion's red eyes widened. "Ah. Right. Well." He swallowed and pushed some gems around on the table randomly, trying to think of something brave to say in response to the news. "That's not good," he said finally.

"No, it's not. Rumor has it that the Aspects are gathering to defend the temple, but if the reports are true, they may be outclassed by some of the Old Gods' minions."

Wrathion stared into the depths of a sapphire for a moment before looking up at him. "What should we do about this?"

Fahrad splayed one hand on the table, meeting his gaze with stern certainty. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"We're not going to do one damn thing about it. Forces are at play that are greater than either of us. This is a job for armies, and even then it may be a lost cause. Let the Aspects defend Wyrmrest if they can. We're _not_ tangling with the Old Gods' lackeys. End of story."

Wrathion nodded slowly, unable to argue. The thought of facing such horrors made a shiver run down his back that he barely managed to disguise by shifting his weight in his chair. "Is my father there?"

"Not at the moment."

"If he shows up with the full might of the Twilight's Hammer behind him..."

"Wyrmrest will crumble to dust," Fahrad finished.

Wrathion thought for a moment, then attempted to steer the conversation to less upsetting topics. "Have you ever been to Northrend?"

Fahrad shook his head.

"Are there many black dragons there? I've tried to sense members of the flight on the other continents, but I can't seem to find any. I don't know if that's because there aren't any, or because I'm not powerful enough to reach across oceans yet."

"Northrend is the blue flight's territory," Fahrad said with a shrug. "There are representatives of each flight at Wyrmrest and at the shrines, but beyond that I can't imagine any black dragon wanting to live in that frozen wasteland. Of course, the Obsidian Sanctum has been abandoned since mortals broke in and slew its guardian, Sartharion, a year and a half ago. And, last I heard, the black flight's ambassador, Nalice, had gone into hiding. I don't know about the shrinekeeper, Serinar. No doubt he's either fled or been pressed into the service of the Destroyer."

Wrathion turned a chunk of malachite over in his hands, deep in thought. "Perhaps someday I can see to it that the sanctum and shrine are restored, after all this is over. Although if I'm the only member of the flight, I suppose it's rather pointless..."

"There will be plenty of time to think about that in the years to come, my prince," Fahrad said. "Now, um...I have something for you." He reached into a pouch on his belt and held out a small object wrapped in brown paper.

Wrathion took it, his natural curiosity kicking in. "Oh, what is it? A rare gem? Something to eat?" He tore back the paper to reveal a round object that fit neatly in the palm of his hand. At first glance he thought it was some kind of unpolished gem, but it was strangely light and there was a rune etched into the surface that he did not recognize. It was dark brown, opaque in the center but clear enough around the edges for some light to show through. It resembled a solidified chunk of molasses, yet was perfectly smooth. There was magic sleeping within the depths, but Wrathion was hesitant to probe any deeper until he knew what he was dealing with.

After giving the stone a thorough inspection, he looked up at Fahrad with a confused frown. "What is it?"

Fahrad stepped closer, speaking low although there weren't any other rogues nearby. "This is a defensive amulet specifically attuned to dragons. If you should ever find yourself cornered by another dragon, one who is too strong for you to fight, unleash the power inside this stone. It will keep your enemy at bay long enough for you to get a head start on your escape."

"This bauble will make a dragon stop in his tracks?"

"For a short time, yes. But its power is limited. Don't count on being able to use it a second time."

"Hmm. A useful trinket to have on hand, just in case. Thank you, Fahrad."

"I'll feel better knowing you have it," the rogue muttered, walking away.

"Always watching out for me, aren't you?" Wrathion whispered once the other was out of earshot. "Even against yourself." He shook his head and regarded the amulet with a troubled scowl.


	9. Chapter 9

Due to the nature of the business conducted there, Ravenholdt Manor was nearly as busy overnight as it was during the day. Some only dared venture there under cover of darkness. Wrathion was used to the sound of people coming and going at all hours, but tried to keep a regular schedule for himself.

His evenings were usually spent in the manor's library, lost in whatever tome Fahrad had managed to obtain for him recently. The young dragon had exhausted all the books in the manor's collection over the winter, so the Grand Master had made it known in the rogue community that new volumes were wanted. How many were legally obtained, he neither knew nor cared, as long as it kept the prince happy.

The latest addition was an account of the ancient kingdom of Arathi, and Wrathion had been engrossed for close to two hours when the library door opened and Fahrad entered. "Your Majesty, it grows late. Were you planning on retiring at the usual time?"

Wrathion looked up with a somewhat startled expression. "Oh my, I guess I lost track of time reading about these early humans. Resilient creatures, highly adaptable... Anyway, yes, I suppose I should get to bed soon." He put a scrap of parchment into the book to hold his place and set it aside, rubbing his fatigued eyes with one hand. "Weather permitting, I would very much like to pay a visit to Thoradin's Wall. It isn't very far away and it would fascinating to see a bit of what I've been reading about."

Fahrad followed him out of the library and down the hallway toward his bedroom. "You passed through the wall once before, you know."

Wrathion shot him an irritated glare. "I think I would remember that."

"Well, you were still in your egg at the time, on your way here." Fahrad smirked, enjoying the disgusted look on the prince's face.

"That doesn't count," he snapped.

Fahrad unlocked the bedroom door and stood aside to let him enter first. Wrathion breezed past him with his nose elevated, then shifted back into his true body. "Heat some water. I want to wash up before bed."

"As you command," Fahrad said amiably, taking the basin from the table. He disappeared out the door but returned in a suspicously short time with a steaming basin. It was a simple matter for a dragon to heat water, of course, but even now Fahrad would never admit to such a thing. Wrathion said nothing. If the rogue wanted him to think he had gone all the way down to the kitchen and heated it on the fire there, so be it.

Wrathion flew up onto the table and hopped into the water with an appreciative sigh. It was near-boiling, just the way he liked it. He dunked his head under several times, not caring in the slightest that he splashed water onto the table. The basin wasn't quite deep enough to cover his entire body so he rolled around like a crocodile killing prey to make sure he got clean all over. This caused more water to escape, and Fahrad could not suppress a small sigh as he grabbed a towel to sop up the mess before it dripped onto the floor.

Just when the whelp was about to ask for a dry towel for himself, a sudden rush of vertigo made him gasp. Everything went black, and the next thing he knew he was once again in human form, standing on one of the many piers lining a busy waterfront. It was broad daylight. Gulls wheeled overhead, their keening cries almost drowned out by the hustle and bustle.

Another vision? Wrathion looked around in a daze, trying to determine where he was. Judging by the architecture and most of the people around, this was a human city, and a large one, at that. That narrowed things down considerably, and he noted a guard passing by wearing the gold and blue colors of Stormwind.

He frowned. Why would he be having a vision of the human capital? There were no other dragons around that he could see, just humans, dwarves, gnomes, night elves, worgen and draenei.

His feet started moving of their own volition, and he was a spectator in his own body as he walked down the pier toward where an Alliance warship was docked. Muscled dockworkers carried supplies on board in a constant stream, while nearby a man in a naval uniform scrutinized a scroll of parchment, nodding periodically. No one seemed to notice Wrathion.

