***

Wrathion arrived at the Lunastre Estate with the wedding ceremony in full swing.

He had hoped his attendance would provide him a reprieve from both his nagging nightmare thoughts and his fruitless search for the Dragon Isles, and also offer the chance for him to be seen. After all, he deserved to be there, showing face amongst the who’s who of Azeroth, especially if he was going to become Aspect of the black flight one day

Presently, all eyes were on the wedding party. With his keen dragon eyes, Wrathion could see the lingering magic of the dome that once encased Suramar; its faint curve and the fel-ravaged area that it had stalwartly held at bay were testimony to all the Nightborne had endured.

Wrathion turned his attention to Lady Liadrin, the fire-haired leader of the Blood Knights, who was officiating for Thalyssra and Lor’themar. The lovebirds standing before her were, Wrathion had to admit, gorgeous. Lor’themar was almost unrecognizable, for Wrathion had never seen him wearing anything other than armor and a stern expression. Knowing the history of his people, Wrathion could not blame him for either. Now, the leader of the blood elves was clad in colorful draped fabric and smiling gently, the warrior within yielding to the lover. While Lor’themar wore no giddy grin, still he was softer and seemed lit from within by a quiet joy. Thalyssra made no attempt to conceal her happiness, and her smile was full and free.

Why wouldn’t it be? Wrathion thought. The whole place was aglow with people from near and far. Standing with the bride were her advisors and former comrades in arms in the Nightfallen rebellion. Wrathion spotted Arcanist Valtrois, Ly’leth Lunastre, and Silgryn and his owl, Kal. Theron’s closest friend, Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing, beamed, while Grand Magister Rommath wore robes and a rare smile.

Among the attendees, the variety was even more evident. Thrall, former leader of the Horde and now member of the Horde Council, had brought his family—his wife, Aggralan, and their two children, Durak and Rehze. The youngsters were well behaved, Wrathion supposed, though he knew very little about children . . . Well, nothing at all, really, and he had no desire to start learning now. He took in Queen Talanji, who had made the trek from Zandalar, bringing along Zekhan, another younger guest. Rokhan, leader of the Darkspear trolls, stood with them. There was High Chieftain Baine Bloodhoof, who, Wrathion observed with a sly grin, came with Mayla Highmountain. Lilian Voss had accompanied Calia Menethil, erstwhile princess of Lordaeron and now part of the Forsaken Desolate Council. Beside her was her champion, Derek Proudmoore. In the past, Wrathion had sought to protect Azeroth by pitting Horde and Alliance against one another, in order to determine which side was the mightier. Now he understood that the fate of the world hung not on conquest but on collaboration.

Looking out over the captivated congregation, he was proud of the Horde, of Lor’themar and Thalyssra, who had invited the Alliance. And he respected those of the Alliance who had accepted their invitation, from Lord Commander Turalyon, regent of Stormwind and protector of the Alliance, his partner, Alleria, and their half-elf son, Arator, to Mathias Shaw, who was no doubt keeping an eye on the leader of the Alliance at a Horde wedding. Anduin, the king of Stormwind who had been absent from that role over the past few years, had always believed permanent peace was possible between the two factions. He had worked toward that goal with a quiet tenacity that Wrathion had admired. After the Fourth War, Anduin’s hope had become a cautious reality, whereas Wrathion’s hope had been twisted and thrust at him in the form of that dark dream.

Lor’themar’s voice cut through Wrathion’s brooding. He was reciting his vows . . . in poem form: “My beloved Thalyssra, the gift of sorrow is the blessing of joy. The gift of the burden is its release. The gift of the storm is the clear sky. From this moment, I pledge to be at your side through both sorrow and joy. I pledge to share your burdens. I pledge to weather the storms with you and embrace with a full heart the brightness of the stars.”

Wrathion had not known a place so full of people could be so still. Thalyssra’s tears slid like liquid crystal along the lavender of her cheeks as she spoke with a voice soft with emotion, but clear, her hands clasping her soon-to-be husband’s hands: “Lor’themar, my heart, the years ere now echo with regret I had not understood till this moment. I did not know how I longed till you were there to assuage my longing. My world is painted with bursting color, the palette of dreams once hidden, now manifested. Let us craft with word and deed, with mind, body, and heart, this new existence where two are one. Now and forever, and beyond forever, I shall love you.”

