doubled over and nearly collapsed. Korialstrasz instinctively reached for the tiny figure, but the mage waved him back. “I will survive it!”
Gasping for breath, still doubled over, Krasus seized the hand he had altered and tore at the tiny scales. They resisted his efforts. He finally gritted his teeth and tugged on two as hard as he could.
They tore free, leaving a trail of blood pooling on the back of his monstrous appendage. Swallowing hard, the gaunt figure immediately let the hand revert, and, as it did, the pain receded.
Ignoring his self-inflicted wound, Krasus inspected his prizes. Eyes sharper than any night elf’s looked for the slightest imperfection.
“You know that what afflicts us both does not allow you to transform to your natural shape any more than it lets me change into other than a dragon,” Korialstrasz chided. “You risk yourself terribly when you attempt such an act.”
“It was necessary,” Krasus replied. He turned the bits over, frowning. “This one is cracked,” he muttered, letting the scale in question fly away in the wind, “but the other is perfect.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
“You must trust me.”
The dragon blinked. “Have I ever done otherwise?”
Taking the tiny scale, the mage went to where Korialstrasz had scratched free his own. The area was still red and soft and large enough for any good archer to hit.
Whispering words older than dragons, Krasus pressed the scale directly on the center of the open region.
The scale flared a bright yellow as it touched. Korialstrasz let out a gasp, but did not otherwise react. The dragon’s eyes gazed intently on what his companion did.
Krasus chanted the elder words over and over, each time increasing the speed with which he spoke them. The scale pulsated and with each pulsation seemed to grow a little larger. Within seconds, it had become almost identical to those surrounding it.
“It will adhere to your flesh in a matter of seconds,” Krasus informed the leviathan. “There will be no chance of losing it.”
A moment later, he stepped back and inspected his handiwork. The dragon’s head came around to do the same.
“It feels … normal,” the leviathan commented.
“I hope it does more for you. As I now carry a part of you with me, so you, in turn, carry a part of me with you. I pray the synergistic magics involved will give us some of the benefit we receive when actually with each other.”
Korialstrasz spread his wings. “There is only one way to find out.”
Krasus agreed; to discover whether the spell had worked, they would have to separate. “I bid you farewell, then, good Korialstrasz.”
The huge beast dipped his head low. “And I, you.”
“Alexstrasza—”
“I will tell her of you and your wishes, Krasus.” The dragon eyed the tiny figure carefully. “I have suspicions about our links, but I respect the need you have to keep your secrets from me. One thing I discovered quickly, though, is that you love her as much as I. Exactly as I.”
Krasus said nothing.
“As soon as I can, I will tell you how she fares.” Moving to the edge of the battlements. the dragon looked to the sky. “Until we meet again, my blood …”
And with that, the crimson titan leapt into the air.
My blood … Krasus frowned at the choice of words. To dragons, such a term meant close ties. Not mere comrade or clan, but closer yet, such as brothers from the same clutch of eggs or offspring and parent …
Or … the same being in two bodies …
Krasus knew himself better than anyone. He had no doubt as to his younger self’s intelligence. Korialstrasz almost had the truth in his grasp and the mage had no idea what that might mean for both of them.
Weakness suddenly overtook him. Through quickly watering eyes, Krasus sought out Korialstrasz’s scale. The moment he seized it, some of the pain and weariness left him. But touching it was not enough; he had to keep it closer to him for the effect to be worthwhile.
Exposing his chest to the cool night wind, the dragon mage planted the large scale against his flesh. Again he muttered the ancient words, stirring up forces no night elf could understand, much less wield.
The same golden aura flared around the scale. Krasus shook, fighting to keep his balance.
As quickly as it had appeared, the aura faded. He stared down at his chest, now covered in the center by his younger self’s parting gift.
A slight hint of weariness still pervaded his being, though both it and the tinge of pain also present were nothing Krasus could not readily suffer. Now at last he could walk among the others and not feel their pity. Now he could stand beside them against the demons. The mage wondered why he had not thought of this plan much earlier—then recalled that he had, but only bothered to put it into action once Korialstrasz had declared his intention to seek out the other dragons.
It is hard to part with one’s self, apparently. How Rhonin would have laughed at his conceit. The irony made even Krasus chuckle. How Alexstrasza would have enjoyed the jest as well. She had more than once suggested that his continuous intrusion into the matters of the lesser races had a touch of vanity involved, but this act now more than topped that in every—
A sudden wave of vertigo struck him.
It was all he could do to keep himself from slipping over the battlements. The attack ended swiftly, but the repercussions kept Krasus leaning against the stone wall and breathing heavily for more than a minute.
When he could at last stand straight, the dragon mage immediately looked far beyond Black Rook Hold, far beyond Suramar.
To distant, dark Zin-Azshari.
Krasus continually had many secretive spells in play, several designed to keep track of what other sorcerers might be casting. He was, without conceit, perhaps more attuned to the shifts in the intensity of the world’s magical forces than anyone—but even he had not been prepared for a change of such magnitude.
“They have done it …” he breathed, staring at the unseen city. “The portal is again open to the Burning Legion.”
THREE
The pain of his death had been unbearable. He had been destroyed in more than a dozen horrific manners simultaneously, each one sending through him such torture that he had embraced oblivion as a long-yearned-for lover.
But the agony of his death could not even compare to that which followed.
He had no body, no substance, whatsoever. Even spirit was not the right word for what was left of him. He knew that he existed by the sufferance of another, and understood that the anguish he constantly felt was that other’s punishment for him. He had failed the other and failure was the ultimate sin.
His prison was a nothingness without end. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing other than the pain. How long had it been—days, weeks, months, years, centuries … or only a few horrible minutes? If the last, then his torture was truly monstrous, indeed.
Then, without warning—the pain ceased. Had he a mouth, he would have shouted his relief, his joy. Never had he felt so grateful.
But then he began to wonder if this respite only signaled some new, more horrendous terror.
I have decided to redeem you …
The voice of his god filled him with both hope and fear. He wanted to bow, to grovel, but lacked the form with which to do either … or anything else, for that matter.
I have decided that there is a place for