An overwhelming compulsion to board the ship swept over him, and he did not try to fight it as his feet carried him up the gangplank. Once on deck he saw that just beyond the harbor, the entire ocean was covered in a thick fog. White mist seethed and churned slowly, creeping ever closer to the docks.

Such a sight would normally have been unsettling, but right now Wrathion was somehow convinced that wonderful, amazing things lay hidden behind the fog bank. He leaned over the ship's railing to get a better look, grinning like a fool. Yes, he wanted-no, _needed_ to see what was beyond those mists.

"Wrathion!" came a voice from somewhere far behind him.

"Not now," he said, not turning around lest he miss a glimpse of the wonders that would no doubt materialize any moment from out of the fog.

"Wrathion, wake up! Speak to me!" Now he recognized the speaker as Fahrad, which seemed absurd. Fahrad wouldn't be in Stormwind. In fact, Fahrad wasn't supposed to be here, at all. Not in this time and place.

Time. This was in the future, but how far?

"My prince! Snap out of it!"

For a moment he was in two places at once. He was in human form, standing on a ship in Stormwind harbor, and he was in his true body, wrapped in a warm towel and held in someone's arms. The two realities spun together in a dizzying blur, and he closed his eyes with a groan.

When he opened them again, the docks were gone, and only Fahrad's bedroom remained.

"Wrathion, say something!"

He blinked several times, trying to focus on the rogue's anxious face. "I had another vision," he said. As he gradually came to his senses, he found that Fahrad had lifted him out of the basin and dried him off already. He sat on the edge of his bed with the whelp cradled in his arms.

"Good thing I was right here. You could have drowned," Fahrad said quietly.

The room refused to quit spinning, so Wrathion closed his eyes again. "This wasn't like the other one. My father wasn't in it. No other dragons were. I was in Stormwind harbor, and I got on a ship. I don't know why, I just knew I had to. There was so much fog out to sea, but I knew there would be wonderful things if I could only get beyond it..." He let his voice trail off. "It seems silly now. What do you suppose it means?"

Fahrad shook his head. "I have no idea. Maybe nothing."

"It must mean _something_. I wouldn't have some grand, prophetic vision for no reason," he said with a disdainful sniff.

"I don't know, my prince. Are you feeling all right now?"

Wrathion thought for a moment, face scrunching up as if he'd smelled something bad. "Define 'all right.' I'm so dizzy I can't see straight."

"But the vision is over?"

"Yes, thankfully. Why do those have to make me feel so foul afterward?"

Fahrad stood and carried him over to his box of blankets by the fireplace. "The world is full of mysteries, my prince," he said with just a hint of teasing. He knelt and carefully tucked the whelp into the tangle of blankets. "Last time you felt better after a good, long nap. Since it's bedtime anyway..."

"Mmm hmm," Wrathion agreed, sinking gratefully into the soft bedding.

"But if you _do_ ever find yourself in Stormwind, look up a man named 'Muddy' Wright at a pub in Old Town called The Ebon Wheel. He owes me a few favors."

"All right," the whelp said sleepily.

Fahrad used an iron poker to coax a bit more life from the fireplace. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Thank you," he murmured.

The rogue placed a protective hand over the small dragon's back. "Good night, my prince."

* * *

This time the mysterious human rogue did not bother with stealth, but walked brazenly up to Ravenholdt Manor. The gnome mage Wrathion had stationed in Gilneas to keep an eye on Creed had already reported back with the news of the drakonid's demise. His decision to entrust the assassination to this particular rogue had paid off.

Wrathion was pleased, but Fahrad had been in a grouchy mood ever since Zazzo returned with the news. No doubt he wasn't pleased to have his own hand-picked agents outshone by a random mercenary.

The Black Prince listened intently, eyes alight with excitement, as the rogue recounted his infiltration of the ruins of Gilneas and battle against Creed. "That's wonderful news!" he said when the tale was finished. "Creed was not the most powerful of the remaining black dragons, but his manipulation of the Gilneans was truly diabolical."

Fahrad glared across the table at the assassin. "Ha! A lucky blow against an unprepared opponent."

Once again, the rogue seemed unperturbed by Fahrad's goading. He was far more interested in the reward for his deeds, which Wrathion produced from a box under the table. Curved daggers of his own design lay within, twin blades of serrated steel. Both had handles of red leather and an ornamented hilt suggesting a horned, draconic face. Wrathion had toiled for days to craft these, many times discarding hours of work to start over until he was satisfied.

He grinned nervously as his champion studied the weapons.

The mask made it impossible to gauge his expression, but at last the rogue nodded and slid the daggers into his belt. "Fine work," he said simply.

Wrathion puffed out his chest proudly.

"What's my next target?"

The Black Prince gave a smug smile. As expected, shiny rewards had hooked him a useful ally. "If you wish to continue our work, we will need some additional supplies. The daggers I have given you are lifeless shells. They can do great things, once they are given a means to contain the power I have in mind. I need for you to acquire shadowy gems for me. The facets of these unusual stones are like windows into the infinite. They are often used by minions of the Twilight's Hammer to control the most powerful of elementals. A great battle is waging around Wyrmrest Temple. Collect elementium gem clusters from Deathwing's minions and bring the gems to me."

The rogue bowed his head and slipped out the door without further ceremony.

Wrathion watched him go, nodding appreciatively. "A most useful fellow. I'm quite glad we didn't kill him on sight, aren't you?"

Fahrad had been clenching his jaw to hold his silence, but now he snorted. "I don't trust him."

"We don't have to _trust_ him," Wrathion said airily. "We merely have to reward him for his services. Did you see the look in his eyes when he held those daggers? Mortals are greedy. Now that he knows the sort of payment he can expect, he'll happily march into any danger on our behalf."

"Well, while he's freezing his balls off in Northrend, we still have work to do."

"Have you heard anything from Blackrock?"

Fahrad shook his head. "I didn't really expect them back before the end of the month. That mountain's enormous. It will take time to search it all." As predicted, mortal forces had stormed Blackrock and slain the reanimated Nefarian and his forces. A few stragglers had scattered in the aftermath, and the rogues of Ravenholdt were now hunting them down.

"I only sensed two drakes and a few dragonkin hiding there."

"I know, but with all due respect, my prince...your senses aren't infallible. A skilled spellcaster can still hide from you. We can't afford to take any chances."

Wrathion exhaled sharply, raising his nose in offense. "I have swept the area _numerous_ times, from all angles, at all times of day. I am not mistaken."

"Still, Your Majesty...we must be thorough."

He sighed. "I know. But once Blackrock is cleared, I believe all the members of the flight in the Eastern Kingdoms are accounted for, with two exceptions." Wrathion chose not to mention the third exception who was standing in front of him. "There was that adult female I sensed briefly a few days ago somewhere south of the Redridge Mountains. She disappeared in Deadwind Pass and I haven't been able to pick up her trail from there. Very odd, but I'll keep looking. The other exception, of course, is my illustrious father." Wrathion gave an uneasy laugh. "I still have no idea how he can ever be defeated. With the Old Gods feeding power into him, he's essentially indestructible."

"The Destroyer has many enemies, my prince. Mortal forces wiped out Nefarian and Onyxia for us. With luck and patience, they will figure out a way to end Deathwing, too."

"Assuming he doesn't destroy the world, first."