Wrathion should not have been surprised that their vows were in verse. It had sealed their love and would always be the language of their hearts. His own heart surged suddenly with that peculiar ache, and he rubbed his chest, hoping to massage it away.

“Before all gathered here, and before the Holy Light itself,” Lady Liadrin said, “I confirm with these words: Thalyssra and Lor’themar have entwined their lives, their fates, and their hearts.” She grinned. “May love and Light ever shine upon you both.”

Then Lor’themar lifted his face and Thalyssra lowered hers, and as their lips met and their arms went around each other, cheers, applause, and raucous whoops went up.

Wrathion had wished to congratulate the newlyweds and take his leave, but they had not even finished descending the steps of the dais before guests clustered around them.

He rolled his eyes. I shall wander about until the happy couple is less besieged.

Once more, his presence did not go without notice as he maneuvered through the crowd with his chest puffed out and chin held high, as was fitting for a future Aspect. The glances of awe and admiration from onlookers pleased him, easing the ache in his chest and putting his old confidence back in his step. He had practically walked the span of Azeroth on a journey of self-discovery, studying the world and learning all he could about her people. Fought beside the world’s greatest heroes, even against his own kind, to protect Azeroth. Surely, he had done enough to prove he was not anything like Deathwing.

He surprised himself at the jollying sensation of being drawn into the atmosphere. By the time he reached a busy bar area, he was feeling more like himself. And there, not only could he enjoy a beverage but also perhaps overhear interesting tidbits. Something told him this would be a fruitful endeavor . . . What was it the goblins said? Jackpot.

As he waited for a much-desired glass of arcwine, he sidled up alongside Taelia Fordragon of Kul Tiras. She was speaking with the former blue dragon Aspect, Kalecgos, who was in his visage of a half-elf with a hand on his chest as if in a pledge. Wrathion noted he looked a bit sad.

“The Lord Admiral is doing well,” Taelia told Kalecgos. “Lady Jaina wanted so much to be here, but her hands are rather full. We’re having some trouble with . . . pirates.”

“Pirates? Again?” interrupted Flynn Fairwind, Taelia’s friend. “Nasty business. What flags are they flying? Might be old mates of mine. If so, I’ll tell you all their tricks.”

Kalec offered Flynn a polite chuckle.

“He’s not joking,” asserted Mathias Shaw in a deadpan voice. Flynn smiled happily at him, and Shaw’s lip twitched beneath his mustache . . . Was that a smile? Wrathion thought the old adage “opposites attract” was certainly true with this pair. Flynn was a reformed pirate, and Shaw led Stormwind’s SI:7, a covert intelligence agency. Yet here they were—a happy couple among other happy couples. Did no one else come alone?

“Wrathion!” Kalec said warmly. “I’m glad you decided to attend.”

“Not attending was never even a thought.” Wrathion took his glass of arcwine and raised it celebratorily. “It would be a shame to miss the chance to enjoy such fine arcwine . . . and fine company.”

Taelia’s eyes widened, and she took a step toward him. “I am honored to meet you. I hear the world owes you great thanks.”

Wrathion gave a benevolent nod. “I serve Azeroth gladly, in any way I can. As do we all,” he added graciously, gesturing to the sea of guests.

“Taelia?” Derek Proudmoore approached with Calia and Lilian and doffed his hat. “It is so good to see you, though I do wish my dear sister had been able to attend.”

Wrathion could not help his mouth from hanging just the slightest bit open in disbelief as Taelia welcomed all three warmly. Here was Jaina’s brother, a Forsaken, who was accepted by his family and former compatriots. Even so, he stayed close to Calia.

In theory, he has enemies on all sides, Wrathion mused, but he also has family—blood or found—on all sides too. Wrathion realized perhaps he was a touch . . . jealous.

Wrathion took note of who else was not in attendance. “I cannot help but notice that there are no night elves present,” he shared airily. His Talons had informed him that Tyrande and Malfurion were still smarting after what they viewed as mistreatment at the hands of the Alliance during the war. Wrathion had also learned that the kaldorei were preoccupied with a new development. He did not know the nature of the endeavor . . . yet.

Taelia glanced around. “I’m sure the night elves were invited.”

