Ny'alotha

ROAR! ERUPT! SOAR!

The very air shrieked, the heavens themselves recoiled! This wasn't just the third time the Golden Dragon trio had unleashed "Light's Retribution"; this was the third time the cosmos collectively sighed, "Oh, for the love of all that's holy, again?"

Against Chromatus and Ultraxion, they'd been practically napping, holding back so much power it barely registered as a tickle. We're talking a measly 30%—the equivalent of a toddler's tantrum compared to a full-blown supernova.

But against their own flesh-and-blood, their venerable progenitors, Sinestra and Ancagalon? Oh, honey, they held nothing back. Not a single, gleaming, golden scale. This was a family reunion, and someone was getting disowned via divine intervention.

The two elder dragons, now less "majestic airborne titans" and more "very large, very surprised plummeting sacks of scales," were moments from achieving new depths of oceanic impact—when Dolnaan, bless his quick-thinking, reef-raising heart, aboard the glorious Skyfire, performed a feat of elemental separation that would make a divorce lawyer weep with envy. He didn't just raise a reef; he ERECTED A MOUNTAIN from the ocean floor, perfectly positioned for maximum dragon-to-rock collision.

BOOM!

The impact wasn't just a slam; it was the sound of a thousand tectonic plates having a very bad day. Dragons met stone, and stone, frankly, lost the argument, sending shards of rock the size of small cars screaming into the stratosphere. It was less a crash and more a geological re-enactment of a bad breakup.

The three Golden Dragons, radiating smug satisfaction, descended with the grace of vengeful deities. Before their parents could even finish cratering, they shimmered, shifting from colossal gold-plated aerial assault vehicles into their preferred humanoid forms—because nothing says "we just kicked your ancient, scaly butts" like a casual stroll up to the wreckage.

"Nefarian, Onyxia, Sabellian… you did it."

Ancagalon, currently performing an impromptu impression of a very large, deflated bellows, coughed up a rather alarming quantity of iridescent blood. Then, with a dramatic wheeze, he went utterly, spectacularly limp. Beneath his ignominious form, a black-and-gray cross emblem pulsed with a malevolent crimson glow, stubbornly anchoring his soul to his mangled corpse, like a cosmic superglue, while simultaneously performing emergency triage on his fatal wounds. Talk about a stubborn spirit.

Nearby, Sinestra, ever the overachiever, was still technically not dead yet. A two-meter-wide hole, precisely where her heart used to be, gaped like a particularly rude portal. Her heart, mind you, had been utterly obliterated by Holy Light, leaving behind a rather impressive, glowing cavity. Yet, with the tenacity of a bad rash, fleshy tendrils squirmed, attempting to knit themselves back together. But the residual Light, like a divine disinfectant, countered the Void's corruption, burning away the regrowth with the efficiency of a laser pointer on a dust bunny.

"Pain…" she rasped, sounding less like a fearsome dragon and more like a particularly grumpy cat.

"Hatred… burns within me… The Hour of Twilight… will come…" she continued, clearly missing the memo that her hour of twilight had just been rudely interrupted by her children.

"You fools… will all perish…" she croaked, still clinging to her villain monologue despite the gaping hole in her chest.

Onyxia, utterly unfazed by her mother's dramatic death throes, simply unrolled a scroll. It wasn't just a scroll; it was the scroll—a seal, or perhaps a soul contract, or maybe just a very fancy grocery list for existential dread.

"It's over, Mother," she stated, with the calm demeanor of someone returning a library book. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she shattered the scroll. A beam of blinding white light, pure and unforgiving, lanced forth, piercing Sinestra's forehead with the precision of a celestial dart.

Slowly, agonizingly, clarity returned to the Broodmother's crazed, Void-addled eyes. "Yes… it is over. End me, Ony," she whispered, sounding surprisingly lucid for a dragon with a light-hole in her head. The scroll, it turned out, had contained Sinestra's sealed memories—the very deal she'd made with the Lightforged Nathrezim, cleverly hidden to avoid N'Zoth's slimy detection. Because even cosmic horrors have trust issues.

