"Are you sure?" Aliztavagr had asked him. 

It was indeed a plan worthy of an Emissary of Chaos, Ipaxalon had mused. He'd almost wished he'd come up with it himself, except for the part where it was batshit insane. If it weren't the likely end of the world, he wouldn't have even considered it. Even now, though, he can't bring himself to regret the choice. 

"I am not enough for this war," he had said. And it was true. The Emissaries already eclipsed him in power, even at their young age. It was always the way of mortals to burn brightly yet briefly, and there is no envy in him; but, warrior though he is, he could not lead the silver-flight, could not turn the tide against their foes. 

A great wyrm might. 

(It's not the way Aliztavagr's wings glimmer with an iridescent beauty unmatched by any hoard. It's not the way their voice sings with rightness and confidence and inner strength. It's not that they, the left hand of the recently ascended goddess of change and growing things, saw fit to expend not one but two Wish-grade diamonds on bringing Ipaxalon back from Heaven and enabling him to once again fulfill his sworn purpose of preserving the world from evil. It's not a mere desire to prove worthy of that trust. Ipaxalon is over seven hundred years old and he is above such petty motivations, thank you very much. The stakes were just that high.) 

(They were very pretty wings, though.) 

So he had accepted the gift, and its consequences. A wish was a dangerous magic; its more open-ended uses never truly safe no matter how carefully phrased. But the wording had been as sound as they could make it.

And so Aliztavagr had Wished.