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Summary
"Don’t — touch me." Anduin is glacial, breathless, trembling so violently it made even the dragon’s arm shake in his icy grip. Wrathion sees his hand: pale, bruised across the knuckles, darkened at the fingertips… and beneath his nails, caked blood — the sign of something far worse. Their gazes met, a moment where the ferocity on Anduin’s face is so intense it hardly seems his own, then he released his grip as if Wrathion’s skin burned, as if he had seized a live ember without realizing it. He pulled the hood back into place and curled his body away, his back now turned on him.
Wrathion remained still, a heavy nausea twisting his stomach. For the first time in his life, he realized that for all his infinite knowledge, for all the learning contained within his skull, nothing has prepared him for something like this. Nothing is useful.
And that terrified him.