"We'll meet again soon, Mother," Onyxia said, placing a hand on Sinestra's neck. The gesture was almost tender, if not for what immediately followed.

GOLDEN LIGHT ERUPTED.

It wasn't a gentle glow; it was a supernova in miniature. The dragon's head, with a rather undignified plop, separated from her body. Nefarian, ever the meticulous one, promptly purged the Void taint from the severed head, presumably so it could be used for, well, something later.

Meanwhile, Ancagalon, having apparently enjoyed his brief nap, stirred. The Sigil of Rebirth, a truly obnoxious piece of magical bling, had done its job, dragging him back from the brink of total limpness.

"Collect the spirit," Nefarian commanded, as if ordering takeout. Sinestra's soul, a shimmering wisp of golden energy, was unceremoniously sucked into the Heart of Origins, vanishing into the clouds like a particularly fancy vacuum cleaner bag.

"Father, what of the Black Dragonflight?" Nefarian inquired, ever the pragmatist.

"Have them send their finest egg," Ancagalon grumbled, still a bit groggy. "Then… we wait." Sinestra's mission as a double agent was complete. Her original body, thoroughly corroded by Void energy, was beyond repair. Rather than attempting to patch up that mess, she would reincarnate—not as a Blue Dragon (thanks to Sindragosa's rather inconvenient legacy), but as a Black Dragon whelp once more. A fresh start, with fewer holes.

"Clean up the rest," Ancagalon added, waving a dismissive claw. "Erase every last twisted abomination. And make it snappy." With the Alliance blockading land, sea, and air like an overzealous HOA, and the nerubian swarms sealing underground tunnels with the efficiency of a particularly motivated pest control service, not a single Twilight cultist or drake would escape. Not even a particularly persistent gnat.

The Chamber of the Heart

When Galen finally arrived at the Circle of Stars, he found Velen and Aragorn. They looked less like venerable heroes and more like they'd just run a marathon through a swamp of existential dread—exhausted, but with the grim resolve of someone who'd just paid off their mortgage. Their Holy energy, though flagging, still flowed into the Titan chains, clashing valiantly with the Void seeping from N'Zoth's prison like a leaky cosmic faucet.

"You've done well," Galen said, stepping forward. The moment his foot touched the hallowed ground, the faltering streams of Light didn't just surge; they EXPLODED anew, flooding the chains like a tidal wave of divine righteousness. It was less a surge and more a celestial firehose.

"RAAAAAGH!" A primordial roar, thick with fury and the distinct sound of a very large, very ancient entity having a truly awful day, shook the entire chamber. N'Zoth was not amused.

Velen's eyes, already wide with exhaustion, somehow managed to widen further. "By the Light… Your power rivals the Naaru!" he gasped, looking utterly flabbergasted.

Galen merely smiled faintly, a knowing glint in his eye. Earlier, the Necklace of Azeroth's Heart had practically dragged him to the Chamber of Heart—the place closest to the world-soul, basically Azeroth's spiritual belly button. There, the titanic spirit, clearly in a mood for upgrades, had reforged the necklace, amplifying its power from a respectable 10% to a frankly ludicrous 50%. The sudden, overwhelming Holy surge wasn't random; it was a feature, not a bug.

Of course, the world-soul's intervention wasn't some spontaneous act of generosity. Galen, ever the puppet master, had subtly ordered King Ymiron—her rather enthusiastic mouthpiece—to pray ceaselessly, ensuring she knew the last parasite would soon be purged. Because even world-souls appreciate a good heads-up.

Now, satisfied that his cosmic alarm clock had done its job, Galen turned to Velen.

"If you hadn't returned, I'd have quit," the old Draenei grumbled, rubbing his temples. "Every time you summon me, it's for some impossible task. Next time, make it good. Like, 'fetch me a really nice cup of tea' good."

Galen chuckled, a sound that probably made lesser demons tremble. "Next time, Prophet, we retake Argus."

"Argus…" Velen's expression softened, a wistful look replacing his usual exasperation. "I'd like that."