“I’m sure.” Wrathion took a slow sip of his arcwine. “I do spy Queen Mia.”

The queen had come in her husband’s stead—a wise decision since King Genn Greymane was said to have held on to his hatred of the Horde. Furthermore, the petite, convivial Mia warmed hearts with her mere presence, mixing kindness with a cheerful practicality. She was filling a plate with Suramarian delicacies at a nearby banquet table.

The Forsaken delegation exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“It was a pleasure to see the queen again,” Calia said diplomatically.

Wrathion watched as Mia struck up a conversation with Alleria Windrunner. She whispered something to the ranger, and Alleria burst into laughter. Wrathion raised an eyebrow. Alleria was always serious—both she and Turalyon, who was talking with Talanji in front of the towering lavender-frosted wedding cake. Thalyssra had thoughtfully placed it on a small cart, which would be wheeled to various areas so everyone could see it in its unsliced magnificence. Wrathion noted that Turalyon seemed oddly relaxed in the heart of Horde territory.

The black dragon averted his gaze, thinking their behavior spoke volumes about the changes the past five years had brought, and it dawned on him: His loyal spies who kept him up to date had informed him there had long been tension between the two. Wrathion supposed a thousand years of war could do that to a couple. But it appeared the Light-infused paladin and the Void-touched elf had rekindled what had been a legendary romance.

“Wrathion?” Kalec was regarding him curiously. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” Wrathion lied. He lifted his glass to the assemblage and gave a bow. “You’ll pardon me, I think I see Magni glinting over there. I should say hello.”

He had indeed seen Magni glinting. He glinted frequently, sometimes blindingly. Fortunately, the soft twilight of Suramar did not create too fierce a glitter. The former dwarven king had once attempted a ritual—right before Deathwing had erupted from the earth, wreaking destruction and death—to speak with Azeroth itself. It had worked . . . with caveats. While Magni was now the Speaker of Azeroth, he had been turned into solid diamond. It did not seem to bother him or his family. Magni, his brothers, and his daughter were roaring with laughter with the young troll Zekhan, who looked at him in admiration.

Wrathion spread out his arms as he strode toward them. “Magni!” he cried, genuinely glad to have spotted him, for the two had worked together to defeat N’Zoth.

“Och! Wrathion! Come here, laddie, an’ let me introduce ye to my family. Me brothers, Muradin and Brann, and me dear daughter, Moira.”

“I of course know all your names,” Wrathion said with a dashing wink. It was true. “And what a pleasure to finally meet you,” he added, taking in the lively bunch.

“Oh, we know about you too!” Moira said. “Me da here willna shut up!”

Wrathion was caught off guard. Such a warm welcome almost undid him. The feeling was . . . contagious.

Magni unwittingly came to the rescue. “We Bronzebeard boys have just returned from exploring Northrend. An’ who should overhear us talking but young Zekhan here!”

Zekhan was almost incandescent with delight.

“I am proud to meet you, Zekhan. But . . . I think there may be another whom I’ve yet to meet. Moira, did the future emperor accompany you today?”

“Aye. Though I had tae pull his nose out o’ a book,” she said, “I’m glad I did. Look over there.”

According to reports through his Talons, Dagran II, the child of a Bronzebeard princess and a Dark Iron emperor, was heir presumptive to both thrones. His physical appearance embodied traits of both parents. Skin a warm shade of gray with green eyes. Wrathion had been told that one could see the occasional glimmer of a fiery red in them. Dagran’s long white hair was pulled back in a tidy braid, and his gawky frame was dressed in elegant formal garb, which he had likely ruined by sitting on the grass beneath a tree. Arator sat beside him, and they chatted amicably as Arator flipped through a large tome—perhaps the one Moira had needed Dagran to put down—and the dwarven boy examined a beautiful ceremonial dagger that Arator had worn to the wedding.

“Dagran is me heart made flesh again,” Magni said softly. “And yon Arator’s a good lad. A kind one. Growing up, Dagran didna have many friends.”

