“So be it, then,” the cowled spellcaster murmured.

With one gloved finger, Krasus drew a circle in the air. Golden sparks accented the tracing his finger made. The circle was perfect and looked as if it had been cut into the very atmosphere itself.

Touching his fingertips to the center, the dragon mage removed the circle. A white gap floated before him, one reaching beyond the mortal plane.

Krasus muttered under his breath, The circle’s outline flared red. There was a moan from within it and small, loose stones began rolling toward the gap. Krasus muttered more, and, although the suction grew more intense, the stones slowed to a halt. Instead, the eggs began to shake slightly, as if even in the cold, dead ones, something moved.

But it was not so. One of the viable eggs nearest to Krasus’s creation suddenly rose. It drifted almost serenely toward the small gap. A second marked egg did likewise, then the rest followed. The dead eggs continued to quiver, but remained where they were.

And as he watched, the future of Malygos’s flight lined up before the hole and started to enter.

Curiously, as each egg approached, it seemed to shrink just enough to fit through. One by one, in constant succession, Krasus’s valuable find disappeared into the gap.

When the last had vanished, the cowled spellcaster sealed the opening. There was a brief, golden spark, and then all trace of the gap vanished.

“Enough to survive, but not enough to thrive,” Krasus muttered. It would take centuries for the blues to reach secure numbers. Even supposing every egg hatched, there would still not be that many blue dragons even by the time period from which he had come.

Still, some were better than none.

A sudden wave of nausea and exhaustion overtook Krasus. He barely prevented himself from falling. Despite having for the most part solved the puzzle of the original malady striking him when he had entered the past — that being that both he and his younger self had to share their life force — there were limits yet.

But he could not rest. The eggs were secure, placed in a pocket universe where time ran so slow as to be negligible. Long enough to pass them on to one he could trust… assuming he survived the war.

Thinking of that war, Krasus began mustering his strength. Whatever his confidence in Rhonin and Malfurion, there were too many question marks about the certainty of the outcome. The time line had forever shifted; it was possible that the Burning Legion, who had originally lost this struggle, would triumph. Whatever his own meddling with the line, Krasus was well aware that now he had to do everything he could to assist the night elves and the rest. All that mattered now was that there had to be a future.

As he began the spell that would carry him back to the host, Krasus eyed the scores of dead eggs. There would also be a future if the demons won. This would be it. Cold, dark, no life. An eternity of emptiness.

The dragon mage hissed vehemently and vanished.

Two

Zin-Azshari. Once the glorious epitome of the night elf civilization. A sprawling city at the edge of the basis of the night elves’ power, the Well. The home of the revered queen, Azshara, for whom her adoring subjects had renamed the capital.

Zin-Azshari… a ruined graveyard, the launching point of the Burning Legion.

Lupine felbeasts sniffed through the rubble, ever seeking the unmistakable smell of life and magic. Twin tentacles jutting up from near their furred shoulders darted around as if with minds of their own. The toothy suckers at the end of each opened and closed hungrily. Felbeasts savored draining a sorcerer dry of both his power and his life, but the rows of sharp teeth displayed in the scaly monsters’ mouths gave warning that flesh was a tasty tidbit to them, too.

Two demonic hounds rummaging through the collapsed wreckage of what had once been a five-story tree home quickly gazed up at the sound of marching feet and the clatter of arms and armor. Rows upon rows of fierce warriors churned past, their destination the night elven defenders days away. The Fel Guard were the backbone of the invaders, their numbers dwarfing all the rest combined. They stood nine feet high, but while broad at the shoulder and chest, were oddly narrow, even gaunt, in their midsection. A pair of huge, curled horns thrust up from their almost fleshless heads. Their bloodred eyes warily watched the devastated landscape. Although they marched with precision, there was a general impatience among the Fel Guard, for they lived only for carnage. Now and then, one of the fanged warriors would jostle another and the threat of anarchy would break out.

But a quick flash of whip from above ever kept the warriors in line. Fiery-winged Doomguard fluttered above the ranks of every regiment, watching for disorder. Slightly taller, they differed little else from their brethren below, save in their lesser numbers and greater intelligence.

Though a dread mist covered Zin-Azshari now, the monstrous armies had no difficulty maneuvering through it. The mist was as much a part of them as the swords, axes, and lances they wielded. Its sickly green tint matched exactly the color of the fearsome flames that radiated from each demon.

The skulls of night elves watched mournfully from the ruins as the Burning Legion marched. They and countless others like them had perished early on, betrayed by the very queen they worshipped. The only night elves still alive in the capital were the Highborne, the servants of the queen. Their secluded quarter of the city, surrounded by gargantuan walls, kept the visions of the slaughter from their delicate sensibilities. Clad in the garish, multicolored robes of their elite rank, they tended to their needs while awaiting the commands of Azshara.

The warriors of the palace guard still lined the walls, their eyes filled with a fanatic glare worthy of the Legion. They were commanded by Captain Varo’then — more a general these days than a simple officer, despite his title — who acted as the eyes and mouth of his monarch when she could not be troubled from her recreation. Given the order, the soldiers would have stood side by side with the demons against their own people. They had already watched without emotion the massacre of the city’s inhabitants. As with most all within the palace, they were both Azshara’s creatures and servants to the lord of the Burning Legion.

Sargeras.

One who was neither the queen’s nor the demon’s puppet hung in a cell deep beneath the palace, trying to stifle the gnawing fear in her gut by constant prayer to her goddess.

Tyrande Whisperwind had woken to a nightmare. The last that she could recall, the priestess of Elune — the Mother Moon — had been in the middle of a terrible battle. Tossed from her dying mount, she had struck her head. Malfurion had dragged her to safety… and then from there everything had turned muddled. Vaguely, Tyrande recalled horrific images and sounds. Goatlike creatures with leering mouths. Clawed, furred hands clutching her. Malfurion’s desperate voice and then —

And then the priestess had awakened here.

Long, elegant eyes of silver surveyed her prison for the thousandth time. Graceful lips parted in regret and grim acknowledgment of her situation. She shook her head, her long, dusky blue hair — the silver streaks in it more prominent now that she did not wear her war helmet — flowing in waves with each change of direction. Nothing had altered since last Tyrande had looked around. Had she really expected anything to do so?

Chains did not bind her wrists and ankles, but she might as well have been held by such. A shimmering, green sphere floating a foot or so above the dank, stone floor surrounded her from head to toe. In it, she stood with arms stretched over her head and her legs sealed tightly together. Try as she might, the recently-anointed high priestess could not separate her limbs. The magic of the great demon, Archimonde, ever proved too powerful in that regard.