Year 18 of the Dark Portal, Stormwind City, Noble District, Prestor Manor
The night pressed against the windows like black velvet. Flames danced in the hearth, casting restless shadows across mahogany panels and leather-bound volumes. Katrana Prestor—or rather, Onyxia—sat perfectly still at her desk, golden eyes fixed on the parchment before her.
The letter bore no signature, no flourish. Just one line of hurried script:
"Valley of Heroes. Black dragon."
Her pupils contracted to vertical slits. Without thinking, her nails lengthened, carving thin furrows across the desk's polished surface.
"Who?" The word hissed between her teeth, barely human.
Too precise. Too direct. The designation "black dragon" was known to perhaps a dozen beings in all of Azeroth, and fewer still could connect it to her carefully crafted persona. Three years she had spent here, weaving herself into Stormwind's nobility like silk thread through tapestry. The Prestor name, the distant inheritance, the careful manipulation of court politics—all of it advancing the Black Dragonflight's designs.
And now this. A blade against her throat.
She rose in one fluid motion, silk gown rippling like water. At the window, she gazed down at Stormwind's scattered lights, at the oblivious humans scurrying through their insignificant lives. She had divided their nobility, set faction against faction, prepared the ground for her father's eventual triumph.
But someone knew.
Closing her eyes, she felt the draconic power surging beneath her false skin. Deathwing had long since succumbed to madness, adamantium plates barely holding his burning form together. Nefarian remained locked in Blackwing Lair, obsessed with his grotesque experiments. She had thought herself the cautious one, the subtle one.
Apparently not cautious enough.
Black flames erupted between her fingers, reducing the parchment to ash before it touched the floor.
"Whoever you are..." Her laugh held no warmth. "You had better run fast."
She retrieved a plain gray cloak from the wardrobe. If someone was testing her, she would discover their identity herself—and show them exactly how many lives they needed to threaten a black dragon.
The night wind shrieked past Stormwind's spires as Katrana melted into shadow, heading toward the Valley of Heroes.
Onyxia perched atop the cliff face, her dark cloak blending seamlessly with the stone. Her draconic vision pierced the darkness, scanning every inch of the valley below—every monument, every shadow, every blade of grass.
No mortal could detect her. Not unless she allowed it.
Invisibility came as naturally to black dragons as breathing. Stormwind's guards with their torches and patrols, the mages with their detection spells, even the supposedly perceptive rogues who prowled the shadows—none of them would sense her presence. Back in her chambers, an illusion of Katrana Prestor slept peacefully, complete with gentle breathing and the occasional dream-murmur.
Yet despite her precautions, her mind refused to settle.
Time crawled. Moonlight pooled between gravestones and hero statues, painting them silver. The night wind whispered names carved in stone, epitaphs for dead champions. Onyxia's fingers traced the cliff face absently, and the solid rock cracked beneath her touch like dried clay.
"Black dragon..."
The words circled her thoughts like carrion birds. She had spent decades manipulating the powerful, wearing lies like jewelry, binding humans with enchantment and false promises. But this time, she was the one being manipulated.
The realization was infuriating. And strangely exhilarating.
Rarely in her long existence had she felt this particular sensation. Humans were insects to her—their conspiracies transparent, their ambitions laughably small. But this...
Someone had dared challenge her directly.
"Who?" she murmured, the word carrying a draconic rasp.
Three hours had passed, and her mind had cycled through countless possibilities. A meddling bronze dragon, perhaps, with their tiresome obsession with timelines? A dreadlord operating within Stormwind's walls? Or worse—one of Nefarian's schemes, some twisted game her brother was playing?
She narrowed her eyes. Draconic patience allowed her to wait all night if necessary. All week. If this was a trap, she would personally disembowel whoever had set it. If this was a warning...
Then she would teach them the cost of threatening a daughter of Deathwing.
Finally, as the moon reached its apex, a small fire flickered to life on the valley floor.
Her lips curved into something resembling a smile.
"Finally."
She descended in absolute silence, a shadow among shadows.
The game had begun.
Detection spells shimmered around her fingers as she approached, ready to pierce any illusion—
Then she froze.
A skeletal human youth sat by the fire, using a charred stick to poke at moldy black bread. His linen shirt hung in tatters, held together by crude patches. His exposed wrists showed bone definition like anatomical diagrams. Most absurdly, a rust-covered cleaver lay beside his feet, its blade stained with suspicious dark residue.
Detection spell: no magical signature.
True Sight: no disguise detected.
Soul probe: just a starving commoner.
Onyxia felt reality tilt sideways. She—daughter of Deathwing, infiltrator of kingdoms—had been summoned here by a Westfall vagrant? Dragon fire churned in her throat. The surrounding air began to shimmer with heat.
"You had better explain yourself." Her voice carried the harmonic resonance of a dragon's roar. "Otherwise, I will demonstrate that deceiving a black dragon is far more agonizing than starvation."
