Chapter 23: The Wrath of Deathwing

The Noble District of Stormwind has always been known for its elegance and tranquility; yet tonight, the mansion of Lady Katrana Prestor is consumed by a raging inferno.

Flames, like an enraged behemoth, devour ornate arched doorways and silk curtains, reducing priceless oil paintings and antiques to cinders. Servants flee, screaming, while Stormwind guards scramble with water buckets, unable to suppress the eerie, dark-red fire. It burns with a life of its own, seemingly hunting down every object within the estate associated with "Katrana."

"The Lady is still inside!" a maid cries out.

The captain of the guard grits his teeth, preparing to lead his men into the inferno, only to be shoved back by an invisible force. Moments later, the main beam of the mansion collapses with a thunderous crash, sending tongues of fire ten meters into the air and forcing everyone to retreat.

No one notices the tall figure standing in the shadows.

Deathwing—cloaked in human form—watches the dancing flames with golden, slitted eyes, his face terrifyingly grim. He had come to demand why his daughter was obsessed with such a ludicrous "fertilizer business," never expecting that the "Lady Katrana" in this house was merely a magical puppet.

An hour ago, he had silently slipped into the bedroom, seeing "Katrana" lying weakly on the bed, her pale cheeks possessing a sickly beauty. But when he clamped his hand around that slender neck, his palm passed through a phantom image.

"Onyxia!" As he crushed the core of the illusion, the puppet had eerily winked at him, a mocking curve playing on its lips.

"Amusing trick," he mused, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "It seems my daughter... has found a new toy."

Suddenly, his ears twitched.

"We must find the Lady!" the guard captain was growling to his lieutenant. "Lord Bolvar will never allow a representative of the Prestor family to disappear without a trace!"

Deathwing sneered, his figure dissipating like smoke.

Deep within Blackrock Mountain, the lava lake reflects the grotesque sights of Nefarian’s laboratory: dragon organs soaking in green fluid, the wailing of chromatic dragon experiments, and parchment walls covered in dense, frantic calculations.

The Black Dragon Prince is focused on injecting a tube of sulfur extract into the spine of a dragonkin when he suddenly pauses. The temperature in the lab spikes, and the lava lake ripples unnaturally.

"Father," Nefarian says without turning around, "I am in the middle of a critical experiment."

Deathwing’s human form emerges from the shadows, his obsidian boots crunching into a pool of blood with a sizzling sound.

"Your sister," he says, cutting straight to the point. "How much do you know?"

Nefarian’s dragon claw twitches imperceptibly.

"I’m not entirely sure. I heard she was into agriculture, making fertilizer or something." He turns, offering a scripted smile. "You know how it is, I’ve been busy with my own research."

Deathwing suddenly grabs a glass jar from the workbench—inside floats a crystal similar to the components of the fertilizer.

"Then what is this?"

"Er... an additive?" Nefarian reaches out to retrieve the jar. "Since the stories about fertilizer have been circulating everywhere, I just grabbed some to study and see if it could aid my research."

*Crack!*

The glass jar shatters in Deathwing's palm, white powder cascading down.

"Last chance." The Destroyer’s voice causes frost to form on the surface of the lava lake. "Where is she?"

Nefarian’s wings tuck in nervously. He knows exactly what his sister is doing in her lair—in fact, he secretly holds a 10% stake in the fertilizer business, using the profits from the sulfur trade to subsidize his chromatic dragon experiments.

"Dustwallow Marsh, the main lair," he finally shrugs. "But Father, you really should look at her financial statements; the profit growth last quarter was—"

*Boom!*

A blast of dragonfire grazes Nefarian’s cheek, obliterating half the workbench and showering the room with the mangled limbs of chromatic dragon hatchlings.

"You had best pray she isn't planning anything stupid." Deathwing grabs his son by the throat, hoisting him over the lava lake. "Otherwise, it won't just be experimental data that burns next time."

When his father’s oppressive presence finally vanishes, Nefarian collapses amidst the ruins, wiping dragon blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Good luck, sister," he mutters bitterly. Once Deathwing is gone, he pulls out a communication crystal.

***

In the underground workshop of Onyxia’s Lair, Dustwallow Marsh:

As Onyxia enters the workshop, Dren is sprawled amidst a pile of iron pipes and copper ingots, clutching a strange metal tube with half a screw hanging from his mouth.

"What toy are you tinkering with now?" She raises an eyebrow, nudging a twisted copper pipe with the tip of her foot.

Dren looks up, his face smeared with grease, his eyes shining with terrifying intensity.

"Ammonium nitrate and sugar propellant, with a hollow-charge armor-piercing warhead!" He excitedly hoists the iron pipe. "Designed specifically to deal with—"

"—Speak plain common," Onyxia interrupts.

Dren chokes, scratching his head. "Uh... it’s... the kind of thing that can burn a hole through your father’s scales."

The Black Dragon Princess narrows her eyes, her golden slitted pupils narrowing to thin lines in the dim light.

"Demonstrate," she commands.

Dren jumps up, nimbly mounting a miniature version of the rocket onto an iron stand, the warhead aimed at a steel plate half a palm thick ten paces away.

"Will it be too loud?" Onyxia frowns. "Dragonkin patrols have been frequent in Dustwallow Marsh lately."

"Don't worry!" Dren promises, thumping his chest. "It’s quieter than a goblin passing gas!"

