Deathwing fled. It was not a triumphant retreat nor a calculated withdrawal, it was a desperate, furious escape.
His colossal form tore through the clouds, black wings tattered and bleeding, molten blood raining like fire upon the broken mountains below. The sky itself seemed to recoil as he vanished into the distance, leaving behind scorched air and a silence that rang louder than any roar.
He had faced the full might of the Dragon Aspects, renewed, unshackled, and united. And even then, he had barely survived.
Alexstrasza hovered for a long moment, her immense crimson wings beating slowly as she watched her corrupted brother disappear beyond the horizon. Power surged through her once more, vibrant and whole, but her golden eyes were heavy with sorrow rather than triumph.
"Run, Neltharion," she murmured softly. "Run… while you still can."
Below, the battlefield told the story of the Dragonmaw's downfall.
Charred banners lay buried beneath rubble. Broken chains, once forged to bind the Dragonqueen herself, were twisted and melted beyond recognition. Orcish bodies littered the land, many crushed beneath fallen stone, others burned to ash by dragonfire or shadowflame.
Those Dragonmaw who yet lived had long since abandoned any thought of command or honor; they fled into the wilds in scattered, terrified groups, casting fearful glances skyward as if Deathwing might return for them next.
The red dragonflight was free. Truly free.
For the first time in years, the skies above Grim Batol belonged once more to the children of life.
Leylin stood at the center of it all or rather, sat.
He had collapsed onto a broken slab of stone, one knee drawn up, forearms resting loosely atop it. His breathing was steady now, but his body still trembled faintly from exhaustion. Dried blood traced thin lines along his temple and jaw, and the faint shimmer of lingering mana residue clung to him like mist.
Around him, everyone gathered. Rhonin was staring openly. Not with scholarly curiosity. Not with cautious appraisal. But with the wide-eyed reverence of a mage who had just watched the impossible rewritten before his eyes.
"Do you have any idea," Rhonin finally said, voice almost hoarse, "what you just did?"
Tyr'ganal circled Leylin slowly, his expression unreadable at first but the way his gaze lingered on Leylin's hands, on the scorched earth that still bore the imprint of his will, made his thoughts clear enough.
"A mortal," Tyr'ganal said quietly, "who forced an Aspect to retreat… using the earth itself."
He stopped in front of Leylin and inclined his head, just slightly.
"To me," he added, "that makes you more dangerous than any artifact."
Aminel stood a little apart from the others. Her posture was composed, her face calm but her eyes betrayed her. They flicked repeatedly to the shattered ground, to the sky where five godlike beings had clashed, then back to Leylin.
Shock, certainly. But also calculation. She said nothing, merely committing everything she had seen to memory.
Falstad Wildhammer, by contrast, broke the tension entirely.
The gryphon rider let out a booming laugh, slapping his thigh as he leaned against his gryphon's neck.
"HA! By the Stonefather, that's a story I'll be tellin' till the day I die!" he roared. "A mortal scarin' Deathwing off like a whipped drake, if I hadn't seen it myself, I'd punch the beard off anyone who said it!"
Vereesa knelt beside Leylin without a word.
Her hands moved with practiced precision, brushing aside his hair, checking his temples, his shoulders, his arms. A faint green glow shimmered around her fingers as she probed for internal injuries, her brow furrowed in quiet concern.
"You're hurt," she said softly.
"Nothing serious," Leylin replied, his voice calm, almost tired. "I've had worse."
Vereesa did not look convinced. Before she could say more, the air itself seemed to shift.
The Dragon Aspects descended.
Alexstrasza landed first, her massive form shrinking as she took on her mortal visage mid-descent. She touched the ground lightly, red hair flowing like a living flame, her presence warm and overwhelming all at once.
Ysera followed, emerging from a ripple of emerald mist, her eyes glowing with the soft, endless depth of the Dream.
Malygos descended in a crackle of arcane light, his gaze sharp and restless. Nozdormu appeared last, as if stepping out of a fold in time itself, his golden eyes reflecting moments that had not yet come to pass.
The gathering fell silent.
Ysera stepped forward first.
Her gaze settled on Leylin, and for a moment, something ancient and gentle softened her expression.
"You kept your promise," she said simply.
Leylin met her eyes and nodded once.
"That was all I intended to do."
Ysera inclined her head, the motion carrying a weight few mortals would ever earn. Alexstrasza then approached.
She stopped before Leylin, studying him with an intensity that made the air feel warmer. Then, slowly, she placed a hand over her heart and bowed.
"Leylin," she said, her voice rich with gratitude and pain long endured, "you freed me from chains that broke more than my body. You restored my flight… my children… my people."
Her eyes glimmered.
"For that, you have my thanks. And the gratitude of the entire red dragonflight."
Malygos, however, had no patience for the ceremony.
He stepped forward sharply, arcane energy flaring around him like a storm barely restrained.
"You had the Demon Soul," he snapped, eyes blazing as he fixed them on Leylin. "You had Deathwing vulnerable. If you had destroyed the artifact early on, we could have ended him, here and now!"
The air crackled with restrained fury.
"Why," Malygos demanded, "did you not destroy it sooner?"
Leylin did not answer.
He simply turned his head and looked toward Nozdormu. The Bronze Aspect met his gaze calmly.
After a long moment, Nozdormu spoke.
"Even united," he said, voice resonant with the echo of countless timelines, "we could not have slain him today. Deathwing's fate does not end here."
Malygos snarled. "That is conjecture—"
"It is certainty," Nozdormu interrupted gently.
Silence followed.
Malygos clenched his fists, arcane light flaring wildly before finally dimming. He turned away with a sharp huff, wings twitching in agitation.
