Chapter Text
Katrana’s skin broke into goosebumps.
It was an odd sensation, how this body reacted to the Arcane, but not so far removed from her discarded form that she didn’t recognise it. Somewhere nearby, someone had opened a portal. And not just any portal; this one was temporal in nature.
She absently rubbed her arms, her interest in whatever Wrynn was saying dwindling. Thankfully he was as dumb as an ox, and a base redirection about the supply of arms turned him to Fordragon and Windsor.
The queen was far more observant, her blue eyes silently following Katrana when she stepped away from the royal dais. If her hips swayed more than usual, it was entirely by coincidence. And if there was a subtle sound of silk from the throne, that must also be entirely by coincidence.
Royal advisors did not draw attention to themselves, and queens did not rearrange their skirts while seated.
For all of her virtues, Katrana was a curious woman at heart. And that curiosity was soon rewarded when a hooded figure entered the court. A hooded figure with no magical signature.
Masterful work - she couldn’t have done it better herself, full suppression is a tremendous skill - but clearly inexperienced in matters of subtlety. An understated signature would have worked far better to conceal them from prying Arcane eyes. Or perhaps that was entirely the intention; not to draw no attention, but to draw the attention of a specific person.
Such as a royal advisor and court mage, one that might notice such small things among a sea of lesser practitioners. How delightful.
Whoever the hooded stranger was, they clearly had no interest in the court, remaining at its edges. For her part, she narrowly avoided being pulled into conversation with the Ellerians - grasping things, trading away someone of immeasurable value for so little - and escaped the delegation from the Merchants Guild with little more than pleasantries.
She could still feel the queen’s eyes on her when she entered the lower rungs of the court. Its denizens parted before her, too far below her in status to do more than bow and step aside. It had not been so long since she had been among their ranks, since she had to bow, and scamper, and prostrate herself.
Power, however, only came to those who could wield it.
She glanced back over her shoulder, meeting those silent blue eyes. They turned away, but not without the beginnings of a blush. She smiled; power also came with many privileges.
The stranger lowered their hood, and Katrana shifted her attention from one beautiful blonde woman to - well, the stranger wasn’t exactly blonde, but she was beautiful. Snow-white hair was braided messily over her shoulder, a stubborn streak of gold running through it, and her too-vividly-blue eyes were locked intently on Katrana.
But this woman was supposed to be a child, recently arrived in Dalaran, not a grown woman carrying the invisible scars of war on her body in the court of Stormwind.
“Oh my,” she purred when Jaina Proudmoore stepped forward. “This is going to be interesting.”
Proudmoore did not seem to share her excitement. Her eyes were tight, her knuckles white around the staff she was holding - or perhaps the staff was holding her up; there was a tension to her frame that spoke of exhaustion.
“Lady Prestor,” she said eventually, bowing her head slightly. Polite, respectful, but also wary.
Katrana smiled. She curtsied, deferential, as a lady does to one of unclear ranking. That Proudmoore made no move to correct her was telling enough. But this Proudmoore wasn’t known in Stormwind - not yet - and so she said simply, “My lady.”
Proudmoore’s eyes narrowed, but she offered up her arm. With a raised eyebrow Katrana took it, and was guided further away from the court.
“I take it,” Proudmoore said once they were out of earshot, “That you know who I am.”
“I know who you are meant to be,” she replied. “Or perhaps more accurately; when you are meant to be. Tell me; how, exactly, did you get here?”
Proudmoore’s arm tensed around hers. “A favour,” she said tersely. “What’s it to you?”
Ah, young Chromie’s handiwork then. Nozdormu would never indulge something like this, killjoy that he was, and the Infinites certainly didn’t do favours. “Just inquiring after a former student.”
Proudmoore glanced at her when she didn’t elaborate, but kept up their circling of the outer court. Katrana was in no rush; this was far more interesting than anything discussed closer to the royal dais, and to be seen on the arm of another woman would guarantee an even more interesting evening.
When the silence had lingered a half-turn of the court, Proudmoore broke it. “Something’s happening. I’m in need of a certain kind of… expertise.”
