Chapter Text
Anduin lifted his eyes to a blackened sky. Over Blackrock, the clouds carried no storm; they were smoke and ash. Rain had not touched those mountains in years. Rivers of lava wound their way across the incandescent slopes, devouring stone as they flowed. Orgrim had turned the mountain into the Horde’s last bastion, and the ground trembled beneath the march of hundreds of orcs.
“Orgrim Doomhammer!” Anduin’s voice cut through the din as he stepped beyond the lines of his army. “Let’s settle this—here and now!”
The answering roar of the orcs mingled with the bellowing of their ogre allies. With most of their forces still in Lordaeron, the human host could barely hold back that crimson tide. Sweat slid down his brow beneath the weight of his helm, and the sword in his hand felt heavier than it ever had.
In single combat, he trusted his experience. He hoped the orc’s proud youth would drive him to some reckless mistake. Perhaps that was his only chance. The air hung thick with tension; the orcish war chants made his skin prickle. Orgrim stood behind his front ranks, unmoved by the challenge.
Then, among the crimson banners, the battlefield erupted. Anduin felt the magic gather before the azure blaze swept through all in its path. The sky filled with shrieks: Wildhammer gryphons dove over the melee. Behind them, a massive dragon unfurled translucent wings, climbed into the air… and plummeted into the heart of the fray. Its body seemed made not of bone and sinew, but of some viscous, shifting fluid.
“Retreat!” Anduin ordered, pulling back from the valley.
Violet fire spilled outward like a plague. Orcs and men fled in all directions; the stench of charred flesh was suffocating. The dragon bit and tore its way through the ranks, leaving only mangled corpses in its wake.
“Attack!” Orgrim’s command halted his warriors. “Victory is here—now!”
Hammer raised high, the orc charged the creature, his fighters surging after him in a whirl of steel and muscle.
“You will not halt the End of Time,” the dragon roared.
Its tail smashed through the rear lines; the beat of its wings toppled those pressing in from the flanks. And then… the air shifted. As if the world itself had drawn in a breath and held it, the battle peeled away from Anduin, leaving an invisible corridor through the chaos.
At the far end, a figure wrapped in arcane light advanced. Beside him strode a warrior clad in blackened armor and a closed helm. Anduin knew that stance: Bolvar Fordragon. But something was wrong. In his memories, Bolvar had been a young commander—one of the few survivors of Stormwind’s fall—his eyes steady, his strength undimmed. The man before him bore years and scars from battles Anduin had not yet lived, as though time had spilled its weight on him far too soon.
And the mage… Anduin’s heart faltered. The cerulean glow around him was achingly familiar, and yet, seeing him here, in the midst of this carnage, sparked an impossible blend of relief and dread. Part of him wished it wasn’t real; another part wished it would never fade.
A burst of arcane light struck the dragon square in the chest, blinding it.
“Rhui’salher!” Khadgar’s voice thundered above the clash.
The beast plummeted and vanished without a trace. The blue light guttered in the mage’s eyes, revealing their natural dark hue.
Khadgar.
Anduin shouldered through the dead and dying to reach him. It couldn’t be real… and yet, he had never mistaken those eyes in his life. Even here, in the horror and ruin, that gaze was still an anchor in the storm.
“Khadgar! Where are Turalyon and Alleria? What’s happening?”
The mage only shook his head and moved away without a glance. Anduin watched him vanish into the crush of battle, seized by the strange certainty that nothing he had just seen belonged to this time— and that somehow, he himself wasn’t meant to be here.
“Khadgar!” His voice broke with urgency.
“Old man!” Orgrim stepped into his path. “You wanted single combat—here I am!”
Anduin cursed, but there was no way out. He drew his sword and waited. The hammer sang through the air; he slipped aside, letting the orc burn his strength. A few blows grazed him; sweat poured under the plates of his armor. His thoughts kept pulling back to the mage. A cold truth settled in his gut: he wouldn’t survive this. He scored a hit—Orgrim’s blood pattered onto the sand like a grim rain—but his sword shattered on the next swing of the hammer.
It ended in a heartbeat. He felt no pain—only the warm rush of blood down his face. His knees gave way, the world bled into blue as his cheek met the dirt. Something unresolved burned in him… and yet, the strangest thing was still the sight of Khadgar.
Desperate arms caught him, hauling him against a warm chest. The familiar scent of parchment and ozone enveloped him. And in that moment, his pain-fogged mind rebelled: it couldn’t be him. Khadgar was far away… and yet the hands gripping him were his, trembling as if trying to keep hold of something slipping away.
“Anduin…” The mage’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
The Lion of Azeroth looked up, searching for a face hidden deep within the hood’s shadow. What he found was a gaze aged beyond measure, heavy with a grief he didn’t remember ever seeing there—eyes that seemed to know something he did not… and must never learn.
He wanted to speak his name, to hold on, to ask—but strength drained from him. The roar of battle faded, leaving only the mage’s ragged breaths, each one breaking a little more.