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."