She hummed. “I’m sure there are more… temporally convenient options than myself.”
Proudmoore shook her head slightly, then grimaced. She seemed in pain. “No. You have experience that they do not. There are… experiments. Experiments tied to your relations.”
That drew her up short, the memory of rage coursing through her veins. She should have burned the profanity out of the mountain years ago, found another way, any other way. But there wasn’t one, and she had doused her fire for a reason.
“And so you come to me,” she said, not withholding the venom in her voice, “Thinking I can help with such blasphemy?”
Proudmoore’s reply was equally vicious. “Can’t you?”
She stared her down. Proudmoore did not flinch. There was defiance in her eyes, yes, but also desperation. And - hope. For a moment longer she held that too-blue stare, then huffed.
The matters of the court would have to wait, and so would her other affair.
“Come, then,” she ordered. “This is a matter best discussed in private.”
The door closed behind her untimely guest, candles flickering to light with a wave of her fingers. The privacy wards went up automatically, drawing a curious glance from Proudmoore.
“A precaution,” she explained. “You know of the experiments. Were they successful?”
“Successful?” Proudmoore’s face twisted in disgust. “They were monstrous!”
Oh, human morality was going to be the death of her. “Yes, but did they work?”
“I don’t know!” Proudmoore bit out. “I don’t even know what they were trying to achieve.”
“Then why come to me?” she asked. “You seek me out beyond time, for something you do not comprehend, and then throw it in my face?”
“Because -!” Proudmoore stopped short, the fury draining from her. “Because I recognised some of it.”
Perhaps the profane experiments were not a waste after all. Perhaps, against odds, they had borne fruit, only to be found by those like Proudmoore who could not discern their purpose. Were it still in her domain she’d consider making adjustments. As it wasn’t anymore, she had no obligation to intervene.
Far more pressing was this confession; that Proudmoore recognised aspects of it. “You are suppressing your magical signature. Why?”
Proudmoore drew her arms around herself defensively. “It is… overwhelming.”
“And like an overflowing dam, it will burst,” she chided. Foolish girl. Or simply that desperate. She was, admittedly, somewhat disappointed that the suppression hadn’t been a ploy to garner her attention. “Bleed some for me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Proudmoore obliged and offered up her wrist. She reached out with her own magic, entwining it with the little strand flowing from Proudmoore’s fingertips. She recoiled almost immediately; the primordial nature of it was familiar, and very dangerous.
“The Focusing Iris?” she asked, activating another set of wards. Containment ones, this time, a precaution she had once considered paranoid.
Proudmoore’s eyes hardened, and she withdrew her hand. “Locked away. And I won’t tell you where, so don’t even think about using it in one of your schemes.”
She laughed. Foolish girl, indeed. “I don’t care where its empty husk is kept.” She turned Proudmoore around to look at her back, her neck. The signs were there, in the stiffness with which she was turned. “You said something is happening. Was the Iris used in whatever magical event affected you?”
Proudmoore was quiet for a moment. “Yes,” she answered softly. “A mana bomb.”
“A mana bomb-” Katrana swallowed her horror.
Whoever had built that would need to be culled, no matter the loss of talent. With the Focusing Iris spent another of its kind could not be made, but leaving the mind that designed it to roam free was not a risk she could afford to take.
None of them could. Not even the bottom-feeder and her water-breathers.
But now the snow-white hair made horrifying sense, as did the primordial nature of Proudmoore’s Arcane. She had absorbed some, perhaps even all, of the power kept within the Focusing Iris. That her body hadn’t unravelled yet was a miracle.
Or perhaps -
“Strip,” she ordered.
Proudmoore did not move.
“Strip,” she said again. “You can keep whatever modesty makes you more comfortable, but I need to examine you.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Proudmoore said, “I can’t. My back… it’s too stiff, my fingers can’t reach. Could you…?”
Oh. Another wave of her fingers, this time to summon her tools. She helped Proudmoore with the laces of her corset while the desk drifted closer, and various instruments assembled on it. Hopefully only minimal cutting would be required.
