“A wise maneuver, as I said,” Krasus responded. Yet, Malfurion sensed again that the cowled figure, the dragon in mortal form, held back important information from even the queen he so obviously adored. What it was, the night elf could not even hazard, but there was a sadness in Krasus’s ancient eyes that the mage quickly hid whenever the leviathans glanced his way.

The three giants stared at the tiny object, the simple golden disk that had caused so much calamity. They stared at it… and the Demon Soul was suddenly engulfed in a rainbow of energies. Dominating were red, green, and the brilliant bronze of the sandy Nozdormu. The Demon Soul rose several inches off the ground, hovering just before the Aspects. The magical forces unleashed by the dragons circulated around it, in the process turning the disk over and over.

Then… one by one, those energies sank into the black dragon’s abomination. Red, then green, then bronze, followed by the myriad colors accompanying each.

The spellwork ceased. The Demon Soul dropped, clattering on the hard ground. It looked unchanged, undiminished.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“It has.” Krasus met the druid’s eyes. “Malfurion, I ask you to pick it up again.”

Loathe as he was to touch the piece, the night elf acquiesced. Oddly, Malfurion discovered that he had no more desire to keep the Demon Soul. Either the dragons had made that so or his will had grown stronger.

The mage glanced at the Aspects, who nodded in unison. To Malfurion, he respectfully said, “There is a place we know. A place the black one would not. With your permission, we will show it to you in your mind… and then I ask that you call upon your own skills to send that foul thing there.”

Although he felt capable of doing as Krasus asked, Malfurion frowned. “Can’t you do it?”

“Before, I alone might have been able to carry the disk, albeit with difficulty. The others, they could not because of Deathwing’s handiwork. Now, this new spell has made it impossible for the black one or any other dragon to touch the Demon Soul, much less use it. That is why we need you for this.”

Nodding, the druid held out the disk. “Show me.”

Krasus and the Aspects stared deep. Malfurion shook momentarily as they entered his thoughts.

The image they created was so vivid that he almost felt as if he had visited it himself. Eager to be rid of the Demon Soul, the druid quickly said, “I have it.”

With much relief, Malfurion sent the golden disk away.

Krasus exhaled. “Thank you.”

The Aspects nodded their heads in gratitude. Then, Alexstrasza looked to the sky. “The clouds… they are beginning to part…”

Sure enough, for the first time since the Burning Legion had come to Kalimdor, the sky finally started to clear. It began as small gaps here and there, then large, thick clouds broke into much smaller, thinner ones. Those, in turn, became silken wisps easily scattered by soft winds.

Malfurion felt a sudden rising of hope, of renewed life… and realized that it was not only his own, but that of the land itself. Kalimdor would survive, of that he was certain.

A warmth touched his forehead, a pleasant warmth. He reached up and realized that his antlers had grown more. Now small ones jutted from the main stems.

Ysera, her eyelids shut but her eyes moving rapidly underneath, stretched to her full height, then turned to face her fellow Aspects.

“The world will heal, but there is much more work to do. We should return to the others…”

Nozdormu nodded. “Agreed.”

Malfurion opened his mouth to thank the dragons for all that they had done… then hesitated as a sense of unease swept over him. He looked around suddenly, as if seeking someone. Only after doing so did the druid at last realize just who it was he sought so desperately, although the reason why still escaped him.

Where was Illidan?

Rhonin eyed the sea, thinking of all the deaths he had witnessed — both in his own time and in this period — at the hands of the Burning Legion. Many of them had affected him deeply, for, if several had not been friends, they had at least been parts of his life.

He knew that Krasus felt the same, perhaps even more so, for the dragon mage had lived long enough to lose generations of loved ones and companions. The wizard understood his former mentor well enough to realize that the centuries had not made Krasus immune to sorrow. The cowled spellcaster suffered deeply with each death, however much he hid those emotions at times.

And now, there was yet another to add to the losses. Rhonin had never thought to mourn an orc, but he did. Brox had become a stalwart comrade, a noble companion. Only belatedly had the human understood the warrior’s sacrifice. The orc had dropped himself through the portal knowing that horrible doom awaited him there, yet, Brox had not hesitated. He had been aware that Malfurion needed time and time the orc had granted the druid.

Rhonin knelt by the edge of the sea, the creation of which he saw in some ways as a tribute itself to Brox. It would not have existed without the orc’s action. Undelayed, Sargeras likely would have stepped through the gateway, then slaughtered everyone.

Did Brox bring history back to what it should be or was he part of it all along? the wizard wondered. Perhaps Nozdormu knew, but the Aspect of Time was not about to tell anyone. He had not even spoken of his own ordeal save that it had involved the Old Gods. Now, with the portal gone, even that threat had been removed.

Standing again, the wizard eyed the flotsam still flowing toward the shore. The tide brought in a variety of things, bits of plants, mostly, but also wreckage from the night elves’ realm. Shreds of clothes, broken pieces of furniture, rotting food, and, yes, there were bodies. Not many, thankfully, and none at this spot. Jarod had parties scanning the shore, seeking any dead so that they could have swift but proper burials. It was not just a matter of propriety, but safety, too. The dead might carry with them disease, a very real fear for the refugees.

Something floated near the wizard, bobbing up and down twice before settling just under the surface. Rhonin would have ignored it, but sensed something unusual. The thing had a touch of magic to it.

Stepping into the water, he reached down.

Brox’s ax.

There could be no mistaking it. Rhonin had seen the astonishing weapon in action enough times. Despite its tremendous size, the double-edged ax fit perfectly in his grip and felt as light as a feather. It did not even feel wet.

“This isn’t possible,” he muttered, eyeing the sea suspiciously.

But no spirit arose from the depths to give a reason for the amazing discovery. The wizard looked down at the ax, then at the sea, and lastly at the ax again.

Finally, Rhonin stared off into the direction of the lost portal. An image of Brox standing atop slaughtered demons and challenging more to come to him filled the human’s thoughts.

The wizard suddenly raised the ax high in what he recalled from his own time as an orcish salute to fallen heroes. Rhonin brandished it three times, then lowered the ax head-first.

“They’ll sing of you yet,” he whispered, recalling Brox’s words to both him and Krasus. “They’ll pass songs of you down for generations to come. We’ll see to that.”

Hefting the ax over his shoulder, he went to find Krasus.