He lights the fuse and pulls Onyxia behind a stone pillar—

*Whoosh!*

The rocket flies off, trailing a faint plume of smoke, carving a clean, melted-edge hole through the steel plate before embedding itself into the stone wall behind with a sharp *clink*.

Onyxia stares at the smoking hole, silent for three seconds.

"...That’s it?" she sneers. "You expect to use this to give Deathwing a pedicure?"

Dren trots over, prying the warhead debris from the stone wall. "This is a prototype, the charge is only one-tenth of a live round." He wipes the slag from the copper liner fragments. "The real big one can punch through a meter of homogeneous steel—but that’s not the point."

He leans close to Onyxia, lowering his voice. "This is for the finishing blow. Once the main charge leaves him stunned, you grab this—" he mimes a thrusting motion "—and jam it right into the cracks of his chest armor."

The tip of the Black Dragon Princess’s tail sweeps the floor unconsciously.

"I want to test a live round," she says suddenly.

Dren’s smile freezes. "...What?"

"N-o-w."

Onyxia assumes her dragon form, her pitch-black scales gleaming in the marsh-gas lamps. She impatiently taps her claws on the floor, shaking dust from the workshop ceiling.

"Hurry," she growls.

Dren’s face turns pale. He scrambles to strap a piece of composite armor, stitched together from steel plates and ceramic shards, onto her forelimb.

"A-at least wear some armor... don't look down on it, safety first," he says, his voice trembling. "It’s my custom composite plating; the protection is quite decent."

Onyxia scoffs, but lets him secure the plating.

Dren retreats to a safe distance, laboriously aiming the full-sized rocket launcher at her armored limb—

*Boom!*

The moment the projectile leaves the tube, the shockwave flips three tool racks. The armor-piercing round strikes the composite plate with pinpoint accuracy; the copper-lined jet pours out, slicing through the armor like a hot knife through butter, leaving a charred, black mark on Onyxia’s forelimb.

"ROAR—!" The black dragon bellows in pain, the workshop walls cracking under the sonic force.

Dren rushes over, checking on her with concern. "Your Highness, are you okay—"

Onyxia, however, suddenly goes quiet.

She stares down at the smoking wound, flicks her tongue to lick the scorched scales, and suddenly lets out a low, dark laugh.

"Human," she says, whipping her tail to toss the launcher at Dren’s feet. "I want one hundred of these."

The air still hangs heavy with the acrid scent of the rocket launch. Dren is busy frantically tidying the overturned tool racks while Onyxia licks the burn on her limb, a strange, delighted light flickering in her dragon eyes.

Suddenly, the air in the corner of the workshop twists.

"Wow."

A crisp, childish voice echoes from the void.

Dren spins around to see a golden fissure tear open in mid-air. A small head with twin tails pokes through, wide, round eyes staring intently at Onyxia’s wound.

"Chromie?!" Dren nearly bites his tongue.

"You actually let this thing hit you?" Chromie—the bronze dragon’s gnome form—jumps out of the time rift, pointing at the burnt scales on the Black Dragon Princess, her face filled with disbelief. "Onyxia, when did you become so... heroic?"

Onyxia’s tail lashes out, cracking a floor tile. "Get out here and talk, little one."

Chromie pouts, hopping fully out of the rift and dusting off her clothes. She circles Onyxia, clicking her tongue in wonder. "Seriously, I didn’t think you’d be willing to act as a target."

"None of your business," Onyxia narrows her eyes. "What is a little pain? How can I be confident in the next stage of the plan without verifying the weapon's power?"

Chromie hops onto a piece of debris, swinging her legs. "Same here, just checking on the plan. I feel like an idiot for actually believing you two could take down that old dragon."

Onyxia’s scales bristle slightly, a low growl rolling deep in her throat.

Dren quickly steps between the two dragons. "Chromie, you’re here to verify the plan, right?"

Chromie’s expression turns serious. She jumps down and pats Dren on the shoulder. "Nozdormu has already noticed the abnormal fluctuations in the timeline." She lowers her voice. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Dren nods. "The news has already been spread across the Eastern Kingdoms by goblins. The rumors of 'Black Dragon Fertilizer' are everywhere, even the nobles in Stormwind are discussing it... Deathwing cannot possibly be unaware."

Onyxia snorts, nudging the metal projectiles with her claw. "We’ve also prepared a... 'little gift' for him."

Chromie stares at the cold, metallic warheads and swallows hard. "D-do these things really have a chance to hurt him?"

Dren scratches his head. "Just follow the plan. Man proposes, God disposes." He pauses, adding meaningfully, "Besides... we still have 'the boss' watching over us."

As he speaks, he taps the floor gently with his toe.

For a moment, both dragons (though one is in human form) fall silent.

Chromie’s pupils shrink slightly, Onyxia’s tail curls, and Dren simply stands there calmly, as if he had just remarked on the weather.

"...Fine," Chromie sighs. "I’ll be there on time."

She turns and jumps back into the time rift, but pokes her head back out before leaving. "Oh, and one more thing—" She winks at Onyxia. "Your father might already be on his way."

The rift snaps shut, leaving the workshop in silence.

Dren and Onyxia exchange a look.

The Black Dragon Princess’s mouth slowly widens, revealing sharp, serrated dragon teeth.

Dren wipes cold sweat from his forehead, but he finds himself smiling too.

"The fireworks show is starting early," he whispers.