Far above the clearing, in the sprawling branches of a massive Doom Oak, Mephistroth and Anetheron perched, nearly motionless, two ageless scavengers watching the battle below, waiting to swoop down and finish off the survivor at the duel's conclusion. The sun had long set in the distance, behind the eastern horizon, far off at sea, and above the dreadlords' heads, the pale blue moon looked down, as if it, too awaited the duel's conclusion.
"Wish they'd be done with it already," Anetheron murmured quietly. His talons gripped the wood branch tightly, sinking an inch or so into reddish bark of the great tree. He yawned absently. Next to him, his companion's wings bobbed forward and back ever so slightly, counting off seconds of the battle. Mephistroth's tail twitched in illustration of his boredom. Anetheron blinked, and then moved an arm to bat an insect away from his neck.
"Four rubies on the orc," Mephistroth said.
"You're on," Anetheron replied.
***
Kokoro swung his sword at Illidan's blindfolded head. The elf ducked deftly, bringing his own weapon upwards towards his enemy's unprotected chest. Kokoro feinted left, then rolled right, under Illidan's blade, lashing out with his own towards the elf's legs. Illidan jumped a few inches into the air, swinging his body in a half circle to bring his weapon down on the orc's neck. Kokoro dodged, moving into a squat and whipping his sword upwards to strike at Illidan, but the demon hunter moved aside, pushing out with his own sword to deflect the blademaster's attack. The two blades met in the air, and for a moment neither combatant moved.
Kokoro's eyes narrowed. The two each flipped backwards, disengaging. Illidan lowered his Runeblade to his side, and Kokoro lodged his own sword in the soft earth of the clearing floor.
"You fight like no demon I've ever faced, Kokoro."
"And you like no elf. You are a worthy adversary, Illidan. I will enjoy this battle."
"As will I." Illidan smiled. Then his expression stiffened. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"
The orc grinned, betraying a pair of pointed, fanglike teeth to protrude over his lip. "Yes, let's." He plucked his sword out of the cold earth, and Illidan raised his in challenge.
The savage melody of the duel resumed.
***
"Who is here?" Azgalor's voice sounded incredulous.
"Prince Arthas, lord," his attendant repeated. "He says he's got an offer for you."
"Bah! Bring him to me!" the demon bellowed. The attendant nodded, and disappeared around the bend of the forest. A few moments later, the form of Arthas emerged, appearing just as Azgalor had pictured him in his Death Knight's garb and dark cloak.
"So, the puny insurgent comes to turn himself in, eh? I hope you are not appealing to a demon for mercy?" The Pit Lord chuckled.
"Don't be stupid," Arthas retorted. Azgalor noted with discomfort that the boy was without his vaunted Runeblade, Frostmourne, of which the Pit Lord had been warned; according to what his spies knew, the weapon had been forged within the very walls of the Icecrown glacier by the Lich King himself, and imbued with untold powers. Azgalor did not understand why the absence of such a weapon should alarm him; it was beyond his meager understanding that its lack meant Arthas had greater confidences in his own abilities. "I have an offer for you, Azgalor."
"You will speak to me with respect, maggot," Azgalor interrupted. "You should call me Lord or Master."
"So that you can order me around like some imp? No, demon. There is no part of me that serves the Legion's will."
"All of you serves the Legion!"
"Which is the same thing. Soon, you and your brethren will all be gone from this world forever."
"I doubt that very much, little human."
"Doubt away. I did not come here to convince you. I have an offer, as I've said."
"Bah! I have no time for ransom or tribute!"
"And this is neither. You do not hold my life in your hand, and if you did, I would not ask it. As it is, there is something quite different I desire."
"What makes you think there is anything that would make me aid you?"
"This." From his cloak, Arthas pulled out a small, nearly invisible sphere of the darkest, most lifeless crimson. "I assume you recognize it?"
"The Orb of Kil'jaeden!" Azgalor cried. "Where did you get that, Death Knight?"
"It was given to my master long ago, as a token of the power Kil'jaeden would bestow upon the Scourge. My lord gave it to me, and I offer it to you."
"Such a thing should not be yours to give," Azgalor muttered. "It is dark – dead. Why?"
"My master would not touch it. Its powers disgusted him, and so the Orb has withered from want of use." Azgalor shifted his eyes away from the artifact, forcing himself to look into Arthas's face. The Death Knight's ice-blue pupils met the demon's gaze.
"Your master is fool not to have seized such power," Azgalor said.
"Perhaps. Have you the will to use it where he did not?"
"I have!"
"Will you do whatever I ask?"
"I will, Death Knight, if you will give me the Orb!"
"Then its powers must be great indeed. Very well. Do what I ask, and it is yours."
"Anything! I will bring you the moon if you wish it!"
"Leave the moon alone for now, Azgalor. I am interested in something much nearer." Arthas closed his eyes, remembering. "There stands a Demon Gate in this wood. I have seen it. It was closed by Illidan, the very enemy your pet dreadlords are seeking, when he slew their brother, Tichondrius. It connects directly with the fabric of the Twisting Nether, from whence the Legion comes. It was by this gate that demons first came to Kalimdor, ages ago, before the Sundering."
Azgalor nodded. "I remember the day it brought me here. This world was so young, so fragile. I swore then I would crush it."
Arthas' eyes opened again. "Use the Orb to reopen the gate, and you may keep it."
Azgalor swallowed, hesitant. When he replied, he spoke slowly and solemnly, knowing that it was a very vague yet dangerous line he was crossing with what he said, and that there would be no returning.
"Very well, Death Knight," he said. His eyes returned to the dormant Orb, wherein he thought he saw the first glimmers of a newly-burning flame. "I will do what you ask."
***
Kokoro grunted in pain. Frostmourne bit his arm, drawing a thin line of fiery red blood. Illidan withdrew for a moment as his enemy reeled and staggered.
"Do you give in, demon?" he asked.
"Not yet, elf," Kokoro replied, forcing himself back to a defensive stance. He cried out, not in pain, but in defiance, his mouth shaping syllables from some ancient and meaningless battle hymn. His wound was already healing shut, his natural regeneration augmented by the pulse of the demon blood in his veins and the rhythm of the battle itself.
Beneath his skin, however, the cold touch of Frostmourne lingered, waiting.