Chapter 14: What Is Desire
"Even those savage orcs of the south can wield such things… why can't I?"
Arthas's voice carried across the hall with calm authority, overflowing with provocation rather than anger. Deathwing, still wearing the mask of Duke Daval Prestor, did not move. He would never dare to unleash his fury here—not in plain sight, where the keen eyes of other Aspects might notice.
At his side, Nefarian swallowed his rage. The younger black dragon's eyes blazed like coals, yet his father's quiet glare froze him mid-breath. "Fine," Nefarian grunted, trying to sound indifferent. "I agree to your wager… where's your proof, human prince?"
Arthas smirked. "Patience. Win first, and perhaps then I'll share what you crave. For now, get your drake ready—I might claim it when this is done." His gaze darkened with purpose. "Tell me, have you ever heard of the Shadowlands?"
The words silenced the dragons. Even Deathwing paused. His daughter Onyxia raised a questioning brow, her serpentine poise cracking for the briefest moment.
"Shadowlands?" Deathwing repeated softly—a tone Arthas could almost read as intrigue.
"The realm beyond death itself," Arthas said, voice lowering to sermon. "When a being dies, its soul is ferried across a veil by messengers. There, the Arbiter judges their existence. Warriors and conquerors go to Maldraxxus. Demigods and natural spirits rest within Ardenweald. The wicked—those who yet carry the spark of redemption—are sent to Revendreth, to be purged of their pride."
He pointed at Nefarian, eyes glinting with deliberate amusement. "You, for instance, might find that place... educational."
Deathwing's expression twitched; Onyxia's tail flicked slightly, betraying her tension.
"And what of the rest?" the great dragon asked.
"Souls beyond redemption are cast into the Maw," Arthas answered softly. "There, even their essence erodes into oblivion. That is judgment." He smiled faintly. "As for me—the Light guides my path. I've seen the Shadowlands with my own eyes."
"What nonsense?" Onyxia hissed. "You live—no mortal could…"
"Who told you the living cannot peer across the veil?" Arthas interrupted smoothly. "If dragons can masquerade as men, if gods can falter and fall—then why not?" His grin carried a flicker of menace that even dragons found hard to name.
Deathwing's molten eyes narrowed. "Prove it."
Nefarian barked, "Yes—prove it! For all we know, you're spinning tales."
"The truth requires no validation," Arthas said evenly. "But if you seek signs—ask Helya of Stormheim. She has bartered her soul with the Shadowlands. Or ask Odyn within the Halls of Valor—he traded an eye for its secrets. And lastly… die once yourselves, and see it all."
Half-truths and riddles, he knew, were the most convincing deceits.
Deathwing's immense aura flared, heat rippling through the room. Even in human form, the black dragon's presence burned like magma—cracking the stone underfoot.
"You know... too much," Deathwing murmured dangerously.
Light erupted from Arthas's body, dimming the flames that licked the air. "Knowledge isn't treason, only fear makes it so. I do not wish to endanger the Alliance. Keep to your schemes, and I keep to mine. I've walked among bronze dragons, and seen eternal ones—your secrets do not frighten me."
Nefarian's claws sparked, his form rippling toward transformation, when suddenly—
SLAP!
The blow sent him flying against the furniture. Onyxia flinched, realization flashing in her wide eyes—it was not Arthas who struck her brother, but Deathwing himself.
"You dare raise your hand to our guest?" Deathwing snapped coldly. His children fell silent, fear rooting them to the ground.
"Bring your wager to His Highness," Deathwing commanded icily. "And Katrana, fetch my oldest wine—we'll share a cup with Prince Arthas." Then, to Arthas, he inclined his head politely. "Forgive my household's… insolence."
Arthas merely smiled. Relief and calculation warred quietly in his chest. Even his confidence could not stand against Deathwing's might. For now, his words were the only weapons sharp enough to wound a dragon's pride.
"You honor me, Lord Duke," Arthas replied. "Power alone does not win wars—it is only one weapon among many."
"Oh?" Deathwing's tone softened. "Then tell me, what do you seek, my clever prince?"
Arthas met his molten eyes. "There is a clan of orcs in the south—the Dragonmaw. They hold an ancient relic, forged by dragons in an age older than men. I want it. Can your kind retrieve what mortals defile?"
Before the Duke could answer, Onyxia returned. She carried two bottles of crimson wine, her graceful movement flowing like a melody. Her voice was low and composed, her manner exuding the effortless dignity of highborn blood.
Her every motion was deliberate—artful, poised, proud. Arthas found his heartbeat quicken not from desire, but from calculation; even the daughter of Deathwing radiated power wrapped in allure. She was beauty sharpened to a blade.
And like all weapons, she was meant to be wielded—or feared.