End

Med'an's utterly spectacular, utterly messy slaying of Cho'gall wasn't just a victory; it was the cosmic equivalent of a starting gun. The long-delayed, much-anticipated, and frankly, impatiently awaited Dragonblight Offensive could finally, gloriously, finally begin! The agonizing delay had been purely for bureaucratic reasons, specifically to coordinate with Galen's rather damp, underwater campaign. Because nothing says "epic war" like waiting for someone to finish drowning a queen.

Now, with Queen Azshara safely (and probably grumpily) secured, the legendary Windrunner sisters, looking like they'd just chugged a gallon of battle-juice, turned their focus to the remaining Old God lieutenants. It was time for some serious pest control:

East Front: Zon'ozz, the Void-corrupted abomination that looked like a particularly angry, squishy eggplant, faced Alleria's relentless, arrow-slinging assault. Alleria, who had clearly been saving up her rage for this moment, was less an archer and more a human-shaped arrow-launching catastrophe.

West Front: Y'Shaarj's particularly annoying remnant, the Insatiable Yogg-Saron, who had been whispering bad ideas into people's heads for millennia, was now being hunted down by Sylvanas, who was in no mood for whispers. She preferred screams.

After ten glorious, earth-shattering rounds of mortar bombardment, the Twilight's Hammer's frontline wasn't just obliterated; it was reduced to a fine, smoking dust, like a particularly aggressive spring cleaning. The surviving ogres, ascendants, and frenzied elementals, looking utterly bewildered, were then unceremoniously slaughtered as colossal steam tanks, rumbling like angry metal dinosaurs, rolled in, crushing the very last, squishy remnants of N'Zoth's forces. It was less a battle and more a very efficient, very noisy, very final extermination.

Alleria, with a casual flick of her wrist, put an arrow straight through Yogg-Saron's skull. It was less a shot and more a definitive statement: "Your whispers are officially cancelled." Sylvanas, not to be outdone, turned Zon'ozz into a pincushion of glittering starfire. He looked less like an abomination and more like a very large, very dead disco ball.

With the Old God lieutenants thoroughly, definitively, and rather messily dead, their corpses were promptly shipped off to Ulduar for incineration. Because who wants to deal with the lingering smell of cosmic horror?

Now, only one truly annoying threat remained. And she had a rather complicated family tree.

The Last Stand of Sinestra: Or, "Mom's Having a Bad Day" High above Wyrmrest Temple, a place usually reserved for dramatic speeches and occasional naps, Sinestra, the Twilight Broodmother, was fighting with the desperate fury of a dragon who'd just realized she'd left the oven on. Her opponents? The very definition of dragon royalty: Alexstrasza, Ysera, and Nozdormu. It was less a fight and more a very intense, very aerial family intervention.

She was waiting. Waiting for the Blue Dragonflight's leader—Kalecgos, the young but formidable successor to Malygos. He was probably stuck in traffic.

But something was wrong. Terribly, cosmically, hilariously wrong.

N'Zoth, the big boss, had apparently ordered a retreat—a memo that clearly hadn't reached Sinestra. Or perhaps she'd just ignored it. Either way, she and her forces were trapped, looking like a very angry, very scaly fish in a barrel.

Her once-vast army of Twilight drakes, which used to blot out the sun, had been decimated. Now, only her elite riders, led by the monstrous, perpetually grumpy Ultraxion, remained. It was less an army and more a very exclusive, very doomed fan club.

Over ten thousand dragons clashed in the skies—a swirling maelstrom of scales, fire, and very loud roaring. It was the largest aerial battle in Wyrmrest's history, probably giving the local birdwatchers a heart attack.

Twilight drakes, corrupted by Void energy, had the annoying ability to absorb most magical attacks, forcing the Dragonflights into brutal, tooth-and-claw melee combat. It was like trying to fight a sponge made of pure evil.

But then—a shimmering, blinding light erupted from the horizon. The Golden Dragons arrived. And they were not here for tea and biscuits.

The Golden Dragons Strike: Or, "Holy Light: It Burns!" Onyxia, Nefarian, and Sabellian led the charge, looking less like dragons and more like very angry, very shiny missiles.

Twilight drakes could resist arcane, fire, frost—they were practically immune to everything. But Holy Light? That was their kryptonite. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline, if the gasoline was made of pure sunshine and righteous fury.

"Purge them! And make it snappy! I have a manicure appointment!" Onyxia roared, unleashing a blinding beam of Sacred Flame. It wasn't just fire; it was fire that judged you.

A Twilight drake, mid-flight, dissolved with a pathetic sizzle, its Void essence burned away like a bad stain. He probably didn't even see it coming.

Nefarian and Sabellian followed, their golden wings cutting through the swarm with the precision of a very angry, very large pair of scissors.

The Twilight riders, who had been feeling quite smug moments before, panicked. Their formation, which had been so intimidating, collapsed into a chaotic, flailing mess. They looked like a flock of very confused, very scared pigeons.

Sinestra's Rage: Or, "Mommy Dearest is Unimpressed" Seeing her brood slaughtered like particularly annoying flies, Sinestra broke away from the Aspects, who were starting to look a bit bored. She swooped between the Golden Dragons, her eyes blazing with fury.

"Traitors! You dare raise your claws against me?! I changed your diapers, you ungrateful wretches!"

Onyxia and Nefarian flinched, looking suddenly awkward. This was their mother, after all, albeit one twisted by Void and a severe case of amnesia. It was like a very uncomfortable family reunion, but with more fire.