The youth looked up. A brilliant smile split his filth-crusted face—too bright, too incongruous with the despair surrounding him.
"Ha! I knew you would come!" He clutched his toasting bread and stood. "I am here to save you, Lady Onyxia. My name is Deren, from the Westfall."
This vagrant—Deren—even patted the ground beside him, as though inviting an old friend to share his meal. Onyxia's pupils narrowed to hairline slits. The smell of burning bread mixed with grave dirt and old sweat.
"Save me?" Her laughter made nearby tombstones tremble. "With that rusted cleaver?"
Deren burst into laughter, the sound jarring in the silent graveyard. He grabbed the cleaver and tossed it casually. The weapon vaporized in a gout of dragonfire before touching the ground.
"See? That is the gap between us." Deren spread his empty, calloused hands. "You can reduce me to ash with a thought. But years from now—" his voice dropped, "when your head separates from your body, perhaps you will remember this night."
Moonlight illuminated his sunken eye sockets. Something burned there that the Black Dragon Princess found deeply alien. Not fear. Not madness. But certainty—damnable, unshakeable certainty.
Onyxia's hand became a dragon claw at his throat in an instant. She felt his fragile pulse fluttering beneath her talons. Just a slight squeeze—
"Last chance," she hissed.
Deren's mouth curved upward, revealing a gap-toothed, wolfish grin.
Onyxia's claw remained at his throat. This human's pulse beat against her scales—so fragile, so easily snuffed out.
But Deren did not struggle. Did not even flinch. His eyes met hers directly, burning with something she could not name. Not pleading. Arrogance, almost. Certainty.
"You are the noble Black Dragon Princess, and I..." Deren's cracked lips twisted in self-mockery. "I am just a commoner from the Westfall. We should have no connection whatsoever. No need for violence."
When Onyxia released him, he gasped once, then sat down and resumed gnawing his bread.
His voice emerged hoarse but clear.
"This is my last bread. After this, I go hungry tomorrow. I walked from the Westfall to here with nothing but that cleaver. I am just... unwilling to give up like this. I have to try. I have to struggle somehow."
"But fate is peculiar."
Onyxia's fingers transformed further, scales rippling beneath her skin. "Get to the point, insect."
Deren did not retreat.
"I received a vision," he said slowly. "I saw fragments of Azeroth's future."
"The Burning Legion will descend again. Plague and pestilence will sweep the land. Stormwind's nobles will rot at their banquets, and the farmers of Westfall..." He smiled bitterly. "Will become either gnoll excrement or shambling corpses in the Scourge."
Onyxia's eyes flashed with contempt.
"So? You think I care about humanity's survival?"
"No." Deren shook his head. "But you care about your own survival."
He raised his hand, pointing toward Stormwind's distant lights.
"Years from now, your head will hang on those city gates. The Black Dragonflight will be dragged into madness by your father, and you—" he paused, "will die meaninglessly."
Onyxia's eyes constricted to pinpoints.
"You are begging for death—"
"Killing me will not change that outcome." Deren interrupted, his voice strangely calm. "But keeping me alive might give you a chance to alter it."
The night wind swept through the Valley of Heroes. The bonfire crackled. Sparks spiraled upward into darkness.
Deren slowly raised his hand, opening his palm. It was empty except for several deep cracks from hard labor.
"I do not want to become excrement on the wasteland, nor do I want to become a shambling corpse in the Scourge army." He stared into her eyes. "So I came to find you. To escape that deadly fate together."
Onyxia remained silent for a long moment.
Finally, she retracted her claws. Her mouth curved into something dangerous.
"Prove it to me," she said quietly. "Prove you are not speaking nonsense."
But Deren only looked at her, his mouth hanging in that strange smile, as though he had already seen through her hesitation.
"You do not care about proof at all," he rasped. "What you care about is: what if this is true?"
Onyxia's pupils contracted.
Deren slowly raised his hand, pointing at her forehead.
"Your father is mad, is he not?"
The sentence struck like a dagger, piercing Onyxia's deepest fear. Her scales rippled beneath her skin. Dragon breath churned in her chest. How could this human know?
"Your brother is obsessed with those twisted experiments." Deren continued, voice low. "And you? You play noble games in Stormwind, but deep in your heart..."
He grinned, revealing that missing tooth.
"You have suspected for a long time that this is all a dead end."
Onyxia's claw trembled.
Deren suddenly grabbed her wrist. His skeletal fingers clamped onto her scales like iron.
"I do not need to prove anything." He stared into her eyes. "You only need to answer one question—"
"Do you dare to gamble?"
"Bet that I am a fraud, and you lose a few minutes of time."
"Bet that I am right..."
His nails dug into her scale grooves. Faint black blood welled from his fingertips.
"You might survive."
The night wind wailed past the tombstones. The bonfire suddenly extinguished.
In absolute darkness, Onyxia heard the roaring of her own blood.
***
Not for the Alliance, not for the Horde, only for Azeroth! Let us begin this different journey to save Azeroth.