With the corset undone, she untucked Proudmoore’s undershirt and left the rest to her. She had, after all, promised her some degree of modesty. From her desk she selected a small scalpel, a retractor, a precision ruler.
The ruffling of fabric stopped, and Proudmoore took a deep breath. “I’m done.”
She picked up the scalpel, turned to Proudmoore and - put it down again. She wouldn’t need it. Wouldn’t need any instruments, any cutting, to conclude her examination.
Slowly, she placed her fingers along the base of Proudmoore’s neck. The mage shivered slightly under her touch, but did not flinch. She hesitated; this should be uncomfortable at best, should be painful even to the lightest touch. Had Proudmoore lost feeling already, or was she simply accustomed to the pain?
Gently, she moved her fingers down from Proudmoore’s neck to her shoulders. The muscle hadn’t built yet, but the rest was there. Ridges, the outlines of several bones, tightly packed together between her shoulder blades. She traced them further along Proudmoore’s spine; thicker at the top, thinning as they went, until her lower back where they ended in little nubs underneath the skin.
No wonder Proudmoore was exhausted; her back was practically fused together. And at the base of her spine was another ridge. Humans had these naturally, but Proudmoore’s was far more pronounced.
“Turn towards me,” she said, keeping her voice soft. Proudmoore obeyed, eyes downcast, arms gripping her undershirt over her breasts.
She pushed the bangs - those that had escaped the messy braid - away from Proudmoore’s face, then ran her fingers along her hairline. She gasped when she found them; there, hidden by her snow-white hair, were barely noticeable bumps.
Their direction was already clear; sweeping backwards. In time, they would curl up, a clear mark of status.
Reverently, she removed her hands. Stepped back, appraised the woman before her. Proudmoore had been right in seeking her out; no other mortal mage was familiar with this, and few of her former kind would recognise it for what it was. Those who did would not allow Proudmoore to live past the inspection; they played with blasphemy, but not even they would tolerate this.
Into the silence, her voice barely above a whisper, Proudmoore asked, “What’s happening to me?”
She didn’t answer immediately. However the answer was delivered, Proudmoore’s life had already been upturned. However she had absorbed the mana bomb, there was no undoing it. Not even the Infinites held that power.
Kind words would not soften the blow. And yet.
Proudmoore’s eyes were wide when she met them, wide and scared. “You are ascending,” she said softly. “You are becoming a dragon.”
“What?” Proudmoore blinked at her. Then she frowned, said stubbornly, “No, that’s - that’s impossible. The laws of nature don’t - nor physics, even the Arcane - you’re wrong, I’m not, this can’t -”
She clicked her tongue. “I am not wrong, ignorant girl. How do you think the first dragons came to be? That they were born as Arcane beings? This,” she said, motioning to Proudmoore’s changing body, “Is not new.”
Proudmoore sank to the floor, clinging to her undershirt as if it were a lifeline, surrounded by her purple skirts and the pieces of her corset. She sat upright, despite her bowed shoulders, propped up by the new growth in her back.
Her voice was thick with tears when she spoke. “What am I going to do?”
“Breed,” she answered.
Proudmoore’s head whipped around, shock momentarily written on her face, quickly replaced by pain. That would need solving, sooner rather than later, lest Proudmoore injure herself. Or damage the new parts of her body. She dismissed her instruments; they would be needed to resolve this, but Proudmoore was in no shape for the cutting process now.
“You are a nascent Aspect,” she said once the tools were gone, leaning in close. “Your power is coalescing faster than your yet-mortal body can hold. What you need,” she tilted Proudmoore’s head up, focusing her attention, “Is an Heir. And a Prime Consort.”
Proudmoore bared her teeth. “If you think for one second,” she bit out, “That I will let you assign some man from your court to -”
“You are becoming a dragon,” she snapped, her patience finally failing. “Whether you sire or carry is your choice, but you must breed.”
“That’s -” For a moment Proudmoore looked thoughtful. Then she scowled. “Well, I’m not going to breed some courtesan of your choosing either.”