Wrathion understood not having many friends—or any friends. He’d never truly been a child; he had grown so swiftly and been driven by so dark a purpose that there had been no time for play. Of course, a childhood disrupted by wars and conflicts didn’t help. Meeting Anduin in Pandaria had been both a gift and a curse. A gift, because Wrathion had learned that someone, anyone, might deem him worth caring for. A curse, because Wrathion had chosen to exploit Anduin’s trust in an ill-conceived attempt to protect Azeroth. They had met again years later, and that encounter had been . . . Well, suffice it to say Anduin had a much better right cross than Wrathion had given him credit for. He hoped they could reconcile once Anduin returned from . . . wherever he was.

Wrathion drained his glass, and the strange ache in his chest returned.

“You are my legacy . . . You shall never escape my shadow . . .”

“Would ye like tae meet him?” Moira’s question made the black dragon start.

“They seem content. I’ll think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. A pleasure meeting you.”

Over yonder was a serene pond. He was not sure if it was the arcwine, the number of guests hemming in around him, or the ache, but he decided he would walk for a bit, then go.

I should not have come. Let my spies gather what I need to—

To do what? He would never find the Dragon Isles. He would never be able to make—and keep—a true friend, inspire troops, or taste the type of joy that Lor’themar and Thalyssra had found, or the Bronzebeards. Eyes fixed on the pond, he strode quickly toward it, stopping with a growl when a warm, rumbling voice called out to him.

“Ah, Wrathion! There you are!”

Wrathion closed his eyes, then turned with a forced smile. “Baine! Mayla!” The traveling cake had reached this area, and as a servant passed by, Wrathion helped himself to another glass of arcwine. He could use it.

“I am surprised—and pleased—to see you chose to attend,” Baine said.

“Yes, well, the guest list called for Azeroth’s best and brightest.”

They laughed. He drank. Mayla slipped her arm into Baine’s, and the high chieftain covered it. Wrathion had to fight the impulse to dash his glass to the ground.

He had expected the wedding would be, well, a wedding, but it was so much more, and everywhere—this inescapable sense of belonging and love and connection, like some sort of cheerful blight rising to engulf everyone and smother them with cozy contentment. Everyone, of course, except for him. Him . . . and that tauren over there.

He was black-furred with white markings on his muzzle. He was not dressed formally, as the invitation had requested, but wore shamanic robes and held a staff.

And he was staring directly at them.

“Ah, your pardon, Chieftain,” Wrathion said to Baine, keeping his eyes on the stranger, “but . . . is that sullen-looking fellow a friend of yours?”

Baine followed his gaze and frowned. “Kurog. One of Magatha’s Grimtotem.” He all but spat the words. Baine had every reason for his vehemence. Wrathion had learned through his spies that Magatha Grimtotem had secretly poisoned the weapon that killed Baine’s father, Cairne, turning a scratch into a death sentence and instigating a coup. Thunder Bluff soon returned to Bloodhoof hands, and Baine had shown mercy and merely exiled the Grimtotem, but clearly bad blood still lingered. Very bad blood, if the expression on the interloper’s face was any indication. Kurog strode toward them.

“Thalyssra and Lor’themar have sullied themselves by inviting dragons, let alone a black dragon,” the shaman said. “The most unnatural of them all.”

Why a shaman would know so much about black dragons, Wrathion did not know. Hearing it made his hand holding the cup of arcwine tremble, but for an instant.

Metal plating clamping down . . . Forcing magma to retain a form . . .

Wrathion took a steeling breath, reining it in. He would play the part of a future Aspect, not a monster. A smile alighted on his face, and he gave a courteous bow, taking note of the many heads starting to turn their way. Was this where the show ended?

“You should not be here,” Baine stated.

“I have the same right to be here as you,” Kurog retorted.

Wrathion held his tongue.

“I am a shaman,” Kurog continued. “The entire earth is mine to walk.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” Wrathion’s voice was smooth as glass. “The Nightborne have suffered far too much to protect Suramar to let riffraff like you saunter in. Where’s your invitation, by the way?” Wrathion’s was in his pouch, albeit wrinkled from his earlier ire. “Who admitted you? No matter, I will very gladly escort you out before anyone else takes notice of you making a silly fool of yourself.”

Wrathion could hear the onlookers watching quietly. Let them watch.

Kurog kept going, scrutinizing him. “How were you made, Wrathion? Cobbled together out of pieces of corpses? You and your depraved kin . . . You are the very symbol of all that has gone wrong in this world.” While most onlookers murmured in shock at Kurog’s words, Wrathion heard a voice from deep in the crowd cheering the tauren on.

