Dragoncall

Dragon Wyrmrest Temple.

When Alexstrasza approached the sacred spire of the dragons, she was greeted by a swirling cyclone of scales and wings—giant dragons of every hue spinning like kids hopped up on mana potions around the towering structure. The temple itself, a skyscraping monolith of stone and power, stretched into the heavens like it was trying to poke the Titans in the eye. Blue, green, and golden dragons soared and played in the skies like it was recess at Dragon kindergarten.

It had been ages since so many dragons had gathered in one place. Too bad it wasn't for a party—this time, the reason was grim. They were here to discuss how to deal with a traitor who'd gone full melodramatic supervillain: their former sister, the Black Dragon Mother.

This wasn't just any family feud. Oh no, she had sworn loyalty to the Old Gods, created those freaky-deaky Twilight Dragons (who were basically dragons on void steroids), and started launching temple-raids like she was playing Void Invaders on hard mode. She even had the audacity to call herself the "Hell Dragon." Subtlety clearly wasn't in her vocabulary. Everywhere she went, she left behind scorched land, panicked screams, and at least one smoking crater.

As Alexstrasza thought of her fallen siblings, her ancient heart ached. The black flight... that was a scar the guardian dragons never quite healed from. And now that scar was threatening to tear open again.

With a thunderclap of wings, the red dragons blazed through the portal of the Ruby Temple like fireballs on a mission. Only Queen Alexstrasza and Prince Palthiastrasz soared to the top of the tower; the rest dove inside like a swarm of well-trained flame lizards.

Wyrmrest Temple had been around since Titan daycare days—an ancient monument from the birth of the guardian dragons, a sort of interspecies holy hub for all dragonflights. Built like a layer cake for gods, each level tapered gracefully upward into the sky. As Palthiastrasz climbed, he felt clouds brush his wings and mulled over the news from the overlord—big, wet, and void-flavored news.

They'd finally located N'Zoth. The last of Azeroth's Old Gods had been found. Where? Deep underwater, of course, because ancient evil never picks the easy-to-reach places.

Now, the Alliance was like a buffet of war machines—land, sea, air, you name it—but when it came to underwater battles? Yeah... things got soggy. Even after taming Ozumat, the colossal death-squid of nightmares, their subaquatic army was still about as effective as a campfire underwater.

Galen had a plan. He wanted Neptulon to bust through the sea like some divine geyser, exposing the seafloor just like what happened with Nazjatar. Problem was, in the original timeline, everyone was too busy waging endless wars to have the strength to push Azshara back. The Naga Queen had strolled into war like she was attending a royal ball. Not anymore.

This time around, the Alliance wasn't limping. It was charging. Azshara wouldn't be so bold.

Still, N'Zoth had a nasty ace up his... uh, tentacle. The Black Dragon Mother was planning a full-scale assault on Wyrmrest Temple with her Twilight Dragon rejects and two Faceless Warlords loaned directly from Mr. Eyeball himself.

Cue the headache. Palthiastrasz felt like smashing his horns into a wall.

At the summit, a small circular platform shimmered under the sun. Floating at its center was the Concentric Orb, a gorgeous gem glowing blue and white—symbolizing unity among dragons, or at least pretending to.

Alexstrasza and Palthiastrasz landed and immediately shimmered into their humanoid forms. Around them gathered familiar faces like an all-star cast for a crossover finale.

There was the chill blue dragon king Ancagalon, standing tall in human form. Next to him, the high-elf-looking elders Malygos and Senegos. The green dream queen Ysera was present with her partners, Eranikus and Mylinthra, all rocking moody night elf aesthetics. Standing apart was Nozdormu, the time lord himself, shirtless like he just walked out of a magazine spread, with Chromie, everyone's favorite overly enthusiastic clockwork dragon, grinning beside him.

"Apologies for the delay," Alexstrasza said with the kind of royal poise that made everyone straighten their spines. "The Ruby Sanctum turned into a buffet line for void creatures. We had to clean up."

"You're just in time," Ysera said gently. She looked like she hadn't slept in a month. "We were just discussing something you really need to hear."

Malygos stepped forward, rare for the usually aloof elder. "Ysera mentioned the Hour of Twilight. You need to hear what she saw."

"Is this about the purple freaks that attacked us?" Alexstrasza fired off two questions at once—her inner commander was on full alert. "Did you dream it? Is this a vision?"

"I saw everything," Ysera said, her voice hauntingly calm.

And what she saw? Pure, apocalyptic madness.

In her dream, Twilight Judgment came—and with it, the end of everything. Life blinked out. Every living thing, down to the last worm, dead. Dragons? Gone. Humans? Toast. Trees, grass, even the bugs? Erased. Wyrmrest Temple collapsed in ruin. Alexstrasza was roasted alive, her ribs jutting from her blackened body like a dragon barbecue.

The blue flight froze in mid-scream. Nozdormu, trapped in a time loop. Ysera's own corpse was blanketed in rotting vines.

But the weirdest part? Even Deathwing's stupid, smug corpse was skewered on the temple's spires, like some giant dragon-kebab.

Even now, Ysera's voice shook just thinking about it. The Emerald Dream was tied to Titan power—mysterious, confusing, and cryptic—even for her.

"I don't know what Twilight Judgment really means," she admitted, "but we can't sit around and wait to be barbecued."

That's when Ancagalon stepped forward, his voice strong and sure. "We must rebuild the Dragonflight coalition. I propose we reforge the Dragon Wyrmrest Alliance."

"I agree!"

"I second that!"

The calls came, not from the dragon kings, but from Palthiastrasz and Eranikus, who shared a knowing look, silently admiring each other's good taste in tactical decisions.

"Oh! I agree too, my lords!" squeaked Chromie, bouncing on her heels like a golden retriever in a time machine. "We've got too many enemies and not enough time. First Deathwing disappears, and bam, Sinestra returns from her villain vacation—stronger, meaner, and apparently fluent in 'Voidspawn.'"

"She's hit nearly every corner of Azeroth," Chromie continued, "and the Twilight Hammer cult is everywhere. If this Twilight Judgment really is coming, we're already late for the party!"

If even Chromie was worried, then things were really bad.

Yes, this was shaping up to be the biggest challenge the dragons had ever faced. But if there was one thing dragons knew how to do—besides hoarding shiny things and breathing death—it was rising to meet the end of the world with a roar.

And oh, the roar was coming.