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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
    T he 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 you. I have looked into the darkness within you and found that which once pleased me. I make it the core of what you are to become and in doing so make you a far superior servant than you were…
    His gratitude for this greatest of gifts was boundless, but again he could do nothing.
    You must be reshaped, but so that others will mark in you the glory I give and the punishment I mete out, I return that by which they will know you best…
    A crackle of energy shook him. Tiny specks of matter suddenly flew into the center of the energy storm, gathering and condensing, creating of him substance once again. Many had been bits of him when he had been destroyed and, like his soul, had been taken by his god at the moment of death.
    Slowly, vaguely, a body formed around him. He could not move, could not breathe. Darkness covered him, and he realized that