The sky above Grim Batol burned.
Deathwing descended like a living catastrophe, his colossal form blotting out the clouds as sheets of flame poured from his jaws. The earth cracked beneath his weight when he landed, molten stone spraying outward as if the mountain itself recoiled from his presence. His armored plates, dark, jagged, and bound by cruel adamantium glowed faintly from the inferno raging beneath them.
Against such a being, Rhonin and Falstad Wildhammer were little more than sparks before a wildfire.
And yet they fought.
Rhonin hovered in the air, arcane energy spiraling wildly around him as he flung spell after spell, not with hope of victory, but with the grim determination to survive. Fireballs shattered uselessly against Deathwing's armored scales. Bolts of frost evaporated before they could even form fully.
A massive arcane barrage struck Deathwing square in the chest, detonating in a brilliant flash and left nothing but scorch marks.
"By the Titans," Falstad roared from atop his gryphon, banking hard to avoid a sweeping tail strike, "he didnae even feel that!"
Deathwing answered with a roar that shook the mountain range. A torrent of flame surged upward, forcing Rhonin to teleport at the last second, reappearing just as a claw the size of a siege tower slammed into the space he had occupied.
They could not hurt him. So they endured.
Falstad wheeled through the smoke, firing his hammer when he could, shouting warnings when Deathwing's shadow loomed too close. Rhonin relied on instinct, blinking from place to place, erecting shields just strong enough to deflect glancing blows, every spell cast measured in heartbeats stolen from death.
It was chaos. And then it got worse.
From the ravaged battlefield below, warhorns sounded.
The surviving Dragonmaw orcs, battered and bloodied but unbroken, emerged from the ruins and regrouped with brutal efficiency. Their leader strode forward, towering even among his kind—Nekros Skullcrusher, the cruel master who had once enslaved Alexstrasza herself.
Chains clattered as the orcs formed ranks. Axes were raised. Spells crackled.
"Deathwing!" Nekros bellowed, his voice carrying over the thunder. "Dragonmaw! Lok'tar Ogar!"
They charged.
Orcs hurled themselves at the black Aspect with reckless fury. Siege weapons fired from improvised platforms. Warlocks summoned fel energies that clawed at Deathwing's wings. The ground erupted as shamans called upon the elements themselves to strike him down.
Deathwing laughed. He tore through them like paper.
A single wingbeat sent dozens flying. His fire incinerated entire formations in seconds. Those who reached him were crushed beneath talons or smashed aside by his tail, their bodies broken against the stone.
Resistance was futile. Yet still the Dragonmaw fought on.
Miles away, the thunder of battle echoed across the mountains.
Leylin felt it first, a deep, unnatural vibration in the air that made his skin prickle. The mana around them twisted violently, pulled and warped by something immense.
"Something's wrong," he said sharply.
Moments later, the roar of Deathwing reached them.
Vereesa stopped short. Tyr'ganal's hand went to his weapon. Aminel narrowed her eyes, sensing the same dreadful pressure in the air.
They broke into a run.
Scrambling up a jagged mountain ridge, they reached a vantage point high above the battlefield. From there, the sight that greeted them stole their breath.
Fire. Smoke. A dragon so vast it dwarfed the ruins beneath it.
Leylin's expression hardened. His eyes scanned the battlefield rapidly, assessing, calculating until he froze.
There.
A flash of red hair amid the chaos. A mage blinking desperately through the inferno, fighting not to win but to survive.
"…Rhonin," Leylin breathed.
He clenched his fist. Of course it was him.
"Vereesa," Leylin said without taking his eyes off the battlefield, "see the red-haired mage and the dwarf on the gryphon?"
She nodded instantly. "I do."
"We support them," Leylin said, voice firm. "That dragon isn't meant to fall today but they are not meant to die here."
Tyr'ganal grinned grimly. "About time this turned interesting."
Aminel drew in a sharp breath, mana already gathering at her fingertips. Below them, Deathwing roared again, and the battlefield burned brighter still.
High above the chaos, Leylin raised his hand. The balance of the battle was about to change.
The mountain itself seemed to recoil as Deathwing roared.
The sound was not merely heard, it was felt, a crushing pressure that rolled across the land and rattled bone and spirit alike. The sky burned where his breath passed, clouds tearing apart as though clawed by an unseen hand. Below, the Dragonmaw orcs were being annihilated in droves, their numbers meaning nothing before the sheer inevitability of the black Aspect's wrath.
