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distract Neltharion, had gone to find out what had happened to the other leviathans.
    And so it was left to Krasus to decide what to do. Even before he had left for Malygos’s lair, he had tried to think of a place he considered secure enough for dragon eggs. Nothing satisfied him. Even the grove of the demigod, Cenarius, had proven unworthy in his eyes. True, the antlered deity was the trusted mentor of Malfurion Stormrage and might very well be the offspring of the dragon, Ysera, but Krasus knew that Cenarius had far too many matters with which to deal already.
    “So be it, then,” the cowled spellcaster murmured.
    With one gloved finger, Krasus drew a circle in the air. Golden sparks accented the tracing his finger made. The circle was perfect and looked as if it had been cut into the very atmosphere itself.
    Touching his fingertips to the center, the dragon mage removed the circle. A white gap floated before him, one reaching beyond the mortal plane.
    Krasus muttered under his breath, The circle’s outline flared red. There was a moan from within it and small, loose stones began rolling toward the gap. Krasus muttered more, and, although the suction grew more intense, the stones slowed to a halt. Instead, the eggs began to shake slightly, as if even in the cold, dead ones, something moved.
    But it was not so. One of the viable eggs nearest to Krasus’s creation suddenly rose. It drifted almost serenely toward the small gap. A second marked egg did likewise, then the rest followed. The dead eggs continued to quiver, but remained where they were.
    And as he watched, the future of Malygos’s flight lined up before the hole and started to enter.
    Curiously, as each egg approached, it seemed to shrink just enough to fit through. One by one, in constant succession, Krasus’s valuable find disappeared into the gap.
    When the last had vanished, the cowled spellcaster sealed the opening. There was a brief, golden spark, and then all trace of the gap vanished.
    “Enough to survive, but not enough to thrive,” Krasus muttered. It would take centuries for the blues to reach secure numbers. Even supposing every egg hatched, there would still not be that many blue dragons even by the time period from which he had come.
    Still, some were better than none.
    A sudden wave of nausea and exhaustion overtook Krasus. He barely prevented himself from falling. Despite having for the most part solved the puzzle of the original malady striking him when he had entered the past—that being that both he and his younger self had to share their life force—there were limits yet.
    But he could not rest. The eggs were secure, placed in a pocket universe where time ran so slow as to be negligible. Long enough to pass them on to one he could trust…assuming he survived the war.
    Thinking of that war, Krasus began mustering his strength. Whatever his confidence in Rhonin and Malfurion, there were too many question marks about the certainty of the outcome. The time line had forever shifted; it was possible that the Burning Legion, who had originally lost this struggle, would triumph. Whatever his own meddling with the line, Krasus was well aware that now he had to do everything he could to assist the night elves and the rest. All that mattered now was that there had to be a future.
    As he began the spell that would carry him back to the host, Krasus eyed the scores of dead eggs. There would also be a future if the demons won. This would be it. Cold, dark, no life. An eternity of emptiness.
    The dragon mage hissed vehemently and vanished.
    Two
    Z in-Azshari. Once the glorious epitome of the night elf civilization. A sprawling city at the edge of the basis of the night elves’ power, the Well. The home of the revered queen, Azshara, for whom her adoring subjects had renamed the capital.
    Zin-Azshari…a ruined graveyard, the launching point of the Burning Legion.
    Lupine felbeasts sniffed through the rubble, ever seeking the unmistakable smell of