A chill ran through Wrathion, but not from the voice of dissent in the crowd. Rather, from the peculiarity that a shaman would know this bit of awfully specific information. He wondered if he was the reason the tauren had decided to show up . . .

Kurog gave a leering smile. It was ugly and cruel and filled with glee at Wrathion’s discomfiture. “You could save Azeroth a thousand times and still never be a natural part of it. You are an outcast. You will never remove the reek of who you are.”

A skeleton of iron and not of bones . . . The rage burning hotter than the fire—

There was a snap.

Pain blossomed in Wrathion’s hand from the broken shards of the arcwine glass he had crushed. He ignored it and lunged forward, seizing the shaman’s robe and lifting the enormous tauren as if he weighed nothing.

“I could incinerate you in half a heartbeat!” Wrathion snarled, his voice harsh and deep and . . . unfamiliar. He pressed on, shaking the shaman. “With a single sweep of my claws, your lifeblood would flow into the—”

The sands of time . . . Stained with the blood of so many . . . The blasts of magma . . . My own dragonflight coming for me . . . And the shadow, always the shadow—

Wrathion felt a hand on his arm, and Kalec was there. It took every bit of control Wrathion had not to turn on him too.

“Let him go. Now,” the blue dragon said calmly.

Wrathion took great heaving breaths before shoving Kurog away. The shaman staggered, crashing into the cart supporting the fount-inspired wedding cake. The cart tipped over before the appalled server could react, and the great, beautiful pillar of a cake toppled to the paved stone.

Kurog righted himself with his staff and growled, looking ready to charge.

Some onlookers shouted in concern for Wrathion . . . others in support of Kurog. Kalec sought to place a reassuring hand on Wrathion’s shoulder, but this time the black dragon shrugged him off. Wrathion’s red eyes narrowed to angry slits as he prepared to rush the tauren.

“Stop!” Thalyssra’s voice, usually warm and modulated, cracked like a whip.

Wrathion froze, along with Kurog.

“What has happened here?” The First Arcanist was controlled despite her fury. Her hands were glowing with power so palpable that Wrathion could almost smell it. She surveyed the crowd, then her ruined wedding cake.

Wrathion started to speak.

“This Grimtotem,” Mayla interrupted, her voice as steely as Thalyssra’s, “has trespassed onto your lands and intruded on your celebration solely to harass your guests!”

Thalyssra turned to Kurog, evaluating the brute. “I shall grant you more courtesy than you showed me, tauren, and allow you to leave on your own two feet. Go. Before I change my mind.” The pulsing magic wreathing her hands had not wavered for an instant.

There were two types of aggressors, Wrathion knew. Those who wilted like a flower before snowfall, and those who, despite all warnings, could not resist a last swipe.

Kurog was clearly the latter, as he spat at Wrathion’s feet. He gazed out at the crowd smugly. “Soon you will all know the true power of the tauren.” Then he bowed in mock courtesy at Thalyssra, eyed Baine and Mayla with contempt, and turned to depart.

Baine and the others looked just as puzzled by the tauren’s warning as Wrathion felt. 

Thalyssra nodded to Silgryn, who wordlessly moved to follow. The spell-fencer would ensure that Kurog would not get lost on his way out. Wrathion registered that several of the bystanders were glaring at the shaman and offering Wrathion awkward smiles in support. Others smirked at him. Their faces showed poorly concealed loathing. His sharp ears caught the cruel, ugly words that they thought Wrathion could not hear.

And another voice, this one in his head.

“You are my legacy . . . You shall never escape my shadow . . .”

Wrathion straightened, gazing from the cake to his hands. The rage had spent itself, and the other pain, somehow worse than anger, was making itself known again.

Heat rose in Wrathion’s face, and he silently cursed his lack of control. Composing himself, he spoke: “I regret not expressing myself in a more . . . civilized fashion.”

Doing what he could to recover the dignity he had torn to shreds, Wrathion forced himself to look at Thalyssra and Lor’themar. “I am sorry for causing such an incident.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Lor’themar said with a twinkle in his eye. “The bakers have many more cakes where that came from.”