Fahrad said nothing.

* * *

There was a renewed urgency to Wrathion's training. Fahrad sternly kept him in the practice ring for longer and longer sessions, drilling him with various weapons and techniques.

"Again!" the Grand Master barked.

Wrathion wiped sweat off his forehead, long ago having discarded his turban on the bleachers. "I've been doing this for hours," he whined. "Is this _really_ necessary?"

"Yes," Fahrad snapped immediately. "You must be prepared, come what may. Now show me what you've got."

"I've _been_ showing you," Wrathion panted and let the axe fall from his grip onto the dusty ground. "I'm not going to miraculously develop expert skills from this repetition. Blisters, yes, but-"

"Enough!" Fahrad interrupted. "Strike that dummy's head off, or there'll be no supper for you."

Wrathion gawked at him. "You can't be serious."

There was a hardness to Fahrad's glare that the young dragon had never seen there before.

Anger bubbled up in his chest and he stomped his foot. "I am the Black Prince, and I will not tolerate such disrespect!" He shifted into his true form and blasted the axe with flame, setting the handle on fire.

"You ungrateful little brat," Fahrad snarled.

Wrathion flicked his tongue at him and flew onto the roof of the manor.

"Get back here this instant and finish these drills!" Fahrad shouted.

"No!" he said petulantly, turning his back. "I'm a prince and you're not my father. I don't have to do what you tell me."

This made Fahrad draw his daggers with a gutteral cry of rage. "You have no idea what you're talking about, you arrogant whelpling!"

Wrathion looked back in surprise at the sound of weapons being unsheathed. The rogue had never made any threatening moves toward him before.

As their eyes made contact, Fahrad convulsed in a sudden shiver despite the warm afternoon sun. The daggers dropped from his hands and the color drained from his face. "No," he moaned, clenching his eyes shut. Then, louder and more decisively, he repeated, "No!" He opened his eyes again and looked up at the whelp perched on the rain gutter.

Wrathion peered down with a hint of fear in his red eyes. "Fahrad?" he said tentatively.

The rogue shivered again and bolted into the manor.

* * *

Nearly an hour passed before Wrathion ventured down from the roof. He had been waiting for Fahrad to come back and apologize, but there was no sign of him. Other rogues came and went like usual, and nothing seemed to be amiss.

At last Wrathion fluttered over to the forge. Ravenholdt's blacksmith was nowhere to be seen and the fires were barely smoldering. This was easily remedied with a puff of his flame breath. He shifted into his human form and picked up a raw length of steel.

He threw himself into his art with intense focus, pushing his conflicting emotions to the back of his mind for the moment. Some measure of anger still simmered in his chest, but it was tempered by fear and confusion. Fahrad had never lost his temper with him before. He had seen him explode at the other rogues from time to time, even killing an orc once who had betrayed him, but nothing more than mild annoyance had ever been directed at _him._

Fiery energy snaked around the metal, folding it over and shaping into the form of a blade. This felt right. He was meant to use his powers this way.

The world outside the forge took on a distant, almost surreal quality. All that mattered was here, coaxing the earth element to obey his whims.

Although his arms burned from exertion after the long day of weapon practice, he continued his work until long after sunset. The sword was finished, perfectly balanced and strengthened, embellished with intricate designs along the length of the blade. Only then did he flop down onto a stool with a weary sigh and shake himself out of his trance-like state.

The darkness outside surprised him. He really thought Fahrad would have come to offer an apology by now.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach and fatigue made his limbs feel heavy. Still, he took the time to wind strips of leather around the handle of the new sword. "There," he said to himself, lifting the blade for an experimental swing.

Dragons had excellent night vision, and black dragons even moreso than most, allowing them to navigate in the lightless caverns of the world. Wrathion had no difficulty crossing the manor's grounds to the practice ring. The scorched remnants of his axe still lay in the dust. Even more surprising, Fahrad's prized daggers lay right where he had dropped them.

Wrathion forced his aching muscles to swing the freshly-forged sword, hacking twice at the target dummy before its flour-sack head tumbled free.

He put the sword in a nearby weapon rack, dusted off his hands dramatically, and stalked back into the manor to find some food.

After devouring a large hunk of turtle meat, he reluctantly went upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Fahrad. Fortunately, he did have his own key. It was beneath his dignity to knock, but he opened the door only a crack at first, peeking in uncertainly. The room was empty.

He swung the door open all the way and found Fahrad's bed still made up from that morning, with no sign of the rogue.

"Well," Wrathion said, putting his hands on his hips. "All right, then." He resumed his true form and quickly washed up in the basin on the table, not bothering to heat the water for himself. He doused the lantern and dived into his box of blankets.

He had never slept alone before. Since the moment he hatched, Fahrad had always been there. He knew those days were numbered, but still... This was quite unexpected.

The whelp lay awake for what felt like hours before sleep finally descended.

* * *

A quarter moon shone down from a cloudless sky, casting meager light over the Hillsbrad Foothills. The steep cliffs overlooking the Hinterlands were quiet, without a gryphon or owl to break the stillness.

Then, one of the hills moved. A dark shape rose from the ridgeline, stretching vast wings that blocked out the stars. The giant creature settled back down with a rumbling groan, folding its wings over its back. The scene returned to apparent tranquility.

"Tranquil" was the last word to describe what was happening in the dragon's mind, however.

_He's going to kill you,_ the whispers warned for the millionth time. _You must control him._

_I will not. He is free to choose his own destiny, without you abominations interfering._

_Your death approaches swiftly. Don't you want to live?_ the whispers asked.

_No,_ Fahrad said, briefly stunning the voices into silence. _I don't. Not like this._

_We will remake this world to the way it was intended. You will have a place of great honor and power if you give the child over to us._

_I don't want honor and power, you idiots_, Fahrad snorted. _If I did, would I have spent the last three centuries living as a human rogue, denying myself the company of my own kind?_

_We will give you the power to make your enemies suffer in eternal torment!_ the voices promised.

Fahrad dug his claws into the rocky ground. _You bastards are my true enemy, and the only eternal torment is my own._

The Old Gods laughed, a maddening, mocking sound that reverberated through his head. _You have always been a stubborn one, Fahradion._ _But we are immortal...timeless...beyond life and death..._"

_You don't understand, you parasites. You never have, and you never will. There are stronger forces in the world than your message of hatred and chaos. I love my son. I loved his mother. That is a powerful thing._

Ominous chuckles filled his mind. _You loved your brothers, too._

Fahrad scrambled to his feet and bellowed an angry roar that echoed across the mountainous landscape. "Enough!" he snarled. "I was distracted today. You had a toehold for a few seconds. Don't think for a moment I'm going to let you have more than that."

_It isn't up to you, worm,_ the whispers said disdainfully. _When we need you, we will have you. Until then, we enjoy these little chats..._

Fahrad ground his teeth. _I would throw myself off this mountain right now just to deny you that, but my son needs me. Even if he can never know he's my son, that doesn't change how I feel about him, or what I must do to protect him. I'm going to stand by him as long as I can._

_Until he kills you,_ the voices chorused.