She pinched her brow. Perhaps Proudmoore had reached her limit for now. Not entirely unexpected, given her circumstances, but frustrating. And Proudmoore’s fury was clearly a mask for her exhaustion.
Correcting her assumptions would have to wait.
“Stay here for the night,” she said, motioning to her bed. “You won’t be disturbed. Once you wake, push against the privacy wards and I will come.”
Proudmoore frowned, looking suspiciously between her and the bed.
“It’s not like I ever use it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “There’s no meaning behind the offer, other than comfort and rest. Things you are in desperate need of.”
That seemed to placate Proudmoore, who gathered her clothes. And then stopped, and looked up at her, scowling again. She didn’t blame her; she didn’t enjoy feeling helpless either.
She offered her hand; Proudmoore took it, leaning heavily on it as she stood up. As soon as her legs steadied, Proudmoore yanked her hand free, as if afraid she’d get burned. Or bitten.
It took effort not to roll her eyes, to remain passive, and let Proudmoore settle in. Even sitting down seemed to take her great effort. At least her corset was already undone. She flicked her fingers and Proudmoore’s boots began unlacing themselves. Proudmoore stiffened, but did not object.
Satisfied her new charge wouldn’t need anything further from her, she turned to leave.
Paused by the door. “You can release your suppression,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “The containment wards were set up long ago. They will hold.”
The only acknowledgement she got was a little nod. That was likely all Proudmoore could painlessly do with her neck.
She stepped out, closed the door, and gave Proudmoore what little peace she could. In the morning, she would have to cut it open.
She pressed Tiffin against the wall of the alcove, ran her hands up the queen’s sides. She stopped just shy of her royal breasts.
The sounds of the court were still audible; polite conversation, joyful laughter, the clinking of glasses. But there was nothing polite in their little corner, and Tiffin’s voice was the only one she listened to, and her tongue craved a singular taste.
She placed her lips along the delicate skin of Tiffin’s neck, careful not to leave marks there, despite the echoes of instinct urging her to do so.
The queen gasped, but her tone was icy when she spoke. “Who is she?”
“Nobody important,” she whispered, her lips on Tiffin’s pulse. “Not yet, at least.”
“Then why,” Tiffin asked between moans, “Did you spirit her away to your chambers?”
She pressed her body forward, gripping Tiffin by her hips. Kissed her way up the queen’s jaw, whispered in her ear, “She has the most interesting… hair.”
Tiffin’s hands were on her now, nails dragging down the skin exposed by her backless dress. “And what,” the queen asked, breathing heavily, “Did you find in her snow-white locks?”
Lower her hands went, bunching in Tiffin’s skirts, pulling them up. “Another way, perhaps,” she answered. “A way out.”
Tiffin stilled momentarily. “My family found another way, once,” she said, voice cautious. “All it cost them was me. What price would this woman extract from you?”
“Your family are fools,” she said, kissing her way to Tiffin’s lips. “And I am not so foolish, to overlook the treasure before me. You, I would never discard.”
The queen smiled, chased her lips, but did not kiss her. “And if this confession is nothing more than part of your manipulation?”
She smirked, darted out her tongue, briefly tasted those lips. Tiffin’s eyes darkened in response, royal hands drawing lower along her back, digging into her skin. “Perhaps,” she whispered. “Is that what excites you so, my queen? The possibility that I am using you?”
“Is that what you would have me be?” Tiffin leaned forward, as if to kiss her, but didn’t. “Your Queen?”
She shook her head slowly. “I would elevate you far beyond mere queenship. You deserve to be worshipped.”
“Then prove it,” Tiffin ordered, pressing down on her shoulders, until she was on her knees. “Prove your devotion to me.”
The queen’s skirts parted, revealing heaven. She looked up to find those blue eyes gazing intently at her. “As you command, your grace.”
“You would speak of grace?” Tiffin asked, leaning back against the wall, closing her eyes. “Here, in our twilight affairs?”
She didn’t speak with her voice, but her tongue and lips answered, and what she tasted was nothing short of divinity.