She smiled, a reaction that always made him shiver despite himself. "We shall make do with our lone child for now, my dear Zendarin... He shall suffice. If need be."

As if hearing her, from below came a hungry hiss.

The lady in black made a shushing sound toward the pit. Immediately, the thing in the darkness below quieted.

"The poor darling needs to feed. Would you care to do it, Zendarin?"

He shrugged, only one consideration worrying him. "We might kill the nether dragon like this. That creature has an insatiable appetite."

"We shall have another source of sustenance for the dear thing before long... if the one so eager to reach us is as clever as he thinks he is. For now, though, we shall just have to risk the nether dragon. It is essential that nothing slows the growth process."

The blood elf bowed. "As you say, my lady."

He strode off to deal with the matter. The veiled female watched him depart, then gazed down into the shadowy pit again.

Below, something flared a deep and unsettling purple before once again becoming part of the darkness.

"Patience, my child," she cooed. "Patience. You shall be fed. You shall be fed... and then grow up to be so very big..." Her expression turned stony. "Just as your damned father would have wanted."

It was not Krasus who reappeared In the Wetlands, but rather his true self, Korialstrasz. Moreover, the dragon materialized at dusk, the better to make use of the elements of the night for his plan.

The time is nigh, Korialstrasz determined. Let us see what your next move shall be, he thought at his unknown and unseen adversary. If it was Deathwing, then what the red dragon planned would outwardly make sense to the black. If someone else, then they would surely follow the same line of thought... and that was all that mattered.

He spread his massive wings.

The front part of the great red dragon peeled away. Two Korialstraszes now stood together.

But the spell was not finished. As both exhaled, from each peeled away another copy... and then another. Soon, eight Korlalstraszes filled the area.

As one, they leapt into the darkening sky, heading in different directions... but all with the intention of eventually arriving at Grim Batol.

It was a costly plan Korialstrasz intended. The copies were more than mere illusion; to make all this work, each had been imbued with a tiny bit of himself. Just enough to make those who might be observing him wonder which was the true dragon. They would have to expend precious power determining the truth... and by then the real Korialstrasz would be upon them.

Or so they were supposed to believe.

In truth, none of the dragons were real. All eight were imbued copies. As the others had been created, the true Korialstrasz had masked his transformation back into the guise of Krasus.

And as Krasus, he once again began moving through the Wetlands. He had learned his lesson from his near-disaster; this time, most of his remaining might was focused on making him invisible both to the eyes and other senses of any watchers. Once more, it was something that few other casters, even dragons, could have accomplished, and Krasus had saved this particular spell for centuries.

Now he hoped the wait was worth it.

The eight Korialstraszes disappeared into the distance. They would fly routes carefully thought out by their creator, who knew the region well enough to make each seem the conscious choice of their particular flyer. Krasus sensed with satisfaction their dwindling presence.

As for him, he pushed on with the knowledge of just how long it would probably take whomever watched to eliminate the choices. By then, the true red dragon would have already infiltrated the dire mountain.

A variety of night creatures crossed his path, but this time none took even the slightest notice of him. Krasus eyed with distaste a second crocolisk swimming through the nearby waters, but otherwise did nothing. He had no bitterness toward the species, however much the one had hurt him. He also found it interesting that, in contrast to the one that had attacked him, this beast had no obvious ability to shield itself from his presence.

Very curious, the dragon mage thought. Could it be that the first...

His body suddenly shook. He felt a slight sense of loss and recognized its origins immediately.

One of his duplicates had been just destroyed. Exactly how, he could not say, but in some manner it had involved potent magic. The cowled spellcaster took a moment to recover, then pressed on.

That the first had been struck down so quickly did not surprise Krasus in the least, though he still mourned that tiny piece of him that had been lost. He had expected to be tested quickly. The duplicate had served its purpose and the loss of one among eight was a sacrifice that he could well suffer. Already he had covered a great distance.

However, he had scarcely gone an hour more when again he was hit from within... and this time the sense of loss felt tenfold more devastating. Krasus grunted, forced to rest against a tree for more than a minute. He had expected a bit more time to pass before a second was destroyed. Still, there was nothing to do but continue.

And so he did... until barely a short walk later a third loss struck him harder than the previous two had. Now the dragon mage staggered. Finding a place to sit, Krasus took several deep breaths. Not only had this one come much too swiftly after the others, but it should not have affected him so hard. He had calculated everything to the finest detail. It should not have—

Krasus stiffened. In addition to what was happening well ahead, he abruptly realized that, once again, someone or something was pursuing him.

This is not as it was supposed to be! He angrily peered behind him, but saw only the Wetlands. Yet, there was something stalking him, and it was no crocolisk. Krasus had raised wards against a reoccurrence of that nature. Indeed, from what little that the dragon mage could sense, what followed wielded a magic different from that to which he was used.

For a region supposedly abandoned by any creature of reason, the Wetlands and Grim Batol were proving quite active. Krasus finally went against his better judgment and sought with his mind to better probe the direction in which he felt the hound on his heels followed.

There was a brief trace... and then nothing. The dragon mage frowned. Something was not right—

A cloaked figure suddenly leapt out from among the trees, one obscured foot pounding into Krasus's chest with astounding force. The lanky spellcaster went flying back.

But he was hardly beaten. His body stopped falling just inches from the ground, then immediately righted itself. The cowled mage glared in the direction of his attacker, a spell ready.

The mysterious attacker was nowhere to be seen.

Krasus spun about, arm raised.

He barely blocked the strike coming at his throat from behind, a blow certain to at least incapacitate him, if not shatter his windpipe. Whoever he fought had knowledge of all the most sensitive places to hit. The kick would have left any human, elf, or dwarf unconscious, their breath crushed from their lungs. Only because of what Krasus actually was had he been able to withstand the attack... and this one as well.

Yet, even as he deflected that blow, his assailant summoned into being an odd staff... the crystal tip of which promptly touched Krasus on the chest.

He let out a roar worthy of any dragon as the pain engulfed him. Wards that should have held against most magical attacks failed utterly... because, he sensed belatedly, the forces unleashed by the crystal were unlike the arcane magics of Azeroth.

And only then did Krasus have a suspicion as to just what his attacker was.