“We regret that our security was insufficient,” Thalyssra added. “None of our guests should have been exposed to such vitriol.”

“You’re very kind, but I should have realized that my presence here would be . . . provocative . . . to some. I hope this did not tarnish your memories of this most joyful occasion. I must depart, and I wish you both nothing but happiness for all your days.”

They did not protest.

“I owe you my thanks,” Baine chimed in. “Kurog is a powerful shaman. He—”

Wrathion held up a hand, flashing a charming smile. “No need for thanks.” The black dragon bowed, straightened his shoulders, and strode off without another word.

***

Wrathion did not know the identities of the towering twin statues in the vineyard. They were Nightborne, holding aloft standards. The standard frames were topped with a carved crescent moon that proved a comfortable surface, and that was all he needed to know. He lay cradled in one, his legs crossed at the ankles and hands laced behind his head.

He was deeply tired and a bit drunk. Between the dead-end search for the Dragon Isles and the harrowing dream that continually shattered his sleep, his endurance had all been drained; add the haunting twinge in his chest wearing him down in his waking hours, and one could start to see why he had taken to consuming so much wine of late.

The disaster of a day had done nothing but reinforce every brooding thought he held about himself. So many in the crowd had moved so swiftly to derision. He was quick to anger, and he was not fit to lead—not when he had threatened Kurog with such violence over nothing but words. Even now Wrathion felt the shadow of Deathwing upon him.

Foolish to have hoped for anything else.

His dark reverie was broken by a voice calling his name. He ignored it.

“Wrathion!” the voice called again.

Sighing, the black dragon peered down. Like himself, the other dragon was still in his visage, which was as striking as his true form. 

“Kalecgos! What do you wish of me?”

The blue dragon lifted a bottle of arcwine and two glasses. “Some help in drinking this fine vintage.”

Not such a bad idea. The wedding had not been an escape from his mounting uneasiness. More arcwine would perhaps do the trick. Wrathion leaped from his makeshift perch, shifting into his true shape and reassuming his visage after landing.

“My company will likely not be pleasant,” Wrathion said as he accepted the glass Kalec offered, recalling the overly optimistic wording of the invitation, “but you are welcome to it.”

Kalec looked at him with compassion as they wandered toward a bench and sat. “You are not at fault, Wrathion. You were invited. The Grimtotem was not. He came only to cause trouble, and unfortunately, he succeeded. The tauren are a great and kind people.” He filled Wrathion’s glass. “Most of them, at least. There are exceptions to everything, of course.”

“Save for black dragons, it would seem,” Wrathion replied. “Hatred of my flight seems fairly unanimous, don’t you think? Even I felt it necessary to . . . thin their ranks.” He thought of the looks on some of the wedding guests’ faces before he’d left. The fear. The disgust. The voice of Deathwing in his mind. “Kurog was not alone in his revulsion.

“You played a major role in defeating N’Zoth.”

“And major roles in far less savory events.” He took a sip; the wine was sweet and heady. “I wish I hadn’t come. I’m sure Lor’themar and Thalyssra would agree.”

Kalec mildly took a sip of his own arcwine. “I for one think they made it clear they’re furious someone trespassed and insulted a few of their honored guests.”

A humorless smile quirked one corner of Wrathion’s mouth. “Perhaps. But if so, it is only because they, and you, are exceptionally kind and open-minded. The rest . . . Well, we black dragons are cautionary tales.”

Kalec pressed his lips together, then sighed. “It can be . . . difficult for others to trust your flight,” he said quietly. “I know a bit about how that feels. I also know we will likely never discover if Neltharion embraced the madness of the Old Gods by choice.”

Wrathion looked away. He did not want to show how deeply the words resonated.

“It’s possible he was a victim of their influence—and did not wish for his fate,” Kalec continued, adding after a moment: “Just as Malygos did not wish for the pain that twisted his own mind and spirit to cruelty.

Wrathion rarely flinched. He did not do so now, but he felt the impulse. He had been told that the original Aspect of the blue dragonflight had once been warm, humorous, and kind . . . much, he thought, like Kalecgos. But when nearly all his flight had been slaughtered, the blue Aspect’s mind had been lost to grief for eons. When he recovered, Malygos was so greatly changed that he attempted to exterminate any mortals who dared use magic. In the end, his own kin had no choice but to attack and slay him.