_Exactly._

There was no immediate reply. Fahrad spread his wings and stretched his limbs in preparation for flight. It had been so long that his true body felt foreign to him. Before he met Nyxondra, he would sometimes go years without shifting out of his human form. That way he could almost convince himself that he was something other than a cursed black dragon. His thrice-annual journeys to visit her meant that he had been in his real body more often in the past decade, but since her death...

He shook his head to disrupt that train of thought. He couldn't focus on the negative right now. He had to be strong just a little while longer, for their son.

Leathery wings unfurled against the night sky, and he launched himself from the mountainside, heading back to Ravenholdt Manor.

* * *

Wrathion awoke to find no signs that Fahrad had been in the room overnight. Trying not to worry, he hurried downstairs for breakfast. Several of the usual rogues were gathered around the table in the kitchen, eating flapjacks, sausages and fruit.

"Morning, Your Majesty," Myrokos said, nodding in respect as Wrathion approached the table.

"Good morning," he said automatically. "Has anyone seen Fahrad?"

The dwarf Smudge raised a fork. "Aye, saw 'im stagger in around dawn. Went upstairs. Not sure after that."

"Thank you." Wrathion grabbed a handful of sausage links from the platter and ate them as he retraced his steps to the manor's second floor. There was no sign of Fahrad in the common rooms, so he checked the library.

There he found the Grand Master slumped in an overstuffed chair in the corner, chest rising and falling with raspy snores.

Wrathion was about to leave, but the rogue's keen senses made him wake up immediately. "Hmm?" He looked up, blinking heavily to clear his vision. "Oh, Prince. G'morning."

The young dragon stood awkwardly in the doorway. "I, uh...didn't mean to wake you. The others told me you were out all night."

Fahrad sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes, which were lined with dark circles of fatigue. "It's fine, Your Majesty."

"Are...you all right?" Wrathion asked.

"Yes, yes," the rogue said a little too quickly. He stood, smoothing out his clothes to make himself a bit more presentable. "I must apologize for my behavior yesterday, my prince. I wasn't feeling well, but I'm...better now." He bowed low. "Please forgive me."

Wrathion shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "Apology accepted. I was a bit out of sorts, as well." He would have been content to let the matter rest there, but Fahrad caught his eye with a worried look.

"My prince, it was not my intent to cause you any distress by stepping up your training, but... The time is fast approaching when you'll be facing the world alone."

Wrathion met his gaze with a nervous swallow. "I'm aware."

"You must be able to defend yourself. If I pushed you too hard, I apologize. But I was only thinking of your safety."

The prince forced a smile. "Of course, Fahrad. I understand."

"And, Your Majesty..." Fahrad wandered over to his writing desk and straightened a stack of papers. "I think it might be best if we began to...keep a bit of distance between us. I'll be here if you need me, for now, but you should start getting used to the idea of being more...independent."

A sinking feeling in the pit of Wrathion's stomach made him look away. "Perhaps. But I was thinking...would it make _that_ much of a difference if just _one_ corrupted black dragon is left alive? As long as my father is destroyed-"

"No," Fahrad said firmly.

Wrathion's head snapped around to look at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice.

"Absolutely not." The rogue came around his desk and stood in front of the prince, putting a hand on each shoulder to ensure his full attention. "There can be no exceptions. The Old Gods cannot be left with anything to work with. Understand?"

Wrathion nodded and swallowed. "I do. I just thought..."

Fahrad gave a thin smile. "I know. But this is your destiny, my prince. After all these eons, the black dragonflight will finally be free of the Old Gods' grasp. You must see it through, no matter what. It won't be easy, but I know you can do it."

His throat felt too tight to speak, so Wrathion simply nodded again.

Fahrad seized him in a brief but very tight hug before exiting the library. The young dragon sank into the nearest chair to collect his thoughts, somehow knowing it was the last embrace he would receive from his guardian.

* * *

True to his word, Fahrad remained aloof and formal after that. He still assisted Wrathion with his weapon training, and saw to it that he ate and slept on a healthy basis, but he moved into a bedroom on the other side of the manor, and did not engage in idle conversation.

Wrathion knew it was for the best, but he still found himself feeling rather lonely. It was a sensation he would simply have to get used to.

When his champion rogue returned from Northrend with the spoils of war, the Black Prince was delighted both by his success and for the chance to talk to someone at length. "How many gems have you collected?" he asked eagerly, nearly falling over himself to greet the masked figure. "Are my father's minions as twisted as him?"

"Over three hundred, and yes they are," the man said succinctly, handing over a small bag.

Wrathion carefully opened it and spilled an array of gems onto the table beneath the globe. "Ah," he breathed in awe, red eyes reflecting on the oily purple surface of the stones. "Do you see how they shimmer? Many fine gems sparkle in the light, but only these seem to sparkle with darkness." The effect was unsettling but mesmerizing. At last he tore his gaze away and stood up to address his agent once more. "I'll perform an enchantment on these while you are on your next mission. Are you ready?"

The champion nodded once and stood patiently, waiting for his assignment.

Wrathion scooped the otherworldly stones back into the bag. "The gems you collected will be able to augment the power of the weapons I gave you, but I require another ingredient. It will come from your next target."

Fahrad had been watching silently from the other end of the table, but now he spoke up, pointing to a spot on the globe. "We've just located her here, in the caverns beneath Karazhan." A disdainful chuckle rumbled from his throat. "Fearful for her life, she is researching arcane secrets buried beneath the foundation."

It had taken many weeks, but their intelligence network had finally tracked down the adult female dragon that Wrathion had sensed in that area. When her identity was discovered, her ability to disappear from his radar made sense. She was a powerful wyrm with many centuries of experience behind her.

"Her name is Nalice," Wrathion said, "and until recently she stood at Wyrmrest Temple as the representative of the black dragonflight. Now, she's on the run."

Fahrad continued. "She's surrounded herself with a small army of deranged dragon cultists. They may not be right in the head, but they're well-armed and dangerous."

The champion looked unconcerned.

Wrathion paced briefly before recalling himself and returning to the table. "So yes, Nalice is engaged in some sort of arcane debauchery beneath the ruined tower of Karazhan. Your primary mission is to destroy her, but if you can bring me back a vial of her blood, I'll be able to use it to augment the power of the daggers I've given you."

The rogue nodded.

Wrathion held the bag of gems close to his chest and smiled pleasantly. "I hope to see you back from this mission alive. But if I do not, I want to say I've enjoyed seeing you work. You're a credit to your race. Good luck!"

The man tapped his brow in an informal salute and slipped out the front door of Ravenholdt without a word.

Wrathion lingered at the table, waiting for Fahrad to comment, but the Grand Master was silent and seemed more interested in straightening the piles of maps.

"I do hope he's successful," Wrathion said at last. "It would be a shame to have invested so much in him only to lose him now."

"He probably plucked those gems from slain enemies after the battle was already over," he grumbled.

"Why, Fahrad...are you jealous? He is a skilled rogue, to be certain, but he's hardly in your league when it comes to skill and deception." Wrathion grinned mischievously, hoping to rouse him into a more lighthearted conversation.

"You flatter me, my prince," Fahrad said blandly. "If there's nothing else, I have correspondence to catch up on."

Wrathion's smile faded. "No, no, carry on."

Fahrad gave a formal bow and went upstairs, leaving the Black Prince to inspect the shadowy gems.

