He hasn't seen this fury in him for years. It's all too easy to imagine the creature he is in his place, spitting fire and beating dread wings. For a moment, he feels that creeping chill of the sound of a dozen little wings, tooth-filled maws snapping after him.

The memory of Onyxia's lair pushed aside, he finds his feet scraping against the stone floor, hauling him forward as quickly as he can given the miasma of incense and the echoing ache from below. None of it matters.

So long as he can lay a hand on his arm, draw his attention, apologize, do something before Wrathion inflicts harm that cannot be mended.

"Wrathion."