“As I said, you are kind—kind enough to avoid mentioning that Neltharion’s betrayal of his dearest friend was the incident that shattered Malygos and cost your flight so dearly.”

“I am told they were indeed close. Friends who shared many secrets, now, sadly, all lost to time.” Kalec poured himself another glass of arcwine. His voice in the next moment was sure and strong. “But you, Wrathion, are not Neltharion.”

If only I could honestly believe that . . .

But hadn’t Neltharion become Deathwing? Who would Wrathion become?

He clinked his glass with Kalec’s. “Nor are you Malygos.”

It was intended to be a compliment, but Wrathion saw Kalec’s shoulders slump. The blue dragon laughed sadly. “I’m not much of anything anymore. There’s barely a blue dragonflight at all now. We should not have disbanded, not when our numbers were so small.” Kalec pressed a hand to his chest, then let it fall as he looked out into the night.

The Aspects had surrendered titan-granted powers to finally and utterly destroy Deathwing. They were still dragons, of course, but Aspects now in name alone. The blues, Wrathion knew, had drifted to disconnected places all over the world.

“Well,” Wrathion said lightly, trying to shift the mood, though perhaps the effect of the arcwine was bringing out this merrier side to him, “aren’t we a fine pair? Two brilliant, handsome young dragons with no flights? I suggest that, since neither of us has any community at all to speak of, if our Aspects could be friends, then surely . . . we can as well. After all, as the mortals are so fond of pointing out, misery loves company.”

That got a genuine laugh out of Kalecgos. “You helped slay an Old God. Perhaps others will stay well clear of us. But . . . I am curious about something. The last time we spoke, you inquired about the Dragon Isles. I’m sorry I could not be of more assistance. Knowledge of them is as cloaked in secrecy for me as it is for you. Have you discovered anything further?”

“Nothing.” Wrathion looked to the sky. “You were the only one who told me anything of value—that the land’s magic had gone dormant a long, long time ago.”

“I wasn’t even born then. I can’t believe that little scrap of information was all you learned. Who else did you speak with?”

Wrathion counted on his fingers. “I asked Chromie if she knew where it was,” he said, referring to the bronze dragon. “She said yes. Then no. And then admitted she was confused. Ysera is . . . gone.” He sobered for a heartbeat, thinking of the absence of the green flight’s Aspect. “And Nozdormu won’t even grant me an audience.” Nozdormu, leader of the bronze flight, was preoccupied maintaining all the infinite timeways.

“And Alexstrasza?” Kalec asked, keeping his voice neutral as he brought up the Aspect of the red flight. The reds and Wrathion had a rather complicated past, which included trying to kill one another on more than one occasion. He had been so desperate for knowledge that he’d swallowed his pride and spoken with the Dragon Queen, who was unexpectedly kind. Even so, she had only sighed and said: “It is a place that is lost to us.”

“Nothing of consequence,” was all Wrathion said. He sounded, and felt, despondent; he had for some time, and found it increasingly hard to hide the pain from others. Attending the wedding had only deepened the feeling. He found his hand at his chest, pressing as if to physically soothe the ache. Glancing up, he saw that Kalec was doing the same thing.

“Kalec . . . ?” Wrathion asked slowly. “Are you in pain?”

Kalec had been lost in thought, then started. “Oh! No, no . . . Well,” he amended, “not so much a pain as a sorrow. There have been various times in my life when I felt . . . desolate. Alone. That there was something I wanted, needed, but couldn’t have.”

“I am experiencing the same sensation,” Wrathion said, red eyes narrowing. “As if there is a weight on my chest . . . A feeling in my bones I can’t seem to articulate . . .”

“Yes! That’s it exactly!” exclaimed Kalec. “And also . . . As if I am missing a piece of myself that I didn’t know I had, but . . . now I yearn for it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Wrathion spoke cautiously. “If we are both feeling this sensation—”

“Then perhaps other dragons are too,” Kalec breathed.

For the first time in a long time, hope flickered within Wrathion, and he was overcome with a desire to meet a certain someone, as if summoned. “I hate to humble myself yet again, and I am uncertain if I will find answers, but perhaps we should—”

“Go to Wyrmrest and ask Alexstrasza some questions.”

