The Black Dragon Princess's Fury

Year 18 After the Dark Portal, Stormwind City, Noble District, Prestor Manor

The night was black as ink, and the flames in the fireplace cast shifting shadows across the mahogany study. Katrana Prestor—or rather, Onyxia—sat at her desk, her fingertips lightly tapping a secret letter that had just arrived.

There was no signature, no superfluous wording, only a single line of hurried handwriting:

"King's Valley. The black dragon."

Her golden slit pupils narrowed slightly, and her nails lengthened unconsciously, scratching several thin marks into the paper.

"Who?" she murmured, a dangerous hiss suppressed within her voice.

The letter was far too precise—precise enough to be unsettling. "The black dragon"—only a handful of people in Azeroth knew what that title meant, and even fewer could connect it to her.

She rose to her feet, her silk robe sliding over her body like water as she walked to the window. Stormwind City's lights flickered in the distance, and the human world continued to turn in blissful ignorance. She had been lurking here for three years, using her identity as a distant relative of House Prestor to gradually infiltrate Stormwind City's center of power. Her plan had been progressing steadily—dividing the nobles, manipulating the political situation, and paving the way for the rise of the Black Dragon Legion.

Yet this letter was like a dagger pressed against her throat.

She closed her eyes and felt the dragon blood surging within her. Her father—Deathwing—had long since gone mad, while her brother Nefarian was obsessed with his twisted experiments. She had thought herself cautious enough, hidden enough...

But clearly, someone had discovered her secret.

She suddenly clenched the letter, and black flames burst from between her fingers, reducing the parchment to ash.

"Whoever you are..." she sneered softly, "you'd better pray that you can run fast enough."

She turned toward the wardrobe and took out an inconspicuous gray cloak. If someone was testing her, then she had to confirm it herself—see just how many lives this person who dared threaten the Black Dragon Princess had to waste.

The night wind swept past Stormwind City's spires as Katrana's figure silently melted into the darkness, heading toward King's Valley.

King's Valley, late at night

Onyxia stood atop a towering cliff, her pitch-black cloak blending into the night. Her dragon eyes glimmered faintly in the darkness as she surveyed every inch of the valley below.

No one could discover her—if she did not wish to be discovered.

As a Black Dragon, she had long grown accustomed to moving through the shadows. Stormwind City's guards, mages, even those rogues who fancied themselves perceptive, could not detect her presence. She had left an illusion in her room—a "sleeping" Katrana Prestor, enough to deceive any possible observer.

Yet even so, her heart could not settle.

Time slowly passed. Moonlight flowed between gravestones and statues, while the night wind whispered the names of heroes long gone. Onyxia's fingertips unconsciously brushed over the rock wall, and the hard stone faintly cracked beneath her touch.

"The black dragon"...

Those words were like a thorn driven deep into her thoughts. Countless times, she had maneuvered among the powerful in human form, weaving her game with lies and seduction. But this time, she was the one being tested.

—It enraged her, yet also thrilled her faintly.

In her long life, she had rarely felt such emotions. Most of the time, humans were nothing more than ants in her eyes. Their conspiracies and ambitions seemed laughably childish to her. But this time...

Someone had dared challenge her directly.

"Who could it be?" she murmured, her voice carrying the distinctive hiss of dragonkind.

Over the past three hours, countless possibilities had flashed through her mind:

Some meddlesome Bronze Dragon?

A Pit Lord lurking in Stormwind City?

Could it even be a trap set by her mad brother, Nefarian?

She narrowed her eyes. A dragon's patience allowed her to wait all night, or even longer. If this was a trap, she would tear apart whoever had laid it with her own claws; if it was a warning...

Then she would make them understand the price of threatening a Black Dragon.

At last, when the moon climbed to its zenith, a faint firelight appeared in the wasteland at the bottom of the valley.

The corner of her mouth slowly curled upward.

"Finally."

She silently slid down the cliff, approaching like a shadow.

—The game had begun.

She glided down the cliff like a shadow, every detection spell already prepared—

Then she froze in place.

Beside the fire sat a human boy so thin he barely looked human, poking at a piece of moldy black bread with a stick. His ragged burlap clothes were covered in patches, and his exposed wrists were so thin that the outlines of his bones were visible. Most ridiculous of all, a rusty kitchen knife lay at his feet, its blade stained with suspicious dark red marks.

"Detection magic. No response."

"True Sight. No disguise whatsoever."

"Soul scan. Just a commoner on the verge of starving to death."

Onyxia felt a ridiculous wave of dizziness. She, the Daughter of Deathwing, had been led around by the nose by a Westfall refugee with a few words? Dragonfire churned in her throat, and the air around her began to warp.

"You had better have a reasonable explanation," she said, her voice already carrying the echo of a dragon's roar. "Otherwise, I'll make you understand that the consequences of mocking a Black Dragon are ten thousand times more painful than starving to death."

The boy raised his head, and a brilliant smile suddenly bloomed across his filthy face. The smile was far too bright, utterly out of place amid the surrounding despair.

"Ha! I knew you'd come!" He stood up, gripping the bread he had been warming over the fire. "I came to save you, Lady Onyxia. My name is Deren, and I'm from Westfall."

