Fate

The wind shrieked like a banshee in the pale, sickly sky, and countless wisps of misty gray, like ghostly shrouds, drifted ominously before the towering, grim fortress of Grim Batol. The grayish-white pallor, the very color of death and despair, filled every corner of his vision, making it feel like he was trapped in some ancient, grainy black-and-white movie.

A biting coldness, both strangely familiar and utterly alien, permeated his entire being, chilling him to the bone. Duke shuddered, his teeth chattering, and then, with a jolt that nearly sent him out of his spectral skin, he realized: this scene was so damn familiar, it was practically his recurring nightmare.

He looked down at his translucent, ethereal hands, then at the equally translucent woman floating before him, her form shimmering with ghostly white wings.

Duke's mind, usually a steel trap, finally clicked!

"HOLY CRAP!" he shrieked, or tried to shriek, for his spectral lungs couldn't quite manage it. "By the Light, I'm dead! Again! Damn it all, how long has it been? I almost forgot this feeling, this utterly inconvenient state of being a ghost!" He racked his spectral brain. "Seriously, how long has it been since I last kicked the bucket and had to make a mad dash back to my body?"

The only thing to be thankful for, a tiny silver lining in this cloudy afterlife, was that his trusty system was still chugging along. A cheerful, emerald-green prompt materialized before his translucent eyes:

"You are dead. Do you wish to activate instant corpse resurrection? If yes, please pay extra soul power."

Duke, without a moment's hesitation, nodded decisively. He had no choice in the matter. That despicable black dragon, Neltharion, was practically breathing down his neck, metaphorically speaking. If he was truly discovered in this vulnerable state, and the precious Black Dragon Amulet was snatched back, he'd be up a creek without a paddle, with no one to cry to but the ghouls.

In fact, Deathwing did notice. He felt the vague, almost imperceptible soul connection between himself and Duke briefly flicker, a momentary interruption in the cosmic tether. "Hmm?" Neltharion, currently in a rather dashing human form and lurking discreetly at the foot of the mountain, frowned, his brow furrowing in irritation. But the very next moment, he found that the soul connection was restored, strong as ever, without any errors, glitches, or even a hiccup. "Could it be that being too close to the Demon Soul has caused problems with my perception?" he mused, rubbing his chin. After all, the Demon Soul, that cursed artifact, refused to be touched by any dragon. The ancient seal that those four meddling bastards, the other Dragon Aspects, had slapped on him to prevent him from interfering again was a terrifying thing. He wasn't afraid of facing those four squabbling idiots again, even with their insufficient strength, but he was absolutely terrified of touching the Demon Soul. The backlash of the Demon Soul on the entire Dragonflight was no joke; it was a cosmic punch that could shatter a dragon's very essence.

Back in his icy stasis chamber, Duke was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his heart pounding like a war drum. He stared at the Black Dragon Amulet in his hand, utterly speechless for a long, awkward moment. "Damn it all to the Twisting Nether," he muttered, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "The portion was too much. I went and died directly... again." If it weren't for the emergency soul power Medivh had conveniently left him, he would have turned into a pile of ashes after enduring this spiritual torture for a mere fourteen days.

"Okay... a smaller amount this time," Duke resolved, his voice firm. He used half the amount from last time, a cautious sip, and gulped it down with water. This time, thankfully, his eyes didn't go dark, and he didn't find himself chatting with the 'Fairy Sister' in the graveyard. Instead, he heard a faint, unsettling murmur in his ears, like the wind whispering dirty secrets, or some kind of... intimate sound. Duke felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Because he recognized it, clearly, unmistakably. It was the shy, deliberately suppressed moan Alleria made when he'd, shall we say, enthusiastically surprised her!

The scene before his eyes changed instantly, morphing from the grim reality of Grim Batol to a swirling, vivid dreamscape. Duke was dreaming, alright, and it was the most intense, most personal kind of dream imaginable.

Alleria, bless her fierce heart, wasn't the kind of gentle, demure woman you'd read about in a romance novel. She was independent, strong-willed, resolute, and brave as a charging gronn. Especially when facing a powerful enemy like the Horde, Alleria was more concerned with getting her revenge, with kicking green-skinned butt. She simply couldn't fathom how utterly hot-blooded a young human male, especially one with the body of a mere sixteen-year-old, could be. There was no way around it; even though humans and elves had similar painting styles, there were still fundamental differences in their races, in their very natures.

In fact, after that fateful night, Duke hadn't had much... intimate time with Alleria. Add to that the fact that Duke was a time traveler who'd graduated from an engineering university – a place where "social interaction" usually meant arguing about circuit diagrams. Engineering! As a result, Duke had accumulated a truly impressive amount of... stress.