Alexstrasza and Ysera exchanged a glance. They stepped forward together.
"Forgive him," Alexstrasza said to Leylin. "Madness and grief weigh heavily upon Malygos. They have… for a long time."
Ysera inclined her head. "You and your companions are owed more than apologies."
Both Aspects raised their hands.
Warm crimson light enveloped Leylin, followed by a soothing emerald glow. Fatigue eased. Wounds knit. His mana flow stabilized, clearer and stronger than before.
Alexstrasza smiled faintly. "My blessing is yours, Leylin. May life itself shelter you."
Ysera's voice followed, soft as a dream. "And if ever you find yourself in need—whether in the waking world or dream—call to me. I will answer."
Leylin felt the weight of those words settle into his very being.
Nozdormu and Malygos observed in silence. The Bronze Aspect merely inclined his head, uninterested in further entanglement.
Malygos snorted softly. "Mortals," he muttered. "Their lives pass in the blink of an eye."
Yet even he did not deny what he had witnessed. As the Dragon Aspects took to the skies once more, the battlefield grew quiet.
Leylin exhaled slowly.
The war, the gods, the madness, it all receded, if only for a moment. And in that moment, every soul present understood one truth: The world had shifted. Not because of dragons. But because a mortal had dared to stand his ground.
The Dragon Aspects departed as they had arrived, swiftly, overwhelmingly, and with the quiet finality of beings whose concerns stretched far beyond mortal battlefields.
When the last shimmer of draconic light faded from the skies above Grim Batol, Leylin did not linger.
"Time to go," he said simply.
No one argued.
The battlefield was no longer a place for mortals. The land still groaned faintly beneath their feet, as if Draenor's wounds had echoed across worlds and left scars even here. Broken stone shifted now and then, and heat still rose from deep cracks in the earth. Whatever remnants of the Dragonmaw remained had long since fled or were too afraid to even breathe.
Falstad mounted his gryphon with a wide grin, clearly riding the high of survival and victory.
"Ha! What a scrap!" he laughed, tightening the straps. "Been a long while since I've seen dragons clash like that and even longer since I've fought beside folk who lived to tell it!"
His eyes shifted to Leylin, sharp and knowing.
"I know you've fought beside Kurdran during the Second War," Falstad continued, voice turning warm. "Anyone who stood with the Wildhammers back then is a friend of mine now."
Leylin inclined his head. "Then we're even. You saved a mage who might've gotten himself roasted."
Falstad barked another laugh. "If ye ever find yourselves in the Hinterlands, come to Aerie Peak. I'll see ye welcomed properly, ale included."
"Careful," Rhonin muttered. "He means strong ale."
Falstad only laughed louder as his gryphon leapt into the air, wings beating powerfully before carrying him off toward the distant mountains.
They traveled together for several days after that. The land slowly softened, ashen rock giving way to green hills, forests reclaiming scorched earth. The tension that had clung to them since Grim Batol gradually loosened, replaced by the familiar rhythm of travel. Leylin didn't forget to sign in his system.
[Sign in Successful]
[The host obtained: Blazing Drake (Mount) - Unique]
[Reins of the Blazing Drake, allows the user to summon a Blazing Drake as a mount.]
Rhonin, however, was relentless.
"So," he said for what must have been the tenth time that morning, "that magic you used, was it a hybrid spellform? Arcane with a geomantic focus?"
Tyr'ganal leaned in immediately. "No, no, it had a rhythmic cadence. Did you use mana as a stabilizing lattice, or were you channeling directly through the elements?"
Leylin sighed.
"You're both overthinking it."
That only made things worse.
"Overthinking?" Rhonin echoed, incredulous. "You wrestled the ground itself into impaling an Aspect!"
Leylin shrugged. "Mana is a tool. The elements are tools. I just used one to guide the other."
Tyr'ganal frowned. "That explanation explains nothing."
"That's because there's nothing mystical about it," Leylin replied calmly. "Think of it like this, mana is the catalyst. The elements are the medium. You don't force them; you listen, then nudge."
Rhonin opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed his temples.
"That somehow makes it more terrifying."
Aminel, walking slightly behind them, listened in silence.
She did not interrupt, did not press Leylin with questions. Instead, she watched, how he spoke of power without pride, how he dismissed feats that would have shaken the foundations of Quel'Thalas' academies.
And she wondered, not for the first time, how far ahead of the world he truly stood.
Vereesa walked beside Leylin, occasionally glancing up at him. Her expression was softer now, calmer. She said nothing but every so often, her hand brushed his, grounding him more effectively than any spell.
Eventually, the road split.
Rhonin stopped, staff resting against his shoulder.
"I'll head to Dalaran from here," he said. "Krasus will want a full report… and the Kirin Tor won't believe half of it."
Leylin gave him a long look. "Be careful."
Rhonin grinned. "You say that like I won't ignore it."
"I say it because you should trust your instincts more than your superiors."
Rhonin laughed it off, as always. "If I start distrusting Dalaran, half my life falls apart."
He paused, then extended his hand.
"Still… I'm glad it was you I met out there."
Leylin clasped his forearm. "Likewise. Try not to get assigned to anything suicidal next time."
"No promises."
With that, Rhonin turned and headed down the road toward the spires of Dalaran, already muttering to himself about reports, councils, and how impossible it would be to explain earth dancing to archmages.
The remaining four continued east.
The air grew warmer, sweeter. Gold-leaved trees began to appear along the horizon. By the time the faint glow of Quel'Thalas' wards shimmered in the distance, the weight of war had finally lifted from Leylin's shoulders.
Home. Not just a place. But people are waiting within it. They did not rush. There was no need anymore.