As unnerved as Anduin felt about that entire encounter, something seems off in Wrathion. The mask not quite on as firmly as it ought to be, which is telling enough by itself. At times trying to fathom what lay behind it seemed impossible, and at others he wondered how he could ever not see completely through it to the frightened young man underneath.

He recalls that hesitation, the flash of horror in his face as they'd stared down the monster wearing Anduin's face. The way he'd protectively tugged him back. The almost mournful way he looks at him, now and then, when he thinks Anduin can't see.

Then he shifts a step closer, one arm curling around Wrathion's side. The tension bleeds out of him at last as he lowers his head to rest against the dragon's shoulder, briefly. His frame feels stiff but warm to the touch, and the scent of leather and some peppery note underneath reminds the young king briefly of the warmth and solace of an attic loft long ago.

Just for a moment.

"...thank you, Wrathion."