Aragorn, ever the attention-seeker, cut in. "Hey, don't forget about me! I'm old bones too, you know!"

Galen rolled his eyes, a subtle but devastating gesture. Unlike Velen—who had resisted N'Zoth's whispers through sheer, unadulterated willpower (and probably a lot of strong tea)—Aragorn, as a Hero of the Heart, was immune to Old God corruption. No sympathy for cheaters.

Soon, the chamber was filled with the rhythmic stomp of 5,000 elite troops, looking less like soldiers and more like a very enthusiastic, very heavily armed flash mob:

3,000 Highlord-tier paladins (Galen's personal forces, presumably hand-picked for their ability to look stoic while smiting)

2,000 disciplined priests (who probably had very strong opinions on proper hymn-singing posture)

The entire High Command of the Silver Hand (looking suitably grim and important)

Among them, four had undergone the ultimate glow-up: Lightforging. They practically hummed with divine energy.

Uther, now wielding a hammer embedded with a golden gem that probably doubled as a disco ball.

Gavinrad, now bearing Truthguard, the legendary shield, which probably offered excellent glare protection.

Maraad, armed with the Naaru-forged hammer, which likely had a "smite with extreme prejudice" setting.

Liadrin, dual-wielding phoenix blades that probably left a trail of sparkles and singed eyebrows.

Only Lantresor remained unchanged, clad in golden armor with a greatsword at his hip, looking like the only sensible person at a costume party.

"We begin," Galen declared, his voice echoing with the gravitas of a man about to order pizza for the entire universe. With N'Zoth's forces decimated, the last Old God was cornered in Ny'alotha, like a particularly nasty cockroach in a very dark kitchen.

But Ny'alotha was saturated with Void energy—fatal to mortal minds and bodies. It was basically a cosmic toxic waste dump. Only Galen's Heart-born units, glowing like very expensive nightlights, could resist the corruption. Everyone else would just melt into a puddle of screaming goo.

"Brothers and sisters!" Galen raised his voice, sounding like a motivational speaker with a divine glow. "A new age dawns for Azeroth! An age where we don't have to deal with tentacles in our breakfast cereal!"

"For the Light!" they roared back, probably imagining a world free of eldritch abominations.

"For Azeroth's glory!" they added, because patriotism is always a good motivator.

Aragorn and Maraad, looking like a very determined odd couple, took point, advancing toward a massive Titan gate—encrusted with pulsating flesh and a giant central eye that seemed to blink accusingly. It was less a gate and more a giant, angry, fleshy eyeball.

"Purge the filth!" Uther bellowed, unleashing Holy Light with the enthusiasm of a man finally getting to use his new power tools. The grotesque growths exploded apart in a shower of putrid goo and indignant squelches.

Just as Galen prepared to input the Titan override codes—a process that probably involved a lot of arcane button-mashing—

A flash of blinding white light.

Azshara appeared, her radiant beauty cutting through the gloom like a diamond-encrusted knife through butter. She looked utterly flawless, as if she'd just stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, despite the imminent cosmic apocalypse.

"You dare face N'Zoth without me?" she demanded, her voice dripping with offended majesty. The Queen of the Naga had come—not as a prisoner, but as a vengeful ally, clearly annoyed at being left out of the party.

"Ny'alotha is perilous," Galen warned, ever the pragmatist. "Only you and Vashj can withstand its corruption." He was basically saying, "You're too pretty to melt."

"Then lend me your Lightforged Naga," Azshara demanded, her eyes narrowing. "I know N'Zoth's weaknesses better than you. I practically invented half of them."

After a pause that felt longer than a goblin's loan repayment plan, Galen agreed. A thousand Lightforged Naga, gleaming like angry, divine eels, joined the ranks, looking ready to bite something.

"Authorization… confirmed."

"Initiating… power transfer."

"Seal disengagement… in progress."

The ancient Titan gate groaned, its rusted mechanisms straining like an elderly dragon trying to do yoga. With a final, ear-splitting screech—a sound that probably made the very fabric of reality wince—

The door to Ny'alotha… opened. And it smelled faintly of despair and old fish.