The water, alarming, is rising. The darkness laps at the edges of the pool, rippling and bursting upwards in vague simulacrums, as though the figure before were trying to reconstitute itself.

Over, and over, and over again. Half-formed, some not even that, their arms reaching towards the pair as Anduin feels Wrathion tug him back.

"I admit, I wish I wasn't," he utters softly, eyes darting from one face to the next. Hollow dark sockets where eyes should be, their liquid surface rippling with each movement.

Am I worthy of existence?

He's seen such things before only in his nightmares, and here too there are whispers. Promised destruction and reminders of failures past, swearing that all will be made well, all will be put right, if only they will help. Give them form. Give them shape. Let them be born. Their voices, mournful, longing, echoing like madness in his ears. As one, the dark figures that are trying their best to become him beckon to them, and Anduin finds himself frozen in place behind Wrathion, staring with wide-eyed horror.

We can make you worthy.