World of Warcraft: Prince of Desire Chapter 16: The Mistaken Chamber
One aimed for the Dragon Soul, the other for a haven in which to rebuild. Their interests aligned perfectly. The ancient relic couldn't be wielded by dragonkind, and Arthas knew that openly displaying it would invite ruin even before Deathwing could act—every other Dragon Aspect would annihilate the one who dared to brandish it. Thus, the unholy alliance was struck silently between them.
Onyxia sat across from Arthas, her expression cold fire. She had never, in all her years, been touched so casually—nor so brazenly.
"Your Highness," she said, voice like the crackle before lightning, "do you owe me an explanation?"
Deathwing, in his dignified guise, only observed, amusement flickering behind his eyes. He made no move to intervene. A black dragon rarely needed a reason to justify ill intent, and yet this moment seemed more game than grievance to him.
"Perhaps you like gold," Arthas said lightly, setting aside his goblet. "If so, I have a venture that might interest you."
The mention of gold softened Onyxia's glare—the dragon princess's endless hunger for wealth was legendary. Treasure was her lifeblood, her obsession.
"You have my attention," she admitted, her tone measured. "What do you propose?"
"A trade to enrich the future," Arthas began. "Once the orcs are defeated, oceanic commerce must rise. There will be voyages, alliances, and hidden wealth along new coasts. Swordfish and naga are surviving rulers of the deep—we will negotiate with both. On the Broken Isles, ancient relics wait to be reclaimed. In Zandalar, the trolls deal in fine Titan-forged trinkets and enchanted materials. Such goods—repurposed through human craft or arcane fusion—can forge wargear unlike anything on Azeroth. I offer you inclusion… in exchange for your investment."
He smiled, effortlessly weaving promise and manipulation. Onyxia caught herself imagining the glittering mountain of coins such a venture might yield.
She folded her arms. "Tempting. But my hoard is... presently unavailable."
"Then perhaps you could invest your strength," Arthas replied, unbothered. "A modest share."
Deathwing raised an eyebrow, scenting his daughter's unease. "Enough," he said smoothly. "Let us conclude here for the night. Your Highness, I accept your plan. Katrana shall accompany you to secure the relic."
"Very well," Arthas replied. "Let us hope our cooperation yields more than conflict when we step upon Draenor."
Deathwing's half-smile deepened. "We shall see. Do remember—Draenor is alive with dangers. Those who claim to be gods may die easily, but the void there... devours even certainty. Do not awaken what you cannot bind."
"Then may luck favor both of us," said Arthas, touching his temple briefly. "Lately, even my own thoughts have grown too loud to silence."
Deathwing's gaze darkened knowingly. "The voice of a world, perhaps?"
Arthas neither denied nor confirmed it. "Something like that."
Moments later, he departed.
Outside, the night breathed mist over Stormwind's stone lanes. There, he encountered Varian Wrynn—a friend and fellow prince. From grief and duty, they found common cause that evening, drinking together until their words slurred into memories of fallen lands and uncertain futures.
When Varian finally succumbed to drink, Arthas, though still steady on his feet, was far from sober. He dismissed the servants gently and wandered the guest corridor toward his chamber.
His vision blurred—the corridors identical, the candlelight shimmering gold like holy flame. He reached what seemed his room, pushed open the door, and closed it behind him with a weary drag of robes.
Without thought, he collapsed onto the nearest bed, falling into a deep, unguarded sleep. The faint fragrance on the sheets lulled his spinning mind.
Moments later, he stirred faintly. Warmth beside him. Soft breathing. His clouded senses failed to process it beyond comfort and exhaustion.
Elsewhere in that same manor, Queen Taria Wrynn—still beloved by Stormwind's people—slept soundly after many nights of worry. Peace was a rarity she clung to dearly. With her son safe under Lordaeron's protection and the Alliance reclaiming lost ground, one might forgive her for dreaming freely again.
Yet as moonlight shifted through her window, her rest grew troubled. A rustle beside her, a foreign scent, and the faint sound of breathing awoke her. In that blur between sleep and awareness, fear bloomed. Someone was there.
Her heart pounded as realization dawned—and the night became very still.