* * *

More quickly than Wrathion had dared to hope, the champion rogue returned with a harrowing tale from the crypts below Karazhan.

"Ah, you've returned!" the prince said, welcoming him with a grand, sweeping gesture. "I no longer sense Nalice's presence. Is she dead? Or has she somehow eluded us both?"

As an answer, the rogue held out an enchanted vial of draconic blood.

Wrathion accepted the vial with a mixture of reverence and revulsion. "You are indeed a master of your craft. Nalice is dead, and it is time you are rewarded for your efforts."

Fahrad and the champion watched as he took the dark gems out of their bag and dropped them into the vial, muttering an incantation. The vial smoked and hissed as the gems dissolved. "Your daggers, please," Wrathion said without taking his eyes off the vial.

The rogue removed the blades from his belt and laid them on the table.

Wrathion carefully poured the blood over the daggers, and the steel seemed to writhe and twist as though alive. When the smoke cleared, the daggers' shapes had been altered. They were sturdier now, and pulsed with raw energy.

"There. My finest work yet," Wrathion said smugly, stepping back. "Go ahead, it's safe to touch them now."

The champion eagerly reached out to grab the enhanced blades, twirling them with expert skill before replacing them on his belt. It was hard to tell with the mask covering most of his face, but he appeared to be smiling.

"Now, tell me all about it. I don't imagine Nalice went down quietly."

The champion recounted his exploits, encouraged by the rapt attention the young prince paid him.

"Incredible!" Wrathion gushed when the tale was over. "Few assassins would be clever enough to infiltrate Nalice's wards and use her own magic against her."

Fahrad gave a dismissive laugh. "She allowed herself to be defeated. The others will not be so weak."

Wrathion raised an eyebrow. Others? With Nalice gone, that left only two corrupted black dragons that he knew of. Deathwing...and Fahrad. "Perhaps. For that reason, we will need to gather more supplies..."

The champion did not seem surprised.

Fahrad glared at the human and busied himself sorting the piles of maps yet again.

Wrathion turned aside to address the champion, doing his best to ignore the moody rogue. "Do you understand why I have you assassinate the dragons, yet spare the mortals? It isn't their fault. They must seek out their own destiny, free from the meddling of my kind."

The champion hummed in agreement and nodded.

Wrathion was reassured that the man seemed to understand his motivations. Not all killers-for-hire appreciated the value of a precision strike that only removed the prime target. Some were equally happy slaughtering their way in and out. It was important to him to minimize the casualities among the mortal races, however, to differentiate himself from bloodthirsty relatives. How many humans had died as pawns in Onyxia's grand masquerade, and how many orcish lives had been thrown away in pursuit of Nefarian's goals? Too many, to say the least. Wrathion vowed to be different.

"We are nearing the end of our mission," he said after a contemplative moment. "And it is time for you to seek out your own destiny as well. I can continue to augment your weapons, but collecting shadowy gems won't be enough. My work will require entire clusters. Gather them from my father's minions."

"I know just what you mean," the rogue said quietly. "How many?"

"Sixty should suffice."

"You'll have them." The rogue saluted and departed.

* * *

Fahrad's informants in Dragonblight kept them apprised of developments there independently of the champion's reports. The very foundations of Wyrmrest Temple were cracked by the assault of massive earth elementals. Neltharion may have been shirking his duties as Earth Warder, but his powers were as formidable as ever.

Enormous maws had opened up in the tundra around the temple, conduits for the minions of the Old Gods to join the assault. The combined forces of mortals and the red, green, blue and bronze dragonflights rallied to the defense, but it was a bloody siege that showed no signs of ending soon.

Knowing that such horrors were happening, even on another continent, made Wrathion nervous. It had the earmarks of a last-ditch effort by the forces of darkness to gain a decisive victory. The Twilight's Hammer had suffered serious losses in Hyjal, Thousand Needles, and the Twilight Highlands, and without Cho'gall's leadership they were growing desperate. Deathwing was too insane and chaotic to command their forces effectively. If the siege of Wyrmrest failed, there was a good chance that the Old Gods would be defeated for the near future. But if Wyrmrest fell and the Aspects were lost with it...

Wrathion would not allow himself to think about it during his waking hours, but his subconscious made no such promise. Without Fahrad in the room to comfort him, he spent many a sleepless hour staring into the fireplace, afraid to go back to sleep in case the nightmares returned.

Tense weeks passed before the champion rogue returned. Wrathion tried not to act too surprised by his survival. "How many clusters have you acquired?" he asked. "The tenacity of your race continues to inspire me!"

The rogue set a heavy linen satchel on the table. "You asked for sixty. I brought sixty."

"Excellent!" Wrathion said with a wide grin. "You have done it! No doubt you placed yourself and your allies in great peril to acquire these. Your sacrifices will be rewarded in time. I will use these as the foundation of a powerful enchantment for you. But we will need one additional catalyst. Are you ready for your final and most dangerous mission, rogue?"

"Of course." The champion took one of his daggers from his belt, flipped it into the air, turned around, and caught it neatly behind his back.

The display made Fahrad growl in aggravation. "Don't trust this one, Your Highness! _No one_ is that good!"

"There's no need to worry, Fahrad. This next mission is...quite likely suicide." Wrathion turned to the human. "Your next target has claimed the lives of all my other assassins. I need you to kill my father himself. You must destroy Deathwing."

To his credit, the champion did not give any visible sign of fear. Perhaps he had been expecting this to be the ultimate goal.

"We are out of time. His madness has already corrupted all the others of my kind, and his darkness will consume the world if he is not stopped. If you by some miracle succeed, and can retrieve for me a piece of him-perhaps a fragment of the armor he uses to disguise his true chaotic nature-the reward I give you will be without equal."

If the champion had any hesitation to accept the mission, the reminder of the lavish reward banished it.

"Don't underestimate my father. Even if you were to crush his body, the core of his madness and rage will still struggle to destroy you. He will not be defeated until he is utterly annihilated." Wrathion crossed his arms on his chest and let his eyes wander over the globe on the table. "I wish I could help, but...my father is the one dragon I fear." He drew himself up to his full height and looked back at his agent. "Best of luck, rogue. Whatever the outcome, you are truly a champion."

The human bowed low. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I will do my best, for you...and for Azeroth."

Wrathion looked pleased.

When their guest was gone, Fahrad turned to the prince. "You don't really think he can slay the Aspect of Death, do you?"

"He's already accomplished far more than I would have thought possible. He and his allies are remarkable in their tenacity, especially considering what fragile creatures they are..."

Fahrad sniffed in disdain.

"If you have a better plan, please do speak up," Wrathion drawled.

"No, sir," Fahrad said quietly. "But if he fails..."

"The Old Gods will simply kill or corrupt everyone on the planet," he said flippantly. "Hardly worth losing sleep over." He had done an awful lot of just that, lately, which did not improve his mood.

Fahrad said nothing.

"I'll be at the forge if anyone needs me," Wrathion said without looking at him, heading out the door.

He barely heard Fahrad's reply. "Yes, Your Highness."


	10. Chapter 10

Many days passed without word from Northrend. The last message from Fahrad's spies confirmed that the Aspects were indeed at Wyrmrest Temple, and there was a report that Deathwing himself had been spotted in the area. For better or worse, things were coming to a head.

