World of Warcraft: Prince of Desire Chapter 15: The Deal
Deathwing had lost count of how often that night had made him feel—rage, astonishment, and, most unsettling of all, admiration.
"What is it you seek from that relic, Your Highness?" His voice was deceptively calm, yet thick with peril. "Do you intend to kill a dragon?"
Onyxia stiffened beside him. She recognized that tone in her father—it always preceded carnage. But Arthas Menethil remained unshaken. With deliberate poise, he swirled the red wine in his glass, watching its reflection shimmer under the light.
"Do you know," Arthas asked lightly, "who granted the guardian dragons their might?"
Deathwing's eyes gleamed. "The Titan Keepers." His tone was measured, yet beneath it lingered an echo of pain. His duty had once been to guard Azeroth's molten heart, yet the whispers of the Old Gods had twisted that sacred purpose into torment.
"Correct." Arthas smiled faintly, as though tutoring a distracted pupil. "And the Dragon Soul can awaken what sleeps beneath—the will of the Titan Guardian itself."
Deathwing frowned, suspicion stirring. "You mean to wield it against the orcish armies?"
The prince chuckled quietly and shook his head. "No. My purpose is not destruction." He lifted one gloved finger, tracing idle circles across the rim of his goblet. "I mean to heal the world."
Silence fell over the hall. Even the Daemonfire in Deathwing's spirit flickered uncertainly.
"You might not believe me," Arthas continued, his voice lowering, "but I hear her pain—the soul of Azeroth, sobbing in agony. Her cries pierce my mind. The Holy Light comforts me only briefly; every moment of quiet is broken by the weight of her suffering."
Deathwing stared, his expression unreadable. He, too, knew that voice—the tortured song of the slumbering titan soul. And within its harmony, the parasitic murmurs of the Old Gods. Hearing Arthas describe that pain so perfectly was like staring into a reflection of his own madness.
"Do you know why the Light chose me?" Arthas asked softly. "Because I listen."
For the first time in centuries, Deathwing almost felt understood. The destroyer found empathy in a mortal. The irony stung.
Onyxia sat motionless, hardly daring to interrupt. Her father's usual cruelty had melted into something she had never seen in him—curiosity and empathy. It unsettled her more than rage ever had.
"I healed a dying tree once," Arthas went on. "I poured the Light into a crack in the earth, filled it, soothed it. For a moment, the world sang with relief. It was fleeting—but it was real. I realized then what must be done. Heal her… and she gives strength in return."
His eyes locked on Deathwing's molten-gold gaze. "Help me mend the world, Lord Prestor."
"Oh?" Deathwing's voice rumbled, low and rough. "And how do you intend to heal something already cursed by gods?"
"Don't concern yourself with the method," Arthas replied smoothly. "Only tell me—will you help?"
To a being like Deathwing, the prince was an ant. Yet that "ant" glowed with a golden defiance that demanded attention. He recognized something terrifying within the young man: a purpose stronger than fear.
"Mutual aid," Deathwing said at last, leaning back. "I can grant assistance… but what do I receive in return?"
Arthas tilted his glass. "That depends on your appetite—gold? Or a stretch of land vast enough for you to grow unchecked, unseen by the other flights?"
Deathwing stilled. The offer struck at the heart of his greatest weakness. The Black Dragonflight, once innumerable, had been hunted to near extinction. His rebellion with the Dragon Soul had damned his kind. Any empire he tried to rebuild drew the wrath of the other Aspects.
"You could find such a place?" His eyes blazed with faint interest.
"Yes," Arthas said simply. "Draenor. The orcs' lost home."
Deathwing blinked. He remembered Draenor—fel-scorched, hollowed, stripped of vitality. "That world is barren," he said doubtfully. "The orcs left because it died."
Arthas laughed softly. He finished his drink, and as Onyxia refilled it, his hand brushed lightly across her hip—a careless gesture of dominance that sparked a flash of fury in her eyes.
"If Draenor were abundant," Arthas replied mildly, "you wouldn't need me to tell you to go there. But desolation has its virtue—no Aspects watching. No Titans listening. A dead world makes a perfect refuge for living secrets."
Onyxia kept her composure, but beneath the table her claws flexed. A mortal had never unnerved her like this.
"Your hand," she hissed coldly, eyes burning.
"My apologies," Arthas said easily, feigning charm. "Excitement often loosens restraint." He turned back to Deathwing, his expression calm once more. "So, my lord, what say you?"
Deathwing's form shimmered in its human guise as molten amusement flickered behind his disguise. "You risk nothing, yet you profit from everything," he said. "An excellent bargain for a mortal."
"Knowledge is priceless," Arthas countered. "If it's known by all, it isn't worth keeping. You crave freedom, not riches. Draenor can give you that. No flight, no Titan, no meddling keeper will find you there. It's yours to shape."
Deathwing studied him for a long, contemplative heartbeat. Then he smiled slowly—a smile filled with secrets and malice. "Then the deal is struck."
Their gazes met—Light and Flame, each bearing the same wound from a crying world. For one breathtaking moment, the greatest destroyer and the would-be savior shared a common purpose.
And deep beneath Azeroth's crust, something stirred, listening.