Wrathion quirked an eyebrow. “Let’s stop finishing each other’s sentences, shall we?”

Kalec laughed, then moved his hands elegantly, opening a portal. A glimpse at its center revealed a cool, teal-and-blue-white landscape.

“Perfect. I was growing frightfully weary of all this purple.” And with that, Wrathion stepped through.

***

“It would seem we are not alone in our mysterious malaise,” Wrathion remarked.

“That’s an understatement,” Kalec murmured

They had materialized near the base of Wyrmrest Temple, finding themselves in the center of the largest gathering of dragons Wrathion had ever seen. Some wore their visages, and it did not escape Wrathion that many placed their hands on their chests—over their hearts—from time to time, waiting for the Dragon Queen to address them.

Wrathion did not expect to see any of his own flight there, of course. There were plenty of red and bronze dragons, and many greens as well, but he was saddened to spot so few blue dragons in comparison. Kalec was right about them being scattered.

“There’s barely a blue dragonflight at all now . . .”

“Stay here waiting with the rest of them, if you like,” Wrathion told Kalec. “But I refuse to squander a single moment more.”

The troubling sensation was not abating, but rather increasing. Suiting actions to words, Wrathion shifted and flew directly to the top of the temple. He was done with waiting. Waiting to find the Dragon Isles, waiting for the dream to stop tormenting him, waiting to understand what this cursed feeling was and why he feared the unknown.

And yet, as he recalled the joy he’d witnessed at the wedding—the warmth of loved ones; the power of connection, of belonging—Wrathion was terrified that whatever Alexstrasza had to say, it would not be good. That whatever his heart had been seeking would never be his, even if it had a name.

Alexstrasza was in her visage, long red hair almost the same hue as her cloak, gazing at the mass of dragons gathered below her. With her was Nozdormu. He was often stoic and difficult for even Wrathion to read—which was likely a good thing, considering his powerful knowledge of the past and future. But now he looked pensive. Distant, even.

Beside him stood Ysera’s daughter, Merithra, who had stepped up as the informal head of the green dragonflight after the loss of her mother. While Merithra had her hand to her heart, she did not look distressed. Her night elven face instead showed . . . peace?

“Alexstrasza . . . this feeling, this . . .” Lost for words, Wrathion thumped his chest. “What is happening to us?”

She turned, and her face, as it had been during his last visit, was soft and alight with joy. “Straight to the point. You are ever true to form, Wrathion,” she said with gentle mirth.

“Why, thank you.”

Alexstrasza stepped forward and, as if there was not and never had been mistrust or resentment between them, gently placed a hand on his face. To his own surprise, he allowed it, comprehending that the significance of this moment transcended any quarrels.

“Young one,” the Dragon Queen said, exchanging a sage look with Nozdormu, “you have heard the call . . . and you have answered.”

Wrathion did not understand. “The call?”

“Yes, the call,” she said, speaking to all of those standing closely around her. “One long awaited. All of us—here, below, anywhere in the world—we have all been called, and we have heard it with our hearts. The Dragon Isles are awaiting our return.”

“But . . .” Wrathion shook his head, still not comprehending.

“Wrathion,” she said softly, “you are homesick.”

The ache. The desperate longing for something he had never had.

“Homesick?”

The Dragon Isles had never been denied to him. They were only waiting. For him, and for every other dragon in Azeroth. His people. Wrathion had not been excluded.

He was being welcomed.

He belonged.

Now that he knew what the hurt in his chest represented, it dissipated, transforming into something close to exultation. And as the Dragon Queen turned to continue in sharing the jubilant revelation with all those gathered below, Wrathion, the Black Prince, the dragon without a flight, realized his recurring nightmare also had the power to transform.

He saw it now not as a forecast of an inevitable fall to darkness but as a challenge to be accepted—and conquered. All of dragonkind was in this moment, his kin. The dragons gathered below cheered and applauded at the news, as if on cue.

“Homesick . . . ” he mused to himself.

But he had a home now. And soon . . . soon, he would have a flight.

Wrathion thought of the vows exchanged earlier, pledges of undying devotion and care, and he made one now.

It would be he, not Deathwing, who would guide his flight to their future.

And that was a promise he would keep.