But Sabellian, bless his uncomplicated heart, felt no such hesitation. He dove straight at her, probably thinking, "Finally, some action!"

Sinestra, enraged, spat a torrent of Shadowflame, a blast of pure, inky darkness, engulfing him—

Nefarian, with a dramatic roar, intercepted, taking the blast for his half-brother. "You owe me, Sabellian! A big one!"

Onyxia, seizing the moment, countered with a Holy Breath, a beam of pure, cleansing light, forcing Sinestra to dodge with a frustrated snarl.

Then—

Alexstrasza's Lifefire. A blast of pure, fiery life, because irony. Ysera's Emerald Dreamblast. A surge of verdant energy that probably made Sinestra feel very sleepy and confused. Nozdormu's Sands of Time. Because why fight fair when you can hit them with temporal shenanigans?

Sinestra was surrounded. And she was not happy about it.

Ultraxion's Last Stand: Or, "The Bad Guy Monologue That Nobody Cared About" "Ultraxion! To me! And try not to trip!" Sinestra bellowed, her voice echoing across the battlefield.

From the swirling clouds, a monstrous blue-black drake descended, looking like a particularly grumpy storm cloud with wings—Ultraxion, the Twilight's End. He was less a dragon and more a living, breathing tumor.

"I am the herald of doom! The shadow that blots out the sun! The reason you can't find your keys in the morning!" he roared, striking a dramatic pose.

He slammed into Wyrmrest, a catastrophic impact that sent shockwaves through the air, knocking aside three dragon champions—Vaelastrasz, Merithra, and Arygos—who tumbled through the air like very large, very confused bowling pins.

"Witness your demise! The Hour of Twilight is at hand! And I brought snacks!"

The Golden Dragons collectively rolled their eyes so hard they almost dislocated them.

"Big talk for a glorified tumor," Nefarian muttered, shaking his head. "Honestly, the theatrics."

Sinestra, ever the opportunist, seized the distraction, bolting for the horizon with the speed of a dragon who suddenly remembered she had a very important appointment elsewhere.

"After her! Don't let her get away! She still owes me a fight!" Alexstrasza roared, her voice a mixture of fury and exasperation.

But Ultraxion, with a final, desperate surge, flared with violet energy—

"Twilight Displacement! Prepare to be mildly inconvenienced!"

A dark, shimmering realm enveloped the dragons, sapping their strength, making them feel like they were trying to run through molasses.

Onyxia panicked. If Sinestra escaped now, they might never find her again. And she was not leaving this fight without a definitive win. "Oh, for the love of all that is holy, NO!"

"Enough! I'm tired of this guy's monologue!" The three Golden Dragons, utterly fed up with Ultraxion's dramatics, unleashed their ultimate attack—

"Light's Retribution! Enjoy the sunshine, you overgrown blob!"

A blinding golden beam, thick as a tree trunk, lanced through Ultraxion's chest, turning him into a glowing, screaming target.

Three seconds later—

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The Twilight monstrosity exploded in a shower of golden light and very angry dust, his body crumbling to ash. He was less a dragon and more a very large, very loud firework.

"AFTER MOTHER! SHE'S GETTING AWAY! AND SHE STILL OWES ME A FACIAL!" Onyxia shrieked, blazing southward, a golden streak of vengeance.

The Trap at Moa'ki Harbor: Or, "Draenei Boredom is a Dangerous Thing" Dornaa, Med'an's fiery Draenei fiancée, had been bored out of her mind guarding the rear. So bored, in fact, she was considering taking up interpretive dance.

Then—the water she was idly swirling in her hands suddenly burst, splashing everywhere.

"Something evil approaches! And it's probably going to interrupt my nap!"

She sprinted outside, spotting a massive black shape tearing through the clouds, looking like a very angry, very large smudge.

"Finally! Action! I was getting tired of counting seagulls!"

Dornaa, with a triumphant grin, slammed a totem into the ground.

"Ebulus, I choose you! Go, my magnificent elemental titan!"

A colossal elemental titan, looking like a mountain made of pure, grumpy earth, erupted from the ground, blocking Sinestra's escape route. It was less a block and more a very large, very solid "NOPE."

The Broodmother, enraged and clearly having a very bad day, spat Shadowflame at the harbor, probably hoping to melt it.

"Oh no you don't, you overgrown lizard!"

Dornaa raised her hands, summoning a tidal wave so massive it could have drowned a small continent, dousing the flames with a spectacular whoosh.

Then—

"Skybreaker, fire at will! And try not to hit the good guys!"

The Alliance's last aerial battleship, looking like a very angry metal whale, locked on. Its cannons swiveled, preparing to unleash hell.

Sinestra was cornered. And she was not happy about it.

The End of Twilight: Or, "The Ultimate Mic Drop" With her forces annihilated, her lieutenants dead, and her escape cut off by a very bored Draenei and a very large elemental, Sinestra roared in defiance, a final, desperate, utterly futile sound.

But the dragons closed in, a shimmering, multi-colored wall of scales and fury.

Alexstrasza's compassion, which was probably running very thin by now. Ysera's serenity, which was probably being tested to its limits. Nozdormu's inevitability, which was just annoying. And the Golden Dragons' wrath, which was very, very personal.

"This... is not over..." Sinestra hissed, her voice a ragged whisper, as if she was trying to start a sequel.

Then—

A beam of pure Light—from above—pierced her skull, as if the heavens themselves had decided to end her monologue.

Galen Remar, atop Algalon's Celestial Observer, looking utterly calm and slightly bored, lowered his hand.

"Yes. It is. Now, about that dinner reservation..."