Wrathion sat in his true body, picking at his lunch of raw wolf meat. His appetite had been lackluster recently. This, combined with the hours spent awake worrying, left him feeling listless and unmotivated.

If Deathwing was finally defeated, the world would be saved...and he would have no more excuses to delay Fahrad's fate. If Deathwing won, the world would end and there was nothing he could do about it. Neither outcome thrilled him.

"My prince?"

He looked up to see Fahrad in the kitchen doorway. "Yes?"

"You aren't sick, are you? You've barely eaten anything in days."

Wrathion looked down at his plate with a guilty frown. "I'm fine. Just...preoccupied."

Fahrad wandered over and opened the door to the pantry. Wrathion watched him curiously as he rummaged around in the very back, then emerged with a wad of brown paper. He unwrapped it and set it on his plate. "Here."

Wrathion looked at the red mass with surprise. "Is that a bear heart?"

"Your favorite. It's awfully fattening, but you need the energy to face...whatever may happen."

The thoughtful gesture made a lump rise in the whelp's throat and he took a moment to compose himself before looking up at him. "Thank you, Fahrad."

The master rogue patted the back of his head, lightly scratching the nape of his neck. "You're welcome, my prince. Now eat up, you have a lot of growing still to do, you know."

"I know." Wrathion dipped his head and tore off a chunk of bloody meat. "Mmm."

"It'll probably be a year or two before your horns really start to grow in. Expect that to hurt a little. Soaking in warm water helps."

"All right," he said, filing this information away in his brain.

"You'll lose scales from time to time, especially in the spring. That's normal, so don't panic when it happens. They'll grow back."

Wrathion nodded, busy chewing.

"You can eat the same food as your mortal companions, but be sure to get enough raw meat, too. Avoid cinnamon, though. It's a favored spice among humans but it'll make you very sick."

"All right. I'll try to remember."

"If you do forget and eat some, you'll never forget again, believe me," Fahrad said with a low chuckle. "It won't kill you, but you may wish it did after a few hours."

"So noted."

Fahrad sighed and leaned on the back of a chair. "I know I'm forgetting things I want to tell you."

Wrathion continued to devour the rich meat, avoiding eye contact. "You'll think of them later."

"Later. Yeah." Fahrad headed for the door but paused to glance back at him one more time. "I'm proud of you, you know."

The whelp looked up with a start at the unexpected compliment. "Thank you." He forced himself to swallow. "I owe much of what I am to you."

Fahrad gave a small, sad smile and walked away.

* * *

No members of the blue dragonflight had shared any information about what, if anything, they felt at the moment when their Aspect fell. Wrathion had no idea what to expect. Would he have another vision? Or would he know nothing until a messenger arrived? Would his reaction be different than Fahrad's, considering his status as Deathwing's son?

So many unanswered questions made him too uneasy to concentrate on any of his crafting projects. He tried to lose himself in a book, but found himself re-reading paragraph after paragraph without absorbing anything. He was browsing titles on the library's shelves, wondering if revisiting an old favorite would be a better idea, when the entire building shook with an earsplitting roar. At first he panicked, thinking somehow his father had found him. No, that was absurd. But what...?

Another angry roar rattled the glass in the windows, and Wrathion spun around to look outside.

"Oh dear Titans," he breathed.

Three full-grown red dragons were descending on the manor.

A stream of curses he had overheard the rogues using issued from his mouth, and he dashed for the door.

"Fahrad!"

The Grand Master had been drilling some of the less experienced rogues in the practice ring. At the first sign of the red dragons' approach, he herded them all back to the courtyard right outside the manor's front door. At Wrathion's call, he whirled toward the door and pointed at him. "Stay inside," he barked.

"But-"

A wall of flame descended over the courtyard, engulfing an unattended cart and one of the rogues standing nearby. The unlucky troll screamed in agony for only a moment before collapsing into a charred heap. The others sprang into action, readying guns and crossbows.

Fahrad began yelling orders, and rogues came running from all over the grounds. It was obvious that they had planned for this. "Green team, to the cave! Blue team, to the rear! Yellow team, front! White team, south! Zann, ready the cannon!"

"We have a cannon?" Wrathion asked, still not daring to step outside.

The rogue shot him a stern look. "Downstairs, _now!_" he bellowed.

Wrathion's feet suddenly came unfrozen and he scrambled to comply.

* * *

Time ceased to have real meaning. Wrathion huddled in the rafters of the manor's basement, wings wrapped around himself and eyes tightly closed. The sounds of battle from above were unending. Dragons screeched and roared, explosions boomed, mortals sang out battle cries and death screams, and fire crackled.

A jarring thud marked the fall of the first red dragon. Another followed some time later.

A strangled cry from a dying rogue made Wrathion flinch. People were laying down their lives to protect him, and here he was quivering in the basement like a child.

He _was_ a child, though. His true form was barely larger than the manor's resident cat. What could he do to help?

Unless... He dropped from the rafters and shifted back into a human, then reached into his coat. He still had the amulet Fahrad had given him. If he could use it to stun one of the dragons long enough for the rogues to slay him...

He took a deep breath and ran up the stairs.

Flames crackled across the roof of the manor, many of the surrounding trees, and in patches all over the grounds. A storage shed across the garden was fully engulfed. One red dragon lay dead on the path just beyond the courtyard, along with a number of rogues.

Wrathion carefully picked his way through the debris to look further out and saw another, even larger red corpse just below the garden terrace. This one was surrounded by black-clad rogues, some still brandishing weapons warily as if they weren't sure the dragon was actually dead. The wreckage of a ruined cannon smoldered nearby.

He had seen three dragons approaching and heard two fall from the sky... Where was the third?

Wrathion heard a bellow of pain from somewhere behind the manor. He turned to look just in time to see a large red dragon careening downward, one wing shredded by projectiles. Four rogues followed in his wake, still firing guns and arrows at their enemy. The dragon crashed onto the grass just beyond the practice ring, barely missing the bleachers. Unable to fly but far from defeated, the red continued his attacks. A swipe of his tail sent one rogue flying backward into the trees, and another fell in a gale of fire, the gunpowder in her weapon igniting with loud pops.

The red dragon shuffled awkwardly to face another group of attackers, and Wrathion was briefly puzzled by the way he favored his front limbs. There were no visible injuries to his rear limbs, yet... Of course! This was Mostrasz. He was not yet fully recovered from when Fahrad broke his legs, but he was still a formidable opponent.

A night elf rogue dashed in close to risk an attack on the dragon's front paw, but was a fraction of a second too slow. Claws as large as her body closed around her, skewering her and flinging her twitching corpse onto the ground.

_Stewards of life, indeed,_ Wrathion thought with a snort. _What hypocrites._

Three arrows thunked into Mostrasz's neck but only seemed to anger him. He exhaled a jet of flame in the direction of the dwarven archer, who was safely out of range.

There did not appear to be any other red dragons left alive, and Wrathion was struck with a sudden flash of concern for Fahrad. Where was he? Even as the question formed in his mind, however, he scolded himself. Fahrad was going to die very soon, one way or another. It would actually be preferable if he fell in battle, sparing the prince was taking action himself.

"Oh please," he mumbled, scanning the grounds. He wasn't even sure which outcome he was praying for.