Without another word, he raised his hand.
Arcane sigils flared into existence beneath their feet, layer upon layer of spatial runes folding inward, humming with restrained power. The world twisted violently.
And then—
They were there.
A thunderclap split the air as Leylin and his companions emerged on a fractured outcrop closer to the heart of the battlefield. Heat assaulted them instantly. The ground shook as Deathwing slammed down nearby, crushing a cluster of orcs beneath his talons as though they were insects.
"Leylin!" a familiar voice shouted.
Rhonin, singed and breathing hard, stared at him as if seeing a ghost. "Damn! Leylin?! You're alive?!"
Before Leylin could answer, Deathwing's wing swept overhead.
"DOWN!" Vereesa shouted.
Leylin snapped his hand forward. A shimmering arcane barrier bloomed outward, just in time to deflect a storm of burning debris. Rocks shattered against the shield, flames sliding off its surface in twisting rivulets of fire.
"Dwarf!" Vereesa called, released an arrow that split mid-flight into a dozen glowing shards, tearing through a pack of orcs that had broken formation.
"Aye! About time we got back up!" Falstad Wildhammer bellowed, hauling his gryphon higher to avoid a surge of flame.
But the battlefield was collapsing fast.
The Dragonmaw, once disciplined, were breaking, some fleeing, others throwing themselves at Deathwing in suicidal rage. The black Aspect's attention flickered dangerously, molten eyes sweeping the land as though searching for something new to destroy.
Leylin felt it instantly.
"If he focuses on us," Leylin said sharply, "we die."
He turned to Rhonin. "Retreat. Now."
Rhonin opened his mouth to argue but then Deathwing looked their way. The pressure was immediate. The air screamed. Leylin felt his wards strain just from that gaze.
"…All right," Rhonin said hoarsely. "All right, I see it."
They withdrew rapidly, Rhonin blinking in short, controlled jumps, Falstad pulling away on his gryphon while Tyr'ganal and Aminel provided cover fire. Only when the heat lessened and the roar faded slightly did they stop.
Rhonin leaned heavily against a broken stone pillar, laughing weakly. "That was… unpleasant."
Leylin studied him carefully. "Why are you here?"
"Kirin Tor assignment," Rhonin replied. "Someone named Krasus sent me."
At that name, Leylin went very still. Vereesa noticed. So did Aminel.
"Krasus…" Leylin repeated softly.
He said nothing for several heartbeats, gaze distant, mind racing through implications. Finally, he exhaled.
"Be careful," he said quietly. "Especially with Dalaran. Especially with those who always seem to know more than they should."
Rhonin waved it off with a tired grin. "You always distrust powerful mages."
Leylin did not smile. "Power isn't the problem. Intent is."
Rhonin laughed again, unaware or unwilling to press further. Leylin turned back toward Grim Batol.
Through the chaos, beneath the clashing wills of dragon and orc, he felt something else, contained, deliberate, hidden deep within the fortress. A presence.
"This battle is a lost cause," Leylin said. "There's someone inside that I need to find."
Vereesa stepped beside him instantly. "Then we're going in."
Leylin nodded. "Tyr'ganal. Aminel."
Both straightened.
"You stay outside," Leylin ordered. "Watch Deathwing. Watch the orcs. If anything changes, you warn us immediately."
Tyr'ganal smirked. "So you're diving into the lion's den while we keep the door from collapsing."
"That's one way to put it."
Aminel hesitated, eyes lingering on Leylin. "Come back."
"I will," he said simply. "Both of us will."
She nodded, trusting him because she always had.
Leylin turned briefly to Rhonin and his dwarf companion. "Fall back further. If Deathwing disengages, don't linger."
Falstad snorted. "Aye. Not keen on being dragon food."
Rhonin clasped Leylin's shoulder. "Don't die. I'd hate to owe you a reunion twice."
Leylin allowed himself a faint smile. "Try not to disappoint Krasus."
Before Rhonin could ask what that meant, Leylin raised his hand once more.
Space folded inward, shadows drawing tight around him and Vereesa as arcane light flared—
And they vanished.
Behind them, Deathwing roared again, the world trembling beneath his fury, as Leylin and Vereesa slipped into the depths of Grim Batol, toward whatever truth and danger awaited within.