The black dragon lay at the edge of the swamp, his power bound. He could not even return to human form.
Nefarian stared blankly at bustling Menethil Harbor in the distance, his eyes lifeless. All he felt was regret, endless regret.
With his dragon power restrained, Nefarian was a lamb awaiting slaughter, waiting for his fate.
Arrogant and conceited as Nefarian was, he knew perfectly well that Ebonroc would never mobilize the entire Black Dragonflight to save his life.
Ebonroc, Firemaw, and Flamegor were all cut from the same cloth. They cared about the Black Dragonflight's interests and his father's interests.
Compared with those two things, the loyalty they offered Nefarian, their young prince, was little more than nominal.
Strength ruled the Black Dragonflight, but Nefarian had spent years immersed in his chromatic dragon experiments. Though his strength surpassed that of the three Black Dragon Commanders, he was far too weak compared with the former Black Dragon Lord.
If he could master even a little of his master Neltharion's power of the earth, perhaps Nefarian could survive the human archmage's legendary spell.
After all, he had not been the target of that arcane storm.
With no rescue coming, Nefarian could only wait for death once again.
Humans had little affection for black dragons, and now he had no ability to resist.
Even if he escaped execution, a miserable fate would await him.
That human archmage's strength could even rival his father's. He no longer dared entertain even one last hope of escape.
Nefarian hung his muddled head, a jumble of emotions churning inside him.
Through his haze, Nefarian saw a beautiful, graceful figure. Even loose robes could not conceal her voluptuous curves-the very form he had once scorned. How could a dragon use her figure and looks to curry favor