A streak of movement caught his eye and he looked in that direction to see a familiar figure in dusty, purplish-gray leather armor sprinting toward Mostrasz. Fahrad scaled the bleachers without slowing down in the slightest, launching himself into the air. He spun in the middle of his arc to land on the red's neck, facing the same direction as the enemy dragon.

Without making a conscious decision to do to, Wrathion ran toward the scene. Whatever happened, he had to see.

"You sanctimonious reds don't take a hint, do you?" Fahrad growled, locking onto Mostrasz's neck with his legs to prevent being shaken off.

The dragon tried to paw at the figure on his neck but Fahrad stayed out of the way with a confident leap, landing closer to the enemy's head.

"Your 'prince' is a monster like all the rest," Mostrasz snarled. The other rogues continued to pepper him with arrows and bullets, even a few flashes of magic, but his attention was fixated on Fahrad.

"You never even tried to see him as anything else," Fahrad said, plunging both his daggers simultaneously into the side of the red's skull, where the barely-visible ear cavity proved a weak spot.

Mostrasz shuddered, his weak back legs collapsing underneath him. He tried to shake Fahrad off, but the rogue's daggers were buried so deeply that they worked as handles, allowing him to keep hanging on.

Wrathion approached from behind, unnoticed by either combatant. He spotted a glint of metal in the blood-slicked grass and stooped to pick up a weapon. It was the sword he had made the day that he and Fahrad had argued. Fitting, he supposed.

Fahrad dared to wiggle free one of his blades to make a fresh incision just above the red's right eye. With a feral cry, he twisted the blade, puncturing the eyeball. Mostrasz roared in agonized fury and flailed his paws in another desperate attempt to knock the rogue off his head.

"Your meddling flight will never harm another black dragon!" Fahrad said with a grunt of effort, stabbing him again in the ruined eye socket. "This is for Nyxondra! And for Wrathion!"

Taking that as his cue, the Black Prince sprang forward and swung the sword with all his might, slicing deep into the red's throat. The blade became lodged partway in and Wrathion did not have the strength to wrest it free. Instead he rolled out of the way of the huge dragon's claws, shifted into his true form, and flapped up toward Fahrad.

"What are you doing?" the rogue shouted. For the first time panic appeared on his face. "Get back inside before-"

Ignoring his warning, Wrathion filled his lungs with as much air as he could and blasted a geyser of lava into Mostrasz's remaining eye. The red thrashed his head to the side to get away, with the unintended effect of driving the sword deeper into his throat. He gave a wheezing groan as his windpipe collapsed, then fell onto his side. Fahrad jumped free, landing in a crouch a few feet away.

Mostrasz shuddered and lay still.

"We did it!" Wrathion crowed, flying circles around the fallen giant.

"That was a stupid, foolish thing to do!" Fahrad yelled.

The whelp swooped down to land and shifted back into his human guise. "Perhaps, but I wanted you to see I can take care of myself. You've taught me well, Grand Master."

Fahrad gave him an uneasy frown but let the matter drop. "Smudge, Kang, secure the perimeter. Zan, Zazzo, get those fires out. Carlo, Winstone, search the area for any stragglers. Myrokos, Simone, see to the injured."

A chorus of "Yes, sir!" ran through the gathered rogues, who dispersed to their tasks.

Wrathion edged closer to Fahrad. "Did they really think they could kidnap me via such a brazen, frontal assault? Didn't they realize we'd be prepared for them?"

Fahrad stooped to wipe blood off his daggers on the grass. "They weren't trying to kidnap you this time. This was an assassination attempt."

"You think so?"

"They said as much."

"Oh." He scowled over at Mostrasz's corpse. "The nerve! Why can't they just leave me alone?"

"They, too, seek to eradicate the corrupted black flight."

"But I'm not corrupted!"

"True," Fahrad said with a faint smile. "Not the first time the reds have been dead wrong about something. And now, just dead."

Wrathion pouted. "They're just angry because I didn't want to play by their rules. Such arrogance..."

"Regardless, I'm glad you're safe, my prince." Fahrad made a move as if to put an arm around him, then thought better of it and spun on his heel to walk away. "I'm going to see how those gnomes are doing with the fires. Don't want the manor burning down..."

Wrathion watched him go with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Everyone was so busy putting out fires, treating the injured and disposing of the dead that nobody paid much attention to the Black Prince. He paced around the practice ring, unable to shake the feeling that the day's horrors were not yet over. From time to time he would stop and stare at Mostrasz's body, wondering if he was the ringleader or if there were other red dragons out there who wished him harm.

A man came walking up the path, giving a wide berth to the corpse of a medium-sized red. Wrathion looked up, expecting to see one of the Ravenholdt rogues returning from reconnaissance. The confident gait and the dark red mask were distinctive enough to prove him wrong, however.

His champion had returned.

The implications made his heart skip a beat, and he set his jaw. So, today was the day. Dread washed over him, tempered by a strange sense of relief. For so long he had wondered when and how it would all end. Now at least he knew.

The champion walked toward him, craning his neck around in astonishment at the destruction and the dead dragons scattered around.

"Your eyes do not deceive you," Wrathion said. "The treacherous red dragonflight sought to kill me off! I hope now you see the truth about them." He raised his nose indignantly at the mere idea of someone daring to assassinate him.

The rogue shook his head, but it was a gesture of disgust at the reds, not disagreement.

"Now," Wrathion said, turning his back on Mostrasz's body. "What of my father?"

The rogue wordlessly slid a backpack off his shoulder and opened it. He carefully lifted out a chunk of armor plating, scorched and scarred by battle.

Wrathion approached slowly, eyes riveted on the seemingly innocuous piece of metal. There was no need to ask what it was. The residual dark energy that clung to it made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. He reached out, glad to be wearing gloves, and took the fragment from the rogue.

"Your daggers, please."

The rogue held out the blades in front of him. Wrathion indicated for him to set them down on the ground, which he did.

"Yes, good, touching the earth," he murmured, planting his feet on either side of the daggers.

The words to a powerful enchantment flowed from his tongue, one more ancient and delicate than he had ever dared to use before. In his concentration he felt his human guise slipping and hastened to reinforce his shapeshift. If the human noticed his hands and face blurring into slightly more draconic features and then back again, he gave no sign. It was not an uncommon error for whelps when they were first learning to change their forms, especially in times of great stress.

Putting aside his embarrassment for the moment, Wrathion opened a pouch on his belt. One by one, the gem clusters from the champion's earlier mission rose into the air and began to orbit around his head. Eyes half-closed, he continued chanting until the armor plate shattered. The metal crumbled into dust that rained onto the twin blades. The metal hissed and twisted, parts of the hilt writhing like miniature tentacles. The gems spinning around his head also dissolved, and the remnants fell down in bright streaks, drawn to the daggers like iron filings to a magnet. The weapons glowed, absorbing the power, before the aura faded away.

The Black Prince stepped back and sighed deeply, feeling pleased but also somewhat drained. Potent spells had been filed away in his brain since the moment of his creation, but he had never tried to cast such an enchantment before. "Your reward is ready. Take them, quickly. You will need them momentarily..." He sensed Fahrad approaching from the direction of the manor.