The refugee calling himself Deren even patted the ground beside him, as though inviting an old friend. Onyxia's slit pupils shrank to thin lines as she caught the scent of scorched bread drifting through the air.

"Save me?" Her laughter made the surrounding gravestones tremble faintly. "With that rusty kitchen knife of yours?"

Deren suddenly burst into laughter, his voice especially piercing in the silent King's Valley. He grabbed the kitchen knife and casually tossed it away. Before the blade could hit the ground, Onyxia's dragon breath vaporized it.

"See? That's the gap between us." Deren spread his empty hands. "You could turn me to ash with a flick of your finger. But in a few years—" His voice suddenly lowered. "When your head leaves your body, perhaps you'll remember this night."

Moonlight shone into the boy's sunken eye sockets, where something burned that felt unfamiliar to the Black Dragon Princess. It was not fear, not madness, but damned certainty.

Onyxia's dragon claw was already pressed against Deren's throat. She could feel his fragile pulse beating beneath her fingertips. All it would take was the slightest bit of force—

"Last chance," she hissed.

The corner of Deren's mouth lifted, revealing a wolfish smile.

Onyxia's dragon claw remained against Deren's throat. She could feel the fragile pulse of this weak human. With the slightest bit of force, she could end this audacious ant.

But Deren did not struggle. He was not even afraid. His eyes met hers directly, and something she could not understand burned within them—not pleading, but a certainty bordering on arrogance.

"You are the noble Black Dragon Princess, and I..." Deren cracked his dry lips into a self-mocking smile. "I'm just a commoner from Westfall. There should have been no connection between us. There's even less reason for you to get rough with me."

When Onyxia loosened her fingers, he sat down with a gasp, picked up the black bread again, and slowly began chewing.

His voice was hoarse, yet unusually clear.

"This is the last bread I have. Once I finish it, I'll go hungry tomorrow. I came all the way here from Westfall with nothing but that kitchen knife. I just wasn't willing to give up like this. I had to find some way to struggle."

"But fate is strange like that."

Onyxia's pupils narrowed slightly. Her fingers turned into dragon claws as she threatened, "Get to the point, insect," she growled.

Deren did not retreat.

"I sensed Apocalypse," he said slowly. "I saw fragments of Azeroth's future."

"The Burning Legion will descend again, the Scourge Plague will sweep across the land, Stormwind City's nobles will rot at their banquets, and the farmers of Westfall..." He gave a bitter laugh. "They'll either become Gnoll droppings or walking dead."

A trace of contempt flashed through Onyxia's eyes.

"So? You think I care whether humanity survives?"

"No." Deren shook his head. "But you care whether you survive."

He raised a hand and pointed in the direction of Stormwind City.

"In a few years, your head will hang above the city gates. The Black Dragon Legion will be dragged into madness by your father, and you—" He paused. "You'll die for nothing."

Onyxia's dragon eyes suddenly contracted.

"You're courting death—"

"Kill me, and you still won't change that ending." Deren interrupted her, his voice remarkably calm. "But if you keep me alive, perhaps I can give you a chance to turn things around."

The night wind swept through King's Valley. The bonfire flickered, sending sparks dancing through the air.

Deren slowly raised his hand and opened his palm—there was nothing in it, only several cracked wounds left by labor.

"I don't want to become dung in the wilderness, and I don't want to become one of the Scourge's undead." He stared into Onyxia's eyes. "So I came to find you, so we can escape that inevitable fate together."

Onyxia was silent for a long time.

At last, she slowly withdrew her dragon claw, a dangerous curve lifting at the corner of her mouth.

"Prove it to me," she said quietly. "Prove that you aren't spouting nonsense."

But Deren merely looked at her, that strange smile still on his lips, as though he had long seen through her hesitation.

"You don't care about evidence at all," he said hoarsely. "What you care about is—what if it's true?"

Onyxia's pupils narrowed slightly.

Deren slowly raised his hand and pointed at the center of her brow.

"Your father has gone mad, hasn't he?"

Those words were like a sharp blade, precisely piercing Onyxia's deepest fear. Her scales faintly appeared beneath her skin, dragon breath surging through her chest—how could this human know?

"Your brother is obsessed with those twisted experiments," Deren continued in a low voice. "And what about you? You play at being a noble in Stormwind City, but deep down..."

He grinned, revealing a missing tooth.

"You've long suspected that all of this is a dead end."

Onyxia's dragon claw trembled for an instant.

Deren suddenly grabbed her wrist, his bony fingers clamping around her scales like iron pincers.

"I don't need to prove anything." He stared into her eyes. "You only need to answer one question—"

"Do you dare gamble?"

"If I'm a liar, you'll lose at most a few minutes."

"But if I'm right..."

His nails dug into the gaps between her scales. His fingertips were cut open, and a trace of weak black blood seeped out.

"You might survive."

The night wind wailed past the gravestones, and the bonfire suddenly went out.

In absolute darkness, Onyxia heard the roar of her own blood.

Not for the Alliance, not for the Horde, only for Azeroth! Let us begin this different journey to save Azeroth.