Back in the Dragonbone Wastes

The war of dragons in the Dragonbone Wastes had escalated into a full-blown, scaly, winged apocalypse. Screeches, firestorms, and the occasional "oh crap" echoed across the frozen cliffs. Back in the day, good ol' Deathwing had swiped a treasure trove of dragon eggs like a kleptomaniac at a petting zoo. The red dragons were enslaved by the Dragonmaw orcs—basically medieval dragon wranglers on steroids—and the green dragons got dragged into the mess that was the Nightmare War. That left the once-mighty guardian dragons looking more like tired geckos than the titanic titans of yore.

But the tides had turned… at least somewhat. The blue dragons, who once scattered like magic nerds in a fireball storm, now had Senegos back from the Broken Isles. Sure, he creaked more than a haunted ship, but the dude was powerful. The bronze dragons were still playing "Guess the Timeline!" with the Eternal Dragons, but the mysterious vanishing act of the Eternal Dragon King gave them room to breathe—well, as much as temporal beings can breathe in peace.

Thanks to these shakeups, the guardian dragons were now stronger than they'd ever been in this janky remix of the original timeline.

In the deepest, dustiest floor of Wyrmrest Temple—where even cobwebs went to retire—three dragons held a secret meeting: Palthiastrasz the red prince, Eranikus the green grump, and Ancagalon the brooding blue... who had a bit of an identity crisis.

At a signal from the other two, Ancagalon raised a claw and cast both a soundproofing spell and a magical "no eavesdropping" barrier. Because even ancient dragons know that walls have ears. Big, pointy ones.

"So… do we call you Ancagalon , now, or are you still going by Neltharion, Destroyer of All Things and Occasional Drama Queen?" Eranikus said, eyes narrowed and voice practically oozing sass.

Eranikus, a relic from the primordial age—think grumpy grandpa dragon who once punched Galakrond in the nose—eyed the blue dragon with suspicion. Parthiastrasz, younger by comparison, had been barely a hatchling during those old battles. As for Ancagalon? He had a past that made soap operas look tame.

"Let's not dwell on the past," Ancagalon replied smoothly, straightening his wings like a lizard in a board meeting. "The High Lord gave me a second chance—death to Neltharion, long live Ancagalon! I've turned over a new scale. I'm even into group projects now."

Palthiastrasz nodded, his crimson scales catching the candlelight. "Fine. We're not here to swap war stories or claw-shaped trauma. We're here to coordinate. Let's talk clans."

Red dragon numbers were dire. Palthiastrasz had managed to recover the bodies and souls of their fallen ancestors, but his own army was down to himself and Kalecgos—the slippery, teleport-happy son who somehow always survived and never paid for parking. "The kid's brilliant," Palthiastrasz admitted. "Honestly, I think he's got more arcane talent than most blue dragons."

"Yeah, he makes me feel like a caveman trying to cast a fireball," Ancagalon grumbled. "I got reborn into a blue dragon body and still flunked the magic SATs. Melee's more my thing."

The High Lord had ordered them to unite the dragons, basically to form the ultimate dragon band under the Heart of Origin's label. Too bad most of their band members were either dead, in therapy, or had joined weird cults.

The blue dragons' strength mostly came from the Broken Isles—Kalecgos and Aregos still hung around the Nexus, but they were like aging rockstars playing in empty taverns.

On the green side, Eranikus ruled with the subtlety of a brick. Between him and the snoozing dream-mom Ysera, they made up two-thirds of the entire Green Dragon family tree. Even their distant cousins were related.

Palthiastrasz, meanwhile, was dragging behind in the family department. Alexstrasza had, ahem, many partners—and Palthiastrasz ranked somewhere between "back-up mate" and "dragon who brings snacks to the party." Despite decades of dedication, he couldn't match the... prolific contributions of Alexstrasza's other suitors. At least his son Vaelastrasz was a beast in battle—made a name for himself trashing black dragons, which gave Dad something to brag about at family reunions.

"The war is reaching its climax," Eranikus growled. "We've pushed the Twilight cult to their breaking point. Let's table the Cleostrasz topic and move."

"Agreed," said Ancagalon. "Progress in Zandalar's faster than expected. Time to initiate phase two."

"Let's burn it all down—in the most tactical way possible," Palthiastrasz grinned.

Plot hatched, claws shook, and the three dragons vanished into the shadows.

The next day, the Twilight Cult woke up to discover their coastal dragon defense line had gone poof. No battles, no explosions—just missing dragons. Cue confusion, cult-wide panic, and some nervous farting.

Dragonbone Wasteland, specifically Mokia Harbor—formerly a peaceful walrus village, now an abandoned wreck—was suddenly invaded by a flock of ominous purple dragons flying in from overseas like a heavy metal album cover.

Then came the pirate ship.

It coasted into port, deck groaning under the weight of a massive corpse. And not just any corpse—this thing was a dragon… a deeply cursed, highly illegal, multi-headed freak of nature. Its massive frame dwarfed even the Dragon Guardians. Instead of one majestic head, it had five. One of each color: red, black, gold, green, and blue.

"A rainbow lizard from your nightmares," someone muttered.

Esira, a Twilight Cultist who still looked suspiciously like a high elf glam rocker, gawked. "Is that… five heads? We're talking Pentadraco here?"

Her companion Korla, a human sorceress with more eyeliner than sense, shrugged. "I've seen three-headed dragons. Five heads is just extra drama."

"You don't get it!" Esira insisted. "Each head doubles the power! That means five times the destruction. That's Guardian Dragon King-tier nonsense!"

They were staring at Chromatus, the infamous chromatic dragon. A grotesque byproduct of Nefarian's mad science experiments, Chromatus was meant to be the ultimate beast—possessing the strengths of all five dragonflights. Instead, most of his siblings were stillborn, hideous, or exploded during nap time. Only a few survived to adulthood, and even then, they were more unstable than caffeine-fueled goblins.

"But it's dead," Korla said, squinting at the monstrosity. "Why does it still feel like it's about to eat my soul?"

Just then, a Twilight Priest hopped off the boat like a stage magician making an entrance. He landed beside the ladies, robes fluttering in the wind, and casually dropped a bombshell.

"Oh yeah, Chromatus is dead," he said, brushing dust from his sleeves. "But not for long. Technically speaking, he's… between states."

Esira blinked. "Like… a zombie?"

"More like an unliving apocalypse in waiting," the priest replied coolly. "Nefarian may be gone, but part of his brilliance lives on—thanks to Chromatus's mom. She went through hundreds of failures before cooking up this beauty. The only thing she didn't do?"

"Spark it to life," Korla finished, suddenly very pale.

"Exactly," the priest grinned darkly. "And guess what we're about to do?"

The wind howled. The dragon's five heads twitched.

The nightmare wasn't over—it was just beginning.