Only then did the champion dare move to pick them up. He held the blades reverently, turning them over in his hands to appreciate them from all angles.

Wrathion watched Fahrad nearing, knowing he was still out of earshot. There was still time to change his mind. He could simply thank this hero and send him on his way. But no. That was a childish dream, and after today he could be a child no longer. "Champion, you have your reward. But there is one final dragon we need to slay."

As if on cue, Fahrad's deep, scratchy voice reached them from down the path. "My prince, we should leave this place in case they come back to finish the job." He stopped and knelt in respect before the Black Prince.

Wrathion gazed down at the top of the rogue's reddish-blond head and gathered his courage. "Fahrad. I was just talking about you."

The Grand Master of Ravenholdt gave him a questioning look.

"The final black dragon. The one who's been more hidden than any of them."

He had known for some time, and Fahrad knew that he knew, but neither had ever been bold enough to speak of it so openly. Fahrad looked startled. "Your Highness, I have never tried to conceal what I am from you."

"Yes," Wrathion acknowledged quietly. "You rescued me while I was still within my egg, and I owe you my life."

Their eyes met and for one fleeting moment Fahrad's expression softened. _This is it, then,_ he seemed to say. _Very well. Do what you must._

Wrathion forced himself to continue. "But you are a black dragon, and you share the corruption of all my brothers and sisters."

The muscles in Fahrad's face twitched and a breathless sound that was nearly a laugh escaped from his mouth. "That's...not true!" he rasped. He clutched the side of head as if reacting to a new pain there.

Wrathion put one hand inside his coat pocket, turning the amulet over in his palm. "Do you deny it? The dark visions? The voices in your head?"

"No," Fahrad breathed. A crazed look drifted across his features and a menacing grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "No! I'm in control of the voices! They're there to help me!"

Wrathion shook his head slightly, knowing it was too late to turn back now. "And what are they telling you now, Fahrad? What do your dark masters whisper?"

Fahrad wobbled unsteadily, clenching his eyes shut. He was trying to fight it, even now. His entire body trembled under the strain. "Kill..." he croaked. His head snapped up to regard the prince with a wild, penetrating glare that seemed completely wrong on a face that always looked upon him fondly. Wrathion took a step back. A bestial roar gathered low in Fahrad's scarred throat, bursting out with the words, "They want me to kill you now! Oh, why did you have to go and anger them?"

Wrathion lunged backward to get out of the way as his companion suddenly grew horns, wings, scales and a tail.

Fahrad arched his back with a primal bellow as his transformation was complete. He stood nearly as tall as the manor itself, and under different circumstances he would have been a magnificent sight: glistening ebon scales, powerful limbs, and twisted, curved horns framing his face.

For so long Wrathion had wondered what Fahrad truly looked like, and as time seemed to slow down he tried to fix every inch of him in his memory while simultaneously pulling the amulet from his pocket.

"You have proven too difficult to control!" the dragon raged, but Wrathion sensed that the words were not his own.

His face hardened with resolve, reminding himself that this was a vessel of the Old Gods. "I will _never_ be controlled!" he yelled to the horrific beings he knew were listening. "The red dragonflight has no idea what they unleashed when they experimented on _my_ egg!" Just as Fahrad began to lift one paw to swipe at him, Wrathion held out the amulet at arm's length and tapped into its power.

A beam of black and red energy shot from the stone and surrounded the crazed dragon. Fahrad tried in vain to lift any of his limbs, but found each paw rooted to the ground by the strange magic. He squirmed and bellowed in frustration.

Wrathion did not dare take his eyes from Fahrad, but called over his shoulder to where he assumed his champion was waiting. He had _better_ be waiting, or all was lost. "Hero, strike now! Use your newfound power to _finish him!_" His arm shook with the strain of channeling the amulet's power.

Every instinct urged him to look away, but he could not. He owed Fahrad that much.

The human rogue broke out of stealth and leaped from atop the bleachers. A pulse of shadowy magic surrounded him, momentarily giving the impression of draconic wings on his back. Without hesitation or fear, the champion slashed downward with his newly-enhanced daggers, neatly severing the dragon's spinal cord at the back of his neck.

Fahrad gave a brief cry of outraged agony before collapsing in a cloud of dust in the middle of the practice ring.

A quick, clean kill. Good.

Wrathion could feel an avalanche of emotion gathering to smother him, but forced it back. Not now. Now yet. His voice was remarkably steady as he turned to the human. "It is done, friend. To my knowledge, I am the only black dragon who remains." He did not dare give himself time to contemplate what that meant. He pressed on, "A new age for mortals has dawned, and heroes like you are among the vanguard." He wasn't sure exactly what that even meant, but it sounded grand and the human seemed to like it.

Grief squeezed the back of his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter and less confident. "I must go now. Disappear. Perhaps we will meet again." He gave a small bow. "I hope we find ourselves on the same side..." With that, he shifted back into a whelp, neither noticing nor caring about the look of mild surprise in the man's eyes at seeing his true form for the first time.

Wrathion looked past him at Fahrad's body for only a moment. He didn't want to remember him like this. He turned away and flew as quickly as he could from the only home he had ever known.

* * *

His young wings had never carried him so far before. His shoulders ached from the exertion, but as long as he concentrated on flying he didn't have to think about what had just happened.

Evening shadows were beginning to darken the forest below when Wrathion spotted the tall expanse of gray stone stretching across the eastern horizon. He glided down to land atop the weathered structure, gasping for air. He looked around, but there was no sign that anyone had been here for ages.

"Look, Fahrad, it's Thoradin's Wall," he laughed breathlessly. "I told you I wanted to see it, and now...here I am. See?" His humorless laugh quickly turned into sobs. "I made it, Fahrad! I told you I'd be all right." He hunched down below the battlements and hid beneath his wings as tears spilled down his cheeks.

"I did it. I actually did it. They're all gone. I told you I could. I couldn't have done it without you, but-" He choked on his own tears and gave up trying to speak. He curled into a tight ball and cried until his head pounded and his stomach hurt.

It had to be this way. He knew that. There had been no other option.

And he would be all right. Eventually. Just not at the moment.

Definitely not at the moment.

* * *

Morning found the Black Prince lying on his side against the crumbling battlements of Thoradin's Wall, shielding his eyes from the rising sun with one wing. He whined and covered his face with one paw. "Fahrad, close that curtain. It's far too bright...in...here. Oh." As he became fully alert he rolled over and looked around, remembering where he was. "Right. Well." He stretched stiffly and sat up. "I guess it's just me, then."

Feeling a bit foolish for stating the obvious out loud to himself, he shook out his wings, brushed dust from his scales, and tried to regain some measure of dignity.

He had no concrete plans for the immediate future, but his last vision had urged him to investigate Stormwind harbor. Between the innate geographical knowledge implanted into his brain and the hours spent poring over the atlases in the Ravenholdt library, he knew that was a very long distance from where he was now.

"Well, it's not as if I have anywhere else to be," he said, forcing a cheerful expression onto his face. "Let's see where the wind takes me." He hopped up on the edge of the battlement and spread his wings. The first strong breeze carried him into the dawn sky, and soon he was merely a dark speck high above the Arathi Highlands.

_The beginning..._


End file.

Warcraft, Drama, Family