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Summary
“You look like your father.” He bluffed, watching the rage flash in Wrathion’s eyes, but taking note of how the other remained still. His jet-black hair was as wild and dark as the night, and his eyes redder than blood. Something about the Black dragonflight would always seem sinister, seem evil.
Maybe Anduin would never trust him.
“You don’t look like yours.” Wrathion countered.
And here Anduin was, admiring the beauty of the son of the Destroyer.