Duke almost couldn't bear it several times, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. For a moment, he actually considered making a move on the lovely ladies around him, like Vanessa or Ilucia. He was truly at his wit's end. As a result, Duke's willpower in this regard was, to put it mildly, quite weak. And so, Duke made a complete fool of himself under the intense, mind-bending power of the psychedelic potion.

In the dream, he became the male protagonist of a steamy romance novel, and his eager, willing opponents were all the beauties he had met after crossing over to Azeroth. If he was the only one talking in his sleep, it would have been fine, a private, embarrassing moment. But the truly awful part was that three kilometers away from him, the third sister of the Windrunner family, Vereesa, had been eavesdropping, her sensitive elven ears picking up every single mortifying detail.

A group of people, including Gavinrad and Rhonin, hid in a secret valley, waiting anxiously for news from Vereesa. "How is it?" Gavinrad asked nervously, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Is there any movement from the boss? Is he connecting with Ysera?"

Vereesa's face, for the very first time in her life, was a shade of crimson usually reserved for ripe tomatoes. What did they want her to say?! Should she really tell these animals, these uncultured brutes, the unvarnished truth about what their boss was dreaming?! What embarrassed Vereesa the most, what made her want to crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after her, was that Duke was not only calling Alleria by her name, but he was even shouting out, "Sylvanas, you come with the two sisters Vereesa!" Such words made Vereesa tremble with a mixture of pure rage and utter humiliation. That bastard Duke was actually dreaming that!

Vereesa gritted her teeth, her jaw clenched so tight it ached, and slammed her mental door shut, cutting off the connection. She was afraid that if she continued listening, she would go completely insane, lose her mind right then and there.

Rhonin, ever the oblivious mage, asked, "What happened to Lord Edmund? Did he make contact?"

Vereesa, still fuming, snapped, "I don't care if he dies! He can rot for all I care!" When the other three members of the team heard this, they were all utterly confused, exchanging bewildered glances.

Duke tried to achieve his goal, and then failed. Repeatedly. For several agonizing attempts, the amount of potion was either too much, sending him straight to the spirit healer, or too little, leaving him stuck in a chaotic, stress-induced fantasy. Finally, on the thirteenth try, a number that made him inwardly groan, Duke suddenly had a feeling, a deep, resonant certainty, that this time, he'd hit the sweet spot.

Consciousness became blurred again, a swirling vortex of colors and sensations. He seemed to feel the ethereal presence of the goddess of fate, a cosmic entity. In the confused, whispering sound of the wind, he seemed to hear the voice of fate itself, ancient and profound: "You are sliding faster and faster towards your final rest, brave Duke. Before that, is there anything else you want me to do for you? Are you going to save Alexstrasza?"

Duke's lips moved slightly, a faint whisper escaping him: "No, I don't just want to save her... Since I, Duke, have come to Azeroth, I hope to make this world a better place. To leave it better than I found it."

Fate continued to whisper, its voice like rustling leaves: "Don't you want something for yourself? Maybe you want to get back your fading life? Or to rule the world? Or... eternal life?"

"Everyone must eventually shuffle off this mortal coil," Duke replied, his voice firm, resolute. "I have no intention of changing that fundamental fate. But if I have any personal hope, it is to prevent regrets. To ensure that when my time comes, I can look back and say I left no stone unturned, no opportunity missed, no 'what ifs' haunting me."

"Regrets?" Fate's voice seemed to hum with curiosity.

"Yes," Duke affirmed, a profound sadness in his voice. "I have too many regrets about this world, too many things I wish I could fix, too many paths I wish I could have taken differently..."

There was a sense of profound trance, as if fate had sensed Duke's regrets, those deep-seated sorrows, and also sensed the raw, selfish desires hidden deep in Duke's heart, desires he rarely acknowledged. Fate seemed to chuckle, a soft, cosmic ripple of amusement.

Then, there was only darkness. The darkness seemed to be pulling him in, a comforting, seductive embrace. Duke began to have trouble breathing, his thoughts growing sluggish, hazy. He even felt an overwhelming urge to simply turn around, to surrender, and disappear into the comfortable, welcoming darkness. The temptation of this idea became stronger and stronger, a siren's call to oblivion.

But he forced himself, with every fiber of his being, to be more sober, to fight the encroaching void.

Right!

Duke's clear, defiant voice resonated, echoing through the vast, swirling river of fate itself:

"You want me to fall into the darkness?!"

"What a joke! You've got another thing coming!"

"If I am destined to be dragged into the dark hell, then I would rather transform myself into pure light and turn hell into a bright, shining paradise!"

"If the hero's end is destined to be tragic, a grim, pre-written script, then I will rewrite every single line of it!"

"My life! My script! My world! They can only be written by ME! And no one else!"